Gospel Story Finder

“If I had a ship, I’d be captain and sail all over the world. And I’d bring you home presents.” And so the young sailor with his duck set sail to search the world for gifts to give his mother. This is a delightful story with beautiful pictures.

Quite a few years ago I was in an airport and happened to meet some returning missionaries. Their families were there. They were picking up their baggage, and I said to one of them, “What’s all this you have?” He said, “These are gifts I am bringing home.” And that has given me the title of what I would like to share: “Gifts to Bring Home from the Mission Field.”

In fact, Chris says his mother helped him keep that in mind. “My mom was the one that pulled us out of bed at 5:15 in the morning to go to seminary for four years. It was a struggle. I hated getting up at 5:15. But it was through a combination of my mother and going to seminary that I gained a testimony of the gospel. Up until then, I always knew the gospel was right. I just didn’t know why it was right.”

When the elders were introduced to us, I was very excited. The sister missionaries had told us about the priesthood, and I was in awe of the elders when they came. I felt the greatest respect for someone who held the priesthood of God. It was such a new thing for me. The children loved them instantly.
Yes, we were baptized. We had knelt in prayer and for the first time, self-consciously and timidly, and prayed together vocally. In simplicity and humility we asked our Heavenly Father if these things were true, and, in answer, received the warm, sweet assurances that only the Holy Ghost can bring.

8. Jenny is kind of a cute little number, but she came up big on hips, and hip-huggers don’t help.

8. Jenny has added a bulky sweater, good for a few inches of width, and an A-line skirt, guaranteed to conceal heavy hips (if it’s not too snug).

A few years ago there appeared in a large city newspaper a true story of a young boy, then fourteen years old. The story was titled “The Evolution of a Delinquent.” After rehearsing the many serious involvements the boy had had with the law, the reporter posed the question, “What twisted paths of childhood lead to the tortuous road of delinquency?” Interviews with the boy’s neighbors began to supply at least part of the answer.
One neighbor lady said, “I try not to think of him the way he is now, but how he was when he came to our home and played with our children years ago.” Tears filled her eyes as she recalled one afternoon when the young boy, then a small child, rushed to her home after his father had picked him up at a day nursery. As the little boy held on to her hand, she asked, “Why do you always come running to our house when you come home from the nursery?” The tot replied sorrowfully, “Because there is no mommy at my house.”
The woman said that this answer almost broke her heart. There was a mommy at his house and a father also, but many times the children were left at home alone to care for themselves. Often the children would go to the neighbors’ homes because there was not light and companionship at their own home. They were afraid of the dark. This was not just a darkness that fades with the morning sunlight. You see, there is a darkness that comes when there is no mother there.

Young women in the Kathmandu Branch in the New Delhi India Mission participated in their first New Beginnings program in April 2010. Five young women and their mothers were present as the branch presidency, the Young Women president, and other youth leaders offered inspirational counsel. The young women were taught about the Personal Progress program, accomplishing their goals with the help of their families, and the importance of building and strengthening their personal testimonies.

Another challenge to Craig’s humility might be the role he has played in the Hill Cumorah Pageant for the past several years. As Moroni, he is not on the stage very long. But when he is, there are just Craig and his father (playing Mormon) on that huge stage. And finally, there is just Craig/Moroni, carrying the gold plates upward from level to level and into the darkness beyond the spotlights. It’s an important moment.
“How do you like being in the pageant with your father?” I wanted to know.
“It’s super; it’s just great. I can’t often look him in the eye while we are on stage because I am supposed to be looking toward the audience. But when I do look him in the eye, the emotion is there and it’s hard to hold back. He’s saying that tomorrow will be the last battle of the Nephites and they’ll be destroyed. And when my father says that, I feel it. It’s like it’s real. And then I have to go and do my part as best I can.
“I wasn’t very confident with the part at first. I was very nervous. But after four rehearsals, and getting my lines and actions down, everything just worked out from there. Now it’s great. I can go up there and think about the audience and try my hardest to share my testimony—Moroni’s testimony—with them.”

