Gospel Story Finder

I remember an experience that Elder K. Brett Nattress shared with us in a general conference address. His mother read the scriptures to him and his brother every day during breakfast, and he acted irreverently along with his brother. One day he questioned his mother asking her why she did that every morning and she told him something that just remembering it embarrassed him. Let me share his own words:
“I told her, ‘Mom, I am not listening!’
“Her loving response was a defining moment in my life. She said, ‘Son, I was at a meeting where President Marion G. Romney [1897–1988] taught about the blessings of scripture reading. During this meeting, I received a promise that if I would read the Book of Mormon to my children every day, I would not lose them.’ She then looked at me straight in the eyes and, with absolute determination, said, ‘And I will not lose you!’”2

After reading “Kenny’s Christmas” in the December 2005 Friend, I felt sad that some children don’t get any toys for Christmas. I asked my mom if I could use the money I had been saving to buy a toy for a child who wouldn’t have any presents to open on Christmas morning.
We went to the store, and I bought some toys to put in the big box the store had to collect presents for children who wouldn’t get any. I felt really good that I had helped a child have a good Christmas, and I know that I followed Jesus Christ’s example.

A few years ago, while teaching a missionary prep class at BYU, I asked students to practice extending commitments every week of the course. I explained that I did not expect them to invite someone to be baptized, just help someone else do what that person really wanted to do but had not yet been able to do without some outside help. One student explained to me how she had called a non-LDS friend in her home state just to see how she was doing. Her friend told her that she had developed a drinking problem and that she was thinking of dropping out of school and returning home. She said that she had become so discouraged, she was thinking of taking her own life.

My student asked her if she wanted some help. Becoming emotional, her friend consented. My student then said to her friend:
In our Church we have the Book of Mormon. One verse we've been studying talks about some missionaries who got so discouraged they wanted to give up and go back home, but then they prayed and fasted and the Lord comforted them and said, "bear with patience thine afflictions, and I will give unto you success" (Alma 26:27). I know that the Lord will help you. I know that he can help you overcome your drinking problem. I know He can help you succeed. Will you pray that He can do that?
Her friend agreed to pray. Later my student then said to me:
I can't actually believe I did that. I didn't know if she would be offended or if my invitation to pray would help her, but I felt that it would, so I did it. A week later my friend called me back and said, "I just want you to know that you saved my life. I'm getting some help with my drinking problem, and I've decided to stay in school. I'm not so discouraged anymore. You really saved my life."

This student was building up the soul of her friend.

I was close to a family who had a son in Young Men. During an activity while he was a deacon, a leader got after him and embarrassed him in front of his peers. He subsequently felt further discredited, quit attending activities, and sought friends outside his ward.
That experience had a tremendous impact on me. I determined that something like that would not happen on my watch if I were called to work with young men. Two years later I was called to work with the deacons.
Within a few months I found myself dealing with a young man who was constantly pushing the boundaries in his behavior.
“This is the line,” I finally said regarding his actions. “Do not cross it.”
He crossed it, we had a bit of a verbal altercation, and he left.
Later, I had a chat with him to resolve our differences. I said, “David, I love you and you’re a good young man, but I don’t love some of the things you do. The other young men look to you as a leader, and if they see you getting away with something improper, they may try it as well.”
We patched things up, he felt accepted, and we leaders helped temper some of his personal challenges. When he turned 14, he asked me to ordain him a teacher. Today, years later, he gives me a big bear hug whenever he sees me, and he talks with admiration about his time in Young Men.
When we love the young men and enjoy being with them, they know it. That’s why my counselors and I took a genuine interest in our young men. We never did an activity just because it was in the book; we did it because we knew the young men would learn a skill, grow, and have fun.
On one occasion, we had a young man whose parents were not interested in our program.
“That’s OK,” I told them, “but do you mind if your son still comes, learns, and has some fun?”
We included him in our program, and before long his parents said OK to his full involvement. They saw that their boy was learning and having fun. Later he served a full-time mission. His younger brother blossomed as well and also served a mission.
We saw a correlation between leaders taking an interest in a young man and that young man learning, growing, and eventually serving a mission. It’s satisfying to watch young men grow, and it’s enjoyable to learn with them. The key to our success was to love them while we served them.

