Gospel Story Finder

It is important to Jonathan to live Jesus Christ’s teachings. When his father told him that there were many children who did not have toys like he did, he immediately put many of his toys into a box to give them away. They took the toys to a group of refugees, and Jonathan handed them out to the children. Tears filled his eyes as he saw how happy they were to get the toys. Later he told his father, “Now I know what Jesus means when He said to give. I have a warm feeling inside.”

A word of caution may be in order here, however. A friend of mine named Doug lost his father in an automobile accident when he was about thirteen years old. Though he knew they meant well, it was difficult for him to hear his friends whose parents were still living say, “I know exactly how you feel.” The fact is they probably didn’t, and consequently their well-intentioned remarks sounded hard. A simple “I’m sorry” would have been more appropriate. Furthermore, Doug felt oppressed by those people who felt it was their duty to get him to “talk about it” every time they associated with him. Once he felt the concern and sympathy of his friends by their simple expressions of sympathy, he preferred to introduce the subject himself.

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

As I think of us all engaged in the learning process, I would like to conclude by telling you of an experience I had in Israel a few years ago. I had gone to the Jerusalem Center to prepare a program for a group of teachers in training to teach English as a second or foreign language. They were coming for summer term, and I went over to spend three weeks before they arrived making arrangements with local schools and officials so that our students could teach and observe there. Because I arrived when I did, the students who had been at the Jerusalem Center for a combined winter semester and spring term were still there finishing up their studies. Among the larger group was a smaller intensive Arabic group directed by Dr. Kirk Belnap from our faculty. Kirk was a friend and former student of mine, so he invited me to participate with his group on their field trips. I was thus able to visit many sites that I visited again later with my own group.

There was one field trip, however, for which I was very excited to be invited. Kirk had made arrangements for us to visit an intensive language program out near Tel Aviv. Such intensive language programs, called ulpans, are fairly common in Israel, where they have had large numbers of immigrants from many nations over the years whom they have tried to incorporate as quickly as possible into the society. The ulpan we were going to visit, however, was a little different. Rather than just teaching Hebrew, this school also taught intensive Arabic, making it possible for new immigrants and others to learn to communicate with the Arabic-speaking inhabitants of the area as well as the Hebrew-speaking inhabitants. Kirk knew that I would be interested in seeing how languages were being taught there—especially interested because the director of the school was outstanding, having received awards, including a national award, for the innovative work she had done at the school. Kirk communicated this information to me and also told me that the director had had some contact with and admiration of Mormons through at least one Mormon student, a girl from the University of Utah who had come to the ulpan a few years back to learn Hebrew.

The day we arrived to tour the school and see the instruction was, unfortunately, graduation day for many of the students. Although instruction was continuing with some students, a great majority were involved in the traditional ceremony, packing, and saying good-bye to friends and teachers. We were able to observe and ask questions of some instructors, but our conversation with the director was at first only in bits and pieces as she moved from one activity to another. In one of these quick moments Kirk introduced me to her, and she asked me what I was doing in Israel. I told her that I had students coming for a training program in teaching English as a second language. Then the woman rushed on to her next activity. Finally, following the graduation ceremony, the director, Kirk, and I were able to sit down for a few minutes in her office to talk. Once again she turned to me and asked what I was doing in Israel. I explained that I had a group of students coming and that I had made arrangements for them to do some practice ESL teaching at a secondary school in Jerusalem. She then said, “You know you can’t just go and preach your religion to them.”

I smiled and explained to her that our leaders had reached an agreement with Israeli officials and that all of the persons coming to the Jerusalem Center had to sign a pledge not to preach the gospel.

“Ah, yes,” she said, looking at us piercingly and thoughtfully, “but how do you stop the shining in your eyes? Every one of you has it.”

