Gospel Story Finder

Han Sang Ick of the Shin Dang Ward in Seoul knows that he has been richly blessed as a result of his obedience. Although his life has not taken the path he had originally planned, Brother Han says, “I am happier today than I ever imagined.”
A university drama student with aspirations to perform and teach, Brother Han was selected as student body president of the Latter-day Saint institute in Seoul. “All the prior presidents had served a mission,” he explains. “I found myself doing some serious thinking about whether I should serve a mission or not.”
Brother Han, baptized at age seventeen and the only member of the Church in his family, struggled with his family responsibilities. His father had died, and as the eldest son, he was responsible for his mother. “She really expected me to graduate, marry, and take care of her. That is the pattern established through the years.”
Instead, Brother Han graduated, arranged for his mother to be taken care of, and, at age twenty-six, became a full-time missionary. “And of course, that was the right decision,” he concludes. “My mother was blessed, and I established a pattern of righteous decisions.”

True rough-and-tough camping is alive and well deep in the heart of Texas, where girls of the Boerne Ward, San Antonio Texas Stake, went on a three-day high adventure.
“The trip began with a training meeting where the girls divided themselves into teams of two or three for sharing tents and cooking meals. They learned how to stay safe and comfortable in a primitive environment,” says their leader, Linda Bohman.
While they were on their campout, the girls went swimming, canoeing, rappelling, had devotionals, and went exploring.
After such a rigorous activity, everyone was ready to come home.
“Wow, it was hard, but I did it!” said one girl.

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.

On one occasion I was trying to help a woman see her husband more truthfully and compassionately instead of so accusingly. I told her I would begin describing her husband and his situation as I saw them, and then I would ask her to take over and continue with her observations. I began by mentioning some of his problems and limitations, and then started listing his strengths. Then I asked her to take over. She described how good he was with the children, how helpful he was in the ward, how much he liked people generally.
Suddenly she looked at me with shock on her face: “Do you know what I see? I see the man I married!” I explained that he had been there all along, but that she had ceased to see his strengths because of her exaggerated attention to his weaknesses.
She then looked at her husband, and as her head fell onto his shoulder she sobbed, “I’m so sorry for the way I have blamed you and treated you all these years. Can you ever forgive me?”
She had come into that session feeling sorry for herself and for the way her husband had mistreated her. But she left sorrowing over the way she had treated him. As she admitted the truth to herself, her heart softened, leading her to a sincere desire to change.

There are many types of progress that one can make in life, but as I was recently preparing to teach Relief Society (for the first time ever), I started to wonder if I was lacking when it came to spiritual progress. I was teaching about a general conference talk given by Sister Jean B. Bingham, former Relief Society General President, about how making covenants helps to prepare us for eternal glory.1
I kept thinking, “Well, I can’t physically see or touch eternal glory, so how can I even know if I’m progressing on the covenant path?”
Lately I’ve felt a bit stuck. As a young single adult who has been baptized and received her endowment but hasn’t been sealed in the temple, I sometimes feel like I am at a standstill on the covenant path. I feel like I’m a board game piece that can’t move forward no matter how many times I roll the dice. I want to get married and make covenants with God and my eternal companion, but what do I do in the meantime?
How do I know if I’m moving forward?
I felt so inadequate to teach a lesson about the covenant path when I was uncertain of how I could move forward on the path myself. I had a lot of questions, so I started seeking out answers in the scriptures. And I was surprised to discover a treasure trove of truths. I truly enjoyed reading as I studied Gospel Topics, followed footnotes, and felt the Spirit guiding me to the specific answers I needed at that exact moment.
At one point I felt an overwhelming feeling of peace and actually looked up at the light in my room because I felt a sort of brightness around me.
That’s when the Spirit brought the words, “This is how,” to my mind.
Those words were the answer. I changed my perspective and realized that just by reading my scriptures I had progressed closer to Heavenly Father that day, and I could continue every day as I took steps to come closer to Christ. I recognized how keeping my covenants was helping me become more like Him, little by little.
I felt like I was finally moving my game piece forward on the board game of life.
Since that moment of personal revelation, I have made a more sincere effort to study and learn more about the gospel. I’ve changed my focus to daily progress to understand how my choices lead to eternal progress.
Elder Michael A. Dunn of the Seventy has taught that simply doing “one percent better”2 makes all the difference in progress. And looking back, striving to do a little better each day really has put my movement on the covenant path in perspective. And I’ve noticed many blessings:
Deeper love for the gospel
Excitement about scripture study and spiritual habits
More time to serve others
Deeper understanding of my divine potential
More hope and joy about life
Some days I feel like I am not progressing as much as I would like, and I am still faced with a lot of uncertainty about the future. But as I align my will with God’s, I feel gratitude for this time because I am learning and growing and deepening my faith, which means I really am progressing every day—receiving the blessings of God’s promises, focusing on the Savior’s gift of repentance, and moving forward on the path, one move at a time.

