Gospel Story Finder

My great-grandparents, Orla and Roger, died in their 20s, leaving my grandfather and his brother in the care of Roger’s family. After Orla’s death, her father, Robert, died of appendicitis. A short time later, her mother fell, cracked her skull, and suffered several strokes, becoming bedridden. Orla’s oldest sisters, Thelma and Ena, then carried the full burden of supporting the family—a difficult task for two young, unmarried women in the late 1920s.

When Ali’s eighth birthday drew near, she asked her parents if she could be baptized on her birthday—she was too excited to wait a day longer! They were able to schedule it, so on July 11, 2000, she was baptized a member of the Church. She was delighted to have her Grandma and Grandpa Balsor in attendance. “My grandparents were so touched by the Spirit that they cried,” she said. After the baptism, her mother felt inspired to give them a copy of the Book of Mormon.

And in all they do, there is love—love both expressed and self-evident. “I love my family a lot,” Lou says, “and I know they love me too. They’ve shown me many times that they do. My daddy proved it four times in particular. Those were the four times when I fell into the water before I knew how to swim. Daddy came in after me every time—shoes and all.

I was born and raised in Korea in a loving family, and I joined the Church while in my teens. I would like to share the experience of my conversion with you.
My classmate and I were working together in the school library just after winter vacation when he asked me if I was interested in going to church with him. I asked him what kind of church he was talking about, and he told me it was near our school. He said it was a lot of fun, and there were many girls. I was 16 at the time, and that description of church appealed to me. I decided to go. I had gone to a Presbyterian church for a couple of years in elementary school, and I had good memories of church.
My friend and I went to a Saturday activity, and everyone came to greet me and welcome me. I was impressed that they would be so kind to welcome a small guy they didn’t know. I went to church the next day, and I was introduced to the missionaries.
The missionaries taught me about basic gospel principles, about Jesus Christ, and about the Restoration of the gospel through the Prophet Joseph Smith. All the lessons I was taught were reasonable and logical, and I was impressed by eternal progress and the plan of salvation. I had often thought about why I was here on earth and what things were waiting for me after death. It was comforting to know that if I would do all I could for myself, the Savior would do the rest.
Two months later I wanted to be baptized and confirmed, but I needed permission from my parents. They were Buddhist, but they trusted me. I decided it would be best to ask my mother first, so I asked the missionaries to come to my home during the day. Before I went to school, I told my mother that she might have some foreigners come to ask her something and that she should just say yes. And then I ran out the door to school. When I returned, my mom said she had two handsome American visitors. She said they spoke wonderful Korean, and she was so impressed that she said yes. So I got permission from my parents to join the Church.

On one occasion, President Harold B. Lee, who was a stake president in the area where I was born and reared and later presided as a bishop, spoke movingly to the Aaronic Priesthood concerning how the priesthood might prepare for its role in caring for the poor. He stood at the pulpit, took the Book of Mormon in hand, and opened it to the seventeenth chapter of Alma. He then read to us concerning the sons of Mosiah:
“Now these sons of Mosiah were with Alma at the time the angel first appeared unto him; therefore Alma did rejoice exceedingly to see his brethren; and what added more to his joy, they were still his brethren in the Lord; yea, and they had waxed strong in the knowledge of the truth; for they were men of a sound understanding and they had searched the scriptures diligently, that they might know the word of God.
“But this is not all; they had given themselves to much prayer, and fasting; therefore they had the spirit of prophecy, and the spirit of revelation, and when they taught, they taught with power and authority of God.” (Alma 17:2–3.)
We had been given our pattern, provided by an inspired teacher. Reverently, he closed the covers of this sacred scripture.
Like President Clark, he too had tears in his eyes.

