Gospel Story Finder

I once met a British dancer while traveling on a train in Finland. We were both happy to be speaking English, and as we chatted we asked each other questions: What are you doing in Finland? What do you believe? Learning of my beliefs, she asked, “You don’t smoke or drink? You don’t believe in premarital sex?” And throughout our conversation, she kept coming back to this subject, intrigued. “I suppose if you dated men who felt the same way, it would work out,” she said. And then later: “Are there any men who feel the same way?” She started off disdainful and ended up wistful. She was hungry for something she heard in our doctrine.

Hastily, John Salinger wrote down the details of the assignment on the back of the list of materials to read: three-page paper due on the fifth, about world hunger, use the list of materials to be read.
The bell rang, and John walked down the hall toward the cafeteria.
When the Mormon students who ate lunch together were seated in their usual places in the cafeteria, John asked the question: “Did Mr. Perkins give your class an assignment on population and hunger today?”
Soon it was established that not only had John’s government class received the assignment, but also Kamio Kamura’s economics class, as well as Julie’s history class.
“It seems as though I’ve received a similar assignment at least once each semester from one teacher or another for the last three years. If it isn’t overpopulation, it’s abortion or world hunger,” added Lisa.
“And the material in the reading list makes it pretty clear what your conclusions are supposed to be: The world is overcrowded. No one should have a large family. Abortions are needed to control population growth. We don’t have enough food! But, I don’t believe all that!” protested Julie.
“Maybe we’re being unfair to the teachers,” said John. I think Mr. Perkins and the other teachers give assignments on these subjects because they are really concerned about them. And many of them agree with what the Church teaches.”
“Maybe so, John,” answered Lisa, “but how do we do the assignment when the teacher’s opinions don’t seem to agree with what the Church teaches?”
These young people have asked some interesting questions. Frequently, the opinions of teachers will differ from Church policies, the statements of Church leaders, and the scriptures.
“Let’s go talk to Mr. Morgan,” said John. “He has taught at this school for a long time and he has been a bishop and a seminary teacher even longer.”
“I can understand that you have a problem,” said Bishop Morgan, “but it’s not the problem you mentioned. You are assuming that you may use only the sources on Mr. Perkin’s reading list and that you must reach the same conclusions as the authors on that list. I have no doubt,” continued the bishop, “that you are welcome to use other sources, and to state other points of view, and to reach different conclusions if that is what your research leads you to.”
“But are there books and articles that support what the Church teaches?” asked Lisa.
“Certainly,” replied Bishop Morgan. “There are few fields of study without controversy. Honest, sincere researchers, working with the same data, may come to widely different conclusions and then publish documented articles and books in support of their conclusions.
“Some scientists are sure the world is overcrowded with four billion people. Others feel that the earth is capable of providing well for 40 or 50 or even 100 billion people.
“And among social scientists the differences of opinion are probably even greater because they work with the most complex subject of all: people. That’s why you get strong conflicting opinions like these. There are no easy answers.
“As Latter-day Saints, we are fortunate to have revealed truth to guide us in these controversial subjects, and we should be grateful for that. And there are many researchers, both LDS and otherwise, whose writings agree with what the Lord has revealed. Your problem is simply to find these writings and then decide which of them will be useful in your assignments.”
In the next three weeks John, Julie, and Kamio did a lot of hard work. Working together, they carefully read everything on Mr. Perkin’s reading list and then began doing research in both the school and public libraries.
They contacted various social service and government agencies and obtained some useful materials, references and statistics. Other teachers were consulted.
John and Julie and Kamio received top grades for their work in presenting the Church’s position. They were invited to present their findings to their respective classes and to answer questions from other students. They were well prepared with information to support their beliefs.
Best of all, they learned that there really are good and valid reasons for the Church’s position concerning difficult moral issues. They discovered that some teachers with strong opinions respect students who do good, thorough research, even when they disagree with them. And they learned that the gospel of Jesus Christ is always in harmony with the truth from whatever source.

Now come with me to another part of the world, forty-four year later, when I was in Tonga with another nursing faculty member, Shelly Reed, and eight nursing students. We were there to learn about Tongan culture so that we could learn how to provide nursing care in culturally mindful ways. On these beautiful islands I learned the importance of acting on promptings when I receive them.

While we were in Tonga, one of the few small interisland planes crashed, and the other interisland planes were grounded, pending an investigation. This meant that any travel between the islands had to be by ferry. We had already traveled by ferry once, from Vava‘u to Tongatapu, and had planned to make one more interisland trip to ‘Eua.

As the day for this trip grew closer, it became apparent that the planes would still be grounded and we would need to go by ferry—this time on a much smaller ferry than we had used for our first interisland trip. I began to feel uneasy about the trip; in fact, it became pretty clear to me that I should not go. I did not know why, and the prompting seemed to be for me personally—not for the whole group. In addition, I felt a responsibility to be with the group, and staying back would mean I’d be alone in Nuku‘alofa for my birthday. That did not sound like fun to me. Nevertheless, the promptings persisted. Finally, and foolishly, I decided I would go to ‘Eua and be really careful.

We completed the two-hour ferry ride to ‘Eua without incident or seasickness, which was a blessing. We visited the small health clinic on the island and toured the island a bit that evening. Consider for a moment how isolated Tonga is—and the island of ‘Eua is isolated in Tonga. It truly feels like it is a million miles from anywhere, and there are no lights along the roads. The night darkness is deeper there than I have experienced anywhere else. We only stayed one night, but I was ready to return to Nuku‘alofa. As you can imagine, I was nervous, feeling I was there against heavenly advice.

