Gospel Story Finder

On May 1, 2016, the Dakar Branch was organized with Jacques Niambé as president. Under his leadership and with the help of Elder Gary and Sister Helen Parke, the branch grew steadily. In February 2018, eight members of the branch traveled to Accra, Ghana, to attend the temple. In April, less than two years after the Dakar Branch was organized, it was divided, and Alphonse Samadé was called as president of the newly organized Parcelles Branch. Just weeks later, during a visit to Dakar, Elder Ulisses Soares of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles marveled at the potential he saw in the branches in Senegal. “The little branch I attended [in Brazil as a boy] became three stakes,” Elder Soares said after his visit. “I can see a similar future in Senegal.”

I learned a valuable lesson once long ago from a sweet lady, Sister Lucy Grant Cannon, who became violently ill while visiting her daughter in Arizona. We elders were promptly called, and we administered to her. The next day she was asked if she wished to be administered to again and her reply was, “No, I have been anointed and administered to. The ordinance has been performed. It is up to me now to claim my blessing through my faith.”

1878: President Taylor organizes the Primary, which helps teach children about the gospel.

How the Church Is Growing in Estonia
President Nelson dedicated Estonia for the preaching of the gospel in 1990.
During the next 10 years, Church members helped translate temple ceremonies, general conference talks, and the Book of Mormon into Estonian.

“It’s the ordinariness of each day that can get me down,” says a sister whose husband is chronically ill. “My husband’s health will never get better. I accept that. But the drudgery of all the routine, menial tasks is mentally, physically, and spiritually exhausting.” She appreciates visits from ministering sisters. “When they come by it truly brightens my day.”

The story was told of General Antigonus (382–301 B.C., general of Alexander the Great) who was preparing to have his men attack the enemy. The plan was devised, the strategy decided, and the hour determined. General Antigonus’s men were outnumbered severely. The signal to attack was given. No one attacked. In fact, they were about ready to retreat ingloriously. General Antigonus asked what the problem was. The captains replied that they were outnumbered so severely that the men dared not attack. General Antigonus thought for a moment and then asked, “For how many then wilt thou reckon me?” This spirit spread through the ranks; they attacked and won a great battle.

I wanted to brush my teeth by myself,
But the toothpaste wouldn’t come out.
I wanted to pour the juice by myself,
But it came gushing
Out of the spout.
I wanted to button my sweater,
But the sides went
every w
h
i
c
h way.
So I’ll try again tomorrow,
’Cause tomorrow’s a brand-new day!

My family moved to Salt Lake City, Utah, when I was about 11, but I didn’t join the Church until I was 24. Looking back, I can see why no one shared the gospel with me. I was not a golden contact on the surface. Actually, I was a bit of a rowdy kid. I got into fights and got into trouble at school regularly.
I had a number of LDS friends, but only one ever talked about the Church. And that was because I teased him about reading the Book of Mormon when he babysat.
I was curious about things, though. My mom took me to a local Christian church. I once asked them why Jesus hadn’t come to the Americas. They kind of laughed at me for asking such a question, so I didn’t ask anything else about it.
Years later I decided to visit the visitors’ center on Temple Square in Salt Lake City. There was a diorama on Christ in America. Suddenly I remembered my questions about that topic from my younger years. That’s when the Spirit hit me, and I knew I was ready to listen.
The example of my friends from high school stayed with me. In fact, the people I respected most were LDS. Randy Ridd and his wife both went to my school. They were always great examples, very good people. That made a big impact on me later. I thought, “If Randy believed this was real, it must be important.”
I don’t know what might have happened if they had shared more about the gospel at the time. I might not have been ready. But looking back, I wish they had. I know it would have had an impact on me.

Working with horses also taught me to be patient and never to give up. Progress comes a little at a time. Once I had a colt named Planchet. Someone said, “That horse is weak. He will never be worth anything.” But someone else told me if I would be patient and exercise my colt’s muscles, he would someday be a good horse. I fed Planchet and took care of him and loved him. For one whole year, I walked him to strengthen his muscles. I worked and worked with him. And, sure enough, this weak colt won the Brazilian championship in a three-day competition.

