Gospel Story Finder

Lying flat on my back, staring at the mechanical paraphernalia of an X-ray machine, was not what I had expected as part of my experience in the Language Training Mission. But there I was, my right ankle all puffed and swollen; another casualty of physical activity time.
Fifteen minutes before, I had been in the middle of a very exciting soccer game. My district was ahead with only one minute left. Suddenly, our defense weakened and the ball shot toward the goal. I ran forward as Elder Duran, my best friend on the other team, fell to the ground to block my kick. Snap! A sound like the cracking of a branch wrapped in a towel made everyone cringe. I crumpled to the ground, holding my right leg, and screamed for a doctor.
I tried to get up, but the pain in my leg convinced me to just lie there and grit my teeth. The ambulance came, and soon I was lying on the X-ray table, hoping my injury would be a mere sprain or dislocation. However, my hope for a miracle was destroyed when through the partially closed door, I overheard a nurse say, “That’s the worst break I’ve ever seen.”
No one would touch me for 45 minutes. Then a specialist arrived and confirmed the nurse’s comment about my ankle. By 11:00 P.M. I was semiconscious in a hospital bed, still groggy from an operation to insert a screw into my ankle. My only thought at the time was that I would be left behind when the 21 elders in my group left for the Guatemala-El Salvador Mission two weeks later.
After four days in the hospital, I hobbled back to the LTM (Language Training Mission) on crutches. I don’t know if words can describe what it was like to be in the LTM for five weeks after I had learned all the lessons. I could say them backwards and forwards, in my sleep, in the shower, upside down, and in-between.
A group of missionaries were scheduled to leave for Guatemala four days after my cast was removed, but I still had two weeks of therapy ahead of me. By the power of fervent persuasion that only a missionary has, however, my doctor was convinced I could go as long as I didn’t do any excessive walking for the first few weeks.
Finally! The excitement in my body must have been the healing factor in my bones. By the time I got to the airport, I was hyperactive. To prove my ankle was as good as new, I hopped on one foot, danced around, and showed everybody the 20 centimeters long scar on my right ankle. I can’t remember all I did, but my antics were enough to bring gasps and concerned looks from my mother and comments like, “He hasn’t changed a bit,” from my friends.

On a beautiful summer morning, our family attended the Special Olympics to watch our son Scott participate. The Special Olympics are held each year to allow people with disabilities to enjoy friendly competition. We observed that as the runners were taking their positions for the 50-yard dash, they were being encouraged by special friends affectionately known as huggers. Seconds before the start of the race, these huggers took their places at the race’s finish line. It didn’t matter who crossed the finish line first. What did matter was that every runner completed the race and that every runner received a congratulatory hug. Both the courageous runners and the caring huggers taught important principles of truth.

As a sophomore at BYU in Provo I took a geology class. A large part of this class concerned itself with the scientific explanation of this earth’s history, including the theory of evolution. On the first day of class the teacher went to the blackboard and took us through the Creation as outlined in our ancient and modern scriptures, making a chronological list of events. He spent the whole hour speaking of the Savior and His creations. He bore a powerful testimony about the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, including our modern scriptures, with special emphasis on the Pearl of Great Price.
I am indebted to this great teacher for expanding my vision about the Creation as recorded in the 4th chapter of Abraham. For example, in the 18th verse we read:
“And the Gods watched those things which they had ordered until they obeyed.”
You may wish to read and ponder the whole chapter.
On the second day of class the teacher had covered up the blackboard of the previous day and wrote the chronology of the earth’s history according to science, including all the various periods. He then pulled the board back and displayed the previous day’s teachings beside those of the second day and proceeded to show where there were similarities and differences. He concluded by telling us that we had not signed up for a religion class but for a science class, and science is what we would be taught. However, throughout the semester he never shied away from sharing his testimony.
I am indebted to that teacher for showing me that science and religion are not really at odds. Scientific knowledge is incomplete, and the same could be said about the details of the Lord’s method of creation. Once all the facts are in, there will be no discrepancies. Since receiving that perspective 50 years ago, I have marveled at science and not felt threatened by it.

