Gospel Story Finder

The Romneys shared their love of the scriptures with their boys. On one occasion, when Elder Romney and one of his young sons were reading alternate verses in the Book of Mormon, he heard the child’s voice breaking and assumed he had a cold. After a while the boy asked his dad if he ever cried when he read the Book of Mormon.
“Yes, Son,” he answered. “Sometimes the Spirit of the Lord so witnesses to my soul that the Book of Mormon is true that I do cry.”
“Well,” the boy said, “that is what happened to me tonight.”
“I know not all of [your children] will respond like that,” he later said in general conference, “but I know that some of them will, and I tell you this book was given to us of God to read and to live by, and it will hold us as close to the Spirit of the Lord as anything I know. Won’t you please read it?” (In Conference Report, Apr. 1949, p. 41.)

A week ago I had an interesting experience. Without any official assignment, I attended a stake conference in a rural area of southeastern Utah. The stake president and his wife had invited Sister Hinckley and me to stay at their home. While he conducted his Saturday afternoon meeting, we rode about the stake, visiting a half-dozen little towns, in each of which there is a Church meetinghouse. We noted that the lawns were green and the buildings nicely kept, although they are small and some of them are old. We drove about and looked at the homes, modest in their appearance, but in almost every case there was neatness and beauty with flowers in bloom. Having a free Saturday and Sunday, I had wanted to make this trip simply to thank the people for their faith and faithfulness and to express my love to them. Most of them are farm folk who work hard for a small return. But they know a great truth. They know the law of the harvest—“Whatsoever ye sow, that shall ye also reap.” (D&C 6:33.)

They know that you do not reap wheat after sowing oats. They know that you do not get a racehorse from a scrub mare. They know that if you are to build another great generation, you must work with vision and faith. You must dream and plan, serve and sacrifice, pray and labor. After being with these wonderful people for two days, Sister Hinckley observed, “These are the kind who constitute the glue that holds the Church together.”

The home where we stayed was not pretentious, but it was comfortable and clean and delightful. The husband, I believe, did not have a large income, but he knew how to spend it wisely, first paying his tithes and offerings and setting aside some in savings. His wife is a beautiful woman, the mother of six sons and one daughter. You need not look far to know that in that home there is love and respect one for another. There is appreciation and gratitude. Through the years they have known adversity—lean times and death-threatening sickness.

I repeat—I went among these people to express my gratitude and love. I felt a great overwhelming measure of love in return. Here in this stake of small rural wards, among people who made no pretense of sophistication, I found strength and faith and virtue. I found men whose hands were gnarled and whose skin was wrinkled with the sun’s heat of many summers—men in whose hearts there was a great capacity for love—love for the land and the sky above it, love for their wives and children, love for the Church and its eternal purposes, love for God and the Savior of all mankind.

I looked into the eyes of beautiful women—women of virtue and strength and capacity, older women who knew much of struggle and disappointment and pain, young women who knew much of purpose and goodness and art and learning. I looked into the eyes of children—beautiful and innocent and wonderful.

I do not wish to imply that I could not find such in cities and towns all over the world. Such people are to be found everywhere, but somehow there seemed so much larger a percentage of them among the folks whom we visited. Their feet were planted on the solid earth. They knew the meaning of work without respect to hours or season.

I also wanted to visit among them because I have met their sons and daughters in the mission field in many lands. These have been effective missionaries because they have learned to get up in the morning and get their chores done. They have been dedicated missionaries because when they were very young they learned to pray at their mothers’ knees and heard their fathers bear testimony of the truth of this great latter-day work. Not only have these sons and daughters gone on missions, but by dint of great sacrifice they have gone away to school and won places of honor across the nation as they serve in business and the professions.

I have a sweet friend who some time ago found herself in such a state. I do not know, nor need I know, what her problem was, but she did summon the courage to go tearfully to her bishop to confess. A Church court was held. She was excommunicated and began the difficult process of repentance. Quite a long time later, after the spiritual healing had taken place and at the time of her baptism, she expressed great appreciation to a bishop who had shed tears of caring for her, even while being firm in the steps that must be taken; to a dear friend in Relief Society, who, she said, had helped her “to understand and forgive all those who couldn’t understand or forgive” her; to those who had helped to keep her testimony strong in those quiet, desperate times when “coming home again” seemed nearly impossible.

