Gospel Story Finder

I once ordained a patriarch who was overcome with the responsibility. For months he could not get himself to give a blessing. Finally, he asked his stake president if he might write a paragraph as a model introduction to any patriarchal blessing. The stake president approved.
Later he told me this: “When the first young man came for a blessing, because I had memorized this prepared introduction, I felt comfortable. I laid my hands on his head, and I did not use one word of it. That day I learned whose blessings they are. They are not my blessings but are dictated by the Spirit.”

The children in the Milwaukee City Branch, Milwaukee Wisconsin North Stake, have been learning about giving acts of service. They decorated cookies and cards and delivered them to other classes at church. The children also learned sign language for the song “Love One Another” and shared it with the other members of the branch.

The night before my football team’s first practice of the season, I was so excited I couldn’t sleep. All my life I’d wanted to play little league football. I’d saved up my money over the summer so I could pay for it myself, and now at age 14, I was finally going to fulfill my dream.
But during the practice the next day, something really surprised me. It wasn’t how hard my coaches made our team work or how hard they pushed us—I was expecting that. No, I was shocked at the filthy and vulgar language all the players and coaches were using. At first I tried to ignore it and not let it bother me, but after a while it started to have an effect on me. I found myself thinking those words and—even worse—repeating them under stress. I prayed to my Heavenly Father and asked Him to help me be strong. I felt that I needed to be an example to my teammates and my coaches. Then I promised myself and God that I wouldn’t swear.
Later in the season, my team was preparing to play our rivals. Right before the game, my coach gave us a pep talk. Our whole team was really motivated, and my coach had us gather to say a cheer. He told us the cheer, and unfortunately it contained swear words. I didn’t have much time to make a decision, but I remembered the promise I’d made to myself and to Heavenly Father. An idea came to my mind to say the cheer, but when the swear word came up, I would just replace it with a different, appropriate word.
During the cheer, the player next to me noticed what I said, and after the cheer he started to make fun of me. He went up to the coach and said, “Harsh is Mormon, and he’s not man enough to swear. He’s too churchy!” I thought the coach would get mad at me or start to make fun of me as well, but instead he stood up for me and told my teammate, “Hey, leave Harsh alone. He has a lot of heart and can show you up anytime on the football field!”
I was surprised. I thought my coach would respect me if I swore like everyone else. But he actually respected me more because I was true to my standards and set an example for him and the rest of the team.
I don’t know how big of an impact my example had on my teammates and coaches, but I realized later how much that experience strengthened me. Now, four years later, it’s easier for me to stand up for what I believe in, no matter what situations I find myself in. I also realized that when we make a decision to obey the commandments, we are not alone—the Holy Ghost will help and support us through our trials.

