Gospel Story Finder

Some months back I sat in my office chair reading the daily mail. I opened a letter from Martha Sharp of Wellsville, Utah, and read her entreaty seeking a blessing for her grown son, Steven, who was a patient at University Hospital in Salt Lake City. She described Steven’s spiritual and physical needs and the likelihood that he would suffer the amputation of his foot. Her tears were felt in each word, and her feelings of love marked every sentence. Hers was a request which the Spirit simply did not allow me to delegate.

When I entered Steven’s hospital room that night, I saw a man who just seemed built to ride a horse. Sensing this, I began to chat with him about a Western adventure film I had seen recently. I described the beautiful horses ridden by the principal characters. A warm smile came over Steven’s face. Not until that moment did I note on his nightstand a book he had been reading. It was the book from which the film we had been discussing was made. Our conversation was warm and free from that point forward.

In describing his condition, Steven commented, “I hope they leave enough of my foot so that I can get it into a stirrup.” I assured him we would remember his name when the First Presidency and Council of the Twelve met in the holy temple and that my wife and I would personally remember him in our prayers. I told him that he had a wonderful mother, who loved him and remembered him in his need, and a Heavenly Father who also loved and remembered him. Steven began to weep. A special spirit filled the room. A blessing was given, a heart cleansed, a memory of home and family rekindled, and a mother comforted.

As I departed the hospital, situated high on the east bench of Salt Lake City, I gazed at the panoramic view of the valley before me. The miles collapsed; the stars drew near. I could almost see through the window of mortality the expanse of eternity. One star shone especially bright. It seemed to light the way and mark the path to Wellsville. I remembered the poem from Primary days:
Star light, star bright,
The first star I see tonight,
I wish I may, I wish I might,
Have the wish I wish tonight.
What was my wish? That Martha Sharp might receive the welcome message, “Your son loves you.”

From sacred soil far away, and from a timeless truth taught long ago, came the message, “With God all things are possible.” (Matt. 19:26.)

Once more a gentle but unseen hand had opened a window to the soul, that precious lives might receive blessings heaven-sent.

As soon as Sister McKee was well, we started sharing the presentation with some of the people we were teaching as a supplement to the discussions. Our most spiritual experience was with the Aranda family. The Arandas wouldn’t commit to baptism even though they were praying and reading and asking questions. We decided to make a final effort. We would share our presentation about the Savior with them.
So began one of the most unforgettable experiences of my mission. As we gave the presentation, Sister McKee and I could hardly read our parts because our emotion was so great. When it was over, no one dared to break the silence and interrupt the peace that had filled the room. Brother Aranda had his head down. When he finally spoke, his eyes were filled with tears. “I don’t know what it is that I am feeling here”—he pointed to his chest—“but it is so strong, so wonderful, that I can’t express it.”
When we returned a few days later, the Arandas had decided to be baptized.

Danny clutched his new sailboat tightly as he walked with his mother toward the pond in the park. Today he was going to sail his boat for the first time. Carefully he set it on the water. Then, holding onto a long string attached to the boat, he watched as a breeze caught the sail and moved the boat across the water.
On the other side of the pond, another boy was also watching the sailboat. Danny felt proud when he saw his sailboat skimming easily across the pond, and he wondered if the other boy wished that he had a sailboat too.
Before Danny realized it, the string attached to the boat slipped from his hand. He looked at his boat getting farther and farther from him. “Mom! Mom! My boat’s getting away!” he shouted.
“Don’t worry,” Mother said. “The wind will probably blow it back to where you can reach it.”
Danny waited, but the breeze stopped, and the sailboat just sat in the middle of the pond.
Suddenly the boy on the other side of the pond picked up some rocks and began throwing them into the water near the boat.
Danny ran to the water’s edge and yelled. “Stop it! Stop it! You’re going to sink my boat!”
The boy ignored Danny and kept throwing rocks.
Danny’s eyes filled with tears as he watched his new boat moving wildly up and down in the splashing water. “Oh, Mother, I hate that boy. I hate him!” he cried.
Suddenly Danny realized that his boat was getting closer to the opposite shore. Finally the boy reached out with a stick and pulled the boat to him.
“Now he’s going to steal my boat!” Danny wailed.
The boy picked up the boat and ran around the pond. To Danny’s surprise, the boy handed him the sailboat.
“Hi. My name’s Bobby. I thought I could get your boat back for you by throwing rocks into the water and making the water ripple to move your boat.”
Danny felt his face get hot. He was sorry he had shouted at the boy, and he felt ashamed for saying he hated Bobby.
Danny smiled at the other boy and said, “Thanks, Bobby. Would you like a turn at sailing my boat? I just got it yesterday.”

