Gospel Story Finder

I decided to start my own Web site. But after a few days of making the site, I felt very uncomfortable because I hadn’t asked my parents for permission first. I didn’t want them to know that I had a Web site, but something inside me told me to tell them and show them my site. When I showed Mom and Dad my Web site they were pleased that I had been careful not to use my last name, but told me that I would have to delete it because they couldn’t be sure it would be secure (safe). I’m glad that my parents are helping me understand what dangers are out there and how I can be safe. Most of all, though, I’m thankful to the Holy Ghost for warning me to tell my parents.

Illustrations by Val Bagley
Brigham’s feet were always going the wrong way. When he woke up in the mornings, his feet were on his pillow and his head was where his feet should be. Sometimes his feet ended up in the wrong shoes. Brigham walked in circles. “Brigham,” Mom said, “Your left shoe is on your right foot and your right shoe is on your left foot.” When Dad took Brigham to the library, Brigham’s feet made a clopping sound on the hard floor. “Shh,” Dad said to Brigham. “Shh,” Brigham said to his feet. On Sunday morning, Brigham dressed himself for church. He put on his pants and his shirt. He put his right foot in his right shoe and his left foot in his left shoe. Brigham walked between Mom and Dad on the way to church. He looked up and saw the church. He looked down and saw his feet. “My feet are going the right way,” Brigham said. “They are going to church.”

In 2019, one of the missionaries who found and invited us to follow our Saviour, Jesus Christ, told my wife, Lupe, and me a story. He said that in 1990, he and his companion knelt in prayer, seeking to know the will of the Lord. They were led to a particular street where they knocked on every door, but no one wanted to hear their message.
As they were about to leave, he felt impressed to go back and try again. Obedient, they began knocking on the same doors they had knocked on before, and when they got to the sixth house, I was sitting outside. So began my knowledge of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

I had known for months that something was going on, but it wasn’t until this moment that my friend admitted the truth to me out loud: she had been struggling with pornography for years.

While sitting in the car listening to my friend, I was grateful for her honesty. Don’t get me wrong, I felt very sad to know she had been struggling with this for so long. But I was glad that she could open up to me and that I was now able to respond with love and not judge her.

But being unkind is never justified. Jesus Christ, our perfect example, sought out the people most despised by others. He spoke with Samaritans, tax collectors, and sinners. The Lord, who “cannot look upon sin with the least degree of allowance” (Doctrine and Covenants 1:31), “[looks] at us, imperfect as we are, without recoiling in horror and disgust,”2 because He knows He can forgive and cleanse us if we repent. So, listening to my friend, I tried to think of how Jesus would respond. The story of how the Savior had compassion on the woman caught in adultery was one of the things that helped me know what to do and say that day (see John 8:3–11).

I was in a better place to comfort my friend that day because I had a more mature view of my own sins and weaknesses than I did when I was younger and so judgmental. I no longer felt better than those struggling with pornography, and I’d done my best not to justify my own sins just because they were more “acceptable.” After all, we “all havesinned, and come short of the glory of God” (Romans 3:23). We cannot allow our knowledge that pornography is evil to distort our view of other people, who are also children of God and whom we should love. Jesus Christ loved others and showed compassion, and we certainly should too (see John 13:34–35).

If you know someone struggling with pornography, don’t give up on them! That moment in the car with my friend was only the beginning of a process that is still going on today as I strive to replace judgment with love in my reactions to people. Reach out with love and compassion just as Jesus Christ would. It will not always be easy; these struggles do not go away overnight. There have been many times when I have helped my friend resist temptation but also many times when she has admitted relapsing. Be patient with your friend and with yourself.

Learning to love and understand someone going through something so difficult isn’t easy. But I trust that all the love I give my friend will not be in vain, no matter the length or end result of her journey.

