Gospel Story Finder

One thing I love to do is roller skate. I try to learn new moves so I can improve my talent. When I think of how I can be a better person, I try to do what Christ would do. I feel that responsibility a lot because I am a deacons quorum president, so I strive to always make good choices.
Recently I got to plan an activity for my quorum. It was really fun and helped me want to serve others like my leaders have served and helped me.
Miguel H., 12, Portugal

Many years ago, a young Latter-day Saint girl became lost in the rugged wilderness outside her family’s ranch. Frightened and bewildered, she realized she needed help immediately, so she closed her eyes and fervently prayed, “Father, show me the way home.”
The words had hardly left her mouth when she felt as if hands were placed on her shoulders, directing her. With this prompting, she started back up a nearby gulch. This strong impression remained with her all the way home and never left her until she turned the doorknob of her front door.
This experience helped form the foundation of the faith that sustained her throughout her life. “I wish all people, especially the lost ones, had such a knowledge of our Father’s love,” she said.
The Lord sees us in our daily activities and is ready to respond. As he helped the young girl who was lost and afraid in the wilderness, he will show us the way home when we humble ourselves and seek him in prayer.

It was a cold, rainy day, and my friends and I were playing kickball. One of the players was a girl who gets teased a lot and does not have many friends. She didn’t have a coat although it was raining hard. She was soaked! It looked as if she had just jumped into a swimming pool! Her nose was red and she was shivering. I felt sorry for her, so I took off my coat and let her borrow it until recess was over. Even though I was cold on the outside, I felt warm and cozy inside.

My wife, Wendy, experienced this difficult situation. For years she had nearly exhausted herself, thinking she had to be the perfect wife and mother, the perfect Church member, the perfect neighbor and citizen. Instead of feeling joy, she often felt overwhelmed and discouraged. Her frustration was further exacerbated when well-intentioned leaders and friends seemed to indicate that if she had enough faith, she would be able to accomplish all these things. Only after a personal crisis of depression and anxiety was she able to understand fully the source of her suffering. It was a painful time not only for her but for our entire family. We have grown stronger and learned many lessons as a result. But perhaps we could have been spared much of the pain if we had more clearly perceived the need to maintain temporal and spiritual balance.
While my wife was struggling to escape from the cycle of faithful works followed by frustration and discouragement, the Spirit of the Lord whispered to her that what she was demanding of herself was not pleasing to the Lord because she was not allowing the Atonement to operate fully in her life. It is not a sign of weakness to avail ourselves of the Atonement. Rather, it shows courage, faith, and gratitude. The Atonement allows us not only to repent of sin but also to receive an outpouring of the Savior’s grace, which strengthens us when we simply do not have the power to overcome our human weaknesses. It allows the Savior to share our burdens and compensate for our many inadequacies (see Matt. 11:28–30; Ether 12:27).

Nephi again spoke of what he saw in the vision of the future:

And I looked and beheld a man among the Gentiles, who was separated from the seed of my brethren by the many waters; and I beheld the Spirit of God, that it came down and wrought upon the man; and he went forth upon the many waters, even unto the seed of my brethren, who were in the promised land. [1 Nephi 13:12]

Christopher Columbus gave credit to the Lord for his accomplishments. In a letter to the Spanish hierarchy, Columbus wrote:

Our Lord with provident hand unlocked my mind, sent me upon the sea, and gave me fire for the deed. Those who heard of my emprise called it foolish, mocked me, and laughed. But who can doubt but that the Holy Ghost inspired me? [Jacob Wassermann, Columbus, Don Quixote of the Seas, trans. Eric Sutton (Boston: Little, Brown, and Co., 1930), pp. 19–20]

During the voyage, after weeks of sailing with no signs of land, mutiny raised its head. Finally, Columbus promised the captains of the Pinta and the Nina (both of whom wanted to turn back) that if no land was sighted in forty-eight hours, they would turn back. Then he went to his cabin and in his words, “prayed mightily to the Lord.” On October 12, the very next day, land was sighted.

