Gospel Story Finder

The centerpiece of the Tabernacle Choir’s trip to Israel was the performance of the Berlioz Requiem Mass opus 5 with the Jerusalem Symphony Orchestra during its Liturgica 92 concert series. This series, held in December and January each year, features performances of significant Christian choral or orchestral works.
Throughout the Tabernacle Choir’s tour, audience reactions were the best indication of the success of the tour. Israel is a country of many musicians, but it is common knowledge that the nation’s sophisticated and educated audiences typically leave immediately after a concert. Following the Berlioz Requiem, the audience reacted to the sheer power and energy of this great music with applause in unison—the call for an encore—for more than five minutes.

I had a very long, exhausting day, and I wanted to go home after school to spend some time with my family before I called it an early night. I packed my bag as the final bell rang. I got up and started to walk out of my ROTC class, heading to the other side of the school, where my car was parked. When I went through the door I had an impression to go find my friend Alex. I dismissed it, because I was tired and wanted to go home.
When I was about to walk out of the back door, it was as if someone screamed in my head to stop. A few seconds later, the impression to go talk with Alex came into my mind again. This time I heeded the prompting and headed back to my ROTC class on the other side of the school.
I walked back into my classroom, where my unit was practicing for an upcoming event. I found Alex off in a corner by herself and walked over to talk with her. As we talked, I found out that she was having a very down week. Everything had gone wrong for her. She then told me she had really been down and was having destructive thoughts. We talked for a while, and it started to get late. I made sure she felt better and then left.
The next morning when I came in, I ran into Alex. She wasn’t the sad, down girl she had been yesterday. She was full of love and peace, and she was happy and cheery again. She thanked me for being a friend in a time of need. She then went on to say that if I hadn’t taken that time to talk with her, she might have done something.
I thought back to when I first had ignored the prompting to talk with her. I didn’t listen to it. I could have lost a very dear friend to me that day.
Whenever I get a prompting from the Lord, I always remember this event, and I act immediately, for we are answers to people’s prayers, angels to others, and instruments in the hands of the Lord to work miracles in the lives of others. When the Lord prompts us, we need to act.

What have you done as a service project lately? Was it something that meant a lot to the people you were serving? Was it something that brought the love of Christ into their lives and showed them that people truly care?
Jessie and Steve Cota, twelve-year-old twin brothers who live in the Nogales Branch, Tucson Arizona Rincon Stake, performed that kind of service. But they didn’t do it as a quorum project or as an assignment from the branch president. They did it because they saw a need and found a way to fulfill it.
With help from their father, they built a house for a homeless family.
The house the twins built is similar to dozens of other houses that cover the hillsides of Nogales, Mexico, a town that straddles the border of the United States and Mexico. The house is small, is made mostly of plywood, and has no plumbing. But it is now home to a family of six—an abandoned mother and her five children, who used to live on the street.
“My aunt, who lives in Mexico, met this woman in the hospital,” Steve explains. “She found out the conditions the woman and her children were living in and knew they needed help. She talked to my father, José, who is first counselor in the branch presidency, to see if something could be done.”
Something could. Word spread quickly in the branch. Church members contributed what they could, and Brother Cota, a builder, was able to get materials donated from a construction project he was working on. The aunt donated property behind her own home as a site for the new construction.
“Everybody helped out,” Jessie says. “But to be honest, my dad did most of the work.”
Brother Cota, however, gives credit to his sons. “They really enjoy working. They helped put the floor in, hauling buckets of water so we could make the cement. They helped with the framing and with the roof. We’re especially proud of the roof, which has asphalt shingles and should last many years.”
It took three to four weeks, working on Saturdays, to complete the structure. “We felt good, knowing we were helping someone who needed help,” Steve says. “We learned a lot doing this together. We learned about how Church members can reach out to help others in the community. We learned about construction. And we got to be better friends with our father.”
“We like to nail things together,” Jessie says. “Maybe I’ll be a builder when I grow up, too.”
Brother Cota just smiles, then says, “The important thing about this is that now the children who live in this house will have a future. They have protection from the weather and a chance to go to school.”
We visit for a minute more, talking about birdhouses the boys are building as a hobby, about Steve’s baseball games and Jessie’s love of football, about future plans to build an outside bathroom to go along with the house.
Then the woman, surrounded by her children, greets the Cotas warmly and poses for a photo with them.
“These,” she says, “are the people who gave me my home.”

