Gospel Story Finder

Illustration by Mark Robison
“The rain barrel is empty,” said 10-year-old Lydia as she wiped a plate dry. “May I use some well water on my raspberry patch?”
Lydia’s mother sighed as she washed a bowl in the sink. “I’m afraid raspberries are a luxury during a drought. You may use the dish rinse water, but we need to save the well water.”
Lydia frowned. Her raspberry jam had once won a blue ribbon at the Iowa State Fair. She didn’t think her berries would be as delicious if she used dishwater on them.
Lydia’s father came into the kitchen and sat down heavily. He wiped his sweaty forehead.
“Are you all right, Stephen?” Mother asked.
“I’m fine,” Father said, “but I have some bad news. The well has finally gone dry.”
Lydia felt a stab of worry. A lot of the neighbors’ wells had already dried out. Mother twisted her apron in her hands.
“Don’t despair,” Father said gently, taking Mother’s hand. “We still have the deeper windmill well out in the fields. I’m taking the tank truck there right now.”
“May I go?” Lydia asked, suddenly feeling better. She was so glad they had that windmill!
“Yes,” Mother said. “I’ll save the rinse water for you.”
“Thank you!” Lydia hurried outside. Maybe if she helped fetch the well water, Father would let her use some on the raspberries.
Father climbed into the truck, and they began their dusty drive to the far end of the fields. When they reached the windmill, Lydia sat up and stared. Several wagons and trucks lined the road, and a crowd of people stood around the well. All of them had tanks and barrels.
“What are they doing?” Lydia asked.
Father narrowed his eyes. “Getting water, it looks like.”
“But it’s our water!” Lydia said. She imagined her raspberries drying out under the hot sun. “We need it. They can’t just take it!”
Father parked the truck and hopped out. “Stay put, Lydia,” he said.
The people around the well froze and silently watched Father approach.
Lydia couldn’t hear what Father said, but when he finished talking, she was surprised that many of the people were smiling. Some even cried and shook Father’s hand. Then they all worked together to fill all their barrels and tanks.
Lydia didn’t understand. Why was Father doing this?
When the crowd left and Father began filling his own tank, Lydia climbed out.
“You gave away our water,” Lydia muttered. Confusion and anger washed over her.
Lydia’s father stooped down so he was face-to-face with Lydia. “Listen carefully, Lydia Lucille. I figure the water in this well is a gift from God. We no more own it than we own the air we breathe. As long as there is water in this well, we will share it with those in need.”
Father then dipped a ladle into a bucket and handed it to Lydia. Gratefully she drank the cold, clean water. She thought about all the other people and how scary it must be for them to not have water of their own. She was glad her father decided to share.
Lydia scrambled back into the truck. She was anxious to get home and pour the dishwater on her thirsty berries. She might not get as many big, juicy raspberries this year. But whatever she got, she would be sure to share.
Even though many people used the windmill well on Lydia’s farm during the summer drought of 1930, the well never ran out of water.

