Gospel Story Finder

But I learned an important lesson from an argument I had with a family member. In this situation, we both felt strongly that we were in the right. I quickly got frustrated with how the discussion was going. I’m not a good debater, and he presented his points with a confidence that was hard to contradict. I did my best to state my points respectfully, but it didn’t seem to matter.
My words felt weak.
I felt weak.
I tried not to let my frustration get the best of me, but when he left, I broke down in tears. I felt discouraged and humiliated.
A couple of hours later, he came back. I braced myself for another frustrating argument, but his words surprised me.
“Thanks,” he said. “Thanks for listening.”
He told me how much it meant to him that I’d heard him out, even though I didn’t agree with him. In the end, neither of our opinions had changed, but we understood each other better.
What I had thought was a disastrous conflict turned out to be an opportunity to build a stronger relationship. That simple exchange made me think a lot about how I relate to others during conflicts and the importance of simply listening.

Some years ago, when our oldest grandson, Jose, was four, he was playing with my wife. While they were laughing and having a good time together, our grandson asked her, “Grandma, do you love me?”
She answered him, “Yes, Jose, I do love you.”
Then he asked her another question: “How do you know that you love me?”
She explained to him her feelings and also told him all she had done and was willing to do for him.
Later my wife asked Jose the same questions, including this penetrating inquiry: “How do you know that you love me?”
With an innocent but sincere response, he said, “I love you because I feel it inside my heart.” Jose’s loving behavior to his grandmother that day and always demonstrates that love is a combination of actions as well as deep feelings.

Throughout my life, there have been several moments when my testimony and convictions were put to the test. One such experience occurred while I was attending a business conference in Poland. At the end of the first day, the event’s host invited a small group of guests to a private dinner at a fancy restaurant. As we took our seats, the host asked the waiters to serve each guest a very expensive alcoholic beverage as a gesture of appreciation.

When the waiter approached me, I politely explained that I do not drink alcohol and that I would be happy to have any other beverage available. The waiter seemed somewhat confused and explained that this was a quite expensive drink and had been offered to all the guests as an honor. He added that refusing it might risk offending the host. As I continued to explain my reasons, the attention of the room suddenly turned toward me, and several guests began chanting, “Drink it, drink it.” In that moment, my mind was flooded with thoughts of who I was, the covenants I had made, and the blessings I could lose if I gave in to peer pressure.

I simply smiled and calmly told those around me that I appreciated the gesture but would remain with my non-alcoholic beverage. In the end, the host was not offended at all. And later that evening, one of the other participants approached me and thanked me for staying true to my convictions.

President Marion G. Romney tells of this incident which happened to him:
“I remember years ago when I was a bishop I had President Heber J. Grant talk to our ward. After the meeting I drove him home … Standing by me, he put his arm over my shoulder and said: ‘My boy, you always keep your eye on the President of the Church and if he ever tells you to do anything, and it is wrong, and you do it, the Lord will bless you for it.’ Then with a twinkle in his eye, he said, ‘But you don’t need to worry. The Lord will never let his mouthpiece lead the people astray.’” (Conference Report, October 1960, p. 78.)

This brings me to the story of Jose Cruz. The fulltime missionaries in my ward found this agricultural worker from Huahaca, Mexico living with other workers from Mexico in a small apartment in Waipahu last fall. Separated from his wife and four children for over a year to earn additional income to defray the costs of an expensive C-section delivery of his youngest daughter, Jose wanted to find a Church to attend while in Hawaii. His roommates recommended a Pentecostal church nearby, but the missionaries soon appeared at his apartment before he had a chance to make a decision on a church to attend. When they explained to me that Jose was willing to hear the Gospel, but only spoke Spanish, I found a member in the ward who had served in a California Spanish speaking mission, (who was in Hawaii only for the summer while accompanying his wife on assignment as a traveling nurse) to assist the fulltime missionaries on their teaching visits. I later enlisted the help of my nephew (and BYU-Hawaii student) Micah Kamoe, who had just returned from his Mexico City mission to go on exchanges with the missionaries in their teaching appointments. When Jose attended sacrament meetings and Sunday school, there was always a Spanish speaking translator at his side. Another brother in the ward whose mother was Peruvian later came forward, and he regularly accompanied Jose to Sunday school lessons to provide translation assistance.

