Gospel Story Finder

Karoly Takacs, a Hungarian, was recognized as the best pistol shot in the world. More than anything he wanted to win in the Olympics. But one day driving home, Takacs was in a crash, and doctors had to amputate his right arm—his shooting arm.
Takacs’s recovery was slow. It wasn’t a physical challenge, but an emotional one. He had hit bottom. People wanted to help but there was little they could do. Takacs began to avoid his friends; even his family didn’t know where he spent his time. But Karoly Takacs was preparing. In solitude he had trained his left arm and his aiming eye, a training that’s far more of an intellectual mastery than most people realize. By the next Olympics, Takacs was ready.
When the pistol event was over, this one-armed Hungarian stood, the cheers rising about him, on the topmost step of the winner’s platform with a gold medal around his neck.
Takacs showed us something more than his ability to shoot. He proved that human beings have a largely untapped comeback capacity. He discovered for himself the exciting fact that hitting bottom does not mean defeat, but that it just signals the end of downward movement. As one friend told me, “The bottom can be something to bounce on.”

“Me? No way. Maybe Mum and Dad, but not me.”

“He’s a good boy, is Stu,” Granddad said.

I didn’t answer. I wanted to tell Granddad about Stu, that I was worried about him, but I couldn’t betray my brother.

“Did you know that I joined the Church when I was about Stu’s age?” Granddad added.

“I guess.”

“My parents had been baptized a few years before, but I didn’t want anything to do with the Mormons. I had a gang of friends, and we liked going to the pubs.”

Just like Stu, I thought. “So why’d you join?”

“My Mum and Dad, and I had a younger brother, Reg. We used to be like you and Stu, fighting a bit, but we really loved each other. Anyway, there was a Mormon wardhouse down in Leeds. And every week Reg would invite me to go. It was about a two-hour trip to get there.”

“Twenty miles in the snow, uphill both ways, right?”

Granddad laughed. “All right, you’ve heard the story. But thinking of Mum and Dad and little Reg having to make that trip alone every week started to gnaw at me. So one Sunday when it was raining and miserable, I helped them harness the horse and went with them.

“And you know, I found a lot of answers.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I was wondering about life and death and just a lot of things. And after that, whenever I didn’t go, I felt like I was missing out, that I should be in church. That sound daft?”

“No. That’s how I feel when I miss church. Once I pretended to be sick to get out of going. You won’t tell Mum will you?”

“Never.” He winked at me again.

He stood and tucked the bag of mushrooms under his arm.

“When I needed some direction in my life, my brother showed me where to look,” he said slowly. “And if you know someone who is a little lost, well maybe you need to give him a little hint. Nothing pushy, just a nudge.”

I looked at Granddad. It was obvious we were both thinking of Stu, but we never said his name.

Let me share with you a passage from one of the journals found in Special Collections. It is from the journal of an 18-year-old woman. I have read this passage to many different classes who have come to Special Collections over the years. This young woman’s name was Emmeline B. Wells. She was born in 1828, and she died in 1921. Her life is an example of faith and devotion. In her later years she served as the general president of the Relief Society of the Church. How do we know of her faith? Because she kept a journal almost all of her long life. These journals are found in Special Collections. One day they all will be found on the Internet and accessed through the library Web site, as you see here. The passage is dated 27 February 1846.

Mrs Whitney, Sarah Ann and myself crossed the river to go to the encampment of the saints. Br. Lot and his wife took Mrs. W. And myself in their carriage. We crossed the river a part of the way on foot, and then went on to the encampment about 7 miles beyond; we reached the destined place about sunset when we came in view it looked like pictures I have seen of the ancients pitching their tents and journeying from place to place with their cattle and their goods. We repaired immediately to Br. H.C. Kimball’s tent, took supper and slept for the first time on the ground. There was a snow storm without yet all was peace and harmony within.

My eyes well up with tears when I read this passage. A refined young woman is forced to leave her comfortable home, cross the frozen river, and sleep for the first time in her life on the ground. If my emotions are tender when I read this, how do you think her own descendants feel when they read her diaries? So, how do we remember the past? We study our history, and we specifically study the lives of our own ancestors. In short, we become involved in family history.

