Gospel Story Finder

It was less than a century ago that most astronomers assumed that our Milky Way galaxy was the only galaxy in the universe. They supposed all that lay beyond our galaxy was an immense nothingness, an infinite void—empty, cold, and devoid of stars, light, and life.
As telescopes became more sophisticated—including telescopes that could be launched into space—astronomers began to grasp a spectacular, almost incomprehensible truth: the universe is mind-bogglingly bigger than anyone had previously believed, and the heavens are filled with numberless galaxies, unimaginably far away from us, each containing hundreds of billions of stars.
In a very short period of time, our understanding of the universe changed forever.
Today we can see some of these distant galaxies.
We know that they are there.
They have been there for a very long time.
But before mankind had instruments powerful enough to gather celestial light and bring these galaxies into visibility, we did not believe such a thing was possible.
The immensity of the universe didn’t suddenly change, but our ability to see and understand this truth changed dramatically. And with that greater light, mankind was introduced to glorious vistas we had never before imagined.
Scientists were struggling to understand the breadth of the universe until instruments became sophisticated enough to gather in greater light so they could understand a more complete truth.

There was no doubting the dedication or enthusiasm of the leaders who came to the conference to learn their duties. They stood in bulging lines outside the tabernacle to get in, and then many had to wait outside during the sessions. And everywhere they were talking to each other, not about baseball or the stock market or Watergate, but about the program, trying to find someone who understood it a little better than they did, trying to find out how to make it work, trying to learn how to better fulfill their stewardship.

On an occasion similar to this I told of an experience I once had. One evening when my wife was at something which women call “a shower” and I was home alone, I put on a record, turned down the lights, and listened to Beethoven’s Concerto for the Violin. As I sat there in the semidarkness, I marveled that such a thing could come of the mind of a man, a man who, in most respects, was as I am. I do not know how tall he was or how broad he was or how much hair he had, but I guess he looked very much like the rest of us. He became hungry, he felt pain, he had most of the problems we have and maybe some we do not have. But out of the genius of that inspired mind came the creation of a masterpiece which has entertained the world through all of these many years.

Bimwili & the Zimwi In this African folktale, Bimwili finds a wonderful seashell, which she puts on a big rock. When she goes to get it to take home, the Zimwi kidnaps her, hides her in his drum, makes her sing, and tells the villagers that it is the drum that is singing. The Zimwi can change shapes, but he is not all-powerful, and, with the help of her family, Bimwili escapes and shares the wonderful seashell with her village.Verna Aardema6–8 years

When President Boyd K. Packer first had his picture in the newspaper because of an important position he had been given, one of his high school teachers was apparently pretty surprised and said, “That just proves that you can’t tell by looking at a frog how high he is going to jump!”
“The image of that frog, sitting in the mud instead of jumping,” said President Packer, “illustrates how inadequate I have felt when facing the responsibilities that have come to me.”1
But face them he did, and he has blessed millions of people in the process.

In one marriage relations class, a married student raised her hand and said to the teacher, “Pardon me, you keep saying marriage is hard. It is not marriage that is hard but life that is hard, and marriage, with its ups and downs, can be a blessing where we get to face the joys and challenges of life together.”

The Lord gave me more success than I expected. He renewed my strength and healed my broken heart. I could run again, and after 16 years of not being able to have children, I was blessed to give birth to a son and a daughter (within 21 months of each other). I’m so grateful I held on to God’s guidance I had received in the scriptures.
I pressed forward through the illness with faith in Christ and with my husband and children as my cheerleaders. Now our children are old enough to run with us.

President Hinckley woke up one night and drew a sketch that the temple department used to build the temple.

In my earlier years of marriage, I found myself asking these questions and was discouraged by what I perceived to be the answers. Although my husband was an excellent father, I often felt irritated and angry. I wanted him to fit the image of what I thought he should be. I had certain ideals and goals that I wanted implanted in him.

