Gospel Story Finder

I was nervous when I first started serving in the temple because I knew I would have to memorize the words to all the ordinances. I was worried I would mess up, so I spent hours studying the words to make sure I could get them right. And while I’ve heard stories of workers who felt like the Holy Ghost helped them memorize the words faster, that wasn’t my experience.
Sometimes I felt upset that I was struggling to memorize the words. Learning the words to the first ordinance took me almost a month. But looking back, I’ve realized that my struggle was an amazing blessing. I was able to sit in the Lord’s house and study the words of the ordinances for hours. And deepening my understanding of those words brought both peace and power into my life. I was able to recognize the voice of the Lord more clearly and more often when I was both inside and outside the temple.
This experience was a testament to me that Heavenly Father knows us personally and knows what experiences will be the most beneficial to us. The opportunity to contemplate the ordinances gave me a better understanding of what the ordinances say and strengthened my desire to keep the covenants I made in the temple.

I also remember attending a meeting near Bancroft, Idaho, years ago. It was sponsored in part by the extension service of the University. We’d had a wonderful meeting, and after it was over, I was greeting some of the wonderful farmers who were there, and among them was a man by the name of Brother Yost, and I said, “Brother Yost, how are things out on the farm?” Brother Yost said, “Oh, things are fine, Brother Benson, but I’m about 20 thousand dollars worse off than I was three days ago.” I said, “What’s the matter—another frost?” He said, “Yes, it hit the wheat just in the dough stage, and you know what that means.” He said, “We’re starting the mowing machines in the morning, but everything’s all right. We’ve still got a little wheat in the bin, and we’ve got at least part of our year’s supply laid away. We’re not going to starve, and there’ll be another crop.” As we left him, I said to my wife, “What a wonderful spirit.”
We drove on down to Logan. We had our children with us, and we stopped on Main Street to go into a grocery store to pick up a few cookies for the kiddies. And who should I meet on the sidewalk but Brother Yost. I said, “Well, what are you doing way down here?” He said, “Brother Benson, it’s our day to go to the temple.” And I said, “Well, reverses don’t dampen your spirit any, do they?” Then he taught me a lesson. He said, “Brother Benson, when reverses come we need the temple all the more.”

In the winter of 1838–1839, Joseph Smith was in Liberty Jail, falsely accused of murder and other bad things. Thousands of Latter-day Saints were being forced to leave their homes in Missouri due to persecution. When Church leaders learned that the citizens of Illinois would help the Saints, they told the Church members to migrate to western Illinois. Many settled in and around the community of Quincy.
The Church leaders wrote to Joseph Smith in the spring, asking if they should buy land in Illinois and Iowa so that the Saints could remain together or if it would be better for the Saints to scatter. Joseph instructed them to begin purchasing property in one general area. The next month Joseph was freed, and he traveled to Quincy to help.
Land was soon purchased in and around Commerce, Illinois. The Prophet settled his family in one of the few homes in Commerce. He named the new city they were about to build Nauvoo, a Hebrew word meaning “beautiful place.”

After days of working long hours in the hot sun, I became exhausted. Eventually, I got sick.
I called the full-time missionaries, and we scheduled a time to meet at the branch site. When I arrived the following day, nobody was there. As I waited outside, I prayed, “Heavenly Father, I know You can heal me, if that is Thy will. Please help me.”
The missionaries soon arrived with the branch president. When these three priesthood holders laid their hands on my head, I felt the power of the Holy Ghost run from the top of my head to my toes. Immediately I was healed.
In a small town far from my home country, I sought help from priesthood holders. The Lord blessed me through His priesthood and my faith. In my travels since then, I have asked for many blessings from priesthood holders worldwide. I am grateful to know that priesthood power held by worthy priesthood holders is the same in every land.

