Gospel Story Finder

One group of friends found an unusual way to reach out to each other. They came from different family situations and backgrounds, but they all cared about each other and wanted to strengthen their friendship.
One of their friends was having a particularly hard time at home. She told them she sometimes wished she could disappear but kept her feelings hidden behind a smile because she was worried that others would judge her.
Her friends wanted her to know that she was safe with them and that the world was a better place because she was in it. So they came up with a plan: they would wear safety pins. Each of them wore a safety pin on their clothes each day to remind her, and each other, that they were committed to creating a safe, secure, trustworthy friendship—and that they wanted each other to stick around.
Years later, this young woman still remembers her safety-pin friends and is grateful for the security she felt knowing that they cared about her.

A turnspit dog! Before last week Jonathan had never even heard of a turnspit dog. Though the morning was cold, Jonathan was snug and warm in his homespun suit. Pulling his sled, he followed the snowy trail that led through the sparsely settled New England woods to the Sewell’s cabin. As soon as he heard that Mister Sewell had sent to Philadelphia for a turnspit dog, Jonathan’s curiosity would not let him rest until he had seen it.
In the early 1700s the settlers’ usual way of roasting meat was to put it on a spit, a long piece of metal supported between two andirons in front of the fireplace. It was a tiresome chore to turn the meat by hand, so someone had hit upon the idea of training small dogs for this work.
On his way to the Sewell’s, Jonathan passed Mistress Clark’s cabin. He noticed that no smoke curled from the chimney. Mistress Clark was a widow and very old. She’s probably still sleeping, Jonathan decided.
Finally Jonathan reached his destination.
“Why, it’s young Master Jonathan Adams!” Mister Sewell cried heartily. “Come in!”
Then Jonathan saw the turnspit dog. He had not known quite what to expect, but surely not this!
The spit, holding a joint of meat, was attached to a set of wheels that in turn was attached to a treadmill. Around the treadmill was a railing, inside of which was a little dog—running, running, running. As he ran, the treadmill engaged the wheels of the spit and slowly turned the savory meat.
Suddenly the dog looked up at the newcomer, and Jonathan thought he had never in his entire life seen such sad eyes. “Please rescue me!” the little dog’s eyes seemed to be pleading.
Then Jonathan saw with horror that Mister Sewell held a long switch that he occasionally flicked in the direction of the turnspit dog.
Jonathan knew at once that he must do something to help the wretched little animal. He felt sure his parents wouldn’t mind if he had a dog, so, turning to Mr. Sewell, he pleaded, “Sir, will you sell me your turnspit dog?”
Mister Sewell burst into laughter. “Tell me, just how do you propose to pay for my trained dog?”
It was a fitting question, for Jonathan had no money.
Jonathan left the Sewell cabin feeling heartsick. The way homeward led down a gentle slope, but Jonathan found no fun in gliding down the hill on his sled. How in the world can I rescue that little dog from such cruel slavery? he agonized.
When Jonathan reached Mistress Clark’s cabin again, he saw that smoke still didn’t rise from the chimney. Worried, he went up to the door and lifted the knocker.
“Come in,” called a feeble voice.
In the cabin Jonathan saw that Mistress Clark’s fire had gone out during the night. Now, shivering with cold, she was vainly trying to start another fire.
“Oh dear,” she sighed, “my son in Philadelphia sent me this tinder wheel but I cannot make it work.”
“I know how to work a tinder wheel,” Jonathan offered. “Let me try.” Jonathan began spinning the small steel wheel, using the piece of cord that was attached. It was much like spinning a humming top. As the wheel spun, it struck a piece of hard stone or flint fixed in the side of a little trough filled with bits of old linen that served as tinder. Paper was far too valuable to be used to start a fire.
Finally Jonathan produced a tiny spark. Blowing softly, he nursed the spark into a small flame that fed on the tinder. Quickly he gathered wood shavings to use as kindling. In a few minutes a glowing fire burned in the fireplace.
“Thank you, thank you!” said Mistress Clark. “My son is always sending me newfangled things I cannot use. Just last month he sent me this roasting kitchen.” She pointed to a metal box with an open side that would face the fire. A spit, turned by a crank on the outside, ran through it from end to end.
Suddenly Jonathan had an idea.
“If you have no need for the roasting kitchen, will you let me have it?” he asked excitedly. “In return I will stop by each morning to start your fire if it has gone out. I will also fetch your water and run your errands!”
Mistress Clark smiled. “Yes,” she replied, “take the roasting kitchen. I will be grateful for a little help.”
Mistress Clark and Jonathan put the roasting kitchen onto the boy’s sled, and he began to climb back up to the Sewell cabin.
“What have we here?” asked Mister Sewell as he helped Jonathan set the roasting kitchen onto the floor of the cabin.
Jonathan saw that the little turnspit dog was still running on his treadmill. How tired he must be by now! he worried.
Jonathan turned to Mister Sewell. “Sir, I have come to make you a trade. I will trade you this fine new roasting kitchen for your turnspit dog. Notice how it stands on legs to make it even with the fire! See how the little door in back can be opened to baste the meat!”
“It is true,” said Mister Sewell, “that I could enjoy such a new roasting kitchen. Yes, perhaps it would be a good trade—if you really want the dog.”
“Yes, yes, I do!” cried Jonathan.
He had only to whistle once and the little dog jumped over the railing of the treadmill and into the boy’s arms.
“You are my dog now!” Jonathan said joyously, and the dog bounded along at his little master’s side as they set out for home.