Dirk set the tip of the shovel into the sod and pushed hard on it with his foot. The shovel made a crunchy sound as it cut through the tough grass that had started creeping into his mother’s iris garden. Although his arms and shoulders were tired, Dirk had to admit that the iris bed was beginning to look much better. Earlier his mother had told him that if he helped her Saturday morning he could do whatever he wanted in the afternoon.
While he was digging and shaking the soil from the tangled grass roots, Dirk thought about batting a few balls with Ethan, Rick, Chad, and some of his other friends over at the park. Spring had seemed so late that they’d hardly had any time for baseball practice.
Dirk set the shovel aside and went to get the rake to finish his job. His mother had been separating and thinning her iris plants while he worked and had a pile of them at one end of the garden.
“What are you going to do with all of those?” Dirk asked.
“Aunt Maria wants a few of the yellow ones. And Mrs. Cox asked me to save her half a dozen of the blue irises.” Mother shook her head. “It seems a pity.”
“A pity?” Dirk echoed.
“A pity to throw the rest away when they could brighten a yard somewhere. If we just knew someone who could make use of them.” Mother laughed. “But through the years as I’ve separated my plants, I’ve given starts to everyone in the neighborhood who had space. The neighbors have traded back and forth until every yard on the street is filled with flowers.”
“Not every yard,” Dirk said. And he looked surprised as an idea popped into his head. “Hey, Mom, may I have the extra irises?” he asked eagerly. “There is one spot on our street that doesn’t look good. You know, the old vacant lot that’s too little for a house. No one takes care of it.”
“That’s true,” Mother said. “Mr. McCarty lives right next door to it and kept the lot looking nice for years. But now he’s barely able to keep up his own yard and no one else has cared about doing it.”
Dirk nodded in agreement. “Everyone says it’s an eyesore, but no one does anything about it. People passing the lot often throw papers on it and the kids don’t care either. I guess we’re all to blame. Maybe we’d all be more careful if a few flowers were growing there, and iris plants spread fast.”
“And they don’t need as much water as most flowers do,” Mother added.
“I could carry water until they get started,” Dirk suggested. “I believe even a few flowers near the sidewalk at the front of that lot would make people think twice before they threw trash in there.”
“I’m sure they would,” Mother said. “You have a great idea, Dirk, and are welcome to all of the plants you want. Maybe I can even find a little time to help you later this afternoon.”
After lunch Dirk was so busy raking leaves and grass and rubbish from the spot he had chosen for planting his irises on the little lot that he hardly looked up. He collected three bags of rubbish before he cleared a spot large enough to suit him. Then he started spading up the earth. When Ethan saw Dirk digging he came across the street to find out what his friend was doing. “That looks like work!” Ethan said.
Dirk answered with a grin, “It’s work all right, but it’s fun.”
After he explained about the iris plants he asked, “Do you want to help me?”
Ethan thought for a moment and then he nodded. “I’ll go home and get a shovel. This old lot has looked awful for a long time.” In a few minutes Ethan came back with a shovel and a rake. He was grinning as he explained, “I told my mother about your idea and she thinks it’s great. She’s separating some big double shasta daisies and we can plant them right next to the fence. My dad says he’ll come help us after while.”
The boys worked fast, pausing only to grin at each other now and then. They were so busy they didn’t see Monica walk by until she asked them, “Why are you raking and digging in this old vacant lot?”
The boys explained about the iris plants and the daisies. In unison, they asked, “Want to help us?”
“The old lot looks better already,” Monica said. “I’ll be glad to help. I’ll go home and get a shovel.”
In a few minutes she was back with her older sister, Andrea, who carried a box with six peony plants to put near Ethan’s double shasta daisies.
Before Dirk had finished spading his iris bed, Chad came to see why they were all so busy and decided he wanted to help too. He went home for a rake and brought back four yellow rose bushes to put at the back of the little lot where they could grow tall against the back fence.
Mr. McCarty hobbled out to see what was going on next door. His eyes brightened with interest. “I’ve wished many times that I could still take care of this plot,” the old man said, smiling happily. “If you folks are willing to plant and care for some flowers, then the least I can do is provide the water for you. We can just pull my garden hose through the fence whenever the place needs watering.”
Dirk was grateful for Mr. McCarty’s offer for he hadn’t looked forward to carrying water to get all the plants started.
The afternoon went by quickly. With so many working together, there was a lot of talk and laughter and fun. Before the sun went down, nearly everyone on the street had come to help, to offer plants or fertilizer or hours of care to keep the garden blooming.
When they had finished and each family had taken a few boxes or bags of rubbish to put out with their own garbage, they all came back to look at their new garden.
“I believe that this will be the loveliest garden in our whole neighborhood,” said Mr. McCarty. “It’s a very special spot now because it’s everybody’s garden. Not only will we enjoy it, but everyone who walks or drives past will have a spot of beauty to enjoy in place of that awful eyesore.”
Everybody’s garden, Dirk thought happily as he walked home. It was going to be fun to have everyone working together to make something beautiful.

My last two years of high school were hard. I had grand plans of preparing to attend a prestigious college. But that screeched to a halt when I started waking up every day and crying at the thought of going to school. I was soon diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety and encouraged to finish school online at home.
Adjusting to this new reality of remote education and depression felt isolating and soul crushing. While my friends seemed to be thriving and moving forward, I felt like I was being left behind.
So, I coped and escaped from my negative thoughts, emotions, and reality with media use.
Every spare moment, and even moments that weren’t spare, I would watch TV, scroll social media, or play video games—hoping for a never-ending distraction.
For me, behind all these behaviors was escapism—the desire to escape an unpleasant feeling or situation.
As Elder Kelly R. Johnson of the Seventy taught: “Discouragement often leads to distraction, or a lack of focus. Various distractions may lead to a lack of diligence. In our day, there are many distractions, including Twitter, TikTok, Instagram, and busy school and work schedules. Distractions can often be good things. The reality is that a distraction doesn’t have to be evil to be effective.”1
I was definitely trying to distract myself from my reality through media. But over time, after I had seemingly streamed every show—once, twice, even five times—all this media seemed to be losing its luster. My difficult feelings were suddenly catching up with me after I had avoided them for so long.
I had to decide—was this going to be my life? Constantly glued to screens? I didn’t want it to be.
But these habits were so ingrained in me that I felt like it was impossible to change, and I lacked a lot of motivation to do so. However, as I pleaded for help from Heavenly Father, the Spirit reminded me:
The Lord has the power to create lasting change in you.
Sister Rebecca L. Craven, Second Counselor in the Young Women General Presidency, has taught: “Through Jesus Christ, we are given the strength to make lasting changes. As we humbly turn to Him, He will increase our capacity to change.”2
I started making small efforts toward building better habits. Before turning to streaming, I would read the Book of Mormon and ponder a few chapters each day. I worked to magnify my calling. I served others, and I attended every social and Church activity I could. I also found help for my mental health with spiritual and temporal tools. My bishop referred me to a licensed therapist who understood my faith and my struggles; I followed social media accounts that posted about depression, anxiety, and self-care; and I painted my room brighter colors and opened my window more often.
I turned toward Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ through small means every day, praying that They could help me take charge of my circumstances. I felt Their power working through my actions over time. Every day it became easier to step away from my desires to escape through media. I was gaining more optimism for life.
Over time I graduated, moved out, got married, graduated college, and had two kids. New habits replaced my old ones and brought me closer to the Spirit and to the people I loved. I felt like “a new creature” (2 Corinthians 5:17).
However, I still need renewal through Christ. At times, I’m still tempted to lose myself in media. Who isn’t, when there is access to endless amounts of it in our pockets?
However, I now ask myself a few questions before indulging in media as I try to make my media usage more meaningful:
Do I have a purpose for watching or playing right now?
Can I use this media to connect with someone?
If I am trying to escape my feelings, what else can I do to work through my difficult feelings in a healthier way?
All in all, media use is not inherently bad. But we are counseled to be “temperate in all things” (Doctrine and Covenants 12:8). And Christ can help us use media intentionally to grow, to connect with loved ones, to access spiritual materials, to come closer to Him, and to help us tackle our challenges and become better—not just to escape.
I often remind myself of what He has done for me and what He can do again (and again) as I rely on His grace to build better habits. Through Him, we can face our challenges, be refined, and build a better and more meaningful reality.

