Gospel Story Finder

I remembered when I first came to Foggia, a little town in southern Italy. It was only my second city, and the Manzos were about the first people I met. Even I could tell they were special. Rita and Salverio Manzo and their two children were the kind of family missionaries dream about. A warm, close feeling was present in their home. They didn’t have much money, but that didn’t seem important to them. They were always generous, inviting us to eat more often than they could afford.
It seemed like Satan was aware of how fine the Manzos were too, because right from the beginning, he worked to keep them out of the Church. As they progressed spiritually, their trials became more and more difficult. Their children got sick. When they tried to share their new knowledge with their family and friends, they suddenly quit visiting. When the Manzos went to the homes of people who previously had been close to them, the reception was chilly. Italians are family people, so that hurt them more than they would allow us to see. Each evening we left their home convinced that the worst was over, only to find that something else would happen the next day. They had financial problems. They found themselves arguing about things that never bothered them before. Neighbors told them that the missionaries brought them bad luck and they should stop seeing us.
Brother Manzo had been out of work for some time. He finally found a job, and things seemed to be looking better for them. The day he got his first check was the day we taught him about tithing. For some time he sat looking thoughtfully around his home. You could almost see his thoughts: This little check is all I have. It’s not enough as it is; yet you want me to give part of it away. How can I do it? I must feed my children. Surely the Lord would understand that I can’t pay this tithing. We were afraid that this would be the one trial too big for them. Finally he looked at us and said, “If the Lord requires us to pay this tithing, we will pay it.”
“Sister. Sister Johnson! Hey! You’re sure a long ways away! Are you still worrying about Brother Manzo?” Sister Bullen asked.
“I, well, yes I am. How did you know?”
“Because you’ve been studying that page for about 15 minutes,” she said with a smile. “Why are you so upset?”
“I just don’t think that someone who is as good as Brother Manzo should have to start out as a deacon. It’s like they don’t think he will stay with it, so they don’t trust him with anything else.”
Sister Bullen liked to joke around, and she kidded me a lot, but she was really serious when she asked, “Do you think that Brother Manzo is too proud to be a deacon?”
“No, he’s not too proud. But he’s a grown man, and he’s so dignified and kind of shy. I don’t want him to be embarrassed to be passing the sacrament with all those little boys. After all he has been through, I think he deserves to be a priest.
She smiled at me. “I think he’ll be okay.”
Sitting in the chapel on Sunday, I felt a little nervous again. The deacons were standing around the table, waiting to pick up their trays. Brother Manzo towered over the rest of the deacons. I noticed he was wearing a new white shirt and a tie. He was watching carefully to make sure he did the right things.
As he turned and reverently carried his tray of bread toward us, I could see that his face was shining. He caught my eye and smiled warmly. I looked down at my scriptures. They were open to the 26th chapter of Matthew, and I read verse 26: “And as they were eating, Jesus took bread, and blessed it, and brake it, and gave it to the disciples, and said, Take, eat …”
I couldn’t see the words through the tears in my eyes. It had been me, not Brother Manzo, who needed to learn about the priesthood! I felt a squeeze on my arm, and Sister Bullen smiled at me and winked.
I guess there’s no such thing as being “only” a deacon.

