Gospel Story Finder

Elder Bednar also explained that a disciple’s faith is a spiritual gift and that it dispels fear. Can I tell you how I know that faith can dispel fear? To do so I want to tell you about Agim Shehu. Agim’s wife, Aisha, joined the church a few years ago. Her husband was a very spiritual man, but a stroke had left him partially paralyzed and he had been unable to leave his little fifth floor apartment for the past 6 ½ years. I first heard of Agim from Sister Shehu when I met her one day coming into the mission office to enlarge some pages of the Book of Mormon for Agim to read. Following up on an invitation to visit Agim, Sister Kinghorn and a couple of elders were able to officially meet him at their apartment a few days later. Brothers and Sisters, I wish I could adequately describe their humble little apartment. Maybe I can’t do that, but I can tell you about the tremendous spirit that exists in his home.

It didn’t take long for me to determine that Agim had a beautiful testimony of the gospel. I told him so and I told him that he needed to be baptized. I remember his response. How he would love to, he said, but he just couldn’t leave his apartment. With the stroke, his steps were reduced to slow, difficult shuffle of only an inch or so per step and they lived on the 5th floor. I think Sister Kinghorn wondered about my sanity at the time, but I told Agim to look at those two big, strong elders–I said, they can carry you down. (They probably wondered about me, too.) Anyway, to make a long story, short, the next week, Agim was out of his apartment for the first time in over 6 years–and in church. And he had done it on his own.

With faith in the Lord and in himself and in a great desire to be baptized he had got up very early that next Sunday morning and 1" at a time, 1 step at a time, he had gotten out of his apartment and down the five flights of stairs on his own. The elders had been by his side and had a taxi waiting for him. Two weeks of teaching the discussions to him and he was baptized. Brothers and sisters, Agim has since received the Melchizedek Priesthood and he and Aisha have been sealed together in the Frankfurt, Germany Temple. I want you to know that a disciple of Christ must have faith to “step” into the unknown.

A number of years ago I was a young assistant professor living in Ithaca, New York. I had been asked to be on a committee for the Modern Language Association that was scheduled to meet soon at Pennsylvania State University. The association was going to pay all of the expenses, and I thought I was pretty hot stuff. But the first part of the trip was a disaster. The small commuter plane I took almost hit a herd of deer when it was landing. My luggage was lost. I had to wait an unusually long time for the shuttle to the hotel. A sudden storm caused a power outage in the city, and the hotel had no electricity. Even though my expenses were to be paid, I learned while checking in that I was expected to pay for the hotel and my meals in advance, then be reimbursed later. I had brought very little money.

After checking in I went to my dark room and sat on the bed, feeling sorry for myself. The storm had cleared and the rays of the setting sun came through my window and provided sufficient light for me to see a Gideon Bible lying on a nightstand next to the bed. I opened it up and immediately saw the verse in Matthew 11:28: “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” I immediately felt much better, but I also felt ashamed, because I knew that the Savior probably had more serious cases in mind than lost luggage and a power outage. But the message was appreciated. The scriptures can teach and enlighten us, and we should make them a part of our daily lives. We should feast on the words of the Lord frequently.

Like my mother and my grandmothers, my wife, Delores, is a woman of faith. She has never complained about our Church assignments. In 1978 our six little daughters were all under age 12. We accepted a call to preside over a mission in Mexico, leaving behind our home and the year’s supply of food she’d worked hard to store. A few weeks after we accepted the mission call, she told me, “I think our seventh child is on the way.” Delores had no idea what medical care might be available in Mexico, or what having a baby in Mexico might be like. Many years after this experience, she told me that as we were leaving for Mexico on the airplane, she looked at our six beautiful daughters. Silently, she prayed that when we returned home in a few years, each of those six seats would be filled. We came home with eight children—each a blessing from the Lord. Delores likes to say that when we put the Lord’s work first, He blesses all our other work too.