One day, I turned to my father for advice. Because of his training as a psychiatrist, I knew he wouldn’t be too critical of his son-in-law. His first words were like a bucket of cold water over me: “Martha, if you continue like this, you could drive your husband away.”

My jaw dropped. “What do you mean by that?” I asked. This wasn’t going at all as I had expected.

He held up his hand to ward off my indignation. “Just let me explain. Not long ago, I counseled a Latter-day Saint woman who had left a basically good marriage. She felt her husband wasn’t living all the Church standards. Years of nagging and pleading hadn’t changed him. She thought that if she left him, he would change his ways in order to win her back. She never suspected that he would find someone else who loved and respected him as he was. He remarried happily after their divorce, and she was devastated.”

Why am I getting this lecture? I wondered. I had never considered leaving my husband. “Are you saying I should just quit being assertive and forget my own ideals?” I asked defensively.

“No, I’m saying lead but don’t drive. Be gentle in your persuasion while recognizing his strengths and achievements. Be an example without criticizing. In your rush to achieve your goals, you may be sending a silent message that he’s not good enough for you. He’s a good man, Martha, and he needs to know that you think so, too.”

I sat, unable to speak as tears welled in my eyes. I was torn. I understood my father’s words, but I expected my husband to be what I had always dreamed of.

My father tried a different approach. “Have you heard the story about the farmer who hitched two mice to his wagon? His neighbor saw him climbing into the wagon and laughed at the farmer. ‘You don’t really expect those two little mice to pull that wagon, do you?’ he asked. The farmer replied, ‘Why not? I have a whip.’”

I laughed in spite of myself. The image of me in the wagon was clear. I had been using anger and resentment as my whip, with just about the same chance for success.

“Okay, I guess I am being too pushy,” I said. “But I see other men who lead the way I want to be led. Is it wrong to expect that?”

Dad’s voice was gentle but firm. “You are going about this with the wrong attitude. One of the most treacherous developments in any marriage is when partners wonder if they made the right choice. The marriage begins to fall apart because they quit working at it.”

“Dad,” I interrupted, “it’s because I love him that I get discouraged. I want him to reach his full potential.”

“It’s all a matter of loyalty. Do you realize that disloyalty begins with your thoughts—that you are actually being disloyal when you compare your husband to others?”

I was losing my argument fast, and I knew it. I tried one more time: “My commitment to him is eternal. The day-to-day choices he makes as the priesthood leader affect the family eternally.”

“Patience and love are eternal, too.” He opened his scriptures and read: “No power or influence can or ought to be maintained by virtue of the priesthood, only by persuasion, by long-suffering, by gentleness and meekness, and by love unfeigned;

“By kindness, and pure knowledge, which shall greatly enlarge the soul without hypocrisy, and without guile” (D&C 121:41–42).

I knew these verses. They were written for priesthood holders about exercising unrighteous dominion. Why was he reading them to me?

“These two verses,” he explained, “contain the elements for success in any relationship—and especially the relationship between husband and wife. One of the great challenges in marriage is to accept all the differences in personality, background, and motivation—and to work toward being one in purpose. That’s no easy task, and it may take a lifetime. But as you pointed out, marriage is an eternal commitment.”

Then he told me about a farmer he had known when he was a boy. The man used to catch wild horses in northern Arizona. They were free and available to anyone who wanted to catch them, but they were difficult to tame and train. Late at night, he would round up part of the herd into a temporary corral near the watering hole. Then he would select the best one and tie one end of a cotton rope around its neck and the other end to his strong white mule, leaving just enough space for them to travel side by side. Then he would leave them in the desert to work out their own compromises.

The mule knew the way home and would gladly travel in that direction. If the horse tried to go another way, the mule would stand firm and not go. If the mule got off track, the horse would be unwilling to move. So it went until they had worked through their differences. Within two weeks, the two would come trotting home to food and shelter. The horse would be ready for training, and it and the mule would behave as though they had been together all their lives. Dad added, “I almost left out the most important part: that rope around their necks was a very soft rope.”