The ferry left very early in the morning, well before sunrise, and we had to travel to the dock in two groups because there was only one vehicle available to transport us that morning. I offered to go with the first group of students. When we arrived at the dock, the only light around came from inside the ferry. Looking into the ferry, I could see quite a few people had already boarded, and I felt concerned about securing enough seats so that no one in our group would have to stand for the long ride back to Nuku‘alofa. I thanked the driver, jumped out of the vehicle, and scurried across the dock ahead of the students, hoping to secure seats for our group.

Unbeknownst to me, there was no plank to provide a walkway between the dock and the ferry, and my eyes were fixed on the seats inside. As I stepped where I thought a plank would surely be, I felt the dreadful sensation of falling. My arms instinctively reached out, trying to grasp the side of the ferry so I would not fall to the ocean below. I did not succeed in preventing my fall, but I did manage to badly scrape my arms and legs on the side of the ferry.

As I hit the water, I knew this was why I had been warned not to go to ‘Eua. I continued my descent a long way down in the water. Even in the watery deep I immediately began to pray and apologize for my disobedience while also pleading for help. I struggled mightily in the disorienting watery darkness but somehow managed to find my way to the narrow passage between the side of the ferry and the wall of the dock. Eventually I was able to reach the surface of the water. Illuminated by the light from the ferry, as I looked up I could see the horrified expressions on my students’ faces melting into looks of relief. I was so grateful to breathe air again. I thanked my Heavenly Father that I had survived—so far.

But my troubles were not yet over. I was still in the water, and it was dark in that narrow, watery space between the dock wall and the ferry. I could not figure out where to go, so I treaded water until I felt I no longer could. Then I looked up, and a Tongan man had lain down on his stomach on the dock and leaned far over the edge, extending his arm to me. Braced by a large rubber tire attached to the dock wall, I could reach up and just barely grasp his hand. How comforting the grasp of his hand was! Symbolically, how important it is for us to look up when we are in need of help! My students shouted encouragement, but I soon began to lose strength in my arthritic hand.

Just then a young Tongan man was at my side. I do not know how he got in the water, but I remember the overwhelming gratitude I felt for him and his bravery. He did not speak English, but he managed to guide me toward the front of the ferry, where the dock surface was closer to the water. Two large Tongan men reached down, each grasping one of my arms, and quickly pulled me to the safety of the dock.

The Tongan women quickly gathered around me to comfort me and tell me more about what I had just experienced. They told me it was a miracle I had survived. They explained that the ocean was unusually calm that morning. If there had been the slightest movement in the ocean, I would have been crushed between the rocking ferry and the dock. My knees went weak as I realized the tender mercies I had experienced, and I felt the love of my Heavenly Father, despite my disobedience to the promptings I had been given. Angels, seen and unseen, helped me through the peril I had created by my disobedience and taught me a lesson I hope to never forget.

Interestingly, from this experience I am left with a constant, gentle reminder that I need to obey the Holy Ghost’s promptings. You see, when two large Tongan men pull you out of the ocean, you come out in a big hurry. The strain of the pull on my right shoulder wrenched it enough so that to this day, nearly four years later, I continue to experience varying amounts of shoulder discomfort. I let this pain serve as a reminder that I not only need to listen to the still, small voice but that I need to obey so that I can have the Holy Ghost lead and guide me through my mortal journey.

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.

As Sister Simpson and I walked along lower Queen Street in Auckland, New Zealand, the other day, we came to a particular place not far from the wharf. There we paused for a few moments as I related to her the incident that took place at that very spot during my first mission.
I could still see in my mind’s eye a very old Maori couple who stood at the curb with thousands of others waving farewell to the Maori Battalion as they marched down to their troop transport and off to war.
The old couple became very excited as one young soldier glanced their way with a big smile. From their Maori conversation, it became apparent that this was their great-grandson going off to war.
His would be an atomic war with sophisticated equipment capable of killing by the thousands—so unlike the Maori wars of the late 1800s that the old Maori had participated in as a young tribal warrior.
Soon the boy was gone from view, and it was then that the old man turned to his wife and said (perhaps a little cynically), “Katahi kua pakeha tatou,” which in effect means, “So now we are civilized.”

Illustration by Gary Alfonso
One day my grandmother asked me to take some food she had prepared to my aunt. It was a hot Saturday afternoon, and there were a lot of other things I wanted to do instead of go on an errand for my grandmother. I told her to ask one of my cousins to go instead, but she insisted that it should be me.
An hour passed, and I began to feel that I should do what my grandmother had asked. I picked up the food and made my way to my aunt’s house. It was far away, and when I arrived, I didn’t plan on staying long.
I found my aunt and her five-month-old baby in a hammock tied to two young mango trees. The trees were beside a river that ran behind the house. I walked toward them to deliver the food. Suddenly, the ropes to the hammock broke. My aunt and her baby rolled into the river. Fear gripped me. I didn’t know how to swim, and no one was around to help. I didn’t know what to do.
Immediately, I heard the voice of the Spirit: “Jump in!”
Without a second thought, I jumped. Fortunately, I found the baby in just a couple of seconds, and my aunt was able to get out of the water. As I came out of the water with the baby, I couldn’t believe what had just happened. I jumped in a river when I didn’t know how to swim, but because I listened to the Spirit, my baby cousin and I were saved from drowning.
I realized how important it is to recognize and listen to the direction and inspiration that God gives to us through the Holy Ghost. I am grateful that I eventually did what my grandmother asked and took the food to my aunt’s house. I know we must make efforts to be sensitive to spiritual promptings so we can be the hands of God to help His children.

