Gospel Story Finder

We know this because over 30 years later, a Methodist minister, Hiram McKee, who had been Brigham’s friend in Oswego, wrote reminding him of the times when Brigham had been his friend and fellow seeker after truth there in Western New York: “I have not forgotten your advice, counsel, prayers. My confidence was great in you, in view of your deep piety, and faith in God. You was one of my early spiritual friends, and guides.”

Reverend McKee went on to wonder, on the basis of the scandalous reports in Eastern papers he had been reading, “if Brigham enjoyed as much piety now as then, or whether ambition, and love of power, and distinction did not hold some sway in that mind that was once so humble, contrite and devoted. … O, my brother how is it? How sweet was our communion in Old Oswego, how encouraging our prayers, and enlivening our songs we used to sing. … Now Brother Brigham, before the all-seeing God, who in the judgement will judge us, can you lay your hand on your heart and say that your hope of heaven is as good as then?”19

Brigham assured the good Reverend that he was “as honest a seeker after truth as I was during our acquaintance in Oswego.”20 He and Miriam, as a young married couple, had apparently joined with McKee in a little group of independent “seekers,” and may have done so in the other towns where they lived. We know they did with Brigham’s brothers and father when they moved to Mendon in 1829. Phineas Young, who was the leader of the group, described it thus: “We … opened a house for preaching, and commenced teaching the people according to the light we had; a reformation commenced, and we soon had a good society organized, and the Lord blessed our labors.”21

Several years ago, a friend of mine who was serving at the time as a stake president was out of work. He struggled hard to find employment, without success. Part of the problem was that he was nearly fifty years old, and many potential employers turned him down as qualified but too old. After several fruitless months, job interviews fell away to zero. After nearly a year out of work, the family’s savings were exhausted and their supply of food and other essentials was nearly all used up. My friend’s self-confidence had eroded to the vanishing point. Finally, he got another job interview. It went well, but the interviewer was undecided, influenced as others had been by my friend’s age. Finally, a senior partner in the firm intervened. “Hire him,” he declared. “He’s a Mormon stake president; he won’t steal from us.” Integrity is the jewel in the crown of character!

Recently my granddaughter Jennifer was invited to go with several of her school friends to a dinner and a movie. The girls all agreed on the movie they were going to see, and Jennifer was comfortable attending. However, the girl who left dinner to buy the movie tickets for the group returned with tickets to a different movie than was planned! She said, “It is a great show, and it’s R-rated.”

Jennifer, caught by surprise, couldn’t believe the situation had changed so quickly. But fortunately she had made up her mind before she ever found herself in this position that she would not watch R-rated movies. She was able to stand firm and say to her friends, “I can’t go see an R-rated movie. My parents would not approve.” To which the girls replied, “Oh, come on! Your parents will never know!” Confronted with this, Jennifer went on to say, “Well, actually it doesn’t matter whether my parents will know. I just don’t go to R-rated movies!”

Her friends were upset and tried to get her to relent. They told her she “was ruining everything.” When she would not give in, they threw the ticket and change in her face and deserted her for the R-rated movie. It wound up being a lonely night full of rejection from her friends. But it was a great moment for Jennifer and our family. She gained confidence, self-worth, and spiritual power.

A few months after I received my endowment, I was driving in a blazing hot car with a friend when he pointed out that the shorts I was wearing were really long.
“Aren’t you hot?” he asked.
“I sure am,” I answered cheerfully.
We both laughed.
“But knowing you, you wouldn’t wear shorter shorts even if you weren’t wearing garments now. You’ve always been super modest,” he said teasingly.
I considered that statement.
“You’re correct,” I said, laughing.
But truthfully, I found his statement a bit unsettling. What did he mean by “super” modest? Had I been taking modesty to an extreme? Did he think I was weird?
And beneath that question were more questions that I had been considering for a while but had been too afraid to ask: Why was I so committed to dressing modestly? Did it really help me become a better disciple of Christ? Did it even matter?
Some of us may have questions about modesty, especially about what it has to do with our discipleship. But as we seek guidance through the Spirit, we can begin to understand the why behind this commandment.
When I had questions about modesty and was feeling pressure from the world to lower my standards, I took my questions to Heavenly Father. Little by little, I remembered many instances where choosing to be modest—in both appearance and behavior—blessed my life immensely.
Here are just a few of the blessings that I have experienced from embracing the principle of modesty.
Our bodies are sacred vessels for our spiritual selves and serve as tangible reminders of how perfectly we are loved by our Heavenly Father. It is a true privilege to have a body, as it allows us to become like Him. When we consider that miraculous and incomprehensible truth, why wouldn’t we be confident in who we are?
If you take a moment to look around, you’ll notice that, because of the adversary, the world showcases bodies differently than Heavenly Father intended. They are criticized and compared, and immodesty is often glorified. The world wants to convince us that behaving and dressing a certain way will help us fit in and feel more self-assured than ever before. But the confidence that stems from this is fleeting.
Lasting confidence comes from understanding our divine identities—realizing that our bodies are sacred instruments through which we get to experience life, not ornaments to be adorned by the world.1
In Doctrine and Covenants 121:45, the Lord teaches, “Let virtue garnish thy thoughts unceasingly; then shall thy confidence wax strong in the presence of God.”
And it’s true! When we have modest, virtuous thoughts, they are reflected in our behavior, language, and appearance, and we can experience true self-assurance.
At times, my temporal desires have been at odds with modesty, like wanting to wear certain clothes to feel attractive or longing to fit in by acting a certain way. But as I came to truly comprehend my divine identity, I wanted to represent that truth, and behaving and dressing modestly eventually became second nature to me. And my self-confidence grew as well—after all, true confidence has little to do with our appearance and more to do with living in a way that reflects our divine identity.
When seen as rules, the commandments of the gospel can seem restricting. But when we focus on Heavenly Father’s eternal perspective and love for us, we can build our testimony on the truth that His commandments are meant to protect and bless us. They stem from His perfect love.2
In pondering how modesty had blessed my life, I once considered the question President M. Russell Ballard, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, asked regarding our love for God versus the things of the world. He said, “How would we answer the question ‘Lovest thou me more than these?’”3
I realized that the world may be filled with temptations, but when I consider what Heavenly Father and the Savior have done for me out of love, choosing to be modest is one thing I can do to show Them love in return. Modesty is a reflection of my inner commitment to Them, and as I continue to show my devotion, I feel myself deepening my relationship with Them, which is a blessing on its own.
Elder D. Todd Christofferson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught: “His commandments are not grievous—just the opposite. They mark the path of healing, happiness, peace, and joy. … And in obeying Their commandments, we feel Their perfect love more fully and more profoundly.”4
And we read in 1 Nephi that God’s love is “most joyous to the soul” (1 Nephi 11:23; see also verse 22). When we choose to follow the commandments, including modesty, we are able to feel His love and partake of the fruits of the gospel of Jesus Christ, which is the source of true joy.
Dressing or behaving like the majority of the world might allow me to feel happiness for a moment, and I’ve felt that temptation at times. But I am most joyful when I strive to keep the commandments and my covenants, because doing so allows me to feel Heavenly Father’s perfect love.
During that conversation with my friend, I assumed he thought I was a bit of a prude. But several years later, this friend actually became my husband, and he explained that he always appreciated how my commitment to Christ was reflected in my appearance, language, and actions.
Choosing modesty won’t always be easy, because “the voices and pressures of the world are engaging and numerous.”5 But I know the blessings and joy I receive when I embrace modesty are worth so much more than anything the world can offer me.
If you have questions about modesty, I invite you to seek personal revelation and consider how it has blessed your life. And remember, let’s not judge others’ worthiness according to their choices regarding modesty. As we choose to embrace modesty, let’s offer compassion to others—the same compassion the Savior offers us.
Modesty is one of the greatest ways we can learn to treasure our true identities, come closer to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, and feel joy in our lives. It has been for me, and I know it can be for you too.

