Gospel Story Finder

When Nicole Lamb was asked to help her mother give a lesson on record keeping, she wasn’t really sure there was much she could do. After all, her mother kept a detailed journal of daily events, while a lot of space in Nicole’s journal was taken up with drawings she’d made that expressed how she felt. But the sisters in Relief Society raved about Nicole’s contribution.

“It was such a personal expression,” said Sister Mattoni. “I thought what a delight it would be someday for her grandchildren to sit down and go through her journal. From someone half my age, I learned that you could do so much more than just write in a journal.”

Both of my parents learned English when they were in college, and they wanted to raise my siblings and me to speak English in the home. We learned by reading the Book of Mormon in English. At first we’d just read the Book of Mormon and be done, but my mom said she wanted us to read to understand. She told us to pick a verse that stood out to us and explain how it applied to us. This helped me to be confident in speaking and expressing my thoughts in English.
I’m grateful that my parents helped us understand the importance of learning and that they used the Book of Mormon to teach us the gospel and as the number one tool for teaching us English. It was a resource we all had access to, and it helped prepare us to read other materials in English. I know that I’m able to speak English better now because of our family Book of Mormon study. Knowing another language has helped prepare me for school, a mission, and jobs that require English-speaking skills.
Louena H., Tonga

When Joseph Smith was only seven years old, a bone in his leg became infected. The infection grew worse until the doctor decided that part of the bone must be cut out. There was no hospital, and no anesthetic, so the doctor offered Joseph a drink of brandy (a kind of liquor) to ease his pain. Joseph would not drink it. The doctor wanted to tie Joseph to the bed so that he would not move during the operation. Again Joseph bravely refused. His father held him tightly in his arms all during the operation, which was successful. Joseph began to get better, and he grew strong and healthy.

Amber stared up at the movie theater marquee and tried to swallow the lump in her throat. Her stomach twisted this way and that. Why does this have to happen to me now that I’m finally making friends here? she wondered. Trish, Sarah, and Kristin are so popular that I’m lucky they invited a new kid like me.
There were several people ahead of them in the ticket line. Amber knew that she had only a few minutes to make one of the toughest decisions of her twelve-year-old life.
She ran her fingers through her hair and pinched her lips together as she looked around at the girls with her. Their eyes sparkled with excitement.
“Only Trish could have come up with such a great plan!” exclaimed Sarah.
Trish, a tall, thin girl, laughed. “Well, since Bambi and TeenAgent are playing here together, why not take advantage of it?”
“I’m not sure my parents would let me go to a PG-13 movie if I asked them,” said Kristin, shoving her hands down into the back pockets of her jeans.
“But what parent would say no to good old Bambi!” Trish observed with a mischievous giggle. “Bambi—what a bore! It’s OK for five-year-olds, but we’re almost thirteen. Why shouldn’t we go to a PG-13 movie?”
Sarah moved a few steps closer to the ticket office. “It’ll be perfect. We see the other movie, and our parents think we’re at the kid show. Amber, you’re going to love TeenAgent. My older sister saw it, and she said it was great. The only reason it’s rated PG-13 is the bad language and a little bit of violence.”
“But it’s nothing we haven’t already heard at school,” Trish put in. “And what’s the big deal about a little violence? I can handle it, can’t you?” she asked Amber. Turning to the other two girls she continued, “TeenAgent will run longer than Bambi, so we’ll have to really hurry over to the pizza parlor afterward. If we’re still eating when my parents come, we’ll just tell them that the restaurant was really busy and it took a long time to get our pizza.” With a crooked smile, she added, “They’ll believe us.”
Amber’s stomach twisted into another knot as she looked at Trish and thought, Why didn’t you tell me the truth when you invited me? Why are you putting me in this awful—she couldn’t think of a right word for a second—situation. The word triggered a memory in Amber’s troubled mind. “You’re going to be put in situations that will test your spiritual strength.” She could picture Sister Hansen, her last Primary teacher, saying those words. “You may find yourself in situations that demand that you lower your standards. Unless you have a firm testimony of Jesus Christ and His Church, your spiritual strength may give way under peer pressure.” Spiritual strength. Testimony. The words echoed in Amber’s mind.
Sarah was buying her ticket now.
Which is more important to me right now: following our prophet, or my new friends? Amber’s mind raced as she watched Trish step up to buy her ticket. Do I really, truly believe?
“Amber, it’s your turn,” Kristin whispered after she’d bought her own ticket. Trish and Sarah were standing to the side of the ticket booth, watching her.
Stepping up to the booth, Amber said in a confident tone, “One ticket for Bambi, please.”
Sarah gasped. Trish’s look of surprise quickly turned into a smug glare. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she said as Amber joined them. “We’re all going to the other movie. What’s the big deal? Don’t you think you can handle a little blood and bad language?”
“I’d rather see Bambi,” Amber answered in a firm voice.
“Your parents won’t find out that you …” Sarah faltered.
Amber shook her head. “It’s not their decision. It’s mine. And I just don’t want to see the other movie.”
“But what about going for pizza afterward?” asked Kristin, now standing next to Trish.
Amber turned to Kristin. She could see worry in her kind eyes. “Bambi gets out a lot earlier, so I’ll just call my parents to come get me. Maybe we can all go for pizza another—”
“Come on,” Trish interrupted, taking Sarah’s arm. “I guess I made a big mistake inviting her.”
Amber thought she saw a glimmer of understanding in Sarah’s eyes as she was whisked away by Trish. After two or three hurried steps, Trish turned and called, “Come on, Kristin, or we won’t get good seats.”
“I think I’ll go to Bambi, too,” Kristin said, her voice sounding apologetic. Turning to Amber, she added, “If that’s OK with you.”
“Great—just great!” grumbled Trish as she and Sarah disappeared into the theater.
“OK? It’s wonderful! But are you sure? They looked pretty upset,” Amber said.
Kristin shrugged her shoulders. “I’d rather see Bambi, too, but I was afraid to say so. Trish can be pretty persuasive sometimes. Let’s go exchange my ticket.”
Standing in line again, Kristin asked, “Why didn’t you want to go to the other movie? Were you afraid your parents would find out and ground you or something?”
“I’m sure they’d be hurt to know that I lied to them. But even if I had asked to go to a PG-13 movie, they would’ve said it was my decision. Then they would have had faith in me to make the correct choice.” Amber found it a relief to talk about it now. “I just didn’t want to see a movie with bad language and violence in it.”
“Why not?”
“Because our prophet, the leader of our Church, has counseled us not to go to movies that go against the teachings of Jesus Christ.”
“Boy, you must really believe your prophet and your Church,” said Kristin.
“I do, but I didn’t realize how much until today.”
Kristin shook her head a little. “I wish I could be strong like you. My family doesn’t believe in anything, and sometimes I feel so empty.”
All through the movie, Amber thought about Kristin’s words and the look in her eyes when she had said them. As the movie ended and the lights came up, she said, “Kristin, let’s call my parents to come get us. We can go to my house for some of my mom’s famous chocolate chip cookies. You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted them!”
“Do you think it would be OK with your parents?” asked Kristin.
“I’m sure it would. Mom always says, ‘When you have five kids, what’s one more?’ Besides, I’d really like you to meet my family. I have a feeling that we’re going to be good friends.”

