Gospel Story Finder

Erwin Oertli, a river guide and the oarsman for our raft, gripped the handles of long, wooden oars in knotted fists. The muscles in his arms tightened. There was a growing roar of fast water on rock. The current carried the raft around a bend toward a steep precipice of water. Oertli dropped the tip of an oar and pulled. The raft straightened. The air grew dense, cold, and wet with mist. He turned, smiling.
“This is a good one.” His voice was nearly drowned in the roar.
“It’s the only bad place on the whole river.”
The veins in his neck stood out.
“There are two rocks.”
The sound of the water changed from a roar to thunder.
“The first one is right in the head of the rapids in the roughest water. It’s not hard to miss, but the second rock comes up fast right behind it. You have to row left to miss the first and then hard to the right to miss the second one.”
The river dropped suddenly in front of the raft, looking more like a waterfall than a rapid. The front of the raft hung suspended in wet air and dropped, suddenly, breathlessly, angling down toward the river.
Screams mixed with the explosive sound of the river. Hands grasped desperately to a cord of rope that ran around the inside of the raft.
The raft hit the water, crashing. An engulfing wave, fringed with a thousand sparkling fragments that felt like ice, came up and over and into the raft from all sides, blotting out the blue sky, submerging it. It rose suddenly into the sun, on a high wave mountain, water running off the black rubber sides, and fell again, into an impossible depth, plunging down a steep canyon of water on a roller coaster ride. The water was a gray silk in the waves, and near the crests, edged with sky, it rose up like a white cambric lace.
Oertli, standing, hit the oars hard. The raft moved across the water, turning. He relaxed. The raft rifled past a grizzly turbulence where a boulder, covered with foam and spilling water, back-eddied a whirlpool.
He hit the oars a second time, hard, pulling and leaning, handling the raft with the skill of a master craftsman. The raft moved across the current, and the second rock, also hidden below a mound of the Kootenay’s gray water, swept safely behind.
When we were through the rapids, he leaned back and smiled.
“Good one, huh?”
No one disagreed.

A story from my own family history illustrates this principle. My great-grandfather Joseph Watson Maynes was born in 1856 in Hull, Yorkshire, England. His family joined the Church in England and then made their way to Salt Lake City. He married Emily Keep in 1883, and they became the parents of eight children. Joseph was called to serve a full-time mission in June of 1910, when he was 53 years old. With the support of his wife and eight children, he returned to his native England to serve his mission.

After serving faithfully for approximately two years, he was riding his bicycle along with his companion to Sunday School services in Gloucester, England, when his tire burst. He got off his bicycle to assess the damage. When he saw that it was serious and would take a while to fix, he told his companion to go ahead and begin the Sunday service and he would be there shortly. Just as he finished saying this, he collapsed to the ground. He had died suddenly of a heart attack.

Joseph Watson Maynes never saw his wife and eight children again in this life. They were able to transport his body back to Salt Lake City and have his funeral service at the old Waterloo Assembly Hall. A statement made at his funeral service by Elder Anthony W. Ivins of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles teaches us an important lesson about life, death, and endurance: “This is what the gospel gives us—not immunity from death, but victory over it through the hope we have in a glorious resurrection. … It applies to [Joseph Maynes]. … It is a pleasure, and it is a satisfaction and joy to know that men lay down their lives in righteousness, in the faith, true to the faith.”

This family story inspires me to try my very best to follow the example of endurance and spiritual stamina illustrated by my great-grandfather. I am equally inspired by the faith of his wife, Emily, whose life after Joseph’s death was certainly a heavy burden to bear. Her testimony was strong and her conversion complete as she spent the rest of her life true to the faith while supporting her eight children on her own.

We never fail to meet on Tuesday nights. By now, over 60 people have attended, almost half of them friends of other faiths. After we had been meeting for two years, Eddie asked how we had grown from our meetings. Each of us acknowledged the remarkable strength we derive from each other. We have become friends who support and love one another. The Spirit is always present as well. We’ll keep going, inviting new friends every week to delight in and ponder on the things of our souls (see 2 Nephi 4:15).

