Gospel Story Finder

When I was working as a volunteer with the Headstart Program, there was a four-year-old boy who had a hard time adjusting to his new situation—being in a new school with other children, an unfamiliar teacher, and a 17-year-old teacher’s aide. I really didn’t understand what it was like to be without a lot of life’s luxuries. Each day this little boy would come to school crying. He would come and sit on my lap and tell me what was on his mind. He would tell me about his family, things he thought about, what he liked and didn’t like, what he worried about, and just anything he wanted to talk about. This would last for the first 15 minutes, and then he would go and play with the other children and do what the teacher had planned.
One day after one of these sessions, I ran across a quote that seemed to fit this situation: “Understand men and women as they are—not as you are.”
I knew this meant little children as well as adults. People want to be understood regardless of their age. When I read this statement, I wanted to understand this little boy. I just had to understand why he cried. Well, these sessions went on every morning for about three weeks. The more I understood him, the more I loved him. Then one bright Monday morning he smiled at me and said, “Teacher, I am big now!”
He then went and played with the other children. He still knew I was there when he wanted to talk. He knew I understood and would listen, and during the summer we had many experiences together. He knew the teacher, and he loved to learn new things. He knew the other children and knew that they were his friends.
On the last day of school he said to me, “Teacher, you’re my best friend!”
We haven’t seen each other since, but the lessons he taught me that summer won’t be forgotten for many years to come. We were friends because I had taken the time to listen and understand him as he was.

The wind was whistling in from Darlington Bay as the boys tried to put up their tents. They struggled alone and in pairs until they quickly learned that it required more help and cooperation than pairs could muster. With many hands and backs bent to the task the tents came up, one by one, and now they stayed up. Pegged tight against the Tasmanian soil, they withstood the stiff sea breezes that are not all that far from Antarctica.

When I was a young man, I was inducted into the United States Army Air Corps. One cold night at Chanute Field, Illinois, I was given all-night guard duty. As I walked around my post, I meditated and pondered the whole miserable, long night through. By morning I had come to some firm conclusions. I was engaged to be married and knew that I could not support my wife on a private’s pay. In a day or two, I filed my application for Officer’s Candidate School. Shortly thereafter, I was summoned before the board of inquiry. My qualifications were few, but I had had two years of college and had finished a mission for the Church in South America.
The questions asked of me at the officers’ board of inquiry took a very surprising turn. Nearly all of them centered upon my beliefs. “Do you smoke?” “Do you drink?” “What do you think of others who smoke and drink?” I had no trouble answering.
“Do you pray?” “Do you believe that an officer should pray?” The officer asking these questions was a hard-bitten career soldier. He did not look like he prayed very often. I pondered. Would I give him offense if I answered how I truly believed? I wanted to be an officer so that I would not have to do all-night guard duty and KP and clean latrines, but mostly so my sweetheart and I could afford to be married.
I decided to be honest. I admitted I did pray and that I felt officers might seek divine guidance as some truly great generals had done. I told them I thought officers should be prepared to lead their men in all appropriate activities, if the occasion requires, including prayer.
More interesting questions came. “In times of war, should not the moral code be relaxed? Does not the stress of battle justify men in doing things that they would not do when at home under normal situations?”
I recognized that here was a chance perhaps to make some points and look broad-minded. I suspected that the men who were asking me this question did not live by the standards that I had been taught. The thought flashed through my mind that perhaps I could say that I had my own beliefs, but I did not wish to impose them on others. But there seemed to flash before my mind the faces of the many people to whom I had taught the law of chastity as a missionary. In the end I simply said, “I do not believe there is a double standard of morality.”
I left the hearing resigned to the fact that these hard-bitten officers would not like the answers I had given and would surely score me very low. A few days later when the scores were posted, to my astonishment I had passed. I was in the first group taken for Officer’s Candidate School! I graduated, became a second lieutenant, married my sweetheart, and we have “lived together happily ever after.”

