Gospel Story Finder

A mother, carrying the weight of providing both spiritually and temporally for her family, sensitively explained that calling her home teachers to bless one of her children requires her humility. But she insightfully added that it requires no more humility than that of her home teachers as they prepare to bless her child.

Years ago my great-great-grandfather picked up a copy of the Book of Mormon for the first time. He opened it to the center and read a few pages. He then declared, “That book was either written by God or the devil, and I am going to find out who wrote it.” He read it through twice in the next 10 days and then declared, “The devil could not have written it—it must be from God.”

A turning point for me came during a deacons quorum class in Spanish Fork, Utah, when I was 12. The lesson was on missionary work, and to me the lesson seemed pointless, because I wasn’t going on a mission. But as I sat there, a clear voice in my head asked, “Travis, what if it’s not just about you?” This simple question shifted my perspective. A mission, I realized, was about what God wanted me to do, not just what I wanted. A mission wasn’t solely about blessings for me, but also about being a blessing to others.

Throughout many years of service in the Church, I have seen faithful members who have consistently applied these principles in their lives. This is the case of a single mother whom I will refer to as “Mary.” Sadly, Mary went through a tragic divorce. At that point in time, Mary recognized that her most critical decisions relating to her family would be spiritual. Would praying, scripture study, fasting, and church and temple attendance continue to be important to her?

Mary had always been faithful, and at that critical juncture, she decided to cling to what she already knew to be true. She found strength in “The Family: A Proclamation to the World,” which, among many wonderful principles, teaches that “parents have a sacred duty to rear their children in love and righteousness” and to teach them to always observe God’s commandments.21 She continually searched for answers from the Lord and shared them with her four children in every family setting. They frequently discussed the gospel and shared their experiences and testimonies with one another.

Despite the sorrows they went through, her children developed a love for Christ’s gospel and a desire to serve and share it with others. Three of them faithfully served full-time missions, and the youngest is now serving in South America. Her oldest daughter, whom I know pretty well, who is now married and strong in her faith, shared, “I never felt like my mom raised us alone because the Lord was always in our home. As she bore her witness of Him to us, we each began to turn to Him with our own questions. I am so grateful she brought the gospel to life.”

Brothers and sisters, this good mother was able to make her home a center of spiritual learning. Similar to the Ethiopian’s question, Mary asked herself several times, “How can my children learn except a mother should guide them?”

Three years later, on the evening of September 21, 1823, the Angel Moroni appeared beside Joseph’s bed while the young man was praying. Moroni told Joseph, among other things, about a record written upon gold plates and hidden in a hillside. He said that Joseph was to translate it. The angel appeared to Joseph three times that night, each time repeating the same message. The next day Joseph went to the place he had seen in the vision, and there he found a stone box containing the plates.

Joseph was not allowed to take the plates and translate them until four years later. When word got out that Joseph had some gold plates, the persecutions against him increased and many people attempted to steal the plates. But Joseph always managed to keep them safely hidden.

3. The Lord really does answer prayers. While studying in the Book of Mormon one day, Bill and Susan gained an insight they had missed in previous readings. They were studying the account of the wayward Alma the Younger and the rebellious sons of King Mosiah, and how an angel of the Lord appeared to them saying:

“Behold, the Lord hath heard the prayers of his people, and also the prayers of his servant, Alma, who is thy father; for he has prayed with much faith concerning thee that thou mightest be brought to the knowledge of the truth; therefore, for this purpose have I come to convince thee of the power and authority of God, that the prayers of his servants might be answered according to their faith.” (Mosiah 27:14.)

After discussing the marvelous events that followed this visitation of the angel, they reminisced about individuals who had blessed their lives in the past. Bill’s first senior companion in the mission field had helped to answer the prayers of Bill’s parents that he become a successful missionary. Susan reflected upon the influence of her Laurel adviser several years ago who had helped to answer her parents’ prayers that she would marry in the temple.

This discussion about prayer led to a candid, sensitive discussion regarding some of the changes in their relationship for which each of them had secretly prayed. Susan had secretly prayed that Bill would learn to control his temper more and not say insensitive and hurtful things to her and the children. He had been praying that she might be a little less domineering and businesslike and become a bit more affectionate and loving and understanding. Now that the lines of communication had opened up between them, they were able to resolve some long-standing differences in their relationship, and all as a result of a scripture that had nothing to do with marriage or so they had thought. As they continued reading Alma, they were again impressed with that great prophet’s counsel to bring all of their concerns to the Lord in prayer. (See Alma 34:17–27; Alma 37:36–37.)

