Gospel Story Finder

I worked as the assistant manager for about two years, and I will never forget the great challenge that then came to me. I had been paying my tithing regularly during that time and certainly believed in the principle, but I did not have as sure a witness of that principle as I was about to attain.
One Saturday afternoon after finishing work, the manager told me that starting a week from the following day, on Sunday, it would be necessary for me to work every Sunday morning. The manager was an inactive member of the Church at the time, and he knew that I was not going to react favorably to the suggestion. But he was quick to tell me that even though I would miss priesthood meeting and Sunday School, I could find some other way to attend meetings, and thus it would not be that serious. He then attempted to entice me by telling me that my pay would be increased by 30 percent, thinking that might change my feelings about the principle of working on Sunday.
I remember how strongly those words fell upon my heart, but I also remember my response: “I am quite certain that I cannot work on Sunday.”
“Well,” he said, “you will have to work on Sunday or I will find another assistant manager.”
I left the office rather sad that day. I remember asking the Lord why I should lose my job as a result of the Church. I had been working hard to save enough money to support myself on a mission, and now I was going to lose my job unless I were willing to work on Sunday.
I talked to my father to ask his counsel, and all he would tell me was, “I am sure you will do what is right, whatever that may be.” I was left to make my own decision. The feeling came over me that there was no way to resolve this matter except by finding out what the Lord would have me do.
The following Saturday I went in and announced to the manager that I would not work on Sunday. He informed me that since that was my choice, I would have one week and no longer as the assistant manager, and then I would be replaced by a young man who was “really willing to work.”
I left work that day feeling very unhappy realizing that in five or six days I would be without a job. In one more year I was to go on my mission, and I did not yet have sufficient funds to support myself. I prayed much that week.
The following days at work seemed very long, and there were few words spoken between my boss and me. I waited for the next Saturday, which was to be my last day.
Friday finally arrived. As I was finishing work that evening, the manager approached me and said, some what emotionally, “Gene, you are right in what you are doing, and I am wrong in asking you to work on Sunday. I have found a young man of another religion who is willing to work on Sunday, but I still want you to be my assistant manager. And that 30 percent pay increase will be given to you anyway, even though you will not be working the Sabbath day. You are a fine young man.”
I will never forget the feeling of gratitude that came over me at that moment. I will also never forget my feelings that month as I paid more than an honest tithe and faithfully fulfilled my responsibilities on Sunday.
The Lord will pour out the blessings of heaven upon a man, even a young man, and teach him in his heart both the value of paying tithing on that which he earns and the value of keeping the Sabbath day holy. At any price, the commandments of the Lord are worth keeping.

When I returned, Nese and I decided to continue the eternal journey we had begun with conversations at a table in a library. We were married in the Provo Temple.
Every time I look at my wife, I thank the Lord that there was a girl in my high school with enough faith to “just want to share her beliefs with someone who wouldn’t laugh at her.” She touched my head and changed my life.

I knew a so-called intellectual who said the Church was trapped by its history. My response was that without that history we have nothing. The truth of that unique, singular, and remarkable event is the pivotal substance of our faith.

In my teen years, I felt the power of priesthood quorums and of a loving bishop. I still remember and can feel the assurances that came when I sat in a priests quorum next to a bishop and knew that he had the keys of a true judge in Israel.

“After a long night of searching and days of spiritual preparation that followed, I came to know as a witness more powerful than sight, until I could testify with a surety that defied all doubt, that I knew with every fiber of my soul that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of the living God, that He lived, He died, He was resurrected, and today He presides in the heavens, directing the affairs of this church, which bears His name because it preaches His doctrine. I bear that testimony humbly and leave you my witness.”

My family went to breakfast for my dad’s birthday. When the server asked us if we would like coffee, I said, “No, thank you. We don’t drink coffee.” The server looked surprised. It felt good to stand up for what I believe in, even if it makes me different from other people and kids at school.

I remember well a couple who endured such an experience. The woman was only 21 years old at the time—a beautiful and devoted wife. In her first trimester, she contracted German measles. Abortion was advised because the developing baby would almost surely be damaged. Some members of her family, out of loving concern, applied additional pressure for an abortion. Devotedly, the couple consulted their bishop. He referred them to their stake president, who, after listening to their concern, counseled them not to terminate the life of this baby, even though the child would likely have a problem. He quoted this scripture:
“Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.
“In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.”
They chose to follow that counsel and allowed their child to be born—a beautiful little girl, normal in every respect, except for total hearing loss. After their daughter’s evaluation at a school for the deaf, the parents were advised that this child had the intellect of a genius. She attended a major university on a scholarship. Now some 40 years later, she enjoys a wonderful life.

