Gospel Story Finder

During my son’s freshman year in a humanities class taught by Eloise Bell, he discovered he loved to write. Although Scott had always been a dedicated student, Professor Bell, a master teacher, called forth more than dedication. She assigned an open essay on Romanticism. As he wrote his paper, Scott became involved in the subject. I will read a section because it is superior to my own work and because it reveals something about true teaching. It is entitled “Dreams of Sled Dogs, Poets, Mountain Men, and Heading North”:

I run behind the sled in a translucent state hovering between warmth and cold. . . . It is the fourth night of the Iditarod, and the dogs are finally moving. They have run nearly this whole race, but they have finally found their rhythm; they are unafraid to run. Surging forward in unison, every paw lifts and falls, every sinuous muscle contracts and ripples, and we are one. The dogs, the sled, the snow, the wind, and I are all one—all part of the primordial dream. . . . A frigid wind blows in from the Bering Sea and jumps over snow-corniced hills, showering us with a thousand particles of stinging, burning hail. The dogs recognize the wind, and they are glad. They echo its haunting refrain, and the running song has begun.
Something about the snow and ice has crept into my soul and grabbed my heart. I am sitting in my grandma’s synthetic leather recliner reading National Geographic, but the truth is, I could have sworn I felt an arctic wind chill the marrow of my bones. I have never raced sled dogs; in fact, I have never even seen a sled. But whether an Eskimo shaman has enchanted me or [not], part of me yearns to run with dogs until my lungs burn. . . . I listen to the clarion tune that is carried on the wind, and I am kin to the mountain peaks. I have clung to the few people who share my dreams, but only recently did I learn that we were not a small band . . . but a strange breed called romantics. You see, I am a hopeless romantic, but I have not only read Rousseau—I am Rousseau; I am Whitman and Wordsworth and Tennyson. I am not suggesting that to dream is better than to experience, but to live through dreams is better than to never experience at all.

Thirty-five years ago, in my freshman classes, if I had written such an essay, my PhD writing fellow may have written in the margin: “So what.” Consequently, even if I had had the talent, I would not have taken the risk. At BYU, my son could and did risk. Professor Bell encouraged Scott by asking him to read his essay to the class. To a rather shy freshman in a class of upperclassmen, she extended the hand of friendship. It is in this type of personal, caring environment that true learning becomes possible.

Recalling his childhood in the Church of England, Elder Cuthbert said, “I sang in the church choir in three services each Sunday. The choirmistress was a good teacher, and I learned to love the Psalms, which are songs of praise and thanksgiving to God. When I was eleven, the choirmistress went to Zululand, South Africa, as a missionary. Her example helped me become interested in missionary work at an early age.
“After I joined the Lord’s true Church, He called me as a district missionary, then as a stake missionary, and later as a mission president. Now, as a General Authority, I will always be a missionary. A Seventy is a special witness of Jesus Christ to all the world.
“I am sure that you Primary children know many missionaries, some perhaps in your own family. They are examples for you to follow; Jesus wants all of us to be missionaries. One of my favorite scriptures is in Matthew, when Jesus was instructing His apostles just before He ascended into heaven: ‘Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost’ (Matt. 28:19). He is saying the same to us today through His prophet, President Benson. Boys and girls, start preparing for your missions now—by study, by prayer, and by helping others.
“I have seen many examples of faith and courage among young missionaries in the Church. Ian Menzies, a missionary in Scotland, said, ‘I must finish my mission,’ even though he had a tumor on his brain. Through faith and determination and priesthood administration, he accomplished what others said was impossible. Peter Chaya, a missionary in Zimbabwe, Africa, fulfilled his mission on crutches. He had lost the use of both legs through polio when he was a child. Pip Lees served as a stake missionary in England. Her companion pushed her door to door in a wheelchair for two years.
“During December 1987, I had some Church assignments in Bolivia, a beautiful South American country where the Church is growing rapidly but where the people have very little. The Regional Representative, Elder Philip Kradolfer, accompanied me, and he brought a large suitcase full of toys. Just before Christmas each year, his children give up some of their toys to help the children living in the Altiplano, or high plateau region, of Bolivia. It was wonderful to see the children’s faces as they received a doll, a game, a book, or a purse. Jesus taught that it is better to give than to receive, and I am sure that you have felt the same happiness when you have been a secret helper.
“While serving in South America last year,” Elder Cuthbert recalled, “I met many people who had little to eat and hardly a roof over their heads. Many are hearing the gospel and are being baptized. The children are attending Primary and are preparing for missions, just like you.
“In your prayers, would you remember these boys and girls who have a very hard life? As you prayerfully express thanks for the blessings that you enjoy, fill yourself up with gratitude and let it overflow into service. As you help other children, you will not want so much for yourselves.”

