Gospel Story Finder

I am 21 years old and about to serve a mission for our Lord. My faith is under a lot of pressures right now, but the Church is my guide. Suddenly I am faced with many different choices in my life. Should I stay at this job, further my career elsewhere, go on a mission, or stay home teaching Sunbeams? But even when I’m totally mixed up, I know that I can get an answer through prayer.
In the August 1984 New Era, Elder Simpson spoke about testimonies. There is no one moment in time when we can stop and say “I’ve made it.” We must work on our testimonies all the time so we can gain and hold on to the serenity, confidence, and inner peace our testimony of this gospel can give us.
Thank you so much for all the times the New Era gave me that peace when mine was lacking.

When I was a young man, I enjoyed participating in athletic activities of various kinds. I was never very expert in these things, but this did not diminish my interest nor the satisfaction that came from my participation. I was particularly interested in track and field events. In my school years I competed in the hurdle races as well as in the shot put and the discus throw. These last two events required that the participant launch his effort from within a ring that was marked out on the playing field. So long as the competitor remained within the ring while making his throw of the discus or the put of the shot, his effort was qualified to be measured in the competition. If he stepped outside the circle, his effort was disqualified as a foul. Generally, three preliminary attempts were permitted in each of these events, and then three more for those whose tosses were long enough to qualify them for the finals. If a competitor fouled in each of his attempts, he was out of the competition.
Those of us who participated in these sports learned the importance of staying within the mark.

As I lay in the motel room anticipating the next day’s state cross-country race, I struggled with all the difficult emotions a 16-year-old can have. I felt I was running worse than in past years. I felt ugly. Having never had a date or a boyfriend compounded my feelings of insecurity. I wanted so badly to feel accepted.
I had gone to bed early, and my teammates thought I was asleep. I heard them giggling, and then they nudged my shoulder and said, “Here, Jenny. Have some water.” I could distinctly smell that it was not water.
I was angry at these “friends” for trying to play a trick on me. Did they think I was stupid? I was scared they might force the alcohol down my throat. I yearned for the security of my family, but that seemed childish for someone my age.
A thousand questions raced through my mind. By drinking, will I be part of the “in” crowd? Will the alcohol make me beautiful? Will it give me a boyfriend? Will I be able to run faster or even win the race tomorrow?
I knew the answers to these questions. I said firmly, “No, that’s not water, and I’m not going to drink it.” Even though both of those girls beat me in the race the next day, I knew I had won a more important race in the Lord’s eyes.
The bus trip home seemed particularly long. I was anxious to return to my family and tell my mother what had happened.
The next night at dinner Mom presented me with a gift. My five brothers and sisters watched me open it. It was to let me know my family was proud of my decision to live the Word of Wisdom.
Around the dinner table that night my family helped me feel talented, beautiful, and accepted—an acceptance I may never find at school or on a cross-country team.

When Ulisses Soares was a young man, one of his friends invited him to a costume party. It sounded like a lot of fun.
“But as soon as I arrived, I saw people doing bad things that were against what I had been taught,” Elder Soares recalls. “I asked myself, ‘How could I have put myself in this situation?’ I knew better.”
Elder Soares had received a ride to the party from some friends and had no way of getting home until after the party ended. He quickly said a prayer.
“I said, Lord, help me. I made a mistake,” he remembers. “As soon as I had finished, He guided me. I found a way out of the home and stayed outside during the whole party.”
The next day at church, he says, “I was able to worthily partake of the sacrament even though all kinds of bad things were happening around me the night before.”
That experience was one of several in his youth that taught Elder Soares the importance of holding tight to the iron rod.

