Gospel Story Finder

… Across the way on Temple Square block, the foundations of the temple rose above the general level of the surrounding ground and seemed to be an object of interest to nearly all the emigrants, many of whom were permitted to go within the wall, and view it. By and by there were numerous meetings in various groups of people, friends of the emigrants, parents and sweethearts, and perhaps in some instances wives of the teamsters that had returned. There seemed to be an air of cheerfulness in all this meeting of people on the arrival of this large emigrant train of Saints.

Mary and I seemed to be so little part of this excitement and joy, because nobody seemed to come for us. Mary remained concealed under the wagon cover, and I lonesome and heartsick sat upon the tongue of [the] wagon, my chin in my hands and elbows upon my knees, thinking “Zion” was not so much after all, if this was all of it. …

Presently, however, approaching from the west gate, I saw a woman in a red and white plaid shawl. … She seemed to be daintily picking her way, and there was something in the movement of her head as she looked to the right and to the left that seemed familiar to me. The woman was moving in my direction, and the closer she came the stronger the conviction grew upon me that there was my mother. …

I stood until she came nearly parallel to where I sat; then sliding from the tongue of the wagon, I took a few steps, which brought me near to her and, plucking her gown, I said: “Hey Mother,” and she looked down upon my upturned face. Without moving she gazed upon me for some time and at last said, “Is this you, Harry? Where is Polly?” Of course Polly was in the wagon, and I led my mother to where she was hiding, and when mother and daughter met, there was a flood of tears on both sides. At last I joined them, making the trio of the united family. It seemed difficult for our mother to realize that we at last were her children after more than four years of separation, but once in a while, a smile would break through the tears and she seemed to be extremely happy. A neighbor of hers … had driven her from Bountiful to the city to get us children, and it took but a short time to leave the remaining emigrant teams and people to find this wagon and make the start for home, Bountiful.

There was one thing remembered in this reunion, and that was on my part. I felt that I had arrived, that I belonged to somebody, that somebody had an interest in me, and these were the thoughts that were in my mind as I sat in the wagon on the drive home to Bountiful. I had heard incidentally that my mother owned her house, and that, of course, for English people, who among the poorer classes were all renters, meant a great deal to me. Now I was going to my mother’s home—her own house.

They first heard that message from two lady missionaries who were tracting in their area. Sister Zulema Abrea accepted the gospel immediately. She helped her son Angel understand the story of the Book of Mormon and learn to study the scriptures in preparation for his baptism, which came almost a year later. Oscar, who was then too young, entered the waters of baptism at age eight.

It would be satisfying to write that Edealo Abrea joined his wife and sons in Church membership before his death eight years ago, but that did not happen. Elder Abrea’s father nevertheless supported his family, encouraging his wife and sons in their Church service. Elder Abrea remembers that when he was baptized, his father told him, “Angel, if you are going to be a member of that Church—if you are going to be a member of the Mormon Church—you have to be a faithful member. I remember that was a Sunday morning, when he was waking me up to go to the meetings. Really, he was a tremendous help for me.”

Eric Blanchard, a two-time state wrestling champion from St. Anthony, Idaho, is back wrestling again after nearly losing his life in an accidental shooting incident. Although Eric came perilously close to death and the bullet still remains lodged in his back, he followed doctor’s instructions and worked hard to get back into shape. Doctors determined that it was too dangerous to remove the bullet but that it would not affect his recovery if left where it was.
Eric succeeded in his third season and was nearly as strong as ever. He barely lost in overtime in his attempt for his third state championship. Eric is a priest in the Chester Ward, Ashton Idaho Stake.

One woman, Kelly, was so touched by the opportunity to buy items for teens and children that she told her member friend, “This idea is so unbelievably awesome! Everyone needs to know about these machines!” Kelly posted about the experience on her Facebook page. She became an incredible advocate for the Giving Machine initiative, prompting five families in her neighborhood to visit a Giving Machine kiosk, as well as family members in three different cities to visit their local Giving Machine kiosks.

A few months ago, my secretary said that there was a man out in the hall who wanted to talk to me. He brought in his seven-year-old boy, who was going to have a birthday in a few weeks. The father said he was concerned because his son wanted to be baptized but not when he was eight. He wanted his brother who was serving a mission to baptize him, and that meant waiting another year.
I asked the little boy to read some scriptures with me about baptism. Then I asked him what he thought Jesus Christ would want him to do. He said, “Well, He would want me to be baptized.” I asked him if he wanted to let his father baptize him on his birthday. I told him to go home and pray about it. On the night of his birthday, I called and asked him if he had been baptized, and he said yes. He had thought about it and prayed about it and realized that that was the right thing to do. So he had had the faith to be baptized. Reading the scriptures was an important part of that experience because as he read the scriptures, he thought about what Jesus wanted him to do.

