Gospel Story Finder

Recent events in the nation of Chile illustrate the need for both lines. Chile suffered a devastating earthquake. Many of our members lost homes; some lost family members. Many lost confidence. Quickly—because our church is prepared to respond to such disasters—food, shelter, and other material aid was provided. The Saints of Chile heard the voice of the Lord through His Church and its leaders responding to their material needs. But however sufficient the priesthood line, it was not enough. Each member needed to seek the Lord in prayer and receive the direct message of comfort and guidance that comes through the Holy Spirit to those who seek and listen.

Evie walked into the noisy gym and pulled her kneepads up over her knees. She was excited for volleyball camp, but also really nervous. She’d never been alone at a camp like this before! She hoped she would make friends soon.
She looked around at the dozens of girls talking excitedly to each other. I wish I was more like Libby, she thought. Libby was her sister. She could talk to anyone and become good friends.
But Evie was more … quiet. At school, she usually liked to read her book instead of talking before class. She didn’t mind working by herself on school projects. And when it was her birthday, she invited just a few friends to go skating instead of having a big party.
The coach blew her whistle, and Evie jogged over to join the others for warm-ups. Evie felt a little awkward, but she tried to talk to a few of the girls.
After hours of serving, passing, and playing get-to-know-you games, it was finally time for lunch. Evie brought her food to a round table and sat next to some other players. Everyone was talking loudly and singing in funny voices. Evie munched quietly on her carrot sticks.
One of the older girls at the table noticed Evie being quiet. “Hey!” She put her hand on Evie’s shoulder and shook it playfully. “Be yourself! Just be crazy!”
Evie felt embarrassed. But what if I am being myself? she thought. What if I don’t want to “be crazy”? Maybe there was something wrong with her. Everyone seemed to like the girls who were loud.
At the end of the day, Evie was glad to see Mom’s car pull up. “How was it?” Mom asked.
“Fun,” Evie said as she climbed into her seat. And it had been fun … sort of.
Evie sighed. Tomorrow would be another day of camp, surrounded by people she didn’t know. She would have to be brave all over again.
Mom seemed to read her mind. “I’m proud of you,” she said. “It’s not easy going to a camp where you don’t know anyone.”
Evie looked out the window. “I just wish I wasn’t so quiet.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being quiet,” Mom said. “It will get easier as you get to know more people. But you don’t have to change your personality. Being you is OK.”
Evie thought about that for the rest of the drive home.
The next day, Evie was brave and talked to a few more people. She tried to think less about what others were thinking about her. Instead, she focused on playing her best and having fun. She worked hard on the drills and said kind things to the other players. She still felt like she was quieter than most of the others, but she started to feel more confident making new friends.
On the last day of camp, everyone sat on the gym floor while the coach announced awards for each girl. Tasha got the award for the most improved serve. Mia got the award for most team spirit.
“And to Evie,” the coach said, “the Quiet Leader Award.” Evie’s eyes widened as she stood up to get her certificate. Everyone clapped.
“Sometimes we think leadership means being loud and telling people what to do,” said the coach. “But a good leader sets an example for others to follow. Thanks for working hard, Evie. Your actions speak louder than your words.”
Evie smiled as she walked back to her seat. Mom was right! Being quiet was OK. It was more than OK, actually.

