Gospel Story Finder

In the October 2010 general conference, Sister Rosemary M. Wixom, the Primary general president, told about a family with little kids that took three and a half years to read the Book of Mormon. My family and I decided to do the same thing. My parents helped me and my sister and brother say the words in the Book of Mormon. It took us three years to finish reading the Book of Mormon too, and when we finished, I could read all the words by myself.
When we started reading it, we lived in Recife, Brazil, where we read it for one year. Then we moved to Washington, D.C., and read it for another year. Finally we moved to Taipei, Taiwan, where we read it for one more year until we finally finished it.
I like to act out Book of Mormon stories because it’s a fun way to learn about what happened in the book. One of my favorite stories is when Abinadi taught the gospel to King Noah, and Alma had the courage to escape from King Noah to preach the gospel and baptize people into the Church. I like that story because I was baptized while we were reading the Book of Mormon as a family.

I think Primary also played a big part in helping me develop a testimony of the gospel. Many of my teachers encouraged me and helped me understand what I needed to do to gain a testimony. It was a gradual process. I finally realized that I could not live off Mother’s or Dad’s testimony forever. I took the advice that my Primary teachers had given me and read the Book of Mormon, prayed about it, and found out for myself that it is true.

Roy D. Atkin shared the following story:
“After a number of students dropped out following [my] freshman year, my dental school classes became even more competitive. Everyone worked hard to be at the top of the class. As the competition increased, some students decided that the way to succeed was by cheating. This troubled me greatly. …
“… I knew I couldn’t cheat. I wanted to be right with God even more than I wanted to become a dentist.
“[During] my junior year, I was offered a copy of an upcoming test in a crucial class. Obviously that meant some of my classmates would have the test questions ahead of time. I declined the offer. When the corrected test papers were returned, the class average was extremely high, making my score low in comparison. The professor asked to speak to me.
“‘Roy,’ he said, ‘you usually do well on tests. What happened?’
“‘Sir,’ I told my professor, ‘on the next exam, if you give a test that you have never given before, I believe you will find that I do very well.’ There was no reply.
“We had another test in the same class. As the test was handed out, there were audible groans. It was a test the teacher had never given before. When our graded tests were handed back, I had received one of the highest grades in the class. From then on, all the tests were new.”2

It was only a few weeks later when a similar situation occurred. Some of our ward members, including many of our young men, were practicing for an upcoming theatrical performance. Todd, a priest, was one of the performers. During a rehearsal, someone mockingly mimicked Todd’s performance. He was offended and started walking toward the door dejectedly.
“Oh no,” I thought, “here we go again.” I felt compelled to follow him outside and encourage him to ignore the offense and come back.
What happened next was a beautiful surprise.
This time it was not Dennis who hurried past me, but David. David, who only a few weeks earlier had been the dejected one, was now the inspired one. He ran up to Todd and, putting his arm around him, pleaded with him to return. Todd accepted the invitation, and within minutes both boys were standing side by side on the stage. David had now successfully convinced another to stay.

As a young boy I had great interest in anything that had to do with treasures. I often found myself absorbed in stories and movies about hidden treasures, secret maps, and brave explorers searching for lost riches. When my brothers and I visited our grandparents who lived at the base of the Andes Mountains in Mendoza, Argentina, we would spend hours searching through the fields for shiny rocks. We would eagerly break the rocks open in the hope of discovering something very precious inside—only to find more glittering minerals but never any real treasure.

Sofía was almost eight years old. She was getting ready to be baptized. She was learning lots of important things. One thing she had learned about was prayer. She knew she could pray to Heavenly Father anytime. She knew she could pray anyplace.
One day Sofía and Mama decided to visit Papa at work. It would be a long trip. Papa worked in another town. They would have to ride on a bus, then in a truck, and then in a taxi.
During the bus ride, Sofía fell asleep. She woke up when she heard a baby crying. A mom and dad with a baby had gotten on the bus. The baby was sick and crying loudly. The baby’s parents looked worried.
Sofía felt sorry for the baby. She felt sorry for the parents too. Then she had an idea. She whispered in Mama’s ear. “Could I say a prayer and ask Heavenly Father to bless the baby?”
“Of course,” Mama said with a smile.
Sofía bowed her head and said a silent prayer. She prayed hard. She asked Heavenly Father to bless the baby. She asked Him to help the baby feel better and stop crying.
Sofía knew that we do not always get what we pray for. She also knew that our prayers are not always answered right away. But in a short time, the baby calmed down. Then the baby stopped crying. She seemed to feel better. Her parents did not look so worried.
Sofía felt warm and happy inside. She was happy for the baby—and for the baby’s parents. She knew Heavenly Father had heard her prayer.

