Gospel Story Finder

Illustrations by Kellan Stover
It was my first time hanging out with my new friends Becky and Sarah. I was so excited! Becky’s mom dropped us off at the bowling alley, and I followed Becky and Sarah inside. I could smell hot dogs and hear something clattering in the background.
“I’ve never been bowling before,” I admitted.
“Don’t worry,” Becky said. “It’s easy.”
“And fun!” Sarah added.
They led me to a counter, where we checked out special bowling shoes. Then we found our lane and put the bowling shoes on.
I picked up a bowling ball. It was a lot heavier than I thought it would be. Sarah showed me how to put my fingers in the holes in the ball. Then Becky showed me how to roll it down the lane.
On my first try, my ball didn’t hit any pins. But after a few turns, I got the hang of it. One time, I even knocked over all the pins at once!
“Nice!” Becky gave me a high five. “That’s called a strike.”
When the game was over, I went with Becky and Sarah into the bathroom. They unlaced their bowling shoes. Then Becky shoved the shoes behind the garbage can.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
Becky grinned up at me. “This is part of the fun. We always sneak out without paying!”
I froze, feeling my stomach clench. “What about the money your moms gave you?”
“We keep it,” Sarah said as she slipped her regular shoes back on. “Come on, hide your shoes too.”
My heart was beating fast. I knew it would be wrong to not pay. But I didn’t want Becky and Sarah to get mad at me. I wanted them to like me.
Heavenly Father, I prayed silently, please help me be brave enough to do the right thing.
I took a deep breath. “I can’t do that. It would be like stealing.”
Sarah put her hands on her hips. “I thought you were our friend!”
“I am,” I said. “But I don’t want to steal.”
Becky frowned. “My sister will be here any minute to pick us up. Just ditch the shoes and let’s go!”
“Yeah, it’s no big deal,” Sarah said. “We do this all the time. Besides, no one will ever know.”
But I would know, I thought. And Heavenly Father would know.
I shook my head. “I’m gonna go pay for mine.”
Becky pursed her lips. “Then I guess we can’t be friends.” She and Sarah pushed past me and out of the bathroom.
After they were gone, I got their shoes out from behind the garbage can and took all the bowling shoes back to the counter.
“How was the game?” the man at the counter asked. “And where did your friends go?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Turns out they weren’t really my friends.” I told him what happened and pulled out the money my grandma had given me. “I can pay for all of us.”
“That’s OK. You can just pay for yours.” The man took the money and gave me my change. “Thanks for being honest. I’m sure your parents would be proud of you.”
I called my grandma to come get me. As I waited, I thought about what the man had said. A warm feeling spread through me. I knew it was the Holy Ghost letting me know I’d done the right thing. I could find friends who would help me choose the right.

“She hath done what she could”! What a succinct formula! A journalist once questioned Mother Teresa of Calcutta about her hopeless task of rescuing the destitute in that city. He said that, statistically speaking, she was accomplishing absolutely nothing. This remarkable little woman shot back that her work was about love, not statistics. Notwithstanding the staggering number beyond her reach, she said she could keep the commandment to love God and her neighbor by serving those within her reach with whatever resources she had. “What we do is nothing but a drop in the ocean,” she would say on another occasion. “But if we didn’t do it, the ocean would be one drop less [than it is].”9 Soberly, the journalist concluded that Christianity is obviously not a statistical endeavor. He reasoned that if there would be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over the ninety and nine who need no repentance, then apparently God is not overly preoccupied with percentages.10

