Gospel Story Finder

When I was 14, I was called to be a family history youth consultant. My family history class during Sunday School inspired me to find my great-grandfather’s parents on my mom’s side.
Every Sunday I did a little more work, going through records and searching for connections to my great-great-grandfather, William Aldred Thomas. But after a year with no results, I felt discouraged. I wanted to give up. But then one afternoon, I felt a distinct prompting to search for Francina Christina Meyer, his wife.
Several records came up that confirmed a connection to my great-great-grandparents. I was so happy—I had finally found my family! My home was full of indescribable joy. More names connected to the Thomas line were found, and my brother and I have been baptized and confirmed for five generations of that line—all because of perseverance and a single, special prompting!
This experience has been a tremendous blessing and testimony to me of the importance of family history work. I know that our family members on the other side will help us find them and that this work truly brings light into our lives.
Savannah B., Alberta, Canada

I am the second to youngest of five children in my family. When I was 13 years old, my sister Joyce, who was just 3 years older than me, and our neighbor who was her best friend were killed in a car accident on the way home from a high school football game. As you can imagine, it was devastating to my parents and to our family.

There are two things I vividly remember about that night. I remember the moment my father told my younger brother and me that Joyce had been in a car accident and that she had died. The next thing which has always stuck with me was watching my little brother clinging to my mother, crying, while she was trying to greet the many people who started coming to our home. The news of the accident had traveled quickly through the ward. My parents had barely made it home from the hospital and broken the news to my brother and me before people started to come to our home to express their sympathy. Someone that I did not know took my little brother and me down the hall to a bedroom. We sat alone, shut away in the bedroom with each other crying, and waited for what seemed a long time before the crowds cleared and our mother was able to come and comfort us.

As an adult, I recognize that the outpouring of sympathy and the bringing of food was my parents’ friends’ and neighbors’ way of reaching out to be of service to our family. And I am not unappreciative of all of the kindness that was shown. However, I have often wished that we could have had some time to ourselves as a family to cry and be together as we tried to grasp the tragedy that had just hit us.

We were on a family vacation in Utah when my husband died of a sudden heart attack. Still numb from shock, I faced my first major decision. Our home was three thousand kilometers away in Washington, D.C. “What do we do now?” I wondered. “Do we move back to Utah among family and old friends, or do we stay is Washington where we had established our home?” My ninety-two-year-old grandfather, a wise patriarch of a large family, offered good counsel. “Go back home to Washington for the present,” he said. “It is not wise to uproot your family until you think it through for at least a year.”
It was not a difficult decision to make. Our home, with its familiar surroundings, was a haven, and there was a memory in every room. It would have been more difficult for us to start over somewhere else.
Looking back, I see the wisdom of remaining among supportive neighborhood, school, and Church friends. The great loss we had suffered did not disrupt the stability of our lives.

I remember when I was young, there was an older boy who was physically and mentally disabled. He had a speech impediment and walked with difficulty. The boys used to make fun of him. They teased and taunted him until sometimes he would cry.
I can still hear his voice: “You’re not kind to me,” he said. And still they would ridicule him, push him, and make jokes about him.
One day I could bear it no longer. Although I was only seven years old, the Lord gave me the courage to stand up to my friends.
“Don’t touch him,” I said to them. “Stop teasing him. Be kind. He is a child of God!”
My friends stepped back and turned away.
I wondered at the time if my boldness would jeopardize my relationship with them. But the opposite happened. From that day onward, my friends and I became closer. They showed increased compassion for the boy. They became better human beings. To my knowledge, they never taunted him again.

Just a month ago the choir for the General Young Woman Meeting had a dress rehearsal in the Conference Center on a Saturday morning. Families were invited to attend. As I arrived, I noticed a family of five children reverently waiting in the seats for the practice to begin. Each of the young boys had on a freshly ironed white shirt and tie, and the little girls wore their Sunday dresses. The mother and father were neatly dressed as well. As I shook the oldest boy’s hand, I said, “I compliment you on the way you are dressed on this early Saturday morning. I can tell that you understand and have been taught some things that it takes a lot of people all their lives to realize.” He flashed his mother a sheepish look, and she gave him that knowing look that says, “I told you so.”

