Gospel Story Finder

Since childhood, Elder Carlos G. Revillo Jr. desired to serve a full-time mission. But in college, he decided to postpone his mission by a year to finish a five-year chemical engineering degree and pass national board certification exams. He landed in the top five in the board exams and received several good job offers from multinational companies.
“During that time, I had to ask myself, ‘Do I really want to serve a mission? Do I really know that Joseph Smith was a true prophet and that the Book of Mormon is true?’” Elder Revillo said. “I had to pray and really look at what I believed.”
Later he learned that his mother was praying and fasting for him. Elder Revillo said the Spirit touched his heart.
“My testimony was fully galvanized when I served a full-time mission,” he said. “All of the blessings that I have now I attribute to that critical decision.”

One of my favorite pioneer stories illustrates this protection principle. It is the story of a pioneer girl named Agnes Caldwell, who was in the Willie Handcart Company in 1856. At the time, she was only 9 years of age. As told in her own words, she related:
Although only tender years of age, I can yet close my eyes and see everything in panoramic precision before me—the ceaseless walking, walking, ever to remain in my memory. Many times I would become so tired and, childlike, would hang on the cart, only to be gently pushed away. Then I would throw myself by the side of the road and cry. Then realizing they were all passing me by, I would jump to my feet and make an extra run to catch up.
She goes on to share,
Just before we crossed the mountains, relief wagons reached us, and it certainly was a relief. The infirm and aged were allowed to ride, all able-bodied continuing to walk. When the wagons started out, a number of us children decided to see how long we could keep up with the wagons, in hopes of being asked to ride. At least that is what my great hope was. One by one they all fell out, until I was the last one remaining, so determined was I that I should get a ride. After what seemed the longest run I ever made before or since, the driver . . . called to me, “Say, sissy, would you like a ride?” I answered in my very best manner, “Yes sir.” At this he reached over, taking my hand, clucking to his horses to make me run, with legs that seemed to me could run no farther. On we went, to what to me seemed miles. . . . Just at what seemed the breaking point, he stopped. Taking a blanket, he wrapped me up and lay me in the bottom of the wagon, warm and comfortable. Here I had time to change my mind, as I surely did, knowing full well by doing this he saved me from freezing when taken into the wagon. [4]
Agnes Caldwell arrived safely in Salt Lake City on Nov. 9, 1856. She later married Chester Southworth and became a mother to 13 children.
Had the driver of that wagon taken Agnes into the wagon without making her run, she would have surely succumbed to the bitter cold. And had Agnes chosen to give up and fall behind, her story may have ended much differently. However, for Agnes this became her defining moment, and though the decision to run did not make perfect sense at the time, she ran anyway with grit, determination, faith, and hope.

I would like to offer a short story—a parable if you will.
The Caterpillar and the Butterfly
Here is my version of the parable of the caterpillar and the butterfly:
There were once two caterpillars, one brown and one green, who lived in the same tree and became extremely close friends. Each morning they would find each other and then settle down on a large leaf where they could eat and talk throughout the day. Munching on leaves in the cool shade of the tree, they were as happy as two friends could possibly be.
Then one morning the brown caterpillar awoke to find his friend missing. He crawled frantically from one branch to another looking for the green caterpillar, but his friend was simply nowhere to be found. Sad and lonely, the brown caterpillar finally gave up his search and selected a leaf to eat for breakfast. The next day and the day following that, the brown caterpillar spent each morning looking for his friend but with no success. Gradually he forgot about the green caterpillar altogether.
Then, one late afternoon just as the sun was setting, a beautiful butterfly landed on the same leaf where the caterpillar was resting. The caterpillar had, of course, seen butterflies before, but he had never been so close to one of these beautiful creatures. He couldn’t help but contrast the delicate body and wings of the butterfly with his own thick and clumsy appearance. To his surprise, the butterfly spoke to him.
“Oh, it’s so good to see you again, old friend!” said the butterfly.
“What?” responded the caterpillar in surprise. “Are you talking to me?”
“Well, of course I am,” responded the butterfly. “Don’t you recognize me?”
The caterpillar, puzzled and embarrassed, said: “I’m sorry, but I really don’t remember having met you before. Perhaps you’re mistaking me for someone else.”
“No, there is no mistake,” said the butterfly, “but I suppose that I have changed a lot and so I shouldn’t be surprised that you don’t recognize me anymore. I was once a green caterpillar, and you and I spent many days together in this very tree.”
Looking at the beautiful butterfly, the caterpillar was astonished and asked, “You were once my friend the green caterpillar? But how could that be? How could a caterpillar become a butterfly? That seems impossible.”
“Well, it wasn’t easy,” admitted the butterfly, “but when I was a caterpillar I always believed that I had the power to change if I really wanted to. And to tell you the truth, changing into a butterfly wasn’t even the hardest part. The hardest part was giving up being a caterpillar.”