Liliana loved Primary. She loved the lessons. She loved the pictures her teacher drew on the chalkboard to go with the stories. She loved the games they played and the things they made. Most of all, she loved singing the Primary songs while Hermana (Sister) Soto played the sweet melodies on the piano. She always listened as the notes lingered on after the singing stopped.
Today, though, Liliana was worried about going to Primary. She was worried because she would not be going to her own Primary. Her family was visiting her abuelo (grandfather) in a village just outside of Iquitos, Peru.
Things were very different in Iquitos than in the big city of Lima, where Liliana lived. It was always hot and steamy, and the buses and cars had no glass on the windows. Most of the homes out where Abuelo lived had straw roofs and were built on stilts so that they wouldn’t get flooded during the rainy season.
“Where’s the chapel?” she asked as she and Abuelo strolled down a dirt path, just ahead of her parents. Abuelo stopped, bent down to Liliana’s eye level, and pointed to a small hut barely visible in the distance. “That’s it? That hut at the end of the path?”
“Sí (yes),” Abuelo replied. “That is where our little branch meets each Sunday. It is the home of our branch president.”
When they reached the hut, Liliana followed Abuelo to one side of the large, one-room dwelling and sat, cross-legged, on the straw mats that covered the wooden floor. She looked around. There were no chairs, no benches, and no piano. All that she saw was a table at the front of the room with the scriptures on it and, to the side, another, smaller table covered with a white cloth.
Several more families came in and greeted Abuelo, Liliana, and her parents. When they were all settled, the meeting began.
It seemed really strange to sing without a piano and to sit on the floor, but as the sacrament was blessed and passed by one young man, it seemed more like sacrament meeting.
When it was over, Abuelo said, “It’s time for you to go to Primary.”
She looked around. There were less than a dozen children and no other rooms in the house. “Where is Primary, Abuelo?”
“Follow me,” a girl about Liliana’s age told her as she headed for the door. “I’ll show you where it is. My name’s Elena,” she added as they climbed down the ladder and headed around the back of the hut. “What’s yours?”
“Liliana.”
“Here we are,” Elena said as they reached a small clearing at the edge of the rain forest.
Liliana was astonished to see children of all ages sitting together on a fallen tree trunk propped up with mounds of dirt. The teacher was sitting on a rock just across from them. This isn’t Primary! she thought, sitting down next to Elena. Only one class? Outside? No table? No chalkboard? No chairs? Her heart sank. She longed to hear the beautiful melodies of the songs she knew and to see the familiar faces of her friends and teacher.
The lesson began. Liliana sat silently in the sticky heat. ¡Pobrecitos (These poor kids)! she thought. They don’t know what Primary is really like. How can they even pay attention with all the bird and insect noises?
The teacher began telling a story. She drew pictures in the dirt with a long stick. Then she had the children come up and act out what they thought would happen next. Later they went into the rain forest and played a game called “Follow the Spirit.” It was so beautiful, and Liliana was having so much fun, that she forgot how disappointed she had been.
As Primary time was coming to a close, the children gathered back in the clearing and sat down on the log. “Let’s have a closing song and a prayer,” announced the teacher. As the group of children sang “Soy un hijo de Dios” (“I Am a Child of God”) with all their hearts, tears came to Liliana’s eyes. Suddenly she realized that Primary was Primary, no matter where you were, or what kind of a chapel you had. Heavenly Father loves all His children just the same, and we can learn about Him anywhere. As the song ended, she listened as the notes lingered and echoed through the trees.
As she sat in Primary in Lima the next month, Liliana ached to take a walk in the rain forest and to see the smiling faces of her new friends there. And during singing time, she missed the rich accompaniment of the tropical birds and bugs. ¡Pobrecitos! she thought. They don’t know what Primary can really be like!

Prophets have charge for the whole earth, not just for members of the Church. I can report from my own experience how personally and devotedly the First Presidency takes that charge. As needs grow, the First Presidency has charged us to increase our humanitarian outreach in a significant way. They are interested in the largest trends and the smallest details.

Recently, we brought to them one of the protective medical gowns that Beehive Clothing sewed for hospitals to use during the pandemic. As a medical doctor, President Russell M. Nelson was highly interested. He didn’t want to just see it. He wanted to try it on—check the cuffs and the length and the way it tied in the back. He told us later, with emotion in his voice, “When you meet with people on your assignments, thank them for their fasting, their offerings, and their ministering in the name of the Lord.”

