Gospel Story Finder

When Papa went fishing, he took Caroline’s brothers, Ned and Albert. Caroline stayed home and helped Mama bake bread.
When Papa went woodcutting in the hills, he took Albert and Ned. Caroline stayed home and helped Mama braid rugs.
When Papa went in the wagon to the feed store, he took Albert and Ned. Caroline stayed home and helped Mama can tomatoes.
“I wish Papa would take me sometime,” Caroline said.
Mama smiled and patted her on the head.
Then one chilly night, Caroline was nestled deep in her feather bed when something woke her. Papa was kneeling beside her bed. “Come, little one,” he whispered. “Wake up.”
He wrapped a quilt around Caroline and carried her outside. As he softly closed the door behind them, the big grandfather clock in the hall began to chime midnight.
The cold nipped at Caroline’s nose and ears.
Papa carried her out of the yard, around the barn to the old meadow pond. “Be very still,” he whispered, “and look.”
On the pond were hundreds of geese.
“Wild geese,” Papa said very quietly. “They stopped to rest at our pond on their way south to their winter home.”
Wide-eyed, Caroline watched, snuggling against Papa’s big, warm chest.
Then, after several moments, with a flutter of wings and a honking so loud that Caroline had to cover her ears, the geese rose into the air.
Outlined against the full moon, the V-shaped flock slowly disappeared from sight.
As Papa tucked Caroline back into bed, he said, “In the morning be sure to tell your brothers what we saw”—he smiled in the almost-dark—“while they were sound asleep.”
Caroline smiled back. “I will, Papa.”
She would tell them. She would tell them about the most wonderful moment of her life that happened at midnight with Papa.

A number of years ago, as a counselor in a bishopric, I was assigned to home teach some of the less active members of our ward. One of my families was a lone man who lived in a rented room. He was very hard to find at home. And try as I might to be Christian about it all, I was often glad when he was out and I missed him. He was an alcoholic.
One evening I found him home and very sober. He was sick with a liver disease which threatened his very life. His illness had scared him away from his passion for drink for a short while. As he sobered up, the painful memories of his life crowded him, and he sought relief. Usually his relief came through drink. This time I was there.
He opened up to me and told of his happy first marriage. His successes early in his life, his lovely wife, his children—his face beamed as he talked about this marvelous time of his life. And then his face clouded as he spoke of how the pressure to get ahead at work became hard for him to deal with, and he began to drink. And he drank, and he drank, and one by one his successes turned to failures. He lost his job, his wife, and his family.
Then again his face cleared and he told of a short interlude in his dissolute life during which he married again. He also destroyed that marriage through his drinking. The tears came. He sobbed that he was dying alone, dejected, unproductive, unhappy—the personification of one brand of human failure.
I did not visit him again before he died. It was only a short time after our conversation that his death came. I was saddened by it. Then came the shock. His first wife called and asked if I would speak at his funeral. I was to be the only speaker! What could I say? Oh, what could I say that would comfort his former wives and family?
I worried about that funeral sermon about as much as I have worried about today’s blessing.
A song, a prayer, my sermon, a song, a prayer, the trip to the cemetery, the brief ceremony there, and the dedication of the grave: It was all a blur to me. But at the end of it all one of his children came and thanked me. The words were something like, “As I listened to your sermon, a flood of memories came back—most of them bad. Yet some of them were sweet. My dad failed. He was weak. But he loved me. He was kind to me. Even when he was drunk, he wasn’t mean to me. It was so sad. I hope that from him I can learn to avoid his mistakes while emulating his good characteristics.”

A few years later this same older sister turned her heart to me when I asked her if I could borrow her car to go visit my friends. She agreed but said that I needed to have it back by four o’clock. I happily took off. We were having such a good time, I could hardly believe it when I looked at the clock and it was six o’clock! When I ran into the house, my sister wasn’t there, but on the table was a beautiful chocolate cake, my favorite, with a note that said: “Don’t worry. I know you were having a good time. I managed to get a ride. I love you.” Now, that is turning your heart to your family, holding your banner high! She was worrying about my feelings when I was the one who had inconvenienced her!

