Gospel Story Finder

The bus speeds past more and more houses. Just a few fields and we are in the outskirts of the next town. Then we pass the all too familiar mining villages. The pit heaps of red shale blend into the scenery, looking almost like the canyons and valleys we see in cowboy films. The likeness ends there. The smoke-blackened terrace houses crowd upon each other, almost as if they had been fighting to see which could be built closest to the pit head. Each little house fronts onto the street, but the backyard contains the most precious possession of all—the pigeon hut. No one seems to know why, but miners seem to have a love for these remarkable birds, cherishing and loving them almost as if they were human.
The skies grow darker as we move farther south. I close my eyes, trying to forget the hectic day of preparation. Finish work early, overnight case to pack, and picnic case to fill. Then the agonizing wait for the bus. Had it crashed? Perhaps it hadn’t turned up at all, or could they have forgotten about me and decided to take a different route onto the motorway?
Daylight is now well and truly gone and the lights of the oncoming traffic glare off the wet road surface. Little people in their little cars going—who knows where? My heart fills with warmth as I anticipate tomorrow and its events.
The northern conurbations have been left behind now. There is more countryside, but, sadly, all we see of its beauty is the occasional light twinkling from some ancient farmhouse kitchen, a small candle in a saucer of darkness. The endless drone of the engine goes on and on, though it is almost drowned by the constant, excited chatter of our fellow passengers. The passengers, between the ages of 12 and 90, take the opportunity of having a chat. Six hours later everyone knows someone just a little bit better, and all are grateful for the time spent together. The first time, I brought a book to read, but then I realized there were better things to do.
It is now 10:00 P.M. and we are getting very tired. Still the endless drone of the engine arid the swish, swish as cars pass by in the other direction. Heads start nodding onto tired shoulders. One woman sits with her head resting on the seat and a warm traveling rug over her legs. It is easy to tell that she has made this visit before. My eyes begin to close as I, too, lapse into that uncomfortable halfway stare that is neither sleep or consciousness, and the endless motorway sounds are ever present.
The frequency of the villages and townships tell me that we will soon be near to the city. By the city, I mean the city. The city of millions of people, the city of ancient buildings and modern tower blocks. The city of beauty and splendor, and the city of poverty and filth. The old capital of the Commonwealth, and the modern capital of inflation. The city of Queen Victoria, Dickens, and Florence Nightingale.
We leave the motorway and enter the endless semidetached suburbia of North London. The streets, shops, and houses soon become as monotonous as the darkened countryside. We pass the place where the bus broke down on the last visit and its occupants had to spend the night in the uncomfortable seats. People reminisce and laugh at their past troubles. And so we continue onward through the city. People unfamiliar with the city excitedly look as others point out landmarks. We pass Hyde Park corner, Buckingham Palace, Lords cricket ground, Westminster Abbey, and finally the “Old Man” himself, that most famous and historic of all rivers—the Thames. The icy blackness reflects the embankment lights and winds away into the distant darkness. Then we are through. Through the glamour of the old floodlit buildings and famous streets, the expensive hotels and statues. Now we are south of the river, into the slums. There are old buildings here also, but these are old buildings of a different kind—with boards over windows, crumbling plaster on walls, and in many places, absolutely crowded with unwilling occupants. Fortunately we soon make our way through the most depressing parts and again return to semidetached anonymity. The shops and their wares begin to look all the same, and we long for a return to the countryside, for then we know that the journey will be almost ended. The gardens become larger, and we know that soon we will be there. After almost two hours of endless buildings, the trees spring upon us with an alarming suddenness. The narrow leafy lanes of Surrey seem welcoming and quiet. We have come a long way from the pit villages and Yorkshire, and yet this seems like home too. Driving is difficult when the road is only wide enough for two cars. The last village passes by, and everyone sighs with relief. It is after midnight, and we are tired. Only four or five hours sleep and we shall have to arise and finish the last little part of the journey. Heavy heads touch pillows. The long ride has acted as a perfect sleeping pill, and eyes soon close.
Who on earth is that knocking on the door when I have just gone to sleep? 5:00 A.M! Never! I am sure it is only five minutes since I closed my eyes. We all have a light breakfast and go out to the coach. It is still dark and very very cold. The last sleepy-head is hurried out into the coach, and we yawn our way back into the narrow lane, now completely empty of any traffic. We go a little way and pass the elegant homes of the well-to-do, probably businessmen, executives, some even in the millionaire class, and all of them asleep, not able to share in our excitement. We round a bend in the lane and there it is—the London Temple! Less than a mile away, all floodlit with its white walls reflecting the light over all the countryside. We catch our breath at its beauty and secretly urge the driver to go faster so that we can be sooner inside those sacred walls. The people queue at the door, their recommends clutched in freezing fingers. I hold my recommend with that other precious piece of paper. We are here at last, my grandmother and I. Perhaps it is only her name on the paper, but she has come here this day just as surely as I.

