Gospel Story Finder

The official English version of the Bible used by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the King James Version. For about seven years, more than 50 scholars worked on the King James Version using the best sources available. It was published in 1611.

The first time I was assigned to give a short talk, I was worried because I couldn’t pronounce the letter R correctly. I wondered, “How can I do this?” My mother told me, “God will bless you, and all will turn out well.” That’s exactly what happened, and I never again had any problem with the letter R.

While studying at Brigham Young University as a young, single returned missionary, I attended a priesthood session of general conference in the Tabernacle on Temple Square. President Ezra Taft Benson, then-President of the Church, urged every returned missionary to take marriage seriously and make it a top priority in his life.7 After the session, I knew I had been called to repentance and needed to act on the prophet’s counsel.
Thus, I decided to go to my home country, Brazil, to find a wife. Before leaving for Brazil on a two-month internship, I called my mom and some friends on the phone and came up with a list of about 10 young women—each of them a potential wife.
While in Brazil, after much pondering and prayer, I met, dated, got engaged to, and set a date to marry one of the young women on the list. It was not record-breaking time for students in Provo, Utah, to date and become engaged, but it was fast by Brazil standards.
A few months later, I married Elaine. She is the love of my life and a choice blessing.

Growing up along the Susquehanna River in Pennsylvania, USA, young Emma Hale learned to navigate river waters and ride horses from her older brothers.1 Her mother, a Methodist, taught her from the Bible. According to family tradition, as a young girl Emma went to the nearby woods to pray out loud as she had been instructed in Sunday School. She called upon God to touch the heart of her father, who was not a believer. He happened to hear her words and experienced his own conversion.2

I joined the Church by myself in central California, USA, when I was a teenager, and in the 20-plus years since then, I’ve always been either the only Black person in my ward or one of a very, very few. I have had some difficult experiences, even at church, with regards to my race. Thankfully, I have a testimony that God loves me and that there is a place for all of us in His kingdom.
While Church leaders have called on “all people to abandon attitudes and actions of prejudice toward any group or individual,”1 there are some who still haven’t learned how to do it. I saw that as a young single adult when I was left to wonder if that was why none of the boys were interested in dating me and if I would ever have the opportunity to marry in the temple because of it. I see it now when someone at church makes an incorrect comment about race that makes me feel singled out, as if my worthiness is being evaluated in front of everyone. And if no one speaks up to correct this false doctrine, I am left to do it alone.
It’s uncomfortable to be stared at, to have people touch my hair without permission, or to be ignored. And when I try to talk about these things, it hurts deeply when I am told by people I love and trust that I’m just making things up, being too sensitive, or acting like a victim.
Why do I and others share these painful experiences? It’s because I want to be part of my ward family. It’s because I see how much I could contribute if given the opportunity. But I feel like I’m on the periphery of Church life—not fully sheltered in the refuge we all need. It’s because with greater mutual understanding, we can be so much better together.
I want to give people an opportunity to get to know me, so I try to be open and honest with and kind to everyone I meet. I try to initiate friendships by inviting people to lunch and starting conversations. I try to create safe spaces for honesty, vulnerability, and love, and make time for other people the way I hope they’ll make time for me. I try to be the friend I want to have—which includes trying to understand experiences others have had that I don’t share.
I’ve felt seen and included by simple acts of kindness and reaching out. I feel included when people make an effort to have a real conversation with me, make time for me, or invite me to spend time with them. It feels so good when people show that they want to be around you.

Over the centuries, other stories of miraculous happenings relating to Sabbath day observance have been preserved. One is the story of the cobbler working under one of the megalithic stones in Avebury, near Stonehenge, England:
“‘One Sunday,’ wrote John Saunders in his journal for August 13, 1712, ‘a cobler was mending of shoos under one of these great stones. The minute he rose the stone fell down and broke in pieces on the very ground where he sat which made him see the great providence of God in preserving him alive and so deter him from braking the Sabbath for which reason he never more worked on the Sabbath day’” (Michael Pitts, Footprints through Avebury [Dorchester, England: The Friary Press Limited, 1985], pp. 31–32).

One day while walking home from school, my sister and I spotted a little girl crying on our street. She said she was lost, so we took her to our house. My dad asked for her number and called her mom to come pick her up. I had a warm feeling inside.

