Gospel Story Finder

In Mbuji-Mayi, Democratic Republic of the Congo, initially some were critical of the Church, not understanding our beliefs or knowing our members.
Some time ago, Kathy and I attended a very special Church service in Mbuji-Mayi. The children were dressed immaculately, with bright eyes and big smiles. I had hoped to speak to them about their education but learned that many were not attending school. Our leaders, with very nominal humanitarian funds, found a way to help. Now, more than 400 students—girls and boys, members as well as those not of our faith—are welcomed and taught by 16 teachers who are members of the Church of Jesus Christ.
Fourteen-year-old Kalanga Muya said, “[Having little money,] I spent four years without attending school. … I am so grateful for what the Church has done. … I can now read, write, and speak French.” Speaking of this initiative, the mayor of Mbuji-Mayi said, “I am inspired by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints because while [other] churches are being divided each one in his corner … [you are working] with [others] to help the community in need.”

We just got our November New Era, and I especially enjoyed “If This Happened Tomorrow—What Would You Do” concerning bad language. My husband is in the U.S. Army, and friends often visit him and use this kind of language in our home. At first I was afraid to say anything to them for fear of offending them, but I think I have found a solution. I made a little box, and everyone who curses in my home has to put a nickel in it. Everyone’s name is on the box, and each time someone slips he gets a mark by his name. At first it was just a joke, but now if one of them sees that he is way ahead of the others, he sure watches his language. The money we get is given to the bishop to be used for a good cause. Perhaps this system could help another family or individual too.
Monika HiettDarmstadt, Germany

My physical disability has made my life difficult and sometimes discouraging. My early teen years were especially trying because I encountered some unpleasant prejudices. In May 1989, when I was 13 years old, a high school in our town rejected my application simply because of my physical handicap, which confines me to a wheelchair. Then, in my first year of secondary school, one of my teachers gave me a disappointing grade. I felt it was because of my physical disability.
At the time I didn’t know how to accept these kinds of unpleasant events in my life, nor did I know how to thank Heavenly Father for the lessons they teach me. But through prayer and scripture study, I have discovered that I can be grateful even with these afflictions and, at the same time, be good to those people who reject and discourage me.
As I read the words of the Apostle Paul in 2 Corinthians 12:7–10, I found that he compared his own adversity to “the messenger of Satan to buffet” him. He prayed that the Lord would remove his affliction, but instead he was told, “My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.”
Over the years, I have felt my Savior’s encouragement; it has made me realize His great sufficiency over my physical weakness.
On 27 March 1993 I graduated from high school with an honorable mention. Our mayor offered me a job at the city hall. While working, I was able to finish my career course in journalism.
Dealing with my physical disability and afflictions will never be easy. But I know that through my faith and determination and the Lord’s inspiration I may be able to say, like the Apostle Paul, “When I am weak, then am I strong” (2 Cor. 12:10).

“I had just moved to Atlanta, my first time away from home,” says Tara Towsley of the North Point Ward, Roswell Georgia Stake. “Needless to say, I was a bit intimidated. I remember sitting in sacrament meeting thinking about going home, when the most wonderful lady came up and introduced herself. She told me her name, said she was the Relief Society president, and told me where Relief Society was held. She said she was excited that I was there. I felt better immediately.”
“I’m so grateful for the Relief Society organization. I feel it has better prepared me for the next stage of my life,” says Tara Towsley. “It has given me the opportunity to befriend women older and wiser and has helped my testimony mature in so many ways. It took time for me to find my place, but with time Relief Society began to feel like home.”

When the Montreal Quebec Temple was rededicated after major renovations in 2015, open houses were organized by our local leaders. It was the ideal time to invite friends to come and see the temple.
I immediately thought of two good college friends who had already asked me about the Church and my beliefs. In the past, both of them had agreed to attend sacrament meeting at Christmastime. I had also invited them to my wedding two years earlier. That had been an opportunity to explain to them why they could come to the reception but not to the sealing ceremony in the temple.1
Still, even though I had talked with them about the Church before, I hesitated to invite them. I feared being in an uncomfortable situation if they refused. Finally, I got the courage and asked them over the phone: “Would you like to see the place where I was married? The temple is open to the public for guided tours. If that’s of interest to you, we could go together.”
The answer in both cases was a swift “Yes! I would like that.”
One of my friends came with her two children, and the other came with her spouse. It was an unforgettable experience for me. I felt immense joy in being able to share my love for the temple with them.

