Gospel Story Finder

In Oslo, the morning sun is hazy. It’s peering over rock walls, creeping down the cobblestone streets. For most teenagers, it’s time to get up and get ready for school.

But at the Oslo First Ward building, a group of teenagers is already studying. In fact, they arrived long before the first light peeked through their seminary classroom windows.
“I have to get up at 5:30 in the morning to get ready,” says Øyvind Andersen, 17. “My father drives me over, and class starts at 6:30. Then at 7:15 I take the subway to my school, which starts at 8:20.”
“At school we already have classes on Christianity and World Religions,” says Liv Austenaa, 15. “So some of my friends think I’m crazy to come to another religion class early every day.”
“But early-morning seminary has given me a lot,” says Thor Andre Eråk, 16. “I believe I’ve learned much more than if I had studied by myself at home.”
Is it worth the effort? “I cannot possibly express my gratitude for what the Church has done to my life,” Øyvind says. “I know what I have—the gospel—is extremely valuable. I’m convinced that programs like seminary and missionary work give you a solid platform for later life. They strengthen your testimony radically.”
His brother Geir, 16, agrees. “Seminary helps me to find out what the gospel is all about,” he says. “I think Christ is the best of all examples, and thinking about him makes me want to get up and go to seminary. When I come here, I always get more out of my day.”

As I walked down the fairway, thoughts of what had happened earlier in the round began to press in on my mind.
On the seventh hole of the junior golf tournament, my third shot had come to rest in the middle of the narrow fairway. I hit the ball. It sailed onto the green, took two bounces, and fell into the hole. My partner was impressed.
“Great shot. Is that a three?”
“Yes,” I had replied confidently. But I hadn’t really made a three. It had taken me four strokes to get the ball in the hole. But I thought one stroke wasn’t going to mean anything.
By the time I finished, I realized I had played the round of my life.
I headed back toward the clubhouse, adding my partner Joe’s scorecard as I walked.
At the scorer’s table, I handed Joe his scorecard, and he gave me mine. “You’re in first place,” he said.
I looked up at the scoreboard and thought, This score would put me in first place. Looking down at my card, I noticed the “3” I had given myself on the seventh hole was standing out like a neon sign. I could change it to a “4.” But I’m in first place by two strokes. That one stroke won’t make any difference, I thought.
I signed my name at the bottom of the card and handed it to the scorer. I watched with fascination as my name was placed at the top of the list on the giant scoreboard. I made my way to the pop machine. I was actually in first place.
While sipping on my soda, I sauntered over to the base of an elm tree, sat down against it, and began to think about what I had done.
In church, Scouting, and at home, I had been taught to be honest in my dealings with others.
I glanced again at the scoreboard. More scores were being posted. Then I noticed Fred Baker was only one stroke behind me. Now that one stroke I hadn’t counted meant the difference between undisputed first place and a tie.
Everyone cheats, I kept thinking. I remembered when Joe moved his ball to a better position when it came to rest in a bare spot of grass. Besides, no one will ever know what I did, I reasoned.
I again walked slowly to the scorer’s table and past the gigantic first-place trophy. “That sure would look nice in our family’s trophy case,” I mumbled to myself. As I walked past the trophy, I decided what I had to do.
“Can I help you, son?” the scorekeeper asked.
“Sir, I seem to have made a mistake on my scorecard. On the seventh hole, I made a four, not a three.”
“Have you already signed your scorecard?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said, knowing I would be disqualified for turning in an incorrect scorecard.
“I’m sorry, son, but you know the rule.”
“I guess I’m disqualified then,” I mumbled. Tears welled in my eyes.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. What’s your name? I’ll need to remove it from the scoreboard.”
“Jae Markham,” I said. I then stood by and watched as my name was scratched from the top spot.
That afternoon I slowly walked to the parking lot with my golf bag over my shoulder. The sun was bright and figures still dotted the course.
I looked back again at the first-place trophy, and somehow it didn’t seem so big anymore.

Second, the quorum as a fraternity. Many years ago I was called to be the adviser to a priests quorum. It was during a time when the Church had instituted a standard quorum award program. The program was designed to encourage the full quorum to have an interest in each member. An award was given for the achievement of the total quorum, not for individual accomplishment.

