Gospel Story Finder

As Easter time approaches, let me share with you the tender story of an eleven-year-old boy named Philip, a Down’s syndrome child who was in a Sunday School class with eight other children.
Easter Sunday the teacher brought an empty plastic egg for each child. They were instructed to go out of the church building onto the grounds and put into the egg something that would remind them of the meaning of Easter.
All returned joyfully. As each egg was opened there were exclamations of delight at a butterfly, a twig, a flower, a blade of grass. Then the last egg was opened. It was Philip’s, and it was empty!
Some of the children made fun of Philip. “But, teacher,” he said, “teacher, the tomb was empty.”
A newspaper article announcing Philip’s death a few months later noted that at the conclusion of the funeral eight children marched forward and put a large empty egg on the small casket. On it was a banner that said, “The tomb was empty.”

Joseph William Billy Johnson is one of those people. He has been a member of the Church from its beginnings in Ghana.
In 1964 an associate gave him a copy of the Book of Mormon and some Church tracts that had been sent from Europe. When he read a tract containing the testimony of Joseph Smith, he recalls, “I was inspired,” and when he read the Book of Mormon, “I knew it was true.” He began to preach the gospel truths he had learned. He wrote to Church headquarters, and President David O. McKay encouraged him to continue studying the scriptures and to be patient and faithful until missionaries could be sent to Africa.
Billy Johnson persevered for 14 years despite persecution. He built congregations to whom he taught the gospel doctrine he found in Church books. As nearly as he knew how, he tried to direct his congregations according to Church practices, yet he understood that he did not have authority to perform its ordinances.
Often he felt directed by the Spirit; he was sustained at times by visions and dreams. His son was named after Brigham Young because of a dream in which that former President of the Church offered encouragement. Brother Johnson learned about salvation for the dead after deceased relatives appeared to him in dreams and asked him to be sure they would have the opportunity to receive baptism by proxy.
“I drew inspiration from the pioneers,” he says. Reading of their struggles to build a haven in the western United States where they could worship in peace, he longed for the day when it might be possible to enjoy this same blessing in Ghana.
When Latter-day Saint missionaries arrived in 1978, after the revelation extending the priesthood to all worthy male members, hundreds of Ghanaians he had prepared were ready to be taught and baptized.
Despite the hardships he endured, Brother Johnson, now patriarch of the Cape Coast Ghana Stake, rejoices at the opportunity he had during all those years to help prepare others for the gospel. “Whenever I see in conferences the number of people who have been baptized into the Church, I start weeping for joy at the great work the Lord has done.”

I remember a cold winter evening as I was on radio car patrol on the east side of Salt Lake. Suddenly the silence was broken by the beep, beep, beep of an emergency radio call. “Car 16,” came the dispatcher’s voice. “Such and such an address, 9–40.” Nine-forty was a police code meaning unknown trouble. It might be a cat in a tree, family fight, lost child, or even a homicide. Calls like this were always tense because you just didn’t know what to expect.
I arrived at the address, an old two-story home surrounded by a rickety picket fence. I made my way toward the front porch along a broken and weed-choked sidewalk. The paint was peeling off the house, and it looked like it could have been the scene for a good Halloween movie. I knocked on the door, and as I did, it came partially ajar. There was no sound. I pushed the door open a little wider and cautiously poked my head inside. “Hello. Did anyone here call the police?” No answer. I opened the door wider and stepped inside.
I found myself in a small vestibule, no more than four feet square. It was nearly dark inside and smelled of a strange and musty odor. To my left was a narrow and steep stairway going to the second floor. “Hello,” I called again. “Is anybody there?” This time I heard a sound. It wasn’t much of a sound, just a quiet sound like a sob. The beam of my flashlight cut through the gloom as I pointed it up the stairway toward the sound.
There, huddled miserably on the bare wooden stair, was a young girl. She was barefoot and poorly dressed, with long, straggly hair. Her eyes were red, and I could see she had been crying hard. Her breath came in gasps, and I inquired again concerning the call for help. “Did you call the police?” All she could do was sob and point through the open doorway at the top of the stairs.
I made my way past the girl and entered into a scene of true desolation and tragedy. The room was small. No carpet covered the bare wooden floor. It was littered with the obvious signs of drugs and alcohol. Empty beer cans were strewn about, and evidence of marijuana was everywhere. Lying in the center of the floor was a young man. A dark pool of blood surrounded his head, and near his lifeless fingers lay a small, shiny revolver. I was heartsick as I called for assistance and began the investigation of a terrible tragedy.
I share this experience to emphasize again the fickle nature of the friends that Satan might send to tempt you to take part in such parties as these. We learned from our investigation that there had been 20 to 30 young people at the party. The gun was a plaything, and a game of Russian roulette seemed exciting to those using drugs and alcohol. No one expected to be hurt, yet tragedy struck and a young man’s life was lost. No friends stayed behind to help. No friends even did anything to comfort the one who did stay—the sister of the poor dead boy.

