Gospel Story Finder

Mingan, the young Mongol boy, fastened his padded collar closely beneath his chin. The icy winds from the plains whistled around the great felt tents and drove dust into his face. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he saw a ball of dust rolling across the plain toward camp and heard a faint jingle of bells. The cloud grew larger and resolved into a rider, his wide belt set thickly with bells, leaning close to his mount. It was a messenger from Kublai Khan!
Turning, Mingan lifted the flap of the nearest tent. “Father!” he shouted. “A messenger from the great Khan approaches!”
Prince Catu, Mingan’s father, pushed past him and shouted orders. Men hurried from their tents. The horseman, with a clatter and a jangle, slid from his snorting mount and handed Catu a scroll. A waiting herdsman seized the bridle of the messenger’s lathered animal and led the horse away to shelter.
Mingan leaned forward. “What does the Kahn say?”
Catu smiled. “We are honored! The new court commissioner will arrive today. Kublai Khan asks us to receive this new envoy with all courtesies and to supply him with an escort to Singui. I have heard good things about this man. They call him Marco Polo.”
“Is he a great warrior like the Khan, Father?”
“No, he is a fair-skinned agent from the kingdoms in the West. He has found great favor at court.”
“But aren’t all great men warriors?” Mingan asked. “The Khan surrounds himself with only great men.”
“Part of what you say is true, my son. The Khan does bring the most able to his court, but not all great men are warriors. You will understand when you meet Marco Polo.”
“He cannot be much if he has not been trained as a warrior,” Mingan muttered as he turned away.
“Wait, my son,” Catu said. “I will need escorts to accompany our honored guest to Singui. You will be one of them.”
“But, Father,” Mingan protested, “you promised I could go hunting with you tomorrow!”
“There will be other hunting trips.”
“But I wanted to show you what a good rider and marksman I am.”
Catu smiled. “I send you with Marco Polo because I know your skills. Now go. Tell your mother to prepare a feast to greet the new envoy.”
Mingan, full of disappointment, slowly headed for the tent. Now it would be many months before he could join the hunters. The journey to Singui would seem long when one had to jog beside a scrawny little man from the West. There would be no racing one’s pony and standing in the stirrups to shoot arrows at moving targets and no practicing turns at full speed—turns that could surprise and defeat an enemy. By the time the lookout sighted a thin dustline approaching, Mingan wished he had never heard of Marco Polo.
The dusty caravan drew up before the felt tents, and the riders dismounted. All the men were dressed in the padded winter clothing of the Mongols. Not until Mingan came closer and saw the fur flaps turned back from their faces could he distinguish between Marco and his companions. The face of this Westerner, bronzed like the rest, was young and smiling. His eager round eyes, resting for a second on Mingan, were warm and friendly. Marco laughed as he pushed back a lock of his curly black hair. How can any man laugh after the grueling journey across the plains? Mingan wondered.
Catu beckoned to Mingan as he said, “Worthy Commissioner, this is Mingan, my firstborn. He will be among the escorts who accompany you to Singui.”
Marco smiled and in the Mongol tongue replied, “I feel honored that the eldest son of Prince Catu will be with me.” He put an arm across Mingan’s shoulder. “He is a sturdy lad, and a fine horseman, I’ll wager.”
Mingan found himself warming to Marco. “I can handle a bow too.”
“Fine!” Marco said. “I shall have need of your skills to keep us in game between here and Singui.”
The feast was a happy one, much pleasanter than Mingan had anticipated. He found himself forgetting his disappointment over the postponed hunting trip as he listened to the many lively adventures Marco described to his attentive audience.
The wind had died down by dark. When the feasting was over, Mingan escorted Marco to his tent. The outside air struck Mingan’s face like an icy hand.
Marco stopped suddenly. “Look at those stars!” He swept his arm in an arc over his head. “Are they not brilliant tonight?”
“They are, indeed,” Mingan replied. “That one in the west is brightest of all.”
Marco spoke softly. “It would be tonight.” He sighed. “In my home in faraway Venice, it is Christmas Eve, a joyful night when everyone celebrates the birth of Jesus Christ.”
Mingan turned and asked, “Was this Jesus one of your great warriors?”
“No, but He was the greatest man who ever lived.”
“How can that be?” Mingan asked. “Great men are always warriors.”
“You are right, Mingan, but not warriors as you know them—men who ride fast and shoot well. Christ never touched a bow or spear, yet He fought evil and injustice. His sword was truth, and His shield was a deep faith in God. He believed in doing unto others as you would have them do unto you, and in peace and goodwill to all men!”
Mingan looked thoughtful. “Those are fine ideas to believe in, like the sayings of our wise men. But how can we live them?”
Marco faced Mingan and placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “I wondered the same thing when I was your age, Mingan. I didn’t find the answer until I began to travel.”
“Did the great Kublai Khan reveal it to you?”
“Not the Khan alone, but many people—people like you.”
“Like me?”
Marco nodded. “As I met people and grew to know them, I found I understood and appreciated and respected them. It was easy to do unto them as I wished them to do unto me, and to feel goodwill toward all men.”
Mingan was quiet as he gazed at the bright star near the horizon. At last he spoke. “On the way to Singui, will you tell me more about Jesus Christ, whose birth is celebrated tonight?”
Marco seized Mingan’s hand in a warm grip. “Indeed I will! Good night, my friend, and Buon Natale to you.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means ‘a good Christmas to you.’”
Mingan smiled. The trip to Singui would be long, but it promised much. Softly he repeated, “Buon Natale, Buon Natale.”

