Gospel Story Finder

Wouldn’t it be awesome if you could walk into the school cafeteria and everybody cheered your name once they saw you? “Sit by us!” each table would clamor.
At first glance, that probably sounds like the ideal way school ought to be.
Now pretend there’s a catch. Imagine that no matter which table you joined, you wouldn’t find even one person whom you felt like you could open up to with a problem on your mind. Not one person who actually cared about you—just a roomful of people who want to be seen with you.
Still sound fun?

Prayer, by Walter Rane
I never prayed so much as when one of my sons reached the age of 17. He started having some doubts about the gospel, and at times he was rebellious and didn’t want to listen. My husband and I always tried to insist that he attend church, but many times he refused. We held our family home evenings, read the scriptures, and prayed as a family, but he often chose not to participate. I can’t remember how many times I knelt down to ask our Heavenly Father to touch his heart and help him continue along the right path.
Over the next two years, he had many ups and downs. Church leaders supported me and they spoke with him, but nothing seemed to be of use. Eventually he left home.
All that time I never stopped praying for him. At times my husband, tired of it, said to me, “Leave him. He has his moral agency.” But my reply was always the same: “No. I will not lose hope.”
After a time, our son came to our home. He asked my forgiveness and told me, “Mama, I want to come home.” My husband and I were wary, but after discussing it, we yielded. After he returned home, we saw his firm determination to change. He became active in the Church and participated in activities. He was later called to serve as a Primary teacher, an experience that was quite special for him.
One day I hung up a Poster from the Liahona that said, “Don’t let worries or doubts keep you from serving a full-time mission.”1 It hung in his bedroom for a couple of months, when suddenly one day he said to me, “Mama, I want to go on a mission at the end of the year.” It was marvelous. My husband and I cried and cried, and of course we supported him as he prepared to go to the temple and serve a mission. I continued praying all the time, now thanking Heavenly Father for having touched the heart of my son.
After some time on his mission, in one of his letters he said to me, “Mama, I have a great testimony of prayer, thanks to you. I know that you were praying the whole time for me, and now I am on a mission because the Lord touched my heart, not because I am all that good. Thanks, Mama. Share with the sisters this principle that changed my life.”
Now my son has served a faithful mission and participated in a marvelous work. I am very thankful to Heavenly Father for listening to my prayers all these years and for touching the heart of my son, which caused him to return to the right path.

A pleasant young man in his early 20s sat across from me. He had an engaging smile, although he didn’t smile often during our talk. What drew me in was the pain in his eyes.
“I don’t know if I should remain a member of the Church,” he said. “I don’t think I’m worthy.”
“Why wouldn’t you be worthy?” I asked.
“I’m gay.”
I suppose he thought I would be startled. I wasn’t. “And … ?” I inquired.
A flicker of relief crossed his face as he sensed my continued interest. “I’m not attracted to women. I’m attracted to men. I’ve tried to ignore these feelings or change them, but …”
He sighed. “Why am I this way? The feelings are very real.”
I paused, then said, “I need a little more information before advising you. You see, same-gender attraction is not a sin, but acting on those feelings is—just as it would be with heterosexual feelings. Do you violate the law of chastity?”
He shook his head. “No, I don’t.”
This time I was relieved. “Thank you for wanting to deal with this,” I said. “It takes courage to talk about it, and I honor you for keeping yourself clean.
“As for why you feel as you do, I can’t answer that question. A number of factors may be involved, and they can be as different as people are different. Some things, including the cause of your feelings, we may never know in this life. But knowing why you feel as you do isn’t as important as knowing you have not transgressed. If your life is in harmony with the commandments, then you are worthy to serve in the Church, enjoy full fellowship with the members, attend the temple, and receive all the blessings of the Savior’s Atonement.”
He sat up a little straighter. I continued, “You serve yourself poorly when you identify yourself primarily by your sexual feelings. That isn’t your only characteristic, so don’t give it disproportionate attention. You are first and foremost a son of God, and He loves you.
“What’s more, I love you. My Brethren among the General Authorities love you. I’m reminded of a comment President Boyd K. Packer made in speaking to those with same-gender attraction. ‘We do not reject you,’ he said. ‘… We cannot reject you, for you are the sons and daughters of God. We will not reject you, because we love you.’”
We talked for another 30 minutes or so. Knowing I could not be a personal counselor to him, I directed him to his local priesthood leaders. Then we parted. I thought I detected a look of hope in his eyes that had not been there before. Although he yet faced challenges to work through—or simply endure—I had a feeling he would handle them well.

