Gospel Story Finder

Recently I was able to travel with more than 100 other young men and young women from the Hamburg Germany Stake to the Frankfurt Germany Temple to do baptisms for the dead and to attend a youth conference. Maybe it was because I was 13 and had unrealistic expectations, but the trip didn’t start out exactly as I had thought it would.
We stayed in a youth hostel in Bad Homburg. The hostel is a really old building with dim rooms and old furniture. It seemed that the knights of old had slept in those beds. Some of the youth in our group, who had expected the comforts of home, were disappointed by their first impressions and wanted to go home.
Our leaders tried to encourage us by reminding us that we were here to serve people who had lived on this earth before us—people who were waiting for us to be baptized for them in the temple.
Our feelings began to improve as we became involved in the activities and workshops of the conference. Each morning we had a devotional in which many of our personal questions were answered. And one evening we had a fireside with Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf of the Seventy, a member of our Area Presidency. He encouraged us to write down the goals we wanted to work on during the coming year. We put the letters in envelopes and addressed them to ourselves. In a year, we will receive these letters. I am already working toward reaching my goals.
During the rest of the trip, I didn’t hear anything else about going home. As we became more unified in our purpose, the worldly environment as well as the just-for-fun activities became less and less important. For example, we had planned to hold a social one night, but it lost its excitement for me.
I frequently had the feeling that a lot of us had come on the temple trip actually hungry for spiritual experiences. Many of us had those righteous desires fulfilled by our experiences in the temple. Tears of gratitude were shed, and friendships became stronger. Nowhere on this earth have I felt closer to Heavenly Father than in the baptistry. How marvelous it will be when I can go to the temple to receive my own endowment and enter the celestial room! I don’t know when that will happen, but I am already looking forward to it. I now know that I want to return to the Lord’s house often.
Some of my friends who came to the conference hadn’t prepared themselves to attend the temple. They quickly realized that next time they don’t want to come just for the activities; they want to be able to enter the temple.
At our closing testimony meeting, we felt a spirit of unity. All testimony meetings when we are together as youth are wonderful, but this one was something special. Some of us shared special feelings we had experienced in the temple; others who want to come back to the Church or to make peace with their families or to feel close to Heavenly Father also shared their feelings.
At the youth conference and in the temple, we felt the Spirit of the Holy Ghost. When we returned home, we took many memories with us—not of our uncomfortable accommodations, but of the Spirit we had felt in our hearts.

Well, it was that kind of a relationship that we shared with each other, and about a semester later he came to me and asked, “Could I ask you a favor?”

I said, “Please do.”

He said, “You know, in addition to being a teacher here on the faculty, I am a part-time minister of the First Methodist Church in Glendale, California.” (I grew up in Hollywood, California, and that’s where I was living at the time.) He said, “You know, Paul, in our young married group, of which I am a sponsor, we are studying other religions, and we have never had a Mormon come and talk to our group. Would you come and be a guest speaker?”

Well, I could see a chance to raise my grade, so I said, “Why, I’d be honored to.”

So on the appointed day I drove over to the First Methodist Church in Glendale. And you know how many Protestant churches align themselves on existing corners, often competing at the same hour, and the traffic was horrendous this particular morning, so I made a pass around the building and came by once more trying to find a place to park. There was a gentleman standing just off the curb, and he was waving me down. So I pulled over and he said, “Are you Mr. Dunn?”

I said, “Yes.”

He said, “Dr. Davis described your car. If you’ll get out, this gentleman will park it for you.”

(Now just a little editorial note: Have you ever noticed how many firesides we have invited special speakers where they had to park a long way off? Think of a LeGrand Richards when somebody wasn’t thoughtful enough to be out there. I just testify from my General Authority’s vantage point: It happens, even in the true Church. Spiritual courtesy and consideration are so vital to receiving the Lord’s spirit.)

Well, I was escorted in, and we went down some stairs through a long corridor. And I stopped in my tracks. The refrain from the song “Come, Come, Ye Saints” was being played on an organ. I thought I was having a revelation. I said, “What’s that?”

They said, “We’re trying to set the stage for a Mormon talk.”

I said, “Thank you.” I walked through the door, and seated before me were two hundred young adults—in kind of an oversized Relief Society room, beautiful in appointment, with a large fireplace. On the mantle over the hearth were two large candelabras with many candles casting a soft light on a picture. Do you know what the picture was? The Salt Lake Temple and the Tabernacle, framed. And I said, “Oh, thank you.” There wasn’t a peep in the audience, reverently listening to a strange hymn. I was escorted to the front of the room. I took my place; they had an appropriate devotional. Then Dr. Davis said some very nice things about me, as guest speaker, and turned the time to me. I tried as hard as I could to represent you properly, to teach some Methodists about the difference between Mormons and Protestants, Catholics, and Jews. When I had finished, there were about twenty minutes of inquiry, questions from the group that were thoughtful and courteous. I was then escorted to the back of the room, a benediction was offered, and one by one the couples filed out, saying such things as “Thank you, thank you. We haven’t understood you people. You have helped us today. Thank you, thank you.” Three days later I got one of the nicest notes I have ever received. It’s still in my Book of Remembrance. Every time I hear the word Methodist, I feel warm and good.

After joining the Church, we decided to create Christmas traditions for our family that would focus less on materialism and more on Heavenly Father’s love for His children, embodied in His Son, Jesus Christ.
Aside from the tradition of decorating our home with a tree and garlands, each year our family holds a series of family home evenings to help us remember the Savior. For these meetings, we have compiled a book of our favorite Christmas songs and various drawings for the children. On the first Monday of December, we talk about the origin of Christmas, its symbols, and the ways people celebrate Jesus Christ’s birth around the world. We also read a favorite Christmas message from the Liahona of December 1986, the year my wife, Vani, and I were married. On the second Monday, we read from a favorite book about Christmas. On the third Monday, we read and discuss the First Presidency Message from the current Liahona.
The most special day of the month for us is 24 December. We invite friends and our extended family to our home for dinner and a Christmas program. In the program, the children present a musical number, we read the story of Christ’s birth, and I give a Christmas message I have prepared. We then enjoy a wonderful dinner my wife has prepared.
In these and many other ways, we have created family traditions to help us celebrate Christmas as the birth of Jesus Christ.
Antonio Carlos Pedrosa dos Santos,Visconde de Araújo First Branch, Macaé Brazil District

Like Nephi, I truly was “born of goodly ­parents.”21 My mom and dad were very intentional in their parenting, including creating a Darger family mission statement; insisting on early-­morning family scripture study, family prayer, and weekly family home evenings; and providing endless private moments of mentoring. One family home evening lesson I’ll never forget was taught by my mother about the importance of creating a “home-court advantage” in our home for every member of our family. We discussed things like the importance of celebrating each other’s success; how to be patient with a sibling when they were struggling; why we decorated our home with pictures of our family, the temple, and the Savior; and how to protect our home from influences that drive away the Spirit.22

The Darger family has grown over the years. While it has grown, endearing nicknames, family songs, matching outfits, and coordinated chants and cheers have all remained an important part of the Darger home-court advantage.

