Gospel Story Finder

Years ago I listened to a radio interview of a young doctor who worked in a hospital in the Navajo Nation. He told of an experience he had one night when an old Native American man with long braided hair came into the emergency room. The young doctor took his clipboard, approached the man, and said, “How can I help you?” The old man looked straight ahead and said nothing. The doctor, feeling somewhat impatient, tried again. “I cannot help you if you don’t speak to me,” he said. “Tell me why you have come to the hospital.”

The old man then looked at him and said, “Do you dance?” As the young doctor pondered the strange question, it occurred to him that perhaps his patient was a tribal medicine man who, according to ancient tribal customs, sought to heal the sick through song and dance rather than through prescribing medication.

“No,” said the doctor, “I don’t dance. Do you dance?” The old man nodded yes. Then the doctor asked, “Could you teach me to dance?”

The old man’s response has for many years caused me much reflection. “I can teach you to dance,” he said, “but you have to hear the music.”

One other matter. I remember some years ago, a young man and his wife and little children moved to our Arizona community. As we got acquainted with them, he told me of the rigorous youth he had spent as he grew up. He’d had to get up at five and six o’clock in the morning and go out and deliver papers. He’d had to work on the farm, and he’d had to do many things that were still rankling in his soul. Then he concluded with this statement: “My boys are never going to have to do that.” And we saw his boys grow up and you couldn’t get them to do anything. They left off their Church activity and nothing seemed very important to them.

When I came to my new school I did not have any friends either for a long time. I was very unhappy and began to wonder what I was doing wrong. I read scriptures and learned that Jesus Christ is the very best friend I can ever get. I also began to think in a positive way and said nice things to people. At first they just smiled at me, but now I have a lot more friends than I ever expected.
Naomi Hartzheim, 17,Dusseldorf, Germany

Shawn stared at the cracked picture frame lying on the floor. He knew that he shouldn’t have been tossing his football in the house. He certainly hadn’t meant for the ball to hit the picture of Grandma and Grandpa and knock it off the table.
Mother was going to be upset when she saw it. She always dusted the frame carefully and placed it carefully on the table. It was a very special picture to her. Grandma had given it to her when Grandpa died. Grandpa had made the frame himself. The more Shawn thought about what he’d done, the worse he felt.
He put the frame back on the table, stood back, and squinted. He could still see the ugly black line running through the carved side of the frame. He knew that it wasn’t possible, but the line seemed to be growing bigger and blacker.
No one had seen him kick the ball or break the frame. No one else knew he had broken the family’s rule about playing ball in the house. Only he knew how the frame had been broken. But he did know—and Heavenly Father knew too.
Shawn could hear Mother out in the garden, pulling weeds and singing. “She won’t be singing when she sees this,” he said to himself.
He knew what he should do, but he didn’t want to make Mother unhappy.
He liked to hear her sing. He liked to see her smile and hear her happy voice. Shawn knew that when she found out what he had done, she wouldn’t be singing or smiling or saying happy words.
“I guess I’d better get it over with,” he said to himself as he walked through the house and out the back door to the garden. “Mom, can we talk about something?”
“Sure. What’s up. Shawn?”
He hung his head. “I don’t think you are going to like me very much any more. I did something awful.”
She pulled him down to sit by her in the garden. “What ever you have done, Shawn, I will still love you. Remember how we talked about Heavenly Father’s love for us? He loves us even when he doesn’t love the thing we have done. That is how I love you. Now tell me about what you did.”
Shawn began to tell her about the picture frame and the football. His voice shook and tears rolled down his cheeks as he told his mother how sorry he was for not obeying the rules and for breaking the frame. “Maybe I could earn some money and pay for a new frame,” he offered.
“Let’s go in and see just how bad it is.” After looking at it, she said, “Shawn, I think we can mend this with some glue.”
Shawn ran to get the glue while Mother slipped the picture out of the frame. Together they glued the crack securely. When it was dry, Mother put the picture back in the frame and placed it on the table. “There,” she said. “It’s fixed.”
Shawn stared at the frame. Even with the pieces glued together, the ugly black crack stretched across one side of the frame. How could Mother say it was fixed? “It looks terrible!” he groaned.
Shawn’s mother put her arms around him. “Not to me,” she said gently. “To me it looks wonderful. When I look at the picture, I think of your grandma and grandpa and how much I love them. When I look at the frame, I think especially of Grandpa and all the great times we had together. And when I look at the crack in the frame, I think about a son who told the truth even when it was hard—and that’s the best treasure in the whole world!”

