Gospel Story Finder

I think also of an account I read about a sweet lady, the wife of one of our early pioneers. Her name was Catharine Curtis Spencer. She was married to Orson Spencer, a sensitive, well-educated man. Catharine had been reared in Boston and was cultured and refined. She had six children. Her delicate health declined from exposure and hardships after her family was forced to leave Nauvoo. Elder Spencer wrote to her parents and asked if she could return to live with them while he established a home for his family in the West.
Their reply: “Let her renounce her degrading faith, and she can come back—but never until she does.”
Sister Spencer would not renounce her faith. When her parents’ letter was read to her, she asked her husband to get his Bible and read to her from the book of Ruth as follows: “Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.”4
Outside the storm raged, the wagon covers leaked, and friends held milk pans over Sister Spencer’s head to keep her dry. In these conditions, and without a word of complaint, she closed her eyes for the last time.
This is the spirit of serving God. This is the spirit of putting Him first in our lives. Though we may not necessarily forfeit our lives in service to our God, we can certainly demonstrate our love for Him by how well we serve Him. He who hears our silent prayers, He who observes our unheralded acts will reward us openly when the need comes.

But then my husband died, and my world changed. In my grief, I began to hope that maybe we would not be separated forever, that somehow we would meet again in our heavenly life.

Although my husband had not believed in God, he was well educated and intelligent. He had read the Bible and knew it very well. He was a good person and gave what he had to others. I had sometimes caught myself thinking that he was better than I.

Several months passed after my husband’s death, and I still could not find comfort. I was advised to go to church to lessen the heaviness in my heart. At a local church, I met a young minister. After telling him a little about myself, I asked him to pray for my husband. But he told me that because my husband had not believed in God and had not been baptized, he could not pray for him. I would not see my husband again, he said. I did not want to believe that, but I could not completely disbelieve it either. The minister took from me my last hope. Instead of getting better, I felt worse.

In the spirit of sacrifice, I recall a conversation I had some years ago with my stake president in Idaho. We were discussing the forthcoming Aaronic Priesthood–Scout campout. I explained to him that it would be necessary for each person to bring his own sleeping bag, to which the president replied, “I have never slept in a sleeping bag.”
I quickly responded, “President, you can’t be serious. You have lived in beautiful Idaho all these years and you have never slept in a sleeping bag?”
“Nope!” he said, “I never have. But I have sure lain in a lot of ‘em.” And then he went on to say, “And I’ll lie in a whole bunch more of them if it will help to save boys.”

When he was eight years old, he wanted to be baptized. His nonmember father felt that Howard should be older before he chose to join any church. Even though he knew Heavenly Father wanted him to be a member of the Church, young Howard also knew it was important to do what his father wanted him to do. He honored his father by waiting for his permission. Five months after his twelfth birthday, Howard was baptized.

An experience I had as a boy in my own ward in the little country town where I spent my boyhood days has had a great influence upon my life.
Two young men returned from their missions in the Southern States and reported their missions in our sacrament meeting. In those days the missionaries traveled without purse or scrip and were thus required to sleep out on occasion when they were not successful in finding a family willing to give them a night’s lodging.
In those days the missionaries were subjected to some persecution. Under such conditions they were humbled and they experienced many evidences of how the Lord raised up friends to care for their needs.
The spirit of these two returned missionaries made such an impression on me that I went home and got down on my knees and asked the Lord to help me to live worthy to go on a mission when I became old enough. I continued to pray for this privilege until the train pulled out of the railroad station in Salt Lake City and I was headed for Holland. My last words to my loved ones were: “This is the happiest day of my life.”

Jenny went to the movies with friends she’d long wanted to impress. It was fun until the movie was well under way, and then there flashed across the screen some scenes inappropriate for public sharing. She winced and felt sick inside, but she wanted to keep in the good graces of the group. What to do? Besides, she needed a ride home. Finally, she excused herself and determined to wait in the lobby until the show was over. Soon her boyfriend went to find her. He admitted he’d been embarrassed, too. Together they waited for the rest of the group. One by one the others came out, curious and concerned. Because one girl dared to take a stand on her own, others had the courage to follow.

