Gospel Story Finder

Several years earlier, at the death of our infant son, I had blamed myself for the loss. An understanding doctor wisely counseled that this was common, but nonetheless wrong. A grieving person naturally searches for something he might have done to prevent tragedy. “Don’t give in to the temptation to blame yourself,” he advised.
Following the Church court, I found myself falling into this trap again. Gradually I realized I could neither control nor take responsibility for my husband’s actions. I began to concentrate on the things I could control and change in myself.

Joseph’s brother Hyrum was always Joseph’s constant supporter. During their lives, Joseph and Hyrum faced mobs and persecution together. For example, they languished in the most wretched conditions in the Liberty Jail in Missouri for five months during the cold winter of 1838–39.
In the face of persecution, Hyrum exhibited faith in the Lord’s promises, including a guarantee to escape his enemies if he so chose. In June 1844, Hyrum was presented the choice to live or to lay down his life to glorify God and to “seal his testimony with his blood”—side by side together with his beloved brother Joseph (see Doctrine and Covenants 136:39).
A week before they were murdered in cold blood, Joseph told Hyrum to take his family and leave. I still feel great emotion as I remember Hyrum’s reply: “Joseph, I can’t leave you.’’2
So Joseph and Hyrum went to Carthage, where they became martyrs for Christ’s cause and name. “In life they were not divided, and in death they were not separated!” (Doctrine and Covenants 135:3; emphasis added).

My mom took my little brother and me to a fun water park. While we were playing, a boy kept throwing a ball at my brother and me. We tried to ignore him, but he wouldn’t stop throwing the ball at us. We played somewhere else, but he found us. I decided that I would try to make him stop. I found the boy, said hi, and stuck out my hand. “Peace?” I asked. The boy looked a little shocked and shook my hand. He said “Peace” back to me. He did not bother us anymore. I felt good that I made the decision to be brave and to be kind to the boy, just like I imagined Jesus would have done.

In my class at school, there are only two other members of the Church. What we believe is like a new world to some of my classmates. They often ask us questions about the gospel, and some are difficult to answer. If we don’t know the answer to a question, we discuss it together and seek guidance from our Church leaders. Once we know how to respond, we tell our classmates about what we know to be true. I have even invited some of them to come and see for themselves how we worship, and they’ve received good feelings about sacrament meeting.

When Makoto Ishizaka, 26, of the Senzokuike Ward, Yokohama Japan Stake, turned 18, he received the Melchizedek Priesthood and was ordained an elder by his father. Although Makoto was still a high school student, there was an urgent need for him to serve his family as a Melchizedek Priesthood holder. His 14-year-old brother, Isamu, had a malignant brain tumor.

As Isamu awoke from surgery, his first words were “Can I have a blessing?” For more than a year, Makoto joined his father in giving frequent priesthood blessings to Isamu. “Before giving blessings, I prayed and pondered in the small hospital room,” says Makoto. “When I give blessings, I feel Heavenly Father is using me as an instrument.”

While in the hospital, Isamu studied seminary lessons, did not murmur, and expressed gratitude for his blessings. When his condition suddenly became worse, Makoto prayed in desperation: “Why is this happening?” Then he felt the voice of the Lord. “It pierced my very soul. Through the Spirit, I knew Isamu was needed in heaven. My anger and uneasiness vanished and were changed to peace and hope. Forty-eight hours later, Isamu passed away. He was 16.” Makoto dedicated Isamu’s grave and received temple ordinances in his brother’s behalf. He later served a full-time mission. “The priesthood blesses both those who perform and those who receive ordinances—and it can purify both,” he says.

Debbie Sloan, who attends the same school, is popular with her classmates. “At an integrated school, the effort is to help us all get along anyway,” she explains. “They know I’m Mormon. My close friends know my dad is a bishop, that we spend lots of time at our church. I just talk about it the way it is, and they accept me for what I am.”