In the words of a well-known song, I wish you could “come fly with me” to eastern Germany, where I visited last month. As we traveled along the autobahns, I reflected on a time twenty-seven years before when I saw on the same autobahns just trucks carrying armed soldiers and policemen. Barking dogs everywhere strained on their leashes, and informers walked the streets. Back then, the flame of freedom had flickered and burned low. A wall of shame sprang up, and a curtain of iron came down. Hope was all but snuffed out. Life, precious life, continued on in faith, nothing wavering. Patient waiting was required. An abiding trust in God marked the life of each Latter-day Saint.
When I made my initial visit beyond the wall, it was a time of fear on the part of our members as they struggled in the performance of their duties. I found the dullness of despair on the faces of many passersby but a bright and beautiful expression of love emanating from our members. In Görlitz the building in which we met was shell-pocked from the war, but the interior reflected the tender care of our leaders in bringing brightness and cleanliness to an otherwise shabby and grimy structure. The Church had survived both the war and the Cold War which followed. The singing of the Saints brightened every soul. They sang the old Sunday School favorite:
If the way be full of trial; Weary not!
If it’s one of sore denial, Weary not!
If it now be one of weeping,
There will come a joyous greeting,
When the harvest we are reaping—Weary not!
Do not weary by the way,
Whatever be thy lot;
There awaits a brighter day
To all, to all who weary not!
I was touched by their sincerity. I was humbled by their poverty. They had so little. My heart filled with sorrow because they had no patriarch. They had no wards or stakes—just branches. They could not receive temple blessings—neither endowment nor sealing. No official visitor had come from Church headquarters in a long time. The members were forbidden to leave the country. Yet they trusted in the Lord with all their hearts, and they leaned not to their own understanding. In all their ways they acknowledged Him, and He directed their paths. I stood at the pulpit, and with tear-filled eyes and a voice choked with emotion, I made a promise to the people: “If you will remain true and faithful to the commandments of God, every blessing any member of the Church enjoys in any other country will be yours.”
That night as I realized what I had promised, I dropped to my knees and prayed, “Heavenly Father, I’m on Thy errand; this is Thy church. I have spoken words that came not from me, but from Thee and Thy Son. Wilt Thou, therefore, fulfill the promise in the lives of this noble people.” There coursed through my mind the words from the psalm: “Be still, and know that I am God.” The heavenly virtue of patience was required.
Little by little the promise was fulfilled. First, patriarchs were ordained, then lesson manuals produced. Wards were formed and stakes created. Chapels and stake centers were begun, completed, and dedicated. Then, miracle of miracles, a holy temple of God was permitted, designed, constructed, and dedicated. Finally, after an absence of fifty years, approval was granted for full-time missionaries to enter the nation and for local youth to serve elsewhere in the world. Then, like the wall of Jericho, the Berlin Wall crumbled, and freedom, with its attendant responsibilities, returned.
All of the parts of the precious promise of twenty-seven years earlier were fulfilled, save one. Tiny Görlitz, where the promise had been given, still had no chapel of its own. Now even that dream became a reality. The building was approved and completed. Dedication day dawned. Just a month ago, Sister Monson and I, along with Elder and Sister Dieter Uchtdorf, held a meeting of dedication in Görlitz. The same songs were sung as were rendered twenty-seven years earlier. The members knew the significance of the occasion, marking the total fulfillment of the promise. They wept as they sang. The song of the righteous was indeed a prayer unto the Lord and had been answered with a blessing upon their heads.
At the conclusion of the meeting we were reluctant to leave. As we did so, seen were the waving hands of all, heard were the words, “Auf Wiedersehen, auf Wiedersehen; God be with you till we meet again.”

“As a parent, this is my side of the story. Four years ago one of my sons met an active Church member, and they soon became very dear friends. This friend invited our son to wander through stores all day with no money, just to look around, or to stay out after dark to throw rocks at bottles and just walk and talk. We tried to stop it by bringing them home for games and more noble activities. The friend was very sarcastic to us and our children, and our son picked up his ways. We tried to break up the friendship, but it didn’t work. Occasionally the boy would tell jokes that were disrespectful to Church leaders. We curtailed that in our home. He and my son spent a great deal of time on the phone and chores were neglected. Our gifted pianist could not get to his piano lessons on time because his friend walked and talked with him, and they lost track of the time. He began to have no time to practice because he needed to talk and pal with his friend. In school his normally high grades began to fall. The real blow came when our son, once very enthused about the gospel, said he didn’t want to hear other testimonies because he did not have one.
“We are not snobs, just concerned parents who want the best for our children. Look into your own life. Do you help your parents with chores? Do you spend time with them? Or is your friend more important than family home evening? Do you feel a need to be with your friend constantly? Are you the strong one whom she copies, or do you copy her ways?”
Name Withheld

