Gospel Story Finder

It all started—where else?—at church. It was fun for the family to get together and sing, and they began doing it at stake and ward functions in Oregon. Then one day a man asked them how much they’d charge to perform elsewhere. They said $25, and their professional careers were born.
Some families do jigsaw puzzles together; some ride bikes. The Potters performed—at fairs, shopping malls, civic events, that type of thing. It was fun, gave them some confidence, and kept them close. But suddenly, through a frightening turn of events, their performing became a life-or-death matter.

The adult daughter of Paul V. Johnson dies with a hope in the afterlife and the Resurrection.

I was serving with my husband, then the president of the England London South Mission, when the phone rang on June 18, 2008. It was President Thomas S. Monson. He began in his usual friendly fashion, one of the trademarks of his ministry: “How is the mission? How is your family? How is jolly old England?” And then he paused and said, “I have been talking with Frances, I have prayed about it, and I would like you to write my biography.”
Needless to say, I was honored and immediately overwhelmed. He then suggested that if I got started the next morning, I could be halfway done by the time we came home. We had one year left of our three-year call.

As I consider some of the problems people cause themselves by failing to look ahead, I think of a letter I clipped a long time ago from a newspaper. It was first published in England. I hope you will pardon a bit of humor. I use it only to set the stage for what I wish to say.
It appears that an English company owned a property in the West Indies. A violent storm damaged one of the buildings, and a man was sent to make repairs. Of his experience, he wrote the manager as follows:
“Respected Sir,
“When I got to the building, I found that the hurricane had knocked some bricks off the top. So I rigged up a beam with a pulley at the top of the building and hoisted up a couple of barrels full of bricks. When I had fixed the building, there was a lot of bricks left over.
“I hoisted the barrel back up again and secured the line at the bottom, and then went up and filled the barrel with extra bricks. Then I went to the bottom and cast off the line.
“Unfortunately, the barrel of bricks was heavier than I was, and before I knew what was happening the barrel started down, jerking me off the ground. I decided to hang on, and halfway up I met the barrel coming down and received a severe blow on the shoulder.
“I then continued to the top, banging my head against the beam and getting my finger jammed in the pulley. When the barrel hit the ground, it bursted its bottom, allowing all the bricks to spill out.
“I was now heavier than the barrel and so started down again at high speed. Halfway down, I met the barrel coming up and received severe injuries to my shins. When I hit the ground, I landed on the bricks, getting several painful cuts from the sharp edges.
“At this point I must have lost my presence of mind, because I let go of the line. The barrel then came down, giving me another heavy blow on the head and putting me in the hospital.
“I respectfully request sick leave.”

Image from Getty Images
Christmas wasn’t Christmas. Although I tried to be merry with carols playing in the background, I pulled out the storage bins with a heavy heart. The snowman cookie jar only reminded me that there was no one to bake with. The Santa figurine seemed to say that there was little reason to hang stockings, and the peppermint-striped wrapping paper reminded me that morning wouldn’t bring the voices of excited children.
This year our youngest had left for college, and our house felt lonely and quiet. I chose only the non-Santa type decorations and placed everything else back in their boxes.
With my husband out of town, I decorated the tree alone. My daughter-in-law posted pictures online of my grandchildren hanging ornaments on their tree, and my heart yearned for yesterday. I wondered how time had slipped by so quickly. How had my children grow so fast? Lost in my thoughts, I looked down at the light bulb in my hand. It was a single red bulb.
I examined the color, a deep red. Crimson. I looked around at the simplicity of what was left of the decorations: a few nativities, a manger built from popsicle sticks, and a decoration that spelled out NOEL in gold letters. My eyes were wet. The bulb was red—red like the atoning blood of the Savior.
I thought about how I had always equated decorations, cookie cutouts, and children’s glee on Christmas morning with what made me happy at Christmastime. Then I thought about my children and their eternal families. I thought about all the joy I had in my family and the joy they had in their own. I pondered how the babe lying in the manger made that possible. A sweetness of warmth sprung in my heart as I contemplated the gift of the Savior—not just for me but for all mankind.
“And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people” (Luke 2:10; emphasis added).
As I continued decorating the tree, I meditated on the humble birth and life of Jesus Christ. He came to mend the broken, build the downtrodden, comfort the lonely, bring peace in imperfection, and give compassion for suffering. He was born and died that we might live with Him in our Father’s kingdom once more. He came that man might know true happiness. My heart swelled and I found joy in Christ because Christ is Christmas.