It was one of the first warm days of early spring. The windows of our church were open for the first time that year, and bright, warm sunlight spilled in long rays into the chapel. A small, spring wind came through the windows carrying the fragrances of unseen blossoms. My grandparents and several aunts and uncles were sitting proudly with my parents. I was sitting on the front row of the chapel with the deacons. It was my first time passing the sacrament.
The sacrament hymn ended.
The bishop nodded to us, and in a single motion we stood and walked to the table. The white cloth was removed and carefully folded, and then the prayer was spoken. I felt the importance of the words and the ordinance as I never had before. With my relatives and what seemed like the entire congregation watching me, I tried to move with as much reverence and dignity as I could. I felt a strong feeling of pride to be able to pass the sacrament. It was a great honor. When the meeting was over, nearly everyone in my ward congratulated me.
Several months passed, and in that time, along with the other members of my quorum, I began to forget, a little, the honor of holding the priesthood and of passing the sacrament. We began not to remember what the ordinance stood for. It became a chore. Something we had to do. A job we were given because no one else wanted to do it.
This attitude began to affect the way we performed the ordinance. They were small differences. We were sometimes late for sacrament meeting. Occasionally we didn’t dress as appropriately as we should have. And we talked during the meeting, not loudly and not during the sacrament service, but enough that it was noticed. They were small things, but they took away from the sacredness of the ordinance we were charged with.
The bishop asked our adviser to talk to us about it. Every Sunday morning for weeks he tried to explain to us the importance of what we were doing, of the priesthood of God, and of the ordinance of the sacrament. He told us of the sons of Aaron, of Gethsemane, and Calvary. He was an older man, and we could tell he felt strongly about the things he was telling us. We would straighten up a little. Then a few Sundays would pass, and we would slip back again.
One Sunday after our priesthood class had ended, our adviser stopped us.
“You don’t have to worry about the sacrament today,” he said. “It’s been taken care of.”
We were surprised and curious, but we were also glad to get out of the job, even if it was just for one day. We came into the meeting late as usual, during the hymn, and sat on a middle row. Sitting on the deacons bench with our adviser were the high priests of our ward. They were the oldest and most respected men in our ward. Two of them had been bishops, one a stake president. All held or had held positions of honor and leadership. The hymn ended. They rose, and the prayer was said.
By their bearing and by their reverence it was easy to see they felt great respect and honor for what they were doing. It was no menial task for them. They were all dressed in dark suits, white shirts, and ties. But it was more than the way they were dressed or even the way they carried themselves in performing the ordinance. The congregation was silent. The sacrament became something deeply felt and sacred. There was something deeper, something much more significant. There was a spirit to it. A feeling deeper than words.
The windows in the chapel were open that Sunday. It was late fall, and the fragrance of fall came in through the windows. I could see patches of a blue sky. Leaves were falling from the trees. I was humbled. Passing the sacrament wasn’t a job no one else wanted. It was a job I had been given as a sacred trust. It was the greatest of honors.