What possible effect could a 14-year-old have on home teaching? I was just a kid. Who was I to tell an elder to do his home teaching? Not just an elder, but an elder I had never met or even seen at church. The only things I knew about him were his name and that he had been an athlete.
Three months earlier I had been called to be a junior home teaching companion, and I still had not visited anyone. It didn’t help that my two best friends were already active home teachers. One was assigned with his father and the other with a member of the elders quorum presidency. My own father was serving in the bishopric and at that time was not assigned as a home teacher. What could a 14-year-old companion do?
My feelings of guilt had to be Brother Jensen’s fault, I decided. He had been my deacons quorum adviser and had taught us the importance of home teaching. He also explained that as teachers in the Aaronic Priesthood, it was our duty to be faithful home teachers. He had warned us that we might have to remind and encourage a senior companion to go home teaching.
Well, I decided, my options were really very simple. I could wait for my senior companion to call and do my best not to feel guilty—or I could go to his house, introduce myself, and arrange to go home teaching.
On the one hand, he was the senior companion. He was supposed to take charge. Wouldn’t I be assuming too much authority by contacting him? He might even get offended. Better to wait, I thought. Then Brother Jensen’s words came back to me.
“If your senior companion doesn’t contact you,” he had said, “then you must contact him and let him know you are ready to go home teaching.” He explained that if the senior companion still wouldn’t go home teaching, the responsibility would rest on him. Until I made the effort to go, I had to share in the failure.
I finally committed to go to my companion and introduce myself.
At church that Sunday, I began to feel more and more nervous. What would my companion think? Would he laugh? Maybe he would get mad and run me off. I didn’t feel I could do it, but I had promised to follow through and make the attempt. If he responded negatively, then at least I would have done my part.
As I neared his house, I forced myself up the driveway and said a prayer, very simple, very direct: Lord, please help me. My fears left me for the moment, and I quickly climbed the steps and knocked. I knew someone would answer because I could hear what sounded like a party going on inside. The fear was coming back, but it was too late to run.
The door opened, and a woman asked me what I wanted. She may have been polite, rude, sensitive, or even abrupt. I don’t know because I was trying hard to remember what I was there for.
“Is Brother Johnson here?” I finally asked, timidly.
“Just a minute, please.” I thought I could hear laughter but wasn’t sure. I didn’t have time to breathe before a very tall man stepped to the door. He seemed none too friendly.
“Yeah?” he said.
I’m sure he knew I was scared because he started to smile a little. I calmed down just enough to utter a little prayer in my mind one last, desperate time.
“My name is John,” I began in a voice that didn’t sound scared to me, “and I’m your home teaching companion. I was wondering when we could go home teaching?”
I don’t know if he was amused or surprised, but he didn’t throw me off the porch. Good start, I thought.
He smiled and said, “Give me your phone number, and I’ll call you.”
I went home feeling pretty good. I had made a good effort, and if he didn’t call, I could say I had tried. When I arrived home, I told my parents what had happened. I don’t think they expected me to get a call.
Later that night, I received a call from Brother Johnson, my companion.
“Can you go home teaching Tuesday night at 7:00?” he asked.
“Uh, sure,” I stammered.
“I’ll pick you up then. Bye.” He hung up.
Tuesday night we went home teaching. I found out later he had called the elders quorum president after I left his house that Sunday to get the names of the families we were assigned to visit. Then he made appointments.
We established a routine. On the third Sunday of each month, I would stop by his house, and then he would set up appointments. We rarely, if ever, missed anyone in the two years we were companions. We also became pretty good friends. Brother Johnson even came to church a few times. He said he wanted to see if the quorum president would faint.
I learned two important lessons. First, an Aaronic Priesthood holder can have a positive influence on home teaching. Second, a less-active brother can be the most active home teacher.
As a home teacher, Brother Johnson taught me a lot.

