Gospel Story Finder

After school Doug dashed home and pounded up the steps into his family’s new apartment. He could hardly wait for the baseball game to start at the park.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” asked his mother as he sped from his room, carrying his baseball glove and aluminum bat.
“Across the street to play ball,” Doug said. Eric, from one of the other apartments, had told him that a group of boys got together after school to play baseball. Doug hoped he could make some friends in the new neighborhood.
“I want to go, too!” Doug’s younger brother, Jimmy, shouted as he dashed into the room.
“You know what’ll happen, Jimmy. Why don’t you stay here and play Baseball Master with Dad?” A game board version of real baseball, Baseball Master was won by a player’s knowledge of baseball strategy. Jimmy loved it.
“I don’t know about that,” called their father. “Jimmy’s too good for me.”
It was true. At Baseball Master Jimmy could outhit, outsteal, and outscore almost anyone.
Doug glanced at his watch and hustled off. He hoped that Jimmy would take his advice. It would save them both a lot of embarrassment.
Jimmy didn’t. Doug cringed as Jimmy trotted up to the group of boys in the park and asked to play. Jimmy looked over at Doug and grinned, but Doug ignored him.
Doug ended up playing second base for one team, and Jimmy played right field for the other team. Doug hit a home run his first time at bat. Jimmy struck out. Doug made his catches look easy at second base. Jimmy missed every ball that came to him in right field.
Doug felt sorry for his brother when Jimmy was yanked from the field by his team captain and replaced with another boy. Doug wished Jimmy would go home, but he didn’t. Jimmy stood behind the backstop, cheering for everything his team did.
When Doug hit his third home run to win the game. Eric and the other boys from the apartments slapped him on the back and chose him to be one of the two captains for the next game.
Doug heard some of the boys on the other team complaining, “We might have won if that clumsy kid hadn’t shown up.” Doug avoided looking at Jimmy. What if they knew that that “clumsy kid” was my brother? he thought.
Doug played catch with his new friends for a while and then walked home.
Jimmy was sitting on the apartment stairs, his head down. “Doug, how come I’m no good?” he asked.
Doug shrugged. Jimmy had always been awkward. The doctors blamed it on poor hand/eye coordination. There wasn’t much Jimmy could do about it. It was a shame, too, because he loved baseball. And he knew more about it than anyone else Doug knew.
“After supper I’ll help you with your catching and hitting,” Doug offered.
After eating, they headed down the apartment steps toward the park. Suddenly Doug spotted Eric and a couple of his new friends on the baseball field. He froze. “Um, Jimmy, let’s go play out behind the apartments. It’s too crowded over there.”
“I saw those boys,” Jimmy mumbled as they turned around. “You’re ashamed of me. That’s why you didn’t talk to me at the game today, isn’t it?”
Doug didn’t answer. He worked with Jimmy until it was nearly dark, without much success. “Why don’t you be our cheerleader?”
Jimmy shook his head. “I want to be part of the game.” He looked up at Doug as they walked back to the apartment. “Are you going to pick me on your team tomorrow?”
Doug was silent. How can I pick Jimmy? he wondered. What would the other guys think?
Before bed that night Doug walked past Jimmy’s bedroom and heard him praying. “Heavenly Father, why can’t I play sports? Why am I so uncoordinated?”
Doug wondered the same thing. Why did Jimmy have to sit home studying baseball while everyone else was out playing it? It didn’t seem fair. There had to be something Jimmy could do on a team besides cheering.
In his room Doug prayed about it. But no answer came to him.
The next day Doug waited at the park as the other boys arrived. He’d already decided which ones he wanted. They’d be the best. Maybe after choosing them, he’d pick Jimmy.
When Jimmy joined them, pounding his glove, several guys groaned.
Eric poked Doug in the ribs. “Who is that kid anyway? Do you know him?”
Doug pretended that he didn’t hear Eric, but it made him feel strange inside. Doug didn’t like the feeling. He realized he’d been acting ashamed of Jimmy because Jimmy had a problem with his coordination. That wasn’t Jimmy’s fault.
“He’s my brother!” Doug said loudly. “And he probably knows more about baseball than any of us.”
The other boys stared at him.
Eric snickered. “Him?”
“You don’t have to be able to hit home runs and make dazzling catches to know how the game is played.”
“All right,” said Eric impatiently. “Let’s get the game started. Pick, Doug.”
Doug looked over the group, but he couldn’t seem to decide. Every time he saw Jimmy’s eager face, his picks got all jumbled around in his head. Sure, he knew the guys who could hit, but hits didn’t always win games. Sometimes strategy did. Suddenly he knew the answer to his prayer.
“My first pick is Jimmy,” Doug announced, pointing to his brother.
“He can’t play,” someone said.
“Not to play,” Doug said, as Jimmy proudly scurried to his side, “but to be my manager and to plan strategy.”
There were some laughs. But when Doug’s team won the game by ten runs, no one was laughing. Jimmy’s strategy had worked.
Eric was chosen as one of the captains for the next game. Doug saw him eyeing Jimmy. “I already know who my first pick will be,” Eric said.
Doug smiled at Jimmy. “So do I.”

