Gospel Story Finder

I once had a roommate who was a lovely person, but almost everything I did seemed to annoy her. I thought, “How could I possibly annoy her? I am so easy to live with. Right?”
Because she wasn’t very fond of me, I used that as an excuse not to love her either. Fortunately, I recalled the advice a bishop had given during a sacrament meeting while I was in college. I vividly remember his counsel: “If you don’t love someone very much, you probably haven’t served that person enough. If you serve a person, you will love that person.”
After thinking about the advice of my bishop, I decided that I needed to serve this roommate and put the bishop’s counsel to the test. I began looking for little ways to help my roommate, show kindness to her, and be more responsive to what she needed and wanted.
Then almost immediately a miracle happened! I learned that I really did love her. She was a wonderful, talented person. It was a blessing for me to share an apartment with her. I was amazed how my view of her changed in such a short time.

Recently I had the opportunity to attend meetings at Jackson Lake in the majestic Teton Mountains of Wyoming in the western part of the United States. The rugged mountain peaks and the breathtakingly beautiful scenery and the cool, crisp autumn air combined to lift and restore the spirits of almost every visitor. I must admit that the work I’d been sent there to do seemed a lot less like work than what most of us experience every day. The peaceful mountain setting had a restorative effect on me and others in attendance. The world’s problems seemed less insurmountable. The challenges I faced seemed much less threatening. I came away with a heightened outlook and a spirit brightened by new hope and enthusiasm.

Steve Pollei, a young Latter-day Saint from Salt Lake City, Utah, has been elected National President of the Explorer Council at a Washington, D.C., convention to which he lead some 152 post presidents from the Great Salt Lake Council.
But Steve’s finest moment wasn’t found among the cheering delegates in the nation’s capital. The new president reports that the highlight of the experience came upon his return to Salt Lake when he had the opportunity of meeting and talking with President Harold B. Lee and his counselors about the gospel and the Explorer program.
The honor was earned with a lot of hard work. Campaign strategy was planned, a platform prepared, and preparations for good floor demonstrations mapped out long before the convention met.
On the second day of the convention Steve was elected Chairman of the Western Region. This was a critical step in becoming president, because the six regional chairmen become the candidates for National President.
The prospects didn’t always look promising. For example, when the candidates drew for speaking order, Steve drew the last number and had to speak to the convention at a very late hour.
But he was sustained by a very well organized campaign. An official who had been present at the National Republican Convention said that Steve’s floor demonstration was bigger and better organized than President Nixon’s in 1968.
The primaries were held, and Steve was swept into the finals by a solid vote. His opponent was a young lady named Beth Caruso. Steve’s organization made a great effort to get everyone out to vote in the final election, regardless of whom they supported.
Steve was elected by a fairly close vote, and he gives a lot of the credit for his victory to the approximately five hundred Mormon delegates at the convention.
Steve will have many challenges and opportunities as president of the National Explorer Council. He will travel over 50,000 miles in the U.S. and overseas with his adviser. He will direct his cabinet (made up of the regional chairmen) in leading the Explorer program. He will also work with the executive committee of the Boy Scouts of America to develop programs and activities for Cub Scouting, Boy Scouting, and Exploring.
Steve feels that his biggest challenges will be to involve the young people from ages fourteen through twenty-one in the Explorer programs and to iron out the bugs in some of the existing programs. He would especially like to see some advances made in the area of inner-city Exploring.
His personal goal is to set an example as a Latter-day Saint, to show the spirit of the Lord in all that he does so that the Lord will be pleased.

Grandpa was blessed with an appreciation of beauty, and was a talented sculptor. When he was a young man, Cyrus E. Dallin, a famous sculptor, invited Grandpa to come to Boston and study under him. Grandpa planned to accept Mr. Dallin’s offer, but in the meantime he worked as a fireman on a train to provide for his growing family.
One foggy day, there was a mix-up in schedules and two trains collided head-on. Grandpa was caught beneath the engines of both trains. Escaping steam scalded his face and arms. Seeing that his left leg was pinned in the wreckage and partially amputated, he free himself by completing the amputation with his pocketknife. Blood poured from the wound, and the faithful priesthood holder, in the name of Jesus Christ, commanded the bleeding to stop. It did. The stump of his leg turned white and did not bleed again.
Later, in the hospital, doctors amputated his other leg below the knee. During his long period of recuperation, Grandpa spent much of his time visiting and encouraging other patients.

