Gospel Story Finder

One episode provides an example of how BYUH has defended its claim to distinguish its standards from those that dominate our culture through the mass media and Hollywood. The incident took place in 1964 when professional entertainer Elvis Presley got the word at the Polynesian Cultural Center where he was producing "Paradise-Hawaiian Style." Marie Nin Paongo, the manager of the International Student Services Office today, was a student dancer at the PCC. She remembered that one of the starlets in the Presley movie appeared on the set in "a skimpy little two piece bra type top, with her navel exposed."

After a hurried conference, filming was stopped and the immodestly dressed woman was hustled away. When she returned her outfit had been redone. And her body more covered.... "They had done it because it was not right that a guide at the PCC (or a BYUH student on campus) should be dressed immodestly... [xxvi]

The youth of the Slaterville Second Ward, Ogden Utah Mound Fort Stake, borrowed their fathers’ hammers and set out on an adventure that anticipated Christmas. They contracted to make Christmas tree stands in order to raise money for their youth activities.
The adult leaders were in charge of running the saw, but with an assembly line system and a quality inspector, the youth stayed organized and busy. Each person was assigned a certain number of hours to help, and no one complained as each put in his quota with the help of supportive families.
The project lasted for more than a month until the goal of 24,000 stands was completed. The young people found they enjoyed working together for their mutual benefit and learned something about responsibility. It was also a wonderful opportunity for leaders and youth to work together.

I read and reread the “Year on Temple Square” stories included in each of the 2010 Friend magazines, wanting to visit Temple Square myself. I got the chance to go to Temple Square when my family took a trip to Utah. It was very cold outside, but it was worth it. We spent the whole day there. I saw everything that was shown in the Friend and more. My family and I touched the temple, saw the Christmas lights, and visited the Tabernacle. I’m so glad Temple Square exists.

As the only Latter-day Saint sixth grader in my school, I am faced with vulgar language, immodesty, and pressure to follow the crowd. But at the start of the year, I explained to my friends my standards and that I stick to them no matter what. They have learned through the months about my Church values. Your friends will help you if you explain your values and your standards to them. My friends’ attitudes, clothing, and language have changed for the better. I have learned that if they are truly your friends, they will help you think clean thoughts and will help you stay on the strait and narrow path.
Celia N., age 12, Virginia, USA

BARBARA: I have a friend I am really close to at school. We were both trying out for something. We worked together, and helped each other, and we even prayed for each other. Then talking with her the other day, I found out she isn’t a member of our church. She is a Buddhist! I was so surprised! The whole time I had been treating her like a Mormon. We had become really close; she came up to me one day, started crying, and told me how much she appreciated me. And I thought, if we could only treat everyone as if he were a member, then we’d have no problems.

This story happened in the USA.
Bradley dumped another cup of sand into his bucket. He was going to need lots!
His school’s science fair was soon. Bradley was making a model that showed how tsunamis worked. He learned that a tsunami is a big wave of water caused by an earthquake in the ocean. He wanted his project to be perfect. Maybe he would win a prize!
When his bucket was full, Bradley gathered some sticks. Then he found a plastic bin and some small toy houses in the basement.
Bradley poured the sand into the bin to make the land. He carefully placed the houses and trees. Next came the exciting part—the water! Once he poured it in, he could push a piece of cardboard through the water to create the wave.
But then he made a big mistake. He poured in too much water! The houses were flooded—and he hadn’t even made the wave yet. The wet sand made a goopy, muddy mess.
Bradley called to his mom in the kitchen. “What should I do now? I put too much water in.”
“That’s OK. You can just start over,” said Mom. “Let’s do it together and measure a little at a time.”
“OK.” Bradley hung his head and went outside to get more sand.
This time they carefully measured the right amount of water and poured it in. Bradley moved the cardboard and watched the waves crash against the sand. It worked!
Next Bradley and Mom worked on his poster. He started writing some fun facts about tsunamis. But the words didn’t fit on the page.
“I don’t want to write it all over again!” Bradley said. His head began to ache.
“We don’t have to rewrite all of it,” said Mom. “We can just reword it so it will fit on the page.”
Bradley groaned. His poster did not look at all like he wanted it to. “I don’t want to do that. It will look bad if the words don’t fit perfectly.”
“Learning can be hard.” Mom gave him a hug. “Sometimes we make mistakes. But the important thing is that we don’t give up. Heavenly Father wants us to keep trying. So let’s take a break and finish in the morning.”
The next morning, they finished his poster. It wasn’t perfect, but Bradley felt a little better about it.
Finally the day of the science fair came. Mom dropped Bradley off at school. “Remember,” she said, “you worked hard on your project and learned a lot. And that’s what matters.”
Bradley carried his project to the big gym. It was full of projects and posters. All the fourth-graders were sitting down and waiting for their turn to show their project.
Soon it was Bradley’s turn. His heart beat fast as he walked to the front. What if everything went wrong?
Bradley pushed the cardboard through the water and showed the judges how the waves crashed against the land.
“What causes those big waves in the ocean?” one of the judges asked.
“The big waves are caused by . . .” Bradley’s mind went blank. “I can’t remember. But I can tell you some fun facts about tsunamis.” He read them the facts on his poster.
After school Bradley climbed into the car with his project.
“How did it go?” Mom asked.
“Not exactly the way I wanted.” Bradley smiled. “But I did my best and kept trying.”