Finally, I will deal briefly with the conversion of a Protestant minister, who after much tribulation and persecution by ministers and friends when he decided to convert, gave the following testimony:
“I have written this in order to show that as in the Bible, when a man finds a ‘pearl of great price,’ he will sell all that he has if necessary in order to obtain it [see Matt. 13:46]. I have found that peace and truth within the Mormon church for which I had been seeking for over twelve years.
“I have not quite completed my first reading of the Book of Mormon, but already the riches of its truths as set down by the Prophet Joseph Smith have become a vital part of our family’s spiritual life. No man could have written this book except through the power of God. We accept the test of hatred through which we have passed as God’s test of our sincerity in our seeking.
“My prayer is that others will not continue to willfully blind their eyes, refusing even to read the Book of Mormon in order to learn. No man can read this book and not have his life changed. I have not overnight become an expert on the Mormon faith, but I am an eager student and am not afraid to learn what the Holy Spirit would teach through those to whom He has given the authority.
“My personal tragedy as a Protestant minister was that I wasted a good deal of valuable time trying to keep going an organization and institution which no longer, with any stretch of imagination, can be shown to be doing Christ’s work.”

Like Elizabeth, Terry Glassie has found that gospel values affect more than the spiritual side of life. He received the Cook Island academic award and has moved to New Zealand to study engineering. “The Church helped give me direction in my life,” says Terry.

Whenever my friends and I see our friend at either school or in activities outside of classes, we usually find opportunities to share our thoughts on the gospel. She respects the gospel, and I have seen her turn away from temptation.

His love of drawing has given him a chance to cheer others and has helped him gain some interesting friends as well. When Brad was eleven years old, he was watching a car race on television. He was stunned to see a car crash and burn in the pits. One of the men severely injured was Derrick Walker, the manager of a racing team.
“I drew a race car and sent it to him in the hospital as a get-well card. After that, he sent me a thank-you letter. We’ve been friends ever since,” says Brad. That simple correspondence has blossomed into a special relationship. Since then, Walker and Roger Penske, another racing friend, have flown Brad and a guest to major races each year.

When he was a teenager, the Saints in Boise, Idaho, met with Church officials to talk about building a new tabernacle. The Boise members were asked to donate money to build the tabernacle, and Howard was the first to raise his hand. He pledged twenty-five dollars—a lot of money for a teenager in those days—as his offering. “I worked and saved until I was able to pay my commitment in full,” he said.

It is good to be an answer to someone’s prayer. And this is what we found three weeks before Christmas as we approached our friends, the Holy Family Sisters of the Needy of St. Mary’s Cathedral, to see what the Church could do to help with feeding some of the homeless in Aberdeen.
They said they had been praying for food to make meals for at least 70 people on Dec 22, 2020. After they received an email from our stake director of communication offering help, we were soon working together to make it happen, with food, clothes, toiletries, and bags of groceries. The week before Christmas we collected and delivered all they needed. On the day some missionaries and some members went to the convent and cooked and cleaned.
Sister Mary Joseph said that she would never stop thanking the Church for their love and generosity.
Bishop Sean Goldie of the Aberdeen Ward also attended and met with Father Keith Herrera of St. Mary’s Cathedral, and Pastor NJ (Njabulo King Ndlovu) from the Seventh day Adventists in Aberdeen. Many long-lasting friendships were made that day.
It is good to just serve together.

