Gospel Story Finder

One Monday morning as I prayed, I had a strong impression to ask Heavenly Father to give my son a special dream, for it was only when he slept that he was still enough to listen. The specific words to say came gently to my mind. I was startled. I doubted that I had understood the impression correctly. Could I do such a thing? However, after receiving the same prompting two more times, I obeyed. As I knelt in prayer, I was moved to ask specifically for my son to have a bright recollection of all his guilt and to feel the burden of his sins, but also to know immediately that the Savior loved him and wanted him back.
Time passed. Then late one summer night my son came to the house. He stood in the doorway, unsure of his welcome. He told us he had been to visit with the bishop and that he wanted to go on a mission! I ran to him and threw my arms around him, and we both wept. For about two hours he described the pain of what he’d been going through and begged for our forgiveness.
My husband, who had been deeply hurt, was skeptical at first. After many hours of talking, our son reached over and put his hands on his dad’s knees and asked him if he would give him a father’s blessing. I witnessed a second miracle that night as tears came to my husband’s eyes and his heart was immediately softened.
Some time later, my son was asked to speak at a leadership meeting about his return to Church activity. At the meeting he stood and said, “One night I had a dream, and in the dream I had a bright recollection of all my guilt. I felt the burden of my sins but knew immediately that the Savior loved me and wanted me back.”
I was overcome with emotion. I knew then as never before that Heavenly Father had not only responded to my heartfelt fasting and prayer but had also, in his merciful wisdom, graciously taught me what to pray for.

My 97-year-old father recently passed away. Whenever someone asked him how he was doing, his consistent reply was “On a scale of 1–10, I’m about a 25!” Even when this dear man could no longer stand or even sit and had great difficulty speaking, his answer was still the same. He was always standing up inside.
When my dad was 90, we were in an airport and I asked him if I could get him a wheelchair. He said, “No, Gary—maybe when I get old.” And then he added, “Besides, if I get tired of walking, I can always run.” If we are not able to be “all in” the way we are presently walking, then maybe we need to run; maybe we need to recalculate our route. We might even need to make a U-turn. We might need to study more intently, pray more earnestly, or just let some things go so we can hang on to those things that really matter. We may need to let go of the world so we can hang on to eternity. My father understood this.

Elder Pratt’s two former companions traveled on to Tahiti, where their teaching met with far less success. After a few months, Elder Rogers traveled west to a small group of islands and Elder Grouard sailed to the island of Anaa in the Tuamotus. Elder Rogers again met with little success and much opposition. When rumors finally reached him of the death of the Prophet Joseph Smith, he began to fear for the safety of his family in Nauvoo, and he returned to America. He died during the exodus from Nauvoo.
The people of Anaa, on the other hand, came to greatly love Elder Grouard. He was the first white missionary of any religion to come to their island, and many of them accepted the truth he taught. He baptized over 600 people, organized five branches, and called local officers to serve. He wrote to Elder Pratt and asked him to come to Anaa, as there was too much work for him to do alone.
Elder Pratt responded to his companion’s invitation, and a conference of the Church was held on Anaa with more than 800 in attendance. At this time Addison Pratt decided to travel back to Church headquarters to request more missionaries to help in the work in the South Pacific. Leaving Elder Grouard behind, he traveled first to California, then to the Salt Lake Valley, arriving in September 1848, one week after his wife and four daughters had arrived there from Winter Quarters.
He shared his experiences with the Saints, taught Tahitian classes, and prepared to return to Polynesia. In 1850 he set out with a new companion, James S. Brown, and the promise that his own family and other missionary families would soon follow. They did follow, and despite growing problems with the French government in the islands, the missionaries and their families served until 1852, when they were forced to return to America.
Forty years passed before LDS missionaries were allowed back into French Polynesia. When they returned, the missionaries found that many members had remained faithful despite the lack of contact with Church headquarters, but many others had fallen away. The work began anew in 1892 and has continued with a few interruptions to this day. The gospel truth has shone in these islands for 150 years!
There are now four stakes in the Society Islands, and a beautiful temple stands in Papeete, on the island of Tahiti. The stories of the early missionaries are remembered and shared often by those who now send their own sons and daughters as missionaries to other countries and other islands.*

While in the hospital, Peter had a lot of time to think about what to do. He still had a long, painful time ahead of him before he could be released from the hospital. It was during this time that several good friends helped him learn about setting goals and controlling attitude. One in particular was from his ward, Brother Lawrence Oburn. He came to see Peter often and was always encouraging him to set a goal. At first, Peter didn’t want to try. Brother Oburn insisted by saying, “It’s what is on the inside that counts, not the outside.”
I remember how angry I got. I said very sarcastically “Okay, why don’t you get burned and you come here.” I could hear him crying although it was muffled by the bandages around my head. As soon as I said it, I wished I hadn’t because he had done so much for me. He said, “Peter, if I could, I would.” This was when I realized that this man truly loved me, like a son. That was when I determined to do everything he asked.
They decided on a goal. Peter would count the stitches he had during each surgery. The doctors and nurses asked to be allowed to stop counting just before they reached 2,000.
Peter set another goal—to count his shots. He quit counting at 1,252. He set a third goal—to be the most enthusiastic patient in the hospital. Even though he was often angry at the world, Peter tried to keep his goal. When he left the hospital, the staff presented him with a plaque naming him the most enthusiastic patient in their care.