To cite another example, after our fifth child was born, my wife and I did not have any more children. After more than 10 years we concluded that our family would not be any larger, which grieved us. Then one day, while my wife was in the temple, the Spirit whispered to her that she would have another child. That prophetic revelation was fulfilled about a year and a half later with the birth of our sixth child, for whom we had waited 13 years.

One day at the hotel restaurant, another cook, for inappropriate reasons, tried to get dates with some of the waitresses there. He was mad because the waitresses, who were Latter-day Saints, refused to go out with him.
Remembering the missionaries I had met in Milan, I told the cook that the waitresses had a right to turn him down.
“So, are you a Mormon too?” he asked.
Because I liked the principles the missionaries had taught me and because I felt justified in defending the waitresses, I replied, “Yes.”
The next time the cook saw the waitresses, he told them I was a Latter-day Saint. They were excited. When we gathered for lunch, they began asking me questions about the Church in Milan. I told them about the city and that I had met the missionaries there. When our lunch arrived, I reached for a glass of wine on the table.
“What are you doing drinking wine?” one of the waitresses asked.
“Is there something wrong with that?” I said.
“Are you even active?” another one asked.
“In what sense?” I said.
“How were you dressed the day you were baptized?” they asked.
“I don’t remember,” I told them. “I was only a month old.”
They were extremely mad because they thought I was making fun of them. I assured them I wasn’t. I admitted that I wasn’t a member of the Church, but I told them that I liked the Book of Mormon and the gospel principles I had learned. Then I asked how I could learn more about their church.
The waitresses soon introduced me to the missionaries. They could hardly believe it when I finished the discussions and got baptized.

We admire those who risk their lives to rescue those in danger. When I visited Southern California during the devastating Santa Ana wind fires late last year, I came away with two impressions. The first was how the Church members came to the assistance of those in need. The second was how appreciative they were to the firefighters. One homeowner described what he saw the firefighters do. He pointed out that the Santa Ana winds blow from the warm desert toward the ocean. Once a fire starts, these hot desert winds carry the flames at a speed of up to 60 or 70 miles (97–113 km) per hour. The homeowner described his gratitude and admiration as he watched the firefighters standing with their hoses behind a cleared area, facing a wall of fire up to 10 feet (3 m) high descending upon them at this enormous speed. These brave men and women were able to rescue both people and homes while in constant personal danger.

At one time in my life, I thought that I didn’t need visiting teachers myself. I had a strong testimony of the gospel, and I had no major problems. But one year I was alone on Christmas Eve. My husband was busy shopping, and all my children were married and living out of the country, except for one daughter, who couldn’t come. The house was so empty without the hugs of my little grandchildren. I’m not used to feeling sorry for myself, but that night I sat down in the dark in my living room and let the tears run down my cheeks. Just at that moment the doorbell rang. My visiting teachers! My dear sisters had come to bring me a greeting of Christmas joy. It was as if the Lord himself had reminded me that I was not alone.
By the time they left, my mood had completely changed. I turned on the lights, put on my best dress, decorated the table, and prepared a special supper. When my husband came in, we celebrated Christmas together and gave thanks that we were both alive and healthy.

