Gospel Story Finder

On the day of her husband’s second departure to England, Vilate Kimball was so weak, trembling so severely with ague, that she could do nothing more than weakly shake hands with her husband when he came in tears to say good-bye. Their little David was less than four weeks old then, and only one child, four-year-old Heber Parley, was well enough to carry water for the ailing family. In the hours after her husband’s leaving, Vilate lost all strength and had to be assisted back to the confinement of her bed.

Mary Ann Young and her children were equally ill when Brigham left on the same mission, and their financial situation was equally precarious. One heartrending description describes her crossing the Mississippi River in the bitter of winter, thinly clad and shivering with cold, clutching her infant daughter as she went, going to the tithing office in Nauvoo to ask for a few potatoes. Then, still suffering with fever, she made her way with the baby back across the forbidding river, never to write a word to her husband about such difficulties.

For some members, financial difficulties turn tithing into a test of faith. Yet members who have overcome that test share their experiences with others, offering encouragement and hope. “When I joined the Church,” says a Santo Domingo leader, “I lived all the commandments except for tithing, but one day realized that I obey commandments because I want to obey and because I know the Lord will help us.” Since that realization, he has paid a full tithe. “I’ve received so many blessings I hadn’t planned on. Now I’m the one telling tithing stories!”

It was a fall day in Wyoming. The majestic Teton Mountains rising high into the blue sky were delicately mirrored in Jackson Lake—a breathtakingly beautiful setting for the beginning of a high adventure canoe trip down the 158 kilometers of rugged Snake River. True to its name, the river curled its way through a wilderness area abundant with wildlife. There would be few roads and only occasional trails.
Excitement was high, and hearts seemed to be beating a little faster than usual as the 19 Scout leader fathers and their 16-year-old sons waited on the river bank at Moran to begin their canoe trip down the Snake River.
Two tanned, tall, river-experienced 19-year-old young men would be our guides—one at the head of the group and the other following close behind. Their every word of instruction and warning was caught by ears that were straining to learn. There was a bit of apprehension as they warned about whirlpools, with their circling current, that could take a canoe and its occupants down under. There was also the instruction about approaching and riding through the turbulent water areas. The main word of instruction was, “Whatever you do, don’t unbalance your canoe.” We resolved and it was our intention that we would do everything the guides had instructed us to do. We would stroke evenly on each side; we would kneel up all the way so we could move easily and keep the canoe in balance.
As the leader responsible for the group, I seemed to be having some doubts as I listened to the safety precautions the guides were giving us. I remembered a newscast a few days before telling of a father who had fallen from his canoe while going through a rapid and had struck his head on a rock and had drowned before he could be recovered, even though he had his life jacket properly in place.
The lead guide gracefully slipped his canoe into the water and glided effortlessly out into the river. In turn, each canoe, with father and son in place, followed. It was a beautiful day—the fresh clean air was invigorating; the clear blue sky with an occasional white billowy cloud added to the beauty of the surroundings. The water was clear and the river flowed smoothly along. The spruce and pine trees, together with grass and shrubs, made each turn of the river one of artistic beauty. The first 16 kilometers were so enjoyable that most of the fear and concern faded away.
As we looked ahead, we could see another stream emptying into the main river. We could see the whirlpool signs, and we became more alert as we approached the junction point. All of a sudden there was an excited cry ahead: “Look at the moose!” I wanted to see the moose, so I whirled around and caught a fleeting glimpse of it with its large flat antlers just as I was going headfirst into the Snake River.
The water was cold; the rocks were hard. I struggled to get to the surface. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind: “I wonder where my son Dave is. How will I find our canoe? Can I find my paddle?”
As I swam toward the shore, I caught sight of Dave right ahead making his way to the bank. I lost my hat and all of the suntan lotion and the dark glasses I had in my pocket. But I was glad to get out of the cold water and again get back in the canoe so we could stay with the others.
After that, they could have said “Look!” at a thousand moose and we would not have turned around to look. We looked straight ahead. There were kilometers of rapids and turbulent water, and we went safely through. We didn’t look to the left or to the right. In fact, one rapid was so severe that one canoe in trying to negotiate it tipped over backward. The father was heavier than his 16-year-old son, and he was in the back. They had not intended to unbalance the canoe, but they did. They got wet just the same. Intention is not enough!

