Gospel Story Finder

Sister Daisy Ogando lives in New York City, home to more than eight million people. Some years ago Sister Ogando met with the missionaries and was taught the gospel. Gradually, she and the missionaries lost contact. Time passed. Then, in 2007, the principles of the gospel she had been taught by the missionaries stirred within her heart.

One day while getting into a taxi, Daisy saw the missionaries at a distance, but she was unable to make contact with them before they disappeared from view. She prayed fervently to our Heavenly Father and promised Him that if He would somehow direct the missionaries to her once again, she would open her door to them. She returned home that day with faith in her heart that God would hear and answer her prayer.

In the meantime, two young missionaries who had been sincerely praying and working to find people to teach were one day examining the tracting records of missionaries who had previously served in their area. As they did so, they came across the name of Daisy Ogando. When they approached her apartment the very afternoon that Sister Ogando offered that simple but fervent prayer, she opened the door and said those words that are music to every missionary who has ever heard them: “Elders, come in. I’ve been waiting for you!”

Two fervent prayers were answered, contact was reestablished, missionary lessons were taught, and arrangements were made for Daisy and her son Eddy to be baptized.

Knock, knock, knock. Bleary-eyed, I looked at the alarm clock next to the bed. 5:55 a.m. Pound, pound, pound. It sounded like a mallet was being used to beat down the front door of our condo in downtown Nashville. My husband stirred next to me but was too tired from our late night assembling toys and stuffing stockings to get up. It was early Christmas morning, and the warm lights on the tree in the corner greeted me as I stumbled, still half asleep, to the door.
I opened it to see two young police officers with alarm on their faces. They quickly informed me that there was a public safety threat in the area, and we needed to evacuate immediately. Shocked and a bit exasperated, I said, “It’s 20 degrees outside, it’s Christmas, and we have kids—is this really necessary?”
At the mention of my children, one of the officers froze. “You have kids? Please, get them and leave as quickly as you can.” I could see the fear in her eyes.
Right then the Holy Ghost delivered a very clear, stern warning to my heart, and I knew we needed to get out immediately. I hurried to inform my sleeping husband that we had to leave. I was met with the same questions and groggy reluctance I had just expressed myself, when the Holy Ghost’s warning returned to my heart more urgently than before. I began to panic. I had no idea what threat my family was facing, but I knew we were in real danger.
I pulled my four-year-old from his bed while my husband went to get the baby from the crib. Carrying my confused, sleepy son down the hall in my arms, I covered his eyes to preserve the surprise of what Santa had left for him—the scene I thought we would be running toward as soon as we opened our eyes, not running from. As we hurried to the front door, I glanced back with longing at that scene adorning our condominium: Christmas presents glittering under the tree, backed by hanging stockings; gingerbread houses proudly decorated and on display; the kitchen full of our favorite holiday foods, ready for a Christmas feast. All the makings of a joyful celebration for our family.
Still in our pajamas, we bundled our children in whatever coats and shoes were in the entryway; then I grabbed the scantily prepared diaper bag and walked out. I closed the door, expecting to be gone only a short time and eager to return to the magical morning we had planned with our boys.
Moments later, we were in the car pulling away from our building. As we drove down the street, we noticed the flashing lights on emergency vehicles illuminating downtown and looking almost festive against the unusual Christmas snow that had fallen overnight.
Suddenly … boom! In stunned terror, we turned to watch as a blazing fireball engulfed our street and filled the sky. A bomb had detonated in front of our building.
I took this photo of our street moments after the explosion. The bomb detonated 30 feet from the front door of our building.
There were flames, smoke, and hundreds of broken windows, alarms blaring, cars exploding, water pouring out of unknown places, and our beautiful row of historic brick buildings crumbling to the ground.
In an instant, we were left homeless.
Our only physical possessions were now reduced to the clothes on our backs, the diaper bag, and the car we were driving.