One night I was sending instant messages on the Internet to Amber, a friend of mine. I can’t recall how we got started, but we were discussing God and my religious beliefs.
“I’m telling you, Ben, I’ve tried to pray before, and it doesn’t work. I just feel like I’m talking to the wall,” Amber wrote.
Relying on everything I had been taught since Primary, I responded, reassuring her that God does hear and answer His children who humbly approach Him. As I was reassuring her, I started to feel less sure myself. I began to feel guilty since I had never actually gotten down on my knees and prayed about all these things. The conversation progressed, and I became increasingly distressed at my lack of a personal testimony. My spiritual progression had been on the back burner for too long.
As a lifelong member of the Church, I sometimes took the gospel for granted. Don’t get me wrong, I knew that being in the Church was good, and I made sure I went to church every Sunday. However, I always depended on the testimonies of others to confirm that the Church was true. I always tried to be faithful, but I did not actively seek to apply Moroni’s promise to myself. Life was too complicated, and I thought there would be plenty of time for me to gain a personal testimony of the Church at some later point.
As I talked with Amber, I realized even more clearly what I was doing. I was neglecting the more spiritual things in my life in favor of trying to keep up with my hectic schedule. When was the last time I had read the scriptures? When was the last time I had a meaningful personal prayer? When was the last time I seriously thought about going on a mission?
Preoccupation with trying to calm my life’s storm by myself had taken away from my focus on building a testimony and having faith in the Lord. Ironically, a solid testimony would have served to make everything else in my life fall into place.
“Amber, don’t give up on praying. He will answer you,” I wrote, while thinking that I should follow my counsel.
Before I went to bed that night, I got on my knees and prayed. I asked to know if the gospel is true and if Heavenly Father was hearing my prayer. I wanted to know Him and feel His presence in my life. I realized then that I simply couldn’t wait any longer to gain a testimony of Him, especially during my turbulent teenage years. I prayed for a long time and knelt in silence for even longer, listening and feeling for the Spirit.
Nothing happened right away, but after I had sufficiently loosened my heart and made a concentrated effort to listen amidst the quiet darkness, I felt a sensation of peace throughout my upper body. As I held on to this defining moment of joy, I knew His Spirit had touched me. Finally, I had a personal testimony of Him that I could share with others. Even though I knew my life would still be hard and full of uncertainties, knowing that He was there for me made all the difference.

The building of this structure has been a bold undertaking. We worried about it. We prayed about it. We listened for the whisperings of the Spirit concerning it. And only when we felt the confirming voice of the Lord did we determine to go forward.
At the general conference of April 1996, I said: “I regret that many who wish to meet with us in the Tabernacle this morning are unable to get in. There are very many out on the grounds. This unique and remarkable hall, built by our pioneer forebears and dedicated to the worship of the Lord, comfortably seats about 6,000. Some of you seated on those hard benches for two hours may question the word comfortably.
“My heart reaches out to those who wish[ed] to get in and could not be accommodated. About a year ago I suggested to the Brethren that perhaps the time has come when we should study the feasibility of constructing another dedicated house of worship on a much larger scale that would accommodate three or four times the number who can be seated in this building” (in Conference Report, Apr. 1996, 88–89; or Ensign, May 1996, 65).
The vision of a new hall was clearly in mind. Various architectural schemes were studied. One was finally selected. It included a massive structure to seat 21,000 with a theater accommodating another thousand. There would be no interior pillars to obstruct the view of the speaker. There would be trees and running water on the roof.
Ground was broken July 24, 1997, the 150th anniversary of the arrival of the first pioneers in this valley. That was an historic event.
We did not know it at the time, but in 1853 Brigham Young, in speaking of temples, said, “The time will come when … we shall build … on the top, groves and fish ponds” (Deseret News Weekly, 30 Apr. 1853, 46).
In 1924 Elder James E. Talmage of the Council of the Twelve wrote, “I have long seen the possible erection of a great pavilion on the north side of the Tabernacle, seating perhaps twenty thousand people or even double that number, with amplifiers capable of making all hear the addresses given from the Tabernacle stands, and in addition to this a connection with the broadcasting system, with receivers in the several chapels or other meeting houses throughout the intermountain region” (journal of James E. Talmage, 29 Aug. 1924, Special Collections and Manuscripts, Harold B. Lee Library, Brigham Young University, Provo, Utah).
In 1940 the First Presidency and the Twelve had their architect draw up a plan of a building that would seat 19,000 and would stand where this building stands. That was 60 years ago. They thought about it, they talked about it, but finally they dropped the idea entirely.
These statements and actions were wonderfully prophetic. We knew nothing about them. All of them have come to our attention since we began this construction.
We have not built a temple with trees and fishponds on the roof. But on this edifice we have many trees and running water. Brigham Young may have foreseen this structure very near the temple. We have what Brother Talmage thought of, and much, much more. These services will not only be heard by all who are seated in the Conference Center, they will be carried by radio, television, and cable, and they will be transmitted by satellite to Europe, to Mexico, to South America. We reach far beyond the intermountain area of which Brother Talmage spoke. We reach beyond the confines of the United States and Canada. We essentially reach across the world.
This is truly a magnificent building. I know of no other comparable structure built primarily as a hall of worship that is so large and that will seat so many. It is beautiful in its design, in its appointments, and in its wonderful utility. It is built of reinforced concrete to the highest seismic codes required in this area. The concrete is faced with granite taken from the same quarry as was the stone for the temple. Both buildings even carry the blemishes of that granite.
The interior is beautiful and wonderfully impressive. It is huge, and it is constructed in such a way that nothing obstructs the view of the speaker. The carpets, the marble floors, the decorated walls, the handsome hardware, the wonderful wood all bespeak utility, with a touch of elegance.
It will prove to be a great addition to this city. Not only will our general conferences be held here, and some other religious meetings, but it will serve as a cultural center for the very best artistic presentations. We hope that those not of our faith will come here, experience the ambience of this beautiful place, and feel grateful for its presence. We thank all who have worked so hard to bring it to this stage—the architects, with whom we have had many meetings; the general contractors, three of whom have worked together; the subcontractors; and the hundreds of craftsmen who have labored here; the construction supervisor; the city building inspectors; and everyone who has had a hand in this project. They have all joined in a herculean effort so that we might meet together this morning. Many of them are with us, I am happy to say.
And now, my brothers and sisters, I would like to tell you about another feature of this wonderful building. If I get a little personal and even a little sentimental, I hope you will forgive me.
I love trees. When I was a boy we lived on a farm in the summer, a fruit farm. Every year at this season we planted trees. I think I have never missed a spring since I was married, except for two or three years when we were absent from the city, that I have not planted trees, at least one or two—fruit trees, shade trees, ornamental trees, and spruce, fir, and pine among the conifers. I love trees.
Well, some 36 years ago I planted a black walnut. It was in a crowded area where it grew straight and tall to get the sunlight. A year ago, for some reason it died. But walnut is a precious furniture wood. I called Brother Ben Banks of the Seventy, who, before giving his full time to the Church, was in the business of hardwood lumber. He brought his two sons, one a bishop and the other recently released as a bishop and who now run the business, to look at the tree. From all they could tell it was solid, good, and beautiful wood. One of them suggested that it would make a pulpit for this hall. The idea excited me. The tree was cut down and then cut into two heavy logs. Then followed the long process of drying, first naturally and then kiln drying. The logs were cut into boards at a sawmill in Salem, Utah. The boards were then taken to Fetzer’s woodworking plant, where expert craftsmen designed and built this magnificent pulpit with that wood.
The end product is beautiful. I wish all of you could examine it closely. It represents superb workmanship, and here I am speaking to you from the tree I grew in my backyard, where my children played and also grew.
It is an emotional thing for me. I have planted another black walnut or two. I will be long gone before they mature. When that day comes and this beautiful pulpit has grown old, perhaps one of them will do to make a replacement. To Elder Banks and his sons, Ben and Bradley, and to the skilled workers who have designed and built this, I offer my profound thanks for making it possible to have a small touch of mine in this great hall where the voices of prophets will go out to all the world in testimony of the Redeemer of mankind.
And so to all who have made this sacred edifice possible, and to all of you who are here assembled on this historic occasion, I express gratitude and appreciation, my love and my thanks for this day and this sacred and beautiful house of worship, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Not many years ago I had a similar experience. I knew that I should tell the bishop of my mistake. I knew that if I were to die without confessing, I wouldn’t be able to look my Maker in the eye without guilt. But then I thought of the bishop. I felt that he respected me. I was the Laurel president. Over the years I had held many callings in Young Women. The thought of telling the bishop crushed me. I felt that he would think less of me.
I decided to tell the bishop anyway to clear my conscience. I was extremely nervous when I called and asked if I could see him. The bishop was very understanding. He didn’t lecture me. He assured me that my sin was forgivable and that my Father in Heaven loved me very much and wanted me to be happy. As soon as I told him, the burden lifted and I felt clean once again. The next time I saw him he treated me as if nothing had happened. He never mentioned it again.
I have since thought about my past mistake, but the memory of it is as if it were another life. Two years after this incident I was married in the temple to a wonderful husband. We have now been married six months.
If I hadn’t taken that step I wouldn’t have been worthy to go to the temple.
It’s really worth it! No one needs to know but the bishop, the Lord, and you. Keep your chin up and good luck.
Name withheld

