Gospel Story Finder

Ben and Ruby Ann Smith had already been consistent in reading the scriptures as a family for some time and had read all the standard works in their family. But when they made daily study their goal, they expanded their scripture reading from five to seven days a week and discovered that the children were much more eager to read. They began to take the initiative themselves, rather than relying on pressure from their parents. Their daughter Jody is now well past the 365-day mark.

There is nothing my toddler loves more than trying on my clothes. I’ll often find her rifling through my drawers, stumbling about in high heels, or tripping over dresses that are much too long for her tiny legs.
Recently, she added a new accessory to her wardrobe—my bright blue scripture case. She sauntered into the living room with it dangling from her shoulder, clearly struggling a bit with its weight. As I applauded her entrance and asked her to spin around, I realised that this was the first time I had seen my scriptures in months.
I’d received my own set of scriptures on my eighth birthday, and I had treated them with utmost respect. By that, I mean I had completely dogeared them and filled the margins with notes (and a few drawings—even I’ll admit that’s too far). They were well used, wrinkled and bashed about from years of enthusiastic study. Over time, my studies transitioned over to my phone and the gospel library app. As much as I preferred flipping through the actual pages of a book, convenience won, and my beloved quad began to gather dust.

Hello, my name is Felicity. I adore baking, roller blading, and hanging out with friends and family.
I recently had a bake sale for charity. I talked to my bishop to learn more about LDS Charities, and I learned a lot. For example, I learned that it helps lighten the burdens of others all over the world. I decided to donate the bake sale money to LDS Charities.
Felicity K., 12, Alabama, USA

When we put the Lord first in our home, it becomes a place where our spirits can be renewed and strengthened. Sister Margaret Murdock of Salt Lake City was asked to teach a Relief Society lesson about the scriptures. As she prepared her lesson, she began to realize that she had never studied the scriptures enough to make them part of her everyday thinking. As a single mother of five with a responsible job, she knew she needed more guidance.

Now Sister Murdock studies the scriptures for a half hour each morning and also at night. And for the first time, she is finding that the Lord’s words come to mind when she has problems at work or with her children. “Now I see the people I deal with at work as children of our Heavenly Father, whether they are religious or not,” says Sister Murdock. One of her co-workers is rude and hard to work with. “He’s a child of God, too,” says sister Murdock. “He just doesn’t know it yet.” Because she is taking the time for the Lord at home, Sister Murdock is feeling greater peace—whatever difficulties may arise.

