Gospel Story Finder

Things had not been easy for Todd. He was the only member of the Church in his family. He had come in contact with the Church over a year ago through Lisa.

Lisa was the warmest, most enthusiastic, most Christ-centered person he had ever met. They were in student government together. He was president of the student senate and she was vice president. He’d spent many hours in her home, working on various student projects, and it was like being in heaven as far as he was concerned. Her mother always baked cookies for them when she knew they’d be meeting. And even if the house wasn’t always perfectly neat, there was a good feeling there.

One day he had asked Lisa why she was so different, and she had told him about her membership in the Church. He was interested in what she had to say, and so she invited him to church. Soon he was taking the missionary lessons at her house.

In a month’s time he was ready to get baptized. He asked his parents for permission. They had no religious preferences themselves, so they gave their permission and he was baptized.

A short time later, his uncle heard about what had happened, and he came all the way from Illinois to try to talk Todd out of being a Mormon.

After his uncle had spent half a day being critical of the Church, his parents were finally persuaded to forbid Todd from attending church.

No matter how much Todd complained, his parents would not budge. He could attend any other church, but not that church.

It’s not fair, Todd thought. I’ve never given my parents any trouble, and all I’m asking is for them to let me worship God in the way I want to.

He considered pretending to go on a walk and then sneaking over to attend sacrament meeting. He phoned the bishop and asked for advice. The bishop told him to honor his parents and to set a good example and to try to win their confidence.

Todd followed the advice. At first it was hard to show love to his parents when they wouldn’t let him do the thing he most wanted to do, but he worked on it. He quit talking back to them and tried to be someone they could depend on.

One day Lisa’s family invited them over for a barbecue. It was good for his parents to see that Church members could be very nice people.

Just before Todd turned 17, his mother asked him what he wanted for his birthday. He said, “For you and Dad to go with me to church.”

She looked at him closely. “Is it really that important to you?”

“Yes.”

“All right, we’ll do that as our birthday present to you.”

Once his parents had gone to church, they softened in their opposition and let him attend. Sometimes they would even go with him, especially if he had a talk to give in sacrament meeting.

Todd stood up. “I’m glad that Jesus has restored the Church back to the earth, and that he’s given us men like our bishop to help us when we have problems …”

As I look back over my life I can see the guiding hand of the Lord in many things. Let me relate just one such instance. Sister Cullimore and I have lived most of our married life in the missions of the Church. At one time, when we lived in Oklahoma City, we were concerned that our teenage children were not able to have proper association with other children of their age who were members of the Church. Their association was almost entirely with nonmembers, and although they were wonderful young people we worried about them being able to marry in the temple without proper association with members of the Church. Our concern was so great we were considering leaving my employment and moving to an area where they would have this association.
About this time Elder Joseph F. Merrill of the Council of the Twelve was traveling through the mission with the mission president, and he stayed overnight with us. Sister Cullimore poured her heart out to Brother Merrill about our concern over the children. Elder Merrill said, “Don’t be concerned about it; this is where the Lord wants you. I promise you that if you teach your children the gospel, see to it that they attend their meetings in the Church, set a proper example for them in your home, and then when they are ready, see that they attend a Church school, they will marry in the temple.”
I had already made some rather serious commitments in reference to a change in employment that would have necessitated a move from the area. The next morning, after the conversation with Elder Merrill, I coincidently met a real estate dealer who told me of a building available that would be suitable for a furniture business. (I had previously asked him to watch for such a building for me.) In three days I had signed the lease on the building and given notice to my employer that I was leaving. Within thirty days our business was opened.
The Lord blessed us abundantly in the business. We saw the Church grow in the area. Our children have each married in the temple and are all active and involved in the Church.

