Gospel Story Finder

My classmates and I were stationed near Hannover. Every month or so our unit of about 300 people would get together. Usually there was a unit party, and everyone would be drinking and smoking—except me. I didn’t know it at first, but our commander-in-chief watched me during these parties.

One day he called me in and asked me why I didn’t smoke or drink. I was a little shy, and I told him that I just didn’t believe in it. I think I was the only one who didn’t smoke or drink in the whole outfit, and I was the only Latter-day Saint.

“There must be a specific reason why you don’t do that,” he continued questioning me. I told him it was better for the body to abstain from those things, and I tried to evade the question a little bit. When you’re 15, it’s not so easy when people laugh at you and say you’re not a man if you don’t smoke and drink. My fellow soldiers had made fun of me quite often, and my commander had heard that.

“You’re a Mormon, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that?” he asked.

“I’m a little shy,” I explained. “You’ve seen what kind of reaction the others have.”
“Well, that might change if you just tell them,” he replied.

One night we were all sitting at a big table at a party, and everyone was drinking, except me. I think I had a pop that I had bought downtown. My commanding officer was watching me again.
He stood and said, “Rahde, get up.” Then he said to the whole group, “I would like to inform you that Rahde is a Mormon. He doesn’t drink, and he doesn’t smoke. And I would like you to respect that. If I see anybody making fun of him because of that, I will put you in jail.”
I was shocked. I turned red because everyone was looking at me. Then he said, “From now on, Rahde, it is your job to take care of these men and see that when they go downtown and have too much to drink they find their way home.”

From that minute on, I had a lot of groups that wanted me to go with them. They took me to their beer joints, and said, “No drinks for Heinz. He doesn’t drink, and he has to take us home.

I didn’t have to mention anything anymore. I had more friends that way than I would have had any other way. Nothing could have done more good for me than this frankness, as my wise commanding officer had sensed. It was a testimony to me that the others trusted me so much that whenever something came up, they always asked me to go with them, and they protected me.

Mother put a small red suitcase on Christopher’s bed and said, “You can help me pack your things if you like, son.”
“Thanks, Mother, but I can do it myself,” said Christopher.
“Do you think you can?” Mother asked, her eyes twinkling.
Christopher nodded. He knew what he needed to visit his grandmother.
“Well, I’ll be back later to see how you’re doing,” Mother said.
Christopher looked around his room. He was excited about staying overnight with his grandmother. But he couldn’t go without some of his games, because he loved to play games. Which ones should I take? Christopher wondered.
After he had packed the games that would fit into his suitcase, there was still enough room for several of his stuffed animal friends. They are important too, he decided. So Henry, the dog, and Fritz, the mouse, went on top of the games. Christopher was packed.
“I’m ready,” Christopher called.
“Let me see,” Mother said, unzipping the case. “Where are your clothes?” she asked.
“I’m wearing them,” Christopher explained.
“What are you going to wear to bed?” Mother asked.
“Oh, I forgot.” Christopher went to a drawer, pulled out a pair of pajamas, and squeezed them into the side of the case.
“How about some clean clothes, a toothbrush, a comb, and your sneakers?” Mother suggested.
“But all that stuff won’t fit,” Christopher protested.
“That’s right. So some things that are in here will have to come out.”
Mother helped Christopher repack his suitcase. One game went on the bottom. On top of that went his clothing and then his two animals.
“There!” Mother said. “Now you have everything you need.”
Christopher shook his head.
“What else do you need?” Mother asked.
“A bigger suitcase!” declared Christopher, looking at the three games he was leaving behind.

Every year Maggie and Grandmother invite two special guests to their cranberry farm for Thanksgiving dinner. Grandmother prepares a big feast and bakes her famous cranberry bread from a secret recipe hidden behind a brick in the dining-room fireplace. The two guests arrive, and all goes well until one guest turns out to be a recipe robber.

