Gospel Story Finder

For much of my life I have suffered from depression and OCD, so feeling the Spirit was a rare occurrence for me. So in seminary, church, and general conference, when a certain phrase stood out or I had a constant thought or feeling to do something, I wrote it down. It wasn’t until years later when I reread these entries that I realized God was talking to me when I was having a difficult time hearing Him.

I remember the time so well as we were preparing for my very first invasion, sitting out in the Pacific on a troop ship with three thousand men aboard. This large group of soldiers represented the first seven waves in the invasion force. Prior to disembarking, one of the Protestant chaplains held a final church service. He had us all look around and get acquainted with each other and then he said: “Now, gentlemen, I don’t want to worry you, but do you realize by tomorrow morning at eight o’clock, many of you will be standing before your Maker? Are you ready?”
Well, how would you feel, young men, if that challenge were hurled at you? At that time I was almost nineteen. Shortly after the service I found a secluded spot on the ship and called time-out and talked to my Heavenly Father. I didn’t sleep that night nor did most of the men. The next morning as the seven waves of infantry went ashore, many not making it, I dug my first foxhole and took another time-out. I remember the event well. I called upon my Heavenly Father and said, “I really need to know if thou art there.” Heavenly Father spoke to my mind, and I haven’t been the same since.

I was reading older copies of the Friend magazine and read “Go and Do” (Feb. 2020). It inspired me to draw pictures for children in the hospital.
Betty H., age 8, Indiana, USA

One day my little sister and I were watching a movie. I was eating a snack, and my sister wanted some. Even though I share with my sister a lot and would have liked to finish my snack by myself, I decided to share with her. It gave me a good feeling. I have shared a lot with my family and have learned that it is nice to share.

Another early convert, An Chea Maline, a Cambodian who joined the Church in May 1995 and served as a branch Primary president before emigrating to Australia, recalls that for a long time she knew nothing about God. “But now I know this Church is true,” she says. “It is a bright sun for me.”

Tickling the house with the branch of a tree,
The wind whistled, “Come on out and play with me.”
Whipping her skirts, he teased Mrs. Jane Brown,
Then sent my cap scooting all over the ground.
“Look—I am flying!” I cried in pretend.
I danced with the leaves, and I laughed with the wind.

The Nuku‘alofa Tonga Temple is set to reopen following renovations, ground has been broken for the Kiev Ukraine, Tegucigalpa Honduras, and Vancouver British Columbia Temples, and a new temple has been announced in Manaus, Brazil. There are now 124 operating temples in the world, with 12 under construction or announced.
Elder Spencer V. Jones, then President of the Central America Area, presided as Church leaders broke ground for the Tegucigalpa Honduras Temple on June 9, 2007.
Currently, members in Honduras must travel some 12 hours to attend the Guatemala City Guatemala Temple. Honduras now has more than 116,400 members.
The temple is the first in Honduras and will be the fourth operating temple in Central America after the Guatemala City Guatemala, Panama City Panama, and San Jose Costa Rica Temples. The Panama City temple is nearing completion. A temple has also been announced in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala.

And even after his return to Springville, he was still obsessed with the urge to document Church history. While he was in Arizona in 1928 to photograph the construction and completion of the Arizona Temple, he became ill and had to return home prematurely. He died 9 May 1928 in Springville, Utah.