After nursing school, I came to work in the intensive care unit at a children’s hospital. I had a desire to learn and gain experience, to prove myself. I did not imagine, however, that it would be so difficult—both physically and emotionally. I could not understand why the world is so evil that even parents can cause irreparable harm to their own children. Nor did I understand why God allows children to die. After one year of work in the hospital, my soul was exhausted.
Then I learned that members of my family were having discussions with Latter-day Saint missionaries. I worked long shifts and could not be at home when those discussions took place. Soon my sister and mom were baptized. And I felt like I was left alone with questions and unresolved problems. Despite my family trying to arrange a meeting for me with the missionaries, I did not want to see them. But once when Sisters Johnson and Marchuk visited, I joined their conversation. The next time, they taught me a spiritual lesson, and I was able to find answers to questions I had struggled with for a long time. Soon I was baptized and confirmed.
Since I became a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, I have felt sustained by my faith in Jesus Christ. I have experienced again and again the power of prayer and feel that I have come from darkness to light. Six years in the Church have given me a conviction that Jesus Christ is my Savior. And because of Jesus Christ, I now have an opportunity to become closer to my Heavenly Father.

Of course, there were political and social conflicts in the lives of some of our ancestors, but even these become instructional in the ways they dealt with their circumstances. John Davies was a loyalist during the American Revolutionary War. He had been instrumental in the establishment of the Church of England in America, which became known as the First Episcopal Society of Litchfield. These early immigrants had been taught that next to religion, loyalty was the cardinal virtue. They honestly considered that none but the infidel and traitor would venture to speak of revolution from the motherland. Some argued that any attempt to independence was rank ingratitude. They considered the king to be the head not only of their state but also of their religion.
John Davies recounts the challenge of building the first church in Litchfield, Connecticut, only to have it seriously damaged by soldiers of the Revolution. His cattle were run off by revolutionists and much of his property severely damaged because of significant persecution of those who had remained loyal to the king. Listen to this about John Davies:
“After the close of the war a man who had taken an active part in driving off a number of cattle from his farm, and had committed other acts of plunder, having become destitute, applied for relief in his extremity to Mr. Davies, who not only pardoned him for the wrongs he had done, but liberally relieved his wants.”

In a recent news report we learned of the release of the grandson of one of the world’s wealthiest men by his drug trafficking captors for the incredible amount of nearly $3,000,000. The ransom money was paid by the boy’s mother, who had a love for her son that far exceeded any monetary consideration. As the mother was reunited with her son, she hugged and kissed him repeatedly. She was quoted as saying, “Only now I’m beginning to live again.”

The Memory Box by Mary Bahr Gramps and Gram and Zach made the memory box of photos and written accounts of things that were special to them, such as the time Zach climbed the water tower, the time Gramps taught Zach’s mom to ride a bike and she rode over his foot, and the time they watched a raccoon watch them while it ate a trayful of cookies Gram had set on the picnic table to cool. And they made the box just in time. …

Although seven-year-old Caylen Craven of Pawhuska, Oklahoma, has not ever had to go to war, he is a “stripling warrior” because he has learned how to be honest, too. One day while walking through the airport with his family, he saw a man in front of him accidently drop some money. Even though he is normally very shy around strangers, Caylen ran to pick up the money and return it to its owner.
Caylen’s mother wrote, “We were thankful that his first reaction was to do the right and honest thing, that he didn’t even think about keeping the dollar.”

Carla Santivañez Castro of the Lima Perú Surco Stake writes: “I remember one family home evening in particular. We four children were very attentive to the lesson Papa shared with us. We participated in wonderful games. We not only had a lot of fun, but we learned about the Savior. The thing I remember most about that night was seeing my parents so happy as they enjoyed this time with us, their children. Many times I have remembered the joyful feelings of that night.
“Now my beloved husband and I have the opportunity to hold our own family home evenings and experience the joy I saw in my parents. My hope is that someday our children will feel the same love, warmth, security, and safety in our family home evenings that I felt that night so long ago.”