Because of his regular attendance, Jose was soon befriended by a couple in the ward, the husband of which was serving in Army. Both husband and wife had served missions in Concepcion, Chile, and their children grew to love Jose as the family fellowshipped him. Brother Cruz joined the Church in January, and much of the baptismal program was presented in Spanish specifically for his benefit. It wasn't long before this fellowshipping couple began to reach out to Jose's family in Mexico, and missionaries were sent to his wife Lucelia. His wife had dreamed that Jose had found Jesus Christ in Hawaii while seeking for a church, and was astounded when she shortly received a picture of her husband at the Laie Temple Visitor's Center before the Torvaldsen statue of the Christus. She then knew that her dream had been had come to pass. His wife and three children were taught the Gospel and baptized within two weeks of the first visit of the missionaries in February. Another son fulfilling military service in Mexico has not yet received the Gospel, but Brother Cruz is excited to share the Gospel with him.

Vito Monte, a returned missionary in our ward from Costa Rica, now provides translation services for Jose in sacrament meetings and Sunday school.

I do not think that this Spanish speaking capability in a small ward in Ewa Beach is unique in the Church, but I do believe the willingness of the Church members to reach out to an individual far away from home in such a linguistically miraculous manner exemplifies what the Savior means by salt of the earth. In their acts of individual charity these members had certainly not lost their savor. Those of you with foreign language capabilities can bless the lives of many in your earthly sojourn.

The second area of your life that perhaps needs to be addressed is how you are spending your time. A young coed at this university had determined that she was going to succeed in one of the professions. That was first and foremost. A young man was dating her, wanting the relationship to deepen and perhaps lead to the temple. But she was involved in succeeding in her chosen profession to the injury, perhaps, of other possibilities.

Her boyfriend asked if I would talk with her while visiting BYU one day, so we did walk and talk together. I asked her a simple question, “What are your priorities?” “To be married eternally, to raise a family, to live the commandments. I would like to succeed in my profession. I enjoy going to school. I want good grades.”

Even though the last three were vital, none of them were number one. I then asked her, “Is that the way you are living?” She then knew that her boyfriend had asked me talk with her. She said she thought she was beginning to understand.

John Powell shares this touching experience:
It was the day my father died. . . . In the small hospital room, I was supporting him in my arms, when . . . my father slumped back, and I lowered his head gently onto the pillow. I . . . told my mother . . . :
“It’s all over, Mom. Dad is dead.”
She startled me. I will never know why these were her first words to me after his death. My mother said: “Oh, he was so proud of you. He loved you so much.”
Somehow I knew . . . that these words were saying something very important to me. They were like a sudden shaft of light, like a startling thought I had never before absorbed. Yet there was a definite edge of pain, as though I were going to know my father better in death than I had ever known him in life.
Later, while a doctor was verifying death, I was leaning against the wall in the far corner of the room, crying softly. A nurse came over to me and put a comforting arm around me. I couldn’t talk through my tears. I wanted to tell her: “I’m not crying because my father is dead. I’m crying because my father never told me that he loved me. Of course, I was expected to know these things. I was expected to know the great part I played in his life and the great part I occupied in his heart, but he never told me.” Never once a thank-you.

When President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) first conceived of building smaller temples, Utah sculptor Karl Quilter was asked to design a smaller version of the angel Moroni that could be adapted for placement on temples of different sizes. The process of creating the new figure began with the construction of a metal armature, or support structure. Foam was then sprayed into this structure and sculpted into a basic human body shape. Clay was then applied to the foam and sculpted into more detail. More clay was applied in order to sculpt the clothing. It took about eight months before Brother Quilter’s 7-foot-tall model was ready for the First Presidency’s review. Once it was approved, Brother Quilter scaled up his model to produce larger versions, and molds were made from the clay models. From these molds the figures were cast in fiberglass under the direction of craftsman LaVar Wallgren. Brother Quilter’s Moroni design is now used exclusively in the Church, and the Church owns the molds. About 10 figures can be cast from each mold. Today it takes less than a week to fabricate a figure.

When Elder David O. McKay was in Hawaii way back in 1921 he was “very strongly impressed” that the greatest need for the Saints in Hawaii was a Church School of higher learning and he decided to “write a letter to the first presidency recommending that one be built.” Thus a goal was established to build a college in Laie. However, the Church did little to realize that goal for about 30 years, until David O. McKay became President of the Church. Then in 1955 the Church established the Church College of Hawaii and that goal that President McKay had made 34 years earlier was finally fulfilled. As a result we have the privilege of studying and teaching at the most International University in the United States and one of the most beautiful campuses in the world. I am personally grateful that President McKay understood the importance of setting righteous goals.

