Gospel Story Finder

One who escaped a brush with gang life is Ath Ket, 16, a Cambodian by birth. Ath recalls what his life was like before he encountered the Church: “It was pretty bad. I used to hang around gang members a lot.” And if he hadn’t met the elders that day four years ago as he walked along the Boston Common? “I’d probably be hanging around, fighting, stealing cars, drinking.”
But Ath did meet the Elders and did agree to hear the lessons. He had already been baptized into another church, but the missionaries’ message rang true. “I feel good about the Church. Now I know it’s true. I learn more about it every day.”

“The things I remember about Grandpa were the great stories he would make up and tell to my sister and me as we sat at his feet. They were long adventure stories—real whoppers—almost like science fiction. My sister and I were always part of the tales.
“In one of his stories we were all riding in a car in the desert and discovered a big underground cave. In the back of the cave we found all kinds of jewels and valuable treasures. There was lots of food there for us to eat. The water in the bottom of the cave was boiling hot, but luckily we discovered a speedboat that kept us safe from the heat of the water. We all got into the boat and rode down the river. In his stories like this one, we always found a giant or two or something else exciting. Often we fought these giants and we always won, my grandpa, my sister, and I. We could listen for hours to these exciting stories. There was no television where we lived, but we certainly didn’t miss it.

Another bishop, who had been counseled that bishops need to allow other ward leaders to step up and do their duty, relates this experience: “A widow in our ward wanted to be visited by the bishop at least once a week. In her mind, only a visit from the bishop would do. I tried to see her as often as possible, but I had many responsibilities, including a young family. Finally, with one of my counselors, I went to see her again.
“As we talked, I felt prompted to say, ‘Dear sister, you know that as your bishop I love you. And because I love you so much, I have asked two of our faithful Melchizedek Priesthood holders and two of our wonderful Relief Society sisters to each check on you at least once a month, more often if needed. They will report back if you have any needs or concerns. Would that be all right?’ ‘Oh yes, bishop,’ she said. I asked if she would like to know their names, and she said yes. When I told her, she said, ‘Those are my home teachers and visiting teachers!’ And I said, ‘Now you understand the way the Lord has established for us to watch over you.’”

After they reached Clay County, Missouri, news arrived that a mob of nearly four hundred men were preparing to destroy them. When Joseph heard the news, he knelt beneath the clear blue summer sky and prayed for divine protection.

Not far off, gunfire sounded. The men of Zion’s Camp wanted to fight, but Joseph counseled them to wait and see what God would do.

Suddenly a small black cloud appeared in the west. It moved eastward, growing bigger as it moved, until it filled the heavens with darkness. The first ferryboat of mobbers had crossed the Missouri River south of Zion’s Camp and was returning for another load, when a violent burst of wind hit the boat. Rain poured and the wind soared so hard that the members of Zion’s Camp ran from their tents and found shelter in an old Baptist meetinghouse nearby. Safely inside, Joseph told them that God was in that storm.

The horizon filled with the snaking of lightning bolts—not one after another, but atop and beside each other so that the sky was continually lit, and the thunder roared without stopping. Large hailstones broke branches from trees and destroyed crops. Torrents of rain soaked the mobbers’ ammunition and made it useless. The sights and sounds of the storm frightened the mobbers’ horses away, leaving the mobbers to find their way home, wet, horseless, and frightened.

The next morning, Fishing River, which had been only ankle deep, was more than forty feet (12.2 m) deep. One of the mobbers told Joseph Smith that he knew that God was protecting the Mormons.

Out of all the blessings that Merci has received, there is one in particular that stands out to her: “I lost my mother at 15. With her passing came a lot of questions. However, these questions and the subsequent answers to them have completely shaped my life.” Through honest prayer, Merci has been able to receive comfort that she will be able to one day give her mother the same type of hugs her mother gave her as a little girl. “The truth of the gospel illuminates my everyday life and activities,” she says. “I know I am connected to the divine love of God, and that fulfills me in every way.”

