Gospel Story Finder

When I was about 16 years old, some friends asked me if I would go with them to drink beer. Although they pressured me to do so, I carried through with the decision I had already made. I simply told them, “No, thank you.” They are still my friends.

From time to time, I heard people criticize President George Albert Smith for spending so much time with the Lamanites. Upon such occasions, President Smith would stand up straight and tall, square his shoulders, and say, “My brother, I am an old man, and in the natural course of events, I will soon be called home, and when I get to the other side, I am going to seek our Father Lehi. When I find him, I will look him straight in the eye and say to him, ‘Father Lehi, I want you to know that while I was alive, I did everything I could for your posterity to bring to them the gospel of Jesus Christ,’ and I don’t want to have to hang my head.”

I wanted to express my appreciation for the story “About Face” (Mar. 1995). I hope it helped others realize the damaging effects it can have on a person. I have suffered from an extreme case of acne. My self-worth disappeared, I found it hard to look people in the face, and it got to the point where I could barely recognize myself. I withdrew from friends and activities I enjoyed, and I didn’t want to do anything that would draw attention to my looks. But through this experience I have learned to rely on my Heavenly Father to help me cope with this and other trials. I hope we can all realize it’s what’s on the inside that’s important.
Karey ParkvoldLethbridge, Alberta, Canada

