Gospel Story Finder

While serving as Secretary of Agriculture in the Cabinet of President Dwight D. Eisenhower, I was invited to give the keynote address at the annual convention of the World Food and Agriculture Organization at Rome, Italy. Between sixty and seventy nations were represented at the great international conference.
Following the morning session, which included the address, an impressive luncheon was given in my honor in the International Banquet Hall, which was decorated with flags of many nations.
The customary cocktail hour preceded the luncheon. I noticed as the men held glasses in their hands that there was apparently no liquor being served but only soft drinks and fruit juices. I mentioned this to my host, Dr. Sen of India, and said, “Surely many of these men are used to their liquor, which is customary during the cocktail hour.” He said, “No, Mr. Secretary, today we honor you and respect your standards.”
Following the period of fellowship, we took our places at the banquet table. Here I was even more surprised to find that there was no coffee being served but again only soft drinks and fruit juices. I said to Dr. Sen, “Surely the men attending the luncheon expect to have their usual hot drink.” He smiled very graciously and said, “No, Mr. Secretary, I am the host. You are the honored guest, and at this luncheon we honor you and respect your standards.”
And so it was at a luncheon attended by distinguished leaders from many nations. No member of the Church will ever have cause to be embarrassed by real men or women because of his or her standards. Again, it pays to maintain the standards of the Church.

I recall my first acquaintance with Elder Spencer W. Kimball many years ago when he served as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve and I served as a young bishop in Salt Lake City. One morning, when I answered my telephone, a voice said, “This is Elder Spencer W. Kimball. I have a favor to ask of you. In your ward, hidden away behind a large building on Fifth South Street, is a tiny trailer home. Living there is Margaret Bird, a Navajo widow. She feels unwanted, unneeded, and lost. Could you and the Relief Society presidency seek her out, extend to her the hand of fellowship, and provide her a special welcome?” This we did.
A miracle resulted. Margaret Bird blossomed in her newfound environment. Despair disappeared. The widow in her affliction had been visited. The lost sheep had been found. Each one who participated in the simple human drama emerged a better person.
In reality, the true shepherd was the concerned Apostle who, leaving the ninety and nine of his ministry, went in search of the precious soul who was lost. Spencer W. Kimball had walked the pathway Jesus walked.

“I had a little radish patch, and my first job was raising and selling radishes. Most people turned me down, but one kind lady always bought my radishes, though I’m sure she didn’t always need them. When I was about ten years old, I started mowing lawns. We had no power mowers back then, and many of the men in the neighborhood were in the War. So I went from door to door, and for twenty-five cents or a little more depending on how big the yard was, I mowed lawns. It seems as if I always had a business of some sort.

Stories or poems will help your listeners remember the points you are trying to make. For example, a talk on ambition might include the following illustration:
A young boy named Tommy was showing a visitor some of his drawings—birds, dogs, cars, houses. He confided that these were not his best drawings. “May I see your best drawings, then?” asked the visitor. “Oh,” replied Tommy, “I haven’t done those yet.” (Vaughn J. Featherstone, “Of Mind and Muscle,” Do-It-Yourself Destiny, Bookcraft Publishers, p. 109).

Kaemin and Ikani (“Kolby”) I. already knew a lot about prophets. But visiting the North Visitors’ Center on Temple Square helped them see in a new way how prophets testify of Jesus Christ.
That day Kolby and Kaemin got to see life-size replicas of prophets from the scriptures. They learned that even though prophets live at different times, all prophets testify that Jesus Christ is our Savior and the Son of God.
After learning what prophets taught of Christ, Kolby and Kaemin walked up a spiral ramp to the top of the visitors’ center. There they saw a large statue of Jesus called the Christus. They listened to a recording of Jesus’s teachings. The things that the prophets taught about Jesus are the same things Jesus taught about Himself.