We turned down a road that led to a group of cottages on the shore of a slow-moving river. It was a clear, warm day in late fall. The leaves on the trees had turned bright yellow and gold colors. It was my first day of door contacting as a missionary.
“Your door,” Elder Higgins said, smiling.
It was a small cottage near the edge of the water. Water sports equipment leaned against the side of the house. I cleared my throat and knocked firmly.
“I’m Elder Roberts and this is Elder Higgins. We have a message about the Savior we’d like to share with you,” I rehearsed.
The inside door opened, and behind the screen door stood a very pretty girl, somewhere between 17 and 20 years old, with blue eyes, long golden hair, wearing a swimsuit. The words, the carefully practiced lines I’d repeated a thousand times on the plane, at the mission home, in our apartment, and on the three-mile walk to this cottage, completely left my mind.
“Awk,” was all that came out when I opened my mouth.
Elder Higgins looked at me grinning and then turned to the girl.
“We’re ministers in the area, and we have a message about Jesus Christ we’d like to share with you and your family.” He gave her a Christ in America pamphlet and made an appointment to meet her family.
Elder Higgins had studied musical theater in college before his mission. My first day in the area had been a preparation day and while we were washing our clothes, Elder Higgins sang popular songs to the ladies in the laundromat. They loved it. He made five appointments while our clothes were drying. He sometimes sang to people at doors. I was just a little more reserved with people—shy and scared describe my feelings more closely.
“I’ll take the next couple of doors,” Elder Higgins said dryly. He made two more appointments and serenaded another woman.
“Want to try again?” he asked as we approached a group of houses next to a church.
I knocked on the door and stood back waiting. A tall man wearing a clerical collar opened the door and smiled at us.
“What can I do for you boys?” he said with a very proper British accent. He obviously knew who we were.
I glanced at the postbox as I swallowed and stepped back. “The Reverend Richard Cutts, Ph. D.,” it said.
What could I say to this man? How could I challenge what he believed? I whispered a quick prayer. I could see Elder Higgins getting ready to jump in.
It’s funny how much can go through your mind in a few seconds. I thought of my first Primary teacher, Oma Santos, telling the story of Moses and the burning bush; my Sunday School teacher, Cloe Davis, explaining the importance of Joseph Smith’s first vision; Velda Dalton teaching about the Sermon on the Mount; and my Uncle Elton talking about the restoration of the priesthood in deacons class. I grew up in a small town in southern Utah. None of my teachers had Ph.D. behind their name. None of them read Greek or Latin as Reverend Cutts most likely did. But it didn’t matter. What they knew was much more important.
“I’m Elder Roberts,” I said feeling, for the first time, the strength and importance of what I’d been taught, what I was here to teach. “This is Elder Higgins, and we’d like to tell you about the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
The expression on Reverend Cutts’s face changed. He looked a little surprised. “Come in,” he said, smiling.

Before Elder Ethan Glines left on his mission to Concepción, Chile, he thought his video-editing talents would have to be put on hold for two years. But when he was reassigned during the pandemic to Omaha, Nebraska, USA, his new mission president asked him to bring his camera gear to create social media content for the mission. When Elder Glines returned to Chile, he was able to continue using his video-editing talents through his assignment in the new role of social media specialist. Elder Glines saw this as another witness that God truly is in the details of our lives and “wants us to use our talents because He gave us our talents.” Missionaries around the world are using their skills to further the Lord’s work.

Way back in 1969, I was in South America. I flew from Argentina to Santiago, Chile. The Andes mountains were dry. There was no snow. The grass was burned. Chile was in the midst of a devastating drought.

The people pleaded for help in bringing moisture.

We dedicated two new buildings on that visit. In each of those dedicatory services we pleaded with the Lord for rain upon the land. I have the testimony of many who were in those meetings that the heavens were opened and the rains fell with such abundance that the people asked the Lord to shut them off.