After the closing prayer at my cousin’s Eagle Scout court of honor, somebody rolled out a cart with bowls of ice cream and a variety of toppings. I was one of the first to get to the refreshments. As I poured chocolate syrup over my ice cream, I laughed with my brothers and cousins.
While eating, I looked around the room. We were in the gym, and metal folding chairs had been set up for the audience. Most of the chairs were empty now. People were gathered in small groups talking and laughing. My great-grandma Clark sat alone.
Grandma Clark had once been an energetic world traveler, but a couple of strokes had left her frail. I crossed the room, sat down next to her, and asked if I could get her some ice cream.
Grandma simply said, “Michael’s getting me some.”
I turned and saw my father, Michael, walking towards us with an ice-cream sundae. He was always thinking of others.
My father often encouraged me to serve others, but it was through his example that I really learned how to serve.

The John Johnson farm was the location of one of the more dramatic stories in Church history. It was here that a mob dragged the Prophet from his room, tarred and feathered him, and returned him to his terrified wife, Emma, who mistakenly thought he was covered in blood. They both spent the rest of the night trying to remove the tar. The next morning, sore and in pain, he stood on the front porch and preached to a crowd.

Standing on the front steps of the Johnson home, in the very spot where the Prophet Joseph stood before the gathered crowd the morning after the mob attack, Paul says, “After all he went through, the Prophet Joseph was provided the strength from the Lord to get up and preach.”

“And,” adds Jessica Seipert, also from the Hiram Ward, “Joseph and Emma also had to deal with one of their twins dying after being exposed to the cold that night.” Joseph, an adopted son of Joseph and Emma, died from exposure in March 1832.

Jessica walks inside the home to stand in the room that Joseph and Emma used as their bedroom. The furniture is arranged as it might have been that night. She tries to imagine the chaos and fear that would have been in that room that night.

There is a spirit that pervades our homes when there is a love of the Lord, a love for one another, and a commitment to obedience that springs out of that love. As I speak of that spirit, I remember our mission home in Frankfurt, Germany, where my husband served as mission president. Our daughter, Marianne, was ten years old at the time. Some of her friends from school would come to the mission home and occasionally stay overnight. One night, one of her friends said, “I like to come to your house because I feel safe here.” Marianne understood what she meant—all of our family knew the spirit of the mission home. It was a legacy that was left by thousands of dedicated missionaries who had passed through that home and shared their testimonies and their love for their Heavenly Father and the Savior. It is a spirit that can be felt in all of our homes when as families we share testimonies and feelings of the Spirit as we read the scriptures and when we kneel together in prayer.

A few years ago, President Uchtdorf told a story of a large passenger jet with 257 people on board that left my homeland of New Zealand for a sightseeing flight over the Antarctica. Unknown to the pilots, someone had modified the flight coordinates by a mere two degrees. This error placed the aircraft 28 miles to the east of where the pilots assumed they were.

As they approached Antarctica, the pilots descended to a lower altitude to give the passengers a better look at the landscape. Although both were experienced pilots, neither had made this particular flight before, and they had no way of knowing that the incorrect coordinates had placed them directly in the path of Mount Erebus, an active volcano that rises from the frozen landscape to a height of more than 12,000 feet. As the pilots flew onward, the white snow and ice covering the volcano blended with the white clouds above, making it appear as though they were flying over flat ground. By the time the instruments sounded the warning that the ground was rising fast toward them, it was too late. The airplane crashed into the side of the volcano, killing everyone on board. It was a terrible tragedy brought on by a minor error-a matter of only a few degrees.

President Uchtdorf went onto explain how he taught this principle to young pilots by posing this question, “if you were to take off from an airport on the equator, intending to circumnavigate the globe, but your course was off by just one degree. By the time you returned to the same longitude, how far off course would you be? A few miles? A hundred miles? The answer is an error of only one degree would put you almost 500 miles off course.

