Gospel Story Finder

All the Smith children grew up with a rich supply of love—and nearly as much work. School sometimes had to wait while chores around the family farm were done or the boys worked to help bring some money into the family. For a short time, when he was about thirteen years old, Hyrum was able to attend school in Hanover, New Hampshire. But classes there ended abruptly for him when an epidemic of typhus fever broke out, for Hyrum was needed at home to help care for his sick family.
Young Joseph had the fever, and the infection moved to his leg. Caring for her sick children had weakened Mother Smith until she, too, became ill. Since Hyrum was a trustworthy boy and had unusual tenderness and sympathy, he was allowed to care for his little brother. Much of each day and night for many days Hyrum sat holding his brother’s affected leg in his hands, pressing it between them, to help ease the pain. Hyrum’s loving care undoubtedly helped Joseph recover, and it strengthened the bond between them.

In April 1843, six small brass plates with strange inscriptions were discovered in a burial mound near Kinderhook, Illinois. The plates were brought to Joseph Smith, and on May 1, William Clayton, a private clerk to the prophet, recorded in his journal that Joseph Smith had “translated a portion” of the plates and said they contained the history of “a descendant of Ham through the loins of Pharaoh, king of Egypt.” [15]
Initially, members of the Church were thrilled, believing that the discovery of the plates corroborated the practice of ancient people writing on metal plates, similar to the backstory of the Book of Mormon. However, that excitement was short-lived as some 30 years later, in 1879, Wilbur Fugate claimed in a letter that the plates were a hoax, forged by him and Kinderhook’s village blacksmith. [16]
With this news, critics of the Church began assailing Joseph Smith as a false prophet. After all, how could an inspired translation come from counterfeit plates?
In the years that followed, a debate raged because the plates had been lost, making it impossible to either verify or falsify Fugate’s claims. However, in 1920, one of the plates was acquired by the Chicago Historical Society, which is now known as the Chicago History Museum. Later, in 1980, Latter-day Saint experts conducted scientific tests on the surviving plate, confirming it was a modern creation.
In an act of transparency, the Church published the results of the scientific tests, [17] and with this confirmation, attacks on Joseph Smith continued, with critics proclaiming, “Only a bogus prophet translates bogus plates.” [18]
For a while, this argument seemed hard to counter. However, a recently rediscovered letter to the editor of the New York Herald, published in May 1843, sheds more light on the matter. This letter provided a firsthand account of Joseph’s experience with the plates, noting that he translated by comparing the characters on the plates with Egyptian characters found on papyrus that he possessed, doing so openly in front of Church members and others.
This means that the Prophet employed a scholarly approach, rather than claiming revelation, to decipher the meaning of one or more of the characters. In fact, contrary to previous assumptions, the Prophet never claimed revelation when examining and attempting to interpret the characters on the plates. And the attacks of those claiming otherwise were unfounded. The Prophet never produced a translated text of the plates, and he quickly lost interest in them.
This historical episode serves as a powerful reminder that truth is often more complex than it first appears, and that both we and our critics may claim to comprehend things that extend beyond our full understanding. While rational analysis has its place, spiritual understanding is not solely built on intellectual inquiry—rather, it requires humility, faith, and a willingness to seek divine guidance.