I was stressed out. I’d lost one of my library books and my teacher told me I had to bring it in the next day or I’d get in trouble. My mum and I looked around the whole house, searching under every couch and looking through every bookcase. We couldn’t find it anywhere. I was nervous about getting in trouble at school. My mum suggested we take another look around the house. We double-checked every place and looked in places we hadn’t thought about before. But we still had no luck.
Then my mum suggested that we say a prayer. We knelt down together on the wooden floors and prayed, asking Heavenly Father that we might be able to find my lost book and that everything would be OK. We closed the prayer together and then my mum looked at me and asked, “Where do you feel we should look?” I answered immediately, “My bookshelf.” We’d looked a number of times all through that bookshelf and hadn’t been able to find it, but we still walked into my bedroom to search again. Something immediately caught my attention: a book was hanging on its side, halfway out among the other books. I pulled it out and, sure enough, it was my lost book. I was overjoyed and then knelt down again with my mum and thanked Heavenly Father for answering my prayers.

One of my favorite childhood stories happened when I was about three years old. I don’t remember the experience, but my mother has often told me about it.
My father had been called to serve a mission in the Southern States Mission. At the time, my parents and I were living in southern Nevada. Although they knew that it would be difficult to be separated, my mother and father were thrilled with the opportunity it gave my father to serve the Lord.
So my father left his wife and only child at home and headed for Salt Lake City for initial training and instruction before he left for the mission field.
The day after he left, my mother was washing clothes. In those days water had to be heated on a stove, after which it was poured into the washing machine. She had just picked up a bucket of boiling water and was carrying it over to the washing machine when I scurried past her. She tripped, and the scalding water poured all over me.
Priesthood holders were called in to administer to me. Before they began, my mother gave them strict instructions: “Bless this child that he will be healed so that his father won’t have to interrupt his mission.”
After the blessing, the pain ceased, and in a short time I was healed. I was promised that I would have no scars, and I have none.
My father was told about the accident, but he was assured that I was well on my way to recovery. In the meantime he had been set apart by a General Authority and was given the promise that his wife and son would be blessed while he served the Lord and that all would go well with them. He took the Lord at His word and went on with his mission.
My father died when I was six, leaving me with almost no memory of him and leaving my mother a young widow with two babies. But my mother never expressed regret for the time that my father had spent on his mission serving the Lord. To this day she still speaks of his mission as a blessing in our lives. She always taught me how important serving a mission is.
I have always insisted that missionary work be part of my life and part of my family’s lives. I have told this story many times to my children and to their children to help them understand the importance of serving the Lord and to teach them that a mission comes first.

During World War II, several Latter-day Saints moved through the islands with advancing Allied forces. In 1944 and 1945, military groups held Church meetings in many locations, and numerous LDS service members and service workers were still in the Philippines when the war ended. Among them were Maxine Tate and recent convert Jerome Horowitz. Both helped introduce the gospel to Aniceta Fajardo. While helping rebuild Aniceta’s house in a bombed-out area of Manila, Brother Horowitz shared his newly found faith with Aniceta and her daughter, Ruth.
Aniceta gained a testimony and desired baptism, but the Church did not authorize baptisms for Filipinos at that time because there were no permanent Church units in the islands. Elder Harold B. Lee (1899–1973) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles became aware of Aniceta’s desire, and in his capacity as chairman of the General Servicemen’s Committee, Elder Lee approved Aniceta’s baptism. On Easter morning in 1946, Aniceta Fajardo was baptized by serviceman Loren Ferre and is now acknowledged as the first known Filipino to become a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

I recall a bishop telling me of a woman who came to get a recommend. When asked if she observed the Word of Wisdom, she said that she occasionally drank a cup of coffee. She said, “Now, bishop, you’re not going to let that keep me from going to the temple, are you?” To which he replied, “Sister, surely you will not let a cup of coffee stand between you and the house of the Lord.”

