Gospel Story Finder

A Samoan Church member desiring to pray about his illness sees a doctor to find out what’s wrong.

A similar desire existed in the hearts of those moving to Puerto Francisco de Orellana. In early January 2009, Marco Villavicencio—now the branch president—and his wife, Claudia Ramirez, were considering a job opportunity that would require relocating to Puerto Francisco de Orellana from their home in Machala, on the other side of Ecuador.
“My first question,” says President Villavicencio, “was ‘Is the Church there?’ My wife and I talked it over with our family, and we prayed to know if we should move. As soon as the offer came, we learned that the Church was being established in Puerto Francisco de Orellana. We moved here in February 2009, and the branch was formed the following September.”

Looking for Henry by Elaine Livermore Henry’s spots are such good camouflage that no one can see him, and that’s a problem. As he gets harder and harder to find in this clever hide-and-seek book, he learns how to make his camouflage useful and how to overcome the problem it caused him.

As Easter time approaches, let me share with you the tender story of an eleven-year-old boy named Philip, a Down’s syndrome child who was in a Sunday School class with eight other children.
Easter Sunday the teacher brought an empty plastic egg for each child. They were instructed to go out of the church building onto the grounds and put into the egg something that would remind them of the meaning of Easter.
All returned joyfully. As each egg was opened there were exclamations of delight at a butterfly, a twig, a flower, a blade of grass. Then the last egg was opened. It was Philip’s, and it was empty!
Some of the children made fun of Philip. “But, teacher,” he said, “teacher, the tomb was empty.”
A newspaper article announcing Philip’s death a few months later noted that at the conclusion of the funeral eight children marched forward and put a large empty egg on the small casket. On it was a banner that said, “The tomb was empty.”

Elder Horacio Tenorio, recently released member of the Seventy: The greatest thrill for me, as his grandfather, was when [my grandson] told me that he knew who Jesus Christ was and bore his testimony of the Savior to me. Nowhere could you ever find more truth and purity than in the testimony of a three-year-old boy.

Dustin heard the phone ring. Then he heard his father talking. He glanced at the clock. It was two o’clock in the morning!
He knocked on his parents’ bedroom door.
“Is something wrong?” Dustin asked.
“A man and his wife were in a car accident and are stranded a few hours away,” Dad said, buttoning his shirt. “I’m going to pick them up and bring them here.”
Dustin’s dad was a bishop in the small desert town where they lived. Over the years, he had brought home many stranded travelers.
“Are they all right?” Mom asked.
“Shaken up, but otherwise OK,” Dad said.
“I’ll make sandwiches,” Mom said. “They’re probably hungry.”
Dustin helped Mom make sandwiches and fill a thermos with hot chocolate.
“Can I go with you, Dad?” Dustin asked.
“Sure—I’d enjoy your company, it’s Saturday, and you’re old enough to come,” Dad said.
Dustin smiled and headed for the car. His dad’s words made him feel important.
Hours later, they found the couple on the side of the freeway.
“We’re the Whitneys,” the young man said as he and his wife climbed into the back seat of the station wagon. Dustin smiled and handed them the bag of food.
“Thank you. We haven’t eaten since noon,” Brother Whitney said.
Dustin fell asleep on the way home. When Dad gently shook him awake, the sky was just turning pink.
Mom fixed breakfast for everyone, then sent the couple to Dustin’s brother’s bedroom for a nap. “I’ve put clean sheets on the bed. There are fresh towels in the bathroom.”
Sister Whitney hugged Dustin’s mother. “Thank you so much. All of you.”
A few hours later, Brother Whitney wandered out of the bedroom. “My wife is still sleeping. I guess I need to call a tow truck.”
“It’s already taken care of,” Dustin’s father said. “I have a friend who works in a garage. He towed your car to his shop and is working on it now.”
“I don’t know how to thank you,” Brother Whitney said.
Dustin’s father smiled. “You just did.”
That afternoon, Dustin went with Dad to take the Whitneys to pick up their car.
“We’ll never forget what you did,” Brother Whitney said. He pulled some money out of his pocket.
Dad shook his head. “We don’t take money for helping someone in need.”
“At least let us pay you for the gas,” Brother Whitney said.
Again, Dustin’s father shook his head. “You may need it for the rest of your trip.”
Brother Whitney looked uncomfortable. “I don’t feel right not giving you anything in return for all you’ve done for us.”
“Help someone else when you can,” Dad said. “That’s the only thing I want in return.”
On the way home, Dustin looked at his father. He knew Dad hadn’t had any sleep. “You must be tired.”
His father smiled around a yawn. “A little.”
Dustin knew that was as much as his father would say about helping the couple. He never said much about helping others. He just did it.

