Gospel Story Finder

I called Victoria, my best friend, on Thursday. I was excited and nervous. When she answered, I asked her if she would come to church with me. She said that she would! I was so excited. I also felt all warm inside. I knew that the Lord was pleased with what I did.
Victoria asked me what time church was. I told her it was from eleven o’clock to two o’clock. She asked if we could pick her up. I answered that we would pick her up around ten-thirty.
When I got off the phone, I told my mom what Victoria had said. I even called my dad at work just to tell him. I couldn’t wait until Sunday. I thought, And all I had to do was make a simple phone call!
Kathleen Harris, age 10Orange Park, Florida

Roberta Jensen sat on the airplane trying to feed her new baby and quiet her three other children—all under the age of four. She was exhausted and embarrassed and alone.
The passenger across the aisle was a tall, cheerful man in a dark suit who looked familiar. When she spoke to him, he introduced himself as Elder L. Tom Perry. “Oh!” she thought. “An Apostle right next to me! I wonder if he can feel the turmoil I’m in and read the feelings of my heart.”
As the plane took off, all four children started crying. Roberta’s embarrassment turned to panic. Suddenly Elder Perry put away his briefcase and asked gently, “May I hold the baby?” During the rest of the trip he cared for the baby, feeding him and rocking him to sleep, while the grateful mother calmed and fed the other children.
When dinner was served, she reached for the baby, but Elder Perry, still smiling, said the baby was sleeping peacefully and there was no need to disturb him.
“I survived the trip,” she says, “and retained a dear memory that will be a part of our family forever. Elder Perry saw someone in need of help and he set aside his own needs to give that help.”

One day a nameless Spanish deaf-mute girl found a priceless statue behind a wooden panel in a church she was cleaning. From then on she played with the marble baby each day, and each day she loved it more.
How the girl and the statue changed the lives of the people in the village, as well as those who came from outside the village to view the long-lost treasure, is a story that can bring deep and thoughtful pleasure to all who read it.
The story is beautifully, simply, and powerfully written to appeal to all ages, but especially to older readers of the Friend.

Image from Getty Images
Christmas wasn’t Christmas. Although I tried to be merry with carols playing in the background, I pulled out the storage bins with a heavy heart. The snowman cookie jar only reminded me that there was no one to bake with. The Santa figurine seemed to say that there was little reason to hang stockings, and the peppermint-striped wrapping paper reminded me that morning wouldn’t bring the voices of excited children.
This year our youngest had left for college, and our house felt lonely and quiet. I chose only the non-Santa type decorations and placed everything else back in their boxes.
With my husband out of town, I decorated the tree alone. My daughter-in-law posted pictures online of my grandchildren hanging ornaments on their tree, and my heart yearned for yesterday. I wondered how time had slipped by so quickly. How had my children grow so fast? Lost in my thoughts, I looked down at the light bulb in my hand. It was a single red bulb.
I examined the color, a deep red. Crimson. I looked around at the simplicity of what was left of the decorations: a few nativities, a manger built from popsicle sticks, and a decoration that spelled out NOEL in gold letters. My eyes were wet. The bulb was red—red like the atoning blood of the Savior.
I thought about how I had always equated decorations, cookie cutouts, and children’s glee on Christmas morning with what made me happy at Christmastime. Then I thought about my children and their eternal families. I thought about all the joy I had in my family and the joy they had in their own. I pondered how the babe lying in the manger made that possible. A sweetness of warmth sprung in my heart as I contemplated the gift of the Savior—not just for me but for all mankind.
“And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people” (Luke 2:10; emphasis added).
As I continued decorating the tree, I meditated on the humble birth and life of Jesus Christ. He came to mend the broken, build the downtrodden, comfort the lonely, bring peace in imperfection, and give compassion for suffering. He was born and died that we might live with Him in our Father’s kingdom once more. He came that man might know true happiness. My heart swelled and I found joy in Christ because Christ is Christmas.

Rebecca’s best friend, Cindy, lived just down the street. They played together all the time. They played with the same dolls and rode on the same bikes and even liked to dress alike.
One day, Cindy came over to play. She was carrying a big plastic bag.
“I brought you some clothes I grew out of,” Cindy said. “I thought you might like them.”
“Thanks!” Rebecca said. “Now I can really dress like you.”
Later that evening, after Cindy had gone home, Rebecca’s mom came into her room and sat on the bed.
“Let’s try out those new clothes you got,” Mom said.
Rebecca squealed with excitement and dumped out the bag of clothes. She went through the clothes one by one. First, she held up a pink dress.
“What a pretty dress,” Mom said. “That will fit you perfectly.” She hung the dress in the closet.
Next they looked at a pair of blue pants.
“Hmm, they look a little small,” Mom said. “Let’s give those to your younger sister.”
Then Rebecca picked up a blue tank top.
“This is so cute,” Rebecca said, holding it up. “Can I wear it?”
“It’s a cute color,” Mom said, “but I don’t think you should wear it.”
“Why not?” Rebecca asked. “It will be great to wear this summer.”
“It’s not modest,” Mom said.
Rebecca thought for a moment. “What does it mean to be modest?” she asked.
“Being modest means dressing in a way that shows Heavenly Father we respect our bodies,” Mom said.
“But, Mom, it’s so cute. And Cindy used to wear it!” Rebecca said.
Mom patted Rebecca on the shoulder and said, “I’ll let you decide what to do with it.”
Rebecca sighed. She knew it was important to listen to her mom, but she really liked the shirt. So when her mom left the room, Rebecca hid the tank top in her drawer underneath some other clothes. She thought maybe she could wear it one day when Mom wasn’t home.
A few weeks later when Rebecca was cleaning out her dresser, she found the blue tank top.
She pulled it out. Once again, she saw how cute it was. But she remembered what her mom had said and decided that she would rather show respect for her body than wear something immodest.
She went to talk to her mom. “Mom, remember that tank top Cindy gave me?” Rebecca asked as she held it out. “Well, I kept it hidden in my drawer. But I decided I don’t want to wear it. I would rather please Heavenly Father.”
Mom smiled and gave Rebecca a hug. “I’m glad you chose the right,” she said.

