Gospel Story Finder

An interesting experiment in social psychology investigates how much the judgments of others influence the way we see things. A psychologist built a small machine containing a bright light which could be switched on in pinpoint bursts. When one views a small burst of light in a dark room, the light appears to move, even though the machine producing the light is stable and doesn’t move at all. This is called the autokinetic (self-movement) effect, and it plays an important role in this experiment.
During the first stage of the experiment one person, let’s call him Bill, is led into a dark room and instructed to judge how far the tiny pinpoints of light move each time he sees a burst of light. His judgment is two centimeters the first time, three centimeters the second time, and four centimeters the third time. After several trials he settles on three centimeters as his average judgment.
Bill is then excused from the room, and Susan is invited to be seated several feet from the light machine. She then voices her judgments each time she sees a burst of light. She begins with three centimeters, then two centimeters, and she finally begins to repeat estimates of about one centimeter.
After her judgments have been recorded, Bill is then invited back into the room with Susan, and both of them are instructed to voice their individual estimates of another series of light bursts. After the first burst Bill says, “three centimeters,” and Susan counters with “one centimeter.” On the next trial Susan says, “one and a half,” and Bill replies, “two and a half.” After several subsequent trials, they concur that the light moves two centimeters each time.
The interesting conclusion to this experiment may appear, at first, to be trivial, but in many regards it is profound. The light never moves. It is only our perceptions of the light that change. As we associate with others whose opinions differ from our own, their judgments often influence how we view things, and we, in turn, influence their view of the world.

As a teenager, my independence and my privacy were very important to me. So our family rule that Mom and Dad always had to know where we were, who we were with, and when we’d be home, was annoying. Even though we all complained about it, we all abided by it.
It was early spring of my junior year in high school when my 13-year-old sister, Jenni, and I were heavily involved with our girls’ volleyball team. Our team was not the best nor the worst. We just played to have fun. One of the most exciting matches of the season, involving several teams, was to be held about 40 minutes from our home. It was a Friday night, and since I’d had my driver’s license for more than a year, Mom and Dad let me take the van with my little sister as my companion. Jenni and I didn’t always see eye to eye, but we had a great visit with each other on the way to the match. Being alone gave us the opportunity to really talk. The evening was as much fun as we had anticipated. After saying good-bye to friends old and new, Jenni and I left and headed for home.
Just 15 minutes into the ride on a fast moving freeway, we ran out of gas. It was a dark night, so we hoped we could coast to the next off-ramp. But the van came to a stop under an overpass nearly a mile away from the exit. Scared, we offered a prayer. “Heavenly Father,” we prayed, “please help us find a way to get home safely.”
As we ended our prayer, I remembered that in an emergency we are told to lift the car hood and put something white on the antenna, so we did. We knew it was just a matter of time before a police car would drive by and offer to help. Three times we were passed by police, even though we were flashing our lights and honking.
Discouragement nearly overcame us, and we decided it was time to pray again. Finishing the prayer with tears streaming down our faces, we talked about possible solutions. We could see the exit sign and decided to walk toward it, hoping to find a telephone. About a quarter of a mile away from the van, we heard a vehicle approaching us and slowing down. Could our prayers be answered? We turned around and saw two motorcycles coming toward us. At that moment we both felt very strongly that we should head back to the safety of the van. Back in the car, huddled together, we tried to comfort each other. Then, as the Spirit whispered peace to each of us, we looked out our window to see our mother and father coming to a stop on the other side of the freeway. Our relief and gratitude completely overcame us as we ran into the arms of our anxious parents. “How did you know?” we asked. Softly and clearly our parents answered that they knew where we were, who we were with, and when we were supposed to be home. Because we had always followed this rule, when we didn’t arrive home on time, they knew they had to come looking for us.
I was never annoyed by my parents’ strict rules again.

