Gospel Story Finder

Let me illustrate the principle that I am trying to convey. One option, which is probably extreme, could be to read all the messages from general conference all at once; then, when I am done, I will check this invitation from my to-do list without doing anything else with what I read. I understand this is an extreme case, but it is not unreal. Probably, many are at some point between this and the ideal.

In both examples, you are doing a righteous thing. In one, the goal seems to be using the means that Heavenly Father and the Savior have given us, which are the messages shared during general conference. The second version embraces the profound blessing of gaining insight into the underlying reasons, offering a pathway to understand eternal truth and the blessings promised to all who make the teachings and life of our Savior, Jesus Christ, the focal point of their lives.

In a talk entitled “Freedom, A Terrible Risk,” by Harvey Jacobs, he related the following:
“In a Japanese novel of several years ago, the main character, wandering in a strange village, becomes trapped in the bottom of a sand pit. Food and water are lowered to him but no ladder. He wants out desperately. He begs his captors to let him go. He tries to bargain with them but nothing works. Months pass. The begging, the scheming becomes a way of life. After a long time he is granted what he wants, what he has been striving for with all his will, day and night—the freedom to come out of his pit and go on his way in complete freedom.
“Suddenly he is afraid, he is alarmed by the prospect of facing the world without protection. He could get lost, he thinks. In his little pit he was at least sheltered from unknown harm. Now he understands that freedom is not a reward but a terrible risk.”

When I was a boy, at Christmastime my mother put out a picture of the Savior knocking at a door. We weren’t members of the Church yet, and I always asked myself, “Why is Jesus knocking on the door? Who is on the other side?”
A few years later I discovered there was no handle on the outside of the door the Savior was knocking on. The person on the inside needed to open the door. Now I know who is on the other side of the door. We are! The Savior is knocking, and we all have to open the door and invite Him to come into our lives.

Occasionally someone is attracted to the Church because of our welfare program. They see material security.
Our answer to them is: “Yes, join the Church for that reason. We can use all of the help we can get. You will be called upon continually to bless and assist others.”
Interesting how enthusiasm for baptism often fades away.

On another occasion, we were at the visitors’ center on Temple Square with these same grandchildren. Two-year-old Ashley was tired and wanted to leave. Sister Mask asked her if she wanted to see a big Jesus like the one on our wall. She asked, “Is He as big as me?” “Even bigger,” Sister Mask replied. When that tiny, little girl looked up at the majestic Christus, she ran and stood at the feet and gazed up reverently for several minutes. When her father indicated it was time to go, she said, “No, no, Daddy. He loves me and wants to give me hugs!”

“I will never forget you, bishop. You saved my life.”
The man who makes that statement today didn’t feel that way in the beginning. As a teen he was scared. He knew he needed to repent. I was his bishop at the time, and he knew we needed to talk. But he was full of doubts.
“What is the bishop going to think of me?”
“Will he keep this confidential?”
“How will I ever look at him again?”
Such worries can feel overwhelming, making it seem nearly impossible to muster the courage necessary to travel the road to repentance.
But some confessions require that you talk to your bishop or branch president. And that’s where this young man found himself. He needed help beyond his own capacity, and he needed to know the journey was possible.
Let me close by telling you a little more about my visit with that young man. “Bishop,” he said, “you’re going to hate me for what I have to tell you. You’ll never be able to look at me again, and if you share what I say with anybody, I’ll kill myself.”
I said, “I promise I will never betray your confidences. I will take them with me to the grave.”
He told me about some minor situations and watched my reaction. When I said, “I know what you’re going through. I can help you,” he proceeded slowly until he got to what he really wanted to discuss. I reminded him repeatedly that I admired him for confessing and wanting to change. Even though he seemed ready to run at any moment, together we got through what he needed to share.
Was it a big deal? It was to him. But as we talked, he came to better understand the mercy the Lord offers to those who sincerely repent. After that first visit, we worked together, and over time his repentance became complete. Today he still calls me to say hello, and our conversations are happy.
I was privileged to help him learn that we all depend on the Atonement. And I join my voice with his in praise of Jesus Christ, the one who really saved his life.

