Gospel Story Finder

Cindy liked to paint and draw and play with her favorite dolls. She liked ruffled dresses, pretty hats, and shoes. In fact, she liked just about everything that most girls like. But more than anything, Cindy liked to play baseball!
Cindy had practiced pitching balls to George and Sam, her two older brothers, and she was really good.
“You should play baseball,” George told her one day. And Sam agreed.
“I’d like that,” Cindy said. There was nothing she wanted to do as much as play baseball during her vacation, even though she was a girl. But she knew there was little chance of her being able to do so. There was just one team in town, and only boys played on it.
Every afternoon she passed the city park on her way home from school. She always stopped at the baseball field to watch the teams warm up.
One afternoon while Cindy watched from the bleachers, she had an idea. She hurried over to Mr. Turner, the manager. “Can I join the team?” she asked.
The tall man smiled. “Are you joking? This is a boy’s sport! No girls are allowed on the team!” he replied.
“Why not?” Cindy questioned.
Mr. Turner thought for a moment before he answered, “I … well … we just don’t have girls. That’s why!”
“What if a girl can play as well as or even better than a boy? Could she get on the team then?” Cindy asked.
Mr. Turner thought about her question for a moment and then said slowly, “Well, I don’t know. It’s never been done here before, and I know the boys wouldn’t like it.”
Cindy shook her head. It isn’t fair, she thought. I know I can pitch better than any boy on the team, but they still won’t let me play.
The next day Cindy was back in the bleachers watching the ball speed back and forth. Suddenly there was a loud smack, and Cindy heard the pitcher cry out as he dropped the ball.
“What’s wrong?” Mr. Turner asked, as he rushed out to the mound where the pitcher stood holding his wrist.
“I think I sprang my wrist,” the boy moaned.
Putting his arm around the boy, Mr. Turner walked back to the bench with him.
“What’ll we do now?” the boys asked. “Our big game is this weekend. No one on the team can pitch as well as Mike!”
Cindy knew she could help the team. She hurried down from the bleachers and ran over to the boys who were huddled in a group trying to decide what to do.
“I can pitch for you!” she suggested.
The boys turned around and looked at Cindy. They began to smile.
“You? You’re a girl!” one of them laughed.
“I’m a girl,” Cindy agreed, “but I can pitch. Please give me a chance.”
The boys looked at one another. No one said anything for a moment. Finally Mr. Turner smiled. “Why not, boys?” he asked. “Let’s give Cindy a chance.”
Cindy walked to the pitcher’s mound, and the other team members returned to their positions. The catcher threw a few balls to Cindy, and the game started.
Cindy pitched the rest of the game. Afterward Mr. Turner came up to her and said, “Congratulations! I didn’t think you could play ball, but I was wrong!”
The boys agreed. “But what about the game this weekend?” they asked.
“I can play for you, Mr. Turner,” Cindy offered.
He looked at her and then at the boys. Finally he said, “Okay, Cindy. It might work out just fine this time.”
The boys cheered, and Cindy beamed with excitement.
The rest of the week Cindy practiced every afternoon with the team. And when Saturday finally arrived, she was ready for the big game.
At first the crowd laughed when they saw a girl walk out to the pitcher’s mound with long braids showing beneath her cap. But they soon saw what a good ball player Cindy really was.
“You were great, Cindy,” the boys said as they crowded around her after winning the game. “We couldn’t have won without you!”
It had been a wonderful afternoon for Cindy. She was too happy to say anything. All she could do was look around at the team, toss her braids, and smile!

As with the learning that accompanies the acquisition of information, there is great power in the kind of learning that comes from doing. Elder Bruce Hafen illustrated this principle when he shared an experience from his family life at a conference on family law a number of years ago.

"One of our children once was in great difficulty in his fourth-grade class." Elder Hafen related. "If he didn't complete a certain hand-made project by the next day, he would face certain disaster. After dinner, my wife, Marie, told me she had thought of a way to help him. I ushered our other children into another room for other activities, and the handicraft project began in the kitchen. Periodically, I heard outbursts from our fourth-grader, who kept tormenting his mother and insisting he wouldn't do another thing. I was ready to send him to his room and forget it, but my wife calmly proceeded with her plan.

