Gospel Story Finder

I will share another personal story that completely changed my life. It is an example of how I was again specifically tutored by the Lord and learned to accept his will.

My first wife, Melanie, was diagnosed with lung cancer in June of 2010. She was 45 years old, an active runner, a non-smoker, and seemingly healthy in every way. She loved her family and was devoted to the Lord.

We first began to investigate her condition when she started experiencing pain in her side and had difficulty breathing. We did not know how serious it was since the various tests and consultations provided no clear indications about her health. One doctor prescribed an antibiotic for pneumonia—another recommended gall bladder surgery. But no explanation, procedure, or medication brought the relief or understanding we sought.

It reached a point where we needed to go to the emergency room one night because her inability to take a full breath was growing more severe. It was then that a CT scan discovered a mass in her right lung. This mass had been causing a large amount of fluid to accumulate around her lung, making it harder and harder to breathe. A subsequent biopsy found the tumor to be malignant.

At the first appointment with the oncologist, we were informed that the cancer had already spread to her liver, brain, lymph glands, and bones. It was considered Stage IV, and the prospects of long-term survival were very low. Treatment options were outlined that could hopefully contain, if not eliminate, the cancer. At the time, we did not fully understand the relentless nature of the disease and how it would eventually assert itself despite the best that medical science could offer.

I can still remember sitting in the living room, trying to explain the devastating news to our children. I shared their fears and questions about how this could be happening. Our lives were not supposed to be like this. How is it possible that someone in the prime of life would be consigned to such a trial? How is it possible that this was not diagnosed earlier before it spread? How is it possible for Heavenly Father to allow such afflictions to happen to his children? The list of anguished and confused questions continued to grow, just like the cancer itself.

The months passed through a gauntlet of different treatments and side effects, good days and bad, doctor visits, and hospital stays. The main constants were Melanie’s perseverance, powerful prayers and priesthood blessings, and innumerable gifts of kindness, charity, and service.

During a scheduled visit with the oncologist in December 2011, we were informed that although the cancer in the lungs and bones had remained stable, aggressive new cancer had developed on her liver. It was, therefore, unlikely that further treatment would be able to resolve the spread of the disease. It was then advised that she transition to hospice care to attend to her final needs and comfort.

Two weeks later, Melanie passed away, free from the pain, nausea, and impairment that could never take away from her courageous example. While her health had declined over the previous 18 months, our family’s faith had increased. As the side-effects of radiation and medications took their toll on her physically, the love, support, prayers, and fasting, truly strengthened our family spiritually. Medical science had been unable to provide a cure. But through the power of priesthood blessings and the Atonement of Jesus Christ, we received healing.

My purpose in sharing this account is to show how our perspective is elevated when we turn our hearts to God. It would have been easy to dwell on the “how is it possible?” questions that came after the first appointment and just be angry and feel like life was unfair. Instead, I learned how it was possible to obtain peace by trusting in the Lord, his timing, and his will. I am grateful that through this adversity, we never felt distanced from the Lord by doubt, nor did we lose sight of his tender mercies.

I will start out with a little experience that I encountered just a few years ago while I was supervising the missions along the West Coast. I was up in the Alaskan-Canadian Mission when I heard this story.
While attending high school, the daughter of the mission president was successful in bringing one of her friends into the Church. When the summer vacation came along, she said, “Daddy, I want to spend my summer months in the mission field.” So he called her as a summer missionary and sent her up to Anchorage. He and I were there when the elders held a baptismal service. Eleven people were baptized, and nine of them were the converts of this girl and her companion. One was a man who looked as if he could grace any position in the Church. After the baptism the daughter of the mission president came up to me and, with the tears rolling down her cheeks, said, “Oh, President Richards, I have never been so happy in all my life.” Wasn’t it a wonderful ambition for that girl to want to spend her summer months in missionary work? And what a compensation if you want to lay away treasures in heaven!

