Gospel Story Finder

At youth conferences, you always expect a crowd, but more than 200 million people attended the Knoxville Tennessee Stake youth conference on family history.
The workshops would have been very crowded if all of them had needed a seat; however, all but about 150 of those millions of people were actually on computer disk—a copy of the computerized ancestral file that the Church has compiled of people and their ancestral lines.
The 150 living, breathing attendees were young people and their leaders from the Knoxville Stake who decided on a rather unusual theme for their youth conference—family history. They wanted to follow the spirit of Elijah as they learned to “turn the heart of the fathers to the children, and the heart of the children to their fathers” (Mal. 4:6).
How do you keep genealogy from being a dead subject? This group found a way. Each participant rotated through four workshop sessions, conducted by entertaining speakers who talked about doing genealogical work to prepare names for temple work, learning how to keep personal records, writing in journals, and understanding pedigree charts.
As part of the youth conference, a miniature family history library was set up in one room complete with microfiche and microfilm readers plus the best part—a computer with a small cabinet full of disks that could be used to call up an amazing amount of information. Some of the young people were just itching to get their hands on that computer and the disks to see if they could find some of their family names. They got their chance. During free time, a small crowd gathered to put the computer through its paces.
As the youth learned, family history is a lot more than just looking at pedigree charts. They found out that part of genealogy is keeping journals and working on personal histories. Mandy Smith, of the Cumberland Gap Branch, is just 15, but she was the expert invited to speak about keeping scrapbooks for a personal history. As she puts clippings, certificates, and snapshots in her book, she also writes captions under each item, explaining a little about what she was feeling. Mandy pointed out, “Personal history is not just for your children someday. It can also be good for you. Lots of times when I’m feeling down or in a bad mood, I look back at the good times I have had. It helps me remember the things that are important to me.”
At least for a little while, genealogy came to life in Knoxville. These youth already knew that they loved their families at home, and they discovered that their hearts were turned and the love extended back in time to include thousands of relatives. Now they were interested in finding out more about relatives who may not yet be included in the Church’s records.
If they all continued with their interest in family history, as one girl mentioned in testimony meeting, “There are going to be a lot of happy spirits.”

Camila is learning to read. She loves books! Camila likes books about robots. Camila likes books about ladybugs. But there are some books that Camila loves most of all. They are the scriptures! The scriptures are special books. The scriptures tell us about Jesus. The scriptures teach us about the commandments. When Camila reads the scriptures with her family, she feels happy inside. What is your favorite story from the scriptures? When you read the scriptures, you can feel happy inside too!

Last fall Sister Rasband and I were on our way to Goshen, Utah, for a worldwide Face to Face event being broadcast to over 600,000 people in 16 different languages. The program was to focus on the events of the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ, with questions submitted by young adults from around the world. Sister Rasband and I had personally reviewed the questions; they gave us the opportunity to testify of Joseph Smith as a prophet of God, the power of revelation in our lives, the ongoing Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ, and the truths and commandments that we treasure. Many listening today were part of that miraculous event.

Initially the broadcast was to originate in the Sacred Grove in upstate New York, where, as Joseph Smith testified: “I saw two Personages, whose brightness and glory defy all description, standing above me in the air. One of them spake unto me, calling me by name and said, pointing to the other—This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him!” That, brothers and sisters, was a miracle.

The worldwide pandemic forced us to relocate the broadcast to Goshen, Utah, where The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has re-created, for filming, a section of old Jerusalem. Sister Rasband and I were within a few miles of Goshen that Sunday evening when we saw thick smoke coming from the direction of our destination. Wildfires were blazing in the area, and we worried the broadcast might be at risk. Sure enough, at 20 minutes to 6:00, our broadcast time, the power in the entire complex went out. No power! No broadcast. There was one generator that some thought we might be able to power up, but there was no assurance it could sustain the sophisticated equipment at hand.

All of us on the program, including narrators, musicians, and technicians—even 20 young adults from our own extended family—were fully invested in what was to take place. I stepped away from their tears and confusion and pleaded with the Lord for a miracle. “Heavenly Father,” I prayed, “I have rarely asked for a miracle, but I am asking for one now. This meeting must happen for all our young adults around the world. We need the power to go on if it be Thy will.”

