Gospel Story Finder

Recently, I visited the mother of a large family, whom I have known and admired for many years. I have watched her children grow and develop. Education, missions, temple marriages were all part of their program. I asked her what was the secret of her success. Modestly, she told me that success had not yet been achieved, that life was a continual series of tests and challenges. But she did indicate that keeping close family ties had been very important in their lives.

She said, “We have recognized that each family member needs to be treated with dignity and respect. Though the capabilities and talents of each are different, each needs to know he or she is a child of God, loved by Him. We hold regular family conferences (even after the children are married). We feel since the Church has general conference for the edification and instruction of the saints, we need to have family conferences for the same purpose. The have truly strengthened the love in our family.”

“I used to spend a lot of time with my friends,” says Orlando Irizarry, a cabinetmaker in Cabo Rojo, “but I felt something was missing from my life. I wondered what my wife, Irma, and I could give our three daughters that would be of lasting value. I began to pray about these feelings, and so when the missionaries came to our home, I felt as if I had been waiting for them and their message. Now the gospel brings joy into our lives, and my daughters have that which matters most.”

If you are Vaga Babayan, 16, of the Severozamoskvoretsky Branch, you’ll rejoice in the hope of the future.
Two years ago, Vaga and his family, frightened by continual earthquakes in Armenia, moved to Moscow. His father found employment in a bakery run by relatives. Although Vaga studies hard all day, he also helps with the family business.
“One day my father and my sister met the missionaries. Dad invited them to our house. My mother had been searching for the truth and was excited to learn. They kept teaching us. Every time they came over, I felt a warmth in my soul. Three months later, my mother, my sister, and I were baptized.” His father, in Vaga’s words, is “still working” toward baptism.
“There are a lot of great things in Moscow,” Vaga says. “But the greatest of all is that I became acquainted with the Church here. The growth of the Church in Russia is creating a new history in our own lives.”
The power to change. That’s also a great gift, a gift even those with 850 years of experience might appreciate.

My two-year-old son, Brian, was playing in the sandbox with his friend Scotty. Suddenly, sand was thrown, feelings were hurt, and Scotty started crying. I started toward the sandbox to initiate a parent’s perennial patching up, but before I had taken two steps, Brian reached out and hugged Scotty. Tears stopped as quickly as they began, hurt feelings were mended, and friends were reconciled. Then they both continued playing as before.

Last year, my Primary teacher asked us to pray for a girl in our class who hadn’t come to church. I decided to remember her in my personal prayers too. I prayed for her all year, even though I didn’t know her. I reminded my family to include her during family prayer too. I was so happy because that friend came to Primary on Christmas Sunday! She is now my friend and comes to church sometimes. I know Heavenly Father heard those prayers.
Campbell D., age 5, California, USA

Christianity celebrates the life and ministry of Jesus Christ, the Only Begotten Son of God the Eternal Father. Christian churches with great variations of doctrine dot the land the world over. When 14-year-old Cortnee, a daughter of a mission president, entered a new high school as a freshman, she was asked by classmates if she was a Christian. They scoffed at her response that she was a Mormon, a common reference to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Upon arriving home, she asked her mother, “Mom, are we Christians?”
Cortnee asked, “Mom, are we Christians?” As a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, you are a Christian, and I am too. I am a devout Christian who is exceedingly fortunate to have greater knowledge of the true “doctrine of Christ” since my conversion to the restored Church. These truths define this Church as having the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Like other members of the Church, I now understand the true nature of the Godhead, I have access to additional scripture and revelation, and I can partake of the blessings of priesthood authority. Yes, Cortnee, we are Christians, and I testify of these truths in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Now I will skip to 1906 when my father was called to be a member of the Quorum of the Twelve. There were three men appointed in that same conference, in this order: George F. Richards (my father), Orson F. Whitney, and David O. McKay. I was at that time serving as the secretary of the Netherlands Mission, and just a few days before that conference was held, I received a letter from my father that read like this: “My son, I had a remarkable dream last night. I dreamed that the Savior came and took me in his arms, and as I found me in my Master’s embrace, the love that filled my heart can’t be compared with the love that a man feels for a woman. I feel the meaning of the words of the song, ‘I Need Thee Every Hour.’”

