Gospel Story Finder

President John Taylor wrote: “Joseph Smith, upwards of forty years ago, said to me: ‘Brother Taylor, you have received the Holy Ghost. Now follow the influence of that Spirit, and it will lead you into all truth, until by and by, it will become in you a principle of revelation.’ Then he told me never to arise in the morning without bowing before the Lord, and dedicating myself to him during that day.”1

It took me a long time to convince Vickie that she could change things. But now, after all that’s happened this last year, she will never again doubt—nor will I—that within one individual is the power to change the lives of many.
I first met Vickie about two years ago when she was a junior in high school. The circumstances that brought us together were such that I knew immediately she was in need of a little friendly direction. How to do it in a subtle way was a problem I solved the first day she and her friend Pat came to my home. I was trying to convince them they needed to get involved in some interesting activities.
“Hey, you guys, I’ve got a deal for you,” I said. “How about free drama lessons in exchange for some baby-sitting?”
They thought about it, and giggled, and decided it would be fun. Little did they dream that that weekly committed hour was just a ruse to keep them coming. Oh, I carried out my part of the bargain, but I was much less interested in their theatrical potential than in their lives.
About five weeks later, right between Our Town and Peter Pan, we gave up the “drama lessons,” mostly because it was impossible to emote properly with my three preschoolers on the premises. But the lessons had served their purpose, and Vickie and Pat kept coming. Pat’s story is a good one, too, but this one is about Vickie. So it’s into her life that we now go.
Life was a drag to her. School was boring. Church was boring. Home was boring. Home—that’s what I started asking questions about. For I had learned enough to know that’s where most things start, good and bad. As she described her home to me I had a feeling she could have been talking about thousands of homes throughout the Church.
“Are your parents active in the Church?” I asked.
“Oh, sort of. They were married in the temple but haven’t been back for a long time. They go to church sometimes, but they drink coffee, and sometimes we find beer cans around.”
“Do your parents seem to enjoy one another? Are they happy together?”
“Yeah—I guess so. I mean, they don’t really fight or anything, but they’re not happy in the way that Mormons ought to be happy.”
“What do you talk about at your house?”
“Oh, nothing. Nothing interesting. Oh, they talk about our debts a lot, and how much we owe on different things, and that kind of stuff. But nobody ever talks about the way we feel about something, unless it’s to get mad and yell.”
“Vickie, do you think your parents love you?”
“Oh, I’m sure they love me. They even tell me so. And they do lots of things for me. Like—Dad will work an extra four or five hours to get a new dress for me. But sometimes they won’t go out of their way to be with me. I remember having to go alone to things like Laurel standards nights. It’s sort of weird—I know they love me. But sometimes—I don’t feel like they love me. You know what I mean?”
“Yes. I know what you mean.”
Vickie found herself depressed a lot. She couldn’t sleep. A lot of her friends at the high school were getting into drugs. Not too long before a friend had committed suicide, and sometimes Vickie found herself envying her. But it was the drug thing that had us worried for a while. I gave to her and to some of her friends a copy of a book that tells the story of youth and drugs. And I took them to The Group, a Church-affiliated organization dedicated to helping young people find a better way. I’m happy to report that Vickie did not take any drugs, but there were times when she thought it might be the answer.
The real answer, as I was trying to convince her, lay in coming to grips with the problems of reality and doing something, however small, toward solving them. On a long-into-the-night phone call, she told me she hadn’t been able to sleep for days and would just lie awake thinking of all her worries. I guess that was the first time I gave her an assignment.
“Look, Vickie,” I said, “go get a pencil and paper right now and make two lists—one of all the things you are worried about that you can’t possibly do anything about—and the other of all the things you are worried about that you can do something about. Then put a cross through the first list and say, ‘Lord, this part is yours,’ and next to each item on the other list write down one simple little thing you can do as a beginning to solving the problem. Then put a check by the one thing you’ll start on tomorrow, put it away, say a good prayer, go to bed, and go to sleep!” Next day she claimed to have slept better.
I started giving her other assignments then, each geared to one of the worries that she did have some control over. After a few afternoons of lonely concentration in my writing room, she gradually improved her study habits. I assigned her to try out for the school play, and she had a wonderful time in a small part in Green Pastures.
But things at home were not getting a lot brighter. She claimed she couldn’t talk to her folks about anything. Once over the phone she said to me, “Wow, we’re learning the neatest things in seminary these days—all kinds of stuff about Church history that I never heard of before—it’s really exciting!”
“That’s great, Vickie,” I said. “Have you told your mom that?”
Silence. Then a nervous laugh. “Of course not. I couldn’t tell them anything like that.”
“You can’t tell them the bad stuff or the good stuff, huh? Just the ‘what are we having for supper’ kind of stuff.”
“Yeah. Guess so.”
I then determined to persuade Vickie that she was as much a part of the problem as her parents were. True, they were older, and it is the responsibility of the parents to set the tone of what’s going on at home. But parents inherit their own set of problems from other parents who also have inherited problems. Not that they are exonerated from what they as parents do or don’t do, but simply that by the time a child approaches adulthood he must assume some of the responsibility of deciding what kind of a home he wants to live in and how he wants to relate to his parents.
Mother’s Day was coming up. “Here’s your next assignment, Vickie,” I said. “Invite your mom out to dinner, and make yourself talk about some things that are really important to you.”