It seems like not so long ago I was but a boy, young and green with eyes unmellowed, but believing I was indeed extremely wise. I was no expert at baseball, but my bedroom was adorned with photographs of baseball heroes—especially those of Pete Dillard. Pete was a famous professional player whose parents lived in our town, and he came every summer for a week with his family to visit them. It was kind of fun to see him around town, shaking hands with everybody and sometimes joining in a neighborhood game and signing autographs afterward. But I never seemed to get close enough to him to even say hello. One day when I was approaching a crowd of fans around Pete, I overheard a boy say, “Hey, Pete, how did you ever get so good at baseball?”
Pete shrugged his shoulders modestly, smiled, and said, “Lots and lots of practice.” But then he paused for a while as if he remembered something and added, “Maybe it’s because I once had a Sunday School teacher who loved me. All of us called him Chief.”
And then Pete was gone.
Most of my experiences with baseball consisted of playing games with my dad and a sprinkling of friends on hot summer evenings. When Dad didn’t have meetings or if he didn’t have to work late at the office, he usually spent some time with me. After dinner we often played catch out in our front yard until way after the street lights blinked on. I still remember his calm, deep voice as he called out to me, “Good throw, Son” or “A little higher, boy” or “Nice curve, John.”
Then other boys would come straggling over one by one and stand and watch us, and Dad would stop the game and invite them to join us. If we eventually accumulated enough people, we’d begin a game of baseball. Everybody liked my dad—almost as much as I did.
There was a boy who lived directly across the street from us, Homer Johnson. He had a mop of red curls, pale thin skin that revealed his veins clear through, and thick, thick glasses. He hardly ever came out of his house. My mother said that he had had a lot of illness. But every so often I’d see his piercing eyes watching us from an upstairs window as we played ball. I’d try not to feel those eyes, but I could not ignore them.
One day just when we had chosen up sides for a game, my team was short one player. But that didn’t matter, because I had all good players. Then suddenly Dad turned his head and said in his calm, deep voice, “Oh, hello there, Homer. Want to join us?”
I reeled around, and there was Homer standing across the street in front of his house, his hands in his pockets. He fidgeted a lot, but slowly he dragged his feet and crossed the street. As he neared, I noticed that he was thinner and smaller than he looked to be from his window … and he didn’t look very strong.
I turned toward my father. “Dad …” I tried to whisper. But he had already walked over and put an arm around Homer. Now they were both walking toward us.
“John needs one more man on his team,” Dad was saying. “You can be an outfielder for now.”
I felt my ears burn. Dad caught my eye, and I think he knew how I felt—he always did. But there was something in Dad’s look that silenced me. I picked up my ball and mitt and stomped off to my position.
The other team scored two home runs. And then it happened. Someone smacked the ball out into the field toward Homer. I saw him position his hands to catch the flying ball, and then … splaatt! His glasses flew, and he was holding his nose, with blood dripping from beneath his hands. Dad had him lie down on the grass to stop the bleeding. Then he sent him home to wash up. Fortunately his glasses hadn’t broken.
After Homer left, I said, “Dad, he’s no good as a player. He shouldn’t be on anyone’s team ’cause he’ll make it lose.”
Then in a low voice so no one else could hear, Dad said, “He’s a child of God, John. Always remember that.”
I didn’t want to make a scene in front of everybody, so I just tromped off and continued playing ball, but my ears were burning. I didn’t say anything else for the rest of the evening. I resented being preached to.
Homer didn’t return the next day or the next. But the following week he was back again, standing in front of his home, fidgeting and staring at us. As we pitched and threw and shouted on my lawn, I could not help but feel two penetrating eyes on us. Then I heard Dad’s voice inviting him to join us, and again I felt my ears turn hot. As I glanced over at my father, I saw a pleading look on his face as he gazed back at me.
That night I lay in bed, wide-eyed. I had thrown off the covers, and still my bedclothes stuck to my back. I heard a rustle. Standing in the doorway was Dad. “You still awake, Son?”
I nodded, and hoped that he could see my response in the dark. His large angular figure came toward me, his gentle eyes sparkling in the dark. I thought of Homer and looked away.
He sat beside me, and I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Son …” he began softly. “Things are getting tight at the office, and I’ll have to stay late at work for a while.”
My heart fell.
“But I have one day reserved just for you,” he continued. “Pete Dillard is going to be in town in a couple of weeks, and they’ve asked him to speak at a fund-raising dinner for crippled children. I have two tickets for you and me.”
Suddenly I was smiling. “Dad!” I shouted. “You mean I get to see Pete Dillard for real! Boy, oh, boy! Wait until my friends hear about this!”
Even though I had this exciting event to look forward to from that day on, things were not the same when my friends and I got together to play ball on the front lawn. Without Dad, we often got into squabbles, and one of the fellows would go home mad. Sometimes Homer would stand at his front door, watching us. But nobody invited him to play ball. So he just stood there all the time with his piercing, piercing eyes.
At last the day of the dinner came. There was Pete in the front of the hall, shaking hands with people and looking really interested in what everyone had to say to him. I don’t remember what was served. My only thoughts were about the baseball that I set beside my plate for Pete to autograph after the dinner.
When it was time for Pete to talk, he arose confidently. He didn’t give the speech we all expected, but said only a few words. Again he mentioned Chief, the Sunday School teacher I had heard him talk about sometime ago.
“I was awkward and clumsy as a boy,” Pete said, “but it was the confidence that Chief had in me that gave me what I needed in my long struggle to become the person that I wanted to become.”
Then he sat down. People began crowding around for autographs. I picked up my ball and started up front. Suddenly I realized Dad was next to me, waiting to meet Pete too.
Finally our turn came. I held my ball up for Pete to autograph. But Pete was staring past me with a funny look on his face, arms outstretched.
“Chief!” he cried. “What are you doing here?” And he threw his arms around my dad.
“I’ve lived here for five years,” Dad replied. “I’ve tried to get hold of you every time you’ve been in town, but you’re an awfully busy man!”
On our way home in the car, many unanswered questions filled my mind. But somehow I couldn’t seem to find the right words to express them. All I could say was, “Dad, you’re great, you really are. Even Pete Dillard thinks so.”
The next evening seemed so empty without my father. I stood in front of my house, waiting for the neighborhood boys to start coming by to play ball again. Idly I tossed a ball into the air, marveling over the happenings of yesterday.
Suddenly I became aware of two piercing eyes upon me. I tried to ignore them, but they were there nonetheless. Then the scene of Pete Dillard embracing my Dad flashed through my mind, and the word Chief! seemed to ring out loud and clear. And I realized then that I yearned to be like my dad.
I found myself slowly crossing the street, walking up the steps of the house opposite mine, and knocking on the door.

