Gospel Story Finder

One evening shortly after beginning three years of service as a mission president, I looked up to see my thirteen-year-old daughter approaching my desk. She stopped and looked at me intently. She finally said, “Dad, I think that I have you figured out—you’ve devoted your life to the beautiful, haven’t you?”
I thought for a few moments, then replied, “Yes, Carole, you do have me figured out. Thank you.”
My family had long been aware of my interest in the beauty of buildings, as expressed in my work as an architect, and also of my interest in the beauty of this world, as expressed in my landscape paintings. Carole had now correctly concluded that I had an even greater interest in people of beauty—the type of radiant beauty that comes from righteous living and acceptance of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

Neill F. Marriott’s daughter encourages her family to pray after the family’s young son is lost.

When I was 14 years old, I began my first job, earning 2 U.S. dollars per hour as a construction laborer. The paycheck for my first week totaled 80 dollars. I wanted to buy an eight-track tape stereo, which was the newest music technology at the time. The full-function model I wanted cost 320 dollars. I excitedly shared with Mom and Dad my intent to purchase the stereo after completing four weeks of work.
My parents wisely taught, “It will take more than four weeks to earn enough money to buy that music player. You should express gratitude to God for His many blessings by paying 10 percent of your income as tithing. You will need to pay the government about 10 percent in taxes. And you should learn while young to obey the counsel of prophets in preparing financially for the future, including your mission; we suggest you set aside 30 percent of your earnings in a savings account.”
My teenage mind quickly calculated that if I did as my parents taught, I would have only 40 dollars each week to spend, which meant I would have to work at least two months to purchase my desired stereo. I found myself at a critical decision point—would obtaining material possessions be my priority, or would I sacrifice to pay tithing and set aside savings?
I decided at age 14 to pay an honest tithing for the remainder of my life. I determined to follow the prophet in saving money for my mission and future education. This experience also taught me to distinguish between wants and needs. I wanted the newest technology, but I did not need it. So I decided to buy a much less expensive model with fewer functions, and it was still performing well when I left on my mission.

There will be times when the Spirit will whisper that you can make the place where you are better. The Russian town of Omsk in Siberia appeared to me to be rather cold and barren until I heard a group of young women and young men singing “How Great Thou Art” (Hymns, no. 86) in their native language. Suddenly the whole world—or at least our world—became warm and loving and joyful, a holy place.

Learn from them. This can include asking about their past. When I had a boyfriend for the first time, I suddenly became much more interested in my parents’ dating history. I began asking questions that I never would have thought to ask as a kid: How did they know they wanted to marry each other? Was that a difficult decision? How many other people did they date first? Asking these questions helped me see my parents in a different light. And I feel like I now connect with them on a more personal level.

One evening I took three of my younger siblings to the temple to do baptisms. As the temple worker checked our recommends, he discovered that my sister’s was missing the bishop’s signature. I started filling out a form to take to the temple recorder, who would call the bishop. Then the temple worker checked my brother’s recommend and found that it had not been activated. I had the pen, so I took the form we were handed and began filling it out too.
I knew my brother and sister could not go in with errors on their recommends, but I felt responsible for them, and until I helped them take care of these errors, I could not go in either. I felt frustrated at being kept out of the temple. We left the baptistry and went upstairs to the temple entrance to explain our situation at the front desk. The temple recorder said he could fix the problem in just a few minutes, so the four of us sat down to wait in the lobby.
As I sat there, my frustration changed to discouragement. We were being kept out for such simple errors, but they were all the difference between waiting in the lobby and entering the Lord’s house. It had been a rough day, and I had counted on the temple to help me feel at peace. The mistakes weren’t my fault, but as the wait dragged on, I felt ready to cry. I was trying to be good by coming to the temple and setting an example of temple attendance for my younger siblings. So why were we being kept out when I wanted so badly to be inside?
And then I realized something: if I felt discouraged being kept out of the temple for a few clerical errors, how disappointed would I feel to be kept out for my own errors—to not be worthy to enter the temple? As I considered this, I was suddenly calm. I felt that I had learned the lesson God wanted me to learn. I promised Him that I would always try to be worthy to go inside the temple. I promised that I would never be kept out of the Lord’s house for my own errors; I never want my actions to confine me to just the lobby.
Later that night I had an appointment with my bishop to renew my temple recommend. Before I went, I checked for any errors in myself that might keep me out of the temple. When the bishop asked if I was worthy to enter the house of the Lord, I was so grateful that I could say yes.

