Gospel Story Finder

It seemed like any other ordinary Sunday morning. It seemed like most other deacons quorum meetings of previous weeks. But what happened during the next fifteen minutes was extraordinary to me, a twelve-year-old boy who was still affected by what had happened the preceding Thursday.
On Sunday, three days following my disturbing hour at the public library, I sat in what seemed like an ordinary deacons quorum meeting. But what happened during the next fifteen minutes was extraordinary to me.
Then, in answer to my urgent but humble prayers, the inspiration of the Holy Ghost began to flood into my mind as Brother Corbridge spoke to us with emotion about his family’s experience. I marveled that a well-dressed, successful businessman would stand unashamed with tears in his eyes and tell his innermost feelings to a group of young deacons. I know now that he had been sent by the Lord to say something that was meant especially for me, a twelve-year-old Aaronic Priesthood boy who had been praying earnestly and who needed help urgently.
Brother Corbridge’s experience in the Sacred Grove became my experience. The gift of the Holy Ghost manifested itself to such a degree that even to this day, sixty years later, I can bear witness as though I had actually been there and observed for myself that remarkable experience we call the First Vision and I can testify that the Book of Mormon is truly the word of God.

Part of making sure you’re worthy is interviewing with the bishop to receive a recommend. Many youth are nervous about talking with their bishops.
“I knew I was worthy and trying to live right,” Brandallyn says of her first recommend interview, “but I was still afraid he might see something I didn’t.”
But the bishop’s job isn’t to keep you out of the temple; it’s to help you be able to go.
“He wasn’t as scary as I thought,” Brandallyn admits.

Stori is a good missionary. Several children who are not members of the Church eagerly attend Church activities, and they always run to “talk” with Stori. One friend studies language books so she can practice with her. Stori loves her new friends and helps them feel the joy of coming to Church.

At the age of 19, I was conscripted into the military for a period of two years. I was sent away to the Army Gymnasium in Heidelberg (formerly Transvaal) for the first year of national service and to Natal Command (formerly Natal) for the second year. During this time, I had very little exposure to the Church. As a result, I became less active. Towards the end of my military service, faithful home teachers—Brother Basil Smith and his companion—came into the army barracks one afternoon to minister to me. Once again, my spirit resonated with what they said and I was so surprised that they would make this effort to visit me, I responded positively to their invitation to come back to Church.

Brother Basil Smith and his companion—for ministering as faithful home teachers and inviting me to come back to church.

Christmas was still a few weeks away, but Turner and his family had already put up the Christmas tree. He was excited as he thought about the presents he hoped to see under the tree on Christmas morning.
A few days later Turner walked into the living room and saw there was one small box under the tree. It was wrapped in red paper and tied with a green bow.
Our first present! Who sent it? Was it Grandma?
No.
Is it from one of my cousins?
No.
Turner was confused.
Well, then who sent it?
You’ll have to wait and see. All we can say is that it is a very special gift.
As days passed, more presents appeared under the tree, but Turner kept wondering about that first red present with the green bow. Where did it come from?
On Christmas morning, Turner raced to wake up his brothers and parents.
Wake up! It’s Christmas!
After arriving at the tree, Turner was excited to see the presents underneath it.
Turner, you may open the small box with the red paper and green bow.
Turner was excited to finally see what was inside.
Turner removed the lid and found a few small items. He pulled them out one at a time—a picture of Jesus Christ, a poem about Jesus’s birth, and a star. Turner showed everyone the picture, and Dad read the poem.
I put the box under the tree so we could remember why we celebrate Christmas.
Turner was happy to remember Jesus.
Dad, you put the box under the tree, but now I know who really gave us this gift.
Who?
Heavenly Father.