Recently I met an intelligent young man with great potential. He was undecided about a mission. He has decided not to attend a university now. In his free time he only does what he likes to do. He doesn’t work because he doesn’t have to, and it would take time from pleasure. He passed seminary classes without much thought of personally applying the knowledge gained. I noted: “You are making choices today that appear to give you what you want: an easy life, abundant enjoyment, and not much sacrifice. You can do that for a while, yet every decision you make narrows your future. You are eliminating possibilities and options. There will come a time, and it won’t be too distant, where you are going to spend the rest of your life doing things you don’t want to do, in places you don’t want to be, because you have not prepared yourself. You are not taking advantage of your opportunities.”
I mentioned how everything I treasure today began to mature in the mission field. Missionary service is not something we do for ourselves, yet great growth and preparation for the future is gained from a mission. There they focus outside of themselves on other people. They draw close to the Lord and really learn His teachings. They find individuals interested in the message but not sure of its worth. Missionaries try with every capacity—prayer, fasting, and testifying—to help individuals embrace the truth. A mission teaches one to be led by the Spirit, to understand our purpose for being on earth and how to accomplish it. I gave him a blessing. As he left, I prayed earnestly that the Lord would help him choose the right priorities. Otherwise, he will fail in life’s purpose.

Several years ago I wrote a story about my sister and submitted it to you. It was published in the April 1984 issue under the title “Lifeline.” It told of my little sister’s trials during the time she lived with my father (a Baptist minister) in southern Georgia. The story described the heartache she felt at being cut off from the Church she loves and the help she received when her home teachers listened to the promptings of the Spirit and came to visit her.
My sister (Jean Swilley) remained true to the gospel and passed through the refiner’s fire. She moved to Chicago in July of 1984 to live with my mother. Jean became active in her ward, and before long her bubbly spirit was charming the members in Illinois just as it once had in Mississippi. My Mom could not help but be influenced by the strength of Jean’s testimony, and she began her journey back into the fold of the Church. Both she and her new husband are now strong, active members of their ward. They are very happy even though they miss my sister very much.
Jean left Chicago last week to enter the MTC. Though she always insisted she had no desire to go on a mission, she obeyed her Father’s call and is now a very excited sister earnestly studying her discussions in Swedish. Though I am sure Jean will face many a refiner’s fire in Sweden, I know that she will come through them clinging to the lifeline her Father tossed to her many years ago. We thought you might like to know. Thanks again for printing Jean’s story.
Elizabeth (Swilley) SheridanIrmo, South Carolina

