Gospel Story Finder

My first experience with the Lord’s protecting care came when I was only three years old. My aunt and uncle had a farm north of Idaho Falls, and my grandfather and our family usually visited them there every summer. Their mailbox was located on the main highway about a half mile from the farm home. On a beautiful summer morning, Grandpa, Mother, and I went for a walk to get the mail. Along the side of the highway was an irrigation ditch full of water. I wanted to throw rocks into the water to see it splash, but as I bent over to pick one up, I lost my balance and fell into the water. My mother screamed, and, just as I was about to disappear into the culvert going under the road, my grandfather was able to grab me by the suspenders of my coveralls and pull me to safety. Once into the culvert, I surely would have drowned before coming out the other side. Yes, mother had prayed that morning for the Lord’s kind and protecting care to be with us, and her prayers were answered.

“Mommy, Daddy,” Colin said, “get up!”
He tugged harder at his parents’ puffy blue quilt.
Mommy opened her eye for a second, then snapped it shut. Daddy rolled over and said, “Colin, why are you up so early?” Daddy’s voice croaked like a frog, the way it always did in the morning.
“Because I just remembered something important.”
Mommy opened both eyes, and this time she kept them open. “What did you remember?”
“I’m supposed to give the scripture today in Primary.”
Daddy groped for his glasses on the night table, and Mommy pulled the covers tightly around her. “I wish you’d told us yesterday when we were getting ready for Sunday,” she mumbled.
Colin wished that he’d remembered too. But he hadn’t. Maybe it was because he’d never said the scripture before. He hadn’t been in Primary very long.
Daddy rolled out of bed. “Well, Colin, let’s go find a scripture. You can learn one right now and still have plenty of time to get ready for church.”
Daddy and Colin went into the living room and got down the big brown Bible. “How about this one?” Dad said. “Matthew 19:14 [Matt. 19:14]—‘Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.’”
“That’s a nice scripture,” Colin said.
“Do you know what it means?” Daddy asked.
“Not exactly, but I think it means that Jesus loves kids,” Colin answered.
“You’re right,” Daddy said. “When some parents had brought their children to be blessed by Jesus, his followers, called disciples, tried to turn them away. But Jesus told them to let the children come to him.”
“That’s a perfect scripture for Primary,” Colin said. “Besides, it’s short.”
Daddy laughed and helped Colin learn the scripture. They worked on it for quite a while. Colin said it slowly and loudly, just like Daddy told him to, until he could say it perfectly. He was ready.
A few hours later, when Colin was sitting in Primary, Sister Marlowe asked him if he was ready with his scripture. Colin grinned and said, “I sure am. I’ve been practicing all morning.”
Sister Marlowe looked happy and asked Colin to sit in the front.
At first it was fun to sit there and look at the other children. Then he noticed how many people there were. The rows were full of children and teachers. Some of the girls and boys were little, like Colin—but some were big! Those big kids won’t listen to me, he thought. They might even laugh at me.
Just then Sister Marlowe announced, “Colin Samuels will give our scripture now.”
Colin walked to the microphone. His knees shook, and his hands were sweaty. His heart pounded so loudly that he wondered if everyone could hear it.
At the microphone, he took a big breath and started to say his scripture. But nothing came out. Not a single word. Colin couldn’t remember anything.
The room got very quiet. Colin was the quietest of all. He felt as if hundreds of eyes were staring at him.
One of the teachers coughed. Colin’s teacher, Sister Lopez, smiled. His best friend, Jacob, squirmed in his chair.
Colin looked at his mommy and daddy sitting in the back row. Daddy was trying to tell him something, but Colin couldn’t tell what it was. Mommy was smiling at him, but she looked a little worried.
Colin turned to Sister Marlowe and whispered, “I can’t remember.” Then he went back to his seat and sat down. His face was burning, and he felt like he was going to cry. How could he have forgotten? He knew it so well when Primary had started.
Sister Marlowe stood up and said, “You know, boys and girls, sometimes if we don’t say something out loud, Heavenly Father still hears us and knows what is in our hearts.”
Colin thought about Heavenly Father listening. Please help me, he prayed in his mind. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.
Suddenly he remembered his scripture. He jumped up and walked to the microphone. Sister Marlowe looked surprised but put her arm around his shoulders and stood with him while he spoke into the microphone.
Colin looked straight at his daddy and mommy. “Matthew 19:14—‘Jesus said, Suffer little children, and forbid them not, to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.’” [Matt. 19:14]
Every word was exactly as he’d practiced it. Daddy and Mommy both smiled. Sister Lopez smiled and winked. Jacob grinned. Even the big kids smiled.
Colin sat down. His knees didn’t shake any more, and his heart stopped thundering. With Heavenly Father’s help, he’d done it! He’d remembered his scripture! He grinned at everyone in Primary—even at the big kids.

