Gospel Story Finder

In 1974, when I was just 17 years old I was called as the seminary teacher in the Maipú Branch in Santiago, Chile. In the beginning, I had 16 students.
The branch boundaries covered a lot of territory in those days, and some of the students had to travel long distances to come to seminary. I had to walk 25 blocks to get to the old, unheated house where we met. But I was very excited about my calling, and that old house seemed to me the most beautiful place in the world. As we started our course in Church history, everything seemed to be going smoothly and enthusiasm was high.
Then autumn came. As the temperature dropped, participation dropped, too. A reactivation campaign was set up to motivate the students to keep coming. The effort succeeded for a time. But as winter followed fall and it became increasingly colder and more difficult for the students to attend, fewer and fewer attended regularly.
After a time, there were only three. It was a disappointment. I did lack teaching experience, but I had faith and a testimony, and I continued to prepare for each lesson with zeal and dedication. As I walked to class each day, I prayed almost every step of the way, feeling very close to my Father in Heaven. By the time I arrived at the classroom, I was filled with the Spirit and felt as happy as if many students were there.
At other times, I lacked confidence and wondered if I should go on. One such occasion was during a district meeting when a roll call of seminary students was taken for each branch. When the name of the Maipú Branch was called, only two of us reported present: one student and myself. Everyone laughed! It felt like a slap in the face, and I wanted to ask our leaders to let us stop holding the class. However, the sweet influence of the Spirit soon came over me and urged me to continue. I determined to endure to the end.
When seminary graduation ceremonies were held, three participants from the Maipú Branch were awarded certificates of achievement. Only one of them, Pedro Baillón, was in attendance to receive his certificate. But it didn’t matter. By then I understood that there was a deeper purpose in my service, and I knew that the year held great meaning for me, as it did for Pedro.
I have never forgotten Pedro Baillón. Nor have I ever forgotten one of the most spiritual periods of my life.

The first African American family moved into our neighborhood in 1965. My mother, as was her custom, baked fresh bread and went to visit the new family. I peered out the window for her return, anxiously awaiting her report. To her great credit, the fact that they were black didn’t make it into the conversation at all. With genuine pleasure she exclaimed that they seemed like “such nice people for being nonmembers.”

In my suburban east side Salt Lake City neighborhood, our social circle mostly consisted of either active members or what we called Jack Mormons, since at the time the handful of Catholics or Presbyterians in the neighborhood had been kept pretty much within polite waving distance. We had little daily interaction with those not of our faith, and my mother’s surprise at their goodness affected me. I spent my youth thinking that heaven was for Mormons and that all the other believers were destined for some other place. I told my Greek and Baptist schoolmates as much. I was a little Zoramite, climbing the Rameumptom in my Primary classes and praying, “And again we thank thee, O God, that we are a chosen and a holy people” (Alma 31:18), as if to add, “and the rest of Your children are not.”

