Gospel Story Finder

Brother Lawrence Richie, retired for ten years and living alone since his wife’s death, had his home paid for. The quake caused severe structural damage, requiring him to move into a trailer until the house could be made safe. But none of this has dampened his good spirits. “We were flooded out one time, and we were burned out one time. Now we’ve been shook out. That’s just the way it goes,” he added good naturedly. And he didn’t find it hard to see a positive side to these experiences. “You know how people draw apart? When there’s a disaster they unite. They get together, and they work together. When that quake hit, the town was just like this,” he said, clasping his palms together.

We had an orchard where all kinds of fruit trees provided much of our living, but it also meant much hard work for little boys. The peaches were large and luscious, and when Ma had filled our pantry with bottles of fruit for the winter, Pa decided we could sell some. I was about twelve and Alice ten, and again we were in business.
I climbed to the tops of the trees and picked the largest, most colorful peaches; Alice put them in the boxes, I piled them neatly in the buggy and drove the long journey of about six miles to Pima, where many of the good women bought the fruit, and we soon headed home. As we counted our nickels and dimes and quarters, we found we had five dollars. It would be Christmas soon, so we excitedly talked about gifts for our large family.
When we got home and gleefully laid our money on the table, Pa reminded us again, “Have you counted out your tithing?” So, of course, we had to skimp a little on some of our planned Christmas gifts. As soon as the sweating mare was back in the pasture, the buggy in the shed, and the boxes stowed away, we went through the orchard and through the fence to the bishop again.
When I was in high school, I found it necessary to support myself. I suppose I was about sixteen, and I went to Globe, Arizona, the big mining camp, and there secured a job milking cows twice a day for a dairy. In those days we had no machines, and we milked with our hands. I milked between eighteen and twenty-eight cows twice a day, separated the cream, bottled the milk, washed the cans and bottles, fed the cattle, and cleaned the manure. For all of this, I received my meals, a cot in a bunkhouse, and $47.50 a month.
I was now on my own. No one was there to check up on me. When I received my first paycheck, I asked myself, “Should I or should I not pay my tithing?” I sent my dairy check home to the bank and received a receipt and a checkbook. I numbered the checks on the book and my first check was made out payable to the bishop.
The Lord has promised that if boys and girls and their parents are faithful in paying their tithing, he will pour out great blessings upon them. I know he keeps the promise.

Lynda tried to incorporate the values of the people she admired into her new life in creative ways. Preserving food became for her a symbol of self-sufficiency, so when she couldn’t get fresh fruits and vegetables in the city, she made a list of all the things she remembered her mother and grandmothers putting into bottles and made quilt blocks representing many of those things. As she stitched, Lynda created a tribute to her pioneer ancestors and a family history for her children to enjoy. She also taught her family independence, hard work, self-reliance, the law of the harvest, and self-confidence in a new environment.

May I conclude with a personal experience to help illustrate this becoming process that I’ve been talking about. Again I emphasize the words “I am if I live properly.” Some of you may have heard this experience before, but it bears repeating.

While serving as a mission president, I had the routine procedure of interviewing missionaries as they came into the mission home. I suspect most mission presidents do this.

On one occasion a young man from the East came into my office. He sat down, and I began to talk to him. We had known each other for only a few minutes. In the course of our conversation he started to weep. He bowed his head, and the tears flowed from his eyes. I had never seen tears shed so abundantly. The water just dripped on my carpet. I was tempted to measure the spot that he stained, but I didn’t think that would be decent. I let him cry. After he had cried himself out, I asked, “What’s the trouble?” While he was crying a lot of fears had gone through my heart and through my mind. I thought, “Oh, no, he’s transgressed. This is a belated confession. I may have to send him home.”

Well, he anticipated this. He sensed what I was feeling and turned to me and said, “Oh, no, President, it isn’t what you’re thinking. I haven’t murdered or fornicated or done anything like that.”

“Well, what is it?”

He said, “It’s all the little things that I’ve done during years of growing up. It’s all the foolish, little things that come together now as one. They make me feel as though I am unworthy to serve.”

I put my arm around him, assured him that he wasn’t the only person in the room who was imperfect, and indicated to him that there were many missionaries serving who had had to overcome problems just as he did. With this assurance I turned to the gospel. I read him some scriptures. The one which particularly influenced him is found in section 84 of the Doctrine and Covenants: “For I will forgive you of your sins with this commandment—that you remain steadfast in your minds in solemnity and the spirit of prayer, in bearing testimony to all the world of those things which are communicated unto you” (D&C 84:61). I said, “Elder, I promise you that, if you will serve properly, if you will live properly, you can go home as clean and sanctified as you would like to go.”

