Gospel Story Finder

As a new Freshman at Ricks College, back in the year 1971, I was assigned an advisor just as the practice is now. I was told to meet with my advisor often and take advantage of the opportunity to learn and grow from his vast experience. However, upon seeing the assignment of my advisor, I shied away from this opportunity and only met with him the required time each semester. Despite his offering to come to visit with him often, I rejected the opportunities. I now regret and wish I had taken advantage of a lost privilege. I wonder what lost opportunities of a personal relationship with that advisor and counsel I might of enjoyed, if I had but entered the open doors of invitation. My advisor was the newly appointed president, now an Apostle, Elder Henry B. Eyring. What was lost during those first years at Ricks will never be regained, other than a lesson taught to seize the moments of privilege and opportunity, for we can never realize the magnitude of opportunities while they are seeds, only after they are planted, watered, and nurtured by faith and works. Perhaps part of my repentance requires a payment of counsel and advice to you this day. My desire is that not one of you cheat yourself, as did I.

One morning Samantha asked her mother if she could go over to Brother Brown’s house to help pull weeds in his garden.
“Of course you may,” Samantha’s mother replied. “Just be home before noon. I’m sure that Brother Brown will like your help.”
Samantha found Brother Brown in his garden. “Hi, Brother Brown,” Samantha said. “I came to help you.”
“I’m glad to see you, Samantha,” Brother Brown said. “There are lots of weeds to pull.”
Samantha pulled weeds in the carrots. She pulled weeds in the beets. Then she pulled weeds in the corn.
“You’re a wonderful helper,” said Brother Brown. “Come into the garage, and I’ll show you some other helpers.”
Samantha went into Brother Brown’s garage. “See that box,” said Brother Brown. “My other helpers are inside it. They help me get rid of little bugs that would ruin my garden.”
Samantha wondered what was in the box. She picked it up—it felt empty! Surprised, she took the lid off the box. Ten thousand ladybugs were crawling all over each other. Some of them flew out of the box. There were ladybugs on the car. There were ladybugs on the windows. There were ladybugs on the workbench and the walls and the rafters. There were ladybugs everywhere.
“Oh—oh,” said Brother Brown. “I forgot to tell you not to take the lid off the box until we took it outside.”
Brother Brown and Samantha carried the ladybugs that hadn’t already escaped out to the garden. Then they left the garage door open to let the rest of the tiny creatures out into the yard. And before noon most of the ladybugs were out in the garden, eating the little bugs that were eating the vegetables.
Brother Brown was very happy as he and Samantha looked over the garden. “I have the best helpers in the world,” said Brother Brown. “A wonderful young lady and ten thousand ladybugs can’t be beat!”

Every summer the Monson family spent two months at the family cabin on the Provo River. Tommy Monson learned to swim in the river’s swift currents. One warm afternoon when Tommy was about 13, he grabbed a big, inflated inner tube and floated down the river.
That day a large group of people had gathered at a picnic area by the river to eat and play games. Tommy was about to float through the fastest part of the river when he heard the frantic cries, “Save her! Save her!” A young girl had fallen into the treacherous whirlpools. None of the people on shore could swim to save her.
That’s when Tommy appeared on the scene and saw the girl’s head disappear under the water. Tommy stretched out his hand, grasped the girl by her hair, and then lifted her over the side of the inner tube. Then Tommy paddled to the riverbank. First, the family threw their arms around the girl, kissing her and crying. Then they began hugging and kissing Tommy. He felt embarrassed by all the attention, and he quickly returned to his inner tube.
As Tommy continued his float down the river, he was filled with a warm feeling. He realized that he had helped save a life. Heavenly Father had heard the cries, “Save her! Save her!” He made it possible for Tommy to float by at exactly the time he was needed. That day Tommy learned that the sweetest feeling is to realize that God, our Heavenly Father, knows each one of us and allows us to help Him save others.