As I observed two of our lovely grown daughters that night an incident from the past came to mind that forms the burden of my brief message today. I still think of it with a tendency to tears. Another little girl had joined our family and was of course much loved. Occasionally I had called her older sister “Princess,” but had thought about that, and, since the second young lady was equally deserving of royal treatment, had concluded that it would be well for her to share the title, if it were used at all.
So one day I called to her, “Come on, Princess. Let’s go to the store for mother.” She seemed not to hear. “Honey,” her mother said, “daddy is calling you.”
“Oh,” she answered, with a quiet sadness that hurt my heart, “he doesn’t mean me.”
In memory I can still see the resignation on her innocent child face and hear it in her voice, when she thought that her father didn’t mean her.
My child at first did not understand that my invitation was meant for her. She thought it was for someone else. “He didn’t mean me.” If any within the sound of my voice today need assurance that God’s call to repentance and his invitation to mercy and forgiveness and love is for them, I bear you that solemn witness, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Sitting in a hastily dug defensive position, I looked out over the sand toward the north—toward Iraq. It was December 24 during Desert Shield, and I had drawn guard duty starting at midnight.
I was the only Latter-day Saint in my battalion, so the holiday was even lonelier. We had been in the desert of Saudi Arabia since August, and now Christmas was here with a cold, star-lit night. The camp was asleep, and I had a few hours with the bluish-grey dunes and my thoughts.
I thought of my wife and son in Georgia, USA, and how I would miss the festivities back home—the tree, the presents, a real Christmas dinner. Then I began to ponder the Christmas story.
I wondered about the night that Christ was born. I wondered how dark it was and if there was a moon to cast its brightness over the landscape or if there was only starlight. Since there were no electric lights at His birth, the night must have been something like the one I was witnessing. There would have been no festivities—just dark, quiet night.
Then a wonderful thought struck me. The Bible states that Wise Men later came from the East, guided by a star that appeared in the night sky. As I looked into the dark sky, I realized I was to the east of Bethlehem and that one of the centers of knowledge at that time was Baghdad. Could the Wise Men have come from a location not far from where I was? What star shone? Was it still in the sky? Could I see it?
I gazed skyward in wonder at God’s creations and felt a warmth that came from within. It did not matter if I was in the same location or if the same star was in the sky. What mattered is that I shared the same knowledge as the Wise Men of an infant born in Bethlehem who is the King of kings.
I was not alone that Christmas; rather, I was united with all those who seek Him, whether they be Wise Men, prophets, or just lonely soldiers in a hole in the desert. That night my testimony of the birth of the Savior was strengthened, and the next morning the Holy Spirit was still with me.
Instead of being a sad Christmas that year, it became one of my most prized Christmases.

I remember going to the Longfellow home, which was the beginning for me of learning something of our past. I also remember making the trip to the old North Church, with little Italian kids hanging on the fenders of the Model T and chanting the story of Paul Revere. I remember trudging the little dirt road to Lexington and Concord, and traveling to Plymouth with a family of RLDS people on their way to a conference. It was on the copy of the Mayflower Compact where I read the signature of a distant grandfather of mine. I’ll always be grateful for that time that gave me an interest in the history of this marvelous land, this land “choice above all others.”

In a recent message of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir’s Music and the Spoken Word, a story was told about an elderly man and woman who had been married for many decades. Because the wife was slowly losing her sight, she could no longer take care of herself the way she had done for so many years. Without being asked, the husband began to paint her fingernails for her.
“He knew that she could see her fingernails when she held them close to her eyes, at just the right angle, and they made her smile. He liked to see her happy, so he kept painting her nails for more than five years before she passed away.”14

One warm evening during the past summer months Sister Ashton and I enjoyed a professional baseball game. During the early part of the competition our attention was diverted from the action by a late arriver. As he walked by, he spotted me and asked, “Who’s losing?” I responded with, “Neither one.” Following my answer, I noticed that he glanced at the right-field scoreboard, saw the game wasn’t tied, and walked on, undoubtedly wondering about me.
Seconds after he made his way to a distant seat, Sister Ashton said, “He doesn’t know you very well, does he?” “What makes you say that?” I replied. She responded with, “If he did, he would know you don’t believe anyone is losing. Some are ahead and some are behind, but no one is losing. Isn’t that right?” I smiled in approval with a warm feeling inside.