When I was 11 years old, my bishop invited me and a few other young men my age to meet with him to discuss our responsibilities once we received the priesthood. He also shared with us his testimony of the Book of Mormon and made a request. I had no idea how much of an influence his words would have on my life.
Our bishop invited us to read the entire Book of Mormon five times before we served our missions. We would have about eight years to complete the task. It seemed daunting, given that I didn’t really enjoy reading, especially not text as difficult as scripture. Yet, for reasons I cannot remember or fully explain, my 11-year-old mind decided to take this challenge seriously. I started that night by reading chapter 1 of 1 Nephi.
I didn’t understand much of the chapter, but I had a feeling that I was doing the right thing. The next day I read another chapter, and although I still didn’t understand all of Nephi’s words, I had that same feeling.
As time went on, I read a little bit of the Book of Mormon every day. Later that year, I closed the book after reading Moroni 10 and beamed with a sense of accomplishment. The next time I saw my bishop, I told him with excitement that I had finished reading the entire Book of Mormon. He smiled and commended my efforts but then said, “Don’t forget—you still need to read it four more times before you leave on your mission!”
Later that night, I picked up the Book of Mormon again and flipped through the pages. It had taken me a long time to read it. Would it take me as long the second time? Was it worth it? As I pondered, I turned to 1 Nephi chapter 1. I started reading the first few verses, and the Spirit again confirmed to me that this was the right thing to do. So, I read on. This was the turning point for me where scripture study became a habit rather than a one-time goal.
Over the next several months, the stories seemed more familiar and made more sense. I recognized several meaningful verses from the first time I read it, and I highlighted them. When someone taught from the Book of Mormon at church, I started to recognize some stories and teachings.
As I read, the book slowly changed me. Line upon line, precept upon precept, I started to understand and draw closer to the Savior. The teachings from the Book of Mormon became a part of who I was and what I believed. I continued reading the Book of Mormon over the next several years, and each time I finished reading Moroni 10, I put a tally mark on the inside cover of my book.
Eventually, the time came when I received my mission call. After celebrating with family and friends, I found some time alone and opened the inside cover of my Book of Mormon. I had accomplished my goal. More importantly, however, I had come to know my Savior.

When I walked into the house, the first thing I saw was the letter, propped on the narrow table in the front hall, my name typed on the white envelope and the Brigham Young University symbol in the corner. With trembling fingers I tore it open. I was accepted! And the scholarship my counselor at the University of Wisconsin had recommended I apply for had been granted! I read the words again and again, unable to believe that the dream was really coming true.

I looked up and my mother was standing in the doorway watching me. “You don’t have to tell me what’s inside the letter,” she said. “I can see it in your face.”

“Mother—” I began, but her eyes were blazing and she interrupted me angrily.

“You really think you’re something special, don’t you? You are cocky and smug and sure of yourself. Just like my sister, Beth. That’s how she was, you know. And she walked out on us, just like you’re going to do.”

“Mother,” I cried desperately, “I’m not walking out on you. I’m just going away to college. Nine months at the university. That’s all.”

“That’s what you think, Michelle. But what if you never come back? Beth never came back.”

“But that was different! She had done something disgraceful. Grandpa Hunter sent her away; he wouldn’t let her come back!”

She stood staring at me, with the strangest look in her eye. “The minute you joined the Mormon church, you turned your back on us and all we stand for. You’re not one of us any more, Michelle. When you go out to Utah, that will break the last tie.”

“Mother, no! Please don’t say such things.” I stepped toward her, but she moved away.

“How could you do this to me?” she cried. “How could you be so selfish and cruel? Beth was my big sister and she turned her back on me. She left me when I needed her the most. You’re just like her, Michelle; you’re just like her!”

I ran past her and through the kitchen, out the back door, and into the quiet yard. I was trembling all over and cold, though the summer night was mild. I had never dreamed that my mother compared me to her lost sister, Beth. I’d always known the old story about the mysterious sister who was disowned by her stern father and who disappeared to live her life in shame and seclusion somewhere. As a child I had thought it a romantic story, sweet and sad. But I had never dreamed of myself as becoming the main character in such a story. How could my own mother think of me that way? Was she ashamed of me? Did she want to disown me, as her father had once disowned the sister she loved?

Later that night when I was alone in my room, my younger brother, Paul, came in. “I just want to tell you what a creep you are,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You know what I mean. You upset mother, and she screams and takes it out on all of us, then ends up crying half the night. All you do anymore is cause trouble, Michelle.”

“That’s not true, Paul!” I defended myself. There was a hard knot growing in the middle of my stomach, and I felt humiliated having to apologize for myself every time I turned around. “I never mean to cause trouble.”

“Well, you do. I hope it’s worth it to you, making your whole family miserable just so you can do what you want!”

He stomped out of the room without giving me time to reply. Hot tears began to gather behind my eyes. His words were unkind and unfair. But how could I make him understand what was really happening, what I really felt?

Later, when my little sister, Katy, came in to kiss me goodnight, she looked up with wide, innocent eyes and asked, “Why do you want to go away and leave us, Michelle? Mommy says you don’t really love us anymore or you wouldn’t go away.”

I pulled her into my arms and hugged her fiercely. “That’s not true, princess! I love you dearly! And it will be fun for you when I go away because I’ll write you a letter every week and send surprise packages in the mail.”

