Gospel Story Finder

Since middle school I’ve sold magazines for a fund-raiser. Each year, I tried desperately to find the right magazine for me. Little did I know that the perfect magazine for me was already in my home. I used to just read “The Extra Smile” and then toss the New Era aside. But a few years ago, I began to read more and more of the articles. I found that they were directed to people my age and discussed situations I could relate to. It wasn’t full of degrading articles or beauty ads. It described true beauty, answered my questions, and uplifted my spirit. The New Era is “The Perfect Magazine for Anne.” It just has a different title.Anne Sheffield, Moorpark Ward, Saratoga California Stake

At home again, though I tried to keep active with a private study course and extensive reading, I found myself slipping into a major personal crisis. I had tried to go to church that summer, but I found it an ordeal. I was terribly self-conscious. I felt I was being stared at, and I became defensive about the smallest things. It was humiliating to have to be helped to take the sacrament. My reactions to people became paranoiac, and I invited feelings of worthlessness and guilt to enter my heart. I began to lose contact with the Church, preferring to stay in my little room in the back of the house. Here I withdrew into a world of isolation and depression. For five months I gnawed away at myself and demolished whatever strength I had acquired. The word cripple now applied to me both mentally and physically.
I neglected to pray as I should have, and I doubted the Lord’s forgiveness. I was not totally bitter, but in vain I tried to retain a spirit of hope. I know now that it was because of my ignorance of the sacrifice of Christ that I fell into this attitude.
Autumn passed into winter, and as the room became darker, so did my soul. I descended further and further into frustration and the feeling that I was as worthless a soul as had ever come into the world.
Then one night my mother came in and said that I had a visitor. The man who entered the room was tall and very self-confident—totally the opposite of my character. He introduced himself as Brother Howes from the local seminary. He had moved to town only recently, but he spoke about things as if we had known each other for some time. Though I didn’t know it then, this man would be one of the principal reasons for my returning to the gospel.
I expected that he would visit once or twice and that would be the extent of it, but these suspicions turned out to be false. Each week he came with the scriptures and began to nourish the spiritual side of me, which needed so much to be fed. With his help I began slowly to ascend once again to a point where some form of courage and hope became dimly visible. As time went by, I got interested enough to read the Bible and the Book of Mormon on my own; and through prayer I came to realize, for the first time, that I had something solid to cling to: the truth.

Here is a story that I would like to share with you. The closing speaker at a stake conference was a General Authority. He had talked for about ten minutes when all of a sudden, from way back in the chapel, came a five-year-old boy strolling down the aisle. The boy was all dressed up by his mother for the occasion in gray slacks, a white shirt, and a red bow tie, and his hair was sticking up in the air with a lot of “greasy kid stuff.” This dapper young man came down the aisle and stopped right in front of the pulpit. He looked up at the speaker and said, “You talk too loud.” Then he turned around and went back to his mother.
Now the speaker hoped there would be no further interruptions. But, lo and behold, after fifteen minutes there came the boy walking down the aisle again, and he stopped for the second time in front of the speaker. This time, he looked up and said, “And you talk too long.”
The speaker, however, did not react and continued to finish his talk. After all, we have been trained to keep our cool under all circumstances. Then there was a beautiful congregational closing hymn and the benediction to finish the meeting, followed by the usual socializing and shaking of hands. The mother of the five-year-old boy also came to the stand and said, “Elder, I hope you did not pay too much attention to my five-year-old boy because he was only repeating what other people were saying.”
We love the Saints and especially the mothers of five-year-old boys, because, after all, none of us is perfect.

On the final night of the performance, one of the microphones wasn’t working. “With minutes to go until the start of the show, the directors still couldn’t get this person’s microphone to work. One of the backstage managers began to walk through the halls and ask everyone in sight to say a prayer, asking for help with the technical difficulty,” Brie recalls. “Before bowing my head, I looked around me to see every single cast member humbly bowing his or her head to pray in faith to our Father in Heaven. Sure enough, as we sang the opening number and started the show, all of the microphones were working perfectly.”