The strength that comes through this home-court advantage has been particularly needed and noticed during this past year. The COVID-19 pandemic caused many families, including mine, to adjust and virtually create a family-gathering atmosphere. During these weekly Zoom calls, the cheers and encouragement continued. One memorable Zoom call ended in a cheering session for my brother and his MBA graduation.

Thomas stood on the banks of the Mississippi River, his bare hands pushed deep inside the pockets of his overcoat. His breath came out in cloudy puffs, and his teeth chattered steadily.
Thomas watched as a chunk of ice bigger than a wagon wheel slowly drifted by. The ferry had been moored for days, and the muddy banks of the river were frozen and hard. The Saints who had hoped to leave Nauvoo ahead of the Canadian storm had been delayed; there was no hope of crossing the icy river before spring.
Thomas had never seen a storm like the one that hit Nauvoo that February 1846. The weather had been mild and warm the first half of the month, and President Brigham Young had exhorted the members of the Church to leave Nauvoo for the camp at Sugar Creek. Many families had followed his admonition. The ferry carried heavy loads of people, animals, and wagons across the river continually until the temperatures dropped. Almost overnight, the storm blew in with a terrible fury. Bitter cold winds pounded Thomas’s wood-frame house from the north, doors and shutters clattering loudly. Great mounds of snow piled up on the streets of Nauvoo. The stinging, harsh blizzard had gone on for days. This morning was the first time Thomas was able to see the ice-choked river.
“Thomas!” called his younger brother, Joseph. “Mama needs those eggs from Sister Patterson right away!”
Thomas looked back across the river one more time. “All right, Joseph. I’m coming.” He pulled his woolen scarf closer around his neck and met his brother halfway up the hill.
Joseph was a year younger than Thomas, but he was already nearly as tall. Named for the Prophet Joseph Smith, he had been born three days before the Prophet’s thirty-first birthday. Joseph’s cheeks and nose were red from the cold, and he was blowing on his hands to keep them warm.
“You run home, Joseph,” Thomas said. “Tell Mama I’m on my way with the eggs for her custard.”
Joseph nodded and loped off. Thomas could see their house up the road and knew that Joseph would soon be sitting in front of the warm hearth.
Mama rarely made her delicious egg custard anymore, especially since they had sold their best laying hens to the Pattersons. Papa said that the hens would never survive the journey west and that the family needed the money to buy more basic supplies. But this morning Mama had declared that they would have custard for dessert and had sent Thomas for the fresh eggs. He knew that his father and mother had been fasting and praying about the weather and that this special dessert was his mother’s way of expressing gratitude for the slivers of sunshine that had broken through the gray clouds today.
As the family gathered around the table to pray over their simple meal, Thomas could see that his father was discouraged. “There was trouble in town again today,” his father said. “Let us pray that the Lord will provide a way for us to leave Nauvoo before anyone is seriously harmed. We are packed and ready to go. There must be a way!”
Thomas bowed his head along with his parents and brothers and sisters, but in his heart he felt a twinge of fear. He did not want to leave Nauvoo.
Although most of their furniture and farming equipment had been sold to purchase a wagon and food supplies, their home was still cozy and warm, and there was always enough to eat. He had been just a little boy when his family was driven from their home in Missouri by an angry mob and forced to settle in the marshy wetlands of Commerce, Illinois. It had been cold then, too, and he remembered how he had cried for a cup of milk. But over the years, he had seen Commerce become the beautiful city of Nauvoo, a place where the Prophet Joseph Smith would stop and play stickball with Thomas and his friends, then invite them to his home for a glass of cool lemonade. Though it had been a year and a half since the Prophet’s death, he ducked his head to hide his tears.
“Thomas?” his Mama asked softly. “Are you well?”
His older sister, Mary Jane, quietly said, “He doesn’t want to go west, Mama.”
Papa put down his fork and folded his arms across his chest. “Is this true, Son?”
Thomas gulped. “Yes, Papa,” he whispered.
He heard his mother sigh, and he felt ashamed. It had already been decided that Mama would leave her piano and her cherished spinning wheel behind. But she reached across the table and put her hand on top of his. “We all wish we could stay in Nauvoo. Here we have a lovely home, a prosperous farm, good friends and family, even a beautiful new temple. But the Lord has promised us peace, and we will never find that here.”
Thomas nodded and tried to hold back the tears that still pushed against his eyelids. His father saw him struggling and slowly slid back his chair. “Mama, save us some of your custard. Thomas and I are going to check on the horses.”
Thomas put on his overcoat and scarf and followed his father out to the barn. The sky was clear, and the air was as sharp as a knife in his lungs. Inside the barn, his father lit a lantern and stamped his feet. “Mighty cold out tonight,” he said. “We must pray for our brothers and sisters who are spending this night in a tent or a wagon box.”
Thomas plopped down on a bale of hay. “Papa, if we had crossed the river with the others last week, we would be out there in a tent tonight!”
His father sat beside him, reaching out to stroke the mane of his favorite horse. “I know, Son. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”
“Then why can’t we wait until spring … or even summer? Why must we leave now?”
“You do not realize the danger that surrounds us. I was a close friend of the Prophet Joseph, and his enemies are my enemies.” Thomas felt his father tremble beside him. He looked up and saw the scar on his father’s cheek that had come from the leather thong of a bullwhip. He still remembered how his mother had cried over the wound, praying that God would forgive her for thinking terrible thoughts about the man who had whipped her husband. “And I think this is a test of our faith, Son. Will we follow the prophet—or not?”
Thomas blinked his eyes hard. Suddenly he remembered a very special occasion in his life.
It was May 1843, and he had just celebrated his eighth birthday. His mother had made a cake with butter icing, and he was eating a thick slice on the front porch when he saw a tall, handsome man coming down the lane. Thomas recognized him immediately—Brother Joseph—and ran to him.
Brother Joseph chuckled, “What’s this I hear about you today? I knew it was a special day when I woke up to a chorus of birds outside my window!”
“It’s my birthday, Brother Joseph!”
“Your birthday?” The Prophet waved to the boy’s mother in the garden and clasped his father in a warm embrace. “But it isn’t just any birthday, is it?”
“It’s my eighth birthday! Now I can be baptized!”
The Prophet sat on the porch steps and drew the boy down next to him. “A very special day indeed. But why do you want to be baptized?”
Thomas tried to stretch his legs out far like Brother Joseph’s. “So I can be a member of the Church like you and Papa and Mama and my older brothers and sisters!”
Brother Joseph nodded and put his arm around Thomas’s shoulders. “That’s good. But I think there’s more to it than that. If your family and I weren’t here, would you still want to be baptized?”
Thomas thought for a moment. “Yes, I would, Brother Joseph. Jesus wants me to be baptized, and I always want to follow Him.”
Tears filled Joseph’s kind eyes. “I want to follow Him, too, Thomas. It may be hard sometimes, but we will always be blessed.”
Thomas’s father cleared his throat. “Brother Joseph, we would be honored if you would baptize Thomas.”
Joseph laughed joyfully and ruffled Thomas’s hair. “I would be delighted,” he said.
Thomas felt his father’s arm around him. “Are you thinking about Brother Joseph, Thomas?”
“Yes,” was all he managed to whisper.
His father hugged him tighter. “When you are a grown man, your children and grandchildren will ask if you remember when you were baptized. Your heart will burst with pride when you tell them that you were baptized by the Prophet Joseph Smith. And then you will tell them how you followed another prophet of God through snow and cold and all sorts of trials so that they could live in a land of peace and enjoy all the blessings of the gospel without being afraid. For many generations, your family will honor you and be grateful for your sacrifices. Your life will be blessed, Thomas, in more ways than you will ever know.”
After Thomas finished his evening prayer, he crawled under the warm quilt. He could hear his mother and father talking downstairs. He was still afraid of what might happen on their journey west, but he felt a calm reassurance in his heart that all would be well.
The next morning, the family was awakened early by a whoop of joy. “It’s a miracle!” their neighbor, Brother Williams, shouted from the front gate. “The Mississippi River is frozen solid! Load up your wagons—we’re crossing over! The Lord has answered our prayers!”
Yes, He has, Thomas thought as he hurriedly dressed in the cold morning air.