One first noticed the dark glasses and the deep scars on his face. Then came an awareness that he had no hands; only stubs protruded from the sleeves of his coat. Soon it also became apparent that this man was blind. The dark glasses did not protect his eyes from the sun, for he had no eyes. Instead they spared others the shock of seeing only gaping holes where his eyes once had been.
This man, Cory Hanks, visited our home in Phoenix, Arizona, when I was a boy. Having been a university classmate, my father had invited him to dinner to visit and to reminisce. On entering the home, he was taken through all the rooms and made acquainted with the location of the doors and furniture. Thereafter, he moved about as if he could see. At dinner, my mother put all his food on one plate. A bracelet with a spoon attached was then slipped over one of his arms which enabled him to feed himself. We learned that special clothing with snaps instead of buttons and zippers enabled him to dress himself. At the time of his visit, he was a noted lecturer who traveled extensively, usually alone. He trusted clerks, waiters, or travel agents to take the right amount of money from his wallet to pay for any purchase. By asking how much was in his wallet, he knew whether the last person had been honest. He exuded an air of confidence and self-possession and an uncomplaining acceptance of the terrible handicaps with which he lived.
We learned, however, he had not always acted this way. There was a time when he tried desperately to commit suicide. There were also times when, rebelling against his fate, he was either wild and ungovernable or withdrawn and morose. On learning the circumstances of the terrible accident which had blinded and maimed him, one could sympathize with such conduct.
The tragedy occurred at a remote mine high in the mountains. Young Cory was working there through the summer to earn money to continue his education at the university. A rain the night before had dampened the dynamite caps used in blasting. As Cory laid them out in the sun to dry they exploded, mangling his hands and ripping his eyes and face. A companion, hearing the explosion ran to Cory to find him covered with blood and writhing on the ground. With no means of getting him off the mountain alone, the companion tied tourniquets around the stubs of his arms to prevent Cory from bleeding to death and ran for help. Regaining consciousness while his friend was gone and realizing he was blind and had no hands, the wounded miner tried to tear the tourniquets off with his teeth so he would bleed to death. Help came before he succeeded.
There followed a long period of anguish, pain, and self-pity. Cory thought his usefulness was ended, and he could see no purpose in living. He was disagreeable, angry, and argumentative, making himself and everyone around him miserable and unhappy.
But in time, a remarkable change occurred in him. It began when he realized that although he had suffered a terrible disability, he still had resources which, if used properly, would enable him to live happily and productively. It began when he discovered that his mind was unimpaired and that by using it and diverting his thoughts in proper channels, his actions and outward circumstances could be altered accordingly. This change led him back to the university and, ultimately, to a rewarding life of lecturing and travel.

When I was young, my two older sisters faced some very serious heart challenges. Julie Ann inherited hers at birth. Kimberly's developed later in her childhood. Their conditions were unrelated to each other, but both impacted the heart. Here is a picture of these two angel sisters.
Neither of them won their battles--but what a legacy of love they both left behind. Before long, doctors became concerned that some genetic tendencies may have been passed down to me and my younger sisters.
They felt it would be wise to do some testing on the siblings. I recall being pulled out of school and taken to a children's hospital about an hour's drive away. They conducted a series of extensive and rigorous tests on my heart. I was fascinated with all the equipment and monitors. The burning question on my young boy's mind was, "Doctor, how's my heart?" Fortunately, they found all to be well.

