Gospel Story Finder

We have been a missionary church from the beginning. I thank the Lord that we will always be a missionary church. The first conversions in this dispensation came through the humble testimony of the Prophet Joseph Smith. His efforts were directed first to those he loved most. He converted his father, his mother, and his brothers and sisters. He converted his wife, his neighbors, then Martin Harris, and the schoolteacher, Oliver Cowdery, as well as the Whitmer family. They all felt of the truth and power of his simple testimony.
“On Sunday, April 11th, 1830, Oliver Cowdery preached the first public discourse that was delivered by any of our number,” wrote the Prophet Joseph Smith. (Documentary History of the Church, vol. 1, p. 81.) Then it was recorded that six were baptized following the service.
Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery, under divine instruction, began to preach, teach, expound, exhort, baptize, and set the pattern for our modern missionary service. Now, over 140 years later, we see the fruits of missionary efforts in our own families, in our wards, in our branches, and, of course, in this tabernacle today.

Thirteen-year-old Jason Seawright of the Winder Fifth Ward, Salt Lake Winder Stake, has always been interested in the people in the Russian area. That’s why he took on odd jobs during the summer to earn enough money to buy 45 Russian copies of the Book of Mormon. He also had his testimony translated and put it in the books.
He then asked everyone he knew who would be traveling to the area to take the books with them and give them away. A 16-year-old boy from St. Petersburg wrote to Jason to thank him for sharing the gospel.

Eleven-year-old Hatty pulled the last stitch through the apron. “It’s finished,” she said, tying the knot. “Now can I please make Pa’s birthday shirt?”
“Are you sure you want to try something so difficult?” Ma asked.
“Yes! His birthday’s next week, and I’ve been mending as fast as I can so I’ll have time to make it. Besides, you said his old one was ready for the quilt bag.”
Ma laughed. “All right. You’ve convinced me. There’s some cloth in the box by my bed.”
Hatty hurried to the box and pulled out a large piece of newly woven cloth. “How about this?”
Ma nodded. “That will be fine, but be careful not to use more than you need. It has to last us all year.”
“I’ll be careful.” Hatty spread it on the table.
“The first thing we need to do,” Ma said, “is cut out the pieces. Usually I measure your pa first, but since this is a surprise, we’ll have to rely on my memory.” Ma measured, outlined, and pinned. “It’s your turn,” she said, handing Hatty the scissors.
Hatty cut out the sleeves.
“Good,” Ma said. “I’m going outside now to put fresh straw in the mattresses. Call me if you need anything.”
“I will.” Hatty started on the next piece. This is so exciting! she thought. I can hardly wait till Pa sees—“Oh, no!” she wailed out loud.
Ma ran through the door. “What’s wrong?” Then she saw the large gash. “Oh, Hatty, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left you so soon.” She folded the ruined cloth and put it into the box. “Perhaps we can use it later.”
Hatty wiped a tear from her cheek. “I’m sorry, Ma.”
“I know.” Ma quickly traced another pattern, and Hatty tried again. This time she was extra careful.
It wasn’t until the next morning that Hatty had another chance to work on her gift.
As she started sewing the first seam, she thought, This isn’t so hard. But after a solid hour of stitching, her hands were sore, her shoulders ached, and her fingers had been pricked five times.
“Let’s see how you’re doing,” Ma said, examining the stitches. “Hmmm, … most of it’s perfect. But see these big stitches? You’ll need to make them smaller, or they’ll come undone while Pa is working.”
Hatty looked at her pricked fingers. “Maybe this project is too hard for me.”
“It is difficult, but I believe that you can do it.”
“You do?”
“Yes. You’ve already done many difficult things. Remember when we crossed the plains? You had to keep our milk cow walking, even when all you wanted to do was sleep.”
Hatty nodded.
“And what about our garden? You planted it all by yourself.”
“Pa helped a little.”
“And I’ll help you with this.”
Hatty looked again at her sore fingers. “Show me what to do,” she said.
The rest of the week, Hatty spent every spare minute working on the shirt. Sometimes she had to unpick her stitches and sew them again, and sometimes she felt like giving up. But, finally, on the morning of Pa’s birthday, she finished it and wrapped it in brown paper.
“There’s a new company of Saints coming through the canyon today,” Pa said after breakfast. “I’ll be spending most of my day helping them.”
“But it’s your birthday!” Hatty cried.
“And I can’t think of a better way to spend it! You know that we’ve always been helped when we’ve needed it, so I’m glad to help others when they need it.”
“What about your present?” Hatty asked.
Pa laughed. “I’ll be home in time for dinner. You can give it to me then.”
When he was gone, Ma said, “Aren’t we lucky? Now we have the whole day to prepare for his party.”
“His party?”
“Yes. We need to make a cake, fix his favorite dinner, and—”
“String wildflowers around the room! Can I do that?”
Ma laughed. “Go ahead.”
That evening, Pa, Ma, and Hatty sat around the table and ate dinner. There was a flower next to each place.
“Happy birthday to you,” Hatty and Ma sang after dinner.
Pa stuck his finger into the cake. “Mmmm. Let’s eat.”
“Presents first,” said Hatty, reaching under her chair.
Just then someone knocked on the door.
“I wonder who that could be.” Pa picked up the candle and went to the door.
Hatty stood on her tiptoes, trying to see who it was, but Pa was too tall. She could hear a man’s voice, though.
Finally Pa closed the door and faced his family. “It’s one of the new settlers,” he said quietly. “He’s out of money, and his clothes were so torn that he didn’t want you to see him. He hid in the bushes all afternoon.” Pa looked at Ma, his eyes pleading. “I have another pair of pants, but …”
Slowly Hatty handed her father the brown paper package. “Happy birthday,” she whispered. “It’s a shirt.”
Pa pulled Hatty into his arms. “Thank you,” he said. Then, he gathered the clothing and gave his gift to the man outside.

