Gospel Story Finder

One of my teachers in middle school encouraged me to take an advanced-level class, even though I found it intimidating. She helped me to have higher expectations for myself and to be willing and excited to try new things. This prepared me to take harder classes in the future and to participate in internship programs. Looking back, I feel that what I learned from the experience helped me to become who I am today and to make important decisions. While the academic material I learned was important, I consider the principles I learned to have greatly impacted my life. This continues to bless me in my education, employment, Church callings, and extracurricular activities.
Katherine C., Washington D.C., USA

My life hasn’t always been easy. I started experiencing symptoms of social anxiety and depression as a teen and was diagnosed with ADHD in high school. When I was about 15 months into serving my full-time mission, I started experiencing suicidal thoughts. Soon after, I was diagnosed with bipolar II disorder.
I found myself facing a difficult decision. My mission president and I talked about me going home where I could get the help I needed. But I couldn’t help but feel frustrated with the Lord. I felt like my desire to stay and continue serving the people I had come to love was a righteous desire.
Eventually, I learned that there were people the Lord needed me to meet at home and that there were opportunities for my broken heart to be healed. And I’ve come to know that my missionary service was accepted by Him.

A good man shed some light on a bright path for me in earlier years, and I would like to share his story with you.
I was 12 years old and a Tenderfoot Scout when I experienced my first overnight excursion away from home. I was excited, and I was frightened; we all were.
The group of boys who lined up with their gear on the lawn of the old 19th Ward building in Salt Lake City were variously equipped for the planned adventure to Lake Blanche in the high mountains to the east of us. Some had elaborate and expensive sleeping bags and pack frames, and some had bedrolls attached to old army knapsacks. I was in between, having the use of a homemade bag fashioned by my brother-in-law, together with the pack frame he had built, on which the bag and contents would be lashed.
All of us had been told to lay out our equipment for inspection by the man in charge, and we each fearfully waited by our stuff as the examiner approached. No marine trainee facing his sergeant could have been more apprehensive.
The man passed down the line rather quickly, commenting on this item or that boy’s pack, directing the abandonment of this extra baggage, sending one boy home to his mother with the three clean sheets she had sent along for his big trip.
I was last in line and thus nearest home, since our little house lay just alongside the old Relief Society building that separated us from the chapel. There was a narrow alley between the chapel and that building, and at the end of it a wall which formed the east border of our yard.
Being closest to home might have been an indicator of my frame of mind, because I was not altogether sold on this adventure and I was a bit apprehensive about the equipment I had borrowed, having been admonished carefully to keep it very clean and in absolute good repair.
When the inspector reached me, many foolish questions had been asked and answered, with increasing impatience, I suspect, so that the man as he faced me had become a bit short on good will. He was, in fact, quite a dynamic person of whom I was somewhat afraid, though he had always been appropriately dignified in his calling and never had been anything but kind to me.
This day under the circumstances and with the provocation of so much juvenile incompetency, he reached the end of his rope. Observing the number of items I was carrying which seemed to him superfluous for the high mountains and which he felt should not be carried in my pack, he sternly directed me to remove them and take them home to my mother. He seemed to dwell a bit sarcastically upon the pronunciation of my first name, about which my life on the west side of town by the railroad tracks had made me a bit touchy, if not defensive.
When he seemed to be making fun of me, the other boys up the line, having had their turn, snickered or broke into open laughter. Everybody but I thought it was funny. When he had left me and returned up the line to begin to herd the crowd onto the trucks which were to transport us, I made my gesture of protest. Not having anything else to do that I could think of, I just bent over, picked up the pack frame in one hand, and the two ends of the sleeping bag on which my gear was resting in the other, and walked up the alley, dragging it all behind me. When I reached the wall I dropped over, retrieved the equipment, and dragged it all behind the coal shed which was separated by a few feet from our house. Then I sat down on the ground under the basketball hoop on the back of the coal shed and suffered the pains and anguish of the damned—that is, those who have through willfulness and stubbornness painted themselves into an impossible position. I was 12 years old and in trouble.
I could not retreat and keep my self-respect; this man of authority had made a fool of me in front of others and had, to me quite unjustifiably, subjected me to ridicule. I was resentful and hopelessly frustrated. I could not see a way out of my dilemma, and I was deeply distressed.
After a long time—no doubt it seemed much longer than it actually was, but it was a long time—I heard footsteps coming up our pathway from the front street, heard the pause and a murmured conversation at our back door, and then felt and heard him resume his pace toward me. Mother had told him where I was.
He came down the little passageway between our house and the coal shed, around the corner, and sat down beside me on the dirt. He said nothing for a time but joined me as I nervously flipped little rocks and clods of dirt with a stick between my feet. I didn’t look at him. After a time he spoke.
“Do you ever get up on Kotter’s garage?” “Does Brother Kotter care?” “Do walnuts from the Perkinses’ tree fall in your backyard?” “If you take ten shots at this hoop from the line over there, how many can you make?”
I gave brief answers to all questions, and again there was silence.
Then a large, strong hand reached over to my knee and grasped it warmly.
“Son,” he said, “I made a mistake and I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right, bishop,” I said.
“Are you ready to go now,” he said. “The others are waiting.”
“Okay,” I said.
“We better get your pack ready.”
He helped me roll the gear into the sleeping bag, secure it to the pack frame, and lift it to my back. We then walked out past our back door to the street and onto the truck where the others were waiting. I later learned that after I had left he had called all of them together and explained that he had made a mistake and had been unkind to me and that my reaction had been understandable. He apologized to them in my behalf, prepared them to receive me without clamor when I arrived, got them all ready in the truck, and then made the long walk back to find me.
I do not dramatize what might have happened had a good man who was also a great man and a generous man not made that long walk, if he had not been mature enough and humble enough and capable of acknowledging and correcting a mistake. I know I was wounded and frustrated by the impossibility of my circumstance. I know that he was the bishop we prayed for by name at our house every day. And I know that my wonderful mother who did not intrude on my dilemma must have helped pray him up the path.
I also know that boys and girls, even stubborn and rebellious ones, or hurt ones or bewildered ones, are worth something to our Heavenly Father and should be worth something to all the rest of his children. I do know that I myself have taken a few long walks when my own sense of pride or impatience might have prevailed, whispering to me, “Ah, let him go. Let him sit there and see how he likes it. Why should I be bothered?”
To this hour I remain grateful that my wonderful bishop overcame any such thoughts, if he had them, and made that long walk.
His light in my life has made a difference.

