Gospel Story Finder

Back when Barbara Hong of Singapore got her patriarchal blessing, she was surprised to be promised that her family would be sealed together in the temple. After all, she and her brother Phillip were the only members of the Church in her family. Their parents were active in another religion.
Last Mother’s Day, however, a step was taken in fulfilling that promise. Their mother accepted a copy of the Book of Mormon. She studied it, and after long discussions with the missionaries, was baptized.
That was an exciting day for the Hongs, and for their entire branch. Both Barbara and Phillip were serving as full-time missionaries in the Singapore mission.
They’re confident that the rest of their family will soon follow their mother’s example.

I once asked a man in a fireside group what he would like to do more than anything else if he could just do whatever he wanted. His face lit up, he sat on the edge of his chair, his hands came to life, and he told me that he’d just love to have a whole room full of power tools and bring all the kids in the neighborhood in to help them build birdhouses, playhouses, chicken coops, or anything in the whole world they wanted to build. He loved kids; he loved tools; he loved building things; his whole face was aglow with it. I asked him what he was studying at school; the light went out, and he told me he was studying to be a civil engineer. Why? Because his father was one, it paid good money, and so on. I knew he had the capability of being a good civil engineer, but I asked him, “Have you ever thought about teaching shop instead and spending all day working with power tools and teaching kids how to build things?” He just about fell off his chair. His mouth hung open. His eyes lit up again. It had simply never occurred to him to take stock of what he really liked to do, of what really mattered to him in choosing a career. He had never stopped to think that his wonderful love for young people might be there for that kind of a purpose. He had decided the biggest part of the rest of his life with his eyes closed.

Kari jerked her body away from her mother’s grasp. “With cancer, Mom, there are no promises. That’s what Dr. Walker said.”
“Oh, Kari,” her mother said, bringing her only daughter closer, “there is one promise I can make you. I’ll be with you every step of the way, whenever you need me. Remember when you were in grade school and the storms would come in the middle of the night? You were so scared of the lightning and thunder.”
“Yes,” Kari said as she brushed away tears that were quickly replaced by more tears. “I was so scared that I would hide under your blanket until you told me I could come out.”
“How I wanted to make the storms go away for you, Kari,” her mother said as she brushed away her own tears. “I really did. But I wasn’t God. I was just your mother. Eventually you overcame your fear of storms. You even began to understand a little why God made storms even though they scare little girls so much. What I’m trying to say, honey …”
Kari interrupted, “That I can hide under your blanket if the storm is more than I can handle?”
Kari’s mother nodded her head yes as the tears dropped one by one onto the seat. Many minutes passed before she was able to face the prospect of starting the car and beginning the long drive home to face reality.

Later, as 18-year-old Moisés prepared for his mission, his family continued to face temporal challenges. He doubted his decision to leave and told his mother he wanted to stay home to help her.
“If you really want to help me,” she told him, “go and serve the Lord.”
Kneeling by his cot at the close of his first day in the Mexico Hermosillo Mission, Moisés felt that the Lord was pleased with his decision. He credits his mission for the growth of his testimony of the restored gospel.

One night Braden was sitting in his bedroom playing a game. He thought he heard someone crying, but who could that be? Braden kept playing with his game. Then he heard the crying again. Something told him that he should go downstairs, and that maybe he could help. He got up and went downstairs.
His mom was sitting on the sofa, crying. What would make his mother feel better? He began cleaning up the living room. Then he put some ice in a cup for her. She was expecting a baby and liked ice.
His mother hugged him. She told him that she was feeling sick and lonely because Dad was out of town on business. She had asked Heavenly Father to please send someone to help her. Braden told her about the feeling that he should come downstairs. His mother told him that the feeling was the Holy Ghost, and that by following the Holy Ghost he had been an answer to her prayer.

