Gospel Story Finder

Jesse A. Udall tells this story of President Kimball’s childhood:
“For years he had a record of perfect attendance at Sunday School and Primary. One Monday he was in the field tramping hay for his older brothers when the meetinghouse bell rang for Primary.
“‘I’ve got to go to Primary,’ he timidly suggested.
“‘You can’t go today; we need you,’ they said.
“‘Well, Father would let me go, if he were here,’ the boy countered.
“‘Father isn’t here,’ they said, ‘and you are not going.’
“The piles of hay came pouring up, literally covering Spencer, but finally he had caught up; sliding noiselessly from the back of the wagon, he was halfway to the meetinghouse before his absence was noticed, and his perfect record remained unbroken.” (“The Apostle from Arizona,” Improvement Era, October 1943, p. 591.)

Experience # 3 - My brother and sister-in-law came to visit us. After a walk on the beach, my brother-in-law stated, “I saw something I have never seen before. I saw a young woman in a bikini -- reading the Book of Mormon.” To him this was incongruous.

It was to me, and I think is should have been for her. As Elder Holland once paraphrased Elder Maxwell, "Such people know they should have their primary residence in Zion, but they still hope to keep a summer cottage in Babylon."9 We are being watched, and we are influencing others for good or evil.

Photographs by Norma Smith
Deedra R., 15, of Malaysia has had a chance to work with Latter-day Saint Charities to serve her fellow countrymen. She says, “I had some wonderful experiences with the humanitarian aid projects. The one that was my favorite was going to the Orang Asli village [a native village] teaching them about family home evening. I like teaching little children and helping them understand what I know. I loved how they were so willing to listen. I really felt the Spirit when we visited them.”

May I use two examples to illustrate the ways in which students can contribute to this objective. The first comes in the form of a letter written to Janet Scharman, dean of Student Life. The letter describes the service rendered by a BYU student to a stranger and the feelings engendered in the recipient:

A few months ago, I was driving home from Salt Lake, and my car broke down on the very dark and snowy main road of Tooele. The snow was coming down hard and . . . the road was very dark. I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t want to call my wife . . . and subject her and our six-year-old son to the extreme and dangerous weather conditions. I was thinking about walking the two to three miles home when a car pulled up behind me on the side of the road. I walked back to the car, and the driver asked me if I needed any help. I told him that my car lost power, and I didn’t know what could have happened. He said that he’d be more than happy to give me a lift home. . . . I asked where he lived in Tooele. . . . He said he didn’t live in Tooele. He was on his way back to BYU, saw that I was broken down, and turned around to help! I couldn’t believe it! He had all that driving to do on a dark snowy night, and he took his valuable driving time (and personal safety) to help a total stranger! . . . I explained to him that I was from the California Bay Area, and this type of thing is just unheard of! . . . I was so happy and ecstatic with him that I asked for his name and who to write to at BYU. Needless to say, [the young man] was very humble and said, “Oh, don’t worry about it, they don’t even know who I am. You don’t need to do that.” I told him that I did need to. . . . Janet, please find [this young man]. Let him know that “they” do know who he is and that BYU should be proud to have someone like him representing their school.13

The story illustrates the power of serving others. When one forgets oneself and reaches out to help a person in need, a friendship begins. It is my understanding that the letter has been made known to our student, and he is to be commended for representing himself and the school so well.

Porter is grateful that his parents weren’t easy on him. “They wouldn’t always just help me when I felt like I couldn’t do something,” he says. “I eventually had to do it myself. That’s better than anything.”
His parents didn’t let him off the hook with chores, either. And when your family runs a sheep farm, that means lots of hard work, including moving large sprinkler pipes in the alfalfa fields, feeding the sheep, and helping out during lambing season.
“The first time I moved pipe,” he says, “I got so tired I thought I was going to faint. I got halfway through and just set the pipe down and laid down in the middle of the field. My back was sore for a week, but I was OK from then on.”

Although they lived in town, where Henry’s father was a businessman, the family owned a fruit farm several miles from Provo. Elder Taylor recalls that “for several years we moved to the farm for the summer. Father would travel by bicycle or horse and buggy to his work at the Taylor Brothers Company. We learned to spray the fruit trees, to irrigate them, and to harvest the fruit. Night irrigating was a cold, unpleasant task, and it discouraged us from wanting to become farmers.
“Mother gloried in farm life. She had a beautiful garden and enjoyed picking the various kinds of vegetables and fruits when they were ripe. In the evening she delighted in walking along the brow of the hill and in admiring the magnificent sunsets. I suppose from her enthusiasm most of us children developed an appreciation for sunsets and other beauties of nature.”