“Jerome Mooney!” his mom scolded from the back porch. “Stop spitting at your sister!”
“It’s OK, Mom,” said Mary Beth as she put the last spoon on the picnic table. “Jerome is showing me how he’s going to win a blue ribbon at the 4-H fair.”
“By spitting?”
“No,” Mary Beth explained with a grin, “by whistling. Jerome is entering the whistling competition. Talented, isn’t he? Last place is in the bag.”
“Oh, yeah, smartie?” Jerome retorted. “Just listen to this.”
But for all of Jerome’s effort, his whistle was no louder than a whisper.
“Jerome,” said Dad, handing him a hamburger, it takes a lot of practice to be able to win a blue ribbon, and the fair is only two weeks away.”
“That’s right,” said Mary Beth. “Practice in your room or when I’m not around,” she teased, “and I’ll call you when the two weeks are up.”
Jerome practiced and practiced. Every morning he played records and whistled along with them. Every afternoon he watched TV and whistled along with his favorite commercial jingles. And every time Grandpa called, Jerome whistled his best tunes into the telephone. Even while he got ready for bed, he whistled the songs he heard on his radio.
The more Jerome practiced, the better he became. By the end of the first week he was sure he could win first prize at the fair. Even Grandpa said he’d never heard anything like Jerome’s whistling. Just to be sure, though, Jerome chose “Yankee Doodle” as the tune he would whistle at the fair. He was positive that everyone loved it.
“A blue-ribbon tune if ever I heard one,” agreed Grandpa.
Mom made Jerome a red, white, and blue Uncle Sam costume out of a pair of Grandpa’s old pajamas. Dad gave Jerome a haircut and shined his Sunday shoes. “I don’t see how you can lose,” he said proudly.
“Jerome will find a way,” said Mary Beth.
But Jerome was determined to win. He had one more week to polish up his act. So, for six days straight, he whistled nothing but “Yankee Doodle.” Around and around through the house he marched, whistling the tune in time to the beat.
Mary Beth went around with cotton in her ears. Mom and Dad went to the store a lot, and everyone wished fair day would hurry and arrive.
On the night before the fair, Dad insisted that Jerome would do better if he didn’t whistle again until just before the competition. So Jerome put on his pajamas, kissed Mom and Dad goodnight, and went to bed early.
At breakfast Mary Beth rolled a penny across the table. “It’s for luck,” she said, “because you’re really going to need it. Just don’t forget to give it back to me after the contest.”
“I won’t need it,” said Jerome, but he took the penny and slipped it into his pocket—just in case.
Mom carefully packed Jerome’s costume into a bag. Then they all got into the van and headed for the fair.
At the fair they went to see all the exhibits of homegrown fruits and vegetables, handmade clothes and quilts, baked goods, and livestock. Jerome and Mary Beth pretended to drive some brand-new tractors while Mom and Dad set out their lunch of sausage-and-pepper sandwiches, ice-cold lemonade, and chocolate cake. After lunch they watched race cars roar around the track, and they munched on hot roasted peanuts.
At two o’clock the whistling competition was announced over the main loudspeaker. Jerome ran to the van to put on his costume. When he got to the grandstand, it was already filled with spectators. The contestants were divided into age groups, and each competitor was given a badge with his name and number on it. Jerome was number thirteen. Mom pinned the badge onto his costume and wished him luck.
After a short speech the emcee announced, “Number one, Abigail Potter, will whistle ‘You Are My Sunshine.’”
Jerome listened as the whistlers performed. Some were very good, but Jerome knew that he had the winning tune and a wonderful costume and that he wouldn’t make a single mistake because he had practiced so hard.
When the emcee called, “Number twelve,” from a far corner of the tent a boy appeared in a red, white, and blue Uncle Sam costume! Jerome could not believe his eyes.
The emcee announced, “Theodore Buzby will now whistle ‘Yankee Doodle.’”
“Hey, you can’t do that!” yelled Mary Beth.
“Shhh,” chided someone in the audience.
Jerome felt his palms get clammy. Perspiration ran down his face. He couldn’t do “Yankee Doodle” now, and he didn’t have a second-best tune.
“You’re up next,” the emcee said to Jerome when Theodore Buzby finished his performance. “What’s the name of your song?”
“I want to go home,” whispered Jerome.
As Theodore Buzby bowed, the audience clapped and cheered. There goes my blue ribbon, thought Jerome.
“Number thirteen, Jerome Mooney,” the emcee informed the crowd, “will whistle ‘I Want to Go Home.’”
Jerome found himself at the podium staring at the faces staring back at him. His costume felt like it was glued to his skin. His throat ached, and he searched frantically in his pocket for Mary Beth’s lucky penny and rubbed it. But he needed more than luck.
The audience was still waiting for him to begin. He stared desperately at his family in the stands. Mom looked worried, but she managed a comforting smile. Dad looked nervous, but he held up his fingers in a victory sign. Mary Beth was making ugly faces at Theodore Buzby.
The tent grew hotter by the minute. Jerome’s throat was parched—too dry, maybe, to whistle anything. He spotted a grape Popsicle in the front row and watched as it dripped down the arm of the small girl holding it. One by one the cool drops plopped onto the dusty ground.
Suddenly, from somewhere, came a familiar little tune. Jerome couldn’t remember its name or where he had heard it, but it was sort of catchy. He took a deep breath and whistled softly into the microphone. He’d give it his best even if it wasn’t a blue-ribbon tune.
Soon Jerome noticed smiles throughout the audience. Everyone loved his tune! And more and more fairgoers were coming into the grandstand to listen. He whistled louder and faster. Children clapped their hands in time to the music. He whistled the mystery song better than he had ever whistled before, and when he had finished, the audience stood and applauded. Even Theodore Buzby.
The judges’ decision was unanimous. Jerome Mooney was the best seven-to-twelve-year-old whistler at the fair. The blue ribbon was his. Jerome gazed at it happily.
“I knew you could do it,” said Mary Beth, closing the van door. “Now can I have my penny back?”
“I’m proud of you, Jerome,” said Mom. “I didn’t know what you were going to do. What was that little song? I know I’ve heard it somewhere.”
“It certainly was popular with the crowd,” said Dad.
“Listen,” said Mary Beth, and in the distance Jerome’s blue-ribbon tune was playing softly. It got louder and louder as it came closer and closer. The catchy tune brought dozens of kids running to the curb as an ice-cream vendor turned the corner.
“Oh, no,” said Jerome. “I didn’t win at all. The ice-cream truck did.”
“You silly,” said Mary Beth. “The ice-cream truck wasn’t even at the fair. Besides, it was a blue-ribbon tune only because you were a blue-ribbon whistler. Now please hand over my penny.”
And Jerome did. Whistling happily, he could hardly wait to get home to call Grandpa.