President Uchtdorf concludes this analogy by stating, “Small errors and minor drifts away from the doctrine of the gospel of Jesus Christ can bring sorrowful consequences into our lives. It is therefore of critical importance that we become self-disciplined enough to make early and decisive corrections to get back on the right track and not wait or hope that errors will somehow correct themselves.”

Now here’s the key point President Uchtdorf makes that I would like you to try and remember, “The longer we delay corrective action, the larger the needed changes become, and the longer it takes to get back on the correct course-even to the point where disaster might be looming,”(Dieter F. Uchtdorf, A Matter Of A Few Degrees, April 2008 General Conference).

When I was a college freshman, I would go with my roommate to visit her 98-year-old great-great-uncle, whom we affectionately called Uncle Joe. He lived alone and was lonely, so we tried to visit him as often as possible. During our visits he would tell us stories about when he lived in Mexico and in several border towns in Arizona, including Nogales.
When my roommate temporarily moved back home, I felt prompted to continue visiting Uncle Joe. He became a close friend, and I visited him until he passed away a year and a half later. I was sad to lose my friend but grateful for the valuable time we had spent together.
As I read this entry, I realized that the Joseph Kleinman who had helped my great-grandmother was Uncle Joe! I felt the Spirit whisper that I had been inspired to continue visiting Uncle Joe as a small thank-you for the kindness he had shown to my great-grandmother and her family.

For McKinzie Mower, going to the temple helped her testimony develop at a time when it could have easily wavered. She remembers attending church and praying regularly, but “I was just going through the motions.”
“Then one day, Brother Hatch told me they were going to the temple and said I would be welcome if I could come,” she continues. “I didn’t really want to do it, but then I thought about it and decided to go. After that first time, I just started going as often as I could, and as I did, spiritual things became more important in my life.”
McKinzie says the best part of going to the temple is the good feelings she gets from serving others. “I love doing something for people that they can’t do for themselves,” she explains. “Temple work is the ultimate example of that.”

Min-Yo and the Moon Dragon In this modern Chinese fairy tale about a time almost before time, the moon is about to crash into the earth. The moon dragon might help, but the gossamer ladder to it will only support the lightest person. Min-Yo is that person. She gets to the moon and finds the dragon, which agrees to help—but how? The solution to the problem creates serendipity (a happy, unexpected side effect).Elizabeth Hillman6–9 years

Bro. Tew: Years ago we moved to Oklahoma so that I could attend graduate school. While there, a wonderful Relief Society sister showed care for us. Like most student families, money was tight, but twice a year we would get into our car to drive 1000 miles to see our family in Utah. As we got our car loaded up to go on our trips, she would bring over an ice chest full of food to last the journey. She was a second mother to us as we lived far from our own parents. We still feel close to her because of the small and simple acts she did for our family.

President Monson grew up during the Great Depression, when money was scarce. When he was 12 years old, he worked hard and saved five dollars in coins. Tommy traded the coins with his father for a five-dollar bill. He tucked his precious five-dollar bill in the pocket of his jeans for safekeeping. He had never had that much money before.
Tommy’s family did not own a washing machine, so they sent their dirty clothes to the laundry each week. A few days later, the clean, wet clothes were delivered back to Tommy’s family, and they hung them on the clothesline to dry.
When it was time for his jeans to go to the laundry, Tommy forgot to take the five-dollar bill out of his pocket, and his money went to the laundry too! Tommy was sick with worry because he knew that the people who worked at the laundry usually checked pockets for change. Even if they didn’t find and take his money, he knew it would probably be lost in the washing machine.
Tommy needed that money, and he had worked very hard for it. He knew there was only one thing to do. He knelt and pleaded that Heavenly Father would keep his five-dollar bill safe until his jeans came back.
After two long days, Tommy watched the delivery truck pull up to the curb. As his mother unloaded the clothes, Tommy grabbed his jeans and ran to his room. With his heart pounding and his hands trembling, he reached into the pocket. At first he found nothing, but then his fingers touched a wet five-dollar bill. Filled with relief, he offered a prayer of gratitude. He knew Heavenly Father had heard and answered his prayer.
“Since that time,” said President Monson, “not a day has gone by that I have not communicated with my Father in Heaven through prayer” (“Stand in Holy Places,” Ensign, Nov. 2011, 84). President Monson wants everyone to know that as we pray daily, we will be entitled to Heavenly Father’s guidance—even in things as small as a five-dollar bill forgotten in a pair of jeans.