A group of 30 young women from a ward in Arizona, USA, climbed a mountain of sorts together when they spent a year encouraging and helping one another work on their Personal Progress and earn their Young Womanhood Recognition.
During that time, among other accomplishments the young women put in a seriously impressive 1,200 hours of service. Think of that! That’s like one person working a full-time job for over seven months. In addition to donating their own time, the young women also invited others in their ward and community to participate.
Their projects included tying quilts for women’s shelters, decorating placemats for a hospice (a health-care facility for people who are nearing death), singing at care centers, sewing pillowcase dresses for children, cleaning school grounds, painting lines and shapes on playgrounds, and much more. They even started dedicating one Wednesday a month to family history.
One of their big projects was a drive for backpacks and school supplies. They collected 70 backpacks and hundreds of school supplies for local school kids who needed a helping hand. “I felt really happy knowing I helped those children who couldn’t afford the things they needed,” said Katie S., a Beehive.
The service they gave was only part of what made this adventure so cool. The funny thing about service is how much it helps you in the end too. The young women say they picked up useful skills along the way. “Personal Progress has made me more comfortable sharing the gospel and standing up for what I believe,” said Jessica R., a Mia Maid. “It’s also helped me develop good habits, such as reading my scriptures and saying my prayers daily.”
In the end, their “climb” was successful. With medallions around their necks, the young women celebrated their progress with a trip to the Snowflake Arizona Temple.
They discovered that climbing through life is a lot easier when you don’t have to go it alone.

Reaching the city in September 1855, Barnard found work in Apostle John Taylor’s office, helping publish an LDS newspaper, the Mormon. He received board and room but no pay. Within weeks he saw his English suit become threadbare and too small for his growing teenage body. He needed money. “What shall I do?” he asked Elder Taylor. The Apostle thanked him for his labors, wished him well, and then gave him a special blessing. “You will find work and make more money than you ever have earned before,” he promised the boy, and then added: “In life you will always succeed financially.”
The promise proved true but slow. Barnard’s first job was low-paying, menial, and smelly. How his mother would have pained to see Barnard, his landlady’s laundry basket in hand, walk to the fish market, fill the basket, and then peddle fish throughout the city. But it was a living. Slowly, day by day, his fish turned into American coins that added up.
Just when Barnard calculated he had enough money, 60 dollars, to buy a cart and horse to expand his business, a local Mormon leader called him aside. “The Lord wants you to be a missionary,” Barnard was informed. Loyally the teenager gave up his fish business to be a fisher of men. “Priest White,” as locals called the 15-year-old, filled a good mission during the six months his fish money lasted.

