Gospel Story Finder

Cleave to your spouse. Just months after we were married, my husband and I moved halfway across the country from our parents. As a result, we couldn’t turn to our parents for help with every little thing. We were forced to do what the Lord counsels—to “cleave” to our spouse and “none else” (D&C 42:22). To “cleave” means to be steadfast, to adhere, to hold fast.
In those early years of marriage we struggled to get used to military life, to each other, to long separations, and in time to a baby. But we weathered those storms and held tighter to each other, and our love grew strong despite the storms.
Since everything else should support our marriage and our desired goal of exaltation, we do not cleave to material things, careers, or volunteer work, although each needs our attention occasionally. Sometimes we have even temporarily put aside the tasks associated with a Church calling because our marriage needed our attention.
Our moments of cleaving are sometimes brief. They are often combined with other tasks, like driving to and from a leadership meeting or doing grocery shopping together without children. Just as we look for opportunities to be with our children, we also look for opportunities to be without them.
Other moments of cleaving are planned. The advice to have a weekly date is inspired. It doesn’t have to be expensive; it doesn’t even have to be out of the home. It does need to be without children. It is our time to nourish our relationship and keep our love healthy and alive.
With all the many voices that attempt to thwart our efforts to gain exaltation, we know anything that tries to break apart the marriage is not of God. Our marriage has survived because we have tried to follow the counsel to cleave to each other and to serve God.—Becky E. Ludlow

“Seemingly out of nowhere, this civilization sprang up sometime around 600 B.C.” Professor Terry’s words crackled like lightning on the girl sitting seven rows back in his History of the American Southwest class. She usually dozed during this period, but for the first time in her five weeks of junior college, Robin was totally awake. There! He was writing the date on the board—600 B.C. The figures looked like neon lights on a dark landscape. She looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. No, they all appeared completely nonchalant. I must be the only Mormon in the room, she thought. Her attention returned to Professor Terry who paced in front of his desk as he described various artifacts and their possible functions. “I wonder if he could be a member,” she thought, as the lecture drifted farther and farther from the subject of the appearance of the mysterious civilization. “Why wasn’t I paying more attention?” she continued, making a mental note to do better. When the bell announced the end of class, Robin gathered up her books and made her way to the front of the room where the instructor was marking some lecture notes.
“Professor Terry?”
He looked up, gave her a quick smile, and said, “Yes?”
“Is it just a coincidence that the date you’ve written there is the same one that figures so prominently in the Book of Mormon?” she began, gesturing toward the date still written on the board. “And the way that culture just sprang up out of nowhere. …”
The professor’s amicable expression dissolved instantly.
“Here we go again,” he said impatiently. “You Mormons try to explain all this in terms of another culture.”
“But sir, the date … I mean, it’s such a coincidence. …”
“I know, Nephites and Lamanites and all that. You people just refuse to acknowledge that the American Indians could have developed such an advanced culture without outside help, without inheriting it from somewhere else. It’s a racist notion!” He bristled with annoyance now. “Something tells me he’s not a Mormon,” Robin thought.
“Yes, uh, well, do you know of any more books I could read on the subject?” she asked in her most ingratiating tone. She knew she probably wouldn’t get around to reading them, but she thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask anyway. She was right. Professor Terry smiled condescendingly and wrote down some titles on a piece of paper.
“Here,” he said, handing the paper to her. “Now you’re a nice Mormon girl, and I certainly wouldn’t want to change that.”
“Thank you.” Robin turned and left the room. “I suppose I should have told him that I know the Church is true,” she thought, “but how could I with him going on and on like that? I think maybe I’ll look up some of those books that support the Book of Mormon with real evidence. Professor Terry doesn’t even know there is any evidence. Then the next time this happens, I’ll be prepared.”
That evening, Robin was resting in front of the television when her mother got home from Primary. “I guess I’d better go help her with supper,” she thought, when she heard pots and pans being rattled in the kitchen.
Just then her mother’s voice called above the noise, “Robbie, honey, did you have a chance to type those papers for me? I have to take them with me in the morning.”
“Oh, I forgot, Mom. I’ll do it after supper, okay?” It seemed like there was always something waiting to be done.
Later that night Robin lay down on her bed and started reading a novel for her English class. Halfway through the third chapter, her eyes began to close. She closed the book, switched off the lamp, and succumbed to her sleepiness. Then a faint tap, tap, tapping intruded on her oblivious slumber. She raised her head. There it was again. Tap, tap, tap. The typewriter! Oh no! Her mother was typing the forgotten papers. “Oh, Mom, I’m sorry,” she thought to herself. “I’ll remember next time.” She buried her head in her pillow but couldn’t escape the typewriter keys that hammered her conscience senseless.
Midterm exams came up very quickly. Professor Terry handed out the freshly mimeographed pages that still smelled faintly of ink. Robin took hers a little apprehensively and started on the first section. These questions were multiple choice, and she was sure of most of the answers, so she felt confident as she turned to the second page. At the top was an essay question that stopped her cold: Describe the possible origins of the American Indian, basing your answer on presently known facts. “Oh no,” she thought, “I forgot all about researching this.”
As she sat there, stunned, all of Professor Terry’s evidence and opinions kept running through her head. She could not think of one fact to support her own belief. The clock showed five minutes had passed, and still Robin debated. “If I don’t hurry up, I won’t get to the end of the test,” she thought. “Besides, if I show his viewpoint, Professor Terry will see that I really do know the material and that I can answer his way if necessary. After all, he knows very well what I really believe.”
Robin wrote a whole page, including everything from parallel evolution to the Bering Strait theory. With relief, she moved on to the rest of the exam, completing the last question as the bell rang. “Boy, what you have to go through to get a grade,” she thought, and she dropped her exam on the table with the rest.
Monday afternoon, a week later, Robin got to class a little early. Professor Terry had said that he would probably pass back the midterms today, and she was anxious to see how he had reacted to hers. As the other students came in and took their seats, she thought how few of them she really knew. “This isn’t like high school,” she mused. “There doesn’t seem to be much time to get to know people once you’re in college.” Just then the professor entered the room, carrying the stack of examinations.
“Good afternoon,” he said, placing the papers on the desk. “I am quite encouraged after correcting your exams because, on the whole, they’re quite good. Of course, some are better than others.” The class laughed nervously. “I would like to read a few of the better responses to the essay question.” As he began reading, Robin heard his words with disbelief. They were her own. Professor Terry’s voice resounded through the lecture hall. She wanted to stop him, but she couldn’t move. “Out of all of those papers, why mine?” she thought. She sat motionless and watched as 42 people listened to the wrong answer.

