Gospel Story Finder

Throughout the square people learned from each other. Becky Cutler, 18, worked on a circular shag rug across from Ada Jensen, 79, who used 40 years of experience in making hidden-crocheted rugs.

Another young woman in the class recognized that her choices in clothing were affecting the way her little sister was dressing. A line in For the Strength of Youth states: “Your dress and grooming send messages about you to others and influence the way you and others act.” She decided to make some changes in her clothing, realizing that she had a responsibility to be a good example to her little sister. She drove her stake down more deeply and influenced her sister’s clothing choices.

It was then that I moved to Kinshasa to commence my studies in law. Once I arrived in 2007, I enrolled at the University of Kinshasa. In my first year in 2008, we experienced a total strike at the University of Kinshasa. During the strike, I left the neighborhood where I lived to go to the commune of Masina to stay with my older brother.
And once in Masina, during the strike, I discovered The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the neighborhood where I lived with my older brother.
I made the decision to go to a meetinghouse of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on a Sunday. When I arrived at the building, a brother greeted me at the door and invited me to come inside. I then participated in the Sunday service and afterwards I was placed in contact with the full-time missionaries.
I took the missionary lessons for two weeks. After being taught, I had a strong desire to be baptized.

This story took place in Tonga in 1981.
Silioti walked home from school past trees of yellow papayas and rosy ripe mangoes. When she saw the fruit, she remembered how hungry she was. She also remembered that today was a special day. Today everyone in her stake in Tonga was fasting for the prophet, President Spencer W. Kimball. The prophet was sick and needed an operation. Tonight everyone in the stake would meet to pray and end their fast together.
When Silioti reached her house, she smelled food cooking in the ‘umu, the pit oven. Her stomach grumbled. Silioti was glad she was old enough to fast now, but fasting on a school day was so much harder than fasting on a Sunday.
Silioti tried to forget how hungry she was. She found firewood and cleaned up the leaves that had fallen from the tall breadfruit trees that shaded her yard.
“Heavenly Father will understand if I take a tiny sip of water,” Silioti thought as she washed her hands after chores. Then she thought of how much she loved President Kimball. She wanted him to be well again. She decided she would wait.
Silioti sat down on the porch and laid her head in her mother’s lap. She was so tired.
“You can end your fast if you need to,” Mother said.
“But I want to fast,” said Silioti. “I can do it.”
When Father came home from work, everyone in the family helped uncover the ‘umu. They took out the pork wrapped in leaves, the fish, and the breadfruit baked in coconut milk. Then they wrapped the food in cloth and carried it out to the road to wait for the bus.
They met other families on the road, all with their own dishes of food. They all smiled and talked as they climbed on the bus together. Silioti found a little space next to Mother. She smelled the good food as the bus bumped along.
It was dark when the bus reached the chapel. Inside, Silioti knelt with her parents, her brothers and sisters, and hundreds of other members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
During the prayer, Silioti prayed in her heart, “Please let President Kimball get well again.” She knew every person in the room was praying for the same thing. A calm feeling inside told her that President Kimball would be OK.
When she opened her eyes she saw tears on the faces of the people around her. All of these people had fasted, and she had fasted with them. It had been hard, but she had done it!
President Kimball survived his operation and served as the prophet for four more years.

