Gospel Story Finder

During the sacrament, I used to think about things like what I have to do in the week, things at school, or my friends. But then through Sunday School classes and the messages of our prophets, I began to understand the meaning of the sacrament. I now think about the Atonement of Jesus Christ, that He gave His life for us, paid for our sins, and suffered all things. That gives me the motivation every day to say: I can strive to be like Him and demonstrate the same love that He showed others. I can share the gospel with others. I can do something to be more worthy to enter the temple and to take the sacrament.
Alessandra B., 17, Santiago, Chile

Several years ago, as this Conference Center was being built and nearing completion, I entered this sacred building on the balcony level in a hard hat and safety glasses, ready to vacuum the carpet that my husband was helping to install. Where the rostrum now stands was a front-end loader moving dirt, and the dust in this building was thick. When it settled, it did so on the new carpet. My part was to vacuum. And so I vacuumed and vacuumed and vacuumed. After three days my little vacuum burned up!

The afternoon before the first general conference in this beautiful building, my husband called me. He was about to install the last piece of carpet—under this historic pulpit.
He asked, “What scripture should I write on the back of this carpet?”
And I said, “Mosiah 18:9: ‘Stand as [a witness] of God at all times and in all things, and in all places.’”

Years ago when I was vacuuming this carpet—trying to act well my small part—I didn’t realize that I would one day stand with my feet on the carpet under this pulpit.

My friends and I went to see our friend Ruth from church. We brought carrot cake and flowers and sang Primary songs to her. It made us all happy!
Elizabeth G., age 6, Missouri, USA

Years ago, President Boyd K. Packer told of a herd of deer that, because of heavy snowfall, was trapped outside its natural habitat and faced possible starvation. Some well-meaning people, in an effort to save the deer, dumped truckloads of hay around the area—it wasn’t what deer would normally eat, but they hoped it would at least get the deer through the winter. Sadly, most of the deer were later found dead. They had eaten the hay, but it did not nourish them, and they starved to death with their stomachs full.2

Question: What was Alma’s greatest challenge?
Answer: To help a son who had lost the way. My husband and I looked at each other, remembering the times we had prayed over our children as they struggled to make their testimonies secure. How well I remember the tears that came to one son’s eyes as he looked at his brothers and sisters, then said quietly, “That’s what dad and mom did for me.” He bore his testimony to the family, and at that moment our hearts were full.

Hollywood and television have discovered a theme the public loves: happy-ending stories about angels and life after death. In one recent hit, a man dies, then finds his family in a colorful “heaven”—after going through an ugly “hell” to save his wife. The story’s message is that love can outlast death—and the hearts of most people want to believe that message is true.

In general conference six months ago, President Russell M. Nelson described his response to President Thomas S. Monson’s invitation to study, ponder, and apply the truths contained in the Book of Mormon. He said: “I have tried to follow his counsel. Among other things, I’ve made lists of what the Book of Mormon is, what it affirms, what it refutes, what it fulfills, what it clarifies, and what it reveals. Looking at the Book of Mormon through these lenses has been an insightful and inspiring exercise! I recommend it to each of you.”10
President Henry B. Eyring likewise emphasized the importance in his life of President Monson’s request. He observed:
“I have read the Book of Mormon every day for more than 50 years. So perhaps I could have reasonably thought that President Monson’s words were for someone else. Yet, like many of you, I felt the prophet’s encouragement and his promise invite me to make a greater effort. …
“The happy result for me, and for many of you, has been what the prophet promised.”11
What do you think explains the immediate and heartfelt responses to President Monson’s invitation by these two leaders of the Lord’s Church?
For example, President Nelson and President Eyring righteously and rapidly responded to President Monson’s encouragement to read and study the Book of Mormon. Though both men were serving in important and visible Church positions and had studied the scriptures extensively for decades, they demonstrated in their responses no hesitation or sense of self-importance.