When I received the invitation to respond to this question there immediately flashed through my mind the recollection of a teenage experience of many years ago. In the stake where I lived, the young people were planning a week-long camping trip that would extend through a Monday holiday. This involved being in the mountains on Sunday. The general policy guideline was for Church groups to avoid Sunday camping, but those responsible for the planning of this camping trip felt that by carefully working out a program to include the regular Sunday meetings at the campsite they could overcome any objections that might be raised. Approval to go forward was sought from the stake president. The young lady serving as the spokesman for the group explained what was being planned and concluded by saying, “We feel that by getting close to nature we can get closer to the Lord and can increase our spirituality.”
The stake president listened patiently and then in a kindly tone replied, “I agree with you that these things can happen, but my observation is that they usually don’t. I have no concern about the outcome of the Church meetings being planned. It’s what happens before and after. The minute church is out, the young folks are back in their grubbies and ready for play.”
The stake president was identifying a problem common to many of us, where we rationalize that attendance at church qualifies us for Sabbath day observance, and that this can be followed with activities not always in keeping with the spirit of the Sabbath.

Among the early Saints who gathered to Zion was Hannah Last Cornaby, who settled in Spanish Fork, Utah, USA. In the difficult early days of the restored Church, Christmas was sometimes marked with a precious orange or a carved toy or perhaps only a rag doll—but not always. Hannah wrote of December 25, 1856:
“Christmas Eve came, and my darlings, with childish faith, hung up their stockings, wondering if [they] would [be filled]. With aching heart, which I concealed from them, I assured them they would not be forgotten; and they fell asleep with joyful anticipations for the morrow.
“Not having a particle of sweetening, I knew not what to do. They must not, however, be disappointed. I then thought of some squashes in the house, which I boiled, then strained off the liquid, that, when simmered a few hours, made a sweet syrup. With this, and a little spice, I made gingerbread dough which, when cut into every conceivable variety of design, and baked in a skillet, (I had no stove,) filled their stockings and pleased them as much as would the most fancy confectionaries.”1
Between the lines of this story is an account of a mother working through the night without even an oven to ease her efforts. Yet she was committed to bring joy to her children, to reinforce their faith, to affirm in their home, “Happy day! All is well!”2 Isn’t that the message of Christmas?

One weekend last November, Heidi, a young Mormon mother here in Salt Lake City, left her large and gracious home on a gray morning and drove over to Pioneer State Park and entered the restored home of Mary Fielding Smith.
Heidi was costumed in a dress reminiscent of one Mary might have worn, and for the entire day she welcomed young children from a nearby school into this small home, where she helped them learn to dry apples.
After the children left, the sun broke through the clouds overhead, illuminating not only the afternoon sky, but casting a reflective glow on the events of the day. That evening Heidi recorded in her journal, “I was overwhelmed by the exceptional beauty I could see from that little adobe house on the hill. … I could hardly contain the light that streamed through the wavy glass window into my soul bringing feelings that were both very warm and very bright!”
She told about the contrast she felt between the small home in which she stood with its meager appointments and her own lovely house on another hill not far away. She wrote, “I hope my home is my family’s place of strength, of faith, and of refuge, a place where truth is confirmed and testimony is strengthened, as Mary’s little home had been for her family so long ago.” She continued, “Despite life-styles so different, I was overcome by hearts so similar. My soul pleads to make the similarities count for my family, as they had for hers.”

On the night of May 22, 2011, amid the sound of blaring sirens, a massive tornado touched down in the heart of Joplin, Missouri, USA, destroying homes and lives. The Joplin First Ward was hit hard by the twister, but right away Bishop Chris Hoffman and the ward council started accounting for ward members.
“We had a response plan in place because we had talked about these preparations in ward council before they happened,” he said. “We also relied on the Spirit to know what to do. Power lines were down. Cell phones didn’t work. We prayed and listened for answers, and they came—they always came. It was gratifying for me as a bishop to hear members say, ‘This is what I’ve done,’ instead of, ‘What do you want me to do?’”

George Albert Smith loved his mother very much, and he had an experience as a boy that taught him the importance of faith and prayer. One day while his mother was cleaning in the kitchen, she bumped the kitchen cupboard and sent it crashing down on top of her. Hearing the noise, he came running to help her. He found her unconscious on the floor underneath the cupboard and prayed to Heavenly Father with all his might that He would save her life. In return, young George Albert promised to devote his life to God’s work. His mother did recover, and he never forgot his promise to the Lord.

The Utah Bonneville Stake’s pioneer experience wasn’t just a trek through some of the same territory pioneers settled in after they arrived in Utah; it was also a trek through time. Many of the youth read their pioneer ancestors’ journals before going on the trek, to give them a very personal idea of what the exodus west meant to the pioneers.

