Gospel Story Finder

My friends at school wanted to know what made me stand out from other people. I told them that I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The next day, I brought them each a copy of the For the Strength of Youth guide.
I introduced those who were interested to the missionaries, and one of my friends got baptized! This experience helped me understand that I am a disciple of Jesus Christ, and by my example I can bring souls to Christ.
I am a disciple of Jesus Christ.

The General Authority who married Brother and Sister Hunter gave them some advice they took very seriously: Stay out of debt; never buy anything until you have the money to pay for it. They followed that counsel, sticking with it throughout their married life and teaching it to their children.
That counsel proved to be extremely valuable when the bank where Howard was employed failed during the Great Depression of the early 1930s. Out of work, but also out of debt, Brother Hunter quickly found other employment.

Several years ago a young man was caught in a serious act of theft. He was taken to jail. His parents were shocked and embarassed. They assured him that he didn’t need to worry because they had “influence” with people in high positions and were sure they could get him released. Their bishop, though well-meaning, told the boy that he would do all in his power to see that a good boy like him did not have to pay for his crime. The boy finally got angry and said: “Can’t you see what you are doing to me? I am guilty. If you get me released without punishment, you will force me to carry the burden of guilt all the days of my life. Please let me pay for my wrongdoing so that I might eventually be set free from guilt.”
Few gifts are more desirable than a clear conscience—a soul at peace with itself. Only the power of our Savior Jesus Christ can heal a troubled soul. But if we want him to heal us, we must follow the procedure he has given to us.

Before coming to Hawaii 43 years ago, I was asked a tough question; a question that I have thought about for many years.
“What will be your major field of study?”
The person who asked the question really didn’t know me well. His name was Samiu, - my second to the oldest brother. I must admit that this brother was strict and bossy; he enjoyed being that way and we all feared him.
Being the youngest in the family, he and I were always on the opposite end of things. He didn’t seem to agree with me on anything. When he asked me the question, I cringed since I had a premonition of what his reaction would be.
I told him that I wanted to major in “art”. And as predicted, he countered and said, “You don’t have to go to America to study art. You can do that in our backyard.” I smiled without saying a word.
Brothers and sisters, I returned to Tonga, in 1983 from BYU Graduate School, not only for the dedication of the Tongan Temple, but to unveil this sculpture of the Tongan king. I wanted to confirm to my brother, Samiu, that the answer I gave him ten years earlier was based on a prompting I had while on my mission. It was my dream to be a sculptor.
You are seeing the end results of that dream; however, the process didn’t come easy. Creating this sculpture of the Tongan king while I was in graduate school at BYU had its setbacks. I used 2-inch pipes for the armature, and I heated them with a torch to bend the pipes. This was done before applying the 3000 pounds of clay. I spent months working on the statue, based on pictures that had been sent for the project. One morning I went into the sculpture studio and found the 11-foot statue collapsed onto the floor. Obviously, the heating of the pipes weakened the metal and the armature was not strong enough to support a sculpture that big.
My professor asked me what I was going to do, and I simply told him that I was going to start over again. Everyone thought that I was going to give up. Within two weeks the whole sculpture was up again.

Last summer my family became part of a new ward because of boundary changes. Then my grandma died. It was very hard for my family to lose her. The night she died, our new bishop came to our house. Also we got a couple of phone calls from people expressing sympathy. We had to leave the next day and were gone for a week. When we got home we had nine phone messages. It didn’t matter what people gave us. Bread, cookies, a phone call, and visits all made the family feel better. I lost someone close to me, but I also found out that a ward can be a second family.Katelynn W., age 11, Colorado

A young man came to me not long ago and said, "I made an agreement with a man that requires me to make certain payments each year. I am in arrears, and I can't make those payments, for if I do, it is going to cause me to lose my home. What shall I do?"
I looked at him and said, "Keep your agreement."
"Even if it costs me my home?"
I said, "I am not talking about your home. I am talking about your agreement; and I think your wife would rather have a husband who would keep his word, meet his obligations, keep his pledges or his covenants, and have to rent a home than to have a home with a husband who will not keep his covenants and his pledges."[1]

When Barbara Jinx Boquecosa, 18, of Mandaue, Philippines, and the rest of her family became less active, she noticed the difference in her life immediately. “When we stopped going to church, there was no peace in our home, and I really missed it,” she says. “I felt I was responsible to get us back active again, so I encouraged my family to go back.” That was more than a year ago, and since then, Barbara, her parents, and her two brothers and one sister have returned to full activity in the Mandaue Fourth Branch, Mandaue Stake. “It’s really a different feeling to be active in the Church. I can’t describe the happiness that I feel.”

