Gospel Story Finder

The title of my devotional address today is “Remembering...and Forgetting Not.” This title stemmed from an experience I had while teaching an EIL 313 class last spring semester. EIL 313 is an academic English listening and speaking class for advanced learners. The class consisted of students from many different parts of our BYU–Hawaii target area. I had students from Samoa, Tonga, the Philippines, Japan, Korea, China, and Mongolia. Nearly every class was divided equally with academic listening and academic speaking instruction and activities.

Near the beginning of the semester, I noticed a particular pattern of behavior with one student. When class was finished and everyone got up to leave, she stayed in her seat. She closed her eyes and spoke silently to herself. After a few minutes, she got up from her seat, and if I was still present, thanked me for the class, and went on her way. This behavior happened after almost every class. Because I did not want to disturb her, I would pack up my things ever so quietly and leave her in the class.

One day, my curiosity got the better of me, so I waited for her to open her eyes, and I asked her what she had been doing. She said, “Oh, I’m just reviewing all of the things I learned in class today. I review them at the end of each class, and then later tonight, and one more time before the next class.” “Oh,” I said, “that’s spaced repetition, a learning technique we use to help us remember new information.”

“That’s right, Brother Green,” she said. “I use it with all of my classes.”

By the end of the semester, what my student was doing after each class served her well. She improved her listening and speaking skills greatly and passed the course with flying colors. Her application of the technique of spaced repetition got me thinking about its application not only in school settings but also in our spiritual lives. Specifically, I thought about how following the steps of spaced repetition can help us to recall experiences where our Heavenly Father has demonstrated his love towards us and how remembering those experiences at spaced intervals can help us to stay focused on our relationship with God and to prioritize the things that are truly important.

In his general conference address in April 2011, Elder Kent F. Richards relayed the following:
Thirteen-year-old Sherrie underwent a 14-hour operation for a tumor on her spinal cord. As she regained consciousness in the intensive care unit, she said: “Daddy, Aunt Cheryl is here, . . . and . . . Grandpa Norman . . . and Grandma Brown . . . are here. And Daddy, who is that standing beside you? . . . He looks like you, only taller. . . . He says he’s your brother, Jimmy.” Her uncle Jimmy had died at age 13 of cystic fibrosis.
“For nearly an hour, Sherrie . . . described her visitors, all deceased family members. Exhausted, she then fell asleep.”
Later she told her father, “Daddy, all of the children here in the intensive care unit have angels helping them.”

On the other side of the ocean, Americans consider cricket in much the same unprofessional light. I know, because long, long ago I also nourished that same opinion. Only I made the mistake of discussing it with Trevor Wright, my English buddy at a Boy Scout summer camp I attended while living in England.
Word got around quickly about the “American’s comment,” and I soon found myself challenged by the entire troop to join in a cricket match. Feeling that the opinion they had of America was always directly influenced by what I did, I felt called upon to acquiesce and participate in the game.
Of all the foolish mistakes I have made in life, that was certainly the greatest. I had no idea of the mischief they were brewing up to teach me that cricket is not for kids, or cream puffs, or upstart Americans.
It was one of those languid August days when you’d sooner lie on your sleeping bag reading a comic book than run around outside playing games. But I had made my commitment, and I strolled out to the cricket pitch with comics in hand, the apparent epitome of unconcern. Sides were chosen up, and I was chosen last. Not realizing that I was chosen last because they had so little confidence in my cricket prowess, I thought it was a result of my taunts about their game.
Our side was up first, and it was a long while before it was my turn. You see, one of the first things you must realize is that cricket is not a game at all, but a siege. The shortest match of any seriousness at all starts at 11:30 A.M. and ends at 6 P.M., with an hour off for lunch and half an hour off for tea and biscuits. Normal matches last two or three days, while test matches, the big events in the cricket world, take five. In test matches, an all-England team goes out to play in Australia once a year, and an all-Australia team comes to England. As soon as they know which team is really best, they can have a real match, I guess. Meantime they keep testing it out.
Well, I took Trevor aside and asked him for a capsule lesson on cricket, admitting that I knew nothing about the game. He was greatly surprised, but in spite of his amazement, he did his best to tell me what was important. The following covers the gist of his explanation:
Both cricket and baseball are similar in three important aspects—they both involve a ball and a bat, and each game is won by the side earning the greatest number of runs. However, where baseball’s element is air, the ball touching the ground only incidentally, cricket’s is grass. You will hear old cricketers debate for hours on the state of the field, or “pitch” as they call it, because the fortunes of the game so thoroughly depend on it.
The game is concentrated on a strip of well-rolled turf, sixty-six feet long, at either end of which are two wickets. Each wicket consists of three stumps of wood driven into the turf, with two bails, small bits of wood shaped like spark plugs, balanced on top. From one wicket, the bowler (never called pitcher) tries to knock the bails off the stumps. The batsman (never called batter) attempts to thwart the bowler, either by blocking the ball with his bat or by banging out what in baseball would be a hit. (But, there are no foul balls in cricket.) After six balls have been bowled from one end of the wicket (the unit of play called an “over”), the whole field changes around; another bowler takes charge, and the batsman at the opposite end of the wicket receives his bowling.
The team principle is pretty basic. There are eleven men on a side, and whichever side bats first must play until ten men are out—or in the language of the game, until ten wickets have fallen. (The eleventh batsman, obviously, has no one left to partner him and consequently can score no more runs.)
This, however, is a ludicrously simple summation of what practically never happens; the game is so full of ifs and buts, so prone to uncertainties and unknowns, that no two games are ever alike, and none is in any way predictable.
“Just remember,” Trevor impressed upon me, “don’t let the ball hit your wicket when the bowler bowls it, and if the hit seems good enough, run.” As he left to take his position at bat, I smiled to myself in anticipation of my glorious time at bat. It would be, I thought in English slang, a piece of cake.
I watched the course of the game a while longer before returning to my comics. What seemed the oddest thing to me was that the batsman held the bat much like a golf club, and the bowler would walk away from the batsman, turn, run about ten yards, whirl his arms and legs like a windmill, and then throw the ball. No, he doesn’t throw—that’s illegal—he bowls it, making sure it bounces before reaching the batter. It all reminded me of an antelope suddenly seeing and then chasing some victim.
Another hour passed before someone yelled out my name and all the fielders shifted positions as if expecting me to play into their hands. I stepped up to the popping crease, an area four feet from the wicket in which a person bats and tags the base when running.
I had all the confidence in the world. After all, I was pretty good in baseball, and here was a bat a yard long and twice as wide as a baseball bat, and all I had to do was hit that little five-ounce red leather ball. I figured we had the game won. Old Casey was at bat.
The bowler and I eyed each other like a Spartan confronting an Athenian in battle, and he walked back for his crazy run-up. It seemed the minute he stopped running, everybody started laughing. I didn’t even see the ball until I looked back and saw the wicket knocked over. With drooping shoulders, I walked off the field after what must have been the shortest time at bat in cricket history.
I don’t even recall eating dinner that night—I was too busy eating crow.
By the end of the evening, after talking with Trevor at length, I had decided that not only was cricket the most complicated game in the world, but the most lethal. A fast bowler hurls the ball ninety miles an hour onto the ground at the batsman’s feet. According to what sort of spin he puts on it, and whether the earth is dry or wet, the ball flies into the air at any one of a hundred angles. It might hit the batsman in the face and break his nose, it might smash his thumb or his wrist, or it might knock him cold.

