Gospel Story Finder

Until last year, Danny had a hard time communicating. Even those close to him had a hard time understanding his speech. But now Danny talks with his eyes—well, with a laser that’s attached to his glasses. Using the laser, Danny can activate keys on a small, talking computer. Now that he’s able to communicate more easily, collecting fast offerings becomes as easy as pushing a button.
“Hello. I’m from the Church. Do you have any fast offerings today?” When the envelope is returned to him, Danny pushes another button, and the electronic voice says, “Thank you!” He’s also used his new voice to give talks and bear his testimony.

He was always tall. “By the time I was 13, I was already 182 cm (six feet). But my real growth spurt didn’t begin until my sophomore year in high school.” He reached his full height by his senior year, and, as with most tall kids, it was assumed he would play basketball. That was not to be.
“I never really liked basketball,” he noted. “The other kids and the coaches always kind of made fun of me, telling me I couldn’t jump.”
His mother urged him, instead, to try a local recreation league volleyball team. “I had never had so much fun in any sport before,” Chambers says. “I was hooked! Even though I wasn’t very good, I went home and told Mom that volleyball was the sport for me!”
Great club coaching helped him find his footing in the game, and because of his prodigious height, they made him a middle blocker. Finally, the burden of being tall began to pay-off. After a season of club volleyball, he was anxious to join his high school team and test his new skills. But disaster struck in his very first scrimmage.
“I jumped and extended myself to try and block a ball, and when I came down, I landed on the foot of the guy on the other side of the net and broke my ankle,” Chambers recounted. “I had to wear a boot everywhere after that and I didn’t get to play at all my freshman season.”
“It was frustrating to have made progress in this new sport I really liked, then lose that whole season.”

Sian Davies and Heather Smith, Coventry Stake
Sian Davies worked with Paul Wilkinson as part of the tech team. She was involved with typing the results of the event that appear live on the screen at the venue.
Heather Smith was a part of the opening and closing ceremonies at the games. She also served as a stand-in for the parade of athletes rehearsals so that the timing would be sufficient and as a driver at the exhibition games for VIPs.

Noah went on his first visit to the temple recently. He said that the young men in his quorum treated him like family. “You might feel nervous, but there will be people there to help you,” he said. “You will feel welcome.”

