Gospel Story Finder

“OK, class,” the teacher said. “We’re done with maths.* It’s craft time!”
Ismay smiled as the whole class started chatting. Ismay loved craft time. This was the only chance she had to talk with her friends during class.
“Can you believe Christmas is next month?” Mason asked.
Ismay nodded. “I can’t wait!” Ismay thought about her favorite treat. She could almost taste the pavlova, buried in whipped cream and topped with blueberries and kiwifruit. Mmmmmm …
“What’s your favorite Christmas tradition?” Ava asked.
“Oh, that’s easy,” Mason said. “Barbecue at the beach! Mum and Dad spend weeks getting ready for it. It’s the best food in the world!”
Ismay grinned. She loved doing that too. But it wasn’t her favorite. “Ours is going to see the pohutukawa trees,” Ismay said. “We have a picnic under them.”
Pohutukawa trees bloomed at Christmastime. That’s why people called them New Zealand Christmas trees. Their pretty red blossoms made Ismay think that even the trees were celebrating Jesus!
“Well, my favorite is what we do on Christmas Eve,” Ava said. “We go to a church service and talk about when Jesus was born. Then we each get to open one present.”
Everyone around her got excited about opening presents. They started talking about what they wanted for Christmas.
Just then, Charlotte dropped her scissors and crossed her arms. She looked grumpy all of a sudden. “Jesus isn’t even real! Besides, Christmas is just about giving presents that nobody needs.”
Then Charlotte picked her scissors back up and started cutting quickly. Everyone was quiet for a moment.
“Actually,” Mason finally said, “I really do need a new scooter.”
Ismay’s other friends laughed. They kept talking about what else they wanted for Christmas.
But Ismay didn’t laugh. She felt sad because of what Charlotte said about Jesus. She wanted to say something. But would that only make Charlotte more mad?
Ismay kept working on her craft for another minute.
Then she turned to Charlotte. “You know what you said about Christmas? Well, I don’t feel that way,” she said quietly. “To me, Christmas is about being with family and friends and showing love to people.” She took a deep breath. “And it’s about Jesus. He is real.”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Prove it!”
Ismay blinked. Prove it? How? “I … I can’t,” she said. Then she put her hand over her heart. “But I feel it in here. I believe He’s real and that He loves me. He loves you too.”
She felt so good inside when she said that! A warm, happy feeling washed over her. For just a second, she thought she saw Charlotte’s face get brighter. But then her grumpy frown came back.
“Whatever,” Charlotte said. But her voice didn’t sound quite so angry anymore.
Later that night, when Ismay told her family what happened, Mum said, “I’m proud of you. I think you planted an important seed today. Who knows what that will grow into someday?”
A seed! Ismay thought again about the beautiful pohutukawa trees they would soon visit. Those trees started out as seeds too. Then, over time, they grew tall and beautiful.
“Thanks, Mum!” Ismay felt glad she could plant a seed about Jesus. That was the best Christmas gift she could give anyone.

Before becoming a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints at the age of 25, I had stopped attending my former church on Sundays. I had spent my teenage years visiting various churches in the towns where I grew up, where I was invited to play the guitar and sing. I accepted invitations from different churches each week, and I promised myself that when I found the “right” church—where they knew who God is and where I felt at home—I would stay. Depending on how many churches were in a town, I simply repeated the cycle after a few months.
Then one cold winter’s day, two missionaries knocked on my door. By then, I was married with two young children and living in a very small town. I seemed to be their only prospect, and the Elders came around to teach me on a daily basis. On the Friday, they invited me to attend church with them that Sunday. PANIC! In our discussions, they had mentioned the importance of the Sabbath: that members refrained from shopping and time-wasting frivolities and spent the day attending church (THREE hours?!?) and engaging in various activities that would build the family and bring them nearer to God. They had also discussed reverence and showing respect through our clothing choices—the expression ‘Sunday best’ was mentioned. Why the PANIC? I didn’t own a dress or a skirt!
There was only one dress shop in the town and I didn’t rate my chances of finding anything suitable too high. Sadly, I was right. The only option was a cream-coloured pleated skirt that my grandmother would have loved! I shuddered . . . and to add insult to injury, the price was exorbitant! But, I couldn’t walk away from the church that not only knew that Jesus Christ is the Son of the Father and a separate personage, but also showed reverence by dressing and behaving in an appropriate way. So I bought the hideous cream-coloured skirt—thinking I would at least blend in. The reality was that there were only three members in the branch and 12 missionaries—so I stood out anyway!
Decades later, I still remember the feeling that choice inspired: the opportunity to show my love and reverence for my Heavenly Father and His Beloved Son, Jesus Christ, by choosing my ‘best’ clothes and going to learn more of Them. Of course it’s not actually about the clothes—Heavenly Father loves us every day, barefoot and wearing jeans. It’s about honouring Them and showing respect.

