Gospel Story Finder

—With the relief of having examinations over, Guy Neddo has been able to use spare time during graduation week to go flying. For him there’s nothing like being up in the sky.
“I see a plane and I sort of tingle all over,” he said. “My brother Roger graduated from here in 1974. I was about 12 then, and I got to stay with him for a couple of days to look the place over. I fell in love with it. And since I want to fly fighters and don’t have 20/20 vision, about the only way to do it is to graduate from the academy.”
Guy is from Malta, Idaho, and graduated in a high school class of 32. “I had to take calculus and trigonometry by correspondence from BYU to even get in here,” he said. When he leaves for his mission, Guy will leave behind the flying club and the glider flights and the air shows. “As much as I do love flying and the academy, flying isn’t the most important thing in my life,” he said. “Right now I’ve been called to serve Jesus Christ.”

Are the young women of the West Terrace Ward, Spokane Washington West Stake, caught in a time warp? Do they spend all of their time at thrift stores and estate sales? Hardly. But these girls recently took time to present a retro fashion show to residents at a retirement home in their community.
Playing “dress up” gave them a chance to reminisce with their senior friends about the good old days, and have some fun in the process.

I recently heard some experiences of families of suicide victims that give hope to others who are suffering. I must point out that individual spiritual experiences of Church members do not determine Church doctrine. Still, these experiences are compatible with the ideas we have been discussing. The first experience deals with a young woman whose father took his life when she was five years old. The father was not a member of the Church, nor was the daughter until many years later.
“As I was growing up,” she says, “I had the subtle feeling that there was something my father very much wanted me to do for him. I had been taught in my church that he had murdered himself and was in hell. But it seemed to me that even though he had been wrong to kill himself, he had thought he was doing the family a favor. (He was an alcoholic who couldn’t get rid of the habit.) I began to search the Bible to see what might have happened to him. As time went by, I came to know that he had somehow suffered through his problems—and that now he needed me to do something for him. I kept thinking, ‘But what can you do for someone who is already dead?’ And the answer would come, ‘Someday, if you keep searching, you will know.’
“Eventually I was baptized into the Church. When I first heard of baptism for the dead, I was overwhelmed. Now I knew what my father wanted me to do! I did the necessary work and sent his name to the Idaho Falls Temple, where I had the privilege of seeing a brother baptized by proxy for my father. His endowment work was done the same month. I have a strong feeling that he has accepted both ordinances and is greatly blessed by it.”

I witnessed a simple example of this kind of prayer a few weeks ago when Elder Dallin H. Oaks and I were assigned to conduct a video-conference interview of a couple in another country. Because we are conducting more and more business via video-conferences, we have a studio for that purpose set up on the fifth floor of the Church Administration Building where our offices are located. Shortly before going up to the studio, I reviewed once again the information we had collected about the couple and felt I was prepared for the interview. As I came to the small elevator lobby on the fifth floor a few minutes before the appointed time, I saw Elder Oaks sitting alone there with head bowed. In a moment he raised his head and explained, "I was just finishing my prayer in preparation for this interview. We will need the gift of discernment." He had not neglected the most important preparation, a prayer to "consecrate our performance" for our good and the Lord's glory.

“I’m not used to talking much,” Kim’s father began, “except to my cows. But I would like to say that I’m proud of my daughter. I don’t tell her that often, though. You see, I was raised in a very strict home. My mother died when I was younger than Kim, and though my father was a wonderful man, he believed that showing affection made you weak. I don’t remember that he ever hugged me in his life. I guess that’s why I feel awkward about showing affection to Kim. But I’d like to tell a little story that I hope will show that I do love her.

“Kim was born in the dead of winter, and she caught pneumonia when she was only two months old. I tried to do the household chores because her mother had to care for her constantly. One night it was particularly hard for her to breathe. I took my little girl in my arms and blessed her and prayed for her … as hard as I’ve ever prayed for anything. Then, because her mother was totally exhausted, I sat in the rocker next to the stove and put my baby on her stomach across my lap and rocked her all that night. The doctor came the next morning and said that my rocking her in that position had given Kim’s little lungs a good night’s rest and that he thought that she was going to pull through. So you see, my little girl is very special to me—she always has been, and she always will be.”

