Gospel Story Finder

Really loving people hasn’t been tried very often in the world of international relations, and it’s rare even in the world of national affairs. But at least one very notable experience comes to mind. Gandhi was the man who led India to her independence. Many have seen the film recently made of his life.

Remember how he began to realize that turning the other cheek and doing good for hateful deeds would unloose great powers for his people? One distraught Moslem man came to him in his suffering. His son had been killed by the Hindus; in retaliation he took the life of a small Hindu boy. Heavyhearted, he sought relief from Gandhi. And Gandhi told him he could find comfort if he would find an orphaned Hindu boy and raise him as his own . . . only he was to raise him as a Hindu—not as a Moslem. There is a sacrificing in love—a sacrificing that brings immortality. Gandhi suffered a great deal, but ultimately millions of people were granted more freedom. Only the assassin’s bullet cut his life short. One wonders what he might have contributed further to sacrifice and vulnerability in the development of the new nation had he lived.

A long line of cars and large trucks sped along the freeway through the steady rain, tires hissing on the wet pavement. Water squirting from under the wheels of the trucks formed a curtain behind each speeding colossus. Every time we passed one of those road giants, a streaming shower blocked our view.
Often, when a long line of cars was in front of us, we had to drive for minutes beside one of those enormous vehicles. Shivering with fear, my wife would look up at the monster that thundered along only a couple of meters away from us.
I grumbled to myself because we had left so late that I had to hurry in these dangerous weather conditions to arrive on time for our appointment.
Suddenly we heard a mysterious sound against the side of the car. It went “klack-klack-klack-klack,” sounding like the first four beats of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony, of which the composer said, “That’s the way fate knocks at the door.” The sound repeated itself every so often.
I stopped the car in the emergency lane and inspected the tires and the body of the car. I could find nothing that could have caused this knocking sound, so we continued our trip. After several kilometers, we heard the same knocking sound. I stopped and inspected the car again. Nothing was to be found. But when I stopped a third time, I did discover something—a bump on one of the tires that slowly grew to the size of a coconut!
When the mechanic who came to change the tire inspected the inside of the tire, he whistled fearfully. Even though the tire had been new, it had a big tear in the canvas—a factory defect. “You couldn’t have driven another kilometer with this,” the man said. “The tire would have had a blowout.”
I shivered with the thought of what could have happened if we had had a blowout when we were driving next to one of those huge trucks. That day, I clearly felt the protecting power that we so often plead for in our daily prayers.
Years later, one stormy night. I felt that protection again. We were a little older and little bit more forgetful. The wind roared around the house and gusted at doors and windows. However, inside it was quiet and safe, and we slept warm and comfortable.
The next morning, we awoke, said our morning prayers, and went downstairs. In the kitchen, we had the scare of our lives! There was a strong gas smell, and the kitchen door, which we normally locked tight, was wide open in the wind. Without realizing it, we had left the gas knob of the stove wide open and the door unlocked. Somehow the storm wind had blown the door open. Had the door not been open, the gas would surely have been ignited by the flame in the water heater, causing a potentially serious explosion.
We are not wise people, just a simple couple striving to keep the covenants we made with Heavenly Father when we were married in the temple. We feel protected. Perhaps we are protected many more times than we even realize. Certainly, we believe that it was the hand of our Heavenly Father who saved us twice from misfortune.

One day I was in the library of our high school viewing a filmstrip on a small projector. I was sitting in a booth, and nearby I observed a girl I knew slightly taking a makeup test for her French class. When I walked past her to take a filmstrip back to the audio-visual desk, I saw that she was looking up test words in a French dictionary. Shortly after, a student audio-visual assistant came by. When he saw that the girl was cheating, he questioned her and they talked for several minutes. The A-V assistant said he would not tell on her it she stopped cheating right then. After he had gone she continued using the French dictionary. What should I have done? What should I do now?
Many times during our youthful years we see the friends that we grow up with do wrong things, all the way from cheating on tests to immorality. And we seem to think it is none of our business. But in Ezekial 3:17–19 [Ezek. 3:17–19] it says that we have been made “watchmen unto the house of Israel: therefore hear the word at my mouth, and give them warning from me.
“When I say unto the wicked, Thou shalt surely die; and thou givest him not warning, nor speakest to warn the wicked from his wicked way, to save his life; the same wicked man shall die in his iniquity; but his blood I will require at thine hand.
“Yet if thou warn the wicked, and he turn not from his wickedness, nor from his wicked way, he shall die in his iniquity; but thou hast delivered thy soul.”
So it really is our business. Now, if we tell them that what they are doing is wrong, we will probably have to put up with a lot of persecution. But we will also save some souls if we tell them that they are wrong and share the gospel with them. After all the persecution that Jesus Christ had to take to save us, shouldn’t we sacrifice a little pride or whatever in trying to save the souls of our fellowmen?
Stephen R. SchroederPayette, Idaho