John has already started saving money for a mission. When John was baptized by his father, he received a set of scriptures from his parents. John uses his scriptures at church, during family home evenings, and when his family reads scriptures each morning. He loves the stories in the scriptures, and his favorite is the one about David and Goliath. John was happy to be able to appear in a road show about David and Goliath.

In the summer before my junior year I got news of an LDS 11th-grader moving into our area. I was ecstatic. She was an answer to prayer. It’s amazing how much we have in common and how well we get along. Together with another senior, we made up the three LDS girls at my high school. With three boys, that made six Latter-day Saints among 950 students. While the school year was stressful for all of us, we were always there to support each other. We stuck together through bad times and great times.

Finances were tight for our young family in 1979. I was a student at Colorado State University. Meager funds from loans and my wife’s enterprises were deposited directly into a savings account. Then we would withdraw a budgeted amount every week for expenses. As Christmas approached we recognized that this holiday would be a frugal one.
One Friday evening we decided that I would take the two oldest of our four children to explore the excitement of the local shopping mall. En route we made our bank withdrawal, electing to withdraw the full December amount at the beginning of the month to cover the increased expenses of the holidays. I took the full amount in small bills.
Although no snow had fallen, the weather was cold and raw with an icy wind. Arriving at the crowded mall parking lot, I hurriedly extracted the boys from the van, eager to get inside the bright, warm mall.
For well over an hour we wandered from store to store, enjoying the rich sights and smells. At last we agreed to cap our outing with some ice cream. With shock, however, I immediately discovered that my shirt pocket was empty of its recent bulge of money.
I fought down a rising panic as we quickly retraced our steps. But with each negative response to our anxious inquiries about someone finding some money, our sense of loss increased. After making a last, futile stop at a security desk, we sadly returned home.
We related the bad news to my concerned wife. How could we buy food, pay the rent and utilities, and cover other expenses for the month, let alone provide a few extras for Christmas? The children began to softly cry and whisper among themselves. Somberly we gathered in family prayer to ask for guidance. Then, as we were discussing every possible but unlikely avenue to compensate for the loss, the phone rang.
It was the security guard at the mall. “Are you the people who recently reported the loss of some money?” he asked.
“Yes, we are,” I answered.
“How much was it, and in what denominations?”
After we gave him the information, he asked if we could return to the mall.
With guarded anticipation we made the short journey back. The security guard told us that several people had turned in numerous small bills found scattered by the wind in the parking lot. A count revealed the exact amount we had lost. There was no one to thank, for these honest souls left no names. The guard smiled and wished us a merry Christmas as he handed us the small stack of bills. Much relieved and profoundly grateful, we drove home.
We then knelt as a family and offered our thanks for the blessings given. Christmas was saved for our little family, and an eternal lesson was learned. These honest people were wonderful examples to us. What better way to give thanks to our Heavenly Father for the birth of His Son than by living the true spirit of Christmas?