I remember that it was chilly that Saturday evening. I walked down the dirt path to the well to get another bucket of water for my bath. My bare feet were cold. I dropped the bucket down the well and listened for it to splash. All the while I was stamping my feet to try to get them warm. When the bucket was full, I hurried back to our sod house.
As I walked up the path, some of the water slopped out of the bucket onto my feet and made my teeth chatter. I wished then that I could have my own shoes, especially for Sundays, before winter came.
Most of the time I liked running around without shoes, and I didn’t mind too much going to school without them. But I sure didn’t want to go to church again until I had a pair of shoes, even old ones. I wanted to be all dressed up, at least the best I could.
When I came in with the bucket of water, Ma was fixing supper. It seemed like we always had the same thing for supper. We called it lumpydick. Ma made it by mixing flour and milk and an egg together. It doesn’t sound too good, but it tasted all right if you were hungry, and I was hungry that night.
Sometimes I wished we could have different things to eat, but Ma was a widow and we were pretty poor, so we couldn’t be too choosy. I guess nobody in Salt Lake Valley had very much. Things were pretty rough.
“Are we going to church tomorrow?” I asked as I poured the water into the wooden tub we used for baths.
Ma looked around at me and said, “George Little! Why of course we’re going! We always go.”
“But, Ma, I don’t have any shoes. I can’t go.”
Ma pressed her lips together like she does when she’s not quite sure what to say. Finally she said, “What makes you think of that now? You haven’t had shoes before, and you’ve never said anything.”
“It wasn’t so bad in the summer because lots of kids didn’t have shoes. But last Sunday when President Young was talking, I looked around and couldn’t see any bare feet except mine.”
“It’s not a crime to go barefoot. We don’t go to church to look at people’s feet. When the Lord wants you to have shoes, you’ll have them. Ever since your pa died, He’s taken care of us.”
“But, Ma—”
“George, we need more water for our baths.”
I knew I couldn’t argue with Ma. She didn’t seem to understand that a boy needed shoes when he went to church. But I knew, too, that even if she’d had money—which nobody did—there were hardly any shoes to buy in Salt Lake City.
When I’d filled up the old tub, I sat down and rested while Ma dished out the lumpydick. I was so hungry that it even smelled good. It seemed like I was hungry all the time anymore.
We knelt and had our family prayer. It was times like that that I wished Pa was around. Even though I couldn’t remember him, I thought it would be right nice to have my own Pa like the other kids. I was just a baby when he died. His wagon broke through the ice on the Mississippi when the Saints were leaving Nauvoo, and he fell into the river. Ma said he was all blue when the men pulled him out, and he got real sick and died a few weeks later.
“Why do we pray so much?” I asked Ma as we started eating our lumpydick. “We say family prayers in the morning and at night. We say our own prayers morning and night, and we pray a lot in between. That’s a lot of praying.”
“We have a lot to be thankful for, Son.”
“We do?” I asked, looking around at our one bed, two chairs and table, and the two boxes we used for a dresser and a cupboard. It seemed to me that we didn’t have much of anything. Ma had to wash people’s clothes and sew and clean, and I had to work for Brother Jeffers and Brother Simms. We didn’t get any money for it, either—just flour and sugar and stuff like that.
“We have a lot,” Ma said. “We have a house. We always manage to find something to eat. We have each other. We have the gospel, and we know that someday we’ll be with your pa. Doesn’t that sound like a lot?”
I nodded my head but kept eating my lumpydick and thinking about my bare feet.
“The Lord has blessed us, George, and when we need His help, all we have to do is ask Him in faith, just like the Prophet Joseph did. Heavenly Father wants to help us, but we have to ask.”
That gave me an idea. If the Lord wanted me to have shoes, then maybe He would help me get some.
“You mean we can ask the Lord for anything?”
“Anything that’s right,” she said. “We do have to remember that it’s still up to the Lord and that sometimes His answer is no. We let His will be done.”
I knew Ma was telling the truth, because she doesn’t ever lie. Once she said that if we had enough faith, it would rain. And it rained the very next day. Another time I was very sick, and everybody thought I was going to die, but Ma asked Brother Abott and Brother Beecher to come and give me a blessing. I was better after a couple of hours.
Before I went to bed that night, I said a special prayer to Heavenly Father. I told Him about my bare feet and how I felt bad about going to church without shoes. I said I’d go anyway, even without shoes, but if He felt I should have some shoes, I’d sure appreciate it. When I finished my prayer, I felt good all over. It was just like Heavenly Father was telling me that somehow I’d have a pair of shoes for church the next day.
I woke up just as the sun was peeking over the mountains. I hurried and got dressed and started outside because I knew my new shoes would be there.
“Where are you off to?” Ma asked as I opened the door. “It’s Sunday, you know.”
“I’m just going out to get my shoes,” I called back as I ran down the path to the old wooden gate. Right on top of the gatepost were my shoes, just as I knew they’d be. They were brand-new, and they were just my size.
I was so excited that I could hardly stand still. I wanted to shout and run, but about all I could do was cry a little bit because I was so happy. I knelt down right there by the gate and said a little prayer and thanked Heavenly Father for sending me those shoes.
I didn’t understand how it happened or who Heavenly Father inspired to put the shoes there, but I put them on and ran into the house. “Look, Ma!” I shouted. “Look at my new shoes!”
Ma didn’t know what to say. She just stood there with her mouth open. Finally she asked, “Where did they come from?”
“They’re mine. They’re the ones I prayed for. They were on the gatepost, just waiting for me. You were right. The Lord does answer our prayers.”
Ma looked worried. “George, those are brand-new shoes. You can’t keep them. They belong to someone else.”
“Oh, no, Ma. They’re mine. Heavenly Father helped someone decide to give them to me. I know He did.”
“Take them off,” Ma said.
I knew it was no use to argue with her.
“We’ll take them to church with us and ask President Young to find the owner. I’m sure the owner will be anxious to have them back.”
President Young held the shoes up and asked the owner to come up and get them after the meeting, but nobody did. I would have gone, but Ma wouldn’t let me, even though I knew they were mine.
The next Sunday I went barefoot, and the next Sunday too. It had warmed up a bit, so I wasn’t cold, but I sure was anxious to get my shoes back. Before I went to church that third Sunday, I said a prayer and told Heavenly Father that if He wanted to give those shoes to someone who needed them more than I did, it was all right with me.
President Young held up the shoes after meeting again and asked the owner to claim them. But he still had them in his hand when he came over to Ma and me. “Well, Sister Little,” he said, “it doesn’t look like anyone’s going to claim these shoes. Do you think they’ll fit George?”
“Sure they will,” I said. “The Lord wouldn’t make it possible for me to get a pair of shoes and then have them too big or too little.”
“What’s this?” President Young asked with a twinkle in his eye.
I told him what I’d done—how I’d prayed and had just known that the Lord was going to help me and how I’d found my shoes on the gatepost.
President Young nodded his head, and his eyes got real smiley when he said, “And all this time we’ve been trying to give your shoes away?” I nodded my head. “No wonder no one claimed them. They were yours all along. Well, Sister Little, I think we’d better let George keep his shoes. After the Lord went to all that trouble, I don’t think He would want us giving George’s shoes to someone else.”
I smiled and sat down right there to put on my shoes, and as I pulled them on, I said another little prayer and thanked Heavenly Father for helping me get my shoes back.