When I was in sixth grade, my family moved. One of my new friends was not a member of the Church.
One Sunday, my friend called me. He wanted me to come bowling with him and his parents that afternoon. I had only been bowling once before, and I had really liked it. Bowling again would be really fun, especially with my new friend. I immediately went to ask my mom.
“Well,” she said, “it’s Sunday, so I don’t think you should go. But you can make your own decision.”
I was shocked! I thought that she would say no. Instead the choice was all mine. So I chose to go bowling with my friend.
Pretty soon my friend, his parents, and I were at the bowling alley. I did really well! My friend and I had fun. But the whole time, there was a sinking feeling in my stomach. I knew in my heart that my mom was right. I had learned at church and at home that making Sunday a holy day was important. Going bowling with my friend wasn’t the best Sunday activity.
That day, I learned an important lesson. It is good to have fun and be with friends! But choosing to make Sunday special is more important.

Many years ago I took our only son on his first camping-fishing trip. He was just a boy. The canyon was steep, and the descent was difficult. But the fishing was good. Every time I hooked a fish, I would give the pole to the eager boy, and with shouts of joy he would reel in a beautiful trout. In the shadows and coolness of the late afternoon, we began our climb back up to the rim high above us. He scrambled rapidly up the mountain ahead of me with a challenging, “Come on, Dad. I’ll bet I can beat you to the top.” The challenge was heard but wisely ignored. His small frame seemed literally to fly over, under, and around every obstacle, and when every step that I took seemed ridiculously like my last, he had reached the top and stood cheering me on. After supper we knelt in prayer. His small voice rose sweetly heavenward in benediction to our day. Then we climbed into our large double sleeping bag, and after a bit of pushing and pulling I felt his little body snuggle and settle tightly against mine for warmth and security against the night. As I looked at my son beside me, suddenly I felt a surge of love pass through my body with such force that it pushed tears to my eyes. And, at that precise moment, he put his little arms around me and said, “Dad?”
“Yes, son.”
“Are you awake?”
“Yes, my son, I am awake.”
“Dad, I love you a million, trillion times!”
And immediately he was asleep. But I was awake far into the night, expressing my great thanks for such wonderful blessings clothed with a little boy’s body.
Now my son is a man with a son of his own. Once in a while the three of us go fishing. I look at my little redheaded grandson beside his father, and I see in my mind’s eye the image of that wonderful moment long ago. The question so innocently asked, “Dad, are you awake?” still rings in my heart.

—On Sunday, drop in on the deacons in the Second Ward, and you’ll find them checking off their weekly Book of Mormon reading assignment. They’ve all pledged to read every day for two months, and so far everyone’s on schedule. In fact, Brian Speer, who just became a deacon this morning, has already started reading.

On October 9, 1983, President Hunter lost his wife to a lingering illness. Soon after, he underwent back surgery. Doctors said he would be confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. But he was determined to walk again, and through remarkable faith and effort, he can now walk with assistance. On April 12, 1990, President Hunter married Inis S. Egan, a widow and long-time family friend.