My father worked long and hard practically every day of his life. I’m certain that on the Sabbath he would have enjoyed just being at home. Rather, he visited elderly family members and brought cheer into their lives.
One was his uncle, who was crippled by arthritis so severe that he could not walk or care for himself. On a Sunday afternoon Dad would say to me, “Come along, Tommy; let’s take Uncle Elias for a short drive.”
Boarding the old 1928 Oldsmobile, we would proceed to Eighth West, where, at the home of Uncle Elias, I would wait in the car while Dad went inside. Soon he would emerge from the house, carrying his crippled uncle in his arms like a china doll. I then would open the door and watch how tenderly and with what affection my father would place Uncle Elias in the front seat so that he would have a fine view, while I occupied the rear seat.
The drive was brief and the conversation limited, but oh, what a legacy of love! Father never read to me from the Bible about the good Samaritan. Rather, he took me with him and Uncle Elias in that old 1928 Oldsmobile along the road to Jericho.

Thwap, screeee!
Christine froze in her bed. Her heart beat so hard she could feel it squeezing in her chest. What was that noise?
Very slowly, she turned to look at the window. The blinds were closed, so she couldn’t see what was making the sound.
She kept hearing the scraping noise, and she kept imagining scarier and scarier things.
Her heart beat even faster.
She could just go into Mom and Dad’s room again. She knew they wouldn’t mind. But she was always so embarrassed the next day when she did that. I’m too old to be scared at night.
But she was scared. It could be anything, she thought. It wasn’t very loud, but she kept hearing it.
She closed her eyes and said what seemed like her hundredth prayer for the night. Heavenly Father, I can’t go to sleep. I’m too scared. But I don’t want to go to Mom and Dad’s room. I want to be brave. Please help me not be afraid.
She finished her prayer and took a deep, slow breath. It’s OK, she thought. I can do this.
Thwap, screeee!
Yeah, she was pretty sure it was something trying to get through her window. She was so scared she didn’t dare move a muscle. She didn’t know what to do.
I could ask David, she thought. That isn’t as embarrassing as sleeping in Mom and Dad’s room.
Carefully she peeled off the covers and jumped off the bed, landing as far as possible from the window. Without looking back, she tiptoed quickly to her brother’s room.
“David,” she whispered, shaking his shoulder.
“Gmmmblll.” David slowly turned over and opened one eye. “Hmmm. What?”
“Uh, there’s a noise outside my window. Will you check what it is?” she asked.
“Sure.” David got up and shuffled to her room.
When they reached the window, he pulled up the blinds and looked outside. It was too dark to see.
“I don’t hear anything,” he said.
“Just wait a minute,” Christine said.
Sure enough, there it was again. Thwap, screeee!
David opened the window and reached out. Snap! He pulled a small branch back in.
“It’s just the tree outside. This was scraping against your window,” he said, handing her the branch.
I was scared of a stick? She felt really silly. “Thanks for looking,” she said. “Sorry I woke you up.”
David smiled. “You can always ask me for help.”
“Thanks.”
“I can stay for a little while if you want,” he said.
Christine nodded. She jumped into bed and pulled her feet away from the edges. David sat on the end of her bed and scooted back to the wall.
“I wish I could be braver at night,” Christine said.
“You know what’s brave?” said David. “Asking for help.”
“No it’s not,” she said. “I was scared.”
David laughed. “Everyone gets scared—even me! But being scared doesn’t mean you aren’t brave. It takes courage to ask for help when you’re afraid.”
Christine smiled. It was still dark, but she didn’t feel as anxious anymore.
“I’m OK now. You can go back to sleep,” she said.
David gave her a hug and walked out. He stopped in her doorway. “Night. Sleep well,” he said.
“Night, David,” she said back.
Christine closed her eyes. There were no more scary sounds. Heavenly Father, she prayed silently, Thank Thee that David could help me. I’m glad I was brave enough to ask.