Bart and Chad sat with their mother in sacrament meeting as the bishop made an announcement. “Brothers and sisters, we are blessed to have several missionaries serving from our ward. We have been asked to keep a certain sum of money in the ward missionary fund, and right now we are below that amount.”
He held up a donation slip. “Fortunately, the blessing of supporting the missionary program isn’t just for full-time missionaries and their families. We can donate to the ward missionary fund to help support missionaries from our ward or to the general missionary fund to help missionaries all over the world.* What a great opportunity this is for each of us to personally support the missionary program.”
The bishop then asked ward members to contribute to the ward missionary fund if they felt they could.
Bart and Chad arrived home bursting with excitement. “Mom, we need to help the missionaries!”
Mom smiled at their enthusiasm. “When you earn money and pay your tithing, maybe you could also give a little extra money to the missionary fund.”
A look of concern crossed Bart’s face. “Mom, we have to give more than that!”
“And the bishop said they need money now,” Chad added.
“What do you suggest?” Mom asked.
Bart thought for a few moments, then went to his room and returned with a box of change he had been saving.
“This is all the money I have right now,” he explained, pouring it out onto the table.
Chad followed his brother’s example and soon returned with his own savings, which he added to the mound of coins.
Bart noticed an empty quart jar next to the sink, and an idea popped into his head. “Mom, could we please use that jar for our money?”
“Sure.”
“And would it be OK if we went through the house and added any loose coins we find?”
“I think that’s a great idea.”
Bart and Chad discovered that hunting for missionary coins was more fun than any treasure hunt. With each quarter, dime, nickel, and penny they dropped into the jar, their smiles widened and their determination grew.
Together they searched every cupboard, drawer, and closet. They peered under every rug, bed, and piece of furniture. When they were sure they had not missed a square inch of the house, they presented a nearly full jar to their mother. “Would you please call the bishop and make an appointment for us?” Bart asked.
Mom dialed the phone number and soon reported that the bishop would be happy to meet with them that afternoon.
As the bishop welcomed them into his office, Mom explained why they were there. Tears filled the bishop’s eyes as Chad and Bart proudly placed the jar of coins in his hands. Together they counted the money, filled out a donation slip, and poured the coins into a large envelope.
The bishop smiled warmly. “Thank you so very much for such a wonderful contribution to the missionary fund. If you don’t mind, I would like to keep this jar as a reminder of one of the most wonderful experiences I have ever had. This may look like an empty jar, but to me it will always be filled with love and the testimonies of two special young men.”
As they left the building, Bart turned to Mom. “I feel just as full as that quart jar.”
“So do I!” Chad exclaimed.
“That makes three of us,” Mom said, giving her boys a big hug.

It was my second week in the mission field. I was fresh out of the missionary training center, ready and willing to face anything that came my way.
One night we rode our bikes along a slightly icy road and then came to some trolley tracks that were part of the road. My companion made it past them, but by the time he looked back to warn me, it was too late. My bike tire caught in the track, and I flew off my bicycle and slid about three feet.
I panicked. I knew I’d been hurt, so I checked my head, my arms, my knees—all were sore. Then I checked my face and discovered that some of my teeth had been knocked out. I sat on a cold, dark street wondering why this happened to me. What had I done wrong? Did the Lord not want me to serve? Questions and concerns raced through my mind as my companion sat by me and offered words of comfort. Nothing seemed to help.
I felt lost and alone, but suddenly an overwhelming sense of warmth and peace came over me, and the dark clouds of fear and hurt disappeared. I became calm. My personal relationship with the Savior grew as I felt His Atonement work on me. I realized that the Lord has taken upon Himself all of our pains and afflictions so that He can help us through them (see Alma 7:11–12).
Many good things came from my accident, and I learned that the Lord really does see the big picture. If we follow Him and seek to understand His plan for us, He will bless us through our trials.

I am indeed grateful that I was given the unique and distinctive opportunity to attend this institution many years ago and for the positive effect it has had on my life. I came to BYU–Hawaii when I was 17, an inexperienced freshman from Apia, Samoa, very timid and shy. I lived in Hale 3 when the apartment spaces consisted of 8 small rooms with a separating curtain in what was then referred to as a “unit.” In our unit were three Samoans, one Japanese, two Canadians, one Mainlander, and one Hawaiian. While school was in session, the school and dorms were packed with students. During the summer and winter holidays, the locals and mainland students went home. Those of us from Samoa, Tonga, New Zealand, Australia, Philippines, Asia and basically from the entire Pacific Rim, remained on campus. Even though there were no classes, we worked full-time to earn money to pay for our student loans. Each payday, we went to the business office to endorse our paychecks and receive money for tithing and personal spending. On one occasion as we stood in line, the lady at the window handed a student his paycheck to sign and return. We were all shocked when he ran off with it. She tried calling him back, but he had disappeared very quickly. It was humorous at the time, but I have since felt empathy for that student. There would have been numerous reasons why he desperately needed that money.

