Gospel Story Finder

One of my children came in, said that Brother Newton Hall’s folks were out of bread. Had none that day. I put … our flour in sack to send up to Brother Hall’s. Just then Brother Hall came in. Says I, “Brother Hall, how are you out for flour.” “Brother Millett, we have none.” “Well, Brother Hall, there is some in that sack. I have divided and was going to send it to you. Your children told mine that you were out.” Brother Hall began to cry. Said he had tried others. Could not get any. Went to the cedars and prayed to the Lord and the Lord told him to go to Joseph Millett. “Well, Brother Hall, you needn’t bring this back if the Lord sent you for it. You don’t owe me for it.” You can’t tell how good it made me feel to know that the Lord knew that there was such a person as Joseph Millett.

It calls to mind an incident I read that tells of the naturalist, William Beebe, who made a visit to another naturalist whose name was Theodore Roosevelt. In describing the visit, William Beebe said that each evening, after a talk in Roosevelt’s home at Sagamore Hill, the two men would go out on the lawn and gaze up at the sky to see who could first detect that faint spot of light-mist beyond the lower left-hand corner of the Great Square of Pegasus. Then one or the other would recite: “That is the Spiral Galaxy of Andromeda. It is as large as our Milky Way. It is one of a hundred million galaxies. It is 750,000 light-years away. It consists of one hundred billion suns, each larger than our sun.” After an interval Beebe reported that Mr. Roosevelt would grin at him and say, “Now I think we are small enough. Let’s go to bed.”

Determination and faith add yet another dimension to British seminary study—early-morning classes.
Five mornings a week, youth gather in a home, chilly chapel, or other meeting place, to dig into their scriptures before school and even before paper rounds. Some students face daunting obstacles. Like Philip Halford of Leicester, many live far away from where classes are held and public transport isn’t available. Philip was lucky. His brother had a milk round. Philip hopped on the milk float and rode part of the way.

I’d like to thank you for publishing “It’s Not Just Alex” (June 1997). I’ve had problems with my family members and have felt depressed and hopeless at times. It’s pretty depressing when you always wonder if you’ll ever really be a family forever. I’m not really an emotional person, but as I read this story tears filled my eyes. Soon I found that sharing my feelings with others helped.
Name WithheldArizona

Remember the circumstances of the Prophet Joseph Smith. Looked at through the lens of adversities, his life was one of poverty, persecution, frustration, family sorrows, and ultimate martyrdom. As he suffered imprisonment, his wife and children and the other Saints suffered incredible hardships as they were driven out of Missouri.

When Joseph pleaded for relief, the Lord answered:
“My son, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment;
“And then, if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high; thou shalt triumph over all thy foes” (Doctrine and Covenants 121:7–8).
This was the personal, eternal counsel that helped the Prophet Joseph to maintain his native cheery temperament and the love and loyalty of his people. These same qualities strengthened the leaders and pioneers who followed and can strengthen you as well.

Read carefully the following quote describing an intense romantic relationship a woman had with a cyberspace boyfriend. And note how the medium of communication minimized the importance of the physical body: “And so PFSlider [the man’s screen name] became my everyday life. All the tangible stuff fell away. My body did not exist. I had no skin, no hair, no bones. All desire had converted itself into a cerebral current that reached nothing but my frontal lobe. There was no outdoors, no social life, no weather. There was only the computer screen and the phone, my chair, and maybe a glass of water.”4

A few years ago, I was with my noble 97-year-old grandmother. As she sat curled in her wheelchair, weak and nearly blind, she talked quietly of her life. I said: “This is a wicked world. There are so many temptations and challenges. Is it possible to stay worthy and return to our Heavenly Father?” She slowly raised herself tall and erect and said in a commanding voice: “Yes! You must! That’s why you’re here!” Thank you, Grandma, for teaching me about hope.

