Gospel Story Finder

Shauna Squires, formerly of the Crescent First Ward, Sandy Utah Crescent South Stake, and her horse Poplar’s Lightning had been together through many rodeos and competitions, and winning was familiar to both of them. Still, being crowned Miss Appaloosa America for 1978 was an unexpected honor for Shauna. And of course, Poplar’s Lightning, who had been judged the champion performance horse in both the Utah and Arizona state competitions, was with her. Shauna was a freshman at BYU when she received the honor over 27 other girls in national competition in Billings, Montana. Last September, however, she relinquished her title for another one when she became Mrs. Mike Smith in the Salt Lake Temple.

I recently had the opportunity of giving my son his patriarchal blessing followed immediately by a father’s blessing since he was planning to leave home for the next two years. The contrast was interesting. The patriarchal blessing put his whole life in perspective, identifying his lineage, and giving blessings and admonition to provide guidance and comfort for the rest of his life. The father’s blessing pertained primarily to the near future, intended to sustain him over the next two years. The patriarchal blessing was recorded, transcribed, and will be preserved permanently in the archives of the Church. In order for him to receive it, a recommend had to be obtained from his bishop. The father’s blessing was also transcribed, and will be kept in the family record but not in the Church records. No recommend was required.
Thus in my case, since I was both patriarch and father, I could have given a patriarchal blessing that included the father’s blessing or I could have expanded the father’s blessing to include the greater perspective of the patriarchal blessing. I chose not to do either, but instead to keep them separate. The patriarchal blessing I expect to be contemplated for my son’s whole life. Eventually he may want to share it with his wife and his children, or even grandchildren. If he loses his copy, he can procure another from the Church Historian’s Office. Thus it becomes a document with considerable stature, to be treated with respect and reverence, something like a personal scripture.

There was once a very rich squire who owned a large farm, had plenty of silver in a carved chest, and money in the bank besides. But there was something he had not, and that was a wife.
One day a neighbor’s daughter was working for him in the hayfield, and the squire took a fancy to her. As she was a poor man’s daughter, he thought that he had only to mention marriage and she would be more than glad to have him at once. So he said to her, “I’ve been thinking that I want to marry.”
“Well, one may think of many things,” said the lassie, as she stood there smiling innocently. She really thought the old fellow should be interested in something that suited him better than thinking about getting married at his time of life.
“Now, you see,” he pursued, “I was thinking that you should be my wife!”
“No, thank you,” said she, “but I’m much obliged for the offer.”
The squire was not used to being opposed—the more she refused him the more he wanted her. So the old man sent for her father and told him that if he could persuade the girl to become the squire’s wife, he would cancel a debt the father owed him. And into the bargain he would give him a piece of land that lay close to the father’s meadow.
“Yes, yes!” agreed the father. “Be assured that I’ll bring the lass to her senses. She is only a child and does not know what is best for her.”
But all his coaxing, all his threats, and all his talking went for naught. The daughter declared she would not have the old miser, even if he sat buried in gold up to his ears.
The squire waited and waited until at last he became so angry and impatient that he told the father the matter must be settled at once if he expected him to stand by their bargain.
The father could think of nothing else to do but let the squire get everything ready for the wedding; then when the parson and the wedding guests arrived, the squire would send for the lassie as if she were needed for some simple task on the farm. When she arrived he could marry the girl right away and in such a hurry that she would have no time to refuse.
On the appointed day the guests arrived, and the impatient squire called to one of his farm lads and ordered the boy to run down to the lassie’s father and ask him to immediately send up what had been promised.
The lad ran off like a shot. “My master has sent me to ask for that which you promised him,” said the puffing lad when he arrived at the father’s home. “But, pray, lose no time, for master is terribly busy today.”
“Yes, yes!” answered the man. “Run down to the meadow and take her back with you.”
The lad ran off, and when he came to the meadow he found the daughter there raking hay. “I am to fetch what your father has promised my master,” he told her.
Ah, ha! thought she, so that’s what they’re up to! And with a twinkle in her eye, she said, “Oh, yes, it’s that little bay mare of ours he wants. She stands tethered on the other side of the pea field.”
When the boy found the mare he jumped on her back and rode home at full gallop.
“Have you got her with you?” asked the squire.
“She is down at the door,” said the lad.
“Take her up to the room my mother had,” ordered the squire.
“But, master, how can I?” asked the lad.
“Do as I tell you!” demanded the squire. “And if you can’t manage her alone, get the men to help you,” for he thought the lassie might be stubborn.
When the lad saw his master’s face, he knew it would be no use to argue. So he got all the farmhands together to help him. Some pulled at the head and the forelegs of the mare and others pushed from behind, and at last they got her upstairs and into the room. There lay all the wedding finery ready.
“Well, that’s done, master!” said the lad, descending the stairs and wiping his wet brow. “But it was the worst job I have ever had to do here on the farm.”
“Never mind, never mind, you shall not have done it for nothing,” said his master, and he pulled a bright silver coin out of his pocket and tossed it to the lad. “Now send the women up to dress her.”
“But, I say—master!”
“None of your talk!” cried the squire. “Tell them to hold her while they dress her, and mind not to forget either wreath or crown.”
The lad ran into the kitchen. “Listen here, lasses,” he called out. “You are to go upstairs and dress up the bay mare as a bride. I suppose master wants to play a joke on his guests.”
The women laughed and laughed, but ran upstairs and dressed the bay mare in everything that was there. And then the lad reported to his master that she was all ready, with wreath and crown and all.
“Very well, bring her down. I will receive her at the door myself,” said the squire.
There was a clatter and a thumping on the stairs. And when the door was opened and the squire’s “bride” entered the room, you can be sure there was laughing and tittering and grinning enough.
And as for the squire, they say he never went courting again.