As a young man I came across a Mormonad that really struck me: “Adversity can make you strong.” I never imagined I would later find in this phrase the strength to go forward during challenges of my mission.
The town in the Argentina Buenos Aires North Mission where my companion and I were working was filled with people who viewed two boys in white shirts and ties with distrust. We knocked on many doors, with no result.
On one particularly hot and difficult day, when our tired bodies felt like they could go no further, it began to rain. Mud developed and stuck to our shoes, making tracting even more difficult.
We wanted to return home, but then I remembered the phrase from the magazine and told my companion, “Come on, Elder. All this adversity is going to make us strong.”
We offered a prayer and felt we should look up an old referral we had never been able to find.
We arrived at the house, and again the woman was not there. But another woman, Anita, was. We gave her a Book of Mormon, and she promised to read it. We felt great happiness because we knew the Spirit had led us to her.
As we began to teach Anita, she accepted all the principles. However, when it was time for the fourth discussion, she told us she didn’t want to be baptized and asked us to leave. My companion and I were disappointed, but we were prepared for opposition. We invited Anita to ask Heavenly Father if she should be baptized, and trusted she would receive an answer.
When we went back the next day, Anita had indeed received an undeniable answer of peace in her heart. Ten days later, she was baptized.
I have since learned that one year later, Anita made covenants in the temple and became a source of referrals for the missionaries and a great example to the members of her community.
I value the opposition we had because that was how we found the strength to serve the Lord in the best way we could. Even now that I’ve returned home to Chile, I don’t become discouraged with problems because I now know how adversity can strengthen us.

Now, as a reminder to members of our obligation to share the gospel I repeat an account from the history of the Church.
In the late 1850s many converts from Europe were struggling to reach the Great Salt Lake Valley. Many were too poor to afford the open and the covered wagons and had to walk, pushing their meager belongings in handcarts. Some of the most touching and tragic moments in the history of the Church accompanied these handcart pioneers.
One such company was commanded by a Brother McArthur. Archer Walters, an English convert who was with the company, recorded in his diary under July 2, 1856, this sentence:
“Brother Parker’s little boy, age six, was lost, and the father went back to hunt him.” (LeRoy R. Hafen and Ann W. Hafen, Handcarts to Zion, Pioneers Ed. Glendale, California, The Arthur H. Clark Co., 1960, p. 61.)
The boy, Arthur, was next youngest of four children of Robert and Ann Parker. Three days earlier the company had hurriedly made camp in the face of a sudden thunderstorm. It was then the boy was missed. The parents had thought him to be playing along the way with the other children.
Someone remembered earlier in the day, when they had stopped, that they had seen the little boy settle down to rest under the shade of some brush.
Now most of you have little children and you know how quickly a tired little six-year-old could fall asleep on a sultry summer day and how soundly he could sleep, so that even the noise of the camp moving on might not awaken him.
For two days the company remained, and all of the men searched for him. Then on July 2, with no alternative, the company was ordered west.
Robert Parker, as the diary records, went back alone to search once more for his little son. As he was leaving camp, his wife pinned a bright shawl about his shoulders with words such as these:
“If you find him dead, wrap him in the shawl to bury him. If you find him alive, you could use this as a flag to signal us.”
She, with the other little children, took the handcart and struggled along with the company.
Out on the trail each night Ann Parker kept watch. At sundown on July 5, as they were watching, they saw a figure approaching from the east! Then, in the rays of the setting sun, she saw the glimmer of the bright red shawl.
One of the diaries records: “Ann Parker fell in a pitiful heap upon the sand, and that night, for the first time in six nights, she slept.”
Under July 5, Brother Walters recorded:
“Brother Parker came into camp with a little boy that had been lost. Great joy through the camp. The mother’s joy I cannot describe.” (Hafen and Hafen, Handcarts to Zion, p. 61.)
We do not know all of the details. A nameless woodsman—I’ve often wondered how unlikely it was that a woodsman should be there—found the little boy and described him as being sick with illness and with terror, and he cared for him until his father found him.
So here a story, commonplace in its day, ends—except for a question. How would you, in Ann Parker’s place, feel toward the nameless woodsman had he saved your little son? Would there be any end to your gratitude?
To sense this is to feel something of the gratitude our Father must feel toward any of us who saves one of his children. Such gratitude is a prize dearly to be won, for the Lord has said, “If it so be that you should labor all your days in crying repentance unto this people, and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great shall be your joy with him in the kingdom of my Father!” (D&C 18:15.) Even so, I might add, if that soul should be our own.