She brightened a little, and I hugged and kissed her half a dozen times before I let her go. Finally I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. What was my mother trying to do? Why did she have to punish me for being different from what she thought I ought to be?

After that the days seemed to drag, gray and dull, one after another. Part of the time I felt defensive and angry at my mother, wanting to hurt her back. But at other times I felt small and frightened, like a girl, longing for her to hold and comfort me and dissolve my fears. She had taken the excitement and anticipation out of the whole thing, and sometimes I weakened and felt that maybe I shouldn’t go after all. But too many of my prayers had been answered, too many signposts pointed that this should be the direction my life ought to take. I kept telling myself that things would work out. Perhaps it would be easier for my family if I went away. If I weren’t so close, such a source of conflict and friction, it might be easier for them to understand, to get a broader, kinder perspective. Perhaps they might even miss me and appreciate me a little.

But I was afraid. And there was no one to understand. Lori could only see that I had the world at my feet, that I was going to Zion, Mecca, where everything would be sunshine and happiness and dreams-come-true. But I had never been to Utah before. I didn’t even know what a mountain looked like in reality. I didn’t know a single person in all of Utah, much less at BYU. What were other Mormons like? Would they laugh at me if I was different, if I did things wrong? Our little branch was so casual, so experimental. What would it be like in a congregation of hundreds of Latter-day Saints? What if they all knew ten times more about the gospel than I knew?

Finally, suddenly, the long days were past, and it was time for me to leave. The day before the bus came that would take me to the airport in Madison, I prayed and fasted all day. I couldn’t bear to leave my mother like this, with her hating me and thinking that I was deserting her, rejecting her as, somehow, her older sister once had done.

That night I had a dream. In the dream I was a little girl again, with long pigtails and a dirty face. Some mean little boys were chasing me down the sidewalk and I fell and scraped my knee. I stumbled back up and ran across the lawn, sobbing for my mother, screaming for her to come. Suddenly she was there, sweeping me into her strong, soft arms. She smoothed back my hair and kissed my cheek, and cleaned my scraped knee, painting it with iodine, then sticking a big, beautiful adhesive bandage on top. I woke suddenly, feeling still her gentle hand against my skin, seeing the smile of love on her face.

I sat up in bed and it came to me that my mother didn’t know how much I needed her! How long had it been since I’d asked her advice or her help? In her eyes I seemed efficient, self-contained, and sure of myself. Mormonism had excluded her from my life, and I had done nothing to compensate for that—to let her know I still loved and needed and valued her! And all these months I had been thinking it was all her fault, that I, alone, was the wounded party!

The next morning I called her into my room and asked if she would help me pack. She’s very neat and efficient, and I knew she could organize and fit in all my last-minute things in a way I never could. I told her so. I talked with her and I praised her, and soon the look of guarded puzzlement left her face and we both began to enjoy being together. It didn’t work miracles; there wasn’t enough time for that. I still couldn’t tell her how frightened I was, how much I really loved her and would miss her. But the look of cold anger had gone out of her eyes, and she came to the bus station, and when I pushed the note I had written into her hands and reached out to hug her, she reached out, too, and held me close a minute and kissed my cheek. It was all I could do to hold back the tears. I looked through the glass and waved to my family, wishing they knew how very much I loved them.

President Howard W. Hunter has great reverence for Heavenly Father, Jesus Christ, and all of Their creations. As a young boy he especially loved animals. One day, when he was about seven years old, he saw several older boys gathered around a large irrigation ditch near his home. He saw them throw a kitten into the water. Every time the kitten managed to crawl out of the ditch, the boys would throw it back in. When the boys left, Howard took the kitten gently in his arms, carried it home, and put it by the wood-burning stove to keep it warm. He fed the kitten warm milk and lovingly nursed it back to health. His family let him keep the kitten, and it became one of his beloved pets.

Let me share a personal story.
My wife and I learned to work better at being equal partners after one day when I decided to make an important decision without consulting her. My action surprised her, took her off guard, and put her in a very difficult situation. Afterward, she put her hands on my shoulders and firmly said, “Ron, please, never do that to me again.” We have pretty much been on the same page ever since.