The world ends on a dark Christmas Eve, walking in the rain. The world ends halfway across a wet street, with a car skidding suddenly around the corner in a drunken left turn.
Blazing headlights.
Then the impact …
I wish I’d told her how I loved her …
Dark.
I can’t move.
I can’t feel the wet or the cold. Just a floating feeling.
Is this what it’s like to die?
I didn’t tell her how I loved her …
I can barely hear the starchy voice somewhere above me, but the words pound into my brain like dull spikes hammered in by a sledge.
“His heart just won’t respond. That’s it. He won’t make it.”
The world jolts to a stop.
And ends.
For me …
I never told her …
Three minutes left—the time it takes for the brain to die after the heart stops beating.
Three minutes of dark life.
Three minutes’ worth of thinking left in my brain.
And then the end …
The end!
And I hadn’t even started to live!
Everything I’ve ever done was just a getting ready to live. A preparation.
But not the living.
Why didn’t I live?
I’m dying, and I’ve never lived …
Three minutes.
I’ve done things I wish I hadn’t. But the things I didn’t do …
And now it’s all over with.
All but three minutes.
Why didn’t I tell her how I loved her?
Why didn’t I do a lot of things? Things I wanted to do much more than any of the things I ever got around to doing …
Things that should have been easy.
Like saying, “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have done that.”
Or, “It takes courage for a man to stand up for what he believes in the way you do. I admire you for that, and I want you to know it.”
I could have spent more time with the people who meant the most to me. I wonder if any of them ever knew how much I loved them?
How could I expect them to?
I never let them know …
I could have.
I could have said, “I think you’re one of the best people I’ve ever known. I don’t want anything special from you … I just want to be your friend …”
Why didn’t I?
Maybe I didn’t feel worthy of them. Maybe I thought I had to go out and do something great before I had the right to be their friend.
Maybe I was a fool …
I wish I’d told her how I loved her …
I could have.
I could have talked to her before she went away. Maybe I could have stopped her.
I could have told her I loved her. I wonder if she knew?
I could have said, “I love you. I always have, and I always will …”
I wonder what she would have done, if I’d told her?
I could have written to her after she went away. Maybe she would have answered.
But I wasn’t sure …
I wish I’d tried.
When I was afraid to talk to her, I wish I’d talked to her anyway. When I was afraid to write to her, I wish I’d gone ahead and written.
I never had the time to write letters. I always had something else I had to get done first.
I wonder how long it would have taken me to get everything done that I thought I had to get done before I wrote my letters?
And I wonder how much time I saved by not writing the letters?
And I wonder what I did with all that time?
How many minutes’ worth of time would I have had to pay to write one letter to her?
And what did I end up paying for not writing it?
A lifetime?
I could have spared her thirty minutes sometime out of my success schedule. Or even twenty. Ten minutes would have been enough to let her know I still remembered her …
If I could just have one minute right now, with a pen in my hand!
A single minute!
One minute, out of my last three …
Sixty seconds would be long enough to say something; long enough to tell her how I love her …
FOOL!
I could have told her how I loved her!
Why didn’t I tell her?
Fear?
Shame?
Fear, maybe. But never shame. I was never ashamed of her, and I was never ashamed of my love for her.
And as long as I could remember I loved her, I was never ashamed of myself …
Fear?
Yes.
Maybe …
Yes, I think I was afraid …
Of what?
Something vague.
The vague fears were always the worst. I never knew what it was I was trying to fight.
Why didn’t I tell her?
Maybe she would have laughed at my love for her. I could never have taken the grief of that.
No, she was a gentle girl. She would never have done such a thing, even if she hadn’t loved me.
But she had friends who would have …
Some of her friends could be cruel, in the refined manner in which only aristocratic ladies could be cruel. Maybe she would have told them, and maybe they would have been cruel.
And maybe I was a fool …
She was the only girl I ever loved unconditionally. Maybe I loved her so much I was afraid to take the chance of telling her, for fear she’d have to tell me she didn’t love me in return.
Maybe I wanted to spare us both having to go through the finishing scene of a friendship.
As long as friendship hadn’t ended, there was some hope of love to come …
So I grasped blindly for her friendship as it existed, or at least as I thought it existed, not daring to do anything that might have destroyed it.
But a friendship doesn’t have to end suddenly. It can crawl to an end so slowly that you’re never sure just where the end of it was. You can’t pick out a point in time and say, “This was the last hour of our friendship.” All you know is that one day you look for it when you need it, and it just isn’t there anymore.
Maybe that’s what happened to her half of our friendship.
But not mine.
I’m at the last three minutes of my half …
No. I’ll still love her. That’s one thing death doesn’t have the power to change.
I wish I’d told her how I loved her …
I wonder if I’m in my last minute yet? I wish I could be sure …
My last minute!
What can you do with a minute?
What can’t you do with a minute?
There’s nothing in the world you can do that you can’t do a little of in a minute. …
* * *
The last minute must be running out.
The game is finished.
And it wasn’t a two-mile game …
The heart is dead. All used up. Like a candle sputtering out when the last drop of wax is burned away.
Still …
This heart carried me over a lot of miles …
It was a two-mile heart. The heart of the two-mile game …
Can it really be dead?
How can it be dead?
I don’t believe …
I don’t believe it can be dead!
Come on, you two-mile heart! You CAN‘T be dead!
I have things I haven’t finished yet. I have things I haven’t even begun …
Beat! You can!
Beat! You will!
BEAT! I feel it coming …
BEAT! Almost …
THERE!
It beat!
I FELT it beat!
Exhausted …
Relax …
The first two are the hardest …
Now …
Beat! Almost …
Again, with more will …
BEAT!
Nothing …
Was the first time only my imagination?
For her sake …
BEAT!
AGAIN!
I felt it beat again!
AGAIN! …
Again! …
Again …
Again …
The second mile …
The mile of meditation …
Relaxation …
And very soon I’ll tell her how I love her …
“Nurse …”
“Yes; how are you feeling now?” “Much better, thanks, Would you let me have a pen and paper, please? I’d like to write a Christmas letter.”
* * *
The first mile is finished. The second is yet to run.
The second mile …
A soft, golden path, winding through green grass and tall trees, and leading—
Somewhere …
To her?
We’ll see where it leads. It’s a two-mile game, and it isn’t finished yet.
And now …
Now I’ll tell her how I love her …

I attended church not because I was forced to but because I desperately needed and wanted to. I saw men who walked in high places, who were pure, gentle, kind. I met men who had time to spend with boys. Great men like Percy Scofield, Lincoln Parker, Don Stout, Bruford Reynolds. I remember Percy Scofield, our bishop, hiking into Dog Lake with us. He wasn’t a young man, and we just about killed him, but he went with us. We knew he loved and cared for us.