Many great spiritual experiences have taken place in the Alberta Temple. Among them was one that resulted from the fervent prayers of the parents of a young elder who was drowned while on his way to a mission in South America. His grieving father and mother could not be comforted.
One evening while the father was in the Alberta Temple, he heard his son’s voice, although he did not see him. The young elder told his father that the grieving of his parents was making it impossible for their son to fill the heavenly mission to which he had been called. Then the boy promised that as a witness to the importance of the work he had been called to do, the father would be asked to speak at a special meeting that day in the temple.
Unexpectedly that afternoon the temple president stopped the work of those in the temple and announced that there would be a testimony meeting and asked several people to participate. The father anxiously waited. When another man was announced as the concluding speaker, the sorrowing father left the meeting, fearful that the visit with his son had been only his imagination.
Before the man had left the building, however, the temple president arose and announced that he had heard a voice directing him to ask this man whose son had been drowned to speak to the group. Those in the room reported that the father had left. “Then go and find him,” the president urged.
When the father returned to the meeting, he told the group of his strange experience while tears of comfort and joy glistened in his peace-filled eyes.

As a Kenyan teenager, Jastus Suchi Obadiah once vowed to his friends that he would physically harm any white South African he happened to meet. “My friends and I often read in the newspapers about the injustices of apartheid, and we hated white South Africans,” he explains. Fortunately, Jastus forgot his hateful vow before he ever met a South African.
As a young man, Jastus was introduced to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints by his cousin, a Church member. “I’ll never forget the first missionaries who taught me; one was a black African, and one was a white elder from the United States,” says Jastus. As Jastus observed these two young men working together in harmony, “I learned there were many good people no matter what their color.
“As they taught me, the principle of love came into my heart. I realized that to be like God, you really must be loving. My sense of love grew—even for my enemies.” Two years after his baptism, Jastus was himself a missionary, serving in the Kenya Nairobi Mission.
Jastus and his senior companion seemed to work particularly well together; they shared a strong mutual respect and quickly became the best of friends. One day, as Jastus was looking into the white face of his South African companion, the long-forgotten vow made in his teens came rushing back to him. “It really affected my heart when I remembered what I had said. Then I realized how wonderful the gospel is, because it brings people together, no matter who we are or where we come from.
“And I felt how wonderful it is to teach this gospel together with my white companion,” he says. “The gospel changed the course of my life.”

