Gospel Story Finder

Thirteen-year-old Caity Ingles is also here. She is not a member of the Church but came when her friend April Lacy invited her. April asked Caity to come because, she says, “I want her to know that I like to serve and help other people.”

It helps to have a talent or interest in something like music or art. You may find someone who shares your interests. For example, I play the flute and I joined the band, where I made lots of good friends. I now have many friends all over the country.
Rachel Ennis, 12,Layton, Utah

One night when the elders came to the Cantos home, Pedrito was unusually ill. The elders felt prompted to discuss the principle of priesthood administrations. The family eagerly sought a blessing for Pedrito, who was so thin you could see the bones under his skin. Up until then, he had been unable to tolerate any food except milk. He could neither walk nor talk, and he rarely slept more than an hour or two at a time.

The elders administered to the child and left the house with a strong feeling that he would recover.

From that time on, Pedrito began to improve. The Cantos family were baptized, and the welfare services missionaries helped Sister Cantos get Pedrito started on solid foods. He began to gain weight, and for the first time in his life, he slept through the night. He also learned to walk and talk. The frequent, costly trips to Guayaquil were no longer necessary.

Today another group of pioneers exemplifies this important principle. On Tuesday, the 12th of January, a massive earthquake struck the country of Haiti. The earthquake left the capital city of Port-au-Prince in shambles. Its impact was devastating—an estimated 1,000,000 people were left homeless, and over 200,000 were reported dead.
While the world followed the unprecedented international response, another remarkable and inspiring rescue effort was under way in Port-au-Prince—this one directed by a committee made up of local Haitian Church leaders organized according to the priesthood pattern and operating under inspiration. Members of the committee included, among others, the two stake presidents and the two stake Relief Society presidents in Port-au-Prince and the mission president, who at age 30 presides over 74 full-time missionaries in the Haiti Port-au-Prince Mission. All of his missionaries are Haitian, and miraculously not one of them was injured in this devastating earthquake.
Into the hands of these local inspired leaders were placed the resources of the Church, resources which included the generous contributions of many of you. For these contributions, the people of Haiti are profoundly thankful. Under the direction of the committee, truckloads of provisions arrived from the Dominican Republic almost immediately. Within days of the earthquake, planeloads of food, water purification systems, tents, blankets, and medical supplies arrived, along with a team of doctors.
The nine chapels in and around Port-au-Prince were mostly undamaged—another remarkable miracle. During the weeks that followed the earthquake, they became shelters for over 5,000 Haitians and bases from which food, water, and medical attention were distributed. Basic needs were met, and order began to emerge out of chaos.
Though the faithful Haitian Saints have suffered greatly, they are filled with hope for the future. Like the early pioneers in 1846, their hearts are broken but their spirits are strong. They too are teaching us that hope and happiness and joy are not products of circumstance but of faith in the Lord.

I have been bullied, gossiped about, and spoken rudely to, so I know what it feels like when people are rude or mean. I have found that often it is best to walk away. It is hard not to let rude comments affect your confidence, but remember that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ know and love you. They know your feelings and who you are when it feels like no one else does. It doesn’t matter what anyone else says; you are a cherished child of God.
Name Withheld

These tools allow organizations and individuals to completely bypass the news media and publish or broadcast their messages in their entirety to the intended audiences. For instance, last year the Church Public Affairs Department conducted an interview with Elder Dallin H. Oaks of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles and Elder Lance B. Wickman of the Seventy regarding the Church’s position on same-gender attraction. In the old days, to communicate our message to the public on an issue like this we would have had to rely on the news media. But this probing interview was conducted by Church Public Affairs staff and posted in its entirety on the Church’s Web site, unfiltered by the news media.

