Gospel Story Finder

In July of 2004 I was getting ready to climb the Middle Teton. A few days prior to the climb I noticed that my left ear was hurting. I assumed that I must have an ear infection, and so I went to one of the urgent care facilities here in Rexburg, thinking they would verify it was an ear infection and give me a prescription to take care of it. A nurse told me that I had no infection and said that I had a lot of wax build-up in my ear and the pressure caused by this was probably why my ear was hurting. The nurse cleaned the ear out and immediately the pain went away. Soon afterwards, the doctor came in and affirmed that everything looked fine inside my ear. While talking with me, the doctor said, “When your eyes blink, your left eye is blinking different than your right eye. Have you noticed this?” I replied that I was unaware of this. He asked, “Have you had any numbness or anything else happening with the left side of your face?” I told him that a few months earlier I had noticed that the left side of my mouth didn’t seem to be working right. I hadn’t thought to do anything about it. The doctor thought that maybe I had Bell’s palsy, but indicated that he wanted me to have an MRI done on my head to see if anything unusual showed up. I went to our local hospital and had the MRI, and through this process we learned that I had a brain tumor. The tumor was pressing against my seventh cranial nerve, causing the issues with my eye and mouth. You can imagine that all of my family members were pretty upset and worried after finding out about this tumor. It’s interesting that I think that I was the only person in my family that wasn’t really worried. I had some insight that no one else had. I never once felt any worry about the tumor being cancerous or this being a life-altering or life-ending experience for me. I wasn’t worried, because I knew from my patriarchal blessing that there were still events and things in my blessing that hadn’t yet come to pass. I took this as a sign that I still had years of life ahead of me and that this was just another bump in the road of life. I bear witness that patriarchal blessings are a witness that God our Father lives and that He is well acquainted with you and what your needs are. Patriarchal blessings are an intimate, loving, and amazing gift from an all-knowing Heavenly Father.

After looking at my MRI, the neurologist in Idaho Falls that I visited told me that he couldn’t really do anything for me, but he said, “I know a doctor at the University of Utah that will know what to do.” Within a couple of weeks, I was in Salt Lake City visiting this specialist. During the course of our visit, the doctor was talking about the upcoming surgery and said that in the process of the surgery they would be taking the bones and other things in my left ear apart, and then would put everything back in place at the end of the surgery. He told me that after my surgery I may have some balance and equilibrium problems that might prevent me from ever climbing a mountain again. Anyone that knows me very well would understand that this would have been devastating to me, because climbing mountains had become a passion of mine. Several months later I had the tumor removed, and everything has been great since. I wanted to prove the doctor wrong about my climbing, and the following summer I was able to summit Mount Rainier and also set my personal best time in climbing the Grand Teton. If you haven’t received your patriarchal blessing, I encourage you to do so now, and treasure it as a revelation from God written just for you.

The Knaupps later lived in Oregon. Then last year, after we heard that Wendy had cancer, we were blessed to discover them visiting in Utah during general conference. Wendy’s husband, their returned missionary son, and I gave her a blessing. We shared our experiences from the past four decades. It was clear that the gospel meant absolutely everything to them. It was the center and purpose of their lives and their children’s lives. Paul and Wendy fervently wanted to be healthy so they could fulfill their dream of serving a mission together.
Not long before she died, Wendy wrote to me in a letter, “I really feel that I am in the arms of the Lord. He can do anything He wants, and I am in His care.” She expressed gratitude for the gospel and her family, then wrote, “Isn’t the Lord wonderful!”
Now Wendy is gone, and her family misses her terribly. When her son wrote us about her death, he said, “Thank you for bringing Mom into the light of the gospel. She has lived in obedience to the commandments.” He said his mother once wrote to him, “I love the Lord and am eternally grateful [to Him] for bringing the priceless gospel into my life. I want to prove faithful more than anything else and am really trying to do so.”