Throughout my life, in Primary and in my youth, I have always cherished the Christmas memories of quality time with my family and extended family. One memory I cherish most is when my grandmother gave each of my siblings and me a present. She had wrapped the present so perfectly, and when I opened it, I was surprised to see a book. It was not just any ordinary book, but The Book of Mormon. At the time I didn’t fully understand the significance of this gift. It was only later, as I grew older, that I came to know the sweetness this gift holds. This memory of my grandmother has never faded. Even at a young age, she implemented the gospel into my life. Her example and the love she had for the Saviour has strengthened my faith and my testimony.

From the moment I first learned about the temple, I wanted to go there to learn and feel the Spirit, to be sealed for eternity to my family, and to make covenants with the Lord. But there are no temples in India, and I haven’t had the opportunity to travel to one yet. So many Latter-day Saints in India and I have said countless prayers, we’ve fasted, and we’ve held onto patience and faith that one day there would be a temple built in India.
During the April 2018 general conference, God answered our prayers as President Russell M. Nelson announced that a temple will be built in Bengaluru, India. I will never forget that day. The Spirit filled my heart with joy and my eyes with tears at the prophet’s words. I immediately thanked Heavenly Father for answering our prayers. And I am so excited to finally see and enter the temple in just a few years.
I am so happy and proud to be a member of the Church of Jesus Christ. I know that the Lord restored the true gospel on this earth through the Prophet Joseph Smith. I know that the temple is where we can grow closer to God, be sealed to our families, and learn more about our purpose. And while I wait for the temple to be built here in India, I am working hard to prepare myself to enter.
I’m praying and learning as much as I can about the temple, the covenants I will make, and the ordinances I will receive there.
I’m asking other members who have already been through the temple for advice on how to prepare spiritually.
I’m learning how to do family history work so I can bring my ancestors’ names to the temple.
I’m attending a temple preparation class.
I want to be ready for the day I can finally enter the temple and make it a priority in my life. I will strive to always be worthy to enter so I can receive promised blessings, direction, and answers to my prayers I have waited so long for. I can’t wait for that day.

My Sunday School class isn’t always reverent. I love listening to the lesson every week, but sometimes it seems as though others in my class do not. Often they talk to each other or play games on electronic devices while our teacher is trying to teach us. Sadly, I sometimes find myself part of the problem.
One week we were worse than usual, and by the end of class, our teacher was reduced to tears because nobody would listen to her lesson. As we walked out of the classroom, I felt bad for her.
The next Sunday our teacher explained that she had prayed a lot that week, seeking for guidance, and it occurred to her that she needed to show us a Church film. She began the movie, which was about the life of Jesus Christ and the miracles He performed.
As I thought about the film that evening, I felt something different. Suddenly I realized that I was feeling the Spirit, more so than I ever had before. Immediately I decided that I wanted to make changes in my life to be more like the Savior, and I realized the experience in Sunday School that day had greatly strengthened my testimony. I am so thankful for my Sunday School teacher and everything she does for our class every week.