When I was 15, I decided to get my patriarchal blessing. It was something I had wanted to do for a while, but I was nervous. Many of my friends told me it was one of the most spiritual things to ever happen to them. I wanted to make sure I did all I could to make it as special as possible.
When I asked my patriarch how I should prepare, I expected something huge, like "Go to the temple every day" or "Read the whole Book of Mormon this week." Instead, he suggested I might fast the morning of my blessing. I didn’t totally understand the impact it would have, but I did as he asked, and as a result, my patriarchal blessing was a monumentally spiritual experience for me.
This experience taught me that fasting includes sincerely praying while sacrificing meals to express gratitude to God and bring Him closer to you. When I fasted that morning, I prayed that my heart would be open to the words of my blessing. I felt the Spirit so strongly as a result, and that made my experience very meaningful.
Lincoln S., 16, Arizona, USA

Sunshine was coming through the windows at Jonnie’s house, and everyone was still sleeping, except Jonnie.
Mother opened her eyes as Jonnie bounced into the bedroom.
“Hi, Mom,” he said happily. “I bet you can’t guess what I am.”
“Hi, Jonnie,” Mom answered as she rubbed her eyes.
Jonnie climbed over Mom and put his face in front of Dad’s.
“Hi, Dad,” he grinned.
“Hi, Jonnie,” Dad mumbled. Then he rolled his sleepy face to the other side.
Jonnie climbed over Dad’s back. “I bet you can’t guess what I am,” he said as he bounced up and down on his hands and knees.
Dad decided to give up trying to sleep. He opened his eyes. “You must be a tickle, tickle, tiddlemouse,” he said as he tried to tickle Jonnie.
Jonnie wiggled away and climbed back on the other side of the bed by Mom.
“Can you guess what I am?” he asked. Mom grabbed him and tried to kiss his cheek. Jonnie wiggled away from Mom too.
“Now I know what you are. You’re a wiggle, wiggle, wiggle worm,” Mom guessed.
“No, I’m not a wiggle, wiggle, wiggle worm,” declared Jonnie, bouncing some more.
Daddy rolled his head back toward them and said, “You must be a jump, jump kangaroo.”
“No, I’m not a jump, jump kangaroo,” said Jonnie and he laughed because no one could guess.
Mom leaned her head way over by Dad’s. “I think he’s a bouncing bunny rabbit,” she whispered.
“I heard you! I heard you,” Jonnie shouted as he jumped up and down. “I’m not a bouncing bunny rabbit.”
“I give up,” said Dad. “I can’t guess what you are.”
“I give up too,” added Mom. “What are you?”
Jonnie stood up tall on their bed. “I’m a big cowboy,” he said in a deep voice. “And I’m riding my horse.” Then he galloped away to the other room.