This was a quorum of high-spirited, devoted young men. They fulfilled their quorum responsibilities almost 100 percent, with the exception of one member. Bill had lost his father the previous year, and he was having a hard time adjusting to this great loss in his life. His mother was doing all she could to help Bill find himself again, but he started missing his meetings and developing some other bad habits.

After Bill had missed one meeting, a quorum member was assigned to contact him and encourage him to attend his quorum meeting. The quorum member was only able to reach his mother, who explained that Bill stayed out so late on Saturday night she could not get him up on Sunday morning. The second week came and still no Bill in quorum meeting. Again a contact was tried, with the same result.

As we assembled for quorum meeting the third week without Bill, I could see there was great concern on the part of the quorum for their absent member. They expressed the fact they were not a whole quorum without him, and they could not hold another meeting without Bill. I asked for suggestions. Quick was the response that we go over to his home and hold the meeting.

We drove to Bill’s house. His mother was most cooperative and invited us to go back into Bill’s bedroom. There was Bill, comfortably sleeping in his bed. We started the meeting with a spirited opening hymn. On the first note Bill came up out of those sheets like he had been shot out of a gun. He wondered what was happening to him.

What followed was one of the sweet experiences of my life. Each quorum member expressed his love for Bill. This was followed by a kneeling prayer around Bill’s bed. Bill got to his feet after the prayer with tears rolling down his face. We shook hands and left, a whole quorum once again. Bill knew of the love his quorum members had for him, and he wanted to be a part of it.

A fifteen-year-old Korean boy, a teacher in the Aaronic Priesthood, used his allowance each week to buy newspapers. Then he and his friends sold them on street corners in Seoul, giving the money to a classmate who couldn’t remain in school without this financial help. He wanted to know how it felt to be a Good Samaritan rather than just having an intellectual understanding of the lesson he had studied in the scriptures.

Young members like Ferrán Silvestre are representative of the up-and-coming generation of Barcelona Saints. Ferrán finally joined the Church at age twenty, although his parents had been baptized when he was twelve. When two missionaries gained Ferrán’s trust, he listened to the discussions. Those sessions, along with his study of the Book of Mormon, brought him an undeniable spiritual confirmation of the truth of the gospel.

After spending a year in compulsory military service, Ferrán still wanted to go on a mission, although by then he was in his mid-twenties. He has now returned from a mission to Washington, D.C., which he describes as “the greatest experience of my life.”

Finally, let me tell you about a woman I have never met but whom I love dearly because she was true to her covenants. My great-great-grandmother Charlotte Gailey Clark was one of the last 295 people to receive their covenants in the Nauvoo Temple prior to the beginning of the great exodus west. The temple had been closed since the Saints were being forced to leave, but all those who were worthy had not yet had an opportunity to receive their endowments. My great-great-grandmother and her husband would be leading their family west, and she wanted her covenants with her before she set out on that journey. I have thought about her so often these past few months. I someday want to say to her, “Grandma, thank you for keeping your covenants. I am so blessed to be your granddaughter. Your faithfulness has blessed me and my family—and will continue to bless all of us throughout the generations.” And sisters, our children and grandchildren will one day be able to say the same to us, and of us. One day they will thank us for keeping this “bag” of covenants with us and using them to bless the lives of our families.

My three children and I were on our way home after shopping when we passed the man with the newspapers for the first time. I let Emmily, 2, hand him some money to buy a paper. Lisa, 6, asked, “What is that man doing? Why is he selling newspapers on the street instead of in the store?”
I explained that he was selling a special newspaper and that the people who sell the special newspaper don’t have much money. They often don’t have a home or a family to help them. But they can earn a little money by selling newspapers, and we can help them by buying one.
Many weeks later—on a rainy day—we were on our way to the children’s gymnastics lesson. Because we had to stop at the store, we didn’t take the direct route. After we had made our purchases, I wondered out loud which route we should take to the lesson. We could take a shorter route through a side street or a longer one taking us past the corner with the street vendor. I looked at Lisa and waited for her to choose.
“Let’s take the long way, Mom, and buy a newspaper,” she said. “Jesus would have done that.” We went the second mile that rainy day and bought one of many more newspapers.