This story took place in New Zealand.
Jacob’s gumboots squished into the ground wherever he stepped. He followed his brother, Isaac, carefully across the yard back to the house. There were leaves and branches all over!
A hurricane had hit New Zealand a few days before. Because of the storms, there was lots of flooding. Jacob was grateful his house didn’t get flooded, but lots of their friends’ houses did. Their family friend Monique and her husband Mark lived in a historic house that was now flooded.
Jacob H.
Jacob and Isaac were moving things out of Monique and Mark’s house so they could mop the floors. They gathered loads of papers from all over the house. They found recipes, photos, and letters. Some of the papers were a little wet, but luckily not ruined.
They put the papers in a plastic bin and moved them to the trailer outside. The trailer was a little home Monique and Mark were staying in until the house was safe again.
After gathering all the papers, Jacob walked to a cupboard and found some board games and plastic toys. Some of the games closer to the floor were wet.
Jacob wanted to make sure they did a good job helping. “What next? Do you want us to move these toys and games out?” he asked when Mark walked by.
“Yes, please. Thank you!” Mark said.
Jacob and Isaac gathered the games and toys in their arms and carried them to the trailer. They raced back to the house for the next assignment.
Isaac H.
“Thanks for the help, you two,” Monique said.
“No problem,” said Jacob. “What next?”
She looked around. “Do you mind mopping the floor now?”
Jacob took a mop from Monique and got to work. He did his best to mop up the puddles of water from the dark wood floors.
His legs and arms were starting to get tired when someone called, “Time for lunch!”
Jacob finished, then ran outside to meet Dad, Isaac, Monique, Mark, and some other friends.
Dad handed him a brown bag of fish and chips. The smell made Jacob’s stomach grumble. He’d been so focused on mopping he forgot about lunch! He took out a chip and dropped it into his mouth. Mmm, warm and salty.
“Thank you so much for your help,” Monique said while they ate. Her eyes were shiny with tears. “I don’t know what I would have done without all of you.”
Jacob felt a warm bubble fill his heart. He forgot all about his tired body. It would have taken Monique and Mark much longer if they had to clean out the house by themselves! He had helped friends in need.
“Thanks for helping today,” Dad said on the car ride home.
“It was fun,” Isaac said.
Jacob stretched his sore arms. “Yeah. Plus, if Jesus was here, He would have done the same thing. Right?”
“I think so too,” Dad said. “I’m sure Jesus is really happy you were there to help Monique and Mark.”
Jacob liked making Jesus happy. He wanted to be someone Jesus could always trust to help.
“What next?” Jacob asked.
Dad laughed. “What do you mean?”
“What are we going to do to help Jesus next?” Jacob said.
Dad grinned. “There might be more storms coming, so we can help make sandbags. Then we can take them to our friends so their houses don’t flood. How does that sound?”
Jacob smiled. “Perfect.”

President Uchtdorf has special feelings of fondness for the late Elder Theodore M. Burton (1907–89), who served as president of the West German Mission. At a time when many good German Latter-day Saints were leaving their homeland, the Uchtdorf family heeded Elder Burton’s counsel to stay in Germany and build up the Church there. It was Elder Burton who ordained Dieter F. Uchtdorf to the office of elder and gave memorable instruction that Dieter heeded precisely. Sister Harriet Uchtdorf understood the importance of Elder Burton’s counsel for the Uchtdorf family to remain in Europe to strengthen the Church there. It became an imperative for them. Their children have adhered to that same counsel. Now, in jest, the children chide their parents for leaving for the United States, while they have remained in Europe.