I hold in my hand a first-edition copy of the Book of Mormon. It was printed in 1830 on a hand-operated letter press at the E. B. Grandin Company in the village of Palmyra, New York.
In June of 1829, Joseph Smith, then 23 years old, called on 23-year-old Mr. Grandin in company with Martin Harris, a local farmer. Mr. Grandin had three months earlier advertised his intent to publish books. Joseph Smith provided pages of a handwritten manuscript.
If the content of the book did not doom it to remain obscure, the account of where it came from certainly would. Imagine an angel directing a teenage boy to the woods where he found buried a stone vault and a set of golden plates.
The writings on the plates were translated by use of a Urim and Thummim, which is referred to a number of times in the Old Testament and described by Hebrew scholars as an instrument “whereby the revelation was given and truth declared.”
Before the book was off the press, pages of it were stolen and printed in the local newspaper, accompanied by ridicule. Opposition was destined to excite mobs to kill the Prophet Joseph Smith and drive those who believed him into the wilderness.
From that very unlikely beginning to this day, 108,936,922 copies of the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ have been printed. It has been published in 62 languages, with selections of it in another 37 languages, and 22 more translations are in process.
Now 60,000 full-time missionaries in 142 countries pay their own way to devote two years of their lives to testify that the Book of Mormon is true.
For generations it has inspired those who read it. Herbert Schreiter had read his German translation of the Book of Mormon. In it he read:
“When ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.
“And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things.”
Herbert Schreiter tested the promise and joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
In 1946, released as a prisoner of war, Herbert returned to his wife and three little daughters in Leipzig, Germany. Soon thereafter, he went as a missionary to Bernburg, Germany. Alone, without a companion, he sat cold and hungry in a room, wondering how he should begin.
He thought of what he had to offer the war-devastated people. He printed by hand a placard which read, “Will there be a further life after death?” and posted it on a wall.
About that same time, a family from a small village in Poland came to Bernburg.
Manfred Schütze was four years old. His father had been killed in the war. His mother, with his grandparents and his mother’s sister, also a widow, and her two little girls, were forced to evacuate their village with only 30 minutes’ notice. They grabbed what they could and headed west. Manfred and his mother pulled and pushed a small cart. At times, the ailing grandfather rode in the cart. One Polish officer looked at the pathetic little Manfred and began to weep.
At the border, soldiers ransacked their belongings and threw their bedding into the river. Manfred and his mother were then separated from the family. His mother wondered if they might have gone to Bernburg, where her grandmother was born, perhaps to relatives there. After weeks of unbelievable suffering, they arrived in Bernburg and found the family.
The seven of them lived together in one small room. But their troubles were not over. The mother of the two little girls died. The grieving grandmother cried out for a preacher, and asked, “Will I see my family again?”
The preacher answered, “My dear lady, there is no such thing as the Resurrection. They who are dead are dead!”
They wrapped the body in a paper bag for burial.
On the way from the grave, the grandfather talked of taking their own lives, as many others had done. Just then they saw the placard that Elder Schreiter had posted on the building—“Is there further life after death?”—with an invitation from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. At a meeting, they learned of the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ.
The book explains:
The purpose of mortal life and death;
The certainty of life after death;
What happens when the spirit leaves the body;
The description of the Resurrection;
How to receive and retain a remission of your sins;
What hold justice or mercy may have on you;
What to pray for;
Priesthood;
Covenants and ordinances;
The office and ministry of angels;
The still, small voice of personal revelation;
And preeminently, the mission of Jesus Christ;
And many other jewels that make up the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ.
They joined the Church. Soon their lives changed. The grandfather found work as a baker and could provide bread for his family and also for Elder Schreiter, who had given them “the bread of life.”
Then help came from the Church in the United States. Manfred grew up eating grain out of little sacks with a picture of a beehive on them and peaches from California. He wore clothes from the welfare supplies of the Church.
Soon after I was released from the air force, I went to the welfare mill at Kaysville, Utah, to help fill bags of wheat for shipment to the starving people in Europe. I like to think one of the bags of grain that I filled myself went to Manfred Schütze and his mother. If not, it went to others in equal need.
Elder Dieter Uchtdorf, who sits with us on the stand today as one of the Seventy, remembers to this very day the smell of the grain and the feel of it in his little-boy hands. Perhaps one of the bags I filled reached his family.
When I was about 10, I made my first attempt to read the Book of Mormon. The first part was easy-flowing New Testament language. Then I came to the writings of the Old Testament prophet Isaiah. I could not understand them; I found them difficult to read. I laid the book aside.
I made other attempts to read the Book of Mormon. I did not read it all until I was on a troop ship with other bomber crew members, headed for the war in the Pacific. I determined that I would read the Book of Mormon and find out for myself whether it is true or not. Carefully I read and reread the book. I tested the promise that it contained. That was a life-changing event. After that, I never set the book aside.
Many young people have done better than I did.
A 15-year-old son of a mission president attended high school with very few members of the Church.
One day the class was given a true-or-false test. Matthew was confident that he knew the answers to all except for question 15. It read, “Joseph Smith, the alleged Mormon prophet, wrote the Book of Mormon. True or false?”
He could not answer it either way, so, being a clever teenager, he rewrote the question. He crossed out the word alleged and replaced the word wrote with translated. It then read, “Joseph Smith, the Mormon prophet, translated the Book of Mormon.” He marked it true and handed it in.
The next day the teacher sternly asked why he had changed the question. He smiled and said, “Because Joseph Smith did not write the Book of Mormon; he translated it. And he was not an alleged prophet; he was a prophet.”
He was then invited to tell the class how he knew that.
In England, my wife and I became acquainted with Dorothy James, the widow of a clergyman who lived at the Close of Winchester Cathedral. She brought out a family Bible which had been lost for many years.
Years before, the possessions of a family member had been sold. The new owner found the Bible in a small desk that had remained unopened for over 20 years. There were also some letters written by a child named Beaumont James. He was able to find the James family and return the long-lost family Bible.
On the title page my wife read the following handwritten note: “This Bible has been in our family since the time of Thomas James in 1683 who was a lineal descendant of Thomas James first librarian of the Bodleian Library at Oxford, who was buried in New College Chapel August 1629. [Signed] C. T. C. James, 1880.”
The margins and the open pages were completely filled with notations written in English, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. One entry particularly touched her. From the bottom of the title page, she read, “The fairest Impression of the Bible is to have it well printed on the Readers heart.”
And then this quote from Corinthians: “Ye are our epistle written in our hearts, known and read of all men: Forasmuch as ye are manifestly declared to be the epistle of Christ ministered by us, written not with ink, but with the Spirit of the living God; not in the tables of stone, but in fleshly tables of the heart” (2 Cor. 3:2–3).
My Book of Mormon also has many notes in the margins and is heavily underlined. I was in Florida once with President Hinckley. He turned from the pulpit and asked for a copy of the scriptures. I handed him my copy. He thumbed through it for a few seconds, turned and handed it back, saying, “I can’t read this. You have got everything crossed out!”
Amos prophesied of “a famine in the land, not a famine of bread, nor a thirst for water, but of hearing the words of the Lord.”
In a world ever more dangerous than the world of little Manfred Schütze and Dieter Uchtdorf, the Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ has the nourishing power to heal starving spirits of the world.
Manfred Schütze is now a member of the Third Quorum of Seventy and supervises our seminaries in Eastern Europe. His mother, now 88, still attends the temple at Freiberg, where Herbert Schreiter once served as a counselor to the president.
With Elder Walter F. González, a new member of the Seventy from Uruguay, I attended a conference in Moroni, Utah, a town with a Book of Mormon name. There is no doctor or dentist in Moroni. They must leave town to shop for groceries. Their students are bused to a consolidated high school across the valley.
We held a meeting with 236 present. Lest Elder González see only ordinary rural farmers, I gave this sentence of testimony: “I know the gospel is true and that Jesus is the Christ.” I asked if someone could repeat it in Spanish. Several hands went up. Could someone repeat it in another language? It was repeated in:
Japanese
Chinese
Finnish
Spanish
Tongan
Maori
German
Italian
Polish
Portuguese
Tagalog
Korean
Russian
Dutch
French—15 languages
Again in English: I know the gospel is true and that Jesus is the Christ.
I love this Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ. Study it and one can understand both the Old Testament and the New Testament in the Bible. I know it is true.
In this 1830 edition of the Book of Mormon, printed by 23-year-old Egbert B. Grandin for 23-year-old Joseph Smith Jr., I read from page 105: “We talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins.”
And that, I assure you, is exactly what we do. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Many years ago my husband became very ill with a rare disease. As the weeks went by and the sicker he became, the more I became convinced that he was dying. I told no one of my fears. We had a large, young family and a loving, eternal marriage, and the thought of losing my husband and raising my children by myself filled me with loneliness, despair, and even anger. I am ashamed to say that I pulled away from my Heavenly Father. For days I quit praying; I quit planning; I cried. I finally came to the realization that I could not do this alone.