Several years ago, while I was serving as executive director of the Missionary Department, two of our fine missionaries were assassinated in a senseless terrorist attack in Bolivia. Of course, their parents and families were saddened by the tragedy. The bodies of the two young men, Elder Todd R. Wilson and Elder Jeffrey B. Ball, were shipped to the United States for burial. Following the funeral service of Elder Ball, an article appeared in the Church News. The account read in part:
“Elder Ball commented before leaving for the mission field, his mother recalled, that he felt the worst possible feeling would be to return home knowing you had not tried as hard as you could. Both parents feel their son did give his full effort, although neither could have known that he would lose his life in the Lord’s service.
“Even so, his father said he is convinced that Elder Ball would have answered the mission call had he known what the eventual outcome would be. ‘And the thing that’s incredible to me is I honestly feel I would let him go again!’” (R. Scott Lloyd, “Elder Ball Touched Lives for Good,” Church News, 3 June 1989, 14).

Whatever Ricardo does, he does with enthusiasm. This eight-year-old from Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic plays baseball with the energy of a professional. He joins his friend and his brother to race toy trucks or stage an imaginary battle between dinosaurs. He gets excited when his mother invites him into the kitchen to cook tostones (fried plantains).
It takes time to make his favorite treat, tostones, but Ricardo thinks it is worth every minute. He and his mother carefully peel and slice the plantains, which look like bananas but are not sweet. They fry them in hot oil, let them cool, and carefully pat them dry. Then comes Ricardo’s favorite part. He places each slice in a wooden press and smashes it flat. Then each slice is fried again. He particularly likes to eat tostones with sausage.

Born on 6 July 1926 in Salt Lake City, Utah, Neal Ash Maxwell was the oldest of six children. He grew up in a loving family with five uncles determined to make their first nephew into an all-state basketball player. Hoping to play on the famous Granite High School team, Neal worked very hard practicing his basketball skills. Unfortunately, he stopped growing at a critical time and would not reach his adult height until after high school. As he described later, not making the team was his “first real disappointment in life.”1

We, too, make the same covenants and can feel the same joy when we are baptized. Although she has not yet been baptized, six-year-old Macy Nelson of Gilbert, Arizona, is preparing to keep her covenant of comforting those who stand in need of comfort. She loved Grandma Lolly and Grandpa George very much and did lots of fun things with them. Grandpa George was her special buddy and was a “silly grandpa” who always made her laugh.
When he died in 1997, Macy cried. But then she looked up at her mommy and asked, “Who is going to take care of Grandma?”
“I don’t know,” her mommy replied.
Macy said, “I will.”
Grandma Lolly moved into Macy’s home, and she was happy to give Grandma her room. Macy continues to take care of Grandma with lots of hugs and kisses, and she thanks Heavenly Father that they are a “forever family.”

Almost fifty years ago, I knew a boy, even a priest, who held the authority of the Aaronic Priesthood. As the bishop, I was his quorum president. This boy, Robert, stuttered and stammered. … Self-conscious, shy, fearful of himself and all others, he had an impediment of speech which was devastating to him. Never did he fulfill an assignment; never would he look another in the eye; always would he gaze downward. Then one day, through an unusual set of circumstances, he accepted an assignment to … baptize another.
I sat next to him in the baptistry of the sacred Tabernacle. He was dressed in immaculate white, prepared for the ordinance he was to perform. I asked Robert how he felt. He gazed at the floor and stuttered almost incoherently that he felt terrible.
We both prayed fervently that he would be made equal to his task. Then the clerk read the words: “Nancy Ann McArthur will now be baptized by Robert Williams, a priest.” Robert left my side, stepped into the font, took little Nancy by the hand, and helped her into the water. … He then gazed as though toward heaven and, with his right arm to the square, [declared,] “Nancy Ann McArthur, having been commissioned of Jesus Christ, I baptize you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.” Not once did he stammer. Not once did he stutter. Not once did he falter. A modern miracle had been witnessed.
In the dressing room, as I congratulated Robert, I expected to hear this same uninterrupted flow of speech. I was wrong. He gazed downward and stammered his reply of gratitude.
I testify that when Robert acted in the authority of the Aaronic Priesthood, he spoke with power, with conviction, and with heavenly help.(See Ensign, February 2002, pages 2–5.)