Eating in the cafeteria was a luxury during the summer so in order to reduce spending, we opted to provide our own meals. There was no grocery store in Laie so this developed our talents to become very creative. I remember sharing a pack of hot dogs someone gave us and a roommate showing us how to grill each dog on a hot iron. Sometimes we went into the mountains looking for mangoes, papaya and bananas. One of our roommates found an old electric frying pan to cook with. It was the first time I learned to cut up and fry green papaya to make stir fry with a can of fish. Another roommate worked at the PCC diner. When tourists left uneaten food on their plates, she would bring it home for all of us to enjoy. Our dorm parent was Bella Stokoe. On occasion she would make a large pot of Koko rice and feed us when we arrived home from work. On the weekends, there was no food to eat. We became more creative. We walked down the streets of Laie and began knocking on doors. One of us would stand at the opened doors and say, "We are hungry. Do you have any food to spare?" Sometimes the answer was "sorry we don't."

We were fortunate when people like Sister Valu Ta’ilele, Sister Ta’aloga Stone, Sister Eka Aumua, Sister Ann Rivers and Sister Malia Leiataua would recognize us and hand us food or invite us in. I am grateful and will never forget these mothers who loved us, who had hearts of gold to give and fed us “at such a time as this.” Their acts of kindness have had a great effect on my life forever. It has taught me to do things for people NOT because of who they are or what they do for you in return, but because of who I am. It has taught me to simply reach out and LOVE without expectation.

Several years ago a good friend in Washington, D.C., a member of the Church, came home and found his house being burglarized and ended up tussling with the burglar. The burglar shot him, almost completely severed his spinal cord, and he is now paralyzed from the waist down. As I visited with him in a hospital in Washington, D.C., he told me movingly and tearfully, and with a sense of gratitude, how he had now, as a matter of prayer and great reflection, been able to forgive this man, his unknown assailant, for the great tragedy that he had inflicted upon him.

One son bought a small home in a distant state. He showed me bricks on a corner of the foundation that were eroding away. He asked what he should do.
I did not know, but I asked, “Is there an older couple that lives close to you?”
“Yes,” he said, “across the street and down a few houses is a retired couple.”
“Why don’t you ask him to come over and look at that. He knows your climate.”
That was done, and he got the advice of an older man who had seen problems like that and many others. That is what adopted grandpas can do.

Not long ago, Aimee—a 13-year-old Beehive—was at a gymnastics meet standing at the ready to perform her floor exercise. Her coach motioned to her that the music was starting (the only special allowance that is made for her at meets), and Aimee began. Unfortunately, it was the wrong music. Instead of the dramatic music from the opera Carmen that Aimee had worked with for months, getting the rhythms and choreography just right, it was a selection of Dixieland jazz. Aimee, of course, couldn’t actually hear the music, so she had no idea what was happening.
“If her coach had tried to stop her, Aimee would have been disqualified,” says Aimee’s mom, Patsy. “She just kept right on going, and somehow she ended right with the music.”
And although it wasn’t Aimee’s personal best, it was the best score of the day. She won the competition. Aimee now holds the number one spot in the Northwestern States division, and is ranked 25th in the nation in her age group.

When Peter Lauritzen of Eugene, Oregon, had to choose between attending early morning seminary or high school swim team practice, which met each morning at 6 A.M., he had to get up early to find a solution. In fact, he got up at 4:30 AM, each weekday so he could attend his own swim practice at 5 A.M. (with his coach’s approval), then make it to seminary. He was soon joined by three other seminary goers, Karen and Gary Orth, and DeWayne Colombe.
Karen and Peter were soon setting swim records for their high school, and doing well at state meets, too.
“I seem to be wider awake during the day than when I didn’t get up early,” said Pete. “It wasn’t that much of a decision really. Church comes first and then swimming.”