After an eventful evening in Australia in 1998, my best mate asked if I could give him a lift. On our way to his home, our conversation turned to our basic beliefs. He was an atheist, and I was a Latter-day Saint. I had always known that there was a God; he had always believed that there was no God.
That evening I did something I had never done before. Just before I dropped off my friend, I told him I know that God lives, that Jesus is our Savior, and that Joseph Smith saw Them in vision.
I had often talked about these things with him, but I had never told him that I knew them to be true. I realized, however, that if I were to leave him with a lasting impression, I would have to leave him with my testimony of these things.
As he opened the car door, he shook my hand and said, “Hey, man, that’s cool. We all need to be firm in our beliefs.”
The problem, however, is that I didn’t know—not really. At the time, it felt right to say those things, but I had never received a spiritual confirmation of their truthfulness.
I had a 20-minute drive home. Those 20 minutes changed my life. As I reviewed our conversation, I started to think about my life and the direction I was headed. While I was thinking, the hymn “I Know That My Redeemer Lives” came into my mind and penetrated my soul. I started to sing aloud:
I know that my Redeemer lives.
What comfort this sweet sentence gives!
He lives, he lives, who once was dead.
He lives, my ever-living Head.
As I sang, tears came to my eyes as the Spirit witnessed to me the truthfulness of those words and confirmed that my testimony was true. I realized then that a testimony can be found in the bearing of it.
I will never forget the Spirit witnessing to me the truthfulness of my testimony. I know that my Redeemer lives because the Spirit witnessed it to my soul—a witness I was happy to share a short time later as a full-time missionary.

Sometimes beautiful things happen that just can’t be explained other than to say, “the Lord’s hand was in it.” That’s the only way to describe what happened at the temple in Kinshasa, Democratic Republic of the Congo, on 14 March 2024.
“To God be the glory!” exclaimed Sister Harlaine Odia with tears of joy when Sister Janeen Redd showed her this picture and told the story of what happened that day:
Sister Harlaine and Sister Redd see this picture as evidence that the hand of the Lord is guiding the work they both are doing in the office of the Church’s Africa Central Area in Nairobi, Kenya.
Sister Harlaine is the area planning manager. Sister Redd is a senior missionary who is working with Sister Harlaine and a team of two other senior sister missionaries in the Area Office. The team of sisters is working to provide the benefits of the Church’s General Temple Patron Assistance Fund to members of the Church in the Africa Central Area. The fund provides financial assistance for travel, food, and lodging to members so they can receive their temple blessings in temples located far from their homes. Currently, the only operating temple within the Africa Central Area is in Kinshasa.
Additional temples are under construction in Lubumbashi, DRC, and in Nairobi, Kenya. Others have been announced to be built in Kananga, DRC; Mbuji-Mayi, DRC; and Brazzaville, Republic of Congo.
So, who is in the picture and why is it so significant to the two sisters?
The picture shows newlyweds Nicole Bukasa and Ezi Kalenda standing outside the Kinshasa Democratic Republic of the Congo Temple joyfully awaiting their sealing in the temple that day. They had traveled to the temple with their newlywed friends Tresor Tshilombo and his wife, Naomie Mukadi, from the remote town of Luputa, DRC—a distance of 1,470 kilometers from the temple—which they had traveled by a four-hour bus ride to the airport in Mbuji-Mayi and then a flight from Mbuji-Mayi to Kinshasa.
Sister Redd had traveled to Kinshasa from Nairobi with her husband, Elder Jeffrey Redd (who serves as associate area legal counsel in the Office of General Counsel for the Africa Central Area) along with David Stanford (area legal counsel) and his wife, Marie-Laure, for some meetings. While in Kinshasa they planned to worship in the temple. As the Redds and Stanfords arrived at the temple, a simple exchange of greetings turned into a conversation in which the Redds and the Stanfords were invited to act as witnesses for the sealings of these two newlywed couples.
Ezi, Tresor, and Naomie had served as missionaries in the Kinshasa DRC West Mission under the leadership of Francois M. Mukubu. President Mukubu is now the president of the Kinshasa temple, and it is he who performed the sealing ordinance for the two couples.
After asking a few questions, Sister Redd discovered that it was her team in Nairobi that had processed these two couples’ applications to participate in the General Temple Patron Assistance Fund just a few weeks before she unexpectedly met them in person half a continent away at the temple in Kinshasa. No one who knows this story believes that it is just a coincidence that the Redds and the Stanfords walked onto the temple grounds at the exact moment necessary to make the connection with the two previously unknown-to-them newlywed couples, a connection that resulted from saying “bonjour.”
The hand of the Lord is guiding His work. Many more members of the Church will be blessed to receive temple blessings and to make covenants with God in His holy house as beneficiaries of the General Temple Patron Assistance Fund.
And Nicole and Ezi’s son, who is expected to be born in May, will be born in the covenant.
As Sister Harlaine exclaimed, when she saw the photograph, “To God be the glory!”
Members who are interested in learning more about the General Temple Patron Assistance Fund can contact their bishop or branch president.

