Gospel Story Finder

When we choose incorrectly, we suffer the consequences of those choices but through the principle of repentance and the atonement of the Master we can again experience the good. An example of this comes from an experience I had over 30 years ago. As a young district leader in Cape Town, South Africa, I was asked to conduct a baptismal service for a previously excommunicated member named Jimmy.

Jimmy had been a convert to the church in his teens. Like many of you, he was the only member of the church in his family. When he reached 19-years of age he accepted a call to serve a mission to England. While on his mission he made a serious mistake that resulted in his excommunication from the church. Upon returning home, his guilt feelings, and the non-acceptance of the members caused him to become completely inactive. In an effort to escape his environment, he became a mercenary soldier in Angola. During the war, he was captured and put into prison.

He was not sure why his life was spared, but during this time he began to reflect on the things that were of most importance in his life. He passed the hours singing hymns like "Come, Come ye Saints" to the extent that he could remember the words. Finally, he was liberated from prison and returned to his home in Cape Town. He was determined to return to the church to “pay the Lord back” for preserving his life. However, his fear of the social implications of returning to church soon resulted in his compromising the resolve he had made and he fell into his old ways.

It was about this time that he met a girl who had just arrived from England on a freight ship docked in Cape Town. They met in a bar near the dock on Friday evening and were married by Saturday night. [Now I would not recommend this type of courtship to any of you students…. I know this is BYU-Hawaii but a little longer courtship is probably advisable]. After a few weeks, on a bright Sunday morning, his new wife said to him, "Jimmy, I think we need to start going to church. What religion are you?" Jimmy was embarrassed and told her he didn't have a religion and asked her what church she belonged to. She informed him she was a Mormon and that she would like to find the Church and become active again. The moment of truth had arrived.

Jimmy then told his wife of his story and the fears he had in returning to church. His new, understanding wife just said, “Let’s go back. I'll be with you to give you support.” Thus Jimmy began again to make correct choices that set his feet on the road to repentance and forgiveness.

As I sat in that baptismal service and listened to two sisters sing the primary song "Baptism" in perfect harmony, [the same music we heard sung so beautifully at the beginning of this devotional], I thought of how the Savior taught that the whole hath no need of a physician, but the sick (see Matt 9:12). His grace is sufficient for all. His atonement covers the mistakes of all who humble themselves, who learn of him, who walk in the meekness of his ways... You see, he gives to all men who choose good and come unto him, Peace.

So what can we learn from this experience? No matter what bad choices we have made, there is always a way back through the atoning blood of the Savior. We also learn from the experience the importance each of us plays in helping those in the “returning” process.

We were traveling with family and friends in the south of Oman. We decided to relax on the beach along the coast of the Indian Ocean. Soon after our arrival, our 16-year-old daughter, Nellie, asked if she could swim out to what she thought was a sandbar. Noticing the choppy water, I told her that I would go first, thinking there might be dangerous currents.
After swimming a short while, I called to my wife, asking if I was close to the sandbar. Her response was, “You have gone way past it.” Unbeknownst to me I was trapped in a riptide and was being pulled rapidly out to sea.
I was unsure what to do. The only thing I could think of was to turn around and swim back toward shore. That was exactly the wrong thing to do. I felt helpless. Forces beyond my control were pulling me farther out to sea. What made matters worse was that my wife, trusting my decision, had followed me.
Brothers and sisters, I thought there was a high likelihood I would not survive and that I, because of my decision, would also cause my wife’s death. After great effort and what I believe was divine intervention, our feet somehow touched the sandy bottom and we were able to walk safely back to our friends and daughter.
From time to time I have an image that haunts me. What if that September day, while relaxing on the beach of the Indian Ocean, I had said to my daughter Nellie, “Yes, go ahead. Swim out to the sandbar.” Or if she too had followed my example and had been unable to swim back? What if I had to live life knowing that my example resulted in her being pulled by a riptide out to sea, never to return?

This picture was taken in São Paulo, Brazil, in 2004. Floripes Luzia Damasio of the Ipatinga Brazil Stake was 114 years old. Speaking of her conversion, Sister Damasio told me that missionaries in her village had given a priesthood blessing to a critically ill baby who miraculously recovered. She wanted to know more. As she prayed about their message, an undeniable witness of the Spirit confirmed to her that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. At 103, she was baptized, and at 104, she was endowed. Every year after, she made the 14-hour bus ride to spend a week in the temple. Sister Damasio had received a heavenly confirmation, and she knew that God knew that she knew that the witness was true.