I shuddered, remembering that first day I had asked my parents’ permission to be baptized. They knew I had been studying with the Mormons and going to their meetings, but I don’t think they had admitted to themselves how serious I really was. My father is a quiet man, and kind. He thought about it for a long time before he replied. But my mother reacted immediately. Her face went pale and her mouth hard and tight.
“Absolutely not, Michelle,” she said, and her voice sounded cold and deeply angry. “It is absolutely out of the question, so don’t mention it again.”
“But why?” I demanded. “Why?”
“Why?” she screamed back, her eyes blazing. “Because you don’t know what you’re doing. I’m trying to save you from making a terrible mistake, Michelle. I know. You just have to trust me. I know.”
I wondered what awful things she knew or thought she knew about the Mormons. But no matter how persistently I questioned her, she wouldn’t talk. She just kept saying no in that hard, tight way. In the end, though, my father prevailed. He usually did because he was so reasonable and so patient. He kept reminding her that I was 20 years old. In a few months I would be able to decide for myself, without their approval. He reminded her of what a good girl I was: smart and hard-working, obedient and truthful. “She deserves to find her own way in life,” he told my mother gently.
So we made a bargain. I was to meet with the minister of my own church for classes in theology. I was to learn everything I could about the beliefs and doctrines of the church I had belonged to my whole life. In other words, I was to give their way one last, real chance, as much a chance as I had given the Mormons. Then, if I still wanted to leave—to reject their ways, to become a Latter-day Saint—they would give their consent.
Those visits with our minister, I reflected, had led to one of the most solemn, impressive experiences of my life. I remembered vividly how nervous, almost foolish, I had felt as I walked the path to the old stone church and pulled back the heavy door. My footsteps sounded loud and obtrusive as I crossed the hard, polished floor and knocked tentatively on the door of the pastor’s office. The office, itself, was enough to make me feel overwhelmed. It was large and thickly carpeted, and one entire wall was lined with shelves that supported hundreds of thick, old, impressive-looking volumes. The remaining walls were paneled in oak, and Dr. Allred sat in a brown leather armchair behind a massive mahogany desk, which separated us awkwardly as I perched on the edge of a chair across from him.
“So you think you want to be a Mormon?” he said suddenly, and his face never changed expression. I couldn’t begin to tell what he was thinking. Before I could find an answer, he continued. “It’s your parents’ idea that you come here, isn’t it?”
I nodded, while he gazed at me, and through me, until finally a slight smile began to break up the corners of the thin, long line of his mouth. “Well, let’s see what we can do,” he said, leaning forward across the desk.
We met together three different times, and I read the books and pamphlets he gave me. I answered his questions and he answered some of mine, but our discussions were always very polite and restrained. On our last evening together he sat behind his desk and looked across at me, and he left unopened the heavy book we were supposed to talk about together. Instead he lifted his eyebrow in a thoughtful manner and said, “I’ve done what your parents desired, Michelle. But there’s really nothing I can teach you; both you and I know that. What you do now must be your own decision, of course.”
He hesitated, and I found myself leaning forward in my chair, drawn by the expression on his face and something I felt in the tenor of his voice. He pushed his chair back suddenly and rose, walked quickly to the expanse of books and pulled down a small, slender volume. Returning to the desk he set it down firmly, then pushed it over until it rested mere inches from my own hand, which was gripping the smooth edge of the big desk. The lettering on the leather cover was close to me and easy to see. I gave a little gasp as I read the words: Book of Mormon.
“That’s right,” he said, “the Book of Mormon. I get some of the material for my sermons out of that book.” His voice was soft, but it penetrated deep inside me so that my heart began to beat wildly, and I felt a warm, tingling sensation across my skin.
“I would be a Mormon myself if it were possible.” He picked up the volume and balanced it thoughtfully in his hand. “I am a minister; it is my life. It’s all I’ve ever known. My father was a minister, and his father before him.” He paused and looked up, and his eyes held a sadness that was almost an intrusion to look upon. “But if I were you,” he continued in the same soft, firm voice, “I would become a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
Dr. Allred rose and replaced the book. I rose from my chair. I knew there was nothing left to be said between us, but I was wrong. At the door he shook my hand warmly, holding me with his eyes. “What I said tonight I have said for you alone. If you repeat it, I will deny that it was ever spoken. And you know, of course, which of us would be believed.”
I nodded, trying to answer with my eyes and my smile, too overwhelmed to be able to do more, and walked home alone through the crisp, silent night.
The next week I was baptized. None of my family attended the baptism. This was something I wanted to do, and I had their permission. But permission and support are not the same thing. Even my kindly father could not offer support for something he could neither agree with nor understand.

Rebecca Johnson, blonde and 17, checked off a long list. Everything was nearly ready for the seminary pageant in Cardston, Alberta, Canada: the sets, the props, the music, the costumes, the actors—well, almost all of the actors. Rebecca winced when she looked down at the cast list. Tracy Watson, who played the lead female role of Lucy Mack Smith, was sick. The pageant was scheduled to open the following night, and there wasn’t time for a replacement to learn Tracy’s part.
“When I walked in that night,” Tracy later explained, “Brother Wilcox took one look at me and asked what was wrong.
“I was really sick. I told him I felt weak, that I was drained. He asked if I was going to make it through the pageant. I just didn’t know.
“‘You might just have to find a new Lucy Mack,’ I said.”
Tracy paused in telling the story, her eyes moist.
“Then Brother Wilcox and another Melchizedek Priesthood holder gave me a blessing.
“During the blessing I had a good feeling come over me. It’s hard to explain. I didn’t feel weak anymore. I felt strong.”
The following night the pageant opened its first performance that year in the Cardston Second and Third wards’ cultural hall. After months of work, preparation, and study, the cast and crew of over 100 seminary students were ready, including Tracy.