The role of bishop holds special significance for Elder Stevenson. “When I was 12, my father was called as bishop,” he recalls. “The ward had many widows, and Dad would often take me along when he ministered to them. He would have me take care of the garbage cans, clean up something in the house, or get my friends to join me in raking leaves or shoveling snow. When we left, I always felt good inside. Visiting the widows helped me realize that part of what bishops do is minister to people one on one. The bishops of the Church are my heroes.”

During summer break, I took a robotics engineering class at the high school near my home. I was one of the youngest ones in the class. On the first day our teachers put us into groups. In these groups we learned how to code robots. Coding allowed us to invent ways for robots to complete mazes. It was very hard to learn, and it took our group several days to do. Some days, people didn’t come to class, so it was just me and one other person working on our project.
On the last day, the teachers decided to do a fun game with the entire class. They gave each group 20 dried noodles and 10 marshmallows. They told us to make the tallest tower. My group only had two people that day, so a member from another group came over to help us.
Illustration by Macky Pamintuan
We worked on the tower for a long time and tried our best. The tower we made turned out a little too wide and not very tall. We felt like we could have done better. My teammates wanted to quit, but I said, “Let’s not give up.” We took all the noodle pieces from the side and placed them at the top. Little by little our tower grew!
Because we didn’t give up, we tied another group for first place. I learned that no matter how hard things get, we should never give up!

When I was an eighteen-year-old college freshman here at BYU, I took a theater class my first semester and somehow found myself cast in a main-stage production of Shakespeare’s Macbeth.

I had virtually no acting experience (one play in eighth grade doesn’t really count), and I had no business being on that stage with truly excellent actors, some of whom you have seen in TV shows and movies. In our version of Macbeth, we were recreating an early druidic version of the play, and we used real swords onstage. (I am sure my risk management colleagues here at BYU are wondering what sort of event approval process was in place back then!) My character was Malcolm, one of King Duncan’s two sons.

At the end of each performance, a group of us would celebrate when Macduff saved us from Macbeth. But during one of the performances, I raised my hand in the air to celebrate—my hand that was still holding my sword. Isaac Walters, who was playing Siward, was next to me, and I cut him across his face with my sword.

I watched in total panic as the cut along his cheekbone immediately turned red and began drizzling real blood. Even now I feel terrible remembering it and thinking about how much worse it could have been. I completely broke character and just started apologizing.

Isaac remembers saying to me, “You’ve got to hold on; you’ve got the final speech.” Isaac, still in character as Siward counseling young Malcolm, helped me keep it together long enough to finish the play. Isaac also immediately forgave me that night, but I noticed as I watched my old video of the play that Isaac is not next to me; I am guessing this filmed performance was one of the later ones, and he knew better than to risk standing next to me again!

So often the people we hurt in our lives, unintentionally or even intentionally, are those closest to us, those who mean the most to us. The feeling of hurt is exacerbated by the closeness of our relationships as roommates, friends, and family members. It is hardest when the hurt comes from people we love and trust.

(President of the Church since 2008)
When President Thomas S. Monson was 10 years old, his parents gave him an electric train set for Christmas. Tommy was happy until his mother showed him a less-expensive train she had bought for a neighbor boy. Tommy noticed a car that his train didn’t have. He was jealous, and he convinced his mother to let him keep the train car. When they went to surprise the neighbor boy with the gift, Tommy realized how selfish he had been. He ran back home and got the car, plus another car from his own set, to give to the boy. He felt joy when he focused on giving instead of getting.

