Gospel Story Finder

Elder Cassity shares his responsibilities in the class with Elder Paul Hansen, who has also been serving for three years. Elder Hansen also has mental and physical disabilities, but he manages to make it to class to set up chairs and distribute hymnbooks long before anyone else gets there. His mom, Janeen, says, “He felt really bad, because he’s always wanted to go on a mission, but it wasn’t right, and this was right.” Alma Harris, who teaches the class, says that as the time approached for Elders Cassity and Hansen to be released from their two-year missions, they wanted to remain in their callings, and he still needed their help.

Elders Hansen and Cassity have various responsibilities each week in the class, including bringing refreshments, setting up chairs, and giving an occasional talk. But their most important duty is preparing their stake’s future missionaries.

According to Elder Hansen’s mother, it’s a real blessing for her son to be able to say, “I’ve gone on my mission. I think that’s important to every boy. It doesn’t matter what kind of mission you go on. What matters is that you’re serving the Lord.”

When I was three, my Uncle Jim was serving a mission. Uncle Jim was impressive to me. He was two meters tall and a good man. I wanted to be just like him.
I decided I would serve a mission so I could be like Uncle Jim. There was never a question in my mind about serving a mission after that. And that single decision had a great impact on my life. Once I knew the direction I was headed in, I took advantage of opportunities that came along to help me prepare myself. With a future mission in mind, I had a greater desire to learn the gospel throughout my Primary years and my youth, and I enjoyed many experiences that helped me prepare.
My grandfathers served missions at a time in Church history when not all young men were urged to do so. That has always impressed me and made me proud of my heritage. My whole family was interested in missionary work. When I was very young, my parents helped instill in me a desire to serve a mission, and other people helped me toward that goal as I grew up.

I walked into the house, exhausted. It had been a long day, and I was starving. I sat at the table while my mom made dinner, telling her everything I had done that day. All of a sudden my little sister, Cherri, was at my side. She twisted her hands together nervously and didn’t quite look at me.
“What happened?” I asked, not feeling very sympathetic.
“You know your pearl necklace?” she replied in a small voice. “Well, I was playing with it, and it broke.”
A million thoughts raced through my head. How many times had I told her not to play in my room or with my things? The necklace was hardly important, but that was beside the point. She had ignored my warnings one too many times.
Somehow I managed to bite my tongue, and an exasperated sigh escaped my lips. “Come on, show me where it is,” I said.
She took my hand and led me to my room. Pearls littered the floor, which wasn’t exactly clean to begin with.
“What have I told you about playing in my room, Cherri?”
“Not to,” she mumbled.
“Okay, then, why did you?” I pressed.
She just shrugged her little shoulders and looked at the floor. “I’m really sorry,” she said.
“Help me clean them up, and don’t play in here again,” I said. She did so and left the room, and I put the incident behind me.
The next day, I came home to an ecstatic Cherri. She grabbed my hand, jumping up and down. “I have something for you!” she said. “Sit here on the couch and I’ll be right back.”
She raced downstairs and returned a few minutes later cradling something in her hands. “Here, I made it for you all by myself,” she said proudly. “Mom didn’t even help me at all!”
She held out her little arms so I could see what she had made. Laying in her hands was a scrap of frayed black ribbon strung with meticulously arranged yellow and white plastic beads.
“It’s a necklace!” she said, jumping up and down again. “I made it for you because I broke your other one. Do you like it?”
I smiled. The necklace was a bit tacky, and yet it was beautiful. “Yes, Cherri, I love it.” I put it on and wore it the rest of the day to show my appreciation. I was so glad that I hadn’t yelled at my sister in anger and made her feel like I didn’t love her.
I kept her little token of restitution in my drawer, a constant reminder that a pearl necklace could never be as special or beautiful as my frayed black ribbon with yellow and white plastic beads from a precious younger sister.

Nona recovered from measles and rheumatic fever. She lived long enough to benefit from open-heart surgery and enjoyed years of much improved health. Others spoke of her newly acquired energy. She said, “I have a Cadillac engine in a Model T frame.”
Keep your sense of humor!

