Gospel Story Finder

Marie, the girls’ mother, points out that when he was district president, Brother Teihoarii traveled to four islands besides Takaroa to meet with members of the Church. Vehina and Ranitea loved to hear about what he did on his trips. “They begged to talk with me as soon as I came in the door,” Brother Teihoarii says. “It seems like they got to know everyone in the islands!”

Thanks for the New Era. I love to read it. I especially loved two articles in the October 2003 magazine: “In Crowd? Out Crowd? Right Crowd!” and “We Are Daughters of Our Heavenly Father, Who Loves Us.” I thought these articles were so great that I took them to my friends in Beehives. They read them and liked them as much as I did. These articles also helped change my life and how I think about things.Maddie Prows, Sabre Springs Ward, Poway California Stake

I live with a chronic, debilitating disease. Because of my disease, even opening my eyes can feel excruciating at times. But every morning I get to wake up to two big blue eyes, a head full of red hair, and a big pacifier smile—my beautiful three-year-old daughter. Opening my eyes to this sight every morning reminds me that even though my body is broken, I am blessed in so many ways.
My life may not be the picture I had painted in my mind, but I know that my circumstances in life are known to our loving Heavenly Father. I have found, in this trial of illness, that choice—when used righteously—is such a blessing. You may not deal with a debilitating illness like I do, but you might be facing other heart-wrenching and difficult trials in your own life. Regardless of the trials we all face, we still get to choose every day if we will turn to God or not.
In some ways, coping with the mental aspect of chronic illness can be harder than managing the physical aspect. But when I take a moment to pause and look at my life as a whole, I see the miracles the Lord daily performs for me and my family. And it’s often little things like somehow summoning up the strength to jump on the trampoline with my little girl. Those moments are the incredible gifts Heavenly Father gives me every day to show me how much He loves me and is aware of me.
Through these sweet miracles and tender mercies, I’ve learned to truly trust God with my life. When I turn it over to Him, He gives me the perspective I need in order to keep going. I have come to understand that my disease isn’t my life. My disease is part of my life. And though it is a big part of me and something that is always there, I am so much more than my illness. I am a mom, wife, sister, aunt, and daughter. In fact, I am a beloved daughter of God, and He knows me personally and loves me more deeply than I can comprehend. And that knowledge, in and of itself, is miraculous.
I know God didn’t give me this illness to punish me; He has allowed me to be sick as an opportunity to grow spiritually even as my physical body deteriorates.
Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are the only way to true and lasting happiness. Yes, I have a chronic illness, and I know I will endure more challenges throughout this life. But through these challenges, I have been able to see more of the blessings and goodness that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ offer us every day. I know They will be by my side every step of the way if I continue to choose to turn to Them each day.

In one area where more than 300 homes burned, the residents honored the firemen and the missionaries. One resident said, “These missionaries worked longer and harder than anyone else.” Then the missionaries sang, “Because I Have Been Given Much,” (Hymns, no. 219). After the song, the missionaries and residents hugged one another with tears in their eyes.
Said one elder, “We showed others that though we are young, the gospel guides our lives whether we are teaching the gospel or digging out the remains of a home.”

Because so many people constantly feel discouragement, bitterness, hatred, and grief, the happiness in their lives is slowly being destroyed. In the August New Era, Elder Boyd K. Packer wrote a hopeful message to all those who taste these feelings that come from the devil. In “The Balm of Gilead” he simply says to forget whatever caused your bad feelings, since it will only bring you sorrow, and to start anew. In the past I have felt bitterness, as many have, but I have tried to do as Elder Packer suggests, and happiness has come into my life once again. It all started with me changing my own attitude. Stay close to your Heavenly Father, and he will help you to overcome these bitter feelings.
Kellie RobertsonAmerican Fork, Utah