I loved my mission. But when I came back home to the Philippines, I faced lot of anxiety because of something I call “spiritual burnout.”
To me, spiritual burnout means feeling completely drained after giving all you can. This affected my life to the point where I would stay in my room all day because I was so exhausted.
As a returned missionary, I felt pressure from my family, friends, and community regarding my life decisions. I felt like the people around me had a lot of thoughts about the choices I was making and what I should be doing—it was overwhelming. I hid how I was feeling from everyone because I didn’t want to disappoint them.
Over time, the pressure became too much for me to bear.
Even though I felt this way, I was able to find peace as I turned to Heavenly Father for guidance. Here are three ways I did it:
The expectations of others made it hard for me to find the peace I needed to transition back to life at home as a returned missionary.
So I prayed about what direction I should take for my future and told Heavenly Father about the pressure I was feeling. As I worked to invite the Spirit into my life, I felt prompted to take a leap of faith and move to the United Arab Emirates to work. This inspiration was super unexpected, and a lot of people in my community were shocked when I followed this prompting.
I suddenly felt so much hope! I felt that through the Spirit, God was leading me in a direction that would bring me the healing I needed.
Learning to let go of expectations other people had for me and focusing on Heavenly Father’s guidance allowed me to move forward with hope and faith.
Moving to Dubai taught me the importance of being proactive. Whatever our circumstances, we can be proactive about making changes and seeking Christ wherever we may be.

As the family spent time together, the children could see not just how their parents worked but how they lived. And when the opportunity arose, their parents made the gospel a topic of conversation while they worked.

As their children grew, Brother and Sister Ordoñez often wondered if their children would listen. Would they obey? Would they want to know, like Nephi? Would they pass the gospel on to their children?

It may be too early to tell. But Brother and Sister Ordoñez have reason to hope.

Their older children are starting to pass gospel truths on. And the younger children are recognizing the importance of passing the gospel on too. “It’s hard sometimes to take counsel from your parents,” Juan says. “But I’m grateful for their help.”

“They didn’t just teach me how to cook beans and make tortillas,” Mayra says. “They have taught me the right path—to follow God.”

Illustration by Patricia Geis
Ava squirmed in her seat. She bounced. She wiggled. She heard her Primary teacher talking. But Ava could not pay attention. All she could think about was the box under Sister Obi’s chair.
It was wrapped in shiny blue paper. It had a gold bow on top. What could it be? Ava leaned her head way down. She stared at the box. She wished she could see through the shiny paper. She could hardly wait to find out what was inside.
Finally Sister Obi pulled out the box. She set it on her lap. Ava leaned forward. But Sister Obi didn’t open it.
Sister Obi held out the box. “Inside this box is one of Heavenly Father’s greatest creations. Look inside. Then pass it on without saying anything.” She passed the box to Noah.
Noah slowly lifted the lid. He stared inside the box. He smiled. Then he passed the box to June.
Ava stood on her tiptoes to try to see. But it wasn’t her turn yet. What could be so important to Heavenly Father? And how could something so special fit in such a little box?
She watched everyone take a turn. One by one, each of her friends opened the box. They looked inside. They smiled.
Finally it was Ava’s turn! She lifted the shiny lid and looked inside. It was a mirror! Ava looked at the mirror in the box. She saw her own face looking back.
Ava saw her eyes get big. Was she one of Heavenly Father’s greatest creations? Did Heavenly Father love her that much?
Ava smiled. She felt warm and happy inside. It was like a big hug. A big hug from Heavenly Father. He did love her! She was one of His greatest creations.

In our multicultural family, we celebrate all the English, Irish and Dutch national holidays abundantly. My wife, Kirsty, loves going all out on decorations and traditional foods for Halloween, Sinterklaas, Christmas and so much more, and our children and their friends loved it!
One evening, Kirsty and I were discussing how we could create a similar experience for our children during general conference. We decided to introduce homemade croissants with ham and cheese as the general conference food of choice. We prepared coloring papers with gospel topics and word games that would help them to be engaged in conference talks. On conference morning we would be dressed in our Sunday best. But we also had lots of pillows and cozy blankets that the children could build pillow forts and tents out of to make them feel safe, secure, and loved.
We enjoyed watching conference as a family and savored the inspired messages from Church leaders whilst the smell of freshly baked croissants filled our home. The younger children got plenty of praise for sitting through one session of conference. We expected a little more from our older children as time went by. The excitement over general conference brought us all so much joy. Now we are grandparents, we love receiving pictures of our grandchildren through social media having a similar conference experience.

