Gospel Story Finder

A few years later, I received a very special phone call at home. It was President Hinckley. He said, “Brother Richards, you are called to the Second Quorum of the Seventy. You are in for a wonderful experience. May the Lord bless you.”
After I hung up the telephone, I realized that President Hinckley had not asked me whether or not I would accept the call to serve. But he had not needed to ask me because I had already decided as a young boy that I would always follow the Lord’s prophet.

What would you do if you were suddenly told your family was moving to an isolated logging camp way out in the wilds of Alaska? You’d hopefully do what 14-year-old Gayle Gentry did—you’d adjust.
Gayle and her family order their food from Juneau, and they order their church supplies from the same city. They are the only members for quite some distance, so they hold Church meetings at home.
Just because they are so far away from many people and from the center of the Church, Gayle doesn’t feel she has to be far away from the Lord. Her testimony is intact and stronger than ever. “I know the Church is true and that President Ezra Taft Benson is a prophet,” she says. “I love my family and friends, and I love my Father in Heaven and my older brother Jesus Christ, and I know they love me!”

Recently I received an assignment to minister to a sister neither my companion nor I knew well. As I counseled with Jess, my 16-year-old ministering companion, she wisely suggested, “We need to get to know her.”
We immediately decided that a selfie and an introductory text were in order. I held the phone, and Jess pushed the button to take the photo. Our first ministering opportunity was a companionship effort.
On our first visit, we asked our sister if there was anything we could include in our prayers on her behalf. She shared a tender personal challenge and said she would so welcome our prayers. Her honesty and confidence brought an instant bond of love. What a sweet privilege to remember her in my daily prayers.

She did not falter. Her last moment of hesitation had come on the very brink of her baptism when she looked down into the dark river water at midnight, 4 December 1851, and “felt as though I could not possibly go in it, But a Voice seemed to say ‘There is no other way.’” In faith, she took that step. “It seemed after that everything had changed. The scales had fallen from my eyes, and the gospel plan was glorious, and I covenanted with My Heavenly Father that however dark the clouds may be, if friends turned to be foes that by His help I would serve Him. And I have tried in my faltering way to do so. I have often made mistakes, and said and done things I have been sorry for, but I have never doubted the truthfulness of this gospel or hindered others.”

True rough-and-tough camping is alive and well deep in the heart of Texas, where girls of the Boerne Ward, San Antonio Texas Stake, went on a three-day high adventure.
“The trip began with a training meeting where the girls divided themselves into teams of two or three for sharing tents and cooking meals. They learned how to stay safe and comfortable in a primitive environment,” says their leader, Linda Bohman.
While they were on their campout, the girls went swimming, canoeing, rappelling, had devotionals, and went exploring.
After such a rigorous activity, everyone was ready to come home.
“Wow, it was hard, but I did it!” said one girl.

When I was young, I was very shy, and it was hard for me to make friends. I prayed a lot to God about overcoming my fears and my shyness. I prayed to Him as a friend. Nobody taught me how to do it—I just really needed to talk to someone. I didn’t have friends, so I found one by talking to Him.

The girls in the Salt Lake East Millcreek Fourth Ward kept track of their acts of charity in a jelly bean jar. Each week the girls put a jelly bean into the jar for each act of service they had been involved in that week. As the jar filled with the sweets, the girls were reminded of the sweetness of service. When the jar was full, the girls selected a special family and presented the jar to them, explaining what the filled jar meant—each jelly bean represented a charitable act.

I reached this goal when I found a worthy priesthood holder who is a returned missionary. We were sealed in the Dominican Republic temple for time and eternity. We now have a baby boy, and I am serving in the stake Young Women presidency. My parents are still not members, but I am pleased with the example I have given them. I try to build on the good in my parents while forgetting their imperfections.

I always knew you would come
Someday;
I guess I just wasn’t expecting it
So soon.
And though I wasn’t expecting
A white stallion
And a castle in the clouds,
Maybe I was expecting a little armor.
It’s odd how quietly you came—
No fanfare,
No fireworks,
No dramatic revelation;
I just turned around one day
And there you were,
Where you’d always been.
Your hand fit quietly in my hand,
And your life quietly filled a void in my life.
It seems odd;
I have always looked at eternity
As some vast and distant goal,
But now I find
That bits and pieces of eternity
Are settling quietly
All around me.

