Gospel Story Finder

Recently a mother told me her family had moved from a rural, scattered ward where, of necessity, activities were consolidated into one weekday night. It was wonderful. They had time for their family. I can see them sitting around the table together.

They moved west into a larger ward where members were closer to the chapel. She said, “Now our family is scheduled Tuesday night, Wednesday night, Thursday night, Friday night, Saturday night, and Sunday night. It is very hard on our family.”

For Donath Banamwana, his life’s path was very clear to him from an early age. His family was Catholic, the predominant religion in his home country of Rwanda. “Most Rwandan’s are very religious and over half of them are Catholic,” Donath noted.
It was a tradition in his village that every family would have at least one priest and he was very happy to take that responsibility for his family. “From the time that I was very young all I ever wanted was to be a priest,” he said, adding that all his education and life preparation was in anticipation of spending his life serving God in the priesthood.
During his late teenage years, he became confused by some of the things he heard and the feelings of doubt that continued to consume his thoughts. “I realized that I could not continue on this path, and I was devastated. I had spent my entire life preparing for this, and somehow God was preparing me for something else,” he said. But he did not know what path to take.
Donath struggled to determine what he would do with his life. Almost in desperation he decided that he would become a soldier in the Rwandan army. This was devastating for his family who were still disappointed that he had chosen not to enter the priesthood, and they were determined to do whatever it took to make sure he didn’t become a soldier.
They sent Donath to the Rwandan capital of Kigali where he had an uncle he could stay with. They hoped that he would take some time to think about his decisions. He got a job and settled into the area with his uncle’s family. One Sunday, his uncle asked him if he would like to attend church with him and his family. “I asked him what church and he said, ‘The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.’” He told his uncle he had never heard of this church but would like to attend.

It was the hardest letter I had ever written. Not knowing how it would be received, I struggled to find the right words.
It had been five years since I last communicated with my ex-husband’s mother. I was now remarried and trying to offer the love of four children to a grandmother who hadn’t seen or heard from them in all that time.
“Do what you feel you must do,” my husband said, although he didn’t like the idea too well. “Don’t start something you might regret later,” my mother told me.
But there was something else prompting me—a different spirit that said, “You must let her know that her only grandchildren are alive, well, and happy.”
So I wrote the letter. Offering to put aside our past, I spoke of future visits with loved grandchildren and friendship with our family. I included the children’s school pictures.
Grandmother June was in the hospital when the letter arrived. Following surgery, she had developed an infection that slowed her healing and was the start of a deep depression. She had had an unhappy life, and no one was really surprised when she seemed to give up the will to live. Days went by as she lay there, uncaring and unfeeling.
Bill, her husband, brought her cards and letters as they arrived, but it didn’t seem to help. A few days before Thanksgiving a priest came to administer last rites. There was not much hope for her recovery.
That day, when Bill brought the mail in, June took an interest in one of the letters. He opened it, spilling the children’s photographs onto the bed. Both of them reached at once for the pictures. Bill kissed them again and again. June was too weak to do more than look at the treasure and weep.
Later in the afternoon she told a surprised nurse, “I’m hungry. Please bring me something to eat.” With a new will to live, June sat up in bed for the first time in many days. Soon she was strong enough to answer my letter. She was overjoyed to read about the children, happy to forget about past problems, and excited about seeing her grandchildren again.
We drove to Pennsylvania that summer and visited June and Bill, sharing together a great gift of love and gratitude. I don’t know that my letter saved her life, but I do know that the Spirit of the Lord prompted me to write. And I am deeply thankful that the Spirit urged me to do it when I felt like not doing it.

Connecting 150 generations was not easy. Like many others who are involved in searching out their ancestors, the Wu family acknowledges that they had help.
After going back 26 generations, they got stuck.
“About all we had was a nickname,” Sister Wu says.
On the final day of the Chinese New Year, Sister Wu had plans to attend a holiday celebration after serving in the temple. But when a friend on the shift mentioned she was going to stop by the family history center located on the temple grounds, Sister Wu felt impressed to go with her.
She went to a book containing information on people with the surname of the ancestor the family couldn’t find. When she opened the book, it fell open to a page that listed information on this particular ancestor. With that information, they were able to connect to other lines that led back many generations.
“It was a very special experience for me,” Sister Wu says. “I can feel that our ancestors are very anxious to have their ordinances done.”