“All by myself?” she gasped.
“Take Pat and her mother along.” Finally I convinced her that it was a good idea, and when it was over I got the report.
“We were driving in the car when I invited her,” Vickie said. “She slammed on the brakes and looked at me like she was going to faint. But I could tell she was really happy about it.”
One dinner. One nice moment together. One step in the right direction. But there were so many more steps that needed taking.
It was the dedication of the Provo Temple that prompted Vickie to take the big step. She was the only one in her family who wanted to go, and she felt embarrassed about letting them know she was going to the bishop to get the necessary ticket. A few days after the dedication she came over to see me.
“It was so beautiful,” she said. “But to me it was so depressing. I mean, temples are all about family. That’s why they exist—so we can be together as families forever and ever. My family isn’t even a family now. I sat there all alone and just wished that we could be what we’re supposed to be so that we can be together forever. Because I do love them!”
“Vickie,” I said, quietly and firmly, “if that’s what you want to have happen, then you’re responsible for doing some things to make it happen. And you can. If you really want to, you can change the eternal destiny of your whole family.”
“But how?” She was overwhelmed at the very idea.
“Okay, here’s your next assignment. Next week your family is going to have a family home evening, and you’re going to be in charge of it.”
“Me?” she asked weakly. They had made a few unsuccessful attempts at holding family home evenings in years past, but somebody had just read from the manual, and the whole idea was quickly dropped.
“If you suggest it and volunteer to take charge, will they go along with you?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Well, what do you have to lose?”
She shrugged her shoulders. “Not a thing.”
“All right. We’re on,” I said. “In five days I’ll call you and expect to hear that you’ve got it all set up. Okay?”
“Couldn’t we just have drama lessons instead?” she asked weakly, as I pushed her out the door.
Two days before I was due to call her, Vickie called me.
“Carol Lynn?” she said, with overtones of terror in her voice. “We’re having it tonight! This was the only night all week that we could all be home, so we’re going to have it in just two hours.”
“Great!” I replied.
“But what am I going to do?” she wailed. “I got out the manual and decided to use the first lesson, the one about making home into heaven. And my little brother and I are going to make cookies. But I’m scared!”
“Now, calm down, Vickie. Just use what you can from the lesson and don’t worry about it. Talking about your home is a great way to start. But don’t scare your parents off. Be sure you first of all tell them some of the things you like about your home and some things they do that you appreciate.”
“Yeah, yeah, I could do that.”
“And then start talking about some of the things you could be doing that would make your home a better place to be.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay.” Some of the terror had left her voice.
“But above all, Vickie, make it a pleasant time for the family tonight. Make sure you have fun together. After your lesson do something like—like play charades.”
“Yeah! Uh—how do you play charades?”
I gave her a quick over-the-phone lesson on charades and suggested that they use titles out of the hymnbook.
“Have a good time, Vickie, and call me when it’s over.” I hung up the phone and said a little prayer for her.
At nine o’clock the phone rang.
“Carol Lynn?” Her voice was an excited whisper. “Wow! Wow—it was so neat!”
“Hooray! What happened?”
“It was so neat!” she repeated. “They’re still in the other room playing charades and really having fun. I did it, just like you said, about the lesson. We talked about the things we like about our home. Then I asked them what we could be doing to make it a better place. And Dad said—I couldn’t believe it—he said we should be having one of these family nights every week! And then Mom said that we ought to be having family prayer too. Wow—we’ve never had family prayer! But we’re going to tonight, in just a few minutes. I can’t believe it!”
I told Vickie the next day that she couldn’t expect completely smooth sailing from then on—that there would be times when she would think nothing had really changed. And there were those times. But gradually we could not deny that things had changed. Her home became a different place, a place that she sought to be in as much as she had sought to avoid it before. She got up earlier in the mornings in order for them to have family prayer. Gradually her father took more responsibility for conducting the home evenings. She found herself spending hours with her mother, just talking, about big things and little things. Her parents became happier people. They started attending church more consistently and getting rid of certain things on the kitchen shelves. Her little brother thought it was terrific that they had family night now just like some of his friends had. The whole world took on a little brighter shade.
Vickie is away at college this year. A few weeks ago she came back for a visit and found us out in the backyard, cleaning up the winter debris. As we all pitched in, we talked about the joys and the problems of college. And then I asked how things were going with her family. Her face lit up with a brightness that some college freshmen would reserve for talking about the prom.
“Just great,” she said, “really, really great. I love to come home. And something happened just last week—I practically bawl every time I think about it. My dad was ordained a high priest. We’re so happy. My mom’s so proud of him—and she sure lets you know it. The other day my dad and I drove into Salt Lake alone. On the way back he bore his testimony to me for the very first time. It was so beautiful.”
Just the other day I got a letter from Vickie. The last paragraph said, “Carol Lynn, thank you so much for making me hold that first family home evening. I know it was that night that started all the good things that have been happening in our family.”
The power that is within us to change the destiny of our own lives and the lives of others is incredible. And once that power is felt by enough people, the world will never be the same again.

