Gospel Story Finder

VROOM. VROOM. VROOM. Ashley looked out her window. She saw a blue truck. She saw big piles of dirt. The neighbors were building a new house.
“What makes dirt piles?” Ashley asked. “Who makes houses?”
“Trucks make dirt piles,” Mom said. “Builders make houses.”
“My teacher said Jesus made everything,” Ashley said.
“Yes,” Mom said. “Jesus made everything they build houses with.”
Ashley looked in her yard. “Like trees, and rocks, and dirt?” Ashley asked.
“Yes,” Mom said. “Jesus also made our bodies. Our bodies can build things.”
Ashley was happy. Jesus helped her neighbors to be able to build a house. She knew He could help her make things too.

Today is one of those days when getting out of bed is nothing but a trial. Six o’clock is just too early for any sane soul to be up. Even the birds aren’t yet awake! And besides, it’s Sunday—a day when I should be resting from my labors. But I have to go to work, and needless to say, I’m not thrilled. But I’ll go, grudgingly. Just let me sleep ten more minutes.
My name is Jana, and that is the attitude I had on that certain Sunday morning. Even though I love my work as a nurse at LDS Hospital in Salt Lake City, I just wasn’t in the mood to be there.
I staggered into the hospital promptly at 7:05; I was supposed to arrive at 7:00. Seeing the time on the clock in the hall, I panicked and pushed the elevator button several times, only to see that the elevator was on the fifth floor and not coming down. No time to waste. I ran up the six flights of stairs. By the time I reached the top, I was exhausted—huffing and puffing, my heart pounding in my ears in rebellion against the sudden exertion. I was relieved to know that I was in a hospital and if I had a heart attack, someone could save me.
I dragged myself down the hall, passing the clerk who looked up from her work and said without emotion, “They’ve started without you.” I smiled and stumbled into the report room where all the other nurses were gathered, none of whom glanced up at me. And even if they had done so, it wouldn’t have mattered. I was still alive, and that was all I cared about.
In the meeting I received a list of patients to care for and instructions for the day. Several patients were assigned to me, each with special problems and needs. I had baths to give, bed linens to change, equipment to monitor, temperatures to check, food trays to deliver, charting to do, medications to administer, bandages to change, tubing to check, sore muscles to rub, and to top it all off, doctors to please. I had no choice but to dig right in. Unfortunately, the work was not going to get done by itself.
In the midst of all the hubbub, a voice came over the intercom, “Any patient who would like to go to church, please notify your nurse.” Oh yes, I had almost forgotten; it was Sunday. I asked each of my patients if they wanted to attend the short half-hour meeting. No one seemed interested; most were too ill or too tired. That was how I felt too. Only one little lady, Mrs. Whitmer, an arthritis and bone cancer patient, answered my question with a quiet yes. This dear woman—who was confined to bed and in pain with every movement, every touch—desired to attend the meeting.
I requested that Mrs. Whitmer be wheeled to church in her bed. Then without delay, I hurriedly prepared her for the trip, combing her hair, washing her face, and changing her gown and bed linen. She grimaced with pain at every move, but she never uttered a word of complaint. No sooner had I finished sprucing her up than the brethren came for her, and off she went. I turned my attention to other patients without giving her another thought.
The day progressed, and finally my shift was over. I could relax! Before leaving duty I checked once more on the patients who had been under my care. Mrs. Whitmer had long since returned from church and was resting calmly—and so was everyone else, thank goodness. As quickly as I had sprinted to work that morning, I sprinted back to my apartment, ending another working day.
A few days later when I was working the evening shift, just as I was ready to sign off, the call light went on in room 4. “Oh boy,” I thought. “Why do they wait until I’m ready to leave before they call for me?” But I really didn’t mind. I went down the hall and groped my way through the darkness to the patient’s bedside. It was Mrs. Whitmer.
“Jana?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
She reached out and gently took my hand. In a quiet, quivering voice she said, “I just wanted to thank you for helping me get to church last Sunday. I haven’t been for awhile because I’ve been so ill, and you’ll never know how much it meant to me that day to go. When I partook of the sacrament …” There was a long pause; then in trembling words she continued: “I felt God’s Spirit, and I just knew that Christ is my Savior.” And with that she began to cry. I realized that I too was shedding some tears. This beautiful woman, as weak as she was, was stronger than I had ever been. She had a glowing testimony.
I couldn’t help but recall the times when I had only gone to church out of habit, never partaking of the Spirit, though I always partook of the bread and water. I also recalled the Sunday when I prepared Mrs. Whitmer for church and how hurriedly I had done so, as if it were a burden on me. Never would I feel that way again.
The two of us cried together that night, only for a few minutes, but it was long enough to share our souls. No other words were spoken; none needed to be. The tears and the touch of our hands had said it all.
I no longer live in Salt Lake, and I don’t know what happened to Mrs. Whitmer, but I’ll never forget her and her radiant testimony of Christ.