Many years ago Brigham Young told of an early missionary in the Church who was asked to share his testimony with a large group of people. According to President Young, this particular elder “never had been able to say that he knew Joseph [Smith] was a Prophet.” He would have preferred to just say a prayer and leave, but the circumstances made that impossible. So he started to speak, and “as soon as he got ‘Joseph’ out, ‘is a Prophet,’ was … next; and from that, his tongue was loosened, and he continued talking until near sun-down.”
President Young used this experience to teach that “the Lord pours out His Spirit upon a man, when he testifies that [which] the Lord gives him to testify of” (Millennial Star, supplement, 1853, 30).

When my sister, Nancy, and I were teenagers, we regularly attended our local church. But we began to feel that something was missing, so we decided to investigate other churches.
That summer my sister and brother visited a booth at the Canadian National Exhibition where missionaries were showing a movie called Ancient America Speaks. After watching the movie, they signed up for a free copy of the Book of Mormon. I can still remember the excitement in my sister’s voice as she announced to my mother and me that Christ had visited the American continent.
The missionaries dropped off a Book of Mormon to my sister and asked her if she would like to learn more about the Church. That was how we both were taught the gospel.
More than a year after Nancy and I were baptized, she began dating a young man named Luke. He had a bubbly personality and seemed to radiate love and excitement. At the time Nancy met him, he was looking for direction in his life and was eager to take the missionary discussions when Nancy told him about the gospel. His sister, Leonarda, also was interested in being taught.
Although Luke and Leonarda agreed with most of what was presented, they had trouble accepting that Joseph Smith was a prophet. Once they gained a testimony of Joseph Smith then everything else (the Book of Mormon, the restoration of the gospel, and the gospel principles taught by the prophets) would fall into place.
They came to our home to be taught by the elders. Once again the discussion centered on Joseph Smith. One of the elders suggested that we should each take a turn asking Heavenly Father if Joseph Smith was a prophet and then listen silently for a minute for the answer.
I won’t forget the feeling of peace that came into that room and touched each of our hearts as the Spirit bore witness to each of us that Joseph Smith was a prophet of the Lord. For some of us a testimony was gained that night; for others the truth was reaffirmed. Luke accepted baptism and Leonarda was baptized a few years later with her parents’ approval.
Since that night the Spirit has borne witness to me many times of the truthfulness of other gospel principles. But this experience stands out in my mind because it was one of my first experiences with personal revelation from a Heavenly Father who loves me. I learned that night the truth of the counsel found in Matthew 7:7, “Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you.” [Matt. 7:7]

My older brother was the first convert to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in my family. He was a good missionary, and even though he lived far away from us, year after year he kept sending missionaries to our door. We were Catholic, and my mom was not interested in listening to the missionaries. Finally my older sister decided to invite the missionaries inside, which led my mom, my sisters, and me to later be baptized into the Church. My dad joined us a few years later. Many miracles followed our conversion. The gospel brought us a new hope and the knowledge that God had a plan for each one of us. Our lives were filled with the joy of knowing our divine heritage and understanding the purpose of our existence here.

On 23 February 1979 Elder Richards was taken to the hospital, where he remained in critical condition for nearly a month. His obituary was written, and the First Presidency and the Twelve were informed that it was only a matter of hours before he’d be gone. But gradually Elder Richards recovered.
Later, in a meeting of the Twelve, Elder Richards said, “I read in the minutes where you’d received word of my imminent demise, but I fooled you, didn’t I?”

Another quality my father taught me was that of trustworthiness. When I was just barely a teenager, he would send me into town on errands. He never said, “Now remember, don’t go any further; don’t ruin the truck,” etc. He just said, “Could you get me some silage?” And I went and got the silage. It didn’t even dawn on me until years later that maybe I could have taken a spin up around the foothills or gone on into Salina and had some fun!

Our ward held a neighborhood pioneer parade on the 24th of July. We decorated bicycles, toy wagons, and strollers, then dressed up like pioneers and marched through the neighborhood. My family decorated a baby stroller to look like a covered wagon. Three-year-old Skyler wore pretend horns and was our “ox.” The parade made me feel like a real pioneer for a little while. My parents say that I really will be a pioneer to my children and grandchildren and that if I live the gospel, I will blaze a good trail for them to follow.