Renate pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her chin on them. Across the attic, her mother was cradling her baby sister, Brigitte, to keep her from crying.
How to say the names:
Renate (Reh-NAH-teh)
Brigitte (Brig-IT-teh)
A few weeks ago, Renate and her family had been safe and happy at their home in Prussia. Then her father had heard that soldiers were coming. Mother decided to take Renate and Brigitte to Germany, where they would be safe.
They had planned to take a train to Hamburg, but the train had to stop because it might be bombed. They had to leave their luggage on the train and walk through the dark, snowy forest. Over the next few days, they passed through several villages, looking for somewhere to stay, but nobody would help them. Everyone knew they could get in trouble if they hid refugees like Renate and her family. She and her mother had said a lot of prayers, thanking Heavenly Father for protecting them and asking Him to help them find somewhere safe to stay.
A few days later their prayers were answered! They found an older couple who let them hide in their attic. Renate thought they would be safe there, but then the army arrived in the town. Renate and her family had to stay hidden in the attic all day.
Renate pulled her shawl tighter around her. Usually the man they were staying with brought them food, but today they hadn’t seen him, and Renate’s stomach was rumbling. She tried to say something to Mother, but Mother pressed a finger to her lips, a reminder that they needed to stay very quiet. Renate sighed. Sometimes it felt like she hadn’t spoken in days.
Suddenly she heard a noise downstairs. Someone was knocking on the door. Renate heard the door open.
“Good day,” she heard a man say. “We are checking homes to see if any refugees are being hidden.”
Soldiers were here! Renate felt her heart begin to pound. If they were discovered, they could be punished! She looked across the attic at her mother. She was clutching Brigitte, and her eyes were wide.
Renate heard the soldiers’ heavy footsteps come pounding across the entrance hall and up the stairs.
Suddenly Brigitte began to cry. Her loud, wailing sobs rang around the attic. Mother tried to comfort her, but Brigitte kept crying. Renate started to panic. If the soldiers found them, they would be in danger!
Brigitte stopped crying after a moment, but was it too late? Renate held her breath, listening hard for the soldiers’ voices. What could she do if they had heard?
Then she remembered how Heavenly Father had answered their prayers to find somewhere safe to stay. He had watched over them as they had traveled, and she knew He would keep protecting them. Her mother had taught her that when she was scared or in trouble, she could always pray.
Renate got onto her knees, folded her arms, and started to pray silently to Heavenly Father to protect them. When she opened her eyes, Mother was kneeling too, Brigitte still clutched in her arms.
Through the floorboards, Renate heard the soldiers’ voices again—they were much closer than before. Renate held her breath.
Then she heard a soldier say, “There doesn’t seem to be anyone here. Thank you very much, sir. Have a good day.” She heard the footsteps retreat and the front door close.
A few minutes later, the attic’s trapdoor opened and the man who was hiding them poked his head through. “You’re safe!” he said. “The soldiers have left. I can’t believe they didn’t hear your baby cry!”
Renate felt warm relief sweep through her. “Heavenly Father protected us,” she told him. “I know He was the one who kept us safe.”

When I served as mission president in eastern Canada, there was a lovely lady who served as the secretary of the genealogy committee in one of our fine districts. How she labored in her assignment! This dear woman was responsible for much of the genealogical research that had been done in her area of Canada. But she had come to a seemingly insurmountable barrier which she could not penetrate. She went to her Heavenly Father, poured out her soul to Him, and literally made a plea that somehow He would intervene, somehow the way would be opened. Without waiting for a specific answer, she continued her research.

One day she was traveling down the main street of Belleville, Ontario, and came to an old bookstore. She felt compelled to enter the bookstore, and as she perused the countless array of books, her eye caught a two-volume set on a top shelf, and she knew she had to see those books. She asked the clerk for assistance, and when he handed them to her, she read the titles: Pioneer Life on the Bay of Quinte, volumes 1 and 2. She turned to the first page, the second, and the third. Those two volumes contained nothing but family history from the first page to the last. One volume supplied the key which opened the lock to the mystery which had frustrated her work.

She was elated until she asked the price, and then her elation turned to doubt. “Two hundred dollars for the two rare volumes,” said the clerk. However, the quorum of elders in the district was able to purchase those two volumes after their worth had been verified. The books were sent to the genealogical archives in Salt Lake City, and it was reported that they also provided some of the missing keys to the research of the late President Henry D. Moyle of the First Presidency, for some of his forebears had come from the Bay of Quinte near Belleville, Ontario. A great blessing had been realized because a dear woman with “faith, nothing wavering,” had performed her duty.