One night for family home evening our parents gave us a lesson on how we should treat our bodies as temples. We learned about not letting unkind words leave our mouths. We also learned about how to take care of our bodies by eating nutritious foods as well as how to dress modestly.
At the end of the lesson, our parents helped us build models of temples out of sugar cubes, construction paper, straws, cotton, and glue. We used the pictures of the temples in the Friend to get ideas for our own temples. We had a fun night together as a family.Dillon and April Robertson, ages 8 and 5Los Banos, California

Joel was worried. He was almost sure he had started down the right canyon, but he should have been able to see smoke from their cabin long before now.
Mother was probably worrying because he was so late. She had reminded him when he left home that morning everything would look different if it should start to snow.
“I know you have to check the sheep today, Joel,” she said, “even if it is Thanksgiving. But with those black clouds building up behind Gap Mountain, there will be snow before noon.”
Joel tied a scarf around his neck and pulled on his gloves. “I’ll be careful,” he said, wishing his mother would remember he was eleven now and could take care of himself. “Besides, I’ve been up to the sheep range nearly every day this month. I won’t get lost.”
Mother still looked worried, though, when Joel opened the cabin door to leave. He turned to look back. The big room was bright and warm and already smelled good from the pies that were baking in the oven. On the sideboard three chickens were ready to be stuffed. Joel hoped Father would make it home from the settlement in time for the special dinner.
It was a long walk up winding Lost Canyon and across Nameless Ridge to the flat meadow where the sheep were kept. But Joel finally checked the sheep and then started home.
While he was walking home, he remembered how he and his father and mother had come to this valley three years before. Then they had only two horses, a few sheep, and no home. He had helped his father build the cabin. Now they had more than fifty sheep and four cows. Their garden grew well too.
Even the Ute Indians who lived in the valley on the other side of Nameless Ridge were friendly now. Joel remembered how Chief Kanosh had threatened them when they first moved to the valley. But that seemed a long time ago. Joel’s father and mother had done many things to help the Indians, and in return the Indians had helped them a great deal. Kanosh’s wife visited with Joel’s mother often, and Joel enjoyed watching them talk in sign language.
Joel stopped walking and bent his head back. If he only knew where the sun was, he would be able to tell whether he was going the right way, but dark weighted clouds filled the whole sky.
Which way was home? Joel looked in every direction. He knew he was going down a canyon, but how could he tell if it were the right one!
Before long big snowflakes began to strike his cheeks. Joel could scarcely see the nearby trees.
He remembered how his father always said, “Now don’t be nervous.” It helped Joel to remember Father’s calm voice.
Joel wiped snowflakes off his nose and began to walk very fast, looking to his left to be sure the slope of the hill was still there. If so, he was near Nameless Ridge and couldn’t be lost. Home was only half a mile east of where the ridge ended.
Joel began to wonder if he were really following Nameless Ridge. The pine-covered slopes looked alike through the thickly falling snow.
Joel walked steadily on. The swirling white snow that lit on the ground was beginning to pile up. Walking seemed to be harder with each step.
After what seemed a long time, Joel felt the ground under his feet begin to rise steeply. Although he couldn’t see ahead, he knew he should not be climbing. If anything, he should be going downhill to reach the clearing where the cabin stood.
Joel took a shaky breath. He stood still. Then he slowly turned around and around. The whole world was white. Everywhere he went looked exactly the same.
“I’m lost,” Joel said aloud. “I’m really lost.”
Blinking hard, Joel looked around once more, but it was no use. He didn’t know which way to go. But he couldn’t stop moving or he might freeze. The world was cold and silent. All he could hear was the crunch of wet snow beneath his boots.
Then Joel stopped as he heard another sound. Was something coming behind him? Or did something move to his left? He held his breath to listen, but the snow muffled sound and changed it.
Coming from the trees behind him, Joel caught sight of a dark moving figure and two others following behind. The frightened boy watched the figures plod steadily closer.
As they came closer, Joel saw it was Chief Kanosh and his wife and their little boy! Joel was so happy to see the big Ute chief and his family that he grinned from ear to ear.
“You go wrong way,” said Chief Kanosh when he reached Joel. He pointed to the right. “Cabin is over there. We go together.”
Joel didn’t say a word as he fell into step behind Chief Kanosh. The four people pushed through the snow. In a short time Joel saw a break in the trees. Dark smoke rose from the chimney of their cabin.
A wagon was behind the barn. Father was home too!
Later that night after everyone had eaten all the roast chicken and stuffing, creamed corn, and squash pie they could hold, Chief Kanosh and his wife pulled their chairs in front of the fireplace beside Joel’s mother and father. Joel sat on the floor by the Indian boy.
“Well, Joel,” said his father, smiling. “We certainly have lots to be thankful for today.”
“We surely do, Father,” Joel agreed. “And one of the things I’m most thankful for tonight is that Mother invited Chief Kanosh and his family here for Thanksgiving dinner.”

