Gospel Story Finder

Mark Fallentine, 17, of Frenchtown, had planned on sleeping in, then spending the day getting ready for a school dance. “Friday night, I got two calls from the priests quorum about the cleanup. Then Saturday morning I got a call from the branch president. So I went. But after we got out and started working, I felt really good about it. And now, just driving by the highway and looking at it, I can say, ‘Hey, I worked on this, and it looks real nice.’ It taught me that I ought to participate even when at first I don’t want to.”

The translation of the Book of Mormon is a miracle in itself and gives further proof of the book’s divine origin. When Oliver Cowdery arrived in Harmony, Pennsylvania, on April 5, 1829, to serve as the Prophet’s scribe, only a few pages of the final text had been translated. That evening Joseph and Oliver sat down together and discussed the Prophet’s experiences long into the night. Two days later, on April 7, they commenced the translation of the work. Over the next three months, Joseph translated at an amazing rate—approximately 500 printed pages in about 60 working days.
Oliver wrote of this remarkable experience: “These were days never to be forgotten—to sit under the sound of a voice dictated by the inspiration of heaven, awakened the utmost gratitude of this bosom! Day after day I continued, uninterrupted, to write from his mouth, as he translated, with the Urim and Thummim, … the history, or record, called ‘The book of Mormon’” (Messenger and Advocate, Oct. 1834, 14; see also Joseph Smith—History 1:71, note).

Every infant has a mother and a father, and many have brothers and sisters. Likewise, when we are “born of water” through baptism, we are given a new family of brothers and sisters in the gospel. We become members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. “I lived away from my own family at the time of my baptism,” recalls Sister Ericksen. “I felt like I had a new family of brothers and sisters. I felt like I had joined a family of love.”
For Sister Ericksen, the ward that she became part of at her baptism had the necessary qualities of a good family: love for one another, good examples, and a commitment to follow Jesus Christ.

On this occasion I would like to speak especially to the young people the world over. Somehow, I believe that they have a special ability to understand important things. May I illustrate with this little story?
Many years ago we sat as a family in our weekly home evening discussing the principle of the Resurrection. Attempting to explain in simple terms what is involved, I noticed our small children looking at me with puzzled expressions on their tiny faces. Apologetically, I mumbled something about it being very difficult to understand such things. Whereupon, Lezlee, our then five-year-old, with a look of loving concern for my discomfort, said, “Don’t feel badly, Daddy; I understand you.” And then she proceeded to demonstrate her new gospel knowledge. Lying down on the floor, straight and stiff, with her arms outstretched, she slowly raised herself and said, “It’s simple; you just sink up.”

Once upon a time there was a little Slobovian boy named Gorb who lived in a little boardinghouse with 10,000 Slobovians. Every morning all 10,001 of them were served the most nutritious breakfast cereal available anywhere—Captain Steadfast’s Forthright Whole Wheat Crunchies. Now federal agencies and senate hearings had proven not only that Captain Steadfast’s was the best breakfast food known to man but also that it was, spoonful for spoonful, the most economical cereal on the market. And it tasted great.
One morning just at breakfast time a stranger walked into the boardinghouse and casually tossed a new cereal onto the table that, he said, was groovy, outasight, and everyone was eating. It was called Gurgle, Twaddle, and Sop. Some of the guys said they had heard it was pretty bad, but 10,000 hands nevertheless reached for the box and heaped their bowls high because, after all, it obviously was the thing to do. However, when the box came to Gorb he kindly said, “No, thank you,” and he poured himself a bowl of Forthright Whole Wheat Crunchies.
“Comment!”* roared a chorus of 10,000 Slobovian voices.
“Well, it isn’t any great mystery,” replied Gorb. “I just read on the box here that Gurgle, Twaddle, and Sop has no vitamins, no proteins, none of the good stuff Captain Steadfast’s has, and it even admits to having some real junk in it. The price looks pretty expensive, and I’ve heard it can really taste gross. Besides—I like these Crunchies.”
At that point 10,000 fists hit Gorb on the jaw. “What gall,” mused Gorb as he shrugged his shoulders and went on eating his Captain Steadfast’s.
But even as Gorb was taking his lonely stand, some strange things began to happen around the table. Many of the 10,000 said they were sick; some said they were seeing strange things; a few said they couldn’t see anything at all. Several fell face first into their Gurgle, Twaddle, and Sop, and at least one just cried and cried. But those who were still able kept forcing down the G, T, & S because, after all, somebody had said it was groovy and outasight and everybody was eating it.
It wasn’t long before just one person remained sitting at the table; 10,000 others were screaming around the room or sobbing at their benches or just retching on the floor. The place was a bad scene that didn’t look either groovy or outasight, but at least everybody was doing it—except Gorb. He just quietly finished his Whole Wheat Crunchies and wondered why new always meant better to so many people.
Moral: 10,000 Slobovians can be wrong.