I would like to tell you a story of a young man who sought out a wise man who was recognized far and near for his good judgment. He asked for his expert advice on how to attain new heights of achievement in his field of endeavor.
“Come with me,” said the wise man. Taking the youth to a nearby stream, he immersed him and held him under the water. When the young man was released, he was nearly drowned and came up fighting for breath, gasping, “Air, air, give me air!”
“There,” said the wise man, “that’s the first lesson. When you want to succeed as badly as you wanted air, you will attain your goal. You will succeed!”

This year marks the 175th anniversary of the arrival of the early pioneers to the Salt Lake Valley, which has caused me to reflect on my ancestors, some of whom walked from Nauvoo to the Salt Lake Valley. I have great-grandparents who walked the plains in their youth. Henry Ballard was 20 years old; Margaret McNeil was 13; and Joseph F. Smith, who later became the sixth President of the Church, was just 9 when he arrived in the Salt Lake Valley.
They faced deprivations of every kind along the trail, such as cold winters, illness, and lack of adequate food and clothing. For instance, when Henry Ballard entered the Salt Lake Valley, he rejoiced in seeing the “Promised Land” but lived in fear that someone might see him because the clothing he was wearing was so worn out that it did not completely cover his body. He hid himself behind bushes all day until after dark. He then went to a house and begged for clothing so that he could continue his journey and locate his parents. He was thankful to God that he had reached his future home in safety.

Many years ago when I was practicing law in California, a friend and client who was not a member of our faith came in to see me and with great enthusiasm showed me a letter he had received from an LDS bishop of a nearby ward. The bishop wrote that a member of his congregation, a former employee of my client, had taken materials from my client’s work site and had rationalized that they were surplus. But after becoming a committed Latter-day Saint and attempting to follow Jesus Christ, this employee recognized that what he had done was dishonest. Enclosed in the letter was a sum of money from the man to cover not only the cost of the materials but also interest. My client was impressed that the Church through lay leadership would assist this man in his effort to be reconciled to God.

President and Sister Kasue and their children, along with many others, fasted and prayed that the Church would be officially recognized in Kenya. “Sometimes in family prayer I would forget to pray for the registration of the Church in Kenya,” President Kasue remembers. “My children would remind me and say, ‘Oh, Dad, you didn’t pray for the registration of the Church.’ My children had strong faith.” When official recognition was finally received on 25 February 1991, many wept, prayed, and fasted as an expression of gratitude.

As I pondered this question, I immediately reflected upon an experience from my youth. This is a story I related to Elder Robert D. Hales shortly after my call to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and which he included in a Church magazine article he wrote about my life.1 Some of you may have heard this story, but many may not have.
When I was about 11 years old, my father and I went hiking on a hot summer day in the mountains near our home. As Dad hiked up the steep trail, I jumped from one large rock to another along the sides of the trail. Intending to climb one of the large rocks, I began to clamber to the top of it. As I did so, I was surprised when my dad grabbed me by my belt and quickly pulled me down, saying, “Don’t climb on that rock. Let’s just keep on the trail.”
Minutes later, as we looked down from higher up the trail, we were stunned as we saw a big rattlesnake basking in the sun on top of the very rock I had intended to climb.
Later, as we were driving home, I knew Dad was waiting for me to ask, “How did you know the snake was there?” So I asked, and my question led to a discussion about the Holy Ghost and how the Holy Ghost can help us. I have never forgotten what I learned that day.
Can you see how the Holy Ghost helped me? I am forever grateful that my father listened to the still, small voice of the Holy Ghost, as it may have saved my life.