Time passed. Years passed, and I found myself in England. I was in command of a cavalry unit in the Canadian Army. I had made rather rapid progress as far as promotions are concerned, and I held the rank of field officer in the British Canadian Army. And I was proud of my position. And there was an opportunity for me to become a general. I had taken all the examinations. I had the seniority. There was just one man between me and that which for ten years I had hoped to get, the office of general in the British Army. I swelled up with pride. And this one man became a casualty, and I received a telegram from London. It said: “Be in my office tomorrow morning at 10:00,” signed by General Turner in charge of all Canadian forces. I called in my valet, my personal servant. I told him to polish my buttons, to brush my hat and my boots, and to make me look like a general because that is what I was going to be. He did the best he could with what he had to work on, and I went up to London. I walked smartly into the office of the General, and I saluted him smartly, and he gave me the same kind of a salute a senior officer usually gives—a sort of “Get out of the way, worm!” He said, “Sit down, Brown.” Then he said, “I’m sorry I cannot make the appointment. You are entitled to it. You have passed all the examinations. You have the seniority. You’ve been a good officer, but I can’t make the appointment. You are to return to Canada and become a training officer and a transport officer. Someone else will be made a general.” That for which I had been hoping and praying for ten years suddenly slipped out of my fingers.

Then he went into the other room to answer the telephone, and I took a soldier’s privilege of looking on his desk. I saw my personal history sheet. Right across the bottom of it in bold, block-type letters was written, “THIS MAN IS A MORMON.” We were not very well liked in those days. When I saw that, I knew why I had not been appointed. I already held the highest rank of any Mormon in the British Army. He came back and said, “That’s all, Brown.” I saluted him again, but not quite as smartly. I saluted out of duty and went out. I got on the train and started back to my town, 120 miles away, with a broken heart, with bitterness in my soul. And every click of the wheels on the rails seemed to say, “You are a failure. You will be called a coward when you get home. You raised all those Mormon boys to join the army, then you sneak off home.” I knew what I was going to get, and when I got to my tent, I was so bitter that I threw my cap and my saddle brown belt on the cot. I clinched my fists and I shook them at heaven. I said, “How could you do this to me, God? I have done everything I could do to measure up. There is nothing that I could have done—that I should have done—that I haven’t done. How could you do this to me?” I was as bitter as gall.

And then I heard a voice, and I recognized the tone of this voice. It was my own voice, and the voice said, “I am the gardener here. I know what I want you to do.” The bitterness went out of my soul, and I fell on my knees by the cot to ask forgiveness for my ungratefulness and my bitterness. While kneeling there I heard a song being sung in an adjoining tent. A number of Mormon boys met regularly every Tuesday night. I usually met with them. We would sit on the floor and have a Mutual Improvement Association. As I was kneeling there, praying for forgiveness, I heard their voices singing:
“It may not be on the mountain height
Or over the stormy sea;
It may not be at the battle’s front
My Lord will have need of me;
But if, by a still, small voice he calls
To paths that I do not know,
I’ll answer, dear Lord, with my hand in thine:
I’ll go where you want me to go.”
(Hymns, no. 75.)

