Gospel Story Finder

The first book I ever owned came to me on the heels of near tragedy. It was at a community Christmas tree party in our little country town of Clifton in Idaho. The huge tree lighted with hundreds of burning candles … set an ideal stage for that which followed. Before our horrified gaze Santa caught fire and as he ran frantically out through a rear exit he swept along with him trimmings, candles, presents, and even a part of the tree itself. …
I returned home … disconsolate and dejected because no gift was on the tree for me. The next day from out of the ruins of the fire a book, half burned, was found with my name in it. That book was Tom, the Bootblack, by Horatio Alger, Jr.

In the middle of the night, my husband and I both awoke and felt an evil presence in our home. Just as surely as I had felt the Holy Ghost in the bishop’s office, I now felt the adversary. As I lay in bed, I realized I had made Satan very unhappy by returning to the Church. I prayed with all my heart, and in time I felt the presence go away.
My husband and I didn’t have a chance to talk about the experience until the next evening, when I picked him up in a town about 48 kilometers from our house. During the ride home, he asked, “What happened last night?”
Because my husband believes that when a person sins it is between that person and God and should not be the concern of other people, I had told him the previous night that I was only going to a Church meeting. Now I told him all about what had happened in the bishop’s office, the feelings of love and comfort, and my return to full fellowship. I bore my testimony of the system Heavenly Father has set up to enable his children to repent and get their lives in order. I told him I felt the adversary was very unhappy with my actions, and that is why we had felt his influence during the night. I told him I wished I had the priesthood in my home, but I knew Heavenly Father would watch over our family. As I finished, I felt strongly that I should close in the name of Jesus Christ, so I did.
My husband didn’t say anything until we were pulling into our driveway. Then he said, “I think you’re right.”

Joseph was always willing to help children in need. Once, in Nauvoo, Illinois, Margarette McIntire and her brother Wallace were walking home after a rainstorm. The ground had become very muddy, and the two children became stuck in the mud. Unable to get out, they began to cry. Soon, when they looked up, they saw the Prophet Joseph. He got them to higher ground, wiped the mud off their feet, and took out his handkerchief to wipe away their tears. He spoke kind words to them and sent them home with smiles on their faces.

And what about Heather Hulings? You can often find her strolling around the lake next to her home with an admiring male friend. When it’s time, she’ll run back to the house, jump in the car with her sisters Stephanie, 16; and Darcie, 12, and head for the garage. If the young men are gathering and the male friend is interested, he can come along too. He usually does.

I’ve always known that I needed to go on a mission. I also knew that the prophets had commanded every worthy young man to serve. I just wasn’t sure if I could do it. My family, not being well off, had to struggle when my older brother served his mission. It just didn’t feel right to cause my family to suffer for me.
I started to read the Book of Mormon again, but this time 1 Nephi 3:7 [1 Ne. 3:7] impressed me in a way that it had not before. I must have read or heard the story of Nephi getting the plates from Laban a hundred times. It was his reply to his father’s request that moved me. “The Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them.” My answer was that the Lord would prepare the way, and I must then walk it.
How would He do it? The only answer I could come up with was by “small and simple” means (Alma 37:6). It wasn’t much to go on. I decided to put my trust in the Lord and let Him use me to further his work.
After this, I began to feel a desire to finish our garage. I could not understand the reason for this desire, nor could I ignore it. It was a task I felt had to be done right then. I set about the steps for completing the task.
I started putting the insulation in the walls. This helped the work progress faster, but soon I was in need of another roll of insulation. I purchased the insulation, put it up, and rested.
A couple of days later I was out there with my drill and a bag of screws. My task now was to finish the walls with some scrap pieces of plywood. The wood required very little cutting and soon all of the walls were done.
I knew that the ceiling needed to be done, and I did not have the money for that. The Lord, however, saw to it that the funds were made available. My dad received a surprise bonus check from work that covered the cost of the sheetrock and insulation for the ceiling of the garage. I worked with my dad and younger brothers for the next few nights putting up the sheetrock. It took a little time and a lot of patience, but we finished the job. I was then able to look and admire the completed work.
A couple of months later, I received my mission call. I went to the missionary training center and then to the Arkansas Little Rock Mission. The work done on that garage was forgotten as I now worked for the Lord. Winter came as it always does, and my mom was surprised at the utility bill. It was very low for that time of year. The drop in the electric bill in our all-electric house in Provo, Utah, was the result of the work done on the garage.
I have paused to look back and see how the Lord led me. He placed a desire in me to finish the garage and would not let me rest until the work spread to those in my family. It was only by a joint effort that it was ever completed. The money saved by this work now helped support me on my mission.
I now truly know that the Lord will prepare the way. Still, the principle is the same for us as for Nephi. We must listen to the Spirit, even if we are told to do something as trivial as finishing a garage. The Lord knows what will make things work out for the best. We need to have the faith to follow.