The kilometers click by on the car’s odometer. After a few hours, you stop checking the odometer and start watching the clock. By Australian standards, the drive from Adelaide to Broken Hill, in New South Wales, is not that long. But it’s long enough that you look for any break in the monotony of the scenery.
A big pile of fluff at the side of the road flashes by and disappears in the rearview mirror. Abandoned feather duster? Dead emu, maybe? Roadkill started to become interesting about 100 kilometers ago.
Once in a while you pass a sign and a dirt road leading over the distant horizon to some station or ranch—places so isolated that the Flying Doctor makes house calls, mail is delivered by plane, and children get their school lessons by radio.
Finally! In the middle of nowhere, there’s Broken Hill, with houses, and real trees, and grass. After that initial feeling of relief, your first thought is, Why did people build this town in the middle of nowhere? The street names give your first clue: Tin Street, Silver Street, Cobalt Street. According to a tourist brochure, Broken Hill is “the site of one of the richest mines the world has ever seen.”
Usually, when gold and silver are discovered, the people who get rich are the ones who get there first and stake their claims. Fourteen-year-old Jared Kowalski came to Broken Hill a hundred years after the first miners, but he still struck it rich.
Before their move to Broken Hill, the Kowalski family lived in Ipswich, Queensland, on Australia’s east coast. It’s a nearly tropical area, green and lush and close to some of the finest beaches in the world.
Then Jared’s dad took a job as a dentist for one of the mining companies, and the Kowalskis moved to Broken Hill. In the middle of nowhere. Or at least on the edge of nowhere. And Jared couldn’t be happier.
To some, the red, sandy soil of the outback may be a poor trade for the golden beaches near Ipswich. But to Jared, the snakes and odd lizards and other creatures of the outback are fascinating. In addition to the dogs and fish and other pets that any family might have, Jared has a small backyard menagerie with a bearded dragon lizard, a shingle-back lizard, turtles, finches, and quails—oh, and his carpet python, Monty.
Jared’s interest in animals goes even further. On some Saturdays, he helps the local veterinarian in his surgery, handing him instruments. “I thought it would be interesting,” he says, “so I asked if I could help.”
And if Jared could travel, where would he go? He doesn’t have to think that one over for long. “The Amazon rain forest,” he says. “There’s all those interesting plants and animals. That’s where I’d like to serve my mission, too. I think the people there would be interesting as well.” As much as Jared likes animals, you find when you talk to him that his greatest appreciation is for people.
A good prospector must look beyond the surface of the rocks to see the treasures they might hide. Jared’s that way with people. When you ask him if he feels isolated here in Broken Hill, he says, “I like it. There are some good members here. The best ones are old. They’ve got a lot to tell you. Most of them are really spiritual.”
The branch in Broken Hill is small, and Jared is the oldest Aaronic Priesthood bearer. He’s conscious of the example he has to set for the younger boys, to show his brothers and the other boys “the right things to do.” And the priesthood itself? “It just feels good. You feel special—a lot more confident when you have to do hard things, like tests at school.”
One of those right things to do is home teaching. “I like to home teach,” Jared says. With his senior companion, Lee Robertson, Jared visits five families, offering the prayer when asked. Jared likes people, and home teaching helps him get to know these families better. (It doesn’t hurt that Brother Robertson is also an outdoorsman. He and Jared sometimes talk about hunting wild pigs in the bush, and Jared is looking forward to getting his own compound bow, maybe doing some hunting himself.)
Jared has struck it rich in Broken Hill, all right, but he would also be the first to admit that he brought his greatest treasure with him. The Kowalski home on Cobalt Street is modest, but it’s filled with family and love. As Jared puts it, “We have heaps of fun. We have family home evening, go to the movies. I go camping with my dad.”
The family also reads the Book of Mormon together. Sometimes it makes Jared feel inspired; sometimes it’s hard to understand. But it does help contribute to his growing testimony. “I’ve already got a big testimony of prayer,” he says.
When Jared’s mission call comes a few years from now, it may not be to the jungles of the Amazon. But you know that wherever he goes, he’s going to be happy and successful.
Some people look at a place and think of it as nowhere. Then a guy like Jared comes along and turns it into his own personal somewhere. Like those first prospectors, Jared has found a vein of treasure. He’s rich in the best possible way.