I arose from my knees a humble man. And now, almost fifty years later, I look up to him and say, “Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for cutting me down, for loving me enough to hurt me.” I see now that it was wise that I should not become a general at that time, because if I had I would have been senior officer of all western Canada, with a lifelong, handsome salary, a place to live, and a pension when I’m no good any longer, but I would have raised my six daughters and two sons in army barracks. They would no doubt have married out of the Church, and I think I would not have amounted to anything. I haven’t amounted to very much as it is, but I have done better than I would have done if the Lord had let me go the way I wanted to go.

My parents were very faithful, and their conversion to the gospel changed their lives forever. It created a new perspective for me because they worked hard so that my life might be different in the future. They felt so much joy because of the gospel of Jesus Christ, that as soon as they were baptized, they began to invite their neighbors to come hear the missionary lessons in our home.

A child’s life—
Filled with
Cartoons
And mudpies,
Jumping jacks
And crayons—
Seems so simple.
At times I long
To fingerpaint
Way past my elbows
(Who cares if my
Hair is green?)
And swing
Until forever
With a ladybug
In hand.
And then
I remember
Miss Horowitz
And division;
Scraped knees
And spinning wheels
Of dented bikes;
My unrequited,
Well-known crush
On “Skinny” Smith;
Those weigh-and-
Measure days—
In front of boys!
I’m glad
to be
in high school.

You listen well, she said.
I hadn’t known I was listening—
Only mining her for the gold she was,
Asking through layers of
Sedimentary experience, beneath
All the barriers and buttresses of years,
To tap the richest vein,
The deepest treasure of her heart.
I listen well?
You live exquisitely, my friend.
I want to learn
You.

Travel with me to a large government hospital newly built in Tonga and equipped to provide needed services to members and nonmembers alike. But there are insufficient nurses with which to staff the hospital and only limited services can be provided.

A mission had always been a goal of mine, ever since being in Primary and singing “I Hope They Call Me on a Mission”.
Unfortunately, being diagnosed with a brain tumour at the age of 16 shattered that dream. I started to suffer with depression and anxiety while still struggling with the day-to-day issues from my illness.
In 2017, I had begun to prepare to serve in the Birmingham England mission office. I was to spend a few days a week working in the office, and the remainder of the week resting at home. A few weeks before this was due to start, while having a routine check-up, I was told my tumour had grown and that I would need radiotherapy. I felt the world was telling me that the goal I had, of serving a mission, was never going to happen.

A few years ago I was in a Salt Lake hospital emergency room with my sons and a neighbor boy—the result of a backyard touch football game.
While we waited in the emergency room for the doctor to put one of the participants back together, we saw a young lady brought into the hospital. She may have been seventeen—tall, willowy, well dressed, and having a wild reaction to an overdose of drugs. As we watched, she collapsed, and I thought, There is no way this child can survive this experience. I wondered how she had come to this sad situation in her life. Had she not heard the words of the prophets? Had she heard them and laughed as if they were the warnings of men out of touch with the realities of a modern world? Had one of us been negligent in our opportunities to teach her? Had her parents known the truth but not been willing or able to help her understand?
While waiting in that hospital thinking, pondering, and praying for her, I recalled a principle the Lord teaches us in the 89th section of the Doctrine and Covenants. It is found in the fourth verse:
“Behold, verily, thus saith the Lord unto you: In consequence of evils and designs which do and will exist in the hearts of conspiring men in the last days, I have warned you, and forewarn you, by giving unto you this word of wisdom by revelation.”

Some years ago, President Romney and I were sitting in my office. The door opened and a fine young man came in with a troubled look on his face, and he said, “Brethren, I am going to the temple for the first time tomorrow. I have made some mistakes in the past, and I have gone to my bishop and my stake president, and I have made a clean disclosure of it all; and after a period of repentance and assurance that I have not returned again to those mistakes, they have now adjudged me ready to go to the temple. But, brethren, that is not enough. I want to know, and how can I know, that the Lord has forgiven me, also.”

What would you answer one who would come to you asking that question? As we pondered for a moment, we remembered King Benjamin’s address contained in the book of Mosiah. Here was a group of people who now were asking for baptism, and they said they viewed themselves in their carnal state:

“… And they all cried aloud with one voice, saying: O have mercy, and apply the atoning blood of Christ that we may receive forgiveness of our sins, and our hearts may be purified; …

“… after they had spoken these words the Spirit of the Lord came upon them, and they were filled with joy, having received a remission of their sins, and having peace of conscience. …” (Mosiah 4:2–3.)