When I was a young man, I served in the Church as a counselor to a wise district president. He was constantly trying to teach me. I remember the advice he once gave to me: “When you meet someone, treat them as if they were in serious trouble, and you will be right more than half the time.” I thought then that he was pessimistic. Now, more than 50 years later, I can see how well he understood the world and life.

Recently my parents moved across the country. Since I am attending college, I could not go with them. I ended up moving into an apartment by myself. At first it was thrilling to be independent, but I started to become bored and lonely. My daily trip to the mailbox was not helping since I was only faced with an ample amount of new bills. In March of 1991, I received a wonderful surprise. My mother had given me a subscription to the New Era. Thanks for the wonderful articles and spiritual uplift at a time when I needed it most.
Karla BertramEdmonton, Alberta, Canada

The summer after high school graduation seemed almost magical. I had everything I could possibly want—except a tan. With a job, my social life, and the plans I was making to go away to school, I hadn’t taken the time to lie in the sun and bake my skin cells. Then came the chance to remedy this one imperfection in an otherwise unblemished existence in the form of an invitation to spend the Fourth of July at Bear Lake in northern Utah.
The weather at Bear Lake matched my nearly flawless life. The sun was bright, the sky clear, and the air just the right temperature. I lay on the beach all day and eagerly watched my anemic legs and arms turn a bright shade of pink which, I was sure, would turn into a golden tan. Everything, I thought, would be storybook perfect.
Bear Lake is cool and invigorating and can be literally smooth as glass. Its high elevation, though, means the atmosphere is thinner, providing less protection from the sun’s harmful rays. Anybody who has ever been there knows—usually from painful personal experience—that Bear Lake is one of the worst places for sunburn.
I knew it too, but chose to ignore that particular bit of truth. My thoughts that day went no farther than dreams of looking magazine-and-movie beautiful. Only it didn’t work out that way. My legs and arms (and back, feet, and face) didn’t go from rosy pink to gorgeous tan. Instead, they turned blazing red and blistered. And I hurt all over.
I don’t remember much about the return trip that evening except feeling awful and just hoping I wouldn’t throw up before we got home. Once home, I doused myself with vinegar (it’s supposed to help) and went straight to bed. Getting to sleep that night was a real pain. Getting dressed the next morning was even worse.
After a few “Don’t touch me!” days, the pain finally subsided, the blisters popped, and I began to peel. Yuck! Dead, flaky skin was everywhere. Instead of looking sophisticated and stunning, I looked splotchy. It wasn’t exactly what I had envisioned.
I often think about that episode, especially when I’m sitting in the shade wearing my wide-brimmed hat and slathered in sun block. I lost more than a few nights’ sleep from that experience; I also lost much of my body’s built-in protection against the sun’s harmful rays.
More important than what I lost, though, was what I gained. I realized that just as Heavenly Father provides an earthly atmosphere to protect our physical selves, he has also given us a spiritual “atmosphere”—the Holy Ghost—to shelter our spiritual selves. I always recall my day at the beach whenever I am tempted to leave that heavenly shelter to become more attractive according to the world’s standards. I remember the sleepless nights, painful days, and lasting physical consequences, and know there is no way I want to risk getting a spiritual “sunburn.”