Let me share an example of how this rippling begins and reverberates when one righteous Latter-day Saint woman acts upon her knowledge that Jesus is the Christ and the gospel has been restored.
In 1841, Dan Jones, a Welsh immigrant, was the captain of one of the smallest registered boats carrying people and freight on the upper Mississippi River. It seems more than coincidence to me that his boat was named the Ripple. Among his passengers were members of an obscure “new” church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
During his journeys Dan Jones began to hear criticisms of these “Mormons.” Because he had ferried many of them, he had talked with them and observed their behavior. He found them to be good people—kind, honest, and hardworking. The negative comments and writings about these people did not match up with what he had experienced in his dealings with them.
“Through a careful investigation of the accusations,” he later wrote, “I perceived clearly that it was impossible for them to be true, either because … they overstated the case or … contradicted themselves” (quoted in Ronald D. Dennis, “Dan Jones, Welshman,” Ensign, Apr. 1987, 50).
One significant event in particular propelled Dan Jones from a careful observer to an active investigator of the Church. He wrote this: “Purely by accident, there fell into my hands … a letter which [Emma Smith] had written. … I shall never forget the feelings which that … letter caused me to have. I perceived clearly that not only did [she] believe the New Testament, the same as I—professing the apostolic faith, and rejoicing in the midst of her tribulations at being worthy to suffer all … for a testimony of Jesus and the gospel—but also it contained better counsel, more wisdom, and showed a more … godly spirit than anything I had ever read!” (Ensign, Apr. 1987, 50, 52).
Inspired by Emma’s words and example, Dan Jones sought to learn more about this church. In 1843 he was baptized in the Mississippi River and became one of the most influential missionaries in the history of the Church, bringing hundreds of people to the gospel in his native Wales. In a very literal way, Emma Smith’s influence continues to ripple through generations. Who can say how many hundreds, even thousands of the descendants of those Dan Jones introduced to the gospel may be listening to this meeting at this very hour?

It was my first Sunday as a member of the teachers quorum. I had served as a deacon for two years, and now I was ready for new challenges.
My first assignment was to stand by the doors during the sacrament. Our building had an entry at the rear of the chapel with a set of glass-paned double doors. As the sacrament was being passed, two of the teachers would stand at the doors to discourage unnecessary traffic that would disturb the reverence of the ordinance.
To me, this assignment was a sign of acceptance. Such a visible responsibility showed that I had the trust of the teachers quorum. I eagerly took my place at the back of the chapel. As our ward members began filing into the chapel, several of the other teachers stopped to shake my hand and offer words of welcome. It was a thrilling time for me. I was now one of the “big” boys. I felt much more grown up than I had just the week before when I had been only a deacon.
Shortly before the sacrament meeting began, someone in the deacons quorum realized there were only five of them. They needed six to pass the sacrament. The deacons quorum president came to the back of the chapel and asked if one of us could help. It really only took one teacher to watch the doors. In fact, as a deacon I had often asked the teachers to help pass the sacrament.
This time, however, I was concerned that I wouldn’t be able to perform my new role on my first Sunday as a teacher. I told the deacons quorum president to buzz off and find someone else. He gave me a disappointed look and returned to his seat by the sacrament table.
During the opening hymn he returned and asked for help again. This time I was ready. I looked at him with a triumphant smile and said, “You are the president of the quorum. I think you should get busy and activate some of those who don’t come every Sunday. Then you wouldn’t have to come back here begging for help.” I felt pretty smug. I was glad no one mentioned that I had been the deacons quorum president only one week before.
Finally it came time for the sacrament. How would the deacons pull this off? There would be confusion because there weren’t enough of them to fill all the assignments. The deacons lined up in front of the sacrament table. Sure enough, there was a vacant space. The priests finished breaking the bread. It was almost time for the sacrament prayer.
I was shocked when my bishop stood up and filled the vacant space. My bishop! A man I admired and wanted to please. He led the tiny band of deacons as they passed the sacrament to the congregation. In full view of the ward he passed the bread to everyone seated on the stand. Then he stepped off the stand and began serving those in the middle part of the chapel, in the same pattern any deacon would have done. He reverently walked back to the sacrament table and repeated the assignment with a tray of water.
At the end of the sacrament service, Bishop Cook stepped to the pulpit and spoke of the sacred ordinance of the sacrament and the importance of the Aaronic Priesthood. No one else knew he was speaking to me when he said, “I hope all of our young men will be willing to fulfill any priesthood assignment given them, even if it seems small or unimportant.”
Many times since then I have been grateful for a powerful lesson taught by a loving bishop. I am humbled that those who hold the priesthood are given the privilege of participating in the holy ordinance that reminds us of the atoning sacrifice of the Savior and allows us to renew our sacred baptismal covenants.