A few years ago, I was extremely depressed. The only thing I could find a little motivation for was my best friend and her children. We went for walks on weekends, which I enjoyed. Over time, however, we began to go on walks less and less frequently. I began to miss my friend and her family. I later learned that our walks became less frequent because my friend and her family had resumed a practice they had stopped many years before—attending church.
One day they invited me to lunch. Seeing them again made me feel very happy. I told them how much I missed them. My friend’s six-year-old daughter suggested that we solve that problem by going to church together. So without thinking twice, she invited me to go.
Oh, no! How could I make this family understand that going to church was right for them but too boring for me? I hadn’t gone to church for years, but how could I say no to a child? I said I would go, but the truth was that I didn’t have the least intention of keeping that promise.
That Sunday, I went to breakfast with my dad. My cell phone constantly rang, reminding me that I had promised a little girl that I would go to church with her. I ignored my cell phone until my dad asked me why I wasn’t answering it. I admitted that I had been invited to go to a church meeting but didn’t want to go. He smiled and said, “Lluvia, never make a promise to a child if you are not willing to fulfill it.” I decided I would keep my promise.
When I arrived at church, I felt something different, something that I can’t describe. I still can’t explain how it happened, but the next Sunday, I found myself there again, and the next and the next, until I understood what I was feeling: the Holy Ghost.
The Church members began to make me feel at home. Without any doubt, I was curious about the Church. I began meeting with the missionaries, and I also began to gain a testimony. The missionaries’ visits became more constant, and my understanding of the gospel grew until I felt an immense desire to be baptized. I was baptized a short time later, and now I enjoy the blessings of the gospel. Because of this, I’m so grateful I kept my promise to a six-year-old girl.

When I was called to Tahiti on my mission, I remember thinking, “What am I going to do there?”
I was a new member of the Church. I didn’t know a lot about the gospel. I hadn’t read the Book of Mormon cover to cover, though I knew it was true. And I would have to learn two languages: Tahitian and French.
I felt inadequate.
Thankfully, I had two things going for me: I knew how to work, and I knew how to obey. Knowing how to work came from my father; knowing how to obey came from the gospel.
So when I got to my mission, I worked hard and I obeyed. As a result, the Lord blessed me with some wonderful experiences, and He taught me to rely on the Spirit. In the process, He also taught me patience, because I was not the most patient missionary. If I had a senior companion who didn’t want to work hard, even though I was the junior companion, I would say, ‘C’mon, let’s go! We’ve got to work!’”
When I became a senior companion, I thought, “Finally, I’ve arrived. I can control the work now.”
But my mission president assigned me a companion who didn’t want to work. By that point in my mission, thankfully, I had learned enough that I knew I had to love my companion, be kind to him, and be patient with him. I knew I couldn’t push him.
One night in the little village of Fare on the island of Huahine, we were at an investigator’s home. Instead of teaching, my companion was playing a board game with a family member and I was sitting there alone, feeling that nobody wanted to listen to me. It was my first assignment as a senior companion, and I felt that I was failing.
As I was having these thoughts and feelings, an outpouring of the Spirit came into my heart. I knew I was not alone. That stayed with me the whole night—not just for a moment. When I awoke the next morning, the feeling was still with me. I knew Heavenly Father loved me. I knew He cared about me. I knew He was with me. Knowing that gave me the strength I needed.
That was a key experience for me. My mission president knew that I needed to have experiences that would humble me and help me recognize my dependence on the Spirit. From that point on I had an incredible mission.

My name is Magnolia. I go to a ward where we speak Spanish. One day Mia came to my Primary class. She speaks only English. I wanted to help Mia feel welcome, so I decided to help her. I would be her interpreter!
An interpreter translates words that someone is speaking into a different language.
Keeping Up
At first it was hard to keep up when I was interpreting for Mia. Then the teachers slowed down to give me time. We all felt good that we could help Mia.
Lots in Common
We both just got baptized and confirmed. We both like music, especially hymns and Primary songs. We both like family home evening. And both of us like to read stories in the Liahona.
Whispered Help
My name is Mia. My parents speak Spanish, so we went to the Spanish-speaking ward. I couldn’t understand what people were saying. Magnolia saw that I was frustrated. She moved over next to me and whispered English in my ear.
Good Friends
After Primary, I asked Magnolia if she would be my friend. She said yes. From then on, Magnolia was my friend and my interpreter. She helped me make other friends too.