The limousine pulled to the curb in front of NBC in New York City, and a pretty brunette woman smiled at the driver and got out. It was 5:00 in the morning. It would be an hour yet before the sun finally edged around the skyscrapers to lighten the scene. But you have to be early if you’re starting a new job as a regular on the early-morning talk show, Today. And Dian Thomas was starting what she hoped would be a long stay on the show.
Dian was left on the curb surrounded by suitcases and bags of props that she would need for her demonstration on backyard cooking. She had a new pitchfork for roasting hot dogs and a foil-covered shovel for cooking hamburgers. She had a child’s wagon that would be adapted as a barbecue. She had cans and food and fuel that she would use to simulate a backyard party in the studio.
Dian’s claim to fame was authoring several best-selling books on outdoor cooking, but she hoped to expand her demonstrations to include interesting ideas for home entertaining and unusual foods. She presented a proposal for a series of segments to the producers of the NBC Today Show, and they wanted to see how she would do on the air before inviting her to join the show as a regular.
It took several trips, but she struggled with her load to the main elevator. She finally managed to carry her props to the dressing room assigned to her. As she carried the last of her things in, a flustered man rushed up to her. “You’re not supposed to carry all those things in by yourself. There’s a prop man for that.” Later, the prop man put a star on her dressing room door and told her, “See that. You’re the star. You don’t have to carry your things up by yourself.”
Dian arranged her first show, and it was time to tape her segment. She demonstrated to Tom Brokaw, the host of the show, how to fill the wagon with dirt and charcoal to serve as a barbecue. She showed him how to use an ironing board as an impromptu buffet table. She showed him how to keep drinks cold in a wheelbarrow filled with ice. As she finished, Tom asked her, “What if one of my guests stumbles and sits in the barbecue by mistake.” Thinking quickly, Dian quipped, “Then you would have rump roast!”
The studio personnel burst into laughter at her answer. The host smiled at her quick response. “It was that show that gave me the courage to talk to the host and producer about doing a regular segment,” said Dian in retrospect. Since then Dian has been seen by millions of television viewers several times a month for more than three years. She also represents major companies in product promotion at conventions and in the media. She is a popular speaker and lecturer. She is articulate, witty, attractive, well liked, and successful.

Through family outings we’ve learned the importance of closeness and working together. One incident particularly comes to mind. Our family was out on the lake sailing one gloomy day. It was windy, and the waters were rough and cold. In the process of tacking the boat, which is changing the sails and direction, we caught a wind that blew the boat strongly over to one side. We all moved to the other side, and one of my brothers slipped and slid off the boat. We all worked together and pulled him aboard while trying not to capsize. It was then that we realized how much it would affect our family if one member were lost or taken from us.

The morning after I returned home to Ghana from my mission in the Ivory Coast, I woke up at 6:00 a.m. My appointment with the stake president to have him release me was not until the afternoon, so I decided to sleep in. While I was falling asleep, an impression flashed through my mind: “Go to the Cape Coast mission home.” I knew the Ghana Cape Coast Mission home, but I had no idea why I needed to go there that morning.

After having these thoughts, I began to feel anxious about the impression, so I headed to the mission home. On my way I worried about what I would say to the mission president. I knew he would ask me the purpose of my visit, so I tried to prepare a suitable answer.

When I arrived, I still did not know the answer. The mission president, Melvin B. Sabey, invited me into his office, thinking that I came there for him to release me. After asking a few questions, President Sabey told me to go to my stake president to be released.

“I know that, President,” I replied.

He paused for some seconds and then asked me the very question I had been striving to answer: “Why are you here this morning, Elder Mobio?”

“President Sabey, I don’t have a suitable answer to that question,” I said. “It’s just that this morning I had a strong impression to come here.”

He paused again for a moment and told me softly, “Elder Mobio, your presence here is the assistance I prayed for yesterday.” He explained that his assistants had just arrived with new missionaries. Among them was an Ivorian, the first French-speaking missionary he had ever received, and he didn’t know how he was going to communicate with him. Then he declared, “I am certain Heavenly Father heard my concern yesterday night.”

I had finally learned the reason for my morning impression. We immediately joined the new missionaries, and I interpreted for the Ivorian elder as he started his mission.

Seven months later I traveled back to the Ivory Coast to renew my passport and to share that wonderful experience with my mission president. He told me, “We are instruments in the Lord’s hands. He knows how and when to use us in His work.”