Astrid and Jennifer, sisters, found the Church before the missionaries could find them. Jennifer was interested when she heard about the Church in a religion class at school and did some research. In the local library she found German translations of the Book of Mormon and William E. Berrett’s The Restored Church. She and Astrid read them together. Skeptically, they looked in the Bremen phone book to see if they could find a reference to this “American” church. They were pleasantly surprised to find a meetinghouse in their very own hometown. They wrote to the meetinghouse, asking how to go about joining this restored Church of Jesus Christ. Of course, we were glad to help.

On 27 June 1844 Elder Taylor, Elder Willard Richards, also of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, the Prophet Joseph Smith, and the Prophet’s brother Hyrum were in Carthage Jail awaiting word from the governor. While the four friends waited in prison, Elder Taylor sang the hymn “A Poor Wayfaring Man of Grief.” The mood was somber and melancholy. “Shortly Hyrum asked him to sing the song again, to which he replied:
“‘Brother Hyrum, I do not feel like singing.’
“‘Oh, never mind; commence singing and you will get the spirit of it.’
“Soon after finishing the song the second time, as he was sitting at one of the front windows of the jail, he saw a number of men, with painted faces. … The mob reaching the landing in front of the door, and thinking it was locked, fired a shot through the key hole. Hyrum and Doctor Richards sprang back, when instantly another ball crashed through the panel of the door and struck Hyrum in the face; at the same instant a ball … entered his back, and he fell exclaiming, ‘I am a dead man!’ …
“… Elder Taylor took his place next [to] the door, and with a heavy walking stick … parried the guns as they were thrust through the doorway and discharged. …
“… Streams of fire as thick as a man’s arm belched forth from the ever increasing number of guns in the door-way, yet calm, energetic and determined, Elder Taylor beat down the muzzles of those murderous guns.
“‘That’s right, Brother Taylor, parry them off as well as you can,’ said Joseph, as he stood behind him.”
But as the gunfire continued and more mobbers pushed their way up the stairs, Elder Taylor sprang for the open window.
“As [Elder Taylor] was in the act of leaping from the window, a ball fired from the door-way struck him about midway of his left thigh. He fell helpless on the window sill and would have dropped on the outside of the jail—when another shot from the outside, striking the watch in his vest pocket, threw him back into the room. … He drew himself as rapidly as possible in his crippled condition under the bedstead that stood near the window.
“While on his way three other bullets struck him; one a little below the left knee—it was never extracted; another tore away the flesh to the size of a man’s hand from his left hip and spattered the wall with blood and the mangled fragments; another entered the forepart of his left arm, a little above the wrist, and, passing down by the joint, lodged in the palm of his left hand.”
While he lay in pain, he heard the mob shout that the Prophet had leaped from the window.
“Dr. Richards … confirmed his worst fears—the Prophet was dead!
“‘I felt,’ says Elder Taylor, ‘a dull, lonely, sickening sensation at the news.’”12
Several days later, Elder Taylor discovered that one ball of shot, aimed at his heart, had smashed into the crystal of his pocket watch, preventing him from falling from the jail window. He said, “I felt that the Lord had preserved me by a special act of mercy; that my time had not yet come, and that I had still a work to perform upon the earth.”13