His parents named him Happy Horton Hoggle. But by the time he was six years old, everyone called him Never Happy Horton. When Never Happy Horton started school, everyone there soon knew the reason for his name.
That first morning Mr. Barnes, the principal, was at the front door to greet the students. He reached for Horton’s hand to shake it.
““I don’t like to shake hands!” Never Happy Horton said with a big frown.
““I just wanted you to know that I’m here to help you,” said Mr. Barnes with a smile. “I want to be your friend.”
““No you don’t and I don’t want to be anybody’s friend. Don’t you know who I am? I’m Never Happy Horton. And by the way,” Horton growled, “I don’t like school either!”
Mr. Barnes wiped his bald head with a handkerchief. “Oh, but everyone at Bunker Elementary School tries to be happy,” he said with a nervous smile.
““Not me! I’m Never Happy Horton, and don’t you forget it!”
““Oh, I won’t,” Mr. Barnes assured him.
Miss Kate, Horton’s teacher, couldn’t forget either after he had come to her class. Horton was sitting in the darkest back corner all alone. “Wouldn’t you like to join us for story time?” Miss Kate asked.
““I don’t happen to like stories,” Horton said as he folded his arms across his chest.
““But this is a very exciting story,” Miss Kate said coaxingly.
““No story is a good story.”
““But everyone likes some story!” Miss Kate insisted.
““Not me! I don’t even like television. I’m Never Happy Horton, and don’t you forget it!” Horton shouted.
““Oh, I won’t,” said Miss Kate, heaving a big sigh.
At recess the boys needed one more player to make the baseball teams even.
““Come play ball,” Timothy called to Never Happy Horton who was sitting in the middle of a hopscotch square so the girls couldn’t play.
““I don’t like ball games,” Horton replied in an ugly voice.
““C’mon anyway,” Timothy urged. “You might find you like it.”
““Not me! I’m Never Happy Horton. I don’t even like recess, and don’t you forget that either!” Horton insisted.
““Oh, we won’t,” said Timothy with a shake of his head as he went back to play baseball.
““You can’t fool me, Never Happy Horton! You aren’t always unhappy,” said Suzanna, one of the girls who wanted to play hopscotch.
““I’m Never Happy Horton! Just ask anyone! I’m never, never happy!” Horton shouted.
““But you’re happy right now. You’re happy making other people unhappy,” Suzanna argued.
““That doesn’t make sense!” cried Horton as loud as he could. “I’m Never Happy Horton, and don’t you forget it!”
““Well, if you’re never happy, why are you sitting in our hopscotch square?”
““Because … well … because,” Horton folded his arms over his chest and frowned. “Just because.”
““Because you’re happy there,” Suzanna said politely. “And so I hereby proclaim you to be Happy Horton.”
““Wait just one minute,” Horton said with a puzzled look. “That’s a terrible name for a boy! It sounds awful! Happy Horton! I hate it!” Horton squished his face together. “Ugh! Nobody is named Happy Horton Hoggle!”
““You are,” Suzanna said. “You and nobody but you.”
““Well, it’s still awful! At least Never Happy Horton sounds tough!”
““What’s so great about being tough? Anyone can be tough.”
““But Happy Horton Hoggle is an awful name,” Horton said quietly.
““Only if you make it awful. After all, being the one and only Happy Horton Hoggle in the world should make you important,” she pointed out.
““Hey, I never thought of that,” Happy Horton said, and the frown almost turned into a smile. “I’m the only Happy Horton I know of.”
““And you’re the only one I’ve ever heard of. That most certainly makes you very special!” Suzanna repeated.
““It does? I mean, yes, it does!” Happy Horton agreed. “I’m Happy Horton Hoggle, and don’t you forget it.”
““That’s great,” Suzanna said. “But next time could you say it just a little softer please?”
““I’m Happy Horton,” Horton said in an almost normal voice, “And I’m the only Happy Horton Hoggle I know.”
““Good,” Suzanna said. “With a little practice you’ll make it. Now will you go play ball?”
““Sure,” said Happy Horton, and he even smiled.