The immigrant’s youthful eyes shifted to Mosiah Twiggs, the big, bearded Mormon who had rescued him that fateful night. Waves of love and gratitude rolled up the shores of Lao Moy’s sore heart and washed away his tears.
Mosiah, too, had been ensnared by dreams of gold, so he left the Salt Lake Valley settlement in ’49 to fall prey to the same misfortune that had beset so many others—empty pockets and broken dreams.
After his father’s death, Lao Moy had agreed without misgivings to return with Mosiah to Salt Lake City, feeling a loyalty to the soft-spoken stranger who had risked his life to save someone he didn’t even know.
It had been a hazardous journey by wagon from the goldfields of California to the Salt Lake Valley, and they had encountered countless perils. But Mosiah’s promise that the God of Israel would protect them had planted the seeds of a testimony in the boy’s heart. Lao Moy wondered about this man who dutifully paid 10 percent of his earnings to his church for tithing.
Yet standing in the way of Lao Moy’s spiritual progress was that old bitterness born in the goldfields. It crouched like a great beast over his peace and challenged his moments of newfound joy. He had long wished to rid himself of it, to strike out against it, but something or someone always seemed to stand in the way.
Mosiah gazed curiously in the direction of the boy’s unbroken stare. “Autumn leaves die beautifully, don’t they, Lao Moy?” he said, his face lifted into the leaf-spattered wind.
“Yes,” answered Lao Moy, his hurtful thoughts suddenly scattered by his guardian’s grand vision. Autumn was indeed a beautiful time of year, especially in the canyons. Lao Moy’s eyes raced up the huge, yellow red chasms with renewed excitement. He loved these mountains. Mosiah had told him many times about them. How the erosion of long ages had cut deep canyons. How huge glaciers, descending with unyielding power, had broken loose and carried countless boulders, many of goliath size, down the immense mountain furrows. It was these isolated blocks, called erratics, that provided the supply of building stones for the Salt Lake Temple.
In these canyons, Mosiah, Lao Moy, and many other faithful Saints worked tirelessly to divide the boulders with hand drills, wedges, and low-power explosives. The rough blocks were then transported by oxteam—four yoke required for each block—and every trip was a difficult three- or four-day journey to the temple site some twenty miles away.
Mosiah touched Lao Moy’s shoulder and brought him out of his reverie. “I’m going to set off the blast, Lao Moy,” he cautioned, and then shouted a warning to the nearby workers. Mosiah lit the fuse and sprinted with Lao Moy for cover.
Two other workmen held a team of oxen. One of them was fourteen-year-old Corey Atwood. Corey, a tough, stout boy, had long taken pleasure in cruelly funning Lao Moy because of his broken English, his long queue (braid), and his quiet and obedient ways. It was often Corey who kept Lao Moy’s bitterness alive, but the Chinese boy had held it all inside, even when the troublesome Corey had once grabbed Lao Moy’s queue and threatened to cut it off with a knife.
The blast erupted like the sound of cannon fire over a Virginia cottonfield, and the big piece of granite split in two. Cheers went up, and Mosiah scrambled up the rocks to view his accomplishment. Lao Moy started up, too, but was soon held fast by Corey, who held onto his queue.
“What’s the matter, Lao Moy,” he chuckled, “somebody got your tail?”
Suddenly something exploded inside Lao Moy with no less force than Mosiah’s dynamite blast. He turned and struck Corey in the face so hard that the big boy was lifted off his feet and thrown backward in front of the team of oxen. The wide-eyed Atwood looked as surprised as Lao Moy. He wiped at the blood on his mouth and started to lift himself up when a clap of thunder suddenly boomed. As the already spooked oxen lurched forward, Lao Moy sprang for Corey and rolled him out of the path of pounding hooves and grinding wheels.
For a long moment the two boys just lay there, staring at each other. Finally, a smile broke across Corey’s dusty, blood-smeared face. Lao Moy smiled back, and all the old bitterness in his heart seemed to melt away like ice in a summer sun. A new peaceful feeling assured him it would not return.
Lao Moy was forty-five years old when the Salt Lake Temple was finally dedicated on April 6, 1893; Mosiah, seventy-six; and Corey Atwood, forty-seven. Corey sat close beside Lao Moy as President Wilford Woodruff offered the dedicatory prayer. A friendship had grown between them, a friendship as strong as the temple granite they had helped to cut. And like that granite, it would last forever.

Ashlyn read the story “Giving Our Best” in the September 2006 Friend about a family who gave food from their pantry to the local food bank. Ashlyn came up to me and said, “Mom, I want to do this.” I called our local food bank to find out what donations they would accept, and I talked to Ashlyn about the list. She picked out some bags to use and gave one to her little brother Cooper. They went to our pantry and picked out some things. Then we went to the store and bought baby cereal and other things. Ashlyn really enjoyed picking them out. Then we went to the food bank and gave the bags to the people working there. As we were leaving, Ashlyn said, “I feel warm inside. I feel happy. I did a good thing.”
Ashlyn R., age 7, Arizona