Much of the perseverance of our pioneer ancestors can be traced to the blessings they received through serving the Lord of Hosts valiantly by building the temple, then making the covenants and receiving the ordinances in it.
“Erastus Snow summarized the feelings of many as he testified: ‘The Spirit, Power and wisdom of God reigned continually in the Temple and all felt satisfied that during the [short time] we occupied it in the endowments of the Saints, we were amply paid for all our labor in building it.’"[52]
Sarah Rich expressed what the temple blessings meant to her:
"The work of giving endowments commenced. President Young chose many brothers and sisters to come to the Temple and assist in giving endowments. Among those chosen was Mr. Rich and myself. We were to be there in the morning and remain until work was done at ten or twelve o’clock at night if necessary. . . . We helped in the House of the Lord to give endowments . . . until the house was closed and we as a people commenced to prepare ourselves to depart to the Rocky Mountains."
"Many were the blessings we had received in the House of the Lord which has caused us joy and comfort in the midst of all our sorrows, and enabled us to have faith in God, knowing He would guide us and sustain us in the unknown journey that lay before us. For if it had not been for the faith and knowledge that was bestowed upon us in that Temple by the influence and help of the spirit of the Lord, our journey would have been like one taking a leap in the dark, to start out on such a journey in the winter as it were, in our state of poverty, it would seem like walking into the jaws of death. But we had faith in our Heavenly Father and put our trust in him feeling that we were his chosen people and had embraced his gospel and instead of sorrow we felt to rejoice."[53]

In 1967, Robert Lewis, a member of the Church, came to my office. He wanted a Church pamphlet, The Testimony of Joseph Smith, translated into Vietnamese, so I took it to a translator. When he finished, I gave the translation to Brother Lewis. He took it to church for the Vietnamese members to read. But they did not like it; it did not mean anything to them. Brother Lewis brought it back to me, and when the translator said he couldn’t do any better, I decided to try myself. I was not very good at speaking English and worried about how to translate it. I took the pamphlet home and stayed up all night reading it. As I read, something strange happened to me. It was as if someone unseen was helping me understand. The first translator translated word for word; but as I finally understood part of the testimony, I put it aside and wrote the translation in my own words. I translated according to the thoughts and feelings that were impressed upon me. I did not know it at the time, but I was translating by the Spirit.
I gave the translation to Brother Lewis and said that I would refund his money if he didn’t like it. But the members read it and said they understood what it meant. They said, “It communicates feelings—it affects us.”
Brother Lewis told me he would bring some more material to translate. So then I translated four or five pamphlets. They were all accepted.
As I worked on those pamphlets, I began to love the Church and the doctrines and teachings of the gospel. I asked Brother Lewis to send some missionaries to me. He sent two American servicemen. They taught me for three months, and I was baptized. My oldest son, Le Phuc-Hung, was also baptized a few months later.

Although he made great progress, Manuel struggled to obey the Word of Wisdom. He had been drinking alcohol since he was a young man. Not only did he have difficulty stopping, but he also feared ridicule from his friends.
Corina also felt enslaved by her husband’s habit, and for years she had struggled to help him. Now, with newfound faith and a testimony of the power of fasting, she began to fast regularly for Manuel to have strength to obey the Word of Wisdom.
Corina’s love for her husband reminded me of the story in the New Testament when a father pleaded with the Apostles to heal his ailing son. Although they exercised faith, they were unable to perform the miracle. The Lord, however, made the child whole, afterwards explaining that “this kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting” (Matthew 17:21).
And so it was that through prayer and fasting Manuel gradually gained the strength to break free from his habit. And although he was initially mocked by his friends, they soon gained a greater respect for him as he demonstrated his loyalty to the Lord by following His commandments.

Sister Kasimbe shares her experience: “I grew in the gospel due to studying the scriptures. I remember before my mission I was given a calling to serve as Relief Society secretary. I love getting a calling but later realized that it was not an easy task for a 19-year-old who had just joined the Church. Surrounded by my own afflictions, I was supposed to minister—this was not easy for me. I remember being assigned to a Relief Society sister who had just lost her sister due to brain cancer. She was grieving and in pain. As I was with her, I felt her sorrow immediately. In my mind I felt the love of God towards her as I shared with her from the scriptures about life after death and that death is temporary. We were able to share from the scriptures and find joy.”