Elder Richard G. Scott: “During the dedication of the Mexico City Temple, I had one of those singular experiences that readjusts the course of a life. It occurred during the eighth dedicatory session where many of the men and women leaders of Mexico and Central America were present. When unexpectedly asked to speak, I attempted to convey the strong impressions that poured into my heart. I spoke of those beyond the veil who, in fulfillment of prophecy, had served, suffered, and given greatly to form the foundation which permitted the opening of a new era of the work.

“I expressed a feeling to plead in behalf of former prophets who had prepared and protected the sacred records of the Book of Mormon. I sensed that they were saddened as they see us walk from place to place with unopened Book of Mormon under our arm or see it kept in homes where it gathers dust and is not read, pondered, nor its contents applied. …

“I witnessed that it is not sufficient that we should treasure the Book of Mormon, nor that we testify that it is of God. We must know its truths, incorporate them into our lives, and share them with others. I felt an overwhelming love for the people and an urgent desire that all would comprehend the value of the Book of Mormon” (General Conference, October 1988).

It was a dry year when Mona and George Dunn decided to grow sugarcane on their farm near Lautoka. After six weeks without rain, the Dunns and the contractor whom they had hired to plant their crop feared that the seedlings would not survive. Brother and Sister Dunn and their sons fasted and prayed. As they returned from church the next Sunday, they met the contractor. “You are very blessed,” he said. “It has rained just enough to keep your cane alive.”
Later, when their water tank had nearly run dry, the Dunns again prayed for rain. As they sat on their veranda a few nights afterward, they saw a patch of clouds. “Wouldn’t it be marvelous if it poured right now?” said Sister Dunn.
“It will,” replied her husband.
And it did. The storm filled their tank to overflowing—but did not wet the road leading to their home.

Originally from Fiji, Reena Naidu’s family moved to Sydney, Australia, when she was young.
She discovered her gift for art in high school when an assignment required her to submit a self-portrait. “At about the same time, I read a Church talk about developing our talents and I felt inspired to develop my artistic skills,” Reena says.
She followed that inspiration to the National Art School in Dalinghurst, Sydney, where she earned a master’s in fine arts. Today she is a manager for an art supplies company where she helps others select the right materials for their art projects.
For her own work, Reena prefers ink, watercolour and acrylic paints.
“My subject matter includes, but is not limited to, landscapes, seascapes, portraits and more. I also have a strong desire to create works that are inspired by my faith and look forward to creating more religious and spiritual art.”
Her selected work is called “The Sacred Grove.” It is based on a photo given to her by a missionary couple who had visited the Sacred Grove in New York. Reena began work on this piece in 2020 while watching a general conference talk about young Joseph Smith’s experiences there.
“As I listened, I got lost in the moment and I was drawn into the photo . . . I felt the Holy Spirit guiding my hand.”
For Reena, the grove is a reminder that God loves and hears His children. “The Restoration of the gospel, beginning with the appearance of Deity in that wood, provides a way for all of humanity to receive God’s blessings.”

Sometimes, though, we won’t have or notice angels around us when we feel we need them. A number of years ago I was having a particularly tough day. I prayed, asking for help, and I had a thought: to invite a new friend to a movie. I doubted myself: How can I be a friend to someone when I feel like this? But I did invite her—and you know what happened? She came to the movie with me. I did feel a little better, and I assumed that this was why I felt that prompting. But that is not the reason I remember this day. The reason I remember this day is because I found out later how important my call and calls from others were to my friend. Those calls let her know that she was not alone during a time when she felt hopeless. We served as angels to each other.

