Gospel Story Finder

I selected this topic because “The Bond of Charity” was the theme for the Annual University Conference this past year, a theme the administration believed should not only characterize that conference but serve as a guide to the university community throughout the year. I was assigned responsibilities in connection with that conference, one of which was to suggest possible themes. After weeks of searching for what I thought might be a possible theme and then an evening of going through many of my favorite books, sure that I would find exactly what would be the right theme for our conference, I lay down, no closer to coming to a suggested topic than I was when I began. As I lay on the bed, I felt prompted to read the 88th section of the Doctrine and Covenants. If you have read that section lately, you know it is very long, and at one o’clock in the morning I did not particularly want to read it. Themes for past conferences had been selected from the 88th section so as I was reading it, I kept saying to myself, “We’re not going to take a theme from this section”—until I came to the 125th verse. As I read that, I was impressed that this verse should provide the theme. Ironically, that was the day Jeffrey R. Holland was appointed president of Brigham Young University. I met with him the following week, shared the experience I have shared with you, and asked him for his opinion. He replied, “That is a more inspired choice than you know. I have come to Brigham Young University with my own prayers for an administration characterized by unity and peace. ‘The Bond of Charity’ is exactly the right phrase.”

Two such pioneers are Linda Choi and Castle Chan, one of the first couples married in the Hong Kong Temple. Brother Chan joined the Church six years ago after missionaries stopped him during a street display. His parents and siblings had always been extremely important to him, and as he listened to the missionaries, he desired the eternal family they spoke of. Unfortunately, no one at home was interested in listening to the truth he had discovered.
Three and a half years ago, however, he met Linda. She agreed to listen to the discussions and attend church with him. “Right from the beginning I was impressed with Castle’s attitude toward his family,” she says. “He was so unlike other men I knew who worried about material things, money, and possessions. Castle focused on things that mattered. He often spoke about an eternal family unit, and I wanted that. If this religion was where he’d found it, I was willing to listen.”
As a student nurse, Linda observes firsthand the reactions of spouses and families during times of illness, disease, and other hardship. “Some patients go their entire stay at the hospital with no visitors,” she says. “They have no one in their lives who cares. Some people I work with have been divorced and place no importance on families. Sometimes playing and possessions are first priorities. I yearned for more than that.”
After a few months, Linda was baptized. Now, using D&C 88:119 as a guide, she and Castle are starting the “forever family” they both seek. “We want a house of prayer, a house of fasting, a house of faith, learning, glory, and order—a house of God,” Castle explains. “When spouses are members of the same church, they share religious values; they share goals. There is a saying I like: If you share your happiness with one you love, you’ll double it. If you share your sorrows, you’ll lighten them by half. This is our goal: to share our happiness and share our sorrow.”

A bishop, no matter how skilled in administrative matters, must be a friend to children, youth, and adults if he is to help them reach their spiritual potential. I was touched once when a young woman I knew went to her bishop to confess a serious transgression. She had been worried about how the bishop might react to her deviation from the gospel path and had only gone to him after considerable urging. When I asked her afterward what his response had been, she told me with great emotion that her bishop had wept with her and that in working with him to gain the Lord’s forgiveness, she now considered her bishop to be one of her best friends.

It was unlike any other commencement or baccalaureate exercise I had ever attended or in which I had ever participated. There were 44 graduates, all male. They did not have traditional academic robes or caps or gowns. Each man wore a light blue denim shirt and dark blue denim trousers.
The ceremony was not held in a field house or a stadium or even a lovely auditorium. It was held in a modest interdenominational chapel at the Utah State Prison. The graduating class had successfully completed a year’s course of Bible study, which was sponsored by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints but open to all who cared to participate.
The opening prayer was given by a young man who looked more like a mere boy. He was frightened to death, but he gave a prayer from his heart. He was in prison for 10 years to life on an armed robbery charge. The closing prayer was given by a man who was 45 or 50 years old and who looked as if he could have been somebody’s uncle. He was in for a life term on second-degree murder.
A young man who had been released from prison had come back to get his certificate and to encourage his colleagues. He said, “Guys, the perspective in prison is really bad. It really looks better on the outside. Try to remember that.” Then he turned to the outsiders, to the friends and families who had come, and said, “You people are a light in a dark place. If it were not for love like yours, we would not be able to get from where we are to where we need to be.”
When the service was over, the inmate who conducted said, with some emotion in his voice and a little mist in his eyes, “This is the most auspicious occasion of our year. It’s better than Christmas. It’s better than Thanksgiving. It’s even better than Mother’s Day. It’s better because we’re enlightened, and that’s as close as we come to being free.”
Then the gates clanged shut behind my wife and me. That night we went home, and I confess I couldn’t sleep. That experience haunted me. In the early hours of that morning, I had feelings and thoughts and a response to imprisonment and freedom (and their relationship to enlightenment and love) that I never had before.

