Gospel Story Finder

It all started when my friend Brett said, “Last night when I talked to my friend, I found out that her parents have been telling her stuff about our religion, making us sound really bad. She told me that I was wrong for being Mormon, and she seemed to have plenty of evidence. Lots of stuff that I didn’t know about. I figured I can’t defend this if I don’t know what we believe.”
Then he asked me, “Do you want to come over and study scriptures tonight? You know, we could do a little reading, look some stuff up.”
“Seriously?” I hesitated. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to. It was just that I was taken off guard. I mean, how many teenagers hang out on weeknights to study the scriptures for fun?
“Sure, I guess,” I accepted slowly. “If you really want to.”
Brett was the only other Church member in my grade, and he’d never seemed very religious. I still remember being surprised my sophomore year when I first met him. He asked me why I chose not to date until I was 16. I was astounded by his question because Brett had been an active member his entire life but he somehow still didn’t know some of the basic teachings of the Church. To him, church was a Sunday thing. I remembered answering Brett’s question about my decision not to date until 16 and then enlightening him on many other standards we had as Church members.
Now, as seniors, we’d grown to be close friends. And once again I found myself surprised by Brett.
I arrived at his house not sure what to expect. As I walked into his family’s study, I noticed the Bible was open and several LDS reference materials were stacked on the desk. He’d already begun. “Look at this,” he said excitedly, pointing to James 2:21–26.
“I thought we could find some answers.” Then he asked, “Do you have any questions?”
“I don’t know. I guess so.”
“After listening to my friend, I know I need to study more,” Brett continued.
“So, are you looking up things about the points she made?” I asked.
“Yeah. I can see where she’s coming from, but you know, the more I find out about what we believe,” he continued, “the more I see and feel just how right our beliefs are. It’s exciting. I want you to help me.”
I’d never considered the scriptures exciting before. I felt humbled by his enthusiasm. He wanted my help because I’d read the Book of Mormon, prayed, felt the Spirit, and from then on hadn’t had doubts.
But at that moment, I realized I too needed to search the scriptures more.
Brett and I really studied the scriptures that night and found the answers to his questions. Time and time again, Brett searched the scriptures in response to criticisms of the Church. As he learned to trust the scriptures, his testimony grew. Not only did that study help him talk with his friend, but his example of asking questions and finding the answers in the scriptures made a difference for me too.

Jeannethe Campos de Espinoza, former president of the Relief Society in the Managua stake, admires the creativity of one visiting teacher who helped activate a woman she visited. The visiting teacher asked the sister to prepare a message from the Book of Mormon to share with her visiting teachers; this helped the woman discover what she was missing spiritually. The same approach has been used to activate others as well. Sometimes Relief Society leaders also ask to hold small group meetings in the homes of less-active members to remind them of gospel blessings.

It was a cold, rainy day, and my friends and I were playing kickball. One of the players was a girl who gets teased a lot and does not have many friends. She didn’t have a coat although it was raining hard. She was soaked! It looked as if she had just jumped into a swimming pool! Her nose was red and she was shivering. I felt sorry for her, so I took off my coat and let her borrow it until recess was over. Even though I was cold on the outside, I felt warm and cozy inside.

The following year Sonora, supported by local church leaders, submitted a petition to the Spokane City Council. As a result, the mayor declared that the third Sunday in June would be observed as Father’s Day. Following Spokane’s lead, the governor of Washington made it a state holiday, and June 19, 1910, it became the first official Father’s Day in history.

Then a young couple with several young children came into my office. Earlier that day in sacrament meeting, we had read a letter from the First Presidency, announcing that an additional category of voluntary contributions was now available to Church members—a “humanitarian fund.” Money donated to this category would be sent to Church headquarters and used for projects benefiting people worldwide, regardless of religious affiliation. This couple had lived in a developing nation and had witnessed the great needs there. Now they were donating a substantial sum to that fund, trusting that it would be put to the best possible use. I looked at their little children and then back at the parents. And I thought, “How can you do without this money at Christmastime?” But I had an idea that perhaps their Christmas would be even more fulfilling as a result.

One thing causes me great concern as I read letters from those who have been injured. I am concerned with the feeling of resentment and hatred some individuals have expressed against the spouse that betrayed or abused them and their children. Occasionally a wife, for example, in a spirit of revenge may attempt to get even with her spouse by sinning in the same manner. But all she does by that tragic action is to destroy herself. Some individuals have expressed such resentment against a former spouse that they write that nothing that spouse could ever do could right the wrong he or she committed. They insist they can never forgive a spouse for the pain and suffering that spouse has caused.