During my second year of college, I worked at the university library as a student assistant. One day in December I was assigned to work with another student assistant. I had never met him before, so as we worked I tried to strike up a conversation. We talked about school, work, and our families.
Later in the afternoon he started to sing songs that mentioned God. I asked him about his religion. I hoped he would ask me the same thing so I could talk to him about the Church, and he did. I was so excited, because this was a great missionary opportunity. With a big smile, I told him I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He looked surprised and, in a not-very-pleasant tone of voice, replied, “The Mormons? You’re a Mormon? Those people don’t believe in Jesus Christ.”
His words were hard for me to hear. Whatever I was expecting, it certainly wasn’t to hear that I didn’t believe in Jesus Christ. I had heard stories like this, but now it was happening to me. What should I say? How could I respond to such a remark? The only thing that came to mind was, “But it’s the Church of Jesus Christ!”
I knew I had to repeat in my mind the Young Women motto—“Stand for Truth and Righteousness”—and put it into action. But how?
I proceeded to tell the other assistant that our church is the Church of Jesus Christ, that we believe in Him as our Savior, and that He loves all of God’s children. I expressed from the depths of my soul that I believed in Jesus Christ, that I was a member of His Church, and that I had been taught to love Him and to follow His example.
My coworker did not want to listen anymore. He responded reproachfully to the things I said even while I kept trying to explain. He also talked about the Book of Mormon in the same manner as he had spoken about the Church. I could tell he didn’t want to listen. I didn’t want to listen to what he was saying either because he was trying to contend with me. I knew I shouldn’t go on explaining, so I bore my testimony. I told him that I knew everything I was saying was true. I could feel it in my heart.
As I left the library, I wondered how anyone could possibly talk about the Church that way. I thought about what I had felt as I testified to him and wondered if I should have allowed him to express himself the way he did. I felt anger and fear and thought of things I could have said. I felt frustrated and doubted my own level of spirituality because he had not changed his mind. Had I failed?
On the way home, I prayed. I wanted to get rid of my negative thoughts. I wanted to feel sure of what I had been taught my whole life, and I wanted to feel that Heavenly Father was pleased with me for what I had done. Prayer was the best tool I had. Prayer and the Holy Ghost had helped me know what to say and how to testify to my coworker, and they also helped me to know that my Heavenly Father was pleased with me.
This experience helped me to know with a greater certainty that this is the true Church of Jesus Christ and that, just as He was persecuted, so is His Church. I learned the importance of having a firm testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ and His Church.

The doctor said surgery was the only answer. Brenda’s legs were so crooked she would stumble and trip over her own feet.
He cut through both leg bones just above the knees, turning each one a quarter turn outward, pinning the bones together. Brenda was in a body cast from her stomach to her toes with a brace separating her feet. She was confined to bed.
Brenda endured the pain and inconvenience for three long, hot summer months. Everywhere the family went, Brenda went in the portable hospital bed in the back of the pickup truck. The graffiti her friends had so plainly written on the cast was worn and blurry by the time it was ready to cut away the plaster.
Brenda progressed to a wheelchair, then crutches, and then like a one-year-old child she had to learn to walk all over again. After months of therapy, hot pools, and determination, Brenda was walking again. That was six years ago, and Brenda now walks and runs like a normal person. Only the scars give evidence of the surgery.
Today at Sugarhouse Park, I watched Brenda start the cross-country race for high school girls. She had made her high school track team just three weeks earlier. After the start, I hurried up to the high school track where the race would finish. After what seemed an eternity, the first girl entered the track, and then shortly behind her dozens of other racers from all over the state headed for the finish line. It seemed like everyone had finished, but there was no sign of Brenda. Had her legs given out? Had she fallen because of cramps? Did she just not make it?
People started leaving the bleachers, and still no sign of Brenda. Then in the distance, slowly running against the crowds of people leaving the stadium, appeared Brenda. She looked exhausted. Would she finish?
I ran to the finish line, hoping she would make it. As she crossed the line, a look of disappointment showed on her face. As I took her in my arms, she cried out, “Dad, I’m sorry I didn’t do better.”
As the tears rolled down our cheeks, I told her I couldn’t have been prouder. “Six years ago you couldn’t even walk, and today you finished a three-mile race.”
It’s not only the one who comes in first who is a winner, but it’s also the one who won’t give up—the one who runs with legs and heart and determination.

