Gospel Story Finder

Several years ago our family lived in Salt Lake City, Utah, for a short time, and while there, I served in the Young Women program in our ward. It was a profound learning and growing experience for me. One of my most vivid and memorable experiences was participating in a hike with the Olympus 7th ward Young Women. The chosen hike was the summit of Mt. Aire in Millcreek Canyon. Our guide was a sister in the ward, named Amy, who was a trained search and rescue professional who would lead us and ensure that we would safely reach our destination and also return home safely that afternoon. When this hike was proposed I thought to myself, “it’s a convenient location, with the trailhead only about a 15 minute drive from our house – how challenging could it be?”

Besides the relatively close proximity to civilization, the expected duration for the hike was only about two hours and again I figured, (for a novice hiker), that seemed reasonable. How bad could a two hour trek be? The girls were enthusiastic and eager to listen to Amy as she provided information about appropriate hiking clothing and shoes. She also reminded us to carry a light jacket and gave us a suggested quantity of water we should bring. Although it seemed like an inordinate amount to haul, I thought it best to comply since she was an expert and knew what she was talking about, but I couldn’t help ask myself, “how much is that water going weigh?”

Let me tell you what I learned about Mt. Aire during the hike. First off it should be called Mt. “No Air” or Mt. “Give Me Oxygen.” This is due to the fact that the summit is about 8,600 feet above sea level. For comparison sake, the Koolau Mountain Range here around us rises to a height of approximately 3,000 feet above sea level.

From the base of Mt Aire to the summit is a vertical climb of 2,000 feet. For those of us from sea level, a hike to over 8,000 feet in altitude presents very noticeable changes. You quickly observe a lack of available oxygen and the thinning of the air makes you feel out of shape, lethargic, and light-headed.

Let me share what I remember most about that mountainous climb. The 16 and 17 year old Laurels started out in front with Amy and stayed up with her all the way. They set a grueling pace for the rest of us (well for me). They seemed as sure footed as mountain goats, steady on their feet and moving with ease and elegance. Periodically they would stop to let the remainder of the group catch up, rest, and take a sip of water. It was easy to see they were more experienced and comfortable not only with the terrain but with themselves.

At the beginning of the hike I started somewhere in the middle of the pack but as it got steeper the air grew thinner. It became more difficult for me to fill my lungs with oxygen, but no one else seemed affected like I was. I tried to pretend everything was OK, but I started breathing through my nose and mouth to force more oxygen in to my lungs. Each step became more laborious, and I was preoccupied with looking for a place I could stop for a few seconds to catch my breath. I was not engaging in conversation or appreciating the majestic scenery for which the Utah canyon-scapes are famous. I was focused on staying alive.

All the while the Beehive girls flitted around checking out the flora and fauna like they were romping in a field of daisies laughing and having a wonderful time—you know the awe and joy that God’s creations hold. They were having a blast with not a care in the world. Not wanting to spoil their fun I waved the girls on, and they ran up ahead to join their friends but then a few minutes later they ran back to check on me.

One little girl said, “would you like me to carry your jacket sister Wright?” I thanked her and told her I was fine. At one point my daughter who could see I was having a difficult time came up behind me put two hands on the small of my back and pushed me until I felt a renewed commitment and energy to push to the end.

This little beehive group stayed with me and stood around me as I caught my breath. Although I invited them to go ahead, in part because I was embarrassed at having such a hard time, but I couldn’t shake them loose. They kept on chatting with each other and moved along the trail slower than they could have but not so far ahead that I had an excuse to call out “I’ll wait for you here pick me up on your way down.” So in the end I buckled down and decided I wasn’t going to give up. Instead, I continued to focus on putting one foot in front of the other and then continued with each successive step, and so on until we reached the Summit where the trail blazing Laurels and leaders had finished their rest and were ready to head back down the mountain. All I could think of was, “I made it!”

Last Christmas was the turning point. My brother was on his mission, and we were all anxiously waiting for the opportunity to talk to him. My parents and I still opened presents, but the best part of the day was later when I got to hear my brother’s voice and talk to him. That’s when I learned that for me, Christmas is about family, the people I get to spend eternity with. By spending a day doing things together, beyond the opening of presents, we celebrate one of the reasons Christ was born.