And what about when it’s winter, when it’s 20º below with the snow blowing? Talon shrugs because he doesn’t really see that as the worst thing. “You just have to deal with it.” He goes on to explain how his parents will give their hired hands the day off on holidays such as Christmas. “We used to groan and moan about it when we were little, but now it’s our family tradition to be on the farm on Christmas Day doing the chores together.”

Silvia H. Allred, first counselor in the Relief Society general presidency, has told of her mother, Hilda Alvarenga, who was called to serve as Relief Society president in a branch in El Salvador when she was a convert in her 30s. She told the branch president that she was inexperienced, unprepared, and inadequate. But the branch president called her anyway. While serving, she learned leadership skills and developed new gifts, such as teaching, public speaking, and organizing meetings, activities, and service projects. She helped others in the branch become builders of the kingdom.2 Today, as in our past, Heavenly Father expects His daughters to have a leadership role in every ward or branch. Sisters such as Hilda Alvarenga are becoming pioneers and role models for future generations.

d. Mob violence forced Joel H. Johnson, the author of this hymn, to move many times after he was baptized in 1831. A mob of one hundred drove him out of Nauvoo, forcing him to leave behind thousands of dollars’ worth of property. Later he traveled to the Salt Lake Valley, arriving there in October of 1848. His journal contains 736 hymns and songs.