Years ago our young family moved into a home on what was then the edge of development in our community, which afforded a view of the mountains to the east. One Monday morning, just as I finished dressing and was ready to rush out the door to work, our six-year-old son, Craig, came bringing his four-year-old brother, Andrew, into the room by the hand. With determination Craig looked up at me and said, “Dad, yesterday in Primary my teacher told us that if you hold the priesthood, you can move mountains. I told Andy this, and he doesn’t believe me. You hold the priesthood, right, Dad?” Then turning his little body and pointing out the window, he looked back at me and said, “See those mountains over there? Show him, Dad!”
What followed was a sweet experience. How grateful I was for young sons who were beginning a lifetime of learning about the priesthood.

My mother sent me out on my first job: shoveling the sidewalk of two elderly sisters who lived together. And that sidewalk was long. My mother was very smart. She said, “Do it anonymously so that they won’t know you did it.” I don’t know how many times my brothers and I went, but we did it without their knowing. We had to do it early in the morning so we wouldn’t be caught. I remember how good I felt. The next time it snowed, my mother didn’t have to tell me to go shovel their walk; the Holy Ghost prompted me to go back again.
My brothers and I kept shoveling their sidewalk, and one day they caught us. They became our friends. They even took us to see a semiprofessional baseball team in Idaho Falls. It wasn’t much of a trip, maybe 25 miles, but for us it was a big deal. We probably wouldn’t have been able to go to a ball game without them.
The Holy Ghost became real to me with that experience. It changed my life. My mother encouraged me to do one good thing, and then the Holy Ghost testified that it was good to keep doing it.

After attending a fireside given by our stake patriarch, I was excited to receive my patriarchal blessing.
I found out that to receive my patriarchal blessing, I needed to have an interview with my bishop. I called the executive secretary, and he set the appointment for after Mutual the next week.
The church was nearly empty when I walked down the hall to the bishop’s office. I knocked on the door, and he let me in. We did the “How is school?” conversation; then he asked what he could do for me. He seemed pleased that I wanted to get a patriarchal blessing.
We talked about what a patriarchal blessing is, what it means to receive one, and if I thought I was ready. Then he asked about my personal worthiness. Did I obey the Word of Wisdom, attend my Church meetings, and have a testimony of the gospel? It felt good to honestly and wholeheartedly answer yes to his questions, even though I felt I was far from perfect.
Then the bishop asked a final question, “Is there anything in your past that should have been cleared up with your priesthood leaders but hasn’t been?”
I said no, got my recommend, and left—ready to make my appointment with the patriarch. As I walked down the dark hall, that last question started to weigh on my mind. Was there anything in my past?
A couple of visits I had made to a friend’s house when I was very young came to mind. I had been uncomfortable with some games we played there. I had never done anything similar again. Still, I had wondered several times whether or not those small innocent infractions were something I needed to talk to the bishop about. Since I hadn’t really done anything seriously wrong, I figured I would forget about it. Apparently, I had not forgotten.
If I was going to get only one patriarchal blessing in my life, I didn’t want a cloud hanging over it. So I turned around and headed back to the bishop’s office with my heart in my throat. I didn’t want to be laughed at or have my concerns brushed aside. I forced myself to knock on the bishop’s door again.
I could tell he was surprised to see me. I spilled out the story, much too quickly and without a lot of clarity. He didn’t laugh or brush aside my concerns. Instead, he listened carefully, asked a few questions about then and now, and asked about the repentance I had done privately with the Lord. Then he said, “I think you can go ahead and get your blessing and not worry about this anymore.”
I felt clean and joyful as I walked out of his office the second time. I felt like I could float as I bounced down the hallway. I knew I was clean. I had been cleared by my priesthood leader of an uneasy feeling I had carried for several years.
I carried that feeling of cleanliness with me to the patriarch’s home the evening I received my blessing. As he said his first words, “The Lord is pleased that you chose to keep His commandments as a way of showing your love for Him,” I began to cry. I truly felt the Lord was speaking to me and that my life, as imperfect as it was, was pleasing to Him.
I have learned I can always go to my priesthood leaders if I ever have a question about my worthiness. I have learned how much they want to help. They don’t think badly of me when I am less than perfect, and they don’t think it’s a waste of time to discuss any problem, major or minor. They are almost as happy as we are when we get that wonderful feeling of joy that comes from being forgiven.

When she was 21, she married Marcus in the Salt Lake Temple. Soon after their marriage they traveled east to Chicago where he entered school to become a dentist. He was in school during the Great Depression, and in order to help him achieve his goal, Ruth decided to find a job. There was a typing job open, but she couldn’t type.

She could, however, make her fingers fly over those piano keys, and she felt she could make her fingers learn anything. So for two solid weeks she riveted her fingertips to the keyboard of a manual typewriter and taught herself to type. Out of the 81 applicants for the job, she was selected!