Elder D. Todd Christofferson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles visited LDS Business College in Salt Lake City, Utah, on April 13, 2012, to deliver the commencement address to graduating students from all 50 US states and 67 countries.
He stressed the need for students to give service throughout their lives. “Service will be your antidote against selfishness and the sense of entitlement that more and more afflict societies around the world. … Your service will bless others, but it will also protect you,” he said.

Like you, in some way I can relate to the anguish felt by Mary Magdalene and her friends as they grieved the death of their Lord. When I was nine years old, I lost my older brother during a devastating earthquake. Because it happened unexpectedly, it took me a while to grasp the reality of what had occurred. I was heartbroken by sorrow, and I would ask myself, “What happened to my brother? Where is he? Where did he go? Will I ever see him again?”

Back then I did not yet know about God’s plan of salvation, and I had the desire to know where we come from, what the purpose of life is, and what happens to us after we die. Don’t we all have those yearnings when we lose a loved one or when we go through difficulties in our lives?

A few years after, I started thinking of my brother in a specific way. I would imagine him knocking on our door. I would open the door, he would be standing there, and he would tell me, “I am not dead. I am alive. I could not come to you, but now I will stay with you and never leave again.” That imagining, almost a dream, helped me cope with the pain that I felt over losing him. The thought that he would be with me came to my mind over and over. Sometimes I would even stare at the door, hoping that he would knock and I would see him again.

About 40 years later, during Easter time, I was pondering about the Resurrection of Jesus Christ and started thinking about my brother. At that moment, something clicked in my mind. I remembered imagining him coming to see me.

That day I realized that the Spirit had given me comfort in a difficult time. I had received a witness that my brother’s spirit is not dead; he is alive. He is still progressing in his eternal existence. I now know that “[my] brother shall rise again” at that magnificent moment when, because of Jesus Christ’s Resurrection, we will all be resurrected. In addition, He has made it possible for all of us to be reunited as families and have eternal joy in the presence of God if we will choose to make and keep sacred covenants with Him.

That same brother, Phineas, was the first of the Young family to see the Book of Mormon, though even before it was published, they had all heard and read of the Prophet “Joe Smith” and his “gold Bible” over in Palmyra less than 15 miles away. In April 1830, Phineas was given one of the first copies by the Prophet’s brother Samuel, and because he felt responsible to his little religious society to expose any such things “got up to lead people astray,” he read it carefully. But he could not find the errors he expected, and when he appeared before the group the next Sabbath, quite certainly with Brigham present, he “had not spoken ten minutes in defence of the book when the Spirit of God came upon me in a marvelous manner, and I spoke at great length on the importance of such a work, quoting from the Bible to support my position, and finally closing by telling the people that I believed the book.”22

Phineas lent his copy of the Book of Mormon to his father, who thought it “the greatest work he had ever seen,” then to his sister Fanny, who declared it “a revelation.” Fanny passed it on to Brigham, who was more reserved:
“When the Book of Mormon was first printed, it came to my hands in two or three weeks afterwards. Did I believe, on the first intimation of it? … ‘Hold on,’ says I. … The mantle of my traditions was over me, to that degree, … it was almost impossible for me to see at all; though I had beheld, all my life, that the traditions of the people was all the religion they had, I had got a mantle for myself. Says I, ‘Wait a little while; what is the doctrine of the book, and of the revelations the Lord has given? Let me apply my heart to them;’ and after I had done this, I considered it my right to know for myself, as much as any man on earth.
“I examined the matter studiously for two years before I made up my mind to receive that book. … I wished time sufficient to prove all things for myself.”23

On another, later occasion Brigham further explained this reserve:
“Upon the first opportunity I read the Book of Mormon, and then sought to become acquainted with the people who professed to believe it. … I watched to see whether good common sense was manifest; and if they had that, I wanted them to present it in accordance with the Scriptures. … when I had ripened everything in my mind, I drank it in, and not till then.”24

