Gospel Story Finder

Last year I went on a hike with my dad and brother. We hiked deep into the canyon. We soon started exploring a side trail. We found large caves and great lookout points. We climbed higher and higher over loose rocks and steep hills.
After a while we were completely lost. We didn’t know which way to go to get to the bottom of the canyon. We got stuck in thick brush, losing sight of both the top and bottom of the canyon. I started to get really frustrated. I did not know where to go, and neither did my dad!
It was getting dark and cold, and we were far from getting out of the canyon. I knew that Heavenly Father knew which way to go.
I said, “If we want to get out of here, we need to pray!” So the three of us knelt down in prayer, asking Heavenly Father to lead us out of the canyon.
As we started to walk, a feeling told me that when I saw a straight tall tree, I should turn left. After I turned left, I saw our car. I knew that Heavenly Father helped us get out of the canyon. Heavenly Father answered our prayer, and we made it out safely—just as the sun was setting.
I am so thankful for the power of prayer and for Heavenly Father’s listening ear.

I was grateful for that school year to end. The summer was a welcome escape from my old friends who didn’t understand why they saw less and less of me. I knew that the less I saw of them the easier it would be to begin repenting. Every day was a constant struggle. But, by the following August, I ended my relationships with all of those old friends. Some of them didn’t care. Some hated me and my new religion. Some were hurt and just didn’t understand. But I understood, and I knew that from then on I would always be different.

Illustrations by Jim Madsen
One weekend I visited a seaside resort in the south of England. While there, I wanted to get to a place called Fairlight Glen farther up the coast. As I started to walk up the coast, I saw a sign saying, “Do not walk along this section of the beach.” No other information was given, and I didn’t know why the instruction was placed there. I ignored the sign and continued up the coast to Fairlight Glen.
As I walked I noticed that the tide was coming in. On one side of me were very steep, almost vertical cliffs, and on the other side the sea was closing in. I realized that I could be trapped by the incoming tide. I panicked and started to run! The pebbles on the beach made it very difficult to run, and as I put my weight down, my feet would sink in and cause me to feel as if I were getting nowhere. Realizing that I might not make it to Fairlight Glen in time, I looked at the cliff face and considered climbing at a point that didn’t look as steep as the rest. But as I held on to the cliff face, the soft chalk rock gave way and there was no grip or support to climb up. Continuing to panic, I ran along the beach until I eventually reached Fairlight Glen, where there was easy access up the cliff face.
I now appreciate the wisdom of that sign near the coast. Although it was a restriction, it was also a protection from being trapped by incoming tides. Had I followed its wise advice, I wouldn’t have put my life in danger that day. I know the same is true for us when we choose to keep the commandments, because they are there to bless and protect us and keep us safe.

The Young Women of the Cedar Rapids Iowa Stake responded to the challenge presented by the stake Young Women leaders to read the Book of Mormon before they went to girls’ camp. The 63 girls who met the challenge were presented with a small vase, and those who attended camp signed a banner that said, “I Have Read the Book of Mormon.” The banner was sent to President Benson.

During camp, the girls and leaders were challenged to take home a Book of Mormon to give to a nonmember. The girls also added their comments to letters being written on long strips of paper that were sent to the full-time missionaries serving from their stake.

Besides learning more camping skills, the girls found that many testimonies were strengthened and new friendships made.

Once when I was too young to go to school, I waited till the older boys had gone with their books and then climbed high up in their huge, old cottonwood tree to where a rope was tied. I took hold of the handles of the pulley that hung from the rope, so scared I could hardly breathe, and after what must have been 15 or 20 minutes of trying to get up the courage, I finally kicked off into space, the wind in my face and the world rushing past in a breathless green blur. I knew before I jumped that I was going to feel like a bird flying, and I did! I whipped down the long rope to a dusty, end-over-end landing about half a block away, and then I ran home to Mom—a little battered and bleeding, but exultant. “I did it! I did it!” I can still remember how it felt.

