Gospel Story Finder

Sexual immorality and impure thoughts violate the standard established by the Savior. We were warned at the beginning of this dispensation that sexual immorality would be perhaps the greatest challenge. Such conduct will, without repentance, cause a spiritual drought and loss of commitment. Movies, TV, and the Internet often convey degrading messages and images. President Dieter F. Uchtdorf and I were recently in an Amazon jungle village and observed satellite dishes even on some of the small, simply built huts. We rejoiced at the wonderful information available in this remote area. We also recognized there is virtually no place on earth that cannot be impacted by salacious, immoral, and titillating images. This is one reason why pornography has become such a plague in our day.

This young woman agrees: “I wondered how much I could really learn about the Restoration that I didn’t already know, but I found myself making connections I had never previously made. The course included topics such as plural marriage, priesthood to all worthy males, and the Mountain Meadows massacre. These class discussions gave me information rooted in faith rather than doubt. The course also tied the Restoration into current-day events, so I recognized that I am actually part of the Restoration. It’s not just the Prophet Joseph Smith, President Brigham Young, and other pioneers. It’s me too!”

Once, when we were flying my kite behind the school, I asked him why he didn’t go to church with Mom and me. He looked like I did the time Mom asked who tracked mud across her clean carpet. But he just gave a little tug on the kite string and said, “Look at that thing climb, Arny!” And I knew better than to ask him again.

Under sacred circumstances, our beloved prophet, President Russell M. Nelson, once reminded me of two simple truths that are foundational to your grand and glorious work.
As I sat on the couch with my husband, our prophet pulled his chair over, almost knee to knee with us, and looked at me with his piercing blue eyes. I wasn’t sure if my heart was racing or had completely stopped as he called me to serve as the Young Women General President. He asked a question that still echoes in my heart, “Bonnie, what’s the most important thing the [youth] need to know?”
I pondered for a moment and said, “They need to know who they are.”
“YES!” he exclaimed, “and they need to know their purpose.”

It was during this difficult time that I received my mission call. After having been through my conversion, baptism, and mission paper preparation with my brother, I was left to open my mission call alone. To my surprise, I was called to serve in my own country.
Since I was alone, I knelt down right there and thanked my Heavenly Father in prayer. And I prayed for my brother. I cried and cried while I prayed. At this time, when there was so much hurt and loneliness in my heart, I felt the Spirit witness of the plan of salvation more deeply to me, and my faith was strengthened.

In addition to all his many other virtues, President Kimball has a wonderful sense of humor. While traveling in Europe a couple of years ago, it became necessary to stay over for a full week before going to Poland to finalize arrangements for official recognition of the Church in that land. I thought perhaps we could use the time to climb the Matterhorn, visit the fjords of Norway, or explore beautiful England by taking a boat trip on the Thames River, but instead, President Kimball said he wanted to visit the missions in Italy, Austria, and Germany. He left it up to one of the members of the Quorum of the Twelve and myself to arrange the itinerary. We arranged special meetings each night in a different city or country.
As soon as we arrived in the first mission, President Kimball asked when the missionary meeting was to be held. I told him that we hadn’t planned any missionary meetings because all of the missionaries would be attending the general meeting that night. He said he still wanted a special missionary meeting. I told him the reason we didn’t plan a separate meeting with the missionaries was because of the time and energy required. He replied, “I know what you are trying to do. You are trying to save me, but I don’t want to be saved. I just want to be exalted!” I then went to the phone and arranged meetings all over Europe for the balance of our trip.

As I attended the funeral services of Elder Neal A. Maxwell and Elder David B. Haight and listened to their well-deserved tributes, I more fully internalized the extraordinary examples of testimony and discipleship that the lives of these two great brethren demonstrated. I kept pondering how their examples could help strengthen our testimonies and deepen our resolve to come closer to Christ.

We had completed the assignment given us by President David O. McKay to check on a site claimed to be that of the ancient city of Zarahemla.
We had located the suggested site by following the description given in a document that President McKay sent with us. All four of us agreed that this particular site was altogether too small to support a city as large as Zarahemla. Furthermore, Zarahemla had fields where crops were grown, as well as pasture lands on either side of the city for the Nephite’s flocks. According to the description given in the Book of Mormon, Zarahemla seemed to have been the largest Nephite city in ancient America.