Spider pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped the perspiration from his brow. The hot afternoon sun was yellow white. He had spent the day traveling from house to house in the village, hoping to wheedle a dinner invitation. Alas! His neighbors, who were generally kind and generous, had grown weary of Spider’s shiftless, greedy ways.
“Well,” sighed Spider, “I suppose I shall have to prepare my own supper.”
He shuffled slowly to his cottage. Grumbling at every turn, he managed to put together a rather sumptuous dinner. Just as he sat down and drew his chair close to the table, he heard a rap at the door.
“What now?” mumbled Spider to himself. He opened the door a tiny crack to see a bedraggled turtle staring at him.
“Could you … would you … ,” began Turtle, standing on his hind legs and sniffing hungrily at the delicious aroma that floated through the doorway, “spare a bite for a weary traveler?”
Now Spider hated the thought of sharing anything with anybody, but he feared the ridicule of his neighbors if they should hear of his selfishness. So, reluctantly, he opened the door and nodded to an empty chair at the table. Turtle sat down gratefully and reached for the bowl of steaming yams and the platter of fish.
“Tsk, tsk, my friend,” said Spider loudly. “Where are your manners? Just look at your filthy hands! You must wash them before coming to my table.”
Turtle stared at his dusty paws. Mumbling apologies to his host, he waddled as fast as he could to the river. There he washed his hands thoroughly and scrubbed his face for good measure. As quickly as he could, he returned to Spider’s table. The dish of yams was half-gone, and several fish had been devoured. Eagerly Turtle reached again.
“Dear friend,” scolded Spider even more loudly. “You surely don’t call those hands clean!”
“But the dust from your path … ,” began Turtle. He stopped. He didn’t want to sound ungrateful. Slowly he rose from the table and waddled again to the river. On his return, however, he was careful to walk on the thick grasses so his hands would remain spotless.
Turtle climbed onto his chair only to see the last bite of fish passing Spider’s lips. The bowl of yams was licked clean.
“A delectable dinner, wouldn’t you agree?” said Spider, dabbing his mouth with his napkin.
“To be sure!” answered Turtle disgustedly. “If you are ever near my home, you must let me repay your hospitality.”
Some months later Spider wandered far from his village. Tired and hungry, he stopped beside a quiet river to rest. He spied Turtle sunning himself on a large rock. Spider called to his friend.
“Well, well,” said Turtle, smiling. “At last you have come. You will stay to supper, of course.”
“Of course,” answered Spider eagerly.
“Wait here,” said Turtle. “It will take a short while to prepare.” He disappeared beneath the water. Before long he popped to the surface, munching a juicy clam. “It’s ready,” he called to Spider.
Spider dived eagerly off the rock into the water. He sank a few inches but bobbed immediately to the surface. Try as he might, he simply couldn’t propel his spindly body to the bottom of the river. He flipped. He flopped. But nothing worked.
However, Spider was as cunning as he was greedy. He hurried to the riverbank and stuffed his jacket pockets with pebbles. This time when he jumped off the rock, he sank quickly and plopped right into a chair by Turtle’s table.
What a feast awaited him! On a bed of fresh watercress lay dozens of tiny fish. There were bowls of clams and mussels and a platter of warm eels. Hungrily Spider reached for them.
“Tsk, tsk,” said Turtle loudly. “Where are your manners? It is very rude to come to my table wearing your jacket. You must remove it at once.”
Greedy Spider didn’t stop to think. As quickly as he could, he took off his jacket. Without the weight of the pebbles, he shot to the surface of the river, barely missing a large rock in his ascent. The laughter of Turtle followed him. Realizing the lesson was deserved, Spider headed for his village, still tired and hungry, but much wiser.

I share with you a pattern that my wife used as we were called to serve in Brazil. She had no experience with Portuguese, other than the use of a few words or phrases. She thought she had accomplished something when she could go to McDonalds and order numero 1/number 1 by holding up one finger. She developed a few patterns of investment. She would read the Book of Mormon in Portuguese. From daily contact and conversation, she would write down new words or vocabulary. When she was going to give a talk in a meeting, rather than use an interpreter, she would write the talk in English, have someone translate the words into Portuguese, and then she would put the phonetics or the sounds above the words. She would then read the talk through her sounds and phonetics. She now understands the language very well and does a good job of speaking. The pattern and work blessed her.