In fact, God will do more than what is best for us. He will do what is best for us and for all of our Heavenly Father’s children. The conviction that the Lord knows more than we do and that he will answer our prayers in the way that is best for us and for all of his other children is a vital ingredient of faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. This important reality is beautifully described in an experience recorded in Elder John H. Groberg’s recent book, In the Eye of the Storm. He describes a lesson he learned as a young missionary traveling on a sailboat in the Tongan islands.
“We would always pray for protection, success, and good seas and wind to take us to our destination. Once I asked the Lord to bless us with a good tail wind so we could get to Foa quickly. As we got under way, one of the older men said, ‘Elder Groberg, you need to modify your prayers a little.’
“‘How’s that?’ I replied.
“‘You asked the Lord for a tail wind to take us rapidly to Foa. If you pray for a tail wind to Foa, what about the people who are trying to come from Foa to Pangai? They are good people, and you are praying against them. Just pray for a good wind, not a tail wind.’
“That taught me something important. Sometimes we pray for things that will benefit us but may hurt others. We may pray for a particular type of weather, or to preserve someone’s life, when that answer to our prayer may hurt someone else. That’s why we must always pray in faith, because we can’t have true, God-given faith in something that is not according to His will. If it’s according to His will, all parties will benefit. I learned to pray for a good wind and the ability to get there safely, not necessarily a tail wind” (Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1993, p. 175).

I testify that I know victims of serious abuse who have successfully made the difficult journey to full healing through the power of the Atonement. After her own concerns were resolved by her faith in the healing power of the Atonement, one young woman who had been severely abused by her father requested another interview with me. She returned with an older couple. I could sense that she loved the two very deeply. Her face radiated happiness. She began, “Elder Scott, this is my father. I love him. He’s concerned about some things that happened in my early childhood. They are no longer a problem for me. Could you help him?” What a powerful confirmation of the Savior’s capacity to heal! She no longer suffered from the consequences of abuse, because she had adequate understanding of His Atonement, exercised sufficient faith, and was obedient to His law. As you conscientiously study the Atonement and exercise your faith that Jesus Christ has the power to heal, you can receive the same blessed relief. During your journey of recovery, accept His invitation to let Him share your burden until you have sufficient time and strength to be healed.

In one of my history courses recently, we watched a film on a particular village in Samoa. Although the film was informative, I learned much more in our discussion afterward from a student who grew up in that village. Although she was reluctant to speak at first, I am so glad that she did because her knowledge of the culture and history far exceeded my own, and she helped students learn first-hand from an insider perspective. This is not a unique experience at this university. In fact, this happens quite often in my courses, where a student has the expertise and inside knowledge on a subject discussed in class.

After making a career move to New York City, I was out shopping one December evening for items for my new apartment. A storm had recently hit the city, and knee-deep snow lined the streets. I was bundled up in a warm down coat as I made my way to the train with a bustling crowd of holiday shoppers.
I waited impatiently for the train to arrive, thinking about my shopping list. When the train finally arrived, I stepped onto the car, scanning the seats for a place to sit. The nearest seat was directly across from an old homeless man. He had no warm coat or heavy clothing. He just had some plastic bags filled with trinkets.
I did not want to sit near his offensive odor, and his rugged appearance made me wonder if he was dangerous. Mostly, I did not want to be hit up for cash. I abruptly walked to the other end of the car and took a seat. All the other passengers also filed to the end of the car, leaving the man alone.
Soon a young man boarded the train and settled down in the seat directly in front of the homeless man. Without hesitation, the young man extended a welcoming smile, a handshake, and a jolly hello. The man’s face brightened, and they began a pleasant conversation. They talked for the next 15 minutes, enjoying each other’s company.
As I watched, I was reminded of the true spirit of the Christmas season. While deeply engaged in conversation, the young man stood up and removed his vest, shirt, and a second long-sleeve shirt he was wearing underneath. Standing in his undershirt, he then handed the long-sleeve shirt to the homeless man. The old man accepted it graciously, and the two continued their conversation. I stepped off the train at the next stop, touched by the young man’s kindness. I felt guilty for my selfishness, but I had a desire to be a better person.
The King of kings came into the world in the most humble of circumstances, in a lowly stable. The world was given a precious, saving gift—the Son of God. I am grateful for the gift of the Savior in my life and for the reminder of His infinite love and compassion for God’s children. That Christmas season, I felt a renewed desire to be kinder, more selfless, and more like my Savior, Jesus Christ.

