Gospel Story Finder

“A certain elder I knew had as a goal that he would perform each day so that at the end of the day he would have no regrets about his actions,” President Wright said. “This was a rather simple guideline he was able to follow, and he became a truly outstanding missionary.”

I will never forget walking the grounds at Winter Quarters, Nebraska, USA, where pioneers had lived years before. The ground felt sacred, almost as if I were visiting an outdoor temple.
My eyes filled with tears, blurring my vision. I saw a statue but could not make out the figures. When I wiped away my tears, I saw a man and a woman whose faces were full of grief. As I looked closer, I saw the figure of an infant lying in a grave at their feet.
This sight filled me with so many emotions: sadness, anger, gratitude, and joy. I wanted to take away the pain those Saints felt, but I was grateful at the same time for what they had sacrificed for the gospel.
My experience at Winter Quarters helped me realize that Heavenly Father gives the gospel to His children and allows them the agency to do with it as they will. The parents of that baby could have chosen to take an easier course. Following the prophet and living the gospel required these pioneers to press forward even when it meant burying their child. But they chose to take the gospel into their lives and accepted their challenges. I learned that the Saints’ dedication to the gospel and their determination to press forward were driven by faith and hope—hope for a bright future and faith that the Lord knew them and could ease their pain.

When our youngest child was six years old and in the first grade at school, her teacher gave the children an in-class writing assignment. It was October, the month of Halloween, a holiday observed in some parts of the world. While it is not my favorite holiday, I suppose there may be some innocent and redeeming aspects of Halloween.

The teacher passed out a piece of paper to the young students. At the top was a roughly drawn picture of a mythical witch (I told you this was not my favorite holiday) standing over a boiling cauldron. The question posed on the page, to encourage the imaginations of the children and to test their rudimentary writing skills, was “You have just drunk a cup of the witch’s brew. What happened to you?” Please know that this story is not being shared as a recommendation to teachers.

“You have just drunk a cup of the witch’s brew. What happened to you?” With her best beginner’s writing, our little one wrote, “I will die and I will be in heaven. I will like it there. I would love it because it is the best place to be because you are with your Heavenly Father.” This answer likely surprised her teacher; however, when our daughter brought the completed assignment home, we noted that she was given a star, the highest grade.

On a ski trip to a large resort, some friends and I decided to split up and check out the various runs. We planned to meet later for lunch and compare notes on the runs for the afternoon.
I rode several lifts and enjoyed different runs. It was a glorious day. A storm had just passed, and everything was fresh and white.
I traversed the mountain to a run which is used less frequently than others. It had a very long ski lift and there were few people in line. I was alone on my chair and I stretched my arms across the back of the chair to enjoy the sensations of the morning. The world seemed a very friendly place. The bright sun shone in a deep, blue sky. The trees were dark, almost black, and contrasted with the brilliant white of the snow. Now and then I passed over tracks made by a rabbit or some other small animal. The sun was pleasant on my face, and the cold, bracing air felt good in my lungs. I took long, deep breaths and involuntarily broke into a wide grin.
I was enjoying all that was around me and wished for someone to share it with. Then I thought of my Heavenly Father. It was through his plan that I’d come to this earth to enjoy these things. I thought of his love and concern for me and felt I should express my gratitude to him. I prayed aloud. I told Heavenly Father how good it was to have a physical body that I could exercise and sense the beauties of this world with. I told him how I felt about the colors around me, and the great feeling of the warm sun mixed with the cold air. I told him that I loved him and was happy that he loved me enough to give me these things.
I had been praying to express my happiness to my Heavenly Father, but I also realized that my prayer was an attempt to make him happy. I thought of my earthly parents and how they enjoy hearing about the fun, exciting things of my life. Wouldn’t it gladden my Father in Heaven to hear about my joy?
The rest of that day was very special. I spent much of it sharing with my Heavenly Father the things around me. The more I shared the more I appreciated. It was wonderful to know I had found another way to express my love for him.

Elder John R. Lasater, formerly of the Seventy (1987–92), told of an incident that occurred while he was traveling in Morocco. A car had injured one of the lambs belonging to a shepherd, and according to local law, the shepherd was entitled to 100 times its value. His interpreter said, “But the old shepherd will not accept the money. They never do because of the love [they have] for each of [the] sheep.” Elder Lasater then observed the old shepherd pick up the injured lamb, place it in a pouch in the front of his robe, stroke its head, and call it by name. The interpreter told him, “All of his sheep have a name, for he is their shepherd, and the good shepherds know each one of their sheep by name.”

