Gospel Story Finder

“You’re up early,” Mom said as she walked into the kitchen. It was the day of the trade fair, and I had gotten up a little earlier than usual to make sure I was ready to go.
“I’m just checking my ornaments,” I said. I opened a paper sack on the table and counted my handmade Christmas wreath ornaments. I had been working on them for a month, ever since Mrs. Moore announced that we would have a trade fair to practice what we had learned about supply and demand and bartering. I hoped my ornaments would be a hit with my classmates!
When I arrived at school, my classmates had boxes and bags of their trade items. I looked around the room as they set out their goods: Suzelle had woven pot holders, Mark had made key chains out of hemp cord and silver charms, and Kylie had hammered together some bark to make boxes.
“I can’t wait to start trading,” I said to Jason, who was setting out some of the colorful balls he had made from balloons filled with sand. “Everyone brought really cool stuff to trade.”
“Yeah, except for Lucas,” Jason said.
I looked at Lucas’s desk. He was setting out a few rocks that were different colors. It looked like he had gotten some rocks from his yard and drawn on them with markers.
“Think anyone will trade with him?” I asked quietly.
“No!” Jason laughed. And he was right. I noticed that Kylie’s boxes were gone right away. My ornaments were pretty popular too. About halfway through the trade fair I only had two ornaments left.
I also saw that no one had traded with Lucas for any of his rocks. It seemed like he was trying to shrink or just disappear. I felt bad for him, but what could I do?
“He should have put more effort into it,” I thought. “If he had set aside more time to get ready for the trade fair, he wouldn’t have this problem.” But I kept watching Lucas, hoping someone would trade with him.
It wasn’t long before Mrs. Moore said, “All right, everyone. Five more minutes to finish your trading.”
Lucas’s shoulders slumped. I knew he was feeling terrible. I also knew what I had to do.
“Lucas,” I said, “I’d like to swap one of my ornaments for two of your rocks. Would you like to trade?”
Lucas smiled a little and let me pick out two rocks. I handed him one of my wreath ornaments.
As we cleaned up the trade fair, I was sad that no one else had traded with Lucas. But I felt good because I had tried to include Lucas, and I had made him smile. It felt so good that I wanted to make him smile again. Maybe we could play basketball at lunch or hang out after school.
I smiled too as I looked at the rocks on my desk. They had started to look kind of nice to me.

We are indebted to Dr. Homer Ellsworth for sharing with us two contrasting stories about the happiness of mothers. Often, expectant mothers are so set upon having a boy child or a girl child that when a baby comes with a different sex the mother is temporarily disappointed. Generally, this disappointment is forgotten as soon as the mother cuddles her newborn in her arms for the first time. A few new mothers demonstrate their immaturity for a day or two. One, who wanted a boy baby and happened to receive a girl baby, threw tantrums and objects all over her hospital room for a day or two to show her displeasure. One wise old nurse, when feeding time came, took a baby boy born with a harelip from the nursery and quietly slipped him into the disconsolate mother’s arms. The immature mother replied, “This is not my child.”

The wise old nurse said, “Well, it has the right sex. Maybe its mother will be willing to trade babies with you.” There followed no more demonstrations of immaturity.

My husband, Gary, a marriage and family therapist, shares valuable insights about parent-child communication. “Asking simple questions and then listening is a great way to get children thinking,” he often tells parents. I’ve watched him do it in our home, and I’m gaining some skill in putting it into practice myself.

For example, our son came home from school one day and seemed discouraged. I said, “What’s up? You seem sad.” He replied, “Jim [not his real name] is such a jerk.” And I said, “Oh, how’s that?” I was surprised at what followed. “He’s been inviting his girlfriend over to his house every day after school since his mom started working.” Resisting the temptation to begin a magnificent sermon on morality, I said, “Hmmmmm.” And he said, “It’s so stupid. He’s just asking for trouble.” That was definitely similar to what I would have said, only more concise. I asked, “What do you mean?” Then a flood of information poured forth regarding all the dangers of being alone in a house with a girlfriend. But it didn’t stop there. He discussed all sides of the issue, including the terrible effects of venereal disease and abortion. All I did was listen and agree. I’m convinced he would have heard very little of the sermon had it been preached by me.