Even though I have struggled with feelings of hurt or resentment associated with Church members, I’ve realised more and more how much people there care about me. It has helped me to enjoy church because of the joy my ward family brings me. There will always be people there who love you.
Sophia D., age 16, Bristol, England

In January I was at the temple in Guayaquil, Ecuador, with many of my family members. I felt so much peace and happiness that I did not want to go home when it was time to go.
I know that Heavenly Father lives and loves us, that Jesus is the way to return to Him, and that Joseph Smith was a prophet.

Keith Chapman, a forward at the University of Utah, is a returned missionary from the Germany Frankfurt Mission. As he was growing up, he had always planned to go on a mission. But when the time came to submit his papers, the game plan became a little more complicated. “The NCAA started having a controversy about whether missionaries would lose eligibility or not. That was the first hesitation I ever felt about my decision to serve a mission. After praying, I decided I was going to go at any rate. The NCAA then decided that we would keep our eligibility.”
On his mission Keith learned to keep an eternal perspective on things. “Before my mission, basketball was my whole life. Now I know there are more important things like staying worthy and looking more into the eternities than just to the next game.”

New friends often ask Nefi about his name, since they find it unusual. “When they ask me about it,” says Nefi, “I tell them that when my father joined the Church, the missionaries presented him with the Book of Mormon and told him about the story of Nephi.” He adds, “I like being named after Nephi, because he was a brave and good man.” Nefi is so proud of his name that his favorite song is “Kisah Kitab Mormon”—that’s “Book of Mormon Stories” in Bahasa, the national language.

We slowly made our way back to the hotel in the drizzling rain. For two days, my wife and I had been copying information on her ancestors from church registers in a small German town. After deciphering so much barely legible handwriting, we were exhausted. Our heads were spinning with the names of generations we had managed to trace back to the year 1648. That date was as far back as we could go, since the church registers had been burned during the Thirty Years’ War. I suggested that now it was my turn to look up my ancestors.
My grandfather had settled in our native Holland. The only clue I had about his background was that he had lived in a German town called Solingen, not far from where we were now. I told my wife that if we left immediately, we could make it to the Solingen church archives by the next morning. So off we went, arriving at what we believed to be Solingen by nightfall.
We found a hotel and, before long, were sitting at the dinner table when the waiter brought soup. But then the waiter mentioned that we were actually in Grafrath, a suburb of Solingen. We immediately canceled our order and, much to the waiter’s surprise, rushed out and into our car. Solingen proper was a half hour away, and we couldn’t afford to waste time traveling in the morning.
Unfortunately, all the hotels in Solingen were full, so we decided to return to Grafrath. Imagine our waiter’s surprise when we returned a few hours later and reordered our dinner! When we explained to him why we had left in such a hurry, he smiled sheepishly and then informed us that all of Solingen’s church records were in Grafrath—in the building adjacent to our hotel! Then it was our turn to smile sheepishly.
After dinner we immediately went next door. There were the archives, open the next day from 8:00 A.M. until noon. We were at the door the next morning even before the archives opened. When I introduced myself to the archivist, he said, “Mr. Kirschbaum, I am so glad you have finally come.”
As it turned out, the previous archivist had compiled extensive information on the Kirschbaum family back to the year 1500. The Kirschbaums had been famous sword makers, and several of them had been mayors of the town.
As I read about my ancestors, I learned that they apparently had the typical Kirschbaum trait of a quiet, good-natured disposition—except when aggravated. I read with amusement about a local notary who apparently played a mean trick on one of my ancestors. The man later found himself shut up in his own house by a cartload of “natural fertilizer” that was delivered to his doorstep by Herr Kirschbaum himself—the mayor.
At noon we left the archives, loaded with information on hundreds of ancestors, including a pedigree chart, countless photocopies of publications on my ancestors, and a book on Solingen sword making.
We didn’t say much as we drove back to Holland, so preoccupied were we with all that had happened. In a matter of hours, we had been given the family records of hundreds of ancestors. But suddenly I broke the silence with a laugh.
I thought of my good-natured ancestors smiling contentedly as we arrived in Grafrath, where the information needed for their temple ordinances was kept. Then I imagined their frustration as we rushed off to Solingen. I could almost hear them yelling, “Hey! Where are those Dutchmen going!”