Then there is the example of two young men not too many years ago-before you were born, maybe even a little before I was born—but not too many years ago. Two young Mexicans down in Mexico gave their lives rather than deny the faith. Many of you have perhaps seen the film produced here on campus, And Should We Die. Let me just read a couple of passages from that film:
The two young Mexicans talk together about what they will do if they really are to be killed for their religion.
Elder Monterrey says, “I have a good wife and children. I would love to see them grow tall, but the Lord has given me a testimony, and to deny it would be worse than death.”
His companion speaks of how much joy he has found since joining the Church. He says he does not want to die, but he could never deny the faith that had brought him so much happiness. They pray for strength and ask the Lord to bless their families, ending with “Thy will be done.”
The two young men are marched out into a field by Pancho’s men with guns, followed by a number of women and a few men and children. Monterrey’s wife falls on her knees beside the leader and begs for her husband’s life. He tells her, “I have offered them life. It is their decision.” He then gives them one last opportunity to give up their religion.
Elder Monterrey answers, “We cannot deny Jesus Christ nor the testimony we have of the truth.”
They are then asked if they have a last request. Elder Monterrey says, “Yes. We would like to pray.”
The leader says, “Well, pray and get it over with.”
The elder says, “Our Father in heaven, we approach thee in the final moments of our lives. Bless us with strength, and forgive these men who are about to take our lives. Bless our families with health and strength that they may live good lives.” His mother and wife stand together, watching, as the guns are fired and the two men drop dead.
These men exemplified honesty, integrity of the soul, integrity of the heart, integrity of the intellect.

I close with this last true story, as it was given by Bob Richards in his book Life’s Higher Goals. It always touches my heart and it may touch yours. Lou Little tells this story about his greatest football team. They were on their way to the conference championship—one last game. He had a boy on his squad who had not quite been able to make the team for four straight years. Just before the game—three days before—Lou was given a telegram to give to this boy that informed him his only living relative had just died. The boy looked at the telegram and said, “Coach, I’ll be back for Saturday’s game.” The morning of the game he came up to his coach and said, “Lou, I want you to put me in this game. I know I haven’t made the first team yet, but let me in for this kickoff. I’ll prove to you that I’m worthy of it.” Well, Lou could see that the boy was emotionally upset, and he made all kinds of excuses, but finally he thought, “Well, he can’t do much harm on the kickoff, so I’ll put the boy in.”

The roar of the crowd followed the kickoff. The opposing quarterback took the ball on the goal line, moved up, and on the seven-yard line there was a tremendous tackle. The boy had dropped him in his tracks. On the next play Lou left him in. He made the next tackle; he was in on the next tackle; you couldn’t move him out of there. He made practically every tackle that day—terrific downfield blocking. He was the reason why Columbia won the championship. Afterwards, all the guys were pounding him on the back. When they were all done, Lou Little went up to the boy and said, “Son, I don’t understand it. Today you were an all-American. I’ve never seen you play like this in four straight years. What happened?”
And the boy looked up at his coach and said, “Coach, you knew my dad died, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I handed you the telegram.”
He said, “You knew he was blind, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I’ve seen you walk him around the campus many times.”
He said, “Coach, today is the first football game my dad ever saw me play.” It makes a difference, friends, when those unseen eyes are watching.

Just a few years later, though, Bishop Hales suffered the first of multiple heart attacks that would sap his strength. In addition, there were problems with his lungs. As an avid golfer, however, he couldn’t resist a friend’s invitation to play a round of golf at St. Andrews, where the game was created, in Scotland. It wasn’t until the final hole that he sensed a heart attack coming on. Asking his colleagues to call an ambulance, he took a knee to rest. Then he confidently finished the round by making a long putt.

As a young person I also learned that it was easier to follow the Savior if I had a good attitude. My father set the example for me. From as early as I can remember, I knew that my father trusted me and had confidence in me. He was a road builder and timberman. I started to run large construction equipment for him when I was a teenager. Once I happened to turn one of his trucks upside down. When my father saw it, instead of scolding me, he said, “Jack, since you’ve got it upside down, you might as well get it greased.” He used a little humor to put me at ease and then, over time, taught me how to keep better control of the equipment. What could have been a bad experience turned into a good one because he loved me and wanted to teach me.

I had always just assumed that when you got into ninth grade, you went to seminary. So I was surprised when I received a call from the bishopric asking me if I wanted to enroll.
I thought, “Sure. Why not?”
The next thing I knew, it was the first day of ninth grade, and I was on my way to released-time seminary. I was pretty scared and not very excited. “Yeah,” I thought, “another church meeting to go to every day. What could my teacher possibly have to teach us every single day? And I was supposed to do this for four years? What if I didn’t know anyone in my class? What if I didn’t like my teacher? What if I just didn’t want to go?”
But I forced myself out the door of my high school and took that long trek to the seminary building. When I got there, I looked for my name to see which class I was in. I then waited for someone I knew so I wouldn’t have to be alone. Little did I know that in seminary you are never alone. I finally gave up waiting and went to class. As I walked into the classroom, I was greeted by a warm smile and a friendly handshake. That’s when things started to get better.
I took a seat, and as I looked around at all of the beautiful pictures on the walls, my friends started to come in. Friends! Now I could have fun.
Class finally started, and we all told a little about ourselves. Then the teacher, Brother Toma, introduced himself and told us about seminary—how important it was to come every day and how there would be gospel study, fun activities, and sometimes even treats!
I couldn’t believe how fast that class went by. It was so much fun; I didn’t want to leave. When the bell rang, I had to drag myself back to the school.
When I returned to school, I could instantly tell a difference. My school had never seemed so worldly before. I was amazed at how strong the Spirit had been in that seminary building, even on an orientation day.

