Gospel Story Finder

When he was seven years old, his father died. He and his younger brother and sister were raised by his mother. “I was blessed with an extraordinary mother,” he says.

Somehow that observation rings true, especially when we realize that this is the 12-year-old boy who, when making his first visit to the Seagull Monument on famed Temple Square, spent time wondering how a person could get those nickels and dimes, which had been thrown there by the slightly more contemplative, out of the reflecting pool. Actually, Tommy Monson was very touched by that visit to Temple Square, returning to his ward to give the first talk he ever delivered—on that wonderful pioneer story of the seagulls and the crickets.

My grandpa has a big white truck that is really old. He says that it was new when my dad was still a boy. Whenever our family goes to visit Grandpa and Grandma, my brother, Justin, and I like to play in it. Grandma laughs and says we only come to visit Grandpa and his truck.
Some days we have to wait for Grandpa to come home from work before we can play in it. As soon as he opens the kitchen door, out we race to the big white truck.
The first one to reach the truck wins—that’s the rule.
I push my brother up into the truck, and then I climb in behind the wheel. Once inside the truck, we put on hats that Grandpa leaves in the truck—baseball caps or big straw hats or cowboy hats with turned-up brims. Grandpa always leaves hats there for us.
Justin and I take turns making roaring engine noises as we pretend to race with screeching tires and squealing brakes to catch the robbers just around the corner or to finish the big race in first place.
When we are tired of racing, we climb out through the open windows into the bed of the truck. There we hide from the ugly wild things we imagine are lurking behind the trees, or we build big forts with some old blankets Grandpa leaves in his truck.
Sometimes we take turns jumping off the truck’s tailgate. I always jump the farthest.
When Grandpa sits in the truck with us, we put the hats on him in funny ways, and he laughs with us a lot. Whenever he brings us cookies from Grandma, we sit and eat them in the truck. He doesn’t even care if we drop crumbs.
Sometimes Grandpa takes us to the park in his big white truck. We ride high above the cars and look down on them moving along beside us. Justin sits next to Grandpa and reminds him where to turn. I sit close to the door and wave and shout hello to people who pass by.
Once in a while Grandpa takes us to the ice-cream store in his big white truck. Grandma, who says the truck is too old, comes out to see us off. She asks Grandpa if he would rather take the car, but Grandpa says no and tells her not to worry. Then off we go in the big white truck.
We are always sad when it’s time to leave. Grandpa hugs us and tells us to come back soon. Grandma kisses us and tells us to be good.
I think the big white truck might be a little sad to see us go. I think it likes to race and chase and go with us. I’m glad Grandpa has his big white truck.

So Wedner invited his friend, Milsont Pierre. Milsont started coming to weeknight activities and then to Sunday meetings, and then the missionaries started teaching his family. He remembers vividly, “I felt the Spirit, over and over again, especially during the sacrament prayers. I knew this was the true Church.” Milsont and his three brothers were baptized and confirmed, as well as a cousin, a nephew, and four of Milsont’s friends.

When he was a boy, President Ezra Taft Benson knew the temple was important. He watched his mother carefully iron her temple clothing. He watched his family as they left his home to attend the temple.
When he was the prophet, he went to the temple each week. He always did temple work for an ancestor.

“I came home from a school concert and my house was on fire,” said a Laurel from Dingle, Idaho.
“The dogs barking woke us, and the house was full of smoke,” said another Dingle resident.
And still another, “When I went into the kitchen, flames were shooting out of the wall plug.”
The sight of flames devouring the homes of their neighbors became an all-too-familiar sight to the 200 residents of this southeastern Idaho community last winter. Despite the efforts of the volunteer fire department from the nearby town of Montpelier, three homes in Dingle burned to the ground within a few months.
The town members of Dingle were there with clothing, blankets, and food to help the victims, and right in the middle were the Young Women from the Dingle Ward, Montpelier Idaho Stake. Under the leadership of the Laurels, the girls tied a quilt for one family, held a surprise kitchen shower for another family, and gave the proceeds from a baked food sale to the third family. They also raised money to send to a former Dingle resident whose home burned in Utah.
In addition, they were always ready to help with any cleaning up and clearing out they were asked to do.
“You realize how much you need one another at a time like this,” softly spoke one of the fire victims. “Everybody’s been so good to us; I’ve decided that from now on I’m going to sacrifice more of my time and do more things for other people.”
The Young Women in Dingle have discovered the feelings of fulfillment that can come from doing just that. And while they hope they won’t have occasion to help in the same way again, they’ll be there if needed.