Brother Ridd said his family’s work ethic has been a blessing in his life. So have mentors and priesthood leaders who have sometimes nudged him along the gospel path. While many of his classmates from high school accepted mission calls at age 19, Randall opted to enroll in college and enlist in the army. He later took a job as an X-ray technician while continuing his studies at the University of Utah. A few wise men were bold enough to tell him that his place was in the mission field. He followed their direction and put in his application to serve. Soon he was sharing the gospel in the Mexico North Mission. “I can’t imagine what my life would be like if I had not served a mission,” he says.

In November 1998, a lady named Miss Sugimoto came to our school to teach us about Japan. She told us that they have tea ceremonies in Japan and that we were going to have one, too. I know that I’m not supposed to drink tea, and I started to feel scared inside. I said a prayer to Heavenly Father and asked for help. I then remembered a story that I had read in the Friend magazine about a girl who had to make the same decision I had to make. When the day came for the tea ceremony and they put the cup in front of me, I explained that I didn’t want to taste it.
After I had made my decision not to drink the tea, a friend tried to make me change my mind. She said that if I didn’t drink it, she wouldn’t be my friend anymore. Even though she said that, I didn’t drink it. I know that I made the right decision and that Heavenly Father knows it, too.

Patti’s Pet Gorilla Patti doesn’t have anything special for show-and-tell, so her teacher suggests that she simply tell the class about something. Desperate, Patti makes up a special pet—Bob the gorilla. But while they’re on a nature walk, the class sees Bob in her window! An easy-to-read book.Pat Rhoads Mauser7–10 years

A story is told of an English farmer at work one day in his fields when he saw a party of huntsmen riding about his farm. Concerned that they might ride into a field where the crop could be damaged by the tramp of horses, he sent one of his workmen to shut the gate and then keep watch over it and on no account to open it. He had scarcely arrived at his post when the hunters came up and ordered that the gate be opened. He declined to do so, stating the orders he had received, and steadfastly refused to open the gate in spite of the threats and bribes as one after another of the hunters came forward.
Then one of the riders came up and said in commanding tones, “My boy, do you know me? I am the Duke of Wellington, one not accustomed to being disobeyed, and I command you to open that gate, that I and my friends may pass through.”
The boy lifted his hat, and before the man whom all England delighted to honor, answered firmly, “I am sure the Duke of Wellington would not wish me to disobey orders. I must keep this gate shut, nor suffer anyone to pass but by my master’s express permission.”
Greatly pleased, the duke lifted his own hat and said, “I honor the man or boy who can be neither bribed or frightened into doing wrong. With an army of such soldiers, I could conquer not only the French, but the world.”

And that brings us to Elder William A. Moody and his bride, Adelia Moody. They were called on a mission from Thatcher, Graham County, Arizona, arriving in Samoa in November 1894. They must have had the same hopes and aspirations of any young couple just starting out. She gave birth to an eight-pound daughter on May 3, 1895. Three weeks later she passed away. The daughter, little Hazel Moody, was taken care of by local Saints while her father continued his mission. Finally, one year later we read the following about a steamer leaving for the United States, whose passengers included four returning elders and “also Elder Moody’s daughter, Hazel, one-year-old, who will be delivered to loving relatives in Zion.”