I recently had a note from this friend, married now in the temple with a lovely family. She says, “Tell the sisters that it is all worth it. Tell them how beautiful and joyful life can be when you keep the commandments.”

One thing we always do as a family is go camping. We have camped in Colorado, Arizona, California, and Utah. Of all those states, I liked Colorado best because of Turquoise Lake.
It isn’t easy to squash seven people into a small car and ride for three straight hours. And to be honest, I wasn’t in a good mood anyway. At the time, I didn’t like camping with my family. Maybe I was going through a phase or something, but my idea of a good time was being at home, where I could use the telephone and hang out with my friends.
We all cheered when Dad announced that we had reached the camp. We couldn’t see the lake from where we were, so my brothers and sister and I started running toward it as soon as we could. Unfortunately Dad was too quick, and he called us all back to set up the tents. He explained that it was almost dark, and we needed to get the work done while we still had daylight.
After a night’s sleep, I woke up the next morning to the sound of a bird chirping merrily from the branches of a tree right above my tent. Mom was already awake getting breakfast started.
“Do you need any help?” I asked.
“Not just yet,” she said.
Just then, I heard a frog croak and a splash coming from the direction of the lake.
Mom said, “Why don’t you take a look at the lake? If you hurry, you’ll be able to see the sunrise.”
Flashing her a grateful smile, I ran toward the hill that separated us from the lake. When I reached the top, I stopped for a moment and gasped, partly because I needed air and partly because the view below me was so beautiful.
The water in the lake was a turquoise color, and so clear I could actually see the fish swimming around in it. There were mountain peaks on the other side of the lake with snow still on them.
It was so quiet without my little brothers and sister running around making noise that I sat down on the hillside and enjoyed the scene that surrounded me. The lake was completely calm when I saw a ripple in the water. Then there was another ripple, and then another. The fish were jumping all around searching for their breakfast.
It was like a play had just begun, and the lake was the stage. The curtains had opened, and the actors had started their parts. From one side I saw a deer leading her fawn to the water’s edge. Next I heard the songs of a group of birds, as they chirped while the sun crept higher and higher. I watched as they flew off together, first turning to the right and then flying to the left and out of sight.
As the sun rose from behind the mountain range, I noticed a squirrel had stopped to watch as the colors of red and yellow filled the sky. We watched together while the sunlight raced across the lake before finally overwhelming us with the warm, first light of day.
Suddenly my thoughts of the moment seemed to change. Along with the rays of warmth, I experienced a type of tingling feeling all over my body as a new understanding filled my spirit. I was no longer just watching this morning miracle, but instead I had become part of the scene in the play. I realized the same immortal being who had created all of this beauty had also created me. I was just as much a piece of his artwork as was the lake, the animals, or the sunrise. It wasn’t until that moment on Turquoise Lake that I really understood that I am a daughter of my Heavenly Father.

I finally finished reading First Nephi when I was fourteen years old. Perhaps I did it partly so that I could say in Sunday School class “yes, I’ve read the Book of Mormon.” But beyond that, I felt within me that this was an important book that would have a significant impact on my life. My parents and others spoke of how they loved the book. I wanted to feel the same way and sensed that I’d feel that way sooner through my own reading than through listening to others.
For several “readings” I got a new copy each time, and was probably as interested in marking passages in red as I was in just reading. I loved opening it when someone was looking—in a couple of copies the passages that weren’t red stood out. Gradually, I found my pride in marking being replaced by a love for what was in this sacred book. I felt I knew some of the people, and I enjoyed going back again and again to be with them and to learn from them.

