Gospel Story Finder

Illustration by Roger Motzkus
When I was young, my grandma often had get-togethers for my cousins and me. There were about 14 of us, and we were always excited when Grandma invited us over for dinners, sleepovers, game nights, and holidays. Grandma’s house was the place to be!
Every activity at Grandma’s house was fun. But I never thought about all of the time and work that went into each activity. I just thought that was what grandmas did, and I loved it!
After years of fun cousin memories at Grandma’s house, our family moved away. Later my grandma came to spend a special day with us in our new home. My family thought long and hard to find the perfect gift for her. She has more stuff than anyone I know. What could we get the grandma who has everything?
I asked my dad for ideas, and he told me the same thing he says every year: “Why don’t you write her a really nice letter?” I was out of ideas, and so early the next morning, before anyone else was awake, I sat at the kitchen table with my feet on the cold tile and wrote my grandma a special letter.
At first I wondered what I could write besides, “You are so wonderful. Thanks for everything.” As I looked out the kitchen window at the palm trees and the sky, I thought of the many things Grandma had done for us over the years. I remembered that I had never told my grandma how much those times spent together as a family meant to me.
In my letter, I told my grandma that I love her, and I thanked her for all of the special memories. I let her know how important they still were to me, even years later. Then I put the letter in an envelope and went back into my warm, carpeted room.
When the time came to give Grandma her gifts, I slowly pulled out my letter. I didn’t know how to feel about my gift to her.
She looked surprised when I gave her the envelope. I watched closely as she carefully tore off the end of the envelope and pulled out the letter on narrow pink paper. As she read it, she started to smile and tears filled her eyes. I had never seen my grandma cry before. She slowly looked up and turned toward me with warm, brown eyes. She whispered, “Thank you, thank you. I didn’t think anyone remembered.”
Grandma, who had done so much to build strong family relationships, had no idea that I remembered or was grateful for those times together. She wiped her eyes and said, “Kimberly, thank you. That was the best present anyone could ever give me.”
I gave Grandma a big hug, feeling her soft skin against my cheek and smelling her “grandma” smell that was a mix of baby powder and musk. I was so grateful for my dad’s idea to write her a letter. I didn’t know that words of gratitude and love would mean more to my grandma than all of the knickknacks, perfume, and gifts that money could buy.

The light shining in your faces comes from the Lord. This same light led the way for 15-year-old Mary Elizabeth Rollins and her 13-year-old sister, Caroline, on a dark day in Independence, Missouri.
It was 1833, and an angry mob roared through the streets of Independence, wreaking havoc. In their path was the home of Brother William W. Phelps, where the printing press was kept. He had been printing revelations received by the Prophet Joseph Smith. The mob demolished the printing press and threw the wreckage into the street. However, they stacked up the printed pages in the yard so they could burn them later.
Mary Elizabeth and Caroline had been hiding by the fence, frightened spectators to all this destruction. Even though Mary Elizabeth was terrified, her eye was fixed on those precious pages. She and her sister ran out from their hiding place, gathered up the scriptures, and bolted. Some members of the mob saw them and ordered them to stop. But the brave girls ran into a large cornfield, where they dropped breathlessly to the ground. They carefully laid the pages of revelations between the tall rows of corn and then covered the pages by lying on them. The mobsters looked and looked for the girls, coming quite close at times, but never did find them. Eventually they gave up their search.
I believe the light of the Lord directed Mary Elizabeth and Caroline as to what to do and where to go for safety. That light shines for you, and it will guide you as it did the Rollins girls. It will keep you safe even when danger lurks.

I had a new coat and was eager to wear it to school the next day. I couldn’t wait for my friends to see it.
While I was playing outside for recess, a boy laughed at my new coat and made fun of it. At first I was really angry and hurt and wanted to say something mean back to make him feel bad. But then I remembered the lesson I had in my Primary class. My teacher taught us that in Old Testament times, the law was an eye for an eye. But when Jesus Christ came to earth, He taught about love and about how important it is to forgive someone when they do something mean or bad.
After I remembered my Primary lesson and thought about what Jesus would want me to do, I decided to just turn around and walk away. I know it was better to forgive the boy than to say something mean back. I felt good inside because I had made the right choice.