Then World War II began and Marc was sent to sea. Ruth decided to wait in her parents’ home, and it proved to be a long, frightening vigil. But Marc was preserved to see his and Ruth’s family expand to three daughters and a son. And as Nancy, Allyson, Judd, and Jennie Jo each entered the Funk home and the family began sinking deeper roots in Salt Lake City, Ruth was given responsible callings in addition to being a good mother and supportive wife.

At the end of 2013, two young men wearing white shirts and ties began to visit my sister twice a week. I knew right away they were from a church. For me, being part of a church wasn’t in my plans, so I decided not to talk to them.
With each of their visits, I made sure not to be home when they arrived. Something in particular, however, caught my attention. They always carried a blue book. I had never seen it before, and it seemed strange to me.
One day in the living room, my sister began telling me about the book. Suddenly, the two young men arrived. Unfortunately, I couldn’t hide from them. They saw us with the blue book—the Book of Mormon—and started asking what I knew about Jesus Christ.
As I listened to the missionaries from that day on, I was impressed by how they connected their teachings to the Book of Mormon. As a result, the blue book became less strange to me.
I still had serious doubts about it, but I started reading it. I came to understand that the Book of Mormon was not a substitute for the Bible but was desirable to change my life and bring me closer to Jesus Christ. I learned that the Book of Mormon is centered on the Savior. Its teachings helped me know who He is and who Heavenly Father is.
The Book of Mormon soon helped me become a better person, a true disciple of Jesus Christ. It also helped me improve my attitude as I faced daily challenges. From my experience studying it, I know it helps people come unto Christ and live the gospel (see Moroni 10:32). It encourages us to follow Christ’s teachings and apply them in our daily life. It gives us the knowledge that we are sons and daughters of God. It brings peace.
After several weeks of meeting with the missionaries and reading the Book of Mormon, I was baptized. I bear my testimony with all my heart that the Book of Mormon is true and that reading it brings hope and light in the darkest moments, helping us feel the Lord’s love and protection. I am grateful to have the Book of Mormon in my life.

Let me share a personal example. Husbands, take heed. Sisters, this is going to help you too. Before my full-time assignment in the Church, I traveled widely for my company. I was gone a fair amount of time to far reaches of the world. At the end of my day, no matter where I was, I always called home. When my wife, Melanie, picked up the phone and I reported in, our conversation always led us to expressing “I love you.” Every day, those words served as an anchor to my soul and my conduct; they were a protection to me from evil designs. “Melanie, I love you” spoke of the precious trust between us.
President Thomas S. Monson used to say, “There are feet to steady, hands to grasp, minds to encourage, hearts to inspire, and souls to save.” Saying “thank you,” “I am sorry,” “I love you” will do just that.
Brothers and sisters, words do matter.
I promise that if we “feast upon the words of Christ” that lead to salvation, our prophet’s words that guide and encourage us, and our own words that speak of who we are and what we hold dear, the powers of heaven will pour down upon us. “The words of Christ will tell you all things what ye should do.” We are Heavenly Father’s children and He is our God, and He expects us to speak with “the tongue of angels” by the power of the Holy Ghost.
I love the Lord Jesus Christ. He is, in the words of the Old Testament prophet Isaiah, “Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace.” And as the Apostle John made clear, Jesus Christ Himself is “the Word.”
Of this I testify as an Apostle called to the Lord’s divine service—to declare His word—and called to stand as a special witness of Him. In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, amen.

“Where’s Dad’s red shirt? It just isn’t Christmas if Dad doesn’t wear his red shirt.”
I don’t remember when this tradition started in our family, but Dad always had to wear his red flannel shirt on Christmas Day. Most likely he just happened to put it on one Christmas, and we thought it was just the right thing to wear. After that we had great fun with Dad hiding the shirt and the rest of us trying to find it before the big day. That red flannel shirt became a tradition. It was a simple thing that still brings back wonderful memories of brothers and sisters, of mother and father, caring about each other and showing it during Christmas.

