Gospel Story Finder

President Thomas S. Monson once told about a time when he learned the importance of obedience. When he was eight years old, his family visited their cabin in the mountains. He and his friend wanted to clear a grassy spot for a campfire. They tried to clear the grass by hand, tugging and yanking as hard as they could, but all they got were handfuls of weeds. President Monson explained, “And then what I thought was the perfect solution came into my eight-year-old mind. I said to Danny, ‘All we need is to set these weeds on fire. We’ll just burn a circle in the weeds!’”
Even though he knew he wasn’t allowed to use matches, he ran back to the cabin for some, and he and Danny set a small fire in that grassy spot. They expected it to go out by itself, but it instead grew into a large and dangerous fire. He and Danny ran for help, and soon adults were rushing over to put out the fire before it reached the trees.
President Monson continued, “Danny and I learned several difficult but important lessons that day—not the least of which was the importance of obedience.” (See “Obedience Brings Blessings,” Liahona, May 2013, 89–90.)

David Whitmer, in 1878, told Joseph F. Smith and Orson Pratt a story that includes three more visits, the fifteenth through seventeenth. He was traveling with Oliver Cowdery and Joseph Smith to Fayette, New York to finish the translation when “a very pleasant, nice-looking old man suddenly appeared by the side of our wagon and saluted us with, ‘good morning, it is very warm,’ at the same time wiping his face or forehead with his hand. We returned the greeting, and, by a sign from Joseph, I invited him to ride if he was going our way. But he said very pleasantly, ‘No, I am going to Cumorah.’ This name was something new to me, I did not know what Cumorah meant. We all gazed at him and at each other, and as I looked around inquiringly of Joseph, the old man instantly disappeared, so that I did not see him again.
“Joseph F. Smith: Did you notice his appearance?
“David Whitmer: I should think I did. He was … about one and one-half meters tall … ; he was dressed in a suit of brown woolen clothes, his hair and beard were white. I also remember that he had on his back a sort of backpack with something in [it] shaped like a book. It was the messenger who had the plates, who had taken them from Joseph just prior to our starting from Harmony. Soon after our arrival home, I saw something which led me to the belief that the plates were placed or concealed in my father’s barn. I frankly asked Joseph if my supposition was right, and he told me it was.” (Minutes of the School of the Prophets, Salt Lake Stake, 3 October 1883.)

I love this gospel and I love street art, so I decided to combine the two. I packed my scriptures, a sketchbook, charcoal pencils, permanent markers, and cans of spray paint in my backpack. My companions laughed and asked, “What are you doing with spray paint?” I explained, “I may not speak the language yet, but I can show others my testimony.”
For the remainder of my mission, I used street art—on paper, not on buildings—and the Spirit to teach others about Christ. And as crazy as it sounds, it worked. Many people didn’t want to hear my message, so I sketched it. Doors and eyes opened when I told them that I did graffiti. They didn’t believe me. They timed me for three minutes, and I sketched the word faith while teaching them about it. Among them were many who felt judged and unloved. I could testify that with faith in Christ we can feel of His love and forgiveness, and He can help us change for the better. He did for me.

Many years ago, while attending a stake conference, I noticed that a counselor in the stake presidency was blind. He functioned beautifully, performing his duties as though he had sight. It was a stormy night as we met in the stake office situated on the second floor of the building. Suddenly there was a loud clap of thunder. The lights in the building almost immediately went out. Instinctively I reached out for our sightless leader, and I said, “Here, take my arm and I will help you down the stairway.”
I’m certain he must have had a smile on his face as he responded, “No, Brother Monson, give me your arm, that I might help you. You are now in my territory.” The storm abated, the lights returned, but I shall never forget the trek down those stairs, guided by the man who was sightless yet filled with light.

In Hungary, when a class graduates from high school, we put on a grand ball. All teachers, parents, and friends are invited. The class members perform dances and give other presentations. When I graduated, I was asked to make such a presentation. I decided to play the piano. One of the two pieces I chose to play was a Church hymn. There are not many members of the Church in Hungary, so I didn’t expect any Church members to hear my performance.
The Sunday after the ball, a sister at church excitedly approached me, congratulated me, and told me that she, other Church members, and some investigators had heard me perform. Less-active members had also attended the ball and heard me play the hymn. The sister told me how wonderful it was to hear the hymn at an activity not sponsored by the Church and said that it had strengthened the testimonies of those who attended.
I learned that we never know when we are setting a good example and that even small actions can have a big impact on other people.