My mind was focused on the Savior as the congregation finished singing the sacrament hymn, but as I started to close the hymnbook, the music continued. A large congregation that day made it necessary for the organist to play two more verses while the priests finished breaking the bread. I was grateful for the extra time. It allowed me an additional moment of reverent meditation before the sacramental prayers.
During the prayers, I followed carefully the words the priests spoke as they blessed the emblems of Christ’s sacrifice for us. Just as the final prayer concluded and at the moment when the congregation voiced their assent, a four-year-old boy’s voice from two rows behind me sprang from the midst of the “amens.”
“Hooray!” he exclaimed.
His spontaneous expression was loud enough to cause several children nearby to giggle. I confess that it brought a quizzical smile to my lips.
“Hooray?” I thought. That’s an odd response to the sacrament prayers. It was certainly a response I’d never heard before and likely will never hear again. After all, we end our prayers with “amen.”
Perhaps that young child had sensed more of the truth than I had.
Hooray communicates excitement. It is an exclamation of joy, usually for a victory. Sometimes it’s shouted to show approval for someone who has finished a difficult task well.1
Instantly, my mind caught hold of the idea. Yes, I thought, hooray that Jesus Christ overcame death so we can all be resurrected! Hooray that because of His Atonement, He can forgive our sins! More to the point, He can forgive me of my sins! Hooray that through His grace I may return to my Heavenly Father and enjoy the hope of eternal life! Yes! Hooray!
As I silently shouted these praises of thanks to my Heavenly Father, the Holy Ghost flooded my heart with a joy that nearly brought me to tears. I had been led that day by a little child (see Isaiah 11:6), and I rejoiced with fresh vision for the blessings of the Savior’s Atonement in my life.

When Glyn Piercy, a priest in the Dayton Ohio East Stake, decided to carve a stairway in a hillside for his Eagle Scout project, his whole stake got into the act. More than 60 young people showed up the day of the project to take on “the hill,” which is part of the Sugar Bush Trail, located in the Ohio Narrows Reserve. At the end of the day of the project, the stairway was nearly complete. And the youth, although they were tired and a little bit dirty, had a product they could be proud of.

I was just a young child when my father died of pneumonia. My fourteen-year-old brother died just a few days later from an unrelated illness. It was the early 1930s, the middle of the Great Depression in the United States. Jobs were scarce and so was money. My mother, a nurse, struggled to provide a living for the five remaining children. It wasn’t an easy life for any of us, and I often wondered how it would all work out.
But one thing happened during those tough times that I remember as well as if it had happened yesterday, something that made me look forward with courage and hope.
About a year after my father’s passing, his cousin came to visit our home. Israel Bennion came, not just on a social call, but as the stake patriarch. Each of us children, scrubbed clean and dressed like we were going to church, waited in turn to have this dignified man place his hands on our heads and give us our patriarchal blessings.
I was only seven, not old enough to understand the significance of all that was going on. (Today, the Church advises you to wait until you’re older to get your patriarchal blessing.) But I felt a great reverence, the same sort of feeling I felt during fast and testimony meetings. I remembered his instructions, although they were brief, that my blessing should be a guide to me, something I could use to chart my course through life.
Although I was young, I was impressed by the statements Brother Bennion made as he gave me my blessing. He told me that the Spirit of the Lord would be with me as I was growing up, that the gospel would be in my heart, that I would love the work of the Lord, and that the Lord would bless me.
He spoke of the future, that I would someday be a judge in Israel, that I would have children, that I would have a strong body and a sound mind.
But most of all, he stirred something in me. He helped me to begin to realize how literally I was a son of God. The Lord knew who I was and what I was doing. If I lived the right way, the Lord would help me.

Some years ago I coached a high school basketball team through a rather unusual season. The season began with a number of disappointing losses. Some of the fans and townspeople didn’t make a secret of their unhappiness over the team’s failures. There was considerable public comment, and it was a challenging time for members of the team. Several of them finally became discouraged and withdrew from the team. Those who remained didn’t lose faith in themselves or in their coach. The rough going seemed to be an incentive for them to try even harder.

At mid-season the team began to win their games. They qualified for the district tournament and surprised everyone there by winning a place in the state play-offs. To the amazement of everyone, they went on to win the state championship—the first ever to be won by that school!

Following the celebration and the awarding of trophies after the championship game, I drove several of the team members back to our city. There was silence during much of the ride as we each reflected on the incredible outcome of our season’s efforts. Finally, one of the young men spoke. (He had been honored for being one of the outstanding players in the tournament.) “Coach,” he said, “I think we were supposed to win tonight.”

I was curious to know what had prompted this conclusion. “Why do you think we were supposed to win?” I asked.

His response was simple and direct—and I will never forget its impact. “Because we paid the price,” he said.

Indeed they had, and I am sure the lessons learned by those young men during that eventful year have been valuable to them throughout their lives.