Third, we can come to know the Lord and trust Him as we serve others. I share the following story with permission from Amy Wright, who came to understand the principle of serving even amid a terrifying and life-threatening illness. Amy wrote:
“On October 29, 2015, I found out I had cancer. My cancer has a 17 percent survival rate. The odds weren’t good. I knew that I would be in for the fight of my life. I was determined to give it everything I had not just for myself but, more important, for my family. In December, I began chemo. I was familiar with many of the side effects of cancer-fighting drugs, but I did not know that it was possible for someone to be so sick and still be alive.
“At one point, I declared chemotherapy a human rights violation. I told my husband that I was done. I quit! I was not going back to the hospital. In his wisdom, my sweetheart patiently listened and then responded, ‘Well, then we need to find someone to serve.’”
What? Did he miss the fact that his wife had cancer and couldn’t take one more bout of nausea or one more moment of excruciating pain?
Amy goes on to explain: “My symptoms gradually worsened to where I generally had one or two ‘OK’ days a month [when] I could somewhat function as a living, breathing human being. It was those days when our family would find ways to serve.”
On one of those days, Amy’s family distributed chemo comfort kits to other patients, kits filled with items to cheer and to help relieve symptoms. When Amy couldn’t sleep, she would think of ways to brighten someone else’s day. Some ways were big, but many were just small notes or text messages of encouragement and love. On those nights when her pain was too great to sleep, she would lie in bed with her iPad and search for ordinances that needed to be completed on behalf of her deceased ancestors. Miraculously the pain would subside, and she was able to endure.
“Service,” Amy testifies, “saved my life. Where I ultimately found my strength to keep moving forward was the happiness I discovered in trying to relieve the suffering of those around me. I looked forward to our service projects with great joy and anticipation. Still to this day it seems like such a strange paradox. You would think that someone who was bald, poisoned, and fighting for [her] life was justified in thinking that ‘right now it is all about me.’ However, when I thought about myself, my situation, my suffering and pain, the world became very dark and depressing. When my focus turned to others, there was light, hope, strength, courage, and joy. I know that this is possible because of the sustaining, healing, and enabling power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ.”
Amy came to trust in the Lord as she came to know Him. If she had leaned even a little to her own understanding, she might have rejected the idea that she serve. Service enabled her to withstand her pain and afflictions and to live this scripture: “When ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God.”