I staggered away from the table saw, my ears ringing, my stomach churning. Warm blood reached my elbow and flowed to the cement floor. With the palm of my undamaged hand, I cradled the mess, terrified at the sight of the red blood, white bone, and yellowing skin.
“Tim, what happened? Tim? Tim!”
I heard a voice yelling my name. It was Jeff, the only other person in the shop. Through blurred vision, I saw him running toward me.
“Go. Go get help! Call an ambulance! Hurry!” I screamed, and Jeff ran out the door.
Now alone, I lay on a large roll of plastic to stave off my dizziness. I had just finished a year of college and landed my dream job—working for the United States Forest Service in the remote mountains of southwestern Colorado. A week earlier I had received my mission call to Melbourne, Australia. I was to finish my summer job in Colorado, then report to the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah.
Where are they? I wondered. I started to get up, thinking I would go outside, get in the truck, and drive myself to the hospital. With dizziness returning quickly, I lay back down on the slippery plastic and closed my eyes. Soon I heard the wail of an ambulance.
“He’s in here.” I recognized Jeff’s voice.
Opening my eyes, I saw Jeff and a uniformed man and woman from the ambulance standing over me. Almost simultaneously, the man grabbed my cut hand and the woman took my pulse.
“You’re going to be all right,” he said as he wrapped my hand with white gauze. I was relieved the injury was out of sight.
“How old are you?” asked the woman.
I whispered the answer. My throat was dry, making it difficult to speak. She asked more questions about allergies, past medical problems, and medications I was taking. I responded quickly until she got to her last question.
“What family member do you want me to call to come to the hospital?”
I thought of my family, more than 950 kilometers away. Mom would be eating lunch at work, and Dad would be sleeping after working a late-night shift as a security guard. My younger sister, Erin, would be in school.
“Tim?”
“There isn’t anyone who can come now. I don’t have any family in Colorado,” I replied. As they lifted me into the ambulance and drove toward the hospital, I remembered times that summer when I had hiked into isolated wilderness areas to repair eroding trails and hadn’t seen anyone for days. When I came back into town, I always felt detached and alone, the way I felt now.
“Tim.” It was the woman from the ambulance. Her voice sounded distant. She continued, “Is there someone else I could call—a minister or a priest?”
I thought of the small branch in Gunnison, Colorado. The members had been friendly to me during the past few months, but I didn’t want to bother them with this problem. I looked down. The blood had saturated the white gauze. I winced when I thought of the ripped flesh inside.
“Call Willy Akers or Bud Smith,” I said at last. President Akers had just been called as branch president, and Bud Smith was his counselor.
“I know Willy. I’ll call him when we get inside,” she said with assurance.
The ambulance stopped in front of the small hospital. I saw the doctor waiting for me to be wheeled in. Once inside, I looked around at the small emergency room as they placed me on an examination table. The doctor spoke calmly to the nurse as he unwrapped the dark, red gauze. I looked away.
Finally, he finished and directed the nurse to wrap it again. Without a word, he left. I could hear his voice on a telephone in the next room and knew he was speaking about me. He stopped talking after a few minutes and entered the emergency room.
“Tim,” he started, speaking slowly, “you’ve cut yourself pretty badly, and I don’t have the equipment or expertise to do much for you. I just called for a helicopter to fly you to a hospital in Denver. They will do everything they can to save your hand there. Meanwhile, I’ll give you some pain medication to make things more comfortable for you on the way. Do you have any questions?”
I managed a weak no, then thought about what he had just said. The words “save your hand” kept repeating themselves. I had never had a cut that required more than a few stitches, and now I faced the possibility of losing one of my hands.
“It’s a good thing this happened while I was home for lunch or you wouldn’t have caught me,” President Akers said as he entered the small room. Brother Smith followed close behind. “They tell me you get to go on a helicopter ride.” I nodded, too weak to speak.
“Would you like a blessing?” Bud asked. I nodded again, and in the curtained partition of the two-bed emergency room in a small hospital, I was promised two things: my hand would be all right, and I would be able to fulfill my mission to Australia. President Akers went back to work, and Brother Smith stayed with me until I was loaded onto the helicopter.
“Now I’m really alone,” I thought as I flew above Gunnison. I knew a few people in this small town of 6,000, but in Denver, a city of half a million people, I knew no one.
But I was wrong. When the helicopter landed and I was wheeled through the open doors of the hospital, a missionary couple from the Colorado Denver South Mission greeted me. Their gray hair and warm smiles reminded me of my grandparents.
“Your branch president’s wife called and asked if we’d visit you sometime this week, and we came right over,” Sister Jeffreys explained. They sat by my bed until late that afternoon when the surgery team had assembled and was ready to operate.
I wanted Elder and Sister Jeffreys to stay, but we knew they would not be allowed in during the operation. I said good-bye and watched them walk down the long hallway.
“Hello. I’m Lile Hileman, one of the anesthesiologists here,” a man said, approaching my bed. “I was supposed to get off at 4:30, but when I saw you were the only Mormon besides me here, I thought I’d ask if it would be all right for me to be your anesthetist.”
“Do you know what you’re doing?” I joked for the first time since cutting myself.
“For you, I’ll learn fast,” he said, laughing.
It took the surgeons more than 14 hours to repair the damage, and I was in Denver for just as many days.
The day after the accident, my mom flew to Denver from our home in Orem, Utah, and she was greeted at the hospital by the full-time missionaries. For the three days she was in Denver, she stayed in the home of Church members she had never met.
After my mom returned home, and during the ensuing weeks, I continued to receive visits from the Jeffreys and Brother Hileman. In addition, six members of the local singles ward came three times each week to cheer me up. The night before I left, they all “kidnapped” me from my room and took me to an ice-cream shop close to the hospital.
I flew home, and after six more operations and months of therapy, I was able to use my hand again. Although my mission call was delayed six months, I served two years with added vigor, for I now could teach the people of Melbourne about the caring brothers and sisters who they’ll always have as part of their Church family.

