Gospel Story Finder

While Henry was longing for his mother, she was thinking constantly of him and Mary. In Utah she worked long hours, sewing, tailoring, and making hats. After three years she had earned enough to send for her children.
But Henry could not be found! He was nine years old by the time Church leaders in England found him. On April 30, 1866, he and his sister Mary boarded the sailing ship John Bright with about seven hundred other Latter-day Saints.
The voyage was a mixture of terror and fun. Violent storms brewed at sea, lasting as long as three days. Other days were calm and cloudless. On those days the passengers sometimes sang, danced, and played games on the deck. Henry often played marbles with other children when the ship was steady enough for the marbles to stay in the ring. He and Mary ate food they had brought with them, such as bread and pickled fatty bacon that had turned green.

During the fall of 1968, our bishop asked my parents if they would pledge money toward building the Provo Utah Temple. Wards don’t do that today, but it was common back then. My dad pledged U.S. $1,000. That might not seem like much money, but it was to us. My father was working two jobs to help support a son in college, a son on a mission, and five children at home.
When my father sat us down for family council and told us he had pledged $1,000 toward the temple, I remember thinking, “You might as well have pledged $1 million because both amounts are unreachable.” I couldn’t believe he had pledged that much, and we had less than four months to gather the funds.
We chose four ways to help raise money: we would forfeit gift giving that Christmas and donate the money we would have spent on gifts; my sisters and I would donate our babysitting money; my little brother would do odd jobs to earn money; and as a family we would go to a local farm, pick apples daily for a few weeks, and donate the earnings.
We gift wrapped a shoebox that would hold our deposits, added a picture of a temple and a picture of Jesus Christ, and placed the box on a small table. Excitement grew as our donations increased. Our focus switched from the presents we wanted to our gift for the Savior. I so appreciated the gift He had given God’s children—His life—that I wanted to give something back to Him.
Picking apples turned out to be the most difficult and satisfying way to earn money. It was draining, but we were strengthened and rewarded as we spent time together as a family. We began to be “knit together in unity and in love” (Mosiah 18:21).
As Christmas approached, I would peek into the donation box, but I was always disappointed. Despite our efforts, we were far from our goal.
I felt wonderful, though, about our decision to forfeit presents. I knew that our sacrifices were small, but I had faith that the Savior would be pleased.
One day my dad announced that we had reached our goal and that he had donated the money. I never found out how we raised the rest so quickly.
The fulfillment of Dad’s pledge that Christmas was miraculous. But for me, the real miracle was that through giving instead of receiving, I grew closer to the Savior. That was better than any Christmas gift I could have received. Seven years later the gift was returned to me as I knelt across an altar in the Provo Temple to be sealed for time and all eternity to my husband.

President Bednar described the experience this way: “I can think of few things that have driven me to my knees more earnestly and frequently than the announcement by President Hinckley that Ricks College would become Brigham Young University—Idaho.
“On the evening before the announcement was to be made, one colleague asked, ‘President, are you scared?’ As best I can recall, I answered: ‘If I thought we had to execute this transition relying exclusively upon our own experience and our own judgment, then I would be terrified. But we will have help from heaven. Because we know who is in charge and that we are not alone, then no, I am not scared.’”
President Bednar went on to say: “I have come to know that President Hinckley’s vision concerning the future of BYU–Idaho is not really about two-year or four-year status. It is not really about academic rank or athletics. And it is not really about a name change. This announcement is about faith—faith in the future. Given all the changes that have taken place at this institution in a relatively short period of time, I testify that miracles have occurred, revelations have been received, and doors have been opened, and we have been greatly blessed as individuals and as an institution. These truly are days never to be forgotten.”

One Sunday evening not very long ago, I had the opportunity of attending sacrament meeting in the Pesega Third Ward. It happened to be the Sunday of the children’s sacrament meeting presentation.
The theme for the meeting was “Thou Shalt Live Together in Love.” Perhaps you remember putting on this program in your own sacrament meeting. It is the same one the First Presidency asked bishops all over the Church to have children present.
The program was very well prepared. But it was presented just a little different from the way it was in most other wards and districts. The children gave all of their parts in both English and Samoan. This was because some of the parents in the audience could not understand English and others could not understand Samoan. The children wanted everyone to enjoy their program.