The family then began preparing for additional covenants and ordinances in the temple. “We knew that baptism was just the first step,” says Sister Calderón. “We set a goal to continue to progress, including going to the temple and being sealed as a family so that we can someday live with our Heavenly Father.”
In preparation for their temple sealing, the whole family spent time praying and fasting. Jared also participated several times in performing baptisms for the dead. Then on May 10, 2008, the family was sealed in the San José Costa Rica Temple.
Jared remembers what he felt that day. “When I entered the sealing room, the Spirit was so powerful. It felt so right to be there with my family,” he says.
His brother, James, recalls having to wait for a long time before he could enter the sealing room, but, he says, it was worth it: “I felt a lot of joy and happiness. I continue to feel happy knowing that I can be with my family forever.”

Recounting this history brings to my mind the experience of John E. Page as the Prophet Joseph Smith called him to serve a mission in Canada. “But I can’t go on a mission to Canada, Brother Joseph,” protested John E. Page. “I don’t even have a coat to wear.”

“Here,” said Joseph Smith, removing his own coat, “take this, and the Lord will bless you.”

John E. Page left Kirtland, Ohio, May 31, 1836, on his first mission as an elder of the Church. He labored in Canada for two years. During that time, he traveled over five thousand miles, mostly on foot, and baptized some six hundred people.

The morning session was opened by the president with a polished and stirring address. Next we called on his second counselor. He was obviously flustered. … (We had previously indicated that both counselors would probably speak in the afternoon session. We were to go to his home for the noon meal. He had known there would be time to go over his notes, so he had left them at home.)

For want of his notes, he turned to testimony, giving an inspiring account of an administration he had performed during the week. A brother, given up by his doctors, had been called from the very shadows of death by the power of the priesthood. I do not know what was on his notes, but surely it could not have compared in inspiration to the testimony he bore.

When we grew older, I had another test of being a pioneer. I had many friends, and a lot of them didn’t know Jenny. Although they were never rude, I always felt torn between Jenny and my other friends. It was hard and definitely a conscious effort, but I decided to help them get to know her. In time my other friends felt more comfortable with Jenny.
To this day, I am still friends with Jenny. She goes to my same high school, and I see her almost every day. I truly feel proud to walk around the halls with her.

Krista loved Stanley Park. She loved the beaches. The playgrounds. The petting zoo. The train ride.
But most of all, she loved the aquarium! It had all kinds of sea animals. She watched a brown seal swim around and around.
But then she heard something. A girl was crying! No one stopped to help her.
Krista tugged on Mom’s sleeve. “Look. That girl is crying!”
Mom looked. She held Krista’s hand and walked over to the girl.
“Hi,” Mom said. “Can we help you?”
“I can’t find my mom.” The girl sniffled.
“Come sit with us,” Mom said. “We’ll wait with you.”
Krista and Mom sat with the girl. Her name was Sarah.
“When you’re lost, the best thing to do is stay where you are,” Mom said. “Then your mom will know where to find you.”
Sarah looked so sad and scared. Krista wished she could help. She said a little prayer in her mind. Heavenly Father, please bless that Sarah’s mom will come back.
Krista tried to make Sarah feel better. She asked her questions. She told her cool facts about seals. She even gave her a pretty seashell she had found at the beach.
After a while, a woman ran up to them. It was Sarah’s mom! She gave Sarah a big hug. They both said thank you to Krista and Mom.
Krista was glad she could help someone!

A few years ago my father had a serious operation and spent several weeks in the hospital. This was during the winter months. My sons and I had made several trips down to my parents’ home to keep the snow cleared from the driveway and walk, but one day while I was working and my sons were in school, we had a very heavy snowfall. My mother was trying to clear the walks when a young university student came by, laid his books down, gently took the shovel from her, and cleared all the walks and driveway. As my mother thanked him he said, “That’s all right. I am away from home going to school. Maybe someone else’s son will be there to help my mother.”
As my mother told me how this young man had helped her, I remembered the words from my childhood: “God bless you, my son. I pray that some young man will be there to help your mother.”
And he was.

“There’s a bad one you’ll have to do with the brush, Mom,” said Freddie, pointing to a long smudge near the floor.
Mom raised her eyebrows. “I’m the one who made that. It was the time I had a really bad day at work. I came home so upset that I got careless and banged the wall with the vacuum cleaner while I was cleaning.”
“You were still upset after dinner, so Dad and I gave you a sandwich hug that night. Dad and I were the slices of bread and you were the peanut butter in the middle, remember?”
Mom nodded, and her eyes sparkled. “I sure do! It was the best thing that happened to me all that day.” With a few brush strokes, Mom covered the ugly mark.