My friend is from Peru, but she has been living in Italy for a few years. Four of her brothers and sisters were baptized, and last October her mom became a member of the Church too. Now my friend would like to be baptized. The missionaries asked me to help them prepare her for baptism. So I was there every time they met with her to talk about the gospel. I hope she will be baptized soon.
Eleonora A., age 11, Piedmont, Italy

We’re Sam and Anastasia, and we try to SHINE OUR LIGHT by sharing with others!
Where we live, in Florida, USA, we see lots of people who are homeless. We wondered how we could help them. Jesus fed people who were hungry, and everyone needs to eat! So we decided to make emergency snack kits.
Our friend Joa helped us shop for supplies at the dollar store.
We put granola bars, bread sticks with cheese, and other yummy snacks in our kits. Sam even tried one!
Sharing our kits made us smile. Some people said, “Thank you!” and “Awesome!”
Our mom put our project on a website from the Church called JustServe.org so other people could make snack kits too. The young adult branch made 100 more snack kits for our local homeless shelter. The shelter used them to invite people to sign up for a program to help them get homes. That made us really happy!

“Come on,” Benjamin said to the other man on guard duty. “We can’t stop.” Benjamin Platt’s throat felt tight. Swallowing was difficult. He talked between clenched teeth to keep his throat from hurting. If he had felt this sick back in England, he would have gone to bed. As a member of the Martin handcart company, however, he couldn’t stop and wait to get well.
Blowing snow blocked the two men’s vision. The frozen ground was uneven, and they often stumbled.
“We have to keep moving.” Benjamin spoke with as much force as he could. “We need to check the other side of the camp.”
“Why?” his friend asked. “What are we guarding?”
“The camp’s provisions.”
The other man laughed quietly. “We have no provisions. We have nothing.”
Benjamin knew the man was right. The camp had very little. His stomach hurt with the pain of no food. His breath was shallow, his fatigue great. All he wanted to do was lie down on the frozen ground and sleep, but he knew that doing so meant sure death. So he urged himself and his companion on. They shuffled around the borders of the camp, waiting for light to ease the cold blackness.
Yesterday the handcart company had made little progress from the Platte River. Much of the snow had melted during the day, turning the trail to mud. Mud caked onto the travelers’ clothes. When the sun set behind the gloomy clouds, the heavy mud had frozen. No one was clean. Benjamin recognized most of the handcart company by their eyes and voices rather than their faces. What was not covered with rags was covered with mud and dirt.
“I can’t go anymore,” his partner said now. “I’ve done my best, and it isn’t enough.”
Benjamin looked at his tired companion. Dirt caked his face and was frozen into his hair. His hands were wrapped with rags. His pants were ripped and showed skin purple from the cold. Tears slid down his face as he grieved over not being strong enough.
Benjamin put his hand on the other man’s shoulder and helped him around the camp. “It’s OK, Brother. Just remember a poem my father used to tell me:
“For great and low,
There’s but one test.
’Tis that each man
Shall do his best.”
After one more painful tour of the camp, Benjamin’s companion crawled into a tent to rest. Benjamin began his rounds again. He heard the wind blow, and the branches of a few scattered cedar trees creaked with the weight of the snow and force of the wind. As the wind heaved one hearty blow, Benjamin saw that the large tent the man had just crawled into had collapsed.
Benjamin started forward. His wife, Mary, and at least 20 other people had been sleeping in that tent too. They were all now trapped beneath tent poles, tent fabric, and heavy snow. With numb hands, Benjamin struggled to pull up the icy fabric. The snow weighed the canvas down, smothering those underneath. The tent stakes had been pounded into muddy ground. Now the ground was frozen. Those on the inside of the tent could not pull the stakes out.
Straining every muscle, Benjamin pulled harder. A small girl was screaming under the tent. A woman started sobbing as she tried to free herself from the icy canvas that was suffocating her. Unseen hands punched upward at the tent. The group was trapped.
Scrambling frantically around the outside of the tent, Benjamin found the opening. Quickly scraping off snow, he forced himself into the opening and under the wet material. Slowly, a little at a time, he stood up with the tent on his shoulders.
Benjamin yelled, “This way. Crawl this way.” Few people heard the soft voice coming through his sore throat. Benjamin shouted louder. This time, two men understood and crawled toward his voice. When they got to where Benjamin had lifted the tent, they stood up and helped him support more of the wet material. Gradually all the people in the tent crawled out into the snowy night.
With frying pans and cooking pots, the awakened Saints scooped the snow off the downed tent. Dawn streaked the sky with soft light, so they rolled the tent up and prepared for a long day’s trek in the snow.
When the first three rescuers arrived from Salt Lake City seven days later, the Saints cheered. Benjamin didn’t join in the cheering. His throat was raw and tight. But he had yelled his best when it had mattered most.