Tammy awoke to the roar of a truck outside her bedroom window. “It’s moving day!” She exclaimed, jumping out of bed and sliding into her slippers. “Mom! Mom! The truck is here!”
“Yes, Tammy,” her mom answered, “today is the big day. You’ll need to hurry and eat your breakfast if you want to help the men pack your things.”
My things! Tammy thought, changing into her sweatshirt and jeans, pulling on her shoes, and running to the kitchen. What’s going to happen to my things?
Tammy’s father flew helicopters for the Air Force, and they needed him in Japan. During story time at the public library, Tammy had looked at the world globe and seen that Japan was far across the ocean from the United States. Far from her favorite park and its super-fast twirly slide. Far from all her friends in Primary. And far from her special Star A teacher, who smiled at her when she raised her hand to say the prayer.
Tammy’s thoughts were interrupted when two giant men with big black boots stomped into the house, carrying boxes. They headed down the hall to her room. She gulped down the last bit of milk from her cereal and hurried after them.
They had already started to put her toys into the boxes. “Not these!” she told them, snatching up her new box of markers and her coloring books. “I’m taking these with me on the airplane. It’s going to be a very, very long flight.” She grabbed her backpack and began stuffing it with other special things: favorite books, tapes, a small doll, a whistle, her baseball cards, a pack of gum, and the blue-ribbon badge she had been given for giving a talk in Primary.
“Don’t worry,” one man said, “you’ll have all your things soon after you get there. It’s Japan you’re going to, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s far away.”
“Yep, it sure is,” the other man said, adding conversationally, “I hear that things are a lot different over there.”
“A lot different,” Tammy agreed. She thought, I know they have fast trains and big shopping malls. I know they eat with funny things called chopsticks, bow to each other, and take off their shoes at the door. But do they have Primary? Will I still be a Star A? Her Primary teacher had told the class that missionaries took the gospel to all the world, but had they already taken it to Japan? Did Japan have Sharing Time and singing time and Stars?
Early the next morning, Tammy and her family went to the airport and boarded the plane to Japan. It was a long flight, but she stayed busy playing with the things in her backpack and helping to keep her little brother out of trouble. They left on Thursday, but when they landed in Tokyo, it was already Saturday! Even day and night were different in Japan.
Dad gathered the baggage, and Mom helped her and her brother into the taxi that would take them to their new house. Tammy was fascinated by the windows that rolled up and down when she pushed a little switch. As the spring breezes blew into the car, she suddenly sat up straight. “Stop! Listen!” she yelled. Startled, the cab driver obeyed.
Piano music echoed faintly in the air.
“… , Smiling for the whole world to see,” Tammy sang with it. “That’s my Star song!”
A familiar pillar atop a brown building towered to their right. “It’s our church!” Tammy yelled. “Let’s go in!”
Dad asked the driver to wait, and the family was soon walking across the parking lot while the beautiful, familiar music floated softly out an open window. Tammy ran over to it and peeked inside. “It’s a Primary Quarterly Activity!” she exclaimed with a big smile. “They do have the gospel in Japan. And they have Stars too!”

As a family, we decided that temple and family history work would be a major part of our married life. We have now completed thousands of ordinances for our kindred dead, including hundreds of Samoan names, which we had learned were very hard to find because of the lack of recorded history. However, my husband Sosene Faleofe “Fe” persisted and spent many hours and days in the family history centre reading microfilms of old documents. After much effort, he was able to process the names found and link them to his family lines. When we took those names to the temple each month, it was exciting to know that we were binding our families together forever.

“I was twenty-eight when I joined the Church, and I wanted to have my father’s permission. I went to him and asked for his blessing, and he said, ‘Let me sleep on it.’ The next morning, he said, ‘I have two questions for you. Number one: Have you really investigated this church?’
“‘Yes sir.’ I answered.
“‘Question number two: Are you really convinced that it’s true?’
“I said, ‘Yes.’
“‘Then you have to do it,’ he replied. ‘If you are convinced that something is right, you must do it.’
“His integrity was a strong influence in my life. I personally believe that everything has its roots in honesty.

