Gospel Story Finder

I learned about performing and persevering on my mission. I served in a little dusty village, Quiriza, Bolivia, near the Argentine border. We traveled by horseback in those mountain villages of Bolivia and lived at a high altitude in dusty, dirty conditions. I felt at times like Ammon and the sons of Mosiah when the Lord told them, “Be patient in long-suffering and afflictions, that ye may show forth good examples unto them in me, and I will make an instrument of thee in my hands unto the salvation of many souls” (Alma 17:11).
My assignment from the mission president was to help build a chapel. It was a wonderful experience building that chapel, using adobe bricks, and bringing lumber, metal decking, and other building materials over a 20-mile, steep mountain pass. It required the same level of pondering, praying, performing, and persevering as we built the Quiriza chapel. I found that it was a labor of love, and because of that love gained by serving those people, it was far more difficult for me to leave Bolivia than it had been to leave home to serve my mission.

At one time the Lord said that He was “well pleased” with Joseph Wakefield. He was stalwart and faithful and taught hundreds about the prophetic work of Joseph Smith. But from 1833 to 1834 he was influenced by some dissidents in Kirtland. He was once in the home of Joseph Smith. Joseph came out of the room where he had been translating the word of God and immediately began to play with some children. “This convinced [Brother Wakefield] that [Joseph] was not a man of God and that [therefore] the work was false.” In due course, Joseph Wakefield apostatized, was excommunicated, and became a persecutor of the Church and of the Saints.

I also know the feeling of uncertainty about selecting a major. Having come from a medical family, I assumed I should be a medical doctor. Fortunately, I took a typical preparatory premed course during the first quarter of my freshman year and recoiled in horror. The experience of cutting up a frog and dissecting the eye of a beef was sufficient to persuade me that medicine was not my chosen activity. I ricocheted into the language department, where I drifted through French, German, and Russian before admitting to myself that this was not for me either. Along the way I registered for a math series, with algebra in the fall quarter, trigonometry in the winter, and solid geometry in the spring. I got a B in algebra, a C in trigonometry, and then dropped the series at spring registration. I was obviously deficient in math, but I knew a trend when I saw one.

(I read an earlier draft of this talk out loud at our home evening last night to obtain suggestions from my wife and children. Just before doing so I had chided my fifteen-year-old son for being behind in his algebra class at Provo High. When I read that last passage about my own experience in the math series at BYU he muttered bitterly: “Then why pick on me?”)

As you may have gathered, my initial studies at BYU were erratic. In fact, I did not perform at a consistently high level until June came into my life, and we were married after my sophomore year. I owe so much of my accomplishment to her. She knows this, and it is only appropriate that I acknowledge it to you. I finally selected a major, accounting, during the second quarter of my junior year, but did not decide to try for law school until I was well into my senior year.

Jacob grinned as Mom filled out the permission form. He could finally join the school band. So many instruments to choose from! But he knew which one he wanted to learn.
“I want to play the flute,” he told Mom.
Ever since third grade, Jacob had thought about what instrument to play. But now, saying the words out loud, he felt a little thrill. He had decided!
A few days later Jacob said it again, this time to the band instructor. “I want to play the flute.”
But Mr. Mortensen held out a shiny saxophone instead. “This one’s ready to go,” he said. “It’s rent free. You could begin right away.”
Jacob shook his head. “I’d rather play the flute, please.”
“We already have plenty of flutes in the band,” Mr. Mortensen said. “Try the saxophone. You might like it.”
Marcie giggled. “The flute is a girl’s instrument.”
“But I want to play the flute.” Jacob stood up taller and glanced at Marcie. She whispered something to Haley and rolled her eyes. Haley nodded.
Mr. Mortensen shrugged and put the saxophone back in its case. “Think about it.”
Jacob crossed his arms. What would it be like in the flute section with Marcie and Haley there? How long before Mom and Dad could rent a flute, anyway? Until then he’d have to sit in band doing nothing. He sighed. Band was supposed to be fun.
On the way home from school, Jacob told his friend Ryan how he felt.
To his surprise, Ryan laughed! “Duh!” he said, and friendly-punched Jacob’s shoulder. “Our band is mostly girls anyway! Why bother? You could be hanging with the men!” He spun on his toes and pretended to throw a football over Jacob’s head.
Jacob’s shoulders slumped. Even his best friend thought playing the flute was dumb. Maybe it was.
When Jacob got home, Mom told him Mr. Mortensen had called. “There’s a saxophone available for free,” she said.
Jacob felt like everyone was ganging up on him. He nodded and went to his room without saying anything. He said a quick prayer. Heavenly Father, please help me know what to do.
Pretty soon Mom knocked on his open door. “What’s up?” she asked.
“Do just girls play the flute?”
Mom seemed surprised. “No. Some of the best flute players in the world are men. Heavenly Father gives different gifts and talents to every person.” She sat on his bed beside him. “Jacob, what do you want to do?”
Jacob took a deep breath. “I want to play the flute.” It felt good to say it. “Mom, I just want to play the flute! Can we afford it?”
“If you promise to practice, Dad and I will rent you a flute.” Mom gave him a quick hug.
“It’s a deal,” he said. “Thanks!” They shook hands on it.
Ready or not, Marcie, Jacob thought, here I come!
By December the band was preparing for their first concert. Jacob asked Ryan if he was going to come. “I’m trying out to play a solo!”
“Probably.” Ryan looked sideways at Jacob. “I’m thinking of joining band next semester,” he said.
Jacob gave Ryan a friendly punch on the shoulder. “Great! What would you play?”
“Well, Mr. Mortensen said he has a spare saxophone …”