Karla taught me many important lessons. Half the time she didn’t realize it. She never preached or condemned or lectured. She taught by example. The way she lived, the words she spoke, all she did helped me to think about myself, about my own life. I was a bit rebellious by nature when I first met her, but slowly that changed. I began to consider the reality of serving a mission. I hadn’t made up my mind yet to go, so that was quite a big step.
The most important lesson I learned through her came in early January that same school year. I had just flown back to Utah after Christmas vacation. Karla’s family picked me up from the airport in Salt Lake City on Saturday. I stayed at their home that night, since her parents had offered to drive us to school the next day after church.
Early Sunday afternoon following church, I found myself sitting on the living room sofa, waiting to leave and reading the comics from the morning paper. Karla’s eight-year-old brother came in, sat down across from me, and opened his Book of Mormon.
“Hi,” he said simply, and started to read.
“What are you reading?” I looked up and asked.
“Nephi,” he replied. “I’m reading it myself.”
“Good for you.” I tried to think if I had ever attempted to read scripture when I was so young. “How many times have you read the Book of Mormon?” I asked, half joking.
His answer put me in my place.
“Twice,” he responded, “with my family.” Then he turned the tables. “How many times have you read it?”
I felt foolish. I hadn’t ever read it. “Well, I’ve started it a few times,” I mumbled. Karla was sitting next to me. Her mother was close by as well. I knew they wouldn’t judge me, but that didn’t lessen my uneasiness. Here I was, three months away from being 19 years old, and I had yet to read a book that I had testified to be true. This eight-year-old child was on his third round. I knew nobody was keeping score, but I was very humbled. If I was going to go on a mission, what kind of missionary would I be if I hadn’t even read the Book of Mormon?
That night, back at the dorm and in bed, I opened the book and began to read. I literally could not put it down. Moroni’s introduction, the testimonies of the witnesses, Joseph Smith’s testimony, First Nephi, and on and on. Each word called to me, strengthened me. I could feel a great spiritual power begin to flow into my life. I knew it was true, I had felt it before, and now the feeling grew stronger. Not quite two weeks later I read the parting words of Moroni and closed the book. I had done it! Tears of joy filled my eyes. I knelt down and thanked my Heavenly Father.
After my mission I lost touch with Karla, but I never forgot the lessons she taught me. Through her and her little brother, the Lord inspired me in ways I can never repay. Most importantly, I learned it is never too early or too late to read the Book of Mormon. And then, read it again and again.

My parents moved from Aberdeen to Colchester when my Father took up a position in London with the Bank of Scotland. My Father commuted every day on the train.
They were far from home, had just become new parents and were setting up a new home when the missionaries first knocked on their door to introduce them to the home evening programme.
Elder Doug Himstreet from Utah and Elder Mulheron knocked at the door and taught my parents over several months. My parents were members of the Church of Scotland and had a good knowledge of the Bible. When the missionaries taught a new principle, my Father would ask them to show where it said that in the Bible. Elder Himstreet was very patient and always said he would find out and come back to them, which he always did. My Father was impressed with his dedication and they became friends.
After several months of teaching and reading the Book of Mormon my Mother was ready to join the Church and Elder Himstreet challenged my Father to prayer about the Book of Mormon. When he accepted that challenge, he received a spiritual witness that it was the word of God. My parents were baptised in 1972 and attended Colchester Ward which was part of the then East Anglia Stake.

In order to finish the temple, the prophet Wilford Woodruff asked everyone to make special contributions to the temple fund. Even young children were encouraged to give whatever they could. Many children worked on holidays and gave all their earnings to the temple fund. Other children asked to do extra chores around the house in order to earn some money to give.
During this time, one young Primary boy was trying to earn enough money to buy something for himself. He found work at a neighbor’s farm. After working very hard, he was paid twenty-five cents—a lot of money in those days—for his efforts. He “clutched the coin and ran home” excitedly to show his father how much he had earned. “Pa, look what I have!” he proudly announced. “The next time you go to Provo,” he continued, “I can get a new pair of jeans with this money.”
His father reminded him of the prophet’s request for funds for the temple. “President Wilford Woodruff needs ten cents of this quarter for the Salt Lake Temple. Here, I’ll give you fifteen cents for the coin, and we’ll go together to give the dime to our bishop, who will send it to Salt Lake City.” The boy gladly took the money to the bishop so that he, too, could help build the temple.