Many years ago, I went into a restaurant and saw a sign on the wall that said, “The Lord must love ordinary people, because He sure made a lot of them.” I agreed, thinking that I was definitely one of those ordinary people. In elementary school, I was able to finish grade two and move on to grade three with the plan to finish grade three during the beginning of grade four. That would give me the opportunity to complete three grades in two years. The problem was that our family moved to a new town, and I was placed in grade four without learning all of the grade three material. All the grade four students in the new school knew how to write in cursive, but I had not learned that yet. I remember feeling very dumb. Even though I had been smart enough to accelerate my learning, in the moment of not knowing cursive, I didn’t consider all the things that I already knew.

In 1957, we were sealed in the Swiss Temple with our children. It was a wonderful experience for us—and a very important one. My husband was ill. After two difficult operations, we were told that he could not live.
Yet those last days of his life were, in spite of everything, almost happy. There were times when we felt pure joy at having been able to receive the gift of the gospel, times when we rejoiced with tears of gratitude that his coming death would not separate us forever.

Although his present-day performance is peppered with good humor, Brigham has moments of solemness. He tells the audience of the time he was stumping for Joseph Smith’s candidacy as president of the United States in 1844 and learned of the martyrdom in Illinois. He was in New York when he received notice of the assassination. “My first thought was whether Joseph had taken the keys to the kingdom with him. Then bringing my hand down on my knee I told them, ‘No, the keys of the kingdom are right here in the Church.’”
He then recounts that he and others of the Twelve who were then back east returned promptly to Nauvoo where they halted Sidney Rigdon’s effort to wrest control of the Church and proclaim himself guardian of the Saints and spokesman for Joseph.

We relocated our growing family to Australia and then, in September 2017, our family was sealed, for time and all eternity in the Melbourne Australia Temple. It was a powerful experience; one we will cherish forever.

With hearts bursting with love for our newly sealed family, how could we know Heavenly Father had yet another miracle surprise for us?

Imagine my shocked delight only three months later when we discovered I was pregnant. How could this be? We double checked the home pregnancy test—positive! We took two tests just to make sure. We both wept. I know the Lord was with me through every step of that pregnancy. I felt the love and strength of my parents, from the other side of the veil, assuring me that everything would be fine.

In the early hours of 12 August 2018, our precious little girl was born. My husband named her after his mother—Faaifomailelagi, which in Samoan means ‘sent from heaven’.

Motherhood is one of the most difficult things I have experienced, but it is by far the most fulfilling. To this day, our children continue to make us better people and better servants of the Lord. They teach us patience, forgiveness, humility and so much more.

I know that all my challenges have been for my good. When we endure our trials well and learn from them, we discover that it is never by chance that things happen, but by divine design and all in God’s timing.