As a publisher and printer, I had the opportunity to assist President J. Reuben Clark in the preparation of his manuscript which became the monumental book Our Lord of the Gospels. What a blessing was mine to learn daily at the feet of such a master teacher and principle architect of the welfare program. Knowing that I was a newly appointed bishop presiding over a difficult ward, he emphasized the need for me to know my people, to understand their circumstances, and to minister to their needs. One day he recounted the example of the Savior as recorded in the Gospel of Luke:
“And it came to pass … that he went into a city called Nain; and many of his disciples went with him. …
“When he came nigh to the gate of the city, behold, there was a dead man carried out, the only son of his mother, and she was a widow. …
“And when the Lord saw her, he had compassion on her, and said unto her, Weep not.
“And he came and touched the bier. … And he said, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise.
“And he that was dead sat up, and began to speak. And he delivered him to his mother.” (Luke 7:11–15.)
When President Clark closed the Bible, I noticed that he was weeping. In a quiet voice, he said, “Tom, be kind to the widow and look after the poor.”

Lyle says he is not the kind of person who accepts things on faith very easily. “It took me a while to realize that the Spirit of the Lord is a substantial, real thing, not just a belief.”

When Lyle’s younger brother Skyler was being ordained a deacon, Lyle was gathered with his father, uncles, and cousins in a circle to help with the ordination. “I thought, What could be better than to spend eternity with these people? I would do anything for anybody in this circle. The Spirit was very strong. That’s when I started thinking, It’s real, it’s substantial, it’s God’s power, and it’s been here all along. The thing I see happening in the family, the spirit that can be there, is the most important thing to me. I’d drop robots right now if the choice was between them and my family. I’m playing with little toys that pale in comparison to that.”

When I turned 12 years old, I was the only young man attending my ward in Cape Town, South Africa. Even so, my bishop felt inspired to call a Young Men presidency.
My Young Men president could have said to himself, “What am I supposed to do with only one young man? We cannot organize activities for only one.” Instead, he gave of his best and magnified his calling. The presidency organized hikes, camps, Scouting activities, Mutual evenings on Tuesday nights, lessons on Sundays, sand boarding, and activities at the beach. After a while, other young men began coming out—two, then three, and then four.
I am filled with gratitude that these Young Men leaders were faithful in their callings and made an effort for just one young man—me. I am a better person because they didn’t give up and so are the others who participated in the Young Men program in our ward.
Greg Burgoyne, South Africa

Shy Charles A delightful story told in rhyme about a very bashful mouse who surprises everyone when he rescues his baby-sitter.Rosemary Wells4–8 years

The air was biting cold and damp. The pungent odor of smoke from coal fires stung our nostrils as we breathed. The fog and the darkness of the evening made it difficult to see. It was a typical winter night in England.
I was a new missionary of two months. My companion and I were hurriedly riding our bicycles to a nearby town to meet the lady missionaries. On the telephone the sisters seemed anxious and concerned. A member in their area needed help.
Arriving as quickly as we could after the phone call, we accompanied the sisters to the member’s home. We knocked at the door and a woman answered, inviting us into a very small room with a fireplace at one end. In the dim light I could see the woman’s face. She had puffy cheeks and sad, tired, reddened eyes. Her eyelashes were wet and matted. More tears streaked her face as she gestured toward a small crib near the fireplace. Sobbing, the mother said, “My baby is sick. She can’t breathe and the doctor says she will die.” Bronchitis and pneumonia kill many babies during the harsh British winters.
The mother asked us to administer to the tiny, three-week-old baby. Tenderly she lifted the baby from its crib and held it gently and protectively in her arms. Tears fell from her eyes onto the clean linen in which the baby was wrapped. There was hardly enough room on the tiny head for my two comparatively large hands. As I placed my hands on her soft little head, I could feel the delicate tufts of hair.
It was the first time in my life that I had administered to a sick person. Somehow I managed the correct words. “Sonja Holbert, in the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the Holy Melchizedek Priesthood …” At that moment I could feel a surge of power within me. It was something unique and unusual. I knew without a doubt that I was acting as an instrument in the hands of Almighty God himself to heal that little baby.
This experience merged into others as the time went by until the memory of it was dimmed. Almost two years later near the end of my mission, I was assigned to work in the town where the mother and the little girl lived. As we tracted down a street, one of our contacts told us that a member of our church lived around the corner. We found the house and knocked at the door. English row houses look much the same, and I was not immediately aware that this was the same house I had visited nearly two years before. The woman invited us in. As we entered the same small room, a pair of bright, blue eyes stared up at me. I sat down in a chair, and a beautiful little girl climbed into my lap. As I patted the blond ringlets on her head, a flood of memories returned to me—the dreary night, the tearful mother, the infant gasping for every breath, and the unmistakable power of the priesthood. “Thank you, Father,” I murmured silently, “for the privilege of using that power to help this little girl.”
I was strengthened by this experience. I knew then the reality of what it meant to say, “I know that the priesthood has been restored in this day, and I bear testimony that God lives and loves us. I know great blessings can come to pass through righteous exercise of his priesthood.”