When I was a mission president in Hamburg, Germany, a number of years ago, I had a thorny problem I was dealing with and didn’t know what to do. I was reading the scriptures when I came to 1 Nephi 18, where Nephi is building a ship. He says, “Now I, Nephi, did not work the timbers after the manner which was learned by men, neither did I build the ship after the manner of men; but I did build it after the manner which the Lord had shown unto me; wherefore it was not after the manner of men” (1 Ne. 18:2).

And then this great verse, “And I, Nephi, did go into the mount oft, and I did pray oft unto the Lord; wherefore the Lord showed unto me great things” (1 Ne. 18:3).

As I read that, a wonderful feeling came over me. I knew I had to go to the mount if I was to receive the answer to that prayer. The problem was, there are no mountains in northern Germany. But the feeling was so strong I knew I needed to go someplace, so I went to the sea.

For two days I walked along the beach of the North Sea, even though it was late in the fall, and it was cold, rainy, and windy. I prayed and pondered, and because I went to the mount, the Lord whispered. I have a firm witness that the answers are in the scriptures if we take time to listen.

Ruth has a love for children that she gained in part from her own youth. Many of Ruth’s childhood summers were spent in Springville, Utah, with her Aunt Millie Reynolds Martain. Aunt Millie was the midwife for that area, and like the old horse-and-buggy country doctor, many nights—good weather or bad—she would go out to help some new child into the world.

When Ruth was visiting her, Millie would take her along. Ruth would wait outside until the baby had come and then be called in to help give the newborn his first bath.

It was a beautiful tradition that helped teach her reverence for life; she has carried it on with each of her grandchildren. Wherever it happens, when they come into the world, Grandmother Funk is there to welcome them. Her careful attention and investment of time and love has developed into a close relationship with each of her grandchildren.

It was 1962, and I was 19. I had been called to serve a mission in Mexico when I learned I had cancer.
Cancer? Me? I thought only people in big cities got cancer. After biopsies and close examinations by competent specialists, I learned the problem I was having with the swelling in my right forearm was an osteogenic sarcoma. Translated, it meant I had a type of bone cancer which, in those days, was nearly always fatal, even with the amputation of the affected limb.
Fatal! At age 19, having something fatal had never crossed my mind. I was excited to serve my mission, marry in the temple, have a great family, and enjoy a wonderful life. Still, I loved the Lord and I knew He loved me. Whether allowed to remain here or leave this life, it would be okay.
The immediate outcome was the loss of my right arm. The extended outcome has proven to be a lifetime of adventure. As I look back, I can honestly say the loss of my arm, rather than being a tragic experience, has been one of my greatest blessings. I have learned and gained so much from it.
The adjustment was interesting. I had been working in logging and road-building operations in the Pacific Northwest woods, so my body was strong. But I was extremely right-handed and that greatly-depended-upon arm was truly missed. Although I could formerly throw a baseball farther than anyone on the team, with my left arm I could throw a ball only a few yards. Writing was really interesting. My penmanship could have been improved by almost any preschool child. Everything was a challenge: tying shoes, buttoning shirts, carrying large objects, driving, shaving, drawing, eating, being stared at, enduring phantom pain, and so on.
Very quickly I came to realize I had much to get used to, to learn, and to relearn. I also realized there was very little I could do about the fact I had only one arm, and my attitude about that fact—and in life in general—was totally up to me. I was at a crossroads. It was apparent I could cry if I wanted to, or I could handle this and all other challenges with faith and a positive attitude. My happiness and eternal well-being were dependent upon my choice. The decision was simple. I chose to be positive, creative, very active, and to do everything possible to fulfill my destiny as a son of God, sent to grow from an earthly experience. Once made, this choice was firm and I never looked back.