Some weeks later I received a phone call. It was Cameron’s mother, Joyce. She was the Young Women president; my husband, Van, was the Young Men president. It was routine for her to leave messages with me.
As we spoke, she indicated that she was tying up all loose ends before Cameron’s surgery. Cameron’s surgery? I tried to think. Oh, yes, something to help his hips. The conversation ended, and I hung up the phone.
Suddenly the feeling came to me: Cameron was going to die.
I felt nauseated and weak. I went to my bedroom to pray. Was there something I should do? After praying, I felt a sense of reassurance.
Cameron had his surgery. Joyce called and reported that all had gone well. Still, I sensed something in her voice. Everything seems fine, she said.
The next day as I was trying to organize my day, the telephone rang. It was Jamie, a member of the Relief Society presidency.
“How are you?” I asked politely.
“Not very good,” she answered, as she started to cry. “Cameron passed away last night.”
I sat down.
“I just thought that you should know.”
“Thank you for calling me, Jamie,” I said. “You may never know how much this means.” I hung up the phone, then took down the picture of Jesus healing the man born blind. I wrapped it and thought of a gracious God who prepares answers to prayers before they are uttered. I wrote Cameron’s family a letter that I hoped would comfort them, then I attached it to the gift.

One Sunday the missionaries brought a family to church. They had a son my age, and my dad suggested that I go to church with him. They went to a different ward, so I stayed for three more hours to go to classes with him. And basically from then on, I went to two wards every Sunday.
I love church, so it’s pretty good to go for six hours. It’s easier when I can help someone else. When you don’t focus on yourself and you focus on someone else, it feels less tedious, more like service. Really focus on reaching out to the people around you. There are a lot of people who need your help who are never going to call out. And just being their friend can help them a lot. The more you reach out and serve others, the more you learn about yourself.
Benson O., 16, British Columbia, Canada.

There weren’t any strings attached—and this was one case where they could have been. Members and missionaries of the Yamagata (Japan) Branch staged a puppet show centered on the Book of Mormon.
The missionaries suggested the subject, and the members put together the script. Everyone wanted to get into the show, so the Relief Society sisters made the hand puppets and the brethren built the stage and props for the presentation. Lighting and other technical areas were handled by members also. The missionaries provided the willing hands for the puppets. Members and nonmembers were invited, and after the show, questions were answered and basic gospel principles were explained.
Working in the Japan Sendai Mission, the Yamagata elders have contacted investigators in department stores, while singing in neighborhoods, and on a local radio station. The missionaries credit “an enthusiastic attitude” with their success. “By everyone working together we can truly feel the love of the gospel,” said one elder.

But another day with my father shaped my life forever. He took me from New Jersey to the home of an ordained patriarch in Salt Lake City. I had never seen the man before. My father left me at the doorstep. The patriarch led me to a chair, placed his hands on my head, and pronounced a blessing as a gift from God that included a declaration of the great desire of my heart.

He said that I was one of those of whom it had been said, “Blessed are the peacemakers.”6 I was so surprised that a perfect stranger could know my heart that I opened my eyes to see the room where such a miracle was happening. That blessing of my possibilities has shaped my life, my marriage, and my priesthood service.

Granny keeps a plastic pail
filled with colored chunks of chalk.
At her house she lets us draw
on the driveway, porch, and walk.
Sometimes it gets to be a mess,
but she says, “Never fear.
Just a whisk of water, and
it all will disappear.”
My brother drew a blue spaceship;
I filled in moon and stars.
Next I made yellow cats and dogs;
He drew green dinosaurs.
Granny traced around our shapes
from our head down to our toes.
Then we got up and colored in
our hair and eyes and clothes.
Granny loved our work and said,
“We’ll leave it for today.
This sidewalk art is much too nice
to simply wash away!”