Winter had set in, and mounds of snow covered the hills and rounded the shapes of the trees. It was the kind of weather one would expect two days before Christmas in Sharon, Vermont.
About midnight the few farmhouses scattered among the hills were dark—except for the Smith’s where a lamp was still burning.
Even though it was Christmastime, a light that late at night was unusual. But something wonderful had happened on that twenty-third of December, 1805. A baby had been born.
The next day, a neighbor came to visit the Smiths. Alvin and Hyrum, the oldest of the children, saw him coming. They ran to meet him, shouting the news as they went, “We have a new baby!”
“It’s a boy! A boy!”
As they plowed through the snowdrifts surrounding the small frame home, they all had to laugh. Little sister Sophronia was watching from the window with her nose flattened against the glass. Father Smith opened the door to let them in and took the neighbor to see the baby, who was sleeping peacefully in his mother’s arms. “Well, what do you know,” he exclaimed, removing his hat, “a baby boy!”
“Yes,” Lucy said. “He’ll be named for his father. We’re going to call him Joseph.”
There weren’t any telephones, just neighbor folk to pass the word along. So when he left, the neighbor must have carried the news to the men and boys clustered around the stove at the village store. “Another boy for the Smiths,” he announced. “They can always use another hand on the farm,” a hand-warmer declared.
However, when Lucy stroked the soft baby hair, she imagined him not as a farmhand but as a leader and a mighty man. Then she smiled at her dreams. He looked like every other baby born to farm folk in the backwoods of Vermont. There was no reason to think he would be known outside the neighborhood.
Even in her wildest dreams Lucy could not have guessed that this small, new Joseph would run into hatred and yet would inspire such admiration that millions would follow him. And it would be said of him, “In all that he did he was manly and almost godlike.”
Yes, a baby had been born, and “the Lord had his eyes upon him.”
The baby grew and was strong and well. But when he was six, the Smith children became ill with typhus fever. Then a swelling in Joseph’s leg caused him so much pain that he could scarcely bear it. One day Joseph thought it was Dr. Stone, who was treating him, at the door until he heard Rebecca Perkins speak to his mother.
“I brought some honey bread, Lucy—new-baked.”
“Thank you, Rebecca.”
“It’ll help some, I reckon.”
Joseph knew it would help. His mother was bone tired from tending him and his brothers and sister, who slept only fitfully because of the fever. Sophronia was sick for ninety days, even came near dying.
“I understand young Joseph is still feeling poorly,” Joseph heard Mrs. Perkins say.
“Yes. He’s been real sick for some weeks. The typhus caused a fever sore in his shoulder. Dr. Stone lanced it, but the pain shot like lightning down his side and into his leg. He cut into it, clear to the bone, trying to relieve the infection. But it’s still so red and swollen.”
“We deemed it wise to call a council of surgeons to consult about the case,” Joseph heard his father explain. “We’re just waiting to hear.”
Waiting. So much waiting, Joseph thought. Everyone had done his best; he knew that. Even his big brother Hyrum had held Joseph’s leg, day and night, to help relieve the pain. But the pain persisted. Once Joseph cried out in desperation, “Oh, Father, how can I bear it?”
Now his father called to him, “The doctors are riding up, Joseph.”
Rebecca spoke a hasty wish-you-well as Lucy invited the doctors into a room apart. “Gentlemen, what can you do to save my boy’s leg?” she asked.
There was no answer for a moment, then one of the surgeons said as kindly as he could, “We can do nothing … his leg is incurable. Amputation is absolutely necessary in order to save his life.”
Lucy covered her mouth with her hands as if to silence the cry that rose in her throat. “No! Not little Joseph!” Then she found herself thinking back to the time when the doctor said Sophronia couldn’t live. How he even stopped coming, death was so close. They prayed for a miracle … and it happened, just like that. With her head in her hands, Joseph’s mother prayed again—for another miracle.
When she raised her head she said quietly, “Dr. Stone, can you not make another trial? You must not take off his leg until you try once more.”
After consultation the doctors decided to try to remove the infected bone. Lucy went for some clean homespun sheets to fold under the infected leg while the doctors told Joseph what they were going to do. And because there were no anesthetics to deaden pain, they called to his mother, “Bring some cords. We can tie him down to the bedstead. And bring a little brandy or wine; the pain will be almost unbearable.”
But Joseph protested. He didn’t want any liquor; neither would he be tied down.
“Mother, I want you to leave the room. Father can stand it, but you have carried me so much and watched over me so long that you are almost worn out.” Tears rimmed his eyes. “I’ll have Father sit on the bed and hold me in his arms. Then I’ll do what’s needed to have the bone taken out.”
One of the doctors objected. “The boy’s so young! He needs some kind of help to get through it!”
Joseph reached out for his father’s hand and pulled the big man down beside him on the bed. “The Lord will help me . … I’ll get through it.”
So the big, weathered farmer wrapped his arms around his little son and hugged him to his heart.
The operation began. It was long and excruciating with no medicine to deaden the pain, just his father to cling to. At one point Joseph’s mother heard his screams and came running back into the house.
“Oh, Mother, go back, go back. I don’t want you to come in. I’ll try to tough it out if you will go away,” he sobbed.
When the crude operation was over, Lucy stood hesitantly at the bedroom door, not daring to ask the question that trembled on her lips. Her husband, tenderly supporting his son’s shoulders, looked up and held out his other hand to her.
In a moment Lucy was across the room, that hand curving around her own as she knelt by young Joseph’s bed. How small and pale he looked. How still.
From the dark depths of his exhaustion, Joseph heard her coming, felt her touch—gentle but hesitant. He opened his eyes and his steady blue gaze swept the anxiety from his mother’s face.
Dr. Stone wiped the perspiration from his forehead. “It’s all right,” he said, nodding.
Young Joseph knew the Lord was with him. Their prayers had been answered. His leg would heal.
(To be continued.)

