Gospel Story Finder

We went on a boat. A money machine there was stuck. A woman said, “Why did the machine give me one euro (about 88¢) when I was supposed to get 20 marks (about $2.96)?” A man told her to look for the code on the left, but the woman couldn’t find it.
I looked for it and found it. The woman didn’t tell me thank you. I thought, “What a silly woman!” But then I thought about what I was thinking and was sorry. I prayed and said, “Heavenly Father, I am sorry for what I was thinking, so I am apologizing. I am very, very sorry about it.”

The phone rang and I turned a hopeful ear toward the kitchen, but my hopes died when I heard my 10-year-old brother, Ben, wail, “Mom, it’s for you!”
I sighed. Here it was, Friday night, and I was stuck at home. I had been excited for the weekend—after all I was a cool, important junior in high school. To me that meant dating, driving, and having fun. Yet tonight I wasn’t doing any of these things. My thoughts were interrupted by my brother calling to me.
“What?” I exclaimed, annoyed.
“Sorry,” he said, “I was just wondering if you wanted to go outside and play basketball with me.”
Dejected, Ben slid open the glass door that led outside to our hoop and slowly walked toward it. He looked small and forlorn next to the giant hoop as he began tossing the orange ball without enthusiasm. I wondered what his plans were for the night. I hoped he hadn’t invited a friend over to sleep at our house. Two boys his age under the same roof would definitely be a nuisance, and it looked like I would be around to fully experience whatever was going on.
I sighed and turned my eyes toward the window. I was feeling so depressed. Yet while watching Ben’s lonely figure halfheartedly dribbling back and forth, I had an idea. We didn’t need to just mope around all night. Why couldn’t we take advantage of our free time and have some fun together? After all, I would be leaving for college in a little more than a year, and then I wouldn’t get to see my brother nearly as often.
“Hey, Ben!” I shouted outside. “I’ve got an idea! Are you in the mood to eat some homemade pizza?”
Skeptically, he answered slowly, “Well, who’s going to make it?”
“We are!”
The rest of the night proceeded to be one of the most memorable and enjoyable of all my high school years. We sliced vegetables, tossed dough, and accidentally spilled marinara sauce on our white T-shirts. We worked so hard to get everything just right. We set up the table in front of our living room’s big bay window that overlooks the city, lit long peach candles, and drank lemonade from Mom’s tall glass goblets. We even spread out our best lace tablecloth that we used only for special occasions.
All evening we laughed and joked together. I hadn’t realized how crazy and funny my little brother could be! When I looked past the little annoyances that usually bothered me so much, I saw how cute he was.
I am so glad that my friends—or even some cute guy—didn’t call that night. The memory of my candlelight pizza dinner date with my brother Ben is so much more valuable than an evening of bowling or a movie. That night it was so great to forget my own problems and show my brother that I could spend time with him and have fun doing it.

Soon after, Bengt Erlandsson, interior designer for the Palmyra New York Temple, asked Tom for a sketch of the First Vision. Again, Tom turned to the Lord.
“I was overwhelmed about doing this window for the Lord’s temple right there on the land where the First Vision actually happened,” says Tom. “I went to the Mount Timpanogos Utah Temple for inspiration, and while praying, my mind was flooded with a vision of all 108 windows. I wanted to portray that wonderful light the Prophet Joseph felt in the Sacred Grove.”
Tom sketched the artwork and remembers going to the Church Office Building thinking, What am I doing? I’m just a young man with all these ideas for windows they didn’t even ask for. I must be crazy. But he felt the Spirit prompting him.
Miraculously, Tom’s sketches were approved. With tears in their eyes, Tom and his wife, Gayle, knelt and thanked the Lord for allowing them such a privilege.
With less than four months to complete the 17,000-piece project, Tom worked feverishly, involving youth from his area. “I hired 16- to 19-year-olds who had an open mind and would ask for God’s help,” he says.
On April 6, 2000, Tom and Gayle entered the celestial room for the Palmyra temple dedication. “Everyone was telling me how beautiful the windows were, but the Spirit whispering, ‘I am pleased with the work,’ was one of the most thrilling experiences of my life,” he says.

