Gospel Story Finder

I was taught this lesson powerfully a number of years ago by our then-16-year-old daughter, Jennifer. She was about to have a double lung transplant, where the five diseased lobes of her lungs would be completely removed and replaced by two healthy smaller lobes, donated by two amazing Christlike friends. It was a very high-risk procedure, yet the night before her surgery, Jennifer almost preached to me with all of her 90 pounds (41 kg), saying, “Don’t worry, Dad! Tomorrow I will wake up with new lungs, or I will wake up in a better place. Either way will be great.” That is faith; that is eternal perspective! Seeing life from an eternal vantage point provides clarity, comfort, courage, and hope.
After the surgery, when the long-awaited day came to remove the breathing tube and turn off the ventilator that had been helping Jennifer breathe, we anxiously waited to see if her two smaller lobes would work. When she took her first breath, she immediately started crying. Seeing our concern, she quickly exclaimed, “It’s just so good to breathe.”
Ever since that day, I have thanked Heavenly Father morning and night for my ability to breathe. We are surrounded by innumerable blessings that we can easily take for granted if we are not mindful. Conversely, when nothing is expected and everything is appreciated, life becomes magical.

A little over a year ago a couple came into my office carrying a little boy. The father said to me, “My wife and I have been fasting for two days, and we’ve brought our little boy up for a blessing. You are the one we’ve been sent to.” I said, “What’s the matter with him?” They said he was born blind, deaf and dumb, no coordination of his muscles, couldn’t even crawl at the age of five years. I said to myself, “This is it. ‘This kind cometh not out save by fasting and by prayer.’” I had implicit faith in the fasting and the prayers of those parents. I blessed that child, and a few weeks later I received a letter: “Brother Cowley, we wish you could see our little boy now. He’s crawling. When we throw a ball across the floor he races after it on his hands and knees. He can see. When we clap our hands over his head he jumps. He can hear.” Medical science had laid the burden down. God had taken over. The little boy was rapidly recovering or really getting what he’d never had.

One day I sat with a handsome, young, prospective missionary as he poured out his sad story through sobs of sorrow, anguish, and remorse. I wanted to cry with him. Pressured by his so-called friends, he found himself at a mixed party where liquor was served. Against everything he knew to be right, he succumbed to the taunts and jeers of all those present, became drunk, and before the evening was over, lost his virtue.

Unable to resist the peer pressure he faced, his resolution to stay chaste being dissipated by the circumstances he found himself in, he had seen his lifelong dream of a mission and a temple marriage change to a nightmare—and now he felt ashamed, unclean, unworthy.

“Have I forfeited my opportunity for a mission, for marriage in the temple?” he asked. “How can my Father in Heaven forgive me for what I have done? I wish the earth would open up and swallow me!” My heart ached for him.

Almost overriding my sympathy for him was the anger I felt toward those who had led him down that “primrose path,” seemingly oblivious to the pain they had caused, listening to Satan’s siren song that chastity is outdated.

The full force of his actions was obvious to my tearful friend, who understood, at last, the reality of Alma’s words: “Wickedness never was happiness.” (Alma 41:10.)

Years ago I presided in a Church disciplinary council. The man whose sins were the subject of the council sat before us and related something of his history. His sins were indeed serious, but he had also been terribly sinned against. As we considered the matter, my soul was troubled, and I asked to be excused to think and pray about it alone before rejoining the council.

I was standing in front of a chair in my office pleading with the Lord to help me understand how such evil could have been perpetrated. I did not see but rather sensed an immense pit with a covering over it. One corner of the covering was lifted slightly for just an instant, and I perceived within it the depth and vastness of the evil that exists in this world. It was greater than I could really comprehend. I was overcome. I collapsed into the chair behind me. It seemed to take my breath away. I cried silently, “How can we ever hope to overcome such evil? How can we survive something so dark and overwhelming?”

In that moment there came to my mind this phrase: “Be of good cheer; I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). Seldom have I felt such peace juxtaposed to the reality of evil. I felt a deeper appreciation for the intensity of the Savior’s suffering, having a better, even frightening appreciation for the depth of what He had to overcome. I felt peace for the man who was before us for judgment, knowing he had a Redeemer whose grace was sufficient to cleanse him and also repair the injustices he had suffered. I knew better that good will triumph because of Jesus Christ, whereas without Him we would have no chance. I felt peace, and it was very sweet.