I began to see the connection between the story and the scripture he had quoted—and I knew it wasn’t about being as stubborn as a mule. Marriage commits us in purpose as surely as that rope between the mule and the horse. Even though we recognize our ultimate destination, we don’t always travel in the same direction or at the same pace to get there. The soft strands of the rope that tie us together—representing love, patience, commitment, and faith—should prevent the rope from chafing. If the rope material is too rough, one of the partners might decide to cut it rather than endure pain and suffering.

I had misunderstood. Was I really willing to have a dynamic, take-charge leader for a husband and stand in his shadow, being pulled toward a goal or ideal? On the other hand, I wondered how much my husband appreciated being dragged along by my unwavering zeal.

I have studied the last six verses of Doctrine and Covenants 121 with new understanding. The principles they teach have strengthened and enriched my marriage. When one partner is less enthusiastic about the path they are following, it’s easy to blame the other partner—and that is what I had been doing.

I’m grateful to my father for a gentle reminder that made such a difference in my life. The deep love and respect my husband and I enjoy in our seventeen-year marriage is a product of my father’s advice. Each time I’m tempted to be domineering, I hear my father’s words: “He’s a good man, Martha, and he needs to know that you think so, too.”

Thanks, Dad. You’re so right.

One such dear friend of mine had limited experiences with God. But he longed to be with his departed wife. So he asked me to help him. I encouraged him to meet with our missionaries in order to understand the doctrine of Christ and learn of gospel covenants, ordinances, and blessings.
That he did. But he felt the course they advised would require him to make too many changes in his life. He said, “Those commandments and covenants are just too difficult for me. Also, I can’t possibly pay tithing, and I don’t have time to serve in the Church.” Then he asked me, “Once I die, please do the necessary temple work for my wife and me so that we can be together again.”
Thankfully, I am not this man’s judge. But I do question the efficacy of proxy temple work for a man who had the opportunity to be baptized in this life—to be ordained to the priesthood and receive temple blessings while here in mortality—but who made the conscious decision to reject that course.

1 I was living in Germany, and World War II had just ended. We had little food and few clothes, especially shoes. My mother felt that it would be safer and less lonely if she, my sister, and I moved to my grandparents’ home in Tubingen.
2 Our first winter there was very cold. We didn’t have enough coats and shoes for everyone, so family members took turns going out for wood and food.
One winter morning new snow had fallen. The sun was shining, and everything looked downy soft. I wanted to go outside and play, but I knew that I couldn’t because I had no shoes.
3 Whenever I had wanted to go outside before, Grandpa had carried me on his back. Once, Aunt Bertha had wrapped me in blankets and taken me on a short sleigh ride. But I wanted to go out in the snow all by myself and play.
4 I could hear other children playing outside. I pressed my face against the frost-covered window and dreamed of being with them. Softly I said, “Oh, please let me have a pair of shoes.” I heard the door behind me close, and I wondered who else had been in the room.
5 That night I prayed very hard for a pair of shoes, and I dreamed about shoes all night.
6 When I woke up the next morning, a heavy brown package was on the foot of my bed. I carefully opened it. Inside was a beautiful pair of wooden shoes just my size! No one in my family seemed to know who had left them there.
7 I begged to go outside right away. Mother put a heavy pair of socks on my feet, then the new shoes, and out I went.
Grandfather stood on the porch, watching me play in the snow. He had a smile on his face and tears in his eyes. His secret present had been made with a great deal of love.

If only we will listen, we can know of God’s love and feel it, even when we are disobedient. A woman recently returned to Church activity gave this description in a sacrament meeting talk: “He has always been there for me, even when I rejected Him. He has always guided me and comforted me with His tender mercies all around me, but I [was] too angry to see and accept incidents and feelings as such.”7

Swimming, like football, is not a mission activity, and when Mark McGregor hung out his swimming trunks after that last swim, he knew it was for the entire two years. A freestyle swimmer on the BYU swim team, Mark had every intention of returning to the team, and he kept in shape by following the exercises outlined in the missionary physical fitness program, along with an arm exercise especially for swimmers.