You young men preparing for missions will find that the scriptures provide a vital tool. They contain the gospel that you will be going out to teach. To illustrate I’m going to share with you an experience related by a young missionary named David O. McKay.
“In 1897 I left for the mission field. On the boat taking the thirty young elders to Liverpool was a Protestant minister, and the elders soon got into a debate with him. It seems that I was spokesman for a while, and the question came up as to where Jesus was when his body was in the tomb. Now I had learned, as boys and girls learn in Sunday School, priesthood meeting, and Mutual, that Jesus went to preach to the spirits in prison, so I spoke up, using about those words. The minister took a Bible and said, ‘Where do you find that?’
“I didn’t know for the life of me where the scriptural reference was to be found, but I knew that I was right. In our group was a man from Holland who was on his way to fill a mission. He was standing by and whispered to me: ‘Peter, Peter.’ I then took the Bible, and I suppose I turned the wrong way to find the Epistle of Peter. For the life of me, I did not know where to find the text. The minister took the Bible and said: ‘My eight-year-old child knows more about the Bible than you do.’ There was so much truth in what he said that I spent the rest of the voyage becoming better acquainted with the scriptures.” (From a talk given by President David O. McKay at a priesthood missionary committee meeting.)

About a month later, my crew made another perilous medical evacuation, this time on the side of a 60-degree mountain slope under a double canopy of foliage. This meant that we had to maneuver our helicopter down through the first cover of branches and leaves and over to an opening in the lower canopy of foliage where a hoist could lower a litter for the wounded soldier. Our rotor blades were literally inches from the branches, and the rotor wash of air bouncing off the foliage made hovering critically unstable. Despite these obstacles, the mission was successful, and the crew felt it deserved special recognition. We were once again recommended for the DFC, but again it was lessened to an Air Medal.
I was furious! “Do those people know what it’s like to put your life on the line every day?” I fumed. “They must be crazy to think this kind of flying is part of normal duty!” But in the quietness of my quarters, I remembered the words of my patriarchal blessing, which reminded me that the Holy Ghost would guide me. I thought, “That’s right. The Spirit made this mission and all the other missions, as hazardous as they may have been, possible for me.” And I knew Heavenly Father had protected me. No crew members who had flown with me had ever been harmed. I realized I had a great deal to be thankful for.

Pray. When Chad, our new baby, started taking more and more of my wife’s time, I sensed a feeling of resentment. With Chad came new financial responsibilities, and the pressures on me mounted. Often I felt my wife did not understand me. The need to feel understood left me wanting to look outside our marriage for friendship and emotional support. Then I remembered the feeling I had when I took my sweet wife by the hand in the sealing room of the Boise Idaho Temple. There the Spirit of the Lord bore pure testimony to me of the sanctity of our marriage. I will never forget that moment.
I was asked once if we pray for a successful marriage. We do now. At the end of each day we kneel with our son and have family prayer. The gospel is full of tools to help a marriage. Having a strong relationship with our Heavenly Father has become the backbone of our marriage.—Scott A. Carlson

Regarding administrations, I have had occasion to administer to my own children under traumatic circumstances. One such experience occurred one night when our oldest son, Darrin, was suffering from a painful earache. He had been screaming because of the intensity of the pain; but soon after I gave him a blessing, he exhibited relief and drifted into sleep, obviously exhausted.

The next morning we took him to the pediatrician, who informed us that Darrin’s eardrum had burst in the night, relieving the pressure of serious infection and allowing him to sleep. We are astonished because we knew exactly when the break would have occurred. Because there was a genuine possibility that his hearing might have been permanently impaired, the doctor advised us to take him to an ear specialist after medication had alleviated the infection.

When we took him to a specialist a few weeks later, we were amazed that the specialist was unable to discern any problem with Darrin’s ear. He pronounced the eardrum in perfect condition, with no sign of a break. It was a powerful, sobering experience which taught us in an especially forceful way the power of the Lord and the efficacy of priesthood blessings.