President Hinckley’s grandfather, Ira Nathanial Hinckley, lost his parents and was sent from Michigan to Springfield, Illinois, to live with his grandparents. As a teenager he walked to Nauvoo, Illinois, and met the Prophet Joseph Smith.
He traveled westward with the pioneers. During the U.S. Civil War he volunteered for service in the Union army guarding the transcontinental telegraph line. Later he was sent by Brigham Young to Cove Creek, Utah, where he built the fort that stands today.
On the trek west, Ira Hinckley stayed back for one season to plow the prairies and plant grain that he would not harvest. The harvest belonged to those who came afterward. The forebearers of Brother and Sister Hinckley planted fields of faith for those who followed them.

I was really touched by the story “Please Bless Kathy” in the November 1989 issue. I had the same experience with a very good friend of mine who really hurt me. After a year of just wallowing in hate, I decided to pray about her, and though it was hard, my feelings towards her changed. I discovered that, instead of being angry towards her, I felt more sorrow, for she didn’t have the religion I have to rely upon. I also hoped that maybe I could give that to her. Thanks.
Melissa BurfordEugene, Oregon

I was getting to know my new bishop when he said, “You said everything is fine, but something seems wrong.”
I explained that I was constantly behind in my coursework. I was depressed, lonely, and struggling with social anxiety.
“You are too hard on yourself,” he said. He taught me about the Atonement of Jesus Christ and the Savior’s patience and mercy. He also suggested that I talk to my parents and consider the possibility of therapy.
I started seeing a therapist. It didn’t solve everything at once. But because of my loving bishop, I got the help I needed.
Brenna H., Utah, USA

Let me take you back 10 years ago. My oldest daughter had just turned 16, and it was prom day. The girls decided to prepare for prom at our house, and I began to witness something I had never even imagined before. There was makeup, curling irons, giggling, and practicing for hours! The girls actually practiced walking out to meet their dates! I was so out of my element I decided to just find a back corner in the house and try to stay out of the way. But I couldn’t help thinking about how the boys were preparing, because I was reminded how I prepared for my first prom date. We had lowered the basketball hoops to eight feet and were having a slam dunk contest in our tuxedos about 20 minutes before we had to pick up the girls. We got so sweaty that one of us had the brilliant idea that if we coated our armpits with laundry detergent it would cover up the smell. It seemed to work! At any rate, back to my daughter. I remember my daughter feeling so pretty, so valued! Then I had this horrible thought! What if the boys don’t say anything nice! What if they don’t recognize the effort these girls have put into this! The thought came because I again remembered my 16-year-old male brain! I did the only thing I could do; I looked heavenward and said a quick plea: “Heavenly Father, please help these boys say something nice!”
The time arrived and the girls came out as rehearsed! Fortunately, my plea must have worked, because the boys were very gracious. My daughter’s date gave her a great compliment, and she was glowing. And then the last girl came out. She had selected a more revealing dress, and in response to her entrance, all the boys looked away from their dates to give her a scan. I watched my daughter’s confidence get crushed and felt a little piece of my heart break off and drop. This was an unexpected emotion, and only you fathers with daughters will understand this, but my testosterone started to boil and it took all my will power to stay seated! But this emotion was also followed with a sinking feeling of despair, would I have done the same thing? I’m afraid, if I’m being completely honest, I probably would had done the same, at least then, when I was struggling through my stupid years. But I don’t want to talk about then; I want to talk about now!

When my wife and I had been married for about six years, we were living in Makiki and my wife expressed the desire to attend graduate school on the mainland. Just a few months before this, we welcomed our oldest daughter into our family. Having a new child would make graduate school and a move even more challenging. My wife’s parents still lived in Boston, where my wife was born and raised, so we had a built-in support system there. We prayed and fasted about the decision and felt like it was the path that we should take.