My cousins Erica, Kristin, and I had moved into a trailer park in Montana to work for the summer. We paid too much money to live in a trailer that rattled every time a truck zoomed past the highway outside our front door. The vibrations woke us up at 6 a.m.—that is, if our neighbor, “Mad Jack,” didn’t wake us first by chopping firewood.
For three months I had two jobs. I cleaned cabins during the day and waited tables at night. Being on my feet from 8:00 in the morning until 10:30 at night was enough to make even a mattress on the shag carpet floor seem inviting.
Through the hard work and exhaustion, I gained a new appreciation for the Sabbath. Sunday was a day of blissful peace in a dismal week. It was something I could look forward to. One day a week I could be with people who knew the truths I knew, people who could strengthen me and lift me and prepare me for one more week of scrubbing toilets.
I understood why Sunday was set aside—not only to learn of the goodness of the gospel of Jesus Christ but also as a time to be strengthened by the good saints of the Church who believe as I believe. The Sabbath is the one day in seven to rest from the pressures of the world and to remember Christ and the blessings He has given me.

I know I’m not alone in thinking, “I’m doing everything I’m supposed to, so where’s this blessing?” It was at a Relief Society retreat that I finally found an answer. The speaker asked, “Do you have faith in an outcome or faith in your Savior?”

That question awakened me. I always felt I had faith, but I realized that my faith in my Savior was somewhat limited to when things were going the way I wanted them to.

President Russell M. Nelson spoke about the storms he encountered while visiting with the Saints in the Pacific islands. He said they had “faith sufficient to stop the rain and faith to persevere when the rain did not stop.”4 I realized that God would not give me my desires just because I felt I had earned them through certain required actions. I needed faith in my Savior no matter the circumstances.

On Christmas Eve 37 years ago, in the light of a full moon, I climbed a small hill in the isolated village of Quiriza, Bolivia. Four young elders and I had spent the day crossing over a mountain pass on a treacherous road. Then we struggled up a riverbed to see if the teachings of the Savior would help a destitute people. What we saw that day was discouraging—undernourished children, adults subsisting on meager crops, some with eyes glazed from seeking refuge in alcohol and drugs. I looked at the tiny, barren village below—a cluster of adobe, thatched-roof houses beaten by the harsh environment. The only evidence of life was barking dogs searching for food. There was no electricity, telephone, running water, roads, proper sanitation, nor doctors there. It seemed so hopeless. Yet a solemn prayer confirmed that we should be there. We found a humble people who embraced the restored gospel with determination to live it. They did that under harsh conditions where severe poverty, alcohol, drugs, witchcraft, and immorality were in plentiful supply.

Under the guidance of exceptional missionaries, the people learned to work hard to cultivate the fields. They produced a harvest of nutritious vegetables and raised rabbits for better protein. But the best lessons came from beloved missionaries who taught them of a God who loved them, of a Savior who gave His life that they might succeed. Their physical appearance began to change. The light of truth radiated from their happy faces. As devoted, loving emissaries of the Lord, missionaries patiently taught truth to a willing people. Wives and husbands learned how to live in harmony, teach truth to their children, pray, and sense the guidance of the Spirit.

I watched a six-year-old boy who had carefully observed our first baptismal service act out with his younger sister what he had seen. He carefully arranged her hands, raised his tiny arm to the square, mumbled words, gently lowered her into a depression in the sun-baked earth, led her to a rock where he confirmed her, then shook her hand. The youth learned most quickly. They became obedient to the light of truth taught by the missionaries and in time by their own parents. Through their faith and obedience, I have seen how in one generation, youth baptized in that village have overcome a seemingly hopeless future. Some have been missionaries, graduated from universities, and been sealed in the temple. Through their diligence and obedience, they have found purpose and success in life despite an early harsh physical and evil-saturated environment. If it can be done in Quiriza, Bolivia, it can be done anywhere.

