Gospel Story Finder

It is a warm day—June 29, 1844.
A boat approaches a horseshoe bend in the Mississippi River. On that bend is a city. A traveler on the boat seeks to find the city on his map, but the map, printed a few years previously, shows no such city. On inquiry, he is told that the city is Nauvoo. A brief stop is to be made.
At the docking, the traveler becomes curious as to why long lines of people wait to enter a large home on the river front. Being in no hurry, he informs the boat’s captain that he is going to remain in Nauvoo, perhaps overnight.
As he approaches the end of the line, it becomes apparent that these are grief-stricken people. The ladies and many men are weeping.
“Excuse me,” he says, approaching a mourner, “but what are these lines for?”
The mourner looks up in amazement: “You mean you don’t know?”
“I’m a stranger here,” he says. “I just arrived on the boat.”
“Oh,” replies the mourner. “We are waiting to view the bodies of Lieutenant General Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum who were killed two days ago.”
“Lieutenant General Smith?” the visitor says questioningly.
“Yes, he was the lieutenant general of the Nauvoo Legion, an army of 5,000 men.”
“How many others were killed with them?” asks the visitor.
“None. That is probably the main reason why Joseph died. He believed that his enemies wanted his life alone, and if he had to die, he thought that the lust for blood would be satisfied without the rest of us being killed. He wanted his brother Hyrum to live, but Hyrum insisted on remaining at his side.”
“How did the trouble begin that led to their death?” asks the traveler.
“Well, the public reason given was the destruction of the press of the Nauvoo Expositor,” replies the mourner. “The newspaper was owned by Joseph’s enemies, and they published slanderous and inflammatory articles and lies, seeking to build hatred against Joseph Smith. So an order to close the paper was issued by the city council and the mayor, Joseph Smith.”
“Joseph Smith was also the mayor of this city?”
“Yes.”
“This must be a very new city,” says the traveler. “It isn’t even on my map.”
“Yes, it is new. Just six years ago this was nothing but a swamp.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, the traveler says, “It is a beautiful city. I noticed as I came up the river that the farms and corrals are outside of town.”
“Yes, this is the way Joseph planned the city.”
“Joseph planned this city?”
“Yes, so that the people, mostly farmers, could have the advantages of city life—so that we might associate together and learn from each other.”
The traveler then comments on the wide, straight streets and the well-built houses and wonders what the large building under construction is to be. The mourner informs him that it is the temple and that Joseph had designed it to be the dominant landmark in the city.
“Joseph Smith designed the temple!” the stranger exclaims. He then remembers: “You were telling me what led to his death.”
“Oh, yes, the Expositor incident,” says the mourner. “But the trouble began a long time ago, even before Joseph translated the ancient record.”
“He was a translator?” repeats the visitor. “What happened to the translation of this ancient record.”
“It has been published. It is called the Book of Mormon.”
“Has he published any other books?” asks the stranger.
“Oh, yes, as president of the Church …”
“President of the Church?” exclaims the visitor.
“Yes, president of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Almost everyone here in Nauvoo is a member of the Church. As president he published the Doctrine and Covenants and …”
“What kind of book is that?” asks the amazed traveler.
“It is a book of revelations that were given to the Prophet Joseph Smith …”
“The Prophet Joseph Smith!”
“Yes. God the Father and his resurrected son Jesus Christ appeared to him and conversed with him in his youth. In fact, it was after Joseph, full of joy and enthusiasm, told his neighbors he had seen a vision that the persecution first began. Not only was Joseph persecuted, but also all of his followers were. Why, some of the people you see here have been driven from homes in New York, Ohio, and Missouri. In Missouri none of us were paid for our losses. Joseph tried to obtain redress but was refused. That’s the principle reason why he became a candidate for the presidency of the United States.”
“A candidate for the presidency of the United States!” cries out the bewildered stranger.
The mourner continues: “It was four days ago that Joseph bid a reluctant farewell to his family, looked longingly at the temple and then at his farm, and said, ‘This is the loveliest place and best people under the heavens.’ He then rode toward the county seat at Carthage to turn himself over to his enemies. He said, ‘I am going like a lamb to the slaughter, but I am as calm as a summer’s morning.’ He was promised protection and a fair trial, but two days ago, on June 27, a band of over a hundred men with blackened faces stormed the jail. A few moments later, Joseph and Hyrum lay dead.”
“How old was he?” asks the traveler.
“Thirty-eight years old,” says the mourner.
The visitor looks on in disbelief and thinks to himself: “Lieutenant general, translator, author, mayor, prophet, Church president, city planner, architect, presidential candidate—what manner of man was this Joseph Smith?”
This little scene has been imaginary, but well might many people have thought these things about Joseph Smith.