The man who became one of the Urdu translators was converted to the Church in Pakistan while working as a teacher. As a result of his conversion, he lost his job; he lost his house, which was provided by the school where he taught; and he lost the schooling for his children. A Church translation supervisor approached him about serving as a translator and offered him a modest recompense. After working as a translator for a few months, the man visited with the supervisor and timidly asked if the supervisor would buy him a new ballpoint pen. The one he had been using had run out of ink. Only then did the supervisor discover and fix a clerical error that had resulted in the translator receiving much less than what he should have been paid.

When Lawrence was 13 we were expecting our seventh child, and again I was concerned for my wife’s well-being. I tried not to alarm my family. However, I had told Lawrence about some of the difficulties connected with his birth, and this affected him greatly.
When I took Merlene to the hospital I told the family I would call them and let them know how their mother was and whether they had a little brother or sister. After Paul was born, I called home and Lawrence answered. I told him the good news and said I would be home in a little while. When I went home I told them all about their new baby brother and that their mother was doing well. That evening as I left the house to go to the hospital, Lawrence handed me a letter to give to his mother. When I arrived, I gave her a kiss, then handed her the letter. Her eyes moistened as she read it; then she handed it to me. It said:
“To my favorite and most loved Mother. Congratulations. When Dad phoned us and told us we had a little brother I just about freaked. After you left to go to the hospital I went in Dad’s den and knelt down to have prayer to ask Heavenly Father to bless you that you would be all right. Well my prayer was answered. After Dad came home he told how just before the baby was born you gritted your teeth and tears flowed down your cheeks but you wouldn’t cry out. I kind of got this unstuckable lump in my throat.
“I’m working on my hiking merit badge.
“Love, Lawrence”

Our youngest son, Bryan, like two of his siblings, was born with cystic fibrosis. Despite this health challenge, he was able to serve as an online missionary for two years in the Provo MTC referral center. He was blessed to serve with a small group of highly effective missionaries who fielded thousands of calls and video chats with both friendly and unfriendly enquirers. Each of these wonderful missionaries also had a health challenge, but they served from early morning until late at night teaching people from all over the world.

One of Bryan’s companions was Elder Tyson Boardman. Both Tyson and his brother Trevor struggled with muscular dystrophy, yet both served faithfully in the referral center. On one occasion a young woman contacted the referral center and was taught by Elder Trevor Boardman. She then requested that he be the one to baptize her. Given his muscular dystrophy, performing a baptism would have been very difficult and dangerous; however, a wise priesthood leader had Elder Boardman and his companion Elder Blair Ahlstrom enter the baptismal font together so Elder Ahlstrom could hold up Elder Boardman as they baptized their new friend. That is such a tender and symbolic example of how we should hold on to and lift each other up as we make and keep covenants to bear one another’s burdens.

Barbara had lived in a new ward for only a few months when the pandemic began. Like so many, she discovered that her plans had been turned upside down. She thought meeting new friends would be a wonderful experience, but instead it became a struggle. During a time of isolation, patterns of ministering had to change. She didn’t have much of a chance to get to know the members of her new ward. She asked herself, “How do I visit, serve, help, and love sisters when visiting someone isn’t possible? Even sending a text is hard when sisters don’t recognize my name or number because I’m new.”
She found it even more important to pray and listen for promptings in such circumstances. Sometimes she felt prompted to simply drop off a note. Other times she sent a text to thank a sister for her prayer in sacrament meeting or to express appreciation for the testimony of another sister’s husband. An occasional socially distanced visit on someone’s front porch helped fill her need for seeing and talking in person. One prompting led her to think of a comforting, delicious bowl of butternut squash soup, so she dropped off the recipe and a butternut squash.
It’s not how she had hoped things would go when she moved in. Isolation made the process of getting to know her sisters slower. But as she followed President Nelson’s counsel to increase her spiritual capacity to receive revelation, she overcame challenges, became a better ministering sister, and formed some close friendships.