Among the Christmas experiences that are etched most sharply in my memory are the ones spent away from home and loved ones while serving in the mission field or in military service. Each Christmas when I was in the military in World War II, I wondered when the terrible suffering and agony of war would end and we could all go home. And as we sang, “Peace on earth, goodwill to men,” I wondered if the Germans and the Japanese who were Christians were also singing this familiar refrain with the same yearnings in their hearts. Then it all ended 59 years ago after the dropping of two atomic bombs on Japan. Mankind had never before seen such destructive power. There was a concern in our hearts about the beast that had been unleashed.
I would like to recount a story told by Kenneth J. Brown, who was serving as a U.S. Marine in Japan following the dropping of the bomb. His moving story about a Japanese Christian he met at Christmastime in Nagasaki is as follows.
“I watched him turn from the street and climb the path leading to our shelter. He was groping, hesitating. As he came near he folded his umbrella and stood quietly a long moment. His thin coat soon dampened from the cold rain that was falling from the same sky that had brought death to nearly half his townspeople three short months before. I concluded that it must take some special courage to confront one’s conquerors without invitation. It was little wonder that he hesitated.
“His polite bow to me was no bow of submission. Rather his squared shoulders and lifted head let me feel as if I were looking up at him even … though I towered over him a foot or more. I recall being disturbed that I hadn’t yet become used to the near sightless eyes of those who had looked heavenward that morning when the bomb dropped. …
“… I respectfully asked if I could be of service. [In his clear English] he introduced himself as Professor Iida. …
“‘I am Christian,’ he said. ‘I am told this is the head minister’s office. Are you a Christian? It is good to talk with a follower of Christ; there are so few Christian Japanese.’
“I took him to the inner office of the division chaplain and waited while the two men conversed. Professor Iida stated his request briefly. He was a teacher of music in a Christian girls’ college until it was closed by imperial command. … He had been imprisoned because of his professed Christianity. After being released he had returned to Nagasaki and continued his music instruction in his home even though it was forbidden. He had been able to continue a small chorus and would be pleased if … they [could] sing a concert for the American Marines.
“‘We know something of your American Christmases,’ he said. ‘We should like to do something to make your Christmas in Japan more enjoyable.’
“I felt sure the chaplain would give a negative reply. Our unit was one of hardened fighters, four years away from home, who had fought the enemy from Saipan to Iwo Jima. … Yet there was something about the man that bespoke sincere desire to do a good deed so that … permission was granted. The concert would be Christmas Eve.
“The rains had stopped and a calm settled over the atomic bowl reminiscent of the calm that night long ago. The concert was well attended; there was nothing else to do. The theater … had been cleared of its fallen roof and men were sitting on the jagged walls. The usual momentary hush fell over the audience as the performers filed on stage. …
“The first thing we noticed was that they were singing in English and we became aware that they didn’t understand the words but had memorized them for our benefit. Professor Iida had taught his students well; they sang beautifully. We sat enthralled as if a choir from heaven were singing for us. … It was as if Christ were being born anew that night.
“The closing number was a solo, an aria from ‘The Messiah.’ The girl sang with all the conviction of one who knew that Jesus was indeed the Savior of mankind and it brought tears. After that there was a full minute of silence followed by sustained applause as the small group took bow after bow.
“Later that night I helped Professor Iida take down the trimmings. I could not resist asking some questions that propriety forbade but curiosity demanded. I just had to know.
“‘How did your group manage to survive the bomb?’ I asked.
“‘This is only half my group,’ he said softly, but seemed unoffended at my recalling his grief so that I felt I could ask more.
“‘And what of the families of these?’
“‘They nearly all lost one or more members. Some are orphans.’
“‘What about the soloist? She must have the soul of an angel the way she sang.’
“‘Her mother, two of her brothers were taken. Yes, she did sing well; I am so proud of her. She is my daughter.’ …
“The next day was Christmas, the one I remember best. For that day I knew that Christianity had not failed in spite of people’s unwillingness to live His teachings. I had seen hatred give way to service, pain to rejoicing, sorrow to forgiveness. This was possible because a babe had been born in a manger [and] later taught love of God and fellowmen. We had caused them the greatest grief and yet we were their Christian brothers and as such they were willing to forget their grief and unite with us in singing ‘Peace on earth, goodwill to all men.’
“The words of Miss Iida’s song testimony would not be stilled, ‘Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows.’ They seemed to echo and re-echo over the half-dead city that day.
“That day also I knew that there was a greater power on earth than the atomic bomb.”

As my mother grew into her twenties, she prayed longingly to be able to marry a member of the Church and somehow be sealed in the temple.
Our family of five was sealed together in the Cardston Alberta Temple in October 1976. My mother had set her sights on this day over 20 years earlier and finally, in a country and language that she would have never imagined as a youth, her prayers were answered. I was then almost eight years old, and I have wonderful memories of my parents’ sparkling eyes and smiles as we children entered the sealing room.