When I was in junior high school, I used money from a paper route to buy a small motorcycle. It wasn’t new or very powerful, but it was fast enough to kick up desert dust from the trails that snaked through the cactus east of our home in Tucson, Arizona, USA.
When my motorcycle ran out of gas, I would grab our gas can. When the can was empty, I would arrange a ride to fill it up at a gas station. One day my older brother had what I thought was a great idea.
“Just borrow some gas from Dad’s pickup,” he said.
He showed me how, with a small section of rubber garden hose, I could syphon gas from the pickup directly into my motorcycle. That solution worked great—until I got careless a few weeks later.
While I was syphoning gas, the hose slipped from my hand and slid into the pickup’s gas tank! I couldn’t see it or reach it. In a few weeks, I feared, the gasoline would dissolve the rubber, which would likely clog the pickup’s carburetor.
It was bad enough that I’d been taking gas without permission, but now I’d probably ruined Dad’s pickup. How could I tell him? He was kind of strict, and I was afraid of what he’d say.
I didn’t write my dad a note about the hose in the gas tank. In fact, since I’d probably be grounded for life, I decided not to tell him. A few months later, however, my conscience got the best of me and I prayed up enough courage to admit what had happened. Instead of grounding me, he shrugged his shoulders, gave me some fatherly advice, and said, “Be more careful next time.”
After that conversation, it was easier to talk to my dad—especially when I messed up. Those chats helped prepare me for bishop’s interviews.
As for our pickup truck, I’m happy to report that that hose didn’t ruin it. It still runs just fine.

At the Mandarin Branch conference of the Singapore District, President Ho stands up to speak at sacrament meeting. He relates a Chinese folktale, substituting a branch president for the wise man: The branch president advises a man who complains about the crowded conditions of his one-room home to move his duck, pig, and cow in with his family. After a few months of pandemonium, the president finally advises the man to let the animals live outside, and the man is so grateful he never complains again. An interesting sidelight of the meeting is that President Ho, as well as his counselors, Tan Su Kiong and Francis Tan, who also speak at the conference, do not have Mandarin backgrounds, though they are Chinese.

Claudiana: Shortly after Gustavo and I got engaged, I became very sick. We visited doctor after doctor, but none of them knew what was wrong with me. Most foods upset my stomach, and I spent weeks at a time in the hospital throwing up and losing blood. My quality of life was quickly diminishing.
Weeks turned into months and months turned into years, and I still had no diagnosis. The medicine that I was given to treat my symptoms made me swollen and caused me to lose my hair. I was soon unrecognizable.
I felt like a deformed monster and told Gustavo that it was OK if he wanted to break up with me. I didn’t want to compromise his happiness. But his eyes still shone whenever he looked at me, and he refused to leave my side. That was when I knew I had found true love.
After four long years, I was finally diagnosed with an aggressive form of Crohn’s disease and began treatment with a high-tech medication. My hair grew back, and my swelling disappeared. Five and a half years after meeting, Gustavo and I were finally married in the temple.

For gymnast Kim McCauley, a 14-year-old from the Rockwall Ward, “someday” began when she was a toddler. She was walking at six months, running at eight months, and by the time she hit three, her parents decided they’d better find a way to channel her energy, or they’d be exhausted in the chase. They enrolled her in gymnastics classes, and today, she not only is a top competitor on her high school team, but she also uses her talent in her spare time to teach gymnastics classes for small children.

Sister Eileen Waite attended the same stake conference where Dave Orchard told of his conversion experience. Throughout the conference, all she could think of was her own family and particularly her sister, Michelle, who had long been away from the Church. Michelle was divorced and trying to raise four children. Eileen felt impressed to send her a copy of Elder M. Russell Ballard’s book Our Search for Happiness, together with her testimony, which she did. The very next week a friend told Eileen that she too had felt that she should contact Michelle. This friend also wrote Michelle a note, sharing her testimony and expressing her love. Isn’t it interesting how often the Spirit works on several people to help one in need?

Time passed. Michelle called Eileen and thanked her for the book. She said that she was beginning to recognize the spiritual void in her life. Eileen told her that she knew that the peace she was seeking could be found in the gospel. She told her that she loved her and wanted her to be happy. Michelle began to make changes in her life. Soon she met a wonderful man who was active in the Church. They married and a year later were sealed in the Ogden Utah Temple. Recently her 24-year-old son was baptized.

To the others in Michelle’s family and all others who do not yet know that this Church is true, I invite you to prayerfully consider whether the Church is true. Allow your family and friends and missionaries to help. When you know that it is true, and it is, come join with us by taking the same step in your life.

The end of this story has not yet been written, but blessings have been given to this wonderful woman and her family as those who love her acted on a prompting and in a natural and normal way shared their testimony and invited her to come back.