The youth of the Dublin (California) Ward and the Pleasanton Second Ward had to move quickly. With just three days’ notice from Children’s Hospital in Oakland, California, they pulled together a group to put on a party for all the cardiology patients and their families.
The youth manned refreshment tables, a popcorn machine, face-painting booths, and the check-in table. They also gave instruction in ’50s style dancing.
“It was so fun to watch the kids learn that dance,” says Jessica Cooper. “Every single one of them was smiling. It really made me feel good.”
“I’m not sure who had more fun,” says Beth Patterson, “us or the kids!”

I had gone to escape the painful realities of my life, I told him. Nine years earlier my brother had died. The following year my parents were killed in a car accident. A year later to the day, my grandmother died. Within a short time, I had lost several of the most important people in my life. I was devastated.
I inherited a large sum of money upon my parents’ death, and I used it to try to escape my grief. I spent it on expensive clothes, cars, drugs, and trips to faraway places.
On my most recent trip I climbed a pyramid in Tikal, Guatemala. There, even though I was physically on a high place, I remember feeling the lowest I’d felt in a long time. I couldn’t live the way I’d been living anymore. “God,” I said, “if You’re there, I need You to change my life.” I stood there for several minutes, silently pleading for help from a being I wasn’t sure was real. When I climbed back down the pyramid, I felt at peace. Nothing had changed in my life, but somehow I felt that things were going to be all right.

Several years ago I wanted to plan a family home evening focused on family history. Our children, then ages 9 through 13, were only vaguely aware of some of their ancestors, so I came up with a game that helped us all become better acquainted with our ancestors.
I prepared a six-generation pedigree chart on a large piece of paper, filling in only the children’s names and leaving the other spaces blank. (I made a key to the whole chart so I would know how it should look when completed.)
For each blank space on the chart, I made a separate card containing the ancestor’s full name and listing some information about that person. For example, one card read, “Ira Walter Gardner. I was born in 1849 in Sweetwater, Wyoming, while my parents were crossing the plains.”
As I passed out the cards, I explained the rules. Using the information on the cards, each person would deduce where on the chart his or her cards would go. At each turn they could ask me yes or no questions about their ancestor. As long as they got yes answers, they could continue to ask. If they put their card in the wrong space or got a no answer, their turn was over. The children caught on quickly, and soon the chart was complete.
We all enjoyed the game, and the children began to develop a greater appreciation for their forebears.

