Gospel Story Finder

Everyone goes to retirement homes around Christmas, so why not try it at a different time of year, like Thanksgiving? So thought the Beehives of the Fairview Ward, York Pennsylvania Stake. Instead of Christmas carols, they sang Thanksgiving hymns to the residents and then visited with them awhile.
It was an especially good experience for Beehive president Audrey Parks, whose great-grandmother lives in that home. It was also interesting for Beehive Wendy Rock, who is blind and received a lot of attention from the elderly residents when she began reading from her braille hymnbook.
Several of the girls make frequent trips back to the home to visit the friends they made the day before Thanksgiving.

Now, around the fire in Whitehorse after a Sunday of worship and a delicious meal with the Whitehorse Saints, we were reliving the experience one more time before starting home the next morning. As the fire died away, the chill went unnoticed in the warmth of the Spirit. A theme of priesthood and prayer threaded the testimonies.
“The last day as we were rushing to meet the train, we stopped at a rock outcropping to rest, and Brother Woolley asked me to say a prayer. As I knelt upon the earth, tears streamed down my face and an overwhelming feeling of sweet humility filled my being. I felt an overpowering desire to always be close to my Heavenly Father and live so I would please him. The words poured from my mouth and I prayed publicly for the first time in my life by the Spirit. I was prompted to ask for strength and that we might make the train on time. We did. I also asked for a special blessing upon the girls behind us. It was incredible, but they reached the station only 15 minutes to a half hour behind us. I’m so very thankful I had this camping experience and the opportunity to rely so heavily on the Lord.”

After reading “Building in the Snow” in the December 1981 New Era, I wanted to seek out my talents. I know how the girl in the article felt. I have a big brother who is on a mission. When he was here, I was always angry because he could do things that I couldn’t do. But then I discovered that I can do things he can’t do. This story really helped me.
Lori Ann HollowaySandy, Utah

Many of the youth must also stand alone among their friends. Many left friends behind when they embraced the gospel. A recent convert, Lucija Krajnik of Ljubljana, Slovenia, says: “Since joining the Church, I have needed to separate myself from my old friends because they were bad company. The best thing for me to do was to isolate myself from them and stay in contact with members and missionaries.”

Lucija Krajnik knows that she needs her friends in the gospel. “Where would I be if I didn’t have the Church?” she asks. “I am grateful to be a member of the Church and to have my friends by my side.”

The teacher nurses a knife wound in her back. Gladys Saiah is not much older than her students. She was running an errand for her mother in an unfamiliar part of town, when she was attacked and stabbed by a group of men. She and her sister were allowed to go without further injury.
“As my sister and I walked home,” she says, “I told Ellen we must first thank Heavenly Father for sparing our lives. We did, and then, arising from our knees, I asked Ellen, ‘Now will you please clean my back?’”

Two mornings after Christmas,
I walked while my brother
Pedaled circles in front of me
With his new bike.
It was four miles of time to
Talk about the small mysteries of
Our sunny dome seen by his curious eyes.
The clouds were a tangle of
Shifting cotton that day.
He watched the commotion attentively
When the path was straight and smooth,
Commenting that the little clouds
Flew faster than the big ones
Because they were scared of being eaten.
I smiled and, becoming the
Intelligent older sister, decided to
Describe the formation of water vapor.
Articulating my words for tinier ears,
I explained evaporation, condensation,
And why raindrops come tumbling down.
“Oh!” he exclaimed excitedly,
Understanding lighting his pink face,
“So we really drink clouds!”
I love that morning memory.

“July 1839.—President Joseph Smith had taken the sick into his house and door-yard until his house was like an hospital and he had attended upon them until he was taken sick himself and confined to his bed several days.
“July 22, 1839.—Joseph arose from his bed of sickness, and the power of God rested upon him. He commenced in his own house and door-yard, commanding the sick, in the name of Jesus Christ, to arise and be made whole, and they were healed according to his word. He then continued to travel from house to house from tent to tent upon the bank of the river, healing the sick as he went until he arrived at the upper stonehouse, where he crossed the river in a boat, accompanied by several of the Quorum of the Twelve, and landed in Montrose.
“He walked into the cabin where I was lying sick, and commanded me, in the name of Jesus Christ, to arise and be made whole. I arose and was healed, and followed him and the brethren of the Twelve into the house of Elijah Fordham, who was supposed to be dying, by his family and friends. Joseph stepped to his bedside, took him by the hand and commanded him, in the name of Jesus Christ, to arise and be made whole. His voice was as the voice of God. Brother Fordham instantly leaped from his bed, called for his clothing and followed us into the street.
“We then went into the house of Joseph B. Noble, who also lay very sick, and he was healed in the same manner; and when, by the power of God granted unto him, Joseph had healed all the sick, he recrossed the river and returned to his home. This was a day never to be forgotten.
“During my further stay in Montrose I attended meetings and administered to the sick when I was well myself.”7