Several years ago I attended a BYU football game with some of our young children. We lost the game. I really hate it when that happens. We listened to the coaches’ show on the ride back to our home in Bountiful. When it was over, my children had no alternative but to listen to my own postgame show. Just as I had completed my final analysis of what went wrong in the game, my seven-year-old daughter asked, “Dad, when you see the temple, do you get a good feeling inside?” I wondered, Where in the world did that come from? As I was trying to figure out what that comment had to do with the football game, I glanced over at her and could see she was looking out the window at the Salt Lake Temple. For some reason the game no longer mattered.
My whole life has been enriched by experiences of the temple. Our parents would take us to Temple Square in Salt Lake City on a regular basis. They would point to the temple and tell us that they were married there and because of that we would always be together as a family. What comfort that brought to a little boy whose biggest fear was that his parents might die. Now what comfort it brings to a grown man whose parents have passed on to the other side.
When I was 10 years old, in the shadows of the Salt Lake Temple I first read the Joseph Smith story and received a powerful testimony of the truthfulness of the Restoration.
I remember with thanksgiving going to the temple with my parents and receiving my endowments prior to departing for my mission.
My wife and I were married in the Salt Lake Temple about three years later. In subsequent years I have had the honor of performing the temple marriages of each of our six children.
We know many members of the Church have not had the luxury I have had of growing up around temples. Because of this knowledge we were all thrilled with the announcement made by President Hinckley in October of 1997 when he said, “We are determined … to take the temples to the people and afford them every opportunity for the very precious blessings that come of temple worship” (in Conference Report, Oct. 1997, 69; or Ensign, Nov. 1997, 50).
Since that time we have rejoiced and marveled as we have heard announcements of numerous temples and subsequently read of their open houses and dedications. We are witnessing a modern-day miracle and fulfillment of prophecy. What a wonderful time to be alive!
Our excitement over the building of temples is not shared by all. The adversary in particular is having a major temper tantrum as he sees his power threatened.
Over the last two years I have witnessed his wrath firsthand in West Africa. He has been very active, trying to prevent the building of a temple in that part of the world. Two years ago President Hinckley announced that there would be a temple in West Africa located in Accra, Ghana. Since then the adversary has been relentless in trying to prevent that from happening. Why is Lucifer so concerned?
We have 85,000 members in West Africa, and the Church is growing very rapidly. Sacrament meeting attendance is over 50 percent, but currently only 400 members have been endowed because of the prohibitive expense of traveling thousands of miles to Johannesburg or London. We have over 700 full-time African missionaries serving in the mission field, and very few of them have been endowed.
The African people have waited for centuries to receive the fulness of the gospel and have been through much pain and suffering. Now, at last, they can receive every blessing available to God’s children. Worthy members can receive the temple endowment and be able to have their families sealed together for time and for all eternity.
Faithfulness to temple covenants brings an acceleration of spiritual progress. As Elder John A. Widtsoe explained, “They will attain more readily to their place in the presence of the Lord; they will increase more rapidly in every divine power; they will approach more nearly to the likeness of God; they will more completely realize their divine destiny” (Evidences and Reconciliations [1960], 300).
That is why Lucifer is so concerned. In addition, he is aware of the large number of Africans who have accepted the gospel on the other side of the veil and are anxiously awaiting their proxy baptism and temple endowment as well as being sealed to their families. When a temple is dedicated, the dam in the spirit world will break and there will be a flood of humanity who have lived on the African continent flow into the temple of the Lord as their descendants do their work for them. We should not be surprised that Lucifer is using every means at his disposal to keep a temple from these people.
Through centuries of suffering, the people in general have not become bitter. They are humble, teachable, and God-fearing. They know the scriptures, and they recognize the Shepherd’s voice.
I have faith in their faith. I know the Savior loves the African people. Therefore, to paraphrase verse 33 of the 121st section of the Doctrine and Covenants, “As well might man stretch forth his puny arm to stop the [Congo] river in its decreed course, or to turn it up stream, as to hinder the Almighty from [building a temple for the African Latter-day Saints].”
As the Savior has said, “I will not suffer that [the enemy] shall destroy my work; yea, I will show unto them that my wisdom is greater than the cunning of the devil” (D&C 10:43).
It has been inspiring to see the Lord’s hand in bringing the forces together which will lead to an inevitable victory. There will be a temple in West Africa.
Last week we were driving from Provo to Bountiful again. As we left Provo we could see the temple up on the hill. Before it was out of sight, the Mount Timpanogos Utah Temple came into view, and then the Jordan River Utah Temple appeared, followed by the Salt Lake Temple. And immediately thereafter we could see the Bountiful Utah Temple standing like a jewel above that city.
I thought back to my daughter’s question, “Dad, when you see the temple, do you get a good feeling inside?” I realized the overwhelming answer is, “Yes, when I see a temple I have a wonderful feeling inside.” However, my heart aches for our African brothers and sisters who have never seen a temple in their whole life.
It is my hope and prayer that we will never take temple blessings for granted. I also have a prayer in my heart for West Africa and any other place in the world where outside influences are preventing the Saints from enjoying the blessings of a temple.
I testify to the divinity of this work. Jesus is the Christ. He stands at the head of this Church, and He is orchestrating the building of His kingdom here on earth. We are witnessing miracles, and therefore I can testify they have not ceased. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Margaret sat on the front veranda and eagerly watched the shimmering blue sky for signs of a small silver plane with The Kookaburra written in red letters on each side. She knew that Kaye would be watching from the plane just as eagerly, straining to see the solitary house and stockyards belonging to Margaret’s family in the vast outback of Western Australia. Margaret had heard Kaye’s voice many times on the two-way radio set that brought the School of the Air into their homes. They had also exchanged letters and pictures. But she had never seen Kaye, and now Father was bringing her from her family’s neighboring station (ranch) over a hundred miles away.