When I turned 17, I started thinking seriously about my future, and I prayed to Heavenly Father about what I could do to prepare to go on a mission and receive the Melchizedek Priesthood. I felt that I ought to go to the temple more often because it is the house of the Lord and would be the place where I could feel closest to my Heavenly Father.
So I set a goal to do 1,000 baptisms in a year. I truly felt the need to set this goal; I fasted to know if this was what I ought to do. Our Heavenly Father answered me, and I began to go to the Tampico Mexico Temple every Saturday.
After I had done 500 baptisms, I set a goal to do family history research on my ancestors, and I liked doing the research so much that I could not sleep because I was looking for names. I found 50 names and eight generations of my family history; I helped do the temple work for all of them.
I ended up doing over 1,300 baptisms, and I graduated from seminary, received the Melchizedek Priesthood, and am now serving as a full-time missionary, which was one of my biggest goals in life.

A true story from New Zealand.
On the day before Easter, Freddy woke up early. He looked beside his pillow, excited. He always got a marshmallow egg for Easter. But his smile drooped into a frown. There was no egg for him!
Freddy looked over the side of the bunk bed. “Matilda!” he yelled at his sister. “Did you steal my Easter egg?”
“No,” she said. “My egg isn’t here either!” Matilda pointed to her pillow.
The noise woke up Freddy’s other siblings. All seven of their Easter eggs were missing!
“What’s all this shouting?” Mum asked.
“Someone stole our eggs!” Freddy said.
“No one stole them,” Mum said. “We didn’t buy any this year.”
“No Easter eggs?” Freddy cried. “But we always get one!”
“Easter is about more than just eating treats,” Mum said. “It’s a special time to think about Jesus Christ.”
Freddy frowned. Ever since Dad changed jobs, Mum and Dad said no a lot more. No daytrips. No takeaway food. And now even Easter was ruined!
“I know you’re upset,” Mum said. “But we can still enjoy special Easter eggs today. Come on!”
In the kitchen, Dad had a basket of eggs. Freddy groaned. “Those are just the chickens’ eggs.”
“Are we going to dye them?” asked his older sister Celeste.
Mum nodded. “But first we have to boil them.”
Freddy didn’t like waiting. He was glad when Mum said the eggs had boiled enough. “Finally!” he said.
“Hang on,” Mum said. “They still need to cool.”
Freddy groaned louder. Not more waiting!
Next, Mum helped them make the dye. They mixed vinegar with hot water and put in drops of food coloring. Freddy liked watching the drops swirl through the water.
“What color will you choose?” Celeste asked.
“Blue!” Freddy said.
The eggs soaked in the dye for a long time. But Freddy didn’t mind waiting. Not this time. It was fun being with his family. He thought about what Mum said—how Easter was about more than eating treats.
“Mum,” Freddy said, “I think I get how Easter eggs help us remember Jesus Christ’s Resurrection.”
She smiled. “And how is that?”
“I really like my dyed egg,” he said. “But it took lots of time. All that waiting was hard. Then I thought of how the disciples had to wait even longer for Jesus Christ’s Resurrection after He died on the cross.”
“You’re right,” Mum said. “It wasn’t easy for them to wait either. But the Savior did rise again. And now your ordinary chicken eggs are beautiful dyed ones.”
Freddy smiled at the brightly colored eggs. They weren’t yummy like marshmallow ones, but they were special. Freddy hoped they would get to dye eggs again next year.

A while ago I was walking through a beautiful garden with my wife and daughter. I marveled at the glory and beauty of God’s creation. And then I noticed, among all the glorious blooms, the tiniest flower. I knew the name of this flower because since I was a child I have had a tender connection to it. The flower is called forget-me-not.
I’m not exactly sure why this tiny flower has meant so much to me over the years. It does not attract immediate attention; it is easy to overlook among larger and more vibrant flowers; yet it is just as beautiful, with its rich color that mirrors that of the bluest skies.
As a child, when I would look at the little forget-me-nots, I sometimes felt a little like that flower—small and insignificant. I wondered if I would be forgotten by my family or by my Heavenly Father.
Years later I can look back on that young boy with tenderness and compassion. And I do know now—I was never forgotten.