As you pray to Heavenly Father in faith, “he will console you in your afflictions, … [and ye may] feast upon his love.”9 President Henry B. Eyring shared that his father’s prayers during a losing battle with cancer taught him the deeply personal relationship between God and His children:
“When the pain became intense, we found him in the morning on his knees by the bed. He had been too weak to get back into bed. He told us he had been praying to ask his Heavenly Father why he had to suffer so much when he had always tried to be good. He said a kindly answer came: ‘God needs brave sons.’
“And so he soldiered on to the end, trusting that God loved him, listened to him, and would lift him up. He was blessed to have known early and to never forget that a loving God is as close as a prayer.”10

This is a story of a young girl, living in New York, who before age three lost her father when his boat sank on a large lake. She, her mother, older brother, and younger sister moved to a new city in another state to live with her aunt and uncle. Sometime after the family arrived, missionaries and members of a newly organized religion came to their town with the glorious news of the Restoration of the gospel. They told a remarkable story of an angel delivering an ancient record to a young man named Joseph Smith, a record he had translated by the power of God. Two of the visitors, Oliver Cowdery and John Whitmer, had actually seen the engraved metal pages of the ancient record with their own eyes, and Whitmer witnessed he had held the golden plates in his own hands. This record had been recently published, and Brother Whitmer brought the book with him. The name of the book, of course, was the Book of Mormon.
When 12-year-old Mary heard the missionaries speak about the book, she had a special feeling in her heart. Even though the Book of Mormon was thick with many pages, Mary yearned to read it. When Brother Whitmer departed, he gave one precious copy of the book to Brother Isaac Morley, who was a friend of Mary’s uncle and a local leader in the new church.
Mary later recorded: “I went to [Brother Morley’s] house … and asked to see the Book; [he] put it in my hand, [and] as I looked at it, I felt such a desire to read it, that I could not refrain from asking him to let me take it home and read it. … He said … he had hardly had time to read a chapter in it himself, and but few of the brethren had even seen it, but I plead so earnestly for it, he finally said, ‘child, if you will bring this book home before breakfast tomorrow morning, you may take it.’”
Mary ran home and was so captured by the book that she stayed up nearly all night reading it. The next morning, when she returned the book, Brother Morley said, “I guess you did not read much in it” and “I don’t believe you can tell me one word of it.” Mary stood up straight and repeated from memory the first verse of the Book of Mormon. She then told him the story of the prophet Nephi. Mary later wrote, “He gazed at me in surprise, and said, ‘child, take this book home and finish it, I can wait.’”
A short time later, Mary finished reading the book and was the first person in her town to read the entire book. She knew it was true and that it came from Heavenly Father. As she looked to the book, she looked to the Lord.
One month later a special visitor came to her house. Here is what Mary wrote about her memorable encounter that day: “When [Joseph Smith] saw me he looked at me so earnestly. … After a moment or two he … gave me a great blessing … and made me a present of the book, and said he would give Brother Morley another [copy]. … We all felt that he was a man of God, for he spoke with power, and as one having authority.”
This young girl, Mary Elizabeth Rollins, saw many other miracles in her life and always kept her testimony of the Book of Mormon.1 This story has special meaning to me because she is my fourth-great-aunt. Through Mary’s example, along with other experiences in my life, I have learned that one is never too young to seek and receive a personal testimony of the Book of Mormon.

OK, we’re only down one point with seven seconds left. Tanya, I want you to pass to Joyce and set a screen for Cathlyn on the left wing. Cathlyn, all you have to do is lose your man, catch the pass from Joyce, and bury the shot.
You did it, Cathlyn! We won!
Great game, Champ. That last play was awesome!
I just did what the coach told me, Dad.
Did he come out on the floor and make you do it?
Of course not!
Are you glad you chose to follow his plan anyway?
I guess so. Hey, this isn’t just about basketball, is it?
It isn’t?
Do they teach this stuff in dad school, or are you just a natural?