Does hiking 16 miles in the Arizona desert pulling a handcart sound like a good time? Well, for more than 225 young men and young women in the Mesa Arizona Kimball East Stake it was a great time.
The “trekkers” marched 12 miles the first day along the original Mormon Battalion Trail southwest of Phoenix. They traveled near the exact location where the Mormon Battalion was on Christmas Day, 150 years ago.
The eight companies, each including three handcarts with “Ma’s, Pa’s and children,” made camp on the second day, when they did a whole lot of “pioneering.” Many priests, Laurels, teachers and Mia Maids learned to kill a chicken and cook it.
“We did what they did,” says Rayna Martinez, 14, of the Sunny Mesa Ward, “but they had to do it every single day. It sure makes you more thankful for everything you have.”
The last day of the trek included hiking and pulling the handcarts about four more miles and ended when the tired and dusty youth were treated to a barbecue.
“It strengthened my testimony,” says Ronda Abel, 16, of the Fairfield Ward. “The pioneers went through all that because they knew that what they believed in was true. They endured those hardships. That makes me stronger. I know that if I ever have to stand up for what I believe in, I will because I’ll remember what they went through.”

One of my ancestors, Isaac Bartlett Nash, joined the Church in Wales and crossed the Atlantic and the plains before joining the Saints in Salt Lake City. After his arrival he heard one of the presiding elders of the Church denounce the use of tobacco in these words: “There are Elders in this assembly who now have tobacco in their mouths, though even a hog would not chew the vile weed.” Isaac, with a chew of tobacco in his mouth, quietly slipped it out, dropped it to the ground, and said to the tobacco, “Now stay there until I come for you.” He never did.3

Beckham loved to fish with Grandpa. He even caught a little fish!
But when Beckham told Mom about it later, he might have told a little lie.
Beckham won a jumping contest with his friends.
But when he told Dad about it, he might have told a little lie.
The next day, Beckham’s family went to the zoo. He even got to feed a monkey!
But when he told Grandpa about it, he might have told a little lie.
Wow! Did you really feed a dragon?
Well, no … it was just a monkey. But people won’t think I’m cool if I tell them what really happened.
You don’t need to make up stories for people to like you. Telling the truth is the best choice. And just being you is enough! Heavenly Father thinks so too.
Besides, feeding a monkey is pretty cool.
This story took place in the USA.

In November 1999, my brother David and I were practicing our volleyball serves on a hill in our front yard. My six-year-old brother, Luc (Luke), was leaning on the screen in the window above the garage. He fell through it 13? (4 m) to the driveway. I ran in and told my mom and dad, and they came out and picked him up. No one knew he had landed on his head.
My mom took him to the hospital and called my dad half an hour later, saying that Luc’s skull was practically shattered. He was life-flighted to Primary Children’s Hospital in Salt Lake City, Utah. He was in a coma for three days. The doctors said that he had a huge blood clot behind his right eye. He couldn’t see for a couple of days. The doctors also said that he’d be in the hospital for two months.
While Luc was in the coma, our ward fasted and prayed for him. We fasted after sacrament meeting on Sunday until Monday night. People we knew in India and France did, too, even though most of them weren’t members of the Church. Luc woke up from his coma and got better and so did some other kids in the hospital. Luc was known as the “Miracle Boy.” He was in the hospital for only a week!
He’s OK now but has to go for a couple of checkups. I’m so glad that he survived his accident, and I know that fasting and prayer really work.

At another time my companion and I visited two sisters who lived with their mother. Both had a great desire for their mother to join the Church, and whenever we came to visit, they would call for her to join us. But she would always answer, “I’m busy,” or “I have a lot to do,” in an unfriendly tone.
One wintry day—a day when we got so cold and tired that we practically had to force ourselves to finish our visiting—our last stop was at the house of this aloof woman. But when she opened the door, we could see that her whole countenance was changed. Her little granddaughter had just fallen and cut her forehead and was bleeding profusely above the eyebrow. I took a towel and pressed it hard against the wound while my companion quickly found coats so that we could take a taxi to the hospital. While the child was taken care of, we comforted the grandmother and watched the other little girl. Then we took everyone home. Eventually this woman became a member of the Church and a visiting teacher.