May I share with you another wonderful faith strengthening story. Last October, on a recruiting trip to South Korea, I met Seon Woong Hwang or Danny as he likes to be called, at the Yeongdeungpo Stake Center in Seoul. I learned that Danny and his Sister Joo Young, were recent converts to the Church. At the education fair he briefly shared with me his conversion story which began here in Laie on an unexpected visit to campus. His mother a graduate of the University of Hawaii Manoa suggested that they attend UH or another university in Hawaii. So they planned a family vacation to tour UH Manoa and other universities. Prior to their visit in February of 2018, Danny underwent two knee surgeries and ankle surgery. He was still rehabbing from these surgeries when they visited Hawaii. I’d like to now read his own account of his “Enter to Learn Go Forth to Serve” experience.

“We visited over 16 universities and I walked like a person who had a stroke because of my knee surgeries. I could get lots of good things from each school but I did not think that I would enroll in any of them. I had no more hope that I would find my ideal school. On our last day in Hawaii we decided to tour the island. Then by coincidence or luck we met two female
BYU–Hawaii students at Foodland in Laie. I started to get some information from them. My family and I thought that we should visit there. I think it was the power of the Holy Ghost or Jesus Christ. When we arrived at the front field. I will never forget the moment, the sunshine was lighting the whole school which made me feel like I was in heaven. And I felt like I found my final destination and this school was my destiny. All of a sudden my fatigue and tired body got cured without any reasons. I didn’t know where the power came from but I started to feel powerful and I really wanted to know more about BYUH. We asked people where is the admissions office or student help center but because of lack of English we started to find a Korean student. Thanks to Jesus Christ, we could meet a Korean student, Sister Sung Min Cho in the Aloha Center. She came tchere because of the Holy Ghost. It was a miracle. If she were not there we would have left without any specific information. My family felt so sad for her because we talked to her for 6 hours. She gave us lots of information about the school and the Church. My parents really liked the rules of BYUH. Especially the Honor Code. No drinking whiskey or brandy or tobacco and no smoking. We then enjoyed the PCC show and returned back to Korea. In Korea, I searched for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. On May 6, 2018, I was baptized and I realized the love and sacrifice that Jesus Christ did for us and I cried a lot when I felt and knew the truth and love of Jesus Christ. I later gave baptism to my sister on July 29th.”

Danny and his sister Joo Young are now freshman here at BYU–Hawaii. His “Enter to Learn Go Forth to Serve” experience was powerful and a personal testimony for him.

In 2018, Latter-day Saint Robert Opiyo joined the only ice hockey club in East-Central Africa, the Kenya Ice Lions. At the time, there were fewer than 30 ice hockey players in all of Kenya, and 17 of them (15 men and 2 women) were members of the Ice Lions team.
Today, there are over 40 adult players and 40 youth players who practice at least twice a week. Robert used the skills he learned on his mission in Melbourne, Australia, as one of the team’s executive members.
Brother Opiyo dreams of the Olympics someday but is also content to be part of this pioneering endeavor. “Slowly more people hear about our desire and want to help us get there,” he said. “I’m grateful to have been a part that set the foundation for future generations.”

That clouded vision has been both figurative and literal in my life. I was born with an extremely rare eye condition. My vision has always been limited, but within the past year, I’ve lost almost all sight in my left eye. This condition is so rare that there is very little the doctors can do, and I’ve had to place every ounce of my faith in the Lord.
On a particularly hard day, I found myself falling into despair, worrying that my whole life might crumble right before my eyes—literally. And then I remembered a very timely and powerful scripture: “Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you” (John 14:27).
The Savior didn’t say, “My answers I give unto you on your timetable” or “Healing I give unto you in every case,” but He did promise us peace. He may not remove the figurative curtains of mortality that are sometimes placed over our eyes, but if we take His hand, He can teach us how to move forward with faith, trusting that the answers will come with time. Through Him, our burdens can be made light. President Russell M. Nelson reiterated this, saying, “The joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives.”1 And I chose to focus on Him.
After many months of being afraid to take His hand, I finally did. My sight continued to decline, but I eventually received an answer from doctors about my vision and was able to receive a surgery that could possibly help me retain some of it. There was no guarantee that this procedure would help in the long run, but I went into it knowing that whatever the outcome, the Lord had a plan for me, and this trial could bring me closer to Him if I allowed it to. Peace doesn’t always come after you’ve been healed—sometimes it comes amid the storms of life—but as you rely on the Lord, you can be sure that it will.