Some years ago there passed from mortality a friend who helped more people, spoke more eulogies, and gave more freely of his time, his talents, and his possessions than most. His name was Louis. He related to me this tender account:
A gentle, soft-spoken mother had passed away. She left to her stalwart sons and lovely daughters no fortune of finance but, rather, a heritage of wealth in example, in sacrifice, in obedience. After the funeral eulogies had been spoken and the sad trek to the cemetery had been made, the grown family sorted through the meager possessions the mother had left. Louis discovered a note and also a key. The note instructed: “In the corner bedroom, in the bottom drawer of my dresser, is a tiny box. It contains the treasure of my heart. This key will open the box.” Another son asked, “What could Mother have of sufficient value to be placed under lock and key?” A sister commented, “Dad has been gone all these years, and Mother has had precious little of this world’s goods.”
The box was removed from its resting place in the dresser drawer and opened carefully with the aid of the key. What did it contain? No money, no deed, no precious rings or valuable jewels. Louis took from the box a faded photograph of his father. On the back of the photograph was the penned message, “My dear husband and I were sealed together for time and all eternity in the House of the Lord, at Salt Lake City, December 12, 1891.”
Next there emerged an individual photo of each child, with his or her name and birth date. Finally, Louis held to the light a homemade valentine. In crude, childlike penmanship, which he recognized as his own, Louis read the words he had written 60 years before: “Dear Mother, I love you.”
Hearts were tender, voices soft, and eyes moist. Mother’s treasure was her eternal family. Its strength rested on the bedrock foundation of “I love you.”

I have had problems with using bad language around my friends at school. It made me feel guilty whenever my parents would say, “We’re glad you don’t use bad language,” because they didn’t know what I was doing. I felt that the Holy Ghost would leave me because I was not only using bad language, I was also lying about it to my parents.
In Primary, we had a lesson about making right choices. I felt I should tell my parents about what I had been doing. I told my mom. Together we told my dad. They told me to start praying to Heavenly Father for help and for forgiveness. We talked about ways to stop swearing. Every now and then they would ask me how I was doing.
Today I’m still praying to Heavenly Father to help me use good language. I’m doing much better. Whenever I feel like saying something I shouldn’t, I get a hesitant feeling. That’s the Holy Ghost helping me to not swear. I get a warm feeling inside whenever I stop myself. I know that Heavenly Father is helping me to be more like Jesus.

Kim Dohm was comfortable at her grandparents’ house in Fort Worth, Texas, 500 miles from her home and parents. Her father and mother were helping with relief efforts in Slidell. But when she heard the news that evacuees wouldn’t be allowed back home for weeks or possibly months, it was more than she could bear. “One day at school, I just started to sob,” Kim says. “Everyone told me things would be okay, but I couldn’t stop crying.” Anxious and uncertain, she prayed. “I felt the most overwhelming peace in my heart,” she says. “I remembered how the Savior calmed the storm and reassured the disciples on the Sea of Galilee. My heart was raging, but His example calmed and reassured me.”

Answers sometimes came in the form of people who influenced our children’s lives. One time, a daughter at college was in grave spiritual and possibly physical danger. On the day following our temple visit, the bishop of her ward visited with her and then called us about the visit. He continued this each day for the next three days. A parent could have done no more than this great bishop did to comfort and guide our daughter.

Members try to share that peace and strength with their neighbors. In San Fernando, Rogelio and Olaya Parra, Jorge’s parents, have been sharing for decades now. Their stake president says more than 100 local members have come into the Church through contacts with this couple.

When they were baptized in 1972, Rogelio recalls, “My father told me I was crazy.” Olaya says her family also was upset, but, “I’m not influenced by what people think if I know it’s right.”

Shortly after their baptism, Olaya recalls with a laugh, “I was president of the Primary, and I had no idea what the Primary was. I was lost.” She learned quickly. She has gone on to teach and hold leadership roles in all the auxiliary organizations, and her husband has held a variety of leadership positions; currently he is stake patriarch and serves as a temple sealer.

Back in those early days in San Fernando, the Parras hosted the missionary discussions for many of the first converts in the area. That is exactly the way it should be, says former mission president Faustino López of the Alcalá de Henares Second Ward, Madrid Spain East Stake. He served as president of the Spain Málaga Mission—the first Spaniard to preside over a mission in his home country. “Members are the only ones who can open some doors,” he says. The Church has a good reputation among those who know of it through friends. Without member help, however, missionaries often have difficulty finding people to teach.