I recall the story of a teacher helping a young student on with his galoshes. They seemed smaller than his shoes. She got down on both knees and pushed, pulled, and stretched one boot until she finally got it on. Then she went through the same struggle and finally got the other one on. As she finally finished pulling it on, he said, “These are not my galoshes.” The teacher pulled and struggled and finally got them off. Then he said, “They are my sister’s, but my mother made me wear them.”

Before I celebrated my sixteenth birthday, I had lived in fourteen different homes! My father was a homebuilder, and every home he built was for sale—including the ones we lived in. Because we moved so often, we did not collect a lot of possessions. Every home I lived in was full of the spirit of love, friendship, humor, fun, and laughter. These priceless things always moved with us. The things we didn’t take with us were given to Deseret Industries.
A few things, however, were never discarded, including books, scriptures, family histories and photos, and music. Those material items were handled with care every time we moved, and I learned to value deeply what they stood for. My father and mother carefully wrapped and boxed these items, and I sensed even as a very young child that they were extremely important. As I grew older, this sense developed into a great love for the scriptures and also for family history and for our ancestors who sacrificed so much for us.
These moving adventures shaped me into the person I am today. I am not attached to material possessions. Instead, I place the highest value on relationships with people, including written records of these relationships, such as the ones you find in the scriptures or in family histories. I love to meet new people and look forward to getting to know others and making new friends.