During a stake Relief Society conference, Buddy got into some trouble. There were many people he didn’t know, and he was snuffing like mad to sort them out. Suddenly he began howling and barking, even when Sister Moulder commanded him to be quiet. The man in charge of the microphones said that it was probably because of the high-pitched notes that dogs can hear, which were coming from the hearing aids of some older sisters.

That day, priesthood brethren helped serve dinner to hundreds of sisters by rushing up and down the aisles with wheeled carts. One server parked his cart and unloaded all the plates he could carry, leaving just one on the bottom shelf. Sniffing the food, Buddy must have thought that the last plate was for him. He was tempted, but Sister Moulder told him to “leave it,” and he did.

September had come, and autumn was just around the corner. The leaves of the poplar and cottonwood trees had changed from green to golden yellow. The grass that grew beside the road had turned to rusty brown. And Malan had turned eight.
The day of Malan’s baptism finally arrived. He had learned about baptism in Primary and during family home evenings, and he had thought about the event for a long time. Using his own new copies of the scriptures, he and his dad had read about the baptism of Jesus (Matt. 3:13–17). Now he could be a member of record of the Church, like his mom and dad and the bishop and the boys who passed the sacrament. If he always tried to do the right thing, his baptism would enable him to “enter into the kingdom of God” (John 3:5), and that’s where he and Dad decided they wanted the whole family to be. Malan closed his eyes and listened to the hum of the car’s tires on the pavement as the car carried them to the Parkland Ward meetinghouse.
In a few minutes he and his sister, Ginger, his mom, Aunt Marcia and Uncle Scott, his cousins Jenny and Coral, and his Grandma and Grandpa would be there. His dad was already there, running water into the font and making sure that the white clothes were ready.
It seemed to Malan that time was dragging. The streets of the city were crammed with cars, and every red light seemed to refuse to turn green. A lane ahead was blocked because a truck had tipped over and spilled its load of wood.
Malan peered anxiously out the car window. A man was frantically directing the traffic and casting unhappy glances at his overturned truck. Behind him, driving along the ditch, was a police car with its red and blue lights flashing.
“Don’t worry,” Malan’s mom said, turning around and giving his arm a comforting squeeze. “We’ll be there in time.”
Malan sighed with relief when they finally pulled up in front of the large red brick building. He was so eager to get inside that he almost forgot how important it was to walk quietly and be reverent in the Lord’s house.
He saw his dad, dressed all in white, coming to meet him. But something was wrong! Dad knelt down; his kind blue eyes were concerned. “You have a decision to make, Son,” his dad said, giving his shoulders a gentle squeeze. “I’ve run the water for a long time, and it appears that the hot water heater is broken. The water in the font is very cold. Do you want to be baptized in cold water or wait until next week?”
Malan stood for a long moment and wondered what to do. Behind him he could hear his Grandpa talking, and the excited voices of his small cousins. Through the chapel window he could see the yellow-clad branch of a tall poplar tree as it scratched gently against the pane.
“Were you baptized in a river, Dad?” he asked.
His dad smiled. “Yes, I was baptized in the Moose Jaw River.”
“Was it cold?”
“Only for a few moments.”
Malan lifted his chin and hoped that his dad wouldn’t notice his trembling body. “I want to be baptized today. I don’t mind if the water is cold.”
Malan was uneasy as he changed into his white clothing. And although he tried to sit quietly through his Grandpa’s prayer and his mother’s talk about Jesus, Malan’s legs insisted upon swinging and his stomach had a big knot in it.
Finally it was time! As Malan stepped into the icy water, his knees shook and he wanted to run back through the halls and out to the shelter of the car. Then his dad’s strong hands reached for his. “Are you ready?”
Malan nodded. He listened to the prayer, then pinched his nose as the icy water swept over his head. When he stood up, he gasped for air and splashed to the stairs of the font. As he moved toward the dressing room, his body shook and his teeth chattered, but he hardly noticed. Inside he was filled with a golden warmth, like the autumn leaves outside.