The Millers’ most unusual family home evening started out very much as usual. Mom and Dad sat together holding hands. Twelve-year-old Jeramie looked bored. Nine-year-old Charlie tapped his toes impatiently. Eight-year-old Jimmy made faces at six-year-old Jenny, who glared back at him. It was four-year-old Billie Jo’s turn to lead the opening song, and she waved her hands wildly to “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam”—as usual.
After the opening prayer, Dad began the lesson by hanging a picture of Jesus on the wall and telling the children that they should always remember Him.
Just then there was a knock at the door, and the man Dad invited in was anything but usual. He had a brown beard and long brown hair that hung to his shoulders. He wore a tan robe that came down to the brown sandals on his feet. A dark blue cloak hung across one shoulder. He looked just like the people in most of the paintings they had seen of the Savior’s time.
The children were very quiet when the stranger spoke. He said his name was James and that he was going to tell them some stories about his special Friend, Jesus Christ.
The first story was about a young man who died. The man’s mother had been very sad. She needed her son. She had asked Jesus to help her. He spoke to her son, and the young man awakened. (See Luke 7:12–14.)
James’s next story was about when Jesus had been teaching a large crowd of people on a mountain by the sea. No one had brought anything to eat, except a boy who had five loaves of bread and two small fish. The boy had been willing to share his food, so Jesus blessed it. After it had been blessed, it fed all five thousand people, with some left over. (See John 6:1–14.)
The stranger, who called himself James, talked to the Millers a long time. They had heard his stories before, but when he told them, they seemed to have just happened. There was an even more wonderful feeling in the room as James told them how much the Savior loved the people He had taught and how much He loved them. He told them that they would be happier if they remembered to love one another as much as Jesus Christ loved them.
Mom had begun to lead the closing song, “Love One Another,” before the children recognized the stranger. When he began to sing, they all knew that it was Brother Park, the man who led the singing in sacrament meeting each week. Long hair and a beard couldn’t disguise his singing voice. His first name really was James, he said, and the Savior really was his special Friend.
Brother Park stayed to eat ice cream and cookies with them. Before he left, he looked at the picture of Jesus that Dad had hung up and said, “You know, this is just how an artist thinks Jesus looks, but when you look at it, I hope that you will remember Him. Remember that He cares about what you do, and He loves you.”

I remember when I was washing the car as a 17-year-old young man, my father came out to the driveway and, with justification, began to criticize me for something I had done wrong. I became upset and turned to dad and said something like, “Hey, let up, dad. This is the first time I have ever been a teenager.”
My father, in a beautifully sensitive way, said, “Hugh, this is the first time I have ever been a parent.”
My father, perhaps unknowingly, had taught me a great lesson. As a teenager, I had responsibilities to my parents and was to be patient with them as I expected them to be patient and understanding with me.