The desire to help another, the quest for the lost sheep, may not always yield success at once. On occasion, progress is slow—even indiscernible. Such was the experience of my longtime friend, Gill Warner. He was a newly called bishop when Douglas, a member of his ward serving in the mission field, transgressed and was deprived of his Church membership. Father was saddened; Mother was totally devastated. Douglas soon thereafter moved from the state. The years hurried by, but Bishop Warner, now a member of a high council, never ceased to wonder what had become of Douglas.
In 1975 I attended the stake conference of Brother Warner’s stake and held a priesthood leadership meeting early on Sunday morning. I spoke of the Church discipline system and the need to labor earnestly and lovingly to rescue any who had strayed. Gill Warner raised his hand and outlined the story of Douglas. He concluded by posing a question to me: “Do I have any responsibility to work with Douglas to help bring him back to Church membership?”
Gill reminded me later that my response to his question was direct and given without hesitation. I said, “As his former bishop and one who knew and loved him, I would think you would wish to do all you could to bring him back.”
Unbeknownst to Gill Warner, Douglas’s mother had, the previous week, fasted and prayed that a man would be raised up to help save her son. Gill discovered this when, following the meeting, he felt prompted to call her to report his determination to be of help.
Gill began his odyssey of redemption. Douglas was contacted by him. Old times, happy times, were remembered. Testimony was expressed, love was conveyed, and confidence instilled. The pace was excruciatingly slow. Discouragement frequently entered the scene; but step-by-step Douglas made headway. At long last prayers were answered, efforts rewarded, and victory attained. Douglas was approved for baptism.
The baptismal date was set, family members gathered, and former bishop Gill Warner flew to the city where Douglas lived and performed the ordinance.
Bishop Warner, through the love of his heart and with a sense of responsibility to a former priest in the Aaronic Priesthood—even the quorum over which he presided—went to the rescue, that not one would be lost.

On the surface, it was easy. Crawford attended all his meetings. Not once did he clown around in class. He had all the right answers to the questions. He pursued Varsity Scouting with the doggedness of a marathon runner. And he got along well enough with the other teachers. But he didn’t really pal around with them.
With me, he was polite, but distant. I knew something wasn’t right, but I still had to find out what. Sister Jones’s words about hoping he’d find friends kept ringing in my ears.
The first break came during priesthood meeting. There was an announcement about the junior basketball team beginning practice. Crawford was by far the tallest boy in the stake. It seemed like a natural. I pulled him aside after the lesson.
“You’re going to play, aren’t you?”
“I’m awfully busy.” He hesitated. “And despite my stature, I’m not athletically inclined.”
“Are you kidding? With your height, just stand under the basket with your arms out. That’s how Bill Russell got started.”
“Bill who?”
“Never mind. Just look menacing. Go ahead, you can do it.”
He twisted his face into what was supposed to be a scowl. It looked more like a smirk.
“More teeth. Give me some teeth.”
He pulled his lips back a bit.
“Now a growl. Mean and low.”
Crawford obediently growled.
“Okay, we’ll work on it. Let me call Todd Bowers. He’s the coach. He’ll make sure you get to practice.”
“Well …”
“You can do it, Crawford. At least try.”
“All right. Maybe I have some undiscovered native ability.”
Nothing more was said about basketball until several weeks later, when Crawford called one evening.
“Our first game is tomorrow night. I expect you’ll attend.” There was a twinge of excitement.
“Oh … well, I expect I will.”
“Terrific. Simply terrific. I will not let you down.”
So I went to the game the following night. How do I explain the way it went? Easy. It was a nightmare.
Crawford was selected to jump for the tip-off. He was so eager to get the ball that when the referee tossed it up, he lunged in and knocked over the opposing player. Whistle. Foul. One second had ticked off the clock.
The other team took the ball out of bounds. One of the players took a pass, drove to the basket, and put up a shot. Crawford blocked it with a wild swoop of his arm. That was the good part.
The bad part was that he almost knocked the player’s head off in the process. Whistle. Foul. We were now 20 seconds into the game.
The fouled player made his first free throw but missed the second. Up went Crawford for the rebound—up and over another player. Whistle. Foul. Our ward called a time-out.
I watched Crawford during the time-out. His eyes were brimming with determination. He wanted to atone for his mistakes, and I got the feeling, he wanted to do it all at once. I hoped Todd would pull him and let him regain some composure. Instead Crawford trotted back onto the court.
Our team had the ball. Crawford took a pass at the top of the key. He turned toward the basket, pulled his lips back, and growled. I sensed disaster.
Before I could mumble, “No, don’t do it,” he put his head down and like a bull, battered his way toward the basket. One of those huge feet got tangled with the other, and Crawford was airborne. Three innocent players were in his path. I cringed and closed my eyes. Then came a crash and four distinct thuds as the bodies dropped to the floor. I opened my eyes slowly and wondered if I should call the paramedics.
Four young men were sprawled on the floor, a tangled heap of arms, legs, and dazed looks. Fortunately, no one was hurt, although Crawford seemed a little confused about which planet he was on.
And yes, there was a whistle and a foul on Crawford. Four fouls in 30 seconds. It must have been some kind of a record.
Todd motioned for me to come onto the floor.
“Crawford’s a little woozy. Will you keep an eye on him?”
“Sure.”
Crawford was sitting up now, holding his head with his hands.
“C’mon, Crawford. Let’s take you some place to rest.”
I helped him to his feet and he groggily followed me out the door. He slumped onto a couch in the foyer.
“Do you know who I am?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, looking up. “You’re Brother North.”
“Good. And who are you?”
“A failure.”
“That’s not true.”
“I let you down. I let everyone down.”
“You did not. That was the most memorable half-minute of basketball I’ve ever seen.”
He turned and stared out the window. He didn’t say a word for a couple of minutes. Finally, I moved to where I could see his face.
A thin line of tears ran down his cheeks.
“It is so difficult,” he said quietly. “I try. I really try. But I don’t seem to fit anywhere. Where do I belong, Brother North?”
I wasn’t sure what to say, other than I knew I had to begin with the truth. Crawford deserved that much.
“I’m not sure. But I do know this, Crawford. You will find your place someday. Just keep doing what’s right, and it will happen.”
He shifted a little on the couch. “I hope you’re right.”
“Hey, I’m the one you called astute, remember? Has that changed?”
“No.”
“You’ll have some rough spots, Crawford. Everyone does, especially while they’re growing. But you’ll be okay. More than okay. You’re a good person. You know who you are and where your roots are. Right there you have an advantage over most people.”
“But it doesn’t seem fair. If I have advantages, why isn’t it easier?”
“Life isn’t always easy.” I winced when I said it. More than most people, Crawford already knew that. From the time his father died and he started washing cars, Crawford knew it wouldn’t be simple and comfortable. Still, I wanted him to look at what he had, not what he didn’t have.
“A lot of blessings have already come to you. There will be more. Sometimes blessings are so close that we don’t recognize them.”
He rubbed his hand over the back of his head.
“Yes, I believe you are correct on that point. I have a terrific mother, three beautiful sisters, and I’m a member of the Church. And I have a great friend in you.”
“And I have a great friend in you. Now, do you want to get back in the game? You still have one foul left to burn.”
He said his head was still throbbing, so I helped him to my car and drove him home.

