Gospel Story Finder

When it was time for Erik’s Eagle project, he found plenty of people willing to help. “I always went out helping the other guys with their projects, and they helped me in return,” he says.
The cemetery in Patagonia sits on a hill and overlooks the town. Although it is still used, the cemetery doesn’t receive continual maintenance, and many of the headstones were buried, and weeds and trash had covered others. For his Eagle project, Erik, with the help of his family, ward members, and friends from the community, cleaned the cemetery.

During high school graduation ceremony, all kinds of thoughts can zoom through your head. What happens next? Are you ready? Will you and your friends stay in touch?
Not me, though. I had only one question when it was my turn to walk up in front of everybody as they announced my name: was I actually going to graduate?
I wasn’t exactly what you’d call a scholar. Studying pretty much never topped my ideal to-do list. And during my senior year I was doing so poorly in one class I didn’t even know if I had passed the class. The final exam earlier that week would seal my fate, but grades wouldn’t post until a week later.
If I failed this class, I wouldn’t graduate high school.
In the end, I squeaked by on the thinnest possible margin and did graduate. (Whew!) At that point I had 14 months until I turned 19, the missionary age at the time. I intended on working during that time to save money for my mission. I knew I wasn’t much of a student, so under no circumstances did I plan on attempting college.
Have you ever felt like that? Like your past performance in some part of your life has proven your abilities once and for all?
Don’t fall for that line of thinking. It’s one of Satan’s biggest lies!
“Once any of us conclude—‘That’s just the way I am,’ we give up our ability to change,” taught Elder Donald L. Hallstrom of the Presidency of the Seventy. “We might as well raise the white flag, put down our weapons, concede the battle, and just surrender—any prospect of winning is lost.”1
School can seem especially intimidating when you’re not doing well. With even a few bad grades on your record, it’s all too easy to decide that’s as good as you’ll ever get. But it’s not true.
“Who we are is not who we can become,” Elder Hallstrom said.2
Despite what nagging whispers of doubt or failure might reach our ears, we can always choose to look ahead and stop beating ourselves up over the past.
“There is something incredibly hopeful about a fresh start,” taught President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Second Counselor in the First Presidency.3
When deciding to make a fresh start, don’t forget to pray to God for help. Tell Him you want to succeed and then pay attention to promptings and guidance from the Holy Ghost and from your leaders.
This might require a bit of priority shuffling. “Our daily conduct and choices should be consistent with our goals,” said Elder Quentin L. Cook of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. “Many choices are not inherently evil, but if they absorb all of our time and keep us from the best choices, then they become insidious.”4
Fast-forward three and a half years from my high school graduation ceremony. I had worked for around a year and a half, served a two-year mission, and ultimately decided to try college after all.
I wish I could say I felt all grown-up and ready for school, but that’s laughable. I felt more intimidated than ever. If I was so bad at high school, how in the world could I handle college? This time I resolved to do my best and involve God along the way. I prayed fervently to develop new and better study skills.
To my complete shock, I ended up doing so well that semester that I qualified for academic scholarships. Nobody was more surprised than me! Even so, I could also easily look back over the previous months and see the hand of God helping me along as I learned to become a good student.
What I believed about myself back in high school simply wasn’t true. From that point on and with God’s help, I was able to forge a completely new path that carried me through college graduation and beyond.
When we involve the Lord in our climb and decide to make a new start in any area of life, we can reach heights we never dreamed possible.