9:28 A.M.
Elder Darren Majeran and Elder Josh Graham say a prayer, grab their bike helmets, and head out the door. No car for them. They need to get to Bonnie Brae Street for an appointment with an investigator, but they have a little time before that so they go on two callbacks to people they’d met last week. They pedal down the driveway and onto the street.

9:55 A.M.
There is no answer at either home, so back on the bikes they go. Their investigator on Bonnie Brae likes what he has heard about the Church, but he is having a problem understanding the concept of the priesthood and authority. They’re prepared to try to answer his questions.

10:07 A.M.
The investigator seems happy to see the missionaries. He has read two of the pamphlets the elders left with him on their last visit, and he’s prepared to discuss them. He seems very earnest in his desire to learn. He’s just not sure he can accept what they are teaching.

11:20 A.M.
“I thought it went okay,” Elder Majeran says after the meeting. “It’s just going to take some time.”
Next stop: the corner of Harvard Street and Ramona Avenue. The missionaries lock their bikes to a stop sign and begin going door to door. Elder Majeran and Elder Graham go to 19 houses, but very few people are home, and nobody invites them in.

12:15 P.M.
The missionaries break for lunch and talk about what just happened and what’s ahead. Elder Graham has been a missionary for about seven months, and he’s settled into a daily routine. “I guess the work has been the way I expected it to be. I haven’t done quite as much teaching as I thought we would,” he says. “But when you do, and you see people make changes in their lives and know you’ve been a part of that, it’s great.”
He continues: “If we tracted for a whole day and did nothing else, we’d probably get in maybe two or three doors.”
“We do a lot of talking through screens,” Elder Majeran adds. “But we usually have pretty good success once we get in.”
Today won’t be one of those days, however.

1:22 P.M.
It’s more of the same in the afternoon, although there is something to look forward to tonight. A family committed to receive baptism is scheduled for a sixth discussion, and another family in the ward has invited the missionaries to dinner.

7:03 P.M.
With dinner concluded (“The chicken was really good. Sister Wilson is a great cook,” Elder Graham says), the missionaries end up teaching a discussion to a person referred to them by a member. That is followed by the discussion to the family scheduled to be baptized.

9:35 P.M.
Another day is complete. Elder Majeran is tired but happy. “Not bad. We got a lot done today,” he says. As they change from their proselyting clothes and get ready for bed, they make phone calls to the zone leaders and the ward mission leader.

Recently, I was visiting with a family member who is struggling with his faith because of some things he saw on the internet.
“If you can find something better than the gospel of Jesus Christ or that makes you happier than the gospel, then go after it,” I told him. “But I know from experience that there is nothing better or that makes us happier than the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
I told him that some people say God does not exist and that the gospel is not true, but they don’t earnestly seek the truth. And there are others like the father of King Lamoni, who was so eager to know God that he prayed, “Wilt thou make thyself known unto me, and I will give away all my sins to know thee” (see Alma 22:17–18).
Loving and not judging are vital when helping someone who struggles with difficult questions of faith. My family member said he wasn’t going to attend church anymore, but he didn’t stop attending. I think he kept attending because we share a close relationship, and he feels that I understand his doubts.

After talks by all three members of the First Presidency, President Wilford Woodruff knelt on a “plush, covered stool” and offered the dedicatory prayer. “He offered the prayer seemingly with [the] strength of a man fifty years old,” wrote David John of the 86-year-old prophet, who read the 35-minute dedicatory prayer “unhesitatingly without glasses.” Nearly fifty years earlier, President Woodruff had dreamed that Brigham Young gave him the keys of the temple and told him to go and dedicate it. This event was the fulfillment of that dream.

Julia Nompi Nqubeni was born 20 December 1917, the youngest of five children. Her father, a school teacher, died when she was four. Her mother struggled to make a living as a school teacher and washer woman. In spite of poverty and other major obstacles, Julia pursued an education and began a teaching career. She eventually became one of the first black women in South Africa to become a school principal.

As a witness of the Lord Jesus Christ, I bear witness of the Book of Mormon that led me to Him. I found the Lord Jesus Christ within the covers of the Book of Mormon as a 19-year-old missionary, walking through the rain and the mud of England, riding a bike with mud clear up the back of my coat and over the top of my head, tracting in cities that had never been opened, with baptisms that did not come for a long time. Those nights I went back to No. 3 Gilmore Road and read and read and wept. I knew that Jesus was the Christ, that the Book of Mormon was true, that the gospel had been restored. If the folks in England didn’t understand that, then I would just keep knocking on their doors until they did.