Eta’s mom owns a dessert bakery on their island. Eta and her older sister, Talai, love to share with their teachers and leaders and with people who might be having a hard time. Sometimes they go for a drive with their mom and give cookies and other treats to people they see on the street. It makes people so happy, and it makes Eta and Talai happy to share. They get more joy from sharing food from the bakery than from eating it themselves! They are both learning to bake as one of their Children and Youth goals this year, so they always have treats to share.
Eta says, “I love sharing with others because it makes them glad, and it makes me glad. I know that’s what Heavenly Father wants us to do.“
Eta followed Jesus by sharing with others. Turn the page to read a story about how Jesus helped others.

Perhaps he feels such missionary zeal because the gospel has so deeply changed his own life. Masao Watabe was born to Japanese parents in the An-Tung Province of China, and he belonged to one of the sects of Shintoism. He was an intelligent young man with an interest in languages. After graduating from college, he married and was sent by the Japanese foreign office to study the Mandarin language in Peking. He worked at the Japanese embassy in Peking and at the Japanese foreign office in Tokyo.
An idealistic young man, Masao Watabe had had a lifelong dream of unifying the nations of the world. Then World War II began, bringing death, devastation, and defeat. A year before the war ended, young Masao was drafted into the Japanese army. The experience of war plunged him into a period of despair. “Life was like wandering in the darkness with no hope or purpose,” he recalls.
After the war, Masao was transferred to the city of Sendai, Japan. There he met a Catholic priest who introduced him to Christianity. “When I talked to him about the religion of Jesus Christ,” Brother Watabe remembers, “I felt good in my heart. I asked many questions about Christianity. As I listened to his answers my heart, which had been struggling in the darkness, gradually became enlightened, and it seemed to me the Lord’s voice began to whisper to it.”
After a short time, Masao became disillusioned with Catholicism. He sought out a Bible class at a local university, which he attended for a year. His teacher, the wife of a Methodist minister, took him to church. She and her husband encouraged him to be baptized into the Methodist church. Because he had unanswered questions about that faith, he hesitated.
While he was still considering becoming a Methodist, one of his students told him that two American missionaries had begun boarding at his house. Masao was eager to meet them, and the next day the student brought them to school. “As I shook hands with them, I had a very good feeling,” says Brother Watabe. When he attended Sunday School with them, he was impressed with the simplicity of the services and the sincerity of the people.
A missionary pamphlet, Joseph Smith Tells His Own Story, fascinated him so greatly that he read it all night. But it was the Book of Mormon itself that rekindled the hope he had lost during the war. When he first read the prophecy contained in 1 Nephi chapter 10 [1 Ne. 10], concerning the scattering and gathering together of Israel, his heart was filled with joy. All his life he had yearned to help bring about unity in the world. He was also excited to learn that his deceased ancestors could receive baptism and other saving ordinances.
Ever since that cold day in November 1949 when he was baptized in the Hirose River, Brother Watabe has dedicated himself to sharing the joy he has found in the gospel. He was able to baptize his wife, Sister Hisako Watabe, in July of the next year. Their oldest son, nine-year-old Masahisa, was baptized that same day. And he has baptized their two younger sons, Masaji and Masakazu, and two daughters, Seiko and Yasuko, at age eight.

At a meeting a few days later, I told both stories. The next day I received another e-mail which began, “That’s my father’s story too.” That e-mail, from a stake president, told how his father was invited to serve in the Church even though he had not been active and had some habits that needed changing. He accepted the invitation and, in the process, repented, eventually served as a stake president and then a mission president, and laid the foundation for his posterity to be faithful members of the Church.