When I was nine months old, my parents—a young couple, with three children and pregnant with another—were caught in a magnitude-7.5 earthquake in Argentina. As our house began to fall down, my father and mother grabbed us and ran. After checking to see that we were OK, they looked around at the devastation. My father quickly assessed the damages and losses, and realized that we would have no clean water from the public network. There wasn’t even enough water to wash off the dust from the crumbling houses!
When the shock wore off, my father grabbed his bicycle and went to check on his mother, who lived a few blocks away. When he arrived at his mother’s destroyed house, he walked around back where she was sitting with only a few scratches.
My grandmother asked my father to save some things from the debris, and while he was doing so, he found two demijohns (glass containers in which 5 to 15 gallons [20 to 60 L] of wine were sold) filled with fresh drinking water. They were undamaged.
A few months before the earthquake, President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985) had instructed the Saints throughout the world to store food and water. My grandmother, a recent convert, had listened. From those two demijohns, we were able to supply our family’s needs for a couple of days until emergency assistance arrived.
This example of my grandmother’s obedience was a testimony to my father, who later converted to the gospel. Our family has since been sealed in the temple. I am so grateful for my grandmother’s faith and obedience to the call to be prepared.

Humphrey of the Upper Hill Ward is also a teacher. He was baptized into the Church just two years ago. As Martin did, Humphrey currently attends boarding school. Part of the reason his faith has grown so much since he joined the Church is that he receives all his seminary assignments by post (by mail), does them, and returns them promptly to his seminary teacher.
When boarding school closes, Humphrey typically has to walk 45 minutes one way on Sundays to get a ride to church. Nevertheless, he is always early at church and ready to serve as assigned.
Whenever he receives an assignment to speak, Humphrey is diligent in his preparation. It is clear to all who listen that he has put much effort into preparing his talk.

Although these two girls speak different languages and live more than 6,000 miles (9,600 km) apart, they have something special in common: they both found ways to keep a positive attitude when natural disasters struck their hometowns. Take a look at the true stories of Honoka O. from Japan and Maggie W. from Missouri, USA. During sad and scary times, what helped them stay faithful and optimistic?

My name is Honoka, and I live in Chiba Prefecture, Japan. I like to play, jump rope, and draw. My dream is to be an illustrator someday.

My favorite scripture story is about Lehi’s dream (see 1 Nephi 8). I think Primary is very important because I can learn a lot about God and Jesus. I love sacrament meeting because I can feel myself becoming clean when I take the sacrament, and that makes me so happy.

I was at school when a big earthquake happened. My first thoughts were, “This is scary!” and “I wonder if my family is OK.” I prayed in my heart that they would be safe and that peoples’ lives would be spared. Later I found out that none of my friends had been hurt. At that time, I felt that God had protected us. I know that God and Jesus live.

Hello! I’m Maggie from Joplin, Missouri. One night my mom saw storm warnings on the news, and we all went to the basement. The loud, whistling wind scared me. I was worried about my friends and our animals. After the storm, I was grateful my family was safe and our house didn’t have much damage.

Lots of other homes and businesses were destroyed by the tornado that came through town. I felt sad for people who lost loved ones. My parents and older brother and sister decided to help clean up our town. It made me think of the scripture, “When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God” (Mosiah 2:17).

I wanted to help clean too, but my mom said it wasn’t safe for a child. Then I felt the Holy Ghost share a great idea to make people feel happy. I made 20 thank-you notes to give to volunteers. I spent lots of time making each card special so that people could feel the Spirit and know they were very important to our town.

I learned that even if you can’t do certain things to serve, you can always think of other ways to serve. Heavenly Father will bless you for serving Him and your fellowman.

The sacrament is an ordinance that helps us stay on the path, and worthily partaking is evidence that we are keeping the covenants associated with all the other ordinances. A few years ago, while my wife, Anita, and I were serving in the Arkansas Little Rock Mission, I went out to teach with two young missionaries. During the lesson, the good brother we were teaching said, “I have been to your church; why do you have to eat bread and drink water every Sunday? In our church, we do it twice a year, on Easter and Christmas, and that is very meaningful.”

We shared with him that we are commanded to “meet together oft to partake of bread and wine” (Moroni 6:6; see also D&C 20:75). We read out loud Matthew 26 and 3 Nephi 18. He responded that he still did not see the necessity.

We then shared the following comparison: “Imagine you are involved in a very serious car accident. You have been injured and are unconscious. Someone runs by, seeing that you are unconscious, and dials the emergency number, 911. You are attended to and regain consciousness.”

We asked this brother, “When you are able to recognize your surroundings, what questions will you have?”

He said, “I will want to know how I got there and who found me. I will want to thank him every day because he saved my life.”

We shared with this good brother how the Savior saved our lives and how we need to thank Him every day, every day, every day!

We then asked, “Knowing that He gave His life for you and us, how often do you want to eat the bread and drink the water as emblems of His body and blood?”

He said, “I get it, I get it. But one more thing. Your church is not lively like ours.”

To that we responded, “What would you do if the Savior Jesus Christ walked through your door?”

He said, “Immediately, I would go down to my knees.”

We asked, “Isn’t that what you feel when you walk into Latter-day Saint chapels—reverence for the Savior?”

He said, “I get it, I get it, I get it!”

He showed up at church that Easter Sunday and kept returning.