Now I indicated earlier that I did not know why there was so much conflict and hatred and bitterness in the world. Of course, I know that all of this is the work of the adversary. He works on us as individuals. He destroys strong men. From the time of the organization of this Church he has done so. President Wilford Woodruff said this:
“I have seen Oliver Cowdery when it seemed as though the earth trembled under his feet. I never heard a man bear a stronger testimony than he did when under the influence of the Spirit. But the moment he left the kingdom of God, that moment his power fell. … He was shorn of his strength, like Samson in the lap of Delilah. He lost the power and testimony which he had enjoyed, and he never recovered it again in its fulness while in the flesh, although he died [a member of] the Church” (Teachings of Presidents of the Church: Wilford Woodruff [2004], 105).

Following dinner, I picked up the morning paper, which I had not previously read. Thumbing through its pages, my eyes stopped on the theater ads, so many of them an open appeal to witness that which is debauching, that which leads to violence and sex.
I turned to my mail and found a small magazine which lists the television fare for the coming week and saw titles of shows aimed in the same direction. A news magazine lay on my desk. This particular issue was devoted to the rising crime rate, with a graph showing that while the population increased only 11 percent from 1963 to 1973, violent crime had increased a shocking 174 percent. Articles in the magazine spoke of additional billions for increased police forces and larger prisons.

Francisco, age 8, is sometimes persecuted at school because he is a member of the Church. One day two boys he was playing with started to hit him. One of them hit him very hard on the head. “I didn’t fight with them,” he says, “because I don’t like to fight and I know it is bad. Also something told me not to fight with them. It was the Holy Ghost.”
The director of the school called in the parents of all three boys to help solve the problem. After the meeting, the director told Francisco’s parents how impressed she was with him for not fighting, for telling the truth, and for setting a good example for the other children. “My friends were punished for what they had done—they couldn’t go out at recess for one or two weeks,” Francisco remembers. He is grateful the Holy Ghost prompted him to do what was right.