And so matters rested until 11 years later. By that time my family had immigrated to Australia and settled in Sydney. There my brother began investigating a new religion. He brought home a few pamphlets that interested me and said he would ask the elders to call. I agreed, thinking I would be visited by a couple of distinguished old men. I was quite surprised when two young men about my own age called and taught me the basics of the plan of salvation. I was intrigued and agreed to undertake a series of discussions.
I listened to the missionaries but had no intention of joining the Church, especially when I learned about tithing. One day, however, one of the missionaries started talking about some pioneers who had been forced to make a long march to a place called Salt Lake City. I pricked up my ears and started to ask questions. Was this the church with the crickets and seagulls? When he mentioned Brigham Young, I immediately recognized the name and realized I had arrived at a major crossroads in my life. If I was to join any church, this was the one.

The young men of the Canoga Park Third Ward had a problem before starting their basketball season. Their uniforms were old and ragged. Instead of buying new ones, they decided to custom-tailor their own. The team members did the shopping and selected the material. They organized the sewing crews and used an old pair of bermuda shorts and a jersey as patterns. Each uniform was altered to fit the range of sizes on the team.
With the fluorescent colors in the flowered print and matching jersey, the team had high visibility on the floor. The team also discovered that the more funny comments made about their uniforms by opposing teams, the harder they played. Several of the girls wanted to join in the fun, so a cheerleading squad was organized with the girls making their own uniforms. The ward was caught up in the spirit of camaraderie and showed up for the games to lend support.
The team made it through stake play undefeated and went on to regionals.

Like the sisters of an earlier time, you have responded to the Lord’s call to go to the relief of others. In 1856 the prophet Brigham Young asked the Saints to go to the aid of handcart pioneers stranded in the mountain snows. He said in that time of need to the members in general conference: “Your faith, religion, and profession of religion, will never save one soul of you in the celestial kingdom of our God, unless you carry out just such principles as I am now teaching you. Go and bring in those people now on the plains, and attend strictly to those things which we call temporal, … otherwise your faith will be in vain.”
Women in Utah responded by the hundreds. In their poverty they filled wagons with all they could spare and all they could gather from others to comfort those in distress. One of those valiant sisters recorded, “I never took more satisfaction and, I might say, pleasure in any labor I ever performed in my life, such a unanimity of feeling prevailed.”
When the rescue was complete and the snows melted, that same sister recorded the question of her faithful heart: “What comes next for willing hands to do?”

“Congratulations, Marcus,” Mom said on the way to the car. “You pitched a great game!”
“Last April, when you pitched your first game,” Dad asked as we started home, “did you think you’d be pitching in the regional finals?”
“I guess I dreamed about it some,” I answered honestly, “but I really thought that Gary and the Pirates would end up going again.”
Dad, Mom, and I relived the game, especially that last inning with a guy on third, one on first, and Gary up to bat. The Pirates were down by two runs, but Gary had already hit one homer that day, and everybody on the Pirate bench was counting on him to hit a second one. That would have put them up by one and sent them to the regional games. But Gary struck out. Then Willie popped up, and I snagged the ball to end the game.
“Oh, before I forget, Marcus,” Mom told me, “Sister Anderson called this afternoon and wants you to give a talk in Primary a week from Sunday.”
Talking in Primary wasn’t my favorite thing to do, but this time I knew immediately what to talk about. “I think I’ll talk about Little League.”
Mom turned around to look at me, and Dad glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “This is Primary, you know,” Mom pointed out, “not another baseball game.”
I grinned. “I know, Mom. I’m not going to talk about the game of baseball.” I explained, “You see, Heavenly Father has really helped me this season. Even though I’m the only Church member on the team and it hasn’t been easy, I’ve tried hard to do what’s right, and He’s helped me.” I went on quietly, “I could feel Him helping me out there this afternoon. I wasn’t nervous, even when Gary came to the plate. I said a little prayer, asking the Lord to help me do my best. Even before I threw that first pitch, I knew everything was going to be all right. That’s what I want to talk about in Primary—how the Lord can bless us when we work hard and choose the right.”

I have the same problem and am working at a solution. For the next month I am keeping a notebook of all the responsible things I do day by day—doing my chores and coming in on time. At the end of the month I will show my parents this and then ask for more freedom. If I can prove to them that I’m responsible I may have an easier time.

I never knew that winning a championship baseball game could make me so miserable. Well, actually, winning the game felt great. It wasn’t until afterward that I began to feel miserable. Coach announced that the regional play-off was just five days away. On Sunday!

Until a few weeks ago, it wouldn’t have mattered to me what day the play-off was. Then Mom and I began meeting with the LDS missionaries, and we liked what they were teaching us. We were even reading the Book of Mormon. We had talked about keeping the Sabbath holy, and I didn’t think that playing in ball games—even regional play-offs—was doing that. But how I wanted to play in that game!