A few weeks ago our youngest son and his wife and family stopped to see us. The first one out of the car was our two-year-old grandson. He came running to me with his arms outstretched, shouting, “Gwampa! Gwampa! Gwampa!”
He hugged my legs, and I looked down at that smiling face and those big, innocent eyes and thought, “What kind of a world awaits him?”
For a moment I had that feeling of anxiety, that fear of the future that so many parents express to us. Everywhere we go fathers and mothers worry about the future of their children in this very troubled world.
But then a feeling of assurance came over me. My fear of the future faded.
That guiding, comforting Spirit, with which we in the Church are so familiar, brought to my remembrance what I already knew. The fear of the future was gone. That bright-eyed, little two-year-old can have a good life—a very good life—and so can his children and his grandchildren, even though they will live in a world where there is much of wickedness.

This was not a traditional prom night in Fort Wayne, Indiana. It was September (instead of springtime). The prom was held at the Ossian Health Care Center (instead of a ballroom). The hosts were teenagers (typical), and the guests were elderly and handicapped residents of the care center (not so typical). The chaperones were the children of the guests.
This nontraditional but very special prom was hosted last year by the youth from the Fort Wayne First Ward and Decatur Branch, Fort Wayne Indiana Stake. Turning the dining room at the care center into a “Seniors’ Prom,” they decorated with balloons and crepe paper. They provided dance music, special entertainment, and refreshments. And each guest was presented with a corsage or boutonniere.
A prom is not complete without a royal couple. So a committee of four young people took turns interviewing the guests during the early part of the evening. Later, Ricky Scheumann and Helen Anderson were crowned prom king and queen.
The youth were the dancing partners for those attending from the care center. And even wheelchairs didn’t stop anyone from taking to the dance floor. “It was a wonderful success! We’re looking forward to it next year,” one of the residents exclaimed.
The spirit of this group of young women and men from Fort Wayne, Indiana, can be summed up in the words of one of the youth leaders, Vickie Houseman: “When we are serving others, we feel we are showing love for our Heavenly Father.”

While holding a sign for a car wash fundraiser for my high school band, I was hit by a car going over 60 miles per hour (96 kph). I was rushed to the hospital. All three bones in my arm were broken, and I had to have metal plates and screws put in my arm. I have three long scars on my arm, small ones on my elbow and shin, and another long one over my knee.
The first day I went to therapy to help recover my damaged nerves, the therapist told me that when I got older I would be able to get tattoos to cover my scars. My mom and dad both said, “You don’t know James very well.” I told her that tattoos were against my standards and that I wouldn’t want one anyway.
I know my body is a gift from God, and I am not supposed to mark it up. I am grateful that I have been taught that my body is a special gift and that I do not need to put tattoos on it. I know the scars aren’t pretty right now, but they will fade. For now, they are a reminder to me that God watches out for me.

Blow and bluster, do your worst!
Rattle windows till they burst.
Frost the air and make me shiver,
Freeze the current in the river.
Naught can chill my heart to stay;
There’s a hint of spring today.
Saw a crocus peeping through,
And a violet bud’s first blue.
Then I heard a robin call,
Pecking seeds from garden wall.
I don’t mind your blustering,
Now I know there will be spring.

All of us at some point will face heartache because of death and disease. Joseph and Emma Smith were no different. Their first child died shortly after birth, and Emma’s next pregnancy (with twins) also ended in the babies’ deaths. Joseph and Emma then adopted newborn twins whose mother, Julia Clapp Murdock, had died in childbirth. Eleven months later, in March 1832, young Joseph—one of the twins—died after a mob attack on the Prophet Joseph exposed the baby, who was suffering from measles, to the cold night air.2
The deaths of his children gave Joseph empathy for others who experienced the loss of loved ones. Just a few days after his son’s death, the Prophet traveled to Missouri to fulfill a commandment the Lord had given him to counsel with the Saints there. On his way back from the trip, Joseph was delayed after Newel K. Whitney, his traveling companion, suffered a broken leg in an accident. The two had to stay in the small town of Greenville, Indiana, for a few weeks until Newel was well enough to travel.3
As Joseph languished in Greenville, he heard that his niece Mary—the two-year-old daughter of Hyrum Smith—had just died. The death was devastating to Hyrum and his wife Jerusha.4
When Joseph heard the news, he wrote a letter to Emma—who was still mourning the loss of the baby Joseph. “I was grieved to hear that Hyrum had lost his little child,” Joseph wrote. “I think we can in some degree sympathize with him.” Of course Joseph and Emma could sympathize, having lost four of their own children. Joseph then continued, “But we all must be reconciled to our lots and say the will of the Lord be done.”5 To make sense of the death, Joseph put his trust in the Lord.