Things had not gone smoothly that morning. Getting my fifteen-month-old and my new baby ready to go anywhere was still an adjustment for me. I was relieved to see a parking space right across the street from the medical clinic. With a little luck I would still be on time for the baby’s first check-up.
It wasn’t easy to climb out of our small car and cross the street with a diaper bag, a baby in an infant seat, and a toddler who was just taking her first steps alone. As we prepared to cross the street I noticed our car was very close to the driveway of the house we had parked in front of. I saw a curtain move and a face peering out, but I quickly turned away. “It’s not fair,” I reasoned; “I’ve had to rush around all morning and all she’s had to do is look out the window daring someone to park too close to her driveway.”
The long wait in the waiting room, my fussy baby, and my restless toddler all made me feel even more frustrated when I emerged from the clinic an hour later. Just as I was about to cross the street, the woman, about seventy years old, came rushing out of her house. All my morning’s frustration came to the surface; expecting harsh words from her, I felt I would either burst into tears or explode in anger.
Then it happened. Her words astonished me. “You poor little dear,” she said. “I’ve been watching for you. I was mad at myself for not coming out to help you when you drove up. Let me help you to your car. You’ve really got your hands full.”
Tears filled my eyes as I realized how quickly and how wrongly I had judged her. I had let my unhappy attitude determine the way I viewed her.
Since then, when tempted to judge someone’s motives, I remember that woman’s actions and try to expect the best.

At the age of eight I was baptized in borrowed white trousers. They were too long, but my mother tucked the legs up and fastened them with a few stitches. This worked fine until they got wet. As I stepped out of the water the weight of the wet cloth broke the stitches. I tripped over my borrowed pants and fell to my knees. The thought immediately came to me that this was a reminder to always kneel and pray for the help of our Heavenly Father in everything.

