Gospel Story Finder

A more recent example, former Eastern States Mission President James H. Moyle, writing in the 1940s, pointed out how his call to be a deacon actually changed his boyhood behavior. When called by his bishop to be a deacon, young James, who had been hanging around with the rougher boys in the ward, hesitated briefly and then accepted:
“I gradually broke away from the roughs, and so devoted myself to the duties of deacon that the bishop said I was the best in the ward. We cleaned out the meetinghouse, swept, mopped, and dusted, filled the coal-oil lamps, trimmed the wicks, made the fire, did all the janitorial work, and put the house in order generally, and looked after the door and entrance. … We took our turns cleaning the meetinghouse and had to do it frequently. I was very conscientious about it, and never thereafter allowed myself to be wayward or irreligious.”

We often don’t know the reach of a simple act of kindness. The Prophet Joseph Smith was a model of compassion and love. One day, a group of eight African Americans arrived at the Prophet’s home in Nauvoo. They had traveled from their home in Buffalo, New York, some 800 miles away, so they could be with the prophet of God and with the Saints. Although they were free, they were forced to hide from those who might mistake them for runaway slaves. They endured cold and hardship, wearing out shoes and then socks until they walked on bare feet all the way to the City of Joseph. When they arrived in Nauvoo, the Prophet welcomed them into his home and helped each of them find a place to stay.
But there was one, a girl named Jane, who did not have a place to go, and she wept, not knowing what to do.
“We won’t have tears here,” Joseph said to her. He turned to Emma and said, “Here’s a girl who says she [doesn’t have a] home. Don’t you think she has a home here?”
Emma agreed. From that day on, Jane lived as a member of the family.
Years after the Prophet’s Martyrdom and after she had joined the pioneers and made the long trek to Utah, Jane said that sometimes she would still “wake up in the middle of the night, and just think about Brother Joseph and Sister Emma and how good they [were] to me. Joseph Smith,” she said, “was the finest man I ever saw on Earth.”

The Lord will bless you and your posterity as He is blessing mine today. I am so grateful for the times we can go to the temple with our children, Cari Anne, Kelli, and Jorge. They each have had their own individual experiences during different times.

Our oldest, Cari Anne, has been an example of faithfulness to us. She loved her time here at BYUI, but her academic journey was not easy. Cari Anne decided with a roommate to attend the temple weekly and saw the Lord bless her and help her finish her degree. She’s now a successful teacher, leading her own preschool in Queen Creek, Arizona. Her and her eternal companion, Trennon, have made us the grandparents to Nixon and Lana, who we absolutely adore.

A few weeks ago our family was driving home from sacrament meeting. Being the financial clerk, I had stayed after church to finish the tithing deposit. My family waited for me, and by the time we left, we were all very hungry. I suggested we stop at a new take-out restaurant and buy some food to take home. My wife agreed, and I made a sharp turn toward the restaurant. Then, in the rearview mirror, I noticed our daughter C. J. sitting with her arms folded and a frown on her face. She reminded me sternly that it was the Sabbath and that we should keep it holy. “There is plenty of food at home for us to make something to eat,” she said. With that, I made another sharp turn toward home. We are grateful that our daughter reminds us to keep the Sabbath day holy.

Let me use a personal example: When I was a child, I found my mother crying alone one day. When I asked her why, she gently said, “I need you to be a good boy.” Even though I knew that I was not the cause of her distress, I loved and trusted my mother like no one else and wanted to make her life less difficult. So, with tears in my eyes and with all the solemnity that a nine-year-old can have, I promised her that day I would always strive to be the best son and make her proud.
Can you imagine the power that promise had—and still has—on me?
That promise with her would guide my life. Before making decisions, I would consider whether my actions would please her. The bond of this promise and the relationship with my mother were the anchors for my conduct throughout my life.
Years later, as I came to know Jesus Christ better, I already knew how to base my faith in Him. I made covenants with the Lord, and as I have sought to honor them, He has forgiven my sins, guided my life, and “filled me with his love” to the very core of my being. Christ has instilled in me a deep love, respect, and loyalty for Him.

My most able and durable teacher has been my wife. An ever-deeper grasp of Middle Eastern history, archaeology, languages, and ancient scripture texts has come from her to me—more than I received at Harvard. At your age and stage, she did not impose on herself the faulty logic of either/or. She laid the cornerstone and the footings of formal education, and then she poured her whole soul into her budding family and kept her mind and heart open to other learning opportunities. As our nest emptied, she gave her spare energies to graduate study and then to professional teaching. Over the years our home and our lives, not to mention the lives of her students, have been enhanced. Our table readings and conversations with our own children—and now with theirs—have been the liveliest seminars I have ever been in.

