Gospel Story Finder

The pair of old skates had hung on the basement wall for as long as I could remember. When my brother Duncan told me they were Dad’s, I couldn’t believe him.
“You mean Dad?” I asked. “Our father. He skates?” Duncan nodded.
Dad just wasn’t the athletic type. On Saturdays, while the other kids’ fathers played ball or dressed in Argyle sweaters and went off to golf, my dad returned his overdue library books. Most fathers went fishing or dug in a garden in their spare hours; my dad read about the Roman Empire and the last days of Pompeii.
He loved books. He knew the date of every battle in British history. He knew how to conjugate French verbs and could mentally add up my math problems in seconds. He was a hero to the neighborhood kids when they needed help with their Latin or physics, but all his gray matter did little good when we needed an outfielder on Saturday mornings.
When the first signs of winter came to Ottawa, Canada, I waited anxiously for Dow’s Lake to freeze over. My brothers, sisters, and I would go down into the basement and drag out skates, scarves, and gloves in anticipation of the first skate of the season.
When I awoke one winter morning there were frosty patterns on the windowpane and a tingle in the air. I knew instinctively that the first day of skating had arrived. But I was not at all prepared for the announcement made at the breakfast table.
“I’m going skating with you kids this morning,” my father said.
“But Dad,” said my sister Eleanor, thinking quickly, “I thought you had to return library books. You have an overdue notice on your desk.”
“Figure eights,” he said, ignoring her remark. “I’m going to show you kids how to do the best figure eights this side of Lake Placid.” With that he stood up and headed for the basement.
We all looked at one another nervously. I thought of our friends and what they would say when they saw Dad dressed in a dark business suit out there on the ice. Dad always wore a suit and tie even on picnics.
When he appeared with his tube skates polished and thrown jauntily over his shoulder, I breathed a little easier. He had found an old rain coat that covered his suit. He did, however, have on ugly red ear muffs and a bowler hat.
We met Duncan’s friend Arnie halfway there. Arnie’s favorite subject was his father’s great athletic prowess. To hear him talk, you’d think his dad was Joe Montana, Michael Jordan, and Arnold Schwarzenegger rolled up into one man. He was telling us how his father had played for the Montreal Canadians (a claim never proven), when he caught sight of my dad’s skates. “You mean your dad’s going skating?” he snickered to Duncan.
“Yeah,” Dunc nervously answered. “Going to show us some figure eights.”
“Hope you brought along a stretcher,” Arnie needled.
Dad was walking several paces ahead of us, whistling nonchalantly. Dunc, loyal but worried, just stared straight ahead.
When we arrived at the lake most of our friends were already there. While Arnie spread the news of my father’s intentions, Dad quietly put on his skates, leaning on one of the high snow banks around the edge of the ice. Within a minute he was ready.
Dunc diverted the attention of his friends so they wouldn’t see the disaster about to happen. My ankles were always a little weak so I wobbled as I started out on the ice. Just then a figure glided by me, taking long smooth strides. I admired the ease and grace with which he moved. With shock I recognized the rain coat and red ear muffs. It was Dad! His hands were clasped tightly behind him, head down in top Olympic racing style. He glided over the ice so smoothly you could hardly hear the cut of his skates on the ice.
Dunc was racing behind him, trying to keep up. My sisters were screaming from the sidelines, “Look at Dad! Look at Dad!”
We all held our breath as suddenly he began to go into the long, graceful circles of a figure eight. Our friends applauded as Dad modestly demonstrated his technique.
Later, when we walked home, a soft snow began to fall. Our friends were trailing behind. One yelled at Dad, “Hey, Mr. Johnson, you want to play for our hockey team?”
Dunc walked beside him, trying to keep up. “Hey Dad,” he said hesitatingly. “Do you want to try the ski jump tomorrow?”
Arnie came up to Dunc, panting from the exertion of the skate. Arnie nudged my brother and chortled, “You should have seen my dad skate at the Olympics.”
Dunc rolled his eyes.