I could see the young deacons losing interest as my mission companion talked. He was explaining the importance of doing missionary work at their age—planting seeds with their friends.
One young man finally spoke up, “What can I do? I’m only 13. My friends aren’t interested in the Church, and even if they were, their parents wouldn’t let them join.” My companion persisted with the young men, but my mind drifted back to when I was about 12 years old.
I had a best friend, Chris. We did everything together. But whenever a group of us would gather to do something “crazy,” like throw snowballs at cars or toilet paper a house, Chris would always back out. He said his parents would be mad if they found out.
Then one day I talked Chris into stealing tennis balls from the people on the local courts. He followed me, even helped me gather a handful of balls, then took off with me through a hole in the fence. When we arrived at my house I noticed Chris’s face was white.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“We’ve got to take those balls back,” he blurted out.
“No way, they’re ours now,” I replied, but Chris grabbed them and started to run. I’ve always been faster than Chris, but I couldn’t catch him that day. He ran right to the tennis players and gave every ball back. He said he was sorry and then did something I’d never seen before. He asked them for forgiveness. I just knew we were going to be turned into the police, but the men let him go.
When we got home I had a few questions for my best friend.
“I’m a Mormon,” he said.
“I know. You told me.”
“But I didn’t tell you how important my church is to me.” He went on to explain the standards of honesty he had been taught and how he could not feel right about stealing.
Six weeks later I found myself in a font, full of water, ready to be baptized a Latter-day Saint.
Suddenly I came back to the deacons in front of me. I don’t know if it made much difference to those boys, but I was able to say it was an active young man their age who brought me into the Church. I told them they could and should do missionary work. They could plant seeds with their example, just as Chris had done.

A few months ago, my mama read a story to me from the Friend. It was about a little boy who wanted to know if Heavenly Father was real (“Micah’s Miracle,” October 2002, 4–6). One night he had a terrible nightmare. When he woke up, he prayed for help to feel safe. At the same moment, his dad woke up and decided that he should check on his son. When his dad came, the little boy knew that his prayer had been answered and that Heavenly Father really was there and loved him.

A few weeks ago I learned an important lesson from a Laurel who was the youth speaker in my ward. I was touched as she confidently taught and testified of Jesus Christ. She concluded her remarks with this statement: “When I make Jesus Christ the center of my life, my day goes better, I’m kinder to my loved ones, and I am filled with joy.”
I have observed this young woman from a distance over the past few months. She greets everyone with sparkling eyes and a quick smile. I’ve watched her rejoice in the success of other youth. Two Mia Maids recently reported to me of this young woman’s decision to forfeit her ticket to a movie when she realized that it was not going to be an experience that was “virtuous and lovely.”1 She’s loving, kind, and obedient. She comes from a single-parent home, and her life has not been without challenges, so I’ve wondered how she maintains her happy, kind spirit. When this young woman testified, “I center my life on Jesus Christ,” I had the answer.

A recent letter from some concerned parents is typical. It illustrates some of the problems facing LDS women:
Dear President Smith,
Sometime ago we received a phone call from our daughter. She is in the army. She was crying over the phone; in fact, she was almost hysterical. She felt she had not one friend on earth. Those she thought were her friends had deserted her and were, in fact, persecuting her unmercifully, for one reason because she is a “Mormon.” To say we were in despair is an understatement. …
A second letter was enclosed with this letter. It read in part:
I am your daughter’s Relief Society visiting teacher. My companion and I were at first unable to locate her. When we did make contact, we found a depressed and mixed-up young lady. I’m not connected with the military, and I soon had my eyes opened to the unfortunate circumstances in which girls in the military may find themselves. How very difficult it would be to keep gospel standards in mind when one is continually subject to the rowdy, cigarette-filled barracks, and the regimentation of a job for which one is neither suited nor trained.
Since that initial visit, and on following visits as she became aware of the Church here, a distinct change has come over her. As far as her work permits, she attends ward functions, and everyone is aware of her friendly presence. One could almost measure the light that came back into her lovely eyes. She began to smile as she realized that people cared. You’re going to be welcoming home a very special daughter. I shall miss her because she is my friend. I shall always be grateful to her for showing me the change that can come into a life when you firmly grasp the iron rod.

