Gospel Story Finder

But the most important change for the future, agree Dominican members, has taken place in the home. After Rafael and Miledy Dilone’s family of five joined the Church “even the neighbors congratulated us because of the new closeness they saw in our family,” says Rafael, a high councilor who works as a shoemaker at home and enjoys spending the days near his family. For Miledy, her family’s baptism and a noticeable improvement in her marriage strengthened their family life: “We were such a crazy family before. Now we know how to love each other.”

Let me tell you about two men who know how to serve. On July 10, 2005, I wrote in my journal:

Brooks and I helped clean the church yesterday morning. Gary Morris was there too. Gary is kept alive because an electronic pump keeps his heart going. His health is so terribly fragile, and three hours of pushing broom seemed to be about all he could endure. And Harold Rigby was there. Harold has Parkinson’s disease and has trouble walking and keeping his balance. Yet there he was, vacuuming the church and emptying garbage—slow, but sure. I’m grateful to have been there and to have learned from their examples of quiet, selfless service.

In our own church service, no matter what that service may be, may it be said of us as it can be said of them: “. . . well done, thou good and faithful servant . . . .”

While preparing my talk for this conference, I received a shocking phone call from my father. He said that my younger brother had died that morning in his sleep. I was heartbroken. He was only 51 years old. As I thought about him, I felt impressed to share with you some events from his life. I do so with permission.
As a youth my brother was handsome, friendly, and outgoing?totally dedicated to the gospel. After serving an honorable mission, he married his sweetheart in the temple. They were blessed with a son and a daughter. His future was full of promise.
But then he gave in to a weakness. He chose to live a hedonistic lifestyle, which cost him his health, his marriage, and his membership in the Church.
He moved far from home. He continued his self-destructive behavior for more than a decade, but the Savior had not forgotten or abandoned him. Eventually the pain of his despair allowed a spirit of humility to enter his soul. His feelings of anger, rebellion, and militancy began to dissipate. Like the prodigal son, “he came to himself.”1 He began to reach out to the Savior and to make his way back home and to faithful parents who never gave up on him.
He walked the path of repentance. It wasn’t easy. After being out of the Church for 12 years, he was rebaptized and received again the gift of the Holy Ghost. His priesthood and temple blessings were eventually restored.
He was blessed to find a woman who was willing to overlook the ongoing health challenges from his prior lifestyle, and they were sealed in the temple. Together they had two children. He served faithfully in the bishopric for several years.
My brother died on Monday morning, March 7. The previous Friday evening he and his wife attended the temple. On Sunday morning, the day before he died, he taught the priesthood lesson in his high priests group. He went to bed that evening, never to awaken again in this life?but to come forth in the resurrection of the just.
I am grateful for the miracle of the Atonement in the life of my brother. The Savior’s Atonement is available to each of us—always.
Years ago my brother exercised his agency when he chose a lifestyle that cost him his health, his family, and his membership in the Church. Years later he exercised that same agency when he chose to repent, to conform his life to the teachings of the Savior, and to literally be born again through the power of the Atonement.
I testify of the miracle of the Atonement. I have seen its healing power in the life of my brother and felt it in my own life. The healing and redemptive power of the Atonement is available to each of us—always.

“Let’s go! They’re waiting for us,” I said anxiously. I was nervous, the crowd was waiting, and I was ready to perform.
My friends Carson, Mark, Tyson, Bryce, and I had formed a dance group called Saturday Knights. After performing well in a competition, our group had become well known in the community. Tonight we were dancing during the intermission of a scholarship pageant.
As we were about to go on stage, Mark suggested we say a prayer. We always have a prayer before and after each performance.
“No, let’s just go,” I said. “They’re waiting for us. We don’t have time.”
Mark looked at me intently and said firmly, “There is never enough time to thank the Lord for all He has given us. We have time to pray.”
I was struck dumb. I stood there feeling terrible. Correcting myself, I knelt with my friends, said a prayer of thanksgiving, and then went on stage.
Mark’s comment gave me a new perspective on gratitude. He was right. There really isn’t enough time to thank Heavenly Father for all of His countless blessings. Because of Mark’s example, my testimony was strengthened. I have never forgotten his words, and my life has been greatly blessed because of them.