By the time I was old enough to understand what alcohol was, I knew my mom had a problem with it. Family members tried to hide her issue from my sister and me, but they could only conceal the early-morning binges and hangovers for so long.
Our mom was an alcoholic—and no excuse or elaborate story could change that.
As a young girl, I believed that addiction was a choice. I felt burned then each time my mom walked through our door with the scent of liquor on her breath after promising to let it go. It was like she didn’t want to change. But years of her painful tears, failed attempts, and crashing withdrawals taught me otherwise.
When I was in middle school, I began to realize that my mom’s addiction wouldn’t “go gentle into that good night,” as poet Dylan Thomas once wrote1—and not because she didn’t want to change. It wasn’t about the lack of willpower on her part or that she was choosing alcohol over her family. She was trapped in her addiction.
As President Russell M. Nelson explained: “Addiction surrenders later freedom to choose. Through chemical means, one can literally become disconnected from his or her own will!”2 Finding recovery would be a fight between her body and spirit for years to come.
After she had achieved six months of sobriety, I started to recognize my mom again—the one who used to dance in the car and write beautiful poetry and tell embarrassing jokes to all of my friends. It was as if someone behind the scenes suddenly switched back on the light in her eyes and was working overtime to keep it on. She hadn’t been sober for that long in years, and it felt good to have her back.
But it didn’t last. One night, before she had the chance to speak, my sister and I knew. Her glazed eyes and blushed cheeks said it all: after six months and four days, she had relapsed. For a moment, we considered walking out of the door, away from the worry and fear, but we knew that she wanted to change. We couldn’t do it for her, but we could support her as she walked the road to recovery.
Over the next few months, my sister and I looked for ways to help my mom keep pushing forward toward long-term sobriety. It wouldn’t be easy, but she had done it once, and we knew she could do it again.
Having witnessed my mom go through withdrawals before, we knew what to expect, so we gathered all of the liquor and wine bottles that we could find and dumped them down the drain. Then we stocked up on Gatorade at the grocery store and deep-cleaned the house; it was our best attempt to remove my mom from the environment that she was in when she relapsed.
After a few days, my mom was well enough to go back to work, but we knew the fight wasn’t over. Up until that point, the depth of her addiction was hidden from most of our family and friends. Over the years, it had become somewhat of a secret—a source of shame, something that social science researcher Brené Brown explains “derives its power from being unspeakable.”3 If we wanted her to stay sober, we needed to break the silence.
Deciding to open up to our family and some trusted friends was hard, but it was also liberating. Shame “corrodes the very part of us that believes we can change and do better,”4 so the very act of talking about her addiction gave my mom (and me!) hope again. We weren’t alone, and for the first time in years, we started to picture a life unruled by her addiction.
I’m not going to try to sugarcoat it: maintaining hope isn’t always easy. For years I supported my mom as she tried to get sober, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t experience sadness, disappointment, and frustration along the way. Speaking of the difficult journey one faces to overcome addiction, President Nelson explained: “Each one who resolves to climb that steep road to recovery must gird up for the fight of a lifetime. But a lifetime is a prize well worth the price.”5
Throughout my life, my mom has fallen down more times than I can count, but I’m proud to say that it’s been six years since she took a drink. Though it has taken me years of learning and relearning how to best support her, watching her recover has taught me that no one is ever too far gone. No matter how many times the person you love relapses, keep going—keep trying to support them in whatever way you can. Recovery is a lifelong commitment—a journey filled with tears, victories, failures, and triumphs—and it’s worth fighting for.