I remember Elder Orson F. Whitney, a member of the Twelve who was traveling out to a stake conference years ago by train. He was concentrating on the scriptures as he rode, and he went right by the place where he should have gotten off for the conference. He found himself two or three miles beyond at another town. He got out and hired a livery rig (horse and buggy) to drive him back. The stake president had waited and waited and finally decided he had better start the meeting. As Brother Whitney walked in, the choir was singing “Ye Simple Souls Who Stray.” I would have not been surprised if you had been singing that as I came in.

The year I was 19 I was invited to spend the Christmas holidays working tours for the Hilton Hotel in Los Angeles with my cousin. We would be able to visit all the main attractions in the L.A. area and get paid for it too. I called for plane reservations far too late, and the only transportation still available to get me to L.A. was the bus. I would leave Logan, Utah, on Christmas Day at noon. My sister dropped me off at the Greyhound stop and I waited for the bus to come. When it arrived I remember feeling quite festive and happy because of the day and the prospect of the adventure. As I boarded the bus and looked about I saw only a few riders. They all seemed preoccupied with something outside the window. No one looked up and nobody smiled.
I took my seat. Several stops later we picked up two little girls. They were totally laden with recently opened gifts, and I was delighted when they sat down across the aisle from me. I was feeling a little lonely that it was Christmas Day and there hadn’t been anyone to talk with. I was to learn that their names were Trisha and Debbie and they were on their way for their annual Christmas visit with their grandparents in St. George, Utah. At the time they were in the third and fifth grades. One by one they pulled out their treasures and showed me each gift they had received.
The day progressed and soon the early evening was upon us. We stopped in a little town for a supper break. As I was exiting the bus I noticed that the only street lamp that was lit was the one above the stop. The night was very dark, and there seemed to be a million stars in the sky. The small crowd of people from the bus ate quietly, and I felt let down that it was Christmas and everyone seemed void of the spirit. As I look back I wonder now if all those folks were just sad to be apart from the people they love on Christmas Day.
I had been doing my student teaching with some fourth graders that quarter at Utah State University and I had taught them the song “Silent Night” in sign language. As we sat and waited to be beckoned back to the bus, I asked the girls if they would like to learn it. They enthusiastically said yes and I began teaching it to them. The signs to the first verse are very simple, and they had it all learned before we boarded the bus.
After we settled back into our seats, Trisha said to her sister, “Debbie, we should practice our song so we can show it to Grandma and Grandpa when we get to St. George.” Debbie agreed and they spread their coats onto the floor of the bus and settled down facing each other to practice. I glanced up to see that several of the other passengers on the bus were visiting quietly and some of the overhead lights were on. People seemed to have relaxed a little. Now that Christmas was coming to a close, maybe they were feeling better about having spent it on a bus.
The girls started singing, “Silent Night, Holy Night, All is calm, All is bright …” After finishing the song they began again. I glanced up. Having been so totally involved with coaching them, I hadn’t noticed that all the lights in the bus had been turned off. The only light that remained on was the one above the girls’ seats. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I could see the eyes of the other passengers upon us. They were looking over their seats and down the aisle of the bus. The only sound was the hum of the bus and voices of the two girls clear and strong. The light above their seats reflected off their hands and emphasized the signs. The quiet that came over the bus was not the empty one I had been feeling throughout that day. It was one of peace and joy.
The true spirit of Christmas came through to all of us who had the opportunity to be riding that bus that night. It was not connected with gift giving or even with family. I was overwhelmed at the realization that I had been searching for the spirit of Christmas at the mall, at the theater, under the tree, and in dozens of busy holiday functions, and all the time it could be found in the humblest of situations. Here it was with all its power and mystery on a bus full of strangers headed for St. George, Utah.
I wondered if Trisha and Debbie were aware of the wonderful gift they gave to those of us riding the bus that night. Each Christmas since then they write to me and talk of the first Christmas when we met. Perhaps they too felt the warmth that permeated through the crowd that night. I find myself searching each year for that very same feeling that rushed through my soul that night and filled me with a love for other people and for the Savior.

