Gospel Story Finder

As a boy, I learned a great lesson of faith and sacrifice as I worked on my grandfather’s farm during the terrible economic depression of the 1930s. The taxes on the farm were unpaid, and Grandfather, like so many, had no money. There was a drought in the land, and some cows and horses were dying for lack of grass and hay.
One day when we were harvesting what little hay there was in the field, Grandfather told us to take the wagon to the corner of the field where the best hay was, fill the wagon as full as we could, and take it to the tithing yard as payment of his tithing.
I wondered how Grandfather could use the hay to pay tithing when some of the cows that we were depending upon to sustain us might starve. I even questioned if the Lord expected that much sacrifice. Ultimately I marveled at his great faith that somehow the Lord would provide. The legacy of faith he passed on to his posterity was far greater than money, because he established in the minds of his children and grandchildren that he loved the Lord and His holy work more than earthly things. Grandfather never became wealthy, but he died at peace with the Lord and with himself.

This fact was brought forcibly to mind in August of 1958 when I was in Hamburg, Germany, attending a district missionary conference. Presiding at the conference was Elder Henry D. Moyle, then of the Council of the Twelve. We had a question-and-answer session, and one of the missionaries asked a question in which he referred to President David O. McKay as the head of the Church. Elder Moyle interrupted him and in a very forceful manner stated that Jesus Christ was the head of the Church, not David O. McKay. The significant point here is that Elder Moyle knew that Jesus is the Son of God, that he lives, even today, and that he stands at the head of this church.

Twenty-four years ago, our tiny newborn son struggled for his life in the intensive care unit of a hospital. His lungs were not fully developed because of his premature birth, and he desperately fought for each breath of air. He was so small but with so much will to live. As young and inexperienced parents, my courageous and ever faithful wife, Jan, and I prayed that the Lord’s hand would reach out and somehow help our baby boy continue to breathe. As I put my trembling hand through the small opening into the isolette, I felt so inadequate and powerless. I took hold of the tiny but perfect hand of our newborn son, and there was a powerful spiritual connection never to be forgotten. Two fingers from each of my hands covered his tiny head as I administered to him.

Our desire for him was pure, but we knew that his earthly experience rested in the Lord’s hands and not in ours or in the medical team who cared for him. I then humbly realized that my quivering hands held power and authority well beyond my own. My fingers on his head symbolized the placing of God’s hands and power upon our son. Following that blessing, in a moment of emotional peace, my eternal companion and I looked at each other across the isolette, feeling the spirit of renewed hope and comfort born of faith in the Lord Jesus Christ and in the personal effect of His Atonement. It was a powerful witness of His love for an infant son who had just left His presence. We were then better prepared to accept His will for our son. We truly felt we had placed our hands in the hands of the Savior. It was as if the Savior’s own hands provided the critical respiratory aid, allowing our son to breathe and gain sustenance. With each breath and with each incremental bit of progress, we expressed prayerful thanks. Today our healthy son and his indebted parents continue to be so grateful for the Savior’s willing hands.

Born on June 6, 1954, in St. George, Utah, USA, to Richard and Miriam Schmutz, Elder Schmutz learned early about the power of prayer. As a Cub Scout he sold U.S. $17 worth of tickets to a jamboree but couldn’t find the money when it was time to turn it in. His mother encouraged him to pray, and the Lord revealed to him exactly where the money was. It was a strong confirmation of God’s love for and awareness of him.

Happily, my wise parents put great heroes in my path as a boy. My dad took me to Yankee Stadium only once to observe my baseball hero play, but every Sunday he let me observe a priesthood man who became a hero. That hero shaped my life. My father was the branch president of the little branch which met in our home. By the way, if you came down to the first floor on Sunday morning, you were in church. Our branch never had more than 30 people in attendance.
There was a young man who drove his mother to our house for meetings, but he never came into the house. He was not a member. It was my father who succeeded by going out to him where he parked the car and inviting him into our home. He was baptized and became my first and only Aaronic Priesthood leader. He became my priesthood hero. I still remember the wooden statue he gave me as a reward after we had completed a project to cut firewood for a widow. I have tried to be like him whenever I give justified praise to a servant of God.