On Sunday my bishop challenged every member of our ward to give out a copy of the Book of Mormon during the week. On Monday my family prayed to know who each person should give their Book of Mormon to. I felt like I should give mine to my preschool teacher, Miss Stacey. She attends a church right next to my ward building and has asked me a few questions about our church. During family home evening I marked the scripture passage Moroni 10:3–5 and bookmarked it with a pass-along card. I glued my picture in the front cover and wrote my name. I was so excited to give it to her! The next morning I walked to preschool and handed her the Book of Mormon. She smiled really big and said, “Thank you so much!” I’m so glad I accepted our bishop’s challenge to share a Book of Mormon.
Jackson M., age 5, Arizona, USA

Three years after losing our first baby, Brooke and I welcomed our daughter, Penny, into the world.
She is beautiful. She is full of light. And every time I hold her, I feel hope: Hope that God sees the full story. Hope that sorrow isn’t the end. Hope that joy can be born from mourning.
Penny doesn’t erase our pain, but she reminds us that God was never absent. He was with us in the silence. He was preparing something beautiful, something we couldn’t see yet. And here’s something I’ve come to believe with my whole heart: God doesn’t just want to hear from you when you’re thankful. He wants to hear from you when you’re sad. When you’re frustrated. When you’re angry, helpless, or confused. Not because He’s waiting to scold you, but because He loves you. Because you’re His. Because He’s a Father who wants a relationship, not just performance.

He, among the many that I have talked to, was not surprised at his call. It's one of the interesting common elements in the lives of most of our patriarchs that at some point in their lives there is a premonition, a herald, a whispering—this calling will come to you." I know even of one case where the General Authority walked in on a brother the morning of a Sunday and said, "Do you know why you're here?" And he replied, "Yes." "Are you willing?" "Yes." "Sit down." And he put his hands on him and ordained him a patriarch. He knew in advance.

John Taylor served as the Church’s presiding officer in Canada for two years. In March 1837, he went to Kirtland in the United States to meet with the Prophet Joseph Smith. At the time, the Church was suffering heavy persecution, and even some of the Apostles were leaning toward apostasy. Elder Pratt approached John Taylor and expressed some disapproval concerning the Prophet Joseph, to which Elder Taylor replied: “I am surprised to hear you speak so, Brother Parley. Before you left Canada you bore a strong testimony to Joseph Smith being a Prophet of God. … Now Brother Parley, it is not man that I am following, but the Lord. The principles you taught me led me to Him, and I now have the same testimony that you then rejoiced in. If the work was true six months ago, it is true today; if Joseph Smith was then a prophet, he is now a prophet.”6

Illustration by Clayton Thompson
I still remember that cold, crisp Sunday night in December. Our mom had just made her delicious potato soup with steaming vegetables for me and my brothers to take to a few of our neighbors. When she handed me a warm bowl of soup, she said, “This one goes to Ben’s house.”
I knew of Ben, but I’d never really seen or talked to him before. So I wasn’t very excited about dropping this soup off to him. As I walked over, I noticed the run-down home with leaves everywhere, and I decided I didn’t want to stay and try to get to know this stranger. I left the soup on the porch, rang the doorbell, and hurried away. But just before I crossed the street, I hid behind a bush and watched as a tall, delicate, older man opened his door and picked up the soup. But rather than rushing inside, he stood there for a moment and looked around to see who’d left it. As I watched him, he seemed very humble, with his knitted old sweater, simple black sweatpants, and worn-out shoes. Soon, I walked home, but I couldn’t get the picture of Ben on his porch out of my head.
As I sat down for dinner, my parents asked my older brother how the neighbor he dropped off the soup to was doing, then she asked my younger brother, and then she asked me. I paused hesitantly before saying, “Well, he’s doing fine, I think.”
My mom asked, “What did he say to you?”
I stared at the plate in front of me and mumbled, “I didn’t really talk to him. I just dropped it off and hurried back home.”
At this point my parents seemed less than happy about what I’d done—or perhaps what I had not done—so I asked them what they wanted me to do differently. In a loving way, they explained that the soup was not just something to give to the neighbors but an opportunity to get to know and spend time with others, which would’ve been far more significant than just a simple bowl of soup.
Later that week, I watched Ben’s home as I went out to get the mail. I noticed he hadn’t shoveled his driveway after it had recently snowed, and I ran home to ask my brothers for help. We got our shovels and hurried across the street to the home. The more I shoveled, the more I realized this man must be all alone here in this large and empty home. We finished shoveling, and Ben came out, smiled, and motioned for us to come inside. As we entered, we were surprised to see the house was beautiful, filled with pictures of his kids, grandkids, and even great-grandkids.
As we sat down, he handed each of us a piece of candy and thanked us one by one, telling us how happy he was to have company. Later he even mentioned the bowl of soup. “The soup was delicious, but I don’t know who dropped it off. I wanted to thank them and return the bowl.”
I smiled and said, “It’s my mom’s soup, but I dropped it off.”
He brightened and replied, “Thank you so much. It was so warm and delicious.” At that moment, I felt real love for this man.
He then pointed to a picture of his wife and explained that he’d lost her a few years ago. But at that moment, he seemed so happy.
My family and I still bring soup to Ben, mow his lawn, and shovel his driveway. We also now visit him and invite him to family events, like our sports games and dinners. He’s never failed to express his appreciation with a simple “Thank you!” and a piece of candy for each of us. I’m grateful for the lesson I learned that December day and for the symbolism of the soup. Anyone can give food, clothing, and money, but giving of your time and yourself is truly one of the most valuable of all gifts.