Doug shared his parents’ dismay as they left their car and looked around at the littered highway rest area. What should have been a cool, green oasis for weary travelers looked as though it were part of a garbage dump! There were plenty of trash containers, but most of them were practically empty. Around them were scattered cans, paper plates, and plastic cups and utensils. Napkins and old newspapers blew along the sidewalk ahead of them.
“I don’t know how we can possibly eat our picnic lunch in this dirty place,” Doug’s mother sighed. “And just look at that! Vandals have chopped out the center board of the only picnic table left.”
“It’s disgraceful,” Father said angrily. “It costs the government a lot of money to provide these little mini-parks for the public. The trees and lawns are beautiful and well trimmed. Why can’t people appreciate such facilities and care for them?”
“Because they have no pride,” Mother murmured sadly as she fanned flies away from the baby.
“I’ve read that people in some countries don’t tolerate such abuse of parks and other public facilities,” Mother continued. “Bystanders shame any offender into picking up discarded objects. And if that doesn’t work, one of them picks up the rubbish even though he didn’t drop it. Can you imagine what a terrible impression this mess would make on visitors from other countries?”
“Well, we certainly can’t eat here,” Father said. “We’ll use the rest rooms and then try to find a cleaner spot farther down the highway.”
“Why don’t we clean up this one instead?” Doug suggested. “All the others will probably be just as dirty. We need to stretch our legs after the long ride anyway. The exercise will be good for us.”
His parents looked startled but pleased as their dark-haired son began picking up and depositing handfuls of litter into one of the trash cans. They smiled when they saw two other children from a nearby table join him. Soon other boys and girls scrambled after the litter and suddenly everyone made a game of cleaning up.
A station wagon pulled up and parked. The occupants climbed out and headed for the outdoor drinking fountain. A teenage girl watched the children and then returned to the station wagon and took out an overflowing litter bag. She was careful to see that every scrap was emptied inside the trash can. She stooped to catch a blowing paper and deposited it in the container too.
Doug’s mother smiled. “Neatness seems as contagious as littering. I’ll bet I can clean up this pile of litter before you can gather up that stuff over there by the fountain!” she challenged Father.
A few at a time, the people who had eaten at nearby tables began to pick up around them, some a little self-consciously. Even travelers who seemed in a hurry took time to pick up a few cups or bottles before leaving. Children giggled and raced after the few remaining plates and napkins that tumbled about in the wind.
An elderly couple smiled as they watched. In a very short time the rest area was spotless, and the many travelers from different places had taken time to get acquainted with each other. The people in each car honked and waved as they left to resume their journey.
Doug was very hungry by the time the family had all washed up and spread their lunch on a shaded redwood picnic table. A cool breeze rustled leaves overhead, but there were no pieces of litter blowing about. Everyone had a feeling of pride as they ate their lunch and enjoyed the now-beautiful spot.
A young couple parked their van and got out. “What a lovely place, and it’s so much cleaner than the others we’ve seen,” the blond girl said, stopping in the shade. The man tossed his paper cup at a trash can. It hit the rim and bounced off, scattering ice. The girl dropped a pink tissue and shrugged as it tumbled across the lawn. They looked startled and embarrassed as Doug picked up their litter and deposited it in a trash barrel. “This place was filthy, too,” he explained, “but my family and a bunch of other travelers took time to clean it up.”
A big semitrailer truck pulled into the circular drive and parked. Two weary-looking men got out and started up the walk toward the rest rooms. One man dropped a candy bar wrapper. The young couple was leaving now but the blond girl stooped to retrieve the wrapper and place it in the trash barrel. The truck driver glanced down at the tattered road map he had started to toss, then took a few extra steps to drop it into the barrel. “I’ve never seen one of these places so clean. It’s a nice change,” he said. His driving companion nodded in agreement.
“In a way I hate to leave,” Doug murmured, as his mother folded the tablecloth and packed the picnic basket. “We won’t find another place as nice as this.”
“Then we’ll just take the time to make it as nice,” his mother countered. “Look what happened when you started picking up litter. It started a cleanup campaign like a chain reaction. Maybe all those travelers who worked together here today will keep fighting thoughtless pollution wherever they go. Pride in our country has to start somewhere. Who knows, maybe you started it here today!”
They were back in the car, preparing to leave, when a woman put a leash on her dog and started strolling up the grassy slope where the two truck drivers had spread blankets for a nap.
One man raised up on his elbow and called, “What’s the matter, lady? Didn’t you read that sign? There’s a roped-off area over there for walking dogs. How do you expect to keep rest areas clean unless you keep the rules?”
The flustered lady hurried back down the slope and headed toward the area set aside for pets.
“I guess I did start a chain reaction, didn’t I?” Doug remarked with a grin.