After I had married and had started a teaching career of my own in the Big Horn Basin of Wyoming, the pattern of going into the mountains each fall during the deer hunting season continued. With a growing family to care for, I found that the addition of deer and elk meat to our winter’s food supply was a big help. The Wyoming mountain country was even more primitive and vast than the Utah mountains where I had spent so much time as a young man. It was a marvelous place to live for someone who loved the outdoors as much as I did.
During one of those hunting seasons in Wyoming, I had an experience that taught me an important lesson—one that I have always remembered. It occurred in a year when the weather had been rather unusual. The early snows that generally fall in the high country by late September had not come. The days remained warm and sunny even into mid-October when the hunting season opened. The deer and elk stayed in the more remote high country, making it very difficult for the hunters to get to them.
Finally, late in the season, the snows came, and I made plans with a friend to go into the Big Horn Mountains close to the border between Montana and Wyoming for a last try at finding an elk. We traveled in his four-wheel drive vehicle to a spot at an elevation of about 2,800 meters where the Little Big Horn River has its beginning. A new blanket of snow almost half a meter in depth covered the ground. We began our hunt just as the first daylight showed over the eastern ridges. My friend and I decided to follow different routes and designated a point of the mountain at some distance where we would meet later in the day.
As I crossed over the small stream near which we had left our vehicle and started into the trees on the opposite slope, I came to some fresh tracks in the new snow. They were bear tracks—big ones! The tracks came as something of a surprise to me. Bear are not uncommon in much of the mountain country of Wyoming, and they are numerous enough that it is not illegal to shoot them. However, bear were not common in the Big Horn Mountains, and this sudden encounter with the fresh tracks filled my mind with some interesting possibilities. I had never hunted for a bear; in fact, I had never had the inclination to do so. The meat would have been of no use to me.
This bear was no immediate threat to my companion or to me. If he were still in the area and aware of our presence, he was likely trying to remove himself from any confrontation with us. Still, as I studied the tracks and discovered how fresh they were, my thoughts continued to stir me. I confess that I began to have visions of a bear skin rug for our home. Since the tracks were going to about the same direction I had intended to go, I decided to follow them.
Within a hundred meters or so I came to a place where the snow was scattered about among traces of blood and deer hair. I could tell that one way or another, the bear had killed a deer there that morning. The trail that was left was easy to follow as the bear had partly carried and partly dragged the deer carcass through the brush and into a thicket of pines and spruce. There I found the deer. Its head and horns had caught in the juncture of some limbs of a fallen tree, and the bear had not stayed to dislodge it. Perhaps my coming on the scene had affected that decision.
As I continued to follow the trail of the bear, I climbed up a steep slope where the going was made more difficult by the dense underbrush. I put my rifle with its leather sling over my shoulder and used my hands as well as my feet to force my way up the incline. Every few meters I stopped to catch my breath and rest a moment.
During one of these pauses I looked about me and assessed my situation. Because of the density of the undergrowth, I was aware that it would be impossible for me to get a clear shot at anything more than eight or ten meters away. I began to wonder who would have the greater advantage if I were to come upon the bear.
As these thoughts went through my mind, I felt a most interesting sensation come over me. I experienced a tingling in my skin, and I could feel the hair rise on the back of my neck. I had the strong impression that I was in grave danger and that I should leave the area immediately. The impression was so powerful that I got to my feet, went back down the slope to where the country was more open, and there felt that I was in better control of things. Any further desire to pursue the bear evaporated, and I went about the business for which my friend and I had gone into the mountains that day.

There it was. Dead ahead of us. Stopped totally and completely. It was a train. As far as we looked in either direction we saw only boxcar after boxcar with no hint of either engine or caboose. Dad parked the car. One more problem on a day like this was something he did not need.
We had been late leaving, as is our norm for vacations. Dad’s inspection of the new high school he was building in Pekin, Illinois, was not made any easier by the curiosity of six young children who wanted to “help” in any way they could. Finally, however, we were on our way to Nauvoo, Illinois, via some of the state’s seldom-used country roads. Our white station wagon was large, but we were still crowded with three adults (our grandfather was visiting us from Salt Lake City) and six wriggling kids. Gradually, the number of shoves, pinches, and whispered threats from the back seat grew.
Just when the situation was ready to erupt, we saw the train, directly in front of us. When dad got out to see what was wrong, we clamored to get out with him. He gave an emphatic no. “I’m just going to go see why it’s stopped. If any of you step out of this car …” He let the threat hang.
The most unnatural thing in the world is for a child to be in a stopped car on a spring day when he can see the sun outside sparkling its welcome. We endured it, but not too gracefully. Dad returned from his lengthy conference with the switchman with bad news. “They say it will be at least 15 minutes before they can move.”
My oldest brother, David, pleaded, “Can we get out then?”
Mom, who had been trying to restrain us from mortally wounding each other, looked at dad imploringly. His stern face melted.
“Well, I guess so,” he finally conceded. With a shout of triumph we literally poured from the doors and windows of our car.
“Look!” It was 11-year-old Jim’s discovery. “Dandelions!” Dandelions there were, seemingly acres and acres of them, some gone to seed, others with their brilliant yellow blossoms. We happily raced to the fallow field that promised so much fun for us, the adults following with not much less enthusiasm. We blew the seeds into the air, trying to catch the lucky ones that hadn’t touched the ground yet. My older sisters, Lisa and Joanne, me, and almost unbelievably, my mom, made dandelion chains. As we draped the fragile jewelry around each other’s necks, we almost forgot that mom was a grown-up. Grandpa sat in the midst of it all, blowing dandelion seeds far and high for us. Tiny arms that had been afraid of grandpa’s gruff voice wrapped themselves around his neck.
The switchman returned with a progress report. It might be another half hour before they could get the engine fully repaired. No matter! This newfound friend told us of the places this never ending track led.
At last, as the crew had assured us, the train was ready to resume her delayed journey. Dad, carried back to his boyhood days in Salt Lake City where the Bamberger Railroad served as inter-city transportation, recalled a favorite trick. He pulled a penny from his pocket and laid it on the train track. We watched in amazement as the accelerating train reduced it to a steaming mass of shiny copper. Joanne and I shivered in delighted suspense as we wondered if a U.S. marshal would suddenly appear from nowhere and commandeer our father for defacing American currency. David and Jim ran through the fields trying to keep up with the quickly moving train, if not outrun it. I helped little Stephen count the cars as they whizzed by.
When the last click of the turning wheels had subsided into the distance and the train was only a faraway speck, we climbed back into our car, an hour late but eons happier.
As I think about it now, it seems a little strange that one of our family’s fondest memories is of sitting around in a farmer’s weed patch waiting for a mechanic to finish his job. It does, though, make Doctrine and Covenants 64:33 a little easier to understand: “And out of small things proceedeth that which is great.” [D&C 64:33]
We did eventually make it to Nauvoo. I am sure that the time we spent there was fun and even inspirational, but no one seems to remember much about it. On the other hand, whenever we’re busy pulling pesky weeds out of our garden or if we must pause at railroad tracks as a train passes, someone is sure to say, “Remember the dandelions?”