“I guess I thought that the Good Fairy would wash the milk pail,” Paul grumbled sleepily to himself the next morning when he found the unwashed bucket where he had left it in the sink. He scrubbed the bucket and strainer until they were as clean and shiny as Grandma had left them, then headed out to milk the cow. He breathed deeply the fragrant early morning air as he walked and thought how very different Sunday was here than at home. A cow that had to be milked and livestock requiring feed and water every day made some changes in even the most carefully planned “day of rest.”
Paul milked with hands still sore from the night before, but at least Clarabelle cooperated a little better. She stepped around some, but she didn’t step on him or kick the bucket. “Someone should invent a cow that you don’t have to milk on weekends,” Paul told her as he turned her loose into the horse pasture.
“Since the calves are a pretty good size now,” Grandpa had explained, “they get the morning milk, and we get the night milk.” So Paul fed the cats meowing around his feet, then divided the remaining milk between the two red calves. With an eye on his watch, he hayed them and grained the pigs and made sure that all the animals still had water.
The horses came when he whistled. Ginger was limping, and one knee was swollen, but she really didn’t look too bad, considering how she had looked just a few hours before.
He detoured to open the chicken coop door on the way to the house. This time he washed the milk pail right away and set it in the dish drainer.
Since he had neglected his bath the night before, he took one now, then dressed in his good clothes. He had time for a leisurely breakfast and was on his second bowl of cold cereal when Grandma called.
After she told him that Grandpa had reacted badly to the anesthetic the doctors used when they set his leg, Paul decided not to tell her about the horse just yet. She asked him to bring her a change of clothes and her scriptures after church and told him where to look. He couldn’t find the blouse that she had described, so he picked one that he liked and put all the items into a paper sack.
He was sitting on the front porch in the sunshine, the sack beside him and his scriptures in his hand, when Brother Ross arrived. This, he thought, is hardly how I expected my first Sunday in Wyoming to be.
There were a few faces that he recognized from visits other summers, but mostly he was surrounded by strangers as he entered the chapel. He was welcomed warmly, however, and it felt good to be where he knew he should be.
He watched with interest as the deacons passed the sacrament. This was the first time all year that it wasn’t his responsibility, and, fleetingly, he felt a little left out. A number of people stopped him in the hall between meetings and afterward to ask about his grandfather.
He and Brother Ross stopped at the hospital after church, and Paul gave the sack to Grandma. She looked inside briefly, nodded, and thanked him. Paul thought that she looked as tired as he felt—if that were possible.
Grandpa, pale and groggy, lay with his stiff, cast-covered leg propped up on a pillow. He squeezed Paul’s hand, smiled at him, but had little to say.
As they walked down the hall later, Grandma explained, “The doctor says that when he gets over the problem from the anesthetic, he should recover quickly. We think he’ll be home in a few days.” She hesitated, then said almost pleadingly, “If you’re going to be all right, I’ll stay here until his mind is clear enough for him to fight his own battles.”
“Everything’s under control,” Paul assured her. “He needs you worse than I do—at least until the roast runs out,” he added with a grin.
Grandma chuckled and gave him a hug.
“My family’s gone and I’m a lousy cook, or I’d invite you to dinner,” Brother Ross explained as he took Paul home.
“That’s OK. Why don’t you come have a roast beef sandwich with me? There’s a big roast in the refrigerator, and I was too tired last night to make much of a dent in it.”
After Brother Ross left, Paul carefully put away his good clothes and flopped across his bed. Despite the bright sunlight in the room, he slept until nearly chore time.

The pelican is often called a walking fishnet because of a huge fish-catching pouch attached to the underside of its bill. Its appetite is enormous. Plunging into a school of fish, the pelican scoops them into its pouch. Oftentimes, because of the bird’s greediness, it does not stop to eat the first fish it catches but instead rushes on to gather up more fish until its bulging pouch will hold no more.

After his father died, his mother became ill. He was alone and unhappy and didn’t do very well in school. That changed when his fifth-grade teacher, Ms. Shaffer, helped him to learn and have confidence.

Teachers in the Church so instruct the old and the young. Sometimes the results are humorous. One leader shared this story with me:
As a little boy came home from Primary one day, his mother asked him what he had learned, and he said, “My teacher told me that I used to be dust and I would be dust again once more. Is that true, Mommy?”
“Yes,” the mother replied. “A scripture tells us so: ‘For dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return’ (Gen. 3:19).”
The little boy was amazed at this! The next morning, he was scurrying around getting ready for school, looking for his shoes. He crawled under the bed. Lo and behold, there he saw balls of dust. He ran to his mother in wonder, saying, “Oh, Mommy, somebody’s under my bed, and they’re either coming or going.”