"After about three hours, as I was tucking the other children into bed, the little builder and his mother entered the bedroom. Carrying his project as proudly as if it were a birthday cake, he invited his two brothers to come and see it. It was obvious from looking at it that he had made every stitch of it himself. He placed it on a counter and started for his bed. Then he looked back at his mother with a broad, boyish grin. He ran across the room, threw his arms around her waist, and hugged her tightly. As he grinned at her again, the two of them exchanged glances that carried great meaning. He went back to his bed, and we left the room.

"What happened?" I asked Marie. "How did you do it?" She replied that she had simply made up her mind that no matter what he said or did, she wouldn't raise her voice or lose her patience. She had just decided that leaving him was not an alternative, even if the project took all night. Then she made this significant observation: "I didn't know I had it in me."

Those kinds of experiences teach us truths about ourselves that no amount of abstract study will ever reveal. I'm confident that after that night Sister Hafen had a more complete understanding of both her own potential destiny and Heavenly Father's great patience and love for His children. Such experiences—which require that we do something—provide a more complete knowledge of who we really are.

I wanted to do service in our ward and began by praying to know how I could serve. The answer didn’t come right away, but a few days later, I had the idea of doing a day of babysitting so mothers could go Christmas shopping or take the day off with their husbands.
I prayed to Heavenly Father to help me know whom I should ask. I had four families accept my offer. My friend Emily and my sister, Hannah, helped me babysit all the kids.
I learned that service can be fun if you make it fun and find things you can do. Now I want to do another service for the same mothers so they can go to the temple three hours away, but I need to work out the details.
Sarah S., Arkansas, USA

Chelsea’s prayers and hard work paid off. In their second season, the Oak Hills Neighborhood Theater put on A Midsummer Night’s Dream, which Chelsea shortened and simplified for the children. The production went so well that the group was invited to participate in the Utah Shakespearean Festival’s Elementary Shakespeare Showcase in Cedar City, Utah.
“It was the best thing that could have happened to these wonderful, talented children,” says Chelsea.

When Hugo bears his testimony, he always thanks his mother and the teachers who have taught him to come to church, where he can learn. And he tells of a special prayer in his heart that his father will someday listen to the missionaries and come to church, where he can feel the love of all the ward members. Hugo feels very sad that his father and his brother are not interested in learning about the Church right now. He says: “My brother thinks that coming to church is a waste of time. But it’s not a waste of time—it is gaining eternal life!”
Hugo tries to set a good example at home, as well as at school. “I have a good relationship with my Dad. I know he has very sensitive feelings, and I try not to do anything to make him feel left out,” he says. “We sometimes go on walks together and just talk—these are our special times together.”

Several years ago I received a letter from a woman who had emerged from a long period of Church inactivity. She was ever so anxious for her husband, who as yet was not a member of the Church, to share the joy she felt.

She wrote of a trip which she, her husband, and their three sons made from the family home to Grandmother’s home in Idaho. While driving through Salt Lake City, they were attracted by the message which appeared on a billboard. The message invited them to visit Temple Square. Bob, the nonmember husband, made the suggestion that a visit would be pleasant. The family entered the visitors’ center, and Father took two sons up a ramp that one called “the ramp to heaven.” Mother and three-year-old Tyler were a bit behind the others, they having paused to appreciate the beautiful paintings which adorned the walls. As they walked toward the magnificent sculpture of Thorvaldsen’s Christus, tiny Tyler bolted from his mother and ran to the base of the Christus, while exclaiming, “It’s Jesus! It’s Jesus!” As Mother attempted to restrain her son, Tyler looked back toward her and his father and said, “Don’t worry. He likes children.”

