Gospel Story Finder

Your mom asks, “Who’s been eating these cookies?” and you thought that they tasted great. You could keep quiet, but you CTR and admit that you ate some.

The parents of a young man who dies of heart failure comfort Dale G. Renlund.

José Ferrer said, “I know the Church is true. I can feel in my heart that Joseph Smith was a true prophet and that President Kimball is a prophet inspired of God. I can feel it. I know that this is Christ’s church. I believe that the youth of the Church are going to change the world. I want to go on a mission. President Kimball has told us that every young man should fulfill a mission, and I feel in my heart that it is true. I have felt a calling almost since I was baptized. These two years I owe to God. It will be beautiful to give two years of my youth so that people can hear the gospel and enjoy the gifts that I enjoy and know what I know.”
When asked if he could bear being rejected by people on his mission, he replied, “I have already borne rejection, and I’m not even a missionary yet. While there are few members, there are many young people who are always attacking the Mormons. I had many friends, but most of them rejected me because of the Church. Actually, they weren’t really friends. They were more like acquaintances. If I had not joined the Church, I would never have known the difference. It’s best to know your friends from your acquaintances.”

Eventually a branch was formed in these new members’ village, and they needed a meetinghouse. Since there was no road to the village, the members carried all of the building materials the last two kilometers up the hill to the building site.

Two mothers in my class tried this, with somewhat different results. One knew her son was upset because he had not done as well as he wanted on a school project and in a musical program for which he had to play an instrument. She found occasion to talk about how miserable she had been when she got a bad grade, feeling down on herself; but she had finally accepted the fact that she could not always be perfect. She told him she knew that he probably got some of his perfectionism from her, and she hoped he would be able to deal with mistakes better than she had. Her son listened with interest and afterward said, “Thanks, Mom, that was a real help.”

I had an experience when I was a missionary in Australia that taught me a lesson about prayer. One night my companion and I were driving home along a winding road with a deep drop-off on one side. As I turned the steering wheel for a curve, the car continued to go forward. I slammed on the brakes and was able to stop safely. Checking the steering mechanism, I found that it was broken. I drove very slowly down the hill while my companion kicked the tires in the right direction. This all happened about 9:00 P.M. Australia time, which is morning in Utah. During a family prayer about the same time, my four-year-old sister asked the Lord to bless me. This showed me that the Lord really hears the prayers of little children.

In the days that followed, I thought constantly about the proclamation. When the conference magazine finally came, I read the proclamation over and over again. I pondered and prayed. I wanted to so thoroughly digest its words that they would become an indelible part of my being. That’s when I felt impressed to memorize the proclamation. It would not be easy. I was in my mid-40s, and memorizing was not nearly as easy as it once had been. But again and again I felt the prompting: “Memorize the proclamation. Memorize the proclamation! MEMORIZE THE PROCLAMATION!”
I took a copy of the proclamation with me wherever I went. I memorized while shaving. I memorized while walking to the university. I memorized while exercising. The last words on my mind before retiring and the first words in my mind upon arising were the words of the proclamation. No miracle aided my memorizing, and my progress was painstakingly slow. But after about a month I could repeat the whole proclamation.
Now that I had it, I wanted to keep it. So I would recite the proclamation several times each day during morning exercise and stretching. As I did, it seemed as if the Spirit highlighted certain words or sentences. I would linger on these passages, and they, in turn, would prompt impressions that would bless my family and me.

Perhaps an example would be helpful. Procrastination is truly a thief of time—especially when it comes to downright hard work. I speak of the need to study diligently as you prepare for the tests of school and, indeed, the tests of life.
I know of a university student who was so busy with the joys of student life that preparation for an exam was postponed. The night before, she realized the hour was late and the preparation was not done. She rationalized, “Now what is more important—my health, which requires that I must sleep, or the drudgery of study?” Well, you can probably guess the outcome. Sleep won, study failed, and the test was a personal disaster. Work we must.