He said, “President, I want that more than anything else. Tell me how I’m supposed to serve.”

I enjoyed telling him exactly what had to be done, starting with the getting up in the morning, holding study class, and I went on and on and on.

When I was through outlining all the requisities, he turned to me, shot out his hand, and said, “I pledge that I will.” And he did. The only complaint I ever received from his mission companions in the next two years was “He’s working me to death. I can’t stay up with him.”

He concluded his mission; he left his mark on Texas. He reported to the mission home to say his final testimony. As he bore his testimony, he wept a little and then said, “You don’t know this, but my father is a patriarch. My father is one of the greatest men that ever lived. He is also one of the most demonstrative people you’ll ever find—he kisses everybody. It isn’t unusual in my family for my father to come up to me or to someone else, to put his arms around us, and to kiss us and tell us that he loves us. Before my mission I didn’t enjoy his embraces nor his kisses. Whenever my father came near and tried to pull me toward him, I wanted to shrink away. I know why—I wasn’t worthy of his presence.” Then his eyes clouded and he said, “I can’t wait until I get home tonight. For the first time in my life I feel worthy of my father’s love.” What a lesson in that! What a wonderful day it will be to all of us when—if we live properly, if we become what we should become—we can report back to our Father and he feels inclined to embrace us and say to us, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.” What greater treasure, what greater reward could we have than that?

For the past ten years a spring tradition of snowshoe hiking from Alta to Brighton ski resorts (Utah) has meant cold feet, frozen fingers, and lots of fun for members of the Valley View Eighth Ward, Salt Lake Valley View Stake. This year was no exception.
One hundred and twenty-two persons gathered up snowshoes and backpacks and rode the Alta ski lift to its top. From there the group hiked over the mountain through Kathryn Pass. After the four-hour hike the summit was reached and members of the group rolled, jumped, and wrestled off the overhangs on the saddle of the pass, dropping down almost vertical sides.
Snowshoes don’t have the maneuverability of skis, so the group sat back on the snowshoes and just bombed down the chute end at Brighton—where everyone started planning next year’s hike.

I remember when this change happened in my life, and when I was “converted” to education. When I began my studies as an 18-year-old university freshman, I, like many of you, didn’t have any idea of what I wanted to go into. So also like many of you, I started taking classes from the dreaded list of General Education requirements. I have to admit that I was anything but excited about beginning my 13th consecutive year of going back to school in the fall. I was tired of it, and it had become boring to me. And to make matters worse, college was a lot more work now than it had been in high school. I was more interested in learning other new things, like skiing. By the end of my freshman year, it was pretty obvious from my performance and subsequent non-praiseworthy reports that if I ever was to earn a university degree, and that was a pretty big if, it was going to be Summa Cum Lousy!

But with the passing of a little time, and with new experiences, something strange happened: I started to like school! It may have had something to do with having met Chris. The time frame corresponds pretty closely. She was, and continues to be, a great example of someone who loves studying and learning. It may also have had something to do with enrolling in one of those dreaded G.E. classes where I started to find myself. A new pattern was being set, and that began to change all the other courses as well. Once again, something had changed. And once again, it wasn’t the external things. They were the same classes, the same teachers, and the same or even harder workload. They just all looked different. What a shock it was to me a little later in my education when I felt a sense of disappointment at the end of a semester when I knew there were certain classes that I would not be able to go to anymore. This is what education can do for you.

I remember a particular period of my life when I was under unusual stress. There were troubles with my employment, and at the same time, my wife was diagnosed with a life-threatening illness. This was one of those times when it felt like the adversary had mounted a frontal assault against me and my family. On days when the stresses and anxieties of our tumultuous life were about to get the best of us, my wife and I found a way to relieve them.
We drove to a place just a few miles from our home to get away for a few moments of relief from our troubles, talk, and give emotional comfort to each other. Our place was Walden Pond. It was a beautiful little pond surrounded by forests of trees. When my wife was feeling strong enough, we’d go for a walk around the pond. Other days, when she did not feel up to the exertion of walking, we’d just sit in the car and talk. Walden Pond was our special place to pause, reflect, and heal. Perhaps it was partly due to its history—its connection to the efforts of Henry David Thoreau to separate himself from worldliness for a period of years—that Walden Pond offered us so much hope for simplicity and provided such a renewing escape from our overly complex lives.