Two other powerful ideas were given voice by a noble young woman who survived a terrible experience. Virginia Reed was a survivor of the tragic Donner-Reed party, which made one of the earliest wagon treks into California. If this wagon train had followed the established Oregon Trail from Fort Bridger (Wyoming) northwest to Fort Hall (Idaho) and then southwest toward California, they would have reached their destination in safety. Instead, they were misled by a promoter. Lansford W. Hastings persuaded them they could save significant distance and time by following his so-called Hastings Cutoff. The Donner-Reed party left the proven trail at Fort Bridger and struggled southwest. They blazed a trail through the rugged Wasatch Mountains and then south of the Great Salt Lake and westward over the soggy surface of the salt flats in furnace heat.
The delays and incredible energies expended on this unproven route cost the Donner-Reed party an extra month in reaching the Sierra Nevada Mountains. As they hastened up the eastern slope trying to beat the first snows, they were caught in a tragic winter storm only one day short of the summit and a downhill passage into California. Marooned for the winter, half their group perished from starvation and cold.
After months in the mountains and incredible hardships of hunger and terror, thirteen-year-old Virginia Reed reached California and sent a letter to her cousin in the Midwest. After recounting her experiences and the terrible sufferings of their party, she concluded with this wise advice: “Never take no cutofs and hury along as fast as you can” (Virginia E. B. Reed letter to her cousin Mary Gillespie, 16 May 1847, quoted in J. Roderic Korns and Dale L. Morgan, eds., West from Fort Bridger [Logan, Utah: Utah State University Press, 1994], p. 238).

A group of young men and women busily feeding a work crew at a ward chapel gave up a few of its members to show a New Era reporter a thing or two, including the Kentucky Training Center where many Thoroughbred owners train their horses and where Aaronic Priesthood groups make money for service projects by cleaning and caring for the stables, a pasture complete with horses, and an Argentine stallion worth a million and a quarter. In the process of the visit there were a few bonuses such as a Sousa march played on blades of grass, a couple of handmade clover necklaces, and a horseless race from a convenient starting gate.

Your choice of music can also affect your ability to accomplish tasks or to learn. Two researchers explored this relationship by studying the effects of music and rhythm on the nervous system of mice. For eight weeks, one group of mice constantly listened to Strauss waltzes (highly organized and orderly music), while a second heard disharmonious sounds in the form of continuous drumbeats. A third group was raised in silence.

After eight weeks, the mice were placed in a maze to find food. The mice in the second group wandered off with no sense of direction—“a clear indication they were having trouble learning”—and took much longer to find the food than they had at the beginning of the study. The mice exposed “to discordant sounds not only developed difficulties in learning and memory, … but they also incurred structural changes in their brain cells.” The researchers’ diagnosis is very interesting: “We believe that the mice were trying to compensate for this constant bombardment of disharmonic noise. … They were struggling against the chaos.”5

Some years ago I encountered a brilliant neurosurgeon whose task at a world-famous hospital was to help patients with chronic pain. He put together a team: psychologists, psychiatrists, physicians, pharmacologists, and physical therapists—you name it. Out of all their efforts and many failures, one insight emerged: if there was no significant other—one for whom the patient really cared and who cared in return for the patient—their efforts could do little or nothing to reduce the pain. This physician has since become a Latter-day Saint. He told me one day that the following statement is scientifically certain: For many sicknesses, love, and especially family love, is the only preventive medicine and the only lasting therapy. There is something in holy scripture about that.

While serving as president of the Canada Toronto Mission, I assisted several of my missionaries in teaching a prominent businessman. After our lesson, I invited him to pray and ask Heavenly Father if our message is true.
“I don’t know how to pray,” he said.
I told him that all he needed to do was kneel and simply ask Heavenly Father to confirm the truth to him.
“You can do that!” I encouraged him.
We knelt together and the man began his prayer. When he finished, he said, “What’s happening? I’ve never felt anything like this before.”
“That is the way Heavenly Father answers prayers,” I said. “You have asked, and He has answered.”