In high school Mark had been selected high school All-American. The year prior to his mission he set the BYU school record and took the WAC championship in the 200- and the 500-meter freestyle. While he was gone, his record for the 200 was broken.

“The hard part about being away from swimming,” says Coach Tim Powers, “is that the records get faster while you’re away.” Mark couldn’t just come back and regain his old speed—he had to do better. And he is, much to the inspiration of fellow teammates who are considering going on missions. Since returning, he has retaken the school record for the 200 freestyle and broken his old record in the 500 (although that school record is now held by teammate John Sorwich). Mark has another year at BYU, and he and his coach are looking forward to what it will bring.

Do these athletes feel that they are better for having served a mission? A unanimous yes! As Mark McGregor put it, “There are many similarities between the mission field and the field of athletics, especially regarding the mental aspect. A positive mental attitude is imperative in both. I learned a lot about what it takes to gain this positive mental attitude in the mission field, and it has had a beneficial effect on my swimming.”

Lance feels he gained in intensity, concentration, and self-control. And all three felt an increased confidence upon returning to their sport.

Although some missionaries do return and fade away from the sports scene, it is usually due to a shift in interests rather than inability. Ed, Mark, and Lance are convinced that any athlete who serves a mission will be able to regain his previous ability upon diligently applying himself.

When I was five years old, I became very ill. It turned out that I had polio, a disease that was completely unknown to the small-town doctor. I lay for several weeks on a World War I army cot in our front room beside a coal stove. Afterward, I could not walk. I remember very clearly sliding around on the linoleum floor and pulling myself up on chairs, learning to walk again. I was more fortunate than some. A friend walked with crutches and steel leg braces all of his life.
As I moved into school, I found that my muscles were weak. I was very self-conscious. I knew that I could never be an athlete.

I smiled again today as I thought about an afternoon just a little while ago at the National Boy Scout Jamboree when, sloshing through the rain, soaked myself, I saw a youngster sliding down a mud bank into a mud puddle. He was as wet and muddy as anyone could get. I said to him, “Son, you don’t look too unhappy with the rain.”
He said. “No, sir.”
I said, “You don’t wish you were home, then?”
“No, sir, they would never let me do this at home!”

Prophets are inspired to provide us with prophetic priorities to protect us from dangers. As an example, President Heber J. Grant, the prophet from 1918 to 1945, was inspired to emphasize adherence to the Word of Wisdom, the principle with a promise revealed by the Lord to the Prophet Joseph. He stressed the importance of not smoking or drinking alcoholic beverages and directed the bishops to review these principles in temple recommend interviews.
At that time, smoking was accepted by society as an appropriate, even glamorous, behavior. The medical profession accepted smoking with little concern because the scientific studies linking cigarette smoking with several kinds of cancer were far in the future. President Grant counseled with great vigor, and we became known as a people who abstained from drinking and smoking.
Starting in the late 1960s, illegal drug use reached epidemic proportions throughout the world. While there were some members who rebelled, the vast majority of LDS youth were able to avoid the devastating use of drugs.
Obeying the Word of Wisdom gave our members, especially our youth, a preventive inoculation against drug use and the resulting health problems and moral hazards. Unfortunately, there appears to be a resurgence of drug use in our own day. Living the Word of Wisdom today will free you from some of the most serious dangers you can face in this life.

Valerie Walters and Becky Warnick, dressed in white robes with sparkles in their hair, were participating in an angel choir, singing about the birth of Jesus Christ. Seated between Valerie and Becky was Chelan Feller, also dressed as an angel. Chelan needed the comforting shoulder of Becky and the kind touch of Valerie to be able to participate. Chelan attends the American Fork Special Education Seminary, and she, along with 40 of her fellow students, were participating in the first of what they hope will be their annual Christmas pageant. Serving the American Fork Training School in Utah, the seminary has classes geared to the levels of their special education students.
Valerie and Becky, 18, were just two volunteers from the Alpine Utah 11th Ward who volunteered to help the Special Education Seminary stage their pageant. Each special needs teen was assigned a helper to assist in putting on costumes over everyday clothes, to be by the sides of the students as they spoke or sang their parts, and to accompany them as they entered and exited.
It turned out to be an exciting evening. With parents and families crowding the seminary building, the age-old story of the Savior’s birth was presented. But more than the story, the example of kindness and unselfishness that represented the Savior’s life also filled the room.
Becky said, “Many of the students can’t bear their testimonies in words, but when I look into their eyes I see that they know Christ.”