Tonight my thoughts are about a boy somewhere in the world. He is wondering if he can do what being a priesthood holder will require of him. I had that worry when I was about 13 or 14.
I had grown up in the mission field where there was only a tiny branch, which met in my home. Then my family moved to where there were stakes and large wards and chapels and quorums of boys who all seemed to know so much more than I did about what priesthood holders do. They had in that ward a complicated pattern for passing the sacrament. I felt almost certain that I would make a mistake when my turn to pass or prepare the sacrament came.
In my fear and desperation, I remember going outside the chapel to be alone. I was worried. I prayed for help and for some assurance that I would not fail in serving God in His priesthood.
It is now many years later. I have held the Melchizedek Priesthood for more than 50 years. But in the last few days I have prayed with that same pleading for help and assurance that I will not fail in the call which has come to me to serve in the First Presidency. Others seem so much more able to serve and so much better prepared. But as I prayed this time I think I could feel an answer that was probably sent to me outside the Yalecrest Ward chapel long ago. It is the same answer you can expect to get when you face a call to serve in the priesthood which seems beyond you.

The flight from Brisbane, Australia, to San Francisco is a long one. There is time to read, time to sleep, and time to ponder and think. As a passenger on this flight, I was awakened by the calm, resonant sound of the pilot’s voice as he announced: “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re now passing over the Coral Sea, scene of the great sea battle of World War II.”
Through the cabin window I could see billowy, white clouds and far below the azure blue of the vast Pacific. My thoughts turned to the events of that fateful eighth day of May in 1942 when the mammoth aircraft carrier Lexington slipped to its final resting place on the ocean floor. Twenty-seven hundred thirty-five sailors scrambled to safety. Others were not so fortunate. One who went down with his ship was my boyhood friend Arthur Patton.
May I tell you about Arthur? He had blond, curly hair and a smile as big as all outdoors. Arthur stood taller than any boy in the class. I suppose this is how he was able to fool the recruiting officers and enlist in the navy at the tender age of 15. To Arthur and most of the boys, the war was a great adventure. I remember how striking he appeared in his navy uniform. How we wished we were older, or at least taller, so we too could enlist.
Arthur’s mother was so proud of the blue star which graced her living room window. It represented to every passerby that her son wore the uniform of his country. When I would pass the house she often opened the door and invited me in to read the latest letter from Arthur. Her eyes would fill with tears, and I would then be asked to read aloud. Arthur meant everything to his widowed mother. I can still picture Mrs. Patton’s coarse hands as she would carefully replace the letter in its envelope. These were honest hands which bore the worker’s seal. Mrs. Patton was a cleaning woman—a janitress for a downtown office building. Each day of her life except Sundays, she could be seen walking up the sidewalk, pail and brush in hand, her gray hair combed in a tight bob, her shoulders weary from work and stooped with age.
Then came the Battle of the Coral Sea, the sinking of the Lexington, and the death of Arthur Patton. The blue star was taken from its hallowed spot in the front window. It was replaced by one of gold. A light went out in the life of Mrs. Patton. She groped in utter darkness and deep despair.
With a prayer in my heart, I approached the familiar walkway to the Patton home, wondering what words of comfort could come from the lips of a mere boy. The door opened and Mrs. Patton embraced me as she would her own son. Home became a chapel as a grief-stricken mother and a less-than-adequate boy knelt in prayer.
Arising from our knees, Mrs. Patton gazed into my eyes and spoke: “Tom, I belong to no church, but you do. Tell me, will Arthur live again?” Time dims the memory of that conversation. The present whereabouts of Mrs. Patton is not known to me; but, Mrs. Patton, wherever you are, from the backdrop of my personal experience, I should like to once more answer your question, “Will Arthur live again?”