Margaret heard the hum of the plane before she spotted it in the sky. She jumped and ran to their small runway, waving her white handkerchief. Then, when she finally saw Kaye, she felt overcome with shyness and hugged her lean, sun-browned father tightly.
"Well, Marg, I’ve brought you a friend," he said. "This is Kaye." He pulled both girls close to him, one on each side. "I reckon you two can be real mates (friends)."
Margaret and Kaye smiled shyly at each other as the three of them walked to the house. It wasn’t until they lay in bed that night that they began to really talk to each other and make plans for their week together. They decided to go on a walkabout (walking tour) the following afternoon down the dry riverbed.
Right after lunch the next day, the two girls set out on their walkabout. Margaret’s mother had put fruit and biscuits (cookies) into a dilly (mesh fiber) bag. "You’d better take jumpers (sweaters)," she called as they stepped off the veranda. Margaret looked up at the hot November sky and sighed. "It can change," Mother said, handing them each a jumper. "Besides, you can sit on them to eat."
The girls tied the jumpers around their waists and started off. The sun was stifling, and they were glad to walk in the shade of the giant eucalyptus trees that lined the riverbed. Peeling bark hung from the trees, leaving smooth white trunks exposed.
"Look at that," Margaret said. They stopped and looked at a dead gum tree full of galahs. Suddenly the birds took flight, a pink and gray cloud rising and fluttering into the sky.
Kaye stared at the birds. "That was beautiful," she said. "Do you like living in the outback, Margaret?"
"I’ve lived here all my life, so I don’t really know what it’s like anywhere else. It’s very lonely here at times, but there’s a lot to do. Do you like it?"
"We lived in Adelaide until last year, and I miss my friends and all. I get lonely, too, but when I see beautiful things like those birds, then I like it—or when I can be with a friend like you."
The girls smiled at each other and clasped hands as they skipped through the rocks and sand.
Suddenly Margaret stopped. "Listen, I know a place that you’d really like. It has a pool and big red cliffs where lots of swallows have their nests."
"Is it far?"
"Not too far. I went there in the plane with my father, but we were just up and down again. As we came down, we could still see our house. Let’s see …" Margaret looked back to where their house stood among the trees. "I think that if we walk straight north toward that hilly area, we’ll come to it."
"Let’s do it!" Kaye exclaimed happily.
They left the riverbed and struck out across the sand. The afternoon sun beat down on them, and the hills were still quite far away.
"It’s farther than I thought," Margaret said.
"It always is," Kaye answered, "but let’s go on. It can’t be too much farther if you could still see your house."
Just as their search seemed hopeless, they came to the top of a hill and saw the red cliffs. "This is it!" Margaret cried. They ran down the hill and into the small canyon formed by the cliffs, sat down in the pleasant shade of a gum tree, and quickly removed their shoes and stockings. Soon they were dangling their feet in the cool water of the pool. Margaret opened the dilly bag and handed a juicy orange to Kaye.
"It’s as beautiful as you said," Kaye declared, as a busy swallow darted in and out of rock crevices, dipping toward the water and soaring up again.
After they had eaten and rested, they climbed through the rocks and explored the small canyon. Suddenly Margaret looked at the sky and felt her heart lurch within her. "Kaye, look! It’s getting dark."
The girls scrambled quickly and silently over the rocks, both knowing how rapidly night could come. But before they reached the pool, total darkness had fallen—without any dusk at all! With no moon, only the white trunks of the gum trees were visible. Margaret shivered with fear. She had hardly been outside her house after dark, much less alone in the bush.
"What should we do?" Kaye asked.
"Let’s put our jumpers on," Margaret said, trying to sound calm. They pulled on the wool jumpers, grateful for the warmth against the night’s chill.
"Can we make it home in this darkness?" Kaye asked.
"I don’t think so. We could lose our sense of direction in the hills and wander far off or step into a rabbit hole and sprain an ankle." Margaret’s heart pounded harder as she talked. She knew that Kaye expected her to know what to do, and every minute she felt more terrified.
"If we climbed a hill, maybe we could see the lights of your house. You said you could see it from here."
"That was from up in the air. No, the gum trees in the riverbed would block them out," Margaret said.
The girls sat close together on a rock in the dark wilderness. Eerie sounds of night birds sent chills down Margaret’s spine. She didn’t know what to say or do. It surprised her when Kaye spoke.
"The first thing that we should do," Kaye said firmly, "is pray."
"Pray?" Margaret asked. She had never prayed. Her family had never prayed.
"Let’s kneel down," Kaye said.
Margaret felt a little awkward, but she knelt in the sand and listened while Kaye said a prayer. Talking to Heavenly Father the way Margaret talked to her earthly father, Kaye explained how they couldn’t get home, asked for protection, and asked what they should do. When she finished, they both knelt there very quietly for a time. Margaret started to shiver, her teeth chattering, but her friend seemed to be waiting and thinking.
Kaye pushed her hand into the sand. "Feel how warm it is from the hot sun during the day," she said. "Let’s take a rock and dig out a shallow hole. We can lie in it and sleep. In the morning your father will come looking for us in his plane."
Margaret was amazed that Kaye could sound so calm and confident about spending the night in the bush. And it did sound like a good plan.
They felt around for flat stones and dug out their bed. Then they lay down together, their jumpers pulled close around them. Margaret stopped shivering, and she felt rather warm and cozy. Her fear began to leave her too. She was puzzled about Kaye, a city girl rather new in the outback. Yet she had known what to do when Margaret herself had felt paralyzed with fear. She would have to ask Kaye more about prayer. Margaret looked up once more into the dense, star-filled sky, then fell sound asleep.
A loud chorus of hysterical laughter awakened both girls in the morning. When they opened their eyes to the gray light, they saw that the gum trees were filled with kookaburras greeting the day with their strange laughter.
Suddenly, above the sound of the birds, Margaret heard the drone of an engine. They looked at each other and smiled. Then they jumped out of their bed in the sand and waved their jumpers at the silver plane with red letters, circling above them.