Two weeks later, the teachers at the Consolidated let us out early without telling us why. My sisters and I ran home and crashed through the door only to find Mom and Dad sitting at the kitchen table. Their faces were white and gray, the color of locomotive steam, and they told us the mine had closed and Dad was heading east that night—to find work in the Ontario mines. He’d send for us when he got settled.
I turned cold. My younger sister yelled that she couldn’t leave. I remember Mom and Dad holding her and saying something comforting, despite her rage. And I remember taking Dad down to the station, carrying one of his heavy suitcases.
“Sell the Ford if you have to … if you can,” he said to Mom on the platform. Then he kissed her.
The train let out a groan and inched away from us. Dad reached down the stairs and shook my hand. “Don’t let Sam slip away,” he said, and our hands were pulled apart.
I resented that, at the time. I hated that my father’s last words to me were about Sam, and I kept it in the pit of my stomach for a long time.
Several weeks later, we had a big meet. I saw Sam from the front room window peddling his bike up the street. We had a 10-mile ride to make, and the district finals began at five, so I didn’t expect him to stop for long. But he didn’t stop at all, and I had to grab my shoes, run outside, jump on my bike, and race to catch up.
“In a hurry?” I asked near the corner.
“What took you so long?” he asked, smiling.
We rode to Crowsnest in near silence; the only sounds were the rhythmic metallic clink of my peddle rubbing against a chain guard and the heavy rumble of passing lumber trucks on the highway. By five we were waiting in a hot gym as a man with a megaphone and a few sheets of paper stood on a chair and began reading rules. The wrestlers were grouped according to weight and record, the man explained. The athletes with the best league records, like Sam, would face the wrestlers with the worst league records in the first round. Losers would go home; winners would go on to the medal round. So-so wrestlers like me would face the other so-so wrestlers, and then, if we won, would meet the top kids.
He began to read names, and Sam’s was one of the first called. He’d wrestle third. I’d go sixth, which meant I’d have to wait almost an hour. I was excited and nervous and knew that I’d be tired for the match if I didn’t relax. I moved Sam into a corner of the gym and spent my time getting him warmed up for his match. I remembered what Dad used to do—practice moves, stretching, and the like, although my jokes weren’t as good. We kept ourselves away from the crowd and the faint ring of the bell and cheers of the boys. Finally I heard, “The winna!” and looked around to see the ref holding one boy’s hand in the air.
That’s when I noticed a familiar figure in the doorway—out of place. It was Mom. She smiled and waved, and I ran over to her.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I said. “It’s a gym.”
“I can go anywhere I want,” she said. “I’ve come to see you and Sam wrestle.”
I shook my head, but it was obvious she was staying.
“And I brought you something.”
She held a box tied with string. It had a return address in Ontario.
“Your dad found work,” she said.
I nodded and ripped the box open. Inside was a letter and something bulky wrapped in newspaper.
“Open the letter first,” said Mom.
I shrugged and did as she said, pulling the letter out of its envelope as I walked outside to read it alone. It was in Dad’s unmistakably bad handwriting made worse because it was written on a bumpy ride. He began:
“Dear Jed,
“I’m here. The train ride is long, three days of wheat fields and another couple of pine trees, so I got to thinking about you and Sam.”
I stiffened with the thought of Sam sharing my only letter from Dad, but I read on.
“As you know, I did some missionary work with him, and I hope the Spirit can touch him. He needs that direction in his life. I guess it was embarrassing for you sometimes to be put on the spot, but I wanted you to share that missionary experience with me. I care a lot for the Church and believe in the restored gospel with all my heart. I hope you can carry on the work without me.
“Somewhere near Winnipeg, as the wheat fields began to end, another thing occurred to me. I got to worrying that you didn’t know why I paid so much attention to Sam, and that maybe you felt like I was a better dad to him than to you. I guess I need to apologize for that, but after Sam’s own dad died, it was obvious that he needed a father in his life, even more than you did at the moment. You have a maturity and a direction that Sam doesn’t. I can’t tell you how proud I am that you’re my son.
“I guess that’s all for now. We’ll meet up soon enough and talk then.
“P.S. The package is for you. I hope you do well in the district tournament, but remember that Sam is a much greater challenge in the grand scheme of things. Good luck.”
I folded the letter carefully and reached into the loose paper inside the box. Even before I unwrapped it I knew by the feel that it was a book. I pulled it out and breathed in the deep scent of new leather on the copy of the Book of Mormon.
I don’t exactly know why, but I had to shake my head to fight back tears. I can’t say what moved me—if it was the valuable gift from my penniless dad, or the fact that I finally understood that he was not playing favorites with Sam. He was just trying to be an example.
And something whispered to me, just then, that I could do the same. Suddenly I knew that it wasn’t important if I won or lost my match that night. It was more important to be there for Sam, to be an example, to lead the way.

The Beehive class president of the Bloomington Second Ward, Indianapolis Indiana Stake, was recently honored at her middle school assembly. Suzanne Miller was named the outstanding student council member after serving as treasurer all year, and also received one of four awards for academic excellence. In addition, she plays the violin in the school orchestra, is on the track team, participates as a starter on her school’s volleyball and basketball teams, keeps her journal up to date, and reads the scriptures daily.

Sometimes we try to tell ourselves that wrong is right. We do this to try to feel better about doing wrong things. On a television show recently, a girl was caught breaking a serious family rule. She said, “I wasn’t being disobedient. I was just learning independence.” Well, no matter what she said or how she tried to justify what she had done, the truth was she had disobeyed a rule that was made to protect her. When she disobeyed, the protection was gone. That’s important to remember, so I want to say it one more time. When she disobeyed, the protection was gone.

First is a story about my son, Michael, who did something wrong when he was six or seven years old. He’s my only son. I want him to be better than his dad was even as a boy, and so I expect a great deal of him. So I sent him to his bedroom with the instructions, “Don’t come out until I come and get you.”

And then I forgot. Some hours later, as I was watching television, I heard his door open and tentative footsteps come down the hall. I said, “Oh, no,” and ran to the hall to see him standing there with swollen eyes and tears on his cheeks. He looked up at me—he wasn’t quite sure he should have come out—and said, “Dad, can’t we ever be friends again?” Of course, I hugged him and expressed my love for him. He’s my boy, and I love him, despite anything he may have done.