One summer at Aspen Grove Family Camp, I observed a mother patiently feeding a teenage daughter injured at birth and totally dependent upon Mother. Mother administered each spoonful of food, each swallow of water, while holding steady the head and neck of her daughter. Silently I thought to myself, For 17 years, Mother has provided this service and all others to her daughter, never thinking of her own comfort, her own pleasure, her own food. May God bless such mothers, such fathers, such children. And He will.

In 2019, one of the missionaries who found and invited us to follow our Saviour, Jesus Christ, told my wife, Lupe, and me a story. He said that in 1990, he and his companion knelt in prayer, seeking to know the will of the Lord. They were led to a particular street where they knocked on every door, but no one wanted to hear their message.
As they were about to leave, he felt impressed to go back and try again. Obedient, they began knocking on the same doors they had knocked on before, and when they got to the sixth house, I was sitting outside. So began my knowledge of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
With tears of joy, this former missionary, Tomasi Takau, shared his experience from over 30 years ago, blessed now to witness the fruit of his labour.

My siblings and I always wanted a horse. When I was about 9 or 10 years old, my dad bought a beautiful black mare. We named her Yancy. We were so excited to have this horse, but she hadn’t been trained to be ridden. We were too young to do all the hard work it takes to train a horse, so my dad asked a friend who knew a lot about horses to help train Yancy.
We often went to the pasture to see Yancy. We couldn’t wait for the day we could ride her. But no matter how hard anyone tried, no one could train Yancy. She was too stubborn. We were never able to ride her.
One day my dad’s friend tried to ride her in a parade. As Yancy and her rider were going down the road, Yancy bucked the rider off and started to run through the city. Yancy ran so wildly that she cut her leg on a fire hydrant. I chased after Yancy and found her lying in the street in pain.
I was sad. We loved Yancy. If she had been obedient to the trainer, she could have become a happy horse with a wonderful life. But Yancy wouldn’t listen to and follow her master. Instead she was now injured and lying in the middle of the street.
Yancy’s story taught me of the blessings that come when we follow the Master, our Savior Jesus Christ. When we are kind and gentle and humble, we can be happy as we let the Savior lead us.

“About a year ago I was on assignment in Beirut, Lebanon. While there, I learned about a 12-year-old girl, Sarah. Her parents and two older siblings had converted to the Church in Romania but were then required to return to their homeland when Sarah was just 7 years of age. In their homeland there was no Church presence, no organized units, no Sunday School or Young Women program. After five years this family learned of a branch in Beirut and, just before I arrived, sent their 12-year-old daughter, Sarah, accompanied by older siblings, to be baptized. While there, I gave a devotional on the plan of salvation. With some frequency Sarah raised her hand and answered the questions.
“After the meeting, and knowing of her almost nonexistent Church exposure, I approached her and asked, ‘Sarah, how did you know the answers to those questions?’ She immediately replied, ‘My mother taught me.’ They did not have the Church in their community, but they did have the gospel in their home.”

