Gospel Story Finder

Janel E., age 18, Washington, USA
A roommate once asked me how I could believe in something I could not see. I answered that it was because I can feel the Holy Ghost, who testifies that God knows me, and this increases my faith and brings peace to my soul. I cannot see Him, but I know He loves me because I have faith and I feel His Spirit.

While I was reading this letter, my thoughts turned to a visit I made to one of the great art galleries of the world—the famed Victoria and Albert Museum in London, England. There, exquisitely framed, is a masterpiece painted in 1831 by Joseph Mallord William Turner. The painting features heavy-laden black clouds and the fury of a turbulent sea portending danger and death. A light from a stranded vessel gleams far off. In the foreground, tossed high by incoming waves of foaming water, is a large lifeboat. The men pull mightily on the oars as the lifeboat plunges into the tempest. On the shore stand a wife and two children, wet with rain and whipped by wind. They gaze anxiously seaward. In my mind I abbreviated the name of the painting. To me it became To the Rescue.1

When I asked Elder Werker to tell me about himself, I found out he had worked for his father.
“What business?”
“Construction.”
“Was it hard work?”
“Dad expected us to go to work as soon as it was light enough to see, and to work until the job was finished or until it was too dark to see.”
“Do you think you’ll have to work that hard here?”
“I don’t think I should work any less for the Lord than I do for my father. Do you?”
The answer was obvious.
Four or five weeks later at a zone conference, Elder Werker’s companion, who was a hard worker too, said, “President, how long do I have to train Elder Werker? The pace is killing me!”
By the end of his mission, Elder Werker had helped bring 56 people into the Church.
Elder Werker had something in common with a lot of successful missionaries. He came into the mission field with a knowledge of work. He knew what it meant to keep going even when he was tired or discouraged. He would stick with a job until it was completed.

Sharing the gospel is about people, not numbers. So what happened in Immokalee, Florida, began just as it should have, when Junior Reyes invited one of his friends to come to church.
Little did he know what he was starting.
At the time, there were only two Aaronic Priesthood bearers in the Immokalee Branch: Junior and another young man named Jorge Caceres. Jorge was born in the Church but had become discouraged because for a long time he had been the only Aaronic Priesthood bearer in the branch. So Junior, a convert, was the only one who went to stake firesides.
“Every time I’d go, I’d see the other branches and all the youth in the stake, but from our branch, it would just be me,” Junior says. “Finally, I said, ‘Why am I the only one here from Immokalee? I’ve got to open my mouth.’
“The way I was raised, I was taught not to be scared,” he continues. “When I talk to my friends about Jesus Christ and the restored gospel, I’m not afraid; I’m happy. I know what I’m telling them can help them make their lives better.”
So Junior invited his friend Wedner Daly to come to church. “I said, ‘You learn a lot of things and you get a lot of blessings, and it’s worth it.’”
Wedner accepted.
“I didn’t think anything special about it at first,” Wedner says. “I thought it would be like other churches. But when I got there, it was the day that everybody shared their testimonies, so I got to feel the Spirit when I first came. That was different for me. I had never been to a church where people shared their testimonies and felt great about their church. That’s one of the reasons that I liked it.”

I like the story of the old man in nineteenth-century New Hampshire who treasured his independence and self-reliance above all else in his life. He accounted it true Christianity that he cared for his own and helped others, and fiercely resisted the notion that he ought to accept help from any other mortal. When his aged wife died, he buried her himself, then dug his own grave and laid in it his open, homemade coffin. “When my time is coming,” he said, “I’ll climb in the box and fold my arms over my chest. Won’t be no bother to no one. They can just nail down the lid and push in the dirt.”

The Church has received official recognition for its local leaders and organizations from the State of Kuwait. Nearly 300 members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints live and work in Kuwait; they come from many countries around the world. Formal recognition from the government allows local leaders to better serve the needs of members in Kuwait.
Bishop Terry Harradine of the Kuwait Ward, Manama Bahrain Stake, expressed gratitude to the government of Kuwait for allowing freedom of worship in Kuwait, particularly for the expatriate workforce, and for promoting religious tolerance within the country.