Elder Didier remembered another lesson he learned as a young man: “One day while I was shooting a BB gun at some cherry trees in our garden, I heard the noise of shattering glass, and I knew that I had broken someone’s window. I hid in my room, imagining that the police would come and arrest me. Then I decided to do the honest thing. I rode my bike to the house with the broken window. When I rang the bell, a man came to the door. Trembling, I said, ‘I came to see if by any chance you have a broken window. If you have one, I’m sorry, for I am the one who did it. It was an accident.’
“The man said, ‘Well, as a matter of fact, young man, I do have a broken window.’ And to my surprise he added, ‘I admire your courage to come and tell me. Not many young men would have done that. I’m proud of you. Telling me is enough. I’ll repair the window myself.’ Then he shook my hand!
“It was an experience that I will remember forever because I learned that it’s always best to be honest, even when you’re afraid.”

An experience of Daniel W. Jones illustrates well the concept of being strengthened by the hand of the Lord as we wait upon Him. Daniel Jones was one of 20 men who agreed to stay at Devil’s Gate through the winter of 1856 and protect possessions left there by the immigrant pioneers I mentioned earlier. Daniel and two of the other men had come from Salt Lake City as members of the rescue party and were planning to be gone for just a few days, not the entire winter. There were only enough provisions to last about 20 days, even though there were at least five months of winter ahead. After eating the meager provisions, including the remaining 20 head of cattle, the men survived on what they could hunt. But food was scarce because the cold winter storms had driven away all the animals.
Daniel Jones related the following about their situation:
Game soon became so scarce that we could kill nothing. We ate all the poor meat; one would get hungry eating it. Finally that was all gone, nothing now but hides were left. We made a trial of them. A lot was cooked and eaten without any seasoning and it made the whole company sick. Many were so turned against the stuff that it made them sick to think of it. . . .
Things looked dark, for nothing remained but the poor raw hides taken from starved cattle. We asked the Lord to direct us what to do. The brethren did not murmur, but felt to trust in God. We had cooked the hide, after soaking and scraping the hair off until it was soft and then ate it, glue and all. This made it rather inclined to stay with us longer than we desired. Finally I was impressed how to fix the stuff and gave the company advice, telling them how to cook it; for them to scorch and scrape the hair off; this had a tendency to kill and purify the bad taste that scalding gave it. After scraping, boil one hour in plenty of water, throwing the water away which had extracted all the glue, then wash and scrape the hide thoroughly, washing in cold water, then boil to a jelly and let it get cold, and then eat with a little sugar sprinkled on it. This was considerable trouble, but we had little else to do and it was better than starving.
We asked the Lord to bless our stomachs and adapt them to this food. We hadn’t the faith to ask him to bless the raw-hide for it was “hard stock.” On eating now all seemed to relish the feast. . . . We enjoyed this sumptuous fare for about six weeks, and never had the gout.
As Daniel Jones and the other men waited upon the Lord and trusted in Him, they were strengthened by His hand. Their bodies were able to bear their burdens with ease. They were able to cheerfully endure months of freezing temperatures and near starvation without murmuring.