One of the songs that has disappeared was number 163, “Don’t Kill the Little Birds,” and I remember many times singing with a loud voice:
Don’t kill the little birds,
That sing on bush and tree,
All thro’ the summer days,
Their sweetest melody.
Don’t shoot the little birds!
The earth is God’s estate,
And he provideth food
For small as well as great.
(Deseret Songs, 1909, no. 163.)
I had a sling and I had a flipper. I made them myself, and they worked very well. It was my duty to walk the cows to the pasture a mile away from home. There were large cottonwood trees lining the road, and I remember that it was quite a temptation to shoot the little birds “that sing on bush and tree,” because I was a pretty good shot and I could hit a post at fifty yards’ distance or I could hit the trunk of a tree. But I think perhaps because I sang nearly every Sunday, “Don’t Kill the Little Birds,” I was restrained. The second verse goes:
Don’t kill the little birds
Their plumage wings the air,
Their trill at early morn
Makes music ev’ry-where.
What tho’ the cherries fall
Half eaten from the stem?
And berries disappear,
In garden, field, and glen?
This made a real impression on me, so I could see no great fun in having a beautiful little bird fall at my feet.

In the early days of World War II a radio operator who was expert with the code intercepted an order to a German submarine to sink the Queen Mary, a British passenger ship. The operator relayed the information of the planned attack to the proper authorities, the ship’s course was changed, and a disaster was prevented.

The fourteen-month-old son of a doctor became very ill. During the course of his treatment many consultants were brought in, but their contributions resulted only in a symptomatic approach to the disease. The result was that the child’s condition steadily worsened. His temperature was 104 degrees and the family had entirely given up hope for his recovery; his death was expected momentarily. At this point, a number of miraculous things happened. On their own and without a previous appointment, the bishop and his counselors came to visit the family. At the request of the family, they administered to the child. Almost immediately following the blessing, an intern, who was a friend of the family, stepped into the room and said, “Why not give him a transfusion?” The intern was a universal blood donor, and blood was taken from him immediately and given to the child. The child’s temperature dropped from 104 degrees to normal and remained at normal throughout his hospital stay. This is a case where medical aid had essentially failed; and on the basis of what medicine could offer, the child’s life had been despaired. The priesthood came into the picture, and the administration was followed by additional medical steps that previously had not been projected. The child’s life was saved. Today he has matured and has a lovely wife and family.

Then there are the Laurels in the Bountiful 24th Ward, Bountiful Utah Heights Stake. Not only do they dress like clowns, but they have put together an ingenious washboard band and magic show. They too started performing for the children at a local homeless shelter and have branched out to include other hospitals and medical centers.

Many of the students said they became involved with Adopt-a-Grandparent in about the same way Sharon Pritchett of Atlanta, Georgia, did. “Julie had been praying about finding people who wanted to get involved, and I had been feeling lonely and praying for ways to get to know new people,” Sharon said. The two met on their way to a religion class they had together, and after class Julie invited Sharon to a staff meeting the same day. Soon Sharon was publicity chairman for AAG.