Then, just two or three days after I received that letter, a cablegram came to our office, the mission headquarters. It was addressed to President Grant, who was then president of the European Mission, and he was up in Berlin. We used to open the telegrams to see if they were important enough to try to relay. As for this telegram, I can quote you the exact words. It read this way: “Cowley and Taylor deposed. Richards, Whitney, and McKay appointed.” When I read that, I figured that the dream my father had just had, of which I had just received word in that letter, was to let him know that he was being called by revelation.

President Grant was due in Rotterdam the next morning so I went to the station to meet him. I handed him the telegram–I had sealed it up again–and he opened and read it, and he said, “Well, well. Cowley and Taylor deposed. Richards, Whitney, and McKay appointed.” Then he said, “I wonder who this Richards could be.” I could have told him but I waited for him to tell me. “There’s your father, your uncle Charlie, your uncle Franklin”–and then he said, “I guess it’s your daddy; Brother Lyman thinks he’s the salt of the earth.” Well, these are experiences that one does not usually forget.

I have had similar experiences in my spiritual life. At Christmastime, after my first child was born, Margo and I traveled back to Utah from Wisconsin, where I was studying physics. When my daughter, Melanie, got an ear infection, we found that we were missing two really important things: insurance coverage and money—two things that many of you have trouble with, too. She cried and cried, and it started to look like a budget-busting Sunday night trip to the emergency room was going to be required. In desperation I went to a bedroom in my in-laws’ house, where we were staying, closed the door, held her in my arms, and gave her a priesthood blessing. She immediately settled down and went to sleep, and the next day a kind doctor treated her ear infection (for cheap) in his office.

A couple of months before my sophomore year in high school, my mom took me shopping for school clothes. While I was trying on a shirt that was probably a couple of sizes too small for me, I decided to model it for my mom and act like I wanted it. When I opened the dressing room door, my mom’s reaction was not what I had imagined.
“What’s that hump on your back?”
“What hump? It’s just a shirt.”
My mom studied my back then immediately called and scheduled an appointment for me to see a specialist. The look of concern on her face scared me.
Days later, in the specialist’s office, we learned that I had a severe case of scoliosis, extreme curvature of the spine. There are four levels of scoliosis, and mine was a level three. If I could decrease the curve to level two, then I wouldn’t need surgery. We began doing everything we could, but the curve of my spine was increasing. The next step was to try a back brace. My first day of school was the day I was fitted.
The brace was very uncomfortable. I had to wear a layer underneath, or the brace would leave a nasty rash. I also wore a layer over the brace so it wouldn’t rub holes in my nice school shirts. Wearing that many layers in Arizona wasn’t the easiest thing to do. There were days I left school early because of heat exhaustion. Other days I came home feeling hideous and gross. At times I would lie on the floor for hours because it hurt to move. I tried to be brave, but I often cried myself to sleep. It all seemed too much for me to handle.
Classes were hard. I remember days I would pray the seminary hymn was one I knew, since I was unable to reach the hymnbook from under my desk. In traffic safety class, my brace kept me from driving in reverse because I couldn’t turn around. I dropped my pencil during tests and couldn’t pick it up. Dance used to be my favorite class, but it became my hardest. My mom helped me dress every morning. She even tied my shoes for me.
Through all this I persisted in studying my scriptures. Every night I prayed with a fervent heart for a miracle. In my journal I described days where the pain was unbearable, but I always, on every page, reminded myself of my Savior. “I know He’ll help me get through this,” I would write. “Someday He’ll give me my miracle.”
Halfway through the year, things began looking up. I was preparing to receive my patriarchal blessing, and I had a strong feeling that somehow this blessing could be my miracle. I attentively listened as the patriarch said, “Remember, Nicole, faith works miracles.” An overwhelming sensation burned inside of me. I had been praying for a miracle since day one. I thought for sure my miracle was coming.
For once, I couldn’t wait for my next doctor’s appointment. I just knew that the X-rays would be good. But when the day arrived and the doctor walked in and posted my X-rays, I felt complete shock. The curvature of my spine was worse than ever. I didn’t understand. I was praying, reading my scriptures, keeping a journal, and fasting. I was doing everything to keep my faith and my testimony strong. What was I doing wrong?
That night I knelt by my bed and poured out all my thoughts and feelings to my Father in Heaven. I told Him of the pain I was in and how confused I was. I asked to have the faith I needed for a miracle to take place in my life.
After many prayers, we found a different doctor. The X-rays in his office were, unfortunately, the same. His first words to me were, “So, I bet you were expecting a miracle.”
I just nodded my head.
The doctor began explaining his procedure for surgery, then he said exactly what I needed to hear. “Surgery,” he said, “is the miracle.” That overwhelming sensation began to burn inside me once more.
I accepted the option of surgery. Of course, there were still challenges, but I recovered faster than any of my doctor’s other patients. I knew my Father in Heaven blessed me and answered my prayers. Surgery may not have been the miracle I was expecting, or even hoping for, but it was the one I needed. It was the one I learned the most from.
Words can’t explain in full detail all this experience brought me. Words can’t describe the pain, the heartache, or the daily challenges. Most of all, words can’t describe the closeness I felt to my Savior.
It doesn’t matter how many things you’re doing right; adversity will still come. Just think of everything our Savior went through, and He was absolutely perfect. Thinking of my Savior is what got me through my hardship. It was the most painful time in my life, but because of Him, I was happy.