It was a typical Olsen family home evening. Mother played the piano while little Christopher waved his arm and led everyone in a song. After Amanda gave the opening prayer, Dad began the lesson.
“Who remembers what we did at the Olsen family reunion last summer?” he asked.
“Looked at old pictures!” Julie cried out. Then she giggled, thinking about the funny pictures of Uncle Jack.
“Ran races!” Amanda chimed in, remembering how hard she had tried to run faster than her cousins.
“Ate lots of food!” Christopher yelled, and everyone laughed.
“That’s true,” Dad said. “Now who remembers what Uncle Bob asked us to do?”
Scott frowned. “Not family history,” he groaned.
“Very good,” Dad said. “Uncle Bob challenged each family to do something new with our family history.”
“But Dad,” Julie countered, “Uncle Bob said that the only research left would have to be done in other countries.”
“Do we get to travel somewhere?” Amanda asked excitedly.
“Sorry, Amanda,” Dad answered. “I think that kind of research is out. We’ll have to be more creative than that.”
“There’s nothing creative about family history,” Scott complained. “It’s just a bunch of old names and dates.”
“Well, when Joseph Smith first saw the golden plates,” Mom noted, “it was just a bunch of old markings until he translated them.”
“That was different,” Scott said. “The Book of Mormon was important, so Heavenly Father helped him translate it.”
“Family history is important, too,” Dad persisted, holding up his book of remembrance. “Maybe we just need help to translate ours.”
Julie looked puzzled. “What do you mean, Dad?”
“Translate means to make something understandable,” Dad explained. “Maybe we need to translate our records into something more than just names and dates.”
“Aw, Dad,” Scott said, picking up a family group sheet. “There’s nothing here except—hey, I never noticed that!” He pointed, staring at an entry.
“What?” Amanda said, looking over her brother’s shoulder.
“This guy, Jacob Olsen, was born on October fourth, just like me.”
“That ‘guy,’” Mom said, “was your great-grandfather. He was really happy that you were born on his birthday.”
“I don’t remember him,” Scott said.
“He died when you were just a baby,” Dad explained. “He really liked it when we took you to visit him.”
“His family had two boys and two girls in it, just like ours,” Julie noticed. “But look—the last one died the day she was born.”
“November 15th,” Dad said without having to look. “Grandpa told me that his sister was born prematurely and was just too tiny to live. But they always remembered Baby Annie and put a rosebud on her grave every November 15th.”
“That must have been a sad day,” Julie said quietly.
“It was,” Dad agreed. “But it was happy, too. It reminded them that they had a sister they could see again someday.”
“I wonder,” Amanda said, “if anyone remembers Baby Annie now?”
“We can!” Scott suggested. “Can’t we, Mom?”
“I think that would be nice,” Mom said, smiling. “I’ll mark November 15th on our calendar.”
“And write down Grandpa Olsen’s birthday, too,” Scott suggested.
“But at the end of the year,” Julie realized aloud, “we’ll just throw the calendar away and forget them.”
“Then I guess that we need another way to remember,” Mom said, going into the next room. “How about this?” she asked when she returned. “We never used this old 1992 calendar. I didn’t know why I was saving it, but it must have been for this project. And since it was a leap year, it even has February 29th on it, in case we need it.”
“But it’s four years old,” Julie said, giggling.
“That doesn’t matter,” Dad said. “We need a calendar for yesterdays, not tomorrows.”
“I get it,” Scott said. “We can remember our ancestors’ important days on that calendar, just like we remember our own important days on this year’s. What other dates can we write on it?”
“Well, between Mom’s records and mine, there surely are enough of them here,” Dad laughed, thumbing through the pages. “Why don’t we study one family every week, then put all their birthdays and weddings and deaths on the calendar?”
“Starting with Jacob Olsen,” Scott proclaimed, eagerly turning to the October page. “Dad, do you think he enjoyed his birthday as much as I do mine?”
“I’m sure he did,” Dad said. “Do you still think family history is just a bunch of old names and dates?”
“I guess not,” Scott admitted. “At least, not after we translate them into people.”

Michelle Shephard described what happened perfectly, “I was pretty excited”; then she paused, “at first.” It seems like enthusiasm was high for the first couple of weeks. Then school let out for the summer and the schedules started to slip. It seemed like everyone had some trouble keeping up. In fact, the Beehives took drastic measures to catch up. They had a sleep-over where reading the Book of Mormon was the planned activity. Maria Dastrup said, “It was the strangest sleep-over I ever went to. Who would have thought we would have fun just reading the Book of Mormon?” And read they did, with occasional breaks, until they finally fell asleep. Then in the morning they woke up and read some more.

Some time ago in South America, a seasoned group of outstanding missionaries was asked, “What is the greatest need in the world?” One wisely responded, “Is not the greatest need in all of the world for every person to have a personal, ongoing, daily, continuing relationship with Deity?” Having such a relationship can unchain the divinity within us, and nothing can make a greater difference in our lives as we come to know and understand our divine relationship with God and His Beloved Son, our Master. As Jesus said in the great Intercessory Prayer, “This is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent” (John 17:3).