Shortly before President Heber J. Grant passed away, one of the Brethren visited his home. Before he left, President Grant prayed, “O God, bless me that I shall not lose my testimony and keep faithful to the end!” After nearly 27 years as President of the Church, this was his fervent prayer. His example is a striking reminder that no one, at any age, is immune from Satan’s influence. Two of Satan’s most powerful tools are distraction and deception.

Counseling with my bishop. I came to appreciate my bishop’s guidance in helping me make a number of sound decisions. He checked on our family often and made sure I was all right and my family was well cared for. He was my support both temporally and spiritually.
One day the bishop called me into his office and discussed with me each of my children, one by one, to see how they were doing. We came up with a plan to make sure each of my boys received priesthood support through their quorum and auxiliary leaders. He also discussed my financial situation and made sure we had food in the house, and when Christmas came he checked again to be sure we had something to go under our tree.
Besides helping my children, he gave me priesthood blessings and helped me explore my new role as a single sister. What a comfort it was to know I had his backing.

Many years ago I was returning home after dropping my husband off at school. The drive would take me through a canyon in the mountains of Utah.
I had our new baby, April, with me. This was long before infant car seats, so April lay wrapped in a blanket on a pillow in the front seat, her head resting on my leg.
To stay awake on this late trip I was singing the last hymn we had sung at church, “Abide with Me; ’Tis Eventide” (Hymns, no. 165). As I sang it started raining. When we reached the canyon the rain turned to snow and began sticking to the pavement.
Rounding a bend on the narrow two-lane road, I found a herd of deer directly in my path. I hit the brake, and the car slid. On my right was the mountain, and on my left the road dropped off to the river. There was nowhere to go but straight ahead. Holding the steering wheel with one hand and grabbing my baby with the other, I got ready for impact. But to my amazement, the deer just stepped aside, allowing us to pass.
After clearing the herd, I looked in the rearview mirror. The herd hadn’t frozen in the headlights or scattered—as deer normally would when frightened. They had merely backed up enough to let a little Volkswagen bug through. It felt to me like our parting of the Red Sea. I rejoiced for the 10 miles (16 km) home, thanking God for “abid[ing] with me.”
When I arrived home and got out of the car, I realized what a tragedy it could have been and wasn’t. Tears started to flow. Even if I had hit just one deer, it could have caused serious damage to the tiny car and injury to my baby and me. The near miss had occurred five miles (8 km) from the nearest farmhouse, and we hadn’t passed any vehicles on the road through the canyon or the rest of the way home. I cried with joy, holding my baby in my arms and thanking God for protecting us from harm.

The “scuba diving event” that I described above became a catalyst for Bruce and me to discuss “things as they really are.” He was able to share how exhausted he was after a long commute and day of work, and the difficulty of seeing his family for only a short time before needing to go support others. And I was able to share my struggles after a long day of taking care of four children and then facing the evening alone when they (and I!) were tired and cranky.
One evening, Bruce came home for a quick dinner so that he could be at the church for an evening of meetings with ward members. He realized that I was not feeling well and needed help. He ended up praying and feeling the Spirit confirm his desire to cancel his meetings and serve at home.
I was grateful for an additional witness that I was seen by my Heavenly Father and loved and supported by Bruce.