Ivan Lobanovitz was my enemy.
Not only was he my enemy, he was the enemy of my country—the enemy against whom my father was fighting somewhere in the Karelian Isthmus. Oh, I knew it wasn’t Ivan Lobanovitz’s bullets my father was dodging over there—at least not anymore—but somebody just like him. You see, Ivan Lobanovitz was a prisoner of war, a Russian prisoner of war.
The year 1943 was a horrible year for the little spunky country of Finland, which was making a truly valiant effort to fight an enemy 50 times more powerful. The war was dragging on. The years of fighting had left their marks. Even though all school children 15 and older were required to spend most of their summer vacation laboring on farms producing food, it was not enough. They could not replace the experienced farmers, and the situation had become very serious indeed. War is fought within the country as well as on the front lines, because the army that doesn’t eat cannot fight.
But sitting idly in prisoner-of-war camps was a large group of able-bodied men eating up the ever-dwindling food supply. Soon someone came up with the idea of using them as the badly needed farm work force. These prisoners were carefully selected—fanatics and extremists were weeded out—and the men were placed in larger and more productive farms where there was at least one man, however old, who could handle such a person. The plan was desperate, and even dangerous, but so was the situation.
When I first saw Ivan I told myself that he was an enemy. He might have killed many dads like mine and many brothers like my friend Eila’s. I wanted to hate him. The problem was, Ivan didn’t look like an enemy, or what I thought an enemy should look like. He was just an ordinary man. Not handsome, not ugly, just a man like any other. He was large with a nondescript face and sad eyes, and his hair was “any-color” brown. When he came to my grandfather’s household he was 32 years old.
Hating Ivan was difficult, and soon I gave it up. He didn’t know any Finnish, and none of us knew any Russian. Since he was a very quiet person our communication was almost nonexistent. My grandfather had been in Butte, Montana, years before as a mining boss and had learned to give commands without knowing the other person’s language, so he was well qualified to work with Ivan. Ivan did the work as best he could. He never said much. Soon he had blended in with the family and other farm workers so well that we all but forgot his “strangeness.” But he had to wear the hat and jacket of a prisoner, and the big V on his back reminded us that he was a vanki.
Ivan was always hungry. Farm workers are usually hefty eaters, but none of us had ever seen anyone with an appetite like Ivan. As long as it was edible, Ivan ate it. The food was always very simple. In the morning we had a huge pot of mush, often made of rye or barley flour. It tasted very good eaten with fresh milk and butter. There was always some left over, and at supper time that cold mush was given to Ivan. He ate that and then joined with the rest of us and devoured enormous amounts of potatoes and gravy, or thick stew, or whatever. Even today when any of us is very hungry, instead of saying, “I could eat a horse,” we say, “I could eat an Ivan’s portion!”
Ivan loved children and spent much of his limited spare time with my uncle’s little ones. In time he had learned a few Finnish words and was able to communicate to us that he had had a wife and two children of his own, but that they had all died in one horrible night when his small town in the Ukraine had been bombed. That explained the sadness of his eyes. We also learned that he had worked in a shirt factory and had hardly even seen a farm before.
I had long since stopped trying to hate Ivan. It just wasn’t possible to do so. “Faceless” people can be enemies, but once the enemy takes on a face the enmity often ceases to exist. Besides, Ivan himself had no hate in him. He slept in the main house with access to any room at any time of the day. It never occurred to any of us that he could be dangerous.
One day a man paid a surprise visit to check on the prisoners. Ivan was wearing his V jacket, but instead of his prisoners’ hat he was wearing a regular worker’s beanie which my grandfather had given him. The man grabbed that hat from Ivan’s head, threw it on the ground, and jumped on it screaming and hollering. I wanted to kick him, but I witnessed the commotion from the upstairs window too far to do anything about it.
It was a constant wonder to Ivan that the Finns were so “civilized.” His eyes had not been gouged out nor had any other such atrocities been inflicted upon him, as he had been told would happen if he was taken as a prisoner. He had been taught to fight to win or die but never to give himself up.
One evening Ivan found a little children’s book depicting the war. Brave little mice were chasing the cowardly and ugly rats and beating them easily. With the red star insignia on the rat’s helmets they were easily identified as Russians. Ivan studied the book with his normal seriousness, then suddenly burst into a roar of laughter. With his few words of Finnish and familiar gestures, he explained that they, too, had books like that—but, of course, the Finns were depicted as the rats.
In late July we were cutting hay in the fields several miles from Grandpa’s other lands and away from other people. We had worked there late the night before and left a large wagon full of hay in front of the big shed. Ivan was to come in the morning before the rest of the crew and fork it in. In those days the hay was not baled as it is now.
The next morning I was sent with Ivan to work in the shed, to push the hay further as it came in and also tread on it so it would be packed tighter. My family were not thoughtless, uncaring or even stupid; it just never occurred to any of us that we could have been asking for trouble.
We worked hard and fast that morning, because the faster we worked the longer we had before the rest of the crew arrived. After the hay was all in and trampled tight, we found a shady spot to rest and enjoy the food we had brought. I cut and buttered the bread and Ivan poured the milk. We ate in silence mostly. Occasionally I pointed to something and Ivan said it in Russian and I tried to repeat it to his amusement. But when I said it in Finnish and he tried to repeat it, it was my turn to be amused.
When we had finished and I had started to put the food away, Ivan asked for a knife. Without the slightest hesitation I handed the big leather-sheathed knife to him. I do remember the long look he gave me when he held the knife in his hand and slowly unsheathed it. Then he reached for the bread that was still on the cloth between us, cut a large piece, handed the knife back to me, and went to feed the horse.
I will never know what thoughts went through his head at that moment. I certainly didn’t think anything of it—then. But years later, after becoming aware of the harm that human beings are capable of doing to one another, I shudder inwardly at my childish trust.
I was a girl of 15 whose father Ivan knew to be an army officer fighting against his people. He could have killed me, taken the knife and the food basket, and run into the nearby forest. More than 2/3 of Finland is covered by thick forests. That late in summer they would have been full of wild berries so that even a man of Ivan’s appetite could have survived there for some time. By shedding his V jacket he would have looked like any other man. He would have had to be lucky and very clever, but it would not have been impossible for him to make it to the Russian border.
When the time came to exchange the prisoners of war and Ivan had to leave us, he cried like a child. He was afraid that all the prisoners would be shot at the border. We tried to reassure him, and he promised to write. He even said he would send us a boxful of Ukrainian apples, which were “big as human heads.”
I don’t know if he made it home. Maybe he just got busy with his life, because we never heard from him again.
I have often wondered why he didn’t take the chance to escape when he had it that July morning. I have come to the conclusion that Ivan was a truly good man. Having traveled a lot I know there are millions and millions of these quiet “Ivans” all over the world.
I believe that Ivan had that innate goodness that allows a person to embrace eagerly the gospel message. I wish I had known about the gospel then. Maybe someday, when the borders are open to our missionaries, someone will find Ivan and introduce him to the gospel. I hope so.
You see, although he was an enemy, Ivan Lobanovitz, wherever he is, is my friend.