How these two religious leaders came to agreement to work together organizing such an unfamiliar church is linked to a miraculous event.
Six months before meeting with Johnson, Mensah had a dream that someone named Johnson would be able to help establish the Church. Mensah became aware of Johnson through his brother, Isaac Mensah, after Johnson had given him financial assistance through his position of captain. After Mensah’s dream, he invited Johnson to meet with him in his home.
According to Johnson, Mensah “asked me to pray with him so that the Lord might sustain the LDS Mission in Ghana because he had been facing trials since he started the work.”3 While praying, Johnson had a vision in which he saw an unfamiliar book—the Book of Mormon. When he asked about the book, Mensah pulled out a Book of Mormon from under the bed in the room where they had prayed.
As Johnson recognized the book in his vision, they both experienced a rich outpouring of the Spirit of God. Johnson accepted a gift of a Book of Mormon and the invitation to help build the Church while receiving continuing revelation that what he was doing was truly the Lord’s will.

A few days ago I had the great privilege to meet with the First Presidency and receive this call from our dear prophet, President Thomas S. Monson. I want to witness to all of you of the strength and love President Monson had as he said to me, “This call comes from the Lord Jesus Christ.”
I am overwhelmed and shaken to my very core to consider the import and significance of those words so tenderly spoken by our loving prophet. President Monson, President Eyring, President Uchtdorf, I love you and will serve the Lord and you with all of my heart, might, mind, and strength.

It was cold—the kind of cold that makes packed snow squeak beneath your feet; the kind of cold that freezes the hairs of your nose as you breathe. And as the sun went down, it turned into a calm, dark night that could easily claim the life of one left unprotected.
One boy, his hands wrapped in long strips of cloth that served as gloves, crossed his arms and tucked his numb fingers tightly against his body for warmth. He was a Mormon, and he was on his way to a special meeting at Winter Quarters, not far from the border of Iowa and Nebraska.
But the time was not the 1840s when thousands of refugee Saints gathered to prepare for the trek west. It was the 1980s, and the group gathering at the Winter Quarters cemetery were all from the Bellevue Nebraska Stake. Their purpose was to experience, in part, what the early pioneers did as they struggled to survive at Winter Quarters after being driven from their homes in Nauvoo. The Bellevue Stake LDS youth were studying Church history as their seminary course of study, and because they lived near the spots where these events took place, they took advantage of the opportunity to learn on location.
Visiting Winter Quarters in the cold of December was a challenge presented to the seminary council by their stake seminary coordinator, Jenee F. Ferguson. They would organize themselves in the same manner as the early Saints with captains of 100 and captains of 10. However, since the seminary enrollment didn’t reach 200, they chose instead to have captains of 50. Eric Bendorf, seminary president, explained, “This was one way for everybody to learn a little bit about how things were run. Everybody knew that if the captains didn’t get the message down the line, then someone was going to suffer neglect.”
The captains of 50 were responsible for supplying the lanterns, providing maps for the drivers, and instructing the captains of 10. The captains of 10 were to arrange for drivers and assign students to cars. They were also to inform everyone of the types of warm clothing they would need and to bring tarps and blankets for their groups to sit on. To add to the spirit of the event, the classes decided to make it a day of fasting, remembering that the pioneers often felt hunger pangs.
Besides poor food and disease, pioneers had to contend with the wind and cold. The Bellevue seminary students began to understand the enormous difficulty of camping out during the winter months; the temperature reached -5° F. before the group had made the drive from the stake house. Bundled to their ears with no more than the tips of their noses showing, the seminary students settled down to hear about the history of Winter Quarters from their guest speaker. At their feet was a bronze plaque. One student held a lantern high so that they could read the names and ages of those who died there: Frederick Flake, 1 day; Genet Gardner, 4 mos.; Patty C. Hakes, 17; Barbary Heath, 52; Wm. Thadeus Kelly, 3 mos. …
As the names continued to be read, the group fell silent. The deaths that occurred more than a hundred years ago started to mean something.
With hunger and cold gnawing at them, the group of modern Latter-day Saints came to appreciate the extremes to which their ancestors went for their religion. “My great-great-grandparents came through here, and they lost some of their children,” said Jon-Paul McFarland of the Logan Branch. “I thought about that while we were there.”
The young people were grateful that they had a warm car to carry them to their warm homes with refrigerators full of fresh food. Jamie Sneddon, Lincoln First Ward, said, “When I was thawing out my toes in the car, they started to hurt more as they got warm. I started to understand just a little bit what it must have been like when they suffered frostbite.”
For those seminary students who did not come fully prepared, the others shared what they had. It was the same type of unselfish sharing that took place in the pioneer camps.
The Bellevue seminary went to Winter Quarters with enthusiasm for an adventure, but following the meeting, the mood changed. They felt respect for those thousands of Saints who struggled for survival. “I knew it was going to be cold,” said Nancy Flack, Lincoln Third Ward, “but I never realized the extent of what they went through. I could barely stand it, and I was bundled up. I would have just died.”
As the meeting ended, one lone violin accompanied the youthful voices as they sang a hymn, the same hymn sung many times before as the pioneers prepared for their journeys.
We’ll find the place which God for us prepared, Far away, in the West, Where none shall come to hurt or make afraid; There the Saints will be blessed. We’ll make the air with music ring, Shout praises to our God and King; Above the rest, these words we’ll tell All is well! all is well! —Come, Come Ye Saints, Hymns, No. 13