Mango season had arrived in Retalhuleu, Guatemala. The heavy costal rains had ended, and the heat of the dry season settled over the Guatemalan pueblo. My missionary companion, Sister Coronado, and I didn’t mind the rising temperatures—at least not too much—because during the heat of the day we would gaze overhead at the mangos ripening in the sun. We loved mangos. We practically lived on them. Our generous investigators and members would fill our backpacks with them, and when it was too hot to eat anything else, Sister Coronado and I would feast on them and laugh at each other as the juice dribbled down our chins.
Hermana Coronado and I were good friends. As we walked around our area each day we would talk about everything. One of Hermana Coronado’s favorite topics was what I call “everyday miracles.” As our time together progressed, Hermana Coronado taught me to recognize these little miracles. Things like meeting someone who was feeling lonely, or running into an investigator that we hadn’t been able to contact were often miraculous blessings.
One day Sister Coronado and I were disappointed to find that a family we had an appointment with wasn’t home. Just outside the family’s home, we spotted the most beautiful mangos we had ever seen. This tree was loaded with what promised to be perfect fruit. We found ourselves drawn towards the makeshift family store that was propped up against the base of the tree.
“¿Hay Maria?” From the counter of the deserted store we called out the traditional Guatemalan greeting.
“Si, ahorita vengo,” a teenage girl replied that she would be right with us.
We asked the smiling girl if we could buy two of the mangos, but she explained that they had sold the entire crop of mangos to a company from the capital city, so they were only allowed to eat those mangos that fell from the tree naturally. We must have looked terribly disappointed because she apologized profusely that there weren’t any mangos lying on the ground. She assured us she wouldn’t charge us for the mangos if we came back another day when more had fallen from the tree.
“Oh, it’s okay,” we sighed and began to turn away. The girl watched as we pulled out our weekly planners and decided what to do next. Then all three of us heard a big thump from behind the store.
“Wait!” the girl called out and ran around the back. She came back with two beautiful, ripe mangos. They had fallen together and were still connected at the stem. We wondered if Heavenly Father had sent us a thank-you note in the form of two mangos to let us know our work was appreciated. It was a small thing, but that day in the Guatemalan heat, recovering from the disappointment of not being able to teach the family we had an appointment with, it was a small miracle.
Sister Coronado gave me an invaluable gift—the ability to recognize the hand of God in my life.

One day at school, I was in a hurry to get to my math class, and my locker wouldn’t open. I hadn’t had any trouble opening my locker all year, so I was surprised I couldn’t open it. Right then the hall monitor walked by and opened my locker. I got my books and realized that if I walked into my math class, I would be tardy, so I went to find the hall monitor. She gave me a back-to-class pass. Just as I turned the corner, there was a girl in the hall sobbing because some girls had pulled a mean prank. I didn’t know her very well, but I gave her a hug, and she hugged back. I was amazed that the only time my locker jammed was that one day when a girl could use a hug. I think it is amazing that the Lord puts you in certain situations to help others.

At 53, Elizabeth seized another learning opportunity. She and her daughter Jessie were walking down the street in Bendigo when a man in a black coat and top hat introduced himself as a missionary from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He offered them a book and said it would teach them God’s plan for His children. Elizabeth always eagerly accepted free books, but this one would change their lives.
All through that night, Jessie read The Book of Mormon to her mother, and the Holy Spirit affirmed to them this book was true.
Elizabeth and three of her children were baptized on 2 February 1902. A couple years later, her two grandsons were baptized.