3. In 1887 a pioneer group from Salt Lake City traveled north to build a new settlement. They named their town Cardston after Charles Ora Card, the leader of their group. In 1913 a temple site was dedicated there and President Heber J. Grant dedicated the __ __ __ __ __ __ __ Temple in 1923.

When their friends or family members play sports, Stephen’s and Richard’s participation is limited. But the two boys don’t see themselves as handicapped. They always give everything their best shot.
For example, when Richard (whose reflexes are better than Stephen’s) got a skateboard, Stephen wanted to ride it too. He didn’t give up until he had learned to balance and roll slowly down the street.
“He’s got real stick-to-itiveness,” Brother Frustaci says. “Neither of them gives up.”

Ring! Ring! sang my cell phone.
“Yeah?” I answered.
“You want to hit the library?” my friend Andrea asked.
I glanced up at the clock and then at the pile of homework on my desk. With finals lurking around the corner, I desperately needed a chance to study, and I couldn’t focus in my college apartment.
“Yeah, let’s go,” I said, gathering my books. I bundled myself in several layers before braving the frigid air and wading through four inches of fresh snow to Andrea’s car.
We set off for the library, grumbling about our mountains of homework. Just thinking about the next week made me nervous.
As we passed an intersection, I noticed an elderly woman shoveling snow from her sidewalks.
“Look at that!” I exclaimed. “Why is that little old lady shoveling snow all by herself?”
“We should turn around and help her,” Andrea suggested. Moments later, we pulled into her driveway.
“Can we help you with that?” Andrea asked, reaching for the shovel.
“Oh, no, I’m all right, but thank you,” she said in surprise.
“No, really,” I insisted. “At least let us finish for you. You must be freezing.”
She hesitated, but then gratefully consented to let us salt down the sidewalks.
We collected the salt and chatted with her as we sprinkled the sidewalks. The salt melted away the ice almost as quickly as our disgruntled moods.
After we finished, we went inside to meet her husband, who was unable to shovel the snow because he was recovering from surgery. We enjoyed some eggnog, admired family photos, and told her about our families. Then out of the blue she stopped and smiled at us.
“I’m so glad you stopped by,” she confided. “It’s just so good to visit.”
We stayed with her for about an hour, then hugged her good-bye and continued our trek to the library.
“I don’t think she really needed someone to salt her sidewalks,” Andrea said as we drove away.
“No,” I said. “She needed a friend.”
As I glanced at my pile of books, I realized I had needed her, too. The stress I’d felt just an hour before was nearly gone, replaced by blissful relief. I had been so focused on my tests that I couldn’t see how others struggled with bigger problems like loneliness, growing older, and even shoveling snow. I will always be grateful for that reminder to watch for opportunities to serve.

On October of 1992, a new freshman without much enthusiasm for life arrived at Page (Arizona) High School. Darryle had spent the last several years in a boarding school for the handicapped. He was confined to a wheelchair because of cerebral palsy; he had no ability to speak, see, or walk; and he had limited use of his arms. When he first arrived, he was very scared, and nobody seemed to know how to help him.
As teachers we were becoming quite frustrated trying to find something that would capture his interest. Things changed when someone brought in a tape of Navajo drum music. That perked Darryle up. He loved this music, and we knew we had to capitalize on this.
It was arranged for Darryle to attend the band class, something he seemed to enjoy. I, too, was excited, but I knew I only had the personnel to take Darryle to the class once a week.
Enter Brad Ross. Brad was a quiet, shy sophomore with a great love for music. The next afternoon, about the time band began, Brad walked into my special education classroom. He was very quiet, and I could tell he was nervous. But that didn’t stop him. He marched up to me and asked if he could take Darryle to band with him.
I was stunned. I let Brad take Darryle, but I remember thinking that it wouldn’t last.
What followed was the most honest expression of heroism I have ever witnessed. For the next three years, Brad never missed a day. Each day he would come to my classroom and escort Darryle to band practice. Darryle became as much a part of the band as any other member. Every day, Brad would set Darryle up with different percussion instruments. With eager delight, Darryle would sense the music and gleefully join in the rhythms he felt. Under Brad’s patient tutoring, Darryle learned to play the snare drum, bass drum, tambourine, maracas, and the triangle. Even though Darryle’s rhythms did not always match the rest of the band’s, Darryle was totally involved.
Many changes had to be made to accommodate Darryle, but Brad always made them—never asking for help.
The things Brad did were thoughtful actions that required discipline and sacrifice. His heroic efforts affected the other students and touched the hearts of many teachers and parents. He had the bravery necessary to walk into a classroom full of special education students, make friends with someone who needed a friend, create a new program for a peer, and provide the selfless service necessary to see it through.
Brad recently completed an honorable mission in the Oklahoma City Oklahoma Mission.