Each year the young men and young women from my ward take a caroling trip to a home for people with mental disabilities who don’t have families to take care of them. One year, the youth were split into three groups to sing carols to the residents. My group sang to a few older men, who sang along with us. One even helped conduct the songs!
After we finished singing to them, we joined another group of youth who were singing to women ranging in age from young adults to the elderly. Most of the people in our audience were smiling, and some were even singing along. We felt the Spirit as we saw the joy on their faces. They were so happy to have us there, because some of the residents had families who never visited them, even during the holidays.
After we finished our last song, our ward’s Young Women president told one of the elderly women that it was her turn. This woman had a song she liked to sing to every group that visited, and she was eager to share it with us.
As she began to sing her song, the Spirit in the room grew stronger with every word. Soon, some of the other women began to join in. I felt tears come to my eyes as we listened.
I doubt anyone in the room could deny that the Holy Ghost was present. We left with a reverent attitude and with a strong feeling of gratitude for the opportunity to serve.

Several years ago, Sister Packer and I determined that we should get our records in order. However, under the pressure of Church responsibilities with my travels about the world, and the obligations with our large family and a home to keep up both indoors and outdoors, there just was not enough time. We were restless and finally determined that we would have to make more time in the day.

So during the Christmas holidays, when we had a little extra time, we started. Then as we moved back to a regular schedule after the holidays, we adopted the practice of getting up an hour or two earlier each day.

We gathered everything we had together and in the course of a few weeks, we were amazed at what we were able to accomplish. The thing that was most impressive, however, was the fact that we began to have experiences that told us somehow that we were being guided, that there were those beyond the veil who were interested in what we were doing. Everything that needed to happen began to happen.

As we have traveled about the Church and paid particular attention to this subject, many testimonies have come to light. Others who assemble their records together are having similar experiences. It was as though the Lord was waiting for us to begin.

We found pictures, records and stories we had wondered about for a long time. It seemed as though they came to us almost too easily. More than this, things that we never dreamed existed began to show up. We began to learn by personal experience that this research into our families is an inspired work. We came to know that an inspiration will follow those who move into it. It is just a matter of getting started.

Once we started, we found the time. Somehow were able to carry on all of the other responsibilities. There seemed to be an increased inspiration in our lives because of the work.

But we must decide, and the Lord will not tamper with our agency. If we want a testimony of genealogical and temple work, we must do something about it.

The Lord will bless you once you begin this work. This has been very evident to us. Since the time we decided that we would start where we were, with what we had, many things have opened to us. We are still not, by any means, experts in genealogical research. We are, however, dedicated to our family. And it is my testimony that if we start where we are, each of us with ourselves, with such records as we have, and begin putting those in order, things will fall into place as they should.

I did want to be baptized, but when I got home my parents thought I was brainwashed and they did everything in their power to dissuade me. The awful thing about it was that I let them. I lost contact with all my LDS friends, and I let my testimony die. At one point in my life, I had wanted nothing to do with the Mormons, and I no longer believed in the doctrine.
But that still, small voice in me kept telling me to write in my journal. On one occasion I wrote:
I feel empty, I don’t feel complete, there is something missing. Why do I feel like I’m searching for something to grab on to? I’m lost; I desperately need direction. My testimony has been shattered. I feel I should hold on to my Catholic beliefs, but I don’t know what to do.
Well, even though it wasn’t a complete prayer, the Lord heard my plea. My friend from Quebec phoned to see how things were going. I tried to mask my feelings, but she saw through me. She pleaded with me to go to church. I finally told her I no longer believed and wanted nothing to do with the Mormons. She saw through that also. She told me she knew I had a testimony; it just needed to be revitalized. She told me that she loved me so much and wanted so badly for me to do the things that were right. We talked a little longer, and the last thing she told me was to go back to my journal and read what I had written. Well, that night I turned to my journal and read what I had written. Something came over me. I felt such a strong urge to pray. As I prayed and read, I felt that sweet, reassuring comfort of the Spirit. The Lord knew that I so very badly wanted to believe but that there were many obstacles in my way.
The next day I went to church contrary to my parents liking. I was so very scared, but right away some girls in the ward recognized that I was new and welcomed me. After many sleepless nights and long discussions, I was finally baptized. What really helped me when I needed it most was my journal. I said to myself, “I must have felt these things or I wouldn’t have written them.” Even at the time when I didn’t believe, I knew the Lord prompted me to write the things which I felt at the time. My journal saved me. It was a way the Lord was communicating with me, and it was something I knew I had to trust because it was coming from within.