“This is home,” 18-year-old Marcelle Collins said, crossing her arms and looking over her shoulder. Behind her, across the stubble of a fresh-mowed field, the two-story house, the silos, barns, pens, machinery, even the windmill, all said this was farm country.
But the fields said it even more.
Here in the heart of South Dakota the plains are flat and the sky runs forever. The soil is fertile but the work is hard. Here, as on family farms everywhere, life is land and work—and a clinging hope that maybe there will be enough profit to keep things going one more year.
Marcy’s parents, Al and Tonnie, don’t actually own the farm. They rent it. But they’ve lived here long enough to raise a string of children. Debra, Connie, and Dan live in the area. David, 23, is still on the farm, along with Noah and T.J., Marcy’s four-year-old twin nephews. Al and Tonnie are their legal guardians.
Before the nephews came, Marcy was the youngest. Now they seem like little brothers, some days so noisy and into everything that Marcy thinks she’ll be glad to get away from them when, in a few weeks, she leaves for college.
College. It’s a place of changes, Marcy knows. She’s been thinking a lot lately, wondering exactly what it is she’s leaving behind:
The smallness. Gettysburg (say GET-iss-burg, not get-EES-burg), a hometown more like a cluster of farms. Gettysburg High, with a student body of 198, “if you count the junior high kids on the third floor.” The Gettysburg Branch and its Young Women program, much of which has been—you guessed it—Marcy Collins.
Chores and schedules. “You live on a farm, you work,” Marcy explains. She can drive a tractor, operate machinery, grind feed for the pigs. She helps with planting, calving, cutting, harvesting. She gets up at 5:00 A.M. to be ready for seminary, goes to school, then comes home to work at whatever Dad needs help with. Or whatever Mom needs help with. Oh yes, and there’s homework too. And sleep.
But as Marcy makes her list, it also fills with pleasant things:
An LDS neighbor. Lori Thompson, only a year younger, lives a mile down the dirt road. Lori comes up each summer from Denton, Texas, to farm with her parents. “And what a relief just to be able to talk to another Mormon girl my own age,” about things like standards and testimony and spirituality. Together Marcy and Lori were responsible for their branch’s training for girls’ camp, the two of them in charge of five others. All seven certified.
A non-LDS neighbor. Sarah is learning about the Church.
Prayer. The strength of kneeling with her family.
Privacy. The sanctuary of her room, where on her own she can let off steam or study scriptures. She hangs her picture of the Savior there.
Space. The open freedom of the fields, and the beauty of a South Dakota sunset.
It is one year later. Marcy is standing in a field again. Well, not really. She’s standing in a parking lot.
“This is home,” she says, crossing her arms and looking over her shoulder. Behind her, the Manwaring Center, the library, the dorms, the administration building, all say this is Ricks College, Rexburg, Idaho.
But her classes say it even more.
Go with Marcy to the third floor of the Spori Building and watch her draw. It isn’t just a matter of sketching. It’s two and a half hours of analyzing—structure, form, shading, foreshortening. It is listening, observing, imitating as the teacher shows examples from the masters.
Or go to the ceramics lab in the Kirkham Building, where Marcy takes a lump of clay, kneads it to remove the air, then “throws” it, centering it carefully on a wheel, opening it with her thumbs, smoothing it with her fingers, pulling with equal pressure inward, outward, upward. Then, just as it’s taking the form of a vase, Marcy groans. Her fingers have slipped, and the clay twists, ill-shapen and uneven. She cuts it free, kneads it again, and starts over.
This is learning of a fundamental kind, learning by doing. Successes outweigh failures only after hours, weeks, and months. But it’s a learning Marcy is coming to understand.
A year can make a lot of difference. As Marcy stands in the parking lot she makes a list of what she’s found here:
Growth. An understanding of new places, new people, and roommates from as far away as England. A student body of thousands, but a ward where everyone is about her age, and activities and opportunities abound. “The challenge here,” she says, “is to not take the Church for granted.”
Family. The joy of letters from home. “Noah and T. J. are growing fast,” she says. “I really miss them.”
Chores and schedules. Someone has to shop and clean and cook. Someone has to do the laundry. And the schoolwork! “Some days it seems like I live in the labs,” Marcy says. Some days she does.
But Marcy can’t help but add to her list, this time a list of lessons:
Independence. “I’ve learned to rely on myself,” she says. “In college you have to. There’s a law of the harvest in school, too. You do good work, you get good grades.”
Priorities. No matter where you are, turn your life to things that matter. If you’re not with your family, have prayer with your roommates. If you don’t have the sanctuary of a private room, study your scriptures in the hall.
Friends. People who matter will always matter. Sarah and Marcy are still in touch, Lori’s back in Texas, and Marcy’s found a new friend, fellow art student Diedra Newville from Fort Myers, Florida, whose sense of adventure keeps them both from getting overwhelmed by pressure. What’s more, the people who matter most, Marcy’s parents, her brothers, her sisters, are still in the background cheering.
Not long ago, Marcelle Collins got word from her parents that the farm had been sold. They’ve moved to another small town, Faith, South Dakota, where her dad was born. A lot of people might say Marcy can’t go home now. The home in Gettysburg belongs to someone new.
But Marcy knows how to be at home wherever she is. And that’s a lesson more profound than she may realize. Long before she left South Dakota, she left another place, a place she may have been nervous to leave. But she trusted her Father, and so began her journey.
And someday, if she continues to turn toward the things that matter most—things like faith, obedience, and honesty—she’ll return to hear her Father say, “well done.” Maybe at that moment, she’ll cross her arms, look over her shoulder, and say, “This is home.”

