Gospel Story Finder

But example is often not enough. We also need to guide our children’s use of agency. This must be done gently—with love, not force. Three-year-old Michael was getting ready for bed when he announced to his father, “I don’t want to say my prayers tonight.” His father did not scold or shame him or try to force him to pray. He gently lifted Michael to his lap and said, “Michael, I would like to tell you why I say my prayers.” He then told of the blessings for which he wanted to thank Heavenly Father and of the good feeling he had when he asked our Heavenly Father to watch over him. Soon Michael was naming his own blessings. After a while, he jumped down from his father’s lap saying, “Now I want to say my prayer.”

The father simply and sincerely shared his own feelings about the importance of prayer—it could have been any worthy thing—and the child could sense his father’s love, both for him and for Heavenly Father.

This commandment is not just for His Apostles; it is for all of God’s children. Sometimes members of the Church don’t understand this. When I was a stake president many years ago, I extended a call to a brother to be a stake high councilor. After I extended the call, the brother said with a heart of delight, “Now I have the opportunity to help in the Lord’s work.” I felt prompted to help the brother understand that the invitation to serve is indeed for all and not just for those who have been sustained to a calling in the Church. As the Saviour told us in 3 Nephi 27:21: “This is my gospel; and ye know the things that ye must do in my church; for the works which ye have seen me do that shall ye also do; for that which ye have seen me do even that shall ye do.”

Recently I observed young men who attracted attention to themselves because of their extreme styles of dress and grooming. One made a revealing remark when he said, “I’m trying to find out who I really am.” This occurred after I had come from a Church meeting where Primary children had sung “I Am a Child of God” (Hymns, no. 301). Such contrasting experiences emphasize the importance of knowing that we are literally children of God.

Surfing. Sunbathing. Luaus. Hula dancing.
All these things might be what pop into someone’s mind when they think of Hawaii. But, consider this instead: ho‘ike (ho-ee-kay), a word that means “to show or exhibit.” To learn more about their heritage, the youth of the Honolulu Hawaii West Stake put on a ho’ike to tell the stories of how the Church came to the Polynesian islands.
The ho‘ike depicted a journey through Polynesia that honored their ancestors through song and dance and taught of the work of the gospel of Jesus Christ among the people of Polynesia. Through this performance the youth not only connected with their past, but they also grew closer to each other and the Lord.
“Through this experience, our young people have learned to respect and celebrate other heritages, strengthen relationships with one another, and develop talents many did not know they possessed,” said Harry Murray, the emcee for the event. “This labor of love was both challenging and fun, both educational and spiritual for all involved. The greatest lesson has been the realization that the gospel of Jesus Christ brings us all together despite our varied backgrounds and fosters attributes within us that are universal.”
For some youth this meant learning about their own ancestors, but for many it meant learning about another culture and its history.
“It was really fun to get together with other youth from other wards and learn about a whole new culture. It was great to help some of my friends honor their ancestors,” said Devon Tenney, 15, of the Aiea Ward. “We were also able to look to the past for strength. It was really inspirational.”
Devon was part of the group that represented Aotearoa, or New Zealand. Other islands represented that night were Tahiti, Tonga, Samoa, Hawaii, and Fiji.
“We learned the cultures’ songs and also their stories,” said Robert Landgraf, from the Nuuanu Ward. “It’s important that our ancestors were strong in the gospel, so we can follow their example.”
The ho‘ike helped youth learn about other cultures and customs and also strengthened their testimonies.
“The best part of the ho‘ike was that we learned that no matter where the gospel is, whether it is in Aotearoa, Samoa, or Tahiti, the gospel is the same and the Spirit is just as strong,” said Talia Fermantez of the Pearlridge Ward.
While the performance night was fun, the hours of rehearsal were what really brought these youth together.
“My favorite part was the practices because it really helped the youth get closer. We practiced with other wards, and we are closer now,” said Kalima Watson from the Kalihi Ward. “This experience shows the unification of our youth. We can all come together and do something amazing despite our diversities.”
Elder Yoshihiko Kikuchi of the Seventy was in attendance that night and shared his thoughts on the event. “We see today these faithful, young, wholesome, beautiful people demonstrating the Spirit of our Heavenly Father. It is pleasing unto Him today and is a glorious inspiration to us.”