I was leaving for Malawi, Africa, in less than six hours, and my bags still weren’t packed. I had purchased the biggest suitcases available at the local thrift store and crammed my belongings into the smallest space possible. I had saved the bulk of my travel allowance to buy school and medical supplies that Malawians desperately needed.
Staring at piles of books, pencils, medicines, and bandages, I agonized over what items would improve the quality of life most for the people I was going to serve as an English teacher. What would make the greatest contribution toward individual and national progress? I packed and deliberated through the night, finishing just moments before my ride to the airport arrived.
Forty-three hours and thousands of miles later, I arrived in Malawi—the “Warm Heart of Africa”—a country known for its generosity in accepting refugees from neighboring countries plagued by war, famine, and floods. Although I was not a refugee, I experienced the same warmth and acceptance from nearly everyone I met. This was especially true within the Church.
After a long day of bus rides, I was greeted by two brothers who had borrowed bicycles to transport me the remaining miles to the Sitima Branch. We bumped along a red dirt path past baobab trees and mud huts. Upon our arrival, the branch members literally greeted me with open arms. On the Sabbath day, the branch held sacrament meeting under a canopy of thatch with the congregation seated on woven grass mats. The meeting place was humble, but the Spirit was rich.
I was enjoying a similar spirit in the Blantyre Branch when Sister Frampton, a senior missionary, approached me with a big smile and a Personal Progress book.
“We just received these!” she said. “It looks like a wonderful program, but it wasn’t around when I was young. It would mean so much to the girls if you could share your experiences with Personal Progress!” She squeezed my shoulder and bustled off to greet someone else.
During sacrament meeting I stared at the book like a long-forgotten but familiar friend. I traced the letters on the cover: P-R-O-G-R-E-S-S. Malawi’s constant contrasts of poverty and rich traditions forced me to consider this word daily, but never in this light. I opened the book and pored over the words I once skimmed as a Beehive. The introductory message burned with new clarity and brightness, as if I were discovering it for the first time.
As I addressed this group of Malawian young women, I knew something momentous was occurring, and the girls sensed it too. They received the books with such reverence and gratitude that I felt a twinge of guilt remembering my own tattered book, stashed in a dusty box.
For most of these girls, these were the first books they had ever owned. They opened them tenderly, and I read aloud, “You are a beloved daughter of Heavenly Father, prepared to come to earth at this particular time for a sacred and glorious purpose” (Young Women Personal Progress [2001], 1). My voice cracked, and the words on the page blurred as my eyes filled with tears. The Spirit was unmistakable as it testified of the truthfulness of this message.
I remembered the supplies I had packed and delivered months ago. The people had accepted them graciously and put them to use immediately, but I felt frustrated I had nothing more to give.
I looked into the shining eyes of these beautiful Malawian young women. There was no second-guessing, no frustration, just an overwhelming sense of peace and hope for genuine, lasting progress. Here in a tiny room in the Warm Heart of Africa, a few of Heavenly Father’s daughters were embarking on a journey that will bless their lives and countless others with opportunities for eternal progress.

I had a similar experience in Idaho some years later. I was attending a stake conference. After the Sunday morning session one of the bishops brought his aged mother up to see me. I had been referring to the Book of Mormon during my sermon and was still holding it in my hand.
She took the book from me, opened it, read a paragraph at random, and then returned the book. I wondered why. Then she said that at the previous stake conference the visitor had been Elder Thomas E. McKay, one of the Assistants to the Council of the Twelve.
She asked me if I knew Elder McKay and of course, I responded that I did. Then she said, “Will you please tell him that I read a paragraph in your book? When he was here at our last conference, my son brought him to my home and had him administer to me. I was blind. Please tell him that I read from your book.”

Like many little girls, when Maria Victoria Rojas Rivera of Chile—Mavi to her friends—was four years old, she decided she wanted to become a ballerina. And like all of those other little girls, she quickly discovered that the grace and freedom she saw on the stage came at a pretty steep price. The effort and discipline required to become a professional ballerina are too much for many young dreamers.

“When you’re little, you don’t understand the sacrifice it takes,” Mavi says. “When I started studying at age 10, our teachers told us that half of our lives would be spent dancing. We’d have to give up a lot of things.”

Things like free time and certain foods. Mavi would have to put a lot of time and effort into exercising and practicing. She’d have to watch carefully what she ate. And after schoolwork and dance, there wouldn’t be much time for friends.

Mavi decided that her dream was important enough to her to try.

“The teenage years can be a complicated time,” she says. “My friends didn’t always understand why I wouldn’t eat certain things or stay out late with them.”

Mavi learned early on that what appeared to be restrictions on her freedom were actually the only way she could free herself from things that would keep her from her goal.