Eegik Tuchiak felt the chill of the icy Alaskan wind through his parka as the snowmobile sped across the coastal plain. Even scrunching close behind his father in the seat ahead did not cut the cold very much.
Eegik was both happy and worried. This was the first time his father had taken him to count the musk-oxen. Other times he had been too young to be around the skittish animals. Am I old enough now if something happens? he wondered.
“Hold tight!” he heard his father, Ukak, call. “We will near the herd soon.”
The grind of the motor and the whistling wind were the only sounds to be heard along the Nunivak Island snow hills, polished hard by the constant wind. The crusty white surface gave a dusky light to the short winter days.
“There they are!” Father shouted.
Gradually the engine slowed and the snowmobile slid to a stop. “We will keep the motor running, son,” Ukak said, picking up his rifle. “It will freeze if we don’t.”
Eegik hopped off the machine and peered before him. Ahead, a small musk-ox herd was bunched up against a low sea cliff. Already they were forming their defensive line—heads out, backsides together in a rough circle. With heads lowered and rows of horns facing the danger, the animals scuffed the ground nervously. Long brown fur swayed in the wind.
“They look like fur rugs,” Eegik remarked.
“Yes,” his father answered, “and the giviut (wool) makes warm sweaters. But,” he added, “they are good fighters, too, when there is no way out. See the horns curling down from the tops of their heads like stiff wigs? We will get closer. The oomingmuk (bearded ones) hide their young behind them.”
Eegik felt a deep pride in his father, who had been schooled by the government. Now he was hired by the Alaska Department of Fish and Game to keep an eye on the growing musk-ox herd, one of the hardiest animals in the world. Today he had to check on the population of the herd and count them.
Slowly and quietly the two left the machine and crawled over the snow, watching the herd skitter at the movement. One bull lowered and shook his head, taking short stamping steps forward and backward. Sensing his restlessness, the other animals jostled together and tightened the ring. Eegik could see one small head push forward, a young one anxious to do battle if necessary.
“They run swiftly,” Ukak whispered. “We must not frighten them.”
The two inched forward, sliding over the ice several yards apart, until they were within fifty yards of the herd. The lead bull, confused and frightened, danced excitedly in his position.
Suddenly, the bull gave a snort and charged forward with the speed of a much lighter animal. Ukak leaped up—his rifle flying—and tried to dodge as the animal attacked. But the musk-ox was more sure on his feet and swerved to the side, throwing Eegik’s father to the ice.
Without thinking, Eegik shouted his surprise and fell on his stomach. At the outburst, the frightened musk-oxen broke their ring, skittered excitedly, and clattered off in a wild rush.
His heart pounding, Eegik scrambled to his feet and hurried to his father, who lay sprawled on the ice.
“Father!” he cried, pushing at his parka. “Father, are you all right?”
Ukak opened his eyes and tried to rise. A shudder went through him. “My wrist … ,” he said, painfully. “I think it’s broken. Are the oomingmuk gone?”
Eegik nodded. “Can you walk, Father?” he asked.
“We should make my arm straight,” Ukak said, gritting his teeth against the pain.
“But there are no sticks,” Eegik answered.
His thoughts racing, Eegik looked around, trying to find something straight and hard. But the barren arctic desert covered now by the ice held no useful object.
Then Eegik spotted the gun a few feet away. “The rifle, Father!” he cried. “We can use the rifle.”
“My son,” Ukak said, nodding, “it is a good idea.”
With his mittened hands, Eegik lifted the gun and emptied the chamber of bullets. Gently, he slid the barrel up his father’s sleeve to the elbow and wrapped the injured arm with the leather ties from his parka.
“There!” he finally said, leaning back to look at his handiwork. “That will help until we get home.”
Ukak smiled. “It is feeling better already,” he said.
With Eegik helping, the two made their way to the waiting snowmobile.
“You will have to drive,” Ukak said, holding the rifle butt with his good hand.
“I can,” the boy replied.
Eegik helped his father onto the seat, eased in front, and started off with the machine.
The journey back was slow, Eegik being careful to keep the ride as smooth as possible. Within an hour, they entered Mekoryuk and drove to their home.
At the sound of their approach, Eegik’s mother opened the door. “What’s wrong?” she asked when she saw that Eegik was in the driver’s seat.
“The oomingmuk did not like our visit,” Father answered, cradling his arm as he eased himself from the machine. “I might still be there, but for Eegik. I’m glad I took our son along.”
Eegik lifted his chin. He had wondered if he were old enough to help his father check on the skittish musk-oxen. Now he knew that he was.

When I was 11, my Primary teacher in France gave me a Book of Mormon. We put a date on each page as a reading calendar. I started reading one page each day. But quickly I got so excited about my readings that I was ahead of schedule most of the time. Sometimes I read in the car when going to or from church or on vacation. I finished reading the Book of Mormon much sooner than was expected.
I felt like an expert on the battles between the Nephites and the Lamanites. My heroes were Mormon, Captain Moroni, Ammon, and the 2,000 stripling soldiers. I made drawings about the battles. I gained a testimony that the Book of Mormon is not just a story—it is a real history.
I started with the history, and then I added spiritual knowledge. The Holy Ghost testified to me that the Book of Mormon was written by prophets under the inspiration of God. That’s how I gained a testimony of Jesus Christ, the restored Church, and Joseph Smith. It all started with the Book of Mormon. I am grateful for my Primary teacher. Sometimes we don’t know what kind of seeds we plant, but over time we will see the beautiful trees and fruits that have grown.

