Gospel Story Finder

Chris loved playing football in grade school and junior high. He started at linebacker all during high school. And, as Chris points out, football in Georgia is serious business. His high school would have 10,000 fans attend its Friday night games. During his junior year, he began getting attention from college scouts. It was exciting, but his mom would remind him not to get too interested because he was going on a mission.
When the scouts showed up, that was the time Chris had to face the possibilities of playing football at the college level. His high school coach told the scouts that he was a hard-working player and was an honor student. Finally concrete offers started to come—full-ride scholarships through four years of college, worth thousands of dollars.
“I asked,” said Chris, “if they would hold a scholarship for two years. One coach was shocked. I told him I was going to go on a mission for my church. He just stared at me and said, ‘You’re going to give up 80 thousand dollars to serve a mission for two years?’ He got mad at me. But I didn’t get offended.” After that, his coach started turning away college recruiters interested in Chris.

Fifteen seems to be a pivotal age in the lives of most youth—at least it was for me. There were many pressures and forces that seemed to be almost competing for my time and attention. Every 15-year-old wants to be with the “in” crowd. Recognition on campus, the spirit of daring, an air of non-conformity—all of these seem so attractive, so desirable, almost worth any cost. An approaching weekend offered two possibilities: The “in” crowd was planning to do something really big time but so close to the edge that the slightest whim or impulse could spell disaster. Joe, on the other hand, was trying to persuade me that nothing could be greater than a cruise to Catalina Island on the sailboat Endymion, the same craft that had recently won the annual Avalon Classic; and not only that, we would work as members of the crew while on board. My love for the sea was too much, and Joe really tipped the scales when he gave up one whole afternoon and evening to help convince me. The Lord must have worked through my friend Joe, because my “in group” friends made the newspaper that weekend. They did get too close to the edge.
The sea spray on my face as we headed for Catalina introduced me to sea-Scouting, which became my main interest for the following two years, and Scouting generally, which has been an important part of my life ever since. I really believe in being physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight. Thanks, Joe!

President Thomas S. Monson broke ground for the Rome Italy Temple on October 23, 2010. Announced two years earlier, the three-story, 40,000-square-foot (3,700 square meter) temple will be the twelfth in Europe and the first in Italy. When completed, it will serve members in Italy and neighboring countries. The 15-acre (6 ha) site will become a religious and cultural center that includes a multifunctional meetinghouse, a visitors’ center, a family history center, and patron housing.

In 1846 at Council Bluffs, Iowa, the United States government made an appeal to President Brigham Young for 500 able-bodied men to form a battalion and travel to California to offer protection in the Mexican War. John Borrowman accepted the call and enlisted as a private in Company B. At a farewell devotional, President Young prophesied that the men of the Mormon Battalion would never have to face the enemy in battle—a prophecy that proved true, in spite of the odds against it. Still, the men had many struggles. Perhaps the greatest challenges of all were the mountain deserts that yielded little water and food. Yet, in spite of harsh conditions, they followed their leaders faithfully and with valor. As prophesied, they never faced a human enemy in battle, although they did encounter a herd of rampaging wild bulls and dubbed the conflict “the Battle of the Bulls.”
Their supplies grossly inadequate, the suffering and thirsty men cut a narrow passage (sometimes just an inch wider than the wagons) as they ascended the tortuous ravines of the barren Southwestern mountains. It was a thrilling day when they at last found their way onto the gentle slopes that led to their first view of the Pacific Ocean.