In 1864, Joseph A. Young was called on a special mission to transact Church business in the East. His father, President Brigham Young, blessed him to go and return in safety. As he was returning, he was involved in a severe train wreck. “The whole train was smashed,” he reported, “including the car I was in to within one seat of where I sat, [but] I escaped without a scratch” (Letters of Brigham Young to His Sons, ed. Dean C. Jessee, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1974, p. 4).

For five weeks in May and June of 1861, their ship, the Monarch of the Sea, sailed across the Atlantic. When it finally docked in New York harbor, little boats took the Latter-day Saint immigrants ashore. They all stayed overnight in a giant hall called Castle Gardens.
That night while the children tried to sleep on the floor of the building, Alma Elizabeth’s brother August discovered some sacks of brown sugar right next to him. One had a small hole in it and was spilling its contents. Alma Elizabeth and August had tasted no sugar or candy during the ocean voyage. So August found a spoon. Soon they had had a grand feast. But by morning they were sick!
Alma Elizabeth, with her family and the other Saints, took a long train trip to Iowa. There they joined wagon trains going to Utah. She walked the entire way, except when she got into a wagon to cross a deep river.
Alma Elizabeth’s father had trouble walking. In Sweden he had been a concert violinist and an orchestra director. Then rheumatism crippled him. Slowly he learned to use his hands and feet again, but it was difficult and painful. Elizabeth’s father was unable to keep up with the wagon train, and he insisted that his family go on ahead, promising to catch up with them.
Her father struggled on until he spotted a light. It was a camp of soldiers on their way to the Civil War. One soldier spoke Swedish. When they learned that Alma Elizabeth’s father was a musician, they found a violin and he played it for them. In the morning they took him on horseback and caught up with the wagon train.
When Alma Elizabeth’s family reached Utah they settled in Mount Pleasant. As a pioneer she worked hard. She learned how to card and spin wool, weave carpets, milk cows, knit and crochet, make gloves out of buckskin, weave hats out of braided straw, stack hay, and bundle wheat.
One time she collected wheat left in the fields after the harvest and sold it for $10. With some of the money, she bought ten yards of calico for her first party dress.
The day Alma Elizabeth turned eight years old she saw some elders baptizing people in a nearby creek. Her folks did not know about the baptismal service, so she ran home to tell them. With their permission she, too, was baptized in the creek. Afterward she walked to the meetinghouse to be confirmed. But after the confirmation, she felt very tired and fell sound asleep on a seldom-used church bench where people could not see her. When the meeting ended everyone went home. Alma Elizabeth’s family became concerned about her long absence, and they sent her big sister Helen to search for her. She found Alma Elizabeth still asleep in the now empty meetinghouse.
On a hot July day when Alma Elizabeth was ten years old, she went to a ward meeting. The people felt very discouraged because their crops needed rain. President Brigham Young came to the meeting, and she listened carefully when he rose to his feet and spoke. He promised the people that if they would listen to his words, the Lord would open the heavens and send the rains.
The words hardly left the prophet’s lips when Alma Elizabeth noticed the gathering clouds. Soon they filled the sky, and rain poured down in torrents. On that day she received a great testimony of the gospel that she remembered all her life.

John R. Moyle lived in Alpine, Utah, about 22 miles as the crow flies to the Salt Lake Temple, where he was the chief superintendent of masonry during its construction. To make certain he was always at work by 8:00 A.M., Brother Moyle would start walking about 2:00 on Monday mornings. He would finish his work week at 5:00 P.M. on Friday and then start the walk home, arriving there shortly before midnight. Each week he would repeat that schedule for the entire time he served on the construction of the temple.
Once when he was home on the weekend, one of his cows bolted during milking and kicked Brother Moyle in the leg, shattering the bone just below the knee. With no better medical help than they had in such rural circumstances, his family and friends took a door off the hinges and strapped him onto that makeshift operating table. They then took the bucksaw they had been using to cut branches from a nearby tree and amputated his leg just a few inches below the knee.
When against all medical likelihood the leg finally started to heal, Brother Moyle took a piece of wood and carved an artificial leg. First he walked in the house. Then he walked around the yard. Finally he ventured out about his property. When he felt he could stand the pain, he strapped on his leg, walked the 22 miles to the Salt Lake Temple, climbed the scaffolding, and with a chisel in his hand hammered out the declaration “Holiness to the Lord.” (See “Two Traditions of John Rowe Moyle,” in Biographies and Reminiscences, ed. Gene A. Sessions, 1974, 202–3.)