In a shady Finnish backyard garden where tall evergreens surrounded an old sauna bathhouse, there lived a little family of hedgehogs. Late in the spring Mama hedgehog gave birth to quadruplets. Now it was August and her brood of lively youngsters was getting fat and prickly in preparation for the long, cold winter ahead.
All of her little ones were obedient—all except Siili! When her other children were full and could eat no more they would curl up into cozy balls and go to sleep but not Siili. He would be poking his paw into an anthill or digging his long snout into a rotten tree stump in search of more food. Mama hedgehog would scold him back into the nest, but Siili never wanted to take a nap.
The garden where Mama hedgehog and her youngsters lived was a small one that belonged to Mrs. Henriksson and her two children, Ulla and Pekka. Ulla and Pekka enjoyed planting the seeds, watering, weeding, and finally eating their very own vegetables. Sometimes while they were weeding or pulling up turnips, they would see a little hedgehog poke its head up and scurry across the garden. Ulla and Pekka tried to catch one but the little animals were always too quick. Even if they had caught one, however, they would not have harmed it because these spiny friends helped keep their garden free from harmful pests.
As the autumn days grew shorter and colder, Mama hedgehog and her little family prepared for their long winter nap. They were all very busy getting fat and fixing their nest—all but Siili—for when the snowflakes fell, they would sleep for the entire winter.
“Who wants to sleep all winter?” Siili asked in dismay. “Just think of what we’ll miss curled up in an underground hole for so long. I’d much rather turn somersaults and play all day!”
When the cold winter came, Mama hedgehog inspected each little burrow to make sure every youngster was warm and fast asleep. When she came to Siili’s burrow her heart gave a thump. Siili was not there!
Frantic with worry, Mama hedgehog stuck her head outside and looked all around for him. She could not see Siili hidden in the wilted strawberry patch, where he was trying to dig a playhouse in the frozen ground.
While he worked, the snow began to fall. Siili shivered with cold. He wished he had listened to Mama and stayed in his nice warm burrow instead of trying to dig in the frozen earth. To keep warm he curled himself into a tiny ball and hid his nose down among his spines. I’ll rest for just a few minutes, he thought, and then I’ll go home. Instead, he felt so tired that soon he was fast asleep.
“Look, Pekka,” said Ulla as she stooped and carefully picked up the prickly little creature from among the strawberry leaves. “Here’s a baby hedgehog!”
“What’s he doing outside in the cold?” asked Pekka, as he took the little animal from Ulla and put it in his pocket. “Let’s go ask Mama what we should do with it.”
When the children were inside the cottage, they placed Siili in a wooden box filled with old clothes. Siili sleepily snuggled up to some soft woolly underwear the children put around him while they waited for their mother to come home.
“Mama, look at the baby hedgehog we found in the garden. He was all rolled up in the strawberry leaves,” said Pekka as he pulled his mother over to the box.
“It was too cold outside for him. May we keep him in the house, Mama?” asked Ulla.
“Well,” said their mother, smiling at the spiny ball, “perhaps we could keep him for awhile, but he probably has a mother and a cozy nest waiting for him in our garden. Don’t you think he would be happier with his own family?”
Ulla and Pekka frowned and sighed. They knew their mother was right, so they wrapped Siili in the woolly underwear and placed him back outside in the strawberry patch.
“Let’s go inside and watch from the kitchen window to see what he will do,” suggested Ulla as they left the garden.
Pekka and Ulla stationed themselves in front of the window and looked out at the snowy garden. It wasn’t long before Ulla said, “Look! Something is moving around out there.”
“It’s another hedgehog,” Pekka answered.
Sure enough, Siili’s mother was searching for her son. She found him still wrapped up in the underwear and sound asleep. She nudged him awake and then the children saw them disappear. Siili’s mother knew that her drowsy baby would be eager to play again when spring came, but now they were both ready for a long, warm winter sleep.