In preparation for my first trip to the temple, my mother and experienced Relief Society sisters helped me select the items I would need, including beautiful ceremonial clothing. But the most important preparation came even before knowing what to wear. After interviewing me to determine if I was worthy, my bishop explained the covenants I would make. His careful explanation gave me the chance to think about and be prepared to make those covenants.
When the day came, I participated with a feeling of gratitude and peace. Even though I did not understand the full significance of the covenants I made, I did know that I was bound to God through those covenants and was promised blessings I could scarcely comprehend if I kept them. Since that first experience, I have been continually assured that keeping the covenants we make with God allows us to draw upon the Savior’s power, which strengthens us in our inevitable trials, provides protection from the adversary’s influence, and prepares us for eternal glory.

Another day, Bob had stopped to fish. When he looked up, a large wolf, about 30 feet away across the creek, was staring at him. It followed us for several days. I’m pretty sure he was a dominant wolf that had been driven out of his pack. He still carried his tail curled way up above the top of his back, a sign in the society of the pack that he’s a leader. We finally lost him when we crossed a large lake.

Washington, Utah, MIA girls had an unforgettable time when they presented handmade gifts to children at the Primary Children’s Hospital in Salt Lake City. Each girl had made a gift; and five quilts, stuffed toys, and articles of clothing were presented. During the trip to Salt Lake they were guests of the Granger 13th Ward and were escorted on tours through the New Era offices, Temple Square, and other historic sites. (See photo).

President Thomas S. Monson is a great example of this principle. In January of 2005, he was presiding over a priesthood leadership conference in Puerto Rico when he demonstrated how the Savior and His servants render service through personal ministry. At the conclusion of that wonderful meeting, President Monson began to greet all the priesthood leaders in attendance. Suddenly, he noticed that one of them was watching everything from afar, off by himself.

President Monson walked away from the group, toward that brother, and spoke to him. With emotion, José R. Zayas told him it was a miracle that he had approached him and an answer to the prayers that he and his wife, Yolanda, had offered before the meeting. He told President Monson that his daughter was in very poor health and that he had with him a letter from his wife that she wanted delivered to President Monson. Brother Zayas had told his wife that it would be impossible since President Monson would be too busy. President Monson listened to the story and asked for the letter, which he read silently. Then he put it in his suit pocket and told Brother Zayas that he would take care of their request.

In this way, that family was touched by our Lord, Jesus Christ, through His servant. I believe the words of the Savior in the parable of the good Samaritan apply to us: “Go, and do thou likewise.”