While on an assignment in Scandinavia some years ago, President Monson learned of a 26-year-old disabled young man named John Helander. John was at a youth conference in Kungsbacka, Sweden, and determined to take part in a 1,500-meter race. He had no chance to win and little chance to finish. But he lined up with the entrants and began.
From the sound of the starter’s gun it was obvious John was in difficulty. The other runners bolted past him even as he seemed fixed at the starting line. He was only partway into his first lap when all of the other participants passed him toward the completion of their second lap. And so the race went, with a winner being announced while John was scarcely halfway through the measured distance.
“Perhaps everyone else thought when the race was over,” says President Monson, “that John would quietly step from the track and disappear. But clearly John Helander didn’t think that.” He just kept running. His speed was minimal. His fatigue was immense. But his whole-souled determination was obvious even to the most cynical of spectators. None stirred from their seats. It was obvious that the race—the race—was still being run.
By the time John Helander completed his 1,500 meters, seemingly ages after the other contestants had crossed the finish line, the entire stadium was in pandemonium. The roar of the crowd was deafening. The stumbling, staggering, exhausted but victorious John Helander had broken the tape, newly stretched for this champion. Determination, courage, devotion, faith—call it what you will—had carried the day.

When the Explorers returned to Guayaquil, they shopped for souvenirs and visited some of the historical sites of the city. Walter P. Crespo, the Scout executive for Guayas Province, explained the history of the various monuments and their significance to the citizens of Guayaquil. He even showed them where a branch of the Church held its meetings.
“Boy, to think that just a few months before, my family was sitting in the Tabernacle in Salt Lake City,” Nik comments, “and then to realize I was in South America—what a great time to live!”

The problem with Kemp’s ridley sea turtles is that there is only one known nesting site in the world, and that has been badly exploited: a 16-mile stretch of beach at Playa de Rancho Nuevo, in the state of Tamaulipas, Mexico. In 1947, when the site was discovered, an estimated 40,000 females came ashore at once to lay eggs.
But since then, some locals have plundered the nests to sell and eat the delicious eggs. Now only a few hundred females return to the site each year.
Even though Mexican Marines have now been stationed to guard the turtles and their nests, biologists believe it is essential to the turtle’s survival to establish an alternate nesting site. Padre Island was chosen because of its many similarities to their Mexican home. Now the problem is getting the turtles to break old instinctual patterns and to nest there.
The key is to “imprint” them to their new home. Imprinting can be compared to programming a computer to remember. Biologists theorize that the female turtle remembers where she hatched so that she may return when she is ready to lay her own eggs.
Each year for the past nine years a few thousand eggs are taken to Padre Island and incubated. Upon hatching, the turtles are imprinted by being allowed to make their initial journey across the beach and into the sea for a short swim. Then they are caught and raised in a marine laboratory until they are large enough to survive in the wild.

I thought about you a lot on Christmas Day. I imagined you and your mom and dad around the Christmas tree, opening presents and later eating turkey and pumpkin pie. Our Christmas in Paraguay was very different, and I thought you might like to hear about it.
We had decided to visit the Ugarte family for Christmas. They live 80 kilometers (50 miles) through the jungle, in a little village called Itakyry. There is a small chapel there, where we could spend the night. In the Ugarte family are a grandmother, a mother and father, and eleven children. Their house has only two rooms and two beds, so we couldn’t stay with them. We packed some small gifts in the back of the car and left early in the morning of the day before Christmas. Two young elders went with us.
In Itakyry, Sister Ugarte was very sad. It was the day before Christmas, and she had no presents to give her children. It took all their money and time just to provide the essential things that such a large family needed. Nothing was left for gifts or even a special treat for Christmas dinner.
All that morning she worked. She washed clothes in the stream and spread them on the bushes to dry. She tended the garden and cooked black beans and rice for their midday meal. After they ate, she rocked the baby and mended clothes. As she worked, she prayed, “Heavenly Father, please send our good friends, the missionaries, here for Christmas. I know it is a long way for them to come, but it would make this day special. Please, Heavenly Father.”
We didn’t know that she wanted us to come. The Spirit just told us that it would be good if we did. A bridge was washed away, so we had to walk the last few miles through the jungle. My goodness, how happy the Ugarte family was when they saw us coming through the trees!
That night we had a very special family home evening in the little wood chapel. The beautiful story of the birth of Christ was told, and testimonies were shared. Then for a long time we sat, watching the silent tropical stars and singing the sacred hymns of Christmas.
The Ugarte children didn’t understand when Grandpa tried to act like Santa Claus the next morning. They did enjoy the simple gifts we passed out, though. There was a small doll for each little girl, sweet-smelling soap for the older girls, and windup toys for the boys. Grandpa had to show the boys how to wind them up, because they had never seen toys like that before.
We missed our own dear grandchildren, but this Christmas in Paraguay was a very special one for us. The best gifts that we can give or receive at Christmastime are love and service.