I know someone who had a pretty rough time keeping the commandments throughout his life: my brother. At an early age he became mixed up in drugs; even so, he tried his best to do what he knew was right. Three years ago, two of my best friends came to me with worried looks on their faces. They told me that my family had been trying to get ahold of me. My brother had passed away. I caught the next flight home. The funeral was the next day in Park City, Utah. There were so many people there. People who somehow found out about his death and, in a moment's notice, flew to Utah. My brother had a tough time keeping the commandments, but he knew how to be his "brother's keeper." That is why all those people where there. Each and every one of them had a story of how my brother helped them.

I am not saying, "Go do drugs but help out your fellow man." No. That is not what I am saying. If you want to be your brother's keeper, first be an example to him. God gave us commandments and we are to obey them. There is no leniency on that.

The reason I tell this story about my brother is because he understood that the worth of every soul is great. The most valuable lesson that my brother taught me, and I feel indebted to him for it, is that salvation is not just about me; it is about everyone.

Millions of people own copies of the book Black Beauty. It has been printed in many languages, and some say that the only other book to receive wider distribution is the Bible. Now, 104 years after Black Beauty was first published on November 24, 1877, it is still in print. More than seventeen editions of the book were printed in England alone. Yet, in spite of the book’s continuing popularity, few readers know that the name of its author is Anna Sewell.
A great deal of Miss Sewell’s life was spent in pain. It is difficult to imagine anyone less fierce than the quiet Quaker girl from a loving family, but Anna became furious whenever she discovered that animals were being mistreated, especially horses.
By the time Anna was two, her family was living above her father’s shop in a tiny building at Number 18 Camomile Street, London, England. Across the way stood a rank of hackney coaches. The old horses often waited for hours in the rain, and in the wintertime stamped their feet on the treacherous frozen cobblestones to keep warm. They were plagued by flies during the summer and developed harness sores from pulling their heavy loads.
There was one coal black horse there with a white flash on his forehead, and every day Anna watched him as she waited, nose against the glass, until her mother was free to take her across the street to see him.
Mary Sewell often held her daughter up so that she could feed an apple to the horse. As he ate, Anna talked to him while checking his bit or untangling a knot in his mane. The coachman was amazed that the child showed no fear.
Anna’s mother, a remarkable woman, taught her own children. She took Anna and her brother to the country each day and they returned, brown from the sun, carrying wild flowers and birds’ nests to study. To earn money to buy her children books, she wrote a reader called Walks with Mama and sold it for three pounds.
Anna was elated when the family moved to an old mansion called Palatine House at Stoke Newington, for there she was able to attend her first school.
One cloudy day when she was fourteen, Anna raced off to school in her usual hurry, forgetting her umbrella. After school that day it began to rain. At the gate Anna fell and sprained her ankle. Doctors in those days didn’t have the benefit of X-ray machines, and sometimes mistakes were made in the treatment of bones and ligaments. For the rest of her life Anna was crippled. At times she could walk a little, but much of the time she was an invalid.
The family’s move to Lancing, when Anna was twenty-five, enabled the family to keep a pony and carriage. Each day Anna drove her father to Shoreham to catch the Brighton train, and then in the evening she picked him up. During these drives Anna was unaware that she was laying up much information that she could use later in writing Black Beauty.
By the time Anna was fifty, she was virtually an invalid, but her diary reveals that she must have been a very busy one.
An entry dated August 21, 1877, reads: “My first proofs of Black Beauty are come—very nice type.”
This book that was thought over and lived with for so many years before being written comes to life in spare, direct, and truthful words. Anna’s Quaker background gave her great reverence for people and justice.
Although the book proved very popular with all age groups, the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals showed little interest. But George T. Angell of Boston, founder of the Massachusetts Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, had been watching for a story to promote humane treatment of horses. After reading Black Beauty, he raised enough money to print 10,000 copies of the book. And he made an appeal to the readers of the SPCA magazine.
By the end of 1890, two hundred sixteen thousand copies of Black Beauty had been sold. Twenty years later the book was still selling a quarter million copies yearly.
Anna Sewell died a year after the book’s publication on April 25, 1878, of a painful lung infection. When the horse-drawn hearse arrived at the door, her mother looked down from an upstairs window and saw that the horses had bearing-reins [checkreins]. “Oh, this will never do!” she exclaimed and hurried to order the cruel, restricting reins removed. This loving mother thereby performed one more service for her daughter and for her daughter’s friends, the horses.