Benjamin helps around the house, but he likes to have a list so that he can tick off each job as it gets done. When Joseph was born, Benjamin was devoted to him and helped his mum care for the new baby. Now that Joseph is two, Benjamin delights in hearing him say short sentences and prayers and talk about things no one has ever heard about. “He’ll get me a biscuit if I ask him to or turn the switch on the telly.” Benjamin smiles mischievously. “Now, if I can just get him to wash the dishes …”

I have pleasant memories associated with the fall season of the year and the time of the harvest. After eight years of living in sunny California, we moved to New York, where I was again reminded of the more dramatic seasonal changes of a cooler climate.

One morning as I was walking down the street on the way to the train station, kicking through the leaves that had fallen on the walk overnight, I suddenly had the urge, the strongest urge, to bite into a beautiful crisp, red apple. The association of the rustle of the leaves and that taste of an apple just seemed to go together. I could hardly wait to arrive in the city and find a fruit stand to buy one. I was not disappointed; the falling leaves and a big, red apple were just as pleasant to enjoy as I remembered from my boyhood.

The wagon lumbered along at a steady pace. Just two days before, the members of the Clawson family had left their comfortable home in Greenwood, New York. They were headed to Kirtland, Ohio, and then on to Missouri to be with the Saints who had gathered there. Twelve-year-old Ebenezer was driving the team of oxen at the front of the wagon, enjoying the lovely spring day. On such a day, it was more a privilege than a chore to be driving the wagon, his parents and six brothers and sisters walking alongside.
Ebenezer reflected on the events that led up to his family’s journey. His family had joined with the Latter-day Saints a year ago. Since then, they had experienced many troubles. Finally they had sold their home and land and bought supplies for the westward trek. It seemed as if all their problems were behind them now—they were going to Zion!
After traveling a considerable distance, the Clawson family arrived at the Genesee River.
“Eben, pull up here so that we can load the wagon onto the ferry,” Brother Moses Clawson directed his son.
“Yes, sir!” Ebenezer obediently eased the team toward the muddy bank of the river. The river was swollen with cold, brown water from the spring rains, and debris from recent flooding littered the whole area.
The oxen slogged through the mud steadily. All of a sudden, one of the oxen lost its footing and fearfully struggled to regain it. This startled the other ox, causing pandemonium. With the team confused and stumbling, the wagon started to slip. It turned sharply, throwing Ebenezer from the wagon. The oxen kept moving and bellowing, and with no one there to stop them, they pulled the heavy wagon over the boy’s head and body.
Sister Clawson handed the baby to fourteen-year-old Eunice and hurried to the side of her injured son.
“Whoa there! Whoa!” Brother Clawson rushed to gain control of the team and lead them to safety away from the river and away from Ebenezer. Accidents such as this were far too common, and they were almost always fatal.
Sister Clawson cleaned Ebenezer’s head wound and carefully bound it up. She offered a quick prayer, pleading for her son’s life. “Oh, Father, if thou wilt only spare my son …”
Soon Ebenezer regained consciousness. “Oh, my back!” he moaned.
“Quiet, my son. Your father is going to take you to find help.”
Brother Clawson carefully took Ebenezer in his arms and headed downriver. A half mile away, he found lodging for them in a hotel. “Please, sir, could you find us a doctor? My son is hurt very badly. He will surely die if nothing is done for him.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” the hotel clerk replied.
While the clerk searched for the doctor, news spread that a “Mormon” boy lay near death at the hotel. People crowded in, as curious to see Mormons as they were to see Ebenezer.
After a time, the clerk returned. His face was grim. “I cannot locate the doctor,” he said. “Some say that he has gone to get new supplies in the next town and that he won’t be back until sundown.”
Brother Clawson knew Ebenezer didn’t have that much time.
People crowded around, murmuring and offering suggestions. “I say someone should bleed him,” an old man in the room shouted. “He’ll die for sure,” a woman whispered loudly to her neighbor. “I’ve seen enough wagon accidents like this, to be certain.”
Suddenly four well-dressed men entered the room.
“Brother Clawson, I am Elder Rufus Fischer. This is my companion Elder Moon, and these are two of our associates.”
Missionaries!
“We would like to administer to this boy and give him a blessing.”
“Certainly!” Brother Clawson let the elders take charge.
“Any of you who wishes may stay as we administer to this child,” said Elder Moon.
A few people left, but many curious onlookers stayed. Elder Fisher closed the door.
The missionaries anointed Ebenezer’s head with oil and laid their hands on his head. “Ebenezer Clawson, by the power of the Holy Melchizedek Priesthood which we bear, we anoint your head with oil that has been consecrated and set apart for the healing of the sick in the household of faith …”
After the blessing was finished, Elder Fisher said, “Brother Clawson, your son should be ready to travel in a few hours.” Then the missionaries left as quickly as they had come.
Ebenezer slept soundly for several hours, then awoke, his strength having returned. “Father, let us go on,” he said.
Brother Clawson and Ebenezer went back upriver to where the family was waiting. They all crossed the river without further trouble and traveled six more miles. Ebenezer drove the team part of the way. His head healed without ever swelling, and the only visible reminder of his ordeal was a scar.
Ebenezer’s faith in Jesus Christ, and that of his family and the missionaries who administered to him, brought forth a miracle that day. The Clawson family had obeyed Heavenly Father by traveling to Zion to be with the Saints, and He blessed them for their faithfulness.