What a sacrifice these good sisters made! Some mothers lost their own lives in childbirth. Many babies did not survive. My wife’s grandmother, Elizabeth Riter, was born at Winter Quarters in the back of a covered wagon during a rainstorm. Fortunately, both the mother and the newborn infant survived. With great love for the woman who gave life to her, Elizabeth often lovingly recounted how an umbrella was held over her mother throughout the ordeal to shield her from the water leaking through the wagon’s cover.

When I was serving as mission president in Colombia, I left on a Thursday morning to fly to a city in our mission. I spent the day interviewing, and as I spoke with the missionaries, a number of concerns began to worry me.
After a zone conference with the missionaries, I conducted a district conference with Church leaders and members on Saturday and Sunday. There were challenges in this area: low Church attendance, poor preparation, and other concerns. The experiences that I had over these four days left me feeling low.
On the flight home, I used the time to read, ponder, and pray. I took my scriptures in hand and thumbed through the pages, reading here and there. Soon I came to some verses in Doctrine and Covenants section 3 that will never be the same to me: “The works, and the designs, and the purposes of God cannot be frustrated, neither can they come to naught” (v. 1).
I thought about these words. I realized that on my trip I had come to the wrong conclusion that the purposes, designs, and works of God were being “frustrated” in that city.
I continued on: “For God doth not walk in crooked paths” (v. 2). Some of the missionaries and members seemed to be walking in crooked paths.
In verse 5 I found a treasure—one of the most wonderful insights I have ever found in the scriptures: “Behold, you have been entrusted with these things.”
I paused to reflect upon the things entrusted to me: my wife and six children, 100 missionaries, 6,000 members, 13–14 million nonmembers, a mission, districts, branches, budgets, buildings, and so forth.
Then I came to the phrase “remember also the promises” (v. 5). What power, what insight, what comfort, what depth of feeling and meaning! Four words from scripture had never affected me as those four did that day.
I realized that for four days I had focused on nothing but problems. Not once had I stopped to remember the great promises given to me. I asked myself, “What promises?” The first ones that came to my mind were those in my patriarchal blessing. I had it with me on the plane, and I read it over. My, what promises! I then pondered on the special promises given to me when I was set apart as mission president. I thought about the promises of the temple and promises from the scriptures. My spirit soared! I was inspired!
As I look back on that flight home, I realize I was taught from on high. From that day until today, my life has been different, all because of four simple words: “remember also the promises.”

Jaslyn Simpson took a leap of faith in a Beehive class of only two girls in Wellington, New Zealand. The Beehive teacher of the Crofton Downs Ward challenged the girls, as part of their lesson on missionary work, to invite a friend to church. And Jaslyn decided she’d do it.
“I knew there was something missing in Amy’s life,” Jaslyn says, “so I knew I should introduce her to the gospel.” Jaslyn’s small action of love caused a major reaction in the life of her best friend, Amy Valentine. Amy came to church with Jaslyn at the first invitation and then kept coming to Sunday meetings and youth activities for the next two months, until Jaslyn and her family moved to Sydney, Australia.
“I’ve never really had a Christian background. I had no idea how to pray or anything,” Amy says. “But before they left, I decided I was going to keep going to church without them. By then, I sort of knew some other people at church.”
One of those people was Michelle Broczek, the other Beehive in the Crofton Downs Ward. Michelle invited Amy to take the discussions in her home and, with her parents’ approval, Amy was baptized when she was 13.