Several years ago one of my favorite articles of clothing was a khaki-colored pair of cotton slacks my parents gave me one year for Christmas. I wore them almost every chance I got.
One afternoon I happened to have them on while working in the computer lab of the BYU Harold B. Lee Library with the freshman English class I taught. Sitting at the terminal, I had the misfortune of pressing my leg up against the underside of the computer table and feeling myself come into contact with something sticky. As I drew my leg slowly away from the table, I saw that my favorite pair of slacks was attached to the table by a strand of freshly deposited, pink Hubba Bubba bubble gum. It stretched, like a suspension bridge, between the blob of gum beneath the table to the blob of gum resting just above the right knee of my slacks.
In near panic I tore my slacks from the offending gum and then did my best to tear the offending gum from my slacks. I succeeded in getting most of the Hubba, but not all of the Bubba, off. There remained, firmly entrenched in the intricate cotton weave, a sticky stain of an unmistakably gray-pink about the size of a quarter.
I quickly dismissed my class and, using my briefcase as a shield to cover up the stain, hurried across campus to my car, and raced home for help. “My wife will know what to do,” I thought. “After all, she’s had a lot more experience with laundry-related emergencies than I have.” And I was right. “You’d better take them to the dry cleaner and pray he can get the gum out,” she urged. “But don’t get your hopes up.”
I followed her advice and took the slacks to the dry cleaner. I was told they would be ready in a week.
It wasn’t easy waiting. I was always reaching for the slacks that weren’t there. I worried that they had been irreversibly damaged and that modern dry-cleaning technology might not be up to the task.
At the end of the specified cleaning time I got my slacks back, miraculously minus the Hubba Bubba, with not even a hint that they had ever been in a gum fight. I was overjoyed. I had my favorite slacks—the prodigal ones—back again. Had I a fatted calf, I would have been tempted to kill it, but settled, instead, on wearing my slacks to church the next day.
After my experience with the bubble gum, I have been much more careful with my slacks, avoiding doing anything that might cause them a stain or a tear. I have taken particular care, before sitting down at any desk or table, to first check for a Hubba Bubba booby-trap. But I have found that no matter what I do to protect them, the slacks still get a little dirty—with nothing as serious as the gum, of course—but dirty nonetheless, and I have had to make sure they are cleaned regularly to keep them free from stains and looking good.

I first became interested in the lives of the relatively unknown people of the Doctrine and Covenants when I found that my fourth great-grandfather, Lyman Sherman, was among them. Lyman approached the Prophet Joseph Smith in 1835, asking for instruction. In response, Joseph Smith received section 108 of the Doctrine and Covenants [D&C 108], a short but valuable lesson to those who would serve. Lyman later became one of the Presidents of the Seventy. He died during the Missouri persecutions, before receiving word of his call to the Apostleship.1 This connection of my family to the Doctrine and Covenants led me to study other such figures in the book.

Like most mothers, I find myself continually stretching to meet the needs of my children. Watching them grow is an immeasurable joy, yet their need for love, affection, play, stories, teaching, bathing, feeding, and consoling is as constant as the ticking of the clock. In my busiest moments, I seem to have little time for self-renewal and personal peace.
Recently, while feeling consumed by constant demands, I sought relief in reading the New Testament account of Christ’s feeding of the 5,000. As the story unfolded, I saw how these scriptures related to mothering, and I was consoled in my moment of need.
At one point during His selfless ministry, the Lord learned of the brutal death of His servant John the Baptist. Jesus traveled shortly thereafter to “a desert place apart” (Matt. 14:13). But instead of finding solitude, He was met by a multitude seeking His healing and care.
Moved with compassion, Jesus postponed His moment of renewal and responded to their needs. Not only did He heal the sick, but He made sure all present were fed. Then after the multitude and His Apostles had departed, Jesus took His own leave “up into a mountain apart” (Matt. 14:23).
As I read these verses, I felt by the Spirit how much the Savior understands my trying moments. He knows the feeling of being surrounded by people in need, of having people follow Him from “out of the cities” all day and even into the night (Matt. 14:13; see also Mark 1:32–37). He experienced feeling physically spent during His earthly ministry. Surely, then, the Lord empathizes with my demanding role as a mother and is keenly aware of how my children’s outstretched arms and tearful eyes often delay my own restful intermissions.
As I basked in the impact of these verses, I pondered how Jesus, disregarding weariness and the late hour, lovingly provided a meal for His followers, putting their need for refreshment above His own. I found myself recalling times when, exhausted from caring for sick children and keeping up with a busy household, I nevertheless shuffled into the kitchen and lovingly prepared dinner for my husband. I was suddenly filled with the feeling that the Savior knew of my simple yet sometimes uneven expressions of love, and He approved of my efforts.
And then it occurred to me that Jesus was likely the last to leave the desert place. I thought to myself, He even knows what it feels like to be the last one out of the kitchen!
In retrospect, I have wondered what I was grasping for that busy day when I collapsed on the couch with my scriptures. I didn’t need physical help as much as I needed to know that the Savior understands my challenges. In poring over the scriptures, I not only reveled in the Savior’s empathy and love for the multitude, and thus for me, but I also increased my own love for Him and my empathy for His sacrifices in serving others.
My intermission had finally come, as it did for Christ when He “went up into a mountain apart to pray: and when the evening was come, he was there alone” (Matt. 14:23). I was renewed both in my work as a mother and in my desire to become more like my Savior.