Following that initial fast and testimony meeting experience, I looked forward to each subsequent fast and testimony meeting. I would fast and take the opportunity to bear my testimony. Since English is my second language, I had difficulties expressing myself during that period of my life. Therefore, I would write my testimony on a piece of paper and read it. After a few months of writing and reading my testimony, my branch president called me into his office and said that a testimony is a spiritual witness given by the Holy Ghost. He admonished me to prepare myself spiritually and to listen to the impressions I received. He asked that I be prepared to share those impressions rather than writing down my testimony as a talk. He reminded me of my first day at church when I stood and shared my testimony. He encouraged me to have faith and bear my testimony from the heart without written notes.
I accepted this challenging invitation. What I did not say to my branch president was how difficult it was for me to compose sentences, let alone express myself in the English language.
At the fast and testimony meeting following the counsel from my branch president, I stood up and walked to the pulpit. I stood at the pulpit without saying anything for what I thought was a full minute. I couldn’t remember the words I had memorized. Since I was told not to read my testimony, I wrote it down and spent the whole week committing it to memory. Finally, when I could speak, I spoke in a haphazard way. The words were meaningless in my own mind. The congregation just looked at me in a very strange way. I felt terrible.
It took me a few months to gain enough confidence to be able to bear my testimony again. After my unfortunate experience, I resolved not to bear my testimony. I did not want to embarrass myself. I would sit and listen to others sharing their testimonies. I watched and listened to each brother and sister carefully. I felt their spiritual witness of the Savior Jesus Christ, the reality of the first vision, and that Heavenly Father and His Son Jesus Christ appeared to the boy Joseph. I was inspired by each affirmation that the Book of Mormon teaches and testifies of Jesus Christ and that it is indeed another testament of Christ.
On each succeeding fast and testimony meeting, my motivation welled up from a new and more compelling source. My soul was hungry for spiritual nourishment. I was like a starving man. I couldn’t get enough. The sincere expression and the words were mellow and soothing to me—more than that, they rang true. Words cannot express my feelings. It was as if I had experienced such a feeling of ecstasy somewhere before in a dim past. I felt the Lord’s love for me and a desire to want to be better.
I fought the urge to share my testimony each fast and testimony meeting. Then one Sunday as the meeting was about to end, I couldn’t hold back. I stood where I was and declared my own witness of the Savior. I declared “the things which [I] have heard, and verily believe, and know to be true” (Doctrine & Covenants 80:4). I knew then as I now know, that bearing a testimony is a blessing not only to me, but to those who are touched by it. A year after the Church was organized in these latter days, the prophet Joseph Smith met several elders returning from Independence on the bank of the Missouri River. Joseph received this revelation regarding the importance of bearing one’s testimony: “Nevertheless, ye are blessed, for the testimony which ye have borne is recorded in heaven for the angels to look upon; and they rejoice over you, and your sins are forgiven you” (Doctrine & Covenants 62:3).
Since that Sunday, whenever I have an opportunity, I bear testimony of the Savior and His Atonement. I bear testimony of how the Book of Mormon has changed my life through its prophecies and teachings. I felt then, just as I do today; peace, comfort and a consistent desire to change for the better. I feel compelled to share my testimony as a service to others.

After that it seemed that Brad, Chris, and I were always over at Willard’s place. We worked in his garage, sipped soda drinks sitting on his front step, and talked about sports. We even teased him about his smoking. We told him that every time he smoked a cigarette he was throwing away thirty minutes of his life.
He chuckled and shook his head. “I’ve been at it too long to stop it now.” But after that we noticed that when we came, he would throw his cigarette away.
Then one afternoon as we sat in his garage, he seemed more nervous than usual. He kept rubbing his hands on his pants, scratching the back of his neck, pacing the floor, and shuffling his feet.
“What are you thinking about, Willard?” Brad asked.
Willard shook his head. He tried to smile, but his attempt was more like a grimace. He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “I threw away my cigarettes. I haven’t had a smoke for a couple of days. But I don’t know if I can keep it up.”
For a moment the three of us were quiet. Then Chris jumped up. “You’ll make it, Willard. You just need something to take your mind off it. Do you chew gum?”
“I could chew nails right now.”
“You need to stay busy too,” I offered. “I have an uncle that quit smoking. He said the only thing that saved him was to stay busy. He worked himself until he was exhausted.”
For the rest of the day we stayed with Willard and helped him forget about smoking. It was almost ten o’clock when we left him, but he’d gotten over the urge to smoke. As far as we knew, he never used another cigarette.