Marvin R. VanDam, counselor in the Holladay Twentieth Ward Bishopric, Salt Lake Olympus Stake
The ongoing family remembrance of our little Patrick began at the time I dedicated his grave on a lovely August afternoon in 1972.
Patrick was born in Abington, Pennsylvania, and because of a complication at birth he lived only six days. We lived near a lovely little cemetery, but decided that he should be buried instead in a location near where we would want our eventual home to be—or at least in an area we could easily visit, since corporate assignments might require us to move frequently for many years.
We therefore held the funeral and buried him in Utah, where we grew up and where our parents lived. Since then we have moved to two different European countries on assignment, and then back to Utah. We are grateful for having made that decision.
In the prayer of dedication at the gravesite, I asked fervently that our family might live to be worthy to join Patrick someday in that perfect place where he now is. Six years later, we still pray often for that same blessing and find that it is a significant family encouragement and challenge to work toward that goal.
We not only pray that we might someday meet and again associate with this special son and brother, but we also feel it is appropriate to pray for his current success and welfare. Nevertheless, we know that all is well with him because of the promise of the Lord that little children who die in infancy are perfect and worthy of his kingdom.
Inasmuch as we are now fortunate to live close to the cemetery where Patrick is buried, we go there from time to time to have family prayer. Sometimes one of our children will say, “Can we please stop at Patrick’s grave to have prayer?” Whenever we do, it provides us with a special teaching moment to talk with the children about things important, sacred, and eternal.
Since Patrick is, we feel, as much a part of our family as any living earthly child, we believe there is value to be gained from remembering his birthday and even in sharing a birthday cake baked in his honor. To have the children thus see our total faith as parents that Patrick is real, that his little body will be resurrected, and that we may be joined again eternally as a family is an advantage that we as parents would not want to lose.
Because four of our children have been born since Patrick died, we are grateful for the white leather book of remembrance we compiled to remember him by. In it we have his certificates, photos from the hospital and of the funeral and burial, related correspondence, and other small treasures. As we show the children this book of remembrance, Patrick remains real to those who knew him and becomes real to the children who did not meet him here.
My wife, Sandy, and I are most thankful for the fact that the Lord allowed the birth and death of this little boy to be one of the most beautiful and spiritual family experiences we have been privileged to have since our marriage. The Lord made Patrick’s presence and even his death sweet to us, and we cherish not only the memory of Patrick himself, but also the memory of those few special and sacred days we spent together. At that time we studied as thoroughly as possible the doctrines and writings of the Church regarding little children who die. As parents and as a family we cannot express how grateful we are for those promises and the future they hold. I want to say that we do not as a family constantly think and talk about Patrick, but we make a conscious effort not to forget him, nor to forget the special family challenge and promise he has given us.

In April 2010, Evelyn Vigil was concerned that her husband, Amado, was losing his faith. He had not attended any church for 11 years, having arrived at the conclusion that the true Church did not exist. Meanwhile, Evelyn had never stopped believing in God, and she went from one church to another, yearning to hear His word but never satisfied with what she heard. Some mornings she awoke in tears. On such days, she pled for guidance from her Heavenly Father. She asked Him why she never felt right in any of the churches she attended, even though she wanted so desperately to learn of Him. She also prayed that her family would someday find unity in one church.
“Our story began,” Amado recalls, “when we found a pair of elders—rather, when they found us. We were leaving the home of Evelyn’s parents, and we were carrying shopping bags. We noticed that the elders had seen us and were crossing the street toward us. One of them kindly asked if they could help us.
“They also asked if we would allow them to visit us. I said yes, mostly out of curiosity. Up to that point, I didn’t know much about the Church—only comments I had heard from other people.
“After I agreed to let the elders visit our home, I told my wife, ‘Don’t get too excited about this. Don’t get any illusions about me deciding to join a church. I’m just curious to see what they have to say.’
“The elders started visiting us. I was ready to politely tell them to go away if they said anything that didn’t seem right to me. But they were so kind, and I was impressed that they never said anything bad about other churches. They taught with such love and diligence, and they were patient when I asked many questions. They quickly endeared themselves to us.”
Bit by bit, Amado and Evelyn prepared themselves to be baptized and confirmed members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Evelyn’s biggest challenge was the Word of Wisdom. She was saddened by the realization that she would need to let go of her desire for coffee. Amado didn’t need to let go of any bad habits; he just needed to learn to grab hold of the truth. He believed what the missionaries were teaching, and he even recognized many doctrines and practices that he and his wife had felt were missing from other churches, such as eternal families, baptisms for the dead, and fellowship and organization in the Church. But he hesitated to commit to be baptized. He worried that he would join the Church only to find that he had made the wrong decision.
These concerns soon faded. Evelyn prayed for help and overcame her coffee habit, saying, “I’m not going to let this keep me from receiving blessings.” After about two months of indecision, Amado committed to be baptized. Now, according to Evelyn, he frequently says, “We need to embrace the doctrine.”
Amado, Evelyn, and Michelle were baptized and confirmed in early July 2010. “From the time that we were baptized,” Evelyn says, “I could feel that everything started to change. My family was united in the Church. We had found the restored gospel. We have had trials and sickness since then, but our Heavenly Father has poured many blessings on us.”
Amado observes: “The first change I noticed was unity in our family. It’s not that we were dysfunctional before, but we started to unite more. The doctrines of the gospel helped us. As Church leaders taught us about the sacredness of the family, we thought more about the value we should place on our family.”