Recently during a special women’s conference, a speaker told about how he’d been quite successful in land development and how everything he’d touched had turned to gold. He’d also tried to live a faithful life and had been a very active servant in the gospel. Then he’d been called as a mission president. He had apparently been a very effective mission president and had subsequently returned to his home state. Throughout his life he’d experienced one success after another—he was a recognized leader in his community, had built a prosperous business. Being called as a mission president had sort of cemented in his mind that he’d “made it”—that he was an all-around success.
When he returned from his mission, a combination of changing interest rates and other business factors caused his once-prosperous business to plummet. In fact, he’d lost nearly everything. Telling the story, this man said, “I realized that I’d become quite boastful—that while I felt I had a testimony of Jesus Christ, in my mind I had brought about all of these wonderful things through my hard work, intelligence, and so forth. But when hard times hit, I began to realize how offensive I must have been to others and to my Heavenly Father to assume that I had brought all of these good things on my own. I felt like I’d lived a life of arrogance and boasting.”

When my family was flying on an airplane to a family reunion, I was scared. I was sitting by my aunt, and she suggested that I say a prayer. During my prayer I asked for comfort. I know that Heavenly Father helped me to feel better.
Eliza J., age 7, Colorado, USA

Five thousand young people in colorful, fluorescent costumes streamed onto the football field in Tempe, Arizona, to form a huge, moving rainbow. It was the grand entrance for a six-region dance festival.
The dance festival, held in the 50,000-seat Arizona State University stadium, included eight large dance numbers taking up the entire football field, interspersed with smaller specialty numbers performed on a central platform. Taking the theme “Escape beyond the Horizon,” the festival was organized with each stake and region practicing on its own and getting together for the final rehearsals on the weekend of the performance. The festival was performed on one evening, complete with special effects and fireworks.
The logistics of putting together a festival with 5,000 participants was boggling, yet under the adept leadership of Murry and Nordessa Coates, the dances were choreographed and taught; hundreds of posters distributed; and the 25,000 yards of fabric, 2,500 zippers, and 100,000 silver spangles sewn into costumes.
When asked about her participation in the festival, ShiRey Kartchner of the Mesa West Stake said, “I was excited. I can remember the last dance festival held in Arizona. I was too young to be in it then, so I was glad for the opportunity.”
As the Arizona sun raised the temperatures during rehearsals, the young dancers relaxed and talked about life in Arizona.
In a word, they described their state as “hot,” yet they were quick to point out that LDS youth were involved in many good activities.
Mike Goodwin explained that as a member of the Church he has to set an example for his friends, and he learned, “you have to draw the line somewhere when your friends ask you to go with them.”
The public was invited to attend the festival free of charge, and missionaries had an opportunity to bring investigators. Many of the youth invited their friends as a way of introducing them to Mutual activities.
As the seats filled in the stadium the night of the performance and the rhythm of a cha-cha and the strains of a waltz filled the clear night, it was easy to see that, as the festival program proclaimed, “we have the power.”

Members in Bishop Raymond Ruiz’s ward in the Philippines learned how to reverently conduct Primary after watching a local training video produced by the Audiovisual Department.
Bishop Ruiz said: “The following Sunday after we showed the Primary training video, I came out of my office to observe the Primary children. I saw that they were reverently lining up to enter their room one by one. I also saw that the leaders were standing by the door to greet the children as they entered. I realized that the Primary leaders were actually doing what was shown in the video.”

I remember meeting a wonderful couple who were missionaries among the Southeast Asians of the California Oakland Mission. As I saw the bonding between the missionaries and these delightful new Latter-day Saints, I asked the sister missionary whether she could speak their language. She responded that she could not. I then asked her how they communicated with the members. With tears in her eyes, she replied, "We just love them."

While her family was living in Brazil, where her husband was teaching as a Fulbright scholar, Sister Tanner gained insight into the Young Women program. Her two oldest daughters learned the Young Women theme in Portuguese. “I wanted to learn it with them,” she says. “As I started to memorize the theme, the message really sank into my heart. I am a daughter of Heavenly Father, and He loves me. And because I know this, I love Him and want to show by my actions that I love Him.

“The message is right there in the Young Women theme in the proper order,” she continues. “I just want the young women of the Church to know it can be the foundation of their testimonies, their actions, and their lives.”