Elder Koelliker attended high school with his future wife, Freda Ann Neilson, but they didn’t date until they were students at the University of Utah in 1964. By then, Elder Koelliker was back from his mission to Berlin, Germany. He and Ann married in the Salt Lake Temple on March 18, 1966.

My heart was full this morning as I left our early morning seminary class. We’ve had a very spiritual week learning of Joseph Smith, his first vision, and his teenage years. Today we talked about that day 150 years ago when Joseph was finally allowed to remove the golden plates from the hill. It was a special day for us. Then to pick up the mail and find the October issue of the New Era with the picture of Joseph and the story of the first vision was overwhelming! As usual I’ll have to read through the whole magazine before our three boys get home from school. Thank you for a wonderful magazine and for its influence on our young people and their teachers.
Deneice MurrayTehachapi, California

I gained my testimony of the power of prayer when I was about 12 years old. I had worked hard to earn some money and had managed to save five dollars. This was during the Great Depression, when five dollars was a substantial sum of money—especially for a boy of 12. I gave all my coins, which totaled five dollars, to my father, and he gave me in return a five-dollar bill. I know there was something specific I planned to purchase with the five dollars, although all these years later I can’t recall what it was. I just remember how important that money was to me.
At the time, we did not own a washing machine, so my mother would send to the laundry each week our clothes which needed to be washed. After a couple of days, a load of what we called “wet wash” would be returned to us, and Mother would hang the items on our clothesline out back to dry.
I had tucked my five-dollar bill in the pocket of my jeans. As you can probably guess, my jeans were sent to the laundry with the money still in the pocket. When I realized what had happened, I was sick with worry. I knew that pockets were routinely checked at the laundry prior to washing. If my money was not discovered and taken during that process, I knew it was almost certain the money would be dislodged during washing and would be claimed by a laundry worker who would have no idea to whom the money should be returned, even if he had the inclination to do so. The chances of getting back my five dollars were extremely remote—a fact which my dear mother confirmed when I told her I had left the money in my pocket.
I wanted that money; I needed that money; I had worked very hard to earn that money. I realized there was only one thing I could do. In my extremity I turned to my Father in Heaven and pleaded with Him to keep my money safe in that pocket somehow until our wet wash came back.
Two very long days later, when I knew it was about time for the delivery truck to bring our wash, I sat by the window, waiting. As the truck pulled up to the curb, my heart was pounding. As soon as the wet clothes were in the house, I grabbed my jeans and ran to my bedroom. I reached into the pocket with trembling hands. When I didn’t find anything immediately, I thought all was lost. And then my fingers touched that wet five-dollar bill. As I pulled it from the pocket, relief flooded over me. I offered a heartfelt prayer of gratitude to my Father in Heaven, for I knew that He had answered my prayer.