Ever since Carlos could remember, he had wished that he could fly in an airplane. And ever since he could remember, everyone had laughed that he, a barefoot boy of the Colombian campo (countryside), would even have such a wish.
He knew it was impossible. His family didn’t have money for shoes, let alone airplane rides. But he still liked to dream. And every day he ran home from the little schoolhouse, hurried through his chores, then ran to the sugarcane mill to watch the afternoon plane fly overhead.
Carlos’s brothers always teased him:
“Mira (look)! Carlitos (little Carlos) is flying again.”
“Look at him zoom to the woodpile. Careful you don’t crash, Alitas (Little Wings). Now swoop down to the stream for a pail of water.”
Mother seemed to understand, though. She just smiled at her young son as she shaped the arepas (round white corn cakes) for their supper. “You can go now, Carlitos, as long as you feed the cow and the mule when you get back.” She swung her long black braid over her shoulder and went on shaping the arepas.
Carlos scampered up the hill. The well-worn path felt smooth under his bare feet, and a warm, moist breeze ruffled his hair. Soon he came to the sugarcane mill. During the harvest season he and his brothers and father ground up the cane there to make hard brown sugar cakes called panelas. Now, though, the old round millstones looked lonely nestled among the cane.
Carlos sat down on the hilltop and listened for the sound of the plane. He felt the warmth of the sun on his skin. Looking below him, he saw the rows of sugarcane, the banana plants waving gently beside his little house, the stretch of thick jungle underbrush, and the meandering river far below. I am truly lucky to live in such a beautiful place, he thought. But it would be wonderful to see it from the sky!
Carlos’s teacher, Señor Vargas, had explained that the small airplane came from the seacoast town of Turbo. It delivered mail to the small towns and plantations along the flat, hot coast before flying over the mountains to Medellín. There it refueled, picked up mail, and flew back.
“But, Carlos,” his teacher had tried to point out kindly, “in this village we are all poor, and poor people don’t ride in planes.”
Carlos had nodded solemnly, but he never stopped wishing that he would someday fly in a plane.
Now, as he sat on the hilltop near the mill, he heard the familiar thrumming of the mail plane, and soon it appeared overhead. Sometimes when it flew close enough to the ground, Carlos waved and the pilot waved back.
Suddenly Carlos realized that the familiar sound of the airplane engine had been replaced by a putt-putt-putt sound. Something was wrong! He watched with horror as the plane plummeted toward the ground and disappeared behind the hill.
Carlos scrambled toward the stricken airplane. It was rough going through the cane, but the soles of his feet were as tough as leather. When at last he saw the plane on the ground, one wheel strut was crumpled and the left wing looked like an accordion. He could see the pilot’s helmeted head resting against the side window. Is he alive? Carlos wondered. Carlos was scared and curious and anxious to help, all at the same time.
He called out to the pilot. His voice sounded lonely in the stillness. No answer. The helmet didn’t move. Then he saw that the engine had caught fire!
Carlos sprinted to the airplane, grasped the door handle with both hands, and pulled as hard as he could. Nothing happened.
Glancing at the underside of the plane, Carlos saw that the flames were licking toward the cockpit. Desperate, he pounded on the door. Suddenly the door opened, and the pilot toppled out—right on top of Carlos!
The boy staggered to his feet and tried to drag the man away from the plane. Although he was small, Carlos’s fear gave him enough strength to drag the man some distance from the plane. When the boy stopped at last to catch his breath, the pilot groaned, and Carlos noticed a nasty cut on the man’s head. Also, his leg appeared to be broken. The man opened his eyes just as flames completely engulfed the plane.
“Oh!” they both gasped. Carlos felt sick. The beautiful plane that he loved so much was burning up right in front of him. Tears filled his eyes.
The man gripped Carlos’s hand. “Don’t cry, boy. You saved my life!”
But Carlos saw that tears were streaming down the pilot’s face too. They hugged each other and tried to smile to cheer each other up. Soon Carlos was scrambling down the mountain again to bring help to his new friend, José.
Carlos’s father brought a neighbor who had had some medical training to set José’s broken leg and bandage his head. Since their valley could only be reached by horseback, José could not leave until his leg was healed.
Carlos was a hero! No one remembered that they had teased him about always running up to the mill to see the airplane. “How lucky that Carlos was in the cane field!” they said, and “How good that Carlos loves airplanes.”
Carlos just smiled.
José shook his head. “It was God’s will, Carlos. He knew I would need you to be there. You were there, and you saved my life. When I get better, I am going to take you for an airplane ride, if your father says it’s all right.”
Carlos couldn’t believe his ears! He turned to his father, who smiled and said, “OK, Alitas.”
Some weeks later José and Carlos set off for MedellÍn. And the next day Carlos was in the cockpit of a small mail plane, flying over his beautiful valley!
As José dipped the airplane’s wings, Carlos’s family and friends and Señor Vargas were all waving from the hilltop. And as Carlos waved, he was sure he was the happiest boy in the world.