I hated being the new kid in school, yet there I was, new for the third time in less than a year.
I dreaded going to my seventh-grade class that first day. Who would talk to me? Would I be able to find my locker, and if I could, would I remember the combination? Would the other kids in P.E. make fun of my skinny white legs? What subjects were they studying? Who would I eat lunch with? Who would I walk home with?
I was scared to death.
That morning, I invented all kinds of excuses to get Mom to let me stay home from school for one more day.
“C’mon, Mom, I don’t even know where the school is. What if I get lost on the way and you never see me again?”
That didn’t faze her.
“Besides, I think I might have the flu. You don’t want to embarrass me by making me go to school sick, do you? I’ll probably throw up right in the middle of English class, and for the rest of my life, all the kids at school will remember me as the kid who threw up in Miss Van Horn’s class.”
That got a smile out of her, but she still didn’t give in. She handed me my lunch, wished me a good day, and pushed me out the door.
The first day wasn’t so bad. I found the school, I didn’t throw up, and my teachers didn’t ask me any questions I couldn’t answer. And I even made a friend. At least, I thought I had.
Craig, a popular kid in my homeroom, befriended me. He helped me find my classes, ate lunch with me, introduced me to some of his friends, and even asked me to stick around after school to shoot some baskets.
I figured Craig and I were going to be great friends, so I hung around him all the time. But one day in the second week at my new school, some of his friends pulled me aside at lunch and said, “Hey, why do you keep hanging around Craig?”
“Cause we’re friends,” I answered.
They laughed. “Friends?” smirked one. “He hates you hanging around him all the time at school. Why don’t you just leave him alone?”
Their words stunned me, and I struggled to keep a smile on my face as they walked away laughing. I decided, then and there, I’d stay away from Craig. If he wanted to be my friend, I’d welcome him, but I wasn’t going to be pushy.
Everyone wants to be liked and to have friends, but some people are so desperate to make friends that they’ll do almost anything. My shadowing Craig, for example, was out of character for me, but at the time I really needed a friend and I didn’t have the confidence that I would make friends by being my normal self.
As a high school teacher, I’ve seen students completely change themselves in hopes of winning friends.
Lora, a sophomore, was new in my school, and she had everything going for her. She was pretty, smart, athletic, and personable. Unfortunately, it was her first experience in a new school, and she had difficulty adjusting. She had never known what it was like to be new, to be a stranger, to be without friends.
In her desperation to make friends, Lora latched onto the first kids who showed an interest in her. Those kids were, in my estimation, less than desirable. They lived for the weekends when they could “party hardy.”
They welcomed Lora with open arms, and so she was sharing the shallow existence of those whose only happiness is found in alcohol, drugs, or immorality. Lora continued to be pleasant and active in my class, but she had changed. Her sparkling countenance was gone, and her academic motivation was fading.
It’s important to have friends, but friends and popularity aren’t worth self-destruction. One Church leader said it well when he advised youth to, “Seek not to be well known; seek, instead, to be worth knowing.”
It’s not difficult to get to know people if you involve yourself in school activities, talk to people, and act friendly. But sometimes the hard part comes in making real friends out of people you get to know. If, however, you’re “worth knowing,” you’ll have little trouble turning acquaintances into friends.
So then, how can you be worth knowing?
First, be interested in others. Martin H. Durrant, my former bishop and stake president, lifts my spirit every time I meet him. He always asks me about myself, my family, my job, or my hobby. His questions are sincere, and I know, without a doubt, that he’s genuinely interested.
But it’s not always easy to talk about other people’s interests. For example, a friend and I were finishing graduate school at about the same time. Every time we met he’d tell me in great detail about his research project and how it was going. In all the time we were working together, he never once asked me about my work and study. He didn’t seem like a real friend because he didn’t seem interested in what I was doing.
Once you learn to talk to others about their interests, practice being cheerful. Having a smile on your face forces you to be in a good mood. No one enjoys being around a grump or someone who looks like they’re carrying the world’s problems on their shoulders.
In addition to being cheerful, it’s also important to be a good listener. Sometimes when my wife has a problem or is struggling with a decision, she’ll talk to me about it. My first impulse is to stop listening, tell her what I would do, and advise her to do likewise.
It took me a while to learn that she didn’t want my advice; she wanted my willing ear. The next time a friend tells you about a problem, bite your tongue the minute you’re tempted to dispense advice. Let them say all they have to say; then give advice only if they ask for it.
And, finally, be a good influence on others. When I was a sophomore in high school, some of my friends started drinking and smoking. They knew I didn’t drink or smoke, but they began to pressure me to join their parties anyway. The more they pressured me, the more uncomfortable I felt, until finally I stopped hanging around them. I figured that if they were really my friends, they wouldn’t push me to do things I didn’t want to do. Real friends would never ask you to do something you shouldn’t.
Really, this friendly advice is basically what you’d do if you followed the Savior’s advice to “love one another.” If you really work at loving those around you, and show that love, you’ll be the kind of friend everybody wants.
It’s never easy being the new kid on the block, and making friends and breaking into social groups can be tough. Here are a few ideas you might want to consider.
Give yourself some time. If you’ve just moved to a new town, or changed to a new school, it will take a while to establish friendships. Don’t worry if you have to spend some time alone for the first few months. Take advantage of this time by participating in family activities, developing your talents, and learning about your new surroundings.
Don’t be afraid to make the first move. You can’t always wait for people to introduce themselves to you. Remember, they might be as apprehensive approaching the “new” person as you are talking to them.
Stay away from people who drag you down. If your friends force you to choose between them and doing what you know is right, it’s time to look for new friends. Pray for guidance when you are making new friends, and make a commitment to yourself to maintain your integrity.
Get involved. In addition to getting to know the kids in your ward or branch through Mutual activities, try joining a club at school, going out for a sports team, volunteering to decorate for a dance, or trying out for a play. These types of activities often involve teamwork, so it’s a good way to really get to know people who share your interests.
Be worth knowing. Think about the kind of person you would like to be friends with. Write down some of the qualities that person would have, and then work to cultivate those traits in yourself.