One example, taken from the life of Heber C. Kimball, illustrates this point. After being baptized and confirmed, he penned, “I received the Holy Ghost, as the disciples did in ancient days, which was like a consuming fire.”[4] As I studied his life, I found that he never lost that feeling even in times of great stress and trial. On 4 June 1837 the Prophet Joseph Smith said, “Brother Heber, the Spirit of the Lord has whispered to me: `Let my servant Heber go to England and proclaim my Gospel, and open the door of salvation to that nation.’” In obedience to the prophetic prompting, Heber “felt a determination to go at all hazards”[5] “I put my trust in God, believing that He would assist me in publishing the truth, give me utterance, and be a present help in time of need.[6] His confidence was not misplaced. After preaching to a gathering in Chatburn, England, he felt someone pulling at his coat exclaiming,
“Maister maister.” I turned around and asked what was wanted. . . . “Please sir, will you baptize me?” “And me?” “And me?” exclaimed more than a dozen voices. Accordingly I went down into the water and baptized twenty-five.[7]
Of his glorious success on that mission, Heber exclaimed, “Blessed be the name of the Lord, who has crowned our labors with such success!”

I am a cheerleader for a junior football team. During the halftime show we do a dance. My mom heard the music and realized that there were bad words in the song. She found the instrumental version of the song and gave it to my coach so that we could use that version instead. The first game came, and the coach told my mom that the cheerleaders did not have enough time to practice the dance with the instrumental version, and we would have to perform with the bad words in the song. I told my coach I would not be able to dance to the song if the words were still in it. My coach decided to use the instrumental version. We did not do as well because the song was different, but I know that I stood up for what I know is right.

I was in Charlotte, North Carolina, attending a zone conference, and Reggie, a young black university student, came to the conference. He had on a new pair of Levi’s that still had the four pieces of thread where the price tag had been. He wasn’t doing very well financially. He had bought them for the zone conference and had on a white shirt and tie that I think the missionaries loaned him. In a discussion he said to me, “I was taught two or three discussions. After the discussions they invited me to church. When I got to church Satan met me outside the door and he said, ‘You can’t go in there. That is a white man’s church.’ Satan tried to play the ‘colors’ game on me.”

That was interesting to me because Reggie said he went inside because he knew that Joseph Smith was a prophet, that the Book of Mormon was true, and that he had found more love and caring than he had known before. He said he felt like a poor beggar who had stumbled upon a field of diamonds and wanted to share with everyone he met.

In June of 1986 I drove my mother to the Cardston Alberta Temple so she could receive her endowment. I had already received my endowment, but my nonmember husband and I lived in a remote part of British Columbia, and I had allowed my recommend to expire. Therefore, I was able to walk with my mother to the recommend desk but could follow her no further. I went outside, leaned against the temple wall, and cried.
After that experience, I determined never to be left outside of the temple again. My husband supported me in my decision, and I was soon attending the temple as frequently as I could. There I learned principles that made a profound difference in my personal life and in relationships with family and friends.