Brother Stewart’s desire to help his priests avoid similar situations was greeted enthusiastically by the quorum. His approach included a quiz on the young men’s existing knowledge of etiquette, with a discussion afterward, and a formal dinner for the priests and Laurels. The class exercise was well received, and the dinner turned out to be one of the best-attended activities of the year. “I thought the dinner would be fun but that I wouldn’t really learn anything new,” admitted Buster Child, first assistant to the president of the priests quorum. “But I was wrong. I really have learned a lot.”
Printed invitations were sent to each of the priests and Laurels in the ward, and the priests were assigned to escort the Laurels. As a result, shortly before 7:30 on a calm, clear, spring night, the Stewart sidewalk began filling up with beautiful young women in long, colorful dresses and handsome priests in coats and ties. Inside, several tables had been covered with fine cloths and set with china, silver, and goblets. Placecards indicated where each guest was to sit, and the tantalizing aroma of baked ham and scalloped potatoes floated into the dining room from the adjoining kitchen.
The young people spent the first part of the evening mingling, talking, and eating hors d’oeuvres of sausage-filled mushrooms and chips with dips. Such whispered comments as “I ate before I came so I wouldn’t stuff myself when I got here” and “Is it all right to pick up a mushroom with my fingers?” could be heard amidst talk of school, ward activities, and the approaching summer vacation.
Soon, however, it was time for dinner to begin. After a short welcome and a blessing on the food, Brother Stewart encouraged his guests to feel comfortable and to ask as many questions as they wanted. And they did. Throughout the evening the room buzzed with questions. “How do I butter my roll?” asked one, and from someone else, “Do I pass the food to my left or to my right?” Brother Stewart also brought up some points for discussion. Some of the answers were obvious: “Should you leave some food on your spoon or fork to be waved about during conversation?” brought spontaneous laughter from the group. But the answer to another question, “Is it considered proper to butter a whole ear of corn at once?” (the answer is no; butter and eat only a few rows at a time) was greeted with disbelief, and the consensus was that perhaps this is one area that should be left up to personal taste.
When the evening was over, however, the group generally agreed that understanding etiquette and practicing good manners are just as important today as ever before. “Once you learn the basics, you can relax and enjoy yourself without wondering if you are going to make a big mistake,” said Mike Bonnelli. And Sharon Matsen added, “It’s being courteous, but it’s more than that, too. It’s a way of showing others you want them to feel comfortable. For example, I really like my date to open the car door for me. Even though it might be considered a little thing, it makes me feel that he thinks I’m someone special.”

The would-be football player stood five feet one. Seen among the padded knights of the gridiron, the slender freshman looked like the answer to a “what’s wrong with this picture” puzzle. But when Dene Garner’s father Norman had taken his infant son in his arms 15 years earlier in Dewsbury, Yorkshire, England, he had blessed the child that he would always “walk tall,” and now Dene stood straight and strong. If there were only 105 pounds (including pads) on his whipcord frame, there was thunder in his left foot, and he knew it. He had often seen it launch soccer balls screaming into the net. Now he was here to prove that it could send a football arching away like an artillery shell.

The coach only had to watch him kick a few to realize that there were game-winning points stored up in that foot, and he didn’t waste any time starting to mine them. Since that decisive day, Dene Garner, 17, has been the first-string placekicker for the Alta High Hawks in Sandy, Utah.

Last year while visiting family in Wisconsin, my cousin and I went on a youth temple trip to the Nauvoo Illinois Temple and performed baptisms for the dead. We had a bunch of family names that we took to the temple. My grandma told us about one of our deceased ancestors. Grandma had a close relationship with her. I got to be baptized for this family member and other ancestors, and it was a really cool experience, because I could feel their presence and know they will have a chance to accept the work done for them. When I go to the temple, I know I’m doing a great thing.

How do you feel?
Not good.
When will Papai give us a blessing?
Soon. Brother Ramos is on his way to help.
Why didn’t it work? I still feel sick!
Me too.
Be patient. Sometimes blessings from the Lord take time. But I know He heard our prayers.
Now it’s time to rest so you can heal.
A few days later …
I feel great today! I’m so glad Heavenly Father helped us get better.
Me too. I’m grateful for the priesthood!
Illustrations by Katie McDee

When we went to Mexico to preside over the Mexico City Mission, it was almost twenty years since I had served there as a missionary. I was excited to get back to those people whom I had learned to love so much. I especially wanted to go to Cuernavaca, Morelos, a beautiful city where I had labored as a missionary. I wanted to know if those marvelous people who formed that little branch years ago were still alive and active in the Church. I wanted them to meet my family, and I wanted my family to meet them.