Rene, for example, lived in a nice apartment in Michigan, USA. But when she retired, her Social Security and pension weren’t enough to meet her expenses. Finances became such a worry that her children suggested she look into low-income housing.

She found a retirement residence and moved in. “I’m stress-free now because I have enough money to live on,” she says. “I like my new ward and neighbors, and this apartment is perfect for family parties.”

The young man’s name was John Andreas Widtsoe. He lived with his widowed mother and little brother in a small, poor cottage. They had come from Norway in 1884. On June 27, 1894, in Sanders Theater, in Harvard Yard, Cambridge, Massachusetts, President Charles W. Eliot of Harvard University conferred upon the young immigrant the degree, Bachelor of Science, summa cum laude (with highest honors). He completed the four-year curriculum in three years. He had undergone many hardships. His widowed mother and little brother had sent him small sums of money from their meager earnings. The rest of his education had been financed by unusual personal sacrifice and by loans from kind friends in Logan, with notes signed at 12 percent interest.

As a freshman in our country’s best university, I felt pressure to do my best. Persecution came, and I started to question my belief in the gospel as many of my professors expounded on what they professed to be “reality.” Many of my classmates were affected. This environment made it difficult to uphold Christian values. I thought of quitting but decided it was better to stay. I reasoned that if there were only a few who qualified to enter this university, and among those few were only a few Latter-day Saints, then I should stay and stand for truth.
My biology professor, a self-professed atheist, taught science without any belief in a Supreme Creator. Yet the more I heard, the more it reinforced to me that there is a Supreme Being—God, our Father—who created all these things. Others argued that this idea didn’t make any sense. Our discussions got more intense. I was anxious to raise my hand and explain I believe in God as the Creator.
The time came to give comments. At my school, it was normal for people to applaud, yell, or boo at those who presented their ideas. I stood boldly and said plainly to the opposing side: “Believing in God may not make any sense to you at the moment, but the day will come when it will all make sense to you as clearly as it does to me now.”
Since that time, I’ve never received any boos when standing up for my beliefs. From that time forward, I progressed academically, socially, and spiritually. I started to become active in student activities, and I was elected to several school offices.
I learned that standing for truth even once greatly affects our future decisions.
Vince A. Molejan Jr., Mindanao, Philippines

When I was in my eleventh year of school I contracted a kidney disease. Over the next few years my health gradually declined until my condition became critical. Despite the best medical care, the disease eventually destroyed both of my kidneys.

In January 1968 I was admitted to the University of Washington Health Center. My parents were called and told that my condition was so poor that I might not survive the night.

My father and a close friend administered to me; then, my mother took a copy of my patriarchal blessing from her purse and read several passages. She bore her testimony, then handed me the blessing. “You have a great mission to fulfill,” she said quietly, “and the Lord wants to help. But you need to do your part, too, Brent.” She leaned over and kissed me good night.

My father bore his testimony, shook my hand, and hit me lightly on the chest.

“Good night,” he said. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

Then I was alone in the quiet solitude of my hospital room—alone with my thoughts, memories, and a blessing.

As I thought about my mother’s admonition, I began to reach out to my Father in Heaven, something I had never really done before. As I prayed, I at first tasted the bitterness of a life that had failed to reach its potential. But as I continued to pray, the bitterness subsided, and I felt as if a tremendous burden had been lifted from me. I was at peace again—warm, comforted, and assured that my prayer was being answered. I knew in my heart that all would be well.