Dillon has a terrible problem: his greatest talent is also his greatest fear. “I love to sing,” the 16-year-old Tongan says, “but not in front of people. I get too scared.”
Imagine his mixed feelings when the Church in Tonga announced auditions for vocalists to record a Tongan version of the Old Testament seminary soundtrack. He was both excited and scared to death.
Three songs on the soundtrack require a male vocalist. After Dillon had sung the song for which he was auditioning, the producer surprised him by asking him to sing another of the songs on the soundtrack. As nervous as he was, he did it, and the producer said, “We found our boy.”
Much to his excitement—and dismay—Dillon was offered the opportunity to record all three songs.
Dillon, a member of the Nuku‘alofa Tonga Stake, excels in school. He’s one of about 10 percent of Tongan students selected to attend the government school. He also enjoys seminary. “He wakes us up early so he can get to seminary,” his mother, Malenita, says.
But singing is what he loves—though his family didn’t even know he could until he was asked to sing a solo during a Primary program one year.
“Dillon’s always been shy,” his mother says.
He did so well in the Primary program that he was asked to sing during a conference of the Nuku‘alofa Tonga Stake. After that he was hooked.
He told his mom, “One day I’m going to use my talent for God.” After he was chosen to sing on the soundtrack, he told her, “Mom, I used my talent.”
Dillon’s older brother, Sione, says he tries to encourage Dillon to sing. “I would love to have the talent he does,” he says. “Everybody wants him to share it.”
“I like it when he sings,” says his sister, Pea.
“I want to sing like him some day,” says his nine-year-old brother, Paula.
Dillon is grateful for his family’s support. “I love my family,” he says. “I’m sure that with their help, I can make my weakness a strength.”
As Dillon worked with the sound crew to record the songs, he struggled with one note. “I couldn’t hit it,” he says. “We rehearsed for hours.”
Finally, exhausted and discouraged, he went home that night, knowing that the next morning he’d have to record the song.
“I went straight to my room and prayed to my Heavenly Father to help me,” he says.
All he could think about was how important the soundtrack would be to the 50,000 members of the Church in Tonga, as well as thousands of others who speak Tongan around the world.
“It was one of the longest nights of my life,” he says.
After a long night of prayer and a little bit of sleep, Dillon walked into the recording studio and hit the note.
“Hallelujah,” he remembers saying. “I was happy.”
One of Dillon’s favorite scriptures is Joshua 1:9: “Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.”
Dillon put that promise to the test, and he learned it was true. “I tried my best. I put my best effort and heart into the songs so the listeners will be able to feel the Spirit.”
As Dillon grows out of his fear and into his talents, he recognizes he has received a lot of help—not only from his family but from his Heavenly Father.
“I know,” he says, “that God answered my prayers.”

Insight Number Two
In 1982 Brother Crabtree had a heart attack. Open-heart surgery followed—five bypasses! A week after he was out of the hospital he insisted that his wife drive him out to the project. When she wasn’t looking, he climbed aboard a D-8 Caterpillar tractor and took off through the trees. He was gone for forty-five frantic minutes. He returned smiling and said everything seemed to be in place.

Our ward had enough riding enthusiasts to get the outlaw band more or less mounted. We had purebred stallions, ancient hay burners, a Shetland pony, and one reluctant donkey. He was the only member of the cast who didn’t think it was a good idea. We first noticed this lack of enthusiasm when we had to drag him stiff-legged down the road behind my Volkswagen to load him on a truck. If you’ve got 53 horsepower on one end of the rope and one donkey power on the other, you’ve got a toss-up contest that could go either way. But we finally won.
We loaded him and the rest of the horses and outlaws and headed for the hills.
The train route winds through Provo Canyon, then hugs the hillside around Deer Creek reservoir, and cuts through the fields and pastures of Heber Valley. We set up near a grove of trees and waited.
“Here she comes!” shouted the lookout.
I hollered, “Lights! Action! Roll ’em!” (Whatever that means.)
Lights and roll ’em we didn’t get, but action we did. One blast of the engine whistle and every horse sponsored his own Kentucky Derby in his own direction. Only the donkey was left. He was too ornery to be scared. He just stood stiff-legged by the tracks and sang two-part harmony with the train as it thundered by.
The Creeper was a white puff of smoke in the distance by the time we rounded up the last of the horses, so we dubbed in the train scene later. Speaking of dubbing in, try as much as possible to shoot the scenes in order. Rehearse them while looking through the camera; then try to get it right the first take. It will save film costs and editing time later.
Our script called for a brawl scene climaxed by a pie in the face. For this scene we got the bishop’s permission, because he got the pie in the face. Blueberry cream. It was a beautiful scene and performed with excellent taste, the bishop said.
Close-ups and reaction-to-the-action shots help pace the action. And also try to frame your characters as large as practical in the shot unless it’s a deliberate long shot or scenery shot. Mount your camera on a tripod whenever possible. Even though your cameraman lives the Word of Wisdom, he’s got shaky hands.
You can get synchronized sound with some super-8 movie cameras, but this was more trouble and expense than we wanted. We used a silent screen format with printed titles to show the dialogue and credits. You can type these and photograph them with a close-up attachment on the movie camera. Here, especially, use the tripod, We recorded a rinky-tink piano background (put thumbtacks in the piano hammers to get the “tink”). We play the tape whenever we show the movie.
Showing the movie is, of course, the climax, particularly the premiere showing. We staged a variety show titled “Salute to the Silver Screen.” The whole ward was invited (and came), and the kids did songs, dances, and skits based on great movies of the past. (Unfortunately most of the great movies are in the past.) Then we honored the cast and showed the movie. “The Great Train Robbery” will never get an Oscar, but it was a “ward winning” movie.