Now, you young men, let’s carefully consider some examples from the lives of our prophets as they have spiritually prepared for the priesthood. President Joseph Fielding Smith shares with us his feelings in these words: “‘When I was a small boy, too young to hold the Aaronic Priesthood, my father placed a copy of the Book of Mormon in my hands with the request that I read it. I received this Nephite record with thanksgiving and applied myself to the task which had been assigned to me. There are certain passages that have been stamped upon my mind and I have never forgotten them.’ By the time he was ten years old he had read the Book of Mormon through not just once but twice. His brothers remembered of his hurrying to get through his chores as quickly as possible, and sometimes even leaving a ball game early, and secluding himself in the hayloft or in the shade of a tree to get back to his reading of the book.” (Joseph Fielding Smith, Jr., and John J. Stewart, The Life of Joseph Fielding Smith, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1972, p. 57.)

Sister Whang’s work in the camps led her to change her career from nursing to teaching. But after six years, in November 1958, she decided that if she wanted to fulfill her goal to help the poor, she needed more education. Her minister encouraged her to apply for an exchange program at the University of California at Berkeley. She was accepted. Taking the money she had saved from teaching and the promise of a paid sabbatical from her school, she enrolled.
Soon after she arrived in the U.S., Whang Keun-Ok met two Korean students from Brigham Young University who were working at Berkeley for the summer. They encouraged her to go to Provo, Utah. When she visited the BYU campus in the fall of 1959, she fell in love with the mountains and was impressed by the Latter-day Saints’ faith. She spent the next three years there, studying social work. Shortly after she returned to Korea in June 1962, she located the missionaries and was baptized.

I had a wise bishop who called me in when I was twelve. He said, “LeGrand, we need some organists in our ward. I’d like you to take an organ class at the McCune School of Music. It costs five dollars for ten lessons. The ward will pay half of it, and you pay half.” I’m sure my mother put him up to it and paid the ward’s half.
I took the class and started to play the organ. When I was fourteen, I became the ward organist. In my high school days, I played the piano in a dance orchestra. That was a lot of fun. I loved the rhythm, and I could usually make five or ten dollars a night. When I was in dental school in Kansas City, Missouri, I played the organ at a Presbyterian church. It was a great experience for me. I played a lot of LDS hymns for them. They especially enjoyed “O My Father” and “Come, Come Ye Saints.” After playing at their service, I would get on the bus and go play a pump organ at our service.

Dan’s thoughts turned to a story a favorite bishop had told him, something which had happened on another Christmas Eve many years ago. His bishop had been a soldier in basic training. It had looked as though there might be no Christmas leave—had looked as though Private Benjamin Clark would have to spend Christmas far from his friends and loved ones.
And then at the last minute had come the welcome orders: Seven days’ Christmas leave, effective immediately.
It had been too late for Ben to make plane reservations—too late to catch a bus out of Monterey. It had been too late to ride home with other Church members from the camp—too late to do anything but walk to the highway and try to get a ride from passing motorists.
A truckdriver named “Red” with a load of California produce had picked up Ben and carried him east into Nevada. He had joined his baritone voice with Red’s Irish tenor, and they had sung up all the Christmas songs either of them had known.
And then in Nevada he had stood in the cold for so long, waiting for a ride north and home. There never was much traffic on that stretch of road—and on a late Christmas Eve night, well …
But at last a car, headlights shining through the dark, had appeared, had slowed, had pulled to a stop, had picked him up. Thank goodness they had been going his way and said they could take him almost all the way to his home town.
Dan recalled how the bishop had described what came next: It was not until he and his army bag were in the back seat and the car had been moving that the young soldier realized the three young men in the front seat were drunk—and getting drunker. They had offered Ben a drink from their bottle and had been offended when he declined.
The young soldier in the back seat had become alarmed. The driver had been much too drunk; the car had been going much too fast; the car radio had been much too loud. A feeling of darkness, of foreboding had filled Ben’s mind as he considered his situation.
Finally, he had said it: “Please! Stop the car! I want to get out!”
The reply had been loud laughter from the front seat. “You hang on, soldier boy, because we’re not stopping for nobody and nothing.”
For several fearful kilometers Ben had listened to the sound of the tires on the highway, the loud music on the radio, the reckless talk and the loud laughter from the front seat. He had endured the strong smell of cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey all around him.
With each kilometer, he had feared more for his life. In his fear, he had turned to prayer. “Heavenly Father, I’m in bad trouble, and I don’t see how I can get out of it. Please help me. Please protect me and preserve my life. Heavenly Father, I’m afraid, and I really need thy help. …”
Dan could recall his bishop’s very words: “And then had come a very quiet, very peaceful prompting telling me to get down on the floor of the car and put my heavy army bag over me.”
He had done so immediately. In the narrow space between the front seat and the back, Ben had hunched down, had wedged himself in tightly, had pulled the weight of the bag over onto his back. Then he had put his forehead on the floor and his hands over his head.
A few minutes later seemed like the end of the world. There had been the sound of screaming tires, the wild swerving of the car out of control—and the jolting, jarring, impact of two high-speed vehicles coming together.
Much later, the young Latter-day Saint soldier had regained consciousness. He had found himself in a black world where he could move neither arms nor legs nor head. There had seemed to be no up nor down, no left nor right, nothing to help orient him. Nothing had stirred within the dead car—except for the smells of gasoline and of vomited whiskey—of sudden death in what had been a front seat.
Perhaps an hour had passed before a big truck had pulled to a stop at the remote accident site. Two truckers had radioed the police for help, surmised that no one in either car could have survived such total destruction.
But the police had discovered otherwise. Along with the dead couple in one car and the three dead teenage boys in the other, they had found and then rescued Private Benjamin Clark.
“Young man,” one trooper had said, “you aren’t too good at picking folks to ride with, but I suspect someone is looking over you and protecting you. I hope you do something good with your life, because you owe Him one. Only God could have brought you through this night with not one scratch on your body.”