Years later in York, whilst serving as a home teacher with his son, they were assigned to a less active family who would not let them into their home. On birthdays and at Christmas they would leave gifts and cards hoping for an opportunity to teach in their home. One day, as they went out to visit others, they felt prompted to try once more. As they knocked on the door, their son informed them that the family were all at the hospital where their daughter was giving birth. Quickly buying flowers and a card they headed to the hospital to offer any support or help they could give the family. Because of this they were able to minister to the family who gradually returned to activity.

Jerry and Karen Johnson served in Hong Kong, teaching English as a second language. One day after class, near the end of their mission, a little second-grade girl, to whom Sister Johnson had become very attached, came up to her and, putting out her arms as though she were an airplane flying, asked, “Meiguo?” (meaning “America?”). Sister Johnson looked at her and said, “Yes, we are returning to America.” She buried her head in Sister Johnson’s chest and sobbed. “I held her tight and sobbed right along with her,” Sister Johnson said. “Fifty other students gathered around, sobbing right along with us. Our mission has placed us in the center of a whirlwind of love that seems to envelop us.”

I heard President Grant on several occasions before I met him. As teenage boys, my brother and I came to this Tabernacle at conference when there was room for anybody who wished to come. As boys are wont to do, we sat in the balcony at the very far end of the building. To me it was always impressive when this tall man stood to speak. Some kind of electricity passed through my boyish frame. His voice rang out in testimony of the Book of Mormon. When he said it was true, I knew it was true. He spoke with great power on the Word of Wisdom and, without hesitation, promised blessings to the people if they would observe it. I have often thought of the human misery, the pain that has resulted from the smoking of cigarettes, the poverty that has resulted from the drinking of liquor which might have been avoided had his prophetic counsel been followed.
He spoke on the law of tithing. I can still hear his great testimony of this principle. He spoke of the fast offering and said, as I remember him from my boyhood days, that if all the world would observe this simple principle, which came as a revelation from God, the needs of the poor over the earth would be met without taxing the people for welfare purposes.
He warned against the enslavement of personal debt. The world at that time was on a reckless pursuit of riches. Then came Black Thursday of November 1929. I was nineteen years of age, a student at the university. I saw the economy crumble. I saw men whom I knew lose everything as their creditors moved against them. I saw much of the trauma and the stress of the times. I thought then, and I have thought since, how so many people might have been saved pain and misery, suffering, embarrassment, and trouble had they listened to the counsel of a prophet concerning personal debt.

When I was 11, I was having doubts about if I was ready to receive the Aaronic Priesthood. The day of my ordination was getting closer and closer.
I had been taught that if I prayed to my Heavenly Father sincerely, I would get an answer from Him. So I knelt down and asked about the things I was doubting.
Later that day, I felt like I should read the scriptures. I felt prompted to turn to Doctrine and Covenants 20. This section talks about priesthood duties and responsibilities. As I read, verse 59 stood out to me. It reads, “They are, however, to warn, expound, exhort, and teach, and invite all to come unto Christ.” These words inspired me. As I read them, I knew that I would be ready to receive the Aaronic Priesthood and be ordained a deacon.
Heavenly Father cared for me and gave me an answer that I needed to hear. Now as a deacon, I have looked back on my experiences and found that the teachings of that scripture are true. I am grateful that I chose to receive the priesthood. I look forward to serving the Lord as I advance in the priesthood.