There was the answer.

The screen door slammed its familiar afternoon bang. “Mom! I’m home!” Marcus called out.
“I’m in the kitchen,” Mom called back.
Marcus pulled his shoes off by the front door, then made his way to the kitchen. His nose told him hot cinnamon rolls were waiting. He smiled.
“Would you like one?” Mom asked, pouring him some milk. “How was school?”
“It was OK.” Marcus sank his teeth into the warm roll. “There’s a new girl in my class.”
“Oh?”
“Her name is Karen, and I feel really sorry for her,” Marcus said, staring quietly out the window.
“How come?”
“Well, she has only one arm. And you could tell she was scared to come to a new class. She looked at her shoes all day and didn’t talk to anyone.”
Marcus’s family had moved recently, and he knew how difficult it was to be the new kid at school. He couldn’t imagine how hard it would be if you looked different, too.
“I hope that you were kind to her,” Mom hinted.
“I smiled and said hi, but I don’t think she noticed. Most of the kids stared at her missing arm all day. Some even whispered and pointed, and you knew they were talking about her.”
Mom frowned. “I don’t imagine that that made her feel very welcome.”
“No, probably not.” He didn’t mention that one of the boys who had joked and pointed the most was his new friend, Tim. Marcus had been embarrassed each time Tim did it, but he hadn’t known what to do about it.
That night, Marcus’s father gave the lesson for family home evening. He talked about President Hinckley’s great love for all people and his counsel that each of us should be a little kinder to those around us. Dad asked each member of the family to think of someone to whom they could show a little more kindness.
Marcus thought hard while his little sisters took their turns. When Dad called on him, he replied, “I can show more kindness to Karen, a new girl in my class. She doesn’t have any friends yet.” Mother gave Marcus a smile of encouragement and a quick wink.
After he and Mom told whom they would be kinder to, Dad said, “OK then, I’ll expect to hear a report from everyone tomorrow night at dinner.” He closed the lesson by bearing his testimony about how important it is to follow the prophet’s counsel.
That night, Marcus fell asleep wondering how he was going to make friends with a girl who stared at the floor all day. And he worried about what Tim and the other guys in his class would think when he tried to be nice to her.
When Marcus walked into his classroom the next morning, he half-hoped that Karen would be absent. But she was sitting at her desk, looking straight down at a book and seemingly unaware of anyone else. That’s when Marcus had an idea. He went and spoke quietly to his teacher, Mrs. Meyers.
Every Tuesday was “book buddy” day in Marcus’s class. After lunch, Mrs. Meyers announced that they would divide into pairs to read out loud to each other. As she called out the book-buddy assignments, she paired Marcus with Karen. Tim grinned as he leaned over and whispered, “Tough luck! Guess you’ll have to hold the book and turn the pages, since she has only one arm.”
Marcus looked at Tim and smiled, “That’s OK. I don’t mind.” Tim’s grin disappeared as he watched Marcus cross the room to Karen’s desk.
A warm feeling filled Marcus’s heart as he smiled into Karen’s hesitant eyes. “Hi! I’m Marcus. What do you want to read?”
Karen looked up at him blankly, then ducked her head without saying anything.
“Do you like the Magic Time Machine series?” Marcus continued. “I just finished the one where they go to ancient Rome. It was great!”
“Really? That’s the one I’m reading right now!” She looked him right in the eyes and grinned happily.
“No way!” Marcus grinned back. “You’re going to really like the ending.” Marcus made himself comfortable in the chair next to her. He thought about his father’s challenge, and he was grateful for President Hinckley’s counsel. Not only had he found a way to be kinder, but he’d made a new friend, too!

In February 1853, to the pioneer congregation huddled in shawls and wraps against the chill, Brigham Young recalled, “I scarcely ever say much about revelations, or visions, but suffice it to say, five years ago last July I was here, and saw in the Spirit the Temple. … I have not inquired what kind of a Temple we should build. Why? Because it was represented before me. I have never looked upon that ground, but the vision of it was there. I see it as plainly as if it was in reality before me.”

According to Wilford Woodruff, President Young’s address was “a most thrilling speech of about thirty minutes” that was “heard distinctly in all parts of the vast assembly.” It is clear that Brigham Young could hardly contain his joy as he began: “We have assembled on one of the most solemn, interesting, joyful, and glorious occasions, that ever has, or will transpire among the children of men, while the earth continues in its present organization, and is occupied for its present purposes; and I congratulate my brethren and sisters that it is our unspeakable privilege to stand here, this day, and minister before the Lord, on an occasion which has caused the tongues and pens of prophets to speak and write for many scores of centuries.”