Long years ago, Elder Frank Croft was serving a mission in the state of Alabama. While preaching to the people, he was abducted by a vicious gang, to be whipped and lashed across his back. Elder Croft was ordered to remove his coat and shirt before he was tied to a tree. As he did so, a letter he had recently received from his mother fell to the ground. The vile leader of the gang picked up the letter. Elder Croft closed his eyes and offered a silent prayer. The attacker read the letter from Elder Croft’s mother. From a copy of that letter, I quote:
“My beloved son, … remember the words of the Savior when he said, … ‘Blessed are ye when men shall revile you and persecute you and say all manner of evil against you falsely for my name’s sake. Rejoice and be exceeding glad for you will have your reward in Heaven for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.’ Also remember the Savior upon the cross suffering from the sins of the world when He had uttered these immortal words, ‘Father forgive them, for they know not what they do.’ Surely, my boy, they who are mistreating you … know not what they do or they would not do it. Sometime, somewhere, they will understand and then they will regret their action and they will honor you for the glorious work you are doing. So be patient, my son, love those who mistreat you and say all manner of evil against you and the Lord will bless you and magnify you. … Remember also, my son, that day and night, your mother is praying for you.”
Elder Croft watched the hateful man as he studied the letter. He would read a line or two, then sit and ponder. He arose to approach his captive. The man said: “Feller, you must have a wonderful mother. You see, I once had one, too.” Then, addressing the mob, he said: “Men, after reading this Mormon’s mother’s letter, I just can’t go ahead with the job. Maybe we had better let him go.” Elder Croft was released without harm.

On a personal level, as a young physician I learned a great lesson about making quick judgments. While I was working a midnight shift in an emergency department, a young man and his wife came in because she was suffering some severe pain. From their dress and hygiene, it was easy to see that theirs had been a rough life. His hair was ill kempt and very long. Their clothing had not been washed for some time, and the effects of a rough life were written on both of their faces.

After an examination, I sat down with him to explain the problem and discuss the treatment. This man looked at me with a deep clarity of love that is rarely experienced and asked with all the love of a caring husband, “Doctor, will my dear wife be all right?” At that moment, I felt the Spirit testify that he was a child of God and saw in his eyes the evidence of the Savior. This man truly projected love for another, and I had misjudged him. It was a lesson that left a lasting impression.

During adversity and suffering in post-Soviet Russia, Anatoly and Svetlana Reshetnikov chose righteousness over worldliness. After joining the Church, they were persecuted. He was demoted from his position at work. Valiantly they thought, “Now we have more time to serve God!” They repeatedly received threats, yet they chose to live gospel-centered lives. Elder Anatoly Reshetnikov was called as the first Russian Area Seventy. Through their choices the Reshetnikovs continue to choose eternal life.

There was an architect in that first company, William Weeks, who had designed the Nauvoo Temple. But the hopeless desolation was too much for him. When President Young went east in 1848, Brother Weeks left, saying, “They will never build the temple without me.”

Truman O. Angell, a carpenter, was appointed to replace him. He said: “If the President and my brethren feel to sustain a poor worm of the dust like me to be Architect of the Church, let me … serve them and not disgrace myself. … May the Lord help me so to do.”

Despite all these blessings, I still faced challenges.
Working as a live-in nanny didn’t go as smoothly as I was expecting. My host family didn’t keep up their end of our contract, and I ended up deciding to search for a new job and place to live.
There were many nights when I didn’t know where I would go. The search seemed endless, and tension with my host family made me question everything.
I knew that the first step was to pray to Heavenly Father about my situation. As Elder Clement M. Matswagothata, Area Seventy, taught: “Be prayerful as you look for ways to become self-reliant. I assure you that Heavenly Father will bring thoughts into your mind and will bless you.”
Every night, I turned to Heavenly Father in prayer, asking not only for a way out but for strength to act on promptings. I knew that “faith without works is dead” (James 2:26).
When I shared my situation with friends in the ward, a sister offered me a part-time job, helping me save extra money to support myself. I was so grateful that I’d connected with my ward and could rely on them during this difficult time.
Eventually, I found a new host family in Utah. After much prayer, I felt strongly that this was where I needed to be. I moved again, finding a YSA ward where I could continue to serve and grow.

I remember vividly the day I was baptized—December 15, 2007. As I stood in the cold water with Elder Kelsey and he raised his hand to the square, the Spirit just filled me up; it seemed to take over my whole frame. I could say that I was also grinning from ear to ear, but that description doesn’t even come close to describing what I felt.
After my baptism I continued to feel the Spirit. I felt sanctified. I knew that my sins had been remitted. I felt the approval of Heavenly Father that this was, indeed, the path I was supposed to take.