“Please, Mom, can we invite Sister Fuhriman just one more time?” Greg pleaded. His younger brothers’ anxious faces poked out from behind Greg like pegs on a coat rack.
“It will be Christmas Eve, and she shouldn’t be alone,” Layne said. Scott and Jim nodded.
“You know how many times we have tried to invite Sister Fuhriman to our house,” Mom said. “She rarely goes out. But you may invite her for Christmas Eve if you like.”
The boys cheered and bounded outside.
Soon the door burst open again. “It’s a miracle, Mom!” Greg called. “She said she’d love to come. Isn’t that great?”
The next day snow started falling. Greg knew that Sister Fuhriman avoided going outside in bad weather, even to the mailbox. “Do you think she will still come tomorrow?” Greg asked. Mom wasn’t sure.
On Christmas Eve, Aunt Carolyn and her three children arrived just as Layne finished cleaning up the kitchen after dinner. “Can we go get Sister Fuhriman now?” Layne asked.
“All right,” Dad said. “Remember to help her as she walks across the road. It’s slick outside.”
“We will, Dad,” Scott said.
“And if she decides not to come after all, don’t make her feel bad about not coming,” Dad said.
“We won’t, Dad,” Greg said. The boys stepped outside into the snow-covered landscape. The snow had stopped falling, and there was still a little daylight to show them the way.
Eight-year-old Adam was helping Bekah and Jill get into their costumes for the family Christmas pageant when the boys stepped through the door—helping Sister Fuhriman inside! She smiled cheerily, her cheeks bright from the cold. The family tried not to seem so surprised that their guest of honor had really come.
Dad made Sister Fuhriman feel welcome and helped her choose a seat next to Mom. Greg slipped out of his coat and sat at the piano. After an opening prayer, he began to play Christmas hymns softly. Scott read from the Bible as the younger children acted out the story of the first Christmas. Wearing a bathrobe, three-year-old Bekah reverently played the part of Mary while Dan pretended to be Joseph. Jill played the part of an angel with a gold garland pinned in her hair. Cousins played shepherds and Wise Men, all come to worship the infant King.
Soon the strains of “Silent Night” faded, and the reverence of the sacred story gave way to hugs, smiles, and compliments all around. To finish off the night, they enjoyed Mom’s warm cinnamon rolls. All too soon, the evening was over.
The boys again put on their coats, hats, and mittens to escort Sister Fuhriman across the road. The glow of the porch light pushed away the darkness, making their walk across the snow-packed country road pleasant in spite of the cold.
“Good night, Sister Fuhriman,” Greg called as he and his brothers turned back toward their house.
“Merry Christmas,” Sister Fuhriman called. “And thank you.”
Greg glanced over his shoulder just before he stepped back into his house. Sister Fuhriman was still on her porch, watching. She waved.

I didn’t give up skiing after that first disappointing experience. I went back repeatedly with my family and even took skiing classes in college. It’s now one of my favorite pastimes. I’m grateful I didn’t give it up.

In a previous general conference, Elder Benjamín De Hoyos spoke of such an event. He said:
“Some years ago while serving in the office of public affairs of the Church in Mexico, [a companion and I] were invited to participate in a radio talk show. … [One of the program directors] asked [us], ‘Why does the Church have such a long name? …’
“My companion and I smiled at such a magnificent question and then proceeded to explain that the name of the Church was not chosen by man. It was given by the Savior. … The program director immediately and respectfully responded, ‘We will thus repeat it with great pleasure.’”