I don’t make much money at my job. Not when I have to support my driving habit and my taste in clothes and all my records and tapes and a minor addiction to buying four science fiction novels a week. I began to discover the joys of walking.
Do you have any idea how many barking, savage dogs there are on an average residential block in a California suburban community? (Seven—one with rabies.)
Do you know how many steps it takes to go a mile and a half to school on foot? (Exactly 3,168, unless you have a blister and take shorter steps.)
Do you know how hot it gets when you walk outside in the summer in California? And they don’t even air-condition the street.
I also discovered that rain is wet, wind is cold, passing cars like to go fast through puddles to splash you, and you meet the strangest people waiting for the WALK signal at a busy intersection.
And even with all that walking, my automobile leasing bill was still horrendous. I had given up on the LTD except for dates, but even with the Volkswagen I was paying $30 or $40 a month.
“I give up,” I said. “I won’t do any more business with this rip-off car leasing business.”
“Really?” asked Father, looking up from his copy of the San Jose Mercury.
“Really,” I said. “I will not pay your fees. I will not drive your cars.”
“Mother!” Father called. “Jerry has decided to become a pedestrian!”
“I have not,” I said. “I have decided to take my patronage elsewhere.”
“Where?” he asked.
“If Hertz is good enough for O. J. Simpson, it’s good enough for me.”
As I left the room Dad called after me, “But, Jerry! We try harder!”
I came back three hours later. Whipped. Beaten. Defeated.
“Do you know what they charge?” I asked.
“A lot?” Father guessed helpfully.
“I couldn’t rent a pair of roller skates from them for less than $50 a month.”
“Ah.”
“You and Mom may be a rip-off leasing company, but at least you’re competitive.”
“Oh, come off it,” Father said, laughing. “We have the best rates in town.”
“I want to buy a horse,” I said.
“I can get you a good price on hay,” Father answered. He laughed and laughed. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I managed to keep a smile off my face until my bedroom door was closed behind me. Then I laughed.

This was around the time our adult children were starting to come home for Sunday dinners with their spouses. During the week, I found myself making lists in my mind of things I could remind them of on Sunday, like “Maybe try and help out more with the kids when you’re home” or “Don’t forget to be a good listener.”

When I read Brother Maxwell’s comment, I threw away the lists and silenced that critical voice, so when I saw my grown children for that brief time each week, I focused on the many positive things they were already doing. When our oldest son, Ryan, passed away a few years later, I remember being grateful our time together was happier and more positive.

Three years ago Sister Peterson and I had the chance to return back to Japan, where I had served my mission as a young man. We went back with another couple, and he, too, had served in Japan. One day we were in the main Tokyo train station. I am guessing that those of you from Japan have been in Tokyo Eki many times. It is a very large and busy place, and each day literally millions of people pass through on their commute to and from work or school. On this particular day we were looking for a native Japanese sister missionary, Sister Ishikawa, who had served with our friend those many years earlier. We knew which platform she would be on, but I had never seen her or even seen a picture of her. We scanned the crowd, and then, in the middle of tens of thousands of people, and about 150 feet away, I saw her. She had not yet spotted us, but even at that distance, surrounded by thousands of other Japanese people, it was very evident that she was Sister Ishikawa. The light emanating from her eyes was so obvious and the glow of her countenance so radiant that she was impossible to miss.

I received my patriarchal blessing as a young woman and was counseled to prepare myself with a good education and to learn early in life those virtues that go into homemaking and rearing a family. I so wanted the blessing of a family; however, that blessing wasn’t fulfilled until I was 37, when I eventually married. My husband had been widowed, so the day we were sealed in the temple, I was suddenly blessed with not only a husband but a family of four children.

Long before that, there were many days when I felt like I was skiing in flat light, asking the question, “What does the future hold for me?” I tried to follow the admonitions in my patriarchal blessing. I studied diligently to become a schoolteacher and continued my education to become an elementary school principal. I prayed to my Heavenly Father and sought the guidance of the Holy Ghost. I held fervently to the promise of prophets who assured me that if I “remain true and faithful, keep [my] covenants, serve God, and love [my] Father in Heaven and the Lord Jesus Christ, [I] will not be denied any of the eternal blessings our Heavenly Father has for His faithful children.”

I know that my education prepared me for a life that has been nothing like I had envisioned as a young woman. I thought I was studying education to teach school and my future children, but I did not know the Lord was also preparing me to teach English in Mongolia on a mission with my husband and to teach the young women of the Church throughout the world and to teach my grandchildren the value of knowledge—all wonderful blessings I could never have imagined.