I was very pleased to learn shortly after we arrived that a district conference was scheduled in Cuernavaca. We made it a point to arrive early so that we would have an opportunity to talk informally with the people. It was a thrilling experience to share that warm Mexican greeting with those great people I had know years before. The abrazo includes a hug and a pat on the back, and we went from one to another.

Among those I greeted was a gray-haired lady who would likely have been in her seventies. As she stepped from our abrazo, she said, “Do you remember me?”

I was embarrassed that I didn’t and apologized, “I’m sorry Ma’am, but I don’t remember you.”

She responded, “You should; you converted me.”

Then I was really embarrassed. We didn’t have that many converts back in those days, and I thought I remembered every one of them very well.

She said, “Don’t you remember the day when we rode on that turismo (a little limousine-type bus) from Mexico City to Cuernavaca?”

Then I remembered! I had been assigned to take a message from the mission office in Mexico City to the elders who were working in Cuernavaca, and I had sat by that lady on the bus. She asked me what I was doing in Mexico, we had a little conversation about the Church, I gave her an Articles of Faith card, and she gave me her name, address, and permission to give them to the missionaries in Cuernavaca. Three months later, she and some of her adult children were baptized into the Church. She became the president of the Relief Society in the branch and through all these years had been one of the faithful members of the Church in Cuernavaca.

She was invited to bear her testimony in one of the district meetings, and she said, “If I had been asked to be baptized the first day that I heard the gospel, I would have been baptized, because I knew that day that it was true.”

Dad’s car was mustard brown. Its color made the rust spots less noticeable. It seemed like a tank left over from a war. The name on the car’s grill was Plymouth. Actually it wasn’t a Plymouth at all. It was half Plymouth and half Dodge, a spare-parts mobile made up of two wrecks, always lacking something and always showing us a new frailty in its character.
But Dad’s car was his pet. He would never consider giving it up for anything. He tried convincing us that it was really a sports car in disguise. He would tell us that it had a floor stick shift just like a Porsche. I soon realized, however, that a floor gear was the only thing the old wagon and a Porsche 920 had in common.
“Anyone can have a nice new car,” Dad would say. “But how many people do you know that actually own a 1976, stick-shift, mustard-brown station wagon? We want to be unique.”
Unique was an understatement in my book. You see, I was in ninth grade, my first year in high school. I wanted to impress my peers. But how could I when everyone knew that the mustard-brown tank belonged to my family? It was bad enough that I was a freshman and couldn’t drive. But to imagine being seen by upperclassmen in that junk heap was more than I could bear. When my dad would drive me and my brother to school after seminary, I would duck down as he pulled in to the drop-off spot. I desperately hoped that no one would see me. I would then slink out of the car, bury my head in my books, and run as fast as I could for the safety of the school building.
During my junior year in high school, however, my feelings for the “tank” changed. It took a frustrating experience—my illustrious career as a cross-country runner—to finally show me the light.
During the cross-country season, I came to see a great likeness between myself and the tank. I was not, to say the least, the star of the team. I was slow (my engine only a weak V-6), ungraceful (my rusting joints needed oiling), and my body type was not the one best suited for running (I had the wrong engine with the wrong carburetor). Yet I was constant. I ran every day, sometimes even twice a day, always trying to improve, trying to be the magnificent runner I dreamed of becoming. But I was nowhere close. I tried everything I could think of to improve my time. I ate the right pastas, I tried exotic stretches, I even slept in my shoes (I had read in a magazine it made one more in tune with running). But nothing worked! I was extremely frustrated. I felt like last year’s track shoes headed for the trash. I wanted to be the foremost runner on the team, but it took all my energy to keep from coming in last.
Finally I asked my dad for a blessing. I desperately needed some outside help. But what my dad said as he laid his hands on my head was not at all what I had expected. He told me flat out—“You are not a runner.” He said, “Your purpose is not in being the best runner. You have another purpose for being on the team.” And that was it. I felt let down and not particularly proud of myself. I did feel, however, that what my dad had said was what the Lord wanted me to hear. So I continued with the racing, straining and struggling my hardest not to come in last. At times I felt I had a few screws loose or that I could use a better set of spark plugs, but I never changed—at least not physically.
By the end of the season, however, I had changed. Spiritually I had grown. My vision had been expanded. On the night of our final athletic banquet, my coach came up to me and told me the secret I found in our old station wagon. He said:
“I know running hasn’t been easy for you, and you know something, you’ll never be a great runner.” No joke, I thought to myself. I’ve heard that one before. Then he continued. “But you are one of the most important members of our team. You have had such a positive influence on the team; they all look up to you. Thanks for being such a good example.”
And that was the secret. That’s what made the car special—it had a function, a worthwhile purpose. It was the car we knew we could depend on during winter in subzero temperatures. We knew it would be the only one to start. It was the only car that could pull our trailer and the only car with a rack on top for hauling luggage or Christmas trees. Despite its many frailties, it was needed, wanted, and yes, even loved.
Our station wagon would never be the sleekest car on the block. It would never win any prizes for the smoothest performance or most comfortable ride. Though it was old, rusted, and to some people even worthless, it was vital to our family. Its dependability was more important than its outward value.
The lesson I learned from the old station wagon was this: Although it may not be easy to see, our Heavenly Father has given everyone an important purpose. Despite our frailties, we are needed, wanted, and loved. We are each unique and priceless.