Thompson remembered from his boyhood in Norway speeding down mountains on skis. Why can’t mail be delivered this way, he reasoned.

In January of 1856, Thompson set out on his first mail run from Placerville, California, on the western slope of the Sierras, to Carson Valley on the east side, nearly one hundred miles away. To travel on top of the snow, he wore ten-foot-long, twenty-five-pound runners that he had whittled himself. Observers and Thompson both called them Norwegian snowshoes.

His first winter trip might have been Thompson’s last, because at one point he mistakenly trusted a snowbridge across a chasm. It had seemed firm and solidly frozen, but when he reached the center, it began to pull away from the cliff behind him. Fortunately, he managed to grab a tough pine root on the cliff ahead just as the bridge collapsed and fell into the rocky abyss below. He thanked God and vowed he would never make that mistake again.

As he went on, he had to judge correctly the safety of the icy crust of fifty-foot drifts. He kept his bearings by observing trees, wind direction, rock and mountain formations. When nighttime came, he stayed on course by observing the stars. He slept warmly at night by setting a stump afire, hollowing a cave in a snowdrift facing the fire, and lining the cave with pine boughs.

It took three days’ travel for the longer, steeper climbs of the eastward crossing and two days to return to California. When the citizens of Placerville, California, heard Thompson’s High Sierra whoops as he skimmed down the last slope carrying mail from Carson Valley, they cheered. “Snowshoe Thompson!” they shouted, and the name “Snowshoe” was born.

The day after he received the plates, Joseph went to work repairing a well in a nearby town to raise money for a lockbox. That same morning, while on an errand just over the hill from the Smith home, Joseph Sr. overheard a group of men plotting to steal the gold plates. “We will have the plates,” one of them said, “in spite of Joe Smith or all the devils in hell.”
Alarmed, Joseph Sr. returned home and told Emma. She said she did not know where the plates were, but she was sure Joseph had protected them.
“Yes,” Joseph Sr. replied, “but remember that for a small thing Esau lost his blessing and birthright. It may be so with Joseph.”28
To be sure the plates were secure, Emma mounted a horse and rode for more than an hour to the farm where Joseph was working. She found him by the well, caked in dirt and sweat from the day’s work. Hearing of the danger, Joseph looked into the Urim and Thummim and saw that the plates were safe.
Back home, Joseph Sr. paced back and forth outside the house, glancing every minute down the road until he saw Joseph and Emma.
“Father,” Joseph said as they rode up, “all is perfectly safe—there is no cause of alarm.”29
But it was time to act.
Hurrying to the hill, Joseph found the log where the plates were hidden and carefully wrapped them in a shirt.30 He then ducked into the woods and headed for home, his eyes alert to danger. The forest concealed him from people on the main road, but it gave thieves plenty of places to hide.
Straining under the weight of the record, Joseph tramped through the woods as fast as he could. A fallen tree blocked the path ahead of him, and as he bounded over it, he felt something hard strike him from behind. Turning around, he saw a man coming at him, wielding a gun like a club.
Clutching the plates tightly with one arm, Joseph knocked the man to the ground and scrambled deeper into the thicket. He ran for about half a mile when another man sprang from behind a tree and struck him with the butt of his gun. Joseph fought the man off and darted away, desperate to be out of the woods. But before he could get very far a third man attacked, landing a heavy blow that sent him reeling. Gathering his strength, Joseph hit the man hard and ran for home.31
Back at the house, Joseph burst through the door with his heavy bundle tucked beneath one arm. “Father,” he cried, “I have got the plates.”
His 14-year-old sister, Katharine, helped him set the bundle on a table as the rest of the family gathered around him. Joseph could tell that his father and younger brother William wanted to unwrap the plates, but he stopped them.
“Can we not see them?” Joseph Sr. asked.
“No,” Joseph said. “I was disobedient the first time, but I intend to be faithful this time.”
He told them they could feel the plates through the cloth, and his brother William picked up the bundle. It was heavier than stone, and William could tell that it had leaves that moved like the pages of a book.32 Joseph also sent his youngest brother, Don Carlos, to get a lockbox from Hyrum, who lived down the road with his wife, Jerusha, and their newborn daughter.
Joseph borrowed a lockbox like this from his brother Hyrum to store the Book of Mormon plates.
Photograph by Jed Clark
Hyrum arrived soon after, and once the plates were securely in the box, Joseph collapsed onto a nearby bed and started telling his family about the men in the woods.
As he spoke, he realized his hand ached. Sometime during the attacks he had dislocated a thumb.
“I must stop talking, Father,” he said suddenly, “and get you to put my thumb back in place.”33

I noted that we also bear our testimonies by our lives. In World War II I was stationed at an army camp in Pennsylvania. We lived in a little ward in which our stake patriarch also lived. His name was William G. Stoops. Brother Stoops worked at a machine shop in the little town of Waynesboro, Pennsylvania. Everyone called him “Pappy.” He was a kindly, gentle, wonderful, exemplary member of the Church. All who met him honored and admired him. One time a nonmember with whom he worked said something like this: “I don’t know much about the Mormon church. I have never met with the missionaries, and I have never studied the doctrine. I have never been to one of their services, but I know Pappy Stoops; and if the Church produces men like Pappy Stoops, it has to have much good in it.” We never know the power of our own example for either good or bad.

