Gospel Story Finder

I am personally greatly motivated by the modest written and oral traditions of my own fathers which have been handed down.
For instance, as a young boy, my great-grandfather arose one Christmas morning with great anticipation and came down from the loft where he slept to inspect the stocking he had hung by the fireplace the previous night. To his dismay he found what was to constitute his entire Christmas that year—one piece of horehound candy! He was immediately faced with a weighty decision: Should he eat the candy in one glorious burst of flavor, or should he make it last? The scarcity of such delicacies apparently convinced him to make it last. He carefully licked the solitary piece of candy a few times and then wrapped it in tissue paper and hid it under his mattress. Each Sunday thereafter, following dinner, he retreated to his bed, retrieved his treasure, and enjoyed a few pleasurable licks. In that way he nursed the piece of candy through an entire year’s enjoyment.
This is obviously not an account of deeds of heroic proportions. And yet, in these times of overindulgence and excess, it is somehow very inspiring and strengthening to me to know that a little of my great-grandfather’s frugal blood flows in my own veins.

The Relief Society program can help us reach even the needs we may not know exist. I was told about one visiting teacher who, in a caring attitude, sent the sisters she visits a Christmas card. When she went to preparation meeting, the message teacher asked the visiting teachers to send a Christmas card to each of the sisters they visit and include their personal note with the card.
The visiting teacher was perplexed. She had already sent the cards, but she did not write the personal note. After debating with herself for some time she finally determined to send another card, this one with a personal note.
When she visited her assigned sisters in January, she went first to the home of an inactive member. When she entered the room, she could see that all evidences of Christmas had been put away—except for one card standing alone on a small table. It was the card with the note in it. The sister explained that she had left the card out to show her nonmember friends that members of her church go the second mile. She said that she had told them this before, but now she had some tangible evidence they could see.
When the visiting teacher went back the next month, the house was tidy, the furniture dusted, and the card still stood on the small table. The next month, the card was still there—and the next, and the next.
The visiting teacher had not realized that this inactive sister needed a positive manifestation of concern. She also learned how much even small acts of kindness do matter.

It was Sunday, July 5, 1964. I had climbed the Pyramids, touched the Wailing Wall, waded in the River Jordan, trod the ancient steps of Baalbek, and stood on the Mount of Olives. Now I was ending my tour in Athens, Greece, and by tomorrow night I would be with my family again.
I dressed, had a late brunch, and, unable to find a branch of the Church in the phone book, decided to explore Athens on foot. I had taken a sightseeing tour the day before. Now I would visit the places that tourists didn’t usually see.
Toward the afternoon I found myself in the agora, the great central marketplace of classical Athens. The entire agora complex seemed too large to view from the ground, so I decided to climb a steep hill toward the south where everything could be seen at once. It wasn’t until I reached the top and looked at my map of Athens that I realized this was Mars Hill, the site of Paul’s famous sermon to the Athenians.
Sitting down on one of the outcroppings of rock with several other people who were already enjoying the view, I could easily see the ruined temples and fallen columns of the Agora below, the Acropolis on the neighboring hill, and seven miles away, the green Aegean Sea topped by a clear, blue, cloudless sky. It was a perfect day.
Then my thoughts were jarred by the cheers of some English tourists. When I asked what had happened, I was told, “Our cricket team just made six points in the test match.” They turned their radio up so I could hear, and we got into a lively discussion. Looking around, I noticed about 30 visitors, half of them English and the others Greek, mostly young married couples.
The radio station faded in and out, turned to static, and was switched off. Then a teenage girl observed, “You’re an American. How do you know so much about cricket?”
I told her I had once been a missionary for the Mormon church in England and learned to like cricket then. Another person said, “Tell us how the Mormon church differs from other churches.”
Suddenly a feeling came over me that I could not explain, one I had seldom experienced before in my life. Something told me, “Keep talking, and you’ll know what to say.” I began to speak and was asked to stand so everyone could hear.
I began hesitantly. “I am a member of the Church of Jesus Christ as restored in these latter days.” Then I pointed out that the Church ought to be named for Christ, and I explained that the word Mormon is a nickname. Wondering what to say next, I looked out across Athens at the crosses on the many churches of the city, and I knew.
“You asked how our church differs from others. When Paul came to this spot, he spoke of the ‘unknown god.’ In each of those churches is an altar dedicated to the ‘unknown god,’ because they believe the mystery of God makes him God. They say if we were to know him, he would cease to be God. Is that really any different from the people who worshipped the unknown god on this spot 1,900 years ago? The scriptures say it is life eternal to ‘know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent.’” (John 17:3.)
Then I told them the “unknown god” had made himself known again, restored his church, and called new apostles to testify of him. I quoted the Joseph Smith story with a fervor I had never felt before and testified that it was true. I pointed out that logically only one church could be right, discussed the need for authority, and explained how this authority had been restored in the priesthood. From my wallet I removed a picture of President David O. McKay and testified he was a prophet. They agreed that such spiritual guidance was certainly needed today.
The hours flew by. They asked questions, and I explained doctrine with an enthusiasm I had never known before. It was overwhelming! The experience I had had with street meetings during my mission had convinced me that not many people were really interested in religion, and most walked away. But here were 30 people who sat, listened, and absorbed every word. They truly seemed interested in learning about the gospel.
After three hours of talking, the cool evening air forced us to conclude. I bore my testimony to everything I had said and shook more than a dozen hands.
I floated back to the hotel with tears in my eyes and opened my Bible to the 17th chapter of Acts.
“And they took him, and brought him unto Areopagus, saying, May we know what this new doctrine, whereof thou speakest, is?
“For thou bringest certain strange things to our ears: we would know therefore what these things mean.
“(For all the Athenians and strangers which were there spent their time in nothing else, but either to tell, or to hear some new things.)
“Then Paul stood in the midst of Mars’ Hill. …” (Acts 17:19–22.)
I had been privileged to catch a glimpse of a personal experience of one of the greatest missionaries of all time.