A sister in the United States was gone from the Church for many years. Her story of coming back includes powerful lessons for parents and family members who anguish over loved ones who step away. She wrote:
“I could list a myriad of reasons for why I walked away from the Church, the gospel, and in a way, my family. But they really don’t matter. I didn’t make one big decision to leave the Church—I probably made a thousand choices. But one thing I have always known is that my parents did make one big decision, and they stuck to it. They decided to love me.
“I couldn’t possibly know how many tears have been shed, how many sleepless nights, nor how many heartfelt pleading words of prayer have been uttered on my behalf. They didn’t call me out on my sins; rather, they called out to me in my sinfulness. They didn’t make me feel unwelcome in their home and at family gatherings; any of those feelings were of my own doing. Instead, they continued to welcome me. They must have seen my light dim over time. But they knew that the person I was back then was just a shadow of who I was yet to become.
“Just as my path away from the Church was complex, so was my way back. But one thing that was not hard about coming back was the feeling of being back home where I belong.”

I remember a missionary who had just recently returned from the mission field who came into the Institute of Religion when I was there. He had committed a grave mistake that caused him to think that his life was ruined forever. And I said to him, “God loves you just as much today as he did last Thursday,” and he couldn’t believe it. The thought had never occurred to him. He wept like a child. You know, sometimes we think that God loves us to the extent that we please him, to the extent that we’re good boys and girls, good men and women. Love from God is not earned. It is not merited; if it is, it is justice and reciprocity and reward. Love comes from a loving heart, and God’s love is unconditional. And he loves the worst of us and the best of us equally, I believe. We cause him to suffer when we do wrong, when he sees us live our lives in ways that destroy us, and when he sees us hurting other people—this must cause him pain.

Seito no Michi (Japanese) gives me courage, helps me, and guides me. It cheers me up. After reading this magazine, I am filled with good feelings in my heart. I am thankful for this great publication; it is a precious treasure for me and my family. Reading articles and stories about brothers and sisters from all over the world gives me strength and helps me realize that all kinds of people in different places are trying their best.
I like to share this wonderful magazine with others. I always take my Seito no Michi with me when I go somewhere or when I have to wait for a long time. This way, I can read it when I want to, and I don’t have to turn my attention to other magazines in the world. Seito no Michi is a guiding light on the righteous path.
Noriko OnoKurashiki Ward, Okayama Japan Stake

For example, if a teachers quorum committee, under the direction of a chairman, has been delegated the responsibility for a quorum party and food afterwards, the quorum advisor should first give clear instructions and then set dates when certain arrangements should be completed and reported to him. He should not wait until the day of the party and then frantically call everyone to see if all the arrangements have been made. Many programs fail because there is no planned method for stimulating or redirecting people with assignments. Also a lack of follow-through may be a signal to the person given the task that the leader has lost interest in the project or is no longer concerned. This may cause the assigned person to lose motivation.

If it snowed on Halloween,
The trees would dress like ghosts.
Instead of treats they’d give us tricks
That we’d enjoy the most.
They’d drop their snowsheets on our heads
Or poke us with their bones
Or haunt us, when the wind was strong,
With ghostly gasps and groans.
We’d stand right next to them and laugh
And mock their spooky sound—
For all the time we’d know ghost trees
Are rooted to the ground.

When people ask what Papa was like when I was younger, I tell them my favorite memory.
He was barbecuing hamburgers in the backyard one summer evening when I was 12. Pauly, my older brother who was trying to impress his girlfriend, said, “Catch this.” Then he said, “Hey, Papa, sing for us.”
Papa smiled beneath his bushy mustache and opened his mouth. Music from his baritone voice, like fine golden threads, wove through the smoke and drifted across the neighborhood. The yappy dog next door went silent, the neighbors opened their windows, and everyone mostly stopped what they were doing.
That’s how it always was when Papa sang. “Why aren’t you in the opera, Johnny D’Alesso?” people would ask. He’d wave his arms and answer, “But I’d have to leave my beautiful friends, my wonderful children, my gorgeous wife, and my horrible job.” Then he’d laugh.
He finished an aria from La Traviata. The hamburgers and music done, I said, “Did you always sing, Papa?”
“Of course, Maria. I always sing. I used to think that if there was a God in the heavens, he sent us music to show us love. And if I sing pretty he might think of me sometime. But now I know different. God sent music for joy, and he sent Mama to show us love. So now I sing once and kiss Mama twice. That way he remember me always.”
He pinched my cheek, and I knew if there was a God, he must surely love Papa.