After departing the center and again making their way along the freeway toward Grandmother’s, Dad asked Tyler what he liked best about their adventure on Temple Square. Tyler smiled up at him and said, “Jesus.”

“How do you know that Jesus likes you, Tyler?”

Tyler, with a most serious expression on his face, looked up at his father’s eyes and answered, “Dad, didn’t you see His face?” Nothing else needed to be said.

As I read this account, I thought of the statement from the book of Isaiah, “And a little child shall lead them” (Isa. 11:6).

Harold B. Lee learned to recognize the Spirit at an early age. One day he started toward some rundown sheds, but a voice called his name and told him not to go there. Harold obeyed. He continued to follow the Spirit throughout his life, like when he was called to lead the Church Welfare Program. He also led the Church department that developed learning materials to help members recognize the Spirit in their own lives.

A few weeks ago, just before 6:00 a.m., my wife and I boarded a taxi to begin the last lap of our trip to Salt Lake City from Australia. Our driver, who had been on duty since 3:00 a.m., was anxious to talk with us, his first passengers of the day. We learned his parents were born just outside of Mexico City. They moved to Chicago, where he was born, and then moved to New Mexico. Twenty years earlier our friend had come for a short visit to San Francisco and had never left. During our trip to the airport, this man related a few incidents from which some great truths were reemphasized.
His parents, he told us, had remained in New Mexico, but liked to visit him and his brother whenever they could afford it because they loved being with their children and grandchildren. In New Mexico his mother’s health was rather poor, but whenever she was in San Francisco, she seemed to feel much better. This discerning son had said to his brother, “I know just exactly what mother needs.”
He said, “I found a large truck. My brother and I drove to New Mexico, loaded our parents and all their possessions into the truck, and brought them to live near those who loved them most. Mother’s health improved noticeably.” Then he added, “You know, love is very important if it is done right.”
The second incident related by this humble but wise man was also significant. He said, “I teach all my children to work. I want them to have schooling, but they must learn to work to get it. I just finished helping my sixteen-year-old son get a part-time job at a bank. While he is going to school, he only works two hours a day, but he is learning to work. He knows I love him because I do my part, too. Due to the uncertainty of my driving hours, I can’t always take him to work, but I’m always there to bring him home. He looks forward to our ride together, and so do I.”
One other important point was made by this unusual taxi operator. He told us that some of his unmarried friends who are also taxi drivers are often out of money. They come to him to borrow. He indicated that he is generally able to help them over tight money spots. When his companions asked how he is able to support his family on his salary when they can’t even keep themselves, he said, “I tell them I don’t waste money at the races or on liquor or tobacco. My wife fixes our meals at home, and we don’t have to pay for expensive restaurant food.” He smiled when he added, “We do our partying with our family.” This man’s objectives are family-oriented, and he has learned the folly of serving the gambling, drinking, and momentary expensive habits.
A happy man, this driver; he has realized through experience important areas of love. He knows that nurturing love is healing; it is teaching. It requires sacrifice, and that which we love will be that to which we give our allegiance. He had shared some basic principles of love in action that were potent. Frankly, we were enjoying his comments so much we could have wished the airport terminal were another half an hour away.

Let me give you an example of that if I may:

My parents were divorced when I was one year old. My father, for not the best of reasons, left the family. That caused certain concerns, certain problems, certain challenges for my mother, my two sisters, and myself.

If you were age fourteen and you were me and you prayed, “Father in Heaven, help me be at peace and forgive my father for having left his family,” that’s a good prayer; that’s a good desire—I received no answer.

At eighteen, you’re praying, “Father in Heaven, help me be at peace and find solace, and comfort, and forgiveness about this particular episode.”

My father had very little to do with us as we were growing up. One day a year he would take us to Lagoon in Utah. That was my only contact with my father, growing up. I got married. I’m praying. I had two daughters, two sons. Now I’m over thirty years of age.