I had a sweet experience with a darling young woman who asked a very sincere question: “Sister Craven, how do you know that anything about the Church is true? Because I feel nothing.”
Before jumping to an answer, I first asked her some questions. “Tell me about your personal scripture study.”
She replied, “I don’t read the scriptures.”
I asked, “What about with your family? Do you study Come, Follow Me together?”
She said, “No.”
I asked about her prayers: “What do you feel when you pray?”
Her answer: “I don’t pray.”
My response to her was simple: “If you want to know anything, you will have to do something.”
Isn’t that true with anything we want to learn or know? I invited my new friend to start doing the gospel of Jesus Christ: praying, studying, serving others, and trusting in the Lord. Conversion won’t come while doing nothing. It comes through the power of the Holy Ghost as we intentionally make an effort to know by asking, seeking, and knocking. It comes by doing.

Fruit punch, dainty cakes, and lacy dresses were soundly defeated by bicycles, apples, and jeans as the Nephi, Utah, Young Women and their mothers voted for a pedal-power retreat.
Taking cue from the stake sports director’s suggestion that the women’s programs needed more activity, the mothers and daughters in the Nephi Stake scheduled a six-mile ride from the stake house to the airport and back. After the trip, most mothers agreed that they were grateful the course was flat and their tires weren’t.
A Nephi City policeman whose daughter and wife were riding with the group was on the scene to direct any traffic jams and, if necessary, revive puffing bikers with resuscitation gear.
The halfway point meant punch and apples and a short time-out for weak thighs and wobbly knees. Nearing the end of the course there were lots of red faces, but they knew they’d be a lot redder if they rode back in an accompanying truck via four wheels instead of two. One daughter had both her mother and grandmother riding with her, and the three generations were willing to take on any challengers.
Back at the stake house, mothers and daughters were served a well-earned lunch followed by a short program. There were even awards for bikers: “Lifesavers” for the most helpful; a “Powerhouse” bar for the speediest pedaler; “Snickers” candy for the biggest giggler; a “Rally” bar for the most impressive last effort; and a package of “Rolaids” for a mother who took a turn with a little too much enthusiasm and landed in a ditch.

There is a poem called “The Fish” by Elizabeth Bishop. This is a long, skinny poem—the lines are short. It goes down the page in a thin way with a very prosy rhythm. The way a poem looks on the page is important. That is part of the structure of the thing.
The poem is about catching a fish in a pond, a huge fish, the monarch of that pond. It had six leaders broken off in its lower lip. It had outwitted any number of fishermen. I am a miserable fisherman. All fish are smarter than I am. I can’t outwit any fish; I’ve given it up.
But, Elizabeth Bishop caught this very wily fish and held it out of the water and looked at it. She said of the fish—this is in the course of a much longer description, but this is the passage I focused on:
I looked into its eyes
That were far larger than mine
But shallower and yellowed,
The irises backed and packed
With tarnished tinfoil
Seen through lenses of
Old, scratched isinglass.
Now just as a joy of using your eyes, take that passage into your imagination. I have tried to teach students to look. I used to wish there were courses called Elementary Looking, and Intermediate Looking, and Advanced Looking. Every good poet educates your eyes because you don’t see with your eyes; you see with your brain. The eyes are just windows letting in impulses. And then, where there is an organization behind it that receives this thing, you see with it. You see with your intelligence, and I say it takes a tremendously intelligent person to see as well as Elizabeth Bishop sees.
I have had students who could look at a fish and get the beginning of that description. They could get as good as, “I looked into its eyes.” Anyone can say that. But then a good student could say, “that were far larger than mine, but shallower and yellowed.” A good student could go that far. But it is a rare person indeed who has enough eyes to write the next few lines: “The irises backed and packed with tarnished tinfoil.” See all of those rods and cones; that is just the texture. The analogy is exact and the coloration is exact—the tarnished tinfoil. And then because the air is cloudy in the fish’s eye, “seen through lenses of old, scratched isinglass.”
Now there is a description! She falls in love with the looking. And the poem ends with, “And I let the fish go.” There is a sudden release of joy. That is an affirmation. You are not being preached to. It is like hearing the choir sing, “And I let the fish go.” It is a praise—it praises the world. What is the world for but to be lived in and responded to? What is so important about looking at a fish’s eye? I suggest, as a first answer, that anything significantly looked at is significant.
But that is only a beginning, that is only an evasion, because what does significant mean? Putting it another way, a thing is significant that teaches us something more about ourselves. Elizabeth Bishop teaches me with both a sense of delight and a sense of shame. She teaches me how well it is possible to see the world, and then she shames me that I haven’t looked better, that I haven’t entered my own act of joy sufficiently. She educates me. She makes me want to identify more closely. She enriches me in this way. And I am glad for her, and there is a shudder of pleasure when she says, “And I let the fish go.” I want to let all fish go in this way—it is that affirmation.