When I was very young, I loved to play ball, any kind of ball. As I grew older, it became obvious that the Lord had given me a special talent in athletics, and of all the sports in which I participated, I was most attracted to basketball. I came from a relatively poor family, so when I was old enough to throw a ball through a hoop, my folks couldn’t afford the hoop or the ball. I found an old tin band from a wooden barrel and nailed it on the side of a building. Then I got some rags and tied them together until I had a good-sized rag ball. Every night after school I would go outside and shoot that rag ball through the hoop. Many times, I would have to climb up on the garage to straighten the band because it would bend from the rag ball hitting it so often. I could hardly wait to get home in the evening so I could start shooting my rag ball through the hoop.
It was during my 13th year when Dad took me aside one day and said, “Bobby, how would you like to have a real basketball hoop?” He had made one out of a rod of iron, had made a backboard, and had attached the hoop to it. I could hardly believe my eyes! Dad and I mounted it on the back of the building. He then gave me my first rubber basketball. Boy, was I excited! Night after night, as soon as I got home from school, I practiced.
In my mind I would always picture myself as one of the great ball players of the day. I always pretended I was in the national basketball finals with just a few seconds left in the game. I had the ball and the score was tied. I would run down the basketball court, shoot a long shot, and as it went through the hoop, I would sense the feeling of being a hero. I won more national titles than you can ever imagine. I could see it in my mind’s eye. I thought about it a lot. I knew I could do it. I practiced and practiced. I also dreamed of one day playing in a famous sports arena. It was the most famous basketball arena in the world at that time. There was no other place like it.
When I graduated from high school, I accepted a basketball scholarship to Utah State University in Logan, Utah. During my junior year, we were invited to Madison Square Garden to play in the first holiday festival tournament ever held there. My dream had come true! I had seen it! I had worked hard for it. Along with Utah State and other teams from the United States, the two top teams in the nation had been invited to the tournament. Our team played the number two-rated team the first night, and the game was really close, but in the last seconds, we won. I was highest scoring man and played one of my best games ever. The next night Utah State played another great team, and again it was a close game. We won, and once more I was high-point man.
Our team was now in the finals against the number one team in the nation. It was a tough and close game. We were never separated by more than four points. As we approached the final two minutes of the game, Utah State was leading by four points. We had the ball and had planned to use up some time but our opponents gained possession of the ball and one of the players stole a pass and went down and scored. Now Utah State had only a two-point lead with about a minute and a half to go. We came down the floor again and worked around the court until an open shot came. One of our players ran in and missed the shot our opponents got the ball again and scored. Now the score was tied with a minute or less to go. We had the ball, came down the court, and missed our shot, and did not get the rebound. Now they had the ball with about 35 seconds to go. We didn’t dare foul them. What a terrible position to be in! At times like that, you wonder why you ever took up the sport. They worked the ball around until there were about 10 seconds left, and then the player who had been scoring all night went to the basket and shot. I can still see that ball as it rolled around the rim but finally fell off. One of our players pulled down the rebound and threw it to me. I came down the side of the court and let the ball fly from about 30 feet out. It was a score! The final buzzer rang, and we had won the national holiday festival tournament! As that buzzer went off, I thought to myself, “I’ve done this before.” I had. In my mind’s eye and in the backyard, I had done it hundreds and hundreds of times. I had practiced and practiced. I had worked for it. Because of my faith and work, the Lord blessed me.

When the full-time missionaries started teaching us, I was skeptical and my husband was contentious. We didn’t really want to hear the gospel, but they were so determined to teach us that we knew they wouldn’t give up.
One Saturday night my husband, Javier, and I attended a party that lasted late into the night. Because we were up so late, we slept in and forgot about the invitation from the missionaries to attend church with them the next day.
When we heard them knocking on our door Sunday morning, Javier and I said to each other, “Let’s pretend we’re still asleep and ignore them.”
But the missionaries kept knocking. Finally they called out, “Brother and Sister Vasquez, we know you’re there. If you don’t open the door, we might just jump over your wall and help you get ready for church!”
We knew they were joking, but we decided to get up, open the door, and pretend we hadn’t heard them. We came out rubbing our eyes as if we had just woken up. They knew we were faking it, but they didn’t say anything.
“As soon as you’re ready,” they said, “we’ll go to the chapel.”
We got ourselves and our two children ready, and off we went. At church that day we were touched by the Holy Ghost. From then on, we never missed a meeting. The day we were baptized, October 17, 1976, was the happiest day of our lives. Becoming members of the Church totally changed us.