When I went with my father to the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple, I got to see many sacred and beautiful rooms inside. It was an open house, so many people could see the temple. Soon I will be old enough to enter the temple and do baptisms for the dead. I love Jesus Christ and my family.
Guido R., age 10, Argentina

Sister Hurtado’s mother was a widow who supported her four children by what they made from a store they ran in their home. Sunday was the day the family did the most business. They lived across from a movie theater, and moviegoers would stop at their store to buy refreshments. They also sold cooking oil in large containers, and their customers always came on Sunday.
The missionaries taught and baptized the whole family. The Sunday morning following their baptisms, Sister Hurtado asked her mother who was to stay at home to tend the store. She was shocked by her mother’s response. “We are closing the store for the whole day. We are now members of the Lord’s church, and we will keep his commandments.”
Sister Hurtado reminded her mother that they would lose their best business, but her mother was firm in her decision to honor her covenant with the Lord.
They closed the store that Sunday and every Sunday thereafter. To Sister Hurtado’s surprise, they did not lose the business of those who had bought oil on Sunday. Their customers learned to come on other days to buy. In fact, their overall sales increased, even though the family was working six days instead of seven.

I remember vividly, after undergoing surgery in 2018 and upon returning to work, I was in the parking garage at Church headquarters. Suddenly, I heard the voice of President Russell M. Nelson calling, “Taniela, Taniela.” I ran toward him, and he asked how I was doing.

I said, “I am recovering very well, President Nelson.”

He gave me counsel and a hug. I truly felt the personal ministry of a prophet to the “one.”

Sean Covey, one of our fine young players, is now serving a mission in South Africa. He is an excellent young quarterback prospect who I’m sure you will be hearing more about in future years. I have a neighbor, Jon Collins, who is a great friend of Sean’s and is serving a mission in Scotland. Jon’s mother related a story regarding Sean and Jon. Sean recently had written a letter to Jon in Scotland and shared with him the importance of his mission. He told Jon in his letter, “Just think, this weekend BYU will be opening the football season in Pittsburgh before 50,000 fans. If I were home, I would be there with the team, being a part of this very thrilling experience. Instead, I will be baptizing a lady and her daughter. I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything in the world.”

When I was a young adult, I began investigating the Church. At first I was drawn to the gospel by the examples of my Latter-day Saint friends, but eventually I was attracted to the unique doctrine. When I learned that faithful men and women could keep progressing and ultimately become like our heavenly parents, I was frankly amazed. I loved the concept; it rang true to me.
Soon after my baptism, I was studying the Sermon on the Mount, and I recognized that Jesus taught this same truth about eternal progression in the Bible. He said, “Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.”1

I love going to places where Jesus walked, like near the River Jordan, where Jesus was baptized. When I’m at these spots, I walk around quietly near people who are worshipping Jesus by lighting candles and kneeling in prayer. I always feel in my heart that Heavenly Father and Jesus are happy when people show love for Them.

When I was growing up, Germany was a divided nation. The west, where I lived, was free and democratic and became prosperous. The east was ruled by a communist system that was allied with the Soviet Union. A border separated east and west, marked by walls, barbed wire, minefields, and towers manned by guards with machine guns. Trapped in the east, behind that border, were a number of faithful Latter-day Saints who longed for freedom to worship and for the blessings of the temple.
We members of the Church knew that someday—in fulfillment of prophecy—the gospel would be preached in every nation (see Matthew 24:14). But because the armies seemed so powerful and the governments so hard-hearted, we feared that only a major international conflict or other world calamity would bring the necessary changes to East Germany, Poland, and the other countries under Soviet domination.
The Lord knew better. President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) challenged all Church members to pray that the borders would be opened. And slowly but surely miraculous things began to happen. The East German government allowed a temple to be built on its territory, and the Freiberg Germany Temple was dedicated in 1985. Then in 1988, following a request from Church leaders, the government agreed to allow missionaries into the country and missionaries from East Germany to serve out of the country. In November 1989 the East German government opened the Berlin Wall, and it was soon demolished. The government fell, and Germany became united under a democratic government.
Historians list many causes for these great events. But there is no doubt in my mind that behind it all, the Lord was guiding the destinies of these nations so that His purposes could be fulfilled.