Born in Mährisch-Ostrau, Czechoslovakia, on November 6, 1940, he was destined to see at every turn the devastation of war and the suffering innocent people endure because of the fateful decisions of others. His father, Karl Albert Uchtdorf, was conscripted into the German Army and was taken immediately from his wife and four small children. Little Dieter, the youngest in the family, knew only that his father was somewhere he didn’t want to be and that his mother, Hildegard E. Opelt Uchtdorf, was bravely fending for her little family as the war in Europe swirled around them.

With the Allies’ increasing success in the west and ominous progress by Stalin’s forces in the east, Hildegard Uchtdorf wanted to get as close as possible to the western front. So she left every meager possession the family possessed and, with her small family, made her way to Zwickau, Germany. Fortunately her husband survived the war and joined them in Zwickau, but he was a bitter opponent of both the Nazi and the Communist regimes. The former was now destroyed, but the latter was in control of their lives as a result of the postwar division of Germany. Because of Karl’s political position, their lives were in danger, so the family—for the second time in seven years—left every possession they owned and, despite the danger, made their way to a new haven in Frankfurt, West Germany.

Of this period Elder Uchtdorf has said: “We were refugees with an uncertain future. … I played in bombed-out houses and grew up with the ever-present consequences of a lost war and the awareness that my own country had inflicted terrible pain on many nations during the horrific World War II.” The family had every reason to be filled with despair and fear.

But, as President Gordon B. Hinckley once said during another time of international conflict, there is a “silver thread” that can run “through the dark tapestry of war.” And so it did for the Uchtdorfs. While in Zwickau they found the gospel of Jesus Christ. In his first message after being called to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, Elder Uchtdorf expressed his gratitude for that gift.

“After World War II,” he said, “my grandmother was standing in line for food when an elderly single sister with no family of her own invited her to sacrament meeting. … My grandmother and my parents accepted the invitation. They went to church, felt the Spirit, were uplifted by the kindness of the members, and were edified by the hymns of the Restoration. … How grateful I am for a spiritually sensitive grandmother, teachable parents, and a wise, white-haired, elderly single sister who had the sweet boldness to reach out and follow the Savior’s example by inviting us to ‘come and see’ (see John 1:39).”

For some time I had wanted to take pictures of Temple Square in Salt Lake City—including the reflection pool, the fountains, and the sidewalks—covered with freshly fallen snow void of any footprints. To get a picture of fresh snow without footprints, I knew I had to arrive at Temple Square early in the morning following a nighttime snowstorm.
One evening after a forecast of snow overnight, I prepared myself. Because Temple Square groundskeepers start plowing the sidewalks at 5:00 a.m., I set my alarm for 3:00 a.m. and got my gear together.
Driving on unplowed roads the next morning, I arrived at Temple Square at 4:15 a.m. while it was still snowing. Then I proceeded to drive around the square, looking for someplace to park that would give me easy access to take pictures.
On my first pass around Temple Square, I noticed that the walkway to the entrance of the Salt Lake Temple was covered in fresh snow—without any footprints! I knew I was going to get my perfect photo. Excited, I drove around the block again to find a parking spot.
As I proceeded east on North Temple Street, I thought I would find a spot close to the walkway. Before I realized it, however, I had run out of parking spots and was again near the sidewalk to the temple entrance.
As I sat at a red light, I looked to my right at the fresh, undisturbed snow. When I looked to my left toward the Conference Center, I noticed an elderly woman dressed in her Sunday best, her head tilted into the falling snow as she headed toward the temple.
“Oh, no,” I thought. “I’m not going to get my shot!”
As the woman crossed in front of me, I turned and looked toward the soon-to-be-ruined walkway and saw that another sister had already gone down the walkway and was turning into the temple entrance. Then I looked back to the first sister now walking down the walkway. With snow clumped around her shoes and ankles, and following the footsteps of the first, she walked slowly but surely down the walkway, through the gates, and into the entrance to the temple.
As I contemplated what I was seeing, I looked at the clock in my car: 4:20 a.m. Sitting in my warm car and looking at the footsteps in the freshly fallen snow, I was humbled by the faithfulness of these two sisters on their way to perform their appointed duties.
I drove around the block again, parked, grabbed my camera, and took a picture of footprints in the snow—a far greater picture than the one I had envisioned.