Some time ago while visiting two stakes, I saw the evidence of the point I am trying to make. Both stakes were in predominantly Latter-day Saint communities. Both were affected seriously by the same severe but temporary disruption of employment. Generally, when I arrive in a new community for stake conference, I drive around the neighborhood or countryside to get a feel for the kind of people who live there. For example: Are their yards well taken care of? Are their homes well cared for? Are there old dilapidated barns and outbuildings, or are the properties neatly maintained and fenced? In other words, how much pride do the people have in themselves and their community?
In the first stake I refer to, I saw well-cared-for homes and yards. It seemed that this was a prosperous, so-called middle-class area. Some would have thought it an affluent area from the number of recreation vehicles in the driveways—boats, campers, and motor homes. As I met with the stake presidency, I commented on the apparent prosperity of the people. However, when reviewing the welfare needs of the people, I was shocked to see the demands made on the fast-offering funds and the bishops’ storehouse.
The stake president informed me that within a week or two of the closing down of the major employer, many families came to their bishops for assistance. They had very limited reserves from which to take care of themselves. He also mentioned there were some faithful members in his stake who from their reserves had taken care of their own needs as well as assisting some of their neighbors.
In the second stake, which was some distance from the first but which was impacted heavily by the same employment problem, I saw few recreation vehicles. As a matter of fact, I saw little evidence of affluence, although the properties were neat and tidy. Here I was surprised to see practically no fast offerings or bishop’s orders being used.
I asked the stake president if his bishops understood and were discharging their responsibilities for the poor and those in need. He indicated that, while some families had needed to seek assistance from their bishops, most of the members recognized their responsibility for their own welfare and were prepared to take care of themselves.
You see, the priorities of the members of these two stakes were very different. Many in the first stake were not prepared and expected the Church to take care of them, while in the second stake the situation was reversed—the majority of the people had prepared to meet their own needs.

For example, when Kenneth Miklya was converted to the gospel, the priests quorum in the St. Paul Minnesota First Ward took care of all the baptismal arrangements, under the bishop’s direction. One seventeen-year-old priest conducted the service, another presented an appropriate spiritual message, and a third baptized him. During the following months Ken received the Aaronic Priesthood and was ordained a deacon, a teacher, and a priest—all by his fellow priests quorum members. “It was a meaningful experience for all the young men involved,” says Thomas A. Holt of the St. Paul Minnesota Stake. “The priesthood became a reality to them. Most of these young men are currently serving missions.”

That year we also learned that Brother Reynolds needed a new set of scriptures. His were old, dog-eared, and tearing at the seams. We pooled our money and bought him a beautiful leather quad with his name engraved on it. We gave it to him at our ward Christmas party. I’ll never forget the way his face glowed and his eyes twinkled with tears and excitement from seeing us boys do something that meant so much to him.

After Brigham Young had been called as President of the Church, John Taylor received a call to go to New York to organize and publish a newspaper. This newspaper, the Mormon, was to inform people about the Church.
Brigham Young: Brother Taylor, we need you to go to New York and publish a newspaper to help people understand us.
Elder Taylor, his oldest son, George, and his nephew, Angus Cannon, set up the Mormon office between two New York City newspapers, the Herald and the Tribune.
John: Here we are, in the middle of two great newspapers.
When Elder John Taylor returned to Europe on a mission, he published the Book of Mormon and other Church writings in both French and German.
John: Now more people can read the gospel in their own language.
Because of his gift and talent of communication and his diligence, he was able to help many people understand the truth of the Church.