I was amazed at how much President Dieter F. Uchtdorf’s talk hit home to me. I tend to compare myself to others so I’ll feel better about myself, but we should all be striving to support each other and celebrate our individual talents. We want to see others succeed, and we need to just let go and stop envying. The message is clear-cut and not impossible.
Lisa K., California

Sexual immorality and impure thoughts violate the standard established by the Savior. We were warned at the beginning of this dispensation that sexual immorality would be perhaps the greatest challenge. Such conduct will, without repentance, cause a spiritual drought and loss of commitment. Movies, TV, and the Internet often convey degrading messages and images. President Dieter F. Uchtdorf and I were recently in an Amazon jungle village and observed satellite dishes even on some of the small, simply built huts. We rejoiced at the wonderful information available in this remote area. We also recognized there is virtually no place on earth that cannot be impacted by salacious, immoral, and titillating images. This is one reason why pornography has become such a plague in our day.

The attic of the temple was dedicated for ordinance work on November 30, 1845. Brigham Young and Heber C. Kimball began giving endowments to faithful Saints on the evening of December 10, and so many people were eager to receive them that the work did not end until three o’clock the next morning.

It’s like visiting Buck Roger’s control room. There are knobs and dials everywhere. On one wall hang maps of the earth, zoned into sections labeled with letters and numbers. On another wall, cards emblazoned with cryptic codes record locations where transmissions have been acknowledged—Holland, Italy, Antarctica, Gambia, the Indian Ocean.
At the control panel, the 18-year-old engineer twists the dial governing the tower’s signals. He has heard a CQ, a general request for anyone listening to respond. Aiming his beam in the proper direction, he taps out Morse code on an electronic keyer, and the dots and dashes identifying him as K3TA flash around the world.
K3TA is not a refugee who used to wander the galaxies with Artoo Detoo and See Threepio. And the scene described above isn’t a passage from an old science fiction novel. What is going on is an everyday occurrence in the life of Michael St. Clair, a priest in the Potomac Ward, Washington D.C. Stake, who is a ham radio operator. K3TA is a code that identifies the station he operates.
The station is located not on some exotic starship but in his bedroom. And the 100-foot tower is in the backyard. But from that bedroom transmitting and receiving station, Mike has spoken with people from more than 200 countries.

Both Elder and Sister Cordón grew up in Guatemala and speak fondly of their early years there. Due to challenging circumstances, Sister Cordón was separated from her parents at the age of 13, first moving in with an aunt, and then later at the age of 16, moving in with the family of her best friend. In 1984, she was introduced to the Church by her uncle. This is when she felt the Spirit and was counseled to read the Book of Mormon regularly. Her friend’s family was also Christian and were very supportive of her beliefs. Over time, her testimony grew strong.