I know a wonderful Gospel Doctrine teacher who lifts class members as she teaches, but that wasn’t always the case. After joining the Church, she received a calling to teach in Primary. She felt she had no teaching skills, but because she knew the importance of serving, she accepted. Fear quickly overcame her, and she stopped attending so she wouldn’t have to teach. Thankfully, her home teacher noticed her absence, visited her, and invited her back. The bishop and ward members assisted her. Eventually, with increased faith, she began teaching children. As she applied principles now taught in Teaching in the Savior’s Way, the Lord blessed her efforts and she became a gifted teacher.

In Alaska, LDS teenagers who live in the towns of Wasilla, Palmer, and Eagle River look at the Anchorage Alaska Temple and know that something of theirs is safe inside. They were fortunate enough to be in the right place at the right time to make a promise, sign their names to it, then have those pledges sealed inside the cornerstone of the temple at the dedication.
The promise they signed was quite short. It said simply: “As I prepare for marriage and a mission, I will live the standards of worthiness for entrance into the house of the Lord.” It was a promise that many of them were willing to make, but now that the promise is literally encased in stone in the temple and sealed with mortar, these young people have taken it very seriously.

Hiding behind Dad’s truck, I pulled ever so slightly on the rope that reached up over the tree branch above the garage door. The large bucket of water at the other end of the line jiggled as I pulled. I grinned. The trap was finally ready!
My big brother was so going to get it as soon as he came out of the garage. Kyle deserved it, too! This time his teasing had gone too far.
My little sister walked over to my hiding place again. “Come on, Megan. Let’s go play. Just forget about it,” she said.
“No way,” I told her. “I’m going to get even.” She didn’t understand. I had to do this.
“But I want to play on the swings,” she said. “Won’t you come with me?”
I shook my head. “Not until Kyle walks under my trap.”
My sister left. The sun rose higher. It was a perfect day to play outside. But this was important. I thought of all the rotten times my brother had teased me.
Banging and clanging sounds came from inside the garage. What was he doing in there?
I had to admit it was getting a little boring holding that rope. Especially on such a nice, sunny day. But I didn’t think about letting go for a second. The wait would be worth it when Kyle walked through the garage door and I dumped the big bucket of water on his head. I couldn’t wait to see his face! It would be the perfect payback.
A noise came from behind the garage door. My muscles tightened as I gripped the rope. I watched the door like a cat ready to pounce.
The lock clicked. The door swung open. I saw the edge of a tire and one of my brother’s sneakers. This was it! I yanked hard on the rope. The entire bucket of water tipped and poured all over Kyle. As the now-empty bucket dangled from the rope on the tree, I jumped up and hooted in excitement. Yes!
Then I noticed something that stopped my yell of excitement right in my throat. Kyle was pushing my bike. It had been broken for weeks. But now it was all ready to ride. I didn’t understand.
Kyle looked at me and said, “Um, I fixed your bike.”
I just stood there. As the water dripped off his face and off my bike, I didn’t feel at all like I expected to. My trap had worked perfectly, but I felt horrible.
The whole time I’d been waiting there, my big brother had been doing something nice for me. In fact, now that I thought about it, Kyle did nice things for me all the time.
“I’m sorry!” I said, still feeling awful. “I was … I mean, earlier today …”
He held up a hand and smiled. “It’s OK, Megan. I’m sorry too. That’s why I wanted to fix your bike.”
Kyle looked up at the bucket. “Nice trap,” he said. Then he laughed. “I never saw it coming.”
I couldn’t help but laugh with him. Suddenly I felt much better inside. My big brother had already forgiven me. Just like that! I realized I needed to learn how to do that too.
“Hey, want to ride bikes?” I asked.
Kyle nodded. “Sounds awesome. I’ll probably dry off faster that way.”
As we laughed again, I knew it was going to be a great day after all.