A Mia Maid from Utah wrote: “This past year I had some personal challenges. I lost track of the Spirit, and then something incredible happened. I went to my bishop. I can’t remember ever feeling so scared. But the Lord was with me in that room, holding my trembling hand. I knew I could be forgiven. It’s been a hard road—humbling, repenting, and learning to pray all over again. But He was there. He never left me for a minute. I’ve been on both sides, and the light side is definitely the place to be” (letter in possession of Young Women office).

I have always tried to honor and obey my parents. During my teenage years, when I went home at night I would report to them. Mother would always be awake. Coming home with a clear conscience and being able to tell her where I’d been meant a lot to me. Some of my friends didn’t have to check in with their parents, but I’m grateful that I was expected to be accountable to mine. They helped protect me against temptation.

There is a story about a young builder who had just gone into business for himself. A wealthy friend of his father came to him and said: “To help get you established, I am going to have you build a house for me. Here are the plans. Don’t spare expenses. I want the very finest materials used, and I want the best workmanship. Forget the cost. Just send me the bills.”
The young builder became obsessed with the desire to enrich himself through this generous and unrestricted offer. Instead of employing the best laborers and buying the finest materials, he cheated his benefactor in every way possible. Finally, the last poor-quality nail was driven into the last poor-quality wall, and the builder handed over the keys and bills to his father’s old friend. That gentleman wrote a check to pay for the full cost of building the house and then handed the keys back to the builder. “The home you have just built,” he said with a pleasant smile, “is my present to you. May you live in it in great happiness!”

Let me close with an example of how one whose light was burning bright affected others and turned what was a haunted place, at least for one person, into a holy place. It comes from an article written by Rick Reilly, who in my opinion is one of the best sportswriters of our time. It was written in the fall of 2012. Because he writes so well, I will quote extensively from his version of the story:

In the scrub-brush desert town of Queen Creek, Ariz., high school bullies were throwing trash at sophomore Chy Johnson. Calling her “stupid.” Pushing her in the halls. [Making it, I would say, a haunted place.]

Chy’s brain works at only a third-grade level because of a genetic birth defect, but she knew enough to feel hate.

“She’d come home every night at the start of the school year crying and upset,” says her mom, Liz Johnson. “That permanent smile she had, that gleam in her eye, that was all gone.”

Her mom says she tried to talk to teachers and administrators and got nowhere. So she tried a whole new path—the starting quarterback of the undefeated football team. After all, senior Carson Jones had once escorted Chy to the Special Olympics.

“Just keep your ear to the ground,” Liz wrote to Carson on his Facebook page. “Maybe get me some names?”

But Carson Jones did something better than that. Instead of ratting other kids out, he decided to take one in — Chy.

He started asking her to eat at the cool kids’ lunch table with him and his teammates. “I just thought that if they saw her with us every day, maybe they’d start treating her better,” Carson says. . . .

It got better. Starting running back Tucker Workman made sure somebody was walking between classes with Chy. In classes, cornerback Colton Moore made sure she sat in the row right behind the team.

Just step back a second. In some schools, it’s the football players doing the bullying. At Queen Creek, they’re stopping it. And not with fists—with straight-up love for a kid most teenage football players wouldn’t even notice, much less hang out with. . . .

It’s working.

“I was parking my car yesterday, and I saw a couple of the guys talking to her and being nice,” says offensive lineman Bryce Oakes. “I think it’s making a difference around here.”

And the best thing is? The football players didn’t tell anybody.

“I didn’t know about any of this until three weeks ago,” says Carson’s mom, Rondalee, who’s raising four boys and a daughter by herself. “He finally showed me an article they wrote here locally. I said, ‘Are you kidding me? Why didn’t you tell me this?’”

All of a sudden, Chy started coming home as her bubbly self again. When her mom asked why she was so happy, she said, “I’m eating lunch with my boys!” . . .