When I was 16 years old, I met and befriended a lady with three children. We became trusted friends, although she was ten years older than me. She was having discussions with the missionaries, but at that time I was not interested. I was very frightened and stayed in the kitchen when they arrived.
One evening, when I was making food for the children, I overheard the missionaries speaking about life before birth and after death, and how we choose to have an earthly experience, just as Jesus chose to come to die for us. I felt overwhelmed on hearing this, because in my heart I always felt that we had been around forever.
Later that night I queried my friend for more information, and she told me about Joseph Smith. His story really captured my attention and I felt that it was true. I didn’t rush into anything, but weeks later when I was invited to a sports event at the Church, I decided to go to see the children having fun in the sun. And I really wanted to meet people and find out more about the teachings of the Church.
It was a beautiful day, and many people were there with their children. I was introduced to a few families and was asked if I wanted to meet the bishop. I entered the chapel and I remember the aroma to this day: it was the fresh smell of lovely, polished wood, old wood, and the smell of cakes baking in the oven. I’m not even sure if they were baking cakes that day, but that is what I smelt. It was lovely and clean and smelt homely.
When I walked through the building towards the bishop’s office, I had this overwhelming feeling of pure love and protection. I was very nervous, yet I felt such a strong sense of belonging. I will always remember the big beautiful smile on the bishop’s face, as if he was waiting for me to return home. I felt emotional and frightened at the same time because I didn’t know what to expect. These feelings were all new to me, but I felt this was a major part in my journey, my destiny, while not knowing at that time how my life would turn out. I was only 16 but I remember exactly how I felt that day. My dad had told me about these dangerous religious organisations, but there was no danger here. I only felt love, a love that I yearned to feel forever.
Feeling such love, I felt safe. I felt I was home. I knew this was so right.
This kindhearted man, the bishop, told me his name and spoke with authority, and he made me feel safe and very welcome.
He drew me in with his godly spirit. He drew me in with his smile. He drew me in with his love. He drew me in with his fatherly influence in the way he spoke to me. He drew me in.
He was a good decent man, and a fatherly influence on my shattered, insecure soul. It has taken me years to be who I am today. I was a canny, quiet kid, yet fiery when anyone hurt me. I carried so much pain. So, I love with my heart and soul, and am so overjoyed at the fact that I allowed Bishop Barratt to draw me into the gospel with his beautiful strong spiritual soul. He indeed saved me that day.
I dread to think how my life would have turned out if I had not been introduced to the Church at that time. Although I have had periods of inactivity, I have always stayed loyal to the teachings of the gospel. I have never stopped believing that the gospel is true, and during those times of inactivity, I knew with all my heart and soul that I would return.
Years on, I met my husband, and we were sealed for time and eternity. Bishop Barratt was a very important part of our gospel journey, yet sadly he was too unwell to make trips to the temple; but he did give many beautiful and sacred blessings to my husband. Over the years I would choose him to bless my children. As my children got older and had children of their own, they would also choose Bishop Barratt to bless their babies too.
Brother Ronald Barratt died in early 2021. His beautiful wife, Mary, gave my husband a few of Bishop Barratt’s tie pins, which will be treasured; it’s an honour to have something of his. It has been many years since Brother Ronald Barratt was bishop, but he brought honour to the title.
The Barratts carried out many acts of service in spreading the gospel and teaching people. They were firm examples. They stood strong in the Church through difficult times. They worked hard. Bishop Barratt also had an amazing operatic voice which could drown us all out when singing.
We all have amazing experiences with people in our lives who have been such wonderful examples. I am so grateful to many people in my life. Heavenly Father certainly knows what He is doing. He brings people into our lives for specific reasons. We are never alone, even if we sometimes feel we are.
Cherishing our surroundings and those who have helped us on our way is so important. Each person met on life’s journey can be vital to one’s spiritual growth and emotional wellbeing. Even in challenging times, people are helping to move us forward, to learn from one another through the good and the bad. Everything has its purpose. We see the beauty in others and in ourselves. We are all God’s beautiful precious creations.

As a child, I became less-active in the Church, but as a teenager I was considering coming back. Before making this important decision, I prayed and pondered what it would mean to come back to the Church and the responsibilities it would entail.
That is when I decided to read some old issues of the Liahona. I was reading to find stories that would encourage me and reinforce my desire to return to church.
Through reading articles about people who had experiences similar to mine, I received a lot of encouragement. Most of all, the articles helped me understand that nobody at church is perfect and that I have my faults as well and need to do something to correct them.
I have now come back to church. I realize that the meetings are like they were before, but now I have a more positive vision, partly due to ideas that I found in the Liahona about how to enjoy classes and sacrament meeting.
Every time I read the Liahona, I feel satisfied as I find answers to my questions.María Pilar Santana, Dominican Republic

This year I sometimes have had to get up at 5:45 a.m. so I could ride with my mom while she drove my sister and some others to early-morning seminary. Once we get to the church my mom and I wait in the parking lot until seminary is over, then drive the kids to school. Some days I go to school right after my mom’s car-pool duty, so I have to be super organized the night before, with my clothes all laid out and my homework all done.
Even though I’ve had to give up an hour of sleep, I’m glad I can help my sister get to seminary and also help my parents by not complaining about it. My sacrifice hasn’t been totally hard because my mom and I have played games, worked on cross-stitch, and watched the sun rise as we waited.

