Gospel Story Finder

I have just recently graduated from high school and turned 18. During my last year of school, I met a very special young man. I had wanted to tell him everything about the Church, but I didn’t know how to go about it.
One day I received the temple marriage issue of the New Era. All of the stories were very interesting. But one particular story seemed to stand out the most—“A Marvelous Work.” It was about a young woman who gave the Book of Mormon to a friend and introduced him to the Church. I read over this story a few times before I decided to let my friend take the New Era and read through it. I also decided to give him a Book of Mormon.
After doing so, my family and I decided to send the missionaries to his home. Not too long after that, he was baptized. He received the priesthood and serves as second assistant in the priests quorum.
I would like to thank the people who write for the New Era, and especially those who write articles pertaining to missionary work, including “A Marvelous Work.”
Beverly BradenApple Valley, California

That was the way he looked when I reached the summit of Snowdon for the first time. As the highest mountain in England or Wales, Snowdon, for a six-year-old, seemed as inconquerable as Everest does to me now. The old miner’s track was surfaced with rough shingle that shifted unnervingly as we walked. The craggy gray rocks and scattered boulders were a stark contrast to the sailor-blue sky and white scudding clouds above. Occasionally, we would pass a stray sheep searching for an area to graze. These hardy animals were so used to human invaders that they barely noticed us passing.
It wasn’t long before my short legs were failing, and with them my spirits. The gray path seemed endless. “Come on, Sian. You can do it,” Dad coaxed as he heaved me onto his back. It made the climb more difficult for him but helped revive me. We trudged past crumbling stonewalls that had been built by a now forgotten shepherd long before the era of cement. From a distance they looked like huge scars on the face of the mountain.
At last we reached the final scree. Dad held my hand tightly as we scrambled up. When we reached the plateau on the top, we sat down breathlessly. I looked around. Far below I could see moving people like multicolored ants. As far as the eye could see there were mountain ridges, deep valleys, and in the distance the glint of blue from the North Sea. I gazed around in wonder, then laughed excitedly. “We made it, Dad. We reached the very top!” I looked up to see that the expression in my father’s eyes at that moment was a reflection of my own. It said, I love you, I have faith in you, and I know that you can do what you set your mind to do.

I want to express my gratitude for the Liahona (Spanish) magazine. My family and I are the only ones who speak Spanish in our Canadian ward, and we eagerly await this Spanish edition of the Church magazines, just as thirsty plants await rainstorms.
Because my English is so poor, my participation in the ward has not always been as good as it could be. But when I read the Liahona, the messages in it strengthen me a great deal. The counsel of the Brethren, as well as the testimonies of brothers and sisters from around the world, renew my spirit. I wish every member of the Church could have a copy of the Church magazines every month.
J. Ernesto MerinoTrenton Ward, Oshawa Ontario StakeCanada

One morning a good many years ago, a member of the Quorum of the Twelve came to my office and told me of a beautiful, touching experience that had happened to him that day. He had gone to the old Deseret Gym to enjoy the steam bath. As he sat there in the heavy steam, he heard the door open. He looked up to see who was entering. He couldn’t see anyone, but he had a feeling that someone else was there in the room with him. After a few minutes, he saw a young Primary-age boy seated two or three feet away. The boy gradually slid closer to the Apostle, and they finally said hello to each other. Then the boy moved even closer until he could look up into the face of the Church leader. The boy said, “Mister, I think that I know who you are.” The Apostle said, “Who am I?” The boy said, “I think that you’re one of the Apostles of the Church. I think you’re the one who travels all over the ocean on big boats and little boats and all kinds of airplanes—and you’re the one who never gets sick or hurt in any wrecks.”
The Apostle acknowledged that he was the one who was having those great experiences. The boy then said to him, “Do you know why it is that you don’t ever get killed or get hurt?” The Apostle said, “No, why is that?” The boy said, “Because I pray for you.”