1. Mathan’s great-grandma always had interesting things in her big purse. If Mathan was hungry, she had a treat. If Mathan was bored, she pulled out a pad of paper for him to draw on. And if Mathan got hurt, she always had a bandage. But the thing that he loved the most was Great-Grandma’s bottle of lotion.
2. Great-Grandma often took out her lotion and rubbed it on her hands. She said it helped keep her hands smooth and soft. Mathan thought this was important because he knew that Great-Grandma did a lot with her hands. She made delicious grape jelly, she sewed soft baby blankets, and she played the piano.
3. Sometimes Great-Grandma shared her lotion with Mathan. When he was feeling restless or unhappy, she would take his hands in hers and squeeze out the cool lotion. Then she would gently rub it on his fingers, the backs of each hand, and then the palms. The sweet smell of the lotion and the touch of her soft hands made him feel calm and content. “There now,” she would say. “That’s just what you needed.” And it was just what Mathan needed.
4. Over time, Great-Grandma got very old. She couldn’t make jelly or sew blankets or play the piano. She no longer carried her big purse full of treats, pads of paper, bandages, and lotion. Most of the time she didn’t even look at Mathan. She just sat in her wheelchair with her hands in her lap. Mathan thought she looked unhappy and tired. It made him feel sad.
5. One day when Mathan went to visit Great-Grandma, he brought a bottle of lotion with him. While she was sitting in her wheelchair, Mathan gently took her wrinkled hands in his and squeezed out the cool lotion. He gently rubbed it on her fingers, the backs of her hands, and then the palms.
6. When Mathan was finished with her hands, he carefully removed her slippers and rubbed the lotion on her feet. After he replaced her slippers he looked up to see Great-Grandma’s bright blue eyes looking at him. “Thank you, Mathan,” she whispered. “That’s just what I needed.”

Most people are glad to get away from home for a couple of weeks when they get a vacation. I’m glad to come home. Concert dates can keep our performing group away from home for months at a time. That’s probably why I felt so relaxed being back in Salt Lake, standing in line with a girl I liked, ready to see a movie I thought I’d rave about.
It was a popular space science fiction film, and the line was long. Waiting gave us time to talk but also time to think. My mind wandered to parts of section 88 in the Doctrine and Covenants. Section 88 [D&C 88] talks about the judgment day.
Verses 108 through 110 [D&C 88:108–110] talk about a great revealing that will take place, during which our actions will be shown to all. These verses even mention that our thoughts will be unveiled and imply that our life’s journey will be recreated to prove that the judgment is just.
I had heard people describe this as an epic motion picture on a giant screen, but that thought had never really been clear to me before. Now the thoughts came rushing to me. If a movie were made of my life, would I be half as excited to see it as the one I was standing in line to see now? Would I want to take a girl I liked to see it? Would I take my bishop? My friends? Would I invite the Savior?
What started as a simple thought evolved into deep reflections about my life and the motion picture I would make. The concept remained in my mind long after the true film ended and I had driven my date home. In fact, I kept thinking about it for weeks. I couldn’t get rid of the concern I felt wondering what type of movie it would be.

I am 16 years old, and reading the November New Era made me realize how much I have to be thankful for and how unthankful I really have been. While reading “Receive All Things with Thankfulness” I felt the Spirit reading right along with me, and I had to read it all over again because it made me feel so good. I have so much to be thankful for, including two wonderful elders who brought the gospel to my friend and me eight months ago. Thank you for a fabulous magazine.
Lynn de YagherShalalth, British Columbia, Canada

One day I was sad and grumpy. My mom said sometimes that just happens when you grow up. I got out my scriptures and started reading to my mom. I felt the Holy Ghost comfort me.
Abigail H., age 9, Île-de-France, France

I was once moved by a Christlike example of everyday ministering when I was shopping in a big grocery store. I came across a lady who was trying to lift heavy cases of water into her cart.

A man nearby quickly noticed that she was struggling and came over to help. When they got the cases loaded, he even asked if she needed any more help from him.

As I noticed this beautiful act, this stranger looked over at me and greeted me kindly with a smile. His expression seemed to say that he was willing to help me as well if I needed it.

His example reminded me of the Savior.

The Savior always ministered without hesitation when He saw a need. He often served and offered His aid without question—only love. Seeing the example of this man has stuck with me and inspired me to look for everyday opportunities to minster in my own life. And I now see that those opportunities are everywhere.

Gary and Tommy were building a bridge. It had rained that day, and the rain had made a little brook through Gary’s backyard.

