Gospel Story Finder

“Everything we did, we did together,” says Elder H. Bruce Stucki about life with his wife, Cheryl, and their six children. “My wife made a family flag with the names of our kids and the motto ‘We Do It Together.’ We fished, went boating, hunted, worked, and gathered wood together. We worked hard, but we always made it enjoyable and had a reward at the end, like a cookout or ice cream party.”

John Taylor was in the room when the mob broke in to assassinate the Prophet at the Carthage Jail. Though he was wounded, he recovered and later became the third president of the Church. He knew Joseph in life, witnessed his death, and provides one of the most poignant tributes offered about the Prophet.
“I testify that I was acquainted with Joseph Smith for years. I have traveled with him; I have been with him in private and in public; I have associated with him in councils of all kinds; I have listened hundreds of times to his public teachings, and his advice to his friends and associates of a more private nature. I have been at his house and seen his deportment in his family. I have seen him arraigned before the tribunals of his country, have seen him honorably acquitted, and delivered from the pernicious breath of slander, and the machinations and falsehoods of wicked and corrupt men. I was with him living, and with him when he died, when he was murdered in Carthage jail by a ruthless mob … with their faces painted. I was there and was myself wounded; I at that time received four balls in my body. I have seen him, then, under these various circumstances, and I testify before God, angels, and men, that he was a good, honorable, virtuous man … that his private and public character was unimpeachable—and that he lived and died as a man of God and a gentleman. This is my testimony.” (The Gospel Kingdom [Bookcraft: c. 1943], p. 355.)

Another member in our group was mourning the sudden loss of his father and expressed how grateful he was to be at the temple to feel peace during such a trying time of his life. He looks forward to a future return to do his father’s ordinances.

Both “established in one” is the way two eyes see or function. Because I have glaucoma, I have to apply sight-saving miracle drops in both eyes twice a day to prevent blindness. Before doctors discovered that I had glaucoma, I had already lost partial vision in one eye. I am profoundly grateful for modern-day medicine and that I am not blind. I am also thankful for my second good eye, which compensates for the partial loss of vision in the other. The two-eye metaphor has profound and personal relevance for me.

Like my daily eye drops, it is only by “continually holding fast to the rod of iron” (1 Nephi 8:30; emphasis added) that we can avoid being blinded by the latter-day mists that are so subtle and prevalent. Whenever a person becomes less active or leaves the Church, it’s almost a certainty that person has stopped reading the Book of Mormon.

From the time of Joseph Smith to our own day, you can see evidence that conversion to the gospel of Jesus Christ brings a desire to learn. Joseph Smith, as a very young man, translated the Book of Mormon from plates inscribed with a language no one on earth understood. He did it by a divine gift of revelation. But he later hired a tutor to teach him and other leaders of the Church ancient languages. Joseph Smith had essentially no formal schooling, yet the effect of the gospel on him was to make him want to learn more so that he could be more useful to God and to God’s children.

One young lady, a genealogist, was asked the question, “What if you find an undesirable character in your family tree, such as a pirate or convict or the like?” She answered, “My responsibility does not concern how he lived, but just that he lived and died. After all, I owe my existence to him, and my only way of paying that debt is to do the baptism and sealing work for him. It will be up to him to accept it.”

I would like to tell you about the St. Charles Ward and how they friendshipped and nourished Brother Jim Hueston. Jim belonged to another church, but he found it was hard to obtain transportation to attend meetings. No one picked him up. I had the good fortune to meet Jim. A Book of Mormon was given; a commitment was made to read and pray. Our members provided transportation for Jim to come to the St. Charles Ward. The missionaries taught the discussions, and Jim read and prayed.
At Jim’s baptism, he asked me, his bishop, “What do you want me to do?” I took Jim to my office and talked about the Church, teaching him about the priesthood and what the Lord would have him do as a member of the Church. He received the Aaronic Priesthood and was assigned to serve as a home teacher. The elders quorum president assigned a strong, faithful, diligent home teaching companion. Brother Hueston, as the newest member of the St. Charles Ward, made sure that his home teaching was completed. Not only for that first month but for the past 20 years he has completed his home teaching every month. He has served in many different callings, and serving as a stake missionary was one of his favorites.
Ward members wrapped their arms around Brother Hueston and made sure that he was a fellow citizen “with the saints, and of the household of God” (Eph. 2:19). Jim learned to drive and bought himself a car so that he could do his home teaching and any other callings he received. We are not sure if we kept him or he kept us “in the right way” (Moro. 6:4). We know that what President Hinckley is asking us to do now was accomplished then with Brother Hueston.
I talked with Brother Hueston this summer. He told me how he and his home teaching companion were helping a less-active member come back into activity. He said, “She is looking forward to taking the temple preparation class and going to the temple.”