Brayden watched the deacons pass the sacrament up and down the aisles.
How am I going to do that? he wondered. January was only a few weeks away, and then he’d be a deacon. But he couldn’t carry a tray and use his walker at the same time.
After sacrament meeting, Mom helped move Brayden into his transport chair. Then she pushed him to Primary. All through class, Brayden kept wondering about how he’d pass the sacrament.
“Hey, Brayden, can you talk for a minute?” Brother Larsen and Mom were waiting in the hall after Primary.
“Sure!” Brayden said. He loved hanging out with the Larsens, especially their son Josh. Josh was a good friend, almost like a big brother, really. And Brother Larsen was kind of like a dad to Brayden. A really cool dad! He was also one of the advisers in Young Men.
Mom pushed Brayden into an empty classroom.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” Brother Larsen said. “You’re going to be a deacon soon.”
“Yep.”
“And that means passing the sacrament.”
Brayden nodded. “Yeah.” But how? he wondered again.
“Josh and I had an idea. He and the other young men would like to take turns pushing you in your transport chair. That way you can carry a tray. What do you think?”
Brayden smiled. “I think it sounds great.”
The next couple of weeks went by in a flash. He had a New Year’s Eve party that was a ton of fun—a superhero movie night followed by board games. And the book on robotics that Mom gave him for Christmas was awesome. Just the thing to get him ready for the robotics team at school!
Then before he knew it, it was his first Sunday as a deacon. His sister, Rylie, pushed Brayden next to the other deacons before she went to sit by Mom in the chapel.
“Hey, Brayden, you ready?” Josh said quietly as he sat near Brayden.
“I think so,” Brayden said. His assignment was for the rows on the left. That sounded easy enough. But his stomach still felt twisty.
“Good morning, brothers and sisters,” began the bishop.
The meeting felt normal but different at the same time. It had all the normal pieces. But his own part was brand new.
One of the older boys blessed the bread. After the congregation said, “Amen,” Josh handed Brayden the bread tray. The cool metal handle pressed against Brayden’s palm as he gripped it tight. Josh pushed Brayden slowly and reverently to the left side of the room.
Brayden handed the tray to Sister Wright. She smiled at him, ate a piece of the broken bread, and then passed the tray down her row.
I’m doing it, thought Brayden. I’m passing the sacrament!
“Thanks for helping me today,” Brayden said to Josh after church was over. Then he gave him a mischievous smile. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going easy on you next Friday night for video games!”
Brayden and Josh laughed. Brayden was glad he got to pass the sacrament. He knew what an important and sacred ordinance it was.
He was also glad to be part of such a great deacons quorum with friends who were willing to help him! He would be glad to help them too. Especially if anybody ever needed help building an awesome robot!

“Let’s get off the train here and walk home, Katja,” Michaela suggested. She put away her knitting, zipped her coat, and stood up. “We can be home before the train even starts for the next station.”
“Sure. Why not?” Katja said. She pulled on her warm knitted cap and followed Michaela off the train. The two girls had often walked from this station to their family’s small apartment in Switzerland. They went down the stairs to the walkway under the tracks. As they got to the bottom and turned toward the exit, they both stopped.
“We have to go back,” Michaela whispered.
“I know,” Katja said, nodding solemnly. “We have to get back on the train.”
Together, they climbed the stairs, got back on the train, and waited. They were quiet, each thinking about what had happened. At last, the train started, and they rode to the station near their home. They walked home in silence.
“Girls, what happened?” Mom asked, seeing the serious look on their faces.
“Mom, the Holy Ghost prompted us not to walk home,” Michaela said.
“Yes. We had to stop,” Katja said. “It seemed like there was a wall blocking the exit, but it wasn’t a wall we could see.”
“We both knew immediately that we had to get back on the train.” Michaela shook her head. “I never knew the Spirit could be so strong.”
“Oh, my girls!” Mom cried. She gathered them into a big hug. “I’m so glad you are in tune with the Spirit so He can prompt you and keep you safe.”
“But what would have hurt us?” Katja asked. “We’ve walked home from that station lots of times.”
“We’ll never know,” Mom said. She smiled. “I’m so grateful you are all right!”
As they knelt to give thanks for their protection, Michaela said, “I will never forget how it feels to listen to the Spirit and do exactly what He says.”

