Gospel Story Finder

On the first and second of November 1831, a conference was held at Hiram, Ohio, when it was decided that the revelations should be compiled and published. On the first day of the conference the Lord gave approval to the plan by giving a revelation He called His “preface unto the book of my commandments, which I have given them to publish unto you, O inhabitants of the earth” (D&C 1:6).

During the course of the conference there was not perfect harmony among the brethren. A few criticized the language found in the revelations. They forgot that the Lord uses men as instruments as they are available, through whom He communicates, just as an author when writing makes use of whatever pen, paper, or ink he may be able to obtain to produce his work. Some of the brethren did not fully realize that divine revelation is independent from university study, and they were wavering in their faith. In answer to this inquiry, the Lord issued a challenge:

Now, seek ye out of the Book of Commandments, even the least that is among them, and appoint him that is the most wise among you;
Or, if there be any among you that shall make one like unto it, then ye are justified in saying that ye do not know that they are true;
But if ye cannot make one like unto it, ye are under condemnation if ye do not bear record that they are true. [D&C 67:6–8]

William E. McLellin accepted the offer and undertook to initiate the revelations of the Lord. His efforts to produce a revelation were witnessed with great interest by the elders assembled, and when they were aware of his complete failure, all doubts concerning the revelations of God vanished. They were then willing to testify to the truth and signed a document containing their testimonies and witnesses to the truthfulness of the book.

Marcela Endrek, a native of Córdoba, Argentina, was sick and sad. It weighed heavily on her. In the midst of feeling there was no way out, she heard a conference talk that spoke of prayer. The thought came directly to her heart to pray earnestly about her troubles.
She began praying regularly for relief. Praying brought her peace and comfort even though her health didn’t improve. In fact, her condition worsened until she could no longer work. Now she had the additional stress of not being able to afford medical expenses.
Out of necessity, she started to investigate how she might cope with her health problems some other way. She felt prompted to focus on changing some eating habits and was surprised at how much it helped. Her recovery was so impressive that she began studying nutrition in depth.
Sometime later, she met a young woman named Evelyn in the same condition as Marcela had been—sick, sad, and desperate for answers. Marcela saw herself in her new friend. She shared some of what she had been learning about food choices and nutrition. She also shared with Evelyn her witness of the power of prayer. She invited Evelyn to pray so that she would also feel God’s love and know that He was aware of her.
A few days later, Marcela was thrilled to see Evelyn again. A change was already apparent physically and spiritually. Evelyn let her know that her life was changing and that she could feel God’s love for her.
From her trials and challenges, Marcela gained both compassion and information she needed to help others.