I think some people wait for an experience to show them that they have a true testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ when really they have had a testimony all along and just didn’t realize it. I was one of those people.
I never questioned the truthfulness of the Church, but I hadn’t had that moment—that single experience—most Church members live their whole lives to have. I didn’t know what I expected: a bolt of lightning, an angel, or a near-death experience.
Fortunately it didn’t take something like almost dying to show me I had a testimony of this gospel. For me, it was just a moment of realization while reading my scriptures. I don’t recall the passage or the book, but I remember how I felt. It was the same feeling I got while singing a hymn, or speaking to my Heavenly Father in prayer, or sitting in sacrament meeting listening to the speakers. I had never thought much of that feeling before, but now it seemed it was the only thing that mattered. Again and again, the Spirit had borne witness to me of the truthfulness of the Church.
Now, the simple knowledge that I had of the gospel has become far more to me than just a religion I am a part of. It is everything. It is who I am and what I am. It affects every decision I make. I know I am a child of God. I know my Savior, Jesus Christ, came to earth to atone for all our sins. I know Joseph Smith spoke to our Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ face to face. I know this is the true gospel. I know it because I have felt it, and it is only through the Church that I can feel that gift of the Spirit.
No bolt of lightning, no heavenly angel, I just know.

I’m 17 years old and have been a member of the Church my whole life. I never became really interested in the New Era until recently. I took the March 1999 issue out of the mailbox and sat down to read it. I liked some of the stories in it so much that I went to previous issues my mom had saved. I started reading old issues daily. I am very thankful for this magazine, and I look forward to it each month. I would like to particularly thank you for the July 1999 issue and the story “He Was a Stranger.” I loved that story, and it really touched me. Please continue making this magazine as well as you do.
Lukas MolcakLethbridge, Alberta, Canada (via e-mail)

Last year in my kindergarten class, there was a boy named Ben* who liked to push, shove, and call people names. I don’t know why he did the things he did. It was hard for me to like him because of how he treated people, especially my friends and me. He did mean things almost every day.
One day, right before recess, something happened that changed things. Ben was playing with a boy named Andrew,* and they accidentally spilled a bunch of corn kernels and dried beans on the classroom floor. The teacher told them that they needed to pick up every one before they could go to recess.
I felt sorry for them and didn’t want them to miss recess, so I offered to help clean up the mess. Once I started helping, two of my friends came along and helped too. We all worked together and were able to finish in time to go to recess. The next day, I noticed that Ben was nicer to my friends and me. And from then on, he was more of a friend.
I’m glad that I helped Ben. I think I did what Jesus would have wanted me to do. Even though Ben had often been mean to me before, I felt good inside while I was helping him. I know the feeling I had was the Spirit telling me that Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father knew of my love for Them because I was helping someone else.

In 1965, Sister Whang was appointed superintendent of Song Jook Orphanage. Jini Roby, who lived in the orphanage from the time she was eleven until she was fourteen, remembers that Sister Whang “was always scurrying in and out, in and out. But she always had a smile. She knew all of our names and what we were doing, and she would ask about our specific situations.”
Less than two years into Sister Whang’s administration, Stan Bronson arrived on the scene. A native of Blanding, Utah, Stan was stationed at the 8th U.S. Army base in Seoul and wanted to spend his off-duty hours doing worthwhile projects. He decided helping children would be just the thing. When he inquired about orphanages in the area, Church members referred him to Sister Whang.
When Stan—who is six feet, four inches tall—first met Sister Whang, he was struck by her air of dignity and self-assurance. But he was even more impressed by how comfortable she made him feel. “She has a wonderful spirit about her,” he says. “She’s dedicated, sweet, polite—one of those people who you know are sincerely interested in you.”
Stan told her he could play the guitar and that he would like to come and teach the children some songs. “I went out a few days later, all proud of myself and ready to lift their spirits,” Stan remembers. “But Sister Whang said, ‘Before you sing, Brother Bronson, the children have prepared something for you.’ For the next half hour or so I listened to the most beautiful music—and I felt pretty small.”
Stan organized the girls into a choir and taught them songs in addition to those they already knew. “‘Give,’ Said the Little Stream” became one of their favorites, because Sister Whang and Stan taught them that they all had something they could share, no matter how small. Stan (whom the girls called Daddy Big Boots because of his large feet) and the girls began performing at U.S. military bases, and that autumn they recorded an album, Daddy Big Boots and the Song Jook Won Girls.
“The musical group lifted the kids so much,” Stan recalls. “It took them from being considered surregi people—which means trash—and made them celebrities. They had a record album, they were singing on national television, and the U.S. ambassador and the South Korean president were making a fuss over them.”
Sister Whang was eager to have the choir succeed; she hoped to use the money the girls earned from their appearances to build a school for them and for other poor children who couldn’t pay tuition. Stan says she was “a public relations genius.”
“For example, when the record was released, she told me that we were having a party at the high school to announce it. She said we were inviting President Park Chung Hee, the president of South Korea; U.S. Ambassador William J. Porter; and General Charles H. Bonesteel, the head of the United Nations command. ‘How are you going to get guys like that to come?’ I asked. She just laughed. ‘Well, in President Park’s invitation I told him that Ambassador Porter and General Bonesteel were invited. In General Bonesteel’s, I said President Park and Ambassador Porter were invited. And in Ambassador Porter’s, I told him the others had been invited.’ The ambassador and his wife came, and so did the general’s wife. President Park, who was out of town, sent a top aide.”