Other good influences in my life were the people I knew when I attended college at Brigham Young University. I hadn’t planned to attend BYU. When I graduated from high school, I wanted to play college football. I had already been contacted many times by an important university, which was encouraging me to play football there. But when the time came to commit myself to go there, all the encouragement stopped. I was devastated. I wondered why they had encouraged me so much only to suddenly change their minds.
Then one day I was out working on the farm with my family when someone ran out to tell me I’d received an urgent phone call. It was from the assistant football coach at BYU. When I called him back, he asked me to come play football there. I had never been to Provo. I didn’t know anything about BYU. He invited me to visit the school before making my decision, but I knew I wouldn’t have time because my family needed me to work on the farm. After thinking about it for a moment, I said, “OK, I’ll come play for BYU. Just tell me what day you want me to be there, and I’ll be there.”
This sudden decision was a turning point in my life. Had I not met the bishop of my student ward, my friends, and my roommates there, I might not have decided to serve a mission. They were all good influences on me.

Only a few weeks before the earthquake, another group of young adults was giving similar service across the Atlantic. The floods that swept through western Europe in July were the most severe in decades.

When the waters finally receded, one shopkeeper in the riverside district of Ahrweiler, Germany, surveyed the damage and was utterly overwhelmed. This humble man, a devout Catholic, whispered a prayer that God might send someone to help him. The very next morning, President Dan Hammon of the Germany Frankfurt Mission arrived on the street with a small band of missionaries wearing yellow Helping Hands vests. The water had reached up to 10 feet (3 m) on the shopkeeper’s walls, leaving behind a deep layer of mud. The volunteers shoveled out the mud, removed the carpet and drywall, and piled everything in the street for removal. The overjoyed shopkeeper worked alongside them for hours, amazed that the Lord had sent a group of His servants to answer his prayer—and within 24 hours!

The center of St. Petersburg, crisscrossed by canals, is full of palaces, monuments, statues, churches, gardens, and museums. For seminary students from the Obukhovskii Branch, it seemed a perfect place to talk about their love of seminary, their love for the scriptures, and their love for their city.
Julia Shaikhulina reminisces about returning from a trip to the Stockholm (Sweden) Temple. “I wondered how I’d feel coming home, since going to the temple is such a wonderful experience. But it was autumn, and as our bus drove across the city, the trees and the buildings were bathed in a golden light. It made all of the buildings look beautiful. And I said to myself, I know that I love my city. It made me feel like I wanted to share the gospel with everyone.”

And ‘doing what’s required’ has been his guideline for the last five years. Prior to that, Jo’s legs were the same as most people’s—active.

Then came the blood clot in his spine. Only one in a million people ever suffer from this problem. Usually they are middle-aged and end up mentally retarded due to brain damage or even die.

Jo survived, perfectly normal except for his legs.

Despite frequent hospitalization, he has become more and more cheerful, relying on priesthood blessings and developing a testimony that takes him places where legs are not important.

Looking back, Jo has a clear picture of that turning point in his life. “I was prepared, through promptings of the Spirit, for the information that my legs would always be paralysed,” he says. “So when the doctor appeared solemnly saying, ‘I have something to tell you,’ I thought it must be, ‘Sorry, no hope, you’re going to die.’ When he said, ‘You’ll never walk again,’ it was a relief. I could handle that.”

That was the easy part. Adapting and learning to do everything differently was not. So Jo developed ways of dealing with setbacks. His favourite saying when things get tough is, “You can either laugh or cry, but if you laugh, people like you better.”

Jo did progress, becoming more and more independent and mobile.

His testimony also became independent. Although brought up in the Church, Jo had, earlier in life, gone through a less-active stage. He drifted in with the wrong crowd, did some things he regretted. Gradually, through the influence of missionaries, and to keep his mum happy, he returned.