Recently, I attended a sacrament meeting given by children with special needs. Each was disabled in hearing or sight or mental development. Beside each was a teenager assigned as a companion. They sang and played music for us. Facing us on the front row was a young girl who stood and signed to those behind us who could not hear.
Jenny gave a brief testimony. Then her parents each spoke. They told of the utter agony they had known when they learned that their child would never have a normal life. They told of the endless, everyday trials that followed. When others would stare or laugh, Jenny’s brothers put an arm protectively around her. The mother then told us of the love and absolute joy Jenny brought to the family.
Those parents have learned that “after much tribulation, … cometh the blessing” (D&C 103:12). I saw them bound together by adversity and refined into pure gold—true Latter-day Saints.
They told us Jenny adopts fathers. So when I shook hands with her, I said, “I’m a grandpa.”
She looked up at me and said, “Well, I can see why!”

In the spring of 1844, Parley P. Pratt and most of the other members of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles were serving missions in the eastern United States. In June, Elder Pratt felt inspired to return to Nauvoo, Illinois. On the way, he heard that Joseph and Hyrum Smith had been martyred at Carthage, Illinois. “I felt so weighed down with sorrow and the powers of darkness that it was painful for me to converse or speak to any one.”*
Now that great leader was gone. As Parley approached Nauvoo, he was worried. He didn’t know if Brigham Young, the President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, or any of the other members of the Quorum were there. What should he tell the people? Should he tell them to flee from Nauvoo? Or should they stay and complete the temple? Parley prayed to know what to do. “On a sudden the Spirit of God came upon me and filled my heart with joy and gladness indescribable. … The Spirit said unto me: ‘Go and say unto my people in Nauvoo, that they shall continue to pursue their daily duties and take care of themselves. … Exhort them that they continue to build the House of the Lord which I have commanded them to build in Nauvoo.’”
At Nauvoo Elder Pratt found that the people had already resumed work on the temple under the direction of John Taylor and Willard Richards, two other members of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles who had been in jail with the Prophet when he was killed. The three men worked together to keep the people united and at peace until the return of President Young and the other members of the Quorum.

When I was a child growing up and learning about life, I did not have the security of my father and mother telling me who I was, how I could find lasting happiness, and what would happen to me if I were to die. My parents did not have the gospel of Jesus Christ, so my childhood was very uncertain in many ways and often full of fear.
But in all the memories of my childhood, there is at least one of peace and joy. This is the memory of Christmas.
Christmastime was celebrated in the traditions and customs of my home country of Germany, and it was specifically for the children.
Four Sundays before Christmas Day, preparations for something holy and beautiful could be felt in our home. A little wreath with four candles on it was placed on the family table.
On the first Sunday, the first candle was lit. As a family we sat around the table, singing Christmas songs and preparing little gifts that each of us would give to each member of the family.
On the fourth Sunday, the last candle was lit, and expectations for the coming joyous events were growing extreme.
A Christmas tree did not appear in our home until December 24. On that day, we children had to stay outside, go on errands, and play by ourselves. I still remember how time seemed to not pass at all.
We children were taught that the Christmas tree and all of its glory and beauty, along with presents and food and cookies, came from the little Christ Child.
This lack of logic did not bother us children. We believed that there was a Christ-child person of a supernatural existence who cared for us in such a way that once a year He would come in person to fulfill all of our hopes and dreams.
In preparation, we cleaned the rooms where we slept. We put on our best clothes. We had our gifts ready to give. When the sun started to set on that special day, we were invited to get ready to enter the living room.
As was the custom, the doors to the living room had been locked because we children were not to go into that room. It became a place of great mystery. Once in a while we heard some rustling of papers, and once in a while the more courageous of us tried to peek in the keyhole—only to learn that the key was in it from the inside and the door was locked.
When Mother finally decided that we were clean, orderly, dressed, our hair groomed, and had our rooms in order, we were asked to listen carefully. Suddenly we heard a little bell ringing, and our hearts beat close to explosion. This was it! This was the moment when the doors were unlocked and we were allowed to go into the living room. And there it was—a Christmas tree standing from the floor to the ceiling! We became aware of its beautiful, fresh-cut smell and that it was glowing with candles. Our father, who happened to be already inside the room when we walked in, was watching it carefully so that nothing caught on fire.
The Christmas tree had many decorations that we as children would see only at Christmastime. In the center of the tree was a wax sculpture of a little Christ Child surrounded by glowing angels of gold paper and silk.
Our family gathered around the tree and sang four or five Christmas songs. Then we children were invited to find our own corner of presents, which had been covered by a blanket.
This Christmas Eve tradition developed in us powerful feelings of holiness, joy, love, gratitude, and security. These feelings, radiating from the symbols of the little wax figure of the Christ Child, which we saw only at Christmastime, had a great influence on all of us.