Church leaders were assigned by the First Presidency of the Church to reorganise the stake presidency. They had prayed and received impressions to their hearts and minds (See Doctrine and Covenants 8:2) that Kumaitotoya, who was then serving as a bishop, was the man the Lord had chosen.
Kaumaititoya received authority to lead the stake as Church leaders placed their hands on his head and blessed him in the same manner as the disciples were in the Biblical account found in John 15.
Elder David A. Bednar, of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, taught that the priesthood is the authority to act in the name of Jesus Christ. He said, “Because Christ is not here with us, His priesthood is needed to teach His doctrine and to perform the ordinances of salvation. Priesthood authority is given to worthy male members of the Church and is received ‘by the laying on of hands by those who are in authority, to preach the Gospel and administer in the ordinances thereof’ (Articles of Faith 1:5). Theological training or reading the Bible does not convey priesthood authority; rather, it comes from God according to the pattern He has established.”1
The call in 2013 came as a surprise to 45-year-old Solomone Kaumaititoya. It was not something for which he sought or to which he aspired. In fact, it caused him deep introspection and feelings of inadequacy. He would continue in his full-time career as an airline purser to financially support his family.
Kaumaititoya prayed fervently, asking, “Lord, what do you want me to do? What do you want me to say?” He also wondered, “How can I still do my job and be a stake president?”
The answers came to Kaumaitotoya in the form of scriptures and dreams that penetrated his heart deeply.
The words found in Moses 1:39, “For behold, this is my work and my glory—to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man,” left an impression upon Kaumaititoya. He said, “This was a call to do the Lord’s work. It wasn’t about me.”
Dreams came to President Kaumaititoya every few days when he was first called. He was shown some of the events that would happen in the stake. He said, “I knew what to do because I had seen it in a dream.”
He found that his life experiences had also prepared him in ways he couldn’t foresee. President Kaumaititoya had a very difficult childhood. As a young teenager, he climbed a hill one day to pray and to ask God why he had to go through such hard things.
He recalled, “I was really angry with God. I couldn’t understand why the Lord would let me go through such hard things. I was asking Him why?”
Kaumaititoya didn’t understand, at first, the answer that came on the hill that day: “For your experience.”
As he served, he made sense of what “for your experience” meant, when a teary congregant walked into his office to seek his ecclesiastical counsel about a similar family situation. Afterwards, it dawned on Kaumaititoya what the answer to his boyhood prayer meant. His path and his challenges had prepared him to minister to and serve people with understanding and love.
Lavinia Kaumaitotoya voiced her gratitude for her husband’s opportunity to serve. She said, “I have seen my husband grow and change to become a more spiritual, loving father and husband. I have seen him coming to know the Saviour.”
Latter-day Saints believe that callings or invitations to accept responsibilities or offices in the Church, are opportunities for growth and refinement. Serving the Lord and others in these volunteer roles increases love for God and for His children. It is a blessing to sacrifice time and energy for the Lord and to be called by Him to do His work.
Nine years ago, when Lavinia and Solomone Kaumaitotoya learned that it was time for a new stake president to be called, they fasted and prayed. They called upon the Lord to bless those seeking inspiration to know who the Lord wanted to lead their stake. They prayed that their stake would be blessed.
Almost as a bookend, the Kaumaitotoya’s again fasted and prayed the week before the stake conference when Solomone would be released as stake president, offering prayers of gratitude, and seeking blessings for the new stake president.
Solomone Kaumaitotoya declared, “President Adrian Yee has the authority to lead the stake now, and I sustain him. I’m ready to do whatever the Lord wants me to do.”

Talena was unhappy. It was the first day of school, but not for her. Talena was too little to go to school. Mother and her sister Laresa were hurrying around the house getting everything ready for this important day.
“Where is my other new shoe?” Laresa called. “I can’t find my writing book either.”
“Look in your drawer,” Mother suggested.
Never had Talena seen so much excitement, except maybe on Christmas morning.
“Why can’t I go to school too?” Talena asked.
“Next year you’ll be five and then you can go, honey,” Mother answered as she hurried down the hall with Laresa’s shoe.
“But I want to go today!” Talena insisted. However, everyone was too busy to listen to her.
Talena sat down and frowned. It’ll be awful to stay home without Laresa. There won’t be anyone to play with, she thought sadly as Mother came back down the hall.
“I wish I were five years old like Laresa, then I could go to school today,” Talena said.
“That’s right,” Mother said as she hurried past Talena.
Laresa was finally ready to go.
“Good-bye, Talena,” she called. “We’ll play together after school and I’ll tell you everything that happens to me today.”
“Good-bye!” Talena shouted after her sister.
“Be a very, very good girl,” Mother called to Laresa.
As soon as her older sister had gone, Talena ran to their bedroom. She took one of Laresa’s dresses out of the closet and put it on. Then she put on her play high heel shoes and carefully measured herself on the growth chart. It measured just right! She was as tall as Laresa. Hurriedly she slipped on her sweater and got her writing notebook out of the drawer.
“Mother,” Talena called. “I’m five now. Can I go to school?”
Mother looked at Talena with an understanding smile. “But you won’t really be five years old until July,” Mother said, giving her a hug.
“But I’m as tall as Laresa now and her dress almost fits me. I’m five now!”
Mother sat down beside Talena. “Years aren’t measured by how tall you are or by how big your dress is,” she said.
“They aren’t?” Talena began to frown again.
“No, years are measured by months. The only way you can become five is to wait until all the months have passed and July is here again. Then on your birthday you will be five years old.”
“Can’t I try to be five now?” Talena asked hopefully.
“No. All you can do is wait until July,” Mother said. “But I’m glad you’re still home with me.”
Talena walked back to the bedroom. She slowly hung up Laresa’s dress and began to pick up her toys. As she was working she had an idea. Faster and faster she worked until the room was all clean. She sat her dolls on her bed and put on her very best dress-up hat. Then she put on Mother’s old pink dress and got her dress-up purse.
“Now,” Talena said to her dolls, “I’m the teacher and you had better be very, very good children. It’s time for school to start.”