When our son Eli was in fourth grade, his class set up a mock government where he was elected by his peers to serve as class judge. One day a sitting judge from the Utah Second District Court visited, put his official robes on Eli, and then administered an oath of office for their class. This ignited in Eli’s young, impressionable soul a passion for studying law and the Lawgiver Himself, Jesus Christ.
After years of diligent effort, Eli received an invitation for an interview with one of his top choices for law school. He pronounced, “Mom, I was asked 10 questions. The final question was, ‘Where do you derive your moral compass?’ I stated that throughout history humankind has derived systems of morality by patterning their lives from archetypes. The archetype of morality I strive to pattern my life from is that of Jesus Christ. I stated if all of humanity abided by the teachings of Jesus Christ in the Sermon on the Mount, the world would be a better, more peaceful place.” Then the interview ended, and he thought to himself, “There go my childhood dreams. No one in secular academia wants to hear about Jesus Christ.”
Two weeks later, Eli was admitted with a scholarship. Before committing, we visited the campus. The law school looked like a castle and was set high on a hill overlooking a beautiful lake. Remarkably, as we walked through the magnificent library and stately corridors, we found on banners and carved in stone attributes from the Sermon on the Mount.

From Boston, Massachusetts, a well-to-do female citizen wrote:
“Our all is at stake; and we are called upon by every tie that is dear and sacred, to exert the spirit that heaven has given us in this righteous struggle for liberty. … My only brother I have sent to the camp with my prayers and blessings. … I am confident he will behave with honor. … and had I twenty sons and brothers, they should go. … Nothing is heard now in our streets but the trumpet and drum and the universal cry is, ‘Americans to arms!’” (Wheeler, p. 49.)

Last summer I met Sister Yvette Bugingo, who at age 11 fled from place to place after her father was killed and three of her brothers went missing in a war-torn part of the world. Yvette and the remaining family members eventually lived for six and a half years as refugees in a neighboring country until they were able to move to a permanent home, where they were blessed by a caring couple who helped with transportation, schools, and other things. She said they “were basically an answer to our prayers.”8 Her beautiful mother and adorable little sister are with us tonight, singing in the choir. I have wondered many times since meeting these wonderful women, “What if their story were my story?”

In July of this year, my wife and I attended an honor banquet where individuals were recognized for their quiet service, their selfless sacrifice, their untold devotion to lifting others to a higher plane of living with no thought of aggrandizement or personal reward. One Native American lady had literally given much of her life to teaching boys and girls of her native race how to live, how to love, and how to serve. Her response when recognized for her accomplishments bespoke her humility. Quietly and sincerely, she said just two special words: “Thank you.”

Six months after Ethel died, then at nine months, then at two years, I wrote down my feelings. Keeping a daily journal has been a source of comfort. Between nine and twelve months after Ethel’s passing, I decided to ‘get back out there’ by joining a social group and a travel group. That lasted about a month before I realised my heart wasn’t ready. I felt the impression to attend the temple regularly. Despite the initial pain, this proved a great strength to me.

The swans that nested near our home were curious about our activities, and they showed little fear of my daughter and me. They came quite close when we imitated their calls, and they often followed us when we walked along the shore. Even Mary Anne’s squeaky version of a swan’s trumpeting drew quick replies from the great white birds.

In my legal training I became familiar with the formal language lawyers use to address judges during court proceedings. After graduation I worked for a year as a law clerk to the chief justice of the United States. We always used the formal title of his office, Chief Justice. Similarly, communications to our most senior government leaders should be addressed in a particular way, such as Mr. President, Your Excellency, or Your Majesty. The use of titles signifies respect for office and authority.

In the old museum on Temple Square there used to be a statue of two pioneers, husband and wife, their cloaks windswept, standing together beside a small grave. My seminary class once took a tour of Temple Square. We stopped and looked at the statue, and one girl said, “Isn’t that so sad?” and the girl next to her solemnly agreed, “It’s awful. How did they ever stand it?” Then we continued on to the Assembly Hall to exclaim over how beautiful the stained glass windows are.