I get emailed stories like this a lot, but most of the time they don’t pan out. They turn out to be half true, or true for the first week but not the second. But when I walked into the Queen Creek High School cafeteria Tuesday, unannounced, there was 4-foot-high Chy with 11 senior football players, eating her lunch around the most packed lunch table you’ve ever seen, grinning like it was Christmas morning. . . .

“I thank Carson every chance I see him,” says Chy’s mom. “He’s an amazing young man. He’s going to go far in life.”

Nobody knows how far Chy Johnson will go in life. The life expectancy of those afflicted with her disease, microcephaly, is only 25–30 years. But her sophomore year, so far, has been unforgettable. [I might say it has been turned from a haunted place into a holy place.] . . .

But what about next year, when Carson probably will be on his Mormon mission and all of Chy’s boys will have graduated?

Not to worry. Carson has a little brother on the team, Curtis, who’s in Chy’s class.

“Mom,” he announced at the dinner table the other night, “I got this.”

Lucky girl.30

by Barbara Steffensen
They filtered into the room as they always had on Sunday mornings—greeting friends and gathering together to visit and laugh a little before the meeting began. But this particular Sunday was different. On the Sunday of their ward conference, each of the young men and young women in the Blackfoot Idaho South Stake had brought an item to church—pictures, basketballs, scriptures. All the youth had been asked to bring one item related to their Church activity and to stand before the group and explain what kept them active in the Church.
To introduce the activity, the first to stand in each ward was stake Young Men president, Joe Dayle. Many snickered when he held up an empty beer can, but they listened to his words. “As I watched my friends get involved in these kinds of things, and the problems that came along with them, I gained a testimony of the Word of Wisdom. I knew it was true.”
Many aspects of Church activity were evident as each stood and shared feelings. A young woman holding a Personal Progress book told of her testimony of goal setting. Another, holding a basketball, shared her love for the sports program. A Scouting manual showed the importance the program held to a young deacon. Many brought their scriptures and told of their gratitude for them and for the seminary program which helped them learn and better understand God’s word. The power of family influences was represented by the many pictures brought of parents, grandparents, and brothers and sisters.
As each meeting in each ward progressed, the Spirit grew stronger. Testimonies were borne of the love felt for the Savior and the sacrifice he made.
In the fall, after all ward conferences were completed, a stake activation night was held as a culmination of the year’s program. Each young man and woman in the stake—active and inactive—was contacted and asked to write his or her testimony on a card. The theme for the night was “Let Your Testimony Soar.” That evening, hundreds of helium balloons with the testimony cards inside were filled and released.