Ace was just pulling the crawdad trap up toward the bridge when the children heard it. “Kittens, I think,” said Cindie. “Maybe in the tall grass there near the water.”
“No, it sounds like baby birds,” said her sister Vikki. “Over on the other side of the creek by those blackberry bushes.”
The two girls and their younger brother quickly clambered down through the brush toward the pitiful cries. “Over here!” shouted Cindie. “I’ve found a gunnysack!”
Anxiously, the young people fumbled with the twine and opened the sack. Inside were four very cold, very hungry newborn creatures, their eyes still closed.
“Kittens?” asked Vikki, holding one baby close.
“They look like tiny pigs,” observed Cindie, peering closely at another.
“Let’s get back up to the bridge,” said Ace. “Dad will know.”
“They’re puppies,” said dad. “Really young and really ugly. It looks like someone driving over the bridge threw out the pups to drown them in the creek. But they missed the water. These pups can’t be more than a few hours old.”
“Poor babies. We’ll just have to take care of them,” said Vikki, 11-year-old protector of all things living. “We’ll take them to grandma’s house and feed them right now.”
“Yeah, dad, we can check the crawdad trap later. We need to take care of the pups now.” It was unusual for six-year-old Ace (legally known as Adrian) to consider anything more important than trapping—and releasing—crawdads while vacationing at grandma’s house in Oregon.
“We’d better hurry. This one looks pretty weak,” observed Cindie, age 14 and the most practical of the three.
“Whoa, kids. Let’s think for a minute,” chimed in dad. “We’re on vacation 800 miles from home. We surely can’t take these pups home with us, and I doubt if anyone else would want four mongrel dogs. It might be better if …”
“If what, dad? Maybe other people can throw innocent little puppies in a creek to drown, but you’ve always said that we should protect living things.” The determination in Cindie’s voice was evident.
“Besides, dad. I think Heavenly Father intended that we be here this morning so that we could rescue these poor little things. We’ll figure out what to do with them later. Right now we’ve got to hurry and get them some milk.”
Minutes later mom and grandma were examining the foundlings—and asking the same practical questions adults usually ask when young people bring home newborn pups. Meanwhile, Cindie put some milk in a saucer and tried to feed one of the crying pups.
“I’m afraid that won’t work,” said grandma. “They’re so tiny that they’ll have to be fed from a bottle. Who would have a bottle with a nipple that small?”
“Maybe a doll’s bottle?” suggested Vikki. “But where can we get a doll’s bottle?”
“And that’s not all,” said mother. “For the first few days, they probably won’t be able to digest regular milk. I’m sure they’ll need milk from a mother dog.”
“But we’ve got to do something,” said Ace. “We can’t just let them starve.”
“Is there a pet store in Oregon City?” asked dad. “Perhaps they could help us.”
“I’m sure there is,” replied grandma. “But is it wise to spend the time and expense to rescue four mongrel dogs that no one will want? They can’t stay here, and you surely can’t take them back home with you. They’d never survive the trip.”
“It might have been kinder in the long run if you had left them at the creek,” mother quietly observed.
By now Cindie had located the telephone number of the pet shop and had started dialing. “We’ll find a way, grandma. Heavenly Father will help us. But first we’ve got to find a way to feed these poor crying babies.”
And a way was found. Two very expensive cans of dog milk and two doll bottles were purchased. Each pup was fed, almost constantly, and wrapped in a warm cloth. Eventually they received their names: Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.
The days which followed were taken up with feeding and loving the puppies. The girls learned that newborn puppies cry mightily if not fed periodically—all day and all night. On short trips to visit uncles and aunts, the pups were brought along so that they could be fed—and so that they could melt the hearts of potential owners.
But to no avail. Aunt Janine already had a dog. Aunt Karen surmised that one more dog at her house would result in one less husband. Uncle Dennis had two dogs, and grandma had cats. No luck. Neighbors and friends were approached. No luck. Pet store owners were implored. No market for ugly orphan pups.
Each day in their prayers the family members asked Heavenly Father to help them find homes for Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. But as they prepared to leave for southern Oregon to visit grandpa, four little puppies still had no homes. A family council was called to consider the options. The family knelt in prayer, and each of the children asked Heavenly Father to help them find homes for the pups.
Finally a decision was made: The pups would go to southern Oregon—but no further. If grandpa couldn’t take them, and if no other homes could be found when the family reached Ashland, the pups would have to go to the pound.
The trip to grandpa’s farm was a happy one. The young people took turns feeding the now fat, happy pups, and they took endless delight in the puppies’ antics. Both Mark and Luke started opening their eyes. And the children discovered that Mark ate the most, that John cried the loudest, and that Matthew was a girl!
But the four pups were still homeless—and the family was getting closer and closer to grandpa’s farm. Three worried young people entrusted all to a kind Heavenly Father and offered many silent prayers from the back seat (plus a few were offered from dad and mom in the front seat).
One prayer was answered; grandpa took one pup! At least John would be spared, grow up on a farm, and be loved.
All too soon the time at grandpa’s was gone, and the prayers for Matthew, Mark, and Luke were still unanswered. Only one last faint hope remained: Brother “Cwik.”
The family stopped to have dinner and attend sacrament meeting with family friends, the Cwiklinskis. Cindie, Vikki, and Ace were heart-broken to discover that the Cwiklinskis already had a dog and a cat and a goat. There just was no way the family could take in three pups.
On the way to sacrament meeting, the pups were fed once more so they could stay in the car in the shade and not cry while their rescuers were in church. Before going in, Cindie, Vikki, and Ace each offered a silent prayer to remind Heavenly Father that after church they would drive to Ashland—the last stop for Matthew, Mark, and Luke.
Cindie spent most of sacrament meeting with her eyes closed, praying for a miracle. Vikki cried softly into a handkerchief. Ace chewed his lower lip. Too soon the meeting was over; the family was in the foyer and moving toward the door.
Then a miracle began to unfold. “Cindie,” whispered Brother Cwik, “run out to the car and bring me those pups. Bring everything—the milk, the bottles, the blankets—everything. And hurry!”
Cindie was back in a flash, and Brother Cwik showed the pups to the Young Women of the ward. Matthew, Mark, and Luke were passed from hand to hand and lovingly fussed over as Brother Cwik recounted how the babies had been miraculously rescued.
If a potential dog owner wavered in her decision to adopt, Brother Cwik mentioned the canned milk, the feeding bottles, and the blankets. Luke went first—to a young girl with soft brown eyes. With his arms around Cindie and Vikki, Brother Cwik mentioned how earnestly the girls had prayed that someone would adopt the orphans. An older girl with long, blonde hair finally persuaded her parents to permit her to take Mark.
Only Matthew, the little female puppy, remained. People were drifting away now; super-salesman Cwik was losing his audience. It appeared as though no one would take an ugly orphan female pup. Suddenly, running down the hall with Ace came a nine-year-old boy, his eyes shining.
“Have you got any puppies left?” he shouted. “Dad says it’s all right. Are there any left?”
Indeed, there was one. A nine-year-old boy got his birthday present a week early, and three young people learned some important lessons about faith and works and the value of all living things. All the way home the family thanked Heavenly Father for hearing and answering prayers.