I am grateful to the Lord that my temple memories extend back even to young boyhood. I remember so well, as a little boy, coming in from the field and approaching the old farm house in Whitney, Idaho. I could hear my mother singing “Have I done any good in the world today?” (Hymns, 1985, no. 223).
In my mind’s eye, I can still see her bending over the ironing board with newspapers on the floor, ironing long strips of white cloth, with beads or perspiration on her forehead. When I asked her what she was doing, she said, “These are temple robes, my son.”
Then she put the old flatiron on the stove, drew a chair close to mine, and told me about temple work—how important it is to be able to go to the temple and participate in the sacred ordinances performed there. She also expressed her fervent hope that someday her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren would have the opportunity to enjoy these priceless blessings.

Approximately 18 months ago, in the fall of 2017, my 64-year-old brother Mike informed me that he had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He also told me that he had received a priesthood blessing from his home teacher and that he had met with his bishop. He later texted me a picture of the Oakland California Temple taken from the hospital where he was receiving treatment, with the caption “Look what I can see from my hospital room.”
I was as surprised by his comments about home teachers, priesthood blessings, bishops, and temples as I was about the cancer. You see, Mike, a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood, hadn’t regularly attended church for close to 50 years.
As a family, we were almost as intrigued with his spiritual progress as we were with his progress in fighting the cancer, largely because of his now frequent questions about the Book of Mormon, the sealing power, and life after death. As the months passed and the cancer spread, a need for additional and more specialized treatment eventually brought Mike to Utah and the Huntsman Cancer Institute.
Shortly after his arrival, Mike was visited by John Holbrook, the ward mission leader of the ward that served the care facility where he was now living. John commented that “it was obvious to me that Mike was a son of God” and that they quickly developed a bond and a friendship, which led to John becoming Mike’s de facto ministering brother. There was an immediate invitation to have the missionaries visit, which my brother politely declined, but a month into their friendship, John asked again, explaining to Mike, “I think you’d enjoy hearing the gospel message.” This time the invitation was accepted, leading to meetings with the missionaries, as well as visits with Bishop Jon Sharp, whose conversations eventually led to Mike receiving his patriarchal blessing, 57 years after his baptism.
In early December of last year, following months of procedures, Mike decided to stop the cancer treatments, which were causing severe side effects, and to just let nature take its course. We were informed by his doctor that Mike had approximately three months to live. In the meantime, the gospel questions continued—as did the visits and support of his local priesthood leaders. On our visits with Mike, we often saw an open copy of the Book of Mormon on the bedstand as we discussed the Restoration of the gospel, priesthood keys, temple ordinances, and the eternal nature of man.
By mid-December, with his patriarchal blessing in hand, Mike actually appeared to be gaining strength, and his prognosis of at least another three months seemed likely. We even made plans for him to join us for Christmas, for New Year’s, and beyond. On December 16, I received an unexpected call from Bishop Sharp, who informed me that he and the stake president had interviewed Mike, had found him worthy to receive the Melchizedek Priesthood, and asked when I would be available to participate. The ordinance was scheduled for that Friday, December 21.
When the day arrived, my wife, Carol, and I arrived at the care facility and were immediately met in the hallway near his room and informed that Mike had no pulse. We entered the room to find the patriarch, his bishop, and his stake president already waiting—and then Mike opened his eyes. He recognized me and acknowledged that he could hear me and was ready to receive the priesthood. Fifty years after Mike had been ordained a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood, I had the privilege, assisted by his local leaders, to confer the Melchizedek Priesthood and ordain my brother to the office of elder. Five hours later, Mike passed away, crossing the veil to meet our parents as a holder of the Melchizedek Priesthood.
In response to that invitation from a prophet of God, remarkable efforts to minister to the one are taking place all over the world, in both coordinated efforts, as members faithfully fulfill their ministering assignments, as well as in what I’ll call “impromptu” ministering, as so many demonstrate Christlike love in response to unexpected opportunities. In our own family, we witnessed, up close, this type of ministering.
John, who was Mike’s friend, ministering brother, and a former mission president, used to tell his missionaries that “if someone is on a list that says ‘not interested,’ don’t give up. People change.” He then told us, “Mike changed mightily.” John was first a friend, providing frequent encouragement and support—but his ministering didn’t stop at friendly visits. John knew that a minister is more than a friend and that friendship is magnified as we minister.
Knowing that he would soon die, my brother Mike commented, “It’s amazing how pancreatic cancer can make you focus on what’s most important.” Thanks to wonderful men and women who saw a need, did not judge, and ministered like the Savior, it wasn’t too late for Mike. For some, change may come sooner; for others, perhaps beyond the veil. However, we must remember that it is never too late and no one has ever wandered so far from the path that he or she is beyond the reach of the infinite Atonement of Jesus Christ, which is limitless in its duration and scope.