“You have flour on your nose, Jeffrey,” Mother teased.
Jeffrey looked down to see the white flour powdering his nose. They both began to laugh.
“I think I have flour on more than just my nose,” said Jeffrey as his eyes traveled farther down to his shirt and trousers. He dumped another cup of flour into the big batch of bread dough and mixed it thoroughly. His sister Barbara began wiping off the kitchen table so the dough could be kneaded and divided into loaves.
“You’re both doing such a good job helping to make the bread that there’s nothing left for me to do!” exclaimed Mother.
Jeffrey and Barbara beamed at each other, and Barbara said, “Look. Even Jason wants to help.”
Three-year-old Jason was sitting on the kitchen floor struggling to pull bread pans out of the cupboard.
“Welcoming our new neighbors across the street has really become a family affair,” Mother said. “Your dad’s out in the garden right now,” she added, “picking tomatoes and zucchini to take over to them.”
“Where’s Jenny?” asked Barbara.
Just then Jenny came bursting into the kitchen.
“Mother!” she wailed. “You simply have to help me decide what I’m going to do for the school variety show. I’m supposed to tell my teacher this week.”
“Maybe you could play that new piece you’ve been learning on the piano,” Mother calmly suggested.
“Oh, Mother!” Jenny replied impatiently. “I played the piano last year. I want to do something new and different.”
“Mmm,” said Mother, “I’ll have to think about it. Why don’t you help us finish making this bread for our new neighbors, and we’ll talk about what you might do.”
Jenny glanced scornfully at the powdery white trail across the kitchen floor and at the gooey globs of dough on Jeffrey’s hands. She retreated to her bedroom, mumbling something about having more important things to do than make bread.
“Jenny certainly isn’t much help today,” Barbara declared.
“She just doesn’t realize how much fun she’s missing,” Mother said, sighing with disappointment.
That afternoon, when the Anderson family was ready to take their gifts to welcome the new neighbors, Dad found Jenny watching television.
“Aren’t you coming with us?” asked Dad. “We’re all anxious to meet the new people across the street.”
“Doesn’t sound like much fun to me,” replied Jenny, not taking her eyes off the show she was watching.
“Jenny,” said Dad firmly, “we really feel that the whole family should go over to welcome our new neighbors. Please come with us.”
“Oh, all right,” said Jenny, “but I’d much rather stay here and watch television.”
Dad rang their new neighbor’s doorbell, and a man with black hair and dark eyes opened the door and looked curiously at the family. Dad introduced himself and the rest of the family and explained that they were a welcoming committee. The man’s face broke into a big grin. Calling his wife and two daughters, he enthusiastically invited Dad, Mother, Jeffrey, Jenny, Barbara, and Jason into his home.
When Dad presented them with warm bread and freshly-picked vegetables, the new family exclaimed in unison, “Mahalo! Mahalo!”
The Andersons soon learned that Mr. and Mrs. Kanahele and their daughters, Leimomi and Lani, had moved to California from a small town in Hawaii and that mahalo means thanks in Hawaiian.
Looking around at the stacks of boxes, the Anderson family offered to help the Kanaheles unpack. Soon everyone was talking and laughing.
Leimomi was delighted to find that she would be in Jenny’s class at school. Lani was Barbara’s age.
As the four girls chattered away, Mother smiled because Jenny seemed to be enjoying herself most of all. She and Leimomi were busily rummaging through a box of Leimomi’s Hawaiian treasures, and Jenny was telling Leimomi that she would be glad to show her around school.
Jenny and Leimomi were gaily dancing around with the grass skirt Leimomi had dug out of the box when they heard Mrs. Kanahele exclaim to Lani, “Now you will be able to have a hauoli la hanau!”
“Hauoli la hanau means happy birthday in Hawaiian,” Lani explained to the Andersons. “My birthday is next week, and I was afraid I wouldn’t have any friends to invite to the party, but now Barbara and Jenny are here. Will you come?”
“That would be a lot of fun!” exclaimed Barbara. “I’ve never been to a Hawaiian birthday party.”
When the Andersons went home, Dad’s arms were loaded with pineapples, Jeffrey was lugging two coconuts, and Mother was wearing a lei. Jason toted two big bananas that had been grown in the Kanahele’s backyard in Hawaii.
“You know,” Mother said, smiling thoughtfully, “I think we’re taking more home with us than we took over to them.”
“Yes,” Dad said, “and we all seemed to enjoy our visit.”
Jenny tugged at Dad’s sleeve. “It certainly was more fun than watching television. And, Mom, now I know what I’m going to do for the variety show. Leimomi is going to teach me some hula steps and let me wear her grass skirt. Best of all, she’s my aikane (friend).”