The northern Arizona evening air had the feel and smell of autumn. The cool air felt good to Letha as she carefully guided Grandmother to the wooden chair outside the old adobe house that rose from the high rocky mesa. Grandmother’s old feet walked very slowly, and her aging body leaned heavily upon Letha’s young arm.
“Here we are, Grandmother,” Letha said gently. The old Hopi woman slowly lowered herself into the creaky wooden chair. Letha sat down on the hard, dry ground next to Grandmother’s feet. She gazed at the quiet desert far below them. A peace settled in Letha’s heart.
“Little Sister, tell me what you see.”
“The sun has painted the sky bright red, the color of your red pottery. Around the edges of red, the sky is dark blue,” Letha said, trying to describe the brilliant sunset.
Letha had become Grandmother’s eyes for her, guiding the old Hopi woman here and there, finding things for her, and, as now, trying to describe the surrounding beauty. In doing so, Letha had begun to see their desert home in a new and wondrous way. Each time she looked at the ever-changing desert floor below, she found a new color, shape, or texture and she saw fresh beauty in each tree and rock. She noticed the swift, smooth, sequential movements of the slick brown lizards on the red rocks. She studied the graceful flights of the birds overhead. All these Letha tried to describe to her beloved grandmother so that she might see them with her mind’s eye.
“Are there clouds?” Grandmother asked now.
“Yes, Grandmother. They are in long streaks, like waves in the sky, each a different shade of red or pink and each turning a new shade of pink with the setting of Brother Sun.”
The air turned cooler as the sun disappeared from sight. Still the two sat quietly, enjoying the evening and each other’s company.
“Tell me about the stars, Little Sister,” Grandmother said as the crickets started to sing.
“They are bright tonight but scattered among the clouds. Bear star is hiding.”
After a long while Grandmother spoke again. “Letha, tomorrow I want you to go down the mesa and get me some white clay.”
“Oh, Grandmother, you are going to make pottery again!” Letha’s young voice held great excitement. Grandmother was a famous potter. Her work was so well known that people had come from far away and paid great amounts of money for her beautiful pottery.
“Yes, Little Sister. I am going to make a very special piece of pottery.” The sadness that was in Grandmother’s voice confused Letha. Making pottery had always been Grandmother’s heart song. She was always happiest when she was creating a piece of fine pottery.
But Grandmother had not made any pottery since her eyes had dimmed. Her old, gnarled hands could still mold perfectly shaped vases, bowls, and pots, but her clouded eyes would not let her see to paint the beautifully intricate and unusual designs that identified her work. When she had begun to lose her sight, she had said, “I will not make pottery that is not my best,” and had put away her pottery tools.
It had broken Letha’s heart to have Grandmother put her tools away. Grandmother had taught Letha to make pottery in the traditional way. Patiently and lovingly she had taught her the ancient craft, guiding her in ways known only to a master potter.
Although Letha was still learning the art of pottery making, it was already the song of her heart too. She loved the feeling of the wet clay in her small hands as she carefully coiled, sanded, smoothed, and painted each piece of pottery. Each vase, bowl, or pot that she created had a bit of herself molded into it. But Letha still had much to learn. Tomorrow she would watch and learn more as Grandmother made her pottery.
“Come, Little Sister. It is time to go in. The air is too cool for this old woman,” Grandmother said as she started to rise from the chair.
That night, as Letha lay curled up in her blanket on the floor next to Grandmother’s bed, her heart was troubled. If Grandmother was going to make pottery again, her heart should be happy. But Grandmother had sounded sad when she asked for the clay. …
It was late in the afternoon when Grandmother sat at her old table with the clay that Letha had gathered. The gnarled old hands rolled out a long thin rope of damp clay with practiced ease. Then slowly, carefully she coiled the rope around and around. Letha watched quietly, amazed that Grandmother could still shape pottery with such ease with blinded eyes.
Grandmother worked silently as she formed a round vase about the size of a grapefruit. Next, her hands skillfully created a graceful neck at the top of the vase. The neck extended into a flat spout. Then another graceful neck with a matching spout was formed on the opposite side of the vase. Lastly a braided handle joined the spouts together.
Grandmother’s hands searched through her tools until she found her favorite dried gourd rind. With the rind she painstakingly smoothed the walls of the double-spouted vase to an even thickness. She handed it to Letha, who carefully set it on the drying shelf.
“This old woman is tired, Little Sister.”
Letha helped Grandmother to her narrow bed and covered her with a warm quilt.
“It is very good clay that you dug today, Little Sister. Thank you.”
Two days later Letha made a big pile of juniper chips outside the adobe house. She covered the pile with sheep dung, placed a flat sandstone on top of the pile, gently placed the now-dry wedding vase on the sandstone, very carefully covered the vase with large pieces of broken pottery, then started the sheep dung on fire. As the flames engulfed the pile, Letha went over to Grandmother.
Grandmother was humming the traditional “firing song.” Letha hummed also. The firing song would help protect the vase from scorching or cracking during the firing.
Much later, when Letha lifted the wedding vase from the gray ashes, she could see that it was perfect in every way. The surface was smooth and uncracked, the white color flawless. Letha carried the warm vase to her grandmother and set it in its maker’s hands. Grandmother turned the vase carefully, feeling every inch of it. A smile crossed her lips.
After holding the vase lovingly for a few minutes, she reached out and took Letha’s small hand into her old, worn one. “Sit, Little Sister. Be my eyes. Tell me what you see here.” Grandmother held out the wedding vase.
“A beautiful, perfect, white wedding vase.” Although Grandmother’s dimmed eyes had not permitted her to paint the intricate designs and lines for which her pottery was famous, to Letha it was the most beautiful piece of pottery that Grandmother had ever made.
“Yes, the traditional vase that binds two hearts together in love.” Grandmother halted for a moment, and Letha could see tears in the clouded brown eyes. “It is the last piece of pottery I shall make. This old woman will not feel the warmth of the next spring.”
“Grandmother—“
“No, Little Sister, you must listen. Soon I will leave this life. There is no sadness in it for me. It is the way of all life. But for you, Little Sister, there will be sadness, I know.” Grandmother squeezed the small hand she still held in her own. “This vase is for you, Little Sister. In it I have molded our hearts together. Each time you look at it, you will think of me and feel me near. Each time you look at it, paint it with the new eyes you have found by seeing for me. Paint it as you have painted my life—with warmth, love, and great beauty. I will continue to live on through you and your pottery making, for we sing the same heart song.”