As you decide, remember that the names which will be so difficult to find are of real people to whom you owe your existence in this world and whom you will meet again in the spirit world. When you were baptized, your ancestors looked down on you with hope. Perhaps after centuries, they rejoiced to see one of their descendants make a covenant to find them and to offer them freedom. In your reunion, you will see in their eyes either gratitude or terrible disappointment. Their hearts are bound to you. Their hope is in your hands. You will have more than your own strength as you choose to labor on to find them.
For me, knowing that turns my heart not only to my ancestors who wait but to the missionaries who teach them. I will see those missionaries in the spirit world, and so will you. Think of a faithful missionary standing there with those he has loved and taught who are your ancestors. Picture as I do the smile on the face of that missionary as you walk up to him and your ancestors whom he converted but could not baptize or have sealed to family until you came to the rescue. I do not know what the protocol will be in such a place, but I imagine arms thrown around your neck and tears of gratitude.
If you can imagine the smile of the missionary and your ancestor, think of the Savior when you meet Him. You will have that interview. He paid the price of the sins of you and all of Heavenly Father’s spirit children. He is Jehovah. He sent Elijah. He conferred the powers of the priesthood to seal and to bless out of perfect love. And He has trusted you by letting you hear the gospel in your lifetime, giving you the chance to accept the obligation to offer it to those of your ancestors who did not have your priceless opportunity. Think of the gratitude He has for those who pay the price in work and faith to find the names of their ancestors and who love them and Him enough to offer them eternal life in families, the greatest of all the gifts of God. He offered them an infinite sacrifice. He will love and appreciate those who paid whatever price they could to allow their ancestors to choose His offer of eternal life.

Gene has learned a lot about aiming high by following the example of his mother.
“When she was 16 she contracted polio. Doctors said she’d never walk again, or that if she did walk, she’d never have children. But she worked her way from braces to crutches to a cane. And she went ahead and had four sons. I’m the youngest.”
Even though his mom is currently confined to a wheelchair, the doctors are now saying she should be able to walk again.

We were moving in two weeks. I didn’t want to. We’d lived in the same brick house my whole life, and I liked it there. I had my own room upstairs with a window that looked out on the apple tree in the backyard. And I had my own friends.
But sometimes you don’t have a choice.
When Dad lost his job a year ago, he had a hard time finding another one. He started traveling a lot, looking for work and taking temporary jobs. We had to get used to his chair being empty at dinnertime. Our plates were never empty, at least, but sometimes the only food on the table was out of food storage and the garden.
One day I was at the table studying, when Dad suddenly walked into the kitchen, grinning. Mom was at the sink, fixing dinner. Dad took the squash out of her hand, set it on the counter, and grabbed her around the waist. “I think the next dance belongs to me,” he said. Then he started to whistle and dance with her.
Emily, Timothy, and Nathan were all upstairs. They came running down when they heard Dad’s happy voice. Melanie came in the back door, too, just then. She had been out delivering newspapers.
Mom was laughing. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Why are you so happy?”
“I finally have a permanent job—a really good one—again!”
Mom started to cry; then Dad started to cry. Suddenly we were all crying and laughing and hugging each other. It felt wonderful.
“The only thing is, we’ll have to move,” Dad finally said. He was still smiling, but I felt a weird sort of ache in my stomach.
“Move? Where?” I asked.
“Arkansas.”
Arkansas. I didn’t know anything about Arkansas. But suddenly Dad’s having a job didn’t sound like such a great thing after all. I knew how hard we had all been praying for him to get one, but I couldn’t see why Heavenly Father didn’t find him one right here.
I didn’t sleep well that night. The next day, I asked Mom, “If Heavenly Father is so powerful, why couldn’t Dad’s job be right here. Why do we have to give up our home?”
She didn’t answer right away, but kept folding towels. I watched her smooth a nice, fluffy green one and set it on the pile.
“Maybe it’s time for us to grow some more,” she said finally. “Maybe there are things we need to learn that we can’t learn here.”
“I can learn here just fine. I get good grades in school.”
“Ben, school is important. But this whole life is like school, and there are lots of lessons for you to learn outside the classroom.”
“I can learn outside the classroom here too.”
“It’s hard to move,” she admitted. “It’s hard for all of us. But, Ben, I have confidence in Heavenly Father and in our family. Your father and I think that Heavenly Father wants him to take this job. It’s always been hard for people to give up their homes, but sometimes Heavenly Father knows that it’s what we need.” She smiled, hugged me, and handed me the pile of towels. “Please put these away for me.”
After putting away the towels, I put on my roller blades and headed toward the park. Sometimes I like to talk to Heavenly Father while I’m rolling along. I know Mom and Dad do the same sort of thing, just not on roller blades. Dad says it’s good to pray whenever and wherever we need help, not just when we’re kneeling down. He says that prayer always helps when you’re working on a problem.
Well, this sure looked like a problem to me. There weren’t any other people around, so I said right out loud, “Heavenly Father, this is really hard for me. I don’t want Dad to be out of work, and I don’t want to move. Why does it have to be one or the other?”
At the park, I took the skating path, skating slowly along and listening for an answer to my prayer. No answer came, but it felt good to be on wheels, and the mountains ahead of me were beautiful. The sun was shining through the clouds. Just looking at them made me feel better somehow.
Did Arkansas have mountains?
Another question slipped into my mind. What if Mom and Dad were right and Heavenly Father wanted us to move? Who else had moved away from home? Were there any families in the scriptures who moved?
Lehi and his family had to leave Jerusalem, I remembered. And they weren’t the only ones. There were the Jaredites too. And in the Old Testament there was Jacob’s son Joseph. He didn’t go to Egypt because he wanted to, but he still went. And later on, Moses moved everybody out again. After four hundred years, Egypt must have seemed like home, even if the Israelites were slaves there.
I swooped down a dip in the skating path and up a rise on the other side. The more I thought, the more names there were in my head.
Joseph Smith was always leaving his home to escape the mobs. Even Jesus Christ had to leave home.
Missionaries leave home. But that wouldn’t happen to me for a long, long time. Ten years. I hadn’t even lived that long yet.
I stopped suddenly. I left Heavenly Father less than ten years ago to come to earth to live with my family. So I’d done it before. … And I could do it again!
A good feeling rushed through me. “Thanks, Heavenly Father,” I said.
It was time to go home. Mom and Dad had an encyclopedia in the living room, on the shelf under the television. I wanted to look at it. I was going to find out all about Arkansas.