For some time the rumors had been coming in from Salt Lake City, but confirmation of the facts was difficult. Finally, the official word came in a brief telegram signed “Hinckley.” The word spread quickly amongst the members of the Israel Group—“President Lee is definitely coming. The Prophet will be here in the Holy Land.” And so there we were, at the airport, waiting in the VIP room with representatives of the Ministries of Tourism, Foreign Affairs, and Religious Affairs. With fewer than thirty Latter-day Saints in the entire country, the prospects of a meeting with President Harold B. Lee, Elder Gordon B. Hinckley, and President Edwin Q. Cannon, Jr., of the Switzerland Mission—along with their wives—was exciting, to say the least.

Great-grandmother Kathryn Greta Calder was called to serve a mission in California in 1920. Following her example, her daughter, granddaughters, and now great-granddaughters have also served missions. As we watch our children open mission calls, and as you watch your friends and families open theirs, we see the image of God in a person who is willing to follow in the footsteps of the Savior, to sacrifice for the salvation of His children. They have the faith and the courage to go wherever the Lord calls them.

The nightmare began with a phone call. A tender voice on the line informed me that our 15-year-old son was involved with drugs and alcohol—and had been for quite some time. Shock gripped me.
We took our son to the county health department and had him tested for drug use. His drug levels broke their record for that substance. By the end of the week, we had admitted him to a local rehabilitation program. Six weeks later he was discharged, and I thought the nightmare was over. But it was only just beginning. Two months later he was arrested at school for sale and possession of marijuana. Months became years, and a pattern of drug abuses and arrests developed. In one year alone he was arrested 10 times. Finally he was sentenced to six months in jail.
After visiting our son in jail each Sunday, we would drive to the temple being built in our city at the time and sit there and weep. How could this have happened?

We went over to Cordoba in Argentina. As the president of the mission and I were going down the street, we met a young woman in her early 30s, and the mission president said, “Sister, tell Brother Kimball how many people you have brought into the Church. She said, “Oh, I didn’t do very much.” He said, “Well, tell him.” She said, “I think it’s about 32.” Thirty-two of her friends had come into the Church because one woman was willing to accept her responsibility—not only a privilege, but a responsibility—to bring people into the Church.

During Christmastime on my mission, I was undergoing some health problems, and my companion was a new missionary. She was not happy and wanted to go home. We were walking 8 to 10 miles (13–16 km) every day, and both of us had painful blisters.
I soon became depressed and discouraged, believing that I was a bad missionary and that all of my companion’s problems were my fault. We were a miserable pair. I had been so excited about the upcoming holiday, but now I dreaded it. It loomed before me dark, cold, and lonely.
My district leader saw my struggles and offered this advice: “Keep your mind off the pain. Do whatever it takes to give your companion the Christmas spirit.” I trusted my district leader and knew he was right, so I determined that I would try to get the right spirit in both of our hearts.
I remember one dark, cold evening. We were walking down the road, and my companion began to cry. Immediately, I felt as if I had been swallowed by darkness, and I wanted to give up. But I remembered my promise and asked the Lord what I could do to help this sister. The answer that came was unexpected, but I acted promptly. I began to sing Christmas carols as loudly as I could. People kept staring at me, but I felt a strange lightness in my heart that couldn’t be subdued. My companion begged me to stop. But I told her I would not until she joined me. So she did, and we sang several songs. My companion smiled at me and seemed to enjoy the rest of the evening.
That experience was the start of an amazing holiday. It was still hard at times, but whenever the mood began to turn dismal, I threatened to start singing. That always seemed to lighten the mood.
I do not have a great singing voice, and I hate singing in front of people. But that night I was singing at the top of my lungs for all of the Bronx to hear. That Christmas I learned that we celebrate the birth of a Savior who lives today and still works for our salvation. He knows what each of us needs and how to give it to us. I will never forget the Christmas that He let me sing in His personal choir. It changed Christmas for me!
Christie Mobley served in the New York New York North Mission; she is a member of the Snowflake Seventh (YSA) Branch, Snowflake Arizona Stake.

Three years ago Church publications featured a photo story on Indian Placement students Pearl Keith and Dennie Deal. Pictures and interviews brought the two together. Now they’re newlyweds with mission and some college training behind them …