When he was fourteen years old, Elder Kikuchi was attending night school and arising before four o’clock in the morning to make tofu at a nearby factory. Tofu or bean curd is a staple of the Japanese diet, and he had to prepare the tofu and have it ready by 6:00–7:00 A.M. so that customers could buy it for their breakfast. Finally, he fell ill from exhaustion. While he was resting, and trying to recuperate at his uncle’s house in Muroran, two Mormon missionaries knocked at the door. Elder Kikuchi, in recalling the occasion, said, “In those days missionaries wore hats, heavy rubber boots, and overcoats. They seemed so big compared to me, and yet their eyes were sparkling and pure. I was very impressed by their courtesy and invited them in for a few minutes.”

After this brief introduction to the Church, Elder Kikuchi was baptized thirteen days later. “It was manifest to my spirit” he said, “that the story of Joseph Smith was true. I had really searched for the truth through all the years of my boyhood, but I never had any knowledge about the true church.”

There were times in the past when my wife’s tears would make me feel uncomfortable and I would respond, “Don’t cry. It’s not that bad.” This response to my own feelings of frustration (rather than to her pain) was telling her that she shouldn’t feel what she was feeling. Without meaning to, I was not helping her communicate with me. When I stopped doing this, she became more open with her feelings. Most of the time people don’t need advice—they need someone who will listen to them and accept them as they are. “Let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath.” (James 1:19.)

After he became president, Abraham Lincoln was asked about his childhood. “What happy memories do you have of your early years?” asked one newspaper reporter.
President Lincoln sat back in his chair. “We had little money in our home,” he answered, “but there was much joy and love. My kind and loving sister Sarah and I shared many wonderful adventures. Her years upon this earth were few. Yet my happiest memories are of the little time we had together. She was truly a loving sister and a very special friend.”

You are truly amazing. Thank you for printing the April 1994 special issue about Jesus Christ. I was having some problems deciding my plans for the next year in school when I picked up my New Era and saw the Mormonad “You Are Never Alone.” Once I read it, a peacefulness came over me and I realized that Jesus is not going to leave when we need him. We need to turn to him and have faith that he knows what’s best for us. The Mormonad poster came to me at the best time. I hung it in my room to remind me every day that I am not alone.
Lucie PetersonBenecia, California

A true story from the USA.
Kaci smiled as she took her seat in Primary. Today had been the children’s sacrament meeting presentation. It had been scary to say her part, but she did it!
Sister Dench, the Primary president, stood up front. “Good job in sacrament meeting today!” she said. “I know you each worked hard to learn your parts.”
“Except for Kaci,” one of the older boys said. “No one could tell what she said.”
Sister Dench frowned at the boy, then turned to smile at Kaci. “You did a wonderful job.”
Kaci tried not to cry. She’d done her best to learn her part. But sometimes her words didn’t come out right.
On the way home, Kaci couldn’t stop the tears any longer.
“What’s wrong?” Mommy asked.
“One of the boys made fun of me. He said I didn’t say my part right.” She started crying harder.
“You did a good job. Daddy and I are proud of you,” Mommy said. “Do you know who else is proud of you?”
Kaci shook her head.
“Heavenly Father,” Mommy said. “He knows you did your best.”
Kaci felt a lot better. She wanted to use her words to help other people feel happy too.
At school, Kaci told her teacher that she was doing a good job teaching.
At home, Daddy was fixing a shelf. Kaci told him he was doing a good job making their house nice.
Outside, Kaci and her brother played ball together. Kaci told him that he was doing a good job throwing.
Telling people they were doing a good job made Kaci feel good inside. When she saw others smile, she knew that her simple words made a big difference!
Watch a video of this story at friend.ChurchofJesusChrist.org.
Illustrations by Greg Paprocki

Because my father died before I was eight years old, I had early cause to wonder about the purposes of the Lord in depriving me of a relationship other boys enjoyed and took for granted. As with so many other mortal challenges, the perspective of the gospel of Jesus Christ filled that void. How grateful I am that my brother and sister and I were raised by a widowed mother who used her faith and our parents’ temple marriage to make our departed father a daily presence in our lives. We never had cause to feel that we were without a father. We had a father, but he was away for a season. There are few things more important in this life than knowing your place in mortality and your potential in eternity. Marriages sealed for eternity in a temple of the Lord provide that possibility for every child and for every adult.

