Gospel Story Finder

Last Christmas I talked to the proprietress of a Salt Lake City nursing home. From the hallway where we stood, she pointed to several elderly women assembled in a peaceful living room. She observed, “There’s Mrs. Hansen. Her daughter visits her every week, right at 3:00 p.m. on Sunday. To her right is Mrs. Peek. Each Wednesday there is a letter in her hands from her son in New York. It is read, then reread, then saved as a precious piece of treasure. But see Mrs. Carroll; her family never telephones, never writes, never visits. Patiently she justifies this neglect with words which are heard but do not convince or excuse, ‘They are all so busy.’” Shame on all who thus make of a noble woman “mother forgotten.”

The river is a poem, a rune, a mystery. The water flows deep with rhythm and verse and beauty. But beneath the beauty, beneath the constant silk flow and tranquility, there are teeth.
“If you aren’t afraid of the river, if you don’t respect it, it will get you,” Bill Barnes said. But he reassured us that all of the guides are expert swimmers and are trained in lifesaving and first aid.
We started quietly, two to a boat, a zigzagging line of canoes desperately pursuing our guide’s course downstream. The current coaxed us away from the shore and slapped us back and forth in the choppy waves. We knew we had experts leading us, but a wariness gnawed at us just the same. The sheer power of the current increased rapidly, pulsing and coursing with a raw anger that could snap a tree trunk. Soon paddles seemed almost useless, but paddles were all we had.
“They had warned us not to run into trees,” David Black of Cottonwood said. “But we thought we could push against one. We tried to push away and it didn’t work. They had told us not to lean the wrong way, but we leaned the wrong way. We went under.”
Thanks to his life preserver, David popped to the surface, grabbed his paddle, and this time following instructions, clung to the canoe. A guide raced up alongside, made sure Dave and his partner were safe, righted their canoe, and coached them as they climbed back in. It was a scene repeated often, sometimes several times for the same partnership. “I’m wetter than a wet dog,” one frustrated Explorer yelped after he had swamped for the fourth time in a row.
“I tipped over nine or ten times,” said Steven Allred of Brigham City. “It demoralized me. But after a while you got used to cold water. And you figured out that if you didn’t want to spend all day swimming, you’d better pay attention.”
As the day wore on, confidence grew. We learned that there were difficult times and times to recover. At a smooth place in the river, everyone was relaxing.
“King Rapids is next,” one of the guides shouted. “Get ready!”
The guides had been talking about King Rapids for two days. It was the biggest, meanest, orneriest, most grizzly rapid on this stretch of the Snake. There were stories about it throwing canoes clean out of the water.
We were close to the base. We could stop and carry out our canoes if we wanted to and avoid King. But none of us did.
“I knew if I quit I’d regret it,” Doug said. “I’d look back later and say, ‘That would have been fun.’ I knew I could make it if I’d just keep trying. I’d already made it through a lot of tough things.”
The water sprayed. It pounded our canoes. We lost our breath, but this time from exhilaration. Even though many of us capsized, we didn’t panic. We glided on down to a smooth basin where the current eddied and fished ourselves and our boats out of the water. Then we all returned to the base to head for home.

One young woman found that being humble helped her in her relationship with her brother.
“As I was sitting there listening to President Hinckley, I was sitting by my mom and by my brother, who was preparing for a mission at the time. I heard President Hinckley tell the youth to be humble.
“We have never had a great relationship, my brother and me. We never got along because we let things get in the way—friends, age, school, and our actions. We never cared; we thought we were better than each other. We literally went days without talking or saying something nice to each other. So, after I heard President Hinckley, I made a promise that I would always bite my tongue, say nice things to him, and do nice things for him. For the next little while I did everything I could for him. Then it rubbed off, and he was nice to me; and now we are the closest ever.”

As a young woman, I came to downtown Salt Lake one wintery day. I had parked in front of the Church Administration Building and was just putting a nickel in the meter when I noticed a man leaving the building. He wore a dark overcoat and a wool hat. But he had something more: a spirit that stirred my soul. I could not take my eyes off him, and as he descended the steps, I suddenly realized he was President David O. McKay. He said nothing as he passed me; he merely smiled gently and tipped his hat. The Spirit literally filled my being. I knew I had seen a prophet of God.