The rickety bus slowed just enough to let us swing out the open back door. Lurching forward once again, it careened around the corner and was gone in an instant. We stood alone on the highway, Ciudad de Dios on one side and Urbanización San Juan on the other. It seemed a forsaken place to me that December day in Lima, Peru, three days before Christmas. A humid wind blew the sand into grainy little whirlwinds, and the ever-present Lima overcast was still with us although it was nearly summer. It was my first Christmas away from home, and I felt empty and alone. I had been singing carols to myself for days trying to catch the mood but to no avail. I missed the snow and the crisp Utah winter air. Lima’s mugginess didn’t help at all.
We trudged along past row after row of cement tract houses, all in various stages of construction but occupied nonetheless. Dogs barked at us from their rooftop guard stations, and children tagged along at our sides. Arriving at the Manco home, we knocked on the door and Sister Manco answered.
A three-foot bramble bush stood ridiculously in the middle of the bare cement floor in the living room. We oohed and aahed appropriately. I smiled slightly, remembering the beautiful firs and pinion pines at home, but had to appreciate Sister Manco’s good intentions. Her home would be happy this Christmas Eve. But just down the street where the Nostadez family lived, it would be a different matter.
Brother Nostadez was a trolley conductor who had been out of work since July when his union struck. The government had settled the issue by tearing up the tracks, and Brother Nostadez had been without a job ever since. We had baptized the entire family, except two underage daughters, only the night before. Although I knew they were glad to be in the Church, I also realized that it would be a meager Christmas for them this year.
All at once I knew what had to be done. If I couldn’t celebrate the kind of Christmas I so longed for, at least the Nostadez family would have a good one. My companion Elder Slack agreed, and we enlisted the aid of a member friend, Estrella Costa, to buy things she thought the family might enjoy. We involved the Manco family by asking them to deliver the gifts at just the right moment on Christmas Eve, hoping to teach them something about caring for others at the same time. Estrella had brought the gifts she chose to our apartment.
Still, as I surveyed the fare, I wasn’t completely satisfied. The silly little useless toys, the oranges, apples, and fun surprises that are so much a part of holiday giving were missing.
Hurriedly I set out with Elder Slack in tow to explore the open market across the highway in Ciudad de Dios. Although appallingly filthy, Ciudad de Dios was vibrantly alive. The rhythm of humanity literally pulsated through its streets. A thousand vendors sought to sell their wares. Here was fruit fresh from the jungle: papayas the size of cantaloupes, watermelons, pineapples, figs, several kinds of bananas, mangos, and oranges of every size and variety. We bartered for a dozen of the latter. Huge sides of beef, lamb, and pork were scattered among hogs’ heads and cows’ stomachs, all hanging from enormous hooks for better view. Fresh fish from the famous Peruvian fisheries gaped at us with mouths opened wide. Live animals were sold to be taken home and raised for later butchering. Turkeys, chicks, ducklings, and baby guinea pigs scampered nervously in their pens. Next came sundries. Black market shampoo, soaps, and razor blades were spread on blankets on the ground or in the now-familiar make-shift stalls. There was a section with shoes and clothes of every description. At last came the toys.
I don’t remember what we bought, and it’s really not very important. I do know that we had a marvelous time trying everything before deciding. The vendor waited patiently, enjoying our enthusiasm. I vaguely recall marbles and combs. Yes, we bought combs for all, and a large basket to put everything in.
The shoppers in the marketplace that day carried off their business in a more lighthearted manner than usual. The bartering that is so much a part of Latin life was good-natured and friendly. One usually sees a number of heated arguments among those driving hard bargains, but not today. Shoppers and vendors alike seemed genuinely pleased to do business together. Negotiations were concluded with large smiles and holiday greetings. Everyone in “City of God” was happy that day. They had little and yet they were happy, anticipating the celebration of the birth of Him who was their Savior also. That strange, bustling marketplace made me feel the spirit of Christmas for the first time that holiday season. At last I understood why this tenement was called “City of God,” and no other name could have been more appropriate.
The Latin people celebrate this holiday like none other. Nearly everyone attends midnight mass. After that the fun begins. Fireworks burst everywhere, not just overhead. Rockets zip up and down streets, sidewalks, between one’s legs, and out of windows. Firecrackers of every caliber roar a mass salute that would rival a squadron of 747’s taking off in formation. The next morning a pungent haze overcasts the city, a smokey memorial to the Yuletide celebration, a mushroom cloud Latin style.
Time was short. We quickly bought wrapping paper and dashed back to the Mancos where mother and children helped ready the presents for delivery. I carefully instructed young Paco in the finer points of subbing for “Papa Noël.” “Leave the basket on the front porch, knock loudly, and run. Hide nearby to make sure the basket is taken in before returning home.” They mustn’t discover any connection between the gifts and their new-found faith. We wished the Mancos a “Feliz Navidad” and rushed home to prepare for our own festivities.
We made four or five calls on wonderful families that night, all of whom implored us to share their midnight feast. A carefully planned schedule brought us to the home of a convert employed by a U.S. airline where we observed a sort of Anglo-Latin Christmas culminating in an enormous banquet. After exchanging gifts, we finally dragged back to our apartment.
During the course of the evening I often mused on the events transpiring out in San Juan. I imagined Paco stealing up to the door, leaving the basket with great commotion, and escaping to the safety of nearby shadows. Brother Nostadez answers the door and, finding nothing, shakes his head in disgust at such an annoying prank on Christmas Eve. It is little Teresa who spies the basket on the porch and dashes through her father’s legs, hoping for a glimpse of Papa Noël. Hearing the disturbance, the rest of the family rushes to the door. Sister Nostadez whisks the basket into the house with her excited children in hot pursuit.
Across the street, Paco flattens himself in the sand, stifling uncontrollable laughter at Brother Nostadez who is suspiciously scanning the neighborhood for the perpetrator of the deed. He makes one more careful sweep and then backs through the door, slamming it behind him. As if loosed by a starter’s pistol, Paco is up and sprinting for home to report the success of his adventure.
Inside the house, little girls squeal with delight when dolls emerge from the basket. Ten-year-old Hilario is quietly enraptured with his first pocket knife. And Brother and Sister Nostadez contemplate the happy scenario, amazed at this unexpected answer to Christmas prayers uttered for the first time.
Each Christmas Eve for 12 Christmases my thoughts have returned to that singular event in my life. I know that it’s possible that the outcome was not at all as I envisioned it. And it is that uncertainty that keeps the experience so alive and vibrant in my memory. For the imaginings of that night’s events by far transcend any actuality I might have experienced in person. And so on each Christmas Eve I think, and ponder, and dream of miracles that I never witnessed but that I know to have transpired.
It was my first Christmas away from home and family—a young missionary in a strange land among strange people with strange customs. It was a time of learning and teaching and giving in secret. It was the time I first learned of, felt, and understood the true meaning of the spirit of Christmas.