I guess everybody at some time longs to feel important and to do something that will be remembered by the people of the world—something that will change the course of history and become legendary because of its momentous impact on society. At least that’s the way I felt when I was a teenager.
Of course, I could dream of being rich and famous, or of making a major scientific discovery, or of being the first woman on the moon or in the White House, but somehow I knew those things were not within the realms of probability. At least not for me.
I was not exactly what you might call an outstanding person. I don’t really remember standing out in anything, except maybe the rain. I was a great follower, but never a leader. I knew I’d never be class valedictorian or win any contests or talent shows, and I was too uncoordinated in sports to excel. It’s not that I didn’t try or didn’t care. I was just shy and lacked self-confidence. So how could a person like me possibly make a difference?
I asked my mother what she thought. She said getting through the school year without getting any C’s on my report card would certainly make a difference when it came time for me to go to college. I knew she was right, but that wasn’t the kind of thing I had in mind. I thought of rewriting the school constitution or taking a petition around for people to sign, but I couldn’t think of what to change in the constitution or what to petition for.
When I finally started to run out of ideas and hope, I turned to the Lord. I asked him to help me find something that wouldn’t take any special talents or qualifications, but would help me feel I was making a worthwhile contribution. Nothing earth-shattering just something suited to my capabilities.
It wasn’t long afterwards that I got this genius idea. It was so right for me that I knew it had to be inspired—I never would have thought of it myself. The idea was that I should get to know people’s names—everyone that I came in contact with on a regular basis—and greet them by name whenever I saw them.
I started with my own neighborhood and learned the names of everyone—even the children and pets. Then I went on to memorize the names of all my ward members. When I had successfully completed that, I started on my high school.
It was a big school in a large city and it took me quite a while, but I did it. I didn’t pay any attention to racial or clique boundaries. At first I felt a little strange saying hello and calling people by name that I didn’t even know, and I embarrassed myself quite a few times by accidentally calling people by the wrong name, but I got better at it as time went on.
It became a game to see how many new names I could learn in a day. Once in a while I got some puzzled looks and some questions like, “Are you trying to win an election or something?” But for the most part, everyone acted like they really appreciated it.
Did it make a difference? I think so. Once Brother Barton, the oldest man in the ward said to me, “Young lady, I think you are the only young person in this ward who knows my name. It sure is nice when you speak to me and remember who I am.” Then one day at school I found an anonymous note stuck into my locker that said, “Thanks for saying hi to me today. I’m new at school and I didn’t think anyone even knew my name. Thanks for making me feel welcome.” I even got to like some of the people I’d previously thought were unfriendly or snobbish. When I started being nice to them and calling them by name, they were usually very nice in return.
The greatest difference it made, though, was in me. My whole attitude changed. I didn’t feel average or ordinary anymore. I felt that I was a special person who was doing something worthwhile because I was helping others. I could see them light up inside whenever I said their name and greeted them with a smile. It may have made only a small difference to them, but with the Lord’s help, it made a big difference to me.

Born with a complex congenital heart defect, Jacob is the veteran of three heart surgeries and numerous medical tests, with many more surgeries anticipated. His doctor frequently comes to Idaho, but for Jacob’s surgeries and some tests, we must travel to Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City. These trips are often filled with anxiety and worry about Jacob’s health, and we have found that a trip to Temple Square helps calm our nerves and reminds us of Heavenly Father’s plan and of our need to trust in Him.
The night before Jacob’s most recent and most complicated surgery, we took him to the Temple Square visitors’ center, where we sat together looking at that glorious statue of the Savior—the Christus. Peaceful, warm, and safe in a parent’s lap and not wanting to leave, Jacob sat uncharacteristically still and kept asking to stay for “just five more minutes,” until our time there stretched past an hour. When at long last we needed to leave, we all felt at peace and ready to cope with whatever the surgery would bring.