For the first time in many days, I knelt down and poured out my heart to my Father in Heaven, pleading for forgiveness for turning away from Him, telling Him all of my deepest feelings, and finally crying out that if this was what He really wanted me to do, I would do it. I knew He must have a plan for our lives.

As I continued on my knees to pour out my heart, the sweetest, most peaceful, loving feeling came over me. It was as if a blanket of love was flowing over me. It was as if I could feel Heavenly Father saying, “That was all I needed to know.” I determined never to turn away from Him again. Gradually and amazingly, my husband began to get better until he made a full recovery.

One of the most powerful reverence lessons in my life occurred nearly thirty-five years ago. After completing our studies at BYU, Diane and I moved to Honolulu to begin the next season of our lives. It turned out to be a long season—twenty-seven years. Only a call from a prophet caused us to leave Hawaii.

The Hawaii Temple—now known as the Laie Hawaii Temple, as there are two temples in Hawaii—was first dedicated by President Heber J. Grant on (appropriately) Thanksgiving Day, November 27, 1919. It was the first temple built outside of Utah, except for the temples in Kirtland and Nauvoo. For nearly six decades it served the Saints in Hawaii and, for much of that time, those throughout the Pacific and Asia. In the mid-1970s there was need for the temple to be closed, enlarged, and renovated. Consequently the temple had need for rededication, which occurred on June 13, 1978.

Presiding at the rededication was the president of the Church, Spencer W. Kimball. With him were his first and second counselors, N. Eldon Tanner and Marion G. Romney. Also attending were Ezra Taft Benson, the president of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, and others of the Twelve and the Seventy. It is not something you would see in the larger Church of today, having that many of the senior Brethren together for an event away from Church headquarters. But that was our blessing in 1978.