One day, Justina met two young missionaries in crisp white shirts and ties. Intrigued by their appearance and message, she invited them into her home and listened to their teachings. The message resonated with her, and in 2006, she was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Shortly afterward, her husband and daughters followed her example, embracing the gospel with open hearts.

Illustrations by Maryn Roos
I’ve got your science test scores here. Our new student, Mandy, is the only one who scored 100 percent.
If you want to make a friend, be one.
Hi. Your name’s Audrey, isn’t it? Is something wrong?
I flunked the test. And my dad says if I don’t get my grades up, I can’t have tennis lessons.
Ouch! That’s rough. Umm, listen … would you like to study together sometime? Maybe I could help.
You’d do that for me?
Sure. Why not?
Maybe you can teach me to play tennis. It looks fun.
Yeah, I think you’d really like it.

“Get him, Banner, get him!” The words sent little chills through my body, and I felt my muscles tense and my mouth get just a little dry because I knew the him referred to in the command was me. Banner was a tall and lanky German shepherd police dog assigned to a member of the Salt Lake City Police Department K–9 Corps. He wasn’t one of the heaviest dogs—he weighed only about 85 pounds—but oh, could he bite. My sweating hand tightened inside the heavy burlap covered sleeve which would protect me from injury of the dog’s attack, and then he was there. He hit hard and bit harder. I worked my arm up and down, giving the dog a good battle, until, after what seemed like an eternity, I heard the welcome command, “Out, Banner.” The dog released his grip and trotted back to his handler where he received his reward of pats and praise for a job well done.
All the officers in the corps had to take their turn being the quarry for the dogs. It was dangerous and sometimes tiring, but when your own dog was the attacker, it was the highlight of long tedious hours of patient training. Each dog was carefully selected and trained to be very obedient to his handler before being used on the street. Each could be controlled while on or off leash with only hand signals, voice command, or both. They were taught to attack to protect their handler under all conditions, even in the face of gunfire if necessary. The training took a long time, but the work of the dog with his police officer partner made it worth the investment. After spending such long hours in preparation, it was only natural that every officer looked forward to the time when he could send his dog after a fleeing burglar or use his training in other ways to do “real police work.” I was no exception.
My big chance came late one Saturday night. It had been fairly quiet and I had been spending time checking back alleys when suddenly the silence was broken by the breathless voice of an excited officer calling for help. “Fifth West and Second South … gang fight … 9-1.” Nine-one is the code meaning emergency aid is needed, and every officer able to help responded.
I was nearly the first car to arrive. There were hundreds of people completely blocking the street, and many were fighting. The officers quickly identified those who seemed to be the ring leaders of the disturbance and systematically started making arrests. As the first few were isolated and hand-cuffed, most of the crowd seemed to vanish into the alleys and doorways. Soon there were only the police cars, lights flashing in the darkness, a few officers, and those who had been arrested.
As the crowd disbursed, most officers left the scene, and I was also preparing to leave for the jail with the prisoner I had handcuffed and placed in the front seat of my K–9 truck. My dog was still in the back, since I didn’t feel it was wise to use him with such a large crowd. I approached the driver’s door and had just opened it, when suddenly I was engulfed from behind in the tightest, biggest bear hug I had ever felt. I struggled and fought futilely. This big man was trying to rescue his friend whom I had arrested, and it looked like he might make it.
Now was the time to use my dog. His name was Dusty, and I struggled to reach the small release handle on the side of the vehicle. It would free the back door to the cage and allow the dog to get out. With a lunge I jerked the handle, my arms still pinned to my sides, and the door swung open. “Get him, Dusty,” I shouted. Dusty hit the street running, skidded as he turned back toward me and my captor, and then to my amazement he ran right past me and around the truck. I continued to shout for him to “get him,” but without response. Around and around he went, once, twice, then with sudden purpose he turned from his path and ran to the gutter where fresh water was running and paused for a drink. Thank goodness by this time another police officer came to my rescue.
I spent about another year in the K–9 Corps after that incident, but it was spent with a different dog. In spite of his fine performance in training, Dusty had proven that in real life he couldn’t be trusted.