When I sat across from President David O. McKay and was first called to this calling some 32 years ago, I remember that after he discussed with me what would be expected, he then charged me to serve by asking me to carry out this calling in a way that would be pleasing to my own father. That was enough of a challenge for a lifetime. President McKay knew my father, who had been a stake president for 20 years, and I looked on my father as one of the greatest men I knew. My first understanding of how important I was to my father and how real the Savior was, was when I heard him pray for us in family prayer.

He walked into the seminary classroom somewhat frightened, maybe a little aggressive, certainly not at ease. He came because most of the students in his school class came to seminary, but he came alone. Few spoke to him; no one walked with him. He had almost no friends.
For one so young his life had been a most difficult one. His father had been killed in a drunken fight. His mother was not interested in sending her children to church, and she was not really interested in sending them to school. She received financial aid from the state, and much of that money was used to purchase liquor for herself and her boyfriends. There were two other children in the family; all three had different fathers.
Even the most basic material goods were lacking in the home, including adequate food and clothing. The boy had only a sweater to keep him warm in the cold weather. Before he arrived at school, he would take the sweater off because it had large holes in it and he didn’t want other students to see. He wore no socks because he had none. His hands were rough and chapped because the house had only cold water and no soap with which to wash. This boy was thin and had no vitality. Food was not plentiful, and what was available was worthless and lacking nutrition. He lived in a dirty area on the far side of town and was uncomfortable when he visited any other section of the community.
The first day of class I invited him to sit on the front row. He did so willingly but not comfortably. I tried to make friends with him, but it was very difficult. He appeared to trust no one.
After school had been in session for several weeks, I asked if he would like to give the prayer. He quickly and forcefully refused. I later learned that he had never heard a prayer until his first day in that class. He had never been to church; he had never held the priesthood. As the days passed there was little change in his willingness to communicate, to smile, or to seek friends.
A month before the Christmas holidays, one young lady requested class time to present a matter of concern. The young man was absent that day, and as she stood before the group her message was simply, “We are not friendly with him, we do not speak with him, we do not walk with him, we do not associate with him. This seems to me to be very wrong. After all, he is important too.” Then she suggested that they could and should be friendly to him and help him to understand how important he was—his importance to them and to himself. The students all agreed to respond to her recommendations. Then she suggested that they each contribute a small amount of money toward buying him a coat for Christmas. This suggestion they also willingly accepted.
You did not have to be told they were succeeding in their efforts. The results were in his eyes, in his walk, and in his smile. It was obvious to everyone that there was a change in his life. He walked a little prouder. He was able to look others in the eye and smile as he extended a friendly greeting.
One day there was a note on my desk which read, “If you cannot find someone to give the prayer today, I will,” and he signed his name. Strangely enough no one else offered to give the prayer that day, so I called on him. He did not close his eyes. He did not fold his arms. He did not bow his head or do any of the things we normally do in prayer. He simply looked up to the ceiling with his hands by his side and said, “Oh, God, help us. Amen.” No one smiled. No one said a word. It was a wonderful prayer to him and to every member of the class.
Two or three days before the Christmas vacation, the young lady who had proposed the plan to help him came to class with a beautifully wrapped Christmas package and again requested class time. She stood and thanked each of the students for their kindness and their willingness to respond to her earlier suggestions. Then she spoke for just a moment about the value of individuals regardless of their status in life, their home background, their scholastic abilities, or their popularity. She said that every one is very important. The young man, a bit suspicious at first, suddenly became aware the young lady was about to involve him in a new experience.
After some moments, she took him by the arm and had him stand by her side. She told him how much they appreciated him and how valuable he was to the class. She said they all appreciated him and were pleased he was their friend. By now he had tears in his eyes, but so did I and most of the class. She then laid the package in his arms, and the tears increased. After a moment or two passed, another young man in the class said, “If you will open the package you can see what’s in it.”
Slowly, methodically, with great care and a desire not to tear the paper, he opened the package and held up a beautiful jacket. He continued to show his emotions, and so did the class. After some moments, the same boy said, “If you’ll unzip it you can put it on.” He opened the zipper and slowly put his arms into each sleeve, pulling the jacket around him and displaying a happy smile through the tears. He wore the coat every day until the last week in May.
Something had happened in his life that had never happened before. Someone gave him something, and in that gift was an expression of appreciation and love that he had never known. He later told some of us that he had only had one Christmas present in 14 years, and that had been an orange.
Needless to say, the young man’s life had changed. He became happy in his school work, he participated in many activities, the other students enjoyed him, and he made many friends. If the story ended there it would be a great story, and the young lady who recognized the worth of a soul would have performed a miracle. But the miracle continued. This young man filled a mission, married in the temple, and is the father of two lovely children. His half sister has also married in the temple. She and her fine husband are both active in the Church. A third child, a half brother, also filled a mission and has completed his college work. And the mother—oh, yes, the mother. She reports that each night she thanks her Heavenly Father for many things, including a young lady who knew the value of her son and was willing to make her feelings known. Secondly, she thanks her Heavenly Father for the great principle of repentance and forgiveness. Third, she thanks him for her membership in the Church, for a loving Savior who helped her family change. Then she thanks him for the privilege of being the secretary in her ward Relief Society and for the love and kindness of all her sisters there.
Yes, he was someone special, and the class was special.