Katie Daines, 16, of the Manhattan Second Ward, used a history assignment at school as the reason to write a short history of her great-great-grandparents, Nels and Ingra Carlson. Katie found that her relatives joined the Church in Sweden and emigrated to the United States to join the Saints in Utah. While waiting on the ship in New York harbor, Ingra gave birth to her son, John. Eventually, the family moved to Utah, where they lived and raised their children.
Now Katie, who has lived all her life in New York City, can look out on the harbor and see some of the same sights and shoreline that greeted her ancestors on their journey. Their willingness to be pioneers for their faith reminds Katie that she too is willing to be a pioneer for her beliefs. As she faces being one of only a couple of members of the Church in her school, she learns to be an example.

One day I came upon some words of Micah which seemed to me to state my line of conduct. I quote them, for even now they arouse the best that is in me:
“He hath shewed thee, O man, what is good; and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?” (Micah 6:8).
“To do justly”—I desire that. “To love mercy”—my heart swells at the thought. And “to walk humbly with thy God” brings me close to him. These thoughts are repeated in section 11, verse 12 of the Doctrine and Covenants.
Later I heard Sister Jessie Evans Smith sing a solo as part of a great Tabernacle Choir number. Anyone who ever heard her sing those words was lifted into resolve to make his life conform to the teaching. In the words from Psalm 24 the Psalmist first asks two questions: “Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? or who shall stand in his holy place?” The answer comes with startling simplicity: “He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart; who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity, nor sworn deceitfully.” Then comes the promise: “He shall receive the blessing from the Lord, and righteousness from the God of his salvation.” (Ps. 24:3–5.) The Psalmist then goes on to assert that the generation thus obedient is the generation that truly seeks his face.

When I was a boy in Primary, I believed, without questioning, whatever my Primary teacher told me. One summer day she taught us about prayer: “Remember, if you need Heavenly Father’s help, just ask Him. He’ll always answer.” I skipped home thinking of nothing more than playing baseball with my brothers. I didn’t know that the next day I would test my teacher’s words.
The following morning began, as mornings so often do in St. George, Utah, with the sun scorching the sandstone cliffs and lava rock hills that circle the town. Into the warmth of that perfect day my friend Cindy and I started off on one of our adventures. Clutching an arsenal of small, sharp hooks, two spools of thread, peanut-butter sandwiches, and cupcakes, we scurried toward the fishing hole. The distance wasn’t far, but to our small feet it seemed a long way.
Finally we reached the pond, the clear water reflecting the unspotted sky on its shimmering surface. Tall, tangled trees, each trying to reach the light, surrounded it, and a small island clung close to one side. We imagined that Peter Pan lived there, hiding from Captain Hook, whose ship lay harbored somewhere in the maze of trees and reeds.
Each adventurous step we took through the bushes sent a crowd of colored insects into flight. At last we came to the cement-encased headgate covered with brown and orange rust. We paused there and looked at the pond and the willows surrounding it, feeling as though the Amazon lay before us and that we had come to bury stolen treasure.
We sat down, slipped off our shoes, and dangled our dusty feet lazily in the cool water. Tying our thread to the hooks, we anticipated the prize fish that we would catch. Then we realized that we had brought nothing to use for bait! It was unthinkable to use any part of our lunches, so the homemade lines just hung loosely in the water, our excitement sinking as rapidly as the bare hooks.
The fishing having been frustrating, we soon found something new to occupy the morning. Close to the pond, and right next to a red sandstone mesa, was a sand hill. One side of the hill slanted smoothly upward, but the other side stopped partway down, forming a cliff as high as a house. At the base of the cliff was a rubble of rough sandstone. Off we ran, the world’s greatest mountain climbers, courageously tackling the tallest mountain.
As we reached the hill, we could see an old cedar post on top, peeled of its bark by years of service as part of an extinct fence.
“Race you to the post on the top!” I shouted.
Up the hill we scampered, sinking at times into the soft, warm sand. Small avalanches trailed behind us and could be heard falling on the rocks beneath the cliff. Soon I was on all fours, rushing toward the fence post like a dog chasing a stick—but unaware that I was ascending alone. I reached the top, exhilarated by my victory, and whirled around with a grin to face my opponent. But she wasn’t right behind me! She had run into deep sand and, unable to lift her feet, had panicked and started flailing around—sliding backward toward the edge of the cliff.
Her soiled face was a picture of fear, and her eyes could open no wider. Clean, tear-washed streaks streamed down her sunburned cheeks. I yelled at her to turn around and go down the hill the other way. Her only response was a sobbing “Help me!” But we both knew that if I went straight down to her, the sand moving before me would push her over the edge. Desperate, she cried out again, “Help me!”
I remembered my Primary teacher’s words from the day before, and I prayed fervently. Miraculously, Cindy stopped sliding. Something beneath her small feet stopped her. I went down a different way, inched cautiously to where she was, and helped her turn around. When she was on safe footing, I reached down to where she had stopped sliding and picked up a rock no larger than the whetstone my father used to sharpen my Cub Scout knife! Somehow that bit of stone had prevented a tragedy. I slipped it into my pocket, and we headed home. We had had enough adventure for one day.
Later I placed the rock on a shelf in my room to remind me of my wise Primary teacher’s words: “If you need Heavenly Father’s help, just ask Him. He’ll always answer.”
Now, years later, I still find courage in that saving scrap of sandstone.