The Nashua New Hampshire Stake wanted to focus on service on their trek. So in addition to the usual handcarts and other trappings of pioneer life, the group formed a Mormon Battalion to help the handcart companies cross the river and provide assistance when needed. David Stienkuhler, of the Nashua First Ward, liked being in the battalion. “At first I didn’t know what to expect, but I learned a lot about the Mormon Battalion and its job. We worked hard helping the companies. We were important and needed.”

One early morning on the trail found the youth on their own for quiet contemplation and scripture reading. After this solo experience, a testimony meeting was held. Chris Rodney of the Littleton Second Ward says he “didn’t realize how much strength I had, and how hard it would really be. This showed me more of myself and helped me build character.”

When the trek ended and the last handcart finally reached the end of the trail, Joe Kahler, from the Nashua First Ward, said, “It really felt like we were pioneers.”

In Canada, it’s quite a feat to receive the Queen’s Venturer award—it’s one of Scouting’s highest honors in the country. Recently Harvey Calfrobe, a member of the Blood tribe in the Province of Alberta, earned that award.
Harvey had some unique challenges. At four he was diagnosed with leukemia, and he spent most of his younger years fighting it. A severe learning disability also made things even tougher. Now Harvey’s leukemia is in remission, and he excels in a vocational school. He loves to ski, swim, bowl, and, of course, scout.
Harvey was baptized three years ago and is now a priest in the Calgary Eighth Ward, Calgary Alberta West Stake.
In a speech given at the Scouting awards ceremony, Harvey said, “I am proud to be in the Venturer program. It produces winners, and we are winners.”