“I chose not to stay out late, and I chose to spend time practicing instead of going to the mall with my friends,” Mavi says. “If I was tired because I stayed out too late or if I didn’t know the steps because I didn’t practice, I couldn’t dance.”

That kind of discipline isn’t easy, but Mavi says it is worth it.

“Everyone has moments when you want to give in,” Mavi confesses, “but you have the power to choose. Discipline can appear restrictive, but self-discipline is a choice. And I chose to accept this lifestyle in order to dance.”

A ballerina can make her body move in ways that would hurt most other people. This freedom of movement is essential for communicating with the audience. But even though a good ballerina makes every move look effortless on stage, she has put in a lot of effort off the stage.

After eight years of sacrifice and hours of training almost every day, she was living her dream on stage—and in the gospel.

“People think it looks so beautiful and graceful,” Mavi says. “But the movements are very controlled. It takes a lot of strength to control yourself like that.”

“The rewards from so many sacrifices are that I can dance,” Mavi says. “I feel strong, and I feel the guidance of the Holy Ghost in every step I take—on stage and off.”

“Daddy,” Richie whispered into the darkness. “Daddy, are you awake?” The bedroom was silent. “Daddy!” he whispered fiercely.
Dad awakened with a jump. The small figure in the darkness startled him. “Oh, Richie,” he said. “What’s the matter?”
“Daddy, I had a scary dream,” Richie said, his bottom lip trembling.
Dad got out of bed quietly so that he wouldn’t wake Mom. He took Richie’s hand and led him down the hall. After flipping the light on in Richie’s room, he sat down and lifted Richie onto his lap.
“Now, tell me about your dream. What scared you?” Richie told the dream to his dad. He felt safe and warm in his father’s arms.
“I can see why you were scared, Son. But it was just a dream. You’re safe, and Mom and I are just down the hall. Let’s say a little prayer so that you’ll feel better.”
Richie knelt next to his father and buried his eyes in his arms. He quietly asked Heavenly Father to keep him safe and to help him feel better.
When Richie finished his prayer, Dad got up and gave him another hug. Richie smiled. “Thanks, Dad.”
Dad tucked him into bed. “I love you, Richie. Good night.”
Richie snuggled into his covers and fell asleep.

A letter and an old ashtray came to the office of the Presiding Bishop. The letter reads: “Dear Sir, I stole the enclosed ashtray from your hotel in 1965. After these many years, I want to apologize to you and ask for your forgiveness for my wrongdoing. Sincerely, (signature)
“P.S. I have enclosed a check that attempts to reimburse you for the ashtray.”
The check was in the amount of $26.00, one dollar for each year he had kept the ashtray. I can imagine that during those twenty-six years, each time he tapped his cigarette on the rim of that tray he suffered a twinge of conscience. I do not know that the hotel ever missed the ashtray, but the man who took it missed his peace of mind for more than a quarter of a century and finally ended up paying far more for the stolen tray than it was worth. Yes, honesty is the best policy.

It was midnight, December. Outside my parents’ bedroom window, snow fell lightly, softly, beautifully. The earth was covered with a layer of white like a shroud. I sat on a chair next to my mother’s bed watching the snow. The house was silent. The only sound was my mother’s breathing. Her breath came in such long intervals I wondered how anyone could live on so little air. I realized how close death was for her.
Early in the fall, after four years of chemotherapy, radiation treatment, and surgery my mother came home and said, “Enough, I won’t go back.”
In the following months she grew thinner and weaker and the pain she felt seemed to increase every hour. It was all so gradual, like watching summer turn to fall and fall turn to winter, but with a terrible twist. My mother had always taken care of herself, eating right and exercising, but by Thanksgiving she was too weak to take more than a few steps.
In the first week of December, when the powerful drugs my father gave her with an injection began to wear off, the pain would leave her screaming. Something in some untouchable secret part of me began to unravel.
A few weeks later she slipped mercifully into a coma, and then we took turns sitting with her day and night. We didn’t want her to be alone when she died. Somehow all of us felt she knew we were there.
Sitting with her in the night it seemed a darkness settled over me. How do I explain what I felt? I never realized anything could reach me so deeply.
What I felt sitting with mother was much more terrible and darker than what I felt under the ice. This thing cracked the very bones of who I am, and I knew I would never be the same again. It’s not death that hurt this way. Death is hard but I could accept it as a natural process, something which happens to all of us. What hurt and what challenged everything I thought and believed and felt was watching someone I love suffer incredible pain for months. It’s an age-old question, an ancient nightmare rune. How can God let this happen? At midnight, at one o’clock and two o’clock, with the weight of this question a darkness settled over me like snow covering the earth out the window, and I felt the faith and belief I had slipping through my hands like water.
A few weeks later, just before Christmas, my mother died. It was a good funeral, but there was no answer to the question burning inside me. For months I moved through life an awake somnambulist. Why? Why is there so much suffering in the world? Why does God allow it to happen?