“I want to be the big brother,” Isaac told Mommy after his older brother, Brigham, left for school.
Brigham had learned to tie his shoes first. He had learned to print his name first. He had gone to school first.
Isaac tried very hard to do all the things his big brother could do, but he couldn’t tie his shoes yet. He couldn’t print his name yet. He didn’t get to go to school yet.
Mommy lifted Isaac onto her lap. “I need you to be my helper,” she said. “I want to make a treat for family home evening tonight.”
Isaac felt proud that Mommy needed his help. Together they mixed the flour, sugar, and cocoa. Isaac even got to break the eggs into the bowl.
Mommy put the cake in the oven. After it was baked and cooled, Isaac helped Mommy spread frosting on it.
After dinner, Mommy placed the cake in the middle of the kitchen table.
“We have wonderful news,” Mommy said.
Daddy rested his hand on her shoulder. “Our family is going to have another baby.”
“Another baby?” Isaac asked.
Mommy nodded. “We are going to adopt a baby girl.”
Isaac knew his parents had adopted him and Brigham. He couldn’t remember going to the Detroit Michigan Temple to be sealed to his family forever, but his parents had told him about that special day. All of his family, including his grandparents, had been there.
“I’ll need both of you to be helpers,” Mommy told Brigham and Isaac.
“I can do that,” Brigham said.
Isaac smiled a big smile. “And I get to be the big brother.”

Concordances are great but they do have their drawbacks.
I was just leaving my English class, heading for the lunchroom, when I saw Stan. He was coming down the other side of the hall. Positioning my books more securely under my arm and braving the current of bodies, I forged my way over to meet him.
“Well, we gonna talk about religion some more today?” he asked, glancing at the standard works under my arm. (I’d been to seminary that morning.)
We’d had several discussions about the Church. After entering the cafeteria and taking our places in line, he turned and said, “All right. You show me where the Lord says he has always and will always work through prophets, and I’ll read the Book of Mormon.”
Taking a paperbound copy of the Book of Mormon triumphantly from under my arm and thrusting it toward him, I quoted, “Surely the Lord God will do nothing, but he revealeth his secret unto his servants the prophets.” (We had talked about that last week in seminary.)
“Wait a minute,” he cautioned. “I want to see that in print. Chapter and verse.”
My smile drooped a little bit, and I swallowed hard. “Hmm,” I said clearing my throat, “let’s see.” I fumbled my other books to the floor and leafed to the Bible concordance. “Key words,” I thought. “Just remember the key words. You’ll find it in a second.” Kicking my books along the floor as the lunch line moved ominously toward the serving counter, I turned to prophet in the concordance.
“… Aaron thy brother shall be thy p. … that all the Lord’s people were p. … God will raise up unto thee. … is Saul also among the p. … I am a p. …”
It wasn’t there.
We were almost up to the silverware tray. My friend waited patiently. Thinking of other key words, I stumbled nervously to secret. The scripture wasn’t listed under secret. Almost tearing a page out of the concordance, I flipped to servants. It wasn’t listed there either. Stan was getting his silverware and moving into the line.
Kicking my books along the base of the serving counter, balancing my tray with one hand, Bible propped under my elbow, and turning the pages with my thumb, I glanced under the subdivision God. No luck.
“What key word is it listed under?” I thought as I sat down and watched Stan finish his mashed potatoes.
Out of desperation I tried another key word from the scripture: nothing. Nothing. Stan gulped down the last of his milk and asked me, “Found it yet?” Realizing my meatloaf was getting cold and the butter on my peas was congealing, I turned desperately to the last key word I could think of—reveal.
There it was! “Am. 3:7 he r. his secret unto his servants the prophets.”
I turned to Amos 3:7 and stuck it under Stan’s nose just as he decided the chocolate pudding was too watery and was preparing to leave. He read it, thought about it for a minute, stuffed his napkin into his milk carton and crushed it, and reached out to take the copy of the Book of Mormon.
“Thanks,” he said. “If I have any questions, can I ask you about them?”
“Yes,” I almost shouted as he turned to leave.
“See you tomorrow,” Stan said as he left.
Deciding cold meatloaf, congealed peas, and watery pudding didn’t look all that hot, I decided to leave too.
“Besides,” I thought, “because of that dumb concordance I don’t have enough time to eat anyway.”
It was easy to blame my scriptural clumsiness on the concordance, but at home later that night I realized the cold, hard truth. Although I had read my beautiful leather-bound scriptures many times, I could turn to comparatively few passages. My scripture study had not been systematic, and I had taken such “care” of my books that every page was clean, blank, unmarked.
“Perhaps,” I thought, “if I had marked my scriptures as I read them, taking time to classify and cross reference, I could have skipped the concordance fiasco.”
Duly penitent, I got out my colored pens, pencils, and notebook and became a confirmed scripture marker.
My books don’t look like new anymore. Occasionally there’s a blotch and a mistake. But I can usually find the passage I want when I want it. And I have never since struggled with a concordance while my lunch got cold.