My recovery following minor surgery was not as easy as I had been led to expect. But as ward Relief Society president, I felt that I should be giving help to others, not asking for it. On Monday morning, three days after my surgery, I had to get seven children up and ready for school. I wondered if I would have to keep my oldest daughter home to help with the baby.

As these thoughts went through my head, the doorbell rang. Vickie Woodard, my first counselor and a good friend, had come to help. She announced that she was there to make pancakes. She had a bowl of batter in her arms and asked where she could find a frying pan. The children were delighted.

After breakfast, Vickie got the children off to school, cleaned up, and took the baby home until his noon nap time. Later, when I asked who was caring for her own young children, she told me that her husband had taken a couple of hours off work so she could help me.

Vickie’s and her husband’s service that day allowed me to gather my strength and contributed to my recovery.

Beverly Ashcroft, Arizona, USA

I walk bundled down the street
with 100 other scarfed and mittened
last-minute shoppers.
Lights adorn the lampposts,
music plays at every door,
the falling snow having just enough
magic
to collect on my eyelashes.
I see a crowd of people shivering
on a street corner
waiting for the light to turn green
And I know it is not out of neglect
that one man wears no coat or gloves.
Someone beside him turns
takes off his coat
puts it around the bent man’s
shoulders
and says, almost
apologetically,
Merry Christmas.
And the light in that man’s eyes
outshone every electric bulb
on the street.
I wish every day could be Merry
Christmas.

Years ago our 17-year-old son wanted to go on a weekend trip with his friends, who were all good boys. He asked for permission to go. I wanted to say yes, but for some reason I felt uncomfortable about the trip. I shared my feelings with my wife, who was very supportive. “We need to listen to that warning voice,” she said.

Of course, our son was disappointed and asked why we didn’t want him to go. I answered honestly that I didn’t know why. “I just don’t feel good about it,” I explained, “and I love you too much to ignore these feelings inside.” I was quite surprised when he said, “That’s OK, Dad. I understand.”

After Todd and I got engaged, my mom suggested that we go to the temple a lot as a way to prepare for our marriage. Todd and I decided it was a good suggestion. Sometimes Todd performed baptisms with me, and sometimes he went to an endowment session while I participated in baptisms.

Todd and I were sometimes so busy we thought we wouldn’t have time to go to the temple. We had work and school and wedding preparations, but we wanted to go to the temple. Once we went to the temple instead of a football game that we had tickets to because we didn’t have any other time to go.