For a jade carving to have great value, the jade has to be one solid color. Carvings made out of perfect jade sell for high prices because it is nearly impossible to find perfect jade. The Jadeite Cabbage is green on one end and white on the other, and it has cracks and ripples. No skilled carver would waste time on such a piece of jade, until someone came along whom the Chinese call a master carver.
If this jade could talk, I can imagine the conversation it would have with this new carver. I imagine the carver picking up this piece of jade.
“What do you want?” the jade would ask.
“I am looking for jade to carve,” the carver would say.
“Then find another piece. I am of no worth. I have two different colors so intertwined that you’ll never separate them. I have cracks and ripples in me. I will never be of any worth. Don’t waste your time.”
“Oh, you silly little jade. Trust me. I am a master carver. I will make a masterpiece of you.”
What makes the Jadeite Cabbage so amazing is that this anonymous master carver used the weaknesses of the jade—the two colors, the cracks, and the ripples—to make the cabbage all the more lifelike. The opaque white part became the stem of the cabbage, and the cracks and ripples make the leaves come to life. If it weren’t for the “weaknesses” of this jade, it could not have looked so real.
Because of the beauty of this piece of art, it became a gift for one of the royalties in China and adorned the halls of beautiful Asian palaces until it ended up at the museum in Taiwan.

One girl commented that there are so many modern conveniences available to the housewife today that she now has time she didn’t have a few years ago. The well-organized Latter-day Saint woman can straighten her house, read to her children for two hours, fix a good meal, and still have two hours that night to teach an MIA class or distribute United Fund brochures, as well as have a quiet hour with her husband to discuss the day’s activities.

The Ramabulana family from South Africa each took a turn to share how they #ConnectwithChrist:
“I connect with Jesus Christ when I listen to general conference talks in the morning on my way to work. I feel that by doing that, I’m inviting the Holy Spirit into my day.” —Nat Ramabulana, Dad

I think it was C. S. Lewis—I believe he was quoting George MacDonald—who said that we are like a house. When Christ comes in, it hurts abominably. We knew the roof and the gutters needed fixing, Lewis said, but all of a sudden we find that he starts putting up a new story here, and he shoots out a new wing there. We knew that the cottage needed fixing and those things needed doing, but this? (See Mere Christianity, New York: MacMillan Publishing Co., 1943, p. 174.)

In Lucerne, Switzerland, every Saturday morning Sister Martha Stadelmann is one of the first customers at the flower stands in the open-air market. She stops first for a few bright pink baby roses and then at another stall for some bright yellow blooms for two friends who have birthdays next week. After breakfast she fills her basket with the bunches of brilliant blossoms, and then she tucks in a muffin to give to another friend as thanks for her lovely prayer last Sunday. Then Martha is off to visit her sisters. She spreads joy in her small Swiss branch by remembering and thinking of others—and showing her thoughtfulness in acts of kindness.

My wife, María, and I were baptized in 1978, and we found great happiness in the true Church. In 1986 we were able to travel to the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple and be sealed to our three children for eternity.
In 1988 María became pregnant with our fourth child. She soon became very sick, and we worried how the illness would affect her and the baby. When we initially feared that María had suffered a miscarriage, a doctor assured us that everything was normal. But María’s health steadily declined. One day she mentioned she had a feeling she would soon leave this life. I’d had a similar feeling, but I told her not to think of such things.
In September, we went to the doctor for her regular checkup. The doctor decided to admit María into the hospital; our daughter was born soon after—a month early. Although the baby had respiratory problems, we knew her birth was a miracle.
My wife, however, experienced serious complications and had to be operated on twice after the delivery. She received a priesthood blessing and seemed to be progressing well. But just a month later, her health rapidly declined.
On our 15th wedding anniversary, María and I read the scriptures together, and she shared her testimony of the gospel with me and asked me to take good care of the children. Then she began to have difficulty breathing and could no longer speak. As I sat at her bedside, I prayed to the Lord that His will might be done. But still I felt desperate. I questioned, “Why take someone so young? Why must we be separated?”
Some branch members came, and we gave María a blessing. I don’t remember what was said, but at the end of the blessing, the desperation finally left me and I became calm. When she took her last breath, a great peace came over me. A soft voice whispered in my ear to remember the covenants we made in the temple when we were sealed. I knew I would see her again.
I share my testimony that God lives and communicates His love and comfort through the Holy Ghost. He does work miracles.