My name is Mili, and I’m eleven years old. My sister, Eli, is ten. We have always lived with our abuelita (beloved grandmother). Our city is surrounded by green hills, and its streets are straight and clean. In the city are many beautiful churches, such as Santo Domingo, where we rest in the quiet coolness after our shopping on Saturdays.
Abuelita doesn’t go to church or anywhere else because of the pain of her arthritis and because she is almost deaf.
Maybe the deafness is the reason she couldn’t listen to the two missionary sisters who came to the gate of our courtyard one day last summer. Abuelita has told us not to open the gate for strangers, but she unlocked it and let them in. Abuelita is always kind, and they looked very hot and tired—and sweet and harmless.
Eli and I stood back quietly when they came in and sat down in our cool sala (living room). We brought them cold lemonade and pan dulce (pastry), as Abuelita has taught us to do for guests in our house. When we sat down and listened to them, they told us wonderful things about Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ appearing to a boy named Joseph Smith in the woods, and about the gold plates and the Book of Mormon. And they gave us the book!
Eli and I read to each other every night that week. We liked the stories and the way we felt when we read them. Abuelita doesn’t read.
When the missionaries came back, we were happy to see Abuelita quietly unlock the gate for them. Later they took us with them on the bus to their church. Eli and I liked the way we felt in that church, even though it was a very plain chapel and not so beautiful as Santo Domingo with its colored windows and gold statues. When we asked Abuelita if we could be baptized, she kissed us, said yes, and told us that we were good girls and that she knew that we would follow a good path.
So Eli and I became Latter-day Saints. We went to church every Sunday, and the missionaries didn’t have to come for us, because we knew how to go to the zócalo (town square) and take the bus to the church. We learned to pray to Heavenly Father morning and night and to pay our tithing on the few pesos Abuelita gives us each week for our school supplies and lunches. And we don’t let her put coffee in our milk anymore.
We also learned that we should fast on the first Sunday of the month and give the money to el obispo (the bishop) so he can give it to the poor.
We have many poor people in our city, and Eli and I wouldn’t have minded missing our breakfast and lunch on that one day. But Abuelita doesn’t understand about fasting. She says that we must eat before leaving for church, and she won’t give us money instead of food.
We talked to el obispo about it. He is a very nice man and is very wise. He read to us in the Book of Mormon where Nephi said that if God gives a commandment, He will provide a way to obey it. We had read that before, but when we went home that day, we underlined it in our Book of Mormon. El obispo said that we would find a way to keep the commandment.
One Sunday morning as we walked to the zócalo to catch the bus, we saw a man sitting underneath a big tule tree. He was old and very thin and raggedy. When he held up a dish for money, we saw that the joints of his hands were swollen and knobby like Abuelita’s. He looked sad and tired.
He probably had been there many times when we passed, but this time we really saw him. I told Eli how thankful I was that Abuelita didn’t have to sit on the street and beg, that she had her warm bed and good food. We didn’t have any money to give him, so we walked on, but Eli and I couldn’t stop thinking about him. We talked about him, and when we said our prayers, we prayed for him.
The next Sunday was fast Sunday. Eli and I said our morning prayers and began to get ready for church. Then I had an idea. I told Eli, and she liked it.
Abuelita had our breakfast ready for us, but instead of sitting down to eat, we began to put the tangerines, bananas, a beautiful mango, our empanadas, and our boiled eggs into a small bag. When Abuelita asked us what we were doing, we smiled and asked, “Please, may we take our food with us?” and she let us.
As always, before unlocking the gate of the courtyard to let us out, she kissed us both on each cheek. It’s one way she shows her love for us.
We hurried to the zócalo and looked for the sad beggar. He was there under the tule tree. When we handed him the bag of food, he looked puzzled but opened the bag. Then he saw the beautiful food, and his eyes lit up with happiness. “Gracias, muchachitas, gracias” (“Thank you, young ladies, thank you”), he said. We smiled back, then ran for the bus.
Someday we’ll pay our fast offering to el obispo as others do. Someday Abuelita will truly understand the gospel. God provides a way.

Merry Christmas, Old Armadillo Old Armadillo hadn’t heard from his friends, and now it was Christmas Eve. They came to surprise him, and when their surprise was ready, they couldn’t wake him up! You get to see what was happening on the outside of his house while watching inside, too, to see if he woke up.Larry Dane Brimner4–7 years