Special Day
Today is your special day.
You put your white dress on.
You feel the water go through your hair.
And the Holy Ghost is there.
Taysja R., age 9, Utah

At work on 30 December 1999, I was thinking about the members of the Jardim Paineiras Ward, where I serve as elders quorum president. I wondered how I could help the brethren in my quorum grow in the kingdom of the Lord. Then the idea flowed into my mind to ask the brethren to feed the Lord’s sheep.
On 31 December 1999, I found at my door the January 2000 issue of the Liahona (Portuguese). One of the first talks in this general conference issue was “Feed My Sheep” by Elder Ben B. Banks of the Presidency of the Seventy. I immediately realized how blessed we are to have the Holy Ghost to guide us. I was able to read parts of the talk to the brethren in elders quorum meeting. I asked them to read it carefully at home and to think about this subject. I am very grateful for the blessings I receive when I seek the help of the Lord.
Fernando J. Calderari,Jardim Paineiras Ward, Juiz de Fora Brazil Stake

Association with other LDS students offers a vital support system. Harvard University sophomore Mary Carol Jones located three other LDS students when she arrived on campus her first year. The four of them came up with a creative way to support each other. Each morning they rolled out of bed early enough to spend an hour jogging through campus before classes. Not only did they exercise physically, but spiritually too. They took with them their scripture mastery cards from seminary and memorized them together, reciting in between breaths.

Later, as President of the Church, he dedicated the place where the Laie Hawaii Temple was built.

“It’s a bit like sprouting a seed. Sister Christensen and I have a little plot of ground where we plant corn, and we’ve discovered that if we sprout it before we plant it, it comes up faster. In some ways, this is the setting where the seed is sprouted. So when missionaries leave here they should be ready to be put in the fertile soil of their missions. The mission president and his wife will receive them and put them in that fertile soil. and they’ll grow very well and very rapidly. We don’t claim that we do everything here. A lot occurs m the mission field. We don’t have them very long. But if we can get them in the right environment where they literally start to sprout, they’ll grow very well when they get out there.”

I have a testimony that the things the bishop asks us to do will help us in our lives. The bishop asked the Primary kids this year to memorize the articles of faith. I memorized all of them. Later I was on the bus with my friend, and the conversation popped up about our beliefs. I told her that I read the Book of Mormon, and I didn’t really know what to say after that. And then the eighth article of faith popped in my head, and I recited it.
Allison H., age 9, Illinois, USA

Now that the temple is nearby, it will be more accessible. We might even go once a week instead of once a year. In order to go, I may need to decline some hanging out with friends, maybe some birthday parties, or simply relaxing. But attending the temple will help me feel the Spirit and the love that Heavenly Father has for me.
Andrea G., 12, Lazio, Italy

“I asked my seminary teacher this question. He said, ‘Just be kind, Jordan. You’re already doing the right thing.’ Initially, I thought, ‘Just being kind isn’t enough.’ But then I thought about my friend who needed my friendship and example. The Spirit helped me to be kind and know what to say. Now, she wants to be baptized someday!”

Jordan S., 17, Utah, USA

In Utah, youth of the St. George 16th Ward participated in an “MTC night,” where everyone was assigned to a “mission” and a room where a returned missionary shared experiences from that particular mission.

Soon after he was ordained a deacon, his father took him to his first stake priesthood meeting. To open the meeting, the men sang a wonderful song about the Prophet Joseph Smith: “Praise to the Man” (Hymns, no. 27). Of that experience, President Hinckley said: “Something happened within me as I heard those men of faith sing. It touched my heart. … I felt a great moving power, both emotional and spiritual. I had never had it previously in terms of any Church experience. There came into my heart a conviction that the man of whom they sang was really a prophet of God. I knew then, by the power of the Holy Ghost, that Joseph Smith was indeed a prophet of God.” That feeling never left him, and throughout his life, Gordon B. Hinckley has borne a powerful testimony of our first latter-day prophet, Joseph Smith.

In a village in South America a group of visitors observed descendants of the Incas using pieces of broken glass and tin can lids to shear their sheep. The visitors invited some of the local leaders to join with them in the center of the village for a demonstration of metal shears. The villagers discovered with interest that with the new tool they could shear ten times as many sheep in the same amount of time. They bartered for some of these shears and have used them since. Effective teaching brought significant changes.

Moroni 10:4–5 is my favorite scripture because I know that if I have any question or doubt, I can ask God, and I know He’ll respond. Earlier this year, when I wanted to know for myself if the Church is true, I prayed and asked. I can’t explain the feeling of peace I had, but I began to cry because I was so happy.
Lady D., 14, Lima, Peru

Later, Rodney and Randy and Chris returned to the restoration site to witness the baptism they had helped prepare for. Matt McDevitt of the Honesdale Branch was being baptized. A small group of Saints from his branch accompanied him to share the happy moment. They walked carefully down the newly widened path and gathered at the riverside.

The day had begun with rain, and the clouds sullenly refused to break. They didn’t exactly roll back now. They did seem to grow a little lighter, though, and a thin wash of sunshine turned the water from dull lead to a pale silver. There was a hymn, a prayer, two brief talks, and then Matt was lead into the Susquehanna by his brother Mark. They stood in silence a moment under the leaves of overhanging trees as Mark raised his right arm to the square. The calm water near the shore reflected them in splashes of white as he said the simple, powerful words. Then he laid his brother gently beneath the cleansing ripples. For a moment the Susquehanna flowed over him—157 years downstream from the day when a being of light acknowledged two searching young men as his fellow servants.

