Gospel Story Finder

In her youth she dreamed of marriage and motherhood but was single for many years. “Sometimes I wondered if my dreams would ever be fulfilled,” Sister Cook says. “But I tried to have faith and focus on the blessings I did have.”
During this time she earned bachelor’s and master’s degrees in speech pathology and audiology and an EdS (Education Specialist) degree from Brigham Young University. She worked as a special education teacher and later as a school administrator.
On July 16, 1988, in the Salt Lake Temple, she married Richard E. Cook, who later served as a member of the Second Quorum of the Seventy. At that time, Sister Cook says she “inherited four wonderful children and became a grandmother of eight,” as Elder Cook’s first wife had passed away in 1984. They now have 17 grandchildren.

In many ways Vani’s day is just beginning when school ends. She gets off the bus at 3:30 P.M. and walks a few blocks to her home. There is little time to relax. There’s homework to do, and there’s also cooking, cleaning, laundry, and dishes. Grandpa died two years ago, and Grandma can’t do the things she used to.
“I have to look after my grandma. I have to help her. I know it’s been pretty hard for her because she raised her own kids and then raised me,” Vani says.
“It’s been a challenge for me not to have parents,” she adds. “But being involved in the Church is a great help because it has provided me with so much. Right now I’m the secretary in the Primary, and I teach the CTR class.”
When Vani entered the Young Women program, she served as Beehive class president and then was first counselor in the Mia Maid class presidency. Later she served as Laurel class president. It’s obvious the gospel is a priority.
“Because I’ve been a leader, I feel a responsibility for the girls who have fallen from the Church,” she adds. She is thoughtful for a moment. She feels bad about once-active girls who no longer come out.

Years ago James Audubon, an American ornithologist, saw chuck-will’s-widow parents—upon seeing their eggs in danger—each take an egg in its mouth and fly away with it. His story was not believed for a long time, but similar behavior has since been noticed among other species of nightjars. And they, too, are reported to carry their young between their legs.

Between 1856 and 1860, more than three thousand people (a third of the emigrants), walked to Utah from the end of the railroad lines at Iowa City, Iowa, hauling their supplies in handcarts that they pushed and pulled across the rolling plains, accompanied by a few wagons in each party to carry heavier baggage.
In the first year of operation, the fourth and fifth handcart companies, headed by James G. Willie and Edward Martin, left late in the season because of delays in obtaining handcarts. These hardy pioneers were caught in an early snowstorm on the plains of Wyoming. When Brigham Young heard of the delay, he collected food, clothing, teams, and wagons for their relief. Both companies were rescued, but only after more than two hundred, about one-fifth of the total party had frozen to death. The last group reached their destination at the end of November.

Talking with Junko, Hiroyuki, Tetsu, Mikako, and the other young members from the Tokyo area, it was easy to wonder what Elder Heber J. Grant or other early missionaries to Japan might say if they could speak to them today. On August 12, 1901, Elder Grant (who later became the seventh president of the Church), along with three other elders including 19-year-old Alma O. Taylor, sailed into Tokyo Bay to open the first LDS mission in Asia. During the next 23 years, only 166 baptisms were recorded, and the mission was closed, not to reopen in Japan until 1948.

My name is Modibo Diarra. In 1981 I had the honor of being the first person to be baptized a member of the Church in my native land of Mali. It is hard to believe how much my life has changed since then, and that it all happened because my dog was sick!

One day, my dog got sick, and I thought it might be a case of rabies. At that time I was a school teacher, and one of my students told me about an American veterinarian, Dr. Jerry Zaugg, who was working in Mali. I arranged for Dr. Zaugg to come to our house and asked my wife to prepare tea for him, as is the custom here. But our guest declined to drink the tea. He said it was contrary to the teachings of his church. That interested me, and I asked him many questions.

Several good things came from that visit. First, I learned that my dog did not have rabies. But, more importantly, Dr. Zaugg asked me to tutor him in French. I agreed to do so, and after each of our French lessons, Dr. Zaugg would tell me about his church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

He invited me to attend Church services with two American families who were meeting in a house. The meetings were in English, which I did not speak well then, but the Church members gave me books in French: the Book of Mormon, the Doctrine and Covenants, and A Marvelous Work and a Wonder. The Spirit was beautiful and strong, and eventually I was converted and baptized.