My companion and I, serving in the Japan Fukuoka Mission, were working in an area known as Kasuga, located near the Kumamoto Station. The people who lived in this area were very skeptical about religion. But knowing this, our mission president told us, “There are a thousand people in Kumamoto who have been prepared by the Lord. Please find them.”
One rainy day we decided to try to find Noboru Yamagata, a less-active member we had never met. Approaching his house, we noticed a sign that read, “No religious solicitation”—a common warning in Japanese culture. But heeding the promptings of the Spirit, we knocked on the door.
Brother Yamagata’s mother answered the door and informed us that her son was out of town. She went on to say that she would be friendly to anyone who had ties to him, as is traditional for Japanese families, and she consequently invited us in. But despite her surface hospitality, her face wore a threatening expression.
As we sat down, she warned, “I don’t want to hear anything about religion.” She then began to talk about herself and expressed how strongly she felt about certain values in her life.
To our surprise she talked about faith, love, and the Beatitudes, and we took the chance to tell her that these principles were also important to us. We recounted the glorious vision that resulted from Joseph Smith’s faith, and we described the importance of the Book of Mormon in the Restoration of the gospel.
It was interesting to observe the change that took place in Mrs. Yamagata as she listened to our message. Tears ran down her cheeks as we testified of the divinity of Jesus Christ and the Restoration of the gospel through Joseph Smith. She replied, “Joseph Smith was a lucky man.”
When we said good-bye at last, her face shined and her eyes sparkled with happiness. She said, “Thank you for coming today. My son must have led you to me.” We shook hands, and she jokingly said, “I won’t be washing my hand today!”
As we walked home we realized that this woman was one of the people our mission president had described as being ready to receive the gospel. Clearly, the Spirit had prepared her heart for our message, and we knew she was the first of a thousand souls we needed to find.

When I think about light and the many different meanings it has, I reflect on an experience I had last June.

For several years I have had the opportunity to participate in a team race that takes runners through some of the most beautiful scenery in the state. The event starts in Logan and winds through the Wasatch Back to finish in Park City. It is called the Ragnar Relay Series, and each team consists of two vans, with six people packed into each van. Each team spends more than thirty hours together with no sleep, not much food, and few rest spots. Each team member runs three different routes, and the whole team runs a total of more than 180 miles. What an adventure!

Last year I wasn’t quite as prepared as usual after badly spraining my foot a few months before. Just so you know, I was the oldest on the team and by far the slowest runner. Everyone else on my team was really fast. After my first run of nearly six miles, I was okay, but it had been really hard and I had gone pretty slow.

Soon after, our van was starting to get ready for our second leg of runs when my friend Greg mentioned that maybe I should run a shorter leg that was half the length of what I was supposed to run. At first I thought, “Oh, that’s thoughtful of him—he’s concerned about my foot.” But I soon realized that he just didn’t want me to slow down the team.

So I took the shorter run. However, it put me on an unfamiliar course. It was one of the few runs that took place on a trail in the middle of nowhere at 2:00 a.m. There was no lighted path, and there were no signs or obvious markers. I wore a headlamp and a blinking red reflector. My headlamp was the only source of light through the two and a half miles of switchback trails. As you can imagine, it was a bit disconcerting, and it was very challenging to stay on the path. I had to stop a few times to shine my headlamp around for fear that I was off of the course. During the entire run I was scanning for any sign of a light, a marker, or even a blinking reflector from someone. Occasionally I would see in the distance a small red light with an arrow and run in that direction. Once I had passed the arrow, I would scan again, trying to find another red light.

Finally, toward the end of my run, I saw a few runners ahead and followed their lights to the finish. Soon after, a couple of runners came in behind me and thanked me for leading them to the end. Evidently they had been following my light all the way in.

Just over eight months ago, a monstrous hurricane swept into Florida. Jack Demaree of the Montgomery Alabama Stake and many like him drove over two thousand miles round trip, using their vacation time to assist the hurricane victims. He brought back an article from a Florida newspaper: “In hot, humid conditions Saturday, about 12,000 volunteers—including 9,000 Mormon church members from six states who brought chain saws, plywood and tar paper—swarmed into South Florida. … So many people [were] at work that only two hundred showed up Saturday morning for an outdoor prayer service … despite the … prediction that more than 5,000 would attend” (Sheryl Stolberg, “Tent Cities Begin to Fill In,” Ocala, Florida, newspaper, 6 Sept. 1992).
In my conversation with Brother Demaree about his experience, he said, “All I did was cut up trees that were blown down by the hurricane.”