While serving as a missionary in Quito, the beautiful capital city of Equador, I met a young member of the Church who exemplified what it means to give of oneself completely in the work of converting our fellowmen. Her home was among the humblest in Quito—her heart, among the greatest.
I’ll never forget the first time I met her. She was very short, at most 1.5 meters tall, and her light brown hair hung to the base of her neck with a slight upward curl. But what set her apart from the rest of the girls her age was that she had no teeth. This wouldn’t have seemed so unusual if she had been quite elderly, but Mirian was barely 19.
“What happened to Mirian’s teeth?” I questioned my companion as we left her home a short while later.
“I’ve wondered about that, too,” he replied, “but no one has ever said anything about it.”
The mystery was forgotten for the time being as we were very busy with missionary work. But a week after our first visit, we returned again to Mirian’s home. Her father, Brother Sanchez, had died about a year earlier, and this had created many difficulties for his family. Sister Sanchez now had to work long hours for low wages as a washerwoman across the city. And consequently Mirian had been forced to stop going to school to take care of the family while her mother was at work. They also had had to move from their old neighborhood into this small one-room house. We couldn’t help feeling concerned about their well-being and promised to come periodically to see them.
On this particular day, Rosa, a non-Mormon friend of Mirian’s, also came and Mirian suggested we teach her a little bit about the gospel. We gave her a portion of a discussion, but it soon became apparent that she was not interested. Nevertheless, we asked her if we could come and share our message with the other members of her family, and she agreed.
The next day we went to the Sanchez home and asked Mirian to go with us to see Rosa’s family. To our surprise she didn’t want to go, offering a number of weak excuses for not being able to go. We could tell she was keeping something from us and asked her to tell us what was really wrong. She then proceeded to explain.
Rosa lived in the neighborhood where Mirian had lived before her father died, she told us. After his death, the people of the area began to spread rumors about Mirian’s mother.
“One night I had had enough so I went out to defend my mother and what I knew was right. Several of those in the neighborhood decided to give me a hard beating that I would never forget. They started to beat me, hitting me mostly in the face. This is how I lost all my teeth,” she said, pointing to her mouth.
After she had told us what happened, she seemed relieved and said she would go with us if we really wanted her to. We were impressed by her courage and agreed that she should come.
The evening of the discussion arrived, and my companion and I went up the pathway leading to the Sanchez home. Sister Sanchez met us at the doorway, disapproval showing in her face. “I do not want my daughter returning to that horrible place.” she told us emphatically. We didn’t know what to say, but Mirian did. We listened in silence as she bore testimony to her mother that she knew there was a special reason she must go with us. Reluctantly, Sister Sanchez consented, but only with our solemn promise that we would return immediately if there were any problems.
Unfortunately, it turned out that Rosa’s family was not interested in hearing about the Church. As we turned away, Mirian began to tell us about the other families in the neighborhood, including a man she had dated for a while, until she realized he was a very worldly person with some bad habits. The Spirit touched me, and I insisted that Mirian take us to see him. Even though she was extremely hesitant, she guided us down a path to the home where Luiz lived with his parents and son. Upon answering the door he seemed quite surprised to see us, but invited us in and listened intently to the message we gave him. After we completed the formal discussion, he told us of his recent desire to join the true church of God, but he did not know which one it was or how to find it. He had already been going through the preliminary steps of repentance but felt the need of something more. He declared to us that his heart was telling him we were indeed representatives of the Lord’s true church. He was baptized a week later.
With the continued help of Mirian, coupled with Luiz’s assistance, we baptized nearly 25 people in this neighborhood in a period of six weeks. I’ll always remember the time we decided to talk with those who had harassed Mirian so badly before. As if nothing had happened between them, Mirian helped teach these families, several of whom became converted to the gospel.
Because of her deep faith in the Lord and his powers to protect, Mirian had overcome her fear of her fellowmen and had helped to teach the gospel to those who had physically scarred her for life. Many of them now revere her name for forgiving them and bringing them the gospel of Jesus Christ.
Editor’s note: Mirian died of complications from a ruptured appendix not long after this incident happened. But not before she accomplished a great member-mission and set a great example for others to follow.