When my son Davy joined his school’s cross-country team in his fourth-grade year, his great talent for running quickly became apparent. He placed high in races against other competitive runners, and we were very proud of him.
Davy was soon invited to join a running club some local coaches had started. It was a great opportunity, but there was one problem—many of the meets were on Sundays. So Davy turned down their invitation.
When Davy didn’t accept their invitation the next year, the coaches assumed my husband and I were preventing him from joining the club. But we let them know the choice was Davy’s own.
Davy’s answer to the coaches was, “I would really like to join the club, but I don’t run on Sundays.”
By the sixth grade, Davy had developed a real “kick” in his running that kept him among the top two or three runners in every school meet. Again came the invitation to join the running club. This time there was an added incentive—the boys were planning to go across the United States to compete in the national finals for their age group. The coaches and team members really wanted Davy to join them.
Davy received the priesthood and was ordained a deacon that year. When he discussed with us the invitation from the running club, we asked only, “Son, what about your priesthood responsibilities?”
Davy’s answer to the team was, “I need to be in church on Sundays.”
The club went to the national finals, competed against teams from all over the country, and won; they were the national champions. When the boys returned home, the school, the parents, and the club coaches were ecstatic with their accomplishment. The school held a special assembly with newspaper reporters and TV cameras. They called the boys up one by one as loud applause rang from the audience.
Davy sat and watched as each boy received the recognition that might have been his had he chosen differently. My heart ached for him as I saw the tears in his eyes. I tapped him on the shoulder, and we left the cheering crowd. In a secluded spot, I held him tight, and we cried together for a moment. Then I told him how proud I was of him. Davy had done what Heavenly Father expected of him. The admiration of the crowd and the recognition of the world are powerful attractions, but they have little to do with our eternal progress.
A few days later, I shared Davy’s experience with a friend. Shortly afterwards, my friend sent Davy a letter, along with a trophy. On the trophy was inscribed, “Davy: A Champion of Youth.”
The letter read: “You were given agency to choose. Thank you for your example. You are truly a champion.”