I was 11 years old when I learned about the Church. From the moment I first entered the meetinghouse, I felt a beautiful spirit. I continued to attend for several months, during which time I turned 12 and started the Personal Progress program in Young Women. Two months later, on August 14, 1994, I was baptized.
It was surprising to the ward members to see a girl of 12 baptized by herself, without her parents. How did this happen? I asked my father if I could be baptized. He replied, “You’re an intelligent young woman, and you will know what decision to make.” I had already made the decision in my heart that I would never again be without the beautiful feeling I had when I heard the true gospel.

As a deacon in Salt Lake City pioneer days, Willard R. Smith was assigned to gather the “fast” on his block. His supervisor, Brother Peter Reid, had the responsibility of seeing that the fast offerings were gathered and offerings “in kind” were distributed to the needy. He would call at Willard’s home every Friday night and tell Willard that the little express wagon was dusted, oiled, and ready for the job.
Willard would visit every home on the block, members and nonmembers alike, and offer them the opportunity to give something to the poor.
One particular Saturday Willard’s football team had scheduled a game, and he was eager to play. He knew he was supposed to gather the fast offerings but, as he later recalled, “I wanted more than anything else to play that game. I chose pleasure over duty and played football.
“Early the next morning Brother Reid knocked on our back door and asked for me. I was ashamed—I wanted to run and hide—but I faced him with my head down. All he said was, ‘Willard, do you have time to take a little walk with me?’
“I went with him first to a little frame house near the corner. He gently rapped on the door; a poor, little, thin lady answered it.
“‘Brother Reid,’ she said, ‘we didn’t get our food yesterday and we haven’t a thing in the house to eat.’
“‘I’m sorry,’ Brother Reid said, ‘but I’m sure we’ll have something for you before the close of the day.’
“We went to another door. In response to our knock a voice called for us to come in.
“We entered to find an aged man and his wife in bed. ‘Brother Reid,’ he said, ‘we are without coal, and we have to stay in bed to keep warm.’
“In another house we were greeted by a mother with her small children huddled together. The baby was crying and the other children had tear-stained faces.
“That was enough! As we parted Brother Reid said gently, ‘Willard, whenever anybody fails to do his duty, someone suffers.’
“I was about to cry—overwhelmed by my neglect of duty. He laid his hand on my shoulder and left. Those people had their food and coal early that afternoon—and I learned a most valuable lesson.” (Program Outline for Teaching Observance of the Law of the Fast, pamphlet, 1965, pp. 19–20.)

My family has a few of these recorded "spiritual treasures." I'd like to share one with you today. Over the years, it has been an important source of inspiration for me and my family. It's the story of Geertje and Pieter Janse.

It begins on December 23, 1911, in the town of Middleburg in the Netherlands. My grandmother Adriana Janse, only 11 years old at the time, was skipping down the path to her home, excited about the arrival of the holidays. Not paying attention to where she was going, she bumped into a nice-looking young man who had gold fillings in his teeth and was chewing gum--sure signs that he was an American.

When Adriana told her mother about the American who was knocking on the doors of the neighborhood, her mother, who was cleaning the stove at the time, told Adriana she wasn't interested in buying anything. The missionary must have had a good door approach, however, because eventually my great-grandmother Geertje found herself talking to the elder while keeping her sooty hands behind her back.