In our ward we have had some success with two boys who had been completely inactive. We made friends with them. We took them out for pizza. We planned activities around their special interests. When we told them how much the program had to offer and showed them we really wanted them with us, they decided to give us a try.

Last week they both came to activity night. If we can care enough to make good on our campaign promises and really deliver the good program we’ve promised, and still care about them just as much, we’ll keep these boys, and they will have a chance to work out their salvation.

Some years ago, I went with a stake president in the southeastern United States to visit several families before a stake conference. As we arrived at one home, a man dressed in shabby clothes walked up to us.
“What do you want?” he shouted. “I don’t want people coming to my house!”
I was concerned when the man’s demeanor became threatening. I wanted to grab the stake president and run back to the car! But the stake president was calm. “We are sorry,” he said. “We thought your bishop had told you we were coming.”
As they spoke, I felt the Spirit so strongly. I gathered my courage, approached the man, and said, “Dear brother, President Thomas S. Monson [he was the prophet at the time] has given me the assignment to come here. We are here to see you. I bring the love of the prophet to you.”
I looked into the man’s eyes and noticed they were tearing up. He began to share his challenges with us. His wife suffered from depression. He had just lost his job. He did not have food to feed his children. The stake president assured the man that the Church would help him and his family. We had a nice visit.
Several weeks later, I asked the stake president for an update. He told me that this brother’s bishop and the ward council were assisting him and that he and his wife, who was not a member of the Church, began meeting with the missionaries.

If we choose the wrong road, we choose the wrong destination. For example, a friend of many years told me that her husband, always a “good kid” in high school, took a few drinks he thought would help him forget some problems. Before he knew what was happening, he was addicted. Now he is not able to support his family, and he is ineffective at almost everything he tries to do. Alcohol governs his life, and he cannot seem to break free of its grip.

I was so happy to see the way dating before the age of 16 was handled in the July 1995 Q&A. I’m 15, and this past year I was faced with the opportunity to date. I knew it was wrong, but I gave in to the temptation. I told myself that it was okay because the guy that I was seeing was also LDS. I thought that once you had a boyfriend, all of your problems would be solved. They weren’t. In fact, I had more. My testimony was slowly disappearing. I hardly ever felt the Spirit, and I found myself making mistakes that I never would have before. It was a hard four months, but after we broke up life got even harder. I was so upset, and I felt so distant from the Holy Ghost. Finally I gave up my pride and turned to my Heavenly Father. The process has been long and hard, but well worth it. Now I feel closer than ever to my Savior. I know that he will always love us and guide us through anything if we will humble ourselves and ask for his help.
Name Withheld

When the bishop asked me to share my testimony in the sacrament meeting after my baptism, I felt scared and inadequate. I had never spoken in front of a congregation.
“Is this really necessary?” I asked the bishop.
“Yes!” he said.
In sacrament meeting, I testified about how Heavenly Father loves me and how He answered my prayers by helping me find the restored gospel. When I stood at the podium, I felt the Holy Spirit so strongly. I felt blessed to be a member of Christ’s true Church. My heart was full of happiness and peace. Heavenly Father turned my fear of speaking into a beautiful experience.
The next month I had the opportunity to give a talk in sacrament meeting. I felt scared again—who was I to teach those who knew more about the gospel? But I prayed for the Holy Spirit to help me speak. Once again I felt the Spirit touch me, and I received the impression that Heavenly Father was pleased with my baptism and that my sins were forgiven.
I know from my experiences that I am a precious child of God and He loves me. Speaking in sacrament meeting was a valuable opportunity for me to serve God by testifying that Jesus Christ has restored His Church upon the earth.
Pamella Sari, baptized in Indonesia in 2012