Vanessa—Bless these walls, so firm, and stout. Keeping want and trouble out. That’s what my Great Grandmother Gillman would pray for as a young mother living in the Midwest. They were right in the middle of “tornado alley” and she was absolutely terrified of any storm that would blow through. To the point where she would gather her girls under her bed and hide and cry. It’s probably no surprise that my grandmother, her daughter, grew up to be afraid of storms too. But when she had children of her own, she didn’t want to burden her kids with that same fear, and so as storms came in, she would bravely take her kids to the window to ooh and awe at the wonder of nature and sometimes even run outside with them to play in the rain. I’m so grateful for her wisdom and courage because as a result my mother grew up loving thunderstorms and so did I. I’m especially grateful for the lesson learned, that our outlook and actions can completely change how we experience storms in our lives.

Michael Tompkins takes his Scout training seriously and was recently able to put it to good use. A Star Scout who has earned the swimming skill award and first aid skill award, Michael heard cries for help from a group of friends he had just left wading in a flooded river. The water current had caught his friend Danny Smith, who could not make his way back to the riverbank. Michael threw off his hat and jacket and jumped in, pulling his friend to safety. He is currently a member of the Cleveland Ward, Conroe Texas Stake and is working to become an Eagle Scout.

Later in the evening, everyone in Tyler’s family, except Gena, who was away at college, gathered in the living room.
“Whose turn is it to read from the Book of Mormon tonight?” asked Dad.
Mom said, “We left off with Cherie reading from Mosiah last night. How about if Tyler starts tonight?”
Everyone took a turn reading, with Jason reading last. “The scriptures show what can be accomplished when you have the Lord’s help,” he said. “I mean, look at Tyler. He’s come a long way toward learning to walk, and he couldn’t have done it all by himself.”
Tyler smiled at Jason. “I’m glad I have the help of so many others.”
After Teri (9), one of Tyler’s other sisters, had said the prayer, Tyler hugged everyone, then Jason carried him to their room. “You’re doing great, little brother. And don’t worry—you’ll be playing ball before you know it.”
“Thanks. I just hope it’s soon.” Mom came, helped Tyler change into his pajamas, and kissed him good night. He soon drifted off to sleep.

In the months leading up to Christmas in 1998, my husband and I wanted to celebrate Christmas in a different way than we had ever done before. In the past we had celebrated Christmas by meeting with relatives and friends, having dinner together, and opening our gifts on Christmas Eve, which is the tradition in our home country of El Salvador.
But this year we felt a deep desire to teach our two small children the true meaning of Christmas. We wanted our children to know that Christmas is more than lights and bright colors, more than parties and celebrations, more than wrapping paper and ribbons, more than decorating a tree, more than hugs and best wishes.
As Christmas Eve drew near, we weren’t sure what we were going to do that night, but I felt free of the stress that normally overwhelms me at Christmastime. We decided we would not go out with friends that night or make any other social commitments. Instead, we would spend the night in simple celebration as a family. Our thoughts would center around our Savior.
On Christmas Eve, I prepared a delicious dinner. As we sat down at the table, our young daughter, Ileana, said expectantly, “It seems like someone is coming tonight.” I struggled to keep tears from my eyes. I hoped Jesus Christ would indeed accept our humble invitation.
After dinner, my husband taught us about the birth of Jesus Christ as described in the second chapter of Luke. When he read verses 13 and 14—“And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men”—we silently joined with the heavenly hosts in thanking our Eternal Father for sending His Son to atone for our sins. Then Ileana read to us the meaning of Christmas symbols. We opened a few simple gifts and took photographs.
Our evening together was filled with reverence, love, and gratitude for Jesus Christ. We experienced a sweet joy we had never felt before on Christmas Eve.

My own change of heart started when, as a 12-year-old, I began to search for God. Other than saying the Lord’s Prayer,3 I didn’t really know how to pray. I remember kneeling, hoping I could feel His love, and asking, “Where are You, Heavenly Father? I know You must be out there somewhere, but where?” All through my teen years, I asked. I did have glimpses of the reality of Jesus Christ, but Heavenly Father, in His wisdom, let me seek and wait for 10 years.

In 1970, when the missionaries taught me about the Father’s plan of salvation and of the Savior’s Atonement, my waiting ended. I embraced these truths and was baptized.

Back in the year 2000, Christina Jenkins’s family had a grand idea for family scripture study: why not read the whole Book of Mormon in a month?! The family, from Yorktown, Virginia, started the month before the school year started, and her dad calculated they would need to read at least 17 pages a day to meet their goal. To help them feel the true spirit of the Book of Mormon, the Jenkins family also decided not to watch television for that month.

“The events that occurred and the lessons we learned became so much clearer,” Christina says. “Reading the Book of Mormon personally and with my family each year has strengthened my testimony of the Book of Mormon and of the gospel of Jesus Christ.”

Christina’s family enjoyed their month-long reading of the Book of Mormon so much they have done it every year since.

Because of COVID-19, our local hospitals needed more face masks for the care providers. The Relief Society needed help sewing elastics on the masks. I volunteered and sewed the elastics on more than 80 face masks in two days.
A lot of the service on the website JustServe.org is for people 11 and older. I am always disappointed that I can’t help, so I was excited that I was able to participate in our ward’s service project! I was grateful to be able to help the community.
You can find ways to serve too! Go to JustServe.org to find some ideas.