Putting the Lord first has proved vital for another student with opposition of a different sort. Right through school, Neil Withington, now living in Southampton, battled with dyslexia. “I had a lot of basic reading and writing problems. At 14, during a teacher’s interview about future final exams, I was told I would not pass any of them. I had the intelligence, but there wouldn’t be enough time to read and understand questions, let alone write out answers.
“Then I began attending seminary. I took up the challenge of putting scripture study first. Whereas most of the class would complete a week’s booklet in two hours on a Sunday afternoon, I had to arise at 6:00 A.M. and spend two hours on just one day’s work (four days to a booklet). I soon realized that on days beginning with seminary I did really well at school. On days minus seminary, the opposite happened.
“Dyslexia gradually disappeared. I passed seven O-level and two A-level exams. I failed the English language exam twice, but after completing a mission, I had another try and achieved that too. I now have a good job as a management consultant, involving plenty of reading and writing. I feel that without seminary, none of this would have happened.”

What were fifty pioneer children, handcarts, covered wagons, rag dolls, pets, and stick horses doing on the streets of St. George, Utah, in mid-April? Although they didn’t look out-of-place in front of the historic Brigham Young Winter Home that day, something very eventful was taking place. It was the shooting of photographs for the July 1993 Friend cover. Preparations started months in advance. City officials were contacted for permission to block off the busy street, a local sign company donated and set-up traffic signs, props were built or borrowed, and costumes were made, especially lots of pioneer bonnets. When the big day came, the weather was beautiful, the trees already leafy and green. The Primary children, from a number of St. George wards, were cheered on by dozens of wonderful moms. Thanks to a local merchant’s donation, a snack break was provided, and that was all the kids needed to make it through the three-hour session with the photographer and the Friend designer. All the children who participated were happy to have taken part in this exciting day!

I did tell this young man of an experience I had as a youth in an environment where inappropriate language was often used. It seemed that whenever I heard any type of profanity, those words would take hold in my mind more easily than the good thoughts I wanted to have. A wonderful priesthood leader told me that the mind was like a miraculous storage device and that we could remove inappropriate thoughts by quickly overwriting them with things that were praiseworthy.
A friend and I decided to do just that. We memorized two hymns, “I Need Thee Every Hour” (Hymns, no. 98) and “More Holiness Give Me” (Hymns, no. 131), and the thirteenth article of faith. We agreed that if either of us said something inappropriate, we would immediately sing one of the hymns or quote the article of faith.
We quickly realized we did not want to sing the hymns aloud in certain places. We were too embarrassed! So we quoted the thirteenth article of faith, emphasizing the part, “If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things.” It worked! We discovered that when we would repeat it, the inappropriate thoughts would disappear. By changing one word, we also created a simple motto: “We speak after these things!” When either of us said this phrase, we would think, “Are my words true, chaste, benevolent, virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy?” (see Articles of Faith 1:13). If they were not, we knew we had work to do.

When the Civil War erupted, Louisa felt a need to do her part. In 1862, she moved to Washington, D.C., and served as a nurse in the Union Army. She worked hard and got very little sleep because of her concern for the wounded soldiers. She became a trusted friend of many of the young patients. However, after only a few weeks at the hospital, Louisa became very ill with typhoid fever. Her father arrived in time to take her back home, where fresh air, rest, and her mother’s care helped her to recover. Later Louisa compiled the letters that she had written to her family from Washington about the suffering soldiers into a book called Hospital Sketches.