Now a story, one familiar to some of you:
In 1856 Robert and Ann Parker, with their four children, embarked from England to join the Saints in Utah. A prophet had spoken, and theirs was the charge to gather to the Great Basin and help build Zion. As members of the McArthur Handcart Company, each in their family bore a share of the work. Father and Mother pulled the heavy cart, Maxie (12 years of age) pushed, and Martha (10 years old) tended little Arthur (six years of age). Baby Ada (one year old) toddled, was carried, and rode in the cart.

Somewhere in Nebraska little Arthur sat down to rest and fell asleep. A sudden storm arose. The company hurried on and made camp. It was then they discovered that Arthur was not with the other children.

Days of searching were in vain. The company had to press on. This was the time for Robert and Ann Parker to act in accordance with their faith. Archer Walters recorded in his diary under July 2, 1856: “Brother Parker’s little boy . . . was lost, and the father went back to hunt him.”

As Robert departed, Ann pinned a bright red shawl about his shoulders and said: “If you find him dead, wrap him in the shawl to bury him. If you find him alive, you could use this as a flag to signal us.” She, with the other children, took up the handcart and struggled on with the company.

Robert retraced the miles of forest trail, calling, searching, and praying for their helpless little son. At last he reached a mail and trading station where he learned that their child had been cared for by a woodsman and his wife. Little Arthur had been ill from exposure and fright, but God had heard the prayers of his loving parents.

On the trail each night, Ann and her children kept watch. On the third night, as the rays of the setting sun caught the glimmer of a bright red shawl, this brave mother sank in a pitiful heap in the sand. Completely exhausted, Ann slept for the first time in six long days and nights.13 God indeed was kind and merciful; their works had rewarded their devotion and sanctified their faith, and in the gladness of their hearts the Saints sang, “All is well!”14

Baby Ada, my grandmother, grew to womanhood and married my grandfather, Brigham Young McMullin. Now here is the moral. She never allowed her children to forget that she and her family came across the plains with the Daniel D. McArthur Handcart Company. The story of the red shawl became our story—the legacy of their faith became ours as well. And so we all “carry on,”15 and great obstacles fade as the dew before the morning sun.
About these early Saints, the benchmark shows: Their works were a hallmark of faith, their devotion a standard for their posterity to live by.

I once attended a meeting in Leadville, Colorado. Leadville is situated at an altitude of over 10,000 feet (3,000 m). I remember that particular meeting because of the high altitude, but I also remember it for what took place that evening. There were just a small number of priesthood holders present. As with the branch in the Canadian Mission, that branch was presided over by a missionary and always had been.
That night we had a lovely meeting, but as we were singing the closing song, the inspiration came to me that there ought to be a local branch president presiding. I turned to the mission president and asked, “Isn’t there someone here who could preside—a local man?”
He replied, “I don’t know of one.”
During the singing of that song, I looked carefully at the men who were seated on the first three rows. My attention seemed to be focused on one of the brethren. I said to the mission president, “Could he serve as the branch president?”
He replied, “I don’t know. Perhaps he could.”
I said, “President, I’ll take him into the other room and interview him. You speak after the closing song until we return.”
When the two of us walked back in the room, the mission president concluded his testimony. I presented the name of the brother to be the new branch president. From that day forward, Leadville, Colorado, had a local member leading the unit there.

My investigation of the Church lasted 15 years. And though the missionaries who first taught me were disappointed to see my testimony wither, their work wasn’t in vain. If they had not sown the seed, I wouldn’t be who I am today. I will never be able to thank them enough for what they did. The seeds they sowed I shared with others—and they, in turn, continued to nourish the seed in my heart until it flowered in joy and our hearts were woven together in faith and love.

Many suffering Saints have shared with me how they felt God’s love during their trials. I vividly recall my own experience at one point in my cancer battle when the doctors had not yet diagnosed the cause of some severe pain. I sat with my wife, intending to offer a routine blessing on our lunch. Instead, all I could do was simply weep, “Heavenly Father, please help me. I am so sick.” For the next 20 to 30 seconds, I was encircled in His love. I was given no reason for my illness, no indication of the ultimate outcome, and no relief from the pain. I just felt of His pure love, and that was and is enough.