About half-way through the Book of Mormon, it became obvious that we need to “quicken our pace and lengthen our stride” if the children were to have the Book of Mormon read before they left home for college, marriage, or missions. We had long since progressed to reading both columns on a page. Now we started reading two pages a night. By October 1986 we set a goal. We would have the book finished by Christmas!
It was a special night when we read the last page. We planned it so that Jill, who was five, could read the last verse. We didn’t say much, but the prayer that night was one of special thanks for our eight-year journey through the Book of Mormon.
We thought of having a celebration, but in the end we realized that this was only the end of the Book of Mormon part of our effort; it was not the end of our daily scripture reading. So we celebrated by going to the store for ice cream. Our real reward was the quiet satisfaction we each felt. We had read the Book of Mormon, and we had done it together.

Part of Cody’s goal to become an astronaut included a goal to become an Air Force Academy cadet. As he progressed through high school, he counseled with his father and mother and prayed about each step along the way. He had three great goals in life.
The first was to keep all the commandments of his Father in Heaven. The second was to serve a full-time mission. “All my life we have talked about a mission and the things pertaining to a mission. It was never ‘if you go on a mission’ but always ‘when you go.’” The third great goal was temple marriage.
“Every night before we went to sleep, mom or dad would come around to our beds and ask each of us in turn, ‘What do you want out of life? What do you want to do? What do you want to be?’ Those goal-setting sessions really helped me keep my head on straight. Every night I said those three things and sometimes others—like the astronaut plans—but always those three. We would talk about what I needed to do to achieve those goals, and then we would talk about any problems or questions I had.”
But two of Cody’s goals conflicted with each other. In order to go on a mission, he would have to resign from the academy after his first year—there was no such thing as a leave of absence for a mission. If he left, he was probably out of the program. To get back in, he would have to be renominated, and the mere fact of his resignation might work against him. What were the odds?
The preparations continued. Cody ran four or five miles each night to condition himself. As a junior, he spent one whole day taking college entrance exams, including the ACT (American College Test), SAT (Scholastic Aptitude Test), an Air Force engineering aptitude examination, and a physical fitness test. He was also interviewed and appraised for leadership potential.
The first year at the academy wasn’t spent just waiting for a mission call. “It was hard,” he remembers. “After the first four months I started asking, ‘Is this what I want to do in life?’ But then I would think back to the confirmations I had received through the Holy Ghost. I knew I was doing things, as President Kimball says, in their proper season and order, and I prayed, and the plan was reconfirmed. I knew I was right where I should be, and that really helped me.”
As the first year drew to a close, Cody had to reaffirm in his own mind his decision to go on a mission. To survive the toughest year in the academy and then give it all up took a lot of courage. And it might also mean abandoning his lifelong dream of becoming an astronaut. “But I had already made the decision to resign eight years earlier. I had no doubt what I was going to do even though I agonized over it.”
In March, during spring break, Cody had his mission interviews with his bishop and stake president. At the end of the summer, following SERE training (survival, evasion, resistance, and escape), he resigned. As with any cadet who asks to leave the academy, he was sent to interviews with several different counselors and officers.
“All of them would grill me at first,” Cody said, “but as soon as I told them my reasons for resigning, their attitude changed. They all expressed their respect for the LDS people they knew, and when I told them I was going to try to come back, which was something of a shock in itself, they said fine.” His written statement included a full explanation of what a mission is and why he wanted to serve.
The officer who had to sign the paper as a witness commented, “I’ve never read anything like that before in my life. Is that really what you believe?”
“I sure do,” Cody replied.
“A lot of them didn’t understand,” Cody explains, “but they accepted. They were feeling something they’d rarely felt before.”
In May Cody received his call to the Switzerland Zurich Mission. He entered the MTC in August. Concentrating on studies was second nature, and obedience was ingrained. “I wanted to use my time wisely because I knew I was paying a price for my mission,” he said.
At first the thought of not being readmitted hung over him, but the time finally came when he stopped worrying and left it in the hands of the Lord. Besides, missionary work presented its own challenges. “For the first six or seven months, I found myself going through the motions. I knew the Church was true and that the work was important, but I didn’t love it as I should. My academy experience came to my aid. I was used to doing difficult things. I worked hard and prayed every day that the work would become a joy instead of a burden. In the course of about a week, the whole thing turned around. Suddenly I was happier; I was working out of desire, not just duty. I knew my mission would be worth it even if I never got accepted back into the academy.”
Then a letter from home told Cody that Ted Parsons, another cadet who had resigned from the academy to serve a mission, had been readmitted! Maybe there was a chance after all!
Cody took the necessary exams at a U.S. military installation. “My mission president gave me a blessing. He told me I had served an honorable mission and that the Lord would help me accomplish what I needed to.”
Shortly after the blessing, Cody had a head-on bicycle collision, shattering his nose on the handlebar. “Qualifications at the academy are stringent. With an impact like that you would normally lose pilot qualification. If I had hit my eye or forehead or even my teeth, it would probably have disqualified me.” Cody is convinced he was protected.
When the test results arrived, they showed a score higher than the first time Cody applied for admission, which was advantageous because the competition was tougher.
“I had done everything I could. I made sure my end of things was in order. I wasn’t expecting the Lord to meet me more than halfway. Then I left it up to him,” Cody said.
Cody was renominated by his senator. His faith had paid off. Two weeks after returning from Switzerland and two years after leaving Colorado Springs, Cody Carr entered the academy once more. His dream of being an astronaut was fully intact, along with his other goals of keeping the commandments, marrying in the temple, and being a lifelong missionary.

When Bonnie and I arrived at the University of Southern California to pursue a doctoral degree, we had four children, little money, a fellowship, and lots of hope. We knew there were difficult and demanding years ahead.

My adviser was a fine faculty member who was also a member of the Church. He was well respected on the campus by both faculty and students. I sought his counsel regarding my program and how best to secure the desired degree.

He encouraged me with assurance that we would be able to meet the academic, time, and financial demands. He also reminded me that such a course would require careful attention to priorities. Pursuit of the degree would have to be the number one objective for both Bonnie and me. Of course, we would have to take time with our children and with each other. He advised me to inform our bishop that I would not be available for Church service except on a limited basis on Sunday.

Now, Bonnie and I had determined early in our lives that we would serve wherever and whenever the Lord should call and had done so from the time we were married. During my freshman year at BYU I had also determined that I would not study my schoolwork on the Sabbath day.

Not long after that the stake president extended a call for me to serve as one of the presidents of the seventies quorum of the stake and as a stake missionary. The call was accepted. The doctoral degree was completed. That experience in service was as important as the educational period that accompanied it.