I was a young priesthood leader at the time and was asked by the temple rededication coordinating committee to be responsible for local security and transportation arrangements for President Kimball and his party. I do not want to overstate my responsibilities—they were simply supportive and “behind the scenes.” However, what my assignment did allow was proximity to President Kimball. For a weeklong period that included three days of temple rededication sessions, a solemn assembly, and a large regional conference, I observed the president of the Church close-up. I watched him teach, testify, and prophesy with authority and with power. I saw his tireless effort to minister to “the one,” asking to meet privately with individuals he noticed in meetings or along the way. I witnessed him continually being used as “an instrument in the hands of God” (Alma 17:9). I was profoundly impressed!

At the week’s conclusion we were at the airport for the departure of President Kimball and his associates. Again, emphasizing my limited and supportive role, I share the following. President Kimball came to me to thank me for my meager efforts. Physically he was not very tall, and I am a large man. He grabbed me by my jacket lapels and sharply yanked me down to be at his height. Then he kissed me on the cheek and thanked me. After walking away a few steps, President Kimball returned. He grasped me in the same way and pulled me down again. This time he kissed me on the other cheek and told me that he loved me. Then he departed.

The year before, a biography of Spencer W. Kimball had been published, written by his son and his grandson. At that time I had obtained it and read it, and I found it interesting. However, after this very personal experience with Spencer Woolley Kimball, I went home from the airport and pulled that thick volume from our library shelf, feeling an intense desire to read it again. Over the next several days—every waking hour I was not otherwise obligated—I was reading and reflecting. You see, I was now reading about someone whom I deeply loved. I was now reading about someone who I knew loved me. I was now reading about someone for whom I would do anything, because I knew whatever he asked would be for my own best good.

Through the exhilaration of that experience I had another experience. This one is too personal to share, but through it I felt deeply ashamed. I comprehended that I did not have that same love and respect—reverence—for Those who matter the most: the members of the Godhead and, specifically, God’s Only Begotten, the Savior and the Redeemer. This motivated me to study His “biography” and, through prayer and fasting and pondering, to know that I was now reading about someone whom I deeply loved. I was now reading about someone who I knew loved me. I was now reading about someone for whom I would do anything, because I knew whatever He asked would be for my own best good.

My dear friends, I testify that this knowledge has made all the difference in my life and in our family. I hasten to add that it has not magically made us without blemish and it has not necessarily made life easy. That would be contrary to God’s plan. But what it has provided is hope—“a perfect brightness of hope” (2 Nephi 31:20). There has never been a thought of giving up, quitting, or retreating. I wish the same for you.

As I sat there on the porch, I continued thinking about Cindy’s question. In one of our Primary lessons we learned that the Holy Ghost is the Spirit of truth. Our teacher said that He would help us not to lie. I guessed I needed help with that too. I remembered the day Mom had come into the kitchen right after I had accidentally knocked the sugar bowl to the floor. Before she could even speak, I said, “Shauna made me do it.”
“Janna, look out the window,” she told me. “What do you see?”
I saw Shauna swinging on a rope hanging from the tree. I said, “That’s how she made me do it. I was thinking about hurrying out to swing with her, and it made me bump into the table.”
“Janna.” Mom tilted my face toward hers. “None of us breaks dishes on purpose. We all have accidents. It isn’t the sugar bowl that counts. It’s you. More important to me than all the dishes in the cupboard—even the crystal glasses—is a little girl who tells the truth.”
I looked down at the floor. I knew I should’ve said I was sorry, but I didn’t. Instead, I asked, “Don’t dishes sometimes get too close to the edge and fall off by themselves?”
“Oh, Janna Lynn,” Mom said, and I wished she’d spanked me instead of looking at me the way she did. It would have made me feel a lot better.
I was still sitting on the porch thinking when Katie and Shauna came running around the house. “Come and play catch with us,” they called.
We threw the ball back and forth to each other, and then Katie threw one that was too high for me. Running backward to catch it, I slipped and fell on my backside in a clump of Mom’s blue irises. Mom came out of the shed just then with a pair of clippers to cut a bouquet. I looked at the smashed flowers and was just starting to speak, when something inside of me seemed to say, “No, Janna Lynn, you’re not going to say Katie made you do it.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I said. “I ran backward and fell.”
“Yes, I know. I saw you,” she replied.
“And you’re not mad at me?”
“Of course not.”
The way she laughed, I almost felt good about sitting on her flowers.
“Just look at all those irises that you didn’t sit on,” she said. “A daughter who tells the truth is more important than a whole yard full of flowers!”
Goodness! That must have been the Holy Ghost prompting me to the the truth, I thought. And He’s helping me to learn what a great feeling you have when you know you’ve done the right thing. I could hardly wait to tell Cindy.