When my husband, Mark, and I lived with our five small children on the east coast of the United States, we lived in a house that had an oil furnace. To check the oil level, we would put a measuring stick into the tank. And if the oil was low, we would call the heating oil company to come fill the tank.
During an unusually cold January, we were having financial problems. I even took a part-time job in the evenings at a restaurant to supplement our income, but we still had trouble making ends meet. It finally came down to the choice of paying tithing or paying to heat our house. We measured the oil and it came to two inches (5 cm). That would last only a day or two. But we decided to put our faith in the Lord and pay our tithing.
The next day, Mark measured the oil again. It was still at two inches. Mark measured it again the following day, and it was still at two inches. The heat was coming on, but the oil was not going down. The next two days, the oil remained at two inches. I remember crying tears of joy at night when I heard the heat come on. Our furnace was not running on oil; it was running on faith.
I felt like the widow who fed the prophet Elijah and found that her “barrel of meal wasted not, neither did the cruse of oil fail” (1 Kings 17:16). When payday finally came, Mark once again measured the oil. This time it measured at one inch (2.5 cm). Now the oil was going down, but we had money to fill the tank.
Our family had tested the Lord’s promise found in Malachi 3:10: “And prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it.”
Our family will never forget when our oil furnace ran on faith instead of oil.

I want to share with you a time when I felt that the difference between feeling the light and being surrounded by darkness. Growing up, I was not raised as a member of the Church. I was a convert, baptized by the missionaries at age 10. When I met and married my first husband, Scott, he was also a baptized member but had been in active in his youth. Scott and I lived in a great ward with many friends who invited us to baseball games and ward picnics. They encouraged us to come to church and to a Gospel Doctrine class. Next, they attended a Temple Preparation class with us and were there when we chose to attend the temple to be sealed for time and all eternity. At the time we were sealed, we were expecting our son Jake, and I felt like we were on top of the world. How little did I know that less than two years later my eternal companion would die in a tragic accident. My world went dark. The accident was nine days before my son’s second birthday, and I had only been active in the Church for two years. There were many nights that I would pour out my heart to my Heavenly Father with questions and grief. I felt so alone and empty and wondered how I could do this alone. Again, those faithful friends and ward members ministered to me faithfully. I was loved, looked after, and helped to find my new normal. I learned I was never truly alone, that my Savior had been with me during those dark hours. I learned the power of prayer, the power of priesthood blessings, the power of repentance, and the power of the Atonement. I had to grow my testimony on faith, endurance, and hope. My testimony of eternal families is my light; my use of the Atonement is my light; my covenants are my enduring light through my darkest times.

Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles
“For 19 years I had enjoyed Christmas surrounded by family and friends.
“Then, as the Yule season approached in 1960, I found myself half a world away from all that. I had been in England less than three months when, on the first of December, my first junior companion and I were sent to open missionary work in the conservative city of Guildford, an area that had never had Latter-day Saint missionaries. … We were young, inexperienced, and a bit overwhelmed, but we were not fainthearted.
“We knocked on doors in the morning, we knocked on doors at midday, we knocked on doors in the afternoon, and we knocked on doors at night. … And we got in almost none of them.
“So it went until Christmas Eve, when people were even less inclined to hear a couple of missionaries. That evening, weary but devoted, we retired to our one-room rental and had a Christmas devotional. We sang a Christmas hymn and then offered an invocation. We read from the scriptures and listened to a tape recording titled The True Story of Christmas. Then we sang another hymn of the season, said a closing prayer, and went to bed.
“On Christmas morning we kept our morning study schedule and opened the two or three packages that had caught up with us following our transfer. Then we went out to knock on doors. … We didn’t get in any of them.
“For such an uneventful Christmas—clearly the least festive of any I ever had before or since—it says something that those special days in December of 1960 remain in my heart as one of the sweetest Christmases I have ever had. I think that is because for the first time in my life, I found myself understanding Christmas rather than just enjoying it. I think for the first time in any truly significant way, I was getting the message of Christ’s birth and life—His message and His mission and His sacrifice for others.”5

In the fall of 1992 we hosted the Danish minister of education, Bertel Haarder. He had just come from a seminar in Denmark, where he had gathered 100 of the leading Danish educators to discuss the future of Danish education. In preparation for the seminar, he sent a copy of Allan Bloom’s book The Closing of the American Mind to each participant. He asked the seminar participants to read the book and come prepared with ideas how they and the Danish Ministry of Education could avoid the problems that had developed in American education.