Alexander Graham Bell began as a teacher of teachers of the deaf and thus became interested in the mechanics of speech. When he became professor of physiology at Boston University, he pursued the study of electrical transmission of sound in his spare time and invented the telephone. He had an original idea and devoted his free time to perfecting it. (John S. Bonnell, “Putting Purpose into Your Life,” Pageant, January ca. 1963, p. 100.)

One evening I saw large masses of parents and children crossing an intersection in Salt Lake City en route to a large arena to see a production of Beauty and the Beast. I actually pulled my car over to the curb to watch the gleeful throng. Fathers, who I am certain were cajoled into going to the event, held tightly in their hands the small and clutching hands of their precious children. Here was love in action. Here was an unspoken sermon of caring. Here was a rearrangement of time as a God-given priority.

The Arizona sun was winning the battle with the historic pioneer cabin. Beating constantly against the walls, sun rays had blistered the mud-plastered adobe until its outer covering peeled and tumbled. Tan weeds, also scorched by the heat, clustered at the foundation as if to catch the falling wounded.
Then the reinforcements arrived—Young Adults from Phoenix. They massed around the cabin, dug a hole nearby, filled it with water, and mixed in dirt. A garden hose sprayed the walls of the building and the parched surface sucked the water in. Soon the mud-splattered hands of half a dozen young ladies were smearing fresh new “plaster” on the walls, while friends with hoes evacuated weeds from the base of the structure and from trails nearby.
The restoration of the cabin was only part of a much larger activity, a service project to help the nonprofit living history museum at Pioneer Arizona. The museum, located just outside Phoenix, is actually a small town made up of buildings from the late 1800s that were once used by settlers. The sheriff’s office, bank, wagon maker’s shop, blacksmith shop, church, and other buildings there have been relocated from throughout the state or reconstructed to follow original dimensions and designs. At various times during the year, artisans will actually come and work in the shops as artisans might have in pioneer times.
But for the moment, the museum needed some help. To attract tourists, the site needed to be spruced up. Waves of withered wild grass had invaded, and unless they were hacked down, they might become ignited and engulf the valuable historical buildings in flame.
Steven Pelfrey, the regional Young Adult president, heard of the opportunity to serve, and he didn’t hesitate to volunteer on behalf of his fellow Latter-day Saints. He knew they’d pull through, and they did. Besides, he was looking for an activity to help recent high school graduates who had just come into the Young Adult program to get involved and feel the spirit of Christian service.
Now, on this Saturday morning, he could see them working side by side with the other Young Adults, as, armed with hoes, rakes, and buckets, they swarmed through the town. Kira Burch, 17, from the Tenth Ward, Phoenix Arizona West Stake, wiped her brow as she finished whacking out a stubborn weed. A one-year veteran of Young Adults, Reuben Judd, 18, of the 19th Ward, worked with some new participants hoisting buckets of mud to the top of the adobe cabin to reinforce the roof. Several of the young women, who had come dressed as pioneers, were invited by the museum director to give guided tours to tourists. The older Young Adults, perhaps remembering their own experiences in coming to activities for the first time, seemed to be going out of their way to welcome the newcomers.
“I could tell they weren’t being left out, that they were having fun,” said Kelly Pendleton, 21, of the Ninth Ward. “They were excited to see the kinds of activities Young Adults can do.”
Others agreed. Rena Davis, 17, of the 37th Ward, said, “I’ve looked forward to the activities, and I wasn’t disappointed. Everybody was happy and friendly. They talked to me and said ‘hi’ and made me feel welcome. That’s important. But I have an obligation, too. That is to participate and help make the activities successful.”
Most of the new Young Adults seemed to follow Rena’s advice. They mingled with everyone freely.
“I spent all day learning about people, finding out they have the same reaction to service and to the gospel that I do. They want to serve more and learn more. We’re all striving for the same thing,” Kira said.
Soon trail-marking rocks were aligned in regimented columns, remaining weeds had been gobbled up by marauding shovels, and the whole town reveled in its cleaned-up condition. It was time to celebrate!