In the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic, I bought a potted orchid.
I didn’t have high hopes for it—I lived in a basement apartment with limited sunlight, which wasn’t ideal for me or this plant. But I put it up on my highest windowsill, a place that received light for just a few hours of the day.
To my surprise, the orchid thrived, opening big purple blooms and putting down new roots, apparently unconcerned that it was living in less-than-ideal circumstances.
It was adapting to its environment—since it received such limited sunlight, the plant had begun growing in the direction of the sun, tilting its leaves to catch as much light as possible and blossoming right up against the glass of the window. After a couple months, the orchid was comically lopsided.
But it was also healthy and happy.
I was doing the opposite of what my little flower had done—rather than adapting to my difficult circumstances and finding ways to thrive, I was withering away, insisting that the sunlight better accommodate me. I wasn’t changing myself or my outlook; I was just hoping that my circumstances would change.
Although I no longer live in that same basement apartment, I still have that potted orchid, and it serves as a good reminder—even in a time when I now feel I have more sunlight (metaphorically and literally) in my life, I still need that “change of mind and heart” on a constant basis. I’m still engaged in “a lifelong process of becoming more Christlike through the Atonement of Jesus Christ,”4 and I’m still learning how to find hope and healing, even in the darker times of my life, by reaching for the Savior’s light.

These early seeds of faith sprouted still further when, as a young Aaronic Priesthood boy, I received a firsthand confirmation of the remarkable testimony of the Three Witnesses concerning the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. My stake president was President Henry D. Moyle, and his father was James H. Moyle. In the summertime Brother James H. Moyle would visit his family, and he would worship with us in our little ward in the southeast of the Salt Lake Valley.
One Sunday, Brother James H. Moyle shared with us a singular experience. As a young man he went to the University of Michigan to study law. As he was finishing his studies, his father told him that David Whitmer, one of the witnesses of the Book of Mormon, was still alive. The father suggested to his son that he stop on his way back to Salt Lake City to visit with David Whitmer face-to-face. Brother Moyle’s purpose was to ask him about his testimony concerning the golden plates and the Book of Mormon.
During that visit, Brother Moyle said to David Whitmer: “Sir, you are an old man, and I’m a young man. I have been studying about witnesses and testimonies. Please tell me the truth concerning your testimony as one of the witnesses of the Book of Mormon.” David Whitmer then told this young man: “Yes, I held the golden plates in my hands, and they were shown to us by an angel. My testimony concerning the Book of Mormon is true.” David Whitmer was out of the Church, but he never denied his testimony of the angel’s visitation, of handling the golden plates, or of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. Hearing with my own ears this remarkable experience directly from Brother Moyle’s lips had a powerful, confirming effect upon my growing testimony. Having heard it, I felt it was binding upon me.

I saw a bird inside the window pane,
Where it had wandered in its foolish flight,
Entrapped in dark and fear throughout the night.
At morn, uncomprehendingly insane,
It beat its wings upon the glass in vain,
And when the door was opened to the light,
It still flew at the pane with all its might;
Its blind false hope become its freedom’s chain.
When I am caught within a problem’s walls,
And, solitary, seek to find my way,
The path with promise will not yield to me,
As I refuse to hear eternal calls
Which open doors for those who’ve gone astray—
And I am blind because I will not see.

Why is Floriano Oliveira, a member of the high council in a stake in Brazil, so successful as a missionary? Because he obeyed the Lord’s counsel to open his mouth and share the gospel. One day as he was driving through the congested traffic of São Paulo he took his eyes off the road for but a second and crashed into the car in front of him. He jumped out of the vehicle, hurried up to the car he had hit, opened the door and said, “I am so sorry I hit you. It was all my fault. I accept the full blame and will pay the total costs. I had no intention to do this, so please forgive me. Yet if I hadn’t hit you, you wouldn’t have received this message I have for you, the message that you have waited for all your life.” He then explained the restoration of the gospel to this man, who was a medical doctor, and the man joined the Church two weeks later. Why has Brother Oliveira had so much success in baptizing more than two hundred people? Obedience—obedience to the request of the Lord.

Matt is busy making posters for Mandy’s student council campaign when …
Hey, Matt, we just got an email for you from your cousin Max in Australia.
Oh, lemme see!
“… and I like soccer, but cricket is my favorite.”
Matt pictures the insect and is puzzled.
It’s a little like baseball, but also very different.
“… and I love meat pies.”
Not the kind of pie with ice cream on top, like you’re thinking.
And he loves something called “Lamingtons.”
It’s like we both speak English, but it’s not quite the same language.
Hey! Max and Mindy got baptized last month. And —cool!—his family’s going to be sealed in the temple next week!
That’s great!
We might have some different sports and foods and words, but we share the really important stuff.