Some years ago, an acquaintance of mine who was moving to Washington, D.C., went to the district offices to take the driver’s license examination. He had to fill out a form that asked for his business address and his occupation. He had just been appointed a justice of the United States Supreme Court, so he used that as his business address. In the blank marked “occupation” he wrote the word justice. The person at the counter examined this answer, frowned, and said, “Justice? Justice! Well, I guess that’s all right. Last week a fellow wrote peace.”

The first full-time missionary called from the Bahamas was Keith Dean. He joined the Church while attending school at Brigham Young University—Hawaii. “I had no intentions of joining the Church,” he said, “and I dodged the missionaries for the first two months I was there.” But after hearing the missionary discussions and having a spiritual confirmation of the truthfulness of the gospel, he was baptized 5 December 1981. Three years later, Elder Dean served in the California Fresno Mission. Now Brother Dean and his wife, Winnie, have three children, and he serves as elders quorum president in the Nassau Branch.

I'd like to illustrate the importance of this by beginning with a story. There once was a father who had four sons. One day he sent his sons to their cabin to ready it for the winter. The cabin was located some distance away from their home, and was without phone connection, but the father didn't worry, because he had given each son a cell phone and knew that he could contact them in case of an emergency. Not long after the sons' arrival to the cabin, the father learned that because of heavy rains in the nearby mountains, the cabin was in the path of a potential flash flood. He called the first son to warn him to take his brothers and evacuate the cabin. The first son had not even turned on his cell phone and didn't receive the message. He then tried to call the second son. His phone rang, but the music he was listening to was so loud, it drowned out the phone and he didn't receive the message. He then tried to call the third son. The third son actually heard his phone ring, but he was so busy working on the cabin he didn't take time to answer it and didn't receive the message. When the fourth son's phone rang, he heard it and tried to answer it, but he wasn't used to working with a cell phone and didn't know how to get an incoming call, so he did not receive the message.

The father was grieved for he had done all that he could to warn his sons, but for various reasons they would not receive his message.

Sammy opened his eyes and yawned. He could smell something yummy.
Mmmm, Papa is making bread! Sammy thought.
Papa baked bread for the family every Saturday. Sammy liked to watch him take the crispy brown loaves out of the oven. Papa always gave Sammy the first slice.
But today isn’t Saturday, Sammy thought. Why is Papa baking?
Sammy got out of bed and went to the kitchen. He asked Papa what was going on.
“Do you remember what our bishop asked us to do?” Papa asked.
Sammy nodded. “He asked us to help people. And I helped Sister Martin take her bag upstairs, remember?”
“You did a good job,” Papa said. “I prayed about how I could help. I had the idea to bake bread to share.”
Sammy looked in the oven window. He counted the loaves of bread.
“One … two … three … four. Who will you give the bread to?”
“That’s something I need your help with,” Papa said. “There’s one loaf for Sister Martin. And two loaves for the Miller family. Who should we give the fourth loaf to?”
Sammy thought about it.
“What about Mr. Lee?” Sammy asked. Mr. Lee lived in their apartment building. He didn’t go outside very much. Mostly he just watched people from his window.
“That’s a great idea,” Papa said.
After the bread was done baking, Sammy helped Papa wrap the bread. Then he got his wagon. They put the loaves inside.
“The bread wagon is ready to roll!” Sammy said.
Papa helped Sammy pull the wagon. Sammy’s heart felt nice and warm, just like the bread they were about to share!

Are the young women of the West Terrace Ward, Spokane Washington West Stake, caught in a time warp? Do they spend all of their time at thrift stores and estate sales? Hardly. But these girls recently took time to present a retro fashion show to residents at a retirement home in their community.
Playing “dress up” gave them a chance to reminisce with their senior friends about the good old days, and have some fun in the process.