I don’t think I have ever been more impressed with what a temple recommend means than when I was a stake president in Boston, Massachusetts. We had a dear lady, a widow, who lived in one of the poorer sections of Boston. She was struggling to sustain herself, but she was an independent person who did not want to be a burden to others. She could not afford to move to a better part of town, and as the neighborhood deteriorated around her, she was almost a prisoner within the walls of her own home. She would venture out to the store and would find people on the streets very unfriendly. Once she had even been knocked to the ground and her money was taken from her.
So she came to rely on the priesthood to be with her as she went out to gather the necessities of life. She had a system of unlocking the door for us when we arrived. We would knock on the door of her apartment, and we would hear her weak and feeble voice through the door, “Who is it?” We would repeat our name, and then she would say, “Slide your temple recommend under the door so I can be certain it is you.” After our recommends were slid under the door, she would unlock the latches and we would be allowed to enter.
I have often thought how symbolic that was. A temple recommend—a little piece of paper—represents us and reflects our worthiness to receive the blessings of the temple.

Instead, I joined a neighborhood team with lots of friends. We had a great time the first year and were successful, but the second year the team struggled and sometimes lost focus on the game. I became frustrated. I put my best effort into every game, but we almost always lost.
After one very bad game, Coach Hashem, whose team was doing well, approached me on the football field. He asked me how things were going. I said, “Not so good.” I told him I missed my old teammates. Hashem coached with a great deal of skill and always seemed to get the most from his players.
“How would you like to be a guest player for our team when we go to the next tournament?” Hashem asked.
“I would really like that!” I responded excitedly.
“Great!” Hashem said, smiling. “I need to ask you one question though. Can you play on Sundays?” My stomach muscles tightened. I suddenly felt sick. I remembered what had happened that last time this question had been asked.
I looked at my mom. I looked at my dad. They too waited for my answer. I looked at Hashem.
“No, I’m sorry. I don’t play on Sundays,” I said. “Will that make a difference?”
Hashem stood there for a moment. He had seen the expression of hope on my face fade quickly as I had answered his question.
“No, that’s OK,” Hashem responded. “We probably won’t get to the Sunday finals. We’d love to have you play with us.”
Soon I started practicing with Hashem’s team. The team played with a great deal of intensity, and they welcomed me back. I loved playing with them.
We didn’t win all of our games at the tournament, but we all tried our hardest, and we had a good time. Soon I became a permanent member of Hashem’s team. Though they knew I didn’t play on Sundays, they still appreciated me for what I added to the team on the other game days.

Three of my grandsons stood with me on the crest of the hill known as the Eminence last summer. Looking down at the Sweetwater where the Willie Company was stranded, cold and starving, we read from their journals of the joy of their rescue. As John Chislett wrote: “Just as the sun was sinking beautifully behind the distant hills, … several covered wagons … were seen coming towards us. The news ran through the camp like wildfire. … Shouts of joy rent the air; strong men wept till tears ran freely down their furrowed and sun-burnt cheeks. … That evening, for the first time in quite a period, the songs of Zion were to be heard in the camp. … With the cravings of hunger satisfied, and with hearts filled with gratitude to God and our good brethren, we all united in prayer, and then retired to rest.”

