Gospel Story Finder

Life sent me a hurricane of sorrow in December 2016. Our oldest grandchild, Derek, stopped breathing, and his parents rushed him to the hospital. With a measure of confidence, I asked Heavenly Father to bless little Derek. As I was praying, the Spirit gently impressed on my mind, “Little Derek has returned home to heaven.”
Photograph courtesy of Cordon family
Wait, what? Despite my reeling shock, an instant “peace of God” (Philippians 4:7) came to my heart and mind.
The week after Derek’s passing, I was scheduled to do ministering visits at a children’s hospital. I felt overwhelmed and didn’t think I could walk back into those medical sights, sounds, and smells. But as I checked in, a sweet peace came over me. The Lord knew my willingness even though I was hurting, and He orchestrated an extra dose of love for me. I was guided to visit a young child fighting cancer. He had written on his whiteboard: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5).
To this day, that scripture is a reminder that Heavenly Father knows and loves me. I still have a hole in my heart for Derek—and will until I see him again. But until then, I gain solace in the Lord and keep moving forward.

Yes, it’s true—a blind postman! His name was Owen Jones, and he delivered the mail for almost twenty-five years.
Owen was born in 1819 in a little village in Wales. When he was just a small boy, he fell into the fireplace, severely burning his face and losing the sight in one eye. When he was about thirty, he lost the sight in his other eye.
At first, he was discouraged and depressed, but before long, his natural, happy disposition returned. He continued to play the violin, and he worked at developing his talents for mimicking voices and telling stories. He learned to accept his blindness without bitterness, and, like many blind people, he developed his other senses.
When the missionaries came to Wales, he and his family were baptized and decided to go to America. He and his brother and sister arrived in New Orleans in 1849 on the ship Hartley. From there they made their way to Utah. Owen settled in Brigham City, a small community about sixty miles north of Salt Lake City, where there were other Welsh pioneers.
The neighbors found him cheerful, sociable, and friendly. He often did small repairs for them, and he made chair seats of rush (a course grass), cane, and rawhide.
He never had any trouble getting around the little town. He had an excellent sense of direction, counted the steps between fences and trees, and listened to the sounds around him.
When the job of postman became available, someone suggested that “Blind Man Jones,” as he was affectionately called, could do it. He was happy for the opportunity to be useful and to earn a steady paycheck.
He did well at his new job. Each day an associate sorted the mail for him and put it in the proper order in his canvas bag. Then away he went. Carrying a long buggy whip in front of him much like blind people nowadays use a white cane, he made his way around the town, delivering the mail. If he was not sure he had the right letters in his hand, he asked homeowners to check and resort them for him.
Owen took his meals with many of the townspeople; they all enjoyed his company and loved to hear stories about his early life in Wales. He spoke English almost as well as his native Welsh, and he was often called on to translate for immigrants who had not yet learned English.
Many children remembered having him in their homes for meals and parties. Owen loved to be a part of these happy times. Sometimes the carpet was rolled up, and the children danced to his violin music. He particularly enjoyed hearing the children’s laughter as they hopped and skipped to the music.
After one evening of dancing and merriment, the host asked his son to walk Owen home. After a block or so, he said to the boy, “You’d better go back; it must be very dark.”
“But what about you?”
“Oh, I can find my way without any trouble. Remember, the world looks the same to me whether it is night or day!”
The children always watched for him, and they took his hand and walked along with him, especially when he came to a small footbridge over a little creek. He probably would have had no trouble getting across, for the bridge had a railing, but he let the children feel that he really needed their help, and they loved it.
Owen never complained, and he never seemed to feel sorry for himself. He often said, “I would much rather lose my eyesight than my hearing. I can laugh and joke with friends, play the violin, and enjoy the music. I can hear the birds and the rushing streams and the other sounds of the world around me. Those are the things that give me joy!”
Owen Jones died of pneumonia in 1894 and was buried in the Brigham City Cemetery. He never married, but he enjoyed the love and affection of all the townspeople just the same as if he had been part of their families. He was an inspiration to all who knew him because he was willing to make the most of his abilities.
“It is not so bad to lose your sight,” he once said. “After all, what counts is what is in your mind!”
We could all learn a thing or two about living from Owen.