Growing up, I was often exposed to alcohol, tea, and coffee, mostly when I would spend time with my extended family. My immediate family and I are the only members of the Church among my relatives, and sometimes it felt disheartening and isolating when others would look down on my beliefs. But I knew God was real, I had faith in His restored gospel and in my baptismal covenants, and I knew He wanted me to make good decisions.

They encountered more challenges when Gose suffered a stroke in 2015. After an extensive time recovering from that, their oldest daughter became sick and died three years later at the age of 38. At the time of her death, Arouma recalls, “Words came to me that Heavenly Father was telling me, ‘She is my daughter, too.’” They were comforted.

“Mom!” Jeni wailed as she searched through the house for her mother. She finally found her in the living room, changing the baby’s diaper. “Mom, Shanna found my diary and she wrote in it!”
Shanna, Jeni’s younger sister, sheepishly looked up from where she was coloring in a coloring book.
“Shanna,” Mother said calmly as she closed the lid to the diaper wipes, “did you write in Jeni’s book?”
“Yes, but just a little bit.” Shanna didn’t look at Jeni. Instead she carefully put each crayon back into the box.
Mother’s eyebrows pulled together and her mouth was stern. “Shanna, you know you shouldn’t use Jeni’s things without asking first.”
“Besides, it wasn’t just a little bit,” Jeni told Mom. “She wrote on practically every page!”
“Let me look at it.” Mother flipped through the pages one by one. “It’s not too bad. I think Shanna just wants to try to be like you and do the same things you’re doing.”
“It’s totally wrecked!” Jeni cried.
“OK. Let’s try to think of something that we can do to fix the problem,” Mother suggested. “Shanna didn’t mean to ruin your diary.”
“Nothing can fix it. I’ll never forgive her!”
Shanna picked up her crayon box and coloring book and walked quietly out of the room, not looking at Jeni.
“I don’t think you really meant that, Jeni,” Mother said quietly. Jeni was so angry that she wouldn’t listen to her mother. She threw her diary onto the floor and ran outside.
Mother put the baby down on his blanket with a toy and was beginning to prepare dinner when she heard Jeni crying again. This time it was not an angry wail, but a hurt cry.
Mother sighed and opened the back door. Jeni was crying and rubbing her face.
“What happened?” Mother asked.
Sobbing, Jeni pointed at a soccer ball on the lawn. “I was so mad at Shanna, I threw my ball down really hard and it bounced up and hit me in the face.”
“Oh, dear.” Mother sat down on the steps and pulled Jeni onto her lap. “I think there’s a good lesson in this. I once heard a story about a man who was bitten by a rattlesnake. What would you do if you were bitten by a rattlesnake?”
“I don’t know,” Jeni replied.
“You’re supposed to stay still until help comes,” said Jeni’s older brother, who had just ridden up on his bike.
“Well, in this case, the man was so angry at the snake that he ran after it and chased it until he killed it. The problem,” Mother continued, “was that running caused the poison from the snake to spread faster through his body, and so he died quickly. If he had remained calm, the poison would not have done as much damage, and he could have received help and lived.”
Jeni rubbed her red cheek. “So are you saying that when we get mad, we only hurt ourselves?”
Mother nodded. “Why do you think Heavenly Father wants us to forgive others when they do something to hurt us or make us mad?”
“So we can show love to them?” Jeni asked.
“That’s part of it. Heavenly Father wants us to do everything we can to help others grow and improve. But He also wants us to forgive others because He knows that if we don’t, it hurts us the most. It hurts us deep inside, like poison, and the wound just keeps getting bigger if we don’t stop it. Sometimes people get so hurt and angry inside that it makes them do bad things they wouldn’t normally do.”
“Like me banging the ball really hard,” Jeni said.
“That’s right. And sometimes the hurt inside keeps people from doing good things they would normally do. It keeps them from being close to Heavenly Father,” Mother said.
Jeni was thinking hard now. “Maybe I’m ready to think about a solution for the diary,” she said.
“I’m glad,” Mother replied. “I know Heavenly Father loves you very much. He wants you to be happy!”
Jeni’s face brightened. With a big smile, she hurried off to look for her sister.