I understood this principle a little bit more after watching a session of general conference. I’d just gotten into a fight with my sister, and I was fuming in my room. At first, I didn’t really feel bad for what I’d done. I felt like she’d earned my anger and definitely did not deserve an apology. The conference messages touched me, though, and I felt the Spirit soften my heart. I realized that I needed to apologize. As I thought through my apology, I felt sick to my stomach. I started to doubt that my words would fix anything. I reasoned that she would still be hurt and she wouldn’t understand that I really was sorry. I felt hopeless knowing that I could’t completely heal the wound that I’d created. At a loss about what to do, I decided to get on my knees and pray. I prayed and asked Heavenly Father for forgiveness. I asked Him to bless me with the ability to let my sister know that I was truly sorry.
After my prayer, I asked my sister if I could talk to her for a minute. I told her I was sorry. She played with her hair and wouldn’t meet my eyes and then mumbled her own apology. “No,” I responded, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” I felt my heart soften even more and tears filled my eyes. I gave her a hug and apologized for all the times I’d been mean to her and for not being a good big sister. My relationship with my sister was different after that day. It still is far from perfect, but a new understanding and love has grown between us.

First, some history—the year 1829. Only recently have I come to appreciate what a staggering achievement it was for Joseph Smith to bring forth the Book of Mormon at all. The mere fact that it exists is more of a miracle than many of us realize. Consider, for example, the simple question of how long it took Joseph to translate the Book of Mormon. Many solid and independent historical documents written by people like Lucy Mack Smith, Joseph Knight, David Whitmer, Oliver Cowdery, and even public records like the mortgage on Martin Harris’ farm, thoroughly corroborate the details and reveal an amazing story. After the setbacks of 1828, the translation of the Book of Mormon finally began on April 7, 1829, two days after Oliver Cowdery arrived in Harmony, Pennsylvania, guided by a personal revelation from the Lord to come and serve as Joseph’s scribe. A short five weeks later, by May 15, they had already reached the account of Christ’s ministry among the Nephites in 3 Nephi 11. By June 11, we know they had translated the last of the plates of Mormon, for Joseph used the words from the title page as the legal description on the copyright application he filed that day. By June 30, the job was finished at the Whitmer farmhouse in Fayette, New York. From start to finish—no more than eighty-five total days. But even from that must be subtracted some time and disruption when Joseph and Oliver moved the first week in June in a buckboard from Harmony to Fayette, some 120 miles away; time for trips to Colesville for supplies (sixty miles round trip); time to receive and record thirteen sections now contained in the Doctrine and Covenants; time to restore the Aaronic and Melchizedek priesthoods; time to convert and baptize Samuel and Hyrum Smith and several others; time to experience manifestations with the three and the eight witnesses; and I suppose a little time to eat and sleep.

This leaves only about sixty to sixty-five days on which the Prophet could have worked on the translation—that’s about the length of this spring term. This works out to a phenomenal average of eight or nine finished pages per day—day in, day out. Only a week to produce 1 Nephi, with all its subtle religious and cultural baggage that Hugh Nibley has taken volumes to unpack!

It took a day and a half to translate King Benjamin’s speech, one of the most masterful texts anywhere in religious literature. Besides teaching doctrines about the Atonement, service, humility, conversion, and covenants, the speech also reflects ancient Israelite piety infused with the true gospel of Jesus Christ! Yet there was no time for Joseph to consult at libraries (even if there had been a library in Harmony, Pennsylvania—which there was not). There was no time to study the Mishnah to find out how, in fact, Israelite kings delivered covenant renewal speeches, like Benjamin’s, from towers to their people, who gathered by families in tents around their temple. There was no time to revise and refine, no time to cross-check entangled dates and interwoven details. Instead, the text came, as Oliver recorded five years later, “day after day . . . , uninterrupted,” as the words fell “from his mouth” (see JS—H 1:71n).