I know that President Thomas S. Monson has asked us to serve other people. One Sunday afternoon I wanted to visit my grandmother, who lives alone, and spend the night with her to keep her company. My mother gave her permission, and my grandmother was very surprised and happy to see me. We talked, made a little snack, and looked at the Liahona together. After having prayer, we went to sleep.
During the night, there was a bad storm—wind, lightning, thunder, rain, and hail! It woke us up, and my grandmother told me she would have been very afraid if I had not been there with her. I was glad to be able to serve her this way.
Vinício R., age 10, Brazil

Illustration by Dan Burr
I remember it was your typical ward Christmas party: tables covered with red and green butcher paper, dinner served on paper plates, little children running around, and the happy sound of ward members chatting. Somehow, someone had managed to quiet things down to give a blessing on the food, and then everyone ate. The program was about to start.
It wasn’t my ward. I had gone with a friend to her ward party, so I didn’t know many people. We had wanted to leave early, but her mom convinced us to stay for the program.
The first number on the program was by the Primary children, who walked onto the stage wearing gold-tinsel halos on their heads. They sang a song then bumped and giggled their way offstage, leaving a trail of gold tinsel in their wake.
Two pianists then played joyous songs. The first pianist played “Oh, Come, All Ye Faithful” (Hymns, no. 202) without missing a note. The other, a young boy, sat down at the piano and looked mournfully over his shoulder at his mom, who began to quietly count the beat. The boy sighed, turned to the instrument, and played his best version of “Up on the Housetop.”
Next on the program was one of my favorite songs—“C-h-r-i-s-t-m-a-s.”
I looked up to see a sister with stooped shoulders and one hand held close to her body, walking with an awkward stride to stand beside the piano. She stood with one hip lower than the other and offered a lopsided smile before she began. I admit I wrongfully wondered if the song would be any good.
“When I was but a youngster, Christmas meant one thing,” she sang. The song went on to tell how a child learns how to spell Christmas and discovers what the holiday is really about.
“C is for the Christ child, born upon this day; H for herald angels.”
Her mouth was slack on one side, and she had difficulty forming the words.
“R means our Redeemer; I means Israel; S is for the star.”
Cautiously I looked around the room and studied the faces of her ward members. No one seemed embarrassed. In fact, they sat smiling and listening contentedly.
“T is for three wise men … ; M is for the manger.”
She continued singing and turned her face upward, fixing her eyes on a spot somewhere on the ceiling. After a few moments I looked up too, but I saw only ceiling tiles. When I glanced back at her, though, I noticed tears gleaming in her eyes.
“A is for all He stands for; S means shepherds came.”
When she finished, the hall filled with applause. Her cheeks flushed red. As she made her way back to her seat, hands reached out to touch her arm or shoulder as ward members expressed genuine gratitude. One sister, sitting close to me, told her what a nice job she had done, to which she quietly replied, “Thank you. I hope He liked it.”
He? To whom had she been singing? Even as I asked myself the question, I knew the answer. I realized she hadn’t been singing to anyone in the room. She hadn’t performed for the approval of the audience. She had sung to the Savior to praise Him.
Many Christmases have passed since that ward party, and I’ve heard the song “C-h-r-i-s-t-m-a-s” performed by many well-trained voices. But the version I heard that Christmas, sung by one whose performance was out of the ordinary but truly heartfelt, is the one I remember best.

Near Independence, Missouri, the Knights eagerly pitched in to establish the area as a center place for Zion and for a great temple. When twelve men laid the first log as a foundation of Zion, five were Knight relatives. Newel Knight was one of seven who dedicated the Jackson County temple site. For the Knight clan, such ceremonies stirred hope of a great future, despite the tragedies among them. Mother Knight had been so sick on the trip from Ohio that Newel brought along lumber for her coffin. Her “greatest desire,” he wrote, was “to set her feet upon the land of Zion and to have her body buried” there. She became the first Saint buried in Missouri. That year, death claimed two more Knights—one of them Newel’s sister Esther, the other his uncle, Aaron Culver.

The Rexburg Idaho North Stake Adventurers climbed to new heights as they spent three days backpacking in the Tetons of Wyoming. They hiked 20 miles up and across the ridge of mountains starting in Idaho and ending in Wyoming. The girls were challenged by the steep terrain, the altitude, and the effort of carrying everything with them. The nine Young Women who practiced in the hike formed close friendships as they joined together in helping each other along the way.