Lucia wiped away a tear. She didn’t want the other kids to see. She left the school grounds and hurried toward home.
Lucia lived on a small, beautiful island. She was the only member of the Church at school. Everybody else went to the same church. They teased Lucia and wouldn’t play with her because she was different.
That wasn’t the only problem. Sometimes the teachers ignored Lucia when she raised her hand.
“But today was the worst!” Lucia thought. She kicked a pebble down the road. During class, the teacher read some Bible verses that Lucia didn’t understand. They made it sound like Heavenly Father, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost were the same person. Then the teacher said there were some churches that didn’t believe what the Bible taught. She looked straight at Lucia. Everybody in class laughed.
Lucia was confused. Weren’t Heavenly Father, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost separate? What was going on?
Suddenly she had a happy thought. She could ask the missionaries! They came to Lucia’s village every day. “They’ll know how to help!” she thought.
When Lucia got home, she saw Sister Brown and Sister Ruiz. They were helping pump water up to a tank on the roof.
Lucia asked her question right away. “Why does the Bible say Heavenly Father and Jesus are the same person?”
Sister Brown smiled. “That’s a good question. After lunch let’s look for some scriptures to help.”
Lucia hardly tasted any of the yummy ropa vieja stew Mama had made. All she wanted was the answer!
Finally lunch was over. Lucia and the missionaries opened their scriptures. They read about Joseph Smith’s vision. Then they read about Jesus’s baptism. Both scriptures showed that Heavenly Father, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost were separate.
“So why do those other scriptures say they’re the same?” asked Lucia.
Sister Brown started turning the pages. “Let’s read in John 17. That’s where Jesus prays to Heavenly Father about His Apostles.”
They all took turns reading. In the scriptures, Jesus prayed that His Apostles “may be one” like He and Heavenly Father are one. Lucia counted three different times He said it.
“The Apostles couldn’t all become the same person,” Sister Ruiz said. “But they could become one in how they believed and acted. That’s how Heavenly Father, Jesus, and the Holy Ghost are one.”
Lucia began to feel warm inside. She knew it was the Holy Ghost. He was telling her that what Sister Ruiz said was true.
Heavenly Father and Jesus weren’t the same person. But They were the same in what They said and did. And Lucia knew that They both loved her.

An elder in our mission has had some pretty serious health problems. He has a skin allergy, bronchial problems, and sinus problems. When I arrived in the mission, he was sleeping in to avoid becoming weak and catching the flu. Then when he came in for lunch, he was sleeping for a couple of hours to keep from catching a cold or the flu. His companion was frustrated and called me.
I called the elder’s doctor. He said, “Well, his condition is bad, but it’s better than it was when he came into the mission field. It’s not going to change much no matter how many hours he works.” I called the elder into the office and suggested that I would rather see him sick with the flu legitimately than always worrying about it. I discussed with him the principle of suffering in silence, of simply going to work and doing what the Lord had called him to do. I said, “The doctor says your condition isn’t going to change no matter how much or how little you do. We’ve done and are doing all we can do. Why don’t you learn to suffer in silence?”
Bless his great heart, he took the counsel and put it into practice. He has become one of the top missionaries in the mission. He was made a training senior companion and then a district leader, all within about six weeks. What a great missionary he is now! He discovered how to suffer in silence and do the work. He is a great example of self-denial.