“Boy, I’ll bet you’re glad that your sister’s getting married tomorrow!” With all the fussing over Christine’s temple wedding and reception, and finding himself in everyone’s way most of the time, Jason had to agree with his friend Randy. He was glad that the wedding was tomorrow! As he tossed the baseball idly back to Randy, he said, “Well, at least I won’t have to stand in line anymore to use the bathroom. She’s always in there taking a bath or doing something to her face.”
“Yeah, sisters can make life miserable,” Randy agreed. “Even mine, and she’s only two years old!”
The boys called it quits on the game of catch and found a seat on the back porch steps.
“Remember that game we played in the mud last summer?” Jason asked. “Lucky for me, I got home before my folks saw me. But who do you think I found in the bathroom? Christine! It smelled like a perfume factory in there! Phew!”
Randy frowned. “I bet she told on you, too, didn’t she?”
“Well, … no.”
“You’re kidding!”
“I guess she didn’t,” Jason said with a shrug. “At least Mom and Dad never said a word when—”
Before Jason could finish, two of Christine’s girlfriends, her bridesmaids for the reception, came out the back door, down the steps, and drove away in their car.
“Don’t girls ever stop giggling?” Randy complained. “I guess you’ve heard a lot of that in your house.”
“Yeah.” Jason sighed. “Sometimes when Christine had friends over, I’d go to my room just to get some peace and quiet. All they ever did was eat pizza and talk about boys! Yuck!” Jason kicked a stone off the step below, then added thoughtfully,
“But she always saved me some pizza.”
“Who?”
“My sister.”
“Oh.”
The two friends silently watched a robin working on a worm in the grass.
“Hey! Just think!” Randy shouted. “Now you’ll have a new sitter when your folks go out.”
“So?”
“Well, didn’t you always tell me that your sister gave you a hard time when she stayed with you, making you go to bed at the same time, even when it wasn’t a school night?”
Jason remembered the many times that Christine had watched him. “Yeah. Nine o’clock, even on weekends!” Then he remembered something else. “Nine o’clock without fail except for that night last year when we had the bad storm and the lights went out.”
Randy elbowed his friend. “She made you go to bed earlier, right?”
“Well, … no,” Jason admitted. He smiled a little. “Christine got out our sleeping bags and flashlights, made some sandwiches, and turned on her portable radio. We camped out in the living room.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah! It was neat!”
“Neat, huh?” Randy teased. “OK. I guess you forgot the Halloween when she made the costume that made you a laughingstock!”
Jason stopped smiling. That was a Halloween that he’d never forget! Christine had volunteered to make him a costume in her home economics class at school. Jason was supposed to be a plain old pirate. But Christine outdid herself and added so much ribbon and lace and so many sequins that Jason ended up looking more like a gypsy than a pirate.
“Ha! You really looked funny!” Randy laughed, wagging a finger at Jason.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Jason admitted, his face getting hot and red. He didn’t like remembering that terrible night! “If it hadn’t been for that lousy costume, those big guys from Willow Street would have left me alone and not taken my whole bag of candy.”
But Jason also remembered how Christine had gotten angry—not at him, but at the bullies who’d stolen his candy. “Let’s go!” she had ordered, grabbing Jason by the arm, then spending two more hours in their rainy neighborhood with him, watching and waiting as Jason refilled his treat bag.
“Boy, she’s some sister,” Randy said in a tone of disgust.
“Yeah, she sure is,” Jason agreed quietly. He got up, adding, “And tomorrow’s the wedding. This is my last chance to really tell her what I think of her.”
Jason marched straight to Christine’s bedroom, took a deep breath, and knocked.
“Come on in,” Christine called. She was setting her hair, stretching and pulling strands of it over prickly tubes. “Hi, Jase!” she said cheerfully. “What’s up?”
The room was filled with clouds of Christine’s perfume. Jason almost forgot what he wanted to say as he stared at the billowing, white gown that hung on her closet door.
Christine looked at him in the mirror. “Is something wrong?” she asked, putting down her brush and turning to her little brother.
“I—I—” he stammered, blushing. “I just wanted to tell you something,” Jason managed to say very quickly. Standing as tall as possible, he took a deep breath and let it out: “Christine, I love you, and I’m gonna miss you!”