A few days ago I attended the funeral of a lifelong friend, Ralph Poulsen. He was a righteous man of accomplishment and integrity, yet he had to endure the pain and sorrow inflicted upon him by the consequences of a cruel disease. His dear wife, Joyce, suffered also as she was by his side through his agony and pain. As the days and years of suffering went on, she arrived at a time when she felt she could not handle another day. She had done all she could for him. Now a strength beyond her own was needed. In the depth of her sorrow, she pleaded more fervently to God for His help. With the morning came a blessed peace that filled her whole soul—a peace that has continued with her to this day.

One Monday in November I was helping my dad change the oil in the car when the Blanchards drove off, then came back so quickly that I couldn’t figure out where they could have gone.
“Where’d you go last night?” I asked Ben the next morning.
He got a funny look on his face. “Oh, somewhere,” he answered.
I couldn’t believe it. Ben always told me where they went! “What is this, some kind of secret mission?”
Ben half-laughed, half-choked, “Sort of.” He looked behind him and then leaned toward me and whispered, “Becky made me promise not to tell anyone.”
I spent the next week trying to puzzle out what the Blanchards could have done that Becky wouldn’t want anyone to know about. Had they discovered gold or silver? Were they rehearsing a circus act? Or maybe they were plotting to take over the world!
The next Monday the Blanchards stayed home. I was outside with Dad again, helping him replace the porch light. We were nearly done when a car came up the street. I was instantly alert because we live on a dead-end street, and we hardly ever get strange cars on it. Even more mysterious, this car was creeping along at a snail’s pace. As soon as the car passed our driveway, its headlights blinked off. But the car kept on going and stopped just beyond the Blanchard’s house.
I nudged Dad. “Something fishy’s going on here,” I whispered.
We tiptoed to the hedge that divides our property from the Blanchards’ and watched. A figure got out of the car and crept up the driveway to the Blanchard’s porch. He—or she or it—placed something by their door, pressed the doorbell, and scooted down the driveway.
Dad squeezed through the hedge and grabbed the skulker’s jacket. “What are you doing?” he asked.
I squeezed through the hedge, too, and ran up to the door while Dad marched the boy—we could tell that much now—up the driveway behind me.
By the time Dad got to the door, Ben and the rest of his family were crowding around the door, wide-eyed.
“Do you know this boy?” Dad asked.
“It’s Frank Adams,” Mr. Blanchard told us.
Frank was absolutely crimson. He bent down and picked up a plate of cookies. On top of the cookies was a ghost shape cut out of paper. “I just left these,” he explained weakly.
The Blanchards all whooped with laughter. “He was phantoming us!”
“Huh?” Dad and I stared at each other.
“Can I go?” Frank looked desperately at Dad. “Mom’s in the car and probably thinks I’ve been kidnapped.”
Dad let go of Frank’s jacket. “Sorry. I was just trying to watch out for my neighbors,” he said, shaking his head as Frank rushed down the driveway.
I was dying of curiosity. “What was he doing?”
Becky sighed. “Different families in our ward—our church congregation—have been going around on Mondays and secretly leaving treats on other people’s door-steps. We say that the Family Night Phantom left them.”
Dad and I stared at each other again and raised our eyebrows.
“Better cookies than vandalism,” Dad finally said with a shrug.
“I bet that’s what you were doing last week. Right?” I asked Ben.
He nodded, embarrassed.