Painting Yourself into a Corner
One day my father assigned me to varnish a wooden floor. I made the choice to begin at the door and work my way into the room. When I was almost finished, I realized I had left myself no way to get out. There was no window or door on the other side. I had literally painted myself into a corner. I had no place to go. I was stuck.
Whenever we disobey, we spiritually paint ourselves into a corner and are captive to our choices. Like repentance, turning around and walking across a newly varnished floor means more work—a lot of re-sanding and refinishing! Returning to the Lord isn’t easy, but it is worth it.
Elder Robert D. Hales of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles

As we faithfully seek information about ancestors with the purpose of performing temple ordinances, we’ll be exposed to events and impressions that will perceptibly show the Lord’s hand in this work. During the 1960s my wife’s grandfather, who served as a branch president in the southernmost part of Brazil, had collected many ancestors’ names, which were all in paper documents as there were no computers then. He was afraid that one of his 16 children would damage or lose those precious records, so he decided to keep them in his branch presidency’s office at the local chapel. But one day that meetinghouse was caught on fire and he lost all his family history. Years of work vanished in minutes! He and his family were deeply saddened but felt impressed to visit his relatives in Argentina in an attempt to recover some of the lost information. During those visits he was describing what happened and one of his uncles (who was not a member of the Church) asked to be excused for a moment and then came right back from another room with a stack of papers full of names, dates, and documents concerning all those that had been lost in the fire. For years, he said, “I felt compelled to keep this information without knowing why, but now it all makes sense. You can have all this!!”
Not only were all the names recovered but also many new ones were added. This event has caused all in the family to clearly discern that there was direct guidance from the Holy Ghost and that God knows the end from the beginning!

A few Sundays ago as I sat in a sacrament meeting in Germany, tears of gratitude filled my eyes and my heart was full. I saw eighty-two little children sing songs of love to their Heavenly Father. I was so grateful for the Church which has been reestablished upon the earth, and that I too had one day been a Primary child, and my children also, and had learned those songs and the love they express. I’ve sung those songs thousands of times since my youth and am grateful for the love and the message they bring. On this very same day in that sacrament meeting was a new convert who is awaiting the arrival of her first child. She was so touched by the children, the Church, the Primary, and the love of our Heavenly Father that was there. She later excitedly said, “Oh, I can hardly wait to have my child so she can go to Primary.”

Persecution has not stopped the progress of truth, but has only added fuel to the flame, it has spread with increasing rapidity. Proud of the cause which they have espoused, and conscious of our innocence, and of the truth of their system, amidst calumny and reproach, have the Elders of this Church gone forth, and planted the Gospel in almost every state in the Union; it has penetrated our cities, it has spread over our villages, and has caused thousands of our intelligent, noble, and patriotic citizens to obey its divine mandates, and be governed by its sacred truths. It has also spread into England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, where, in the year 1840, a few of our missionaries were sent, and over five thousand joined the Standard of Truth; there are numbers now joining in every land.
Our missionaries are going forth to different nations, and in Germany, Palestine, New Holland, Australia, the East Indies, and other places, the Standard of Truth has been erected; no unhallowed hand can stop the work from progressing; persecutions may rage, mobs may combine, armies may assemble, calumny may defame, but the truth of God will go forth boldly, nobly, and independent, till it has penetrated every continent, visited every clime, swept every country, and sounded in every ear, till the purposes of God shall be accomplished, and the Great Jehovah shall say the work is done.