As a high school student, I determined that I would act on this advice and try to obtain my own testimony of the gospel. I wanted to know that it was true. So I carefully read the Book of Mormon, underlining as I went, making notes about memorable passages. When I finished I felt a great sense of anticipation about Moroni’s promise. I knelt down and prayed, trying to learn for myself whether this book was true or not. Although I prayed off and on for several weeks with what I thought was “real intent” and determination, I failed to recognize an answer. When my friends stood in fast meeting to express their testimonies, my parents were disappointed that I did not. I told them that I was trying, but that a testimony had just not come to me yet. I could not be dishonest. I worried and wondered what I was doing wrong. Perhaps my life was not good enough for the Lord to recognize my question—or maybe there was something wrong with the way I was praying—or perhaps I just didn’t know how to recognize an answer when it came.
The prayer and study went on for two more years, during which I read the Book of Mormon a second time, and then my bishop asked me to go on a mission. On one hand, I was elated, because I had always wanted to serve a mission; but on the other hand, I was very worried, because my testimony had not been granted. How would I convince others if I could not speak with conviction? My brother was going on a mission at the same time, and my parents, who were of very modest means, pledged themselves to our financial support.
When I went for my interview with the stake president, he surprised me by suggesting that I remain at home until my older brother returned—to lessen the financial burden on my parents. Greatly disappointed, I returned home to relay this sad advice to my father, normally a quiet, soft-spoken man. My father was distressed. He expressed strongly held feelings that I should go at the same time as my brother, and that the Lord would help us to meet the financial obligation. He put on his coat and announced that he was going to talk with the stake president. “You are going on a mission—and you are going now!” he said with conviction I had never seen in him before. Before he left, he wanted us all to kneel in family prayer. My father uttered a simple, short prayer, expressing thanks for blessings, and asking for help in his talk with the stake president and for help for his sons as they prepared to leave for the mission field.
As I listened with faith to that prayer and tried to look into the future, I was spiritually moved beyond anything I can describe. At that instant, I received a testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel. I was overcome with a feeling of happiness and excitement, as if to say that my father would be successful in his own little mission, which he was. But I also knew absolutely that I would be able to go on a mission (as I did to New Zealand) and testify with honesty and certainty to anyone who would listen to me. It was an enormously satisfying experience. My previous anxieties about being a missionary without the conviction of a testimony were gone. The Lord had answered my prayers—although in a way that I had not expected. As for my parents—they successfully supported their two sons as missionaries for two years and prospered financially as they had never done before.

My mother fought cancer for nearly 10 years. Treatments and surgeries and finally confinement to her bed were some of her trials.
I remember my father saying as he watched her take her last breath, “A little girl has gone home to rest.”
One of the speakers at her funeral was President Spencer W. Kimball. Among the tributes he paid, I remember one that went something like this: “Some of you may have thought that Mildred suffered so long and so much because of something she had done wrong that required the trials.” He then said, “No, it was that God just wanted her to be polished a little more.” I remember at the time thinking, “If a woman that good needed that much polishing, what is ahead for me?”