I entered the bishop’s office feeling completely worthless.
The bishop smiled and offered me a seat. I explained to him what had happened, feeling more and more ashamed with each word. I asked with tears in my eyes, “What do I need to do? How can I become completely clean again?”
The bishop was quiet for a moment, then said, “You can definitely become clean from this. But I don’t think you understand an important part of repentance.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, a little taken aback.
You are thinking of repentance like you are flipping a switch from darkness to light,” he said. “As if you were a perfect 10, and because you sinned, you’re now an 8 or a 7.”
I nodded slowly.
“In reality,” the bishop continued, “None of us are 10s. In fact, we are probably closer to 1s and 2s. We’re not perfect to begin with. Repentance can cleanse us from sin, but it also helps us progress from 2s to 3s and 3s to 4s and so on until we reach that perfect 10 one day. Repentance helps us become more Christlike.
The bishop prayed with me and advised me to study the gift of repentance.
When I left his office, I sat in my car for a long time, thinking about what he had said.
I realized that he was right. I had thought of repentance only as a way to get back to how I was, to become a 10 once more. Because I thought I was completely clean before, the weight of that “perfection” made me feel worthless and unredeemable—just as I always felt whenever I needed to repent.
But having to repent was not a negative or shameful experience—it was the crux of becoming Christlike. It allowed me to leave my sins behind and enabled me to become better than I was before. The Savior is not a repair man, filling in the cracks in my soul, but an architect, building me up to heights I could never achieve otherwise.
This knowledge removed my perfectionistic guilt. I wasn’t perfect and I didn’t have to be—not yet. Repentance was part of my path to perfection. I entered my home with a changed perspective and a humbled heart.
I have since repented and forsaken the sin that drove me to the bishop’s office that day, and today I truly feel clean. I am still far from perfect, but thankfully, Christ’s grace is sufficient to save. With Him, I can be forgiven, healed, and given the strength overcome my weaknesses. And through His gift of repentance, I can be molded into the person I’m meant to become.