Volunteers from Grenada, who visited young patients at the hospital, described their experience after serving as having “full hearts and tearful smiles to say goodbye.” Other volunteers prayed and cried with a paralyzed man who had no family. In St. Lucia, two projects were completed with cleaning a widow’s yard and preparing and delivering hot meals, feeding the hungry and serving as the Savior would serve. In Basse Terre, Guadeloupe, volunteers worked in shifts to comb hair, apply makeup and sing songs with the elderly.

Yesterday I was cold,
not tall enough to reach
the sun.
Taller ones than I
wrapped blankets around me,
Showed me how to plug
in the electric heater,
Gave me a candle
with a glowing flame,
And sold me solar heat
door to door.
Today I am surrounded,
warm enough to be content.
Tomorrow doors
will open,
Allowing warmth to scatter
to colder ones than I.

In the life of Florence Chukwurah, the miracle of change has been gloriously visible. She was born into a life of poverty in Onitsha, Nigeria. Her father, who worked at sea on a ship, was rarely at home. Florence’s mother was not educated and worked hard to feed the family.

As Florence approached young womanhood, she began to realize just how poor her family was. By the time she was about 11 years old, a steadfast resolution had formed in her mind: She would escape from poverty. What made this more than a childish wish was that she also made several powerful commitments. These, she felt, would help her find a better life. First, she recalls, “I determined to break from poverty by seeking God earnestly.” Besides this fundamental decision, she made three practical resolutions. “I decided to be obedient to my parents and to older people. I decided to be serious with my schoolwork. And I made up my mind to work hard with my hands.”

Hard work had long been a constant fact of Florence’s life. She hauled water for the family from the public taps or from a stream. She fetched firewood from the countryside and cut it up for cooking fuel. And she helped her mother with the laborious preparation of the cassava root—the family’s staple food.

After school, there were younger children to tend and feed and schoolwork to do. On Saturdays, there was laundry to wash at the public taps. Even on holidays, Florence bought and sold vegetables to help pay her school fees.

All this Florence could do with a willing heart because of the decisions she had made as an 11-year-old girl. “I was happy doing these things as a way to demonstrate my love for my family and also to honor my father and mother,” she explains.

As a young girl, Florence deepened her commitment to schoolwork when she noticed neighbors who were educated. The parents of several of her girlhood friends were teachers and headmasters.

Florence became interested in nursing partly because she liked the way nurses dressed. Taking care of her brothers and sisters had also developed her natural interest in helping others. Her father had borrowed money from a moneylender to pay for her secondary schooling, a debt which Florence later repaid. But she could not afford to attend a university or teacher’s college. The government would subsidize her in nursing school, however. So at age 16, Florence traveled six hours away from her home to begin her training as a nurse.

The year Florence graduated from her training at Queen Elizabeth Hospital, she was given the Florence Nightingale Award for best nurse of the year. She continued her education, finishing her training as a midwife five years later, in 1970.