Claire was a sad hippopotamus, for today was the day of the jungle talent show. All of Claire’s jungle friends were going to be in it—but not Claire. Claire had no special talent. She didn’t dance. She didn’t sing. She didn’t juggle fruits, do somersaults, or play the drums. And she didn’t know any funny stories to tell. She was just a plain, ordinary hippopotamus.
“Oh, coconuts,” Claire sighed. “There must be something I can do.”
Then Claire had an idea. She went to visit Madame Gazelle’s Dancing School. “Will you teach me to dance?” Claire asked.
“I’ll try,” replied Madame Gazelle.
Claire put on a pair of pink dancing shoes. She learned to turn and curtsey. She leaped gracefully into the air. But when Claire landed, the jungle shook. Monkeys and bananas rained from the trees, mice bounced high into the sky, and everyone complained about the shaking jungle.
Claire did not want to make her friends angry, so she gave up dancing. She went to see Hester Elephant, who was famous for her singing. “Can you teach me to sing?” Claire asked.
“Of course I can,” Hester answered.
“Listen.” She raised her trunk and sang “Mary had a little elephant …” She had a lovely voice. “Now it’s your turn,” said Hester.
Claire roared, “Mary had a little hippopotamus …” as loud as she could. Her jungle friends had to cover their ears. She scared Lonnie Python right out of his tree house.
“This will never do!” Hester cried.
So Claire went to see the Great Chimpanzees. They had the best trapeze act in the jungle. “Please teach me to swing from tree to tree,” begged Claire.
“Sure,” agreed Bimbo Chimpanzee.
“But first you must climb a tree like this.” He scurried to the top of a tall tree and waved to Claire. Claire struggled up the tree after Bimbo. The tree began to bend.
“TIMBER!” shouted the Great Chimpanzees who were on the ground. The tree and Claire and Bimbo fell with a crash. The Great Chimpanzees were happy that Claire did not fall on them. But Claire was not happy at all.
“I’ll never be a part of the show,” she cried.
“I’ll teach you to catch rings on your nose,” offered Walter Rhinoceros.
“But I don’t have a horn like you do,” Claire protested.
“Oh,” said Walter, “I forgot.”
“I’ll teach you to juggle rocks,” suggested Randy Baboon.
“Wonderful!” said Claire. She tossed two rocks into the air.
“Ouch!” They hit Randy on top of his head. He went home to have it mended.
“I know a funny joke,” laughed Smiley Hyena, “but I need it for the show. I wish I had another one for you, Claire.”
Tara Tiger tried to teach Claire to play a harmonica. But Claire swallowed it by mistake.
“Who needs a talent show anyway?” she said crossly. “I’m going swimming.” All afternoon Claire swam around the lake. When she was tired, she took a long, long nap in the water. Voices woke her up.
“Claire! Claire!” the voices called.
Claire opened her eyes. Her jungle friends stood on the shore. They were wearing their talent show costumes.
“Claire!” called Madame Gazelle. “We need you.”
“Me?” said Claire. She swam to shore.
“We have a terrible problem,” said Hester. “You are the only one who can help.”
“What can I do?” sighed Claire.
“Because we’re all in the show,” Bimbo explained, “there’s no one to watch us. So we have no judge to choose the winner.”
“Oh, I can do that!” cried Claire. So Claire sat in the very first row. She clapped as loud as she could. She cheered. She whistled and stamped her feet. “Hooray! Bravo! Encore!” she shouted. “More! More! More!”
When the show was over, Claire clapped so long that everyone took ten bows. “You were all so good,” said Claire, “I can’t decide who the winner is—”
“The winner,” announced Tara Tiger, “is Claire Hippopotamus.”
“Me!” exclaimed Claire. “I wasn’t part of the show.”
“Yes, you were,” said Lonnie Python.
“You were the best audience a talent show ever had.”
Everyone clapped for Claire. She made a curtsey. Then she took her prize, a basket of fruit and went home—a happy hippopotamus.

Sainimere Balenacagi of Fiji learned this lesson as a teenager when she was attending a wedding with some friends who were not members of the Church. Many people there, including Sainimere’s friends, were drinking and smoking and invited her to drink. “I was taught my whole life to live the gospel standards, so I rejected the offer without hesitation,” Sainimere says.

She knows that the blessings of adhering to the Word of Wisdom go beyond physical health: “I have found extra protection in the sense that I am able to make better choices because of the closeness of the Holy Spirit. I see clearly that standards do not restrict our freedom; they protect us from consequences that lead to restricted freedom.”

The first time he offered to take me fishing behind his place, I brought the stuff my friends and I used when we fished from the old country bridge.
“What kind of a rig you call that?” He looked at my large lead sinker and a treble hook with a wad of dried-up cheese stuck to it. “Here, let me see that. You’re not supposed to club the fish to death.” He took the sinker from the line. “And what’s this?” he said, pointing to the cheese. “You bring your lunch?”
“I usually use worms or cheese for bait.”
He shook his head. “I’ll teach you to fly fish. Then you’ll know something about fishing.”
He stepped a little ways into the river so he could get a free swing with his fly rod. “Look over there, just in front of the boulder.” He whipped the fly line back and forth a couple of times to let out line, and then cast. The fly landed gently on the water and glided into the swirling water downstream from the boulder. Suddenly the water boiled as a German Brown rose up and took the fly. He carefully fought it to his side and then reached down and swished it up in his net. “You think you can learn to do that?” he said as he reached down into the net and pulled out the trout and dropped him gently back into the water.
Nearly every weekday afternoon that summer I’d go over to his place with my rod, and we’d walk across his field to the river. He taught me how to cast a fly rod, and where to stand, and what kind of flies to use for each part of the summer. “You got to find out what they’re feeding on, Jamie. That’s the secret.”