I want to share two more examples of integrity and honesty involving students at Brigham Young University–Idaho. I believe the simplicity and seemingly ordinary nature of these events make them extraordinary.
The first episode was described in a letter from a local business owner that I received while serving as president at BYU–Idaho.
“A girl living in one of the dorms stopped in, shopping for a tie to send to her boyfriend who is serving a mission. She took a close look at the ties and found a great looking one. We stepped over to the checkout counter, and I rang up the sale. She paid with a check and left. I went about my work, and about an hour later I looked up and saw the same girl walking into the store. She had an interesting smile on her face as she walked up to me. She handed me a check and explained that I had accidentally put the check she had written back into the sack along with the cash register receipt and the tie. I really did slip up on this one! We laughed, and I thanked her and told her that I really did admire her honesty.”
This young woman clearly exhibited integrity and honesty with other people. She is also increasing in integrity and honesty with God and with herself.

Jim Gregory often has a problem: too few people for too many jobs. It’s not an unusual situation for an LDS Sunday School president, but Jim’s case is unusual; he is 17 and a priest in the Henderson [Kentucky] Branch.
The Henderson Branch is small—only 150 members. Filling Church positions within a small branch is a real task for Jim. Also, the goals of the Sunday School give him an added challenge.
“It’s difficult, and yet rewarding, to have this calling. The Sunday School is the one organization that deals with the family as a whole,” says Jim. “I’ve learned that you have to always keep your faith and everything will work out right.”
Before his call to the Sunday School presidency, Jim served as teachers quorum president and as assistant to the president of the priests quorum. Jim is also a certified lifeguard instructor and swimming teacher. Football, hunting, and camping keep him busy too. After graduating from high school he plans to study music in college and fill a mission.

By the time you get this letter I will have passed my 60th birthday, and this is my first letter to an editor. My wife and I thoroughly enjoy reading the New Era and the Ensign. They are without question the best magazines in our home. This letter was prompted by Dian Saderup’s article “Zion: A Legacy” in the August New Era. As a boy of 14, my grandfather, Wyllys Darwin Fuller, and another 14-year-old boy walked and drove a small herd of milk cows from Winter Quarters to the Salt Lake Valley with the Perrigrine Sessions Company. Granddad made the statement that no one could tell him how far it was from Winter Quarters to Salt Lake because he had stepped it off all the way.
May I suggest that Dian’s great-great-grandmother can be justly proud of her descendant? It is refreshing to see a young woman as beautiful as Dian who has her head on straight and knows where she is going and how to get there.
Stanley R. FullerHigley, Arizona

In our family, we have always been taught to keep the Sabbath day holy. We attend church and try to do other things on Sunday that we think will help us think about Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. We write in our journals and read stories from the Friend. Other things, like going to the park or playing sports, we avoid on Sundays.
I was excited to get an invitation to my friend Gordon’s birthday party last year. But when I opened it up, I saw that the party was being held on Sunday. I showed it to my parents but didn’t even ask if I could go. I said, “I can’t go to his party because it’s on Sunday.” I was disappointed to miss it but knew I was making the right choice.
My mom phoned Gordon’s mom to tell her that I couldn’t come. Gordon’s mom apologized for having the party on a Sunday. The very next day she wanted to talk to Mom while they were waiting to pick us up from school. She said they used to go to their church and that she believed in prayer. This led to lots of opportunities to share the gospel with Gordon’s family. They haven’t joined the Church, but they still show some interest in it and understand more about what we believe. My mom said that if I had not made the right choice about keeping the Sabbath day holy, we probably never would have been able to talk to them so much about the gospel. They respect our values, and this year they had Gordon’s birthday party on a Saturday rather than a Sunday.