It was amusing to read, in a story in the September New Era (“A Bishop, a Dad, a Sailboat”), about the very young man who thought he was too old for a mission because he was 22 years old. My mission started when I was 28, and it is about to end and I am 30. Last year another elder went home from this mission, also at 30. These two years I have worked happily with companions, district leaders, and zone leaders who were deacons and Scouts when I graduated from BYU. So let no man claim he is too old for a full-time mission. Remember also that the original meaning of the word elder is “old man.” Also, don’t let anyone tell you that you shouldn’t go on a mission because you are from New York instead of Utah or from Australia instead of America. The Lord wants his servants to come to the harvest from all the ends of the earth.
Elder Benjamin UrrutiaNew York New York City Mission

“Look at those clouds,” Mom said as she looked out the car window. “I hope that it doesn’t rain.”
“Look at those hills,” Dad said cheerfully. “They mean we are almost to the Missouri River.”
I sighed. We had been riding in the car for over two hours on our way to Omaha, Nebraska, from our home in the center of Iowa. My brother and I were crowded between packs of clothing and the food we were taking for our two-day stay. We were going to the cornerstone-laying and dedication of the Winter Quarters Temple. I could hardly wait to get my first glimpse of our new temple and to see our prophet, President Gordon B. Hinckley.
I thought about my ancestor, Sarah Anne Nixon, who was just about my age when she crossed Iowa on her way to Winter Quarters 155 years ago. What was it like for her?
“May I eat some of the crackers and cheese?” my brother asked. “I’m starving.”
“We’re almost there,” Dad assured him. “We’ll have a big lunch soon.”
We had been in the Chicago Illinois Temple district, and it took all day to drive there. I am glad we don’t have as far to go now. We had been praying for a new temple closer to us, and the Lord heard our prayers.
Mom started humming a hymn in the front seat of the car. I recognized the tune. It was “Now Let Us Rejoice.”
“Is that one of the hymns you memorized?” I asked her. She was singing in the choir at the cornerstone-laying ceremony. I knew she had to rely on her memory because the choir would not be using books.
“Yes. Memorizing the hymns wasn’t easy, but it has become a real blessing to me. It made me think more about the meaning of the words. I realized that these songs are about the promises given in the temple. So I am singing about my fondest hopes and dreams.”
I could see tears in the corner of her eye, and I felt my own heart grow warm. When I turned to look out the window, I saw a sign that said “Mormon Bridge.” We were nearly there.
While waiting for the ceremony, we visited the pioneer cemetery on the temple grounds. We read the names of hundreds of people who died here so long ago. But it is not really a sad place—it is a reverent place, like inside a church. We spoke softly about these pioneers and about what they endured for their beliefs. Because of them, we, their descendants, are now able to build temples and worship God freely. I am grateful.
The rain stopped while the choir sang, and we were able to put down our umbrellas. During the ceremony, I looked up at the windows in the temple. In the stained glass are pictures of rivers, trees, pioneers, and Native Americans. Looking at these windows is almost like looking at a beautiful vision of the past.
I saw the prophet today. He cried when he talked about the pioneers and the sacrifices they made in Nauvoo, in Iowa, and here in Winter Quarters. He said that he felt that they were here in spirit, watching us this day. Then he invited all the children to come up and put some cement onto the cornerstone after he was done. But I was content to watch. My heart was full.
I am glad I was here today. I feel happy inside. I believe that whatever happens to me in my life, I can be strong and faithful like the pioneers, just as long as I remember this place and this day.

May I offer two ideas that have been helpful to me when I have felt fearful? The first one came in the form of advice from Sister Michaelene Grassli, Primary general president. I served under her on the Primary General Board. We were on a training assignment together when a local leader began to describe in glowing details the auxiliary leaders who had come to that area the year before. As she told about the wonderful things they had done and expressed her hopes that we would do the same, a sick feeling began to settle in my stomach. That night after our hostess had left, I expressed to Sister Grassli my fears: I was afraid my performance would be far less than those who had come before, and I would certainly be a disappointment to everyone and probably an embarrassment to her and the Church. She said, “I have had those same feelings, but it is comforting to me to know that I need only be concerned that what I do and say is acceptable and pleasing to the Lord.” Her words brought such immediate peace to my mind that I have repeated them over and over to myself in countless situations.