Dan’s thoughts turned to a story a favorite bishop had told him, something which had happened on another Christmas Eve many years ago. His bishop had been a soldier in basic training. It had looked as though there might be no Christmas leave—had looked as though Private Benjamin Clark would have to spend Christmas at Fort Ord, California, far from his friends and loved ones in Idaho.
And then at the last minute had come the welcome orders: Seven days’ Christmas leave, effective immediately.
It had been too late for Ben to make plane reservations—too late to catch a bus out of Monterey. It had been too late to ride with the LDS guys from Charlie Company—too late to do anything but walk to the highway and stick out one thumb.
A trucker named “Red” with a load of California produce had picked up Ben and carried him east into Nevada. He had joined his baritone voice with Red’s Irish tenor, and they had sung up all the Christmas songs either of them had known.
And then at Winnemucca he had stood in the cold for so long, waiting for a ride north on US 95 toward Boise. In the best of times there wasn’t much traffic on that stretch of road—and on a late Christmas Eve night, well …
But at last a pair of headlights had appeared, had slowed, had pulled to a stop, had picked him up. Thank goodness they had been going his way and said they could take him almost all the way to Boise.
Dan recalled how the bishop had described what came next: It was not until he and his duffel bag were in the back seat and the car had been moving that the young soldier realized the three young men in the front seat were drunk—and getting drunker. They had offered Ben a drink from their bottle and had been offended when he declined.
The young soldier in the back seat had become alarmed. The driver had been much too drunk; the car had been going much too fast; the car radio had been much too loud. A feeling of darkness, of foreboding had filled Ben’s mind as he considered his situation.
Finally, he had said it: “Please! Stop the car! I want to get out!”
The reply had been loud laughter from the front seat. “You said you were going to Boise,” they had reminded him. “Well, hang on, soldier boy, ’cause we ain’t stopping for nobody and nothing until we hit Nampa.”
For several fearful miles Ben had listened to the sound of the tires on the highway, the loud music on the radio, the reckless talk and the loud laughter from the front seat. He had endured the strong smell of cigarette smoke and cheap whiskey all around him.
With each mile, he had feared more for his life. In his fear, he had turned to prayer. “Heavenly Father, I’m in an awful mess, and I don’t see how I can get out of it. Please help me. Please protect me and preserve my life. Heavenly Father, I’m afraid, and I really need thy help. …”
Dan could recall his bishop’s very words: “And then had come a very quiet, very peaceful prompting telling me to get down on the floor and put my duffel bag over me.”
He had done so immediately. In the narrow space between the front seat and the back, Ben had hunched down, had wedged himself in tightly, had pulled the weight of the duffel bag over onto his back. Then he had put his forehead on the floor and his hands over his head.
A few minutes later the end of the world came. There had been the sound of screaming tires, the wild swerving of the car out of control—and the jolting, jarring, jamming impact of two high-speed vehicles fusing into one pile of scrap iron in the desert.
Much later, the young Latter-day Saint soldier had regained consciousness. He had found himself in a black world where he could move neither arms nor legs nor head. There had seemed to be no up nor down, no left nor right, nothing to help orient him. Nothing had stirred within the dead car—except for the smells of gasoline and of vomited whiskey—of sudden death in what had been a front seat.
Perhaps an hour had passed before a big diesel rig had pulled to a stop at the remote accident site. Two truckers had radioed for help, surmised that no one in either car could have survived such total destruction.
But the highway patrol had discovered otherwise. Along with the dead couple in one car and the three dead teenage boys in the other, they had found and then rescued Private Benjamin Clark.
“Young man,” one trooper had said, “you aren’t too good at picking folks to ride with, but I figure someone up there knows your name, rank, and serial number. I hope you do something good with your life, because you owe Him one. Only God could have brought you through this night with not one scratch on your body.”

One night, some years later, after I had been ordained an Apostle, the prophet of God called me and asked me to read something that had been written about Church doctrine. He had spent the night reading the chapters of a book. He said with a chuckle, “I can’t get through all of this. You shouldn’t be resting while I’m working.” And then he used almost the same words my father had years before: “Hal, you are the one who should read this. You will know if it is right to publish it.”

Since my youth I have been intrigued with the Greek legend of the Trojan horse. You will probably recall that the Grecian army had besieged the city of Troy for 10 years without being able to breach the impenetrable fortifications.
Eventually the Greeks pretended to withdraw, leaving behind them a large wooden horse with a raiding party concealed inside. The Trojans believed the horse to be a good omen and, against the advice of some, brought it within the city walls. During the night the Grecian warriors emerged from their hiding place and opened the city gates, allowing the Grecian army to enter and conquer Troy.