Early in 2003, just two years into our quinoa research project, I visited traditional quinoa production fields in the Bolivian Altiplano. There, highly diverse quinoa fields were partly infested with the local weedy goosefoot, and the two often cross-pollinated. Impoverished subsistence farmers who lacked mechanization would walk through the fields and separately harvest the black-seeded weedy quinoa, which they often consumed in popped form. Later, in early November 2003, I broke away for a day from a scientific conference in Denver to see what quinoa production looked like in the United States, visiting the main growing region around Alamosa in southern Colorado. The discouraged Colorado grower I met with complained that every three years they had suffered near-total yield losses due to pressure from insect pests and excessive heat. From those two experiences, my colleagues and I started thinking that maybe the solution to failed quinoa production in the United States was to cross it with lowland-adapted strains of goosefoot.

The next year, in 2004, we started collecting seeds from weedy populations, mostly in Utah and Arizona. Since then, our collection has expanded to include samples from hundreds of goosefoot populations growing in environments as diverse as the Sonoran and Mojave Deserts, the coast of the Gulf of Mexico, the Great Plains, California, and even as far east as the coast of New England. We are now crossing elite quinoas with these exotic goosefoot strains and producing breeding populations that we share with quinoa breeders in a dozen countries on four continents.

Two years ago, while revisiting the Colorado quinoa region, this time during the growing season, we noticed that the production fields had native goosefoot plants growing around their margins. In addition, the quinoa fields contained many plants showing intermediate characteristics between quinoa and the weedy form—just like we were accustomed to seeing in Andean quinoa fields in Bolivia and Peru. The next year we sampled fifteen plants showing varying degrees of goosefoot characteristics, and after DNA sequence analysis by one of my students, Jake Taylor, and Drs. Maughan and Jarvis, we confirmed the extensive introgression of goosefoot genes into this population. Interestingly, many years after the quinoa disaster of 2003, the problem was no longer failure to set seed; it was now a problem of heterogeneity due to the natural outcrossing process, which was converting quinoa into an adapted crop through genetic mixing with its weedy but native cousin. In other words, weedy goosefoot genes had literally saved the Colorado quinoa industry.

While serving in the Bolivia Cochabamba Mission, my companion and I were assigned to labor in Villamontes (now part of the Bolivia Santa Cruz Mission). This remote village lies in the southeastern corner of Bolivia. The closest town is 90 kilometers away. Because Villamontes did not have a baptismal font, we performed baptisms in the nearby Pilcomayo River.
Our labors were meeting with some success, and we were having quite a few baptisms in the river. It seemed a good location until we began to hear rumors about piranhas. Standing waist-deep in water infested with carnivorous fish did not sound like something we wanted to do, but we didn’t have another place to perform these important ordinances. We ignored the rumors until a Church member actually caught one of the fish and showed it to us. The piranha’s sharp teeth alarmed us. Still, the Lord’s work must go forward, and we trusted in Him to protect us.
We needed His protection at our next baptism because seasonal rains had caused the river to rise to treacherous levels, clogging it with logs, sticks, and other debris. We were convinced we had to find another place to baptize.
After days of looking, we finally decided to perform a baptism in a member’s cistern—a small water tank. The cistern was so small we wondered if two people would fit into it. But both the convert and the priesthood holder climbed in, and the convert was baptized by immersion.
We had another baptism the following week, and the cistern was no longer available. So we performed the baptism in a small cement tub. Again both the convert and the priesthood holder stepped into the tiny makeshift font. The boy being baptized had to kneel down to be immersed.
After that baptism, we started thinking about where we could have future baptisms. The problem was urgent because three more people were scheduled for baptism the following Sunday. Fortunately, a district conference was going to be held in Yacuiba, and the meetinghouse there had a baptismal font. We traveled there for the baptismal service.
At the service, our mission president told us that because of the growth of the Church in Villamontes, that small village would receive a baptismal font. We were overjoyed.
Our experiences in Villamontes taught us that when we work hard, the Lord always provides a way for us to accomplish what He has asked. The Lord’s work will always move forward, with or without piranhas.