When Grandpa took Moni out to the garden, she couldn’t believe it! The bushy green foliage was faded and wilted. “What happened to your garden, Grandpa?” asked Moni.
“It’s done for this year,” said Grandpa. “Tomorrow’s Halloween. Look!” He pointed to something glowing at the garden’s edge. Moni ran to see what it was.
“Pumpkins!” she cried. Scattered among the dried vines were bright orange pumpkins that had looked like dark green balls all summer. “They look happier now,” said Moni.
“That’s why I like pumpkins so much,” said Grandpa. “When the rest of the garden is dying, the pumpkins are still there, looking bright and cheerful.”
“They get to stay around for Halloween,” said Moni.
“That’s right,” agreed Grandpa. “Better pick out the best one for your jack-o’-lantern.”
When Moni finally decided on the biggest pumpkin a four-year-old girl could lift, Grandpa cut it off at the stem and put it in her arms. Moni could feel its cold, smooth skin as she carried it to the house.
Later, Grandpa cut a neat lid in the pumpkin’s top, and Moni scooped out the seeds inside.
“It doesn’t smell very good,” said Moni, wrinkling her nose. “But it’s still the best pumpkin, isn’t it?”
“You bet!” Grandpa laughed. He helped Moni draw triangle eyes and a curvy smile with three teeth in it. When he took his pocketknife and started to cut on the lines, Moni wanted to help. Grandpa let her hold the knife handle while he held her hand, and they carefully cut out the pumpkin’s face.
“Who’s your new friend, Moni?” Grandma asked from the living room.
Moni thought for a minute. “Jake,” she said.
“That’s my name!” declared Grandpa.
“I know,” said Moni. “That’s why I like it. It’s the best name for the best pumpkin.”
“All right,” said Grandpa. “I guess we have two Jakes this Halloween.”
On Halloween night Grandma’s kitchen smelled like apples and popcorn. Moni kept taking off Jake’s lid and looking inside. “How are we going to plug Jake in?” she asked. She remembered seeing jack-o’-lanterns glowing in the dark last year.
“Jake’s not electric,” Grandma said. “We have to light him the old-fashioned way.”
After they had affixed a candle inside Jake, Moni followed Grandma to the stove. She was surprised to see what was going into the oven. “What are those stinky pumpkin seeds doing on your cookie pans, Grandma?” asked Moni.
“I’m roasting them for a treat,” said Grandma.
Moni frowned.
“You’ll like them,” said Grandma.
Grandpa helped Moni into her panda costume. “You’re one of a kind, Moni,” he told her, smiling.
Moni carried Jake to the brick porch railing for Grandpa to light. Jake’s big, golden smile warmed the whole neighborhood.
The next day when Mother and Daddy came to take her home, Moni noticed a puddle of wax and some smoky places inside Jake. “Don’t worry. I still love you,” she said, hugging him good-bye. “See you next weekend, Jake.”
“I doubt it,” said Grandma. “I’ll probably turn Jake into pumpkin pie!”
“No!” said Moni. “I don’t want Jake to be a pie.”
“OK,” said Grandma. “Jake will be here when you come back next weekend.”
When Moni saw Jake that weekend, she was worried. His teeth had withered. His cheeks were caving in. Even his triangle eyes had gotten puckery, and his lid didn’t fit right anymore. Inside were black, fuzzy places that smelled funny. “How come he’s getting all wrinkly?” she asked Grandpa.
“That’s what happens to jack-o’-lanterns, Honey,” said Grandpa. “Once they’ve been carved, they don’t last long.”
“Next year when I pick the best pumpkin, we won’t carve it, and it won’t get old,” she said with a frown.
“Old isn’t so bad,” said Grandpa. “I’m old, and you like me, don’t you?”
“You bet,” said Moni, squeezing Grandpa’s hand.
“Remember where we put the leaves you helped me rake?” asked Grandpa.
Moni nodded.
“Tomorrow we’ll take Jake out to that compost pile with the kitchen scraps. By spring Jake will have turned into good humus to help grow more pumpkins next year.”
Moni didn’t like to think of Jake going out with eggshells and moldy leaves. “I don’t want Jake to go to waste,” she said.
“Nature never wastes anything,” said Grandpa. He gave Moni a handful of roasted pumpkin seeds. “Try some of these,” he said.
Moni carefully tried a few, then ate some more. The seeds tasted good. Then she remembered helping Grandpa poke seeds like these into the dirt and watching the plants that had grown up like magic. “Grandpa, will these seeds turn into more pumpkins?” she asked.
“No, Honey. Grandma roasted these seeds to eat. But she saved some seeds to plant. Next spring you can help me plant Jake’s seeds and watch his ‘children’ grow in the garden.”
“Will they all have champion smiles like Jake?” Moni asked.
“You bet!” replied Grandpa. “If you keep saving your jack-o’-lantern seeds, someday Jake’s great-great-grandchildren will be growing in your garden.”
Moni patted Jake’s sunken face. “You’re still one of a kind, Jake,” she said.