The wagon lumbered along at a steady pace. Just two days before, the members of the Clawson family had left their comfortable home in Greenwood, New York. They were headed to Kirtland, Ohio, and then on to Missouri to be with the Saints who had gathered there. Twelve-year-old Ebenezer was driving the team of oxen at the front of the wagon, enjoying the lovely spring day. On such a day, it was more a privilege than a chore to be driving the wagon, his parents and six brothers and sisters walking alongside.
Ebenezer reflected on the events that led up to his family’s journey. His family had joined with the Latter-day Saints a year ago. Since then, they had experienced many troubles. Finally they had sold their home and land and bought supplies for the westward trek. It seemed as if all their problems were behind them now—they were going to Zion!
After traveling a considerable distance, the Clawson family arrived at the Genesee River.
“Eben, pull up here so that we can load the wagon onto the ferry,” Brother Moses Clawson directed his son.
“Yes, sir!” Ebenezer obediently eased the team toward the muddy bank of the river. The river was swollen with cold, brown water from the spring rains, and debris from recent flooding littered the whole area.
The oxen slogged through the mud steadily. All of a sudden, one of the oxen lost its footing and fearfully struggled to regain it. This startled the other ox, causing pandemonium. With the team confused and stumbling, the wagon started to slip. It turned sharply, throwing Ebenezer from the wagon. The oxen kept moving and bellowing, and with no one there to stop them, they pulled the heavy wagon over the boy’s head and body.
Sister Clawson handed the baby to fourteen-year-old Eunice and hurried to the side of her injured son.
“Whoa there! Whoa!” Brother Clawson rushed to gain control of the team and lead them to safety away from the river and away from Ebenezer. Accidents such as this were far too common, and they were almost always fatal.
Sister Clawson cleaned Ebenezer’s head wound and carefully bound it up. She offered a quick prayer, pleading for her son’s life. “Oh, Father, if thou wilt only spare my son …”
Soon Ebenezer regained consciousness. “Oh, my back!” he moaned.
“Quiet, my son. Your father is going to take you to find help.”
Brother Clawson carefully took Ebenezer in his arms and headed downriver. A half mile away, he found lodging for them in a hotel. “Please, sir, could you find us a doctor? My son is hurt very badly. He will surely die if nothing is done for him.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” the hotel clerk replied.
While the clerk searched for the doctor, news spread that a “Mormon” boy lay near death at the hotel. People crowded in, as curious to see Mormons as they were to see Ebenezer.
After a time, the clerk returned. His face was grim. “I cannot locate the doctor,” he said. “Some say that he has gone to get new supplies in the next town and that he won’t be back until sundown.”
Brother Clawson knew Ebenezer didn’t have that much time.
People crowded around, murmuring and offering suggestions. “I say someone should bleed him,” an old man in the room shouted. “He’ll die for sure,” a woman whispered loudly to her neighbor. “I’ve seen enough wagon accidents like this, to be certain.”
Suddenly four well-dressed men entered the room.
“Brother Clawson, I am Elder Rufus Fischer. This is my companion Elder Moon, and these are two of our associates.”
Missionaries!
“We would like to administer to this boy and give him a blessing.”
“Certainly!” Brother Clawson let the elders take charge.
“Any of you who wishes may stay as we administer to this child,” said Elder Moon.
A few people left, but many curious onlookers stayed. Elder Fisher closed the door.
The missionaries anointed Ebenezer’s head with oil and laid their hands on his head. “Ebenezer Clawson, by the power of the Holy Melchizedek Priesthood which we bear, we anoint your head with oil that has been consecrated and set apart for the healing of the sick in the household of faith …”
After the blessing was finished, Elder Fisher said, “Brother Clawson, your son should be ready to travel in a few hours.” Then the missionaries left as quickly as they had come.
Ebenezer slept soundly for several hours, then awoke, his strength having returned. “Father, let us go on,” he said.
Brother Clawson and Ebenezer went back upriver to where the family was waiting. They all crossed the river without further trouble and traveled six more miles. Ebenezer drove the team part of the way. His head healed without ever swelling, and the only visible reminder of his ordeal was a scar.
Ebenezer’s faith in Jesus Christ, and that of his family and the missionaries who administered to him, brought forth a miracle that day. The Clawson family had obeyed Heavenly Father by traveling to Zion to be with the Saints, and He blessed them for their faithfulness.