Years ago, our family purchased some land in beautiful Cache Valley, Utah. We called it the “farm.” We had always lived in large cities, so the thought of spending a part of each summer at the farm seemed very exciting. In a family home evening, we talked about things we wanted to do at the farm. We decided that every family member should have cowboy boots. We agreed, however, that all of the children would earn the money to pay for their own boots by doing chores.
One Saturday morning, our six-year-old son, Paul, happily announced at breakfast that he had completed all of his chores. He had enough money to buy the boots he had seen at the western store. He was the first child to earn enough money, and he was very proud. “Can we go to the store today, Dad?” he asked.
Paul had been taught about tithing as early as he could understand how to count money. I asked if he had paid his tithing on the money he had earned. His hands began to shake, and his face turned white. He had not returned to the Lord His share as tithing. Paul’s disappointment in thinking he might have to wait was very great.
He had often paid tithing. He understood tithing, but it never occurred to him that Heavenly Father would expect him to share his precious boot money. I think I even saw a tear in his eye.
I did not tell Paul what he must do. He already knew what Heavenly Father expected. I simply waited for him to choose the right. After a long pause, he asked for more chores so that he could be honest with the Lord before he bought his boots. It was another week before the new assignments were completed and the boots could be bought.
After deciding to share his boot money with Heavenly Father, Paul had learned forever to pay his tithing.
Some lessons we have to learn only once.

Much later he met a Vietnam veteran who had lost a leg in combat. The man was discouraged and felt that he would never be able to walk normally. Brad says, “I showed him how and explained to him that it would be a while before he really could walk, but I told him he could do it if he really wanted to, because it starts in the mind. You can do whatever you want.” The man learned to walk.