Thomas Kane returned to live in Pennsylvania, but he visited his Latter-day Saint friends often and remained interested in their welfare. After he died in 1883, his wife wrote a letter to the Saints telling them that Thomas asked her in his last hours before death to send "The sweetest message you can make up to my Mormon friends—to all, my dear Mormon friends."

Claudia R. of Colorado, USA, tells how she held her ground:

“I feel like society is moving toward a gray area. For example, people will say about alcohol, ‘One sip isn’t going to kill you.’ That kind of rationalization is essentially playing mind games with yourself. And it’s in those situations—the ones that seem harmless—where agency is really tested.

“So you have to learn to stop, to put your foot down. Some people take what starts out as a gray area, and that gray area becomes really dark. And then you’re kind of stuck.

“I had gone on several fun dates with someone, but one time we were alone in the car in the dark, and he tried to pull a move on me. I knew that what he wanted to do could lead to other things. I was not going to let that happen, so I jumped out of the car.

“As single adults, when something goes against our standards, we have to take a stand. With dating, of course, you want to hold hands, hug, and kiss. But Satan wants to deceive us into thinking that the law of chastity is a gray area where partial obedience is OK.

“Our standards need to be firmer than ever. We need to decide before the difficult decisions come up. We have to put our foot down when things are wrong. I know our world isn’t easy; we have so many things going on. But the prophets and apostles have given us standards and guidelines. I carry a wallet-sized version of For the Strength of Youth with me, and it gets me through hard times.”

The current racial tension in America has brought me a lot of heartache and anxiety. My emotions have been all over the place as I’ve gone through some recent painful experiences of my own.
I’ve overheard colleagues and other people around me describing Black people in a negative way; making harsh, generalized judgments; and expressing preconceived notions about Black people more than I ever have before. Whenever I overheard conversations like these, I was usually the only Black person around. It can be scary to speak up in such situations.
One day, two young men yelled a racial slur at me as they drove past me in a car—an experience that left me shocked and hurt.
Talking about it has been difficult because so many people around me don’t understand how big of a problem and how common racism really is, and how hurtful it is to those who experience it. And as the only Black person in my ward and neighborhood, I started feeling isolated and misunderstood.
I started avoiding people out of fear.
I started wondering if I really belonged anywhere.
These painful feelings settled in my heart for a while, but everything changed when I heard a recent Brigham Young University devotional by President Dallin H. Oaks, First Counselor in the First Presidency. I felt his sincere love and concern for me as he said: “My brothers and sisters of the rising generation of the restored Church of Jesus Christ, I love you. I want to help you. … I must try to help you through teaching correct principles and trying to help you follow them.”1
I did not realize just how much I needed to hear President Oaks’s address, “Racism and Other Challenges,” until I did.
“Of course Black lives matter!” he said. “That is an eternal truth all reasonable people should support.”2
Those words meant everything to me. I felt a weight lift off my shoulders when I felt the Spirit confirm the eternal truth that God loves me regardless of my skin.
I’m an immigrant from the beautiful African country of Zambia. I’ve lived in America for 14 years. I married my white husband, and we have three beautiful half-Black, half-white children. Being a mother to them and being a Black woman myself, I found so much peace, comfort, and reassurance in President Oaks’s message that I am in the right place and that I truly do belong, especially in the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I forwarded the devotional to several of my Black friends who were also struggling like I was. They too loved this message because each of us has experienced racism in one form or another, ranging from hurtful name-calling to physical danger.
We all felt an enormous amount of joy, because the Lord’s prophets were speaking out against racism and reminding us of Heavenly Father’s love for each of us.