A year after my baptism in 1963 in Argentina, I was called to serve as branch clerk. One day I came across some blank family group records and pedigree charts. Without any training, I began filling out the sheets with the help of my mother. She remembered the names of her ancestors and my father’s, as well as the important dates in their lives, back to the fourth generation. She even remembered some of the people in the fifth generation and one person in the sixth.
I felt the desire to go further in my search, and I worked to verify the information my mother had given me. When I learned the purpose of family history work, I immediately began submitting to the temple the names of my deceased loved ones.
Though I had been successful on my mother’s line, I struggled with my father’s side. Despite my efforts, for close to 25 years I was unable to confirm the date of my paternal grandfather’s birth. His marriage certificate stated that he was born in Udine, Italy, so I wrote about 30 letters to that town and the surrounding towns. None of the replies confirmed what I was looking for.
In 1988 a branch of the family history library opened in Rosario, and I was called to work as a librarian. It felt like touching heaven, having all of that material within reach. I spent hours reading, and I ordered microfilm records from many cities. In the International Genealogical Index (IGI), I found the exact names of my grandfather and great-grandfather. I wrote to the town in Italy where the two men had been born and asked for their birth certificates. The parish priest sent them to me, but the records proved these men were not related to me.
I wrote again—asking this time if the priest had any information on my grandfather. He referred me to the city hall, so I wrote a letter there. My heart leaped with joy when I received a sheet of paper containing the names and important dates pertaining to my grandparents, great-grandparents, second great-grandparents, and many other family members. This sheet also told me that my grandfather’s name had been changed after his arrival in Argentina, explaining the confusion in finding his information.
I wrote to the city again and asked them to send me the sheet that preceded the one they had already sent. They did so, and it included the names of 27 more people. I had the temple ordinances done for all these family members, with the assurance that they were indeed my ancestors.
Because of wonderful experiences like these, I feel well rewarded for my efforts in doing family history research. Though there have been disappointments at times, I have not given up. I can see that Heavenly Father has surely led me in my search.
I know that our Heavenly Father will provide an opportunity for all of His children to receive temple ordinances, whether now or in the Millennium. But I also know that our ancestors who accept the gospel in the spirit world are longing for us to do our family history work. If we give our best efforts to the Lord, He will provide a way.

There is a spirit moving upon our people to want to live their lives in harmony with truth, that they may someday respond to an opportunity to serve. This is the same spirit and heavenly influence that directed John Taylor, Wilford Woodruff, and others to take leave of the Saints from the city of Far West early on the morning of April 26, 1839, before departing for their missions to Great Britain (see D&C 118:4–5). On that occasion each prayed in turn at the temple site and bore testimony. Then, after a song, they took leave, directed by revelation, filled with the blessings of heaven and the confirming influence of the Holy Ghost. These early Apostles departed for their missions having been spiritually fed and blessed in a manner that would sustain them and their families throughout their many hardships and inspire their powerful testimonies of the truthfulness of the message of the restored church upon the earth.

After I finished junior high school, I had to work to support myself. As a young man I found a full-time job at a bean-curd shop in a larger city about nine hours away from my home. I went to high school in the evenings, so I got home late. Early the next morning at work, I made bean curds and sold them on the street or delivered them to various stores.
I became very sick from working so hard and had to stay in the hospital. I thought I might die. I was born into a Buddhist family. I always felt that there was a God in heaven, but I had never been taught about God. I was very desperate to talk to Him. I didn’t even know the word for “Heavenly Father,” so I asked, “God, are You there? Please help me.” After eight days I was able to leave the hospital, and I lived with my uncle while I recovered.

In ancient times the people of the Ukraine worshiped the sun. They understood that all living things need the warmth and light that the sun gives us. Eggs seemed like very magical objects to them, because each egg had a little “sun” inside it. We call it the yolk, of course. The Ukrainians used eggs in their religious ceremonies, decorating them with beautiful colors and designs.
About a thousand years ago, many Ukrainians were converted to Christianity. This new religion changed a lot of things in people’s lives. But the custom of decorating beautiful eggs in the springtime was too well loved for the people to give it up, so they changed the meaning of the custom.
The egg had always symbolized the miracle of life. Doesn’t an egg look more like a rock than like a living animal? Yet out of this deadlooking object comes a living creature! When they heard the story of the Resurrection, people could see another meaning for the miracle of a hatching egg. The living bird coming out of the egg was a reminder of Jesus’ coming out of his tomb on the third day. So the pysanky came to symbolize the Resurrection.
For people who practice the ancient art of pysanky, the egg is a joyful symbol of the Resurrection.

Joseph Smith Ordaining Parley P. Pratt as an Apostle, by Walter Rane, © 2002 IRI
Right: Parley P. Pratt recalled, “On the 21st day of February, 1835, I took the oath and covenant of apostleship, and was solemnly set apart and ordained to that office; and as a member of that quorum under the hands of Joseph Smith, Oliver Cowdery and David Whitmer.”8