Losing my mother when I was 10 was the most difficult moment of my life. My pain was deep and overwhelming. My life became confused, and I could not focus on school. Worse, my father was not around either. I was completely alone. I had no perspective and didn’t know how to move forward with my life. I was unprepared to manage the grief and pain of living without my mom. I had to learn to do everything on my own and I especially had to learn to defend myself from bad influences around me.
Today, thinking back on those times, I know I was never alone. I always had my Heavenly Father by my side. As a child, I attended an all-girls Catholic school, and the nuns were of immense help to me, teaching me how to make good choices. They taught me to love God, to believe in Him, and most of all, to trust Him.

When I got baptized there were a lot of people who came to see my baptism. I had lots of family to support me. Most of my friends who came were not members of the Church. They were all happy for me. Now one of my friends who came to my baptism has chosen to be baptized in her own church. It makes me feel happy because every time she talks about her baptism, it reminds me of my baptism, and it brings a greater joy to my heart.

My brethren and sisters, at the outset, if you will bear with me, I wish to exercise a personal privilege. Six months ago, at the close of our conference, I stated that my beloved companion of 67 years was seriously ill. She passed away two days later. It was April 6, a significant day to all of us of this Church. I wish to thank publicly the dedicated doctors and wonderful nurses who attended her during her final illness.
My children and I were at her bedside as she slipped peacefully into eternity. As I held her hand and saw mortal life drain from her fingers, I confess I was overcome. Before I married her, she had been the girl of my dreams, to use the words of a song then popular. She was my dear companion for more than two-thirds of a century, my equal before the Lord, really my superior. And now in my old age, she has again become the girl of my dreams.
Immediately following her passing there was a tremendous outpouring of love from across the world. Great quantities of beautiful floral offerings were sent. Large contributions were made in her name to the Perpetual Education Fund and her academic chair at Brigham Young University. There were literally hundreds of letters. We have boxes filled with them from many we know and from very many we do not know. They all express admiration for her and sympathy and love for us whom she left behind.
We regret that we have been unable to respond individually to these many expressions. So I now take this occasion to thank you every one for your great kindness toward us. Thank you so very, very much, and please excuse our failure to reply. The task was beyond our capacity, but your expressions have shed an aura of comfort in our time of grief.

Jane Manning James was tired of walking, but she refused to stop.
Her eldest son, Sylvester, was big enough to walk next to the wagon. But baby Silas, who had been born along the trail, still needed to be carried. It was 1847, and the James family would soon be among the first pioneers to arrive in the valley of the Great Salt Lake.
Jane was no stranger to long journeys.
Four years earlier, her family had left their home in an eastern city to join the Saints in Nauvoo, on the edge of the western frontier. The trip should have taken just a few days by river. But because many Black people were slaves in the United States at the time, Jane’s family frequently had to show papers proving their freedom. And some places had strict laws preventing people of color from traveling through the area—including charging up to $500 per person for passage.
Perhaps because of this outrageous fee or perhaps because of other prejudices, the riverboat crew refused to take Jane and her family members any farther. Undeterred, they left behind many of their possessions and set out on foot with whatever they could carry.
Jane’s family walked for more than 800 miles (1,287 km). They walked through humid days and pitch-black nights. Once they trudged through a forest, sleeping under the open sky. When they awoke, their clothes were white with frost.
“We walked until our shoes were worn out, and our feet became sore and cracked open and bled,” Jane recollected. “… We asked God the Eternal Father to heal our feet and our prayers were answered.”1
While enduring this hard journey, Jane sang hymns with her parents and siblings, praising God. Finally, after nearly three months of walking, they arrived in Nauvoo. Years later, when faithful Saints left to cross the plains, Jane was among the first pioneers to start walking the trail.