Minister Haarder was therefore very interested after holding the seminar to come to the United States and visit our university. Minister Haarder and his wife spent two days on our campus. He gave a lecture at the Kennedy Center and met with the university president, faculty, and students. Although the Haarders were very impressed with BYU, they were even more impressed with the quality of the LDS students and their willingness to interrupt their university studies for missionary service.

When we took the Haarders to the Salt Lake Airport on a Wednesday, it was very busy, even though it was 8:15 in the morning. Minister Haarder was curious why the airport was so congested at that early hour. I told him it was because missionaries were departing for their assignments, and their families were seeing them off. He asked how I could tell. I smiled and pointed out the new suits, white shirts, and missionary badges.

He asked, “Where are they going?”

I said, “Throughout the world.”

As we walked down the concourse, we approached a missionary who was saying good-bye to his family. I suggested to Minister Haarder that we ask him where he was going. I interrupted the family conversation long enough to ask, “Elder, where are you going?”

The missionary politely answered, “North Dakota, sir.”

I then introduced the missionary and his parents to Minister Haarder. Minister Haarder asked the missionary how he felt about serving a mission. The missionary responded that he was excited, but he would miss his family.

Minister Haarder commented, “Well, you will be able to come home for vacations and holidays, won’t you?”

The missionary responded, “No, sir. When I go, I am there for two years and won’t see my family until the end of those two years.”

Minister Haarder then turned to the parents and asked, “How do you feel about that?”

The mother replied, “We will miss him, but we are very proud of him. This was his decision.”

We concluded the conversation and again proceeded toward his departure gate. However, before getting there, we visited with other missionaries: one going to South Carolina, a second going to Moscow, and a third going to St. Petersburg. In each case Minister Haarder asked the missionary several questions regarding his desire to serve a mission, how he felt about interrupting his education, and what he hoped to accomplish during his mission. Minister Haarder was overwhelmed by the answers he received.

The airline was giving the final boarding notice as we came to the departure gate. However, I took time to ask, “Minister Haarder, you just came from a seminar where you read and discussed The Closing of the American Mind. That book suggests that American education is in an intellectual crisis. It portrays youth as self-centered, lacking commitment, having no direction in their lives, and having little identity with their culture and religion.” I continued, “How do you compare that image of American education and American students to what you have seen at BYU and the missionaries you have just met?”

He paused and thoughtfully answered, “What I have observed is the antithesis of what was portrayed of American education and youth. I am very impressed with your university and your students. Both are uniquely different.”

As a result of his visit to BYU and Utah, Bertel Haarder has become a friend of the university and the Church. The Copenhagen stake president shared the following account with me that demonstrates the impact these visits are having for the Church. One day not long after the minister’s return to Denmark, he heard a radio call-in show that focused on the Mormons. One caller made some critical comments about the Church. Other callers followed with equally disparaging comments. Then a caller came on the line and said, “This is Bertel Haarder.” Most Danes knew who Bertel Haarder was because he had been minister of education for 10 years. He then continued, “When I was a young man I probably had the same impression of the Mormon Church. But recently my wife and I visited Utah and saw the Mormons up close. What you are saying is incorrect, and I suggest you discontinue this discussion.” The radio station not only discontinued the topic, but they closed the program and played music for the balance of the program time.

Her first love, though, is ballet. She started studying at age four, and plans to be a professional ballerina. She became so skilled that her teacher suggested that she audition to be a Junior Associate of the Royal Ballet School. This would mean attending a regional class with Royal Ballet School teachers once a month. Miriam was accepted. But with the acceptance letter came bad news—the classes were to be held in Swansea on Sunday! (Swansea is a Welsh coastal city west of Cardiff.) Miriam’s mother recalls, “I’d heard from Miriam’s ballet teacher that the class in Bristol (an English city east of Cardiff) would be held on Saturday, so I wrote a letter to the administrator of the Junior Associates explaining how I felt about the Sabbath and asking if Miriam could attend in Bristol. It was the most eloquent letter I’ve ever written. The administrator rang me and said, ‘I just received a letter from another parent wanting her child to move from Bristol to Swansea.’ It was an answer to prayer.”