What has helped your testimony grow stronger? Recently I had an experience that made my testimony grow and helped me realize that my Heavenly Father really does know me and love me. I was in a scary situation with my younger brother, and we prayed that the Holy Ghost would tell my mom to come and get us. She received a strong impression to come right away. When she showed up a few minutes later, we were so relieved and grateful that Heavenly Father answers prayers.

Bishop Richard C. Edgley, when he was a General Authority and in the Presiding Bishopric, told this story of learning a valuable lesson on integrity: “After my freshman year of college, I spent the summer working at the newly opened Jackson Lake Lodge, located in Moran, Wyoming.” He explains that after the summer he returned home and was greeted by his father in the driveway. He then said,

After a hug and a few pleasantries, he looked into the backseat of [my] car and saw three Jackson Lake Lodge towels—the kind you cannot buy. With a disappointed look he merely said, ‘I expected more of you.’ I hadn’t thought that what I had done was all that wrong. To me these towels were but a symbol of a full summer’s work at a luxury hotel, a rite of passage. Nevertheless, by taking them I felt I had lost the trust and confidence of my father, and I was devastated.

The following weekend I . . . began the 370-mile round trip back to Jackson Lake Lodge to return three towels. My father never asked why I was returning to the lodge, and I never explained. It just didn’t need to be said. This was an expensive and painful lesson on honesty that has stayed with me throughout my life.

Bishop Edgley, then commented, “Sadly, some of the greatest missing values in today’s world are honesty and integrity.”

Things had been hard since Joseph’s death. Nauvoo wasn’t allowed to use its police force, so bad men did what they wanted. They burned farms outside town and caused trouble in Nauvoo. Then some of the Latter-day Saint boys formed the “Whittling and Whistling Brigade.” When one of the bad men came to town, the boys followed him everywhere, whistling and whittling pieces of wood with their pocketknives. There were too many boys for the man to fight, and they wouldn’t let him out of their sight long enough for him to do anything bad, so finally he would leave and look for mischief someplace else. Howard and George couldn’t wait to join the brigade, but they were only six and four then, and Mama wouldn’t let them use her knives to learn to whittle. They practiced whistling, however. Finally, though, even the brave boys couldn’t keep the bad men away.
Aurelia squeezed George’s hand and pointed to show him the temple across the river. Even on this cold, gray day, the tall building seemed to shine on the hill. She remembered when its roof had caught fire one day. She lived only a block away and had run with a bucket of water to help fight the fire. It had been put out, and work on the temple had continued. Just two months ago, Mama and Papa had gone to the temple to be sealed together. Mama said that that was the hardest part of leaving Nauvoo—leaving the temple they’d worked so hard to build. It still wasn’t quite finished. “Heaven only knows when we’ll have a temple again,” Mama had said. “We’ve been blessed to have this one.”
Aurelia looked to the left of the temple to see if their house was visible from here. She couldn’t see it. But she did see Mary Ann Stearn’s house. Mary Ann and her cousin Ellen Pratt were Aurelia’s best friends. They had gone to school together and played together. Aurelia stared at Mary Ann’s house, but she knew that Mary Ann wasn’t there. She, too, was going west with her family. Aurelia wondered if they’d meet again on the way to the Rocky Mountains. Oh, she hoped so! It was hard leaving everything and everyone to travel to a strange land. Why shouldn’t the bad men have to leave instead? It wasn’t fair to be forced to leave friends, homes, gardens, orchards, the temple!
Thinking of Mary Ann made Aurelia remember something else. At the last general conference, in October, Mary Ann’s stepfather, Parley P. Pratt had spoken to the Saints. People had crowded into the temple to listen. Elder Pratt spoke about how hard the Saints had worked to build a beautiful city and temple and how hard it was to leave it all behind. But the Lord had other plans for this people, Elder Pratt had said. He explained that a small nursery could produce many thousands of fruit trees, but that as they grew, they must be transplanted. They need room to grow if they are to produce fruit. He promised that the Lord had a place for the Saints to grow, where they wouldn’t be crowded and where they would enjoy liberty and equal rights.
Aurelia knew that it was true. She thought of those tiny twigs of fruit trees she and Ellen and Papa had planted. She had seen them grow and blossom and produce sweet fruit. It was hard to leave Nauvoo, but it was time to be transplanted to a place where she and her family and all the Saints could grow strong and bloom.
Aurelia murmured, “Farewell, Nauvoo,” and turned with George to face the west. It would be a long journey to the Rockies, but she had her family and the true gospel. She was ready.