Lark was feeling rather sad. “I’m so plain and ordinary,” he said. “I have only dull-looking feathers. They’re too brown to be really gray, and too gray to be really brown. And the speckled edges make me look like some disease has left me disfigured and spotted. Even the yellow on my breast isn’t pretty and bright. It looks like dirty egg yolk. Why couldn’t I have had bright, colorful feathers like the parrot or even the bluebird?”
Bird King overheard Lark’s complaints and asked, “What’s troubling you?”
Lark answered sadly, “I’m so plain and ordinary-looking. And I’m not big and strong, or small and cute. There’s nothing special about me.”
“Oh, I see,” responded the king of the birds. “Would you like to go visiting with me today and see what we find?” The young lark quickly agreed, and off they flew.
They saw a giant eagle soaring in the distance. “Oh, I wish I could have strong, powerful wings like Eagle,” said Lark.
Bird King replied, “Let’s go visit Eagle’s nest over on the cliff.” So they tipped their wings and soared through the clear morning air.
After flying so far and high, Lark began to get tired. When they finally reached Eagle’s nest, Lark was all worn out. As he rested, he looked around the nest. Is this all there is to Eagle’s home? he wondered. These big sticks and branches don’t look very comfortable. And it’s lonely up here with no neighbors to chat with.
Bird King asked Lark, “How would you like being an eagle and living here on the cliff?”
Lark answered thoughtfully, “Although the view is lovely, and it’s perfect for him, I’m glad that I don’t have to live so far away from my friends.”
Bird King smiled to himself as they flew away. They hadn’t gone far when they came to the tree where the mountain bluebird nested. Bluebird was just flying home after a nice dust bath. Oh, Lark thought, Bluebird is beautiful! Blue is my favorite color. How I wish I could be a bluebird.
The King greeted the little bird with a cheery “Good morning. My, your feathers look lovely today.”
“Thank you,” Bluebird replied nervously, his eyes darting back and forth in every direction. “I do have pretty feathers, but all my enemies can see my bright color. It is dangerous being blue. I must constantly be on guard to protect myself and my family.”
Oh, Lark thought, I didn’t realize that being colorful would be such a problem. Maybe, my brownish-gray feathers are better because they are safer.
Bird King and Lark bid Bluebird farewell and flew on. As they approached Lark’s neighborhood, they saw Magpie and his cousin Crow.
Oh, how I wish my feathers were beautiful like the crow’s, Lark thought. He looks so shiny and black. And Magpie’s white feathers complement her black ones perfectly! They both looked elegant to Lark.
Bird King asked Crow and Magpie how they were getting along.
“Everybody thinks we live the rich life because of our fine feathers,” Magpie squawked. “But believe me, it’s terrible trying to get enough to eat these days. No one wants to provide for us, so we are forced to forage even in garbage dumps for our very existence.”
Crow broke in, “Gone are the days of wealth and luxurious life when poets wrote of our beauty. Nobody likes us anymore. We are outcasts everywhere, doomed to a life of misery and woe.” Crow complained on and on.
Lark could see why no one would want to even be around these birds with their negative attitudes. “I guess I don’t want to be a crow or a magpie,” he said to Bird King.
Bird King had a bigger smile as the two of them flew on to Lark’s little home. Lark’s neighbors came out to welcome him back with their cheerful chirps and twitters.
“I’m glad to be home where I’m safe and the trees are familiar and I feel like I belong. I have friends to chat with here, and food to eat. Being a plain, ordinary lark isn’t so bad, after all,” Lark admitted.
“There’s one more thing before I leave,” Bird King said. “You have a song no one else can sing. Others may be stronger or bigger, or more colorful, or even smarter, but you have a call that no other bird has. Did you ever stop to think that they may be wishing to be like you?”
As wise Bird King flew away, Lark sat on the branch of his favorite tree, singing his special song, “La-da-dee-dee-dee-da,” as happy as a lark.