The only obstacle still in our way was the cost of chartering a bus. To meet it, we needed to sell fifty-eight fares—and with only three weeks to go, we had sold only forty-four fares. Unless we sold the remaining fares, the individual cost of each ticket would be higher, and some people wouldn’t be able to go.
But Brother Ávila’s faith didn’t waver. He decided that if we couldn’t fill the bus with branch members, we would invite the rest of Mendoza Stake. So he and Brother Alejandro Suriano visited each of the wards and branches in the stake, leaving a small poster and inviting their members to join us.
What happened next proved to us that signs do follow those who believe. Interested people quickly came forward, and the unsold seats were soon gone. Some of these newcomers did not even live in the stake boundaries. Brother and Sister Freire were from the nearby Godoy Cruz Argentina Stake, and the five members of the Badami family were from Santiago del Estero province—more than 1,000 kilometers away.
As arrangements were finalized, there were three families who had prepared for the trip but could not pay the full cost. Thankfully, the money we had donated at our early meetings settled the balance. Now everything was in order.

The wind whirled flakes of fallen snow around the corner of Temple Square. Brother Arnold’s message still stirred in the corners of Faye’s thoughts: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto the least of these …” She pulled up the collar of her new, red suede coat, caressing it with her cheek. It didn’t prevent the wind from finding new pathways up the sleeves and under the hem. She shivered and hurried down the sidewalk, hugging the buildings closely to avoid the wind. The fresh odor of pine and spice spilled from the candy and furniture store doorways, blending in the street to form a sea of Christmas smells.
As she breathed in the aromas, she glanced at her watch. 9:25. It was getting late. Shivering again she thrust her hands inside her pockets and balanced her purse against her hip. As she gazed at a glittering array of diamonds in a jewelry store window, she came within inches of crashing into an old man who was huddled against the building. She tripped to avoid a collision and dropped her handbag. As she stooped to retrieve the purse, he stooped with her, grabbing it with bare, crooked fingers. The light from the streetlamp reflected eerily from the old man’s eyes like two flames in the dark. He smiled, and the glow revealed a broken tooth. Faye jerked back and covered her mouth.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Din’t mean ta scar ya so. Wouldja like ta buy a bright Christmas pencil?” he rasped in a scratchy voice, handing her the purse. She fumbled in her pocket and found a quarter she had put there for her little brother, Ronny. “Thank ya,” he said “and Meery Christmas.” He bowed low, extending an imaginary hat with his hand.
She stopped at the corner only a few yards away to await her bus, rested a hand on her pounding chest, and took a deep breath. Squeezing closely to the wall, she found herself engulfed in the shadow of a cafe marquee. Magnetically the old man pulled her eyes back to him. He crouched there in the doorway of the candy store in an oversized, earth-brown coat and scuffed logger boots. A black felt hat was pulled over his ears and held in place with a scarf tied under his chin. He shuffled back and forth against the building holding his metal box filled with pencils. The bare, gnarled hands alternately shifted the box and slipped inside his coat for warmth.
Faye had seen an old man like him many times as a child. He had stopped regularly at their door at Christmas and in the summer, each year appearing more wrinkled and more stooped in the shoulders. Her father dragged out old suits and shoes while her mother prepared sandwiches for him. Faye remembered shivering from fear in the corner behind the great folds of drapes, aghast at his long, spiney whiskers and the layers of flesh that hung loosely about his face.
Faye shivered now in the cold as she watched the people rush past the old man as store closing times approached. Many times his hand reached out, “Wouldja like ta buy …” and fell limply to his side.
A woman approached with her hair wound around her head in a beehive of braids and curls. She paused, and then grasping her bundles tightly, circled around the man huddled in the doorway, and hurried down the street.
The old man shuffled faster as he blew into the empty hand. Two gentlemen with briefcases hurried by. One in a double-breasted tweed coat spoke aloud to the other, gesturing in the air with his hand. “Be realistic, Walt. If I could anticipate a drop in the market,” he reached mechanically into his pocket, “I’d make us all a fast buck.” He flipped a silver coin, which sailed through the air and landed with a clink into the metal box and bounced out onto the ground near the scuffed logger boots. The gentleman’s stride never broke as the old man reached for a pencil and waved it noiselessly in the air. The briefcases shrunk in the distance. The old man turned, mumbling, and spat on the ground. He stared down at the coin for an instant and then stooped and picked it up. He grew smaller as he slumped into the doorway. The metal box scratched the cement as he placed it beside him, and he rubbed his gnarled hands together blowing warm breath into them. Faye looked down at her own gloved hands, straight and soft under the warm pigskin.
Her bus rolled up to the corner, and the doors slid open inviting her to return to the warmth of home. She started toward the bus, paused, and stared back over her shoulder at the old man. Brother Arnold’s voice echoed in her memory with a new clarity, “Inasmuch as ye do it …” She looked down at her watch. There would be another bus. She turned and marched down the street, disappearing into the dime store.
She chose some large leather gloves lined with fur and had them carefully gift wrapped with a gold bow on top.
Reappearing on the street, she couldn’t see the old man. Her eyes widened as they searched the sidewalk and finally caught sight of a dark figure at the crosswalk. She ran.
“Sir! Wait, sir!”
He looked over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised.
“Yes, sir, you. I have something for you,” and she handed him the package. His lips parted as he glanced down at the package and back up at Faye. His shaggy brows knitted together as he gazed at her through moistened eyes. He rummaged in his metal box until he found two bright, gold pencils and handed them to her. They searched each other’s faces as he stretched forth a tremulous hand and lightly touched her arm. For an instant the rough, earth-brown coat rested gently on the soft, red suede. Faye lowered her eyes. She suddenly pulled back her arm, turned and hurried toward the bus stop. She leaned her weight against the wind without shivering.