Like many young men in the Church, I had my own excuses for not reading the Book of Mormon: summer skies, winter sports, other reading, and a bit of laziness. And when I did start to read, I could not get past the fourth chapter of First Nephi. The shock of reading Nephi’s account of how he decapitated Laban delayed my further reading of the Book of Mormon until I was well into my fifteenth year. I simply could not reconcile what seemed an act of cruelty with my idea of what a gentleman was.
When I was fifteen I was called as a building missionary. The president of the Swedish Mission at the time, Alvin W. Fletcher, knew what to do with a young man whose testimony needed strengthening.
When I left for this mission, I promised myself that I would read the standard works of the Church before returning home. After several months at the Cubbangen Chapel, south of Stockholm, and an interlude at Tampere, Finland, I was transferred to Turku where, after finishing the Bible, I felt ready to grapple with the Book of Mormon.
I don’t remember much about the city, just what I saw on the daily walks back and forth to the building site in the bitter cold. Because the Book of Mormon kept me in such suspense, I couldn’t think of much else. I was eager to get home from work every day to continue my reading. This was the first time I had really hungered and thirsted for the word of the Lord. Lying on my bed night after night in a room in the meeting house, reading the words of Nephi and the other Book of Mormon prophets, I received a testimony from God that the book was true.
My favorite part of the Book of Mormon was—and still is—Third Nephi. Many times, while reading of how the resurrected Christ taught the Nephites his gospel, I have felt as if I were actually there in his presence. And for me, nothing else in the scriptures equals chapter nineteen of Third Nephi, which documents how Jesus poured out his heart to his Father in behalf of his disciples. More than once I have wept while reading it.
Now I thank God that a just man named Nephi, who at first shrank from the Lord’s command to kill Laban, obeyed God and brought about his righteous purposes. Had it not been for Nephi and the subsequent keepers of the sacred record, I could never have discovered the goodness of God in that matchless volume of scripture, the Book of Mormon.

I lived through those hard years and saw firsthand what it was like. I had studied economics and business in college with the desire of becoming a banker. I completed my schooling shortly after the beginning of the depression and came to Salt Lake City, only to find that bankers were, as they then said, “ten cents a dozen.” I found a job in a department store and was paid fifteen dollars per week and was fortunate to have a job. I learned the rewards of hard work.

No one can accuse Corey Killpack of the Spencer Third Ward, Magna Utah East Stake, of being in over his head when it comes to swimming. At last year’s state high school swim meet, Corey received first place awards in the individual medley (50 yards of each of four strokes), the 100-yard butterfly, and was a member of the freestyle relay team that also placed first. Later that spring he finished 14th in the 200-yard butterfly at national competition in Austin, Texas. Although he usually spent four hours a day in practice (beginning at 4:45 A.M.), Corey also served as seminary president at Cyprus High School in Magna, and developed his skills in photography, tennis, and skiing.
Following a summer spent training in California, Corey and his teammates sent five copies of the Book of Mormon to people they met during their stay there. These same teammates were among those Corey swam with on the Cyprus High swim team, which placed first at the state meet. Of that successful group, Corey says, “Our unity as a team was largely dependent upon our similar motives and drives to serve the Lord.” Corey currently attends Brigham Young University and is preparing to serve a mission soon.

• It looks like a typical professor’s office—windowless, with piles of books and papers. But its occupant, John A. Green, a Brigham Young University professor of French, is anything but typical. In 1981, at a relatively young age, he suffered a stroke that wiped out his memory of both French and English and left him basically paralyzed. Unable to teach, it was assumed he would never return to university life.
But John Green is an extraordinary man. Painstakingly, he began the process of relearning how to read, to walk, and to talk. Within months, he was back in his office, going over his notes, first reviewing, then resuming his research.
In the past few years, Brother Green has completed several carefully-researched volumes on French writer Marcel Schwob. Two of the volumes, part of a planned set of seven, are in print already.
Perhaps most amazing of all, Professor Green has typed every letter of every word of these books with one finger of his left hand. Every weekday, from eight A.M. to five P.M., he works quietly in his office, completing the task he has given himself—a task for which he receives no compensation beyond the disability pay he would still receive if he chose to relax at home.

Sarah Ann Murdock, the eldest child of a large family, had gone with her parents in the 1850s to Carson Valley, Nevada, where her father was appointed to take care of the Church cattle and make butter and cheese for the tithing office. When they were returning to Utah across the Nevada deserts, her mother began her labor for the next child. The wagon was halted in the shelter of a large rock. Since it reminded him of Mount Sinai, the father, after delivering the baby girl, blessed her and named her Rocksinai. They eventually moved to Heber Valley. When one of their friends or neighbors got their rolls of wool prepared, they would invite other women and girls to bring their spinning wheels and help get the rolls spun into yarn.
“We would go early in the morning and spin all day, stopping only to eat dinner prepared by the hostess. One day I spun ten skeins, which ordinarily would have taken two or three days. … Four skeins was supposed to be a good day’s work.”