In what was then called the Hollywood Stake in Southern California, I was performing my duties as a young deacon assisting with the sacrament service each weekend. Our new chapel had just been dedicated. It was beautiful. We were so proud. We even had a separate sacrament alcove behind the bishopric seats on the stand. Bit by bit we tried to enhance our sacrament service. Red velour drapes were installed to be drawn apart at the precise psychological moment. Smaller drapes revealing a picture of the Last Supper were drawn just before the sacrament prayers were given. All of the deacons wore white shirts and black bow ties. And last but not least, we had worked out a system of musical chimes to signal the opening of the drapes and the sacrament prayers. It was the most beautiful and dramatic sacrament presentation ever devised in any dispensation. Even the stake president was impressed—so much so that he invited President Heber J. Grant to come and see the Church’s new “Hollywood” version of the sacrament. President Grant accepted the invitation and witnessed what turned out to be our final presentation. We were taught in unmistakable, but kindly, terms what the sacrament service should be. I’ll never forget that lesson. It was valuable not only to me, but to everyone else in that ward and in that stake.

When Uncle Palacios announced he had chosen Simon to live in Caracas with him, the Bolivar children looked hopelessly at each other. They knew now that other relatives would take Simon’s older brother and his two sisters. It was bad enough to be separated from each other, but they did not want to leave the white-pillared mansion in the beautiful Aragua Valley, Venezuela, that had always been their home.
Father had died when Simon was only six, but his mother had insisted that the children stay together on the large estate, where its cocoa trees, herds of cattle, and copper mines were taken care of by the thousands of slaves owned by the family. Now, three years later, their mother was dead too, and so the relatives had met to decide who should be responsible for each child.
The house of Uncle Palacios was stiff and formal, and the strictness of the cowled monks who came to teach Simon there was frightening.
Simon missed the river, filled with fish, that flowed through the green valley of his home. He missed the sloping hills and the cool little summer-houses hidden among the trees where he had played. But sometimes it seemed to him that more than anything else he missed having a horse and the freedom to ride it that he had enjoyed all his life.
Uncle Palacios was good to Simon and grieved over the unhappiness of his rich and lonely little nephew. So after a year or two he dismissed the stern monks and hired an exciting young man, Rodriguez Carreno, to live at the house and be a companion and a teacher to Simon.
Rodriguez threw away the dull books Simon had been studying and announced that together they would learn about life and living. He was quick to see the sparkle of interest on the boy’s face, and he caught the longing in Simon’s voice when he talked of the home and horses he had had to leave. The next day the new teacher said, “Among other subjects, I intend to teach you something about the anatomy of animals. We will include the horse. Therefore, we must have a horse stabled in the garden to study and to ride.”
Simon learned much from Rodriguez. He was shocked and hurt when he was told that, in spite of the Bolivar family’s wealth and their high place in Venezuelan society, they were looked down on by their Spanish rulers because they were people of native birth, even though they were of European descent.
He found this to be true when at sixteen he went to live with some of his wealthy and titled relatives in Madrid, Spain. One morning very early, as he was riding his horse on the hills outside of Madrid, he was surrounded by mounted police who told him that because he was a Creole, he would not be allowed to wear his costly jewels and fine clothing.
Simon left Madrid a few days later and went to France. There he was called Prince Bolivar by his friends, who with him enjoyed parties and pleasure. His old companion-teacher Rodriguez expressed disapproval of the way his former student was living and insisted that he and Simon go on a walking tour through Italy. They talked of many things as they walked—of governments, the French revolution, the needs of people, and the ideals of freedom.
One day they stopped to rest on the green hillside overlooking the ancient city of Rome. Simon Bolivar suddenly stood up, stretched out his arms, and said in a solemn voice, “On my life and honor I promise most faithfully not to rest until I have freed America of her tyrants.”
Simon gave up his carefree ways and returned to Venezuela.
The beautiful Bolivar estate outside of Caracas had been taken over by the government, and Simon was left without money or friends. But he had a magnetic personality and soon was able to persuade others to join him in the cause of freedom.
He gathered around him men of various nationalities, soldiers who had only ragged uniforms and odd bits and pieces of civilian clothing to wear. Their powder and bullet pouches were roughly made out of cattle hide, and their muskets and bayonets were almost worn out. Most of the men were bareheaded; on their feet they wore clumsy leather sandals. The discomfort of the humid heat of the jungles through which they traveled was equaled only by the shivering cold of the high Andes Mountains, where the half-frozen and hungry men gasped with exhaustion as they labored across the volcanic peaks and the mighty glaciers.
They met defeats that would have seemed complete disaster to most armies, but Simon Bolivar would somehow manage to hold his men together, to attract others to join them, and to almost miraculously secure funds. Because of his brilliance and his dedication, he was able to lead the army to startling and unbelievable victories. These men knew that they had to defeat the Spanish forces or die, and they did not want to die—nor to let their country remain in bondage.
Because of personal sacrifices and in spite of unbelievable odds, Bolivar’s army won independence for Venezuela and Colombia. On October 3, 1821, Simon became president of Colombia.
By the time he was forty-three many of his dreams had become glorious realities when he was also named president of Venezuela, Ecuador, and Peru. Soon afterward he learned that certain provinces in Peru wanted to break away from the rest of the country, so arrangements were made for them to do so, and Simon Bolivar became president of these united provinces too. They were named Bolivia in his honor.
Although there were many problems, heavy responsibilities, and much heartache, Simon never deviated from the vow he made to his old teacher on the hills above Rome. Twenty years later Rodriguez received a letter of appreciation:
“You may have followed with curiosity my steps in the path you traced out for me. You opened my heart to freedom and justice. You would hardly believe how deeply your teachings are graven on my heart.”