“Happy birthday, Heber!” exclaimed his mother as she handed him the most beautiful coat he had ever seen. He hugged it close and his eyes were bright with happiness. He knew how difficult it had been for his mother to make it, and he could hardly wait to go out in the cold and feel its warmth around him.
One day as Heber was hurrying on an errand, he saw a boy in a thin sweater shivering with cold. As he hurried by, the boy looked at Heber’s coat with such longing that, almost before he knew what he was doing, Heber stopped, took off his new coat, and gave it to the boy.
When Heber’s mother saw her son wearing his old coat instead of the new one, she asked what he had done with his lovely new overcoat.
“Oh, Mother,” Heber J. Grant explained, “I saw a boy who needed it lots worse than I, so I gave it to him.”

If you were out for a drive in Rockledge, Florida, and happened to turn onto Faull Lane, you probably wouldn’t think twice about what you saw. Sure, the houses in the neighborhood are neat and clean looking, and the yards are well kept. But there’s nothing particularly unusual about them. Except, perhaps, for number 812.
Was that house there last week? Yesterday?
You think about it for a minute and realize that not long ago, there was nothing where that house is now standing but an empty lot. You’re almost certain that the house, complete with a fully finished yard, was nothing but a patch of dusty ground just a few weeks before. But how does a house appear out of nowhere?
Flash back to a very warm summer afternoon in Cocoa, Florida, at the Cocoa stake center. Ashley Foss, a Laurel, is giving what amounts to a pep talk to the youth from the Cocoa and Orlando South stakes.
“Remember, Florida is the Sunshine State,” she says. “It’s going to be hot tomorrow, so be ready and bring a squirt bottle!”
Ashley goes on to give other good advice for the outdoor activity they’re planning—like wearing clothes that can get dirty, drinking plenty of water, using sunscreen. Then Ashley delivers the clincher.
“It usually takes seven or eight months to build a house, and we’re going to do it in a day!”
Building a house in one day. They’ve been hearing about it for months, and the next day it will finally materialize.
Although the room is warm and the youth are perhaps a bit drowsy, there is a real change in the feeling in the room.
But you need a lot more than smiles and enthusiasm to build a house—especially when you’re doing it for youth conference. In fact, in many stakes a project like this wouldn’t be possible. But the Cocoa Stake is home to a lot of adults who are experts in construction, so with their help, the youth committee decided to give it a try. The young men and young women teamed up with Habitat for Humanity, a Christian organization dedicated to building decent housing for families who couldn’t otherwise afford it.
Sara Judd, a Laurel on the youth committee, was in charge of finding donors for materials, goods, and services to be used during the building. But where do you go when you have to find things like a crane, bottled water, T-shirts, two-way radios, sod and landscaping materials, tents, tables, chairs, and portable rest rooms? With items that diverse, there’s not exactly a place for one-stop shopping.
“Brother [Kerry] Gilger, the stake Young Men president, and I opened up the yellow pages at one of the youth committee meetings,” says Sara. “We made a list of the businesses that might be willing to donate something, and then we started making phone calls.”
Because many of the people Sara and the others on the committee worked with were members of other faiths, the project wasn’t just a good leadership and organizational skills builder; it was also a great missionary project.
“I went to all the Habitat for Humanity meetings we were required to attend as part of this project,” says Sara, who used her involvement as a Laurel project. “I learned a lot. Many of the people involved, including the family we were building for, were from different religious faiths. It was neat to work together toward the same goal.”
Although the homes built by Habitat for Humanity are simple and relatively small, construction usually takes at least a few months. But the youth committee knew that youth conference wouldn’t last longer than a few days. Their solution? Get the house done, start to finish, in one day.
“A ‘blitz build’ like this has been done before in other areas,” says Logan Newby, a priest on the youth committee. “But the people in charge of the Habitat chapter here weren’t sure that we could do it, especially with so many teenagers helping. We knew it would be great, and that everyone would really get into it, so we made a plan and presented it.”
The plan included an early start, 6:00 A.M., and a solution for every conceivable problem. For instance, most teenagers don’t know the first thing about building a house. So the youth were divided into groups and then paired with skilled laborers—people who volunteered to work for free—to oversee everything they did. There were so many teens involved that they couldn’t all work on the house at the same time, leaving them with a lot of time that wasn’t filled. No problem. The youth committee devised other projects to work on, things like putting in the yard, building a shed, and cleaning nearby vacant lots. Finally, there were countless safety issues to be addressed. That seemed to be the highest hurdle to clear.
“We thought that might be the end of this idea,” says Sara. “But the police, the Red Cross, and a local ambulance service all donated their time to help us. Once that was taken care of, we were ready to go.”
On the day of the build, more than 300 teens are up before the sun. In the darkness, the cement foundation—poured a few days earlier to give it time to cure—is barely visible. By the time the sun is shining, the cement is surrounded by studs, and the framework for the roof is being put on. Skilled laborers do the technical work, while teenagers happily sweep, nail, and paint where they are told.
By lunch, the house is starting to take shape. Housing inspectors are on hand to approve each phase of the project as it is finished. And though it’s scorching hot, smiles are seen all around.
“I think everyone really likes coming together for something like this. It makes us feel good to be here, helping a family out,” says Mia Maid Kristin Turley.
By mid-afternoon, youth are helping with finish work. One paints trim; another helps put house numbers on. One even tests the porch light to make sure it’s working. Soon, kitchen cabinets and fixtures are installed by an expert. He is cleaned up after by several broom-toting teenagers.
Later on, most everyone helps lay sod. A few people plant flowers and trees, and everyone—plants and people—gets a long drink of water.
By this time, some of the local media have come to see what all the excitement is about. Other important people in town have come to see, too. A few of them, including Rockledge Mayor, Jack Oats, even roll up their sleeves and help.
“These kids are unbelievable,” says the mayor. “With kids like this, who aren’t afraid to talk about and live what they believe in, we don’t have to worry about the future.”
Soon the building inspector comes for a last walk-through. He declares it not only up to code but one of the most soundly built houses he has ever seen.
At 6:00 P.M., just 12 hours after the project began, there is a house standing where there was just an empty lot. The youth gather in the yard and watch as the homeowner, Karol DeKlercq, is presented the keys to her new house.
“Your love will forever be a part of our lives,” she says. “For the rest of my life and as my [four] children grow and their hands touch all you have built, the prints of your love will forever be there.”
There are tears in just about everybody’s eyes as the reality of what has happened sinks in. The DeKlercq family had previously rented a house that had fallen into disrepair, and they had no hope of ever having a place of their own. They now have 1,200 square feet—three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a kitchen, a living room, and an eating area—to call home.
Every time a new house is finished, representatives from Habitat for Humanity present the homeowner with a Bible to keep as a family treasure. This time, in addition to the Bible, the family also received a triple combination and a framed copy of The Family: A Proclamation to the World.
After these gifts have been given and the youth have a chance to hug or congratulate Karol, they load up into waiting vans and head for a park where a well-deserved barbecue is being prepared. After they leave, the neighborhood is still—the first time all day that the hubbub has quieted down to anything less than a dull roar.
After the dust has settled and the youth and their leaders have had a few days to rest, they’ll meet and discuss the conference. They’ll talk about things that were successful, things that could have been done differently. But by all accounts, the project was a huge hit.
“I love missionary work, and I love service,” says Laurel Kelli Baker. “What could be more fun than a youth conference project that combines both of them?”
And so when you’re taking that drive through a small neighborhood in the middle of Florida, you can be sure that your eyes aren’t playing tricks on you. Yes, that house did spring up overnight.
To be sure, the lot the house sits on is a fairly ordinary piece of land, nothing special really. Nothing special unless you consider what the helping hands of hundreds of teenagers accomplished there: they’ve given a family a place to call home.