The realities of war are sobering to a person of any age, but to a young man just off a mission they were especially so. “I had some interesting experiences in the war, and one of them really impressed me. I was in Hollandia, New Guinea, at the time. We had Hollandia itself secured, but the Japanese were in the jungle all around our perimeter. I got such a despondent feeling wondering if I’d ever get home again. I felt hopeless. Then one day I went up into a stand of mahogany trees within the perimeter all by myself, and I knelt down and poured out my heart and asked the Lord to give me some understanding of my situation. I didn’t see any vision, but such a peace and calmness came over me that when I came down from that hill, I was a different man. I knew that everything was going to be all right, that I’d get home safe and sound. And though I experienced some ticklish situations during the war, that feeling never left me.”

About a month after I joined the Church, I met my wife, Magareth, and one year later we got married. While we were dating, I told her that because I knew Joseph Smith was a prophet, I desired to build our family upon the words and teachings of the prophets. For example, President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) was the prophet at that time, and he counseled Church members to stay out of debt. In close to 29 years of marriage, my wife and I have never paid one penny of interest. Never.

When I was 17, I began taking philosophy classes in high school. One day the teacher said to the class, “Surely there isn’t anyone here who believes that Adam really existed!” Then he scanned the room with the look of an inquisitor, ready to pounce on whoever dared to admit to such belief. I was petrified! However, my desire to be loyal to my faith was even stronger. I glanced around to see that I was the only one of those 40 students to raise a hand. The teacher, taken by surprise, changed the subject.

One family created a learning experience while displaying their Nativity figures. The figures of Mary and Joseph were placed near the stable. The figures of the shepherds and sheep were placed nearby. But the figures of the wise men and camels were situated across the room. As Christmas Eve approached, they moved the figures of the wise men closer and closer to the stable scene. On Christmas Eve, the figure of the baby Jesus was placed in the manger and the shepherds were moved close around the stable. The wise men were moved close by.

An elder in our mission has had some pretty serious health problems. He has a skin allergy, bronchial problems, and sinus problems. When I arrived in the mission, he was sleeping in for fear of coming to a weakened condition and catching the flu. Then when he came in for lunch, he was sleeping for a couple of hours to keep from catching a cold or the flu. His companion was frustrated and called me.

I called the elder’s doctor. He said, “Well, his condition is bad, but it’s better than it was when he came into the mission field. It’s not going to change much no matter how many hours he works.” I called the elder into the office and suggested that I would rather see him sick with the flu legitimately than always worrying about it. I discussed with him the principle of suffering in silence, of simply going to work and doing what the Lord had called him to do. I said, “The doctor says your condition isn’t going to change no matter how much or how little you do. We’ve done and are doing all we can do. Why don’t you learn to bear your health problems without mentioning them to anyone else or showing any signs of being ill.”

Bless his great heart, he took the counsel and put it into practice. He has become one of the top missionaries in the mission. He was made a training senior companion and then a district leader, all within about six weeks. What a great missionary he is now. He discovered how to suffer in silence and do the work. He is a great example of self-denial.

Their deep desire to be of service and to demonstrate their love can even benefit the bishop. In Sacramento, California, while the bishop was away on vacation with his family, the youth committee determined to paint his house. These young people had the time of their lives working together and anticipating the pleasant surprise of the bishop when he returned. A real bond of love was established between the youth and their bishop with such meaningful service.