Afterward, they climbed up to the restoration monument, where one having authority conferred the gift of the Holy Ghost on Matt, offering also a few heartfelt words of blessing and counsel in the name of the Savior.

The three young men from the Montrose Branch stood quietly on the fringes of the group. Most of the baptismal party didn’t even know of the work they had done. They were just three Saints sharing in the joy of living downstream from a day of glory.

I am grateful for the Liahona (Portuguese). Every Monday I hold family home evening with my six-year-old daughter. We have a hymn, a prayer, a thought from the Book of Mormon, and a story from The Friend. When I finish reading the story, my daughter explains it, and I marvel at her understanding. I know the Liahona is helping in her spiritual progress.
Erica Maria Silva Moreira,José Walter Second Ward, Fortaleza Brazil South Stake

I gave a lesson about language in Mutual. I think that it’s working, at least with one of my good friends. We first have to set the example. We can pray for our friends and have the courage to tell them at the right time, “Please do not speak with bad words. I challenge you not to say rude things today.”
Dante C., 19, Puebla, Mexico

When I was 16, I had the opportunity to attend general conference in person for the first time. My family was living in western Oregon, USA, and we drove to Utah to attend conference and to drop off my older brother at the missionary training center.
I went to the conference with a desire to be taught by the Holy Ghost. As a result, I received a manifestation from the Spirit that I probably would not have received had I not prepared myself.
During one of the sessions, everyone stood and sang the congregational hymn, “Guide Us, O Thou Great Jehovah.” As we sang, I had the distinct impression to look around the Conference Center. I did and was struck by the power of the unity of the thousands of people there as we all raised our voices in praise to God.
Then I had an experience where I felt like Nephi when he saw the vision of the tree of life, for the Spirit told me, “Look” (see 1 Nephi 11–14). I looked at President Thomas S. Monson and felt that the unity of the Church existed because we are led by a living prophet. Through the witness of the Holy Spirit, I know President Monson is the true prophet for our day, and I know that Jesus Christ leads this Church through him.

Eleven years later, in November 1991, I was sitting in my office at work and suddenly felt a strong feeling of peace and love. The impression came to me that someone had died, but I could not think of who it might be. I called my wife, Susan, at home and asked if everything was all right. She reassured me, but I still felt the same way.
That evening, I felt impressed to pick up one of my journals. I turned to the pages where I had recorded my experiences in Ormoc. As I read, the Spirit grew stronger and tears came into my eyes. I thought of the wonderful people I had seen embrace the gospel there. Could it be that these strong feelings of comfort were related to my Ormoc experience?
Later that month I read of a devastating typhoon that had hit Ormoc. Twenty-two members of the Church had died in the flooding. Among them were Brother and Sister Ygonia and their grandson Allan. I also saw the names of other people I had known while serving in Ormoc. Again the familiar warmth and peace of the Comforter entered my heart, and I understood why I had felt its influence earlier.
While I grieved over their deaths, I knew they had returned to our Heavenly Father’s presence, where they continue in the work they began here on earth.