Recently Rachel had the opportunity to teach the gospel through her singing. The branch in Marshall, Minnesota, where the Cheadles go to church, decided to perform a special musical concert of church hymns and narration for their friends who were not members. Brother M. Michael Suzuki, professor of choral music at Southwest State University in Marshall, was the director, and Rachel and her brother Joseph were the youngest members of the choir.

In the concert, Rachel sang a solo of “I Am a Child of God.” She was especially happy that all four of her grandparents and also her great-grandparents were able to come. A lot of other people were there as well, but Rachel wasn’t afraid to sing in front of such a large audience. “I thought it was fun to sing in a big choir.”

I had just turned 21 and was working as a server in a local ski resort’s restaurant. One afternoon as I finished cleaning the dining room, another server handed me a book and said he wanted me to have it. I thanked him and accepted it.
I looked at the cover: the Book of Mormon. My curiosity was sparked, so I decided to go into the kitchen to check it out. Inside the cover I found a note that the server had written to me. In it he said the Book of Mormon was a true book of Jesus Christ’s gospel and that he knew it would touch my heart. I decided to start reading it right then.
As I read, a strange, peaceful feeling enveloped me. I hadn’t felt that feeling while reading any book other than the Bible. My initial intent to read a few pages quickly turned into a few chapters. I couldn’t put the book down. Then I came to 1 Nephi 15:11: “Do ye not remember the things which the Lord hath said?—If ye will not harden your hearts, and ask me in faith, believing that ye shall receive, with diligence in keeping my commandments, surely these things shall be made known unto you.”
I had to know if this book was true. I didn’t know how to address God in prayer, so I simply looked up at the kitchen ceiling and asked, “Is this book from You?” Immediately I felt a firm reply: “Yes.” I remember thinking, “Wow. I guess I’ll finish the book!”
Three months later, having finished the Book of Mormon, I drove to visit my father in California. Not far from his house I passed a building with a mosaic on its front that I recognized. I quickly turned into the parking lot and found a man outside.
“What is Lehi’s vision of the tree of life doing on your building?” I asked. He then introduced me to his church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I retrieved my Book of Mormon from the car and began asking him questions about all the passages I had circled as I read. He slowed me down and explained that the Church had missionaries who devoted two years of their lives to answering questions like mine.
I gave him my father’s address, and later two elders came to visit me. I was impressed that they were eager to answer all of my questions. I was even more impressed that the new concepts they taught me felt like familiar things I was remembering again. Five weeks later I was baptized a member of the Church.
Thirty-two years have passed since then, and I still read the Book of Mormon daily. It has been a continuous source of light and direction for my family and me. How grateful I am to the ancient prophets who etched the words of God onto the golden plates, to Joseph Smith for enduring persecution and trials in order to translate and publish its truths, and to a server who had the courage to give me a Book of Mormon that day.

Twenty-three-year-old Tom Monson, relatively new bishop of the Sixth-Seventh Ward in the Temple View Stake, Salt Lake City, was unusually restless as the stake priesthood leadership meeting progressed. He had the distinct impression that he should leave the meeting immediately and drive to the Veterans’ Hospital high up on the avenues of the city. Before leaving home that night he had received a telephone call informing him that an older member of his ward was ill and had been admitted to the hospital for care. Could the bishop, the caller wondered, find a moment to go by the hospital sometime and give a blessing? The busy young leader explained that he was just on his way to a stake meeting but that he certainly would be pleased to go by the hospital as soon as the meeting was concluded.
Now the prompting was stronger than ever: “Leave the meeting and proceed to the hospital at once.” But the stake president himself was speaking at the pulpit! It would be most discourteous to stand in the middle of the presiding officer’s message, make one’s way over an entire row of brethren, and then exit the building altogether. Painfully he waited out the final moments of the stake president’s message, then ran for the door even before the closing prayer had been said.
Running the full length of the corridor on the fourth floor of the hospital, the young bishop saw some extra activity outside the designated room. A nurse stopped him and said, “Are you Bishop Monson?”
“Yes,” was the anxious reply.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “The patient was calling your name just before he died.”
Fighting back the tears, Thomas S. Monson turned and walked back into the night. He vowed then and there that he would never again fail to act upon a prompting from the Lord. He would acknowledge the impressions of the Spirit when they came, and he would follow wherever they led him, ever to be “on the Lord’s errand.”

In the early 1950s in a small developing suburb of Salt Lake City, young families were nestled in homes, many with pastures in their backyards along irrigation ditches full to the brim with spring water for the fields. On one spring morn, two five-year-olds were in the pasture with a three-year-old undetected, red-headed brother—me—inquisitive as to what they were doing.

As they came to the wide ditch, they delicately balanced on the two-by-four and, one-by-one, crossed over. Still unseen, the three-year-old, snuck behind and thought, “This looks easy.” With little feet, a narrow beam, and more energy than equilibrium, he was quickly down in the fast-moving water, with only a lock of red hair above the water.