My three children and I were on our way home after shopping when we passed the man with the newspapers for the first time. I let Emmily, 2, hand him some money to buy a paper. Lisa, 6, asked, “What is that man doing? Why is he selling newspapers on the street instead of in the store?”
I explained that he was selling a special newspaper and that the people who sell the special newspaper don’t have much money. They often don’t have a home or a family to help them. But they can earn a little money by selling newspapers, and we can help them by buying one.
Many weeks later—on a rainy day—we were on our way to the children’s gymnastics lesson. Because we had to stop at the store, we didn’t take the direct route. After we had made our purchases, I wondered out loud which route we should take to the lesson. We could take a shorter route through a side street or a longer one taking us past the corner with the street vendor. I looked at Lisa and waited for her to choose.
“Let’s take the long way, Mom, and buy a newspaper,” she said. “Jesus would have done that.” We went the second mile that rainy day and bought one of many more newspapers.

One day, my Young Women leaders taught us about special moments when you really feel the Spirit and feel close to God. They called them “celestial moments,” a simple phrase that was easy to remember. For me, I knew exactly what a “celestial moment” was; I’d felt it before, such as when you feel a tiny glimmer or taste of what life in the celestial kingdom might be like. And I’ve had plenty of these moments!
After our leaders introduced the idea, we went outside. The sun was gleaming through the trees. We shut our eyes. I felt the sun on my face as a warm breeze blew. Birds sang and trees swished in the wind as we enjoyed God’s creations. That was a celestial moment.

I have spent much time in Asia, and to me, these figures are wonderful. I recall talking years ago with a Japanese brother about his son going on a mission. The father replied that he could not think of his son’s taking time from school for a mission. The son did not go and has been the loser because of it.

“In 1976 an area general conference was held in Copenhagen, Denmark. Following the closing session, President Spencer W. Kimball [1895–1985] desired to visit the Vor Frue Church, where the Thorvaldsen statues of the Christus and of the Twelve Apostles stand. …
“To the front of the church, behind the altar, stands the familiar statue of the Christus with His arms turned forward and somewhat outstretched, the hands showing the imprint of the nails, and the wound in His side very clearly visible. Along each side stand the statues of the Apostles, Peter at the front to the right and the other Apostles in order.
“Most of our group was near the rear of the chapel with the custodian. I stood up front with President Kimball before the statue of Peter with Elder Rex D. Pinegar and Johan Helge Benthin, president of the Copenhagen stake.
“In Peter’s hand, depicted in marble, is a set of heavy keys. President Kimball pointed to those keys and explained what they symbolized. Then, in an act I shall never forget, he turned to President Benthin and with unaccustomed firmness pointed his finger at him and said, ‘I want you to tell everyone in Denmark that I hold the keys! We hold the real keys, and we use them every day.’
“I will never forget that declaration, that testimony from the prophet. The influence was spiritually powerful; the impression was physical in its impact.
“We walked to the back of the chapel where the rest of the group was standing. Pointing to the statues, President Kimball said to the kind custodian, ‘These are the dead Apostles.’ Pointing to me, he said, ‘Here we have the living Apostles. Elder Packer is an Apostle. Elder Thomas S. Monson and Elder L. Tom Perry are Apostles, and I am an Apostle. We are the living Apostles.
“‘You read about the Seventies in the New Testament, and here are two of the living Seventies, Elder Rex D. Pinegar and Elder Robert D. Hales.’
“The custodian, who up to that time had shown no emotion, suddenly was in tears.
“I felt I had had an experience of a lifetime.”2