Mandy opened her eyes. It was morning, and there was something outside, scratching at her window. “Whoooo,” it called. She quickly got out of bed and put on her clothes. It sounded to Mandy like a very large owl. “Whoooo,” it said again.
She tiptoed from her room and then ran to the kitchen. “Did you hear that?” she asked her mother. “I think there’s a large owl outside scratching and blowing at my bedroom window.”
Mandy’s mother laughed. “That’s the wind,” she said, “and not an owl at all. It’s just air that moves very fast and makes the bushes rustle and scratch at your window.”
“Can I go out and see it?” Mandy asked.
“You can look for it, but I don’t think you’ll find it,” Mother said with a smile. Then she gave Mandy her sweater and a piece of hot buttered toast. “Now you won’t be cold or hungry while you hunt for the wind,” she told her.
Opening the door, Mandy stepped out into the backyard. There was a dry, sweet smell in the air. She licked her lips. They felt dry too. A gust of wind brushed across her cheek and was gone. Then another, much harder than the first. “Whoooo!” it said.
Mandy blinked her eyes and looked around. Large golden and orange leaves were falling from the maple tree. They touched the ground and danced together, round and round, like whirlpools of colored paper. The wind is finger painting, Mandy thought. It’s drawing leaf pictures with little fingers of air.
Cleeter, Mandy’s dog, barked loudly and pounced onto a pile of crisp brown leaves, crushing them into thousands of coppery pieces. But Tom, the cat, just put his nose in the air and sniffed. Then he curled his tail around himself and sat very still. Mandy reached down and put her hand on Tom’s soft fur.
POP! The fur crackled under Mandy’s fingers. Tom’s back curved up into a fluffy arch, and the fur crackled again.
Mandy heard something rustle. It was a piece of newspaper standing on edge. It balanced a second, then danced across the lawn like a kite trying to fly.
Suddenly a great gust of wind rushed around the house. This time it said, “Wheeee!” Mandy’s hair blew into her eyes so she couldn’t see. She put her hands out to push the wind away, but it kept right on coming. The leaves fell faster all around her. Yellow and gold and scarlet and orange leaves whirled and whirled.
“I’m in a leaf storm,” Mandy said. “If I don’t do something quick, this wind might blow me away.” She reached out and grabbed the rough, dusty trunk of the maple tree. Then she put both arms around the tree as far as they would reach. The wind blew and blew.
“Wheeee!” it sang, pulling at Mandy’s sweater until it puffed out and made her feel like a balloon.
“Help!” called Mandy, but no one heard her except Cleeter, who was playing in the leaves, and Tom, who stretched and yawned. Then he walked slowly toward the house.
If Tom can do that, thought Mandy, so can I. So she released her hands from the tree, pulled her sweater tightly around her, and walked right into the face of the wind to the back door. It pushed her hair straight back and almost took her breath away. But it made her feel clean and fresh all over.
“Well,” said Mother, when she and Tom were sitting at the kitchen table, “did you find the wind?”
Mandy nodded her head. “You can’t see it,” she explained, “but you can feel it and you can hear it and you can smell the things that fly with it. You can’t reach out and touch it, but it can touch you. It touched me so hard, I thought I’d be blown away. But I like windy days!”

Sewing a quilt in my high school sewing class proved to be harder than I’d thought. For one thing, my thread kept getting jammed in my sewing machine, but that problem was easy enough to fix. The harder problem was the swear words. Three young women in my class were working together at the next machine over, and they’d been swearing loudly the entire class period.
The idea of asking them to stop swearing intimidated me. But I’d been taught by my parents and Church leaders that people will often respond well to our invitations to do good as long as we are kind. So I took a deep breath and asked the three young women as nicely as I knew how if they could stop swearing.
Unfortunately, they didn’t take it well. The tallest one gave me a rude answer, and before I knew it, we were arguing. Eventually I gave up and went back to my sewing. Now I was frustrated with the swear words, the three young women, and myself. The last thing I’d wanted to do was start an argument.
As I brooded over my mistake, I heard the three young women swearing again and saw them bent over their machine. I could tell that their machine was jammed the same way mine had been a few minutes earlier. I walked over to their machine and quickly showed them how to fix the problem.
I could feel their eyes on me as I went back to my seat. A moment later, the tallest young woman said, “Hey, sorry about the things we said earlier. Thanks for helping us with our machine.”
“No problem,” I said with a smile. My parents and leaders are right—kindness really works!