I served as a bishop during the period of the Korean War. We had received from Church headquarters a letter indicating that bishops should send a personal letter to each serviceman every month, along with a copy of the Church magazine at that time, the Improvement Era, and a subscription to the Church News. That took a little doing. In our large ward we had about eighteen servicemen. We did not have much money. The priesthood quorums, with effort, supplied funds for the subscriptions to the publications, and I took care of the letter writing. From my experience in the navy at the end of a previous war, I knew the importance of receiving word from home.
One day the sister who took the shorthand for those individually dictated letters said to me, “Bishop Monson, don’t you ever get discouraged?”
I said, “No, I don’t. Why?”
“Do you realize,” she explained, “that this is the seventeenth consecutive monthly letter you have sent to Lawrence Bryson, and you have never received a reply?”
I said, “Well, send number seventeen. It might do the job.” And it did. I received a reply from an APO number, San Francisco. Brother Bryson, far away in the Pacific, had written a short letter which began: “Dear Bishop, I ain’t much at writing letters [I could have told him that seventeen months sooner], but today has been a special day. I have been ordained a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood. My group leader has stayed close to me, and I am grateful to him.” Then he said, “By the way, thanks for the Church News. Thanks for the magazine. But a special thanks for your letter which comes each month.”
Years later at a stake conference in the Cottonwood Stake, when Elder James E. Faust was stake president, I mentioned that experience in a stake priesthood meeting. A man came up after the meeting and said, “Do you remember me?”
I looked at him. It had probably been twenty-two years since I’d seen him. I said, “Lawrence Bryson!”
He said, “That’s me. Thanks for the letters. That’s why I’m here today.”
Where is Lawrence Bryson now? He and his wife are currently serving full-time missions. Their lives demonstrate full activity in the Church. They are searching for sheep that are lost. I think they will know where to find them. I know they will save them.
I still have that wonderful letter written to me from Lawrence Bryson and dated “Christmas Day, December 25, 1953.” It was one of the most treasured Christmas gifts ever received by me. Sure, you sometimes wonder after seventeen letters have been sent why no reply has come, but I remembered a line of truth: “The wisdom of God may appear as foolishness to men. But the greatest single lesson we can learn in mortality is that when God speaks and a man obeys, that man will always be right.” The leaders of the Church had spoken. We as bishops needed only to obey. The blessing was sure to follow.

Lina swung her lunchbox as she walked to the lunchroom. Lunch was the best part of the day. Lina loved sitting with her friends and talking about who said what, who liked who, who got in trouble — there were always fun things to talk about. And today Lina was sure she had the most exciting news. She couldn’t wait to tell her friends.
“Guess what!” she said as soon as she sat down. “Shara Johnson had to go home early today … because she has lice!”
The girls gasped and stared at her.
Trish moaned. “I walked right by her like six times today!” she said. “What if I have lice too?”
“Oh no,” Katy said. “I have to work with her on a science project next week.”
Melissa shuddered. “That is so gross. I don’t think I can be her friend anymore.”
Lina stopped smiling. She squirmed in her seat. She had been excited to share some news, but she didn’t like how they were talking about Shara now. She didn’t want Shara to lose any friends! Getting lice didn’t mean anything bad about Shara; it could have happened to any of them. Lina tried to forget about it and just eat her food, but she just couldn’t.
When the bell rang for them to go back to class, the girls were still talking about Shara. They kept laughing and making faces. Lina felt awful.
Back in class, Mrs. Currier called Lina to her desk.
“Since you’re Shara’s neighbor, would you please take her today’s homework?” Mrs. Currier asked.
Oh no. Lina didn’t want to face Shara. Not after what she’d said. But she nodded and took the worksheets.
On her way home after school, Lina stopped by the Johnsons’ house. She rang the doorbell and hoped that anyone but Shara would open the door.
“Hi, Lina!” It was Shara. She smiled when she saw Lina standing on the porch. “What’s up?”
“I’m just bringing your homework,” Lina said, trying to smile too.
“Thanks!” Shara said. “I was worried I would fall behind after missing today.”
“So you’ll be back tomorrow?” Lina asked.
“Yep! I’ll see you in class.”
“Awesome. See you tomorrow.” Lina smiled the best she could, then walked away. Now she felt even worse. Shara was so nice, and now the girls at school were saying mean things about her. Lina wanted to fix things. But how?
Lina didn’t know what to do, but she knew who could help her. She stopped walking, closed her eyes, and bowed her head.
Heavenly Father, I really messed up today. I gossiped about Shara, and now I feel really bad about it. I am so sorry. I don’t know how to make it right. Please help me fix my mistake.
After Lina finished praying, she felt peaceful. She knew that making things right might be scary, but Heavenly Father would help her.
The next day at lunch, Lina saw her friends at their usual table. As she walked toward them, she said another quick prayer.
Please help me be brave.
“Hey,” Lina said. She didn’t sit down. “I just wanted to say … I wanted to say that I’m sorry I told you Shara had lice. Shara is really nice, and I shouldn’t have said anything. We shouldn’t spread bad news about other people.”
Trish, Katy, and Melissa stared at her. They looked too surprised to say anything. Lina turned away. She felt better for the first time since yesterday! Then she spotted Shara across the lunchroom and waved. Shara waved back, and Lina walked over to sit by her. The warm feeling in her heart told her that she had made the right choice.