My Grandma Fischer died when I was ten, and the only knowledge my children have of this great-grandmother is what I relate to them. One of the special things I remember about Grandma Fischer is her cooking. She loved to cook and loved even more to share her cooking. She joined the Church in Germany along with her fiance, my grandfather Fischer, and came to the United States. She brought with her many of her mother’s and grandmother’s favorite recipes from the old country. A Christmas tradition in the Fischer family is stollen, a sweet, fruited and glazed bread.

Can you ever understand how a blind person, a deaf person, or a crippled person feels? Lana Brown, director of the Learning Resource Center for the BYU College of Nursing contracted episodic multiple sclerosis in 1966. For the next two years she was confined to a wheelchair for periods of time. This experience taught her that there are things about the handicapped that can never be fully appreciated from books—things that nurses need to understand.
She instituted “Assignment Wheels” as a requirement of the BYU College of Nursing program to give the nurses a chance to learn firsthand about the handicapped. The program demands that each nursing student spend some time in a wheelchair as part of her learning experience.
The girls are given a list of procedures that must be accomplished on wheels, including all the activities of daily living. They must spend half a day in a wheelchair with a classmate nearby to help in case of accident or danger.
Regardless of how difficult or awkward, they must open doors, attend classes, get lunch in the cafeteria, move around in the small space of rest rooms, negotiate the ramps into buildings, and use the elevators.
The coeds then submit a report on their experience, relating the emotions they encountered as well as sharing insights into the practical aspects of wheelchair manipulation.
“Most girls hate it,” Miss Brown emphasized, “but it’s valuable for them and they know this. They discover the many feelings involved as they observe others’ reactions to the physically handicapped. They find themselves watching the ground or their feet to avoid people’s stares. More importantly they become more comfortable working with the disabled. They also gain confidence when asked to demonstrate the handling of a wheelchair to patients who will be confined over short or long periods of time.”

One day, Sister Richards and I walked into the baptistry about noon and noticed a young girl sitting on one of the benches. As we talked with her, she told us she was from West Virginia and it was her twelfth birthday. Her mother had asked her what she wanted for a birthday present, and she had asked that her mother bring her to the temple so that she could perform baptisms for the dead.

The social status Kim Ho Jik achieved is significant. Says Brother Han, “It was vital that such a politically and socially powerful person be involved in the establishment of the Church in Korea. Without Dr. Kim, [it] would have been delayed for a couple of decades.”
Indeed, approval of official legal status for the Church in South Korea appeared unlikely. “The name Mormon meant ‘heathen,’ ‘pagan,’” Brother Han recalls. Latter-day Saint missionaries were not allowed in Korea because “they were not recognized … as decent Christian missionaries.”
Brother Kim’s appointment to the Seoul Board of Education in 1956 proved fortunate, since all the city’s religious matters came under its jurisdiction. He personally took before the board a proposal for the Church’s incorporation in Korea. With his endorsement, it passed. “It was almost a miracle,” Brother Han says.
Kim Ho Jik also put his reputation on the line to gain permission for Latter-day Saint missionaries to enter South Korea, agreeing to be their financial sponsor and guaranteeing that they would do no harm to the Korean people. The first two full-time missionaries arrived from Japan in April, 1956.

Riding in a van following the trailer loaded with canoes, the girls of the Fargo North Dakota Stake, headed for a Summiteer adventure, were lost in lethargy, dozing a little. They had had an early morning getting everything packed for five days in the Boundary Waters area of northern Minnesota.
Suddenly Andrea bolted awake in her seat, yelling, “Hey, look! There’s a bear.”
Just then a black bear ambled casually across the road. Now everyone was awake. They watched the bear disappear into the woods, then looked at each other with a look that spoke eloquently. It was unspoken communication, but the message was clear. This really was going to be an adventure. Little did they realize then just how vivid the experience would be and how much this canoe trip would act as a symbol for the way they should live their lives.