I dropped the phone onto the wall cradle and slumped dejectedly into an easy chair. I looked up at the ceiling.
The phone call had come as a complete surprise. I tried to recall the last time that I had been assigned to give any kind of a talk in church. A missionary farewell was to be held in our ward next week, and our first counselor wanted to know if I would be willing to speak in church. It would have been very difficult to say no, but the topic I was assigned certainly tempted me to do so.
Testimonies had never been an easy thing for me to discuss, and recently, it had become even more difficult. Not too long ago, I had decided to re-read the Book of Mormon. When I came to the end, I decided that finally I would test Moroni’s promise. After much prayer, I had received no miraculous witness, no flash of light, and now the bishopric wanted me to speak in front of the ward on the subject of testimonies. I felt that I could hardly attempt to teach others how to gain and strengthen a testimony when I could hardly gain one myself.
The remainder of the week, I went through the motions of preparing a talk on testimonies. I looked up several stories and scriptures to use as examples, and I reviewed several other Church books on the subject. By Sunday, I had a talk prepared, but I felt far from ready to give it.
I paid little attention to the bright, clear weather of that morning as I walked the few blocks to church. I kept thinking that despite my research, I wasn’t prepared for this talk. In fact, I felt that I didn’t have the right to tell my fellow ward members how to gain a testimony when I didn’t have one myself. Somehow, I managed to drag myself up the stairs and into a seat behind the podium. I had trouble looking at the bishop when he shook my hand.
After church finally let out and the agony was over, I left for home as soon as I could. I was still thinking of the talk that I had given. I had talked too fast. Because of my nervousness, I had squeezed a full five-minute talk into about 30 seconds. I could still see the desperate look on the missionary’s face when he saw how much time he would have to use up.
I threw open the front door and went straight to my room. I dropped my scriptures on the desk, flopped down on the bed, and loosened my tie. Then I removed my note cards from my jacket pocket so that I could review them one more time before I shredded and trashed them for good. During my review I re-read one scripture in particular that I had used in my talk. Doctrine and Covenants 76:78–79 talks about bodies terrestrial: “they who are not valiant in the testimony of Jesus; wherefore, they obtain not the crown over the kingdom of our God.” [D&C 76:78–79]
At this point I decided to take a good look at the scriptures. For some reason, I opened to Alma, chapter 18, verse 35 [Alma 18:35]. Here I found this scripture: “And a portion of that Spirit dwelleth in me, which giveth me knowledge, and also power according to my faith and desires which are in God.”
It was a small scripture, not one that is often quoted. In fact, it didn’t even deal directly with testimonies. But it made sense to me. This short scripture pointed me in the direction I had to search for my testimony—inside of me! The gift of the Spirit, which gives us knowledge, was inside of me!
I began to recollect the times that I had read the Book of Mormon in the past. The main question on my mind had never been, “Is this true?” Instead, I had wondered how to apply a certain bit of knowledge to everyday life. I recalled discussions with friends about Church doctrine. I remembered the good feeling I got from helping others.
Slowly, I began to realize that I had within myself a testimony that had been growing for some time. That one little scripture had helped me to realize my real strength. I felt like running to the bishop and asking if I could give my talk over. I had found my testimony. It had been hidden there all along. I still have the note cards from that talk, and written on the front is the Alma scripture reference.

Our daughter, Kathryn, is serving as the Primary president in her ward in Salt Lake City. My wife and I attended her ward last Sunday to observe the Primary sacrament meeting presentation, “I’ll Follow Him in Faith.” I was thrilled to hear the children recite scriptures and stories coupled with songs focused on faith in Christ.
After the meeting I asked her about her calling. She said that initially the calling weighed her down. Much time was spent going over problems. Then the presidency decided to emphasize love, faith, and prayer. Suddenly spiritual impressions came to mind about a particular child or family. Friction was replaced with love. She tells me that as they acted upon promptings from the Spirit, Primary reflected a reverence and peace, and real gospel learning was taking place.

Moses Lwakihugo, from the Democratic Republic of the Congo, lost his father to war in 1997. Moses lived in refugee camps for over 10 years. Now a priesthood leader in the Swahili group in our ward, he said, “I noticed something different about the members of the Church. They actually live what they teach. In other churches I had been a part of, nobody came to visit me. In this ward, people were checking in and bringing meals when my family was sick. I have never seen a church so full of love.”

Not far from Peñaflor is the town of Talagante. It seems to be a newer town than Peñaflor, with less time for trees to have grown old and gracious. It has more the feeling of a sun-rich central Mexican pueblo, blessed with sunny plazas, sunny courtyards, and sunny streets down which Mormon elders go each day seeking the pure in heart. Two of the elders are Elder Valenzuela and Elder Arancibia. They are both Chileans, and they are good examples of why the future of missionary work in Chile is bright.

Today they headed for the central plaza to do some street contacting. “I was converted to the Church three years ago,” Elder Valenzuela said. “I have a strong desire to try to imitate the Savior, even though it be in a very small way. I have a strong testimony of the Church. I know that it is really the Church of Jesus Christ and that the authorities are directed by revelation, which comforts me. It is a living Church because it has the priesthood. And now, as the scriptures say, I must learn wisdom in my youth and try to follow from the beginning the steps and precepts that the Church has taught so that someday with much effort, I may achieve exaltation.”