Well, you see, Hurricane was just a pioneer town in Southern Utah when I was little. We planned for me to be baptized in the Hurricane Canal on my birthday. I was so excited I could hardly wait. And then, just four days before my birthday, the canal broke.
The farmers were frantic. Peach orchards and hayfields were dry. Every man in town went up the river with his pick and shovel to help fix the break, but it was a bad one. The day before my birthday, I climbed the slope to the canal, hoping to see just one trickle of water. Instead, the hot, dry winds had caked and cracked the mud in the bottom, curling it up into little clay dishes. “Oh mama, what shall we do?” I asked. “How can I be baptized when the canal is dry?”
“You can always go to the hot sulphur springs, like your sisters did,” she suggested.
“But their birthdays were in the winter. We’d scald in July!”
Mama knew better than to suggest postponing the date. It was family tradition for each of us to be baptized on our eighth birthday.
“Let’s see what other choices you have,” Mama said. “Come with me.”
The cow’s watering trough was just outside the corral under the apricot tree, with a hole in the fence for the cows to poke their heads through.
“You could be baptized here,” she said. I regarded the long strings of floating green moss and shuddered. “You can scrub the trough with the broom and fill it with fresh water from the cistern.”
“But Mama …” I wailed.
“If being sorry would fix the canal, the water would be running in it now,” she said, cradling me in her comforting arms.
I had heard Uncle Ren say that the canal might be mended by sundown, so just before dark I climbed the bank, hoping to see the frothy head of the stream. But the cracked clay was only curled deeper. Heavy of heart, I trudged home and plopped down on my bed in the peach orchard, where we slept in the summertime. Looking up at the evening sky I watched the first stars appear. “Please, Heavenly Father,” I prayed, “help the men get the water in the canal by tomorrow.”
I wasn’t surprised when a short time later I heard a little splash of water coming through the headgate high on the bank above our house. Scrunching my feet under me, I sat on my heels and listened. The sound grew until it was the full-grown tumble of water splashing over the rocks and, finally, rippling through the ditch past our place. The canal had been fixed before sundown, but the water had miles to race before reaching town.
“Oh thank you, Heavenly Father,” I whispered. Then I hugged my pillow and drifted to sleep, lulled by the merry music of laughing, tumbling water.
By the next afternoon, all of the debris and froth from the new stream had washed itself on through the canal and the water ran placid and smooth. I put on my clean white nightgown and Uncle Ren Spendlove came in his faded bib overalls. Mama walked to the canal with us. Sitting in the shade of the willows along the bank were my playmates and cousins, waiting. Uncle Ren stepped down the slick muddy side into the water then, reaching up, gave me a hand. Ripples of light danced on the stream, and a few willow leaves glided like canoes through the mottled shade. The wind held its breath as Uncle Ren said the baptismal prayer. I felt the rush of water in my ears, and he brought me up blubbering. He held onto me until I had caught my breath. Then I noticed everyone watching and smiling at me and I felt wonderful and loved.
“Mama, I’m baptized!” I exclaimed. Reaching for my hands, she pulled me up beside her. She had said that baptism was a sacred ordinance, and when she hugged me, dripping wet as I was, I knew it was true.

Each time I have seen the mighty Niagara Falls, I have marveled at the tremendous potential energy, waiting to be unleashed, as 35 million gallons a minute cascade into the gorge almost 200 feet below. Once harnessed, that potential of 5 million horsepower blesses the lives of many people with light and electrical power. Each one of us has similar power to bless and enlighten, to improve and progress, to develop talents and produce beautiful lives. What is the secret? It is conversion, change, becoming better, overcoming, starting afresh, lengthening our stride, making today better than yesterday. All this is essential to our eternal progression, and yet many of us tend to be somewhat apathetic or lethargic when it comes to spiritual progress and the attaining of Christlike qualities. Even when we set personal goals to acquire a particular attribute, we act as if we have all the time in the world to accomplish them.

A short time ago I attended the funeral of a friend’s son. Earlier in the week, the young man was traveling home late at night with friends when the driver of another car fell asleep. The second car crossed the median and smashed head-on into the first. The accident occurred with such swiftness that few, if any, brake marks showed on the highway and both cars were demolished. The accident took three lives, including my friend’s seventeen-year-old son.

Second, death reminds us that there is a spirit in man. As we viewed the remains of our young friend, it was obvious that more than blood had left his body. The light of his spirit no longer animated his facial expression or twinkled in his eyes. He too had given up the ghost, but at a tender, young age.

Another lesson taught by death concerns the importance of eternal families. Just as there are parents to greet a newborn on earth, the scriptures teach that caring family members greet the spirits in paradise and assist them in the adjustments to a new life (see Gen. 25:8; 35:29; 49:33). While I was standing before the casket, the thought came that separation was not only a shock for the parents but also for the young man as he suddenly found himself on the other side of the veil. I suspect that he would like to tell his parents once more how much he loves them. Brothers and sisters, heaven only exists if families are eternal.

Death teaches that we do not experience a fulness of joy in mortality and that everlasting joy can be achieved only with the assistance of the Master (see D&C 93:33–34). Just as the lame man at the pool of Bethesda needed someone stronger than himself to be healed (see John 5:1–9), so we are dependent on the miracles of Christ’s atonement if our souls are to be made whole from grief, sorrow, and sin. If grieving parents and loved ones have faith in the Savior and his plan, death’s sting is softened as Jesus bears the believers’ grief and comforts them through the Holy Spirit. Through Christ, broken hearts are mended and peace replaces anxiety and sorrow. Last week I received a letter from the boy’s parents telling me of the peace they have found through their faith in Christ. They know that they will see their son again and be with him in the eternities. As Isaiah stated concerning the Savior, “Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: … And with his stripes we are healed” (Isa. 53:4–5).