He slapped his chunky palms on the table again. “Make da win stop—now,” he yelled. His face turned beet red.
She hadn’t seen Scotty this disturbed before. She felt a little frightened and wondered what would happen if she couldn’t distract him or change his mind. But worse than the fear of what he might do, his stubbornness and anger grated still tender wounds. It felt too much like when Mom and Dad had separated. Six eternal months ago. Impasse. No solution. They had been stubborn. They still were.
When she let herself, she could still hear the echoes of the fights, the name calling, the doors slamming. As terrible as those were, they were better than the deafening silences that followed. Her world had tilted, and her order slid out of control.
She often wondered if Dad’s business failure was the real cause of the trouble. All she knew for sure was that it seemed to start when the money wasn’t there any more. No new clothes. Bill collectors on the phone and at the door. For a month after the separation she sulked, mad at the world, mad at her parents, and mad at Heavenly Father. Stubborn was the reason the family was apart now. Mom and Dad both demanding that something change, when it couldn’t. Stubborn—like Scotty, only worse. They knew better. They went to church, they used to pray, and the family used to work. Scotty was stubborn. They chose it. The anger was back. If she wasn’t careful, it would come pouring out, out of control like it sometimes did. It would land on Scotty and that wasn’t fair.
It was plain though that Scotty wasn’t going to eat lunch unless she made the wind stop. Maybe if she said a prayer. The divorce had taught her about prayer. When her parents first separated, she almost blamed Heavenly Father for the pain she was feeling. At night she muffled her sobs with a tear-soaked pillow until she fell asleep. In the morning she was never sure if it was anger, or loss, or confusion that greeted her first. Finally, though, when it was all more than she could bear, she had learned to ask for help, and the Savior’s healing hand would touch her heart for a moment while he retrieved from some lost corner of darkness, her peace—the peace that kept slipping away, but not so fast anymore.

Let me share a brief example from my own life. It occurred when I received my mission call. I actually had graduated with my degree in nursing when I was 21. So I left on my mission soon after I had graduated. I am a bit embarrassed to admit it now, but one of the reasons I went into nursing was because I really wanted to serve a welfare/humanitarian mission, and I thought a nursing degree would increase my chances to do this.

And it seemed my plan had worked. My original mission call was to be a mission nurse in Venezuela. However, while in the MTC we had difficulty obtaining visas to enter Venezuela. Some missionaries had been in the MTC an extra two months just waiting for their visas. Finally it was decided that our calls would be changed. Within a day my call was changed from Venezuela to Puerto Rico; and instead of being the mission nurse, I would be a proselyting missionary! That very evening I was on a plane heading to Puerto Rico.

I was in utter shock. Although not so much now, at the time I was incredibly and painfully shy. This shyness was the reason I wanted to serve a welfare/humanitarian mission and not a proselyting mission. Nursing was something I could do because it was helping and serving others. Talking to absolute strangers scared me to death. For several months after I got there, I secretly thought the whole thing was a mistake and that I would soon be going to Venezuela. No, it was not a mistake, and I served my entire mission in Puerto Rico.

With a lot of prayer I learned to strike up a conversation on just about anything. I learned to really trust the Lord. My Spanish was never as good as it should have been, and I am still not the most outgoing person in the world, but I can honestly say I did the best I could, and the events that transpired were what I needed to grow. The Lord knew this even if I didn’t.