The first significant event in Opapo’s life was a dream he had as a young man. In it, he saw two foreign missionaries come into his village, walk directly to his fale (hut), and sit down. That’s where the dream ended; but when two Latter-day Saint missionaries entered his house a few years later, he recognized them as the men in his dream, and the Spirit strongly confirmed to him that their message was true.
Everything was ready for this man to do a great work among his Samoan people.
The records show that he and his wife, Toai, were baptized in 1890, two years after the Samoan Mission was opened. By 1890 the Samoans were already familiar with the tenets of Christianity. The London Missionary Society had begun proselyting in 1830, followed by the Catholics and the Methodists soon afterwards. Blessed with a deep faith in the Savior, the people were familiar with spiritual gifts and miracles. But as my grandfather accepted the gospel and joined this struggling little church, the signs promised to the believers in Christ began to follow him in an extraordinary way, even among those faithful people.
Ironically, there was bitter hostility between the groups who claimed to worship the Savior and love him. Mormons bore persecution and ridicule and were even nicknamed “cowboys” because Joseph Smith had grown up on a farm. Through it all, Opapo was fearless and faithful, recognized as a leader among the Latter-day Saints.
In 1904, he and a few others founded a settlement called Sauniatu (“Preparing to Go Forward”), a small sanctuary for the Saints in the mountains of Upolu. Shortly after the first chapel was built, the small cooking house behind it caught on fire and, despite the efforts of the people to carry water from the river, the fire spread rapidly, endangering the chapel itself. Then people noticed that Opapo had climbed atop the chapel and sat astride its roof-beam. Raising his right arm, he looked to heaven and said, “Father, we can spare the small house, but we cannot spare the big one. In the name of Jesus Christ and by the power of the holy priesthood, I command the wind to change.”
It did; the small house collapsed, and the chapel was saved. Not only was the chapel spared, but the Sauniatu Saints’ faith was strengthened at a very difficult time.
Blessed also with the gift of prophecy, he influenced the lives of many. On one occasion, he returned from a three-month trip to another island and saw preparations for a fiafia (celebration) in progress to celebrate the marriage of a young man and a young woman. As he interviewed the young woman, he suddenly told her, without any other explanation, that if she married the young man, she would soon be saddened.
Opapo and Toai were not spared personal trials. Eleven of their fourteen children died before adulthood. However, through it all they seemed to increase in humility, prayerfulness, and industry. Opapo reserved 5:00 A.M. and 5:00 P.M. for prayer, but frequently prayed at other times as well. And he always provided, not only for his own family, but also for others, especially widows and the fatherless.
He also served several missionary assignments, accompanying American missionaries to other areas for proselyting. On one of these journeys, Opapo, his long-time friend Elisala, and one of two American missionaries went to the island of Manu‘a. Upon arriving they found that the local king, Tuimanu‘a, had forbidden anyone from receiving or assisting the Latter-day Saints in any way—the punishment for disobedience was immediate stoning. However, the missionaries were determined to succeed and stayed for two months, eating fallen coconuts from the beaches and sleeping each night in holes. They covered their heads with leaves to protect themselves from the mosquitoes, each one taking a turn nightly to help the others arrange their leaves and then unassisted himself, suffering from bites the rest of the night.
After several weeks of this grueling ordeal, Opapo was awakened by the smell of some freshly baked food in a nearby basket. The missionaries did not know whether through a human or a divine source; but after weeks of coconuts, they were profoundly grateful. Near the end of their stay the incident was repeated when an elderly woman brought them some food, saying that if she had to die for her kindness, she would, but she did not fear Tuimanu‘a.
A few weeks later, after exhausting every possible avenue, the missionaries prepared to depart. Ceremonially, Opapo and Elisala spoke directly to Tuimanu‘a and his people, warning them that they would feel the wrath and power of God if they did not repent. As his last act before boarding the longboat, Opapo paused at the edge of the village and dusted off his feet as a witness against the island. A couple of weeks later a devastating hurricane struck the island, killing many, destroying all of the crops above ground, and leveling every house except one—the fale (hut) in which lived the elderly lady who had helped the missionaries.
It is true that miracles strengthen the faith of believers but do not necessarily give faith to the unbelieving. It was not until 1974 that a branch was actually organized in Manu’a. On the other hand, the Saints to whom Opapo returned heard of the incident and increased in faithfulness.
Soon afterward, Opapo and Toai moved their family from Sauniatu to the island of Tutuila, in preparation for eventually moving to Hawaii to join the Saints there. Persecution was particularly acute in Tutila, and it caused Opapo much sorrow though it never weakened his faith. On one occasion, he and Pinemua Soliai, a good friend, were walking towards Pago Pago and waved to a passing bus to stop for them. It stopped for them, but as they neared it, the driver, recognizing them as Mormon missionaries, suddenly pressed on his accelerator and left them standing in the dust. Brother Soliai ruefully commented to Opapo, “Well, it’s going to take us a long time to get up to town now.” Sadly, Opapo said, “No, we’ll get to town before he does.” One and one-half kilometers later they came upon the scene of an accident. The bus had collided head-on with a truck and the bus driver had been killed.
Brother Soliai and his family were the only Latter-day Saints in their little village of Nuuuli on Tutuila. On one occasion, he asked Opapo to come bless his children, his house, his property, and his friends. Present on that occasion was a wealthy nonmember widow, Salataima Puailoa, who was deeply troubled because her husband’s family was taking steps to deprive her of the land she had inherited from him. Impressed by the blessings, she requested one herself; but Opapo was reluctant because she was not a member.
She investigated the Church and was baptized, then came to him again and requested the blessing. In it, Opapo promised that she would receive the land without any hindrance from her husband’s relatives and that she would, if she were faithful, be an instrument in the Lord’s hands to further the work of the Church in American Samoa.
In the early 1950’s, that blessing was fulfilled. The Church purchased some of her property and on it built a high school, faculty housing, a large welfare farm, and a stake center.
In 1926, Opapo and Toai sent my father, Teila, to Hawaii to prepare for their arrival. Two years later, the Church called my grandparents to come do temple work for Samoans in the Hawaiian Temple. In 1935, my grandmother died of pneumonia at the age of seventy. She was buried in Laie, Hawaii, after a lifetime of generous and and faithful support of the Church and of her husband.
Like Toai, Opapo died of pneumonia near his eighty-first birthday and was buried beside her.
I did not know my grandfather well, but I have an increasing appreciation that I am his grandson. Because of his faith, my faith, is stronger. The gifts he exhibited testified to his Samoan people, at a crucial time in the history of the Church in those islands, that the gospel is true, the priesthood represents the power of God, and that the plan of salvation truly describes the pathway we must follow. Not only his family but all of the Saints in the Church can be heirs to the legacy of blessings he left.

When Nick Turpin was 14, the only thing he knew about the Church was that his friends Steve Andersen and Jason Farrell were members. That’s when they gave Nick a Book of Mormon with their testimonies written in the front of it. Then they invited him to seminary, telling him their teacher was cool and they wanted Nick to learn more about the Church. That was February of 2002. Nick was baptized three months later.
That may seem quick, but Nick’s testimony didn’t come from one overwhelming spiritual experience. It came quietly, gradually. He says, “It just felt right at seminary and at church.” He says he always figured there was a purpose to life, and the missionaries explained what that purpose was. Reading the Book of Mormon also helped his testimony grow, and, pointing to Steve and Jason, he says, “These guys helped me to join the Church. When I was with them before I joined the Church, it was great to know that we were doing the right thing and still having loads of fun.”
Steve says, “Our friendship wasn’t based on Nick taking the discussions. We just wanted him to know more about the Church. If he had said no, our friendship wouldn’t have changed.”
Nick’s friends introduced him to the gospel, but it was the Spirit who converted him. Nick says, “In my heart, I know that if I didn’t believe that the Church was true, I wouldn’t have joined just because my friends wanted me to.”

Out of the darkness of the early morning came eight rafts of various shapes and designs with their youth crews and supporters. It was the annual raft race for the Auckland New Zealand Harbour Stake, and the first of 12 races was underway.
Races were varied, including combined young men/young women teams and a leaders team. A good day was had by all with the Takapuna Ward young men regaining top prize, the Title of Liberty Challenge Shield.
Work on the Takapuna Ward raft started five months earlier as their deacons, teachers, and priests spent many hours splitting bamboo, heating and bending it into shape, and then lashing every crossbeam. More than 5½ miles of twine (9 km) was used to tie over 3,000 knots—all of which held the raft together. When all the lashings were completed, it was time to stretch the canvas over the frame.
The young men and women helped sew the canvas at the top. Then it was painted and left to dry. Practices were held at every opportunity if the sea at Takapuna Beach was smooth enough and everyone got in the racing mode. All the boys and girls got closer together, and a really strong brotherhood and sisterhood was formed.
One thing teachers quorum president Hunter Amende learned from all the hard work and paddling was, “There is no I in team.”