However, reading scriptures can present a challenge for everyone. President Boyd K. Packer shares his first attempts as a teenager at reading the Book of Mormon. He says: “I opened it and read, ‘I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents’ (1 Nephi 1:1). … It was interesting, and I could follow it until I got over to the Isaiah chapters. … So a few months later I decided to try again to read the Book of Mormon. I read, ‘I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents,’ but every time I’d hit the barrier of those Isaiah chapters. … Finally I decided I was even going to read them.”

And of course President Packer did read them. Persistence is the key. With every reading of the scriptures, unfamiliar words will take on meaning. You can read about heroes and great acts of courage. You can learn of the tender mercies of the Lord. And above all, you can feel the love of God and know that Jesus Christ is our Savior.

President Packer has told the story of Joseph Millett, a pioneer who shared his resources with others. Joseph Millett had a large family, and he was going though hard times. He wrote in his journal,

"One of my children came in and said that Brother Newton Hall's folks was out of bread, had none that day."
"I divided our flour in a sack to send up to Brother Hall. Just then Brother Hall came."
"Says I, `Brother Hall, are you out of flour?'"
"`Brother Millett, we have none.'"
"`Well, Brother Hall, there is some in that sack. I have divided and was going to send it to you. Your children told mine that you was out.'"
"Brother Hall began to cry. He said he had tried others, but could not get any. He went to the cedars and prayed to the Lord, and the Lord told him to go to Joseph Millett."
"`Well Brother Hall, you needn't bring this back. If the Lord sent you for it you don't owe me for it.'"
That night Joseph Millett wrote in his journal, "`You can't tell me how good it made me feel to know that the Lord knew there was such a person as Joseph Millett.'"[19] The Lord does know us, and he knows our hearts. He expects us to share our resources with those in need.

Now I am not perfect, and neither are you. At times I am greatly tempted and so are you. Look at Satan’s potential prize if he can get me. Think how vulnerable my children then become! What’s your net worth if he can get you? Think of your unborn posterity. What is their value? Can you see their faces and envision their personalities? Can Satan capture them without so much as a skirmish by getting you before they’re even born? It can happen. It did in my family. My great-great-grandfather and his brother were stonecutters on the Nauvoo Temple, having come to America as immigrants from Great Britain. When the prophet said “go west,” my great-great-grandfather moved out. His brother, for one reason or another, found sufficient excuse to stay in Iowa. Today my great-great-grandfather has a posterity that numbers into the hundreds, if not thousands. Many have matched his faithfulness and brought glory to his name. His brother has but a handful of living descendants, every single one out of the Church. There is not a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints within his posterity. This earth just may close out its term of existence without any trace of his bloodline having ever embraced the gospel of Christ. Truly, that is damnation.

Let me tell you a story about a man who received his PhD from this institution. We had known this person for a number of years. He married later than many, and as we watched him relate with a young woman, we wondered if she could keep up; we wondered if she had the capacity to understand life as he had learned it because he was more than several years older. Then, as we observed that couple at social functions and elsewhere, we saw that he would take time to carefully instruct her. As he returned from classwork, he would bring home books for her to read and to study. As they took long walks, they were constantly teaching each other. What a beautiful marriage and what a lovely family they now have because they have taken the time to compliment and to build each other! They are serving now in the mission field together, there because of his sensitivity and because of her sensitivity, there because they desire to build one another.

One day at school, my friend Sophia asked me what I believed in and if I belonged to any religion. I remembered the first Article of Faith, which says, “We believe in God, the Eternal Father, and in His Son, Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost.” So I shared that with her.
I also told her that I was a Christian and a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She listened to me and understood what I shared with her.
I felt very good because I knew that I had been brave to share my beliefs with my friend. Because of my hard work to learn the Articles of Faith, I was able to share the gospel and know what to say.