Now, this was many years ago, but, looking back, I can see that these experiences have changed and shaped my life in so many ways. First, although my original intentions of studying nursing seemed ill guided, I can see now that the Lord was directing me—just for reasons different than I thought. Nursing is part of my mission in life. Second, serving a proselyting mission really made me stretch much more than anything else would have, and I am so very grateful it did. Finally, this change from my plan brought me experiences I never could have imagined for myself.

I am a planner, and so I originally thought I would return from my mission, go back to New England, work a few years as a pediatric nurse, get married, and have a family. But the Lord had a different path for me. On my mission I learned how much I loved being out with the people. Also, upon my return I found that I wasn’t enjoying hospital nursing—I missed being with the people in their own settings and focusing on empowering them to change themselves. An opportunity soon arose—because I had learned to speak Spanish—to work as a school nurse in a Spanish-speaking area in Utah. Then other experiences and opportunities to further my education occurred, and here I am back at BYU. I have had the opportunity to travel and learn about other countries and cultures, and that has greatly enriched my life. It has shown me that the world isn’t as black and white as I saw it. Although at the time it occurred I couldn’t understand why, looking back now I can see the Lord’s hand guiding me. I am a far better person for these experiences than my plans would have made me. How little I knew!

A few weeks ago on a day when this area was experiencing one of its worst snowstorms, and that is saying quite a bit because we had plenty of severe weather this past winter, a handsome young serviceman and his beautiful bride-to-be encountered extreme difficulty in getting to the Salt Lake Temple for their marriage appointment. She was in one location in the Salt Lake Valley and he was to come from another nearby town. Heavy snows and winds had closed the highways during the night and early morning hours. After many hours of anxious waiting, some of us were able to help them get to the temple and complete their marriage plans before the day was over.
How grateful they, their families, and friends were for the assistance and concern in their keeping this most important appointment. My friend—we will call him Bill—expressed his deep gratitude with, “Thank you very much for all you did to make our wedding possible. I don’t understand why you went to all this trouble to help me. Really, I’m nobody.”
I am sure Bill meant his comment to be a most sincere compliment, but I responded to it firmly, but I hope kindly, with, “Bill, I have never helped a ‘nobody’ in my life. In the kingdom of our Heavenly Father no man is a ‘nobody.’”

My family went to the temple 45 years ago. My parents made covenants, and then our family was sealed in the Washington D.C. Temple. I was almost 2 years old at the time, so I do not remember what happened there, but I remember many other things after. I remember watching my parents strive to live and persevere on the covenant path, making our home a piece of heaven. I watched them fulfill their Church callings and take care of their children so that we would not stray from the covenant path. I learned many of the things about being successful in my callings from my father. I watched how he ministered to the brothers, how they came to our home seeking help, and how he loved them, just as my mother did with the sisters.

Because they stayed on the covenant path and persevered, they and their family received blessings. Their three children served full-time missions, have been sealed to their families in the temple, and have seen blessings and the fruit of their efforts. Although it takes a little work, the rewards of living on the covenant path can be seen, as it happened with the inhabitants of ancient America who “taught, and did minister one to another; and they had all things common among them, every man dealing justly, one with another.”

The last time I saw my little sister, Lorraine, was in a sound-proof hospital room that smelled of sweet soap. She lay in a huge metal bed with sterile white sheets, surrounded by tanks and tubes and oxygen equipment. The doctors confirmed what she herself knew:
“Mommy,” she said in her calm, sweet voice, “mommy, I’m going to die.” She asked us to pray for her—we who had forgotten how to pray.
The night before she died, I sat at her bedside while mom and dad got a few hours of much-needed rest. She was in a coma, and I held her delicate hand in mine under the oxygen tent, trying to make her live through my own will-power. My throat ached as I thought about how little I really knew her. Ten years separated us—ten years and my own personal apartment and exciting career.
After a few minutes, I heard someone enter the dimmed hospital room. I looked up to see a man, slightly balding, with soft eyes and a kindly smile.
“Hello,” he said in a gentle voice. “I’m Brother Hughes, your home teacher. I—just found out.”
“Brother?” I wondered silently. “Oh … a Mormon.”
Home teachers were those men who always came in dark suits and who were very nice and chatted for a while and then politely left. Or were those missionaries? We were inactive and in fact had avoided contact with the Church during the two years we had lived in this city. I wondered how he had found us.
“How is she?” he asked. He was smiling a soft, wise smile, the kind that comes mostly from the eyes. I knew he did not feel more righteous than we were, and I felt he was not there just out of curiosity. Somehow I could feel that he really cared.
For some reason, my first reaction was to try to impress him by delivering a detailed clinical description of the many complications that had led to the hopeless prognosis the doctors had given. But instead, only a strange groan escaped my lips, and the tears began to fall unrestrainedly.
I don’t really remember everything Brother Hughes said to me that night, except that when he left I knew Lorraine would be alive somewhere, and that this pitiful little body with the thin, golden hair was only the shell that had housed her for a time. Not that he actually came out and said it, but somewhere in the back of my mind I could see her running and stretching out her arms to a loving being who held her just like dad had done.
Lorraine left us. But Brother Hughes came again and again.
A year later, in the temple, we shed tears as the Spirit bore witness to us that Lorraine was with us as we were sealed together as a family. And a few days afterward, I was married in the temple.
I often think about Lorraine, and when I do, I remember that wonderful home teacher who taught us once again to pray, who showed us again the one true way where tragedy is supplanted by eternal hope.