Elder Lasater continued, “Do we understand the personal nature of the shepherd’s call? … Do they know us as true shepherds who love them, who willingly and freely give time and attention to their needs, and in that marvelous process, instill the confidence and security so greatly needed in God’s children today?” (“Shepherds of Israel,” Ensign, May 1988, 74–75).

Frank Wheat’s favorite lesson was more personal. He said, “Our teacher asked about our full names and what each of our names came from and what they stood for. I was named after both my grandfathers. Even though one died before I was born and the other died shortly after my birth, it made me think about how I live my life. Maybe they are looking down on me and asking, ‘What are you doing with my name?’ I’m trying to live a good life because of that.”

Have you ever felt like you failed at something even though you had hoped with all your heart you would succeed? That’s how I felt as I came home from my mission. Two years in France, and what good had I done? Sure, I had made friends, learned a language, and grown to love faithful Saints who strive to live the gospel.
But I hadn’t baptized anyone.
Then I remembered advice my mission president gave me during my final interview: “If you can honestly say that the Lord is pleased with the effort you have made, if you can honestly say that you did the best you could for Him, then that is the measure of your success. Nothing else matters.”
As I thought about that, I felt compelled to pray. Slowly, peace came to my heart. The Spirit whispered, “The Lord knows you did the best you could. Your sacrifice is acceptable.” It was time to get on with the next steps of my life.
Fast-forward many years. I was writing a letter to my daughter, who was serving a mission in Canada, when I heard a ping on my phone. Someone had sent me a photo of the inside front cover of a copy of the Book of Mormon with a testimony written in French—in my own handwriting! I had given the book to a sister who had joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints while I was a missionary (though I hadn’t baptized her), but she had fallen away a couple of years later. Why would someone be sending me a photo of the testimony I had written so many years before?
The picture came with a message: “I thought you would be interested in seeing your testimony again. My aunt was so excited when I joined the Church that she gave me the Book of Mormon you once gave to her. I thought you would appreciate knowing what a treasure it is to me.
“My aunt didn’t remain active in the Church, but she always spoke highly of it, so much so that her younger sister (my mother) asked the missionaries to teach her. My mother joined the Church. She was married in the temple. She and my father raised four children as members of the Church. My three siblings and I have all served missions and been married in the temple. We are all active and faithful.”
Emotion overwhelmed me. All those years ago, I thought I had failed. But now I could see how the Lord had accomplished His work, in His way, over time.
If you had asked me at the end of my mission, I would have said I was a failure. But as I thought about the testimony I had written in that Book of Mormon all those years ago, I realized that you haven’t failed as long as you do your best for the Lord. “Maybe the only thing I failed at was being a failure,” I thought.
“I realized that you haven’t failed as long as you do your best for the Lord.”