One other account from those early, faithful builders of modern Zion. John R. Moyle lived in Alpine, Utah, about 22 miles as the crow flies to the Salt Lake Temple, where he was the chief superintendent of masonry during its construction. To make certain he was always at work by 8:00, Brother Moyle would start walking about 2:00 a.m. on Monday mornings. He would finish his work week at 5:00 p.m. on Friday and then start the walk home, arriving there shortly before midnight. Each week he would repeat that schedule for the entire time he served on the construction of the temple.
Once when he was home on the weekend, one of his cows bolted during milking and kicked Brother Moyle in the leg, shattering the bone just below the knee. With no better medical help than they had in such rural circumstances, his family and friends took a door off the hinges and strapped him onto that makeshift operating table. They then took the bucksaw they had been using to cut branches from a nearby tree and amputated his leg just a few inches below the knee. When against all medical likelihood the leg finally started to heal, Brother Moyle took a piece of wood and carved an artificial leg. First he walked in the house. Then he walked around the yard. Finally he ventured out about his property. When he felt he could stand the pain, he strapped on his leg, walked the 22 miles to the Salt Lake Temple, climbed the scaffolding, and with a chisel in his hand hammered out the declaration “Holiness to the Lord.”

My parents supported me in all my decisions. Mom and Dad stood with me on the stand in sacrament meeting the day I received my Young Womanhood medallion. They were there when I graduated from seminary. They were with me when I received my patriarchal blessing, and they supported me as I attended Ricks College.
They were both with me the day I walked to the doors of the temple. I had finally reached the day when I would enter the temple and receive the blessings I had learned about. The angel Moroni, glowing in the early morning sun on the temple spire, seemed to proclaim my joy to the world. I kissed my parents good-bye as I entered.

One such miracle is taking place in the southern part of the United States in the area once referred to as the Confederacy. It pertains to family history and temple work. During the period between 1860 and 1865, this region literally became saturated with the blood of America’s youth as soldiers by the hundreds of thousands perished. Even today, the earth here and there reveals a timeworn uniform button, a belt buckle, a spent bullet. But what of the men who fell while in the flower of their youth? Many had never married. Who was to do their temple work? Were they forever to be denied the blessings of eternal ordinances?
William D. Taylor, a Canadian with no ties to either side of the conflict that raged so long ago, found himself, together with wife and family, living in the old South and suddenly filled with a compelling interest in those who died while so young in years. An urgency came upon Brother Taylor to do something personally, a call to silent service.
In a letter to me dated July 20, 1992, Brother Taylor wrote: “It’s been approximately one year since I last gave you an update on the extraction work that is being done for the Confederate soldiers (approximately four years since this project was started). The extraction has been progressing at a steady pace. As of this writing, we have sent for temple work just over 101,000 names. I am thankful for being allowed to do this work. It brings me joy unparalleled to anything I have ever known. It’s hard to put my feelings into words. I exult when another regiment is prepared and ready to be sent to the temple, and my soul is pained when the information in the regimental history is insufficient for a soldier’s work to be submitted.”
A poet’s words expressed Brother Taylor’s feelings:
There I see them marching down the lane,
One in blue and one in gray,
Now arm and arm again,
And there I see them rising toward the Son,
Proud Rebels and proud Yankees,
Silent journey just begun.
[David Matthews, “Road to Gettysburg”]
Brother William Taylor, I salute you for your leadership in bringing eternal blessings to your “troops,” who must indeed call your name blessed.