A few years ago, Sister Cook and I were in Vava’u in the Tongan Islands. I had just spoken about following the Prophet in the general session of stake conference. At the luncheon following the conference, I sat next to a distinguished elderly patriarch. He indicated how grateful he was to hear what the Prophet was teaching. He gave me the following account:

Vava’u, which is a relatively small island, usually has sufficient rain, but periodically there are severe droughts. The island has long inlets or bays, almost like sounds, which curl into the island below steep hills. When drought conditions left the village without water, there was only one way they could obtain fresh water and stay alive. Over the centuries, they had found that fresh water traveled down through rock formations inside the mountains and came up in a few spots in the sea.

The Tongan men would set off in their small boats with a wise elder standing at one end of the boat looking for just the right spot. The strong young men in the boat stood ready with containers to dive deep into the sea water. When they reached the appropriate spot, the wise man would raise both arms to heaven. That was the signal. The strong young men would dive off the boat as deep as they could and fill the containers with fresh spring water.

This old patriarch likened this life saving tradition to the living waters of the gospel of Jesus Christ and the wise man to God’s prophet here on earth. He noted that the water was pure, fresh, and in their drought condition—life saving. But it was not easy to find. It was not visible to the untrained eye. This patriarch wanted to know everything the prophet was teaching.

During World War II, the Latter-day Saints in Princeton met for church in our house. I learned then that the Church is not a building; the Church isn’t even a lot of people. I felt close to Heavenly Father and knew that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is His Church; it didn’t matter that our little branch met in our dining room. It was fun because when I came downstairs on Sunday, I was in church.
The branch members were my father, the branch president; my mother, who played the piano; my two brothers and me, the only youth in the branch; a few graduate students or servicemen; and a few older women who were converts to the Church and whose husbands were not members. Rarely would there be more than 10 or 15 people attending.
The sacrament was prepared on the dining room table, which also served as the pulpit. During fast and testimony meeting, I always wondered why the older women cried. I later realized that they cried because they were so happy and grateful to be with the Latter-day Saints in that little branch.

Refugee camps are temporary settlements for people who are forced to leave their home because of war or other reasons. They’re meant to offer safety, and this one did so, but life for Muriel and her family was still a long way from easy.
“We were grateful to be away from the war,” Muriel says. “And the people who ran the camp did the best they could to help us, but there wasn’t enough.”
Not enough food, not enough shelter, not enough medicine—not enough of anything.
“Insects would bite us at night,” she remembers. “And we would be without food for days at a time. There was also a lot of disease in the camp.”
The refugee settlement camp today.
Photograph from Getty Images
Muriel and her family were not members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints at the time, but they were devoted and practicing Christians. They had rock-solid faith in God and in His Son, Jesus Christ. “My parents kept telling me that I can always pray and fast.”
So that’s what she did. As a child in a refugee camp, at an age when many kids are learning to read and write, Muriel was praying every day for survival. She prayed for food. She prayed for safety. She prayed for the strength and courage to keep going.
And she saw God work miracles in their lives.
“God got us away from the war,” she says, “so I knew I could trust Him. Whenever we needed Him the most, like when we had nothing to eat for so long, He always blessed us. He worked small miracles that built up my faith in Him.”