Then Heber C. Kimball, First Counselor in the First Presidency, struck the frozen ground “with a pick … and President Young took out the first turf.” He closed the meeting with a triumphant blessing of the Saints, to which all assembled responded, “Amen!” The congregation then “rushed to the hole to get a chance to throw a little dirt out.” Some “one hundred and fifty laborers, I should judge continued the work,” wrote Lorenzo Brown, another participant in the events.

How those words touched me! It had been 15 years ago that the Book of Mormon became an integral part of David’s life. I had read it to him as he lay in bed, at life’s edge.
“What are you reading, Mommy?” David asked in the faintest whisper of a sound. His delicate face closely matched the color of the snowy pillowcase. Deep red drops of blood, descending from a bottle suspended above, provided a vivid contrast as they dropped through a tube into his motionless white arm.
“The Book of Mormon,” I replied. It helped me through the endless hours of watching my son fight a seemingly insurmountable battle. It was supposed to be minor surgery to correct a small health problem, but the whole procedure had become a nightmare. Face to face with the fragile quality of mortality, I groped for an anchor with eternity.
“Read it to me,” David said.
“But you wouldn’t understand it, David,” I told him. “You’re too young. Later, when you’re well and at home, I’ll read you some stories from the Book of Mormon.”
Again the whispered words, urgent this time. “Please read it to me, Mommy.”
Not knowing what else to do, and not wishing to further upset him, I began in First Nephi: “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents, …” I intended to read a few lines while he drifted off to sleep, and then continue my silent reading. Every time I thought he was asleep, my voice quieted and quit. Then, from the hospital bed, again and again, I heard, “Read it to me.”
And so I read it to him. I read all during the hospital stay, and then at home, where he lay attached to two tubes that drained fluids from his body into bags, one on each leg. Doctors had discovered a congenital defect that gave him only part of one kidney.
I did not read stories from the Book of Mormon. I read from the book itself. One morning, after David’s two sisters had gone to school and his two little brothers were sleeping, we sat together reading as usual. I stopped and looked down at him. “David, do you understand this?”
His blue eyes looked thoughtfully into mine. “Not all. But some of it.”
When I continued reading he stopped me and said, “Mother, kneel down.” Startled by the request, I simply knelt, feeling his small body at my side. Then, totally trusting, he said, “Now pray for me. Pray that I will understand the Book of Mormon.”
By the time we finished the book, David had turned five and was able to recognize and read many of the words on his own. Eventually he read alone. His health improved and, by the time he was baptized, he had read the whole thing by himself more than once. By the time he was ordained a deacon, he was eagerly preparing for a mission.

I was baptized when I was 10 years old, in the city of Oaxaca, Mexico. I remember that a few months after my baptism, some families in our branch went on a trip to the Mesa Arizona Temple, after having managed to save, at great sacrifice, for their travel expenses.
Upon their return, some young people shared their experiences, and the adults also gave their testimonies of this wonderful experience.
I thought that I would never travel to the temple with my family, first of all, because of the spiritual needs we had, that is, my parents were separated; and also, for our temporal needs. We were a large family and in our economic situation, even with all her efforts, my mother could not satisfy our basic needs.

I was impressed when Elder Gordon B. Hinckley spoke of Joseph Smith so tenderly, and sweetly, and the thought went through my mind of that last night in Carthage, Illinois. They were gathered together with the mob all around them and the Prophet Joseph Smith asked one of the brethren to sing for him “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief.”

Lidia Gantier, a Quechua sister living in Bolivia, exemplifies the Savior’s love by sharing her limited resources. As she helps prepare food at work, she saves the meat and poultry trim for the needy in her ward. She also sets aside unpopped kernels from popcorn. “These are for the birds,” she says. “They are hungry, too.” Her concern for all of God’s creatures is demonstrated in her daily actions as she lovingly gives whatever she has to help others.

The changes Ivanna made through Personal Progress helped her be an example to her family. “All this time my parents have seen how I’ve changed. They were very happy that I was going to church,” Ivanna says. She attended church and activities alone until one day her mother decided to come with her to sacrament meeting. Now they attend church together.

Another young woman told of how she invited a group of friends from school over to her home and how her friends were so amazed that her family was so friendly, happy, and positive.

Larry M. Gibson walks 50 miles (80 km) in 19 hours with his sons.