My friend Cathy hadn’t been to school for several days, so I called her mom and found out that she was in the hospital being tested for mononucleosis. I went to see how she was doing and to give her a hard time about having the so-called “kissing disease.”

When I arrived at the hospital, she was sitting up in bed quietly. I asked if she had mono, and who she’d been kissing.

“I don’t have mono,” she said. “It’s leukemia.”

I was speechless. It couldn’t be true—not Cathy. I immediately tried to think of some way to make this all better. Then a thought occurred to me.

“You got your patriarchal blessing, right? Does it say that you will be married and have children?”

“Yes.”

“Then,” I concluded, “you’ll be okay.”

“I hope so,” she said. “But sometimes our blessings are for the next world as well.”

The next? I didn’t want to hear anything about the next world. She was living in this world, and I wanted it to stay that way. We hugged and cried, and finally I had to go.

Over the following several months Cathy went through chemotherapy. She lost all her hair. The lining of her mouth became so raw that it was painful for her to eat. She was nauseated all the time. Her immune system was weak, so she was susceptible to infection. Anyone who went into her room had to put on a hospital gown, gloves, and a mask.

I visited her almost every day. She was usually too sick to talk, so I just sat with her. Through all this she remained at peace with Heavenly Father. She said she had faith in His plan for her.

To me it was simple. Faith precedes the miracle. Cathy had great faith. I had faith in her faith. Her being healed was just a matter of time.

Eventually Cathy was able to come back to school. She wore a bandana and had planned to wear a wig until her hair grew back. But when her hair started to sprout, it was really itchy, and she couldn’t stand to wear a wig. A good friend of hers shaved his head as a show of support.

Cathy jumped right into her classes. She even started marching with the pep club and spending time with her friends. For me, it was a relief when things seemed back to normal. Toward the end of the school year she ran for a student body office and won.

I was so happy to have my friend back. Everything was just like it had been before the cancer. Her faith had worked, and she was healed—or so I thought.

Around Christmas, Cathy started to get sick again. She went back into the hospital for another round of chemo, but this time it was different. When I went to visit, she was weaker. Her body had already been through so much that she just didn’t have any strength. I think she knew that she didn’t have much time left on earth because she was quietly saying good-bye. I was devastated.

My friend Cathy died shortly after her 18th birthday. No one had more faith in Heavenly Father’s ability to heal than she did. So why had she died? What was faith good for if people like Cathy still died? I didn’t understand.

Slowly it dawned on me. I might not understand, but I knew that Cathy did. Her faith allowed her to have peace as she trusted in Heavenly Father’s plan for her. Sometimes we think that if only we have enough faith, our problems will be taken away. But because of Cathy I learned that faith is what helps us accept Heavenly Father’s plan. Then we can say, “Thy will be done,” and really mean it.