After the closing prayer, I carefully watched Sister Forester, the Primary president. Because I’m deaf, she always smiles and nods at me when it is time for my Merrie Miss class to leave Primary. Her lips shape the words, “You may leave now.”
But Sister Forester’s mouth formed different words this time. “Melissa, please stay after Primary.”
I watched the other girls move by in their pastel and print dresses. Why was I supposed to stay? I hadn’t done anything wrong. Or had I?
I usually have to read the lips of people at church, but Sister Forester knows sign language. She told me once that her sister was deaf. Now she beckoned me to meet her on the Primary stand. I sat down beside her. The scent of her perfume tickled my nose. Then she moved her lips. “Would you sing for our special Father’s Day program next month?”
Something in my stomach turned to a hard lump, and I felt the blood rush to my face. Was Sister Forester making fun of me? She knew that I couldn’t sing. Even when I tried talking, other children sometimes made fun of the sounds that came from my throat.
Every Sunday I ached inside when all the other children sang and I had to sit there on the hard metal chairs in silence. I learned the words, and tried to imagine what music was. But I knew that as long as I lived, I would never sing a word. There was no music for a deaf person.
But looking into Sister Forester’s eyes now, I saw only kindness. I knew she wasn’t joking. Quickly I signed, “I can’t sing. I’m deaf.”
Sister Forester reached out her hand. I felt the back of her fingers touch my cheek. Then her mouth formed the words, “I don’t want you to sing with your voice. I want you to sing with your hands. Would you sign the words to the first verse of ‘I Believe in Christ’ while the other children sing them?”
The knot in my stomach tightened. I knew she was trying to be kind, trying to find something for me to do, but it would be so hard. How would I know how fast to move my arms, when to start, when to stop? I asked Sister Forester, and she said that she would give me special signals.
I told her I would think about it and talk to my parents.
Sister Forester smiled, then signed, “Could you talk to Heavenly Father, too, since it’s His Son you will be singing about?” Then her lips moved again. “If He doesn’t want you to do it, that’s OK.”
I felt relieved. Sister Forester wouldn’t force me, and I knew my parents would let me choose. I promised that I would pray about it. I thought that Heavenly Father wouldn’t want me to look silly in church, either.
But when I asked Heavenly Father, His Spirit came through the silence and warmed my heart, and I knew that I should do it.
“But I’m scared,” I told Him. “What if everyone laughs at my funny signs?” Then I cried.
I practiced hard for the next month. One day each week I went to Sister Forester’s house. She had been a dancer, and she taught me to move my arms and hands in slow, soft motions as I signed the words. She said that the movements were like music and that with practice I could turn my signs into a gorgeous melody. Her words were kind, but I wasn’t sure.
When I woke up the morning of the program, I wanted to be sick. I lay in bed and buried my face in my pillow. I thought about how silly I would look as I waved my arms around. To people who didn’t understand sign language, I would look like an octopus.
Dad must have guessed that I was having trouble. He came in my room and sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes smiled kindly. “Are you afraid?” he asked.
I nodded.
He held out his arms. I rolled over and sat up. Dad’s arms wrapped around me. Then gently he pushed me back so that I could see his face. “Sister Forester told me that you remind her of an angel when you sing ‘I Believe in Christ’ your way. She believes that the ward members will enjoy your song very much.”
Dad’s words didn’t seem to help, but having him close to me did. His lips moved again. “If you become frightened, just remember Whom you are singing about.”
Even you don’t understand, Dad, I thought. Moving your hands isn’t singing at all.
An hour later I was standing at the podium in front of a microphone I wouldn’t use. My mouth was dry. The ward members filled the chapel, and the clock on the back wall seemed to have stopped. Sister Forester was signaling that it was nearly time for me to start.
I lifted my arms. They felt like wriggly worms that didn’t want to obey my head. My heart pounded, and I wasn’t sure that I could remember all the movements Sister Forester had taught me. The atmosphere around me seemed thicker than usual. Why couldn’t I hear? Why couldn’t I sing like other children?
Sister Forester gave me the signal, and I began moving my arms and hands to her rhythm. “I believe in Christ …”
I saw Sister Forester smile, and Dad’s words came to me: “Remember Whom you are singing about.” A warmth came into my heart. I pushed the fear away and sang the only way I knew how.
Sister Forester and I worked together, just as we had practiced. My hands moved effortlessly as I signed the words. But I wasn’t performing. I was bearing my testimony through song. Finally I signed the last words: “Good works were His; His name be praised.”
Finished, I looked down from the stand. Everyone’s eyes seemed to be on me. I saw tears on the cheeks of gray-haired Brother Hansen. Sister Frankel was dabbing her eyes under her glasses with a handkerchief. Sister Forester smiled like she does in Sharing Time when she’s trying not to cry. Even Mom and Dad were wiping tears off their smiling faces.
Then I knew why Sister Forester and Heavenly Father had asked me to do this. It was to teach me that songs about the Savior come from the heart, not the lips or the hands. Now I know that He hears the songs of all the silent children in the world. He always has. He always will.

Until recently, football, school, and church had always been things that I dealt with separately and tried to balance. After the football season, we were having player meetings with my football coach. He talked to me about leadership and how I could be a better leader. He said something interesting I never expected.
He said, “So I know you’re planning on serving a mission. You’re religious, and you’re OK with talking about God. I want you to talk about God with the other players. That’s why I coach—to draw people closer to God. I want to see people’s lives change. I think you’re one of the best players on the team to do this. When you have a chance, why don’t you talk to someone about God? Some people may reject it, but it may change someone’s life. You never know.”
I had never really connected sports and school and religion. But this conversation connected them for me and got me excited and more ready to share the gospel with others. It allowed me to realize that you can be the same person in football and school and at early-morning seminary in someone’s home and still be successful. Now that I’ve connected them it has made things easier.
This has helped me prepare for a mission. I’m getting more used to talking to people about God, sharing the gospel, and bearing my testimony.
Joseph S., 17, Louisiana, USA