A few months later, we sold everything that we had and left the island with only a couple of suitcases full of clothes and baby toys. We arrived in Boston and found a house to rent in an area called Cambridge Port. Our home was located a block from the Charles River, right by the BU bridge. It was a great location. Sister Yamamoto’s school was located right across the bridge. The historic Fenway Ball Park was less than a mile away. Right around the corner was an amazing mom-and-pop Italian pizza joint called “Stephanie's Pizzeria.” I can still remember the amazing smell of fresh calzones and pizza, which permeated the air.

The fall in the Northeast was terrific. We enjoyed apple picking, viewing the fall foliage, going to pumpkin patches, attending Redsox games at Fenway, and spending time with my wife’s family. It was an amazing place until the winter season came. I was cold to my very core for four months straight. We lived in one of those historical Cambridge homes that had big metal radiators used for a heating system. When you turned them on, they would start hissing and clanking and the temperature was very hard to control. The only thing that saved me during those winters was coming back here for a month in January during the winter break.

While we lived in Boston, we attended the Cambridge 1st Ward. The ward was mostly made up of married graduate students and their families attending the various universities in the area. Because the bulk of our ward was students, the Elders Quorum was constantly moving members in and out. One of my home teaching sisters needed to move from one home to another home that was only a couple of blocks away. Three or four of the Elders from our ward and the full-time missionaries showed up to help out.

I arrived at the house and much to my delight, it was a dream move. Sometimes you show up for a move, and the family is busily stuffing things into bags, boxes, trash bags or whatever they can find to transport their belongings. This sister had everything nicely packed, and she even had a moving truck. In less than 20 minutes, everything was completely loaded into the truck. The truck was packed so efficiently that only half of the inside of the truck was filled.

We were ready to get into our cars and drive over to the new house when the sister came out and warned us that parking was very limited around her new home and that it would be a good idea to ride over together. One of the Elders had a great idea or what seemed like a good idea. He proposed that we utilize the empty space in the back of the moving truck by jumping in and riding over to the house together. It was only a short couple of blocks. We all agreed to his proposal without thinking about it and piled into the back of the moving truck.

I was chatting with one of the missionaries when all of a sudden, the inside of the truck started to get dark. I looked toward the opening and the driver was pulling down on the rope connected to the rolling back door. Within seconds, the door was completely closed and the area was completely dark. Suddenly, you could hear a click of metal on the exterior of the door. I'm sure that you have all seen that round metal piece on the back of diesels and moving trucks that when turned locks into place, securing the door and locking the door from the outside. That click meant that we were locked inside.

Up to that point in my life, I had never experienced any kind of claustrophobia or anxieties from being in an enclosed space. While I was a student at BYU in Provo, I even went to a place called the Nutty Putty Caves a few times to explore with friends. The Nutty Putty Caves were located on the west side of Utah Lake. You would drive to this remote spot on dirt roads and then there was literally a hole in the earth that you would go down a network of caves. They had this one section in the Nutty Putty Caves called the birth canal. I am sure you can picture why it might be called the birth canal and I even went through that section and didn’t even think twice about it then.

Back to Boston and the moving truck. I heard that metal piece click and we were locked inside. It was so dark that I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. All of a sudden, my chest began to constrict and I couldn’t breathe. My mind started to go crazy. I began searching frantically for a way to get out of the truck. I finally spotted a tiny pinprick of light coming from the bottom corner of the door. I rushed over, knelt down, put my face right by the hole, and tried to suck in air from the hole. It didn’t provide any relief. By this time my lungs were begging for air. I was desperate and my mind and body felt like they were going to explode. I am very lucky that it was pitch black because the people in the truck would have thought that I was literally crazy.

Drenched in sweat, I felt and thought that I was going to die. All of a sudden, one of the guys we were with flipped open his phone. Back in 2008, we had those cool phones that you flip open. The flip phone provided a small glow of light around his face as he looked at the screen. He must have thought that I was crazy when I scooted right next to him and hovered my face over his phone. The light on the phone immediately eased my mind and I could breathe again. My anxieties and panic immediately disappeared. It was amazing that the tiny bit of light would provide such a great relief. We arrived at our destination a couple of minutes later and I was liberated from the moving truck. We quickly moved the items into the house and then I let the guys know that I was going to walk back to my car and didn’t need a ride.