“You want us to do what?” they asked. “For how long? Why?”
When she heard those questions, McKenzie McNaughton knew this project might be a challenge.
At the beginning of the school year, McKenzie, a senior and member of the student council at Washington Township High School in Deptford, New Jersey, hatched an idea. She wanted the entire senior class to spend one school day providing service in the community. Nothing too elaborate. Just a few hours sprucing up the place.
“I started thinking about what I wanted to give back to the school and what we could do,” she says. “I thought this would be a good way.”
And that’s how Washington Township’s Senior Service Day began.
Things got a little tricky when she presented the idea to her fellow students, however.
“In September, when I told the student body of my idea at the beginning of an assembly, they were excited,” McKenzie says. “But then what I was saying started to sink in. Before the assembly was over, a lot of guys were saying, ‘You’re not going to get us all to go and clean a park. We’re not going to do this.’
“And I’m still in the EFY, youth-conference mode,” McKenzie adds. “I’m thinking, ‘We’re going to get to clean together, guys. We get to rake. And we’re doing it for free!’ I had to finally realize that maybe everybody wouldn’t be as excited just to spend a day working.”
Those few negative responses didn’t diminish McKenzie’s enthusiasm for the project, though. It was now McKenzie’s job to get those naysaying students into, as she says, “the mode.”
Nine months later, and a week before they all graduated, approximately 500 of the senior class’s 600 students shuffled out of the school holding rakes and shovels to board buses headed for nearby parks and schools.
If there is one thing McKenzie knows, it’s service projects. If you’re a Latter-day Saint, they kind of come with the territory. Since McKenzie turned 12 and joined Young Women, she’s helped paint a preschool building, and she’s gone on her ward’s annual Christmas caroling excursions to local hospitals. “We also regularly visit nursing homes, and we’ve given Easter baskets to the Ronald McDonald House,” she says. And McKenzie isn’t even including her Young Women Value Experiences which consisted of—among other things—acquiring donated fleece and using it to make toys and pillows she then donated to the local women’s shelter.
Senior Service Day was a little different from those activities in one big way. This was McKenzie’s idea, and she had to make it happen. There was no Laurel adviser to coordinate everything. So to accomplish her goal, McKenzie had to inspire a bunch of students not experienced in service projects to pitch in. “I think my high school is full of good kids. This will work,” she said confidently the day before the event.
“When I do service, it makes me more grateful for what I have. It’s a ton of work, but I think you learn how to work. It’s so fun. You really like to work,” she adds.
McKenzie was also only one of two Church members in her senior class. She knew she was perceived as being different by her classmates. And coming up with the idea of Senior Service Day didn’t necessarily change their opinions. “Because I don’t go to the parties on Fridays, other kids will ask me what I like to do. Then they become curious. Once I went on a picnic with a couple of kids who I kind of knew but wasn’t really good friends with. We were just talking about stuff, and we ended up talking for an hour-and-a-half about the Church.” Serving others was one of the topics that day. Senior Service Day would give McKenzie the opportunity to practice what she preached.
Still, there was the little issue of instilling excitement in the other students about—ahem—the prospect of raking. There was also a lot of planning necessary to make the whole thing happen. “I didn’t realize how much work had to be put into it,” she says.
With the help of teachers and counselors who offered their help, and after postponing the day twice, June 1 finally came and everything was in order. McKenzie made sure of it, checking off each item one by one:
X The school district had furnished the buses to transport the students.
X Bus drivers volunteered their time.
X The township had approved the work in several different parks.
X The elementary and middle schools’ principals were enthusiastic about the service the students would provide.
X A local pizza restaurant had donated pizzas for the party afterward, and grocery stores had provided soda pop.
“I think it’s going to be great,” she said, the day before Senior Service Day would actually happen. Pizzas and cases of soda as enticements certainly couldn’t hurt.
Even with all the planning, the next morning McKenzie drove from place to place to make sure everything was coordinated and going according to plan. She found students who had descended on the sites, and she thought back to that first assembly. “I think they kind of didn’t get what we were trying to do in the very beginning. But after they thought about it, they realized it could be fun,” she says.
At one school, several girls hemmed the bottom of the frayed stage curtain. Outside, another group was picking up litter along a fence line. At a middle school, kids were spading and weeding a garden while others were—yes!—raking the courtyard lawn.
And later that morning at The Birches Elementary School sat McKenzie. She was reading to the second-graders who had crowded around a wooden rocking chair. Eleven years earlier, McKenzie had been in this classroom. Her teacher from back then was still teaching. As McKenzie looked at the new batch of seven- and eight-year-olds, she fondly remembered her days in the school.
The kids were attentive, listening as McKenzie read from a children’s book.
“It was so much fun being back in that classroom,” she says afterward. “This has gone so well.”
A few hours later, the students were back at the high school sitting around listening to music, eating pizza, and smiling about what they had accomplished.
“You want us to do what? For how long? Why?”
They now had their answers.
McKenzie no longer lives in New Jersey. She’s now a student at BYU in Provo, Utah. Senior Service Day is long since over.
“I’m glad we did it. I think it was a success,” she says.
Which just proves what can happen when everybody gets in the “EFY, youth-conference mode.”