As a young boy, I frequently visited the mission home whilst my father served there—first as district president under the leadership of mission president George Cannon, and then as a counsellor to his successor, Clifford Johnson. I enjoyed the feeling of the Spirit there, as well as my first experience of the old missionary favourite, ‘Sloppy Joes’.

Gray dawn had come. Pacha, a mountain boy of Peru, went out from his thatched hut to the place where the llamas rested at night. His whistle was low, his voice gentle, “Come, llamas!”
The six long-necked, woolly animals rose slowly to their feet while Pacha explained the new day. “When the sun comes,” he told them, “we will go with Papá down the mountain—to the market fair in the valley.”
The llamas made no sound, but Pacha felt sure that they understood. As they marched in stately line from the stone-enclosed corral, he stroked their thick fur, calling each by name. “Ocle … Astro … Yana …” They were brown llamas with patches of yellowish white—all but Nubi, the smallest and youngest. Nubi was pure black.
Pacha loved them all. They were his friends, his companions. But he couldn’t help wishing that one of them was his very own. He wished it more than anything else.
A boy living farther up the mountain owned a llama. It had been given to him the day he brought his father’s string of llamas safely around a dangerous mountain landslide.
Ever since, Pacha had tried hard to think of something he might do—a deed so big and important that he would deserve a llama of his own. “I would choose you,” he whispered into the velvety ear of Nubi, the last to leave the corral. And Nubi’s small head gently nudged Pacha’s shoulder.
Outside the corral, the llamas formed a circle with their heads turned inward, waiting patiently for the loads to be tied to their backs. First Pacha and his father folded into a bunch the long, coarse hair that grew on each animal’s back. This made a soft padding for their loads, which today would be lighter. Instead of the usual dried corn and hard mountain potatoes, the woven carrying bags were filled with llama fleece.
“It is good wool. We can trade it for many things we need,” said Papá as he tied the last bag in place. Only Nubi carried no load. She was still too young.
The man and the boy now turned their faces toward the eastern sky, waiting for the sun. The wind was strong and cold! Shivering under his red and blue poncho, Pacha pulled the earflaps of his tasseled cap closer.
At last a rosy glow came up from behind the farthest snow peak. “It is time,” said Papá.
Pacha’s whistle was low, his voice gentle. “Come, llamas.”
Ocli had been chosen leader because he could pick the best way. The golden bell on his neck tinkled. Although the trail winding down the mountain was rocky and very steep, the padded hoofs of the llamas never stumbled. Pacha stayed close behind Nubi, the last in line. Papá followed.
As they descended into the valley, the air grew warmer. Wildflowers bloomed purple and yellow and crimson. Then they saw the red roofs of the town in the valley, and soon they were making their way along a narrow, turning street. Their sandals slap-slapped on the worn cobblestones, and the hoofs of the llamas swish-swished.
An automobile, its horn blaring, crowded them. But the llamas strode on in perfect order, their heads high. Even Nubi stepped with pride and dignity all the way to the market fair in the center of town.
Pacha sniffed. “Mmmm!” How good the fresh bread smelled! “Mmmm!” How delicious it tasted when his father, smiling at Pacha’s eagerness, sold some wool, then bought a loaf.
Their next stop was a fruit stall, where they bought big, yellow-orange papayas. Farther on, they added sugar cane and rock salt to their purchases, also a shepherd’s knife for shearing the llamas and a round clay cooking pot.
Now they had only enough time to get the clothing they needed: white trousers and new caps—a red one for Pacha, a white one for his father.
“We will take the rest of the wool to our friend Don Jacinto,” said Papá, “then buy our clothes at the indoor market.” He led the way down another street to a building with arches and pillars before it.
After taking as many bundles of wool as he could carry, Papá carried them into the store, saying, “Stay with the llamas, my son.”
The llamas quietly folded their legs beneath them and lay down to rest. Pacha was about to do the same, when a boy in town clothes hurried up. “Haven’t you heard?” he cried. “Foot races! They start over there!” He pointed to a nearby fountain.
The first race was for boys their size, he quickly explained, and it would start soon. As he ran off in the direction of the fountain, he called back, “The winner gets a prize! A fine prize!”
Pacha’s thoughts were awhirl! He had never run a race, but he knew that his legs were strong from climbing mountains. To win a race and a fine prize would be something big and important for him to do. At last his chance had come!
Pacha’s heart thumped with excitement. He started running to catch up with the boy.
Then suddenly he stopped. The llamas! They wouldn’t understand being left alone. Something might happen to them. He couldn’t run this race, after all. A lump too big to swallow came into his throat. He started to run again, this time back to the llamas.
All six animals stared at him with dark, sad eyes that were full of questions. Pacha spoke soothingly. “Of course I wouldn’t leave you, llamas.”
He stooped and put his arms around black Nubi. He hugged and patted each woolly animal. Even when he heard the loud boom that signaled the boys’ race, he stayed with them. The llamas, comforted, softly hummed.
A man’s deep voice spoke. “Ah, Pacha, why are you not running with the others?” It was Don Jacinto. He had come with Papá from the indoor market.
Before Pacha could explain, his father spoke. “Pacha was left in charge of the llamas. He could not leave them, not even to run a race.” To Pacha’s amazement, Papá seemed very pleased that his son wasn’t trying to win a race. Pacha’s heart felt light again.
Don Jacinto had turned to look at the wool still tied to the llamas’ backs. His eyes fell on Nubi. “A fine black one!” he exclaimed. “When you have fleece from this llama, I will pay extra.”
Pacha’s father was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “The black one now belongs to Pacha. Her fleece will be his.”
At first, Pacha couldn’t believe what his ears had heard. Nubi his? A llama of his own?
Papá turned to Pacha. “Our llamas serve us well. In return, we must take good care of them, my son. Now that I’m sure you understand this, I give you Nubi.”
It took Pacha a while to find his voice. “Gracias, Papá. Oh, gracias!” he exclaimed. He looked up at Don Jacinto and said, “When Nubi is sheared, I will bring the black fleece to you.”
It was time to start the homeward march. The sun, warm now, would set quickly. The stinging chill of the wind would return. The travelers needed to reach their mountain home before the trail darkened. Pacha’s whistle was low, his voice gentle. “Come, llamas!”
Ocli’s golden bell tinkled. The carrying bags, repacked with new possessions, swayed lightly on the animals’ backs.
Pacha, staying close to Nubi, thought over the happenings of the day. It had been a wonderful market fair, and he had learned something he would always remember: Small deeds can be as important as big ones.