While I dreamed of the spotlight and the stage, I could just hear the faint echo of my mother’s proud voice, encouraging me with praises. For as long as I can remember, I have always had a tremendous desire to be a great singer. I didn’t realize it at the time, but inside me was an even greater desire to be close to my mother.
Our relationship needed something, something that some of my friends and their mothers had. It seemed to me that my mother was so caught up in the problems of everyday living that she never had time for me. Sure she did things for me. She cleaned my room, washed my clothes, and cooked my meals like all mothers do. But I needed more and less—less arguments and more love.
I thought my mother always had to be right. When we argued, I would just give up, knowing that would be the only way to settle the conflict. Then later, realizing that she was right, I would apologize. I didn’t feel comfortable unless I did. When I apologized, my mother would turn her head, and from the side view, I could see the movement of her jaw as she gritted her teeth. She would then say, “okay,” with a tone of voice that seemed to say, “I told you so. Just listen to me next time.” I would then storm off, but feeling better that the argument was settled.
One afternoon while sitting on the lawn in front of the Performing Arts Building at Ricks College, waiting for my ride, my neighbor happened to tap me on the shoulder. Connie was a really good friend of my mom’s. I was always jealous of their relationship. I remember overhearing them laughing and talking on the phone. I wished that I could talk to my mom the way Connie did.
Connie sat down beside me. The first thing she said to me was, “I’ll bet I know what you’re doing here.”
“What?” I asked.
“Voice lessons, right?”
“How did you know?”
“Your mother talks a lot about you and your singing. She is really proud of you.”
I was so surprised when she said that. I never knew my mother felt that way. It made me realize that she had been keeping her feelings inside.
That night, as I was climbing the stairs to go to bed, I peeked over the wooden railing to find my mother sitting on the couch. Right then I wanted to tell her that I loved her. It was so hard to even think about saying it. After searching my mind for the words to express myself to her, I just blurted it out, “Mom, I love you!”
It was silent, as quiet as it would be after someone had screamed. I couldn’t tell what she was feeling by the expression on her face. Her big brown eyes filled with tears, the first time I had ever seen my mother’s emotions. With her arms outstretched, she said, “I love you, too.”
Seeing her cry made me want to cry. I ran to her, throwing my arms around her. I never wanted to let go. I couldn’t squeeze hard enough. My heart was full to overflowing as my eyes filled with tears of gratitude. As the tears quietly rolled down my cheeks, I thought of the privilege that was mine to have her as my mother.
I will never forget that. I still remember that night in detail. We talked for two solid hours. It felt so good to let all of my feelings out.
The next day I was to sing at our family reunion. I knew that my mother was going to be there. I wanted to make her proud. After dinner, they announced that I was to sing. I remember being so nervous and turning my head to find my mother looking at me, giving me that certain look of encouragement that I needed.
As I was singing, my throat tightened, and I felt as if my vocal chords had just tied in a knot. It was so hard to sing. I looked at my mom, and I’ll never forget her smile and the nod she gave me. I remember thinking that was better than any command performance I had ever dreamed about. After singing, I sat down beside her and she reached under the table and held my hand.
I’ve learned so much from my mother about being a parent and a friend. Because we took the time to communicate and bridge that gap in our relationship, my mother is my best friend. I’m ready for anything, knowing that my mother is always going to be there for me.
A note from Dianne Francis, Suzanne’s mother: Suzanne wrote this to help other young people see they miss out if they don’t have a close relationship with their mom and dad. Talking helped us realize we were best friends, that we loved each other and enjoyed being together. This knowledge is particularly meaningful to me now, since Suzanne was killed in an automobile accident a few weeks after she wrote this.

Years later, on April 19, 1893, a special meeting was held for all General Authorities and stake presidencies in the recently dedicated Salt Lake Temple. By this time, Brigham Young had long since passed away, and Wilford Woodruff was president of the Church. In this meeting, President Woodruff spoke of seeing Brigham Young and Heber Kimball in a vision. They were riding to a conference in a carriage, and they invited Wilford to join with them. Wilford got in the carriage and asked Brigham Young to speak.

Brigham stated, “I am through with my preaching on earth, but I have come to impress upon your mind what Joseph had told me at Winter Quarters, and that is: seek always to have the Spirit of God, and it will direct you aright.”15

President Woodruff passed the same message to those in the meeting: “Teach the people to get the Holy Ghost and the Spirit of the Lord, and keep it with you, and you will prosper.”16

For the past year I thought there were too many rules in the Church, and I thought, “How can it be fun in heaven?” I felt like I was tied to the Church and it was impossible to break free.
I then watched my friends’ lives. Why didn’t I go through some of the trials they did? One night it hit me—I didn’t get into that stuff because I followed the rules that Heavenly Father set out for me. I also figured out that if you follow the rules, you can be happy and can raise a family and live with Heavenly Father and Jesus for eternity.
Stephanie H., age 13, Utah, USA

Audrey felt wiggly. It seemed to her that sacrament meeting would never end. She twisted and knelt backwards on the bench. Mom made her turn around. She slid to the floor and sat under the bench. Dad picked her up and set her back in her seat. She made a face at Rebekah, her older sister. Rebekah put a finger to her lips and whispered, “Shh!”
Audrey frowned. She leaned forward and looked down the long row. Except for Audrey’s family, the only person on the bench was an old man. A cane rested against his leg. Audrey looked at the old man’s cane. It was smooth and shiny. She looked at his hands, resting quietly in his lap. Then she looked at his face. He seemed to be listening to the speaker, but when the other people laughed, his mouth did not even smile. Audrey thought his eyes looked sad.
She wanted to help. Slowly and quietly, Audrey slid off the bench. Softly and reverently, she tiptoed over to the old man. Mom and Dad watched her go. She put her finger to her lips and smiled at them. Then she climbed onto the bench next to the old man.
He looked down. Audrey scooted closer to him and patted his wrinkled fingers. He opened his fingers and wrapped her little hand in his. Audrey leaned her head on the old man’s arm and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Be happy,” she wanted to tell him. She tipped her head to look up at his face. The old man smiled down at her and winked.
During the closing hymn, Audrey heard him singing. His voice was low and scratchy, but Audrey thought he didn’t sound sad. After the meeting, Audrey’s mom and dad came to shake hands with him.
“We’re Brother and Sister Noe,” Dad said, “and this is our daughter Audrey.”
“It’s nice to meet you. I am Brother Campbell,” he said.
After that Sunday, Audrey’s parents invited Brother Campbell to sit with their family during sacrament meeting every week. Audrey always felt less wiggly sitting next to Brother Campbell. And even better, Brother Campbell always smiled.