The blessings have been amazing. When I do baptisms for the dead, I learn how the Spirit speaks to me. Being able to forget worldly things and focus on the Savior has been really good. Todd and I haven’t had struggles or felt tempted because we’ve been going to the temple so often.

President Gordon B. Hinckley was once asked by a minister why Latter-day Saints do not wear crosses or display them in their buildings.
President Hinckley said to him: “‘I do not wish to give offense to any of my Christian colleagues who use the cross on the steeples of their cathedrals and at the altars of their chapels, who wear it on their vestments, and imprint it on their books and other literature. But for us, the cross is the symbol of the dying Christ, while our message is a declaration of the Living Christ.’
“[The minister] then asked: ‘If you do not use the cross, what is the symbol of your religion?’
“I replied that the lives of our people must become the most meaningful expression of our faith.”—President Gordon B. Hinckley, see “The Symbol of Christ,” New Era, Apr. 1990, 4.

The summer I volunteered at the animal shelter, I met Bobbie. He had sandy hair that flopped in his eyes, and he smiled all the time. Bobbie liked to feed the animals, and he played with them a lot. But he never took them for walks, gave them treatments, or talked to the visitors who came in.
“Bobbie can’t do anything too complicated,” Ray, the director, explained to me. “He has a mental handicap. But he has some special gifts that make him a great help.”
I nodded—I’d already noticed that Bobbie didn’t understand the simple directions for the flea treatment we used on one dog’s skin. It didn’t matter to me. Bobbie was friendly and listened well, so I figured I might be able to teach him how to do some of the different chores.
The next morning, Bobbie wanted me to open a kennel for him.
“Watch,” I said. “I’ll show you how.”
Then I used my thumb to press down a button while I flipped up a lever with my other finger. Bobbie tried, and I guided his hands until the latch clicked open.
“I did it!” He grinned, proud of his new accomplishment.
“Way to go,” I told him, feeling pretty happy myself. I liked helping Bobbie.
Ray didn’t say anything, but then I’d already discovered he wasn’t a big talker. I did catch a glimpse of a smile on his face, though, before he sat down at his desk to fill out some forms.
Later that day, someone brought in a small, stray dog that had been abandoned in a field outside of town. The poor animal trembled every time we came near it, and his coat was ragged and matted.
“Someone didn’t treat this little fellow right,” Ray said as we gave the dog a bath. “He’s almost afraid to breathe.”
Ray gently scrubbed the dog’s reddish coat; then I rinsed it. The whole time, the dog cowered with his tail tucked between his legs. I wondered how he could ever be a good pet for anyone.
“What should we name this one?” Ray asked Bobbie.
Bobbie came over and looked at the wet straggly dog.
“Call him Happy,” Bobbie said. “He needs a good name.”
“Happy it is, then,” Ray said, but I’d have named that dog Scruffy.
After Happy’s bath, Ray put him into an empty kennel. Happy went all the way to the far corner and curled into a tight ball. Bobbie sat down on the floor by the kennel door and quietly watched him. “He’s afraid,” Bobbie told me.
I nodded, thinking that terrified was a more accurate word.
Bobbie started talking to Happy. His voice almost sounded like a lullaby, but the dog didn’t respond. He just trembled in the corner. Bobbie kept talking softly to Happy for the next hour. Finally Bobbie had to leave, but first he put some treats near Happy. The dog still didn’t move.
Every day that week, I watched Bobbie with Happy. One day, he brought in a little stuffed bear for Happy to sleep with. Each day he talked and talked to the dog in that same soft, reassuring voice. Bobby started sitting inside the kennel, each day just a little closer to the shy dog, and Happy’s ears began to perk up every now and then.
“Bobbie really likes that dog,” I told Ray. “He’s spending hours with him. Do you think Happy will come around?”
“No doubt. I think Bobbie could talk the birds out of the trees if he set his mind to it.”
Ray was right. It took another week, but Bobbie finally had Happy going to the front of the kennel to greet him. In a few more weeks, I couldn’t believe Happy was the same dog. His tail wagged behind him like a furry red flag, and he came running to me when I called, nuzzling my hand so that I’d pet him. Ray even allowed Bobbie to let Happy out of his kennel all day, and the little dog stuck to him like a shadow.
One day, an older, quiet lady came to look for a pet. I noticed that Bobbie was really staring at her, and I wondered what the problem could be. Usually he didn’t pay attention to our visitors.
The lady looked at a few dogs, but she didn’t seem very interested. Suddenly Bobbie walked over and tapped her arm to get her attention. “I have a dog for you.” He bent down and scooped up his furry little shadow. The dog wagged his tail as Bobbie put him into the lady’s arms. “Meet Happy,” he said.
“Hello there,” the lady said in a gentle voice, and the dog tried to lick her cheek as she scratched his ears. Then he rested his head on her shoulder just like a little baby. “Oh, I like him!” The lady smiled.
Fifteen minutes later, she had signed the papers, and she and Happy walked out with Bobbie’s little bear. He had insisted that she take it. I just stood there staring after them.
“I thought you were going to keep Happy,” I told Bobbie. I’d figured that was why Ray let Happy follow Bobbie around.
“My mom’s allergic to dogs,” Bobbie explained. “She gets itchy spots and sneezes a lot.”
“Oh,” I mumbled, not sure what to say next.
“Happy will like the lady,” Bobbie told me. “She talked soft. She won’t yell at him. Happy will have a nicer home than the kennel.”
“You’re right,” I said.
Bobbie started filling dishes with dog food. I noticed he had to stop to wipe a few tears away with his sleeve. I turned around and stared at Ray. He was shuffling papers on his desk, and I wanted him to say he would call the lady and tell her there was a mistake and that she had to bring Happy back.
“Bobbie always helps with the animals that are timid and scared,” Ray finally said as I stood there unable to speak. “He likes to help them find good homes, even if it means his heart is a little broken each time they leave. I told you that he has some special gifts. I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
I nodded and slowly began filling food dishes with Bobbie. We worked side by side, and neither of us said a word. It didn’t matter. I had thought that I had a lot to teach Bobbie, but the tears slipping down his cheeks were teaching me more about the true meaning of love than a million words ever could.