Sometime later, touched with the remembrance of that moving Sabbath morning, I told the story to a group of people in another city. Before I left that small community the next day I had a visit from a man who had heard the message and understood it. Later a letter came from him. He had gone home that night and prayed and prepared himself and had then made a visit to the place of a man in his community who had years before imposed upon the sanctity of his home. There had been animosity and revenge in his heart and threats made. That evening when it was made known that he was at the door, his frightened neighbor appeared with a weapon in his hand. The man quickly explained the reasons for his visit, that he had come to say that he was sorry, that he did not want hatred to continue to consume his life. He offered forgiveness and sought forgiveness and went his way in tears, a free man for the first time in years. He left a former adversary also in tears, shaken and repentant.
The next day the same man went to the home of a relative in the town. He said, “I came to ask your forgiveness. I don’t even remember why we have been so long angry, but I have come to tell you that I am sorry and to beg your pardon and to say that I have learned how foolish I have been.” He was invited in to join the family at their table, and was reunited with his kin.
When I heard his story I knew again the importance of qualifying ourselves for the forgiveness of Christ by forgiving.

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

The samurai were the military nobility of medieval and early-modern Japan. The Japanese still talk about one of them, Ryoma Sakamoto, who died in 1867. One of the reasons he is still so popular is because he always kept a positive attitude. He did not fear anyone or anything. He went anywhere he was needed. Inspired by the ideal that all men are created equal, he made every effort to establish a new government. But he was assassinated, and even as he was stabbed many times by another samurai’s sword, he didn’t give up. He tried to stand up and walk forward. This is a very famous story in Japan.

The two primary emphases in the Singapore District are reactivation and missionary work. The patience and love devoted to this work is perhaps the reason so many of the long-time members are active. Sometimes, members’ efforts have also resulted in baptisms. Ruby and Vincent Goh of the Singapore Branch are one example.
Ruby was baptized in 1969 with nine others in her family. But she soon slipped into inactivity. She says, “In 1973, I married a nonmember who led an active social life. One night, when I was driving home, a car swerved and hit our car. I was knocked unconscious. My husband died instantly. It took me about a year to recover from the shock. I began to think seriously about coming back to church.”
In 1979, she met Vincent Goh at the bank where both worked, and they were married in 1982. Meanwhile, in 1980, one of Ruby’s sisters arranged for home teachers to visit regularly. Ruby began to attend church occasionally, and Vincent accompanied her a few times. After their marriage, with the encouragement of her nonmember husband and friends in the Church, Ruby became fully active.
In 1985, however, Vincent faced a problem at his employment. “I knew that Church members could go to their leaders for help in resolving difficult problems. Though I wasn’t a member, I visited the branch president and explained the situation. He helped me gain the courage to resolve the issue. The problem was settled to everyone’s satisfaction. About that time, I read in a Family Relations manual about living by the Spirit. I decided I needed to make some changes and was baptized that year.”
Ruby describes her feelings: “At Vincent’s baptism, I felt the Spirit more strongly than I ever have. It seemed as if I were marrying a new man, even though we were already married. And I felt like a new bride. I couldn’t contain my happiness.”