Finally it was September 22, 1824, and Joseph gazed again on the wonderful gold record. By now he felt certain he could keep all the requirements of God. Maybe this time I can bring the plates back with me, he thought hopefully. As he lifted up the record, it darted through his mind that there might be something else of value in the stone box and that he should cover it. He very carefully laid the plates down upon the ground, and after covering the box, he turned again to pick up the record. It was gone! Cold fear gripped him. Frantically he knelt and began to pray. As he did so, the angel Moroni appeared and reminded Joseph he had forgotten the instructions and had been careless with the plates. After talking further with Joseph, the angel again permitted him to raise the stone top and view the plates. But this time as Joseph reached in to take them, he was hurled violently to the ground. When he picked himself up, the angel was gone.
Tears streamed down Joseph’s face. He was bitterly disappointed with himself. How could he have been so careless, to have forgotten for a single instant the angel’s instructions!
As he sorrowfully made his way home along the Canandaigua Road, his toe hit a sharp rock. He bent over and picked it up. “I am like that stone,” he cried aloud in the thickening dusk, “a rough stone in need of the hammer and chisel.” He clenched his fists in despair. “The Lord needs a polished shaft to serve him and I have so much to learn,” he acknowledged humbly. Now he knew he must wait patiently for the beginning of the great work assigned to him.

For example, in 1909, the Portuguese king D. Manuel II appointed by royal decree the grandmother of Sister Teixeira as a teacher of the Portuguese language in Angola—then an African colony of Portugal that had been founded in 1575.

Sister Teixeira’s father, Arnaldo Teles Grilo, graduated from the University of Lisbon in Portugal as an engineer. He began his career with the National Agency of Agriculture and later went to Angola, where he became a successful executive in a Portuguese bank and led its operations there. As a result, Sister Teixeira spent a great part of her childhood in Africa.

Life in Africa was wonderful for her and was full of joyful experiences. She had the love of immediate and extended family around her and all the comforts that life can provide—until, suddenly, a war emerged. Her family found themselves in the midst of an unstoppable conflict that ultimately compelled them to return to Portugal and leave behind all of their abundant possessions.

Despite the confusion and turmoil generated by a war that gradually consumed all peace and stability during their last months in Africa, Teles Grilo helped a friend escape the war by ­giving him a reliable car that he had recently ­purchased at the Mercedes Benz factory in Stuttgart, Germany (see José A. Teixeira, “Facing the Future with Hope,” Ensign, July 2012).

Ironically, of all the possessions that Teles Grilo and his family had acquired and left behind in Angola—including homes, art pieces, and one of the largest private collections of books in that country—the only possession that was returned to him back in Portugal was the one he had given to someone in need. Yes, his friend shipped the Mercedes Benz back to Portugal from South Africa with a note of thanks, saying that Teles Grilo’s love and compassion had saved his life and the life of his mother.

Sister Teixeira and her family returned to Portugal after this tragic war to find what would become one of their most precious blessings: the missionaries began to teach them the message of the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

The teachings of the plan of salvation made an impression on Sister Teixeira and her family. They had many other priorities at that time, including reorganizing their lives after the recent tragic events, yet they decided that their greatest priority was to do those things that would enable them to return to their Heavenly Father. They were baptized, and later they traveled to Switzerland to be sealed in the temple.

Thinking back to my first ward road show, I distinctly remember the early-morning practices, the prayers, the talking to others as we waited to perform our parts, and the camaraderie we felt as we painted scenery, practiced, and learned together. These were the times when I watched how the gospel worked in the real lives of real people. I saw how my advisers handled problems, how leaders reacted under pressure, how spouses related to each other, and I made silent decisions about living the principles I was being taught on Sunday. I felt the Spirit as we prayed for miracles, such as remembering our parts or the health of one of the youth.
I don’t remember my lines from that road show, nor do I remember all the other particulars. But I do remember how I felt as we performed and as I looked into the faces of my ward members and saw their approval and felt their love.

A tragic example of this tendency is the story of Ignaz Semmelweis, a Hungarian physician who practiced medicine during the mid-nineteenth century. Early in his career, Dr. Semmelweis learned that 10 percent of the women who came to his clinic died of childbed fever, while the death rate at a nearby clinic was less than 4 percent. He was determined to find out why.

After investigating the two clinics, Dr. Semmelweis concluded that the only significant difference was that his was a teaching clinic where corpses were examined. He observed doctors who went directly from performing autopsies to delivering babies. He concluded that somehow the corpses had contaminated their hands and caused the deadly fevers.