My mind was focused on the Savior as the congregation finished singing the sacrament hymn, but as I started to close the hymnbook, the music continued. A large congregation that day made it necessary for the organist to play two more verses while the priests finished breaking the bread. I was grateful for the extra time. It allowed me an additional moment of reverent meditation before the sacramental prayers.
During the prayers, I followed carefully the words the priests spoke as they blessed the emblems of Christ’s sacrifice for us. Just as the final prayer concluded and at the moment when the congregation voiced their assent, a four-year-old boy’s voice from two rows behind me sprang from the midst of the “amens.”
“Hooray!” he exclaimed.
His spontaneous expression was loud enough to cause several children nearby to giggle. I confess that it brought a quizzical smile to my lips.
“Hooray?” I thought. That’s an odd response to the sacrament prayers. It was certainly a response I’d never heard before and likely will never hear again. After all, we end our prayers with “amen.”
Perhaps that young child had sensed more of the truth than I had.
Hooray communicates excitement. It is an exclamation of joy, usually for a victory. Sometimes it’s shouted to show approval for someone who has finished a difficult task well.1
Instantly, my mind caught hold of the idea. Yes, I thought, hooray that Jesus Christ overcame death so we can all be resurrected! Hooray that because of His Atonement, He can forgive our sins! More to the point, He can forgive me of my sins! Hooray that through His grace I may return to my Heavenly Father and enjoy the hope of eternal life! Yes! Hooray!
As I silently shouted these praises of thanks to my Heavenly Father, the Holy Ghost flooded my heart with a joy that nearly brought me to tears. I had been led that day by a little child (see Isaiah 11:6), and I rejoiced with fresh vision for the blessings of the Savior’s Atonement in my life.

“Make it work for you.” That’s how Mia Maid Megan Ross sums up her advice about participating in Personal Progress.
But her mother, Deborah, the Young Women president of the Colfax Ward, Greensboro North Carolina Stake, adds this additional suggestion, which makes Personal Progress even more meaningful: “Use it to help those around you.”
The point is that Personal Progress can be a blessing both to you and to others. By working on six Value Experiences (three required and three elective) and one 10-hour project in each of the seven Young Women values, you can strengthen yourself as well as those around you. (See Young Women Personal Progress [2001].)
Megan and her mother point to another family member, Rachel, as an example of what that means. Rachel has already completed her Young Womanhood Recognition. She has enjoyed the self-improvement and the service to others so much that now she’s setting additional goals, mentoring others in the program (including her mother), and constantly looking for ways to help other people.
For example, one of her Value Projects was about modesty, and the ward young women all worked together on a modest fashion show. Then Rachel put together her own modest fashion magazine, using photos and ideas from the event. After that, she and her mother went to a fabric store, picked out fabric, cut it, pinned it, and sewed a modest dress.
Another time, Rachel worked with all of the young women as well as the adults in the ward to put together a cookbook. Everyone learned about cooking, shared recipes, and the adults noticed that the youth took an interest in them, too. That prompted her mother to work on a book of her own, what she calls an “heirloom” cookbook. “It includes recipes like my grandma’s recipe for rolls,” Sister Ross explains. “But it includes her photo next to the recipe so you get a feeling for her as a person.”
Megan remembers that for one of her projects, she did research on her ancestors and focused on their faith. “Before I started, I thought I realized what a blessing it has been for our family to be members of the Church for several generations,” she says. “But when I started reading my ancestors’ testimonies, that was really something. I saw how strong their faith in Jesus Christ was, right from the time they joined the Church.”
“Rachel has been a great example to me even though I’m her older sister,” Megan says. “She took the time to get her projects finished, and that’s made me work to get mine done too. But even more important is that we have two younger sisters, Allison and Sarah, and when they see how hard we’re working on Personal Progress, they know it’s important too.”
In fact, all of the young women of the Colfax Ward help each other as they work on Personal Progress. They offer encouragement and suggestions when a project is best done alone but join in when participation is a plus. Older girls and those who have finished serve as mentors for those who are younger or who haven’t finished.
“One of the best things we do,” Megan explains, “is that whenever someone receives their Young Womanhood Recognition, at an Evening of Excellence or at New Beginnings we have them show what they’ve done for their projects. But they don’t just talk about the projects. They tell how much the projects have helped them, and they usually bear their testimony. It gives the other girls lots of ideas, but it also shows them that the point of it all is to become closer to Heavenly Father and more like the Savior.”
That most important point is also clear for young women in the Lexington Ward, West Columbia South Carolina Stake. They are particularly grateful for the spiritual goals in Personal Progress. Meilian Campbell explains that there are opportunities to study scriptures, read general conference talks, and follow a pattern of prayer to see how their faith in Jesus Christ grows. Sandra Campbell says that because of those experiences, she now thinks about the Savior whenever she is sad, and that makes her feel better. Macy Adams says Personal Progress “has helped me form the habit of prayer,” and Meilian agrees. “Now I can’t go to sleep without saying my prayers. It instilled that habit in me.”
Rasha Stacey, a Laurel, sees how Personal Progress translates easily into opportunities to serve. She often helps other young women work on their Value Experiences. For example, another Laurel, Rachel Odom, set a goal of learning how to cut hair. “She cuts her own but had never done it on anyone else,” Rasha says. “So twice last year, my family invited her over. She cut all of the girls’ hair, including my mom’s. I really loved what she did, and we all had fun. It was a great learning experience—for me and for her.”
Rasha helped Macy put together a cookbook. “No one was giving her recipes,” Rasha says, “so I gave her several from our family and asked the other youth in the ward to bring some to church. Pretty soon everyone was helping her.”
When Rasha found out that Malina Tracy, a Beehive, would be the only one to move up from Primary that year, she came to her aid. “I know what it’s like to feel left out, and I didn’t want her to go through that,” Rasha says. “So I talked about Personal Progress, and I told her what I loved when I was a Beehive, and how much the other young women love her.”
Rasha also helped her sister Karen, a Mia Maid, to memorize her Scripture Mastery verses for seminary and worked with their mother to help Karen put together a memory book.
Meilian, a Laurel, was having a hard time thinking of projects, so Rasha invited her over to cook meals and desserts every Saturday for a month. “I did it for my Knowledge project,” Meilian says. “I learned to make food for my family. And now when I go to college I’ll be able to cook for myself. That helps me be self-reliant, because take-outs get expensive.”
Meilian says that Value Experiences are great because they carry over into everyday life. “At school I’m in a fashion merchandising class, and for one of our big projects we produced a fashion show,” she says. “Because we’d already talked about modesty as part of Personal Progress, I chose to wear modest clothes for the whole thing. The experiences that go with each value help you have a better understanding of how to turn values into actions.”
Macy says Personal Progress is meant “to prepare you for life through personal experiences, and to build self-confidence through preparation and spirituality.” Rasha agrees. “Take scripture study, for example,” she says. “It builds you up for when you have trials, so you know where to find answers.”
In another part of the West Columbia Stake, Sarah Shurtleff, of the Irmo Ward, also recognizes that Personal Progress encourages personal growth as well as service to others. “When we have the Evening of Excellence and the New Beginnings programs, we talk about what we’ve done throughout the year,” she says. “If I find out that other girls need help, I help them. I’m not assigned to or anything, I just help where people need it.”
She likes to brainstorm ideas with girls, leaders, and parents to come up with meaningful projects. Once she helped her mother complete a quilt for her niece and then used what she had learned to make another quilt on her own. “I’m going to save it for my own children someday,” she says. Sarah taught a friend how to play hymns on the piano, and they performed “Joseph Smith’s First Prayer” (Hymns, No. 26) at a stake talent show.
But one of the most meaningful parts of Personal Progress for Sarah is that “they have you read scriptures and write in your journal about what they mean to you. Personal Progress is about who you are—a daughter of God. I’ve learned that I can do anything I put my mind to, as long as I work hard and don’t quit.”
Sarah’s mother Catherine, the ward Young Women president, sums it up this way: “Personal Progress builds their testimonies, helps them set goals and work to achieve them, and then to feel that sense of accomplishment as they finish what they set out to do. It’s exciting to see what they are able to do. It builds faith and strengthens testimonies.”
Perhaps it all comes back to what Rachel Ross says. “Personal Progress teaches us things we need, and it builds our testimonies along the way. It’s spiritual improvement, but it’s also emotional, physical, and mental improvement. The point is it’s really well rounded if you let it be.”