Géoffroy wanted to go on a mission. He didn’t have enough money, so he sold his farm. A few months later, he received a mission call to the Ivory Coast. He was the first missionary from Benin to get a mission call!
His dedication helped him for years. Because of his faith, and that of other members, many more people were baptized. His branch became a ward. That ward is now part of the first stake in Benin!
Géoffroy Koussemou continues to work hard and rely on God. He knows that great things can happen with God’s help.

After graduating from college and breaking away from these friends, I moved to Cambridge, Massachusetts, to work and live. I also began taking part-time graduate classes to determine what I wanted to study in graduate school and which school I might want to attend. As part of this process, I met with one of my professors to discuss graduate school options, and he suggested that I consider schools in Utah. I was not sure why my professor suggested Utah, but I did look at schools there and eventually decided to attend Utah State University. I can still remember landing at the Salt Lake City airport and driving to Logan for graduate school interviews. It felt good to be in Utah. After meeting with faculty and students there, I knew I wanted to move to Utah to attend graduate school. I did not realize it at the time, but I was again feeling the call of the Lord, this time to move to Utah and to begin my new life as a graduate student.

When I turned 18 and had graduated high school, I had an experience that strengthened my testimony of the Lord guiding me with His hand. I had also just graduated from seminary and was a little excited that I didn’t have to wake up early in the morning anymore. My bishop called me to his office and extended a calling for me to be an early-morning seminary teacher. I remember telling the bishop that I was too young for such a calling, I would be teaching my church friends that were almost my age. I felt inadequate, but I accepted the calling to serve. That meant I would have to wake up at 4:30 in the morning, prepare my lesson, and pick up some youth for seminary because they lived far from the chapel.

During that same time, one of the airlines in Brazil was hiring, and I wanted to apply so I could have the benefits to travel the world. Again, I was 18 and I had never stepped foot on an airplane before. One of the requirements for the job was to speak fluent English, and my English was not that great; it was really bad. I had never taken any classes besides the basic English classes in high school. There was no Duolingo or EnglishConnect at that time, but someone gave me some cassette tapes for a course to learn English.