We were all sitting around talking in the lobby of the meetinghouse when a girl walked in carrying a page torn from a magazine.
“Can you believe this?” said the girl, incredulously, holding the magazine ad so her friends could see. “Look at this picture. If anyone believes this, they’re crazy.”
The two nearest her took the page, looked at it briefly, and started snickering. Soon all the girls crowded around. This group of girls, between the ages of 18 and 20, had one thing in common. They were all employed as nannies in the Boston, Massachusetts, area. I had asked them to talk about their reasons for choosing to become nannies and what they had learned about the experience. Now I had to see what they were laughing at.
I looked over their shoulders at a full-page ad. The copy said something about the exciting opportunities awaiting girls who wanted to become nannies. The picture was of a pretty young girl in a frilly dress, seated on a couch with a poodle lying beside her on the cushion. A black baby grand piano was behind her. Seated at the girl’s feet were two perfectly groomed children smiling up at her as she read from a storybook.
“That isn’t how it is,” said Leslie Bentall, a former nanny. “You walk around in sweat pants with your hair pulled back while kids in dirty diapers pull you in all directions. The homes are often not as nice as they are made out to be. You’re asked to do child care, but then you’re made to wash walls and clean windows, do carpools, and baby-sit every night of the week.”

Concerned for the youth of his ward, a good bishop in Bountiful challenged his young people to taste the sweetness of beautiful service. Reluctantly at first, they put aside their entertainment. One project was making quilts for the mentally retarded at the American Fork Training School. Upon completion of their quilts, the girls delivered them. They arrived at the school in time to help feed supper to the “children.” And that was an experience. As they left the school, with mashed potatoes, gravy, and assorted vegetables in their hair and on their outfits, one girl, touched by the sweetness of the “child” she had fed, said, “I’ll never forget Billy.”

My boyhood dream came true when I made the basketball team at Utah State University. During my second year at Utah State, a returned missionary befriended me. Because of his example I began looking at my associates at school, including those on the basketball team, and realized that the people I most wanted to be like were those who had served missions. With the kind and loving mentoring of my good friend—and, I am sure, as a result of my mother’s prayers and good example—my desires changed. After my second year at Utah State, I was called to serve in the Western Canadian Mission.

My eyes filled with tears as I drove to the hospital for more testing. I had been diagnosed with cancer after the birth of my daughter two years earlier. I had undergone surgery and received treatment, and I was about to find out if the treatments had worked. “Heavenly Father, I have learned a lot from this experience. Please take this trial from me. I want to raise my daughter and one day serve a mission with my husband. Please heal me.”
The tears rolled down my face. Suddenly my prayer changed to the words of the song “A Child’s Prayer.” Something compelled me to speak out loud.
Pray, he is there;
Speak, he is list’ning.
You are his child;
His love now surrounds you.
He hears your prayer.
An overwhelming feeling of love came over me. I felt that Heavenly Father knew me and was concerned about me and was listening to me. I felt that everything would be OK.
I received the results the next day. The tests showed no signs of cancer. I felt a huge burden lifted from me. The following day, however, my doctor called and explained that although the earlier results were clean, the blood test showed I still had significant cancer activity. “How could that be?” I questioned. If this was really what was going on, why had I felt that Heavenly Father had answered my prayer?
I tried to put my doubts aside as I returned for more testing. These results showed not only that I still had cancer but also that the cancer had spread. I couldn’t help but wonder about my experience in the car. I couldn’t deny what I had felt, yet I started to doubt my interpretation.
The new information was overwhelming and caused serious reflection. I felt that I still needed to learn something from this trial. As I pondered, I realized that I had been going through all the motions of an active Latter-day Saint, yet I often did things out of habit rather than sincerity. I was not at the spiritual level where I wanted to be. I needed to return to the basics, so I began focusing on areas that would bring me closer to Jesus Christ. I needed His strength to make it through my trials.
As I put more effort into spiritual matters, my faith in Jesus Christ and His plan for me increased. I realized that my experience while driving to the hospital really was an answer to prayer. As I acknowledge and accept that answer (that everything will be fine), I recognize that Heavenly Father does not always specify when everything will be taken care of. I may never be completely healed physically, but I am learning to accept His will. My life is truly in His hands.
Seven years have passed since I was diagnosed with cancer. I have had numerous surgeries and treatments, yet I still have cancer. Life, however, goes on, and I’m grateful for that. With my trials have come blessings, including a second daughter. Most important, the Lord’s answer that “everything will be fine” still comforts me.
Update: Sister Coston’s latest checkup, at eight years since diagnosis, showed no signs of cancer.