I think back with fond memories to my childhood in Scotland, when we would often celebrate Easter by going for a picnic with my family. We went up the Sidlaw Hills and, once settled, we would begin the egg ritual. My granny would have spent considerable time boiling eggs the night before, with different concoctions to make them different colours. The eggs would all have various expressions drawn on them, and wool would sometimes be stuck on for hair. I probably had some chocolate eggs as well, but I can’t really remember them–what you hold in your memory is the love and effort that goes into something, rather than how good it tastes. I knew that I was loved by these people who found it impossible to tell me in any other way but this.

Thirty years ago I had responsibility for much of the work in the South Pacific. A Brother J. Vernon Monson was called, together with his wife, to journey to faraway Rarotonga in the Cook Islands, there to serve as district president.
Later, in a letter to me, he reported: “We are most grateful for the progress being made, and I would especially like to mention the goodwill and wonderful relations that have developed with the representatives of government and the business community toward us and the Church.
“One thing climaxed the development of this public acceptance,” he wrote. “It was in having our nephew and niece, Dr. and Mrs. Odeen Manning, render an outstanding service here in the Cook Islands. Dr. Manning is an ophthalmologist, and I wrote to him outlining a proposal whereby he might render service to the people of Rarotonga. My proposal included the following: (1) No remuneration; (2) He must pay his own expenses; (3) That he turn his practice over to the other doctors to handle for the three months he would be away; (4) We would furnish them free board and room while in Rarotonga; and (5) That he bring his own surgical instruments, as none would be available in Rarotonga.”
Brother Vernon Monson’s letter to me continued: “The Mannings airmailed their reply in two words: ‘Offer accepted.’ As preparations began, the government of the Cook Islands assigned competent doctors to assist Dr. Manning and to learn from him. In all, 284 patients were examined, with most being fitted for glasses. Fifty-three patients had serious eye operations, such as cataract surgery.
“The entire three-month program was wonderful and most heartwarming. Truly we were blessed. It has buoyed up the Saints, who gained new pride in being members of a faith which would bring medical service to these islands.” The letter ended.
Years later, my wife and I were guests on a BYU-sponsored cruise to the Holy Land. One evening as we were seated on the ship’s deck, the man sitting next to us turned to me and said, “Elder Monson, my name is Odeen Manning from Woodland Hills, California. I am an ophthalmologist by profession and served a brief medical mission to Rarotonga when my uncle and aunt were serving there.”
I acknowledged that I was aware of his sacrifice and his service. I asked Dr. Manning, “As you reflect on this experience, would you wish to share with me your feelings concerning it?”
He responded with emotion, saying, “It was the most spiritually rewarding experience of my life.”
I believe it was more than coincidence that my wife and I would be on the cruise vessel at that particular time and in that particular area of the deck, sitting next to a man we never before had met. Heaven was close as Dr. Manning and I embraced, and thanks were expressed for his service—not only to those who were blind and now could see, but also to our Lord and Savior, who declared, “Great are the promises of the Lord unto them who are upon the isles of the sea.”

I would like to express my deep gratitude for the New Era. Though I am 35 years old, it is my favorite reading each month and is a great asset to my teaching at Solano College. Last Christmas our family gave nine gift subscriptions to young nonmember friends and students. Now six of them have joined the Church. Brother Leavitt’s articles on the very special people and land of Chile have opened doors for missionary work with friends we have in Chile as well as with former Chileans living in California. What a joy to know the gospel of Jesus Christ is true and that the New Era has a part in publishing the good news.
Stephen DavidsonVacaville, California

1899: President Snow shares his revelation on tithing in conferences of the Church.