For the next 20 years, President Monson took extra clothes every time he visited East Germany. His generosity blessed many people. Before one Church meeting began, he looked at a young man sitting in the congregation and said, “That’s a fine suit you have on.”
The young man replied, “It should be. It’s yours!”

Diana Borges (above in red) is the only Latter-day Saint in the private all-girls school she attends in her home town of Curitiba, Brazil. Being the only member at school can be a bit tough sometimes. But Diana has a secret weapon to keep her testimony strong and her spirits up: daily seminary attendance.
“Being together with my friends at seminary every day keeps me going,” she says. The other students in her seminary class (also above) agree. Since they all go to different schools, they cherish their time together.

When I was in high school, many of my friends started smoking. I was the only member of the Church who belonged to that group of friends. They knew that I am a member of the Church. One time they asked me why I didn’t smoke. I just smiled and humbly answered, “We know that the Bible says our body is a temple, and it is a special gift given to us. Therefore, we need to love and care for the gift given to us because it comes from God.” They responded by saying that maybe I was right and that we need to care for our bodies. I shared my testimony about the Word of Wisdom with them. If we show care for our bodies, we will be blessed with good health and knowledge. I knew because of the expressions on their faces that they believed what I had shared with them. Since that day I have seen an improvement in them. Sharing your testimony with those who struggle with smoking can help them to choose the right.
Michael T., 18, Palawan, Philippines

Adopt a horse? That’s what 16-year-old Rob Wickham of the Medford First Ward, Medford Oregon Stake, did. Rob heard a television newscast from the Bureau of Land Management about adopting wild horses, and with his parents’ approval, he applied for a horse. A year later, he was told that a horse he might like was available. Though he didn’t have to pay for the horse (since it was wild, and the BLM program was created to find a humane way to alleviate overpopulation of wild horses on public lands), Rob is solely responsible for the feeding and upkeep of the horse. This summer he’s found a job on a ranch not far from his home, and he’ll be staying at the ranch—along with his horse Blackie, a spirited friend who loves to run, follow Rob around, and who now comes when Rob whistles for him.

I remember when I was assigned to give my first talk in church. I was given the liberty to choose my subject. I’ve always liked birds, so I thought of the Seagull Monument. In preparation, I went to Temple Square and looked at the monument. First I was attracted to all the coins in the water surrounding the monument. I wondered how they would be retrieved and who would retrieve them. I shall not confess any thought of taking them.

Then I looked upward at the seagulls atop that monument. I tried in my boyish mind to imagine what it would be like to be a pioneer watching the first year’s growth of precious grain being devoured by crickets and then seeing those seagulls, with their lofty wings, descending upon the fields and eating the crickets. I loved the account. I sat down with a pencil in hand and wrote out a two-and-one-half-minute talk. I’ve never forgotten the seagulls. I’ve never forgotten the crickets. I’ve never forgotten my knees knocking together as I gave that talk. I’ve never forgotten the experience of letting some of my innermost feelings be expressed verbally at the pulpit. I would urge that we give the Aaronic Priesthood an opportunity to think, to reason, and to serve.