Seppe walked restlessly up and down the small pier. One by one the lights in the old farmhouse went, and then a lantern bobbed along the path to the boat landing. It was early, this Saturday morning in December, and dark.
Father, Mother, little sister Eila, and Seppo climbed into their boat and cast off. They were on their way to the market square by the harbor in Helsinki to sell their wares.
“What a load we have this morning,” said Mother above the sound of the chugging motor. “Potatoes, bunches of birch leaves, and cranberries that Eila and Seppo picked yesterday!”
“And Mother’s great bundle of weaving,” said Father as he guided the large motorboat over the dark waters and through the clusters of little islands toward Helsinki. “One more rug and one more tablecloth, and there would have been no room for Eila and Seppo!”
“Oh, but we had to come today, “insisted Seppo. “This is the day I buy my new skis.”
When the Gulf of Finland froze each winter, Seppo would ski over the ice to school on the mainland … Every February he entered the ski-day race. However, his skis had been broken, so all summer and through the fall Seppo had worked for neighboring farmers to earn the money to buy new skis in Helsinki. This year he felt sure that he would win the race.
“And this is the day I buy my special candle for Independence Day,” said Eila, who had saved all the money she had earned by gathering birch leaves for Father to sell. December sixth is Independence Day in Finland and candles glow in every window to mark this special day. Eila’s heart was set on having the most beautiful candle she could find in Stockmann’s Department Store.
Father steered the boat into the south harbor, past the piers for the large ships and ferryboats, and into their own spot by the harbor’s edge. When Father hopped out and began to tie up the boat, some men were already putting up the stalls and orange canopies in the marketplace. The dome of the big white cathedral gleamed through the early morning mist.
“Seppo, will you please carry this roll of rugs to my stall?” asked Mother. “You will have time before the stores open to help me set up.”
Seppo, his arms clasping the bully bundle, waited for Eila to climb out of the boat and onto the stone steps at the harbor’s edge. The boat was bobbing up and down, for a brisk wind was making the water choppy. Eila moved slowly, holding her purse in one hand.
“Hurry, Eila, these rugs are heavy!” Seppo said angrily.
Eila turned her head to answer, and almost lost her balance. She grabbed the edge of the boat to steady herself, and her purse flew out of her hand into the water.
“My money!” wailed Eila, as Father snatched an oar from the boat and poked it down through the water to see if he could rescue the purse.
“I’m afraid it’s gone,” he said finally. “I’m sorry,” Gently he helped Eila out of the boat and Seppo followed with the bundle of weaving. Seppo. Eila, and Mother trudged along in silence to the stall, while Father stayed in the boat with the cranberries, birch leaves, and potatoes.
Mother quickly arranged the rag rugs, tablecloths, and mats. She put on her special gloves that left her fingertips bare for handling small coins. Mrs. Salonen, who sold birchbark baskets in the stall next to Mother’s, also wore gloves this chilly morning.
After Seppo had brought his mother and Mrs. Salonen hot possu (doughnuts) from a nearby stall, he cleared his throat and said, “I think I’ll go now and buy my skis. Want to come along, Eila?”
Eila shook her head. “I can’t go now. Mrs. Salonen is paying me one mark to help her,” she said, sighing. “Then I can buy a tiny candle, and wait till next year for a special one. A year isn’t so long,” she added, trying to smile, but Seppo knew she was near tears.
He turned and walled rapidly out of the market square, hardly noticing the people he passed, who were bundled up in their fur hats and heavy coats. Instead, we kept seeing Eila’s horrified face as her carefully saved money sank out of sight. An uncomfortable thought began to nag Seppo: “If I hadn’t tried to hurry Eila out of the boat …
In the store the clerk greeted him. “Aha, you are fortunate. The skis that you have been admiring all fall are still here!”
Seppo touched the skis and looked at them for a long time. Their bright blue enameled surface gleamed in the electric light. He knew that Finland’s best skiers used skis exactly like these when they won their races.
Reaching into his pocket for his wallet, Seppo seemed to hear Eila saying, “A year isn’t so long.”
“Just a moment,” Seppo said as the clerk started to remove the championship skis from the rack. “I think … I think,” he said pointing to a cheaper pair of hickory skis just like the ones he had broken, “I’ll take these other skis instead.”
Anyway, reasoned Seppo as he rushed back to the marketplace, if I’m going to win the race, it’s more important to use the right wax on my skis and to keep practicing than to worry about the kind of skis I have.
After he had carefully stored his new skis in Father’s boat, Seppo went to Mrs. Salonen’s stall. A sad-faced Eila was still stacking baskets.
“Could you spare Eila to go with me for a little while?” he asked the older woman. “We have an important errand to do at Stockmann’s.”
Mrs. Salonen nodded her assent.
At “Stockmann’s, Seppo?” Eila asked as she hurried to catch up with her brother.
“Yes, come, Seppo encouraged, “before someone else buys your special candle.”
And this time, Eila, her eyes shining, needed no urging.

1. Let’s go back 60 years. The minutes of the Wandamere Ward of the Grant Stake for June 4, 1944, indicate the sacrament was administered by my friends Ward Jackson, Arthur Hicks, and me to a congregation of 141. Then it was off to war. In May of 1945, I was blessing the sacrament again—but in a foxhole on Okinawa for a congregation of only one, myself!
The training of my youth took over without fanfare—something only partially appreciated by me then—including abstaining from coffee in those same circumstances when water was scarce and highly chlorinated.