“Three weeks until summer break, Ryan!” my friend Logan said after recess. “I can’t wait to swim and hike!”
“Me too!” I said. I walked into the classroom smiling, but then I saw the chairs set in circles. That meant reading groups.
“Everyone get in your groups!” Mr. Carson said. “Blue group, Mrs. Bush is waiting for you in room 205.”
I trudged to my desk and grabbed my book. Most of my classmates had been able to read this book years ago. Everyone knew the blue group was for kids who couldn’t read well. I’d been part of it since kindergarten. That was when I found out I had a learning disability. Mom says it means my brain just understands things differently.
It’s not fair, I thought as I walked to room 205. I held the book to my chest so no one could see it was for little kids. I hated being different. I worked twice as hard as any of my friends. But I was still one of the worst readers in the whole grade!
After an hour of reading, Mrs. Bush said we were done. “Good work,” she told us. “I know reading is hard, and it would be easy to give up. But keep working at it! You can improve. And don’t forget your summer reading packet.”
I took the packet and walked back to my classroom. Every summer I got a reading packet with stories to read out loud, questions to answer, and other things to help me with my reading. None of my friends had homework over the summer. But I really wanted to be able to read, so the extra work was worth it.
At least I’ll still have some time to play this summer, I thought.
But when Mom picked me up from school, she had some news. “I just learned about a new computer program that can help you read better,” she said as I got into the car. “It will help your brain make better connections.”
“That sounds cool,” I said.
“You’ll need to work on it for a few hours every day.”
More homework over the summer? Part of me wanted to just quit trying. But an even bigger part of me knew I really wanted to read better. And that would take a lot of work. I took a deep breath. “OK, I’ll do it.”
It was a long, hard summer. I spent most of my time working on my reading exercises or the computer program. And I prayed every day for Heavenly Father’s help.
When school started again, I tried my hardest to follow along with the class reading. I was still pretty slow, but I could do it!
Soon my teacher asked to talk to me at lunch. That made me nervous. What would she say?
“Ryan, I’ve seen you reading along with the class this week. I know how hard you worked this summer,” Ms. Andersen said. “I’m going to put you in a higher reading group.”
“Really?” I said.
She nodded. “You’ll have to work a little harder than some of the other kids and promise to read every single day, but I think you can do this. Are you up for the challenge?”
Ryan finished high school and went to college. He had to work hard at reading. But it was worth it!
“Yes!” I said. I walked out to lunch feeling happy and strong. My hard work during the summer had helped me! And Heavenly Father had answered my prayers. I knew I could keep working hard. And I knew Heavenly Father would keep helping me.

There was a young woman who had had a child while unwed. She had traded the child for care, hospital fees, and anonymity. Years passed, and she tried to recover her child but without success. Finally she married, and after a year or two with no children, her fears were confirmed by her doctor, and she came to weep. She would remain childless. Oh, how cheaply she had sold her one chance for motherhood.

Some time ago I had the privilege of attending a stake conference in the company of President Spencer W. Kimball. He was not the president of the Church at that time. Elder Kimball worked tirelessly holding one meeting after another until late Saturday night. On Sunday we held a meeting with bishoprics and high councilors at 8:00 A.M. This was followed by the general session, a meeting with the seventies quorum, an interview with the patriarch, the dedication of a chapel, and a talk to the seminary students in the evening. We went to the stake president’s home about 9:00 P.M. to wait for our plane that did not leave until nearly 11:00 P.M. The kindly stake president’s wife wanted to fix us dinner. Elder Kimball said, “Please, all I need is a bowl of milk and some of your homemade bread to break up in it.” These are not men to be conquered.

When President Russell M. Nelson spoke about using the correct name of the Church, his message was very clear to me: “It is the command of the Lord. … To remove the Lord’s name from the Lord’s Church is a major victory for Satan” (“The Correct Name of the Church,” Oct. 2018 general conference [Ensign or Liahona, Nov. 2018, 87, 88]).
Committed to using the Church’s full name, I waited for the next opportunity to claim my membership in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Sure enough, that opportunity came. “You Mormons are such kind people,” someone told me.
“Well, thank you,” I answered. “As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we believe we’re all brothers and sisters.” Then the conversation continued with him and everyone else talking about the kindness of “Mormons.”
Although I had done my part in saying the full name of the Church, my friends and associates still viewed me as part of the “Mormon Church” and not necessarily as a follower of Christ, let alone as a member of Christ’s restored Church.