In a lesson taught a few weeks ago in seminary, something really touched me and had a huge effect on me and my life. My teacher read aloud the Entertainment and Media section from For The Strength of Youth. There was one passage she kept repeating over and over again. It said, “Do not attend, view, or participate in entertainment that is vulgar, immoral, violent, or pornographic in any way. Do not participate in entertainment that in any way presents immorality or violent behavior as acceptable” ([2001], 17). As she said this over and over again, it started to sink into me.
Later that day at school, I was in my English lesson when my teacher said, “Today we are going to watch a film as a treat.” I really did not want to watch it because it was a scary and vulgar film. I knew that I would feel uncomfortable. I pulled my For the Strength of Youth pamphlet out of my bag and explained to my teacher that I have standards and that this film was inappropriate for me to watch. I was scared and nervous about what my teacher’s reply would be and how she would react to me for sticking up for my standards and what I believed in. She paused for a moment and then said, “Kelsey, I fully understand that you have standards, and I admire you for sticking up for your beliefs.” My teacher then told me that I could go to another room and get a head start on our next topic.
I appreciated my teacher for understanding, and I will always remember this experience. I now know that I can stick up for what I believe in and that the For the Strength of Youth pamphlet is a strong and powerful thing in my life and always will be.

When Grandpa took Moni out to the garden, she couldn’t believe it! The bushy green foliage was faded and wilted. “What happened to your garden, Grandpa?” asked Moni.
“It’s done for this year,” said Grandpa. “Tomorrow’s Halloween. Look!” He pointed to something glowing at the garden’s edge. Moni ran to see what it was.
“Pumpkins!” she cried. Scattered among the dried vines were bright orange pumpkins that had looked like dark green balls all summer. “They look happier now,” said Moni.
“That’s why I like pumpkins so much,” said Grandpa. “When the rest of the garden is dying, the pumpkins are still there, looking bright and cheerful.”
“They get to stay around for Halloween,” said Moni.
“That’s right,” agreed Grandpa. “Better pick out the best one for your jack-o’-lantern.”
When Moni finally decided on the biggest pumpkin a four-year-old girl could lift, Grandpa cut it off at the stem and put it in her arms. Moni could feel its cold, smooth skin as she carried it to the house.
Later, Grandpa cut a neat lid in the pumpkin’s top, and Moni scooped out the seeds inside.
“It doesn’t smell very good,” said Moni, wrinkling her nose. “But it’s still the best pumpkin, isn’t it?”
“You bet!” Grandpa laughed. He helped Moni draw triangle eyes and a curvy smile with three teeth in it. When he took his pocketknife and started to cut on the lines, Moni wanted to help. Grandpa let her hold the knife handle while he held her hand, and they carefully cut out the pumpkin’s face.
“Who’s your new friend, Moni?” Grandma asked from the living room.
Moni thought for a minute. “Jake,” she said.
“That’s my name!” declared Grandpa.
“I know,” said Moni. “That’s why I like it. It’s the best name for the best pumpkin.”
“All right,” said Grandpa. “I guess we have two Jakes this Halloween.”
On Halloween night Grandma’s kitchen smelled like apples and popcorn. Moni kept taking off Jake’s lid and looking inside. “How are we going to plug Jake in?” she asked. She remembered seeing jack-o’-lanterns glowing in the dark last year.
“Jake’s not electric,” Grandma said. “We have to light him the old-fashioned way.”
After they had affixed a candle inside Jake, Moni followed Grandma to the stove. She was surprised to see what was going into the oven. “What are those stinky pumpkin seeds doing on your cookie pans, Grandma?” asked Moni.
“I’m roasting them for a treat,” said Grandma.
Moni frowned.
“You’ll like them,” said Grandma.
Grandpa helped Moni into her panda costume. “You’re one of a kind, Moni,” he told her, smiling.
Moni carried Jake to the brick porch railing for Grandpa to light. Jake’s big, golden smile warmed the whole neighborhood.
The next day when Mother and Daddy came to take her home, Moni noticed a puddle of wax and some smoky places inside Jake. “Don’t worry. I still love you,” she said, hugging him good-bye. “See you next weekend, Jake.”
“I doubt it,” said Grandma. “I’ll probably turn Jake into pumpkin pie!”
“No!” said Moni. “I don’t want Jake to be a pie.”
“OK,” said Grandma. “Jake will be here when you come back next weekend.”
When Moni saw Jake that weekend, she was worried. His teeth had withered. His cheeks were caving in. Even his triangle eyes had gotten puckery, and his lid didn’t fit right anymore. Inside were black, fuzzy places that smelled funny. “How come he’s getting all wrinkly?” she asked Grandpa.
“That’s what happens to jack-o’-lanterns, Honey,” said Grandpa. “Once they’ve been carved, they don’t last long.”
“Next year when I pick the best pumpkin, we won’t carve it, and it won’t get old,” she said with a frown.
“Old isn’t so bad,” said Grandpa. “I’m old, and you like me, don’t you?”
“You bet,” said Moni, squeezing Grandpa’s hand.
“Remember where we put the leaves you helped me rake?” asked Grandpa.
Moni nodded.
“Tomorrow we’ll take Jake out to that compost pile with the kitchen scraps. By spring Jake will have turned into good humus to help grow more pumpkins next year.”
Moni didn’t like to think of Jake going out with eggshells and moldy leaves. “I don’t want Jake to go to waste,” she said.
“Nature never wastes anything,” said Grandpa. He gave Moni a handful of roasted pumpkin seeds. “Try some of these,” he said.
Moni carefully tried a few, then ate some more. The seeds tasted good. Then she remembered helping Grandpa poke seeds like these into the dirt and watching the plants that had grown up like magic. “Grandpa, will these seeds turn into more pumpkins?” she asked.
“No, Honey. Grandma roasted these seeds to eat. But she saved some seeds to plant. Next spring you can help me plant Jake’s seeds and watch his ‘children’ grow in the garden.”
“Will they all have champion smiles like Jake?” Moni asked.
“You bet!” replied Grandpa. “If you keep saving your jack-o’-lantern seeds, someday Jake’s great-great-grandchildren will be growing in your garden.”
Moni patted Jake’s sunken face. “You’re still one of a kind, Jake,” she said.