The closest temple for the saints in Brazzaville is currently in Kinshasa, in the DRC. Getting there has not always been easy.
“We organized massive trips to the temple in Kinshasa, which meant we had to brave the challenge of crossing the turbulent river with our families,” said President Gayouele. “It was also during a time when our country was going through a severe recession. Families were destitute, but for these trips, members made enormous sacrifices to pay for the tickets for crossing the river, meals, and accommodation. There were so many of us leaving for the temple that very often there was no more room for us in the Kinshasa temple. Some brothers and sisters had to stay outside the temple and wait for their turn. These trips were sometimes trials of faith and determination for temple ordinances. Eventually, these trips have enabled us to bring the spirit of the temple into the hearts of Church members.”

Our family was very involved in community and political efforts in support of the family, so we talked about these things often and had many robust conversations where opinions were shared and debated. As a result, each of our children grew confident in their own beliefs and their ability to express them.
For example, my youngest son took a biology class from a teacher who had been openly hostile to our beliefs. The teacher challenged him, “Does your mother know you’re in my class?”
“Yes, sir,” he responded.
About a month later I asked my son, “How is your biology class going?”
“Mom, the teacher challenges me every day,” he responded.
I was upset. “We can pull you out of that class immediately!” I said.
“No way, Mom,” he replied. “Every day he challenges my beliefs, and every day I repeat what I believe in,” he explained. “And almost every day someone comes up to me after class and thanks me. They say they believe like I do but are too afraid to say anything.”
I was so proud of him for being strong in the face of such direct challenges and questions.
At the end of the semester, the teacher approached him. “Well, I have to give you credit,” he said. “You have done a great job of standing up for what you believe.”
Having all of those family discussions had prepared him well.

Some few years ago we established a new policy. As the Church grew large, populous, and far-reaching, and realizing the cost of transportation from the far reaches of the earth to this conference, realizing the limitation on the facilities here even—for we had long since filled this building—we determined to take the conferences to the people.
And so the first was held in Manchester, England; the second was held in Mexico City, Mexico; the next year we went to Munich, Germany; last year we went to Stockholm, Sweden; and this year we have been to Sao Paulo, Brazil and to Buenos Aires, Argentina and the states in South America.
We have been highly gratified with the reception. We have taken a group of the General Authorities and we have held for the local people a conference somewhat similar to this one. We have sustained the authorities of the Church; we have given to them the benefits that they might have received had they come to this conference.
We expect to continue this program and to go to different parts of the world and take the messages and keep in close touch with the great numbers of people who are congregating in the far ends of the Church.

Finally, may I tell you of a nine-year-old Spanish-American girl I interviewed one evening in Texas for baptism. I asked her if she knew who Jesus was. Her answer was, “Yes.” “Who is He?” I asked. Sweeping her hand over her head and gesturing at everything in sight, she said, “He owns all of this!” Could any nine-year-old, or perhaps any of us, have summed it up any better? In only five words she had described the Savior with simple clarity: “He owns all of this!” When the interview was over, she told her mother she did not want to leave the chapel but wanted to stay and sleep that night in “Jesus’ house.” “And this is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent.”

The Bully of Barkham Street and A Dog on Barkham Street Ever want to see an argument from both sides? These two books let you do just that! Don’t feel too sorry for Edward until you see what the bully is up against.Mary (M. S.) Stolz8–12 years

“Decisions determine destiny.”
I remember pausing the BYU Speech I was listening to with a healthy amount of surprise. Destiny? That seemed pretty set in stone to me. Storybooks and fairy tales had made that abundantly clear.
But based on what I was hearing, I did have a choice in my destiny! So how did God still have a plan for me?
With as many questions as I had, I began to study, pray, and ponder on them. I realized then that Heavenly Father did have a plan for my life, but He also expected me to put in some of the work necessary to make my goals happen.