Sergelen’s brother-in-law, Soronzonbold, has been a member of the Church since he was 18, and now, in his mid-20s, serves as president of the Darkhan district, with its five branches. He is a university student. “I am grateful for my calling in the Church because I learn so much from it,” he says.

Mongolians are impressed, Soronzonbold explains, because members serve in the Church without pay.

“Before I became a member, I was very selfish,” he says. Now he has a goal of learning as much as he can about the gospel. “Our challenge is to learn and to share.”

Kirtland Temple
1836: The Kirtland Temple was dedicated in March 1836, only six years after the restored Church was organized in 1830. Ownership changed after the majority of members left Kirtland in 1838, and the building is no longer counted among dedicated temples.

I felt disturbed. I knew I would have let these individuals miss out on the blessings of the gospel simply because they appeared rough on the outside. I knew Norm did not approach these men because he wanted to show off to us; he knew the joy of the gospel, and he wanted these men to share that spiritual wealth.
After Norm told his story we were quiet for a long time, walking and thinking of the blessings we enjoyed and wondering how we could walk closer to our brothers. With the time we had left on the job, we brought the other men into our work group and involved them in our water fights and our harmless practical jokes on the bosses and on each other. But perhaps most important, we let these men know what we believed and how we lived our lives. And from then on, as we walked to and from the job site, we did so together, the regulars and the Mormons—side by side.

My grandpa has a big white truck that is really old. He says that it was new when my dad was still a boy. Whenever our family goes to visit Grandpa and Grandma, my brother, Justin, and I like to play in it. Grandma laughs and says we only come to visit Grandpa and his truck.
Some days we have to wait for Grandpa to come home from work before we can play in it. As soon as he opens the kitchen door, out we race to the big white truck.
The first one to reach the truck wins—that’s the rule.
I push my brother up into the truck, and then I climb in behind the wheel. Once inside the truck, we put on hats that Grandpa leaves in the truck—baseball caps or big straw hats or cowboy hats with turned-up brims. Grandpa always leaves hats there for us.
Justin and I take turns making roaring engine noises as we pretend to race with screeching tires and squealing brakes to catch the robbers just around the corner or to finish the big race in first place.
When we are tired of racing, we climb out through the open windows into the bed of the truck. There we hide from the ugly wild things we imagine are lurking behind the trees, or we build big forts with some old blankets Grandpa leaves in his truck.
Sometimes we take turns jumping off the truck’s tailgate. I always jump the farthest.
When Grandpa sits in the truck with us, we put the hats on him in funny ways, and he laughs with us a lot. Whenever he brings us cookies from Grandma, we sit and eat them in the truck. He doesn’t even care if we drop crumbs.
Sometimes Grandpa takes us to the park in his big white truck. We ride high above the cars and look down on them moving along beside us. Justin sits next to Grandpa and reminds him where to turn. I sit close to the door and wave and shout hello to people who pass by.
Once in a while Grandpa takes us to the ice-cream store in his big white truck. Grandma, who says the truck is too old, comes out to see us off. She asks Grandpa if he would rather take the car, but Grandpa says no and tells her not to worry. Then off we go in the big white truck.
We are always sad when it’s time to leave. Grandpa hugs us and tells us to come back soon. Grandma kisses us and tells us to be good.
I think the big white truck might be a little sad to see us go. I think it likes to race and chase and go with us. I’m glad Grandpa has his big white truck.