Gospel Story Finder

One young sister recently shared her feelings about Relief Society. She said she had grown up in a ward where the sisters took a great interest in her, even while she was in Young Women, so that when it came time for her to go to Relief Society, she was excited and so were they. She noticed the “wide variety of personalities, interests, backgrounds, and ages in that Relief Society” and remarked, “I now … have a group of friends that spans the decades—from teenagers to great-great-grandmothers and everything in between.”

Even though 14-year-old Becki Wilson of Easingwold, West Yorkshire, Northern England, sang solos in eight Church events during one season, no one ever got tired of the Mia Maid’s remarkable voice. They’re happy she’s using her talents to inspire others.
Becki recently passed the Grade V singing exam and Grade IV flute with distinction. She is a member of her school junior and concert bands, and performed in her school production of Oliver.
Her next goal is to audition for Britain’s National Youth Choir. If she makes it, she will be able to inspire people all over the world with her talents.

President Thomas S. Monson
(66) A man in Canada investigates and joins the Church after two full-time missionaries bear powerful testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith.

One Christmas season when I was about five, I saw in a store window a jigsaw puzzle with a picture of an old fire engine going full speed down the street. The horses pulling it were galloping, smoke from the engine chimney was blowing out behind, and dogs were barking. I passed that store window many times and glued my eyes on that picture. I wanted that puzzle for Christmas more than I wanted a sled or skates or anything else.
When Christmas morning finally came, I found hung on my chair a stocking full of good things. But right off I spotted my puzzle. It was wrapped in bright paper, but I could tell by the shape what it was. I quickly opened the box and was soon lost in the pleasure of putting the puzzle together.
Before long my father came into the room and explained to my younger brother, older sister, and me that the Jensen family down the street had recently come from Denmark. He said the father had no job and no money, and then he suggested that we take our Christmas dinner to them. He also asked each of us to select our most loved toy and give it to a child in the Jensen family.
Father said we would leave at eleven forty-five and were to be ready then with our toys.
Before we left for the Jensen’s, I spent three happy hours playing with and enjoying my puzzle. I thought about giving something else, but I knew deep down that there was only one gift to give.
At eleven forty-five we all started out. Father carried the turkey on a platter. Mother and my sister Emily followed with potatoes, gravy, dressing, cranberries, and dessert. And under my arm, carefully rewrapped, was my fire engine puzzle.
When we entered the Jensen home, Father placed the turkey on the small bare table in the corner, and the others followed.
Each one of us in turn then gave his present. Emily gave her beautiful doll to the girl. I stepped forward and looked at the boy about my age. “Here,” I said as I pushed the puzzle at him. He took it from me and smiled. Next my brother gave his offering to the smallest child. And then we returned home.
It was strange, but somehow as I walked the block between our house and the Jensen’s, it seemed as if my feet didn’t touch the ground. I felt as though I were floating on clouds of good feeling, for I knew I had made someone else happy.
Even our Christmas dinner of canned beans, bread, butter, and bottled fruit had a special and unforgettable meaning on that special Christmas Day!

When I feel alone and that nobody understands me, I try to always remember that my Heavenly Father loves me. When I think this, it brings peace and makes me feel like I’m not alone.
Allison H., 14, Oregon, USA

This General Authority was converted to the Church while he was in his early twenties. He met some missionaries in Hawaii who invited him to play basketball at MIA. Later, after he had heard the missionary lessons, he was baptized and became a dedicated Latter-day Saint, assuming positions of responsibility in the Church. His children speak of him this way:
“It was difficult for my father to tell his mother that he wanted to be baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He so much wanted her to understand, that he promised her: ‘I’ll never do anything to bring dishonor to you or be disrespectful to you. If I do, I’ll leave the Church!’

This training has paid off. The Tse sisters, Ling-ling, 20, Wai-wai, 19, Mei-mei, 15, and Bing-bing, 14, know why members are referred to as “active.” Within two days of their baptism, the younger three sisters all had at least one position in the Lai Chi Kok Branch. (Ling had joined the Church when eight.) Even before they were members, they had “unofficial” responsibilities in the branch. Today Ling teaches the Gospel Essentials class for investigators and serves as a district missionary working with the full-time missionaries. Wai writes for the mission newsletter and fellowships inactive members. Bing is the Merry Miss teacher in Primary. And Mei is the Junior Sunday School coordinator. Her hardest job, she says, is convincing the children that they really can manage a short talk assignment.
Ling was the first of the sisters to join the Church. Their uncle is a member and would take her to Church when she was a child. Shortly after she was baptized at age eight, her mother forbade her to attend her meetings. Several years passed before she was allowed to return. By then she was 14, and the missionaries had retaught her the discussions. Her first Church responsibility was taking care of the bulletin board. It was through Ling that her three sisters became interested in the Church. Their parents and two younger brothers are still nonmembers, and the sisters say their greatest desire is to see their entire family active in the gospel.