We have been experiencing a time when temples have been closed or limited in use. For President Nelson and those of us who serve at his side, the inspired decision to close the temples was “painful” and “wracked with worry.” President Nelson found himself asking, “What would I say to the Prophet Joseph Smith? What would I say to Brigham Young, Wilford Woodruff and the other Presidents, on up to President Thomas S. Monson?”
Now, we gradually and gratefully are reopening temples for sealings and endowments on a limited scale.

The Wolfgramms took their Polynesian show on the road and traveled all over the United States and Canada. When they got a full-time offer from a Hawaiian hotel chain in Minneapolis, Minnesota, they packed their bags and moved. Minneapolis was about as far removed from Tonga as it could possibly be, but the Wolfgramms liked it there and contributed to the local ward as well as to the local entertainment industry.
They were devastated when the hotel chain they were working with went out of business. For several months the family of fifteen lived in the hotel owners’ basement. They decided that it would be more profitable to switch from Polynesian to popular music, and they began traveling in an old, uninsulated van, to whatever playing engagements they could arrange. “The van didn’t have any seats,” Leroy recalls, “and we sat in chairs against the sides. Sometimes we traveled in temperatures forty degrees below freezing, and there would be ice on the roof—on the inside.”
Finally, however, their efforts and dedication paid off. Don Powell, an entertainment industry expert who had managed some leading performing groups in the 1960s and 70s, heard them play. He had retired from entertainment because the industry had become “so bizarre,” but when he heard the Wolfgramms, he became interested again.
“The reason I reentered this business was literally because of this family,” says Don, who had had very little contact with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints before he met the Wolfgramms. “The whole family is so loving and bright, and talented, I couldn’t help getting involved. And we’ll never have problems with drugs or alcohol or anything like that, as you do with so many entertainers. It’s absolute heaven to manage them.”
With the resultant success, every minute of every day is packed full of performances, personal appearances, interviews, recording and photography sessions, but a Monday doesn’t go by without a family home evening. If they happen to be on the road on any given Monday, the stage crew is invited, and a lot of missionary work is done at these times.