I have heard President Nelson share the story of his eight-year-old daughter who came to him one Sunday and asked if she could go sleigh riding with a family in the ward. He said, “I knew it was not wise to answer either yes or no. We opened the Bible to Exodus 31:13: ‘Verily my sabbaths ye shall keep: for it is a sign between me and you throughout your generations.’ Then I asked her how she felt about going sleigh riding on the Sabbath. She said, ‘Dad, I want to show Heavenly Father that I love Him, so I’m not going.’”
President Nelson continued: “After a generation had passed and my daughter was now a mother, I was in her home when her young son asked her permission with a very similar request. It was fascinating and gratifying for me to watch her open the Bible with my grandson and read that same verse.”

“Stephen became friends with people because he took time to notice them. I remember one day at the shopping center he said to me, ‘Hey, Mom, let’s go over there, I want to speak to that guy.’ He went over, and he congratulated the man on his promotion and asked what his new duties entailed. The man explained, and they chatted away. Later, I asked Stephen how he knew the man had had a promotion. ‘If you look at the sleeves of their uniforms, you’ll see they have some gold braid on the cuffs. That guy only had one stripe on last week, and this week he has two, so I figured it must mean a promotion.’”

I broke up with my first boyfriend on a clear summer night.
Earlier that day, Carter (name has been changed) and I had been fighting—which wasn’t abnormal in our three-year, on-and-off relationship. We fought about everything—from what to eat to future plans. In the beginning, I waved our differences aside with the adage that “opposites attract.” But our occasional playful banter eventually morphed into an exhausting chain of disagreements.
That summer night we had taken a telescope into the desert to look at the planets. But we found that the brightness of the moon against the dark sky obscured our view. Frustrated, we started arguing—again.
I ended up walking off to compose myself. “This isn’t me,” I thought. I was known as the peacemaker among my siblings, and I spoke gently and kindly to my other friends. So why was I yelling at the guy I claimed to love?
I looked up at the dark sky and prayed to know how I could improve my relationship with Carter. Suddenly, overwhelming peace replaced my anger, and I felt impressed that the best thing I could do for both of us was to end our relationship.
Healing took time. There were moments I was tempted to dismiss the prompting to break up with Carter because I missed the familiarity of our relationship. I sometimes felt frustrated at God, believing that He had slammed one door shut without opening another. Even so, I clung to the counsel of Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles: “In moments of fear or doubt or troubling times … hold fast to what you already know and stand strong until additional knowledge comes” (“Lord I Believe,” Liahona, May 2013, 93–94).
I didn’t receive that “additional knowledge” for many months, and I began to wonder if I ever would. After one of my heartfelt prayers about the breakup, the Spirit pressed on my heart, telling me that Heavenly Father’s promptings are for the well-being of His children. The details of His reasoning aren’t as relevant as my faith in Him is.
Knowing that Heavenly Father had a plan for me gave me hope for my future and helped me to start dating again. One morning I read Doctrine and Covenants 88:40, where the Lord teaches that “light cleaveth unto light.” I suddenly realized that this principle can apply to dating. I knew I would be happier with someone who shared my values and light.
I eventually met Austin. We connected instantly, from our love of tacos to our respective stateside missions. His gentle spirit felt familiar and compatible with mine, and I eventually married him. What we have isn’t an explosive relationship like you might expect in a popular romance movie. It’s sweet and stable—something I believe can last forever.
Many of us yearn for an explanation when we receive difficult promptings. From my experience, I learned that faith in the Lord can help us remain obedient without knowing the why. As we trust in an all-knowing God, we can feel peace in our decisions to act on promptings until we do receive the “additional knowledge” He has promised the faithful.