Several months ago I spoke at a Relief Society conference at which more than 300 women were in attendance. The Young Women had also been invited to this event, and I noticed a number of teenage girls in the audience. Early in my talk I heard the sound of whispering at my extreme left. Looking in that direction, I saw three attractive young women talking quietly to one another.
Immediately I felt a little resentful. I am used to audiences giving me their full attention, and I am not very tolerant of people working against what a speaker is trying to do. However, I have spoken to enough young groups to know the gigantic challenge it is to hold their attention, to keep their eyes riveted on the speaker, their hands out of their purses or away from combing each other’s hair, to keep them from trying on each other’s shoes or from poking each other and giggling.
Yet I believe strongly that audiences, even young ones, have an obligation to give complete courtesy to a speaker, to listen without causing distraction. My usual course of action, when a person in the audience continues to cause a disturbance, is to stop speaking, look at the offender and smile until I am noticed and the disturber is sheepishly brought back into line. Then I continue speaking. This generally works.
I glanced occasionally at the three girls on the front row as they continued to whisper to one another, but they did not notice my glances. My resentment built. Where were their mothers, anyway? Why did they come if they didn’t want to hear what I had to say? Why do the leaders force young people to go to things they don’t want to go to and aren’t prepared to appreciate? How dare they talk through my incredibly marvelous and moving presentation when everybody else in the hall was clearly spellbound?
I was reading “The Steward,” my favorite poem to read aloud, and the quiet buzz continued. Several times I looked at them and they looked back and then went on with their quiet conversation, the three of them leaning together. At the end of the poem I closed the book and looked directly at them. I smiled. They smiled back. And giggled. I smiled at them until they stopped giggling and looked at me without a sound. I then continued my talk.
Their conversation was not totally halted, however. It was quieter, but every once in a while I noticed them leaning toward one another and whispering. I gave up and finished out the talk, wishing that whoever had made them come had just let them be and wishing that young people these days placed a higher value on courtesy.
After the talk, as we were having refreshments in the cultural hall, a woman came up to me and shook my hand. “Sister Pearson,” she said, “I hope those girls didn’t disturb you too much. Let me tell you about them. They’ve only been in the country a week. They came from Lebanon, and they just missed the massacre [September 16–17, 1982] by eight hours. They probably would have been killed, but somehow they were taken out of the country and arrived here. Our ward has sort of adopted them. We wanted to have them come tonight in spite of the fact that they don’t speak English very well. They were sitting there trying to help one another figure out what you were saying.”
A tremor ran through my consciousness, shattering a perception and letting me see behind judgment into reality. I no longer wanted to take the girls and shake them by the shoulders. I wanted to take them in my arms and tell them how glad I was that they had come. Suddenly I knew their secret, and it changed everything.

First Snow by Kim Lewis Daddy was sick, so Mommy, Sara, Sara’s teddy bear, and the family’s two dogs went to feed the sheep. It started to snow, and Sara tried to catch some flakes while she helped Mommy spread hay. On the way home, she remembered her teddy bear. Mommy said that they couldn’t go back for it, but one of the dogs brought it. Lovely, lovely art!

1. I’ve seen the photographs;
I’ve seen the women on my screens.
It’s heavy on my mind
Why they seem happier than me.
And I’ve been running ’round
Chasing down the person I should be.
It keeps me up at night.
These expectations always seem
Too heavy. How can I
Find truth when it’s so hard to see?
’Cause it’s like tryin’ to find
a drop inside an ocean far too deep. Mm.
But then I hear You when I feel alone.
Your voice can heal me,
Save me from myself.
You take my weight
And carry it away.
And I remember I’m beloved.
I’m divine—
Divine in nature,
And I’m perfectly designed.
When I don’t feel wanted,
You call me—
I remember I’m beloved.
I’m divine—
Divine in nature,
And I’m perfectly designed.
When I don’t feel wanted,
You call me beloved. Beloved.
2. I tune the noises out,
And in the silence I can see
You love me more than life,
And your love is all the hope I need.
The proof is in the stars
And in the scars you took for me.
Sometimes I hear You when I feel alone.
Your voice can heal me,
Save me from myself.
I know who I am
No matter where I go.
I remember I’m beloved.
I’m divine—
Divine in nature,
And I’m perfectly designed.
When I don’t feel wanted,
You call me—
I remember I’m beloved.
I’m divine—
Divine in nature,
And I’m perfectly designed.
When I don’t feel wanted,
You call me beloved. Beloved.
My scars don’t make me who I am.
Oh, they just tell my story.
The imperfections fade away,
And You help me see the beauty.
My scars don’t make me who I am.
Oh, they just tell my story.
The imperfections fade away,
Fade away.
And I remember I’m beloved.
I’m divine—
Divine in nature,
And I’m perfectly designed.
When I don’t feel wanted,
You call me—
I remember I’m beloved.
I’m divine—
Divine in nature,
And I’m perfectly designed.
When I don’t feel wanted,
You call me beloved. Beloved.