As you walk beyond the Fireman’s Hall, you come to the entrance of Memory Grove, a city park where groves of trees were planted in 1920 to honor war veterans. This is a good place to rest in the shade, and if you feel inclined, to wiggle your toes in the clear stream that tumbles through the park. It was at this point that City Creek water was diverted downtown for irrigation purposes. It watered the city home plots as well as the acres of turnips, wheat, and potatoes growing on the farms in the valley. This marked the first use of irrigation by white men in the United States.

“Loser!”
I’ll never forget the sting I felt the first time someone called me that. It was in junior high school. It hurt.
“You’re such a loser!”
It made me feel excluded, unappreciated, and unable. And it was easy to find ways to reinforce the image. I wasn’t good at sports. Loser. I wasn’t good at talking to girls. Loser. I didn’t have a lot of friends. Loser. (In reality, these don’t make someone a loser, but it was hard to see that at the time.)
Then one day in ninth-grade seminary it dawned on me that I could be good at something: Losing!
Let me explain. That day we read in the Book of Mormon about King Lamoni’s father, who prayed: “O God, Aaron hath told me that there is a God; and if there is a God, and if thou art God, wilt thou make thyself known unto me, and I will give away all my sins to know thee” (Alma 22:18).
I could be a good loser by losing my sins! I could give away and lose bad habits, bad feelings, lying, cheating, stealing … you get the idea. Not that I was having huge problems with major sins, but here was a way to quickly turn losing into winning. Or so I thought.
I knew I could lose the big, bad, awful things. The very first day, for example, I lost murder and armed robbery right off the bat. It wasn’t hard to give up things I’d never even been tempted to do. Some of the little sins were easy to lose too. Like teasing my sister. Yeah, I’d have to work at it, but I could lose it in a reasonable amount of time.
But all of my sins? I soon found that there were enough potential transgressions, sins of commission, and sins of omission that I could spend my lifetime trying to eliminate them. Maybe I wasn’t such a great loser after all!
Then we read another scripture in seminary, and something else dawned on me. “I will give unto the children of men line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little; and blessed are those who hearken unto my precepts” (2 Nephi 28:30). “Here a little and there a little.” Maybe one by one I could lose my sins … but where to start?
Later, in a priesthood quorum lesson, we read this counsel from a prophet: “The most important of all the commandments of God is that one that you are having the most difficulty keeping today. … Put that aright and then you start on the next one that is most difficult for you to keep. That’s the way to sanctify yourself” (Teachings of Presidents of the Church: Harold B. Lee [2000], 30.)
Here was my answer! I’d give away my toughest sin first. And this has become a pattern in my life. It hasn’t always been easy, and I’m still working on it. I’ve found that some sins challenge me over and over again, and they may for the rest of my life. But that doesn’t mean I’ve failed—as long as I keep trying. I now find comfort in these words:
“The Lord blesses those who want to improve, who accept the need for commandments and try to keep them, who cherish Christlike virtues and strive to the best of their ability to acquire them. If you stumble in that pursuit, so does everyone; the Savior is there to help you keep going. … He will help you get back up. He will help you repent, repair, fix whatever you have to fix, and keep going. … His divine love and unfailing help will be with us even when we struggle—no, will be with us especially when we struggle” (Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, Apr. 2016 general conference).
I’ve also found that as I work on losing my sins, I experience a great reinforcement. It’s described in the Book of Mormon, when the people responded to King Benjamin: “The Spirit of the Lord Omnipotent … has wrought a mighty change in us, or in our hearts, that we have no more disposition to do evil, but to do good continually” (Mosiah 5:2).
Who wants to be a loser? You will, when you understand the joy of losing sins. I’ve found that the more I lose them, the more they’re replaced by the desire to do good. And that’s become the goal I strive for because “inasmuch as men do good they shall in nowise lose their reward” (D&C 58:28).

The temple session begins at 6:45, so the sisters get up at 6:15. The automatic protests at the early hour are brief and overshadowed by a low-voiced exchange of reasons for wanting to be part of this aspect of the Lord’s work.
“Every time I open my eyes it hurts.”
“… share something beautiful …”
“… an overwhelming desire to serve the Lord.”
“… feeling of peace as I signed the final papers in the bishop’s office.”
Between the two temple sessions that they attend, the missionaries meet with President Lee in the temple, where he answers any questions they may have about the endowment ceremony and the temple.
A late lunch is followed by a return to the classrooms, where the elders and sisters learn about door approaches and the use of the Book of Mormon in proselyting.
After dinner they memorize discussions three and four.