“Hello, Sheri! Are you there?” a friendly voice crackled from the shortwave radio. Australia’s School of the Air classes were ready to begin.
Sheri North sat up straight, arranged her school books a little, and adjusted the radio dial labeled squelch.
“I’m here, Mr. Walker,” she told her teacher.
Mr. Walker sat in an almost empty classroom a hundred miles away at Broken Hill in New South Wales, Australia.
Sheri listened attentively while Mr. Walker finished calling the roll. Then she heard a horse whinny and her mind wandered outside to where Jumper, her pinto pony, pawed the parched earth of his pen. She glanced at the calendar above her desk—December 22—two more days and she’d be free for Christmas vacation. Though it was only nine o’clock, the hot, dry air told her the day would be another scorcher.
It’s funny, she thought, how my cousin in the United States always sends Christmas cards showing ice and snow. She’d probably be surprised to know that south of the equator we have summer in December and winter in July.
“Sheri! Sheri North! Come in!” an anxious voice shouted.
Sheri’s daydreams were shattered by Mr. Walker’s call over the radio.
“Oh! I’m sorry, Mr. Walker,” Sheri said as she pressed the microphone switch. “I guess my mind wandered.”
“Thank heavens you’re still there! I thought for a minute that you had disappeared too.”
“What do you mean too?” Sheri asked.
“Do you know Donny Fisher? He lives about ten miles north of you.”
“Sure, he’s a little red-haired boy my cousin sometimes plays with. He’s the only other eight-year-old in the whole neighborhood.”
“Well, he doesn’t answer his radio this morning; and he hasn’t missed a single day of class since we started this term. Do you think your father could drive over and see if the family is having some kind of trouble?”
Sheri tried to stifle her fears for a moment as thoughts of danger flashed through her mind. She knew families living in Australia’s outback (isolated rural countryside) had to be self-sufficient—modern-day pioneers, her father always called them. They were so isolated from each other, they even held church services over the shortwave radio.
Sheri’s father insisted that all his children learn to use a fire extinguisher, for there were no fire engines available. He taught them to shoot a rifle to drive off the dingos (wild dogs) that sometimes frightened the cattle with their wolf-like howling. Even her two-year-old brother was beginning to ride a horse, for horses were the only sure transportation across the parched, dry desert where cars and trucks habitually broke down.
“My father is out with the sheep,” Sheri explained. “He’s been gone three days and we don’t expect him home until tomorrow.”
“What about your mother?” Mr. Walker asked. “Could she go see if they need help?”
“I’ll ask, but I don’t think so. The baby is feverish and my mother can’t leave her when she’s so sick.”
“Then you’ll have to go,” Mr. Walker said in a firm voice. “It’s quite a responsibility, Sheri, but you’re the oldest in your family. People must grow up fast out here if they expect to survive.”
Sheri gulped hard. It wasn’t the ten miles that bothered her so much—she could ride that far in less than two hours—what worried her most was how she could help when she arrived. What if their house has burned down and they’re all dead? What if they’ve been attacked by outlaw aborigines or by a pack of dingos? What could I possibly do to help?
“All right . … I’ll go if my mother says it’s OK,” she hesitantly agreed. “But I want you to know I’m plenty scared! I don’t know what I’ll do when I get there.”
“Look. You just radio me, and if they’re sick or hurt, I’ll send a flying doctor over in a plane to help out. You won’t be alone for long,” Mr. Walker consoled.
“Just one more thing,” Sheri added. “You won’t mark me absent from school, will you?”
“No, I’ll give you full credit,” Mr. Walker chuckled. “Now skedaddle and get moving. Don’t forget to take a canteen, and don’t ride too fast. You can wear out a horse in no time at all in this heat.”
“I’ll be careful,” Sheri assured him.
Within minutes Sheri had saddled and mounted Jumper. Her mother slung a pair of heavy saddlebags behind Jumper’s saddle. Then she smiled and patted Sheri’s knee.
“There’s a first-aid kit in this side,” Mother explained, pointing to one bag. “I’ve packed a lunch in the other one and also a pistol. Don’t use it unless you have to!”
“Don’t worry, Mother, I won’t. I hate the loud bang and the way it kicks,” Sheri said, nudging her horse and trotting away.
“Radio me when you get there so I can stop worrying,” her mother called.
Sheri waved, but didn’t look back. Her mind was on the problems ahead. She rode past scattered dwarf acacia trees, saltbush shrubs, and tough spinifex grass growing in large clumps in the sandy areas.
Suddenly, Jumper pulled up short, rearing on his hind legs so quickly he almost threw Sheri from the saddle.
A large red kangaroo leaped from a bush in front of them. He was followed by another and then two more.
Sheri sighed, then called after them, “G’wan home you crazy wallaroos!”
The sun was high when the Fisher Sheep Station (ranch) appeared on the horizon. Sheri spotted a man on horseback and Jumper broke into a gallop.
Approaching the jackaroo (apprentice sheepherder) and his dog, Sheri was puzzled to see everything appearing pretty much as normal.
“Hold up there, young lady!” the man called. “What’s the big rush?”
“I rode over to help save the Fisher family,” Sheri said.
“Save ’em?” The man looked confused. “Save ’em from what? The ants or the lizards?”
“No! You don’t understand.” Sheri didn’t appreciate his dry sense of humor. “Mr. Walker, my teacher, sent me over to save them when Donny didn’t answer the radio at roll call this morning. I’ve got to help!”
The man burst out laughing, but stopped when he saw a tear run down Sheri’s cheek. “Hey, look, miss, if you really want to help and you don’t mind getting your hands greasy, you can ride over there to the tool repair shop and help Mr. Fisher fix the electric generator. He’s been working on it since late last night, and I’m sure he’d be happy to have all the help he can get.”
“You mean Donny didn’t answer the radio because there’s no electricity?”
“Kind of seems that way, doesn’t it?” the man said, his eyes twinkling. “And you’ve had an unexpected day off from school.”