“Breakfast is ready,” Goolie informed her sister as she fastened her long skirt. “Cinnamon harvest begins this morning.”
“You don’t have to remind me,” Sirimova said crossly as she fussed with her hair. “I wish I had found a job in Colombo so I would never have to harvest cinnamon again.”
A sadness filled Goolie. “Cinnamon bark from Sri Lanka (formerly Ceylon) is enjoyed by people around the world!” she said feelingly.
“But the work is too hard,” Sirimova protested.
“Hard work has not hurt us,” Goolie argued. “I love living here.”
Sirimova scoffed. “When you are as old as I am, you will feel differently about living in an obscure village.”
The thought frightened Goolie. “I love our village,” she repeated quietly. Then she quickly finished her breakfast rice.
When there was no school, Goolie could spend the entire day harvesting cinnamon bark. She paused for a breath of fresh air on the veranda of their sturdy house Father had built. The magic of the morning sent happiness tingling through her. She loved the banyon, calamander, and satinwood trees growing among the palms surrounding their house. This morning the first rays of golden sunlight glimmered off shiny leaves everywhere.
How can Sirimova bear to leave such aparadise? Goolie wondered.
Goolie got her tools and hurried down the path to their cinnamon trees. She cut three-year-old shoots about the thickness of a walking stick. Folding her long skirt about her legs, she squatted beside the pile in the peeling area. With her gonakokatha (semicircular blade), she began scraping her first stick, savoring the cinnamony smell. Then she rubbed it up and down with her urachi (brass rod) to loosen the bark. With her talana kokatha (knife), she split the bark the length of the stick and peeled it.
“Perfect!” Goolie exclaimed, proud that she hadn’t forgotten her skills from last year’s harvest. With nimble fingers, she worked swiftly, telescoping the peels inside one another to form a quill. These would remain in the drying area four or five days. Then the quills would be tightened by rolling them on a board before further drying.
Sirimova finally arrived, frowning. The bark split as she attempted to peel her first shoot. “Nothing is going right this morning,” she complained.
“It is not the morning,” Goolie said. “It is you who does not feel happy. Grandfather says happiness is a state of mind.”
“You have been listening to Grandfather too much,” Sirimova accused. “Happiness is having things too.”
“We have all we need,” Goolie pointed out.
“I want more than necessities!” Sirimova declared. “Grandfather is old. He does not understand.”
“You must not speak of Grandfather that way,” Goolie warned. “He loves us. He is happy serving the people of our village, in sickness and in health. And everyone takes their problems to him because he is so wise.”
Sirimova shrugged. “Oh, I love Grandfather, but the world has changed since he was young. Now there are radios and motorcars and movies, and we cannot afford any of these.”
“Father has promised us a piece of fine jewelry when the cinnamon harvest is finished,” Goolie reminded her.
Sirimova tossed her head. “I want many pieces of fine jewelry!”
Goolie thought of Grandfather, her parents, and her young brothers and sister. Everyone was happy except Sirimova. How can I bring happiness to her? she puzzled.
That evening, Goolie went to see Grandfather.
“Your face, my child, mirrors that all is not well,” the old man perceived. “Is it of the heart or of the body?”
Goolie told him of Sirimova’s unhappiness. “It makes me very sad,” she said.
Grandfather took Goolie’s hand in his wrinkled, leathery ones. His eyes shone with wisdom gathered over many years. “Happiness cannot be bought with money. One can develop it only by giving of oneself.”
“But how can I help Sirimova understand, Grandfather?”
“We cannot choose happiness for another,” the old man counseled wisely. “We can only love another.”
Goolie thought long about this. Then she said, “Thank you, Grandfather.”
In spite of everyone loving Sirimova, her unhappiness increased as the cinnamon harvest progressed. Then in late July a letter came informing her of a job as a maid in a new hotel in Colombo, the capital of Sri Lanka.
Mother smiled bravely through her tears as Sirimova danced into her arms. Goolie saw Father swallow hard. “This calls for a celebration,” he declared. “We shall go to the botique (gift shop) this very day for a piece of fine jewelry.”
“Thank you, Father,” Sirimova cried. “This is the happiest day of my life.”
Goolie escaped to the veranda. “This is the saddest day for me,” she whispered, tears spilling from her eyes. “Our family will never be complete again. Happiness is gone from my life.”
“Come, Goolie,” Father urged. “You have worked hard. You shall choose a piece of jewelry also.”
“The harvest is only half over,” Goolie protested. “I can wait.”
But Father insisted she go with them.
Goolie’s thoughts were sad as they walked to the botique.
After Sirimova had chosen a necklace, Goolie made her choice.
“You have chosen earrings that match my necklace!” Sirimova exclaimed. “I wish I …”
“Are they not a bit old for you, Goolie?” Father asked kindly.
“They are what I want,” Goolie insisted.
That night before going to sleep, Goolie looked at her earrings and whispered, “They are so beautiful.”
At dawn the next morning, Goolie gathered small pieces of dried cinnamon bark. She packaged her new earrings with some of the fragrant bark before time for her morning chores.
After breakfast, Father brought the bullock cart, and Sirimova put her things into it.
It was a tearful family good-bye. Before Sirimova climbed into the cart beside father, Goolie hugged her sister. “I shall miss you,” she said, trying hard to hold back the tears.
“I shall miss you, too, little sister,” Sirimova said.
Goolie pressed her gift into Sirimova’s hand.
“What is this?” Sirimova asked.
“It is my surprise for you,” Goolie replied. “Do not open it until you get to Colombo.”
“Thank you,” Sirimova said, giving her an extra hug.
“I love you,” Goolie called as the cart lumbered away. And strangely her heart seemed to overflow with happiness.
Have I proved Grandfather’s wisdom—that happiness is found in giving? she pondered.
Then almost as though she were answering her own question, Goolie smiled happily as she waved good-bye.