I was lounging in a comfortable living room chair reading a magazine when my four-year-old brother walked into the room, his arms overflowing with toys. Normally I would have told him to play in his room because he is too noisy and I would have to clean up after him. But since I knew he wouldn’t want to do that, I decided not to start a fight I probably wouldn’t win.
He deposited his toys in the middle of the floor and began to play, making appropriate noises for each of his stuffed animals as he picked them up. I laughed, to which he responded with a pouting lower lip.
“Come here, Blake,” I called to him, putting my magazine down. He climbed into my lap. I gave him a hug and said, “I love you,” unconsciously starting his favorite game.
“I love you more,” he insisted returning my hug.
“No way! I love you more!” I demanded squeezing him tighter.
He crawled down from my lap, “I love you this much,” he said stretching his arms out as far as they would go, grunting from the strain.
I stretched my arms out and said, “Well I love you this much,” which was more because my arms are nearly twice the length of his.
“I love you as much as this whole room.”
I came back with, “I love you as much as this house.”
“I love you as much as the whole world.”
“I love you as much as the whole universe!” I thought I had won because he doesn’t know what the universe is.
“I love you as much as Jesus,” he said surely.
I smiled. He had won. I knew I couldn’t beat that. I asked him to give me a kiss and he did, a nice slobbery one on my cheek that I quickly wiped away.
I was not surprised that he had thought of it and I hadn’t. It seems that many of us forget what Sunbeams seem to know so well—that Christ loves us.

Our family wasn’t especially gifted in music. Oh, yes, we loved music, but that didn’t mean we could sing. My mom couldn’t carry a tune even if she were singing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” I sort of played the piano, but it was hardly good enough to be called music. My dad had had piano lessons when he was a boy, but he never played anymore. At one time my mom played the accordion, but the poor instrument hadn’t been played for so long that its keys stuck. I’d had the usual Suzuki violin series in the third grade but all to no avail.
On family home evening nights we tried to sing something that slightly resembled a hymn while I plunked it out on the piano.
I thought it would be neat if our family could sing for the family presentation on fast Sunday, but we always ended up having the congregation sing a song pertaining to the theme.
I encouraged my family to sing in the car when long trips became boring. We tried, but it seemed like I was the only one who knew the words, and the only songs my little brother knew were “Book of Mormon Stories” and “We Are a Happy Family.”
I longed for a musical family. It seemed to me that families that sang together were so much closer.
My dream started coming true one day when I had an argument with my little brother. I got mad at him and left the room to finish my homework, which included typing practice. But as I began my homework, I started to feel quite bad about our disagreement, so I decided to type my brother a note. It read something like this:
Eric,You are very special to me.
I’m glad you’re my brother.
You have the cutest smile.
I love you,Becky
He was delighted and wrote a note back to me. The next day he wrote one to my mom and dad, and they wrote back to him. A few days later I wrote to Eric again, and my mom and dad wrote to me, and I wrote back to them. Soon it was not unusual to find a note almost every day—a sincere note that made you shiver with the spirit of love. They turned up everywhere. They were found in very unusual places like on your pillow, in the fridge, on your mirror, in your book, or in your lunchbox.
Our family had composed its own music. We had developed a very special harmony that can only abound where love is. I suddenly began to feel no need for a musical family. I came to understand that it isn’t the music that brings families closer, it is the love behind the music. Well, we have both—love and our special music, “love notes.”