Many of our brethren moved to Clay county, where they continued until 1836, three years; there was no violence offered, but there were threatenings of violence. But in the summer of 1836, these threatenings began to assume a more serious form, from threats, public meetings were called, resolutions were passed, vengeance and destruction were threatened, and affairs again assumed a fearful attitude. Jackson county was a sufficient precedent, and as the authorities in that county did not interfere, they boasted that they would not in this: which on application to the authorities we found to be too true, and after much privation and loss of property, we were again driven from our homes.

I’m adopted. That means that the mommy and daddy I live with aren’t the ones I was born to. Another lady grew me inside of her. After I was born, she couldn’t keep me, so I was given to Mommy and Daddy and became their very own little girl. They take care of me. They love me, hug and kiss me, teach me, and correct me when I’ve done something wrong.

The small island kingdom of Tonga lies immediately next to the international dateline, so it is the first country in the world to greet the Sabbath day. It is a small country and, in the counting of the world, a poor country. But years ago a wise Tongan king decreed that the Sabbath would be kept holy in Tonga forever.
Modern civilization has come in many ways to Tonga. If one goes to the capital of Nuku?alofa on a weekday, he finds the usual heavy traffic of trucks and cars and the bustle of thousands of shoppers making their regular purchases from well-stocked stores and markets. One sees people line up to view the latest movies and to rent videos. One can watch modern buses whisk tourists off to catch their jet planes, or observe the speed and clarity of a satellite call to the United States. The streets are crowded and business is good. You might wonder, “What is so different about this town from hundreds of others like it throughout the world?”
But when Sunday dawns on the kingdom of Tonga, a transformation takes place. If one goes downtown, he sees deserted streets—no taxis or buses or crowds of people. All the stores, all the markets, all the movie theaters, all the offices are closed. No planes fly, no ships come in or out, no commerce takes place. No games are played. The people go to church. Tonga is remembering to keep the Sabbath day holy.
It is significant that the first country in the world to greet the holy Sabbath keeps the Sabbath holy.
Has the Lord blessed them? Maybe the world cannot see his blessings, but in the ways that really count, he has blessed them abundantly. He has blessed them with the gospel of Jesus Christ, and a larger percentage of the population there belongs to the Church than in any other country.
Simple, well-kept chapels dot the land. Clean, smiling local missionaries are found everywhere. A beautiful, exceptionally well-attended temple stands in Tonga in fulfillment of promises made years and ages ago. And, as would be expected, their attendance at meetings and faithfulness in tithing are very near the top. Recently the Saints have been blessed with some fairly intense opposition that is having the effect of further sanctifying the true seekers of eternal life.

Perhaps my first lesson about truly good Saints without guile was learned when I was a young missionary. I moved into an area with an elder I didn’t know. I had heard other missionaries talk about how he had never received any leadership assignments and how he struggled with the Korean language despite having been in the country a long time. But as I got to know this elder, I found he was one of the most obedient and faithful missionaries I had known. He studied when it was time to study; he worked when it was time to work. He left the apartment on time and returned on time. He was diligent in studying Korean even though the language was especially difficult for him.

When I realized the comments I had heard were untrue, I felt like this missionary was being misjudged as unsuccessful. I wanted to tell the whole mission what I had discovered about this elder. I shared with my mission president my desire to correct this misunderstanding. His response was, “Heavenly Father knows this young man is a successful missionary, and so do I.” He added, “And now you know too, so who else really matters?” This wise mission president taught me what was important in service, and it wasn’t praise, position, power, honor, or authority. This was a great lesson for a young missionary who was too focused on titles.

Years ago, when we were living in São Paulo, Brazil, a new home was being constructed next to ours. The workmen on the project were paid only a few cents an hour and worked from six in the morning to six in the evening. Yet they whistled and sang all day long. Sometimes it was more than we wanted to hear! But I never had the heart to tell them to tone it down.

