Gospel Story Finder

On occasion I have observed parents shopping to clothe a son about to enter missionary service. The new suits are fitted, the new shoes are laced, and shirts, socks, and ties are bought in quantity. I met one father who said to me, “Brother Monson, I want you to meet my son.” Pride popped his buttons; the cost of the clothing emptied his wallet; love filled his heart. Tears filled my eyes when I noticed that his suit was old, his shoes well worn; but he felt no deprivation. The glow on his face was a memory to cherish.

Of course, many times we are only seed planters; we may never know, in this life, if they sprouted and bore fruit. For instance, on my way back from a recent serviceman’s conference, I was flying in the Philippines from Baguio to Manila and was delayed in the airport. Two French ladies who spoke no English were lost there, so I went to them and asked, “Qu’est-ce que vous voulez? (Where are you going?) Quel est votre (What is your) destination?” It was the same as mine—Manila—so we talked while we were waiting for the plane. They naturally wanted to know why I was traveling to the area so I explained to them about the Church—not about the celestial kingdom and the Angel Moroni, but about how the gospel teaches patience in inconvenient circumstances and why the gospel made me happy. I left them my card and an invitation to contact the missionaries, but I have no way of knowing what will come of that seed-planting.
In one way, it does not matter and I do not need to know—my happiness comes from telling them about the gospel and feeling the Spirit of the Lord helping me. And that happiness is something I can feel every single day if I ask for it.

Several years ago I made a presentation to a group of 20 managers in a large computer company. After the presentation, I asked them to describe a person in their organization who they felt was blocked and frustrated in his or her career. We heard about 20 different people who had specialized in a narrow area, and in many cases the company no longer needed the specialty. The managers were surprised that they had such a pervasive problem. But I was not surprised, because we had found that problem in dozens of organizations.

My dad had been doing a lot of family history work. I loved hearing about my ancestors who were pioneers, ancestors who fought in the American Revolutionary War, and ancestors who had been kings and knights in Europe.
“How would you like to come to the Family History Library with me on Saturday?” Dad asked one day.
“Sure!” I couldn’t wait to see for myself the royal names on our pedigree chart.
We arrived in Salt Lake City and enjoyed the summer morning sunshine as we walked to the library. I became more and more excited the closer we got. There inside that big building were the names and stories of my own family—pioneers, soldiers, knights, and all.
Once inside, Dad pulled up a couple of chairs in front of a computer. We sat down, and he began navigating through databases to show me where our family tied into a royal line.
“Hmmm.” His forehead furrowed. “I can’t seem to find it today,” he finally said.
I was very disappointed. We spent the rest of the morning looking through books that held stories of my pioneer ancestors. I enjoyed that too, but I still wanted to learn about my other ancestors.
“Don’t worry,” Dad said. “We’ll come back next weekend.”
The week flew by, and soon Dad and I were sitting in front of a computer in the Family History Library again. This time, Dad said, “Aha! Found it.”
He scrolled through names of kings and queens from all over Europe recorded there in my family history! There were so many names and dates that it would take many days to get them all into our family history software. “We’ll have to come back a lot to get all the information we need,” I said.
A woman working on the computer next to us glanced over and saw what we were doing. “I’m related to that line too,” she said. “I’ve been working here every day to get information about those ancestors.” Within minutes, she copied all of her information onto a disk and handed it to Dad.
As we walked back to the car, I thought hard. “Heavenly Father must really want us to find our ancestors, don’t you think, Dad?”
He smiled. “I think you’re right. If we had found the ancestors we were looking for last week, we may not have met our new friend here today. And had we not met her, we would not have been able to find so many of our ancestors so quickly.”
I knew that Heavenly Father had helped us discover almost 1,000 years’ worth of family history in one morning. He loves our ancestors as much as He loves us. We needed to help them just as He had helped us—by finding their names, learning about their lives, and making sure their temple work was done. Someday I will meet them, and we can be an eternal family.