“I’ll give you ten bucks to taste a beer tonight,” one boy coaxes.
“Yeah, I’ll add 20 to that,” another prods.
“Come on, you’ve got to at least try it once,” a third boy encourages. “You don’t even know what you’re missing.”
The offers are beginning to grow into a nice sum of money. Everyone is watching.
“I know you know I’m Mormon,” responds Sara Traina, 14, of the Jonesboro Georgia Stake. “I won’t do that.” But the boys persist in a half-serious, half-teasing manner.
What would you do?
Last summer at a Young Women’s conference, LDS girls from Georgia had the opportunity to spend five days discussing situations like this and learning how to handle them. The girls came up with a list of things they have found make their lives on earth happier and their quests for heaven a little easier.
Make up your mind what to do in difficult situations before they arrive. For Andrea Bennett, 17, of the Douglas Georgia Stake, turning down alcohol and R-rated movies at her junior/senior beach weekend wasn’t hard at all. “A lot of people were drinking, but when they asked me if I wanted some I just said no. I didn’t even have to think about it. I had made up my mind long before that happened I wouldn’t do those things. So when the offer came there wasn’t even a doubt in my mind what my answer would be. It would just happen. And it did.”
Hang Mormonads in your locker. Ginny Pettyjohn, 16, of the Sugar Hill Georgia Stake, says, “They remind me to always be good; plus they are a good influence on others when they see them.”
Last year Ginny’s locker was next to the locker of a guy known to drink a lot. He also liked to keep up on the latest Mormonads in Ginny’s locker. “One day a Mormonad about keeping the body and soul clean really seemed to intrigue him,” she says. “He kept looking at it but didn’t say anything.” The very next day he told Ginny a couple of his friends had come over the night before and asked him to go out drinking with them. But he thought about the Mormonad and decided not to go.
Make good friends. Cathy Geigle, 15, also of the Sugar Hill Stake, has moved a lot and has had to make new friends many times—member and nonmember alike. “It is always so much fun to go out with Mormons,” she says. But right now those occasions usually occur when there is a church activity, since there are not a lot of LDS students in her school. But that hasn’t kept Cathy from making good friends. “If you have a good, clean spirit and are living righteously, you will be attracted to other good spirits, even if they aren’t Mormon,” she says.
On Cathy’s first day of high school, she met Kelly. “We started talking, and I could just tell from the way she talked and acted we were a lot alike. Our spirits are alike. She’s been a good friend ever since.”
Pick a role model for yourself. “Joseph Smith is my hero,” says Anh Nguyen, 14, of the Atlanta Georgia Stake. “He was looking for Christ. He worried about finding the true church.”
And Anh can relate. It wasn’t too long ago her family came from Vietnam to the United States, and the missionaries found them. Then she, too, had to find out for herself what the truth was. She says she prayed just like Joseph did, and she received an answer.
“Joseph makes me want to stand up for what I believe like he did,” Anh says. “His example gives me strength.”
Read your scriptures. “It’s one of the best ways to come closer to Heavenly Father and to have your problems answered,” says Doralee Solomon, 17, of the Douglas Georgia Stake. “You can always go to your scriptures for help and get answers.” At one time Doralee had a friend who was smoking, and she didn’t know what to do about it. She didn’t know whether she should talk to the person, the bishop, or the parents. But after reading, praying, and listening to her Young Women lessons, she knew she needed to confront her friend. “I know reading my scriptures helped put me in tune for an answer,” Doralee says.
Pray. Before the Young Women’s conference, Allison Buytendorp, 17, of the Roswell Georgia Stake, didn’t want to go. But her mother suggested she pray about it before she made up her mind. Allison prayed and felt she should go. Now she knows why. “I loved it. I felt spiritually renewed afterwards, and it made me want to go to seminary. Now I want to learn more about the scriptures. I know I was where I was supposed to be because I prayed. It just feels good to know Heavenly Father is always there for you to help you out.”
Remember Sara from the beginning of this story? She was standing up for what she believes in. She never took the guys up on their offers. She politely refused and didn’t go to the party where the alcohol was being served. All her response did was gain her more of their respect. “I stand up for what I know is right the best I can,” Sara says, “and because I’m consistent I’m respected.”
Tucked away deep in the Bible Belt, where most people are strongly religious, these girls communed in a peaceful 4-H camp halfway surrounded by a lake, an hour and a half outside of Atlanta away from the worries of the world. They were able to listen to talks and programs of their choice on missionary work, dating, sharing talents, trusting each other, and preparing for the Second Coming, to name a few. They stayed in cabins and enjoyed conversations easiest held with girls of their own religion—conversations about subjects like returning to live with their Heavenly Father someday. Now they know there are many LDS girls out there going through the same situations they are, and they know what others are doing to make their quest for heaven a little easier. They can take those ideas home with them and use them in their own lives.

