Gospel Story Finder

Your answer may be found in considering a butterfly. Wrapped tightly in its cocoon, the developing chrysalis must struggle with all its might to break its confinement. The butterfly might think, Why must I suffer so? Why cannot I simply, in the twinkling of an eye, become a butterfly?
Such thoughts would be contrary to the Creator’s design. The struggle to break out of the cocoon develops the butterfly so it can fly. Without that adversity, the butterfly would never have the strength to achieve its destiny. It would never develop the strength to become something extraordinary.

“The temple trip is the highlight of the year,” says Hope Fraser, 18, of the Bridge of Don Ward. “Everyone looks forward to it.” But within that highlight of the year are highlights for each youth who attends. What stands out in Hope’s memory of this year’s visit to the temple was the special Laurel meeting. “It was amazing,” she says. “We were meant to be talking about dating and situations you’re not meant to get into. We ended up talking about the gratitude we felt towards each other.” It was an experience that even the Laurel advisers remember with fondness.

One actress even believes that the benefits of participating in the project extend to fulfilling a part of her patriarchal blessing. Linda Anderson, who plays Bev Parker, the mother of some of the more wayward characters, was camera shy and reluctant to accept the roll the directors offered her after spying her in sacrament meeting one day.

“My patriarchal blessing promised that I would touch the lives of thousands of youth, but I always wondered how I would do that. I live in such a small town, and I’ve never been called to a position in the Church where I’ve worked with youth. I’ve been a teacher of little tiny kids, but most of the time I’ve been in the library, a secretary, and now I’m a counselor in the Relief Society. But when they called me and asked me to do this, a little flash went off in my mind that said, ‘Maybe this is what my blessing is referring to,’ and I thought maybe I should take the part.”

Sister Anderson learned some invaluable lessons while working on the film. “You know,” she says, “kids aren’t the only ones who pay the consequences for their actions. Their parents pay too.” Sister Anderson’s real children, and there are seven of them, ages 4–18, don’t cause nearly as much trouble as do two of her film children, Carl and Karen.

Sister Anderson says the film taught her some lessons for her own family too. “I’m not a very patient mother,” she’ll tell you. “But in the film, I was always very calm and contained. I wasn’t allowed to scream and holler at my kids when they came home late, the way I would at home. When I started to play a woman who always had her act together, I started to pull my act together a little bit more with my children.”

Generally, the Aaronic Priesthood, under the direction of the bishopric, has the responsibility to administer and pass the sacrament. In our home ward here in Salt Lake City, we have a good number of faithful, older members but few of Aaronic Priesthood age. Over the years I have watched these high priests and elders, men of faith and great accomplishments, humbly and reverently pass the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper. For a while this group of priesthood holders included a senior federal judge, a candidate for the office of governor of the state of Utah, and other prominent men of stature. Yet they were honored and obviously felt privileged to perform this sacred priesthood duty.

It was Christmas Eve, and I did not want to be out caroling.
However, my mom thought it would be fun if the family piled into our old car and drove down icy neighborhood roads to sing carols to three widows in our ward, and my dad was happy to support her suggestion.
I felt awkward. Who would want to hear us? I would die of embarrassment if I saw anyone I knew. Grumbling and sulking, I crawled into the back seat with my brother and sister.
The drive to the first apartment was only a few blocks away. Nobody answered. We drove to the second stop. Again, no answer. My spirits began to rise.
As we pulled into the narrow driveway of our last stop, I thought, “Please let no one be home.”
It was now dark outside. As my mother knocked and waited, the front porch remained dark. Good. Soon we would be home, where I could escape into my bedroom.
Suddenly the porch light snapped on and the door opened. I was so embarrassed. I felt certain we had disturbed her.
“Come in, come in,” the small, wiry woman said. She pointed to her old upright piano.
“Do you play?” she asked my mother. “Let’s sing around the piano.”
Her warmth and enthusiasm softened my heart. Maybe she didn’t mind so much that we were there. We had sung a few songs when she offered us hot chocolate.
“Can you come help?” she asked me. As we entered the kitchen, I was stunned to see a beautiful table set that was delightfully decorated for Christmas. It was so festive! At each place setting was a small, carefully wrapped package.
“Who is this for?” I asked. I knew she lived alone.
“For my neighbors,” she explained. “Every Christmas I invite those like myself—those with no family nearby—over for Christmas breakfast and a little treat.”
The idea exploded in my 13-year-old brain. Admiration filled my stubborn heart. How beautiful this room was. How beautiful this petite older sister was. How beautiful was my mother to bring us here. At last I was happy.
At church the next month this sister thanked us again for visiting. She told us we were the only ones that year who had remembered her. A few months later she passed away unexpectedly.
I look back at that Christmas and feel thankful for wonderful parents and for this older sister, each of whom wanted to bring Christmas cheer to others.
Brooke K., Utah, USA