In the private sanctuary of one’s own conscience lies that spirit, that determination to cast off the old person and to measure up to the stature of true potential. But the way is rugged, and the course is strenuous. So discovered John Helander from Goteborg, Sweden. John is twenty-six years of age and is handicapped, in that it is difficult for him to coordinate his motions.
At a youth conference in Kungsbacka, Sweden, John took part in a 1500-meter running race. He had no chance to win. Rather, his was the opportunity to be humiliated, mocked, derided, scorned. Perhaps John remembered another who lived long ago and far away. Wasn’t He mocked? Wasn’t He derided? Wasn’t He scorned? But He prevailed. He won His race. Maybe John could win his.
What a race it was! Struggling, surging, pressing, the runners bolted far beyond John. There was wonderment among the spectators. Who is this runner who lags so far behind? The participants on their second lap of this two-lap race passed John while he was but halfway through the first lap. Tension mounted as the runners pressed toward the tape. Who would win? Who would place second? Then came the final burst of speed; the tape was broken. The crowd cheered; the winner was proclaimed.
The race was over—or was it? Who is this contestant who continues to run when the race is ended? He crosses the finish line on but his first lap. Doesn’t the foolish lad know he has lost? Ever onward he struggles, the only participant now on the track. This is his race. This must be his victory. No one among the vast throng of spectators leaves. Every eye is on this valiant runner. He makes the final turn and moves toward the finish line. There is awe; there is admiration. Every spectator sees himself running his own race of life. As John approaches the finish line, the audience, as one, rises to its feet. There is a loud applause of acclaim. Stumbling, falling, exhausted but victorious, John Helander breaks the newly tightened tape. (Officials are human beings, too.) The cheering echoes for miles. And just maybe, if the ear is carefully attuned, that Great Scorekeeper—even the Lord—can be heard to say, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant” (Matt. 25:21).

Do you remember the joy that comes from teaching the gospel to someone who has been deprived of these teachings throughout his or her life, the excitement that comes when you teach the law of the Lord, and the blessings that are received from following Him? Could you ever forget the joy of your first baptism in the mission field?

In my day the chapels were not equipped with baptismal fonts. My first baptism was in the Scioto River in the state of Ohio, USA. It was on a cool fall day, and the water seemed even colder than the air. I remember the shock of wading into the cold river while encouraging my investigator to follow me. The coldness of the air and the water, however, soon vanished as I administered the ordinance of baptism. Seeing the radiant face of the individual who came up out of the waters of baptism is an image I will never forget.

Sometimes it takes years to find the truth, and for me and my family it took generations. Three generations, to be exact. But we had found The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints again. My great-great-grandfather, Chief Washakie, of the Shoshone Indian tribe, had been baptized many years before, along with the rest of the tribe, but the generations that followed them had fallen away. Now we had returned to the gospel, and I was the first missionary to be sent from the Wind River Branch out into the mission field.
The day I received my call was exactly two weeks after I had sent in my papers. Before opening the envelope I knelt down to ask my Heavenly Father if this was where he wanted me to go. I begged with all my heart that he would answer me, and the answer came with the same peaceful feeling I had received when I asked about the gospel before my baptism. “Yes, this is the mission I have chosen for you,” came the answer, and I quickly opened the envelope. I was called to the California Ventura Mission.
Once on my mission, as I prepared for a transfer, I thought back to all the spiritual experiences I had had. I remembered a humble woman who asked my companion and me, with tears in her eyes, why we hadn’t come sooner. I remembered a little ten-year-old we baptized who worked long hours in his neighbor’s garden so he could first earn money to buy a Bible and then go on a mission. I also remembered one sacrament meeting when a woman I had baptized came up to me and said, “It’s all because of you,” when she received a call to serve in the Primary. She practically radiated gratitude as she thanked me for coming to her door the afternoon we met.
All these experiences were a fulfillment of a blessing I had received before leaving on my mission that said I would bring many people into the Church who would become great leaders. But now I was facing a transfer that I was not excited about, completely unaware of what was in store for me in my new area. The transfer was to Agoura Hills, California. I believed my mission president was an inspired man, but why Agoura Hills? The area was very affluent but very low in baptisms. You could count on one hand the baptisms in that area for the past several years. I had been one of the top baptizers in the mission for several months, but now all that would probably change. Then I remembered the words from a song that was sung at my farewell: “I will go where you want me to go, dear Lord.” So I went.
It is every convert’s dream to find the missionaries who baptized him and let them know about the change they brought to his life with the gospel. I also had that dream, especially because so many members of my family had been baptized after the elders left our area. I was now serving a successful mission. I had a sister attending Ricks College, another sister on a scholarship at BYU, and a brother and a sister both preparing to go on missions. I had lost track of the elders who had converted me. I wanted to find them and let them know how many lives they had touched.
My second Sunday in Agoura Hills, just before sacrament meeting started, a man in the ward came up to me and asked me about myself. I told him I was from Wyoming, and he said they had sent a son on a mission to Wyoming. A sensation of electricity ran through my body, but I knew it was not likely that this was one of the elders that I knew. So I asked, “What mission? The Colorado, Utah, or Montana mission?”
He said his son had served in the Billings Montana Mission, and when I asked him if he had ever been in Lander, Wyoming, where I was converted, the man answered yes again. I asked him a few dates and names and soon discovered that the man I was talking with was the father of one of the elders who had converted me. I said, “Your son is one of the elders responsible for bringing me and my family into the Church.” The man immediately introduced his wife, and tears filled her eyes as she realized that she was seeing a direct result of the sacrifices she and her family had made to send their son on a mission. Brother Miller introduced me to other members of the ward, and every time he told them who I was he choked up. I sat in sacrament meeting with tears streaming down my face as I thought of the mysterious ways the Lord had worked in my life. Who could have predicted that Elder Miller would come to my home and I would go to his almost nine years later?
I was able to see Elder Miller again, and he looked the same except for the three little daughters clinging to his leg. I finally had the chance to tell him thank you. He too was overcome with emotion as he told me what a feeling of satisfaction he had, seeing someone he had taught having as much success in the gospel as my family and I were.
I am truly grateful for that family who gave so much to bring me and my family the gospel. Because of their sacrifices, we as Lamanites are fulfilling Nephi’s prophecy in 2 Nephi 30:6, where it says, “and many generations shall not pass away among them, save they shall be a pure and a delightsome people.” [2 Ne. 30:6]