Olá! My name is Alice, and I try to SHINE MY LIGHT by SHOWING GRATITUDE!
I live in Brazil with my parents and sister and brother. My sister, Julia, and I play the piano for sacrament meeting in our ward.
One Sunday, a man named Brother Stahlke gave us a present. He said it was a gift to thank us for the music we played on Sundays. When we opened the box, we found a special kind of flute inside! I put the flute together and started playing. I was enchanted by the sound.
Soon I started playing hymns on the flute. I wanted to do something to thank Brother Stahlke for the gift. So I practiced the hymn “How Great the Wisdom and the Love” (Hymns, no. 195). I asked my dad to take me to Brother Stahlke’s house so I could show him that his gift helped me discover a new talent.
When I played for Brother Stahlke, he was very happy and emotional. He told me that he had a dream about this hymn the night before! I felt the love of God for him and for me.
When we show gratitude, the Lord blesses us with happy feelings from the Holy Ghost.

I vividly remember a conversation I had with my roommates during my freshman year at BYU. One night at dinner we were discussing what we would give our mothers for Christmas. I had been raised in a very middle-class family, but I attended high school with wealthy, upper-class Jewish students. I had no other point of reference, so by the standards of my peers, my family was pretty poor. As I discussed gift suggestions with my college roommates, I mentioned that I was contemplating giving my mother a telephone for Christmas. She seemed to already have everything else she needed. One of my roommates said, “I’m going to buy my mother a store-bought blouse. I don’t remember her ever owning a piece of new, store-bought clothing.” Wow, was I humbled in a hurry! My naive eyes had awakened to the real world.

Tasha, Patrick, and Zach sat on the couch, staring at the big wooden box. They had found it when they were cleaning out the closet. Mom said it was Dad’s special treasure box. But they weren’t allowed to open it until Dad got home.
“I wonder what kind of treasures are in there,” Patrick said. “Maybe gold.”
“Or jewels,” said Tasha. “Maybe Dad will share his treasures with us!”
“It’s old,” said Zach, rubbing a finger on the wood. “It was made a long time ago.” He stared at the box and mumbled something about X-ray vision.
Just then Dad came in the door. “My box!” he said with a big grin.
Zach jumped up. “Can we open it now?” he asked.
“Hmm. Let’s save it for family home evening,” Dad said. “We’ll have a special treasure box night.”
They tried not to look at the box while they were playing, but they couldn’t stop thinking about it. “Couldn’t we just peek a little?” Patrick whispered after dinner was over. He slid over to the box but jumped back when Mom and Dad came into the room. Finally it was time.
Mom said the prayer, and then Dad started family home evening.
“My father made this box for me one Christmas,” he told them. “I started keeping all my treasures in it.”
“Are the treasures worth a lot?” Zach asked.
“They are to me,” said Dad.
“Let’s see them!” said Tasha.
Dad opened the box wide so everyone could see.
The treasures weren’t what they were expecting, but they still had fun exploring. Instead of pirate gold and rubies, they found old school papers, a yo-yo, a microscope, letters, certificates, and lots of photos from when Dad was a kid. His baby pictures made them laugh. As they looked through the box, Zach held up an old airplane ticket.
“Why is this in your treasure box?” he asked.
Dad took the ticket. “During my first year of college, my family sent me this ticket so I could fly home for Thanksgiving. I got a ride from some friends, but they couldn’t take me all the way to the airport.”
“Where did they take you?” Zach asked.
“They dropped me off at a street corner,” said Dad. “I didn’t know how to get to the airport from there. I was worried I would miss the plane.”
“Did you call someone on your cell phone?” Tasha asked.
“Cell phones weren’t invented yet!” Mom said with a laugh.
“So what did you do?” Patrick asked.
“I started praying,” said Dad. “I prayed hard that Heavenly Father would help me. Then I saw a car coming. It was my old bishop! He gave me a ride to the airport. I saved the ticket and put it in my treasure box.”
“Now I get it!” Tasha said. “It’s a treasure because it helps you remember that Heavenly Father heard your prayers.”
“Yep!” said Dad. “It’s the best kind of treasure. And I’m glad I could share it with you.”
“We should write that story down and keep it with the ticket,” Zach said. “It could be a treasure for our whole family!”
“And this could be our family treasure box!” Patrick said, pointing to the box in excitement. “We could all put treasures like that in here.”
“Best idea ever!” said Dad.
Tasha grinned. “I can’t wait to put a treasure in the box!”