During a special Church conference held on April 6, 1881, branch president Silviano Arteaga, several local leaders, and Apostle Moses Thatcher (1842–1909) climbed the slope of the volcano Mt. Popocatépetl. Elder Thatcher then dedicated the land for the preaching of the gospel.

At the conference President Arteaga prayed, and Elder Thatcher related: “Tears flowed down his wrinkled cheeks, for the deliverance of his race and people. … I never heard any man pray more earnestly, and though praying in a language which I do not comprehend, yet I seemed to understand by the Spirit, all that he was pleading for.”2

In the conspiracy to take his life in which the Laws were involved, two young men had been invited to the secret meetings – Dennison L. Harris and Robert Scott. They consulted with the Prophet. He asked them to go and observe.

At the risk of their lives they attended these meetings and reported back what they had heard. Prior to the last meeting they reported their expectation that at that meeting everyone present would be asked to come forward and take an oath to be willing to take the life of Joseph Smith. The Prophet wept.

Now he knew by natural means as well as by his presentiments what was happening. The young men heroically attended the meeting as he suggested, and narrowly escaped with their lives when they were put under pressure to take the oath.

As a young teenager I read one day in the Book of Mormon about Lehi’s dream, and I considered Nephi’s description that “the whiteness [of the tree] did exceed the whiteness of the driven snow” (1 Nephi 11:8).
I thought, How did Nephi know what snow looks like?
I understood that Nephi had grown up in Jerusalem, which has a Mediterranean climate, and that he had traveled through a desert and across an ocean to the tropical jungles of America. I thought, Nephi never saw snow—he could not know what snow looks like!
That thought troubled me; it appeared to be an inconsistency in the record, a possible evidence that the Book of Mormon was not true. With my young, developing faith, that was an earth-­shaking thought.
This issue nagged at me, but over the next ­several years I reread the Book of Mormon anyway, probably a dozen times, and my testimony of the book grew. But how could I believe in the Book of Mormon so strongly when I entertained a serious question about its consistency as a historical record? Did I lack intellectual integrity?
Years later, as a returned missionary and BYU student, I read one day a news article about conflict in the Middle East, and I was startled to find a description of a snowy scene in Jerusalem. Wait a minute—it snows in Jerusalem?! Who knew?
As smart as I thought I was as a teenager, I wasn’t all that smart. There was no problem with Nephi’s description of the tree. Nephi grew up in Jerusalem; it snows in Jerusalem.10
Now this may be a simple example, but the principle applies to greater challenges. We sometimes think we are pretty smart, and when something comes along that doesn’t fit our way of thinking—such as information about Church history or divorce in a temple marriage or same-gender attraction—it shakes us up, and we may begin to question our beliefs.
But maybe, like my trouble with Nephi and snow, we are just missing important perspective. Perhaps we need to be patient and wait for the resolution to come.11

The classic example of how Key No. 2 works is to examine the life of Joseph Smith and the unfolding of the Restoration of the gospel. This dispensation commenced in the spring of 1820, when an untutored 14 year old boy, read the familiar Bible passage in the first chapter of James. The familiar passage read: "If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him."[14] Joseph's response to this scripture was to do exactly as James directed.

First - Joseph read the scriptures: He tells us: "I was one day reading the Epistle of James."

Second - Joseph felt the influence of the Spirit as he read: He writes: "Never did any passage of scripture come with more power to the heart of man than this did at this time to mine. It seemed to enter with great force into every feeling of my heart."

Third - Joseph pondered on the scripture: He said: "I reflected on it again and again"

Fourth - Joseph made the decision to ask: He declared: "At length I came to the conclusion that I . . . must do as James directs, that is, ask of God."

Fifth - Joseph prayed to God: He recorded: "So, in accordance with . . . my determination to ask of God, I retired to the woods to make the attempt."[15]

Is not this the same heavenly pattern that each of us can follow as we read the scriptures, feel the Spirit as it touches our hearts, ponder what we have studied, then pray to God for wisdom and knowledge each time we open the scriptures?

The result of Joseph Smith's reading, pondering and praying led him into the Sacred Grove where the heavens opened and he received a personal revelation from the Father and the Son. The events leading to the First Vision set the pattern for other visitations which followed.