After experiencing the initial excitement of coming to the United States from China to earn my PhD, I was overwhelmed by the numerous academic papers I had to read and write. I was also uncertain about how to interact with my academic adviser, which added to my stress. I felt lost and lonely, and I did not know what to do.
I concluded that my past wrongdoings had caused my suffering and that I needed to repent. It was evening, so I searched “church” online. I found that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the only church open until 9:00 p.m. Making up my mind to repent at the church, I set off on an hour-long walk.
When I arrived at the church around 6:00 p.m., I saw lights and heard laughter and music coming from inside. I searched around the building but could not find the door. Through a window, I saw a father playing with his son in one of the rooms. I knocked on the window to catch his attention. He guided me to the door, welcomed me in, and told me that someone was being baptized.
I followed his lead and went into a room where a man was giving a blessing to a boy who had just been baptized. Standing near the door, listening to the blessing, I felt that God was also whispering blessings to me. My heart was warmed, and I felt what I later came to know as the Holy Ghost. I also heard a voice saying that I was forgiven.
Following the baptism, I gathered with others and met many nice people. I was not lonely anymore. Several months later, after taking the missionary lessons, I was baptized.

The room was small. Mirrored darkly in the panes of a tall china closet, it seemed even smaller. The deep afternoon hinted of spice, cedar, and old wool. The creak of a rocking chair and the ticking of a clock seemed quieter than mere silence.
Serious young men in the uniforms of two wars, flanked by snapshots of lacy babies and an embroidered rose, looked down out of their gilded frames onto a couch overflowing with pillows. The room was full of time-worn furniture and the dainty odds and ends a woman can accumulate in a lifetime.
Two windows spread sunlight through white curtains covered with moving leaf-shadows, highlighting here a ceramic ballerina on her crocheted doily, there a white pin jar, elsewhere a flight of plaster angels flapping up one wall toward a high ceiling.
In the best light a white-haired lady sat working, her knitting on her lap. She hummed softly to herself and glanced from time to time at the hands of the clock. When the door chimes sounded, she soon had the door open. “Come in,” she said warmly to the three smiling girls who stood outside, “I’ve been expecting you.”
She was expecting them because weeks earlier Laurel president Donna Muir had suggested that something should be done for the elderly. The young people of the Culver City and La Cienega wards, who meet together for activity night, agreed, and so they sought and received inspiration. The result was an innovative service project that would allow some of the widows and widowers in the area to give just as much as they received. Small groups of young people would visit selected oldsters and chat with them about their lives. The interviews would be recorded and preserved as a contribution to oral history. They decided that each group would take a small present to those they visited to show their love and appreciation.
And in other houses, other cassettes turned, other pens scratched, and warm, old voices escorted other young people into the heart of other times and other lives. It was a guided tour of history—not embalmed textbook history, but history still alive and breathing. Horizons of time, space, and personality were broadened, and everyone, young and old, knew that they were co-citizens of forever.
Several weeks after the last stop buttons had been pushed and the last goodbyes said, the young people hosted their elderly friends at a dinner where each of them was presented with a typed transcript of what he had said. It had nothing to do with a service project anymore. It was a get-together between friends.
The young men and women involved in the visits speak glowingly of the experience. Brother George Mitchell, an immigrant from Bulgaria, was visited by Alfred Griffith, Bruce Wright, Sandra Tong, and Myra-Lynn Jensen, who took an apple pie as a gift. Sandra later commented, “He talked for two hours, and when we left, he had just made it up to 1945. He has lived an interesting life. I never realized what a struggle immigrants to our country experience.” Myra-Lynn added, “The thing I remember is that he said that the apartment he lives in at the low-rent housing project is like a palace compared to the tar-paper shack he lived in when he first came to this country.”
Donna Muir, Mary Synold, and Diane Muir visited Sister Ruth Yancy, an elderly widow in poor health who devotes all the time she can to visiting disabled veterans at a veterans hospital. The young ladies, who took along a plate of cookies, were amazed at the amount of information Sister Yancy had given them. Diane said, “Older people seem so quiet, but they really have a story to tell. I didn’t know Sister Yancy at all, but I appreciate her as a person now. I can see the good she has done throughout her life.”