Once we had finished visiting the facilities, Madame Amaru regretted leaving us, as she had to attend a meeting “with a young man from your church who is going on a mission”.
It was in fact a vigil during which the future missionary was to open his call letter. We asked her if it’s a member of her family. “No!” she replied. “But I go wherever I’m invited.”
“Then we’ll be delighted to accompany you!”
When we arrived, we found a branch filled with love for this young future missionary who had lost his mother a year earlier. What’s more, he’s the first missionary from this branch . . . in 40 years!
The branch president asked to the mayor and her husband to address a word. They both gave “parent” advice, encouraging him to be obedient and respectful, to remain humble, and especially not to stay there (Salt Lake City Mission) after the mission.
Before we left, we learned that this couple, who are very close to the people of their community, had recently attended the dedication of the meetinghouse. What’s more, during the seven-month construction period, they welcomed the entire branch into their home (not the municipality’s premises, but their own) for Sunday meetings!
It was with hearts overflowing with love and gratitude for such generous and humble people that we set sail again to leave them.

“Our first night out after starting on our journey, we camped on the prairie; Father had unyoked the cattle and turned them out to feed on the grass. He had to look after them to keep them from straying away. We had picked up enough fuel to make a good fire and Mother was getting supper, when all at once there came up a most terrific thunderstorm. The rain poured down in torrents and we were all drenched. Although we got into the wagon as soon as we could, the wind blew the rain with such force that the wagon was very little protection. Of course, the fire was put out and it was cold comfort for supper that night. However, the next morning the sun shone bright, everything got dry, and we jogged on our journey.”

Lawrence Johnson is a dear friend who lives in Provo. During World War II he was a bomber pilot. One night his crew was given a mission to bomb a certain target. It was a dark night over the South China Sea. The antiaircraft artillery was heavy. Searchlights illuminated the sky. After they had passed over the drop zone, “The navigator stuck his head into the cockpit and said, ‘I don’t have any idea as to where we are. I got so scared back there that I just stopped keeping our position.’” Brother Johnson continued, “To complicate things, our radar went out after the bomb run. None of that seemed to bother me because of a sweet calm and a feeling that all was well. I pointed to a position on the map I was holding and told the navigator he could assume that was our position. He looked dubiously at me and asked, ‘Are you sure?’ I assured him it was—my quick little prayer seemed to leave little doubt.” From those coordinates on the map the navigator plotted the direction to their home base. After flying for seven hours they spotted the runway lights of their home base and landed safely. (Lawrence H. Johnson, personal history.) Likewise, through prayer and spiritual guidance, we also will be able to return safely to our home base—home with God the Eternal Father and His Son, Jesus Christ.

I just started receiving the New Era in November 1990 and I love it. My favorite was the November Q&A on young men going on missions.
One morning during a sacrament meeting, the speakers were talking about missionary work. They were encouraging all the young men to go. I was watching the interpreter translating the speaker’s words into sign language and I started thinking about my own plans.
My heart swelled with hope and a desire to serve a mission. So I went to talk to my bishop and he encouraged me to go. I finally prayed and decided to go when I turn 19.
Michael RobbKalama, Washington

One winter morning I awoke to several inches of snow. A native of central California, I was not accustomed to snow and was dreading the uphill walk to the temple. But instead of rationalizing and staying home, I put on warm boots, carried my church shoes, and started my walk to the temple.
When I arrived, I was greeted by a familiar temple worker who was pleased to see that I had made the trek despite the gloomy weather. Once inside, I felt a sense of triumph mixed with gratitude. I realized, just as the prophet had asked, that I had become “a temple-attending and a temple-loving” person.