Try to feel the heart of a young man, Nkosiyabo Eddie Lupahla, in Africa, writing about his friend.
“Two and a half years prior to my joining the Church in 1999, my good friend, Mbuti Yona, looked me up. We had been friends through grades 5 to 12, then [were] separated when we attended different [schools].
“Mbuti was baptized in April 1999, and four weeks later he visited me at home and introduced the gospel to me. Regardless of the rumors about the Church, I was impressed by the ‘fellow Saints’ who gave me a warm welcome on my first visit. It was this same Sunday that my friend introduced me to the missionaries. Arrangements were made to be taught. My friend was there for every discussion, and he kept inviting me to the activities. I really enjoyed being around people with the same values, interests, standards, and goals. It was during this same time period that I began attending institute [of religion]. It all seemed very natural: Thursday nights [5:30]—missionary discussion, followed by institute.
“I learned a lot in institute and especially enjoyed our class about how to achieve a celestial marriage. The first semester ended in May, shortly after I began attending, and I felt cheated. But I was fortunate enough to catch the second semester class, Teachings of the Living Prophets. While in institute, I bought myself the four standard works and I continued to learn and grow in the Church line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little. I was baptized September 17, 1999, by another friend I had made while attending institute.
“I am thankful for the institute program. It has not only shaped me, but it has also helped me qualify to become a missionary, which mission I started preparing for five months after my baptism. I have been blessed with many opportunities to serve and to teach prior to my mission.
“I am thankful for my friend. I hope he realizes what he has done for me. We have both served missions, I to South Africa Durban, he to South Africa Cape Town. All it takes is a friend to bring such a mighty change in one’s life.”
Now, there seems to be nothing miraculous in that story. But there is a miracle of wisdom beyond human capacity.
Perhaps because Mbuti had walked the path himself or perhaps by revelation, he knew what his friend would have to do to endure. And so he knew how to lift and help.
He introduced his friend to the missionaries. He saw that his friend was baptized and received the gift of the Holy Ghost. He took his friend, even before baptism, to where he would study the scriptures and thus be nurtured by the good word of God. Even before baptism he helped his friend discover this promise: “Wherefore, I said unto you, feast upon the words of Christ; for behold, the words of Christ will tell you all things what ye should do.” The words must have told him to buy scriptures, which he did.
At baptism, Brother Lupahla received the gift of the Holy Ghost to serve as his constant companion as long as he invited it and lived worthy of it. That assured him of another promise, “For behold, again I say unto you that if ye will enter in by the way, and receive the Holy Ghost, it will show unto you all things what ye should do.” The Holy Ghost must have told him to begin to prepare for a mission, which he did.
We do not know which friends went with him to his sacrament meetings both before and after baptism, but some must have greeted him warmly, as they did on his first visit. There, he renewed his covenant to always remember the Savior, to keep His commandments, and to receive again the promise of the companionship of the Holy Ghost. We don’t know what part his friends had in his calls to serve and to speak. But we can be sure that they thanked him and told him when they felt the Spirit in his service and in his teaching.
We can know something of his private life. Remember that he wrote that he continued to learn. He wrote that he grew in the Church line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little. He said that he had been shaped by his experiences in the Church Educational System institute. We know from the scriptures what caused those changes in him. He had to be praying with faith in the Savior. He was receiving testimony and directions through the Spirit. And then he was not only doing what he was inspired to do but he was asking God to let the Atonement work in his life.

Christian fingered the key in his pocket as he walked toward the jail. It had taken months of study and prayer before he had finally decided to use that key for something more important than just opening the jail door so he could carry meals to those who were held there as prisoners.
Almost all the men in the jailhouse were Mormon missionaries. Many of them had sailed into the Port of Frederikstad in a pilot boat they had fitted up and named Sions Löve (Zion’s Lion) so that they could easily travel to coastal areas of the Scandinavian Mission, then including all of Norway, Sweden, and Denmark.
At first Christian hadn’t paid much attention to the missionaries, for he was busy learning the catechism so he could correctly answer any questions he might be asked by the priest at the confirmation service that was soon to be held for prospective young members of the Lutheran Church. He was not concerned about the fact that almost as soon as any Mormon missionaries arrived in Frederikstad they were arrested.
Lutheranism was the national religion of Norway and missionaries who taught other doctrines were promptly jailed, some for only a few weeks, others for many months. During this time they frequently were taken to court and almost forced to renounce their religion and declare allegiance to the national church of Norway. Refusing to do so, they were then returned to their quarters.
Christian worked for the warden of the jail who instructed him to heckle and be as unpleasant as possible to the prisoners when he carried meals to them. This seemed like fun until one day a young missionary said, “Why do you talk and act as you do? Remember that so persecuted they the Christ and His followers in Bible times.”
The startled boy asked him to explain what he meant, so two of the elders began talking about the gospel and gave him a copy of the Book of Mormon.
Every night as Christian studied for his confirmation examination, he also studied the Book of Mormon, comparing it with his Bible and the Lutheran catechism. As the truthfulness of the restored gospel became more and more apparent to him, Christian prayed to know what he should do. Since no answer came before the confirmation date, he purposely failed the examination and then made application to take it again in six months.
Thinking back over his months of prayer and study, Christian knew what he must do. He finally decided to use his key to the prison to let the two missionaries out of jail long enough to go with him to a nearby fjord so he could be baptized and confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Afterward the three walked back to the jailhouse where the elders returned to their room and Christian turned the key in the lock to their cell.
Because of the persecution toward members of the Church throughout Norway, and also because he knew how angry his father would be, Christian did not tell anyone of the thrilling event that had taken place on that cold winter night of 1852. He knew he would not be able to make his stern father understand what he had done. He tried to talk with his mother but she would not listen. When the next confirmation service was held, Christian honored his application and appeared for his examination with the other prospective young Lutherans.
“Do you believe in God?” was the first question asked by the priest.
“Oh, yes,” Christian answered quickly.
“Can you describe Him?” was the next question.
“I know He is a Being with body, parts, and passions,” Christian replied. “I also know He does not sit on the top of a topless throne. I know our Heavenly Father is good and kind, that He sees, hears, and answers prayers. I know we are made in His image as was His Son Jesus Christ.”
The priest was surprised by this description but continued with the examination, becoming more and more amazed with the answers Christian gave. As the boy glanced at his father he could see that he was very upset. Finally, the priest said angrily, “You answer as if you belonged to that sect known as Mormons.”
“I do,” Christian said, “and I’m proud of it!”
At this declaration, Christian’s father arose from his seat near the front of the Church and rushed up the aisle and out the door, striking his cane hard against the floor with every step he took. Confused and embarrassed, Christian’s mother followed her husband, and their son was abruptly dismissed.
Christian went home wanting to talk with his parents, but he was afraid of what they would say. Having carried his usual armful of wood into the house that night, Christian was piling it near the fireplace when his father came into the room. At the sight of his son who he felt had disgraced him, Christian’s father struck him with his cane and then began to beat him. At last, panting for breath, his father laid the merciless cane on the table.
“Oh, Father,” Christian said quietly, “it feels good to be whipped for the gospel’s sake.”
At these words, the father became even more furious. He picked up stick after stick of firewood and hurled them at Christian. When the wood was gone, he opened the door and shouted, “Get out of my house. I never want to see you again!”
Bruised and bleeding from the beating and the wood that had been thrown at him, Christian dragged himself out to the barn where he threw himself upon the hay. Late that night after her husband was asleep, Christian’s mother noiselessly tied a little food and a few of his belongings in a handkerchief and went out to the barn. Tearfully she treated her son’s injuries as well as she could.
“Why, oh why, did you do this thing, Christian?” she pleaded heartbrokenly.
“Because I had to, Mother,” Christian replied. “I have studied and prayed and I know this is the only true Church. I tried to tell you but you would not listen to me. I cannot deny what I know, Mother. If I did, it would be to deny Jesus Christ, our Savior, and I cannot do that.”
“If, as you say, you know this is right, my boy,” his mother told him, “then you must stand firm. But oh, how my heart aches.”
When the first streaks of dawn appeared in the sky, Christian’s mother crept back into the house. Christian picked up the little bundle she had brought to him and started walking down the road. As he passed his house he breathed a good-bye to his parents, for he knew he would never see them again.
Christian Hans Monson didn’t know where he would go or what he could do. “But I have a testimony,” the fourteen-year-old boy said to himself. “Whatever happens, I can never deny that. And I know that because of my testimony, all will be well.”