My brothers, sister, and I were taught to believe in God, and we said prayers at dinnertime. But that was the extent of our religious education. My mother was raised in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but my father was not. I guess over the years they found it easier to avoid discussing religion than to quarrel over it.
I am the youngest in the family. My brothers and sister are much older and very protective. I believed everything would always be easy.
In my early years at school, my grades were pretty good. But as the years went by, my grades began to drop. My parents often discussed “what to do about Dane.”
They tried to get me to do my assignments, but nothing worked. Teachers, counselors, school administrators, and my parents threatened punishments, but my grades got worse each year. By the time I was in seventh grade, everything was falling apart.
That was also the year our family fell apart. Two weeks after Christmas my parents separated, and later they divorced. My two oldest brothers and my sister had graduated and moved away. That left my brother Lee and me at home with our mother, and Lee was a senior in high school. To make matters worse, we had big financial problems. My mother believed we had hit rock bottom. But that’s when things began to look up.
One day my mom and I had a serious talk. We talked about her upbringing in the Church, and she said she knew she could turn to God for help. She also said she believed if I went to church, it might turn me around in school. I had attended church a few times with a Latter-day Saint friend and had also attended Bible classes at other churches, but my family had not been to church since before I was born. Since my mom was suffering because of the divorce and the loss of income, I didn’t want to add to her problems. I decided to listen to the missionary lessons.
My mother invited Lee to sit in on the lessons too, but he was caught up in his school activities. He sat in on the first discussion, but then he always seemed to have something else to do when the elders visited. My mom and I began attending church together, and things started to feel right. I was baptized that spring. I started studying harder at school, too. And that also helped me feel good inside.
Before joining the Church, I had experimented with cigarettes and alcohol and hung around with kids who made me feel comfortable—kids who were doing poorly in school and who were often with me in the detention class. But when the bishop interviewed me and I made the commitment to get baptized, I promised to obey the Word of Wisdom. I found I liked holding the priesthood, passing the sacrament, and getting praise for doing good things instead of always being in trouble. These positive feelings started to influence my life outside of church. And as I shared my testimony with my friends, I started to see who my true friends really were.
Now, a couple of years after my baptism, I have served as deacons quorum president and as teachers quorum president. I’m on the school’s academic team and have high enough grades to be allowed to play sports. I’ve tried to remain friends with the guys I used to hang around with, but I don’t go out with them much anymore. We’re still on good terms, but we have different interests now. I’m involved in Mutual and have been concentrating on my schoolwork.

When I was a kid, I had problems with asthma. I knew what it was like to struggle for breath all the time. I always had an inhaler around.
Then the Lord blessed me with greater health. The asthma problems became much better. I still needed to be careful, but I could do more than ever before. I was so grateful for that gift of physical health. After about five years, I started really getting into sports. At that point some of the asthma came back to where I still need to have an inhaler on hand. But I’ve learned that I can still do many things, including sports. I actually play on my high school basketball team. I’m so grateful to be able to stay this active.
One of the ways I try to show my gratitude for physical health is by helping others. Last summer I had an opportunity to volunteer at a basketball camp for younger kids. We helped fourth and fifth graders one week, then sixth and seventh graders the next week. I got to know the participants really well. There were 25 attendees and 5 counselors. We worked on things like basic basketball skills, sportsmanship, and the importance of playing as a team. The participants had a fun time learning, and I definitely had a great time teaching them.
Joshua M., 16, California, USA

What about our children? Do they hear exclamations of joy and hope in the gospel? After a Primary lesson about Joseph Smith’s First Vision, the class was asked to draw pictures to take home and share with their families. The children had been taught about the darkness Joseph experienced before the appearance of the Father and the Son. A six-year-old girl picked up a black crayon and started to draw. She colored the bottom and up one side of the page as dark as she could. When her teacher asked her about the picture, she said she was drawing Joseph Smith in the darkness.

Her teacher inquired: “Do you know that when Heavenly Father and Jesus appeared, all the darkness had to leave? Heavenly Father and Jesus are always more powerful than Satan, and They will protect you.” The child turned back to her paper. In the top corner, she drew an outline of two figures; and then, trading her black crayon for a bright yellow one, she filled the rest of the page with light.