Illustrations by Sal Velluto and Eugenio Mattozzi
One day, just after it had rained in beautiful Nauvoo, Margarette McIntire and her older brother Wallace were walking to school.
Hurry up, Wallace, or we’ll be late.
I’m coming.
My boots are stuck, Margarette!
Mine are too. There’s too much mud.
The children found they couldn’t get out, so they started to cry, thinking they would have to stay there.
What’s this?
Brother Joseph!
We’re stuck.
Joseph pulled the two children out of the mud.
He cleaned the mud off their boots.
You look very pretty today, Margarette. Don’t worry about the mud—it will come off.
He dried their tears.
Cheer up, young man. You’re a very good older brother. Keep taking good care of your sister.
Margarette later recalled the experience: “Was it any wonder that I loved that great, good, and noble man of God?”
Off to school, now.
Thank you, Brother Joseph.
Good-bye!

Some members remained faithful despite years of isolation. Gunter Schulze, now bishop of the Dresden Ward, spent much of his time during that period finding and caring for isolated members—some in Poland, some in outlying areas of the German Democratic Republic. One of these was an elderly sister in Upper Silesia.
“We visited with her a long time,” recalls Brother Schulze. “Finally she went behind the stove and brought out a knotted stocking and began untying the knots, several knots. Then she held out her two hands like a scale and weighed money from the knotted stocking. She said, ‘This is my tithing. I have been saving it for over twenty-five years now. I knew the priesthood would come into my home again someday!’”

“We hosted a spa night for the Activity Day girls to help them get excited to move from Primary to Young Women. We served the younger girls by doing their hair and nails. One girl I didn’t know very well was sitting alone. I went and asked if she wanted her nails done. She got this big smile on her face and nodded. She was really excited to have an older girl help her. It was a good lesson for me because sometimes I’m kind of shy about talking to people I don’t know very well. I know she was really happy when I went and talked with her.”
Kara W., 13, Washington, USA

The discipline of daily immersion in the scriptures paid off in my last year of seminary, which was also my 12th and final year of school.
My seminary study habits allowed me to be better organized. While I’m not a fan of reading, I strove to read daily. It allowed me to maintain my relationship—even a fragile one—with Heavenly Father.
That year, I passed my bachelor diploma with honors. I got my driver’s license on my first try. I received my call to serve a mission in Paris. All in all, the hand of God was in my life the whole time I was in seminary and at school.

When your faith is questioned every day, you have to decide pretty quickly which side of the line you’re on. Allison McEwen of Houston High School says, “When I was younger and my peers questioned things, I doubted too. But by going to the Lord in prayer, I found the answers that made me stronger. After I found out for myself that the Church was true, their questions didn’t bother me anymore.”
As the student body president, Allison gets a lot of questions about Church. “I like to be different,” she says. “The Church is something positive that definitely puts me aside from the rest.” Even in the face of difficult questions from friends, she knows that the Lord is aware of her and is willing to help her find the answers, and that has been a great blessing.

After dinner, Casey plopped down next to me on the sofa. “I looked over your geometry chapter,” she said. “I think I remember it well enough to help you study.” It was amazing what a little one-on-one help did for me that night. I don’t know if it was because my brain was clear and quiet, like an erased slate, after the day of emotion, or just the knack Casey had for making things clear. But whatever it was, I finally understood.

Jennilee Adams from Ogden, Utah, appreciates the common bond with those in institute. When she came to college, she felt nervous and alone because she didn’t know any other students. “Will I find friends?” she wondered. “Will I be okay living so far away from home?”

It didn’t take her long to get over those worries, however, because Jennilee went to the institute building the first week of school to sign up for classes and to attend opening activities. At institute she quickly found friends.