Several years ago, President Henry B. Eyring foresaw what could happen at BYU. He shared with me in a very sacred setting that there would eventually be a spiritual quality on this campus that we previously thought only possible in the very strongest areas of the Church of Jesus Christ. He said that this would happen only as we turn to the Savior and let the Savior change us.
As President Reese described earlier today, our exit survey measures whether BYU positively impacts students’ faith in Jesus Christ.38 Looking at this data from the last three years, the aggregate response has increased from 78 percent to 87 percent—a nearly ten-point gain. Of course this is only one measure of the spiritual strength of the university. But as someone who tracks institutional data closely across the Church Educational System, this is remarkable progress. It is an outward expression of the spiritual quality that President Eyring believed was possible.

One day I received a party invitation from one of my best friends, Joshua. The only problem was that his party was going to be on Sunday. I told him that I really wanted to be with him on his birthday but that Sunday was the Sabbath Day and not a day for me to go to parties. I asked him if he could change it to Saturday so that I could go. I learned that since he is Jewish, his Sabbath Day is on Saturday. Joshua understood why I couldn’t come to his party. Instead, I took a present to his house on Tuesday after school and shared leftover cake from his party. Tuesday even turned out to be his real birthday, and it was fun to share it together. He had even saved a party bag and treats for me!
That same week, I received another party invitation. It was to a bowling party of another kindergarten friend. His party was also on Sunday. Again, I decided to tell my friend Chase that I really wanted to be at his party but that Sunday was the Sabbath Day and I didn’t go to parties on Sundays. Instead, my mom picked us boys up from school and surprised us with lunch and two games of bowling! It makes me feel happy inside to know that I can do both—keep the Sabbath Day holy and share in celebrating birthdays with my friends.
It also helps me feel like a missionary to teach my friends about the importance of honoring the Sabbath Day. Since his party, Chase’s mom has been asking my mom lots of questions about the Church, and they have been interested in coming to ward activities with us. I hope they come, and I hope that they will join the Church. Then Chase and his family can come to church with me on Sundays!

When Wilford Woodruff was a boy, he went fishing as often as he could.
Wilford: Hey Azmon, look at this! Two fish on one hook!
Azmon: Wow, Wilford! They must really like those bird-feather flies you’ve been making.
He and his brother Azmon were known as the best fishermen in Farmington, Connecticut.
Wilford also had a secret island in the middle of his fishing stream. When his father didn’t need help at the flour mill or the saw mill, Wilford went to his island to think.
He wondered about God and religion and what Heavenly Father wanted him to do.
Years later, when Wilford Woodruff heard the missionaries explain that prophets and apostles were again on the earth, he was filled with joy. Wilford joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Soon after, the Prophet Joseph Smith called him to be an Apostle and to serve a mission to England with the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
In England, Elder Woodruff learned that a large group of people called the United Brethren had gathered to worship and to ask God for more knowledge of truth.
Elder Woodruff: John, this is inspired! The Lord sent me to Hereford to teach these people.
Elder Woodruff’s success with the United Brethren was even more astounding than his boyhood success with fishing. In two days he baptized six hundred people!
Constable: I have been ordered to arrest you, Elder Woodruff, for preaching to the people.
Elder Woodruff: But I have a license to preach the gospel, sir. If you will sit in this chair until the meeting is over, we will talk about this misunderstanding and get it settled.
By the end of the meeting, there was nothing left to settle.
Constable: I, too, wish to be baptized, Elder Woodruff.
Four ministers: So do we.
Elder Woodruff returned home and crossed the plains with Brigham Young, often providing food for the travelers with the new fishing rod he had brought from England.
And even when he was the prophet, President Wilford Woodruff could sometimes be found in a boat, happily fishing.
If you’d like to learn more about President Woodruff, do the “President Wilford Woodruff Crossword” on page 41.

Question #3, What are you most grateful for as you contemplate your growing up?
This question requires many answers. First I am grateful for a father who adored my mother. He showed it in a hundred ways. We children knew that we would bring down on our heads father's wrath if we ever spoke disrespectfully to our mother. In this present so-called liberated generation, most men do not grow up knowing how to treat a woman. I watched from an early age how a father should behave in a home and how a man should love his wife.