As a full-time missionary I have the opportunity to read the Liahona (Spanish) and to share copies with others.
One time, my companion and I were approached by a young man who asked if we would give him any copies of the Liahona we had finished reading. He explained that he likes to read the Liahona because he learns much from the experiences and counsel published in the magazine.
As we left to get him a copy, we asked him which ward he belonged to. He replied that he was not a member of the Church but had been reading the Liahona for quite some time because members of the local branch had shared it with him. We asked if he wanted to know more about the Church, and eventually, after hearing the missionary discussions, he was baptized.
This new convert continues to read the Liahona because, as he says, the words of the prophets “really apply to our lives.” The messages in the Liahona are not just for members; they are for everyone.
Elder Moctezuma Meza,México Guadalajara Mission

This story took place in the USA.
“Let’s start our family council with a prayer,” Trina’s dad said.
Trina knelt beside her brothers and sisters while her brother Taylor said the prayer. Then they all sat back down.
“Mom and I want to talk about Adam,” Dad said. Trina’s brother Adam was a missionary. He left three months ago, and Trina missed him a lot.
“He’s coming home from his mission this week,” said Mom.
Trina gasped. Is he OK? she thought.
“What? How come?” asked Taylor.
“He’s been struggling with anxiety and depression,” Mom said. “That means he has a lot of worry and sadness that won’t go away. He’s going to get some help from doctors here, just like he would if he had broken his leg or gotten sick.”
Trina didn’t know what to say. She had friends whose siblings had come home early from their missions to get help from a doctor. Would Adam be OK?
“We want to do all we can to help Adam. Will you please pray to know how you can serve your brother?” asked Dad.
Trina and her siblings nodded.
“You can ask us any questions and tell us how you’re feeling anytime. We sure love you,” said Mom. Trina ran to hug her, and the rest of the family joined for a group hug.
Over the next few days, Trina thought about Adam. She prayed about what she could do for him. She thought of times when she felt worried or sad and how much her family had helped her. But anxiety and depression seemed like pretty big things.
“What can I do to help Adam?” Trina asked Mom.
“We can’t change what Adam is feeling,” Mom said. “But we can support him and show him we care.”
“We can love him!” said Trina.
Mom smiled and hugged her. “That’s the best thing we can do.”
Trina knew there were lots of ways to say “I love you,” even without saying it out loud. When her family did nice things for her or gave her a hug, she knew they loved her. Trina could do that for Adam!
Trina decided she could start showing love for Adam now. She used chalk to write a message for him on the sidewalk. She hid nice notes around the house. She helped her siblings make a sign. It said, “Welcome home, Elder Dawson! We love you!”
The next day Trina’s family went to the airport. Trina helped her siblings hold the sign they had made. When Adam walked through the gate, Trina and her family ran to hug him.
“I love you, Adam!” Trina said.
When they got home, Trina took Adam’s hand and led him to the sidewalk to see what she had written.
“‘We are so proud of you, Elder Dawson,’” read Adam. He looked up at their parents and siblings. “Thanks, everyone.” He squeezed Trina’s hand.
Adam left to put his suitcase in his room. When he came back, he was smiling. “Does anyone know who’s doing all the nice things around our house? I just found a secret note on my pillow.” He winked at Trina.
Trina grinned. She couldn’t wait to think of more ways to say “I love you”!

I was taught about vertigo when my Air Force instructor took me up in an airplane with the cockpit covered by a canopy so I could not see outside. I would have to rely on the instruments. Unknown to me, he gradually turned the airplane upside down, keeping positive G forces. My ear did not detect the slow rollover. He told me to take control of the airplane. Of course, I did what every other student did. I pulled backwards because I was losing altitude, and, of course, I started a dive toward the earth because I did not know I was upside down.
As I started to regain control of the airplane, I could see the little marks on the landing gear were upside down. My instructor taught me the principle that you can take a human being at a two- or three-degree turn while keeping positive G forces and turn them upside down without their knowing they have left the straight and level flight. The motion is imperceptible.

Our first two children were beautiful little girls. During my third pregnancy, a critical situation developed. It was soon recognized to be life-threatening. Medical experts advised us that there were two alternatives—my probable death, or therapeutic abortion of the child growing within me. The Holy Ghost testified there was no option—I would continue to carry our unborn child. Others in similar situations may well receive a different witness from him. This was personal revelation and was accepted. Anguishing months followed, months of pleading with the Lord that those near to me would have the same conviction, months of applying the power of the priesthood through my husband’s administrations. At last a healthy child was born—our first and only son. My life was spared. This is background for the incident that I feel prompted to share with you this evening.

It occurred when this most treasured, little son was nearly three years old. One day, suddenly and without warning, he stopped breathing and fell to the floor, apparently lifeless. My husband was not home, and I called my ten-year-old daughter, Nancy, to get help as I carried him to the bedroom. As I worked to revive him, I literally, cried out unto the Lord. I begged him to spare our only son. I promised that I would dedicate myself to training him up to be an instrument in the hands of God if he would be spared. The police arrived with their emergency equipment. I continued in fervent, vocal prayer to the Lord, petitioning him to restore our little boy. The doctor arrived. Just as a stimulant was to be injected directly into his heart as a final emergency measure, he cried. My prayers had been answered, but I was to receive further testimony of this in a most unexpected way.

The next morning, our son climbed on his daddy’s knee. “I was sitting on the lap of Jesus,” he said. Then he went on, “He looked into my eyes. I was so happy. I wanted to stay there with him, but he told me I had to go back home to you.” Even now, twenty-four years later, our son remembers vividly the reciprocal love he experienced during his brief “step out of time.” He is vigorous and well, living with his lovely wife and a little son of his own as he continues to serve the Lord.

Just as this child, for that one brief moment, knew and felt the love of the Savior, may we, as women of all ages, as daughters of God, as wives, as mothers, as contributing members of society whose identities are being challenged, seek to know him well enough to love him, well enough to serve him. Seek his face. Reciprocate his love. Reflect it to others. Consider this sobering thought as expressed by C. S. Lewis: “It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and godesses” (The Weight of Glory, Grand Rapids, Mich: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Co., 1965, pp. 14–15.)

Jesus Christ is our Savior, our brother, our friend. He is as near as we allow him to be. Our only ultimate joy and happiness is predicated upon our relationship with him. Our only peace, through disappointments, sorrow, and challenges, will come as we draw nearer unto him. With such love for our Redeemer, every difficult experience may be met with courage, acceptance, and even gratitude. His love for us is a gift beyond price. What does he ask in return? “Love one another; as I have loved you.” (John 13:34.)

To these truths I bear solemn witness, for I know this is God’s church. I know God lives, as does his Beloved Son, our Savior Jesus Christ; and the Lord’s word will go forth this night through his chosen mouthpiece, President Spencer W. Kimball. May we listen to a prophet’s voice, I pray in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