As a young man, Brigham Young struggled for two years to know if the gospel was true. His search was finally resolved by the simple testimony of a missionary—a “man without eloquence … who could only say, ‘I know, by the power of the Holy Ghost, that the Book of Mormon is true, that Joseph Smith is a Prophet of the Lord.’” President Young later said, “The Holy Ghost proceeding from that individual illuminated my understanding, and light, glory, and immortality were before me” (Teachings of Presidents of the Church: Brigham Young [1997], 315). When the Holy Ghost assures heart and mind of truth, darkness and doubt flee.

The admonition in James 1:5 that if we lack wisdom we should ask of God applies to each of us. Let me illustrate with a personal example. As you are aware, vitamins can be a huge blessing for health, and prenatal vitamins are very important. But I had an experience that taught me that for me and my body, a particular brand of vitamins was causing me problems.

When I was pregnant with my sixth child I experienced severe depression. I felt like my entire world was sinking into darkness. One Sunday I had reached what felt like the bottom of a pit. I went to sacrament meeting with my family, but then fled home to cry on my bed. I poured out my heart to Heavenly Father. I wailed, sobbed, and pleaded. “Please tell me what to do. I can’t go on like this.” Shortly before my family was to arrive home I had a distinct impression from the Holy Ghost to stop taking my prenatal vitamins. Certainly an answer I wasn’t expecting, because I had successfully taken prenatal vitamins for five pregnancies, but I obeyed and the darkness began to lift. When I put my trust in God and followed the personal revelation He gave me I was healed. I know that He will do the same for you—in His own time and in His own way. He will tell us exactly what we need to know exactly when we need to know it and in a way that we will understand.

A little story given by one of your missionary sons in Italy a few weeks ago brought this clearly into focus for me.

He recounted that one morning a poor little crippled boy in ragged clothes and badly worn shoes came to a busy street corner and went from person to person, begging for a few lira without success. A man observing the boy from a distance finally went over and picked up this little lad, held him tightly and loved him, and then went forth and cared for him with his means without any judgment.

This sight would have touched any heart and helps us see the power of love that our Father in Heaven would have us understand in our lives. Jesus, the beloved Son of God, reemphasized this new dimension to bless the world when He said, “A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another.” (John 13:34.)

As in the case of the man who picked up the little crippled boy, there are no reproachments or judgments—just love and help.

On January 15, 2009, US Airways Flight 1549 took off from New York City’s LaGuardia Airport. Three minutes later, the plane struck a flock of Canada geese and lost all engine power. Unable to reach any airport, pilot in command Chesley Sullenberger glided the plane to a water landing in the Hudson River. All 155 people aboard were rescued. This incident came to be known as the "Miracle on the Hudson."
Afterward, Sullenberger was asked what he had done that led to the rescue of everyone. He said: “One way of looking at this might be that for 42 years, I've been making small, regular deposits in this bank of experience, education, and training. And on January 15 the balance was sufficient so that I could make a very large withdrawal."[1]
Chesley Sullenberger was a military fighter pilot before flying commercial planes for 29 years. He had spent tens of thousands of hours in the air.[2] The daily checklists he had followed, the simulators he had practiced in, all the little things that happened throughout his career prepared him so he could act appropriately when an emergency presented itself.

In the early years of the Church the Prophet Joseph Smith had no more faithful aide than William Wines Phelps. Brother Phelps, a former newspaper editor, had joined the Church in Kirtland and was of such assistance to those early leaders that they sent him as one of the first Latter-day Saints to the New Jerusalem—Jackson County, Missouri. There he was called by the Lord to the stake presidency of that “center stake of Zion.”

But then troubles developed. First they were largely ecclesiastical aberrations but later there were financial improprieties. Things became so serious that the Lord revealed to Joseph Smith that if Phelps did not repent, he would be “removed out of [his] place” (HC 2:511). He did not repent and was excommunicated on March 10, 1838.

The Prophet Joseph and others immediately tried to love Phelps back into the fold, but he would have nothing of it. Then in the fall of that violent year W. W. Phelps, along with others, signed a deadly, damaging affidavit against the Prophet and other leaders of the Church. The result was quite simply that Joseph Smith was sentenced to be publicly executed on the town square in Far West, Missouri, Friday morning, November 2, 1838. Through the monumental courage of General Alexander Doniphan, the Prophet was miraculously spared the execution Phelps and others had precipitated, but he was not spared spending five months—November through April—in several Missouri prisons, the most noted of which was the pit known ironically as Liberty Jail.