Once, while Joseph was delivering a sermon in someone’s home, a little girl became tired and sleepy and began to cry. Joseph stopped speaking for a moment, sat down, and motioned for her to come to him. He held her on his lap, patted her, and she went to sleep while he completed his sermon.

As a young man having just finished my first year of college and needing to earn money for a desired mission, I spent the summer working at the new Jackson Lake Lodge in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. Many college-age youths came to work in that pristine, beautiful area.
One such person was Jill, a young woman from San Francisco, California. Feeling that a young woman from a big city might be a little bit naive about her new environment, I and a few friends felt it our obligation to teach her about the ways of the real West. We decided to take her on a “snipe hunt.” For those of you who may not be familiar with a snipe hunt, it is a practical joke, as there is no such thing as a snipe, at least not in the western United States. The tools necessary for a snipe hunt are a stick and a cloth bag. The “hunter” is told to go through the brush, beating the bushes with a stick while calling the snipe in a high-pitched, ridiculous voice. The nonexistent snipes are thus to be driven into the cloth bag.
We gave Jill her cloth bag and a stick and an area to hunt across the hill. The plan was to return to our starting point in about 15 minutes, at which time we would supposedly count our snipes.
When she did not return at the appointed time, we gloated and took delight in the seriousness with which she took her hunt. After about 30 minutes, we felt it was time to rescue her, explain the joke, have a good laugh, and all go to dinner. However, it became apparent that she had taken her snipe hunt more seriously than we had expected—she was not to be found in her assigned area. After searching rather extensively and still finding no evidence of her, we began moving into the woods, calling for her at the top of our voices, but to no avail.
Hoping she might have gone back to her dormitory, we returned and asked some young women to search for her there, but this also was to no avail. It was now turning dark, and our concern heightened. We enlisted all the young men we could from the boys’ dormitory and with flashlights continued the search deep into the woods. Well into the darkness of night—frightened, concerned, and hoarse from calling—we decided it was now time to report our ridiculous deed to the park rangers. While we were standing in front of the dorms, trying to determine which brave soul would have the privilege of reporting her disappearance, Jill suddenly appeared—not from her dormitory, but rather from that of a friend with whom she had enjoyed dinner (which we incidentally missed) and a comfortable evening with her friends. Her first words to us as she approached said it all: “How do you fellows like hunting snipe hunters?” Well, so much for big city naïveté, and so much for the ways of the real West. The joke was on us, and I have never had a desire for any more snipe hunting.

Each Sunday in the Rennes Ward, Angers France Stake, Sister Delphine Letort, as Young Women president, provided a card to each young woman in attendance and asked her to select a peer who wasn’t at church and write to her. The young women wrote about the lesson that week—what they learned or what inspired them—as well as a friendly, personal note. Then Sister Letort or one of her counselors sent the cards in the mail to those who weren’t at church.
The activity was simple but effective, she says, not only as a way for those who weren’t attending to know that they were remembered but also for those who were writing the notes to be more mindful of each other.
“By small things great miracles come about,” she says (see Alma 37:6). “We have seen it manifested. The young women have been encouraged, and this experience has contributed to increasing their testimonies.”

I absolutely loved conference! I felt the Spirit so strongly. Since I’ve started preparing questions and preparing myself spiritually for conference, it’s taken a whole different meaning in my life, and I’ve been able to learn so much more. I felt a strong impression from President Monson’s talk to read the Book of Mormon more often and really study and ponder its teachings. I am so grateful for the prophets and apostles, and I know that they are sent from Heavenly Father to lead us and guide us!
Ben H., 17, Kentucky, USA
About: Loves sports. Plays basketball and tennis at school; loves skiing, snowboarding, traveling, and hiking.

I’m adopted. That means that the mommy and daddy I live with aren’t the ones I was born to. Another lady grew me inside of her. After I was born, she couldn’t keep me, so I was given to Mommy and Daddy and became their very own little girl. They take care of me. They love me, hug and kiss me, teach me, and correct me when I’ve done something wrong.

It was my experience as a small boy to come under the influence of a most effective and inspired teacher who listened to us and who loved us. Her name was Lucy Gertsch. In our Sunday School class, she taught us concerning the Creation of the world, the Fall of Adam, the atoning sacrifice of Jesus. She brought to her classroom as honored guests Moses, Joshua, Peter, Thomas, Paul, and, of course, Christ. Though we did not see them, we learned to love, honor, and emulate them.