Dad doesn’t care much for my drawings. “Waste of time,” he calls it. I try to leave sketching until he’s not around, but it doesn’t always work out too well. Like the other day. I was sure he was down the bottom field fixing fences. I’d noticed a bunch of tiny pansies poking bravely through cracks in the concrete by our goat shed and waited my chance to copy their soft power.
It was a gentle spring morning. Scents of dew-covered grass mingled with fresh hay. Even the whiff of goat skin added a satisfying flavour to the feel of the day.
I was just relaxing, content, penciling in the lines of shape and shadow, when Dad’s furious roar sent my papers flying.
“Can’t I leave you alone for ten minutes without you letting me down?” His muddy boot slammed into the upturned page. “Now get up. If you’ve no jobs to do and your schoolwork’s finished, then at least turn your hand to something useful. This’ll get you nowhere!”
I sensed his frustration. I don’t fit his image of a son.
Picking up the ruined work, I headed slowly for my room. My thoughts were not worthy ones. It’s all very well learning how to handle these situations in church, but when it comes to real life—first it’s hard recognising the feelings I should be having, and when I do, then it’s even harder to make them happen. Wonder if anyone else has this problem? I mean, whoever wants to feel friendly and loving when someone’s shooting rotten thoughts back at you? There must be some secret to it. Trouble is, I’m not sure I really want to find it.
I’m not even sure I really want to stay around here any longer. Maybe Mum’s brother down at Portsmouth would take me in. Mind you, sharing the Church with him could be even more difficult than with Dad. Oh well, who cares?
That was Monday. By the time Wednesday came round, I’d done some deep thinking. I’d carefully avoided conflict with Dad, three and a half quarters decided to pack my bags the following Friday (Dad’s night out at the pub), and given in to the recurring idea that I ought to attend seminary this one last time, if only to thank Teacher for the card.

One cold, wintry morning the Miske family was awakened early by their neighbors. The neighbors, sixteen elderly patients from a nearby nursing home, were without water because their water pump had broken. The Miskes shared the water from their well all day—until the well went dry that evening. Sister Miske then purchased eighteen four-liter containers of purified water and asked other Latter-day Saint neighbors to help. They gathered sixteen large water containers and filled them at the local meetinghouse. Three sisters did the patients’ necessary laundry; one sister spent nine hours washing and drying sheets.
For three days, Sister Miske transported more than a ton of water in snowy weather, with temperatures often near the freezing mark. After three and a half days, a new pump was installed at the nursing home, and things there returned to normal.
But things were not normal for the Miske family; their own well remained dry. Members of the nursing home’s staff were more than happy to help the Miskes. The nursing home provided the family with water until spring, when the well began to flow again.