When my brother Jeff was called on a mission to Houston, Texas, we were all excited. It was hard to think that we wouldn’t see him for two years, but we had a strong feeling that Jeff would be safe and do well on his mission.
Time passed quickly and soon we went with him to President Pulton’s office where he received a blessing. The Spirit was truly there.
We are very happy now even though our brother is away from us. I know that this is the true Church and that Joseph Smith is a Prophet of God. If Jeff is reading this I want him to know I love him. I hope boys and girls can plan and prepare for a mission. It truly is the work of God.

As a young missionary I was assigned as a district president over a group of fifteen small, scattered islands. On one occasion I received word that a missionary was very ill on a distant island. In spite of a bad storm, a companion and I sailed to the island, where we found that the missionary was indeed very ill. Fervent prayer was followed by administration, during which the impression came very strongly to get the missionary back to the hospital on the main island. The seas were heavy, the clouds were thick, the wind was fierce, the hour was late. But the impression was strong—“Get him back now!”

No sooner had we embarked on the turbulent sea than the intensity of the storm seemed to increase sevenfold. As we approached the reef surrounding the main island, the rain slashed at our faces and tore at our eyes—eyes vainly searching for the lifesaving light that marked the only entry through the reef to our home.

Suddenly I heard the chilling sound of waves crashing against the reef! It was too close. Where was the light? Unless we hit the opening exactly, we would be smashed against the reef.

Some passengers began to whimper; others moaned and cried. Many were pleading to turn to the left or to the right. I looked at the captain, and there I saw a face free of worry as his eyes penetrated the darkness ahead. His weather-roughened lips parted, and he declared, “There is the light!”

I still could not see it, but the captain’s experienced eyes were not fooled by the fury of the storm, nor was he influenced by the passengers’ pleadings.

Soon the reef was behind us, and we were in the protected harbor. Then and only then did we see through the darkness one small light—exactly where the captain had said it was. Had we waited until we could see the light, we would have been dashed to pieces. I thank the Lord for that wonderful Polynesian captain who saved my life and the life of the sick missionary I was charged with. I am grateful for his experience. I am grateful for his wisdom, for his eyes.

A few days later, we fasted along with our extended family members. For the first time in a while, I felt like fasting in faith made sense. I had faith in the Savior and knew that whatever His will, we could get through it with His help.
We went forward with the treatment, and, amazingly, we soon found out we were pregnant. We were so excited. I felt with my whole heart that God truly is a God of miracles!
A few days later, we learned we were going to lose the baby. All our joy was suddenly replaced with sadness. But because of the experiences I’d had learning about miracles, I felt a sense of peace. I knew that through the Savior’s Atonement we would get through this—I had felt that strongly just a few days before. And the fact that we could get pregnant gave us guidance in the coming months.

The Boxcar Children The four children’s parents have died, and they are running away so that their mean grandfather won’t find them. When they find an empty, abandoned boxcar in the woods, it makes a perfect home for them—until Violet gets very sick. Very easy to read.Gertrude Chandler Warner6–10 years

The link also created new twists. Two of Christine’s cousins, Sharon and Shailani Realigue, noticed the special kind of friendship between their cousin and her two friends. Christine introduced the Church to them, they were baptized, and the two cousins started to help reactivate less-active young women. They visited with Margie Paragoso, and that led the way for the baptism of Margie’s mother, sister-in-law, and cousin. “I really think this wouldn’t be possible were it not for my cousin’s example,” Sharon says.

When Ho Jik finished school, he went home to South Korea. He was excited to share the gospel with his family. He also taught many others about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Ho Jik became a leader. He had important jobs in education and government. He helped people in his country have more nutritious food. He made a difference in their lives.
But Ho Jik wanted to make an even bigger difference. Missionaries were not allowed to teach in Korea. Ho Jik wanted to change that. He knew that if he asked the government to let missionaries teach there, he could get in trouble. But he knew it was worth it. He would give up everything to bring the gospel to Korea.
Ho Jik asked the government to let missionaries teach in South Korea. And the government said yes! Soon missionaries came, and Ho Jik helped them teach more and more people.
Ho Jik knew that Oliver was right. He had been sent to that university so he could learn about the gospel. He was grateful God had blessed him with the gospel and with the opportunity to share it.