Mom was a public person. She was a Merrilee Webb kind of woman, immensely talented in teaching children how to sing, putting on productions, operettas, concerts. One evening I came home late from school to find my father still in his service station uniform doing the supper dishes. Mom was out at a practice somewhere. I complained to dad and said, "Daddy, why don't you make Mom do her own dishes. That's her job." Those were not sarcastic words. I had a genuine appreciation of how long and hard my father worked. I felt pity for him. Somehow it seemed unmanly that he should do housework too. He looked at me and said, "Listen, Sonny, I know how to do dishes, but I can't teach children how to sing. Let your mother bless the community with her talent and you come and help me with these dishes."

Three serious operations followed in very short order. There were only a few who knew about them and they were sworn to secrecy. Her pattern of life in the hospital was always the same. With her careful planning, she would attend church on Sunday, the operation would be performed early Monday morning. By Tuesday, she was trying to get out of bed. By Wednesday she would be up moving around, trying to regain her physical strength. Thursday would find her helping the nurses assist others who were in the hospital. Friday she would spend trying to convince the doctor that she was ready to go home. By Saturday morning the doctor would give up in despair and discharge her. Sunday she would be back in church looking radiant. No one would ever suspect that she had just gone through major surgery. After the meeting I would rush down to take her home to get her some needed rest. And as I would come close to her I would hear her say to someone else in need, “Now don’t worry about a thing. I’ll have dinner ready for you and at your home on Thursday night.”

Illustration by Dan Burr
I remember it was your typical ward Christmas party: tables covered with red and green butcher paper, dinner served on paper plates, little children running around, and the happy sound of ward members chatting. Somehow, someone had managed to quiet things down to give a blessing on the food, and then everyone ate. The program was about to start.
It wasn’t my ward. I had gone with a friend to her ward party, so I didn’t know many people. We had wanted to leave early, but her mom convinced us to stay for the program.
The first number on the program was by the Primary children, who walked onto the stage wearing gold-tinsel halos on their heads. They sang a song then bumped and giggled their way offstage, leaving a trail of gold tinsel in their wake.
Two pianists then played joyous songs. The first pianist played “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful” (Hymns, no. 202) without missing a note. The other, a young boy, sat down at the piano and looked mournfully over his shoulder at his mom, who began to quietly count the beat. The boy sighed, turned to the instrument, and played his best version of “Up on the Housetop.”
Next on the program was one of my favorite songs—“C-h-r-i-s-t-m-a-s.”
I looked up to see a sister with stooped shoulders and one hand held close to her body, walking with an awkward stride to stand beside the piano. She stood with one hip lower than the other and offered a lopsided smile before she began. I admit I wrongfully wondered if the song would be any good.
“When I was but a youngster, Christmas meant one thing,” she sang. The song went on to tell how a child learns how to spell Christmas and discovers what the holiday is really about.
Her mouth was slack on one side, and she had difficulty forming the words.
Cautiously I looked around the room and studied the faces of her ward members. No one seemed embarrassed. In fact, they sat smiling and listening contentedly.
She continued singing and turned her face upward, fixing her eyes on a spot somewhere on the ceiling. After a few moments I looked up too, but I saw only ceiling tiles. When I glanced back at her, though, I noticed tears gleaming in her eyes.
When she finished, the hall filled with applause. Her cheeks flushed red. As she made her way back to her seat, hands reached out to touch her arm or shoulder as ward members expressed genuine gratitude. One sister, sitting close to me, told her what a nice job she had done, to which she quietly replied, “Thank you. I hope He liked it.”
He? To whom had she been singing? Even as I asked myself the question, I knew the answer. I realized she hadn’t been singing to anyone in the room. She hadn’t performed for the approval of the audience. She had sung to the Savior to praise Him.
Many Christmases have passed since that ward party, and I’ve heard the song “C-h-r-i-s-t-m-a-s” performed by many well-trained voices. But the version I heard that Christmas, sung by one whose performance was out of the ordinary but truly heartfelt, is the one I remember best.