Illustration by Violet Lemay
Bonnie loved to sing!
She sang when she woke up in the morning. She sang while she got ready for school. She sang in her bed at night. The only time she wasn’t singing was when she was eating or brushing her teeth. Not that she didn’t try!
Bonnie knew lots of songs—Church songs, school songs, songs from the radio, and songs she made up herself.
Not everyone liked to hear her sing all the time.
“Stop! I can’t stand it anymore!” her brother, Alex, said when he was grumpy.
“Go sing in the barn,” her sister, Susan, said one day. “The cows will love it.”
Even her mom said, “It’s not polite to start singing in the middle of a conversation.”
But her dad said, “Bonnie is my little songbird. She will sing all the way to heaven.”
Where Bonnie really wanted to sing was with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. She wanted to travel all over the world singing to people and making them happy. The only problem was that she was too young. So instead, she listened to the Tabernacle Choir on Sunday mornings and sang along when she knew the words.
Then, one day, Bonnie had a brilliant idea!
“If I can’t sing in the Tabernacle Choir, I will sing in the ward choir,” she announced to her family.
“You’re too little,” Susan said.
“Yeah, there aren’t any kids in the choir,” Alex said.
“Maybe in a few years,” Mom said. “I’m sure you’ll be very good.”
But her dad said, “You should ask Sister Hildebrandt, the choir director. Maybe she’ll let you join.”
On Sunday, Bonnie waited for Sister Hildebrandt to come out of the chapel. Bonnie walked up to her, gently tugged on her skirt, and looked up to the tall lady’s face.
“I want to sing in the ward choir.”
Sister Hildebrandt looked down. “What did you say, dear?”
“I want to sing in the ward choir.”
“Oh, that’s nice. I’m sure you will one day.”
That was not the answer Bonnie wanted to hear.
So she took a deep breath. She opened her mouth. And she began to sing one of her favorite hymns, in her loudest and best voice.
All the people in the foyer stopped talking and turned toward her. She could see that Alex and Susan were looking embarrassed and were hiding behind her parents, but she kept right on singing. Sister Hildebrandt straightened up very tall and listened. And then she smiled. In fact, when Bonnie finished all of the verses, everyone was smiling!
“I want to sing in the ward choir right now,” Bonnie said softly. “Please?”
Sister Hildebrandt leaned down and looked into her eyes. “We practice every Sunday at noon.”
“I can be there!” Bonnie said. Then she turned to her dad. “I can be there, right?”
Dad nodded.
Sister Hildebrandt smiled. “Good. Your dad can sing too. We need tenors.” She patted Bonnie’s shoulder. “Be on time.”
Turn the page for an activity to go with this story.
Bonnie, the newest member of the Glenwood Second Ward Choir, took her dad’s hand and walked happily out the door with her family, singing very softly along the way.
No one complained.