Fast-forward three and a half years from my high school graduation ceremony. I had worked for around a year and a half, served a two-year mission, and ultimately decided to try college after all.
I wish I could say I felt all grown-up and ready for school, but that’s laughable. I felt more intimidated than ever. If I was so bad at high school, how in the world could I handle college? This time I resolved to do my best and involve God along the way. I prayed fervently to develop new and better study skills.
To my complete shock, I ended up doing so well that semester that I qualified for academic scholarships. Nobody was more surprised than me! Even so, I could also easily look back over the previous months and see the hand of God helping me along as I learned to become a good student.
What I believed about myself back in high school simply wasn’t true. From that point on and with God’s help, I was able to forge a completely new path that carried me through college graduation and beyond.

The Wanderer Thirteen-year-old Sophie journeys across the Atlantic Ocean with her uncles and cousins and befriends her cousin Cody. But Cody has some questions about Sophie—why does she seem to remember spending time with Bompie, their grandfather, when she has actually never met him? What other mysterious secrets are in her past?Sharon Creech8–12 years

Now, my brothers and sisters, may I mention one more temple before I close. In the not-too-distant future as new temples take shape around the world, one will rise in a city which came into being over 2,500 years ago. I speak of the temple which is now being built in Rome, Italy.

Every temple is a house of God, filling the same functions and with identical blessings and ordinances. The Rome Italy Temple, uniquely, is being built in one of the most historic locations in the world, a city where the ancient Apostles Peter and Paul preached the gospel of Christ and where each was martyred.

Last October, as we gathered on a lovely pastoral site in the northeast corner of Rome, it was my opportunity to offer a prayer of dedication as we prepared to break the ground. I felt impressed to call upon Italian senator Lucio Malan and Rome’s vice-mayor Giuseppe Ciardi to be among the first to turn a shovelful of earth. Each had been a part of the decision to allow us to build a temple in their city.

The day was overcast but warm, and although rain threatened, not more than a drop or two fell. As the magnificent choir sang in Italian the beautiful strains of “The Spirit of God,” one felt as though heaven and earth were joined in a glorious hymn of praise and gratitude to Almighty God. Tears could not be restrained.

In a coming day, the faithful in this, the Eternal City, will receive ordinances eternal in nature in a holy house of God.

In the village of Comunidad Tovacón, Walter and Rosaria Flores enjoyed visits from their grandchildren. Since this photo was taken, however, Walter has passed away. “We are blessed to know that the gospel provides a way for families to be together for eternity,” Rosaria says.