Ethan gazed at the colorful video game covers that lined the shelves. His parents said he could pick one game for a birthday present, and there were so many to choose from! Ethan’s eyes jumped from a car racing game to an adventure game to a dance game. Finally, he picked up the racing game and took it to his dad.
“Did you find one you like?” Dad asked.
“I think I want this racing game,” Ethan said.
“Looks fun,” Dad said. “What is it rated?”
Ethan turned the cover over. He knew he could only play games with certain ratings. When he first got his computer, his parents talked to him about the importance of following their family’s rule about video game ratings. Ethan knew that a lot of games had bad stuff in them, and he wanted to be obedient.
Ethan found the rating on the cover and showed Dad. “It’s rated for everyone,” he said.
“Great,” Dad said. “Let’s go pay for it. Happy birthday, Ethan!”
“Thanks, Dad!” Ethan grinned, excited to get home and try out his new game.
A few days later, Ethan went to his friend Chase’s house to play. He and Chase were in the same Primary class, and they played together a lot. Ethan took along his new video game.
“Hi, Ethan,” Chase said when he answered the door. “Come on in. I got a new video game we can play!”
“I did too!” Ethan said, holding out his game.
The boys settled in front of the computer, and Chase put in his game. The title flashed across the screen, and so did the rating. Ethan froze. It was a rating that he wasn’t allowed to play.
Chase eagerly navigated through the menus with his controller and started the game. Ethan didn’t see anything bad yet. He clicked his own controller to move his character in the game. It was fun, but the longer he played, the more uncomfortable he felt. He still hadn’t seen anything bad, but he wanted to follow his family’s rule.
“Hey, Chase, I’m not allowed to play games with this rating,” Ethan spoke up.
“Oh, it’s OK,” Chase said. “There isn’t anything bad in it.”
“Are you sure?” Ethan asked.
“Yeah,” Chase said. “My family plays it. I think it was given the wrong rating.”
Just then, Chase’s mom stuck her head into the room. “Hi, boys,” she said. “Is everything OK?”
Ethan swallowed hard. “Hi, Sister Murphy,” he said. “It’s just that I’m not allowed to play video games with this rating.”
“I told him there wasn’t anything bad in it,” Chase said.
Chase’s mom waved her hand. “Don’t worry, Ethan,” she said. “I know a lot of the games with that rating aren’t good, but I’m sure your mom would let you play this one.” She smiled and then left the room.
Chase continued playing, but Ethan put down his controller. “Chase, how about we play the racing game I brought?” Ethan asked.
Chase shrugged and kept staring at the screen. “Nah, I’d rather play this.”
Ethan quietly got up and went to Chase’s room, where he found some toy racing cars to play with. They weren’t as fun as his video game, but Ethan felt good knowing he was following his family’s rule.

They have also performed for special events such as inaugurations and funerals. On September 11, 2001, the choir was scheduled to perform in the Tabernacle on Temple Square for a visiting group of conventioneers. Because of the terrorist attacks on the United States earlier that day, the performance was changed to a memorial concert. As a show of respect, President Gordon B. Hinckley asked the audience to refrain from applauding.

“Midway through the concert we sang ‘America the Beautiful,’” says choir member Stephen Stoker. “Unable to applaud, the audience stood as we began to sing. When we got to the third verse, where we sing, ‘Oh, beautiful for patriot dream that sees beyond the years, thine alabaster cities gleam, undimmed by human tears,’ we were all crying. … It was a powerful experience for all of us.”