You can’t help but like Andrea* the second you meet her. She’s warm and friendly and fun, and she knows how to make you feel good about yourself.
But she wasn’t always like that.
For a long time, she carried around a dark and tragic secret that she could confess to no one. She cried a lot. She was usually depressed. She withdrew from people—wasn’t close to anyone, and didn’t have the self-confidence to excel in school or anything else. Andrea had been sexually abused when she was younger.
“I thought I had committed a terrible sin,” she said. “I thought it was too gross to tell anyone. I felt disgusting and totally worthless, until a very understanding bishop explained to me that it wasn’t my fault, that the Lord still loved me, and that I could get help.”
The help Andrea got, which included professional and religious counseling, enabled her to put those traumatic experiences in the past and become emotionally and spiritually healthy again.

Andrea has gone through all these stages, and despite the problems in her past, she’s able to lead a happy, fulfilling life. Others like her who have experienced sexual abuse can recover in the same way. It is important for them to realize that they have a right not to be abused, and that they need to get help if it happens. They need to know that they are not at fault, that they are not impure, nor are they any less chaste. And most of all, they need to know that Heavenly Father still loves them, has great hope for them, and has provided ways for them to recover.

Why did I suddenly decide to be baptized? Because I realized the night of the sixth lesson that a burning bush was not the right thing to look for. I realized that by looking for a burning bush I was missing something just as important. Perhaps the answer lay in the simple things that had been happening to me.
I thought back to the week before we had decided to be baptized. We had once again arrived late to Church. To dispel the awkwardness of the situation, a very young man, Eddie Markle, had welcomed us with a simple handshake. At that moment I sensed in him a faith so strong that I was deeply impressed. It was the kind of faith spoken of by Jesus to Thomas: “Thomas, because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed; blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.” (John 20:29.) I decided I wanted that kind of faith.
I realized my previous experiences had impressed me in a similar way, but, because of my desire for a miraculous conversion, I had failed to recognize the promptings of the Spirit. My encounters with members of the Church had not been spectacular, but yet they had been very significant.
Each person had—in his own way—displayed a strong yet simple faith: Dick Reisner had planted the seed; Dennis Hill had sent the book; the missionaries had knocked on my door; President Pressler had waited for us that first Sunday; Elder Richards had delivered an inspiring message; Eddie Markle had eased an awkward moment with a handshake. Each person—through his example—had let the powerful light of his testimony shine forth. And to me, having been in darkness, each example was as “the bright shining of a candle” (Luke 11:36), bringing me to a testimony of the truth.