Perhaps I hesitate as well,
resisting change,
content with twilight,
and afraid,
When He
who once pressed clay and spittle to the blind,
Fits me with Spirit to my mortal eye
to form a retina of Light
that is a seer-stone of the world.
For, having seen the heavens,
I well know
That I can never be the same again.

Recently I stood with the missionaries of the Montevideo Uruguay West Mission as they quoted aloud the fourth section of the Doctrine and Covenants: “O ye that embark in the service of God, see that ye serve him with all your heart, might, mind and strength, that ye may stand blameless before God at the last day” (D&C 4:2). I felt the Spirit of their callings as they stood steadfast in their stewardships of bringing souls to Christ. Latter-day Saints are commanded to “lift up your hearts and rejoice, and gird up your loins, and take upon you my whole armor, that ye may be able to withstand the evil day, having done all, that ye may be able to stand” (D&C 27:15). King Benjamin taught that his people were to stand steadfast “in the faith of that which [was] to come” (Mosiah 4:11). They had “cried aloud with one voice, saying: O have mercy, and apply the atoning blood of Christ that we may receive forgiveness of our sins, and our hearts may be purified; for we believe in Jesus Christ, the Son of God, … who shall come down among the children of men” (Mosiah 4:2).

He used to love to tell about learning to throw a baseball so he would be accepted on the top team and about struggling to improve his penmanship so it would represent him well. His handwriting was at last considered unusually beautiful. He expressed his joy from the pulpit that singing the hymns of the Church with the Saints was a marvelous way to worship. Then he would explain his delight in learning so many hymns in so many days and in knowing he could sing them perfectly, without mistake.

“Sometimes I get cold and grouchy early in the morning,” Amy said. “But then I remember my first flight. We went over to the West Mesa where it’s flat and there aren’t any power lines or roads to worry about. It’s a good place to learn. There was snow on the ground. We came down and skimmed the bushes and saw some jackrabbits, then went back up again. Every time we go it’s fun like that. I want to be a balloonist for a long time.”