Seeing this has brought home to me the magnificence of the text of the Book of Mormon. This was an astonishing achievement. The text came one time through, the final copy was dictated. And thus it has stood, except for minor stylistic editing, to this day. As a lawyer, I know what it is to dictate. After years of practice, I still cannot count on dictating anything perfectly the first time.

You must be a man of patience, willing to listen and striving to understand. You are the only one to whom some can turn. You must be there when every other source has failed. Permit me to read you a few lines from a letter sent to a bishop.

“Dear Bishop:
“It has been almost two years since I desperately called you asking for help. At that time I was ready to kill myself. I had no one else to turn to—no money, no job, no friends. My house had been taken, and I had no place to live. The Church was my last hope.
“As you know, I had left the Church at the age of 17 and had broken just about every rule and commandment that there was in my search for happiness and fulfillment. Instead of happiness, my life was filled with misery, anguish, and despair. There was no hope or future for me. I even pleaded with God to let me die, to take me out of my misery. Not even He wanted me. I felt that He had rejected me, too.
“That’s when I turned to you and the Church. …
“You listened with understanding, you counseled, you guided, you helped.
“I began to grow and develop in understanding and knowledge of the gospel. I found that I had to make certain basic changes in my life that were terribly difficult, but that within me I had the worth and strength to do so.
“I learned that as I lived the gospel and repented, I had no more fear. I was filled with an inner peace. The clouds of anguish and despair were gone. Because of the Atonement, my weaknesses and sins were forgiven through Jesus Christ and His love for me.
“He has blessed and strengthened me. He has opened pathways for me, given me direction, and kept me from harm. I have found that as I overcame each obstacle, my business began to grow, enabling my family to benefit and making me feel as though I had accomplished something.
“Bishop, you have given me understanding and support through these past two years. I never would have reached this point if not for your love and patience. Thank you for being what you are as the servant of the Lord to help me, His wandering child.”