The spirit of gathering was strong in the hearts of the converts in Europe. Their great desire was to immigrate to America, where they might be with the majority of the Saints. Like many others, the Moultons did not have enough money to fulfill this desire. But their resolution was strong, and they began to save money in a fruit jar.
In 1849, President Brigham Young (1801–77) set up the Perpetual Emigration Fund to help Church members secure passage to America. The first to travel with the aid of this fund did so by wagon train, but this means of transportation was slow and expensive. Even with the help of the Perpetual Emigration Fund, few could afford to make the journey. Church leaders investigated the use of handcarts and learned that handcarts would make travel faster and less costly.
By then the Moulton family numbered seven children, but with their fruit jar savings, help from the Perpetual Emigration Fund, and the cheaper means of transportation, their dreams of immigration became a possibility. For a family of nine, it took careful planning to prepare for the trip. To save even more money for the purchases they would need to make, they lived chiefly on barley flour for nearly a year.
As the time of their departure approached, Thomas hesitated to make the journey because his wife was expecting a baby. But Sarah Denton Moulton was a woman of faith and could not be deterred. Before they left England, one of the missionaries gave Sarah a blessing in which he promised her that if she would go to Utah, she would make the journey safely without losing even one member of her family—quite a promised blessing to a soon-to-be family of 10!

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

During his lifetime Sebastian became famous as an organist. Most of the music he wrote was played or sung in churches. But although he wrote a vast amount of music, very little of his work was published in his lifetime. It was not until Mozart, and later Beethoven, heard the music of Johann Sebastian Bach and taught it to their students and presented it to the world that people realized what a great genius Bach was. March 21, 1985, will be the three hundredth anniversary of his birth. Today, Johann Sebastian Bach is still bringing joy to those who listen to his beautiful music.

Certainly Sister Sylvia Rosen has learned the power of faithful patience. Sylvia is a young single mother from Utah with four children, one of whom is affected by a severe developmental disorder resembling autism. At a time of already great challenge in her life, she was diagnosed with advanced cancer. With renewed faith in our Heavenly Father, she let go of some activities and devoted herself to her top priorities: taking care of her family and pursuing medical treatment for her condition.

Today she continues to struggle with life’s challenges, but all her activities are mediated by a beautiful spirit of waiting on the Lord. As her health permits, she makes gifts for friends and delivers meals to neighbors in need of comfort. The more she gives to others, the more peaceful becomes her countenance. “I need all my faith and patience,” she says. “I am fighting for my life.”

Sister Rosen has learned the truth of Isaiah’s promise: “They that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles” (Isa. 40:31).

Don’t worry, wee mouse,
That I’ve found your house.
I wish you well,
And I’ll never tell
Where the wall has a crack
At the very back
Of the cupboard there,
Beneath the stair.
You’ve made a nest
Of the very best
Soft wool and fluff
And tufts from my muff.
Ten babies there
Lie helpless, bare,
Blind, and so small
I could hold them all
In one cupped hand.
But I understand:
One mustn’t touch
Babies much!
Don’t fret, wee mouse,
That I’ve found your house.
You’re safe in your hole.
I won’t tell a soul!