The stadium lights illuminated the morning fog like specters from some 1960s horror movie. Under them, Emma marched robotlike and fingered the keys of her clarinet, missing notes repeatedly until the student conductor shouted her name. She wanted to cry. How could one conversation have turned her world so completely upside down?
That conversation had happened only moments before in the band room when Skylar, a senior and awesome flutist, had plopped her instrument case on the counter beside Emma. Although each girl played in the varsity band, they were two grades apart and seldom spoke to one another. But the room was unusually quiet this foggy morning, and the hand-drawn “What would Jesus do?” design taped on Skylar’s case begged Emma’s comment. “Did you draw that? It’s nice.”
“Thanks,” Skylar said, unsnapping her case.
“I don’t suppose you have a copy. I’d love to scan it.”
Skylar shook her head, obviously embarrassed at the flattery. Then she fell quiet and looked intently at Emma until Emma felt embarrassed. “What’s wrong?” Emma asked.
“Nothing. It’s just that, well, I heard you’re a Mormon.”
Emma sighed and nodded, wondering what was to come next. She opened a new reed.
Skylar said, “Can I show you something?”
Emma shrugged. “Sure.”
Skylar surprised Emma by pulling a Bible from her backpack. “My youth group meets tonight,” Skylar said. “I’m assigned the reading but haven’t decided on a verse yet. That’s why I have this.” She held up the Bible. “Anyway, one Sunday my youth minister showed this passage to me. I’ve wanted to share it with you, but it’s weird talking about religion at school.”
Emma chuckled. “Yeah, I go to a seminary class at six in the morning. I don’t mention it much here either.”
Skylar nodded and opened her Bible. “You ever read Revelation 22:18–19? Most people haven’t because it’s at the end of the Bible.” She shrugged. “Guess they don’t get that far.”
Emma chuckled as she received the book.
“Will you read it out loud?”
Emma glanced around, but no one seemed to be paying attention, so she began reading:
“For I testify unto every man that heareth the words of the prophecy of this book, If any man shall add unto these things, God shall add unto him the plagues that are written in this book:
“And if any man shall take away from the words of the book of this prophecy, God shall take away his part out of the book of life.”
As she read, Emma’s forehead creased hard. Why was Skylar sharing this particular passage with her?
“Do you know what it means?” Skylar asked, breathing deeply. “My youth minister says it means that anyone who adds anything to or takes anything away from the Bible will be condemned.” Skylar’s voice was shaking. “It’s so important that the Apostle John concluded the Bible with it.”
Emma said cautiously, “That makes sense.” She put her reed in her mouth.
Skylar gulped. “Your Joseph Smith added to the Bible, didn’t he? Isn’t that what your church teaches? That the Book of Mormon is additional scripture?”
Emma said nothing; she felt confused. She closed her instrument case. Mr. Bets shouted for everyone to move outside, now! Emma hurriedly fastened the reed to her clarinet.
“I don’t mean to offend you, really, but my youth minister says that, as a Christian, it’s my duty to warn you,” Skylar said. “If you don’t forsake Mormonism, you’ll be damned.”
Emma’s face flushed.
“Hurry!” Mr. Bets called.
Emma may have walked away from Skylar, out into the morning fog, but she couldn’t walk away from the questions Skylar had planted in her mind. As she lined up, she wondered, Was Skylar right? Hadn’t Joseph Smith added to the Bible? On cue, she’d marched 20 steps to the right. What if he’d made up the Book of Mormon? What if it was all a lie? These and similar questions had scorched her mind throughout drills, and when the conductor finally ended practice, Emma rushed toward the band room, hoping to get away from Skylar. She felt half ashamed for doubting and half filled with fear that her doubts were correct.
Skylar joined Emma in the crowded band room though Emma tried to ignore her. Skylar said, “My youth group is meeting at our minister’s tonight. We’ll shoot pool and listen to CDs. He’d like to meet you.”
Emma threw away her reed. It was Wednesday. The Mia Maids would be collecting used children’s videos from ward members for a local shelter.
“I can pick you up.”
Emma snapped her instrument case. “Thanks, but I’ve got something at my own church,” Emma turned. “My parents make me go.” She blushed. Why did I add that? she thought.
Skylar hummed sympathetically. “My youth minister’s got a book about Mormonism that I think you should read. I’ll bring it tomorrow, okay?”
Emma gazed at Skylar. Revelation 22:18–19 had seemed so plain. No one should add to the Bible, and there was no denying that the Church teaches that the Book of Mormon is additional scripture. Emma hurt, thinking of the implication. All she wanted was to know the truth. Maybe the minister’s book had it.
“Okay,” she said. But agreeing to read the minister’s book didn’t calm Emma’s worries. Throughout the day, troubling questions buzzed in her brain. The day dragged, but finally the seventh period bell rang. She turned in her French test but was in no hurry to leave. She waited until the other students had filed out. She dreaded seeing her family, dreaded going to Mutual later that night. She didn’t want to be around any Latter-day Saints. What would they think of her if they knew her doubts? They’d all try to talk to her, tell her to have faith. But faith in what? In the Book of Mormon? How could she have faith in something she wasn’t sure was true? Emma’s head ached and her stomach felt empty. It was a long walk home.
She entered the kitchen and found her mother baking. “Mindy sent another letter,” she announced, but Emma ignored her and headed toward the staircase. “She included a paragraph in French just for you and …”
“I’m busy, Mom. I’ve got homework, you know.” Emma hurried toward the stairs. She wanted time to think.
Her mother stared silently at her.
Emma trudged upstairs, closed the door, then threw herself onto her bed and stared at the ceiling. Why should she read what her missionary sister had written? It was always the same: her testimony of this, her testimony of that. What did Mindy know about anything anyway? She always did exactly what Mom and Dad wanted.
Emma shook her head and rolled to her side. Why does everyone think they have all the answers? Mindy, Mom, Dad, all are sure the Church is true. She looked at her scriptures on the nightstand. Skylar and her youth minister swear it isn’t. She snatched up the Bible and opened to Revelation 22. “If any man shall add unto these things, God shall add unto him the plagues …” Her head fell against the wall.
I should talk to Mom, she told herself, ask her about this passage. I should walk right downstairs and say, “Mom, what about this?” But she couldn’t. She lowered the Bible onto the mattress and pulled a pillow over her face. She already knew what her mom would say: “Pray, dear, trust the Lord, and He’ll answer you.” But I’ve been praying all my life, and I still don’t have a testimony! she thought. Maybe God hasn’t given me a testimony because the Book of Mormon isn’t true.
Suddenly her brother Brady’s nasal voice shouted, “Mom, Emma’s crying again!”
Emma threw the pillow toward the closed door, but it was too late. Her mother was in her room in no time. She eased herself down beside Emma. “Want to talk?”
Emma shook her head. She was afraid.
Her mother stroked her hair. “If you don’t talk to me, I can’t …” She stopped. Emma saw her glance at the open Bible, pick it up, and read. She pointed to the last verses. “Is this what’s bothering you?”
Emma’s shoulders tightened.
Her mother said thoughtfully, “When I was investigating the Church, my minister showed this passage to me. He thought it would convince me not to believe in the Book of Mormon.” She paused. “Did someone show this to you?”
Emma hesitated; then words spilled from her mouth. “Mom, it plainly says that man shouldn’t add anything to the Bible. Joseph Smith did!”
Her mother leaned back thoughtfully, then said, “Many people interpret it that way. When the minister showed it to me, my first reaction was that Mormonism had to be wrong. I told the missionaries to forget about baptizing me.” She chuckled. “But they showed me something.”
Emma’s mother pointed to a footnote, “This reference.” She flipped to the Old Testament.
Emma sat upright, a vein of hope rising within her. Her mother began to read Deuteronomy 4:2: “Ye shall not add unto the word which I command you, neither shall ye diminish ought from it.”
Emma burst out, “It says the same thing! Skylar’s right.”
“No, Emma, think. Who wrote Deuteronomy?”
“I don’t know!”
“Moses. And he wrote long before John wrote Revelation. Just like John wrote long before Joseph Smith.”
“So?”
“So if you use your friend’s logic, every scripture recorded after Moses wrote Deuteronomy would have to be false because in Deuteronomy God said no one should add to His word.”
Emma blinked.
“But we have the rest of the Bible because other prophets understood that Moses only meant people shouldn’t add to this book, to Deuteronomy. And John only meant that nothing should be added to the book of Revelation.”
Emma stared. Her mother was actually making sense. She wiped away a tear.
“This may say that man shouldn’t add to scripture, but, Emma, where does it say that God won’t?”
Her mother’s words sent a tingling sensation through Emma as they sank into her soul. She reread the passage and looked up in wonder. “It doesn’t say God won’t give any more revelation, does it?”
Her mother shook her head. “And it says not to reject any of God’s words.”
“Including the Book of Mormon!”
“Right.” Her mother hugged her. “Having doubts is a normal part of the testimony-building process. It’s natural to question before you understand. Share your questions because you never know how Heavenly Father will send His answers. Sometimes He even uses mothers.”
Emma grinned.
Her mother rose. “Now, that homework, young lady.”
Emma reached for her backpack, then grimaced. “I forgot. Skylar’s bringing me a book about Mormonism tomorrow.”
Her mother paused at the door. “It won’t be kind, and it will probably use the same kind of logic that led them to misunderstand that scripture in Revelation.”
Emma nodded. “I won’t take it. I don’t need to seek doubts.”
“I agree that would be the best. Dinner will be early.” Her mother pulled Mindy’s letter from her pocket and left it on the dresser.
After the door shut, Emma retrieved the letter. Out fell a snapshot of her missionary sister standing before the Arc de Triomphe in Paris. Emma’s gaze traveled to the Book of Mormon on her nightstand. A grin blossomed. “I wonder if Skylar would like to read a book that really explains Mormonism!”