I enrolled at the University of Alberta in Edmonton in 1957, my first real time away from home. The freedom to go where I wanted when I wanted, to study or play, to go to class or sleep in, proved a little more than I was ready for. Besides, I made the university basketball team, and clearly in my mind that was what I was primarily at university FOR. In short, I did great on the basketball team but mediocre in the classroom. We won the Western Canada championship and I scored 13 points in the final game against the University of Manitoba. Oh yeah, and I managed to pass my classes by the skin of my teeth. I was saved by my mission call when it finally came, and headed off to the Canadian Mission in Toronto under the leadership of President Monson. I was excited about the call because we had been reading about how the Ottawa Mormon Elders team had contended for the Canadian Senior Men's championship in basketball, and I figured that was why I was receiving this call. They put together a crack basketball team, stationing them all in the same city for the season, and won permission to have them make half-time presentations on the Book of Mormon to the crowds. I had only just arrived in the field when Elder Elray L. Christiansen toured the mission. To my displeasure one of his first announcements was that there would no longer be a missionary basketball team. Missionaries were sent out to teach the gospel, not play basketball. I must have sulked for a week. I wouldn't call them my best two years, but perhaps they were two of my most valuable years. I learned how to study, how to deal with difficulty, how to talk to people, and how to keep commitments. When I returned to college after my mission, I was grateful for a second chance, and dug in with determination. Yes, I made the basketball team again, but now it wasn't what I lived for. Being able to start over made all the difference and what I learned on my mission not only equipped me for life in the church, but propelled me to success in graduate study.

I have seen many Christmas trees. Usually they have been topped with a lighted star or a lovely angel. But the most beautiful tree I have ever seen had a big red bow on top.
I wasn’t sure how to celebrate Christmas that year. My mother had been a widow for several years, and since I was single, we had continued many of our family traditions and had celebrated most of the holidays together. When my mother died just before Christmas, however, the old traditions suddenly seemed too painful without her.
The bishopric came to visit. They expressed concern about my being alone for Christmas. Looking around, the bishop asked why there was no Christmas tree or other decorations. I explained that I didn’t want to decorate a tree alone and so had decided not to have one. Christmas was so much of a family celebration that ignoring it seemed like the best way to make it through the holidays.
After they left, I went about my work. The bishop did not let the matter alone, though: He phoned the ward Primary president. I had just been called to be the Merrie Miss B teacher but would not start serving until the first of the year.
One afternoon, Michelle, one of the girls who would be in my class, called and asked if she could drop by the next evening about 7:30. I was surprised but looked forward to her company.
The doorbell rang at exactly 7:30, but it was not just Michelle who stood on my porch. It was all of the girls in my new Primary class—with a Christmas tree, lights, and decorations!
They pushed the large tree through the door and started setting it up in my living room. Their enthusiasm was contagious, and I was soon moving furniture to find just the right spot for the tree. I asked what I should do to help and was told to sit on the couch and just watch and enjoy. My next two hours were filled with the holiday laughter and love that only eleven-year-olds can create and share.
The girls told me their names and what part each had played in the project. Cindy showed me the hot-glue burns she had suffered while attaching ribbons to the backs of gingerbread cookies. Amanda couldn’t come that evening, so she had gone with her mother to buy the tree earlier in the day. Bethany was the tallest, so she was in charge of the lights. Lindsay joined in the decorating with a large box of candy canes. Rachel put a stocking filled with candy and a gift under the tree. Michelle told me that they had tried to find or make a star for the top of the tree but couldn’t, so they had brought a large red bow.
That bow topped one of the largest and most beautiful Christmas gifts I have ever received. Even before that tree was finished and lighted, my heart was full of the spirit of Christmas and of love for each girl in my future Primary class. That feeling was renewed each time I turned on the tree lights.
I have some new Christmas traditions now. I plan to have a tree every year, and it will always have candy canes, gingerbread men—and a big red bow on the top.

Nathan, a neighbor boy, came around to play with my son Michael. Later I took them to the park. Michael rode his bike to the park and promised Nathan that he could ride on the way home. But when the time came to leave, Michael found it hard to keep his promise. He rode his bike home himself, feeling very unhappy. Nathan wasn’t too pleased either. After Michael had time to think about it, he agreed that Nathan could have a go on his bike after all, so off they went. Afterward Michael told me, “I liked sharing because Nathan is my friend, and it made me feel happy.”

As a further example of rising to life’s challenges as a Christlike child, I’m reminded of one of my father’s experiences in World War II. He was the pilot of a B-17, flying daylight bombing raids over Germany and experiencing and inflicting horrific deaths when he was younger than almost everyone here. Thanks, Dad, to you and to other men and women like you. At one point, after completing a bombing run over Germany, his formation was attacked by German fighters and flack, and his plane lost an engine. This meant that the rest of the formation had to leave them behind since they could not keep up. They knew full well that they would probably be killed because they had lost the protection of the interlocking fields of fire and the protection that a formation with its many guns provided. Then they lost a second engine. B-17s weren’t necessarily able to fly with only two engines, but my dad broke the throttle quadrant and could over-rev the engines, buying time for some airspeed and altitude.