Although he loved to play softball in his youth, President Thomas S. Monson was a tall, skinny boy who felt disappointed each time he was chosen last for the team. He was not particularly athletic at first, but one day that changed.
“As a boy, I played team softball in elementary and junior high school. Two captains were chosen, and then they, in turn, selected the players they desired on their teams. To be selected fourth or fifth was not too bad, but to be chosen last and relegated to a remote position in the outfield was downright awful. I know. I was there.
“How I hoped that the ball would never be hit in my direction, for surely I would drop it, runners would score, and teammates would laugh.
“As though it were just yesterday, I remember the moment when all that changed in my life. The game started out as I have described: I was chosen last. I made my sorrowful way to the deep pocket of right field and watched as the other team filled the bases with runners. Two batters then went down on strikes. Suddenly, the next batter hit a mighty drive. The ball was coming in my direction. Was it beyond my reach? I raced for the spot where I thought the ball would drop, uttered a silent prayer as I ran, and stretched forth my cupped hands. I surprised myself. I caught the ball! My team won the game! This one experience bolstered my confidence, inspired my desire to practice, and led me from that last-to-be-chosen place to become a real contributor to the team” (Ensign, May 1989, 43).

In many parts of Jamaica, students like me have to take an exam to get into the high school they want. My friends and I studied hard so we could all get into the best high school. When I started to doubt I could do it, my mom always encouraged me. She reminded me that I’m one of Heavenly Father’s children and that He will help me to go on the right path.
When my exam results came back, I got the highest grade I could get! I was so excited because that meant I could be with all my friends!
But I soon found out that one of my friends didn’t score high enough. We were all so sad she couldn’t come with us. But I found joy in remembering what my mom had taught me. My friend was also a wonderful daughter of Heavenly Father, and He would help her too, no matter the test scores.
My excitement faded when my friend started telling everyone that I didn’t deserve to get into that high school—that she should have gotten in instead. Most of my friends took her side and stopped hanging out with me. I started to doubt myself. Did I really deserve to get in?
I thought back to what my mom taught me: that I’m a unique child in Heavenly Father’s image.
I’m now at the new school, and I made new friends. They support me and remind me of my worth. I’ve learned that it doesn’t matter what other people say about me. I’m happy when I’m trying to be who God wants me to be—because that’s who I want to be.
The author lives in Jamaica.

Why Paint?
I asked,
Until I saw
The well-loved scene
With captur’d mood.
A feeling rare, hard to
Explain. Just to
Allude,
I’d have to paint.

William wants a doll, but his brother says that William will become a creep. The boy next door calls him a sissy, and his father brings other playthings to interest him. Then a visitor helps everyone realize a doll has a special place in the life of a boy.

That leads me to a third truth that came in those months of loss, illness, and distress. It was a renewed witness of and endless gratitude for the resolute prayers of this Church—your prayers—of which I have been the beneficiary. I will be eternally grateful for the supplication of thousands of people who, like the importuning widow, repeatedly sought heaven’s intervention in my behalf. I received priesthood blessings, and I saw my high school class fast for me, as did several random wards across the Church. And my name must have been on the prayer roll of virtually every temple in the Church.
In my profound gratitude for all this, I join G. K. Chesterton, who said once “that thanks are the highest form of thought; and … gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder.” With my own “happiness doubled by wonder,” I thank all of you and thank my Father in Heaven, who heard your prayers and blessed my life.

An example of tobacco’s powerful hold is illustrated in a letter which was written by a mother to the popular columnist and human relations adviser Ann Landers:
“Dear Ann Landers:
“A year ago our two-year-old son, Earl, had difficulty breathing, so we took him to a doctor. We learned Earl is allergic to cigarette smoke. My husband said we both had to quit smoking right then and there. He hasn’t touched a cigarette since. I went back to smoking that same night.
“My husband doesn’t know I smoke. I have to sneak around and smoke in the basement, and it is making a nervous wreck out of me. Do you think it would be wrong if we let a nice couple adopt little Earl—a nice couple who don’t smoke? The only problem is that my husband is crazy about the boy. I love him too, but I am more the practical type. What do you think, Ann?
“/s/ Mrs. E. R. M.
“Dear Mrs. E. R. M.:
“I think a lot of people who read this letter are going to say I made it up. It’s utterly fantastic that a mother would put cigarettes ahead of her own child. Don’t present your wild idea to your husband. I wouldn’t blame him if he decided to keep little Earl and unload you!”