Seven minutes after 6:00, as quickly as the power had gone out, it came back on. Everything started working, from the music and microphones to the videos and all the transmission equipment. We were off and running. We had experienced a miracle.

As Sister Rasband and I were in the car returning home later that evening, President and Sister Nelson texted us with this message: “Ron, we want you to know that as soon as we heard the power was out, we prayed for a miracle.”

In latter-day scripture it is written, “For I, the Lord, have put forth my hand to exert the powers of heaven; ye cannot see it now, yet a little while and ye shall see it, and know that I am, and that I will come and reign with my people.”

That is exactly what happened. The Lord had put forth His hand, and the power came on.

In ninth grade, Tami had a friend who was good at everything. Tami’s friend, Sandy, was popular. She ran track and won. Tami joined the track team just to be like Sandy. But Tami never won a race. Usually she came in last. Sandy could tell a joke. And boys liked Sandy.
Just before Christmas, the school announced a writing contest. Tami decided to enter. She spent her evenings writing her poem instead of talking with Sandy on the phone as she usually did. She worried about entering the contest. It wasn’t the kind of thing Sandy would do. Tami didn’t even tell her friend she was doing it. Sandy might laugh, or maybe even make fun of her. But it was thrilling to find how much she liked writing. When the results were announced, Tami’s poem won second place.
Encouraging herself to try something on her own wasn’t easy. But Tami discovered something—deciding for herself what she wanted made her happier than trying to imitate her friends. It gave her strength to make more decisions on her own.
In the next few years, as some of her friends began making choices that were against Tami’s standards, it was easier to make her own choices, even when they were less popular.

On an occasion similar to this I told of an experience I once had. One evening when my wife was at something which women call “a shower” and I was home alone, I put on a record, turned down the lights, and listened to Beethoven’s Concerto for the Violin. As I sat there in the semidarkness, I marveled that such a thing could come of the mind of a man, a man who, in most respects, was as I am. I do not know how tall he was or how broad he was or how much hair he had, but I guess he looked very much like the rest of us. He became hungry, he felt pain, he had most of the problems we have and maybe some we do not have. But out of the genius of that inspired mind came the creation of a masterpiece which has entertained the world through all of these many years.

Some time ago, Sister Haycock and I accompanied President and Sister Kimball, President and Sister Tanner, and others on a visit to the Holy Land for the dedication of the Orson Hyde Memorial Gardens. While there, we visited a number of places held sacred in the memory of Christians, and particularly Latter-day Saints, because we were walking where Jesus walked.
We visited the Garden Tomb, and after sitting with President and Sister Kimball inside the tomb, we came out into the sunshine and beauty of the garden. The cameramen who recorded the trip were anxious to get pictures of President Kimball walking in the garden, but I was concerned because the path was paved with flagstones, making it rough and uneven underfoot. I cautioned President Kimball to be careful and not fall. He responded quietly and with dignity: “Don’t worry, Arthur. I am used to walking on holy ground.”

The power of the law of sacrifice is often manifested in the willingness of the Latter-day Saints to serve missions to bring others to Christ. One day a student sat in our office and talked about her desire to serve a mission. She was a reserved person. We talked about how going on a mission would involve talking to lots of people. She looked up and said, “Yes, when one agrees to serve the Lord, it will involve sacrifice.”

They were jubilant over their success, but the next morning their cups ran over. President Spencer W. Kimball was attending the fair, and he called a special devotional for their benefit. They gathered in the coliseum as early as their dance-weary bodies allowed them. They sat on the floor, in the bleachers, and anywhere they could find a space, all straining to see the prophet. They listened. He counseled.
“Today make up your minds,” he said. “You don’t wait until next Sunday and say, shall I go to priesthood meeting? You decide today. You don’t wait until you get a call from the Brethren to go on a mission. You start to save money now; you start today. You don’t wait until marriage is facing you, and you have made your proposal and decided the date, to decide where you are going to be married. That is all present in your minds from the time you are little. … Wouldn’t it be a great loss of time if every Sunday you had to say, shall I or shall I not go to sacrament meeting today? Shall we or shall we not have home evening today? What a lot of wasted effort! Settle it once and for all. I am going to go on a mission; I am going to be worthy to go on a mission. I am going to get the degree that I desire. I am going to live the commandments of the Lord and live for the glorious light.”
“I think my greatest thrill in being here,” responded Brenda Barrus of the Coeur D’Alene Idaho Stake, “was being around President Kimball. He portrays the spirit of it all.” And Pat Ream chimed in: “I love him.”