As he grabbed handfuls of grass, the swift water lifted his head up. And he did what he could do best—yelled for help. A wonderful mother was beginning to frantically search for him back at the house, but it was a vigilant carpenter across the ditch who heard incessant cries for “Mamie.” He could not see the source but reacted and ran to the bank. Unable to actually reach his little hands, he did what he could, using a pitchfork to gently nestle the little fellow’s legs between the tines, lift him out, and hand him to the frantic, crying mother, who took the shivering, crying son to a warm bath and safety.

In a worldwide leadership training meeting, Elder Jeffrey R. Holland told this story: “For many years, I have loved the story that President Packer has told about William E. Berrett’s boyhood Sunday School teacher. An elderly Danish brother was called to teach a class of rowdy boys. … He didn’t speak the language very well; he still had a heavy Danish brogue; he was much older, with big farm hands. Yet he was to teach these young, rambunctious 15-year-olds. For all intents and purposes, it would not have seemed like a very good match. But Brother Berrett used to say—and this is the part President Packer quotes—that this man somehow taught them; that across all those barriers, across all those limitations, this man reached into the hearts of those rowdy 15-year-old kids and changed their lives. And Brother Berrett’s testimony was ‘We could have warmed our hands by the fire of his faith.’”

Let me tell you a story about some children who knew who they really were and who understood their relationships to each other.

The story occurred at a track and field meet for children with special needs. The children had trained and were so excited for this day. Try to imagine the parents of these ­physically or mentally challenged children who had decided to run in these races. The parents thought that if their children could win, it would be good for their self-esteem.

The parents sat in the stands waiting for the races to begin. Their children were on the track getting ready for the 100-meter dash. As the gun fired, all nine contestants began to run. Not long into the race, one of the boys fell down, hurt his knee, and started to cry. The other racers, hearing him cry, stopped, turned around, and went back and gathered around him. One little girl with Down syndrome kissed him on the head and said, “Now that will make it ­better.” Together they lifted him up, joined arms, and walked to the finish line together.

To the parents, what had begun as an exciting race was now a little confusing as they watched those little athletes walk to the finish line together. The parents stood and cheered. And they cheered for a long time. They realized that these children knew all along who they really were and what winning really means. The parents thought self-esteem would come from winning, but they learned that self-esteem comes from doing esteemable things every day.

When Sister Burton and I were first married, we lived in the southeast part of the Salt Lake Valley. On occasion, as we purchased groceries from a small neighborhood store, we observed President and Sister Joseph Fielding Smith in the same store making their purchases. After several such observations, I finally mustered the courage to inquire of President Smith why it was he traveled all the way from downtown, past a dozen grocery stores, to shop at this particular store. Looking over the tops of his glasses he emphatically said: “Son! [He had my immediate attention.] Sister Smith and I patronize establishments that keep the Sabbath day holy.”

Over the next few months, I started shopping for my mission attire. Coming from Scotland, I’m no stranger to cold weather so I was going to be well prepared. But every time I went to buy something like a winter coat, big woolly jumpers, hat, scarves, or gloves, I’d get the answer, “No!” I’d leave it a couple of days then go elsewhere. Again, the answer would be “No! Don’t buy that.” I couldn’t believe I was being prompted to buy certain clothes.
The promptings were very specific. I’d pick up clothes and I’d hold the hanger and wait for a yes or a no. I obediently bought according to those promptings. When I look back, I can’t believe how much the Holy Ghost kept prompting me and specifically telling me things each day—I was not asking for such clarity. I’ve never experienced this level of prompting ever since. That was how it was supposed to be—minute detail.
One morning I went downstairs and there on the carpet was the big fat white envelope. My heart leapt. I quickly grabbed it and immediately locked myself in the bathroom. I have a big family, and someone could have been lurking; I wanted to open it on my own.
I stared at the envelope, scared to open it. I kept thinking that it held the next 18 months of my life, my future. I was very anxious. I eventually opened it and scoured through the first few lines. I just wanted to know where I was going—it was the Greece Athens Mission. I’d never heard of this mission. I’d never heard of anyone even going to this mission. I would later find out that I was the first Scottish sister to go there. How cool! I would learn to speak Greek. l would serve my mission during one of the hottest summers they’d had, and another summer the following year. Greece was indeed a different, unusual place. The gospel was still in its infancy there; it had only been dedicated 25 years previously by Elder Gordon B. Hinckley (1910-2008).
I served my mission from May 1997 to November 1998. It was one of the best experiences of my life! I can’t believe that I hadn’t wanted to go. I could quite easily have missed out on this crucial experience. It was meant to be. I would never have chosen that path but it’s what Heavenly Father knew was right for me. Greece will always be a special place with special memories for me. Whenever I go back to visit, I get ‘goose bumps’ and butterflies in my stomach. When I left my mission, I left a part of my heart there, and there it will stay. It brought me so much happiness. It shaped my future. It put me on the right path, in the right direction. It was priceless. I loved it. I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat. It changed me for the better. My favourite word is fantastic, and Greece was fantastic!