I found the first when I was welcomed into a priests quorum, with the bishop as our president. That may seem a small, unremarkable thing to you, but it gave me a sense of power in the priesthood that has changed my service in the priesthood ever since. It began by the way he led us.

As near as I could tell, he treated the opinions of young priests as if we were the wisest men in the world. He waited until all who would speak had spoken. He listened. And when he decided what should be done, it seemed to me that the Spirit confirmed the decisions to us and to him.

I realize now I had felt what the scripture means when it says that the president is to sit in council with the members of his quorum.1 And years later as I was a bishop with my priests quorum, both they and I were taught by what I had learned as a young priest.

In order to better understand this principle, please consider Aesop’s fable “The Hare and the Tortoise.” After being taunted repeatedly for being slow, the Tortoise challenged the Hare to a race. As the race began, the two started off together. However, the Hare ran rapidly towards the goal and, seeing that he could easily win, lay down and fell asleep a short distance in front of the finish line. The Tortoise maintained a slow but steady and consistent pace toward the finish line. When the Hare awoke from his nap, he started running as fast as he could, only to find that the Tortoise had won the race. The Tortoise is a classic illustration of steadiness and persistence. The Hare, on the other hand, is an example of a “spurter”—one who is given to short bursts of spectacular effort followed by frequent and lengthy periods of rest.

It takes forever to clean the slate when you get behind in your nut cracking. Once our family was planning a vacation. Dad decided that we weren’t going until everyone had his nuts cracked. Those who didn’t have nuts to crack were encouraged to help the others. We started out being grumpy, but by the end, we were all working together and actually enjoying it! Spending that time together, just talking while we were at our nut cracking, made us closer.