Dad and Mom ran to meet me on the diamond. They were as excited about the victory as I had been at first. "Son, you were fantastic out there!" Dad crowed.

"I knew you’d do it, Kimball!" Then Mom looked at me closely and asked if I was OK.

Dad answered for me. "Sure. He’s fine—just a little tired after a game like that. What he needs now is some celebrating. How about going to the Palace for a pizza?"

I didn’t worry about the game for the rest of the evening—no one worries about anything when Dad is around. If I ever want to be cheered up, I go to him. But if I ever need help with problems, Mom is the one I talk to.

While waiting for our pizza, Dad "interviewed" me. Picking up a breadstick, he pointed it at me, saying, "Don’t be afraid of the microphone, young man. Speak right into it and describe exactly how you made that fantastic catch."

That night, when Mom came in to say good night, all my concerns returned.

"All right, Kimball, out with it. Something happened at the baseball game, didn’t it?"

"Coach told us that regional play-offs are this Sunday—when we talk with the elders." Dad had agreed to let us meet with the elders as long as we did it on Sundays, and in the front room (so that we would be out of his way). To Dad, church or anything religious was for Sunday. He didn’t want it interfering with the rest of the week.

Mom sat down on my bed. "What’s on your mind?"

"Well, would it be wrong for me to play that one game?" I hit my pillow. "I just don’t know what to do. Could the elders tell me?"

Mom looked thoughtful. Then she said, "Kimball, I’m glad you care so much about doing what’s right." She asked me to read 1 Nephi 16:17–32 [1 Ne. 16:17–32] and discuss it with her in the morning.

The next morning after Dad left for work, I helped Mom clean up the breakfast dishes. "Kimball, what did you get out of those verses?" she asked.

"Well, one time Lehi and his family were traveling in the wilderness and needed food. Nephi was hunting and broke his bow, and since his brothers’ bows were broken, too, he made himself a new one."

"Then what did he do?"

"He didn’t know where he should go to hunt, so he asked his father, Lehi." All of a sudden I knew what Mom was getting at, and it scared me. "You think I should ask Dad about playing ball on the Sabbath?" I wasn’t sure he even knew what the Sabbath was!

"Why not, Kimball? He’s your father, the head of our family."

"Mom, that worked for Nephi—his dad was a prophet. But Dad doesn’t know anything about religious stuff."

Mom got out the Book of Mormon. "Kimball, read verse 20 to me." She pointed. "This part."

"‘… and also my father began to murmur against the Lord his God,’" I read.

"So even Lehi was complaining. Does that sound like the way a prophet, or a father, should act?"

I shook my head.

"But Nephi went to him anyway and asked him where to hunt. And you know what? Lehi was sorry for complaining and for not behaving like the head of the family should. He repented and made himself worthy to get an answer from the Lord so that he could give Nephi an answer."

Then I saw that to my mom, this wasn’t just about playing ball on Sunday. It was about trying to help Dad begin to change—like Nephi had helped his father to get back on track. When the missionaries had talked to us about the plan of salvation and temples and sealing and things like that, Mom’s eyes had been shiny with tears. Now I realized just how much she wanted Dad to be a part of it. I wanted it too. "OK, Mom. I’ll give it a try."

I still wanted to talk to the elders, though, so I called Elder Adams and told him my problem and what Mom had said. He just told me what a wise mom I had. Since he wasn’t going to tell me what to do, I had to gather my courage and ask Dad.

That night after supper, as Mom headed for the kitchen to get dessert, she looked straight at me. I took a deep breath. "Dad?"

"Aye, me mate," he answered in his best Australian accent, which didn’t make it any easier to get serious.

"My championship game is coming up, you know, and I’m wondering if I should, well, maybe not play in it." Dad looked shocked, so I hurried and added, "Well, it’s on the Sabbath—I mean, Sunday—and I don’t know what to do."

"Ah, a spiritual matter. Have you talked to your mother?" he asked, a little amused.

"She said I should get your advice."

"Oh? What about those two young men? Isn’t that what they’re for—to solve the world’s problems? Did you talk to them?"

"Yes. They said I should talk to you, the head of our family." I was sort of embarrassed to say that last part, but I thought it might help to point it out to him.