I thought back to my first contact with Mormons. It was the summer of my second year in junior high school, when President Kimball visited Sapporo. I had attended many other churches, but at that meeting, there was something new: a unity of all the members. It seemed strange at the time. At other churches, people came to meetings, sat and listened, and then returned home. At the Mormon church, they all seemed to be working at life, trying to love it and enjoy it in a way the Lord would want them to. I thought of my second visit among the Mormons, too. That had been November 3 of the same year at the branch Thanksgiving party. My older sister invited me to tag along and told me all of the people there would seem like angels and we would be embarrassed just to be in their presence. That’s exactly how they made me feel! I had never been part of such a spiritual, family atmosphere.
From then on I had attended church weekly and everyone welcomed me with outstretched arms and warm hearts. The missionaries taught me about restored gospel truths, and they taught me how to pray to know the truth for myself. No other church had taught me how to pray, but in this church even small children could pray. I read the Book of Mormon daily and prayed about it. Gradually I began to understand my purpose here on earth and what’s important in this life. But I did not feel, yet, that I had a testimony.
In April, the branch start ed a Young Women program. At first there was only one participant: me! Even when I didn’t go, the teacher would wait for me. That seemed strange, too. Why was she so patient? Why did she wait so long even when she wasn’t sure I’d show up?
About that time, the mission presidents changed and the Suzuki family came to Sapporo. There was a young lady in the family, Naomi, who was my same age. We quickly became friends, since we were the only young women our age in the branch. She set a good example for me, and with her as a guide, I began to understand the patience of our teacher and the beauty of the gospel. Naomi’s example helped keep me going to church weekly and praying diligently. I was able to gain a small testimony and wanted from the bottom of my heart to be baptized.
I had talked to my parents once before about receiving that blessing, but they were against it. This time, armed with a tiny testimony, I tried again.
“Faith,” my father told me, “is not something that is grown in one or two days. It is the process of many years.” He felt that, to a student, school is more important even than religion, and he emphatically refused to give permission for baptism.
That had been a painful experience. But I got a grasp on myself, thought over what my father had said, and decided that one thing he had said was right. Religion should not be just a two-day spree, but a life-long adventure! I began attending seminary and studying the Old Testament in earnest. Fun lessons helped me gain insight into a subject new to me, and my knowledge of the gospel became fuller. However, I could not buy the home study manuals because that year was also the year for high school entrance exams, and my parents wanted me to spend time on school work, not religious homework.
I was overjoyed when the students in the class gave the manuals to me as a present! What could I give them in return? The best thing was to study those manuals hard. Even though my progress was slower than others, I was able to finish the manuals and turn them in to the teacher.
I also passed the high school entrance exams and felt relieved. My heart was lighter as I once again approached my parents about baptism, figuring I had proven I could be active in the Church and still succeed at school. Their response knocked me back into reality. “No,” my father said, “from now on school will be even tougher. You won’t have time for church and school too.”
My parents became increasingly upset by my diligence in attending Church meetings and would speak harsh words when I left the house on Sundays. After many months, however, they finally realized I wasn’t going to stop attending, and their resistance slackened somewhat. I continued studying seminary manuals, and my testimony grew more and more firm. But baptism still seemed impossible.
Finally, Naomi suggested that we should fast and pray about the situation. So every Sabbath day—for an entire year—we fasted. Naomi fasted and prayed right along with me. I could always feel God’s presence nearby, and my testimony became unshakable as we realized many other blessings that year. But my parents remained firm.
Last of all, my thoughts drifted to the beginning of this school year—my last in high school, the year of preparation for the college entrance examinations. I knew I would not be allowed to join the Church until the exams were over. I also wondered if my parents would allow me to be baptized even after the tests. One thing was certain, though. If I failed the exams, my parents would say, “The reason you failed is because you spent so much time with that church!” I had to prove that what they were thinking just wasn’t right. Somehow I knew that passing those tests was the key to my baptism, but I couldn’t see how.
I studied harder than I ever had before. Schoolwork passed ahead of everything, even Church assignments. Seminary studies began to pile up, but I rationalized that in order to be baptized, it was worth neglecting seminary in favor of schoolwork. The lack of seminary study worried me, however, for it was there I had grown the most and felt the strongest testimony. Now that testimony seemed to be shrinking as 13 home study books cluttered my shelf. My conscience told me I wasn’t doing what was right, that even with school there should be time for Church work and seminary too. On February 25 I promised myself I would complete all 13 books by March 4, the day exams began. Sandwiched in between my other schoolwork, seminary workbooks became a welcome break. On March 2, I handed all of my assignments, completed, to my amazed seminary teacher.
“It’s time,” the teacher supervising the exam said. I looked at the clock and whispered a prayer. Like a squadron of robots, the college entrance exam candidates rose and entered the testing area. Reluctantly, I joined them.
I passed! I couldn’t believe it! I was so excited! But several days later, when the scores were posted, I was listed. I would be able to go to college! I rushed to my parents with the good news and also asked if now I could finally have my wish—to become a member of the Church.
“No,” my father said simply. He startled the words right out of my mouth.
But my mother, although she had never done so before, came to my defense. She reminded him that I had been true to my studies and true to my religion for four years. “That’s such a good church that I don’t think my daughter would be doing anything wrong by joining it,” she said. “It is such a good church. I can understand why my daughter wants to go to it all her life.”
The three of us talked for hours, and I slowly realized my parents weren’t against me but loved me. They were concerned for my welfare and didn’t want me doing something blindly. I’m grateful to have such wonderful parents. I think they realized, too, that I wasn’t joining the Church on a whim. They gave me permission to be baptized! I made that covenant and received that ordinance on the same day I graduated from the Young Women program. My friends from seminary helped plan the baptismal service, and most of my family attended.
Of the high school- and college-age members of the Church in Japan, only about 5 percent have parents who are members. They may find that sharing the gospel with their families can be difficult and that parents of the Buddhist and Shinto faiths don’t always understand the joy that comes into someone’s heart through the knowledge of the gospel of Jesus Christ. But I truly believe that the Lord is mindful of us and will provide a way to help us. For me, it was through four years of patience that allowed my faith to grow strong.

You have just been blessed to hear from my wife Cindy, my companion and dearest friend—the love of my life. She is a precious gift to me in every way.

Cindy literally walked into my life when I was a 23-year-old returned missionary and student at BYU–Provo. Toward the end of the fall semester of 1976, I was studying with some friends on the fifth floor of the Harold B. Lee Library when I looked up from my reading material and saw Cindy walk into the room between two friends. She immediately caught my attention, and, after watching her walk to a table across the study hall, I turned to my best friend and said, pointing in Cindy’s direction, “Do you see that girl?”