When I was 13, I played on a baseball team with some friends. I was not a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but two of my teammates were. They were twins. Their names were Rob and Lane.
One day at practice they invited me to come to home evening with their family. I didn’t know what home evening was, so I asked about it. They told me we would learn about church things and sing songs. I wasn’t very excited about that. But they promised there would be dessert, so I decided to go.
My family went to their house for home evening. I felt something really different. I didn’t know what it was, but it felt familiar. It felt good. My mom felt it too.
I didn’t know then that my mom was a member of the Church. She had been baptized as a young woman. But she hardly ever went to church.
After that night, my mom started going to church again. I went with her to learn more. A few months later, I was baptized by Rob and Lane’s dad.
I am so grateful that Rob and Lane cared enough about me to share the gospel. Today I am blessed to have an eternal family. And it all started on a baseball field!

Several months after I regained my strength, we were caught in another violent storm, only this time at sea. The waves became so big they flipped our small boat over, throwing the three of us into the raging, churning ocean. When I found myself in the middle of a tumultuous sea, I was surprised, scared, and a little upset. “Why has this happened?” I thought. “I’m a missionary. Where is my protection? Missionaries aren’t supposed to swim.”

But swim I must if I wished to stay alive. Every time I complained I found myself underwater, so it didn’t take long to quit complaining. Things are how they are, and complaining doesn’t help. I needed every ounce of energy to keep my head above water and make it to shore. Having earned my Eagle Scout Award, I was a pretty confident swimmer, but over time the wind and the waves began to sap my strength. I never quit trying, but there came a time when my muscles simply would move no more.

I had a prayer in my heart, but still I began to sink. As I was going down for what could have been the last time, the Lord infused into my mind and heart a deep feeling of love for a very special person. It was as though I could see and hear her. Even though she was 8,000 miles away, the power of that love came rushing across those miles and, penetrating time and space, reached down and pulled me up—lifted me from the depths of darkness, despair, and death and brought me up to light and life and hope. With a sudden burst of energy I made it to shore, where I found my shipmates. Never underestimate the power of true love, for it knows no barriers.

One of my earliest memories is of attending Sunday School class as a five-year-old in the basement of our old ward meetinghouse. I recall one day watching the dust particles move in the shafts of bright sunlight as our teacher read to us the story of how Joseph Smith prayed and our Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ came and stood before him. I can still feel myself sitting there, looking and listening, surrounded by the towers of sunlight. But most of all, I remember the warm feeling swelling within me when I heard about Joseph Smith seeing and talking to our Heavenly Father.
Later that day at home, I found a book of my father’s that looked like the one my teacher had read from. I didn’t know at the time that it was a copy of the Triple Combination. I couldn’t read it, but just holding the book in my hands and looking at its pages recaptured for me what I had felt in Sunday School.

When I was Relief Society president for the Luton Ward, I encouraged the ward to collect clothes and other goods for asylum seekers and refugees. I took the goods to the county of Hertfordshire and gave them to refugees there. I started feeling a bit guilty about this, because I was taking donations from ward members into a different county when I knew that Luton itself had a massive population of refugees and asylum seekers that needed help.
I decided to find out who was working with asylum seekers and refugees in Luton so we could give them the goods the ward collected. I attended a National Churches Together meeting and asked. They told me that Care4Calais and another church or two, were helping. I contacted Care4Calais and I also found out how to apply to Churches Together in Luton. A week or so later, I heard back from Churches Together and they told me my application was rejected. I felt so upset. All I wanted to do was help whoever was helping asylum seekers and refugees. So, I phoned the director of Churches Together in Luton and explained to her how shocked and saddened I was. She relented and gave me the number of the Reverend of All Saints and St. Peter’s Church, the main church in Luton helping and supporting the large population of asylum seekers there.
I contacted Reverend David Kesterton and set up a meeting with him. We asked about his church and what they were doing to help, and how our church could multiply their efforts in the work they were already engaged in. At first, he was very hesitant, because he feared we would go in proselyting. We assured him we would not and he agreed to work with us.
We started meeting with the Reverend and put together a proposal to the church to secure some funding. All Saints was opening their doors to asylum seekers twice a week for drop-in sessions where an individual could get a cup of coffee and cake, needed clothing, as well as advice, ESOL support, someone to listen to them, or just an entertaining round of chess to break up the monotony that they feel. They had recently run out of funding. The Church agreed to give £15,000 to provide much needed warm clothing and toiletries as well as vouchers for underwear, school uniform and shoes. We were all thrilled.
To kick off the project, we invited the Reverend to come and speak in the Luton Ward during the second hour of a fifth Sunday meeting. He talked about the support he and his church were giving and how we could be of help. Members of the Luton Ward were encouraged to start volunteering at the drop-in sessions. The youth planned an activity to sort out their overflowing and disorganised toy cupboard, as well as purchasing needed toiletries from local supermarkets for asylum seekers. The Reverend was amazed to see all the youth there bringing toiletries, and even more amazed that the leaders had made purchasing toiletries a competition for the youth. One ward member even volunteered to be Father Christmas for their drop-in session right before the holidays.
We are now coming to the end of this lovely project. A wonderful relationship has developed between the Luton Ward and All Saints and St. Peter’s Church, and I think the Reverend has changed some of his old opinions of us as members of the Church and is more willing to work with us and see our commonalities. He has been very grateful for our help.