The group moved on toward a collection of Buddha statues, but the guide slowed her pace to a stroll and chatted with a couple of the girls, who were on the tour as part of the first-ever Mia Maid conference in the stake.
“They tell me you girls are a religious group on some kind of a retreat. You’re the ones who don’t believe in Christ, right?” A girl with long, blond hair smiled as she reassured the guide that Latter-day Saints most assuredly do believe in Christ. She, like most of the other girls, seemed accustomed to such questions. After all, Chicago and its suburbs include 7 million people plus, and the missionaries haven’t reached all of them yet.

My father was the son of Lithuanians, but he was born in Scotland. He moved to Brazil when he was still young. His ability to speak English facilitated his conversion, since he could read the Book of Mormon in English and there was not yet a reliable translation into Portuguese. This language barrier prevented my mother from joining the Church until a few years later, but when she did, she became a powerful example of dedication to others and love of God in our family. She is now 92 years old, and she is here today. It gives me great joy to say that I love her for her great faithfulness. I will also honor and bless her name forever.

Their two-week stay turned into a nearly five-month stay. The sisters were reassigned to the Dominican Republic Santo Domingo East Mission. The problem was that they did not know any Spanish. They served in the Santo Domingo Dominican Republic Temple, performing temple ordinances and also helping in the laundry. Sister Barekiau remembered, “When the people in the laundry spoke to us in Spanish, we were able to understand them, and we knew what to do because the Spirit helped us.” Sister Auria said, “Serving in the laundry and doing endowment sessions in the temple were some of the blessings of serving longer.”
They also started the Pathway program during their extended service.

When I was a very small boy, my father found a lamb all alone in the desert. The herd of sheep to which its mother belonged had moved on, and somehow the lamb got separated from its mother, and the shepherd must not have known that it was lost. Because it could not survive alone in the desert, my father picked it up and brought it home. To have left the lamb there would have meant certain death, either by falling prey to the coyotes or by starvation because it was so young that it still needed milk. My father gave the lamb to me and I became its shepherd.
For several weeks I warmed cow’s milk in a baby’s bottle and fed the lamb. We became fast friends. I named him Nigh—why I don’t remember. It began to grow. My lamb and I would play on the lawn. Sometimes we would lie together on the grass and I would lay my head on its soft, woolly side and look up at the blue sky and the white billowing clouds. I did not lock my lamb up during the day. It would not run away. It soon learned to eat grass. I could call my lamb from anywhere in the yard by just imitating as best I could the bleating sound of a sheep.
One night there came a terrible storm. I forgot to put my lamb in the barn that night as I should have done. I went to bed. My little friend was frightened in the storm and I could hear it bleating. I knew that I should help my pet, but wanted to stay safe, warm, and dry in my bed. I didn’t get up as I should have done. The next morning I went out to find my lamb dead. A dog had also heard its bleating cry and killed it. My young heart was broken. I had not been a good shepherd or steward of that which my father had entrusted to me. My father said, “Son, couldn’t I trust you to take care of just one lamb?” My father’s remark hurt me more than losing my woolly friend. I resolved that day, as a little boy, that I would try never again to neglect my stewardship as a shepherd if I were ever placed in that position again.

“We get to hear the prophet speak today!” Chase said to his little sister, Amelie.
Amelie was excited too. They had learned about prophets in family home evening just last Monday. A prophet is a person who has been called by God and speaks for Him. The prophet receives commandments and revelations from God and then shares them with Heavenly Father’s children. Mom had shown Chase and Amelie pictures of President Monson. They decided to draw their own pictures of the prophet too.
Now Chase and Amelie were going to a devotional to hear President Thomas S. Monson speak to them.
“Let’s bring our pictures,” Chase said.
Chase and Amelie took their pictures of President Monson off the refrigerator door.
“This is going to be more fun than the circus or the zoo!” Chase said.
When they got to the devotional, Chase and Amelie stared at all the people in the huge stadium. Almost all of the seats were filled. Chase and Amelie had to sit behind the stand. All they could see was the back of President Monson’s head.
President Monson spoke about prophets God had called in the latter days. The prophets were righteous men who followed God.
After the closing prayer, President Monson turned to leave the stadium. He headed right toward Chase and Amelie! They excitedly held up their pictures so President Monson could see them.
President Monson smiled when he saw Chase and Amelie’s pictures.
“Oh, how nice,” he said. “How about a high five?” President Monson held up his hand to Chase and Amelie.
Chase and Amelie each gave President Monson a high five. They were so happy to meet the prophet. They truly knew that he was a prophet of God.