Tammy walked slowly down the sidewalk. She pushed her hands deep into her pockets and looked up and down the street. There was not a sign of anyone to play with. Her foot kicked a stone, and it skittered and rolled along the walk. “Sarah has gone to visit her grandmother, Jennifer has a dental appointment, and Tim went somewhere with his dad,” she grumbled.
Tammy kicked the stone again, then ran after it as it rolled. There was a heavy chalk arrow on the sidewalk pointing straight ahead. She followed the direction and then saw other chalk arrows pointing the way to go. One reminded her of a snake. It pointed to a chalk circle around a hole in the sidewalk. Inside was a pretty blue marble. Tammy smiled. She picked the marble up and put it in her pocket.
Then she saw more arrows in a wiggly line and followed them. One pointed to a fire hydrant, on top of which was balanced a bright yellow marble. She looked at it closely, rolling it back and forth between her thumb and first finger. This will make a good shooter, she thought, and put it in her pocket.
Tammy looked around and found another arrow leading to a paper cup. She looked down into the paper cup and saw a cool green marble to put into her pocket. Ahead were more arrows and more marbles—a milky white one and a “cleary.” May be the next one will be a steelie or a cat’s eye or an aggie, she thought. The next marble was nested in the corner of the sidewalk where it turned and led to a house. “A sparkly red one!” she shouted, picking it up.
Tammy heard a laugh and looked up. A freckle-faced boy just her size was standing by a tree. He held a bag of marbles in one hand and a piece of chalk in the other. “Hi,” he greeted her. “I’m lonesome and would like a game of marbles.”
“I’m lonesome too,” said Tammy. “Let’s play!”

A contrasting experience occurred while I was serving as a patriarch here on BYU campus, when a young woman came for a blessing accompanied by her parents. During the time we shared that day, this young woman received a wonderful blessing assuring her of abundant and powerful gifts she would enjoy at the hand of the Lord. Unknown to me, this young woman and her parents were anxiously hoping for one particular blessing. An older daughter in this family had died before marriage and childbearing, and the parents had noted that there had been no mention of marriage or children in that daughter’s blessing. They therefore had reached the conclusion that the absence of these subjects in her blessing foreshadowed her death before marriage. Thus they anxiously waited to hear the words eternal marriage in this second daughter’s blessing, but these words were not spoken.

The family said nothing at the time but agonized all the way home that the blessing had not included the promise of marriage. No sooner did they arrive home than they telephoned me. So focused were they on the hope for a promise of marriage, so eager to hear the exact words, they were unable to appreciate the loving and generous promises contained in the blessing the girl had received. I tried to reassure them in a number of ways. First, I cited statements of the Brethren that the absence of reference to a specific blessing does not mean the blessing will not be given. Second, I pointed out that even if a specific promise of eternal marriage had been stated, there was no assurance that it would be fulfilled in mortality. Third, I noted that the wonderful promises of her blessing, so rich and so plentiful, should afford them great joy and strong personal assurance that their daughter would live to receive all the blessings they desired for her.

Despite my best efforts to help them see that the blessing was a beautiful gift from the Lord, their hearts were so set on hearing a particular promise that they remained somewhat disappointed. Because of the goodness of this family, I am sure that by now they have come to see God’s hand in the gift to their daughter. Their initial reaction, however, in sharp contrast to that of the young woman I first mentioned, denied the gifts of God and made it difficult for them to see this blessing as a manifestation of God’s love for her, reducing her opportunity to profit from the blessing, as Moroni has counseled us to do.