In my early childhood I lost both my parents. Aunt Gu Ma, a single sister of my father, kept my brother and me together. She brought us up in a little farming village where she grew vegetables for a living. Every morning she would carry the produce to the market in two big baskets, one on each end of a long pole resting on her shoulders. She then would bring home rice and meat purchased with the proceeds of her vegetable sales.
Aunt Gu Ma was a wonderful person. Although she had no formal education, she had a noble philosophy of life. She instilled in us correct principles, stern self-reliance, and an appreciation for the value of hard work. We are forever grateful for her love and sacrifice in our behalf.

Philomath Ward
The Primary children of the Philomath Ward, Corvallis Oregon Stake, have worked hard memorizing the Articles of Faith. For each one they memorized, a footprint was put on the wall of their Primary room. With over 320 footprints, they have gone around the entire room and are heading around again.

“I’m afraid to invite nonmembers to meet the missionaries because:
“They might say no.”
“I don’t know how they’ll react to the missionaries.”
“Everyone might be uncomfortable.”
Even though I was nervous about it, I decided to invite some neighbors to spend a home evening with us. We asked the missionaries to join us. We hoped that through this experience our friends would learn that the missionaries were normal young men with an enthusiasm for life and a genuine interest in their family’s happiness.
After visiting and enjoying refreshments, our conversation developed into a calm discussion about the gospel. An hour and a half later, our neighbors—still our friends—left with a copy of the Book of Mormon with our testimony written inside.

I approached the doors to the church with one clear thought in my mind: “If I don’t find a friend at church today, I’m never coming back.” I had attended church with a friend a few times before, but this was the first time I attended as an investigator by myself and for myself. I felt I needed to join the Church, but I had several fears and concerns.
When I entered the church, I was greeted by a young adult with a big smile and a hearty handshake. He introduced himself as Dane McCartney. I had seen Dane before, when he had tried out for the college football team I played for. My anxiety vanished when he invited me to sit with him during the Church meetings. He also invited me to his parents’ home for dinner afterward. I never had a chance to feel alone that day. Dane and his family reached out to me and helped answer many of my questions. I joined the Church a few weeks later.
Had Dane just been friendly to me that day, I probably would have left church after sacrament meeting and given up, thinking that I had given it a shot but that church just wasn’t for me. While it’s certainly important to be friendly, being a friend involves more than just being nice. The McCartneys’ love and support was important to my conversion.

When I was baptized at 18 years old, I knew that living the gospel of Jesus Christ would become a way of life. I felt the importance and seriousness of living gospel standards, and doing so has blessed my life in many ways.
One gospel principle that is really important to me is honoring the Sabbath day. It allows me to stop my daily routine and to focus my thoughts on my Heavenly Father.
I work in a tourism business in Costa Rica. In this industry, it is typical for people to work on Sundays. When I started my job, I identified myself as a member of the Church. I requested—and was granted—Sundays off.
Because of my unusual request, my colleagues and my boss were curious. They asked me a lot of questions about my beliefs. Over time I had opportunities to explain to them some of the things that Latter-day Saints believe. In many cases my explanations of gospel doctrines earned their respect.
One day my boss gathered our staff for an announcement. “I need you all to come to work for the next two weekends,” he said. My heart sank. I knew this meant I would need to work on Sunday.
But then my boss continued: “That is, everyone except Juan Carlos. We know that nothing is going to make him come to work on Sunday.”
I was relieved. My boss had honored my request! Because of my behavior and the standards I exhibited at work, I had gained his respect. As a result he was willing to honor my beliefs.
I know that as we make gospel standards a priority in our lives, the Lord will bless us.

“I know it’s the end of the month, and I’m so sorry we haven’t had a chance to discuss the Visiting Teaching Message,” said Sister Julie B. Beck’s visiting teacher. But even as she made this statement, she was leaving the home of the general Relief Society president with a basket of ironing to complete and return to Sister Beck. “Do you think we could count this?” she asked Sister Beck hesitantly.
When Sister Beck recounts this incident, tears come to her eyes as she asks, “How could this dear friend and dedicated visiting teacher ever feel that I had not been visit taught and watched over? This wasn’t the first time she’d stopped in to meet a need that month. How could she not realize that she was constantly ministering to me and blessing my family? Her care and concern for me are the epitome of visiting teaching. Of course, she could report that I had been visit taught!”