Jill Johnson of Sandy, Utah, tells how the Lord blessed her family: “As newly married college students, we had carefully budgeted our meager monthly income. Then the landlord raised our rent. We prayed for a blessing. The next day our old car broke down beyond repair. We wondered why we had these trials all at once, but the loss of the car turned out to be a blessing. With help from family and friends, we found we could manage without a car. The money saved on gas and oil was the same amount as our increase in rent. Sometimes we are blessed for obedience in unexpected ways.”

President Monson recalls an act of priesthood service that changed his life.
I recall the time when I was ordained a deacon. Our bishopric stressed the sacred responsibility which was ours to pass the sacrament. Emphasized were proper dress, a dignified bearing, and the importance of being clean inside and out. As we were taught the procedure in passing the sacrament, we were told how we should assist Louis McDonald, a brother in our ward who was afflicted with a palsied condition, that he might have the opportunity to partake of the sacred emblems.
How I remember being assigned to pass the sacrament to the row where Brother McDonald sat. I was fearful and hesitant as I approached this wonderful brother, and then I saw his smile and the eager expression of gratitude that showed his desire to partake. Holding the tray in my left hand, I took a small piece of bread and pressed it to his lips. The water was later served in the same way. I felt I was on holy ground. And indeed I was. The privilege to pass the sacrament to Brother McDonald made better deacons of us all.

A young bishop of my acquaintance can testify to the impact of unkempt appearance on those around us and its relationship to the drug culture. One evening last June, Bishop E. Wayne Nelson of the South Shore Ward in Griffith, Indiana, received a telephone call from a jailer in an Indiana city, fifty miles from his home. The jailer was holding two Mormon boys who were charged with possession of narcotics. Bishop Nelson made several visits as these young men waited in jail for their cases to be heard. He learned that both were from Utah, the sons of active Latter-day Saint parents. Both had tampered with drugs in this state. Both had adopted an unkempt appearance, including shoulder-length hair. Soon after they arrived in Gary, Indiana, to look for work, and while they were walking down a street, a peddler of narcotics approached them and invited them to make a purchase. Faced with that temptation at that time in that place, the boys chose not to resist. Soon after this transaction they were arrested and charged with possession of the drugs they had purchased. After the bishop heard their story in jail, he asked them, “Why do you think the peddler approached you?” One boy responded, “I guess it was our appearance; we just looked like users.” These young men had taken upon themselves the badges of the drug culture, and they were easily identified and approached by those who sought to profit from their weakness.

I didn’t fully appreciate how great Tanya was and how much I depended on her until she was gone. But we had knelt at an altar in a holy temple, and someone having the sealing power had pronounced blessings upon us. I have clung to the promise of those blessings. I trust in those promised blessings.
Tanya’s death was a crisis of faith for me. I had to decide, “Do I really believe?” Faith is called a gift of God, but it’s also a choice we make—a choice to believe. I chose to believe, and I found out that Moroni was correct when he wrote that we receive no witness until after the trial of our faith (see Ether 12:6). After the trial, the witness did come. My faith was rewarded with a confirming peace of mind. That’s what has enabled me to go forward.
As my second wife, Becky, says: “We need faith the most when we face a crisis. Going to the Lord really is the only answer. It is the way to cope and hope.”

As a boy, President Gordon B. Hinckley lived across the street from Marjorie Pay. She first caught his eye at a ward social when she gave a reading. Their first date was to the Gold and Green Ball, a Church dance. At that time, Gordon went to the University of Utah and Marjorie was a senior in high school. They became good friends, and their friendship later turned to courtship.
When the time came, Marjorie supported Gordon in his decision to go on a mission to the British Isles. They parted as best friends and wrote each other while they were separated. Marjorie dated others while Gordon was on his mission, but she didn’t think anyone measured up to him. After he got home, Gordon and Marjorie discovered they still loved each other’s cheerfulness and optimism. They continued their educations, waiting until they felt it was the right time to get married. They were sealed together eternally in the Salt Lake Temple on 29 April 1937.
Since their early days together, President and Sister Hinckley kept their marriage strong by always putting the Lord first. Sister Hinckley said, “It seemed to me that if you understood the gospel and the purpose of our being here, you would want a husband who put the Lord first. I felt secure knowing he was that kind of man.” (See Sheri L. Dew, Go Forward with Faith: The Biography of Gordon B. Hinckley [1996], 41, 58–59, 83, 106–7, 113–16.)