“I’m going to be an engineer when I grow up,” declared Gary. “I’m going to build bridges just like the ones my daddy builds.”

“I’m going to be a truck driver,” announced Tommy. “I’m going to drive a great big trailer truck. I’ll bet my truck will be the biggest in the whole world!”

“It better not be too big,” said Gary, “or it can’t go under or over some bridges.” Then he ran over to the garage to get another board. His family had just moved in, and there were plenty of boards from the empty furniture crates. Gary’s toys hadn’t come yet, so the boys were playing with Tommy’s big blue truck.

“I’m going to load my truck with rocks,” Tommy said, “and drive it over the bridge.”

“The bridge isn’t ready yet,” said Gary. “Wait till I get this board in place.”

But Tommy wouldn’t wait. “Here I come,” he said, and started his truck along the road toward the bridge. It was a muddy road, but Tommy pushed and pushed till he got his truck up onto the narrow bridge. Then one wheel went off the edge, and the whole truck with its load of stones fell into the brook.

“I’ll help you pick them up,” said Gary.

“You leave them alone,” said Tommy. “They’re my rocks. If you’d built your old bridge better, my truck wouldn’t have gone off the edge.”

Tommy started picking his rocks out of the water. When he turned around, Gary was backing the truck down so he could help put the rocks back in. Tommy dropped the rocks and grabbed his truck. “That’s my truck!” Tommy said. And away he ran, leaving Gary all by himself.

Gary looked puzzled, but after a minute he began to work on the bridge again. “It’s going to be a four-lane bridge,” he said to himself, “just like the one Daddy is building.”

Tommy ran into the kitchen as soon as he got home. “Mom,” he called, “Gary pushed my truck into the water.”

“That’s too bad,” Tommy’s mother said. “How did it happen?”

“We were building a bridge, and Gary didn’t make it wide enough, and my truck fell off into the water and got all wet.”

“Oh,” said Tommy’s mother. “I thought you said Gary pushed it.”

Tommy didn’t say anything for a minute. His mother took a pan of cookies out of the oven. Reluctantly Tommy said, “I guess he didn’t really push it. But it’s my truck and Gary didn’t have any right to play with it.”

“Whose bridge were you driving it over?” asked Tommy’s mother.

“Well,” said Tommy finally, “we both started to build it, but I guess the boards were Gary’s.” Then he turned and started to go back outdoors. “I don’t care,” he said. “He can’t have my truck. I’m going to play in my sandbox!” Tommy slammed the door.

Tommy made a road in his sandbox, but when he tried to run his truck on it, the road wasn’t big enough for the truck to turn the corners. He looked for some boards to make a bridge up to the sandbox, but he couldn’t find any. Tommy tried pushing two trucks to make believe he was two truck drivers, but that wasn’t much fun. He sat down on the back steps to think.

At last Tommy got up and went slowly into the kitchen. “Mom,” he asked, “may I go back over to Gary’s yard to play?”

“What would you play with?” asked his mother.

“I’ll take Gary one of my trucks,” said Tommy. “Then we’ll each have one.”

Tommy’s mother smiled. “Would you like to load some cookies onto your trucks? I’ll wrap them in waxed paper for you.”

“Thanks, Mom!” said Tommy.

Two minutes later Tommy was back in Gary’s yard, holding a truck carefully in each hand so as not to spill the cookies. “Gary!” he called. “I brought you a truck.”

“That’s neat,” said Gary. “See, I’ve built the bridge wide enough so that we can both go over it at the same time.”

“That’ll be fun,” said Tommy. “I guess bridge builders and truck drivers have to work together.”

“I guess ’most everybody does,” said Gary.