OK, we’re only down one point with seven seconds left. Tanya, I want you to pass to Joyce and set a screen for Cathlyn on the left wing. Cathlyn, all you have to do is lose your man, catch the pass from Joyce, and bury the shot.
You did it, Cathlyn! We won!
Great game, Champ. That last play was awesome!
I just did what the coach told me, Dad.
Did he come out on the floor and make you do it?
Of course not!
Are you glad you chose to follow his plan anyway?
I guess so. Hey, this isn’t just about basketball, is it?
It isn’t?
Do they teach this stuff in dad school, or are you just a natural?

For instance, one of the hardest rules to follow is to get up in the morning when your mission president directs. Many young men think the best time to sleep is in the morning. I’m grateful to my obedient senior companion, Elder William Grant Bangerter, who would set the alarm clock to get up early. When the alarm went off, it would jangle my nerves. In the winter it was dark, damp, and cold, and we never had any hot water for bathing or showering. He would cheerfully shower in that cold water; I would start to shiver as soon as he got out of the shower. I could not do anything but follow his example, but I have to confess that I was not quite as cheerful because my teeth were chattering.

Myra clicked the mouse as fast as she could. Her character, Galina the elf queen, was trying to defeat the huge ice dragon. Her friends from school were online too. They were playing elves and fairies in the game.
Flashes of color burst all over the computer screen. This dragon was tough!
“Almost there, almost … Yes!” She jumped up and pumped her fist in the air.
The chat box on her screen lit up with messages.
“Awesome job!”
“Let’s do it again!”
Myra smiled. She loved playing Quest Planet with her friends. “Just need to drop off this treasure first,” Myra typed.
Ping. A new message popped up. “Pancake1000 would like to be your friend,” she read.
Myra frowned. She was only supposed to play online with friends from school. But maybe this was someone else she knew. She clicked “Accept.”
Ping. “Hi! I’m Ethan. What’s your name?”
I don’t know any Ethans, Myra thought. But maybe it would be OK to talk to him.
She bit her bottom lip. “I’m Myra,” she typed.
For the next few days, Myra played and chatted with Ethan online. He was really good at the game and showed her where to buy supplies for her character.
“Where do you go to school? I go to Jefferson,” Ethan said.
Myra paused. That was a school near hers. Maybe he knew some people from her school. She started to type “Woodberry.” But then she got a sick feeling in her stomach. She remembered how her parents always said not to share any personal information with people she didn’t know—like her full name, address, or school. She also knew to never send pictures of herself.
Ethan said he was her age and lived nearby, so maybe it was OK to talk with him. She still wasn’t sure, though.
So instead she typed, “Do you want to visit the Enchanted River? I need some vanishing stones.”
Pretty soon Myra noticed a pattern. Whenever she chatted with Ethan, he’d start out talking about the game, but then he’d ask questions about her real life. He always asked her for more information.
One day Ethan wrote something that made Myra really uncomfortable. She tried to change the subject. “I’m going to the Fairy Realm for some unicorn hair.”
Ping. A message popped up. Then another. And another. Myra ran out of the room to find Dad.
“Dad?” Myra said.
Dad looked up from a book. “What’s up?”
“I was playing my game …” Myra gulped and looked down. “Someone is sending me bad messages.”
Dad looked at the messages while Myra tried to look anywhere but the screen. Her insides felt like they were being squeezed. She wished she had never accepted Ethan’s friend request.
“I’m glad you told me. I’ll report him to the website and block him from your account. I’ll call his parents too. Is he in your class?”
Myra’s voice was soft. “I don’t know him … I’m sorry.”
Dad hugged her. “Do you remember why you should only play online with friends you know in person?”
Myra nodded. “To stay safe.”
“That’s right. It’s easy for people to lie about who they are online. I’m sure there are lots of nice kids on Quest Planet. But it’s safer to only play with kids you know.”
Myra was quiet for a few moments. “OK. I’m sorry.”
Dad gave her another hug. “I’m proud of you for telling me when something made you uncomfortable. That took courage. And it’s always a good choice.”
Now Myra really felt brave, just like Galina the elf queen!