When I was a deacon, I loved baseball; in fact, I still do. I had a fielder’s glove inscribed with the name “Mel Ott.” He was the Darryl Strawberry of my day. My friends and I would play ball in a small alleyway behind the houses where we lived. The quarters were cramped but all right, provided you hit straight away to center field. However, if you hit the ball to the right of center, disaster was at the door. Here lived a lady who would watch us play, and as soon as the ball rolled to her porch her English setter would retrieve the ball and present it to Mrs. Shinas as she opened the door. Into her house Mrs. Shinas would return and add the ball to the many she had previously confiscated. She was our nemesis, the destroyer of our fun—even the bane of our existence. None of us had a good word for Mrs. Shinas, but we had plenty of bad words for her. The windows of her house received more special soap treatment on Halloween than did any other. None of us would speak to Mrs. Shinas, and she never spoke to us. She was hampered by a stiff leg which impaired her walking and must have caused her great pain. She and her husband had no children, lived secluded lives, and rarely came out of their house.
This private war continued for some time—perhaps two years—and then an inspired thaw melted the ice of winter and brought a springtime of good feelings to the stalemate. One night as I performed my daily task of hand-watering our front lawn, holding the nozzle of the hose in hand as was the style at that time, I noticed that Mrs. Shinas’s lawn was dry and turning brown. I honestly don’t know what came over me, but I took a few more minutes and, with our hose, watered her lawn. This I did each night, and then when autumn came, I hosed her lawn free of leaves as I did ours and stacked the leaves in piles at the street’s edge to be burned or gathered. During the entire summer I had not seen Mrs. Shinas. We had long since given up playing ball in the alley. We had run out of baseballs and had no money to buy more.
Then early one evening, her front door opened, and Mrs. Shinas beckoned for me to jump the small fence and come to her front porch. This I did, and as I approached her, Mrs. Shinas invited me into her living room, where I was asked to sit in a comfortable chair. She went to the kitchen and returned with a large box filled with baseballs and softballs, representing several seasons of her confiscation efforts. The filled box was presented to me; however, the treasure was not to be found in the gift, but rather in her voice. I saw for the first time a smile come across the face of Mrs. Shinas, and she said, “Tommy, I want you to have these baseballs, and I want to thank you for being kind to me.” I expressed my own gratitude to her and walked from her home a better boy than when I entered. No longer were we enemies. Now we were friends. The Golden Rule had again succeeded.

To amplify the doctrine that “. . . out of small things proceedeth that which is great”[2] I tell you the story of Masako Kato. In 1951, when Masako was in her early twenties, she met the missionaries in her hometown of Yokohama, Japan when she attended an English conversation class being taught by them. When the missionaries began to speak of spiritual things, she felt something and allowed them to begin teaching her about the Church and the restored gospel. During this time, both Masako’s older sister and her mother died, within 30 days of each another. She was emotionally devastated, but still attended the little branch of our Church in the area; even the week after her mother passed away. When the opening hymn was sung, the power of the Spirit brought her to tears and she understood for the first time the eternal nature of life.

Masako wanted to be baptized, but her father would not give his permission. Although she was of legal age, her respect for her father caused her to not proceed. However, she continued to attend Church and participate like a member.

The missionaries suggested it would be good for her to share the glorious message she had come to know. Seemingly unafraid, even though the Church had little presence in Japan in 1951, she invited co-workers and even bosses at her company to come to Church with her. A few came to some social activities; but one, Shozo Suzuki, a very new employee of the company, came to Sunday meetings. He had a good feeling about what he heard and consented after a time to receive the missionary discussions. Masako also joined in for her second time through the lessons. After several months, Shozo accepted the challenge to be baptized. Masako again went to her father to seek permission, which he then gave because of the devotion he witnessed in her. On August 4, 1952, Shozo and Masako were baptized in the same service.

One day, a few months later, a young missionary approached Shozo and Masako and suggested they think about marriage—to each other! This surprised them, especially Shozo as he had a non-member girlfriend. However, it prompted him to think about Masako, the person who introduced him to the gospel, in a different way than ever before. On April 29, 1953, they were married in a civil hall in Tokyo by the mission president. In 1965, they came to the Hawaii Temple to be sealed as there was no temple in Japan until 1980.