Gray dawn had come. Pacha, a mountain boy of Peru, went out from his thatched hut to the place where the llamas rested at night. His whistle was low, his voice gentle, “Come, llamas!”
The six long-necked, woolly animals rose slowly to their feet while Pacha explained the new day. “When the sun comes,” he told them, “we will go with Papá down the mountain—to the market fair in the valley.”
The llamas made no sound, but Pacha felt sure that they understood. As they marched in stately line from the stone-enclosed corral, he stroked their thick fur, calling each by name. “Ocle … Astro … Yana …” They were brown llamas with patches of yellowish white—all but Nubi, the smallest and youngest. Nubi was pure black.
Pacha loved them all. They were his friends, his companions. But he couldn’t help wishing that one of them was his very own. He wished it more than anything else.
A boy living farther up the mountain owned a llama. It had been given to him the day he brought his father’s string of llamas safely around a dangerous mountain landslide.
Ever since, Pacha had tried hard to think of something he might do—a deed so big and important that he would deserve a llama of his own. “I would choose you,” he whispered into the velvety ear of Nubi, the last to leave the corral. And Nubi’s small head gently nudged Pacha’s shoulder.
Outside the corral, the llamas formed a circle with their heads turned inward, waiting patiently for the loads to be tied to their backs. First Pacha and his father folded into a bunch the long, coarse hair that grew on each animal’s back. This made a soft padding for their loads, which today would be lighter. Instead of the usual dried corn and hard mountain potatoes, the woven carrying bags were filled with llama fleece.
“It is good wool. We can trade it for many things we need,” said Papá as he tied the last bag in place. Only Nubi carried no load. She was still too young.
The man and the boy now turned their faces toward the eastern sky, waiting for the sun. The wind was strong and cold! Shivering under his red and blue poncho, Pacha pulled the earflaps of his tasseled cap closer.
At last a rosy glow came up from behind the farthest snow peak. “It is time,” said Papá.
Pacha’s whistle was low, his voice gentle. “Come, llamas.”
Ocli had been chosen leader because he could pick the best way. The golden bell on his neck tinkled. Although the trail winding down the mountain was rocky and very steep, the padded hoofs of the llamas never stumbled. Pacha stayed close behind Nubi, the last in line. Papá followed.
As they descended into the valley, the air grew warmer. Wildflowers bloomed purple and yellow and crimson. Then they saw the red roofs of the town in the valley, and soon they were making their way along a narrow, turning street. Their sandals slap-slapped on the worn cobblestones, and the hoofs of the llamas swish-swished.
An automobile, its horn blaring, crowded them. But the llamas strode on in perfect order, their heads high. Even Nubi stepped with pride and dignity all the way to the market fair in the center of town.
Pacha sniffed. “Mmmm!” How good the fresh bread smelled! “Mmmm!” How delicious it tasted when his father, smiling at Pacha’s eagerness, sold some wool, then bought a loaf.
Their next stop was a fruit stall, where they bought big, yellow-orange papayas. Farther on, they added sugar cane and rock salt to their purchases, also a shepherd’s knife for shearing the llamas and a round clay cooking pot.
Now they had only enough time to get the clothing they needed: white trousers and new caps—a red one for Pacha, a white one for his father.
“We will take the rest of the wool to our friend Don Jacinto,” said Papá, “then buy our clothes at the indoor market.” He led the way down another street to a building with arches and pillars before it.
After taking as many bundles of wool as he could carry, Papá carried them into the store, saying, “Stay with the llamas, my son.”
The llamas quietly folded their legs beneath them and lay down to rest. Pacha was about to do the same, when a boy in town clothes hurried up. “Haven’t you heard?” he cried. “Foot races! They start over there!” He pointed to a nearby fountain.
The first race was for boys their size, he quickly explained, and it would start soon. As he ran off in the direction of the fountain, he called back, “The winner gets a prize! A fine prize!”
Pacha’s thoughts were awhirl! He had never run a race, but he knew that his legs were strong from climbing mountains. To win a race and a fine prize would be something big and important for him to do. At last his chance had come!
Pacha’s heart thumped with excitement. He started running to catch up with the boy.
Then suddenly he stopped. The llamas! They wouldn’t understand being left alone. Something might happen to them. He couldn’t run this race, after all. A lump too big to swallow came into his throat. He started to run again, this time back to the llamas.
All six animals stared at him with dark, sad eyes that were full of questions. Pacha spoke soothingly. “Of course I wouldn’t leave you, llamas.”
He stooped and put his arms around black Nubi. He hugged and patted each woolly animal. Even when he heard the loud boom that signaled the boys’ race, he stayed with them. The llamas, comforted, softly hummed.
A man’s deep voice spoke. “Ah, Pacha, why are you not running with the others?” It was Don Jacinto. He had come with Papá from the indoor market.
Before Pacha could explain, his father spoke. “Pacha was left in charge of the llamas. He could not leave them, not even to run a race.” To Pacha’s amazement, Papá seemed very pleased that his son wasn’t trying to win a race. Pacha’s heart felt light again.
Don Jacinto had turned to look at the wool still tied to the llamas’ backs. His eyes fell on Nubi. “A fine black one!” he exclaimed. “When you have fleece from this llama, I will pay extra.”
Pacha’s father was silent for a long moment. Then he said, “The black one now belongs to Pacha. Her fleece will be his.”
At first, Pacha couldn’t believe what his ears had heard. Nubi his? A llama of his own?
Papá turned to Pacha. “Our llamas serve us well. In return, we must take good care of them, my son. Now that I’m sure you understand this, I give you Nubi.”
It took Pacha a while to find his voice. “Gracias, Papá. Oh, gracias!” he exclaimed. He looked up at Don Jacinto and said, “When Nubi is sheared, I will bring the black fleece to you.”
It was time to start the homeward march. The sun, warm now, would set quickly. The stinging chill of the wind would return. The travelers needed to reach their mountain home before the trail darkened. Pacha’s whistle was low, his voice gentle. “Come, llamas!”
Ocli’s golden bell tinkled. The carrying bags, repacked with new possessions, swayed lightly on the animals’ backs.
Pacha, staying close to Nubi, thought over the happenings of the day. It had been a wonderful market fair, and he had learned something he would always remember: Small deeds can be as important as big ones.