My parents did not belong to a church when I was a boy, and they didn’t talk much with me about Jesus Christ. But even as a little child, I always said my prayers. I slept in an upstairs loft on a couple of mattresses. I climbed the stairs, knelt beside the mattresses, and talked with Heavenly Father. Then I rolled into bed. I’m sure I didn’t use hallowed language, but I learned to feel comfortable praying, so that when I heard the missionaries as a teenager, it was an easy thing for me to pray about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon, and to ask Heavenly Father if the Church was true.

We must not forget that the concern for construction of a temple anchored both ends of the Mormon westward movement. In Nauvoo Brigham Young worked hard to encourage his people to finish the temple, and one of the first things he did upon entering the Salt Lake Valley was to select a site for another temple. Early members like Sarah Rich understood the deeper meaning of all this. She recalled her experiences in Iowa in 1846:

But many were the blessings we had received in the House of the Lord which has caused us joy and comfort in the midst of all our sorrows and enabled us to have faith in God knowing he would guide us and sustain us in the unknown journey that lay before us, for if it had not been for the faith and knowledge that was bestowed upon us in that temple by the influence and help of the Spirit of the Lord our journey would have been like one taking a leap in the dark. To start out on such a journey in the winter as it were, and in our state of poverty it would seem like walking into the jaws of death but we had faith in our heavenly father and we put our trust in him feeling that we were his chosen people and had embraced his gospel and instead of sorrow we felt to rejoice that the day of our deliverance had come.

The day was not even close to Christmas. It was a summer day. My mother died in the early afternoon. My father, my brother, and I had gone from the hospital to our family home, just the three of us. We fixed ourselves a snack; then we talked with visitors. It grew late, dusk fell, and I remember we still had not turned on the lights.

Dad answered the doorbell. It was Aunt Catherine and Uncle Bill. I could see that Uncle Bill was holding a bottle of cherries. I can still see the deep red, almost purple, cherries and the shiny gold cap on the jar. He said, “You might enjoy these. You probably haven’t had dessert.”

We hadn’t. The three of us sat around the kitchen table, put some cherries in bowls, and ate them as Uncle Bill and Aunt Catherine cleared some dishes. Uncle Bill asked, “Are there people you haven’t had time to call? Just give me some names and I’ll do it.” We mentioned a few relatives who would want to know of mother’s death. And then Aunt Catherine and Uncle Bill were gone. They could not have been with us more than 20 minutes.

Now, we can understand my theory best if we focus on one gift: the bottle of cherries. And let’s explain the theory from the point of view of the person who received the gift: me. That’s crucial, because what matters in what the giver does is what the receiver feels.

As nearly as I can tell, the giving and receiving of a great gift always has three parts. Here they are, illustrated by that gift on a summer evening.

First, I knew that Uncle Bill and Aunt Catherine had felt what I was feeling and had been touched. I’m not over the thrill of that yet. They must have felt we’d be too tired to fix much food. They must have felt that a bowl of home-canned cherries would make us feel, for a moment, like a family again. Just knowing that someone had understood what I felt meant far more to me than the cherries themselves. I can’t remember the taste of the cherries, but I remember that someone knew my heart and cared.

Second, I felt that the gift was free. I knew Uncle Bill and Aunt Catherine had chosen freely to bring a gift. They weren’t doing it to compel a response from me; the gift seemed to provide them joy in the giving.

And third, there was an element of sacrifice. Someone might say, “But how could they give for the joy of it and yet make a sacrifice?” Well, I could see the sacrifice. I knew that Aunt Catherine had canned those cherries for her family. They must have liked cherries. But she took that possible pleasure from them and gave it to me. That’s sacrifice. But I have realized since then this marvelous fact: It must have seemed to Uncle Bill and Aunt Catherine that they would have more pleasure if I had the cherries than if they did. There was sacrifice, but it was made for a greater return to them—my happiness. Anyone can let the person who gets a gift know of the giver’s sacrifice. But only an expert can let you sense that sacrifice brings joy to the giver because it blesses the receiver.

It was while he was studying medicine at the University of Utah that he met his wife-to-be, Dantzel White.
He vividly remembers the feeling that came over him. “I thought she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen and sensed that she was the one I would marry,” he said. Dantzel felt the same way. When she went home to Perry, Utah, she announced to her parents that she had met the man she wanted to marry. Three years later they were married in the Salt Lake Temple.