It seems like all my life I’d been worrying about Danny, trying to keep him straight. Sometimes he just doesn’t understand things too well.

Once when we were shopping, Dan picked up a record that was left lying in the road outside the store. He started toward the car.

“Danny,” I said, “you take that record back inside the store.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not ours.”

“So what? It’s nobody’s when it’s out in the middle of the road.”

“Dan, somebody might have dropped it. Maybe they’ll come back for it.”

“Fat chance. If somebody just bought it, it would have been in a sack. Some car has probably run over it anyway.”

“Daniel O’Brien Hertz, you either take that record into the store, or give it to me and I will. It’s not ours.”

Finally, Dan let me take the record back in the store.

When I came out, he said, “Sometimes, Mauri, you don’t have the sense of a flea.”

It was Sunday, November 9, 1975, in Bountiful, Utah. The chapel was filled, and the doors into the overflow were opened. The echo of sliding chairs being set up in the cultural hall could be heard above the prelude music. It was because so many friends and family had come to rejoice with Elder Thorne in his sacred call from a prophet of the Lord—a call to serve for two years as a special witness for Christ to his brothers and sisters in Argentina. Just before the music stopped, Elder Thorne and his parents left the door where they had been shaking hands and made their way to the stand. All eyes were on them as they took the remaining seats just behind the pulpit. It was easy from where I sat to look over the audience and locate his proud grandmother and grandfather. This was an occasion for the entire family; they were all a part of this special event. His four younger brothers were smiling, probably because they would get to expand into Gale’s room as soon as he entered the mission home, or maybe because they anticipated how they would feel in just a few short years when they would respond to the call of a prophet.
In this setting I recalled the words of President Spencer W. Kimball:
“The gospel must go to all the world, to every creature, every clime, every people, every soul. It calls for an ‘all-out’ effort. This appeal is not for the rich nor for the poor, for the successful or the intelligentsia, but to every heart and mind in the world, to every corner of the earth. We are still far from our goal.”
This call to arms was given by a living prophet. He further stated, “We call for more missionaries, but we want more worthy missionaries and more able missionaries.” (Regional Representatives Seminar, October 2, 1975.)
I observed, in this large audience, an unusual number of young girls, many of them visitors to our ward. They brought with them the excitement and enthusiasm of youth. Their very presence added to the beauty and importance of the occasion. Among them I spotted the plain, the confident, the bashful; but common to each was the radiant, youthful expression of anticipation and commitment. I studied the expressions on the faces of several of these young women and followed their gaze resting upon Elder Thorne—the dark suit, the white shirt with the conservative tie, and the little-shorter-than-usual haircut.
The young women and young men in the audience represented a circle of friends bursting with pride and sharing the honor of one of their number. It was not hard to believe that in the heart of each one were the words, “I’ll go where you want me to go, and I’ll do what you want me to do.”
Since the girls were sitting in groups of twos and threes and fours, it appeared evident they were not competitors seeking the missionary’s attention. It was obvious that they too were part of the “all-out” effort spoken of by the prophet.
But what part did they play? What had their influence been in Elder Thorne’s preparation? In his closing remarks I began to sense the powerful influence friends had had on this young man who was spiritually mature beyond his years. After expressing gratitude for family and loved ones, and before his final testimony, he grasped the pulpit on either side and leaned forward. He dropped his head just a moment. Then, looking up, he quietly said, “And I give thanks to all my friends, especially you girls in the audience who have kept the standards and encouraged me to do the same.” His voice deepened as he continued, “Thank you for your influence that has helped me prepare for a mission.”
After the closing prayer there seemed to be a spontaneous gravitation as young men and women from all parts of the building quietly, with increasing power, moved forward until they encircled their young missionary friend. Without accompaniment their voices united in singing “God be with you till we meet again” like a prayer to heaven from the voices of living angels. The tears flowed freely from the eyes of these youth who had played a very vital part in helping to build a more worthy and a more able missionary.
In that moment I witnessed a power of love and support from friends that would serve as a reservoir of strength to each one of them in the days to come.

When I was a young man, my parents joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We knew that the missionaries had been teaching them, but my parents had taken the missionary lessons alone.
After this surprising announcement, my brothers and I began to listen to the missionaries as well, and they each received the message of the Restoration with gladness. Although I was curious, my heart was not into changing my life. I did, however, accept the challenge to pray about whether the Book of Mormon was the word of God, but I did not receive an answer.
You might ask why Heavenly Father did not answer that prayer; I certainly wondered. I have learned since that the promise made by Moroni is accurate. God does answer our prayers about the truthfulness of the gospel, but He answers them when we have “a sincere heart” and “real intent.”1 He does not answer just to respond to our curiosity.
May I return to my personal story. Eventually I began to be sincere. I remember when the missionary who was teaching me asked if I was ready to be baptized. I replied that I still had some questions. This wise missionary told me that he could answer them but that I would have to answer his question first. He asked me if the Book of Mormon was true and if Joseph Smith was a prophet. I told him that I did not know, but I wanted to know.
My questions led to increased faith. For me, the answer came not as an event but as a process. I noticed that as I did “experiment upon [the] words” and began to “exercise a particle of faith,” the Book of Mormon became “delicious to me” and it did “enlighten my understanding” and truly did “enlarge my soul.” Eventually I had that experience the scriptures describe as a swelling within your breast.21 It was at this point that I desired to be baptized and to commit my life to Jesus Christ.