Christmas was different that year. We were accustomed to lots of packages under the tree and well-stuffed stockings. Holidays usually brought mounds of divinity candy, mountains of fruitcake, and dozens of cookies. This year, however, we didn’t follow our normal holiday routines. Mama had died in the spring, taking our holiday rituals with her.
And if the emotional drain wasn’t enough, Daddy also had to bear the financial burden of Mama’s prolonged hospital stay. Even though he never said anything to us about how much—or how little—money we had, we sensed that there wouldn’t be much for Christmas that year.
Still, we celebrated Christmas Eve much as we had for the past several years at Aunt Winnie’s house. Gifts were stacked high, around and under the tree. The punch bowl was full and the table was spread with a variety of holiday treats. Aunt Winnie’s “kissing ball” was hung in the archway between the dining room and the living room. Everything was as it should be and everyone was there—aunts, uncles, cousins—everyone but Mama.
The ride home was filled with silence. It was late. Maybe we were tired. Maybe we left our Christmas spirit at Aunt Winnie’s.
Little brother was put to bed. The rest of us stayed up to get ready for Santa. We hung the stockings on the mantel and left some cookies on the hearth. Before turning out the lights, we took one more look at the tree. Daddy said that it was the most beautiful tree we had ever had. He was right; it was beautiful. It was round and fat and perfectly formed. It was just the right height for our living room, and every ornament was where it should be. Daddy said it was a shame Mama wasn’t there to see it. Then he turned out the lights, and we stood in the dark to see the special glow-in-the-dark icicles Mama had bought years before.
All was quiet as we stood there with our own memories and thoughts. The soft light of the icicles warmed my heart, and I finally felt the true Christmas spirit. I realized that life is not gone simply because the lights go out.
I still miss Mama. But I know we can be together again because a baby was born in Bethlehem so many Christmases ago. He lived and died and lived again. So will Mama.

Just as he creates names for the characters he writes about, Samuel has his own unique story of how he came to be named for Samuel in the Bible, who heard the voice of the Lord. At first, his parents didn’t know what to name him! “In the hospital, my dad was reading the Ensign,” Samuel says. “He found an article about Samuel, so they named me that. Then he flipped the page and there was an article about Jacob and the twelve tribes of Israel. So my middle name is Jacob.”

Samuel understands the importance of being named after two righteous people. “I picture myself being a bit like Samuel,” he says. “I think of how he was obedient, and I know that is Christlike. I want to be like that.”

It was 113 degrees at the bottom of the Grand Canyon, and some of the Scouts were starting to see that they would learn a lesson the hard way before the day was over. Our Scoutmaster had warned us to get up early, get organized, and be on our way before the sun got a head start on us. But we had lazed around, and so now we were struggling slowly upward in the hot sun. Many of the Scouts were guzzling their canteen water, too—another thing our Scoutmaster had warned us about. Before we climbed out of the canyon, some of those canteens would be bone dry.
I was pleased when I arrived at the top of the trail with water left to share. So was our leader. He turned to me and said, “I knew I could count on you, Kent.” I’d been through enough adventures with our Scoutmaster to learn to do what he suggests, things like “Drink plenty of water, but take it one swallow at a time,” or, “Always suck on something so your mouth won’t get so dry.”

Ancient Assyria’s King Sargon II had the same idea, but he used a variety of metals to make his books—gold, silver, brass, copper, and even tin. He also engraved on alabaster. He dearly desired to preserve those records for future posterity, so what did he do? Like Darius and like Moroni, he placed them in well-made stone boxes to protect them, and buried them in the ground, in the foundation of his palace. His records, too, have been translated and published.