Jenny's Experience
All of you who are students need to decide daily if you are going to be a finisher as it relates to your studies. I'd like to share with you an experience of one of my former students. I'll call this student Jenny (not her real name). I share this experience with her permission.
Jenny had a hard year with family and school. She was a convert to the Church of a few years and the only member in her family. She didn't feel much support from home. Also, she struggled with roommates and began to question if she should even be at BYU-Idaho. Life was hard.
One particular week, Jenny was struggling from lack of sleep due to many hours of studying. As a result, she fell asleep early Friday evening and then woke up briefly, only to fall asleep again until later Saturday morning. At this point, she realized that she missed submitting her homework for my class.
Jenny soon e-mailed me the following: "Hi, Brother Morrin. I woke up this morning and realized that I completely forgot to do the two assignments due last night. I was wondering if there is any way that I can make these up. I'm sorry about forgetting about them!"
I replied, "Jenny, I was sorry to see your e-mail. Once an assignment is past due, you are not able to submit it." I then gave her some advice on future assignments and then wrote, "Please let me know if you have any other questions."
Our communication continued on Monday, as Jenny wrote: "Hi, Brother Morrin. I was looking into my grade, and I have noticed that from missing these assignments my grade has dropped 17 percent. I am debating whether or not I should stay in the course. Thanks for your help."
Jenny felt she was in a bad place spiritually and was insecure about herself and her future.
Jenny and I soon met, and I could tell she was distraught. I told her that even though she wouldn't be able to fully recover her grade, she could still do well in the class and learn what she was supposed to learn. I strongly encouraged her to stick it out. Jenny did stay in the course and did learn what she was supposed to learn. She was a very diligent student. She even ended up earning a decent grade considering her original dilemma.
Later, after the semester, I spoke with Jenny more about her experience. She said: "I knew deep down I wasn't going to drop [the class] and get a 'W.' [I knew] if I just put everything into the course, it would be OK." She also gave me her philosophy on finishing. She said, "I never want someone to think [that I] gave up." No matter what happens, you are better off if you apply yourself and trust in the Lord and do the best you can.

Sister Ana Marie Karganilla, Committee Coordinator, was worried because the shoe covers she ordered overseas well in advance were not delivered, a month into the open house.
Her anxiety increased when the items had not yet arrived a week before the event.
Then a day before the open house, the shoe covers miraculously came, all 200,000 of them!
Ana Marie learned to trust and rely on the Lord more and that He will not let anything hinder the progress of His Works.

During my years in the military, it was sometimes a challenge to find a Latter-day Saint chapel. With little notice, I could find myself in a new city or even a new country.
One Sunday I found myself in Amsterdam, Holland. At 8:30 a.m. our colonel unexpectedly announced that we had the day off. Already in uniform, I convinced a friend to drop me off at church. In his rental car, we had the following conversation:
Friend: “So where is your church?”
Me: “I don’t know because I’ve never been to this city before. But if you can get us to the city center by quarter to nine, we can find it.”
Friend: “Why? What happens at quarter to nine?”
Me: “That’s when we’ll see the Mormon missionaries heading to the chapel.”
Friend: “I thought you said you’ve never been here before?”
Me: “I haven’t.”
Friend: “So how do you know there’s a chapel here?”
Me: “There’s a chapel here all right and Mormon missionaries.”
Friend: “OK, here we are in the city center. It’s quarter to nine, and I don’t see any missionaries.”
Me: “There they are.”
Friend: “Where? You mean those small figures way up there crossing the street? We can’t even see who they are from here.”
When we caught up to the missionaries, I jumped out of the car and had an animated conversation with them, shaking hands, cracking jokes, laughing, and smiling.
Me: “Thanks for dropping me off.”
Friend: “I thought you said you didn’t know those guys?”
Me: “I don’t. We just met.”
Friend: “People don’t talk like that unless they already know each other.”
Me: “I’ll explain later.”
Friend: “I’m not sure I can find this place again, and you haven’t told me what time to pick you up.”
Me: “The meetings will last three hours. Then a family will invite me to dinner. After we eat and talk a while, they’ll drive me back to headquarters.”
Friend: “You don’t know that someone is going to invite you to dinner and drive you back.”
I reassured him that I would be well taken care of and thanked him again.
The meetings were inspiring. I accepted the first of three invitations to dinner. During dinner we had an enlightening conversation about the growth of the Church in Holland.
I have been blessed to find Church members many times during my life. Sometimes we have met in royal palaces and sometimes in humble huts. Sometimes we have met in abandoned, dusty barracks. Sometimes we have met in hospital chapels. Sometimes we have met in large tents or outside under the open sky.
Wherever we have met, I am always glad I made the effort to find the Church. For as the Lord has said, “Where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them” (Matthew 18:20).