Something happened to me yesterday afternoon that I found of great help to me, and it may be of help to you. Since that moment, the fear has gone. It was when Bishop Hales was speaking in conference. He mentioned that we had known each other since boyhood, and as he did a memory was replayed in my mind. It was of a hotel ballroom in New Brunswick, New Jersey. Bishop Hales was likely not there, since he lived in what seemed to us the well-established stake in New York. We were in the New Jersey District, a single district that covered the whole state. The Princeton Branch met in my parents’ dining room. Dad was the branch president. Mother was both the pianist and chorister (which is hard to do if you think about it). There was not another family in the branch with children, so my brother Ted was the Aaronic Priesthood, and my brother, Harden, and I were all there were of Primary and junior Sunday School. The congregations were young students who happened to be there, like Jim Fletcher and Neil Zundel, and a few older converts—none with spouses that were members.
There was no building, no gym, no stake center, and so we traveled to a hotel ballroom for what must have been a district conference. I was sitting on a folding chair somewhere near the back, next to my mother. I must have been very young because I can remember putting my legs through the back of the chair and sitting aft instead of forward. But then I remember hearing something—a man’s voice from the pulpit. I turned around and looked. I still remember that the speaker was at a rostrum set on wooden risers. There was a tall window behind him. He was the priesthood visitor. I don’t know who he was, but he was tall and bald, and he seemed very old to me.
He must have been talking about the Savior or the Prophet Joseph, or both, because that was all that I remember much of hearing in those days. But as he spoke, I knew that what he said came from God and that it was true, and it burned in my heart. That was before scholars told me how hard it was to know. I just knew of certainty—I knew it was true. And when I listened to Bishop Hales yesterday, I knew that what he was saying was from God and that it was true, and then the fear left.

“Choose your friends wisely, for you will tend to be like them.” I had seen this little sign a million times and never thought anything of it. It was only one of many strategically placed thoughts and quotes that dotted the walls of our home. This one happened to be in the best location of all—right above the kitchen table.
When friends came over, we naturally congregated in the kitchen. Dates, late night movies, and quick lunches almost all involved the kitchen. Mom knew this and planned her attack accordingly. Years later I realized what a direct hit Mom had scored.
I was blessed with a lot of friends who are also members of the Church. We went to church and school together, and most of us went on missions at about the same time. However, there was one who was not exactly like the rest of us. His parents were divorced, and he was shuffled between their homes and the homes of friends. As a result, I think he always felt a little isolated and alone. He wore his hair long and always had at least one earring. Regardless, we loved him, and he was one of us.
During high school we witnessed him change; it was great. A short time after his 19th birthday he submitted his mission papers and received a call. A couple of months later we really understood the significance of this event.
The realization came on a cold, crisp Sunday in January. My friends and I had gathered to hear this young man speak in sacrament meeting. I had been invited to perform a musical number, so I sat on the stand. As I gazed over the crowd, I saw all of our friends, as well as my family; it was a wonderful sight. As my friend ventured to the pulpit, his eyes were a little red.
His talk opened with a question: “Do any of you know why I am here? Well, it is really very simple. I am here because of the many meals eaten at a friend’s table, a table with a sign above it that reads, ‘Choose your friends wisely, for you will tend to be like them.’ I want my friends to know that without their influence and love I wouldn’t be here today.”
As I looked down into the crowd, I saw my mother with teary eyes and a smile.
From that day on, I have also thought about the effects my friends have had on my life. I don’t know if I would have served a mission without their example. I don’t know what kind of a person I would be today if it hadn’t been for the strength and love I received from such wonderful people. For that, I will be forever grateful, both to them and to my Heavenly Father.
I know that no one has forgotten the message shared from that pulpit. I also know that that sign, to this day, still hangs above our kitchen table.

The sisters in Cache Valley, Utah, ministered to the Saints in the spirit of the Relief Society to “work in unity to help those in need.”5 My great-grandmother Margaret McNeil Ballard served at the side of her husband, Henry, as he presided as bishop of the Logan Second Ward for 40 years. Margaret was the ward Relief Society president for 30 of those years. She took into their home the poor, the sick, and the widowed and orphaned, and she even clothed the dead in their clean temple robes.

I’ve never written to a magazine before, but I would feel guilty if I didn’t write and tell you how much I enjoy your Photos of the Month and Mormonisms. My friend and I share a locker at school, and we decided to put some of our favorite New Era photos in it. They really start our day off in a good way.
Sandy MartiniLivermore, California

I have spoken here of heavenly help, of angels dispatched to bless us in time of need. But when we speak of those who are instruments in the hand of God, we are reminded that not all angels are from the other side of the veil. Some of them we walk with and talk with—here, now, every day. Some of them reside in our own neighborhoods. Some of them gave birth to us, and in my case, one of them consented to marry me. Indeed heaven never seems closer than when we see the love of God manifested in the kindness and devotion of people so good and so pure that angelic is the only word that comes to mind. Elder James Dunn, from this pulpit just moments ago, used that word in his invocation to describe this Primary choir—and why not? With the spirit, faces, and voices of those children in our mind and before our eyes, may I share with you an account by my friend and BYU colleague, the late Clyn D. Barrus. I do so with the permission of his wife, Marilyn, and their family.