During the summer before our son Josh's junior year of high school he began experiencing painful headaches. We thought he was experiencing a prolonged sinus infection, but after visiting many doctors and seeing no improvement, a doctor finally ordered an MRI. To our shock and horror, when we looked at the scans, we discovered he had multiple brain tumors—cancer spreading throughout his brain cavity. These tumors were unrelated to the one he had when he was five. One doctor told us that the odds of having two different types of brain tumors were something like one in 150 million! One of these tumors was blocking the brain fluid from draining properly and that was what was causing his headaches.

A local doctor did immediate surgery, inserting a fairly large shunt at the base of his skull in order to alleviate the pressure caused by the accumulation of fluid in his brain cavity. They then did a second surgery, also through the top of the skull, in order to take a biopsy to determine if the tumors were malignant or benign. That surgery failed to get a proper biopsy, and we found ourselves back at Primary Children's Hospital in Salt Lake City, where, after a third surgery, it was determined that his tumors were indeed malignant. That meant months of chemotherapy and radiation treatment. He spent his entire junior year of High School receiving treatment. Fortunately, Josh responded amazingly well to both treatments in the intervening months, and by the end of his Junior year of high school he was cancer free! We were again, deeply grateful for this blessing.

In our experience with Josh he was a great example of enduring cheerfully. He literally never complained once through the whole ordeal. His Mom and I were certainly not at that level of endurance, and I'm sure I would have done my fair share of complaining had the roles been reversed. Nearly every picture we have of him during his chemotherapy treatments shows him smiling. I couldn't personally imagine going through chemotherapy and radiation treatment and still smiling? This is a picture of Josh with his youngest brother towards the end of his treatment. Now, there were tough days. He certainly wasn't always smiling during times of painful treatment and suffering. But he seemed to remain optimistic and even "cheerful" throughout the experience.

I had made the commitment to serve a mission, but there is also mandatory military service in South Korea. After high school, many young men entered the military, fulfilled their mandatory service, and immediately pursued an education and found jobs. It was difficult to give another two years to missionary service. There were only a few Korean elders then.
When I turned 19, I kept my commitment and prepared and sent in my mission papers. I was called to serve in the Korea Busan Mission. One year later, I was drafted into the military. I was so sad that I had to stop my mission.
When I completed my military service three years later, I felt that I had not yet completed my mission. Everyone told me, “You already served a mission. The Lord understands your situation, so serving for only one year is OK.”
I asked my good friend from seminary what I should do. She said that she knew I would serve another year of my mission. Her trust gave me confidence and confirmation to serve more. I served the second year of my mission in the Korea Seoul Mission. By the time I finished, I was 25 years old. I later married that same friend and we were sealed in the Laie Hawaii Temple.
This experience taught me that you will be all right even when things do not happen the way you had designed. When your plans and vision fit with the Lord’s will for you, He will help you in your life decisions.