One of my favorite parts of all scripture is the 121st Section of the Doctrine and Covenants. It is a wonderful narrative in which Joseph Smith begins in the depths of despair and rises to celestial heights. This section of the Doctrine and Covenants was originally a letter from Joseph Smith to his wife, Emma, from Liberty Jail in Missouri. The letter in its entirety includes the 121st, 122nd, and 123rd sections. To better understand these great revelations, we should put them in their proper context. Joseph and a few of his followers were prisoners in the county jail at Liberty, MO, from December 1838 until April 1839. In other words, they were in prison during the winter. There was no heat and the food was barely edible. In fact, on one occasion, they had been served human flesh. They were in a basement dungeon with a dirt floor and a ceiling so low they could not fully stand up. The Saints had been driven from their homes, property stolen, and livestock seized. The men were being hunted and women feared for their lives and all that they held precious. In the midst of this upheaval, Governor Lilburn W. Boggs, the Governor and Chief Executive of the State of Missouri, issued an extermination order, which in effect declared open season on the Saints in Missouri. So begins the 121st section. Joseph says in verse one, “Oh God, where art thou, and where is the pavilion that covereth thy hiding place?” Remember, this is the same Joseph Smith that we believe had heavenly visitations from God the Father, Jesus Christ, Moroni, John the Baptist, Peter, James and John, and others. Is it as interesting to you as it is to me that even Joseph Smith, of whom Brigham Young stated, Jesus Christ excepted, was the greatest man to ever live on the earth, would have enormous challenges in his life to the point that he would ask, “Where is God?” It gives me hope that even Joseph Smith had some very bad days and very large obstacles. Shortly after his interrogatory statement in verses one and two he expresses his frustration to the Lord and in verse 5 his passions come to a boil when Joseph says, “Let Thine anger be kindled against our enemies; and, in the fury of thine heart, with thy sword avenge us of our wrongs.” It is followed in verse six, “Remember the suffering Saints, Oh, our God; and thy servants will rejoice in thy name forever.” In verse seven the Lord responds to Joseph’s outpouring by saying, “My son, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment.” In other words the Lord says to Joseph, in today's vernacular, “Joseph, Chill. Everything will be ok. I am in charge. This is my work and all is going according to my plan. Relax.” Or in my music of the sixties, the Beatles’ song “Let It Be.” Often we need to hear those same words when we face obstacles that seem overwhelming. The Lord then teaches Joseph a wonderful principle. As I said earlier, in verse six Joseph stated, “Remember the suffering Saints, Oh, our God; and thy servants will rejoice in thy name forever.” In other words, if you will remove these obstacles we will rejoice in thy name forever. The Lord corrects him in verse eight when He says, “And then if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high; thou shalt triumph over all thy foes.” The message is straight forward and succinct. Whereas Joseph had asked God to remove these obstacles and says the Saints will worship God forever, the Lord responds by saying if you endure it well, THEN you shall triumph over all your foes. The take-away for us then is that we should not expect the Lord to remove our challenges by promising Him that we will always be faithful if He does. That sounds very much like a foxhole prayer to me. During a time of war soldiers in foxholes will pray, “If you save me, God, from my enemy I will be good always.” Rather the principle is to endure well and THEN you will be blessed. That is a marvelous life lesson for each of us.

Two shovels full of sand were poised in front of the slowly churning cement mixer, and two sets of eyes watched carefully the gray sludge sloshing rhythmically inside. Although one set of eyes belonged to a dark-haired 16-year-old from El Salvador and the other to a fair-haired 22-year-old from the United States, both held that clear, steady gaze of common understanding. Both knew that that gray sludge was worth its weight in gold. It was helping to build sturdy cement block houses that signaled hope for families in need. And it was helping to cement ties between Latter-day Saint youth from two different nations, and between these youth and the grief-stricken people of yet a third nation.
The youth—more than 30 young men from El Salvador and upper Guatemala and nine students from Brigham Young University—were working in Guatemala with a host of adult leaders from local branches and stakes, in addition to health and full-time missionaries from around the world. The group included about 55 people in all. Their task—to rebuild homes destroyed by the February 4 earthquake.
Their task was not easy. The terrible terremoto, or earthquake, destroyed about 20 percent of the country’s residential buildings, claimed more than 2,000 lives, and left an estimated one million people homeless. Church members were included in this number. President Guillermo Enrique Rittscher of the Guatemala City Stake, for example, reported 142 homeless families.
Statistics, however, do not paint as clearly the picture of human drama as the scene that greeted the volunteers when they arrived two months after the quake. Guatemala City had become a tent city. Large families were bravely trying to work out of small tents amid a cold, steady rain. They had begun to build portable plywood homes, but one room was inadequate for some of the large families. And in addition to all this, the water lines had been broken and much of the water was feared to be contaminated. It had to be boiled before use—not a simple task in a tent.
It was in these circumstances that mission president Robert B. Arnold and Harold B. Brown, Regional Representative of the Twelve for Mexico and Central America, organized the project and obtained the clearance for calling work missionaries from El Salvador and upper Guatemala to help build earthquake-resistant houses.
The young men who volunteered ranged in age from 15 to 18. They postponed their own work, their studies, and other activities to help.
“We really appreciate these young workers. We truly feel that the Church is going to be in fabulous hands as these boys grow and mature and take their positions of leadership in their various wards here in Guatemala and El Salvador,” said Carol Lyons, a health service missionary who helped pilot the program. “They truly love the gospel and all of its facets, and they really want to serve our Heavenly Father. This is their main purpose in being here—so that they can help their brothers in building these homes. But likewise, they can be prepared and go forth as proselyting missionaries in the months to come.”
The program had already begun when the BYU volunteers, most of them building construction majors, offered to share their expertise for eight weeks with the young workers. With the direction of Lon Wallace, their adviser and an instructor in BYU’s building construction and technology program, and the sponsorship of the BYU Benson Agriculture and Food Institute, nine volunteers loaded a van with hard hats, donated tools, and sleeping bags and headed for Guatemala and life in tent city.
The workers were located in two areas—Guatemala City and nearby Patzicia. They lived in tents alongside the members.
“You don’t understand what living in a tent is until you can experience a downpour of an inch or two and feel the dampness and the wetness of trying to build a fire to boil your water and wash your dishes,” said Boyd Lyons, a health service missionary who helped pilot the program. “The wind blows every day. Heavy fog rolls in every day and stays until 9:00 A.M. the next day. You can cut it with a knife.”
Complaints of any kind were scarce, however, although the days were long and hard, beginning at 5:30 in the morning. After a spiritual meeting with scripture reading and prayer, breakfast was served. Then the truck was loaded with needed supplies, and the volunteers were ready to start work at 7:00 A.M. Sometimes they took lunch with them, so they didn’t return to camp until 5:00 or 6:00 in the evening. After dinner there were English classes to teach or to attend and tracting with the full-time missionaries to do. Finally, many weary young men eased their bodies, aching from hard work, into damp sleeping bags.
The work was made hard, in part, by a shortage of materials. The workers had only one two-ton truck to transport all of the sand, gravel, and sometimes water for their day’s work. While one crew mixed the cement, another would go back to load up with sand and gravel for more. Because the water lines had been broken, many of the work sites had no water. So workers searched in the constant drizzle and filled 55-gallon drums from rivers, wells, and anywhere there was some water so that the cement mixing could go on.
“We ended up working hard. In fact, as I thought about it, I know that nobody could pay me enough money to do that kind of work. I’d do it for free for these people, but nobody could ever pay me enough to do work like that,” one volunteer said thoughtfully.
As the time neared for the BYU volunteers to leave, the young Central American workers showed their appreciation in ways that broke down all language barriers. One young man organized a party with decorations, poems, talks, and a special meal with Guatemalan goodies prepared by one of the local Relief Society groups. At the end of the celebration, he threw his arms around one of the tall BYU students and broke into tears at the thought of their leaving. And so the BYU group left to resume their lives with a new perspective. But their tools, their expertise in building, and, most important, their testimonies stayed.
“Words are inadequate for expressing our gratitude,” one Guatemalan woman told Brother Wallace. “Only the Lord can thank you, and he will in time.”
Following disaster, the Guatemalan Saints begin life anew, with a stronger faith in God and in their fellowmen. Within concrete walls, their gratitude reverberates and grows with the warmth that can only be inspired by love in action.