Brother and Sister Suzuki were blessed with nine children, six daughters and three sons. Seven of their children served full-time missions for the Church. Of the nine, eight married, all in the temple, and seven of their spouses served full-time missions. The Suzukis have 35 grandchildren, with all, eight years of age or older, having been baptized members of the Church. Brother Suzuki has served as a branch president, district president, mission president, Japan Missionary Training Center president, regional representative, and a patriarch in three stakes. With the singular beginning of diminutive Masako (shown in the center of the photograph), and now 54 righteous members of the Suzuki family, indeed “. . . out of small things proceedeth that which is great.”[3]

I was recently looking through some back issues of the New Era, and in the March 1985 issue I found an article about Bruce Drennan that was of great interest to me. You see, I once knew him when I lived in California. I was only six when we moved there, and so my memories of him are somewhat limited, but they are crystal clear.
I don’t remember many people from our Ukiah Ward, but Bruce stands out in my mind the most. He loved kids, and we loved him. I guess it was because he always treated everyone like they were someone special. On Sundays he was always there, telling jokes and smiling his special smile. It was always fun to see Bruce, because he would say hi and make you feel welcome and loved. My sister always had a crush on him and followed him everywhere. He didn’t really seem to mind, and called her his girlfriend. It was something to see a young man and a four-year-old together. The four-year-old would be trying to teach him to do “itsy bitsy spider” without getting his fingers tangled up.
Three years later we moved to Utah. My last memory of Bruce was after he had come to BYU. A group of kids from our ward came to dinner. I was practicing the piano, and he listened for a while. Then he started to sing along with my playing. He didn’t notice the mistakes, but just kept singing. When we were done, he said, “You play the piano very well, Jennifer” and gave me a hug. That was the last time I saw him alive, and it is the best memory of him that I have.
Your article was very well done. I’m sure I speak for anyone who was touched by this young man when I say that the article captured him well. Thank you for bringing back some wonderful memories.
Jennifer HillPayson, Utah

Three weeks ago I was sitting on a roof top of Jerusalem suburb Bet Safafa, overlooking some of the most fought-for real estate in the world.
From that rooftop you could see the home of ancient sites like the Dome of the Rock, the Wailing Wall and the Church of the Holy Sepulcher -- some of the holiest sites in the world to the three major monotheistic religions.
You could also see the 20-foot concrete security wall that the Israelis had built to separate themselves from the Palestinians and the restaurants and bus stops that Palestinian suicide bombers had attacked.
I was the guest of two cousins -- Samer and Ghassan Alayan -- volunteers at a program called PeacePlayers that tries to bring together Palestinians and Israelis and help them overcome stereotypes through the game of basketball.
At some point in the discussion, Ghassan's father ambled up the stairs and joined the conversation.
He looked at the PeacePlayer shirt his son wore with a furrowed brow. "This word peace," he said pointing to the shirt. "We [Palestinians] hate this word. Peace, peace, everyone always comes talking about peace. You know the problem with this word? Everyone talks about peace. No one does peace. We are tired of hearing a word that is not real."
Ghassan's father's comment -- that people only talk peace, they never do -- struck me hard.

Of all the experiences I enjoyed as a mission president, one of the most exciting was the glorious sight of seeing the missionaries baptize converts to the Church. The elders felt the same way about that privilege. One of my fine missionaries had been very adventurous. He loved to rappel cliffs, hang glide, and parachute jump. When I asked him how he felt when he stood in the baptismal font with a convert, he replied, “It’s as exciting as jumping out of an airplane.”

Troy Swartzle, a priest in the New Bern Ward, Kinston North Carolina Stake, was selected to attend Governor’s School of North Carolina. Troy was selected because of his outstanding abilities in instrumental music. He plays french horn.
Troy was one of two from his high school and five from the county school system selected to go to the school. During his stay, he met Church members from throughout the state and was able to invite some interested friends to accompany him to Church activities. He was also able to correct misconceptions about the Church during his philosophy class.