The Los Angeles California Temple, dedicated in 1956, was the second temple to have an angel Moroni statue. Millard F. Malin made the plaster casts of his 4.7-meter statue in Salt Lake City. These casts were sent in five pieces to New York City, where they were cast in aluminum and welded together. The statue weighs 953 kilograms.

The figure has Native American features, wears a cloak of Mayan design, holds a 2.4-meter trumpet to his lips, and carries a replica of the gold plates in his left arm.6 It was placed on the 81-meter tower of the Los Angeles California Temple on 10 October 1953.

I encourage you to become familiar with the Book of Mormon, particularly. I remember an incident with my own son. He called me one day to ask if I wouldn’t come up to his bedroom. When I got there, I found he had several books on the bed. He said to me, “You know, I have a job with my uncle herding turkeys this summer. I once heard you say that the turkey is the dumbest animal on the farm, so I assume I’m going to have time on my hands.” Then he asked me to pick out the books I would recommend.

I picked up a little military edition of the Book of Mormon. I said, “This will fit in your hip pocket.”

He said, “You mean to tell me I’m to take only one book?”

I said, “Yes, and you’ll learn to love it, and you’ll learn to love missionary work”—and he did.

Jared laughed, recalling his first memory of Ryan. The Wilsons had moved to the house across the street when Jared was only four. Glancing out his window at the new neighbors for the first time, he saw Ryan, barefooted and wearing nothing but a long T-shirt, furiously dribbling a rubber basketball with his fat, pudgy hands. He had looked up at Jared and flashed him a crooked, dimpled grin, inviting him to come play. Although Jared didn’t have an ounce of athletic blood in him, the two fast became friends.
They were the same age, their birthdays only three days apart. Despite the fact they had practically nothing else in common, they were inseparable even at an early age. They did everything together, from sharing animal crackers in sacrament meeting to constructing towns in the sandpile to destroy with their Tonka trucks. They were baptized on the same day. When Ryan completed his Eagle project, Jared completed his.
When they entered high school, their differences caused them to go separate ways. But it didn’t affect their friendship. Jared was at Ryan’s ball games, cheering from the band section of the bleachers. And Ryan was equally supportive of Jared’s interests. He attended the band concerts, science fairs, and debate meets. They were still the best of friends.