In an effort to accomplish all of my goals, I found myself overwhelmed with worldly pressures, decisions, and cares. I was staying up late and missing meals, working for many hours at a time. All of these things were taking their toll on my emotional well-being. I felt frustrated and unable to handle my problems.
I prayed, hoping to receive an assurance that all would be well. Instead, I heard the still, small voice say, “Keep the Word of Wisdom.” I felt puzzled and disappointed. I didn’t smoke or drink alcoholic beverages, and I had never drunk coffee or tea. How could the counsel to keep the Word of Wisdom apply to me?
I thought about the many times my friends had mentioned feeling discouraged and unequal to their tasks. Most of them had risen above those feelings and had carried on with their lives. But among those who usually felt inadequate, the common problem seemed to be their priorities—they put themselves last on their own lists. They never took time for regular meals, and they rarely got to bed before midnight. Reluctantly, I admitted that I was making the same mistakes and that I needed to change.
First, I stopped thinking about things that weren’t necessary and concentrated on the things that really matter. I worked on getting up early so I would be sleepy early. I ate nourishing food, and I exercised—consistently! As I developed these habits, I was able to plan better, and I began to feel in control of my life. Many of my previous worries now seemed unimportant, and I was free to direct my thoughts and feelings to other things.

It is well before 5 A.M. in the Tennessee hills when Tre (call him “Tray”) Pennington, 17, and his grandfather bump along an old dirt road in their pickup. There are no signs to point the way to the Duck River, no landmarks that would stand out to someone new. Mostly there are trees, thick, green, and heavy. It’s only where someone’s cleared out space for a farm or a home that you get any extended view.
Grandpa (call him ’Pa) slows the truck at a clearing and pulls in next to some trees. He doesn’t have to say a word. Tre knows it’s on foot from here. They scramble down a steep bank and pull their boat out of the underbrush, from the same place where they’ve tied it up every day for years. It’s a shallow boat, square on both ends.
They check to make sure there’s gas for the motor; they lift in the paddles and load a few plastic buckets on board. Then, for a few minutes, they wait.
It isn’t that there needs to be more light, although the sun is yet to crest over the hill. It isn’t a question of when the catfish will bite, because the trot lines ’Pa baited with grasshoppers yesterday have been in the water all night long. It isn’t even a question of sneaking a moment of rest before the work begins, because both the young man and his grandfather are eager to be on the river.
It is, quite simply, a moment of reverence, a pause to appreciate nature, to take in the beauty of a morning at its birth.
Finally it is ’Pa who whispers.
“Let’s go,” he says.
Tre responds with a nod. The boat glides into the mild current.
Soon they reach the lines. ’Pa holds the boat steady while Tre lifts each fish, flopping and slimy, out of the water. He brings them in one at a time, almost like taking laundry off a clothesline. Some fish, quite small, are set free. On the big ones, Tre guesses how many pounds.
“This one’ll go for five or six, won’t it Grandaddy?”
“More like four or five,” ’Pa responds.
Ask what kind of fish are in the river, and Grandpa will explain. “Lots of cats,” he says. “Blue. Yeller. Channel. Other fish, too. Perch, Bass, Carp. But you don’t take them often.”
This day when the four lines are cleared, the catch totals fifty catfish and one carp.
Tre does most of what little talking is done. He tells about the time ’Pa got knocked out of the boat by a tree limb and lost his hat. He teases Grandpa about the nickname Grandma gave him.
“She calls him a pelican,” he says, “because he could eat fish three times a day.”
Then there’s silence again, not the awkward silence of people who don’t know what to say, but the silence of men who know each other well.
“I wonder if we’ll see anything today,” Tre finally says as the boat turns for home. Often it’s deer, sometimes a beaver, once in a while a blue heron. Today they see a turtle.
Back home the catfish are cleaned and skinned, dipped in corn meal and fried. “What we don’t eat, we put in the freezer,” Tre explains. “We can trade it for beef.” The carp will be pressure cooked and bottled, then stored on the shelf like salmon. ’Pa can remember times during World War II when canned carp helped keep the family alive.