“Roberto,” Mamá called. “Time for dinner!”
Roberto forgot all about the cars he was playing with and ran to the table. Papá and Carlos were already sitting in their places. Roberto could smell his favorite food, a steaming bowl of fideos. He climbed into his seat and reached for the slippery noodles.
“Roberto, did you forget something?” Papá asked.
Roberto slid down and raced to the bathroom. He washed his hands and dried them quickly. Mamá was just sitting down at the table when Roberto got back. He climbed up on the chair beside her and reached for the noodles again.
This time Mamá stopped him. “Roberto, have you forgotten something?” Roberto looked around. Everyone’s arms were folded, and Carlos was bowing his head. Roberto folded his arms and bowed his head too. Papá asked Carlos to pray.
Roberto heard Carlos thank Heavenly Father for the food, but then Roberto began to think about Mamá’s yummy fideos and he didn’t listen to the rest of the prayer. As soon as Carlos said “Amen,” Roberto grabbed the serving spoon. He piled the noodles on his plate until Mamá took the spoon away.
“Eat that much,” she said. “Then if you’re still hungry, you can have more.”
When he finished all the noodles on his plate, Roberto wasn’t hungry at all. He couldn’t eat one more bite, not even when Mamá brought out the flan she had made for dessert. He watched Carlos smile as he spooned the custard into his bowl. Roberto wished everyone would hurry and finish so that he could go back to his cars.
At last Papá leaned back and smiled at Mamá. “That was wonderful,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Yes, thank you, Mamá,” said Carlos.
“May I be excused?” Roberto asked.
Roberto played until bedtime. Carlos helped him make buildings and houses out of blocks. They made tunnels to drive their cars under. They were almost done making a city when Mamá announced, “Bedtime.”
After their prayers, Papá told Roberto and Carlos a story. It was a story from the Bible about when Jesus Christ helped ten men who were lepers. “Do you know what a leper is, Roberto?” Papá asked.
“A big cat!”
Papá laughed. “No, that’s a leopard. Lepers are people who are very sick—so sick that sometimes they have to go away and live by themselves. The Savior made the lepers well again so they could go home and live with their families. But only one of the men remembered to say thank you.”
“Oh,” Roberto said. “Why?”
“I don’t know why they didn’t thank Jesus. What do you think, Carlos?”
Carlos thought for a moment. “I think they were so happy to go home that they forgot all about it.”
Papá nodded. “And what do you think, Roberto?”
Roberto suddenly jumped out of his bed. “Just a minute,” he said. “I remembered something.” He ran downstairs.
Mamá was putting away the dinner dishes. She was surprised to see Roberto. “Aren’t you supposed to be in bed?”
“I have to tell you something first. You made my favorite food for me, but I forgot to say gracias (thank you).”
Mamá smiled. “You’re welcome. I like to do things for you, especially when you remember to say thank you.”
Roberto ran back upstairs to his bedroom. Carlos was listening to Papá finish the story. “Thank you for playing with me today,” Roberto told Carlos. “And thank you, Papá, for telling me stories about Jesus.”
“You’re welcome,” Papá said and turned off the light. “Good night, Roberto. Good night, Carlos.”
But Roberto didn’t go right to sleep. He lay still and thought of the many things he was thankful for. He felt happy, and he wished he could give Heavenly Father a hug. At last he slipped out of bed and said another prayer. This time he really meant it when he thanked Heavenly Father for fideos, and for Mamá, Papá, and Carlos. “And gracias,” he added, “for helping me remember to say gracias.”

Our oldest son loved kindergarten and seemed to do well in school. In first grade, however, it became apparent to us that he was not reading. He could read a few words here and there but struggled with even beginning reading assignments. Months passed, and our son’s reading skills scarcely progressed. My husband and I became increasingly concerned.
One day I remembered something my mission president had taught years earlier. I had been called to a foreign-language mission. Learning the Russian language was a challenge of varying degrees for each missionary, and our mission president counseled us to read the Book of Mormon in Russian every day. He promised us that the power of the Book of Mormon would aid us in our ability to communicate in Russian. He was right. Over time I became better at both speaking and understanding the language, and my testimony grew.
Years after my mission, I found myself thinking, “If it worked for me in Russian, why wouldn’t it work for my son in English?” After telling our son about my struggle to learn Russian and my mission president’s advice, my husband and I challenged him to read on his own from the Book of Mormon every day. He would spend time highlighting the words God and Lord as he found them on the pages. Soon he moved on to Jesus. After that he would pick out words he had seen and ask what they were. He was diligent in his daily reading, and by the end of the year his reading level had surpassed our expectations.
Now our son is in the sixth grade. He is an exceptional reader and helps teach his five younger siblings about the gift he received through reading the Book of Mormon. Each of our children has developed strong reading skills and a habit of reading the Book of Mormon. They are beginning to feel its powerful spirit of truth as their testimonies grow.