There’s a boy at school who is teased behind his back and is lonely. I saw him sitting alone one day, so I went to talk with him. I found out that when he was a baby he had seizures and a stroke. The stroke injured his brain and makes certain things harder for him to do. I decided to invite him to my birthday party. His family was excited because he hasn’t been invited to very many parties. He doesn’t smile very often, but he smiled a lot at my party and had a great time!
Jason D., age 11, Arizona

We had many Muslim friends in Turkey-most of whom did not speak English. One was the brother of the real estate agent who helped us find apartments for a set of our Elders and Couples. Zekeriya, the brother of our real estate agent, ran a small, humble hardware store. We would have long conversations with him about Gospel values. We would speak in our broken Turkish and he would help us with our language. One day he asked my wife to sing to him-she got me to join her. We sang to him, “I Am a Child of God” in English. He liked the tune, although he did not understand the words; however, we could see he was touched by the Spirit of this beloved song. The next time we visited him we took the Turkish lyrics. After reading over the lyrics, he looked up and with a smile on his face said, “Problem!” The word “problem,” by the way, is the same in Turkish and English.

When I was in college, I was a member of the BYU International Folk Dancers. One summer our group had the unique privilege to tour the missions in Europe. It was a difficult summer for me because a few months earlier my father had unexpectedly passed away. While we were in Scotland, I felt especially alone and became discouraged. We danced at a chapel that night, and then after our performance we went next door to the mission home. As I proceeded up the walk, I saw a stone placed in a well-kept garden by the gate. On it I read the words, “What-e’er thou art, act well thy part.” At that moment those words went deeply into my heart, and I felt the powers of heaven reach out and give me a message. I knew I was known by a loving Heavenly Father. I felt I was not alone. I stood in that garden with tears in my eyes. “What-e’er thou art, act well thy part.” That simple statement renewed my vision that Heavenly Father knew me and had a plan for my life, and the spirit I felt helped me understand that my part mattered.

A friend from college days wrote to me recently, saying: “Much in my chaotic childhood was uncertain, but one thing I knew for sure: that my dad loved me. That certainty was the anchor of my young life. I came to know and love the Lord because my father loved him. I have never called anyone a fool or taken the Lord’s name in vain because he told me the Bible said I shouldn’t. I have always paid my tithing because he taught me it was a privilege to do so. I have always tried to take responsibility for my mistakes because my father did. Even though he was estranged from the Church for a [time], at the end of his life he served a mission and worked faithfully in the temple. In his will he said that any money left over from taking care of his [family] should go to the Church. He loved the Church with all of his heart. And because of him, so do I.”

Arms pumping hard, Mark and Brian Chapell race up the hillside on a concrete stairway. Their long legs devour two and three steps at a time. Neckties flap as they struggle for the lead, competing as only brothers can. Two hundred steps to go. One hundred. Fifty. With a final lunge, they crash against the missionaries’ door in a dead heat.
A few minutes later they’re walking up and down the streets of Welch, West Virginia, with the full-time missionaries, sharing the light at the center of their lives.