Here in Trinidad, West Indies, I ride a long distance in maxi-taxis to attend school and church. A maxi-taxi is like a minibus that holds twelve people. All kinds of people of all ages ride maxi-taxis, and sometimes they say and do bad things. Recently I got in a maxi-taxi to go home from school. As I sat down, I found that the driver was playing very loud music with bad words in it. The other passengers were using bad language, and the older boys and girls in the back were doing things they shouldn’t. I felt very uncomfortable. I remembered my uncle telling me that when something was bothering me I should say a prayer or sing a hymn. I started to hum “I Am a Child of God.” That made me feel a lot better and helped me to think of good things. I know that singing a hymn in a bad situation can help us.Russell K. Joseph, age 12, Trinidad, West Indies

Almost a year before, instead of looking forward to general conference and the holidays, I was figuring out how I would be able to take care of my family during the busy season ahead. I would have to plan all the upcoming activities and responsibilities around my radiation and chemotherapy treatments. Caring for myself while trying to maintain a normal life for my family and fulfill Church callings was difficult. I made it through cancer and everything else with Heavenly Father’s help.

The importance of choice may be illustrated by a homespun concept that came to mind one day when I was shopping in a large retail store. I call it “patterns of the shopper.” As shopping is part of our daily life, these patterns may be familiar.
Wise shoppers study their options thoroughly before they make a selection. They focus primarily on the quality and durability of a desired product. They want the very best. In contrast, some shoppers look for bargains, and others may splurge, only to learn later—much to their dismay—that their choice did not endure well. And sadly, there are those rare individuals who cast aside their personal integrity and steal what they want. We call them shoplifters.
The patterns of the shopper may be applied to the topic of marriage. A couple in love can choose a marriage of the highest quality or a lesser type that will not endure. Or they can choose neither and brazenly steal what they want as “marital shoplifters.”

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.

Blendina Muca spent the early years of her life struggling with a medical condition known as strabismus, or crossed eyes. After many years of unsuccessful treatment in her native Albania, she found help from an American physician who visited her homeland on a humanitarian excursion.
“Since I was little I had crossed eyes,” Ms. Muca reported. “My father sent me for a visit to the doctor, who gave me some drops and glasses. … They didn’t correct my eyes—they became worse—but I always walked with hope they would be better.”
Despite her visual limitations, the young Albanian was able through her diligence to become a professional tailor, a career in which she excelled.
When Ms. Muca’s sister joined the Church, a door opened for the visually impaired young woman. Church humanitarian service missionaries, present at her sister’s baptism, invited Ms. Muca to visit an LDS-sponsored clinic staffed with member ophthalmologists from the United States.
Dr. Rick Olson, a pediatric ophthalmologist on staff at the University of Iowa, performed the surgery on Ms. Muca’s eyes. Prior to the surgery, the young patient, her sister, and friends united in prayer with Dr. Olson.
“The doctor asked God to make his hands as gold to fix my eyes,” Ms. Muca reported, “and He did. I knew God had made a miracle.”
Ms. Muca sees life much differently following her successful surgery. She explained: “My wish now is to go to university and help those who are in need—to help people the same way God helped me. Miracles do happen.”

In his new school, the students say a prayer each morning. “But they don’t pray the way we do,” Raúl says. “They say a memorized prayer, and sometimes they pray to the Virgin Mary, the mother of Jesus.
“Once I asked if I could offer the prayer. I folded my arms, shut my eyes, and bowed my head—and I prayed to Heavenly Father. I thanked him for the beautiful day and for my new school, where I can study peacefully. I asked him to bless my teacher and all of my classmates. I prayed especially that one boy who was sick would be able to return soon. Then I closed in the name of Jesus Christ.”

I heard from a mother of five small children in South Carolina. She had injured her back and was totally bedfast. She wrote to me of the “little mercy squads” in her ward who had cared for her night and day: “They fed me, conquered my mending pile, cleared the tears from my eyes, and administered therapy in the night. All the time they assured me it was no bother; they just wanted to learn more charity and just needed someone to practice on.”

She and her mother often asked soldiers from nearby Fort Benning to bring their friends over for Sunday dinner and an after-meal discussion with the missionaries; again, much good resulted from these comfortable gatherings.

