Gospel Story Finder

Another blessing in my life has been working so closely with President Gordon B. Hinckley. Over the past nine years the Church has gone from having 51 temples to 124 temples. This miracle has strengthened my faith and helped me understand the importance of temples.
In 1998 we had 51 temples operating and 17 being built. Then in general conference, President Hinckley said that we needed to have 100 temples by the end of the year 2000.1 It meant 32 new temples would be built in addition to the 17 already in process. We thought it was an impossible task. But nothing is impossible when blessed by the Lord. It took many miracles to make it happen in that short time. Time and time again, things came together at just the right moment—miracles such as finding enough sod to lay on a temple property just hours before the dedication took place.
In the year 2000 there were 34 temples dedicated. That’s the most that have ever been dedicated in one year in the history of this world. President Hinckley was inspired to build more temples. Then the Lord magnificently blessed us and helped that happen because He honors His prophets. I hope you honor the prophets too. And I hope you will always value and prepare for temple blessings.

Several years ago while my parents were helping the Relief Society organize some clothes, shoes, and other items to be donated to the needy, my father noticed a well-kept pair of shoes in the middle of a pile of items. At that moment he felt a strong impression to keep the shoes.
My mother laughed and said, “This pair of shoes is three sizes too small for you. They wouldn’t even fit!”
My father, however, strongly insisted. After several jokes from the sisters, they finally allowed him to keep the shoes.
As soon as he arrived home, he cleaned them, filled them with newspaper, and placed them in a box on top of his dresser. We received instructions not to touch the box. For five years it remained in the same place.
One day a new family moved into the house next door. They had two children and a six-month-old baby. My sister and I immediately became friends with their two girls, who were our age. We shared with our new friends what we were learning in church, and we invited them to Primary. They were excited and eager to learn more about what we had shared with them.
After returning home from Primary, they didn’t stop talking about the Church with their parents. Our parents then invited the whole family to hear the missionary lessons and go to church. They joyfully accepted. They loved the lessons, and we were excited to attend church with them.
But when Saturday came, their daughters seemed disheartened. When we asked what was wrong, they said their parents no longer wanted to go to church.
We were disappointed and asked Daddy to talk with their parents. When he told them about the blessings of attending church, the father replied, “Yes, I know all of this. The problem is that I haven’t worn any other kind of shoe besides my sneakers in a long time, and I know that we should go to Church meetings well dressed.”
At that moment my father looked at my mother. She knew exactly what to do. The shoes in the box on top of Daddy’s dresser fit our friends’ father perfectly, and the entire family went to church. It was a wonderful Sunday for them and for us. Soon they became members of the Church, and today they are a beautiful eternal family.
I know that my father received direction from the Holy Ghost to keep those shoes. As a result, I always seek His guidance in looking for families ready to hear the gospel. I know He prepares families, and I know we need to look for them and bring them to Christ.

The Holy Ghost and Me
Before going to stay at the hospital, I wanted to have the gift of the Holy Ghost. I didn’t know if I could get baptized while I was going through treatments. But it worked out. I was baptized and received the Holy Ghost when I turned eight!