I remember a particular period of my life when I was under unusual stress. There were troubles with my employment, and at the same time my wife was diagnosed with a life-threatening illness. This was one of those times when it felt like the adversary had mounted a frontal assault against me and my family. On days when the stresses and anxieties of our tumultuous life were about to get the best of us, my wife and I found a way to relieve them.
We drove to a place just a few miles from our home to get away for a few moments of relief from our troubles, talk, and give emotional comfort to each other. Our place was Walden Pond. It was a beautiful little pond surrounded by forests of trees. When my wife was feeling strong enough, we’d go for a walk around the pond. Other days, when she did not feel up to the exertion of walking, we’d just sit in the car and talk. Walden Pond was our special place to pause, reflect, and heal. Perhaps it was partly due to its history—its connection to the efforts of Henry David Thoreau to separate himself from worldliness for a period of years—that Walden Pond offered us so much hope for simplicity and provided such a renewing escape from our overly complex lives.

Gemma and her friend Harper sat under the tree in front of Gemma’s house. The tree was full of pink blossoms. It was a lovely day.
“Guess what?” Harper said. “My cousin is graduating from elementary school.”
Gemma picked at the grass. She wished she were graduating too.
“That’s cool, I guess,” she said.
“We are going to have a big family party to celebrate,” said Harper. “My cousin gets to go to middle school next year. He is so lucky!”
“My brother already went to middle school,” said Gemma.
“Did you know in middle school you get your own locker?” Harper asked.
“Yes, I know!” Gemma said. “I just told you—my brother already went to middle school.” Why does Harper keep bragging? Gemma thought. She’s not giving me a chance to say anything!
“And gym! They get to go to gym every day,” Harper said. “My cousin said—”
“Harper, I don’t care what your cousin said,” Gemma said. “I already know all about middle school.”
Harper stared down at the blossoms that had fallen from the tree. Gemma’s face felt hot. She didn’t know what to do or say.
At last Gemma stood up. She brushed the dirt off her pants and ran into her house.
Why did she get so mad? Harper didn’t do anything wrong. Gemma sat on the edge of her bed and took a deep breath. She wished she hadn’t said that to Harper. It hadn’t been kind at all.
She looked at her desk and saw a peach-colored binder with shiny hearts. It was the baptism book her mom had made. Inside were pictures from her life and notes from family and friends. She grabbed the binder and flipped through the pages.
She noticed one note. It read, “I want you to know that Heavenly Father is proud of your choice to be baptized. When you make mistakes and repent, He will forgive you. Repentance is a good thing!”
Gemma took a deep breath. The way she treated Harper was not a good choice. But she knew what to do now.
She ran outside and sat down by Harper. Harper looked down.
“I’m sorry for what I said. I shouldn’t have been so rude,” Gemma said.
Harper looked up. “That’s OK. I know you didn’t mean it. Thanks for saying sorry.” She gave Gemma a blossom that had fallen from the tree.
That night, Gemma told Mom what had happened. “Harper forgave me,” Gemma said. “But I still need to repent to Heavenly Father. Will you help me?”
“Of course,” Mom said. She gave Gemma a big hug. “Do you want to pray about it right now?”
Gemma and Mom knelt down.
“Dear Heavenly Father,” Gemma prayed, “I’m sorry I was so mean to Harper. I want to repent and do better.”
Gemma felt good inside as she prayed. She was glad she could fix things with Harper. And with Heavenly Father. Repentance was a good thing!
This story took place in the USA.
How do you feel when you repent?