When a family in my ward posted photos on Facebook about their experience being stuck in an elevator for two hours, I could not relate to it. That was, until I got stuck in an elevator myself.
I had left my cell phone at home, so I pounded on the elevator doors and called out for help. I also prayed. Soon, several young men heard me and—like good Samaritans—called emergency services. Then they said they lived in apartment number 38 and joked that when I got free, I could bring some food by their apartment to say thanks.
They left, and I found it hard to calm down. What if the emergency crew didn’t arrive? I prayed more. I knew that my husband would soon return home from work and would not know where I was.
I began pounding again. Between the crack in the elevator doors, I could see people walking by. I called out to them and asked if they could call my husband and tell him about my situation. They did, and I was able to calm down. My husband now knew, and he would make sure I didn’t stay stuck.
I sat in the elevator for about an hour. Finally, a maintenance worker came and freed me. He said the elevator had jammed, so he had to climb up the elevator shaft to get the elevator working again. I thanked him for his help.
Later that day, I went and thanked my neighbors in apartment 38. I brought them some home-cooked food. They said they were just joking about the food, but I was glad to thank them. As I look back on this experience, I now know what the family in my ward went through, and I am grateful to the people who did not pass me by but stopped and helped.
They might not have known it, but they followed the Savior’s example. He did not pass us by or leave us. He gave His life so we can be saved from physical and spiritual death. Because of this, I will try to follow His example and never pass by someone else’s trouble. I’m grateful for this experience that has unexpectedly given me a greater appreciation for Him and for His blessings.

I would tell them that I had some doubts at first, but I found out that all the bad things I’d heard were untrue and all the good things I’d heard were true. The more I spoke to the missionaries, the more this religion made sense to me. They answered all my questions. I feel very good about my decision to become a member of the Church.Cody D., 14, Texas, USA

And yet most parents throughout the world continue to know both the importance and the joy that are attached to natural families. Friends of mine who just returned from speaking to families and parents on several continents reported to me that the hopes and concerns of parents are remarkably similar throughout the earth.
In India a concerned Hindu mother said, “All I want is to be a bigger influence on my children than the media and the peer group.” And a Buddhist mother in Malaysia said, “I’d like my boys to be able to operate in the world, but I don’t want them to be of the world.” Parents from all different cultures and faiths are saying and feeling the same things we are as parents in the Church.

Let me share with you a lesson learned in childhood. Our family has owned a summer cabin at Vivian Park in Provo Canyon for five generations. The months of July and August for me meant hiking; fishing; and swimming daily at the swimming hole, featuring a big rock from which we dived, and maneuvering through the swift current which roared by it and formed dangerous whirlpools. Most swimmers would plunge into the icy waters and swim with the current, rapidly passing the big rock, and be eventually carried to the slower waters and the welcome bank of river sand. That is, all but one swimmer. His name was “Beef” Peterson. His swimsuit carried the emblem of “Life Saver,” and his physical body reflected great strength. Beef would, like others, swim rapidly down the current through the whirlpools, then suddenly turn and swim back upstream. For a few feet, his mighty strokes carried him forward, but then the swiftness of the current held him steady as he pitted his strength against that of the river. Gradually Beef would tire, drop back, and then swim effortlessly to the bank, exhausted. Swimming against the current became Beef Peterson’s trademark.

My brothers and sisters, I’m certain our duty and responsibility is frequently to swim upstream and against the tide of temptation and sin. As we do so, our spiritual strength will increase, and we shall be equal to our God-given responsibilities.

Even today there are those preposterous stories handed down and repeated so many times they are believed. One of the silliest of them is that Mormons have horns.
Years ago, I was at a symposium at a college in Oregon. Present were a Catholic bishop, a rabbi, an Episcopalian minister, an Evangelical minister, a Unitarian clergyman, and myself.
The president of the school, Dr. Bennett, hosted a breakfast. One of them asked which wife I had brought. I told them I had a choice of one. For a second, I thought that I was being singled out for embarrassment. Then someone asked the Catholic bishop if he had brought his wife.
The next question came from Dr. Bennett to me: “Is it true that Mormons have horns?”
I smiled and said, “I comb my hair so that they can’t be seen.”
Dr. Bennett, who was completely bald, put both hands on the top of his head and said, “Oh! You can never make a Mormon out of me!”

This is the Sea of Galilee. It’s a beautiful lake where Jesus taught thousands of people and did many miracles. I could really feel the Spirit there. It has a peaceful feeling that tells me sacred things happened there.

Have you ever felt truly seen? There is powerful motivation that comes when someone really sees you, loves you, and believes in you. I became an artist because my mother thought I was talented. She didn’t just believe in me only when I did good work. When I made a mistake, she still saw the good in me.