During the course of the discussion, Geertje professed that, as a good member of the Dutch Reformed Church, she was among the saved and had the mark on her forehead, probably referring to Revelation 14:1, where the believers have the name of God on their foreheads. Then, forgetting about the soot on her hands, she "placed her forefinger on her forehead," leaving "a very black, sooty mark," much to her embarrassment.[5]

Despite this awkward introduction, Geertje was intrigued by the missionary's message. My great-grandmother Geertje was a deeply religious woman who was a seeker of truth. She invited the missionary back.

With each visit of the missionaries, the Spirit worked on her, and eventually she desired to be baptized. Unfortunately, her husband, Pieter, my great-grandfather, did not approve. He had become convinced that it was an evil thing his wife was trying to do. He became spiteful and often angry, going so far as to tell Geertje that if she joined the Mormons, he would drown himself in the neighborhood canal.

However, it's clear from the accounts left to us that Geertje was a formidable woman who knew her own mind. May 6, 1912, was set for the day of the baptism. It was rainy and cold. Pieter was still angry, but Geertje, after praying, received a witness that she should go forward. As she left to go to the baptism, she met Pieter coming home from work. He quietly said, "So you are going to do this; so I wish you luck."[6] She thought perhaps her husband was reconciled to her choice.

As the first to commit to baptism in the town, Geertje had the honor of being the first baptized. Family records indicate that as she stepped into the cold water of the canal, she gave a loud shout.

Meanwhile, back at home things were not going well. Pieter was clearly distraught. When my grandmother Adriana served dinner, he swept it off the table onto the floor and ordered the children to bed. My grandmother remembers lying in bed in fear--she'd never seen her father "so ugly and hateful."[7]

Three times that night, Pieter left the home, walked to the canal, and removed his hat and coat in preparation for jumping in to drown himself. Each time, the thought of his children stopped him. On the third time, a woman's shout startled him. Again, thinking about his children, he went home to check on them. It was then that he knew that he could not do such a terrible thing.

The historian in me is skeptical that Pieter heard Geertje's shout from what was likely some distance away. The great-grandson part of me, on the other hand, loves this part of the story. Perhaps as a blessing for Geertje's faithfulness, the Lord intervened in this way, bringing Pieter to his senses.

Three weeks after my great-grandmother's baptism, my grandmother Adriana was baptized. And finally, four months after Geertje, Pieter entered the waters of baptism. Don't you just love happy endings? If this were Hollywood, snappy music would start playing, and the credits would roll at this point.

But the nice thing about real historical stories is the way they have of complicating storybook endings. Pieter lost his job at the lumberyard because of his new religion. Then war broke out in Europe. The family decided to gather to Zion. But it was a hard time for them, a strange place and new language. They weren't always treated kindly, even in Zion.

Still, Geertje and Pieter remained true to the faith that they had embraced in Holland. They passed on to my mother a commitment to faith that she in turn passed on to me, and which I seek to pass on to my children.

Here is a picture of the family in Utah. The account left by my grandmother has been one of those building blocks of my faith. I confess that there have been times in my life, when facing adversity, that I've been tempted to wimp out. Living by faith isn't always easy. But the memory of the sacrifices made by Geertje and Pieter give me pause. I picture in my mind the strong face of Geertje Janse and think that perhaps I can do it after all.

Brother Lund also said, “If you are ever called upon to speak and you don’t know what to say and you haven’t had time to figure it out, just stand up and bear testimony of the divine mission of the Redeemer of the world and of his Prophet of this dispensation, and I promise you that the Lord will give you something to say.” A child in Primary can bear witness of those things. And that reminds me of an experience that I had.

I was secretary of the mission in Holland. Our headquarters at that time were in Rotterdam. President Grant was then president of the European Mission, and he came over to attend one of our mission conferences. We had rented a theatre, and we had over 1,500 people there. Men came with their stovepipe hats and their walking canes, and it was a great meeting. My mission president had promised me that if I would take down President Grant’s talk (I could write shorthand) they would not ask me to speak, so I sat down at the little table in front of the stand. Right in the middle of that meeting the mission president stood up and said, “Our next speaker will be Elder LeGrand Richards, the secretary of the mission.” And he had promised me that I would not have to speak! But there was one higher in authority than he was: President Grant had said that he wanted to hear from me.