Brother Wada: Learning does not happen right in the classroom sometimes. Sometimes it happens outside. When I was learning about the Church, the missionaries would teach me, and a week later I thought about it and said, “This is what it is.” So we do not need to assume that the exact learning needs to happen at that moment.
Elder Holland: Great point. I am confident that was the Spirit of the Lord working on you for a week or as long as required.
That’s the classic case of investigators in the Church. We want that Spirit working on them for hours and days after the missionaries have gone and before they come back for their next lesson.

Born in Midvale, Utah, on June 8, 1951, Sister Cook learned to trust in the Lord from the examples of her parents, Kenneth N. and Fern S. Nielsen. Her father suffered severe health problems resulting from a mining accident when Sister Cook was a toddler. For a time, her mother was the family’s sole provider. It was a trying time.

Although great persecution arose in Mutare at that time, it did not stop the growth of the Church. It seemed that as opposition grew, so did the number of people who wanted to learn about the Church. For example, when men from the national army came in disguise to investigate the Church for wrongdoing, they were touched by the Spirit. Many were later baptized and ordained to the priesthood.

Nancy Lovern was excited. It was June 27, and today she turned five years old. In some ways, the day had been just like any other. She’d fed the chickens and collected their eggs, slopped (fed) the pigs, and helped Mama clean the house. But in some ways, it was different. Everyone had sung “Happy Birthday” at breakfast and paid extra attention to her all day long.
Now it was late afternoon, and Nancy couldn’t help peeking out the window every few minutes. Papa had promised to bring her a surprise from Nauvoo. Mama was making a special dinner and a dried-apple molasses cake. There would be a grand birthday party.
The hour grew late. Long shadows spread across the barnyard, and still Papa didn’t come. Nancy thought that she would burst. Mama just laughed and said, “Staring out the door won’t make Papa get home any sooner.” When Nancy could wait no more, she went out to the road that led to Nauvoo. She was swinging on the gate when she finally heard the clippety-clop of horses’ hooves and the rattle of wagon wheels. She saw a lone figure driving slowly down the dusty road. It was Papa! He must be dawdling to make me wait longer for my birthday surprise, she thought, running to meet him.
She was stopped short by the sadness on his face. And he was crying! Nancy didn’t know what to do. Papa never cried except when he bore his testimony. She was surprised to feel tears in her own eyes. “What’s wrong, Papa?”
He climbed down from the wagon and held her close. “They did it, Nan—they killed Brother Joseph!”
Nancy completely forgot her birthday. She loved the Prophet. He always took time to talk with her whenever he visited her parents. She truly felt that he was a prophet of God.
Sorrow was thick in the house as Papa gathered the rest of the family around him and told how an angry mob had stormed the jail in Carthage, killing their beloved prophet and his brother Hyrum, and seriously wounding Brother Taylor.
The next day Nancy’s family filed through the Mansion House to pay final respects to the slain leaders. Later they listened to Brother W. W. Phelps preach the funeral sermon. Sorrow hung like a heavy fog over the whole community.
Nancy celebrated seventy-nine birthdays after that eventful day, but never without some melancholy recollection of her birthday in 1844.
More than one hundred fifty years have come and gone. Nancy has thousands of descendants, most of whom faithfully sing praises to “the man who communed with Jehovah”*—the prophet and martyr who was killed on her fifth birthday.
Nancy Francis Lovern Oliver was a real person! She was my great-great-grandmother. When my grandmother, Lenna Kathryn Bryce Blain, was a little girl, she sat by the fireplace on cold winter nights and listened to pioneer stories told by her Grandma Nancy. Grandma Lenna said that she couldn’t remember all the stories, but she would never forget the one about the death of the Prophet. This fictional account is based on that true story.