My great-mamaw, Grace Wells, was always kind and gentle. She was always there when I needed her. She used to come from Lexington, Kentucky, for the Fourth of July. We played games like piñata, kickball, and soccer. We threw water balloons at each other. She gave me a jump rope and taught me tricks using it. The third word I said when I was a baby was Mamaw. She was proud to have me for a great-granddaughter. We used to go to her house for Christmas and exchange gifts.
A few years ago, the doctor said that she had Alzheimer’s disease. She had more and more trouble remembering things. Sometimes she did not even recognize her family. On Sunday, February 25, 2001, she died at home while listening to a Primary song, “Mother, I Love You.” I never knew my Great-Aunt Carolyn, who lived with her, to sing. But she started singing with the rest of her brothers and sisters who were sitting at Mamaw’s bedside. When the song ended, Mamaw took her last breath.
The funeral was really nice. People talked about all the nice and fun things Mamaw did with everyone. It was sad, too, because everyone will miss her very much.
I’ll never sell the jump rope she gave me, and I’ll never forget the special memories I have of her. I have a picture of her and me. She is in a better place, and I will get to see her again.
Kellie Slinker, age 9Knob Lick, Kentucky

Just how the dream came to be no one really knows, but Brother Anderson envisioned a complete historical file that could vividly tell the story of the Church in pictures, with a minimum of words. Such photographs, he reasoned, would be invaluable missionary tools to interest untold thousands, perhaps millions, in the Church.
But how could these pictures be produced? If only he could study the landscapes where the Prophet Joseph Smith was born, where he had his visions and revelations, where he built cities, and finally where he spilled his blood! Such a trip would take years and something else quite out of reach—money.
An opportunity for just such a trip came in 1907. Shortly after Brother Anderson was released as bishop of his ward in Springville, Utah, he was called to go on a mission to England. To get there, he would have to pass through historic Mormon country. Receiving permission to stop off and photograph the historic sites, he visited and photographed Nauvoo, Kirtland, Independence, New York, Vermont, Pennsylvania, and many sites in between. His pictures are a documentary of what these places looked like shortly after the turn of the century, spiced by the human interest of people who lived there at the time.
On his way home from his mission, Elder Anderson stopped off again to make even more pictures of historic Church scenes. And even after his return to Springville, he was still obsessed with the urge to document Church history. While he was in Arizona in 1928 to photograph the construction and completion of the Arizona Temple, he became ill and had to return home prematurely. He died 9 May 1928 in Springville, Utah.
After the funeral of George Edward Anderson, Eva Crandall, a young neighbor, wrote about “Our Village Photographer” for a local newspaper:
“The ground he traveled was hallowed to him. I can almost hear him say, ‘I must have a picture of this sacred spot. … When I return all will be changed. Some of these old landmarks will be obliterated. Who will see them as I see them now?’”

Another time I was in a distant city. After a conference we were ordaining and setting apart leaders. As we concluded, the stake president asked, “Can we ordain a young man to be an elder who is leaving for the mission field?” The answer, of course, was yes.

As the young man came forward, he motioned for three brethren to follow and stand in for his ordination.

I noticed on the back row a carbon copy of this boy, and I asked, “Is that your father?”

The young man said, “Yes.”

I said, “Your father will ordain you.”

And he protested, “But I’ve already asked another brother to ordain me.”

And I said, “Young man, your father will ordain you, and you’ll live to thank the Lord for this day.”

Then the father came forward.

Thank goodness he was an elder. Had he not been, he soon could have been! In the military they would call that a battlefield commission. Sometimes such things are done in the Church.

The father did not know how to ordain his son. I put my arm around him and coached him through the ordinance. When he was finished, the young man was an elder. Then something wonderful happened. Completely changed, the father and son embraced. It was obvious that had never happened before.

The father, through his tears, said, “I didn’t get to ordain my other boys.”

Think how much more was accomplished than if another had ordained him, even an Apostle.