Four Generations, by Kwani Povi Winder
I became active in the Church when my Uncle Bill took my two sisters and me to Primary. My Primary teacher, Jean Richardson, was a kindly mother figure. I liked her and my new church friends, who were much kinder to me than the kids in my neighborhood. So, I decided to stay.
As I approached my 12th birthday, Bishop Dal Guymon invited me to receive the Aaronic Priesthood and be ordained a deacon. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I said yes. Then he said, “Why don’t you ask your dad to bring you here next Sunday, and we will ordain you.”
Dad and his family had stopped attending church when he was about 13. As an adult, he spent most weekends in the local bars or fly-fishing. He had served in the US Navy during World War II and the Korean War. He smoked cigars, drank, and swore, but he had a reputation in our small Montana town for being honest and fair.
When Dad took me to church the next Sunday, it was a big deal. When the time came, Bishop Guymon called me up and asked me to sit in a chair. Several men—but not my dad—put their hands on my head and performed the ordinance.
I felt the heavy weight of several big hands on me. Dad, sitting on a bench a few feet away, felt a different kind of pressure—in his chest. A voice spoke to him inside, saying, “You need to be there for your boy the next time this happens.”
In the weeks that followed, Dad turned his life around and started to attend church every Sunday. Soon, the Church became the central focus of our family life.
Dad became my deacons, teachers, and priests quorum adviser; my Sunday School teacher; and my basketball, softball, and volleyball coach. While we were home teaching companions, Dad helped other men and families return to Church activity.
Assisted by my dad, I experienced my own personal and transformative conversion. Since then, I have tried to be sensitive to men who, like my dad, might respond to an invitation to become the best dad they can be.
I will be forever grateful for what my Uncle Bill, a kind Primary teacher, a wise bishop, and my dad did for me 60 years ago.

One time just before Easter, my Primary teacher brought a large box to class. We were only eight, and we were very curious to see its contents. When class was over, the teacher reached into the box and gave each of us a tiny Easter basket filled with jelly beans and candy eggs. In my eyes, the beautiful basket was also filled with love. This same kind teacher gave me an angel figurine when I graduated from seminary. I still get a warm feeling whenever I see that little angel inside my china closet. It represented to me the hugs that I so desperately needed but seldom received.

Through discipline the child learns of consequences. In such moments it is helpful to turn negatives into positives. If the child confesses to a wrong, praise the courage it took to confess. Ask the child what he or she learned from the mistake or misdeed, which gives you and, more important, the Spirit an opportunity to touch and teach the child. When we teach children doctrine by the Spirit, that doctrine has the power to change their very nature—be—over time.

The winter of 1846–47 was a busy one for the Saints at Winter Quarters. Plans were made for the next leg of their journey west. Supplies were gathered, old wagons repaired, and new ones built. It was decided that one company of men would leave in the spring to choose the best trail for those who would follow. By traveling without the elderly, the sick, or many children, they could travel faster. President Young picked the 144 men who would make the journey—twelve for each of the twelve tribes of Israel. One man, however, got sick shortly after leaving and returned to Winter Quarters, so the Pioneer Company consisted of 143 men (8 of them members of the Quorum of the Twelve), 3 women, and 2 children.

As members of the Church, we should help those who don’t know about the truth. My classmates made fun of me and said things about the Church. I felt bad, but I prayed with faith and asked my Heavenly Father to help me help them understand. I helped them, and now they support me.Ricay R., 14, Comayaguela, Honduras

Putting God first means that we can trust Him to make more of our lives than we can on our own. My grandson received an old bike with rusty handles. To help him be excited about this bike, his father showed him how to sand the handles and then promised to bring his favourite colour paint to coat them that afternoon. After 15 minutes of sanding, the task seemed more challenging for this little guy than he had expected, and he complained about the difficulty, to which his father said words we can all take comfort in: “You do the best you can, and I will make up the difference.”