Karoly Takacs, a Hungarian, was recognized as the best pistol shot in the world. More than anything he wanted to win in the Olympics. But one day driving home, Takacs was in a crash, and doctors had to amputate his right arm—his shooting arm.
Takacs’s recovery was slow. It wasn’t a physical challenge, but an emotional one. He had hit bottom. People wanted to help but there was little they could do. Takacs began to avoid his friends; even his family didn’t know where he spent his time. But Karoly Takacs was preparing. In solitude he had trained his left arm and his aiming eye, a training that’s far more of an intellectual mastery than most people realize. By the next Olympics, Takacs was ready.
When the pistol event was over, this one-armed Hungarian stood, the cheers rising about him, on the topmost step of the winner’s platform with a gold medal around his neck.
Takacs showed us something more than his ability to shoot. He proved that human beings have a largely untapped comeback capacity. He discovered for himself the exciting fact that hitting bottom does not mean defeat, but that it just signals the end of downward movement. As one friend told me, “The bottom can be something to bounce on.”

“When I think back to when I was a young adult, one of the things that comes to my mind is when I was a missionary in England. It was just after World War II, and the Church of Jesus Christ was just getting reestablished there. I was responsible for being a leader in my mission, and I was only 20 years old! I admit that as missionaries, we were a little reckless at that age.
“One day a man invited me to come to a debating society meeting and represent our Church. I agreed to attend, but I had no idea what I was walking into! I found myself in the position of explaining the Church to a large group of people and answering their questions. It was on that occasion that I had my first realization of the power of the Holy Ghost. I’d taught about the Holy Ghost, and I’d read about it, but on this occasion I experienced it.
“As questions were asked, I had the answer in my mind before they had finished asking the question. I had the ability to move through the scriptures in a way that I had never experienced before. It seemed to me that the pages were being turned by someone else as I defended the Church.
“As I think back to that experience 73 years ago, I realize I learned something that has blessed me all these years. I came to know for myself that the Holy Ghost is in fact the Comforter and that by and through God’s power, He brings to our mind the words of the Lord.
“I hope you’re having the same experience as a young adult. Stay anchored in your study of the scriptures, and say your prayers every day. Start your day with a prayer, end your day with a prayer, and talk to the Lord as necessary throughout the day. Whatever your circumstances, I hope you will have the same experience I had with the Holy Ghost at your age.”
President M. Russell Ballard, Facebook, Apr. 14, 2021, facebook.com/mrussell.ballard.

I remember some years ago, our family seemed to be limited to three children as my wife was not able to become pregnant again. She questioned why and started to blame herself. She prayed day after day. Our children noticed her sadness, and they felt sad too.
Finally I called our children together. In council, we decided to have a special prayer. I prayed; then each child prayed in turn. We had a wonderful feeling, and the Spirit of the Lord was there. Our children believed that their mother would have another baby. Approximately 10 months later, our fourth child was born. What joy we felt and what a testimony that was to my wife and me and our children.

On October 17, 1989, while driving home after work, I was approaching a stoplight at the intersection of Market and Beale Streets in San Francisco, California. At that moment I felt the car shake and thought, “I must have a flat tire.” As the car continued to shake, I noticed a bus quite close to me and thought, “That bus just hit me!” Then the car shook more and more, and I thought, “I must have four flat tires!” But it wasn’t flat tires or the bus—it was a powerful earthquake! As I stopped at the red light, there were ripples in the pavement like waves of the sea rolling down Market Street. In front of me a tall office building was swaying from side to side, and bricks began falling from an older building to my left as the earth continued to shake.
The Loma Prieta earthquake impacted many lives, including my own. Pondering the events of that day reaffirms in my mind and heart that in order to successfully withstand the tempests, earthquakes, and calamities of life, we must build upon a sure foundation.

“I used to stay in the mountain, so my bishop told me I should come and stay with the missionary sisters in the missionary apartment. They used to give me transport to pay bike to come to chapel to take my MTC class,” explained Sister Combay of the Sierra Leone Freetown Mission.
Missionaries already serving in the field were a great help. Sister Combay said, “I did not know how to use computer, but they (sister missionaries) taught me, and I started using the computer. When we had class, I was the one putting on the computer. . . . So, before our instructor came to start class, I already knew how to put computer on and to go onto the system.”
Sister Combay stated that after she went into the field full-time, “I was missing the MTC because our instructors were so lovely. They were nice to us, and they also teach us the things we should know. Even sometimes they call us for interview, one by one. We talk to them, share our problem with them.”