The Lord is ever aware of our needs and eager to help. One sister relates how she prayed to Heavenly Father and was blessed by the power of the Atonement: “I had no one to turn to, no place to go, except on my knees. I prayed as I had never prayed before. I fasted faithfully, meaningfully, and often. I read and studied the scriptures from cover to cover for the first time in my life. … And he was there. He heard my humble pleadings. He put his arm of love around me. He forgave me of my sins and showed me a better way. I was amazed at the happiness, success, and opportunity that came into my life” (“After Divorce: Clearing the Hurdles,” Ensign, August 1985, 50).

Experience 3: One night several years ago while my family traveled home from a campus concert on winter roads, our vehicle began to slide. Unable to regain control, we spun around several times, went off the road, took out a signpost, plowed out about 20 feet of farm fence, and came to rest in a ditch with the driver’s side wheels in the air. We had barely stopped moving when several other cars stopped and their occupants came on the run to administer help. Miraculously, my pregnant wife, my children, and I were shaken but unhurt and our vehicle was largely undamaged, but compassionate, heroic strangers came to our rescue and stayed with us until we could get back out and return home. They didn’t have to, but they did anyway, and it made a difference.

When Lisa Berkle of the Whittier Third Ward, Whittier California Stake, saw that her school newspaper was doing a series on cults, she decided to take advantage of an opportunity to show the truth about the gospel. As a member of the journalism staff, she got permission to do an article on the subject “Is Mormonism a cult?”
The article was a popular one, and Lisa learned a lot researching it. She is now at Ricks College, and is preparing to serve a mission.

When I was young, I wanted to be a general in the army. I planned to apply to the military academy in order to further my goal. That decision meant that I wasn’t expecting to serve a mission because I knew that the program in the academy for military officers would not excuse anyone for any religious activity.
Then I had the opportunity to go to a regional conference in Seoul, Korea—an experience that changed the direction of my life. During the conference, I heard President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) counsel youth to:
attend seminary,
serve an honorable mission,
marry in the temple, and
work toward exaltation.
I knew his counsel was right, and I remembered the verse that says, “My word shall not pass away, but shall all be fulfilled, whether by mine own voice or by the voice of my servants, it is the same” (D&C 1:38).
When I heard the prophet speak about the importance of serving a mission as a priority in life, I knew I should put my trust in the Lord, serve a mission, and forego my dream to become a general, remembering to “seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you” (Matthew 6:33).

We begin with a true story of a past Church leader that you likely don’t know.

On the first day of April Conference, 1924, President Heber J. Grant concluded his opening remarks by announcing that President Charles W. Penrose, first counselor in the First Presidency would be the next speaker. President Penrose was 92 years old at the time and somewhat ill. He was not scheduled to speak at the conference. So, without prior notice he approached the Tabernacle pulpit to speak. This was a similar situation between President Hinckley and Elder David B. Haight in last April’s conference.