My grandfather, Fritz Hjalmar Lundgren, emigrated from Sweden when he was 19 years old. He arrived in America alone, with a suitcase and six years of formal schooling. Unable to speak any English, he made his way to Oregon and worked there as a lumberjack and then later, with my grandmother and my mother, joined the Church. He never presided over a ward, but as a faithful home teacher, he brought more than 50 different families into Church activity. How did he do that?

After Grandpa’s death, I was going through a box of his papers and came across a letter written by a man who had come back to church because of Grandpa’s love. The letter read, “Brother Fritz’s secret, I believe, is that he is always on an errand for Heavenly Father.”

That letter was from Brother Wayne Simonis. Grandpa visited him and got to know each member of the family. In time, Grandpa told them that they were needed and invited them to attend church. But that Sunday, Brother Simonis awoke with a dilemma—he had not finished reroofing his house, and rain was expected that week. He decided that he’d go to church, shake hands with Grandpa, and then leave and go home to finish the roof. His family could attend sacrament meeting without him.

His plan was working just fine until, on the roof, he heard someone climbing the ladder. In his words: “When I looked up, … standing at the top of the ladder was Brother Fritz. He just gave me that big smile. At first, I was embarrassed and felt like a little kid getting caught for skipping school. Then … I felt anger. [But Brother Fritz just] took off his suit coat and hung it on the ladder. As he rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, he turned to me and said, ‘Brother Simonis, do you have another hammer? This work must be very important or you wouldn’t have left your family, and if it’s that important, I want to help you.’ As I looked into his eyes, I saw only kindness and Christlike love. My anger left. … I laid my tools down that Sunday and followed my good friend down the ladder and back to the chapel.”

Grandpa had obtained his errand from the Lord, and he knew he was to seek out lost sheep. Just as when the four men who carried their friend with palsy onto a roof and then let him down to be healed by Jesus Christ, so too did Grandpa’s errand take him to a rooftop. The Lord sends revelation to those seeking to help others.

“Can you see where that smoke is coming from? It seems awfully close. I wonder what’s burning?”
“Could be just a brush fire.”
“It’s not that close. It just seems that way.”
“Yeah! Could be somewhere around … our … Oh, no!”
It was our 13th wedding anniversary. Because of other commitments that evening, we had decided to celebrate with a fancy restaurant lunch and include our five children in the festivities. We had barely ordered our meal when one of the children had spotted the smoke and our spirit of celebration was all but ruined. We tried to tell each other that it just couldn’t be anywhere near our home and thus somehow got through the lunch. But that was about it. Hurriedly we scampered into our car and started the drive home.
It was only about ten miles, but what a long distance it seemed to be. The closer to the smoke we came, the more worried we got. It sure looked like it was coming from our neighborhood. I can still remember the fear and anxiety reflected on each face during that drive.
We lived in southern California, where after a dry summer terrible fires were rather commonplace. Our home was situated near the top of the hill, and the road leading to our home ran higher on top. In back of the house and down the hill were thousands of acres of grassy undeveloped land with some clusters of trees here and there. The grass that summer had grown high and then, due to a lack of rain, had died and dried standing up. Somehow that grass had caught on fire.
As we arrived home the police and a couple of fire trucks were already positioned on the road up the hill. The wind was toward us, and the fire was advancing with unbelievable speed.
I whispered a quick prayer, “Dear God, save our home.”
It is interesting to see what a person thinks important and valuable when faced with the fact that there is just a small pickup truck in the driveway with which to haul his prized possessions to safety. In our case, sentimentality played a bigger role than monetary value. The family records came first, and the only piece of furniture we even thought of bothering with was my great-grandparents’ untunable piano. The girls, with their selected valuables, were sent off with a ward member, but our 11-year-old twin boys stayed around placing wet blankets on the top of the roof and keeping them wet.
There were only a few houses on that hill, all some distance from one another. We started, as did all our neighbors, to clear away the dry grass and the shrubbery surrounding our property. It seemed like useless work, but we had to do something; we couldn’t just stand there waiting.
“Dear God, save our home.”
The fire was getting closer, and the place was getting hotter. And we were becoming newsworthy! The cameras were whirring away, and we were being interviewed for the evening news.
“How does it feel to wait for your home to burn down?”
“It might not burn.”
“Yeah, well, tell us how you feel right now.”
“Terrible. Scared.”
The police had long since cut off all the traffic to our area. Only the people living there and close relatives were admitted. Suddenly a station wagon full of men from our ward arrived. They were all anxious to help, and we were grateful for their concern. Then other elders started to come. We knew about the roadblock and wondered how these good men had been able to come through.
“Brother Ellett,” I said to one of them, “how did you get past the police?”
“That was easy,” he chuckled. “I just told them that my brother lives there!” That seemed to be the way all the other brethren had come through the roadblock.
A few minutes later, while the elders were still pouring in, one young policeman came walking down the driveway.
“I came to see the man,” he said, “who has so many brothers.”
I went out to the patio and counted all the men from our ward that I could see. I counted 39. Thirty-nine brothers!
Thirty-nine priesthood holders, I thought. There they were fighting the fire with every possible means they could lay their hands on. They fought it with shovels, with hoes, with rakes, and even with sticks. And right then and there I realized that they had even stronger power than those few helpless tools in their possession. Great feelings of peace filled my soul. I knew then as surely as I have ever known anything that no fire could get through that line of fire fighters.
Anybody who has ever seen a group of full-grown trees, or even one of them, explode with fire will know how scary such a thing is, especially when seen at close quarters. There I stood watching the flames that seemed to lick the sky, and still I knew that I and all that was mine were safe from that raging inferno. The peace and calmness that filled my being is something I will never be able to fully describe. I was so grateful, oh, so grateful for my membership in the Church and for the knowledge I had. Tears running down my cheeks, I thanked the Lord, not so much for the material things he would preserve, but for the spiritual things nothing can destroy.
Somebody had bulldozed a big gully between the burnt area and us. The TV cameras were whirring “happily” in all this commotion, recording what to them was news. The bulldozed area would not have been wide enough to stop the fire if something else had not happened suddenly. The wind that had all the time blown briskly toward us turned unexpectedly and completely and began to blow now in the direction of the already burnt area. The fight was now easier, and the fire never crossed the bulldozed area to our home.
“My brother lives there,” they had said.
My brother! I felt then stronger than ever before the bond that ties us together in the Church. I felt it loving and caring for my family. We are not alone. We have one another.
Often, when I travel at night and see a light in the distance all by itself, I wonder who might live there. And then I remember, and this thought comes to me like a flash, “My brother lives there!”