Nick tried to listen to his teacher as she wrote numbers on the whiteboard. But the two boys whispering in front of him kept distracting him.
“Did you see Nick?” a boy whispered. “He’s got big bald spots all over his head!”
“Yeah,” another said. “He looks like my grandpa.”
The boys laughed quietly.
Nick touched his head and rubbed one of his many bald spots. His face got hot from embarrassment. He sank lower in his seat, trying to hide. He wanted to disappear. He hated when classmates talked about his bald spots.
Nick was losing his hair because he had alopecia. That’s a condition that makes people’s hair fall out.
Most days Nick liked school. But on days like today, he couldn’t help feeling sad and embarrassed. After class, he put on his baseball cap and quietly walked through the hallway.
He wished he could call Mom to take him home. But first he’d have to go see the school nurse and tell her he couldn’t stay at school. And telling her that his feelings had been hurt probably wasn’t a good enough reason. Even if she did say he could go home, he knew his mom wouldn’t let him. Alopecia made his hair fall out, but it didn’t make him sick, and it wasn’t contagious.
It did make him sad, though. After dinner that night, Nick felt tears stinging his eyes when he told Mom and Dad what the kids in math class had said.
“I know I shouldn’t listen when they make fun of me,” he said. “But sometimes it really hurts.”
Mom put her arm around his shoulder. “I hope you know we love you no matter what. And so do your Heavenly Parents. Why don’t we say a prayer and ask Heavenly Father what to do?”
“And we can fast about it on Sunday,” Dad added.
The next day, Nick met up with his friend Seth when he got to school. Seth was frowning.
“I heard what those guys said about you yesterday,” Seth told him. “Don’t listen to them. I think you’re cool, with or without hair!”
Nick grinned. “Thanks!”
Seth was Nick’s best friend. They went to church together too. When Nick first found out he had alopecia, he had told Seth. And Seth didn’t treat him any differently.
“My family is going to fast on Sunday to figure out what I should do about my hair,” Nick said. “You can too if you want.”
Seth nodded. “Sure!”
On Sunday, Nick and his family fasted about what Nick should do. After they said a prayer together, Nick got a warm, peaceful feeling.
He had his answer.
“My hair is falling out more than ever,” Nick told his parents. “And I’m tired of trying to hide it with my baseball cap.” He took a deep breath. ”I want to shave my head.”
Mom and Dad smiled at him.
“I think that’s a great idea,” Dad said.
With Dad’s help, Nick shaved his head the next morning. When he saw his bald head in the mirror, his eyes widened. He looked so different! He ran his fingers over his bald head and laughed at how funny it felt.
When he got to school, a few kids gave him funny looks, but most of them liked his new look.
Seth thought it looked awesome. “Your head’s so shiny!”
From that day on, Nick focused on doing his best in school, playing football, and serving as a deacon. Sometimes he still heard some kids talk about his bald head, but he didn’t let it bother him. It didn’t matter what other people said about him. He knew that Heavenly Father, his family, and his friends loved him, bald head and all. And that’s all that truly mattered.

Long ago the renowned author Charles Dickens wrote of opportunities that await. In his classic volume entitled Great Expectations, Dickens described a boy by the name of Philip Pirrip, more commonly known as Pip. Pip was born in unusual circumstances. He was an orphan. He wished with all his heart that he were a scholar and a gentleman. Yet all of his ambitions and all of his hopes seemed doomed to failure. Do you young men sometimes feel that way? Do those of us who are older entertain these same thoughts?

Then one day a London lawyer by the name of Jaggers approached little Pip and told him that an unknown benefactor had bequeathed to him a fortune. The lawyer put his arm around the shoulder of Pip and said to him, “My boy, you have great expectations.”
Tonight, as I look at you young men and realize who you are and what you may become, I declare, “You have great expectations”—not as the result of an unknown benefactor but as the result of a known benefactor, even our Heavenly Father, and great things are expected of you.

The young missionary had spent the morning scrubbing the floors of the mission home, washing and ironing his shirts, and mending his socks. Then, since it was preparation day, he had decided to visit the university library. Finding nothing of particular interest in the book stacks, he pulled out his own copy of the Doctrine and Covenants and began reading section 76—Joseph Smith’s vision of heaven.
He became so absorbed in the Prophet’s description that he didn’t notice the passing of time, and it was night when he finally left the library. As he walked across the spacious lawn toward the streetcar, he looked up into the heavens: “There was no moon, but the sky was clear. … The Southern Cross and other brilliant stars, visible in the Southern Hemisphere, shone with unusual grandeur. As I gazed in wonder, I seemed to see beyond the stars the things I had been reading about. I could not then and I have not been able since to recall walking across the lawn.”
Retelling this experience in 1965, President Romney said: “Since that Saturday evening in Sydney, Australia, forty-three years ago, I have never been content to view life through the lens which reveals only the narrow span between mortal birth and death. I cannot remember of having made, during the intervening years, a single voluntary major decision or judgment without testing it by my knowledge of revealed truth.” (Address delivered at Brigham Young University, 27 May 1965, p. 20.)