As I prepared for the job interview and English tests required for the job, I would listen to those tapes all day long on my headphones and even in my sleep. I was determined I could learn something in my sleep. I remember praying to Heavenly Father to help me to learn the language so I could pass the written and listening tests and the face-to-face interview in English.

I decided I wasn’t going to apply to be a flight attendant because of the difficult work schedule, but instead I applied for an eight-to-five job at the airline’s ticket office so I could continue teaching seminary and attending college to continue my studies. Somehow, by some amazing miracle, I passed the test after studying for only a couple of weeks, and I was able to answer all the questions and hold a conversation in English during my face-to-face interview.

I got the job at the airline and started working there immediately after high school. This job would later have a great impact on my life. I worked full time at the airline during the day and attended industrial design classes at night. But after one semester, I realized that waking at 4:30 a.m. to teach seminary and getting home after midnight by city bus after my university classes wasn’t sustainable. Financially, this arrangement was also very hard because what I made working full-time was barely enough to pay for my college tuition. I was burned out, and I had to make a decision.

I had to either stop teaching seminary or quit school. Again, I offered a sincere prayer and asked Heavenly Father for His help and guidance. Going to college was one of my dreams, but I had a strong impression that I had to quit school so I could continue teaching seminary and working full-time.

I have experienced these compensating blessings throughout my life, but especially while working for the airline. It gave me the opportunity to travel to many countries. Some of my favorite places to visit were Asia and the Pacific. These travels, that I normally did on my own, allowed me to meet amazing people. They also allowed me to learn about so many cultures and traditions, especially in the Polynesian Islands, and I developed a tremendous love for these places. One of the very first trips I took was coming to Hawaii. I was so impressed by the incredible people I met here, and I remember driving through the North Shore and seeing the beautiful Laie Hawaii Temple. I was so fascinated and remember thinking that one day I would like to get married in this temple. I went to the temple distribution center to buy some temple clothes, and the worker there was a very nice lady. She found out it was my first time in Hawaii, and she told me I must go visit the BYU–Hawaii campus and the Polynesian Cultural Center. I knew about BYU in Provo, but I had no idea there was such a thing as BYU–Hawaii, and I had never heard about the Polynesian Culture Center. She told me her son worked at PCC, and he would get me discounted employee tickets to go. I met the incredible students working at the PCC and saw the bright light they had in their eyes and smiles. I knew for sure that this was a special place.

Then I came to BYU–Hawaii and I felt something different. I felt such a special spirit on this campus. I had a strong impression that I needed to come back to attend school here.

I knew that my parents couldn’t help me financially to go to school at BYU–Hawaii, but I went back home and worked at the airlines for five years, saving up as much as I could with the hope I could come back someday and attend school here. I also continued to teaching seminary classes for those five years, and I have to say that I never felt as close to Heavenly Father and to my Savior as I felt during those years that I prayed and studied the scriptures in depth to teach my friends at seminary.

After five years of saving money to come to school at BYU–Hawaii, I quit my job at the airlines and used my last standby ticket to come to school here. I also brought my younger sister with me to school, and we worked together as tour guides at the PCC until she left for her mission.

On my way here, I went to Utah to prepare and to take the TOEFL English proficiency test, which was one of the things I was missing for my college application. It was there that I met my eternal companion, and he followed me here. After two years of dating, we were married in the Laie Hawaii temple. After I graduated, he started his studies and also graduated from BYU–Hawaii. Now my two older kids are also students at BYU–Hawaii. One is on his mission in Brazil at the moment, but he will be back this Fall.

When I look back, brothers and sisters, I recognize these miracles, I see the Lord's Hands in my life. I know He was blessing me by getting that job that would literally bring me here and would help finance my education, helping me to learn English, and preparing me spiritually by teaching seminary and strengthening my testimony of the gospel and of my dear Savior Jesus Christ.

For the past few years I have had the privilege of home teaching with an ordained teacher part of the time and a priest with whom I am teaching at the present time. They make the appointments and take their turn in presenting and leading the discussions. The other day my home teaching companion called me and said that the head of one of the families we visit was in the hospital and suggested that we go to see him. We did and blessed him.