“Come, Patrick,” the old shepherd called to the boy who was warming his hands by the roaring fire, “time to climb the hill for the night.”
The boy stood up and, wrapping the bearskin cloak around him, answered, “Coming, sir.” Obediently, he followed the old man away from the warmth of the fire into the cold blackness of the surrounding countryside.
“It’s been a hard winter,” the old man said to Patrick as they trudged up the steep hill, “but you’ve learned your job well, and you haven’t complained about the cold or the long nights. When it is time for me to report to our king, I will tell him what a good servant he has in you.”
“Thank you,” the boy replied, “but I like the sheep. Caring for them is not hard for me. As for the cold,” he shrugged his strong young shoulders, “one learns to live with it. No use complaining.”
They reached the top of the hill and approached the fire that the day shepherd had lit as soon as the sun had started to set.
“Ho, Finn!” the old man called.
“Ho, Ober!” came the answer from a man kneeling by the fire. “I am very glad you are here. I fear my old bones are nearly frozen.” He smiled up at Patrick. “Ho, lad. Mind this fire tonight. Don’t let it die down. Listen.”
Patrick strained his ears. Mixed with the low whistle of the icy wind came another sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
“A-ooooooooo,” it sounded again from the distance, low and ghostly.
“Wolves,” Patrick whispered.
“Yes, boy,” old Finn agreed. “It’s been a hard winter for them too. One or two young sheep would make them a real banquet. Keep a sharp eye out.” He stood up and stretched. “I’m going down now. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Finn. We’ll see you at dawn,” Ober answered.
“You make the rounds to the west tonight, and I’ll make them to the east,” Ober instructed Patrick.
“Yes, sir.” Patrick picked up a pine stick and stuck it into the fire until the end blazed. Using it for a light, he set off into the inky darkness to check his master’s flock of sheep. He whistled his own little tune, so the sheep would know it was he who walked among them and not be frightened. Now and then he stopped to pat a woolly head.
It was on these dark, lonesome rounds that Patrick most missed his homeland and his family. It had been two years now since that night when he had been carried away by the strange and wild boatmen and transported to this harsh land. It had been two years of service to the king; two years of learning, growing, and longing to return to his home. But I must not let myself feel sad, he inwardly scolded.
Patrick finished checking the sheep and started back to the fire. “I must do my job while I look for a chance to get home again—somehow—someday,” he murmured.
Ober was sitting by the fire when Patrick returned.
“All’s well,” he said.
“It may be, lad, but keep the fire up. Those wolves seem bold tonight.”
“Would they come so close to the fire and humans, sir? I always thought wolves were wild and stayed well back in the forest.”
“They do, mostly,” Ober answered, “except when a winter like this one comes along, and there’s no game left in the forest for them. Hunger is a powerful thing, Patrick. I’ve lost many a sheep close to the fire on a winter night such as this.”
Ober and Patrick leaned against the big trees near the fire. Patrick stomped his feet to keep them from freezing. Something caught his eye on the other side of the fire. It was a strange, small gleam of light. No, two small gleams, like summer fireflies. Now there were four, now six!
Patrick’s heart thumped hard in his chest with a sudden fear. He knew what those lights were—firelight glinting in wolves’ eyes.
“Ober!” Patrick shouted. “Look!” As he shouted, a low growling came from where the small, hard lights gleamed.
“It’s a pack of them,” Ober called back. “Run, Patrick. It may be your only chance. It will be impossible for only two people to keep them from the sheep.”
“And leave you alone, sir?” Patrick asked, certain he had misunderstood.
“I’m an old man,” Ober answered, “and a servant like yourself, Patrick. I must stay and defend our king’s sheep, even if it means death for me.”
Patrick looked over at Ober. The old man had been his teacher, but, more than that, he had been Patrick’s friend ever since the king’s boatmen had captured him and brought him to this strange land. Run away and leave Ober here to fight the wolves alone? Run, even if it might mean a chance to escape? he asked himself.
“If you must stay, then so must I,” Patrick said firmly.
He looked up at the brittle black sky where tiny cold stars flashed. “Help me in this strange land,” Patrick seemed to say as he gazed toward the heavens. Then he grabbed a flaming pine bough in one hand and a heavy, club-like stick in the other. Hollering and shouting, he ran toward the growling pack of wolves.
He swung his club. Back and forth he passed the burning stick, all the time stomping and shouting. The startled wolves growled deeper and bared their yellowed teeth at him, but, helped by Ober, Patrick managed to drive them back, farther and farther.
At last the leader of the wolf pack, with a nasty, helpless snarl, turned and ran off into the trees. For a moment the others growled and snapped at Patrick’s club as he swung it at them. Then they, too, followed their leader into the trees.
“Well done, Patrick!” Ober thumped the young boy on the back soundly. “What a brave lad you are. You fought with the strength of ten men, and you saved the sheep. I would not have thought it possible that you could do it. It is truly miraculous!” Ober hugged the boy happily.
“We did it together, Ober.” Patrick smiled at the old man. Then he lifted his face to the stars and said quietly, “Together.”

When he was eight years old, he wanted to be baptized. His nonmember father felt that Howard should be older before he chose to join any church. Even though he knew Heavenly Father wanted him to be a member of the Church, young Howard also knew it was important to do what his father wanted him to do. He honored his father by waiting for his permission. Five months after his twelfth birthday, Howard was baptized.

My best friend is not a member of our church. He takes the Lord’s name in vain a lot! I felt sad every time I heard it. So I asked him nicely to not say it. He respected me and has stopped. It felt good to stand tall.
Porter P., age 9, Tennessee, USA

When I was 12, I felt invincible, but my carefree life came to a screeching halt when I was diagnosed with spinal meningitis. Back then I had no idea what spinal meningitis was or how it would cripple my life; all I knew was that I was in the worst pain I had ever experienced. For a whole week I stayed curled up in a ball with an excruciating headache. The pain was so debilitating that I couldn’t see or even walk straight.
I was given a blessing that told me the Lord was watching out for me, He had a plan for me, and I just needed to trust Him. I kept going because I knew the Lord was testing my faith. But eight months later I still wasn’t able to get out of bed. One day, as I was struggling to just make it to the bathroom, I concluded that I was never going to be able to be a normal kid again. I fell into a deep depression; I felt that my life meant nothing.
One day while I was sitting on the couch feeling miserable and daydreaming about what life could have been like, my mom brought in my friend Nathan. When he saw me for the first time, he was shocked. Before, I had always been well-groomed, but now my eyes were dead and seemed to blend right in with my pale skin, my hair looked like a bird’s nest, and I was weak. My voice was almost too soft to hear.
After a few failed attempts at conversation, we gave up. I was just too exhausted within only a few minutes, and it was hard to concentrate on him and what he was saying. Finally, with nothing more to say, he left. Even though this had been extremely hard on me, I was strangely uplifted. Nathan’s visit had cheered me up, and it felt good to know that someone was actually thinking of me.
When he left, I was pretty sure he wouldn’t come back. To my surprise, though, he came the next week, and then the next. With each visit I felt a little bit of joy added back into my life. Soon Nathan brought over his friend, and we all laughed and talked together. Amazingly, I began to get up every day and have enough energy to accomplish things.
When I was going through the most difficult moments of this illness, the Lord sent me help. Nathan’s initial visit was painful, and I hated every minute of it, but it was what I needed most. Before his visit I was miserable and was giving in to depression, but the kindness of a friend saved me.