The noise of Harry rattling the door brought me back to the top of the World Trade Center. He was trying to gain access to the rooftop observation area, but it was locked and a sign said the wind was so strong no one would be allowed outside.
“Sorry,” he said. “That’s the best we can do.”
And I remembered again. I remembered his patience as he explained to me over and over the subway system the morning the group went to the Statue of Liberty, and finally how he said, “Just follow me and don’t get lost.”
I remembered the wind whipping over the bow of the ferry and the steamy cups of hot chocolate the young women shared back on the pier. I remembered stopping to read plaques at the statue and the young members’ feelings of pride in their country and in their hometown that were genuine and unpretentious.
And then I remembered interviewing some of the group in between meetings on Sunday. The young women’s lesson had been on developing a personal relationship with Jesus Christ. The young men had discussed morality. All of them had commented afterward about the influence the lessons exerted throughout the week.
“These activities and lessons keep us together,” Mary said. “We share our testimonies and they grow. We treat each other like brothers and sisters because we are.”
Mary Ann nodded agreement. “From my friends’ testimonies, I can build my testimony. They are a great influence on me.”
“The lessons help me keep my mind off things I shouldn’t think about,” Harry said. “I have a strong testimony of the gospel, and I know it’s good to be together with my friends in church. I need the recharge I get from being with them.”
“As you can see, we have a lot of fun together. We like each other a lot. But the neatest thing is that when I leave, I feel the Spirit coming with me, helping me choose wisely and do what’s right,” Mary Ann said.
“I’m glad to have friends who help me honor my priesthood,” Frank said. “When I carry the sacrament, I feel proud.”
And that made me think of a comment one of the adults made that same Sunday. “I admire these kids tremendously,” he said. “New York is beautiful and fun, but it’s also a difficult place to live righteously. There’s a lot of pressure on these kids from their friends not to follow the teachings of the prophets. I think they’re real heroes to live the gospel as they do.”
The group walked to the south side of the tower for one last look at the Statue of Liberty. One thought lingered in my mind. I was in the company of heroes. Real heroes, with a mission—to live and share the gospel with all of New York City. Somehow, in my heart, I knew they would be equal to the task.

The Kirtland Temple is completed. Jesus Christ appears to Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery there.

The day was scorching; my sister, Susie, and I waited impatiently outside the church for Dad to pick us up following his weekly golf game. The sweat trickled down my back; Susie’s golden curls were wet and drooping. I remember watching with envy as my friends left the church with their parents. I wished with all my heart that Mom and Dad would come with us to church. I had even prayed about it. But they always thought they were too busy or too tired. By the time Dad picked us up, we were half baked. I was angry at both him and Mom.
Mom had stayed home, as usual, fixing dinner. We sat around the table now, but I was still burning up inside. I detest spinach, so rather than taking any, I passed the bowl to Susie. Instantly, both Dad and Mom were nagging at me, saying, “Take some spinach, Dan! It’s good for you!”
I had reached my limit. I retorted, “Why don’t you come to church? It’s good for you, just like spinach is for me!” Dad struck me, and Mom left the table crying. I ran from the house angry and hurt.

At first I felt kind of excited because I’d never been through a hurricane before,” said Ryan Foster of Charleston, South Carolina. “Then it hit, and it got scary.”
It was September 21, 1989, and South Carolinians had known for days that Hurricane Hugo was on its way. The Fosters (Dad, Leslie; Mom, Marcia; Jason, 14; Rebecca, 12; Ryan, 11; Loren, 7; and Annika, 4) had decided to evacuate to the Moncks Corner Meetinghouse. Their home is located on James Island, a spot where storms from the ocean can hit hard. Mom told the family to pack enough clothes for two or three days. “We were fairly new to this area,” explained Sister Foster, “and we’d never been through this kind of thing before. I though it was just going to be a little inconvenience.”
Ryan, however, took it more seriously. When they arrived at Moncks Corner, the family discovered that he had packed as if they might not be going back home for a long time. As their stay at the meetinghouse extended to many days, he was the only one who had clean clothes to wear. He’d learned from experience that it’s best to be prepared.
“I got comfort from the whole ward,” Ryan remembered. “The Young Women in our ward put on a carnival. Afterwards they had a bake auction, and they raised nine hundred dollars for us.” His Primary teacher sent him messages each week, a special fast was held for him, and ward members tended the other Foster children when Ryan and his mom had to be away. His home teacher gave him a special blessing before every trip to Denver. Friends at school raised six hundred dollars, and the principal brought the money to Denver. So Ryan learned to take serious things seriously, and the next year, after the family had moved to South Carolina and Hugo came, all that Ryan and his family had learned during his experience in Colorado was reinforced. Prayers were offered. Priesthood blessings were given to many. Members in areas not hit by the hurricane sent items from their emergency supplies to those in areas that were hurt. Church distribution centers sent stoves and lanterns and food. And teams of members, from Scouts to grandmas, came to help with the cleanup. The goodness and unselfishness of the community at large was also seen.
In the Foster family, however, Ryan seems to have been the one who best learned the practical lesson of packing for the unexpected. Now the entire family knows the lesson well. Emergency preparedness items are more in evidence at their house these days. Each family member has thought about what he or she would take if another emergency comes along. A battery-powered radio is on the list, as are the family photos, a camp stove and lantern, books, water, and some cash. But most important, as Loren said, “When a hurricane comes, grab the family!” The Foster home was slightly damaged by Hugo, but the Foster family was greatly strengthened.