This idea is not always easy to comprehend, let alone understand, but I learned a deeper meaning from my daughter as she shared with me this story about how her perception changed with a trip to the temple.

As she approached the temple doors, she noticed a young man dressed in shorts and a t-shirt talking on a cell phone, and pacing back and forth outside the temple. He was kind of a big guy, and looked very suspicious. He made her nervous...especially when he walked in behind her as she entered the temple. He stayed back as she showed her recommend but then she observed him walking towards the desk. She walked slowly contemplating how she would alert help, and ward off this terrible intruder trying to sneak into the temple.

However she was taken back and even embarrassed by her thoughts when the young man pulled out his recommend and informed the brother at the desk that he was in the military on route to Afghanistan for an extended duty. He had a few hours unexpected layover in Boise. This would be his last opportunity to attend the temple.

His clothes were all sent ahead, but he wanted to spend these precious moments serving in the house of the Lord to give him comfort and peace while he would be so far away. He asked the brother at the desk to see if he could get him some appropriate clothing, since everyone he had called was unavailable to help him.

This experience teaches the need to look deeper, to understand others, and not just go with first instincts. The words from Job seem appropriate, "Teach me, and I will hold my tongue: and cause me to understand wherein I have erred" (Job 6:24).

“I always loved playing baseball. I’m grateful to my parents who let me turn the backyard into a practice baseball diamond every summer. I would line it off, make base pads, and really work hard at bettering my skills. In those days there were no organized Little League ball teams. One neighborhood played another neighborhood. The competition was keen. A dirt lot was cleared, and excitement ran high.
“I recall an experience involving a baseball mitt when I was about nine or ten years old. I was playing baseball with great diligence, and I had an old mitt that was coming apart and just wouldn’t do anymore. The kind of mitt I wanted cost $4.50—a lot of money then. I kept wondering how I could get my father to buy it for me.
“Every day when Dad came home from work, he would sit in a rocking chair or swing on the porch while he waited for dinner. He worked long, hard days, and it was during the depression when times were difficult. I knew that my approach and my timing were vital. One night after Mother had fixed Dad’s favorite dinner, I decided it was the right time. ‘Dad,’ I said, ‘you always taught us that when we do something, we should do it right. Is that correct?’
“‘Yes, that’s right,’ he agreed.
“‘You taught us that if we’re going to do something, it ought to be done with quality. Is that right?’
“‘That’s right,’ he agreed again.
“I said, ‘I’m assigned to pitch a critical game this weekend, and my baseball glove is worn-out. You’d want me to go out there with a high-quality, first-class mitt, wouldn’t you?’
“I brought the old glove out from behind my back, and Dad said, ‘That’s a terrible-looking glove!’
“I said, ‘I need $4.50 to get a new one, and I’ve already picked it out.’
“Dad stopped the porch swing, took out his little note pad and pencil, and started writing.
“I knew I’d lost with my sales pitch.
“‘Well,’ Dad said, ‘let’s see how long it would take you to earn it. At ten cents an hour, that would be forty-five hours of work.’ He then mapped out jobs for me that would require forty-five hours of work.
“Of course you know the end of the story. I didn’t get the mitt that week—but I did a couple of weeks later. I still have that glove. It is priceless to me. It taught me the value of work.”

One summer we hiked with family members into Crow Basin, high in the Cascade Mountains. My mother loved to hike and fish. She made life fun! So it didn’t surprise me on that outing when Mother joined in a horse race. My brother Lynn and I watched from the side as the horses galloped across the meadow. Suddenly, one of the horses tripped and fell down. Through the big ball of dust and commotion, someone shouted, “It’s Helen’s horse!”—my mother’s.

My brother and I ran toward the fallen horse. We were the first to reach Mother. She was unconscious and covered with dust. I thought that she was dead. My father assured me that she was going to be OK, but it was many days before she felt well enough to travel home. At eight years of age, I hadn’t thought much about what my mother meant to me. That experience increased my gratitude and love for her.