The Bronze Bow by Elizabeth George Spear is a moving story of a boy named Daniel who lived during the time of Jesus and planned with his friends to drive the hated Romans from Israel. It also tells about Malthace and Leah, who discover that love is stronger than hate. (Houghton Mifflin, also in paperback)

As you search the scriptures diligently and pray always, you will be guided by the Lord. A young woman living in Mongolia listened to the words of the prophets as the missionaries read passages to her from the Book of Mormon. The Book of Mormon had not yet been translated into her language, but as the missionaries translated the words for her, she believed and was baptized. She became an example of the believers in Mongolia.

Later she was called on a mission to Salt Lake City. What joy she felt! She learned English, and she purchased her very own scriptures. When she visited our home, she read reverently from her new scriptures. She loved them. I noticed that almost everything on every page was underlined in yellow. I said, “Sister Sarantsetseg, your scriptures look like the golden plates.” She replied, “I only underline the things I like.”

And Scarlett N., 15, of Idaho, USA, reports, “Elder J. Devn Cornish gave an amazing talk called ‘Am I Good Enough? Will I Make It?’ His talk inspired me to keep the Sabbath day more holy, and has helped me to understand that nobody is perfect. And by understanding that, it has helped me to focus on how I can be better myself. It has really helped with my Sabbath day.”

I have been persuaded, almost against my better judgment, to tell a story. I ask for your indulgence and forgiveness because it involves my experience. Hopefully, the lesson I learned from it might be of some help to you.
In the fateful war year of 1942, I was inducted into the United States Air Force as a private soldier. One cold night at Chanute Field, Illinois, I was given all-night guard duty. As I walked around my post, shivering, and at the same time trying to stay awake, 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 a wife on a private’s pay of $50 per month. I felt I needed to become an officer. In a day or two, following my all-night vigil, I filed my application for officer’s school. Shortly thereafter, on the appointed day, I was summoned, along with some others, before the Board of Inquiry looking into my qualifications and aptitude. My qualifications were sparse, but I had had two years of College and had finished a mission for the Church in South America. I was twenty-two years of age and in good physical health. Possessing only these few qualifications, I was grateful to be able to put on my application that I had been a missionary for the Church.
The questions asked of me at the officers’ Board of Inquiry took a very surprising turn. Practically all of the questions centered upon my missionary service and my beliefs. “Do you smoke?” “Do you drink?” “What do you think of others who smoke and drink?” I had no trouble answering these questions.
“Do you pray?” “Do you believe that an officer should pray?” The officer propounding these last questions was a hard-bitten career soldier. He did not look like he had prayed very often. I pondered, “Would I give him offense if I answered how I truly believed? Should I give a non-controversial answer and simply say that prayer is a personal matter?” I wanted to be an officer very much so that I would not have to do all-night guard duty and k.p., but mostly so my sweetheart and I could afford to be married.
I decided not to equivocate, and responded that I did pray and that I felt officers might seek divine guidance as some truly great generals had done. I added that officers at appropriate times should be prepared to lead their men in all appropriate activities, if the occasion requires, including prayer.
More interesting questions came from my examiners. “In time of war should not the moral code be relaxed?” one high-ranking officer asked. “Does not the stress of battle justify men in doing things that they would not do when at home under normal situations?”
Here was a chance to equivocate, to make some points and be really broad-minded. I knew perfectly well that the men who were asking me this question did not live by the standards that I tried to live by, had been taught, and myself had taught. I thought to myself, “Here go my chances to become an officer.” The thought flashed through my mind that perhaps I could still be faithful to my beliefs and respond by saying that I had my own beliefs on the subject of morality but did not wish to impose my views 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. I knew perfectly well what the scriptures say about fornication and adultery.
I could not delay my answer any longer, and responded to the question about the double standard of morality simply by saying, “I do not believe there is a double standard of morality.”
There were a few more questions, I think about whether or not I was trying to live and behave as we of our faith represent to the world. I left the hearing resigned to the fact that these hard-bitten officers who had asked these questions concerning our beliefs would not like the answers I had given, and surely they would score me very low. A few days later when the scores were posted, to my complete astonishment the score opposite my name read “95 percent.” I was amazed. I was in the first group taken for officers’ school, and had to be promoted to corporal to get into the school. I graduated, became a second lieutenant, married my sweetheart, and we lived happily ever after.
This was one of the most critical crossroads of my life, one of very many times when I have had to stand up, search my soul, and like all of you, be identified. Not all of the experiences in my life when I have had to stand up and be counted turned out the way I wanted them to, but they have always strengthened my faith and helped me adjust to the other occasions when the result was different.
From that and many other experiences, I learned that even though others do not share your beliefs, in fact may be hostile to them, they will respect you if you are willing to stand up and be counted.