One day while serving in the Chile Santiago East Mission, my companion, Elder Patricio Álvarez, and I received permission from our mission president to visit Elder Álvarez’s ailing grandfather in a local hospital.
When we located his grandfather’s room, we found two ancient men engulfed in extensive tubing and wiring. Two of Elder Álvarez’s aunts were there comforting his grandfather. Elder Álvarez quickly joined them.
I hung back, not wanting to intrude on this family moment. As I stood apart from the little group, I noticed the other patient in the room. He seemed unaware of anything around him. He stared through sunken eyes at the ceiling—his mouth gaping. His appearance startled me.
Suddenly a thought pierced my mind: Go comfort him!
No, I thought, he is too far gone for me to do any good. Besides, what would I say? He is a complete stranger.
But the thought came again: Go comfort him!
This time I thought of what Jesus Christ would do and realized I couldn’t do any harm by at least saying hello.
As I approached the man’s bed, it was difficult to walk; my feet didn’t want to move. I noticed a small yellow card that read “José.” I wondered, Where are this man’s friends and family? He is not just a name on a wall.
Then I realized he was looking at me. His eyes were full of pain. I tried to smile, but smiling didn’t seem right. I stood at the foot of his bed while I found enough courage to move to his bedside. Once there, I reached over, put my hand on his, and said, “Hi, José.” Giant tears rolled down his cheeks. Tears rolled down my cheeks as well. Our eyes locked; everything else faded away. Then he closed his eyes tightly and began to sob.
There we were—an old man and a young boy. I hummed Church hymns. He cried again several times, but each time he gave me a nod, letting me know he would be all right.
Thirty minutes passed quickly. My companion and I needed to leave. I didn’t know how to say good-bye to José. How could I possibly sum up what I had felt and thought? I bent over and whispered in his ear, “Jesucristo está contigo” (Jesus Christ is with you). He gave me one last nod, and we parted ways, never to see each other again in this world.
Someday I hope I have the chance to really get to know José.

Actually, the musical tradition started with Sally’s mother. As a little girl her mother lived in a rural area in Idaho, and she sold milk to earn money for piano lessons. She also managed to earn enough money to buy her first piano. Knowing that her mother had made sacrifices in her life to play the piano, Sally grew to love music as well, and she has passed this love of music on to her own children.
This is why Lindsey can claim a standing ovation not only from a New York audience in Carnegie Hall but also from the Young Women and Young Men in her ward after she performed for an etiquette night activity. To the Brintons, it doesn’t matter how big or small the venue is as long as they can share their talents with others—another tradition passed down from Sally’s mother, who was ward organist for 30 years and never turned down an invitation to perform, including for the ward Christmas party.