Marcus watched the crackling campfire as he listened to his father’s lesson.
“We should all follow Jesus Christ’s example so we can be happy,” Dad said to the family. They were sitting on logs around the fire. “It’s very important for each of us to show charity toward others,” he said.
“What’s charity, Dad?” Marcus asked.
Dad added more wood to the campfire. “Charity is the pure love of Christ,” he explained. “We cannot be saved in the kingdom of God without it.”
Marcus looked confused. Dad looked around at their family and asked, “Can each of you think of an example of charity, to help Marcus better understand what it is?”
Mom turned a marshmallow over the fire on a stick. “When Mrs. Clanton fell and hurt her hip, I helped do chores around her house,” she said.
Tanner told how last week he helped the deacons quorum collect food and clothing for some of the city’s poor and homeless.
Ashley had befriended a neighborhood girl whom other girls ignored.
“Dad helped fix Mr. Johnson’s roof because Mr. Johnson is in a wheelchair,” Mom said.
“Does taking care of Jo-Jo count?” Marcus asked. Jo-Jo was his hamster. “I feed him and change his water and give him a new sock for his bed.” Marcus bit into a toasty marshmallow.
“Any act of kindness or service we do for someone—including Jo-Jo—is charity,” Dad said.
“I want to do stuff for somebody bigger than Jo-Jo, like you and Mom and Tanner and Ashley do,” Marcus said. “But I’m too little, I guess.”
“You don’t have to be big to help someone, do you, Marcus?” Dad asked. “Or to have your prayers answered?”
Marcus smiled. “No.”
“Why don’t you ask Heavenly Father to help you find someone you can help, and when the time is right, you’ll know it.”
“How will I know it?” Marcus asked.
Ashley reached over and wiped a smear of marshmallow from the side of Marcus’s mouth. “You’ll feel it about as deep down inside you as that marshmallow you just ate,” she said.
Later that night, Marcus lay curled up in his sleeping bag. He listened to the tree branches rub against the outside of the tent. “Heavenly Father, please help me find someone I can help,” he prayed. “I’m just a little kid, but Dad said you don’t have to be big to be kind or helpful to others. I help Jo-Jo and my family by being kind and doing my chores, but I want to do something for somebody else. Jesus helped lots of people, and I want to be like Him.”
One Saturday afternoon two weeks later, Marcus worked alongside his mother in their flower garden. He noticed their next-door neighbor sitting alone in her front-porch swing. She looked sad. “Mom, what’s the matter with Mrs. Walton?” Marcus asked.
Mom straightened up from bending over the flowers and looked at their neighbor. “Mr. Walton died almost a year ago, and she misses him very much. Some days are hard for her, and it looks like this is one of those days.”
Marcus stood up and looked at Mrs. Walton across the low hedge that separated the two yards. He felt a feeling deep inside him. It got bigger and warmer just like the campfire did when his father added more wood to it. “Can I pick one of our big yellow flowers and give it to Mrs. Walton?” Marcus asked.
Mom smiled and nodded.
A few moments later Marcus stood in front of Mrs. Walton. She looked surprised. Marcus held out the flower to her. “This is for you,” he said.
She took the flower and then looked at Marcus. He climbed into the swing and sat beside her. He didn’t say anything. He just smiled. Mrs. Walton patted Marcus’s hand, and the two of them sat there together and listened to two red birds singing in her maple tree. Then Mrs. Walton looked at Marcus again. He was still smiling.
“You’ve got miles and miles of smiles,” she said. “Did you know that?” Marcus kept smiling. “Your smiles came at a time when I most needed them. Thank you.”
That night Marcus put clean bark shavings in his hamster’s cage before going to bed. “Jo-Jo, today I worked with Mom in the flower garden, and I helped Mrs. Walton be happy. It made me feel happy too. I don’t have to be big to help others. I can be like Jesus right now.”

Matt’s about to have surgery on his broken arm. Dad and Brother Johnson gave him a priesthood blessing.
Thanks for coming on such short notice, Tyrell.
I’m glad you asked me.
A few hours later—
Is the surgery over already?
Yes, and the doctor says everything went fine. We’ll be able to take you home today.
At school the next week—
Yeah, I was climbing a tree when a branch snapped! I was lucky something stopped my fall.
What was it?
The ground!
Two weeks later at Thanksgiving dinner, Matt tells what he’s grateful for—
… and that my fall wasn’t worse … and that I learned I can do hard things … and for doctors and nurses, and priesthood blessings … and …
I’m grateful that my eating arm wasn’t injured.