In August 2003 I started my own company doing painting, gardening, landscaping, and maintenance work. Things aren’t always easy when you have your own company, especially when starting out. At the beginning of one month, Rebeca and I needed to pay rent for our home. We didn’t have a penny. So one morning we prayed that we might somehow obtain the money we needed. Later that day I was hired for a job that paid enough to cover our rent.

Meanwhile, in Korea in the early 1950s, other events were unfolding that would eventually change the Los Angeles Stake. As war enveloped that ancient land, which had been closed to Western influence and missionary work up to that time, gospel seeds were being planted by Latter-day Saint servicemen who lived their religion as they performed their military duties.
At the same time, Kim Ho Jik was pursuing his doctorate at Cornell University in Ithaca, New York. He was trapped in a long separation from his family in Korea by the war, and his tears of concern wet his pillow by night. In that circumstance and mood he was impressed by the good works and doctrine of Latter-day Saint friends. He joined the Church and became the first elder of the Church from the Korean culture. Returning to Korea after the war, he became vice minister of education for the country and the leading elder among the Korean Saints. (See “Kim Ho Jik: Korean Pioneer,” Tambuli, February 1989, page 8.)
Soon Latter-day Saint missionaries replaced servicemen in leadership positions, and the missionaries began teaching the gospel in the Korean language. As a member of the military, I was there to meet Elders Powell and Deton, the first missionaries to arrive in Seoul. Branches, districts, and missions led to wards, stakes, and a temple. Hundreds of thousands of Koreans, including some of the Saints, emigrated to the United States and other countries. Many joined the Church in their new countries. Both at home and abroad, Koreans became a part of the worldwide Church, changing and enriching its tapestry. Many came into the Los Angeles Stake, where a Korean branch was formed. East was beginning to meet West—and this time in the West.