“It was while I was in the hospital that I decided to find out for sure whether the Church is true,” he says. “I had plenty of opportunity to fast and pray in there as my visits lengthened into months.” (His spine began curving, needing replacement with bones from his ribs.)

By the end of the first fast, the Aylesbury Ward bishop turned up unexpectedly, offering to take Jo for a ride. “We entered a beautiful woodland area,” Jo recalls. “As we drove slowly through I was reminded of the First Vision. I had the strongest impression of God’s hand in all that beauty. The feeling also came clearly—this is the Savior’s church, and I should go on a mission.”

Jo’s testimony never wavered after that.

Later, during a class discussion on missions back in his home ward, his yearning for service came sharply into focus. The teacher, not wanting him to feel left out or embarrassed by the emphasis on serving missions, made the comment, ‘Of course, Jo is excused. He won’t be able to go in a wheelchair.’

“That really fired me up,” exclaims Elder Folkett. “My immediate reaction was, ‘Oh yes I will!’” Soon after, Jo received his patriarchal blessing, which confirmed his decision, stating he would serve and proselyte.

Before leaving for the England Manchester Mission, it became evident just how much Jolyon’s new attitude toward life had affected him. Not only did he take part in, and win, several national paraplegic sporting events, but his social life also improved.

“We had a stake fireside on dating standards,” Jo says. “And the final challenge was a competition to get youth mixing. We had to see who could have the most dates (same partner allowed no more than five times) in six months. The prize would be a trip to London for a meal and a show.”

Despite the fact that Jo was in the hospital for one of those months, and his mission departure was a month before the competition finished, he still came out winner. His total—38 dates in four months. Now he has a two-year wait for the prize.

And Jo has more good news waiting for his return home. When he applied for a training job at his local council offices they agreed to take him—and that was after he told them he wouldn’t be available to start for another two years. They accepted his explanation, promising to keep the vacancy especially for him.

Blessings like these keep outweighing hardships in Jo’s life. He’s even found advantages to serving in a wheelchair. “I must be the only missionary to get through two years in one pair of shoes,” he jokes. “These cost me 13 pounds (about $25 U.S.) at Leicester market and they’re good as new!”

There are a few disadvantages, however. Like the number of new tyres needed for his special wheelchair. Jo saved up for a lightweight, thin-tyred sports model before he left on his mission. The smaller chair makes tracting easier and has allowed him to develop the art of wheelies, crowd navigation, and step bouncing to breathtaking degrees.

He has another saying. “You can do anything you want, if it’s possible. If it’s impossible it just takes longer.”

Elder Folkett’s companion, Elder Dean Beale from Weston-super-Mare, England, says he appreciates such attitudes from his companion. “After working with Elder Folkett,” he says, “I’ve also come to realize that many of the people who blame God for the afflictions of others are not the sufferers themselves. The suffers are often the ones with faith and humility.”

As Elder Folkett says, “Life’s not supposed to be easy. It’s a tough testing ground. But if we behave ourselves and follow God’s plan, then we’ll get the blessings in the end.”

Often the blessings come long before the end when you’re in the service of the Lord. Jo has seen that many times on his mission. Take the day he met Kevin Smith, for instance.

Kevin had become interested in the Church through the fine example of a young Latter-day Saint girl in his office and had requested a copy of the Book of Mormon from the Blackpool Ward. Jo and his companion volunteered to deliver the scriptures.

“At that point I wasn’t sufficiently interested in the Church to have missionaries in my home,” says Kevin, who has been confined to a wheelchair for the past 16 years. “I had a stereotyped image of Mormon elders—tall, fresh young American lads straight out of college, clothed in sharp suits, with toothpaste-advert smiles. I probably wouldn’t have opened the door if they’d looked like that. But here were two down-to-earth people, one just as surprised as myself at the sight of a wheelchair.”

“Kevin is such a cool guy,” exclaims Elder Folkett, who was surprised to find his investigator in a wheelchair. “Even before we got to his house the first time I felt good about things that would happen.”

Elder Folkett and Kevin hit it off from the moment they met, and Jo baptized Kevin not long after that first discussion.

The power of example is switching on eternal possibilities for Jo. Inactive members have returned to church because of his example; he has shared the gospel with anyone willing to listen; and his mission president delights in his, “good, cheerful spirit.”

Just as Blackpool’s illuminations bring life to the shadows, so too does Elder Folkett’s bright faith enrich the lives of those he meets.

There’s a sparkle to his testimony that knows no handicap, travelling beyond boundaries, turning barriers into blessings.

When Kahn turned 4, we holidayed in our homeland of Samoa, where we reconnected with Kahn’s birth family. They welcomed us with open arms, and Kahn’s birth grandmother wept when she recognised him. “Your son is gorgeous,” she said. “He’s so active, and he looks like he enjoys his food, too.”