Sometimes I find myself under obligations of work requiring quiet and seclusion. … My favorite retreat is an upper room in the tower of a large building. … The room is somewhat difficult of access and relatively secure against human intrusion. …
I am not always without visitors, however, especially in summertime; for, when I sit with windows open, flying insects occasionally find entrance and share the place with me. …
A wild bee from the neighboring hills once flew into the room, and at intervals during an hour or more I caught the pleasing hum of its flight. The little creature realized that it was a prisoner, yet all its efforts to find the exit through the partly opened casement failed. When ready to close up the room and leave, I threw the window wide and tried at first to guide and then to drive the bee to liberty and safety, knowing well that if left in the room it would die as other insects there entrapped had perished in the dry atmosphere of the enclosure. The more I tried to drive it out, the more determinedly did it oppose and resist my efforts. Its erstwhile peaceful hum developed into an angry roar; its darting flight became hostile and threatening.
Then it caught me off my guard and stung my hand—the hand that would have guided it to freedom. At last it alighted on a pendant attached to the ceiling, beyond my reach of help or injury. The sharp pain of its unkind sting aroused in me rather pity than anger. I knew the inevitable penalty of its mistaken opposition and defiance, and I had to leave the creature to its fate. Three days later I returned to the room and found the dried, lifeless body of the bee on the writing table. It had paid for its stubbornness with its life.
To the bee’s shortsightedness and selfish misunderstanding I was a foe, a persistent persecutor, a mortal enemy bent on its destruction; while in truth I was its friend, offering it ransom of the life it had put in forfeit through its own error, striving to redeem it, in spite of itself, from the prison house of death and restore it to the outer air of liberty.

In 2003, having returned home from my mission, I married my wife, Karen. During the early stages of our marriage, we committed to take every opportunity to serve. We became temple workers and accepted callings that stretched us. Life was overwhelming but it was fulfilling. We were anchored in Jesus Christ, found joy in serving Him, and navigating the ‘droughts’ around us.

Then one night there was an experience where God taught me a powerful lesson about my relationship with Him.

Karen had just experienced a challenging birth and had been unable to walk for a couple of months. I was juggling work, a stretching calling, and university assignments. It was 10 p.m., and I was stressed about an assignment due the next day. Then the phone rang. A sister from the ward was at her breaking point and pleaded for a blessing. I looked at Karen seeking her approval, and she simply looked at me and nodded, as if to say, "Asa, go, please you are needed."

As I hung up, an overwhelming weight came over me. I was exhausted and felt I had nothing. With a gentle nudge, Karen suggested we pray. Lying in bed, unable to walk, she pleaded that I would have the strength to accomplish all that God required of me. I got up, gave her a hug, and went to give the blessing. As I did, I was reminded of the Lord’s promise that 'My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness.'[7] I was weak, but I felt His strength that night. After giving the blessing, I returned home, finished my assignment, and God worked the necessary miracles in both our lives.

Many years ago an associate of mine decided he would please his wife by sharing with her a specific compliment each night as he arrived home. One night he praised her cooking. A second night he thanked her for excellence in housekeeping. A third night he acknowledged her fine influence on the children. The fourth night, before he could speak, she said, “I know what you are doing. I thank you for it. But don’t say any of those things. Just tell me you think I am beautiful.”
She expressed an important need she had. Women ought to be praised for all the gifts they possess—including their attentiveness to their personal appearance—that so unselfishly add to the richness of the lives of others. We must not let ourselves go and become so casual—even sloppy—in our appearance that we distance ourselves from the beauty heaven has given us.