Accept and magnify callings. I knew it was important to continue to serve in callings, to minister, and to associate with other Latter-day Saints. When I found out one of my daughters wanted to sing in the ward choir, I joined the choir too. We had a lot of fun singing together.

This is how President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018) lived his life. Many years ago, I had an assignment with him. As part of the assignment, we were to be in a four-hour training meeting on a Saturday afternoon. However, he felt the prompting of the Holy Ghost to visit some people with great needs in order to lift their spirits and help them to be of good cheer. So for the first two hours, while I and other brethren were in the meeting, he was out doing good to others, ministering as the Lord did in His mortal life. President Monson joined us for the final two hours of the training meeting and did a marvelous job of teaching and training.
After the meeting, I commented on how well he taught in the meeting and then thanked him for the most powerful teaching: his example of going out and ministering to individuals, one by one. He smiled and said: “One thing about me, I am never confused about my priorities.” I thought about what he had said and after taking him to the airport and bidding him goodbye, I headed for home. Then I changed direction and went to visit a sister who was ill and needed some cheering up. Since that time, I have tried to live in my very imperfect way to be a light to others as the Savior commanded us to be and to do so in word, action, and deed.

Cara really liked her new school. It was in a church building of another religion, and her new class was small enough that her teacher, Mrs. Schmidt, had time to help her with math. Every day after math, Mrs. Schmidt taught a lesson from the Bible. Usually the Bible lessons were a lot like what Cara had learned at home and in Primary.
But a few weeks ago during a lesson about baptism, Mrs. Schmidt had told the class that babies who died before they were baptized couldn’t go to heaven. Then she said that one of her own children died right after he was born. When she said that, Mrs. Schmidt looked like she was going to cry.
“But babies who die do go to heaven,” Cara wanted to say. If only Mrs. Schmidt knew that, maybe she wouldn’t be so sad anymore. But Cara felt too shy to say anything.
After school, Cara told Mom about what Mrs. Schmidt said. “Knowing that babies go to heaven is one of the blessings we have because of the Book of Mormon,” Mom said. Cara hoped that Mrs. Schmidt would read the Book of Mormon someday. She wished she had the courage to tell her about it.

For Mackena, 15, her testimony did not come until after a very personal, painful trial of faith (see Ether 12:6).

“Until the time I was about 12,” she says, “I had never had a single doubt about the gospel. I knew that the temple was where I was going. I knew that my family could be together forever, that Heavenly Father loves me, and that the Church is true.

“But once I got into middle school, I began doubting a lot. And for three years I didn’t know that the Church is true. It was really hard. It was the loneliest, most terrible, saddest time in my life.”

Then one day her seminary teacher taught, “If you want faith, then it will come.” The message struck a chord with Mackena.

“I decided that I really wanted faith, because I was miserable. So I prayed a lot and I started reading my scriptures by myself for the first time in my life. And I repented. Now I feel that Jesus Christ is my very, very best friend. I know that He knows me and loves me.

“I’m just really grateful,” Mackena says, “because now I know how precious my faith is to me, and I never want to let that go—ever.”

A group of friends start gossiping about one of your friends who isn’t there. What do you do?
Stay quiet and hope they don’t say anything about you.
Laugh and share something else you’ve heard.
Ask them nicely not to talk about people behind their backs, and then smoothly change the topic.

A year after my baptism, I received a call to serve a full-time mission in Bangkok, Thailand. My older sister also received a call to serve in the same mission.

I heard President Spencer W. Kimball, in a session of conference, ask that God would give him mountains to climb. He said: “There are great challenges ahead of us, giant opportunities to be met. I welcome that exciting prospect and feel to say to the Lord, humbly, ‘Give me this mountain,’ give me these challenges.”1
My heart was stirred, knowing, as I did, some of the challenges and adversity he had already faced. I felt a desire to be more like him, a valiant servant of God. So one night I prayed for a test to prove my courage. I can remember it vividly. In the evening I knelt in my bedroom with a faith that seemed almost to fill my heart to bursting.
Within a day or two my prayer was answered. The hardest trial of my life surprised and humbled me. It provided me a twofold lesson. First, I had clear proof that God heard and answered my prayer of faith. But second, I began a tutorial that still goes on to learn about why I felt with such confidence that night that a great blessing could come from adversity to more than compensate for any cost.
The adversity that hit me in that faraway day now seems tiny compared to what has come since—to me and to those I love. Many of you are now passing through physical, mental, and emotional trials that could cause you to cry out as did one great and faithful servant of God I knew well. His nurse heard him exclaim from his bed of pain, “When I have tried all my life to be good, why has this happened to me?”