Carter walked into the kitchen with his friend Devin and opened the fridge. He pulled out two sodas and looked around. Where was Mom? Normally she was home when he got back from school. But her car wasn’t in the garage.
He handed a soda to Devin.
“Thanks,” Devin said. “I’m so mad about the science project. Only one week to finish the whole thing!”
Carter took a sip. “I know! It’s not fair!” The project their teacher had assigned that afternoon was going to take forever.
Devin said, “Now we probably can’t go on our bike ride on Saturday.”
Suddenly a swear word jumped out of Carter’s mouth. He hadn’t even thought to say it.
Devin looked surprised, but not upset. They’d both started swearing at school during recess a few weeks ago. But they’d never used bad words in their homes before.
“My thoughts exactly,” Devin said. Then he added a swear word of his own. They laughed.
Carter glanced around the empty kitchen. Mom wasn’t home, and Dad was still at work. It felt … kind of exciting to say that word in his own kitchen. But he also felt uneasy for some reason.
“It’s messed up,” Devin said. “He should’ve given us a month.”
“Totally,” Carter said. He took another drink of his soda. He drank too quickly and the carbonation burned down his throat. “And you know what else?”
This time Carter strung together a sentence with three swear words in it that made Devin laugh so hard he almost spilled his soda. Carter laughed with him.
“What!?”
Carter felt like a bolt of lightning cut through him as he heard Mom’s voice. He turned and saw her standing in the doorway to the garage. He hadn’t heard the door open.
Mom’s face showed how much his words had hurt her. Carter felt awful inside. He wanted to crawl inside a deep, deep hole.
“Uh, I gotta go.” Devin grabbed his backpack and hurried out the front door.
“Carter,” Mom finally said. She wasn’t yelling. He almost wished she were—that would be better than the disappointment in her voice. “We’ll talk about this later.”
She set her bags on the table and walked upstairs. Carter cringed. She was too upset to talk.
Carter finished his soda quickly and went out to the backyard. He plopped down on a lawn chair.
A few weeks ago he had decided it wasn’t that big a deal to use bad words once in a while—as long as he didn’t say them at home or at church. But only a few minutes ago that swear word had popped out before he’d even thought about it.
Carter already knew what he wanted to say to Mom. He wanted to tell her he was sorry and ask for her forgiveness.
Swearing wasn’t worth it, Carter decided. Not at home, and not at school. Not if it made him feel like this. Not if it upset Mom that way.
He prayed to Heavenly Father and asked for forgiveness. Carter promised right then and there. He was done swearing. Not ever again.
He felt a little tug of peace in his heart as soon as he made that choice. That was the Holy Ghost, he realized, telling him he was making the right decision.

Tony Wong, reared in the Church with family support, is an exception in Hong Kong. Most Church members are first-generation converts, often with families who don’t understand this “new” religion.
“It was difficult,” acknowledges Camel Lok, who was baptized as a teenager. Her family tolerated her weekly church attendance, but Camel often felt alone in her quest for spiritual growth and learning.
“I couldn’t have done it without my friends in the ward,” she explains. “Meetings on Sunday really strengthened me for the upcoming week.”
Now Camel and her husband, Gary, both returned missionaries, find support from each other and look forward to rearing their daughter with a strong gospel foundation.