When I was nine years old, my family purchased a farm and moved to the small town of Fairfield, Utah. I felt that life there was the best a young boy could possibly have. I was fortunate enough to have three outstanding friends my age. In the summertime we swam in a natural swimming hole filled with clear well water. In the wintertime we ice-skated on frozen sinkholes.
Each year as winter approached, a number of sheep herds came through town. One year one of the herds camped about a mile from our home so that the sheep could graze on the sagebrush-covered floor of the valley. The sheepherder left in charge stopped his horse-drawn wagon, which he called a “sheep camp,” not far from a large gully. I remember wondering what life as a sheepherder was like. So with the permission of my parents, I rode my horse out to the sheep camp and introduced myself to the sheepherder. We developed an immediate friendship, and although it only lasted a very short time, it taught me a valuable lesson.
One day as I arrived at his camp, he was about to saddle up and ride around the herd to make sure that everything was all right. He had selected a horse I had never seen him ride before, and the horse seemed nervous. Usually my friend kept the saddle on a cart wheel and simply threw it onto his horse. After buckling the cinch, he would mount the horse and ride past the rear door of the camp, away from the gully, and toward the sheep. It seemed to me he had mastered the art of taking as few steps as possible in accomplishing all these tasks.
This day was different. He watched the horse very carefully. He seemed to take more time than usual in putting the saddle on and in making sure that all the rigging was just right. When he finished, I expected him to just get on the horse as he always had. Instead, he led the horse away from both the sheep camp and the gully.
I followed him and asked about this sudden change in procedure. His answer taught me a lesson that has been important all my life. He said, “This horse isn’t fully broken and therefore can’t be fully trusted. He’s apt to buck or run off in any direction. I didn’t want him to be near the sheep camp or the gully when I got on, for fear he’d begin to buck and get tangled up in the sheep camp and get hurt, or fall into the gully—then we’d both get hurt. So I brought him out here where there’s plenty of room for him to make whatever mistakes he is going to make without getting either of us hurt.”

Just last week the First Presidency and the Council of the Twelve were provided the opportunity to view the new Church history exhibit situated in the museum just west of Temple Square. I loved the replica of the entry to the Fourth Ward—one of the original wards in the valley. I noted with keen interest the lighted map which plotted the pioneer trek from Nauvoo. However, my heart was truly touched when I gazed at an actual handcart displayed in a place of honor. The handcart communicated to me a silent yet eloquent account of its long and momentous journey.
Let us for a moment join Captain Edward Martin and the handcart company he led. While we will not feel the pangs of hunger which they felt or experience the bitter cold that penetrated their weary bodies, we will emerge from our visit with a better appreciation of hardship borne, courage demonstrated, and faith fulfilled. We will witness with tear-filled eyes a dramatic answer to the question “Am I my brother’s keeper?”
“The handcarts moved on November 3 and reached the river, filled with floating ice. To cross would require more courage and fortitude, it seemed, than human nature could muster. Women shrank back and men wept. Some pushed through, but others were unequal to the ordeal.
“Three eighteen-year-old boys belonging to the relief party came to the rescue; and to the astonishment of all who saw, carried nearly every member of that ill-fated handcart company across the snow-bound stream. The strain was so terrible, the exposure so great, that in later years all the boys died from the effects of it. When President Brigham Young heard of this heroic act, he wept like a child, and later declared publicly, ‘That act alone will ensure C. Allen Huntington, George W. Grant, and David P. Kimball an everlasting salvation in the Celestial Kingdom of God, worlds without end’” (LeRoy R. Hafen and Ann W. Hafen, Handcarts to Zion [Glendale, California: The Arthur H. Clark Company, 1960], pp. 132–33).

With funding approved by the Europe Central Area presidency, Church humanitarian resources, missionaries, and members in Romania provided immediate relief to flood victims. Members from 4 of the 22 branches in Romania, along with 18 full-time missionaries, lined up in a meetinghouse in Bucharest to assemble more than 3,000 hygiene kits and food packets. These packets, with blankets, bread, and bottled water, were delivered to the Spantov, Chiselet, and Manasterea villages along the Danube River.
This was believed to be the largest emergency relief project undertaken by the Church in Romania, said humanitarian country directors Steven and Kristine Johnston.
Many of the more than 3,000 flood victims expressed gratitude for the Church’s humanitarian donation. One woman told missionaries, “Another church brought us little crosses, but the Mormons brought us food.”
Another flood victim told President John Ashby of the Romania Bucharest Mission, “I didn’t know what I was going to eat tonight. All I have are the clothes on my back.”
“I think [members having the opportunity to serve] was the most gratifying aspect of this project. We hope all the members here know that their Church is truly concerned with the less fortunate and follows the Lord’s admonition to care for the poor and needy,” Elder Johnston said. “The comfort provided by Church members and missionaries made a big difference to many people, both to the recipients and to those providing the service.”