Christmas was just a month away, and the perfect gift for my wife’s parents was nearing completion in our living room, where it had completely dominated the room for weeks.
Since Susan’s father had a bad back, her parents had a custom-made bed, larger than king size, with a hard side for her dad and a soft side for her mother, Elaine. Since it nearly filled the bedroom, the bed did cause a special problem. Elaine frequently complained. “None of our quilts are large enough. They are always pulling out at the bottom or slipping to one side or the other. I wish I could find a quilt large enough for that bed.”
And so in October Susan had decided to make a giant quilt for the bed.
After a number of trips to town she found just the right material, a festive flower print in warm pink colors that would fit perfectly in their bedroom. A lady in the ward was happy to lend us her large quilting frames. And when we finally got the frames up, and the quilt thumbtacked into place, the living room was totally filled. We pushed the piano into the hallway, and stored the furniture in every available space. And the home teachers visited us in the kitchen.
As for Susan, she spent every extra moment working on the quilt. It was her first, and she stayed up till late hours at night, quilting. When she finally came to bed, and we clasped hands in prayer, I could feel her fingertips, raw from the pin pricks. But slowly the quilting frames moved nearer to each other, as row by row the job got done.
It was hard to keep the quilt a surprise. All the time the quilting frames were up, Susan’s parents had not been invited into our home. This was sometimes embarrassing. One cold day Elaine came to our front door on some errand. Susan wasn’t home, and I answered the door. She must have thought me a very odd son-in-law, not to invite her in, but I passed objects back and forth, always keeping the door closed. Finally she left, obviously perplexed.
The night we took the frames down Susan was so excited and proud of her efforts, she couldn’t suppress a few tears. “I can’t wait to see mother’s reaction,” she said.
But those few tears would turn into a flood before Christmas.
The next morning, after I had left for school, Susan wrapped the nearly finished quilt in a plastic bag for safekeeping and decided to hide it in the partially remodeled family room. A carpenter had been working on new cupboards in there, and that evening he came again. The large plastic bag was in his way, so he moved it to the garage.
I guess I was the real culprit, though. It was the night to put out the garbage, and after I took the garbage cans out and emptied the wastebaskets from the various closets, I finally took out the garbage in the plastic bags.
When I came home the next day, Susan greeted me with red—but dry—eyes. Looking up from the cupboard where she was working, she said quietly, “There’s been kind of a tragedy today.”
Then the tears came. I held her in my arms while she wept, and finally she explained, “I guess the quilt went to the garbage.”
Indeed it had. Through her tears, Susan told me that she had missed the quilt about noon. Since I was away on a field trip and couldn’t be reached, she called her mother, explained about the quilt, the weeks of work, and about the the garbage. She and her mother, with our two-year-old son tagging along, had gone to the garbage dump and searched.
They wandered through row on row of heaped garbage, some of it already covered by dirt pushed there by the large equipment. There were a lot of plastic bags, but none that contained the soft pink quilt with the festive flowers.
“When did they pick your garbage up?” asked the man in charge.
“Early this morning.”
“It’s probably covered up by now, then. We don’t waste much time. Sorry.”
“Thanks anyway.”
There was little I could say to console my wife. The perfect Christmas gift was at the bottom of the garbage dump. It was two or three days before we could laugh about it, and even then, it was hesitant laughter.
There wasn’t time to start over. At least not enough time for one person to start over.
The story spread quickly. One neighbor told another of Susan’s tragedy. Soon the Relief Society president knocked at our door.
“We’ve all decided to help. We won’t take no for an answer. You get some more material, and I’ll have the women here—in shifts.”
Susan couldn’t find the same pink material. But she found a delicate white printed fabric with small red strawberries in squares—perfect for quilting. We got the frames up, and the women came. An army of women!
When I left for school in the morning, they were already there, needles piercing in and out. When I came home, the fourth shift was up. The frames were moving closer together.
Susan marveled at how rapidly some of the women worked; others were slower. But all of them worked carefully. Several worked all day—stopping at intervals to run home, prepare a meal, and then come back. They laughed as they worked, sharing stories. We’d only lived in the ward for a short time. Vague faces became warm and familiar.
In just a few days, they left as they had come. An army had advanced, conquered, and gone. And in the army’s wake, Susan held a second beautiful quilt, an occasional droplet of blood from a soldier’s finger the only evidence of the magic that had passed through our house.
Now we had a real surprise for Susan’s parents. They knew about the tragedy, and also knew that doing another quilt in so short a time was impossible. With real excitement we crammed the quilt into a too-small box and wrapped it. That way, they’d never guess what was in it.
And they didn’t. When Elaine opened the box on Christmas morning, and the strawberries quilted on delicate white fabric popped out, she cried. Susan cried, too. Soon we were all crying.
Six years have passed since that memorable Christmas. Now we are inclined to regard that quilt as the best Christmas present we’ve ever given—or received.