Herman Paleka first came to CCH as a non-LDS student in 1958, the fall the permanent campus was dedicated by then Church president and prophet, David O. McKay. He writes:

"The afternoon after the dedication, I was sitting in the choir seats set up in the auditorium, just enjoying the quiet and the newness of the building, when in walked president David O. McKay. He sat in the middle of the room. I was suddenly moved by a strange and powerful feeling . . . that I had never felt before.
I later dated an LDS girl who was trying to share the gospel with me along with my two stake missionaries, Raymond Sasaki and Ishmael Stagner.… One day she asked if I say my prayers. I said sometimes. She asked if I would pray about the things we talked about.
I went into the hills in the back of the college to pray. As I prayed, the same feelings that I had in the auditorium came again…. In October 1960 I joined the church…."

Herman served a mission, graduated from this campus, and for years thereafter lived in Kauai. He became a popular professional educator, a bishop, stake president, and later as a missionary to Nigeria with his wife, Joan.

Sister Beck also looks to the example of her father, William Grant Bangerter. “My father said that he didn’t want to miss anything mortality had to offer,” she says. “This included growing older. After he had served as a General Authority, a temple president, a sealer, and in other callings, he was asked to be a family history consultant in his ward.”
He was then in his 80s and didn’t know how to use a computer. “He had to learn,” Sister Beck explains. “He called a deacon in his ward to help him. Then they taught the other deacons how to do family history research. The deacons then taught the rest of the Aaronic Priesthood holders in the ward. Eventually, they and the ward took over 10,000 names to the temple.”

My name is Claudio Lico Villa, I have been a member of the Church for 11 years and belong to the Consuelo Branch, San Pedro Dominican Republic District.
I was born in 1982 in the province of Seibo, Dominican Republic. When I was three months old, my parents gave me to my grandmother to raise. At eight years old we left Seibo, and I was not able to finish school there. A few years later with very limited means I began working because of a need and a desire to be independent. Although this was long before I would join the Church, the self-reliance principles were ingrained in my heart.
“The Lord has declared, ‘It is my purpose to provide for my saints’. This revelation is a promise from the Lord that He will provide temporal blessings and open the door of self-reliance, which is the ability for us to provide the necessities of life for ourselves and our family members”.
I knew I wanted to be independent and could be. I had to work. At the age of 14, I started working in a mill to be able to support myself and to help my grandmother who gave me all the love in the world. I finished high school and started my first business, looking for any items I could find to sell on the street in my neighborhood. Eventually I was able to sell dishes and tableware. A few years later, after working with a friend in his hair salon, I started my own hair salon.
At the age of twenty-seven, I was diagnosed with eye cancer. When I thought all was lost and without any purpose in living, two missionaries came to my home. I had always been God-fearing, so I listened to the lessons. I struggled to make up my mind, but after three months I was baptized. My life with this disease has not been easy. I walk with my cane everywhere. I continue with medication and treatment. I have remained true to what I have come to know as the Lord’s self-reliance principles. I support myself with a business selling sheets and household items, plus help from the government and the generous members of our Church.
I can say today that my strength comes from the knowledge I have of Jesus Christ. I thank those missionaries who came to me. The Church is my family. I invite everyone to know Jesus Christ who brings hope and love to our lives.