Never was her teaching so dynamic nor its impact more everlasting as one Sunday morning when she sadly announced to us the passing of a classmate’s mother. We had missed Billy that morning but did not know the reason for his absence.

The lesson featured the theme “It is more blessed to give than to receive” (Acts 20:35). Midway through the lesson, our teacher closed the manual and opened our eyes and our ears and our hearts to the glory of God. She asked, “How much money do we have in our class party fund?”

Depression days prompted a proud answer: “Four dollars and seventy-five cents.”

Then ever so gently she suggested, “Billy’s family is hard pressed and grief stricken. What would you think of the possibility of visiting the family members this morning and giving to them your fund?”

Ever shall I remember the tiny band walking those three city blocks, entering Billy’s home, greeting him, his brother, sisters, and father. Noticeably absent was his mother. Always I shall treasure the tears which glistened in the eyes of all as the white envelope containing our precious party fund passed from the delicate hand of our teacher to the needy hand of a grief-stricken father.

We fairly skipped our way back to the chapel. Our hearts were lighter than they had ever been, our joy more full, our understanding more profound. A God-inspired teacher had taught her boys and girls an eternal lesson of divine truth: “It is more blessed to give than to receive.”

Well could we have paraphrased the words of the disciples on the way to Emmaus: “Did not our heart burn within us … while [she] opened to us the scriptures?” (Luke 24:32).

Lucy Gertsch knew each of her students. She unfailingly called on those who missed a Sunday or who just didn’t come. We knew she cared about us. None of us has ever forgotten her or the lessons she taught.

Many, many years later, when Lucy was nearing the end of her life, I visited with her. We reminisced concerning those days so long before when she had been our teacher. We spoke of each member of our class and discussed what each one was now doing. Her love and caring spanned a lifetime.

John Taylor served as the Church’s presiding officer in Canada for two years. In March 1837, he went to Kirtland in the United States to meet with the Prophet Joseph Smith. At the time, the Church was suffering heavy persecution, and even some of the Apostles were leaning toward apostasy. Elder Pratt approached John Taylor and expressed some disapproval concerning the Prophet Joseph, to which Elder Taylor replied: “I am surprised to hear you speak so, Brother Parley. Before you left Canada you bore a strong testimony to Joseph Smith being a Prophet of God. … Now Brother Parley, it is not man that I am following, but the Lord. The principles you taught me led me to Him, and I now have the same testimony that you then rejoiced in. If the work was true six months ago, it is true today; if Joseph Smith was then a prophet, he is now a prophet.”6

My youngest daughter and her husband spent several years earnestly seeking the best medical direction and the latest scientific assistance to have a baby. They fasted, they prayed, they hoped.
At last the long-desired result was achieved, and she is expecting their first child. Recently, the doctor scheduled an intensive examination to determine the soundness of the pregnancy. My daughter approached the exam with much anxiety. As the appointed day drew near, she found that her husband could not accompany her, and she asked if I would go with her. She said, “Mom, after all we’ve been through, if anything is wrong, I am going to need someone with me.”
I was delighted to get a preview peek at someone I am going to love and treasure through eternity. I wanted to reassure her that everything was all right, but in my heart I too worried.
After the doctor reviewed the technician’s video, he came in to discuss the findings with us. His first words were, “I wish every baby could look this perfect!” I could hardly contain myself. As we got to our car, I could not hold back my feelings any longer and I began to cry. So many feelings just came spilling out. I wept, wishing every expectant mother could hear those words. I cried for every woman who wanted to have a baby but couldn’t. Tears flowed for all the women who want children but have not found a husband. Finally, I shed tears of gratitude with an overwhelming desire that our family will provide a home worthy of this baby.

The beautiful limestone temple was a dramatic sight, standing on the brow of a hill, its tower rising 48.2 meters. But the beauty was not to last. In 1848 an arsonist started a fire that destroyed the interior, and two years later a tornado knocked down three of the walls. The remaining wall was purposely leveled in 1856 because of the danger of its falling.

I was blessed to grow up in a household with daily scripture study. From the moment I could sound out the letters in front of me, I was invited to participate in family reading. It must have been frustrating to my older siblings, as I slowly stumbled over each word. I also picked up on a pattern in the Book of Mormon, and for a time I began each verse with “and it came to pass”.
The influence that this simple practice had on my life is too large to fully convey. In an educational sense, scripture study meant that I was engaging with complicated historical writings from a young age. Many years later, I now hold a degree in ancient history, which in no doubt was influenced by the incredible accounts of ancient people within the Book of Mormon.
In a spiritual sense, I was blessed with a knowledge of the truth of what I was reading. These weren’t just stories to me—they were real people, inspired by God, going through trials, and experiencing joys. It also gave me a mental index of people and stories to go to in times of need. For example, for courage, I would delve in 1 Nephi 3; for inspiration, I would read King Benjamin’s address beginning in Mosiah 2. I would turn to people in the scriptures for advice and guidance.