I do not need to recount for you the suffering of the Saints through that period. The anguish of those not captive was in many ways more severe than those imprisoned. The persecution intensified until the Saints sought yet again to find another refuge from the storm. With Joseph in chains, praying for their safety and giving some direction by letter, they made their way toward Commerce, Illinois, a malaria swamp on the Mississippi River where they would try once more to build the city of Zion. And much of this travail, this torment and heartache, was due to men of their own brotherhood like W. W. Phelps.

But we’re speaking today of happy endings. Two very difficult years later, with great anguish and remorse of conscience, Phelps wrote to Joseph Smith in Nauvoo.

Brother Joseph: . . . I am as the prodigal son. . . .

I have seen the folly of my way, and I tremble at the gulf I have passed. . . . [I] ask my old brethren to forgive me, and though they chasten me to death, yet I will die with them, for their God is my God. The least place with them is enough for me, yea, it is bigger and better than all Babylon. . . .

I know my situation, you know it, and God knows it, and I want to be saved if my friends will help me. . . . I have done wrong and I am sorry. . . . I ask forgiveness. . . . I want your fellowship; if you cannot grant that, grant me your peace and friendship, for we are brethren, and our communion used to be sweet.

In an instant the Prophet wrote back. I know of no private document or personal response in the life of Joseph Smith—or anyone else, for that matter—which so powerfully demonstrates the magnificence of his soul. There is a lesson here for every one of us who claims to be a disciple of Christ.

He wrote:

Dear Brother Phelps: . . . You may in some measure realize what my feelings . . . were when we read your letter . . . .

We have suffered much in consequence of your behavior—the cup of gall, already full enough for mortals to drink, was indeed filled to overflowing when you turned against us . . . .

However, the cup has been drunk, the will of our Father has been done, and we are yet alive, for which we thank the Lord. And having been delivered from the hands of wicked men by the mercy of our God, we say it is your privilege to be delivered from the powers of the adversary, be brought into the liberty of God’s dear children, and again take your stand among the Saints of the Most High, and by diligence, humility, and love unfeigned, commend yourself to our God, and your God, and to the Church of Jesus Christ.

Believing your confession to be real, and your repentance genuine, I shall be happy once again to give you the right hand of fellowship, and rejoice over the returning prodigal.

“Come on, dear brother, since the war is past,
For friends at first, are friends again at last.”

Yours as ever,
Joseph Smith, Jun. [HC 4:141–42, 162–64]

It only adds to the poignance of this particular prodigal’s return that exactly four years later—almost to the day—it would be W. W. Phelps selected to preach Joseph Smith’s funeral sermon in that terribly tense and emotional circumstance. Furthermore it would be W. W. Phelps who would memorialize the martyred prophet with his hymn of adoration, “Praise to the Man.”

I grew up as a member of the Church. I was taught the principles of the gospel by my parents in my home, was baptized and confirmed, and received the priesthood from my worthy father. I felt the influence of the Spirit in my life, but I did not receive a witness of the reality of the Atonement until a sunrise testimony meeting in my teen years.
A group of several hundred seminary students gathered before dawn for the meeting. I suppose that I shared my testimony that morning, but I can’t be sure. What I know is that during that meeting, as the sun rose on a new Easter, the Spirit came into my heart and testified of the reality of Jesus Christ—His life, His teachings, His Atonement, and His Resurrection.
Today I still find that the anchor for me through all the years has been the witness I received from the Spirit as a teenager on that Easter morning.

That was certainly true in my case. I received a phone call one day asking if I would meet President Hinckley in his office. After greeting me, President Hinckley basically asked one question: “How would you like a change of scenery?” We members of the Seventy are used to moving to different assignments. I had been at Salt Lake headquarters for a few years. So I thought, “Afghanistan, here I come.” What I said was, “President, whatever you would like is what I would like.”