When it came time to bless my daughter, Amelia, there was so much I wanted to include in her blessing. As I pondered beforehand about what to say, I felt that I should bless her to grow up healthy and strong. I also felt inspired to bless her that her life would be centered on the gospel of Jesus Christ.
As I stood in the circle in sacrament meeting and began to bless my little daughter, I shared all these things and other spiritual impressions. Then suddenly, I felt prompted to add something. I was surprised by how strongly this prompting came to me.
With Amelia in my arms, I said, “At times, people will be unkind to you, but I bless you that you will follow the Savior’s example and always be kind.”
I have thought a lot about this part of Amelia’s blessing since then. I’ve realized that kindness isn’t something I wish only for my daughter. Kindness is something the whole world needs. It often seems that harshness and thoughtlessness are everywhere, but here are a few ways we can make the world around us a little kinder.

The story was told of General Antigonus (382–301 B.C., general of Alexander the Great) who was preparing to have his men attack the enemy. The plan was devised, the strategy decided, and the hour determined. General Antigonus’s men were outnumbered severely. The signal to attack was given. No one attacked. In fact, they were about ready to retreat ingloriously. General Antigonus asked what the problem was. The captains replied that they were outnumbered so severely that the men dared not attack. General Antigonus thought for a moment and then asked, “For how many then wilt thou reckon me?” This spirit spread through the ranks; they attacked and won a great battle.

Some years ago, Constance, a student nurse, was assigned to try and help a woman who had injured her leg in an accident. The woman refused medical help because she had had a negative experience with someone at the hospital. She was afraid and had become something of a recluse. The first time Constance dropped by, the injured woman ordered her out. On the second try, she did let Constance in. By now the woman’s leg was covered with large ulcers, and some of the flesh was rotting. But still she didn’t want to be treated.

Constance made it a matter of prayer, and in a day or two the answer came. She took some foaming hydrogen peroxide with her for the next visit. As this was painless, the old woman let her use it on her leg. Then they talked about more serious treatment at the hospital. Constance assured her the hospital would make her stay as pleasant as possible. In a day or two the woman did get the courage to enter the hospital. When Constance visited her, the woman smiled as she said, “You convinced me.” Then, quite unexpectedly, she asked Constance, “What church do you belong to?” Constance told her she was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The woman said: “I knew it. I knew you were sent to me from the first day that I saw you. There was a light in your face that I had noticed in others of your faith. I had to put my trust in you.”

In three months’ time that festering leg was completely healed. Members of the ward where the old woman lived remodeled her house and fixed up her yard. The missionaries met with her, and she was baptized soon after. All of this because she noticed the light in that young student nurse’s face.

In my history class we were studying the Seven Years’ War and my teacher told us that we would watch a film. I was excited until she informed us that it was rated R. I knew that I didn’t want to see it. My teacher insisted it was not a bad movie, but I knew it still wasn’t right. I looked to see what the other kids would do, and I waited for someone to stand up and leave the room. In the end I was the only one who left.
Even though it was really hard, I’m glad I left. Many people have told me that they know what my standards are. I’m glad I didn’t lower them in order to watch the movie. My teacher apologized for challenging my standards and said from now on I won’t be pressured into watching R-rated movies in her classroom.

“Kent?” I whispered into the dark, but my brother was already asleep. Just minutes ago we had raced downstairs, said our prayers, and hopped into bed. How could he fall asleep so fast?
“Kent!”
Still nothing.
I squirmed down under my covers until my eyes barely peeped out above my cowboy blanket.
I glanced to the left. There was my favorite stuffed animal. It should have made me feel better. But my stomach flip-flopped inside of me. What if a tiger crept out of the laundry room next door?
I glanced to the right. There was the hat I got at an amusement park this summer. But my heart was thump-thumping. What if spiders attacked from under the porch?
I glanced up. Hanging from the ceiling were the model airplanes Dad and I had pieced together and painted so carefully. I squeezed my eyes shut and imagined them flying above me at night, warning me of danger.
My eyes popped open. I had an idea! On the dresser by my bed was a picture of Jesus that I had gotten in Primary. Slowly I reached out and propped up the picture. The light from our nightlight seemed to make the words at the bottom of the picture glow.
I am the way. Come and follow me.
I rolled onto my side so that I could see the picture and read those words again and again. I looked at Jesus’s hands and thought about how He blessed little children. My stomach stopped flip-flopping. I looked at Jesus’s feet and thought about how He went to find people who needed help. My heart stopped thump-thumping. I looked at Jesus’s face and thought about how He knew my name.
Tigers and spiders faded from my mind as I snuggled into my blankets. Heavenly Father and Jesus loved me! I felt warm and peaceful and safe.
And very, very sleepy.