But I often felt out of place at church because I was learning so many new things. I bought some new long skirts to replace my short ones. When I wore them to church, I found out they were still too short to meet Church standards. I didn’t understand what my friends meant when they used Church-related abbreviations. I was too nervous and shy to ask them the meanings of things.

What helped was the teens befriending me and taking time to include me. They seemed to have a natural way of caring for new members. Another thing that helped was visualizing my family in the next life. I never wanted them to be disappointed in me for not living the gospel when I knew it to be true. Even though times were difficult when I was a teenager, I tried to think of the future and my responsibility to my family. If I did not live the gospel, how would my family ever have a chance of accepting it?

I first saw Hannah* at a Mutual activity. No one really talked with her. She just sat by herself looking miserable. I had already made several good friends in the ward, so at first I didn’t see any reason to talk with her. I thought it would be a burden to leave my friends and be with someone who seemed so unhappy.
Then I thought, “I used to be left out. I’ve been there before.” I remembered a time when I was watching everyone happily talking with each other but not with me. I felt bad thinking that Hannah might come away from Mutual feeling like that.
So I went up to her, smiled, and said hi.
She nodded in return.
I asked what her name was and what school she went to.
I got two one-word answers in a row.
As a naturally talkative person, I felt awkward. But I didn’t want to just get up and leave her alone, so I sat next to her until it was time to split up for our different activities. I mustered another smile and said, “It was nice to meet you. Will you come again next week?” She nodded.
She came back to Mutual over the next several weeks. Her dark hair was never combed, and she always seemed to be wearing the same black clothing. I talked with her whenever she came, even though it was hard. But, from the bits and pieces that she spoke, I got to know her better and found out that she likes drawing and art. After a while, I started to see her as one of my friends.
I soon found myself hoping she would keep coming to activities and especially to church. But I still didn’t know much about her circumstances or if she even wanted to come to church.
I went to her house a few times to drop off activity announcements. Later, I dropped off a card and a treat on her birthday. In spite of my efforts, she was never home and never answered the phone.
She only came to Mutual, so I kept on talking with her there and including her during the combined activities.
Then one Sunday it happened—she came to church! Although she only attended occasionally, I made sure to sit by her during lessons on Sundays whenever she came.
Later on that year we both took the same art class. I had never taken high school art before, and I was the one who needed help. I would ask her about how to use the different tools and for advice on creating art.
“Hey, Hannah, what does this white pencil do?” I asked.
“It’s a blending tool. It makes your pencil drawings look smoother. Cool, huh?”
“Wow! I didn’t know that. Thanks!”
She smiled.
At the end of the semester, we gave each other small sketches and drawings we had created in class.
When I graduated from high school about five months later, Hannah was wearing colorful clothes, looked happier, and had attended church several times. And she was actually smiling!
This experience confirmed to me that sometimes it’s hard to make righteous choices, but it’s those choices that make us stronger. I also learned to never underestimate the influence of small actions and decisions. Who knew that I would be the one needing Hannah’s help in the end?
I didn’t know it then, but as I look back on the experience, I also realize that being nice to Hannah and trying to be her friend was a part of keeping my covenants. Of course, at that first Mutual activity, I didn’t go up to Hannah thinking, “OK, I’m going to keep my covenants by befriending her.” I just saw that she looked lonely, and I didn’t want her to feel alone during Mutual. And that small act made a big difference in my life.

My family joined the Church when I was a boy. A few weeks after our baptism, my father had a dream. He was walking on a beautiful street. In the distance he saw a magnificent white house. He had never seen such an inspiring building.
He shared his dream with our family the next morning. He also shared it with the senior missionary couple who taught our family the gospel. The senior missionaries told him that the house in his dream was a symbol. It stood for the temple.
They showed him pictures of some of the Church’s temples around the world. They said that one day a temple would be built where we lived, in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. For the rest of his life, my father prayed that a temple would come to our country.
After 25 years, the dream came true. In the October 2011 general conference, President Thomas S. Monson announced plans to build the Kinshasa Democratic Republic of the Congo Temple. The announcement made my father the happiest man on earth! He was overjoyed to be present on February 12, 2016, when Elder Neil L. Andersen of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles presided over the groundbreaking ceremony.
Unfortunately, my father passed away in December 2016, before the completion of the temple. In June 2018, I was in Salt Lake City, Utah, USA. In the Jordan River Utah Temple I was able to perform the sacred temple ordinances in behalf of my father. That night, my father visited me in a dream. He was shining with light. I knew that he had accepted what I did for him.
We thought of my father fondly when Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles dedicated the completed Kinshasa temple on April 14, 2019. A short time later my family performed ordinances to seal my father and mother to each other. Then their children were sealed to them. Our family will remember that day forever. We shed tears of joy. We knew that if we obeyed God’s laws and commandments and lived faithful to our covenants, our family could be together forever.

Our new home on Plymouth Road in Ann Arbor had everything a mainland home should have—a basement, two sets of stairs, a fireplace, and stately trees that promised to shower us with autumn leaves. I’d soon be raking them, just like the children in my books. The early chill of fall was invigorating but also a reminder that we had no warm clothing. I had never owned a coat or a pair of boots in my life!

Because my father was on a sabbatical leave, his salary was cut in half that year. Mom proclaimed that her budget would burst if she tried to buy new winter wear for seven children and two adults. A helpful ward member steered us to “The Tree,” a second-hand clothing shop.