I am sitting across the table from Brother Fuller, a counselor in the bishopric. He phoned two days ago and had that tone in his voice that almost shouted “We have a calling for you!”
I’ve been off my mission for six weeks, and a calling sounds super. No doubt providing a little Christian service would be good for me.
“I’d like to talk with you about a calling, Nathan,” Brother Fuller says after a few minutes of pleasant conversation. “We need a teacher for the CTR six-year-old class. There are 13 children in the class, and Sister Swenson, the teacher, feels that is a little too many for one teacher alone to handle.”
Six-year-old CTRs? Me? Oh no. I do not want this calling. I’d rather serve somewhere else … priesthood chorister, cannery coordinator, the homemaking committee.
“Well, Nathan, what do you think?” Brother Fuller gently nudges me back into reality.
What can I say? For two years one of the things I’ve been teaching people about is the blessings of service.
“It will be fine, Brother Fuller. I’ll do it,” I say.
“Great. We will sustain you on Sunday. Nathan, I want you to know we feel very good about this calling.”
I wish I could say the same thing.
Sister Morrow, a counselor in the Primary, is wrapping up my orientation. “We’re so glad you’ll be teaching. We love having priesthood holders in the Primary. The children will really look up to you,” she says.
She hands me the class roll. Four boys and three girls.
“You only have one child who is not active, Parker Scott.”
“So what about him?” I ask.
Sister Morrow sighs. “A nice little guy. It’s just that his parents don’t come, so Parker doesn’t either. They’re new in the ward; they’ve only been here about four months. We don’t know much about them.”
“Too bad.”
Okay, so maybe I didn’t exactly put a ton of effort into preparing for my first class. I mean, it is about Abinadi, and I’ve only heard the story about a thousand times. So I kind of whip through the lesson manual and figure I can wing it a little.
I stand in front of my class. Wow. They’re so small. Three boys—Robert, Adam, and Zachary—in nice Sunday shirts, two of them wearing bow ties. And three girls—Amelia, Kelsey, and Morgan, all in cute little dresses, shiny shoes, ribbons, and bows in their hair.
“All right, we’re talking about Abinadi,” I say, after a round of introductions. “Abinadi was a prophet in the Book of Mormon. Everyone okay with that?”
I get six puzzled looks, but I decide to push on.
“Well, Abinadi was courageous and when the pressure was on, when he was in wicked King Noah’s court, and when King Noah told him to deny his testimony or be put to death …” The six little kids are squirming. I reach over and grab a picture, one that shows Abinadi testifying in front of King Noah and his priests. “Uh, see … here is what it looked like, according to one artist’s perception.”
One artist’s perception? The wiggles hit my class of six again. Back up, Nathan. You expect them to understand perception? I am beginning to feel a little too warm. Maybe I should have read the lesson a bit more. I nervously glance at the manual and pick up a phrase. “Uh, because of his righteousness, Abinadi was put to death by King Noah.”
I let out a breath of air. Robert raises his hand. “If Abinadi was good, why did he have to die? Wouldn’t Heavenly Father help him to get away?”
“Uh, good question, Robert. It has to do with, well, agency. You all understand what I mean by agency?”
Morgan and Amelia shake their heads. Zachary frowns and looks puzzled.
“Uh, let me start over,” I stammer.
“I wish Sister Swenson was here,” Adam murmurs.
My lesson the following week goes better. The CTRs seem to pay attention for part of it, and nobody begs for the return of Sister Swenson. It helps to read the manual, I realize, and begin preparing early in the week. The third week our lesson is about Ammon and King Lamoni. At the first mention of swords and the first hint of an impending battle, all six of the CTRs, shall I say, immediately focus.
“So Ammon was guarding the flocks when the bad guys come,” I say. “They thought there was only one of him and lots of us. We can take him. First they tried to use their slings and rocks on Ammon, but they couldn’t hit him because the Lord was protecting him.”
Six sets of blue and brown eyes are staring at me. “Next, they tried to use their clubs on him. But Ammon was strong, and he had faith and confidence. When the bad guys got close to him, he cut off their arms with his sword,” I say firmly.
“So he killed some of the bad guys and cut off the arms of others?” Robert asks.
“Yep. That’s the way it happened. Remember, the robbers would have killed Ammon if he didn’t fight them.”
“And then Ammon’s guys took the arms for the king to see?” Robert asks again.
“Yes, Robert.”
There is a long pause as Robert digests this piece of information. Then he lets out his breath slowly.
“Cool!” he says.
Okay, everything is going great with the CTR-6 class. I enjoy teaching. I think about the kids all during the week. I know they like me. They are learning. So am I.
Why then do I not feel quite super about my calling? Something is missing.
After sacrament meeting, on my way to class, Sister Nakamura, the Primary secretary, hands me my roll. “There you go, Nathan. I noticed one of your class members has a birthday this week. Parker Scott.”
“I don’t know Parker Scott,” I say.
“Maybe you should,” she replies cheerfully.
“When is his birthday?”
“Tuesday.”
Guess I know what I’ll be doing Tuesday after work.
Forty-eight hours later, on a warm, starry night, I pull my car to the side of Holly Knoll Drive and squint at the address. Yes, I’m at the right place.
Okay, Nathan, I think, you’ve done this a million times on your mission. Just go to the door, knock, and let the Spirit guide. My heart is pounding as I reach for the door.
A shaft of light pierces the dark evening air and a man—Parker’s father, I assume—stands in front of me, hands on hips.
“Yes?”
“Is this the Scott family?”
“It is. Can I help you with something?”
“Well, I’m Parker’s Primary teacher in church and I came to wish him a happy birthday.”
The man frowns. At the mention of his name, Parker peers around his father at me. “Primary? Church? You sure you’ve got the right place?”
The tone in his voice kind of cools off the summer night.
“Yes, I’m sure. See, I teach the children Parker’s age.”
“Teach them what?”
I began, haltingly. “I teach them about a lot of things. I teach them … to try to choose the right. I teach them about their Father in Heaven. I teach them that the Savior loves them.”
My voice trails off. The man looks at me impassively. From inside the house, I notice someone moving. A woman steps forward to the door.
“Did I hear you are Parker’s Primary teacher?” she asks.
“Yes. My name is Nathan Davis. I’m the CTR-6 teacher.”
“He was telling me what he teaches the kids about,” the man says.
The woman bows her head. “Yes, I know, dear. I know what he wants to teach Parker. It’s okay.” She looks up at me. “I’m Parker’s mother, Karen Scott. I used to teach in the Primary—many years ago, though.”
My confidence picks up. “I’d really like to have Parker come. We have a great class. He’ll make new friends.”
“Yes, I’m sure he would,” says Sister Scott quietly.
“I could pick him up for Primary, if you’d like me to.”
Sister Scott seems lost in her thoughts for a moment. “Thank you, Nathan, but that won’t be necessary.”
My heart sinks. I thought we were getting somewhere.
She looks at me. “When does our ward meet?”
“Our meetings start at 11:30.”
A small smile crosses her face. “It has been too long. Parker, come here, please. There’s someone I’d like you to meet, honey.”
Suddenly, things feel very good.
Sharing time is ours in two weeks. I want it to be awesome.
I look at my six CTRs. “Okay, what shall it be for sharing time?”
Robert almost jets out of his chair, bursting with energy. “I know! I know!” he squeals.
“So, Robert, it looks like you have a great idea. Lay it on us, pal.”
“We need to do Ammon and the bad guys.”
A chorus of nodding heads accompanied by hisses of “Yes!” follows. So Ammon it is, presented by Brother Davis’s CTR-6 class. Of course, there is one big question left. Who is the star? Who plays Ammon?
I ask the question, half expecting a bit of a discussion and disagreement about who should get the starring role. Then I witness a moment of greatness, coming from a brown-haired little boy decked out in a white shirt and red bow tie. Zachary looks at me and says, “I think Parker should be Ammon because he’s new.”
“Do you want to, Parker?” I ask. He nods. “Everyone okay with that?” I ask the rest of the class. They are, and central casting’s job is finished. “Okay, we’ll practice in class next week; then we’ll do it for real the following week.”
It’s Thursday evening, and I’m back at the Scott home. This time I have a Book of Mormon under my arm. I feel like a missionary again. The Scotts know I’m coming. I called a couple of days ago and told them that Parker had a part in a presentation and that I needed their help to pull it off.
Mr. Scott opens the door. He neither smiles nor frowns but invites me in. He sits on the couch, and Sister Scott walks in and joins him.
“As I mentioned, Parker has a part in this skit. He’s playing a man named Ammon, and I think it would be great if you could read the story of Ammon in this book. I marked where it is.” I stretch out my hand and give the Book of Mormon to Mr. Scott. “And if you could help Parker memorize his lines I would appreciate it.”
“Yes, we can do that,” Sister Scott says enthusiastically. “This is great. Parker has really enjoyed your class the last two weeks.”
“It’s great to have him there,” I say. We make small talk for a few more minutes; then I stand up to leave. This time Mr. Scott shakes my hand and says something about it’s nice that I’m taking an interest in his son.
As I walk to my car, I hear Sister Scott calling me.
“You’ve just accomplished something I had dreamed about for many years, but had almost given up hope on,” she tells me. I think her eyes are moist.
“What’s that?” I ask, surprised.
“My husband has a Book of Mormon in his hands for the first time.”
I think I’m as nervous as any Broadway director on opening night. The Primary room is full with children and parents. Sister Scott and her husband are near the back, awaiting our presentation.
After a brief introduction, my class production of “Ammon Guards the Flocks and Cuts off a Bunch of Arms” begins. Parker, dressed in a bathrobe and a sweat band around his head and carrying a cardboard sword, marches toward Kelsey and Adam, who are guarding the flocks.
“I am Ammon,” Parker says in a deep voice. “I fear no one because the Lord is my strength. We will protect the king’s flocks.”
Right on cue, three “bad” guys—Morgan, Zachary, and Adam—appear through the door to the Primary room.
“Oh, look Ammon! There are robbers who will steal the king’s sheep! They will slay us!” cries Robert, looking at the three stuffed sheep brought in as props by members of the class.
“And the king will be mad if we let the bad guys take his flocks!” worries Kelsey. “We must run!”
“Fear not!” says Parker. “Stay, and be of good cheer!”
But Kelsey and Robert run out the door. Parker turns and faces the audience. “They have little faith. But a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do,” he says, which I know doesn’t exactly come from the scriptures but gets across the general idea. Morgan, complete with a homemade fake moustache, announces, “Let’s attack! There is but one of him and many of us!” They load up their cardboard slingshots and pretend to fire away at Parker. “We cannot hit him!” says Zachary. “We must fight him with our clubs.”
The great cardboard battle ensues. Accompanied by anguished cries of “Ouch! That hurts!” the arms disappear inside the loose-fitting bathrobes and the vanquished thieves, minus arms, slink away.
About this time, Kelsey and Robert come back into the room, dragging a canvas bag. “We picked up their arms to prove to the king your mightiness,” Kelsey says. “Let us go to the king now.”
The three of them march to the other side of the room where King Lamoni, as played by Amelia, is pleased by the story and the bag of arms. Robert pulls out one of the arms, courtesy of an old doll, to show the suitably impressed king.
“Now tell me of your Great Spirit,” says Amelia, her fake beard quivering. At this point, Parker turns to the congregation and says, “As you know, the rest is history.”
Whew. Sharing time is over. And, in my humble opinion, it was awesome.
I’m back in the room with Brother Fuller. Ricks College has accepted my application, and I’ll be sitting in a classroom in less than a week. Trouble is, I can’t be a CTR teacher when I’m 600 miles away. This time Brother Fuller will release me from my calling. I already said good-bye to my class, which was only about the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.
“You’ve done well in the class. We thank you for your efforts,” he says. “You’ve changed lives for the better, which is a teacher’s primary purpose.”
“Thanks, Brother Fuller. That class means a lot to me.”
“Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you this, but I would like to inform you of who will be taking your place. The new teacher is Sister Scott.”
Parker Scott’s mom is the new CTR-6 teacher? It all feels so right.
Two months later I pick up my mail and notice a letter with the scrawled return address of “Parker Scott” in the upper left corner of the envelope. I drop my economics and geology books right there at the curb and quickly open the letter.
“Dear Brother Davis, How are you? I am fine. My mom is our Primary teacher. The missionaries come by and talk to my dad. If he gets baptized, can you be there? Ammon is still my favorite story in the Book of Mormon. We miss you. Love, Parker Scott.”
And for so many good reasons, right there on the edge of the street, I raise my hand high into the air, shout “Yes!” and begin to laugh and cry at the same time.