When he began to recommend that doctors scrub their hands with a chlorinated lime solution, he was met with indifference and even scorn. His conclusions contradicted the “truths” of other doctors. Some of his colleagues even believed that it was absurd to think that a doctor’s hand could be impure or cause sickness.

But Semmelweis insisted, and he made it a policy for doctors in his clinic to wash their hands before delivering babies. As a consequence, the death rate promptly dropped by 90 percent. Semmelweis felt vindicated and was certain that this practice would now be adopted throughout the medical community. But he was wrong. Even his dramatic results were not enough to change the minds of many doctors of the day.

I know that the healing power is in the Church and that numerous people are healed or improved or restored through the blessings of the Lord, sometimes with and without the skill of men.

We should do all we can for ourselves first: dieting, resting, taking simple herbs known to be effective, and applying common sense, especially to minor trouble. Then we could send for the elders, the home teachers, the neighbors or friends in whom we have confidence. Frequently this is all that is required, and numerous healings can be effected. In serious cases where the problem is not solved, we turn to our skilled and helpful men who can help so wonderfully. One young woman who was sent to the hospital for serious surgery, and who was very nervous and afraid, stated that when the doctor came to see her the night before the early morning surgery, he indicated he had been to the temple. She relaxed and felt at peace, realizing that she was in the hands of a righteous, skilled man of faith and the Lord was watching.

Everybody had finished the spaghetti, the cake was being served, and Leonard Potts Junior and the Barnstormers were banging up a cloudburst. John Phillip Sousa would have fainted dead away, but “The Stars and Stripes Forever” had never been played with more enthusiasm.
“Za-za-zee-za-za, thwack,” duetted the kazoo and bucket. In the cultural hall parents futilely pulled their children down from precarious tiptoe perches on folding chairs.
“Thomas, stop that,” reprimanded one young mother as she snatched two ragout-smeared paper plates from her son who had been intently banging them together in accompaniment to a trash-can-lid solo.
Mothers looked in exasperation at each other. After tonight nothing bangable would be safe around their offspring.
The jugs finished their solo. “Hooga hooga hunk hunk hunk hunk hunk.” Then as the band geared up for a crashing finale, even the ward organist was stomping her feet and clapping her hands. She stopped when she caught herself shouting, “Eeee-haaa!” The Relief Society president looked over the long rows of tables in amazement. “It’s the first time,” she muttered, “the kids haven’t been most interested in who got the biggest piece of cake.” The aspiring mother of a concert pianist smiled in anguish as her future prodigy looked earnestly in her face and asked, “Mom, can I learn to play the washboard like Leonard Potts?”
After wolfing down the remains of the ward dinner, the Barnstormers packed away their jugs, garbage cans, broomsticks, cardboard boxes, kazoos, and washboards. But before you could say “possum up a gum tree,” someone from the audience came and asked Leonard if his band would play at the next stake dance. “Sure,” said Leonard dropping completely the loquacious southern drawl he had used during the show, “we’d be happy to.”

Then there was the talent show where, for the first time, the students who could play the piano, sing, dance or act were recognized. “The best thing,” said Sue, “was that we have these very talented people and they never get recognized like the athletes do. That was our point. People you never hear about were excited to be in the show. We held a performance for the students and another for the parents.”

For nine months I commuted each day between Provo and Salt Lake City. Some days I would arrive home after more than an hour’s drive with no independent memory of the journey—just an unsettled, worried feeling. On other occasions I used the time to meditate and to pray and to even sing hymns that I would make up spontaneously. From my journal I share the following:

Yesterday morning I had a profound experience. Driving to Provo, I thought about Adam-ondi-Ahman and the Savior’s return. I spontaneously sang a hymn of praise looking forward to that day. It was as if I could see that sacred place and feel the Spirit. I pictured a spring morning, mature trees in the valley, dew on the grass, all nature shouting praise at the triumphal return of the King. I imagined all of the dispensational prophets from Adam down to Joseph. The words of my hymn flowed, and the Spirit bore witness to my spirit that His appearance at Adam-ondi-Ahman would occur. . . . What a cherished hope—when the earth, which I love, is renewed and receives its paradisiacal glory—when war and death and hunger and hatred are no more.