The April morning sun colored each detail of the spacious, modern, cream-colored building. The building was surrounded by green grass, and it looked like it might be a school. We walked through the door carrying carpet-cleaning catalogs under our arms.
Erika, my fiancée, was helping me make sales calls; we were trying to find new clients for the company I represented. The heels of our shoes, worn down from walking, clicked on the red-brick floor. As we continued down the hall we both realized that this building was a church. We proceeded cautiously because we did not know what customs and rules might apply here.
I wondered if this church might have red carpets like the ones I had sometimes seen used for weddings. But everything in this building was simple, yet elegant.
A group of friendly children and young people greeted us, and Erika asked them who we should see.
“Robert Vázquez,” replied a small boy. “I’ll get him for you.”
I glanced at Erika and quietly told her that if they tried to convert us, we would say we had another appointment and escape to her house.
I was completely satisfied with the religion of my parents. Although I was not completely devout, neither was I a black sheep. I was one of those irregular little lambs who attended church according to the season. But through sermons, Bible study, and moral lessons, I had become convinced of the existence of a loving Heavenly Father; of His Son, Jesus Christ, who atoned for our sins; and of the Holy Ghost. I had been taught about commandments and ordinances. I also knew of our undeniable imperfection as mortal beings.
I considered myself against money offerings, idol worship, and every other superstition or precept not founded on divine love and justice. I had been taught to pray and worship God without the intervention of saints. I believed in love, humility, service, the dangers of judging others, and the balm of forgiveness. I knew many members of my church who were virtuous, righteous, and exemplary. It seemed just short of impossible to consider another religion.
Holding Erika’s hand, I arrived at a room that seemed to be a classroom. There I met Mr. Vázquez.
“What shall I call you? Father? Reverend? Pastor?” I asked.
“Just call me Brother,” he replied. He invited us to go with him to services on the following day, and I was surprised to find myself accepting his invitation.
The next day Erika and I went to a Sunday School class. We were introduced to names like Nephi, Moroni, and Helaman. I felt as if I were in a foreign land without an interpreter. Nevertheless, both Erika and I felt there was something familiar about the ideas we were hearing. They sounded similar to those in the Bible. And so I dared to raise my hand, and I stood and affirmed that Jesus Christ was our greatest example of humility because He always subjected Himself to the will of the Father. Brother Jorge Montoya, our teacher, agreed with what I said. That surprised me. What kind of church was this where even a heretic, which is what I thought I must be to members of the Church, could speak and have the teacher agree?
So we continued attending. I received a Book of Mormon and read it in a single week. I gained a testimony, took the missionary discussions, and was baptized and confirmed on 3 May 1996.
The next day I felt as if I were walking around with a 100-watt lightbulb over my head. I was so happy I went out of my way to help strangers.
The following month Erika and I were married. And on 29 September I had the privilege of baptizing her. A year later we were sealed in the México City México Temple.
Best of all, I never felt that I had to leave the road I had been traveling in my former religion. My former knowledge was embraced and perfected by the true Church of Jesus Christ. My conversion was like passing from the light of a cloudy day into the greater light of a sunny day—like rowing a boat and someone starts the motor.
I realize there are many righteous, good, and holy people in other religions. Although they do not have the constant companionship of the Holy Ghost, they are illuminated by the Light of Christ. Still I wonder how we can help these good people see that the exceedingly bright light of Jesus Christ makes the lanterns, streetlights, and candles of other beliefs inadequate. There is no greater truth than pure truth, and pure truth encompasses and perfects the true beliefs of all good people throughout the world.
I know now that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the only church that contains the fulness of truth. And I know that Jesus Christ has opened His arms and the doors of His house to all who wish to follow Him.
I did not sell any carpet-cleaning services that morning in April. In fact I have never sold a single square meter of carpet cleaning to any member of the Church. Nevertheless, I am sure that in that single day I gained more—a thousand times more—than anyone could have imagined.

Seek to understand their point of view. I used to think my brother was always wrong, but when I started to look at things from his perspective, I was surprised. How would I feel if I couldn’t attend my little sister’s wedding? How would I feel if I didn’t understand some of the language my family members often used? If I were him, I might also sometimes react negatively to such things.

On Wednesday I went to my closet and picked out something modest to wear. Because of the Restoration, I know that my body is sacred and that I need to be a good example to those who see me. I also have the guidance of living prophets and apostles, who have given me For the Strength of Youth, which contains guidelines to help me make righteous choices.