As you've heard from my introduction, I grew up in Samoa and life as a youngster was heaven. Our family didn't own a television set until I was about 8 or 9. We had only one large bedroom in our house and our whole family of 7 fit in there quite comfortably for many years. We found our sweets in the yard--in the guava tree, mango tree, vi tree, papaya tree and banana trees. We looked forward to our dad returning from his trips to America because it meant a suitcase full of clothes from D.I.-- our favorite store. One of my favorite toys was a homemade car that us children would build from wild hibiscus wood. We'd use the ends of empty mackerel cans for wheels and if we really wanted it be spectacular, we'd attach an empty can to the handle of the car, and light a small piece of dried coconut husk to put in it to create a smoking exhaust. Now those were extremely happy times for me.
Then things began to change. As I got older, I noticed those clothes from D.I. were all used and not brand new. I preferred to have ready-made dresses that I saw in the Sears catalog rather than sewing my own. One pair of jeans was no longer good enough for me. One of my favorite childhood activities was getting together with my brothers and sisters to slowly go through pages and pages of the Sears Christmas catalog to dream of actually owning all those things. I became increasingly aware of what I didn't have and it was emphasized even more as school teachers from America would come to Samoa on 3 year contracts and their children graciously shared their skateboards, brand new bikes and mini-hondas with us. It just wasn't the same as owning those things myself. I began comparing their perceived bushels of plenty to my cup of meager blessings.
Unfortunately, I started resenting the simple life in Samoa because my choices of material belongings was so limited and I thought it also limited my happiness. Because of my expectation that I deserved more than what I had, it blinded me to the many treasures that already surrounded me. This type of ingratitude, if not curbed, can lead to selfish behavior for anyone.

On March 18, 1833, God the Father and the Son also made a brief personal appearance to members of the School of the Prophets. Zebedee Coltrin left this testimony:

"At one of these meetings after the organization of the school, ... when we were all together, Joseph having given instructions, and while engaged in silent prayer, kneeling, with our hands uplifted each one praying in silence, no one whispered above his breath, a personage walked through the room from East to west, and Joseph asked if we saw him. I saw him and suppose the others did, and Joseph answered that is Jesus, the Son of God, our elder brother. Afterward Joseph told us to resume our former position in prayer, which we did. Another person came through; He was surrounded as with a flame of fire."

In the presence of this personage, Coltrin “experienced a sensation that it might destroy the tabernacle as it was of consuming fire of great brightness.” Joseph Smith identified this personage as “the Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.” On another occasion, Coltrin stated that as the Father passed through the room, the “glory and brightness was so great . . . that had it continued much longer, I believe it would have consumed us.”

One who caught the spirit of this work was Wilford Woodruff, and his journal is full of memories and details. Wilford Woodruff is the man who wrote in a journal almost every day for sixty-three years, thereby producing perhaps the most important single historical treasure we have in the Church. Why did he keep the journal? Because the Prophet admonished him to. By my estimate, more than two-thirds of what we have of firsthand records of Joseph Smith’s discourses and counsels to his brethren would have been lost had it not been for Wilford Woodruff’s makeshift shorthand and then staying awake, often till past midnight, transcribing his notes into readable English. In that journal Brother Woodruff recorded the Prophet’s announcement that the Saints could be baptized for the dead in the Mississippi River prior to the temple’s completion, but that there would come a time when the Lord would accept that no longer. They would have to do it in the temple. This privilege was received with great joy, and people flocked to the riverside to be baptized on behalf of departed relatives and friends. Not understanding at first, they were baptized without regard to gender—men for both men and women, and women for both men and women—and without a recorder present. But with the benefit of further thought and revelation, the Prophet was able to put this right, so that things were done in order, witnessed, and properly recorded.