Hermann Mössner was nervous as he walked into the chapel. He and his friends from the English prison camp were still in their uniforms, marked with the letters “P.O.W.” Everyone knew those letters stood for “prisoner of war.” What would the members of the branch think? Would they see him as their enemy?
Hermann was from Germany. After being forced to fight in World War II, he had been captured by British soldiers and sent to the prison camp. This was the first time he’d been allowed to go to church since being captured.
Hermann took a deep breath as he sat down on one of the benches. He could see the branch president, George Camm, sitting at the front. President Camm was Hermann’s friend. Seeing him smile made Hermann feel better.
Several months ago, President Camm came to visit Hermann at camp after hearing that he was the only member of the Church there. At first Hermann was a little worried. Would President Camm hate him? Their countries had fought against each other in the war, after all.
But when Hermann and President Camm met, they smiled and shook hands. Then they prayed together. They sang songs and talked about the gospel. They even took the sacrament together.
“I love you, my brother,” Hermann said when President Camm had to leave. He saw tears in President Camm’s eyes as he waved goodbye.
After that, President Camm visited Hermann every Saturday. During the rest of the week, Hermann did his best to live the gospel. He shared his testimony with the other prisoners while they worked in the fields. He answered their questions while they carved wood after a long day’s work. Sometimes he prayed with them.
“Hey, Hermann,” one of the prisoners had said one night. “Could I join you and Mr. Camm on Saturday?”
Hermann looked up from the block of wood he was carving. He smiled. “Of course!”
“May I too?” another prisoner asked.
Hermann and President Camm were very excited to teach more of the prisoners. Soon some of them even wanted to be baptized!
And now, as Hermann looked around the chapel at the families waiting for church to start, he felt peace. Some members were nervous around Hermann at first. But soon everyone came to trust him. The other prisoners who wanted to learn about the gospel got permission to leave camp to go to church with Hermann on Sundays. Later, Hermann was even called to be the branch Sunday School president.
Time passed, and Christmas got closer. Hermann wanted to do something to thank the members who had been so kind to him. Then he had an idea! It was almost time for the branch Christmas party. Hermann gathered more blocks of wood and started carving. One by one, he turned the blocks into little cars, elephants, planes, trains, and horses.
Finally the day of the party arrived. Everyone ate food and sang Christmas songs together. Hermann and his friends from camp sang Christmas songs in German.
Then Hermann pulled out a big bag. Inside were 40 wooden toys! Hermann gave one to each Primary child. It was a Christmas they would never forget.
After three years in the prison camp, Hermann returned to his family in Germany. Years later, Hermann visited the same chapel in Leeds, England, he attended as a prisoner of war. Some of the grownups there told him they still had the wooden toys he had carved for them when they were children!
See Come, Follow Me for Moroni 7–9 and Christmas.

Develop the habit of singing, or if this is not pleasant, of whistling. Singing to one’s self brings less comment and question than talking to one’s self! My father once came home from a deer hunt empty-handed, but his heart was renewed and his spirit lifted because, as he recounted with great appreciation, one of his companions had frightened the deer away by always singing trumpet-voiced as he walked through pines and quaking aspen. Father was more enriched by the mirth of the song than he would have been by the meat of the venison.

With the dedication of the Frankfurt Germany Temple in 1987, they became its president and matron. Sister Busche had never been a temple worker, so President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) advised her at a training seminar, “The most important thing is to have love and love and love.” She took his counsel to heart. She asked temple workers to make it their top priority to help patrons feel God’s Spirit.

When I was six years old, my family went on a trip to a river. The water was very cold because it came from the mountains in Chile. After playing in the river for a while, I wanted to warm up.
The sun was shining on some nearby rocks. So I put my back against one rock and my feet on the other to sunbathe.
The rocks were covered in slippery moss that made me slowly slide down. It happened so slowly that I didn’t realize I was slipping.
But then I got stuck! My knees were pressed against my chest. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. And I was still slipping! Every second my knees were pushing harder against my chest. My eyes were looking at the sky, and all the light was fading.
Then I saw the face of my brother. He took my hand and pulled me up. I wasn’t stuck anymore! I could breathe and see the light again.

It was a long night, but the youth of the Bloemfontein Branch of the Sandton South Africa Stake kept skating. The youths sponsored the 15-hour roller skating marathon to raise money for their camp programs. Several nonmembers were participating in the marathon, giving the youth lots to talk about as they made the rounds of the basketball court.
The event drew local media attention as well as support from branch members.