During many summer vacations as a child, my family drove the long distance from our home in northern California to visit relatives in Utah. As a true city boy looking for adventure, I especially enjoyed our trips to my grandmother’s farm in southern Utah.
On the farm, my brothers, sisters, cousins, and I climbed to the tops of towering haystacks and then jumped off, flying down to a soft cushion of hay below. Next, we took turns on our uncle’s old tractors, grabbing the steering wheel and pretending we were racing across the field. After that, we balanced like tightrope walkers and made our way across the top of the rickety old fence rails that kept the cows corralled. The best fun, though, was riding old Blaze.
Blaze was a gentle, old, brown horse that loved kids to ride on her. When I was younger, I rode double with one of my older brothers or sisters. However, the summer I was about nine years old, I announced to everyone that I was old enough to ride Blaze all by myself. My parents agreed, so with a boost onto her back and some last-minute instructions from my uncle, I was riding Blaze all on my own like a real cowboy.
As I slowly guided Blaze into a partly fenced-in field, my family could see that I was handling Blaze as well as any professional cowboy. They left me to my fun and went inside Grandma’s old farmhouse. Holding the reins loosely in my hands as I sat atop the gentle horse, I felt like I was king of the world.
However, only a few minutes had passed when Blaze suddenly broke into a mad gallop. I pulled gently on the reins to slow her down, but she kept up her fast pace. I pulled harder on the reins and yelled, “Whoa!” But Blaze seemed to just go faster and faster. I kept tugging at the reins but didn’t dare pull too hard for fear that she would rear on her hind legs and buck me off.
I pulled again and again on the reins, but Blaze just kept on galloping out of control. My cries for her to stop turned into screams of panic as she raced from the safety of the field and away from the farmhouse while I bounced and jerked wildly in the saddle.
At a terrifying speed, she headed straight for an old tractor, swerving just in time to miss it. Racing like lightning, she headed next toward a wooden, railed fence. I thought for sure that we’d crash right into it, but Blaze swerved away again just in time.
No matter what I tried, I couldn’t control her at all. Eventually she galloped off the farm property onto the rarely used country road. With tears streaming from my eyes, I realized my situation had just grown considerably worse. I couldn’t stop her on my own, and it might be hours before anyone who could help me might venture this way. I could end up lost, miles away from my grandma’s farmhouse, before Blaze ever came to a stop or threw me off her back.
At that moment, I realized that there was only one thing left for me to do. I prayed with all my heart. I prayed in my mind, and I prayed out loud. I knew that Heavenly Father would hear my prayers and that He could help me.
It wasn’t long after my prayers that an old truck came barreling down the road. The man driving it saw right away that I needed help. Driving alongside the galloping horse and me, the man yelled from his truck window, “Pull on the reins!”
I pulled, but Blaze kept running. The man yelled for me to pull harder. Even though I was still afraid that Blaze might rear back, I pulled back even harder on the reins than I had tried before. Blaze kept on racing.
“Pull harder!” yelled the man.
I was afraid to pull any harder, but I realized that the man knew more about horses than I did. So, gathering all my strength, I pulled as hard as I could on the reins. Blaze didn’t stop at first, but with the man’s continual urging, the horse finally slowed to a complete stop.
The man in the truck pulled off to the side of the road and hopped out. My whole body shook as he helped me down off the horse. When I told him that Blaze was usually a mild-mannered horse, he explained that even the gentlest horse might break into a run if its rider holds the reins too loosely.
After thanking the man for his help and assuring him that I was OK, I started the long way back to the farmhouse, leading Blaze by the reins. As I walked, I realized that some people might say that the man coming by when he did was just a coincidence. But I knew differently. It was a direct answer to my prayers. Heavenly Father knew ahead of time that I would need help when I did. He inspired a man who knew a lot more about horses than I did to drive his truck down a lonely county road. I know with all my heart, that Heavenly Father answered the prayers of a terrified young boy who couldn’t stop a galloping horse on his own.

Today is January 19, 2021. Almost exactly 175 years ago, on February 4, 1846, Charles Shumway ferried across the Mississippi River and started the westward migration of Latter-day Saints from Nauvoo, Illinois. For three weeks in frigid temperatures, wagons ferried across the river, often steering clear of large ice chunks. After Charles C. Rich walked across the Mississippi on February 25, scores of additional refugees crossed the river on solid ice.1 The winter phase of this mass exodus was directed by President Brigham Young—the well-known Camp of Israel trek across Iowa involving approximately 3,000 Saints.

The spring phase of the exodus included three large waves of refugees departing Nauvoo and involved more than 10,000 Saints—triple the ­number in the winter departure.

The fall phase of the exodus included about 700 Saints who were forced from Nauvoo at gunpoint.

The winter withdrawal from Nauvoo in particular caused unimaginable hardship for these faithful Latter-day Saints, and many sought shelter in camps along the Mississippi River. When word reached Brigham Young at Winter Quarters about the condition of these exiles, he immediately sent a letter across the river to Council Point encouraging the brethren to help—reminding them of the covenant made in the Nauvoo Temple. He counseled: “Now is the time for labor. Let the fire of the covenant which you made in the house of the Lord burn in your hearts, like flame unquenchable.”2 Within days, wagons were rolling eastward to rescue the struggling Saints.