Those finding deeper healing often report learning how to view despairing and dark “mental content” not as a reflection of who they are but as something they are experiencing. As one brother recounted, “What was previously experienced as this kind of torture, being enslaved by the thought process, I was able to push back from that and just notice it as something a lot more innocuous, kind of like lying down on the bank of a river, just watching the stream float by.”11

Sister Eliza R. Snow, our second Relief Society general president, was a strong and faithful early leader. She understood that the Spirit “satisfies and fills up every longing of the human heart, and fills up every vacuum.” Through different seasons in her life, she struggled with poor health and loneliness. However, she was strengthened, as she was able to receive and act on personal revelation. To her, personal revelation and the constant companionship of the Spirit were like a fountain. She said, “And is it not our privilege to so live that we can have this constantly flowing into our souls?”1

I’ll never forget the day I met Diego. I was serving my mission in Chile when he approached my companion and me. He was so excited to see us because he wanted to learn about the gospel and knew he needed to be baptized. Diego amazed me because he was so pure—he didn’t want to do one worldly thing. He introduced us to his mother, and we set up an appointment to teach them at his grandmother’s house.
No sooner had we arrived to teach them than Diego’s grandmother came into the room in a panic. “The goats are missing!” she cried.
“Can you help me search for them?” Diego asked my companion and me, so we did.
The area was covered in rolling hills, which were rockier than I had thought. Diego explained that he was worried because the goats could hurt themselves on the treacherous terrain or be stolen by thieves. We had searched for a while when Diego finally yelled, “I see them!”
I turned my head and could not see anything. I asked, “Diego, where are they?”
He replied, “They are on top of that hill.”
As I tried to focus my eyes, I could see dots moving around on the hilltop. I couldn’t believe Diego had spotted the flock of goats from that far away. He told us to wait at the bottom while he went up to get them.
I then witnessed something I had never seen before. As Diego climbed the steep hill, he began a distinct combination of clapping and yelling. The goats, recognizing the signal, perked up. Within five minutes, they grouped together and came galloping down the hill.
“This is too easy!” I thought.
I was right. As we turned to herd the flock back home, I heard the distant cry of another goat. We looked back and saw one little goat bleating on top of the hill. Realizing it was alone, it started trotting toward us. I was feeling relieved to see that this goat was coming toward us when Diego began to race up the hill.
“What are you doing?” I called.
“It’s a baby goat,” he replied. “It could easily fall and get injured.”
My companion and I quickly followed him.
As Diego bent to pick up the baby goat, it dodged and ran away. For a long time the three of us tried to catch the goat, but it refused to come. I was getting frustrated. Couldn’t the goat see that we were trying to help?
At last Diego’s herding dog, Bo Bo, came out of nowhere and pinned the goat to the ground. Diego picked up the goat, unharmed, and handed it to me. He asked me to carry it home while he attended to the rest of the flock.
As I lifted the little goat onto my shoulders, I felt its heart racing. I realized how frightened it must have been. Exhausted, the goat now laid limp, its head dangling over my shoulder and resting on my arm. It was as if the goat knew we were taking it home, because it did not fight anymore.
When I placed the baby goat back in the pen, safe with its family, it seemed happy and relieved. My heart filled with gladness. I was so grateful I’d played a part in rescuing it.
In that moment, a scripture came to life in my mind: “What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it?
“And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing. …
“… Likewise joy shall be in heaven over one sinner that repenteth” (Luke 15:4–5, 7).
Diego taught me something about the Savior that day. Diego loved each member of his flock individually. He could see the dangers they faced and wanted to save each one. How much more the Savior loves each of us.
The little goat taught me a lot too. How often had I run away from the Savior’s help? How many lost souls were shutting Him out of their lives because they were afraid?
As a missionary, I was privileged to serve others the way the Savior would if He were here. At first I had agreed to help Diego because I cared about him, but as I carried that goat, I came to feel I cared for it too. How much more I loved the Savior and wanted to seek for His children. As I did, love grew in my heart for the Chilean people. I could not always carry them safely on my shoulders, but I could teach them and the Holy Ghost could guide them to the One who can. I know I’ll feel joy seeing them safely at home with their eternal families someday.

But the brothers will have to put future goals of making another CD on hold for a couple of years because Guy Richey, who goes by both his first and middle names, recently left to serve a full-time mission in Toulouse, France. In this family of musicians, serving the Lord is more important than music.
“Even if we had a top record in America right now, we would still go and serve the Lord. We know that serving is the most important thing,” Michael says.

When I was three months old, the Salt Lake Stake held a great pageant here in this tabernacle. My angelic mother played the part of Mary, the mother of Jesus, and I had the honor of playing the role of the Christ child. I know I must have been much more comfortable at that time than I am now, probably because I didn’t have to speak. But from that day to this, my beloved brothers and sisters, I have felt the Lord’s guiding hand leading me and protecting me, sometimes protecting me from myself.