One morning our mom woke us up early and was excited to show us this gorgeous sunrise. We are so grateful Heavenly Father makes the most beautiful scenery just to make us happy!
Josie, Vivian, Mariel, and Natalie F., ages 9, 11, 11, and 6, California, USA

Six months after Ethel died, then at nine months, then at two years, I wrote down my feelings. Keeping a daily journal has been a source of comfort. Between nine and twelve months after Ethel’s passing, I decided to ‘get back out there’ by joining a social group and a travel group. That lasted about a month before I realised my heart wasn’t ready. I felt the impression to attend the temple regularly. Despite the initial pain, this proved a great strength to me.

This incident was shared by Lucile F. Johnson of Orem, Utah: “There was an attractive lady whose company everyone sought and enjoyed. She was a delight to be around because she seemed to love life and people to the fullest. One day I said to her, ‘You are such a joy to all of us. What is your secret? Can you tell me?’
“‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘One word changed my life.’
“‘And what was that word?’ I queried.
“‘Malignant!’ Startled, I heard this explanation: ‘The doctor said that word to me and told me I had a limited time to live. I had a choice. I could make everyone miserable or I could try to make others happy. On my knees I realized that I had one day at a time just as everyone else has. I was able to see things I had never seen. My husband, my children, each person took on a beauty you can’t believe. I know that life is a gift whether it be a day or a year and I intend to enjoy my gift to the maximum.’”

“The Lord has called a modern prophet, President Spencer W. Kimball. It is a great privilege to live at the same time as President Kimball. I remember when I was in Oklahoma with a man whose father had been a stake president there for about fourteen years. The stake president kept a visitor’s guest book for General Authorities and other special guests to sign. It was a pretty thick book, as I recall, and it had the signatures of Joseph Fielding Smith, Matthew Cowley, Adam S. Bennion, and other great leaders. There was space for the date and the person’s name, position, and hobby. Under one entry in 1954 I read these words: ‘Name—Spencer W. Kimball; position—Apostle; Hobby—I love people.’ I kept turning the pages, and I saw that President Kimball had revisited the stake ten years later. Except for the date, everything was the same, including ‘Hobby—I love people.’ I think when the prophet loves us so much, we can love him and pray for him too.”

My older brother wanted to go on a mission before he started school, so he looked around at all the different universities, and he got one that would accept him whenever he came home from his mission. He was putting his mission first.
Debra Boyd, 16Belfast, Northern Ireland

Then one day, about a year later, one of Olivio’s American teammates said, “Hey—you’re Mormon. Don’t Mormons go on missions? Are you going to quit the team and go too?”
That started Olivio thinking. “The things I learned made sense to me, and I said, ‘Well, if these things come from God. I have to explain them to other people.”
But leaving basketball—that would be tough. Olivio had just made the Portuguese national team, and his professional team had offered him a very lucrative contract—lots of money, a car, and a luxurious apartment.
“It was a difficult decision to leave basketball, so I decided to get my patriarchal blessing. There it said that I was going to serve the Lord, so I decided to do it. God prepared me to come here and find the gospel by giving me these talents to play basketball. I don’t have a problem leaving it to serve him. I think I can help many people.”
And now, Elder Olivio Gomes Manuel, who left northern Portugal almost two years ago to serve in southern Portugal, is helping many people. He’s well known throughout the mission for his good nature and easy smile, his hard work, and his gentle rapport with the people he towers over.