Yellow Leaf was lying on a moss-covered boulder that overhung a deep, clear brook. Dreamily, she watched a huge speckled trout nosing among the pebbles on the bottom of the deep pool. Olive green, with iridescent flecks of color on each side, the trout was so beautiful, Yellow Leaf had no desire to catch it. A pale golden moth fluttered too near the surface. The trout spun upward with incredible speed. “Aiii,” the Indian girl sighed in sorrow as the moth vanished.
A strange squealing sound startled Yellow Leaf and drew her to the top of the hill. Dropping flat, she watched in amazement as a clumsy, bargelike wagon drawn by a pair of oxen pulled to a stop below. The squealing sound she had heard was the iron-bound wheels, badly in need of grease.
Judging from the clouds of dust still hanging in the air, the wagon had come out of the arid, boulder-strewn badlands. The people in the wagon must have traveled all night to have survived; it would have been impossible to travel during the heat of the day.
The wagon had no cover; only charred pieces of canvas clung to the metal hoops across the top of the wagon. There were no water barrels lashed to the sides. Creeping closer, Yellow Leaf saw a telltale arrow piercing the wagon bed.
This family was probably all who had survived from a wagon train. Indian tribes to the east, who were also enemies of her tribe, were on the warpath because of a broken treaty. These Indians must have attacked the wagon train.
Yellow Leaf felt pity for the little family. “They will have little chance of survival here,” she murmured. Yellow Leaf watched the woman, carrying a small baby, herd two other children to the meager shade provided by a large boulder. The man, bent with fatigue, moved about among the rocks, searching.
“Water! They’re dying of thirst!” the girl whispered as she remembered the missing barrels. “If they had horses instead of oxen, the horses would sniff out the water and lead the people to it.”
Yellow Leaf yearned to help, but she didn’t dare. Even if she could speak their language, it wouldn’t help. The man had a gun, and she would almost certainly be shot if she approached. Regretfully she turned to leave.
A feeble wail from the baby stopped her. It sounded like her baby brother. Looking back, she saw that the man was some distance away, still threading his way through the barren rocks. There was water out there, but he wouldn’t know where to find it. He was even going in the wrong direction and would soon drop in his tracks from thirst and weakness.
There was another weak cry from the baby, and Yellow Leaf raced back to the brook. Spilling the lush purple berries from the earthenware pot, she filled it with icy water. Hesitating for only a moment, Yellow Leaf glided silently down the steep slope.
The woman was lying there, curled protectively around her children, her eyes closed, and her lips cracked and swollen. Forgetting all danger, the Indian girl knelt and scooped up water in her hands, letting it splash on the woman’s face. Her skyblue eyes reflected disbelief as they fluttered open and stared into Yellow Leaf’s dark eyes. For a long moment, the girl held her breath, expecting the woman to begin screaming; that would bring the man running with one of the long guns feared by Yellow Leaf’s people.
But the woman’s panic was overcome by concern for her children. Taking a metal cup from the wagon, the mother watched carefully as the older boy and girl drank, making certain they didn’t drink too much. She cared for the baby, and then she wet cloths to cool the heads of the children. Only then did she drink herself.
Preoccupied with watching the children, Yellow Leaf didn’t hear the man approach. She wasn’t aware of the danger until the woman cried out, “No, Frank. No! She brought us water.”
The man seemed dazed as he lowered his rifle. “Water? Where could she find water in this dried-up land? There’s not a sprig of grass anywhere!”
When he too had quenched his thirst, the tall, gaunt man pointed to the clay pot and asked, “Where?” His tired face fell as Yellow Leaf pointed to the bluff.
“We could never get the wagon up there,” he sighed, motioning toward the heavy wagon and the thirsty oxen.
Yellow Leaf understood. Standing up, she walked to the wagon and stood waiting. “She wants us to get in. Maybe she knows a way!” the woman said hopefully.
Walking ahead of the oxen, Yellow Leaf led the way around the barren hills to a gentle slope that led up and then down into a green valley where the brook wound like a silver thread.
“It’s the most beautiful spot I’ve ever seen! It’s exactly the place we’ve dreamed about,” the woman cried in delight.
“Yes. There are trees to build a cabin, and the land wouldn’t take too much clearing. It’s rich ground, too, Sarah. Almost anything should grow here,” the man said softly, his eyes bright with excitement and hope.
Neither noticed when the Indian girl slipped away. Turning for a last glimpse, Yellow Leaf felt tears sting her eyes as she watched the man and woman, hand in hand, lost in their brave dreams for the future. They were the first white people who had ever seen the fertile valley hidden away behind the desolate rocky hills. Would they ever know the anguish Yellow Leaf suffered at giving them her beautiful green land?
A chill swept over Yellow Leaf. Suddenly she felt like the fluttering golden moth.

During my first year of high school, my seminary teacher invited my class to give copies of the Book of Mormon to nonmember friends. Even though I was incredibly timid, I accepted the invitation.
It took me a couple of days to build up the courage, but I eventually gave my friend Britny the book during lunch hour and bore a brief testimony. Britny thanked me for the book.
At the end of that school year, Britny moved, but we kept in touch. She told me about her new school and how almost all her friends were members of the Church, but she never talked about anything spiritual with me.
That changed before I left for my mission. I got a message from Britny saying she had big news for me: she was going to be baptized, and she wanted to thank me for being her friend and setting a good example.
God took a shy 15-year-old boy with no missionary experience and directed him to share the gospel with someone He knew would accept it. I know that by listening to the Spirit, we can all find people around us who are waiting to learn about the restored gospel. I know that if we help bring even one person to the Lord, “how great shall be [our] joy with him [or her] in the kingdom of [our] Father!” (D&C 18:15).