As a Brazilian, I was surprised when I received my mission call to serve not in Brazil or even in South America but in the Texas Houston South Mission in the United States. My surprise soon turned to deep gratitude.
Four days after I arrived in my first area, the bishop of the local ward invited my companion and me to go with him to the hospital to visit Brother Noel Stevenson, an older member who was ill with leukemia. When I met Brother Stevenson, I was amazed that he started speaking Portuguese. He told me he had served a mission to Brazil in the 1950s. He mentioned several cities where he had served, including Ponta Grossa in the state of Paraná.
“When you were in Ponta Grossa did you know Raul Pimentel?” I asked hesitantly.
With an expression of joy, he replied, “Yes, I knew Raul. I baptized him.”
I told Brother Stevenson that Raul Pimentel was my grandfather, the first member of the Church in our family. We embraced, and tears rolled down our faces.
Then I told him that my grandfather was 84 and still active in the Church. His 8 children were also active, all who are married having married in the temple and 5 having served full-time missions. And his 30 grandchildren were active in the Church as well. As we talked, the Spirit of the Lord filled my heart with joy and gratitude.
My grandfather was baptized in 1958 by two American missionaries. He had heard that the other elder had now passed away, but he had never had any news about Elder Stevenson. When my grandfather learned that I had met the missionary who baptized him, he was overwhelmed with joy.
He and Brother Stevenson began exchanging e-mail messages almost every week. Then the e-mails stopped abruptly. I received a telephone call telling me that Brother Noel Stevenson had passed away.
Although I felt sad, I felt even more grateful that the Lord had allowed me to meet the man who brought the blessings of the gospel to my family. This experience helped me be a better missionary and strengthened my testimony that mission calls are inspired.

A few years ago, I attended an international conference of English teachers in Zvenigorod, near Moscow, Russia. I felt apprehensive about conversing in English with native-speaking professors. Although I had been an English teacher for years, this was my first international conference, and I feared that my English-speaking skills would not be adequate.
Toward the end of the conference, I attended a roundtable about Russian current events. Having thus far avoided speaking much English, I sat discreetly in a corner crowded room and listened to the discussion.
At one point, a gray-haired American professor stood up and asked, “What religious changes have occurred in Russia?”
Silence followed. Nobody wanted to answer because the sharing of religious feelings was still an unusual thing in our country. For me, however, the silence was difficult to bear because I had a response. I was feeling a prompting to speak out.
Despite my fears, I stood up and told the group in English that I had come from a religious family. Several of my father’s ancestors had been priests, and some of them had perished in Stalin’s camps.
Nevertheless, God and prayer had been part of my life for as long as I could remember, though I didn’t attend church except while on business trips to Moscow, where no one would recognize me. Starting in 1991, however, I no longer had to hide my Christian beliefs. Although I never forgot that my forebears had lost their lives for believing in God, I felt Russia’s new religious freedom was wonderful.
After I spoke, teachers from many different countries shared positive feelings with me about my response. The professor who had asked the question was from Brigham Young University, and we began a warm friendship. He taught me about the Latter-day Saints, the Book of Mormon, and the restored gospel.
Later, students from BYU came to my hometown of Voronezh to teach English. I invited them to my home for Russian cooking classes, and they invited me to their Sunday gathering. The meeting deeply impressed me with its simplicity, light, and spirit of mutual love, and I became a regular attender.
As I prayed and read the scriptures, I learned about repentance, baptism, and the gift of the Holy Ghost. I was baptized in Moscow by a BYU student on 15 December 1992, and in January 1993 the missionaries opened up Voronezh to missionary work. In February my son was baptized, and a year later my son baptized my husband. Because a gray-haired professor planted seeds of testimony, my family’s life is now full of purpose, joy, and the spreading of the gospel in Russia.

The church’s cultural hall is decorated with streamers of pink, blue, and yellow crepe paper. Near the entry is an arch of balloons. From the ceiling hangs a large mirror ball, slowly rotating and reflecting the colored lights.
The floor is occupied by groups of teenagers. I am 14. It is my first official church dance. Earlier that day, I had spent hours climbing ladders and taping streamers. We had blown up balloons and twisted tissue paper. After taking a moment to admire our work, I hurried home to get ready.
I had carefully chosen my material and sewn my dress to fit the Hawaiian theme. Tiny flowers nestled on a creamy background. While decorating, I had made a multicolored flower. This I would wear in my hair.
I had showered and “borrowed” some of my mom’s Chanel No. 5 after-bath powder. I put on a little bit of lipstick and curled my hair. Every strand was perfect.
Now my heart pounds as I slip off my coat and enter the dimly lit hall, anxious to begin dancing.
But nothing is how I imagined it. For most of the night, I stand on the sideline with a group of girls pretending to be fascinated by the conversation.
The music starts, and I glance over to see a boy making a nonchalant zigzag towards us. My heart starts to race. Maybe this time I will be asked to dance. No. He chooses the girl next to me. The music announces the start of another dance. Everyone in our group is being asked to dance except me.
I look around, intently studying the decorations closest to me. A few boys who aren’t dancing awkwardly gulp the watery punch. Slowly I walk over to one of the chairs arranged at the side of the dance floor. I sit, staring down, not daring to look up for fear the tears that sting my eyes will escape.
Gently, a strong, comforting arm slides around my shoulders. There, beside me, sits my father. Usually he keeps his distance, knowing that parents are sometimes a burden at these functions. However, he knows that this time he’s needed.
For a few minutes we both gaze out at the couples dancing on the floor. Then, with a huskiness in his voice, he says, “I have never complained about being handicapped. I have never regretted it except for times like this. I hope the Lord will forgive me, but how I wish I could dance with my girls!”
As I turn to my father, sitting there in his wheelchair, I see tears in his gentle, loving eyes. My father had been a graceful dancer before his accident. His regret, though, isn’t for himself; it is for me.
The rest of the dance is a blur as I sit, with tears running down my cheeks, next to a father who cares about me.