My niece Katie was a hopeful 20-year-old university student with many talents and plans for the future. Four years ago Katie died in an auto accident. Though our family still feels much homesickness for her, we know that we will be with her again, and we are not worried about her. In Katie’s wallet was her temple recommend, given to her by her bishop so she could be baptized for her ancestors. Katie was worthy. Not long before Katie died she wrote these words: “If this were my last day on earth, this is the record I would leave. Make each day meaningful. … Stay close to the Lord. Gain all the knowledge you can about the scriptures, the gospel, the creations of the Lord. … Give of yourself … and always remember Christ for His example and His Atonement and strive each day to be like Him.” Katie had entered in the way that leads to eternal life, and she had stayed in.

Watching this athlete reminds me of when I was a teenager. More than anything else in the world, I wanted to be an actress. You know, Star of Stage and Screen. I used to memorize lines from plays like Romeo and Juliet and Our Town, then toss them off to the bathroom mirror. Sometimes I’d practice one of the three or four acceptance speeches I’d written during math class: “I’d like to thank the Academy and also my mother for believing in me.” That sort of thing. There was only one problem. I couldn’t get in a real play. I went to tryout after tryout, but Mr. Bound, our high school drama coach, never seemed to notice how talented, how charming, how special I was.
So I worked harder and harder. I checked out library copies of the plays I knew he was producing. I worked on character interpretation and voice control. I practiced scenes with other students. I asked for advice. Surely if anyone deserved to be in a play, based on desire and determination alone, I did. But I was never selected to be in a play. Not even once. Instead, I got to sit on the front row and watch my best friend, a tall beautiful redhead, become our high school’s newest leading lady. My disappointment was so real I could taste it.
When I didn’t realize my dream of starring in school plays, I became extremely critical of the drama department. I criticized the productions and the people involved with them frequently and loudly. “Well,” I’d say, “everyone knows Mr. Bound has favorites.” Occasionally I attacked the intelligence of the participants: “Don’t you know they all have noodles for brains?” I’d ask. Contrast my feelings with Blaine’s: “It is not the end of the world that I’m not playing football. My dad has always said that football should be played for the fun of it. It’s not a business, and if it ever becomes that then you shouldn’t play it anymore. So I’ve always taken that attitude toward it. If I’m having a good time, I’m not going to worry about things. And I’ve had a good time at BYU.”
Choose to contribute. There are so many ways I could have contributed to my school’s drama program, if I just had been willing. I could have learned about set construction, stage makeup, costume design. I could have helped my friend learn her lines. But I didn’t. If I couldn’t be on stage where everyone saw me, I didn’t want to be involved at all.

It was Memorial Day evening. Jason Booker, 13, told his mother he was going for a walk. He headed up the hill to the creek where the night before his father and some other men had built a rock wall to contain the high runoff. Jason was just going to see how it was holding up.
“I was in the circle in front of Sims’s house when I heard a rumbling and cracking noise. I looked up the hill and saw the trees falling over, and rock and mud was coming down. I ran down the street and told my parents. Some friends who were visiting us left. We got the younger kids out of bed and into the car. I walked back up the hill with my dad. We got to the edge of the circle, and the mud was completely surrounding the Sims house up to the eaves. It started to move, and we just got out of there.
“We drove out of the area. The officials wouldn’t let us back into our house that night because more mud slides were coming down. On Tuesday they let us back in to get some clothes and necessities. Our house was still okay on Tuesday, but when we woke up Wednesday morning, we saw our house on the national news. We didn’t even know the mud had hit it until then.”
Jason’s house wasn’t destroyed, but the basement was filled to the ceiling with mud and the house was surrounded by several feet of mud. With the help of ward members and volunteers, the Bookers are restoring their home.

Once, on my mission, my companion and I made a beautiful coconut cake. We wanted to show our love and gratitude for our ward members, so when we saw a cake mix at the grocery store, we knew exactly what to do.
We spent hours delivering slices of cake, saving the last ones for two recently returned missionaries. We stopped at our apartment to grab the last container of cake, then hurried to our friends’ house through the pouring rain.
Their porch was dark, so I couldn’t see their expressions very well, but I could imagine their grateful smiles as they sampled our beautiful cake. I did not imagine that one of them would stop chewing mid-bite and say confusedly, “Sister … this is rice.”
Realization dawned on me. I’d grabbed the wrong container—and brought them our leftovers from lunch!
I was humiliated. How could our act of service have gone so wrong?
Even though my cake delivery didn’t turn out right, my friends appreciated the gesture (and had a good sense of humor). “It’s not about the cake,” one of them said. “The real gift was the effort you made to serve us.” It didn’t matter to them what I’d done, just that I’d done something. Because of that, our friendship was strengthened.
Sister Maxfield and her companion, Sister Sousa