Few residents knew or even noticed the Smiths. But when anti-Mormon writers in the 1830s wanted to smear the peculiar new faith, they came up with affidavits from Palmyrans that called Joseph Smith and his family idle, worthless people. But the neighbors who knew the Smiths best held better opinions. One such neighbor, Orlando Saunders, went on record to vouch for the persecuted family’s character:
“I knew all the Smith family well … the old man made and repaired wooden casks and tubs; they all worked for me many a day; they were very good people; Young Joe (as we called him then), he worked for me, and he was a very good worker; they all were … They were the best family in the neighborhood in case of sickness; one was at my house nearly all the time when my father died; I always thought them honest; they owed me some money when they left here … One of them came back about a year after they moved and paid me.”1

The Holy Ghost allows Henry B. Eyring to see his rambunctious young son as God sees him.

I recall one lovely young high school senior who said that she had been fortunate to date good LDS boys who held the same standards that she has. She explained, “Part of the reason for this is because of the girls I have for friends. It is often said you are known by the company you keep. The girls I associate with share the same standards that I have, and so the same type of boys ask us for dates.”

It wasn’t long ago that I found myself asking the same question. I wasn’t getting good grades, and I rarely made it to class. High school just wasn’t for me, so I thought.
I soon realized, however, that there weren’t many opportunities for a dropout. The doors were closed, and the key was a diploma. I also knew that one day I wanted a wife and children. Minimum wage was not enough to support a family. It would barely support myself. I knew I had to stick it out.
I know people who did drop out so they could have their freedom. Today, they are still at the same jobs, not making much more than minimum wage. They are just now realizing that even freedom has its price.
David John Romrell, 20Rexburg, Idaho

When I was attending Brigham Young University, I learned what it truly means to be a queen. I was given a unique opportunity, along with a small group of other students, to meet the prophet, President David O. McKay. I was told to wear my best dress and to be ready to travel early the next morning to Huntsville, Utah, to the home of the prophet. I will never forget the experience I had. As soon as we entered the home, I felt the spirit which filled that home. We were seated in the prophet’s living room, surrounding him. President McKay had on a white suit, and seated next to him was his wife. He asked for each of us to come forward and tell him about ourselves. As I went forward, he held out his hand and held mine, and as I told him about my life and my family, he looked deeply into my eyes.

After we had finished, he leaned back in his chair and reached for his wife’s hand and said, “Now, young women, I would like you to meet my queen.” There seated next to him was his wife, Emma Ray McKay. Although she did not wear a crown of sparkling diamonds, nor was she seated on a throne, I knew she was a true queen. Her white hair was her crown, and her pure eyes sparkled like jewels. As President and Sister McKay spoke of their family and their life together, their intertwined hands spoke volumes about their love. Joy radiated from their faces. Hers was a beauty that cannot be purchased. It came from years of seeking the best gifts, becoming well educated, seeking knowledge by study and also by faith. It came from years of hard work, of faithfully enduring trials with optimism, trust, strength, and courage. It came from her unwavering devotion and fidelity to her husband, her family, and the Lord.

On that fall day in Huntsville, Utah, I was reminded of my divine identity, and I learned about what I now call “deep beauty”—the kind of beauty that shines from the inside out. It is the kind of beauty that cannot be painted on, surgically created, or purchased. It is the kind of beauty that doesn’t wash off. It is spiritual attractiveness. Deep beauty springs from virtue. It is the beauty of being chaste and morally clean. It is the kind of beauty that you see in the eyes of virtuous women like your mother and grandmother. It is a beauty that is earned through faith, repentance, and honoring covenants.

Dad was the bishop of our ward for most of my youth. One night when I was ten or eleven years old, he took me with him to visit some ward members. (He often took one of his children along with him so that he could spend more time with us.) As we visited a young lady that night, a big black car drove up in front of her house. In the car was David O. McKay, the President of the Church. I remember thinking that he was very impressive looking. In the course of the short visit, he and Dad gave a blessing to the young girl.
After the blessing, President McKay went out on the front porch and talked to me. He commented on how nice it was that I could be with my dad. He talked about the times he had been with his father. On one of those occasions, he said, they had come to Salt Lake City to general conference. He was just a young boy at the time. He was introduced to John Taylor, who was then President of the Church.