Referring to his childhood on a large Idaho farm, Brother Barrus spoke of his nightly assignment to round up the cows at milking time. Because the cows pastured in a field bordered by the occasionally treacherous Teton River, the strict rule in the Barrus household was that during the spring flood season, the children were never to go after any cows who ventured across the river. They were always to return home and seek mature help.

One Saturday just after his seventh birthday, Brother Barrus’s parents promised the family a night at the movies if the chores were done on time. But when young Clyn arrived at the pasture, the cows he sought had crossed the river, even though it was running at high flood stage. Knowing his rare night at the movies was in jeopardy, he decided to go after the cows himself, even though he had been warned many times never to do so.

As the seven-year-old urged his old horse, Banner, down into the cold, swift stream, the horse’s head barely cleared the water. An adult sitting on the horse would have been safe, but at Brother Barrus’s tender age, the current completely covered him except when the horse lunged forward several times, bringing Clyn’s head above water just enough to gasp for air.

Here I turn to Brother Barrus’s own words:
“When Banner finally climbed the other bank, I realized that my life had been in grave danger and that I had done a terrible thing—I had knowingly disobeyed my father. I felt that I could redeem myself only by bringing the cows home safely. Maybe then my father would forgive me. But it was already dusk, and I didn’t know for sure where I was. Despair overwhelmed me. I was wet and cold, lost and afraid.
“I climbed down from old Banner, fell to the ground by his feet, and began to cry. Between thick sobs, I tried to offer a prayer, repeating over and over to my Father in Heaven, ‘I’m sorry. Forgive me! I’m sorry. Forgive me!’
“I prayed for a long time. When I finally looked up, I saw through my tears a figure dressed in white walking toward me. In the dark, I felt certain it must be an angel sent in answer to my prayers. I did not move or make a sound as the figure approached, so overwhelmed was I by what I saw. Would the Lord really send an angel to me, who had been so disobedient?
“Then a familiar voice said, ‘Son, I’ve been looking for you.’ In the darkness I recognized the voice of my father and ran to his outstretched arms. He held me tightly, then said gently, ‘I was worried. I’m glad I found you.’
“I tried to tell him how sorry I was, but only disjointed words came out of my trembling lips—‘Thank you … darkness … afraid … river … alone.’ Later that night I learned that when I had not returned from the pasture, my father had come looking for me. When neither I nor the cows were to be found, he knew I had crossed the river and was in danger. Because it was dark and time was of the essence, he removed his clothes down to his long white thermal underwear, tied his shoes around his neck, and swam a treacherous river to rescue a wayward son.”

The last few days had seemed almost like fall, the days when you want to grab a sweater. Today was no exception. The sun was bright yellow, and the refreshing cool breezes seemed out of place for August. But then again, I had felt out of place myself these past few days, as if a certain coolness had entered into my own life.
As I entered the small, dark bedroom my senses were filled with a medicinal odor. Adjusting to the dim light, I noticed the delicate lace curtains at the two long windows. I had always loved the feel of that crisp lace, but years had changed its crisp loveliness into a limp, but still elegant, fabric. On the opposite wall in an old oak bed rested the small form of my grandmother.
I walked hesitantly to her side and sat quietly on the bed. Her eyes opened, and a weary smile formed on her wrinkled face. As I lifted her small hand, I looked into her eyes. The eyes had once been crystal clear blue, but age and years of hard work had dulled their beauty. Those crystal blue eyes had caught the young Air Corps man’s fancy many years before. They were the eyes my grandfather had looked to for comfort and peace, the eyes he had seen the world out of the last few years of his life. Her eyes had beheld many seasons, many times of peace and comfort, and many of pain and tragedy.
Her cool hand clung to mine, and I gripped it tighter. Her hands were small yet strong. I looked at the contrast of our hands and felt her strength. Her hands were wrinkled, rough, and dark from the sun and age; mine were smooth, soft, and white. At first the sight displeased me. How could she have let her hands get so rough? My mind ran back to all the things she had done. With those small, seemingly frail hands she had lifted bales of hay, planted gardens, canned countless bottles of fruit, held children, braided hair, rubbed baby lambs to dryness, and quilted. Yet these same hands had also enjoyed the velvety touch of a rose petal, the smooth rich feeling of fine soil, and later felt the sharp pains of arthritis.
The sun hit on the old windowpanes and found its way into the room. It was a warm ray of sun, yet blinding to the eyes. As I moved to pull the blind, she clutched my hand tighter and then wearily pointed to the small robin in the flower box outside. She had always loved the simple things in life: the flight of a bird, the rain clouds of early summer, the sweet taste of freshly picked raspberries. Her life had been simple and unpretentious. She had no fine clothes or jewelry. But that didn’t matter to her. She had what she needed and cared about.
I suddenly became aware with a fear I had never known, that my grandmother was dying. I suppose I had thought about it, but the reality of it had not touched me before. Suddenly I realized I might never look into those eyes again, never again feel the touch of her hands. I had loved her for years, but only today did I really see my grandmother as she was—a beautiful, caring woman.
She noticed the tears in my eyes and patted my hand, forming the word no on her parched lips. She didn’t want me to feel sorry for her. I realized then that she was relieved. She had lived her life, and it had been a good one. But now it was coming to an end, and she would soon see Grandpa again. I kissed her gently on the cheek and walked away, glancing at the old lace curtains once again. They, like Grandma, had in their aging acquired a beauty all their own.