Joan smiled and flashed her crossed fingers at Bob and Drew as she entered class. The three had completed a special class on how to take tests just in time for midterm exams. It came as no surprise when Mr. Smith, their history teacher, announced the midterm. Joan turned to section one of her notes from the test class: “What You Should Know about a Test.” Her hand flew into the air.
“Mr. Smith, what kind of test will it be?” she asked. “I mean, like true-false or multiple choice.”
“Multiple choice,” he replied.
“How many questions will there be?” Joan pressed.
“Fifty even,” responded the teacher.
Joan followed her outline. “What will the test cover—what chapters in the book? And will it cover our class notes, too?”
“The test will cover chapters one through five in the text and a handful of questions on your notes,” he replied.
“Can you be more specific about the class-note questions?” Joan persisted.
“There will be about ten questions from your notes, and they will cover the same period as your chapter on the revolutionary war through the civil war. Any more questions?” Mr. Smith asked with a smile.
“Yes,” Joan broke in. “Will we have the whole class period for the test?”
“No, we’ll take a little break for roll call,” Mr. Smith quipped.
Everyone laughed, but Joan continued, “You didn’t tell us when the test will be.”
“Right,” answered Mr. Smith. “You haven’t given me a chance! The test will be on Monday, one week from today.”
Bob groaned out loud. That was the same day as his English midterm. Drew Stevens tapped Joan on the shoulder. “Way to go,” he whispered. “Mr. Smith has never been pinned down like that before!”

Nathan and his cousins were playing by a large ditch. They knew they shouldn’t play so close to it, but it was fun to throw rocks into the water. Suddenly Nathan slipped and fell into the ditch. His cousins yelled for help. Fortunately, Uncle Gary ran and pulled Nathan from the water just before he went into a large pipe. Uncle Gary saved Nathan’s life that day.

You can probably imagine how grateful Nathan’s family was to Uncle Gary. How much more grateful we ought to be to Jesus Christ! His Atonement made it possible for us to live forever. He paid the price for our sins if we repent. No wonder we celebrate Easter! In some parts of the world, people greet each other at Easter time by saying, “Christ is risen!” And their friends reply, “In truth, He is risen.” Jesus Christ—our Savior and our Redeemer—is risen! How great is our joy!

To conclude their year of study of the New Testament, the three seminary classes of Merced, California, held a mock trial to hear witnesses give testimony about the death and resurrection of the Savior. To add authenticity to the proceedings, they received permission to use a local courtroom at 6:00 A.M.
Students were selected as jurors, court reporter, bailiff, and members of the press. Others were asked to participate as witnesses, representing biblical characters. The trial was conducted with witnesses testifying as to what they knew and had seen. Each witness was cross-examined. The courtroom was crowded with spectators as those students not assigned parts were invited to watch.
The jury returned with a verdict, indicating that the evidence presented supported the claim that Christ died on the cross and was resurrected.
The seminary students were involved in something out of the ordinary and were given the chance to examine the significance of the world-changing nature of the crucifixion and resurrection.

My beloved sisters: I have been looking forward for months to the pleasure of meeting with you dear sisters once again in a worldwide conference of the women of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Unfortunately for me, I am in the hospital here in Salt Lake City and will not be present with you in person, but I will be with you in spirit. In fact, I will be watching and listening here in my room at the LDS Hospital.

President Dallin H. Oaks, First Counselor in the First Presidency, told this story that a friend shared with him:
“After the death of his beloved wife and the mother of his children, a father remarried. Some grown children strongly objected to the remarriage and sought the counsel of a close relative who was a respected Church leader. After hearing the reasons for their objections, which focused on conditions and relationships in the spirit world or in the kingdoms of glory that follow the Final Judgment, this leader said: ‘You are worried about the wrong things. You should be worried about whether you will get to those places. Concentrate on that. If you get there, all of it will be more wonderful than you can imagine.’
“What a comforting teaching! Trust in the Lord!” 4

Suddenly a story flashed through his mind, one that he’d read long ago. It was about an avalanche, a boy who was buried, and his friend who kept poking a broom handle deep into the drifts until he found him.