Dan’s thoughts turned to a story a favorite bishop had told him, something which had happened on another Christmas Eve many years ago. His bishop had been a soldier in basic training. It had looked as though there might be no Christmas leave—had looked as though Private Benjamin Clark would have to spend Christmas at Fort Ord, California, far from his friends and loved ones in Idaho.
And then at the last minute had come the welcome orders: Seven days’ Christmas leave, effective immediately.
It had been too late for Ben to make plane reservations—too late to catch a bus out of Monterey. It had been too late to ride with the LDS guys from Charlie Company—too late to do anything but walk to the highway and stick out one thumb.
A trucker named “Red” with a load of California produce had picked up Ben and carried him east into Nevada. He had joined his baritone voice with Red’s Irish tenor, and they had sung up all the Christmas songs either of them had known.
And then at Winnemucca he had stood in the cold for so long, waiting for a ride north on US 95 toward Boise. In the best of times there wasn’t much traffic on that stretch of road—and on a late Christmas Eve night, well …
But at last a pair of headlights had appeared, had slowed, had pulled to a stop, had picked him up. Thank goodness they had been going his way and said they could take him almost all the way to Boise.
Dan recalled how the bishop had described what came next: It was not until he and his duffel bag were in the back seat and the car had been moving that the young soldier realized the three young men in the front seat were drunk—and getting drunker. They had offered Ben a drink from their bottle and had been offended when he declined.
The young soldier in the back seat had become alarmed. The driver had been much too drunk; the car had been going much too fast; the car radio had been much too loud. A feeling of darkness, of foreboding had filled Ben’s mind as he considered his situation.
Finally, he had said it: “Please! Stop the car! I want to get out!”
The reply had been loud laughter from the front seat. “You said you were going to Boise,” they had reminded him. “Well, hang on, soldier boy, ’cause we ain’t stopping for nobody and nothing until we hit Nampa.”
For several fearful miles Ben had listened to the sound of the tires on the highway, the loud music on the radio, the reckless talk and the loud laughter from the front seat. He had endured the strong smell of cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey all around him.
With each mile, he had feared more for his life. In his fear, he had turned to prayer. “Heavenly Father, I’m in an awful mess, and I don’t see how I can get out of it. Please help me. Please protect me and preserve my life. Heavenly Father, I’m afraid, and I really need thy help. …”
Dan could recall his bishop’s very words: “And then had come a very quiet, very peaceful prompting telling me to get down on the floor and put my duffel bag over me.”
He had done so immediately. In the narrow space between the front seat and the back, Ben had hunched down, had wedged himself in tightly, had pulled the weight of the duffel bag over onto his back. Then he had put his forehead on the floor and his hands over his head.
A few minutes later the end of the world came. There had been the sound of screaming tires, the wild swerving of the car out of control—and the jolting, jarring, jamming impact of two high-speed vehicles fusing into one pile of scrap iron in the desert.
Much later, the young Latter-day Saint soldier had regained consciousness. He had found himself in a black world where he could move neither arms nor legs nor head. There had seemed to be no up nor down, no left nor right, nothing to help orient him. Nothing had stirred within the dead car—except for the smells of gasoline and of vomited whiskey—of sudden death in what had been a front seat.
Perhaps an hour had passed before a big diesel rig had pulled to a stop at the remote accident site. Two truckers had radioed for help, surmised that no one in either car could have survived such total destruction.
But the highway patrol had discovered otherwise. Along with the dead couple in one car and the three dead teenage boys in the other, they had found and then rescued Private Benjamin Clark.
“Young man,” one trooper had said, “you aren’t too good at picking folks to ride with, but I figure someone up there knows your name, rank, and serial number. I hope you do something good with your life, because you owe Him one. Only God could have brought you through this night with not one scratch on your body.”

We have ridden on an African train three times. In the first-class car, people brought baskets of bread and fruit and vegetables with them to eat. The car was so crowded that some people had to sleep on the floor. I sat by an African girl and made friends by sharing my pillow with her and smiling. At the end of the trip her mother gave me a mango.

Frequently the heavenly virtue of patience is required. As a bishop I felt prompted one day to call on a man whose wife was somewhat active, as were the children. This man, however, had never responded. It was a hot summer’s day when I knocked on the screen door of Harold G. Gallacher. I could see Brother Gallacher sitting in his chair reading the newspaper. “Who is it?” he queried without looking up.

“Your bishop,” I replied. “I’ve come to get acquainted and to urge your attendance with your family at our meetings.”

“No, I’m too busy,” came the disdainful response. He never looked up. I thanked him for listening and departed the doorstep.

The Gallacher family moved to California shortly thereafter. The years went by. Then, as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, I was working in my office one day when my secretary called, saying: “A Brother Gallacher who once lived in your ward would like to talk to you. He’s here in my office.”

I responded, “Ask him if his name is Harold G. Gallacher, who, with his family, lived at Vissing Place on West Temple and Fifth South.”

She said, “He is the man.”

I asked her to send him in. We had a pleasant conversation together concerning his family. He told me, “I’ve come to apologize for not getting out of my chair and letting you in the door that summer day long years ago.” I asked him if he was active in the Church. With a wry smile, he replied: “I’m now second counselor in my ward bishopric. Your invitation to come out to church, and my negative response, so haunted me that I determined to do something about it.”

Harold and I visited together on numerous occasions before he passed away. The Gallachers and their children filled many callings in the Church. One of the youngest grandchildren is now serving a full-time mission.

I was excited to hear that a temple will be built in my country! I am preparing now to go to the temple by praying daily, studying the scriptures, and doing family history.
Emmelyn S., age 10, Karnataka, India

“My wife and I started talking each night about the tender mercies we had each day while serving our mission,” one senior missionary said. “Not only did it help us focus more on what happened and less on ourselves, but it also gave us a chance to see goodness all around us even when parts of the day hadn’t gone well.”
“And because it was the last thing we did each night,” his wife added, “we went to bed less stressed and more content than we had for years. It even helped me sleep better!”