It was an emotional reunion. They thanked us for loving and nurturing Kahn—and then they asked if we had room in our lives for another child.

My husband and I were astonished.

We discovered that Kahn’s birth mother had another baby. Naree Alalafaga was 5 months old at the time and, again, her family wanted more for this child than they were able to offer.

My mother’s words echoed softly in my mind: you reap what you sow.

It wasn’t by chance we met our miracle daughter this way. The Lord knows our deepest desires, and what is best for us. So, when our reunion with Kahn’s birth family brought a precious addition—his baby sister—to our home, it just felt right.

Phoebe Carter was similarly led 750 miles (1,200 km) from Scarboro, Maine, to Kirtland, Ohio, in 1835. Phoebe was 28 years old when she determined to gather with Church members, even though she had to make her trek alone. As she later reported: “My friends marvelled at my course, as did I, but something within impelled me on. My mother’s grief at my leaving home was almost more than I could bear; and had it not been for the spirit within I should have faltered at the last. My mother told me she would rather see me buried than going thus alone into the heartless world. … ‘Phoebe,’ she said, impressively, ‘will you come back to me if you find Mormonism false?’ I answered thrice, ‘Yes, mother, I will.’ … When the time came for my departure I dared not trust myself to say farewell, so I wrote my good-bye to each, and leaving them on my table, ran down stairs and jumped into the carriage. Thus I left my beloved home of childhood to link my life with the Saints of God.”6

At that point Phoebe had no idea that her footsteps of faith would lead her on a journey much longer than the 750 miles (1,200 km) to Kirtland. She would marry Wilford Woodruff and join with him in journeying through Missouri to Nauvoo and then on the 1,350-mile (2,170-km) trek through wilderness lands to the Great Salt Lake Valley.

Derek Fagan, 17, has excelled both in school and in seminary, and he credits an experience he had just before he received his patriarchal blessing. “We had been talking about patriarchal blessings in seminary. I prayed and asked if I should get my patriarchal blessing. Our stake did not have a patriarch at that time, but three days later, our new patriarch was called. I felt it was my answer. That was the time I decided for myself that the Church was true and I would try harder to do well and choose the right. My patriarchal blessing was amazing. I carry it around with me everywhere. Since early-morning seminary started, everything has been clearer. Even in school, I just learn very quickly now. It’s unusual to do ordinary level subjects for exams and then move up and take the exam at a higher level. The teachers were rather amazed when I moved from ordinary level to higher.”

Searching for a great idea for a youth conference? The Aurora Colorado Stake has a suggestion.
Work.
Hard work.
Like shoveling gravel, digging dirt, weeding, painting, washing cars.
Mixed with fun and fellowship.
There’s an explanation. The young people from Aurora wanted to do something different for their youth conference, something special. So they spent three days cleaning up a city.
“We asked the stake youth committee what they wanted to do,” explained Richard C. Humpherys, second counselor in the stake presidency. “They said, ‘something to help someone else,’ and ‘something to build our testimonies.’ Since they asked for it, we encouraged them to go ahead.”
Inspired by a story on service in the Tambuli (see “Building a House Helped Build Testimonies,” February 1988, page 47), the youth committee looked around for a community they could help. They settled on Granby for three reasons: it was close to Aurora; economically the community wasn’t doing very well; and the mayor, town council, and chamber of commerce seemed genuinely interested in providing projects for the youth to work on.
There was an added benefit, too. The small Latter-day Saint branch in Granby, with a total of five active families, had youth who would welcome some company and fellowship with other Church youth. And, while the young people from Aurora were there, it was decided, they could help paint the Granby chapel.
Buses left Aurora at 7:00 on a Thursday morning. By 10:30 A.M., eighty-four young people divided into eight teams were busy all over Granby. Since they were all wearing identical T-shirts, they were fairly conspicuous. And a local radio station advertising the Latter-day Saint youth’s free car wash also let people know who they were and what they were doing.
Besides cleaning up the main street of Granby, washing cars, tidying the cemetery, spreading gravel at the train depot, and chopping weeds at a main intersection on the highway into town, the youth painted the city’s historic log church, landscaped its grounds, and polished the benches and the organ inside.
And of course, that’s very much what the youth were saying over at the chapel.
The Granby youth and the youth from Aurora did everything at the conference together, not only the service projects, but the other activities as well. They played volleyball together. They played football together. They even played soccer with an oversized ball.
Activities included a Hawaiian-style dinner with a floor show, a swimming party, and a dance. But the main activity was conversation, a sharing of ideals and fellowship.
Over the three-day period, the youth from Granby and the youth from Aurora grew comfortable discussing common goals—missionary work, reading and sharing the Book of Mormon, morality and standards, maintaining faith when the world’s full of doubt. That closeness was also reinforced at nightly devotionals, where leaders stressed themes such as “Little Decisions Made Now Have Big Consequences Later,” “Gospel Suggestions on How to Be Happy,” and “Your Most Important Possession is Your Testimony.”
But of course, as it always is, the final meeting of the conference was the highlight. In a sunlit room, the Latter-day Saint youth met Granby’s mayor, Jerry Roberts. The presented him with framed historical photographs of Granby, which now hang in the train station, and with a Book of Mormon, which they hope he will read. They listened while he expressed the community’s gratitude.
Then the youth and their leaders spent an hour or two talking to each other, speaking from the heart.
Of course, as they talked, the youth also offered an evaluation of their three days of service.
Then the president of the Granby Branch, Gary M. Cooper, spoke.
“The branch was formed fifteen years ago, he said, “and I can honestly say that this is the best thing that’s ever happened to us. We appreciate that you took the time to come here and bring us into the limelight in our Community. It’s something we’ve wanted to do for a long time. You did a lot of work and you cleaned up the community, and that’s important. But what I really hope is that because of your example, someone will accept the gospel. That would be the greatest service of all.”