My companion and I had just ended a long, unsuccessful day of knocking on doors in Buenos Aires, Argentina. As we sat waiting for the bus, I began to sink into a daze of self-pity. I’d served in the area for three months with no success. I felt that I had let the Lord down.
Just then I noticed a man in the distance hurrying toward us on a bicycle. He was yelling and waving. Hoping to avoid the seemingly angry man, we walked quickly toward our approaching bus. It was getting dark, and we were in a dangerous part of our area. We hoped to reach the bus before the frightening man reached us.
“I have a question for you,” yelled the man. The bus arrived just before he did, and we scrambled aboard. Then I heard the man’s question: “What happened to the gold plates after Joseph Smith translated them?” My mouth fell open. I wanted to jump from the bus as it drove away. Instead I yelled, “Where do you live?” and hurriedly scribbled his address.
We stopped by the man’s house the next day. His name was Favio. A month before, he told us, his friend had loaned him a copy of the Book of Mormon.
Weeks after he had found the Book of Mormon, Favio saw us at the bus stop. By then he knew the book was true. Over the next few weeks we taught Favio the basic principles of the gospel and encouraged him to continue reading. Every time we asked him if he would commit to living a new gospel principle, he would answer, “I’m afraid not to.” Shortly thereafter, he entered the waters of baptism.
Now every time I have a difficult day, instead of sinking into self-pity, I remember Favio—his question for two discouraged missionaries and his commitment to the Lord after he received an answer.

A little old lady at a rest home turned to the old man next to her and said, “I can guess your age.”
“You can’t,” he replied.
“Yes, I can,” she said. “You go take a bath, shave, brush your hair, put on a nice clean shirt and a tie, and shine your shoes, and I’ll tell you.”
The old man was gone for about an hour. When he returned he was neat, clean, hair brushed, shoes polished, and in his suit. She said, “Now you go stand up against the wall.” He did.
He said, “Now, how old am I?” She said, “You’re 89.”
He responded, “That’s right, but how did you know?”
She said, “You told me yesterday.”

Because the following day was the Friday before Easter, a great many people came to the temple from all parts of Chile. Those of our group who were lodged far away did not arrive early enough to get in. We were extremely disappointed, but we made the best of the situation. That evening, we held a beautiful family home evening together, bearing our testimonies and singing hymns. And we made arrangements to attend the first session the next morning.
The Saturday morning session was indeed one of great rejoicing and spirituality as our whole group met in the house of the Lord. We felt that He was happy and pleased with our service as we performed the sacred ordinances again, this time for the dead.

I remember when, as a young deacon, I would cover a portion of the ward on fast Sunday morning, giving the small envelope to each family, waiting while a contribution was placed in the envelope and then returning it to the bishop. On one such occasion, an elderly member, Brother Wright, who lived alone, welcomed me at the door and, with aged hands, fumbled at the tie of the envelope and placed within it a small sum. His eyes fairly glistened as he made his contribution. He invited me to sit down and then told me of a time many years before when his cupboard had been empty of food. In his hunger, he had prayed to Heavenly Father for food to eat. Not long thereafter, he gazed out his front window and beheld someone approaching his door, pulling behind her a red-colored wagon. It was Sister Balmforth, the Relief Society president, who had pulled that wagon almost half a mile over the railroad tracks and to his door. The wagon overflowed with food collected from the sisters of the ward Relief Society, with which Sister Balmforth filled the empty shelves in Brother Wright’s kitchen. He described her to me as “an angel sent from heaven.”

As my wife mentioned in our introduction, after we were married, we moved to Provo to prepare for school and the football season. I enrolled in the 'Living Prophets' course. We committed to follow President Ezra Taft Benson’s counsel for mothers, like Julie, to stay home and nurture and raise our soon to be born 1st child, Mapuana. As I was on a football scholarship, I couldn’t work while in school.
Julia was offered a teaching position that was to pay more money than we’d ever had (mind you, Julie only made $9,000 the previous year as she was a full-time student) so anything more than that was a lot of money, to us. We did not accept the offer and trusted in the Lord so Julie could stay home with our Mapuana.
After making that decision, my dear maternal grandparents, Joseph Keaunui and Henrietta Bee Ah Quin of Hauula Hawaii...who we thought would never leave this rock or Hawaii, and who were not active members of the church, decided out-of-the-blue to sell their beautiful farm in Hauula to move to Utah. We were blessed to live with them and ohana until I graduated and returned home to Laie, therefore meeting our needs and desire for Julie to stay home with Mapuana.