Recently, I read a fictional story about two brothers who lived on adjoining farms and fell into conflict. After having shared machinery, goods, and land for decades, their collaboration fell apart. It started with a small misunderstanding which grew into major differences, anger, and weeks of silence.
One morning, a carpenter who was looking for a few days of work knocked on the older brother’s door. “Is there anything I could help you with?” asked the carpenter with his toolbox under his arm.
The older brother said, “Yes! Look across the creek at that farm. That belongs to my younger brother. Last week he dug a wider passage for water and ended up creating a very wide creek between our farms. Please build me something so we don’t have to look at each other’s face from across the creek.”
The carpenter said “I think I understand the situation. I can help you.” With that, the carpenter went to work and spent all day measuring, sawing, and nailing.
At sunset, the elder brother returned to the creek as the carpenter had just finished his task. The brother never could have imagined what he saw. It was a bridge stretching from one side of the creek to the other! It looked beautiful! To his surprise, his younger brother crossed the bridge to meet him with a big smile and his arms wide open to hug him.
“You are really humble and kind, my brother. After all I have done and said to you, you still show that our relationship can never be broken! I am very sorry for my behavior,” the younger brother said as he hugged him.
They turned to see the carpenter hoist his toolbox onto his shoulder. “No, wait! Stay a few days. I have lots of other projects for you,” said the older brother.
“I’d love to stay,” the carpenter said, “but I have many other bridges to build!”

When I first arrived in Indonesia in 1976 I met a group of pioneers in central Java who helped me understand much, much more about the meaning of words such as relief, compassion, and service. These Relief Society sisters, led by their president, Ibu Subowo, were giant souls in small bodies. Every morning before they began their cooking, each sister would hold back a spoonful of rice. They kept the rice in plastic bags that they brought to Relief Society each week. After the meeting, they would gather and prayerfully consider who needed a visit. All would then go together to visit those in need, taking the bags of rice with them to share with those who had less than they did.

Consecration. The Lord’s storehouse. A society of interdependent Saints. I learned much about sacrifice, wondering what my equivalent of a spoonful of rice would be.

Ryan Periga was grinning as he walked to the front of the classroom. Ryan was the president of our deacons quorum, and it was his turn to present our priesthood lesson.
“We’re going to do something a little different today,” he announced, holding out a box with a picture of Snoopy on the front. “I brought a jigsaw puzzle, and Brother Warner said we could spend a few minutes putting it together.”
He opened the box and spilled the contents out on the floor. He dropped to his knees and looked around. “Well, don’t just sit there,” he said. “Give me a hand!”
He didn’t have to ask twice. We were typical 12- and 13-year-old boys, and we were always anxious for something to do. Even if it meant working on a child’s jigsaw puzzle.
“Find all the edges first,” one jigsaw expert suggested as he sorted through the pieces.
“And the corners,” another deacon advised.
“Look, here’s part of his nose.”
“Yeah, and here’s a piece of his tail. Put it over there.”
According to the box, the puzzle was designed for three- and four-year-old children. It only contained about 30 large pieces, so it wasn’t long before we had the whole thing finished. The only problem was that one large piece was missing, right in the middle.
“Way to go, Ryan,” someone protested. “You brought a defective puzzle!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Ryan said, eyeing the finished product. “It doesn’t look that bad.”
“What are you talking about?” someone asked. “It looks dumb.”
“Why?”
“ ’Cause it’s not all there!”
Ryan tried to look surprised. “Is that important?”
“Of course, it’s important! You can’t have a puzzle without all the pieces.”
Ryan grinned slyly: he had us right where he wanted us. He pointed toward the one empty chair in the room. “You might have noticed that Kevin hasn’t been to priesthood meeting for a while. So in a way, we’re just like this puzzle. We’re not complete. Without Kevin we’re not a whole quorum.”
Ryan had made his point. He’d taught his lesson so well that each of us understood it perfectly. And we spent the next several minutes discussing ways to bring Kevin back into the quorum.
You’ve probably had lessons on things like quorum unity before. So have I. But I’ve never seen anyone make the point quite as well as Ryan did. He focused our attention on the problem in a way that we all understood its significance.
Ryan’s lesson was effective because he didn’t just talk about quorums. He talked about our quorum. He didn’t simply talk about activating people. He talked about helping Kevin. Quorum unity was suddenly something each of us could relate to.
Ryan’s lesson is a good example. While we were busy working on the puzzle, we had no idea there was a point to what we were doing. But we were all involved; everyone was participating. And when the time came for Ryan to make his point we were more receptive to it.