I know a young woman who grew up in President Spencer W. Kimball’s ward. She had a fervent testimony of his calling, but while she was on her mission, President Kimball died. This young missionary worried about testifying of a prophet she didn’t know. One evening as she prayed for newly sustained President Ezra Taft Benson, she was immediately flooded with the warmth of the Spirit, and she gained a new testimony. “The Lord knew I needed to know,” she said, “and he knew I would share that witness in the conversion of others.” Sisters, this can happen for you!

My grandmother Mariah was energized by this truth when she first heard it preached. In 1840–41, during the first wave of proxy baptisms done in the Mississippi River and the partially completed Nauvoo Temple, she seized the opportunity to be baptized for her deceased sister, who had died before missionaries arrived in England.3 Though I’ve never met Mariah, I share with her a love of siblings and a knowledge that this love can continue beyond death because of temple ordinances. Sharing in that knowledge with her inspires a love for her as well.

Wadis are dry river beds or low areas of the desert typically thought of as oases. Surface water in these areas is usually too salty for human or animal consumption or even for irrigation, but the areas are fertile and crops can be grown using water from shallow wells (shadoofs) within the wadis.
Until recently, the wadis have been used only at “wet” times of the year by nomadic tribesmen herding cattle and sheep. But heavy livestock losses during droughts are forcing Chadians to develop the agricultural potential of the wadis. A typical wadi must now be the main food source for three to four hundred people.
The traditional way to irrigate in the wadis is to draw water from the shadoof in a sack that holds only a few liters. Because the method is so time consuming and ineffective, irrigation has not been widely used. Working with CARE, however, the Church is using humanitarian service funds to develop more efficient—but practical—water systems. As part of this project, a larger well system has been designed. Camels draw eighty liter sacks of water from the well. The sacks empty into a trough, then the water flows into a canal system that irrigates a variety of crops, including corn, potatoes, sorghum, and peppers.
Conservation practices are also being initiated in the wadis. Mud bricks, rather than wood from date palms, are being used to build shadoofs. The trees serve as a windbreak and reduce the chances of desert sands drifting into the wadis. Eventually, windbreaks for the wadis and wood for shadoof construction will come from drought resistent tree species being developed locally.

One day at school before I was eight, they were inspecting our hands and nails to see if they were clean, and the principal saw my CTR ring (“HLJ” in Spanish). After the principal checked the rest of my row, she came back to me and said, “Rebeca, come with me to the principal’s office.” Then she said to my teacher, “Can I take Rebeca for a while?”
In her office, she asked me what the ring meant. I said, “Choose the right.” I explained that at church they teach us to do good, pray, and read the scriptures. She asked which church I went to, and I said, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” Then she asked me what that church was about, and I told her about Joseph Smith going into a grove to pray and seeing the Father and the Son. I told her about going to the temple to be sealed to my parents and that I would be baptized when I was eight. She said, “You can tell me more later.”
Later I took the principal a copy of the Book of Mormon with my testimony inside.

As bishop I discovered how the difficult times I had been through helped me help others. In particular, I remember listening to a member who was going through tough times financially, and I felt compassion. I could not have had that compassion if I had not gone through similar things myself. And I remembered what Nephi said: “As the Lord liveth, and as we live, we will not go down unto our father in the wilderness until we have accomplished the thing which the Lord hath commanded us” (1 Nephi 3:15).
I remembered how, when they were in the ship coming to the promised land, that even though he had been bound for days and had swollen wrists and ankles, Nephi said, “Nevertheless, I did look unto my God, and I did praise him all the day long; and I did not murmur against the Lord because of my afflictions” (1 Nephi 18:16). So I told the member that most of us have a long way to go to become like Nephi, but he is a good role model. I was able to help that member see that the answer is not in murmuring but in doing what the Lord has commanded, because He will surely prepare a way (see 1 Nephi 3:7).

