Gospel Story Finder

Sometimes I think about the little notes that Mom puts in my school lunch box. One last week read, “Thanks for clearing the table last night. I love you.” My best friend, Matt Nielsen, read it, and at first I was kind of embarrassed, but then he said that I had a cool mom. So I showed him two other notes that I had in my coat pocket, along with the big marble I won from Larkin Gipson, the best marble player ever.

Students from the Utah Technical College donated the labor necessary to install 10,000 feet of electrical wiring, plus light poles and lights. The poles were supported by sandbags donated by inmates at the Utah State Prison. For five days hundreds of people worked hard and loved it. Laughter was as prevalent as the banging of hammers and the rasp of saws. Finally, when the sawdust had cleared, there were 50 buildings, a bandstand, a medicine show wagon, and a tepee—an authentic little turn-of-the-century town with a few last workers walking down its streets dressed in the clothing of an age to come.

During one of those hunting seasons in Wyoming, I had an experience that taught me an important lesson—one that I have always remembered. It occurred in a year when the weather had been rather unusual. The early snows that generally fall in the high country by late September had not come. The days remained warm and sunny even into mid-October when the big game season opened. The deer and elk stayed in the more remote high country, making it very difficult for the hunters to get to them.
Finally, late in the season, the snows came, and I made plans with a friend to go into the Big Horn Mountains close to the border between Montana and Wyoming for a last try at finding an elk. We traveled in his four-wheel drive vehicle to a spot at an elevation of about 9,000 feet where the Little Big Horn River has its beginning. A new blanket of snow almost one foot in depth covered the ground. We began our hunt just as the first daylight showed over the eastern ridges. We decided to separate from one another, designating a point of the mountain at some distance where we would meet later in the day.
As I crossed over the small stream near which we had left our vehicle and started into the timber on the opposite slope, I came to some fresh tracks in the new snow. They were bear tracks—big ones! The tracks came as something of a surprise to me. Bear are not uncommon in much of the mountain country of Wyoming, and they are numerous enough that they are considered legal game. However, bear were not common in the Big Horn Mountains, and this sudden encounter with the fresh tracks filled my mind with some interesting possibilities. I had never hunted for a bear; in fact, I had never had the inclination to do so. The meat would have been of no use to me.
This bear was no immediate threat to my companion or to me. If he were still in the area and aware of our presence, he was likely trying to remove himself from any confrontation with us. Still, as I studied the tracks and discovered how fresh they were, my thoughts continued to stir me. I confess that I began to have visions of a bearskin rug for our home. Since the tracks were going in about the same direction I had intended to go, I decided to follow them.
Within a hundred yards or so I came to a place where the snow was scattered about among traces of blood and deer hair. I could tell that one way or another, the bear had taken a deer in that place that morning. The trail that was left was easy to follow as the bear had partly carried and partly dragged the deer through the brush and into a thicket of pines and spruce. There I found the deer. Its head and horns had caught in the juncture of some limbs of a fallen tree, and the bear had not stayed to dislodge it. Perhaps my coming on the scene had affected that decision.
As I continued to follow the trail of the bear, I climbed up a steep slope where the going was made more difficult by the dense underbrush. I put my rifle with its leather sling over my shoulder and used my hands as well as my feet to force my way up the incline. Every few yards I stopped to catch my breath and rest a moment.
During one of these pauses I looked about me and assessed my situation. Because of the density of the undergrowth, I was aware that it would be impossible for me to get a clear shot at anything more than eight or ten yards away. I began to wonder who would have the greater advantage if I were to come upon the bear.
As these thoughts went through my mind, I felt a most interesting sensation come over me. I experienced a tingling in my skin, and I could feel the hair rise on the back of my neck. I had the strong impression that I was in grave danger and that I should leave the area immediately. The impression was so powerful that I got to my feet, went back down the slope to where the country was more open, and there felt that I was in better control of things. Any further desire to pursue the bear evaporated, and I went about the business for which my friend and I had gone into the mountains that day.

Just two weeks after the group’s arrival, Joseph heard Church President Brigham Young issue a call for volunteers to go out and help the 600 members of the Martin Handcart Company still in the mountains in deep snow.
Joseph left that day with the other volunteers.
In the mountains the snow was almost three meters deep, and the wagons couldn’t get through. The volunteers had to carry the supplies on their backs to the handcart company. With the others, Joseph helped set up a camp to prepare the members of the company for the final effort to reach Salt Lake City.
Finally, all the handcart pioneers were safely gathered to Zion, where they went about the business of starting new lives.

My first teaching assignment was at a community college. I enjoyed it, but it was a marked contrast from the LDS environment I had been in at Ricks. I taught several subjects, but in my spare time I directed a couple of plays.