Throughout his life Joseph F. loved his father with a special kind of devotion, a devotion prompted by the choice relationship that can exist between father and son. His last memory of his father, as Hyrum rode off to Carthage, was vivid. “Without getting off his horse,” President Smith related later, “father leaned over in his saddle and picked me up off the ground. He kissed me goodbye and put me down again and I saw him ride away.” This experience was to be followed by days of uncertainty and then a night of terror. “I remember the night of the murder … when one of the brethren came from Carthage and knocked on our window after dark and called to my mother, ‘Sister Smith, your husband has been killed.’” This occurred when he was only six years of age. As a mature man he still remembered the uncertainty and terror of that night.

Elder Kikuchi served in Japan as Executive Administrator from 1978 till 1982 and was there when area conferences were held in many places in Asia and the Tokyo Temple was dedicated. Then came another transition: leaving Tokyo—once the strange city but now home—and leaving their homeland itself, the Kikuchi family moved to Salt Lake City to adopt a new language and a new culture. One simply needs to imagine departing his or her native country to understand what an adjustment such a move must involve.
“The English is difficult,” says Sister Kikuchi, who now serves as a Relief Society music director and a visiting teacher, “but we are having a very happy experience here.”
The Kikuchi children—Sarah, nineteen; Renah, sixteen; Ruth, fourteen; and Matthew, ten—have endured the difficulty of leaving Japan and learning a new language. They now attend the same English-speaking schools as their many friends.
“We were homesick at first,” says Elder Kikuchi, “but we are now settled.” Then, with a smile, he adds, “But we do miss sashimi [raw fish].”

I used to have low self-esteem until I realized that people do like you just the way you are. I tried to be somebody that I wasn’t. I wanted to please others so they would like me. It didn’t work. I didn’t make any more friends either. Then I decided that I would act like myself to see what would happen. I ended up being happier, and I also made many more friends. I learned to accept the person I am. People do not like fakes. Accept the person you are, and others will accept you also.
Tammi Taylor, 19Salem, Oregon

Today, let me share a discovery that happened because of a sample group of rabbits.
In the 1970s, researchers set up an experiment to examine the effects of diet on heart health. Over several months, they fed a control group of rabbits a high-fat diet and monitored their blood pressure, heart rate, and cholesterol.
As expected, many of the rabbits showed a buildup of fatty deposits on the inside of their arteries. Yet this was not all! Researchers had discovered something that made little sense. Although all of the rabbits had a buildup, one group surprisingly had as much as 60 percent less than the others. It appeared as though they were looking at two different groups of rabbits.
To scientists, results like this can cause lost sleep. How could this be? The rabbits were all the same breed from New Zealand, from a virtually identical gene pool. They each received equal amounts of the same food.
What could this mean?
Did the results invalidate the study? Were there flaws in the experiment design?
The scientists struggled to understand this unexpected outcome!
Eventually, they turned their attention to the research staff. Was it possible that researchers had done something to influence the results? As they pursued this, they discovered that every rabbit with fewer fatty deposits had been under the care of one researcher. She fed the rabbits the same food as everyone else. But, as one scientist reported, “she was an unusually kind and caring individual.” When she fed the rabbits, “she talked to them, cuddled and petted them. … ‘She couldn’t help it. It’s just how she was.’”
She did more than simply give the rabbits food. She gave them love!
At first glance, it seemed unlikely that this could be the reason for the dramatic difference, but the research team could see no other possibility.
So they repeated the experiment—this time tightly controlling for every other variable. When they analyzed the results, the same thing happened! The rabbits under the care of the loving researcher had significantly higher health outcomes.
The scientists published the results of this study in the prestigious journal Science.
Years later the findings of this experiment still seem influential in the medical community. In recent years, Dr. Kelli Harding published a book titled The Rabbit Effect that takes its name from the experiment. Her conclusion: “Take a rabbit with an unhealthy lifestyle. Talk to it. Hold it. Give it affection. … The relationship made a difference. … Ultimately,” she concludes, “what affects our health in the most meaningful ways has as much to do with how we treat one another, how we live, and how we think about what it means to be human.”