Almost three years ago, one of our daughters got married and immediately left with her husband for medical school in a distant city. She was leaving the security of the nest to begin a family of her own. I wondered: “Did I teach her everything she needs to know? Does she know what is most important in this life? Is she prepared to build a happy home?”
As I watched her drive away, I remembered a little journal I gave her on her 17th birthday. It was entitled “Did I Tell You … ?” In it, I recorded counsel I had often given her in our late-night conversations. As she and her new husband headed for their life together, I thought of three additional entries I wanted to add to that little journal to help her make a transition more important and challenging than that of crossing the country: the transition to starting her own home and family. Let me share these entries to her and to all young people in the Church, to teach and testify of the importance of family.

But in trying for balance, Scott has discovered he needs to set priorities. A year or so ago, he was playing several sports, going to school and seminary, taking music lessons, spending time with friends. “I was thinking of quitting hockey,” he says. “I wasn’t happy, and it took up so much of my time. I realized if I wanted to play hockey I had to give up some of the other stuff.” He decided to put aside other sports and his guitar for a while. The NHL, the crowds, the excitement—it’s a hard dream to let die.

The day Alma Elizabeth turned eight years old she saw some elders baptizing people in a nearby creek. Her folks did not know about the baptismal service, so she ran home to tell them. With their permission she, too, was baptized in the creek. Afterward she walked to the meetinghouse to be confirmed. But after the confirmation, she felt very tired and fell sound asleep on a seldom-used church bench where people could not see her. When the meeting ended everyone went home. Alma Elizabeth’s family became concerned about her long absence, and they sent her big sister Helen to search for her. She found Alma Elizabeth still asleep in the now empty meetinghouse.