Elder Samuel Barlow from the Shetland Islands, Aberdeen Stake, has been a deckhand on a deep-sea fishing trawler for the past two years. He decided to leave his boat and fishing career to serve the Lord as a full-time service missionary.
Serving the Lord on a mission has been a lifelong desire of Elder Barlow. That the opportunity to serve from home has been made available to young men and women outside of the US and Canada, filled Elder Barlow with great joy and happiness. He arranged to meet with his stake president to discuss applying.
President Lee McLeman of the Aberdeen Stake felt that Elder Barlow would make a wonderful service missionary and helped him to complete and submit his mission papers. Elder Barlow said, “It filled me with great happiness that Heavenly Father listens to our prayers and makes it so everyone can serve as a missionary.”
Elder Barlow also serves as the elders quorum president in the Lerwick Branch. His mission allows him to continue serving in this calling while also reaching out to help many others in the Shetlands. His setting apart required him and his family to travel to the Aberdeen chapel, a 29-hour round trip by ferry in some rough weather. He had already done that to be set apart as the elders quorum president, such is his dedication to serving the Lord.
He started his mission by serving in the British Red Cross charity shop in Lerwick, by doing Family History indexing with his father and working on the BillionGraves project (see billiongraves.com). He is looking forward to the warmer weather when he will be able help with the Scottish Wildlife Trust and the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds. He has also been asked to be the mission expert on BillionGraves and train new missionaries.
He is an excellent example to his family and to those around him. The district leader was pleased when he found out that Elder Barlow was a fisherman and exclaimed, “Jesus worked with fisherman, and now we can work with a fisherman, just like Jesus.”
Elder Barlow takes the opportunity whenever he can to tell other young single adults and youth about service missions—there are now two opportunities to serve, either as a teaching missionary or as a service missionary; the prophet extends the call for both types of missions.

But yesterday, as I thought about how busy I would be, I indulged in a dose of self-pity—until I opened the Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt and started reading where I had left off. Elder Pratt had been taken prisoner, along with Joseph and Hyrum Smith and others, during difficult days in Missouri. After being taken to Independence, the Brethren were confined to a hotel to sleep on the floor with a block of wood for a pillow.
One cold, snowy morning Elder Pratt arose and, unnoticed, slipped out of the hotel. He made his way eastward through town and into adjacent fields. After walking about a mile (1.6 km), Elder Pratt entered a forest, the falling snow covering his tracks and the trees hiding his presence.
He reflected on his predicament. To continue eastward meant escape into another state, where he could send for his family. To return to the hotel meant incarceration and accusations of high crimes. Tempted to escape, Elder Pratt thought of the “storm of trouble, or even of death” he would cause the other prisoners if he left.
In his quandary, a scriptural thought struck him: “He that will seek to save his life shall lose it; but he that will lose his life for my sake shall find it again, even life eternal” (see Mark 8:35; D&C 98:13).
Elder Pratt returned to the hotel. Months of arduous incarceration would follow—without family, fellowship of the Saints, or the ability to serve in his apostolic calling.1

A carol concert was held on 3 December at the Portsmouth England Stake centre, in conjunction with Havant Rotary to provide presents for children in the area. Over 350 members attended the concert from across the stake and donated over three hundred presents. The event was attended by the Lord Mayor of Portsmouth, Councillor Tom Coles, and Graham Smith, the president of Havant Rotary, was on hand to receive the 300 gifts. The next day, Church representatives met with Havant Rotary and three food banks (Emsworth, Havant and Waterlooville) who were overwhelmed to receive the gifts to split between them, for local underprivileged children.

In the spring of 1848, my great-great-grandparents, Charles Stewart Miller and Mary McGowan Miller, left their home in Scotland and journeyed to St. Louis, Missouri, with a group of Saints, arriving there in 1849.
While the family was in St. Louis working to earn enough money to complete their journey to the Salt Lake Valley, a plague of cholera swept through the area. In the space of two weeks, four of the family members succumbed. The children who survived were left orphans, including my great-grandmother Margaret, who was 13 years old at the time.
The nine remaining Miller children continued to work and save for that journey their parents and brothers would never make. They left St. Louis in the spring of 1850 with four oxen and one wagon, arriving finally in the Salt Lake Valley that same year.