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.

During his years in high school, one of my sons withdrew more and more from our family. He resented authority of any kind. He dutifully attended church, but he had no enthusiasm for the gospel.
After he graduated from high school, instead of preparing for a mission, he set goals to earn money for a car and college. But one Sunday he attended Sunday School instead of leaving after sacrament meeting as he often had. The lesson that day was about serving missions.
Our son later told us he had never felt the Holy Ghost so forcefully as during that lesson. Immediately after Sunday School, he told the bishop he wanted to serve a mission. In his farewell talk about a year later, he shared a letter his Sunday School teacher, Shelly Parcell, had written him after she learned of his decision.
Sister Parcell described how she had struggled to prepare a lesson on Doctrine and Covenants 71–75 and 77. She decided on Saturday evening to focus on the prophecies from the book of Revelation as discussed in section 77. “I didn’t sleep well at all that night,” she wrote. “Every time I woke up, the overpowering thought was, What will I teach? What do my students need to learn?”
On Sunday morning, Sister Parcell looked over the lesson one more time, and a lesson about missionary service took shape in her mind. “I knew the Lord had a message for somebody in our class,” she wrote. “During the lesson the Spirit was very strong, and I felt the message was getting through. I don’t remember everything I said, but I remember saying things I hadn’t planned on, and I know the Spirit took over.”
As our son prepared for his mission, he shared his testimony with his older brother. They entered the mission field within months of each other and shared the gospel in Perú and México. I will always be grateful for Shelly Parcell and how she blessed our family by teaching by the power of the Spirit.

“I will never forget you, bishop. You saved my life.”
The man who makes that statement today didn’t feel that way in the beginning. As a teen he was scared. He knew he needed to repent. I was his bishop at the time, and he knew we needed to talk. But he was full of doubts.
“What is the bishop going to think of me?”
“Will he keep this confidential?”
“How will I ever look at him again?”
Such worries can feel overwhelming, making it seem nearly impossible to muster the courage necessary to travel the road to repentance.
But some confessions require that you talk to your bishop or branch president. And that’s where this young man found himself. He needed help beyond his own capacity, and he needed to know the journey was possible.
Let me close by telling you a little more about my visit with that young man. “Bishop,” he said, “you’re going to hate me for what I have to tell you. You’ll never be able to look at me again, and if you share what I say with anybody, I’ll kill myself.”
I said, “I promise I will never betray your confidences. I will take them with me to the grave.”
He told me about some minor situations and watched my reaction. When I said, “I know what you’re going through. I can help you,” he proceeded slowly until he got to what he really wanted to discuss. I reminded him repeatedly that I admired him for confessing and wanting to change. Even though he seemed ready to run at any moment, together we got through what he needed to share.
Was it a big deal? It was to him. But as we talked, he came to better understand the mercy the Lord offers to those who sincerely repent. After that first visit, we worked together, and over time his repentance became complete. Today he still calls me to say hello, and our conversations are happy.
I was privileged to help him learn that we all depend on the Atonement. And I join my voice with his in praise of Jesus Christ, the one who really saved his life.

What a special day for Andrea! She was going to school for the very first time.
“I painted a picture of a tiger,” she said, racing into the house after school. “I listened to a story about a big brown bear, and I even have my own hook for my jacket. Can I go to school again tomorrow?”
“Yes,” her mother replied.
The next day when Andrea came home, a smile covered her face from ear to ear. “We went on a nature walk,” she said. “I found three bugs, two sticks, and a purple flower. I even have a new friend, named Samantha. Can I go again tomorrow?”
“Yes,” Andrea’s mother said with a smile.
The next afternoon, Andrea raced up the stairs two at a time. “Mom!” she hollered. “Guess what? We have a gerbil in our classroom. He lives in a glass case, and we named him Patches. I even drew a picture of Patches. Do you want to see?”
“What a handsome gerbil,” Mother said, admiring Andrea’s picture.
“Can I go to school again tomorrow?” she asked.
“Yes,” Mother replied.
The next afternoon, Andrea skipped into the house and plopped down at the table for milk and cookies. “We saw a movie about a lost polar bear,” Andrea said, wiping her mouth after a big gulp of milk. “Samantha and I played ball at recess. I had sixteen bounces without a miss! Can I go to school again tomorrow?”
Mother nodded and bit into a cookie.
The next afternoon, Andrea sang all the way home from school. “Oh, Mom,” she said, hugging her mother, “I made a truck using scissors and glue and lots of colored paper. And you should’ve seen the tower I built with blocks. Before it fell, it was this high.”
“That’s a mighty tall tower,” Mother said, looking at Andrea’s upraised hand.
“Can I go again tomorrow?” she asked.
“I’m sorry, Andrea,” Mother replied. “You can’t go to school tomorrow.”
Andrea’s eyes widened, and her smile melted away. “But I want to go to school,” she said, blinking hard. “School is fun.”
Mother knelt down and put her arm around Andrea. “School is fun,” she said. “But you can’t go tomorrow.”
“Why not?”
“Because tomorrow is Saturday,” Mother explained with a hug.
“Saturday!” Andrea said with a laugh. “Oh, I forgot! But can I go to school again on Monday?”
“Yes,” Mother told her. “You can go to school on Monday.”
“Good,” Andrea said, and she raced outside to ride her bike.