Some years ago I coached a high school basketball team through a rather unusual season. The season began with a number of disappointing losses. Some of the fans and townspeople didn’t make a secret of their unhappiness over the team’s failures. There was considerable public comment, and it was a challenging time for members of the team. Several of them finally became discouraged and withdrew from the team. Those who remained didn’t lose faith in themselves or in their coach. The rough going seemed to be an incentive for them to try even harder.

At mid-season the team began to win their games. They qualified for the district tournament and surprised everyone there by winning a place in the state play-offs. To the amazement of everyone, they went on to win the state championship—the first ever to be won by that school!

Following the celebration and the awarding of trophies after the championship game, I drove several of the team members back to our city. There was silence during much of the ride as we each reflected on the incredible outcome of our season’s efforts. Finally, one of the young men spoke. (He had been honored for being one of the outstanding players in the tournament.) “Coach,” he said, “I think we were supposed to win tonight.”

I was curious to know what had prompted this conclusion. “Why do you think we were supposed to win?” I asked.

His response was simple and direct—and I will never forget its impact. “Because we paid the price,” he said.

Indeed they had, and I am sure the lessons learned by those young men during that eventful year have been valuable to them throughout their lives.

In 1837, two years after being ordained an Apostle, Elder Heber C. Kimball was sitting in the Kirtland Temple when the Prophet Joseph Smith whispered to him that the Lord wanted him to go on a mission to England. He would be the first missionary sent outside North America.
“The idea of such a mission was almost more than I could bear up under. I was almost ready to sink under the burden which was placed upon me,” Elder Kimball said. But he accepted the call and went to England—even leaping from the boat upon his arrival in Liverpool. “The moment I understood the will of my heavenly Father, I felt a determination to go at all hazards, believing that He would support me by His almighty power, and endow me with every qualification that I needed” (see History of the Church, 2:489–90).
Elder Kimball’s mission opened the door to much success in England over the next several years, as thousands of people accepted the gospel and became a great strength to the Church.

Another Cooper family tradition: At least once a week everyone tries to do something nice for another family member as a surprise.
Thanks for making my bed! You know how much I hate doing that.
You’re welcome. It needed to be done, and you weren’t here, so …
Hmmm. Nobody’s done anything special for me yet, and the week’s almost over.
Later that morning …
Somebody pumped up my bike tire for me!
Now you know where I was while you were making my bed.