Later, almost by chance while reading an obscure book, I made a discovery. There were still in existence two pillars, with the original capitals still crowning them, that had been part of the portico of Solomon’s temple. It took special permission from the Arab Religious Council to gain access to them, and then I could only get as close as the open mesh of a wire fence. In breathless silence I looked at a fragment of the glory that was Israel 3,000 years ago. Now they stand in a storage room crowded with empty chairs, silent sentinels of a glorious past.

When I was sixteen years old, I was a printing apprentice. A fellow apprentice was totally engrossed in motorcycles. In those days, we rode British motorcycles, and he had a very powerful one.
One sunny summer day, he said to me, “Would you like to come for a ride on my motorcycle?” That seemed to be a good idea. In those days we didn’t wear any protective clothing; and thus, very lightly clad, I became the passenger on his motorcycle. He weaved through the streets of the city and then came to a long, straight road. He leaned back and said to me, “Have you ever traveled at 160 kilometers an hour?”
I said, “No.”
He said, “Well, you’re going to.”
I said, “We don’t have to.”
He began to rev the engine, and the motorcycle roared forward. The skin on my face pulled tight, and my clothing whipped in the wind as we went past 150 to 160 kilometers an hour. I had accepted an invitation that put someone else in control of my safety. In fact, it put me in a dangerous situation. I determined that day that never again would I let somebody else control my life.

Two young men dressed in white shirts and ties came to our home in Honduras. “We are from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” they said.
Mama welcomed them in. The missionaries taught our family about the gospel of Jesus Christ. Though I was only nine, I felt the truth of their words in my heart.
“What must we do to become members of Christ’s Church?” Papa asked.
“Be baptized,” one of the elders said.
Mama, Papa, and I were baptized one month later. My brother, Tomas, who was six years old, would be baptized in two years.
While teaching us more about the gospel, the elders explained how families could be sealed together in the temple.
The closest temple was in Guatemala, many kilometers away. We would need to pay for a two-day bus ride and two nights’ lodging in the city. We had no money for such a trip, but Mama and Papa refused to let that stop us from attending the temple.
Every year our family grew corn. We used it to make tortillas to sell to travelers who passed through our village.
Mama pulled out a paper and pencil. She added up some numbers and said, “We must sell 2,500 tortillas to pay for our trip.”
My eyes widened. That was so many tortillas! “We have never sold so many tortillas,” I said.
Mama didn’t look worried. “The Lord will provide,” she said. “Raoul, you and Tomas must help your papa harvest the corn,” Mama told me.
Tomas and I helped Papa harvest the corn. Every day, Mama ground it, made the dough, and fried it. Tomas and I took the tortillas to the village.
“A bus of tourists came today,” I told Mama when we returned home the first day. “We sold many tortillas.”
“It is a miracle,” Mama said.
Every day we sold more tortillas. Within a few months we had saved the money we needed to make the journey to Guatemala. But I was still worried. I had heard stories about robbers who stopped buses passing through the jungle. They took all the passengers’ valuables.
“What about the robbers?” I asked.
“The Lord will protect us,” Mama said. Then she asked, “Raoul, do you believe in the gospel?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know that we must do all in our power to follow the Lord and His prophets.”
One year after we were baptized, my family was ready to make the trip to the temple. We rode to Guatemala City in a bus. I will never forget the spirit I felt as my family was sealed together for time and eternity.
That night, as I knelt to say my prayers, I thanked Heavenly Father for the blessings of the temple.