We can learn how to trust God by looking to the example of one group of pioneers.

One of the most incredible pioneer stories is the journey of the first wagon company from Nauvoo, Illinois, USA, to the Missouri River. They experienced their fair share of feeling “stuck.” How did the pioneers feel after being chased from their homes in Ohio, Missouri, and Illinois, only to find themselves stuck in the mud while trudging their way through Iowa Territory? Let’s take a look at their story.

The first wagons crossed the Mississippi River on a freezing morning in February of 1846. With their limited knowledge of the western United States, they estimated they could cross the plains and reach the Salt Lake Valley in a few months. The company optimistically started the 300-mile trek across Iowa—only to find themselves caught in endless spring rain.1

Traveling incredibly slowly, they took more than four months to cross just Iowa. They were over 1,000 miles away from the Salt Lake Valley and didn’t have enough resources to make it there before winter. So they were forced to settle along the Missouri River until they could continue their trek the following spring.2

I wouldn’t be surprised if there were days some pioneers felt frustrated with God’s timing, felt alone, or perhaps even wondered whether God was guiding them.

He knew that the pioneers wouldn’t make it to Utah in the summer of 1846. Just like He can guide you throughout your life, He had future blessings in store for them that involved present momentary disruptions. I sometimes wonder if at times this is part of why God allows bad things to happen to good people.

The rain slowed the pioneers down just enough so they could indirectly help thousands of pioneers after them. God knew the pioneers needed to create a settlement on the Missouri River, which would become an essential outfitting post for thousands of Saints who would follow.3 God saw the bigger picture—and was able to use the rain to fulfill His plan.