I quote President Penrose from the proceedings of that April, 1924 conference,
Brothers and Sisters, this is not the first time in my life that I have been taken by surprise. I felt quite content to sit on the stand here this morning and listen to the words of inspiration that have fallen from the lips of President Heber J. Grant, feeling that he would occupy most, if not all, of the time. I take great pleasure in bearing testimony to the truth of the things that he has uttered. Perhaps there is no need for that. I believe that that testimony is in the hearts of this vast congregation this morning. I enjoyed every word the President has uttered. I know that what he has said and read and testified of is true, and it came to us this morning in the life and power and spirit of the gospel of Jesus Christ as revealed to us in these last days. I enjoy meetings of this kind and teachings of this kind. They are more to my heart and soul than learned disquisitions of any kind.

President Penrose then proceeded to spontaneously expound upon many glorious eternal truths. He covered many topics. His thoughts and words seemed to so easily flow from an almost limitless reservoir of knowledge and wisdom. He spoke on such topics as:
As you read his remarks, you become aware that he was selecting topics as directed by the Spirit. It was not rambling nor disjointed. It was a flow of gratitude, doctrinal clarification, exhortation, personal experiences with a principle, invocation of a blessing and finally a testimony. Granted that this spontaneous speaking ability comes with practice, however it also requires the Spirit to give thought, organization, feeling and words to carry it to the minds and hearts of the hearers.

His vast knowledge and testimony of eternal truths allowed the Spirit to select the “menu” from his knowledge and wisdom. A principle here: When we are in tune with the Spirit, it has a way of telling us what to say and importantly, what not to say. It takes faith to go there. “I will tell you in your mind and in your heart, by the Holy Ghost.”[3] It sometimes comes to your mind and sometimes to your feelings and sometimes to both.

Frost was still in the air the morning the young men and women went door-to-door in their ward areas reminding people to donate items in good or reparable condition. Couches, lamps, dolls, toasters, an adding machine, desks, chairs, and other household wares soon bulged the sides of two large trucks, with more contributions still coming. One neighborhood florist donated a whole van full of Christmas decorations. One young man, enthused by the spirit of giving, pedaled up on his used bicycle and donated it to the drive. Half a dozen truckloads of usable items were amassed during the day.

What if it isn’t pleasant? What if it’s more difficult than you or the children counted on? I’m not sure that Stan and Barbara Shakespeare are in the room, but I close with this from their daughter, Suzanne, age 16:

Of all the ugly words conceived, chemotherapy must be the very worst. How I hated to see the number four person coming, knowing that after he was finished with his part, mine would begin: Nausea so violent I couldn’t keep anything on my stomach, lips so cracked and raw it was like I’d been beaten every morning, my hair began falling [and to any girl nine or ninety, that’s a blow to pride only we can understand].
How I hated to be thin and pale and have people look at me like I was going to disappear before their very eyes. My parents prayed for a miracle. I prayed that it was a bad dream and that it wasn’t really happening to me. I knew prayers were answered, and I wanted mine answered right now. Five long, painful learning years (I can see now) later the miracle had happened. I was alive. I was fourteen, and life was beginning all over again. I still remember the day the doctors told me I wouldn’t have any more medicine and I was free of the disease. It’s true I had a limp and one leg was several times smaller than the other, but I had a beautiful head of my own hair and life. Could anything stand in my way now?

Well, life was wonderful. She went back to school and prepared to rejoin her friends. She began to be interested in boys and to think of driving a car, and in the midst of all of that, the hurt came again, same leg, same place, new examination, increased inflammation, pain that wouldn’t go away, and now another type of cancer.