We often joked that she was my favorite aunt and I, her favorite niece. She was my mother’s only sister; and I, my mother’s only child. But even if our extended family hadn’t been so limited, Aunt Mary would have won the position.
She was one of those “quality” people—one who never got in a hurry, applying great patience to the most minute details.
It was that quality—and an artful eye—which combined to create the gifts she gently placed under the tree of our family’s Christmas Eve gatherings.
The package was always easy to spot. The paper was tailored and taped with precision. The ribbons were crossed around the box, gathering into a large rose-shaped bow—my aunt’s trademark. And beneath the handmade bow would be my name, accented with multicolored glitter.
Each Christmas I thrilled to my aunt’s creations.
One year it was a long, narrow wall plaque. Near the bottom edge, a small Japanese girl approached a bridge which served as the entrance to a pathway leading through a botanical garden.
As the path led to the top of the frame, it created the impression of walking deeper into the garden.
But the most unusual element of the plaque was not what it portrayed, but what it was made of—pebbles! Every drop of water, every flower petal, every inch was an accumulation of minute, colored pebbles. Each stone was spotted with a drop of glue, then delicately placed so close together that they created a flowing picture.
Another year, the box was especially large. Opening it, I gently lifted out a blue-dyed piece of canvas, the backdrop to a treetop filled with nests, complete with baby birds.
The tree was real bark; the nests, straw. The plump baby birds were small cotton-filled pouches covered with rows of colorful feathers, each bird had an open beak of split corn kernels.
As the years passed, my aunt’s health began to fail. Nevertheless, each year she managed to put a handmade gift under the tree—embroidered pillowcases, monogrammed handkerchiefs—all beneath a rose-shaped bow.
She continued to do this every Christmas until the one preceding her death. In the course of the year, Aunt Mary had become totally bedridden. Because she was unable to work, her savings had been quickly depleted by medical bills. Even if she had been physically capable of producing one of her elaborate creations, her limited funds would not have permitted such an expenditure.
But she wasn’t physically capable. She had become so weak that eating became a painstaking task that often took more than an hour. Assistance was required for bathroom trips. Bathing was done bedside. Her once surgeon-steady hands now shook uncontrollably as her arms laid alongside her emaciated body.
That Christmas there weren’t any glittering boxes with rose-shaped bows. But there was one with my name on it, scribbled by the shaking hand of my aunt.
Aunt Mary apologized repeatedly for the shabbily wrapped box. I continued to assure her it was just fine. But as I opened the lid, I couldn’t help but wonder what Aunt Mary could possibly have made for me this year.
Wrapped in shredded newspaper laid a small ceramic bird.
“I know it’s not much,” began my aunt.
“It’s beautiful,” I interrupted.
“It’s not anything like the other Christmases,” she continued.
“I understand,” I tried to comfort.
“I knew you would,” she said sadly. “I just hate that this Christmas has to be a green stamp one.”
I knew what she meant by her emphasis of this.
“Green stamp one?” I asked, trying to change our thoughts.
“Yep!” Aunt Mary chirped in a voice much like her youthful self. “Right out of the S&H Guidebook to Finer Living!”
“Well, I think it’s lovely,” I concluded, gently hugging her neck.
“Good! I’m glad,” she said jokingly. “I had to lick a lot of stamps for that bird!”
We all laughed. The humor sounded so much like my aunt—the way she was before.
“She did lick a lot of stamps,” my mother said seriously as we were leaving my aunt’s house. “She also stuck every one of them into the books.”
“She did?” I asked astonished. “How? I mean, those little single ones? It must have been …”
“Painstaking?” finished my mother. “As much as any of your other Christmas presents. She even went to the store and picked it up herself. I took her.”
Suddenly I realized how much the small bird represented. I tried to visualize the hours her shaking hands labored to place so many stamps, and the effort to dress and make the difficult journey to purchase the gift.
As I thought, I found myself gaining a new perspective on the gifts brought to the baby Jesus. Rather than seeing the material value of the Wise Men’s offerings, I realized the love they expressed in making the journey themselves, rather than sending messengers.
Instead of viewing the shepherds as paupers in comparison to the kings, I realized the great value in the gifts they brought, giving of the painstaking, daily labor of their lives.
My green stamp Christmas was the one when I learned the most about giving! From three kings, a few shepherds, and my favorite aunt.

She had learned about waiting during World War II when she thought her husband had died. The same bravery that led Bert to earn decorations from the Allied High Command and from the Dutch government for valor in the face of grave danger also led him to be parachuted behind Japanese lines with the English. He had been borrowed by the British forces, and Nora knew nothing about his whereabouts. Left alone with two small children, she survived in a post-war refugee camp in Bombay, India, assuming she would never see her husband again after receiving no word from him for four years.
But one day in 1946 as she was teaching a class to some children, a man stood at the back of the room. It was Bert. On an assignment with the British, he had been stationed in Singapore, where he searched the lists of refugee camps in the country. After a joyful reunion with his family, Bert went on another assignment to Ceylon (Sri Lanka), this time with his family, before returning to Indonesia.

Tossip Sahaiau of Manus, Papua, New Guinea, is justifiably excited about his local soccer team’s grand final win in district competition. But the 18-year-old co-captain knows that his team had extra help.

Because of financial problems, the team almost didn’t make it to the finals. “It was through prayer that we were able to get the money we needed,” said Tossip.

Tossip is the only Latter-day Saint on his team, but he tries hard to set a good example. His faith helps. “I am thankful that the Lord has directed me to my right destination in the Church,” he says.

Mathias Inum – “When I came to the temple, I knew that I was there to receive the light of Christ. When I return to Papua New Guinea, I am going to show this light to everyone and be a light to this world.”