Dad was quiet. Finally, pulling the water pitcher to him, he stared at it and said, "Let’s take a look in our trusty crystal ball. Now, to play? Or not to play?" He studied the pitcher for a long time. "The crystal is cloudy. Maybe I need to change the water or something." He shrugged. "Sorry, son. I just don’t know. Talk to Mom about it again. Here she comes now, with an awesome dessert."

That was the end of our talk, the talk that was going to help me make my decision and to bring us closer together as a family. Dad had joked his way through it. I managed to keep back the tears of disappointment and embarrassment until I got to my room. Then I prayed. It helped some to ask Heavenly Father to help me not be mad at Dad and to know about playing on Sunday.

Mom came to my room before I went to sleep. She tried to comfort me, but she was as disappointed as I was. When I told her that I had decided not to play the game, she felt a little better. I didn’t, exactly.

The next morning, I told the coach that I wouldn’t be playing in the game because it was on Sunday. I could tell that he didn’t agree or even understand. But on the way home, I had a nice, peaceful feeling and I knew that I had made the right choice.

None of us mentioned the game again until Sunday morning. Dad looked out the window and commented on what a perfect day it was for a game. But he didn’t do his usual weatherman imitation.

That day at church, I figured the elders would ask me about my decision, but I didn’t see them at the meetings.

Pulling into our driveway after church, we saw their bikes in front of our house. Before, whenever they beat us home, they waited for us on the porch. But they weren’t there. We walked in and heard voices—not from the front room, our usual place, but from the family room. Dad was with the missionaries! On the end tables were scriptures, pamphlets, pictures, and glasses of lemonade.

As Mom joined Dad on the sofa, he squeezed her hand, smiled, then looked at me. "The other night, Kimball, you gave me the shock of my life by asking for my opinion on Sabbath ballplaying. I was caught off guard. I felt bad that you wanted spiritual advice and I couldn’t give you any. I responded the only way I knew how, by joking. I apologize, son."

Dad paused. I’d never heard him speak this long without cracking a joke.

"I figured that the elders could solve your problems easier than I could, so I was even more surprised when you said that they told you to come to me. Then, when I realized that they cared more about helping our family than gaining converts, I was impressed."

Elder Adams interrupted. "Your wife gave Kimball that counsel first, sir."

Dad looked at her in surprise.

"It was something I picked up from Lehi and Nephi in the Book of Mormon," Mom said, winking at me.

"Well," Dad went on, "when I saw that this church wants to build me up as the father in the home, I decided to hear what they have to say. That’s when I called these two young cyclists and caught them before they took off for the ‘Tour de France.’"

Mom spoke up, "Why don’t we continue this discussion over some lasagna. It’s in the oven, just waiting for us." Eagerly we started for the kitchen.

As I set the table, I thought about Dad calling the elders and about his apology, and I thought, Dad might have some Lehi in him, after all.

Then I started thinking about Lehi and his family. They had a hard life in the wilderness. I wondered if Lehi ever joked around with them, just to help make their lives a little happier. Dad would have done that, I thought. Grabbing a breadstick, I spoke into it. "Listen, everyone. I want you to meet my dad—a modern-day Lehi!"

I called my dad and told him about my desire to join the Church. He asked me to wait. “Come home for the summer and then decide,” he said. I have a great deal of respect for my dad, so I followed his advice. All summer long he challenged my beliefs. I found myself continually defending my newfound faith. Not once did I feel like backing down, but instead I became even stronger in my convictions.
At the end of the summer he said, “I can see you really do believe this new religion. I was just testing you to make sure your decision was your own and not based on the influence of others. Go ahead and get baptized. You have my blessings.”

I came from a non-Christian religious background, where people respect everyone’s gods. I paid respect to Heavenly Father, but when I learned about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints from missionaries, I learned that He is the God who is the Father of our spirits.

I was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints seventeen years ago. Shortly after joining the Church, I heard about the temple for the first time. I learned that I needed to go there. I had lots of questions about the temple and knew that going to a temple would require sacrifice. I had to arrange my finances, take time off from work and make arrangements for my family while I am gone. (My wife is not a member of the Church.)

When I first decided to go, I was not worthy or ready to go, but the desire stayed with me. Now after 10 years, I am worthy and Heavenly Father opened the door for me with an opportunity to go this year.