As I wrote of my intense involvement in Church while I was in high school, I recalled that many of my friends had wanted to know what made my life different from theirs. Why did I spend so much time at church? Why did the Mormon kids have such close relationships? What was our 6:30 A.M. religion class about? I had told some friends about the gospel. One girl friend and her family were baptized a few weeks after I had timidly asked them, “What do you know about the Mormon church?” one night as we sat around their kitchen table after a trip with the school orchestra. Another friend gained a testimony of the Book of Mormon but did not have the faith at age 15 to be baptized. Other friends went to Young Women meetings and to Church dances with me. A young man I met at a high school journalism conference joined the Church after we corresponded philosophically for three years. I had not converted him, but I had introduced him to the truth, and he had recognized it.

A miracle is taking place in the southern part of the United States. It pertains to family history and temple work. Between 1860 and 1865, hundreds of thousands of soldiers died. Many had never married.
William D. Taylor, a Canadian, found himself, together with his wife and family, living in that area of the United States and wondering about those soldiers. The Taylors have been working at getting the records of the soldiers for over four years and have sent over 101,000 of their names to the temple to have their work done for them there. Brother Taylor writes, “I am thankful for being allowed to do this work. It brings me joy unparalleled to anything I have ever known.”

How Ron and Sandi Hammond arrived at that important moment in the Middle East is a testament of the Hammonds’ faith and the inspiration behind the Church’s senior missionary program.
In 2012 the Hammonds were serving as ordinance workers in the Rexburg Idaho Temple. Ron had a successful dental practice and was teaching in the Religion Department at Brigham Young University–Idaho. But the serene routine of their lives changed abruptly with a distinct spiritual impression to immediately submit papers to serve a mission. The timing surprised them. Their married children were in various stages of career moves and relocations, and Ron was not yet looking to retire. But the Spirit assured them that they were needed and that all would be well.
As it turned out, priesthood leaders at Church headquarters had been fasting and praying to find the right couple to serve as country directors for LDS Charities in Amman, Jordan.
“It was so evident,” says Sandi, “that the Lord was out ahead of us, preparing the details of the specific assignment He had for us. We know that He does this for every missionary who serves. It is comforting knowing that the Savior is arranging things for you to serve before you ever arrive.”
“In retrospect,” Ron says, “we are grateful we were neither specific nor insistent on where we wished to serve. Leaving such matters in the Lord’s hands allowed Him to give us an experience we would not have had otherwise.”

Armstrong Central Junior High School is one Apple computer richer thanks to Jared Tolman, of the Freeport Ward, Pittsburgh East Stake. The seventh grader won the computer for his school by placing first in the Best Overall category at the annual computer competition held at Indiana University of Pennsylvania.
This was no small feat, since the contest included 6th–12th graders. Jared’s entry, entitled “Calcu-Draw,” allows the user to draw shapes and select colors by giving a few simple directions.
Working with computers is not the only focus in Jared’s life. He also likes serving as a deacon, playing soccer and Nintendo, Scouting, and collecting rocks.