Marilyn Arnold shared a story of some BYU students who freely gave much needed help. Her elderly parents were out walking one evening when her father fell and seriously cut his arms. Some students were walking by and saw him go down. They immediately came to his aid, saw that he got medical attention, and made sure that both her parents were taken care of. They subsequently called at their home several times to see how her father was recovering.

Kathy listened as Mr. Sodeberg explained how people migrated in the United States. She was excited about her new history class. Flipping through the pages of her new history book, Kathy stopped at a picture of Brigham Young. She had never realized Brigham Young’s significance in United States history before.
Mr. Sodeberg finished his lecture. “There will be homework every day,” he said. “Your first assignment is due tomorrow.”
At home Kathy sighed as she looked at all the questions Mr. Sodeberg had assigned.
“Tough day at school?” Mom asked.
“Homework every day,” Kathy said. She remembered the picture in her history book. “Mom, Brigham Young is in my textbook. What makes him so important in U.S. history?”
“He directed the migration of thousands of Latter-day Saints to the Salt Lake Valley. Then he organized them into settlements,” Mom said. “That took a lot of planning. It was a significant part of the country’s westward migration.”
The next day Mr. Sodeberg announced, “Next week we will perform a readers’ theater. Each of you will dramatize a character of the westward migration. Your parents and other students will be invited to attend the performance.”
Mr. Sodeberg began assigning characters and handing out scripts. When he asked who wanted the part of Brigham Young, Kathy quickly raised her hand.
“Tonight’s homework is to begin memorizing your part,” Mr. Sodeberg said. “You must recite it perfectly. Your grade depends on it.”
Kathy read over her part as she and her friend Laura left class. A terrible feeling came over her. “This is all wrong,” she said to Laura. “It makes Brigham Young sound dishonest.”
“You just see things differently because of your church,” Laura said.
“I can’t say these things,” Kathy said.
“You have to recite them perfectly,” Laura reminded her.
Tears rolled down Kathy’s cheeks as she ran home and burst through the front door.
“More homework?” Mom asked.
“Worse,” Kathy said, handing her the script. “Read this.”
Mom read the script and shook her head. “This writer didn’t know a lot about Brigham Young.”
“What should I do?” Kathy asked.
“First let’s find a Brigham Young costume,” Mom said.
Kathy tried on Grandpa’s long black coat and rolled up the sleeves on her brother’s white shirt. Mr. Grandi next door showed Kathy how to walk with his extra wooden cane.
Mom found a tall black hat in a closet and put it on Kathy’s head. “You’d make Brigham Young proud,” Mom said. “Now you need a new script.”
Kathy looked for information about Brigham Young in Church history books and on the Church Web site. Soon the script was rewritten.
“The true story of Brigham Young,” Kathy said.
On the day of the performance, Kathy’s class gathered in the auditorium. Parents and other students waited in their seats. Mr. Sodeberg introduced the program; then he stood offstage as the students recited their parts.
Alex recited his script perfectly, but Randall mixed up his words. Mr. Sodeberg made him begin again. Kathy squeezed her cane. When it was her turn, Kathy recited the true story of Brigham Young.
“Did you change your script?” Laura asked after the performance.
“Yes. I told the truth,” Kathy said.
“Here comes Mr. Sodeberg,” Laura said.
“Well done, ladies,” Mr. Sodeberg said. “Kathy,” he continued, “you were the best Brigham Young I have ever seen.”

The first books Doreen Huena wanted to read after she and her husband, Winceslas Huena, joined the Church in 1990 were the Book of Mormon and the Bible. With her baptism, she says, came a spiritual peace and a strong desire to study the scriptures for herself.

“I prayed and fasted that I would be able to read the Book of Mormon and Bible,” recalls Sister Huena, a counselor in the Popondetta Primary presidency. But because she had received only one year of formal schooling, “it was hard for me to read and understand the Lord’s words.” Through prayer, persistence, and help from the missionaries, she was soon reading and understanding the scriptures.