So it is, one spring afternoon in November, when a city bus pulls up to its last stop at one of Arica’s beaches and lets out a group of happy, good-looking young men and women who run through the soft sand down to the beach. High above them looms El Morro, the massive gray cliff whose profile dominates Arica’s southern skyline. In a moment’s time a magic carpet of colorful towels has appeared on the beach, and a game of dodge ball is proposed. But there is no ball, so one of the towels disappears from under a young man. After it is tied in a number of knots and wound with some shoelaces which are tied securely, it is a towel no longer. It has become a ball, and the dodge ball game begins—the boys against the girls. The boys are stronger and throw straighter, but the girls are trickier, and the outcome of the battle remains dubious. They churn the sand as they play, leaping and twisting until the hot yellow sun seems to leap and twist in the sky above them. After a while the game somehow evolves into a contest to see which team can keep the ball away from the other team and somewhere along the line a real ball has appeared.

Later, some of the young people relax and tell the youth magazine writer about life in Arica.

In the days and weeks that followed, driving prairie rains beat unmercifully upon the little Sioux lodges. Winds howled and thunder boomed like the white soldiers’ cannons. Little Wind sat huddled in his family’s tepee, listening to the strange, wonderful stories spun by his grandfather from within the immense warm hides of his sickbed. The stories were of great battles fought and fine prizes won long, long ago.
Then one day came the great white silence. Little Wind pushed back the door flap and gazed upon it, wide-eyed. Winter had come in all its chilly white grandness.
The boy pulled his fur wrappings tightly about himself and stepped out, marveling at this shivering white Eden. Nothing stirred, and there was not a single footprint or track in sight. Mine will be the very first! he thought as he moved forward across the crusted snow.
The sun had just begun to rise above the huge white cliffs and had sprayed a silvery glow of near-blinding brightness over the valley mist. Suddenly his breathless wonderment was broken by the frightened whinnying of the village horses. He looked through the misty light toward the corral at the far end of the lodges. Vague, ghostly shapes moved stealthily among the ponies. They were the shapes of warriors warmly dressed against the weather … but not of his tribe!
Little Wind dashed quickly and silently into the tepee and shook his father from his sleep. “Father!” he cried in a loud whisper. “There are strangers in our village!”
Ten Days Walking sprang to his feet, grabbed a buffalo horn club and shield hanging next to his war medicine bundle, and bolted outside. He shouted an alarm to the other sleeping villagers.
Red Owl Watching strained up onto an elbow. “Young Shoshones,” he uttered in a raspy, unworried voice. “They come to take our horses, not to take scalps.” He arched his neck and gazed up at Little Wind, who stood tensely by the door. “It is the way of things. It is honorable to take ponies from an enemy tribe and return triumphant to your village. It shows much courage and brings dignity to any young warrior.”
Little Wind’s mother looked harshly at the old warrior in the ermine blanket. “We cannot let our horses be taken just so some young Shoshone brave can paint victory marks on his leggings, old man! Without our ponies we will—”
Red Owl Watching chuckled and placed a quivery, reassuring hand on Laughing Water’s arm, then beamed at Little Wind. “It is also honorable for a young Sioux brave to disgrace a Shoshone brave.”
“How is this done, Grandfather?” Little Wind questioned.
The ancient Indian broke into a toothless grin. “Simply by keeping him from stealing a Sioux pony.”
“And how is that best done?” Little Wind pressed eagerly.
“It is best done quickly!” was the reply.
Little Wind was gone in the shake of a pony’s tail. Laughing Water argued with motherly concern, “He’s still a boy, old man!”
Again Red Owl Watching softly patted the woman’s arm. “Yes. But do boys learn to become men just by listening to tales of valor, or must they at some point take part in those deeds that lift them beyond themselves to that high, noble place of manhood?”
Laughing Water twisted her face. Can I never win an argument with this old one? she wondered. “Must you always be so wise?” she asked aloud.