The sign says, “Caution: Icy Bridge Deck.” It stands next to the big concrete bridge over the Athabasca River in the center of Fort McMurray, Alberta, Canada, where I live. Our city is in northern Canada, where the roads are covered with ice and snow for six months of the year and driving can be dangerous.
One day, just as we passed the warning sign, our truck started sliding out of control. My mom prayed out loud, “Heavenly Father, please help us!” Our truck spun around on the bridge until its nose banged hard into one of the gray walls. We stopped with a jerk, and I accidentally bit my tongue.
“We’re OK,” Mom said as she patted my leg. “Heavenly Father protected us. Look—it didn’t even wake Nathan (my little brother).” Although the truck had crashed, and my tongue was sore, I knew that Mom was right. Even though the bridge was slippery, the cars behind us were able to stop without bumping into us. The wall of the bridge stayed strong and kept us from falling into the frozen river. The truck’s shiny metal bumper was crumpled, but the truck still worked fine. We got home safely, just like we’d prayed that morning before we left the house.Samuel Quist, age 5, with help from his mom, Fort McMurray, Alberta, Canada

Down Girl and Sit: Smarter Than Squirrels*, by Lucy Nolan, illustrated by Mike Reed. These silly adventures of a dog who thinks her name is Down Girl, and her next-door neighbor, Sit, will keep dog lovers laughing as the doggy duo tries to keep the world safe from dangerous squirrels and other menacing creatures.

An example of one such miracle is from Samantha Tuchyner of the Second Ward: “I didn’t have any names, so I prayed about it. My dad was going to visit his dad in Virginia. The first half hour he was there, someone called and wanted to know if he wanted the information she had found. She e-mailed us all these names.”

In Lagos, Nigeria, when a schoolteacher named Abasi retired, he felt lonely and missed working with young people. Eager to find something to do, with the help of his community he opened a private school. He loves being with kids again.

It was Friday morning, June 28, 1844, and already the summer sun was hot in Illinois. Since about eight o’clock that morning Dr. Willard Richards, Samuel H. Smith, and nine others had plodded along the dusty road between Carthage and Nauvoo, Illinois. Moving along the road with the solemn procession were two wagons heaped with bushes to protect their cargo from the blistering heat of the sun.
Laid out on the wagons were the lifeless bodies of Joseph Smith, age thirty-eight, over six feet tall, and Hyrum, his brother, age forty-four, and even larger in stature than Joseph. Wearily, Dr. Richards and Samuel Smith, brother to the two murdered men, pressed toward Nauvoo and talked of the events just the day before during which Joseph and Hyrum were gunned down by an armed mob with painted faces. The two victims, along with Dr. Richards and John Taylor, were lodged in Carthage Jail, supposedly for their protection, when the mob, numbering from 150 to 200 marauders, stormed the jail and shot to death their intended victims.
Word of the deaths had already reached Nauvoo, headquarters city for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. As the wagons and their foot-weary guardians entered the city, several thousand citizens greeted the procession with the most solemn lamentations and mourning.
The bloodied bodies were tenderly removed from the wagons at the Nauvoo Mansion and were carefully washed from head to foot. The various wounds were filled with cotton, soaked in camphor, and death masks were impressed on each face. Fine, plain clothing was then placed on each body. When these preparations were completed, the bodies were viewed that night by the bereaved widows and children of the two men, along with many of their closest associates. Then on Saturday, more than ten thousand mourning Saints viewed the remains of their beloved Prophet Joseph and his brother, the Patriarch Hyrum. The bodies were then secretly and lovingly buried. (See History of the Church, 6:614–31.)

Elder Lee in his talk referred to Horace Mann, who was “called to dedicate a great school for boys. … He said, ‘If this school costing all the millions that it has cost is able to save but one boy, it is worth all that it has cost.’ One of his friends said to him after the meeting, ‘You let your enthusiasm run away with you, didn’t you? You don’t mean that the millions we have spent here would be worth it all if we saved just one boy.’ Horace Mann looked at him and replied, ‘No, my friend, it wouldn’t be too much to spend if that one boy were my son.’”