As much as I loved my mission, I struggled to apply the lessons I learned while serving to my life afterward. I ended up returning home sooner than I expected due to mental health struggles and then moved from my home in the Philippines to the United Arab Emirates to start working.
Since moving here, I’ve had a hard time feeling like I’m making progress and moving forward on the covenant path. On my mission, I could devote all my time and energy to the gospel. I worried very little about my temporal needs or what I was going to do with my life after my mission. But now that I’m trying to balance other demands of life, I feel like I keep falling short.
And since I’m lacking both the supportive, faithful community I had back home in the Philippines and the schedule of a missionary that makes progress much easier and clearer, sometimes I feel like I’m not progressing at all.
As I’ve continued to struggle with these feelings, I’ve felt strongly that I should implement a habit I had on my mission. As a missionary I learned how important it is to connect with Heavenly Father every night through prayer and honestly evaluate my actions each day. I would ask Heavenly Father what I had done well, ask for forgiveness from my sins and for strength to overcome my imperfections, and then ask Him how I could do better the next day.
At first I was scared to start doing this after my mission, especially since I’d been feeling like I was already failing myself and Heavenly Father. I didn’t want to feel even worse about my shortcomings. But I remembered what I’d learned on my mission: repentance brings joy. As Elder Craig C. Christensen of the Seventy explained: “Repenting daily and coming unto Jesus Christ is the way to experience joy—joy beyond our imagination [see 1 Corinthians 2:9]. That is why we are here on earth. That is why God prepared His great plan of happiness for us.”1
I’m so grateful for that prompting—checking in with Heavenly Father each day has changed so much for me. Realizing that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ give me the chance to become better every day helps me have more self-compassion—if They believe in me enough to keep giving me more chances, why shouldn’t I believe in me too?

For my 17th birthday, my dad presented me with his old Volkswagen. I was ecstatic. Imagine—my very own car! I was anxious to take a drive. A long drive. Somewhere. Anywhere. I suppose my excitement was, in part, a result of a boyish, budding sense of independence.
The long-awaited and sorely anticipated journey finally arrived the following summer when my parents gave me permission to drive a few states away to visit a cousin. My 15-year-old brother, Tom, accompanied me. My dad hugged me and cautioned, “Keep your sense about you, Ray. And be careful.”
It was a memorable trip, mainly because it was my—rather our—maiden voyage, of sorts. Our first real time away from home. That, in itself, was the real adventure.
As with all adventures, this one came to an end, and it was time to go home. We were tired and ready to return to the comfort of our own beds.
Tom was asleep in the backseat of the car as I snaked my way through the mountains on a high, narrow road. I had been driving all day, and it was late, so I couldn’t wait to get down off that mountain, pull off the road, and get some sleep, at least enough for a brief respite before finishing the final leg of our journey.
Being saddled with an aching want for sleep, along with a youthful helping of inexperience and irresponsibility, I was driving too fast for the conditions of the road. The night was blacker than a bad tooth. The sickle-thin cut of moon in the inky sky and the feeble, confetti-like throw of star glow provided scant illumination on the dark road. I negotiated the narrow, serpentine roadway using the almost-just-as-meager aid of the vehicle’s headlights.
Just as I was about to round yet another sharp curve, I heard a voice within me say, “Slow down. There are two deer around the corner in the road.”
Driving as fast as I was and already upon the turn, I had only time enough to react—to either ignore the voice or hurriedly follow the instruction.
I chose the latter, quickly slowing down as I took the blind curve. And there, just as the voice had forewarned, standing in the middle of the narrow roadway, were two deer, blinded by my headlights and too startled to move.
Had I not heeded the voice, I would have swerved to the left and driven off the edge of the huge drop-off.
After maneuvering around the deer, I proceeded on our route. It was good to be home again. As I lay in my own bed with my hands tucked under my head, I realized that as much as I looked forward to the notion of one day being on my own, I hoped that wherever life found me, I would be living righteously enough to always have the companionship of the Holy Ghost.