The summer I was 15, a new family with teenage daughters moved into the ward. While my family was considered “goody-goody,” this family, though they were active, was definitely not goody-goody. The teenage girls always seemed to be having fun, and I felt awkward and left out when I was around them. But when it was time for girls’ camp that summer, I, of all people, was assigned to their cabin. I was determined to prove that I was not as goody-two-shoes as I seemed.
The campground where we had girls’ camp was used by other groups throughout the summer. On the rafters of the cabins, some of them had written their names and the year they were at camp. We were on the top bunks, reading some of the names, when one of the girls said, “We should put our names up there too.”
“Sure!” I agreed.
“No way you would do that,” said the other girl.
“Sure, I would,” I said. I decided that one more name wouldn’t really be noticeable. I also noted that the other girls thought it would be something on the edge—a thing they might do, but not something a straight arrow like me would do.
We pulled out some markers and began. The other girls wrote their names in small letters and with little flourish. I, however, wrote my name, the date, and “Girls’ Camp” in 5-inch-high flowing script with a decorative flower finish. The other girls were impressed, and we went to bed. I thought no more of it.
Others did, however. During cabin inspections, our decorations were discovered, and we were given bleach, water, and sandpaper to try to repair the damage we had done. I couldn’t erase my ink, which had penetrated the rough wood beams. After the fruitless scrubbing, the other girls were dismissed, and I got a lecture.
I heard how my actions would hurt the Church’s reputation. I heard how disappointed the leaders were that I would do something like that. “We wouldn’t expect it of you,” I heard over and over. And every evening, my name glared at me from the rafter overhead, shaming me in brilliant blue.
I was allowed to stay at camp and eventually stopped hearing about my transgression. But I heard more once I got home. The camp staff had called my parents.
My mom didn’t get angry, but her disappointment was deep. She asked why I did it. I explained how I felt left out and how I wanted to do something to show I could walk on the edge.
After talking to my mom I realized that I had done to my family and to myself the same thing I had done to the Church. By plastering my name where it shouldn’t have been in an act of vandalism, I had demeaned my parents’ good name.
I also realized that when I pursue popularity at the expense of respect, I am in danger of dishonoring the name of Christ or giving others the impression that I don’t belong to His family.
Since this experience I have often thought what a blessing it will be if, at the end of this life, we can give a good report to our Savior when He asks what we have done with His name. None of us will want to admit that we sold our good name for social acceptance or that we gave it up for a questionable video, for a girlfriend or boyfriend, for a bottle of beer, or for the laughter of friends. I know we will want to say that we have preserved our name by standing for truth and righteousness at all times—when it’s easy and fun and even when it’s not.
What’s in a name? As I realized that summer at girls’ camp, it can be quite a lot. When I think of my name blaring bright blue to future generations of campers, I remember the blessing and responsibility of carrying a good name, both for my mortal family and for the Church and family of Christ.

When I was a young boy, two Primary teachers had a great influence on me. The first was Sister Wedtstein. She remained interested in us and our activities long after we left her class. As long as we were in the same stake, she stayed in touch.
The second was Sister Baker. Besides spending time in the classroom, we had a lot of activities. We went on hikes, had campfires, and roasted hot dogs. Her husband owned an airplane, and we often went to the airport to watch him take off. I still have pictures of those times, and they always bring back wonderful memories.
As I think about Sister Wedtstein and Sister Baker, I don’t remember in detail what they taught us. But I remember the deep love they had for us and the great respect we had for them in return.

A young man came to me not long ago and said, "I made an agreement with a man that requires me to make certain payments each year. I am in arrears, and I can't make those payments, for if I do, it is going to cause me to lose my home. What shall I do?"
I looked at him and said, "Keep your agreement."
"Even if it costs me my home?"
I said, "I am not talking about your home. I am talking about your agreement; and I think your wife would rather have a husband who would keep his word, meet his obligations, keep his pledges or his covenants, and have to rent a home than to have a home with a husband who will not keep his covenants and his pledges."[1]