There are questions that reason alone cannot answer. The solution to this problem is prayer, and Joseph early discovered its power. He was still in his 20s when he wrote about his youthful searching for answers. He looked above the cathedral spires of the forests and felt deeply that the heaven and earth were stamped with the power of a God who created by eternal laws. He first asked ministers to tell him about God, but he saw contradictions between Christ’s teachings in the Bible and the divided Christians that lacked Christ’s spirit. “This was a grief to my soul,” he wrote. Far from getting a quick answer, he thought and searched the scriptures “from the age of twelve years to fifteen.” In this first detailed telling of the First Vision, Joseph emphasized how he “cried unto the Lord for mercy, for there was none else to whom I could go.” We all know his full answer, when the Savior told him that His church was not then upon the earth. But the greatness of the answer is matched by the seriousness of the search. Joseph prayed after he had done everything in his power.

Sometimes when I must walk to school, it seems a long, long way.
I get to feeling tired and would like to stop and play.
But then I think of pioneers who walked by sun and star;
And suddenly my little walk doesn’t seem so far.

When our children were young, I took them to a pet store to redeem a coupon for a free goldfish. Two hours later we emerged with a puppy, purchased with the children’s own money. That night we put the puppy in the laundry room to sleep. In the morning the room was a mess. The children were expected to clean up, but they felt it was too much. “We can’t!” they sobbed.
That night we held a family home evening on the subject of consequences. “When you bought the dog,” their father said, “you didn’t think about the consequences. Now the dog is part of our family, and you must take responsibility for her.” We discussed how consequences always follow any choice we make, and we encouraged them to always make righteous choices.
The dog recently died after 14 years as part of our family, but the life lessons she helped teach us will always remain.
Jill Grant, Victoria, Australia

I was born in Rigby, Idaho, a farming community of about 2,000 people. About four miles outside of town was a small junkyard. Rigby had a junkyard man, a little old Danish immigrant who couldn’t speak English. He didn’t have a name that I can remember; we just called him the “junkyard man.”
He not only ran the junkyard; he lived there. His home was made of plywood scraps and other junk he had gathered from the yard. He didn’t have any electricity and he lived all alone, except for some dogs to keep him company.
A few times each year he walked four miles into town for groceries. Most people respected him because he worked hard and did a good job. My dad’s mother was a Danish immigrant, so Dad always had a soft spot in his heart for the old man. Whenever we went to the dump, Dad would take him groceries, cookies, or other goodies.
Well, I remember one day when I acted like a real chicken toward the junkyard man; it was a Sunday in 1965. Somehow Dad, who was the bishop, got the junkyard man to come to church that day. I was about 13 years old. I felt real cool sitting there in church in my turtleneck shirt and 100 percent polyester suit, but then it happened. Dad brought the junkyard man to the bench where my family was and sat him down right next to me! I could hear my friends laughing. I was so embarrassed I didn’t even look at the man during sacrament meeting.
After the meeting, I left as fast as I could. Outside, my friends and I really started pecking at the junkyard man, and I was the worst. I told the boys that as the old man sat there I saw “cooties” crawling out of his clothes. I told them he smelled like trash, that his weird wool pants had moth holes in them, and all sorts of other insulting things. The more my friends laughed, the bigger I felt, and the more I “pecked” at him in our conversation.
Of course, he didn’t hear any of this. But about three weeks later, on a particularly cold Idaho night, the pipe of the old man’s coal-burning stove in his house broke. The house filled with thick, sooty smoke and he died in his sleep.
I don’t tell you this story to make you feel sorry for the old man, because his life was not really sad. He was a good man who contributed something to his community and made his own way. The sad part is that I remembered the mean things I said, and it was too late to apologize. I had picked on the old man only because he was different.

The moment I decided to be a teacher is very clear in my mind. During World War II, I was in my early 20s and a pilot in the Air Force. I was stationed on the little island of Ie Shima. This island, a small, lonely one about as big as a postage stamp, is just off the northern tip of Okinawa.
One lonely summer evening, I sat on a cliff to watch the sun go down. I was pondering what I would do with my life after the war, if I was fortunate enough to survive. What did I want to be? It was on that night that I decided I wanted to be a teacher. I reasoned that teachers are always learning. Learning is a basic purpose of life.

Youth from the Newcastle Stake and surrounding districts in Australia make the most of their Easter break youth conference. Some 120 young people gathered for last year’s activity, with the theme, “I teach them correct principles and they govern themselves.”