Time passed. Brother Andelin passed away. Then on a cold December morning, our priests quorum arrived at a little house on the edge of the ward boundaries. The name on the mailbox read Andelin. At the door, leaning against a cane was a small woman with thinning white hair and a warm smile.
Our adviser introduced us to Sister Andelin as we brought in the small Christmas tree we were giving her. She made sure to learn our names as she talked to us. Sister Andelin hadn’t been able to come to church for several years, and though she didn’t recognize most of us, she knew our families.
“How’s your mother?” she asked me.
I gave the usual response. “Fine.”
“My husband used to be your home teacher when you first joined the Church. Do you remember that?”
After telling her I did, I reminded her about the board and the seesaw. She held her hands together and smiled at me as if picturing the entire thing in her mind. “You know, he was always doing good things like that for people. And now look at you,” she said, taking hold of my hand. “Passing on the good that you were taught. That’s how I get along now; all the love my husband spread around this ward just keeps flowing back to me.”
I realized that Brother Andelin took care of the widows and the fatherless as the Lord directed. But more than that, Brother Andelin passed on a spirit of giving that outlasted both him and that old teeter-totter.

This cookie made of phyllo dough and pistachio nuts is a thank-you. It was made by the Kadado family who, for decades, owned three bakeries in Damascus, Syria. When war came, a blockade stopped food and supplies from reaching their part of the city. The Kadados began to starve. At the height of this desperate situation, Latter-day Saint Charities and some very courageous staff at Rahma Worldwide began serving a daily hot meal, along with milk for the little children. After a difficult time, the family began their life—as well as their bakery—once again in a new country.

Recently, a box of cookies arrived at the Church offices with the following message: “For more than two months, we managed to get food from the Rahma–Latter-day Saint [Charities] kitchen. Without it we would [have] starve[d] to death. Please accept this … sample from my shop as a small token of thanks. I ask God the Almighty to bless you … in everything you do.”

A cookie of gratitude and remembrance. It is meant for you. To all who prayed after watching a story on the news, to all who volunteered when it was not convenient or who kindly donated money to the humanitarian fund trusting it would do some good, thank you.

“Wait, you haven’t finished your breakfast,” Mom said. Mom pushed the small plates of vegetables closer to Juhyuk.
Juhyuk looked at his breakfast. He was running late! Normally his big brother helped him get ready for church. But his brother was out of town, so Juhyuk had to go on his own today.
“OK, Mom,” Juhyuk said. He hurried to finish eating. Then he hugged Mom and headed for the door.
Mom stopped him. “Do you have your phone?”
Juhyuk held it up. “Yes. I can text my Primary teacher if I have a problem.”
“And a sweater under your coat? It’s cold.”
Juhyuk showed Mom his sweater.
She nodded. Juhyuk hurried out to the street. All the city sounds made him smile. It was fun to live in one of the biggest cities in South Korea!
But Juhyuk still wished his brother were with him. They always made the trip to church together.
“I know the way,” he told himself. And sure enough, before long he was at the first bus stop.
But he was alone there. That was strange. He checked his watch. He must have just missed the bus! Now he would have to wait for the next one.
After several minutes, other people started gathering. Finally, a bright blue bus rolled up. Juhyuk climbed the stairs, paid the driver, and sat down.
Ta-tink!
Juhyuk checked his phone after the text alert. It was from his Primary teacher.
“Are you on the bus? Remember, if you get lost, we can come find you!”
He grinned and texted back. “Yes. I’m on it now.”
This was only the short bus ride, though. The second bus he had to ride for more than an hour.
Juhyuk looked at the time and frowned. He didn’t want to miss the sacrament. He loved the part in each sacrament prayer that said, “always remember Him.” That meant always remembering Jesus. And Juhyuk wanted to do that.
When his aunt and uncle had invited him and his brother to church a few months ago, he met the missionaries. Elder Kim and Elder Moon taught them both about Jesus. The more Juhyuk learned about Jesus, the more he loved thinking about Him.
Ta-tink!
“Have you switched buses yet?” the text said.
“Not yet,” he texted back.
The bus pulled up to the busy street where Juhyuk needed to get off to switch buses. He asked the driver if his second bus had come.
“You just missed it,” the driver said. “The next one arrives in 15 minutes.”
“Oh, OK,” Juhyuk said. “Thank you!”
Finally, after the second bus ride, Juhyuk hurried inside the meetinghouse. His aunt and uncle had saved him a seat. He had made it!
Juhyuk thought about everything he had done to get to church. He thought of all the people who had helped him along the way. He felt that Heavenly Father was glad he was there.
Juhyuk said a silent prayer. “Thank Thee, Heavenly Father, that I can come to church today.”