Both Michael J. and Lorrie Ann Burgy of the Peachtree City Ward, Atlanta Georgia Stake, have earned top honors in their favorite fields, science and music, respectively.
Michael, a junior in high school, was awarded first place in the senior division of the chemistry section in the Georgia State Science and Engineering Fair. He’s also a straight-A student, was selected to the National Spanish Honor Society, is a goalie on his soccer team, and is an early-morning seminary student.
Lorrie, a sophomore, was selected to play in the Georgia All-State Band because of her finesse as an oboe player. She has twice been selected outstanding band member at her school. She also plays the piano, is an honor roll student, is a fullback on her soccer team, and is an eager early-morning seminary student.

When Henry and Mary entered Salt Lake City on September 15, 1866, it had been more than four years since they had seen their mother. Henry walked proudly at the head of the train, his clothes in tatters, his hair sticking out in all directions. In honor of the occasion, he was wearing a pair of boots, many sizes too large, that he had discovered in a burned-out pony express station.
His mother was nowhere to be seen. When the company halted for the last time, Henry sat on a crate in a wagon, heartsick, watching the happy reunions between loved ones. At last he saw a woman in a red and white plaid shawl approaching. He went to her and said, “Hey, Mother.”
“Is that you, Henry?” she asked. “Where is Mary?” Mary was hiding inside a wagon, ashamed of her ragged clothing. The family was finally reunited. However, there was sad news. During her journey to Utah, Sister Roberts had watched her baby, Thomas, weaken and die. She had buried him in a donated breadbox coffin along the way.

to save money for your mission? Maybe you started putting pennies in a piggy bank when you were three or four years old, and now add to it from what you earn on a paper route or flipping hamburgers at the local drive-in. Or perhaps, like Jay Lawrence of Sparks, Nevada, or Henry Copier, Jr., of Salt Lake City, Utah, you have found different ways of earning money for your mission.
Jay mastered the drums, vibraphones, and other percussion instruments, and used these talents in accompanying such entertainers as Jerry Lewis, Tom Jones, and pianist Liberace. Henry worked for a year building a duplex that is now drawing enough rent money to support him on his mission. These are only two examples of the interesting and imaginative ways in which some of our missionaries are supporting themselves.

“Sarah! Sarah, wake up!” five-year-old Christiana Larsen said to her little sister. “It’s time to leave.”
Three-year-old Sarah struggled to open her eyes.
“But it’s still dark outside,” she complained sleepily.
“I know, but Mama says we have to get an early start. The ship to America leaves soon.”
The Larsen family had joined the Church in Denmark. Now they would be making the long journey to join the Saints in the Salt Lake Valley.
Christiana helped Sarah get dressed. Then the little girls tearfully took one last look around their comfortable bedroom. They knew it would be a long time before they would sleep in a real bed again.
“Don’t forget your parasol, Sarah,” Christiana said as she picked up her own lacy silk parasol. “Mama said she would pack them with the bedding.”
Mama and Papa had said they couldn’t take anything besides necessities on the trip to America. After the bedding, clothing, and tools were packed, there wouldn’t be much room for anything else. But Christiana and Sarah had begged to take just one favorite thing to their new home. After all, they were leaving behind their dolls, books, and toys. Each girl chose her pretty parasol.
As the sun rose, Christiana and her family boarded the ship that would sail to America. They were excited to go to Zion, even though they had to leave friends, family, and their home.
The ocean voyage was long and tiresome. During the hot afternoons on the ship, the two girls used their pretty parasols to keep the sun off their heads. If the wind blew in the right direction, the ship sailed steadily on. But if it changed course, the ship was forced back, often as far as it had already come.
When the Larsens landed in America, they bought a wagon and oxen and began the long journey to the Salt Lake Valley. The ride in the wagon was bumpy and hot, so Christiana and Sarah often walked instead.
Like many other pioneer families, Christiana’s family experienced hardships and tragedy along the way. Christiana’s newborn brother died during their journey and was buried on the plains.
After the Larsen family reached the Salt Lake Valley in 1857, Christiana loved to go to church with other children her age. Christiana and Sarah happily carried their parasols to church every Sunday to keep the hot desert sun off their faces.
As the days and weeks went by, the family’s money and food began to run out. One night Christiana heard her parents discussing the problem. Her father said he knew of a family who had been blessed with a good harvest of grain. The Larsens could trade something they had for some flour. But what did they have to trade?
Christiana spoke up. “You can trade Sarah’s and my parasols, Papa.”
“But you love your parasols, Christiana. I couldn’t do that!”
“It’s all right, Papa,” Christiana said. “We need the food more than we need the parasols.”
The next day Christiana’s father traded the beautiful lacy parasols for some flour. The flour provided food for the whole family.
That night, as Christiana got ready for bed, she looked sadly at the corner where her lovely parasol had stood. But as she remembered the wonderful bread she had eaten for supper, her sadness turned to gratitude. As she said her prayers that night, she thanked Heavenly Father for her lovely parasol, which helped to feed her family.