One day my friend Foxx came over to my house. At night, my family reads the scriptures and prays together. Foxx is not a member of the Church, but I asked him if he’d like to join us in doing those things and he said yes. After we read the scriptures and prayed, Foxx told us his favorite Bible story. I felt good because I was being a missionary. I am going to ask him if he can come to church with me someday.

I love to build rockets and learn French and Korean in my spare time. Recently, I felt inspired to help the firefighters fighting the fires in Colorado. I decided to make firefighter grab bags. The bags had water bottles, a bandana, a granola bar, antibacterial wipes, sunscreen, and hand sanitizer. Many people donated money and supplies toward my project. When I delivered the bags a warm, calm feeling touched my soul. Seeing the appreciation in the eyes of the firefighters let me know how important service really is.
Lindsay C., 15, Colorado, USA

I was a senior in high school the day I ran into Sam Stone,* a boy I hadn’t seen since junior high. I was going to run an errand as I started down the hall of my high school. With the sun coming through the double doors in front of me, I could only make out the silhouette of a boy coming towards me. As we got closer, he spoke, calling me by name, “I remember you. You kicked me in the stomach and were always mean to me.”
Sammy had moved into our small community sometime in the third or fourth grade. He was placed in a foster family and lived there until about the seventh or eighth grade, when he was sent to a new foster family. Sammy had been teased constantly, and I am embarrassed and ashamed to admit that I participated in his ridicule. I don’t remember ever kicking him, but I have a definite memory of being on the merry-go-round when he was trying to get on. We wouldn’t let him and began a cruel chant about him as we pumped the merry-go-round faster and faster. I still remember the look on his face.
Throughout the remainder of my senior year, I tried to be kind to Sam. I made it a point to speak to him whenever I saw him. Then graduation came, and we went our separate ways.
Now I am 33 years old, and I serve as the Primary president in my ward. The theme for sharing time one month was “Friends.” That Sunday we would be having stake visitors, and as I began to prepare for sharing time, I searched for something to involve the children and keep them interested so that we could maintain reverence.
My mind kept going to the memory of Sammy, how I was not a friend to him and how I could have made a difference in the way he was treated and didn’t. I thought about talking to the senior Primary on being a good friend and telling my story as a poor example. I prepared my talk but began to have second thoughts. I did not know if I could keep the interest of the children without a game or something to involve them and did not particularly want to try it for the first time when the stake visitors were there. Then there was the fact that I was ashamed and embarrassed of what I had done when I was the same age as these children and wondered if I should share this story with them.
By Thursday, I had decided not to tell the story and was looking through all my materials for another idea of something to present. By Friday, I had not found anything that felt right to me. I prayed for help and decided that when I went to dinner with my sister that evening, I would find out what she was doing for sharing time in her ward. My sister, who also served in a Primary presidency, is very creative, and I often get ideas from her. That night as we waited for our dinner to arrive, she excitedly told me her plans for sharing time in her ward. The idea was good, but it just didn’t feel right for me. Now I was really concerned. I slowly began to eat my dinner, my thoughts centered on what I could possibly do.
As I was eating, I thought I heard my name being called. It was very faint, and it was my maiden name. I looked around but didn’t see anyone, and no one at my table seemed to have heard it. I figured it was my imagination and went back to my meal and the conversation when I heard my name again, this time louder. This time my dinner companions heard it too. As I looked up, I saw a man step out from behind a divider. The man was Sammy Stone. “I wasn’t sure if that was you,” he said, “so I said your name softly first to make sure it was.”
I was dazed. Standing before me was Sam Stone. I had not seen him since high school some 15 years before, but the past week I had thought about him constantly. And now here he was. We chatted a minute as I introduced him to my husband and my other family members there with me. He invited me to meet his family in another part of the restaurant before we left. I felt strongly that Heavenly Father wanted me to tell this story in sharing time on Sunday.
At the conclusion of our meal, my husband and I went over to meet Sam’s family. Sam had overcome some great odds in his life. I was impressed with him and his family. Sadly for me, Sam introduced me to his family as someone he went to high school with. I would have been elated if he would have introduced me as “a friend from high school,” but at least he had spoken to me.
On Sunday I spoke about Sammy in Primary. The room was packed with the children, the stake visitors, and members of our bishopric. There was no problem with reverence. You could have heard a pin drop during any part of sharing time. I know that Heavenly Father loves each of His children, and I believe He wanted me to share this story to remind them to be kind to everyone. So, to those of you who are reading this story, I ask you the same question I asked that group of children, “What kind of friend will you be remembered as?”