Reader 3: My dad and I used to fight all the time. Anytime I wanted anything or wanted to do something, I’d always give all my reasons because I was afraid dad would say no. And he always did. Then once, when I argued with dad and he said no, I went to mom. All she said was:
Reader D: “Why didn’t you ask him?”
Reader 3: “I did ask him, mom. I just told you what happened.”
Reader D: “You told me you argued with him. But you didn’t ask him. If you treat your father as if he’ll argue, he’ll argue. Next time, simply ask him.”
Reader 3: It sounded so simple it seemed stupid. But I tried. I stopped defending myself as if I didn’t deserve it, and he was more positive, too.

When our children were small, my wife Mary and I decided to follow a tradition which my father taught when I was a child. He would meet with each child individually to help us set goals. Then he would teach us how church, school, and extracurricular activities would help us achieve those goals. He had three rules:
We needed to have worthwhile goals.
We could change our goals at any time.
Whatever goal we chose, we had to diligently work towards it.
When our son, Larry, was five years old, I asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up. He said he wanted to be a doctor like Uncle Joe. Larry had experienced a serious operation and had acquired great respect for doctors, especially his Uncle Joe. I told Larry how all the worthwhile things he was doing would help prepare him to be a doctor.
Several months later, I asked him again what he would like to be. This time he said he wanted to be an airline pilot. Changing the goal was fine, so I explained how his various activities would help him achieve his new goal.
Almost as an afterthought I said, “Larry, last time we talked you wanted to be a doctor. What changed your mind?” He answered, “I still like the idea of being a doctor, but Uncle Joe works on Saturday mornings, and I don’t want to miss Saturday-morning cartoons.” Since that time our family has labeled a distraction from a worthwhile goal as a Saturday-morning cartoon.

I once was the student of a great seminary teacher. He was a part-time seminary teacher who had been a missionary in Czechoslovakia before World War II. He said that they had no missionary lesson plan then. The missionaries wrote their own discussions.
The man who became my seminary teacher and his companion prepared carefully what they would teach each day. Each evening they prepared a first discussion for the next day. On one day, in the morning, they went out tracting. Late in the day, they finally found a woman who reluctantly allowed them into her home.
My future teacher’s companion began to present their prepared discussion. The junior companion watched the woman’s face and her eyes. He could sense anger and almost hatred. He became puzzled and then alarmed enough to speak.
He interrupted his companion and said, “Excuse me, I sense … ,” and then described what he felt was her anger and irritation. She said something like this: “Yes, I’m angry. I hate you, and I hate all ministers of religion.”
She said that she’d had a child born, and the child had died as an infant. Her priest had told her that the child would go to hell because of not having been baptized. Then she said, “I hate all religion, and I hate you.”
The young junior companion said, “We’re here to help you.” Then he opened the Book of Mormon to Moroni, the eighth chapter, verse 14. He read to her: “He that supposeth that little children need baptism is in the gall of bitterness and in the bonds of iniquity; for he hath neither faith, hope, nor charity; wherefore, should he be cut off while in the thought, he must go down to hell.”
The woman was interested.
“For awful is the wickedness to suppose that God saveth one child because of baptism, and the other must perish because he hath no baptism” (Moro. 8:15).
And on to verse 22: “All little children are alive in Christ, and also all they that are without the law. For the power of redemption cometh on all them that have no law; wherefore, he that is not condemned, or he that is under no condemnation, cannot repent; and unto such baptism availeth nothing.”
When I heard this story more than 50 years ago, I was impressed. Think of the miracles that came to that young missionary! He sensed her heart. He acted on her need. He remembered the message of the scriptures. The Spirit told him which scriptures would help her and where they are in the Book of Mormon. What miracles! If it could happen then, it can happen again, and often.