Today has been a glorious day—one of the best. I can’t even describe the way I feel.

I am an endowed member of the Church. The temple is a wonderful place to be. Before going to the temple this morning, I felt so much anticipation, I could hardly sleep. I also felt so much peace. Todd was more enthusiastic than I’ve ever seen him.

The blessings and promises I received in the temple were incredible. I have never cried for joy so much in my life. I want nothing more than to always keep my covenants and to be worthy of the blessings promised me in the temple.

Because I was prepared, the temple felt like home. I was overwhelmed with all the blessings that I was promised. But I loved it. I know I’ll keep learning more every time I go.

Now that I’ve received my endowment, I think the most helpful preparation was participating in baptisms for the dead because I was doing temple work and was feeling the Spirit there. Studying the temple preparation manual was helpful, as was talking to Todd, my parents, and my bishop about their testimonies of the temple.

I guess I knew it would happen sooner or later. You know, have one of those experiences you only hear about in Sunday School or seminary lessons—the “what would you do if …” kind. It happened to me during the summer following my high school graduation.
One evening, two friends and I went to see a movie. It was almost midnight when the movie let out. On the way to the parking lot, one of my friends suggested we head to another theater to watch an X-rated movie scheduled to begin about 30 minutes later. My other friend quickly agreed.
I wasn’t tempted to go; I knew I would not go. But I was not sure how I would get out of going. One excuse after another flashed through my mind. None of them sounded convincing to me, and I was sure they would not convince my friends. I thought about saying I wasn’t feeling well—and at that point, I wasn’t! In the end, I simply said I did not want to go.
My friends tried their best to persuade me. Among other things, they said if they took me all the way home, they would be late to the other movie. Thinking fast, I told them I had a friend who lived just around the corner. I said they could take me there.
“What friend?” they asked.
“Just a guy I know,” I answered.
“Who is he, and what’s his name?”
“His name is Bill.” I was sure my friends were not buying this. I cleared my throat and swallowed hard.
They persisted. “Ah, he won’t be up this late. Just come with us,” they said.
“He’ll be up,” I said, hoping I was right.
My friends finally agreed to drive by Bill’s home, and if the lights were on they would stop and let me out. Otherwise, they were taking me with them.
A few minutes later, we arrived at Bill’s house. What a relief! The lights were on. I got out of the car and went to the door. My friends waited to see if someone would answer. I knocked, and after what seemed like an eternity, Bill opened the door. I quickly explained what was happening and asked if I could call my dad and wait inside for him to pick me up. Bill agreed and practically pulled me into the house as I waved my friends on their way.
While we waited for my dad, Bill told me he had decided to watch television for a few minutes before going to bed. “Otherwise,” he said, “I would have been in bed a long time ago.”
It wasn’t long before my dad came to take me home. As we drove, my dad said if I were ever in trouble like that again, he would drive across the state in the middle of the night to get me out of the situation.
That’s probably a pretty good place to end one of these Sunday School stories. But here’s just one more thing. You see, before that night I had never referred to my friend Bill Cantrell by his first name. I had always called him Bishop Cantrell.