The comedy As You Like It, written by the English playwright William Shakespeare, depicts a dramatic change in a character’s life. An older brother attempts to have his younger brother killed. Even knowing this, the younger brother saves his wicked brother from certain death. When the older brother learns of this undeserved compassion, he is totally and forever changed and has what he calls a “conversion.” Later several women approach the older brother and ask, “Was’t you that did so oft contrive to kill [your brother]?”

The older brother answers, “’Twas I; but ’tis not I: I do not shame to tell you what I was, since my conversion so sweetly tastes, being the thing I am.”

The music screamed from the radio, jerking me from my peaceful sleep. “Turn the radio down, Eric!” I bellowed.
I cracked open my eyes and watched my brother dance insanely in front of his dresser. His good left hand was clenched around an imaginary microphone, and his partially crippled right hand flapped as he twisted to the music.
“Eric!” I yelled again, and he turned toward me, gave me his sheepish grin—and turned up the radio. I lunged after him, and he bolted out the bedroom door, laughing as he ran. His straw-colored blond hair flapped as he ran, exhibiting more energy than I could ever match. I shut the door and climbed back in bed.

My wife, Harriet, and I love riding our bicycles. It is wonderful to get out and enjoy the beauties of nature. We have certain routes we like to bike, but we don’t pay too much attention to how far we go or how fast we travel in comparison with other riders.
However, occasionally I think we should be a bit more competitive. I even think we could get a better time or ride at a higher speed if only we pushed ourselves a little more. And then sometimes I even make the big mistake of mentioning this idea to my wonderful wife.
Her typical reaction to my suggestions of this nature is always very kind, very clear, and very direct. She smiles and says, “Dieter, it’s not a race; it’s a journey. Enjoy the moment.”
How right she is!

It was July 4, 1976, and the huge, yellowed stones of the Western (Wailing) Wall, all that remains of the enclosure that was once part of the resplendent glory of Solomon’s Temple, echoed with singing: “God is with us; no one can defeat us.” The golden city of Jerusalem, made more golden by the ruddy glow of the setting sun, sang her victory song. Israel had amazed the world that morning with her daring commando raid on the airport at Entebbe, Uganda. Ninety hijacked Israeli hostages, facing the threat of death, had been rescued and flown back to Israel.
On the evening of that eventful day, I photographed soldiers and civilians whirling together in dancing circles, singing and praising God. The dusky evening light merged colors and shapes into a oneness. I stood next to a soldier as he leaned his head against his arm to pray at the rough stone of the Wall, while behind us common folk and government officials blended their voices in vocal prayer and thanksgiving for the glory of Israel.