When the phone rang Sunday morning, Missy answered it.
“My father’s taking us to the water slide,” Karen said. “Can you come?” Missy looked down at her good dress and shiny black shoes and sighed. “I’ll ask,” she said, “but I know my parents won’t let me go on Sunday.” Missy loved the water slide more than any other place on earth.
As she feared, Dad said no.
“It isn’t fair,” Missy told him. “There are too many rules. I’m always so busy following rules that I never get to have any fun.”
When she came home from school the next day, Missy found a mysterious envelope on her bed. Inside was a note in her mother’s handwriting:
“Dear Missy,
There is a wonderful treasure to be found if you can follow the clues that lead to it. It comes from far away, from someone who loves you. You will find the next clue somewhere in your room. Happy treasure hunting!
Love, Mom.”
Missy glanced around. Everything looked the same as she had left it that morning. The second clue must be hidden. She felt a tingle of excitement as she began searching for it.
She started with her desk, wondering what in the world the treasure could be. Maybe it’s money, she thought as she rifled through drawers. Or a new bike, she hoped, looking under the blotter. But after a thorough check, she found nothing.
She looked in her dresser, on her bulletin board, and under her bed. When all those places turned out to be clue-free, she plopped herself onto her bed in frustration. She was about to ask for help when she felt something hard under her pillow.
She pulled out a small silver box. Inside was another note:
“Congratulations on finding the second clue. Keep it in this box along with the other clues. In a room that’s dark and deep, the next clue lies buried.”
“This one’s easy,” Missy said aloud. “The deepest, darkest room in the house is the basement, and it’s the only one with a dirt floor.”
As she went down the basement stairs, she saw Dad’s shovel against one wall. She could tell that the dirt beneath it had been recently disturbed. She dug down a few inches and hit an old tin can with a plastic lid. Inside was the third clue.
This game is starting to be a lot of fun, Missy thought as she pulled a note out of the can. This one said:
“You’ve found number three; you’re halfway to the treasure! Number four waits where flowers bloom.”
Missy put the third clue into her silver box and ran outside. The next clue must be in the garden, she told herself. And she was right. She found an old leather wallet lying between a rosebush and some tulips. The note inside read:
“Well done! You’ve found all but the last clue. Look where dinner is cooked.”
Missy hurried to the kitchen and went to the stove. She couldn’t see anything on the top, so she opened the oven door. There it was—a small brown box with the fifth clue inside. Missy read the note aloud.
“Congratulations! You have discovered the fifth and final clue. The treasure is above your room, moving to and fro.”
Hmmm. This one’s a little strange, Missy thought, adding the last clue to the silver box. But I know that the only room above mine is the attic! She took the attic stairs two steps at a time but was stopped at the door by a strange creaking sound. It frightened her a little, but she wasn’t about to quit, so close to the prize. She opened the door and stepped into the attic.
In the middle of the floor was Grandpa’s old rocking chair, moving back and forth. And on the seat was an envelope. Missy opened the envelope and gasped in surprise. Inside was an airplane ticket to Florida and a letter from Grandma. Missy quickly read the letter and began to jump up and down. Grandma had invited her to come for a visit.
Just then, her parents stepped out of the shadows at the back of the attic.
“Oh, Mom, Daddy!” she exclaimed happily. “Grandma wants me to visit her.”
“We know,” Dad said. “That’s wonderful, and we’re sure you’ll have a great time. But sit down now, and let’s have a talk.”
“Did you like our little game?” Mom asked.
“Oh yes, it was fun!”
“We’re glad you enjoyed it,” Dad said. “But we also hope it will help explain why we have rules to follow.”
Missy looked puzzled. “What are you talking about?”
“Look at your ticket, dear,” Mom said. “Is there a date?”
Missy examined the ticket. “It’s for this Friday.”
Dad took the ticket and hid it behind his back. “What if we’d just said, ‘There’s a treasure in the house. Find it and you can have it.’?”
“I’d have searched until I found it.”
“Of course,” Dad said. “But would you have found it by Friday?”
“Oh.” Missy’s face grew serious as she thought it over. “You and Mom would have helped me find it on time,” she finally said.
“Why?” Dad asked.
“Because you’re my parents, and you love me.”
“Right again,” Mom said. “That’s why we gave you the clues. But it was up to you to follow them.”
“Your Father in Heaven is your parent, too,” Dad said, “and He loves you very much. He has also sent you on a treasure hunt. The treasure is to become like Him and to live with Him again.”
“And He has also given you clues to follow,” Mom added. “They are clearer than our clues were, and they are much more important—but not always so easy to obey.”
Missy smiled. “I think I understand—Heavenly Father’s clues are the commandments, and if I want the treasure, I have to follow them.”
Missy thought about the treasure hunt as she sat next to Mom in the airplane on her way to Florida. She knew she wouldn’t have wanted to miss this treasure. She didn’t want to miss Heavenly Father’s treasure, either.