I live in Canberra, Australia. My dad and mum gave me my first journal as a present when I was about eight years old. I wrote in it for a couple of months; then I gave it up. A few years later when I was 12, I got it back out and read it one day. I decided I’d better start writing again, because by then I had received three other journals as presents!
About this time, a seminary teacher in our branch challenged me to write in my journal every day for 20 days. She said if I did, it would become a habit. I decided to try it.
Writing was hard at first, but it got easier. I found that by writing my feelings and thoughts, spiritual things got included too. I made my record fun by trying to include information I thought my children might be interested in someday, like how much things cost. I figured it would be interesting for them to see what it was like for me when I was a kid.
I found that a journal is a good way to express your feelings. Things you may not want to share with anyone else you can write in your journal. For example, I find it hard to bear my testimony in sacrament meeting (even though I do it sometimes). But I bear it all the time in my journal.
I really like to write on Sundays, when I’m thinking about spiritual things. And I like to go back and read what I wrote before. I can see how much I have changed; I can see that parts of my journal are much more spiritual than others. It helps me analyze my life and see what the Lord does to help me. It relaxes me and gets my mind off the world.
I received my 20-day challenge five years ago. I’m still writing in my journal every night. I get it out before I go to bed. I read my scriptures; then I write in my journal. It’s automatic. I haven’t missed an entry in five years.

When I walked into the house, the first thing I saw was the letter, propped on the narrow table in the front hall, my name typed on the white envelope and the Brigham Young University symbol in the corner. With trembling fingers I tore it open. I was accepted! And the scholarship my counselor at the University of Wisconsin had recommended I apply for had been granted! I read the words again and again, unable to believe that the dream was really coming true.

I looked up and my mother was standing in the doorway watching me. “You don’t have to tell me what’s inside the letter,” she said. “I can see it in your face.”

“Mother—” I began, but her eyes were blazing and she interrupted me angrily.

“You really think you’re something special, don’t you? You are cocky and smug and sure of yourself. Just like my sister, Beth. That’s how she was, you know. And she walked out on us, just like you’re going to do.”

“Mother,” I cried desperately, “I’m not walking out on you. I’m just going away to college. Nine months at the university. That’s all.”

“That’s what you think, Michelle. But what if you never come back? Beth never came back.”

“But that was different! She had done something disgraceful. Grandpa Hunter sent her away; he wouldn’t let her come back!”

She stood staring at me, with the strangest look in her eye. “The minute you joined the Mormon church, you turned your back on us and all we stand for. You’re not one of us any more, Michelle. When you go out to Utah, that will break the last tie.”

“Mother, no! Please don’t say such things.” I stepped toward her, but she moved away.

“How could you do this to me?” she cried. “How could you be so selfish and cruel? Beth was my big sister and she turned her back on me. She left me when I needed her the most. You’re just like her, Michelle; you’re just like her!”

I ran past her and through the kitchen, out the back door, and into the quiet yard. I was trembling all over and cold, though the summer night was mild. I had never dreamed that my mother compared me to her lost sister, Beth. I’d always known the old story about the mysterious sister who was disowned by her stern father and who disappeared to live her life in shame and seclusion somewhere. As a child I had thought it a romantic story, sweet and sad. But I had never dreamed of myself as becoming the main character in such a story. How could my own mother think of me that way? Was she ashamed of me? Did she want to disown me, as her father had once disowned the sister she loved?

Later that night when I was alone in my room, my younger brother, Paul, came in. “I just want to tell you what a creep you are,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“You know what I mean. You upset mother, and she screams and takes it out on all of us, then ends up crying half the night. All you do anymore is cause trouble, Michelle.”

“That’s not true, Paul!” I defended myself. There was a hard knot growing in the middle of my stomach, and I felt humiliated having to apologize for myself every time I turned around. “I never mean to cause trouble.”

“Well, you do. I hope it’s worth it to you, making your whole family miserable just so you can do what you want!”

He stomped out of the room without giving me time to reply. Hot tears began to gather behind my eyes. His words were unkind and unfair. But how could I make him understand what was really happening, what I really felt?

Later, when my little sister, Katy, came in to kiss me goodnight, she looked up with wide, innocent eyes and asked, “Why do you want to go away and leave us, Michelle? Mommy says you don’t really love us anymore or you wouldn’t go away.”

I pulled her into my arms and hugged her fiercely. “That’s not true, princess! I love you dearly! And it will be fun for you when I go away because I’ll write you a letter every week and send surprise packages in the mail.”