When I was first called as a bishop, I discovered that our record for subscriptions to the Relief Society Magazine in the Sixth-Seventh Ward had been at a low ebb. Prayerfully we analyzed the names of individuals whom we could call to be magazine representative. The inspiration dictated that Elizabeth Keachie should be given the assignment. As her bishop, I approached her with the task. She responded, “Bishop Monson, I’ll do it.”

Elizabeth Keachie was of Scottish descent, and when she replied, “I’ll do it,” one knew she indeed would. She and her sister-in-law, Helen Ivory—neither more than five feet tall—commenced to walk the ward, house by house, street by street, and block by block. The result was phenomenal. We had more subscriptions to the Relief Society Magazine than had been recorded by all the other units of the stake combined.

I congratulated Elizabeth Keachie one Sunday evening and said to her, “Your task is done.”

She replied, “Not yet, Bishop. There are two square blocks we have not yet covered.”

When she told me which blocks they were, I said, “Oh, Sister Keachie, no one lives on those blocks. They are totally industrial.”

“Just the same,” she said, “I’ll feel better if Nell and I go and check them ourselves.”

On a rainy day she and Nell covered those final two blocks. On the first one she found no home, nor did she on the second. She and Sister Ivory paused, however, at a driveway which was muddy from a recent storm. Sister Keachie gazed about 100 feet (30 m) down the driveway, which was adjacent to a machine shop, and there noticed a garage. This was not a normal garage, however, in that there was a curtain at the window.

She turned to her companion and said, “Nell, shall we go and investigate?”

The two sweet sisters then walked down the muddy driveway 40 feet (12 m) to a point where the entire view of the garage could be seen. Now they noticed a door which had been cut into the side of the garage, which door was unseen from the street. They also noticed that there was a chimney with smoke rising from it.

Elizabeth Keachie knocked at the door. A man 68 years of age, William Ringwood, answered. They then presented their story concerning the need of every home having the Relief Society Magazine. William Ringwood replied, “You’d better ask my father.”

Ninety-four-year-old Charles W. Ringwood then came to the door and also listened to the message. He subscribed.

Elizabeth Keachie reported to me the presence of these two men in our ward. When I requested their membership certificates from Church headquarters, I received a call from the Membership Department at the Presiding Bishopric’s Office. The clerk said, “Are you sure you have living in your ward Charles W. Ringwood?”

I replied that I did, whereupon she reported that the membership certificate for him had remained in the “lost and unknown” file of the Presiding Bishopric’s Office for the previous 16 years.

On Sunday morning Elizabeth Keachie and Nell Ivory brought to our priesthood meeting Charles and William Ringwood. This was the first time they had been inside a chapel for many years. Charles Ringwood was the oldest deacon I had ever met. His son was the oldest male member holding no priesthood I had ever met.

It became my opportunity to ordain Brother Charles Ringwood a teacher and then a priest and finally an elder. I shall never forget his interview with respect to seeking a temple recommend. He handed me a silver dollar, which he took from an old, worn leather coin purse, and said, “This is my fast offering.”

I said, “Brother Ringwood, you owe no fast offering. You need it yourself.”

“I want to receive the blessings, not retain the money,” he responded.

It was my opportunity to take Charles Ringwood to the Salt Lake Temple and to attend with him the endowment session.

Within a few months, Charles W. Ringwood passed away. At his funeral service I noticed his family sitting on the front rows in the mortuary chapel, but I noticed also two sweet women sitting near the rear of the chapel, Elizabeth Keachie and Helen Ivory.

As I gazed upon those two faithful and dedicated women and contemplated their personal influence for good, the promise of the Lord filled my very soul: “I, the Lord, am merciful and gracious unto those who fear me, and delight to honor those who serve me in righteousness and in truth unto the end. Great shall be their reward and eternal shall be their glory.”