I heard a young missionary up in the Northwest say that he wouldn’t take a million dollars for the experience of his mission. I sat behind him and said to myself, “Would you take a million dollars for your first mission in the little land of Holland?” I began counting the people I had been privileged to bring into the Church, and I have lived to see their boys and girls and their grandchildren and now their great-grandchildren going on their missions. What kind of a man would I be to sell them out of the Church for a million dollars? The son of one man alone has done enough for this Church to more than compensate me for everything that I did.

Sutton Coldfield’s royal title dates back to 1528 when Henry VIII was out hunting in the local park. Disaster nearly occurred when a wild boar appeared, charging menacingly at the king. Before any harm could be done, an arrow sped from the undergrowth, killing the boar. The king was surprised when, on asking to see the person who had saved his life, a young lady came before him.
As well as praising the girl, King Henry invited her to name her reward. She requested a pardon for her father, who had been unjustly outlawed, then asked that a royal charter be given to the town. Both these wishes were granted. Henry honoured the young lady with the gift of a rose, which became the emblem of Sutton Coldfield.

Fifteen-year-old George Ventura had a special reason for standing in front of the congregation at Sunday School two years ago. He was the president. A member of the Barcelona Branch, Spain Barcelona Mission, George was called as president of the Sunday School two months before his 16th birthday. He has now filled this position for nearly two years, often having as his counselors men three times his age. As in other fast-growing areas of the Church, these two years have often included the challenge of training recent converts to be teachers and counselors in the Sunday School organization.
Although George was the only member of the Church at the Barcelona International High School, he was chosen senior class president and valedictorian. Besides Spanish, English, and French, George is also fluent in Catalan, the native language of his area of Spain.

Once during his second winter, two days out of Placerville, Thompson discovered at nightfall a fur trader, James Sisson, partially delirious and near death in a mountain cabin. Sisson’s legs were frozen to the knees and gangrene was setting in. After chopping wood and building a fire in the fireplace, Snowshoe skied to Genoa for help.

Unfortunately, the only doctor in town was out on another emergency call. So Snowshoe, with the help of volunteers and a sled, managed to bring Sisson to Genoa in spite of deep mountain snow.

Then they found that the doctor was out of the chloroform necessary to perform the leg amputations! And where was the only chloroform? Across the mountains in Sacramento. This was now the fifth day since Snowshoe had left Placerville, California. And in all this time he had caught only quick snatches of sleep. Nevertheless, he started out immediately for Sacramento, amazingly making the run in a night and a day and then back to Genoa again in another night and day in time to save Sisson’s life.