Sharing the jail with Joseph was his brother Hyrum, ever faithful at Joseph’s side. We have yet to pay Hyrum his due. Alas, we have little from his pen, but his actions spoke for him. However, on 16 March 1839, he wrote from Liberty Jail to a Sister Grinnal who was nursing Hyrum’s wife, Mary Fielding, to his daughter, Lovina, and to a girl, Clarrinda. To Clarrinda he wrote:
Let mother give you one of the Books of Mormon & write your name in it. I want you to seek every opportunity to read it through. Remember me both night and morning in your prayers.
To Lovina he wrote:
You may have my small Book of Mormon. You must try to read it through. Pray for your father that the Lord may help him to come home. [Letter used with permission of Elder Eldred G. Smith, in whose possession it is.]
In the extremity of jail, Hyrum, so much at the center of things, joined Joseph in stressing the Book of Mormon.

A Super Fireside including everything from dancing to milking cows was planned and carried out by the youth of the Bozeman First Ward, Bozeman Montana Stake.
With a core group of about 15 youth doing the planning and organizing, all of the youth from the Bozeman and Helena Montana stakes were invited.
The event began with a roast beef dinner followed by a speaker. The older youth pushed back the tables for a dance, while the deacons and Beehives traveled to another location for get-to-know-you games and a magic show.
Early the next morning, the group assembled dressed in work clothes for the day’s activities. After breakfast and an early-morning speaker, the group departed for the stake dairy, the largest dairy in the Gallatin Valley.
Assignments were made for the service project. Some painted the siding on one of the homes. Some helped put up fence. Others painted the calf pens, and the lucky ones got to clean out the barn. With a few paint and water fights, the work was finished in time for lunch in the hayloft. It had been a great success for both the youth and those they served.

Experience Helps Us Understand Our Heavenly Father’s Love for His Children

I have asked young missionaries, “Do you know what the word father means?” They say, of course, they do know. I respect their answer, but deep down I think, “You know so very little.” They do know what the word father means, but their knowledge is immature.
To you who are married and have a child, the word father takes on a new meaning; the word father comes into clearer focus.
Perhaps there will come a day when a doctor tells you, “I think you are not going to keep this one.” Finally, you learn about the Father and about yourself.
We had been married for nine years when we first heard those words from the doctor: “I’m afraid you’re not going to keep this one.” As parents, we looked at our tiny baby son and did the only thing we could do. He was named and given a father’s blessing in the hospital. We prayed, had faith, and said aloud, “Thy will be done.”
Hours passed, and then days. The doctors and nurses continued to work with our son.
At last we heard the words from the doctor, “I believe you will keep this one.”
As parents, we grew in understanding and strength and drew closer to each other and to the Father.
Thirteen years later, in a much larger hospital, that experience was repeated with our tenth child. He was given a name and a father’s blessing in the hospital. We prayed, had faith, and once again said aloud, “Thy will be done.”
Hours crept slowly by. Once again we were greatly blessed. He would live. The lessons learned years before had been repeated.
Such experiences will teach you what father and mother mean. Then you know that you would give your life if that little son could live to experience mortality. You then can begin to understand our Heavenly Father. Then you will truly know what the words father and mother mean.

Several years ago, I had two late miscarriages. Upon hearing I was miscarrying for a second time, my friend April, who had just given birth to twins earlier that week, showed up on my doorstep with a meal and a warm embrace. She hugged me and cried with me. Words weren’t needed, she was just there. Incidentally, she is the creator and voice of all the Pathway Connect math lessons. I’ll bet she’s rescued a lot of you in some of your darkest days as well.

After the miscarriage, I tried to get back into the swing of things, but a couple of weeks later, I had a breakdown where I couldn’t stop crying for a day or so. My husband, Brent, tried to console me and wanted to fix whatever was wrong. Although I knew there was a logical reason for these losses and I wasn’t consciously grief-stricken, something deep inside of me was broken. Aside from my husband, I could have called a friend, a sibling, or my parents, but I was too proud to reach out for help. I mistakenly felt like I needed to be a pillar of strength in my ward and my family because my husband was the bishop and my parents were preparing to leave for a mission.

In desperation, Brent called my friend Donna, who lived about 40 minutes away. She was a busy mother of seven, but she dropped everything that Saturday afternoon to come and be with me. She held me, cried with me, and brought me some food. In a matter of hours, the sadness lifted.

Heavenly Father loves us and wants us to help one another face the trials of life. My two friends honored their baptismal covenants and succored me just as it reads in Mosiah. They were “willing to bear . . . another’s burdens, that they may be light . . . and [were] willing to mourn with those that mourn . . . and comfort those that stand in need of comfort.”[13] We need each other. We need friends, family, neighbors, and coworkers. We need to minister to one another, not just as a calling, but as disciples of Jesus Christ who are trying to be like Him.