When the night of the first performance came, I found I was as nervous as ever and needed prayer. How would my cast feel about that? I went over notes with the cast before the first show and tried to summon up my courage to suggest having prayer to this nonreligious group.

Finally I said, “Ah … I don’t know how any of you feel about this, but … well … I feel we need to have a word of prayer before we start. If you don’t mind, I will offer it.”

In my prayer, I asked for all those miracles we usually ask for in preperformance prayers to make our show a success. I then took my place in a back corner of our makeshift theater, and the curtain went up on what turned out to be a very successful production.

The next day at school, no one said anything about the prayer—no complaints, no reinforcement.

That night before the second night of the play, I made my usual speech about what we needed to do to make the play work, but I couldn’t summon enough courage to suggest prayer again. I felt the cast was humoring me. I felt perhaps a private prayer away from the others would do.

After my little pep talk, I again took my place in my corner and waited for the lights to come up. I felt someone tug at my arm. It was the assistant director, one of my students.

“Mr. Eaton, we haven’t had our prayer yet,” he whispered.

I gulped hard and fought back tears as I went backstage and offered another request for the Lord to touch our spirits as we tried to entertain a community college audience.

Just a few years earlier under dreadful conditions, the Prophet Joseph Smith suffered in Liberty Jail for months while the mobs drove the Saints from their homes. The words liberty and jail do not fit together very well.

Joseph called out:
“O God, where art thou? And where is the pavilion that covereth thy hiding place?
“How long shall thy hand be stayed, and thine eye, yea thy pure eye, behold from the eternal heavens the wrongs of thy people and of thy servants, and thine ear be penetrated with their cries?”

The Prophet Joseph Smith had earlier sought direction, and the Lord told the Saints to seek redress from the judges, the governor, and then the president.

Their appeals to the judges failed. During his life, Joseph Smith was summoned to court over 200 times on all kinds of trumped-up charges. He was never convicted.

When they sought redress from Governor Boggs of Missouri, he issued a proclamation: “The Mormons must be treated as enemies and must be exterminated or driven from the state, if necessary for the public good.” That unleashed untold brutality and wickedness.

They appealed to President Martin Van Buren of the United States, who told them, “Your cause is just, but I can do nothing for you.”

I will read the final paragraphs of their third petition addressed to the Congress of the United States:
“The afflictions of your memorialists have already been overwhelming, too much for humanity, too much for American citizens to endure without complaint. We have groaned under the iron hand of tyranny and oppression these many years. We have been robbed of our property to the amount of two millions of dollars. We have been hunted as the wild beasts of the forest. We have seen our aged fathers who fought in the Revolution, and our innocent children, alike slaughtered by our persecutors. We have seen the fair daughters of American citizens insulted and abused in the most inhuman manner, and finally, we have seen fifteen thousand souls, men, women, and children, driven by force of arms, during the severities of winter, from their sacred homes and firesides, to a land of strangers, penniless and unprotected. Under all these afflicting circumstances, we imploringly stretch forth our hands towards the highest councils of our nation, and humbly appeal to the illustrious Senators and Representatives of a great and free people for redress and protection.
“Hear! O hear the petitioning voice of many thousands of American citizens who now groan in exile … ! Hear! O hear the weeping and bitter lamentations of widows and orphans, whose husbands and fathers have been cruelly martyred in the land where the proud eagle … floats! Let it not be recorded in the archives of the nations, that … exiles sought protection and redress at your hands, but sought it in vain. It is in your power to save us, our wives, and our children, from a repetition of the bloodthirsty scenes of Missouri, and thus greatly relieve the fears of a persecuted and injured people, and your petitioners will ever pray.”

There was no pity, and they were turned away.

In 1844, while under the avowed protection of Governor Thomas Ford of Illinois, the Prophet Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum were shot to death in Carthage Jail. Words cannot express the brutality and suffering the Saints had endured.

Friends who don’t share your standards could actually weaken and tear your standards down. When I first moved to my new school, I tried to fit in by saying some of the things people around me would say. I almost forgot some of my standards while trying to be like everyone. I know now that in order to build your standards, you need friends who support and share your standards. I’m grateful I eventually found friends like that because they remind me of my standards.
Logan J., 15, Utah, USA

During my last move, and going through what is called the elimination process, I found one of my former students’ notebook of international law. I had written in big capital letters on the front cover a quotation from Aristide Briand, winner of the Nobel Prize for Peace and one of the animators of the former League of Nations. It read, “The institutions are worth what the individuals are worth.” During the years I had pondered many times about this truth as I studied or worked with different institutions like companies, governments, or even churches. And I thought that by the same analogy I could say that the value of a country depends upon the value of its people and that it will rise or decline according to the desires of its people.