I was so impressed by the effectiveness of this missionary approach by the prophet that I tried it myself in Puerto Rico. Just a few weeks later I was in San Juan, Puerto Rico, for a district conference. Following the morning session a Brother Martinez brought his nonmember mother and sisters up so I could meet them. As I leaned down over the railing of the stand I could hear the words of President Kimball ringing in my mind. Out they came: “Ma’am, the next time I shake your hand, I hope you are a member of this Church.” To my amazement and joy, her reply came quickly and sincerely, “And sir, so do I.” Five weeks following the conference the Martinez family was baptized. The father followed the rest of the family into the waters of baptism by three weeks. This experience has been repeated at least six times. My life has become rich by following the example set by President Kimball.

My grandmother, a spiritual giant to me, taught me how to pray. She spent her winters with a daughter who lived a hundred miles away, so I saw her only in the summers. Sometimes I got to stay with her. I loved to climb between her sparkling white sheets and lay my head on her freshly ironed pillowcases. Her home was a house of order and love. And her homemade bread and Potawatomi plum jam was like a king’s dinner to me. She always kept a tin box of lemon drops and mints.

After biking to her house one day, I couldn’t find her in the kitchen, so I went into her bedroom. Through the window I noticed her out in her garden. Passing her dresser, I saw a new box of chocolates that someone had given her for Mother’s Day. The temptation was too great. I opened the box, picked out several pieces, and shoved them into my pocket before running outside to see Grandma.
The next day Grandma called and asked me to come over to her house. When I arrived, we visited for a while, then she offered me a chocolate. I cried and she cried, then we talked about what it means to be honest and about how disappointed Heavenly Father is when we steal. Grandma taught me other lessons that afternoon that helped strengthen my spirituality. She was the first one I called when I received my mission call. She died while I was in the mission home, and she was buried the day I arrived in New Zealand. I will always cherish the comfort and strength that she was to me.

Togtokhin Enkhtuvshin, who now serves as president of the Ulaanbaatar Selbe Branch, recalls that during Mongolia’s socialist era, Mongolians “were not taught about religion. Moral values declined. Drinking, smoking, and moral sin became accepted. When I was a little boy, though, my grandmother taught me about God. She was Buddhist, but she told me about Jesus Christ. I felt that religion could unite our people and help them progress.”
Enkhtuvshin prayed to find something that would change his life and help the country. “I didn’t know what God I was praying to,” he says, “but my parents said that if there was a God, he would help me.” Eager to find out more about Jesus Christ, Enkhtuvshin accepted an invitation to study in Germany, where he knew he would find many Christian religions.
One day in Germany, Enkhtuvshin met Latter-day Saint missionaries on the street. “They gave me Russian and German copies of the Book of Mormon,” he recalls. “I read the book in one day and one night. I love this book.” Two days later he attended church, and during the summer of 1993 he was baptized. “I was excited to be baptized and thought I might be the first Mongolian member,” he says, “but I was concerned about returning home and not having the Church.”
Unaware of the gospel developments in his country, Enkhtuvshin returned to Mongolia the same month that six young elders arrived there to teach English, learn Mongolian, and share the gospel. He was shopping in a department store with his children when he noticed a familiar sight: clean-cut young missionaries! “At that time I knew that God was helping me,” he says. “I was very excited to find that I was not alone.”
Enkhtuvshin’s wife, Doyodiin Dashgerel, and their five children have joined the Church, and Enkhtuvshin has been a key figure in helping the Church gain government recognition. The Church was legally registered in October 1994.
As a professor, Enkhtuvshin struggled for many years to provide for his large family in a two-bedroom, Russian-built apartment. Inflation makes it difficult for Mongolians to live on an average salary of U.S. $50 per month, and they are dependent on imported goods that are expensive and limited in supply. With the new freedom of the market-based economy, Enkhtuvshin and his wife decided in 1994 to open a small delguur, or food shop. Shoppers in the couple’s food shop could find Dashgerel weighing sausage, cucumbers, or tomatoes in a four-foot-wide shop with a picture of the resurrected Savior on the wall behind her.

Across the street from her father’s Old Nauvoo Jewelry and Curio Shoppe, where he makes beautiful custom jewelry, is the public library. Behind the library is James Topic’s Nauvoo Glassworks. All three are favorite places, but if she had to choose among them, her father’s store would win hands down. She spent all one day there recently, choosing polished stones that she then made into earrings.