“One of my ancestors came from Nauvoo to Utah,” says Candice McConkie, 17. “She had to travel alone because her husband had died. I really admire her courage and sacrifice. And because of her, I felt I could face any of the hard experiences of our trek and even some of the real hardships I might have to face later in my life.”

The stake’s Youth Pioneer Trek Council wanted their trek to be unforgettable for everyone, even those without pioneer ancestors, so they made a few rules about modern conveniences being left behind. Who would have thought that bar soap would fall into that category?

“After a while, it didn’t seem to matter if you were dirty or clean, because everyone else was the same way. You began to notice people for what they were inside instead of outside,” says Patrick Moench, 17.

And the food wasn’t much like what the youth were used to either. But that didn’t seem to matter much to anyone, especially 17-year-old Ryan Parker.

“I don’t care how the food tastes ,” he says. “I just hope there’s lots of it.”

Our own little grandchildren are also learning at this point in their lives to love the scriptures. We are so delighted in their responses. For instance, three-year-old Joshua, who loves heroes in all stories, used to blurt out at the climax of each scripture story: “And then, who saves the day? Jesus saves the day!” Joshua was learning an important lesson: that Jesus really is our Savior. Even His name means “save.” Now in his prayers he prays about the characters that he has met on a daily basis. Once he prayed that Peter would not sink again, and then he prayed that the swine would not drown when they ran into the sea. Another time he prayed that Laman and Lemuel would be nice to Nephi. And we’ve even heard him pray for Jesus’ daddy, who is Heavenly Father. Joshua recently received his own real copy of the Book of Mormon from his nursery leader in Primary. He no longer wants his mommy to read from the Book of Mormon reader. He told her he likes the real words the best.

There is a young man in the Laie Park YSA ward who just recently got baptized. His name is Kyle Geroski. He shared with me a story that led him along his conversion path. Kyle was living in St. Louis Missouri. He had always felt in his heart a desire to do good and to serve others. But the environment he was in was not conducive to his desire. He wanted to change the path he was on and felt a prompting that he needed to leave his family and friends in Missouri. He acted on the prompting and made the decision to move to Hawaii to be with his Brother Dustin, who had joined the Church a few years earlier and was attending BYU-Hawaii. Dustin also happens to be the Ward Mission Leader for the Laie Park YSA ward.

Soon after arriving in Hawaii, Kyle had his first lesson with the missionaries. During the discussion, he shared how he seemed to have always known what was right in his heart, but how it seemed to be in conflict with his surroundings and what his friends were pursuing. The missionaries taught him about the light of Christ, and how it is given to us that we may know right from wrong. Learning about the light of Christ was something new and intriguing to Kyle. After that first discussion, he prayed that he could have a greater understanding of what the light of Christ is.

That evening, Kyle was walking down the street with a friend when they came across a gentleman taking out his trash. As it turns out, this gentleman was Elder Tanner, a service missionary serving here at BYU–Hawaii. They greeted Elder Tanner and talked with him briefly. Then Elder Tanner turned to Kyle and said, “I have something in my heart that I would like to talk to you about. Have you ever heard of the light of Christ?” He then proceeded to teach Kyle about the light of Christ. It was the very knowledge that he had been seeking and praying about just a few hours before. It was a testament to Kyle that the Lord hears and answers prayers. This experience solidified his desire to continue the missionary discussions and was instrumental in his decision to be baptized.

The Lord knew Kyle was seeking guidance and answers. The Lord also knew that Elder Tanner had the answers and was prepared to act. The prompting was given and Elder Tanner acted and was an instrument in the hands of God in fulfilling his purpose. Kyle was baptized last month, on his 22nd birthday.

Anyone who’s ever been to girls’ camp knows that it’s a lot of fun but also a lot of hard work. For Kelsey Mack of the Safford Arizona Fifth Ward, Safford Arizona Stake, mental and physical handicaps made the challenge of camping even greater.
When Kelsey decided she wanted to go to camp, her mom went to the youth leaders and asked if it would be a possibility. Much to her delight, all the leaders agreed to make it happen. Even more important, the girls rallied around Kelsey and really made her feel a part of all the camp activities.
After five days of crafts, outdoor skills, and other standard camp activities (many of which were tailored to fit Kelsey’s needs) Kelsey returned home happy and excited.
“You know, those girls really love me,” says Kelsey.