I once met a young sailor who was a member of the crew of an atomic submarine based in Scotland. He was the only member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the crew. The submarine would go on extended cruises encompassing many weeks. As this young Church member was assigned to his station on his first cruise, he found that other crewmen had plastered the walls in his area with suggestive pictures of scantily clad women. This offended him. He took all the pictures down and destroyed them. He was conscious of the probable reaction of the other men but, nevertheless, had the courage to do what he thought he should. Not one picture was put up again. As a matter of fact, on that first cruise, he began to teach a Sunday School class attended by two or three of the other men. He learned an important lesson—generally speaking, others will show respect for one who has the courage of his or her convictions and isn’t afraid to do what he feels is right.

Last summer my friend and I were playing in the backyard. She wanted to go down the hill and play in our fort. We knew we needed to ask for permission, so we went to ask her mom. She said yes. Then we went to my mom, but she was out running some errands. My friend said, “Let’s play anyway. We’ll be done by the time your mom gets back. If she asks you where you’ve been, just say that we’ve been playing on the trampoline.”
I knew that I shouldn’t lie to my mom. I told my friend I couldn’t play in the fort, and she got mad. I was sad, but I knew that I had done the right thing. When I told my mom later that night, she was very happy that I had chosen to do the right thing.
Shybree Richins, age 8St. George, Utah

What parents would not rejoice to have sons like the two missionaries for whom an older widow volunteered to provide lunch. After a few visits, they stopped on the way to her home and bought a bouquet of flowers to give to her as a token of thanks for the lunches. When they gave the flowers to her, the sister looked shocked and then began to cry. The elders thought they had done something wrong and began to apologize. The widow stopped them and said that no one had ever given her flowers during her entire life, not even her husband when he was alive. She beamed with delight during the lunch and then asked the elders to wait one more minute. She presented them with the name and address of one of her best friends and asked them to please teach the friend’s family. The family accepted the gospel wholeheartedly and proved to be the best family baptism those two missionaries had.

There were times when I thought Caleb would live a long time. He had so often successfully battled sicknesses and surgeries with resilience. He went to the hospital many times but always came back to us. We loved having him in our home. Being in his presence was healing and heavenly.
At age seven, Caleb slipped peacefully away in April’s arms, surrounded by his family. He had spent a courageous day fighting a vicious infection brought on by pneumonia. His body was simply worn out.
My wife whispered in his ear, “I love you, Caleb. I am so proud of you. If your body is too tired, it’s OK. You can go back. You can return to Heavenly Father.”
In the very moment when it was needed, April’s heart changed so she could let him go. April trusted Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ because she knew They personally understood her suffering and would provide comfort and strength (see Alma 7:11–12). And through the Atonement of His Son, God can do miracles. He saves souls. He heals heartache. He inspires hope.

For example, drinking, especially at weekend parties, was a big problem for their peers, so some of the LDS students started throwing their own parties and inviting everyone, as long as they followed the house rules.

“Dad announces the rules at our house,” says Priscilla Packard. “No tobacco; no alcohol; you have to be 14 to attend the party; no pairing off in the corners; and absolutely nobody outside in the cars. Then we dance, and talk, play games, and have contests to see who can do the most back flips in a row. One guy from school who had never been to one of our parties before said, ‘Wow, there’s no alcohol here, and I’m still having fun.’” The parties given by the LDS students are popular with everyone because it isn’t just the same old thing.

The story is told there of the grandfather who took his five-year-old grandson for a walk around town. Ultimately, they found themselves at a small grocery store on Main Street where they stopped for a cold soda pop. A car from out of state pulled up and the driver approached the old-timer. Pointing to a small cloud in the sky, the stranger asked, “Do you think it’s going to rain?”
“I certainly hope so,” replied the old man, “if not for my sake, for the boy’s. I’ve seen it rain.”
Hope is an emotion which brings richness to our everyday lives. It is defined as “the feeling that … events will turn out for the best.” When we exercise hope, we “look forward … with desire and reasonable confidence” (dictionary.reference.com/browse/hope). As such, hope brings a certain calming influence to our lives as we confidently look forward to future events.