Quite often my mom and I sat up late at night talking about anything and everything. Right before I left for boot camp, we were having one of those late-night talks. We discussed how important it was that I keep my standards high and not give in to some of the temptations I might face. She asked me right then if I would promise her that I would not pick up swearing while at boot camp. I made her that promise, even though I knew it might be hard to keep because of the environment I would be in.
On June 12, I arrived at the San Diego, California, Marine Corps recruit depot. Right from the start, any identity we had was taken away. We all wore the same uniforms, wore the same brown horn-rimmed glasses, and had the same haircut, which was no hair! We were not allowed to refer to ourselves as “I” or “me.” We were to say “this recruit” when speaking about ourselves.
We got about five hours of sleep a night. We were on the go 19 hours a day. Part of the time we were in classes. Other times we were running or learning to march, and the rest of the time we were in the field learning things like martial arts, takedowns, and bayonet training. I had three drill instructors and one senior drill instructor, who was as big as a horse. His neck and biceps were the size of tree trunks.
One day my platoon of 83 recruits was in the field doing a drill. One recruit, who was the “enemy,” tried to take our rifles away. We had to fight to prevent him from getting it. Once we had control of our rifle, we were told to point it at the enemy and yell, “Get down, _____!” calling him a profane name.
As I stood there in line waiting for my turn and watching one recruit after another do the drill, I thought about the promise I had made to my mom. It would be easy to give in just this once and talk like a “real” marine. But I knew it would be wrong. I had made a promise, and now I was being put to the test. It was finally my turn. I fought the enemy, got control of my rifle, pointed it at him, and yelled, “Get down!”
My drill instructors stopped the drill and yelled at me to do it again the right way and say what they told me to say. I did the drill again, pointed the rifle at the other recruit, and yelled, “Get down!” Suddenly I had two drill instructors in my face, yelling and screaming at me. My senior drill instructor came over and stood half an inch from my face and yelled at me to obey the order I was given and do the drill the way I was ordered to do it.
It was now crunch time. Do I give in or stand up for what I know is right and keep the promise? I stood at attention and said, “This recruit does not swear, sir!” Everyone went silent.
There was not a sound as all eyes went back and forth between me and my four drill instructors. I didn’t know what would happen to me next. I wondered if I’d be harassed by all the recruits or commanded to do 5,000 push-ups. Finally my senior drill instructor burst out laughing. Everyone else started laughing as well. The drill instructors began joking with me and coming up with other words that I could say instead. I didn’t get in any trouble for keeping my promise. When it was all over, I felt relieved and thankful that I had done the right thing.

NARRATOR: No hymn bears quite the same significance to Latter-day Saints as “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief.” An adopted hymn, it might never have gained prominence among our hymns had it not been so closely identified with the most tragic scene in Mormon history.
June 27, 1844. The day dawned hot and humid. By afternoon the small room on the upper floor in Carthage Jail was sultry and close. Four men sat together in silence, each struggling with his own thoughts. At length, Joseph broke the silence and asked to hear one of his favorite hymns. John Taylor knew it well, and verse by verse he sang it through. At Hyrum’s request, he reluctantly sang it once again.
SONG: “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief” (Hymns, p. 153; tenor solo, unaccompanied.)

I have a friend who built a beautiful home and furnished it with the very best of carpets, furniture, appliances, and all that money can buy. Within its walls he kept his fine automobiles and his expensive jewelry. Then, fearful of intruders who might enter and rob him, he had installed expensive dead-bolt locks so that he had to use a key to get out as well as to get in. He put bars on the windows and doors, and was like a prisoner looking out of his own home, as one might do out of a jail. He installed costly electronic surveillance devices to turn on lights and set off sirens should any unwelcome individual enter. He landscaped largely without trees or shrubbery so there would be no place for a thief to hide. And he smugly said to himself, “Now I am secure.”

But what he did not realize is that neither bars nor dead-bolts, neither lights nor sirens nor anything of the kind would have the slightest effect on intruders of another variety who could destroy the lives of his children, despoil the marriage which had been the source of his happiness over many years, bind him with cords of meanness and bitterness and hate toward those he had once loved, and lock him in a dungeon cell of despair and misery.