“FIRE! FIRE!”
This warning cry brought fear to the hearts of all those who heard it in the little community of Farmington, Utah, for the only way they had to fight fires was to form a line and pass buckets of water from the nearby creek to the burning building. As a result, almost any building that caught fire was destroyed, and few of the contents inside were ever saved.
Aurelia Spencer Rogers, who lived in Farmington most of her life, heard the cries of alarm, and ran toward the house from which smoke was billowing up into the hot August air. The home belonged to friends with whom she was staying, after she had rented her own house that summer of 1902 and moved into Salt Lake City, twenty miles to the south. However, she returned often to Farmington to take care of business there and to put up fruit for the winter.
Aurelia joined in the bucket brigade that quickly formed. Characteristically, she thought of the loss her friends would suffer before she thought of her own clothes and personal articles that were inside. Suddenly, she had a sick feeling. Her Primary record books were in an upstairs bedroom where she had been working on them at a table near a window! Silently she prayed that by some miracle they would be saved, but it seemed to her that everything in the building was going up in smoke.
“I mourned exceedingly,” Aurelia said later. “I would not have minded losing my clothes if the records could only have been saved.”
Aurelia helped her friends move into a vacant house to set up housekeeping again. She was heartsick as she returned to Salt Lake, for she thought that nothing in the fire-swept home had been saved. Still haunted by the loss of the Primary record books, she returned to Farmington the next week to try to gather what information she could about the organization of the Primary so she could begin to write another history.
News of the miracle for which she had prayed awaited her when she called on her bishop. This is how she described it:
“Bishop Moroni Secrist felt prompted to climb onto the porch [during the fire] and go through the window to my room, thinking he might save some of the property; but when he went inside, the smoke was so dense he was nearly suffocated and had to be helped out by others . … As he neared the window he reached out his hand and felt the cover on the table and drew it toward him, gathering up the corners with the books … and passed them to those on the outside. Thus the records were saved through the providence of God.”
These records told the story of the first Primary ever held and how it came to be. They were used as the basis for Aurelia Spencer Rogers’ Life Sketches that she later wrote for children and dedicated to them with these words:
“Our children are our jewels; we have counted well the cost;
May their angels ever guard them, and not one child be lost.”