At 12 years old, I heard people talk about inappropriate things at school. Every once in a while, some of my friends thought it was funny to show me pornographic pictures. Eventually, I got curious and was tempted to explore more. I got drawn into pornography, which took up a massive part of my life for several years. It definitely affected me a lot.
I was scared to talk to someone about my struggle with pornography because I didn’t want anyone to think of me differently. When my parents caught me and confronted me about it, I was embarrassed and felt really bad and guilty. Now, I’m glad that they did, and I wish I had told them sooner. They loved me through it and helped me overcome my struggles.
My parents encouraged me to talk to my bishop. I resisted for a while, but when I finally opened up to him, he was understanding. He taught me about the process of repentance. Over time, he helped me to repent. He encouraged me to set small goals and start good habits such as praying, reading my scriptures, and filling my time with good things. These habits could invite the Spirit and help me rely on the Savior until I wouldn’t want to look at pornography anymore.
I struggled for a while, but with the help of my parents, the bishop, and the Lord, I got through it. I still get tempted sometimes, but I’ve worked so hard to get to where I am. Now I’ve been clean for over two years. I am a lot more confident now. Throughout this journey, I have learned several important things.

As soon as Dad came home, I asked him, “How can wishes come true?”
“I can’t tell you,” he answered, “but I wish my good suit was cleaned and pressed. I need it tomorrow.” Looking at Mom’s note saying that she would be late, he started picking up the living room. “Hmmm … it needs the full treatment,” he said. He wheeled out the vacuum cleaner.
When Mom came home, she looked around with pleasure at the clean, inviting living room. And the next morning Dad was happy to find his freshly pressed suit in his closet.

It happened in the days when stake conferences consisted of two sessions during the day and a stake fireside in the evening. The visiting general authority always attended the 10 A.M. and the 2 P.M. sessions and occasionally remained as the speaker for the evening fireside. On one particular day it was our good fortune in the Wasatch Stake (Heber City, Utah) to have Elder Spencer W. Kimball as the guest for the day. Our family had been somewhat acquainted with Elder Kimball and were overjoyed when he accepted our parents’ invitation to have dinner with us and remain at our home until time for the evening meeting.
My eight sisters and I did a great deal of singing during the time we grew up and were accustomed to invitations that didn’t give us a great deal of time for preparation. However, on that conference afternoon, the telephone rang and I heard the voice of our stake president, H. Clay Cummings, on the other end. He told me that the person previously asked to sing the musical number for the evening fireside couldn’t perform and wondered if our family would provide some music. I placed my hand over the phone while I relayed the message and asked the others for their opinion. I mentioned to them that it was extremely short notice and that perhaps we should tell him no. While a short discussion ensued, our guest taught us all a great lesson: “Tell President Cummings we’d love to,” Elder Kimball remarked. “Your father and I will do the men’s parts and two of you girls can do the others, and we’ll sing them one of the beautiful hymns.”
I sheepishly gave the message to President Cummings and hung up the phone. Immediately, we gathered around the piano and prepared our presentation for that evening.
Can you imagine the thrill of singing that number with a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, the future President of the Church? It was an experience I shall never forget.