You remember the little story President Grant used to tell about the Scandinavian brother who was converted and came over to America. He hadn’t been taught too much about the Church. So the bishop went to him to teach him the law of tithing. He finally agreed to pay his tithing. Then the bishop wanted some fast offerings. He agreed to the fast offering. Then they wanted to build a chapel. The man thought that ought to come out of the tithing, but before the bishop got through with him, he had paid his donation for the chapel. Then the bishop went to him to ask his son to go on a mission. He said, “You are finally asking more than I am willing to give.” Then this bishop said, “Brother So-and-so, whom do you love in this world more than anyone else, aside from your own family?” He thought a minute and said, “I guess I love that Mormon elder who came up to the Land of the Midnight Sun and taught me the gospel of Jesus Christ.” Then the bishop said, “Brother So-and-so, how would you like somebody to love your boy just like you love that missionary?” He said, “Bishop, you win again. Take him.”

You just cannot get away from it.

As my family sat a few rows behind the deacons one sacrament meeting, all I could think about before the opening hymn was that one of the deacons had failed to properly tie his long tie and correctly tuck in his wrinkled shirt. I thought someone should have helped him out. After all, when passing the sacrament, deacons should be an example of the Savior in action and dress.
The meeting proceeded, and I forgot about him. After the deacons had passed the sacrament, the talks began. The second speaker was the young man’s mother. She spoke of her conversion, of her trials growing up, and of her struggles as a single mother. It was a wonderful talk that left her in tears. She took her seat on the stand and continued to cry as the ward choir gathered to sing.
Just then her son, with his crooked tie and untucked shirt, stood and walked to the stand. He hugged his mother and crouched beside her to comfort her. Tears came to my eyes as the scene played out before me; I was touched beyond words. But then realization dawned, and I hung my head. Sitting in my crisp double-breasted suit, with my perfectly tied tie and polished black shoes, I realized I had truly missed something in preparing for the sacrament.
The young man and his mother came down from the stand and sat together as the choir began to sing. I sat there, unable to listen to the music because the sermon taught by this deacon flooded my heart with a message of Christlike charity.
He had performed his act with tenderness and care. There was not the slightest sign of embarrassment on his young face—only pure love. The subsequent messages over the pulpit that day were good, but I will always remember the sermon behind the pulpit.

In Alberta, Canada, Shirley Martin knows from experience that you can grow just about any kind of plant in a container as simple as reused soda or juice bottles. She says the key to a successful container garden is adequate lighting, even if it is only a window or a lamp designed to promote plant growth, and watering more often, as containers dry out much more quickly than a garden does.
“This year,” Shirley says, “I am growing a kitchen garden in a few pots on my deck complete with some herbs, lettuce, tomatoes, onion, chives, and a pepper. Your imagination is the limit.”

The next day, while attending a Relief Society meeting, I noticed a particular scripture: “Others will he pacify, and lull them away into carnal security, that they will say: All is well in Zion; yea, Zion prospereth, all is well. … Therefore, wo be unto him that is at ease in Zion!” (2 Nephi 28:21, 24). I had always read these verses as describing the proud who went through the motions of worship. I had not considered myself as being at ease in Zion by spending so much time with my sister. But I began to realize that instead of seeking healing, I’d sought comfort. I resolved then to try harder to get out of my comfort zone.

In that regard, I pay a personal tribute to President Thomas Spencer Monson. I have been blessed by an association with this man for 47 years now, and the image of him I will cherish until I die is of him flying home from then–economically devastated East Germany in his house slippers because he had given away not only his second suit and his extra shirts but the very shoes from off his feet. “How beautiful upon the mountains [and shuffling through an airline terminal] are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings, that publisheth peace.”20 More than any man I know, President Monson has “done all he could” for the widow and the fatherless, the poor and the oppressed.