As I walked up onto the stand, I remembered the words of Brother Anthon H. Lund: “If you are ever called upon to speak unexpectedly and you don’t know what to say, bear your testimony.” And as I stood there, brothers and sisters, I am not exaggerating when I tell you that I felt as though I were lifted right off that floor—they could have moved the floor out from under my feet and I would have remained standing there, bearing witness of the truth. I did not know whether I had done any good or not, but a few weeks after that I attended a baptismal service in Rotterdam—and I am always one who goes around and shakes hands with everybody; I like to shake hands—and I shook hands with a man and his wife. He said, “You don’t know us, but we know you.”

I asked, “How do you know me?”

“We were in that conference when you bore your testimony, and that is what started us investigating the gospel.”

The mission president was there, an apostle presiding over the European Mission was there, and I was just a young man with broken language who had only been in the mission a few months; yet the testimony that I bore as Brother Lund advised was what touched their hearts. These are the things that make life worthwhile.

As the years passed, my parents stopped practicing their religion, and I became an atheist. I thought it beneath me to believe in God.
One day when I was 17, I was sitting alone, looking out the window. For some reason, I suddenly began to believe in God again. At the time I was not interested in religion, but there came into my heart a conviction that God did actually exist.
A week later my family moved to Clermont-Ferrand in central France. I began asking myself some difficult questions: What is Jesus like? What is my relationship to Him? One afternoon some young men gave me a paper that read: “Who is Jesus? Come to the Christian pub to discuss this question with other young people.” I told the young men that I had been asking myself that very question. I said I would stop by soon.
The next day I decided to go to the Christian pub. But as I walked up to it, I couldn’t bring myself to enter. In the days that followed, I went back several times, but for some reason I was afraid to go inside.
My inability to enter the pub left me feeling sad. I didn’t know what to do. But after I came home from one of my uncompleted trips, the thought came to me that Jesus Christ organized His Church almost 2,000 years ago; therefore that Church must exist today. As soon as the idea entered my mind, the doorbell rang. I opened the door and saw two missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints standing there. I was surprised—not by their sudden appearance at my door, but by my reaction. I felt as though I had been waiting for them.
Because my room was in disorder, I felt embarrassed to have the missionaries come in, so I asked where they held meetings. The following Sunday I attended church at the address they gave me. What I learned of Jesus Christ and of my relationship to Him felt right. I was soon baptized. I have always believed the Spirit converted me to the gospel before the missionaries ever contacted me.

Things didn’t turn around all at once. The coaches considered it a building year because the team was so young, with Colin and his cocaptain as the only seniors. The “building year” was evident early in the season, when a rivalry meet was a disaster. Afterward, Colin told his team, “I’m not angry at our loss. You don’t have to win everything; you just have to give it your best.”
From then on, the team worked together toward the same goal, and everything changed. They started building success. As he worked with and instructed others, Colin’s own wrestling improved. “The greatest way to learn is to teach,” he said. At the end of the season, the team won their league and sent seven wrestlers to postseason tournaments.

My friend and I got into an argument about religion. She thought that since our Church believes that Heavenly Father, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Ghost are separate beings, we are not Christians. I explained that Christians are people who believe in Jesus Christ as our Savior. I gave her an Articles of Faith card with a picture of Jesus with the children on it and told her that I knew in my heart that I was a Christian. She did not accept it and told me that I was not going to heaven. We argued about it for a week and two days. Finally I wrote her a note saying that I was sorry for arguing and that I wanted our friendship back. I knew that if I tried to act like Christ, she would know that I was Christian. We decided to respect each other’s beliefs. We are still the best of friends.

In April 2024, the project reached a significant milestone. Brother Sylvain Tshibaka, known for his self-reliance initiatives within the stake, kicked off the inaugural inspection of the harvest alongside brothers Jean-Claude Buzangu, Tshimanga Pisthou, and Charles Kayembe, the Kinshasa region welfare and self-reliance manager.
After months of meticulous planning, diligent cultivation, and unwavering dedication, the fields are starting to show what promises to be a bountiful future. With a sense of pride and determination, these brothers picked the farm’s first harvest of maize and peppers. Working together, they exemplified the spirit of unity and collaboration that defines Project Moroni and shows the power of collective effort in achieving common goals.