Often, my prayers for my family seemed to go unanswered. Sometimes, the more I prayed, the worse things seemed to get. I didn’t know then that, though the Lord shares our sorrow, he will not force change. But over time, his love can often find a way to bring even greater blessings than we had prayed for. So many of those fervent prayers of long ago have now been answered. And I now know that he has never ceased trying to bless my loved ones.

On Sunday, 27 March 1836, hundreds of Latter-day Saints came to Kirtland for the dedication. The doors opened at 8:00 A.M., and 1,000 people entered. Hundreds more who had also worked and sacrificed for the building of the temple were left outside. Seeing their disappointment, Joseph Smith decided to repeat the dedication on Thursday.
The choir opened the meeting; then President Sidney Rigdon spoke for two and a half hours. After a brief intermission, the officers of the Church were sustained. Then the Prophet offered the dedicatory prayer, given to him by revelation. This prayer is now section 109 of the Doctrine and Covenants [D&C 109]. After the prayer, the choir sang “The Spirit of God,” which had been written specifically for the dedication.
The congregation ended the seven-hour service by standing and giving the sacred Hosanna Shout. Sister Eliza R. Snow said that it was given “with such power as seemed almost sufficient to raise the roof from the building.”

The sun hung low after a warm summer day in Pacheco, in the Latter-day Saint colonies in Mexico. As five-year-old Mae and two-year-old Wasel played outside, they could smell smoke wafting from adobe chimneys and open fires. Supper would be ready soon. Sure enough, Mama called, “Mae! Wasel! Go wash up.” The girls quickly obeyed and went inside to eat.
After supper, Mama said, “Come, little Wasel.” Every night Wasel went with Mama and Papa to herd the cows. Mae and baby David stayed home with Aunt Hattie. Wasel loved this time alone with her parents. She was so excited that she ran outside still clutching her dinner spoon.
“I don’t think Wasel should come with us tonight. We have to care for some horses, and it may be too far for her to walk,” Papa said.
Mama nodded. “Wasel, Mama and Papa are going on a long walk tonight. Take that spoon back to the house and give it to Aunt Hattie. Then you can play with the other children, and tomorrow you can come with us to get the cows.”
Wasel just stood there, holding her spoon. She didn’t want to go back to the house.
“Run along now,” Mama said. Wasel turned and ran toward the house, but when her parents were out of sight, she put her spoon near the door and decided to go get the cows after all. She knew the way to the pasture. But she didn’t know that her parents hadn’t gone straight there.
The shadows grew long as the sun sank lower. Wasel walked and walked, through fields and corn patches. Wolves howled in the distance. Wasel came to a marshy area and walked there for a long time. She liked to feel the mud squishing between her bare toes.
When Mama and Papa returned from the cow pasture, Mama went inside to put the children to bed, and Papa went to the barn to take care of the animals.
“Hattie, where is Wasel?” Mama asked.
Aunt Hattie froze. “Wasn’t she with you?”
“Yes, but we sent her back here.”
“Well, I haven’t seen her!” Aunt Hattie exclaimed.
Mama and Aunt Hattie called for Wasel and searched in all the rooms and in the yard. Then Mama ran to the barn.
“Wasel isn’t here. I’m going to look for her,” she told Papa.
“She’s probably asleep somewhere,” Papa said. “I’ll look in the house.”
Mama knew that Wasel wasn’t in the house. She ran to the river and the cornfield calling, “Wasel! Wasel! Can you hear me, Wasel?” There was no answer, so she returned to the house.
“I think we need help,” Papa said.
Just then, Aunt Hattie pointed out the window. “Look! It’s Brother Carroll.”
Papa ran outside and stopped him. “Wasel is lost,” he explained.
“I’m on my way to the church for a meeting,” Brother Carroll said. “I’ll tell everyone that you need help looking for her.”
When Brother Carroll told Bishop Hardy that Wasel was lost, Bishop Hardy dismissed the meeting and asked the brethren to go search for her.
As everyone searched under the beds, in the outbuildings, and through the house, Mama began to fear for Wasel’s life. “We are wasting time looking for her here. We have already done that, and I know she’s not here!” she cried.
Wasel’s grandpa gathered the men together. “Let’s divide into small groups and circle the area,” he said. “Whoever finds her will return here and fire a gun five times to signal the rest of us.”
One group went with the bishop. They followed the road toward the cow pasture.
“Look, Bishop!” someone shouted. “Little footprints.”
The men held their lanterns high and carefully followed the footprints until they reached the marsh. The ground was too moist there to hold any tracks.
Bishop Hardy instructed the men to kneel on the soggy ground. Then he prayed for Wasel’s safety and for guidance to find her.
With teary eyes, Bishop Hardy rose. He thought he heard something and paused to listen. There, very faintly—yes! He could hear her! The others strained but heard nothing. “She’s calling for her mama!” he exclaimed.
Bishop Hardy ran toward the sound he heard so clearly. He stopped occasionally to listen—“Mama!”—and hurried on. He ran through fields and over hills for nearly two miles (3 km). He found himself in a rugged canyon, the moonlight falling softly around him. Then, suddenly, he saw Wasel walking wearily along the mountainside. Bishop Hardy ran to her and gathered her into his arms. “Mama,” Wasel whispered as she fell asleep.
The bishop carried Wasel back to the house as quickly as he could go. Mama took Wasel in her arms, and tears of joy flowed freely from her eyes. She offered a silent prayer of thanks to Heavenly Father for bringing little Wasel home safely.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bishop Hardy fired the gun with joy. When Papa arrived, he hugged his wife and daughter, weeping with gratitude. Then everyone knelt in a circle, and Bishop Hardy thanked the Lord for protecting Wasel. He knew that he couldn’t have heard her soft cries on his own. But the Lord was watching over Wasel and had helped him to find her.