The Liahona is a constant blessing in my life. The articles in it reach the bottom of my heart. It was a special blessing when my whole family was baptized on the same day in October 2003, and the Liahona has been a blessing to all of us ever since then.Jessica Lisseth Sinche Urgano, Peru

Skull Valley, Utah—that was where I spent two summers as a youth. I lived on Long Island, New York, but my father, who had grown up on a farm in Idaho, told me, “You’re never going to learn how to work until you work on a ranch.” My uncle had a ranch in Skull Valley, and so I, a city boy, was sent to live and work there.
The first few days I spent on the ranch left me exhausted. My entire body ached, and I wondered how I could get through each day. I was discouraged and wanted to go home, but I didn’t tell this to my relatives.
One day I was moving bales of hay with my cousin, and I was having a hard time because I was so tired. My cousin gave me a little push and said, “You aren’t lazy—you just don’t know how to work.” I decided then that I’d learn how to work—and I did. And as I worked on the ranch that summer, I came to enjoy it and my body thrived on it.

A confirmed alcoholic found a new lease on life because an assigned couple had won his confidence, and they were there when he needed them. His problem is now history. His own family is back together for the first time in years.

One morning I went downstairs and there on the carpet was the big fat white envelope. My heart leapt. I quickly grabbed it and immediately locked myself in the bathroom. I have a big family, and someone could have been lurking; I wanted to open it on my own.
I stared at the envelope, scared to open it. I kept thinking that it held the next 18 months of my life, my future. I was very anxious. I eventually opened it and scoured through the first few lines. I just wanted to know where I was going—it was the Greece Athens Mission. I’d never heard of this mission. I’d never heard of anyone even going to this mission. I would later find out that I was the first Scottish sister to go there. How cool! I would learn to speak Greek. l would serve my mission during one of the hottest summers they’d had, and another summer the following year. Greece was indeed a different, unusual place. The gospel was still in its infancy there; it had only been dedicated 25 years previously by Elder Gordon B. Hinckley (1910-2008).

We were living in a small town in Georgia, USA, when my father died at just 55 years old. Most of our family lived in another state. Never had the 2,000 miles (3,200 km) between us felt greater than at that time.
My husband was the bishop and I the organist of our small ward. With all the emotions and stress of helping with funeral plans, I was feeling especially weary that Sunday when it came time for our sacrament meeting closing hymn: “God Be with You Till We Meet Again” (Hymns, no. 152).
Halfway through the second verse, my grief overcame me. Somehow I played through the end of that verse, but my hands were shaking and my eyes so full of tears that I had to stop with an entire verse left. I couldn’t stop crying.
A brief pause followed as the congregation realized the organ had stopped. But then ward members started singing a cappella. The singing wasn’t perfect. We were few, after all. But the Spirit made up the difference. Through my tears and embarrassment, I could feel the love of many as they sang.
God be with you till we meet again;
Keep love’s banner floating o’er you;
Smite death’s threat’ning wave before you.
God be with you till we meet again.
When the hymn ended, the music leader held me as I sobbed through the closing prayer. Several people then came up to the organ with tears in their eyes to say how sorry they were about my father.
Later, I told the music leader I would be playing the piano at the funeral. It probably seemed like a bad idea after what had just happened, but my dad so enjoyed hearing me play the piano. I wanted to play for him. I realized then how close he had felt during the closing hymn.
I am so thankful for the hymns. I testify that music can teach and comfort us in ways that words often cannot. As the First Presidency wrote in the preface to the hymnbook, “Hymns … comfort the weary, console the mourning, and inspire us to endure to the end.” I am also thankful for the love of a good ward when I was so far away from my own family. I know that my father and I will indeed meet again.

Roberta Rowler is a Laurel in the Auckland 14th Ward, Auckland New Zealand Manukau Stake. Roberta, or Bobbie as she is called, loves to dance. Her particular specialty is national dancing. She has won many awards and is qualified to judge it but is not yet old enough. Although she is still in school, she teaches dance to seven pupils. She is also learning to play the bagpipes.
Bobbie recently graduated from seminary after completing four years of study.

But Mother still went through with the ordinance, showing the strong character trait of perseverance, even bravery, a characteristic I quickly came to admire as I read of Mother’s ensuing health problems, and the unexpected postponement of her marriage for more than a year, after Father lost his balance on an airplane hangar construction and fell 40 feet to the ground.