On June 1, 1843, Addison Pratt left Nauvoo, Illinois, to preach the gospel in the Hawaiian Islands, leaving his wife, Louisa Barnes Pratt, to care for their young family.

In Nauvoo, as persecutions intensified, forcing the Saints to leave, and later at Winter Quarters as they prepared to migrate to the Salt Lake Valley, Louisa faced the decision of whether to make the journey. It would have been easier to stay and to wait for Addison to return than to travel alone.

On both occasions, she sought guidance from the prophet, Brigham Young, who encouraged her to go. Despite the great difficulty and her personal reluctance, she successfully made the journey each time.

Initially, Louisa found little joy in traveling. However, she soon began to welcome the green prairie grass, colorful wildflowers, and patches of ground along the riverbanks. “The gloom on my mind wore gradually away,” she recorded, “and there was not a more mirthful woman in the whole company.”

Louisa’s story has deeply inspired me. I admire her willingness to set aside her personal preferences, her ability to trust God, and how exercising her faith helped her to see the situation differently.

She has reminded me that we have a loving Father in Heaven, who cares for us wherever we are, and that we can trust Him more than anyone or anything else.

It was Easter Sunday here in Southern Australia, and I was staying at a friend’s house while my mum was away for the weekend. As it turned out, the people that usually provided the music at church had gone away too.
I am only a beginner at the piano, but when asked to play, I reluctantly accepted as there was no one else. That Sunday I realized what an important part the sacrament hymns play in our meetings. Even though I only played with my right hand and missed many notes, the congregation sounded like angels.
I am grateful for the Saints that provide the music for us in sacrament meeting, and even though I was terrified, I am truly grateful for that Sunday because it helped me develop my talents.

Except for a few cries from toddlers, everything was quiet. I stared forward and waited for the sacrament tray to make it to the end of the row so that I could pass it to the next row. I wondered how long it would take before it would reach me and I could continue on with my duty.
As I waited, a thought my priesthood leader had shared came to my mind: “During the sacrament you should be thinking about the Savior,” he had said.
I tried to follow his advice, but my thoughts soon switched to something that had recently happened to me. Giving up, I passed the tray to the next row and began waiting and wondering again.
Then I heard a soft voice behind me. I listened and realized that it was a girl speaking to her little brother. The girl said, “Do you know what the bread and the water mean?” The brother answered, “No.” They were silent for a moment. Then I heard, “They represent the body and blood of Christ.”
Immediately after she said that, my heart filled with the Spirit, and my thoughts didn’t drift anymore from the meaning of the sacrament. I will never forget that small reminder from a young girl and her brother.

When I was 17 years old, I enlisted in the Royal Canadian Army Reserve. I was sent to a training base, and for the first time in my life, I was on my own to determine my path. I suspected that I would be tempted not to remain active in the Church and that my testimony would be challenged
When I arrived on the base, a course sergeant gave a tour of the different buildings and churches. I was prompted to ask where the LDS branch was located. The sergeant paused for a moment. Then he said that church won’t be found on base, but if I would like to attend, I could go with him and his wife. He was a recent convert to the Church and was happy to take anyone who wanted to go. I was glad to have the option of going, even though I had not decided if I was going to go that Sunday. After all, I was alone and free to choose for myself now. But something in my heart told me I needed to attend.
That Saturday night was one of the hardest in my life. I have since called it my “tree of life” experience. It started when my friends wanted me to hang out with them at the mess hall. I knew they were just going to drink, and I told them I needed sleep because I had to get up early for church. They laughed at my choice and went their way.
After they left, I sank into my bunk. From there, I could look out the window and watch my friends on the mess hall balcony, drinking and laughing. I remembered how they had teased me for not joining them. I felt like I imagine Lehi must have felt when he looked at the great and spacious building, where people were similarly laughing at him. I turned around to face my desk, only to notice my scriptures. I eagerly opened them and began to read. These were my iron rod, and just as the word of God had kept Lehi’s family safe, I knew they would likewise protect me.
I don’t recall what I read that night, but I do recall the Spirit I felt. I felt it again when I went to church the next morning. By attending church every Sunday while I lived on the base, I built a lasting testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Since my time at training camp, I was given the opportunity to share my testimony with others as a full-time missionary in the California Sacramento Mission.