In my ward, we get a special medal for memorizing all the Articles of Faith. I earned my medal and took it to school for show and tell. I also took a copy of the Articles of Faith to show my class what I had memorized. My teacher asked if I could say all 13 to the class. I stood up and did it! My teacher followed along to make sure I got them right, and she was amazed that I could say all of those words. There is only one other member of the Church in my class. I was happy that I could be a missionary as I shared the Articles of Faith with my friends at school.
Grace C., age 7, Illinois, USA

I had the special opportunity two or three years ago, at the instruction of the First Presidency, to restore the priesthood and temple blessings of a man, somewhat older than I, who had been a respected and effective young missionary and leader in his mission. After his honorable mission, he lost his way and fell into serious transgression. He is now back and faithful, but he has lost so much and paid such a heavy price. I won't detail the carnage his carelessness created or the scars that remain. I pray that all of you can avoid this tragic path, even though we are thrilled when any prodigal son or daughter is able to make the necessary changes to come home.

This story happened in the USA.
Zack likes to run, jump, and play. Zack also has sensory processing disorder.
For Zack, that means he doesn’t like loud noises. And he likes to do the same things every day.
Every afternoon he plays with the same toy airplane.
Every night he reads the same bedtime story.
And every Sunday he sits in the same chair during Primary.
One day at church, all the kids practiced for the Primary program in the chapel. This was very different!
Zack doesn’t like it when things are different.
Mom had him stand in the front row so he had room to wiggle.
His friend stood next to him to help him feel better.
His teacher gave him headphones to make everything quieter. But Zack was still upset.
Then the music director and the Primary president had an idea.
Zack’s special job was just right for him! He was happy to feel Heavenly Father’s love.
Illustrations by Natalie Briscoe

The Laurels of the American Fork Utah 17th Ward held two fund raisers in order to earn money to buy a Book of Mormon in braille. Their work and organization paid off when they succeeded in raising enough money to buy the book. They presented their gift to Marion Boone.
Front row, left to right: Dee Harwood, class president, and Marion Boone.
Middle row: Heidi Gifford, counselor, Tonna Jorgenson, Brandi Maynard, Christine Chee, counselor.
Back row: Deanne Hansen, Jerilyn Johnson, Karen Preston, Andrea Glines, Vanese Nash, and Charlene Heaton, adviser.

Oliver Cowdery shared with the Prophet Joseph Smith many of the profound events of the Restoration, such as their baptism under the authority of John the Baptist, the conferral of the Aaronic Priesthood, the marvelous appearances in the Kirtland Temple, and writing with his own pen “the entire Book of Mormon (save a few pages) as it fell from the lips of the Prophet [Joseph Smith].” No one except the Prophet Joseph was more honored with the ministering of angels than Oliver Cowdery.

But when the Prophet Joseph fell upon hard times, Oliver was critical of him and became estranged from him. Despite the efforts of the Prophet to reach out the hand of fellowship to him, he became hostile to the Prophet and the Church and was excommunicated 12 April 1838.

A few years after the death of the Prophet, Oliver repented and expressed interest in coming back to the Church. In response, Brigham Young wrote on 22 November 1847, inviting him to “return to our father’s house, from whence thou hast wandered, … and renew thy testimony to the truth of the Book of Mormon.” Oliver appeared before the high priests quorum and said: “Brethren for a number of years I have been separated from you. I now desire to come back. I wish to come humbly and be one in your midst.—I seek no station. I only wish to be identified with you.—I am out of the church. I am not a member of the church. I wish to become a member of the church again. I wish to come in at the door. I know the door. I have not come here to seek precedence. I come humbly and throw myself upon the decision of this body—knowing as I do that their decisions are right and should be obeyed.”

He also bore his testimony in these words: “Friends and brethren my name is Cowdery, Oliver Cowdery. In the early history of this church I stood identified with [you]. … I … handled with my hands the gold plates from which [the Book of Mormon] was translated. I also beheld the interpreters. That book is true. Sidney Rigdon did not write it. Mr. Spaulding did not write it. I wrote it myself as it fell from the lips of the prophet.” Even though Oliver came back, he lost his exalted place in the Church.

Never feed the foxes! What does that mean? Breaking commandments is like feeding foxes. In England where we live, my wife and I had heard that foxes were right in town. We wanted to see a fox. A neighbor told us that if we left food for the foxes we probably would see one. Our butcher gave us some bones. Each night we would place some bones out in the backyard. Soon a fox came to eat. Then a few more. Now we have at least five foxes racing through our flower garden, digging up the lawn, and leaving a shamble every night, sort of like a furry Jurassic Park. What started out as a curiosity is now a problem, and sin is much the same. An indiscretion can begin a process that can make a mess of a whole life. Remember, if you don’t start feeding the foxes, they will never tear up your yard. If you avoid making the seemingly small and harmless mistakes, your life will be free of many larger problems later on. Be courageous by living straight. Create happy memories for yourselves and those around you.