Years ago, my brother and his wife were excited to go out for a date, confident their oldest child was now ready to handle things at home while they were gone. With the younger children asleep in their beds and McKay in charge with detailed instructions, they left home for a nearby movie theater. Imagine their panic when they returned home a few hours later, walked in the house, saw smoke, and smelled an electrical fire. They panicked, raced around the house checking on all the sleeping children, and eventually found that a smoking window-mounted air conditioner had been turned on in the middle of winter. They confronted McKay, who, unalarmed, was lounging on the couch reading The Economist. “Hey!” my brother asked, “What’s going on? Don’t you smell that?” “Sure,” McKay casually replied, “I do. I looked around and didn’t see anything. And you know, it was kind of irritating at first, but you get used to it.”

“My mission did not help my football,” Bart says. “Some guys go out and expect that since they’re making a sacrifice for the Lord, the Lord is going to bless them by improving their football skills. That’s not the case.” Toward the end of his mission Bart did rise at 4:30 A.M. for conditioning workouts. (“All my companions wanted to be transferred. I know that,” he laughs.) But he wasn’t a superman when he returned. He had to scramble to regain his skills and reflexes.
“I wasn’t better than I was before my mission,” he confides. “I wasn’t even as good. But it didn’t take me long to get back into shape.” Bart also notes that by the time he returned to BYU, the starting center ahead of him had graduated, and the position was open to Bart for the next three years, whereas he would have been second string two of those three years had he chosen to stay and play.

For my whole life I prayed that my father would become a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Even as a young girl, I knew how many blessings he could receive. Our family could receive the blessings of being sealed for eternity. My family, friends, and I prayed often for him, but he didn’t join the Church. Heavenly Father does not force anyone to make a choice. He can send us answers to our prayers in other ways.

When I was old enough, I received my patriarchal blessing. In the blessing, the patriarch told me the best thing I could do to help my family be together in heaven was to be an example of the gospel of Jesus Christ. That’s what I could do!

My father lived to be 86. Five days after he died, I received a sacred feeling of joy. Heavenly Father let me know through His Spirit that my father wanted to receive the blessings of the gospel of Jesus Christ! I will never forget the day I knelt around the altar in the temple with my sister and brothers to be sealed to my parents. I had started praying for this blessing when I was in Primary, and I received it when I was a grandmother.

“One day I sat guarding our lemonade stand while Marilyn went for more ice chips. The streetcar would be along soon, and we almost always got some customers at this stop if there were ice chips in clean tin cups for the drinks. I passed the time watching the gardener. He looked so hot, even from where I sat, and he moved like he hurt more than usual. Oh, I felt so sorry for him! Then I had a great idea. I’d treat him to some of our lemonade—free. It wasn’t very cold but it was wet, and he’d know somebody cared about him. For safekeeping, I pocketed the pennies we’d taken in. Then I crossed the street with the cup of lemonade.
“‘Well, thank you,’ he said, sipping it carefully. ‘You’ve added just enough sugar.’
“Some people downed their drinks in one gulp, so of course they couldn’t tell if our mix was good or not. The gardener tasted it. He knew. Just as he knew which plants had the softest leaves and that my eyes were brown and not blue. He finished drinking and said that since I had done him such a favor, he was going to do one for me; he was going to show me a kind of miracle. We walked over to the colorful bed of coleus plants, all dark red and green trimmed and velvety. He troweled one up and put it into my hands after interlocking my fingers so the soil wouldn’t spill off the roots. I was to pot it, water it just so, and place it in a sunny window where I could watch ‘the miracle.’
“He took one ruffled leaf gently and, lifting it with his knobby fingers, said, ‘The coleus plant will lean to the light. Turn your plant every two or three days and the leaves will turn right around again and lean to the light. Try it, Elaine. You’ll see the miracle. And maybe it’s something you’d like to do with your life.’
“No wonder we held him and his handiwork in a kind of reverence!”