by Rosemary Peck
If you could choose one activity to do as a Laurel this year, what would it be?
Make bread. Sew clown suits for a service project. Learn what boys like about girls. Hold a career night. Make Christmas presents. The answers were as varied as the girls themselves, and their adviser, Paulene Berge, with assistant adviser, Kathy Whiting, looked forward to a colorful, busy year, one which addressed the needs and desires of each member of the class. The Laurels of the Arvada Second Ward, Arvada Colorado Stake, planned, baked, sang, sewed, and did it all.
Clowning around at a rest home was first on the agenda. The Laurels sewed 15 sets of neck ruffles to go on jogging suits and learned how to apply real clown makeup. They planned a program of gymnastics, piano duets, and songs complete with actions. Then they performed for 200 patients at a hospital and at a rest home.
For a lesson on personal histories, they learned to write up special events, keep records, and mount photos. On scrapbook day, they met with bulging boxes and drawers. Hours later they finished with empty drawers and terrific scrapbooks.
At the boys-meet-girls fireside, guest speakers from a neighboring ward led the discussion. At the Dads and Daughters Dinner Dance, the girls brought their fathers for an evening of good food and dancing lessons. At trousseau night, the bishop’s wife talked about good home management, and the girls learned about coordinating a wardrobe.
On career night, bread demonstration night, Laurel cookbook night, and at the Around the World party, the girls and their advisers learned more of the how-tos of preparing for a job and learning to cook. It was definitely a year for the scrapbook.

Also on the council was Stephen Wood, the stake’s deejay for the dance. The stake has mixers, speakers, and other audio equipment because it doesn’t want to hire disc jockeys anymore. It was too hard to regulate the music selected by hired deejays, and it was also becoming too expensive. So Stephen was put in charge of the music, a very important responsibility, because we all know—besides the fun people, of course—it’s the music that makes or breaks a dance.
Stephen, a priest, had some deejay experience from being in charge of the youth conference dance music. “I talk to people before the dance and see what they want,” he says. But he does have some ground rules. “No swearing or unacceptable lyrics. I haven’t really played anything too heavy. Too heavy or too fast a beat isn’t good.” He usually uses his own CDs, and others bring their CDs to the dance as well.

As a boy, David O. McKay wanted to know for himself that Joseph Smith was a prophet. One day while looking for cattle, he got off his horse and knelt under a serviceberry bush.
He asked Heavenly Father for a spiritual witness, then waited for something wonderful to happen. Nothing did.
David: If I am true to myself, I must say I am just the same “old boy” that I was before I prayed.
Disappointed, he got back on his horse and rode away.

The Doll Shop Downstairs*, by Yona Zeldis McDonough, illustrated by Heather Maione. Anna and her sisters enjoy playing with the dolls waiting to be fixed in their father’s doll repair shop. When the shop is in danger of going out of business because of World War I, Anna looks for a way to get her family through the hard times.