One Sunday I learned about fasting and prayer in my Primary class. That night we found out that my little brother, Adam, had the chicken pox. He was only five months old, and we were worried that he would get very sick. I asked my mom if I could fast and pray for him. Mom and I decided to fast and pray together. Even though Adam was sick all week and got covered with chicken pox, he always acted happy.
I’m glad that I learned about fasting and prayer so that we could ask Heavenly Father for extra help. I know that Heavenly Father heard our prayers.Katie P., age 8, California

Tomás looked at the money in his hand and sighed. Two hundred pesos—not nearly enough. There were three fifty-peso pieces, two twenty-peso pieces, and one of the five-sided coins that Tomás called “cuadrados (squares).” The ten-peso coin wasn’t really square, of course, but Tomás liked the way the word sounded. He looked around him. The streets were almost empty now; soon it would be dark. With another sigh, Tomás picked up his shoeshine box and started home.
It was 1985, and Tomás lived in Santa Maria, a small town in northern Mexico. Every day after school, he walked up and down the dusty, unpaved streets looking for shoes to shine or odd jobs to do. He had to help his mother; his father had been killed two years ago in an accident at work. Tomás had four sisters and a brother, and his mother didn’t make enough money doing washing and sewing to feed everyone. But Tomás never complained. He was proud to be considered the man of the house at such an early age!
“Hola (hello), Tomás.” Doña Eva was standing beside her gate, holding a soda bottle. “Will you do me a favor? Anda (go) and bring me a drink from the store. You may keep the change, but please don’t be too long—I am very thirsty.”
Tomás put down his box and took the bottle. “I’ll be right back,” he called as he raced down the street.
Most of the adobe houses were dark. Santa Maria was so small that only the school and one store had electricity. Most of Santa Maria’s people didn’t even want electric lights. Here and there, oil lamps made strange, dancing shapes on the street.
Tomás was almost at the store when he stopped in astonishment. Two huge, shiny trucks were in the tiny plaza. Surrounding the trucks were villagers, some of them with armloads of clothing or blankets. With surprise, Tomás saw his own mother handing a brightly colored serape to a man in the truck. The long, narrow blanket was his mother’s favorite, a gift to her from his father. “Mamá! What are you doing?” he cried, running over to her.
“Remember how we heard of a great earthquake farther south? There are many who have lost both loved ones and homes. I cannot give much, but I want to send something that will help.”
“But you love that serape! Papá …”
Tomás’s mother smiled. “Your father would want to give something, Tomás. And I love my sisters and brothers too. Remember that as children of God, we are all family, hijo (son). I want to send a little love and comfort to someone who needs it more right now.” She saw the soda bottle. “That must be for Doña Eva,” she said. “She’s always impatient for her soda, Tomás. Run; do your errand for her.”
Tomás did as he was told, but not happily. He felt guilty about his very selfish thoughts, but he couldn’t help them. “How can anyone have less than we do?” he asked himself. “My mother never has anything new. We eat only beans and tortillas. Someday I will have much money, and then I will give. Not now!”
In the store, Tomás paid for the soft drink. He counted his change to be sure it was right. He was very proud of his reputation for integrity.
“Send Tomás,” Doña Eva always said when someone needed an errand run. “He’s a good, honest boy.” Remembering that the change was his, Tomás carefully put it into his empty pocket. He was about to go, when he noticed the newspaper on the store counter.
There were pictures of the earthquake damage—fallen buildings and huge cracks in the streets. In one corner was a picture of a tiny child. Tears filled Tomás’s eyes as he read the caption: Brave Boy Loses Life to Save Baby Sister. Tomás thought of his younger brother and sisters. They were noisy little pests, but he was glad that they were there, filling the small house with happiness. Tonight he would tell them that he loved them!
When Tomás passed the plaza again, all the villagers were gone. The trucks were still parked there, and Tomás stared at them. The coins in his pocket were heavy and cold. He had planned to put aside ten percent of his money for tithing, a few pesos for his savings, and give the rest to his mother. The money was important to his family, and it wasn’t enough to help anyone, anyway.
He couldn’t forget the picture in the paper, though. Why had he looked at it? But his mother was right—he had a lot. He had her, his brother, and his sisters. Tomás smiled a little. He even had dreams, big dreams. What was it his father used to say? “If you have dreams, and if you have faith, you have much.” He turned and walked back to the nearest truck. “It’s only a few pesos,” he said, holding out all except his tithing money.
The man took the coins and smiled at Tomás. “Thanks, son. It’s more than you know. There are people in need of medicine, even babies without food. Believe me, every peso will help someone live. Thank you!”
Tomás thought of the baby in the picture. Maybe his money would help her. But the important thing was that it would help someone. He said good-bye and hurried on toward Doña Eva’s house. “Thank Thee, Father, for giving me so much!” he prayed aloud.