Eight-year-old Sarawuth Buttho’s eyes lit up as he looked into the package of clothes. He turned and darted up the stairs into the living area of his “home on stilts” in the Ubon Branch in Thailand. After a few minutes, he called to his father, “Dad, I’ve never seen clothes like this. Come and show me how to put them on.”
Sarawuth’s sister, Oranut, and her friend, Chanchira Thondee, clasped their bags of treasure and ran next door to Chanchira’s house, where they tried on their new clothing. Seeing Oranut’s smile, watching Chanchira whirl in her ruffled lavender dress, or catching a glimpse of Sarawuth in his first-ever white shirt and tie would have been more than enough to thank the children in Bangkok for their wonderful gift.
The Primary children in the English-speaking branch in Bangkok, Thailand, had heard about their brothers and sisters in the Issan region of Thailand. They knew that they were very poor and that they had very few clothes to wear. In fact, they learned that the only change of clothing these children had was their school uniform, which they wore to school every day. They did not have any special clothes for Sunday.
Encouraged to begin to serve their fellowman in any way they could, the Primary children in Bangkok began a project to share what clothing they could spare with the children in the Issan region. They brought the clothing they wanted to donate to Primary, where the leaders made sure everything was clean, pressed, and mended. Clothing for about twenty children was then placed in plastic bags and tagged to show the size and age of the boy or girl who would receive it.
After missionaries serving in the region distributed the parcels of love, they reported some wonderful stories of gratitude:
Uthaiwan Arkomkong, age three, lives with her father and mother in a small room at the side of an equipment yard where her father works as a mechanic. Normally very shy, little Uthaiwan laughed and danced around the room when she put on the yellow ruffled dress that was in her package.
In the Srisaket Branch, two eight-year-old girls received dresses on the very day they were to be interviewed for baptism. They were happy to have their pictures taken in their new dresses on this special day.
When a pair of shoes was put aside by a teenager because they “squeezed her toes,” they were taken to Sister Pongsuwan, mother of three young daughters. “Do you want to be Cinderella?” asked Brother Dang as he knelt before her and slipped the shoes on her tiny feet. The shoes fit perfectly. Sister Pongsuwan danced and twirled with happiness, telling everyone that she had never had a pair of shoes before!
The love of the Primary children in Bangkok for their young brothers and sisters in the Issan region was returned many times with bright smiles and warm “thank yous” as gifts of the heart were exchanged—children to children.

I received a similar letter from Broken Arrow, Oklahoma, from a woman who said: “At the age of 19, I sat next to a sweet grandmother in Relief Society and learned to knit. She also was learning to knit. Over the years, I learned of bread making, of strength and perseverance. I learned that my toddler was just being a normal two-year-old, and I learned of a Heavenly Father who loves me. I learned to teach, to hug, to lead, and to follow.”

Photograph by Leslie Nilsson
When I was a boy, my father gave me a Christmas present I will never forget. It was a green Matchbox® racing car, which I absolutely loved. This car was the favorite thing I received that year. I played with it all the time. Then one day I got angry—I now can’t even remember why—and I threw my cherished car in a fit of anger. It landed in a wisteria bush.
Photograph by Getty Images
In Australia, Christmastime is in the summertime. These were long, hot days and the wisteria bush was thick with its full summer growth.
I soon calmed down enough to realize I had better find my car. I looked for hours. Days. Weeks, even. But I never saw my car again. It was forever lost in the tangles of the thick bush. I felt terrible! My father gave me something because he loved me, and I threw it away. Even today, when I think about this experience, I feel distressed at how I rejected this gift given in love.

During the sesquicentennial celebration of the Pioneers in the Pacific conference held on this campus in 1997, I was at the dedication ceremony for the statue of Jonathan Napela and George Q. Cannon outside this building which bears the name of the latter. The statue was commissioned for that special event to depict the rejoicing of the men responsible for translating the Book of Mormon into the Hawaiian language.President Gordon B. Hinckley was officiating the ceremony. After the dedication, he walked in my direction and extended his hand, and calling me by name, greeted me warmly. My heart raced as I heard the prophet of the Lord call me “Kimber”. It was such a thrilling surreal moment and I felt the power in knowing that the Lord and now his prophet too, were mindful of me personally. That wonderful feeling did not diminish even after I realized I had a name badge on. The Spirit bore witness to me in that moment that the Lord knows who I am and doesn’t need a name badge to recognize me.

I was scared I wouldn’t make new friends when we moved to South Korea. When I was reading the Friend, I saw Matt holding the South Korean flag in the “Find It!” activity (April 2020). Matt said, “Wherever you go in the world, Primary is the same.” I felt Heavenly Father was telling me that Matt was right and that I can go to Primary in South Korea and make friends!
Alice W., age 10, Gyeonggi-do, South Korea