About six months after graduating from college, I started experiencing panic attacks, bouts of anxiety, and waves of depression. I had no idea where these feelings came from, but they were strong and debilitating.
I struggled to stay focused. At work, any new task brought such anxiety that I couldn’t sit still. My mind would race, and my heart would beat so hard that I thought it would leap out of my chest. This would go on for days, and after returning home from work each day, I would collapse on the couch. Before I knew it, the evening was gone and another workday had begun.
These feelings persisted for months, even after I found a new job and sought professional help.
I prayed every morning on the way to work for the strength to just make it through the day and return home to my wife and daughter. I couldn’t see an end to my struggle, and I often wanted to give up. Many days I begged heaven for help as my eyes filled with tears. I prayed with more sincerity than I ever had before, pleading with Heavenly Father to help me understand this trial and to remove it from me.
I felt lost in darkness and despair when I didn’t feel the Spirit. But when the Spirit lifted me out of my hopelessness, I found the confidence to continue—if only until my next prayer. I came to rely on my Heavenly Father for more than just a prayer at mealtime or a casual nightly check-in. As a result, I grew closer to Him.
In the middle of my anxiety and despair, I reread the account of the Jaredites crossing the “great deep” (Ether 2:25). I can only imagine their anxious anticipation as they entered their barges. Their journey might be perilous, but they knew they were headed to “a land choice above all other lands” (Ether 2:15).
Of their journey, we read:
“The Lord God caused that there should be a furious wind blow upon the face of the waters, towards the promised land; and thus they were tossed upon the waves of the sea before the wind.
“And it came to pass that they were many times buried in the depths of the sea, because of the mountain waves which broke upon them, and also the great and terrible tempests which were caused by the fierceness of the wind.
“… When they were encompassed about by many waters they did cry unto the Lord, and he did bring them forth again upon the top of the waters.
“And it came to pass that the wind did never cease to blow towards the promised land while they were upon the waters; and thus they were driven forth before the wind” (Ether 6:5–8).
These verses became personal to me. I felt that I was in my own barge, with winds of anxiety beating upon me and waves of depression swelling over me and burying me in the depths of despair. When I was “encompassed about” and would cry unto the Lord, I would break through the surface but would then be buried once more.
I read verse 8 again: “The wind did never cease to blow towards the promised land … and thus they were driven forth before the wind” (emphasis added). Then it hit me. The very wind that caused the mountainous waves to bury the barges also blessed the Jaredites on their journey. I had been pleading with Heavenly Father to calm the wind and waves, but without them, I might not reach whatever “promised land” He was leading me to.
These verses changed my outlook on life. My anxiety and depression had increased my reliance on Heavenly Father. Without the wind and waves, I might never have come to know God as I have—and the Jaredites might never have reached the promised land.
For now, a few years after this experience, my winds of anxiety are no longer gusting and my waves of depression have ceased to bury me. But if and when the tempest returns, I will call upon the Lord and be thankful, knowing that calm seas don’t carry barges to the promised land—stormy seas do.

Lizzie, give it back! I’m playing with it!
No!
Girls, please stop fighting. Lizzie, you need to go to your room. Alice, I’d like to talk to you.
It’s not fair, Dad! I was playing with my unicorn, and Lizzie grabbed it. She always ruins things.
It’s tough to be a big sister. Do you know what helps me when I get mad?
What, Dad?
A scripture in the Bible. It says, “A soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger.” This means that if you speak kindly and softly, angry people will feel calmer. If you speak rudely or shout at them, they will just get angrier.
Do you think that will work with Lizzie?
Next time, just try it and see what happens.
I want the fairy wings!
Alice remembered what Dad had told her.
Lizzie, would you like to wear my crown? You can be a princess, and I’ll be your fairy friend.
OK, I’ll be a beautiful princess!
Come on, your highness. Let’s play!