The funeral was held on Tuesday morning. I didn’t go. I couldn’t stand to see them put her into the cold earth. Besides, I had been to LDS funerals before. Always they were so cheerful and positive, telling us to have faith in God and that things would be fine with the departed loved one. I wasn’t sure I even believed in God anymore. I went fishing in an effort to forget the pain I was feeling.
I arrived home as the sun was sinking in the evening sky. My fishing expedition had been a failure, and I badly wanted to speak to my father. Jason and Bronwyn were solemnly seated in the living room, but Dad was nowhere to be found. I went to look for him in the yard.
When I was a little boy, I had a pet dog called Bunyip. He was my best friend. We were inseparable. But one day Bunyip was bitten by a snake and died. I was shattered, and there was nothing my parents could do to console me. So my father went into one of the fields and painted a huge smiling face on a large granite boulder. He called it the Happy Rock. After that, whenever I felt sad, I would go to the Happy Rock, and my sorrows seemed to magically vanish.
It was here that I found my father, perched atop the boulder, its great, smiling face showing the strains of time. He looked pathetically vulnerable as he sat, gazing sadly at the retreating sunset. I quietly announced my presence. For a moment, he didn’t respond. Then a wistful smile briefly crossed his sun-browned face.
“I guess the old rock has lost its magic,” he said. Then, for the first time in my life, I saw my father cry. Again I felt bitterness within. How could the Lord give us a Christmas gift like this?
Weeks passed and I quit going to church. There was nothing there for me. A few people visited, encouraging me to go back, but I wouldn’t listen. How could I ever feel comfortable in church again?
One day I got a call from Sister Robinson, the Relief Society president. “Oh Brad, I’m so glad you’re home,” she said. I immediately felt my defences go up. If this was something to do with church, she could forget it.
“Yes, Sister Robinson, what can I do for you?”
“Well, it’s like this,” she began. “I’m supposed to be at the hospital tomorrow to read to some of the children, but I won’t be able to make it. I was wondering if maybe you could go in my place.”
“Gee, I don’t know,” I started to object.
Sister Robinson cut in: “Brad, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I don’t know who else to ask.”
I finally agreed to go because I didn’t know how to refuse her. Putting down the phone, I wandered into the living room. With four days left before Christmas, it looked as if the Christmas spirit had passed right over our place. There were no decorations, no trees, no Christmas cards. Instead we had sympathy cards lined up along the mantelpiece. If my Christmas was to be miserable, at least I could try to take some of the Yuletide cheer to some little kids in hospital.
At the hospital the next day, I was assigned to a frail little girl named Marcie. They told me she was nine years old. She looked about four. She was hooked up to some kind of machine which kept her alive, yet she smiled as if she hadn’t a care in the world. I felt awkward, dressed in my robes of self-pity, while she lay upon her deathbed as cheerful as spring sunshine. We visited for a while. As we talked, I marvelled at her wisdom and perspective. I didn’t know what was wrong with her—I didn’t have the heart to ask. She knew that she probably wouldn’t see her tenth birthday, yet she wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t bitter.
I surveyed the pile of books at her bedside. There were many to choose from. “What would you like me to read to you?” I asked.
She pointed to a worn copy of the Easter story. “That one,” she said.
I picked it up. “Honey, you don’t want to hear this. It’s Christmas,” I told her.
“No,” she repeated, “I want to hear that one. It’s my favorite.”
So, during the hot Christmas season, I read of the sufferings of Christ to a little girl who loved God. When I finished, she was staring into my eyes with a look that pierced my soul. Placing her tiny hand into mine, she said, “I have lots of pain, but never as much as Jesus had. When I’m really hurting and I’m all alone, I speak to the Lord because he knows how I feel. He loves me.”
I hurried home that afternoon because there was someone I wanted to speak to. When I got back to the farm, the first place I headed for was the Happy Rock. It was out of sight of the house and was an ideal spot for what I was about to do. Dropping to my knees, I opened my mouth to pray, but nothing came out. My heart was thumping. Finally, in desperation, I cried out, “Oh God, where are you?”
From a million miles away, deep within my own mind, I heard the glorious tones of an orchestra. The music grew louder, until it crashed over my being like a wave from the ocean. Then, as clearly as any spoken voice, I heard the words of a favorite carol: “Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: ‘God is not dead, nor doth he sleep . …’”

Hey, wanna buy a cool pen? It has four different colors.
Where’d you get it? How much do you want for it?
My dad gave it to me. You can have it for a dollar.
Dad did say I could spend part of my birthday money any way I wanted.
Do you know where he got that pen? He saw some kid drop it and grabbed it before the kid turned around. He bragged about it to me.
Later, at afternoon recess …
I don’t want anything that was stolen. Just give me my money back.
Too bad. I already spent the money on nachos for lunch.
What am I going to do with this?
… and it has four colors, and it was a birthday present …
Are you looking for this?
Maybe I lost a dollar, but I get to keep my self-respect.