It all started in 1988 when three young women from the Jacana Ward in Sao Paulo, Brazil, felt a strong desire to visit the elderly ladies who live in a nursing home near the chapel.
The initial idea turned into a continuous service project called “Adopt a Grandma” and other young women from the ward soon began to participate. Later on, more young people from two other wards were also involved. Now, there are nonmembers who help with the project.
These youth have learned what it means to have the pure love of Christ. The elderly women in the rest home have different backgrounds and histories. Some don’t even know their parents or when or where they were born.
One of these is Sebastiana Maria Catarina de Jesus; a talkative, cheerful lady who appears quite small in her wheelchair. She does not know her age, and has no relatives nor visitors. She has become a different woman since these loving and giving young people began visiting her. Catarina now feels that she has a family. She loves to spend time with these youth who are her new family.
Flora Esperanca Galassi is seventy-nine years old and becomes emotional at the mention of her family. A surprise birthday party was given to Flora, who is touched as she remembers this precious day in her life. She embraces the young people warmly because they are everything she has in life.
Virginia Fernandes, who looks about seventy-five years old, also does not know when she was born. She walks around the nursing home with difficulty and does not hear very well, but her countenance reflects joy in being close to her newly made friends.
They speak words of support and are always willing to help the elderly ladies, whose simple needs are easily met: a towel to Catarina, clothing to Flora or a cake to Virginia. These young people know that they are attending to the needs of a part of the Good Shepherd’s flock. They freely give of their love, affection, and kindness, which is just as freely returned.

Such discipleship was beautifully demonstrated in recent events in Mexico.
It had been a beautiful spring for the fruit-growing communities in northern Mexico. The fruit trees were in full bloom, and expectations were high for a bounteous harvest. Plans were already being made to pay off loans, replace needed equipment and aging orchards, and meet personal commitments such as school tuition for family members. Plans were even being made for family vacations. There was a general air of optimism. Then, on a Monday afternoon in late March, a winter storm moved in, and it began to snow. It snowed until about three o’clock in the morning. Then, as the clouds moved out, the temperature plummeted. Throughout the night and early morning, every effort was made to save at least a part of the fruit crop. It was all to no avail. It simply got too cold, and the crop was totally frozen. There would be no fruit to be harvested and sold this year. Tuesday dawned with the sickening and disheartening loss of all those wonderful plans, expectations, and dreams of just the day before.
I received an email regarding that terrible Tuesday morning from Sandra Hatch, the wife of John Hatch, then-first counselor in the presidency of the Colonia Juárez Chihuahua Temple. I quote portions of that email: “John got up early—about 6:30—to run up to the temple to see if we should cancel the session this morning. He came back saying that the parking lot and road were clear, so we decided to go ahead. We figured that maybe some of the workers who didn’t have orchards would come, and we could put all the workers into the session. … It was so inspiring to see the men come in, one after another. There they were, after no sleep at all, and figuring their crops were lost. … I was watching them during our preparation meeting, and they were having a hard time staying awake. But instead of figuring they had a good excuse to not come, they were there. And there were 38 people in the session (a full session)! It was an uplifting morning for us, and we thanked Heavenly Father for good people who do their duty, no matter what happens. I felt a special spirit there this morning. I am sure He was pleased to know that we love His house and felt that it was a good place to be on such a difficult morning.”