I have just finished reading “Taking upon Us His Name” in the April 1982 New Era. It is exactly the article I needed to read at this time. Thank you!
My only daughter, Audrey, and I were both baptized in 1976. She was 15 at the time. She went on to Ricks College, where she met her husband. They were married in the Idaho Falls Temple in December of 1980, and they are expecting their first child in late June. I’m so very happy for them.
On the other hand, since Audrey is gone, I’m all alone in the Church. I have gone to church alone and prayed alone. My spirituality has slowly dwindled away. It’s not much fun when an individual doesn’t have anyone in the family to communicate with on a spiritual level. I have prayed for my spirituality to come back. This article by Sister Ardeth Kapp has increased my testimony quite a bit.
How frail our mortal testimony can be when we are not encouraged by others, be it family or friends. I realized while reading that article that I don’t really need outside help. What matters most is what I feel deep in my heart. All I need is to know that our Heavenly Father loves me unconditionally.
I will continue to pray that other members of my family will be touched by the Holy Spirit as Audrey and I were. I pray that they will someday soon know all about the only true Church here on the earth. I read the New Era from cover to cover every time it comes.
Marina DouganCalgary, Alberta, Canada

I grew up in a country under occupation. The occupying soldiers did not treat my people well. Many in my town were arrested, beaten, shot, or even killed by the soldiers for no apparent reason. One day when I was 16, the soldiers came to my university and shot one of the students in the head. For two hours they would not allow him to be taken to the hospital. That day I developed hate in my heart for those soldiers. I could not forgive them for the pain they caused my people and could not forget the image of that student.

“Planning in advance and preparing yourself to live a perfect day is very important. Believe you can do it,” commented Gene. “I was one of those people who didn’t really forget about it, but I just kept hoping it wouldn’t come. I’d never thought of trying to live a perfect day before, and the idea was a little frightening.
“On a scale of 1–10 I would have rated my perfect day about a 6. I was a little better than normal, just because I was conscious and aware that I needed to at least try. But I didn’t really prepare myself, and I didn’t have the kind of day I would like to have had.”
How does one prepare for the day? “Those times in my life when I have felt really close to the Lord are when I have been praying with my family and studying the scriptures. I found that on my perfect day my thoughts would wander. All the garbage I had been feeding into my brain over the past several years seemed to surface on that day. I hadn’t prepared myself to live a good day—a perfect day. I was a failure in the attempt to live perfectly, simply because I didn’t take the time to prepare myself. But even so it made an impact on my life. I’d never even thought of trying to live a perfect day before, but now think of it often—and someday I’ll make it.”