And I am grateful for my wife. I would like to tell you a little story. I have been to three or four thousand meetings, I guess, in the last twenty-five years; and every one of those times she has sustained me—except for one. When I was off to a Sunday School meeting one night, she asked, “Will you be home early?” I said, “Yes, I’ll be home at 10:30.” Eleven o’clock and 11:30 came, and I wasn’t home. When I finally came home, I walked up to the door to walk in as usual, and it was locked. I rang the doorbell—and no answer. So I knocked on the door, and finally she came. She said, “I’m not going to let you in.”

I said, “Oh, come on.”

And she said, “No, it’s one time too many.”

In those days we had a Nash Rambler with a front seat that made out into a bed (but it was in the middle of winter). So I took my overcoat and went out into the car and rolled back the seat, and went to bed.

After a little while I could hear the front door open, and my wife came out to the car and asked me to come in. I told her I didn’t think I would. It was so cold I finally did.

Brethren, my wife is such a wonderful woman. In all of those years, she has sustained me so much; and I would hope that as members of the priesthood, as we hold leadership roles, we will remember this little experience and remember our wives.

I have often felt feelings of fear or weakness as I have been called of the Lord. One example is when I was out of town at a professional conference and received a phone call from a Church leader asking if I would be willing to serve as the ward clerk. I remember thinking, “Can I really do this?” I had not grown up in the Church and had very little knowledge of how the clerk’s office operated, though the clerk seemed to do many important things. However, when I got down on my knees and prayed to know how I should respond, I felt a confirming witness that I was to accept this Church calling and that I would be able to perform the duties associated with it—and that is exactly what happened. The Lord did qualify me, and He did send others to help me.

The doctor at the army base near Taejon, Korea, looked up at me and smiled. I had been congratulating him and his colleagues on their brilliant management of a carbon monoxide poisoning incident. As Chief of Professional Services for the Surgeon of the U.S. Army and for the United Nations Forces, I had been so impressed by this young doctor’s actions that I came down personally to review the case with him.
In his tent we chatted about the incidence of such poisoning among soldiers. Korean homes are heated with a soft coal, called yantan, which is pressed into large bricks and burned in a stove beneath one corner of the house. Smoke and fumes are ducted through the clay and tile floor to a chimney on the opposite side of the structure, warming the building and its occupants. If a leak develops, carbon monoxide is released into the house.
Often U.S. soldiers would leave their base of assignment, go into a nearby village, get drunk, and fall asleep near a yantan stove. Occasionally they suffered carbon monoxide poisoning and were returned to the base unconscious. In the course of treatment, it was customary to check the alcohol level in their blood.
I asked the doctor what this soldier’s blood-alcohol level had been, and his answer was both startling and satisfying.
“Oh, I didn’t get a blood-alcohol reading on Private Christian,” he said. “He’s a Mormon.”
I pretended not to understand why that would make a difference.
“What’s that got to do with it?” I asked. “This soldier went into town and was found unconscious. How do you know his unconsciousness wasn’t caused by alcoholic intoxication?”
The doctor replied, “Because this is Christian. He never does anything that is not proper and exemplary.”
The doctor explained that nearly everyone on the base knew that Private Christian was a returned missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He had served his mission in Korea, spoke the language, and during his off-duty hours he often went to the village to visit with the people. He had taught some of them about his church, and they had joined. They lived in a small hamlet next to the base but had gone with Christian to religious services in Taejon.
The private had returned home with them Sunday evening and was invited to spend the night. Because he was the honored guest, he was given the place closest to the smoldering yantan. But it was a cold night, and all the openings in the building had been closed. A crack in the floor had not been noticed. As the American soldier slept, he had been overcome by the gases.
With utmost pride I informed my medical colleague that I, too, was Mormon. I marveled that he could have known this young private so well. He replied that he didn’t know many soldiers closely but that Christian’s life was so distinct that it set him apart from all the other men on the base. I have never had the opportunity to meet Brother Christian and can only speculate about the total amount of good he did in an environment that normally draws out the base instincts of men. But I will never forget the impression he made on the doctor who treated him and the example he set for me. He had made proper decisions about many things in life years before being plunged into the challenges of military life, and he had not allowed his environment to deter his power to be good. The other soldiers knew him for what he was—uncompromising. I am sure that many of them carry his example in their memories, even as I do, and I’m grateful to him for letting his light shine.