From her playhouse inside the willow thicket Hannah heard her mother call, “Where are you, Hannah? I need you.”
After putting her dolls in their secret hiding place, Hannah went into the house.
“I’m glad you came so quickly, Hannah,” Mother said with a smile. “I must hurry over to Sister Hansen’s house. Would you please bring some potatoes from the root cellar so I can start supper when I come back.”
“Oh, Mother!” Hannah’s skin prickled with dread. “The cellar’s full of spiders, and today I saw a toad hop out. I don’t want to go down there.”
“Sometimes we all must do things we don’t want to do. Take your little brother with you if you like,” Mother said, putting her hand on Sammy’s shoulder.
“I’ll go with you,” Sammy said good-naturedly. And standing tall and brave, he added, “I’m not afraid of anything!”
But after their mother started down the lane, her long skirt swinging and her flowered sunbonnet bright, Sammy said, “I don’t like that old root cellar much either.”
“I’ll tell Mother if you don’t come,” scolded Hannah.
Her brother put his hands into his overall pockets defiantly and wouldn’t move. Hannah glared at him a moment and then, trying to look brave, marched toward the slanting plank door placed at ground level behind the house. She lifted the door, then closed it quickly. Just to look at the uneven steps cut into the damp earth made Hannah shudder.
Spiders and the dim light were bad enough, but yesterday she’d heard Father say to Mr. Hansen, “When we finish that irrigation ditch to my property line, I must take time to finish my root cellar. Those temporary supports propping up that dirty roof might not hold.”
If I had only remembered to tell Mother what Father said, thought Hannah, she wouldn’t want me and Sammy to go into the cellar. She turned to walk away. Then Hannah remembered how sad and weak Mother looked since the new baby died and how hard Father had to work. Hannah knew she must do her share, but she decided her brother would have to go with her whether he wanted to or not.
Hannah turned to Sammy, who had followed her. “You go down first,” she ordered.
“Not me!” he said stubbornly.
“You’re just a fraidycat!”
Sammy cried, “I am not! Dumb old toads and spiders don’t scare me.” With that, he stooped and threw open the cellar door, and his sister barely managed to stop it from banging shut again.
Hannah started down the steps behind her brother, walking backward so she could prop the door open. Then Sammy’s voice, echoing in the small enclosure, mocked, “Hannah is afraid!”
Angry, she swung around, lost her hold on the door, and it banged shut, knocking her down the steps.
Hannah rose to her knees, terrified by the darkness. If toads and spiders were near, she couldn’t even see them.
“Hannah, what happened?” cried Sammy. But she didn’t answer because she was startled at the heaviness of wet earth falling on her head and shoulders.
The roof is caving in! she thought. The door banging shut must have knocked the boards loose that Father had used as props.
Nearby she heard her little brother call, “Oh, Hannah, help! I’m all covered with dirt!”
“I’ll be there in a minute, Sammy,” Hannah promised as she groped in the dark, trying to find the door to shove it open. But her searching hands clutched at only wet dirt. The entrance was blocked. She and Sammy were trapped in the root cellar.
The darkness around them was like nothing Hannah had ever imagined. Blue-dark of night with silver starlight was nothing like this brown-dark with its loamy dankness, a blackness filled with shifting dirt particles.
Sammy was crying with loud, choking sobs. I mustn’t cry, Hannah thought, even though I’m scared too. We don’t have enough air, and my chest is beginning to hurt. She reached for her brother. When her hand touched his shoulder she struggled closer so that she could hug him.
“Don’t cry, Sammy,” she comforted. “We must try to breathe carefully so we don’t use up all the air in here.”
He gulped, “What can we do, Hannah?”
“We can pray,” she told him, and then closing her eyes Hannah began, “Heavenly Father, please help me and Sammy. We’re almost buried in this cellar and nobody’s home. Please help us get out.”
Talking hurt her throat so she said, “Amen,” silently. The air in the cellar was nearly gone.
Hannah was no longer worried about toads and spiders as she felt around the area where she and Sammy crouched. Her fingers touched a rough object. Running her hand across its surface she knew she had found a board Father had used to support the roof.
“Help me, Sammy,” she gasped. “Let’s try to poke a hole through the dirt over our heads.”
Her brother’s hands met hers. Together they grasped the splintery board, pushing it upright until Hannah felt it strike solid dirt.
“All right, Sammy. Let’s push, but be careful. We mustn’t knock any more dirt loose.”
Silent, gasping, they carefully prodded the unseen roof over their heads again and again.
Just as Sammy whispered, “I’m too tired, Hannah,” the board pushed free. They had broken through!
Sammy’s hands dropped, but Hannah, trembling, worked the board back and forth until she saw a blue circle of light. They had air, but would it be enough? There was still a tightness in her chest and Sammy, sobbing again, sounded feeble.
Hannah took a breath, then held it. “What’s that noise?” she whispered.
A steady thud thump, thud vibrated the dirt around them. Someone is outside, but Mother wouldn’t have come back from the Hansens so soon, Hannah decided.
Suddenly an opening that let in more light and air appeared near the door and a man’s voice called, “Anybody there?”
“Yes! We’re in here.”
“Are you OK?”
Hannah couldn’t answer, but the man said, “Stay calm. I’ll have you out in a minute.”
When a pair of hands appeared, Hannah somehow managed to push Sammy toward the opening where he could be pulled out. Then she felt strong fingers around her wrists, and she was pulled through the small opening made in the damp earth.
Hannah blinked in the bright, clean air as Brother Card looked down at her, a smile on his bearded face.
She stumbled to her feet beside Sammy just as Father’s horse clattered up. Jumping down, he ran to Sammy and Hannah and hugged them close. “Are you all right?” he asked anxiously.
“We are now, Father,” Hannah answered, “but we nearly smothered. The roof of the cellar caved in.”
“It’s all my fault,” Father said, rubbing his forehead. “I should have fixed that roof long ago.”
Brother Card comforted, “Now, don’t blame yourself, Joseph. Every settler in town has had more work to do than he has had time for.”
“Hannah saved us, Father,” Sammy said. “We poked a hole through the roof with a board.”
“That’s what I saw when I came by, which was a mighty strange thing for me to do,” Brother Card explained. “I haven’t crossed your property in the two years we’ve been neighbors, Joseph. I wasn’t going to this afternoon either. But for some reason my feet turned this way. First thing you know I saw that board sticking through the ground, waving like a signal. I guess the Lord guided me here.”
Sammy and Hannah smiled at each other. “Brother Card, we know He did,” Hannah said quietly.

My big brother and I were sealed to our parents in the Provo Utah Temple. We drove for a long time to get there. When we went into the temple, Grandma Lee, who serves at the temple, and another nice lady took my brother and me to a special room. We listened to stories, had cookies and punch, and watched a movie about temples. Then we dressed in white clothes—I even wore a little white tie. The nice lady took us to the room where our parents and other family members were. When we were sealed to each other there, I felt happy. I know that our family will be together forever if we keep the commandments.