For their part, Toshiko and her husband, Tokichi, struggled with aspects of being Latter-day Saints—especially paying tithing. Tokichi did not make much money, and sometimes they wondered if they had enough to pay for their son’s school lunch. They were also hoping to buy a house.

After one Church meeting, Toshiko asked a missionary about tithing. “Japanese people are very poor now after the war,” she said. “Tithing is so hard for us. Must we pay?”3

The elder replied that God commanded everyone to pay tithing, and he spoke of the blessings of obeying the principle. Toshiko was skeptical—and a little angry. “This is American thinking,” she told herself.

Other missionaries encouraged her to have faith. One sister missionary promised Toshiko that paying tithing could help her family reach their goal of owning their own house. Wanting to be obedient, Toshiko and Tokichi decided to pay their tithing and trust that blessings would come.4

She and Tokichi also began to see blessings come from paying tithing. They purchased an affordable lot in the city and drew up blueprints for a house. They then applied for a home loan through a new government program, and once they received approval to build, they started work on a foundation.

The process went smoothly until a building inspector noticed that their lot was inaccessible to firefighters. “This land is not land that is suitable for building a house,” he told them. “You cannot proceed any further with the construction.”

Unsure what to do, Toshiko and Tokichi spoke to the missionaries. “The six of us will fast and pray for you,” an elder told them. “You do the same.”

For the next two days, the Yanagidas fasted and prayed with the missionaries. Another inspector then came out to reassess their lot. He had a reputation for being strict, and at first he gave the Yanagidas little hope of passing the inspection. But as he looked over the lot, he noticed a solution. In an emergency, the fire department could get to the property simply by removing a nearby fence. The Yanagidas could build their house after all.

“I guess you two must have done something exceptionally good in the past,” the inspector told them. “In all my years I have never been so accommodating.”

Toshiko and Tokichi were overjoyed. They had fasted and prayed and paid their tithing. And just as the sister missionary had promised, they would have a home of their own.6

Atami, Japan, is an attractive city located on the east coast of Honshu, about 100 kilometers south of Tokyo. It is a famous vacation resort with comfortable hot springs, splendid sunsets, and high cliffs overlooking the sea.
The main attraction of the cliffs of Atami is the beautiful view, but they also attract people for a different reason: from their edge, many have plunged to their death.
On a May evening in 1987, I was driving toward Atami. I couldn’t stop crying, and I didn’t want to see the sunset. As I drove, the memories of the past few years ached inside me.
I had worked hard while I was serving in the Japan Sapporo Mission, on the northernmost island of Japan, with its cold, snowy winters. I felt that the Lord accepted my service, but I did not anticipate what awaited me when I returned home. I didn’t understand why, after all the hard work, there didn’t seem to be any rewards.
Specifically, I felt unfulfilled in my search for an eternal companion. I had found few opportunities to date, while others seemed to be finding eternal happiness easily. Any relationship that I thought might be lasting ended. Though my family was worried about my depressed state, I received strength from my Heavenly Father, which helped me through this difficult time.
Then questions began to arise. Why did I have to suffer so much? Did Heavenly Father still love me? As a returned missionary, I could not deny that the Lord lived or that his Church was true, but I began to question his love for me. Then, one night, thinking that I would never have the opportunity to get married, I lost all hope, and Satan took control. I decided to take my own life rather than face any more heart-breaking experiences. I wrote a farewell note to my parents and began driving to Atami.
Then, two miracles happened. First, as I got closer to the coastline, prepared to drive my car off the cliffs into the ocean, I noticed that a wall had been built to prevent cars from going over the edge. Second, the Lord cleared my mind long enough so that I could stop the car and think about my actions. I realized I could never take my life.
Sobered and much calmer, I drove home to find my bishop at home with my parents. They are not members of the Church, but they knew they could trust Bishop Kashikura. He gave me a blessing, and it seemed the nightmare was finally over.
But a week later, I again had second thoughts about my purpose in life. I didn’t know what to do. On that same day, I received a letter.
The letter was mailed from the United States, which was no unusual because I have friends there. But this letter was different—there was no return name or address. All I knew was that it was mailed from Flushing, New York, the day after I had driven to Atami to try to end my life. However, I did not know anyone from Flushing, New York.
When I opened the letter I found, “To You!” written at the top. Enclosed was a copy of the song “Going Home,” written in both Japanese and English. As I read the words, tears filled my eyes. The words told me that when I found myself alone, my memories could keep me strong. With those memories, I could never forget there is a place where I still belong, a place I can always turn to for comfort: “Home.”
I cried and cried and finally felt assured that Heavenly Father does watch over me. He loves me! Until I had this experience, I thought heaven was very far away, but the song helped me understand that God is very near. When we are faithful, we are already in our heavenly home here on earth.
That was the first and last time I ever heard from Flushing, New York. Perhaps I will never know who sent me those words. The experience reminded me of something President Spencer W. Kimball said, “God does notice us, and he watches over us. But it is usually through another person that he meets our needs” (Ensign, October 1985, page 3). I am eternally grateful for the person who had ears to hear and acted upon the prompting from the still, small voice from heaven.
I will never forget this experience, and, no matter how great the trials I shall have, I will never forget the place where I want to be—home, my heavenly home.