Becki Jackson’s dream had come true. She had been chosen for one of the starring roles in her high school’s musical production—something she had hoped for since she was a little girl.
With the stress of auditions behind her, Becki looked forward to learning her part. She took the musical score home. But as she looked through the manuscript, she was uncomfortable with many of the songs that seemed to have off-color lyrics and double meanings. And her role was the worst!
This was her senior year—the first year the high school had put on a musical production in a long time. Her one-time opportunity to perform could be spoiled.
Becki and her family, who are from Fisherville, Ontario, Canada, had been members of the Church for two years. Becki’s standards had always been high, but she was determined more than ever to uphold them now that she was a member of the Church and the only Latter-day Saint in her school.
When she went to her first rehearsal for the play, she said, “I told my teacher-director that I wouldn’t sing those songs. He tried to convince me that the lyrics were only supposed to be funny. They didn’t want to lose me as a lead, but, he said, if I felt that strongly they would give me different songs to sing.” And different songs she did get. At the next rehearsal, Becki was assigned to the chorus. No explanation was given. Another girl was assigned Becki’s role and asked to sing the songs.
However, Becki’s classmates were so supportive of her stand that the teachers finally modified the songs by completely removing the verses that Becki had refused to sing.
Becki’s father, Kel Jackson, says, “I knew the strength of Becki’s testimony when I asked her if she was going to continue in the musical or drop out. She answered, ‘I have waited a long time for this and I have worked hard. They may have taken away my part, but they did remove the bad words and I am going to be in this production.’ Through weeks of rehearsal she never again mentioned the situation or complained in any way.”
When asked if she was bitter toward her teachers for their actions, Becki answered, “I didn’t like their attitude about the songs, but they were nice people, and they were working hard to make this a production the school could be proud of.”
Opening night Becki showed great delight in participating in her limited role which included a one-line solo. “Many people questioned why she had not played a larger part,” comments her father. “But it was then that I fully understood that she had played a larger part than any role in the play. She set aside personal desires to act in a manner pleasing to her Father in Heaven. Becki’s example is a reminder that sacrifice for gospel principles will always lead to a starring role.”

I would just like to thank you for putting “He Was a Stranger” (July 1999) in the New Era. Just a month before, my brother was critically injured in a car accident that left him in a coma for several months. We, too, received the love, warmth, and kindness from those in our stake, along with other members around the country (thanks to the Internet). My parents read the article to my brother often because we loved it so much and it really touched our hearts. It’s nice to know there are people all around us to turn to in times of need.
Lauren WhitlockLancaster, Pennsylvania (via e-mail)

We all cried when Hans died. Mom and Dad hugged each other and cried. They hugged me too. Our neighbors and friends came over, and they cried. I’m glad that our friends were there. Mom and Dad had to be gone sometimes, getting things ready to bury Hans. It helped to talk to my friends. It helped to just sit on the porch with them beside me.

Across from me a woman sat sobbing. With tear-filled eyes, she told me, “I don’t know what I believe anymore.” She spoke of having struggled and prayed many days to know how to make a vitally important decision in her life, without success. She anguished, “I don’t know what to do. If you’ll tell me what to do, I’ll do it.” With her hand on the scriptures, she said, “God told us He would help us. He answers everybody else’s prayers. Why won’t He answer mine?”