Thunder clapped and lightning flashed almost constantly outside the cabin window as Louisa Bingham Lee stood kneading a large batch of bread dough on the kitchen table. Beside her was her mother, who was knitting a pair of stockings, and three of Louisa’s children were playing about the room. The Lee children were always fascinated when a powerful thunderstorm rolled through their peaceful valley in Clifton, Idaho, so Louisa propped the front door open so that they could watch the great display of nature’s fireworks.
Louisa began to feel uneasy as she noticed how quickly the thunderclaps followed the lightning flashes—the lightning was striking very close! Six-year-old Harold was playing in the room in front of the open door. Suddenly Louisa dashed over to her son and gave him a vigorous push, sending him backward and onto the floor away from the doorway. An instant later a bolt of lightning flashed down the chimney, across the floor, and out the open doorway, where it split a large tree in front of the house from top to bottom. Had it not been for Louisa’s acting upon inner promptings, Harold B. Lee would not have lived to become the eleventh President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

My brother, Greg, and I participated in the Hill Cumorah Pageant in New York for two summers. One summer, when I was about sixteen years old, I was really searching for a personal testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel. I thought that this would be the perfect time to get it. One night after the performance, I decided to go to the Sacred Grove alone. It was a beautiful, clear summer night. I thought, This is it—the place, the time. What more ideal setting could I have? I prayed for a long, long time—well over an hour. Nothing happened. I finally gave up and walked back to Palmyra, wondering, What did I do wrong or what didn’t I do right? What was missing?
I’ve since thought a lot about that experience. One of the lessons I learned from it was that you shouldn’t try to dictate to God the timing or the content of revelation. It was later that summer—when I was home by myself in a little basement bedroom, reading the Book of Mormon—that a witness came very powerfully. It just overwhelmed me. I know from that experience the truth of what Joseph Smith witnessed and the truth of the Book of Mormon and the reality of the Savior. That hasn’t been my only witness, but it was a great strengthening of my testimony.
I found that you don’t have to be in a special place to receive that witness. You will receive answers to your prayers if you are earnest and keep asking and searching. I’m glad now that my answer didn’t come to me when I first asked. I might have thought that you have to go to the Holy Land for a testimony of Jesus or to the Sacred Grove for a testimony of Joseph Smith. Anywhere in the world, the Lord will speak to you.

Like Jared Carter and Stephen Burnett (see Doctrine and Covenants 79 and 80), modern missionaries also need a witness that they are called of the Lord.
Thousands of missionaries had their mission calls changed because of the coronavirus. For example, Curtis and Ramona Miller were reassigned to a different mission because of the virus. They testified: “We have a strong testimony that it does not matter where we serve but that we are willing to serve. As we allow the Savior’s hand to guide our life, He qualifies us for this work.”
Jared Carter (1801–49)
Baptized by Hyrum Smith in 1831 in Colesville, New York.
Preached in Ohio, Pennsylvania, New York, and Vermont in 1831 and 1832.
Went to Hiram, Ohio, to ask Joseph Smith what the will of the Lord was for him.
Joseph Smith received a revelation directing him to preach again in the eastern United States (see Doctrine and Covenants 79).
Stephen Burnett (1813–85)
Baptized by John Murdock in 1830 in Warrensville, Ohio.
Ordained a high priest at age 17.
Appointed to preach with Eden Smith (see Doctrine and Covenants 80:2), but Eden became ill.
Began his mission instead with Eden’s father, John Smith.
Curtis and Ramona Miller
Looking at options on the Church’s senior missionary website, the Millers selected eight possible locations—most of which were in Polynesia and Europe.
Their call came to serve in the Democratic Republic of the Congo.
They would need to learn French.
After three and a half months in Africa, the Millers were reassigned to serve in Georgia, USA, because of COVID-19.