Early in the 1500s William Tyndale saw the need to make an English translation of the Bible directly from the Hebrew and Greek text rather than from the Latin Vulgate. As a scholar trained in Latin, Hebrew, and Greek, Tyndale was able to identify many errors in the Latin translation and would often turn to the Hebrew and Greek texts in his teaching. But his work of translation was interrupted by church leaders who were opposed to the people having a knowledge of the scriptures. Tyndale was pursued and eventually imprisoned. He suffered mental and physical torment for 18 months, until 6 October 1536, when he was taken from his cell and tied to a stake. There he uttered a loud prayer: “Lord! open the king of England’s eyes.” Tyndale was strangled and burned at the stake for heresy.

Since then Tyndale has become known as the father of our present English Bible. About 92 percent of Tyndale’s translation survived in the English King James Version. It was prepared by a committee of scholars, printed in 1611, and widely used.

After high school Gary was offered scholarships in all three sports. He was probably best in basketball, but baseball was his first love, and he intended to make it his career. So friends and teachers were surprised when Gary went off to Diablo Junior College to play football. He did it partly out of friendship. A former high school coach had called three days before DJC’s first game and said, “Hey, Gary, how about coming over to play for Diablo? All three of my quarterbacks are injured, and I’ve got nobody to start.”
Gary had gone, but he had time for only three practices before the game. “We had some good breaks,” he recalls, “and we ‘creamed’ the other team.”
In spite of this brilliant beginning, Gary was repeatedly ambushed by injuries and was able to play in less than half the games during his two years at Diablo.

When I first started repenting daily, I wasn’t sure what the point of it was. I would repent of my sins, but often, the next day I would make the same mistake again. I wondered, “Why should I repent if I can’t change my bad habits immediately?”
I went to Heavenly Father and told Him my concerns and asked why He wants us to repent every day. I felt the Spirit communicate to my mind that each time I repent, the Savior gives me a chance to start over. President Nelson also said: “Repenting is the key to progress. Pure faith keeps us moving forward on the covenant path.”
Repenting is not about getting things perfect; it’s about continuous reliance on Christ to change our natures over time! I realized that even if I make the same mistakes, when I sincerely repent of my sins and try to change, He will help me progress little by little.

I had never heard of the Mormons, so I went home, got online, and searched. I arrived at Mormon.org and ordered a free copy of the Book of Mormon. Missionaries delivered it a few days later.
I wasn’t sure I could start to believe in God, but the missionaries helped me discover that I could not only believe in Him but also know Him. As I began to pray and study the Book of Mormon, I found myself on a beautiful journey of finding happiness. I quit smoking. I stopped blaming God and started thanking Him for the good things in my life. I came to know that His Son had suffered for my sins and for all the pain I had ever felt. On October 28, 2007, I was baptized into His Church.
If I hadn’t personally experienced the change from disillusionment to happiness, I wouldn’t believe it is possible. Today I love my calling in Primary and am grateful to have had the opportunity to help organize a service project at a young single adult conference in Poland. To be able to regularly help others through Church service has added to the happiness I have found in the gospel of Jesus Christ. Everything I do now, I do with pure love because of Jesus Christ. I believe that life is beautiful and that even when we have challenges, if we follow the Savior, we won’t be lost.

Sometimes the least likely prospects turn out to be the most receptive. Sherilyn Oakey and some friends were feeling crestfallen one day because a friend had just refused a gift subscription. “Well, I’ll take it,” a voice behind them said. They looked and then they had to look again. The voice belonged to one of the most anti-Mormon students in the whole school. She hasn’t shown much interest in the Church yet, but she now reads and enjoys the New Era.

One day I remembered something my mission president had taught years earlier. I had been called to a foreign-language mission. Learning the Russian language was a challenge of varying degrees for each missionary, and our mission president counseled us to read the Book of Mormon in Russian every day. He promised us that the power of the Book of Mormon would aid us in our ability to communicate in Russian. He was right. Over time I became better at both speaking and understanding the language, and my testimony grew.