I also remember attending a meeting near Bancroft, Idaho, years ago. It was sponsored in part by the extension service of the University. We’d had a wonderful meeting, and after it was over, I was greeting some of the wonderful farmers who were there, and among them was a man by the name of Brother Yost, and I said, “Brother Yost, how are things out on the farm?” Brother Yost said, “Oh, things are fine, Brother Benson, but I’m about 20 thousand dollars worse off than I was three days ago.” I said, “What’s the matter—another frost?” He said, “Yes, it hit the wheat just in the dough stage, and you know what that means.” He said, “We’re starting the mowing machines in the morning, but everything’s all right. We’ve still got a little wheat in the bin, and we’ve got at least part of our year’s supply laid away. We’re not going to starve, and there’ll be another crop.” As we left him, I said to my wife, “What a wonderful spirit.”
We drove on down to Logan. We had our children with us, and we stopped on Main Street to go into a grocery store to pick up a few cookies for the kiddies. And who should I meet on the sidewalk but Brother Yost. I said, “Well, what are you doing way down here?” He said, “Brother Benson, it’s our day to go to the temple.” And I said, “Well, reverses don’t dampen your spirit any, do they?” Then he taught me a lesson. He said, “Brother Benson, when reverses come we need the temple all the more.”

When Robert L. Backman was 12 years old, his father was called to be president of the South African Mission. Young Robert soon found himself living in Capetown and attending Rondebosch High School, a very strict English prep school. “The first weeks of school were a difficult time for me. I was strictly a minority and felt like a curiosity. I cried myself to sleep at night more than once, particularly when missionaries I had come to love went home. I wanted to go home with them.”
At school, Robert was indeed something of a curiosity. “Everybody wanted to hear me speak, so at recess they’d gather around me and try to provoke me into conversation, and then they’d try to mimic my accent.” Appalled at his student’s barbarous American twang, one cultured British teacher undertook to reform Robert’s speech. “Martha came down the garden path carrying a large basket of tomatoes,” he would intone in his most cultured diction, each vowel floating heavenward like a balloon. Then the young American would deliberately repeat the phrase with a Yankee accent so heavy that the good professor would shake with anguish. “He’d slam his ruler down on the desk he was so angry. We had a contest. I was just as stubborn as he was and bound and determined he wasn’t going to break me of my accent. He never did.”
To make matters worse, many of the parents of students didn’t want their children becoming too friendly with this young foreigner who might not only corrupt their speech but, since he was a Mormon, might undermine their morals as well. To a boy that age, belonging is very important, and so all this was difficult to accept.
There was another problem. After the easygoing pace of schoolwork in the United States, Rondebosch was academically tough. Robert studied English, French, Latin, math, chemistry, physics, and a couple of history courses all in the same term, attending school from 8:00 till 4:00 five days a week and till 1:00 on Saturday. And every night there was a crushing load of homework.
Discipline was also strict. Once a young school fellow made a remark that Robert took exception to, and a fight ensued. The two antagonists were ushered into the office of the headmaster, who politely asked them to please touch their toes. “He then pulled out a bamboo rod with a little steel tube right up the middle of it and gave us six good ones across our bottoms to teach us not to fight.”
But while the first weeks went badly at school, Robert turned more to the Lord and his religious faith for support, performing his duties as a deacon with great pride. His young faith grew strong. “I don’t think I’ve ever doubted. I’ve questioned. I’ve been exposed to a lot of other philosophies in my schooling, but I’ve never really had any doubt. I have always believed that Joseph Smith was a prophet. I’ve never had any question about the Savior and his mission, his death and resurrection. I suppose that part of that is due to my exposure to the missionaries quite early in my life. They buttressed me during those traumatic years when one ordinarily might be having some of those real doubts.”
And so, gradually, an unhappy situation became a happy one. “I got used to it and won my way, as youngsters usually do, and I ended up playing some rugby on the junior squads and made friends at the school and began enjoying myself.” Even the heavy academic demands turned out to be a blessing. “It was really a good discipline to my life and set me in some study patterns that have been of great benefit to me ever since.” And though it must have seemed merely a question of survival to young Robert at the time, it was a battle won, and his spiritual strength increased.