Our present-day prophet, Spencer W. Kimball, has a great love for all the children of the Church. AFriend reader wrote to share with you an experience that expresses our prophet’s love.
“My name is Margo Busch, I am seven years old and live in San Antonio, Texas. I have three sisters and one brother. Something very special happened to our family. When we were on a 747 jet flying from Salt Lake City to Augsburg, Germany, we saw the prophet on the plane. We wanted to talk to him, but the stewardess wouldn’t let us. We were sad because we really wanted to meet him. So my sisters and I drew some pictures and the stewardess took them to him, and he answered by writing back to us on the pictures. When the plane landed, we were the last ones to leave. As we got off the plane the prophet was there waiting for us to shake our hands. Spencer W. Kimball really loves children very much and everyone in our family loves him too.”

A couple years ago my wife and I had the opportunity to travel back to Mongolia on a follow up trip to review the progress of the construction of wood frame homes for the poor in the capital city of Ulaanbaatar. With my background and experience in teaching building construction and living in the frozen tundra of Rexburg, Idaho, I was selected by the Church to help in this housing effort. I had visited the country five years earlier with a team from the Church Humanitarian Services with an assignment to help educate the faculty at the Mongolian Technical Institute, along with government building officials, in wood frame housing techniques. In trying to understand the traditional living conditions of the Mongolian, nomadic people, I arranged for my wife and me to travel to central Mongolian to live with the people in the vast countryside. We took a flight on an old airplane to Bayanhongor in central Mongolia and then took a five-hour jeep ride south toward the Gobi Desert. There are no roads, just horse trails and washed out river bottoms. Just the travel experience in that area is a story of its own. After traveling for hours without any signs of human life and being certain we would never see our home and family again, we arrived in a little valley with scattered camels, horses, sheep, goats, yaks and three round “Gers,” the traditional tent like, nomadic Mongolian home. These small homes with dirt floors, no power or modern conveniences were very clean and quite comfortable. These are wonderful, loving, religious people that love God, their families, the land and animals that provide them life. There was a young lady there who was a cousin living there for the summer who last year was baptized into the Church. While living with these families I couldn’t help feeling that these people are part of those that will come forth and be part of the prophesied gathering in the latter days.

While living in the Mongolia countryside, I was fascinated with the vastness of the rolling hills with no fences or barrier of any kind to keep their animals from wandering away. My wife and I both grew up on the farm with a love for animals. In my youth I spent much of my time trying to keep our animals fenced in. My father always had a band of sheep so I was especially interested how the Mongolian people kept track of their herds. I learned quickly that there is a difference between being a shepard and being a sheep herder. We were sheep herders, keeping our animals contained in fences and corrals. Our sheep had little agency as we herded them from fenced area to fenced area with force and a few sheep dogs. If ever our sheep escaped, they ran wildly through town.

Those who cared for the sheep in Mongolia were truly shepherds leading and loving their flocks. I was amazed that none of the sheep wandered away. The sheep, having full agency, with no fences to contain them, grazed within sight and the sound of their shepherd’s voice. Each afternoon several hundred sheep were called in and gathered into a small meadow area where they were milked. The sheep were separated by the families that owned them and held together by a soft camel hair rope, head to head, while they were being milked. These shepherds didn’t count their sheep. They knew them. As the sheep were gathered in, I tried to help, but I didn’t know which family the sheep belonged to. There were no makings or identifications on them. As I approached, the sheep were frightened and ran from me. I was touched by the love these families showed toward the sheep. They spoke to each of them as they stroked the loose wool from their backs while checking the general health of each animal.

The women do all of the milking, whether sheep, yaks, horses, camels or goats. After milking, the sheep and goats were lead back to the protection of the Ger as evening darkness approached. They instinctively knew that they would be safe and secure sleeping along side the shepherd’s Ger.

The shepherds caring for their sheep in the country sides of Mongolia were like those in the homeland of Jesus. Christ taught often of the relationship that the loving shepherds had for their sheep. He referred to Himself as the Good Shepherd.

When I was called to serve as the Mia Maid adviser in the Young Women organization, I doubted that I could fill the calling. I didn’t think the girls would like me or learn anything from me, especially when I realized how different things are for them than they were when I was their age.
That feeling changed a few weeks into my calling when I attended a Young Woman event. At the event a mother expressed how grateful she was for the Young Women program because it strengthened her daughter against temptation. Her words helped me understand just how important my role really is.
I realized that my calling was about more than teaching lessons on Sundays and helping plan activities. It was a calling to help these young women prepare for the future—to go to the temple, serve in the Church, and be good mothers. I needed to help them prepare for life.