Elder ElRay L. Christiansen tells an interesting story about his neighbor who bought a boat. He really couldn’t afford a boat; but he bought it anyway, because he had a credit card. In order to pay for the boat, he had to take a second job, which meant he had to work on Saturday. This, of course, left one day per week on which he could use the boat. When do you suppose that was? Yes, you are right—it was Sunday. But he loved his boat and invited Brother Christiansen over to admire it, saying, “Isn’t it beautiful? What shall we name it?” (Now, you see, it is a member of the family—it has to have a name.)
Brother Christiansen said, “Why don’t you call it The Sabbath Breaker?” (Conference Report, April 1962, p. 33.) Now, please don’t misunderstand me—I have nothing against boats. I have a friend who has a boat, and he calls his boat “Never on Sunday,” which, of course, is a better name for a boat.

“In reviewing my own life,” says Geneva Smith of Tacoma, Washington, “I find that the spiritual experiences are not planned. They come unexpectedly while I am serving family, Church, and community.” When she was assigned to visit teach a sister who had cancer, Sister Smith sat with her in the hospital every other day for six weeks. “I thought I knew and loved this sister already, but I soon realized I had only begun to really know her,” Sister Smith remembers. “As I massaged her legs, combed her hair, and bathed her pain-wracked body, I began to really love this sister. As I gave of myself, my cup was filled to overflowing.”

As he visited ward members, Dale sometimes took Ashley with him. One day they visited a less-active member. “I knew that no one would be able to turn away this adorable little girl at my side,” remembers Elder Renlund. He knocked on the door of a man who had angrily dismissed Bishop Renlund’s counselor sometime earlier.
When the man opened the door, he was so large he filled the doorframe. He glared at Bishop Renlund. Four-year-old Ashley blurted out, “Well, can we come in or what?”
Surprisingly, the man said, “I guess so. Come in.”
When they were seated inside, the man told Bishop Renlund he did not believe the Church was true, nor did he believe in Jesus Christ. He kept talking angrily while Ashley played with a toy. Finally she got off her chair, cupped her hand to her father’s ear, and whispered loudly, “Daddy, tell him the truth.”
So he did. Bishop Renlund bore his testimony to the man. He recalls, “The man’s attitude softened, and the Spirit came into his home.”

