Gospel Story Finder

Even with all of the articles you have printed about preparing rather than repairing, I am one who dated a nonmember against the counsel of Church leaders. I’ve been dating a wonderful young man for a year who is devoted to his own Christian church. Now that we’re graduating from high school, questions of “our” future are arising. What was so nice and fun a year ago is now very emotional and serious. I have realized in recent weeks that this relationship has to come to an end. It is terribly painful as I contemplate how hurt he is going to be and how I’ve made him a victim by allowing this relationship to progress. I write this for the benefit of those who are making important decisions in their lives. Remember who you choose to date is vitally important.
Name Withheld

Some years ago such a precious seed was planted in fertile soil in Germany.
Robert Frederick Lippolt, his wife, and daughters lived in a small city in Central Germany. Robert, a house painter, provided a moderate living for his family. One Sunday, while on her way to the Protestant church, Robert’s wife was approached by Mormon missionaries, who invited her to attend sacrament meeting. She attended and was impressed.
After subsequent visits by the missionaries, she was baptized and became active in the Church. From the moment of his wife’s baptism, her husband grew in animosity and bitterness toward the Church. Their daughters were also baptized, resulting in more bitterness.
Robert could bear the Mormons no longer; he moved his family from Germany to Vera Cruz, Mexico, and then on to Porto Alegre, Brazil. As soon as they were settled, Robert’s wife continued to spread the news of the gospel. She was causing excitement in Brazil, for the doctrine that she preached was completely new.
Bitterness filled Robert. He hated the Mormons. He prevented his children from going to public school, for fear they would learn to read and would thus be further indoctrinated with Mormon literature.
Finally, in desperation, he took his family away from civilization to the interior of Brazil. They settled in the remote, peaceful valley of Ipomeia, in the state of Santa Catarina.
Filled with a burning testimony and a desire to share the “good news,” Robert’s faithful wife wrote to the mission president in Germany, who in turn referred her to the Argentine Mission president. She asked that he visit Brazil. President Reinhold Stoof visited Brazil in 1927 and reported that much success could be realized among the German-speaking people of Brazil.
From the tiny seeds sown by missionaries in Germany and carried across the Atlantic, the First Presidency established a mission in Brazil in February 1935. The work now flourishes. Hundreds, then thousands heard the good news. Now there are four missions in Brazil and four stakes of Zion.
Even Robert Frederick, the once bitter husband and father, was eventually touched by the seed of truth, for at the age of 83 he was carried in his wooden rocking chair to the nearby River Rio de Peixe and baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. How could one ever describe the deep abiding love of Robert’s faithful wife for the gospel and for her family?

After my military service, I pursued an education in military administration in the West German government. It was quite demanding, but I gained a broad background in such things as finance, real estate, legal affairs, and so forth. I also had a calling to serve in the district presidency. While my fellow students were busy studying on Sundays, I was fulfilling Church assignments and spending time with my family. It was hard, but the Lord’s promises are true, and you can rely on them. I did as well as any of my fellow students.

In much of the world, we are entering upon unsettled economic times. Let us look after one another the very best we can. I remember the story of a Vietnamese family that fled Saigon in 1975 and ended up living in a small mobile home in Provo, Utah. A young man in the refugee family became the home teaching companion to a Brother Johnson who lived nearby with his large family. The boy related the following:
“One day Brother Johnson noticed that our family had no kitchen table. He appeared the next day with an odd-looking but very functional table that fit nicely against the trailer wall across from the kitchen sink and counters. I say odd-looking because two of the table legs matched the tabletop and two did not. Also, several small wooden pegs stuck out along one edge of the worn surface.
“Soon we used this unique table daily for food preparation and for eating some quick meals. We still ate our family meals while we sat on the floor … in true Vietnamese fashion.
“One evening I stood inside Brother Johnson’s front door as I waited for him before a home teaching appointment. There in the nearby kitchen—I was surprised to see it—was a table practically identical to the one they had given to my family. The only difference was that where our table had pegs, the Johnsons’ table had holes! I then realized that, seeing our need, this charitable man had cut his kitchen table in half and had built two new legs for each half.
“It was obvious that the Johnson family could not fit around this small piece of furniture—they probably didn’t fit comfortably around it when it was whole. …
“Throughout my life this kind act has been a powerful reminder of true giving” (Son Quang Le, as told to Beth Ellis Le, “Two-of-a-Kind Table,” Liahona, July 2004, 45; Ensign, July 2004, 63).