The Irish wind moaned outside the cottage and whipped the cold rain against the windowpanes. Inside, Patrick McEntree was warm. The branch members were gathered for sacrament meeting around the flickering peat fire on the hearth. Yet Patrick was warmed not only by the fire but also by the words of the tall, young missionary with the American accent. “I know the gospel is true,” he said, “and I’m grateful to serve the Lord here in western Ireland.”
Patrick knew the gospel was true too. Suddenly he couldn’t wait until he was nineteen to be a missionary. He had to tell his friends now about the wonderful Book of Mormon he was reading. He clutched his copy tightly. The beautiful, leather-bound book had been sent to him personally from Salt Lake City by the missionary who had taught his family the gospel.
Patrick’s donkey, Flopps, stood waiting outside the cottage as she did every Sunday. Even the typically blustery Irish weather did not keep her away.
The meeting over, Patrick’s father donned his cap and hurried out with the rest of the family.
Patrick strolled home more slowly beside Flopps. “You know, Flopps, I want to be a missionary,” he said. “How am I going to tell Tom and my other friends about the gospel?”
Flopps only flopped her ears and blinked at Patrick.
“No answers for me, Flopps? Well, you’re a good friend anyway, even if you don’t understand.”
A few days later, Patrick weaved his way through the mooing cattle, bleating sheep, and squawking chickens on the village street. Flopps trotted close at his heels. It was fair day in the village, and everyone had come from miles around to barter their goods. Patrick wanted to find his friend Tom and tell him about the branch activity that evening. Everyone from the youngest child to the oldest grandfather would gather to dance the traditional Irish jigs and reels. It might be a first step in telling Tom about the gospel, he thought.
Patrick saw Tom at the open fruit market, but his way was suddenly blocked by Michael O’Brien with a huge creel of seaweed strapped to his back. Patrick ducked around Michael and his seaweed only to find that Tom had disappeared. Patrick grimaced and looked back at Michael. Even in school Michael smelled vaguely of seaweed. Most villagers gathered seaweed in the early springtime to fertilize their rocky potato ridges; Michael gathered it year round to dry and to sell to the factories.
A strange feeling came over Patrick, but he pushed it aside. No! He definitely did not want to invite Michael to the branch activity. They weren’t friends. In fact, he didn’t even like Michael. Michael often played pranks on the teachers at school and laughed when they asked him questions.
Stubbornly, Patrick looked straight ahead. “Come on, Flopps, there are other people who deserve to hear the gospel more than Michael.”
But Patrick couldn’t get Michael off his mind. The next morning he hardly remembered hitching Flopps to the cart and going to the bog with his father to cut peat to dry for fuel.
“Ah, my boy, you have been quiet today. Where are your thoughts?” questioned Patrick’s father as they unloaded the last of the peat beside their cottage.
“Father,” Patrick asked slowly, “do you think Heavenly Father sometimes asks us to do things we don’t want to do?”
His father raised his eyebrows. “Why, yes, I think He sometimes does.”
“I think He’s been telling me to be a missionary to Michael O’Brien. But I don’t like Michael. Sometimes he’s mean.”
“Mmm, well now,” mused Patrick’s father, “I suppose if God waited until His children were always good to love them, He would love very few of us on this earth. In fact,” he said winking at Patrick, “He might not love you all the time—I’ve known you to be naughty on occasion. But since we know God loves all His children, I’m sure he wants Michael to have the gospel too.”
“Do you think praying would help me to like Michael?”
“Yes.” His father nodded toward the lane. “But you’d better do it fast.”
Patrick turned around. Trudging up the lane was Michael, on his way to gather seaweed while the tide was down.
Patrick looked at his father for courage.
“You can do it, my boy.”