Albert Frehner and Matilda Reber were married in 1888, in the St. George Utah Temple. They then established their humble home in Arizona. To provide for his family, Brother Frehner hauled freight between El Dorado Canyon and Bonelli’s Ferry. Sister Frehner nurtured their growing family and took care of the household chores.
Albert and Matilda had been married for 10 years when Albert was called in 1898 by President Lorenzo Snow (1814–1901) to serve as a missionary in Switzerland, his native land. At the time Albert received the call to serve, Matilda was expecting their fifth child. However, it never entered their hearts or minds to refuse the call. Both gladly accepted the challenge.
Matilda assumed the total responsibility for the care of her young family, for their cotton farm, and for running the post office out of a small room in her home. Five months after Albert left on his mission, Matilda gave birth to twin girls, Edith and Ethel.
One day Matilda was attending to her duties in the post office. A man, as he was ready to depart after completing his postal business, gave her 25 cents to send to Albert in the mission field. I know 25 cents does not sound like much today, but to Matilda it meant a great deal! Matilda thanked the good brother, and then asked him if she could use 2 cents of the money to buy a stamp. She explained that she had written a letter to Albert a week or two earlier but did not have the 2 cents to purchase the necessary postage. The man agreed, and the letter was mailed.
Matilda was the manager of the post office. She easily could have borrowed and used a stamp—fully intending to repay the two cents when she was in a position to do so. And no one would have known. In her dire financial situation, it would have seemed reasonable to go ahead and mail her letter at the time she wrote it. But Matilda would have known! And she was a woman of integrity and honesty. She simply refused to use, in any way, something for which she could not pay. She also was careful to seek the man’s permission to use a portion of the money for a purpose other than that which he had intended.
The integrity and honesty of Matilda, my great-grandmother, have had a profound and lasting impact upon my life. She is an example of integrity and honesty with God, of integrity and honesty with herself, and of integrity and honesty with other people.

As I moved to higher grades, my dad always found ways to plant these love notes. I often found them in my locker or in my sports bags. Last year when I left for college, I had forgotten about the special business cards just as I had every year before. When I got to my dorm room and began to unpack one of my boxes, a little white card slipped out from between my things and fluttered to the ground. My dad’s business cards continued to surface throughout my first few weeks of college, offering inspiration and advice.

“When I was about nine years old, I remember Grandpa sitting in his big overstuffed chair. He allowed me to stand behind him and comb his beautiful hair. I would part it in the middle then comb it back in different ways. Sometimes I would part his hair on the side and try a new style, and I would comb it down over his face in the process. He was very patient and let me comb it until my arms were tired.”