They had dances. They had waterfights. They had fun old movies. They put snags (sausages) on the barby. They had firesides, church meetings, and the best-loved testimony meeting.

But a major part of the conference was spent cleaning up the land around the Richmond Vale Mine Museum, at a historic coal mine. They pulled weeds, cleared train tracks, moved logs, and basically tidied up the area.

When I finished high school, I signed up for a year’s service in the Ecuadorian army. As I packed my belongings, I included a copy of the Book of Mormon and the hymnbook. At that time, I didn’t realize how much that Book of Mormon was going to affect my life.
I was assigned to a company of 104 young men, and after watching their behavior, I guessed I was the only Latter-day Saint. I wanted to be a good example, so I tried to give my best effort to any task I was assigned.
It was almost impossible to find time to read the scriptures. We had only 15 minutes to get ready for lunch and half an hour at night for free time. I spent that time reading the Book of Mormon.
I didn’t realize people were watching me, but they soon found out I was a member of the Church. At first they made fun of me, but I knew their words couldn’t hurt me. Each day I tried to apply what I had read in the Book of Mormon.
One day as I was reading, I was impressed by 3 Nephi 12:16: “Therefore let your light so shine before this people, that they may see your good works and glorify your Father who is in heaven.” I asked Heavenly Father to help me be an example to others. In time, I gained the respect of the men in my company and the officers.

Some time ago, I went to Africa to gather oral histories in my role as a professor of Church history at Brigham Young University. My visit to Chyulu, Kenya, was an unforgettable experience. The journey was difficult. The 240-kilometer trip from Nairobi took five hours, with one 20-kilometer section that took an hour and a half.
We arrived on Sunday and went to the meeting place an hour before Church services were to begin. The meeting place was a bower (a shelter made of poles) about 4.5 meters wide and 9 meters long. The sides were made from long grass interwoven between poles, and the roof was palm branches and corrugated iron. Next to the bower was a small handprinted sign that read, “L. D. S. CHYULU BRANCH.” At the entrance, a thick bushy shrub was wedged into the doorway. We were surprised to see about 20 children between the ages of 5 and 12 coming to the meeting place. Without supervision they swept the dirt floor with small tree limbs to remove any debris that had blown in since the last meeting. They tidied up and arranged the rough wooden benches.
Soon families began to arrive. Music was provided by a cassette tape of hymns played on a battery-operated tape recorder. Everyone sang; the children were reverent. The adult Sunday School class met in the bower, and Primary and other classes were held in various areas outside. A 12-year-old young woman taught about 30 Primary children, who eagerly participated in the lesson. It was fast and testimony Sunday, and testimonies and prayers were in Swahili—the members’ native language—or English. The Spirit was strong in both languages.

Actually, I was the one who questioned at first. I was a teenager when my mother and brother met with the missionaries. I listened only halfheartedly. But when they joined the Church, I saw that the things they had learned agreed with what I’d been taught my whole life. After I joined the military, I sought out the missionaries, went to meetings, studied and prayed, and then went home to be baptized. The gospel made me happy, and the Spirit told me it is true.Nicole V., 20, Georgia, USA

Last year I was privileged to preside at the dedication of the Mendoza Argentina Temple. In my message, I referred to Elder Melvin J. Ballard’s 1926 prophecy that the work of the Lord would grow slowly for a time in South America, “just as an oak grows slowly from an acorn. It will not shoot up in a day,” but thousands would join the Church, and the nations of South America would become “a power in the Church.” I saw that prophecy fulfilled right before my eyes.
Mendoza, once a small acorn, has become a mighty oak. That growth is being repeated across continents and isles of the sea.

The garden used to belong to a man named Claude Monet. He was a great painter. He carefully worked on his garden for 40 years. He created hundreds of paintings that were inspired by his garden.

Met his wife at a flag football game. She impressed him when she caught his long pass.

Finally at age nineteen, when ready to leave for his mission, LeGrand was again on crutches, this time with a painfully enlarged knee in a cast. He was advised to stay home and take care of himself. Instead, he asked his father to give him a priesthood blessing, and then he left as scheduled with neither cast nor crutch.