Blending in isn’t always easy when you’re one of only a handful of Latter-day Saint kids in a high school of 2,000, but I managed somehow. I grew up mostly quiet, content to go with the flow and see where life took me rather than firmly planting my feet on any convictions. At 17 I knew I was nearing the precipice of big life changes, but I didn’t know how to commit to any direction. People often smiled knowingly at me, kindly telling me that I had it made and had the world at my fingertips. But I wasn’t so sure. I wasn’t sure of anything, because I still wasn’t sure who I was.
No one from the outside looking in would have known how little confidence I had in myself. I did a good job of hiding it. Though I was quiet and hardly popular, I still played on two sports teams, participated in several clubs, and sat securely at the top of my class academically. I enjoyed Church activities and seminary. I seldom realized how truly at peace I felt during those early mornings before school, poring over my scriptures before the chaos of the world set in. But the chaos always came. Though I smiled and laughed in the school hallways, none of those things seemed to really matter—I wasn’t happy. It’s hard to be truly happy when the very essence of your being is a mystery to you. I knew I was a child of God, but so was everyone else. Did I really matter in the big picture? Was I willing to put the gospel principles I’d always been taught at the center of my life and face whatever questions or mockery might arise? Who was I, really? Instead of having enough faith in myself to find the answers, I chose to almost fade away.
Just before my junior year ended, a small thing happened that would change all that. I decided to throw an after-school job into the mix of my already busy schedule, and I was very nervous about it. Working retail, I had to approach strangers and ask how I might help them, which was a daunting task for someone as shy as I was. With practice, however, I eventually came out of my shell and no longer felt butterflies each time I approached a customer. One evening just before closing I found myself helping a young man who had recently had his hair buzzed off. My town was home to a couple of military bases, and it was not uncommon to see young men with freshly-shaven heads.
After we found the item the young man was looking for, we walked to the counter so he could pay for it. As he opened his wallet, I noticed on his finger a shiny silver ring with a familiar design. I smiled at the sight of it, thrilled as always to discover another member of the Church in a place where we were so few.
“Are you LDS?” I asked, gesturing toward the CTR ring.
The young man froze, almost flinched, and his eyes then snapped up quickly to mine as though to analyze the meaning behind my words. After a moment I remembered that the young LDS marines often had it rough trying to find their place in a new town and lifestyle. I had heard stories of new LDS recruits and how hard it was to stand strong when surrounded by things a Latter-day Saint would find demoralizing. Drinking, profanity, and immorality were common, and more than one recruit suffered his share of scorn and ridicule for choosing not to participate. Did this young man think I was going to mock him or that he was going to have to go on the defensive?
His hands shook almost imperceptibly, and he stood silent. It was obvious that during those few prolonged seconds, he was making some kind of decision. At last he lifted his head and straightened to his full height, and when he spoke, a resounding conviction flooded his countenance while an undeniable light shone in his eyes.
“Yes.”
One word was all he said, but that single word meant so much. In that moment, he seemed to know who he was and what his life was all about. The example of a stranger, a young man I had never seen before, stays in my mind to this day. Whenever I feel lost, alone, or uncertain, I pose to myself the same question I so casually asked that young man at the check-out counter: Are You LDS?
Yes.
I am a child of god. I am a disciple of Jesus Christ. I am a Latter-day Saint. I serve the Lord, and I am neither frightened nor ashamed. I know who I am, without a doubt. This was a small moment that changed my life. There are moments like this in everyone’s life—moments that help define you and put everything into focus. Some are monumental and easy to recognize, but many more are small, subtle, and unexpected.

Years ago President Monson attended a stake conference in Star Valley, Wyoming, USA, with the assignment to reorganize the stake presidency. But he did more than fulfill that duty. He touched the lives of all who attended with a simple gesture of love as he released the stake president, E. Francis Winters, who had served for 23 years.
The day of the stake conference, the members filled the building. It seemed as if each one was saying “a silent thank-you to this noble leader,” who obviously had done his duty with whole-souled devotion. As President Monson stood to speak, he stated how long President Winters had presided in the stake and had been “a perpetual pillar of strength to everyone in the valley.” Then he was prompted to do something he has not done before or since. He asked everyone who had been touched by President Winters’s life to stand. The outcome was electrifying. Every person in the audience rose to his or her feet.
President Monson told the congregation, many of whose eyes were filled with tears, “This vast throng reflects not only individual feelings but also the gratitude of God for a life well lived.”10