You have just listened to the strains of “Come, Come, Ye Saints” (Hymns, no. 30). My first opportunity to really become acquainted with “Come, Come, Ye Saints” was in a little stone tabernacle in southern Idaho, where I grew up as a boy. Inside that little tabernacle built out of lava rock by the local members of the Church back in the late 1880s, there was a stand, a podium similar to what we have here, and then a pipe organ in the back, like this beautiful pipe organ we have here, but smaller. This was before electricity and motors, and it had a pump system. The way air got into the pipe organ was through a bellows system. Someone would sit on a stool and pump the lever at the back of the organ. It was always a great privilege to a young man to be selected to sit on that stool and pump the organ.

In that little tabernacle, when we would sing “Come, Come, Ye Saints,” I felt the spirit and power of the music would raise the roof. You could feel it because of the power, the faith, and the testimony of the members. In that little tabernacle we would have Aaronic Priesthood choruses where we’d learn to sing. It was there we would sing “A Mormon Boy.” We don’t hear that song much anymore. I wish we would. “A Mormon boy, a Mormon boy, / I am a Mormon boy. / I might be envied by a king, / For I am a Mormon boy” (Evan Stephens, in Jack M. Lyon and others, eds., Best-Loved Poems of the LDS People [1996], 296).

That made a great impression upon me. Just think of that for a moment. “I might be envied by a king.” Here’s a king with all the power, all the pomp, all the wealth the king would have. But I was beginning to learn that we held, as members of the Church, blessings, priesthood blessings, knowledge, information that the king wouldn’t know about and didn’t have. “I might be envied by a king, for I am a Mormon boy.”

He did enjoy cookies! The last time he stayed in the hospital, a nurse had asked, “What would you like?” Ryan didn’t know that she was offering him a drink, and when he’d answered, “I like cookies,” she smiled. “We’ll see what we can do about that.” She came back with two cookies in a plastic bag. Ryan had been too ill to eat them, but he’d held onto them until his stomach felt better.

May I close my testimony with a short story. A few months ago, Sister Bateman and I were touring the Japan Fukuoka Mission. The missionaries in Kumamoto introduced us to a young Japanese brother who had just joined the Church and then told us of his conversion. He was from a non-Christian background. When he met the missionaries, he was interested in the message. He liked the young men who were teaching him, but during the course of the lessons he could not understand or feel the need for a Savior. The missionaries took him through the lessons and taught him about our Heavenly Father, Christ, and the plan of salvation, but he didn’t have a witness. The missionaries wondered what they should do and decided one day to show him a film, a Church film that deals with the Atonement. It is called The Bridge. The young man saw the film and was disturbed by it, went home, and couldn’t sleep all that night, but still he didn’t have a witness.
The next morning he went to work. He worked in an optician’s shop making eyeglasses. During the course of the day, an elderly woman came in. He remembered her coming in a few weeks before. She had broken her glasses. She needed a new pair. When she had come in earlier, she didn’t have enough money and had gone away to save more in order to purchase the new glasses. As she came in that day, she again showed him her spectacles and showed him the money that she now had. He realized that she didn’t have enough yet. Then a thought came to him: I have some money. I don’t need to tell her. I can make up the difference. So he told her the money she had was adequate, took her glasses, made an appointment for her to return when he had finished making the spectacles, and sent her on her way.
She returned later. He had the glasses ready for her. He handed them to her, and she put them on. “Mimasu! Mimasu! I see. I see.” Then she began to cry. At that point, a burning sensation began to grow within his bosom and swelled within him. He said, “Wakari masu! Wakari masu! I understand. I understand.” He began to cry. Out the door he ran, looking for the missionaries. When he found them, he said, “I see! My eyes have been opened! I know that Jesus is the Son of God. I know the stone was rolled away from the tomb and on that glorious Easter morning He arose from the dead. He can make up the difference in my life when I fall short.”