I was living up in Canada. I had purchased a farm. It was run-down. I went out one morning and saw a currant bush. It had grown up over six feet high. It was going all to wood. There were no blossoms and no currants. I was raised on a fruit farm in Salt Lake before we went to Canada, and I knew what ought to happen to that currant bush. So I got some pruning shears and clipped it back until there was nothing left but stumps. It was just coming daylight, and I thought I saw on top of each of these little stumps what appeared to be a tear, and I thought the currant bush was crying. I was kind of simpleminded (and I haven’t entirely gotten over it), and I looked at it and smiled and said, “What are you crying about?” You know, I thought I heard that currant bush say this:
“How could you do this to me? I was making such wonderful growth. I was almost as big as the shade tree and the fruit tree that are inside the fence, and now you have cut me down. Every plant in the garden will look down on me because I didn’t make what I should have made. How could you do this to me? I thought you were the gardener here.”
That’s what I thought I heard the currant bush say, and I thought it so much that I answered. I said, “Look, little currant bush, I am the gardener here, and I know what I want you to be. I didn’t intend you to be a fruit tree or a shade tree. I want you to be a currant bush, and someday, little currant bush, when you are laden with fruit, you are going to say, ‘Thank you, Mr. Gardener, for loving me enough to cut me down. Thank you, Mr. Gardener.’”

My testimony of the Book of Mormon came when I was a seminary student in high school. Our teacher challenged us to read the entire book—something I had not done before. As I read, I remember how tears would stream down my cheeks as the Spirit testified to me that the words I was reading were true. I wanted to be worthy so that the Lord could say to me just as he did to Nephi, “Blessed art thou, because of they faith, for thou hast sought me diligently.” (1 Ne. 2:19.) Three years later I received my patriarchal blessing, which admonished me to read the Book of Mormon with a prayerful heart that my testimony would be strengthened. That promise has been fulfilled year after year as I have continued to study this holy book of scripture.

When our daughter Berta was born, we were grateful to finally have a baby after two unsuccessful pregnancies. Soon we realized that Heavenly Father had sent to us a very special spirit. As the oldest in the family, she was the peacemaker and the ringleader. Berta was a ­master at coming up with the silliest family jokes, and she loved to imitate my accent, which brought us a lot of fun. She loved writing and creating art, but above all she had a compassionate heart. Berta was always looking for opportunities to serve and nurture those who are often disenfranchised, forgotten, and overlooked.

Berta’s wit and command for words were never lacking. She often used this gift during her untiring advocacy work for the Latter-day Saint LGBTQ+ community. Berta loved and sought to follow the Savior by being a humble servant to those who needed love and care. She once told me that every time she served others, she felt she was breaking bread with the Savior. Berta especially advocated for homeless LGBTQ+ youths, who frequently fall victim to predators. She worked to find them a safe place to live and access to health resources. With all the love and compassion she had in her heart, Berta battled with generalized anxiety and major depressive disorders. In June 2018, Berta died by suicide.

The days following Berta’s death were some of the most difficult days in my life. I felt “like a broken vessel.”7 Sometimes it was difficult to breathe or see the light, but the Savior’s light was there, comforting us and sustaining us as He has sustained us in the past. Many angels in the bodies of family members, dear friends, and the LGBTQ+ community came to minister to us, even people I had never met before. As difficult as the passing of Berta was for our family, knowing that she inspired and touched many lives has been a healing experience for us.