As a boy I made a startling discovery in Sunday School one Mother’s Day which has remained with me all through the years. Melvin, a sightless brother in the ward, a talented vocalist, would stand and face the congregation as though he were seeing one and all. He would then sing “That Wonderful Mother of Mine.” The bright, glowing embers of memory penetrated human hearts. Men reached for their handkerchiefs; women’s eyes brimmed with tears.

We deacons would go among the congregation carrying a small geranium in a clay pot for presentation to each mother. Some of the mothers were young, some were middle-aged, some were barely hanging on to life in their old age. I became aware that the eyes of each mother were kind eyes. The words of each mother were “Thank you.” I felt the spirit of the statement “When someone gives another person a flower, the fragrance of the flower lingers on the hands of the giver.” I have not forgotten the lesson learned, nor shall I ever forget it.

I once knew a man who attained a high position in a company. Each day he would go to his office with a briefcase. One day his wife asked him, “Why do you carry that briefcase to work each day?”
He replied, “The executive vice-president is a very important person, and the paperwork he manages is also important. Don’t you agree?”
“Yes,” she said. But then she asked, “How many times do you open the briefcase and use the papers?”
“The truth is, very few times,” he responded.
And she replied, “If the briefcase gives you a feeling of importance, wouldn’t it be easier just to carry an empty one?”
While he was thinking about that, she added one more thought.
“But if you carry it only for status, let me remind you that by the time you leave the office, the only person who sees you is the custodian.”

When I was 14, my dad left our family, and my mom was forced to flee the country. I was left with my three younger siblings, Ephraim, 9; Jonathan, 6; and Grace, 3 (names have been changed). Nothing could have prepared us for this sudden change. For the first time, we were alone.

Extended family soon offered to take each of us in, but if we went to live with them, we would be separated. It was a difficult decision. How could we reject their well-intentioned help? But at the same time, how could we give up years of playing, laughing, caring for one another, and watching each other grow?

Initially, my brothers and I turned down their help, thinking I could work to support us and we could stay together. But we knew that we could not provide the care our youngest sister needed, and so, with tears in our eyes, we let her go.

For the next few months, I worked as a building painter to buy food for my brothers and me. My income was insufficient to pay the bills for electricity and water, so we had to live without them.

Despite this trial and the gossip of others that accompanied it, our faith didn’t waver. Every night, I would gather Ephraim and Jonathan around a lamp to read the Book of Mormon. I would trim the wick so that it would produce less smoke, but we would still have to clean our noses that had turned black by the time we finished reading. But it was worth it.

Reading the Book of Mormon brought us closer to Christ. After we read, we would kneel together and take turns saying our prayers. We asked for comfort for our problem that seemed to be without a solution. We finished reading the Book of Mormon, and our faith in Jesus Christ grew stronger.

Another story about my mother had an even greater impact on me. It shaped how I resolved to live my life.
When I was a priest, my assignment one Sunday was to bless the sacrament in Sunday School. In those days, we took the sacrament during Sunday School in the morning, and then returned for sacrament meeting in the evening.
I had a 1946 Chevy coupe that I had made into a hot rod, and I wanted to compete in some races that were being held that Sunday. I knew that my parents would not approve, so I said nothing. I am ashamed to say it, but I left church and went to the drag races. I raced one time and lost.
When I returned home, my mother was standing at the kitchen sink, finishing up the dinner dishes. I could see tears on her cheeks. I asked, “Mom, what’s the matter?”
She turned and asked, “Son, where have we failed as parents that you feel you can violate the Lord’s holy day?”
I couldn’t bear it! My dear mother was taking the blame and burden for my wrongdoing.
That moment helped me understand more about the Atonement of Jesus Christ, that someone else was willing to bear the burden of my wrong choice. I began to understand how the Savior could do that for me because I saw my mother do it in this instance.