Every evening after dinner is over and the dishes are washed and dried, Klees and I scrub our faces, brush our teeth, and put on our pajamas. Papa sits in the rocking chair, unbuttons the top button on his shirt, and rolls up his sleeves. Mama sits on the couch, takes off her shoes, and tucks her hair behind her ears. Then we are all ready for our special time.
“What shall it be?” Papa asks.
Sunday I lifted Papa’s golden trombone from its stand and carried it over to him. Klees followed with the mute for Papa to use so that the people in the apartment below wouldn’t be disturbed. “A concert by Papa!” we announced.
Monday Klees picked up Mama’s clarinet, and we watched her open the green-gold case and assemble the shiny black pieces. “A performance by Mama,” we declared.
Tuesday I took my wooden recorder out of its cloth bag while Klees unlatched the toy box and grasped the shiny tin drum. “It’s a program by Klees and Katrina!” Papa exclaimed.
Wednesday we all played together with Papa beating time as he rocked back and forth, back and forth in his rocking chair.
“Let’s sing now,” Papa said. “Do you know this song?” and he began to hum.
“Oh, yes!” We all joined in.
“Do you know this one?” We each took a turn humming, then singing hymns and lullabies, rounds and carols.
Thursday Papa and Mama set thick music books on the heavy metal stand and played duets. I closed my eyes and saw colors swirling in my head. I got up very quietly and fetched paper and crayons, and Klees and I drew pictures of how the music made us feel.
Friday Mama sang nursery rhymes. Klees and I made the eensy weensy spider climb up Papa’s “waterspout legs.” We pretended to be blackbirds and “snipped off” Mama’s nose. We all joined hands to “Ring-Around-the-Rosy,” and we all fell down.
Saturday Papa played dance tunes, and Klees and I hopped about the room. “Let’s all dance!” Papa said. He pushed the couch and the chairs against the wall and started a record.
“This is how you do it,” he explained. He showed me how to waltz, and Mama taught Klees. We danced through the room, out into the hallway, and back.
The music on the next record was livelier.
“A polka!”
Papa and Mama whirled round and round, faster and faster. Klees and I clapped our hands until the music stopped.
Tonight is Sunday again, and there is a special religious concert on the radio. Papa twists the knobs until the sound enters our room, loud and clear, from a faraway city. He sits in his rocking chair and rocks back and forth, back and forth. Mama lies on the couch, her head on a patchwork pillow. Klees curls up next to Mama, and I climb onto Papa’s lap. It is as if the music is being played just for us.
When our special time ends, Klees and I kiss Mama and Papa good night, say our prayers, then crawl into bed. The house is quiet, but there will be music again tomorrow. Music and love.

To get to the Monares family’s one-room home in the city of Cebu, you have to walk through a maze of narrow, crowded alleys. When you enter the tiny room, the first thing you see is a New Era poster. It’s a photo of one yellow balloon floating above a group of blue ones, with a caption: “Rise above the blues.”

One shelf of a small bookcase is filled with new copies of the Book of Mormon to give away. “Our son is on a mission,” Santos Monares explains.

Brother Monares buys and sells merchandise on the street, hoping to transact enough business to feed his family. When he and his wife, Julieta, first started talking about going to the temple, Julieta didn’t want to build up her hopes. She felt it was useless to even try to save enough money for the boat trip. And then Brother Monares was sick for a long time. But somehow, they got enough money together for themselves and four of their children to make the trip.

When Sister Monares went to the market to buy food for the journey, someone pickpocketed all her food money. Again she was tempted to give up. But fast-offering funds helped pay for food, and they finally made it to the Manila Temple in April 1990.

“In the temple, we forgot all the problems of the outside world,” says Brother Monares.

Twenty-year-old Vicenta agrees. “When we were being sealed to my brother who died soon after he was born, I heard the voice of a baby!” For her, it was a witness that he was accepting the ordinance.

Education is helping Christina Augerea from Hula, Papua New Guinea, accomplish her goals. Ever since she was little, she has had a love of reading and the goal of attending university. Her love of reading is what led her to the Church.

“When I was in fifth grade, we didn’t have books at my school,” she says. “My teacher was a Church member. She didn’t have other books, so she gave us the Book of Mormon.”

I experienced such spiritual gifts when I served as a missionary in Italy. After a few weeks of language practice in the missionary training center, I worried that I did not have the gift of tongues, but I learned to bear my testimony in Italian and understand what others were saying, and most importantly, I learned to love. At other times, I have experienced the gift of tongues through spiritual promptings to open my mouth and say things that I wasn’t necessarily planning to say. I have also been blessed and uplifted by the inspired words of other women.