Some years ago I listened intently as a man well beyond middle age told me of an experience in his family history. The widowed mother who had given birth to him and his brothers and sisters had gone to her eternal and well-earned reward. The family assembled at the home and surrounded the large dining room table. The small metal box in which Mother had kept her earthly treasures was opened reverently. One by one each keepsake was brought forth. There was the wedding certificate from the Salt Lake Temple. “Oh, now Mother could be with Dad.” Then there was the deed to the humble home where each child had in turn entered upon the stage of life. The appraised value of the house had little resemblance to the worth Mother had attached to it.

Then there was discovered a yellowed envelope which bore the marks of time. Carefully the flap was opened and from inside was taken a homemade valentine. Its simple message, in the handwriting of a child, read, “I love you, Mother.” Though she was gone, by what she held sacred, Mother taught yet another lesson. A silence permeated the room, and every member of the family made a pledge not only to remember, but also to honor mother.

When I was a mission president in northern Germany, I had a very difficult problem. I had searched in vain for an answer for many weeks. One morning I was reading in the Book of Mormon where Nephi was commanded to build a ship: “And I, Nephi, did go into the mount oft, and I did pray oft unto the Lord; wherefore the Lord showed unto me great things” (1 Nephi 18:3). As I read that small passage, the impression came to me, “That is what I need to do.” I pondered and prayed, and finally the answer came, and I knew what I needed to do. I am grateful for that little window of inspiration that came—as I was searching the scriptures. As I received my answer, I felt that I was “standing in a holy place.” I know that you too can have similar experiences as you search, ponder, and pray about the scriptures.

A boy in my class at school lost his home in a fire. His family was left with nothing and had to live in a hotel room. I felt terrible when I heard about it, so I gathered some of my books and dolls to give to the boy’s four-year-old sister. My mom bought crayons, paper, stickers, and other things for the children. When they saw the gifts, they were very happy, and I never felt happier myself than I did right then. I am so glad to be able to help others as Jesus did, because making others happy makes me even happier.

Becca Briggs of the Oakhills Fifth Ward, Oakhills California Stake, has really got things cooking. Becca was selected as one of 26 finalists in Seventeen Magazine’s National Menu Planning Competition, and went on to place with the top five winners, for which she received a special citation for her “Junior Prom Dinner for Two” entry.

“I’ve always liked to experiment with fancy foods and interesting recipes,” said Becca. “I’d watch my mom cook when I was little, and decided that I wanted to learn how, too, so I started cooking back then. When my foods teacher at high school encouraged me to enter the Seventeen Magazine contest, it just seemed natural.”

So Becca and the 25 other finalists (including Jennie Balliff from the Oak Hills Sixth Ward, Provo Utah Oak Hills Stake) were off to the Culinary Institute of America in Hyde Park, New York, for the final competition where they would whip up their delectable dishes for the judges.

“It was fun cooking in the huge kitchens there and getting to know the other finalists from across the United States,” said Becca. “A lot of people asked me about the Mormons when they learned I was from Utah. I told them that I believed in God, and explained the Church and our beliefs to them. It was a good missionary experience.”

Becca’s prize-winning menu included salmon in pastry with cheese sauce, cream of leek and potato soup, chocolate mousse, and fresh strawberries dipped in chocolate. You might like to try one of her recipes.

One cannot belong to the Church for long without learning that service is central to the entire workings of the kingdom. While my parents taught me through precept and example to serve others, the true understanding (meaning) of service came during a deacons’ quorum lesson. One Sunday morning our advisor tried to penetrate our inattentive minds by putting both hands on his own head and asking: “Would you like to close your eyes so I can give myself a blessing?”

With youthful astonishment I blurted out, “You can’t bless yourself”

“Why not?”

“Because it isn’t effective unless your hands are on someone else’s head.”

I knew it was true; I didn’t know why. But by the end of the lesson, this skillful teacher convinced us that you can bless yourself only by serving others.

It took about two weeks to regain the strength I needed to leave the hospital, and another seven months passed before my first treatment on an artificial kidney machine. But it was time well spent, for I had decided to really find out what the gospel of Jesus Christ was all about.

My first project was to read the Book of Mormon. For hours at a time I studied that tremendous book of scripture, gaining a testimony of its truthfulness and a love for the book itself. Now life took on new meaning, as if a light had been turned on and I could see and understand as never before. I was uplifted, enlightened, instructed, and spiritually quickened. Today I look back on this period as perhaps the most significant period of my mortal life.