About two months before prom is an awkward time in the life of high school girls. We want someone to ask us to the dance! For that to happen, you sometimes have to send some subtle hints in the direction of a few likely candidates.
I was starting to feel some possibility vibes from an old friend. He was not a member of the Church, but we had been square dance partners in fourth grade—a weak but definite connection. The old strategy of “his friends telling my friends to tell me” was in full force. And there was a tension, a new electricity, when we actually did talk to each other.
One night after a basketball game, we saw each other at a party. We met as I was on my way out and he was on his way in. My friends and I had realized immediately that this was not a party we should be attending. Most of the kids were drinking, and we had decided long ago not to drink or be where others were drinking.
For a moment, he stopped to talk to me. My friends waited patiently a few steps away. But I could feel the “remember who you are” message being sent from their anxious faces. He asked me to stay. Momentarily, I thought of the coming prom and my need for a date. I knew this was his first move and my next words would determine mine. But then I said, “Oh, you know I can’t stay here.”
“I know,” he said. “I just thought I would ask anyway. That’s okay.”
I left with my friends. And he did not ask me to the prom. I went with a good friend from another ward.
A few years later, my new husband and I were attending Brigham Young University. During the holiday break, I was working at a bookstore in my hometown that sells Latter-day Saint books. One day before Christmas, my old friend—the square dance partner, not the prom date—walked in. Excited at seeing old friends, we chatted for a few moments. Then I suddenly realized that he probably thought this was a typical bookstore. People often made that mistake. After all, why would he be looking for books related to the Church? So as politely as possible I said, “You know, we only sell things related to my church.”
“Oh, I think you can help me,” he said, “because I am looking for a set of scriptures to take on my mission.”
He told me that after high school, he had attended a small college to play ball. Several Latter-day Saint players had invited him to some institute classes. The rest was history.
For a moment, my thoughts went back to that night standing outside the party. I was once again glad for making the right choice. And I was grateful for some college ball players who had made a difference in the life of my friend.

In a certain village in China there lived three lazy brothers who were well known for telling strange stories.

One day a rich merchant came to the village. He wanted to hire some men to carry his merchandise to the next village, but there was no one available except the three lazy brothers.

The merchant told the three brothers, “I will give you all of my merchandise if you can tell me stories so strange that I cannot believe them.” Then he added, “But if I can tell you a story so strange that you don’t believe it, you must become my servants.”

The three brothers were delighted at the merchant’s proposal. They thought it would be easy to win his merchandise with their own stories that nobody had ever believed.

The whole village was invited to the unusual story-telling contest, and the village headman was appointed to be chief judge.

The eldest brother told his story first. “When I was young,” he began, “I loved climbing trees. One day I climbed a tree so tall that I could not get down. I called, but no one came to my rescue. At last I jumped down and borrowed a ladder from my neighbor and climbed down from the tree safely.”

The three brothers expected the merchant to say the story could not be true, but he just nodded his head.

The second brother told his story. “One day I was fishing in a river, and for many hours there was not a single bite. I knew something was wrong. So I dove into the river, and to my surprise I found a large fish eating up all the other fishes. I was so angry that I caught the large fish. Then I made a fire under the water and had a delicious meal before coming up to the surface of the river.”

Again the merchant just nodded his head but said nothing.

The third brother began his story. “I was such a good runner that I could outrun any animal in the forest. If I wanted a deer for dinner, I had only to chase one until it was too tired to run anymore. One day I was chasing a fox up a hill when suddenly it ran into a bush and changed itself into a tiger. It turned to attack me, but before it could lift up its paws, I had run home.”

The merchant nodded his head again, which meant he believed all the stories to be true. Turning to the three brothers, he asked, “Do you still promise to be my servants if you don’t believe the story I’m going to tell?”

“Yes, we do,” they replied.

Then the merchant told his story. “I was once a farmer and had a strange tree on my farm. The tree had only a few barren branches but no leaves. One day I noticed that three fruits appeared on the branches. The fruits grew bigger and bigger until each was about the size of a barrel. I cut the fruits open and found a young man in each of them. I made them all work for me on the farm. But one day the young men ran away because they didn’t like the hard work.”

At this point the merchant pointed his finger at the three brothers and said, “I know you are the ones who ran away from my farm. I’m taking you back to the farm today.”

At once the three lazy brothers jumped up and cried, “No, no, we are not from your farm! We don’t believe your story!”

The merchant looked at them and smiled. “Have you forgotten your promise? You don’t believe my story; therefore you shall be my servants.”

The chief judge declared that the merchant had won the contest, and the three lazy brothers became servants of the merchant.