By then, Sister Okazaki had come to acknowledge the complexity of her ethnic and cultural status. Worried about how others would perceive them after the Japanese military bombed Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, Sister Okazaki and her mother gathered and burned every Japanese memento they owned. But then she looked in the mirror and thought, “I have never set foot in Japan. I am not Japanese in my heart. But I cannot run away from myself. My eyes, my skin, and my hair are Japanese.”1

The prospect of two years without warm sand and blue-green waves ahead of me sent me surfing with my friend Gaven. At the end of the summer I’d be leaving for my mission in Iceland.
As Gaven and I carried our surfboards down a steep slope, we saw that an offshore wind was shaping six-foot waves into smooth, hollow barrels, beautiful to surfers’ eyes.
At the foot of the hills, cliffs dropped 50 feet down onto a narrow beach. We followed an eroded gully down the bluffs and easily climbed the last ten feet to the sand. Leashing our surfboards to our legs, we paddled out through kelp beds to the distant surf line.
I got in some of the best surfing of my life that day. The air and water sparkled clear and warm, and salt spray felt fresh on our faces. Seabirds wheeled and cried constantly, and the rides were long, fast, and perfect. Gaven and I stayed until after sunset.
As the twilight began to fade, my friend caught a last ride to shore. I looked at the horizon, which promised yet another set of extra-large waves, and waited for one more. I was rewarded by a last long, pounding ride.
I began the long paddle back, but a current pulled against me, and light faded to almost nothing. I finally reached the cliff’s base and discovered that the tide had risen much higher than I’d expected and now covered the beach. Waves rolled in and crashed directly against the cliff I had to climb. At first I shrank from the foaming water and tried in vain to discover an easier way; then I finally got up the courage to try.
The climb up was nothing like climbing down had been that afternoon. Then the cliff had been dry and high above the surf. Now it was slick as sushi, and white water roiled around me as I climbed.
Just short of the safety of the gully, I could go no farther. One last handhold lay just above my right hand, but I couldn’t reach it. That hand held my heavy surfboard, which a leash still attached to my leg. If I dropped it to the water, the waves would catch it and pull me off the rock. I needed my left hand to hold me in place. I was truly stuck.
Gaven, who had already reached the cliff top, suddenly appeared above me. For a moment, my foolish pride told me not to accept the hand he offered. “I’ve come so far on my own,” I thought. “I can make it myself.” But then I gratefully handed him the surfboard that burdened me, and with my right hand freed, I grasped the last handhold and reached the top.

Nearly 200 years ago, the American short story “Rip Van Winkle” became an instant classic. The main character, Rip, is an unambitious man who is very good at avoiding two things: work and his wife.
One day, while wandering in the mountains with his dog, he discovers a group of strangely dressed men drinking and playing games. After accepting some of their liquor, Rip becomes drowsy and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens his eyes again, he is surprised to find that his dog is gone, his rifle has rusted, and he now has a long beard.
Rip makes his way back to his village only to discover that everything has changed. His wife has died, his friends are gone, and the portrait of King George III in the tavern has been replaced by a portrait of someone he does not recognize—by General George Washington.
Rip Van Winkle had been sleeping for 20 years! And in the process, he had missed one of the most exciting periods in the history of his country—he had slept through the American Revolution.
In May 1966, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. used this story as an illustration for his speech “Don’t Sleep Through the Revolution.”1

The older of the home teachers paused a moment, then said, “Well, Chris, that’s a fair question. It reminds me of something that happened when I was just a couple of years older than you are. When I first went away to college back east, I took certain notions along with me—prejudices, I guess. I thought I would be going from the shelter of simple farm life to a decadent city where my principles would be challenged every minute. But that didn’t really happen. I was surprised to find that most of my classmates were fine people. Some of them belonged to other churches, and some didn’t belong to any church at all. And as I observed their behavior, I sometimes wondered if I would have been as honest as many of them were if I hadn’t been raised in a Latter-day Saint family. Have you ever thought about that?”

Danger at the Breaker This easy-to-read book is about eight-year-old Andrew, who had to go to work at the coal mine in a time when the workers were forced to shop at the company (mine owner’s) store for high prices and didn’t even have running water in their homes. There were few safety measures at the mines. Cave-ins and explosions, such as Andrew experienced his first day on the job, were everyday happenings.Catherine Welch6–8 years

May–June 1834 Joseph marches with Zion’s Camp from Ohio to Jackson County, Missouri, to try to reclaim the Saints’ land from which they had been driven.