Early warriors used cryptograms to send messages in wartime. A general would wrap around a staff a narrow strip of parchment made of thin sheep or goat skin. Then he would write along the length of the staff and unwind the strip, showing only pieces of words. The officer who received this jumbled message had a similar staff and would wind the parchment on his staff to read the message.

Every day we make choices. Some aren’t a big deal—what color backpack we carry, for example. Other choices are a big deal—for instance, how we treat other people or whether we obey a commandment. Read the story below and pretend that you are the main character. What choices would you make?
Your mom says that you may invite two friends over after school tomorrow. First you call Julie, who lives a few miles away. She is in your Primary class as well as in your class at school. Her parents say yes! She will walk home with you; her parents will pick her up before supper.
Next you call Tasha, a nonmember who lives just a few houses away. She can come too. Before she hangs up the phone, though, she asks if anyone else is coming. When you tell her that Julie is also coming, Tasha says, “Yuk! Then I don’t want to come, after all.”
If you say, “Julie is my friend too. Why don’t you come and get to know her better?” go to A. If you say, “OK, I’ll tell Julie that something came up with my mom and that I can’t have anybody over,” go to F.
A. Tasha says, “Well, I guess I’ll still come, but don’t expect me to make friends with Julie.” After school, Tasha and Julie walk home with you. When Julie stoops to tie her shoelace, Tasha makes an ugly face at her behind her back.
If you say, “Julie, Tasha’s making faces at you. She didn’t want you to come,” go to J. If you say nothing but give Tasha a look of disappointment, go to E.
E. When you get to your house, punch and cookies are on the table. They turn out to be the favorite treats of both Tasha and Julie. As the afternoon goes on, you see that Tasha is actually being friendly with Julie. Tasha says, “Hey, Julie, I didn’t know you were such fun! You never say anything in school.”
If you suddenly feel jealous and try to discourage their growing friendship, go to B. If you try to help them become better friends, go to I.
I. You suggest that you all play on the tire swing. Tasha has the first turn swinging. As Julie climbs on the tire for her turn, a car full of teenagers zips by. One of them flips a cigarette on the curb. Tasha runs to pick it up. “It’s still lit!” She turns to you and says, “I dare you to try it!”
If you say, “No, I don’t do that kind of stuff, and I hope you don’t either, ‘cause it’s bad for you,” go to D. If you say, “Well, maybe just one puff—but you’d better not tell anyone!” go to H.
H. You put the cigarette to your mouth. You don’t breathe it in deeply, but even so, it tastes yucky. You are still holding it when Tasha’s mom drives by. She stops the car, hollers at Tasha to get in, and says to you, “Don’t expect Tasha to be coming over anymore.”
You feel awful. When your eyes meet Julie’s, you see that she is very disappointed in you. You promise that you’ll never do anything like that again. Julie gives you a weak smile and says, “I believe you, but I don’t think that Tasha’s mom ever will.”
This is your last chance in this story to get on the “right-choice” track. Hurry to D!

I miss Laura. I hate when friends move away.
Me too. This feels worse than all the times we had to move away.
You can still call her! Or write letters.
I guess so.
It’s sad when friends go. But we can be thankful for how their friendship has blessed us.
Remember when Laura gave us these friendship bracelets for our birthday?
Yeah! And she wrote us those nice notes too.
She sounds like a good friend.
She is! She’s always kind, like Jesus. I want to be a good friend too.
Hey, maybe we can send Laura friendship bracelets in the mail.
Let’s give some to Lucas and Julia too!

I backpacked with my dad and granddad. We hiked to the top of a mountain. One of the mountain peaks I could see looked like a temple. I love Heavenly Father’s creations and being in them.
Charlie M., age 7, Oregon, USA

1856–1938
“Sister Nachie always prays [with thankfulness] for … her new-found faith.”
She lived in Japan. She helped care for the first missionaries there.
Soon she asked to be baptized.
She was the first woman from Japan to go to the temple in Laie, Hawaii. She also became the first temple worker from Japan.
She helped teach the gospel to other Japanese people living in Hawaii.
Alma O. Taylor, as quoted by Ardis Parshall in Women of Faith in the Latter Days, vol. 3, 1846–1870 (2014), 122–30.

One day Lincoln’s friends told him that they had pretended to put money into the school’s pencil machine. They told the secretary that they didn’t get a pencil, and she gave them one. Lincoln decided to give it a try.
At recess Lincoln sat on a bench and looked at his free pencil. He felt very sad inside. He wanted to do what was right. He told the secretary what he had done and gave her the pencil. Lincoln felt better.