I scooted across an old twin mattress and braced my back against the Toyota Land Cruiser’s cab. Jean jumped in at the same time, almost knocking off her gray Akubra hat. Jean was 15, one year older than I am. I’d met her here a week ago, on the first day at my new school in Alice Springs. Even though she was LDS, and there aren’t many Mormons here, her khaki shirt, olive neckerchief, and camouflage pants made her seem so tough to me that I didn’t think we’d ever be close friends.
“Ouch!” said another Aussie, this one seated near the rear of the truck. Her name was Cherie. She looked up at me like I was guilty of something. But it was Jean who spoke.
“Liz,” she said, “you’ve got prickles.”
Prickles, I thought, what are prickles?
Her comment sent my mind into a whirl. So here I am in Alice Springs, Northern Territory, Australia. When your dad’s in need of work, you go where you have to go, even if it’s all the way from Massachusetts to Australia. There are other Americans here, mostly with the military. I can get along with them. But what I really want is to be friends with the Australians. I’ve been here a week and it seems like a year. How will I ever fit in?
I looked at Cherie again. She was so pretty. I wanted to exchange my straggly brown hair for her luscious strawberry blonde. I felt my pale face, knowing it was smeared with sunscreen. I compared it to her tan complexion. She was certainly no stranger to the sun.
You’re the one with prickles, I thought, almost maliciously.
But as quick as I thought it, Jean was speaking to me again, pointing at my feet.
“Prickles,” she said. “In your stockings, mate.”
I looked down at my white cotton stockings. They bristled with burrs. But what was worse, I’d infested the entire mattress with the clinging black barbs, and Cherie, climbing in after us, had been stabbed by one in the palm of her hand.
Prickles, I thought. Australian for stickers.
“I’m sorry,” I muttered, and started pulling the stickers out of my socks.
This time it was Cherie who spoke. “Make room for me, mate,” she said, indicating a place between us. Now I was surrounded—Jean on one side, Cherie on the other, off the highway on a dirt road, on the edge of the outback headed to the sandy, silty, dry bed of the Hugh River. A couple of youth leaders were driving this truck; another Cruiser with more young men and women followed behind. Using four-wheel drive, the utes (short for utility vehicles), lurched forward through the soft earth.
To maintain balance, I grabbed a metal rod that supported the bed’s steel roof. I held on tight. Wheels ground over gravel. Dust flew. I coughed. Cherie bounced on the mattress.
“Yahoo!” Jean squealed. My knuckles were white from hanging on. My stomach threatened to foam over like a warm Pepsi (caffeine-free, of course). Just as I prayed for the truck to quit this nonsense and take us back to Alice, we stopped.
“So, howdja like bush bashing?” Jean asked.
“Um, I …” I never got a chance to finish the sentence.
“Bet you’ve never done this either, Yank,” she continued, pointing to a metal sled the young men were attaching to the rear bumper. “Here, let Liz go first.”
I got a quick explanation of how to ride the sled. I also got a quick impression that now Jean was out to get me, too. I felt like some sort of alien, at the mercy of my captors.
Then Cherie rescued me. Sort of. At least she came and sat on a second sled opposite to mine. She had a neckerchief knotted over her mouth, handed me one, and indicated I should tie it the same way.
“Scrunch up to the front of the sled,” she said. I obeyed.
Everyone checked to make sure the path was clear, and that we were in an area of smooth, soft silt. Cherie signaled the driver.
“Let ’er rip,” she said.
Jean let out a whoop and the sleds started skidding over the sand. My heart galloped, but I hung on. Surprisingly, it reminded me of water skiing on Chesapeake Bay back in the States. Look at me, I thought, I’m doing this!
That’s when the sled tipped sideways. I lost my water skis! Flumpf! I hit the dirt and was surprised how soft it felt, how instantly I was no longer moving, how much of the riverbed silt was now packed inside my T-shirt and my jeans.
I heard someone yelling, “Stop the ute! The Yank got dumped!” Cherie, Jean, and all the others were laughing. I’d had all I could take.
“You did that on purpose!” I yelled at Jean when she walked up. “You made me go first so you could all laugh at me!” I could see my whole existence turning into misery. But when I looked in Jean’s face, I knew I was wrong.
“No, Yank,” she smiled. “We let you go first because it’s an honor. You did great for your first ride. Everybody gets dumped—that’s part of the fun!”
And you know, it was. We kept sand sledding through the rest of the morning, and we only stopped when it was nearly noon and we knew we had to eat and drink or we’d wilt from the heat. All of us got dumped. All of us were covered with dirt. But all of us were laughing and talking and joking together. People kept telling me how well I’d done for my first time sand sledding.
I deliberately backed away from the group and looked around me for a while. We were in a beautiful location. Gum trees all around. Beautiful red rock country. A blazing blue sky. Hot, yes. Dry, yes. A lot different than my humid, green home in Massachusetts. But these were good kids here, Mormon kids just like me, having fun, trying to help each other live the gospel. How would I fit in in Alice Springs? Just fine, thank you.
I made my way back to the campfire.
“Make room for me, mate!” I said, wiggling my way between Jean and Cherie. One of the boys, Ian, was using a long-handled metal gadget to squish two pieces of bread and some sort of filling together and toast sandwiches over the flames.
“They’re called jaffles,” he said. “And the first one is for Liz.”
I picked it up and took a big bite. My jaffle was filled with spaghetti.