Patrick swallowed hard and, with a prayer in his heart, called out, “Michael, would you like some help gathering seaweed? I could help you cut it, and Flopps is all hitched up to the cart, so you wouldn’t have to carry it yourself.”
Patrick and Michael sliced their knives through the strands of wet seaweed draped around the slippery rocks, while Flopps waited patiently for them to carry the dripping bundles to her cart. Hour after hour they crouched over the rocks, unaware that the raindrops splashed ever harder and that the wind drowned out the sound of the sea. Only when Flopps began braying did Patrick notice the wind and the chilling rain. The night and the tide were creeping in.
Patrick shouted above the gale, “Michael! I think we’d better stop.” He saw Michael suddenly teeter on a slippery rock and fall. Patrick scrambled to help him.
Michael gasped, “My foot’s caught between these rocks!”
Patrick took hold of a slimy rock and heaved. It didn’t budge. “Can you move your leg at all?”
Michael tried, and his face twisted with pain.
The tide was now lapping around the boys’ legs. What can I do? Patrick agonized. Abruptly, he blurted out, “I think we should pray!”
“Pray?” repeated Michael incredulously through his chattering teeth. The jeering laugh that Patrick disliked so much started out of Michael’s throat, then stopped short. “OK,” he agreed quietly.
Patrick prayed until his fears were gone and he knew exactly what to do. He unhitched Flopps from the cart and coaxed the reluctant donkey out onto the slippery rocks. He tied a rope around the rock and attached it to her harness. At first Flopps didn’t want to pull. She pawed at the water rising around her legs and switched her tail in annoyance.
“Come on, Flopps, you’ve always been my friend,” Patrick urged her.
Flopps pricked up her ears and moved forward. The rock moved too.
All the way back to Patrick’s cottage, Michael kept saying, “I can’t believe it. When you said that prayer, I had such a calm feeling. I just knew everything was going to be all right.”
Patrick’s mother served the two shivering boys steaming bowls of oxtail soup.
“Flopps and I will make sure you get home safely, Michael,” said Patrick’s father.
Michael was hobbling out the door when Patrick noticed his Book of Mormon lying on the table. Impulsively he grabbed it and called after Michael, “Here. Take this. You might want to read it.”
It had been two weeks since Patrick had gathered seaweed with Michael. Patrick fiddled with Flopps’s harness and wondered why he had given his precious Book of Mormon away.
“Hurry up, Patrick,” called his father. “We’ve lots of hay to rake and pile today.”
As Patrick led Flopps along the rock fence toward the hayfield, he saw a woman with a baby coming up the road. Stopping on the other side of the fence, she shyly said, “I’m looking for Patrick McEntree.”
“I’m Patrick.”
“Oh. I wanted to thank you for giving my son that book—the Book of Mormon. Ever since my husband died last year, I have been looking for it. Someone gave me a copy many years ago, and I just laid it aside then. But when my husband died right before the baby came, I had to put most of the work on Michael. My whole world seemed to fall apart. For some reason, I just knew I had to find that book again and read it. Now that I have, I feel much better. Thank you so much.”
Patrick could only stand with his mouth open.
The woman paused and hoisted the baby farther up in her arms. “Could I ask for one more favor? Would you teach me more about your church?”
The next Sunday Patrick went with the two missionaries to Michael O’Brien’s home. When he walked into the cottage, Patrick gulped in astonishment. The room was packed with people! He sat down beside Michael and whispered, “Where did all these people come from?”
“They’re my cousins from Dublin. They come every year at haying time. They want to hear about your church too.”
Patrick watched Michael smile as the missionaries talked about the gospel of Jesus Christ. He was beginning to understand why God loved Michael so much.
Patrick noticed his leather-bound Book of Mormon on a table near the glowing fireplace. Someday, he thought, I’ll get another leather-bound Book of Mormon. He was glad now that he had given his first one away.