The last week home was sad. I wasn’t having second thoughts or anything, but I sure was scared, and I realized how homesick I was going to be.
A couple of days before I left home to enter the MTC, I decided to walk from our house to Gus’s station, about two miles away, just to visit him at work one last time.
As I walked, I thought about Gus and myself. We’re the only kids in our home. We’ve always been close, even though we’re so different and he’s five years older.
Gus used to be active in the Church. He had become a deacon. Then about the time he entered junior high school he started to rebel. My parents were patient but heartbroken.
Gus was tough and mean and popular. I was never Paul—I was Gus’s little brother. But that was okay, because the big guys left me alone.
People marveled we were brothers.
When I was a senior in high school I had already decided to serve a mission, so my hair was always cut short—missionary style. That school year Gus and I would always go to lunch together.
He’d lock up his station and pick me up in front of the high school on his mean Harley-Davidson. We sure must have looked funny riding down the street—Gus with his beard and long hair, something out of a motorcycle gang, and me, “Mr. Clean,” your basic prospective missionary.
I approached Gus’s station that day from a trail in back of it and was rounding the corner to go into the office when I overheard Gus talking to someone about me. I stopped to listen. They didn’t know I was there.
“Did I tell you Paul is going on a mission?” Gus asked.
“Yer kiddin?” It was the voice of Rod, Gus’s best friend, my worst enemy.
“Nope, I’m real proud of the kid.”
“He’s a ‘boot licker,’” Rod cynically responded. “You don’t believe all that stuff about Joseph Smith do ya?”
I doubled my fist in instant anxiety.
How would Gus answer the question? Would he say what he really felt to Rod? His influence had always persuaded Gus to do wrong, which was why I disliked him so much.
Gus thought before he answered.
I can’t explain what his words did to me when he finally spoke. There are things in life you’ll never forget.
“Well, Rod buddy,” he said, “let me tell you. I don’t know everything; neither do you. It could be true. All I know is it sure makes a difference in Paul. He loves it.”
Rod continued to attack me.
“He idolizes you, Gus. He’d do anything you told him to, even if he thought it was wrong.”
“No he wouldn’t,” Gus defended. “He’s never been anything like me. If more Mormons were like him, I could maybe stand being around them. Nothing’s worse than a self-righteous Mormon. He’s never judged me. And he hasn’t given my parents nearly the heartache I have.”
Then Gus said something that really made me think.
“Anyway, if I ever caught him doing something wrong, if he ever let me down, so help me, I’d punch him out.”
I left them talking and started back home without them ever knowing I had been there. A lump formed in my throat as I realized why Gus had seemed so excited about my mission. Now I knew why he had always supported me.
You see, he needed me to be strong where he had been weak. I vowed that very day I would be strong for him. I’d resist my temptations. I would not let him down. He needed to know someone could be good. I would be.

Later I wanted to learn more words. One summer my friend John Tanner (who later became a BYU English professor) and I worked as groundskeepers at the Oakland California Temple. On some days we would each write five words and their definitions on an index card and put the card in our shirt pocket. Then we would share the words and use them in sentences during the day. My favorite word from that summer was halcyon. It means calm, peaceful, tranquil, or golden. As we pulled weeds and performed other physical labor on the beautiful temple grounds, we would exclaim, “Oh, those halcyon days of youth!” Now, as I look back, I see that they really were halcyon days.

When Spencer was a deacon, his duties included gathering fast offerings, which at the time were often fruit, flour, and vegetables. His father lent him the horse and buggy, and Spencer took the responsibility very seriously.
Spencer: The other boy hasn’t shown up. Well, the job still has to be done.I’ll just have to do it alone.
Spencer went on to become the secretary and then president of his deacons quorum.