My friend Wendy is a fantastic cook. From the day she moved in down the street from our family, she has been sharing food with us. She always has an excuse: “This won’t fit in my fridge,” or “I made too much!” No matter what she says when she brings her offerings, what I always hear is, “I love you.”
I felt her love for our family particularly after one very difficult day. One of my children had recently been diagnosed with an eating disorder, and everything about food was getting complicated and stressful at our home.
One night my daughter and I were meeting with her therapy team. At this meeting she was given a meal plan, and I was tasked with making and planning three meals and three snacks for her every day. These meals and snacks had to meet certain dietary guidelines that would help restore her weight.
For me, this task was overwhelming. I’m not much of a cook, so receiving such specific guidelines and anticipating trying to get my reluctant child to eat so much food nearly brought me to tears. As we drove home, my mind fixated despondently on one thought: “I don’t have anything that’s right for her evening snack tonight.”
Arriving home, I trudged through the door and immediately smelled something delicious. There, sitting on the kitchen counter, was a loaf of banana bread Wendy had delivered while we were gone. It contained a grain, a fruit, and a fat—perfect for the evening snack we needed! Even better, my daughter ate it willingly.
When I called Wendy later to thank her for the bread, I didn’t share the backstory. She probably wondered why I was a bit emotional over her gift. Wendy didn’t know we were struggling. She had simply made “too much” banana bread and didn’t want it to go stale.
A few months later, as I listened to a podcast about being covenant keepers, I wondered what being a covenant keeper really means. Then Wendy’s gift of banana bread popped into my mind.
When Wendy followed her heart and brought us bread that day, she had mourned with those who mourned and comforted those who stood in need of comfort (see Mosiah 18:9), even without knowing the whole story. And it made such a difference.

From the day when father first brought home his truck, Clément was admiringly by his side. There was a wonder to all that chrome and steel, the thrill of thunder roaring under the hood. Clément wanted to climb in the cab, fire up the engine, shift the gears and roll through mile after mile of freedom. Whenever he could, he rode with his father, and he dreamed of the day when he would have his own rig and a route like his father’s to Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania.
Now, however, there was a competing dream. Not a barrier, not even a detour. A different road, but a good one.
“The prophet said it,” Mother would begin the conversation, like a dozen others already held in the kitchen. “All young men should serve a mission. You’re a young man. You should serve a mission.”
“But the openings in the military won’t wait. Or I could take that job working on cars. Or I could drive with Papa …”
“And those are better ways to spend the next two years?”
Clément would review his options, again and again and again. The chances for work were exciting, all that he’d hoped for. But the mission? It was a better thing.
He prayed. He spoke to the branch president, then the district president. He submitted his papers. One by one the obstacles to serving disappeared.
The job with cars would wait. He couldn’t get a license to drive a big rig for at least two years. He had signed a preliminary agreement with the military, but turned it down the same day his call to the Louisiana Baton Rouge Mission arrived in the mail.
Then Christine thought of another day, just last October. It was overcast, gray, cool. The heavy air smelled of rain. Papa and Clément were up early, as usual on a Monday. The big diesel engine was already throbbing, mildly vibrating the entire house.
Clément stuffed the compartment behind the cab with blankets, canned pudding, instant soup, snack food. He ran inside to get some tapes, his earphones, and a tape player.
Then he thought again, and laid them aside. This was his last trip to Mechanicsburg for two years. He and father would be talking all the way there, talking about his mission.

Many years ago, I went to a summer Scout camp with our son Justin. As the activities got underway, he excitedly announced that he and his friends wanted to earn the archery merit badge. Doing so required the boys to pass a short written test and hit a target with their arrows.
My heart sank. At the time, Justin was quite frail due to cystic fibrosis, a disease he had been battling since birth. I wondered if he could pull the bow back far enough to send the arrow to the target.
As he and his friends left for the archery class, I silently prayed that he would not be humiliated by the experience. A couple of anxious hours later, I saw him coming up the path toward me with a big smile. “Dad!” he exclaimed. “I got the merit badge! I got a bull’s-eye; it was on the target next to mine, but I hit a bull’s-eye!” He had pulled the bow back with all his might and let the arrow fly, unable to control its trajectory. How grateful I am for that understanding archery instructor who never said, “Sorry, wrong target!” Rather, upon seeing Justin’s obvious limitations and earnest effort, he kindly responded, “Good job!”

Several examples of hope and trust in the Lord have come to me from you, the young, beautiful, faithful students of this university. More than 10 years ago I had an excellent student in my Italian classes. Let’s call her Debbie. If she is listening, she will recognize her story. Debbie was always punctual to class and in her assignments. She had always been an A student in the several classes she had taken from me. That semester she was again enrolled in another one of my courses.