Amy Jo looked up at the big clock on the living room wall. The short hand was on four, the long hand on twelve. She had waited the whole day for four o’clock to arrive.
She hurried to the front window of her new house and opened it. It was a warm, sunshiny day. Quietly she watched and waited. Soon an older woman holding a polka-dot umbrella rounded the corner. Next to her trotted a shaggy dog named Bert. Amy Jo knew his name because every day the old woman and the dog stopped in front of Amy Jo’s house and the old woman would say, “Well, Bert, where’s our slowpoke today? Where’s ’Lizabeth?”
“There she is,” Amy Jo called when ’Lizabeth finally appeared. But Amy Jo was shy and spoke so softly that no one heard her. All anyone could hear was ’Lizabeth crying loudly as she ran to catch up to the old woman and Bert.
“Meow. Meow,” cried the orange cat with white paws, but Amy Jo knew she was really saying, “Wait for me! Wait for me!”
“Why don’t we go out and say hello?” said Mother as she peeked through the window with Amy Jo. “Miss Gray seems like a nice person. I think she lives just around the corner. And I bet that Bert and ’Lizabeth would like to make a new friend too.”
Amy Jo shook her head. “I don’t want to,” she said, feeling afraid.
Miss Gray carried her polka-dot umbrella opened, even when the sky was full of sunshine. And her white hair was stiff and stuck out every which way. Her thick glasses made her eyes look small and of mean, and her shoes were heavy looking and lumpy. Amy Jo did not want to meet Miss Gray, only Bert and ’Lizabeth.
“Are you sure?” asked Mother.
“Uh, huh,” said Amy Jo shyly.
“Well, maybe tomorrow,” said Mother.
Amy Jo watched as Miss Gray walked on with Bert by her side and ’Lizabeth calling, “Meow. Meow. Wait for me! Wait for me!” She watched until they were tiny specks at the end of the long sidewalk.
Every day they passed Amy Jo’s house, pausing in front to allow ’Lizabeth to catch up. Amy Jo longed to hold the orange cat, pet her fluffy fur, and touch her soft white paws. Mother had said that someday they might also have a pet, “Small, like ’Lizabeth.”
’Lizabeth was special, but Amy Jo liked Bert too. The more she saw the two of them, the more she wanted to make friends. But she was too afraid to talk to Miss Gray, even though Mother had said that it would be all right.
“How about today?” Mother would ask as Amy Jo stared out the window.
“No. Not today.”
“Well, maybe tomorrow,” said Mother.
But then something strange began to happen. Amy Jo still ran to the window each day at four o’clock, but Miss Gray and Bert and ’Lizabeth began to come by later and later.
“Oh my, Bert,” said Miss Gray one afternoon, “where’s our lazybones today? Where’s ’Lizabeth? I declare, she’s getting slower and slower all the time.”
After a few minutes ’Lizabeth would appear crying, “Meow. Meow. Wait for me! Wait for me!” But she didn’t run to catch up to her friends. She just walked along. And each day Amy Jo saw that ’Lizabeth looked bigger and rounder than the day before.
“Oh, Bert,” said Miss Gray one rainy day. “Where’s our ’Lizabeth? Poor ’Lizabeth. She’s just not herself lately.”
Amy Jo began to worry as ’Lizabeth finally turned the corner. She was growing so fat that she had to stop to rest on her way to Miss Gray and Bert. When she reached them, she rubbed her back against Bert’s shaggy legs and meowed loudly as if to say, “Thank you for waiting.” Bert licked her face.
“That means they’re friends,” Amy Jo told her mother. “I want to be their friend too.”
“Really?” asked Mother, smiling. “Is today the day we say hello?”
“No. Not today.”
“Well, maybe tomorrow,” said Mother.
But the next day when Miss Gray and Bert walked by Amy Jo’s house, they didn’t stop to wait for ’Lizabeth. Amy Jo watched closely for the orange cat, but there was no ’Lizabeth that day. No “Meow. Meow. Wait for me! Wait for me!” Amy Jo felt sad.
There was no ’Lizabeth the next day, either. Or the next. Amy Jo was very worried.
“Where’s ’Lizabeth?” she asked Mother.
“I don’t know,” said Mother. “Why don’t we go ask Miss Gray.”
“No,” said Amy Jo.
But many days passed, and still there was no sign of the orange cat with the white paws.
Where can she be? Amy Jo wondered. What has happened to ’Lizabeth?
One hot afternoon Miss Gray and Bert stopped in front of Amy Jo’s house, but again just to rest for a moment. “I do miss our ’Lizabeth,” Miss Gray said, patting Bert’s head. “Things are just not the same without her.”
“Where’s ’Lizabeth?” Amy Jo called, but not loud enough to be heard.
“Where’s ’Lizabeth?” she called the next day, but again no one could hear her soft words.
Amy Jo was sure that something terrible had happened to the orange cat.
“Where’s ’Lizabeth?” she wailed that night as Mother tucked her into bed.
“Tomorrow I’ll ask,” said Mother.
“Me, too,” said Amy Jo bravely. “I want to ask too.”
But at four o’clock the next day the telephone rang. Mother was still talking when Miss Gray and Bert turned the corner. Amy Jo grabbed Mother’s hand, but Mother said, “I’m sorry, Amy Jo, but this call is important.”
Amy Jo watched anxiously as the polka-dot umbrella passed by the front gate. “Where’s ’Lizabeth?” she called in her loudest, bravest voice.
Miss Gray stopped. Bert stopped beside her. “Did you hear something, Bert?” she asked.
“Where’s ’Lizabeth?” Amy Jo called again.
“Who wants to know?” asked Miss Gray, looking around.
“Me,” said Amy Jo, running out to her front porch.
“Me who?”
“Me, Amy Jo.” She hurried out to the sidewalk.
“How nice to meet you, Amy Jo,” said Miss Gray.
She smiled, and Amy Jo saw that her eyes did not look mean, after all. And it was very shady under the pretty polka-dot umbrella. Amy Jo patted Bert’s shaggy head and decided that she liked Miss Gray very much.
“ ’Lizabeth should be along any minute now,” said Miss Gray.
Amy Jo turned and watched as ’Lizabeth rounded the corner. “Meow. Meow,” she called. “Wait for me! Wait for me!” Then she ran to catch up, just as she did before. Amy Jo felt happy to see ’Lizabeth again and gently touched her soft orange fur.
Suddenly, Amy Jo heard lots of meows, and around the corner came one, two, three, four black kittens with white paws. Far behind them ran a tiny orange kitten with white paws that looked just like ’Lizabeth.
“Meow. Meow,” the tiny kitten cried. “Wait for me! Wait for me!”
“Oh, how sweet,” said Mother, coming out of the house. “No wonder we haven’t seen ’Lizabeth for a while.”
“We’re very proud of her,” said Miss Gray. “Aren’t we, Bert? But I’m afraid we’re going to need someone else to walk with us, to be sure that everyone stays together.”
“I will!” said Amy Jo. She wasn’t afraid of Miss Gray anymore. They were friends already. Maybe Mother would buy her a polka-dot umbrella too. And maybe, just maybe, she would ask Miss Gray for the little orange kitten that looked just like ’Lizabeth.