Perhaps some would relate more, however, to the experience of a young woman who shared her story in the New Era. This young woman, a convert, came from such a wildly dysfunctional family that she decided she had bad blood. She felt second class to lifelong Church members she considered “born in the covenant.” Through a priesthood blessing the young woman was told that the story of Ruth had a special message for her. She read the story but at first didn’t understand the significance. She writes what happened:

Finally, through the Spirit, it came to me. The key was at the very end of the book, where it mentions Ruth’s part in the lineage of . . . Christ. Ruth, . . . the convert from a foreign land, showed such great faith that she became an integral part of the most blessed bloodline of all. This great woman, who came from generations of idol worshipers, would be a forebear of the Savior of the world. [Kay Hago, “From One of the Best Families,” New Era, June 1991, p.20]

The young woman added that just one scripture story helped her find her place in life and the kingdom by teaching that no blessing would be withheld from her because she wasn’t born to LDS parents. She found out she came from the best of families, our Heavenly Father’s family. As this woman strengthened her identity with our Heavenly Father, she felt differently about her potential and her purpose in life.

This past year a group of engineering students was asked to come up with a solution to a serious air pollution problem in Mongolia. In 2016 there were more than 3,000 deaths in Mongolia attributable to air pollution–caused diseases; the majority of victims were children under the age of five. One of the principal sources of the pollution is the tons of coal that Mongolians burn each year to heat their traditional homes, known as gers, or yurts. After the BYU students were given the assignment to solve that problem, here is what happened to them as a result:

Alternating Voices (Ivy Running, Austin Boyce, Dylan Sellers, Ivy Running, Austin Boyce, Ivy Running): When we began this project, we didn’t expect to go see the Mongolian countryside, to be on national television, to be taking Mongolian lessons from ten-year-olds, to meet the prime minister, to be so cold.
Ivy Running: We didn’t expect that we would be making friends halfway across the world.
Dylan Sellers: Ulaanbaatar is the coldest capital in the whole world.
Ivy Running: One of the biggest problems in Ulaanbaatar is the air pollution. Most of the pollution in the winter comes from the ger districts. Ger is the Mongolian word for yurt, which is their traditional tent. Coal stoves are some of the only sources of heat that these people have in the winter.
Elder Peter F. Meurs [Deseret International Charities]: Everyone is breathing this smoke-filled air. As we started to look at that problem, we thought maybe we could do something about it. So we approached the BYU Capstone team and said, “Here is the problem. Can you solve it?”
Dylan Sellers: There are two teams here in Capstone that are trying to solve the same problem. The solution that we landed on was an electric heater that would replace the coal-burning stove.
Adjunct Professor Amy Wood: With the current insulation they have—the felt—it would take about six electric heaters to produce enough heat to keep it that warm constantly.
Ivy Running: As we improve the insulation, they will be able to use electricity more for their heating—less coal and less pollution.
Dylan Sellers: It wasn’t until we landed in Mongolia in Ulaanbaatar that we actually understood the scope of our project.
Amy Wood: Because the coal stove is in the center of the home, a lot of those pollutants don’t go up the chimney—they stay within the home.
Dylan Sellers: The World Health Organization standard for PM2.5, or particulate matter, is twenty-five micrograms per cubic meter. The concentration that we measured was over 400 inside the homes of these families.
Amy Wood: One team’s approach was to insulate the current ger so that we could replace the coal stove with an electric heater.
Ivy Running: And then we covered the outside of the ger in a radiant barrier, and what that does is it reflects back the radiative heat that would otherwise be lost.
Amy Wood: It only works if there is a gap of air in between, and so we also used foam to make that gap, and that allows it to reflect back in.
Professor Brian Mazzeo: The students realize that this is real: seeing how the design decisions you made thousands of miles away are actually being implemented in the field.
Alternating Voices (Dylan Sellers, Amy Wood, Dylan Sellers): After we finished our first retrofit, we came back the next morning to test the results. Walking in, we immediately felt a wave of heat hit us. We were able to read the data, and we saw that while it dipped outside below 7 degrees Fahrenheit, inside it stayed a constant 82 degrees Fahrenheit.
Dylan Sellers (to the homeowner of the test ger): So you will save more money every year from now on.
Ivy Running: It worked, and I kind of teared up a little bit. It was really a miracle.
Amy Wood: They were so excited that this thing we had been working on so hard actually worked.
Elder Meurs: We have a real solution, and we have proven that we can modify a ger and heat it for about $400. The next step now is to fully test that solution, and we will do that with 100 to 120 modified gers this summer in preparation for winter testing.
Dylan Sellers: I hope that we not only see the world as our campus but start to see the world’s problems as our problems. Every family we convince, we immediately impact their lives for good. We immediately influence their health and improve their quality of life. And so it is enough if one family adopts this. To expand to tens of thousands of homes retrofitted is the dream.

The last line of the BYU mission statement proclaims our firm belief that “the earnest pursuit of this institutional mission . . . will greatly enlarge Brigham Young University’s influence in a world we wish to improve.”12 I offer this as exhibit A of the fulfillment of what I think is a prophecy. As of the first of this month, Deseret International Charities was ready to launch phase two of the project, with the expectation that they would insulate about 130 gers and build ten alternative structures in the next four weeks. And there are discussions about the potential of having 5,000 to 10,000 gers ready in 2020.