I pressed a criss-cross design on the last ball of peanut butter cookie dough and placed it on the baking sheet. Another pan of cookies was ready for the oven. My girlfriend, Michelle, and I had eaten a dozen before carefully arranging a plate of the best-looking cookies. Ever since our Beehive lesson on giving service without being asked, Michelle and I had been motivated to give service to one of the widows in our ward. We chose Sister Andrews. She had been a widow for at least 20 years and had no children.
Michelle and I organized a plan. Once a month we would take something over to Sister Andrews. We didn’t let anyone know of our plans. After all we wanted to serve without being told. The cookies were our first gift. We jumped on our bikes, with me balancing the plate of cookies on the handlebars, and rode over to Sister Andrews’s tiny home.
When she answered the door, Sister Andrews was wearing a plain blue house dress with a crocheted collar. Proudly, I held out the plate.
“We brought you some peanut butter cookies,” I said.
“Oh, you girls are so sweet, but I can’t have any sugar on my diabetic diet. Why don’t you take these home and share them with your families.”
Surprised and a little confused, we stood wondering what to do next. There were plenty of cookies at home, and Michelle and I could not possibly eat one more ourselves. We left a little discouraged.
We tried to think of another idea. Flowers were a sure thing. All women love flowers, we thought. My mother’s rosebushes were in bloom. We picked red, yellow, and pink roses and placed them in a mason jar.
Again Michelle and I rode our bikes to Sister Andrews’s home. “We brought these for you,” Michelle said and held out the flowers.
“Thank you so much. They are beautiful. But I get hayfever, and I can’t have flowers inside the house,” was her reply. We visited with her for a few minutes and left.
Michelle and I were quite discouraged now. Flowers and treats were off the list. We decided Sister Andrews would like some fruit. We filled a bowl full of the prettiest ripe raspberries we could find. Pleased with our gift, we got on our bikes a third time and rode to Sister Andrews’s home.
“We brought you some fresh raspberries,” I said.
“My, they look delicious. I used to love eating raspberries when I was your age. I can’t eat them anymore. The seeds get caught under my dentures. Why don’t you girls eat them with your supper tonight,” she replied.
I couldn’t believe it. We had struck out. Finally, we told our parents of our failed attempts to offer service. They helped us learn a little more about Sister Andrews. She had a great talent for crocheting and loved to spend her time making items for her friends and neighbors such as baby afghans, hot pads, and slippers. She had a small income which limited how much she could crochet for others. Because of her poor circumstances, she hated to see things wasted. That’s why she turned down our gifts rather than just taking them and discarding them after we left.
Michelle and I pooled our baby-sitting money and went to the store and purchased skeins of yarn for Sister Andrews. This time our gift was perfect. She delightedly showed us some of the things she was working on. And we learned a valuable lesson about service. True service is not just giving what we choose to give, but giving what is really needed.

I’ve seen what “suffereth long” and “endureth all things” mean. A family moved into a house near us. The home was new, so I was part of the crew of Latter-day Saints who spent a number of nights putting in landscaping. I remember the last night, standing next to the husband of the family as we finished. He surveyed our work and said to us standing nearby, “This is the third yard you Mormons have put in for us, and I think this is the best.” And then he quietly but firmly told me of the great satisfaction he got from membership in his own church, a conversation we had often in the years he lived there.

In all that time, the acts of kindness extended to him and his family never ceased because the neighbors really came to love them. One evening, I came home to see a truck in his driveway. I had been told they were moving to another state. I approached to see if I could help. I didn’t recognize the man I saw loading household things into the truck. He said quietly as I drew near, “Hello, Brother Eyring.” I hadn’t recognized him because he was the son, now grown older, who had lived there, married, and moved away. And because of the love of many for him, he was now a baptized member of the Church. I don’t know the end of that story because it will have no end. But I know that it begins with love.