With great kindness but also with considerable brevity, President Hinckley indicated that President Merrill J. Bateman, who had served wonderfully well as BYU’s 11th president, was being reassigned to full-time Church service. President Hinckley said he would like me to serve as BYU’s 12th president. I was, of course, surprised but pleased. At first Sharon thought I was spoofing her, as I sometimes do. However, she soon realized I was serious. She was as honored and humbled as was I with this unexpected but exhilarating opportunity.

Was there a charge? “You’ll do what is right,” President Hinckley said. Subsequent to that time, President Hinckley has called to see how our Provo housing is coming but has not given further new or specific direction. Elder Eyring, as Church commissioner, and the board arranged for us to have a nice university residence here in Provo. Sharon’s one request was a double oven. We are now in the process of moving in and are anxious to be here full-time physically, as we are already emotionally.

Growing up, I had lots of fun with my older brother and my younger brother. We had water fights with water hoses and garbage can lids. We took apart roller skates and made them into scooters. And I always looked for ways to earn money. One summer, I picked vegetables from our garden and sold them around the neighborhood—until my mother found out! I was selling what she was counting on as food for our own family. When I got older, I mowed lawns and did other jobs around the neighborhood.

Twelve years ago, our twenty-four-year-old daughter was in the MBA program here at BYU. Sister Palmer and I were serving as mission leaders in Spokane, Washington, when she called with the shocking news that doctors had discovered a brain tumor. The personal sorrow of seeing a child face such an uncertain future was profound and deep. As a father, I felt an overwhelming desire to protect her, to fix the problem, or even to take her place as she went in for surgery. I realized I would give up any amount of wealth to somehow purchase her health. But none of those things were an option, and it was very humbling to recognize that it was all out of our control.

My journal describes a sleepless night following her surgery. I was tossing for hours with thoughts that were a real test of my faith. The surgeon had just told us that he had been unable to fully remove the tumor, so the future looked dark and uncertain. Even as I tried to look for bright spots, it felt so easy to question God’s seeming lack of response. What about the priesthood blessing I had given her two nights earlier, in which I had felt prompted to make assurances based on promises made in her patriarchal blessing? What about the many prayers and much fasting on her behalf from literally all around the world?

At 4:00 a.m., I knelt in our hotel and poured out my heart to God on behalf of our precious daughter, who was full of faith and living a life centered on Jesus Christ. After that long and sleepless wrestle, I felt an answer that, no matter the outcome, I must go forward with faith and trust in Jesus Christ. All I could do was surrender my will to His. Eventually a sense of peace came, and my pleading prayer changed to a prayer of thanks. I thanked God for His love and for the blessings of the gospel in our lives. As I left my knees, I knew that we would be able to face whatever lay ahead, whether she was healed—or not.

Everyone’s story will be different. In our ­daughter Jasmine’s case, what lay ahead were years of continued uncertainty that included ­radiation and chemotherapy but also beautiful miracles of marriage and children. Through it all, she has continued to center her life on Jesus Christ, and she inspires all with her boundless optimism and with her faith. For she too shares in the assurance that no matter what happens in the future, nothing will ever go permanently wrong, thanks to eternal covenants made with a loving God.

Story number two:
“When I got married,” says Consolación Pilobello of Pasay City, “I didn’t know how to cook, and I was too superstitious to go to a doctor and get prenatal care. Our first baby died.”

She begins to cry. “If only I had been a member of the Church then, we could have saved that baby!”

After baptism, she learned in Relief Society about water purification, sanitation, nutrition, first aid, and immunizations. “I learned how to take care of my children, myself, and my family,” she says. Her next seven babies were healthy. [pp. 11–12]

The youngest of those babies now serves as a full-time missionary in the Philippines Baguio Mission, which I recently toured before returning to America.