This great caring about how we behave toward everyone around us was one of the great lessons President McKay taught. On the trip to Europe to dedicate the temple sites in Switzerland and England, President McKay was surrounded by eager English youth seeking autographs from him. The first in line was a young girl about nine years old. She asked the President’s son, who was accompanying him, “May I have President McKay’s autograph?” The son, who thought his father was too tired, began to dissuade her. But President McKay, overhearing the conversation, turned to her and asked jokingly, “Do you think I can write plainly enough so you can read it?” The girl wasn’t sure whether he was in earnest, and she became flustered. At that moment, an aide interrupted with a pressing question, and several minutes of conversation ensued. When the President turned back to speak again to the girl, she had disappeared.
“I have never seen father more upset,” said his son. “Please find that girl in the blue dress,” President McKay directed. “I’m sure she has the impression that I didn’t want to sign her book. She misinterpreted my remarks. You must find her.” Before long, branch presidents and mission presidents were looking for a little girl in blue. But the search was in vain. Finally, a missionary thought he knew who the girl was. He telephoned the President later that night and then received these instructions: “Tell the girl that I am sorry I missed her, and that I have asked the branch president to send her book to me by mail to Salt Lake City; I will sign my autograph and mail it directly back to her.” And he did!

Screams echoed through the trees as people ran to avoid lava and falling rocks. I stood backstage listening to the soundtrack booming through speakers across the hill.
That summer, I participated in the Hill Cumorah Pageant, which portrayed several events from the Book of Mormon. I had been cast as a harvest dancer (see 1 Nephi 18:23–24) and an unbeliever (see 3 Nephi 1:4–21), but everyone, including the staff, was a part of the upcoming scene.
A spotlight shone on a figure dressed in white, seemingly floating above the highest tier of the stage. He wasn’t really the Savior, of course—just a volunteering college student like me. But in that moment onstage, I imagined the real Savior standing there instead.
I pictured Him walking up to me, and I imagined looking into His eyes. Feelings from the Spirit washed over me. In that moment, I had a taste of what it must be like to see my true Savior. I treasured this unique spiritual experience.

My family’s faith began years ago when my father was 10. When the U.S. Army, under General Douglas McArthur, left the Philippines because of Japanese advancement, they set up a training/recreational base outside Brisbane, Australia. My grandparents were dairy farmers on the Brisbane River and their farm became the base for the encampment of the American soldiers.
One day, while my father and his sister were milking the cows, a soldier, Danny Roberts, offered to give them a hand. He was lonely and his thoughts were of his home on a farm in America. Danny stayed for dinner, and when asked about his religion, he told the story of the First Vision.
With great interest, my family discussed what they had been taught, and asked the question of most investigators: “Could a young boy of 14 really see God and Jesus Christ in our day?” The feeling surrounding the conversation caused great contemplation. Eventually they determined that if Moses and Abraham in years gone by could see Jesus, then why not a prophet in our day as well.
A flicker of faith began in the Maurer family. Did they know for sure that this was true? No. Did they receive a personal visitation from Heavenly Father? No. What prompted them to take the next step? It was the Spirit of God impressing on their minds that this felt right, and a hope that this, maybe, was true.
Faith brings a power and a desire, and it motivates us to action. So strong was the feeling of faith that they wanted to find out more. The nearest Church meetinghouse was over two hours away, but they attended the next Sunday and loved the Spirit they felt there. They loved the people who were so genuine and friendly.
There were no missionaries because of the war, but the leaders and members taught and helped strengthen their faith in Jesus Christ. The family added to their faith and built a stronger understanding of the plan of salvation. Through sacrifice, their faith in Jesus Christ gave them a power they had not experienced in their life to that point.
I have often reflected on that unique experience that my father, his two sisters, Tess and Julie, and their parents had. They sacrificed, endured hardship, and changed their lifestyle—all because they felt that the Lord led this Church, which provides the greatest chance for eternal salvation and lasting happiness. There is a power that comes when faith is exercised.