One day I was preparing to give a talk on parenting. Now my mother was an absolute saint. I can’t imagine a boy being given a greater mother than the mother I was given; and everybody who knows my mother would agree with that. I was thinking, as I was preparing to talk about how to raise children, that I would talk about my mother. But the Spirit seemed to say, “You need to talk, and you need to think about your father.” I wondered, “What do I say about my father? I hardly know my father. I was not raised with him; I had no contact with my father.”

Just at that moment as I’m pondering about my father, my two sons—I had two at the time, my third son wasn’t born yet—they were about six and two years of age; they came in and they stood in front of me where I was sitting in the family room; they just stood there in front of me staring at me, the older brother standing behind his younger brother. I looked at those two boys and the Spirit just washed my brain with memories of things I had done with those boys. Simple things, nothing important: Trick-or-treating, carving Halloween pumpkins, Christmas mornings, blowing out birthday candles, looking at turtles at the pond, piggyback rides, listening to their Primary talks, listening to their prayers, bedtime stories, the first puppy, catching a fish in the same fishing hole I caught my first fish in.

Nothing critical, nothing important. Just the everyday memories that I as a father had shared with those boys in six years of my being a father. As I was thinking of those things, the Lord said, “Now Mike, life has carved a holding place in your heart, and I will give you the answer”; and this is what He said: “Now that you are a father, now that you know a father’s joys and love, would you be the son who lost his father? Or the father who lost his son?”

Do you understand what the Lord was saying to me? I began to weep. I just sobbed. I grabbed those two boys and I just hugged them, sobbing—not for me—for my father. Because I knew the tragedy of his life greater than he knew it. I knew what he missed. I knew that it was a greater tragedy for him to have missed all those wonderful things with his family, than it was for me, as a son, to have missed them with a father.

My wife came in, she said, “For heaven’s sake Mike, what’s the matter?” I was sobbing, clinging to my boys. I said, “I can’t talk about it now.” I went up to the bathroom and just cried and cried, cried myself dry—for my father.

God always had an answer. But why didn’t He give it to me at age fourteen, or eighteen, or when I was married, or when I was the father of two daughters? It had to be when I was the father of boys and had shared enough life with those boys to comprehend the answer that God would give. The easiest thing in the world for me to forgive was my father for having left the family. But it took life to create the space for God to put the answer.

Many years ago, as a young and inexperienced branch president, I was asked by one of our branch members to participate in the blessing of his grievously ill wife. The man obviously wanted me to bless her with complete recovery from her illness. That indeed was my intention; both the husband and wife were much-needed pillars in our struggling branch.
The husband anointed his wife’s head with consecrated oil in the prescribed manner, and I proceeded to seal the anointing (see James 5:14). To my amazement, I found myself saying words I had not intended: the woman was “appointed unto death” (D&C 42:48). She would not recover from her illness but would slip away from us peacefully, cradled in the Savior’s loving arms.
The woman died the next day, and I presided at her funeral, a sadder but wiser man. I had learned a great lesson: when we administer to the sick, our maxim must be “not my will, but thine, be done” (Luke 22:42).