Kelly stepped back from the easel. Something was not quite right about that lower limb of the tree—there! A tiny swirl of brown paint added the knot that had been missing from her painting. Now it was perfect.
“Kelly!” her mother’s voice came through the screen door. “You were supposed to watch Steve while I was at the grocery store. Instead you are painting again. Do you have any idea where your little brother is?”
“He’s probably around at the side of the house,” Kelly answered, putting down her paint box. “I’ll go get him.” She couldn’t understand why her mother worried so. Steve was a handful, but even Mom didn’t watch him every minute. What’s wrong with painting a picture and watching Steve at the same time? she wondered. I only have two more days before the school art contest.
“I’m going to China!” Steve announced proudly from where he was digging.
Kelly groaned. “Oh, no! Did you have to start your trip by going through Mom’s flower bed?”
The smile faded from her little brother’s face. He didn’t know what he had done wrong but he could see Kelly was unhappy with him. “I’ll buy you a present when I get there,” he promised. “I have lots of money.” He put a muddy hand into his pocket and pulled out a nickel and a penny.
Kelly had to smile in spite of the fact that she knew her mother would scold her about the flower bed. “That’s nice, honey, thank you,” she said. “But what will Mom say?”
“I’ll buy her a present, too,” Steve said with a bright smile.
“Do you think any present you could buy would be as nice as the flowers you spoiled when you dug that hole?” Kelly asked.
Steve’s mouth dropped open with surprise. Then he looked down at the ruined flower bed. “They’re not all dead are they?” his eyes and voice pleaded. Tears hung from his lower lashes.
“Well, maybe not. Maybe we can save some of them,” Kelly answered. She picked up the spoon Steve had been using as a shovel and started scooping dirt back into the hole. She picked up the wilted flowers and gently shook the dirt from them. Some of the plants were broken or missing roots but Kelly replanted them all, hoping that at least a few would take hold and start growing again.
“That should do it,” she said as Steve flattened a lump of dirt.
“Maybe the flowers would like a drink of water,” he suggested.
“Oh no!” said Kelly. “They don’t need a drink right now. Let’s go get you cleaned up for supper.”
It was a quiet meal except for Steve’s excited chatter. Mom was still upset because Kelly had been painting instead of watching Steve. Dad was tired because he had worked hard at the welfare farm since six o’clock that morning. Kelly was wrapped up in her own thoughts about the school art contest. I hope I’ll win the prize. It would be great to have a complete set of oil paints, she thought.
“Is that party at the ward tonight?” Dad asked Mom.
“Yes, it starts at eight o’clock,” Mom answered, “and I’ve asked Kelly to watch Steve.”
Kelly felt her mother’s eyes on her. “I’ll take good care of him,” she promised. “I’ll read to him from his storybooks.” Then turning to her little brother, she asked, “Would you like that, Steve?”
Her brother’s head bobbed up and down. He gulped the last of his milk and climbed down from his chair. He raced from the room and came back holding a tattered book. When Mom and Dad left later that evening Kelly and Steve were sitting on the sofa. Their heads were close together so that Steve could “read” the pictures in his book while Kelly read the words.
Later, Kelly closed the book and her little brother sat back with a happy sigh.
“That was a good story,” he said and pleaded, “ ’Nother one?”
Kelly looked up at the clock and saw that it was eight thirty. “Well, just one more, if it’s a short one,” she answered.
Steve ran to his room for another book. While waiting for him to return, Kelly remembered her painting was still outside where she had left it that afternoon. Funny, she thought, bringing it into the kitchen, in this light the green on that side of the tree doesn’t look dark enough. The sun must have been in my eyes.
Kelly rinsed her brush and began to touch up the green of the leaves. She became absorbed in her work, until the sound of their old chiming clock caused her to look up. “Is it nine o’clock already?” she gasped. “Steve went to his room half an hour ago to get another book!”
Kelly hurried to Steve’s room but there was no sign of her brother. She checked all through the house, but he was nowhere in sight.
An icy feeling crept over Kelly. He must have gone outside, she thought. But where would he go? “Mom isn’t going to care about my winning the prize if I let anything happen to Steve,” she muttered to herself, “and I wouldn’t care very much about it either.”
Kelly skidded to a stop. I’ll bet he’s back in that flower bed, she decided. Steve was afraid the flowers would be thirsty.
She found her brother in the flower garden. Dad’s flashlight was lying on the ground and Steve had a cup in his hands. He was giving water to the drooping plants. The dirt in the flower bed was soaking wet and Steve had mud up to his knees. But Kelly didn’t care about that when she picked him up and hugged him.
“I ought to spank you,” she scolded. “And Mom ought to spank me. But oh, I’m glad you’re all right!”
Steve squirmed to get out of her arms. “I was just giving the flowers a drink. Let me down, please. They’re still thirsty.”
“No, they’re not thirsty anymore,” Kelly said. “They’re tired, just like you. Let’s go inside so the flowers can sleep. And I can give you a bath.”
They went to the back door so they could wipe their muddy feet on the porch mat before going inside. On the way through the kitchen Steve stopped to look at Kelly’s painting.
“That’s the tree in our backyard!” he shouted with surprise. “It’s beautiful!”
Kelly was pleased. “Do you really like it?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,” Steve answered. “I wish it was mine.”
There will be other art contests, Kelly thought, and I can always paint another picture. But I’ll never have a sweeter brother than Steve.
“Tell you what,” she said. “You take a bath and let me tuck you into bed and I’ll give you this picture.”
“To keep?” asked Steve.
“To keep,” Kelly answered with a loving smile.

That night at dinner—
There’s this new kid at school who’s always teasing people and trying to get their attention. Nobody likes him.
Does he have any friends?
No. He bugs people too much.
Remember when you were new at school and felt lonely at first? Maybe he’s trying to make friends but just doesn’t know how.
I know! Maybe we can include him in our games at recess. I’ll ask Franco to help too.
He knows what it’s like to be left out.
I’ll bet that meatball’s feeling left out too.
Not for long! Come here, little guy.