Every year the eighth graders in my middle school get to choose what their graduation colors, flowers, and theme will be. They also get to decide what the basic style of the girls’ and boys’ outfits will be so that pictures will look nice and consistent.
My year, when all the girls got together to discuss what style their dresses would be, I was a little nervous. I was concerned about how I could make the other girls understand that I’d chosen not to wear short skirts or spaghetti straps, even if that was the style chosen. I didn’t want to ruin the pictures, but I also wouldn’t choose to be immodest.
Then something amazing happened. Before I had an opportunity to express my concerns, a girl in my class shouted, “It has to have sleeves and go at least to our knees because Abby needs to dress that way.” Before I could blink, everyone decided on short-sleeved, knee-length dresses. I could hardly believe what had happened. I’m so thankful that I’ve always lived the standards and set a positive example for those around me. Because I chose to dress modestly, others noticed and were respectful of my decision.
Abby H., California, USA

Other unhappiness results from the lust for power and wealth. A few weeks ago some of my Brethren and I visited a country that had been ruled for decades by an oppressive dictatorship, recently overthrown. We saw the conditions produced by rulers who had gratified their lusts at the expense of their people. Their palaces stood in shameful contrast to the workers’ apartment houses built without indoor plumbing. Everywhere we saw the ugly effects of the neglect of public services. Truly, the Proverbs say, “When the wicked … rule, the people mourn” (Prov. 29:2).

Mylea Moua’s cousins make fun of her for going to church. Some of her close family members discourage her church attendance. Her friends at school wonder why she would ever want to be a Latter-day Saint.
Mylea’s challenges are not unique in the Twin Cities Second (Hmong) Branch of the Anoka Minnesota Stake. Many of the youth have less-active parents and nonmember family members who mock their religion. It would be easy for Mylea, a Mia Maid, to just quit coming to church. “A lot of Hmong people ask ‘How can the Church help you?’ They reject it,” she says. “I don’t really care what people think, because how I feel makes me happy. But I feel bad for them because they don’t have the gospel.”
Unlike many of the older Hmong generation in Minnesota, Mylea and the other youth feel it’s possible to be both Hmong and LDS. “I do the best I can and try to be a good example,” she says.

I was in another stake president’s home one weekend and was to sleep in another boy’s room. There on the wall were pictures of all the Church temples. He was planning for a temple marriage as well as a mission.

“When I was a young boy, I loved Saturday because everything I did on that day seemed like an adventure. But no matter what I did, it was always preceded by the most important thing of all—watching cartoons on television.”

In Elder Dallin H. Oaks’s talk in the October 2007 general conference, he talked about things that are “good, better, and best.” When he got to the part about “the over-scheduling of children,” I squirmed guiltily in my seat.
I knew I was doing too much. I was in school plays, taking challenging classes in school, and was involved in several other activities. I hadn’t been attending Young Women activities faithfully, and my Sundays were filled with the stress of trying to complete last-minute homework. Practicing music and editing the school newspaper had lost their element of fun and had become work.
That talk made me take a good look at my schedule. As I tried to organize my schedule and decide which activities to forsake, I was reminded of a scripture-mastery verse from seminary: “Remember that it is upon the rock of our Redeemer, who is Christ, the Son of God, that ye must build your foundation” (Helaman 5:12).
This scripture always helps remind me that when we do what the Lord wants us to do first, everything else will fall neatly into place. If I study my scriptures before I play games or even before I do my math homework, everything will get done. When I base my life around the Lord, instead of adding Him in as an afterthought, my life has an added measure of peace and success.

“Although specifically inspired and prepared for full-time missionary service,” says President Ririe, “Preach My Gospel ought to become a ‘centerpiece’ resource in every Latter-day Saint home. It is a tremendous resource for family home evening lessons, personal gospel study, and gospel reference. Our 13-year-old son recently received a personal copy and has loved reading, studying, and marking the lessons in chapter 3. He has been inspired by the simplicity and beauty of the gospel and the order in which it would be taught to his friends who aren’t members of the Church.”