The young women of the Chennai Second Branch, Chennai India District, wanted to encourage branch members to hold family home evening. It didn’t take them long to come up with a simple but practical idea. They made family home evening wheels: charts with a spinner to keep track of assignments like saying prayers, giving the lesson, and preparing a “sweet.”
The paper wheels were simple but colorful. They were assembled at a Young Women activity at the meetinghouse one night, each one personalized with photos of the family it was made for. Two of the young women, Sushmitha Santhosh Kumar, 15, and her sister Sujeetha, 14, were especially excited when they learned that as new members of the Church, they and their family would receive the first wheel.
“After Mutual we went as a group to their apartment and presented the wheel to their father,” says Daisy Daniel, 16. “The whole family seemed pleased.” The family had already talked about family home evening with the full-time missionaries, and the wheel gave them an added incentive to follow up on what they had learned.
The young women also made enough wheels to give one to each of the families of the Primary children in the branch. Then they made additional wheels for the full-time missionaries to give to new converts.
“Many of us in the branch are new members, and we aren’t used to holding family home evening,” Daisy says. “But I have a testimony that family home evening will help children and parents to pull together, and I hope that whenever these families see the family home evening wheel, they will think, ‘OK, our Church members love us, and they gave us this reminder, so let’s have our family home evening.’” She predicts that soon family home evening will be a weekly event for many people in the branch.

Remembering some of her experiences in Primary and Sunday School, Sister Smith said, “One time after I had given a two-and-a-half minute talk, I thought I had done quite well. But a certain brother said, ‘I was really disappointed in you.’ I felt crushed and asked, “What didn’t I do?’

“He said, ‘You didn’t smile.’

“I think that made me realize that you need to smile often if you want people to feel comfortable with you. Now that I’ve learned how to genuinely smile at people, it has made a big difference in my life. Smiling is a signal of friendship. Heavenly Father has told us that one of our purposes here is to experience joy. I think that smiling is one way to reach that goal.”

Many teens in the South run to Florida beaches for spring break, but cousins Marty Craig, an elder in the Newnan Ward, Jonesboro Georgia Stake, and John ‘Mac’ Williams, a recent convert and priest in the Woodstock Ward, East Marietta Georgia Stake, headed to Honduras.
And it wasn’t for fun and games. They worked hard to help finish a dam for an 11-acre reservoir to power a generator for a boys’ school. Not only that, but they helped collect shirts, hats, candy, and machinery in Georgia to take down to the school. Oh, and of course they milked cows, helped build a new building, and shoveled and bagged rice. The school, “El Sembrador,” is almost self-sufficient now.
They also brought four copies of the Book of Mormon with them and personally presented them to some of the young men at the school. Marty is now continuing his missionary work full-time in the Dominican Republic. Mac will follow him into the mission field as soon as he graduates.

Attention Scouts! All that time spent in first-aid workshops can really pay off. It has for Rhyan Donahoe of the Tuckahoe Ward, Richmond Virginia Stake. At 15, he’s already been able to save two lives by using the Heimlich maneuver.
Rhyan works at Ginter Hall, a retirement/convalescent center. That’s where he had the opportunity to save two elderly patients’ lives. The nurses there are impressed with Rhyan’s quick-thinking, take-charge attitude. Rhyan says humbly, “I’m glad I was able to help.”

When I was 14 or 15 years old, I worked for my father in the family dry cleaning business during what free time I had. That summer, business was slow. So I said, “OK, I want to read the entire Book of Mormon—from the first page to the last.” And I did. The reading excited me.
In the edition of the Book of Mormon I had, Moroni’s promise was printed on one of the opening pages. That promise struck me. If someone read the book and then asked God, He would answer (see Moro. 10:3–5). I had heard the promise before, but in that moment the Holy Ghost impressed it upon my heart.
After finishing the last page of the book, I knelt in a small private room at work and prayed to Heavenly Father. And through the Holy Ghost I received the testimony I sought. From the tip of my toes to the last hair on my head, I felt that the Book of Mormon was the word of God and that Joseph Smith was a prophet.