Four months later my twin was still asking questions. I told him that I was happy to talk to him about it but that ultimately he would have to ask God for himself. A few weeks later he came to me and said: “I asked, and now I know the Book of Mormon is true and that Joseph Smith was a prophet. How do I get in touch with the missionaries?”
Imagine my joy a month later when I had the opportunity of baptizing my twin brother. We both served missions; I was called to Chile and my brother to Mexico. Like Paul of old, we are trying to give back a little of what we received.

As a young stake president, I met many of the General Authorities when they came to speak at our stake conference. What a wonderful experience! President Hugh B. Brown came to one of our stake conferences just a week before he was called and sustained as a member of the Council of the Twelve. We enjoyed his warm spirit and his good humor. As I helped him put his coat on and walked out to his car with him, I said, “Elder Brown, do you have any personal advice for me?”
His answer was, “Yes. Follow the Brethren.” He did not choose to elaborate or explain, but he left that powerful message: Have the simple faith to follow the Brethren.

That story reminded Grandma of other stories. She told about a pet calf she named Star. She used to ride on Star’s back! Amelia giggled as she pictured Grandma riding a baby cow. It wasn’t easy imagining Grandma as a little girl.
“Thanks,” Amelia said. “Some of the stories she told were fun. Did you know Grandma had a pet calf?”
“Really?” Sarah asked.
“Yeah! Grandma used to ride it,” Amelia said, nodding. “Its name was Star.”

My family lived on about half an acre in Murray, Utah. There was always a lot of work to do with chickens, pigs, and gardening, so we stayed busy and developed a strong work habit. My father was a pharmaceutical salesman, and we raised a pig on vitamins as an experiment. I had to keep records on this pig, and it really grew!