Let us conclude where we began: a compassionate caregiver, extending herself in kindness with a nurturing spirit, and an unexpected outcome—healing the hearts of animals over whom she had stewardship. Why? Because it was just how she was!

Aba Nigeria Temple
President Gordon B. Hinckley dedicated the Aba Nigeria Temple on August 7, 2005. The temple is located near the Ogbor River. As part of the temple construction, the Church built a bridge over the river and a road leading to the temple.
During the dedication ceremonies, President Hinckley said the temple would be a blessing to the people just as the Accra Ghana Temple has been to African Saints since being dedicated in 2004.

Jean A. Stevens
(81) Jean A. Stevens is prompted to offer a ride to a young man who had missed the bus home from school.

I had a similar experience in Idaho some years later. I was attending a stake conference. After the Sunday morning session one of the bishops brought his aged mother up to see me. I had been referring to the Book of Mormon during my sermon and was still holding it in my hand.
She took the book from me, opened it, read a paragraph at random, and then returned the book. I wondered why. Then she said that at the previous stake conference the visitor had been Elder Thomas E. McKay, one of the Assistants to the Council of the Twelve.
She asked me if I knew Elder McKay and of course, I responded that I did. Then she said, “Will you please tell him that I read a paragraph in your book? When he was here at our last conference, my son brought him to my home and had him administer to me. I was blind. Please tell him that I read from your book.”

This is the only known written description of this baptismal site. Between February and May 1840 the first eighty convert baptisms were performed here and it was continuously used up to at least 1847. I knew the burn, but Paisley has grown a great deal over the years and it seemed as if the burn was now underground.
Recently I started a more detailed search for the baptismal site. When researching to identify places I use the resources of the National Library of Scotland. They have a very detailed online collection of maps dating back to the earliest days of Scotland. The older maps can also be overlaid onto the more modern maps. I also used Google Earth and could see that the burn wasn’t underground at all. However, on a particular section no matter where we were standing we didn’t have a direct view of the burn due to tree foliage.
I asked my son, John, to try and get a photograph using a telephoto lens. He did all the legwork as I don’t climb fences anymore. As it turned out, the telescopic lens, though a canny idea, wouldn’t have worked. Mainly because it was behind a garden wall and a good deal lower than ground level, out of sight and too far around the corner. A week later John emailed me this photograph:
There was the “two feet of a waterfall” with “trees all around, a gently rising hill just above”. . . “the place where we immerse in the water. . .only large enough to admit the administrator and the candidate”. Just as Andrew Sprowl had described it.
It turned out to be in the garden of a private residence belonging to a very lovely and accommodating woman by the name of Carol. She was flabbergasted and delighted to hear about the 1840s baptisms, having always wondered about the waterfall’s origins. She told us that the bottom of her large garden, the waterfall part, was gifted to the Royal Burgh of Renfrewshire a long time ago by a previous landowner and as a result, she’s not allowed to alter or landscape in any way.
The waterfall is completely out of sight. It’s probably never been altered, having always been on private land. For members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Carol and her family have been the custodians of this sacred place, hidden and protected from the world.

Or go to the ceramics lab in the Kirkham Building, where Marcy takes a lump of clay, kneads it to remove the air, then “throws” it, centering it carefully on a wheel, opening it with her thumbs, smoothing it with her fingers, pulling with equal pressure inward, outward, upward. Then, just as it’s taking the form of a vase, Marcy groans. Her fingers have slipped, and the clay twists, ill-shapen and uneven. She cuts it free, kneads it again, and starts over.
This is learning of a fundamental kind, learning by doing. Successes outweigh failures only after hours, weeks, and months. But it’s a learning Marcy is coming to understand.

Amos: The Story of an Old Dog and His Couch Amos is a fourteen-year-old Irish setter. That’s pretty old for that kind of dog. Whenever his owners went anywhere, they left Amos at home. Then one day Amos swatted at a fly—and his couch started zooming about! Eventually his owners got in on the fun too.Susan and Schneider Seligson5–10 years