Through my calling I was able to help people despite our different backgrounds. One woman in particular whom God led me to serve was a woman in her late 20s, a single mother of two children. It didn’t take me long to realize that she and I had different lifestyles. I wasn’t sure how to be her friend, but in time we did develop a friendship.

As Sister Holland and I recently disembarked at a distant airport, three beautiful young women getting off the same flight hurried up to greet us. They identified themselves as members of the Church, which wasn’t too surprising because those not of our faith usually don’t rush up to us in airports. In a conversation we hadn’t expected, we soon learned through their tears that all three of these women were recently divorced, that in each case their husbands had been unfaithful to them, and in each case the seeds of alienation and transgression had begun with an attraction to pornography.
With that stark introduction to my message today—one it is challenging for me to give—I feel much like Jacob of old, who said, “It grieveth me that I must use so much boldness of speech … before … many … whose feelings are exceedingly tender and chaste and delicate.” But bold we need to be. Perhaps it was the father in me or maybe the grandfather, but the tears in those young women’s eyes brought tears to mine and Sister Holland’s, and the questions they asked left me asking, “Why is there so much moral decay around us, and why are so many individuals and families, including some in the Church, falling victim to it, being tragically scarred by it?”
Remember that those young wives said their husbands’ infidelity began with an attraction to pornography, but immoral activity is not just a man’s problem, and husbands aren’t the only ones offending. The compromise available at the click of a mouse—including what can happen in a chat room’s virtual encounter—is no respecter of persons, male or female, young or old, married or single. And just to make sure that temptation is ever more accessible, the adversary is busy extending his coverage, as they say in the industry, to cell phones, video games, and MP3 players.

Encouraged also by the prophet’s counsel in that same message not to waste the great days of preparation for my future work, I decided to enroll in a computer engineering training college for one year. I was undertaking my one year of National Youth Service and resolved to use my time judiciously. At the end of the program, I knew how to repair and install computer systems. Now my first successful appointment after my year of National Youth Service is based on my added knowledge of computer systems.