Mom, a native of Los Angeles, California, was as ignorant of winter fashions as we were. Naive as Eskimos buying swimsuits, we shuffled through the racks of slightly faded clothing.

I spotted a rather large, knee-length plaid coat with shoulders twice the size of mine. Slipping it on over my tall, skinny frame, I looked hesitantly in the mirror.

“It’s lovely, darling,” the elderly saleslady said. “It will be very warm.”

Polly, one year my elder, was told she looked stunning in a red wool coat, which also was large and very fuzzy. We left feeling pleased with our purchases and stopped at J. C. Penney’s on the way home for knee socks and transparent rubber galoshes. We could hardly wait to wear our new clothing to school at the junior high across town.

Then, shortly before school was to begin, I was playing “see-who-can-leap-over-the-most-stairs” on the front porch with Polly and Philip, my ten-year-old brother. I took a wild jump and landed in a heap at the bottom of the stairs, my sparkly pink glasses shattered at my side.

But the real tragedy occurred when I went shopping for replacement glasses with my father and Philip. They had about as much fashion savvy as my mother in the second-hand store. And even if I’d had a little savvy of my own, it wouldn’t have made much difference because I couldn’t see without my glasses.

I only knew I was tired of sparkly pink frames. This year I would wear sophisticated black. The frames I selected had wings curving elegantly upward on both sides. Cocking my head to achieve an air of mystery, I glanced at my fuzzy reflection in the mirror.

“How do you like them, Daddy?”

“How much do they cost?”

“On sale this week,” the saleslady said.

“In that case, they look terrific.”

Two weeks later we returned to pick up my cosmopolitan frames. I was trembling with anticipation. But as my face appeared in sharp focus in the optician’s mirror, I stared in horror. The longer I stared, the sicker I felt. The curving black wings that had seemed so sophisticated in my hands looked garish on my thin face. They threatened to leave me and fly around the room. I wished they would.

Mom gave Dad a hard look when we got home but told me I looked nice. Nobody else said anything until Polly came flying down the stairs.

She stopped abruptly and gaped.

“You look like Catwoman on the Batman show!” (For the next two years, I was Catwoman.)

Finally, school started. I had dreamed about the new friends I would meet. But I spent the first few weeks of junior high curiously surveying the school and waiting for classmates to befriend me. The other seventh-grade girls seemed so much older and superior. They wore nylons, earrings, makeup. Some of the rowdy ones smoked and had boyfriends.

Weeks went by, then months. A few kids said hi and asked what it was like to live in Hawaii, but no one seemed interested in being my friend. I was puzzled. Was it my clothing or my personality? In Hawaii we had always been friendly to the new kids.

Still, life was such an adventure that I didn’t have time to feel sad. Each day after school I’d explore the house and the yard. On weekends, my parents packed all of us into our cream-colored station wagon and took us on journeys of discovery.

One weekend we visited the Ford plant and watched cars being assembled. Another weekend we discovered the Kellogg’s cereal factory in Battle Creek and saw them make Fruit Loops and Corn Flakes. Another time we had a picnic in Kalamazoo.

On Saturdays when we had to stay home, we thought up excuses to walk to Bolgos Drugstore a mile down the road, where we would squander our allowance on candy.

And of course there were other adventures all week long. With the heavier chills, our stately trees turned breathtaking crimson, yellow, and orange, just like they did in the books. It was a fascinating contrast to the perpetual green of the islands. No other home possessed such enthusiastic rakers. Naturally I tried jumping into the fresh piles, but all I did was hurt myself and get dead leaves stuck inside my clothes. The books had glamorized the experience.

And I woke up early to wander the brightly colored farmers’ market. Father could never get enough fresh produce. Bushels of Golden Delicious apples, orange pumpkins, and shiny gourds spilled from the booths. Bananas, coconuts, and guavas paled in the face of this display.

It was in the farmers’ market that I tasted my first pat of maple sugar. Wrapped in cellophane, the sugar was molded into fancy leaf and star shapes. I nibbled it slowly, reveling in its smooth texture and the way it melted in my mouth.

On some afternoons, we’d help my mother put up pears. The shimmering jars, pink from the tiny red cinnamon candies Mom dropped into each bottle, were beautiful.

Then one day it was cold enough to show off our winter clothing at school. The thrill was short-lived when I saw the other girls in their snappy, thigh-length coats and knee boots. Skinny, with the weirdest eyeglasses east of the Mississippi, I looked like somebody’s eccentric grandmother. Transparent galoshes and a bag lady coat didn’t enhance the image. Polly in her fuzzy red and I in our plaid were undoubtedly the misfits of Forsythe Junior High. We stared at each other in disgust, yet clung to each other for support.

Lunch period was the worst. Polly and I ate at different times, so we had to eat alone. It was also embarrassing to have to bring a sack lunch. Every day I sat by myself, reading a book so I didn’t have to look up.

One day a girl from one of the tough groups sauntered over on a dare from her friends. Her heavily made-up eyes jeered at me.

“Whatcha readin’?” she said.

I could hear the laughter of her friends. My heart pounded. Maybe if I kept reading she would just leave.

“Is it good?” she tried again, turning to look at her friends. Loud laughter. I kept reading.

“Man, are you dumb,” she said as she walked away.

I was too embarrassed to mention the incident to my parents. I don’t think they ever realized I had no friends at school. I don’t know if it was just the clothes we wore or that we didn’t know exactly what to say or do to be like everyone else, but we never did feel like we fit in.