Today I went to that mountain,
the one we climbed every Fourth of July.
It’s not that steep.
But then I didn’t run.
Was I five the first time?
Your khakis sandpapering my wrist
below our hands, your Bunyan boots
cutting the sharp white-rock path to crescents,
you pacing me groundless to the ridge.
Our seats, the red cliffs sanded into hollows,
Sego lilies spidering the clefts, purple sky and
stomach-grabbing fear that rattlers might undo
themselves along the cracks. Milk-warm oranges.
Smashed tuna sandwiches. Melted Hersheys. A stone
thrown out to see how far down was.
One year you let me wait high on the Devil’s Slide,
you jarring down ahead, shoulders heaving
in your shirt, soles showing. You turned and waved,
expecting me.
I started down like you, easy, bouncy.
But down was farther than I thought
and steeper. Frantic legs
jack hammering. Windmill arms. Jammed face.
Slope sucking me. Eyes aching open,
then—crushed closed. I sprawled in dumb surrender.
But you surrounded me. Sudden, fierce,
your chest against my fall, safe
among white rocks and pines.
Today I came down slow, feeling for footholds,
clutching at my woman’s urge to run
here to your grave.

Every Monday night they hold family home evening. The children have a favorite lesson about the Plan of Salvation. They begin upstairs in the “premortal existence.” A white sheet is hung at the top of the stairs and labeled the “veil of forgetfulness.”

Dad sends the children downstairs one by one as Mom calls for them in the order of their birth. Jason (13) goes first, then Sarah (11), then Nesha, then Camron (6), Caleb (5), and Joseph (3), and finally Madison (with Dad’s help).

The living room at the bottom of the stairs represents “earth,” where they symbolically experience mortality, accept baptism, and receive temple ordinances. Finally they pass through another sheet into the kitchen, where a large picture of Jesus greets them.

“Our next thrilling adventure was one pleasant afternoon as we were slowly jogging along. All at once our whole train was flying in every direction with lightning speed over the plains. I don’t think the fastest horses could have kept up with our cows. Father sat in the front of the wagon talking to and whipping his staid, old oxen to keep them going right along. He was afraid the cows might get mixed up with other teams that were running, or might whirl around and tip the wagon over with us all in it. We went over hump and bump. Sometimes our heads would be thrown up to the top of the wagon bows, there we would alight anywhere it happened inside the wagon. Nobody can appreciate the situation without the experience. Again death was staring me in the face and again I covered my head. If I had to be killed I didn’t want to see the process. Mother soon snatched the covering off my head, and when we came to a stop she gave me a sound lecture to always be on the lookout and watch the best chance for escape.
“Well, after the cattle had run as long as they could they stopped. There were several accidents, and a woman was killed. She was knocked down and trampled to death. She left a family of children. How we all dreaded stampedes—there is something dreadful in a lot of panic-stricken cattle. Even human beings are not responsible when fright overcomes reason.”

After Brigham Young had been called as President of the Church, John Taylor received a call to go to New York to organize and publish a newspaper. This newspaper, the Mormon, was to inform people about the Church.
Brigham Young: Brother Taylor, we need you to go to New York and publish a newspaper to help people understand us.
Elder Taylor, his oldest son, George, and his nephew, Angus Cannon, set up the Mormon office between two New York City newspapers, the Herald and the Tribune.
John: Here we are, in the middle of two great newspapers.

I received a lovely surprise today. When I came out of Relief Society, a brown envelope containing the New Era was handed to me. I asked who it was from and was told that it was a secret. But I have a very sneaky suspicion that it was from the elder who recently baptized me. He had given me two New Eras before he left, obviously knowing how much I enjoyed them. It is a truly wonderful gift!
Gwen NapierSalisbury, Rhodesia

My boyhood home in California was located relatively close to large orchards of apricots, cherries, peaches, pears, and other delicious fruits. We also lived near fields of cucumbers, tomatoes, and a variety of vegetables.
As a boy I always looked forward to canning season. I did not like scrubbing the canning jars or working in our hot kitchen. But I did like working with my mom and dad. And I loved eating my work! I am sure I ate more fruit than ever made it into any of our canning jars.
My memories of time spent in the kitchen with Mom and Dad are stirred every time I see a bottle of home-canned cherries or peaches. The basic lessons I learned about temporal self-reliance and provident living while picking and canning produce have blessed me throughout my life. Interestingly, simple and ordinary experiences often provide the most important learning opportunities we ever have.

Are our reaching hands clean? Are our yearning hearts pure? Looking backward in time through the pages of history, we glean a lesson on worthiness from the words of the dying King Darius.

“Darius … through the proper rites had been recognized as legitimate King of Egypt; his rival Alexander had been declared the legitimate Son of Amon—he too was Pharaoh. … Alexander found the defeated Darius on the point of death in his tent, and … laid his hands upon his head to heal him, commanding him to arise and resume his kingly power, and concluding his blessing: ‘I swear unto thee, Darius, by all the gods, that I do these things truly and without faking.’ [Darius] replied with a gentle rebuke: ‘Alexander my boy … do you think you can touch heaven with those hands of yours?’” (in Hugh Nibley, Abraham in Egypt, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1981, p. 192).