When Eddie hurried into his classroom that Tuesday morning, he bumped into something just inside the door and started to fall. His classmates laughed. Eddie was used to that. He liked the attention, even when Miss Enns got cross.
He tried to catch himself by grabbing onto the object he had tripped over, but it moved away as if it had wheels.
It did!
It was an empty wheelchair. Why was it here? He tried to ask Miss Enns, but she was writing the day’s study plan on the board.
As the tardy bell rang, Miss Enns faced the class. “You’re not in your seat yet?” she said as Eddie darted down the aisle, hopping over Joe’s outstretched foot and ducking Mike’s fist.
“What’s that for?” Eddie said, but Miss Enns ignored the question and took roll.
She didn’t say one word about the chair before the arithmetic quiz or while she wrote the week’s spelling words on the board. By then, nobody could think about anything but the wheelchair.
Finally Miss Enns pushed the chair in front of the class. “Do you know what this is?” she asked.
They all did.
“My cousin brought it from the hospital. Today we’ll experiment with a different way of moving. Who’s first?”
Eddie’s hand shot up. He always wanted to be first. He got more attention and laughs that way. If nobody knew how to do something, he could make really funny mistakes.
“Rebecca, how about you?”
Rebecca hurried to the chair, her curls bouncing. Miss Enns helped her fasten the seat belt. Rebecca tried to return to her desk, but the chair wouldn’t go straight. She bumped into Nancy’s desk and got caught on the edge of Joe’s. “I don’t like this,” she said, and she unhooked the belt. “The steering’s too hard.”
“Eddie?” Miss Enns said.
Eddie was into the chair within a moment. This was great!
“You seem to like the wheelchair, Eddie. Do you think you can stay in it all day?”
“Sure!” Eddie said with a grin. Just then the recess bell rang.
But maneuvering the wheelchair wasn’t as much fun as Eddie had thought it would be. For the first time ever, he was the last one out of the room at recess. Everybody got in his way, and wheeling was slow. When he approached the boys’ room, the door slammed shut as Nick left. Eddie swung the chair next to the door and waited for someone else to leave. Nobody did. As he tried to open the door, he banged his toes hard. Finally he wheeled himself alongside the door and slipped inside as he tugged it wide. That was much harder than he had thought it would be, because the wheels kept catching on either the door or the door frame. Finally he made it.
Inside, he faced another problem. Miss Enns had dared him to stay in the wheelchair all day, but—well—for certain things, he couldn’t. He didn’t want to go ask her exactly what to do. He knew he should play fair, though, so he wheeled himself as close as possible before he unhooked the belt.
Washing his hands was awkward, too, and leaving the rest room was almost as hard as coming in, except that he could push against the door with the chair. Even so, he still banged his toes again.
Next, at the water fountain, he discovered that he wasn’t up high enough to get a drink from the chair.
As he wheeled himself down the hall, he saw that the outer door stood open. It was a beautiful day. But a low metal ridge ran across the bottom of the doorway, and it was hard to get the wheelchair across. By the time he did, Eddie’s hands were red and sore. Outside, there was a large cement landing with one step down to the playground. Eddie knew that if he gave himself a push off the step, the chair might tip over and he could really hurt himself.
On the playground, his classmates tossed the basketball back and forth. “Hey, guys,” he yelled, “over here! Help me down. I want a turn.” Nobody paid attention. And when recess ended, everybody else pushed by him as if he wasn’t there. By the time he wheeled himself back to class, he was very tired. He felt grumpy.
Miss Enns was threading film for a movie. “Please take notes on this film, class,” she said.
Eddie couldn’t reach his desk to write anything. He had to sit at an angle because there wasn’t room for the wheelchair behind his desk. He could hardly see the screen, and his hands were throbbing.
At lunchtime, Miss Enns brought Eddie a tray and set it on the end of the nearest table. Eddie had to sit there, away from his friends. “They act like I’m not here,” he muttered angrily.
Miss Enns put her hand on his shoulder understandingly. “That’s often the way it is for people who are different.”
“But I’m not different. I’m still me.”
She nodded sympathetically, then took her own tray to join the other teachers.
After lunch Eddie didn’t even try going outside. It was a long lunchtime alone in the cafeteria.
The afternoon seemed endless. By now, Eddie’s arms and shoulders ached from wheeling himself everywhere. He broke the lead in his pencil twice and had to stretch his very tallest to reach the pencil sharpener. When an ambulance went by, he was the only person who couldn’t see it, and he stayed in alone for the afternoon recess. He wanted to go to the bathroom again but was too sore to wheel himself that far and struggle with the door again. Nobody had laughed at him once. They’d only acted as if he wasn’t quite there.
When it was time for social studies, Miss Enns didn’t have them open their books. Instead, she asked, “I want to know what Eddie has learned from being in that wheelchair today.”
“I hate it!” Eddie blurted. “Nobody pays attention to me. It’s work, moving and steering. My arms ache. I have blisters on my hands. And it’s terrible going to the bathroom, ’cause the door opens the wrong way!”
Somebody giggled, but Eddie didn’t look up to see who. “I couldn’t even think of one silly thing to do to make people laugh. I never want to be in a wheelchair again.”
“You’ve been a really good sport, Eddie,” Miss Enns said. Speaking to the whole class, she announced, “We’ll have this chair all week. Everyone will have a turn to spend an hour or so in the wheelchair, and I hope that you will all stay in it long enough to understand at least a little of what Eddie went through today.”
“Why are we doing this?” Eddie asked, standing up to give relief to his muscles.
“Next week we’ll have a new student. Ron’s been in the hospital almost a year, but he can return to school now.”
“And he’s in a wheelchair,” Eddie guessed.
“Right. He may not ever walk again, and I want you all to understand at least a little of what that’s like for him.”
“He needs help with the bathroom doors,” Eddie said, remembering his own struggle. “If you put him next to me, I can help with that stuff, because I know about it.”
Miss Enns smiled. “I thought that I could count on you,” she said as the bell rang, and Eddie knew that today he’d learned an important lesson.