When I became the President here in 1994, Elder Neal A. Maxwell reminded me that when he first became Commissioner of Education for the Church, one of the senior brethren approached him before a board meeting and said, "I am going to propose today that we close down the Church College of Hawaii, will you support me." Elder Maxwell pleaded with this member of the First Presidency not to make such a proposal but to give him a chance to get at the heart of the issues and to rescue this campus from the hardships it had fallen into. The end result of that effort and the efforts of people in this room was the renaming of this campus Brigham Young University-Hawaii and bringing it in to the main stream of Church education, this wonderful campus.

The two stakes selected several historic sites, significant during the Revolutionary War in eastern Pennsylvania, to visit as part of the group’s activities. But the visits had a purpose. As a service project, the youth conference offered 200 pairs of eyes and 200 hands to write down the information from the tombstones of an old cemetery. A complete index of the cemetery did not exist. The Warwick Presbyterian Church in Neshaminy, Pennsylvania, was used as a temporary hospital by George Washington’s troops. Many graves in the adjoining cemetery date from Revolutionary War times.
Some of the youth were more dedicated than others to doing a good job of recording the information from their assigned rows. Yet everyone seemed to take the opportunity to think about the people who once lived here. Of course, knowing about modern-day temple work gave an added luster to the hot chore of sitting in the sun trying to decipher weathered epitaphs.
“I liked working at the cemetery,” said Doug McMinn of the Wilmington Delaware Ward. “It was a neat thing that the names might be sent to the temple. Wouldn’t it be great to do a baptism for one of those names? That would be cool.”
Doug’s comment started a group of friends talking about the cemetery. Stacey Hollinghaus of the Wilmington Delaware West Ward looked a little sad when she said, “I found one that died on Christmas. It made me think about the family and how hard it must have been for them.”
Bill Ide of the Wilmington Delaware Ward remembered one tombstone he recorded, “Yes, and I had one that died right before his birthday.”
The gap between 20th-century teens and those who died to establish a new country was closing. Suddenly a service project took on a greater significance. For one morning, people who lived and died a long time ago became real. Present-day youth recognized their obligation to those who had gone before.

“I saw a wonderful example when I went teaching with two missionaries. They were teaching a fifth discussion. The one missionary was German, had the language; he had been on his mission for a number of months. The other one was really fairly new, first fifth discussion he had ever taught.“And I watched. The one was confident; he was a good missionary. He taught with confidence. The other had to rely a little bit on his lesson plan—but, you know, as I sat and watched those two, the Spirit came through on both of them. And so with teachers at different teaching levels, the Spirit can whisper wherever we are if we have done our part. It was wonderful.”Brother Charles W. Dahlquist II

May I share with you brethren my personal experience as a teachers quorum president? The member of the bishopric who had responsibility for us invited the new presidency and secretary to come to his home for leadership training. He wanted our ideas concerning how we should go about our newly given duties. We obliged—on condition that he would invite his wife, Nettie, to serve us some of the meat pies for which she was famous. This he agreed to do. Brethren, isn’t it remarkable how we men will obligate our wives to do things—often without notice? The resulting meeting was one of the best I have ever attended. We were taught to the level of our understanding and inspired to look after our quorum members.
After a delicious meat pie smothered with gravy, we asked the bishop’s counselor and his wife to join in a game of Monopoly®. I am certain they had other things to do, but they willingly complied with our request.
I don’t remember who won the Monopoly game, but I have never forgotten the lessons learned that night in Church government and in the administration of a priesthood quorum.