The Bengaluru Stake presidency wanted to visit members as part of their ministering efforts. One Sunday they went to a hospital to visit a member who needed a surgery. They had a pleasant visit giving hope to the family to know that all will be well. The surgery could not happen as the sugar levels were not within the level needed. A priesthood blessing and a promise was given that his surgery would take place soon. After a day, the surgery was performed and it was successful.
After that visit, they did not have any member in mind, so the counselor, by inspiration, suggested a name of a member who had not attended church for a long time. With pure inspiration we went to visit the member. Good conversation was exchanged and the Spirit was present as the invitation to come back was given to him. The member told the presidency that he had to work on Sundays for three more years to clear debts that had incurred and asked that he be excused. But he assured his family would continue to attend church.

What could a handful of Young Women do to make a contribution to the new Chicago Temple? A group from the Hebron Branch, Chicago Heights Illinois Stake, discovered a way. They held a talent auction.

The girls led the way by offering such services as babysitting, catered meals, car washes, and gardening skills. The branch members joined in by offering specialized talents such as tennis lessons, car tune-ups, and landscaping service, plus handcrafted items. After a potluck meal, the auction was held. Besides having a lot of fun, the Young Women were able to give the money raised to the branch president to be donated to the building of the new temple in their area.

Many years ago, our 15-year-old son Eric suffered a serious head injury. Seeing him in a coma for over a week broke our hearts. The doctors told us they were uncertain about what would happen next. Obviously, we were thrilled when he began to regain consciousness. We thought now everything was going to be fine, but we were mistaken.

When he awoke, he could not walk or talk or feed himself. Worst of all, he had no short-term memory. He could remember most everything before the accident, but he had no ability to remember events after, even things which had happened only minutes earlier.

For a time, we worried we would have a son locked in the mind of a 15-year-old. Things had come very easily to our son before the accident. He was athletic, popular, and did very well in school. Before, his future seemed bright; now we worried he may not have much of a future, at least one he could remember. He now struggled to relearn very, very basic skills. This was a very humbling time for him. It was also a very humbling time for his parents.

Honestly, we wondered how such a thing could happen. We had always strived to do the right things. Living the gospel had been a high priority for our family. We couldn’t understand how something so painful could happen to us. We were driven to our knees as it soon became apparent his rehabilitation would take months, even years. More difficult still was the gradual realization he would not be as he was before.

During this time, many tears were shed and our prayers became even more heartfelt and sincere. Through the eyes of humility, we gradually began to see the small miracles which our son experienced during this painful time. He began making gradual improvement. His attitude and outlook were very positive.

Today, our son Eric is married to a wonderful companion, and they have five beautiful children. He is a passionate educator and contributor to his community, as well as the Church. Most important, he continues to live in the same spirit of humility he gained long ago.