“It’s snowing! It’s snowing!” Heather called to her mother, who looked up from feeding her little sister Beth. When Peter comes home, maybe I can go out and play in the snow with him, Heather thought.
Heather remembered last year when everyone told her she was too little to help build a snowman. But not this year! she decided. Heather eagerly looked out the window, waiting for her brother to come home.
Seeing him coming down the driveway, she opened the door. “Let’s build a snowman,” she shouted as he ran inside.
“Sounds great to me,” said Peter with a smile. “Go get your coat and boots on.”
Peter’s friends Sharon and David came over to help, but they didn’t let Heather join the fun. Even when she tried to stick a piece of coal on the head for the snowman’s eyes, Peter said, “No, Heather, you can’t reach. Let me do it.”
Dad brought Beth outside to see the snowman. “Dad, they won’t let me help,” complained Heather.
“Well, I’m sorry, dear, but it looks like the snowman’s finished.”
After supper Dad tried to explain to Peter that Heather was growing bigger every year and that he needed to include her in doing some things. And he tried to explain to Heather that other people forget sometimes when little brothers or sisters are getting old enough to play with older ones.
Heather went to bed right after supper. She listened to the wind blowing outside and watched the snowflakes swirl through the air wherever the wind took them. Soon she was fast asleep.
The next morning, Heather and Peter went to join their friends outside. They soon discovered that during the night the wind had blown the snowman’s hat away!
“Every snowman needs a hat,” Sharon said. “It’s just not a snowman without a hat.”
The children looked everywhere for the hat, but it was not in sight. “We’ll have to spread out,” said Peter. “Each one take a different direction.”
Heather thought about the snowflakes she had watched last night. Although they had made circles of all sizes as they swirled up and around, they seemed to blow mostly in one direction, toward David’s house. She headed that way. I have to find that hat! she decided. If I do, maybe Peter will see how big I am.
Heather walked for a long time. She even went past David’s house, before she saw Mr. Snowman’s hat hanging high on a limb in the oak tree.
How can I get it down? she wondered. Then she had an idea. A snowball!
Heather made a snowball and threw it at the hat. After four tries the hat fell. Heather picked it up and ran to find Peter.
Peter, Sharon, and David were back at the snowman. They were looking sad. “Maybe we could get another hat or something,” suggested David.
“We don’t have to,” Heather called as she held the hat up for them to see.
Sharon started to take the hat from Heather, but Peter stopped her. “If Heather’s big enough to find the hat, she’s big enough to put it on.”
And that’s exactly what she did!

Photograph courtesy of Ariana O.
Ariana O. of Queensland, Australia, along with several other students in her music class at school, was given an assignment to compose a song about something uniquely American. “I had a few things going around in my head,” says Ariana, “but the Restoration stood out to me the most. It was something I was passionate about and something I am very proud to be a part of.”
On the Friday after she finished writing the song, the teacher told the students that they would perform their songs the following Monday. “When I went home that evening, I practiced whenever I could so that I could surprise Mum and Dad with what I wrote the song about,” says Ariana. “I had to wait the whole weekend, and I was a little bit scared as well. I didn’t know how my classmates would react, and I didn’t want them to think I was weird.”
On Monday, the teacher announced the performances. As it turned out, only Ariana and one other group had actually written a song.
“I was nervous,” she says. “One group wrote a song about cowboys and Indians, and I wrote a song about Joseph Smith. The group who wrote their song about cowboys went first, and they were just as nervous as I was, but there were two of them performing. When it was my turn, I said a little prayer and went to the piano. I started playing, and it was like it was just me and the piano. Once I finished, I explained what the song was about, and then I sat back down.”
Though Ariana wasn’t sure how the others felt, she was glad to have shared her testimony in that way. And, she says, “I knew that I had grown spiritually.”