Once I was asked to meet an older couple returning to the Church. They had been taught the gospel by their parents. After their marriage, they left the Church. Now, 50 years later, they were returning. I remember the husband coming into the office pulling an oxygen tank. They expressed regret at not having remained faithful. I told them of our happiness because of their return, assuring them of the Lord’s welcoming arms to those who repent. The elderly man responded, “We know this, Brother Andersen. But our sadness is that our children and grandchildren do not have the blessings of the gospel. We are back, but we are back alone.”

A few years ago, I walked the halls of a care center. Most of the occupants were infirm individuals who were timeworn and anxious to go elsewhere. In passing one of the rooms, I heard a weak cry for help. The door was slightly ajar, so I entered with the hope that I might help someone in distress. Once I was inside, my eyes were met by a pleading look from a sweet, elderly woman in a wheelchair. She stared at me for a moment and asked, “Can I die? Can I die?”
Her tender look, soft voice, and delicate features melted my heart. The woman obviously was suffering physical pain and wanted to be released from a wasted body. She longed for the companionship of loved ones who had preceded her in death.
I don’t recall exactly what I said on that occasion. But I did attempt to reassure the woman that she could and would die in the Lord’s appointed time. I also tried to reassure her that she would live again, free of the infirmities that now troubled her.
I cannot go back to that sweet old woman in the wheelchair who begged, “Can I die?” She has already crossed the bridge between earth and heaven—the bridge we call death. She now knows better than I that dying and living again are established facts. She knows of a certainty that “death is not a period but a comma in the story of life” (Amos John Traver, in Jacob M. Braude, ed., Lifetime Speaker’s Encyclopedia, 2 vols. [Englewood Cliffs, N.J.: Prentice Hall, 1962], 1:159), for she has gone back home and is cradled in the arms of God’s love (see 2 Ne. 1:15).