When I was eight, I lived in a house that had the best view overlooking a valley. In the evenings, I would sit on top of my barn, watching the purple-and-orange glowing sunsets with my calico cat, thinking about and observing the world.
These moments of pondering eventually led to a lot of questions about life.
One day I asked my mom, “What happens when we die? I know there is a heaven, but what actually happens after this life?”
The look on her face implied that she wanted to know the answer as well. I could sense her anxiety when she replied, “I’m not quite sure.”
After that conversation, I immediately started thinking of all the possibilities of what would happen after I died. I feared that I would just cease to exist. These thoughts spiraled and often turned into panic attacks over the years.
I constantly questioned my identity, my purpose, and what would happen to me after I died. I felt so lost. And when I got to high school, I struggled and made decisions I wouldn’t have if I had understood my divine worth and eternal potential.
While I was attending college in Oregon, USA, I found myself at the lowest point of my life, praying for help to get out of the darkness I was in. I didn’t feel right about anything in my life. I didn’t know who I was or why I was on this earth or even what my purpose was.
During this time, I made a new friend named Nick. We met through mutual friends, and for some reason, as I got to know him and spent time with him, I felt a strange pull toward him, and I wasn’t quite sure why. He seemed different than all my other friends—in a good way.
One day, I felt like I had reached a breaking point with my unanswered questions and anxiety, and I had an impression to visit Nick. I told him how I was feeling, and we talked for hours! He mentioned that he was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. That news unsettled me because of various false rumors I had heard about “Mormons” growing up, but since nothing scared me more than the unanswered questions I had about life, I listened to what he had to say.
A few days later, as I pondered what Nick had told me about what he believed about life after death and our purpose as God’s children, I had a strong, overwhelming feeling that I needed to make a change in my life. I ended my relationship with my boyfriend and moved back home to start over. Nick also invited me to go to church, and while I was scared, I agreed to go with him.
As I was sitting in church, I was amazed at how friendly and loving everyone was. I also felt a peaceful, warm feeling that I had experienced only a few times before in my life—a feeling that I would later learn was from the Holy Ghost.
But what truly struck me was that every lesson and talk I heard that day focused on Jesus Christ and His Resurrection and what His sacrifice means for each of us. Learning that He still lives taught me that there is life for each of us after we die. That knowledge gave me so much peace.
I learned about the plan of salvation and about who I truly am and why I am here. And as I prayed to Heavenly Father to help me understand and believe these truths, I felt my faith grow.
Nick baptized me a month later. For the first time, I truly felt the love of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. I felt like I finally understood my divine identity, my purpose, and my worth.
After I received my endowment in the temple, I felt that the big questions I had about life that had stirred in my heart since I was eight years old were finally answered. And a year later, Nick and I were sealed in the Portland Oregon Temple.
Now that I know my true identity and that “the worth of [my soul] is great in the sight of God” (Doctrine and Covenants 18:10), my life is so much more joyful. And even when I still have moments of anxiety, focusing on that truth helps me keep moving forward.

We were so happy, every Sunday attending sacrament meeting and seeing the love the members of the Church showed us. My mom and I waited for my father who was working in Dubai to come and be baptized, and my brother was studying in Vijayawada where there is no Church. Fortunately, a home group was started in Vijayawada and missionaries from Rajahmundry went there and taught him. I baptized him. The day came that my father arrived from his work the missionaries met him, taught him, and invited him to be baptized, but he had an issue with the Word of Wisdom. Finally, he overcame it with the help of the missionaries and he also joined the Church. My brother baptized him. Now all four members in our family have joined the Church and have seen many miracles in our lives.

Let me conclude with an intimate “Are-you-there?” experience. Sister Ashton and I live in a condo apartment on State Street in downtown Salt Lake. From our sixth-level unit in the living room we have a direct full view of the Salt Lake Temple. The temple is framed beautifully in that setting, and we enjoy frequent views of the majestic structure, particularly at night when the lights are on or when the sun is setting.

A few years ago Sister Ashton suddenly needed immediate hospitalization. After taking her to the hospital, we prayed together, and then I went home and prayed privately. Because of the suddenness of the development and the deep affection I have for her, I was not able to sleep.

After a restless hour or so I got up out of bed, walked into the living room, and looked at the temple. Yes, the lights on the Salt Lake Temple are on all night. I remember well walking around the living room countless times looking at the temple and saying to myself with a bowed head with an unwavering faith, “I know he is there.” It was kind of a silent cry for that reassurance and strength we have been talking about today.

Pray constantly for help, endurance, and understanding. God does answer our prayers. Please know he is there. I testify he is, in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

But there's more to this story. Amy wasn't the only angel that day. Again, since this was in the days before cell phones, I was supposed to be the message relay at our apartment. Ellen would call to tell me where she was with the tow truck, and Amy was supposed to call to find out Ellen's location. In the midst of my waiting, my parents called to see how my new apartment was--I had just moved in. I explained what had happened with Ellen's pickup and told them I had to get off the phone. Then my stepdad said something I'll never forget. He said, "Wait, she's in trouble. Where is she? I'll go get her." He was ready to drive across the state, six hours each way, to help a girl he had never even met. He probably would have driven her to Alaska. After I convinced him that Ellen would be okay with Amy's help, he let me hang up the phone, but only after I promised him updates about whether Ellen made it safely to her sister's house in Olympia. Later, I asked my stepdad why he was willing to help my brand new roommate--a girl he'd never met and he stated plainly--"she needed help. I'd want someone to help you."