They taught me how to be a worthy, covenant-keeping, servant of the Lord. Then, when I was still a priest, both my quorum adviser and my bishop unexpectedly passed away within a few months of each other. I was devastated. But as time passed, I realized I had gained confidence in the priesthood because they gave me opportunities to perform the ordinances and duties of the Aaronic Priesthood (see D&C 13:1; 20:46–60; 84:26–27).

Last year, in the middle of a semester, we dismissed a group of young men who were involved in the use of drugs. Some parents and fellow students were surprised at the swiftness and harshness of this action. Some accused us of not giving sufficient advance warning about our policy. I include this subject not only to make you aware of our policy but to add my voice to those who have warned you about drugs. My personal observations and experience with drug users have given me some indelible convictions about the destructive physical effects and the disabling spiritual effects of drugs. I know the reason for the provision in our Code of Honor that commits us to refrain “from the possession, use, or distribution of any narcotic or dangerous drug . . . , except as prescribed by a licensed medical practitioner.”

As a young law professor I spent several weeks in the criminal courts in Chicago prosecuting men accused of selling and possessing drugs. Later I spent many more weeks defending men accused of narcotics offenses. I have counseled young people who have been deceived and disabled by drugs, including marijuana, LSD, and pills, as well as the harder opium derivatives like heroin. I am more determined than anyone that we will not permit this tool of the devil to gain a foothold at BYU, as it has on so many high school and college campuses. Consequently we have a policy that any student found to be distributing, using, or possessing any drugs other than those used under a doctor’s care, on or off campus, will be dismissed immediately and without any allowance for probation. Persons guilty of drug offenses can, of course, repent and change their ways—and we hope that they will—but they will have to complete their repentance away from this campus and demonstrate their total rehabilitation before they will be allowed to return.

This policy is stern, but necessary. National studies, confirmed by our own experience, show that the drug traffic spreads rapidly from friend to friend, infecting the innocent and unwary as well as the eager participant. Every day we permit a drug user to remain at BYU we take chances with the welfare of thousands of other students. We will not take those chances.

Our swift action may also save the participants from more serious involvement. At the time we apprehended one of these young men last fall he had ordered a large shipment of marijuana sent to his address in the dorm, intending to sell it to some of his fellow students who were already using the drug and to others who would become involved. When our officers advised him that we were aware of his activities, he confessed and surrendered the drugs without committing the serious crime of sale of narcotics. If we had waited just a few days to apprehend that young man, our officers would have been obliged to prosecute him for the serious felony of sale of marijuana, a penitentiary offense.

In March 2012, three months after my conversion and baptism into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I entered the bishop’s office to ask him questions about the Johannesburg Temple where he had recently visited. He calmly said, with real assurance and firm conviction: “Brother, the temple is heaven!” Now, seven years later, in 2019, my eternal companion and I have just completed 12 months of service as full-time temple workers in the Johannesburg South Africa Temple. Looking back, what seemed at the time to be an excessive zeal on the part of our bishop became—over the course of my Church service—my own fervent reality of faith, and a grasp of an inner and personal understanding: The temple is literally the house of Heavenly Father here on earth.