Cinderella has to endure her wicked stepmother and evil stepsisters. She is compelled to suffer long hours of servitude and ridicule.

In each of these stories, Cinderella, Belle, and the miller’s daughter have to experience sadness and trial before they can reach their “happily ever after.” Think about it. Has there ever been a person who did not have to go through his or her own dark valley of temptation, trial, and sorrow?

In a press conference on August 16, 2018, President Russell M. Nelson said: “The Lord has impressed upon my mind the importance of the name He has revealed for His Church, even The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. We have work before us to bring ourselves in harmony with His will.”
Two days later, on August 18, I was with President Nelson in Montreal, Canada. Following our member meeting in the impressive Palais de Congrés, President Nelson answered questions from reporters. He acknowledged that it was “going to be a challenge to [reestablish the name of the Church and] undo [a] tradition of more than a hundred years.” But, he added, “the name of the Church is not negotiable.”
Seven weeks later, President Nelson spoke in general conference: “The Lord impressed upon my mind the importance of the name He decreed for His Church, even The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. … It was the Savior Himself who said, ‘For thus shall my church be called.’” Then President Nelson repeated, “The name of the Church is not negotiable.”

I had been tidying my house, but I couldn’t even vacuum the floors and dust my furniture, because I had so much clutter laying around. God’s house is a house of order (D&C 132:8), and I needed to make mine that way too. A wonderful thing happened to me in the process of tidying my house – I found some “hidden” treasures. Most of us are familiar with the story in the New Testament about looking for a lost coin (Luke 15:8-10). Today, I was looking for my original birth certificate that I needed for applying for a free bus pass.
In the process of looking I found lots of other surprises, but unfortunately, I couldn’t find my birth certificate. I knew that I had originally put it into the top drawer of my filing cabinet in a light brown money belt; but I couldn’t find it anywhere. Then I looked through all the other file cabinet drawers, to no avail. The other drawers were filled with old bank statements, car repair bills, pay-cheques, house and car insurance documents, etc., but there was no birth certificate to be found anywhere.
Finally, after spending an hour searching, I prayed for help from Heavenly Father to find the lost document. I felt (through the Holy Ghost) that my birth certificate was indeed in the top drawer of my filing cabinet. So, I went back to the drawer and looked through all the piles of papers again. Imagine my surprise when I got down to the very bottom of the drawer and found my birth certificate in a blue pouch. That was when I remembered that I had changed where I stored my birth certificate about two years ago. I’m so glad that the Holy Ghost remembered where my birth certificate was.

That was a good story to report, but the best one Janie wrote was of when Chris was baptized. She worked hard to get all the details exactly right for the family records. She made sure to include the facts that Dad baptized Chris and that both grandfathers were witnesses to the baptism. And she carefully wrote down each word of Chris’s testimony after he was confirmed: “I want to thank Mom and Dad and my sisters for all that they teach me,” he said. “I know that this church is true and that Heavenly Father and Jesus love me.”

Years ago when I served as a stake president, a man came to confess a transgression. His confession surprised me. He had been an active member of the Church for years. I wondered how a person with his experience could have committed the sin that he did. After some pondering, it came to me that this brother had never become truly converted. Despite his Church activity, the gospel had not penetrated his heart. It was only an external influence in his life. When he was in wholesome environments, he kept the commandments, but in a different environment, other influences might control his actions.

Against the backdrop of this history, it is interesting to look at page one of Joseph’s first journal, dated November 27, 1832 (Book of Mormon manuscript). He wrote this approximately three and a half years after he had concluded the translation of the Book of Mormon. Note that he writes and then strikes out the following words:
“Joseph Smith Jrs—Record Book Baught for to note all the minute circumstances that comes under my observation.”
As I have held this diary and read these crossed-out words, I have imagined Joseph seated in a rustic setting in frontier America, writing the opening sentence and then thinking, “No, that’s not quite right; let me try again.” So he strikes out the sentence and writes, “Joseph Smith Jrs Book for Record Baught on the 27th of November 1832 for the purpose to keep a minute acount of all things that come under my observation &c— —”
Finally, probably not entirely satisfied with the stilted, halting language he had just penned, he writes, “Oh may God grant that I may be directed in all my thaughts Oh bless thy Servent Amen.”5 I sense in this sentence Joseph feeling his inadequacy and weakness, and calling upon God in faith to direct him in all he does.

With young people keeping this hectic pace, their parents frequently find themselves trying to catch their sons or daughters for a few minutes of visiting. The dinner table is often the only time when most of the family is together during the day, and a common scene at the table is to watch mother or dad attempt to pump out a little information from their frantically scheduled offspring. Mother: How did things go at school today, Jan?
Jan: Okay.
Dad: Anything interesting happen?
Jan: Nope.
Mother: How did your math class go? I know you’ve been worried about it.
Jan: It’s going all right.
Dad: How is your play practice coming?
Jan: Good.
Dad: Any problems coming up that we can help with?
Jan: Not really, but can I have the car tonight? I need to get together with some of the other kids.
Dad: I guess so.
In fairness to Jan, it is not just from her that her parents try to pump information. If you were to listen to the conversation between her mother and dad when he comes home from work, you would probably hear a conversation like this:
Mother: How did things go at work today, dear?
Dad: Okay.
Mother: Anything interesting happen?
Dad: Nope.
Mother: How did that new project go that you’ve been worried about?
Dad: It’s going all right.