When I was in the seventh grade I walked home from school with my friend Mardean, who was an eighth grader. A new girl, Sandra Kleinschmidt, moved into our school, and we found that she walked home the same way. She was taller than we were and naturally a little gawky at that age. We found her comical and made up a few code words so we could make fun of her without her understanding. I don’t really believe my friend Mardean thought that game up or even completely understood it, but I knew what those code remarks meant nevertheless.
Then the class learned that Sandra’s father was in some way involved in television production. That was a rather new medium then and quite glamorous to us. Suddenly we were much nicer to Sandra. What if she should invite us home? What if her father should see us and be struck with our great looks or talent or both? What if we should get to be on TV or, at the very least, get to see a live show?
Many years later I recalled that phase of my life, and I suddenly envisioned Sandra Kleinschmidt’s Father—not the TV producer—but her eternal Father in Heaven. I imagined him coming to say, “Yes, Sandra is my daughter, a princess, a potential queen. You, Jean, are also my daughter, and I am so disappointed in your behavior. My daughters behave with grace and courtesy, with love and compassion.”
Who did I think I was as I walked home from school?
Who did I think Sandra was?

Five-year-old Russ Hancock climbed up onto the piano bench, made himself comfortable, and plunked out “Up We Go, Down We Go” for his teacher. She was appropriately impressed, listened carefully to his other numbers, and then gave him an assignment for the coming week. The lesson completed, Russ hopped off the bench and ran in to wash his hands for dinner. His teacher was his mom, and for the 11 years since then she has continued to be his most supportive and dedicated instructor. Music has always had a positive influence and been a favorite activity in the Hancock home. “It was during our family home evenings that I developed my love for music,” said Russ. “The six of us would gather around the two pianos in our living room and sing for hours.”
During the years, Russ has developed his talent as well as his affinity for music. He has appeared as a guest soloist with the Northwest Chamber Orchestra and the Tacoma (Washington) Youth Symphony and has performed at the Spokane World’s Fair and for Washington Governor Dixie Lee. Last summer he received first place in the Puget Sound Concerto auditions and received the honor of playing with the Northwest Summer Symphony. (He was given only a week to learn and perfect the entire Grieg Concerto in A Minor for that concert.) Russ’s family has presented concerts and lectures throughout the Northwest and has performed at various BYU Education Weeks.
Russ is the ward organist in the Kent Third Ward, Renton Washington Stake, and has earned his Duty to God and Eagle Scout awards also.

Once upon a time, a father was about to leave for an evening bishopric meeting. His four-year-old daughter stepped in front of him, wearing pajamas and holding a copy of Book of Mormon Stories.
“Why do you have to go to a meeting?” she asked.
“Because I am a counselor in the bishopric,” he answered.
“But you are my dad!” her daughter protested.
He knelt in front of her. “Sweetheart,” he said, “I know you want me to read to you and help you go to sleep, but tonight I need to help the bishop.”
His daughter replied, “Doesn’t the bishop have a dad to help him go to sleep?”
We are eternally grateful for the countless members who serve diligently in the Church of Jesus Christ every day. Your sacrifice is truly sacred.
But as this girl seemed to understand, there’s something equally sacred—something irreplaceable—about a parent nurturing a child. It reflects the pattern of heaven. Our Father in Heaven, our Divine Parent, surely rejoices when His children are taught and nurtured by their parents on earth.
Parents, thank you for everything you’re doing to raise your children. And children, thank you for everything you’re doing to raise your parents, because as every parent knows, we often learn as much from our children about faith, hope, and charity as they learn from us!

When her dad was on the stake high council, he used to take Katie along on his Sunday speaking assignments, and she would speak in the wards and branches that he visited. “I would talk on the subject the stake president gave us to talk about. I talked about the Book of Mormon and about Alma the Younger. And once I had to talk about being baptized into the Church. When I got baptized, it was fun. I arranged the program.” Katie smiled. “And I want to tell all of the children how nice it felt. It felt lovely.”

Just before I turned 18 I finished school and decided to go visit one of my friends. She had married my uncle, and they had moved from England to Switzerland. The week I arrived in Switzerland, two Mormon missionaries knocked on their door.
I eagerly asked them to teach me and decided to be baptized after only three visits. Two weeks after my 18th birthday I was baptized. I had found my people, my world, and was in the arms of my Heavenly Father again.