Ryan threw open the front door. “Mom,” he shouted, racing down the hall to the study, “I struck out three men at practice today, and one of the guys walked home with me.”
Mother looked up and smiled into the brown eyes glowing with enthusiasm. “I knew it wouldn’t take you long to make a friend,” she said. “And if you keep on pitching like that, you’ll soon be the star of the team.”
Ryan grinned, tugging at a strand of hair that had escaped his cap.
“By the way, I made some friends today, too,” Mother continued. “Go wash up. You can help me put a pizza together for dinner while I tell you about them.”
Ryan joined his mother in the kitchen a few moments later and started rolling out a ball of dough.
“While you were at practice, a neighbor, Sister Krein, and her eleven-year-old son, Joey, came to visit me,” Mother said. “They brought us some honey wheat rolls fresh out of the oven.”
“All right!”
“You see—there are advantages to being the new family in town.” Mother paused to enjoy Ryan’s smile before she went on. “After visiting with them, I agreed to let Joey stay with us during the day this summer when Sister Krein can’t be home with him.”
“But you said that he’s eleven! Can’t he stay by himself?”
“No—you see, he was born with Down’s syndrome.”
“You mean he has a mental handicap?”
“Yes. He does some things quite well, but he has to have help doing other things, and he can’t be left alone for very long. He needs more supervision than other children his age.”
“Well, I guess it will be OK,” agreed Ryan, “as long as I don’t have to miss playing baseball with the guys.”
Mother popped the pizza into the oven and set the timer. “I’m sure Joey won’t keep you from ball practice. He loves sports, too, and plays on one of the city teams himself.”
When Ryan answered the door the next morning, Joey was standing on the porch with a baseball cap on his head, a glove on his hand, and a big smile on his face. “Hi,” he said enthusiastically. “I’m Joey.”
“Hi, I’m Ryan. Come on in.”
“Do you want to play ball?” Joey asked, smacking his fist into his glove.
Ryan laughed. “You love baseball as much as I do, don’t you?” he said, picking up a bat and glove. He and Joey headed for the backyard.
“Can I bat?” asked Joey.
“Sure,” said Ryan, “but I think you’ll do better if you hold it a little higher.” He shifted the bat in Joey’s hands, then positioned himself near the back fence. “Swing straight into it,” he called, and made a gentle pitch.
“I can’t believe how patient Joey is,” Ryan told his mother a few days later. “I’ve never seen anyone who keeps trying the way he does.”
Mother smiled. “Joey never seems to want to quit playing, once you two get started. It’s a good thing you both like baseball.”
The boys played together every minute they could spare from practicing with their own teams. Then one afternoon they both realized that Joey was hitting the ball almost every time. “I hit it again!” he shouted, jumping up and down with glee as Ryan thumped him on the back.
He was even more excited the next day. “My team is going to play your team,” he announced.
Ryan pulled his schedule out of his desk drawer, and both boys bent over it.
“See,” said Joey, pointing. “Thursday. Pitch slow, Ryan. I want to get a hit. Please, Ryan, pitch slow—like when we practice.”
What should I do? Ryan wondered to himself after Joey had gone home. I want Joey to get a hit, but I want to help my team win the game too. What will they think of me if I don’t do my best pitching?
Ryan’s anxiety increased as the day of the game approached, but Joey grew more and more excited. “Pitch slow so I can get a hit,” he told Ryan over and over again.
Thursday arrived. Ryan had already struck out two boys and gotten six others on easy ground balls or pop flies, when Joey picked up the bat and ran over to home plate. Ryan glanced at his teammates. He knew they expected Joey to be an easy out.
Ryan was suddenly very hot, and not just from the blistering sun overhead. Pulling off his cap, he took his time wiping the sweat from his forehead. Then he smiled at Joey, wound up, and pitched a slow ball with great care over the plate. Crack! Joey’s bat connected solidly, but Joey was just standing there, exulting.
“Run, Joey, run!” Ryan looked around in wonder as he heard his own teammates take up the cry.
By the time Joey’s foot landed on first base, the whole ballpark was alive with cheering. Joey’s freckled face beamed as players from both teams pelted his back with pats of approval. Ryan thought he had never seen a bigger smile than Joey’s.
Ryan smiled, too, as he thought, There’s more than one way to win!

Let me tell you a story I heard recently in Mexico.
Thirty years ago David Castañeda; his wife, Tomasa; and their children lived on a dry, little, run-down ranch near Torreón. They owned 30 chickens, two pigs, and one thin horse. They walked in poverty. Then the missionaries called on them. Sister Castañeda said, “The elders took the blinders from our eyes and brought light into our lives. We knew nothing of Jesus Christ. We knew nothing of God until they came.”
The elders taught them, and they were eventually baptized. They moved into the little town of Bermejillo. They started in the junk business, buying wrecked automobiles. They gradually built a prosperous business. With simple faith they paid their tithing. They put their trust in the Lord. They lived the gospel. They served wherever they were called to serve. Four of their sons and three of their daughters filled missions. They have been made fun of for their obedience to gospel principles. Their answer is a testimony of the power of the Lord in their lives.
Some 200 of their family and friends have joined the Church due to their influence. The children, now grown, and the parents take turns going to Mexico City each month to work in the temple. They stand as a living testimony of the great power of this work of the Lord to lift and change people.

When I was young and still living in New Jersey, a large crowd of angry people gathered in front of our house. My mother went out to meet them, standing alone in this crowd of people who looked very dangerous to me. I couldn’t hear what she said, but after a few minutes they went away peacefully. I still remember that I had seen a miracle.

At the age of nine he received a ukelele complete with an instruction book. After he was presented with a secondhand guitar at the age of twelve, he wrote his first song, entitled “Too Young”—“and I was,” he said with a grin. At that time, “writing songs was like blowing glass. It was inconceivable that anyone outside of Hollywood could do it,” he added.

In the Philippines, Relief Society leaders wanted to support the Area Presidency in their desire to have members prepare to attend the Cebu Philippines Temple after it was dedicated. They discussed ideas with their bishop. As a result, they held additional Relief Society meetings on temple preparation, modesty in dress, and the blessings of paying tithing.