I met Megan when my family moved into our new house. She lived down the street, and we were both in Sister Crawford’s Primary class. We became friends and played together a lot. I watched Megan closely, trying to remember how she told a joke or how she fixed her hair or how she talked to other kids so easily. I thought Megan was perfect. I was shy. I wanted to be like Megan.
One day I called Megan to see if she wanted to play. She didn’t say anything at first.
“Caitlin is already over here,” she finally said.
Caitlin was in our Primary class too. I waited for Megan to invite me over, but she didn’t. Her end of the line was quiet.
“Oh. OK,” I stammered. Megan hung up without saying anything else.
That Sunday in Primary, Sister Crawford asked us, “What does it mean to be a good friend?”
I smiled at Megan, but she didn’t see me. She turned the other way and whispered to Caitlin. Suddenly Caitlin laughed out loud.
“Please quiet down, girls,” Sister Crawford said. They stopped whispering, but their shoulders trembled with giggles. Sister Crawford turned to me. “Angie, what do you think makes a good friend?”
“Well, someone who is nice and likes to play with you and—”
Megan and Caitlin giggled louder. My face got hot, and I looked at the floor. Were they laughing at me?
Sister Crawford frowned at them, then smiled at me. “That’s right, Angie,” she said. She looked around at the class. “How can you be a good friend?”
Adam raised his hand. “We can help people,” he said.
Sister Crawford nodded. “A good friend wants to help and serve others. Jesus Christ taught that when He lived on the earth. He also taught us that we should be kind to everyone.”
I looked at Megan and smiled at her. She didn’t smile back. I felt an empty spot in my chest. Didn’t Megan like me anymore?
At the end of the lesson, Sister Crawford held up a small basket. “I have something for you,” she said. She reached into the basket and showed us colorful strings that had been tied in small circles. “These are friendship bracelets. You wear it on your wrist, and whenever you look at it you can remember to be a good friend.”
Maybe friendship bracelets would help! Maybe Megan and I could get matching bracelets. As the basket went around the class, I leaned toward Megan. “What color are you going to get?” I asked her.
Megan shrugged. “Maybe a yellow one.”
“Me too,” I said.
Caitlin chose a blue bracelet. Then she passed the basket to Megan. Megan fingered a few bracelets, then pulled out a blue one too. I stared at her. Blue? She quickly handed me the basket. I stared into it, not knowing what to do. There were only yellow bracelets left. I slowly pulled one out.
Megan and Caitlin giggled and held out their arms side by side, admiring their matching blue bracelets. I felt a lump rise in my throat. Tears stung my eyes. I clenched my teeth together to keep from crying. I was not going to cry in front of them.* * * *
I threw myself into Mom’s arms as soon as we got home from church. “What’s wrong, honey?” Mom asked as I started to cry. Through my tears I told her what had happened. She sat next to me on my bed and held me close. “I’m sorry, Angie,” she said.
“Doesn’t Megan want to be my friend anymore?” I asked.
Mom stroked my hair. “Sometimes we don’t know why people do certain things,” she said. “I’m sorry that happened.”
“Sister Crawford said today that we should try to be kind to everyone, like Jesus was. But I don’t want to be kind to Megan.”
“I understand,” Mom said. “But I also agree with Sister Crawford. It might be hard, but we should try to be kind even if someone hurts our feelings. Jesus taught us to forgive others.”
“How can I do that?” I asked. I thought of the way Megan and Caitlin had laughed, and I felt that empty feeling again.
Mom pointed to a figurine of a girl kneeling in prayer that I kept on my nightstand. “Whenever someone hurts my feelings, I ask Heavenly Father to help me forgive that person. I ask Him to soften my heart and the other person’s heart.”
“Does it work?” I asked.
Mom smiled and kissed the top of my head. “I always feel better when I’ve talked to Heavenly Father,” she said.
When I said my prayers that night I thanked Heavenly Father for the friendship I had with Megan. Then I asked Him to help me forgive her. I scrunched up my eyes and thought hard. “Please help Megan and me be friends again,” I said.
I prayed for those things for the next few days. On Saturday I was swinging on our swing set when Megan came up our walk. I stopped swinging. We looked at each other but didn’t say anything. Finally Megan reached out and put something in my hand.
“This is for you,” she said. I opened my hand and saw a blue friendship bracelet.
“Do you want to play?” Megan asked. “Caitlin is coming over to my house. We’re going to pretend we’re princesses, and Noodle is going to be the queen.”
Noodle was Megan’s gray-striped cat. I giggled, picturing Noodle wearing a crown. I felt the empty spot inside shrinking. “Yes, I’d like to come over,” I said. “Thanks.”
I smiled at her, and this time Megan smiled back.

There were only a few days left until the start of my freshman year of college, and getting my textbooks was definitely a priority. New textbooks can be expensive, so I found a book-exchange site where I could find students who were selling their used textbooks. It wasn’t long before I found a woman looking to sell her physical-science book, and soon I was on my way to her apartment to pick it up.
When I arrived, I noticed that the outside of the complex looked fairly dirty. There was trash littering the walkway, and to be honest I was a little hesitant to knock on her door alone.
But I did need that textbook.
So I knocked, and a woman carrying a screaming baby came to the door. Behind her, I could see that the apartment looked dark and cluttered. Clothes were piled on the couch, and many dirty dishes sat in the sink. I could feel a sense of uneasiness in the atmosphere and in the woman’s demeanor.
We had a short exchange. She gave me the book, I gave her the money, and that was that.
The woman closed the door, and instantly the Spirit impressed upon me that this woman needed my help. I felt like I should knock on her door again.
But the idea seemed so awkward. What was I going to do, just knock and say, “Hi, you look like you need help”?
No way.
I quickly dismissed the idea and got in my car. But when the uneasiness and the thought in my mind persisted, I was reminded that I was being prompted by the Spirit, as “all things which are good cometh of God” (Moroni 7:12). And this definitely wasn’t my own thought.
I had never felt such a clear and specific message from the Holy Ghost in my life.
The gift of discernment includes “perceiving … the source and meaning of spiritual manifestations.”1 But even though I knew this feeling of needing to help was from the Holy Ghost, I still hesitated.
I said a quick prayer and told Heavenly Father that I felt uncomfortable and was going to drive away, so if He wanted me to stay, He was going to have to stop me. As soon as I opened my eyes, I started my car and felt the prompting again, but even stronger—it felt like the Spirit was pulling me out of my car. I knew I needed to obey the prompting, however odd the situation seemed, so I turned off my car and made my way back to the woman’s apartment.
I frantically thought of what I would say when I knocked on her door again.
“Hi, can I help you?”
No.
“Hello, I want to serve you.”
No! I was panicking now, and I was out of ideas!
But I knocked anyway, and the woman came to the door looking frazzled with a confused expression on her face.
“Hi, I felt like I should come ask you if you need any help,” I said.
The woman gave me a terribly strange look and said, “Nope, I’m good.”
After that I frantically said, “OK, thanks. Bye!” before she shut the door.
Talk about awkward.
As I got in my car and drove away, I tried to reason why God would have sent me that prompting just to have the woman deny my offer to help. I was confused but mostly glad I had followed the prompting.
Suddenly I heard a text alert on my phone. I pulled into a parking lot and saw that the text was from the woman who had sold me the textbook. She was asking me to come back and help her out if I still had time and wasn’t too far away.
Amazing, right?
I drove back, knocked on the door, and asked her how I could help. I think we both recognized the awkwardness of the situation, but she asked if I could hold her baby so she could get some dishes done while her husband was at work. I gladly agreed, and for the next few hours, I rocked her baby while she told me about her life, with all the highs and lows.
I could tell from our conversation that she was going through a challenging time in her life and that she was glad to have someone to share her burdens with. After the laundry was folded and the dishes were washed, she took back her baby and thanked me, and we parted ways.
I never saw the woman again, but I don’t think I’ll ever forget hearing the voice of the Spirit like that or the realization that Heavenly Father truly is aware of each of His children.