Amy was the fastest runner in her third-grade class. She loved to run, especially as she skimmed across the furrows in her father’s plowed fields and chased the seagulls flying above her. No one—boy or girl—ever beat her in races at school. She could jump high and far too. She practiced jumping over ditch banks, even when they were wider than she was tall. If Sara or Grant asked to see her jump over a tree stump or a hedge, she would take a long run and fly over it.
Every night, Amy snuggled up next to Mom on her bed while Mom brushed Amy’s hair and curled it into long ringlets. Amy’s baptism was coming up, but Mom was too sick to be with her on that special day. Amy listened closely as Mom and Dad told her what to expect. They told her stories of their own baptisms. Dad had been baptized in a large stream, and Mom had been baptized in the font in the Salt Lake Tabernacle.
“I’m excited to be baptized,” Amy said, “but I’m curious about the Holy Ghost.”
“You’ve already been helped by the Holy Ghost,” Dad said. “Remember when you wanted to be a better reader? You prayed for help, and help came. Your testimony came from the power of the Holy Ghost, and so did your faith to be healed when the bishop and I gave you a blessing when you were sick.”
Mom explained that one of the gifts of the Holy Ghost that Amy could receive was being able to see things to come*—things that would help her make wise choices.
Only five weeks after Amy’s baptism and confirmation, she and Sara and Grant climbed on top of Grant’s garage to look out over the stream and surrounding fields. Wild yellow roses grew on the banks of the stream, and the fields were sparkling green.
“Hey, Amy,” Sara said. “I dare you to jump from here onto the shed.” She pointed to the roof of the nearby shed.
Amy hesitated. She knew it wasn’t good to take dares, but she also knew that she was a good jumper. “OK,” she finally said. But as she stood up—ready to jump—she imagined herself falling to the ground between the garage and shed. She thought she saw herself lying on the ground.
Seeing the danger in her mind, Amy said: “I can’t. It’s too far.” Sara and Grant didn’t say anything as Amy sat down. She was glad they didn’t tease her. They seemed to know that she had made the right decision.
That evening, Amy told Mom and Dad what had happened at Grant’s house. “I knew that it was a gift from the Holy Ghost. He showed me that I would fall if I tried to jump. I could see myself lying on the ground, really hurt.”
Mom held Amy close. Dad told her how thankful he was that she had listened to the Holy Ghost. And both Mom and Dad told her never to climb on Grant’s garage again!
“I won’t,” Amy promised.
Amy never forgot the gift she was given that day by the Holy Ghost and the change it made in her life.

A conversation some years ago with a friend was influential in my commitment to attend Relief Society. I had just stopped teaching school and was enjoying staying home. My friend asked, “If you don’t go back to work, won’t you be wasting all those years of education?”
My answers were not very convincing to her. “I know you,” she insisted. “You don’t like to cook or sew. You never even enjoyed tending children as a teenager the way the rest of us did. You are a good student and like to perform. You like to be out with people. You’ll be bored in a few years at home.”
“Well,” I replied with perhaps a little feeling of smugness, “I have Relief Society.”
“You can’t tell me that a meeting once a week will supply all your needs outside your home,” she protested.
Since then, I have discovered we both were right during that discussion. Being content at home has been more difficult for me than I anticipated. But belonging to an organization that encourages sisterhood and a desire to serve, encourages womanhood, develops talents, stimulates learning, and increases spirituality does make me happy. In fact, it keeps me singing.

In World War II, I had an experience aboard a United States naval vessel in the South Pacific that was a powerful example of the virtue of wise choices and the peril of making decisions that are immature or impetuous, or are made in the heat of emotion, or that go thoughtlessly along with the crowd.

The young man aboard my ship was obviously special. He was modest and able and promising, and it was a blessing to be with him on the few occasions when our particular duties during wartime made it possible to be together.

But circumstance dictated that much more of the time and attention of my young associate was spent with others with whom he worked intimately in the compressed life of a crew aboard a ship at sea. These associates had life-styles and a view of values that were far removed from those to which this choice lad was accustomed. Gradually, the circumstances and the daily pressures began to take their toll on a not yet fully stable young man.

One day in a far-off port, I observed him almost furtively preparing to go ashore in the company of some of those experienced individuals who were taking him into town for one of their “good times,” as they supposed. In the navy, these periods off duty were ironically called “liberty.”

I had a brief moment with him as he went over the gangway and tried to warn him that this adventure was perilous and that these men meant him no good. His furtiveness turned to defiance, and he plainly told me that he was a big boy now, able to make up his own mind, and that he would do as he chose.