Rising above the Jezreel Valley in lower Galilee, Mount Tabor, may have been the site of the transfiguration of Christ. It fits Matthew’s description of a “high mountain apart.” (See Matt. 17:1–2.)
Following a 1979 visit to the mountain, President Spencer W. Kimball said, “I feel this might have been the spot where Jesus had taken his three disciples, Peter, James, and John, to this high mountain apart, and there had given certain blessings.”

In the words of a well-known song, I wish you could “come fly with me” to eastern Germany, where I visited many times. Not long ago, as I traveled along the autobahns, I reflected on a time almost 35 years before when I saw on the same autobahns just trucks carrying armed soldiers and policemen. Barking dogs everywhere strained on their leashes, and informers walked the streets. Back then, the flame of freedom had flickered and burned low. A wall of shame sprang up, and a curtain of iron came down. Hope was all but snuffed out. Life, precious life, continued on in faith, nothing wavering. Patient waiting was required. An abiding trust in God marked the life of each Latter-day Saint.
When I made my initial visit beyond the wall, it was a time of fear on the part of our members as they struggled in the performance of their duties. I found the dullness of despair on the faces of many passersby but a bright and beautiful expression of love emanating from our members. In Görlitz the building in which we met was shell-pocked from the war, but the interior reflected the tender care of our leaders in bringing brightness and cleanliness to an otherwise shabby and grimy structure. The Church had survived both a world war and the cold war which followed. The singing of the Saints brightened every soul. They sang the old Sunday School favorite:
If the way be full of trial; Weary not!
If it’s one of sore denial, Weary not!
If it now be one of weeping,
There will come a joyous greeting,
When the harvest we are reaping—Weary not!
Do not weary by the way,
Whatever be thy lot;
There awaits a brighter day
To all, to all who weary not!
I was touched by their sincerity. I was humbled by their poverty. They had so little. My heart filled with sorrow because they had no patriarch. They had no wards or stakes—just branches. They could not receive temple blessings—neither endowment nor sealing. No official visitor had come from Church headquarters in a long time. The members were forbidden to leave the country. Yet they trusted in the Lord with all their hearts, and they leaned not to their own understanding. In all their ways they acknowledged Him, and He directed their paths. I stood at the pulpit, and with tear-filled eyes and a voice choked with emotion, I made a promise to the people: “If you will remain true and faithful to the commandments of God, every blessing any member of the Church enjoys in any other country will be yours.”
That night as I realized what I had promised, I dropped to my knees and prayed: “Heavenly Father, I’m on Thy errand; this is Thy Church. I have spoken words that came not from me, but from Thee and Thy Son. Wilt Thou, therefore, fulfill the promise in the lives of this noble people.” There coursed through my mind the words from the psalm, “Be still, and know that I am God.” The heavenly virtue of patience was required.
Little by little the promise was fulfilled. First, patriarchs were ordained, then lesson manuals produced. Wards were formed and stakes created. Chapels and stake centers were begun, completed, and dedicated. Then, miracle of miracles, a holy temple of God was permitted, designed, constructed, and dedicated. Finally, after an absence of 50 years, approval was granted for full-time missionaries to enter the nation and for local youth to serve elsewhere in the world. Then, like the wall of Jericho, the Berlin Wall crumbled, and freedom, with its attendant responsibilities, returned.
All of the parts of the precious promise of almost 35 years earlier were fulfilled, save one. Tiny Görlitz, where the promise had been given, still had no chapel of its own. Now, even that dream became a reality. The building was approved and completed. Dedication day dawned. Sister Monson and I, along with Elder and Sister Dieter Uchtdorf, held a meeting of dedication in Görlitz. The same songs were sung as were rendered all those years earlier. The members knew the significance of the occasion, marking the total fulfillment of the promise. They wept as they sang. The song of the righteous was indeed a prayer unto the Lord and had been answered with a blessing upon their heads.
At the conclusion of the meeting we were reluctant to leave. As we did so, seen were the waving hands of all, heard were the words, “Auf Wiedersehen, auf Wiedersehen; God be with you till we meet again.”

When Grandpa came to Utah,
It wasn’t on a train;
It wasn’t on a great big bus;
It wasn’t on a plane.
He walked across the prairies
Or sometimes rode a horse.
And when he felt discouraged,
He sang a song, of course.
But when they got to Utah,
They made the valleys ring!
And even now the mountains
Still echo what they’d sing.
Just listen to their voices,
And hear the truth they tell.
Obey our Heavenly Father,
And know that all is well.