It was a blistering 115 degrees F (46?C) outside, typical for a summer day out on the farm in Brawley, California, USA. I kicked the tire of the huge water truck that had broken down for the third time in four days. I relied on my summer job to pay for entertainment, school clothes, and eventually college. Despite the heat, I hated having to cut a day’s work short, but it looked like I was going to have to do so again.
David, a member of our ward and a family friend, walked over from the mill to take a look at the truck. Venting my frustrations to him, I was tempted to say a word I had heard others use when they were annoyed. The moment before I actually said it, the thought crossed my mind that I shouldn’t because I knew it was a bad word. But in an instant, I brushed it off, thinking no one would ever find out. I said the word, but it didn’t make me feel any better.
Looking up, David told me he and Dad would fix the truck when they could. In the meantime, I found other work to do for the rest of the day.
Hopping into Dad’s truck at the end of the day, we began the drive home. Not too long after getting on the road, Dad looked over at me and mentioned that David had told him about my reaction to the truck breaking down, swear word and all. “David said he never expected to hear something like that come out of my daughter’s mouth,” Dad said. “He respects you too much, honey.”
I hung my head, and the tears came quickly. I had lowered myself in the eyes of people whose opinions I cared about. But most of all, I felt disappointed in myself and knew God did too. I realized that was why saying the word hadn’t made me feel any better.
I made a promise never to say that word again or anything else that would not please God, not because I didn’t want to make my dad and David ashamed of me but because it was the right thing to do. Integrity, I learned, is the way you act when you think no one is looking.

When I was twelve, the bishop asked me to help him deliver Christmas baskets to the widows of the ward. I felt honored to be asked. It was snowing on the day that we made the deliveries. I remember that the backseat of the bishop’s car was filled with baskets containing grapefruit and oranges. This was during World War II, when grapefruit and oranges were scarce, so they were quite a treat. The bishop waited in the car while I took a basket up to the door and said, “The bishop asked me to deliver this to you. It is a Christmas basket from the ward.”
Soon we had delivered all the baskets but one. The bishop took me home, and before I got out of the car, he handed me the last basket and said, “This is for your mother.” Then he drove away.
I stood there in front of our house, snowflakes falling on my face, holding the basket and wondering and thinking. We had been delivering baskets to widows, and I hadn’t thought of my mother as a widow. I had never heard her refer to herself as a widow. That was the first time it occurred to me that somebody thought that she was a widow.
I realized that Mother handled that circumstance with a great deal of faith. She taught us that we had a father and she had a husband and that we would always be a family because of her and my father’s temple marriage. I’d always just felt that my father was away because the Lord had called him to another work. I knew other kids had dads who took them hunting and fishing, and I felt that absence keenly. But those were war years, so I thought of myself as like a boy whose father was away in the war. My father would be away for a very long time, and it hurt me that he wasn’t there, but I knew that someday we would be together again. Since that time, my testimony of the importance of temple marriage has grown even stronger. How grateful I am for temple marriage and for the blessing of being sealed together as an eternal family.

Thirteen-year-old Henry Sanderson, on his way from Connecticut to Nauvoo, was not sure if he was riding a railroad train or a boat on wheels.
This was September of 1842, and Pennsylvania’s forests were becoming dotted with the reds and golds of autumn. To cross the Allegheny Mountains, Henry boarded a train with his parents and two younger sisters. It had a steam engine like a normal train, but the passenger cars were boats on train wheels. Near the mountain summit, trainmen unhooked the engine and snapped a cable to the cars. A motor at the top wound the cable and pulled the train cars up. At the summit men released the cars and let them coast down the other side of the mountains for miles without any engine at all. Then, for Henry’s final train-boat adventure, trainmen removed the wheels and put the boat-cars into a canal. Horses on a tow path beside the canal pulled Henry’s boat-car to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
Henry knew his stay in Pittsburgh would be short, only for one winter. His parents, James and Mary Jane Sanderson, had converted to Mormonism a few months before the train trip and had decided to move to Nauvoo. Henry felt glad to move because boys in his neighborhood in Norwalk, Connecticut, had made fun of him after his parents became Mormons. At Pittsburgh, Henry helped his father do shoemaker’s work, a skill Henry had learned from him.