I grew up in a family in which my parents have been a glowing example to my two brothers, my sister, and me, and our family has received many blessings because of their efforts. For instance, we have grown together to become a close family, turning to each other in times of need or trials. And although some of my family members are less active, they still join in family home evening.
I spent some time living in Sydney, Australia, and was very homesick living so far from Ireland. Luckily, I lived near a Church meetinghouse where I attended family home evening with other young adults. This was a great blessing to me, and when I attended, I no longer felt homesick. It was great to mingle with fellow members in a relaxed setting and where the Spirit was present.
Linda Ryan, Ireland

My father was an incredible man. He was bishop of our ward for twenty-nine years, including my entire childhood. His quiet, strong example meant a lot to me. I learned a lot by watching him.
One of the most important lessons I learned was the importance of paying tithing. I watched ward members give my father their tithing, and I watched him at night write tithing receipts for these humble offerings. I watched my mother gather the eggs the chickens laid and save one out of every ten to pay for tithing. My parents taught me how to save one-tenth of the few pesos and pennies I earned, and I treasured the tithing receipt I received after paying my tithing.

In ninth grade, Tami had a friend who was good at everything. Tami’s friend, Sandy, was popular. She ran track and won. Tami joined the track team just to be like Sandy. But Tami never won a race. Usually she came in last. Sandy could tell a joke. And boys liked Sandy.
Just before Christmas, the school announced a writing contest. Tami decided to enter. She spent her evenings writing her poem instead of talking with Sandy on the phone as she usually did. She worried about entering the contest. It wasn’t the kind of thing Sandy would do. Tami didn’t even tell her friend she was doing it. Sandy might laugh, or maybe even make fun of her. But it was thrilling to find how much she liked writing. When the results were announced, Tami’s poem won second place.
Encouraging herself to try something on her own wasn’t easy. But Tami discovered something—deciding for herself what she wanted made her happier than trying to imitate her friends. It gave her strength to make more decisions on her own.
In the next few years, as some of her friends began making choices that were against Tami’s standards, it was easier to make her own choices, even when they were less popular.

True rough-and-tough camping is alive and well deep in the heart of Texas, where girls of the Boerne Ward, San Antonio Texas Stake, went on a three-day high adventure.
“The trip began with a training meeting where the girls divided themselves into teams of two or three for sharing tents and cooking meals. They learned how to stay safe and comfortable in a primitive environment,” says their leader, Linda Bohman.
While they were on their campout, the girls went swimming, canoeing, rappelling, had devotionals, and went exploring.
After such a rigorous activity, everyone was ready to come home.
“Wow, it was hard, but I did it!” said one girl.

Our grandson, then six-year-old Jeffrey Monson Dibb, accompanied by a six-year-old playmate, once paused at an end table in his house on which there was a picture of Elder Jeffrey R. Holland. Our grandson’s friend pointed to the picture and asked, “Who is that man?”
Jeff replied, “Oh, that’s Elder Jeffrey Holland of the Quorum of Twelve Apostles. He’s named after me!”
This same namesake of Elder Holland’s, along with his young friend, went for a walk one day. They marched up the front steps of a home, not knowing who lived there or what affiliation they might have with the Church. They knocked on the front door, and a woman answered. Without the slightest hesitation, Jeff Dibb said to her, “We are the visiting home teachers. May we come in?” They were ushered into the living room and were asked to be seated. With total faith the children addressed the woman, “Do you have a treat for us?” What could she do? She produced a treat, and they had a nice conversation. The impromptu teachers departed, uttering a sincere, “Thank you.”
“Come back again,” they heard the woman say with a smile on her face.
“We will,” came the reply.
The parents of the two youngsters heard of the incident. I am certain they were restrained in counseling the little ones. Perhaps they remembered the words from the scriptures: “And a little child shall lead them.”