Cardiff, Wales—
I had an experience that I thought was going to be awful, but from it I gained my testimony.
I’d been having some hassles in school. One of my teachers was making anti-Mormon comments and telling people that since I was a Mormon I wasn’t Christian. A few of my friends started asking me if what I believed in wasn’t a bit farfetched. All these questions made me wonder about the Church.
About this time, I got a letter from the stake president asking me to bear my testimony in our stake conference. I thought, What am I going to do? I wasn’t even sure I had a testimony.
The more I thought about it, the more unsure I was. I started fasting and praying about it, and I just wasn’t getting an answer. I had grown up in the Church, but I had relied on my parents’ testimonies. Up until then, I had never tried to find out for myself.
The more I prayed, the more disheartened I became. I wasn’t getting an answer at all. I was thinking that if there was really someone there, he would answer me.
The day before stake conference, I was fasting, and I still hadn’t received an answer.
We drove to stake conference, and I still didn’t have an answer.
I was sitting on the stand, waiting to bear my testimony, and I still hadn’t received an answer.
Then as the speaker before me was closing, this feeling just came over me that was fantastic. I was filled with the Spirit. I got up and bore my testimony. I was only supposed to speak for five minutes, but I went on for about ten.
I’m glad I have my answer, and I know that Heavenly Father knew about me and answered my prayer.

Having successfully obtained a bachelor’s degree, I decided to enrol for a master’s programme at Iowa State University. I met my future husband there; he was not a member of the Church. And as he was on a sabbatical from Oxford University in the UK, he had to return after being in Iowa for a year.

We were married the day we flew out to the UK. It wasn’t easy in the UK to find a house that we could afford. House prices had nearly doubled in the year my husband was in Iowa, and obtaining a mortgage was difficult, carrying an interest rate near 15 percent. Eventually we bought a house in Headington, Oxford, and bought a car.

Up to this point, I hadn’t attended church at all. Once settled, I discovered where the Church held its meetings and attended, but only twice. Although I could drive, I was afraid to do so in Britain. My husband had to drive me there and pick me up afterwards. It was easier not to go to church. Thus began my wandering through the wilderness.

I wasn’t particularly happy in my first year of marriage, but not through any actions of my husband. I was simply lonely, without my family, my friends, my things, and my old familiar life and comforts. I couldn’t make new friends; I was completely reliant on my husband. I was isolated in a new country among strangers. My self-confidence began to wane. I started to question my identity. Was I American, Japanese, Hawaiian? Where did I belong—in Britain, America, Hawaii? I felt totally lost and wanted to go home. But where was home? I couldn’t answer those questions. I was miserable.

Then a little miracle came into my life, my firstborn. People suddenly became friendlier, it seemed, because of this sweet jewel in my arms. My life began to settle down. A couple of years later and another bundle of joy. Then nine years later, a third jewel appeared. By this time, I was settled and relatively happy. I felt very much accepted by society. I had made friends, understood and accepted the British way of life, and was loving it.

But then cracks began to appear. As the children grew older and left the family nest, the cracks grew wider and deeper. I became unloving and deceitful. I was in deep misery. After awhile, I started to reflect on the days at university in Hawaii, those days when I was in heaven on earth. I so desperately wanted to have that again, but I didn’t know how to get it. (I probably knew but didn’t want to go down that path.)

During one of my trips back to Hawaii to see my mother, I related my early heaven on earth experience to the brother who had introduced me to the gospel many years ago. He simply said, “It was the Holy Ghost.” It shocked me! It had never crossed my mind. His response helped me to put two and two together, but I was stubborn as a mule and would not turn to the Lord. I sought the counsel of man to help me deal with my problems, but soon realised that I was going around in circles. At least, it was a starting point to regaining a sense of self-worth. But it was not enough. I yearned to experience that heaven-on-earth happiness.

It was plain to me what I needed to do, but I still hesitated to do the right thing—to turn my life over to God. I was hesitating because in my mind, returning to Church had some negatives. The Lord would require a commitment that I wasn’t ready to give. So, a few more years were lived in misery.