Then everything changed.
The whole world transformed overnight.
I’d reached the lowest point in my life. Nothing but a profound spiritual experience could change me. I knew deep down that I was meant to be doing more in life. And I’d finally become so desperate that I was open to the truth that perhaps God did live. I didn’t know anything about Him, but I started seeking His guidance. I searched desperately for a sign of His hand in my life. Then, suddenly, He answered, and I was catapulted into a world I’d never known.
My world came together in such an orchestrated fashion and guided me to exactly where I needed to be. Strangers, family, friends—everyone and everything—seemed to be sending me messages of love, concern, and support all at once. I started to notice a sensation in my chest: a wonderful burning feeling. And along with that feeling, I was witnessing a love that was completely new to me.
The love of God.
I really didn’t know what the feeling was or where it had come from at first. I just knew it didn’t come from me and that it was better than anything I had felt. It wasn’t until later while talking with my family that I really understood that I was experiencing a connection with Heavenly Father through the power of the Holy Ghost.
My reality suddenly changed from a dull gray to full color. And it was difficult to adjust. I knew God was real. But what did this mean? For at least a month, I would break down sobbing throughout each day. The new beauty of life I was seeing was forcing me to face the unbelievably ugly way I’d lived for years. I’d been so engulfed by hatred, and now I was witnessing the deepest love I’d ever seen. A love that struck me to my core. Life had become more beautiful than I’d ever imagined it could be. I knew God was calling me. He wanted me to seek a better life. And I was finally ready to answer Him.

One winter day as Christmas approached, I thought back to an experience from my boyhood. I was just 11. Our Primary president, Melissa, was an older and loving gray-haired lady. One day at Primary, Melissa asked me to stay behind and visit with her. There the two of us sat in the otherwise empty chapel. She placed her arm about my shoulder and began to cry. Surprised, I asked her why she was crying. She replied: “I don’t seem to be able to encourage the Trail Builder boys to be reverent during the opening exercises of Primary. Would you be willing to help me, Tommy?” I promised her I would. Strangely to me, but not to Melissa, that ended any problem of reverence in that Primary. She had gone to the source of the problem—me. The solution was love.
The years flew by. Marvelous Melissa, now in her nineties, lived in a nursing facility in the northwest part of Salt Lake City. Just before Christmas I determined to visit my beloved Primary president. Over the car radio, I heard the song “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing.” I reflected on the visit made by wise men those long years ago. They brought gifts of gold, of frankincense, and of myrrh. I brought only the gift of love and a desire to say “Thank you.”
I found Melissa in the lunchroom. She stared at her plate of food, teasing it with the fork she held in her aged hand. Not a bite did she eat. As I spoke to her, my words were met with a benign but blank stare. I took the fork in hand and began to feed Melissa, talking all the time I did so about her service to boys and girls as a Primary worker. There wasn’t so much as a glimmer of recognition, far less a spoken word. Two other residents of the nursing home gazed at me with puzzled expressions. At last they spoke, saying: “She doesn’t know anyone, even her own family. She hasn’t said a word in all the years she’s been here.”
Lunch ended. My one-sided conversation wound down. I stood to leave. I held her frail hand in mine, gazed into her wrinkled but beautiful countenance, and said: “God bless you, Melissa. Merry Christmas.” Without warning, she spoke the words: “I know you. You’re Tommy Monson, my Primary boy. How I love you.” She pressed my hand to her lips and bestowed on it the kiss of love. Tears coursed down her cheeks and bathed our clasped hands. Those hands, that day, were hallowed by heaven and graced by God. The herald angels did sing. Outside the sky was blue—azure blue. The air was cool—crispy cool. The snow was white—crystal white. The words of the Master seemed to have a personal meaning never before fully felt: “Woman, behold thy son!” And to His disciple, “Behold thy mother!” (John 19:26–27).