Even before she joined the Church, Neill Foote Marriott learned as a young girl that there was a God and that He loved her.
“My father was a pattern of our Heavenly Father,” said the new second counselor in the Young Women general presidency. “His love and acceptance for others was unbounded. It was a simple and natural transfer of the love and trust I had for my earthly father to trust and love my Heavenly Father.”

After my mission, while studying to become a nurse, I spent a lot of time each day doing on-the-job training. Afterward, I would do homework assignments until 2:00 or 3:00 a.m. Then I would sleep a little before doing more on-the-job training the next day.

At the time, I was serving as ward Young Men president. It was very difficult for me to study and fulfill my Church calling. I knew if I quit my calling, however, I would not be able to teach the young men about the importance of following God’s path or receive the blessings He had in store for me.

“What should I do?” I asked Heavenly Father. “My body and mind are in shambles, and I don’t think I’m doing the kind of job Thou wouldst have me do.”

After my prayer, I was comforted. I felt that God was telling me, “This time you are spending working so hard is important for you. Your busy schedule may be difficult, but if you overcome this trial now, I will use you to bless and help many others in the future.”

This answer gave me assurance that I had a purpose, that if I endured, I would be able to do a special work in the future.

I once saw how this kind of learning can take place. One of our children was in great difficulty in his fourth-grade class. He needed to complete a certain project by the next day, or he would face disaster. After dinner, my wife, Marie, told me that she had thought of a way she could help him. I ushered our other children out of the kitchen, and the handicraft project began.
I periodically heard outbursts from our fourth-grader, who kept insisting that he wouldn’t do another thing on the project. At one point, I offered to send him to his room and tell him to forget it, but Marie calmly urged me to let her proceed with the plan.
After about three hours, as I was tucking the other children into bed, our son and his mother entered the bedroom. Carrying his project as proudly as if it were a birthday cake, he invited the other children to see it.
He had made every part of it himself. He placed it on a counter and started for his bed. Then he looked back at his mother with a broad, boyish grin. He ran across the room, threw his arms around her waist, and hugged her close. The two of them exchanged glances that carried great meaning. He went to bed, and we left the room.
“What happened?” I asked my wife. “How did you do it?”
Marie replied that she had made up her mind that no matter what he said or did, she wouldn’t raise her voice or lose her patience. She had also decided that leaving him was not an alternative, even if the project took all night. Then she made this significant observation: “I didn’t know I had it in me to do it.”
She had discovered within herself a reservoir of patience and endurance she never would have found without the deep commitment that grew from a sense of real belonging. Belonging is for thick and thin, and this was one of the thin times! Exerting such immovable loyalty to another person teaches us how to love—indeed, how to be more like the Savior.

On New Year’s Day
I look in the glass,
And reflect upon
The year that is past.
I’m one year bigger,
But that doesn’t show,
For growing happens
To be very slow.
I’m smarter by a year,
A grade higher in school,
But I still find it hard
To obey every rule.
Today is the day
To think how to be better,
How to improve myself
Letter by letter.
For me, being better
Is ever so tough.
I wonder, I wonder,
Is one year enough?

Nancy Keetch of Council, Idaho, won first place in the National 4-H Bread-Making Program held at the National 4-H Congress in Chicago. The first-place award is a $1,500 scholarship she can use at the college of her choice. Judging for the project was based on achievement, leadership, and citizenship. Nancy compiled a record of eight years of 4-H participation to compete for the honor.
Nancy is a Laurel in the Council Ward, Weiser Idaho Stake.

Five years later, looking back on the incomplete construction of the Nauvoo Temple, Joseph knew his journey’s end was near and that he was going “like a lamb to the slaughter,” yet he was “calm as a summer’s morning.” With assurances for his protection, he submitted to one more arrest. However, his trust was dishonored. On June 27, 1844, he and his brother Hyrum were savagely murdered in Carthage Jail.