I served in the United States Navy near the end of World War II. Navy boot camp was not an easy experience for me or for anyone who endured it.
When Sunday rolled around after the first week, we received welcome news from the chief petty officer. Standing at attention on the drill ground in a brisk California breeze, we heard his command: “Today everybody goes to church—everybody, that is, except for me. I am going to relax!” Then he shouted, “All of you Catholics, you meet in Camp Decatur—and don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!” A rather large group moved out. Then he barked out his next command: “Those of you who are Jewish, you meet in Camp Henry—and don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!” A smaller group marched out. Then he said, “The rest of you Protestants, you meet in the theaters at Camp Farragut—and don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!”
Instantly there flashed through my mind the thought, “Monson, you are not a Catholic; you are not a Jew; you are not a Protestant. You are a Mormon, so you just stand here!” I felt completely alone.
Then the chief petty officer looked in my direction and asked, “And just what do you guys call yourselves?” I had not realized that anyone was standing beside me or behind me. Almost in unison, each of us replied, “Mormons!” Joy filled my heart as I turned around and saw a handful of other sailors.
The chief petty officer thought for a moment and finally said, “Well, you guys go find somewhere to meet. And don’t come back until three o’clock. Forward, march!”
As we marched away, I thought of the words of a rhyme I had learned in Primary years before:
Dare to be a Mormon;
Dare to stand alone.
Dare to have a purpose firm;
Dare to make it known.
How grateful I am that I made the decision long ago to remain strong and true, always prepared and ready to defend my religion.

President Thomas S. Monson
(82) Thomas S. Monson learns the power of prayer after finding five dollars he thought he had lost.

Among the momentous times for Sister Kemp in the branch’s history was the period between 1986 and 1988 when the members worked together to build a meetinghouse. “We did everything you could think of,” she explains. “We had rummage sales, cake sales, car washes. Every Saturday we did something to raise money. And we worked on the grounds clearing the growth. We grew together spiritually, and we grew to love each other.”

They first met the Prophet as he was chopping wood with his brothers-in-law in the forest behind Newell K. Whitney’s store, where Joseph and Emma were then living. To find a prophet thus employed assured much more than it surprised a hardworking man like Brigham. The visitors were invited to stay for supper and for a gathering of some of the brethren that evening. Heber much later remembered that they “had a glorious time; during which brother Brigham spoke in tongues before brother Joseph, it being the first time he had heard any one speak in tongues. We had a precious season and returned with a blessing in our souls.”4 Brigham himself recalled, “We tarried about one week in Kirtland, held meetings nearly every night, and the blessings of the Lord were extensively upon us. I baptized one man while in Kirtland, by the name of Gibson Smith, the father of Newell K. Whitney’s wife, who had just come from Connecticut to learn the things that were being revealed. Being convinced of the truth of the work, he requested me to go into the waters with him.”5

My changes were more effective because I acknowledged the Savior was supporting me rather than condemning me. Before, my scripture study, prayer, and temple attendance had been full of shame and had limited my spiritual growth. Now my prayers are more genuine and honest because I’m not hiding myself from the Lord.