Among the resolutions Elder Wirthlin made that Christmas night in Oberndorf was that he would marry a spiritually strong woman who lived the gospel. He described her physical traits to his mission companion: five-foot-five (1.6 m), blonde hair, and blue eyes. Two and a half years after his mission, he met Elisa Young Rogers. She fit his description perfectly.
“I remember the first time I met her,” Elder Wirthlin said during a conference address in 2006, two months after she died. “As a favor to a friend, I had gone to her home to pick up her sister, Frances. Elisa opened the door, and at least for me, it was love at first sight.
“I think she must have felt something too, for the first words I ever remember her saying were, ‘I knew who you was.’”
Elder Wirthlin joked about that grammatical error because she was majoring in English. But, he said, “I still cherish those five words as some of the most beautiful in human language.”9
They married in the Salt Lake Temple on May 26, 1941, and for 65 years shared what Elder Wirthlin called “a perfect marriage.”10 They strengthened, encouraged, and sustained each other, and they counseled together when making decisions. Elder Wirthlin never left the house without kissing Elisa good-bye, and he would call often each day to check on her.11

Sometimes, it’s difficult to find the time to talk. If that’s the case, try some creative approaches. One young missionary told me, “I always wanted to talk to my mom. Oh, we talked about lots of things but never about anything serious or personal. We had a good relationship—we got along well—but we never really talked.
“There was so much that I wanted to tell her, so many questions I wanted to ask her before I went on my mission, but I just couldn’t do it.
“So I wrote her a letter, a long letter, and left it on her dresser. That really opened things up for us, and we had a couple of great talks before I left.”