She brightened a little, and I hugged and kissed her half a dozen times before I let her go. Finally I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. What was my mother trying to do? Why did she have to punish me for being different from what she thought I ought to be?

After that the days seemed to drag, gray and dull, one after another. Part of the time I felt defensive and angry at my mother, wanting to hurt her back. But at other times I felt small and frightened, like a girl, longing for her to hold and comfort me and dissolve my fears. She had taken the excitement and anticipation out of the whole thing, and sometimes I weakened and felt that maybe I shouldn’t go after all. But too many of my prayers had been answered, too many signposts pointed that this should be the direction my life ought to take. I kept telling myself that things would work out. Perhaps it would be easier for my family if I went away. If I weren’t so close, such a source of conflict and friction, it might be easier for them to understand, to get a broader, kinder perspective. Perhaps they might even miss me and appreciate me a little.

But I was afraid. And there was no one to understand. Lori could only see that I had the world at my feet, that I was going to Zion, Mecca, where everything would be sunshine and happiness and dreams-come-true. But I had never been to Utah before. I didn’t even know what a mountain looked like in reality. I didn’t know a single person in all of Utah, much less at BYU. What were other Mormons like? Would they laugh at me if I was different, if I did things wrong? Our little branch was so casual, so experimental. What would it be like in a congregation of hundreds of Latter-day Saints? What if they all knew ten times more about the gospel than I knew?

Finally, suddenly, the long days were past, and it was time for me to leave. The day before the bus came that would take me to the airport in Madison, I prayed and fasted all day. I couldn’t bear to leave my mother like this, with her hating me and thinking that I was deserting her, rejecting her as, somehow, her older sister once had done.

That night I had a dream. In the dream I was a little girl again, with long pigtails and a dirty face. Some mean little boys were chasing me down the sidewalk and I fell and scraped my knee. I stumbled back up and ran across the lawn, sobbing for my mother, screaming for her to come. Suddenly she was there, sweeping me into her strong, soft arms. She smoothed back my hair and kissed my cheek, and cleaned my scraped knee, painting it with iodine, then sticking a big, beautiful adhesive bandage on top. I woke suddenly, feeling still her gentle hand against my skin, seeing the smile of love on her face.

I sat up in bed and it came to me that my mother didn’t know how much I needed her! How long had it been since I’d asked her advice or her help? In her eyes I seemed efficient, self-contained, and sure of myself. Mormonism had excluded her from my life, and I had done nothing to compensate for that—to let her know I still loved and needed and valued her! And all these months I had been thinking it was all her fault, that I, alone, was the wounded party!

The next morning I called her into my room and asked if she would help me pack. She’s very neat and efficient, and I knew she could organize and fit in all my last-minute things in a way I never could. I told her so. I talked with her and I praised her, and soon the look of guarded puzzlement left her face and we both began to enjoy being together. It didn’t work miracles; there wasn’t enough time for that. I still couldn’t tell her how frightened I was, how much I really loved her and would miss her. But the look of cold anger had gone out of her eyes, and she came to the bus station, and when I pushed the note I had written into her hands and reached out to hug her, she reached out, too, and held me close a minute and kissed my cheek. It was all I could do to hold back the tears. I looked through the glass and waved to my family, wishing they knew how very much I loved them.

Someone has given us this thought on time (I shall read it):
“And in my dreams I came to a beautiful building, somehow like a bank, and yet not a bank because the brass marker said, ‘Time for Sale.’
“I saw a man, breathless and pale, painfully pull himself up the stairs like a sick man. I heard him say: ‘The doctor told me I was five years too late in going to see him. I will buy those five years now—and then he can save my life.’
“Then came another man; also who said to the clerk: ‘When it was too late, I discovered that God had given me great capacities and endowments, and I failed to develop them. Sell me ten years so that I can be the man I would have been.’
“Then came a younger man to say: ‘The company has told me that starting next month I can have a big job if I am prepared to take it. But I am not prepared. Give me two years of time so that I will be prepared to take the job next month.’
“So they came, ill, hopeless, despondent, worried, unhappy—and they left smiling, each man with a look of unutterable pleasure on his face, for he had what he so desperately needed and wanted—time.
“Then I awakened, glad that I had what these men had not, and what they could never buy—time. Time to do so many things I wanted to do, that I must do. If that morning I whistled at my work, it was because a great happiness filled my heart. For I still had time, if I used it well.” (Author unknown.)