Our ultimate measure of success is the impact on our students—on what happens to them as a result of their time at BYU. Professor Brian Mazzeo, one of the faculty members working with the group in Mongolia, described what can, and will, happen as we combine faith and study in the unique BYU learning process:

Students need to get inspiration as they are actually trying to execute a project like this. There is no way that they have all the information, and so they have to seek inspiration from the Lord. There is no other way. At the same time, I believe that they are trying to inspire others to be able to take solutions out into the world. And, in particular here, it is to inspire others to be able to actually use the designs that they have created. So I see that as a kind of two-fold process of both receiving inspiration and inspiring others. And in the process they are learning so many skills and methods and processes that allow them to be just more effective people—not just as engineers but just more effective as people and citizens of the world in all that they do.

That is what inspiring learning looks like. And the students involved in the project in Mongolia experienced it. One student, Prabhakar Ramaraj, stated:

When you hit a roadblock and . . . don’t know what to do, . . . there are a few things [you rely] on. . . . For a BYU student, those things are . . . knowledge, . . . wisdom, and the spiritual aspect of prayer . . . , trying to receive revelation. . . . On this project [I have] been able to experience those things. . . . We have definitely been inspired.

Another student, Austin Boyce, reported spending several sleepless nights in the Crabtree Building trying to figure out how to build an exterior door that would be both energy efficient and fit into the nonagon structure of a ger. In facing those and other problems, he stated:

We as a team . . . just . . . had a lot of faith, to be honest. . . . [And] we had the whole service center there in Mongolia fasting and praying for us as a team. It was pretty amazing to . . . have everything come together. . . . Our biggest surprise . . . was the . . . impact that [we] had. . . . It is something that we hadn’t even imagined because we were just . . . [some] BYU students trying to fix a problem.

They were just some BYU students trying to fix a problem. Yet in doing that in the BYU way, they blessed the lives of thousands, changed their own lives, and increased their own capacities to serve, forever.