Today, one year later, Jennilee is a different person than she was when she first came to CEU. Thanks to institute, she is confident in herself and her testimony of the gospel. In fact, Jennilee is the president of an organization associated with institute that functions as an activity and service club for LDS women. The LDS men have a similar organization. These associations give institute students a chance to meet for fun, weekly activities on campus.

“It’s just a chance to get to know a bunch of girls that have your same beliefs, who are experiencing the same things, and are making the same choices,” explains Jennilee. She says that she will always keep in touch with the wonderful friends she has met through institute. Needless to say, Jennilee does not feel alone anymore.

Early in the spring of 1947, my dad took a week off from his job in the coal mines so he could plant the crops on our small farm. Generally we planted only enough potatoes to last us for a year. We used the rest of the ground to raise vegetables for our family—consisting of Dad, Mom, two brothers, and a sister at home. These crops also helped feed the cows, pigs, and chickens. Our land was plowed and ready to plant when the missionaries stopped at our house for their weekly meal and visit. Seeing our family, even though we were only partially active in the Church, cheered their spirits as well as ours.
When Dad mentioned his plan to plant the potatoes, the missionaries were eager to help. Dad was nervous about men without farming experience helping, but they were persistent, and he finally agreed. The next morning, the elders arrived just as we children were getting ready for school. We listened as Dad explained to them how to prepare the seed potatoes for planting. “It’s easy. This is the bud of the potato,” he said, pointing to a small, round bump. “Cut each potato into small pieces and make sure there is at least one bud in each piece. Understand?”
“Oh, yes,” the missionaries replied, and they enthusiastically started working.
Dad left to borrow a team of horses and a mechanical potato planter, and we went off to school.
At noon, we arrived home for lunch just in time to view the disaster—the expensive seed potatoes had been ruined! The elders, unaware that each bud needed some of the fleshy part of the potato to nourish its growth, had decided that they would help us by leaving less potato around the bud and more potato for our family to eat. So instead of cutting each potato into seedling cubes with a bud in each cube, they had peeled each potato into very thin circles with a bud in each circle. The rest of the potato was put into a tub so it could be cooked and fed to the family.
Dad was furious when he returned home and saw what had happened. But he did not want to offend the elders, so he dipped the peelings into a solution that protected them from disease and loaded them into the planter. The missionaries, feeling guilty for the serious mistake they had made, waited to help with the planting.
Just before we returned to school, we watched our dad drive the potato planter into the field with the elders riding on back. I knew it would be their job to make sure that only one seedling dropped into the ground at a time. This would be a difficult and time-consuming job since the planter was designed for a cube of potato and not a thin peeling.
The planting was nearly done when we came home from school. Unfortunately, because each peeling had only one bud, not the usual four or five, the potatoes had taken up nearly all of the plowed ground. Where would we plant the corn and wheat we needed? Seeing our dismay, one of the missionaries said, “Brother John, may we offer a blessing on your potato crop?” Dad shrugged his shoulders and said yes. I can still remember the promises of an abundant harvest and great blessings that the missionary pronounced upon our fields. Dad thanked the elders for helping him, and invited them inside to share our supper of fried potatoes.
Dad was discouraged as he returned to his job at the coal mine. He was sure we would have no crops that year. But to our surprise, all the potato plants came up! Our family was amazed, and the elders were elated.
A short time later, the elders were transferred and they never knew whether or not we had a potato crop. One summer day mom needed something to cook for supper, so I dug up one of the potato plants. We were amazed—the potatoes were nearly full size! Mom said that if the rest of the plants were like this one, we would be able to sell some of them. As we continued to dig up the potatoes, we found about 4.5 kilos per plant! When our neighbors and the local stores found out about our early crop, they bought our potatoes all through July, August, and September. Their purchases didn’t diminish our supply. Not only that, but the potatoes’ taste and quality were superior.
At harvest time, we dug up the rest of the potatoes. What potatoes! Some weighed 2.5 kilos each, and none of them were hollow or soft. I remember one that was twenty-seven centimeters long and ten centimeters in diameter. We harvested five times the normal amount, and since we had planted two hectares instead of the planned .4 hectares, our harvest was twenty-five times what we had originally planned. People heard about our potatoes and we sold all of our harvest. Dad had lost his job at the coal mine, but the money we earned from our potato harvest paid for school clothes and supplies, feed for the cows and chickens, and our food and fuel the following winter.
But the greatest blessing was to our spirits. To us, those potatoes were a miracle, a testimony that God hears and answers the pronouncements of his servants. Our family’s faith grew, and we became much more active in the Church.