My name is Christopher. My feet jump, jump, jump, and run, run, run, and hop, hop hop, so much that Mom calls me Chris-hopper.
On Sunday, Mom said, “Chris-hopper, it’s time to be Christopher. Tell your feet to slow down.
I told them, but they forgot.
On Monday, Mom and I went to the zoo. We saw giraffes, lions, elephants, and monkeys. Best of all, I liked to watch the kangaroos hop. I call them roo-hoppers. Then we saw a giant turtle moving oh … so … slow. I call it a no-hopper. It gave me an idea.
On the next Sunday, I put on my best clothes and my best shoes. Then I taped a little picture of a turtle on the toe of each shoe. “No-hoppers!” I exclaimed and ran to show Mom. She gave me the thumbs-up.
At church, I looked at the turtles on my shoes and said to my feet, “No-hoppers at church.” Now my feet remember to walk in the meetinghouse.
But when I go outside, I’m Chris-hopper again.

I witnessed this truth during a particularly difficult week on my mission. Everything seemed to be going wrong: I wasn’t getting along with my companion, people we had been teaching had suddenly stopped talking with us, and the weather was extremely hot.
I felt like God had forgotten me. As I was walking down the street in the blazing heat, I thought: “How could you forget about me? It’s so unfair. I’m trying so hard!” And in that moment, a drop of water hit me in the eye—right between my eyebrow and glasses. At first, I was so annoyed that I didn’t even consider the cloudless sky. And then, seconds later, another drop of water hit me in the same spot. I stopped and looked up, and the words “Jacob, I haven’t forgotten you” entered my mind and heart.
I began to cry. I knew those words and raindrops were a message from Heavenly Father. I felt His perfect love for me and for all of His children. I was reminded of who I was and that Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ would never abandon me—or any of us.
Now when I am struggling to remember my divine identity, I ponder this experience to remind myself that I, and all of Heavenly Father’s children, have great worth.

Members of the choir rejoice that they are singing in “the Lord’s choir.” Duffie Hurtado, who has been singing in the choir for the past ten years, remembers, “After the choir sang at the dedication of the Washington D.C. Temple visitors’ center, we had the opportunity to be greeted by President Spencer W. Kimball, who shook our hands and thanked us for singing. At that point in my life, I was making some really serious decisions, and because of personal problems I was having, I felt it might be best if I left the choir. When I reached President Kimball, he took my hand and said, ‘This is the Lord’s choir, and this is where he wants you to be.’ I hadn’t told him I had a problem, or asked for his counsel. He just knew. With the other choir members around me in the line he just shook hands and said hello or thank you or God bless you. But when I stopped that’s what he said, and I will never forget it. I know that that man was a prophet of God, and I am so touched that the Lord would answer my prayers in such a special way.”

During an interview while I served in an elders quorum presidency, I asked a fellow quorum member if he had ever felt and acted on a spiritual prompting. He thought for a moment and shared an experience.
One afternoon he was washing dishes when he received a strong impression to go knock on a neighbor’s door. He did not understand why, but the prompting was powerful and urgent. He stopped what he was doing and left right away.
He arrived at his neighbor’s door, not knowing what to do or say, and knocked. No one answered. He knocked again. There was still no answer. Concluding that no one was home, he turned to leave but then felt another prompting.
He walked back to the door and simply said, “Sister, I love you.” Then he departed.
He thought this experience was unusual, and he felt a little embarrassed by it. I told him that the Lord does not always tell us the reasons for promptings, but we should never feel embarrassed for acting on them. This brother moved away shortly after our interview.
During a fast and testimony meeting a year later, a sister I did not know walked to the stand to bear her testimony. Through tears, she explained that she had been away from the Church for several years, and during that time she became so depressed that she felt she could not go on any longer.
“Heavenly Father, if You really exist and if You really love me,” she prayed, “tell me now so I understand!”
Almost immediately, she heard a knock on her door and then another. When she didn’t answer, she heard a voice say, “Sister, I love you.”
She said feelings of love overwhelmed her, and she found new strength to face her troubled life. She said things were still not great, but her life was improving.
I had no part in this experience, but I have still been blessed. I gained insight into how two seemingly unrelated acts of faith demonstrated that our Father in Heaven knows all of us, and He calls upon us to act on promptings to help His children. I am grateful for, and cherish, this knowledge.