You take these pumpkin seeds, Brose. Plant them and take good care of them. Who knows—when pumpkin pie time comes this fall, your pumpkins might be just what we need!”
It seemed to Brose that even her eyes smiled as Granny handed him the little bag of seeds. The seeds were his! Not Jeremy’s, not Willie’s, but his, his very own! He was pleased that Granny had given them to him instead of to his older brother.
Brose took care of the pumpkin patch, all right. In fact, he did it so well that it began to bother Pa. “Every time I need you, Brose,” he complained, “you’re in that pumpkin patch. Why, the weeds in the rest of the garden could grow as high as cornstalks, and you’d be out there lifting up pumpkin vines, trying to find another weed to pull. Well, at least I always know where to find you.”
This second year in the Salt Lake Valley was proving to be about like the rest of his nine years, Brose decided. Being in the middle, a boy could scarcely move either way. No one paid him the attention that they did Willie, who was only two and a half and who had hair the color of the brightest sunset over Great Salt Lake. Why, even strangers would stop Willie and ask his name. All they ever said to Brose was, “Is he your brother?”
When Willie did something wrong, no one made a big fuss because Willie was still so young. But when Brose did something that Pa didn’t like, Pa would say, “Brose, you’re big enough to know better!” And whenever it came to deciding which boy would get the best jobs—like riding the pony and herding the cows on the east bench—Pa would say, “Wait up a spell, Brose. You’d best help Ma with the wash and let Jeremy do the herding this year. You’re still a mite small for that job, and Ma can use a little more help than Trudy can give her.”
Brose didn’t give up, though. He wanted Pa to know that there were lots of the good jobs that didn’t have to be left for his older brother to do.
One day the three of them took Old Brownie and Belle and went up City Creek Canyon for a jag of firewood. As soon as they’d found a good place to stop and load up, Pa had Jeremy unhitch the team so that they could graze while the wagon was loaded.
“There,” said Pa, when the wagon was full. “That’ll do it for this trip. Hitch the horses back to the wagon, Jeremy, while Brose and I fasten the chain around the load to keep any logs from falling off.”
“Let me hook up the horses, Pa!” cried Brose. “I can do it, honest! I watched you and Jere do it every day, coming across the plains! Let me hook ‘em up, Pa!”
Pa hesitated, then said, “All right, Brose. Don’t forget to fasten the crosslines, so you can drive the team together without their trying to go off in all directions.”
“So you can drive them!” That’s what Pa said! Maybe, if I hook ‘em up just right, thought Brose, Pa’ll let me drive all the way home!
Brose didn’t have any trouble leading the horses into place. Brownie stepped right over the wagon tongue into her place while Belle stood quietly waiting on the other side. Then, just as Pa had cautioned, Brose fastened the crosslines, snapping the one from Belle’s harness onto the ring on Brownie’s bit, and the other onto the ring on Belle’s bridle.
Next he took the wide leather strap on the front of Brownie’s harness, slipped it through the big ring on the end of the yoke, and fastened the snap to the ring on the other side of the harness. “There! That was just the way Jeremy would have done it,” Brose murmured, pleased. He fastened the strap on Belle’s harness to the yoke the same way. Then he took the driving line from where Jeremy had hung it on Brownie’s hame and threw it ever so gently over Belle’s back, just the way Pa would have done it—quiet, easy, so as not to frighten the team.
When he walked around to put Belle’s line with the other, Brose heard a bird call. It was a new sound, something like a meadowlark’s, yet different. It was more like that little brown bird he used to hear back in Connecticut before the family had come west. Maybe it was! Maybe that very same little brown bird had followed him, Ambrose Dodd, all the way to the Valley!
Brose didn’t know how long he had listened to the bird before he saw Pa and Jeremy. They had walked a little way down the canyon and had stopped, waiting for him.