When we know and act, I believe the third fundamental is to have this blessing called testimony, or the witness that the Spirit brings. I thought and thought and had a hundred examples and am going to use the simple one of the bishop in Taiwan. Some of you will have been there and may know the bishop in Taipei. He had to leave the mainland of China with the defeated armies thirty years or so ago. He has been there thirty years, totally out of communication with his wonderful wife and his children, unable to write, unable to let her know or her him of present things. He joined the Church a few years ago. He has been a marvelous, strong, unselfish bishop for a number of years. I keep thinking about him. What gives a man enough hope, enough faith, enough endurance, to put up with that when most of us scarce stand a day or a week or a month away from those we love the best? There is something that strengthens us, that testifies this is true and that motivates us to move in this way.

June and Dallin had talked about the future of their family before she passed away. They agreed that remarrying would be a blessing to him and their family. On August 25, 2000, Elder Oaks married Kristen M. McMain.
Kristen Oaks describes her life with President Oaks with one simple sentence: “We are united in the work of the Lord, and it has showered us with countless blessings.” She creates family gatherings as often as possible because it brings so much joy to the entire family. June is always a part of the conversation.

Leaving my quiet moment of reminiscence behind, I rose from the steps to clean the dog’s run. I grabbed the shovel and the hose and let Hush Pup, our old dog, out of his run to soak up some sunshine.
Just then my husband, who had been in the backyard building a deck, came around the house. He smiled, took the shovel from my hands without a word, and began to help. I was shocked. My husband was trying to finish the deck before the cold weather set in. He never left a project in the middle of the day. Grateful for the unexpected help, I started hosing down the other end of the run.
All of a sudden my husband began to scream. I looked up to see a swarm of wasps surrounding and attacking him. A calming voice in my mind said, “Spray him with water.” I did. Even while he ran I kept aiming the stream of water at him. Although the water repelled the wasps, he was still stung seven times.
While we attended to his left arm, where most of the stings were, a thought came to me. I had been spared! I’m allergic to bees. And due to the cancer, the lymph nodes had been removed from my left arm. If I had been stung, I would not have been able to fight the poisons from the stings and nobody would have been there to spray me with water.
A feeling of love and warmth filled my heart. I was so grateful my husband had listened to the promptings of the Holy Ghost. My life had been spared a second time.

When I married into the Hopkins family, I quickly discovered that my husband and stepkids already had some wonderful family traditions. For example, when a child in our family graduates from high school, we make them a large, heavy quilt made of old jeans. Measuring and cutting hundreds of squares from jeans takes time, and when I helped my husband with the quilt of our oldest daughter, I remember lots of hand cramping. Tying the quilt together stitch by stitch also takes time; we have to use industrial-strength sewing needles to push through each thick jean square and the backing material behind it. Then we check each stich to fix all the places where the yarn didn’t get pulled through all the way. As you can imagine, it’s a long process.
Just recently, my stepdaughter Shannon graduated from high school. She worked hard to graduate early, and I wanted our family to try to get her quilt done before she started what I knew would be a very cold winter semester at BYU-Idaho. But I also knew finishing before January would be a big challenge—my husband and I both work full time, we have demanding church callings, and we have younger kids to take care of as well.
While I was trying to figure out how we would find time to work on Shannon’s blanket, I saw on Facebook Marketplace that someone was selling pre-cut jean squares for quilts. I also got in touch with a few people in my ward who love to sew. I remember one night excitedly reporting to my husband that I had solved the quilt problem. We could just buy the material, order some pre-cut jean squares, get some help from people in the ward to sew it, and voila! It would all be done before Shannon started college. My husband was quiet for a while, and then he finally turned to me and said: “I really appreciate your help, but I don’t want someone else to make the quilt. The time it takes to make it is part of the gift.“
I knew immediately that he was right. The more I considered what he said, the more I was reminded of President Thomas S. Monson’s counsel to “never let a problem to be solved become more important than a person to be loved.“ [1] Because I was thinking of the quilt as a problem to be solved, I had missed the entire point of making it in the first place. It wasn’t just a graduation gift. The quilt is a symbol of our family’s love, and as Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf once taught, love is spelled T-I-M-E. [2]
I’ll be honest with you. My family still hasn’t finished Shannon’s quilt. But we’re working on it. We’re close! And when we do finally finish it, I know that she will feel not only the warmth of a thick blue jean quilt but the love of her family. She will know that she was worth our time and so much more.