I was one of only four Spanish-speaking missionaries in the New England Mission. We worked hard to learn the language and share the gospel, but we met mostly with rejection.
One day we knocked on the door of Hugo and Niza Diaz, a couple in Providence, Rhode Island. After they invited us into their apartment, I asked how long they had lived there.
“We just moved here from New York,” they said. “The Lord told us to move to Providence and He would send us messengers to teach us the truth. Are you the messengers?”
We responded assuredly, “Yes, we are the messengers.” We taught Hugo and Niza about the gospel of Jesus Christ, and they readily accepted our message and were soon baptized.

Another incident that has touched my life recently happened when a young man with a terminal illness passed away. He knew that his illness would first take away his manual dexterity and his ability to walk, then its progression would take his ability to speak, and finally his respiratory system would cease to function. But he also had faith that families are forever. With this knowledge, he spoke to each of his children through video recordings for use when he was gone. He produced recordings to be given to his sons and daughters at important, sacred occasions in their lives, such as baptisms, priesthood ordinations, and weddings. He spoke to them with the tender love of a father who knew that while his family was forever, for a time he would not physically be able to be with them, but spiritually he would never leave their side.

Lori:
No two days were the same on our mission. Some days we were out in the bush, knee-deep in water or mud. Other days were spent in the mission office. With Public Affairs missionaries, we visited the Ministry of Cults and Religion. In Cambodia, the term “cult” isn’t necessarily a bad thing. The official religion is Buddhism—everything else is considered a cult. We visited the Ministry to help set the precedent that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is a good organization and can be trusted.
We developed a good rapport with them, and they were quick to call for help. They’d call and say, “We’ve had a flood, and we need food for 200 families who have been displaced.” They knew they could rely on the Church to get stuff to where it was needed fast and supplement the things they didn’t have.

“On the first day we asked our reading and writing students what they wanted to study after they had completed the course, and they all said they wanted to read the scriptures. One of my students in Cacalotepec also said she wanted to learn how to read so she could lead the singing better. In fact, there were three other song leaders from Cacalotepec who had all come to learn so they could better fill their Church callings.
“At our farewell party each of us bore testimony to our thankfulness and love for the people. One girl got up and with almost uncontrollable tears thanked us for the work we were doing. She told us that we were making her branch better. She said that you can’t progress if you can’t read the scriptures and the words of the prophets. Then she expressed her amazement that we would come here on our vacations and work with the people when we could stay home and have an enjoyable time. Words just couldn’t express to her how much we had learned and gained from her village and that it was the best summer vacation I have ever spent.”
Betty LeiningerGreenbrae, California

Colonel Thomas Kane, a special representative of James Polk, president of the United States, visited the Mormon pioneers in 1846 while they camped in Iowa, preparing to cross the Missouri River. He had read newspaper articles about the Saints, describing how they had frequently been persecuted and driven from their homes. As he walked through the woods near the outskirts of the camp, he came upon a lone pioneer who was secretly praying. Thomas stood quietly listening to the man humbly express thanks for the restored gospel and petition for the Saints’ protection during their travels.
Thomas was very moved by this experience, and he became a lifelong friend of the Mormons, although he never joined the Church.

Stephen: My wife, Kay, started having memory lapses over time, and I started noticing that she was often asking the same questions and repeating sentences. After things progressively got worse, we visited many doctors who gave many different diagnoses because she was young. She was eventually diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. I was her primary caregiver until she eventually passed away from complications of the disease. Later on, Lily and I met and got married. Lily also shared similar experiences in caring for her mother, who struggles with dementia.