Francisco spoke frankly of a sad journey and a sweet homecoming. “I was away from the Church for some time,” he said, “and I thought I was happy, but it wasn’t as it seemed. Within myself, I was asking questions over and over: ‘Why do you smoke? Why do you drink? Why do you do these things if you know they are harming you?’ I didn’t know why. I wasn’t spiritually happy. I wasn’t free. I was, as it were, sick. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to go about finding again the happiness that I had had previously. I wanted to go back to church, but shame kept me away for a time.
“One day I finally just got on my bicycle and started out for the church without further delay. I was determined to start going back no matter what. When I got there, it seemed as if everyone was waiting for me. As soon as they saw me, they became very happy and received me with open arms. It was as if I was in my own home. I found that this was truly where I belonged. I found again the happiness that I had been looking for. It was better than ever. Since then I have felt so joyful that right now I can still feel the Spirit I felt then, a very deep happiness. I was away from the Church for six months, six months without happiness.”

Some years ago my business partner and I needed to terminate an employee. After some discussions we reached a settlement to compensate him for his services. I felt that the settlement was more than fair, but some strained relationships resulted from the negotiations nonetheless. That night I felt a gloom come over me. I tried to dispel it by reasoning within myself that I had been fair, but the feeling would not leave. Then this impression came: “It’s not enough to be fair; you must also strive to be Christlike.” Adherence to the highest moral code is a hallmark of a man or a woman of integrity.

I had no sooner opened my lips in an effort to pray, than I heard a sound, just above my head, like the rustling of silken robes, and immediately the spirit of God descended upon me, completely enveloping my whole person, filling me from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, and O the joy and happiness I felt! No language can describe the almost instantaneous transition from a dense cloud of mental and spiritual darkness into a refulgence of light and knowledge, that God lives, that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and of the restoration of the Holy Priesthood, and the fullness of the Gospel.

Almost two years ago, wallowing with the muddy pigs in the onslaught of the big typhoon, a trip to China had seemed a remote possibility.
Since that night, Yung Fai had not smoked one cigarette. Staying away from the racetrack would have been tough if it hadn’t been for the rebuilding of their house, which took every spare minute and dollar. Members of his sister’s church had showed up every day to help them. At first, Yung Fai had balked at staying with a church member while their house was being reconstructed. But the bed was so dry and the rice so moist that he soon forgot his apprehensions.

“In our stake all the youth were introduced to the theme in a standards night at the beginning of the year. We watched a bunch of clips including the theme song [see lds.org/go/embark9NE]. I instantly loved it. Then we talked about some of the standards in the For the Strength of Youth booklet. We finished by talking about Elder Neil L. Andersen’s temple challenge [see templechallenge.lds.org] and how important it is to find and bring your own family names to the temple.
“At home, I picked up my phone and looked up #embark on Instagram. I found tons of pictures of the theme scripture, logo, and some Mormonads. I posted a few pictures of #embark, and a few minutes later I got a comment from someone at school saying she’d seen me at the standards night. Before that I didn’t know that anyone else at my school was LDS—let alone someone in my grade. I love this theme so much!”
Haiden G., 13, Alberta, Canada

As mission president, he again found the Book of Mormon to be a constant source of inspiration, and he used it extensively in zone meetings and in counseling with the missionaries. He was an efficient, compassionate mission president. One of his missionaries, Wayne L. Gardner, remembers serving in an outlying area and receiving the assignment to make arrangements for a conference. “Everything went wrong,” he says. “I had scheduled a building for us to meet in, but at the last minute it was cancelled. By the time I got to the airport to get the president, I was late and he had been waiting. I forgot to ask the taxi driver to wait for us, and there weren’t any others in sight. We were stranded.
“Even though I could see frustration in the president’s eyes, he put his arm around me and told me he loved me. He was so patient and understanding. I hope I never forget that lesson.”