Red Squirrel had started on her strange mission at dawn. Spring had come and tiny leaves were unfurling like tattered banners, but the air was misty and cold.
The river carried her canoe along swiftly. Now she only used the paddle to steer her fragile craft away from boulders, but it would take two days of hard paddling to return against the strong current. She watched carefully for logs or other hazards ahead. If the canoe overturned, she could not long survive in the icy water, fed by melting snow high in faraway mountains.
Can I find the lonely grave site again? She wondered. Will the wooden cross still be standing to mark it? The Indian girl sighed deeply and rested the paddle across her lap, pondering whether her quest would bring happiness or more sorrow to the white man and woman waiting at her village.
Running Elk, a scout for the army, had brought the couple to see Chief Standing Bear. Their son and his friend had started west almost two years ago. Except for a letter from Kansas, where the two young men had joined a wagon train, they had never heard from them again. The father felt that both of them must have died on their journey, but the mother had stubbornly refused to abandon hope.
A recent letter from a physician in Oregon had renewed the couple’s hope and their fears. The doctor was treating a young man who suffered from amnesia and had no memory of his past. However, the patient carried some papers containing two names. One was a letter addressed to their son, Benjamin Allen. The other was to his friend, Zeb White.
Dr. Barkow’s description of his patient did not help. Both young men were tall and had blue eyes and dark curly hair. Members of the wagon train had disbanded and settled over a wide area before the patient had been brought to the doctor. From the meager information he had gathered, one of a pair of young men on the train had drowned in a flash flood. A carpenter among the group had carved the victim’s name on a wooden cross the party had placed on the grave. If they could find the lonely grave, the couple would know if the doctor’s patient were their son or his friend.
The tribe had gathered and listened as Running Elk translated the white man’s story. The location of the grave was said to be near Tracy’s Ford on the Oregon Trail and downriver from their village. Had one of Chief Standing Bear’s people seen the cross?
Red Squirrel was very shy. She did not want to step forward, although she had seen the grave last fall while gathering nuts. No one else moved. She looked at the sad faces of the youth’s parents and could not remain silent. Hesitantly, eyes downcast, she stepped out of the group of women and children.
“I have seen the place,” she told her chief. “The marker still stood last fall, at one end of a grave covered with a pile of stones. I can find it again.”
The gray-haired couple was filled with dismay when Chief Standing Bear said that the slim young girl would go alone at dawn and return in a few days. They had expected to go along, possibly with a few braves to guide them. The chief sensed their disappointment, but he was tactful enough not to tell them that white people were too clumsy for their bark canoes, especially in the flooding spring current. He considered the girl capable of going alone. True, she could not read, but she was a basket and rug weaver, who carried many beautiful designs in her head. She would remember and be able to draw the lines carved on the grave marker that only the distraught parents could read. The chief arose and entered his tepee, ending the talk.
Now that she was close to her destination, Red Squirrel watched the boulders strewn along the riverbank. When she saw a round one split down the middle like a ripe melon, she expertly used her paddle for a rudder, and the canoe whipped through the cleft rock into still water. It would soon be dark, so the Indian girl used bent twigs and pine boughs to erect a wickiup for shelter. Then she built a cooking fire. She would search out the grave tomorrow.
Early the next morning Red Squirrel’s heart hammered with dread as she approached the mound of stones and stared at the tilted cross. She wished the carved letters could speak to her so she would know if she would carry good news or bad news back to the village. The heavy responsibility overwhelmed Red Squirrel. She did not want to bring more sorrow to the elderly couple. Carefully she went over the letters again and again, making certain she remembered all the strange lines.
A glint of gold at the base of the cross caught her eye. It was a locket with a broken chain. This would be another clue as to which man was buried here, but she worried about taking something from a grave! Reluctantly, she removed her beautiful turquoise necklace and hung it on the cross. Her father had spent many hours polishing and drilling the stones, and she was very proud of it. Leaving it was a great sacrifice, but it made her feel better about taking away the gold one.
When the boys shouted that Red Squirrel had returned, the people gathered near the river to greet her. She was drenched and trembling from cold and fatigue. However, she had fought a fierce two-day battle against the strong waters and won. Red Squirrel’s mother wrapped a blanket around her daughter and tried to lead her away to change into dry clothing, but she refused. Her news—good or bad—must be delivered first. Mrs. Allen almost wept when she looked at the exhausted girl.
Red Squirrel picked up a stick. Then she walked away from the group and smoothed out a place in the soft dirt. Mrs. Allen, her face ashen with mixed hope and dread, started to follow. Gently, her husband drew her back. This girl, who could neither read nor write, was an important key to the knowledge of their son’s fate. Their watching her draw the unfamiliar lines might make her nervous.
When she had finished the drawing, Red Squirrel stood, waiting. She forgot how cold and miserable she was as the troubled parents approached. Her eyes misted at the way they clung together for support. She pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders and turned away, not wanting to watch them.
Red Squirrel jerked as if she had been struck when the mother suddenly cried out and began to weep. She turned and then whispered a prayer of gratitude when she saw that the woman’s tears were of joy and relief!
“Zeb White! It’s poor Zeb who lies there, not our Ben,” the father murmured. His voice broke from the emotion and strain.
“This necklace had hung on the marker, until the chain broke,” Red Squirrel said. “I left mine in exchange.”
The woman took the necklace and pressed a catch and the locket sprang open to reveal tiny pictures of a man and woman. “Zeb’s parents,” the woman whispered. “Oh, how my heart goes out to them. We’ll send them the locket.”
“Yes,” Mr. Allen agreed softly, wiping his eyes. “Now we’re going to Oregon and get our son and take him home!”
Mrs. Allen went to see Red Squirrel before she and her husband left the village with Running Elk the next morning. She knew that the girl would not accept payment for her help. A gold lapel watch, a gift from her husband on their thirtieth wedding anniversary, was the most treasured piece of jewelry she owned. It opened like the locket, and opposite the watch face was Ben’s baby picture and a curled whisp of his hair.
The mother felt no regret as she pressed the watch into the hand of Red Squirrel’s mother to give to her daughter. The gift Red Squirrel had given them was beyond value.
Their son still lived!

In late 1987, after a bloodless military coup, the new Fijian government declared it illegal for public transport to operate on Sunday. This posed little problem for people who belong to the country’s dominant Christian religion—there is a church in every village. But many Latter-day Saints live far from their branch or ward headquarters.
Vilisi and Fai Ucunibaravi and their six children decided that they would walk the twelve kilometers from their home to the Nausori chapel each Sunday. “Some people would laugh at us, and they wouldn’t stop to give us rides,” says Sister Ucunibaravi. “But that was all right. Our hearts were there before we left home.”