I’ve always asked a lot of myself, especially in high school. And I often fell short because I tried to accomplish so many things at once to prove that I was good enough. One year I decided to learn ballroom dancing, take music lessons, and join an ensemble. I thought I needed to do as much as I could to develop and perfect my talents. But at a certain point, I had to give everything up because it was all just too much for me to handle. I was so hard on myself. I felt like a failure, and failing was one of my biggest fears.

One day while working around our home, trimming the hedges and vines, I had an interesting experience. I was at work with my electric clippers and long extension cord. I had done this often, each time reminding myself of the need to use these clippers with great care in order to avoid cutting things that I shouldn’t.
Suddenly the blades became jammed. Caught between them was the power cord itself. Because I had not seen it in the thicket I was trimming, I had cut into the very line that was providing the power to work.
“Isn’t that one of life’s great lessons?” I thought. “Power, if misused, can cut into the very source of that power.”
Just as the careless use of electrical power can sever the source of that power, so is it possible to misuse spiritual power to sever our spiritual power line. We would then lose that which enables us to generate success in our lives. Proper use of our spiritual power line allows us to learn, to labor, to be obedient to law, and to love. While these capabilities lead to fulfillment, at the same time they also carry risk.

Janick doesn’t like to sing just at home or at church. One of his favorite Primary activities was when the children from his ward went to a rest home and sang to the people there. “It felt good,” he said. And that’s a feeling Janick often gets as he tries to do what’s right.

I’d like to thank you for the June 2000 issue. It had so many beneficial things in it. I’m preparing to go on a mission, and it has helped me realize what I need to do to prepare for the most memorable and exciting time of my life. I guess the Lord blessed me with good timing because the magazine came to my mailbox at the perfect time.
Danny MatthewsPrescott, Arizona

I used to believe that God loved me less than He loved other people. Less than people made it sound like He loved me. And less than I thought He would if I was “better.” I wondered how a divine, perfect Father in Heaven could love someone imperfect like me.
Struggling with infertility intensified these feelings. My arms remained empty for years, and I wondered if there were no spirits in heaven who wanted me to be their mother or if there were no souls God trusted me to teach, take care of, and love. I stumbled along with little fragments of comfort and counsel that the Lord gave me as I went through dietary alterations, fertility treatments, pills, shots, and surgeries. But I still wondered if God actually loved me or if this was some sort of punishment for my misdeeds. My heart was so weary.
Amidst all of this, my marriage fell apart. The return to singles wards and dating brought even more feelings of inadequacy and shame. I thought, “Surely now God doesn’t love me. Surely now His disappointment in me has reached a peak.”
A few years later, though, I found myself in a temple preparation class with a friend who was going to be entering the temple soon. The teacher said a phrase I had heard many times before pertaining to our eternal progress but hadn’t really thought about. He said that “we are embryos of Deity” with the potential to become like our Father in Heaven. That day, those words struck me differently.
I had seen embryos already—or rather, something like them. Most expectant mothers see their baby for the first time at an ultrasound appointment around eight weeks. But when I was going through fertility treatments, I would do ultrasounds earlier in the process where I would see the follicles that were growing my potential babies.
I had never prayed so hard for something to succeed. I cheered and wept for the hope of those babies. I had visions in my head of all the experiences we could have together and all they could be. I altered my diet and sleep schedule to support them as best I could. I went through pains and scars so they could hopefully live. I loved those tiny potential beings!
They were completely reliant on me to survive. They couldn’t walk or speak. They hadn’t even developed to a baby yet. I knew full well there would be poopy diapers, temper tantrums, and disobedience. I knew they would make mistakes as they grew older and potentially even break my heart. I knew that the road of motherhood would be hard and anything but beautiful at times. But I loved them. I loved them more than anything else in my world.
As I reflected on those feelings, they all came flooding back, and I heard the Lord whisper to me, “That is how I love you.”
If I, in my imperfectness, can love a potential baby that much, how much more can a perfect Father in Heaven love me?
He loves us no matter how dependent we are on Him or how many skills we lack. He loves us, knowing that we will make mistakes and do things that may break His heart. He loves us because of who we can and will be. He loves us for the experiences we will have with Him and for the hope that we will return to Him.
In hindsight, I’ve made mistakes, but my heart was always seeking the Lord and seeking goodness. I was absolutely deserving of His love! Because the truth is, His love was never something I had to earn or be worthy of. His love was always there for me, long before the moment I took my first breath and long after I made my first mistake. His love is just as infinite and perfect as He is Himself. God loves you that much too.