“Sometimes, my wife and I forget things and get irritable with each other,” says another aging brother. “We feel frustrated being so forgetful, and especially regret afterward angry words we say to each other.” They’ve learned to make notes to help them remember. They allow each other to take time to calm down before speaking. “And,” he says, “we’ve learned even more the importance of saying, ‘Thank you,’ and ‘I love you.’”

I know that devotionals can transform lives. Not so many years ago, as an undergraduate student, I entered this very building out of breath and distracted by one of the myriad issues that can cloud a student’s mind. Elder Marion D. Hanks was the assigned speaker. The building was quite full, and I remember finally finding a seat just under the clock on the top row of the top concourse. I don’t remember Elder Hanks’ topic—I’m sure it was important—but I do remember that I was troubled by a personal matter. As I sat, feeling miles away from the speaker, wandering in my own private world, I suddenly felt the Spirit reach up to me to answer my personal concern through the words of Elder Hanks. It was as though he took a time-out to speak with me one-on-one, as if there were a special conduit reaching directly to me to tell me, even in a sea of faces, that the Lord cares about me personally—as I know he cares about you. I’d like to speak personally to you about my experiences, and I pray that what I say may add power to yours.

Time continued to go by, and we were extremely content with our lives. We had our two wonderful daughters, had great neighbors, a good job, and life seemed to be going well for us. We started to think that our family would be just the four of us. Afterall, most of our neighbors only had two kids. However, one day as Caryn was putting away the clothes Chrysanne had grown out of, she could not feel peace about giving the little clothes away. She was also about to turn 40, and knew that if we were going to have another child now was the time. Her patriarchal blessing promised that she would bring forth bodies (plural), and at this point we only had the one birth. We truly believed God would fulfill his promises. As Elder Angel Abrea stated, “The faithful Latter-day Saint waits patiently because, certainly, faith, ‘the assurance of things hoped for’, is exercised with the conviction that the promises will be fulfilled ‘in his own time, and in his own way, and according to his own will’” (1992).

We started once again going to see infertility specialists, and were told that the procedure that had the best chance for us in our condition was invitro fertilization. However, this was a very costly procedure, and one that had just a 25% chance of success at Caryn’s age. We moved forward with faith knowing of the Lord’s promise to Caryn, and that we could put our trust in Him. We traveled out of state to a respected clinic and worked with an outstanding physician in this invitro fertilization process. While we were gone, our Bishop felt impressed to look for Caryn in the congregation one Sunday. The Spirit told him, “Sister Houghton needs you to tell her something.” He did not know why, and did not even see my wife in order to follow through with the prompting. Later that week we came back to our home in Oklahoma extremely disheartened, since we just had been told by the fertility clinic that the procedure had not been successful. We had spent tens of thousands of dollars, given up time away from work, put our trust in medicine and the Lord, only to have it end in failure. We were sad and wondered what the Lord wanted us to do in our lives instead.

The following Sunday after sacrament meeting the Bishop asked to see us in his office. He said, “Brother & Sister Houghton, the Lord has strongly prompted me two Sundays in a row to tell you that you will have a son.” We were dumbstruck. We had not told him of our situation, but right then at the moment we knew the Lord understood our anguish and was ready to bless us in our desire. Then in the office the bishop and I laid our hands on my wife’s head and he blessed her with comfort, and promised her that the Lord knew of her desires, and that He would fulfill His promises to her. Two months later we returned to the clinic, buoyed up with the faith we had in the Lord, knowing that he would fulfill His promise to us. Nine months later our little boy, Isaac, was born. Two months after that he accompanied us to Laie when I interviewed for a job here at BYU–Hawaii, and now has grown up as a barefoot local boy.

About two years ago I read this column in the newspaper:
“Dear Abby:
“I’m sitting here on the plane reading the letter in your column about the son who didn’t want to put his father up temporarily because he felt his father’s visit would be an invasion of his privacy.
“That item caught my eye because I am on my way to visit my son in Omaha for two weeks—at his insistence. I was reluctant to do so initially because I felt I might be interfering with his personal activities.
“I wonder if the son who wrote that letter ever gave a thought to the privacy his father might have forfeited during his son’s time at home?
“There were times during my children’s lives when, given my druthers, I’d have preferred some alternative activity, but now I don’t regret one minute of the time I spent with them. I’m only sorry it couldn’t have been more. Their time at home seems to have been so brief.
“I won’t mail this, of course, since I realize you will receive thousands of more articulate letters on the above. This is just my way of …”
“Dear Abby: My father died suddenly of a heart attack, and this unfinished letter was in his pocket. My wife and I will miss him very much. Sign this—‘A son who really wanted his dad to come.’ William Smzyk, Omaha, Nebr.” (Abigail Van Buren, Deseret News 13 Dec. 1979, p. C7.)