My Young Women president challenged all of the young women in my ward to read Jesus the Christ in just five months. As I sat down to read it, I was disappointed at first. I had expected the heavens to open and light to pour down, instantly filling me with the Spirit. However, that did not happen. Instead, I struggled to get through even the first chapter without my mind wandering off. I put the book down, frustrated at the seeming lack of divine inspiration.
I decided I needed to change my approach to reading. The next evening I knelt by my bed and asked Heavenly Father to allow me to have the Holy Spirit accompany me, that I might better understand and be able to read this book about His Son and my Savior. After that prayer, I felt a subtle wave of peace come into my room as I settled down to read. I understood the book better and enjoyed it more.
Every night after that, I made sure I started and ended my reading sessions with a prayer, in which I thanked my Heavenly Father and invited the Spirit to guide me as I learned more of the Savior.
I struggled at times and became discouraged that I couldn’t just zip through this 800-page book. But I continued on with my reading and even felt sad as I turned to the last page, knowing the book was ending. The Spirit that was present as I read Jesus the Christ was so indescribably sweet and comforting, and I came to know my Savior on a deeper level. My testimony of the Savior and of the Atonement grew so much from the simple act of reading a book for a few minutes every night.

Among the people of Córdoba, Argentina, lives a remarkable man named Natalio Virazapia. A descendant of Bolivian and Chinese ancestors, he was born in 1922 and now lives alone in humble circumstances, earning his living by working the soil.
Brother Virazapia considers himself an instrument in the hands of the Lord to help his brothers and sisters in need. Wherever there is a small place to plant seeds, there you will find his battered bicycle. He will be in the small field sowing corn or other vegetables—food that will eventually feed needy families. Although he doesn’t have any land of his own, he always seems to find space to plant his seeds, and the Lord blesses him with abundant harvests. He often brings to church special bouquets of his carrots, cabbage, or chard to share with the other members.
“I have little,” he says. “I can give service only with this small body I have that takes me from one place to another. Through the Church and the teachings of the gospel, I have learned to work with my hands in behalf of others.” His rough, work-worn hands do indeed show the humble victories he has won. They reveal an abiding love for his Father in Heaven, for the land, and for his neighbors.
Some people are satisfied simply to know about our Heavenly Father. Brother Virazapia uses his gifts to glorify Him.

It was beginning to get dark, and the softly falling snow was blanketing the busy New York streets. Tired office workers and shoppers rushed to the waiting horse-drawn streetcars. A driver viciously whipped the tired, thin horses forward, and the miserable animals, cold and hungry, struggled to pull the overfilled cars through the slippery streets.
Suddenly Henry Bergh, a tall, handsome gentleman in a black silk hat, stood on the tracks in front of the departing streetcar and ordered the driver to stop and unload the passengers. When the driver resisted, Bergh pulled him out of the car and threw him into a snowbank. Then Bergh unhitched the overworked, underfed horses. This action caused many streetcars to be stalled behind the first, now horseless, car. Bergh then stopped a car going in another direction.
The “man in the black hat” had been trying for many months to get the streetcar companies to treat their horses more humanely. He wanted them to assign more horses to each car and to not allow too many passengers on a car so that the horses wouldn’t have to work so hard. But no one at the companies would listen to him. Now, finally, after he had blocked traffic for two hours, at least one company listened! Henry Bergh had won a victory. A car was sent out with four horses pulling it, and the streetcar company agreed to treat its horses more kindly.

I have seen such experiences happen over and over again. When a child or an adult prays in simple faith, his prayer is answered. Two years ago, my granddaughter Sarah started first grade. At first, she appeared to love it. But within only a couple of weeks, she started to cry every morning and beg her parents to let her stay home. They asked what was wrong, but she either couldn’t or wouldn’t tell them. They talked to her teacher, who had no idea what the problem might be. Sarah was well liked, she had friends, and she was doing well in her schoolwork.
One day after Sarah returned from school particularly upset, her father asked if she thought it would help if they knelt in prayer as a family the next morning and asked for Heavenly Father’s help. “Oh, yes, Dad,” Sarah replied. “I think that would help.”
The next morning, the family went through their regular routine, Sarah crying and protesting but eventually ending up in the car, ready to go to school. “Wait, Dad,” Sarah said just before they left. “We forgot to pray.”
Sarah and her father went back inside and knelt in prayer with her mother and little sister. They prayed specifically that Sarah would have a happy day and a good time at school. That afternoon, when her father picked her up, Sarah left the building with her arms raised in victory. “Prayer works, Dad!” she exclaimed. “Prayer works!”