“Pass the ketchup, will you, Mom?”
“How do you ask, Jacob?” replied his mother, holding the ketchup for ransom.
“Come on, Mom! I’m in a hurry. Just pass me the ketchup!”
“Not until you ask for it properly, young man!”
For an instant, Jake thought of eating his hamburger and fries without ketchup, but the thought vanished as he looked at the near masterpiece he had created on the plate before him. All that was missing was the ketchup. With just a hint of exaggeration, he gave in and said, “Please, mother dearest, if it’s not too much to ask, would you mind passing the sweetened tomato sauce my direction?”
“That’s better.” His mom smiled and handed him the ketchup before continuing. “Oh, I almost forgot. Brian called to remind you to bring the name of one of your ancestors to activity night tonight. He said something about going to the Family History Center. Anyway, I got out some books so you can pick a name.”
Jake took a big bite out of his burger and began to respond. In unison, his mom, dad, two little sisters, and little brother reminded him not to talk with his mouth full. As soon as he was able, he continued, “Don’t worry about the name, Mom. I’ve been to the Family History Center before, so I’m going to the gym with Brett tonight.”
Jake’s dad cleared his throat, and the chatter around the table stopped like a switch had been flipped. “Son, I’m not going to tell you what you have to do, but the right place to be tonight is at activity night with the rest of your quorum. You can make your own decision, but you know where you should be.”
“Aw, Dad!” Jake dragged out the words with his best whining tone. “We go every year, and it’s always the same. A little old lady tells us how exciting genealogy is and if we listen real close we will have the ‘opportunity’ to use one of the fish machines.”
“Fiche, Jake, microfiche machines,” his mother corrected.
“Fish … fiche … whatever. Last year the most exciting thing that happened was when Doug Brown started rewinding his microfilm and then walked off. When it got to the end of the tape, it was flipping around making all kinds of noise. People came running from everywhere to see what had happened.”
Jake’s little brother and sisters laughed, and his parents smiled, but his dad didn’t give in. “Lots of information is on computers now, Jake. They don’t use those ‘fish’ machines as much anymore. You need to go.”
Jake started to respond, but his dad held up his hand. “You make your own decision, son. You know what I think you should do.”
As the quorum arrived at the Family History Center, Jake dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out the piece of paper his mom had given him. Unfolding it, he read the name: Annie Hicks. A girl! His mom had given him a girl’s name! Brian had bragged all the way to the center about his ancestor the Civil War hero. Most of the rest of the guys claimed to be related to one king or another. Doug even claimed he was related to Elvis. And here was Jake with the name of some unknown girl.
“This is going to be even worse than I thought,” he grumbled as he walked in the door.
Jake’s dad was right about one thing. Where the microfiche machines used to be, there were now several computers with bright screens. Racks of shiny compact discs sat next to them on the tables. The microfiche machines remaining were all huddled in a small back room. The door to the room was roped off with a sign that read “Please Ask for Assistance.”
As the family history consultant welcomed the quorum and began to talk about the new software, Jake drifted toward the back of the group. He didn’t want to be the one who had to use his ancestor’s name as a demonstration. Finding a comfortable spot against the doorway to the back room with the microfiche machines, he settled down for the wait. He tried to listen for a few minutes, but from the back he could barely hear, and his attention soon turned to the ‘fish’ machines in the room behind him.
Poor machines, he thought, all those years they did just what they were supposed to and now their only reward is to be quarantined like they have some rare disease. Without thinking, he stepped over the rope and began to wander among the machines.
In the darkest corner, Jake discovered a monster of a fiche reader. It wasn’t a table-top model like the others but stood by itself on the floor—like a picture-taking booth. It even had a little black curtain across its door to keep out the light. Curious, Jake began to walk around the machine. His inspection, however, was cut short as he tripped over its power cord. Bending to plug it back in, he realized that he hadn’t just unplugged it; he had ripped the wires right out of the machine.
Jake groused under his breath. “I should have just gone to the gym.” He quickly shoved the bare wires back into the hole in the machine and headed for the safety of the crowd. As he passed the little doorway of the huge fiche reader, he came to a dead stop. Something was flickering inside. Hoping he hadn’t started an electrical fire with the bare wires, Jake slipped inside the machine to investigate. As he sat down, the little black curtain quietly closed behind him.
Jake would have jumped up and run, but the screen of the microfiche reader flickered on. “Well, at least it still works!” he said out loud. Almost as if in response to his voice, a computerized voice said, “Please state the name of the person you wish to find.”
Wow! Pretty high-tech, Jake thought.
“Please state the name of the person you wish to find.” The machine repeated.
“Okay, okay! I’ll state it!”
“Please state the name of the person you wish to find.”
Jake rolled his eyes and said nothing as he dug the folded piece of paper from his pocket and read the name out loud: “Annie Hicks.”
The next thing Jake knew, he was cold, so very, very cold. Snow was blowing in his face, and an ice cold wind cut through the thin, coarse jacket he was now wearing. His legs were covered by very thin, gray wool pants with patches on both knees. He couldn’t feel his feet and had to lift them out of the snow to see if they were still there. His high-top, cross trainers had been replaced by old-fashioned boots. But the toes of the boots were completely worn through, revealing the red wool socks that now covered his frozen toes.