Recently it was my very pleasant privilege to read Louis Fischer’s great book, The Life of Mohandas K. Gandhi. This is the story of a little 102-pound man in India who went around four-fifths naked, who lived in a mud hut that never had a telephone or an electric light or running water. He did not own an automobile. He had no wealth, no diplomats, no armies. He never sought, nor ever held, a public office, and yet the great British government discovered that they could not rule India against Gandhi and they could not rule India without Gandhi.
The Indian people understood that Gandhi was absolutely honest, that he could be trusted, that his motives were right. They knew when he said something that that was exactly what he meant. I would like to have you think for a moment of the great advantage one has if people understand that he has these qualities of integrity.
But Gandhi’s early life was very unpromising. He thought of himself as a coward. He had a very bad temper. He had some other very serious problems. But finally, realizing the disadvantages that these unfavorable qualities gave him, he started out deliberately to remake his personality, and he later called himself a “self-remade man.” Now, if you would like to have a good phrase, I recommend this one to you.
Gandhi deliberately did a lot of things to make of himself the kind of man that he thought he would like to be. He went on long fasts for discipline. He said, “How can I control others if I cannot control myself?”
Gandhi took ideas seriously. He believed that when he accepted an idea in principle and did not practice it, he was being dishonest. There are 999 men who believe in honesty for every honest man. Gandhi’s greatness lay in doing what everybody could, but did not, do.
His mother taught him that to eat meat was wrong. She reasoned that eating meat necessitated the destruction of other life and was therefore wrong. So Gandhi made a pledge to his mother that he would remain a strict vegetarian throughout his life. Later, after his mother’s death, some of his friends tried to persuade him that there was no life in unfertilized eggs, and therefore he could eat these without violating his pledge. But Gandhi knew what his mother’s definition of meat was, and inasmuch as he had made the pledge to her, her definition must remain binding. Later on, when Gandhi was very ill and it was not known whether or not he would live, his physicians tried to persuade him to take a little beef broth to save his life; but Gandhi said, “Even for life itself we must not do certain things. There is only one course open to me—to die, but never to break my pledge.”
By the sheer power of this self-made personality, Gandhi raised himself to be the unquestioned leader of 500 million people and became the greatest single power in India. Louis Fischer calls this process by which a below-average human being can raise himself to great power and accomplishment the “miracle of personality.” I would like to have you imagine what would happen in the world, and what the benefit to the world would be, if the leaders of nations and all of the rest of us had Mr. Gandhi’s kind of integrity.

More than 125 years later, a Valiant B class from the Salt Lake Canyon First Ward Rim visited Joseph Daynes’s great-grandson, Skip Daynes, to learn more about his famous ancestor. The class was studying about valiant people of the past and learning how to be valiant themselves.
After talking with Skip Daynes, the class walked to the Tabernacle on Temple Square. They were anxious to see the big pipe organ up close. Robert Cundick, one of the present-day Tabernacle organists, showed it to the young visitors. They found out that now there is a big electric fan to blow air into the pipes instead of men running on a treadmill.
Brother Cundick showed them how some bass notes were so low that their vibrations were felt rather than heard. The highest notes were so soft and high that their ears could barely hear them. He also showed them how to make the notes louder by pressing a pedal on the organ instead of pressing the keys more firmly with his fingers as on the piano.
After playing a hymn for the class on the big organ, Brother Cundick gave them a hint about becoming a valiant person. “Anything you want to do really well you have to work hard at,” he said. “You can’t just try it one afternoon. You have to do it every day for years.”

Recognizing their inadequacy, some of the girls went to heroic lengths to teach themselves. Mathilde Nielsen, born in Copenhagen, was brought to the United States when she was six, and her family settled in a Scandinavian village in Morgan County called Milton. The family was very poor. Mathilde had to milk ten cows and do the housework; card, spin, weave, and sew; and help tend her little brothers and sisters. Her mother died when she was 12; Mathilde had to “get out and rustle,” as she expressed it. By the time she was 16, she was working in a household in Ogden, making $3 per week. While there, she received a letter from her brother Waldemer, asking her to write home. But she had never written a letter! Let her tell the story:
“I will never forget my first letter [that] I ever tried to write. My brother insisted I write when he knew I had never had a pencil in my hand. But I was game. I got a book with the letters in and a lead pencil and paper, and started to write. It didn’t look so bad while I was writing, but when I got it finished I couldn’t read one word. I rolled it in a little ball and started to cry and was going to put it in the stove. I changed my mind. Instead, I sat down, smoothed it out, and sent it. I thought he would never ask me to write again. Just as quick as my brother could answer, a letter came back. He said he could read every word. If he hadn’t answered my questions, I would have thought he was fibbing. He begged me to write again. I did and kept on writing until it looked pretty fair.”
Mathilde continued to write the rest of her life, and because of that her grandchildren and great-grandchildren are able to know about her fascinating life. Her legacy was a marvelous, if brief, personal history.