When I was young, I believed in the God of Lost Things. I have several memories of frantically praying to Heavenly Father that we could find that one last library book, the one that was due today, because we couldn’t go to the library until we had found every book, and I was sure that I had literally looked everywhere. In retrospect, it is easy to look at the low stakes of the situation and see silliness in my frantic pleas. It is easy to explain away the fact that the book was always found eventually. Still, I have had a small handful of specific experiences in which I felt that an inconsequential prayer was answered in a way that was difficult for me to explain away. Not long ago, I watched my young son experience this for the first time himself when, after his simple prayer, we immediately located the keys we had been searching for for days. I do not know if these are answers to prayers, but at the times that they happened, it felt like God was reaching out to me in love.

A difficulty most of us face as we grow from childhood faith to adult faith is the question of why God would answer a prayer for lost keys but not answer prayers that are far more consequential: prayers about major life decisions, prayers for answers to perplexing questions, prayers for healing and recovery from terrible illness, or prayers for peace in a world beset by tragedy.

In spite of this, I still personally believe in a God of Lost Things. I believe that God sometimes answers those prayers not in spite of their inconsequence but because of it. I believe that an answer to a prayer about lost keys can be a message of love from our Heavenly Parents, who know that when it comes to matters of more consequence, we will struggle to see Their hands in our lives.

One valiant example of faith that I have looked to in my life is that of my great grandfather, Tahauri Hutihuti. Tahauri was born in 1884 on the very small atoll of Takaro of the Tuamotu Islands in French Polynesia.

When he was baptized in 1893 or even when he married Pipi Tehetu Tetoka in 1903, it may have never occurred to him that he might go to a temple one day. At the time, the only temples were still in Utah. Even the Laie Hawaii Temple was not dedicated until 1919.

Like many other people on Takaroa, Papa Tahauri, or Papa Ru’au, as my mom called him, was a pearl shell diver. After my great-grandmother died in 1927, Papa Tahauri started saving what he could from his meager earnings as a pearl shell diver so he could go to the temple to be sealed to his wife and children. Except for a very small number of members who had traveled to Hawaii to receive their endowments in English, no Tahitian had ever received the temple endowment in the Tahitian language.

Over the years, Papa Tahauri and his fellow Saints continued to save and make plans for a temple excursion, and the temple made plans for them. In 1958, a temple was dedicated in Hamilton, New Zealand. Additionally, the temple ceremony was translated into Tahitian by Edgar Bentley Mitchell, who had served as a missionary to Tahiti in the 1930s and later returned as the mission president in 1944.

In late 1963, 64 Saints, including my Papa Tahauri, had qualified themselves to enter the temple. Funds had been raised, and travel arrangements were made for the trip.

It was almost midnight on December 24, 1963, when the travelers first saw the temple lights as they arrived on the temple grounds there in New Zealand.

Christmas Day was spent in the temple, and my 84-year-old Papa Tahauri received his endowments that day. A few days later, he was sealed to his wife as well as to two sons and a daughter who had died.

It is reported that these Tahitian Saints spent nearly every waking hour in the temple until they returned home on January 5, 1964. An elder in the mission home recorded that day saying, “The members who returned from New Zealand today are literally radiant and beaming and filled with the spirit of the gospel. We know that they will be a real strength to our mission.” 2

Tahauri Hutihuti is who I think of when I realize that I am taking my temple attendance for granted. He was also the first person who came to my mind when I heard that the temples were closing because of COVID. I try to make sure that I am living my life in a way that would make him proud. His example and sacrifice push me to be a better disciple of Christ.

I’ve wondered if there were people, maybe acquaintances or even family members, who told my great grandfather he wouldn’t be able to do this. That he was too old. Or that it seemed like a crazy idea to have to travel that far. At one point, an earlier temple excursion had been arranged for the group to travel here to Laie. The plan was to sail to Hawaii on an old 80-foot sailboat that the Tahiti Mission used to travel between the branches on the outer islands. That temple trip was canceled when President David O. McKay sent word from Salt Lake City just before the scheduled departure date that the group should not make the voyage. I’m sure the Saints were very disappointed, but not long after, that boat sank in the Papeete harbor.

I am eternally grateful for those Tahitian Saints who didn’t let that setback—an actual sinking ship—be the end of that story.