“Because Daniel would not stop praying, he was cast into a den of lions, Daniel was righteous. …”
Danny Miller sat in his Primary class and listened to Sister Jensen tell the story of Daniel and the lions’ den. She finished by telling the children that she knew that the next time they faced a lions’ den, they could be as brave and courageous as Daniel. Danny thought that was funny. He had only seen lions at the zoo. And he had never heard of anyone being put into a lions’ den these days. He left the classroom and promptly forgot all about Daniel in the den of lions.
Then Monday morning at family scripture study, Danny’s dad read about Daniel too. His mother said, “The next time you have to make a hard choice, remember to be just as courageous as Daniel.”
But nobody gets thrown to the lions anymore, Danny thought as he headed to his room to get ready for school. “I don’t understand what all these scriptures have to do with me, anyhow,” he said to his cat, Tuffy, as he passed him on the stairs. “It’s just a lot of ancient history stuff, and I can’t understand it.”
Besides, Danny had more important things to worry about. He wolfed down his breakfast and took off for school. His mother couldn’t understand why he was in such a hurry, but he knew that if he went to school early enough, he might get there before Jason. Jason was a bully. Last week he had sat on Tommy Deacon until Tommy’s face turned blue. Jason had wanted the cupcake from Tommy’s lunch. Poor Tommy was ready to give it to him, but he couldn’t talk. That’s when Danny got into trouble with Jason.
He had picked up what was left of Tommy’s lunch—it looked like a steam-roller had passed over it—and tapped Jason on the shoulder. As Jason swung around, Tommy got away.
“Hey, squirt, what do you want?”
“Here’s Tommy’s cupcake,” Danny mumbled as he handed Jason the flattened lunch.
But instead of taking the lunch, Jason grabbed Danny by the hair. “I hear you’re pretty smart. Tell you what, I’m gonna cut you a break.” Jason told Danny that he had to help him pass all their tests, or else. Danny could imagine pretty well what “else” meant.
For the next week, he gave Jason the answers he wanted. Danny felt awful about it. He knew it was wrong, but he was afraid of Jason.
That morning as class began, Jason, who sat next to Danny, smiled and said, “So, are we ready for the math quiz?”
“What if I won’t give you the answers?” Danny whispered.
“Then I’ll tell the class that you’ve been cheating. Remember, all our tests from last week have the same answers on them.”
Danny was really scared.
Then, for some reason, he began to think of his Primary class. He remembered Sister Jensen’s telling them about Daniel. Danny thought sadly, That’s my name, too, but I’m not at all like Daniel in the Bible.
Suddenly he thought that Jason looked just like the wicked men in the Bible picture book who told Daniel not to pray. He looked at his teacher and his classmates and imagined how shocked they would be if Jason told on him. He felt as if he really were a prisoner in a den, and his classmates and his teacher were the lions.
Then, gently, a voice seemed to speak in his mind: Danny, do the right thing. Don’t let Jason see your paper anymore. It will be all right.
Danny remembered how the Lord had shut the lions’ mouths when Daniel was lowered into the den. No harm had come to him when he had done the right thing. Danny looked again at his teacher. One thing she absolutely did not tolerate was cheating. He looked at his classmates. He again imagined the boys’ laughter and the girls’ scorn if they found out. Suddenly the scriptures seemed very real. Here he was, Danny Miller, facing his own lions’ den. He remembered Sister Jensen saying: “Children, I hope that the next time you face a den of lions, you will, with Heavenly Father’s help, be just as brave as Daniel was.”
Mrs. Grant began giving the quiz. “Problem number one …”
Danny said a little prayer in his heart, then placed his hand over his page as he began to write. He glanced at Jason, who was scowling at him. Under his breath, Jason hissed, “Show me the answer, or I’ll tell!”
“Problem number two …”
Danny kept his paper covered. Jason raised his hand. Danny’s heart was pounding as Jason told Mrs. Grant in front of the entire class that Danny was a cheat and that he could prove it.
Mrs. Grant, in her sternest voice, said, “Jason and Daniel, I will see you after the quiz in my office.”
Danny peeked at the other lions in his den. The boys were not laughing; the girls did not look scornful. They finished the quiz, then Jason and Danny went to Mrs. Grant’s office.
Miraculously as Mrs. Grant began to speak, her voice softened, “Daniel, what is your side of the story?”
Danny told her everything and finished with, “I’m sorry.” Then he just looked at his feet. To his amazement she said how proud she was of him for having the courage to do the right thing. Danny had never felt so good in his whole life, even though he realized that Jason would probably get back at him somehow. But Jason could never make Danny do something wrong again.
On the way home from school, Danny thought about Daniel. At that moment he seemed very real to Danny, almost like a best friend!