Kelly and her mom walked up to the church building and looked around. It was beautiful, with palm trees swaying outside. The sign on the building said, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints” in two different languages—Malay and Chinese.
Kelly didn’t know much about Jesus Christ. And she had never been to church before. Her mom’s friend, Liza, went to church here. She had invited Kelly and her mom to come with her.
As they went inside, people smiled and said hello. Everyone was so nice. Kelly and Mom followed Liza upstairs to a big room. Liza said it was called a chapel.
Kelly sat down next to Mom and Liza in a row of chairs, and soon church started. She listened to the music. She liked how it made her feel, even though she didn’t know the words.
At the end of the meeting, a woman got up to say a prayer. Kelly looked around as everyone else folded their arms and closed their eyes. She still felt something really good inside. What was it? It felt different than anything she had felt before!
As they left the church later, Kelly told Mom about the feeling she’d had during the prayer.
“Well,” Mom said, “I didn’t really feel anything special.”
But Kelly kept thinking about how she’d felt at church. She had liked the prayer. And she had liked hearing about Jesus.
“Can the missionaries teach me?” Kelly asked Mom. “I want to learn more.”
“That should be fine,” Mom said.
The missionaries taught Kelly how to pray and how to read the scriptures. They taught her about Jesus and how He loves us. They gave her a small picture of Jesus to help her think about Him. Kelly liked what she was learning.
One day the missionaries gave her a special challenge. “Will you try to pray during the week?” they asked.
Up until now, Kelly had only prayed with the missionaries. But she wanted to try it on her own. She knew Heavenly Father was always listening, and He wanted to hear from her.
“I’ll do it,” she promised.
The next day at school was a special one. Kelly was going to sing in a competition! She had learned a beautiful new Chinese song. Learning all the notes and tones had been hard work! She had practiced and practiced and practiced.
Now that it was time to perform, Kelly was nervous. She pulled out the picture of Jesus she had put in the pocket of her school uniform that morning. She decided to say a prayer, like the missionaries had shown her. “Heavenly Father, please help me let go of my nervousness,” she prayed. “In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Then Kelly stepped out onto the stage. She stared at the audience and the judges. She thought about the picture of Jesus in her pocket and felt a little bit better. She took a deep breath and started to sing.
She sang all the words just like she’d practiced. As she sang the last note and took a bow, Kelly knew Heavenly Father had heard her prayer and helped her.
With a smile, Kelly walked off the stage. She couldn’t wait to tell the missionaries about what happened! She wanted to keep praying every day.

Lacey was busy making things for her miniature dollhouse. She’d already made button plates, a yogurt-lid table, and a popcorn bowl out of a bottle cap and Styrofoam. She was just starting on the paper-clip hangers when her little brother, Zach, burst through the door with a bath towel around his neck like a cape.
“Zach!” Lacey cried as he bumped into her desk, sending the button plates flying.
“I’m not Zach. I’m Awesome Boy!” Zach shouted. He stomped around her room and knocked into the walls, pretending to fly. “And you’re a giant mutant monster that’s attacking the city!”
“I am not a mutant monster!” Lacey shouted back. As she looked at the buttons scattered all over the floor, she felt a hot, angry feeling rising in her stomach. She felt like yelling.
Instead she stomped out of the room. “Mom!” she called. “Zach’s bugging me again!”
Mom was on the phone in the kitchen and held up her hand. “One minute,” she mouthed. Mom walked into the other room to finish her phone call.
Lacey sighed and flopped into a kitchen chair. Why is Zach so annoying? Lacey fumed. She was ten, and Zach was only seven. He thought it was funny to see her mad. Worse, it seemed like Zach looked for ways to bother her. He grabbed her dolls, copied everything she said in a silly voice, and searched through her drawers. Each thing made her madder and madder. She didn’t like feeling that way.
Lacey looked down at the paper-clip hanger she was still holding. Kylee, Lacey’s older sister, had showed her how to make miniature things. Kylee was away at college now, and Lacey missed her. Why couldn’t Kylee still be around instead of Zach?
Lacey thought back to a time just before Kylee had left for school. They were having fun on the front porch eating ice cream and talking, but Lacey couldn’t stop scratching a mosquito bite on her arm. It itched so much!
“Don’t scratch it,” Kylee warned. “The more you scratch it, the worse it gets.”
“But I have to scratch it!” Lacey complained. “It itches too much. It’s driving me crazy!”
“You don’t have to scratch it,” Kylee said. She licked her ice cream cone and smiled. “You may not be able to control whether or not you have a mosquito bite, but you can control how much you scratch it.”
Lacey looked down at her arm where the mosquito bite had been, and suddenly she understood something. She could control her own actions. She couldn’t stop Zach from doing what he wanted, but she could choose not to be bothered by it anymore! And Heavenly Father could help her.
Heavenly Father, she prayed silently, please help me not to get mad when Zach teases me. Please help me to just love him.
As she prayed, she felt the hot anger in her stomach start to go away. A warm feeling filled its place.
Can you find another story about getting along with siblings?
“Never mind,” she mouthed to Mom as she walked back to find Zach. Maybe her miniature dollhouse would make the perfect city to defend from a giant mutant monster. And maybe Awesome Boy could use a superhero friend—Awesome Girl!