Two days after Ryan’s accident, my brother Clay became a marathon runner. He started tugging on his gym shoes without a word to anyone and disappeared for hours. Each time he returned, his T-shirt was soaked through, and his hair was in wet spikes.
I think he ran to try to outrun the pain.
I stayed home and cried, reliving the accident as though it had been caught in a series of snapshots, frame by frame. First I saw Dad’s white face on the phone. Then we were driving to the hospital silently, and I could only stare at the armrest on the car door. I was afraid to look outside at the dark road, afraid I might see Ryan’s mangled bike still lying there.
At the hospital, I memorized every brand of candy bar and potato chip in the vending machine. They said when they found Ryan, he was lying in the road by a torn sack, with loaves of bread and grapes scattered around him.
The news that hurt so much was that they also found an Almond Joy (Mom’s favorite), a bag of peanut M&M’s (Clay’s favorite), a packet of sunflower seeds (Dad’s favorite), and a Snickers bar (my favorite). We knew he had spent his own money on the treats because he had a couple of pennies in one pocket and a folded receipt and six dollars and some change in the other pocket.
Ryan was in surgery when we arrived, and I remember staring at the TV screen in the waiting area, watching a pretty girl on a soap opera pout and plan to get her boyfriend back. She acted like it was the most important thing in the world. Eons later, we were allowed into intensive care. Ryan was difficult to recognize under the bandages. The doctor rattled off his injuries like a grocery list: a broken patella, femur, clavicle, and spine, a ruptured spleen, and a lacerated liver.
A broken this, a low that, a positive test for something else. All the news was negative. I was impatient, wanting to say, “Just tell us what isn’t broken.”
Ryan wore a metal brace, a halo, around his head, which kept it perfectly still, though he never moved. The only thing that moved was the ventilator, filling the air with a hiss. The IV kept up a quiet, steady drip. The heart monitor blipped ceremoniously.
Ryan would have liked the sounds, the rhythm of the IV and the steady beeping of the heart monitor. He used to sit at the table with a fork and spoon, tapping out a rhythm. He found patterns of rhythm in everything—the only person I know who appreciated a flat tire because it went “ga-WHUMP, ga-WHUMP, ga-WHUMP.”
I remember when he got excited as we watched rain fall one day on a long trip to Yellowstone. “Katie,” he said, “hear that?” He noticed little things, like the way raindrops hitting the windshield looked like miniature cat paw prints. Even though he was 15, he still had playing cards clipped to his bike spokes.
We were all there when the monitor stopped, the drumbeat fading to one long beep without rhythm or motion; Mom with red eyes, clutching a shredded tissue, Dad clenching his teeth; and Clay sitting near the bed, his head in his hands.
So Clay ran. And ran. I never saw him cry, but I think he must have done it during his runs. He was running miles and miles every day. Mom and Dad were quiet. No teasing or laughing or even music was heard in our house. Mom cried and cried when the drum set she’d ordered for Christmas came. I signed for it, and the delivery man went back to his truck, bewildered and apologetic.
I started to cringe whenever the doorbell rang. Who would be the next to blunder into our grief? A life insurance man? A boy Ryan’s age selling candy bars to finance a band trip?

Partway through my mission in Arizona, USA, I was hit with my first panic attack. I talked to leaders, asked for help, and prayed a lot. But the help I needed did not seem to come. I felt alone and afraid. I was even told I might have to go home.
One day my mother called. She asked, “Can you keep going?” I responded with, “I don’t know. I really don’t know.” Then my mom said, “Can you do one more month?” I said, “I don’t know.”
“What about one more week?” she asked. “I don’t know,” I said again. “What about one more day?” she asked. “I. Don’t. Know,” I said.
Then she asked, “Can you do one more minute?” Finally I said, “Well yes, of course.” She told me, “Then just do that. Go minute to minute, until you can get to an hour. Then let it progress, slowly. Don’t rush. Just let God take over. I promise you’re going to be OK.”
I trusted in her words. I have now been out for almost 21 months. I still struggle with mental health sometimes. But I also experience a lot of joy. And I have faith that as I go step by step, minute by minute, I can do this through the power of the Lord and His infinite Atonement. Struggles with mental health are real. But as we turn to Christ, we can do hard things.
Elder Rhett Turley, Arizona Mesa Mission