Not long ago I received a touching letter from Sister Mori Farmer. It tells of two home teachers and the loving service they provided the Farmer family during a time when the family was experiencing some difficult financial circumstances. At the time the service was provided, the Farmer family was out of town attending a family reunion.
I share with you first a letter written to the Farmer family by their home teachers, which the family found taped to their garage door when they returned home. It begins: “We hope you had a great family reunion. While you were gone, we and about 50 of our friends had a great party at your house. We want to thank you from the bottom of our hearts for the years of unselfish service you both have given to us. You have been Christlike examples of untiring service to others. We can never repay you for that—but just thought we’d like to say thanks. Signed, your home teachers.”
I quote now from Sister Mori Farmer’s letter to me:
“[After reading the note from our home teachers] we entered the house with great anticipation. What we found shocked us so much we were at a loss for words. I stayed up all night crying over the generosity of the people in our ward.
“Our home teachers had decided that they would fix our carpet while we were away. They had moved the furniture out into the front yard so the carpet could get stretched and finished. One man in the ward stopped and asked what was going on. He returned later with several hundred dollars’ worth of paint and said, ‘We might as well paint the house while everything is out.’ Others saw the cars out front and stopped to see what was going on, and by week’s end 50 people were busy repairing, painting, cleaning, and sewing.
“Our friends and fellow ward members had fixed our poorly laid carpet, painted the entire house, repaired holes in the drywall, oiled and varnished our kitchen cabinets, put curtains on three windows in the kitchen and family room, did all the laundry, cleaned every room in the house, had the carpets cleaned, fixed broken door latches, and on and on. In trying to make a list of all the wonderful things they did for us, we filled three pages. All of this had been accomplished between Wednesday and our return on Sunday.
“Almost everyone we talked to told us, with tears in their eyes, what a spiritual experience it had been to participate. We have been truly humbled by this experience. As we look around our home, we are reminded of their kindness and of the great sacrifice of time, talents, and money they made for our family. Our home teachers have truly been angels in our lives, and we will never forget them and the wonderful things they have done for us.”

A couple of years ago, my grandson Christian was turning eight and planning his baptismal service with great anticipation. He asked his mother if I could be one of the speakers and share my conversion story. When I asked him why he wanted me to do that, he replied, “Grandma, that is so important. Do you realize that if you hadn’t accepted the gospel, I wouldn’t be getting baptized? I wouldn’t even be who I am.”

I don’t know if missionaries realize the far-reaching impact of their work. In my own family, the blessings of the gospel have now touched four generations. Didn’t President Gordon B. Hinckley say that “when we save a girl, we save generations”? I got married in the temple and have eight children. They are all faithful members of the Church, endowed in the temple. Six of them are now married and have their own children. At present there are 34 of us. And that is not all. Both my husband and I served missions, and our two sons and three of our six daughters have also served missions. Collectively we have helped hundreds embrace the gospel in many countries. Some of those converts and their children have also served missions.

Missionary work is the lifeblood of the Church. There is no greater work, no more important work. It blesses the lives of all those who participate in it. It will continue blessing future generations.

A few years ago a faithful family exemplified for members of our ward that same trust in the Lord. Arn and Venita Gatrell were living a happy life when Arn was diagnosed with an aggressive cancer. The prognosis was devastating—he had just a few weeks to live. The family wanted to be together one last time. So all the children gathered, some from distant locations. They had only 48 precious hours to spend together. The Gatrells carefully chose what mattered most to them—a family picture, a family dinner, and a session in the Salt Lake Temple. Venita said, “When we walked out of the temple doors, it was the last time we would ever be together in this life.”
But they left with the assurance that there is so much more for them than just this life. Because of sacred temple covenants, they have hope in God’s promises. They can be together forever.
The next two months were filled with blessings too numerous to recount. Arn and Venita’s faith and trust in the Lord were growing, as evidenced in Venita’s words: “I was carried. I learned that you can feel peace in the midst of turmoil. I knew the Lord was watching over us. If you trust in the Lord, truly you can overcome any of life’s challenges.”
One of their daughters added: “We watched our parents and saw their example. We saw their faith and how they handled it. I would never have asked for this trial, but I would never give it away. We were surrounded with God’s love.”
Of course, Arn’s passing was not the outcome the Gatrells had hoped for. But their crisis was not a crisis of faith. The gospel of Jesus Christ is not a checklist of things to do; rather, it lives in our hearts. The gospel “is not weight; it is wings.”4 It carries us. It carried the Gatrells. They felt peace in the midst of the storm. They held fast to each other and to temple covenants they had made and kept. They grew in their ability to trust in the Lord and were strengthened by their faith in Jesus Christ and in His atoning power.