“Sarah! Sarah, wake up!” five-year-old Christiana Larsen said to her little sister. “It’s time to leave.”
Three-year-old Sarah struggled to open her eyes.
“But it’s still dark outside,” she complained sleepily.
“I know, but Mama says we have to get an early start. The ship to America leaves soon.”
The Larsen family had joined the Church in Denmark. Now they would be making the long journey to join the Saints in the Salt Lake Valley.
Christiana helped Sarah get dressed. Then the little girls tearfully took one last look around their comfortable bedroom. They knew it would be a long time before they would sleep in a real bed again.
“Don’t forget your parasol, Sarah,” Christiana said as she picked up her own lacy silk parasol. “Mama said she would pack them with the bedding.”
Mama and Papa had said they couldn’t take anything besides necessities on the trip to America. After the bedding, clothing, and tools were packed, there wouldn’t be much room for anything else. But Christiana and Sarah had begged to take just one favorite thing to their new home. After all, they were leaving behind their dolls, books, and toys. Each girl chose her pretty parasol.
As the sun rose, Christiana and her family boarded the ship that would sail to America. They were excited to go to Zion, even though they had to leave friends, family, and their home.
The ocean voyage was long and tiresome. During the hot afternoons on the ship, the two girls used their pretty parasols to keep the sun off their heads. If the wind blew in the right direction, the ship sailed steadily on. But if it changed course, the ship was forced back, often as far as it had already come.
When the Larsens landed in America, they bought a wagon and oxen and began the long journey to the Salt Lake Valley. The ride in the wagon was bumpy and hot, so Christiana and Sarah often walked instead.
Like many other pioneer families, Christiana’s family experienced hardships and tragedy along the way. Christiana’s newborn brother died during their journey and was buried on the plains.
After the Larsen family reached the Salt Lake Valley in 1857, Christiana loved to go to church with other children her age. Christiana and Sarah happily carried their parasols to church every Sunday to keep the hot desert sun off their faces.
As the days and weeks went by, the family’s money and food began to run out. One night Christiana heard her parents discussing the problem. Her father said he knew of a family who had been blessed with a good harvest of grain. The Larsens could trade something they had for some flour. But what did they have to trade?
Christiana spoke up. “You can trade Sarah’s and my parasols, Papa.”
“But you love your parasols, Christiana. I couldn’t do that!”
“It’s all right, Papa,” Christiana said. “We need the food more than we need the parasols.”
The next day Christiana’s father traded the beautiful lacy parasols for some flour. The flour provided food for the whole family.
That night, as Christiana got ready for bed, she looked sadly at the corner where her lovely parasol had stood. But as she remembered the wonderful bread she had eaten for supper, her sadness turned to gratitude. As she said her prayers that night, she thanked Heavenly Father for her lovely parasol, which helped to feed her family.

Illustrations by Sal Velluto and Eugenio Mattozzi
One day, just after it had rained in beautiful Nauvoo, Margarette McIntire and her older brother Wallace were walking to school.
Hurry up, Wallace, or we’ll be late.
I’m coming.
My boots are stuck, Margarette!
Mine are too. There’s too much mud.
The children found they couldn’t get out, so they started to cry, thinking they would have to stay there.
What’s this?
Brother Joseph!
We’re stuck.
Joseph pulled the two children out of the mud.
He cleaned the mud off their boots.
You look very pretty today, Margarette. Don’t worry about the mud—it will come off.
He dried their tears.
Cheer up, young man. You’re a very good older brother. Keep taking good care of your sister.
Margarette later recalled the experience: “Was it any wonder that I loved that great, good, and noble man of God?”
Off to school, now.
Thank you, Brother Joseph.
Good-bye!

Aron C., age 10, Colombia
I help my father clean our house, and I receive money every month for helping. Instead of spending all my money, I set aside 10 percent for tithing and give it to the bishop. I feel good after I pay my tithing because I know the money goes to take care of the chapel and to buy books and many other things. I know that Jesus Christ gave us everything, and when we pay tithing, we give back to Him. I feel happy when I pay my tithing.

In July 2013, Jesse B., 19, of Hampshire, England, was practicing for the first British Pageant with hundreds of Church members near the Preston England Temple. While he was excited for the pageant to begin, Jesse’s attention was divided between learning his part and thinking about a mailbox nearly 200 miles away where his mission call would soon be delivered.
It wasn’t long before Jesse’s family texted him a picture of his missionary envelope, and he learned that his dad would bring it to him a few days later. During an afternoon rehearsal, Jesse’s dad walked in, call in hand. Rehearsal stopped and Jesse opened his mission call in front of the whole cast. When he read the words, “You are assigned to labor in the Korea Seoul Mission,” he was ecstatic.
Jesse knew the truth of the gospel, so he was willing to spend two years in Korea sharing it. “I wouldn’t serve a mission without the compass of truth,” he said. “Truth is truth. It isn’t necessarily the easy way, but it’s the right way.”
That’s a message he’d heard a lot about in preparing for the pageant, which tells the story of the early Saints in the British Isles. In the opening scene, two of the first missionaries to go to Britain see a banner that reads, “Truth will prevail,” and this becomes their missionary motto. That motto resonated with Jesse too, and it’s a message he’s anxious to share as a missionary.