Last year my schoolteacher had “class dollars” that we could earn when we did well in class. I kept buying things instead of saving them like my classmates did. The last auction of the school year was nearing, and I had 80 dollars. My teacher was going to sell root-beer floats for 100 dollars each. So I decided to copy the class money I had on the printer at home so I’d have enough for a float.
When I got to school, I showed off my copied money. Five students ran up to the teacher’s desk and told him about my evil mastermind doings. My teacher told me I wasn’t allowed to buy a single item at the auction. I felt bad and guilty, but the worst was yet to come.
My teacher emailed my mom. When I got home, my mom asked about my actions. I was dishonest again and told her that someone else in my class copied the money. My mom was going to email the teacher what I told her. When she was about to send the message, I told her the truth. She was shocked, disappointed, and sad. I knew my Heavenly Father was also saddened by my disobedience.
I had just turned 12 and was looking forward to doing baptisms at the temple. But I knew I shouldn’t enter into the temple unless I was clean, so I repented. After telling the truth, I prayed and asked for forgiveness.
A little while later I walked up the steps to the Sacramento temple. I was excited to do baptisms and amazed by the beauty of the temple. I felt great peace and happiness. My mom was really happy, and I knew that my Heavenly Father was happy as well.
Now I know that wickedness never, ever will bring happiness. I am grateful for all that Christ has done for me. I know that if we keep the commandments, we will live in happiness.

When I began my service mission, it was hard for me to feel like a missionary. It felt like I was just coming home from college for the summer.
I was glad I didn’t have to leave my friends and family, but at the same time, I craved to feel the spiritual retreat that I imagined teaching missionaries experience when they leave home. I decided I needed to turn my home into a spiritual safe haven.
And I’ve learned it is possible to invite the Spirit into the place you call home, regardless of your circumstances!
The following are ideas that helped me turn my home into a holy place that allowed me to feel connected to the Savior.
At the start of my mission, I spent time in prayer seeking the gift of discernment. I had impressions about what was lessening my ability to feel like a missionary.
I prayed to know if my hobbies were appropriate mission activities. When my answer was yes, my activities felt consecrated to Him. The simple act of involving God made my home a sanctuary of faith for me.
In creating my sacred space, I put away my action-packed novels that distracted me. You may find that novels don’t detract from the Spirit you feel, but in my circumstances, I knew God wanted me to spend my time on uplifting and talent-building things. So I placed my scriptures on my desk to prioritize scripture study, and I set aside time every day for writing.
Heavenly Father’s goal is to prepare us to live with Him some day. He wants us to feel comfortable in His presence. I have felt more spiritual as He has helped me make one little change in my environment at a time.

I remember the first day I went inside the Salt Lake Temple. A white-haired lady in a white temple dress greeted me. She said, “Welcome to the temple, Brother Eyring.” I thought for a moment she was an angel because she knew my name. I forgot that my name was on a small card pinned to my suit coat.
I looked up at the high white ceiling. The room was so light that it seemed it was open to the sky. I felt that I had been there before. Then I felt that I had been in a sacred place like that before I was born.
The words “Holiness to the Lord” are written on the outside of all our temples. I know that those words are true. The temple is a holy place where revelation comes to us easily if our hearts are open to it.
I pray that you will want to go there, where you can feel close to the Lord. You can help your ancestors be with Him and with you forever.

Now, as life would have it—as it sometimes heartbreakingly insists—I needed to put these five principles to the test recently in a situation I never could have imagined. On May 11, my dear and closest friend, Elder W. Mark Bassett, stepped unexpectedly through the veil. For more than a decade, we spoke weekly, even when we served in different countries. We sat next to each other in every meeting we were in together—the last time just in front of President Meredith in our temple meeting in Salt Lake just days before Mark passed. His friendship was steady, familiar, and deep. I miss my friend, but the Lord knew in November, when I received this assignment, what I would need in May.

In the days that followed, I did the only things I could do when life changes suddenly and hearts break. I anchored my hope in Christ, the One who has already descended below all things. I sought solace in the covenants that bind earth to heaven. I prayed with importunity for his wife, Angie, and for their precious children and sweet grandchildren. I reflected on my own family story and on Mark’s, seeing in both the unmistakable fingerprints of a God who keeps His promises. And I tried, however imperfectly, to reach outward to others who were in mourning with me.