Finally, I was ready to change, to commit myself to God; I just couldn’t continue as I was. I went to church, talked with my bishop, and took the painful step of repentance. I was afraid of going through this process. I didn’t want to go through it again. It was too painful. It would be too easy to turn away from the Lord—I’d done it once before. Would my commitment stand firm?

But since making this momentous decision, I have learnt to love God and have gained a stronger testimony of the gospel of Christ. My conversion didn’t end there, it was just a starting point, albeit a momentous one. As I’ve attended church, studied the scriptures, and repented continually, I have become a happier person. I have learnt that accepting callings in the Church helps me grow stronger and become more faithful. It helps me develop character, but more importantly my relationship with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ, bringing me closer to them. Conversion is an ongoing process, continually trying to live in accordance with the love of God.

The back windows of our home overlook a small flower garden and the woods which border a small stream. One wall of the house borders on the garden and is thickly covered with English ivy. Most years this ivy has been the nesting place for house finches. The nests in the vines are safe from foxes and raccoons and cats that are about.
One day there was a great commotion in the ivy. Desperate cries of distress came as 8 or 10 finches from the surrounding woods came to join in this cry of alarm. I soon saw the source of the commotion. A snake had slid partway down out of the ivy and hung in front of the window just long enough for me to pull it out. The middle part of the snake’s body had two bulges—clear evidence convicting it of taking two fledglings from the nest. Not in the 50 years we had lived in our home had we seen anything like that. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience—or so we thought.
A few days later there was another commotion, this time in the vines covering our dog run. We heard the same cries of alarm, the gathering of the neighborhood finches. We knew what the predator was. A grandson climbed onto the run and pulled out another snake that was still holding on tightly to the mother bird it had caught in the nest and killed.
I said to myself, “What is going on? Is the Garden of Eden being invaded again?”
There came into my mind the warnings spoken by the prophets. We will not always be safe from the adversary’s influence, even within our own homes. We need to protect our nestlings.

As the usual family festivities of Christmas Eve were drawing to an end, I felt that can’t-wait-until-morning feeling of excitement!
I was eight years of age and the oldest grandchild in my large extended family. Every few minutes, a parent, aunt, or uncle would open the door and exclaim about hearing the faint sound of bells. I could hardly wait for Santa to arrive! Yet Grandpa still insisted on going caroling first—a family tradition. “Santa will never come!” I thought.
As we hopped into our frost-covered cars, we realized it was a lot later than we normally left. The small town where we lived in Idaho was very quiet and cold. Some family members worried that we shouldn’t go caroling so late, but my grandpa insisted that we should visit a couple houses.
As we drove down the small, tree-covered lane, we could see no hint of light in the tiny log cabin belonging to “Old Jim.” Jim was a good friend, and he had a big heart. He had been a widower since I could remember.
“Surely Jim wouldn’t care if we didn’t stop!” I moaned. Santa Claus would miss us for sure!
But my good grandfather persisted: “Just quietly gather by the bedroom window and start with ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem.’”
Our voices were unsteady at first, but strength lies in numbers, and it wasn’t long until the music swelled into a beautiful, harmonious melody.
Yet in thy dark streets shineth
The everlasting Light.
The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee tonight.
There was still no light on in Jim’s home, but we continued to sing.
O morning stars, together
Proclaim the holy birth,
And praises sing to God the King,
And peace to men on earth 1
The cabin door opened.
In the moonlight, we could see tears run down Jim’s face. As he embraced us all, he cried—really cried. After a time, he wiped the tears of joy from his face and said to us, “I have waited all year for you to come. You are my Christmas. And when the clock turned 9:30, I thought I had been forgotten. I was so disappointed. I had gone to bed, for there was no reason to stay up anymore.”
Our hearts were filled. As Jim motioned us into his home and turned on the light, we could see that he indeed had been expecting us. His kitchen table was beautifully set, and there was everything from Christmas cake and cookies to cold meats cut and laid out waiting for us to eat. The cups had been carefully counted and lovingly filled with sweet apple cider, so as “not to miss a one of you,” Jim added.
Jim said we had been his Christmas? Not so. Jim had been ours.
The gift of love we received that cold Christmas Eve was more wonderful than anything Santa could ever have left under our Christmas tree. And it was a reminder that the Lord wants us to minister to His children as He does—one by one, bringing His love with us (see 3 Nephi 11:15–17; 17:21).