Brose was to bring the team and wagon! He was going to drive! He climbed up onto the seat, picked up both of the lines, and slapped them against Brownie’s side, just as Pa would have done.
“Giddap!” he cried, loud enough for Pa and Jeremy and the horses to hear. The horses stepped forward. But the wagon did not move. Only the yoke went with the team, the ring on it sliding off the end of the wagon tongue and the lines slipping through Brose’s hands.
Jeremy ran toward him just as the wagon tongue banged to the ground. “Brose!” he called. “Hey, Brose! You forgot the wagon! It won’t move unless you hitch the tugs!”
Brose couldn’t move. How could he have been so dumb! How could he possibly have forgotten about the tugs?
Jeremy reached out and took the lines and drove the team around in a little circle, putting the team right in place. Brose came out of his daze and scurried around to pick up the end of the tongue and slip it through the ring of the yoke, which was still fastened to the horses.
Jeremy was just hooking the last tug to the doubletree when Pa came. Brose watched Pa climb over the front wheel and take his place on the front of the load. Pa reached for the lines, and Jeremy handed them up to him. Pa took them without a word, and Brose knew that he had lost another chance.
There wasn’t much talking during chores that night. When supper was over, Brose sat on the little stool beside the fire, listening to the crackling and hissing of the pine knot and watching the sparks it sometimes sent up with the smoke.
Jeremy took Pa’s fiddle from its case, and music began to fill the little cabin, then float away on the night air. Brose leaned back against the warm cabin wall near the fireplace and listened. He wished—oh, how he wished!—that he could play like Jere. Pa had been fair about it, though. He had tried to teach both of them. Brose still remembered Pa’s words: “Seems as though you’ve got ten thumbs, Brose, and they all want to go in different directions.”
Pa had quit trying to teach him soon after that, and at the time Brose had been relieved. But now every time he listened to the fiddle singing under Jere’s fingers, Brose wished Pa hadn’t given up quite so quickly.
He’d much rather be standing there by Pa’s chair, playing the fiddle, with Ma and Trudy and Willie giving him all the smiles Jeremy was getting, than do the job he was supposed to be doing. He saw Ma looking at him from time to time, but she didn’t interrupt the music with talking, and after a bit Brose made himself get started.
He knew someone had to straighten out the kinks in the wool so that Ma and Trudy could knit it into socks for winter. Brose hated to card. Mostly women and girls did it, but Ma said that Trudy was as fast at knitting as she was, herself. With both of them knitting, they could have twice as many socks ready when winter came. They could, that is, if Brose would just keep ahead of them with the carding.
Brose had his problems with this job too. Sometimes he got the wool so tangled up that Ma said it was worse for knitting when he got through with it than before he started. But she had more patience than Pa. Or maybe she needed the wool carded more than Pa needed another boy to play the fiddle.
Across the firelight Brose saw both Ma and Trudy knitting, each tapping a foot in time to the music. The only time either of them stopped was if one of them happened to drop a stitch. Then the stitch-dropper would move closer to the fire so that she could see to pick it up. Brose sighed as he pulled the big basket of wool closer to him and reached for the cards.
He laid one card close to the fire so that the wire brush would warm. He picked up a handful of wool and drew it across the other card. Then he took the card he had warmed and pulled it carefully across the wool, trying to get the strands straight.
“Learned that fiddle quicker’n I did,” said Pa, as Jeremy stopped for a moment. “Never did see a boy pick it up as fast as that.”
Pa will never be that proud of me, thought Brose, even if I did the carding perfectly! Ma would be pleased, but Pa and Jere wouldn’t care about it at all. Maybe … just maybe someday I’ll do something that they’ll think is important …
“Brose!” He was startled from his daydream by Ma’s voice. “The wool, Brose! I can smell it! You’ve got it too close to the fire!”
(To be concluded.)