Growing up, Matthew attended church in small branches. He and his wife, a convert from Ukraine, grew accustomed to multiple callings and full engagement with international LDS communities but then moved to the United States. Large wards and different cultural expectations made them feel “unneeded and adrift,” he recalls. “We seemed unable to fit in. We felt ignored, with a lack of uplift and connection on Sundays.”
Their frustration reached a breaking point when, after moving to a different city, Matthew and his wife looked forward to a visit from a local priesthood leader whose purpose in visiting ended up being to ask them to keep their lively toddler under control during sacrament meeting. Deeply hurt, Matthew contemplated never returning to the local meetinghouse. “What stopped me,” he explains, “was my testimony that this is the Lord’s Church and that the Savior wants me there. Participating in the gospel has consequences beyond any hurt or personal encounter I’ll have in this life.”
Matthew found this reliance on the divine crucial to staying active in the Church. “The only thing that’s kept me going sometimes is my testimony of Christ,” he explains. “The gospel is bigger than any of us. Christ sees what we cannot see, knows what we can become, and has room for all.”

Riding in a van following the trailer loaded with canoes, the girls of the Fargo North Dakota Stake, headed for a Summiteer adventure, were lost in lethargy, dozing a little. They had had an early morning getting everything packed for five days in the Boundary Waters area of northern Minnesota.
Suddenly Andrea bolted awake in her seat, yelling, “Hey, look! There’s a bear.”
Just then a black bear ambled casually across the road. Now everyone was awake. They watched the bear disappear into the woods, then looked at each other with a look that spoke eloquently. It was unspoken communication, but the message was clear. This really was going to be an adventure. Little did they realize then just how vivid the experience would be and how much this canoe trip would act as a symbol for the way they should live their lives.

During his fifteenth year Joseph F. Smith was ordained an elder, endowed, and sent to serve as a missionary in Hawaii. There he was to experience illness and discouragement far beyond that which is normal for a young man of his age. But with these experiences came an increased deepening of his soul and a broadening of his capacities as new spiritual insights were added in his life. One such experience was a dream, significantly centering in a family experience. This dream occurred during a time in his mission when he was greatly depressed. “I was … entirely friendless, except the friendship of a poor, benighted … people. I felt as if I was so debased in my condition of poverty, lack of intelligence and knowledge, just a boy, that I hardly dared look a … man in the face.”
The dream included many things, but central to the dream was the presentation of a male child to the Prophet Joseph Smith. In the dream he saw his father and his mother, and it was his mother who handed him the child. He carried the child to the Prophet Joseph, handed it to him, and then stepped back. Then Joseph Smith, Hyrum Smith, and Brigham Young—who was still alive at the time of the dream—formed a triangle around the babe, blessed it, and then the Prophet offered the baby again to Joseph F. When the young elder had presented the baby to the Prophet Joseph, he had thrust his hand up against the chest of the Prophet to test the reality of the presence of the Prophet. Upon returning for the baby, Joseph F. had determined to test again whether this were just a dream or a reality.
“I wanted to know what it meant. So I purposely thrust myself up against the Prophet. I felt the warmth of his stomach. He smiled at me as if he comprehended my purpose. He delivered the child to me and I returned it to my mother, laid it on her lap.
“When I awoke that morning I was a man, although only a boy. There was not anything in the world that I feared. … That vision, that manifestation and witness that I enjoyed at that time has made me what I am, if I am anything that is good, or clean, or upright before the Lord. That has helped me out of every trial and through every difficulty.”
It is rather evident from President Smith’s comments that his main interest in this experience lies in the fact that his testimony of the Prophet at that time was intensified and expanded, but one cannot help noticing one detail from that dream, a detail upon which President Smith does not comment, and that is the presentation of a male child to the Prophet Joseph Smith for a blessing. In light of the fact that two of President Smith’s sons were eventually to come into the Council of the Twelve, and one of these Joseph Fielding Smith, was later to become president of the Church to bear, as it were, the mantle of the prophet in succession from Joseph Smith, one might wonder if there was not also prophetic dimension to this dream that he received as a young missionary, “alone on a mat, away up in the mountains of Hawaii.”

There was a time in our lives when my wife, Ceci, and I did not attend church regularly. But we missed the Church, and finally I decided to fast and pray to know if our Heavenly Father would permit us to return to his fold.
A short time later, the doorbell rang when I was having my personal prayers. It was our branch president, President Pinos. He had come to ask me to be a counselor in the branch presidency. My prayer had been answered, and I knew that my Heavenly Father still loved me as his son. I felt that warm feeling which comes only from God.