The automotive stars were beginning to align. I had just returned from a camping trip that involved lots of driving through rural areas. All at once, my car stopped working. The engine shut down and I coasted to a stop … right in front of the metal shop where I worked.
Weird timing.
Because I had conveniently stalled out across from the place where I worked, I was able to push the car into the driveway without paying for a tow truck. A coworker connected some charge cables, and a bit later I could drive to a mechanic. They replaced a bad alternator.
A couple of weeks later I took an even longer road trip, this time visiting my parents out of state. I had a grand time, once again enjoying a journey without car trouble. That is, until I got back into town and once more drove past where I worked. At that point, my engine shut down. Again. Just as before, I coasted to a stop in front of my workplace.
Double weird. With a side helping of almost eerie.
As Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles once said when something similar happened to him, “Obviously the most precise laws of automotive physics were at work.”1
Another push up my employer’s driveway, another battery charge, and a short drive to the mechanic revealed that they had unknowingly placed a faulty alternator in my car. They replaced it for free and I was soon back on the road.
For my vote, both cases of car trouble were a type of blessing we don’t always recognize.
Sometimes “bad luck,”2 as we call it, has excellent timing. Things would’ve been much worse if I’d broken down in the wilderness on my camping trip or along an empty highway while driving to visit my folks.

Siblings Suvarna and Sarala Katuka joined the Church in 1984 and later served missions.

Suvarna had joined the Church in Rajahmundry. He, along with five brothers and one sister, was baptized in 1984. On the day of his baptism, Suvarna was ordained a priest and set apart as the second counselor in the branch presidency. He was also promised in a blessing that if he remained faithful, he would be a “pillar of the Church in India.”

Suvarna’s sister Sarala also served a mission. Before she left, she introduced the gospel to her friend Swarupa. When Suvarna returned from his mission, he was blessed by his sister’s missionary work and married Swarupa. That small branch in Rajahmundry has now become a stake. Many returned missionaries from Rajahmundry have become leaders within the Church throughout India.

I met the children of Suvarna and Swarupa Katuka while teaching at BYU in 2014. Josh Katuka had recently finished serving a mission in Bangalore, India, and his sister Timnah had just received her call to the same mission. When I asked Timnah and Josh if they knew Raj Kumar, they said, “Yes, he’s our uncle!” Raj Kumar had married Sarala.

I am grateful to the Katukas for introducing me to several other pioneers as they helped me travel in India. Many of them trace their pioneer trail back to the love and example of the Katuka family. At one point, Suvarna and Swarupa had the opportunity to emigrate to Canada. But they turned it down because they felt that the Lord needed them to stay in India and build the kingdom of God there. Their devoted service has truly made them pillars of the Church.