This great caring about how we behave toward everyone around us was one of the great lessons President McKay taught. On the trip to Europe to dedicate the temple sites in Switzerland and England, President McKay was surrounded by eager English youth seeking autographs from him. The first in line was a young girl about nine years old. She asked the President’s son, who was accompanying him, “May I have President McKay’s autograph?” The son, who thought his father was too tired, began to dissuade her. But President McKay, overhearing the conversation, turned to her and asked jokingly, “Do you think I can write plainly enough so you can read it?” The girl wasn’t sure whether he was in earnest, and she became flustered. At that moment, an aide interrupted with a pressing question, and several minutes of conversation ensued. When the President turned back to speak again to the girl, she had disappeared.
“I have never seen father more upset,” said his son. “Please find that girl in the blue dress,” President McKay directed. “I’m sure she has the impression that I didn’t want to sign her book. She misinterpreted my remarks. You must find her.” Before long, branch presidents and mission presidents were looking for a little girl in blue. But the search was in vain. Finally, a missionary thought he knew who the girl was. He telephoned the President later that night and then received these instructions: “Tell the girl that I am sorry I missed her, and that I have asked the branch president to send her book to me by mail to Salt Lake City; I will sign my autograph and mail it directly back to her.” And he did!

• Sealings. Former United States senator Jake Garn was reluctant to remarry following the death of his first wife, Hazel, in 1976, but he soon realized he could not be both a father and a mother to his children. When he began dating Kathleen Brewerton, who would become his second wife, questions soon arose about how his first wife would feel should he become sealed to a second wife. The couple took their questions to President Spencer W. Kimball.
“He said he did not know exactly how these relationships will be worked out, but he did know that through faithfulness all will be well and we will have much joy,” Brother Garn later recalled. “Kathleen told him that she was afraid of offending Hazel. President Kimball’s demeanor seemed to change. From being somewhat hesitant in his earlier answers, he now became sure and spoke with firmness. He looked right at Kathleen and with a tear forming in his eye, he said, ‘I do know this: you have nothing to worry about. Not only will she accept you, she will put her arms around you and thank you for raising her children’” (Why I Believe [1992], 13).

Timothy heard the THUMP! BANG! CLANG! of his dad’s tools come to a stop.
“I don’t think I’ll ever finish this room,” Dad told Mother. “I’ll have to stop and go home teaching this evening, and there’s still so much to do!”
“It’ll all get done, eventually,” Mother said encouragingly.
“You’re right, dear. I just wish I had more time,” Timothy heard his dad say before the banging, thumping, and clanging began again.
Five-year-old Timothy knew how he could help his dad: He’d do the home teaching! He’d gone with his dad and Brother Chun twice before, and he knew just what to do.
Timothy ran to his room and got his Scripture Stories. In the kitchen he grabbed the sack of oranges Grandma had brought him the day before. Next, he wet his hair down with water and carefully brushed it into place. Then he put on his best blue sweater. “I’m going for a walk,” he called to his mother.
“Don’t be too long,” she said.
“I won’t.” Timothy skipped down the sidewalk. First he went to Sister Back’s house. She lived right next door. He climbed the three steps to her porch and knocked on the door.
“Hello, Timothy,” Sister Back said as she greeted him with a pleasant smile.
“Hi,” Timothy said. “My dad’s real busy today, so I thought I’d help him. I’m here to do his home teaching.”
“My, my,” said Sister Back. “How very nice of you. Come in.”
Timothy sat in the green-flowered rocking chair. He put the sack on the floor and opened his Scripture Stories.
“I thought today we’d talk about Daniel,” Timothy began.
“That’s one of my favorite stories,” Sister Back told him.
“It’s one of mine, too,” Timothy said. Then he told Sister Back all about Daniel in the lion’s den and about how important it is to pray even if kings say you can’t.
“That’s a good thing to remember,” Sister Back said.
“Now,” Timothy asked, “is there anything I can do for you?”
“No-o-o,” Sister Back started to answer, then stopped. “Oh, yes, there is!” she exclaimed. “I dropped my purse behind the couch. I can’t reach it, and the couch is too heavy for me to move.”
Timothy smiled. “I can get if for you,” he said and quickly crawled behind the couch and pulled out the bag.
“Thank you, Timothy,” Sister Back said, her blue eyes twinkling. “I was wondering how I’d ever get it out from there. Now how about helping me eat some chocolate chip cookies.”
Timothy smiled. “I can do that too!”
“Good.” Sister Back gave Timothy a hug and got the cookies and two glasses of milk.
Before he left, Timothy and Sister Back prayed together, and Timothy gave her three oranges from his sack. “If you need anything else, you can call my dad or me, all right?” Timothy told her as he went down the steps.
“I sure will. Thank you for coming,” Sister Back called.
Next, Timothy went to Brother Lelac’s. He was planting violets in his greenhouse. While they talked about Daniel, Timothy helped him fill pots with rich brown soil. Then Timothy went to Sister Harper’s. She had a cold and wasn’t feeling very well. Timothy gave her three oranges and told her they would make her feel better.
When Timothy got home, the smile on his face stretched from ear to ear—but it wasn’t nearly as big as the smile he felt inside. Mother was just getting dinner started, and Dad was still banging and thumping and clanging in the new room.
“Did you have a good walk?” Mother asked.
“Yes,” Timothy answered, his smile twinkling happily in his eyes. “And I helped Dad.”
“How did you do that?” Mother asked.
“I did his home teaching. I visited Sister Back, Brother Lelac, and Sister Harper. They’re all doing fine, except Sister Harper. She has a little cold, so I told her I’d visit her again tomorrow. I taught them all about Daniel and prayer and gave each of them three of my oranges.”
Timothy’s mother smiled. “That was nice of you! But I’m sure your dad and Brother Chun will want to check on Sister Harper and the others tonight. It’s really their priesthood responsibility. When you grow up, you’ll probably be a home teacher too.”
Timothy smiled back. “I can’t wait until I can go home teaching all the time,” he said. “It’s fun!”