On one occasion when I arrived home late from church meetings, my wife expressed concern about one of our sons. She was worried, because the events of the day had seemed to demonstrate that our son’s thoughts and actions were not riveted upon serving a mission. Her concerns clearly indicated a desire that I speak with him before going to bed. When I asked where he was, she indicated that he was in his room preparing to retire. I went to the room and sat on the floor next to his bed. I asked if I could speak to him about something that was sacred. He replied ”certainly.” The hour was late, I was tired and so was he—I asked “son, are you still planning on serving a mission?” “Yes,” he answered. “I’ve always planned on serving, and I haven’t changed.” “Son, do you know what qualifies a young man to serve a mission? Do you know what it means to be worthy?” “Yes, Dad,” he said, “I understand the requirements and standards.” I said “thank you, I have one last question: Are you clean and worthy to serve? Could you accept a call if one were issued to you today?”

There was a moment of reflective silence, then he sat up from his pillow, leaned over on one elbow and thoughtfully declared: “Dad, remember when I was little, and we started having father’s interviews?” I said “yes,” ”well” he said, “I promised you then that I would serve a mission and you promised me that you and mom would serve a mission when you got old... [then there was another pause), are you guys having some problem that will stop you from serving...because maybe I can help you.” Quite frankly I was speechless. Together we laughed and felt the warmth of the Holy Ghost in our hearts.

This was a wonderful, beautiful, spontaneous, and sanctifying experience. He has now returned from his mission and married in the temple. But following the pattern established many years ago, we continue to have father’s interviews, though not as regular as they once were.

Meanwhile, World War I broke out. To help connect women with each other during that challenging time, the Church published its Relief Society Magazine, which became an important resource for the sisters in Melbourne. They discussed its articles, poetry and stories as they gathered to knit socks and prepare parcels for soldiers in Europe and the Middle East.

Elizabeth’s two grandsons had enlisted to serve in the war. Her son Horace also enlisted and was sent to the Middle East as part of Australia’s Light Horse regiments.

Church attendance dwindled as more brethren were called to military duty. Soon, it was up to the women—Elizabeth and her friends—to keep their small branch together. The sisters looked forward to their weekly meetings for spiritual renewal and social and personal upliftment.

By the end of the war, almost every family in their area had lost a brother, a husband, a son or grandson. For Elizabeth, it was her grandson William Wallace Cameron Butler who died in the Battle of Fromelles. The bond amongst the sisters in the branch grew even stronger as they supported each other through the heartbreak. Then they began rebuilding their lives.

I think of a little story President Benson told us a short time ago when he told about being at a banquet back in the East. He sat next to a minister, and the minister said: “Mr. Benson, I’d like to visit with you after the banquet.” So they got in another part of the building, and he said: “Now there are two things in your church we would like to copy.”

Brother Benson said: “And what are they?”

“Well, first, it’s your missionary system,” he said. “You send your missionaries all over the world. You don’t pay them; you make them pay their way to their field of labor, maintain themselves while they are there, and all the Church does for them is to pay their return fare when they come back.” He said: “Now in our church, we have a missionary fund. But,” he said, “we offer to pay our men to the field of labor, to maintain them while they are there, and then to return them after they are released—and we can’t get anybody to go!”

At an Aaronic Priesthood encampment testimony meeting, the boys formed a long line waiting for a turn at the microphone. As they bore their testimonies, a nonmember boy, sitting by the Scoutmaster, kept saying, out loud: “How can they say that?” “They don’t know it’s true!”
About an hour later, caught up by the spirit of the meeting and the sincerity of the boys, the nonmember friend found himself in line, waiting to bear his testimony. When his turn came, he declared: “I’ve got to join this Church! I know the gospel is true!”