When James H. Moyle visited David Whitmer, Whitmer was an old man; he was out of the Church and was living in a log cabin in Richmond, Missouri. Of this visit to David Whitmer, James H. Moyle stated in this very building on March 22, 1908:
“I went to his humble home, … and I told him … as a young man starting out in life I wanted to know from him … what he knew about the Book of Mormon, and what about the testimony he had published to the world concerning it. He told me in all the solemnity of his advanced years, that the testimony he had given to the world, and which was published in the Book of Mormon, was true, every word of it, and that he had never deviated nor departed in any particular from that testimony, and that nothing in the world could separate him from the sacred message that was delivered to him. I still wondered if it was not possible that he could have been deceived, … so I induced him to relate to me, under such cross-examination as I was able to interpose, every detail of what took place. He described minutely the spot in the woods, the large log that separated him from the angel, and that he saw the plates from which the Book of Mormon was translated, that he handled them, and that he did hear the voice of God declare that the plates were correctly translated. I asked him if there was any possibility for him to have been deceived, and that it was all a mistake, but he said, ‘No.’” (quoted in Gordon B. Hinckley, James Henry Moyle [Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1951], p. 366–67.)

Cristin Shaner of Coffeyville, Kansas, found an influential moment to talk about the Church. Performing in a contest, she sang a solo and, during the interlude between verses, gave a monologue about the Church.
The song was “If I Ruled the World” from the musical Pickwick. Cristy talked about how when she was small she thought that if she ruled the world she would tell everyone about her church, because it made her feel so good inside. She added that even as a young woman she still wanted to tell everyone about her church.
After Cristy won the contest, many people asked her about her church and wanted to know more about its teachings. And since she won the title she was competing for, Cristy has an even greater opportunity to be an example of the gospel.
Cristy is a seminary graduate and a recipient of the Young Womanhood Recognition. She is a member of the Coffeyville Kansas Branch in the Tulsa Oklahoma Stake.

“Would you like to be a clown this year?” Mother asked as she rummaged through the costume box. “We could paint your face all white and red.”
“No,” Jake answered solemnly. “I want my own face to show.”
“Your own face would show if you wore this cute Teddy Bear suit,” Mother suggested next.
“Uh-uh.” Jake shrugged. “I want to wear my Sunday suit.”
Mother looked surprised. She knew that Jake didn’t usually want to wear his Sunday suit anywhere besides church. Even when he’d played “Lightning Ranger” in the first grade talent show, Mother hadn’t been able to talk him into putting on his coat and tie. Instead, he’d worn a lightweight sweater neatly tucked into the waistband of his slacks.
“You could wear your suit and be a vampire,” Mother said, handing him a set of scary-looking plastic teeth.
“No way!” Jake exclaimed. “I don’t want to scare people this year, I want to be nice,”
“Magicians are usually nice,” Mother told him. “Maybe we could make a magic wand for you to carry.”
“Nah!” Jake shook his head. “I’d like to carry a book this Halloween.”
“Whatever you say,” Mother agreed, then wondered out loud if Jake was planning on dressing up like kind old Mr. Larkins, who worked at the city library.
Jake began to giggle when his mother mentioned their friend. Mr. Larkins was just about as nice as a person could be. He wore a suit to work each day, and you hardly ever saw him without some kind of book in his hand. But Jake didn’t plan to be a librarian this October 31. He had something else in mind.
“Wait a minute, Mom,” Jake said, “and I’ll show you what I want to be.”
Mother had time to put away the costume box, dust the storage shelves, and sweep half the basement floor before Jake returned. She grinned from ear to ear when she saw him standing there all dressed up in his Sunday suit with a white shirt and tie. His face was freshly scrubbed, and his hair was parted straight.
In his hand he held a very special book, and pinned right above his pocket was a black construction paper name tag with white chalk letters that read: Elder Jacob B. Adams.
“I see,” Mother said softly, brushing a happy tear from her cheek. “You’re going to be a missionary.”

As a skier and a snowboarder myself, I was deeply impressed with the “four-minute” silver medal-winning performance of Australian LDS athlete and snowboarder Torah Bright in the half-pipe competition. She dazzled the world as she finished a virtually flawless run culminating in a backside rodeo 720. However, even more impressive and surprising to the world was the way she reached out and demonstrated Christlike love to her competitors. She noticed that American snowboarder Kelly Clark, who had a bad first run in her final round, appeared to be nervous about her second run. “She gave me a hug,” Clark recalls. “She just held me until I actually calmed down enough and I slowed my breathing. It was good to have a hug from a friend.” Kelly Clark would later join Torah on the winners’ podium as a bronze medalist.
When asked about this unusual act of kindness toward her opponent, which could have put her own silver medal at risk, Torah simply said, “I am a competitor—I want to do my best—but I want my fellow competitors to do their best, too.”13