Pretend that you live in England and it is 1870. Your family accepts the gospel, and you are all baptized. At this time, the Church urges members to join the Saints in Utah, so your family decides to go. How do you start?
The first step is to sell your house and most of your belongings. Then you travel to Liverpool, England. Someplace on the seven miles of docks, you board a ship to America. You travel steerage, which means that you live in an open room with many people and everyone’s belongings while crossing the Atlantic Ocean. It takes thirty-five to fifty-five days.
In New York, you are taken to Castle Garden by ferryboat to be “cleared for entry.” This can be scary because family members are separated until everyone has medical and eye exams. Sick people and those who don’t have at least twenty-five dollars are sent back to their own countries. Finally your family is together again. Your father has to answer some questions about where you are planning to go, if you know anyone in America, and if he has a job waiting for him. After your names are recorded, you are free to go to the train station.
There are many railroad companies, many routes, many choices. After buying your ticket, you get on a special immigrant car, called a “zulu,” with your mother. There is a separate car for men. Both cars have hard benches, dirty glass windows, and a wood-burning stove. Kerosene lamps hang from the ceiling. In winter, it is very cold; in summer, very hot.
The whistle blows, and slowly you start off, rocking and swaying and picking up speed. Soon you are traveling twenty-five miles per hour! In less than an hour you can go farther than the 1847 pioneers traveled in a whole day.
You will be in Utah in less than a week—unless there is a storm, or the train derails or breaks down or is robbed, or there are animals on the tracks. (One time, when a train hit a herd of cattle, the engine was derailed. The passengers got off, built a fire, butchered the dead cattle, and cooked steaks until help arrived.)
The conductor comes through your car, calling for tickets. He is dressed in a uniform with shiny brass buttons. He might wear a pistol on his belt or carry a rifle.
A little later, a boy called a news-butcher comes by, selling things you might need: bottled water, soap, candy, newspapers and books, tin pitchers, and even pillows.
On the train, you hear many languages, and everyone is going to different places. Some are going to California for gold or to Nevada for silver, some to the Great Plains to farm. Behind you, a woman rocks a crying baby, and across the aisle a mother spreads blankets for her children to sit on.
The car smells like unwashed people, smoke, sausages, and onions. A little boy jumps up and down on his bench. Smoke and cinders from the engine blow past the window.
Every few hours, the train stops at a town for wood and coal and water for the locomotive. Townspeople board the train, selling apples, bread, milk, and newspapers. Sometimes you get off and go to an eating house, where you sit in a large room and have lunch or dinner. Often the food isn’t very good, and you must eat quickly—it’s time to get back on the train!
At night, after the kerosene lamps are turned down, you go to sleep in the same car while other people talk above the clickety-clack of the wheels on rails.
Sometimes the tracks end at a river. Then you take all your belongings, get off the train, get on a ferry and cross the river, then climb onto a new train to continue your journey.
The Great Plains seem endless and treeless. Once, you see some buffalo, and sometimes you see prairie dogs popping in and out of their burrow “cities.”
Then the land begins to climb and climb and climb into the Rocky Mountains. There! Look quick! There is Thousand Mile Tree, marking the spot where the railroad is one thousand miles long.
Eventually you pass Devil’s Slide, two long ridges of rock close together that look like a slide down the side of Weber Canyon.
Finally, tired and dirty after two months or more of traveling, you’re in Ogden, Utah, nicknamed Junction City. Stepping into Union Station, a two-story wood building painted bright red, you think it looks about the same as the other depots you’ve stopped at. It’s hard to believe that you’re really here!
At no extra charge, you can continue by train to Salt Lake City. There you might meet the prophet, see the temple walls being built, and say to yourself, as Brigham Young did when he first saw the Salt Lake Valley, “This is the right place.”