I have a sweet friend who some time ago found herself in such a state. I do not know, nor need I know, what her problem was, but she did summon the courage to go tearfully to her bishop to confess. A Church court was held. She was excommunicated and began the difficult process of repentance. Quite a long time later, after the spiritual healing had taken place and at the time of her baptism, she expressed great appreciation to a bishop who had shed tears of caring for her, even while being firm in the steps that must be taken; to a dear friend in Relief Society, who, she said, had helped her “to understand and forgive all those who couldn’t understand or forgive” her; to those who had helped to keep her testimony strong in those quiet, desperate times when “coming home again” seemed nearly impossible.

I recently had a note from this friend, married now in the temple with a lovely family. She says, “Tell the sisters that it is all worth it. Tell them how beautiful and joyful life can be when you keep the commandments.”

Several years ago, my aunt and uncle’s grandson died at eight-and-a-half months old. The situation surrounding his death caused feelings of unimaginable loss, intense anger, and paralyzing pain. My aunt and uncle hadn’t been sealed in the temple nor had the baby’s parents. I wondered how they would get through this experience without the comfort and blessing of knowing he was sealed to their family for eternity. But because my aunt had established personal habits of prayer, scripture study, and temple attendance, she was prepared to declare, “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.”[9]

The following year, many wonderful things occurred. Their daughter found a worthy and loving man who took her to the temple. My uncle was the proxy for his grandson as this baby was sealed to his family. In addition, my aunt, uncle, and their children were sealed as an eternal family. In the temple, my aunt learned that when death takes us from this world, it’s our covenants that bring us back together. They are now bound together eternally from child to parent to grandparent. The difficulty of losing this child was replaced by the joy and promise of eternity together.

Upon reflecting on her experiences, my aunt said, “I am a different person because of what I’ve been through, and I never want to forget it. It’s not what we go through in life that matters. It’s who we turn to for understanding, peace, and comfort, and allowing the Savior to make us better than we are.”

Josh Rohatinsky, a deacon in the Provo Fourth Ward, Provo Utah North Stake, realized a year-long goal when he became the Junior Olympics National Champion in the 3,000-meter run for the 11–12 age group. The games were held in Gainesville, Florida. Josh outperformed the second-place winner by 19 seconds.

Josh is coached by his dad and would like to run in the 2000 summer Olympics. For now, though, he’s just glad the race is over.

"It was hard," says Josh, "but I’m glad I did it."