My nightmare began when I was only seven and my mom remarried. We really liked my new stepfather. He was kind and fit in well with our family. I felt really safe around him. Everything was great until one day, when everyone else was busy, he sexually abused me.
I didn’t understand what he had done to me. I felt scared, confused, and so ashamed. But I was too afraid to tell anyone. I thought it would ruin my family’s newfound happiness and that no one would believe me anyway. So I decided to stay silent.
He had only hurt me that one time, but the memory of the abuse always weighed on my mind. I eventually became so paranoid that someone would see through my pain and uncover my secret that I tried to hide the truth by becoming good friends with my stepfather. He was especially kind to me, and I actually started liking him again.
But then things got worse. When Mom started working at nighttime, my stepfather began regularly abusing me. I felt so helpless. I wanted to speak up, but my stepfather was well liked, and I thought everyone would side with him. So at night when I was alone, I begged God to help me keep my secret.
One day the abuse finally stopped. I had no idea why. Though he was no longer hurting me, I always felt dirty and ashamed. I hated myself. Sometimes I even debated whether death would be easier than my reality. I still wanted to speak up, but I was afraid of what the truth would do.
Then one Sunday at church when I was 14, I listened to a lesson about making big decisions. My teacher encouraged us to fast and pray and promised that God would strengthen us to do the right thing. After church, I kept thinking about what she had said. I wondered if I asked, would God really help me speak up?
The next day I fasted for courage to tell Mom about the abuse. I couldn’t focus during school because all I could think about was how she would react. By the time I got home, I felt extremely sick. I again prayed for strength, but I didn’t feel prepared to tell her.
That evening, I approached Mom when she was cooking dinner. I didn’t know what to say, but when I looked into her eyes, I found the courage to just start speaking. Once I began, everything I had been hiding for years spilled out.
Mom and I just sat on the couch and cried together. Afterward, we contacted our branch president and called the police. My stepfather was held accountable for what he had done to me, and I was given the protection I needed—I would never have to see him again.
During that time, it was difficult retelling my experience to the authorities and having friends ask where my stepfather was, but with my family’s support, I was no longer alone. Together, we rallied around a new family theme: “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me” (Philippians 4:13). Our extended family also offered their love and support and, over time, we began healing together.
Mom and I both attended professional counseling, which was a big help! My counselor was exactly what I needed. She helped me understand all the emotions I was feeling and helped me cope with my bad memories. I never realized how much I was hurting until I started feeling whole again.
I didn’t think the pain would disappear just because I spoke up, but I also didn’t realize how much time (and patience) it would take to heal. For so long, I had felt worthless. I had to relearn to love myself.
I found the most peace as I turned to my Savior and my Heavenly Father. Recognizing that They knew exactly how I felt gave me strength and hope. I relied on Them during the darkest moments. Over time the memories began to fade, and I really felt peace through the Savior’s love.
One of the most rewarding parts of the healing process was recognizing that I did have a bright future. When I was being abused, I couldn’t even imagine having a normal life. I felt permanently broken. But through help and healing, I found things to look forward to. I began telling my story to other girls who were hurting, and I even decided to serve a mission. Sharing my testimony with others strengthened me.
I’m not defined by what my stepfather did to me. He forever changed my life, but I’m choosing to use my experience to help others. Some days are still hard, but through everything, the Lord has strengthened me, and I know He will continue to help me. I’ve transformed from a victim into a survivor.

Almost three years ago in a Saturday evening session of a stake conference in New York, I listened intently to a young Hispanic sister bear her testimony. As a recent convert she bore witness of the promptings and feelings that occurred during her conversion. She stated:
When the missionaries knocked on my door, I saw the smiles on their faces and felt the firm grip of their handshakes. They said they had a message that would bring happiness into my life. At the conclusion of the first lesson they turned to Moroni’s promise in the Book of Mormon. I was surprised. They did not ask me to believe their words. Instead, the missionaries challenged me to find out for myself the truthfulness of the gospel through prayer and the Holy Ghost. Later, as I listened to the missionaries explain the plan of salvation, I suddenly felt a confirming witness that I was more than a speck in the universe. My life was important not only to me but to a loving Heavenly Father and his Son. They knew me! There was purpose to life, and God had a plan for me to achieve that purpose. I could never feel worthless again!
The truth of the young sister’s testimony burned within me that evening. I knew then and know now, as do you, that there is purpose to life, that God has a plan of happiness designed for all of his children.