An account of the first Christmas in the Salt Lake Valley, December 25 1847, was shared by Brother Robert Bliss. “… the Snow is now nearly gone and the weather is fine; today we waked by the firing of Cannon, & the day was spent in Work by some & amusement by others. … I visited one of my Old neighbors who was driven out of Illinois with me & partook of a fine Christmas Dinner; but any joys were dampened when I think of my Family; they are more than a Thousand miles from me & there is no possible chance for me to go to them till Spring.” Brother Bliss continued and he indicated that he had faith in God. That He had protected them in all their trials and that He would support his family in every situation that they might be placed in.

I was called as a member of the Seventy in 1977. Since then I have had the privilege of visiting hundreds of stakes. After one priesthood leadership meeting in Taylorsville, Utah, a large man approached me and whispered that his brother had been killed during World War II and that he hated Japanese people. Following the stake conference, however, this same man approached me with tears in his eyes. Crying for joy, he gave me a hug because I had shared my conversion story and my love for Americans and it had touched him.

Now, may I extend a challenge to bishops and branch presidents throughout the world? Over the next six months, would it be possible for each of you to consider recommending one or more missionary couples beyond those presently planning to serve? Your greatest resource in meeting this challenge will be those senior members of your ward who have already served missions. In my own ward, an inspired bishop called a special meeting of prospective and returned missionary couples. As we bore our testimonies of sacrifice and service, the Spirit witnessed to us all that a call to serve is indeed a call to “know the richness of [the Lord’s] blessing[s].”

About 40 years ago my wife, Jeanene, asked me to go with her to visit one of her close friends. That friend’s husband happened to be a commercial artist. I was fascinated with his ability to use brushes, watercolor, and paper to create beauty. Something inside of me said, “Try it,” but my more rational self responded, “You’ve never had any artistic ability; all you will do is prove that you can’t paint anything.” Fortunately the feeling to want to try persisted.
I got a few books on watercolor from the library, bought an inexpensive set of paints and a brush and looked for an isolated place where I could safely try my hand at art without embarrassment. With a sheet of ordinary paper I tried to paint a tree, then other objects. The results, even viewed charitably, were not very good, but I still remember the excitement I felt from doing something I had never done before.
The initial feeling of accomplishment encouraged me to read more and try harder. Later I was privileged to take five lessons from a master watercolorist and teacher, Elliott O’Hare. That experience changed everything. I began to appreciate that much can be accomplished with an understanding of basic principles. I discovered the importance of quality materials. Objective criticism from a knowledgeable friend became an appreciated source of growth. There followed other small but important seeds of reinforcement: a prize at the state fair for a modest painting of sailboats in the fog, and the first sale of a watercolor of a small boy and girl with a fishing rod and dog. Even now, many years later, these experiences bring great personal satisfaction.
It doesn’t concern me that I will never be an accomplished watercolorist. Even infrequent efforts to try to express feelings with a brush and paint continue to provide a constantly renewing source of pleasure and benefit. There is an awareness of the miracle of color, subtle transitions in value, dramatic contrasts, and appealing shapes and patterns. Every face is a fascinating study of light and shadow, texture, and hue that speaks volumes regarding character and personality. Eyes have become for me the fingerprint of the soul. Moreover the masterful work of gifted artists has become a refreshing source of enjoyment and learning. Most importantly I feel that perhaps I am more sensitive to the limitless creative genius of our Heavenly Father and His Beloved Son.
Wherever I go I see beauty in ways that would not have been perceived with the same intensity and variety had I not followed that prompting to “try it.” I still have that first painting. When I look at it my mind is filled with sweet memories of much that happened in that time of my life, and the satisfaction I have received from modest personal efforts to be creative in many different areas of life.