The toothless grin once again returned to the old face. “Old age does have its rewards, good mother.” Then the two peered outside through the hide flap where the village was alive with warmly outfitted combatants. The warriors were dashing in and out in a ragged pattern, waving stone clubs and feathered lances. But as Red Owl Watching had testified, there was no noticeable desire to inflict grave injury upon each other. They were just taking coup—the touching or striking of an armed enemy with a lance or any other object and getting away unscratched. It was a deed far more noble than taking a scalp or inflicting a fatal injury.
Ten Days Walking had jumped atop the corral fence and had leaped onto a mounted Shoshone, wrestling man and animal to the ground. The enemy’s horse whirled about wild-eyed, then crashed into and broke a section of fence. Eighteen of the tribe’s twenty-two fine ponies, spooked by all the excited hoots and frenzied activity, plunged through the opening in the crude fence and disappeared into the mist. And with the fading sound of exiting, pounding hooves filling his concerned ears, Ten Days Walking quickly whacked his foe with his shield and sent him sprawling among the four remaining ponies. One of them, the warrior chief’s great buffalo runner, whirled by instinct toward the grounded Shoshone and nickered defiantly. The frightened Shoshone scrambled to his feet and ran off. Ten Days Walking hooted victoriously and gestured tribute to his war-horse. Then he plunged back into the fray.
At the same time, Little Wind darted in a low run through the tinseled fog, scooped up a broken lance, and leaped onto the back of an enemy brave who had pinned down a Sioux tribesman. Holding both ends of the lance in his hands, Little Wind quickly looped it over the Shoshone’s head and pressed it tightly against his throat. The Indian abandoned his grip, yelled angrily, and toppled over backward onto Little Wind, his wolf headdress falling off in the process. Before the startled would-be horse thief could get a fair look at his boy attacker, Little Wind had vanished with his prize, the wolf headdress, into the frozen brushwood.
By now the whole village was swarming with armed Sioux men, and even some of the women were wielding bone clubs and whatever else they could come up with. And the small band of hapless Shoshones, seeing themselves hopelessly outnumbered, reluctantly mounted their ponies and fled in shame, rubbing their wounds and suffering the sting of injured pride.
Joyous shouts burst forth in splendid unison from every lodge in the little community. But there was still an important matter to be attended to—recovering the tribe’s eighteen ponies. They would have to be found quickly before they were adopted by another tribe or before gathering clouds ushered in another storm.
Ten Days Walking sprang onto his buffalo runner and hastily instructed three braves nearby to get the three remaining horses and assist him in the hunt. Then he glanced at Little Wind with a flash of pride that seemed to lift the boy ten feet off the ground. After all, was it not he who first warned the village of the presence of an enemy tribe? And was not that a Shoshone headdress hanging from his belt?

For the next couple of months I was able to pay all of my expenses after paying my tithing. Then came another month when there was again not enough money to cover both rent and tithing. I paid my tithing. I knew that Sister Knight did not have any more trees to be cut, and I was concerned that I should pay the rent promptly. On the Friday evening before the rent was required, a local radio station in Provo announced a program called “Movie Merry-Go-Round” in which a prize would be offered to anyone who could answer questions regarding one of the movies then playing in Provo. I listened to the program and thought I might try to win the prize. That evening, the radio announcer offered $18 and two free movie tickets to the first person who could give the license number of a car that had been used in a brief scene in a recent movie. Miraculously, or at least so it seemed to me, I saw clearly in my mind’s eye the scene that the radio announcer referred to. I saw it with such clarity that I could read the license number. Once again I had sufficient funds to pay my rent.

I remember how fun it was when the farm work was done and the three of us boys used to go into the pastures to play stickball. We did lots of things like that because we didn’t have time for organized sports. We made our own family fun. But we played only after the work was done. The fun times rewarded us for the hard work.