During this time, letters arrived in camp from Sam Brannan, who was now sailing for California on the Brooklyn. Among the letters was the contract promising a safe exodus for the Saints in exchange for land in the West. Brigham read the contract carefully with the apostles. If they did not sign it, Sam’s letters suggested, the president of the United States could order the Saints to disarm and cease gathering together.6

Brigham was unconvinced. As wary as he was of the government, he had already decided to try working with it rather than against it. Shortly before leaving Nauvoo, in fact, he had instructed Jesse Little, the new presiding elder in the eastern states, to lobby for the Church and accept any honorable offer from the federal government to assist the Saints’ exodus. Brigham and the apostles quickly perceived that the contract was nothing more than an elaborate scheme designed to favor the men who had drafted it. Rather than sign the agreement, the apostles decided to trust in God and look to Him for protection.7

Five years ago, Sister Amy A. Wright was diagnosed with stage 4 ovarian cancer. The only way her family made it through her aggressive treatments, she said, was by focusing on the Savior Jesus Christ.
“When it was all about me, the world became a really dark place,” she recalled. “But when my focus turned outward, when I would strive to serve others and walk the way Christ walked, there was light and joy, even during the greatest pain and suffering.”
Sister Wright described her battle with cancer as a “polishing and refining experience”—one that was “uniquely tailored” to help her come to know the Savior in a deeply personal way. It also taught her that additional strength comes in seeking to learn and understand others’ diverse challenges.

Such a woman is Olga Kovarova, of Brno, Czechoslovakia, who was baptized into the Church in 1982. When Olga was introduced to the Book of Mormon, the phrase “Men are, that they might have joy” (2 Ne. 2:25) caught her attention. She felt that the people of her country needed that message in order to rediscover ethical and moral reasons for living. Although she could not reveal her interest in religion to her supervisor at the university where she taught, she found ways to teach this philosophy of gratitude, responsibility, and joy in classes and summer camps. She has become a voice of wisdom and encouragement to her people. (See BYU Today, March 1991, pages 30–34.)

Most recently we have been called upon to face some of the most difficult challenges of our lives, as my dear sweetheart again went to deaths doorstep with a massive stroke three and a half years ago, that left her paralyzed on her left side. Through all of that time, we have again witnessed the undeniable power, and reassurance of our Father, that His will would prevail, and that our eternal covenants, made in His holy temple bind us together and assure us of eternity together if we stay the course, “hold on our way”, and not lose our “hearts”, the core of eternal truths that we will never deny. We have felt the presence of loved ones and friends from across the veil, knowing that our Father is keeping His promise to send them to be “round about us to bear us up.”
This scene here today, with her being here and us bearing testimony to you, was shown to me in a dream on the Sunday morning two days after her stroke. It was that day that she had the surgery on her brain that saved her life. However, we still did not know how much damage had been done and whether she would wake up. The image in the dream, I know, was a tender mercy, an expression of reassurance from our loving Father, that we still had things to do together on this side of the veil. The reason I am not wearing a suit today, but am wearing my white shirt and white tie that I wear in the temple is to remember a very sacred event that took place on Christmas Eve 2012, ten days after she had her stroke. As we were getting ready to go to the hospital as a family to be with her on that night, I felt strongly impressed to put on this shirt and tie. We went to the hospital where she was still unconscious in the ICU. She had not opened her eyes for ten days. We sang Christmas songs around her bed, and I again felt strong impressions come to my mind, that I should take her right hand and bless her to awaken and return with me to the house of the Lord. As I said these words in my mind, she squeezed my hand and briefly opened her eyes. Even though she still had breathing tubes in her mouth and throat, she gave me a small, beautiful smile, then closed her eyes again for another two weeks.
We will be forever grateful for so many of you and for our dear children and extended family who have truly been “angels round about us, to bear us up” during this most difficult time in our lives. We know that you have been the promised angels sent to us on this side of the veil, just like those on the other side who care for us.