Though he joined none of the religious denominations that were competing so fiercely for converts, Joseph studied and pondered and investigated Christianity carefully. His inquiries led him to conclude that the New Testament church was no longer on the earth and that mankind “Had apostatized from the true and living faith.” (BYU Studies, 9:279.) While studying the scriptures one day, he read in the writings of James an inspired admonition to seek for divine wisdom through prayer. (See James 1:5.) Joseph concluded that unless he wanted to remain in uncertainty he should do as the ancient apostle suggested.

In the spring of 1820, Joseph Smith, then a boy not yet fifteen years of age, knelt to pray in a secluded grove of trees near his home. According to the accounts which he later gave of that important morning, he was concerned about his own salvation and about the welfare of mankind. More directly, he wanted to know which, if any, of the churches he should join. But as he began to pray, Joseph experienced a desperate struggle. As he tried to pray, he was seized by an evil power so strong that he could not speak. Distracting thoughts ran through his mind, he heard a noise like someone walking towards him, and soon he was enveloped in thick darkness which seemed about to overpower him.

Despite his alarm, young Joseph continued to pray inwardly for deliverance, and the evil presence disappeared, replaced by a bright pillar of light that descended around him in the grove. Within the intensely bright light two glorious beings appeared. One of them spoke to Joseph by name and pointed to the other saying, “This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him.” [JS—H 1:17]

As the solemn vision of the Father and the Son continued, Joseph’s questions were answered. The Savior told him his sins were forgiven, that none of the churches held all the correct doctrines or proper authority, and that the fulness of the gospel would be made known to him at some future time.

Joseph told the story of his sacred interview to his family and close friends. One with whom he shared the account of the vision was a minister, who treated his story lightly and challenged the reality of modern visions and revelations. Joseph was to find both believers and scoffers as he continued his preparation. Fortunately he would also find many, like himself, who were searching for God’s message of salvation. These were people turned toward religion, in part, because of the revivals of the early 1800s.

As a young missionary in Montana in 1952, I remember his word’s spoken as a touring General Authority as clearly as though it was yesterday. “A missionary day starts at 6:00 a.m. And if you don’t get up by training and habit and practice, you get an alarm clock and set it at six o’clock, and when it goes off you turn it off and get up.” One could not misunderstand this man.

During a meeting of the Butte District priesthood leaders, which he held as part of that mission tour, he opened the meeting for questions. Young Russell Taylor, now a General Authority, was the resident gospel expert and scripturalist in Butte. He asked Elder McConkie how Joseph and Oliver could be elders in the Church since they were ordained by Peter, James, and John before the Church was organized in 1829, the Church not being organized until April 6, 1830. Elder McConkie answered, “Well, they presented them to the Saints after the Church was organized and ordained them again as elders in the Church. Next question?”

Elder Taylor persisted, “That sounds logical, Elder McConkie, but what is your authority?” “Well, you can quote me. Next question?”

One day while I was in the Mexico Mission office back in the 1940s, a sister arrived from the little town of Ozumba, located at the foot of Popocatépetl, an active volcano about 43 miles (70 km) southeast of Mexico City. We all knew her. Her name was Mamá Sefi.
The full-time missionaries lived in her little adobe home, where she always kept a room just for them. Mamá Sefi, not even five feet (1.5 m) tall, earned her livelihood by selling fruit in the marketplaces of towns around Ozumba. Each town had a different market day, and she went to each market to sell her fruit.
She came into the mission office that day carrying a large flour sack. It was full of tostones, silver half-peso coins she had saved through the years. Some of the pieces had come from the days of Porfirio Díaz, who ruled Mexico from 1884 to 1911. Mamá Sefi had traveled from Ozumba to the mission home by bus with her sack of money. She told President Arwell L. Pierce she had been saving for many years so she could travel to the Salt Lake Temple to receive her endowment.
She obtained permission to leave the country, a missionary loaned her a suitcase, and we took her to the train. President Pierce telephoned someone in El Paso, Texas, to meet the train across the U.S. border and to put Mamá Sefi on a bus for Salt Lake City. Members of the Spanish branch in Salt Lake City were to meet the bus, take care of her housing needs, and help her at the temple.
A few weeks later, Mamá Sefi returned to Mexico City and then home to Ozumba. She had made the long journey safely. She then resumed selling fruit in the marketplaces.
Mamá Sefi did not speak English, so we asked her how she had managed to order food while traveling by bus from El Paso to Salt Lake City—a trip of several days. She said someone had taught her how to say “apple pie” in English, so every time the bus stopped for meals, she would order apple pie.
Because those were the only words she knew in English, she lived on apple pie during her stateside bus travel—going and coming. But Mamá Sefi didn’t mind. Rather, she returned grateful for and radiant from her experience in the temple.