“Annie, we need a cabbage for Christmas dinner tomorrow,” Mother said. “Please go to the Olsens and trade these potatoes for one. Hurry now. Night’s coming.”
Eleven-year-old Annie sighed, dropping her knitting and picking up the burlap bag of potatoes. It was a tradition in Norway for families to have a cabbage for Christmas dinner, and Annie knew it would be delicious. But she didn’t want to leave the warm fire. “Can Gunnild come, too?” she asked hopefully.
“No, she must feed the goats and help your father.”
Annie buttoned her sheepskin coat and hurried outside into the brisk air. The snow crunched under her feet and the sharp wind whipped her blonde braids as she scurried down the path.
A few minutes later she reached the Olsens’ cabin and rapped on the wooden door. Mrs. Olsen peeked out, her blue eyes wide with surprise.
“Why, Annie! What are you doing out in this bitter wind? Your cheeks are as bright as strawberries. Come in and warm yourself.”
Annie’s fingers and toes tingled as she stood by the crackling fire. “Mother asked me to trade these potatoes for a cabbage,” she said.
“Oh, child, I’m sorry. I have no more cabbages. We ate our last one yesterday.” Mrs. Olsen stirred the big black kettle hanging over the fire. “Would you like some porridge?”
“No, thank you,” Annie replied. “I can’t stay. Do you know where I can get a cabbage?”
“The Petersens may have one. Jens had a good crop this year. But if you go there, you must hurry. It feels like there’s a storm brewing.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Olsen,” Annie said as she hurried outside. Tucking the bag under her arm, she plunged her hands deep into her pockets and trudged forward. The icy wind slapped her face, and black clouds rumbled overhead.
After what seemed like hours, she reached the Petersens. Luckily, Mrs. Petersen had an extra cabbage to trade for Annie’s potatoes. Waving good-bye, Annie headed home. Tiny snowflakes fluttered around her, covering the path with a goose-feathery whiteness.
Annie thought of her family’s warm cabin. She could almost smell the savory lutefisk (dried codfish) and potatoes cooking. Perhaps her mother was also making riskrem (rice pudding) and hiding an almond inside. Maybe Annie would be the lucky one to find it.
The snow began to fall faster. Thick flakes coated her eyelashes and buried the path. Annie stared at the landscape ahead of her, struggling to find the trail. “Is that our cabin?” she thought, noticing a dark shape in the swirling snow. But it was only a thicket of trees. Annie was confused. “Where am I?” she wondered. “Why do the mountains look like giants?” She felt like she was in a dream.
Huge snowdrifts seemed like a warm, white feather bed, urging her to stop and sleep. At first she resisted by thinking about home. She plodded forward on what felt like wooden-post legs, clutching her cabbage. But finally her weary legs collapsed, and she lay down, wrapping herself in a soft blanket of snow.
Back at home, Annie’s father stared out into the whirling whiteness. Where was Annie? He bundled up in his heavy coat and grabbed his lantern. He hurried down the trail, shouting into the wind, “Annie, Annie!”
Next to a giant spruce tree he noticed a strange mound. He rushed forward, swinging his lantern. In the dim light, he saw a pale figure in the snow. Was it Annie? He rushed to her, gathering her in his arms and wrapping his fur coat around her.
“Please, God,” he prayed, “let her live.”
A faint breath stirred Annie’s lips as she whimpered, “Papa.”
“Annie, you’re alive! It’s a miracle!” he cried. “God has preserved your life for a special purpose.”

This truth was well stated in a children’s book, The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. In the story, the little prince became friends with a fox. Upon parting, the fox shared a secret with the little prince. He said, “Here is my secret … : It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.”

“Once there was and twice there wasn’t a Turkish sultan who loved to eat. …” And so the story unwinds as you read of the gluttonous sultan who eats soup and rice and yogurt and bread and who daily weighs himself. He finds that he is “finally growing to be a fine figure of a ruler.” Soon the sultan doesn’t fit into his clothing and finally can’t fit into his bathtub. He diets. As the physicians try to cure the sultan of fatness, each fails and is sent to prison. Then the hamal arrives. (A hamal in Turkey, even today, is a public porter who can carry incredible loads.) In this Turkish folk tale it is the hamal who has straightforward answers to the sultan’s problems, and these make the story delightful!