In 1907 a wealthy Englishman named George Herbert, the fifth Earl of Carnarvon, moved to Egypt and took up an interest in archaeology. He approached a well-known Egyptologist, Howard Carter, and proposed a partnership. Carter would oversee their archaeological excavations, and Carnarvon would provide the funding.
Together they successfully explored a variety of locations. Then they received permission to excavate in the Valley of the Kings, located near modern-day Luxor, where the tombs of many pharaohs had been found. They decided to look for the tomb of King Tutankhamun. Tutankhamun had ascended to the throne of Egypt more than 3,000 years earlier and reigned for 10 years before his unexpected death. He was known to have been buried in the Valley of the Kings, but the location of his tomb was unknown.
Carter and Carnarvon spent five years unsuccessfully searching for Tutankhamun’s tomb. Eventually Carnarvon informed Carter that he was finished with the fruitless quest. Carter pleaded for just one more season of excavation, and Carnarvon relented and agreed to the funding.
Carter realized that the entire floor of the Valley of the Kings had been methodically excavated—except the area of their own base camp. Within a few days of digging there, they found the first steps leading down to the tomb.
When Carter eventually peered into the antechamber of Tutankhamun’s tomb, he saw gold everywhere. After three months of cataloging the contents of the antechamber, they opened the sealed burial chamber in February 1923—100 years ago. This was the most famous archaeological find of the 20th century.
During those years of ineffectual searching, Carter and Carnarvon had overlooked what was literally under their feet. Some five centuries before the Savior’s birth, the Book of Mormon prophet Jacob referred to taking for granted or undervaluing what is nearby as “looking beyond the mark.” Jacob foresaw that the people of Jerusalem would not recognize the promised Messiah when He came. Jacob prophesied that they would be a “people [who] despised the words of plainness … and [would seek] for things that they could not understand. Wherefore, because of their blindness, which blindness [would come] by looking beyond the mark, they must needs fall.” In other words, they would stumble.
Like those people in Jerusalem, and like Carter and Carnarvon, we too can be prone to look beyond the mark. We need to guard against this tendency lest we miss Jesus Christ in our lives and fail to recognize the many blessings He offers us. We need Him. We are counseled to rely “wholly upon the merits of him who is mighty to save.”
After Carter and Carnarvon excavated elsewhere in the Valley of the Kings looking for Tutankhamun’s tomb, they realized their oversight. We do not need to labor unsuccessfully, as they did for a time, to find our treasure. Nor need we seek counsel from exotic sources, prizing the novelty of the source and thinking such counsel will be more enlightened than that which we can receive from a humble prophet of God.

A couple of years ago, my bishop asked our ward to read the Book of Mormon. I did not want to do it because I thought it would be too hard. The next year I decided to try to read it before my birthday to prepare for my baptism. I bore my testimony in sacrament meeting about this goal, and my bishop asked the ward to do my goal with me. I’m already beginning to see a change in my life from reading the Book of Mormon.
Emma G., age 7, Florida

In 1846 (the year before the pioneers arrived in the Salt Lake Valley) some 220 Latter-day Saints sailed to California around the southern tip of South America on the Brooklyn. On the five-month, 17,000-mile (27,000-km) voyage they were hit by storms, and 12 died. After their arrival in Yerba Buena (now San Francisco), some stayed in California and others traveled to Utah.

For years William R. Wagstaff, who served in the North Central States Mission from 1928 to 1930, felt disappointed he had not baptized more people. In the summer of 1929 he and his companion visited a farm family about 180 miles west of Winnipeg.
“Brother Wagstaff remembered giving a copy of the Book of Mormon to the mother and discussing the gospel with her during numerous visits through that and the following summer.
“He recalled that during each visit ‘she’d take off her apron and we’d sit down and discuss the gospel. She’d read and have lots of questions.’
“But at the close of his mission, she still had not been baptized, and he lost touch with her.”
Brother Wagstaff went home, married, and raised a family. Then in October 1969 he and his wife attended his missionary reunion. “A lady approached him and asked, ‘Aren’t you Elder Wagstaff?’
“… She introduced herself as the woman he had taught on the farm outside Winnipeg. In her hand was a worn copy of the Book of Mormon—the one he had given her 40 years earlier.
“‘She showed me the book,’ he related. ‘I turned over the front and there was my name and address.’
“She then told Brother Wagstaff about 60 members of her family were members of the Church, including a branch president.”