Let me give you some examples. I suppose we have all had someone do something to us that we didn’t like, and that made us angry. We can’t forget it, and we don’t want to be around that person. This is called being unforgiving. Now, the Lord has had some very strong words to say to those who will not forgive one another. Many years ago I had an experience with being unforgiving. I felt I had been taken advantage of, and I did not like that person. I did not want to be around him; I would pass on the other side of the street if he came down it; I wouldn’t talk to him. Long after the issue should have been finished it was still like a canker to my soul. I decided that I was going to pray for a better feeling about this person until I had one. That night I got on my knees, and I prayed and opened up my heart to the Lord. But when I got up off my knees, I still didn’t like that person. The next morning I knelt and prayed and asked to have a feeling of goodness toward him; but when I finished my prayers, I still didn’t like him. The next night I still didn’t like him; a week later I didn’t like him; and a month later I didn’t like him—and I had been praying every night and every morning. But I continued to pray, and I finally started pleading—not just praying, but pleading. After much prayer, the time came when without question or reservation I knew I could stand before the Lord, if I were asked to, and that he would know that at least in this instance my heart was pure. A change had come over me after a period of time. The stone of unforgiveness had been removed.

When I was in the ninth grade, I returned from my first out-of-town game with the varsity baseball team. My father discerned that on the long bus ride home I had witnessed language and behavior that was not in harmony with the standards of the gospel. Being a professional artist, he sat down and drew a picture of a knight—a warrior capable of defending castles and kingdoms.
As he drew and read from the scriptures, I learned how to be a faithful priesthood holder—to protect and defend the kingdom of God. The words of the Apostle Paul were my guide:
“Wherefore take unto you the whole armour of God, that ye may be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.
“Stand therefore, having your loins girt about with truth, and having on the breastplate of righteousness;
“And your feet shod with the preparation of the gospel of peace;
“Above all, taking the shield of faith, wherewith ye shall be able to quench all the fiery darts of the wicked.
“And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.”2

To a casual observer, *Chris would seem to have a really easy life. She’s pretty, has lots of friends, comes from a super home, is really talented in music—and so on.
Easy life, right? Maybe not: Most people don’t know that Chris has a serious heart defect. Chances are Chris won’t be able to have children.

Before my wife and I were married, I said to her, “You know, Mary, I feel that to be successful in business I will have to work hard domestically and perhaps internationally. Do you want to go on that trip with me?” She said she did. Ten years after we were married, I was asked to go to England, and there she was with me. Then we went to Germany and later to Spain. She became international, multicultural, and bilingual because she had made up her mind that we would work and grow together.

Many years ago, my family happily awaited the birth of our son, Randolph “Ray” Gibson. But a routine ultrasound produced a sledgehammer to our hearts.

Ray was diagnosed with hypoplastic left heart syndrome (HLHS), which is a condition where the left side of the heart does not develop properly. Blood cannot circulate for the heart to function, and it is often fatal for the infant.

As our family processed this diagnosis, our friends and family offered prayers for us, family fasts, and outpourings of love and concern. We remained hopeful. Nevertheless, a follow-up test brought more discouraging news: Ray’s HLHS was extremely severe.

Compassionate medical professionals discussed our options with us. To terminate the pregnancy was not a decision we would consider. But we had to balance a wish for our son to live—however faint the odds—against pain he would suffer from attempts to repair his heart. Efforts to keep Ray alive would likely lead to a lifetime of suffering and to death at a very young age.

My wife, Kati, and I prayerfully made a very hard decision. We would greet our son into this world, keep him comfortable, and allow him to die peacefully. Our commitment to the gospel of Jesus Christ and our belief in the plan of salvation helped us make this choice. It was not easy watching our son grow in the womb, knowing his death would occur after birth. We also worried how our two-year-old would deal with meeting a baby brother and then attending his funeral a week later.

We were strengthened by the Lord’s declaration that “little children are holy, being sanctified through the atonement of Jesus Christ” (Doctrine and Covenants 74:7).

Kati and I can attest that the year in which we awaited Ray’s arrival helped us understand the true meaning of a husband and wife cleaving to each other (see Genesis 2:24 and Doctrine and Covenants 42:22). We clung to one another, allowing our love and trust to help us endure. We poured our hearts out to God, asking for strength to go on and to bless our family through this ordeal. Our marriage grew stronger.

Before Ray was born, we found out he was breech. The doctors worried that he would not survive the strain of normal birth, so they performed a C-section delivery. Minutes after the birth, I, along with my bishop and several others, gave Ray a priesthood blessing outside the operating room. During this chaotic, traumatic situation, I uttered several sentences and finished “in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” Ray was then washed, bundled, and taken to his family in the hospital room.

Ray lived for 24 hours and 16 minutes. Family and friends filled the hospital room during the day, holding Ray and loving him. It was a surreal experience—the only day we would have with our son. I treasured holding him, kissing him, and changing his diapers.

The next morning our son died. We held him and loved him fiercely in his final hour.

In Utah, youth of the St. George 16th Ward participated in an “MTC night,” where everyone was assigned to a “mission” and a room where a returned missionary shared experiences from that particular mission.