All of us remember, President Benson, that dark period following World War II when our members were near starvation and bordering on despair. Then you undertook your dramatic assignment to supervise the distribution of food, clothing, and medical supplies from the storehouse of the Church to the war-devastated families in Europe.

Your words, President, echo loud and clear: “We must ‘dedicate our strength to serving the needs, rather than the fears, of the world.’ … I believe errands of mercy, such as the distribution of food, housing, and clothing to those in need, are rendered most effectively when handled by private individuals and organizations such as the Church” (The Teachings of Ezra Taft Benson [Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1988], p. 261).

It was a beautiful summer morning in the northern German countryside as my husband and I drove from our home in Frederiksberg, Denmark, toward the county where my mother’s mother was born. Like a child looking forward to the fulfillment of a great wish, I got a lump in my throat when I saw the first road sign that said “Ladelund.” Ever since joining the Church, I had had a burning desire to submit my grandmother’s name for temple work. Often I had had divine guidance in my genealogical research, and I was eagerly looking forward to helping give my grandmother the full blessings of the gospel.
In northern Germany, vital records are scattered about in various church parish houses, rather than being gathered together in a central archive. So I had written to Ladelund to find out just where my grandmother’s records were located. Then I had telephoned the priest to set up an appointment to borrow the books containing those records.
When we arrived at the cozy little house in Ladelund, the priest’s secretary greeted us warmly. She went to the safe to get the book I had received permission to borrow, then returned, looking confused. “The book you need is not here, but it was here yesterday,” she said. Together we searched among the shelves of books, but we could not find it.
I was bitterly disappointed. I had done so much work. Why wasn’t Heavenly Father helping me now? I went to our car to wait for our next appointment several hours later. As I sat there crying, I got the idea that we could drive to the little town where my grandmother’s family had lived. Even though it had been more than a hundred years since the family had lived there, I just wanted to see how it looked.
We arrived in the tiny town at about noon, and we could see no one about. As we drove past the nine or ten houses, I finally spotted an older woman washing windows in her home. We stopped and I ran in to see if she knew anything about my grandmother’s family. As I stood at her front door, I glanced at the name plate. My heart seemed to skip a beat when I saw the name Carstensen—my grandmother’s family name!
Just then the lady opened the door and with a beautiful Slesvig accent asked what I wanted. After I explained my work, she said, “Oh, so it’s mother’s pedigree you want to see. I’ll get it.” She left the room and returned to spread before me a pedigree showing my relatives back to the 1600s. Beside the name of each married couple, with their dates of birth, marriage, and death, it listed all the children, with their place of birth and marriage. This one document gave me more information about my grandmother’s family than I could have gotten from the church records. Now I knew exactly where I needed to look for the children in the family.
After I had returned home to Denmark, I received a letter from the Ladelund church. The secretary enclosed the information from the missing book, explaining that it had been placed in the wrong cabinet by mistake. Thanks to this “mistake,” however, I have found not just one, but more than a hundred names of my German family. Indeed, the Lord had been helping me all along, even though I had not realized it at first.

I am 18 years old, a freshman at Brigham Young University, and I am preparing for a mission in October. I just finished reading the May issue of the New Era, cover to cover, and I can’t keep myself from writing! I have always enjoyed reading the New Era, but this is one of the few times I have read it completely. I sat down with the intent of catching up on my studies, and then I picked up the magazine and started reading an article I just couldn’t put it down until I was finished with the whole thing. The messages in this issue really seemed to enlighten me with the wisdom I was tacking at this particular time in my life, especially President Romney’s advice on how to gain a testimony. I also felt a special spirit when I read about “Stephen,” the boy whose determined and loving spirit completely conquered his physical handicap. He is certainly a tool in the hands of God.
Roger TuckettSpanish Fork, Utah

Elder Cullimore believes that he still holds the record in Utah County for picking the most cases (thirty-eight) of strawberries and the most bushels (one hundred) of apples in one day. As a young boy in Lindon, Utah, he earned spending money by helping to harvest the plentiful fruit of that area.