“I remember one of the first songs I learned in the Church was ‘Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam.’ I used to sing that song every day; in fact, my father got tired of hearing that particular song.
“One day I went to deliver two bottles of milk to a customer. The lady of the house heard me singing that song and came out and asked, ‘What are you singing?’
“‘I’m singing, “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam,”’ I answered.
“‘What is that?’ she inquired.
“‘One of the songs we sing in my church,’ I replied.
“‘What church is that?’
“‘The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.’
“‘Well, I don’t know them. Do they have another name?
“‘Yes, the Mormon Church.’
“‘Why don’t you tell me something about your church?’”
Elder Abrea concluded that after two weeks, the lady and her family began attending the Latter-day Saint Church. This was his first missionary experience.

José Gonçalves da Silva suddenly awoke to people calling his name. It was dark, and he had no idea where he was.
“I was asleep when the bus rolled,” José recalls of the early-morning accident in January 2008. “Nobody could find me because I was in the back of the bus covered with luggage. Some of the brethren finally located me as they began to gather up the suitcases.”
When the bus driver lost control on a narrow stretch of winding road in southern Venezuela’s dense rain forest, José and other Latter-day Saints from Manaus, Brazil, were approximately halfway through their three-day trip to the Caracas Venezuela Temple. José suffered only minor injuries, but several brothers and sisters had to be hospitalized.
“It’s time you quit going to the temple,” concerned family members told José, who was 80 when the accident occurred. Undeterred, however, he declared: “I need to go to the temple. If the Lord allows it, I will return.”
He immediately began saving money for his fourth trip to Caracas, which he made in early 2009. For Brother Gonçalves da Silva, the 40-hour bus ride is easy compared to the three trips he previously made to the São Paulo Brazil Temple. For many years, the São Paulo Temple, located thousands of miles southeast of Manaus, was the closest temple to this city of two million people in the northern state of Amazonas. Then, in 2005, Manaus became part of the Caracas Venezuela Temple District.
During those years of traveling to São Paulo, “we would take a boat here in Manaus and spend four days getting to Pôrto Velho,” the capital of Rondônia State, José says. “Then we would take a four-day bus ride to São Paulo. My wife is not a member of the Church, and when I went to the temple for the first time in 1985, I went alone. I spent the night at the bus terminal in Pôrto Velho because I arrived late and there was no bus. The next morning I headed for São Paulo. It was a nice experience, but I arrived a little tired.”
He then spent three full days serving in the temple before making the eight-day return trip home. It takes him a year to save enough from his pension to cover the costs of traveling to the temple.
“It is a sacrifice to go, but it is worth it,” says Brother Gonçalves da Silva, who has done much vicarious work for his family. “I felt a special joy the day I was baptized for my father, when someone was baptized for my mother, and when I represented my father as my parents were sealed. It was a wonderful opportunity. All my brothers and sisters are gone now, but I have done the work for them during my temple trips.”
José believes that the sacrifice inherent in traveling so far to the temple will help Latter-day Saints in Manaus be grateful for the day a temple is dedicated there. “I am excited for that day,” he says.
Manaus had one small branch with 20 members when José joined the Church in 1980. Since then he has seen the Church blossom there to nearly 50,000 members living in eight stakes.
“When the announcement came in 2007 that a temple would be built in Manaus,” José says, “I wept for the great joy I felt, and I prayed that the Lord would allow me to live long enough to see the groundbreaking,” which occurred a year later. Now he prays that he will live to see the temple completed and his wife baptized so that they can be sealed.
“We don’t know when we will die, but we should be prepared and happy when that time comes,” Brother Gonçalves da Silva says. “I’m looking forward to returning to the presence of my Father in Heaven and my Savior, Jesus Christ. Being in the temple helps me prepare for that day.”