Illustration by Chris Wormell
During a trip to see our extended family one summer, our 12-year-old, high-mileage minivan died and coasted to a stop. We were stuck. Fortunately, we were only five miles (8 km) from the small town of Limon, Colorado, USA.
The local mechanic gave us bad news. Our transmission needed to be replaced, and we would need to wait at least five days for parts. We were short on cash but did have our tent and some camping gear, so we opted to stay in the local campground.
Hundreds of miles from family and friends, we contemplated how we might get to a store to buy the groceries we’d need to survive. We decided to look up the local branch president in hopes of finding transportation. We called President Dawson, and within half an hour we received two calls from members of the small branch’s Relief Society. We happily discovered that one family lived within a block of the campground; they came to meet us within a few hours of our call.
Over the next week, the love and care we received from that small branch on the windy plains of Colorado overwhelmed us. The family who lived close by invited us to their home for dinner that first day, and we enjoyed a great evening of conversation with the parents while our children played with their daughter. The next morning we hitched a ride with another member to go shopping for food and supplies for our stay.
The generosity of branch members continued beyond our original request. They picked us up for church on Sunday. They helped us make memories at the town’s historic train museum. Our children took shelter in their homes during a passing hailstorm. One of the members even employed my husband for a few days to help us pay for car repairs.
Every evening, members of the small branch fed us and entertained our children in their homes. Toward the end of our stay, another family took us to their ranch, where our children learned to ride horses.
When we left Limon a week later, we left with prayers of thanks for a new group of dear friends who took us in and made us feel at home in Limon.

One afternoon Percy K. Fetzer, a righteous patriarch, came to my office by appointment. He was weeping as we visited together. He explained that he had just returned from the land of Poland, where he had been privileged to give patriarchal blessings to our worthy members there. After a long pause, the patriarch revealed that he had been impressed to promise to members of a German-speaking family by the name of Konietz declarations which could not be fulfilled. He had promised missions. He had promised temple blessings. These were beyond the reach of those whom he had blessed. He whispered that he had tried to withhold the promises he knew were unattainable. It had been no use. The inspiration had come, the promises spoken, the blessings provided.

“What shall I do? What can I say?” he repeated to me.

I replied, “Brother Fetzer, these blessings have not come from you; they have been given of God. Let us kneel and pray to Him for their fulfillment.”

Within several years of that prayer, an unanticipated pact was signed between the Federal Republic of Germany and the Polish nation which provided that German nationals trapped in Poland at war’s end could now enter Germany. The Konietz family, whose members had received these special patriarchal blessings, came to live in West Germany. I had the privilege to ordain the father a bishop in the Dortmund stake of the Church. The family then made that long-awaited trek to the temple in Switzerland. They dressed in clothing of spotless white. They knelt at a sacred altar to await that ordinance which binds father, mother, brothers, and sisters not only for time, but for all eternity. He who pronounced that sacred sealing ceremony was the temple president. More than this, however, he was the same servant of the Lord, Percy K. Fetzer, who, as a patriarch years before, had provided those precious promises in the patriarchal blessings he had bestowed.

Recently I listened to a courageous sister share how she persevered through difficulties. She had some challenges, and one Sunday she was sitting in Relief Society, listening to a teacher who she thought lived a picture-perfect life—totally different from her own. She was tired and discouraged. She felt like she didn’t measure up—or even belong—so she got up and left, planning to never return to church again. Walking to her car, she felt a distinct impression: “Go into the chapel and listen to the sacrament meeting speaker.” She questioned the prompting but felt it again strongly, so she went into the meeting.
The message was exactly what she needed. She felt the Spirit. She knew the Lord wanted her to stay with Him, to be His disciple, and to attend church, so she did.
Do you know what she was grateful for? That she didn’t give up. She just kept going—with faith in Jesus Christ, even when it stretched her, and she and her family are being abundantly blessed as she presses forward.

But it was Debbie Hanson, 16, of the Crystal Second Ward, who harvested one of the sweetest fruits of sharing:

“My parents knew some people from the Orient, and we kept spending time with their family,” Debbie says. “They had a girl my age named Ting Ming. We talked a lot about the Church, basically a testimony sharing thing. When the missionaries asked me if I would befriend her, I had to smile. We had already become good friends. Six months later, when Ting was baptized, she told me, ‘Thank you for giving me this beautiful truth.’”

When he was fourteen years old, Elder Kikuchi was attending night school and arising before four o’clock in the morning to make tofu at a nearby factory. Tofu or bean curd is a staple of the Japanese diet, and he had to prepare the tofu and have it ready by 6:00–7:00 A.M. so that customers could buy it for their breakfast. Finally, he fell ill from exhaustion. While he was resting, and trying to recuperate at his uncle’s house in Muroran, two Mormon missionaries knocked at the door. Elder Kikuchi, in recalling the occasion, said, “In those days missionaries wore hats, heavy rubber boots, and overcoats. They seemed so big compared to me, and yet their eyes were sparkling and pure. I was very impressed by their courtesy and invited them in for a few minutes.”