Anthon stepped from his doorway onto the cobbled street, hesitated, and turned back to his wife—“the best in the land” he called her.
“Are you coming, Ibine?”
His wife stepped out of the doorway. She was wrapped in woolen scarves and a heavy coat. The February night was icy cold. Their destination was the seashore, a few blocks from their home. The children followed Ibine out the door. Thorvald and Astra were too young to be baptized but not too young to be excited for their parents. Only Anthon didn’t feel excited. He was quiet and pensive while walking along the clean-swept streets of Aalborg, Denmark.
He and his family were nearing the place where they would be baptized. A sick feeling of loneliness hit him in his stomach. “My homeland, my forefathers, all that has been good to me—am I giving up their trust in me for a far-fetched religion sprouted in a distant; new country?”
Every member of the Mormon church who lived in Aalborg was there on the seashore, some holding lanterns. It was a small but cheery group. They sang hymns and smiled. But Anthon was still quiet. He looked into the faces of his beautiful children and wondered if he was doing what was right for them. He knew he would have to find a private school for them because the prejudice in the public schools against the few Mormon children was too much for such young children to bear.
The singing was over. A prayer was given to open the meeting. The missionaries asked a blessing on Brother and Sister Jensen that as they were baptized they would not fall ill from the freezing temperatures. A hole was chopped in the ice. The sacred ordinance was performed for both Anthon and his wife, Ibine. The two new members were welcomed with hugs and handshakes and sent quickly home to their warm fireplace. It was then that Anthon noticed something special—something unexpected. On their way home he found himself walking, almost skipping, with lightened step—his wife and children smiling at him all the way. The heavy burdens of worry had been lifted. He knew he had done the right thing, and above all he knew now that there was something important for him to do in life.

Elder Soares, who earned a bachelor’s degree in accounting and economics from Pontificia Catholic University and an MBA from the National Institute of Postgraduate Study, was working for a multinational tire company when he was offered a position with the Church. Hired to work for the Finance Department, he soon became director for temporal affairs in the Church area office in São Paulo, providing support to the Area Presidency for 10 years. He also served as the first president of the São Paulo Brazil Cotia Stake.

When I was young, my brothers and I liked to sleep outside during the summer. We would spread our sleeping bags on the porch, then find constellations in the stars and listen to crickets as we fell asleep.
One night my older brother Larry and I were out on the porch. We stretched out and looked up at the stars. Larry wasn’t usually very talkative, but that night he said he wanted to tell me some stories. He told me stories from the Book of Mormon, starting with Lehi and his family leaving Jerusalem.
I had heard stories from the Book of Mormon in Primary before, but when Larry told them, it was different. It felt more real. As I looked up at the stars and listened to my brother, I felt very warm and happy inside. Though I didn’t know it then, I was feeling the Holy Ghost telling me the Book of Mormon was true.
A few months later, I found a book of illustrated stories from the Book of Mormon at our house. When I started reading, I got the same warm, comforting feeling that I’d had when Larry told me the same stories.
Years later, when I was trying to decide if I had a testimony, I was a little disappointed that I had never had a big or strong answer. Did this mean I didn’t have a testimony? Then I remembered how I felt when my brother told me stories from the Book of Mormon, and I knew that I did know the Church was true.

Some Saints began arriving in the city weeks before April 1893 general conference. Lucy Flake and her husband started their trip from Arizona to Utah on 8 March 1893. “We went by team,” she noted in her journal, “as we hadn’t the money to go on train.” The group “consisted of William, myself, Sister Lanning, Joel and John, Henry and Emma Tanner and two of their children,” she wrote. The journey by wagon was “a cold hard trip, through snow and mud.” At Beaver, Utah, the Flake family finally boarded a train. “William and I took our first train ride together,” Lucy recalled. “We went with a large company of our friends and relatives from Beaver City to Salt Lake. We were joined at every station by others who were going to the Dedication.”

Correction, hopefully gentle, can come from one’s spouse. Elder Richard G. Scott, who just addressed us, remembers a time early in his marriage when his wife, Jeanene, counseled him to look directly at people when he spoke to them. “You look at the floor, the ceiling, the window, anywhere but in their eyes,” she said. He took that gentle rebuke to heart, and it made him much more effective in counseling and working with people. As one who served as a full-time missionary under then President Scott’s direction, I can attest that he does look one squarely in the eye in his conversations. I can also add that when one needs correction, that look can be very penetrating.