In June 1830 the prophet Joseph Smith’s brother, Samuel, set out on the first missionary journey for the Church. He took with him several copies of the Book of Mormon, but was unsuccessful in his attempts to sell them. He returned home disappointed and discouraged, feeling that his work had proved to be fruitless.

Samuel Smith felt he had been a failure, but the one Book of Mormon he managed to give away made its way into the hands of Brigham Young, who passed it to Heber C Kimball. We too can see amazing results if we but try.

Some of the bricks in the tabernacle were damaged and needed to be replaced. N. J. Meacher, who is not a member of the Church, donated a beautiful old home whose bricks matched those of the tabernacle. Matt Foley was assigned to supervise tearing down the house and salvaging the bricks. His three grandsons, Greg (7), Corey (10), and Dallen (11), volunteered to help him. The bricks had to be removed one at a time and carefully cleaned and tested for strength. The Foleys, along with many other volunteers, were able to save sixteen thousand bricks, which are now in the temple walls and the walls enclosing the grounds.
When the temple was completed, Greg attended the open house. “The Spirit was so strong!” he said.
“I’m eager to go back to the temple when I’m twelve,” Dallen stated. “I can’t describe how good it feels to know that we actually helped to build a temple.”
Their cousin Corey agreed. “It was a great experience, preserving the bricks for a temple. It’s a very special building that will help people for a long time.”

When I was 22, I had an opportunity to work at a center where I served girls who had experienced abuse and neglect. I felt sorry for them. I saw how the abuse broke their hearts and destroyed their love for themselves. Some of them attempted suicide. Some of them didn’t want to trust anyone. Many of them had no hope in life and didn’t feel the Savior’s love.
I often asked myself, “Could these abuses have been prevented? What if their perpetrators had received the gospel? What if their parents had become members of the Church before these girls were born?” I realized that these girls might not have experienced these trials if their parents and perpetrators had received and lived the gospel.
Reflecting on these questions and working at the center helped me see that all people need the gospel. Just as the army of Helaman in the Book of Mormon fought to defend their faith and families, the Lord needs full-time missionaries to share His gospel and protect His kingdom.
The experiences I had with the girls at the center inspired me to walk the path where the Lord wanted me to go. I decided I needed to join the Lord’s missionary army. He saw this desire, and I was called to serve in the Philippines Cauayan Mission.

But one of the most valuable lessons I’ve learned from falling off of things was actually one that I learned from repeatedly falling off of my own foot.
Let me explain.
I spent years in ballet classes learning leaps, turns, stretches, and steps. But there was one thing that I just could not get, no matter how much I practiced: pirouettes. I had failed so many times to turn around in a full circle while balancing on my toes on one foot that I was convinced I just could not do it.
Then one day my teacher explained a valuable principle to the class. Whenever we would fall down in the middle of a pirouette, she would usually offer advice such as “Turn your head faster” or “Bring your other foot to your knee faster.” But this time she asked me, “Where are you falling?”
I was surprised. I thought it was pretty obvious. I was falling down.
My teacher asked again, “Which direction are you falling? Are you falling forward? backward? to the side?”
I said I usually fell forward.
“Then you’re probably looking down,” she explained. “Look up, and try again.”
I did as she said, but this time I fell backward.
“That’s good,” she said, smiling. “Just a little too much oomph the other way. Try again.”
I spun again, this time looking up, focusing in front of me so that I could keep my head centered over the rest of my body.
“Nicely done!” my teacher said when I successfully completed the turn.
She then gathered the rest of the class and explained to us why she had asked me where I was falling.
She said that our heads are actually very heavy, and they direct where we will go. She stood on one foot, looked down at the ground, and started to fall forward. Then she tried it again with her head tilted back, and she started to fall backward.
“So,” she said, “pay attention to where you’re falling. It has a lot to do with where your head is.”