The second lesson was learned several years later when we were more financially secure. Our wedding anniversary was approaching, and I wanted to buy Mary a fancy coat to show my love and appreciation for our many happy years together. When I asked what she thought of the coat I had in mind, she replied with words that again penetrated my heart and mind. “Where would I wear it?” she asked. (At the time she was a ward Relief Society president helping to minister to needy families.)
Then she taught me an unforgettable lesson. She looked me in the eyes and sweetly asked, “Are you buying this for me or for you?” In other words, she was asking, “Is the purpose of this gift to show your love for me or to show me that you are a good provider or to prove something to the world?” I pondered her question and realized I was thinking less about her and our family and more about me.
After that, we had a serious, life-changing discussion about provident living, and both of us agreed that our money would be better spent in paying down our home mortgage and adding to our children’s education fund.

Not far from this tabernacle there lived two sisters. Each had two handsome sons. Each had a loving husband. Each lived in comfort, prosperity, and good health. Then the grim reaper visited their homes. First, each lost a son; then the husband and father. Friends visited; words brought a measure of comfort; but grief continued unrelieved.
The years passed. Hearts remained broken. The two sisters sought and achieved seclusion. They shut themselves off from the world which surrounded them. Alone they remained with their remorse. Then there came to a latter-day prophet of God, who knew well these two sisters, the inspiration of the Lord which directed him to their plight. Elder Harold B. Lee left his busy office and visited the penthouse home of the lonely widows. He listened to their pleadings. He felt the sorrow of their hearts. Then he called them to the service of God and to mankind. Each looked outward into the lives of others and upward into the face of God. Peace replaced turmoil. Confidence dispelled despair. God had once again remembered the widow and, through a prophet, brought divine comfort.