One day she had not arrived by 10:00 a.m, when the class began. It was the first time that she had been absent. I thought that she was probably ill. At 10 minutes after 10:00 a.m., she walked into the class and quietly sat down at one of the desks. I noted in my mind that that was strange and then went on with my lesson. At the end of the class she waited for everyone to leave and then approached me. She said, “Sister Noble, I am sorry I was late for class today, but last night I had my third miscarriage in a row.” Her eyes were glossy with tears for the sorrow of having lost a much-desired baby, and she was shaking a little. My dedicated, sweet, dear Debbie! I told her to go home immediately and to rest, and that we would worry about the assignments later. She was discouraged by the recurring problems in her desire to become a mother, but serene in her countenance and faithful in her attitude. She trusted in the Lord and knew that everything would be fine, that if she and her husband were faithful and strong the Lord would bless them—with or without children in this mortal life. I will never forget that day with Debbie. I admired her strength and faith and hoped that I could have a fraction of it myself. I told her “tongue in cheek” that I would fail her if I found out that she didn’t take the day off and get some rest.

A few years later I received a phone call from Debbie. She told me that she had two children and that she and her husband were very happy. Debbie, wherever you are, I will never forget you and your example.

Matthew has a strong sense of justice and often reminds his parents of family rules. Brother Thomson once wrote in his journal: “Tonight my son taught me a lesson. After I got really frazzled with the kids and yelled at them, Matthew came up to me and said, ‘Dad, why don’t you keep a rule that Mommy’s keeping? She’s made a rule not to raise her voice.’ I felt like I should just be quiet and listen.

“My wife and I are amazed at his ability to grasp doctrinal concepts,” Brother Thomson adds. “When we talk to him about gospel principles, he soaks it in like a sponge. He just loves listening and learning. He likes to discuss things and reason things through.”

Brother Thomson has told his children that a mission is like a university education in the school of life, and Matthew plans to enroll. His family helps him prepare for that experience as they helped him prepare for his baptism. For many weeks before he turned eight, the family home evenings were modified missionary discussions, preparing Matthew as any convert to the Church would prepare. When his baptism day came, he was thoroughly grounded in the covenants he was making and in the eternal meaning of this earthly ordinance.

Already looking ahead toward Rebecca’s, Deborah’s, and Hannah’s baptisms, the family has calculated that when Hannah is eight years old, Matthew will be a priest and able to baptize her. This has led to discussions about the priesthood.

One day the ward clerk telephoned me and asked, “Could you come see the bishop on Tuesday night?” I had heard from a neighbor that the local ward had a new bishop, but the news didn’t mean much to me because I had been disfellowshipped years before and had not returned to church. Now I assumed the new bishop wanted to extend a calling to me, and I imagined how awkward we would both feel when I explained my membership status. Still, I didn’t feel right saying no to a bishop, so I agreed to the appointment.
That is how I ended up sitting across the desk from the man who helped change my life forever. The bishop had a wonderful way of letting me know I was truly welcome. We chatted sociably for a little while, and then he asked me how I felt about the Church. I explained that although I didn’t have any hard feelings, I had been disfellowshipped several years before and had been told that if I repeated my transgressions, I would likely be excommunicated. Because I had been unsuccessful in repenting, I had made up my own mind that I was already excommunicated.
The bishop asked me if I felt any desire to discuss with him my present life in relationship to the commandments. At that point, I realized I did want to tell him everything—and it all tumbled out, accompanied by a lot of tears.
When I finished, he asked one simple question: “Will you just come back to church?” I said yes.
The bishop said he would talk to the stake president about whether another disciplinary council needed to take place, and then he would get back to me. It is hard to describe the hope I felt when I left his office. Months later, a Book of Mormon scripture helped me understand what had changed in my life that night: “And if ye have no hope ye must needs be in despair; and despair cometh because of iniquity” (Moro. 10:22). I left the bishop’s office filled with hope that I could repent, hope that I could become a worthy daughter of my Heavenly Father, hope that I could return to live with him one day.

Gose and Arouma decided to serve a senior mission for the Church of Jesus Christ after President Russell M. Nelson visited Australia and spoke about missionary service. They were called to serve in 2020 as welfare and self-reliance missionaries in the Australia Sydney Mission.
Although COVID affected the world during that time, they were able to continue their mission in Sydney. They learned to teach via video calls and taught English Connect as a pilot program.