Elder Arancibia said, “Belonging to the Church has meant a very great change in my life, and as I progressed, a desire was born in my heart that all the world should have the satisfaction and joy that comes from living the principles that He taught us and be able to work through his authority, the priesthood. This was basically what gave birth in me to this desire to share the gospel. I feel strongly in my heart that Jesus Christ is our Savior. In truth, I owe to him everything that I am. It is his life and his acts that have given me the opportunity of becoming clean and helping my brothers and sisters so that they can arrive at a knowledge like mine and share my joy.”

Elder Arancibia added. “I know that Joseph Smith was a prophet of the Lord. Studying his life and understanding his works and teachings, I have felt in my own person the power of the Spirit of the Lord testifying to me of his divine mission. I could feel it too when the president of the Church came. I know that he too is a prophet of the Lord. The authority is still found on the earth.”

In the plaza they introduced themselves to passersby and set up appointments for later. The work was a little dusty, so they took time out for a shoeshine. Naturally they set up a visit with the shoeshine man.

Their shoes gleaming, the elders left the plaza to knock on some doors. Afterwards they went to the branch president’s house to discuss member-missionary work.

Then they had to go to the meetinghouse because the baptismal font needed cleaning out. With brooms in hand they got it ready for the next day’s baptismal service.

“When a person joins the Church a chain of consequences begins,” Elder Valenzuela explained. “His manner of living changes. His neighbors sense it. The whole neighborhood is influenced. The same thing happens throughout the whole community. Thus, the whole of Chile is going to become more righteous and the standard of living is going to rise because the gospel influences every aspect of life including the social, emotional, intellectual, physical, and spiritual. Everybody asks: ‘Where will inflation end?’ ‘How can war be abolished?’ But the thing that must happen before these problems can be solved isn’t a human thing. The only solution is to apply the gospel of Jesus Christ, to repent and live the principles of the gospel.”

Is it an advantage for a missionary in Chile to be Chilean? Both elders agreed that it is, because of greater cultural understanding and language facility. “But it isn’t really a large advantage,” Elder Arancibia said. “The power that really converts people is the power of the Spirit. If a missionary is true to his calling, he can communicate by the Spirit regardless of his language or nationality. We have found that when everything is right with us, when our part is done right, an investigator can feel the Spirit. There is a communication that is not only the words that come from our lips. God speaks with our voices, and his Spirit testifies to the truth of our words. When we rely on the power of the flesh, things often don’t work out as we would like.”

The font was soon ready for the service. Elder Valenzuela whisked off one last speck of dirt and looked at his handiwork with pride. “Many Chilean missionaries will soon be returning to their homes,” he said. “They are going to establish new Latter-day Saint homes, and the gospel will become even more deeply and firmly rooted in Chilean soil. And as this happens, the number of missionaries will keep growing. There’s no reason why the majority of Chile shouldn’t someday be LDS.”

On the eve of my sixteenth birthday, I received my Patriarchal Blessing. The Patriarch had asked that I come fasting, which I did. I remember many things about the hour I spent with Patriarch Thompson. I remember the warmth of his humble home. I remember the kindness of his gracious wife. I remember that he forgot to turn on the tape recorder so that he had to give the blessing twice! And I remember the feeling of power emanating from his hands to my head and spreading through my entire body. It was real. It was tangible.

Last year, while on vacation with our two youngest children, Julie suggested we do proxy baptisms in both the St. George and San Diego Temples. I murmured—to myself—thinking, “We attend the temple at home, and now we’re on vacation. Why not do something more vacation-like?” After the baptisms, Julie wanted to take pictures outside the temple. I silently murmured—again. You can guess what happened next: we took pictures.

Julie wants our children to have memories of how we helped our ancestors, and so do I. We didn’t need a formal lesson on the importance of temples. We were living it—thanks to a mother who loves the temple and wants her children to share that love.