“I experienced a similar situation several years ago. I befriended a person to try and help him, and I associated regularly with him. Although I feel I helped him, I ended up having a lot of problems, which I brought upon myself. It was a hard and painful road back.”
Elder Don PattersonKorea Seoul Mission

Three stakes in New Zealand—the Harbour, Manurewa, and Manukau—joined together for a youth conference involving 175 youth.
The group, bound for Motutapu, meaning sacred island, departed in the Blue Boats from Princes Wharf. Casting off in early evening and facing overcast weather, they had a calm trip until they reached the island. Rain began to drizzle, and they trekked from the landing to camp between the sloping hills. Spirits were boosted as young enthusiasts who had attended camp the year before kept pace and sang songs as the group trudged on.
Reaching camp triumphant though footsore and drenched, the group was assigned accommodations in barracks that were once used as a military base.
The next days were spent enjoying the beauty of the setting and learning to sail or paddle the dinghy, Windsurfer, and canoes. Snorkeling in the bay and absailing (rappeling) down a cliff under the careful supervision of a trained instructor challenged individuals to face some of their fears.
The greatest physical challenge was the confidence course, with movable logs, rope bridges, and gigantic swings. The cheering on by friends and the chance to pitch in and help one another gave the young people the confidence to complete the course and go around again for another try.
Gospel workshops, dorm family home evenings including testimony meeting, and a sing-along added to the spiritual aspect of the conference.
On the last evening of the conference, a special “Aloha Night” was held. Each stake prepared a floor show for the evening featuring dances and songs from the cultures throughout the Pacific.
After cleaning up and packing, everyone gathered on the side of the hill, where certificates, both amusing and serious, were given out; witty skits were performed; and a special song saying, “Be a light, a shining light, for all the world to see. … I’ve found a friend, I’ve found a friend in you” was taught.
With those words lingering, they journeyed down to board the boat for home.

When my daughter, Emi, was 15, she made a decision about what kind of friends she would seek. One morning I noticed her copy of the Book of Mormon opened to Alma 48. She had marked the verses that describe Captain Moroni: “Moroni was a strong and a mighty man; he was a man of a perfect understanding. … Yea, and he was a man who was firm in the faith of Christ” (verses 11, 13). In the margin she had written, “I want to date and marry a man like Moroni.” As I watched Emi and the kind of young men she associated with and later dated when she turned 16, I could see that she was exemplifying those qualities herself and helping others live up to their identity as sons of God, priesthood holders, and future fathers and leaders.

Then in 1902 we broke ground for a new stake and ward building in Thatcher, and I gave two dollars from my nickels and dimes for the building. I remember they dug a great excavation and then there was a long delay before enough more funds could be gathered to construct the building. This was on the way to the post office and the stores where I was often sent to get coal oil for the lamps and for mail and to take the eggs and other things that my abilities made possible. I would always run down into the bottom of this great excavation hole and then up the other side; but when the weeds began to grow big in this enclosed area and I once saw some skunks there, I bypassed the excavation, for I had no interest in skunks as pets or as companions.
When the new stake building—which still stands and is being used for stake and ward purposes—was completed, it had just two large, rectangular areas, one for the meetinghouse on the top floor and one for recreation, the latter being the basement. I remember we had wires strung across the building and cloth curtains between the classes. We could hear something of nearly every class that was going on and even sometimes see, if the lights were just right. I remember some years later when we of the basketball team of the Gila Academy did our practicing here and played our games, and I always took more than my share of the credit for the fact that in this smaller building with some obstructions, we defeated some high school and college teams while we were but a high school team.