While attending a sacrament meeting during the summer months, I was fortunate to hear messages from three students who were home from school for the summer. One of the talks especially interested me.
She had been working during the summer recess in a restaurant frequented by truck drivers. One driver who had a regular run stopped at the restaurant on the same day each week to eat. The regularity of the stop created an opportunity for short visits. He asked the young lady where she lived. She reported that she was home for the summer to earn money to return to school in the fall. His next question was, “Where do you attend school?” Her answer with pride: “BYU–Idaho.” He wanted to know more about the school, which led to a gospel discussion. Her first approach was to teach him about the Word of Wisdom. She was successful. She convinced him to give up smoking.
Then her shift was changed, and she no longer had the opportunity to serve him, so she wrote him a note and enclosed a Church missionary tract about the plan of salvation. After several days she received a note from the driver. It simply stated, “You’ve created a monster.” Thanks to this young woman, he had found information which caused him to think about the changes he must make in his life. I do not know the full outcome of this little encounter between a waitress and a truck driver, but clearly his life was affected.
She then went on to explain how easy it is to let others know about the beauties of the gospel. Opportunities are there every day in our normal pursuits of life to open our mouths to let people know of the gospel truths that will bless them here and now and into the eternities to come.

A friend shared an experience she had with one of her former mission companions. Since their mission they had seen each other occasionally. On one of these occasions, the mission companion confided in my friend about the difficulties she was facing with one of her children and the trial and heartache this experience created.

In the course of the conversation, the mission companion asked my friend what her greatest heartache was. My friend, feeling that she could safely share her thoughts and feelings about her greatest heartache, proceeded to tell her mission companion about the heartache she was currently facing with one of her own children. Instead of responding with the expected empathy and understanding, the mission companion immediately was critical of my friend, judging her and her situation with harshness.

My friend was surprised and shocked, to say the least, at her companion’s response—especially since it was the mission companion who had asked the question in the first place. My friend thought that she was in “a safe place” while relating her experience to her former mission companion, but instead she found herself exposed to criticism and harsh judgment with no empathy or understanding.

I don’t think I will ever forget that Christmas. There was little snow that year. It was as if the world couldn’t quite decide whether or not winter had really come. Such were the conditions as I drove home from college to spend the Christmas holidays with my family.
I suspected it would be the last Christmas I would spend at home. We all knew that soon after Christmas I would leave on my mission. Then would come marriage and Christmases from then on would be spent with my own little family. Oh, I knew there would be years when I would spend Christmas Day with my family, but never again would I be there for the “season,” the days of baking, nights spent caroling, the stockings to be hung, and other activities which filled the weeks before Christmas. I was growing up. I was leaving home, and the thought scared me.
I had anticipated that last Christmas at home for months. My family had many holiday traditions which we celebrated together for years, and each held a special meaning for me. I was the second of eleven children, and my nine younger brothers and sisters also added to the excitement.
That week before Christmas was wonderful. I savored every minute of the gingerbread houses, the stockings hanging in the living room, wreaths in our windows, acting out the Nativity, decorating our tree, and all the secrets and surprises which seemed to invade every corner of our warm house. It was everything I could want my last Christmas at home to be like. Yet, despite the happy feelings, I kept being reminded that this would be the last year things would be the same.
One of the Christmas traditions which we children looked forward to the most took place on Christmas Eve. Starting with the youngest, Papa would take each child downstairs to the living room. Then, holding him or her in the old rocking chair, Papa would sing us a special Christmas song. It was the same song every year, and we all knew it by heart. The song talked about angels and dancing toys on Christmas morning. Sitting there in Papa’s arms with the Christmas tree lights shining in the dark room, you couldn’t help but feel secure. Somehow you knew you were still a child, and tomorrow would reveal all the joys that Christmas morning could bring. No matter how old we were or how big we grew, Papa always rocked us on Christmas Eve.
As I lay in my bed that night, I watched each of my sisters and brothers in turn be taken down the stairs. I was the oldest child at home that year since my older sister had left on her mission. Below me in the living room, I heard the song over and over as each child was sung to. Then it was my turn. I followed Papa down the stairs into the living room. He sat in the big chair and opened his arms.
“Do you still want me to sit on your lap?” I asked.
“Of course,” he smiled. Gratefully, I climbed onto his lap and pulled my knees up to my chin, snuggling up next to him.
“This is my last night to be rocked,” I said.
“I know,” came his quiet reply.
As the first few strains of the familiar tune began in the tape recorder next to us, I thought back to all the years I had heard this song on Christmas Eve. Suddenly something in me wanted to stay. I was so warm and comfortable, and I had no idea what the future months and years would hold. I started to cry.
Don’t let this song end, I thought.
Papa began to sing.
Heaven bless you little one while you’re fast asleep.
You’ll awake to dancing toys,
Candy canes, Christmas joys.
And I pray your whole life through,
Angels will watch over you,
Loving you the way I do,
My little one, sleep well.
Each year before this night, the song had reminded me of Christmas and what the next morning would bring. But on this last time, I knew Papa was singing about life and the years ahead—not toys that would break or wear out, but eternal joys I would find on my journey through life, joys I was not even aware of now. On this night I heard the emotion of his voice as he sang for angels to watch over me, not just for tonight but for tomorrow night and all the nights that would follow when he wouldn’t be there.
I let my tears flow, as the last strains of music faded away. Papa and I watched the lights of the tree in the darkness, and we rocked and rocked, long after the song had ended.