Now, don’t get me wrong. I really love my mom. And I know that she loves me. But she does things differently than other moms.
My friends Ben and Cory think that she’s cool, but they don’t know what it’s like to have a mom like mine. She does a lot of normal mom stuff, like baking oatmeal cookies and mending my pants if I slide too hard into second base. But sometimes she’s not normal at all.
See, she doesn’t ever get mad at me. Well, hardly ever. Even when I do something wrong or bad, she doesn’t often get angry with me. That’s why the guys say that I’m lucky.
But I didn’t feel so lucky last week. Now that it’s summer vacation, the guys and I go to the park almost every day. Thursday morning, just as I was eating a banana for breakfast, Mom said, “Jamie, I’d like you to clean up your room before you leave. And don’t forget to put your dirty clothes into the hamper.”
I could tell by her “I’m-serious-about-this” look that I wouldn’t be able to change her mind, so I slam-dunked the banana peel into the garbage pail and took the stairs two at a time to my room.
I could see out my window that the sun was shining and that it was already a great day outside. It was too nice a day to be inside cleaning my room. So I quickly made my bed, sort of, and put away most of my books and almost all the pieces of the model that I was building. There were some clothes on the floor under my nightstand, but I figured that Mom wouldn’t notice if I left them there just this once.
I raced down the stairs and called, “All done, Mom. I’ll be at the park.” And before I could hear her answer, I was out the door.
Mom didn’t say anything about my room when I came home for lunch, and she didn’t say anything on Friday, either. At soccer practice I asked Cory what his mom would do if he didn’t clean his room when she told him to.
“Oh, my mom likes things really neat,” Cory replied. “She’d probably finish cleaning it up and tell me later what I did wrong.”
“My mom’s always worried about my room being clean,” Ben put in. “I don’t know what the big deal is about being neat.”
I told the guys how Mom hadn’t even said anything about my leaving my room a little messy, and Cory said, “You sure are lucky, Jamie!”
But Saturday morning when I woke up early to get ready for the big soccer game, I couldn’t find my uniform. I went to the kitchen where Mom was making pancakes and said, “Mom, where’s my uniform?”
I knew that I was in trouble when she smiled at me and feigned innocence.
“What uniform?” she asked.
“My soccer uniform,” I said. “The game starts in thirty minutes!”
“Oh, could that be the dirty outfit crumpled up by your bed?”
I ran upstairs, and sure enough, there was my uniform. It was wrinkled and muddy and had ketchup stains from a messy hot dog on the front. I took it down to Mom.
“Why didn’t you wash it, Mom?” I demanded. “You knew I had a game today!”
“Well, I asked you to put your dirty clothes into the hamper,” she answered. “If your uniform had been there, it would be ready to wear.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I put on a T-shirt and jeans and left for the game. I sure felt dumb being the only player without a uniform, and the guys teased me about it too.
On the way home, I realized that it really was my fault that my uniform wasn’t washed. I guess it is important to put things away so they’ll be ready when you need them. And I guess I’m old enough to take care of my own things.
When I got home, Mom was folding clothes in the basement and asked me how the game went.
“We won,” I said. “I’m sorry that I didn’t pick up my clothes.”
“I know you are,” she said, giving me a hug. “A lesson lived is a lesson learned.”
See, that’s the kind of thing my mom says all the time. I still think it’d be easier if my mom was a normal mom, but I guess the guys are right. I am pretty lucky.

I was in Arizona a few years ago, and the president of a stake told me about one of his boys having been called to go on a mission. The boy went to the patriarch before he left, and the patriarch gave him a blessing. He told the boy that he should be satisfied with the assignment he would receive. And he said, “You shall see floods to the right of you and floods to the left of you, and your life will be protected and preserved.” He was assigned to the East Central States Mission, and while he was serving there, there was a major flood. This missionary was marooned in Louisville, Kentucky, in a house from which he had to be rescued in a boat, and he lived to see floods to the right of him and floods to the left of him. I ask you, how could the patriarch have known that when he gave that blessing, except by the inspiration of the Almighty?

Many of us want the simple way—the process that will not require serious work and sacrifice. Well, I once thought I found it. Driving in the back of a verdant valley above the city of Honolulu, I looked up, and there it was—Easy Street! As I was dreaming of the life-changing benefits of my discovery, I took out my camera to record the blissful moment. As I looked through the viewfinder, however, my focus literally and figuratively became clear. A large yellow sign returned me to reality—Easy Street was a dead end!

Years ago, I arrived home from work and was startled to see white paint splattered everywhere—on the ground, the garage door, and our red-brick house. I inspected the scene more closely and discovered the paint was still wet. A trail of paint led toward the backyard, and so I followed it. There, I found my five-year-old son with a paintbrush in his hand, chasing our dog. Our beautiful black Labrador was splattered almost half white!
“What are you doing?” I asked in an animated voice.
My son stopped, looked at me, looked at the dog, looked at the paintbrush dripping with paint, and said, “I just want him to look like the black-spotted dogs in the movie—you know, the one with 101 Dalmatians.”
I loved our dog. I thought he was perfect, but that day my son had a different idea.
In the first story, our young son had a beautiful dog as a pet; notwithstanding, he grabbed a gallon of paint and, with paintbrush in hand, determined to create his own imagined reality.