Finding the local meetinghouse was the last thing on my mind.
Things like 95 degree weather, 90 percent humidity, and learning Cantonese were much more important.
Yet there I was, a dejected, three-week-long missionary, thanking a man for giving me an address I already had and really didn’t need. And all this because I couldn’t learn Cantonese.
I hadn’t meant for things to turn out that way. My district was doing a street display at Hong Kong’s Star Ferry just when the commuters were coming home. I wanted to get referrals and talk with people—and I tried to—but I was having little success.
My inexperience in speaking Cantonese—the second-most common Chinese dialect—was painfully evident. Speaking to Chinese people seemed an impossibility, and understanding what people said to me seemed about as easy as walking on water. And because I could neither speak nor understand, I began to doubt my worth to the Lord.
I spotted Mr. Wong just as he was coming down the steps of the ferry. He looked like such a nice man. He wore a blue suit and black shoes. His eyeglasses were slipping down his nose. His tie was still tight around his neck—something that looked very out of place in the humid air.
I mustered up as much self-confidence as I could in the few seconds I had. With a quick prayer in my heart and a deep breath, I started toward him.
The instructors at the Missionary Training Center had prepared me well for situations like this. I had practiced asking golden questions and getting referrals dozens of times. But all the preparation in the world couldn’t have taught me what I was about to learn.
“Neih hou ma?” I asked.
“Good,” he replied in a language I knew was Chinese but bore little resemblance to what I had learned in the MTC.
“I’m a representative of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Have you ever heard of this church before?”
Mr. Wong gave his reply, but—as usual—I couldn’t understand.
“My name is Gong Jeunglouh,” I said. “May I ask your honorable name?”
I didn’t understand much of what he said back to me, but I did understand his last name was Wong. He drew the Chinese Wong character on his hand and raised it to my eyes. His etchings meant nothing to me, but I pretended they did.
“May I tell you a little about our church?” I asked.
“I don’t understand,” he said. That was one of the few things I could understand. I had used that phrase myself several times during the past three weeks.
I showed Mr. Wong my name tag so he could read the name of the Church in Chinese.
“Oh—a church!” he said.
I smiled. “Yes—I am a missionary from this church,” I said, pointing to my name tag. “May I tell you a little about it?”
His reply was long and difficult for a new missionary to understand.
“What is your address?” I asked. I figured I might as well go all out and try to get a referral.
“Address? You want address?” he asked.
“Yes. What is your address?” I got my pen and notebook ready to write—or at least to ask him to write—the address down.
“You wait here. I will return in a few minutes,” he said. I barely made out what he was trying to tell me, thanks to his hand gestures.
“You stay right here,” he insisted.
“I will,” I assured him. Off he went, leaving me no clue as to where he was going or why he wanted me to wait.
Mr. Wong reappeared from among the sea of Chinese commuters a full 15 minutes later. He walked briskly—almost at a trot—with a paper in his hand.
He smiled and waved as he approached. I walked to meet him.
“Here,” he said. He handed me a page of an English phone book. The address of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was circled.
“Here is your church’s address,” he said.
Now I understood. Mr. Wong had thought I was a lost foreigner looking for my church. My self-confidence sank as I thanked him for his trouble.
Mr. Wong offered his hand with a smile of pride and friendliness.
“Thank you very much,” I said.
“No problem,” he replied, and began to walk away.
“See you later,” I said. And then, as an afterthought, “May I give you this?”
I reached into my suit pocket and handed him a Joseph Smith pamphlet. I gave it to him with two hands, and he accepted the gift in the same manner, a Chinese custom.
“At least I learned something in the MTC,” I thought to myself, remembering our classes on cultural customs. Mr. Wong faded away into the crowd.
I went to sleep that night praying for strength and success. I wanted to preach the gospel with all my heart, but I felt great frustration in learning to speak the language.
The months passed, and as they passed my confidence grew. I was soon transferred out of that area, and new investigators, new companions, and new street displays occupied my mind.
A year later I was a zone leader in another part of Hong Kong. One Sunday I was back in my first area taking care of some mission business. Being in that first meetinghouse brought back both good and bad memories. I rejoiced in seeing my old friends from the local ward.
The halls of the church had cleared after all the meetings were over, and my companion and I were the only ones in the foyer. I was hoping to see more of my former friends.
As we were about to leave, a classroom door opened. My eyes widened as I saw Mr. Wong—the commuter at Star Ferry—emerge from the dark hall!
“Mr. Wong! How are you?” I asked with excitement.
“I’m Brother Wong now, Elder Call,” he said in perfect Mandarin.
“You speak Mandarin? No wonder I couldn’t understand you at the ferry!”
“And you were speaking Cantonese—that is why I couldn’t understand you,” he said.
We sat and talked for several minutes. Brother Wong explained to me that after our encounter at the ferry a year before, he went home and read the Joseph Smith pamphlet. He said he read it out of curiosity more than anything else. The Spirit touched his soul. He telephoned the mission home to ask for more information and two sisters began teaching him the gospel. He gained a testimony and was baptized.
Our reunion was sweet and joyous, even though we had seen each other only once before. My heart was touched and the Spirit bore record to me of the true meaning of Paul’s words to the Corinthians:
“I have planted, Apollos watered; but God gave the increase” (1 Cor. 3:6).