Are all health problems the consequence of our behaviors and our day-to-day choices? Definitely not. Although research clearly shows that a large percentage of the major killers can be attributed to our lifestyles, some health problems have nothing to do with the choices we make. Our day-to-day decisions are paramount, but the choices of others can greatly affect our lives. For example, when I was a young boy a drunk driver nearly killed me and my parents. My dad, who was driving, did not do anything wrong, nor did my mother who was in the seat beside him. I was in the back. Without warning a truck driven by a drunk man smashed into our car at high speed. The forces were incredible. There was broken glass and torn metal everywhere. Our car was demolished. Cars did not have air bags in those days, but they had seat belts, and my parents and I each had one on. Our car was destroyed, but we were not seriously hurt.

Our lives were almost taken in just a few seconds. We had done nothing wrong. Clearly, health problems and premature death are not always a result of our choices. Sometimes they are the result of the choices of others. Our environment, genetics, and other factors can also play important roles.

My grandparents started dating before Grandpa joined the Church. Grandma told him she was unavailable on Sundays and several evenings during the week. At first he considered dating somebody else since she was so busy. Eventually she explained, “I’m a member of a church you’ve never heard of.”
Grandpa immediately replied, “Oh do you mean The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints?” Grandma was dumbfounded—she thought he had been stalking her! But he had heard of the Church before.
At 19, Grandpa was asked to help with the census because of his penmanship. When he asked a woman for her religion she said, “I’m a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” It was the longest denomination name he had ever heard. The name stuck with him. When Grandma told him that she belonged to a church he most likely didn’t know, he already had the name in his memory.
In his talks, Grandpa shared his thoughts and feelings and the struggles he faced investigating the Church. He had to humble himself to pray about joining the Church. He received an answer and acted on it.
It is amazing to share Grandpa’s firsthand accounts with my wife and children. They’ve never met him, but his words are reaching them 30 years after his death.

Many of you will remember and love the inspirational story of Betsie and Corrie ten Boom, Dutch sisters who became prisoners of war in Nazi Germany, and how they turned to the Bible in their great need in Ravensbrü, the notorious women’s concentration camp. Corrie told us:
“As for us, from morning until lights-out, whenever we were not in ranks for roll call, our Bible was the center of an ever-widening circle of help and hope. Like waifs clustered around a blazing fire, we gathered about it, holding out our hearts to its warmth and light. The blacker the night around us grew, the brighter and truer and more beautiful burned the word of God. ‘Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? . . . Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him that loved us.’
I would look about us as Betsie read, watching the light leap from face to face.” [Corrie ten Boom, The Hiding Place (New York: Bantam Books, 1971), 194–95]
The words of God fed and sustained these women. They brought warmth and light. They were more precious than gold and sweeter than honey.

Although I prayed every day, I’d never felt like my prayers could be described as anything but ordinary. I wondered if the heroes in the scriptures were the only ones whose prayers could be described as “mighty.”
One day, a friend called and described a beautiful prayer experience she had had. “It was like real two-way communication with my Father in Heaven,” she said. “Heaven felt so close around me.”
Her experience caused me to wonder, “Is that what the scriptures meant by mighty prayer?” That was what happened with Enos when he knelt in prayer. Since I couldn’t remember ever having this experience when I prayed, I decided to find out what makes prayer mighty and how I could make my prayers more meaningful.
I started by making a list of the things I thought would work. My main problem was falling asleep during my prayers. It may seem silly, but the first thing on my list was to try praying in more uncomfortable places. This really worked to keep me awake, but my prayers still felt the same as they always did.
I thought I might try longer prayers, like Enos. Surely that would let Heavenly Father know that I really wanted to communicate with Him. Nothing changed. And although I was sure Heavenly Father was blessing me and listening to my prayers, I wanted to feel closer to Him than I was feeling.
Over a period of time I tried many other techniques, such as concentrating harder, writing down everything I needed to pray for so I wouldn’t forget anything, and praying out loud. Nothing seemed to make my prayers feel mighty.
Then one day that all changed. It happened to be near Christmastime and I was listening to “O Holy Night” in my bedroom. As I pondered the Savior and His mission, the music penetrated my heart. A feeling of joy and gratitude washed over me as I thought of the Savior’s love and His great Atonement. I got on my knees and uttered a simple prayer of thanksgiving, with the hope that I could become more like Him. As a gentle warmth and happiness enveloped my heart, heaven felt very near, and the Spirit helped me to understand that this is what it meant to have mighty prayer.