Writing of the traumatic experience of seeing her murdered sons, Joseph and Hyrum, Lucy Mack Smith bore fervent and powerful witness of Joseph’s prophetic mission.
After the [bodies of Joseph and Hyrum] were washed and dressed in their burial clothes, we were allowed to see them. I had for a long time braced every nerve, roused every energy of my soul and called upon God to strengthen me, but when I entered the room … , it was too much; I sank back, crying to the Lord in the agony of my soul, “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken this family!” A voice replied, “I have taken them to myself, that they might have rest.” …
As I looked upon their peaceful, smiling countenances, I seemed almost to hear them say, “Mother, weep not for us, we have overcome the world by love; we carried to them the gospel, that their souls might be saved; they slew us for our testimony, and thus placed us beyond their power; their ascendancy is for a moment, ours is an eternal triumph.” …
This much I will say, that the testimony which I have given is true, and will stand forever; and the same will be my testimony in the day of God Almighty, when I shall meet them, concerning whom I have testified, before angels, and the spirits of the just made perfect, before archangels and seraphims, cherubims and gods; where the brief authority of the unjust man will shrink to nothingness before him who is the Lord of lords, and God of gods; and where the righteousness of the just shall exalt them in the scale, wherein God weigheth the hearts of men.

Whenever mother stirs a cake
I’m there to watch her make it.
I wash the spoons and pans for her
And then I help her bake it.
The smells of flavors are so nice,
I think they should be tasted.
I scrape the bowls, for I am sure
The drops should not be wasted.
When I clean out the frosting bowl
I’m happy as can be.
It tastes so good, and I don’t care
How much I get on me.
I’m always glad when mother bakes,
And so I wish and wish
That she would make my fav’rite cake
So I can scrape the dish!

A mother of a child with a disability says, “My nature is to be optimistic and act as though I am in control. But I have one friend I can be honest with, and I have found it therapeutic to occasionally cry and let out my feelings.”

My own mother and mother-in-law are characteristic of these kinds of people. One suffered a broken hip and the other underwent a severe sickness. But they have both fought back and, like so many others, are enjoying active, useful lives. When we as a family are with them, we draw strength from them and their ability to hang on in severe crises.

Of course friendship is not the only reason for being in seminary; the true goal is the gospel knowledge that comes from studying the scriptures. All three who attend the class can see the benefits. Sister Smith says the best thing about early-morning seminary is “getting to start and end my day with a gospel lesson.” Not only is she the seminary teacher, but she is also a mother of four and a Cub Scout den leader, so she normally waits for her children to go to bed so that she can have some quiet time to study the lessons and prepare for the next day’s class.

1. Young Heber J. Grant worked hard in his thin, worn jacket. His family was poor and didn’t have money to buy a new coat.
2. Heber’s mother surprised him when she gave him a new, warm winter coat. She had worked hard to sew it for him.
3. Heber thanked his mother and rushed out the door to play. His coat was so warm he hardly noticed the cold weather!
4. As Heber raced down the streets, something caught his eye as he ran past an alley.
5. Heber slowly peeked around the corner. He watched as a young boy in a thin, ragged sweater crouched in front of an exhaust grate to try to get warm.
6. Heber knew how cold that boy must be. He knew the boy needed help.
7. When Heber came home, his mother immediately noticed he was not wearing his coat.
“Heber, where is your coat?” she asked.
8. Heber told his mother that he gave the coat to the boy in the alley. He began to cry. He didn’t want his mother to be sad that he gave away the coat.
9. Heber’s mother was not sad. She hugged Heber. She was proud of him.