Now, I get pretty tender on this point. I served as a lonely soldier in a great conflict some years ago. I just think somehow you and I and your children have got to get the lump back in the throat when we see the flag, when we hear our national anthem, when we read about our history and review the great contributions of this country and its preparation by the Lord himself. I mentioned this briefly in my conference talk last week. The situation is still very forcefully upon my mind. I recall helping to shoot a lock off a concentration camp on an island in the Pacific. Because we are in devotional and have ladies present I won’t attempt to describe the filth and the misery, the pain and the muck I saw there. Three thousand people had been incarcerated for over three years. Over thirty babies had been born that year alone—all with terrible malnutrition and disease. As I was helping to evacuate these natives back to a safe part of the beach where medical aid and comfort could be given, I was interrupted by a thump on my boot. I looked down, and wallowing in the mud was a human being. I later learned he was a sixty-seven-year-old Protestant minister who had been trapped on the island during the invasion. He was 6?1? and weighed 85 pounds. We got him on a stretcher and cleaned the mud off his face, and I asked what I could do to help. As we were preparing for evacuation (I’ll never forget this lesson in American history), he said, “Soldier, do you have a flag?”

I said, “I don’t have one on me, but I can secure one.” We secured one from a local jeep, I handed it to him, and he held it on his bosom and welled up with tears. He said to me (I was nineteen years old at the time), “Thank God you came.” I have often thought, as I looked through my daughter’s history book, “Where is that kind of feeling—that ‘Thank God you came’?” I saw one battle in which I took part described in a U.S. history book for eleventh grade, and it gave us two lines. That kind of hurts my feelings—not because I was so important out there, but I saw the price that some of my buddies paid for those two lines in your history book. I hope you have the sense to instill in your youth, your children, the desire for patriotism in defense of this country and love of God with it, because it’s important. I think your precept here will be important, and how you do it and the way you do it will make the difference in the outcome of this great nation of ours.

A few years later, when I was director of budget at another Air Force Base, Colonel Rothman, the Deputy Commander, called me into his office one day to discuss budget matters. In military style, I formally reported to his office with a salute. "Captain Russell, reporting as ordered sir. "He invited me to be seated. "Captain, may I get you a cup of coffee?" "No, thank you, Sir" I replied. "How about a cup of tea?" "No, Sir, I don't drink tea." "Well, Captain, it's only ten in the morning and I am not going to offer you a beer!" I smiled and said, "No, Sir, I don't drink beer either." Colonel Rothman was wearing these funny-looking half-frame reading glasses. He tipped his head down, looked above his lenses, and in an artificially gruff voice said, "Are you a Mormon?" I swallowed hard and said, "Yes, sir." He broke into a smile, stood up, stretched forth his hand to shake mine and said, "Good for you, Captain. I have never met a Mormon that wasn't a fine officer."

These experiences and many others manifested to me that Latter-day Saints, with their standards, maintain a separate identity when we are out in the world. I have consistently found that the Word of Wisdom is a behavioral emblem, an identifying mark, that facilitates our being identified as people with very high standards. The Word of Wisdom is a badge of separateness that sets us apart from the world.

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

In 2016, Jayne Kyprianou was serving in the stake Primary presidency of the Poole Stake. After hearing Elder Kearon’s April 2016 talk, “Refuge from the Storm”1, the Primary presidency wanted to do something to help refugee children who were arriving in their area.
After a lot of prayer and discussion, they ended up hosting an online auction and a cake sale. They beat their goal of raising £500, by raising almost £1,800.
The money raised was used to buy items for educational packs for the refugee children. These would be packed by stake Primary children in a forthcoming Primary conference.
During that time, the stake public affairs directors, Brother Roger Head and Sister Moira Head, began to have contact with Unity in Vision, Bournemouth, a voluntary group founded by members of ethnic minorities.
Unity in Vision was invited to attend the stake’s Primary conference, and this was the start of a great working relationship between the Church and Unity in Vision.
Following this, the stake became involved in hosting monthly lunches at Bournemouth Chapel, refugees cooking the meals and practicing their English as they did so. The lunches were open to the local community.
These lunches involved not just people from Unity in Vision, but also representatives of the Westbourne Rotary Club (a local branch of the global Rotary organisation of volunteers). Through the work of Greg Singleton, of Westbourne Rotary Club, funding and grants were awarded to help with the lunches and to put on an educational course for refugees and asylum seekers.