After a long day of driving my bus in Victoria, Australia, I was making my last trip of the evening, heading home. On the way I saw two well-dressed young men walking. I decided to stop the bus and ask them if they needed a lift.
I asked them why they wore name tags, white shirts, and ties. One of them explained that they were missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. As I asked questions about their work, I felt something fill the bus that I later realized was the Holy Spirit. When I asked them to tell me more about Jesus Christ, I couldn’t help but become excited by their answers.
Unfortunately it was getting late, so I dropped off the missionaries in Dandenong. Afterward, I was sad when I realized that I did not get their phone number. For weeks I prayed that I could meet them again. As I drove my bus route, I even looked for them. Months went by, and then an unbelievable thing happened on my birthday, August 19, 2002.
As I was eating lunch with my wife, Camelia, a knock came at the door. When she answered it, I heard familiar voices. It was the missionaries I had met on the bus! They were just as surprised to see me as I was to see them. They had been tracting on our street and were led to our house. My prayers had been answered.
Elders Jason Frandsen and James Thieler immediately began teaching us. The Book of Mormon and the Prophet Joseph Smith were new to us, but we easily understood the gospel because we had a Christian background. The missionaries asked us to pray about and ponder what we were learning. As we did so, we felt the Spirit, a desire to attend church, and a prompting to be baptized. We have been blessed ever since.
Today, several years later, I still drive a bus, and I still give rides to missionaries. But now I help them carry out missionary work by introducing people to them and by sharing the Book of Mormon and other Church materials with my passengers.
People on my bus can’t help but notice how happy I am. When they ask why, I simply say, “The Lord has done this for me. He can change your life too.”

Construction work on the Quezon City Chapel progressed fairly well. However, I encountered a little problem—the construction approach and methods used in the Philippines varied from the construction approach and methods I was used to in the United States. For instance, it was hard for me to get used to seeing so much timber set up prior to actual digging of the foundations but I learned soon that I cannot change the methods used and expect to get chapels constructed, at least right away. But one method that I insisted the contractors use is the use of pumped concrete to the ridged frames so that there will be a monolithic pour and not have any cold joints in the truss structure. The workers were not familiar with this method but later on the men worked well in handling the moveable pipes for the flow of the concrete.

A few years later, I learned how essential sacrifice is to living the gospel. If we want the Lord to give us purpose and direction, we have to be willing to take that direction.
After school, things didn’t go according to plan with the company I was working for, so my wife and I had two choices: stay in the United States or return to Chile. We both clearly felt that we needed to return to Chile. It might seem normal to want to return home, but this was at a very difficult time. There weren’t a lot of jobs in Chile. I was having trouble selling our home. Financially and logistically, it was not the most intuitive thing to do; even our families thought we were being unwise.
What do you do when revelation comes into conflict with common sense? Although it was hard, my wife and I knew what to do. We reminded ourselves that the gospel had gotten us this far. Without the Lord, I wouldn’t have had the inspiration that helped me serve a mission, receive my education, and meet my wife. We just had to trust that whatever the reasons were, we were needed in Chile.
We left our house to our bishop so it could be rented until he could sell it, and we moved away. It was difficult, but we experienced so many blessings and miracles when we heeded the Lord’s call. The Lord knows where we are needed and where we can best serve His purposes, and He blesses us for our obedience.

Early one morning my wife and I were commenting on the fact that our parents had passed away—we were both orphans. We concluded that since we were both in our 60s, it did not have the same effect it would have had if we were in our infancy or youth. We had outgrown our orphan status. It simply was no longer limiting to our growth.