Ridiculous. I was cured. September 13, 1978, I lost my left leg about 4 inches above the knee and with it many of the dreams only a sixteen-year-old has. I couldn’t decide whether to pray for recovery or for complete oblivion. My world had shattered and I wanted to stop right now—stop because my leg was gone. Stop because I was facing chemotherapy again. Stop because I was once again going to lose my crowning glory. What was left? The Lord blessed me with two very special parents. How hard they must have prayed for me and pleaded that I would have the strength to forge ahead and learn to accept this happening as an opportunity and challenge. I didn’t want to get out of bed, but my parents made me. I didn’t want to face my friend, but my parents invited them in. I didn’t want to go to school. You can imagine how I felt going that first day with my pant leg flapping, but my parents left me at the door and told me I could do it, and I did. Me, Suzanne Shakespeare, who thought my friends wouldn’t like me now and that I wouldn’t be able to do anything. I learned something those first few days that is more precious than all my material possessions. I wasn’t really different at all. I was still the same girl—the one who joined the clubs and had friends and loved to study. The only thing that had really changed was my capacity to understand and appreciate. What wonderful things to have learned. And guess what. I’ve had one date and I’m learning to drive and I’m going to try out for the school musical. I’m getting my new leg soon and I know there will be many hard adjustments ahead. I have had chemotherapy and I’ve been sick, but I’m alive, and the Lord must have something wonderful ahead just for me. And you know what? I’m going to find it. Signed Suzanne Shakespeare, age 16.

Epilogue: Suzanne continued having chemotherapy until January 1979. On a routine visit to the Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City, a chest x-ray revealed widespread cancer cells in the lungs. There was nothing more medical science could do. Her mother is writing:

How do you tell a sixteen-year-old girl she is going to die? Straightforwardly, with tears, with love and determination to continue as normally as possible. That’s how. Time? Maybe two months.

Soon after she returned home, Suzanne went on a family trip to Disneyland, her favorite place. She attended a four-day forensic meet in Salt Lake, she auditioned and received a part in the high school musical, she asked a young man to the sweetheart ball and danced all evening without crutches on a newly acquired artificial leg. She carried a full load at school and, despite a record winter for snow and ice, rarely missed a day. There began to be shoulder pains, shortness of breath, then loss of appetite, but Suzanne would take nothing but aspirin because pain pills might interfere with her school activities. On 15 March she began a three-week tour of the South with her grandmother. The pace of the tour and her increasing loss of strength made her extremely tired. Breathing became so difficult it was impossible for her to lie down. But still it was only aspirin and determination to see the trip through to Disneyworld. On 27 March her father flew to Miami Beach to bring her home. Her condition was critical. They arrived home early in the morning on the 28th. She had her first pain pill that afternoon and passed away in her sleep that night. On 29 March the rest of the group reached Disneyworld.

An example of tobacco’s powerful hold is illustrated in a letter which was written by a mother to the popular columnist and human relations adviser Ann Landers:
“Dear Ann Landers:
“A year ago our two-year-old son, Earl, had difficulty breathing, so we took him to a doctor. We learned Earl is allergic to cigarette smoke. My husband said we both had to quit smoking right then and there. He hasn’t touched a cigarette since. I went back to smoking that same night.
“My husband doesn’t know I smoke. I have to sneak around and smoke in the basement, and it is making a nervous wreck out of me. Do you think it would be wrong if we let a nice couple adopt little Earl—a nice couple who don’t smoke? The only problem is that my husband is crazy about the boy. I love him too, but I am more the practical type. What do you think, Ann?
“/s/ Mrs. E. R. M.
“Dear Mrs. E. R. M.:
“I think a lot of people who read this letter are going to say I made it up. It’s utterly fantastic that a mother would put cigarettes ahead of her own child. Don’t present your wild idea to your husband. I wouldn’t blame him if he decided to keep little Earl and unload you!”

I guess if there is any one reason for success, Dean’s reason is determination. He started painting when he was eight. When he was twelve he spent most of a year talking his parents into letting him ride his bike across the country. He finished the long journey when he was thirteen, perhaps the youngest person ever to make the ride. He rode from Ogden, Utah, to Massachusetts and then down to New York. He rode along feeling and sketching the life of America as he went. And he has traveled since—in cars, in trains, in planes. He feels he needs to learn all the time. As he explains, “Sometimes you have to go slowly. When you are on a bike or walking, you feel, you touch the heat and the cold. It is good to get down to life and to see how people act; to feel the rain when it hits your head; to have to worry about a place to sleep. This next summer I plan to walk from Georgia to Vermont, and when I get there, I’ll know the people.”