One such experience occurred three months ago when I was with a graduate student at a professional meeting. He had worked many hours on wording, rewording, and crafting his talk in order to present as clearly as possible his data and conclusions. He had organized, reordered, and revised his slides to present plainly the most important information in a logical, easy-to-follow sequence. This preparation continued in his hotel room well into the night before his talk. At the end of his presentation, which was the last in that session, many scientists in the audience came to the front to greet him as he stepped down from the podium to commend and congratulate him and even offer to remain in contact regarding his future research. One woman, an official from the National Institutes of Health who administers research grants, pulled me aside from the group and said, “This was tremendous! This is the way science should be done.” The student in his preparation neither sought nor anticipated such praise. His goal was simply to make the best presentation possible and represent himself and BYU as capably as he could.

One of our missionaries, Sister Benson, who is attending with us this session, shared with me her desire to help her young brother. At that time, he was preparing to attend college and wasn’t sure about serving a mission. I felt impressed to invite Sister Benson to read the Book of Mormon during the first four months of her mission, marking her favorite verses, and then to send that copy to her brother.
Sister Benson sent the marked copy of the Book of Mormon and invited her brother to read from it each night. She later shared with me: “Before my mission, my brother wasn’t sure if he wanted to serve a full-time mission. Slowly, over time, as he read the Book of Mormon, he found increasing joy in his life and began to consider serving a mission.”
Two weeks before Sister Benson completed her mission, her brother received his mission call. He is now serving in the Mexico Tuxtla Gutiérrez Mission. Through the Book of Mormon, Elder Benson came to see his life with spiritual clarity, which led him to serve the Lord and trust that things would work out. That decision was a miracle—influenced by the power of the words of Christ.

In 1835, Newel traveled to Ohio to help build the temple and to receive temple blessings. At Kirtland, he boarded with his good friends Hyrum and Jerusha Smith. There he met and fell in love with Lydia Goldthwaite Bailey, whose belief in Joseph Smith was equal to his.
A few years previous, Lydia’s husband had deserted her, and both of her children had died, so her family sent her to Canada for a change of scenery. In late 1833, while staying with the Nickerson family, she heard Joseph Smith preach and saw his face “become white and a shining glow seemed to beam from every feature.”3 This witness of the Spirit converted her. She then moved to Kirtland. On 24 November 1835, Joseph Smith performed Newel and Lydia’s wedding at Hyrum Smith’s home. The ceremony was the first marriage performed by the Prophet.4

As they translated, Joseph and Oliver were struck by these teachings. Like his brother Alvin, Joseph had never been baptized, and he wanted to know more about the ordinance and the authority necessary to perform it.8
On May 15, 1829, the rains cleared and Joseph and Oliver walked into the woods near the Susquehanna River. Kneeling, they asked God about baptism and the remission of sins. As they prayed, the voice of the Redeemer spoke peace to them, and an angel appeared in a cloud of light. He introduced himself as John the Baptist and placed his hands on their heads. Joy filled their hearts as God’s love surrounded them.
Illustrations by Ben Sowards
“Upon you my fellow servants,” John declared, “in the name of Messiah I confer the Priesthood of Aaron, which holds the keys of the ministering of angels, and of the gospel of repentance, and of baptism by immersion for the remission of sins.”9
The angel’s voice was mild, but it seemed to pierce Joseph and Oliver to the core.10 He explained that the Aaronic Priesthood authorized them to perform baptisms, and he commanded them to baptize each other after he departed. He also said they would receive additional priesthood power later, which would give them authority to confer the gift of the Holy Ghost on each other and on those they baptized.
After John the Baptist left, Joseph and Oliver walked to the river and waded in. Joseph baptized Oliver first, and as soon as he came out of the water, Oliver began to prophesy about things that would soon happen. Oliver then baptized Joseph, who rose from the river prophesying about the rise of Christ’s Church, which the Lord had promised to establish among them.11
Following John the Baptist’s instructions, they returned to the woods and ordained each other to the Aaronic Priesthood. In their study of the Bible, as well as their translation of the ancient record, Joseph and Oliver had often read about the authority to act in God’s name. Now they carried that authority themselves.
After their baptism, Joseph and Oliver found that scriptures that once seemed dense and mysterious suddenly became clearer. Truth and understanding flooded their minds.12