Sister Hazel Gotts, a widow who is a recent convert, was visited by Gerilynn Price and Mark Packard, the priests quorum group leader. They took her a cake. Mark reports, “I enjoyed talking with a person who has been around so long and seen so much. I think it’s a good way for the youth and older people to get to know and understand each other better. I had a very nice feeling when I left, knowing I had made someone happy, and I know she was very happy to know that someone cares about her. She enjoyed telling us about herself. I think it would be nice if the youth could establish a close relationship with the elderly people in the ward.”
The bishops of both wards suggested many people who would enjoy a visit, and five were chosen for the initial project. Youth leaders contacted each of these people to see if they would be willing to be visited. One elderly lady burst into tears and said, “Visit? With me? I’ve been so lonely.” Another replied, “The young people are so beautiful! I’d just love for them to come.” All five were eager to participate.
So the visits were scheduled, the preparations made.
Inside the house of the white curtains, the three young ladies complimented their hostess on her hand-painted china, broke the ice with a little small talk, and again explained their mission. Soon the tape recorder was set up, one young lady had her pen poised above a notebook ready to take notes, and the good sister started talking about her girlhood and her life. On the rare occasions when she ran dry momentarily, the girls were ready with well-conceived questions to start the flow again.
As they listened and the cassette turned, a wonderful thing happened. Years blurred and ran together, and the Laurels were no longer in the little house of sunlight and painted china. They were in Heber City, Utah, around the turn of the century, seeing life through the eyes of a young Mormon girl. They knew the bitterness of the winters, the headiness of mountain springs, the crushes, hopes, and secrets of being young. They met and loved all the old forgotten people, old and forgotten no more, who had filled a girl’s childhood. They visited a sawmill on the Utah-Wyoming border where she had spent some summers and smelled the sweetness of clean-sawed pine. They lived with her her first time away from home.
“It’s an awful thing to be homesick,” she said, closing her eyes and remembering, but with a smile. And then, in the present again for a moment, she leaned forward and asked, with a twinkle in her eyes, “Have you girls ever been homesick?”
Suddenly there was no generation gap—no time barrier between Utah then and California now—as the girls realized more fully than ever that people don’t stop being people just because they grow old. They forgot all about tape recorders and oral history for a while and talked friend to friend about homesickness, and family, and love, and all the other things that never stop mattering, and for a moment they glimpsed a more eternal perspective of existence and saw time as the sham it is.
Randy Tong, Gayle Allen, and Susan Langford visited Sister LaVern Brown who had suffered several severe falls and couldn’t get out much, and they presented her with a potted plant. The youth unanimously reported that it had been a delightful experience. Sister Brown later commented, “Oh, those young people were just so nice, but so quiet. I had to do all the talking.”
Sister Louella Norberg was visited by Kathy Peterson, Joele Chafant, Deanna Peterson, and Kiku Okauchi. Kathy said of the visit, “Joele, Deanna, Kiku, and I met outside her apartment and were standing there wondering how we should approach her when she stuck her head out and called, ‘Yoo-hoo, girls! Here I am!’ and invited us in to see her. It was fascinating. She told us things that happened over the years, and I really enjoyed it. I know she liked it a lot too because she kissed us all before we left.”
A kiss on the cheek in California—it’s a little thing, but it’s the sort of little thing that’s teaching youth all over the Church that service is truly its own reward.

We sometimes find ourselves in a situation where we have to take charge and move, or nothing gets done. When I arrived at my mission in Tonga some thirty years ago, the mission president said, “I’ve got just the place for you. It’s a small island several hundred kilometers from here. It is nearly twelve kilometers around with about 700 people on it. No one speaks your language. I want you to go there and not come back until you know the missionary discussions and know how to speak Tongan.”

Well, I went; and to put it mildly, there were lots of problems. At one time we came close to literally starving to death because a hurricane wrecked the supply boat. But my companion and I kept moving.