The Coopers have been reading in the Book of Mormon as they study Come, Follow Me.
How come the people kept getting wicked again and again after they were blessed so much?
Yeah. It’s like they just kept forgetting.
A little later, over ice-cream sundaes …
Heavenly Father gives us lots of blessings. What if we started writing them in journals? So we won’t forget.
We could write down the extra-nice things people do for us too.
Like me letting you have the rest of the whipped cream.
That night …
Hmmm. I’m having trouble deciding how to start my journal.
Just say, “I, Matt, having goodly parents and a great sister …”
“… goodly parents and a funny sister …”
Keeping a blessings journal is a great idea. I’d do it myself if I could hold a pen!

Brian R.

Twelve-year-old Brian R. of Arizona, USA, was preparing to pass the sacrament for the first time. He didn’t want to make a mistake, so he asked the other Aaronic Priesthood holders in his ward to explain things to him.

“They were great,” he says. “They told me where to stand, where to go, and how to pass the trays.”

But even more important, they reminded him to be reverent. “We need to remember the Savior as we pass the sacrament,” Brian says. “If we are reverent, it helps others to remember Him too.”

Brian learned that others are happy to help him to understand his duties and to learn to do them well. “Just ask,” he says. “Moving from Primary into the Aaronic Priesthood is easier than you think.”

After a nine-hour journey by night, we arrived in Juliaca, Peru. It was Thursday, and we still needed to get stamps in our passports and exit permits so that we could leave the country. The following day was a national holiday, and government offices would be closed for the rest of the weekend, so we arrived in line at the Bank of the Nation that morning to ensure that we would have sufficient time before all offices closed at noon.

When we finally got to the counter at 11:00 a.m., the gentleman expressed concern. “Sorry,” he said. “We don’t process these kinds of documents here. You will have to go to our office in Puno.” We were both surprised and frustrated—Puno was 45 minutes away.

After struggling to find a taxi, we made it to the office in Puno by 1:30 p.m. The doors were already closed. I knocked the iron doorknockers together as hard as I could. A very upset man opened the door and asked, “What do you want?” I said a silent, fervent prayer and looked this stranger in the eyes. “Sir,” I said, “I’m a Mormon, I’m going to get married in the temple in São Paulo, Brazil, and you can help me.” His hostile attitude changed. “I’m so sorry, sir,” he said, “but everything closed over an hour ago, and almost everyone has already left.” I responded, “Let me in and let my God help me find what I’m seeking.” He let me in.

After finding the manager, Rosa, I explained our situation. She politely responded, “Those forms are processed by three different employees, and I think everyone has left.” But all three men were still there, and she enlisted them to stay late to help me.