Here I am, I thought, three months away from my mission and I don’t even know how to feel the Spirit.
The truth was that I had been a member of the Church for my entire life, and I could never recall a time when I was certain that I had felt the Spirit. I had a firm testimony of the Savior and the prophet, but somehow I didn’t know what the Spirit felt like.
So there I sat in Brother Durrant’s missionary preparation class, as confused as ever. “It’s the Spirit that counts,” he quoted President Benson. Brother Durrant then began to speak of great missionaries like Alma and Ammon, who were successful in their work because they followed the Spirit.
How can I be a great missionary? I thought. I don’t even understand the Spirit. I continued to listen intently, desperately hoping that Brother Durrant could answer my question. I silently prayed that he could relate to me just one important piece of wisdom—how the Spirit felt.
Then my answer came, and not just from the teacher. It didn’t come like an electric shock, and it didn’t come like fire. But my answer did come, with its own gentle feeling only the Lord was capable of giving me. It came when my teacher stopped speaking about Alma and said softly, “I feel the Spirit so much. It makes me so happy. That’s when I know I feel the Spirit, when I’m happy and I know God loves me.”
As I thought about those simple words, I felt all of the confusion settle into a sense of understanding. My chest didn’t roar with fire and vigor, and my limbs didn’t sink without strength. Instead, I felt a calm peace inside, and I realized that whenever I had felt warm inside while singing a hymn in church, I had felt the Spirit. Whenever I felt good after a service project, I had felt the Spirit. And when I had walked out of a Church class feeling peaceful and happy, I had felt the Spirit. The feelings that I was searching for were often there, but I just didn’t know what they were. I had expected the Lord to present to me, in grand spectacle, an instant testimony of his power. Instead, he was gently guiding me to find out for myself.
I have learned that I must make an effort to understand the Spirit and invite that influence into my life. Now, whenever I read the stories of Alma the Younger or King Lamoni, I no longer doubt the power that influenced them. Although I have never felt the dramatic spiritual transformation that Alma did, I now know that the Spirit manifests itself in many different facets and that the Lord communicates with his children in various ways. The feelings of the Spirit are always there if I am trying to live worthily and if I truly seek them.

1 David Oman McKay’s parents taught him at a very young age that he was a child of God and that his Heavenly Father loved him. They also taught him that he could always talk to his Heavenly Father.
2 In addition to his own daily prayers, David knelt in daily prayer with his family.
3 One dark night there was a terrible thunderstorm. David was lying in bed all alone, and he became very frightened. He could hear the rain pounding on the roof, and thunder shook the house. He knew that if he prayed, he would feel better, but he was too scared to get out of bed and kneel in prayer.
4 Finally, he gathered enough courage to crawl out from beneath his warm covers and kneel on the cold floor. He prayed for protection for himself and his family. As he was praying, David heard a voice say, “Don’t be afraid; nothing will hurt you.”
5 When he had finished praying, he was able to sleep because he knew that Heavenly Father would protect him and his family.
6 Many years later David O. McKay became the ninth President of the Church, and his strong testimony of the power of prayer was a good example for all the world.

The childlike faith of a follower of the divine Christ is a choice spiritual gift. It can be enjoyed by young and old. In the early days of the Church, a young boy by the name of Will Cluff, 10 years of age, living in Nauvoo, had a remarkable, pure faith. He had an experience to which many of us can relate.
His family was poor and had only one cow, which they depended on for food. In the spring of 1842 the cow strayed off. One evening in August his father came home very weary and discouraged. He and Will’s brothers had spent much of the summer looking for the cow. Will said, “Father, if you will let me take Charley (an old horse) I will go and find the cow.” His father reluctantly said he could.
Early next morning Will rode to the Big Mound, three miles east and in the prairie country. Here he had often herded cows with other boys from Nauvoo. He got off the horse and, holding it by the bridle, knelt down and fervently prayed the Lord to direct him which way to go to find the cow. He climbed back on the horse and rode south, a course he was impressed to take even though there were numerous bunches of cattle in every direction.
After traveling a few miles in the open prairie and passing hundreds of cattle, Will came to a fence. He dismounted and let down the stake, led his horse in, put up the fence, then rode three miles across the field. He again found himself in the open prairie with numerous bunches of stock in every direction. When he had gone about a quarter of a mile from the field, he rode right on to the cow, feeding alone some distance from any other animals.
Will started to drive the cow in the direction of the city. He arrived late in the evening, full of joy and thankful to his Father in Heaven.

I have a little bit of a strained relationship with my brother, Michael. Just normal sibling stuff, like we get on each other’s nerves. But I’d been praying to God for a few weeks to bless Michael and to help me love him and be kind to him.
Then one Sunday in sacrament meeting, my brother was up at the sacrament table so that he could bless the bread. While the bread was being passed, I said another little prayer in my head: “Lord, please bless my brother Michael with happiness.”
In that moment, I just felt this enormous sense of love for my brother, and I realized how much God loved him. The feeling was quiet and reverent, but it was extremely powerful to me.
After the sacrament, Michael came and sat down. It felt so awkward, but I turned to him and told him that God loves him.
I have felt God’s love for people around me, and I’ve felt it for me personally. I know that He loves you, too.