In 1850 Brigham Young sent ten missionaries to the Hawaiian Islands. Without understanding the language and culture, they became so discouraged that five of them went home. The youngest of the five who stayed was Elder George Q. Cannon. He went to the Lord in prayer and was inspired to go to Lahaina on the island of Maui.
When he got there, two ladies went screaming into a nearby house and brought out a gentleman. The night before, this man had had a dream that a messenger of God was coming and that he must feed him. The man was Jonathon H. Napela, the magistrate of that area. The two men became close friends, like Alma and Amulek in the Book of Mormon (see Alma 10–15). Because of the guiding hand of God and Brother Napela’s great help, missionary work began to do very well in Hawaii.

When I was about ten years old I visited my grandparents one summer. They lived on a farm and they had a big barn with lots of hay and pitchforks. One day I took a pitchfork and thrust it into the hay with all my strength. Unfortunately, I forgot that my left foot was in that hay protected only by my sneakers. That old, dirty, pitchfork plunged into my foot. Oh, that hurt. I was so embarrassed I did not tell anyone what had happened.
The next day I went down to the local pond with some of my cousins hoping my foot would start feeling better. But alas, it did not; it felt worse and worse, and I could see red streaks in the skin from my foot into my left leg. It hurt to walk. When my dad saw me limping and asked what was wrong, I told him what had happened and he hustled me into the car and drove me to the hospital right away. The doctor there gave me a giant shot of penicillin in my left arm. That arm stiffened up and hurt for two whole weeks.

When Sister Anderson was a Scout leader, Jared’s class went to the planetarium at Idaho State University. They loved watching the constellations, and he still enjoys identifying many of them. Last summer Jared and his mother often put blankets on the grass and watched the stars from their front lawn.
“That is where we have had some of our best talks,” Sister Anderson says. “They are more than astronomy talks. We talk about the premortal existence and the hereafter, all under the stars. We talk about problems and how we can best face the life we have ahead of us.”

Jessie and Steve Cota saw a need and found a way to fill it. With help from their father, they built a house for an abandoned mother and her five children, who had been living on the street.
The 12-year-old twin brothers, who live in the Nogales Branch, Tucson Arizona Rincon Stake, didn’t wait for a quorum service project or an assignment from the branch president. They went right to work.
“My aunt, who lives in Mexico, met this woman in the hospital,” Steve explains. “She found out the conditions the woman and her children were living in and knew they needed help. She talked to my father, Jose, who is first counselor in our branch presidency, to see if something could be done.”
Something could. Word spread quickly in the branch. Church members contributed what they could, and Brother Cota, a builder, was able to get materials donated from a project he was working on. The aunt donated her own backyard as a site for the new construction.
“Everybody helped out,” Jessie says. “But to be honest, my dad did most of the work.”
Brother Cota, however, gives credit to his sons. “They really enjoy working. They helped put the floor in, hauling buckets of water so we could make the cement. They helped with the framing and with the roof. We’re especially proud of the roof, which has asphalt shingles and should last many years.”
The house the twins built is similar to dozens of others that cover the hillsides of Nogales, which straddles the border of Arizona and Mexico. The house is small, made mostly of plywood, and has no plumbing. But it is now home to a family of six.
It took three to four weeks, working on Saturdays, to complete the structure. “We felt good, knowing we were helping someone who needed help,” Steve says. “We learned a lot doing this together. We learned about how Church members can reach out to help others in the community. We learned about construction. And we got to be better friends with our father.”
“We like to nail things together,” Jessie says. “Maybe I’ll be a builder when I grow up, too.”
Brother Cota just smiles, then says, “The important thing about this is that now the children who live in this house will have a future. They have protection from the weather and a chance to go to school.”
We visit for a minute more, talking about birdhouses the boys are building as a hobby, about Steve’s baseball games and Jessie’s love of football, about future plans to build an outside bathroom to go along with the house.
Then the woman, surrounded by her children, greets the Cotas warmly and poses for a photo with them.
“These,” she says, “are the people who gave me my home.”