In May of 1974, I was with Brother John H. Groberg in the Tongan islands. We had an appointment to visit the king of Tonga, and we met with him in a formal session. We exchanged the normal pleasantries. However, before we left, John Groberg said something that was out of the ordinary. He said, “Your Majesty, you should really become a Mormon and your subjects as well, for then your problems and their problems would largely be solved.”

The king smiled broadly and answered, “John Groberg, perhaps you’re right.”

I thought of the Apostle Paul before Agrippa. I thought of Agrippa’s response to Paul’s testimony: “Almost thou persuadest me to be a Christian.”4 Brother Groberg had the courage to bear his testimony to a king.

A remnant of that pioneer hardiness endures today, if the LDS Boy Scouts from five stakes in the Potomac and Capitol regions of the Church are any indication. When their leaders sent the call for them to gather in a wilderness area 30 miles south of Washington, D.C., they came, almost 300 of them, 400 including adults. And they brought with them handcarts they had built themselves.
“We wanted participants to learn what it was really like to be a pioneer,” explained Kevin Rees, 17, the youth director of the encampment. “So we combined elements from the experiences of the first pioneer company with the experiences later faced by the handcart companies. Then we added in some training on Scouting skills and physical fitness, because we felt pioneers needed to have skills like that, too.”
The entire activity, called the Mormon Encampment, was directed by Kevin and his committee of teenage Scout leaders. Adults were nearby as advisors, but Kevin and crew organized and conducted the events mostly on their own.
The 400-plus member group was divided into two companies, Camp Zion and Camp Cumorah. From the beginning there had been rumors of mobs, and sure enough, that night as campfires were just being built, messengers ran through the camp carrying an urgent letter.
“Should it be necessary to flee for safety, each family should be prepared to do so at a moment’s notice,” it said. “Take with you all that you will need, but only that which you will need. You may have no time to prepare later, so do so now.”
Within minutes, the warning became a reality, as a mob (actually it was adult leaders and youth leaders) formed and started toward the camp areas. The soon-to-be pioneers took flight.
On the road they faced the perils of Indian attacks, mudholes, broken wheels and axles, chasms and “cliffs” to cross, and heat and fatigue. But through cooperation and teamwork, every handcart finally arrived at the mouth of “Emigration Canyon” to be personally greeted by Regional Representative Julian C. Low. Dressed as Brigham Young, Brother Low delivered a lecture about the colonization efforts of the Saints and the growth of Salt Lake City.
At stops along the route, the Scouts had received instruction in rope making, knot tying, first aid, handcart repair, and pioneer-style cooking. They had also crossed a monkey bridge, slid on a block and tackle, plotted a course through dense underbrush using a compass, and devised a rope system for ferrying carts across ravines. They had also earned awards for “best handcart” and “best company banner,” although no prizes were given for speed.
“We didn’t want the trek to turn into a race,” 17-year-old Brian Meacham, the encampment’s youth commissioner, said. “There was no winning or losing, except that everyone who finished won. Just like the pioneers, the object was to get everyone to the valley.”
“I had ancestors who came across the states in a handcart company,” said Travis Taysom, 13, of the Suitland Ward, Suitland Maryland Stake. “Here we got to go through the same things they went through. It taught me just how much work it was.
“It showed us about teamwork, too. If you don’t have everyone pulling together on the rope to get up that hill, you just won’t make it. On some Scout camps you can relax and let somebody else do all the work. But here you knew that if you didn’t help, it wouldn’t get done.”
Danny Sulzen, 14, of the Falls Church Ward, Oakton Virginia Stake, said, “This is work, but it was only five miles. I think it would have been a lot tougher if we had been with the real pioneers. We only did this for one day, not for more than 100 days in a row like the pioneers did.”
In fact, talk about pioneers was common. It seemed almost natural when someone along the trail struck up a chorus of “Come, Come Ye Saints,” or when, encouraging Scouts to find their own solutions to challenges, a troop leader would say, “Well, what would the pioneers have done?”
Perhaps one of the most poignant comments came from Paul Orchard, 13, of the Hampstead Ward, Baltimore Maryland Stake, when someone asked him if he would have given up on the real pioneer trail. “I’m sure there would have been times when you felt like throwing in the towel,” he said. “But the prophet would have told me to keep on going, so I would have kept on going.”