Two years ago we decided to have a reunion and honor Bruford Reynolds and other youth leaders who led us in Richards Ward between 1940 and 1950. The chapel was completely filled with men, former boys who had lived in the ward. We had raised money to buy some very nice gifts, which were presented to them, and using an opaque projector, we showed pictures of the boys and some of the activities during those years. We made a real fuss over Bruford Reynolds and the other great men.
Then we called for a response. Bruford Reynolds stood up, and with great tears dimming his eyes he said, “I think this is the greatest day of my life.” As I thought about that statement, I looked out across that group of deacons/Scouts grown tall. It included three men who had been stake presidents, two men who had been mission presidents, several men in stake presidencies, thirty-three men who had been bishops or counselors, and one who is a General Authority. Then I thought, maybe this is what life is all about, to be able to look back and see the young men you had influenced grow up and become leaders in the kingdom.

That night at home I told Mom that the whole team would be going to Baltimore to see the Orioles’ doubleheader the following Saturday. That was our reward.
“Oh, Billy. I’m sorry. We’re going to your grandmother’s next weekend.” Gran was getting ready to move to the retirement community near our home. “I know you’re disappointed,” Mom went on, “but she called and asked if we’d help by cleaning out her attic.”
Well, I slumped off to my room and thought about how rotten it was to miss out on the Orioles games. I mean, people call me Billy-O because I’m such an O’s—that’s what we call the Orioles—fan. I couldn’t believe this was happening to me.
But happen it did, and the next Saturday I was where I didn’t want to be—at Grandma’s old house in the country.
When I went up into the attic with Mom to go through old boxes, I found some neat stuff. I was so busy looking at things that I almost forgot about the Orioles game. Then I found the box.
“Hey, Mom, look at this! It’s scrapbooks full of news clippings about the Orioles! Sherm Lollar, Stan Benjamin, Howie Moss, Kenny Braun. I’ve never even heard of these guys. They aren’t on any of my baseball cards.”
Mom said, “Let me see, Billy.”
“Wow! This stuff is from the 1940s, Mom. And everything’s written by the same person, Stats McGillicudhay.”
Mom looked at the scrapbooks, opening each book in turn. She smiled as she ran her fingers up and down the yellowed newspaper clippings. “I think you’d better ask Gran about this later.”
I wasn’t sure what Gran would know about baseball, but it was her house, so maybe she’d know something about where it all came from. I set the box aside, and we kept on sorting things—old clothes over there, books over here, and so on. Every now and then Dad came up and carried another box away. I held on to the baseball box.
Finally we finished and went down to one of Gran’s great dinners—fried chicken, potato salad, apple pie—the works!
After dark, Gran and I sat on the porch, watching fireflies.
“Gran, who was Stats McGillicudhay?”
“What? Where’d you hear that name, Billy?”
I told her about the scrapbooks in the attic, and she laughed softly. She was quiet for a long time before she said, “I lived in Baltimore when I was a girl. My grandfather took me to many baseball games every summer. The Orioles were in the old International League then. I loved baseball—the heat, the sounds, the smells, the hot dogs, the soda pop, and, of course, the game itself. Most of all, I loved the special time I spent with my grandfather.
“In high school I wrote for the school paper, but it wasn’t fashionable for girls to write about sports. That was a boy’s-domain-only in those days. So I wrote articles about books, records, and dances under my name, and slipped in baseball articles under the pen name of Stats McGillicudhay.
“I used the same pen name to write baseball stories for the local paper, too, and kept on writing them clear through college. Then I married your grandfather and, what with the farm and my kids, I never got around to even going to another baseball game, much less writing anything. In fact, living so far out in the country, I hardly ever even saw a game on TV.”
I could hardly believe it. My grandmother had been a sports writer! I told her all about our Little League season, and she really listened and understood everything.
“Billy,” she said, “next summer when I’m in the retirement community, maybe they’ll let me write about the Little League games for the Bridgeville Times. I’d like that. It would make this move easier for me if I had something to look forward to.”
That was two weeks ago. Today I got a letter from Gran. In it were tickets to the Orioles’ three-game series with the Blue Jays next week. She said that she had the seats next to mine and that if Mom or Dad would take us, I could explain to her any changes in the game since she last saw one.
Yeah, I can do that.