When I was asked to lead a discussion in Relief Society on the Savior’s invitation to feed His sheep, I decided that if I wanted to motivate the sisters, I should do something for one of His sheep.
I gathered up my courage and invited a less-active sister to come to a Relief Society activity with me. She accepted my invitation and we had an enjoyable time. I felt that this was a good example, and I was eager to share my experience. But the Lord had more to teach me.

I talk to my school friends about my church friends and tell them how much fun we have together. Then they start asking questions about the Church. When I take them to activities and they meet my friends at church, they say, “Oh, so this is who she’s been talking about.” Knowing a little about who they’re going to meet makes them feel more comfortable.
Sarah Boardman, 14Dewitt, Michigan

Before family home evening, bake a cake, a pan of brownies, or another treat that must be divided to be eaten. Invite a family member to eat the treat, but explain that it must be eaten in one bite. When it is clear this cannot be done, read “Will Heavenly Father always answer my prayers?” (page 11). Why does the Lord sometimes answer our prayers piece by piece? Why is it sometimes better to receive things in portions?

Several years ago my wife, Susan, and I had the opportunity to tour the New Zealand Christchurch Mission with President and Sister Melvin Tagg. President Tagg suggested that as part of the mission tour we include a preparation day and take a bus trip to see the beautiful Milford Sound. Part of the trip involved stopping at several beautiful scenic sites along the way. At one of those stops, as we walked back to the bus, I became curious about a group of passengers standing in a circle on the road taking photographs. As I peered over the people, I saw in the circle a frightened little baby lamb on wobbly legs. It appeared to be no more than a few hours old. I have seen a lot of sheep in my life, since my father-in-law was in the sheep business. Consequently, I had no interest in taking a photograph of a solitary lamb, so I boarded the bus and waited.
After all the passengers finally boarded the bus, the driver picked up the frightened little lamb in his arms, held it tenderly against his chest, and brought it on the bus. He sat down, closed the door, picked up his microphone, and said to us, “Undoubtedly a band of sheep has gone through here this morning, and this little lamb has strayed. Perhaps if we take it with us, we might find the band of sheep farther up the road and return this baby lamb to its mother.”
We drove through several kilometers of beautiful forests and finally came to a beautiful meadow of tall, flowing grass. Sure enough, there in the meadow was a band of sheep feeding. The bus driver stopped the bus and excused himself. We all thought he would put the lamb down on the side of the road and come back, but he didn’t. With the lamb in his arms, he carefully and quietly walked out through the grass toward the band of sheep. When he got as close as he could without disturbing them, he gently put the lamb down and then remained in the field to make sure the baby lamb returned to the fold.
As he returned to the bus, he once again picked up his microphone and said, “Oh, can’t you hear that mother sheep saying, ‘Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you for bringing my lost lamb back home to me!’”

The Tabernacle Choir: Just a note before I present them. We have a letter from the doctor of Isaac Stewart suggesting that he be relieved of his responsibilities at this time. The Choir has accepted his release to take effect September 1 when his successor will take over. In the Tabernacle Choir: Oakley S. Evans as president, Jerold D. Ottley as conductor, Alexander Schreiner as chief organist, Robert Cundick as organist, and Roy M. Darley as organist. All in favor of this proposition, please manifest it. Contrary, if there be any, by the same sign.

We have family living in Tonga and were sad when a cyclone hit there. We decided to send water purifiers so that they could have clean drinking water. We worked to earn money to send three boxes of purifiers. Our family in Tonga had enough to share with their community.
Christopher and Kalea L., both age 8, Saskatchewan, Canada

Charles Redd later wrote about the climb up Comb Ridge: “Aside from the Hole-in-the-Rock, itself, this was the steepest crossing on the journey. Here again seven span of horses were used, so that when some of the horses were on their knees, fighting to get up to find a foothold, the still-erect horses could plunge upward against the sharp grade. On the worst slopes the men were forced to beat their jaded animals into giving all they had. After several pulls, rests, and pulls, many of the horses took to spasms and near-convulsions, so exhausted were they.”
“By the time most of the outfits were across, the worst stretches could easily be identified by the dried blood and matted hair from the forelegs of the struggling teams. My father [L. H. Redd, Jr.] was a strong man, and reluctant to display emotion; but whenever in later years the full pathos of San Juan Hill was recalled either by himself or by someone else, the memory of such bitter struggles was too much for him and he wept” (in David E. Miller, Hole-in-the-Rock, Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press, 1966, pp. 138–139).