Thinking back to my moving truck experience, I later realized that I had a cell phone in my pocket during the entire experience. I had the tool that would have alleviated any kind of pain and anguish that I experienced. When we are in the midst of a problem or hardship, don’t we sometimes forget about the things that would help us the most? Sometimes we forget or blame God, we forget what the prophet and our church leaders have taught us, we forget the principles and doctrines of the gospel. We stop praying, stop reading our scriptures, and stop attending church. These are the times that we need those things the most. We forget the things that bring light and hope into our lives.

Inspiration. To Michelangelo it was a block of marble. To Michael A. McBride of Rialto, California, it’s a dented fender.
While attending Eisenhower High School, Mike worked at a body and fender shop. When the county industrial arts contest was held, he entered the auto mechanics competition. He won first place.
From there he went to Fresno, California, for the statewide contest. He walked away with first place, winning an all-expense paid trip to Washington, D.C., for the national competition.
In the nation’s capital Mike took fourth place. During the competition he had to finish a written examination on auto repairs, estimate the cost of repairing a damaged car, repair and paint a dent—and do it all against the clock.
Mike is active in Church sports and is planning to enter the mission field soon.

Others, like Rose Thompson, who was born in England, feel a kinship with the Mormon pioneers despite the fact that their ancestors were not among those who emigrated to Utah. Rose recalls being ill at age ten, and thinking about the pioneers’ courage in the face of hardship. “I wondered what would have happened to me if I had been a pioneer crossing the plains instead of being in a comfortable bed with a doctor near by,” she says. “I decided that I would have died along the way. I gave thanks that I belong to this generation and determined to bear up under my problems as the pioneers did under theirs.”

After her marriage, Rose and her husband moved to Edinburgh. There they often visited an elderly sister who had served as a “pioneer” in the Church for many years—in both the Relief Society and in the Young Women program. The woman had lost her husband and two sons to the sea.

Rose says, “When I asked her what life was like when she was young and what she did in the Church, she just said, ‘We did what needed to be done.’ She didn’t have any stories to tell me, but she shared her strong pioneer philosophy. When I faced new and difficult situations with my children and Church assignments, I found it helped me considerably to remember: just do what needs to be done.”

It has been a privilege to seal several adopted children to Nan and Dan Barker, now living in Arizona. Some time ago, Nate, their son, then just over three, said: “Mommy, there is another little girl who is supposed to come to our family. She has dark hair and dark eyes and lives a long way from here.”
The wise mother asked, “How do you know this?”
“Jesus told me, upstairs.”
The mother noted, “We don’t have an upstairs,” but quickly sensed the significance of what had been said. After much effort and many prayers, the Barker family were in a sealing room in the Salt Lake Temple in the fall of 1995—where a little girl with dark hair and dark eyes, from Kazakhstan, was sealed to them for time and eternity. Inspired children still tell parents “great and marvelous things” (see 3 Ne. 26:14).

This time, I would like to humbly add a comparison inspired from an area in the field of my professional preparation. I am referring to the world of civil engineering. From the beginning of my university studies, I dreamed of the day when I would complete the requirements to be qualified to take the class that would teach me how to design buildings and other structures that could then be considered “anti-seismic.”
The day finally arrived for my first class on this subject. The first words from the professor were the following: “You are surely anxious to begin this course and learn how to design anti-seismic structures,” to which many of us eagerly nodded our heads. Then the professor said, “I am sorry to tell you that this is not possible, for I cannot teach you how to design a building that is against, that is ‘anti-’ or that is opposed to, an earthquake. This makes no sense,” he said, “because earthquakes will occur anyway, whether we like it or not.”
Then he added, “What I can teach you is how to design structures that are seismic-resistant, structures that can resist the forces coming from an earthquake, so that the structure remains standing without suffering any serious damage and can then continue offering the service for which it had been conceived.”
The engineer makes the calculations that indicate the dimensions, qualities, and characteristics of the foundations, columns, beams, concrete slabs, and other structural elements being designed. These results are translated into plans and technical specifications, which must be strictly followed by the builder in order for the work to materialize and thus fulfill the purpose for which it was designed and is being built.
Although more than 40 years have passed since that first class in seismic-resistant engineering, I perfectly remember the moment when I began to acquire a deeper, more complete understanding of the vital importance that this concept would be present in the structures that I would design in my future professional life. Not only that, but even more important—that it would be permanently present in the edification of my own life and in those over whom I might exercise a positive influence.