I was sick on the day of stake conference. I wanted to keep the Spirit with me, so I made a temple out of plastic blocks.

In Charles Dickens’s timeless classic A Christmas Carol, Bob Cratchit hoped to spend Christmas Day with his family. “‘If quite convenient, Sir,’” he asked his employer, Mr. Scrooge.
“‘It’s not convenient,’ said Scrooge, ‘and it’s not fair. If I was to stop half-a-crown for it, you’d think yourself ill used.’ …
“‘And yet,’ said Scrooge, ‘you don’t think me ill-used, when I pay a day’s wages for no work.’
“The clerk observed that it was only once a year.
“‘A poor excuse for picking a man’s pocket every twenty-fifth of December!’ said Scrooge.”

In A Christmas Carol, Mr. Scrooge changed his ways—he was not the man he had been.

Which was how I decided to start my story: I remember always being a Mormon. I told of growing up in the Church, of going to corn-feeds and Primary, of singing solos and telling my school friends about the Church. I told how no one needed to tell me when my grandmother died because I knew in my eight-year-old heart that it had happened. I told how all the relatives and seemingly half the town gathered for her funeral in the Rexburg, Idaho, Fourth Ward chapel.
As I reminisced, a theme began to emerge: as a child, I had learned the gospel by living it. Family and teachers had taught me to look to the Lord for strength. I had prayed since I was a child. This seemed ironic, because during my adolescence I had wondered if my prayers were correct and effective. Other people told of dramatic answers to prayers and of lengthy sessions of pleading with the Lord. My prayers, in contrast, were simple, short, and sometimes quite demanding and to the point. Yet I saw, by looking back through journals and memory, that I had always prayed, and that my prayers had always been heartfelt. When grandma died, I prayed. When I lost control of a horse I was riding, I prayed. When I was scared no one would dance with me, I prayed. When I was too terrified to play a piano solo in public, I prayed. Though not every prayer was answered immediately, all were answered.
I realized that looking to the Lord was a pattern of my life, part of me since I was a toddler. I recognized a strength I had questioned before, and I recognized the Lord’s hand in my life as never before.

(96) To receive the blessings promised in his patriarchal blessing, Carlos A. Godoy, with his wife’s support, seeks additional education.