The following day, Sunday, Craig and I met at the Sacred Grove. There the thick canopy of trees keeps the grove in almost total shade, and we found some relief from the early afternoon sun as we walked and talked. The damp forest earth muffled our footsteps. The stillness was broken only by the whine of insects, bird calls, the occasional low voices of other visitors, and our own quiet conversation.
“Craig, do you remember the first time you came to this place as a young boy?”
“No. But I remember that when I was young, this was mainly a place to catch frogs and to look at the signs telling the ages of some of the trees. It started to make an impact on me when I was about 12. And then, when I hit 14, I realized that Joseph Smith had been my age when he had the First Vision.”
But living in the so-called cradle of the Restoration does not guarantee a testimony. “Before I reached out and made the effort, this was just another historical place,” Craig explains. “Before, I was going to go on a mission. But I was going to do it because everyone wanted me to go. I mean, I sort of wanted to go. But last year really decided it.”
Last year. It was during pageant time. Craig, as a cast member, had been assigned to one of the study groups. And in that same group was a young woman from Utah named Jana.
“We became great friends; there was kind of an automatic bond. I couldn’t believe she had such a strong testimony. To see how much she loved the Church, well, it just blew me away.” That level of spirituality became Craig’s goal, not only for himself but for the kind of woman he wanted eventually to marry.
One day, the study group went to the Sacred Grove. When they got there, they split up, and Craig went into the grove by himself.
“I was sitting there alone on one of the benches, thinking about what had happened here, and just started to cry. The Spirit witnessed to me that it was all true.”
The experiences of that summer were a turning point for Craig. For one thing, he saw the kind of young woman he would someday want to marry. And he realized that he would need to do better in school to prepare to someday support a family. He had always been able to do pretty well in school if he applied himself. Now he applied himself and raised his grades one full point.
His feelings toward his family were also affected. “It made me draw closer to my younger brothers and sisters. I had always considered them brats. Now I try to understand them a little more,” Craig says.
Does he have to work hard to maintain his testimony? Craig’s emphatic yes almost seemed out of place in our quiet surroundings. “You have to be active in the Church. It helps so much to be around other young people with the same standards. Reading the Book of Mormon is really important too. But you can’t just read it and then stop and say, ‘Okay, now I’ve read it.’ “ Craig is currently into his third reading. “And of course there’s prayer. You have to make a habit of it. Even on the nights when you are so tired you think you could just pass right out.”
One more question: “Craig, how do you feel about your priesthood now?”
“I believe in it a lot more. I believe in its power. The priesthood does work.”
We continued our walk, back out of the grove and down the path across the meadow toward the Joseph Smith home and the parking lot. The route to Craig’s house would take us within sight of the Hill Cumorah. His words came back to mind: “Before I reached out and made the effort, this was just another historical place.”
True. And before young Joseph Smith reached out and made the effort, he was just another young man. He was a young man of great promise, true, but he had to reach out. And it was the reaching out and the Spirit’s sweet answering witness that made the difference, not the place. That’s why it doesn’t matter if it’s a young man in Bangor, Maine, or a young woman in Bangkok, Thailand. The process is the same. And the effect.
And Craig Record in Upstate New York? In some ways, this article was about him because he is not unique. He is an average guy who loves basketball and motorcycles. Who is a pretty good student when he applies himself. Craig is just an example of what happens when you reach out for a testimony and then act on that witness. He’s an example of how a fairly average guy can also be pretty outstanding in the ways that matter most.
Survival Tips
Wherever you live, live righteously.
Study the Book of Mormon.
Make a habit of prayer.
Gain a testimony and share it.
Associate with those who bring out the best in you.

Returning to the subject of temples, I was a member of the BYU Sixth Stake presidency in 1967 when we were invited to a special meeting. Hugh B. Brown and N. Eldon Tanner, counselors in the First Presidency, announced plans to build the Provo Temple. Two years later I had the interesting experience of attending the temple groundbreaking. Once again with great interest I closely followed the construction of a temple. Then, during the open house, I helped prepare Braille floor plans and organize a special tour for those who were visually impaired.

The temple’s dedication on February 9, 1972, was a special experience. President Joseph Fielding Smith presided. In his dedicatory prayer, among other things, he petitioned, “Let that great temple of learning, the Brigham Young University, . . . be prospered to the full. Let Thy enlightening power rest upon those who teach and those who are taught.”9 As a BYU faculty member, I was and am grateful for that blessing. As we left the temple, we were so moved by the Spirit that we didn’t feel like speaking until we were outside. The dedicatory proceedings were carried by closed circuit to several large auditoriums here on campus. Many students told me how those attending here in the Marriott Center had the unusual and impressive experience of seeing thousands of people exiting this huge arena in reverent silence.

A few years ago, I was with my noble 97-year-old grandmother. As she sat curled in her wheelchair, weak and nearly blind, she talked quietly of her life. I said: “This is a wicked world. There are so many temptations and challenges. Is it possible to stay worthy and return to our Heavenly Father?” She slowly raised herself tall and erect and said in a commanding voice: “Yes! You must! That’s why you’re here!” Thank you, Grandma, for teaching me about hope.