The Bridge Dancers Maisie’s mother has gone across the dangerous old footbridge to help a woman who’s about to have a baby. Maisie and her sister, Callie, have been forbidden to go on the bridge, and Maisie is grateful because she is afraid of it. But when Callie has an accident, Maisie must cross the bridge. You’ll have to read this slim paperback to see how she succeeds after turning back from the bridge in fear.Carol Saller8–11 years

Children in the hospital often have a hard time being entertained. Thanks to a Mini Learning Center presented to the pediatric unit of the Castleview Hospital, little patients might have a more enjoyable hospital stay.
The Mini Learning Center was a service project of the Price Utah Sixth Ward Young Women. Keeping in mind that the project must be maneuverable, washable, educational, and enjoyable, the girls set to work making alphabet and word and number games, washable coloring pages, and paper dolls. They also included wooden animal puzzles and crocheted tic-tac-toe games in the learning center.
The project was presented to the administrator of the hospital, and the girls put the center into use by entertaining young patients with it.

“I wish I could ride my bike, now that you took off the training wheels,” I said as he was putting the vacuum cleaner away.
“Come on, I’ll help you practice.”
First he showed me how to stop and get off. Then he gave me some good starts, and I began to get the hang of it.
A week passed. I practiced every day riding my bicycle in the driveway. I had a skinned elbow, a bruised knee, and a scraped ankle, but I finally mastered the bike.
I was proudly riding it when Janie came by to model her beautiful blue dress for me.
“You look great, Janie,” Jack said as he came down the sidewalk. Then he grinned and waved a geometry test paper with a 94 on it!
How can wishes come true? Figure it out—I did!

One year in college, I was taking a test when my neck began to hurt. The pain didn’t go away when the tension of the test had passed. I consulted with doctors and therapists and tried a variety of treatments, but still the pain continued. Over the next year, as I struggled to cope with this pain, I also struggled to increase my faith. I spent much time in prayer, I studied the scriptures, and I asked for priesthood blessings. I felt that if I just had enough faith, I would be healed.
Jesus Christ healed the sick, the blind, the lame, the leprous—“according to [their] faith” (Matthew 9:29). I knew He had the power to heal me as He had so many others during His mortal life. I concluded, therefore, that only my lack of faith kept me from being healed, so I redoubled my efforts. While I continued with physical therapy, I prayed and fasted and studied and believed. Yet my pain persisted.
The scriptures teach us that with faith we can work miracles (see Matthew 17:20), yet I could not be relieved of this minor suffering. Where was the power in my faith? Finally, I quietly accepted my situation, found ways to cope with my discomfort, and became content to save full understanding of faith and healing for a future time.

Shortly after my baptism, the branch president called me and said, “Sister Gamanga, the Spirit has directed me to call you to be the Relief Society president.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said. “I don’t know how to read, I don’t know how to write, and you want to call me? What is the meaning of that?”

He explained that I would invite the women to church, talk to them, and help them. “With God, I can do it,” I said.

Since that day, so many things have happened in my life. I started reading only two-letter words, then three-letter words. I then moved from three-letter words to four-letter words, then five to six-letter words. This has helped me teach in Relief Society.