I remember Elder Packer telling a story about the importance of hope. He said that one time Elder Tuttle, another of the General Authority, was eating out at a Greek restaurant with his wife. His wife kind of looked Greek with her dark hair. So the restaurant manager, who was Greek and had suffered through World War II, came up and said "You’re so beautiful! Your wife is so beautiful! If you answer one question right, I'll give you your meal for free." Then the manager asked them, "What is the greatest thing that humans most need in this life?" The Tuttles said, "Love." The Greek restauranteur said, "No. Love is not the most important thing. People can live without love. What people most need is hope." He knew this from the war. What people need most during the war was the hope that things would get better.

It was probably the most spiritual experience the youth from the Baton Rouge Louisiana Stake can remember. Nearly 200 of them piled into five buses and traveled to Dallas for a few days of temple work and scripture study.
When not doing baptisms for the people on the four-generation sheets they’d prepared, they were reading the Book of Mormon, studying it, discussing it, even making skits from it. With each person in the group reading assigned pages, they read the Book of Mormon in a combined effort more than five times during the trip.
For many, it was their first time in a temple.

Sometimes we make poor choices when we yield to peer pressure. Kieth Merrill had such an experience when he was a young man. He and his friends were diving from sheer rock walls at the East Canyon Reservoir, northeast of Salt Lake City. It inevitably turned into a teenage contest when one young man climbed up to the top of the dam and dived 50 feet into the deep water of the reservoir. The rest of the young men all went to the top of the dam and made the same high dive. One boy wasn’t satisfied with that, so he said, “All right, I’ll do one better!” He climbed 60 feet up the side of the cliff. Not wanting to be outdone, Kieth climbed up beside him. After the other boy had dived into the water and seemed to be all right, Kieth took courage and made his dive. The contest was now down to these two boys. Kieth’s friend then climbed up to 70 feet and dived. He came up from the water laughing, rubbing his shoulders and his eyes. He then challenged Kieth, “Well, are you going to do it?”

“Of course I’m going to do it!” And everybody on the shore said, “Of course he’s going to do it!”

So Kieth swam back to the shore and climbed up the rocks. He knew if he jumped from the same height of 70 feet that his friend would want to go higher, so he scrambled up 80 feet to the very top of the cliff. No one could go any higher than the top. As Kieth looked down, he was terrified to see the water so very far away. He had made a rash decision. It was not what he wanted to do nor what he felt was right. Instead he had based his decision on the prodding and dares of a half dozen young men whose names he cannot now even remember.

He backed up and ran as hard as he could toward the edge. He found the mark he had carefully laid at the edge of the rock and sprang out into space. On the way down he remembered his parents teaching him to be careful when making decisions because a wrong one could kill him. And now he thought, “You have done it, because when you hit the water you’ll be going so fast that it might as well be concrete.” When he hit the water, it even felt like concrete. How grateful he was when his head finally popped above water.

Why did he jump? What was he trying to prove? The young men who dared him didn’t care and probably don’t even remember that foolish act. But Kieth realized afterward that he had made what could easily have been a fatal decision. He had yielded to the pressure of friends expecting him to do what he didn’t want to do. He knew better. He said: “I was living in the world, and at that moment I was of the world because I was not in control of myself. I was not making decisions about my own life. The world made the decisions for me, … and [I] had barely avoided being in the world about six feet deep.”

I know from my own life that Eliza’s experience can be our own long after we leave childhood. In the early years of my career, I worked hard to secure a tenured professorship at Stanford University. I thought I had made a good life for myself and for my family. We lived close to my wife’s parents in very comfortable surroundings. By the world’s standards, I had achieved success. But I was given by the Church the chance to leave California and go to Ricks College in Rexburg, Idaho. My lifetime professional objectives might have been a pavilion dividing me from a loving Father who knew better than I did what my future could hold. But I was blessed to know that whatever success I had in my career and family life to that point was a gift from God. And so, like a child, I knelt in prayer to ask what I should do. I was able to hear a quiet voice in my mind that said, “It’s my school.” There was no pavilion shielding me from God. In faith and humility, I submitted my will to His and felt His care and closeness.