For as long as I can remember, my family has read scripture stories every night. We started with the books that have lots of pictures, then gradually moved up to books with more words and fewer pictures. It wasn’t until my mom read the requirements for earning a Gospel in Action award that we made the jump from scriptures stories to real scriptures.
“‘Read the scriptures daily for at least one month,’” Mom read from the award form. “We could all do that together,” she said enthusiastically.
“You mean scripture stories, don’t you?” my little sister, Crystal, asked.
“I think that you’re old enough to read the actual scriptures,” Dad said.
Crystal and I looked at each other.
“I don’t think Crystal’s ready for scriptures,” I said. After all, she was only seven and hadn’t even been baptized yet.
“I am, too, ready!” she shouted, offended. She didn’t understand that I was just trying to keep Mom and Dad reading from the scripture story books.
“Then it’s settled,” Mom said. “We’ll start tonight.”
So we started reading the Book of Mormon. Dad suggested that we try to read one chapter per night. Each of us took a turn reading three verses at a time. Then we finished up by reading the chapter heading. I like the chapter headings. Sometimes that’s the only part that I understand.
We began, of course, with 1 Nephi, and after a few days, I decided that the actual scriptures weren’t as tough as I thought they’d be. We read about how Lehi’s family left Jerusalem. Then Nephi and his brothers, Laman, Lemuel, and Sam, went back and got the brass plates. I already knew the story, but it was interesting to read it the way that Nephi himself told the story. Then Nephi and his brothers went back to Jerusalem to get Ishmael’s family. And after a long time, they all sailed to the promised land.
I learned things that I had never known before, like how the Lord taught Nephi to build a boat. And how some of the sons of Ishmael were just as mean to Nephi as Laman and Lemuel were. And I had never realized how long they all lived in the wilderness before they sailed to America.
Toward the end of 1 Nephi were a few chapters that were very hard for Crystal and me to understand. The chapter headings always ended with a note that said to compare them with a chapter in Isaiah. Dad explained that Isaiah was a prophet from the Old Testament who Nephi really liked. I didn’t think much about it until we got to 2 Nephi, where we read chapter after chapter that didn’t make much sense to me. There were even parts where Mom and Dad just shook their heads and said that we’d understand them better when we’re older.
I was just about ready to tell Mom and Dad that I didn’t think I was old enough to read real scriptures, when Nephi started to use words that I understood again.
Then one Monday night we read 2 Nephi 31. Crystal was reading when we came to verse 20. She read, “‘Wherefore, ye must press forward with a steadfastness in Christ, having a perfect brightness of hope, and a love of God and of all men.’”
“Wait,” I interrupted. “That sounds familiar.”
Crystal, who is usually annoyed when I interrupt, added, “I’ve heard it before, too.”
“Where do you think you heard it?” Mom asked.
It popped into my head: “In Primary, in singing time!” I started to sing, “‘Press forward, Saints, with steadfast faith in Christ.’”
Crystal joined in. “‘With hope’s bright flame alight in heart and mind, With love of God and love of all mankind.’”
Mom and Dad sang the last line with us. “‘Alleluia! Alleluia! Alleluia!’”
“Well done,” Dad said after clapping. “We’re impressed!”
“It’s out of the Hymns book,” Crystal said, trying to impress them a little more.
“That’s right, and I think it’s hymn number eighty-one,” I added.
I could tell that Mom and Dad were surprised, so I went over to the piano for our hymnbook. “Look it up,” I said, handing it to Mom.
She turned to hymn number eighty-one. I was right. There it was—“Press Forward, Saints.”
“We learned this hymn for the Primary program last year,” I reminded Mom. “And the words are almost the same as in the Book of Mormon.”
Mom pointed to the bottom of the page in the hymnbook. It said, “Text: Marvin K. Gardner, b. 1952; based on 2 Nephi 31:20.” Then she explained that the words to the song were written by a man named Marvin K. Gardner, who was born in 1952. He took the scripture that we had just read, and wrote it as a poem to be sung.
Mom played the piano, and together we sang all three verses. Then we went back and finished chapter 31.
“Nephi wrote those words a long time ago,” Dad said as he closed his scriptures. “But they mean as much now as they did then. We still need to ‘press forward.’”
I went to bed that night understanding that the scriptures are more than just a story about people who lived a long time ago. The scriptures are here for us to read and learn from. I felt that night as if the scriptures were talking to Crystal and me. It was as though Nephi was telling us to always press forward and do our best. I could use that kind of encouragement every day. I plan to keep reading the scriptures every night. Someday I’ll even understand the parts from Isaiah.

It wasn’t enough for Manila, Philippines, institute students to just learn the word—they wanted to go out and share it. So they put together a musical show, emphasizing the scriptures and education, that was designed to help parents and youth apply gospel principles in their lives.
The students gave up their summer free time to rehearse and perform, but said it was worth it to see the audience reaction—some were touched to tears. The group toured Metro Manila and the nearby provinces with their variety show. “All our efforts have been paid off by the wonderful feelings we’ve had,” said one participant.

A girl in my school is in first grade like me. She wears thick glasses and sometimes has trouble doing simple things at school. She has to have someone help to get her lunch.
One day when I was walking into the girls’ rest room, I heard a group of girls laughing. They were laughing at this girl and making fun of her. I turned away and didn’t laugh. I hope I was being a good example to the girls who were laughing. I know we should be kind to everyone, especially to those who need special help.

Even though they have at least four years before they will be old enough to serve, Brett Roper, 14, and Ben Holdaway, 15, are determined to serve missions when they turn 19. Both of these young men look at the missionary board often. They especially like seeing pictures of their older brothers on the board.
Ben Holdaway likes to think about where he might be called to serve a mission. His brother Ryan served his mission in Jacksonville, Florida, and his brother Jacob* will soon serve in Montevideo, Uruguay. Both Ryan and Jacob feel the board helped them make their decision to serve a mission. As Jacob describes, “The missionary board helps you answer the question about serving a mission so much earlier than when you are a priest. It helps you answer it when you are a deacon.”