David would not budge. “I don’t want this church. I want my church.”
“It will be OK, I promise,” Mom said.
David did not want to go. But he did not want to stay in the car, either. So he climbed out and took Mom’s hand.
Dad held open the big glass door as David and Mom walked in. David saw a second door. He put his nose to the glass and his hands next to his eyes so that he could peek in. Then he said, “My church has two doors, just like this one.”
“Yes, it does,” Mom said.
A tall man in a blue suit walked up to them. He shook Dad’s hand and said, “I’m Bishop Morris.”
“We’re the Bennetts. My name is Greg. This is my wife, Sharon, and this is our son, David,” Dad said.
The bishop shook David’s hand.
“My church has a bishop,” David said.
“He’s a little homesick for our old ward,” Mom explained.
“Welcome, David,” the bishop said.
David walked over to the chapel doors with his parents. A boy gave him a program. Then the family sat on a side bench. David picked up a hymnbook. “My church has benches with book holders.”
“Yes, it does,” Dad said.
David listened to the song and prayer. He watched the podium go up and down. He saw the priests stand up to prepare the sacrament. When the deacons passed the sacrament, he took one piece of bread. Later, the water came, and he remembered to return the sacrament cup.
“My church has the sacrament. And I know that’s the time to think about Jesus,” he whispered.
“Yes, it is,” Mom whispered.
While the speaker told a story, David drew pictures about it on his program. Soon it was time for Primary.
A tall lady with a nice smile walked up to the Bennetts. “I’m Sister Lee. Can I help your son find his Primary class?”
“My church has a CTR class,” David said.
“We have one, too,” Sister Lee replied. “I can take you there.”
David kissed his mom and went with Sister Lee. They walked by a drinking fountain. Sister Lee pointed to a door with a word on it. “That’s the boys’ restroom, in case you need it,” she said and winked at him.
“My church has restrooms,” he said, winking back.
He went to class and listened to a lesson about faith. They colored a picture of Nephi building a ship. Then the class went to Sharing Time. They stopped for a drink on the way.
“What song do you want to sing?” the music leader asked. David sat up tall and raised his hand. The music leader pointed to him.
“My church has ‘Book of Mormon Stories,’” he said.
“Would you like to sing it?” she asked.
He nodded. Everybody sang, including David.
After closing exercises, his parents came for him. They walked down the hall, and David pointed to a picture of President Gordon B. Hinckley. “My church has a picture of the prophet right there.”
“No, it didn’t,” Dad said.
“Yes, it does,” David said. “This is my church now.”

1. Glad tidings from Cumorah!
An angel has returned to earth
To yield a book of priceless worth
Into a prophet’s hands.
The fulness of the gospel
The Savior gave his “other sheep”
Breaks forth, as with a flood, to sweep
All nations, tribes, and lands.
2. Oh, hear the voice of gladness!
An ancient record is restored;
Another witness of the Lord
Has spoken from the dust.
Its message must be sounded
As with a trump in ev’ry tongue,
For truth out of the earth has sprung
To gather out the just.

Several years ago, a young girl living in Vanuatu named Marsela Tokalolo, took her father’s counsel to heart: “Stay close to the gospel of Jesus Christ and value education.”
Education was so important to her father that he sent her, at age 12 ,to school in Fiji, sacrificing money and being away from his daughter. After graduating from high school and then completing grade 13 in Fiji, Marsela returned home to Vanuatu.
In Fiji, Marsela had seen a spiritual light in her teachers, many of whom had graduated from Brigham Young University–Hawaii.
After she served as a missionary for the Church in the Philippines, her desire to attend BYU–Hawaii motivated her to work and sacrifice for her own education as her father had counseled her.
Mariella Kaun, a fellow member of the Church in Vanuatu, mentored Marsela as she raised funds for her education. Marsela baked and sold banana pies, custard pies and laplap, the national dish of Vanuatu.
Marsela said, “Members and friends were willing to support me knowing that it would help me go to school.”
Marsela was achieving her goals. She graduated from BYU–Hawaii, met her husband, and was married in the Laie Hawaii Temple.
“The House of the Lord is [a] holy house,” she said. “God walks with us in our life journey.”
A temple is being constructed in Port Vila, Vanuatu.
Regarding the new temple, Marsela said, “It is an answered prayer for me. This is a witness that God is indeed mindful of His children. The temple will definitely be a light in our nation.”