When I was growing up, my father kept a cow to provide milk for the family. When my father decided I was old enough, it became my job to milk the cow. Every morning and night I would go out carrying two buckets—an empty one for the milk and one with some grain. The grain was supposed to keep the cow busy while I milked her, but I could never milk as fast as the cow could eat the grain.
I remember one cow in particular who didn’t like me at all. She always seemed to know when the milk bucket was almost full, and at that moment she would kick the bucket over and run off. She destroyed all of my hard work in a flash. With my hands aching and my eyes burning with tears of frustration, I would return to the house with an empty bucket.
One day, Dad came to my rescue. He put a rope around the cow’s leg and tied it tight to a post so she couldn’t kick or run away. At first she fought against the rope, but after a while I didn’t even need to tie her leg to the post. I could just throw the rope on the ground by her back feet, and she would stand quietly until I picked up the rope and let her go.
I learned a great lesson from this. If we keep the commandments when we are young, we will train ourselves to stay close to our Heavenly Father, just as the rope trained our cow to stay close to the post. Then when we have temptations or difficult times in our lives, we will automatically respond by choosing the right. Instead of feeling restricted, we will be thankful that God gave us commandments to keep us in the right place.

A little initiative on their part netted four missionaries in Albuquerque, New Mexico, more than 70 referrals in two weeks and enabled them to place 100 copies of the Book of Mormon.
This outstanding work took place during the annual New Mexico State Fair, according to Elder Randy Smith from Elk City, Oklahoma, and Elder David Dorton of Lehi, Utah.
“We printed up an invitation for people to visit our display during the fair. We said if the person would bring us the invitation, we would provide him with a copy of the Book of Mormon,” Elder Smith said. Copies of the invitation were distributed throughout their tracting area, and many people responded.
“Man’s Search for Happiness” was shown throughout the fair. Another set of missionaries and several seventies helped to man the display. “That way we could continue to teach our contacts,” Elder Smith said.
The 70 referrals received at the fair came from persons living in various parts of the state and were forwarded to the proper mission homes.

When the Gonzales family of the Santa Maria (California) First Ward decided to visit their homeland of Argentina, young women in the ward wanted to do something to strengthen feelings of individual worth in their Argentine sisters. They wrote letters, made scripture bookmarks, and beaded YW value-colored friendship bracelets for young women in Buenos Aires, Argentina. Sister Gonzales delivered the gifts to the young women of the Ramos Mejia Ward, who in turn sent letters and candy to the young women in California. Girls in both countries realized that the gospel and the Young Women values are the same no matter where you go.

When I was young, our little family lived in a one-bedroom apartment. I slept on the couch in the living room. More than anything else in the world, I wanted to be an athlete. I did everything I was told might help me. While some of the advice I received was questionable, I tried it anyway, just in case it might help. I was advised not to eat chocolate, so I didn’t eat chocolate. I remember being told not to drink soda pop because it would “cut your wind.” I never drank soda pop. I was also told to sleep with the windows wide open to get plenty of fresh air, so all year long I slept with the windows open.
My dad, a steelworker, left home for work very early each day. Every morning he would quietly close the windows I had opened in the living room; then he would tuck the covers around me and stop for a minute. Often, half-dreaming, I would sense my dad standing beside the couch, looking at me. As I pretended to sleep, he would bow his head and quietly pray with all his attention, energy, and focus—for me.
Each morning he would pray that I would have a good day, that I would be safe, that I would learn and prepare for the future. And since he could not be with me until evening, he would pray for the teachers and my friends that I would be with that day.
In junior high and high school, I reached my dream to be an athlete. I played football and baseball. Our football games were usually played on Friday evenings. My father now worked out of town during the week. But each Friday afternoon, he left work and drove six or seven hours to make it to every one of my games. He never arrived in time for the start of the game, but the coaches would leave a sideline pass at the gate for him. I knew that sometime during the first half, I would look up and there he would be on the sideline, watching me. Then after church on Sunday afternoons, he would have to turn around and drive back to work.
At first, I didn’t really understand what my dad was doing those mornings when he prayed for me. But as I got older, I came to sense his love and interest in me and in everything I was doing. It is one of my favorite memories. It wasn’t until years later, after I was married, had children of my own, and would go into their rooms while they were asleep and pray for them, that I understood completely how my father felt about me.