Many converts had come from northern Europe during the Nauvoo years and this area continued to produce converts. But in the 1850s the elders began preaching in Latin America, the islands of the Pacific, Asia, India, and South Africa.
At the October general conference in 1849, President Young called missionaries to southern California, Tahiti, Italy, Switzerland, Denmark, Sweden, Iceland, France, Germany, and England. Elders Lorenzo Snow and John Taylor directed the efforts in central and southern Europe, Elder Erastus Snow in Scandinavia. The following year, Elder Parley P. Pratt headed a delegation to South America and George Q. Cannon led a small group to Hawaii. In 1851, missionaries began the work in Australia, New Zealand, and Tasmania. In 1852, a special conference in August sent elders to preach in Gibraltar, Malta, Prussia, South Africa, Jamaica, China, Thailand, Ceylon, and India. In virtually every instance, the missionaries met formidable opposition. Outside northern Europe, they made few converts. For most of the new missions of the 1850s, conditions were not yet right for preaching the gospel. Those that did succeed were among the European immigrants and Polynesian natives of Australia, New Zealand, and Hawaii.

As you remember, the Willie and Martin companies ran into early snows in Wyoming, and many of the Saints perished in the cold. While on a trek a few years ago retracing their footsteps, my family and I stood looking down at the Sweetwater area where the Willie company had been stranded, cold and starving. We read from their journals of their severe trials and the joy of their rescue. John Chislett wrote:

“Just as the sun was sinking beautifully behind the distant hills, … several covered wagons … were seen coming towards us. The news ran through the camp like wildfire. … Shouts of joy rent the air; strong men wept till tears ran freely down their furrowed and sun-burnt cheeks. …

“… That evening, for the first time in quite a period, the songs of Zion were to be heard in the camp. … With the cravings of hunger satisfied, and with hearts filled with gratitude to God and our good brethren, we all united in prayer, and then retired to rest.”9

Cami was staying overnight with Grandma and Grandpa. They had fun playing together until bedtime. “Let’s get your dress ready for church tomorrow,” Grandma said.
Cami liked going to church, but she felt a little worried. Would Grandma and Grandpa’s church be the same as hers?
The next day at church, Cami sang songs and took the sacrament. The Primary sang a special song just for her. She saw a picture of Jesus and listened to a story about when He blessed the little children.
When Cami got home, she ran to show Mommy and Daddy the picture she colored in Primary. “Guess what?” she said. “Grandma and Grandpa’s church is just like our church. We all believe in Jesus!”
Mommy hugged Cami. “We are all part of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” Cami smiled. She was glad that Grandma and Grandpa’s church was her church too!