The fighters swarmed to this lone plane, ready to finish it off with relative ease away from the protection of the other gunners and planes. Dad began to pray, and he also thought, “Dad, pray for me.”

In the Gila Valley in Arizona, his father—my grandfather—Ether Samuel Ferrin, got his wife and said, “Leven’s in trouble. We need to pray for him.” They knelt in humble prayer for his safety far across the world. These discrete actors’ stories were obviously pieced together later. My Dad recounts that when they were sure they were going to be destroyed, it seemed as if they suddenly became invisible to the fighters, which would just fly past.

They were able to return home to England with that plane, which Dad safely landed. After that the plane was useless in the war effort. The ground crew presented Dad with the placard from that now useless B-17. He has that placard in his home in the Gila Valley today. The key point for me in recounting this story is that as a courageous child, my father not only prayed but cried out for his father to be alerted and pray as well, because he knew and believed in his father’s faith.

I’d like to share with you two important lessons that I learned in my youth. When I was young, my friends and I often played ball in an alley behind our home. A woman named Mrs. Shinas rented a tiny house nearby, and she used to watch us play from her window. She rarely came out of her house, and when she did, she never smiled. We all thought that she was mean. She had a big dog, an English setter, and whenever one of our baseballs rolled in its direction—which happened often—Mrs. Shinas would send the dog to fetch it. We wouldn’t see the ball again. Soon we ran out of baseballs.

In those days, we didn’t have lawn sprinklers, and so each day I watered our lawn by hand with a hose. One day as I stood there watering our little stretch of grass, I noticed that Mrs. Shinas’s lawn looked a little shabby. It took only a few more minutes to water it, too, and soon I was watering her lawn each day.

When autumn came that year, one of my tasks was to clear our yard of leaves. I sprayed the ground with a hose, pushing the leaves into a pile with the force of the water. I decided to gather up the leaves on Mrs. Shinas’s yard as well, and as I was doing this one day, she came to her door and beckoned for me to come inside. I turned off the hose and went into her house.

She invited me to sit in her living room, and she gave me a cookie and a glass of milk. As I sat there eating my cookie, she showed me her collection of little china dogs. I could tell that they were her most prized possession. Then she thanked me for taking care of her lawn. It was the first conversation I had ever had with her.

Mrs. Shinas then went into her kitchen and returned with a box. In it were all the baseballs that her dog had taken. She handed me the box, said thank you—and smiled! It was the first time I’d ever seen her smile.

Evelyn loved to come to Primary. She always raised her hand to say prayers. She also loved to help her teachers.
But today was Evelyn’s first time giving a talk. As she walked to the front of the room, her stomach felt wiggly. Then her heart started to beat fast. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
“Hi,” Evelyn said when she reached the front of the room. “My name is Evelyn. My family just went to the temple so we can be together forever.”
Evelyn told the Primary children about the white dress she wore. The temple was very white too. She told them that she and her parents and sister were sealed together forever.
“I know Heavenly Father loves us,” Evelyn said. “He lets us go to the temple to be with our families forever.”
Evelyn sat back down. She felt happy. It felt like a warm light was shining through her body. She was happy she went to the temple.

Deposition (oil on canvas)
Sarah Hawkes, born 1998, Utah
The composition of this work resembles many images of the Savior as His body was removed from the cross. The central figure here is the artist’s mother, a woman who has fought breast cancer. The other women in the piece represent the nurses, doctors, and friends who supported her on her journey. “[My mother] believes it is a spiritual gift of women to understand how to lift one another spiritually, emotionally, and sometimes physically” (Sarah Hawkes).

“A group of men were talking with the Prophet Joseph Smith one day when news arrived that the house of a poor brother … was burned down. Everyone expressed sorrow for what had happened. The Prophet listened for a moment, then ‘put his hand in his pocket, took out five dollars and said, “I feel sorry for this brother to the amount of five dollars; how much do you all feel sorry?”’ … Last year millions of you responded to the sorrow of others with your means, tender hearts, and helping hands. Thank you for your wonderful measure of generosity.”Bishop H. David Burton, Presiding Bishop, “Tender Hearts and Helping Hands,” Liahona and Ensign, May 2006, 8.