Eighteen months after the passing of our son, we received a phone call from LDS Family Services saying that a young woman had chosen to place her baby with us. Knowing that we could not have more biological children, we could not have been more excited.
When our little girl was six months old, we finalized her adoption and took her to the temple to be sealed to us. Four years after our little girl became part of our family, another young woman chose us to be the parents of a sweet little boy. Again we had the blessing of taking a six-month-old to the temple. I will never forget how I felt when I saw my children, all in white, in the temple with my husband and me to be sealed to us for eternity.

I was standing in line with my mom to pay for our groceries. The line was crowded, so my mom had to bend over this little boy in front of us to buy our things. The little boy started to kick her. The second time he kicked her, she backed away and said, “Will you please stop kicking?”
The boy’s mom turned around and told my mom it was her fault she got kicked. She said all sorts of insulting things to us. I started to glare at her as she turned back around and was rude to the cashier too! I acted calm, but inside I was angry. It bugged me. I knew that what happened wasn’t my mom’s fault or mine, but I still felt hurt.
When we got home, I went to my room and pulled out my scriptures. After reading for a minute, I felt a need to pray. I hardly felt in the mood, but I knelt down and started to pray. Eventually, I found myself praying for this woman who had treated us so awfully. The calmest feeling I’ve ever felt settled all over me. I couldn’t find room in my heart to be angry at her anymore. I felt love.
Teresa G., Idaho, USA

The organization of the first Primary was the subject of another festival. The Primary Association was first organized in Farmington’s old rock chapel in 1878 under the direction of Brigham Young. Sister Aurelia Rogers had recognized the need for an organization to teach children the gospel while improving their behavior. Eliza R. Snow suggested the name “Primary.”

Karine Dauriat, 12, of Poitiers, talks about life before and after November 1987. “That’s when our family was baptized,” she explains. “There’s a big difference in our home since we joined the Church.”
“That’s true,” says her sister Christelle, 15. “We’re nicer to each other. I think it’s because from the first time the missionaries came, we felt a feeling of joy. We started to understand why we’re here on earth and what we should be doing.”
“We have a common goal now,” says another sister, Sandrine, who is 17. “We want to keep the commandments so we can be an eternal family.”