When Sadie was 13, she decided to work on Knowledge value experience 6 for Personal Progress. Sadie was going to memorize two hymns, learn the conducting patterns, and lead them in Young Women meetings.
One of the best places to practice was in the car. Sadie and her mother would put on some music and then figure out the patterns for different songs. It was a lot of fun, and Sadie loved it. “Mom and I would be in the car, and she would help me figure out how to lead. It was really hard, but I really liked it.”
Even the harder time signatures were fun for Sadie. “I ran into songs I couldn’t figure out. I could do the 4/4 time, but the 6/8 and 3/4 took a lot longer to figure out.”
Sadie led her hymns in Young Women and was able to complete her value experience, but conducting music for Sadie didn’t end there. She became a regular in Young Women.
Her Young Women leader mentioned to the ward chorister that if he ever needed a substitute in sacrament meeting, Sadie was capable of doing it. Soon Sadie was asked to lead. But that first time was hard. “I was really scared, and I just looked at my family the whole time. I was too afraid to look out at everybody else. The ward was nice about it. They were supportive of me learning.”
Then she was asked to substitute for a month or two. That’s when she gained confidence. She enjoyed going to the bishop and talking about the topics for sacrament meeting so she could select the right hymns.
When Sadie was 15, the bishop called her to be the ward choir director. “At first,” said Sadie, “I was really excited. Then I realized it was a big calling, and it would be a lot of work. But it’s been great. I’ve had a lot of support from people who sing in the choir and even from people that don’t sing. They will ask how they can help.”
Sadie has sung in choirs since she was seven, but she had never tried to direct one. Now she is clapping out the beats and teaching parts to the choir. “We’re not going to be the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, but we really try to focus on the words and the spirit of the song. If we miss a few notes, that’s fine, but if we have the Spirit with us, it’s a lot nicer.”
Sadie would never have guessed that just completing a value experience in Personal Progress would possibly lead to her future educational plans. She loves being a choir director and would like to go into music education and perhaps become a school choir director. “I love music. Now that it’s a part of my life, it really seems like a gift that has been given to me.” Sadie was chosen as a drum major in her school band.
Looking back, Sadie is a little surprised by where she has come since learning how to lead music with her mother as they drove in the car—something they never would have done without being motivated to fulfill her Personal Progress.
“I knew I would gain great things from Personal Progress, but I didn’t know it would shape what I would do every day and a possible career in college. It’s amazing.”

If we choose the wrong road, we choose the wrong destination. For example, a friend of many years told me that her husband, always a “good kid” in high school, took a few drinks he thought would help him forget some problems. Before he knew what was happening, he was addicted. Now he is not able to support his family, and he is ineffective at almost everything he tries to do. Alcohol governs his life, and he cannot seem to break free of its grip.

Early in their service in Bastia, missionaries had volunteered at the main Catholic hospital, but the monsignor in charge of the hospital declined their service when he learned of their religion. He was reluctant to have different Christian faiths involved in the hospital.
A couple months later, in May 1992, a massive section of a soccer stadium collapsed during a championship match, killing 19 and sending thousands of seriously injured spectators to the hospital.
The casualties overwhelmed the hospital. Injured soccer fans filled rooms and lined the hallways. Some were flown to mainland France for care. The monsignor, desperate for capable volunteers, remembered a card the missionaries had left and called them for help.
For 36 hours, the missionaries ran from task to task, helping with various types of supervised emergency care, such as hanging IV lines, applying tourniquets, cleaning rooms, and moving the injured. They gave priesthood blessings to branch members injured in the collapse.
When the monsignor observed the unflagging efforts of the missionaries, he called them together and led them throughout the hospital, telling the patients that the missionaries were men of God and to let them administer blessings to the wounded.
Brother Thatcher recalls: “We gained the respect and admiration of a high-ranking city official and an important ecclesiastical authority by our service.” It softened hearts and helped eliminate resistance in the community, he said. “This was critical to the success of our proselyting efforts.”

Once I went camping on the beach with my family, a few friends, and my dog, Max. We swam and played all day. Then we watched fireworks when it got dark. We all had a fantastic time.
When the fireworks ended, I looked for Max. But he was gone! I panicked and yelled that Max was missing. As tears poured down my face, we all looked for him in the woods. I felt a small voice tell me to pray, so I did. But my whole body felt limp like noodles, and I was scared for Max.
We didn’t find him, so we hiked back to our tent. I kept praying in my head, but I started to lose hope. I cried myself to sleep.
A few hours later, my parents shook me awake. Max was sitting right next to me! My parents had heard the sound of Max’s collar jingling outside our tent. I held him tightly and quietly thanked God for answering my prayers.