On a pier in Copenhagen, Denmark, is a bronze statue of a young woman named Kristina. Kristina stands looking out to sea toward her goal to join the Saints in Zion. The wind is blowing against her fiercely, but she does not look back. She is steadfast as she presses forward doing a very hard thing, but one she knows to be right. I love that statue, for to me Kristina represents my own Danish great-great-grandmother who chose to join the Church amid great resistance. I am grateful for her courage and testimony. On her choice that day rested not only my eternal destiny but also the destiny of generations.

Rebecca opened the book, and on page 133 she found the name of Gideon Burdick and began to read:
“Gideon Burdick possessed qualities which endeared him to his family and friends. It is told of him that one day he went into the fields to labor and hung his coat upon a fence post. By night he found a little bird had built its nest in the sleeve. Rather than disturb the nest he left the coat there until the young were hatched and able to leave.”

I had this thought burned into my heart on a dirt road in the middle of the Congo. Three days into a seven-day journey we stopped our vehicle at a bridge. As we stopped, a group of children ran up to our car and began their daily effort to sell us something or hope that we would share some food with them. One little girl seemed particularly attentive to us. She pressed her nose against our car window and spoke in her native language. I had no idea what she was saying and so all I could do was smile at her. The idea popped into my mind to see if she could mimic the words I might say to her. So pointing at my mouth I said, "you say what I'm saying". Magically she seemed to understand. So I said, "I" and she repeated "I". I said, "am" and she repeated, "am". I said "a child", she repeated "a child". I said, "of God" she repeated "of God." "I am a child of God" and she repeated "I am a child of God". The mission president with whom we were riding began to sing the hymn. She looked at him and seemed to be thinking. At that moment the bridge guard waved us forward, and we left the children standing there. We travelled about fifty feet and were stopped again. Instantly the same little girl ran to our window and as clearly as any little child could say she repeated, " I am a child of God".
I don't know if anything changed for her, but my life view changed and it will never be the same. For me there was a window of light that opened in my mind and I recognized that all of these wonderful people of Africa were also loved children of our Heavenly Father who had stood in that grand pre-earth council of heaven with their arms fully extended in support of the Fathers plan to bring us home. They too had sustained the Savior's proposal.
I realized more clearly the expectation of our brothers and sisters from that pre-earth experience, to find them and help them remember who they are. In the spirit of love we promised to find them or at a minimum do the work for them in the holy temple.

At 12:15 A.M. I left the police station and climbed into the blue Alfa Romeo of the Italian carabinieri. I was putting in my obligatory year of service required of all Italian young men. I had been assigned to the police. My duty for that day was patrolling the cities of Jesolo and Cavallino, just northeast of Venice, from midnight to 6:00 A.M.
Suddenly the familiar sound of the radio caught my attention. “Avanti dalla trentuno,” I answered. My heart accelerated, anticipating the potential danger. Headquarters informed us that a bank robbery had just taken place in a rural town north of Venice. The officer stated that a policeman had been shot during the robbery. Four men were responsible and were supposedly armed with Kalashinikovs, a Soviet-made automatic weapon. They were apparently heading at high speed toward Jesolo in a white Lancia.
“Ricevuto,” I signed off, automatically reaching for the Beretta M12 under my seat. I turned to my partner and asked, “What are we going to do if we run into them?” His answer was cold and direct, “Shoot.”
My partner quickly shifted gears. My mind started reviewing all the different circumstances in which I could find myself in the next minutes. I was aware that our lives were in danger and realized that if we confronted four armed men, our chances were not good of staying alive. My partner was showing little emotion, and since his answer to my last question, he had not said a word.
Am I willing to die for this job and my country? was the question that arose in my mind. It was quickly answered by the words of the oath I had taken at the beginning of my service. I had promised to serve the country and the people of Italy and to protect them from any criminal acts or injustice, even by offering my life.
As our car turned into the main street of Jesolo, my right hand tightened on the grip of the M12. Am I ready to die? Am I ready to go back to meet my Heavenly Father? were the questions in my mind. I started thinking about my family, my life, and my testimony of the gospel. I pondered my weaknesses and almost instantly realized that my conscience was clean. I had no major regrets in my life and felt that I had apologized to all the people I had been unkind to. That thought gave me an incredible feeling of peace.
We did not confront the robbers that night. I concluded my one year of service in the police a few months later, never having to fire my gun. But I will never forget that winter night. It helped me realize how our Heavenly Father can call us back home at any time. I realized I wanted to be ready to leave this earth with the peace of a repentant and clean soul.