Photographs by Richard M. Romney
Many exciting changes have come to the Church thanks to inspiration received by President Russell M. Nelson. Two of these changes have had a direct impact on the Clarkson brothers from California, USA:
Young men can now be ordained to a priesthood office in January of the year they turn 12, 14, and 16.
Youth are eligible to obtain a limited-use temple recommend beginning in January of the year they turn 12.
For brothers Matthew (15), Andrew (13), and Isaac (11), these changes have brought new opportunities to serve and progress in the gospel of Jesus Christ—not just on their own but together.
In January 2019, Matthew, Andrew, and Isaac all experienced a day of firsts. Andrew says: “Matthew became a priest, I became a teacher, and Isaac became a deacon at the same time. None of us were at the ages where we would have advanced before.”
“On my first day being a priest,” Matthew says, “I broke the bread for the sacrament and blessed it. I was kind of nervous. My hands were shaking a little bit when I said the prayer, but it was really amazing.”
New to the Aaronic Priesthood, Isaac now has the chance to learn from his older brothers. “It was cool because I was with my brothers and some of their friends,” Isaac says. “I felt the Spirit when I passed the sacrament for the first time.”
Along with receiving the Aaronic Priesthood and passing the sacrament, Isaac also attended the temple to perform baptisms. His father baptized him first, but then came a surprise:
“I got to baptize my brother!” Matthew says.
“I never expected Matthew to baptize me,” Isaac says. “But he’s a priest now, so he could. It was really a cool experience. I could feel the Holy Ghost.”
Matthew, Andrew, and Isaac aren’t the only brothers in the Clarkson family. There are four more: Levi (9), Eli (7), Sam (4), and Titus (2), and a baby on the way.
When President Nelson invited the women of the Church in October 2018 general conference to read the Book of Mormon before the end of the year, Matthew, Andrew, and Isaac, along with their father and younger brothers, decided to offer Mom their support. “We’ll read it with you!” they said. Every morning before seminary, they woke up to read together.
“When we took on this challenge, I thought it was going to take a lot of time,” Andrew says. “I worried that I wouldn’t have enough time to do everything I wanted to do, like play the guitar or hang out with my friends. But I realized that it just doesn’t work like that. The more I was into reading the Book of Mormon, the more time I actually seemed to have. I realized that if I keep up on reading the scriptures as much as possible, my life is balanced. I have more time in the day.”
Matthew was going through a hard time when the family started reading every morning. He says, “I wasn’t doing well in school. I struggled with my personal scripture study and my relationship with Heavenly Father, and I kept it all to myself. I didn’t talk about it with my parents.”
However, as Matthew spent more time reading the Book of Mormon, the gospel began to take first priority in his life. He also put more effort into school. He worked hard and got his grades up.
“I also realized how much Heavenly Father and my parents love me and how much they help me. And I have a greater testimony of Jesus Christ. He has helped me overcome bad habits and helped me get my life headed in the right direction. I’m so glad we took President Nelson’s challenge as a family. It changed my life.”
Accepting President Nelson’s invitation also strengthened Isaac’s testimony. “We circled the words God, Lord, Redeemer, Savior, and Christ every time we found them,” he says. “On the day we finished, I flipped through the Book of Mormon and saw all the words I had circled. I thought, ‘Man, that’s a lot!’ I had never noticed how many there were. I felt much more spiritual reading the Book of Mormon. I’m glad we did it.”
Matthew, Andrew, and Isaac are amazed that their family finished the Book of Mormon in just two months. “It usually takes us a year,” Isaac says. Together, they discovered the blessings of following the prophet’s invitation.
“If you do what you’re supposed to do,” Andrew says, “like building a relationship with Heavenly Father through prayer, scripture study, and staying fully active in the Church, life is so much better.”
These three brothers have helped each other progress in the gospel. They follow the prophet, who has called on members “to increase their faith in our Lord Jesus Christ and in His Atonement, to … [make] and [keep] their covenants with God, and to strengthen … their families.”1

Tommy was smaller than the other boys. When he played football at school, he was often mowed down. When he played basketball, he got more elbows in his face than chances at the ball. But when it came to chicken wrestling on the monkey bars, Tommy was the greatest!
One day when Tommy was changing his clothes after school, his mother asked, “Tommy, where did you get all those bruises?”
“Oh, those,” said Tommy, and he grinned as he looked down at his black and blue legs. “Those are from chicken wrestling.”
“Chicken wrestling!” repeated his mother. “What on earth is that?”
“It’s when two kids swing out to the middle of the monkey bars from opposite sides,” answered Tommy. “Then they wrap their legs around each other and tug and pull. The toughest kid hangs on, and the other kid lets go and falls to the ground.”
“Tommy, you’re too little to play something like that with all those big boys,” said his mother. “No wonder your legs are bruised.”
Tommy grinned. “Well, I’m not very good at a lot of things,” he admitted, “but these skinny arms and hands can sure hang on to those monkey bars. I’ve beaten every kid in school so far except Bruiser Boswell, and I’m going to beat him today!”
“Bruiser Boswell? Who’s he?”
“Oh, he’s a big bully,” said Tommy. “He thinks he’s the toughest kid in school.”
“And you think you’re tougher than he is?” asked his mother.
“Not really,” replied Tommy. “He could beat me up in a hurry. I just think these skinny arms and hands can hang on to the monkey bars longer than his fat ones.”
When it was time for Tommy to meet Bruiser Boswell, a bunch of kids gathered around the monkey bars.
“Hey, you little runt,” Bruiser jeered as he swaggered up, “I’m going to stretch your arms five feet today. And if I don’t beat you at chicken wrestling, I’m going to beat you up anyway.”
“Listen, Bruiser,” said Tommy, “I know you’re the toughest kid in class, but these skinny arms and hands can hang on awfully tight to monkey bars.”
“Well, let’s just see how tight they can hang on,” said Bruiser. He began to climb up one side of the monkey bars, and Tommy started up the other.
When Tommy and Bruiser met in the middle of the bars, their legs were already flying and pulling and tugging. All the other kids were yelling and cheering them on. For a long time neither one could gain an advantage. Then Bruiser jerked Tommy’s leg really hard and Tommy’s right hand lost its grip. Tommy quickly regained his hold, then he twisted his legs tightly around Bruiser’s waist and pulled. As Bruiser gasped in surprise, his hands slipped from the bars.
“Wow! What a match!” someone said as Bruiser fell to the ground. “That’s got to be the longest match ever!”
Tommy, who was still hanging on to the monkey bars, looked at Bruiser lying on the ground. He thought it best not to let go for a while.
“That was the best chicken fight ever,” said Tommy.
Bruiser glared up at Tommy. “For you, maybe,” he said.
“You’re not mad at me, are you, Bruiser?” asked Tommy.
“I haven’t decided,” grunted Bruiser.
“Come on, Bruiser. You’ve got to have skinny little arms like mine to win at chicken wrestling. I can’t imagine the toughest guy in the class having skinny little arms instead of big strong ones like yours.”
“Nobody had better call my arms skinny!” threatened Bruiser as he looked at Tommy’s arms and then at his own.
“Well, they would have wondered if you’d won, ’cause everyone knows you have to have skinny arms to win at chicken wrestling.”
Tommy let go of the monkey bars and dropped down beside Bruiser. “I’d like to shake hands with the toughest kid in class, if it’s all right with you.”
“Sure, kid. Why not? I wouldn’t mind being friends with the best chicken wrestler in the class, even if you are sort of scrawny.”
When Tommy got home, his mother met him at the door. “How did it go with Bruiser Boswell today?” she asked.
“Oh, great!” he answered. “I may not be good at some things, but I am good at two things: One is chicken wrestling on the monkey bars, and the other is talking big guys out of fighting.”