I’ve gotten some answers, but they weren’t very specific, of course, because I always have to do my part and learn for myself.
And I was expecting to be told, “This is what you can wear. This is what you can’t wear.” I didn’t want it to be like [it is] because then it was my choice and I didn’t have the exact rules. But I actually am really grateful now that that is the answer that I got because I think that’s much more applicable to all the girls around the world.

It has been 150 years since the first Church hymnbook was published. Three months after the Church was organized, Joseph Smith received a revelation instructing his wife Emma to “make a selection of sacred hymns” (D&C 25:11). Emma’s first collection of ninety hymns, published in August 1835, measured 3? x 4 1/2? (8 cm x 11 cm) and contained only the words, which were sung to familiar melodies. It was not until 1889 that words and music were published together in an official third Church hymnbook.

Ricardo also testifies to his friends and neighbors. “In my neighborhood I tell my friends stories about Christ, about prophets, about Nephi,” he says. “I tell them stories I’ve heard in church about faith and about how prayer helps us in our lives. Some friends stay and listen, but others leave. That’s a way I can be an example.”

Therefore, on July 7, 1972, shortly after the passing of President Joseph Fielding Smith, President Lee as President of the Twelve called a meeting of all the Twelve to reorganize the First Presidency of the Church. At this meeting we called upon the Lord in solemn prayer. Then each member of the Twelve, starting with the junior member, was called by the President of the Quorum to express his feelings regarding the matter at hand.
When it became President Kimball’s turn to speak, he, at the conclusion of his remarks, nominated President Harold B. Lee as President of the Church, which motion was duly seconded and put to the Twelve, and carried unanimously. President Lee responded to the nomination and the action of the Twelve, accepting the high and holy calling. He then nominated, for the consideration of the Twelve, N. Eldon Tanner as first counselor and Marion G. Romney as second counselor. This was unanimously approved.
President Spencer W. Kimball, as senior member of the Twelve, was nominated and approved as President of the Quorum of the Twelve. Following this, President Kimball joined with other members of the Twelve as they placed their hands upon the head of President Lee and ordained him and set him apart as President of the Church and as Prophet, Seer, and Revelator, and Trustee-in-Trust for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. President Lee then set apart President Tanner and President Romney as his counselors and President Kimball as President of the Twelve.

Many years ago in a general conference, I spoke of how José de Souza Marques understood the words of the Savior that “if any man among you be strong in the Spirit, let him take with him him that is weak, that he may … become strong also.”

Brother Marques knew the name of every sheep in his priests quorum and realized that Fernando was missing. He hunted for Fernando at his house, then looked for him at a friend’s home, and even went to the beach.

He finally found Fernando surfing in the ocean. He did not hesitate until the boat sank, like in Daniel’s story. He immediately entered the water to rescue his lost sheep, bringing him home rejoicing.

He then ensured through continual ministering that Fernando never again would leave the fold.

Allow me to update you on what has happened since Fernando was rescued and to share the joy that came from rescuing just one lost sheep. Fernando married his sweetheart, Maria, in the temple. They now have 5 children and 13 grandchildren, all of whom are active in the Church. Many other relatives and their families have also joined the Church. Together they have submitted thousands of their ancestors’ names to receive temple ordinances, and the blessings just keep coming.

Fernando is now serving as bishop for the third time, and he continues to rescue, just like he was rescued. He recently shared, “In our ward, we have 32 active young men of the Aaronic Priesthood, 21 of whom were rescued in the last 18 months.” As individuals, families, quorums, auxiliaries, classes, and home and visiting teachers, we can do that!

Draw a picture. Another way to record what you are learning is to draw it. One time when I was visiting a friend for family home evening, her grandmother shared personal stories about faith and prayer. Before the lesson began, my friend gave her young children paper and crayons so they could draw the stories while their great-grandmother talked. Drawing pictures helped them pay attention, and they even asked questions along the way to clarify parts of the story.

A sky-high experience was waiting for them at the 10,000-foot camp. They had been scheduled to stay in some dormitories resembling cut-rate bomb shelters, but on arrival they discovered that the camp manager had made special arrangements for them to stay in the nicest accommodations, a lodge that boasted a huge lounge with a fireplace, and comfortable, carpeted rooms. He explained that he had been so impressed with the last group of Mormons to stay at the camp that he knew he could trust LDS youth with the best. The nameless Mormon group who paved the way for this happy surprise will never know the impression they made, but these young people from the Denver area were grateful for their example.