As I conclude my remarks, may I share with you an experience of several years ago which depicted the strength of you dear sisters in Relief Society.
During 1980, the sesquicentennial year of the organization of the Church, each member of the Relief Society general board was asked to write a personal letter to the sisters of the Church in the year 2030—50 years hence. The following is an excerpt from the letter written by Sister Helen Lee Goates:
“Our world of 1980 is filled with uncertainty, but I am determined to live each day with faith and not fear, to trust the Lord and to follow the counsel of our prophet today. I know that God lives, and I love Him with all my soul. I am so grateful that the gospel was restored to the earth 150 years ago and that I can enjoy the blessings of membership in this great Church. I am grateful for the priesthood of God, having felt its power throughout my life.
“I am at peace in my world and pray that you may be sustained in yours by firm testimonies and unwavering convictions of the gospel of Jesus Christ.”
Helen Lee Goates passed away in April of the year 2000. Shortly before her impending death from cancer, Sister Monson and I visited with her and her husband and family. She appeared calm and at peace. She told us she was prepared to go and looked forward to seeing once again her parents and other loved ones who had preceded her. In her life Sister Goates exemplified the nobility of Latter-day Saint women. In her passing she personified your theme: “If ye are prepared ye shall not fear.”

Colonel Thomas L. Kane, a nonmember of the Church, spoke to the Historical Society of Philadelphia, as recorded in the memoirs of John R. Young. He told them that during his travels a few years before, he had passed through a very unusual city named Nauvoo, a community established on the banks of the Mississippi. He explained that after traveling up the river for some time, he left the steamer and began to travel on land because of the rapids in the river.
While on the road, he had seen only unimproved country where idlers and outlaws had settled. Then he saw Nauvoo. Quoting him:
“I was descending the last hillside upon my journey, when a landscape in delightful contrast broke upon my view. Half encircled by a bend of the river, a beautiful city lay glittering in the fresh morning sun. Its bright new dwellings [were] set in cool green gardens ranging up around a stately dome-shaped hill, which was crowned by a noble marble edifice, whose high tapering spire was radiant with white and gold. The city appeared to cover several miles, and beyond it, in the backgrounds, there rolled off a fair country chequered by the careful lines of fruitful husbandry. The unmistakable marks of industry, enterprise and educated wealth everywhere, made the scene one of singular and most striking beauty. … No one met me there. I looked and saw no one. I could hear no one move, though the quiet everywhere was such that I heard the flies buzz and the water ripples break against the shallow beach. I walked through the solitary streets. The town lay as in a dream, under some deadening spell of loneliness, from which I almost feared to wake it, for plainly it had not slept long. There was no grass growing up in the paved ways, rains had not entirely washed away the prints of dusty footsteps, yet I went about unchecked. I went into empty workshops, rope walks and smithies. The spinner’s wheel was idle, the carpenter had gone from his work bench and shavings, his unfinished sash and casings, fresh bark was in the tanner’s vat, and fresh chopped light wood stood piled against the baker’s oven. The blacksmith’s shop was cold; but his coal heap and ladling pool and crooked water horn were all there, as if he had just gone for a holiday. …
“Fields upon fields of heavy headed yellow grain lay rotting. … No one was at hand to take in their rich harvest.” (Memoirs of John R. Young, Utah Pioneer 1847, Salt Lake City: Deseret News, 1920, pp. 31–33.)
Colonel Kane could not understand why such a beautiful city had been abandoned. He was unaware that the Saints had been driven from their city by the mobs. His curiosity caused him to search for the people who had left the city. When he found them, he observed that even though they were suffering and dying from hunger and exposure, they were peaceful and wholesome. Why had such a harmless people been so persecuted?

I carried a tray of food, prepared by my mother-in-law, into a cluttered and dusty home. The sole occupant sat where she always sat, on a big armchair positioned so she could see out the window. Her swollen legs were stretched in front of her and her cane, which she used only with great effort, leaned against her arm. She smiled when she saw me, thanked me for the food, and apologetically asked who I was. As I sat next to her and listened to her stories, I was filled with warmth and peace.
Three years later, I was on the floor with my two young children, bouncing them on my legs and singing a racehorse tune. Only a few feet away, my kitchen was in disarray and toys were scattered across the floor. I suddenly felt a reassurance from the Spirit that I was right where I needed to be. Warmth and peace flooded my soul, filling its worn edges and giving energy where there was none.
Another two years forward, I was lying on the bed. A pile of laundry was visible on the floor, and a stack of papers littered the desk to my left as I fed my newborn son for the fourth time that night. I brushed my fingertips against his long lashes, felt his soft bald head, and was thrilled when fingers curled around the lace of my shirt. I was so filled with warmth and peace that I didn’t even mind that I was sometimes awake at three in the morning.
In each of these cases, the Holy Ghost was with me, telling me I was in the right place and doing the right thing, and in each of these cases, I was in a messy home.
I still remember the shock I felt the first time I made this connection—I began questioning my experiences. After all, I had always thought growing up that the Holy Ghost doesn’t dwell in unclean places—so I took that to include dirty homes. And these thoughts were nearly always accompanied by a scriptural reference. We learn in 1 Nephi 10:21 that “no unclean thing can dwell with God.” And the Lord tells us in Doctrine and Covenants 88:124 to “cease to be idle; [and] cease to be unclean.”
The irony in all of this is that I missed the deeper meaning of these scriptures—the importance of keeping our personal temples, our minds and bodies, clean—and instead jumped straight to the physical meaning. I had somehow learned from all of these lessons that my worth as a young wife and mother was all wrapped up in how perfect and clean my house was—and the effect of that belief was devastating.
I was always paralyzed with fear when the state of my home was not so perfect. I often didn’t listen for whisperings from the Spirit because I would look around my apartment and think, “No, there’s no way the Spirit can dwell here.”
I can’t remember the exact moment I realized I could feel the Spirit in a home that fell far short from the temple’s standards of cleanliness. But I do remember when I realized that the Lord, with His infinite capacity for compassion and empathy, saw the less-than-perfect efforts I offered, accepted them, and still sent me the spiritual companionship I desperately needed. He doesn’t need me to be perfect right now—He just needs me to do the best I can.
It hasn’t happened overnight, but slowly I’ve let go of what Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles refers to as “toxic perfectionism” (see “Be Ye Therefore Perfect—Eventually,” Ensign or Liahona, Nov. 2017, 42). I’ve started allowing myself to believe that I can have the Holy Ghost with me even if I don’t have the energy to stay up all night with a teething baby and keep up with the laundry. Instead, I make sure I give the best I can give, and I accept the love Heavenly Father sends in return. I haven’t given up on becoming a better homemaker, I just say yes to the grace and inspiration the Lord has been trying to give me for so long. Because when I keep myself spiritually clean and do what He asks me to do, the Holy Ghost comes, messy house or not.

One night my mom and I were reading the Friend. I was feeling sad because we had to move for Dad’s new job. Then we read “Moving” in the May 2012 Friend. I felt happy because the family in the story had to move too. Then we kept reading and found out that the grandparents in the story were going on a mission, and the family was staying in their house. I was surprised because we were going to live in my grandparents’ house while they went on a mission too! I’m glad we read that story. It made me feel much better about moving.