Two or three weeks after his baptism, Lorenzo received the certainty he desired. During the time he had sought his initial testimony of the gospel, he had retired each night to a grove near his home and sought the Lord in prayer. One evening he felt no inclination to pray. The heavens, he said, seemed like brass over his head. But though he did not feel in the mood for prayer, he went, as he was accustomed to do, to his place of prayer.
“I had no sooner opened my lips in an effort to pray,” he later said, “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, as it was at that time imparted to my understanding. I then received a perfect knowledge that God lives, that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and of the restoration of the holy Priesthood, and the fulness of the Gospel. It was a complete baptism—a tangible immersion … even more real and physical in its effects upon every part of my system than the immersion by water.”
This knowledge was of far greater value to him than all the wealth and honors the world could bestow. In faith, he had made his decision to join the Saints, and in response to his faith, the Lord had given him the peace of mind he had desired.

Second, from President Howard W. Hunter (1907–95): On one occasion President Hunter dealt with a particularly tragic and difficult situation. At length he said, “I have always liked to lift people, rather than put them down, to show them the way of the Lord, that they might follow Him.” Subsequently, the gift of forgiveness, the gift of compassion, the gift of encouragement were freely given to the distressed couple by this saintly leader.

I started out so valiant and true to my goal to fellowship my wayward friends. I would try to intellectualize that they did have good qualities, yet they were against my principles. Looking back, after I honestly assessed the situation, I noticed how great of a spiritual decline I went through. Charity should be practiced but not to the extent that your eternal progression is hindered.
Rachelle Cromar, 16Sandy, Utah

One day I received a phone call from my grandson Joel. He had been invited to go with a group of schoolmates to Sea Camp in San Diego, California. There would be behind-the-scene experiences at Sea World—watching the trainers and helping to feed the sea animals. His dilemma was that the camp would be on a weekend, with scuba diving and beach exploring on Sunday.
His parents had not wanted him to go but had allowed him to make his own choice. He had assured them that although he couldn’t attend church on Sunday, he would not swim. He said, “I can sit on the beach and be surrounded by God’s creations. Heavenly Father couldn’t feel bad about that, could He?”
Joel wanted to know what I thought he should do. I answered with a question: “Joel, what do you think Jesus would want you to do?”
His voice was a little choked up as he answered, “Grandpa, I don’t think He would be very happy with me if I do that on Sunday.”
And he decided not to go. It hadn’t been an easy decision to make, but it was the right one. We all have many difficult choices to make. There are many exciting things that, if we choose to do them, will lead us away from Christ. The movies and videos we choose to watch, the fun times we seek, the music we listen to, the clothes we wear, and the things we say are all influenced by the strength of our desire to follow Christ.

Then in one letter home, she writes:
“Sometimes I feel very far away from those I love …but then comes the consoling thought that I am called of God to carry the glorious light of the gospel to souls that are in comparative darkness. My heart is full of gratitude for the testimony I have to the truthfulness of the gospel. I could sing with all my heart ‘I’ll praise the Lord while I am young, and in my early days Devote the music of my tongue to my Redeemer’s praise.’”

On Christmas Eve last year, my family went to church early. I asked my dad if I could play the piano before sacrament meeting started. I played every Christmas song I could. When I was done, everyone thanked me for the music I played. I felt good inside my heart throughout the whole meeting. I was happy to do service on Christmas Eve and make so many people happy.
Audrey W., age 10, New Mexico, USA

I just read an old issue of the New Era dated April 1985. It was sent to me by my younger sister who is on a mission. I love to read all the Church books and publications but can’t afford to buy or subscribe to any of them. The only chance I get to read them is when the owner’s done with them and lends them to me or gives them to me after a couple of months. Anyway, I know that the messages never grow old. To me, it’s always new and equally uplifting. I really appreciate all the articles which help build my testimony and appreciation for life.
The article that I appreciate the most in the April 1985 issue was the one authored and photographed by Anselm Spring, “The Meadow.”
I am a lover of nature myself, but an eye defect makes it impossible to see small details. Still, I thought I had appreciated the beautiful creations of God—until I saw Anselm Spring’s photographs in “The Meadow.” I agree with him when he says that the eye of a carnal man is limited. The most exquisite things are too small for my eyes to see. How I thrilled to see all those dew drops, the glittering spider web, and those capes of diamonds as he described them.
I’d like to thank you, Brother Spring, for helping me see these things. I hope you won’t mind if I look at the beauty of the earth through your eyes. What I’ve seen through you I know I would never be able to see in my whole lifetime. Please keep sharing God’s wonderful creations.
Mary Hazel LibreaDipolog City, Philippines