After I had served four months as a full-time missionary, my initial enthusiasm and zeal for the work had waned considerably. I found myself having a hard time understanding and being compassionate with my companion and was discouraged that we weren’t succeeding in the work. I lacked all the confidence I had felt so strongly just a few months earlier.

Alone in an interview with my mission president, I expressed my feelings of inadequacy and discouragement. “How do I develop more confidence in my work as a missionary?” I asked.

His response could not have surprised me more. He didn’t try to boost my confidence by telling me what good work I was doing. He didn’t teach me about the power of positive thinking. Instead he asked me how I felt about other people, especially those with whom I worked.

“I don’t have much patience,” I admitted. “I was so eager when I started my mission, and it’s frustrating when things don’t go as I anticipated.”

Before I left on my mission, I honestly thought I could get along with anyone. However, in the midst of adversity, I found that I was often critical and judgmental of others.

The president then read a familiar scripture:
“Let thy bowels also be full of charity towards all men, and to the household of faith, and let virtue garnish thy thoughts unceasingly; then shall thy confidence wax strong in the presence of God. …
“The Holy Ghost shall be thy constant companion” (D&C 121:45–46).

The relevance of this scripture to my situation was immediately apparent. As a missionary, I had lacked confidence, and this scripture promised enough confidence to wax strong in God’s presence. I lacked self-assurance, and this scripture promised the Comforter as a constant companion.

And the key to that kind of assurance, courage, and confidence? In addition to continually virtuous thoughts, I must have “charity towards all men.”

In my appraisal of others, including my companion, I had been critical and judgmental. By failing to have charity, I had cut off my potential source of confidence. I learned an invaluable lesson that day. I had long known that I hurt others when I criticize and find fault, but for the first time I realized how my judgmental attitude was harming myself as well. Since that discussion, I’ve noticed many times that when I am charitable toward others, I feel more confident and less limited by my own faults. In short, the harder I try to be forgiving, the easier it is to feel forgiven.

In 1945 President of the Church, George Albert Smith, called Elder Kimball into his office. “I want you to look after the Indians,” he said. “They are neglected. Take charge and watch after the Indians in all the world.”
Elder Kimball traveled thousands of miles to visit the Indians, to teach them, and to bless them. Discovering they needed and wanted more schools, he tried to help. Finding them sick or sad, he blessed them and taught them how important they were to their Father in Heaven. Finding them cold and hungry, he went to those who could help.
Traveling throughout the world to help these people he loved, Elder Kimball also spent weeks and months visiting Lehi’s children in Central and South America and in the Pacific Islands. He taught them about the Savior, Jesus Christ, and helped them with their problems. No matter how tired he was, he was never too tired to help.

The scriptures are vitally important to me as I continue to come unto Christ. To my mind and heart frequently comes a strong admonition from my patriarchal blessing to “study the scriptures at every available opportunity.” For decades that simple phrase has provided focus for my gospel study, and the promised blessings of inspiration and direction associated with that admonition have been realized repeatedly in my life.

A year ago, a Primary child I met in Chile brought a smile to my face. “Hello,” he said, “I am David. Will you talk about me in general conference?”
In quiet moments, I have pondered David’s unexpected greeting. We all want to be recognized. We want to matter, to be remembered, and to feel loved.

When “T” arrived in Morgan City, he was immediately recruited to play volleyball, but with only four young men in the branch, fielding a complete volleyball team forced them to use some creativity.

“Since we don’t have enough guys to have a full team, we have to invite nonmember friends,” says Ronald Albert, “T’s” cousin, who is four days his senior. “We’ve used volleyball as a fellowshipping tool, but we have a rule that half the team on the court has to be members. It’s a good way to do missionary work.”

After a successful human resources executive was laid off, he read his patriarchal blessing and felt inspired to start a company to help other professionals find employment. (He even helped me find work when our family returned from serving a mission.) The Lord used his trial as a stepping-stone to bless others, while providing him with a more meaningful career.