The consequences of the decisions he made that day—and those that were made for him when, through their iniquitous “help,” he had lost the power to think for himself or govern his own behavior—were different than he ever intended or could imagine. In his immaturity, he rebelliously chose the beginning of a road without thinking where that road would lead him. The place at which he arrived in the next few hours was one which he would never in his right mind have chosen.

When he returned to the ship, overleave overseas in wartime, out of control, and in custody of the shore patrol, he became subject to severe discipline. I cannot forget his tearful anguish as he awaited his ordeal. He could not even remember anything of the most serious of the tragedies that had occurred to him. All he could recall was lifting a glass they pressed on him, not knowing that they had drugged the drink, and then all was blank. They had proceeded to take him on their rounds with them.

The charges against him, indelibly imprinted on his previously perfect service record, were heartbreaking. I won’t forget his tearful anguish as he said over and over, “What will I tell my mom? What will I tell my girl?”

He had time now—and the disposition to listen and to think. We read together the sweet counsel of the Lord concerning Christ’s atoning sacrifice and his mission of redemption and of forgiveness and mercy (see Alma 42).

I have never been able to refer to these powerful words without thinking about a clean young man of strong promise who followed bad counsel and bad example into tragedy, with compromise to conscience and with heartbreak to himself and to those who loved him. We cannot with impunity follow the example or heed the counsels of unwisdom or unrighteousness, or of ignorance or immaturity or ego or greed or bravado.

In such a dream, my grandfather’s ears were opened and instruction was given, or sealed, that would change our family for eternity.
Brígido Becerra grew up in Puebla, Mexico. Sadly, he grew up without a father, and at the age of 11, Brígido’s mother died in his arms. He was left alone to live his life as best as he could. At the time, there were no social programs or opportunities to assist an orphan boy like Brígido. Without any guidance or someone to care for him, Brígido became addicted to alcohol. That addiction negatively affected almost every aspect of his life.
At one point his addiction become so severe, he felt he was going to lose his wife and children. In desperation, he decided to pray. He had not been raised with any religion and so offered a prayer in his own way. He pleaded for help to overcome his addiction and sincerely sought to find an escape from his problems.
Sometime after he uttered that sincere prayer, sister missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints visited his home. They had met his wife, Julia, and had told the children about Primary at the local ward. They now sought Brígido’s permission for the children to attend.
The sisters began to teach Brígido and his family about the Restoration of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Back then, missionaries taught using flannel boards to show pictures while they were teaching. During this lesson they showed a picture of the Prophet Joseph Smith. Brígido immediately recognized the man in the picture. He told the sister missionaries he knew this man. They were puzzled by what Brígido said. He was from Mexico and Joseph Smith had lived and died in the United States many years before Brígido was even born. There was no way Brígido knew Joseph Smith.
My grandfather then shared his dream with the missionaries. He told them he dreamed that he was working on his small ranch cutting alfalfa with his machete and gathering other food to feed his chickens and pigs. As he was busy working, a large serpent attacked him. My grandfather fought the serpent as best he could, but it wrapped itself around him, opened its mouth, and was about to swallow him whole.
At that very moment of peril, a man dressed in white, and with a sword in hand, cut off the head of the serpent. As it fell dead at Brígido’s feet, he looked up to see who had saved his life. He did not recognize the man but noted he was dressed in white. Then he explained that the man in the picture the sisters were sharing was the man in his dream. Brígido had immediately recognized that this was the man in his dream, the man who saved him. Now he knew the man’s name was Joseph Smith.
This dream was a vivid learning experience for my grandfather. He felt it was a direct answer to his prayers and pleadings. He said he felt that the serpent was a representation of his addiction to alcohol. And he understood, through the powerful teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith and the doctrine of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, that he would be able to overcome his addiction. He knew he would find relief and receive the full blessings of the Atonement of Jesus Christ.
Elder Becerra’s grandfather, Brígido Becerra and his wife, photographed on their only visit to the United States.
Photograph courtesy of the author
Shortly after sharing this experience with the sister missionaries, my grandfather Brígido Becerra was baptized a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He loved the gospel of Christ. He had a special love for the Book of Mormon and all the prophets, especially Joseph Smith.
My grandfather’s dream led him to the true gospel of Christ and not only saved him from a life of addiction and sorrow but also blessed generations of faithful members of the Church. When my grandfather passed away at the age of 98, he left approximately 120 descendants—children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren. Each one has been affected by his dream and by his legacy of testimony and faithfulness to the Church and to the Savior, Jesus Christ.