Father and I are ready to leave in the morning to join the Saints. Uncle Samuel came today all the way from Avery to persuade Father to give up Mormonism. My dearest cousin, Lydia, came with him. I haven’t seen Lydia since Mother’s funeral. Lydia told me that I needn’t go with Father. I could live with her family. She said Father had been deluded and led astray by the Mormons.
I told Lydia that I also believed the Mormon church is the only true church on earth.
She said, “But that Joseph Smith is dead now. Father said he was possessed by devils!”
My heart hurt when I heard those words. “No,” I told her, “Joseph Smith was a prophet just like the prophets in the Bible. I know this is true!”
Lydia stared at me. “I feel sorry for you. I guess we’ll never see each other again.”
Am I going to be without friends for the rest of my life?

As usual, my brother and I were sent to our room until Granddad had settled in. Stu was ten, and I was six. And it didn’t take my older brother long before he found something to keep himself busy—tormenting me. He decided he was going to scare me. First he tried making faces, but that didn’t work. So he shut me in the closet, and that scared me so much I pushed myself out and ran downstairs crying.

Granddad sat me on his knee and listened to what had happened.

“Hmmm?” he sighed. “Sounds like Stu could learn a thing or two,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes.

Then I watched as he sneaked quietly up the stairs to our bedroom. Granddad waited outside the door until Stu turned out the lights and climbed into bed. With a mighty cry, Granddad jumped in and showed my brother just how it felt to be really scared.

After that, Stu slept with a night-light for a while.

That’s when I started to realize that my granddad was an original.

About 15 years ago I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. Four years later my health was steadily declining, and I was using a wheelchair. I felt extremely frustrated by my condition because for my entire life, I had been very active.
About that time I went to a conference in Dundee, Scotland, attended by President Thomas S. Monson, then a counselor in the First Presidency. Following the meeting, a member approached me.
“Brother Sharkey?”
“Aye?”
“Come down to the front to see President Monson.”
I had no intention of doing that, but a few minutes later the man returned.
“Brother Sharkey,” he said, “President Monson is waiting to see you.”
“But he doesn’t know me,” I replied.
“Even so, he is waiting to see you. He has heard about your illness.”
I agreed and went to see President Monson. He greeted me warmly and asked whether I would like a priesthood blessing. I told him I would.
We found a room, and President Monson asked whom I would like to anoint me. I asked if we could send for my bishop. When someone left to find him, one of President Monson’s traveling companions reminded him that if they didn’t leave soon, they would not make it to the Edinburgh airport on time.
President Monson smiled and, referring to himself and to me, responded, “When you’re our age, you learn to prioritize. We’ll be there in time.”
When my bishop arrived, he and President Monson administered to me. The blessing President Monson gave me was not a blessing of healing; it was about managing my condition and its accompanying ailments. It was also a blessing for my family to be able to help me in managing my disease.
Now, a decade later, I still have Parkinson’s, but at age 74 I am doing well. I have indeed found ways to manage my illness. I feel good, and I have not used a wheelchair since the day I received the blessing. My doctor calls me his “star patient.”
I will always be grateful to President Monson for his kindness in speaking to and blessing a man he didn’t know. But I’ll also be grateful for what he taught me about using the priesthood.
We hold different keys and offices in the Church, but we hold the same priesthood. President Monson’s kind act taught me that the priesthood isn’t about who holds it but about how we use it to bless the lives of Heavenly Father’s children.

One day I came home tired from work and threw myself on our lower bunk bed. Looking up, I saw a paper posted under the bed above me. It said: “I Know That My Redeemer Lives!” My brother Jonathan had put it there. How close children are to the heavens that even a Primary child can be an instrument in sending a message from God to comfort a troubled heart and mind!

This testimony sustained me when I realized I just couldn’t provide for our needs and we had to leave our home. Jonathan was taken to live with my mother’s side of the family, but Ephraim and I chose to stay with our other grandparents because they were Church members. In their home we arose early to do chores before school and then cared for our grandfather late into the night. It was exhausting. However, the Lord was mindful of us, and we stayed close to the Church.

Now, years later, I still have the picture of those words from above my bed in my heart and mind. That message has helped my brother Ephraim and me in our years of service as full-time missionaries and in striving now to live celestial marriages.