A young mother of two sons was busy with a part-time job at home and a demanding Church calling. “It seemed I had no time for my small children,” she recalled. She was often so involved in her work that her sons had to go to great lengths to get her attention—and she was often impatient with them.
So she decided to organize an “activity time” she could enjoy with her sons each morning. As she spent that time with them in prayer, singing, and fun activities, she gained a greater appreciation for each and began to really enjoy the time they spent together. She was amazed at what a little love and attention brought about!
This mother had discovered one of the “secrets” to making her home a sanctuary from the world and its cares. The early Saints were told to make the temple they were building “a house of prayer … a house of learning … a house of God” (see D&C 88:119). In the same way, we should make our homes havens of love where we and other family members can grow and learn to practice self-control and to serve, understand, and forgive each other.

I took my Friend to school to read during free time. My teacher asked me about it, and I told her it was a children’s magazine published by my church. I asked her if she would like to take it home and read it, and she said yes. She brought it back after the weekend and said she liked the magazine very much. She said it was full of good things. I told her that my parents get a magazine for adults full of good things for them. She said she would like one of those. I took her the special Ensign about Jesus Christ. It made me feel warm and sparkly inside to share something that I like so much with someone so special to me.
Emma G., age 9, Pennsylvania

It was 11 p.m. when I heard my father’s car door close outside. He was home a little early tonight. Dad was a college professor with a full load of night classes to teach, so his normal arrival time wavered somewhere between 11:30 p.m. and midnight. And since I left for my early-morning seminary class before sunup, I usually only saw him for a few flurried minutes each night. That is, if I saw him at all.
Tonight I was brushing my teeth when he popped his head through the bathroom doorway. “How are you?” he asked. Through a mouthful of toothpaste I mumbled a response, then asked how his day had been.
“Great,” he said boisterously. “The plane got in a few hours ago, and the bus dropped us off at the school. After that I came right home.”
Plane? Bus? Was I missing something? He must have noticed my vacant stare, because he quickly added, “I was at a conference in Indianapolis all week.”
He was? Why didn’t I know about this? I realized with a pang of shame that my father had just spent five days on the other side of the country, and I hadn’t even noticed he was gone.
As my sister and I got older, it seemed like the whole family got busier until we were, as Mom liked to say, “like ships passing in the night.” We barely had time to blurt out “good morning” before we rushed in separate directions. But even with our classes and after-school activities, my sister and I couldn’t compete with Dad at being busy. His workday was longer than anyone else’s. Even when he was home, he spent hours at the computer, writing textbooks and revising lecture outlines.
Because Dad wasn’t a member of the Church, we only saw him on Sunday mornings over our bowls of breakfast cereal. By the time the rest of the family came home after our Church meetings, he had usually disappeared to his office at the college to get more work done.
I had always thought my family was a regular busy family, and I figured that feeling out of touch with my dad was just a part of such a high-speed life. Until that night over the bathroom sink, I never really considered the idea that we might be too busy.
A few weeks later, the missionaries from our ward came to my house for dinner. Dad, of course, was missing in action, but after we had eaten, the missionaries began to ask us some questions about Dad’s feelings toward the Church. Had he ever taken the discussions? Had he read the Book of Mormon? Did he ever come to Church with us? My mother and I answered the questions as best we could. Then the elders said that they’d really like the chance to teach my father the gospel, and they wanted to enlist our help.
Although I was usually enthusiastic about thinking up ways to help share the gospel with my father, I leaned back into my chair and frowned. “What can we do?” I asked skeptically. “We hardly ever see him.” I explained to the missionaries about Dad’s overly hectic schedule, and they nodded understandingly.
Finally one of the missionaries, who also had a nonmember father, said, “My dad was the same way when I was in high school. He was such a workaholic that I felt like I never saw him, and we just drifted farther and farther apart. I got even busier after I joined the Church.
“I just decided,” he went on, “that it was important for my dad to know that I loved him, that my joining the Church didn’t make me love him less. Since I didn’t see him very often, I started leaving him notes. Nothing special. I just wrote a quick note telling him that I loved and appreciated him, and I made sure I put it where he’d find it.”
“Did it work?” I asked skeptically.
He smiled and shrugged. “Why don’t you find out for yourself?”
It was a challenge I couldn’t refuse. That night, after I was in my pajamas and Dad still hadn’t gotten home from work, I pulled out a pad of sticky notes and wrote a quick message: “Dear Dad: I hope you had a good day. I love you.” I signed my name at the bottom and stuck the note to his computer screen, knowing Dad almost always made a stop at his computer before he finally got to bed.
The next morning when I plodded into the bathroom still half asleep, I noticed a piece of yellow paper clinging to the mirror. “Dear Melody,” it read. “Thanks for the note. I love you too. Love, Dad.”
I smiled, something I rarely did at 5:30 in the morning.
For the rest of that year before I went away to college, I left notes for my father a few times a week. Nothing elaborate, just a few lines to tell him what was going on in my life, to wish him a good day, to tell him I loved him. He almost always responded with another note attached to my bathroom mirror or my bedroom door.
As the weeks went on and our note exchange became a regular thing, it became easier to put into words how I really felt about my dad. I realized that even though I didn’t spend as much time with him as I wanted to, I really did love him. And I realized that even though he worked a lot, he really loved me too. Having a true friendship made us more eager to do things with each other, too, like trips to museums or into the city on Saturday afternoons.
Over the years I kept a few of the sticky notes from Dad. I even taped one to the mirror in my dorm room at college just to make it feel like home. When I finally went back home for Christmas, I noticed that Dad had done the same. A piece of yellow paper with the words “Dad, I love you. Melody” was firmly attached to the top of his computer desk.
My father never joined the Church. But when he died suddenly several years ago, the yellow sticky note was still on his computer desk, right where it had been for five years. In the weeks after his death, I felt grateful that I had found a way to communicate with Dad even when we were both at our busiest. I didn’t have to wonder whether he knew that I loved him. I knew that he looked at my words every day.