The whole world turned gold overnight! thought Jessica Goodhue as she tramped through the woods toward Red Dog Creek. Maybe it was because she had been so busy with her studies and after-school chores—not to mention helping to tend her ailing grandfather—that she hadn’t noticed autumn creep up. It was washday, so Jessica had little time to dawdle. She hurried down to the creek to fetch water for her mother.
Red Dog Creek was running high and fast, fed by early rains. The creek’s loud, Jessica thought as she stooped to fill her pail, as loud as the bell at the schoolhouse! Suddenly, above the noise of the water, she heard a horse’s frightened whinny. Looking up, Jessica beheld a big box-shaped wagon stranded in the middle of the stream about a hundred yards away. It was teetering on a broken wheel caused by the force of the current.
Jessica dropped the pail and ran upstream to get a better look. A man wearing a suit, a broad-brimmed hat, and a very anxious expression was in the driver’s seat, struggling with the two helpless horses. “TYLER’S TINTYPES” was printed on the side of the wagon.
“Hey, mister,” Jessica yelled, “I’ll get my pa!”
Soon Jessica reappeared with her father, a big man with a soot-colored beard, leading an ox. Pa quickly fashioned a lasso and tossed it out to the stranger, who caught and secured it to the front of the wagon. Armin, Jessica’s father, tied the other end to the ox’s harness and prodded the ox forward. With its assistance, the horses were able to regain their footing and apply their own strength. The wagon slowly wobbled out of the dangerous current onto dry land.
The man climbed down from the wagon and shook hands vigorously with Pa. Turning to Jessica, he said gratefully, “If it wasn’t for you, missy, I would have lost all my equipment—and maybe my life as well!”
Jessica squinted up at the man. He had a big red mustache that looked like a small, raging fire every time the wind blew it. “Equipment?” she questioned, curious.
“Everything I own is in that wagon,” the stranger told her. “My lens box. My dark room. Everything.”
Jessica’s father pointed to the sign on the side of the wagon. “A tintype is a photograph. This gentleman is a picture taker.”
Jessica’s eyes lit up. “Could you take a picture of us, Mr. Tyler? And of my ma and grandpa?”
The photographer smiled. “I’d be delighted to take some pictures of your family. It’s the least that I can do to repay you for your help.”
“And I’ll help you mend that wheel,” Pa offered. “In fact, why don’t you join us for supper later on? You can bed down at our place for the night and travel on tomorrow after breakfast. How does that sound?”
Mr. Tyler’s smile grew even wider. “It sounds like I’ll be spending the night!”
Jessica beamed. There’d never been a picture taken of herself or her family. Not ever. The thought of a timeless image of those she loved, an image that she could tuck between the pages of her journal and share with those of generations to come, played upon her youthful heart like a sweet song. “I’ll have a picture of Grandpa Goodhue’s hand-me-down smile,” she said out loud, “and it will last forever.”
The photographer inquired curiously, “Hand-me-down smile?”
Jessica smiled up at him. “That’s what Grandpa calls it. He says that it always seems to stay in the family, that it never wears out. Well, I want my children to know about it too. I want them to see his smile. It’s like a blessing, Mr. Tyler. It keeps me warm, just like Ma’s comforter on the coldest nights. Even when Grandpa’s ailing, he smiles. He says that life is too full of grand and glorious things to waste the time God has given us here by moping about. I want my children to know all about him, just like I do.”
Jessica stopped talking long enough to draw her breath, then added, “Bishop Kelsey was talking about it just last Sunday at church. He talked about keeping records—pictures, names, dates, places—and about genealogy.”
Pa smiled secretly behind his beard. If every member of the Church at Harper’s Crossing had as much enthusiasm as his daughter, he speculated, Bishop Kelsey would not have to be concerned about developing this part of the Lord’s vineyard, but about where to house all the people!
The photographer was astonished. “Genealogy?” he questioned. “Where did you come by that big word?”
“I didn’t,” Jessica responded. “I suppose God did. It’s His work. I guess important works need important names. I mean, photography is sort of a big word, isn’t it? And that’s important to you. And speaking of picture taking,” she continued excitedly, “I had better hurry home and fix myself up proper, since it will be the way people will see me forever and ever!”
“How old is your grandfather, Jessica?” the photographer asked later while he set up his bulky lens box in the yard and spread out the legs of the tripod.
Jessica chuckled. “He says he’s old enough to feel guilty every time he draws a breath. He jokes a lot,” she continued, “but he’s going to die soon.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mr. Tyler said sympathetically.
“Oh, it’s all right,” she reassured him. “Grandpa is kind of happy about it.”
“He is?”
Jessica nodded. “He’s anxious to be with Grandma again. She died a few years back, and he misses her.”
“They must have loved each other very much,” Mr. Tyler observed.
Jessica nodded again. “They still do. Ma says they’re closer together than two pages in a closed book in a chapter called ‘Forever.’
“I’m going to miss him dreadfully, I know,” Jessica went on, “but we’ll all be together again in the next life. Besides, he’s going to leave his life’s story to me. He’s been writing it for years and years, a little every day. Ma writes it for him now, because his hand shakes too much to hold a pencil. He tells her things, and she writes them down.”
The photographer stepped back from his camera, a look of admiration on his face.
“Now that is what I call an accomplishment.”
Jessica beamed, just as she had earlier down by the river. “It’s all part of genealogy, Mr. Tyler. You know—keeping records and stuff like that.”
“I’m starting to know,” he commented as he set up chairs for the family portrait. “It all sounds important, this genealogy.”
“God wouldn’t have taken the time to talk about it if it weren’t,” Jessica reasoned.
Mr. Tyler leaned on a chair. “You know, I have a wife and two children back in Claremont. I’d kind of like to leave something of me behind for my kids when life is done with me.”
“There’s nothing better than your personal history, Mr. Tyler,” Jessica asserted. “And with you being a picture taker, you can have lots of tintypes to go with it.” She peered through the lens box, hooded under the black velvet drape. “I’ve already started my own personal history. It’s kind of like a diary—you know, a journal. I write in it a little every night before I go to sleep.”
“What do you write, missy?”
Jessica popped out from beneath the black drape. “All kinds of things: The things I do, the things I feel, my happy times and my sad times. I’m going to write about you, too, Mr. Tyler.”
The tintyper smiled. “I hope I’m one of the happy times!”
Soon the pictures were taken. Grandpa Goodhue, wrapped in a blanket and propped up in a chair, was smiling in each of them. Then the photographer hurried into his cramped darkroom to wet one more especially prepared plate with chemicals. He hurried the plate back to the camera and opened the lens. “Leave it open while you count slowly to twenty,” he instructed Jessica, “then take the picture.”
Jessica’s mouth dropped open. “Me?”
“Yes, indeed,” the photographer said as he sat down in a chair and posed for the camera. “You’re going to take a picture of me—for you—to keep with your life story.”
Jessica was beside herself. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Tyler!” she exclaimed. “But may I take two pictures?”
“Two?”
“One for my journal and one for yours.”
The tintyper winked at Jessica. “I think that would be most proper, young lady, most proper indeed.”
The following morning the early hush was broken by the sound of the photographer’s wagon rattling off through a small, misted grove of dew-sparkled cottonwoods. He waved back at Jessica and her family seeing him off after a big breakfast. He reined in his team for a moment to take one last, long look at the young girl in the calico dress. You’re going to be in my book, too, little lady, he told himself, as one of my very happy times. He tipped his hat, turned, and clucked his team forward.
That Christmas Eve, Grandpa Goodhue closed his eyes for the last time, still wearing his hand-me-down smile. That smile was his Christmas gift to Jessica, along with the now-completed life story in the old, worn book beside his bed. Jessica treasured that book the rest of her life, as did her children, and her children’s children.