The first man asked me for forms I didn’t have. “You’re supposed to have gone to the Ministry of Economy, bought six forms, and brought them here for processing,” he explained. “You have to wait until Monday.”

I froze—I couldn’t believe it! Again I said a silent prayer. “Sir,” I said, “I’m Mormon, and I am going to the temple in São Paulo, Brazil, to be married. And you can help me.” He no longer seemed to be in a hurry. He looked in every drawer and finally located the longed-for forms. The next clerk quickly checked them and stamped our passports.

At the next window, as I paid the exit tax in U.S. dollars, the cashier seemed to take great pleasure in saying, “I’m sorry. See this sign?” A sign on the wall read, “Dollars not accepted.” Our plan was about to fail—there was nothing I could do.

“Take the payment,” I heard Rosa say from behind us. The cashier accepted the money and gave me the documents. We were on our way!

Many years later, Florence visited a small branch in the Ghana Accra Mission. Her husband, Christopher Chukwurah, was the mission president there. Florence met some children in the branch who couldn’t always go to school. They weren’t sure what to do with their futures. They reminded Florence of herself as a child. What can I say to help them? Florence prayed silently.
Then she felt a clear prompting. Tell them about your life.
Florence thought about her life. She had worked in hospitals in Nigeria and the United States. She had married a good man, and together they had found The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She had become a mother. Now she was helping missionaries stay healthy and work hard. Heavenly Father had helped her become a nurse. He had helped her do so much more than she had imagined was possible. He could do the same for these children.
Florence looked at the children and smiled. “You know those white caps that nurses wear? I saw a cap like that and decided to become a nurse …”
Florence Chukwurah (born 1946) has worked as a nurse in Nigeria and the United States. She and her husband joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and served together in the Ghana Accra Mission. While talking about getting an education, Florence said, “I decided to be serious with my schoolwork. I made up my mind to work hard.”

Thirteenth President of the Church
Missionary work was difficult in England in the 1920s. Thus, when Elder Ezra Taft Benson and his companion received an invitation to speak in a sacrament meeting including both members and nonmembers, they fasted and prayed. “The hall was filled,” President Benson later recalled. “My companion had planned to talk on the first principles, and I had studied hard in preparation for a talk on the Apostasy. There was a wonderful spirit in the meeting. … When I sat down, I realized that I had not mentioned the Apostasy. I had talked about the Prophet Joseph Smith and had borne my witness of his divine mission and of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon.” After the meeting, several people came to the missionaries and said, “Tonight we received a witness that Mormonism is true. We are now ready to consider baptism.” President Benson said, “It was while I was on my first mission that I discovered the constant need for dependence on the Lord” (“Our Commission to Take the Gospel to All the World,” Ensign, May 1984, 44).

Tony Harner, a priest from the West Shore Ward, Gettysburg Pennsylvania Stake, is a straight shooter. The 15-year-old convert of a year proved it by winning the overall title in the United States Junior Open Skeet shooting championships in Lordship, Connecticut. In that competition he hit 486 out of 500 targets, using four different guns. He followed up that triumph by taking first place in the second class 410-gauge competition at the World Skeet Championships in San Antonio, Texas.
Tony, who has been skeet shooting for only two years, entered ten registered shooting events between January and July of 1976 and won or placed in all but one of them. He defeated shooters from Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Maryland to win his zone championship. He finished second in the Pennsylvania championship. He won the mid-American championship and was the champion of the first and second annual Mack Truck meets, among other accomplishments. Tony, who loads his own shells, has several times broken every target during a competition.
Tony has a strong testimony of the Church and feels that his knowledge of the gospel has contributed to his desire to excel in his sport. He recently put in many hours helping to landscape the West Shore Ward’s new chapel and has been eager to teach skeet shooting skills to other young men in the ward.

Years ago a friend of mine spoke of his grandmother. She had lived a full life, always faithful to the Lord and to His Church. Yet one of her grandsons chose a life of crime. He was finally sentenced to prison. My friend recalled that his grandmother, as she drove along a highway to visit her grandson in prison, had tears in her eyes as she prayed with anguish, “I’ve tried to live a good life. Why, why do I have this tragedy of a grandson who seems to have destroyed his life?”

The answer came to her mind in these words: “I gave him to you because I knew you could and would love him no matter what he did.”