Three years later, I met two missionaries at a railway station in Tokyo. They invited me to listen to their message. I brought my Book of Mormon to our next meeting.
They began the conversation by saying, “We would like to share an important book with you.”
I took the Book of Mormon from my bag and asked, “Is it this book? I’ve already read it.”
They were stunned. Eventually, I was taught the gospel, and the missionaries encouraged me to ask God with a sincere heart if the Book of Mormon is true (see Moroni 10:4–5).
One night I thought about God, the Church, the Book of Mormon, and how I could be happy and felt something warm inside. Then I decided to be baptized.

Without safety ropes, harnesses, or climbing gear of any kind, two brothers—Jimmy, age 14, and John, age 19 (though those aren’t their real names)—attempted to scale a sheer canyon wall in Snow Canyon State Park in my native southern Utah. Near the top of their laborious climb, they discovered that a protruding ledge denied them their final few feet of ascent. They could not get over it, but neither could they now retreat from it. They were stranded. After careful maneuvering, John found enough footing to boost his younger brother to safety on top of the ledge. But there was no way to lift himself. The more he strained to find finger or foot leverage, the more his muscles began to cramp. Panic started to sweep over him, and he began to fear for his life.
Unable to hold on much longer, John decided his only option was to try to jump vertically in an effort to grab the top of the overhanging ledge. If successful, he might, by his considerable arm strength, pull himself to safety.
In his own words, he said:
“Prior to my jump I told Jimmy to go search for a tree branch strong enough to extend down to me, although I knew there was nothing of the kind on this rocky summit. It was only a desperate ruse. If my jump failed, the least I could do was make certain my little brother did not see me falling to my death.
“Giving him enough time to be out of sight, I said my last prayer—that I wanted my family to know I loved them and that Jimmy could make it home safely on his own—then I leapt. There was enough adrenaline in my spring that the jump extended my arms above the ledge almost to my elbows. But as I slapped my hands down on the surface, I felt nothing but loose sand on flat stone. I can still remember the gritty sensation of hanging there with nothing to hold on to—no lip, no ridge, nothing to grab or grasp. I felt my fingers begin to recede slowly over the sandy surface. I knew my life was over.
“But then suddenly, like a lightning strike in a summer storm, two hands shot out from somewhere above the edge of the cliff, grabbing my wrists with a strength and determination that belied their size. My faithful little brother had not gone looking for any fictitious tree branch. Guessing exactly what I was planning to do, he had never moved an inch. He had simply waited—silently, almost breathlessly—knowing full well I would be foolish enough to try to make that jump. When I did, he grabbed me, held me, and refused to let me fall. Those strong brotherly arms saved my life that day as I dangled helplessly above what would surely have been certain death.”1

One of these was Charles Dickens, the most popular English author of his times. He lived from 1812 to 1870. He wrote such timeless books as A Tale of Two Cities, Great Expectations, A Christmas Carol, Nicholas Nickleby, Oliver Twist, and David Copperfield. He was the father of ten children, and evidently was one to delight them with stories that came of a vast imagination.
He was also one who loved the Lord and who wanted his children to love the Lord. In 1849, while he was writing David Copperfield, he took time to write in his own hand The Life of Our Lord. It was not written for publication, but only for his own dear children. He would not permit its publication. It was a personal thing, a simple testimony from him to them. His children, when they grew, would not permit its publication. It remained a closely held family affair for 85 years. Then his youngest son died in 1933. With the passing of that generation, the family concluded that the work might be published.

Hi, I’m Micaela!
Each summer, my stake has a food drive to collect food for a food bank. I was sad to learn that some kids don’t get dinner every night, I know how grumpy I feel when I’m hungry, so I wanted to help with the food drive.
Spreading the Word
A food bank gives food to people who don’t have much money. I wanted lots of people to help donate. A few weeks before the food drive, I brought flyers to my school teacher. She passed out more flyers to other teachers.
Running for a Reason
I decided to run the one-mile race that was held as part of the food drive. I practiced in my neighborhood so my body would be ready to run a whole mile.
Gathering Donations
Some races you have to pay money to enter. For this race, runners were asked to donate food instead of money! My parents and friends gave me food to donate.
Ready, Set, Serve!
It was a hot morning, but I finished the race. I ran the whole time without stopping. I even got a medal for finishing!
Sorting the Food
After the race my family and I went to the parking lot of a local grocery store to sort the donations that went to the food bank.