My parents got divorced. I prayed for comfort and was filled with warm thoughts.
Aika C., age 7, Idaho, USA

A defining moment of Elder Von G. Keetch’s life came as he was completing a judicial clerkship with Chief Justice Warren E. Burger and Justice Antonin Scalia of the United States Supreme Court and preparing to enter full-time law practice.
He could have worked in any city in the United States for a multitude of big law firms. Instead, he and his wife, Bernice Pymm Keetch, prayed for inspiration to know what they should do. After a period of searching, the couple returned to Salt Lake City, Utah, where he went to work for the law firm of Kirton McConkie.
At the time, Elder Keetch thought he might be sacrificing his ability to work on cutting-edge legal cases in order to be near family. Instead, as the chief outside legal counsel for the Church, Elder Keetch argued constitutional issues and precedent-setting cases on religious liberty. He has represented almost every major religious denomination in the country. “I have loved being able to work for such a great client and being able to work on such great issues,” he said.

Five-year-old Sean snuggled up to his grandma as they read in the Book of Mormon about Jesus blessing and ministering to the people. Sean looked at his grandma and said, “My heart whispers to me.”
“What does it say, Sean?” Grandma asked.
“It says, ‘Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father live.’”
“What are you going to do because of what you know?” questioned Grandma.
“I’m going to do what is right!”

During their tour they spotted some LDS missionaries. “We saw two of them in the city as we rode through on our bus,” recalls Ferron, “and it wasn’t hard to identify them. They wore white shirts and ties and were carrying their zipper-cased scriptures.” Later in the day the USS Manitowoc was opened for public visits, and several of the elders laboring in Guayaquil visited the ship.
“They surely were surprised when we asked them what part of Utah they were from,” says Michael Kovalenko. “We told them how many of us were LDS and where we’re from. They gave us some copies of the Book of Mormon to give to any crew members who might be interested. It was great seeing the elders; it makes you glad you’re a Mormon!”