After reading “Kenny’s Christmas” in the December 2005 Friend, I felt sad that some children don’t get any toys for Christmas. I asked my mom if I could use the money I had been saving to buy a toy for a child who wouldn’t have any presents to open on Christmas morning.
We went to the store, and I bought some toys to put in the big box the store had to collect presents for children who wouldn’t get any. I felt really good that I had helped a child have a good Christmas, and I know that I followed Jesus Christ’s example.

Illustrations by Maryn Roos
Matt and Mandy’s family is moving to a different city because of Dad’s job.
I’m leaving all of my friends behind!
Don’t worry, Matt. You make friends a lot easier than I do.
Yeah, I guess. But I still don’t know where my new school is. Or where my class will be. I’m sure I’ll get lost.
It’s scary right now because the future is foggy—like that day last winter when we got lost driving home from the movies.
That was actually kind of a fun adventure …
But we have each other, and we have the gospel. And if we hold on tight to those things, everything will work out.
Hmm. Fog? Holding on tight? Hey! It’s like Lehi’s dream in the Book of Mormon—holding on to the iron rod.
I guess it is.
And guess what else. Mandy, you know you’ve been looking forward to being old enough to go to the temple to do baptisms for the dead?
Mandy: Yes?
Well, our new home will be much closer to a temple.
Cool!
(To be continued.)

One of the most serious deterrents to any success is that we spend too much time practicing those things that we don’t want to be. We might learn a great many important lessons from the story told many years ago by Dr. Harry Emerson Fosdick entitled “On the Wrong Bus.” It tells of a man who got on a bus with the intention and desire of going to Detroit, Michigan. But when he arrived at the end of a long trip, he found himself in Kansas City, Kansas. At first he would not believe it. When he asked for directions to Woodward Avenue and was told there was no Woodward Avenue, he was indignant—he knew there was. It was some time before he could face the fact that in spite of his good intentions and his earnest desire, he was not in Detroit at all but in Kansas City. Everything was fine except for one little detail; he had just caught the wrong bus.

When I was in my teens, I used to wonder what it felt like to hear the voice of the Lord. I thought that Moses, Isaiah, John the Baptist, and especially Joseph Smith were highly favored, and I wished that I might hear also. I was not being sacrilegious. It was an honest desire. I knew quite well that unless I had a special calling that required it, the Lord would not favor me with his personal attention. Voices from heaven are few in recorded history.
The answer to this desire was quite as dramatic to me as had been the one I received about Nephi and his brethren. One day about ten years ago (when I was age sixty-four), I was reading section 18 of the Doctrine and Covenants. I read these words:
“These words are not of men nor of man, but of me; wherefore, you shall testify they are of me and not of man;
“For it is my voice which speaketh them unto you; for they are given by my Spirit unto you, and by my power you can read them one to another; and save it were by my power you could not have them;
“Wherefore, you can testify that you have heard my voice, and know my words.” (D&C 18:34–36.)
Here the Lord was telling the twelve apostles, five years before the quorum was organized, that when they read his words, they were hearing his voice. It was as though the heavens were opened and everything was revealed that was given to any of the prophets who ever wrote. Ever since then the Doctrine and Covenants has had a new meaning for me. I am hearing as well as reading, and clearly the voice of the Lord rings in my heart. I have always read and enjoyed the uplifting quality of this great book. But now things are different. Now I read with awe and wonderment.