Cristin Shaner of Coffeyville, Kansas, found an influential moment to talk about the Church. Performing in a contest, she sang a solo and, during the interlude between verses, gave a monologue about the Church.
The song was “If I Ruled the World” from the musical Pickwick. Cristy talked about how when she was small she thought that if she ruled the world she would tell everyone about her church, because it made her feel so good inside. She added that even as a young woman she still wanted to tell everyone about her church.
After Cristy won the contest, many people asked her about her church and wanted to know more about its teachings. And since she won the title she was competing for, Cristy has an even greater opportunity to be an example of the gospel.
Cristy is a seminary graduate and a recipient of the Young Womanhood Recognition. She is a member of the Coffeyville Kansas Branch in the Tulsa Oklahoma Stake.

“He’s paying us twenty cents a row.”
“How many of you went?” Papa wanted to know.
“Me, Dora, Georgie, Frank, and Helen,” Ed replied.
“Helen, too?”
“She helped some.”
“But my arms got tired and Ed let me come home,” Helen explained.
Papa reached down to give her a hug. “Good girl,” he said. “I’m proud of all of you. Go ahead and help Mr. Clarke. I can finish our crop. We’ll all have to work fast to get done before the storm gets here.”
“What storm?” Ed asked.
“The one that’s coming before too long.”
“How can you tell?” I wanted to know.
“I can just feel it,” Papa answered.
The golden harvest weather held all week, and we worked from dawn until dark every day. By Friday night the flat corn heads were all pulled and stacked in the fields. Mama had been cooking all day for a picnic, and we could hardly wait for morning to come.
Before daylight, Papa climbed the ladder to our barn loft. “You’d all better get up,” he said. “I need lots of help today.”
“But you promised we could have a picnic, Papa.”
“Can’t help it,” Papa said. “We’ve got to get the corn in. A humdinger of a storm is on the way. Dora, I want you to come with me to warn the neighbors. Ed, you go hitch up the wagon and take Frank and George over to Clarke’s. Use his wagon, too, and after his crop is in come back and start on ours.”
There was a tone in Papa’s voice I’d never heard before. It sent shivers down my back. I dressed as fast as I could and hurried the boys along. We gulped down the breakfast Mama had waiting and flew out the door just as the sun peeked over the sand hills.
“There’re no clouds, Papa,” Ed said.
“They’re coming,” Papa declared. “Now get going!”
The boys ran toward the barn. I jumped on the horse that was waiting for me, and Papa and I rode off to warn the neighbors that a big storm was on the way.
“You’re crazy,” Mr. Cooper told Papa. “There’s not a cloud in the sky.”
“Not yet,” Papa said, “but there will be.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Mr. Cooper said and closed the door. We jumped on our horses and rode to Mr. Younger’s store. He could help us spread the word.
“Doesn’t look to me like any storm is coming,” he drawled as he gazed up at the cloudless sky.
“You’re right,” Papa agreed. “But mark my word, it’ll be here before nightfall, and it’s a big one.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
And this was the answer everywhere we went. Papa finally decided that it wasn’t any use to warn the people, so we went on home to help the boys. “The price of corn will be sky-high this year,” he said, “and we can’t afford to leave it in the field.”
We worked like demons and were piling on the last wagonload when the wind came up and nearly tipped it over.
“Head for home!” Papa shouted.
We all jumped on the wagon and by the time we pulled into the barn, hail was peppering the ground and beating everything flat. It was the worst storm I can remember. Some of the hailstones were the size of eggs. What the hail didn’t flatten the wind did. The broomcorn crop was a total loss that year except for the few fields that were brought in as a result of our warning.
Papa was right about the price. We made a big profit that year, and the other farmers were sorry they hadn’t listened to him. (To be continued.)