I’m so grateful for my family, and that includes my ancestors. One way I like to show gratitude for all of my family is by doing family history work.
This all started with my Personal Progress project for Individual Worth, value experience 6. I wanted to learn how to do family history work. At first I began with indexing and then tried looking for names on FamilySearch.org. It was so cool to start finding names of my own ancestors. Recently, I went to the temple with several names I’d found. I was able to do the baptisms and the confirmations. I loved it! The whole experience reminded me of my own baptism. It made me feel good to imagine that my ancestors were watching and that they were excited to have their ordinances done.
I’ve done temple baptisms before, but doing my own family names brought a whole new meaning to the names and ordinances for me.
After the baptisms were complete, I then sent the names to other family members to complete the remaining ordinances. My aunt and uncle have done 12 names so far. Sometimes I even babysit for them so they can go to the temple together.
At first I used to do family history research mostly on Sundays, but lately I’ve been squeezing it in during the week whenever I can. My grandfather is a convert to the Church and the only member in his family, so there’s a lot of opportunity to do temple ordinances for my ancestors on that side. I’m excited to research and work on their names as I hear stories about them from my grandfather.
I’m so thankful to have a loving family, and I know my ancestors are a big part of that family. I’m glad I can do this sacred work for them.
Emily H., 15, Arizona, USA

While on an assignment in Scandinavia some years ago, President Monson learned of a 26-year-old disabled young man named John Helander. John was at a youth conference in Kungsbacka, Sweden, and determined to take part in a 1,500-meter race. He had no chance to win and little chance to finish. But he lined up with the entrants and began.
From the sound of the starter’s gun it was obvious John was in difficulty. The other runners bolted past him even as he seemed fixed at the starting line. He was only partway into his first lap when all of the other participants passed him toward the completion of their second lap. And so the race went, with a winner being announced while John was scarcely halfway through the measured distance.
“Perhaps everyone else thought when the race was over,” says President Monson, “that John would quietly step from the track and disappear. But clearly John Helander didn’t think that.” He just kept running. His speed was minimal. His fatigue was immense. But his whole-souled determination was obvious even to the most cynical of spectators. None stirred from their seats. It was obvious that the race—the race—was still being run.
By the time John Helander completed his 1,500 meters, seemingly ages after the other contestants had crossed the finish line, the entire stadium was in pandemonium. The roar of the crowd was deafening. The stumbling, staggering, exhausted but victorious John Helander had broken the tape, newly stretched for this champion. Determination, courage, devotion, faith—call it what you will—had carried the day.

In our suburb of Chicago, Illinois, USA, fewer than 20 Latter-day Saint youth attend a high school of about 4,400 students on two separate campuses. We have been pleased with the education our son has received, and many good families with high standards live in our area.
In the spring of our son’s junior year, he was invited to a school dance. His date wore a beautiful, modest dress, and we were eager to hear how their night went. When he came home, he said, “I will never go to another school dance!” He said students had engaged in provocative dancing, which the administration did nothing to stop. I was appalled.
I am a part-time employee of this school district, and a couple of days after the dance I sought out a vice principal. He is a man of integrity, and I felt that he would listen to my concerns. He recommended that I write to the high school principals.
I prayerfully considered what to say and decided to tell them I was disappointed with the inappropriate dancing and that nothing was done to stop it. The bar had been set high for academics, so why not for all activities?
Several months passed, and I thought my letter had fallen on deaf ears. But one day, during back-to-school registration, a vice principal asked me, “Are you the mother who wrote the letter about the school dances?”
“Yes, I am,” I replied.
“I want you to know that your letter has caused quite a stir!” he said.
I learned that one of the principals wasn’t convinced that changes needed to be made until he asked a few students their opinion. Everyone had the same reply: “We will never go to another school dance! They are too disgusting!”
The administration then implemented rules of dance etiquette, which would be enforced during an upcoming homecoming dance. The principal informed students that they would be asked to leave if they disregarded the rules.
I anxiously awaited our son’s return from the homecoming dance. When he arrived, he said students who had tried to get away with the old behavior were removed. He said it was the best dance he had ever attended.
I wrote to the administration, thanking them for making this one of the best school dances in a long time. The vice principal I knew responded: “Thank you for starting that conversation last spring. Without your input we might not have moved forward in this area.”
I have since found out that most of the schools in our county are adopting these new dance rules, so thousands of students will now be able to enjoy school dances.
I pray that the Lord will bless all of us to find the courage to speak out and up for what we believe. I learned that one person can make a difference.