As a teenager, I didn’t want to participate in the branch choir. I loved to sing, but singing with the branch never thrilled me. One day, though, I grudgingly decided to accompany my mom to choir practice. Believe it or not, I actually had fun that day. I couldn’t exactly explain what it was, but for the first time I could remember, I wanted to be there. I continued to go.
At our last practice before we were to sing at branch conference, a recently returned missionary suggested that our choir go sing for Sister Rose. Sister Rose was a sweet 90-year-old lady whom I’d heard a lot about but never met. She was homebound, and the leaders were always telling us youth that she was lonely and that we should visit her. Not knowing her, I felt funny about just showing up on her doorstep. When this returned missionary suggested we sing, I jumped on the idea. Everyone else did too.
The next week, our choir sang at branch conference. Our stake president said that we were one of the best choirs in the stake. Even though we were a small branch, we had the best turnout as well.
Finally, we got to go sing for Sister Rose. I don’t recall having met a sweeter lady. While we were singing, she caught my eye and smiled. I struggled hard to choke back the tears as I saw her singing the chorus of “Praise to the Man” with us. That day I knew why I had participated in the choir.
After we were done, Sister Rose said we were one of the best choirs in the stake. Members of our choir enthusiastically reported to her that the stake president had said the same thing.
The joy I saw on her face was worth dragging myself from my Sunday afternoon nap to choir practice. In fact, it was a small price to pay. I shudder to think that if I had been hardhearted and not gone to choir, I would have missed out on this amazing experience. It was wonderful to be a part of something that brought another person such happiness.

Just an example: I understand that there is a widely circulated story that I was alleged to have had a patriarchal blessing (I don’t know whether any of you have heard about that) that had to do with the coming of the Savior and the ten tribes of Israel.
In the first place, a patriarchal blessing is a sacred document to the person who has received it and is never given for publication and, as all patriarchal blessings, should be kept as a private possession to the one who has received it.
And second, with reference to that which I was alleged to have had, suffice it to say that such a quotation is incorrect and without foundation in fact.
There is one thing that shocks me: I have learned, in some instances, that those who have heard of these rumors are disappointed when I tell them they are not so. They seem to have enjoyed believing a rumor without substance of fact. I would earnestly urge that no such idle gossip be spread abroad without making certain as to whether or not it is true.

There are some things that form a common bond between Santosh and other teenagers all over the world. One of those things is the gospel. Santosh was introduced to the gospel via his uncle, Dr. Edwin Dharma Raju, who joined the Church in Samoa when he was on assignment from the government of India.

When Dr. Raju returned to India, he wanted his family to hear the gospel message, and he wrote to Church headquarters for missionaries to be sent to his family. Instead, Dr. Raju and his wife went on a short-term mission to teach the family themselves.

Santosh was eight years old when he and several family members accepted the gospel. The water tank on the roof of his Uncle Henry’s building was scrubbed and painted to serve as a baptismal font. The men and boys who attended the baptism were dressed in traditional white, loose-fitting Indian jackets and trousers. The women were dressed in white saris, the standard dress of Indian women, consisting of a long piece of cloth draped over the shoulder and wrapped around the body. The newly baptized family was to form the nucleus of the branch in Hyderabad.

During a lunch-hour study session as a missionary, I was reviewing the fourth discussion. Silently I reviewed the questions we ask our investigators about the mission of the Savior. Suddenly, in the quiet of the moment, the roles seemed to change, and I became not the teacher, but the one being taught.
The experience was overpowering. Never before had the Savior’s Atonement been so real to me. At that moment, I knew the anguish of his sacrifice, and I felt encompassed by his love. I shall not fully comprehend in this life the marvelous gift the Savior offers us, but the power of that moment has sustained me. And I am filled with awe whenever I partake of the sacrament, the emblem of his gift of love, his gift of life.

Simone has other favorites too. He loves animals and always wanted to have a pet of his own. Not long ago, his dream came true! “My brother and I got two dogs!” he said with a smile. “We named them Birba and Quinzia.” Birba (which means “naughty”) is a small basset hound; Quinzia is a boxer.
Simone and his brother, Emanuele, love to play with the dogs and take them for walks around their neighborhood. Of course, having pets also means taking care of them. But Simone’s mother, Christina, says that he is very willing to do that. “He also helps with other chores around the house,” she adds, “and because I work outside the home, that is very important to me.”