Despite my mother’s dedicated efforts during family home evenings, I was always more interested in video games than in spiritual things. The idea of serving a mission seemed distant and unappealing to me.
But everything changed one quiet night when I was 15. I was alone in the living room, playing a game on my cell phone. My mother and sister were in another room. Suddenly, a surprising noise caught my attention: the scriptures had inexplicably fallen from the shelf and landed in the middle of the room.
At first I thought my mother had thrown the book to get me off my cell phone, but then I realized she wouldn’t do that. And there was no breeze or anything that could explain how the scriptures fell.
Curious, I put down my phone and picked up the scriptures, opening them at random. The words I read were like a call straight to my heart:
“Now behold, a marvelous work is about to come forth among the children of men.
“Therefore, O ye that embark in the service of God, see that ye serve him with all your heart, might, mind and strength, that ye may stand blameless before God at the last day.
“Therefore, if ye have desires to serve God ye are called to the work” (Doctrine and Covenants 4:1–3).
I had never read these verses before. The words touched something deep within me.
I ran to tell my mother about what had happened and showed her the passage I had read. She looked at me with tears in her eyes and said she believed this was a reminder from Heavenly Father that I had been called by a prophet to prepare myself to serve a mission.
From that moment on, I began to see life and my purpose in it with new eyes. Even though I still loved video games, I realized that something had fundamentally changed within me. My cell phone often sat on the couch as I pondered the words of Jesus Christ that had touched my soul.
Now I’m serving as a missionary, sharing the good news of the gospel. I’m glad my spiritual journey began when the scriptures fell into my life one silent night, leading to a divine call that I could not ignore.

Because of the relationships and goodwill he has formed over the years, the local police approached Arthur to help develop an Independent Advisory Group in Northamptonshire. IAGs were originally formed in response to the killing of the black teenager Steven Lawrence in London. Their aim is to provide guidance, insight and constructive challenge to local constabularies. Very quickly, Arthur became co-chair and finally chair of the group. The group involves people of many faiths, including Muslim, Sikh, Jewish, and Hindu. They work on a range of sensitive and potentially emotive issues like sexual violence, hate crime, drugs, knife crime, burglaries, gang violence, forced marriage, homelessness and keeping people safe in custody.

In October 2020, Arthur was presented with an award, recognising his contributions as chair of the Northampton Independent Advisory Group.’

In October 1983 I was attending a party in Rosario, Argentina, when to my surprise, I noticed a young lady reading a book. It was not just any book—it looked exactly like the one I had been searching for. Rays of light actually seemed to be coming from it, as if it were saying, “Here I am.”
The young lady had not been introduced to me, but I overcame my shyness and approached her. I glanced at the open book but could see nothing except the word Alma at the top of the page. My heart beat with excitement. It had to be the right book.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but could you please let me see your book?”
Again to my surprise, she started asking me questions.
“This book?”
“Yes, that book.”
“Do you know what book this is?”
“No. That’s what I want to find out.”
“Why?”
“I’m interested in it.”
“Yes, but why?”
“Well—because. It’s very important to me.”
“But can’t you tell me why?”
I began to be exasperated. “If you don’t want to lend it to me, at least tell me the name of it.”
Again she said, “But tell me why! Why do you want to know what book this is?”
I realized I would have to explain. “I came to this country about two years ago,” I said. “I didn’t know a soul, so I spent a lot of time reading the Bible, reading it very conscientiously. The more I read, the more I became convinced that my church is in error. One day I fasted and prayed and asked the Lord if my church was the right one or if I should search for another.
“The Lord answered my prayer. I had a dream in which the Lord showed me a prophet named Joseph. I learned that he is somehow associated with the right church. The doctrine of that church is based on a book that is as important as the Bible. When I find it, I will find the true Church of Jesus Christ. The only thing I know about the book is its outside appearance and the one word I saw inside, the word Alma. I think it is the same book you have in your hand.”
Now the young lady was taken by surprise. She told me the book was the Book of Mormon, and understanding that my intentions were good, she at last gave the book to me. I glanced at the title. Then it was my turn to ask questions.
“Do the Mormons have this book?”
“Yes.”
“Who wrote it?”
“Several prophets who used to live on this continent.”
“Didn’t a man named Smith write this book?”
“No. By divine command he translated the writings found on gold plates.”
“Well, then! It is a real treasure!”
“It definitely is.”
My happiness was great. Even before I read the Book of Mormon, I was sure that it was true—and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the true Church.
The young lady with the book introduced me to the missionaries. They soon gave me my own copy of the Book of Mormon.
Since I found it, the Book of Mormon has been my inseparable companion. When I read it, I feel comfort from pain. I find hope when I am discouraged, and I feel the love of God when everything seems futile.