President Thomas S. Monson has called upon Latter-day Saints to continue in our faith and prayers that “areas where our influence is limited and where we are not allowed to share the gospel” will be opened (see sidebar on page 25). He was present at the landmark meeting in 1974 when President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) called upon Church leaders to lengthen their strides and enlarge their vision in magnifying the missionary program worldwide and “in finding the keys that have apparently been lost to many nations wherein we can open those worlds.”1
President Monson promises that miracles can occur as we continue in our faith and prayers. He knows from experience that this is true. In the years following President Kimball’s plea, he saw a dramatic increase in the number of missionaries and convert baptisms.2 He witnessed the opening of many areas as Latter-day Saints obeyed President Kimball’s request to pray that the nations of the world would open their doors to the preaching of the gospel. President Monson was instrumental in the construction of the Freiberg Germany Temple. He witnessed the opening of many countries to the gospel after the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989.3

Understanding and communicating clearly and kindly with youth are also critical, he adds. “When I was 13, I was called as the deacons quorum president. Our branch president took a few minutes to find a classroom and meet with me, out of the hallway, and tell me what I needed to do. He gave me wonderful instruction of what was expected of me, both by him and by the Lord.

“Do you know how many deacons we had in our class? Two. But he still took the time to prepare himself and prepare me. That was 50 years ago, and I still remember how it touched my heart. He wanted me to succeed. He gave his personal attention and time. He gave kind but direct instructions, and he followed up.”

In my middle school I’m one of the only members of the Church. One day in class the girl sitting next to me said a man who was Mormon wasn’t treated fairly because of his religion. I spoke up and said I was a Mormon too. A lot of people had questions about the Church, and I was able to answer them. It has come up again in class, and I’ve been able to share what I know is true. I know that by sharing my testimony I can be a good missionary to those around me.
Jemma P., age 11, North Carolina

Christmas was still a few weeks away, but Truman and his family had already put up the Christmas tree. He was excited as he thought about the presents he hoped to see under the tree on Christmas morning.
A few days later Truman walked into the living room and saw there was one small box under the tree. It was wrapped in red paper and tied with a green bow.
Our first present! Who sent it? Was it Grandma?
No.
Is it from one of my cousins?
No.
Truman was confused.
Well, then who sent it?
You’ll have to wait and see. All we can say is that it is a very special gift.
As days passed, more presents appeared under the tree, but Truman kept wondering about that first red present with the green bow. Where did it come from?
On Christmas morning, Truman raced to wake up his brothers and parents.
Wake up! It’s Christmas!
After arriving at the tree, Truman was excited to see the presents underneath it.
Truman, you may open the small box with the red paper and green bow.
Truman was excited to finally see what was inside.
Truman removed the lid and found a few small items. He pulled them out one at a time—a picture of Jesus Christ, a poem about Jesus’s birth, and a star. Truman showed everyone the picture, and Dad read the poem.
I put the box under the tree so we could remember the real reason we celebrate Christmas.
Truman was happy to remember Jesus.
Dad, you put the box under the tree, but now I know who really gave us this gift.
Who?
Heavenly Father.

Initially, not knowing of the damage to the nuclear power plants, I tried to send the missionaries at our leadership meeting back to their apartments immediately after the quake. But the Lord hedged up the way. There were no buses or trains running. So Heavenly Father continued to keep the missionaries safe in Koriyama.

During the Great Depression, the homeless, the downtrodden, the unemployed “rode the rails” that passed not far from our home. On numerous occasions, there would be a soft knock on the back door. When I opened the door, there I would see a man, sometimes two, ill-clothed, ill-fed, ill-schooled. Generally, such a visitor held in his hand the familiar cap. His hair would be tousled, his face unshaven. The question was always the same: “Could you spare some food?” My dear mother invariably responded with a pleasant, “Come in and sit down at the table.” She would then prepare a ham sandwich, cut a piece of cake, and pour a glass of milk. Mother would ask the visitor about his home, his family, his life. She provided hope and words of encouragement. Before leaving, the visitor would pause to express a gracious thank-you. I would note that a smile of content had replaced a look of despair. Eyes that were dull now shone with new purpose. Love, that noblest attribute of the human soul, can work wonders.