In my late teens, as I started spending time with the full-time missionaries, I realized how crucial it was to have a testimony of the principles I would soon be teaching as a missionary. I decided that one of the principles I wanted to understand better was tithing.
Many people gain a testimony of tithing during times of financial hardship. But growing up, I always had more than enough. If I ever had a financial need, my parents took care of it. I was grateful for that, but while I knew that they would pay for my mission, I decided that I wanted to finance half of my mission myself through my work as a part-time teacher.
About the same time, I realized that I hadn’t paid a full 10 percent tithing from my last paycheck. I decided that with my next paycheck, I would make up the difference so that I could be a full-tithe payer.
When I was paid for the month, however, the amount was less than I had expected. The work I did was somewhat irregular, so my salary varied from month to month. I quickly realized that the paycheck would not cover my expenses and allow me to pay the balance of what I owed the Lord in tithing from my previous paycheck.
I considered my options and then thought, “I’ll just have to catch up on tithing next month.” But then I remembered an institute of religion lesson on tithing. I particularly remembered what the Lord says in the Old Testament: “Prove me now herewith” (Malachi 3:10). This was an opportunity for me to put the principle to the test and to gain a stronger testimony of what I would soon be teaching others.
When I paid my tithing, I felt good about being caught up. But the opportunity to “prove” the Lord came the very next day—much sooner and in a greater way than I could have ever expected—when I was offered a full-time job as a kindergarten teacher. I would be able to work right up until I left for my mission, and the money I would earn would be more than I needed to pay half of my mission expenses. This blessing dramatically increased my testimony of tithing. That testimony was bolstered again and again as I shared it with the people I served in the Germany Munich/Austria Mission over the next two years.

The summer after I turned 16, I saw my mother trying on one of my father’s old coats. “Money is tight again this year,” she said, “and mine’s worn out.” Right then, I knew I needed to help her. But how?
My first thought was that I could save enough money to surprise her with a new coat. After all, I was the oldest. But the longer I thought about it, the more I sensed there was one thing missing from my plan—one thing that would make the surprise even better. I should invite my two teenage sisters and my 11-year-old brother to help me.
“How about we each donate 10 percent of whatever we earn?” I said, after explaining the problem to them.
“I don’t make much money,” my brother said.
“That’s okay. If you make $1.00 and put in 10 cents, then you’ll have done your part.”
“We’ll go together to buy the coat, right?” asked one of my sisters.
“Yes, at Christmas.”
They looked at each other. “Let’s do it.”
For the next several months, we worked and saved for Mom’s surprise. Sometimes we gave more than 10 percent, and sometimes 10 percent was almost more than we could give after already paying 10 percent for tithing. But no matter how hard it was, we stuck to our commitment. I particularly remember one hot afternoon when my brother, dirty and sweaty from several hours of lawn mowing, came into my bedroom and handed me a dollar. I felt like I had just received the widow’s mite (see Mark 12:41–44).
Finally, one week before Christmas, we counted our money and discovered we had more than enough for the coat, so much more, in fact, that we could buy gifts for everyone in our family. We could hardly wait to see their faces when they found their surprises.
On Christmas morning, we got up before our parents. When my youngest sisters saw the dresses we had bought for them, they twirled around the room with them, saying, “Thank you, thank you!”
“Wow, thanks for the toy cars, Mom and Dad!” my eight-year-old brother shouted as he examined his gift.
“What’s going on?” Dad called from the bedroom.
“We didn’t get you that!” Mom added.
Within moments, they were beside us, staring in disbelief.
Then Mom saw her coat. She picked it up. Tears slid down her cheeks. “Who did this?”
We didn’t answer. We wanted it to remain a secret. Besides, I don’t think we could have spoken if we’d tried.
That morning, my sisters, brother, and I felt the true spirit of Christmas, the one that comes from service and sacrifice. And we felt something else too—unity. We had worked together to reach a common goal. We had done it without complaint, and we had each given the best we had. For those few months, we had become one.
And that was the best surprise of all.