After nearly four years in Hawaii, Joseph F. returned home. One morning when he and several other missionaries were returning to Salt Lake City, a group of rough Mormon-haters rode up on horses, firing their guns and cursing.
The leader jumped off his horse and shouted, “We will kill anyone who is a Mormon!” The other missionaries had fled into the woods, but Joseph F. bravely stood his ground. The man shoved a gun in Joseph F.’s face and asked, “Are you a Mormon?”
Joseph F. stood tall and said, “Yes siree; dyed in the wool; true blue, through and through!”
The man was surprised at his reply. He put the gun away, shook Joseph’s hand, and said, “Well, you are the pleasantest man I ever met! I’m glad to see a fellow stand up for his convictions.” He jumped back on his horse and rode off with his companions.

Last February my stake went on a winter trek. It was very cold at the beginning of the day, so none of us worried about putting on sunscreen. But by the end of the day, I had very, very severe burns on my face. My dad, who is a doctor, told me that I had gotten third-degree burns on my face and that I wouldn’t be able to continue on the trek the second day. I was devastated. I had been looking forward to this trek for months now. I knew I was going to miss out on spiritual experiences. I couldn’t just stay in my tent, but I didn’t know what else to do.
So the next morning my dad gave me a priesthood blessing, asking that my face would heal and that it wouldn’t get burned again. I wrapped a piece of nylon around my face and borrowed one of my brother’s hats. I went out that day looking very strange, but I was able to go out and have spiritual experiences that I wouldn’t have been able to have if I hadn’t gone.
After the trek, my family and I were all worried about my face healing and how badly it was going to scar. But as the next couple of weeks came, the burns healed like a normal sunburn. I healed completely and have no scars on my face. I know that because of the Lord’s power through the priesthood, I was able to be healed. I’m so grateful for the priesthood, and I know Heavenly Father was watching over me.
Darity T., Arizona, USA