There was once a great playwright named Henrik Ibsen. He wrote a play called Peer Gynt. Peer Gynt is the story of a young Scandinavian man who grows old on the stage. He lives his life by doing whatever he wants to do. Near the end of the play he’s being chased by a button molder who is going to melt his body down and make buttons out of it so he can be used over again for something worthwhile. He runs across the frozen ground, trying to get away from this man. As he does, some small tumbleweeds get under his feet. He starts to talk to them, and he says: “Get out of my way. Off with you. You block my path.” And then something very interesting happens. The weeds talk back to him and say: “We are thoughts. You should have thought us. Feet to run on you should have given us. We should have soared up like clangorous voices, and here we must roll along as weeds.”
He kicks them out of his way and keeps running. After a while he steps on some leaves. The leaves start to talk to him and say: “We are a watchword. You should have proclaimed us. Your dozing has riddled us. Worms have gnawed us in every crevice, and we have never been able to bear fruit.”
Then the wind blows in his face. It whispers to him and says: “We’re songs. You should have sung us. A thousand times over you have cowed us down and smothered us. Down in the heart’s pit we have lain and waited, but we were never called forth.”
Peer becomes angry over these accusations, and he says: “Poison you. Have I time for verse and stuff? I am running for my life.” Then he bumps into a tree. There are dewdrops dripping from the branches. They speak to him and say: “We are tears unshed forever. Ice spears sharp and wounding. We could have melted. Now our barb is in the bosom. The wound is closed over and our power to help is gone.” Peer doesn’t like that either, but he keeps on running. Finally, he trips over some straws and falls on his face. As he’s getting up the straws start to speak and they say: “We are deeds. You should have achieved us. Doubt the throttler has crippled and torn us. On the day of judgment, we’ll come aflock and tell the story, then woe to you.”
“We are thoughts. You should have thought us.” “We are words. You should have proclaimed us.” “We are songs. You should have sung us.” “We are tears. You should have shed us.” “We are deeds. You should have achieved us.” “And on the judgment day, woe to you.”

During the cold and gray days of the Great Depression I remember a wonderful servant of the Savior by the name of C. Perry Erickson. Brother Erickson, a contractor, had a difficult time finding work. He could have shut himself up. He could have become bitter and angry. He could have given up. Instead, when I was 12 he was my Scoutmaster. He spent countless hours helping me and others my age to learn, to grow, and to approach every difficulty with confidence and optimism. Without exception, every one of C. Perry Erickson’s Scouts received an Eagle award. I knew then.

Bells were brought to North America by the Catholic priests who accompanied the early Spanish explorers. These bells were hung in the Indian missions, where some still ring to this day. North America’s most famous bell, the Liberty Bell, was cast in 1753. This United States symbol can be seen in Philadelphia’s Independence Hall. The bell cracked in 1835 and has been silent for more than 150 years.

In later years Babe became famous for her golf playing. She was the first American to win the British women’s championship, and she set a record that has never been beaten by men or women when she won seventeen consecutive tournaments!
After cancer surgery, Babe played golf again. And she made many guest appearances at benefits for cancer research. But at age forty-two she was defeated by a second attack of that dread disease.

On a trip to a nearby city in Estonia, I saw a man begging for money. Amazingly, I recognized him from when I served as a missionary in that city 10 years earlier. He was carrying a big bag of plastic bottles, just as before, to collect for recycling money. I remembered he always asked for spare change, and if you gave him some he would ask if you had any more.
I was shocked to see him. And after 10 years he was still the same––a little more gray, but it looked like he had been living the same life begging for money day after day. I thought about the wonderful 10 years I had lived in the meantime, which included marrying in the temple, gaining an education, finding a good job, and enjoying good health.
I figured this might be the last time I saw him, and I felt like I should give him something. The problem was I only had a bill that was worth more than I was willing to give. I cringed at the choice I had––give him nothing or give him more than I wanted. I decided it wouldn’t really make a big difference for me and it would make his day, so I gave him the money.
Less than two days later I found myself in a similar situation, but this time I was the one begging for mercy. I had mixed up the date for an important scholarship application. I thought I had turned it in two weeks early, but I was horrified when I double-checked the date and saw that I had sent it in one day late.
The sum of the scholarship was exactly 100 times the amount I had given to the beggar, and the irony was not lost on me. I found myself begging for mercy, both in prayer to my Heavenly Father and via email to the university officials. They said they would include the application but note it was late.
My prayer was answered and I was blessed to receive the scholarship, which financially helped my wife and me a lot. But more importantly this experience taught me a valuable lesson: are we not all beggars before God? (see Mosiah 4:19).