If there is something I don’t understand, I ask for help. My problem is spelling. I don’t know how to pronounce some spellings, but I get help so I can understand. When I’m teaching, I ask one of the Relief Society sisters to help with any words I don’t know. That is the way I teach in class. Each time I ask for help, I learn more.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. Mary Elizabeth Rollins loved the noise of the crisp, dry leaves under her shoes. Fall had arrived in Kirtland, Ohio. Mary Elizabeth bounded up the steps of the big white mercantile store where her uncle Sidney Gilbert worked. She loved the store with its kegs of molasses, bundles of herbs, and other interesting things for sale.
Mary Elizabeth entered the store just in time to hear a man telling Uncle Sidney of a new religion somewhere in New York.
“I’ve heard that a man claims to be a prophet and that he translated a book written in an ancient language from golden plates. It is called the Book of Mormon,” said the man.
Soon the whole town was buzzing with news of the Book of Mormon and its translator, the Prophet Joseph Smith.
It wasn’t long before Mary Elizabeth and her family were taught the gospel. She and her mother were among the first Kirtland residents to be baptized. Soon a branch was organized, with Brother Isaac Morley presiding over it.
Even though Mary Elizabeth had a testimony of the gospel, she had never read the Book of Mormon. It had only been printed a few months before. So when Brother Morley finally received a copy, Mary Elizabeth was excited to see the book.
One night, before a few members of the Church met at Brother Morley’s home, Mary Elizabeth gathered her courage and knocked on his door.
“Yes, Mary Elizabeth?” Brother Morley asked as he opened the door.
“Brother Morley, may I please see the Book of Mormon?”
He let her in and carefully handed her the small brown book. Mary Elizabeth felt a great desire to read it.
“May I please borrow the book?” she asked.
“My child,” Brother Morley said, “I have not read one chapter in it myself, and the brethren will want to see the book tonight at the meeting.”
Then, seeing Mary Elizabeth’s disappointment, Brother Morley said, “Well, if you bring the book back before breakfast tomorrow, you may take it. Do not let any harm come to it.”
That night Mary Elizabeth and her family took turns reading in the Book of Mormon until very late. Early the next day, Mary Elizabeth memorized 1 Nephi 1:1 before bringing the book back to Brother Morley.
“Well, you are here early. I guess you did not read much,” Brother Morley said.
Mary Elizabeth showed him how much she had read.
Brother Morley smiled, but said, “I do not believe you could even tell me a word of it.”
Mary Elizabeth recited the verse she had memorized and explained the story of Nephi and his family.
Brother Morley opened his mouth in surprise. “Child, you take this book back and finish it,” he said. “I can wait.”
Early in the year 1831, the Prophet Joseph Smith and his family moved to Kirtland. The first person Joseph visited was Brother Whitney, Uncle Sidney’s business partner, at their store. When Brother Whitney promptly introduced Joseph to Uncle Sidney’s family, Joseph was surprised to see the Book of Mormon.
“How did you get this book?” Joseph asked. “I sent it to Brother Morley several weeks ago.”
“My niece was bold enough to ask him to lend it to her,” Uncle Sidney explained.
“Where is your niece?” the Prophet asked.
Mary Elizabeth was called into the room. The Prophet looked at her closely, then walked up to her, laid his hands on her head, and gave her a blessing. It was the first blessing Mary Elizabeth ever received.
When he finished, Joseph said, “You may keep this book, Mary Elizabeth. I will get another for Brother Morley.”

Cantonments Athlete Serves on and off the Court
Martin Aggrey, a standout athlete from the Cantonments Ward in the Accra Ghana Christiansborg Stake, has turned his passion for sports into preparation for missionary service. In high school, he excelled as a sports leader, especially in volleyball. But it was at the stake center where he discovered a new love—pickleball.
Introduced to the game by senior missionaries, Martin quickly became hooked. “The spiking reminded me of volleyball, and the quick hand movements were like table tennis,” he said. Though unfamiliar at first, he embraced the challenge under the guidance of mentors like Elder Halladay, Elder Sackley, and Elder Galland—missionaries whose faith and example inspired him both spiritually and athletically.
That dedication recently paid off. Martin and his 15-year-old partner clinched second place in the men’s doubles at the 2025 Battle of the Paddle tournament. Now preparing to serve a full-time mission, Martin draws a clear parallel between rising in sport and progressing in discipleship: “If you expect the best from yourself, you will always improve.”
He looks forward to serving the Lord and plans to continue his athletic pursuits upon his return.

Reading the scriptures is hard for Shellee because of the vocabulary. She doesn’t recognize words from having heard them in conversation; she has to learn each word individually by looking it up. Words like nevertheless are hard enough to understand when you’ve heard other people use them. How is a deaf person to understand it without help?
Shellee’s seminary teacher is helping to solve this problem with drawings. She has her students draw pictures in their scriptures that go along with the stories so they can have a better idea of what is going on. “It helps a lot,” Shellee says.