Eighteen months after the surgery, my husband and I were invited to speak at a religious conference. The topic? “What accessing the grace of Jesus Christ daily looks like.” As we prepared, we immersed ourselves in studying Christ’s grace and how it operates in our lives. Grace, as defined in the Bible Dictionary, is “divine means of help or strength, given through the bounteous mercy and love of Jesus Christ.”
One week before the conference, I went on a bike ride with a friend. I rode my recumbent trike, which gives me the freedom to move, while she pedaled beside me on her bicycle. We talked as we rode, and as usual I cried. Sadness had become my constant companion, something the medical world might label as situational depression. I opened up to my friend about how lost I felt, about the overwhelming sadness that shadowed my days.
She asked me a question that has stayed with me ever since: “Stacy, what exactly are you sad about? What do you feel like you’ve lost?” I didn’t have an answer. I knew I was sad about my loss of movement, fearful that I would never regain my strength or the ability to do the things I once could. But the source of my sadness remained elusive.
A few days before the conference, the answer I had been searching for came to me, seemingly out of nowhere. I woke up in the middle of the night, a time when my anxious thoughts usually kept me company. But that night, a phrase echoed in my mind: “Graceful—full of grace.” As I drifted back to sleep, I thought to myself, “Yes, that’s a good point. Being graceful means being full of His grace. I’ll include that in my presentation.”
When I woke again in the morning, the same phrase was there, clear and insistent: “Graceful—full of grace.” I realized then that this message wasn’t just for the people at the conference—it was for me. That was the source of my sadness. That was what I had lost: my physical gracefulness.
As a young girl, I had been a ballerina, dancing through much of my adolescence and into college. I had never thought of myself as graceful, but years of training had ingrained in me a certain physical poise—a way of standing, moving, and balancing. Even after I stopped dancing, that grace remained. And now, in the quiet of those early morning hours, the Lord was redefining the word for me. I no longer needed the physical grace I once had. I had His grace to lean on in my moments of weakness. His grace was sufficient to help me smile, to shift my focus from my limitations to His strength.
Heaven’s message to me was clear: “You no longer need to rely on the physical grace you’ve learned. My strength is made perfect in your weakness.”
Graceful.
It’s a word I now carry with me, not as a reminder of what I’ve lost but of what I’ve gained. It’s not about my grace anymore—it’s about Christ’s grace, filling my heart and mind.
Graceful. It’s a word I now carry with me, not as a reminder of what I’ve lost but of what I’ve gained.
At the conference, I found myself in a room packed with people, needing to cross to the other side. There was no clear aisle, no easy path to navigate. As I stood up, I whispered to myself, “Graceful.” His grace, not mine. That simple word gave me the courage to move, to weave through the crowd without fear.
The more I let go of my old grace and embraced His, the easier life became. I found the strength to do what I could never do alone. His grace allowed me to see myself as a beloved daughter of God, to give my all, knowing He would fill in the gaps where I couldn’t. His grace brought gratitude even for my weaknesses.
I still wrestle with frustration and fear every day. My “thorn” hasn’t been removed. But now when those dark thoughts creep in, I have a powerful tool: the Savior’s grace. I repeat the word graceful to myself and move forward with Him. I don’t know when or how physical healing will come, but I trust that He knows, and that’s enough.
Like Paul, I am grateful for my infirmity because it has opened my eyes to see Him more clearly in my life. I place my trust in Him, and in return He gives me peace and joy and the assurance that He will deliver me.

Third, I will never forget my consternation as I watched the workmen using new nails as they built the walls back up and completed remodeling our home. The pile of nails that I had straightened and put in the green bucket grew and grew and was never used. I went to my father and said, “Wouldn’t it be better to save the new nails and use the ones I have straightened?” I was proud of the work I had accomplished.
My father showed me something very important. He took a new nail and, using an odd angle, drove it into a board. He was able to drive it straight and true. Then he took one of the nails I had straightened so carefully, and, using the same odd angle, hit it again and again. It soon bent and was impossible to drive into the board. So I learned that a used or bent nail is never as strong as a new one. But then why had my father asked me to straighten those nails?
As a boy, I never remembered receiving a satisfactory answer. It was not until I had a son of my own that I started to understand. When my son was about three years old, I took him out to the garden to help me weed. I assumed that he, being low to the ground at the time, would have a real advantage at weeding. Unfortunately for my garden, he had a difficult time distinguishing between the weeds and the young plants.
I then tried Lee at milking a cow we owned together with a neighbor. He quickly developed the hand action of a fine milker, but, sadly, his aim was not very good. Whenever I checked on him, he was always surrounded by a white puddle, and the milk bucket was nearly empty. He would look up at me and smile proudly, and my initial inclination to be angry would quickly dissipate—but I was frustrated. I expected him to help me, but he only seemed to create more work.
It was in such moments of frustration that I remembered straightening the nails for my father, and I began to understand. Work is something more than the final end result. It is a discipline. We must learn to do, and do well, before we can expect to receive tangible rewards for our labors. My father must have known that if he focused on the outcome of my labors, he would only become frustrated with how inadequately I did things then. So he found tasks that were difficult and would challenge me, to teach me the discipline of hard work. He was using the straightened nails not to rebuild our home but to build my character.