I first heard the gospel while I was in Quebec City on a French language immersion program. I was placed in a French family together with two beautiful Latter-day Saint girls. At the time I was quite upset about the situation, for I was a very staunch Catholic and had been warned about the Mormons. Being brought up the way I was, I was also taught to make the best of every situation and to try to accept everyone. So I did just that, and before I knew it I was investigating the Church. The two girls knew that the Spirit was working in me, and they strongly urged me to write down my feelings no matter how crazy they were or whether they were contrary to what I believed. At the time I didn’t understand why, but I did so because I admired and trusted them. I found myself eagerly writing:
I took the first discussion today. I don’t know what came over me. The things the missionaries told me I know are not what I’ve believed for 18 years of my life, but somehow I felt myself believing them. I was excited about the things they told me. I felt weird all over while they were talking. At times I felt shivers up my spine. Dear Lord, something is happening to me, and I can’t figure it out—HELP!
The Lord did help, and the further along we got in the discussions the more I knew that the gospel was true. I felt I should have been rejecting what I was being taught, but deep down inside I knew of its truth and I kept writing those inner feelings down on paper. Before I knew it, I had a testimony of the Church. I was so excited, I phoned home and told my parents that I was getting baptized.
They pleaded with me to wait until I came home. So reluctantly I did. That night I wept bitterly because of my disappointment, and I wrote in my journal:
I feel so sad and depressed. I’ve prayed so hard about my decision. I know in my heart the gospel is true. I know Joseph Smith was a prophet and that we have a living prophet today. I believe in everything that I’ve been taught, and with my whole heart I desperately want to be baptized. I know my soul won’t be at rest until I am. I know I’m being called, and I won’t be completely happy until I take that step.
I was sincere when I wrote that, and I feel God was inspiring me for the future.

After reading the Old Testament several years ago, I gained an interest in its teachings, especially the writings of Isaiah, and continued to study it. In 2010, I found myself seated on a flight next to a Jewish rabbi. I started a conversation by asking him about some passages in Isaiah. As our conversation progressed, we discussed the importance of priesthood authority as understood in the Old Testament.
The rabbi asked me where members of my church get their priesthood authority. I seized the opportunity to tell him about Joseph Smith’s First Vision and the restoration of the Aaronic and Melchizedek Priesthoods. We discussed the translation of the Book of Mormon and its purpose as “Another Testament of Jesus Christ.”
The rabbi was intrigued. He asked how old Joseph was when he had the First Vision. When I told him Joseph was 14, about the same age as Samuel of the Old Testament, he replied that many prophets were called in their youth. He said it was consistent that God would call Joseph Smith in his teen years.
I opened my scriptures, and together we read the testimonies of the Three and Eight Witnesses. I told him that several of the witnesses had left the Church but that none ever denied having seen the golden plates.
“How could they leave the Church after seeing an angel and the plates?” he asked.
“I remember that the children of Israel built a golden calf shortly after witnessing the parting of the Red Sea,” I replied.
He turned to 1 Nephi and began to read. He stopped and said, “This text is Hebrew.”
He then explained why the text appeared to be an English translation of Hebrew. I told him the book was written by a tribe of Israel. I cited Ezekiel 37:15–20, which speaks of the stick of Judah and the stick of Joseph. We agreed that the stick of Judah represents the Bible, and I explained that the stick of Joseph is the Book of Mormon.
After our three-hour conversation the rabbi expressed an interest in obtaining a copy of the Book of Mormon. When I returned home, I sent him a copy personalized with my written testimony. I am thankful that my efforts to study the Old Testament had prepared me to discuss the scriptures and share my testimony with my new friend, a rabbi.

I belong to a family of five, and we attend church every Sunday, all except my dad. He is not a member of the Church, and this makes me sad. He is a very good dad and sometimes comes to parties or trips organized by the ward. I would like it if he always came.
My mom taught me in Primary that Heavenly Father listens to our prayers and wants to help us. So I said a prayer that He would help my dad understand how much the gospel means for our family.
On Saturday I was about to watch TV when something happened. My dad came and said there were better things I could be doing instead of sitting in front of the TV. “For example,” he said, “what would you think if I read you a nice story from the Liahona?”
So he sat down with me and my two little brothers and read to us. I don’t know how my dad knew those stories were in the Liahona. But I do know that Heavenly Father had listened to my prayers and answered, touching my dad’s heart so he read something in the Church magazine.
I thank my Heavenly Father because He listens to my prayers.