When I was twelve, two things of great significance occurred in my life.
I became a Boy Scout. We did not have the Cub Scout program then, and a boy had to be twelve to be a Scout. This was 1922, only nine years after the Church adopted the Scout program. I lived in a very large ward by today’s standards. There were more than eleven hundred people in that ward. We had a large troop, and we met in the cultural hall of the old First Ward. We made a lot of noise. The floors were of hardwood; the walls were hard and smooth, and the sound bounced around them. Our Scoutmaster had a whistle which he blew frequently to get order.
I filled out an application and paid the fifty-cent registration fee, which seemed like a lot of money at the time. I learned the Scout motto: “Be Prepared.” I learned the Scout slogan: “Do a Good Turn Daily.” I learned the Scout Oath: “On my honor I will do my best to do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law; to help other people at all times; to keep myself physically strong, mentally awake, and morally straight.”
I learned the Scout Law: “A Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, reverent.” (We said it just about that fast.) And when we recited the law, one of the boys always added, “A Scout is hungry.” I think it was literally true. He came from a very large family, and getting enough to eat was always a challenge.
When I was twelve, I also became a deacon in the Aaronic Priesthood. My name was presented to the entire congregation of our ward. Everyone was asked to sustain me if they felt me worthy of the office. All hands in the large congregation went up. I was honored to think that all of the members of my ward raised their hands in my behalf.
Then two men, good and true and faithful—one of them my father—placed their hands upon my head and conferred upon me the Aaronic Priesthood and ordained me to the office of deacon. I did not have any oath, slogan, motto, or law to memorize in connection with this. But I did memorize section 13 of the Doctrine and Covenants, and I have remembered it ever since. These are the words of an angel. They are the words of John the Baptist when he conferred the Aaronic Priesthood upon Joseph Smith and Oliver Cowdery on May 15, 1829:
“Upon you my fellow servants, in the name of Messiah I confer the Priesthood of Aaron, which holds the keys of the ministering of angels, and of the gospel of repentance, and of baptism by immersion for the remission of sins; and this shall never be taken again from the earth, until the sons of Levi do offer again an offering unto the Lord in righteousness.” [D&C 13]
Unlike Scouting, we did not have one large deacons quorum that met in the cultural hall. Rather, we were divided into four quorums, with up to twelve boys in each. I thought it was a good arrangement because there were fewer of us in a group, with less noise and a more intimate relationship between us and our priesthood leader. I later learned that this number had been wisely designated by the Lord in revelation. He said, “And again, verily I say unto you, the duty of a president over the office of a deacon is to preside over twelve deacons, to sit in council with them, and to teach them their duty, edifying one another” (D&C 107:85).

As I reflect on service-oriented, servant leaders who have been examples along my path, my heart swells with gratitude for families who took me in as their own when I was far from home. My last semester at BYU, I had an opportunity to teach middle and high school mathematics at the LDS Technical College (now the Fiji LDS Church College). Aunty Irene and Uncle Meli Lesuma, who had known me since I was a little child growing up at TVA, were living in Suva at the time. They immediately welcomed me into their family home along with their children and Nana who taught me how to love the Lord, how to make Fijian curry and roti, and even how to iron my white blouse with starch! When Nana saw my first attempt at ironing, she said, “I will show you how and then you can do it. You are teaching the Lord’s children; you can not have wrinkles in your blouse.” Through their daily examples at work, church, and home, I saw what it meant to embody the hymn “Lord, I would Follow Thee”.

Tui M., 12
When I perform, I don’t feel nervous. I feel a thrill. I’ve learned that even if I mess up, I can turn it into something beautiful. It’s almost like painting. When a painter makes a mistake, they might make it into something new. Sometimes I drop my fireknife, but I pick it back up and keep dancing.
Self-encouragement has helped me a lot with my fears. Instead of having thoughts like, “What if I mess up?” I try to have more thoughts like, “Well, what if I do good!”
It’s also become a routine for me to say a small prayer every time before a fireknife performance. Praying protects me and helps me have a good dance. When I pray, I feel confident that I’m going to do good.