Elizabeth Fowkes was born into the church (her father having been baptised during the time of Heber C. Kimball’s mission to Britain), but was only baptised in 1896, in her late thirties. Growing up in Burton on Trent, she moved to Derby in her twenties where she met and married George Bradley. Over the following years she brought her husband and her family of four boys and one girl into the Church.
The Relief Society was first organised in Derby branch in 1910 and Elizabeth Bradley was set apart as President by Apostle Charles W. Penrose. She would serve as the Derby Branch Relief Society President for thirty-six years – through two world wars and the great depression, as well as the ‘Roaring Twenties’.
Elizabeth’s life was not an easy one. In 1910 her son John and daughter Lizzie announced their plans to ‘go to Zion’. Then in May 1916, her son George announced that he was joining the army to fight in France. In January 1918, he died as he was returning home on leave, one of the early victims of the Spanish Flu. He was just 28 years old. Then Elizabeth’s son Wilfred died in January 1929. He was only 35 years old. In September of the same year her husband passed away at the age of 75.
It would later be reported of her: “But for all that, she bears a deep and convincing testimony that her life in the Church has been rich with blessings and happiness. Her life reveals a splendid example of what a Relief Society President and a Latter-day Saint should be.”
In 1935 the Derby branch celebrated a double Jubilee– the 25th year of the reign of George V and 25 years that Elizabeth had served as Relief Society president. It was also her 78th birthday. This made her the oldest president in the British mission of a branch of the oldest auxiliary organisation of the Church.
In 1946, Elizabeth was finally released from her position as the president of the Relief Society. She was eighty-nine years old. She lived until April 1952 and died at the age of 95.

A short time after that reunion, young Bruford Reynolds, a son, who was also a bishop, called and said, “Did you know my dad is in the hospital? He had a serious heart attack. He is in the LDS Hospital, and we wondered if you knew.” I had not known. I told him that I would like to see him but I had to catch a plane in a little over an hour. I didn’t see how I could get up to the hospital before I had to leave. He then said, “Oh, that’s okay. Dad is going to be released tomorrow to return home.”
I said, “Tell him I love him, and I’ll drop in to see him as soon as I get back.”
I hung up the phone, thought for only a moment, and decided everything else could wait. I took my briefcase, airplane tickets, and drove to the LDS Hospital to see Bruford Reynolds. As I walked through the door, our eyes met. The love between a great man and boy spanned the years. I went over to him and sat down, and we talked. Then I said, “I know you have been administered to, but would you feel all right if I knelt by your bed and offered a prayer?” I knelt down and together we prayed. When I finished, my eyes were filled with tears, as were his. Then I bent down over him and kissed him on the forehead and left.
Bruford Reynolds died an hour later. I was one of his boys, saying “farewell” to a great adviser one last time.

The family looked confused. My missionary companion and I had been teaching them the first discussion, and they didn’t seem to understand about the Holy Ghost. We talked about the Spirit and about how they could know the Book of Mormon was true.

As I related this experience to this family we were teaching, the Spirit touched me and I knew the truth of what I was saying. Almost trembling, I testified, “The Lord knows me personally! He was watching over me that day, and He continues to watch over me today. He is aware of my individual needs. He knows you personally too, and He will answer your prayers as you pray with faith.”

I went home that evening, grateful for the knowledge I had gained. By relating my experience, I was blessed to understand the Lord’s love for me. Truly a testimony is found in the bearing of it.