Jeremy’s family forwarded his regular e-mails, in which he told of the people he was helping. On one occasion, he sent me a tape. I sat on the floor with my college roommate and listened. He talked about his faith and bore testimony of his beliefs. Inwardly, I had been searching for such conviction. My roommate was in tears at the sound of something so powerful. She asked me if I had read the Book of Mormon, and her question ate at my conscience. Could I actually know a church without having studied its scripture? I decided to read the Book of Mormon.
Two weeks later missionaries began to teach me. I prayed that God would help me make the right decision so that my conscience would be at ease. By the end of the lessons, my eyes had been opened to something I knew to be right.
My mother asked me to meet with a leader in our church. I knew him to be a very bright scholar and was somewhat intimidated. But the man I thought would confound me and have all the answers had none. All he could tell me was that many believed these matters, so who was I to question? He told me how disappointed my parents would be, and my heart ached. I had never outright disobeyed my parents. But how could I continue to be a part of something I knew was wrong? I had to stand up.
In the font, I knew the rest of my life would be different. It would be a lot harder, but I realized that part of growing up is making choices that are right. As I leaned back into the water, I felt peace! I could hardly believe the joy. I had decided what I believed and took courage in my own conviction.
My parents took back my credit card, my cell phone, and my car. They ignored me for a few months and would not let me speak to my brothers. My sister also found it difficult to accept me for a while. I moved to Utah for college, where I met a wonderful man and fell in love. My parents would not meet my husband when we were married, but now those tensions are slowly resolving, and I am in hopeful pursuit of my eternal family.
Growing up, trusting my decisions, and receiving consequences was not easy. But such joy has entered my life because I made the right decision. That moment of peace at my baptism has guided my life. Every big decision I make must have that peace, or I cannot live with it. I believe that if we choose what is right, we can get through anything.

One of our sons served in the military and was called to serve overseas. He had not been overseas very long when we received a phone call that he'd been seriously wounded.
Nancy and I met our son at Walter Reed Army Medical Hospital a couple of days after we received the phone call—those were long days and nights we waited. When we met him, he was pretty busted up.
Following his fifth surgery in less than 3 days, he was in excruciating pain. The pain would come in great waves and then it would subside for a moment. It was terrible to hear him moan and scream in pain. He held his mom's little hand and I could see her tender fingers turn white when his grip tightened as the pain grew.
It was absolute chaos in his room. Doctors and nurses were running in and out. They gave him various medications and increased dosages, but nothing worked. After about 10 minutes of frantic activity at his bedside, the doctors decided to consult in the hallway. When they left, my son looked at me and said, "Dad, I need a blessing." The time for preparation was past. There was no time to fast or repent or get a snake out of my dining room. There was no time to figure out how to get in tune with the Spirit. I was the person—now was time.
The blessing was among the shortest that has ever crossed my lips. He was told that he would be able to withstand the pain until the doctors determined how to properly treat him.
He instantly relaxed and became calm. His entire facial expression changed. In less than a minute, the doctors came back into the room from the hallway. One doctor asked him, "what is different? Something has changed and everything seems to be better." My son looked at him calmly and said, "I can't explain it to you in a way that you would understand. The pain is just as bad as it was before, but somehow I am able to withstand it now."
The doctors wheeled him out of the room to another surgery room to see if they could figure out what was wrong. As he was being wheeled out, he looked at me and said, "Dad, it was the priesthood." Over the next hour, the doctors determined the shunt they had put in to deliver pain medicine was in the wrong place so it wasn't working and they were able to move it and relieve his pain.

Or, for another example, take the Second Ward girls who go to Monrovia Jr. High. A couple of years ago, Monya Baker, now 13, was the first Latter-day Saint ever to attend the school. She and Cay Parry, 14, the Mia Maid president, recalled the early days at Monrovia.
“At first it seemed like everybody was watching, judging the Church by me,” Monya said.
There were questions. “You can’t drink iced tea? Oh, you poor thing.” “Why are you dancing? Mormons can’t dance.” “Aren’t you the ones that don’t believe in Christ?” “Are you the religion that kisses snakes?”
But slowly, just by being themselves and holding to what’s right, Monya and Cay let people know they’re normal.
Some time after Monya broke the ice at Monrovia, several other Latter-day Saint families moved into the area. Now there are eleven Latter-day Saints attending the school, and it seems just about everybody knows who they are. This year, eight of eleven students in the school’s gifted program are LDS. Four of the members of the school’s math team are LDS. Several of the LDS students have advanced so far in their studies that they go over to the high school for some of their classes. Others have acted in community theater productions. There are LDS kids on the softball and volleyball teams. There’s one on the football team. Church members have been president of the student council, have won spelling bees and county science fairs, and, in short, have made themselves familiar to the student body.
“And no,” Cay laughed, “we’re not the ones who kiss snakes.”