My friend, looking across a crowded room, was not sure to whom I was pointing. He responded, “What girl?”

I looked back at him, convinced that he was either daft or confused and said, “You don’t see her? Well,” I said, “I am going to ask that girl out for a date.” Suddenly, another thought came to my mind, so I said, “And I think I am going to marry her.”

Immediately, my friends seized on the impetuous boldness of my words and urged me to act. Soon, the boys at my study table were pulling nickels and dimes from their pockets with a few crumpled one-dollar bills and putting bets on the table. I was trapped by my own words.

After a few minutes of mounting pressure, I stood up with the resolve to walk over to Cindy’s table and introduce myself. Taking a deep breath, I started toward her table. But with each step, the beating of my heart quickened and I could feel my face begin to flush. The lyrics from an old Beatles’ song comes to mind: “Well, my heart went boom when I crossed that room.”

I turned away at the last moment and went into the men’s room where I doused myself with cold water and recommitted to my plan. Perhaps by divine design, when I emerged from the men’s room, I saw to my complete surprise that Cindy had gotten up from her table and was standing at a large dictionary, perched on a stand in front of her.

I won’t take the time today to describe the awkward details of that first introduction, but it did yield results. We had our first date a day or two after Christmas 1976; got engaged in September 1977; and were married in the Provo temple on February 3, 1978.

I look back now after 43 years, five children, 18 grandchildren, and a lifetime of precious, shared experiences, and I realize that Cindy has been a gift from heaven to me, to our children, and to our growing posterity. She has also made a gift of herself to all of us and those around her by her devotion to God and His kingdom, and her selflessness in serving others. We look forward to sharing the next life and enjoying the felicity of God’s promises forever.

I looked at the photograph of her in my mother’s scrapbook, pasted in next to Grandma’s certificate of blessing. She wore plaited hair wound in a crown above her oval face. Her eyes were fine and slanted.
“That’s your great-great-grandmother Totshauna.” My mother used to point her out to me when I was a child and the relatives first started saying I favored her. “She crossed the plains with the pioneers, pulling a handcart for more than a thousand miles.”
“Is a thousand miles farther away than Grandma’s house?” We lived in Salt Lake, and my grandmother Harris lived in Spanish Fork.
“Oh, lots farther, honey. A thousand miles is … is almost as far away as the moon.” Mom was proud of her pioneer heritage, and she wanted to be sure her children appreciated their ancestry sufficiently. I still remember at five years marveling over the woman with the funny hair who pulled a cart to Utah from as far away as the moon. Now I’m 20, and three nights ago when I looked at the photograph (faded, and taped in one corner), I remembered again, and marveled.
I was born in Salt Lake City, the city that she, and others like her, built more than a hundred years ago with adobe bricks and irrigation systems fed from the streams of the Wasatch. The call to gather to Zion brought tens of thousands of Saints from the East and converts from Europe, mostly England, to the Great Salt Lake Valley between 1846 and 1900. The Church in those days, struggling for its existence, desperately needed the strength found in unity, for a scattered church stood little chance of developing into the powerful organization that would be necessary to carry out the Lord’s latter-day work.
Twenty-three-year-old Totshauna Svenstrup, her husband, Christian, and their two small daughters were four of those who responded to the call. They came out of Denmark and, after sailing to the United States, joined one of two ill-fated handcart companies that headed westward to Zion. Totshauna’s daughter, Anna Karil, at that time only five, years later wrote briefly of the trek in her journal:
“Father died just outside of Florence [Nebraska] in a wagon accident. Mother pulled the cart, and she with child. We buried Gury in the snow by the Sweetwater [Wyoming]. She froze one night next to me and Mother in the tent. We reached the Salt Lake Valley in October. In December Mother delivered a son.”
In the old museum on Temple Square there used to be a statue of two pioneers, husband and wife, their cloaks windswept, standing together beside a small grave. My seminary class once took a tour of Temple Square. We stopped and looked at the statue, and one girl said, “Isn’t that so sad?” and the girl next to her solemnly agreed, “It’s awful. How did they ever stand it?” Then we continued on to the Assembly Hall to exclaim over how beautiful the stained glass windows are.
My seminary class saw the granite temple that day, too. Totshauna died three years before its completion. Every summer thousands of tourists park their heavily loaded automobiles in the spaces posted “Out-of-State Cars Only” that surround the temple block. They go inside and listen attentively to how the seagulls ate the crickets, then flick coins into the fountain. They file into the Tabernacle where once she, too, shifted her weight on the hard, narrow benches, and they lean a little forward in their seats to hear a pin drop. They snap photos of the spired temple and murmur with admiration: “Forty years to build. Imagine that!” Totshauna’s second husband, Samual Hoopes, was killed while quarrying granite for the temple up Little Cottonwood Canyon in June 1872.
Sometimes when I stand outside the temple, my fingers clutching the iron gate, my head thrown back as I stare at the golden words “Holiness to the Lord,” I remember a widow with eight children. Anna Karil, by that time married, wrote: “Mother embroiders linens for pay. Her fine Danish needlework is admired by many. The children work as they are able. Mother also takes in boarders and washing.”
The spires of the temple and Moroni sounding his trump no longer dominate the Salt Lake skyline. The modern Church Office Building across the street now holds that position of prominence. The office building, 28 stories high, took three years to build. The project was financed by the tithes and offerings of Church members. Totshauna, I think, would be proud to see the tall building. (I can picture her craning her neck toward the top: “Twenty-eight stories high. Imagine that!”) I am proud, too, but sometimes I think of the days when a temple cost 40 years, and even lives, to build. I will be careful not to forget.
After reaching the Salt Lake Valley, Totshauna settled in what is today known as Holladay. Not long after her arrival, she became the plural wife of Samual Hoopes. (I wonder if Samual was as enchanted as I am by her plain and lovely crown of plaits.) She had nine children by Samual; only seven lived past infancy. Her husband, at one time, was two and a half years absent from his family, which included three wives and numerous children, while serving a mission for the Church in the British Isles. Totshauna later sent three sons on missions after Samual’s death, with each son proving an added hardship, for her boys were among the eldest of her children and were depended upon to aid in the support of the entire family. Her own sketchy journal (now kept treasured in soft cloth in my grandmother’s bureau), which she kept for a brief period following Samual’s death, reads: “Hyrum left with elders Whitney and Williams in a wagon and went to take the rail to Canada. I packed him two beef tarts and two loaves bread with chokeberry jam, and Samual’s Book of Mormon, and an extra shirt and pair socks. He is seventeen.”
When my older brother, Jeff, left on his mission to Quebec, we stood in the airport terminal and watched the big jet take off. In his two large suitcases he carried a missionary Bible and leatherbound triple combination, three new suits, five white shirts, and a brand-new woolen coat that Mom saved for three months to buy. He had a notebook with the missionary discussions in it, and he’d already memorized them in French. I asked my mom if we could pack him beef tarts and bread with jam for his send-off, but she just smiled and said, “Oh, don’t be silly,” and baked him a shoebox full of tollhouse cookies instead.
As I reflect upon Totshauna’s life, I can’t help but contrast her harsh and simple life-style with my own. I attend Brigham Young University (named for the prophet-colonizer she followed and revered) where I study English and music and religion. Occasionally I may wash a pair of socks in the sink (she washed all her clothing with a scrub board and lye soap) or take a break from my daily routine by baking wheat bread, but these interruptions are rare. I often wonder while buzzing down the freeway in my Volkswagen or listening to the prophet at conference time on television or radio, what part of her remains in me.
Somewhere inside me I feel a bittersweet ache as I reflect upon those early days of Mormonism. There is in me a kind of wistful longing to return to the days of seagulls and crickets, days when temples took 40 years to build, days of missionaries who traveled on foot or by rail with neither purse or scrip, days of adobe bricks, and martyrs. Such days formed my roots and the roots of my church. They are a part of me in ways that I feel though do not fully understand.
Yet, despite my shadowy longings for past times and things, I am immersed in modern Mormonism—the organization she spent her life building a foundation for. That it is an exciting and marvelous age I live in I cannot deny. (Totshauna would thrill to hear about the 25,000 missionaries who now tract the earth. I thrill, too.) But as the modern church grows in strength and size, and I grow along with it—full of vast and varied possibilities for personal development and eager to discover what part in the growth and development of today’s church I might play—I will be careful to remember and strive to understand that part in me that is Totshauna, that part that is there because of her. I will go to Brigham Young University and exert my mind in the study of Faulkner, Hemingway, and Shakespeare. I’ll learn how to be a writer and maybe one day write for Church publications. I’ll practice my violin for at least one hour each day, and I’ll study the scriptures and struggle to comprehend, as well as live, the gospel of Jesus Christ. But in the mornings as I prepare to meet each day of work and study, I will plait my hair and sometimes even fashion it in a crown above my oval face.