“I remember one guest [during the temple open house] in the celestial room. She was crying, and she said, ‘This was the place I was looking for to come and look for peace—a place of serenity, where I can talk to God. This is a place where I should be.’” —Didier Mutombo

The day school was out at the beginning of each summer, our family went to our ranch in Wyoming. It was there with my parents and brothers and sisters, and a few cousins mixed in, that I learned about family loyalty; love and concern; birth and death; that one must finish a job once it is started; and, to quote my father, “There are only two things important—the family and the Church.”
One year my father was waiting for us as we arrived. He said he had a big job for my brother Clay and me to do that summer. I was about twelve at the time, and my brother was two years older. Pointing to the field by the side of the house, my father said, “Do you see all of these lambs in that field? I’ll share the money we get for the ones you raise when we sell them in the fall.” Well, we were excited. Not only did we have a significant job to do, but we were going to be rich! There were a lot of lambs in that field—about 350 of them. And all we had to do was feed them.
However, there was one thing that my father hadn’t mentioned. None of the lambs had mothers. Just after shearing, there was a violent storm that chilled the newly shorn sheep. Dad lost a thousand ewes that year. The mothers of our lambs were among them.
To feed one or two baby animals is one thing, but to feed 350 is something else! It was hard. There was plenty of grass, but the lambs couldn’t eat the grass. They didn’t have teeth. They needed milk. So we made some long, V-shaped feeding troughs out of some boards. Then we got a great big tin washtub, ground up some grain, and added milk to make a thin mash. While my brother poured the mash into the troughs, I rounded up the lambs, herded them to the troughs, and said, “Eat!” Well, they just stood there looking at me. Although they were hungry and there was food in front of them, they still wouldn’t eat. No one had taught them to drink milk out of a trough. So I tried pushing them toward the troughs. Do you know what happens when you try to push sheep? They run the other way. And when you lose one, you could lose them all because others will follow. That’s the way with sheep.
We tried lining up the lambs along the troughs and pushing their noses down in the milk, hoping they’d get a taste and want some more. We tried wiggling our fingers in the milk to get them to suck on our fingers. Some of them would drink, but most of them ran away.
Many of the lambs were slowly starving to death. The only way we could be sure they were being fed was to pick them up in our arms, two at a time, and feed them like babies.
And then there were the coyotes. At night the coyotes would sit up on the hill, and they’d howl. The next morning we would see the results of their night’s work, and we would have two or three more lambs to bury. The coyotes would sneak up on the lambs, scatter the herd, and then pick out the ones they wanted and go after them. The first were those that were weak or separated from the flock. Often in the night when the coyotes came and the lambs were restless, my dad would take out his rifle and shoot in the air to scare them away. We felt secure when my dad was home because we knew our lambs were safe when he was there to watch over them.
Clay and I soon forgot about being rich. All we wanted to do was save our lambs. The hardest part was seeing them die. Every morning we would find five, seven, ten lambs that had died during the night. Some the coyotes got, and others starved to death surrounded by food they couldn’t or wouldn’t eat.
Part of our job was to gather up the dead lambs and help dispose of them. I got used to that, and it really wasn’t so bad until I named one of the lambs. It was an awkward little thing with a black spot on its nose. It was always under my feet, and it knew my voice. I loved my lamb. It was one I held in my arms and fed with a bottle like a baby.
One morning my lamb didn’t come when I called. I found it later that day under the willows by the creek. It was dead. With tears streaming down my face, I picked up my lamb and went to find my father. Looking up at him, I said, “Dad, isn’t there someone who can help us feed our lambs?”
After a long moment he said, “Jayne, once a long, long time ago, someone else said almost those same words. He said, ‘Feed my lambs. … Feed my sheep. … Feed my sheep.’” (John 21:15–17.) Dad put his arms around me and let me cry for a time, then went with me to bury my lamb.
Of our little flock, we saved only one-third. And what of the Savior’s flock? He has said, “Feed my lambs. … Feed my sheep.”

Imagine you are standing at the edge of a cliff and want to get to the other side of a deep canyon, where you have been told that great happiness awaits you. As you search for a way to cross, you find a pile of supplies that, if put together correctly, will build a bridge to cross the canyon.
If you don’t know how to build the bridge, the supplies will be useless and you will feel frustrated and hopeless. But if you get help from someone who has experience in building bridges, your knowledge and understanding can increase and together the task can be accomplished.