I was born in a small southern Mississippi town in 1950. My father was a career army officer. As a result, although not completely due to his career, I became the product of a broken home. It was not until my teens that I became aware of this. It was a traumatic period in my life.
My parents were strict, and I often was denied opportunities that many youth take for granted. One privilege I was allowed was to attend a local Baptist church where I gained an independence of thought and action. I felt I was somebody and had something to contribute to the world. I became a youth minister and had hopes of gaining a scholarship so I could attend a ministerial school. But the deteriorating conditions at home and diminishing faith in my religious beliefs changed that. I had increasing questions about life. I suppose at this point I simply felt sorry for myself.
At 17 I left home. All I took with me was the memory of ruined yesterdays and a fear of uncertain tomorrows. I left in anguish and bitterness. Later I joined the United States Air Force. The first place they sent me was to Vietnam. This was a startling contrast to the sheltered environment I had experienced as a child. Needless to say, rather than helping to find peace and remedy my doubts, the futility and endless agony of life there served only to create more questions and to reinforce my defeatist attitude. I began to doubt there was a God or that there was any dignity or purpose in life. Was life just the means to an uncertain end? Where and why did it all begin? I found myself wishing that I had never been born.
I left Vietnam physically well, but I was almost spiritually dead. However, something inside seemed to urge me to give God another chance, and I did in hopes that he would do the same for me.
Upon my arrival in Misawa, Japan, I went to a Baptist missionary, but he was unable to answer my questions. He encouraged me to rely on faith, but I could no longer live on the innocent faith I had as a young man. The reality I found in the world as an adult was simply too great. I had to find the answers and I had to find them now.
I was becoming desperate, so a friend asked me to accompany him to the Far East Conference of the Southern Baptist Convention in Shimoda, believing that these learned men would be able to answer my questions satisfactorily. Enroute to the convention, my friend made what he later determined was a great mistake. We stopped in Tokyo to see his friend, Bill Head, whom he had met in Thailand. Upon meeting Bill for the first time, I realized that he was different. Without him even saying a word I knew that he had something that I wanted. He radiated confidence, peace of mind, a love for life, and a love for people. He seemed to know who he was and where he was going. He had the answers I needed so desperately.
I asked him why he was unique. Bill replied, “I am a Mormon.” He gave me some pamphlets to read, and I took them with me to that convention in Shimoda. I read the material. At first the Joseph Smith account seemed ridiculous, preposterous, almost absurd. I wanted to believe that God spoke to men today. I wanted to believe that the heavens were not closed and that God was real. I wanted to believe that he lived and cared about his children and had not left us alone to drift aimlessly through life for some mysterious end. I also knew that if ever the world needed another witness of Jesus Christ it was now. But because it was so new and because it had been such a long time since God had manifested himself to the ancients, I was skeptical.
The next morning I attended a seminar at the convention. The seminar’s purpose was to discuss the anti-Christ ideologies. The first religion they attacked was not communism or some other godless ideology, but Mormonism. They had decided among themselves that Mormons worshiped Joseph Smith and ignored the fact that the formal name of the Mormon church was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. If that name implied anything, it implied that Mormons were Christians of the highest degree, for they were the only people I had found who claimed the name of Jesus Christ. It wasn’t the Church of Joseph Smith, John the Baptist, Paul, Mary, John Wesley, or Martin Luther. It was the Church of Jesus Christ.
I felt the Mormons were being misunderstood so I attempted to defend them. Now I probably made somewhat of a fool of myself in the minds of those learned people, but in the process of this defense, a still, small voice said, “You’d better find out more so you can do better next time.”
I left the convention that day and returned to Tokyo. I found Bill and told him I wanted to learn more. He introduced me to a young couple, the Fredericks, who taught me the missionary discussions in two days. During that glorious two-day period the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle in my mind fell together and I found myself and my true identity.
“I am a child of God!” I exclaimed to myself. “I began with him. There is purpose and dignity to life, and a great destiny beyond!” I began to realize for the first time that I didn’t have to doubt, worry, be confused, or tossed to and fro by every wind of doctrine because there is a prophet of God and twelve apostles on the earth today, just as there was anciently in the Church of Jesus Christ. I had found his Church!
Less than two weeks later, on August 12, 1970, I was baptized in Kunsan City, Korea. I know that the gospel is true. I know that Joseph Smith was a prophet and that we are sons and daughters of God.
Since my conversion I have been reunited with my family and ordained an elder in the Lord’s Church. I am currently serving as a missionary in the Idaho Pocatello Mission. Like Bill, now that I am converted, I am strengthening my brethren.