After completing my five-year engineering apprenticeship, I was made redundant. I prayed earnestly as to what I was to do. As I read my patriarchal blessing. It said that I would be called to teach within and outside of the Church. I then undertook a one-year teacher training course and commenced teaching. Whilst teaching I was approached by another teacher with a proposal for an arranged marriage. My older and younger brothers, and sisters, had already become married in this way.

A registry wedding was arranged. I had only once briefly met my wife before the registry wedding. A date was set for the Sikh wedding a year later. There was no contact with my wife until a few months after the registry wedding; we met secretly and I explained to her I was Christian and gave her a Book of Mormon. However, this did not go down well as she told her parents and then both families engaged in persuading me to leave the Church. I made promises to do this. It tore me apart and I cried bitterly, as though I had denied Jesus Christ.
The Sikh marriage took place, and I kept my promise to not to go to Church for six months. Every Sunday I would get the yearning to go to Church. I went secretly to a member’s home to take the sacrament and always paid my tithing, read the scriptures, and prayed daily. I desperately needed a solution to this problem.
One day, my best friend from the Church provided it. I was to leave my parent’s house and establish a home elsewhere. I managed to get employment in Burntwood (Staffordshire) and bought a home there. After some time, my wife, Rajinder, let me go to a one-hour meeting one Sunday and I was called as the Sunday School president. But Rajinder refused to let the children go with me and at one time ripped up the Book of Mormon in front of me. She had been brought up as a strict Sikh and did not want to dishonour her family.
In 1982, we moved to Hemel Hempstead (Hertfordshire). The meetings were now consolidated, and I stayed for the whole three hours. I was called as the elders quorum president. An elderly missionary couple were assigned to visit my home, and for the first time Rajinder said a prayer and felt the Spirit. I subsequently baptised her. We were later sealed in the London England Temple with our children.
In 1986, I was called to be the branch president. I served in that capacity for three and half years and was released when our branch was merged into the Watford Ward.
My testimony has grown from strength to strength. I love the Lord and His restored gospel. I am in His hands and will always give thanks to Him for saving me and sending those missionaries. The evidence that this is the true church, is too great; I cannot deny it. Regardless of what happens to me or my family I will bless the Lord my God. I believe in His goodness, and that He will uphold me if I do as He asks. I give daily thanks for all the blessings He has given me and the tender mercies He has shown me.
I have recently published a book called LDS Christians and Sikhs. This book was the result of an inspiration I received to invite Sikhs to come to Christ. I have included many testimonies from Sikhs who have converted to the Church. I hope that it will do some good in persuading and inviting Sikhs to examine their religion and to offer them further blessings through the gospel.