Juanito tried to brush the dirt off his torn shirt. “Why did I have to lose my temper again?” he muttered to himself.
As he made his way down the path, he could see his mother and sister gathering vegetables from the family garden behind the house. Nearby, his grandmother was sitting on a bench under an orange tree working busily on her nanduti (lace).
“Hola, Juanito!” his mother said as she walked toward the house with a basket full of vegetables. “Why are you so late today?”
“I’m sorry, Mama, I’ll try not to be late again,” replied Juanito. He turned away quickly and hurried into the house to change his clothes before she noticed his torn and dirty shirt.
“Oh, Juanito, you’ve been fighting again!” his mother said crossly when she saw his swollen cheek. “When will you learn that fighting is not the way to settle your problems? Come into the house and let me put some salve on your face while you tell me what happened this time.”
“We were playing soccer after school,” Juanito began, “when some older boys came along and started pushing everyone out of the game. Carlos and Pablo left, but I decided I would not be a coward. So each time they knocked me down I got up again. Then one time when the ball was not even near me, Roberto tripped me and I fell into a puddle of mud.”
“Oh, Juanito, I’m sorry,” sighed his mother.
“Roberto just stood there laughing at me and calling me names, and before I knew it I hit him. Then all the others were after me,” Juanito explained.
Mama only frowned as she applied salve to Juanito’s face. “There,” she said at last. “I’m finished. Now Juanito, I want you to promise me that you will not fight again. Fighting is not the way to settle a problem.”
“I’ll try, Mama, but it won’t be easy,” Juanito replied softly.
Soon after the family turned their attention to preparing the vegetables to be taken to market the next morning. As he worked, Juanito thought about Señor Benet, the village baker, who had asked Juanito to sell his bread in the market for him.
Early the next morning Juanito dressed in clean white clothes. He combed his hair carefully and hurried to Señor Benet’s shop. The basket of round flat bread was still fragrant and warm.
“I know you will do well, Juanito,” said Señor Benet.
“Thank you,” Juanito answered. “I’ll see you this evening with an empty basket,” he called as he hurried to catch up with his family.
When they reached the plaza, everyone was setting out their wares, but Juanito decided that he would make better sales if he moved through the crowd.
“Pan del dia (fresh bread)! Pan del dia!” he called as he walked along. By the time the sun had risen high in the sky, he had sold nearly half of the loaves.
It is hot, thought Juanito, wiping his forehead. I think I’ll rest in the shade for a few minutes.
“Hola, Juanito!” came a voice from the crowd. “What are you doing and what have you got there in your basket?”
Juanito looked up into the face of Roberto.
“I’m selling this bread for Señor Benet,” Juanito replied.
“Bread! Is that bread?” asked Roberto, picking up a round flat loaf. “It does not look like bread. See how it flies through the air like a bird!”
With a quick twist of his wrist, Roberto tossed the bread so that it floated down the street.
“Stop!” cried Juanito. “You must not do that!”
Roberto was laughing so hard he could not hear. He reached for another loaf and sent it sailing.
Clenching his fists, Juanito stepped toward him. Then he seemed to hear again his mother’s words, “Fighting is not the way to settle a problem.”
When Roberto reached for another loaf, Juanito paused a moment and then stepped back and began to laugh. His laugh was soft at first and then it grew louder and louder, until all those nearby began to stop to see what was happening.
Looking toward the crowd, Juanito said in a loud voice, “See this Roberto! He buys bread to throw away. Watch how he does it.”
Juanito picked up a loaf and handed it to Roberto. “Go ahead! Throw as many as you like. I will keep count, and you may pay me when you have finished.”
“Pay you?” muttered Roberto. “I’ll not pay …” he began. Then he noticed all the people who had gathered around them. “Oh, yes, of course,” he stammered. “Let me see—I owe you for three loaves.”
Roberto reached into his pocket and opened his wallet.
“Here is your money,” he said gruffly. Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd.
“Pan del dia! Pan del dia!” Juanito began to call again. Soon all the bread was gone, and he made his way to where his mother and father were waiting to go home.
“Such a fine salesman,” said Señor Benet when Juanito handed him the money. “From now on you will take all my bread to market.”
Juanito whistled as he hurried down the trail, listening to the coins he had earned jingle in his pocket. “Mama was right,” he said to himself. “Fighting is not the way to settle a problem—especially if I can let my head work instead of my fists!”

Across the clearing Roxie saw a group of women and girls entering the new big house. She thought of how Brother Garn had teased her the night before. “See, Miss Roxie,” he had said, “I fixed a special hook here by the new fireplace for that fancy ‘gold’ bucket of yours.”

Roxie had smiled, for she didn’t mind being teased about her brass bucket. It was one of the few things that her mother had been able to bring from her home in England when Grandma and Grandpa had settled in Nauvoo.

As Roxie entered the big house and crossed to the doorway of the kitchen beyond, her eye went to her little bucket hanging there on its peg. It does shine like gold, she thought with satisfaction.