María Coj was a 17-year-old member of the Church in Guatemala, the oldest of eight children. She was sick with cysticercosis, a parasitic infection that comes from eating contaminated food; with time it spread to her brain, causing terrible headaches and then blindness. To give her relief from the pain, it was necessary to move her from her home in Sololá to Guatemala City. Because of convulsions caused by the advance of the illness, her condition worsened, and it was only with life-support systems that she was kept alive. It was evident that she could not live long under those conditions.
At this same time, Erika Alonzo, age 12, a partially blind member of the Church, traveled 22 hours by bus from Honduras to Guatemala City to receive an eye operation. For two weeks she waited for a cornea from the United States to be transplanted to her eye, but none was available.
In the meantime, María died. Because her blindness was caused by pressure on her brain, her corneas were healthy. María’s father and mother authorized the cornea donation. The operation was a success.
On 12 July 1993, Erika traveled to Sololá to meet the Coj family for the first time. The surprised family asked her, “Can you see?” She answered, “I see everything clearly.” It was a spiritual meeting. Sister Coj, who did not understand much Spanish because her native language is Cakchiquel, felt the love and the spirit of the conversation. Because of the donation of María’s corneas, Erika can now see and enjoy everything around her. The death of one person and the love of her parents blessed the life of another. The medical miracle of one person being able to look through eyes of another is a surprising reality.

Illustrations by Valerio Fabbretti
I was serving as a missionary, and a family in our ward unexpectedly invited my companion and me over for dinner.
When Christmas Eve finally came, we walked a few miles to their home, stomped off our snow-powdered boots, and eagerly rapped on the front door. Silence. After knocking again and ringing the doorbell, an adult daughter finally came to the door.
“Can you wait out here for a second?” she said. “We forgot you guys were coming.”
The door shut, and we looked at each other, confused, as we shivered on the porch.
When the door swung open again, we were guided to a small, well-loved couch in the corner of the living room. All 15 family members (seven of them small children) were also packed into the room. The older children raised their eyebrows in surprise at our appearance. The younger children wildly wrestled on the carpet. Apparently, the father, who was the only active Church member, had not told his family members that we were coming.
The same daughter who opened the front door announced that they hadn’t had time to prepare dinner, so she was going to see what restaurants were open for pickup. The father did his best to hush the children and direct their attention toward us, but they were pretty rowdy.
At first, my companion could barely utter a few words before a child would squeal or the family dog would jump on our laps. In all the chaos, I prayed for a way to help this family feel the peace of the Savior.
“Let’s imagine something together,” I said suddenly. “Can everyone close their eyes?”
I didn’t quite know where I was going with this, but I had a copy of an article by Elder D. Todd Christofferson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles that my mom had sent me. The question took the children off guard and they squeezed their eyes shut.
I unfolded the talk and began to read.
“Think about that baby [Jesus] in the manger. … Do not be too concerned or overwhelmed with what is coming in His life or in yours. … Just think about that little baby. Take a quiet, peaceful moment to ponder the beginning of His life ... when all of heaven rejoiced with the message ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men’ (Luke 2:14).”
At this point the children were all quiet and still; even the teenagers put their phones down. I read on.
“Just sit with the Lord and let Him warm you like a fire in winter. You don’t have to be perfect or the greatest person who ever graced the earth or the best of anything to be with Him.”1
I paused for a few moments to allow the Spirit to linger before telling the family to open their eyes. My companion and I bore our testimonies of the miracle of Christ’s birth and how we can always experience the peaceful feelings of Christmas as we cherish His life.
The atmosphere in the small living room was warm and light. I felt as though we had taken our own journey to Bethlehem to gather around the Christ child. One of the little girls sighed and said, “I love Jesus. Thank you for coming, Sisters.” Many of the other children nodded.
A few minutes later, the oldest daughter hobbled in the door, arms loaded with bags of fast food. We soon found ourselves munching on tacos, laughing, and sharing our favorite holiday memories.
Christmas has a way of bringing all kinds of people together. And just as Elder Christofferson taught, we don’t have to have the perfect family or the perfect holiday traditions to feel the Savior’s love; we just need to remember Him. On that Christmas Eve, I learned that sometimes a simple, heartfelt moment with Savior is all it takes to create a “silent night.”
The author lives in Utah, USA.