As a sophomore moving to a new high school, I wanted to keep a low profile. Unfortunately, hazing was the norm at this school; thus no sophomore was safe from any number of abuses from the upperclassmen.
On one occasion, as I was preparing in the locker room to get ready for tennis practice, a senior and two juniors came barging in looking for any sophomores in the vicinity. Since I happened to be the only sophomore around, they wrestled me to the pool area and threw me in. They thought it was funny, and, frankly, so did I.
What happened in the aftermath, however, was anything but funny. One of the boys who grabbed me was caught and made an example of by being suspended from the basketball team. So much for keeping a low profile. I was blamed, and suddenly the school seemed more like a war zone than a place of learning and friendship.
This turned out to be one of the most difficult experiences of my life. I was yelled and sworn at, and I constantly felt humiliated. No one would believe the truth about the situation, so the ill treatment against me continued. I’m not exaggerating when I say I cried more during that time than the rest of my life combined.
In the midst of my suffering, I felt a deep need for comfort, and I turned to the scriptures to find counsel that might help. On one occasion I talked with my mother about the Book of Mormon and how I might develop my own testimony. We read one of her favorite scriptures, Alma 32:28, in which Alma compares gaining a testimony to planting a seed. He says, “If it be a true seed, or a good seed, … it will begin to swell within your breasts.”
After the discussion with my mother, I decided that I, too, wanted to know for myself. Over the next couple of months, I read in the Book of Mormon nearly every night, prayed, repented, and begged for my own witness of the truth. As I began to feel the spiritual “swelling motions” described by Alma, I began to know that the word was “good” and “delicious,” as the scripture said, but I wondered whether or not I had really received my answer. I wasn’t sure about what I was feeling until one day at church during a Sunday School lesson.
As I sat in my class and listened to my teacher, Brother Millard, speak by the power of the Spirit, I was overcome with the warmest and most beautiful feeling I had ever experienced. I cried through most of his lesson. When it was over, I went to sacrament meeting. Before the meeting began, Brother Millard put his arm around me and said, “Victor, you’ve had a special experience, haven’t you?” I replied that I had.
As sacrament meeting began, the feeling returned and tears again streamed down my face. For the first time in my life, I knew I had really felt the Holy Ghost and learned how to organize my life in such a manner that I could obtain the Spirit on my own.
I was amazed! I now knew for myself that God lives and that Moroni’s promise is true (see Moro. 10:3–5). I will forever be grateful for a Heavenly Father who, in the midst of my trials, allowed me to cry out in anguish for knowledge and understanding and who answered my prayers.

Talofa! Hello!
Recently our Primary got to do community service to help the environment. I almost couldn’t go because I live far from the church, but I’m so grateful that my Primary leaders were able to help me get a ride.
When we got to the project site, it was muddy, cold, and wet. But that didn’t stop us! Each child was given one tree to plant, and our Primary leaders showed us how to plant them. As we worked, we learned why trees are so important.
I learned that trees help protect the earth. They give us fruits, medicine, and wood. They also give us oxygen to breathe.
My message to everyone is that we should plant more and more trees! And look for ways to help serve in the community. I’m grateful for this experience and all it taught me.