We can easily get our lives out of balance. I remember a few years that were particularly challenging for me. Our family had grown to seven children. I had served as a counselor in the bishopric and was then given the sacred call as bishop of our ward. I was striving to manage our business that required long hours each day. I pay tribute to my wonderful wife, who always made it possible for me to serve the Lord.

There was simply too much to do in the time available. Instead of sacrificing things of significance, I decided I’d get up earlier, take care of my business, then spend the time required to be a good father and husband and a faithful member of the Church. It wasn’t easy. There were mornings when the alarm clock went off that I cracked open an eyelid and glared at it, daring it to keep ringing.

Nevertheless, the Lord was merciful and helped me to find the energy and time to do all I had committed to do. Although it was difficult, I have never regretted making the choice to heed the Savior’s call and follow Him.

Following the concert in Prague, Czechoslovakia, a choir member went outside Smetana Hall and walked up to greet a father and mother and their teenager, but they were unable to communicate. Very shortly a young man stepped up to translate. As he talked, he said that the couple were his parents, that he had gone to the United States as an exchange student, had found the Church, and had been baptized. But he said that his parents were very much against his decision and that he had practically forced them to come to the concert that evening. He explained, however, that during the concert, “they come on fire.” “We talked for a few more minutes, then I turned to the parents and said to the English-speaking son, ‘Tell your parents that if they want to be truly happy, they will join the Church. Tell them the gospel is true. Tell them that I love them.’ The Spirit was overpowering! They hugged me. They kissed me. They held my hand. And they said they would see the missionaries.”

Some years ago I was serving as a bishop. At the same time I was working on a doctor’s degree at a university and working a full-time job. I was under some strain, fearing that because of my desire to succeed in so many areas I was really failing as a father.
One Sunday evening I stayed late at church to complete some work. As I walked into the chapel to turn off the lights before going home, I suddenly felt lonely. I felt that my back would not bear for another day the heavy burdens I was carrying.
I fell to my knees near the pulpit and cried to the Lord. I poured out the feelings of my soul to him and described in detail my seemingly insurmountable tasks. When I finished I remained kneeling. And then I heard the Spirit speak to me in my heart. The answer it gave me was all I needed. It said just three things: Go forward. Do your best. Love your family.
I arose a new man.

I watched Jason dribble the ball down the court, weaving around two Trojan players while I tried to outrun the one guarding me. Jason leaped toward the side of the basket and shot. The ball teetered on the rim for a second before it swished through.
“Go, Jason, go!” cheered a crowd of little kids. I should have felt happy because our team, the Jets, had finally tied the score. But I didn’t want to hear Jason’s name anymore. He always scored the most points and caught the most rebounds—and got the most cheers.
The big red numbers on the clock showed only one minute left in the game when Dave passed the ball to me. The court was clear. I dribbled the ball down the sideline, the sound of thundering footsteps close behind. I jumped as high as I could and shot, trying to bounce the ball off the backboard and into the net. It hit the rim and bounced off. So who caught the rebound? Jason. Who scored the winning basket? Jason.
It wasn’t easy being in the same fifth grade class and on the same basketball team as a superstar. All the second and third graders knew Jason. They ran up to him on the playground and crowded around him like a fan club. I’d be famous, too, if I scored fifteen points a game. Secretly I wished that Jason would disappear. Then one day he did!
“Jason has to have his tonsils out,” Mrs. Litten told the class. “He’s going to be out of school for at least a week.”
Dave groaned. “Now we’re going to get trampled by the Kings,” he whispered to me loudly. “Our team will never win without Jason.”
“Maybe,” I whispered back. Mrs. Litten gave me a look that said, “Be quiet and do your work.” I tried to concentrate on my spelling words, but I kept thinking that maybe I’d finally have a chance to be the star. Maybe now the kids would be shouting, “Go Taylor!”
Basketball practice was a disaster, however. I practiced shooting from the free-throw line, and only one ball swished through. And when I tried dribbling fast, I tripped over the ball. But I didn’t give up. I started practicing my free throws again. It wasn’t going to be easy to be famous.
On Wednesday, Mrs. Litten asked me to stay after class, and I wondered what I’d done wrong.
“Taylor, I have a favor to ask.”
“Yes?” I was curious now, instead of worried.
“Would you fill in for Jason tomorrow and Friday? He goes to the second grade classes after lunch to help them with their schoolwork. They’re missing him.”
“Me?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Litten smiled. “You’re a good student.”
“Sure.” But I wondered what I was getting myself into.
The next day I walked into a second grade class after gulping down my sandwich. My stomach felt as though I’d swallowed a roller coaster when I saw all those faces staring at me. The teacher introduced me and told them that I played basketball like Jason. Suddenly everyone was asking me questions, and the time passed like a video on fast forward.
Right before I left, little Angelica gave me a hug. “Tell me your name again?” she asked.
“Taylor,” I repeated for the zillionth time—but I didn’t mind one bit. In fact, I felt fantastic!
“I need to know your name so I can cheer for you,” Angelica told me. “Just like for Jason.”
That’s when I figured it out. All the kids knew Jason because he helped them out. It had nothing to do with basketball! I thought that over.
That afternoon I had my own little cheering section at the game, and I started grinning like a circus clown. But I wasn’t thinking about being famous. Instead, I was planning to bring some dinosaur stickers for Robby, and a book about kittens to show Angelica. I planned to tell Mrs. Litten that I wanted to keep volunteering, even when Jason came back.
“Go Taylor!” shouted Angelica, and I was glad I’d learned that some things are much better than being a basketball superstar!