Three of the interns had already told me that I was well enough to leave the next day—the day before Christmas—and then come back to the hospital after a short holiday respite. I was sure that I would get final confirmation of this pleasant news from Dr. Sherman, department chief of staff, when he made his usual rounds later in the day. He finally appeared and stopped at my bedside. His examination was routine; in fact, it was too routine.
“You’re doing fine, just fine,” he assured me, and turned to leave the room. But he had nothing to say about me leaving the hospital for Christmas.
Frightened, I asked, “I’ll be leaving tomorrow for a few days, won’t I?”
The only indication of his surprise was the way his gray eyebrows lifted themselves a little higher on his forehead. He slowly answered, “I’m sorry, son, but you’re not going anywhere for at least two more weeks.”
His voice was kind, but it was also firm and definite. I lay there speechless as he left the room. The one thing I had been holding to for the last few days was gone. My one firm hope had just been stepped on, had just been crushed.
It wasn’t fair—none of it was fair! I had been on my mission for over a year when it happened. I was happy in my calling; teaching the gospel in New York City was challenging and exciting. And lately it had begun to be productive—our labors were being blessed with success. And I had been blessed with good health—at least I had been healthy until two weeks earlier when my right arm suddenly became paralyzed for a few minutes and my speech left me for more than two hours.
No one knew what had happened to me, so I had been brought to this hospital in the New York neighborhood to find out. No one at the hospital seemed to know for sure just what had happened to me either. I had overheard whispered conversations about strokes, seizures, tumors, and syndromes. Dozens of inconclusive tests had left me exhausted and more ill than when I had entered the hospital. It just wasn’t fair for me to be wasting my time in the hospital when there were investigators to be taught; it wasn’t fair that the mysterious affliction had appeared in the first place.
I called my folks in Utah almost every night, assuring them that I was all right and that there was nothing to worry about. My mother wanted to fly out and be with me, but I knew that they couldn’t afford it and that I would feel even more self-conscious about my hospital stay if she were to come. So I joked about my mysterious sickness over the phone and carefully acted the role of nonchalant victim so they would not worry about me so much.
The small hospital in the Bronx, famous for its work with neurological problems, had to be the most desolate and cheerless place on earth; I was sure of it after spending just one night in the place. As the days became weeks, my hopes of leaving for the Christmas holidays had made my suffering bearable. Thoughts of Christmas excitement and activity alleviated the boredom and discomfort.
“You’re not going anywhere for at least two more weeks.” Dr. Sherman’s pronouncement stayed in my mind and filled it with a sense of nostalgia and finality. As a child, I would dream of Christmas for months ahead. As a young man, I found that my childish pleasures had been only partially replaced with a deeper appreciation of friends, family—and Jesus Christ.
I lay unmoving in the hospital bed for at least 15 minutes before I shifted position enough to reach the radio and turn it on; it had been my only pleasure and diversion in my lonely room since coming to the hospital. But even listening to it made my mood darken. My disappointment had been replaced with resentment and anger; I was totally miserable. I felt it within me, changing my personality from some corrupt inner well.
Still, I stubbornly listened to the radio, preferring it to the routine sounds from the corridor and the nearby kitchen. Every station seemed to play Christmas carols. Happy voices proclaimed joy to the world. Singers reminded me again and again that “there’s no place like home for the holidays.”
I wasn’t full of joy. I wasn’t home. I wouldn’t even be going home to my missionary and member friends here in New York. For me there would be no Christmas this year.
December 23 slowly passed and became December 24. Then it was Christmas Eve. The hospital was hushed and quiet. Many of the patients had been allowed to go home for Christmas. But not me, I was alone. I was lonely, small, and unimportant.
I glumly lay in bed, listening to the carols on the radio, mocking them in my mind, and fervently wishing that the night would quickly pass. Around 8:00 there was a knock at the door, and Ed Cazakoff, one of the recent converts I had helped teach, walked into the room. His arms were full of packages, and his face was covered with a big grin. He greeted me with a cheery “Merry Christmas,” put down the packages, and warmly shook my hand.
It was astonishing to see him away from his family tonight. This was not just Christmas Eve—it was Hannukah, a special family time in Judaism. There had been much family difficulty because of Ed’s conversion to Christianity and the restored gospel, and he spent as much time as possible with his family to reassure them of his continued love and loyalty.
Ed’s face was radiant as he talked with me that evening. His warmth and enthusiasm and vulnerability made him seem younger than his 24 years. He smiled continually as he talked about his Church work, his delight in the gospel, and his concern and love for our mutual friends and for his family. For several hours we talked, listened to the carols on the radio, and opened the gifts he had brought with him. Some were from him; others had been gathered and sent by other friends.
After he left, I thought about the hours he would now spend waiting for the subway and traveling home this wintry night. I looked around at the once bleak room. Holiday paper tumbled from the waste basket, there was a small stack of opened gifts on the solitary chair, and a row of red and white candy canes were fastened on the sides of my bed. But more than the room, I must have looked vastly different. My heart had been touched; his happiness and radiance had warmed my soul. I had been thinking only about momentary concerns when I should have been thanking God for the rich blessings I could enjoy forever.
This had been Ed’s first Christmas Eve, and he had given it to me. His sincerity and loving concern exemplified true Christianity. He had sacrificed for me—he had cared. He had been deeply aware of the significance of Christmas—I had been ignoring it. The pleasures I had lamented missing weren’t really important at all. They were, by themselves, artificial and shallow.
For the next several hours, I lay there in the darkness and listened to the radio carols with a humble awareness of their meaning. I thought of a night many years before in a land across the sea; I delighted in the life of the Child born that night and thrilled at the spirit of the approaching day. I peacefully fell asleep, grateful for the Christmas presents I had been given by two of my brothers.