“You’re too holy.”
Twelve-year-old Ian Caloobanan was astounded at his friend’s words. He didn’t consider himself holy.
His friend continued, “Ever since you joined the Mormons, you’ve become a killjoy. You don’t drink with us anymore. You don’t have fun with us on Sunday. You’re too holy.”
The words hurt, and yet … what else could he do? He had been baptized and now held the Aaronic Priesthood. He had changed, and as far as Ian was concerned, he had changed for the better. But holy? Well, maybe not yet.
Ian’s joy at finding the gospel is hard to contain. He has given one of his teachers a copy of the Book of Mormon and invited him to meet with the missionaries. Some of his schoolmates respect him for his new standards and have asked him questions about the gospel. Others ridicule him.
Ian just keeps on keeping the commandments the best he can.

As a youth I had many opportunities to perform baptisms for the dead in the San Diego California Temple. Though I always had a good experience, one trip in particular stands out in my mind.
I was 16, and my little sister had just turned 12 and was making her first trip to do baptisms for the dead. Since it was her first time, we decided to walk around the outside of the temple after we finished.
The temple grounds have a couple of lookout points on one side, so we walked over there. Because the San Diego Temple is situated next to a busy highway, when you stand at a lookout point, you actually look down at the freeway.
Standing on the temple’s higher ground that day gave me a new perspective on life. I was looking down at the world with its whizzing cars, crowded shopping centers, and graffiti-covered road signs.
It was then that the thought came to my mind: “You don’t want to be a part of that; it’s not what life is about.” I had always been taught that the purpose of life is to return to live with our Heavenly Father and become like Him. I knew I didn’t need the things of the world to accomplish that purpose.
I turned around and looked at the beautiful temple, and I was grateful for the knowledge of the gospel and the perspective it gave me. I knew that in the midst of the chaotic and treacherous world, I had found higher ground to stand on.
That day at the temple I promised my Heavenly Father that I would always stand on His side and not the world’s. No matter what the world throws at us, we can overcome it by keeping the covenants we have made and by standing in holy places (see D&C 87:8).

While some were inspired to translate the Bible, others were inspired to prepare the means to publish it. By 1455 Johannes Gutenberg had invented a press with movable type, and the Bible was one of the first books he printed. For the first time it was possible to print multiple copies of the scriptures and at a cost many could afford.

John Powell shares this touching experience: “It was the day my father died. … In the small hospital room, I was supporting him in my arms, when … my father slumped back, and I lowered his head gently onto the pillow. I … told my mother … :
“‘It’s all over, Mom. Dad is dead.’”
“She startled me. I will never know why these were her first words to me after his death. My mother said: ‘Oh, he was so proud of you. He loved you so much.’
“Somehow I knew … that these words were saying something very important to me. They were like a sudden shaft of light, like a startling thought I had never before absorbed. Yet there was a definite edge of pain, as though I were going to know my father better in death than I had ever known him in life.
“Later, while a doctor was verifying death, I was leaning against the wall in the far corner of the room, crying softly. A nurse came over to me and put a comforting arm around me. I couldn’t talk through my tears. I wanted to tell her:
“‘I’m not crying because my father is dead. I’m crying because my father never told me that he was proud of me. He never told me that he loved me. Of course, I was expected to know these things. I was expected to know the great part I played in his life and the great part I occupied of his heart, but he never told me.’” (The Secret of Staying in Love, Niles, Ill.: Argus, 1974, p. 68.)

That journey began when the Book of Mormon became the instrument that led to my parents’ conversion to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Pagadian City, Mindanao, on June 7, 1970. I was just four years old. When I turned eight, my father baptized me, marking the beginning of my own covenant path. Throughout my childhood, my journey was intertwined with my parents’ as they raised us in the gospel. They taught us—by word and example—the importance of the Sabbath, the sacrament, tithing, priesthood blessings, and regular scripture study.