My daughter Norma says the following about the way Relief Society has been a blessing in her life: “When Darren and I were newly married and expecting our first baby, we were living in a small college town. We were both full-time students with very little income. Our nearest ward was in a town about 30 miles [48 km] away, and our only means of transportation was an old car that didn’t work most of the time. When the sisters in the ward discovered our circumstances, they immediately joined together to arrange for one of them to always give us a ride to and from church on Sundays and for other Church activities. Some of the sisters lived in other towns and drove 20 or 30 miles [32 to 48 km] out of their way just to pick us up. Additionally, many of the sisters would invite us to their homes for nice family dinners after church. No one ever made us feel like a burden to them. I will never forget the true love and charity that the Relief Society sisters extended to us during that short but challenging time in our lives.”4

Rachel likes music. She plays the piano, the recorder, and the trombone, and is starting to learn the trumpet and the flute. When she was in third grade, she wrote a piano piece called “Hand-Me-Down” and entered it in a school fine arts fair. It won first place for the primary grades in the school district.

When I was 12, my father became a mission president in Chile. While there, he worked closely with Elder Holland. One day I said, “Dad, Elder Holland is in my math book.”
“Yesterday it took Jeff Holland 1 hour to get to work. This morning, Jeff drove to the train station for 20 minutes, waited for the train for 7 minutes, rode the train for 12 minutes, and then walked for 15 minutes to get to work. How long did it take Jeff to get to work this morning?”
As a joke, my parents sent a picture of the math problem to Elder Holland with a note: “Elder Holland, could you please help Whit with her math homework?”
Elder Holland wrote back with a letter.
“Dear Whitney—I was pleased you discovered my day job. I regularly submit math problems for textbooks and sometimes I just don’t know whose name to use. I think I will use yours next. (‘If Whitney Wilcox has 5 boyfriends in Provo and gains 1 a day for 14 days in Chile, how many of them will be baptized, go on missions, and want to marry her?’) Thanks for being here! I am immensely proud of you! Jeff Holland.”
Obviously Elder Holland was joking about writing math problems (and having multiple boyfriends!). But his kind note made me feel like I was important.
When Elder Holland taught the members in Chile to read the Book of Mormon every day, I started reading on my own, as a 12-year-old. That’s when I really started to develop my testimony.
Whitney L.

We were to have heard at this time from Elder LeGrand Richards. He is not able to be with us. We talked with him on the telephone just prior to this meeting. He had hoped that he might be here to give, as it were, his valedictory testimony of this great and sacred work, which has been so much a part of his life during the ninety-six years that he has lived. As most of you know, he recently underwent very serious surgery which has had a traumatic effect upon his health. I am sure that each of you here today is disappointed and will miss his great voice in speaking out in defense of the restored gospel and in testimony of Him who was the Restorer.

One day my friend gave me a lollipop. It was my favorite flavor, and I really wanted to eat it. I was starting to unwrap it when my little brother, Steven, saw me and asked me for it. I thought about it for a minute, and then I gave it to him.
Although I wanted the lollipop, I felt very happy when my brother said, “Thanks, Leaney,” and gave me a big hug. When I do something good, I feel very happy. I know that Jesus Christ wants me to be like Him.

A few years back a youth sacrament meeting speaker invited those who weren’t sure they felt God’s love to pray and ask whether Heavenly Father loves them.
I took that invitation to heart. Unbeknownst to me, my older sister also decided to do it. We each prayed individually that night. Months later we shared our experiences with one another. I told her how some time after praying, I’d allowed my mind to wander, eventually recalling a poem I had read about the Savior’s love. I had been overwhelmed by the Spirit, and I had felt of the joy of both my Heavenly Father’s and Savior’s love for me. Tears of joy had crept to my eyes, and I had again folded my arms, this time in a prayer of gratitude.

I can still remember my mother speaking softly to me one Saturday afternoon when, as a little boy, I asked her for permission to do something I thought was perfectly reasonable and which she knew was dangerous. I still am amazed at the power she was granted—I believe from the Lord—to turn me around with so few words. As I remember them, they were, “Oh, I suppose you could do that. But the choice is yours.” The only warning was in the emphasis she put on the words could and choice. Yet that was enough for me.

Her power to warn with so few words sprang from three things I knew about her. First, I knew she loved me. Second, I knew she had already done what she wanted me to do and been blessed by it. And third, she had conveyed to me her sure testimony that the choice I had to make was so important that the Lord would tell me what to do if I asked Him. Love, example, and testimony: those were keys that day, and they have been whenever I have been blessed to hear and then heed the warning of a servant of the Lord.

Her dad used to help run the family grocery store. “Karissa liked to come to the store with me,” he said, “and she always put on a green apron just like mine.” Once a man from the ward came into the store. Even though Karissa didn’t know him, she treated him like a friend. When he left, she stood in front of the door and teased, “You can’t leave until you say the magic word!” The magic word was “pretty please.”