Some have the gift of being a friend, of being selfless and thoughtful and lifting those around them. Speaking of the most treasured spiritual gift of charity, Paul in 1 Corinthians 13:5 says it "seeketh not her own." That certainly means that someone with the gift of charity isn't always looking out for himself or herself, isn't overly concerned with his or her own self-interest. But I learned something of charity from someone with such a gift of friendship. After graduate school we moved to Southern California. We moved in on a Saturday, a call came on Sunday, and on Monday I was surprised to find myself the new early-morning seminary teacher, facing a group of 30 high-school juniors and seniors. They were delightful. As I got to know them I particularly noticed one young man. Everyone wanted to be around him. It was interesting that there was nothing superficially exceptional about him: he didn't have a great car, was not a big athlete. So I observed, and I learned. For example, when most of us go into a fireside, who do we look for? I think we would agree, for our friends, for those with whom we're comfortable. Not my friend Sean. Though everyone was saving him a seat, Sean would look for the person who was alone, who needed to have someone to sit by. He was not seeking out his own buddies, not seeking out his own. When you walk into a dance, who do you look for? Well, you'll have to answer that one for yourself; but I suspect some of you might have been thinking of physical descriptions of people in the room. My friend Sean was looking for whoever might feel a little lonely or awkward. Sean's goal was to see everyone had a good time. He wasn't seeking his own pleasure or gratification, he wasn't seeking his own. And I can tell you his gift had a significant affect, on the love and the unity of our Stake, and a richness came into his life.

The Crittenden family of the 18th North Ward, Eagle Gate Stake, in the heart of Salt Lake City, work hard. That’s all there is to it. But you never hear them complain. In fact, they’re often right there volunteering, doing a number of things that most people don’t hear about.

They work hard outside of church too. Fourteen-year-old David has a paper route and is looking forward to the time he’ll be old enough to start at McDonald’s. Seventeen-year-old Lisa is in demand as a baby-sitter, has worked at a department store, and takes on various other jobs in the summer. Their mother Judy works as a secretary at an elementary school, also works in the department store, and helps David with his paper route.

Lisa and David’s parents were divorced about 11 years ago. But you won’t hear them complain about that, either. “We were so young when the divorce happened that we don’t really remember what it’s like to have a dad around all the time,” says Lisa.

Among the things they do have that bring them together as a family are their pets. There are three terrier poodles and a cat to care for, and they love it. When one dog had puppies, the family helped and watched in awe.

The Church brings them close, too. You can often find Lisa helping her mother, the ward greeter, at the chapel door, handing out programs. David is usually one of the first to volunteer to pass the sacrament, and the family is very supportive of Lisa in her duties as first counselor in the Laurel presidency and as devotional counselor in seminary. Also, the time they spend praying and reading the scriptures together is a real unifier.

Of course this is not a fairy tale family. They have their fair share of spats. David felt like he had to work forever to pay Lisa back for her Walkman that got broken when he borrowed it. And Lisa and her mother are not always in agreement about who uses the car and when.

But those kinds of things are inevitable. Every family has disputes—it goes with the territory. But so can love and unity and support. They can be there if you work for them. And working hard in one area can teach you to work hard in the others. The Crittendens know that with the Lord’s help they can work their way through anything that comes along.

I grew up in the Church. Most of my teachers and leaders were diligent and effective in trying to instill within me a love for the gospel, a knowledge of its principles, and especially, a testimony—what President Joseph Fielding Smith called the “speaking of the Holy Ghost to the soul in a convincing, positive manner” (Answers to Gospel Questions, comp. Joseph Fielding Smith, Jr., 5 vols., Salt Lake City: Deseret Book Co., 1979, 3:28). In my teen years I remember several teachers and fireside speakers outlining how a testimony could be obtained. It seemed so easy that I decided to follow it.
As a high school student, I determined that I would act on this advice and try to obtain my own testimony of the gospel. I wanted to know that it was true. So I carefully read the Book of Mormon, underlining as I went. When I finished I felt a great sense of anticipation about Moroni’s promise. I knelt down and prayed, trying to learn for myself whether this book was true or not. Although I prayed off and on for several weeks with what I thought was “real intent” and determination, I failed to recognize an answer. When my friends stood in fast meeting to express their testimonies, my parents were disappointed that I did not. I told them that I was trying, but that a testimony had just not come to me yet. I could not be dishonest. I worried and wondered what I was doing wrong. Perhaps my life was not good enough for the Lord to recognize my question—or maybe there was something wrong with the way I was praying—or perhaps I just didn’t know how to recognize an answer.
The prayer and study went on for two more years, during which I read the Book of Mormon a second time, and then my bishop asked me to go on a mission. On one hand, I was elated, because I had always wanted to serve a mission; but on the other hand, I was very worried, because my testimony had not been granted. How would I convince others if I could not speak with conviction? My brother was going on a mission at the same time, and my parents, who were of very modest means, pledged themselves to our financial support.
When I went for my interview with the stake president, he surprised me by suggesting that I remain at home until my older brother returned—to lessen the financial burden on my parents. Greatly disappointed, I returned home to relay this sad advice to my father, normally a quiet, soft-spoken man. My father was distressed. He expressed strongly held feelings that I should go at the same time as my brother, and that the Lord would help us to meet the financial obligation. He put on his coat and announced that he was going to talk with the stake president. “You are going on a mission—and you are going now!” he said with conviction. Before he left, he wanted us all to kneel in family prayer. My father uttered a simple prayer, expressing thanks for blessings, and asking for help in his talk with the stake president and for help for his sons as they prepared to leave for the mission field.
As I listened with faith to that prayer and tried to look into the future, I was spiritually moved beyond anything I can describe. At that instant, I received a testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel. I was overcome with a feeling of happiness and excitement, as if to say that my father would be successful in his own little mission, which he was. But I also knew absolutely that I would be able to go on a mission (as I did to New Zealand) and testify with honesty and certainty to anyone who would listen to me. It was an enormously satisfying experience. My previous anxieties about being a missionary without conviction were gone. The Lord had answered my prayers—although in a way that I had not expected. As for my parents—they successfully supported their two sons as missionaries for two years and prospered financially.