by Elder Craig BarrOhio Columbus Mission
Every year there is a big celebration down in Elkins, West Virginia, called the Forest Festival. To take part in the festival missionaries in the past have set up a display about some aspect of the Church. This year we decided to really do a good job.
Our display consisted of a giant painting of the Washington D.C. Temple. In fact, it was 8-by-12 feet and was painted by an artist in the branch in Elkins. To go with the painting, we obtained a tent 20-by-40 feet from the Army Reserve Depot at Charleston, West Virginia. We set up the tent behind the painting and showed movies to festival visitors. We ran Man’s Search for Happiness, Meet the Mormons, and The New Landmark, a film on the Washington D.C. Temple. On each side of the entrance we placed a display board and pamphlets. These were centered on the family, the family home evening program, and temple work. Floodlights were also set up. There was a blue light in front of the painting to enhance the beauty of the temple and white lights on the side to offset the color and light the display boards. The title of our booth was Why Families and Why Temples?
For four days we had from two to four missionaries at the booth. The response that we received was tremendous. We were kept busy day and night. Many people stopped and commented on the painting, and many others asked for pamphlets and wanted to see the movies. Others requested to hear the missionary lessons or signed our guest register and asked us to come and see them after the festival was over.
The last day there was a parade, and the special guest was President Gerald R. Ford. He stopped and waved to us when he saw the painting of the temple.
We closed down the booth that same evening. When we reflected back over those hurried days, we could see what a great success the booth had been. We had received over 40 referrals and many other verbal referrals. We had come in contact with people who requested that the missionaries come to their homes. Now we are busy teaching and are very grateful for the response that we had. We are especially grateful to those who donated time and talents to help make the display a success.

In August of this year, there occurred a tragedy in Salt Lake County. It was reported in the local and national press. Five beautiful little girls—so young, so vibrant, so loving—hiding away, as children often do in their games of hide-and-seek, entered the trunk of a parent’s car. The trunk lid was pulled shut, they were unable to escape, and all perished from heat exhaustion.
The entire community was so kind, so thoughtful, so caring in the passing of Alisha, Ashley, McKell, Audrey, and Jaesha. Flowers, food, calls, visits, and prayers were shared.
On the Sunday after the devastating event occurred, long lines of automobiles filled with grieving occupants drove ever so slowly past the Smith home, the scene of the accident. Sister Monson and I wished to be among those who expressed condolences in this way. As we drove by, we felt we were on holy ground. We literally crept along at a snail’s pace along the street. It was as though we could visualize a traffic sign reading, “Please drive slowly; children at play.” Tears filled our eyes and compassion flowed from our hearts.
At the funeral, as well as the evening prior, thousands passed by the caskets and expressed support for the grieving parents and grandparents. In two of the three families, the deceased children were all the children they had.
At the funeral services for the five little angels, I counseled: “There is one phrase which should be erased from your thinking and from the words you speak aloud. It is the phrase ‘If only.’ It is counterproductive and is not conducive to the spirit of healing and of peace. Rather, recall the words of Proverbs: ‘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.’”
Before the closing of the caskets, I noted that each child held a favorite toy, a soft gift to cuddle. I reflected on the words of the poet Eugene Field:

For Christmas one year, Russell’s parents gave him a shiny black bike. When Russell was 10, his dad asked him to come work as his errand boy. He would send Russell on his bike to deliver and pick up things all over town. Russell met lots of new and interesting people. He was excited to help!
Later Russell used the money he earned from his job as an errand boy to buy his mom a present on his birthday! He wrote her a note that said, “Thanks for having me!”

An older sister in the ward had a tumor in her stomach and needed help every day because she could not move from her bed. Finally, she asked if just I would come, not another priesthood holder or any other person, because she was very sick and was going to die. She felt comfortable having her bishop help her.
One day I had an operation on my heart, and I was unable to visit her for a short time. When I went back to see her, she said, “Bishop, how can you come help me if you’ve just had an operation?”
I told her, “My calling is to serve others.”
Her death was coming soon and her body was starting to waste away. It was hard to see her that way, but she was not afraid to die. She loved God and knew the plan of salvation. “I know that God has a wonderful plan for me,” she said.
When she passed away, I reflected on the experiences I had with her and how good my calling as bishop is. I am grateful to serve others, love others, and help them. I love the gospel.