During a spiritually low moment in my life as a member of the Church, a particular incident renewed my faith.
I was on a boat in the Philippines, traveling to visit my mother. The boat was filled with passengers, some enjoying the beauty of the blue horizon, others laughing and chatting with friends and acquaintances. I felt alone and lost amid the crowd of people. The anticipation of seeing my mother after a few years of separation was coupled with hesitancy.
I belong to a very religious family. When their daily religious rituals began to seem endless and without meaning, I investigated other churches until I eventually joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Because of the Church’s strong programs, sound doctrines, relevant gospel teachings, and friendly atmosphere, I felt a lot happier than I was before I embraced the gospel. My family, however, was not pleased with my choice.
But then after my baptism, in what I later recognized as a test of faith, I began to doubt, and I gradually lost my firm grasp on the iron rod. I didn’t commit any major sins, but I wasn’t as diligent as I should have been. Then I remembered my mother, a pious, gentle, and understanding woman who, despite the many trials in her life, remained steadfast to her faith. When I had told her of my decision to join another church, she said with a look of sadness, “The religion we belong to is a legacy from our ancestors, but if you think you will be better off with that new church, then go ahead. But make sure you will be true to it and will defend the truth you uphold.”
These thoughts sent a surge of embarrassment through me. How can I face my mother with my now flickering flame of faith? What if she asks me how I am faring with my newfound religion? Will I be able to meet her gaze without blushing?
As I struggled with these questions, I heard the words church and religion. A man, probably in his mid-40s, seemed to be forcing some tenets of his church onto an uninterested lady sitting next to me. Sensing her discomfort, I tried to help.
Looking straight into his eyes, I asked, “What church do you belong to?” For a split second, his eyes glowed with excitement and pleasure, as if to say, “Here’s a soul willing to open her ears to my preaching.” He sprang to his feet and moved close to me. He introduced himself as a minister. I recognized the name of his church; it is well known for religious debates.
An alarmed feeling crept into my heart, but I tried not to show it. I thought, Not now when I’m losing my spiritual equilibrium. How am I supposed to defend my faith when mists of doubt lurk in my mind? A quick glance at the lady I had rescued made me secretly wish I had not intruded. But she met my gaze with a reassuring look, encouraging me to defend my beliefs. I gathered courage and prayed silently and earnestly for assistance in this unexpected confrontation.
A feeling of confidence enveloped my whole being. I told him, “I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” Without giving me a chance to say more, he interrupted, “I know all about your church and your founder.” He went on to make offensive remarks about the Prophet Joseph Smith, the gold plates, and the Book of Mormon. He said they were all fallacies.
What I felt next surprised me. I felt a strong desire to defend my religion. But hadn’t I been drifting slowly from the Church?
What surprised me most were the firm declarations that came from my mouth, attesting to the truthfulness and reality of the Prophet Joseph Smith, the First Vision, and the Book of Mormon. I added that people’s negative opinions of Joseph Smith would not change my testimony that he was chosen by God to restore His Church in this last dispensation.
I could hardly believe how confidently those truths flowed from my lips. At that moment I knew with a surety that the Spirit was there to testify in my trial of faith.
With renewed faith, I remembered the statement in Ether 12:6: “Ye receive no witness until after the trial of your faith.” I offered a silent prayer of gratitude to my Heavenly Father as that verse sank into my heart. Peace filled me, and I realized I was ready to face my mother and to share with her the blessings of joy and peace that the gospel brings into my life.

A few years ago I was afforded the privilege to serve as a mission president and became intimately acquainted with almost 500 missionaries. We had one young missionary who was very ill. After weeks of hospitalization, as the surgeon prepared to undertake extremely serious and complicated surgery, he asked that we send for the missionary’s mother and father. He said that there was a great likelihood that Elder Davidson could not survive the surgery. The parents came; and late that evening, his father and I, in the hospital room in Toronto, Canada, placed our hands upon the head of that young missionary and gave him a blessing. What happened following that blessing was a testimony to me.
Elder Davidson was in a six-bed ward in the hospital. The other beds were occupied by five men with a variety of illnesses. The morning of Elder Davidson’s surgery, his bed was empty. The nurse came into the room with the breakfast these husky men normally ate. She brought a tray over to bed number one and said, “Fried eggs this morning, and I have an extra portion for you.” Bed number one was occupied by a man who was lying on his bed with his toe wrapped up in a bandage. He had suffered an accident with his lawn mower. Other than his injured toe, he was well physically. He said to the nurse, “I’ll not be eating this morning.”
“All right, we’ll give your breakfast to your partner in bed number two!” As she went over to him, he said, “No, I think I’ll not eat this morning.”
She said, “That’s two in a row. I don’t understand you men, and there is no one this morning in bed three.” She went on to bed four, bed five, and bed six; and the answer was the same. “No, this morning we’re not hungry.”
The young lady put her hands on her hips and said, “Every other morning you eat us out of house and home, and today not one of you wants to eat. What is the reason?”
And then the man who occupied bed number six came forth with the answer.
He said, “You see, bed number three is empty. Our friend Davidson is in the operating room under the surgeon’s hands. He needs all the help he can get. He is a missionary for his church; and while he has been lying on that bed while we have been patients in this ward, he has talked to us about the principles of his church—principles of prayer, of faith, of fasting wherein we call upon the Lord for blessings.” He said, “We don’t know much about the Mormon church, but we have learned a great deal about Davidson; and we are fasting for him today.”
I might tell you that the operation was a success. In fact, when I attempted to pay the surgeon, he countered, “Why, that would be dishonest for me to accept a fee. I have never before performed surgery when my hands seemed to be guided by a power which was other than my own. No,” he said, “I wouldn’t take a fee for the surgery which Someone on high helped me to perform.”
Elder Davidson framed his life with faith.