I still remember the moment I was glad for social distancing.
I’d been given the news that, as South Africa embarked on its lockdown in an effort to curb the spread of the COVID-19 virus, 9.6 million school children in South Africa would be going without food.
The school feeding scheme in South Africa forms a vital form of social support. For many children in the country, it is the only meal they can reliably look forward to each day.
As a journalist, I had just finished five consecutive interviews with various leaders from civil society. They were desperately concerned about how the children would get through the next few months.
“I am highly and extremely worried about what the kids are eating,” one lady who usually runs a feeding scheme for 150 children in one of Johannesburg’s townships had told me. “And there’s just nothing, absolutely nothing I can do about it.”
After hours of similar conversations, I could hear my voice beginning to crack from emotion. At the end of the last interview, I hung up the phone, put my head into my hands and cried.
It was then that I was glad that for social distancing. In normal times, I would probably have been having that conversation face to face. Crying would have been awkward, to say the least.
At least this way I could sob without being seen.
I felt a mounting sense of heaviness and desperation. How could I sit in my home doing nothing while millions around me were going to bed with empty stomachs? I felt like I needed to do something, and yet, in the circumstances, I did not know what.
And then the text message came.
It was from a sister in my ward, a perennial do-gooder. She told me about an old age home that she had been assisting. The home had permission to remain open during lockdown and was now helping to feed the extra mouths that usually relied on feeding schemes that had been forced to shut. They needed food, and lots of it.
At first, I planned to simply go to my friend’s home and drop off some food donations. But then a thought occurred to me. What if I were to open up my home as a collection point? What if, instead of simply donating to the cause, I created my own “forcefield” of influence?
I created a digital poster for distribution. I double-checked the legality of what I was doing. I collected plastic containers and lined them up outside my gate. Then came the hard part: sending the poster, along for an appeal for help, to my neighborhood WhatsApp group.
There were about 250 participants in the group, and I knew some could be harsh critics. What if they attacked me for suggesting that people leave their homes in order to drop off food? What if I was accused of inadvertently spreading the virus? What if I exposed one of my three young children to COVID-19? To be completely honest, I was terrified.
After re-writing the message about 20 times, with my heart in my throat, I finally pressed send. A few minutes later I received a message from a stranger.
“We would be happy to put a box of food together for you,” he said. “Thank you for this.”
For the second time in a few days, I felt my eyes fill with tears.
The phone calls started shortly thereafter. There were people I had never met who had heard about the project from a friend and wanted to help. Friends—local and international—wanting to transfer cash from afar. A sister from my ward sent a truck from her local wholesaler. And a seemingly unending stream of strangers silently deposited maize meal, rice and canned goods outside my gate.
In the end, I raised R100,000 in cash and food donations. Some sisters from my ward sewed 150 cloth masks. Instead of helping one home, we were able to help three. Hundreds of families were assisted at a time of desperate need thanks to the combination of many small efforts. Galvanized by this experience, my friend went on to organize a nonprofit organization called Bubele (meaning kindness and generosity in Xhosa), helping unemployed people to clean up the city and receive food parcels in return.
What did this experience teach me? It taught me the sacred interlink between faith, hope and charity.
Taking that first step of faith was truly difficult and scary for me. But the result?
A sense that our Heavenly Father knows and is mindful of each one of His children. A greater feeling of love for my fellow men. An ability to better see the potential in everyone around me. An inkling of charity, in the truest sense of the word.
The sweetest part about it, though, was hope. I felt that feeling of despair begin to dissipate. I felt, as Elder Jeffrey R. Holland puts it, that when I when I exercise faith and determination, I can keep moving, keep living, and most importantly, I can keep rejoicing.1

I am Brooke Ellis. When I was six, my dad went over to meet the neighbors, who were just moving in. They had a minivan, and it was filled with kids. He noticed that there was a girl who was just about my age. Her name was Clarissa Shinn. He brought me over to meet her. At first we were kind of shy with each other. But one day while my mom was still at Girls Camp with the Young Women, Clarissa and I were running over to my house and I glanced down and saw something gold and green on her finger. I stopped and so did she, and I noticed it was a CTR ring. I said, “Clarissa, are you LDS?” She said, “Yeah.” I told her that I was, too. I later found out when my mom got home that she had been fasting and praying for a girl my age who was also a Latter-day Saint to move into one of the three houses that were empty in our block. Clarissa and I are still great friends, and I know that Heavenly Father loves me and answers prayers.
Clarissa Shinn and Brooke Ellis, ages 9 and 10West Lafayette, Indiana

Illustration by Bradley H. Clark
I had just given birth to our daughter, Rebekah. My labor had been intense, and I was exhausted.
When Rebekah was placed in my arms, I had the overwhelming feeling that I should sing my favorite hymn, “I Am a Child of God” (Hymns, no. 301). My initial response was, “No, I’m too tired. I’ll sing it to her later.” But then the thought came again. So, though I was exhausted, I began singing the first verse. My husband and my mother joined me.
When we finished the song, I felt a special feeling in the room. Even the doctor, who until that point had been professional and rather aloof, had tears streaming down her face. She thanked us for singing such a beautiful song. She said that in all the years she had been delivering babies, she had never felt as she did at that moment.
I reflected on that experience and wondered if I should find a recording of the hymn and give it to her. Unfortunately, I became busy with life and forgot about it.
Then the day arrived for my postpartum checkup. As the doctor walked into the room, her face lit up, and she gave me a hug. She said she hadn’t been able to get that song out of her mind and had even tried to find the music on the Internet so she could sing it to her family. That’s when the Holy Ghost reminded me that I should have gotten a copy of the music for her. I promised her that within the week I would be back with the music.
That night I prayed for help to find the arrangement of the song that would be best for her. The next afternoon I ordered a CD that features the song. When it arrived in the mail a few days later, I couldn’t wait to give it to her.
She was thrilled to receive it and thanked me for the gift. She told me that she wasn’t sure why, but this song was very important for her to share with her family. As we continued to talk, I shared with her not only my love for the song but also my testimony of the simple truths it teaches.
As I drove home that day, I felt the love of our Heavenly Father for one of His daughters—my doctor. He knows and loves her, and He wants her to understand that she too can return to live with Him once more.