“I was walking several steps ahead of grandpa [President Lorenzo Snow] when he stopped me, saying … ‘It was right here that the Lord Jesus Christ appeared to me at the time of the death of President Woodruff. … He stood right here, about three feet above the floor. It looked as thought He stood on a plate of solid gold.’
“Grandpa told me what a glorious personage the Savior is and described His hands, feet, countenance and beautiful White Robes, all of which were of such a glory of whiteness and brightness that he could hardly gaze upon Him.
“Then grandpa said … I want you to remember that this is the testimony of your grandfather, that he told you with his own lips that he actually saw the Savior here in the Temple and talked with Him face to face” (Allie Young Pond, personal journal).

It was a rainy day in March 1988. I was taking my car to the mechanic because the hazard and blinker lights did not work. As I drove toward the highway, I felt a strong impression that I should move into the right lane for slower traffic. But when I reached the road, I somehow ended up in the left lane—the one for faster traffic.
I was traveling at about seventy kilometers per hour when I rounded a curve in the road and saw a car stopped ahead of me in my lane.
Many thoughts flashed through my mind. I thought about switching on my right blinker to signal to the traffic behind me that I wanted to change lanes, but the blinker didn’t work. I thought about braking and turning to the right, but a truck was traveling parallel to my car. And to my left was a long, muddy shoulder.
Not knowing what else to do, I stepped on the brakes. Despite the wet, slippery road, my car stopped a few meters behind the car in my lane.
As I got out into the rain and signaled to the other cars and trucks that came around the curve, I thanked Heavenly Father that I was safe. I also asked his forgiveness for not listening to the warning he had sent to me.
I had been taught a lesson on listening to the promptings of the Holy Ghost that I will never forget.

I don’t think I had ever even seen a homeless person until I moved to Puerto Rico with my family before my junior year of high school. Then the day after Christmas, the youth and leaders of my ward gathered at the church building to put together boxes of food to distribute to the homeless people who live on the streets of Old San Juan.
I had been to Old San Juan several times, but there weren’t any homeless people out during the day, or else I just hadn’t noticed them. When we arrived in the city, each of us set out with one box and the hope we would find someone who needed what we had to offer.
To my surprise, it wasn’t difficult. The first man we saw was selling little bags of tostones that his wife had made. When we asked him if he could use the food we had, he smiled and took it, thanking us until we were too far away to hear him. Before we left, he handed us a bag of his snacks to show his appreciation.
After giving away four of our boxes, we had only one box left. We got in the car and decided we would keep our eyes out for someone. It was getting late, and we needed to get back to the wardhouse.
As we were driving, one of the girls in the car told the driver to stop. “Do you see that guy over there?” she asked.
“Yeah, but he doesn’t look homeless.”
“I know, but I have seen him three times tonight, and he’s just been walking around.”
With that, she jumped out of the car and yelled, “Necesita comida?” or “Do you need food?”
The sweetest, most sincere smile I have ever seen came to his face as she handed him the box, covered with Christmas wrapping and filled with food.
A tear fell down his cheek as he said, “Feliz Navidad!” We could tell by his “Merry Christmas” greeting that one box filled with crackers, apples, and juice made a difference in his life.

One final story—once again from when I was a bishop. One night, while I was in a sound sleep, the doorbell rang. I stumbled to answer it and found a young member of my priests quorum at the door. I knew him well—well enough to have gone on outings with him, to have prayed with and about him, and to have taught him. I knew him as well as a good bishop knows any active eighteen-year-old priest, which was well enough for me to ask what he was doing at my front door in the middle of the night.
He said, “I have to talk to you, bishop. I’ve just done something serious, and I can’t go home.”
He was right. It was serious. I invited him in, and we talked. He talked and I listened, then I talked and he listened, until dawn. He had many questions. He had committed a terrible sin. He wanted to know if there was hope. He wanted to know how to repent. He wanted to know if repentance included telling his parents. He wanted to know if there was any chance of his going on a mission. He wanted to know many other things.
I didn’t have all of the answers, but I told him there was hope. I told him the way back would be difficult, but it was possible. I explained what I knew about the process of repentance and helped him see what he must do. I told him if he really wanted to go on a mission that that decision could only be made in the future after he had repented. Then I told him to go home, and he did.
He made his peace with his parents. He asked forgiveness from those he had wronged. He put sin and bad company behind him and did everything he could to repent.
A year or so later, five young men from that quorum went on missions. He was one of them. I was close to them all. I attended each of their farewells. They all served honorable missions. Within a brief time after returning home, they all were married in the temple. My wife and I attended each of the ceremonies. I could take a piece of paper, even today, and write their names and the names of their wives and some of their children. That is how well I knew them.
But now let me tell you something—something very private and very important. I cannot remember the name of the young man who came to my home in the middle of the night. I know he was one of the five, but I don’t remember which one.
There was a time I used to worry about that. I thought perhaps my memory might be failing. I consciously tried to recall who it was that had the problem, but I could not.
I was eventually released, and I put the entire incident out of my mind. On a late evening walk some years later, I found myself in the ward where I had once been bishop. The shadowy quiet brought back many memories. I was deep in thought when I realized I was walking in front of a house where one of my priests had lived years before. Suddenly, the story of the young man I have mentioned came to mind, and again I tried to remember which of the five he had been. Had he lived in that house? I wondered. Why couldn’t I remember?
As I continued on my way, something happened—something difficult to explain, but real to me. I seemed to hear a voice which said: “Don’t you understand, my son? I have forgotten that. Why should you remember?”
I was chagrined. There was no satisfactory answer to the question. I have never wondered about it again. And I knew more surely then than I had ever known before that the Lord is pleased when his children return to him.