Then, in 1966, he slipped while working and hit his head. Within seconds, Brother Bollbach lost sight in his left eye. “My world fell apart,” he says. “The darkness was awful.”
For a time, Brother Bollbach also lost sight of spiritual things. From the day he was baptized in 1921 in his native Germany, he had focused his life on the gospel. But after the accident, “I could not and did not want to pray,” he sadly recalls. “Even when my wife, Elli, continued to ask me to pray with her, I refused and bitterly asked, ‘Shall I thank God that I am blind?’”
He remained in spiritual darkness until one morning, about two weeks after the accident. Each morning before leaving for work, Elli had prayed alone—while Brother Bollbach stayed in bed. Then one morning after her prayer, as Sister Bollbach bent down to give Fritz a kiss, her tears fell on his face. He was moved by her tenderness. “When I heard her drive off, I knelt on my bed,” he says. “But I couldn’t pray.”
Brother Bollbach remained on his knees for several hours. He tried to speak again and again. But each time, something in him fought against his desire to pray. After much effort, he finally began praying to God again. “A feeling of thanksgiving filled my soul,” he recalls. “I remembered how many blessings I had and how many times Heavenly Father had protected my life. I was at peace.”

The auditorium is dark. Downstage a spotlight picks out a white telephone. Rrrrrrrrrring! Rrrrrrrrring!

Then a deep, penetrating voice asks, “Waiting for a call?” And as the voice continues, figures begin to gather onstage. “They are. They’re waiting for a call from Heavenly Father. They don’t realize he is always calling and ready to listen. All they have to do is lift the receiver.”

The orchestra begins to play ever so softly and is joined by a male voice singing.

It is the beginning of the play “Awaiting Answers,” written, produced, and directed by high school seminary students. But, of course, that isn’t really the beginning. It started one spring at the annual Davis County Seminary District “S-Day” traditionally held at the Regional Center in Bountiful, Utah.

Shirley Anderson of Kaysville, Utah, was there as a chaperone. “The professional music program was good,” she recalls, “but I had the strongest feeling an S-Day program should be something the kids can take home with them.” So Sister Anderson devoted her speech and drama talent to guiding the seminary students for the coming year in an effort to create a really good, seminary-produced play. Two co-directors were appointed, Carolyn Hawkins and Todd Williams, and a committee of representatives was formed from every seminary in the district.

Like the teenagers who did the work, those in the story came out triumphant. With love of God and a growing love for each other, the actors acted, the singers sang, the orchestra played, and the dancers danced; and when they were through and the lights were lowered on the last strains of “Oh, my child, this is Saturday. Blessings are in store, blessings are in store,” there was scarcely a dry eye in the audience or on stage.

Allie was so happy that she felt bouncy!
She got in the car to ride home.
“Today was great!” she told Mom. “We drew pictures. And I met a new teacher. Her name is Miss Gregg. Now I have two teachers!”
Allie had been in kindergarten for three weeks. She loved everything. Activities. Projects. Lunchtime with friends. Her teacher, Mrs. Coleman. And now she had another teacher, Miss Gregg. It was perfect!
“Wait,” Mom said. “You aren’t going to have two teachers. Just one. Miss Gregg is your new teacher. That’s why you went to her class today.”
Allie frowned. “What?” Her bouncy feeling popped like a balloon.
“Mrs. Coleman’s class was too big,” Mom said. “The school chose you for a new class.”
Allie thought about her friends in Mrs. Coleman’s class. “I don’t think the class was too big.”
“You’ll have fun in your new class,” Mom said.
But Allie didn’t want a new class. She would miss Mrs. Coleman and her new friend Caitlin. This morning school was perfect. Now it was ruined.
At bedtime Allie kneeled to pray.
“Why don’t you ask Heavenly Father to help you in your new class?” Mom said.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” Allie said, “please help me have fun at school.” She started to feel a little better. But she was still nervous.
The next morning more worries filled her head. Will I like my new class? Will I see my friends? But new thoughts came too. I can be brave. Heavenly Father will help me.
After school, Allie was happy.
“How was your day?” Mom asked.
“Great!” Allie said. She climbed into the car. “Miss Gregg is really nice. I saw Caitlin on the playground. And I got to make a goody bag!”
“That does sound like a good day,” Mom said.
Allie smiled. “Heavenly Father answered my prayer!”