When Dad was called as bishop, he reminded the stake president that he was 70 years old. “I think you’ve got the wrong guy,” he had said.
“How old do you think the Brethren are up in Salt Lake City?” the stake president had asked in reply. “You weren’t our first pick. You weren’t even our second pick. You were the Lord’s pick.”
Dad knew that he had been called of God, and he became a good bishop. There was nothing flashy about him. He was not an expert on the scriptures. He was just a down-to-earth man who showed a lot of empathy for ward members.
While Dad served as bishop, I served as a counselor in another bishopric in our stake. As we attended leadership meetings together, our relationship became focused on Christ, and I got to know his spiritual side.
When Dad was called as bishop in 1994, he was suffering from health problems. “Does this calling guarantee me five more years of life?” he jokingly asked the stake president. Two years after Dad was released, he passed away.

I consider June 2, 1940, to be a very important day in the history of my family. On this day my father was baptized into this Church.
Writing to his father, Elder Jack McDonald, one of the missionaries who baptized my father, described the day with these words:
“Last Sunday was an especially beautiful day. We missionaries went out to a secluded spot on the river’s edge, out in the country, and there Elder Jones and I [Elder McDonald] made our first baptism. Antony Aidukaitis entered into the icy waters and became a member of the Church. … Everything was perfect. The sky so blue, the countryside so still, so green, so lovely that none of us could help feeling the presence of some great influence.
“[As we walked] with our new member, he said that he just couldn’t explain how wonderful this day had been for him, how he actually felt like a new man. … That was our first baptism—no credit to me or anybody. He converted himself.”
This event changed the history of my life. I am not sure my father was able to foresee the wisdom of his act, but I love him for what he did that day. He passed away more than 30 years ago, but I will honor and bless his name forever.
My father was the son of Lithuanians, but he was born in Scotland. He moved to Brazil when he was still young. His ability to speak English facilitated his conversion since he could read the Book of Mormon in English, and there was not yet a reliable translation into Portuguese. This language barrier prevented my mother from joining the Church until a few years later, but when she did, she became a powerful example of dedication to others and love of God in our family. She is now 92 years old, and she is here today. It gives me great joy to say that I love her for her great faithfulness. I will also honor and bless her name forever.
I admire the courage my father had to be baptized into the Church in spite of the circumstances he faced at the time. It was not easy for him. His wife did not get baptized with him. The vices of drinking alcohol and smoking were strong temptations for him. He was poor. His mother was against his joining the Church, and she told him that if he were baptized, she would no longer consider him her son. With fewer than 300 members in Brazil, the Church did not have a single chapel there. I am truly astonished by my father’s determination and courage.
How could he make such a decision in the face of so many unfavorable circumstances? The answer is simple: it was because my father read the Book of Mormon. When he read it, he came to know of the truthfulness of the message of the Restoration. The Book of Mormon is a proof that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is true. Preach My Gospel teaches that “the Book of Mormon, combined with the Spirit, is [the] most powerful resource in conversion” ([2004], 104).

On Thursday 19 May 2022, we had a temple trip for service missionaries. Sadly, not all the missionaries could attend—but for those that could, it was a wonderful time in a sacred place.
The sun was out, and the grounds were beautiful. Being new to the mission at the time, it was good for me to meet some more missionaries.
I still feel nervous every time I go to the temple and get left alone, or even with another person my age, almost as if we are left unsupervised! But I love the feeling I get when I’m in the temple with other service missionaries (though as wonderful as the elders are, I’d definitely like more sisters in the mission!).
The temple brings a peace to my heart, even when I don’t understand everything that is going on around me. I know that Heavenly Father has a plan for us, and we won’t understand everything in this life—but that we can also bring any questions we have to Heavenly Father. He loves us and He is there for us, no matter what.
Elder and Sister Kimberling, the service mission leaders, brought a picnic style lunch for us to have afterwards. I love that they are always there to take care of us missionaries, whenever we need. They are the best. I had a wonderful time with everyone and hope that sometime soon everyone in the mission can enjoy the temple together.