When I was 15 years old, I realized the significance of a testimony of the Book of Mormon, Joseph Smith, and the Savior and how it affects our choices.
My brother, Joe, was 20 years old. It was during the Korean conflict, and only one young man in each ward could go on a mission. The others had to be available to be drafted into the military. A young man in our ward had gone on a mission early in the year; my brother’s birthday was in September, so he didn’t think he would get the opportunity to serve a mission.
Our stake president called my brother in and told him that one of the wards had not used its allotment and he might be able to go. Missionaries were called at 20 years of age in those days, and my brother had just filled out his application to medical school. He was a good student. My father, who was not active in the Church, had made financial preparations to help him with medical school and was disappointed when he learned of the conversation with the stake president. My father counseled Joe not to go and suggested that he could do more good by going to medical school.
This was a big issue in our family. That night my brother and I talked about the choice. He was five years older, so it was mainly his thinking. As we reasoned it out, we concluded: If Jesus Christ was a great man but not divine, if Joseph Smith was a wonderful teacher but not a prophet, or if the Book of Mormon had wonderful counsel but was not the word of God, then Dad was right—it would be better to go to medical school. But if Jesus Christ is divine, if Joseph Smith is a prophet, and if the Book of Mormon is the word of God, then it would be more important to accept the call and proclaim the gospel.
That night, more than ever before, I wanted to know the answers to these questions. I had always believed in the divinity of Jesus Christ. I believed in Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon, but I wanted confirmation from the Lord. That night, as I prayed, the Spirit bore witness to my soul of the Savior and the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon and that Joseph Smith was a prophet. My brother received the same witness and made the choice to serve a mission. Incidentally, when my brother returned from his mission, he went to medical school. When I reached my 20th birthday, my father was happy to see me serve a mission.

My second experience is quite recent—it actually occurred while I was writing this talk. But, by way of background, we first need to go back thirty-six years. My companion and I were some of the very first missionaries to work in a town called Chunan. There was no branch of the Church there; there were no members there. Over a series of weeks we knocked on hundreds of doors in that town, without any visible success. At that point, to me the only memorable thing about the town was that at night, after tracting all day, as we trudged in the dark with our bikes through the rice fields back to our apartment, we would often stop and admire those rice fields filled with fireflies.

One day, after weeks of no success, we came to a house. A teenage boy answered the door and said, “????,” which literally means “nobody is here.” He had been coached by his mother to say that.

We looked at him, and I said, “Well, you are home. Can we talk with you?”

He turned out to be a wonderful young man, and he quickly developed a strong testimony of the gospel and of the reality of his Heavenly Father, and he entered the waters of baptism. Brother Wu very soon thereafter went on to serve a mission himself and then married and raised a righteous family.

Now, fast-forward to just four weeks ago in early May of this year. I was accompanying the BYU Ballroom Dance Company on their tour of China and Hong Kong. Shortly before we left I learned we would be in the city where Brother Wu’s son, Wilford, was living. I emailed ahead and asked if we could meet. My wife and I spent a wonderful evening together with him and his wife, Alice, and talked at length about what a blessing that day thirty-six years ago had been in both of their lives as well as in ours.

The next morning, on Sunday, we attended a local branch meeting with them and afterward were taking pictures together to remember the occasion.

At that moment someone tapped me on the shoulder and said, “I know you. I used to be your missionary companion.”

I looked up to see Elder John Vance and remembered we had been companions when Brother Wu was baptized so many years ago. We had had no contact since the mission field.

I pointed to Wilford and asked, “John, do you know who this is?”
He did not. Imagine his surprise when I told him that Wilford was the son of our very own Brother Wu from so many years ago.

There we were, on separate business trips to a third country in which none of us had ever had any contact and in a city of twenty-four million people, and we just happened to run into one another—and at the same time I had located Brother Wu’s son, Wilford. I knew it was an answer to my own prayers, but, as with my previous experience, it blessed everyone involved and was not just for me.

Shortly after my mission, while a student at Brigham Young University, I received a phone call from my dad. He told me that he had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and that although his chances of survival were not good, he was determined to be healed and return to his normal life activities. That phone call was a sobering moment for me. My dad had been my bishop, my friend, and my adviser. As my mother, my siblings, and I contemplated the future, it appeared bleak. My younger brother, Dave, was serving a mission in New York and participated long-distance in these difficult family events.
The medical providers of the day suggested surgery to try and curtail the spread of the cancer. Our family earnestly fasted and prayed for a miracle. I felt that we had sufficient faith that my father could be healed. Just prior to the surgery, my older brother, Norm, and I gave my dad a blessing. With all the faith we could muster, we prayed that he would be healed.
The surgery was scheduled to last many hours, but after just a short time, the doctor came to the waiting room to meet with our family. He told us that as they began the surgery, they could see that the cancer had spread throughout my father’s body. Based upon what they observed, my father had just a few months to live. We were devastated.
As my father awakened from the surgery, he was anxious to learn if the procedure had been successful. We shared with him the grim news.
We continued to fast and pray for a miracle. As my father’s health quickly declined, we began to pray that he could be free of pain. Eventually, as his condition worsened, we asked the Lord to allow him to pass quickly. Just a few months after the surgery, as predicted by the surgeon, my father did pass away.
Much love and care were poured out upon our family by ward members and family friends. We had a beautiful funeral that honored the life of my father. As time passed, however, and we experienced the pain of my father’s absence, I began to wonder why my father had not been healed. I wondered if my faith was not strong enough. Why did some families receive a miracle, but our family did not? I had learned on my mission to turn to the scriptures for answers, so I began to search the scriptures.
Moroni brings additional understanding as he shares the words of his father, Mormon. After speaking of miracles, Mormon explains, “And Christ hath said: If ye will have faith in me ye shall have power to do whatsoever thing is expedient in me.” I learned that the object of my faith must be Jesus Christ and that I needed to accept what was expedient to Him as I exercised faith in Him. I understand now that my father’s passing was expedient to God’s plan. Now, as I lay my hands upon the head of another to bless him or her, my faith is in Jesus Christ, and I understand that a person can and will be physically healed if it is expedient in Christ.
But here is the greater lesson I learned. I had mistakenly believed that the Savior’s healing power had not worked for my family. As I now look back with more mature eyes and experience, I see that the Savior’s healing power was evident in the lives of each of my family members. I was so focused on a physical healing that I failed to see the miracles that had occurred. The Lord strengthened and lifted my mother beyond her capacity through this difficult trial, and she led a long and productive life. She had a remarkable positive influence on her children and grandchildren. The Lord blessed me and my siblings with love, unity, faith, and resilience that became an important part of our lives and continues today.
But what about my dad? As with all who will repent, he was spiritually healed as he sought and received the blessings available because of the Savior’s Atonement. He received a remission of his sins and now awaits the miracle of the Resurrection. The Apostle Paul taught, “For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive.” You see, I was saying to the Savior, “We brought my dad to You to be healed,” and it is now clear to me that the Savior did heal him. The balm of Gilead worked for the Nielson family—not in the way that we had supposed, but in an even more significant way that has blessed and continues to bless our lives.