Nor is this homing instinct confined to those who live on the surface of the earth; it is shared as well by some underwater creatures. The Pacific salmon, which for the first year of its life inhabits freshwater streams, later travels to the ocean and stays there for several years. Then, to lay its eggs, a salmon will leap through rapids, up waterfalls, and over dams in order to get back to the freshwater stream that was its first home.

My dad always stopped at the same convenience store near our house to buy gas. After filling up the car, Dad went in to pay. I followed him and was through the door before I heard Cort’s voice. He was working behind the counter.
Suddenly a wave of embarrassment washed over me. I wanted to sneak out, but the store wasn’t that big. In only a second, he would see that I was there.
Cort looked up from the cash register and said, “Hi.”
Dad glanced from Cort to me then back to Cort. “Oh, do you know my daughter Jill?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
He thinks so! my mind was screaming. Didn’t he remember how we were almost friends?
I was tongue tied. I wanted, more than anything, to say something clever and casual to cover up for the fact that I was blushing, but nothing would come out.
“That will be $15.75,” said Cort to my dad.
As Dad pulled his wallet out of his back pocket, he said, “I sure would like Jill to run the car down here and fill it up. She got her driver’s license three weeks ago, but she’s scared to drive the car. It’s a stick shift, and she panics every time she tries to drive it.”
I was mortified. I was standing there listening to my dad humiliate me.
“It’s not too hard to learn,” Cort said, looking at me. “I taught my sister and my girlfriend.”
“I’ve tried to teach her, but I guess there are some things you just can’t teach your own children,” my dad said, collecting his change.
“I’ll teach you,” Cort said. “I get off work at five tomorrow. Meet me here. It really isn’t that big a deal.”
Not a big deal, not a big deal! It was an incredibly big deal. Just wait until Laney heard about this.
“Okay,” I blurted out. Dad was halfway to the door before I made a move to follow him.
The next afternoon, I had changed my clothes three times and was working on my hair. I desperately wanted thick, smooth, straight blonde hair that would swing away from my face when I moved. What I had was no-color brown that kinked and twisted no matter how long I spent with the blow dryer. I was at the point of giving up when my mom stood in the door of the bathroom.
“What in the world are you doing, Jill?”
“Cort Tyler told Dad that he would help me learn to drive a stick shift this afternoon.”
“Oh, that’s nice,” Mom said, distracted by the screams coming from the bedroom where my two little brothers were fighting over a video game. Then she suddenly reappeared in the doorway.
“Why are you getting all dressed up? This isn’t a date, is it?”
“No, this isn’t a date,” I said, on the verge of getting sarcastic. But actually I halfway thought it was. I had even told Laney at school that day that I had to get home because I had to meet Cort at five. I said meet but I knew she would think date, and that was just fine with me.
I walked the couple of blocks to the store. Cort was still behind the counter. He saw me coming and said something to the guy beside him and was out in front by the time I walked up.
“Where’s the car?” he asked.
“It’s home,” I had to admit. “I can’t get it into reverse.”
We walked to my house in virtual silence. I couldn’t think of anything to say, and Cort didn’t seem to notice.
“You drive,” he said abruptly as we walked up to the car.
“But I can’t get it into reverse.”
“Yeah, well, let’s fix that,” he said, opening the passenger door and getting in. I walked around and got into the driver’s seat.
I started the car, pushed in the clutch, and tried to slide the gear shift into reverse. It made a horrible sound.
“Okay, stop,” Cort didn’t seem greatly concerned. “Let up on the clutch. Push it in again, then slide the gear shift over and down. Here, like this.”
He put his hand over mine on the gear shift. I think I remembered to do what he instructed, but I was paying a lot of attention to the feel of his hand on mine.
It took five minutes for me to get out of the driveway and into first gear. I kept letting the clutch out too far and killing the engine. I was afraid Cort was going to get upset, but he stayed remarkably calm. I found that after the car got going in first gear, shifting was a lot easier. I had second down cold.
At the end of the neighborhood, I had to turn onto a busy street.
“Take a left here,” Cort said.
“I can’t. I’ll get stuck in the middle of the intersection.”
“But we need to go left.”
“I’ll get us there,” I said. Desperation made my mind work overtime.
I pulled straight through the intersection and made a right at the next corner. I made another right turn, and another. This time I was at the light again, ready to go straight through. I had skipped making a left turn by making three right-hand turns.
Cort started laughing. “Give me a break. You can’t drive like this. You have to learn to turn left.”
“I can’t,” I said, tears starting to form.
“Sure you can. If the car dies in the middle, I’ll trade you places and get us out of there.”
I took a deep breath, signaled to turn left. But I was done in by self- fulfilling prophecy. As soon as I tried to pull forward in first gear, the car got to the middle of the intersection, jerked, and died. I panicked.
“I can’t do this. I can’t. You do it.”
Cort didn’t move. “Just start the car. Put it in first, and give it a little more gas.”
“You promised. You said you’d drive.”
“You can do it. You have to learn how to get yourself out of this situation. Just try.”
It took me three tries to get the car started and moving forward. I just made the turn before the light changed.
“I knew you could do it,” Cort said. “Now drive me back to work. You’re okay now.”
Secretly, I was pleased with myself. I drove Cort back to work and made a left turn back onto the street. This time I didn’t kill the engine.