“Twelve years old—my first Church calling,” remembers Elder Robert S. Wood of the Second Quorum of the Seventy. “I was asked to be the music director in Mutual.” But he had to overcome two difficulties: one, he couldn’t sing; and two, he didn’t know anything about music. “The Young Women president took me aside and said, ‘Okay, Robert—one, two, three, four.’” His arm sweeps the air in four-four time as he recounts the story. “And so I learned how to do it.”

A sister missionary in Alabama, USA, told me, “I guess I thought when they set me apart, somehow I was going to get superpowers. So it was kind of a shock to me to find out when I arrived in my mission that I was still just me. I still had my same weaknesses, fears, and inadequacies. And those really haven’t gone away. I’ve had to learn how to deal with feeling inadequate at doing the Lord’s work.”

I am reminded of a fur trapper who had earned a modest fortune trapping foxes. He decided to go south for the winter and left his trap lines in the care of a carefully trained young assistant. He taught him just how to set the traps and where to put the bait.
When he returned in the spring, to his disappointment there were very few fox furs.
“Did you do it just as I taught you?” asked the older man.
“Oh, no,” was the reply. “I found a better way.”

Contrast these with the story of a sixteen-year-old priest who answered the telephone one day to hear the voice of a popular disc jockey on a local radio station. He was asked a question and when he answered it correctly was informed he had won an expensive sports car. It seemed like a dream come true for a teenage boy. A loving bishop was concerned about what such a car might do to the boy, thinking it might draw him away from all we hold dear. He asked him about his feelings. The bishop could hardly believe his ears when the young man indicated he was not going to take the car but would accept a cash award instead. He said, “Now my mission is paid for.” What an outstanding example of proper balance in an attitude toward worldly wealth or recognition and Christlike values.

Recently I was in a department store trying on shoes. Four young men were looking at what they labeled missionary shoes. It was evident at least two of the young men had received mission calls and were there to find shoes suitable for missionary service. I was surprised by a barrage of crude terms with a few profanities which seemed to routinely roll off their tongues. When they noticed there was someone else nearby, I heard one say, “Hey, guys, we better clean up our language,” as he motioned with his head in my direction.