Brother Artel Ricks tells an interesting story of an inspired Primary teacher. Artel was a little boy five or six years old. One night his family sat around the dinner table and talked about tithing. They told him “that tithing is one-tenth of all we earn and that it is paid to the Lord by those who love Him.”
He loved the Lord, and so he wanted to give the Lord his tithing. He went and got his savings and took one-tenth of his small savings. He says: “I … went to the only room in the house with a lock on the door—the bathroom—and there knelt by the bathtub. Holding the three or four coins in my upturned hands, I asked the Lord to accept them. [I was certain He would appear and take them from me.] I pleaded with the Lord for some time, but [nothing happened. Why would He not accept my tithing?]. As I rose from my knees, I felt so unworthy that I could not tell anyone what had happened. …
“A few days later at Primary, the teacher said she felt impressed to talk about something that was not in the lesson. I sat amazed as she then taught us how to pay tithing [to the bishop, the Lord’s servant]. But what I learned was far more important than how to pay tithing. I learned that the Lord had heard and answered my prayer, that He loved me, and that I was important to Him. In later years I came to appreciate still another lesson my Primary teacher had taught me that day—to teach as prompted by the Spirit.
“So tender was the memory of that occasion that for more than thirty years I could not share it. Even today, after sixty years, I still find it difficult to tell about it without tears coming to my eyes. The pity is that a wonderful Primary teacher never knew that through her, the Lord spoke to a small boy” (“Coins for the Lord,” Ensign, Dec. 1990, 47).

Last Wednesday I was in Idaho and telephoned to Phoenix and learned that President Hinckley was trying to reach me. I called him that morning and made an appointment to see him Thursday afternoon. Wednesday afternoon I joined with other members of my family at the funeral of my mother, who had passed away here in Salt Lake City the previous Sunday at the age of ninety-five. She joined my father, who had preceded her twenty-two years ago, and my wife, who had joined him four years ago.
I am grateful for them. I have prayed since Thursday afternoon that a kind and loving Heavenly Father would let them who had been such an influence in bringing me to this position be aware of it. I am confident they were.
I promised President Hinckley on Thursday afternoon, and now tonight I would like to do so again to the First Presidency, the Quorum of the Twelve, and these other Brethren that I desire to dedicate my all and serve to whatever extent I am asked.

Amy was baptized this year. “My daddy baptized me, and he made me stay under the water for a long time to make sure I was all the way under.” When she came up, she took a big breath and said, “I’m all clean.” Later, she added, “I felt really different when I was baptized. I felt clean afterward and wanted to stay clean.” Whenever Amy has to make a hard decision, she asks herself, “What would Jesus do?” She always tries to help people and even animals who need help.

As a special witness of Jesus Christ, Elder Ashton always keeps in mind his mission to lift and teach others. Once one of his friends who was inactive in the Church was about to send his son on a mission. When Elder Ashton heard of this, he made an appointment with his friend, just to put his arm around him and say, “Wouldn’t it be nice if he were going into the mission field as your son for time and all eternity?” The inactive brother soon prepared himself and his family for the blessings of the temple.

I had the same problem. After a friend got his, the pressure was on. My parents were asking me to think about it, and my seminary teacher did the same. Up to this point I had done nothing that concerned prayer or reading the scriptures. I did both and decided to receive my patriarchal blessing. I think what I’m trying to say is don’t let friends or family members pressure you into it, but pray, read your scriptures, and make your decision based on what you feel is right.
Boyce Campbell, 14Bakersfield, California

The neonatal resuscitation training concerns in Ghana mirror those of Lesotho and Uganda. Dr. David Gourley, a Salt Lake City physician and member of the Humanitarian Services advisory committee, reported that “a simplified course designed for rural midwives and community nurses will provide basic resuscitation skills and equipment necessary to lower Ghana’s infant mortality rate.”
Dr. Gourley related the following account from a recently trained midwife: “Dora attended a breech delivery. She thought the baby was dead because he was floppy and not breathing. Dora went through the initial steps of resuscitation. She needed only to correctly position the baby’s airway and suction with a bulb syringe before the baby began breathing and tone improved. Today the baby is thriving.”