Great-Grandfather Eyring met Swiss immigrant Mary Bommeli when he joined her pioneer company on his trek to Utah following his mission. Mary, whose family joined the Church when she was 24, had been incarcerated in Berlin, Germany, for sharing the gospel. The night she was arrested, she wrote a letter to the judge who was to hear her case. She told the judge, “a man of the world,” about the Resurrection and the spirit world, encouraging him to repent in order to save himself and his family from “great sorrow.” The judge soon dropped the charges, and Mary was released from jail. Henry and Mary married shortly after reaching the Salt Lake Valley.

My mother, Madeline Bitner, was another great influence in my life. In her youth she was a fine athlete and a champion sprinter. She was always kind and loving, but her pace was exhausting. Often she would say, “Hurry up.” And when she did, we picked up the pace. Perhaps that was one of the reasons I had quick acceleration when I played football.
My mother had great expectations for her children and expected the best from them. I can still remember her saying, “Don’t be a scrub. You must do better.” Scrub was her word for someone who was lazy and not living up to his potential.
My mother passed away when she was 87 years old, and I think about her often and miss her more than I can say.

When a guy I was dating opened up to me about his addiction to pornography, the first thing I said was, “How can I help?”
He replied, “Come with me to the addiction-recovery meetings. There is a support group for family and friends that you can attend.”
I knew about the 12-step addiction recovery program, but I had no idea there were support groups. I was a little hesitant at first, but I reminded myself that I had asked him how I could help, and this was what he asked of me.
During the first meeting, I took a deep breath and walked to the room where the support group was meeting. When I entered the room, I felt ready to learn how I could save my boyfriend from his addiction.
But I was surprised at what I discovered.
They handed me a book, Support Guide: Help for Spouses and Family of Those in Recovery, and we read aloud from the book during each class.
Not once did I learn how I could save my boyfriend.
Instead, the support guide’s 12 lessons showed me that before I could support anyone else, I first needed to lay down my burdens at the Lord’s feet and allow Him to heal me (see 3 Nephi 9:13)—to heal me from my own faults and struggles and to bear my pain of supporting a loved one recovering from addiction.
I realized that I needed to rely on and turn to the Savior to find peace, hope, and strength. And because of that, I feel much better equipped in being able to support others who face addictive or compulsive behaviors.
“Our priority must be to personally draw closer to the Lord,” the support guide says. “… This will place us in a better position to support our loved ones. No matter what they may choose to do, the peace and hope of the Savior can be with us” (Support Guide: Help for Spouses and Family of Those in Recovery [2017], iii).
As I continued to attend the course, I learned how much the Savior loves me and how He truly knows my situation. I also learned how no addiction will ever alter how much He loves any one of Heavenly Father’s children.
But I think the most important lesson I learned while attending the support group is I can’t save my boyfriend (or anyone else). Only Jesus Christ can. Through His atoning sacrifice, He has the power to save.
I’m extremely grateful that He is our Savior, for He knows how to perfectly succor us (see Alma 7:11–12). As we trust in His grace, I know that we will receive what is necessary for our personal healing. We will be buoyed up by Him and will be more able to support our loved ones who face addictions.
Because of the support group and ARP classes, my boyfriend felt comfortable telling me when he felt triggered because he knew I wasn’t there to judge but to love and support him in his efforts. His journey of struggle is not over yet, but I saw the improvement and change that the principles from these classes made in both of our lives. And I felt the hand of the Lord continually.