Eighteen-year-old Chris Garrett has made a dramatic recovery from drug addiction so severe that he is considered lucky to be alive. He first drank alcohol as a small boy, was smoking marijuana by his early teenage years, and, within a few years, was using anything he could find: marijuana, cocaine, LSD (lysergic acid diethylamide), opium, crack, speed, and many types of prescription drugs. He even grew marijuana among his mother’s house plants. To finance his habit, he burglarized people’s homes, picked pockets, and took money from purses left in parked cars during church services. Three years ago, Chris entered a treatment program that took him fourteen months to complete.
Chris did not look like what most people think a drug abuser looks like, which is perhaps part of the reason his habit escaped his parents’ notice for a time. He was neat, well-dressed, and well-groomed. “You don’t have to look like a drug-user or associate with the ‘bad’ kids anymore to get into trouble,” says Carol White, a community leader in drug prevention. “I know one boy who started using drugs at work, and he used drugs with his closest friends and their parents. Many of those friends were leaders at his school.”

It was a windy day in Mongolia. Nine-year-old Batbayar was walking home from the bus stop after school. He hugged his coat tighter in the wind. Luckily, it wasn’t far to his grandparents’ house, where he lived.
“Hi!” Batbayar said as he came inside.
“Welcome home,” Grandma said. “I made some khuushuur for a snack.”
“Thank you!” Batbayar reached for one of the warm, spicy meat pies.
“Wait! Don’t eat any until the missionaries get here,” Grandpa said. “They’ll be coming any minute.”
Batbayar loved it when the missionaries from Grandma and Grandpa’s church came to visit. He always learned a lot from them. But there was just one problem.
“Will they ask me to read from the Book of Mormon again?” Batbayar asked. “Reading is hard for me.”
“That’s why they’re bringing another book today,” Grandma said.
“What book?” Batbayar said.
“You’ll see,” Grandpa said.
Soon the missionaries arrived. They ate Grandma’s delicious meat pies together. Then Batbayar said, “Grandma says you brought me a book.”
“I think you’ll like this book,” Sister Heitz said. “It has lots of pictures.”
Batbayar looked at the cover. Book of Mormon Stories, it said. A picture on the cover showed people building a boat.
“I remember that story,” Batbayar said. “The man didn’t know how to build a boat. So he prayed. And God helped him.”
“That’s right,” Sister Enkhtuya said. “Will you try reading this book? Then you can pray to know that what it teaches is true.”
“I will,” Batbayar promised.
That night he read from the book with pictures. He read the story about the boat. Then he prayed. He fell asleep thinking about the man who built the boat and how God helped him.
From then on, each night Batbayar read a story. Then he prayed. And each night, he fell asleep thinking about what he read.
When the sister missionaries came again, they taught Batbayar more about Jesus Christ. Batbayar learned about prophets. He learned about God’s commandments. He kept going to church with Grandma and Grandpa. And he kept reading and praying.
One day Batbayar had something important to tell his grandparents. “When I read the stories in the book with pictures, my heart feels good,” he said. “When I pray, I feel they are true. I think I should be baptized.”
Today, Batbayar is a member of the Church. He has gotten better and better at reading. And he still reads the Book of Mormon every night!

David also tells of inviting friends and family to meetings. “Last year when my family was getting baptized, my mother invited our granny and our aunts all to church, and they came along and said they quite enjoyed it. They thought it interesting that we didn’t have just clergy up there but had everyday people bearing their testimonies. And my friends enjoy our church. They say it isn’t so much like a dungeon sort of place they’re used to, and that it isn’t boring.”

“I’m not going,” I whined. “I don’t have a thing to wear!” The weekly Sunday ritual had begun.
At that moment, my brother rolled his eyes and said, “You have more clothes than anyone I know. You just never wear them.”
“Stay out of this!” I snapped, looking to my mom for support. “Mom, are you listening to me?”
She just looked at me, and I knew what was coming next. I placed my hands on one of the chairs, preparing myself for the long, boring lecture. But I was wrong. Mom just sat there looking at me.
The silence was about to drive me crazy when she finally spoke. “Julie, there comes a time when you have to decide just why it is you’re going to church. Is it a fashion show, or is it a time to worship the Lord?” When she finished, she stood up and left the room.
What was she trying to do to me, I wondered. No arguing? No lecture? All I wanted was a new dress. Ugh, I felt so guilty.
I walked to my bedroom to try to find something to wear. I opened the closet doors, fixing my eyes on my dresses. I picked up each one, finding an excuse not to wear it.
“I never expected her to run right out and buy me a dress,” I mumbled. “But I only have two dresses that I really like; the rest are ugly.” I was trying to make myself feel better, but it wasn’t working. I felt so selfish and guilty. I began to think of all the people who weren’t as fortunate as I was. I was about ready to cry. How could I be so selfish?
After putting on a dress, I knelt beside my bed to tell the Lord how sorry I was. Then I went to tell my mom the same thing. But when I went upstairs, no one was there. They had already gone to church. Although I could walk over by myself, I couldn’t believe they had actually left me.
I hadn’t been serious about missing church. But when I realized my family had gone without me, I felt even worse as my mom’s words rang in my ears, “There comes a time when you have to decide …”
Mom was right. Every week at church I only cared about what others thought of me, not what the Lord thought. That’s when a familiar scripture came to my mind.
“For the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart” (1 Sam. 16:7).
It was at that moment I decided my Sunday best had nothing to do with my wardrobe. My Sunday best was about the attitude in my heart.

Contrast that to the scene which I viewed in Munich, Germany, many years ago. It was a Sunday morning, and we were en route to a missionary conference. As I looked out the window of the mission president’s automobile, I saw a shepherd with a staff in his hand, leading the sheep. They followed him wherever he went. If he moved to the left, they followed him to the left. If he moved to the right, they followed him in that direction. I made the comparison between the true shepherd who led his sheep and the sheepherder who rode casually behind his sheep.