“It was a nice prayer.” This was my thought immediately following my patriarchal blessing. My patriarch had said some great words, and I had felt the Spirit, but I thought it was just a nice prayer, nothing remarkable like others had indicated were in their blessings.
I had graduated from high school and was preparing for my first year of college. Before I left home, I wanted to be ordained an elder and receive my patriarchal blessing. Two weeks before school started, I was able to accomplish both goals.
My patriarch gave a fine blessing, but I just did not feel that the experience was as great as everyone made it out to be. I admit that in a way I was even disappointed. I had expected so much, and it seemed that I did not receive what I had wanted. I questioned my own worthiness. Could it be my fault that I was not feeling anything spectacular?
After days of pondering, I knew I was at fault. I realized I needed to do some preparation in my own life to receive the personal witness that my patriarchal blessing was from God.
For the next few weeks, I fasted, prayed, and sought forgiveness of any sins I had. I was changing slowly. I could not tell a great difference, but by the time my patriarchal blessing came to me in the mail, I was ready.
I waited until Sunday evening to read it when all was quiet. Even as I opened the envelope, I could sense a different feeling come over me. I began to read. I had not read more than a few lines when amazing statements appeared. I could not believe this was my blessing! It seemed my whole blessing was full of material I had never heard before, and the things which I did remember began to have new meanings. A full-time mission, celestial marriage, eternal life—I now saw these expressions, that I had thought were trite, as the great promises they were. I had missed so much when I first received my patriarchal blessing. My “nice prayer” had turned into a personal revelation from God to me.

Building homes takes a lot of time, effort, and precision. One area where I thought we didn’t need to be as exacting was in digging the footings for a house. My father thought differently.
To lay the foundation for a home, you first have to dig and pour the footings. Footings are pads of concrete that are wider than the foundation. Once the footings are poured and cured, you pour the foundation on top of the footings. Then you backfill dirt over them.
I often wondered if it really mattered that the footings were perfectly square. After all, with dirt covering them, no one would ever see them, and it wouldn’t weaken the support structure of the home. But my father still wanted the footings square and flat, measured correctly and carefully, and he did this with every home he built.
Looking back, I realize that my father treated everything he did in his work with the same care, even for things the owner would never notice. His careful attention to detail meant that people could trust him to do good work, and he had the satisfaction of knowing that his work was the best quality and that the owners would appreciate it.

One night, Harold B. Lee became dangerously ill with pneumonia.
Harold: Mother, I can hardly breathe.
Mother: I’ll be right back. You’re going to be OK.
Harold’s mother sliced juicy onions into a flour sack, put the wet sack on his chest, and prayed for a miracle.
The next morning he could breathe again. Soon he recovered completely.
Harold: You always know what to do. You saved my life!
Mother: The Lord saved your life. He just expected me to do everything I could to help.

Illustrations by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
Wow! Fried chicken!
And mashed potatoes and gravy! And apple pie! When do we eat?
It’s not for us. We’re making dinner for Brother Albertson.
Why is the good stuff always for somebody else?
Yeah, aren’t you forgetting about us?
Of course not. But Sister Albertson passed away yesterday, and Brother Albertson feels terribly sad and lonely.
He may not even feel like eating, but we want him to know that we care. And maybe a hot meal will comfort him just a teeny little bit. What do you think?
I want to help cook!
Me too!
Wonderful! How about whipping up your famous Matt and Mandy salad?

My girlfriend was not pleased with my decision. One night about three months later, she told me that I had to choose between her and the Church. What a painful decision! After a lot of pondering and deliberating, I chose the Church.
I felt that I had made the right decision, but the months following our breakup were a dark time in my life. Nevertheless, I found hope in living my newfound religion, especially in coming to know my Heavenly Father, as I had prayed to do.