“I saw the funniest show yesterday. You should check it out. Then maybe we could watch it together sometime!” Brooke said.
Camille loved chatting with her best friend while they walked home from school together. She loved how much they had in common.
“Sounds great!” Camille waved goodbye and walked in her front door.
After Camille finished her homework, she turned on the TV and found the right show. It would be so fun to talk about it with Brooke tomorrow!
The show was funny. The characters did silly things and told jokes. Camille laughed a lot. But not everything they said was funny. They said some words that made Camille feel like there were frogs hopping in her stomach. They weren’t good words.
What should I do? she wondered. Camille knew these words were not nice. But she wanted to know how the show ended. What would she say if Brooke asked her about it tomorrow?
With a sigh, Camille turned off the TV.
After Mom got home, Camille helped her set the table for dinner. “How was school?” Mom asked.
Camille put out the forks and spoons. “It was really good! Except … Brooke told me about a show to watch. I started watching it, but it had bad words in it. I didn’t feel good about it, so I turned it off.”
“It sounds like you made a very good choice.”
“But Brooke wants to watch it together. We’re best friends! We like the same music, the same ice cream, the same books …”
Mom set a dish of pasta on the table. “True, but that doesn’t mean you have to do all of the same things. Especially if it’s something you don’t feel good about. It’s OK to make different choices than a friend does.”
“What do you mean?” Camille asked.
“Well, we choose to avoid bad words so that we can feel the Holy Ghost,” Mom explained. “But not everyone has the same standards as we do. That doesn’t make them bad people.”
Camille was still worried about what would happen when Brooke asked her about the show. They talked about everything! What if Brooke thought she was being a baby? Or worse, what if she didn’t want to be friends anymore?
Camille said a prayer before going to sleep. Heavenly Father, please help me talk to Brooke tomorrow. Please help me be brave. Camille climbed into bed and hoped that things would be OK at school.
“Camille!” Brooke yelled across the playground. She ran through the grass to meet Camille. “What’d you think of the show? Wasn’t it funny?”
Camille took a deep breath. “I actually didn’t watch much of it.”
Brooke looked confused. “Why not?”
Camille thought for a second. Should she just say she’d been busy? What was Brooke going to say? “Well … I didn’t watch it because they said words I didn’t like. I didn’t feel good watching it.”
“Oh,” Brooke said quietly. Then she said, “That’s OK. We don’t have to watch it together. We can find a show we both like or do something else together.”
“OK.” Camille smiled. Then the two friends walked to class together, talking and laughing the whole time.
The author lives in Utah, USA.

I was five years old when our grandmother died back in 1892. We children stayed upstairs while all the neighbors gathered in the parlor below for the funeral.
“My little sister and I pressed our noses against the windowpane, and we saw horses and carriages and wagons up and down the whole lane.
“Then we saw the two black velvet horses come, pulling the shiny black hearse toward the house. The horses had gold fringes on their necks, and the high-wheeled hearse had windows on the sides with gold drapes and gold fringes.
“The horses walked slowly, and they looked sad. I was sad too because we loved our grandmother and I didn’t understand, but I did know she would not be in our house anymore.
“My mama cried, and her sister, Aunt Emily, came, and she held her little baby and cried. I felt sorry for them, but I didn’t cry.
“Mama told me grandmother was old and needed to rest, so I didn’t cry.
“It was two weeks afterward that I did cry. Just a few days after the funeral, Aunt Emily’s little baby took pneumonia. Maybe because she had been moved from her own house over in Emporia. We tiptoed around the house, my little sister Becca and I. We tiptoed, and we didn’t ask for anything. But the little baby died.
“We were back upstairs, and the carriages were again up and down the lane. This time a little white hearse came, drawn by two little white ponies.
“Now,” continued our grandmother, as the tape circled around her words. “Now we have sealed them all in the temple of the Lord, and they are together again. They didn’t know while they were on this earth that they could be together. Missionaries never came to our countryside homes.”