Some of the older women were preparing the veal in roasting pans to go into the big rock oven. A couple of others were kneading the dough that had been slowly rising under its clean folded flour sack through the night. Then Roxie noticed Sister Lewis ladling thick cream, from a pan of milk she had set out the night before, into the big wooden churn. Roxie crossed over to her and picked up the butter dasher without waiting to be asked. Churning gave her time to watch all that was being done to prepare for the feast.

The sun had reached the cloth-covered windows on the west, and the savory smells of hot meats and vegetables mingled with those of molasses cakes. At last the settlers gathered around the long tables in their new main room. Gratefully they bowed their heads for the Lord’s blessing. This was their first feast.

Everyone was so busy passing around the big pans of food that no one paid much attention to the dogs’ excited barking outside. Then one of the men near the doorway rose and pushed aside the blanket that served as a door. He caught his breath quickly, and the others crowded around him.

There in the clearing was a band of Navajos, mounted on their long-maned horses. Standing out from the rest of the group was Chief Comazzy on his fine buckskin pony with its silver-trimmed Spanish saddle. Beside him was a young woman.

Roxie’s father was among the first of the men to go out to meet the unexpected guests and lead them to the bowery to rest. The women scurried around inside the house now, worrying whether they had enough food and eating utensils to serve the new arrivals. Sister Hatch found a clean sheet in the big chest and told Roxie and Polly to set the worktable in the adjoining kitchen for the Indians. She helped the girls find and wash more tin plates and cups.

The men led the group of newcomers through the main room into the kitchen, but in the doorway Comazzy stopped. His eyes took in the scene. Then a curious thing happened. Comazzy turned around, jerked his head for the others to follow, and strode out of the room toward his horse.

The settlers were stunned. It was Roxie’s father who first thought to run out and catch hold of their horses’ bridles as they were whirling them around to leave.

Roxie and the others watched the excited gestures. They were able to understand Comazzy’s mixture of Spanish and English. He was insulted that he was to eat in the kitchen where women should eat.

“Comazzy, please believe us!” Roxie’s father said. “We intended no insult by the seating arrangements. Come back. We really are your brothers!” He took out his pocket watch and extended it toward the chief as a peace offering.

Comazzy stared straight ahead like a statue. The other Indians sat as though made of stone.

Suddenly Roxie thought of her treasure and ran to fetch it. She felt a pang in her heart as she lifted the precious little brass bucket down from its peg. But she hurried outside with it and went straight to the chief’s young bride and held it up to her.

A hush fell over the watchers. Then slowly, as if in a spell, the dark-skinned girl stretched out a slender bracelet-spangled arm for the shiny little bucket! At a signal from the chief, one of the braves swung down from his pony, took the offered prize, and fastened it to the young girl’s saddle.

The tension was broken. Now everyone tried to talk at once. Sister Hatch nudged Roxie and motioned her to come back inside. The Indians were once more led to the bowery. The women and girls hurried to rearrange the tables and reheat the food.

Roxie’s father escorted Comazzy back inside and ushered him to the head of the main table. Roxie glanced over to where the Indian ponies were tied under the trees. She could see the golden glint of her little brass bucket tied to the saddle. She wished she could go over and just once more rub a finger along its satiny side.

Before she hurried inside, Roxie paused for a moment. She listened to the joyful cries of the little children playing down the path and to the breeze that was starting to rustle through the leaves by the river. Rays of gold and scarlet were starting to streak across the heavens to the west. Roxie brushed back the tears, took a deep breath of the cooling desert air, and went inside to the feast.

In one ward several years ago, the MIA workers all wondered how the young men’s president was able to be so organized and never forget any commitments or meetings or tasks that needed to be done. He was a real example of time management and personal organization. One day he disclosed to the MIA group that he was really quite poor at remembering and found a pocket calendar to be extremely helpful. His philosophy was that a dull pencil helped to maintain a sharp mind. He used his pocket planner as a planning, remembering, and organizing device, much the same as described above. His pocket calendar supplemented his memory so that he would not have to retain all of his commitments mentally and, therefore, would be free to think and evaluate.

As a boy, Russell M. Nelson loves learning about the gospel and longs to be sealed to his parents.