Carl B. Cook
(110) As he ponders an assignment his great-great-grandfather received from the Prophet Joseph Smith, Carl B. Cook receives confirmation that his new Church assignment came from God.

“I don’t care what everybody else is doing,” I snapped, charging from the barn where I’d been gathering eggs with my older sister, Minnie.
“Nobody needs my eggs.”
“But they do, Penelope. They don’t want all your eggs—just the ones the chickens lay on Sunday. It’s to help rebuild the church.”
One of the first things the people of Snowflake had built when they first settled here along the banks of Silver Creek was the church. We’d all been proud of it. Two weeks ago it burned.
I glared at Minnie standing in the barnyard with her bare feet peeking out from under her skirt. “I’m not giving away my eggs.”
“But Bishop Hunt wants you to give your eggs.”
I shook my head furiously. “Right in church yesterday, he said that nobody had to give their eggs. He said that the Lord doesn’t want anything from anybody who doesn’t want to give it. That’s how I know He doesn’t want my eggs.”
“But that’s being horribly selfish.”
“Minnie,” I exploded, “I have plans for my eggs.” I thought of the catalog at the general store, where eight months earlier I’d seen the prettiest pair of black, pointed, high-heel shoes with buttoned laces on the sides. I wanted those shoes more than anything so that I could go to church in something really nice. But they cost five whole dollars. In 1894 in Snowflake, Arizona, five dollars was a lot more money than any ten-year-old girl had.
I had even prayed about those shoes, and two days later, Pa gave me an egg. I called it my treasure egg and kept it warm in a rag by the fire. It hatched in three weeks, and I had my first chicken.
I took really good care of that chicken. It wasn’t long before she was laying eggs and having chicks herself. Now I had sixteen chickens, all laying eggs. I’d just started selling those eggs for ten cents a dozen. I knew that when I sold enough eggs, I’d be able to buy that pair of black, pointed-toe shoes.
“What about the church?” Minnie demanded.
“Minnie,” I grumbled, “my few eggs won’t get the church rebuilt any sooner.”
“You’re just thinking of those black shoes in the catalog.”
“What if I am? I want something nice to wear to church.”
“Except there won’t be a church for you to wear them in because you won’t help rebuild it.” Minnie stalked back into the barn.
Snowflake’s Sunday egg project was Sister Ballard’s idea. She was the Relief Society president and had asked all the people in Snowflake to donate the eggs that their chickens laid on Sunday. The Sunday eggs were to be sold and the money given to rebuild the church.
Any other time, I’d have joined the Sunday egg project, but most of my chickens had just barely started laying and I’d need every dozen eggs I sold to buy my shoes. Last Sunday, my chickens had laid twenty-one eggs, a real record!
Minnie came stomping out of the barn with a wooden bucket in each hand. She held one out to me. “Will you at least go around town to collect eggs from everybody else?”
“I can help collect the eggs,” I muttered. “I’ll be helping with the project then. That will be more important than my few eggs.”
“Have you gathered your eggs yet?”
I swallowed and pressed my lips together. “I’m going to do it right now.”
After I’d looked in every single nest, I charged out of the barn. “You stole some of my eggs, didn’t you? I have only nine eggs, not even a dozen! Just last week I had twenty-one. You must have taken some of mine.”
Minnie wagged a finger at me. “I didn’t touch your old chicken eggs.”
I went with Minnie and my best friend, Harriet, to collect eggs that Monday morning. I had never seen so many eggs. I was afraid that we were going to break half of them as we lugged our buckets around town. I told Harriet all about the fancy catalog shoes. “Nobody’s going to have shoes as nice as mine,” I boasted.
“They do sound like mighty fine shoes, Penelope. I can hardly wait to see them.”
Just then we passed the church. The thick adobe walls were still there, but the roof was gone and there were ugly black holes where the windows and doors used to be. I could hear the men working inside, and suddenly I felt a worm of uneasiness wiggle inside me. I looked away. “I can hardly wait to get my new shoes,” I repeated awkwardly to Harriet. She just stared sadly at our poor church.
“Why, you girls have surely been busy this morning,” Sister Ballard greeted us. “I can’t believe how well the chickens have been laying since we began our Sunday egg project. We’ll have that church rebuilt before you know it.”