When I was a child, in my family we would put together a huge jigsaw puzzle each Christmas, one that would take a week to finish with thousands of small, look-alike pieces, I hated to do the sky. It was very difficult to put together an all-blue sky. But my mother liked that part of the puzzle and she usually chose to start working there. It would have been foolish to argue with her that her piece of blue sky really belonged down in my blue water, because neither of us could be sure about it at that point. But what we did know was that each piece fit in only one place, and that we could complete the picture only by placing each piece correctly. When the Lord allows the scientists to discover all their part, and he sees fit to reveal his part, it will be the same completed picture.
This is how I have come to look at the plan of the Lord. We need to stop worrying about each small piece and try to fit the whole picture together by keeping in mind the end result. The Lord knows where each piece goes and how it fits into his plan. Each of us should help by putting ourself, an intricate and important piece of that puzzle, in the proper place.

I learned the importance of this early in my career. After finishing my education at Stanford Law School, I sought employment at a particular law firm. No members of the Church were associated with the firm, but the firm was made up of lawyers of character and ability. After a morning of interviews, the senior partner and two other partners invited me to lunch. The senior partner inquired if I would like a prelunch alcoholic drink and later if I would like wine. In both cases, I declined. The second time, I informed him that I was an active Latter-day Saint and did not drink alcoholic beverages.
I received an offer of employment from the firm. A few months later, the senior partner told me the offer of the alcoholic beverages was a test. He noted that my résumé made it clear that I had served an LDS mission. He had determined that he would hire me only if I was true to the teachings of my own church. He considered it a significant matter of character and integrity.

“I remember a little six- or seven-year-old girl whom I met in Ethiopia. She was collecting water from an irrigation ditch. It was full of silt and mud, but it was the only water available. She went down a very steep bank with a basin and a cutoff plastic bottle, which she used as a dipper, and filled the basin with the black water. Then she carried it home on her head. God bless those dear little ones. How He must love them. And how heavy are the burdens that they have to carry. It tears at my heart.

One evening when I was 11 years old, I heard a commotion outside my window. I looked out the window, and in the street were newsboys carrying stacks of newspapers in their arms announcing the news that President George Albert Smith, the eighth President of the Church, had died. President Smith had been the only prophet I had known in my short time on earth. It was during his administration that I first felt the stirrings of a testimony, and even then I knew how important God’s prophets are. I had been taught in Primary and in my home by loving parents that President Smith was our earthly link to our Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ, that They could talk to me through him. What an empowering concept for a young girl! The Spirit had confirmed in my 11-year-old mind that this was true. When I learned of his death, I felt a tremendous loss.
However, just five days after President Smith’s death, President David O. McKay stood in this tabernacle and spoke to those assembled. He had just been unanimously sustained as the prophet, seer, and revelator by the Saints. As he brushed back the tears, he said: “No one can preside over this Church without first being in tune with the head of the Church, our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. He is our head. This is his Church. … With his guidance, with his inspiration, we cannot fail.”
I quickly came to love and revere President McKay just as I had loved and revered President Smith. In fact, I remember seeing him stand at this pulpit, with his white hair gleaming, and thinking he looked just like an angel.

Only a few days ago in Arizona as I was at the pulpit in a conference meeting, a tiny boy came walking down the aisle and up on the stand, perhaps searching for a mother in the choir, maybe just investigating. He wasn’t making any fuss, but he was a wonderful little boy and I couldn’t refrain from pausing a moment and talking with him. I asked him his name and where his mommy and daddy were, and at that point a tall, handsome young man stood in the chapel and advanced to retrieve his child. When the father took his son in his arms in front of the pulpit he kissed him, and I had to swallow a quick lump in my throat. There was no embarrassment, no spanking, no yanking, no anger. There was just the gentle kiss and a loving hug in those big strong arms, and for all of us present a warm, tender, memorable experience from a fortunate youngster and a wise, mature, regular dad.