I wrote in my journal, “I don’t know what to wear. White socks and shoes are out in the winter, and I have the wrong kind of coat and boots. Styles are so different here!”

Church and home were the only two places where I felt accepted. The kids at church didn’t seem to care about my eerie eyewear or my outdated clothing. I loved activity nights. An industrious seamstress, I modeled several of my creations in an MIA fashion show. Another time I participated in an impromptu speech contest and did terribly, but no one seemed to mind. Virginia Webb became a good friend, but she attended a different junior high.

I began to live for weekends and the hours after school spent playing with my brothers and sisters. In Hawaii we had had scores of friends and rarely played together. But here my brothers and sisters became my closest friends. They were there when that long-awaited snow finally fell. We frolicked in it like kittens in catnip. We held our mouths open as it fell. Each flake was a miracle, every snowball another excuse to giggle.

Eventually it dawned on us that we were the biggest kids on the sledding hill across from our home. In Michigan sledding was only for kids. But Alan didn’t care. At age 16, he was six feet, five inches tall, and he loved sledding. Every day after school, he went sledding alongside the grade schoolers. They gawked at him, but since he was so much bigger, no one ever said a word.

The rest of us, still trying to fit in, bought used ice skates. I’d been a good roller skater in Hawaii and ice skating came easy. With all the ponds and lakes in Michigan, we never had to settle for endless circling in a stale old rink. I loved the exhilaration of skating hard and fast across a frozen lake.

In the middle of the winter, a package arrived from my Grandmother Marsh in Los Angeles. I caught my breath when Polly and I tore off the brown wrapping. Inside were two outfits, breathtakingly in style. Mine had a pink flowered top with knee socks to match. Polly’s was identical, except that it was blue. This was our big chance to show the kids at Forsythe Junior High that we weren’t such misfits after all. Boy, would they be surprised!

I was a little nervous about the color because this was no ordinary pink. It was a sizzling, shocking pink. But the outfit was so definitely “in” that I squelched my fear. I slowly hung my oversized plaid coat in my locker and wondered what the kids would think of me appearing in such style.

A sea of eyes followed my dazzling pink presence from my locker to my homeroom. Then the whispering began—but not whispers of envy or admiration, as I had secretly hoped.

“Look what she’s wearing.”

“Didn’t we already have Halloween?”

All day the laughter continued. Resentment and frustration built within me. If only I had a friend to walk with, it would be so much easier. If only somebody who knew what was acceptable would give me some hints. Repeatedly I had tried to fit in and failed. And now even Grandma’s outfit had betrayed me. After that I stopped trying to live by other people’s standards. I warned Polly, and she never even wore her new clothes.

I wish I could say that there was some magic turning point, that we discovered a key that made us popular, that we found friends at our school, and that we became leaders and trendsetters ourselves. Of course we didn’t. In a year the sabbatical was over, and we returned to Hawaii, our scores of friends, our waves and mountain fruit, our mild weather and perpetually green foliage. Never was I happier than when we returned to our beloved island.

And yet now, 20 years later, when I think of Michigan, I smile. With fondness I recall Alan running barefoot in the snow. I grin at the memory of Philip and me raking autumn leaves. My heart soars when I remember skimming across a frozen lake with Polly or strolling through the farmer’s market with my father. Tears come to my eyes when I think about the whole family piling into our cream-colored station wagon, off for a picnic in Kalamazoo.

It isn’t easy to move when you’re in junior high school. It’s even tougher when you’re poor and you’re exchanging a provincial paradise for a bustling college town. There were times when I was sure I would never make it.

But now, given some time and distance, I know what the secret was. I leaned on my family. And because of them I survived.

Although Grant Heaton, president of the newly opened Southern Far East Mission, was merely looking for advice about teakwood furniture that August day in 1955, he found much more than that in Ng Kat Hing. He found a language teacher, a convert, a missionary, a Church leader—a true pioneer.
Reaching out to people has always been one of Brother Ng’s talents. In fact, it was his willingness to serve others that put him in even closer contact with the missionaries. After ordering furniture for the mission home, Brother Ng agreed to help President Heaton find someone to teach Cantonese to the missionaries. He talked to several friends, but none of them could help. So he quit his job at the furniture store and taught the missionaries himself. Married and the father of four young children, Brother Ng took a cut in salary with the job change. But he believes it was well worth it.
“I learned the truth,” Brother Ng states simply. “That was a good deal, right? Nothing is more important than that.”
The men took turns learning and teaching. Brother Ng presented basic language lessons, and the missionaries taught gospel discussions. At that time, investigators were taught a total of 18 discussions, so Brother Ng went through several sets of missionaries before hearing all the lessons.
“It took quite a while,” he acknowledges, “but by the time I was baptized, all my questions were answered. I had a strong foundation and a strong testimony.”
Brother Ng was baptized on 31 May 1956. He was one of the first converts after missionary work resumed in Hong Kong following the Korean War.

President Benson has always loved temples and temple work. When he felt better, each Friday he and Sister Benson would enter the temple to participate in a session. We knew our First Presidency meeting that morning must accommodate this commitment. One morning I commented that I had to get busy and do some of my own family names that were prepared. With a smile and a twinkle in his eye, the President said, “Brother Monson, if you’re too busy, why not let Sister Benson and me do your names for you.” Needless to say, we found time to do the work ourselves.