“I sing and play the piano and violin. For a Personal Progress project, my older sister Marinda and I performed at a rest home every Sunday morning. This gave me the opportunity to share my talents and to make those people happy. It was also fun for my family, who helped me when they could.
“One Sunday we asked the elderly people if they had any favorite songs they would like us to sing next week. One sweet lady said she loved ‘Danny Boy.’ This was a song my family knew well. But when we prepared our music, we decided not to do ‘Danny Boy’ because we figured that lady would have forgotten, and we had other songs to do.
“When we got to the rest home that morning that lady came in looking very sick and tired. She told us that she was not feeling well at all, but she came to hear us perform because she knew we would be singing ‘Danny Boy’ for her. Luckily we had brought along the book with that song in it. My brother Richard sang the song for her in his beautiful bass voice. That lady cried during the whole song. I was impressed that she came to hear us sing even though she was sick. She was a great example to me. I hope all youth find an opportunity to serve the elderly. They have a sweet spirit about them, and it is fun to serve them.”Jessie Allred, 16Park Ward, Centerville Utah North Stake

Wolfe wrote about a train engineer who drove the same line for 20 years. At a certain crossing he had to blow the whistle, and then, just ahead, every day a woman stepped out of her cottage and waved to him with a high, happy hand. He looked forward to that distant encounter every day. Soon the woman came to wave with a child by her side, then, over the years, the little girl grew bigger until now she was a grown woman, too.

The cottage where the woman lived was neat and tidy with flowers growing around it. The woman waved summer or winter, sunny days or gray, and the man promised himself that someday he would go meet the woman who had been such a bright spot in his life.

Finally the day came. Retired from responsibility, he got off the train at the little town one day and walked the country road to where the woman lived. He was shocked to find that it was all unfamiliar, not at all as he had imagined it. In fact, when he got up enough courage to knock at the door, he found the woman who greeted him at the door was not beautiful, not free. Life’s hardships had made her pinched and sullen and ugly. After struggling to explain why he was there, he left disappointed, beaten, and sad.

Following Ranger School, I was assigned as an infantry platoon leader with a battalion of the 25th Infantry Division, stationed at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii. Pat and I were thrilled! We arrived in Hawaii in May 1965 looking forward to three years in the balmy trade winds of the islands. We found an idyllic little cottage on the beach on the North Shore of Oahu. But our idyll was short-lived. Six months later, our battalion received orders for Vietnam.
The night I left, we sat silently on the sofa in our little cottage, holding hands and listening to the surf lapping against the shore. A military friend in our ward agreed to drive me to Hickam Air Force Base near Pearl Harbor for my 2 a.m. flight to Vietnam. At the fateful hour, I held her in my arms one last time and then stepped through the door, closing it behind me. I looked back at that door that now separated us and wondered if I had just seen her for the last time. My friend and I drove silently through the darkened sugar cane and pineapple fields, my heart in agony. Then, suddenly, there flashed into my mind’s eye a brilliant memory! I remembered! I saw Pat kneeling across from me at the altar of the holy temple as we were sealed for time and eternity. In that instant, though the future was no less uncertain, I knew with surety that no one could take my Pat from me. We belonged to each other! Forever! When I reached the air base, I telephoned her. She was still awake! We visited briefly, laughed a little, and said farewell. But it was different than before. Though midnight, for me the sun was already rising.
For her part, Pat did not shrink. Following a spiritual impression, she remained in Hawaii in our little cottage, even though the other officers’ wives in our battalion returned to the U.S. Mainland. When I was wounded ten months later and returned to Hawaii for surgery, she was there waiting for me.
The teaching? In the midst of crisis or doubt remember what you already know!

We had a wonderful time together as we drove on to Berkeley, California. We found a furnished apartment for forty-five dollars a month. But our second day, when I came home that evening, I discovered that my key wouldn’t work in the door. I finally went to the manager and said, “I’m sorry, my key doesn’t work.” She said, “Oh, that’s all right. Your wife has moved you.” I said, “Moved us?” “Yes,” she said, “we had another apartment that was five dollars less.”

In 1952, super-athlete Emil Zatopek of Czechoslovakia won both the 10,000 and 5,000-meter races. To celebrate his victory, he announced he would enter the marathon, even though he had never run the 41.8 kilometer event before.
“Do you really think you can win?” a newsman asked.
“If I didn’t think I could win, I wouldn’t have entered,” Zatopek replied.
At the 24.1 kilometer mark, Zatopek was side-by-side with Him Peters of Great Britain, the pre-race favorite.
“Don’t you think we should be going a bit faster?” Zatopek asked, then ran ahead. He was grinning when he won.