The last colorful rays of the setting sun had faded into the western horizon, and the dark of the night was beginning to settle down over the desert. My father and I were finishing our evening meal and making plans for the night and the next day.
Father was a large, strong man with a kind heart, and he was happy to have his oldest son with him on this trip. We were going to drive 500 sheep we had just purchased to their new home on the other side of the 85-mile-wide desert. In the desert there was little water, and the days would be hot and the nights cool. The plan was to drive the sheep in the cool of the night and allow them to rest during the heat of the day. We hoped that by doing this the sheep could go without water for three days. Arriving on the other side of the desert, they would be met by a wagon loaded with barrels of water for the thirsty sheep. Our own drinking water for the journey was carried in a ten-gallon milk can in the back of our Model T touring car.
My father was a gentle and considerate man, and he said to me, “I’ll drive the sheep tonight while you sleep. After you awaken in the morning, eat your breakfast, gather up our camp gear, pack it in the car, and then drive down the trail until you catch up with me and the sheep.”
Everything went as planned. Father drove the sheep through the night into the desolate area. When I awakened the next morning, I ate a hurried breakfast and packed the car. As I drove the Model T along the uncertain wagon trail in the desert, it was difficult to see signs of Father and the sheep, and their trail was especially hard to follow through some of the rocky areas. Still, everything went pretty well for the first few miles until there was a fork in the road. I wished Father were there to tell me which road to take. Finally, I decided to take the better road on the right. I drove along without incident for some miles until I came to a deep washout. There the road faded out completely.
Without a map or road signs, fear gripped my heart. I am lost! I thought. What shall I do? Then I remembered the words of my Scout leader: “If you are lost, stop and wait. Then give some kind of a warning signal.”
I took the old 44-40 rifle from the car and fired three quick shots into the air, praying that Father would hear; then I waited and prayed and waited some more.
After what seemed like such a long time, I saw Father in the distance, running toward me and waving his arms! It wasn’t long after that wonderful meeting until we were safely home with the sheep. How relieved and thankful I was for a father who cared and who could show me the right way to go.
I have taken many journeys since that one across the desert, some filled with hazards and important decisions. How grateful I am that we all have a real and loving Father, a Heavenly Father to whom we can call when there are two roads and no road signs to guide the way.

The seventh anniversary of our arrival in New Mexico was close, and we were becoming more and more excited about getting the title to the land.
Mr. Talbot from the homestead office came by to make sure everything was in order. “How do you want your name to be printed on the deed?” he asked Papa.
“Alfred Blaine Cookson,” he said. “And Betty Harding Cookson.”
Mr. Talbot wrote that down and Papa added, “I want all the kids’ names on it too.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary,” Mr. Talbot said.
“I don’t care about necessary,” Papa said. “I care about wise. We worked too hard to get this piece of property to let it out of the family. I want them all on there in case something should happen to any of us.”
“It’d automatically go to the next of kin,” Mr. Talbot resisted.
“Don’t care about automatic either,” Papa insisted. “I just want their names on that deed.”
“How many more is that?” Mr. Talbot asked.
“Twelve,” Papa said.
“I don’t think there’s room.”
“Then make room. Every last one of them has worked along with me to get this land and I want them to look at that piece of paper and remember what it cost us and that it’s part theirs. And I want them to be proud of it.”
Mr. Talbot sighed. “How do you want them listed?”
“Oldest first,” Papa said. “That’s Caroline Catherine.”
Mr. Talbot wrote while Papa named us off in order. “I don’t know how I’ll get them all on the paper,” Mr. Talbot said. “But I’ll figure out a way and have the deed ready for you to pick up next Friday morning.”
The next Friday was a holiday at our house. We finished the chores early and dressed in our best clothes for the trip to Harmony. Mama packed a lunch to take so we could stop for a picnic on the way home, and we were parked in front of the homestead office when Mr. Talbot arrived. He had a special deed made up at the printing office that was long enough to list all our names. They were written in beautiful curly letters that twisted in spirals at the beginning and end. I never knew my name could look so beautiful. After everyone signed the paper, Mr. Talbot stamped it with a big seal to make it official, rolled it up, and handed it to Papa.
Papa gave it to Mama and kissed her on the mouth. “We’re landowners, honey,” he said. “Now let’s go celebrate.”
He took us to the general store and told us each to pick out a nickel’s worth of candy. While we were deciding what to get, he asked Mr. Younger for a picture frame for the deed. “And make it a gold one,” he added. “This is very precious.”
After they’d selected the frame, Mr. Younger filled our orders for candy, giving each of us a separate bag. It made me think of the peppermint stick back in Salt Lake the day I had my tongue cut. It was the first time since then I’d had a whole nickel to spend on candy. I chose the kinds I could make last the longest.
Then Papa told Mama to pick out the goods for a new dress. “A nice one,” he said.
She gave him her are-you-sure-we-can-afford-it look and he said, “Don’t worry. I’ve been saving for today for a long time. I want everyone to remember it.”
How could we forget? We had a place of our own at last.