Eleven-year-old Jennifer stared out the window of her Primary classroom. Marshmallow clouds drifted across a blue March sky. Sometimes she saw imaginary faces in the clouds.
“Jennifer,” the teacher said impatiently, “what do you think of the idea?”
“I’m sorry, Sister Sparks. I guess I wasn’t listening.”
“I know,” Sister Sparks said dryly, at which the other students giggled. “We’ve been discussing a service project, and it’s been decided that we will visit the Golden Years Rest Home once a week for the next two months.”
“What will we do there?” Jennifer asked.
“We can sing, put on skits, play checkers and other games, and just visit with the folks who live there.”
Jennifer didn’t think that sounded like very much fun. She was apprehensive about being with people she didn’t know, especially older people.
The first visit to the home was not very successful. The children felt awkward and uncomfortable. The second visit was better. They felt a bit more relaxed, and the residents seemed to enjoy their company.
By the third visit the children felt at home, and they hurried to pick out their favorite partners to visit and play games with.
During one visit Jennifer noticed an elderly lady for the first time. She sat alone, looking out the window. Her fine, wispy white hair framed a face with deep wrinkles. Jennifer went over and stood silently beside the lady for a moment. Finally she said, “Hi, I’m Jennifer Wheeler. Would you like me to read to you?”
The old lady looked up with watery blue eyes. Her pale lips spread in a slow, sweet smile. “That would be very nice, dear, but if you don’t mind, I’d rather just talk.”
Jennifer drew up a chair and sat down. “What’s your name?” she asked.
The old lady laughed softly. “It might be one you’ve never heard. It’s Clementine. Clementine Dodd. But everyone here calls me Clemmie. Tell me about yourself.”
Jennifer told her about school and her family and friends. Her eyes sparkled as she added, “Oh, you should see my cat! Her name is Bounce. Don’t you think that’s a nice name?”
Clemmie agreed, and they sat in silence for a while. Then Jennifer said, “Tell me about when you were a little girl. Did you like school?”
Clemmie’s eyes misted over as her memory went back to those long-ago days. She was quiet for so long that Jennifer thought she hadn’t heard the question.
At last she said, “Yes, Jennifer, I liked school, but I had to quit in the sixth grade. We were very poor. Oh, the chores we had to do! There was wood to chop and carry in, buckets of water to bring in from the well, oil lamps to clean and fill. We didn’t have much time for school or for play.”
Jennifer found it hard to imagine Clemmie as a young girl, harder still to think of anyone’s working so hard just to survive. She thought of her own warm, bright home and the simple chores she had to do. “But didn’t you ever get to do anything you wanted to do?” she asked.
Clemmie chuckled. “I remember one time when I was about sixteen. I had a beau, one of the hired hands from a neighboring farm, who had invited me to a barn dance. Shortly before the dance my father noticed that the chicken coop hadn’t been cleaned and reminded me that it was my turn to clean it. I had completely forgotten! He said I couldn’t go out that night until the job was done.”
“What did you do, Clemmie? Did you have to stay home?”
Clemmie smiled as she continued: “No, I talked my brother into doing it for me. I had to promise to take his turn the next three times. If you knew what a hated job it was, you’d know how much I wanted to go to that dance!”
Jennifer went back home, thinking that things were sure a lot different now than they were in Clemmie’s day.
Over the next few weeks, Jennifer and Clemmie became great friends. Clemmie had new stories of her childhood to tell every visit, and Jennifer came to appreciate what it was like to live in those bygone days.
As they were going to the nursing home one week toward the end of April, Jennifer was thinking about how much she would miss Clemmie and her stories at the end of the month. When they entered the home, Jennifer noticed right away that Clemmie was not in her usual spot by the window. “Where do you suppose Clemmie is?” she asked her teacher.
“I’ll find out,” Sister Sparks replied and went to talk to the head nurse.
When she came back, Jennifer could tell by her expression that something was wrong. “What is it, Sister Sparks? Is Clemmie sick?”
“No, dear. I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Clemmie died a few days ago. The nurse said she went peacefully in her sleep.”
Jennifer felt the hot tears burn her eyes, and she turned away so the others wouldn’t see her crying.
Sister Sparks put an arm around her shoulders and said, “You brought a lot of pleasure and happiness into the last weeks of her life.”
As the class left the nursing home, Sister Sparks drew Jennifer aside. She handed her a small leather-bound book. The cover was cracked and worn at the edges, and Jennifer could just make out the faded gilt lettering, Daily Journal.
“The nurse gave me this to give to you,” Sister Sparks said. “It was Clemmie’s journal when she was a young girl. Clemmie wanted you to have it.”
Jennifer almost cried again as she looked at the writing on the worn pages. She knew the journal was something she would treasure always.

Brigham was the ninth child of the family. His mother was not well, and all the children learned to work in the home as well as on the farm. Later in his life Brigham said that as a boy he had “no opportunity for letters,” but “I had the privilege of picking up brush, chopping down trees, rolling logs and working among the roots, getting my shins, feet and toes bruised. I learned how to make bread, wash the dishes, milk cows and make butter. … Those are about all the advantages I gained in my youth. I learned how to economize, for my father had to do it.”
When Brigham was fourteen, a great sorrow came to him. His mother, for whom he had felt a special love and closeness, died. It brought sadness in another way too, for Brigham was “farmed out” among the neighbors, and he missed being at home almost as much as he missed his mother.

Great-grandmother Kathryn Greta Calder was called to serve a mission in California in 1920. Following her example, her daughter, granddaughters, and now great-granddaughters have also served missions. As we watch our children open mission calls, and as you watch your friends and families open theirs, we see the image of God in a person who is willing to follow in the footsteps of the Savior, to sacrifice for the salvation of His children. They have the faith and the courage to go wherever the Lord calls them.