Mom, why do we have to pull these old weeds, anyway?” Vanessa whined, pushing back the hair from her sweaty forehead. “Weeds, weeds, weeds! It’s such a waste of time. They’ll just grow again next week, and I’ll have to pull them up all over again.” She stabbed the trowel into the dark brown soil for emphasis.
Her mother smiled at eleven-year-old Vanessa’s impatience.
“I wish that the garden plants would grow but not the weeds,” Vanessa said. “Wouldn’t that be easy?”
“It would be easy,” Mom agreed, “but where’s the challenge? What could we learn from that?”
“What do we learn now, except how to get bug bites, sunburn, and blisters?”
“Actually you’ve learned a great deal. For example, you know that things must happen in proper order. We must plant seeds when and where they’ll be able to do their best,” Mom explained.
“I wonder if Heavenly Father ‘plants’ our spirits in certain bodies, at certain times, in certain places, so that we can do our best?” Vanessa wondered aloud.
“That’s an interesting thought. I’ve pondered things like that, too,” Mom said as she planted peas neatly in a row.
“Maybe I had to be born to this particular family, in this place, at the exact time that I was born, in order for me to develop and reach my full potential,” Vanessa said thoughtfully. “OK, we do learn things from gardening,” she admitted. When she saw the triumphant look on her mother’s face, she added, “But I still don’t understand why we have to go to all this trouble to have homegrown vegetables. Store-bought ones are just as good if you ask me.”
“A half hour a day isn’t much time to spend when you consider all the rewards,” Mom said. “By the end of the summer you’ll see what I mean.”
Each day after school, Mom and Vanessa got on their gardening clothes and worked side by side in the garden. One afternoon in late spring they transplanted tomato seedlings. After working in silence for some time, Vanessa said, “Plants need sun, air, water, and nutrients from the soil. We need sun, air, water, and nutrients from food. Mom, would we die without the sun?” They talked for twenty minutes about the similarities and differences between plant needs and human needs.
During other gardening sessions, Vanessa told her mother about school, her friends, her hopes and plans for the future, her worries and fears. She began to look forward to these talks.
Sometimes while they gardened, Mom told Vanessa stories about what it was like to grow up on a farm. One day she said, “My mother used to tell me: ‘You reap what you sow. If you plant cucumber seeds, you get cucumber vines and cucumber blossoms, and, eventually, cucumbers. You’ll never get cauliflower from cucumber seeds. If we sow acts of kindness, we reap friendship and happiness.’”
“But if we sow evil and unkindness, then we reap the consequences—unhappiness and sadness,” Vanessa added. They were silent for a few minutes before Vanessa asked, “It can take a long time to see the results of what you’ve sown, can’t it, Mom?” She was thinking of a girl who had started at their school before Christmas and was extremely shy. Vanessa had been nice to her, but it had taken until February to get the girl to respond. But Vanessa’s persistence paid off; the girls were now good friends.
One day in June, after three days of rain, the weeds suddenly shot up tall. “We have to pluck out the bad plants so that the good ones won’t be robbed of the nutrients, moisture, and root space. Does that remind you of a scripture story?” Mom asked.
“You mean when Christ will take all the wicked and burn them as stubble, and the good people won’t be bothered anymore by their evil influence?”
“Good! You’ve been reading,” Mom said, nodding approvingly.
“It also reminds me of the parable about the seed falling on the rocky soil, getting choked by weeds, or growing in good soil,” Vanessa continued. “We have to try to get sin out of our lives so that the seed of faith can grow in good soil within us.”
“I think she’s got it!” said Mom, laughing along with her daughter.
Once when Vanessa complained about all the work, Mom said, “It’s not much different from having neighbors or friends.”
“I don’t see the connection,” said Vanessa.
“If someone has a need, we serve them. Later, they—or someone else—may help us. Right now it’s our turn to help the vegetable plants. But in a few months, they’ll be serving us—on our dinner table!”
In July there were two weeks with no rain. Vanessa’s arms became stronger and stronger from carrying buckets of water. She prayed for rain and hurried out early each morning to check the plants. When it finally did rain, she danced barefoot in the backyard.
Late in the summer, Mom said, “Vanessa, have you noticed what a trim figure and lovely, healthy glow you have? It couldn’t possibly be from working in the garden, could it?” Her eyes twinkled merrily.
Vanessa realized that her mother was right. She felt prettier, healthier, and stronger than she’d ever felt before. Mom’s right, she thought. You do get a lot from gardening—more than just vegetables.
By the end of August the whole family was involved in canning and freezing the garden’s harvest. Still, there were more vegetables than they could possibly use. “Dad, wouldn’t someone at your work or one of our neighbors love a basket of fresh zucchini or tomatoes?” Vanessa suggested.
They canned spaghetti sauce, and Vanessa could hardly wait to invite the new neighbors for dinner. When they arrived, Vanessa sat down with them and told them all the wonderful benefits of gardening.
Mom winked at Dad as Vanessa enthusiastically added, “Tonight we’re having spaghetti with sauce made from our own vegetables. And salad and zucchini, all from our garden. Mmmm! You’ll love them. They’re lots better than store-bought vegetables!”

One of my mom’s favorite memories is of when she brought cupcakes to share with my class on my birthday. Josh was with his special education teacher in another classroom down the hall and around the corner. Miss Ready asked me to go get him. I was so excited that I told Josh, “Let’s run!” With Josh holding my arm, we ran for all we were worth. When we got to the classroom, we were out of breath, and Josh said, “That was so much fun! Can we do it again?” I realized then that Josh never gets to run.
Josh’s teacher came huffing and puffing into the room, her eyes big and round from fright. She calmed down when she saw that Josh was OK and that I had been careful and hadn’t bumped him into anything as we ran.