Although 95 percent of the students at BYU are members of the Church, Elder McKay and Elder Doerflien have plenty to keep them busy on the campus.
“For the first few days, no one even knew who we were. Finally we set up a booth in the activity center where clubs are allowed displays to contact potential members,” says Elder Doerflien. “The results were more than 100 referrals within two weeks.” People even went up to the missionaries and asked to be baptized. It was just a matter of days before their first contact actually joined the Church.

Truman was among the first group of Saints to enter the Salt Lake Valley in 1847. Two years earlier he had been told in a patriarchal blessing that “thy calling is more particularly to labor in assisting the Saints to build cities and temples than travelling abroad to preach the gospel.” The young joiner’s abilities as an architect were recognized by Brigham Young, and soon Truman was busy designing homes, schools, churches, a sugar factory, forts, stores, a penitentiary, a theater, a governor’s mansion, and, most importantly, temples.

When I was in junior high school, I would get out of bed on cold winter mornings and head for the heat vent to get warm. The family cat would always beat me there, so I would gently shoo her away and sit down. Soon my mother would tell me it was time to leave for school. I would look out at the icicles on the house and dread going out into the cold, let alone begin another day of school.
As I kissed my mother good-bye and went out the door, I would look longingly at my comfortable spot in front of the heat vent and find that the cat had repossessed it. How I envied that cat! If that weren’t enough, she would look up at me with heavy eyelids and an expression as if to laugh at me and say, “Have fun in school, Glenn. I’m sure glad I’m not a human!” I hated it when she did that!
However, an interesting thing would happen as the day went on. I would come home after experiencing the joys and sorrows of the school day and see that lazy cat still curled up in front of the vent, and I would smile and say to her, “I’m sure glad I’m not a cat.”

We both were deeply touched by this sweet experience as it made us reflect on our earliest memories of church. As a young girl, while living in Nigeria, Jacqui and her family had sacrament meeting each Sunday in their home, as there were no other members of the Church within 3,000 miles of Kaduna. When I was a little boy, we lived on a sheep farm in rural New Zealand, far from any organized ward or branch. With approval from the mission president, my father also administered the ordinance of the sacrament each Sunday during a simple service in our living room that included talks, hymns and prayers by members of our young family. Jacqui and I both understand, in a very personal way, what it is to be part of a home-centered church where faith is nourished, and the Spirit abounds in homes of gospel learning. We cherish sacred covenants later made at baptism and in the house of the Lord. And we trust in the Lord’s promise that “where two or three (or more) are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.”6

Joseph often displayed courage, as one beneficiary later reported: “Sickness and fright had robbed me of strength. Joseph had to decide w[he]ther to leave me to be captured by the mob or endanger himself by rendering aid. Choosing the latter course, he lifted me upon his own broad shoulders and bore me with occasional rests through the swamp and darkness. Several hours later we emerged upon the lonely road and soon reached safety. Joseph’s … strength permitted him to [save] my life” (in Carl Arrington, “Brother Joseph,” New Era, Dec. 1973, p. 19).

I was nervous when I began middle school this year because it was a new school and I didn’t know anybody. I decided to make friends by sitting next to people and talking to them in my homeroom and at lunch.
Ethan R., age 11, North Carolina, USA