“Breathe deeply and exhale slowly,” his mother had said on their way to church. That’s what he did now. Then he breathed in again and tried letting the air out in short spurts.
“Why am I so scared? I’m not. I can’t be. I’ve got to control myself.”
He fingered his Book of Mormon and then pulled out the worn paper. He unfolded it carefully because the creases looked ready to tear.
“Brothers and sisters, I’m happy to have this opportunity to speak” wasn’t a very original way to begin. He folded the talk, stuck it in his pocket, then took it out of his pocket and put it back into the front of his Book of Mormon.
He took out his handkerchief and wiped his hands. Why wouldn’t they stop trembling? He just had to stop his body from shaking or his voice would shake too.
“Brothers and Sisters, I’m happy to be here today. I’m happy to have this opportunity. When the bishop, my dad, asked me to speak, I …” That sounded Dumb! Why hadn’t he thought of a better introduction?
It had been three years since he had spoken in front of people. Three whole years! Since that time he had always avoided it somehow. But the memory of his last experience had dimmed with time, and he wanted to learn to get up in front of people, so he had said yes. Now the memory of that former talk seemed painfully fresh again. There he was, struggling and stuttering. He could remember that talk even now. But back then, when he’d seen all those faces, the talk he’d memorized had vanished. It had simply evaporated. “But I didn’t have my notes with me that day,” he thought. “That was my downfall. I hadn’t taken my notes because I wanted to look super-intelligent. Besides, Dad never uses any. But now I’ve got notes, so there won’t be any problem.” If there would be no problem, he wondered, why was he so scared?
The announcements were over, his dad sat down a few seats from Jack and cleared his throat. Jack looked at his dad’s profile so much like his own. “But that’s where the similarity ends,” Jack thought. “Dad’s such a powerful speaker.” “His father’s talks were always rich with experiences and stories. “I don’t have one story in this talk,” Jack thought. “Everyone will fall asleep. Well, better if they do.”
His father, sensing Jack’s gaze looked over, smiled and nodded. Jack smiled back, tried to swallow the lump in his throat, and took out his notes again. “If I were more like my father, I wouldn’t be worrying like this.” But then he made a tight fist. “I don’t need to be just like Dad. I don’t need to be outgoing and dynamic. I can be just as good as myself.”
He lowered his head and wiped the perspiration from his forehead. It wouldn’t do to have the wetness fog up his glasses. Then a thought came to Jack that made him shudder. He pushed his toes hard against the soles of his shoes. “What if I cry? What if I break down and cry or something? Cry, out of pure fright. No, I wouldn’t do that. I know I wouldn’t. Brothers and Sisters, I’m happy …” It would just take eight and a half minutes. For eight and a half minutes he could surely control himself. “Maybe my voice will crack a time or two in those eight and a half minutes, but I don’t think I’ll really cry at least I hope. …”
Sister Carlson was leading the sacrament hymn now, and Jack opened the hymn book and thumbed through it for the hymn. He hadn’t heard the page number. When he had finally looked in the index and found “Come, Follow Me,”he joined in on the last verses. But something was wrong with his voice. It wasn’t clear and deep. It was hoarse and timid. “I don’t have a voice. How can I give a talk without a voice?” He cleared his throat, coughed, and then tried to sing again. This time he was relieved to hear his voice clearing up a little.
“The Word of Wisdom is important for us to follow because …” The words to his talk were flowing through his mind now, but not in order. They were all jumbled. He sang a few more words and then breathed deeply in and out again.
After the sacrament Jack saw his father shuffle a few papers, smile over at him, and walk to the podium. “It is time now,” Jack thought. “Dad’s going to introduce the speakers now and I’m first. At least it will be over within eight and a half minutes from now.”
His father’s rich, bass voice echoed through the chapel. Dynamic, a powerful speaker. The congregation was staring up at the podium. In a moment he, Jack Miller, would be up there with everyone staring at him, expecting so much. There was a thickness in his chest and a slight pain. A heart attack. Maybe he would have a heart attack.
“I can’t get up there! I can’t do it! I don’t even think my legs will hold me when I stand up. I think I’m going to be very sick any minute. I’ve got to tell Dad I can’t. I … no, I’ve got to do it. I’ve just got to.” It didn’t make any sense. Where was his great self image? This morning in front of the mirror, he’d read his talk without a single error. He’d even used his hands, and he’d been in perfect control.
“We have a little problem tonight, Brothers and Sisters,” his father was saying. “It seems we were unwise in calling as our main speakers Brother and Sister Emery. We hope our asking them to speak didn’t start Sister Emery’s labor, but whatever the cause, a little spirit seems very anxious to join our ward family. I just received a note that the Emerys are at the hospital right now.” Everyone chuckled. Everyone except Jack. “Therefore,” his father turned and smiled at him. “We’ll tell our youth speaker, my son Jack, that he can have all the time he wants. I’m sure he’s happy about that.” The congregation chuckled again as Jack felt the heat rushing to his head. He had been so concerned about his own talk that he hadn’t even noticed that the Emerys were missing. “There goes the eight and an half minutes,” he thought.
“Then maybe we’ll ask a few members of the ward here tonight to say a few words,” his dad continued. “But before my son speaks, I’d like to say a few words about something I’ve been thinking about quite a bit lately—the priesthood.” His father confidently placed the one hand on the pulpit and put the other in his pocket.
Jack put his head in his hands. Oh no, this couldn’t be. He’d have to follow his dad. This was even worse than he’d thought. “Now I know I can’t do it,” he cried to himself. But what was his father saying?
“In our family we have someone who has used his power of the priesthood and magnified it. But that is not remarkable because even when he was small he believed in the power of the priesthood.” The warmth rushed to Jack’s head again as he realized his father was talking about him. “I have a special story about Jack that’s important to our family, and I’d like to share it with you. It’s special because …”
Jack looked up to see why his dad was pausing so long. He saw that his dad had taken his hand out of his pocket and was grasping the podium.
“It’s special because …”
“Not that story, Dad. Please. You can’t ever get through it.” Jack was writhing in his seat now, but not for himself. He knew the story well. His dad had blessed him after the automobile accident, and it had saved his life. But his dad had never tried telling it in public. Why now?
“My boy was only three, but he asked for a blessing …” Bishop Miller’s voice was coming out in spurts and his fingers were turning white. This time the pause was longer. “You’ll … you’ll have to excuse me. I shouldn’t try to tell this story. I …” Two more times he began the story, but emotion overcame him. Two more times he stopped, each time pausing longer than before. “I’m sorry … I … The doctors had said …” His father stood at the podium silently now, unable to control his voice. Jack sat behind him on the edge of his seat, grasping the arm rests. He had only one thought: “I’ve got to help Dad.”
As if all emotion had transferred itself, Jack felt curiously calm as he stood up straight and walked the few steps to the pulpit. There he put his arm around his father. “Bishop, I mean, Dad, let me finish the story for you.” His father turned to him in surprise, the tears still trickling from underneath his glasses. Then he nodded with relief and sat down.
It was strange how courageous he felt as he told the story that was so important to their family. Some of the members of the congregation wiped at their eyes at its finish. But, now, it was Jack’s turn to pause. What would he say now? Speaking on the Word of Wisdom just didn’t seem appropriate anymore. He opened his Book of Mormon to his notes and stared at them. Then he looked above them to a scripture he’d underlined on that page of his Book of Mormon. “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents.” (1 Ne. 1:1.) Immediately he read the scripture aloud for he knew now what he would talk about. He looked down into their faces. There was Sister Jackson, the Wade family, and good old Brother Price, their home teacher. There were the Smiths and the Jacksons, and there was his own family, with his mother smiling at him. He became excited to tell them all. He wanted to tell them his feelings.
“Sometimes, to tell you the truth, I’ve been a bit rebellious about having a father who is bishop,” Jack said. “Everyone expects so much. But now I, Jack Miller, having been born of goodly parents, would like to tell you what it means to have a dad like mine who honors his priesthood and loves others.” He looked back at his father who was smiling widely. “This is my chance to get revenge for all the stories he’s told about me and others in his talks.” The congregation laughed, and Jack heard his father’s deep chuckle behind him.
He confidently placed one hand on the podium and the other in his pocket as he continued. His voice echoed through the microphone with a mellow, subtle power. The Spirit warmed within him and he, Jack Miller, became a speaker.

Every home has times when a peacemaker is needed. President and Sister Eyring have four sons and two daughters. Once when their children were young, President Eyring was teaching a family home evening lesson about peace. While he was teaching, he noticed that two of his little boys were kicking each other! But as those two boys grew older, they learned how to be peacemakers and became each other’s greatest friends and helpers.

I have been blessed to hear many modern-day examples of youth, just like you, who are not afraid to arise and shine forth and allow their light to be a standard among their peers. Joanna was one of only three members of the Church in her high school and the only young woman in her ward. She committed to herself and the Lord that she would never use bad language. When she was paired with a young man for a school project who had not made the same commitment, she did not lower her standards. She asked him to respect and honor her values. Over time, with many gentle and some not-so-gentle reminders, her friend formed new habits and used cleaner language. Many people noticed the difference, including his father, who thanked Joanna for being a good influence in his son’s life.