Old Lady Kroll—we called her that because she was so mean.
“Maybe there’s a reason for the way she acts that we don’t know about, Mimi,” Mother said as we walked home from the grocery store, balancing our bags of groceries. We—Mother, my six-year-old sister, Carrie, and I—lived in an apartment at the back of Old Lady Kroll’s house. The only nice thing about the house was the yard full of oak trees. I enjoyed the green leaves in the spring and summer when the sun shone through the leaves. And in the fall, they were all red and gold and sort of pink, and they made the dark old house look almost pretty.
“She might have a real good reason for being so mean—like maybe she’s a witch or something!” Carrie said, her big eyes looking out under straight, blond bangs. Carrie could be pretty silly sometimes, and I hoped she’d have a little more sense in a couple of years, when she was my age.
“Carrie,” Mother said, “of course Mrs. Kroll’s not a witch. But she might be very unhappy living alone in that big house.”
Mom always found an excuse for everybody.
It was no wonder Old Lady Kroll lived alone—she hated everybody. Especially us. If we sat on her front steps, watching the squirrels, she’d open her creaky front door and yell, “Go on, now! You don’t belong there!” And she’d slam the door with a big whoosh. Even the squirrels were scared to death of her.
Carrie and I usually met Mom at the bus stop when she came home from work. We wished she didn’t have to go to work every day. But she said that she was lucky to have a job at all. Lots of people were out of work because of the Depression. Some people had lost everything when the banks ran out of money. We were pretty lucky, I guess, because we didn’t have any money to lose.
Our apartment had only one bedroom. We all slept together in one big bed. We were never afraid, Carrie and I, even when there was a storm. Mother told us stories about the squirrel mothers and their babies, all cozy and warm inside their nests in the hollows of the trees. And except for Old Lady Kroll yelling at us, we had a pretty nice life. Just like the squirrels.
After we put our groceries away that day, I put our paper dolls in the window seat under the bay window, and then Carrie and I set the table. The sky had turned dark purple, and the wind was plastering rain against the windowpanes. I hoped Mom would tell us our favorite story about the mice that lived in the hayloft of an old barn.
That night there was a terrible storm. Carrie and I tried not to think about it as we listened to the story about the mice. But lightning must have struck something, because there was an awful crash that sounded as if the whole world had split right down the middle.
The next morning on the way to school, Carrie and I saw what had happened. A huge limb had broken off one of the giant old oaks and was lying across Old Lady Kroll’s front porch steps.
“Carrie!” I yelled as she ran on ahead of me. “Get back here and help me move this limb!”
“Why?” she yelled back. Carrie wouldn’t do anything without first asking why.
“So somebody won’t break a leg or something, that’s why!”
Carrie dropped her books on the sidewalk and came back. “You mean somebody like Old Lady Kroll?”
“Carrie, for once don’t talk. Just take that end of the limb and lift, OK?”
When we met Mother at the bus stop that afternoon, she wasn’t smiling like she always did, and it seemed as if she wasn’t listening to us. Later, while she was making scrambled eggs for supper, she told us that she wasn’t going to have to go to work every day for a while. She was smiling, but she didn’t look happy. “I’ll only be going to work three days a week for a while. But it’ll be nice for us all to be home together, won’t it?”
Carrie and I nodded. We couldn’t say yes because our mouths were full of warm eggs.
We had oatmeal for supper the next couple of nights. We all liked oatmeal, but it seemed strange to have it for dinner twice in a row.
One night Mother said, “Tonight we’re going to play a game. Let’s pretend that we’re like the mice in the hayloft—that we’re very poor and don’t have anything to eat. Won’t that be fun?”
I wasn’t too sure, but I looked at Carrie, and she was smiling and nodding. So I did too.
The next morning we toasted the last three pieces of bread. By suppertime we didn’t want to play the game again, but we didn’t tell Mother. She didn’t look like she wanted to play it, either.
After it got dark, Mother just sat and stared out the window. Carrie and I played paper dolls on the floor. Once in a while we heard Mother sigh. Just as we started to get ready for bed, there was a loud knock at the door. We all jumped.
It was Old Lady Kroll. Carrie and I looked at each other. We were both thinking the same thing: What had we done to make her mad this time?
“Here,” she said, thrusting a big tan bowl at Mother. It was covered with a checkered napkin, and little swirls of steam puffed out around the edges. “I thought that you and the children might like this,” she said gruffly. “I had it left over from my supper. I guess I made too much. I didn’t want to throw it out—I don’t believe in waste!” And she turned and walked down the hallway, leaving Mother holding the steaming bowl and crying.
I never thought I’d like sauerkraut and spareribs, but it tasted better than anything else I’d ever eaten. And the mashed potatoes it nested in had butter running down the sides in warm little yellow rivers.
Later Mother told us that all the money and food were gone. Payday wasn’t until the next day, and she had been praying that we’d have something to eat before we went to bed. We all agreed that Heavenly Father picked a pretty good dinner. But what Carrie and I couldn’t figure out was why He picked Old Lady—I mean Mrs. Kroll—to bring it to us.
After that, we waved to her when we passed. One morning on our way to school, we saw her sweeping her front steps. Carrie and I yelled, “Good morning, Mrs. Kroll!”
She didn’t answer, and she didn’t smile. But she nodded to us.
And then she waved.

“Called to Serve” (Hymns, no. 249) was the very last song to be put in the 1985 hymnal. At first, it wasn’t scheduled to be included because it was written as a children’s song. Then in April 1985, at a meeting on Temple Square attended by General Authorities, regional representatives, and mission presidents, more than 100 missionaries from the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah, marched into the Assembly Hall singing this song. The experience was electrifying and secured a place for “Called to Serve” among our best-loved hymns.