It was my privilege to serve for many years with President Spencer W. Kimball when he was chairman of the Missionary Executive Committee of the Church. Those never-to-be-forgotten missionary assignment meetings were filled with inspiration and occasionally interspersed with humor. I remember well the recommendation form for one prospective missionary on which the bishop had written: “This young man is very close to his mother. She wonders if he might be assigned to a mission close to home in California so that she can visit him on occasion and telephone him weekly.” As I read aloud this comment, I awaited from President Kimball the pronouncement of a designated assignment. I noticed a twinkle in his eye and a sweet smile cross his lips as he said, without additional comment, “Assign him to the Johannesburg South Africa Mission.”

The Willie Handcart Company began ascending Rocky Ridge on October 23, 1856, and then onto the rescue wagons at Rock Creek. They were still about 300 miles east of Salt Lake City, on the high plains of Wyoming. This stony hill has a long ascent and rough rocks sticking out of the trail like ridges. This brave pioneer company of Saints had left their homes in Europe with the ultimate goal of reaching Zion in the Great Salt Lake Valley. They had put their faith and trust in the call from the prophet, Brigham Young. They had started late in the season from Europe which made them even later in leaving Florence, Nebraska with their hastily built handcarts. The maximum amount of personal belongings that these handcart saints could bring was a scant 17 pounds per person. Food rations were limited and became short in supply as the company moved across the westward trail. The harshness of the trail, exposure to the elements, scarcity of food and fatigue from over-exertion took it's toll as almost every day one or two or more of the company died. On October 19 a snow storm hit the company, stopping their trek. Now without any food, the entire company would surely perish if they didn't get help. Help was available at Rock Creek, but to reach it the company would have to cross Rocky Ridge.

Their day's journey covered a minimum of 12 miles, much of it uphill. A blizzard was raging, with the wind blowing and 18 inches of snow on the level. Many of the pioneers were wrapped in blankets and quilts to keep warm. The last of the company, including some ox teams loaded with the sick and dying, didn't get in to Rock Creek until the following morning, 27 hours later. Besides the blizzard, and the steep journey up Rocky Ridge, they also had to cross Strawberry Creek, before arriving at the rescue site of Rock Creek.

Archibald McPhail had been assigned the leader of his tent and was put in charge of several single ladies. After they made the difficult journey over Rocky Ridge and into Rock Creek, Archibald noticed that one of his single sisters was missing and went back to look for her. He found her sitting on the other side of Strawberry Creek:

. . . He pleaded with her to come on, but she refused, saying she was going to stay there and die. There was nothing to do but cross the stream and get her. He picked her up and as they crossed the stream the ice broke and he was soaked with icy water to the waist.

By the time he reached camp his clothes were frozen to him and he was taking heavy chills. The air was cold and wet and the men were so weak and hungry they could not go in search of dry wood to make a fire. Without anything warm to eat or drink, he was placed in a cold bed with the covering of a handcart pitched over him for a tent. There was a strong wind blowing which blew it over three times, and they stopped trying to keep it up. He was in high fever, and [his daughter] Henrietta sat by his bed brushing the snow from his face . . .

Archibald rode in the sick wagon from then on until his death at the crossing of Bear River. His daughter, Jane McPhail Peart, tells of his death:

My mother related to me a very touching story about my father's death. She was sitting in the wagon in the night with her sick husband's head on her lap watching him as she knew he could not live. Having a small piece of tallow candle, she prayed that the candle might last until her husband should pass away; her prayer was answered for the light of the candle and the life of her husband went out at the same time. At the time of his death he was just thirty-nine years old.

I find it interesting that our best member missionaries, those who take the opportunity of sharing the gospel, are often people who are joyful. When I was the Executive Director of the Missionary Department, we suddenly noticed some baptisms in France. Thrilled, we wondered about the reasons, and there were several. But one of the main reasons was a sister who went to work on Monday morning and talked about Sunbeams. After the Sabbath, she would—with great joy and delight—tell her co-workers about her experience teaching young children the day before. Before long, her associates could hardly wait for her to talk about the Sunbeams. And what did that do? Here was a group of people living with the same concerns we all have about our world and the future, and all of a sudden, there was a person who was not only joyful but joyful about children—who represent the future. This sister clearly loved the Savior, and that love radiated. Her co-workers wanted to know more.