A few years ago, while on a Church assignment in St. Petersburg, Russia, my wife, Mary-Jayne, and I had the unique opportunity to feel the blessings of family history work. We visited the vital statistics archive to view the Church’s efforts to microfilm some of the records of western Russia. As I watched the archivist photographing pages of moldy old books from the city of Pskov, the names became real people. They seemed to leap right off the page and say, “You have found me. I am no longer lost. I know that someday, somewhere, someone in my family will take my name to the temple, and I will be baptized and endowed, and my wife and children will be sealed to me. Thank you!”

Lucinda looked at the note and shoved it to the bottom of her scripture bag.
“Lucinda has been asked to give a talk in Primary next week,” the note said.
Lucinda did not like giving talks. Standing up at the podium and looking out at all the children seated in the Primary room terrified her. She hated the way her voice shook and sounded so strange over the microphone. Even the little Sunbeams, she thought, did a better job.
Lucinda decided she would not show the note to her mom. If Mom didn’t know about the talk, then next week Lucinda could just tell Sister Fife that she had forgotten to prepare. It sounded like a good plan.
By Friday afternoon, Lucinda really had forgotten about the talk. As she sat in her room enjoying a new art project, she heard the phone ring. A few minutes later, Mom poked her head into Lucinda’s room.
“Lucinda, that was Sister Fife reminding you that you were asked to give a talk on Sunday.”
Lucinda flopped down on her bed. “I don’t want to give a talk,” she grumbled.
“But you always prepare such nice lessons for family home evening,” Mom said.
“But that’s with our family,” Lucinda said. “This is different. I get so scared speaking in front of everyone.”
“Heavenly Father will help you,” Mom said.
“But I’m still scared.”
“Well, if you really don’t want to do it, you’d better call Sister Fife and let her know,” Mom said.
Lucinda buried her face in her pillow. She was too shy to call the Primary president. That would be as scary as giving the talk. There was nothing else Lucinda could do. She got up and started writing.
All through church on Sunday, Lucinda worried about her talk. Every time she thought about it her stomach tightened and her heart started beating faster. Soon, she was sitting up front in the Primary room for Primary closing exercises.
Sister Fife called her name, and Lucinda walked to the microphone. She placed her talk on the podium and saw all the children and teachers. Lucinda’s hands shook. She said a silent prayer and opened her mouth, but the words just wouldn’t come out. Lucinda didn’t know what to do. She stood there, staring down at her paper.
It got very quiet in the room. It seemed like a long time went by, and Lucinda was frozen with fear. Then she took a deep breath and started to speak. The words of her talk began rushing out. Before she knew what had happened, it was over.
As Lucinda sat down, a warm feeling spread through her chest. She knew that Heavenly Father had helped her. And if He could help her get through a talk, He could help her get through anything.

Question: What did Brother Smith say our ward needed?
Answer: More members. (This happened to be a missionary sacrament meeting.) Elsie, our fifteen-year-old daughter said, “That’s the answer, but just what are we doing about it?” We found ourselves planning a nonmember fireside.

As I read “My Dad—the Senior Companion” in the June New Era, I was touched by the Spirit because it made me think of how I started off on my mission. I had to do all my adjusting out in the field, and so I wasted some time. I am now serving in the Australia Brisbane Mission, a beautiful part of the Lord’s vineyard. I wish that I had had the experience that this father gave to his son. I know that if all fathers took the care that this one did in preparing his son, we would have an even better missionary force. In the mission field a person’s faith and testimony are tried (and sometimes shaken), but with the proper training and a love for people, your faith and testimony grow. I hope the fathers of the Church will help prepare their sons for the field both before and after they get their call.
I am very thankful that I was worthy to be called by the prophet to serve the Lord and his people. My mission has helped me grow stronger in the Church and, most important, closer to my Father in heaven. No other joy can compare with the joy of serving our Father.
Elder Douglas EvansAustralia Brisbane Mission