And I testify that heaven did not remain silent. There came peace. There came comfort. Not the erasing of loss, but an abundance of hope, a quiet assurance that death is not destruction, separation is not abandonment, and loss is certainly not permanent. It was the kind of comfort that does not deny sorrow but guides you through it.

Harold B. Lee came next. This was a man I loved. During the short tenure of his presidency, I traveled in Europe with him on two different occasions. Those were wonderful days when we talked together. I was his junior companion on those journeys, and he spoke out of his great heart about many things. He warned against the neglect of families. He told us that the greatest work any of us would ever do would be within the walls of our own homes. He told us to survey large fields and cultivate small ones. In so saying, he wanted us to get the great, broad picture of this work and then with faithfulness take care of our own individual responsibility in it. He had come out of humble circumstances and carried in his heart a great sensitivity for the poor. He was the first managing director of the welfare program as it was established in 1936, and taught its principles across the Church. He extended to me a call to serve as a stake president and set me apart in that office. I still remember some of the things he said in that blessing. Said he: “Be sensitive to the promptings of the Spirit. Be slow to censure and quick to encourage.” I commend that counsel to each of you. It came from a living prophet of God.

During the last half of my college years, I worked as a producer for my university’s radio show. It was a fun job with tons of creative freedom, but there were also a lot of rules. My general job description was producing radio content; though this might seem self-explanatory, the details of the job were documented in an exhaustive, multipage document. It included rules about email etiquette, interview prep, audio cuts, and all kinds of things I had never heard of.
It was daunting at first as I tried to remember all the details. But I came to appreciate that list—it helped me be a better producer. It wasn’t a restrictive list that kept me from using my creativity; instead, it helped me turn my ideas into a real, finished product. It was a set of guidelines, created by people who knew the job much better than I did.

The day after Martin’s departure, Emma endured an agonizing labor and gave birth to a boy. The baby was frail and sickly and did not live long. The ordeal left Emma physically drained and emotionally devastated, and for a time it seemed she might die too. Joseph tended to her constantly, never leaving her side for long.38
After two weeks, Emma’s health began to improve, and her thoughts turned to Martin and the manuscript. “I feel so uneasy,” she told Joseph, “that I cannot rest and shall not be at ease until I know something about what Mr. Harris is doing with it.”
She urged Joseph to find Martin, but Joseph did not want to leave her. “Send for my mother,” she said, “and she shall stay with me while you are gone.”39
Joseph took a stagecoach north. He ate and slept little during the journey, afraid that he had offended the Lord by not listening when He said not to let Martin take the manuscript.40
The sun was rising when he arrived at his parents’ home in Manchester. The Smiths were preparing breakfast and sent Martin an invitation to join them. By eight o’clock, the meal was on the table but Martin had not come. Joseph and the family started to grow uneasy as they waited for him.
Finally, after more than four hours had passed, Martin appeared in the distance, walking slowly toward the house, his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him.41 At the gate he paused, sat on the fence, and pulled his hat down over his eyes. He then came inside and sat down to eat in silence.
The family watched as Martin picked up his utensils, as if ready to eat, then dropped them. “I have lost my soul!” he cried, pressing his hands on his temples. “I have lost my soul.”
Joseph jumped up. “Martin, have you lost that manuscript?”
“Yes,” Martin said. “It is gone, and I know not where.”
“Oh, my God, my God,” Joseph groaned, clenching his fists. “All is lost!”
He started pacing the floor. He did not know what to do. “Go back,” he ordered Martin. “Search again.”
“It is all in vain,” Martin cried. “I have looked every place in the house. I have even ripped open beds and pillows, and I know it is not there.”
“Must I return to my wife with such a tale?” Joseph feared the news would kill her. “And how shall I appear before the Lord?”
His mother tried to comfort him. She said maybe the Lord would forgive him if he repented humbly. But Joseph was sobbing now, furious at himself for not obeying the Lord the first time. He could barely eat for the rest of the day. He stayed the night and left the next morning for Harmony.42
As his mother, Lucy, watched him go, her heart was heavy. It seemed everything they had hoped for as a family—everything that had brought them joy over the last few years—had fled in a moment.43