It sometimes happens that the happiness we seek in many ways and in many places is to be found where we least expect it. So it was with me. I had happiness within my grasp all the time, but for years I did not recognize it.
I was 24 years old in 1981 when I was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My husband was baptized with me. At the time, our daughter, Juliana, was two years old. Our branch in Tucuruvi, Brazil, was so small that we met in a home on Avenida Nova Cantareira. For some reason, after attending meetings for less than a year, we left the Church.
By the time we moved to Guarulhos in 1983, we had no desire to return to the Church and had lost complete contact with Church members. This was a time of great difficulty for us. One day while I was sweeping the house, my husband and I decided to throw all of our old Church books in the garbage. Among the books was a copy of the Book of Mormon.
In all the time I had owned the book, I had never opened it. I considered the book of no value. But as I went to place it in the trash, Juliana, who was four years old at the time caught sight of the figure of the angel Moroni on the cover and said, “No, Mama, don’t throw that book away!” I thought of throwing it away anyway, but I looked at my husband and he looked at me. We decided to honor our daughter’s request.
And so the book remained in our home.
In 1987 I gave birth to our third child and experienced some difficult health problems. I began seeking the truth, trying to find some answers to why I was so unhappy. In despair, I began to believe there was no salvation for me.
One day in 1989, the Lord prompted me to pick up the Book of Mormon. I started to read it—and found I could hardly stop. Each day I waited eagerly for the dawn so I could continue reading. The Spirit was so strong within me that I cried. I finally understood how much I had lost by leaving the path of the Lord I had once been on.
I resolved to find the Church. Searching our telephone book, I found the Church’s name and called the number listed. We started attending meetings again and have remained active ever since. My husband and I have now been to the temple, and we are sealed as a family for eternity.
I know that the Book of Mormon is true and that if we study it constantly, we will find the strength to overcome any obstacle. I thank Heavenly Father both for my blessings and for my trials—and for prompting our daughter to keep us from throwing the Book of Mormon away. I know that had I thrown the book away, with it I would have thrown away my happiness.

For some members, temple covenants offer strength in the face of trials that few could otherwise endure. Soft-spoken António Edison Berrocal manages government highway projects. A member of the Ahú Ward, Curitiba Brazil Bacacherí Stake, he joined the Church in 1988. It took a few years before his wife was prepared to join with their five children. Then, he recalls, “the gospel ran in our blood, in our veins. We were doing everything the gospel asks us to do.” The family was on their way to the temple, in fact, when they were in a car accident. Only Brother Berrocal survived; he awoke in the hospital to learn that his wife and children had already been buried.
He has since been sealed to his family in the temple. His neatly trimmed beard covers physical scars from the accident. Eternal truth has prevented scarring of his spirit. “I don’t know what would have happened to me if that had occurred without the gospel of Jesus Christ. The most important thing now is for me to keep myself clean and worthy so I can have my family forever. My heart is in the hope of the gospel.”

Elder Strong was six feet, two inches tall and weighed 220 pounds. He looked like he should be a linebacker for an American football team. But he seemed very unsure of himself when I asked what his strengths as a missionary would be.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, do you have some goals, something you’d like to accomplish while you’re here?”
“Uhm, well, I haven’t really … I don’t know.”
That night, after the missionaries were in bed, I went to my office. I always did this, in case someone felt a need to talk with me. The office was just down the stairs and two doors away from the room where the elders were sleeping.
In a few minutes, I heard someone tap on the door.
It was Elder Strong.
“I have to go home, president.”
“Tell me about it.”
After tears and a tender moment or two, he said at first that he didn’t have a testimony, that he was unsure of himself, that he couldn’t learn the scriptures, and a number of other excuses. But after we talked a little longer, it became evident that the real problem was that Elder Strong was homesick.
Until he entered the MTC, he had never been away from home overnight. He was so attached to his mother that even though he had just seen her at the airport a few hours ago, he felt he had to phone her and tell her that everything was all right. She had insisted that he call when he arrived, and he hadn’t.
So I talked to his mother for him.
Elder Strong had a problem that a lot of missionaries have to deal with—homesickness. It isn’t wrong to love your family. And it’s all right to miss them when you’re apart. But until you can stop constantly thinking about home and get on with your work, you’re not going to be fully involved as a missionary.

Among my fondest memories of my Primary years is singing the beautiful children’s songs. One of my favorites is “Jesus Once Was a Little Child.”
Jesus once was a little child,
A little child like me;
And he was pure and meek and mild,
As a little child should be.
So, little children,
Let’s you and I
Try to be like him,
Try, try, try.
(Children’s Songbook, 55)
Everything in that song caused me to know and feel that Jesus loved me and all children. Although the words themselves do not say so, the spirit of His love for me was real. Also, it evoked in me as a child in Primary, and still does today, the greatest love and respect for the Savior and a desire to be like Him.
When I read the four Gospels in the New Testament, especially of the miracles and healings and blessing of children, I feel that same feeling of love—His love for me and my love for Him.