Four years earlier, her family had left their home in an eastern city to join the Saints in Nauvoo, on the edge of the western frontier. The trip should have taken just a few days by river. But because many Black people were slaves in the United States at the time, Jane’s family frequently had to show papers proving their freedom. And some places had strict laws preventing people of color from traveling through the area—including charging up to $500 per person for passage.
Perhaps because of this outrageous fee or perhaps because of other prejudices, the riverboat crew refused to take Jane and her family members any farther. Undeterred, they left behind many of their possessions and set out on foot with whatever they could carry.
Jane’s family walked for more than 800 miles (1,287 km). They walked through humid days and pitch-black nights. Once they trudged through a forest, sleeping under the open sky. When they awoke, their clothes were white with frost.
“We walked until our shoes were worn out, and our feet became sore and cracked open and bled,” Jane recollected. “… We asked God the Eternal Father to heal our feet and our prayers were answered.”1
While enduring this hard journey, Jane sang hymns with her parents and siblings, praising God. Finally, after nearly three months of walking, they arrived in Nauvoo. Years later, when faithful Saints left to cross the plains, Jane was among the first pioneers to start walking the trail.

Another successful family home evening plan was a joint effort with a good friend in Texas. We met on Sundays for a lesson and dinner, one week at her house and the next at mine. We each lived alone and, in addition to the lessons and friendship we shared, our meetings gave us an excuse to prepare and share a good meal.

Three years later, on the evening of September 21, 1823, the Angel Moroni appeared beside Joseph’s bed while the young man was praying. Moroni told Joseph, among other things, about a record written upon gold plates and hidden in a hillside. He said that Joseph was to translate it. The angel appeared to Joseph three times that night, each time repeating the same message. The next day Joseph went to the place he had seen in the vision, and there he found a stone box containing the plates.
Joseph was not allowed to take the plates and translate them until four years later. When word got out that Joseph had some gold plates, the persecutions against him increased and many people attempted to steal the plates. But Joseph always managed to keep them safely hidden.

While growing up, Elder Cardon says, he benefited from the righteous example and teachings of his parents. “I had a mother who taught me to pray and a father who taught me to trust and love the Lord,” he says. Their guidance helped him recognize the Spirit at a young age. On one occasion, a concern weighed heavily on his mind. “Because of the way I’d been taught, I went out to kneel in the fields near our home. I remember getting some distinct answers.” Tutoring experiences continued throughout his life and helped prepare him for his call to the Second Quorum of the Seventy.