Sometimes we made mistakes. However, whenever there was the possibility of our doing something seriously wrong, the Lord let us know and we did not do it. I assure you that if you are striving to do right, the Lord will let you know if you are starting to do something wrong. So listen! I am sure there was even more good we could have done, but at least we never stopped. We kept going. We did something; and that’s important.

When I left that little island after thirteen months, I had learned the Tongan language, and I had learned quite a lot about life. But most important, I came away knowing that God lives and that he had all knowledge and all power and that he was literally the Father of our spirits. I knew that he loved each of us personally and individually.

I knew that Jesus Christ was his Son, our Savior and Redeemer, a real person, a true friend, one who gave his life for us. I knew that because of the Savior, we can look forward to a glorious resurrection, and an eventual opportunity to stand in the presence of our Father in Heaven cleansed and pure.

I knew that God had a mission for me. I didn’t know exactly what it was in every detail, but I knew where to start. I knew I had to live closer to him. I knew I had to do better. I knew the path to take. I knew I could trust him. I knew that he would let me know what else I could do to fulfill my life’s mission. I have not been disappointed, and neither will you be.

“This happened during the Vietnam War, when we lived in Colorado Springs. Your grandpa, who was flying in Vietnam, was gone, and I was staying busy just trying to keep up with all the kids.
“I was singing in a chorus made up of officers’ wives at the Air Force Academy. During a break at one of the rehearsals, a friend told me about a service project she was doing for wounded servicemen who were recovering at the Fort Carson Army Hospital.”
Grandma explained how her friend would go regularly to read magazines and books to the servicemen. Some of them had birthdays coming up and she wanted to take cakes to them, but she was discouraged because she couldn’t find anyone to help her, and she couldn’t bake them all herself. Grandma volunteered immediately to help her bake some cakes.
The very next day her friend called and asked if she was really serious about helping and could she have one ready to go that afternoon.
Grandma told me, “I was pretty busy myself that day with family and Church responsibilities, but I felt like I should help. I made a chocolate cake from scratch and topped it with white frosting and chocolate swirls.” I knew exactly which cake she was talking about. She had made it before for family gatherings, and it was one of my favorites.
That afternoon Grandma’s friend came by to pick up the cake and take it to the hospital. Two hours later, she called and said, “I thought you would be interested in what happened with your cake. I took it to a 36-year-old sergeant, a veteran of many years in the army. He was recovering from wounds received in Vietnam. He looked like a typical, tough drill sergeant without a kind word in his vocabulary. When I took the cake into his room, handed it to him, and wished him a happy birthday, he looked up at me with a stunned expression on his face. Then the tears started rolling down his cheeks.”
The sergeant told Grandma’s friend that this was the first birthday cake he had ever had. Nobody had ever cared enough to bake him one.
As Grandma listened to her friend, she was amazed that one small act of service could have such an effect. Grandma closed the binder and said, “Tell your seminary class that I’m glad I took time to bake that cake.”

I hearkened back to the teachings that came from my home: I was taught obedience as a very young man. I’m happy for that teaching. I’ll never forget the time when I was eighteen and signed a professional baseball contract. As I was ready to go to spring training for the first time, my mother said, “Glen, I’ve got a piece of advice for you.”
“Yes, Mother dear, what would that be?”
“Put on a clean pair of socks every day.”
I thought, “Gee, that’s good advice.” But after the eighth day I couldn’t even get my shoes on. As a result of that training, when I was asked to occupy this position, I immediately said yes.

Her three brothers—Miguel, Angel (called Micky), and Jorge—are quite a bit older than she is. About four months after Miguel returned from his mission, JoAnnie became very sick with a high temperature. Their mother asked him to give his sister a blessing. JoAnnie had faith that if he did, she would be healed. Miguel changed into his Sunday clothes and prepared himself to give the blessing. After the blessing, JoAnnie immediately became better.