On Friday, July 6th, as we concluded a week of an incredible, wholesome recreational activity with 50 of the 74 in our posterity at Lake Powell, we were taking the houseboat back to Wahweap Marina. Suddenly there was a mother’s frantic scream: “Stop! Stop the boat!” As I hurried down the hall, I saw that the back gate of the houseboat was fully open, and Londyn—an angelic, blonde, five-year-old granddaughter—was nowhere to be seen. Everyone on board jumped into action. Her mother, Krista, was trying to explain through her sobbing that she had heard a scream and a loud thud noise that she thought was Londyn bumping off the boat or hitting the water. Everyone was searching frantically. I reached the back and searched the visible area.
All that I could see were the three small, dinghy boats and the ski boat in tow behind us, but that was all that was there. There was no blonde hair in the water, no tiny body struggling. Every mother there was in tears, her own mother repeatedly screaming out for Londyn. Every second was agonizing as panic seemed to grow towards certain fatality. The mother collapsed to her knees in a state of utter despair, disbelief, and instant sorrow: “Oh, please, God, do not let this be real! Do not let this be happening! Please! Please, oh Londyn!” Her words rent my soul with anguish.
Krista is my lovely, tender daughter-in-law. My thoughts went to my son John, who had gone in on another boat. I wondered how we could possibly explain to him that Londyn was gone, that our sorrows, no matter how deep and real, could not bring her back. O ye fair one, how is it that ye are gone?[1]
This was a scene of anguish and sorrow that I have seldom felt: tears and groans and such a desire for the ability to turn back the clock just five minutes, to not have this be our reality.
Suddenly, life changed. We thought the entire boat had been searched, but my angel-inspired daughter Kim shouted through rejoicing tears that she had found Londyn.
She had found her in a small bathroom with a faulty doorknob that was very difficult to open. The mother and daughter were reconnected, and the painful heaviness of what seemed to be, melted slowly as everyone clutched each other in tearful, relieved embraces.

Early in my missionary service, my companion and I were taken by our ward mission leader to a rock formation called Chimney Rock, a landmark along the historic Mormon Trail. A cold wind swept across the plains, and the sky was a quilt of gray clouds. While there, I noticed an old cemetery with relatively few headstones. I was surprised by an inscription carved on the bottom of one of the markers. The inscription said, “Tell John I died with my face toward Zion.” [1]

The marker was placed by the descendants of Mary Murray Murdoch, a Latter-day Saint pioneer woman traveling to the Great Salt Lake valley as part of the Martin handcart company; these were the last words she spoke before passing away on the trail by Chimney Rock. As I stood there gazing out to the west and pondering her last words, I marveled at the faith of those early saints of the restoration. They were willing to sacrifice everything—comfort, family, life itself—for a modern-day living prophet, ordinances of salvation, and the belief in a Zion community. At the time, I thought it was interesting that she was not looking back towards Missouri, where the promised New Jerusalem would be built, but forward to the gathering in the Great Salt Lake Valley. In her final words, Mary taught me that Zion can be wherever the Saints gather and strive to become disciples of the Lord Jesus Christ.

That day by Chimney Rock illuminated for me the essence of Zion: it is not a single geographic pin on a map, but a way of living—a culture of unity, purity, and selfless service. Today, we’re called to that same dream: to build Zion, not as a distant hope, but as a living reality in our hearts, homes, and stakes. How do we do it? By turning our lives toward Christ, together.

During a visit with Great-Uncle Grover years ago, our two young boys wanted to go outside and play. Uncle Grover said to them, “Be careful—there are a lot of skunks out there.” The boys soon went outside to play.
On our way home, I asked, “Did you see a skunk?” One of them replied, “No, we didn’t see any skunks, but we did see a black kitty cat with a white stripe on its back!”
The boys were unaware that they had seen a skunk. This is a story of mistaken identity—presuming the real thing to be something else. Many today grapple with this same issue on a much larger scale.