Another motivation came when the ward sponsored a program called “Something Great in ’78,” and Allan decided to make a stained glass window as his “Something Great” project. (Each ward member was to choose a personal project to be accomplished during the year.) “We had a big dinner and everyone displayed their projects. My window was one of the displays,” he says. Now the window hangs in his room, filtering the sunlight as it enters.

On an early morning in January, my husband and I drove to the hospital for the birth of our fifth child, Charlotte. I had been anxious during my pregnancy, and now I fretted to my husband, “What if our baby isn’t all right?”
“Then we’ll love her just the same,” he answered consolingly.
When my daughter finally lay beside me in the delivery room, I examined her. She looked perfect. But when she was whisked away, I asked in alarm, “What’s the matter? Is my baby all right?”
“The doctor will talk to you,” the nurse responded. My stomach knotted, and my worst fears began to surface.
The doctor soon told us that our baby had Down syndrome. Sorrow, disbelief, anger, and guilt boiled up.
“Why us? Why Charlotte?” I questioned. My world seemed to have changed forever, and I didn’t know how to handle it.
Charlotte’s birth was the beginning of the hard times. A short time later my mother-in-law had a stroke; two of our cars broke down; our business struggled; Charlotte required surgery on her eyes, ears, and heart; and the medical bills flooded in.
One particularly overwhelming day, I took Charlotte to our bedroom and said a discouraged prayer. “Heavenly Father, this is more than I can bear. Please help me.” Slowly I got to my feet and turned on the television news, looking for a distraction.
The top story described a plane crash that killed all the passengers. For the first time, I listened to the news in a different way. “Someone’s husband was killed in that crash,” I reflected. “If I had the power to trade places, would I rather be a widow?”
The next story told of a young man arrested for selling drugs. I thought, “That is someone’s son. Would I rather be his mother?” Dawning understanding brought a simple but important realization: we all face trials to help us progress.
I looked over at Charlotte, and some words came clearly to mind: “Why are you so sad when Heavenly Father has sent you a sweet little baby to love?” That was my answer. No plane crashes or drugs—I got to love little Charlotte. Rather than deserting me, Heavenly Father was entrusting me with a child who needed extra care. Realizing the confidence He had placed in me, I felt my bitterness slip away.
Charlotte has taught us peace and appreciation. Although frustrating times come, she is an integral part of our family. She is a little piece of heaven sent to us to love.

I recall an experience I had on one occasion as a young man in the military service. I thought about it a few years ago when some of our military men returned from overseas. I’d been away from home for about four years. We were given points. You got a point for every month you’d been overseas, a point for the number of battles you had been in, and so on, and high-point man went back to the United States first.

Of course, there were millions of men to be brought back and shipping was strained, so there was nothing more important than to look at the bulletin board and see the points accumulate. At once you were earning more, and someday you got to the point where you knew the next ship in would be the one that would take you home. I saw that on the bulletin board and thanked the Lord that I could go home finally.

It was the day that my commanding officer called me in and told me we were opening a new flight at Osaka and that I was to be the operations officer. Well, I expressed myself to him. I might have been court-martialed for what I said. I think I’ll even admit I used a few scriptural terms out of context. He listened very patiently, and when it was all over with he said, “Well, that’s all right, Packer, you’re still going.” And so it was.

That afternoon, on a C-47, with all my gear and the others who’d been assigned, I sat bitterly grumbling over the fact that it would take months again, that it wouldn’t be just an assignment of a week or two. Then I challenged the Lord, saying, “Why is it?” I had never wanted anything so much as I wanted to be home. I’d prayed for it, I’d tried to earn it, I’d tried to deserve it, I’d tried to behave myself, and then when it was within grasp, the very thing I wanted most was denied me.

Somehow, I don’t remember how, I took hold of myself; but looking back now, I can say the Lord was answering my prayers then. There came from that experience, from things that happened in those few months, lessons essential to the preparation for the calling that is now mine. I couldn’t see that far ahead, but by those tests or trials that we receive, ofttimes the Lord will prepare for us what He has in mind.