When I was 11, my family moved to West Germany. My father and my mother ran a laundry to make a living, and I was the laundry delivery boy. I saw some shiny red bicycles, and I wished I could have one to make my deliveries. But I needed a heavy-duty bicycle to pull the cart with the laundry on it. I rode around pulling that heavy laundry cart before school and after school. It was hard seeing the other children play. But everyone in our family had to work hard, and I was an important part of the family business.
As I grew older, I learned about the blessings of doing things that at the time you don’t realize are important and good for you. When I was very little, I came down with a lung disease, but no one knew it at the time. When I grew older, I joined the air force. The doctors saw spots on my lungs. Because of the hard work of pedaling that heavy load, somehow my body had healed itself. I had built up endurance. I had built up strength. The doctors said that the disease took care of itself and that I passed my physical. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have been able to become a pilot.

Sister Batson, our Blazer leader, was preparing us to become deacons. She faithfully took us on monthly hikes. One hike was down a dry desert wash toward Lake Mead. Sister Batson stayed with the stragglers while five or six of us forged ahead. We were quite a distance ahead when we heard something. It was a baby rattlesnake, coiled and ready to strike. Rather than giving it plenty of room, we found some sticks and began poking at it. The snake took off across the desert. Naturally we took off after it, running as fast as our legs would carry us, chasing that snake. We cornered it against the side of a gulch where it coiled with its one rattle making as much noise as it could. We formed a semicircle around the snake, and on the count of three, we rushed it.
The first guy in and at the bottom of the pile was Malcolm. Suddenly he exploded out of the pile, throwing us everywhere, and started a panic run across the desert with the snake attached to his hand. We took off after him and succeeded in ankle tackling him. He was screaming and yelling at the top of his lungs, “I’m going to die! I’m going to die!”
We each took a leg and arm to pin him down so we could save his life. We then took out our trusty snakebite kits (which aren’t at all like the ones used today and not to be recommended). They consisted of several suction cups, a shoestring tourniquet, some antibacterial iodine, and a razor blade. The shoestring tourniquet didn’t seem big enough, so we whipped off our Scout belts and placed half a dozen tourniquets up his arm. We then stained his arm brown with the iodine. We decided that the suction cups were not good enough, and we would have to suck the poison out. We were arguing about who got to do the sucking and who got to cut him when Sister Batson arrived. She grabbed Malcolm, threw him over her shoulder, ran back to the van with us right behind her, and got Malcolm to the hospital in time to save his hand.
By the time I got home, my father had found out what happened. He took me to my room, sat me on the end of the bed, and said three words of profound meaning, “Son,” he said, “DON’T CHASE SNAKES!”

At age 16, Sasha was called to be first counselor in her branch’s Young Women presidency. Her friend Anya was president. The two of them were the only active young women in the branch. One day a leader told them, “You have many young women in your branch, but only the two of you come. God called you to work!”
So Sasha and Anya went to work. Within a month, nearly 15 young women were active in the branch. A few months later, Sasha was called to be branch Young Women president. And at age 17, she became first counselor in the district Young Women presidency. “Like me, many of those girls were the only members of the Church in their families, and I knew we had to be one family with them. It was my desire that we should be real friends. Then we could all be faithful to the Lord.”
The girls met often during the week for friendship, activities, and service. They took turns giving lessons. They attended branch seminary classes. They went on walks and enjoyed other activities together. “Most of those young women are still active in the Church,” says Sasha. “They have strong testimonies and are serving now in their own callings. We are still close friends.”

Thank you for the article “Be Clean” in the July 2002 New Era. When I was 11 or 12 I got my ears pierced a second time. This was before I heard the prophet counsel against more than one set of ear piercings. Since then, whenever I looked in a mirror and saw my second set, I thought about what the prophet said. I tried to justify my second set by wearing a tiny pair of studs in the second holes. But reading “Be Clean” in the New Era helped me realize it’s just a simple question of obedience. Obedience is an excellent way of showing our gratitude to our Father in Heaven. Now I feel that instead of not doing things to be clean, I’ve actually done something to be clean.
Claire LynchPerth, Western Australia (via e-mail)