It was a bright, clear morning, and I was preparing to give a bridal shower. I love giving parties—any kind, any time, any number of people. Why, then, couldn’t I shake this black heaviness that kept threatening to reduce me to tears? A recent family problem had brought my husband and me many sleepless nights and much despair, and we had been pleading with the Lord for help.
Although I had offered silent prayers all morning, I could not suppress my anguish. Past experience had taught me that a kind Heavenly Father could lift me from the depths when I was sufficiently in tune. But there was little time left before I would need to have pulled myself together to look after my guests.
Only an hour before the party, I looked up to see the Relief Society compassionate service leader coming up the path. She looked at me for a long moment and said, “I felt I needed to come see you this morning.” My first thought was that there must be some problem. I was the Relief Society president, and I knew I must take whatever time was needed.
Then Norma’s arms were around me. She held me and told me how much she loved me. This dear woman had been quietly putting her arms around sisters in need for a long time. Many had recounted their joy at having her appear miraculously when they needed her most.
Now I was encircled by her love when I needed it most. The tears I had been fighting all morning ran freely. But what had been tears of desperation and pain now turned to the sweet release that cleanses the soul and brightens the outlook.
Ten minutes later she was off down the walk, and I knew that an angel had ministered to my needs that day.

My father grew up in the small town of Monticello, Utah. When he was seven, one of his daily chores was to bring the family’s cows in from their pasture. His prized possession was his pocketknife, which he always kept with him. One day as he was riding his horse to fetch the cows, he reached into his pocket for his knife. To his dismay he realized he had lost it somewhere along the trail. He was heartbroken, but he believed what he had been taught by his father and mother: God hears and answers prayers.
He stopped his horse and slid off its bare back to the ground. There he knelt and asked Heavenly Father to help him find his pocketknife. He climbed back on his horse, turned around, and rode back down the trail. After some distance his horse stopped. Dad climbed off the horse and put his hand into the deep dust on the trail. There, buried in the dust, he found his prized pocketknife. He knew that the Lord had heard and answered his prayer.
Because he had learned to listen to and act upon the whisperings of the Spirit, my father was blessed to see the hand of the Lord on many occasions throughout his life. He witnessed many miracles. Yet when he gathered his family to teach us the gospel, he often spoke of his experience on the dusty trail in Monticello when the Lord heard and answered the prayer of a “freckle-faced seven-year-old boy.”
In his later years he told us that he had learned something else from this childhood experience. With a twinkle in his eye, he said, “I learned that God can speak to horses!”
My father’s experience as a young boy left a lasting impression on him because it was the beginning of his personal spiritual education. This was when he learned for himself that God hears prayers. This was when he began, as the Prophet Joseph Smith termed it, to learn the Spirit of God.1

In the summer of 1980, I was nearing the end of my service in the Massachusetts Boston Mission. One evening we had an appointment to teach a promising young college student about the plan of salvation.
Several times during the course of the lesson, I was almost overwhelmed as the Holy Ghost repeatedly witnessed to me that the principles we were teaching were true. I remember praying almost out loud: “I already know this. I have taught this lesson numerous times these past two years. I am grateful to feel thy Spirit, but please witness to our investigator as well!”
A short time after this evening, I met with my mission president, and he informed me that my mother had been killed in a tragic automobile accident. Naturally, this sudden loss came as a tremendous shock to my family and our entire community. But once the emotions of the moment passed and I had occasion to reflect, I recalled with perfect clarity the powerful witness of the Spirit I’d received during that plan of salvation lesson. I knew that this was the work of a loving Heavenly Father preparing me for the loss that was to come.
A day never passes that I do not miss the teaching and companionship of my mother. But a day also never passes that I am not reminded of how a loving Heavenly Father carefully prepared me for that loss.

A sister who had recently been widowed said of her visiting teachers: “They listened. They comforted me. They wept with me. And they hugged me. … [They] helped me out of the deep despair and depression of those first few months of loneliness.”3