That’s when I started exercising. I do sit-ups, and I run in place until I collapse from exhaustion. I try to run the illness out of me. I am not going to let it beat me without a fight. Maybe it can destroy my body, but not me, not what I am inside. I am going to run and leave the cancer behind. I am going to make myself so healthy that nothing bad can stand to be in me.
I fall down often while I am jogging and running in place, and I sometimes think that I can’t keep it up. I pity myself for a few minutes, and then I get mad at myself, and finally I get back up. Sometimes I can only walk until I build up enough strength to run again.
The other day when one of the nurses at Emory took my pulse, she was a little surprised. “What have you been doing?” she asked me. “I’ve never seen a pulse like this in anyone but professional runners.”
I told her I am a professional runner. She laughed, but I was serious. It is a race between me and the cancer. We haven’t reached the finish line, and in a lot of ways I am wearing down, but I am still running, and I’m not about to stop. …

Te Awhina’s childhood was rough. She was raised by her grandmother until she was eight, and then she moved from home to home, where drugs and violence were easier to find than food or faith. “There was no talk of a God,” she says, “No talk of finding healing and forgiveness, I grew up with a poison of hatred and bitterness because I was not taught any better.”
As a teen, she was lost. “I had no guidance, no safety, and no role model. I was confused and had nowhere to find peace,” she remembers. She only knew one kind of life back then, and eventually, it led her to a rehabilitation facility for her own alcohol addiction.
Not long after she was released, she met missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She had seen them around, so they were familiar to her, but for some reason on this day, Te Awhina felt compelled to call them over.
“I had a question,” she recalls. “You might think this is a silly question, but when you grow up with no concept of God . . . I just didn’t know.” She said to the missionaries, “If you can answer me one question, I’ll listen to [your message].”
Then she asked: “Is God a man or a woman?”
One of the missionaries replied, “God is our loving Heavenly Father.”
This answer brought an unexpected sense of clarity and peace to Te Awhina. She wanted to learn more. “Okay,” she said to the missionaries. “I’ll listen to you.”
It has now been 10 years since Te Awhina was baptised a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She became a missionary herself, very soon after her baptism, when she served in the Australia Brisbane Mission. Then, in 2020, she married Josh, “the man of my dreams.” The couple looks forward to being sealed to each other—for time and all eternity—as soon as the New Zealand Hamilton Temple is reopened.
Reflecting on how her incredible journey began with a simple question, Te Awhina notes that the Prophet Joseph Smith also received his greatest revelation because he had the courage to ask of God, and like Joseph Smith, Te Awhina learned that sometimes the answer does not come easily.
When the missionaries first explained the Word of Wisdom to her, Te Awhina’s first reaction was, “No thanks.” But even as she struggled with the idea of giving up harmful substances, she surprised herself by how quickly she obeyed. Basically, “By end of that [missionary] lesson, I had given up coffee,” she laughs.
Not everything fell into place as effortlessly, but Te Awhina persevered and has been rewarded with healing and forgiveness through the Atonement of Jesus Christ. Over the years, it has brought her strength and hope to know that young Joseph Smith also wrestled with a terrible darkness, just before he experienced the miraculous First Vision, which would usher in a new dispensation of the gospel on earth.
Elder Jeffrey R. Holland’s words have helped Te Awhina understand this pattern:
“It is the plain and very sobering truth that before great moments, certainly before great spiritual moments, there can come adversity, opposition, and darkness. Life has some of those moments for us, and occasionally they come just as we are approaching an important decision or a significant step in our lives.”1
“As I celebrate my 10-year anniversary of coming into the fold, I have found healing that can only come as we look to Christ and repent,” Te Awhina says. “I am grateful for the missionaries, for the truths that they taught me—and for what the gospel has done in my life.”

President Hinckley’s optimism also influenced his sense of humor—an upbeat, congenial wit that built affinity with others. One time he stayed with a stake president whose family lived in an old schoolhouse that they had converted into a home. That night, a classroom served as President Hinckley’s bedroom.
During stake conference the next day, he quipped, “I [have] slept on a great many occasions in classrooms before—but never in a bed.”8