And the inspiration for all of this is the sweet assurance—deeply rooted in the heart of every decent man who is living as he should with his sweetheart wife, or who has so lived, or who is planning and preparing such a union—that heaven will be heaven for us because we know we will be there with the one we love the best. Parley P. Pratt said after he met the Prophet in Philadelphia that “it was from him that I learned that the wife of my bosom might be secured to me for time and all eternity; and that the refined sympathies and affections which endeared us to each other emanated from the foundation of divine eternal love. It was from the Prophet that I learned that we might cultivate these affections, and grow and increase in the same to all eternity.” (Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt, Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1938, pp. 297–98.)

John and Tess found they enjoyed the extra effort they put into visiting their neighbors so much, they decided to expand the assignment into a week.
“As soon as we received the assignment from the bishop we came home and began talking about it. We planned. We prayed. And then we planned and prayed some more,” John reflected.
“From Sunday until Thursday I just kept thinking the day was coming closer and closer. I knew that I had enough time to prepare, and on Thursday I’d better live the best I could. I couldn’t really offer any excuses,” says Tess.
They decided to fill their day visiting their neighbors, taking some fruit or a gift to those who were ill, expressing their thanks to people who had helped them. “So many people are lonely and just want to talk,” says John who serves on the fellowshipping committee in the ward. “We wanted to just go and let them know we cared. And it was wonderful to see how they opened up to us. One sister asked us if the high priests could come and administer the sacrament in her home once in a while since she couldn’t go to the meetings. So I talked with the bishop about it, and the next week a couple of us administered the sacrament to her.”
Was their day a success? “Oh, yes! Most days we think about what we should do, but we just don’t make the effort to do it. And when you finally do it, you have such a good feeling,” Tess said.

The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was organized on April 6, 1830. In June of that year, Joseph Smith read the Articles and Covenants of the Church in a conference, and they were accepted by the Church members (D&C 20, 22). The Lord told Joseph Smith to begin making copies of the revelations he had received. In 1831 the Lord gave Joseph Smith His approval to publish the revelations by giving him the preface for the new book (D&C 1).
President Joseph Fielding Smith said, “The Doctrine and Covenants … is the only book in existence which bears the honor of a preface given by the Lord himself. … It was not written by Joseph Smith, but was dictated by Jesus Christ, and contains his and his Father’s word to the Church and to all the world that faith in God, repentance from sin and membership in his Church might be given to all who will believe.”

Fashion Statement
My troop and I made these cool leather ID bracelets for kids who have just found out they have diabetes. We donated them to the hospital.

Three decades ago President Thomas S. Monson—then a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles—visited Haiti and dedicated the land for the preaching of the restored gospel.
Elder Neil L. Andersen of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles recently visited Haiti to commemorate the anniversary. Elder Andersen presided over the unveiling of a commemorative plaque that will serve as a permanent reminder of the beginnings of the Church in Haiti. The members who gathered for the unveiling ceremony viewed a televised message from President Monson that was recorded prior to the event.

A couple of kilometers away, Charity Holderness is cleaning bedrooms and bathrooms for a part-member family in the Richmond Ward. For Charity, this is a little out of the ordinary. “When I clean my own room, my mom thinks I’m sick,” she says.
Today she’s feeling something different. “I can’t even explain this feeling. I know that I haven’t done even a fraction of the work some people do. But I feel so much better knowing that I can keep doing small things. Maybe I’ll sweep the kitchen floor when I get home.”

“When my mom didn’t have any work,” says Jéniffer Santacruz, 12, “I prayed that she would find a job fast. The Lord heard my prayer, and within a day or two she found a good job.”

“Dad always goes to the hospital when a new grandchild or great-grandchild is born. He goes to the nursery, looks through the window, and if it’s a girl he exclaims, ‘She’s a darling!’ If the baby is a boy, he taps on the window with his cane and says with satisfaction, ‘Ah, another missionary!’”

Besides sprucing up Main Street, washing cars, tidying the cemetery, spreading gravel at the train depot, and chopping weeds at a main intersection on the highway into town, the youth painted the city’s historic log church, landscaped its grounds, and polished the benches and the organ inside.
“I thought that was neat,” said Daphne Motto, 17. “It didn’t matter that it’s not an LDS church. It’s like we were saying, we’re all brothers and sisters and we need to help each other.”