“My favorite babysitter was my grandaunt Bertha Irvine, my grandmother’s older sister. She was a personal secretary to Wilford Woodruff, Lorenzo Snow, Joseph F. Smith, Heber J. Grant, and George Albert Smith. Sometimes I went to her office in the Church Administration Building and sat at her feet while she worked. Or I would play outside and climb on the building and around its big pillars. We’ve had twelve prophets, and I’ve known and shaken hands with six of them. I never even dreamed that I would ever have an office in that very building, but I serve today with a number of men who knew Aunt Bertha well: President Kimball, President Benson, and President Hinckley. She worked with Elder Joseph Anderson for years in the office of our wonderful prophets.
“My experiences with Sunday School and Primary teachers were important to me as I was growing up. I remember the little red chairs we used to sit in and how church was always an exciting and pleasant place to go. I looked forward to summer Primary, when we would make things out of wood and out of paper. I loved that. As I think back and remember Sister Condie and Sister Anderson and Sister Barnes and some of the other lovely teachers I had, I can remember them more clearly than I can my school teachers. I won a copy of Huckleberry Finn because I had the best attendance record. I still have that book. I appreciate the teacher who gave it to me.
“I had a great experience when I graduated from Primary. Back in those days we each had a green bandalo. I had lost mine. I looked everywhere, including under my bed and through everything in the closet. Finally my mother said, ‘Why don’t you pray about it. Ask Heavenly Father to help you find it.’ So I went to my room and prayed. Even as I was praying, a voice seemed to say, ‘In the dresser, caught underneath the drawer.’ The dresser was in the hall because there wasn’t enough room in my tiny bedroom. When I pulled out the drawer and reached up inside, there it was, caught on a silver! That was the first direct answer to prayer that I can remember receiving. I was proud that I could wear my bandalo when I stood next to Bishop Rulon Sperry as he nominated me to graduate from Primary and to be ordained to the office of a deacon.
“Many summers my family went to Cedar City and stayed on my uncle’s farm. There was no electricity or water in the house, so we carried buckets of water into the house from outside. I experienced farm life as it really was in those days. Now my assignment is with the people in that very same area. It is special to go there—it’s like going home. Some of the people there remember my uncle and aunt and other families I knew.
“A special message that I give to all the children in the world is this: First, love Jesus. He especially loves children, and if children can learn to love Him, then when they are older, they will continue to love Him and understand Him. I think that little children sometimes understand Jesus better than older people do because children forgive so quickly and love so easily.
“Second, live the commandments. The people I know who are truly happy are those who live the commandments. Whatever Heavenly Father wants us to do—such as paying our tithing and going to church and being nice to our brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers—that’s what we should do.
“Third, obey Church leaders. When I was a Primary boy, my parents would always talk about our wonderful bishop, Bishop Sperry. When I was a deacon, my bishop was Rex C. Reeve, Sr., a man with whom I serve today. I have always loved those men. When I don’t have a Church assignment on Sunday, which isn’t very often, I attend my own ward. My bishop there is Ole Johnson, and I love him today just as I loved Bishop Sperry and Bishop Reeve when I was young. If we love our Church leaders and obey what they tell us to do, then we’ll never make serious mistakes.”

The Savior’s words were written for us. It’s OK if we’re weak, as long as we don’t stay weak, as long as we do something about it. Katie is a young woman who did just that. Let me share her story with you.
“All my life I have wanted to be good, but I got to the point where I wondered, ‘How can anyone really know if the Church is true?’ I took Moroni’s challenge and for five months prayed and read my scriptures every day. One night I sat on my bed almost in tears, giving up. I decided to pray. I said, ‘Heavenly Father, help me to please just know you are there. I’ve done what Thou hast asked according to the Church and I just really need to know.’ Immediately I felt like someone had wrapped their arms around me. I didn’t hear a loud voice or see an angel, but I felt Heavenly Father telling me, ‘Sweet Katie, you’ve known all along.’ It was like a kind and loving father comforting his little girl” (letter).
One of the main functions of the Holy Ghost is to testify of truth. The Spirit testified to Katie that the gospel is true. Katie had paid the price. As the Savior said, she went to her home, studied His words, and prayed—for five whole months. Katie is developing her talent for spirituality. She can use this gift to govern her life.

During my sophomore year in high school, we were studying the Book of Mormon in seminary. After we read Moroni 10:3–5 [Moro. 10:3–5], our seminary teacher challenged us to pray about the things we were studying. I really enjoyed learning about the Book of Mormon, so I took him up on his challenge.
That night I read Moroni’s promise again and got down on my knees to ask my Heavenly Father if this book was really true. I liked the stories, but I just wasn’t sure if it was true or not.
First I got in tune with the Spirit and started my prayer. At one point in the prayer, I asked Heavenly Father if the Book of Mormon was really true. All at once I experienced a strong, loving feeling in my bedroom, and I got warm all over. The next thing that happened really shocked me. It felt like someone wrapped their arms around me and gave me a big hug.
I am now a missionary on the Navajo Indian Reservation in the New Mexico Albuquerque Mission. I wouldn’t be out here if it wasn’t for the answer I received that night. Now I know the things I prayed about are true. And now I want to share that knowledge with others.

One of Brandon’s best experiences teaching the gospel happened when he was teaching with a full-time missionary. They were teaching a woman who was addicted to drugs and who was reluctant to live the lifestyle of Church members. One night she would not let Brandon and the missionary into her home to teach her, even though she had listened to discussions before and been receptive to their message. They wouldn’t give up on her; so they stood outside her house and sang hymns. Finally, she came out to listen to them. She was baptized a short time later. “I loved seeing the change she made and seeing her baptized,” Brandon says.