Minnie laughed cheerfully. “The chickens must know we’re using these eggs for the church, because they’re laying more than ever on Sundays.”
“I certainly hope you’re right, Minnie,” Sister Ballard chuckled.
I had a little notebook under my pillow in the loft. On the first page, I kept a record of how many eggs my chickens laid each day. Before the church had burned down, my chickens laid heaps of eggs. But since the egg project began, it was as if they dried up. I fed them and coaxed them to loosen up, but they sure had a hard time.
There were other troubles. Three times during the week, skunks prowled around the barn at night and scared the chickens until Mustard, our dog, chased them off. Another night, a coyote sneaked in and ran off with one of Pa’s best laying hens. And Silas’s dog next door got through a crack in the wall and gobbled up half a dozen of my eggs.
With everything happening, my chickens were so nervous and afraid that they practically stopped laying eggs altogether. In fact, the next Sunday, they laid only four eggs among them. My notebook showed that they didn’t do much better all week.
Monday morning when it was time to gather the Sunday eggs, I told Ma that I wasn’t feeling well, so she let me stay in bed while Harriet and Minnie collected the eggs. I wasn’t exactly sick, but I was miserable. I didn’t want to ask other people for their eggs when I wasn’t willing to give up mine.
In the distance I heard the hammering and the sawing at the church. It was a horrible, annoying sound. I ducked under the sheet and buried my head in my pillow so I wouldn’t have to hear it.
That afternoon, Ma sent me to the store to buy two cups of sugar. Before I got it, I took another peek in the catalog. For some reason, my shoes didn’t seem as pretty and fancy as they had.
Saturday night, as I studied my egg record for the week, I frowned. I had gathered only twenty-two eggs all week—not even a whole two dozen. I remembered the Sunday I had gathered twenty-one eggs in one day. Tears welled up in my eyes. It wasn’t fair—I was working hard, but my chickens weren’t cooperating.
I thought about asking the Lord to bless my poor chickens. After all, I’d prayed to get my treasure egg in the first place, and He had answered that prayer. But then I got a sick feeling in my stomach. How could I ask the Lord to help my chickens so I could get some fancy shoes, when I wouldn’t even share my eggs to help Him rebuild His church?
I looked at my record again. The Sunday before, I had gathered six eggs. “I can give the Lord six eggs,” I muttered to myself.
As soon as I said those words, a warm, peacefulness suddenly drove away my misery. I dropped to my knees. I didn’t ask the Lord for one thing. All I did was promise that until the church was rebuilt, I’d give away all my Sunday eggs.
As soon as I pushed up off my knees, an ugly thought pushed its way into my head. What if tomorrow my chickens lay another twenty-one eggs? I closed my eyes. I could give six eggs away, but could I give twenty-one? For a moment, I wondered if I should go back to the Lord and change my promise. The old misery started twisting in my stomach again. I clenched my fists, closed my eyes, and stomped my foot. “A promise is a promise,” I whispered firmly. “I don’t care if the chickens lay a hundred eggs.”
The next day, I was tempted to check my chickens, but I didn’t. Monday morning, I was up bright and early and charged out to the barn. Before I slipped through the door, I said a little prayer, reminding Heavenly Father what I’d promised and letting Him know that no matter what, every single egg belonged to Him.
What if there are only five eggs? Or even four or three? I asked myself. I suddenly felt horrible and closed my eyes again. “And if there aren’t very many,” I whispered softly, “Thou canst have some of my Monday and Tuesday eggs, too.”
I didn’t have to worry, though, because those silly chickens must have known what I’d promised. When I went around to their nests, they’d been working overtime. I collected twenty-two eggs!
I gathered them as fast as I could, and without waiting for Minnie or Harriet, I raced down the street to Sister Ballard’s house. I wanted mine to be the very first eggs she collected that Monday morning. As I ran by the church, the men were already working. I could hear the saws whine and the hammers bang, and it was beautiful, soothing music in my ears. It was my music because my few eggs were going to help it keep sounding beautiful and soothing until the church was finished.