Not long ago a telephone call came to President Monson’s office from the son of an 82-year-old woman who was nearing death. The mother’s final and only request was that she might meet her “favorite General Authority” before she passed away. When such calls come, the secretaries hope they will be able to get to the telephone before President Monson does, because otherwise his entire life would be spent on such visits, for requests of this kind come into his office by the score. One of the secretaries did take this particular call, carefully noting the details and promising to relay the message to President Monson. She also courteously mentioned that President Monson’s time commitments were overwhelming, so the elderly sister would certainly be in President Monson’s prayers even if he were not able to make a personal visit. The faithful son hung up the telephone, very grateful for and fully satisfied with the response he had received.
The message was relayed. The schedule, overflowing as always, precluded a visit. A day went by, and President Monson began to be restless. That night he was more restless still. On the second day, he could not resist. He got into his car and headed for an unfamiliar address to visit a dying woman he had never met.
Wending his way through streets and side roads and neighborhoods totally unfamiliar, President Monson eventually arrived at his destination. Knocking at the door, he introduced himself to that very surprised son and handed him a green planter purchased for the visit. He was then ushered into a modest bedroom where a new-found friend was entering a comatose state, hovering between life and death.
Quietly, President Monson sat on the edge of the bed and held her hand. He talked softly and lovingly to her at great length about a wide variety of gospel principles. Although her eyes were essentially closed and she could make no verbal response, her son—witness to every detail of this great apostolic gesture—testified that he was certain that his mother not only knew who was visiting her but also understood every word he said. A blessing was given, and then President Monson, noting but not mentioning a framed picture of himself on the modest mantlepiece, excused himself from the room.
The sweet sister died nine hours later, having realized the one final wish she had in this life. The next day the local newspaper obituary read, “Alice Petersen Tingey, 82, passed away of natural causes at her home. [She] was a loving person who touched the lives of many people. We would like to thank President Thomas S. Monson for his special blessing and the influence he shared with her and her family.”

Let me tell one last story. Recently a husband and wife traveled to a hospital in Manila to collect their young daughter who was dying of cancer and who the doctors could not save. As they traveled home by cab, the child died in her mother’s arms. Instead of going home, the parents immediately instructed the cab driver to take them to the temple. As you can imagine, the arrival of the grieving parents with their dead child caused some heartaches for the temple staff. However, it was significant to me that when this family needed comfort and help the most, their thoughts turned to the temple.