When I was 17, people started asking me whether I was going to serve a mission. I hadn’t decided yet, so I always put them off.
But as my 21st birthday approached, I started thinking about it. I read my patriarchal blessing, talked to my parents, and prayed.
The desire never came; I never felt I needed to serve. I thought about the counsel of President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008), who said that while sister missionaries are welcome, they “are not under obligation to go on missions.”2 I was also reminded of the Lord’s words in the Doctrine and Covenants: “If ye have desires to serve God ye are called to the work” (4:3).
That scripture helped me decide not to serve a mission. When I told the Lord in prayer of my decision, I felt peace and a confirmation that there were ways I could be a missionary without full-time service. I have since found I can share my testimony in many ways—through a conversation about the Lord’s tender mercies, while visiting teaching, or in doing family history and temple work. I am dedicating myself to missionary work by striving to live the gospel and follow the inspiration of the Spirit.
Amy Simon

When Elder Henry D. Taylor was a little boy living in Provo, Utah, he often walked across the lane from his home to his grandmother’s house. Whenever he visited her, she would offer him crackers, raisins, or other delicacies. “One day, however,” Elder Taylor recounts, “without waiting to be offered a treat, I reached into the box where the crackers were stored and, much to my amazement and anguish, put my hand into a mousetrap that had been set. This remains as one of my earliest recollections.”

We have subscribed to the New Era from day one, and now, even though our youngest child is on a mission, I wouldn’t even consider letting our subscription expire. I turn to the New Era constantly as I prepare for my teaching responsibilities. I taught seminary for four years, and I felt the New Era was so important that I formulated questions from the magazine that my students could answer for bonus points. The response was so great that I allowed them to give a brief synopsis of the article from which the question was taken if they cared to, and many times they did. To me, that was a good indicator of their enthusiasm for the New Era.

A-Pui’s face was bruised and swollen. He had three teeth missing and a bandage on his chin. Four days before Fast Sunday, he fell off a bicycle. But during the meeting he stood and bore his testimony that he knew that God lives and answers prayers. His beautiful spirit touched the hearts of many others that day.
Even before A-Pui joined the Church, he was always eager to help the missionaries in Hong Kong. His older brother and two older sisters were baptized first and then A-Pui became a member.
Now A-Pui and his brother and sisters have accepted the challenge of helping their parents learn more about the gospel so that they too might become members of the Church. The missionaries in Hong Kong feel sure they will be successful!

Beginning a few years ago, I noticed I was becoming increasingly lethargic, lacking an appetite, and losing passion for things I used to love. To oversimplify, I was sad. All the time. Worst of all, I felt separated from Heavenly Father.
I mistakenly thought that my own unworthiness was the cause and that if I could just be more righteous, I’d be happy again. But after a year of trying to fix everything on my own, I felt forsaken. Where was the promised peace I sought? There were times when I didn’t want to live. Eventually, my parents realized something was wrong. I saw a professional and started taking medication, but nothing was changing.
In Alma 36:18–20, Alma recounts that he reached out to the Savior in his sorrow. He says, “Oh, what joy, and what marvelous light I did behold; yea, my soul was filled with joy as exceeding as was my pain!” As I read these words one night, I couldn’t help but feel envious. I had pleaded for relief in prayer countless times. I tearfully asked myself, “Why am I not receiving the joy Alma the Younger did?”
My answer came in increments, one thought at a time. One was an image: a painting of the Savior in Gethsemane, lying on the ground in utter despair and almost completely overwhelmed by darkness. I realized with fuller clarity that He knew exactly the burden I was bearing, and He would not suffer me to bear it alone.
There wasn’t a moment when everything fixed itself, but with professional help and grace from the Lord, I have come a long way. Depression doesn’t always go away. However, I understand now that my sorrow will be exchanged with joy, in this life and the next.
Anna B., California, USA

The other day at recess I was playing football with some of my friends. A girl from our class came over and asked if she could play with us. Some of the boys told her no because she was a girl. They said girls can’t play football. She looked really sad and started to walk away.
I remembered when the older boys wouldn’t let me play with them because I was too little. It made me feel bad. I told her to come back and that I would play a different game with her. Then the other boys said it would be OK if she played. She was so happy, and she turned out to be a better player than a lot of the boys. Now she plays with us every day. I feel good inside knowing I helped her to be happy. It makes me happy when I help others.