Stelio Mauahiti lived next door to an attractive building in Paea on the island of Tahiti. He was told it was a church, but he didn’t really know what kind of church. The grounds were always neat, and people seemed to come nearly every day to participate in a variety of activities. On Sundays, he could hear the singing as the doors and windows were always open. Other days, he watched boys near his own age play basketball on the outdoor court. He paid particular attention to the two young men who wore white shirts and dark trousers.
Soon he was playing basketball with them. Then he started to listen to what they had to say. He and his mother agreed to be taught the gospel. At their baptism, Stelio made up his mind to serve a mission someday.
That day has come. Elder Mauahiti was called to serve in the French Polynesia Mission. One of his first assignments was to the village of Uturoa on the island of Raiatea. Mission life is very different from his life before his mission. Now he is the young man in the white shirt and dark trousers. Now he is the one who plays basketball on the outdoor court with those who are wondering about the Church. Now he is the one who does the teaching.
Best of all, Elder Mauahiti sees the same thing happening to his people that Elder Pratt saw 150 years ago. He’s seeing people change for the better. “I have seen the difference between the homes of members and the homes of nonmembers,” says Elder Mauahiti. “I have seen lives changed, hearts touched by the Spirit. I know that it’s not me who makes the difference, but the Spirit of the Lord working through his missionaries.”

A story I heard years ago has helped me recognize and then act on promptings from the Holy Ghost. Sister Bonnie D. Parkin, former Relief Society General President, shared the following:
“Susan … was a wonderful seamstress. President [Spencer W.] Kimball lived in [her] ward. One Sunday, Susan noticed that he had a new suit. Her father had recently … brought her some exquisite silk fabric. Susan thought that fabric would make a handsome tie to go with President Kimball’s new suit. So on Monday she made the tie. She wrapped it in tissue paper and walked up the block to President Kimball’s home.
“On her way to the front door, she suddenly stopped and thought, ‘Who am I to make a tie for the prophet? He probably has plenty of them.’ Deciding she had made a mistake, she turned to leave.
“Just then Sister Kimball opened the front door and said, ‘Oh, Susan!’
“Stumbling all over herself, Susan said, ‘I saw President Kimball in his new suit on Sunday. Dad just brought me some silk from New York … and so I made him a tie.’
“Before Susan could continue, Sister Kimball stopped her, took hold of her shoulders, and said: ‘Susan, never suppress a generous thought.’”

Oliver DeMille liked to go to church with his parents on Sundays because church was held outdoors. Nauvoo had no church buildings yet, so for sacrament meetings, the Prophet Joseph Smith met with the Saints in one of the groves of trees. People sat on plank benches, on blankets on the ground, or in their wagons or carriages. Speakers had to shout sometimes, especially when wind rustled through the trees.
One warm summer Sunday, Oliver, about thirteen, was trying to listen to Joseph Smith preach. The Prophet said that he had had a revelation, and he began to tell it to the people.
“Just then,” Oliver said, “a flock of geese flew over where the meeting was held.” The geese made honking noises, “and most of the people turned their eyes to look.” Oliver did not look but “kept my eyes on the prophet.”
Joseph Smith was concerned because the people turned their attention from him to the geese. He said, “If you care more for the quacking of a wild goose than for the revelations of the Almighty God, I’ve no more to say to you at present.” He stopped preaching and sat down. The people did not get to hear about the revelation that he wanted to share with them.
Oliver was disappointed. But he remembered the lesson the Prophet taught that day—we should pay attention whenever the servants of God speak to us.

During my second Christmas as a full-time missionary, my companion and I were visiting a recently baptized member and her family. After a great Christmas dinner, we shared with them a Christmas message.
We asked the family to draw pictures of things that reminded them of the season, such as stars, presents, nativities, and Christmas trees. We then read some scriptures, including 2 Nephi 19:6: “For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given; and the government shall be upon his shoulder; and his name shall be called, Wonderful, Counselor, The Mighty God, The Everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.” We sang “Once in Royal David’s City” (Hymns, no. 205), watched a movie about the Nativity, and bore testimony of Jesus Christ.
It was a Christmas in simple circumstances, away from our families and the usual Christmas celebrations, but as we bore testimony of the Savior, I felt a deeper love and appreciation for Him and His birth than I had known before. I realized it would be my last Christmas in full-time missionary service to my Heavenly Father, but I understood that His Spirit could testify to me of His Son wherever I was.