On the last day of the youth conference, a Superhero 5-K run was held to raise money to help the homeless.

In these canyons, Mosiah, Lao Moy, and many other faithful Saints worked tirelessly to divide the boulders with hand drills, wedges, and low-power explosives. The rough blocks were then transported by oxteam—four yoke required for each block—and every trip was a difficult three- or four-day journey to the temple site some twenty miles away.
Mosiah touched Lao Moy’s shoulder and brought him out of his reverie. “I’m going to set off the blast, Lao Moy,” he cautioned, and then shouted a warning to the nearby workers. Mosiah lit the fuse and sprinted with Lao Moy for cover.
Two other workmen held a team of oxen. One of them was fourteen-year-old Corey Atwood. Corey, a tough, stout boy, had long taken pleasure in cruelly funning Lao Moy because of his broken English, his long queue (braid), and his quiet and obedient ways. It was often Corey who kept Lao Moy’s bitterness alive, but the Chinese boy had held it all inside, even when the troublesome Corey had once grabbed Lao Moy’s queue and threatened to cut it off with a knife.
The blast erupted like the sound of cannon fire over a Virginia cottonfield, and the big piece of granite split in two. Cheers went up, and Mosiah scrambled up the rocks to view his accomplishment. Lao Moy started up, too, but was soon held fast by Corey, who held onto his queue.
“What’s the matter, Lao Moy,” he chuckled, “somebody got your tail?”
Suddenly something exploded inside Lao Moy with no less force than Mosiah’s dynamite blast. He turned and struck Corey in the face so hard that the big boy was lifted off his feet and thrown backward in front of the team of oxen. The wide-eyed Atwood looked as surprised as Lao Moy. He wiped at the blood on his mouth and started to lift himself up when a clap of thunder suddenly boomed. As the already spooked oxen lurched forward, Lao Moy sprang for Corey and rolled him out of the path of pounding hooves and grinding wheels.
For a long moment the two boys just lay there, staring at each other. Finally, a smile broke across Corey’s dusty, blood-smeared face. Lao Moy smiled back, and all the old bitterness in his heart seemed to melt away like ice in a summer sun. A new peaceful feeling assured him it would not return.
Lao Moy was forty-five years old when the Salt Lake Temple was finally dedicated on April 6, 1893; Mosiah, seventy-six; and Corey Atwood, forty-seven. Corey sat close beside Lao Moy as President Wilford Woodruff offered the dedicatory prayer. A friendship had grown between them, a friendship as strong as the temple granite they had helped to cut. And like that granite, it would last forever.