My first contact with the Liahona was when a friend—who later became my husband—brought me a copy when he returned to the United States from serving a mission in Argentina and Chile. Later when I served a mission in Chile, I loved the magazine and was grateful that the members had it to help them build their faith. Now as a senior missionary in Tonga, I use it in the classes I teach at church. Thank you for the Liahona!Sister Mary Lou Ellsworth, Tonga Nuku‘alofa Mission

As a young college student, Giuseppe Pasta found his belief in God constantly challenged by atheistic friends. He began intensive study of the Bible to strengthen his beliefs, and his study did indeed bring Giuseppe closer to God. But it also convinced him that the church of his forefathers was somehow incomplete. In it, he had learned basic moral principles, but he felt there must be more to the gospel of Jesus Christ.
Where was this additional truth?
When his prayers for further enlightenment seemed to go unanswered, he concluded that perhaps he was not righteous enough. He sought to humble himself in service to patients at a charity hospital, where “I found what the pure love of Christ is.”
Then one day he met two Latter-day Saint missionaries “street-boarding” (explaining the gospel with portable displays) outside the hospital. That meeting led, after a long period of study, to his conversion but he did not tell his family at first about his baptism.
When they learned of it, they were devastated. Friends presented him a petition, with hundreds of signatures, begging him to come back to the “true church.” An interview was arranged for him with the cardinal of Turin, in the hope that the cleric could persuade him to change his mind. They became friends. Convinced at length that young Giuseppe was sincere in his beliefs, the cardinal counseled him to be true to them.
Giuseppe Pasta has been a member of the Church for twenty years now, long enough to qualify him as a Latter-day Saint pioneer in Italy. He was an executive with the Fiat corporation for seventeen years before he was hired to open the Church’s first regional office in Italy. As a temple sealer, he has had the privilege of uniting many of his countrymen for eternity in the Swiss Temple. Currently president of the Italy Rome Mission, he directs some 150 young missionaries in bringing gospel truths to other Italians.
Like President Pasta, many Italian Latter-day Saints reordered their lives to join the Church after discovering gospel truths they had not known existed. Like him, many of them are pioneers in their families and in their country.

A few months later, time became harder to find, and scripture reading became shorter and shorter. I soon found myself with my compass cloudy. My sister wrote me this note:
You know, Trish, I feel like you are in a major war for your soul, and as much as I would like to be there on the daily battlefront and as much as I talk about fighting for you, I realized last night when I was thinking about you that you are the only one who can win your war. You are the only one who can put on your armor every day by reading the Book of Mormon.
Once again I turned to the scriptures, increasing my reading to 30 minutes a day. And again, things turned around.

At that conference, Elder Gordon B. Hinckley spoke of meeting a young naval officer from Asia. The officer had not been a Christian, but during training in the United States, he had learned about the Church and was baptized. He was now preparing to return to his native land.
President Hinckley asked the officer: “Your people are not Christians. … What will happen when you return home a Christian and, more particularly, a Mormon Christian?”
The officer’s face clouded, and he replied: “My family will be disappointed. … As for my future and my career, … all opportunity [may] be foreclosed against me.”
President Hinckley asked, “Are you willing to pay so great a price for the gospel?”
With his dark eyes moistened by tears, he answered with a question: “It’s true, isn’t it?”
President Hinckley responded, “Yes, it’s true.”
To which the officer replied, “Then what else matters?”

Illustrations by Val Bagley
Brigham’s feet were always going the wrong way. When he woke up in the mornings, his feet were on his pillow and his head was where his feet should be. Sometimes his feet ended up in the wrong shoes. Brigham walked in circles. “Brigham,” Mom said, “Your left shoe is on your right foot and your right shoe is on your left foot.” When Dad took Brigham to the library, Brigham’s feet made a clopping sound on the hard floor. “Shh,” Dad said to Brigham. “Shh,” Brigham said to his feet. On Sunday morning, Brigham dressed himself for church. He put on his pants and his shirt. He put his right foot in his right shoe and his left foot in his left shoe. Brigham walked between Mom and Dad on the way to church. He looked up and saw the church. He looked down and saw his feet. “My feet are going the right way,” Brigham said. “They are going to church.”