One day we got a call from a woman who was an alcoholic. She had joined the Church in her early married years and had been active as a Sunday School teacher. But when we found her she was lying sick in a tiny two-room trailer home.
After we took her to the hospital, we assumed the task of cleaning up the trailer, where she and her two boys, ages eleven and fifteen, had been living in unbelievable conditions. As I stood washing dishes in the midst of empty whisky bottles, beer cans, and dirty clothes, with the sun beating down on the tin roof and sweat running down my face, with roaches crawling on my legs, and with an almost unbearable stench permeating the air—somehow it didn’t seem to matter that much. One of God’s children needed help. Over and over again, the scripture came to me: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.” (Matt. 25:40.)
We worked with this woman for the next ten months, and the boys started coming to their Church meetings. Each time we would visit, she would put her arms around me and tell me how much she loved me.

I have heard a report that some have started calling the Latter-day Saints who are wearing yellow Helping Hands T-shirts “The Yellow Angels.” One Latter-day Saint took her car in for service, and the man helping her described the “spiritual experience” he had when people in yellow shirts removed trees from his yard and then, he said, they “sang some song to me about being a child of God.”

I had an experience like yours. I wanted so much to be able to tell the bishop, but I thought he would have little respect for me as a member of his ward. I prayed about it for a long time. I was finally comforted enough by the Spirit to be able to tell the bishop about my problem. After I told him what I had done, he let me know that what I had done was wrong but that he still loved me and so does my Heavenly Father. He let me know that there is a way back and that is by repentance. Repentance is such a wonderful process. I beg you to give it a try. The Lord is waiting for you!

Name withheld

Zach knew he wasn’t supposed to use that word. But so many boys at school said it that he had started using it too. At first he felt guilty, but after a while it started to feel normal. He got so used to saying the word that one day he said it at home.
“What was that?” his dad said after the word slipped out. Zach and Dad had been playing basketball in the driveway, but suddenly Dad was holding the ball and looking at Zach.
“Oh, nothing, Dad,” Zach said. “It’s just something the kids at school say sometimes. It’s not a big deal.”
“Hmm …” Dad wasn’t convinced. He shook his head and passed the ball to Zach.
“But everyone says it!” Zach said. “And other words are a lot worse!”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Dad said. “But just because a whole bunch of people say or do something, does that make it right?”
“Well, no,” Zach answered, looking down at the ball.
“Here’s a question that might help you decide if using that word is right,” Dad said. “Do you feel like you have the Holy Ghost with you when you say it?”
Zach’s family often talked about living so they could have the Holy Ghost to help them. Zach knew that when he made good choices, the Holy Ghost would guide him and he would feel good about his choices. But when he made bad choices, the Holy Ghost could not stay with him.
“Not really,” Zach said. “When I first said it, I felt guilty, but that feeling went away after a while.”
“That feeling was the Holy Ghost speaking to you,” Dad said. “When we don’t listen, we are tuning Him out.”
“I’ll try to do better,” Zach said.
“I think that’s a good decision, buddy,” Dad said as he took the ball and tossed it into the hoop. “What do you say we go inside for some ice cream? I’m beat!”
“OK!” Zach said as he scooped up the ball and took one last shot.
The next day at school, Zach was on the basketball court with his friends. They were running down the court when Zach’s friend Bryan used a word Zach knew wasn’t a good word. All the other boys laughed, but Zach didn’t.
“What’s wrong?” Bryan asked.
“Nothing,” Zach said as Bryan passed the ball to him. He hoped Bryan and the others wouldn’t make fun of him. “I’ve just decided I’m not going to talk like that any more.” Then he shot the basketball right through the hoop.
“What did you say?” Jeremy asked as he walked over.
“I just think I’ve been talking in a way that isn’t right,” Zach said. “I know better. So I decided last night that I’m only going to use words that make me feel good inside.”
The boys looked at each other. “OK, that’s cool,” Bryan said. Then the bell rang to go inside.
As they headed into class, Jeremy said to Zach, “You know, I’ve been thinking the same thing, but I didn’t want to say anything. Thanks for bringing it up.”
Zach nodded and smiled. He felt good, and he knew that feeling was from the Holy Ghost. He was glad he’d had the courage to choose the right.