Katie, age 10 “Being a peacemaker is harder than I thought it would be. Mom reminded me to practice. I didn’t want to do it, but I acted calmly about it instead of getting all upset. Being a peacemaker makes everyone happier, but it’s hard.”

“Because my dad died two years ago. At first I thought that I would never be happy again. I missed him so much! I still do, but I’m not sad anymore. My dad believed in Jesus, and so do I. Mom had us memorize that scripture so that we could be comforted.”
“Sure,” said Sarah. “I wrote it in my journal on the day that we buried my dad.”

We two little boys one stormy day
Were forced to stay in the house to play.
There were papers and toys on every side,
And two long sticks for horses we’d ride.
We built a church with blocks so high
That the tower reached almost up to the sky.
Then back and forth on our horses we’d run—
For two little boys can double the fun!

I was down in a husbands-and-wives meeting in Provo years ago when a lovely sister bore her testimony as to the joy that had come into her home since her husband had become active in the Church. She told about going through the temple with her husband. She told how he had been inactive, how he had smoked and hadn’t been advanced in the priesthood, and how someone took hold of him and finally helped him to become worthy and ready to receive the priesthood; and the bishop had finally given him a recommend to go to the temple. After she had described that wonderful evening, she said, “Here, five little girls came in to be sealed to their father and mother. This man of God pronounced us a family for the eternities.” And as she finished this story and bore her testimony, she looked over the pulpit and down in front of her where her husband was seated. She seemed to forget for that moment that there was anybody there but just the two of them, and she said to him, “Daddy, I can’t tell you how happy the girls now are and how grateful we are for what you have done for us, because, you see, Daddy, except for you who holds the priesthood, neither the children nor I could be together as a family in the hereafter. Thank God for our daddy who holds the key and unlocks the door to an eternal family home.”

As a boy, Bishop Pace had a bad ear problem for years. The doctors worried that he would eventually be deaf because infection kept building up in his ears. “Finally,” he said, “I was administered to, and within a few days the infection was gone and there were no scars. That was my first personal experience with the priesthood.

One of the things Nick learned is that Joseph Smith walked with a slight limp as a result of a surgery he had when he was young. Nick had to learn to walk with a small limp, too, to play his part.

A few weeks ago, Ruby and I were up in Oakley, Idaho, for a couple of days, restoring our old family home. I had a phone call from Lenore Romney in Detroit, Michigan. Lenore is the wife of George Romney. She said, “George died this morning.” She wanted to know if I could arrange to attend the funeral. I told her I would be honored to come but that I would need to arrange it with those who are my superiors in the Church.
After I hung up the phone, I walked up the street from our old family home. I walked across the canal over to the area where the Romneys used to live. George’s father’s name was Gaskell Romney. My father was their bishop. I looked at the area. The house wasn’t there anymore. Then I walked along the old irrigation canal bank. I looked at the area where my father baptized me. I looked at where George and I used to swim. Swimming suits in those days were a pair of bib overalls, not the high-fashioned kind you see today but the real denim, old-fashioned bib overalls. We cut the legs off and cut the pockets out so we wouldn’t drown. That’s all we had for swimming suits. We used to sit on the canal bank in a little bit of sunshine and shiver because it was so cold. But swimming was our main recreation. George and I were about the same age. He was my friend. He was my pal.
As I walked along the canal bank, thinking about George, I thought of a poem by Rosemary and Stephen Vincent Benét that they had written about Nancy Hanks, the mother of Abraham Lincoln. Abraham Lincoln was only seven when Nancy Hanks died, and they loved each other very much. But in that tender poem, the Benéts reflected that if Nancy Hanks came back today, she might ask, Whatever happened to my boy, Abe? Did he get to town? Did he learn to read? Did he ever amount to anything? (See “Nancy Hanks,” in Edwin Markham, comp., The Book of American Poetry [New York: Wm. H. Wise and Co., 1936], pp. 791–92).
George’s mother had died while he was a teenager. She didn’t get to see what he became. At the funeral, I was honored to be there with the governor of the state of Michigan—a state of some nine million people, where George had been elected governor three times. The governor said George Romney was a great man who never allowed service to man to obscure service to God. The Detroit News said George Romney used his religion as a compass to chart his public life.