I had prayed strongly for a missionary experience ever since my first year at girls’ camp. Each young woman was given a Book of Mormon to write our testimonies in and was encouraged to pray for a missionary experience. For four years, I looked to give someone my Book of Mormon.
One Sunday as we set up for Young Women, my leader asked me if I would befriend her niece who was coming from Texas to visit for the summer. I didn’t know what to do, so I did just what she asked me to. I started being a friend. After a while, I forgot about giving away my Book of Mormon. I had a new friend. The more I got to know Gianna, the better friends we became. It wasn’t long until we started discussing our different religions. The more questions she asked, the more I wanted to share. I found myself turning to the scriptures all of the time. I could tell the things I read were truly words from God.
I started getting more out of the scriptures. Not only were those questions helping Gianna, they were also helping me to gain a stronger testimony of truths I’d grown up with. It wasn’t just my scripture reading that improved, I also had more meaningful prayers. I prayed fervently to find the answers, and be the friend she needed. As a result, I came closer to my Heavenly Father.
I never had to send in mission papers. I never had to go tracting or teach any lessons. Nobody even accepted the offer of the Book of Mormon. But I think I had one of the best missionary experiences anyone could have. Like many missionaries, I was strengthened in the gospel as I tried to share it. I became closer to Heavenly Father and learned to study the scriptures as I tried to answer questions. I came to appreciate people of other faiths. Best of all, I gained a friend I will always love while sharing the dearest thing to my heart.

When Elder Nathaniel Johnson completed his full-time mission, he reflected on the prior two years—the work he did, the people he blessed, and the way he had grown. He was assigned to serve in one of 124 bishops’ storehouses operated by the Church worldwide. He unloaded trucks, stocked shelves, and kept the storehouse clean.
For him, the most meaningful experiences were helping patrons fill orders for sorely needed food and commodities. He said, “I was basically bringing the light of Christ into other people’s lives so they could know they are part of Heavenly Father’s plan.”
On hectic days during the COVID-19 pandemic, patrons lined up around the block and the storehouse was open for 10 hours a day. “I learned that when the Lord is with us, we’ll be able to do anything and get through any challenge,”1 he observed.

s I was leaving a department store one day, I found a wad of cash on the ground next to our car. I grabbed it and showed my mom. We counted the money. It was about $480.
I thought of all the things I could get with that much money. However, I thought someone must really need it.
We decided to go back into the store and ask the workers to announce the license plate number of the car next to ours over the loudspeaker. Eventually a lady with small kids came to the front of the store. My mom asked her if she’d lost anything. The lady quickly checked her pockets and said she’d apparently lost some money—nearly $500. She seemed very distressed. My mom handed her the stack of cash. The lady was so thankful and wanted to know where it was found, so my mom explained that I had found it on the ground near her car door. The lady was so thankful to me for being honest that she wanted to give me $20.
It would’ve been nice to have the $20, but I felt good about letting her keep it. In For the Strength of Youth it says, “Be honest with yourself, others, and God at all times” ([2011], 19). That means to choose not to lie, steal, cheat, or deceive in any way. It also says, “When you are honest, you build strength of character that will allow you to be of great service to God and others” (19). Being honest made me feel good; I’m glad Iwas able to help this woman.

Nathan ate his breakfast and smiled. Mother kept thanking Heavenly Father. She thanked Him for morning, for sunshine, for a blue sky.
“Mother, you thanked Heavenly Father three times!” he giggled.
“Three times? No wonder I’m happy. Thanking Heavenly Father for His gifts makes me very happy!”
Nathan stared at Mother. Her eyes sparkled; her lips curved up. She was happy! “I want to be happy, too!” he cried.
“Thank Heavenly Father, and you will be happy!” Mother told him.
“OK.” Nathan thanked Heavenly Father for the birds he heard chirping in the bush near the kitchen window. He smiled. Mother was right! Thanking Heavenly Father did make him happy!
The rest of the morning he thanked Heavenly Father for many things: the backyard with the swing in it; the apple tree that had pretty white blossoms now, and later would have good apples; Grandma’s dog, Lady; kittens and fish; the moon and stars; his playmates, Tom and Chris; and his new bike. Nathan was very, very happy!
At noon Mother said, “Lunchtime, happy Nathan!”
Nathan laughed. He was happy! He was hungry, too. And when he bowed his head to thank Heavenly Father for the good food, Nathan also said, “And I thank Thee for making me happy!”

Temple blessings help heal a family whose deceased son’s heart was donated.