My parents often attended meetings after church, and I would watch my three younger brothers and help them make lunch—though they were often short-tempered and hungry. Usually if they started fighting, I could solve the small problem quickly. But sometimes it was hard to make peace once a fight had started because I’d get agitated.
One afternoon, my brothers were having an especially hard time getting along. I found that my efforts to make peace only made things worse because I was upset. So I just made my own lunch and stopped talking. Finally, I announced, “I’m going to pray. Can we please be quiet for a minute?” Once they settled down, I asked for a blessing on the food. Before I closed the prayer, I added, “And please help us to be peacemakers.”
At first, they seemed not to hear and began fighting again. I was annoyed but knew I needed to be as loving and calm as I could be because I’d just prayed for peace. After a minute, I felt very calm. I ate without saying anything, and the boys eventually stopped fighting. I realized the peace I felt was an answer to a simple prayer. I had prayed to be a peacemaker, and my Heavenly Father had helped me stay calm when it was so tempting to yell. I know that He can truly give us peace.

During lunchtime at school, I was talking to my friend, and he told me that he had never been to church or read the scriptures. I told him that I could give him the scriptures. So I went home and asked my mom if I could use the Book of Mormon that the missionaries had left us to give away. I wrote my testimony in the front and took it to school the next day. I gave it to my friend, and he said thank you. I felt good because I was being a missionary.
Brendan J., age 7, Nevada, USA

Five-year-old Cammie liked to color. When her brother Ryan was sick in the hospital, she drew a picture of a smiling nurse for him. The doctor hung it next to Ryan’s crib. “Ryan will feel better knowing you are thinking about him,” Mommy said.
Sometimes Cammie’s friends asked her to draw pictures for them. “Please draw a princess that looks like me,” Rachel said. So Cammie did.
Cammie even liked to color rocks. Grandma often came to see rows of Cammie’s colorful pebbles laid neatly on the porch. “Can I buy a few?” Grandma asked. She handed Cammie two coins, then picked up a big striped rock and a pebble with blue polka dots.
Cammie was glad that her artwork made others happy, but she wanted to make Heavenly Father happy too. One Sunday after church, she decided to draw a picture just for Him. First she drew her family. She colored green grass and flowers below their feet. Then she drew clouds and a big shining sun. Above the clouds, she drew smiling angels looking down on earth. She knew Heavenly Father was in heaven watching her too. Sighing happily, she put away the crayons.
Now what? Whenever she drew a picture for Mommy and Daddy, they hung it on the fridge or put it in a scrapbook. Cammie wondered how she could give her special picture to Heavenly Father.
That night before bed, she placed the drawing on the middle of her tidy bedroom floor. Then she said a prayer. “Heavenly Father, I made this picture just for you.”
The next morning, Cammie hopped out of bed, hoping the drawing would be gone. But there it lay, right where she had left it. She frowned, tears tickling the corners of her eyes. “Maybe Heavenly Father doesn’t like my picture,” she worried.
All day Cammie wondered. If Heavenly Father didn’t want a picture, how could she show Him that she was thinking about Him? Cammie thought and thought.
That night, she said her prayers again. She thanked Heavenly Father for a beautiful day and for her family and the fun things she did. She asked Him to watch over her as she slept, and she told Him she loved Him. Then she crawled into bed.
As she lay there, her blankets seemed to grow warmer. They grew warmer and heavier until Cammie realized the feeling wasn’t from her blankets at all—it was inside her heart.
“I can pray to show Heavenly Father I’m thinking of Him!” she realized.
And this warm feeling from the Holy Ghost was her answer—Heavenly Father was thinking of her too.

My father was an incredible man. He was bishop of our ward for twenty-nine years, including my entire childhood. His quiet, strong example meant a lot to me. I learned a lot by watching him.
One of the most important lessons I learned was the importance of paying tithing. I watched ward members give my father their tithing, and I watched him at night write tithing receipts for these humble offerings. I watched my mother gather the eggs the chickens laid and save one out of every ten to pay for tithing. My parents taught me how to save one-tenth of the few pesos and pennies I earned, and I treasured the tithing receipt I received after paying my tithing.