During family home evening I found out I’m related to Edward Partridge, the first bishop of the Church. Since that family home evening lesson, I have been very interested in family history work. I love to go online and research my ancestors. I have found census records with information about my ancestors. I am excited for my family to do the temple work for the people I have found. Our family is linked through temple work.
Carly B., age 9, Texas, USA

See if your family has any connections to a place you are already visiting.
On a recent trip to New York City, I decided to see if I had any ancestors that had lived there. Using FamilySearch, I discovered that my fourth great-grandmother Rachel Laird immigrated from Scotland to America and saw the Statue of Liberty only two years after it was completed! Learning about Rachel helped me to feel more connected to my ancestors and made the trip I already had planned even more special.

Later, Joseph and Anna need to help their mother prepare dinner. Joseph doesn’t help. What should Anna do?
Anna forgives Joseph and helps with dinner. Their mother is grateful for Anna’s help. The family enjoys being together at dinner. Anna feels good that she chose to forgive.

“My father had a dairy products business and five or six horse carts. Sometimes I used to help him with the deliveries.
“I remember one of the first songs I learned in the Church was ‘Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam.’ I used to sing that song every day; in fact, my father got tired of hearing that particular song.
“One day I went to deliver two bottles of milk to a customer. The lady of the house heard me singing that song and came out and asked, ‘What are you singing?’
“‘I’m singing, “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam,”’ I answered.
“‘What is that?’ she inquired.
“‘One of the songs we sing in my church,’ I replied.
“‘What church is that?’
“‘The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.’
“‘Well, I don’t know them. Do they have another name?’
“‘Yes, the Mormon Church.’
“‘Why don’t you tell me something about your church?’”
Elder Abrea concluded his experience by saying that after two weeks, the lady and her family began attending the Latter-day Saint Church. This was his first missionary experience.

The priesthood quorum was designed by the Lord to be the finest service fraternity in all the world. Eighteen-year-old John Anderson was a remarkable young man who courageously battled muscular dystrophy and lost. He was confined to a wheelchair during his Aaronic Priesthood years.
Conspicuous at the funeral were devoted members of his priests quorum. John’s influence upon his quorum was profound, and yet he never played a football game, nor went camping with them, nor danced, nor did any of the usual teenage activities. It was his faith and commitment to the Church that touched his quorum members. And something else—John provided his quorum with an opportunity to serve with love.
When John was a deacon, he wanted to pass the sacrament. One boy was assigned to push his wheelchair while John held the tray on his lap. It seemed awkward at first, but soon others were anxious to help him perform his priesthood duty.
By the time John was ordained a priest, he was very weak and could not kneel to bless the sacrament. His quorum found a solution. They placed his wheelchair next to the sacrament table. One would break the bread, then kneel for him, by the wheelchair, and hold a microphone while John pronounced those sacred words. To do this for their brother soon became an honor for each one in the quorum.
They enthusiastically followed his leadership as first assistant in the priests quorum. Because John was unable to realize his dream of becoming an Eagle Scout, the priests raised money to buy a special achievement plaque which was given to him in sacrament meeting. It read: “Presented to John for outstanding service to your quorum and for being a great example to us all.”
Over the years, the young men in John’s quorum enjoyed many fun activities, but none had greater impact or taught them more about magnifying their priesthood callings and loving each other than this choice experience they shared with their friend John.

A former missionary from Africa wrote a senior Church leader, apologising and seeking forgiveness for being offended by his teachings about a certain cultural tradition, which then led him to leave the Church. He humbly expressed: “Sadly, the fact that I took offense 15 years ago has made me pay an extremely heavy price. I lost so much—much more than I ever imagined. I am deeply embarrassed by the harm I may have caused along the way, but above all else I am pleased that I have found my way back.”

When I was in the military service during the First World War, we were told that we were “making the world safe for democracy”; we were fighting a war to end all wars. When my eldest son was in the military during the Second World War, he was told that he was preserving the cause of liberty and freedom. The same explanation has continued for the past several decades.