After this brief introduction to the Church, Elder Kikuchi was baptized thirteen days later. “It was manifest to my spirit” he said, “that the story of Joseph Smith was true. I had really searched for the truth through all the years of my boyhood, but I never had any knowledge about the true church.”

When I met Taumatagi Taamino, I was a young missionary laboring in my own country. An aging widow, Sister Taamino was slightly bent over from age and hard work, but she always extended her arms to greet my companion and me and kiss us on both cheeks, as is the custom in French Polynesia.
Sister Taamino was frail, and her walk was slow and deliberate, but she took care of everyone. She even made sure that my companion and I always had clean, ironed clothing. Children loved to be around her because she welcomed them and listened to what they had to say. She lived a simple life in a two-room home surrounded by sand, palm trees, family, and friends. Out of respect, everyone called her “Mama Taamino.”
The Tahiti Papeete Mission president had assigned my companion, Elder Tchan Fat, and me to help prepare a group of 80 Latter-day Saints to receive their endowments and be sealed as families in the nearest temple—the Hamilton New Zealand Temple, five hours away by plane. Mama Taamino had traveled to the temple every year for six years, and this year she would go again. I wondered how she could afford such expensive trips when her living conditions were so meager. Six years later I learned the answer.
In 1976, as president of the Papeete Tahiti Stake, I regularly inspected the stake’s meetinghouses. One day at noon I stopped at the chapel in Tipaerui. At the time, we had paid custodians, and there I found Mama Taamino, now in her late 60s, working as a custodian to help support her large family. She greeted me with her usual “Come and eat,” but I replied, “Mama Taamino, you are not young anymore, and for lunch all you are having is a small piece of bread, a tiny can of sardines, and a little bottle of juice? Aren’t you earning enough to have more food than this?”
She replied, “I’m saving to travel to the temple again.” My heart melted with admiration for her example of love and sacrifice. Mama Taamino traveled to the temple in New Zealand nearly 15 times—every year until the Papeete Tahiti Temple was dedicated in October 1983. At the dedication she radiated joy.
In 1995, this time as a mission president, I saw Mama Taamino again. She had moved back to the atoll of Makemo, not far from her birthplace. Now in her 80s, she could no longer walk, but the wrinkles of her face expressed peace, patience, and a deep understanding of life and the gospel. She still had a beautiful smile, and her eyes showed pure charity.
Early the next morning I found her seated in one of the meetinghouse flower beds, weeding and cleaning. One of her sons had carried her there. After she finished one area, she would use her hands and arms to move herself to the next area. This was her way of continuing to serve the Lord.
In the late afternoon when I was conducting temple recommend interviews, Mama Taamino was brought to where I was seated in the shade of a tree near the chapel. She wanted the opportunity to answer each question required for a temple recommend.
“President, I cannot go to the temple anymore,” she said. “I am getting old and sick, but I always want to have a current temple recommend with me.”
I could tell how much she wanted to return to the temple, and I knew that her longing was acceptable to God. Not long afterward, she left her earthly tabernacle to join those she had faithfully served in the house of the Lord. She took with her nothing but her faith, testimony, kindness, charity, and willingness to serve.
Mama Taamino was a true Polynesian pioneer whose example blessed many of her brothers and sisters—including me.

I’ve told the story about the little baby, nine months old, who was born blind. The father came up to me one Sunday and said, “Brother Cowley, our baby hasn’t been blessed yet. We’d like you to bless him.”

I said, “Why have you waited so long?”

“Oh, we just didn’t get around to it.”

That’s the native way; I like that. They just don’t get around to doing things. Why not live and enjoy it?

I said, “All right. What’s the name?”

He told me the name, and I was just going to start when he said, “By the way, give him his vision when you give him a name. He was born blind.”

It shocked me, but then I said to myself, “Why not?” Christ said to His disciples when He left them, “Greater works than these shall [ye] do” (John 14:12). I had faith in that father’s faith.

After I gave that child his name, I finally got around to giving him his vision.

That boy is about twelve years old now. The last time I was back there, I was afraid to inquire about him. I was sure he had gone blind again. That’s the way my faith works sometimes. I asked the branch president about him.

He said, “Brother Cowley, the worst thing you ever did was to bless that child to receive his vision. He’s the meanest kid in this neighborhood, always getting into mischief.”

Boy, I was thrilled about that kid getting into mischief!