Kamla Persand was from the Mauritius island, attending medical school in Bordeaux, France, when we met her in February of 1991. We had prayed as a family to be able to share the gospel with someone who was seeking the truth, and we taught her in our home. I was privileged to perform her baptism, but we were not the most significant influences in Kamla joining the Church. Friends, missionaries, and even family members had been “witnesses of God” in her home country, and one day in France, when the time was right for Kamla, she made the decision to be baptized. Now, 25 years later, the blessings of that decision are all around her, and her son is a missionary in Madagascar.

Back in November 1999, I was asked by our college dean to give a presentation to our college's faculty about how to prepare for Y2K. "Y2K" stood for the year 2000--particularly January 1, 2000--when apparently all computers and basically anything electronic was supposed to crash; when life as we knew it would come to a screeching halt. Personally, I did not worry too much about it. I knew that I would be with a group of students up in the Teton Mountains for a weeklong backcountry ski and winter camping trip called Winter Summit. Nothing happened to us. We had no computers and no electricity, just a lot of great new powder snow. I don't believe anything happened anywhere.
But, still there were many who were worried, which is why I was asked to give the talk. Having taught outdoor survival skills, winter camping, and other outdoor courses, I guess our dean thought I could give some suggestions on how to deal with the impending doom. Without asking him, I decided to take a different approach to the topic. Instead of discussing how to prepare for Y2K, I gave my presentation on "YK2?" Here the "Y" did not represent a year, nor did "2K." Rather the "Y" stood for a question: Why? And the K2 stood for just that--K2--the world's second highest mountain and one of the most difficult and challenging to climb.

Ten years later I came back to my father’s home for a time. My father, who was the ward mission leader, invited me to listen as the missionaries taught two young ladies in his home. The missionaries challenged us to ask Heavenly Father if Joseph Smith was a prophet. I accepted the challenge and spent 14 hours reading, meditating, and praying about Joseph Smith. It was a spiritual experience that is sacred to me. I read Joseph Smith’s history in the Pearl of Great Price twice that night. I prayed many times and stayed up all night. At nine o’clock the next morning I knew that Joseph Smith was a prophet and that the gospel was true.
I went to the sister missionaries’ house and asked for baptism. They explained that they needed to teach me seven discussions. I told them, “Give me all seven right now. I need to be baptized.” Two days later, I was. I began at once to work in the Church and to study everything the Church published in Portuguese. I enjoyed it all immensely, and my testimony has been strong ever since. The Church and the gospel have given me everything I have, including my family.

After they reached Clay County, Missouri, news arrived that a mob of nearly four hundred men were preparing to destroy them. When Joseph heard the news, he knelt beneath the clear blue summer sky and prayed for divine protection.

Not far off, gunfire sounded. The men of Zion’s Camp wanted to fight, but Joseph counseled them to wait and see what God would do.

Suddenly a small black cloud appeared in the west. It moved eastward, growing bigger as it moved, until it filled the heavens with darkness. The first ferryboat of mobbers had crossed the Missouri River south of Zion’s Camp and was returning for another load, when a violent burst of wind hit the boat. Rain poured and the wind soared so hard that the members of Zion’s Camp ran from their tents and found shelter in an old Baptist meetinghouse nearby. Safely inside, Joseph told them that God was in that storm.

The horizon filled with the snaking of lightning bolts—not one after another, but atop and beside each other so that the sky was continually lit, and the thunder roared without stopping. Large hailstones broke branches from trees and destroyed crops. Torrents of rain soaked the mobbers’ ammunition and made it useless. The sights and sounds of the storm frightened the mobbers’ horses away, leaving the mobbers to find their way home, wet, horseless, and frightened.

The next morning, Fishing River, which had been only ankle deep, was more than forty feet (12.2 m) deep. One of the mobbers told Joseph Smith that he knew that God was protecting the Mormons.

At Chetham’s, surrounded by people whose values and standards differ from her own, Fleur is determined to keep her Young Women values. Although students aren’t allowed to smoke or drink at school, some of them do so when they go out to Manchester, a nearby city.

Fleur explains: “When they say, ‘Come to the pub with us,’ I just say, ‘No, thanks. I don’t drink.’” Now that Fleur’s fellow students know her standards, they respect her for not drinking or smoking.

When she goes out, Fleur spends time with friends who don’t drink, or she goes shopping or to the cinema. “I make my own sort of fun,” she says.