Until one Sunday. I don’t know what got into me. (It certainly wasn’t pancakes! Might have been a past Sunday School lesson, though.) At any rate, I decided that I would really see if I could get something out of fasting besides killer breath. Why go through the discomfort and come away with nothing more than relief that it’s over?
So when I woke up that Sunday morning, I made a deliberate effort to be pleasant and patient. I didn’t prowl the kitchen, growling like an echo of my stomach. Yes, I spent some time reading the Sunday paper, but I also spent time (and effort) in the scriptures. When I went off to my room, it was not to sulk, but to pray—for patience, for understanding, for an increase of testimony.
My mouth still tasted like something small and furry had hibernated in it. But mouthwash helped. My stomach still threw tantrums for a while. But then the hunger pangs faded into the background, partly because I was tuning them out, and partly because my body seemed to shift into another gear.
As the day progressed, I actually became happy. (No, it wasn’t delirium.) In fast and testimony meeting I found myself watching the speakers and listening to their testimonies, rather than watching the clock and listening to my stomach. Being there felt good. When dinner time finally arrived, I discovered that I was able to sit calmly. A new sense of self-control allowed me to eat reasonably, instead of giving way to the usual gluttony of the “feast of the fast over.”

I was born in Chicago, Illinois, but came to Nauvoo when I was in foster care. I don’t remember much about my life before being in foster care, but I remember not feeling safe. When I went into foster care, I felt safe. I like having the gospel. Some of my friends have been put into some scary situations because they don’t follow our standards. I know that following the commandments keeps me safe.
It was a cool experience finding my family. My mom came to the preschool I went to because she was helping substitute. She played with me, and she told one of the teachers that she wanted to take me home because I was such a cute kid. The teacher said, “She is up for adoption, so maybe!” My mom looked into it and adopted me and my two brothers. It’s cool because I know what it’s like to not have a family, and that makes having a family even more special.

One convert, Special Constable Frankie Png, joined the Church a little over a year ago. He says, “At first, my associates tried to make me feel uncomfortable. But I always try to be patient and encourage them to live better lives. I also encourage my Muslim friends to live their religion more fully. Most respect my beliefs now.” Because of his fine example, his mother and brother were recently baptized.

I had been thinking about your genealogy for several weeks, and I felt that I should go to the address of your great-grandfather’s home to check the area.
After two hours on the high-speed train, I bussed to the city of Chi Kan, a place I had never been before. I fell asleep, and at the final stop the driver woke me up. I got off, looked around, and saw I was in a fishing village. I asked a young shop owner across the street for directions. He called a taxi for me and directed the driver to a place where an old man lived. When I arrived and asked that man where I could find the town’s genealogy record, he told me to walk a few blocks to a temple by the seashore.
At the temple, I saw a group of men having tea and chatting. They said that they were just starting an annual meeting of the Liu Shi family genealogy to prepare for a big conference in October. I explained that I was there to find family names for my friend.
“Usually no one is at this temple,” they said. “The door is locked except for the two to three hours when we hold the annual meeting. You are very lucky to meet us here.”
When I told the men I was looking for the name Liu Bei, they told me they had been collecting the Liu family genealogy for years and didn’t recall that name. One of the men kindly offered his genealogy records for me to take a look. They continued their meeting while I searched the records. After about 10–15 minutes, I shouted, “I found it!”
Shocked, they stopped talking and grabbed the book. I showed them the name, and they told me that it came from the family line of Mr. Liu Qiu Shan, who was attending their meeting that day. I purchased a copy of the genealogy book, which contained records going back 26 generations and 2,460 years of ancestors’ names on extended family lines.
Mr. Liu Qiu Shan later gave me a ride to the train station. He told me if I had come an hour earlier or the next day, I wouldn’t have found anyone or anything there. He said, “This place is always locked. It must be the ancestors’ blessing. It is truly a miracle.”

I visited the hospital the other evening to see my desperately ill sister. Her husband and family were surrounding her bed, holding their family home evening, led by their fourth missionary son just returned from foreign fields. I joined them, and then went home rejoicing and thanking God for that kind of example, and met my own family who were waiting, and prayed that we might do a better job of practicing what we preach.

I visited her this morning and talked with her to the Lord, and in the spirit of that sobering experience offer my testimony this morning.