In my last conference message, I related my devastating experience many years ago when, as a heart surgeon, I was not able to save the lives of two little sisters. With permission of their father, I would like to say more about that family.
Congenital heart disease afflicted three children born to Ruth and Jimmy Hatfield. Their first son, Jimmy Jr., died without a definitive diagnosis. I entered the picture when the parents sought help for their two daughters, Laural Ann and her younger sister, Gay Lynn. I was heartbroken when both girls died following their operations.1 Understandably, Ruth and Jimmy were spiritually shattered.
Over time, I learned that they harbored lingering resentment toward me and the Church. For almost six decades, I have been haunted by this situation and have grieved for the Hatfields. I tried several times to establish contact with them, without success.
Then one night last May, I was awakened by those two little girls from the other side of the veil. Though I did not see or hear them with my physical senses, I felt their presence. Spiritually, I heard their pleadings. Their message was brief and clear: “Brother Nelson, we are not sealed to anyone! Can you help us?” Soon thereafter, I learned that their mother had passed away, but their father and younger brother were still alive.
Emboldened by the pleadings of Laural Ann and Gay Lynn, I tried again to contact their father, who I learned was living with his son Shawn. This time they were willing to meet with me.
In June, I literally knelt in front of Jimmy, now 88 years old, and had a heart-to-heart talk with him. I spoke of his daughters’ pleadings and told him I would be honored to perform sealing ordinances for his family. I also explained that it would take time and much effort on his and Shawn’s part to be ready and worthy to enter the temple, as neither of them had ever been endowed.
The Spirit of the Lord was palpable throughout that meeting. And when Jimmy and Shawn each accepted my offer, I was overjoyed! They worked diligently with their stake president, bishop, home teachers, and ward mission leader, as well as with young missionaries and a senior missionary couple. And then, not long ago, in the Payson Utah Temple, I had the profound privilege of sealing Ruth to Jimmy and their four children to them. Wendy and I wept as we participated in that sublime experience. Many hearts were healed that day!
On reflection, I have marveled at Jimmy and Shawn and what they were willing to do. They have become heroes to me.
If I could have the wish of my heart, it would be that each man and young man in this Church would demonstrate the courage, strength, and humility of this father and son. They were willing to forgive and let go of old hurts and habits. They were willing to submit to guidance from their priesthood leaders so that the Atonement of Jesus Christ could purify and magnify them. Each was willing to become a man who worthily bears the priesthood “after the holiest order of God.”2

After I graduated from high school, I was drafted by the Los Angeles Dodgers on June 5, 1993. I had already signed a letter of intent to play baseball for BYU, and my plan was to go to college in Provo. After I had gone through the long, difficult process and come to the conclusion that I was going to go on a mission, I told the [baseball] scouts of my plans. I was called stupid by some scouts. But I did have one scout—the one who drafted me for the Dodgers—who told me if I went on my mission it would only help me when I returned to come and play baseball again. He said that’s mainly the reason why I was drafted. He just thought a mission would help me.

Well, my mission has helped me in more ways than that scout will ever know. I’ve had days out here where I’ll think back to when I was pitching, and I’ve come to realize that in the mission field there are more important things than baseball. I don’t think I really realized that back home. My testimony has grown a lot. I’ve learned so much out here about what I believe and about why I was given talents. I can see now that I can play baseball to build the kingdom of our Heavenly Father if I use that talent correctly. Had I gone straight into baseball without going on a mission, I might have fallen into the selfish I’m-playing-baseball-for-me trap.

Learning those lessons has been one of the great things about my mission. That’s why I’m so happy I chose to serve a mission, because that summer after I graduated from high school I wasn’t sure what I would do. I had this tempting offer from the Dodgers, but I had also signed a letter of intent to BYU.

When I got to high school, I made the baseball team and was a starting pitcher my freshman year. So when I was drafted, I had to jump back a little and look at things. I had a big decision to make. Would I accept the Dodgers’ offer, or would I go to BYU? Would I go on a mission?

Having already made that decision when I was younger really helped me as far as deciding about my mission and baseball. Once the Dodgers started talking money with me, I started getting really serious. I realized these guys were going to give me a lot of money to play ball for them. I needed to make a commitment one way or the other. I spent a lot of time on my knees never really feeling anything. I think part of the reason for that was because I was looking for the answer I wanted. I wanted to play professional baseball. I wanted that really bad.

Finally, by the end of the summer, I decided to sit down and kick everything out of my mind. Not long after, I had the feeling I should go to BYU and continue my baseball career there. I also had a strong feeling that I was supposed to go on a mission.

Many a major league scout came up to me and said the basic line, “If you play baseball you’ll be able to influence so many people.” I wondered if maybe that was what I was supposed to do.

It was during this time that I realized I needed to serve a full-time mission, and what the scouts were suggesting wasn’t for me. Now, almost two years since I was set apart as a missionary, I have a few new things to think about. Since the Dodgers lost the right to sign me when I went on my mission, I was eligible to be drafted again last June. I didn’t think any team would take a chance on me while I was serving a mission, but the Chicago Cubs did draft me. My plan right now is to finish my mission this month, and then return home and see what the Cubs are offering me. I’ll just have to wait and see.

Looking back on what has happened to me has helped me realize that the “sacrifice” I made to come on a mission was really not a sacrifice at all. I wouldn’t trade my mission experiences, good or bad, for all the money in the world. The Lord has made it possible for me to experience a mission and still continue to play baseball once I return.

I have loved my mission. I love baseball, but I also have loved the time I’ve been serving the Lord.