Kim Dohm was comfortable at her grandparents’ house in Fort Worth, Texas, 500 miles from her home and parents. Her father and mother were helping with relief efforts in Slidell. But when she heard the news that evacuees wouldn’t be allowed back home for weeks or possibly months, it was more than she could bear. “One day at school, I just started to sob,” Kim says. “Everyone told me things would be okay, but I couldn’t stop crying.” Anxious and uncertain, she prayed. “I felt the most overwhelming peace in my heart,” she says. “I remembered how the Savior calmed the storm and reassured the disciples on the Sea of Galilee. My heart was raging, but His example calmed and reassured me.”

A few months ago, I was at my neighbor’s house. We were having a lot of fun playing. Later in the day, he asked me if I wanted to watch a movie, and I said yes. As my friend got the movie ready to watch, I saw what it was rated and knew that it was one I should not watch. I offered a silent prayer to Heavenly Father about what I should do. I said to my friend, “I think I need to go home now.” As I walked home, I thought about what I had done. I had obeyed my parents and Heavenly Father. I knew that Heavenly Father had answered my prayer and helped me make a good choice.
Marshall Klein, age 9Trabuco Canyon, California

“They never told us any of this in the MTC,” was all I could think of as I followed my companion down a dismal Düsseldorf side street, shuffling my frozen feet through the dirty snow as I went.
Less than a week before, I had left the Missionary Training Center after two intense but glorious months filled with grammar and vocabulary, discussions and scriptures, and a growing recognition of the workings of the Spirit. Still ringing in my ears were countless stories from teachers and General Authorities of the immeasurable joy that awaited me in the mission field and of the way lives would change because of the message I carried.
As I tracted that day I felt betrayed. The only changed life I could see was my own: changed from the comfort of Arizona sunshine to the misery of a German winter and from the freedom of my pre-mission existence to a life-style of exhausting physical work and infinite restrictions.
I wondered where all the joy could be as we climbed endless staircases to talk to people who didn’t want to talk to us. I wondered too, how the truth could possibly make a difference in the lives of those who shut their doors before hearing a complete sentence. Most of all I wondered where the promised Spirit was: the Spirit that softened the hearts of men like Alma and Saul, that guided missionaries like Ammon and Aaron to proclaim the right words to the right people, and that gave messengers like Abinadi and Samuel the Lamanite the strength of conviction and love for the people to carry on despite all persecution and rejection.
I felt no love for the people, no joy in the work, and no Spirit to comfort or inspire me. All I felt was an ever-increasing, completely foreign bitterness, and an aloneness I never knew existed.
As I fought back steamy tears and silent, choking sobs, I turned my thoughts to home, hoping to ease my desperation for even a second. In that frustrated, confused moment, a single picture unfolded in my mind. I saw my parents kneeling at their bedside, heads bowed and brows furrowed in prayer. Their words were for me. “Dear Father, bless our daughter. Keep her from discouragement and lead her in thy paths.”
As that picture faded, a hundred others tumbled one after the other into its place—pictures of six brothers and a sister; of relatives, friends, and ward members all bowed in prayer for me. I glanced at my watch and realized that it was early morning at home and that those earnest prayers were being said right then. And I knew, with undeniable clarity, that they were being answered right then as a feeling of drenching love and warmth dissolved every negative emotion from my soul. I sensed a powerful, glowing triangle, linking home and heaven and me.
I knew then, with a witness that comes only from the Spirit I had sought, that I was a part of a work not my own, but that of an omniscient, loving Father who sent his Son to show me the way. “I am the vine, ye are the branches: He that abideth in me, and I in him, the same bringeth forth much fruit: for without me ye can do nothing” (John 15:5).
Snow still falls and doors still shut, but weekly letters bring a renewed assurance as I read “You are in our prayers,” for I know that each of those prayers ascends to the Source of all love and distills daily upon every servant in His vineyard.

In contrast, as I close, consider unselfish Melissa Howes, whose comparatively young father died of cancer several months ago. Just before, Melissa, who was then nine, was voice in family prayer, pleading, “Heavenly Father, bless my daddy, and if you need him more than us, you can have him. We want him, but Thy will be done. And please help us not to be mad at you” (letter from Christie Howes, 25 Feb. 1998).
What spiritual submissiveness for one so young! What an unselfish understanding of the plan of salvation! May unselfish submissiveness be our path too, in the holy name of Jesus Christ, amen!