Fourth, give your children the opportunity of having a joyful, happy childhood. The priesthood manual a few years ago quoted a story written in 1955 by Bryant S. Hinckley. It is as follows:
“‘Three hundred twenty-six school children of a district near Indianapolis were asked to write anonymously just what each thought of his father.
“‘The teacher hoped that the reading of the essays might attract the fathers to attend at least one meeting of the Parent-Teacher’s Association.
“‘It did.
“‘They came in $400 cars and $4,000 cars. Bank president, laborer, professional man, clerk, salesman, meter reader, farmer, utility magnate, merchant, baker, tailor, manufacturer, and contractor, every man with a definite estimate of himself in terms of money, skill, and righteousness. …
“‘The president picked at random from another stack of papers. “I like my daddy,” she read from each. The reasons were many: He built my doll house, took me coasting, taught me to shoot, helps me with my schoolwork, takes me to the park, gave me a pig to fatten and sell. Scores of essays could be reduced to “I like my daddy. He plays with me.”’
“Not one child mentioned his family house, car, neighborhood, food or clothing.
“The fathers went into the meeting from many walks of life. They came out in two classes: companions to their children or strangers to their children.
“No man is too rich or too poor to play with his children.” (The Savior the Priesthood and You, Melchizedek Priesthood Manual, 1973–74, p. 226.)

When I was young, I hated waiting for morning. I would get so excited and impatient about what the next day had to offer that I spent many nights tossing and turning in my bed, slipping in and out of sleep and taking frequent trips to the window, letting out a disappointed sigh every time I realized it was still dark outside. To me, morning always took forever to come.
Sometimes in the middle of the night, I would go ask my parents what time it was. They would reassure me that morning would come. I always slept better after that.
Waiting for promised blessings can sometimes feel like that. We offer sincere prayers, read our scriptures, and feel those warm feelings of assurance. But then if our circumstances don’t change immediately—if answers or blessings don’t come right away—we can start to doubt that they ever will.
From experience, I have learned that doubts often stem from focusing on circumstances rather than on the Savior and His love for us.
The more we magnify our circumstances and our hopelessness about what doesn’t seem to be working out for us yet, the less we realize that the Savior loves us and is with us as we take each step forward. Satan knows this, which is why he plants little doubts in our minds to make us question the Savior’s love for us, our eternal worth, and how much we matter to Heavenly Father.
Waiting is part of life. And waiting on the Lord’s answers and blessings and promises can sometimes feel unbearable. But there are a few things we can do to wait for blessings without giving in to doubts:
First, we can look back at those moments when we did receive answers or impressions. Remember those feelings of warmth or joy that whispered peace to your heart and mind. Those feelings and answers were from God. Passing time doesn’t change those truths and promises. We can follow apostolic counsel to “embrace your sacred memories. Believe them. Write them down. … Trust that they come to you from your Heavenly Father and His Beloved Son. Let them bring patience to your doubts and understanding to your difficulties.”1 By focusing on the Spirit and those things we know to be true, our doubts will fall out of focus. And we can have the confidence we need to move forward with hope.
Second, we need to remember that to receive personal revelation, we need to be willing to proceed with an eye of faith despite not having a perfect knowledge. Just like I always had to wait for morning to come, we can realize that even as we wait for promised blessings, there is preparation to do, small steps to take, and knowledge to gain in the meantime. As we wait, we can continue learning and striving to be worthy of the blessings in store for us.
Finally, we can keep an eternal perspective, bearing in mind that “some blessings come soon, some come late, and some don’t come until heaven; but for those who embrace the gospel of Jesus Christ, they come,” as Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught.2 “God expects you to have enough faith and determination and enough trust in Him to keep moving, keep living, keep rejoicing.”3 The Lord’s blessings always come, just like the sunrise each morning. Look to eternity instead of tomorrow.
In times of doubt when we feel like we are in a dark room without heaven’s light, let us remember that the Savior’s arms are always outstretched toward us, eagerly waiting for us to reach out to Him. He will reassure us of His love for us, just like my parents did whenever I was worried that morning would never come.
As we make the Savior our primary focus, waiting for promised blessings and answers becomes less tedious. The wait becomes a time of worthwhile learning and preparation. We can learn how to focus on Heavenly Father’s will and not our own. We can come to know with certainty that He loves us and will come through for us every time. And that certainty will defeat all doubt and darkness. Morning will always come, and so will His promises.