The shadows grew longer and finally disappeared as the sun sank behind the hazy mountains far to the west.
The small western town, built on the edge of the desert near the delta of a small river, boasted one of the better rodeo grounds in the area. The grandstand, stock corrals, small concession building, and large greasewood brush on two sides made the grounds an ideal place for us four boys to play. On this sunny afternoon, my friends and I had come to the rodeo grounds and let our fantasies run wild. We had fought and won many battles with cattle rustlers and other outlaws. We had ridden the hardest-bucking horses and bulldogged the meanest steers.
Now the four of us were sitting quietly on the top steps of the grandstand, and Ray suggested, “It’ll soon be dark, so we’d better be getting home.”
“Yeah, my brothers will be looking for me,” I said, brushing wisps of hair out of my eyes.
“I’m still too tired to walk home. Let’s rest a few minutes more,” Bobby mumbled coaxingly.
“Do you guys like honey?” Jack asked. He was gazing across the rodeo grounds into Mr. Sampson’s alfalfa field, where there were a dozen white beehives, barely visible now in the near darkness.
“I do,” I said, “with peanut butter and bread.”
Ray and Bobby agreed.
“Honey is good fresh out of the comb,” Jack said then. “Have you guys ever eaten honey fresh out of the comb?” None of us had. “Well, let’s go see if Mr. Sampson left any honey in the hives and get us each a comb.”
“Wouldn’t that be stealing?” asked Ray.
“Mr. Sampson probably already has all the honey out of the hives that he needs, so I don’t think he’d care if we took some,” answered Jack.
We were hungry as well as tired, so it didn’t take much argument to convince us that honeycomb would probably taste really good. We crossed the rodeo grounds, climbed over the board fence, and took a honeycomb apiece from a different hive.
As we sat back on the top seats of the grandstand, my conscience began to tell me there was something not exactly right with what I was doing. I should have been home before dark, and I had taken something that belonged to someone else. That first bite of honey didn’t taste as good as I had expected it to.
Just then we heard the crunch of footsteps in the gravel below us.
“Quick, put your combs on the footboard,” Jack whispered.
The footsteps came slowly up the grandstand toward us. The large figure of a man loomed out of the darkness. “Evening, boys.” It was Mr. Sampson. Everybody in our community respected him and liked him, and we weren’t very happy at this point.
Jack shifted uneasily, trying to wipe the honey off his fingers onto the seat beside him.
“Good evening, Mr. Sampson.” Ray was the only one able to speak.
“Out kind of late, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes sir. We were just going home,” Ray answered.
After a slight pause, Mr. Sampson asked, “Do you boys know anything about bees?”
This question made us squirm. Finally Ray answered, “I don’t think we know very much.”
“I didn’t think that you did. Let me tell you a little bit about them. In each beehive there are three kinds of bees—the queen, the drones, and the workers. Each has a separate job to do, and each does its job well. The queen bee lays the eggs that hatch into young bees. The drones are male bees that fertilize the eggs laid by the queen.
Mr. Sampson hesitated a few seconds to let what he had told us sink in. “Now I’ll tell you about the workers. As soon as it warms up in the spring and the plants and trees start blossoming, worker bees leave the hive and begin gathering nectar from the flowers. They fly from blossom to blossom until their pouches are full, then fly back to the hive and deposit the nectar in the comb. I extract the honey from the combs as they are filled throughout the summer. But in early fall when it gets cold and the blossoms are gone, the bees can no longer work, so I leave the combs full of honey for them to live on during the cold months. If someone took the combs away from the hives, the bees would starve to death and there would be no more bees or honey.”
Mr. Sampson stood up. “Well, boys, I guess that’s enough about bees for now. I’d better be getting on home.” He started down the grandstand, then stopped and turned back toward us. “You boys had better go on home too. But first I think there’s a little chore that you might want to do. Good night, boys.”
“Good night, Mr. Sampson,” we chorused.
For a minute we just sat there, stunned. Mr. Sampson knew that we had taken the honeycombs, yet there had been no anger, no scolding, no threats.
We knew what “little chore” we had to do. We retrieved our combs from the footboard and returned them to the hives.

Early last September as I approached the Faculty Office Building I saw a man about my age with a backpack, a piece of paper, and a slightly lost look. No, he was not a faculty member. I greeted him and asked if I could help him find something.

"The Taylor?"

I answered: "That the white brick building up beyond the Manwaring Center that looks like a church."

He was orienting his map. "And the Clark?"

"Just down the hill from the Smith," I said, pointing. "And the Kirkham beyond that," I said anticipating.

He smiled. He had found himself.

"You've come back to school," I ventured.

"Well, my son is released from his mission in about ten days. I registered for him, and I'm attending classes in his place until he makes it here."

"Good for you. You're a very considerate father. How is it going?"

"Pretty well so far. I'm a little tired. I wish my roommates would let me get to sleep before 1:30 in the morning."

We chuckled and parted. I was so impressed by that father and his efforts to help his son make the mission to college transition. It seemed that he was performing a great act of service for his son. He was being spiritually minded because he was consecrating and dedicating his time to serve his son.

“My father was a great, honorable, and good man. I have much admiration for him. He died very suddenly when I was fifteen. All of my growing-up years he was in the bishopric. Ten years after he was in the bishopric of the old Adams Ward, I served in the bishopric of that same ward.”
Elder Osborn’s father’s death was the hardest thing he had to face during his boyhood. His brother William said, “After Father died, Mother, Spencer, and another brother moved to a new neighborhood away from the home and friends they had known for many years. It was a lonesome time for Spencer. I lived about two miles away and built a basketball standard for Spencer in my driveway. He would walk over to my house and play basketball by himself. But even during this difficult time, Spencer was always interested in the Church; he was a solid kid all through his life.”