My favorite Christmas tradition is decorating my grandparents’ house. My favorite memory from this Christmas tradition is helping to decorate the tree each year. The older grandchildren help the younger kids to place ornaments on the higher branches until all the ornaments have been put up.
I like this tradition because it helps me spend time serving with my family as we help my grandparents. When I serve them, it helps me focus more on others and not on myself. It fills me with love for my family and for my Savior and brings me closer to them.
Aspen L., 15, Nevada, USA

For example, if you’re with a group of people who are telling dirty jokes and you don’t understand everything they’re referring to and don’t want to hear those kinds of jokes anyway, those people might tell you you’re too sheltered. The fact is, of course, that you just don’t want to wallow in filth.

Eli trusted his parents. But the idea of having an operation scared him. He thought about the story he had heard in Primary about Joseph Smith. When Joseph was seven years old, the bone in his leg became infected. The infection got worse until the doctor decided that he must remove part of the bone or Joseph might lose his leg or even die.
In Joseph Smith’s day, doctors gave people liquor to help numb the pain during an operation, but Joseph refused the liquor the doctor suggested he drink. And he refused to be tied to the bed. He said that if his father held him, he wouldn’t move. Joseph’s father held him tightly in his arms throughout the painful surgery. The operation was successful, and Joseph recovered.

Bishop Richard C. Edgley
(52) Richard C. Edgley, as a member of a stake presidency, calls a less-active woman to be a stake missionary.

More than 2,500 Mexican Latter-day Saints gathered on 25 June 1989 for the creation of the Tecalco Mexico Stake, about thirty miles south of Mexico City. It was the one-hundredth stake organized in that country. Among the members of the new stake was Fidencia García de Rojas—at age 106 the oldest Church member in Mexico. The Church in Mexico had passed yet another historic milestone during the eighty-eight years that Fidencia had been a member.
When Sister Fidencia died a month and a half later, President Felipe Hernández Luis of the Tecalco stake commented that those attending the funeral were part of another historic moment—the death of a Mexican pioneer.

One day, my grandchildren, Seth, Cole, and Paige, were visiting me. Paige and I were playing a game in our downstairs family room. Seth and Cole were upstairs in the living room, playing “cars.” They were taking turns to see whose car could go the fastest and farthest.
I didn’t actually know what they were doing until Seth came downstairs and said, “Grandma, you need to come upstairs for a few minutes.”
I went upstairs, and he pointed to my favorite porcelain figurine of two boys playing marbles. “Grandma,” he said, “my car accidentally hit the figurine and broke the head off the boy.”
I was pretty upset, and he knew it. But I said, “Maybe my superglue will fix it.” We got it out, and I was able to very carefully mend the figurine. I didn’t tell Seth how proud I was of him for admitting what he had done, because I was still upset. Both boys know that they shouldn’t play cars in the living room!
The next day, after Seth had gone back home to Idaho (I live in Logan, Utah), I started to think about how much courage it must have taken him to choose the right and tell me the truth about the broken boy.
I wrote him a letter right away and told him so, and that I was proud of him. He could have blamed it on Cole, or he could have never told me at all. I also told him how glad I was that only a porcelain figurine had been broken and not his testimony of choosing the right.

I enjoy the artwork and photography in the New Era very much. I am the information coordinator for the mission and find that the material in the New Era is very useful for the many projects I am involved in. The Photo of the Month is one of the best parts of the magazine, and the artwork has inspired me to try to do my best to obtain a degree in commercial art. Keep up the fantastic work.
Elder D. Marc JamesAustralia Adelaide Mission

One Sunday the missionaries came to Primary. They talked to us about sharing the gospel, and they gave us pass-along cards. When I got home I told my mom that I wanted to give a card to our next-door neighbors. My mom and I went next door and I read 3 Nephi 11:10–11 to our neighbors. I also shared my testimony with them. I was happy to share the gospel with others.

A decade later I was serving as a United States Marine security guard for the American Embassy in the Republic of Djibouti, a small country in northeast Africa. I decided to search for the truth, so I read the Bible cover to cover. As I grew closer to God, I realized the Bible was the true word of God. I did not have to rely on the testimony of my father. But I felt I still did not have the whole truth, and I longed to know why I felt compelled never to drink, smoke, or swear and to remain morally clean. Why did I always strive to obey the commandments?