One day I was describing my experiences and new ideas about God to one of my uncles, who suggested I talk with some missionaries. Part of my family had been members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for my whole life, and I’d never thought about joining before, but now I was ready to meet with the missionaries.
I’d always admired my family who were members of the Church. They were always helping others and seemed to have a happiness I didn’t understand. I was finally humbled enough to be open to the idea of me not having all the answers and to think that I could maybe learn something from the missionaries.
They asked me to read the Book of Mormon and pray to find out if it was true. I was taken aback by this. I didn’t expect them to tell me to find out for myself. But I began reading and praying. As I did, I noticed the strangest feeling. In some strange way, I recognized what I was reading, as if I were remembering truths I’d once known. I now know that feeling was the Holy Ghost testifying of truth to me—it was the same burning feeling I’d experienced before. I continued the discussions with the missionaries, and shortly after, I was baptized.

Pornography pretends that it is no evil stranger—that it is not a problem and is not addictive. That is a lie. One 12-year-old boy recently wrote to the New Era, telling of his experience viewing pornography when he was alone at home. While initially it was exciting, he soon felt deep despair. He wrote: “I have been trying my best to forget those images. I would like to say to anyone reading the Friend or New Era that while porn might be pleasurable, it really wrecks your soul and is hard to recover from.”

I would like to tell you about a group of loud young men who came into my life when I was a young bishop in Seoul, Korea, many years ago. These were boys who lived in the neighborhood. Only one or two of them were members of the Church at the time. The boys who were members were the only members in their family. They were all friends, and they came to the church to play and to be together. They liked to play Ping-Pong during the weekdays, and they liked to have fun activities on Saturdays. Most of them were not good students in school and were considered by many to be troublemakers.
I was a young father of two sons, who were seven and nine years old at the time. I did not know what I could do for these young men. They were so rowdy that once my wife, Bon-Kyoung, asked me if we could move to another ward so that our sons could see good examples from other young men. I pondered and prayed to Heavenly Father to help me to find the way to help these young men. Finally I made the decision to try and teach them how they could change their lives.
A vision came upon my mind very clearly. I felt that if they were to become missionaries, their lives would be changed. From that moment on, I became very excited, and I tried to spend as much time as possible with them, teaching them the importance of missionary service and how to prepare for a mission.
At that time, Elder Seo, a full-time missionary, was transferred to our ward. He was one who had grown up in the Church and as an Aaronic Priesthood youth had participated in a young men’s singing group with his friends. He met those boisterous boys in our ward. Elder Seo taught those who were not members the missionary discussions, and he also taught them the songs he used to sing. He made a triple quartet with those loud boys and named them the Hanaro Quartet, which means “be as one.” They were happy to sing together, but we all needed “big” patience when we listened to their singing.
Our home was open to the members anytime they wanted to visit. The boys visited our home almost every weekend and even on some weekdays. We fed them and taught them. We taught them the principles of the gospel as well as the application of the gospel in their lives. We tried to give them a vision of their future life.
They sang together every time they came to our home. Their loud sound hurt our ears. But we always praised them because listening to them sing was far more enjoyable than seeing them get into trouble.
Through the years these activities continued. Most of these young men matured in the gospel, and a miracle happened. Over time, nine of the boys who were not members were baptized. They changed from loud, rowdy boys into valiant stripling warriors.
They served missions, met beautiful young sisters in the Church, and married in the temple. Of course, there were different challenges for each of them as they served missions, attended school, and got married, but they all stayed faithful because they wanted to obey their leaders and please the Lord. Now they have happy families with children born in the covenant.
Nine loud boys have become 45 active members in the Lord’s kingdom, including their wives and children. They are now leaders in their wards and stakes. One is a bishop, two serve in bishoprics, one is serving on the high council, and two are Young Men presidents. There is a ward mission leader, an executive secretary, and a seminary teacher. As a group, they still sing together, and the other miracle—they actually sound good!
Now, we have three of our own sons, including our youngest, who was born during the time I served as bishop. As our sons grew, those nine boys became the leaders of the ward and the stake, and they became the teachers and leaders of our sons. They taught our boys and other boys in the same way I taught them when they were troublemakers. They loved our young boys in the same way I loved them. These loud, rowdy boys of the past became our children’s heroes. Our sons liked to follow their great examples of becoming wonderful missionaries and getting married to righteous companions in the temple.