Pat was my best friend, at least he was until my sense of humor got in the way.
Pat and I played football together at BYU. He played offense; I played defense. But we became good friends anyway. We lifted weights together, played racquetball together, and ran together in the off-season.
When I first met Pat, I was a recent convert to the Church and he was a lazy life-long member. He went to church once in a while, but he really wasn’t active, at least not as active as I thought he should have been.
We always joked around a lot. He teased me about my skinny arms; I teased him about his pot belly. Any topic was fair game for our joking: the way we dressed, missed racquetball shots, blown plays on the football field. Most of the joking was pretty clever, and it helped pass the time we spent working to become better football players.
One day, as we were getting dressed, I started teasing Pat about being inactive.
“Let’s see, Pat,” I said, “this Sunday is even numbered. Does that mean you’ll go to church? Or do you only go on the odd-numbered days?” He didn’t answer, so I continued to razz him. “Or do you just go every other month?”
I laughed. He remained quiet.
During the car ride back to our apartments, I didn’t let up. My teasing continued nonstop, and he sat sullenly throughout the trip.
Finally, just before we pulled up to my apartment, Pat spoke up, only “spoke up” isn’t the right expression. “Yelled” is more accurate.
“Listen, Chris,” he said, barely controlling his anger, “don’t ever tease me about the Church. Never.” And with that, I got out of the car. He slammed the door closed and drove off. The next day, some of our mutual friends came to talk to me.
“Hey, Chris,” said one, “lay off teasing Pat about the Church. You really hurt his feelings yesterday. See, he’s trying to get active; he’s been working at it for a long time, and you just don’t understand.”
I was stunned. I couldn’t believe that a guy so big, so strong, so good at handing out teasing and taking it, could ever have his feelings hurt. But he did. And worst of all, that incident ruined our friendship. Of course, I apologized to Pat immediately. I felt horrible about the whole thing—horrible that I had really wounded a good friend, and horrible that I had ruined a great friendship. Sure, we remained friends, but it was never the same again.

Neill F. Marriott’s daughter encourages her family to pray after the family’s young son is lost.

I work at a fast-food restaurant, and before I go to work I say a prayer to help me avoid the temptations that might come during work. It helps me to stay closer to the Spirit. We also have family scripture reading, and that helps me to have a better feeling toward the day.
Daniel Magalogo, 17Apia, Western Samoa

Little Bessie Bumblebee, happy as a breeze,
Takes home honey to her hive in the trees.
Little Charlie Chipmunk, his mouth full of nuts,
Scampers to store them in his private hut.
Wise Mr. Owl urges them on with a cheer,
For he knows that winter soon will be here.
One thing we all know is that food we must store,
Because without food, life would soon be no more.

I guess the things that mean a great deal to me are sometimes the ones I take for granted. I never realized how important the Church magazines are to me until I didn’t have them. I missed an issue of both the New Era and the Ensign, and I wonder if Satan helped lose them along their path to me. I’m sure he doesn’t like these magazines. I’m grateful for the many hours I’ve spent reading them from cover to cover as the Spirit bore record to me and I cried tears of joy. Joseph Smith once said that a person could get closer to the Lord by reading the Book of Mormon than by reading any other book. I know it’s also true that a person can get closer to the Lord by reading the Church magazines than by reading any other magazines.
Miles Andrew CookHickory, North Carolina

As a small boy in grammar school, I had a teacher who made King Arthur and the knights of the Round Table come alive. She caused me to become so obsessed with stories of knights that I played and dreamed that I was one.
One evening I dreamed that I was a white knight on a white horse riding over the greens of England. Suddenly, without warning, a knight dressed in black armor and mounted on a black horse appeared at the edge of the forest. We measured each other carefully, lowered our lances, and charged at full gallop. The lances struck target and both of us were knocked off our steeds.
I scrambled to my feet knowing that swords would be drawn and that hand-to-hand combat was imminent. Fear gripped my heart as I saw my opponent rushing toward me flashing a long, gleaming sword. Instinctively, I reached to my side and drew forth from the scabbard my weapon. That is when the dream turned into a nightmare! For in my hand was a small, dinky dagger—not a long, gleaming sword. I woke up in a cold sweat screaming for help.

My parents opposed my going on a mission and eventually kicked me out of their house, but I was determined. I served in Tennessee, USA. As a Latter-day Saint missionary from a Buddhist country serving in the Bible Belt of the United States, I was often asked how I could believe in the Book of Mormon. I testified that I had prayed about its truthfulness and received an answer that it is true.