A woman who was required to move frequently because of her husband’s employment was planting flower bulbs in her yard. Her neighbor stopping to watch asked her, “Why do you bother planting these bulbs when you know you won’t be here when they bloom next spring?”
“I may not be here,” the woman replied, “but someone else will. I always try to leave my homes, temporary as they may be, a little more beautiful because I was there.”

I’m the only Latter-day Saint in the family, so it gets kind of lonesome sometimes. I never believed there was a God. I wouldn’t go to church or read the Bible, but when I met two missionaries through a friend of mine, I wanted to hear and learn more and become a part of this wonderful church. The greatest day of my life was the day of my baptism. It was so beautiful that I couldn’t understand why I had ever been scared about being baptized. It was so fantastic that I cried. I am sure that I have taken a step that I will never regret. I really do enjoy receiving the New Era. It’s a fantastic book. Every time it arrives, my mother says that it really makes her day.
Sue E. HaydenLondon, England

As a study abroad student in Jerusalem, I participated in this commemorative event. Standing with a palm reed in my hand, I was inspired by how many other Christians had traveled to the Holy City because they loved and wanted to celebrate Jesus Christ.
People sang, cheered, praised, and danced. Just like in Jesus’s time, they waved their leaves from the top of the Mount of Olives, down to the Kidron Valley, past the Garden of Gethsemane, and into the Old City. Throughout the procession, I heard continuous shouts of “Hosanna!”
It was an experience I’ll never forget.

“Not long ago, my dad was caught in the beaters of a forage harvester bin. I know that Heavenly Father gave him the strength to break the drive chain to prevent further damage. As it was, his skull was broken in ten places and his neck was cut open to the windpipe. He said prayers and was given a blessing before he was raced from Kingaroy, where the accident happened, to Brisbane, the capital city of Queensland.
“From this I learned that someone could be lost at any time, so we should all endeavor to lead a worthy and clean life. This has brought me closer to my dad and taught me that if we have faith, the Lord will look after us. I love my mom and dad, and I know the Church is true and that Jesus lives.”
John Taylor, 14Kingaroy, Queensland, Australia

When I was a new and inexperienced Seventy, I received an urgent phone call from the Office of the First Presidency, asking if I would represent the prophet in visiting a young man in the hospital—immediately. The young man’s name was Zach. He was preparing to be a missionary but had been in an accident and suffered a serious head injury.
As I drove to the hospital, my mind raced. An errand for the prophet—are you kidding? What am I going to face? How will I help this young man? Do I have enough faith? Fervent prayer and the knowledge that I possessed the authority of the holy priesthood became my anchors.
When I arrived, Zach was lying in a hospital bed. An orderly stood ready to whisk him to the operating room so doctors could relieve the pressure on his brain. I looked at his tearful mom and a fearful young friend standing nearby, and I knew clearly that Zach needed a priesthood blessing. His friend had recently received the Melchizedek Priesthood, so I asked him to help me. I felt the power of the priesthood as we humbly gave Zach a blessing. Then he was hurried away for the surgery, and a peaceful feeling confirmed that the Savior would handle things according to His wisdom.
The medical staff performed one last X-ray before making the initial incision. They discovered, to their astonishment, that no operation would be needed.
After much therapy, Zach learned to walk and talk again. He served a successful mission and is now raising a beautiful family.

I am so glad that the Young Women general presidency included virtue as a value. When we heard about it, our stake Young Women presidency took our stake on a hike to the top of a nearby mountain. As soon as we reached the top, all of us in all of our wards, with all of the women in our families, waved our flags and shouted “We will return to virtue” three times. After that, we made a promise that we would be virtuous throughout our lives.
Lara H., Utah