Johnny slowed his bike before turning into Mrs. Jones’s driveway. It was the day before Easter, and it was time for the neighborhood Easter egg hunt.
“I knew it,” he thought. “There’s Randy Mills. He’ll get the prize. He always does. I’ll have to listen to him brag for another year.”
“Hey, come on, slowpoke!” Randy yelled.
“I’m coming.”
Randy laughed. “Why are you frowning? Afraid you’ll get beat again?”
“Come line up, children,” Mrs. Jones called. “When I say, ‘Go,’ the smaller children will run to the backyard. When I say it again, the older children will follow.”
A few minutes into the hunt, Randy ran up to Johnny. “How many eggs have you found?”
“Nine.”
“Me too. Maybe we’ll tie for the prize.” He ran off to find more.
Johnny poked about here and there. He sure hoped to find another egg and beat Randy. He was looking under an already-searched bush when he heard a small sniff. A little girl was standing behind the bush crying. It was Laurie, Johnny’s neighbor.
“Hi, Laurie. Why are you crying?”
“I don’t have any eggs!” Laurie sobbed. “If I could find just one egg …” Laurie was much younger than most of the children, and she was crying as if her heart would break.
“Children, I believe all the eggs have been found. Let’s count up,” Mrs. Jones said.
“Now I’ll never find one.” Tears ran down Laurie’s face.
Johnny felt very bad for the little girl. As he looked at his full basket, an idea hit him. He quickly slipped his prettiest egg under the bush. “Laurie, did you look really well under here?”
“I think so.” She came around to his side of the bush, her eyes searching everywhere. Suddenly her face lit up. “Ooooh! Look at the pretty egg!”
Randy walked up and pounded Johnny on the back. “Well, we tied for first prize with nine eggs apiece.”
“I only have eight,” Johnny said quietly.
“I thought you said you had nine.”
“I made a mistake.”
“Wow! The prize is mine. Say, you’d better learn to count better, Johnny.” He laughed over his shoulder.
Johnny watched Randy claim the prize. He would have to listen to Randy brag for another year, but somehow it didn’t matter anymore. He smiled, remembering Laurie’s face as she found just one egg.

At 12:51 p.m. on February 22, 2011, a magnitude 6.3 earthquake caused severe damage in Christchurch, New Zealand. One hundred eighty-five people were killed, and several thousand were injured. The fear and chaos in the city were palpable. It took me several hours of driving through rubble to collect my children from their schools and find my husband, who had been in the part of the city where the most damage occurred.
Once back at our home, we needed to decide what to do. It wasn’t safe to stay, so that same afternoon we hurriedly packed a few belongings and started driving north. We didn’t realize that we would experience many miracles along the way.
As we left the city, our van was nearly out of fuel, but we were able to get petrol at the first gas station to reopen. Our van was also struggling mechanically, so we dropped it off at a garage for repair. When we picked it up, the mechanic didn’t charge us, saying he wanted to help those who had been impacted by the earthquake. Friends and family showed us kindness, helping to calm us and our children.
We eventually drove to Hamilton, over 500 miles (800 km) to the north of Christchurch. Our young family was able to stay in one of the student dorms of a decommissioned school next to the Hamilton New Zealand Temple. It was there at the foot of the temple that we tried to help our children heal from the trauma of being earthquake refugees.
I remember looking up at the spire of the temple and taking a deep breath before stepping inside, as it took courage to convince myself that it too wouldn’t fall like the many buildings that had collapsed in our home city. In the temple lobby, the Spirit brought us peace as we planned our next steps: how we would start to make order out of chaos and move forward in our lives.
Early in the Restoration, the Lord declared, “I command you to build a house unto me, for the gathering together of my saints, that they may worship me” (Doctrine and Covenants 115:8). The Lord explained that this gathering of the Saints would be “for a defense, and for a refuge from the storm” (Doctrine and Covenants 115:6). In the aftermath of an earthquake, the Hamilton Temple was a gathering place of refuge for my family.