During the past summer months, I watched a neighbor of mine construct a small storage building. He is an engineer and had drawn his own plans for the structure. As we occasionally talked about his project, I became aware of the deep sense of satisfaction that he was deriving from the work. The planning and construction of this building, which was being accomplished in the occasional free hours he found in a busy schedule, was a creative expression for my friend. He enjoyed explaining the little embellishments that he had worked into his plan. As these materialized in the actual construction, I noted the pleasure and fulfillment that he was experiencing. The effort was adding an important dimension to his life, enlarging and enhancing his creative capacities and his enthusiasm for living.
Creativity reaches beyond the realms of music, literature, and the arts. As my neighbor demonstrated in the planning and construction of his storage building, creative expression takes many forms. We can value and appreciate all of them.

We should develop as one of our teaching skills the presentation of the truthfulness of this book as another reliable, sound witness of the mission of our Lord and Savior. We should know its history and its content. For example, let us consider the miracle of the translation of the Book of Mormon by the Prophet Joseph Smith, with Oliver Cowdery acting as his scribe.
After the 116 pages were lost when Martin Harris was allowed to take them home, the real translation began on April 7, 1829, two days after Oliver Cowdery arrived in Harmony, Pennsylvania, to serve as the Prophet’s scribe. By May 15, five weeks later, they had reached the account of the Savior’s ministry to the Nephites as contained in 3 Nephi, chapter 11.
By June 11 they had translated the last plates of Mormon, and it was on June 11 that the Prophet applied for a copyright. By June 30 the book was finished—from start to finish, no more than eighty-five days in translation time. However, with all that went on during these eighty-five days, it is apparent there were only sixty to sixty-five days in which the actual translation could have occurred.
Remember that during that time the Prophet moved from Harmony to Fayette, made several trips for supplies, received and recorded thirteen sections of the Doctrine and Covenants, restored the Aaronic and Melchizedek priesthoods, converted and baptized several people, and on and on. They had no time to consult libraries to study the content. There was no time to revise or refine, no time to cross-reference dates or intervals and details. Instead, the text came, as Oliver recorded, day after day, uninterrupted, as the words fell from the Prophet’s mouth.
This was an astonishing achievement! The text came through final copy, one time, dictated and left as it stood with only minor, stylistic editing to this day. It is no simple book dashed off from the top of a young man’s head, but reflects the best of a thousand years of colonization and inspiration. Added to the rapidity with which the translation occurred is the astonishing fact that the Prophet Joseph Smith was doing it in an unknown language in which he had no training and for which there was no one to whom he could go for guidance and help.

Thank you very much for the November 2003 article “The Playmaker.” I am grateful for the example that Aleisha has set. I esteem her for her obedience towards Heavenly Father, though she could have played in the Olympics and World Cup. I am glad for her that she seized the chance to play soccer on a good team. When I saw the name Brigham Young on her shirt, I thought, “Those players play in honor. Somehow it is special. Hopefully I will play in such a shirt in a few years.”Olivia Prochazka, Wettingen Ward, Zürich Switzerland Stake

I drew rainbows of hope for my neighbors during COVID-19. I was happy I helped, like Jesus would!
Willow K., age 5, Cheshire, England

There must be magic in a mouse!
If I creep quietly
Into the bushes by the shed
And lie there patiently,
And if I stay as soft and still
As ever I can be,
I’ll hear a click and see a flick—
And there a mouse will be!
He’ll sit up quickly, turn his head,
And look just everyplace;
And then he’ll lick his little hands
And wash his little face.
And then he’ll find a crunchy seed
That he can sit and munch—
He could be on a holiday,
Eating a picnic lunch!
The more I watch, the more I’d love
To take him home with me—
He has such friendly eyes, and looks
So warm and cuddly;
But if I should so much as move—
I think this is so queer!—
I’ll see a flick and hear a click—
My mouse will disappear!
I go to see my mouse a lot,
But something bothers me:
He doesn’t always look the same—
Could there be two or even three?