Taking in his surroundings, Jake became aware that he was standing on the bank of a wide river. There were people on both sides of the river pulling and pushing handcarts and shivering in the cold. Those on the opposite side of the river appeared to be waiting for their turn to walk down into the water and cross to Jake’s side. Jake shivered involuntarily as he looked at the sheets of ice floating on the cold, gray water.
“What is this?” was all he could say before he heard a cry for help.
“My boy, my boy! Somebody save my boy!” The cry came from the far side of the river, and Jake focused on a woman with several children gathered around her. She was screaming and pointing at a boy, no more than 10 or 12, being carried downstream with their handcart by the force of the current. For an instant, Jake was frozen in terror as he watched the tragedy unfold before him. It seemed hopeless. Then he noticed someone from his side of the river racing down the bank toward the boy. The rescuer jumped into the water, splashed out to the boy, and pulled him and his handcart toward the safety of the shore.
Something finally clicked within Jake, and he ran down to the bank of the river. He reached the water just in time to help pull the boy and his rescuer up onto the bank. With chattering teeth, the boy thanked the rescuer over and over again, “Thank you, Annie! Thank you, Annie!”
For the first time, Jake realized that the rescuer was a young girl not much older than himself. As he reached out his hand and pulled her out of the water, he asked, “Annie? Annie Hicks?”
She looked at him for a moment with a quizzical look on her face and then replied in an English accent, “Why of course it is. Have you had a bump on your head today? Now quit looking at me that way, and let’s get this poor chap back to his family and into camp.” Jake smiled sheepishly, took hold of the handcart, and pulled it up the hill toward the rest of the company.
As he walked into the camp, Jake realized it was like none other he had ever seen. There were four to five hundred men, women, and children, all in wet and frozen clothes. From what Jake could see, few, if any, had dry clothes to change into. Some were trying to clear away snow and set up tents, but the ground was too frozen to drive the tent pegs. One or two small fires burned, but there wasn’t any additional firewood in sight. There were a few people eating, but what they ate looked like nothing more than a flour paste. Jake thought about the masterpiece burger and fries he had eaten for dinner. It probably would have fed half the camp.
“How are these people going to survive the night?” he wondered aloud as he helped Annie pull her cart into camp. Annie looked at him but didn’t respond. As they passed cart after cart, he began to wonder if they would ever find Annie’s family. “Where’s your family’s camp?” he finally asked.
Annie stopped pulling and studied him closely before responding. “My family is in England. They disowned me the day I was baptized. I don’t expect that I will ever hear from them again.” As she spoke she laid down the handcart handle and turned to unpack her few belongings.
“You, you’re here by yourself?” Jake’s disbelief and shivering caused him to stammer. After all, here was a girl, no older than himself, pulling a handcart across the country in the middle of winter without her family.
“No, I’m not by myself,” Annie responded matter-of-factly. “I’m surrounded by my brothers and sisters, and God is with us.”
“But how, Annie? How can you keep going without your family and with so much suffering?”
Now Annie stopped working and looked directly across the handcart at Jake. “From the moment I heard the gospel, I knew it was true. The day after I was baptized, my family heard of my baptism and told me some of the vilest stories about the Mormons. They said if I joined the Mormons I would be ruined for life. That night I prayed with all my heart to know the truth. I prayed, ‘Dear Lord, do not let me do wrong. Let me know tonight, dear Father; let me know tonight.’ I immediately was comforted by a wonderful dream. A book was opened to me, and the leaves were turned in rapid succession until the page with my record was found. On the page was my name without a mar or blemish against it. A loud clear voice spoke to me saying, ‘This is the way. Walk ye in it.’ When I woke the next morning, I laughed for joy to think that I had been heard and answered. I told my folks that it had been made known to me that Mormonism was right, and I would follow it.”
She hesitated for a moment and Jake looked down. A warmth burned within him that even the most severe cold couldn’t stop. Annie stepped around the corner of the cart and touched him on the sleeve. “This is the right way, Jake. Walk in it.”
In an instant, Jake was back in the Family History Center. He was sitting on the floor where the huge machine had been. There was no sign of the machine. He had his own clothes on, but his toes tingled like they did whenever they were thawing out. Jake shook his head a few times to clear his thoughts. He could hear the family history consultant continuing his presentation. “Now, does anyone have the name of an ancestor we can use as an example?”
Jake jumped up and ran toward the group, “Right here! I have one right here!”

Many years ago, as a young stake president, one of our bishops had his home in Christchurch destroyed by earthquakes and liquefaction and had to move on several occasions. I asked this good man how he coped with such devastation. In that moment, he reminded me that he and his family knew who they were as children of God, and they had confidence that God would provide for them and look after them.

Most people think rocks just sit around. But there’s a place where rocks seem to come alive. It’s a valley full of strange statues carved by wind and rain in a process called erosion. Cowboys, who discovered the valley in southeastern Utah while searching for lost cattle, said the rock formations looked like ghosts, so they named the place Goblin Valley.

Abigail L., age 7, California, USA, liked Sister Cordon’s talk about ministering to others. “My favorite part was, ‘You fed me and you gave me a drink and you took me in.’ I want to serve.”