I caught hold of the gospel and hung on tight. I worked furiously to catch up in knowledge with my friends who had been raised in the Church. Many of my Mormon peers thought I was terribly self-righteous. I suppose it may have seemed that way to them, but I tried to be perfect because I was convinced that I could never escape my sins. I thought that by knowing all of the answers in church and receiving awards in seminary I could somehow make up for all the mistakes I had made. I remember thinking at the time that I could never be free from my haunting past. I accepted that fact and resolved to be perfect in order to compensate.
One of the hardest steps of repentance (at least for me) was to forgive myself. For four long years I struggled. To everyone around me I seemed spiritual and well-versed in the scriptures. Others told me how far I had come and how well I was doing, but only I knew the black that lined my heart. I had forsaken my past sins, and I was sure that God was pleased with my new life. But I felt that he was holding my past over my head, waiting for me to fall again.
Finally, in despair and confusion, I asked for a blessing. Words cannot express the peace that entered my heart as I received this personal revelation: I would receive the reassurance of the Holy Ghost and know that I was in good standing with Heavenly Father.
How could that be? My mind didn’t understand it, but my heart accepted it. So I believed it.

When I was six, my dad took me and my older sister to play basketball. It was my first time playing at a real gym. The basketball felt heavy in my small hands and the hoop—even at its lowest setting—seemed overwhelmingly high.
“Don’t worry, just take a shot,” my dad said.
I turned to my dad. “But what if I miss?” I asked.
More than two decades later, I don’t remember if I made that shot or not. But I do remember the fear I felt: “What if I miss? What if my best efforts fall short? What should I do if I fail?”

Eva and Darilyn and Sabrina have introduced the gospel to some of their other friends. Naomi Diven is on the rally squad with them, and Quinn Rogers is a school mascot with Sabrina. Naomi was given a copy of a videotape, “Our Heavenly Father’s Plan.” She was intrigued by what she heard. For Naomi, her answer came quickly, “It was quite sudden. During the first discussion we all knew that I would be baptized.” Her decision was reinforced as she heard the missionary discussions several more times with their friend Quinn.

For example, the next summer I was concerned about the friends my teenage daughter was spending so much time with. But when I tried to talk to her about the situation, she discounted what I said and became more distant. While I was jogging and thinking about the proclamation one morning, the Spirit highlighted in my thoughts the last sentence in paragraph seven: “Extended families should lend support when needed.” I slowed the pace of my jog, and an image of my younger sister came into my mind. This sister had experienced many trials in her life and was now nearly full term with her seventh pregnancy. The impression I had was that we, as extended family, should lend her support right now. So I bought a plane ticket for my daughter and asked her to spend a week serving in my sister’s home.
In this distant place an interesting thing happened. During the day my daughter found joy serving my sister’s family. And after the children were asleep, she and my sister had many long talks. My sister was able to talk to my daughter in a way that I had been unable to. She told her how decisions she had made as a teenager had produced a lifetime of challenges. When my daughter returned home, something had changed in her. She began making choices that blessed her life. My sister, her family, my daughter, and I were all blessed by this trip, which was prompted by the words of the proclamation.

One time I was listening to a CD when the singer started taking the Lord’s name in vain. I stopped listening to the CD. My dad gave me a CD that doesn’t even have people singing; it’s just instruments playing. Then I didn’t have to worry about the songs taking the Lord’s name in vain.

When President Spencer W. Kimball was a boy, he heard a speaker in church ask the congregation, “How many of you have read the Bible through?” A feeling of guilt spread over young Spencer as he realized that he had never read the Bible through. As he left the chapel, he was determined to read the entire Bible and promised himself, “I will. I will. I will.” Arriving home, he found his Bible and read until very late that evening. And within a year he had read the entire Bible.

“Do you remember the time we had the late frost and Papa knew it was coming, so he didn’t plant early like everyone else did?” I asked.
“Yeah, I remember. Their crops froze and ours didn’t.”
“He tried to warn them, but they wouldn’t listen.”
“How does he know when it’s going to freeze?”
“I wish I knew. Maybe Heavenly Father tells him,” I suggested.
“Maybe so,” Ed agreed thoughtfully. “I can’t figure it out any other way.”

Soon after my decision to attend monthly, my family decided to go every month. Even if we have tests at school the day after our temple day, my family and I attend regularly. I’ve been frequently attending the temple with my family for seven years now. The temple is the house of the Lord, and we know the importance of going to the temple.

He was at your side when the floods came, shoveling sand into bags. Despite the blisters on his hands, he was there again the next morning.

Dieter F. Uchtdorf
(15) A mother prays that her prodigal daughter will return to the Lord.

Also of utmost importance to Sister Whang was that the girls learn responsibility and be treated as equals. They were each assigned chores around the home—preparing food, washing clothes, and cleaning—and they were each expected to use the home’s resources wisely. Jessica remembers a time when one of the girls threw away a blouse that could have been repaired. When Sister Whang found it in the garbage, she lectured the girls on not wasting. Then, at the next home evening, she gave everyone a plastic sewing box full of needles and thread and taught them how to mend.