I hated collecting fast offerings. The very idea of doing it made me shiver. Collecting fast offerings was a chore and one I thought was a waste of time, though I never really understood why I had to do it. I didn’t even know what fast offerings were used for.
As a deacon in my ward, I had the “route” which took me by my house and up an adjoining street, full of various houses. There was one home I always noticed. In this house resided a man I knew only as Brother Nichols. As a Blazer in Primary, I was once assigned to visit his house along with the rest of my group to bring him cookies and talk. But other than that, I never saw him.
Brother Nichols was an older fellow, a widower whose wife had died a couple of years earlier, who now lived in secrecy. His yard had decayed, and his home seemed to have died as well. The inside was filled with old black-and-white photographs of him and his wife. Brother Nichols had been a skier in Utah for many years, and he had plenty of what I considered boring stories to tell.
I never saw him at church, and every time I came to his house during my fast offering route, I would either pass his house completely or ring the bell once and hope he didn’t answer.
One Sunday, I felt particularly good. I decided that I would visit every house I was assigned to visit so that everyone would have a chance to donate fast offerings—even Brother Nichols.
When I got to Brother Nichols’s home, I rang the doorbell. No response. I tried at least three or four times, but nobody answered. As I started to walk away, I heard the door open. There was Brother Nichols.
I greeted him with a warm smile and began an attempt to converse with him.
“Hello, Brother Nichols. I’m here to collect fast offerings.”
“Why, hello young man,” he responded. “Nice of you to stop by.”
I wondered if he knew I had skipped his house on occasion and not cared to see if he was home. I decided that I would repent and become friends with him.
Brother Nichols placed a meager amount of money in the envelope, and I thanked him, giving him a smile and telling him to have a nice day.
This continued for two more months. During each visit with him, the conversations were longer, and I soon felt I could ask him to come to church with no trouble.
“Brother Nichols, you know, I haven’t ever seen you at church.”
“Ah, well, I haven’t ever had the interest …”
“Brother Nichols,” I interrupted, “please come once or you’ll regret it.”
He agreed, and sure enough, the following week, Brother Nichols came to church. He was smiling and he looked great. I thanked him for coming, and he thanked me for the invitation. I could tell by the look in his eyes that the Spirit was with him and his warm hand-shake filled me with the Holy Ghost as well. Throughout the entire meeting he smiled, and the messages from the speakers were fantastic. I was proud that I had brought this man to church, and I knew God was proud of me.
I never knew why I felt so good until a few days later when I found out that Brother Nichols had died. He was now with his wife and with the truth of the gospel which he had experienced.
I felt the Spirit strongly for the next few weeks, and I knew what it meant to be a deacon, to hold the Aaronic Priesthood and act in the name of the Lord. I also learned to not treat the responsibility of collecting fast offerings as a burden. Most importantly, I learned a bit more about the power of the truth of the gospel.

Joseph Smith was taught the consequences for yielding to the pressures of his benefactor, friend, and scribe Martin Harris. In response to Martin’s pleas, Joseph asked the Lord for permission to loan the first 116 manuscript pages of the Book of Mormon so that Martin could show them to his family, but the Lord told Joseph to say no. Martin pleaded with Joseph to ask the Lord again. After Joseph’s third request the Lord gave permission for five specific people to review the manuscript. “In a most solemn covenant Martin bound himself to this agreement. When he arrived home, and pressure was brought to bear upon him, he forgot his solemn oath and permitted others to view the manuscript, with the result that by stratagem it passed out of his hands,” and it was lost. As a consequence, Joseph was rebuked by the Lord and was denied permission to continue to translate the Book of Mormon. Joseph suffered and repented of his transgression of yielding to the pressures of others. After a season, Joseph was allowed to resume his translation work. Joseph learned a valuable lesson of obedience that served him the rest of his life!

I was searching for truth, so I started meeting with the missionaries. After taking most of the lessons, I knew I needed to get baptized. But as the day of my baptism approached, we held a lesson that was hard for me to hear. That lesson was on the Word of Wisdom.
That lesson was hard for me because I drank a lot. My work environment was tough. Everyone I worked with drank, and so I did too. I would often go out drinking after work and come home late at night.
But the missionaries did a great job. I still love them for it. They taught me that God wants us to be strong and that He gave us the Word of Wisdom to bless us. Obeying this law was really hard for me, but slowly, I started to keep it. I remember calling the missionaries every day, updating them on my progress, and telling them that I did not drink that day. They were so happy with my progress.
With their help, I got baptized and entered the fold of Jesus Christ. I felt the Spirit that beautiful day! But I was alone when I joined the Church. I wanted my family to be with me.