Illustration by iStock/Thinkstock
I had just returned from school. I’d gotten into an argument with one of my best friends from church, and it had really got me down.
As usual, I sat down to read my email. I saw one from her and opened it. I scanned the text carefully. The hurtful words covered me like a wave. The tears streamed down my face as I read to the end. My heart felt like it had been blown apart.
I quickly created a new email to her and started to type, but then something told me to stop. I knew it was the Holy Ghost. I backed away from the computer. In my head I asked, “Why do I need to stop? I need to tell her how I feel.” Then came the words, “All right. Tell her how you really feel.” I quickly moved toward the computer again.
I paused to analyze the Spirit’s words. Though they had been almost exactly my own words, they made me ponder. I wondered, “How do I really feel?” Immediately the words betrayed, broken, and hurt came to mind. Again a voice said, “Tell her how you really feel.” True, I felt those things, but I wouldn’t want to hurt her like she hurt me. We were friends, weren’t we? I realized that what I really felt was love.
My anger and sadness still surrounded me, but I decided to trust the Lord. I deleted the words I had written and started listing things I loved about her. As I did, my negative emotions completely left me. I found myself making a list so long that it took multiple scrolls to get through it. When I finally hit Send, I let out a sigh. I felt like my heart had been cleansed of pain and grief. I knew that my Savior had taken away my pain and filled my soul with Christlike love.
A couple of days later I received a response from my friend. She explained that at first she had been too shocked to respond. As soon as she had seen the list, she started reading it, expecting it to be a list of insults. When she found that they were compliments, she was blown away with disbelief.
I learned that when you make someone else feel better, it makes you feel better. Never underestimate the power of God. It deeply affected my life at that moment. I’ll never forget my pause to question and listen and how it has benefited my life.

The deacons in the Church have a sacred obligation to visit the home of every member to collect fast offerings for the poor. President Thomas S. Monson once related to me how he, as a young bishop, began to sense that the young deacons in his ward were complaining about having to get up so early to collect fast offerings. Instead of calling the young men to task, this wise bishop took them to Welfare Square in Salt Lake City.

There, the boys met a disabled woman operating the switchboard. They saw a blind man placing labels on cans, and an elderly brother stocking shelves. As a result of what they saw, President Monson said, a penetrating silence came over the boys as they witnessed the end result of their efforts to collect the sacred funds that aided the needy and provided employment for those who otherwise would be idle.

Dalisey Brooks of Cape Town, South Africa is a Latter-day Saint, a Young Women president, online BYU student, and budding entrepreneur in the Church’s self-reliance program.
When she was 16, the Spirit guided her to talk to some missionaries she saw on the street which led to her conversion and baptism. Years later, this same Spirit has guided her to the Church’s Self-Reliance program to start her own business. With the help of her self-reliance group, she created an online store to sell her own line of handmade South African sandals and clothing.
Dalisey recalls that, “even as a little girl who owned only one red dress and no shoes, I loved fashion. Despite my shyness, I worked in the retail industry of South Africa to develop communication skills and self-esteem. By day, I design and sell quality sandals, accessories, and clothing. By night, I study for a bachelor of science in business management with a finance emphasis through BYU.”
In 2020, Dalisey was looking for help to start her business. At the same time, across the globe, a new self-reliance instructor in Idaho was looking for members to attend his first self-reliance group. “Because of the pandemic, I couldn’t get anyone to attend. So, I created an online group instead. I found one member from South Africa [Dalisey] to participate,” said Ben Davidson of the Pocatello Idaho East Stake. “Our weekly Zoom meetings eventually pulled in a class of BYU-I students working with Brother John Ward of the Rexburg Business Development Center.
“I always wanted to start my own business,” explained Dalisey, “but I didn’t have anyone to guide me.” Thanks to the Church’s self-reliance program, Dalisey is now a business owner. “I am grateful beyond words,” she says. Her unique line of sandals and accessories use colorful fabrics, soft ropes, and leather available in South Africa.
“Having firsthand experience with poverty, I believe in serving and giving back to the community. The products are handcrafted there in Cape Town. My brand, Chipantha, is named after my grandfather. He didn’t see me as a helpless little girl in a village. He saw who I might become. He gave me the ability to persevere,” explains Dalisey.
“Dalisey’s strength and testimony bless me each week we meet as part of the Church’s self-reliance program. I feel blessed to serve in a Church of brothers and sisters who are united in so many ways, including a self-reliance class that joins members from Cape Town, Pocatello, and Rexburg,” says Davidson.

My daughter Ayanna and son-in-law Jonathan had the typical BYU–Hawaii love story. She’s from Hawaii; he’s from the Philippines. They got to know each other on a concert choir trip to the South Pacific. They fell in love and prepared for their sealing date: March 28, 2020.
Then COVID-19 hit.
During that February and early March, wedding plans kept shrinking—family from the Philippines couldn’t come. Family from the Mainland couldn’t come. A reception with just 100 people. A reception with just 20 people. A drive-by reception with food. A drive-by reception with no food. Then, on March 23, just five days before their wedding date, the temple closed. As they thought about what matters most, Ayanna and Jonathan decided to get married civilly, and then get sealed as soon as the temple opened back up. So, on March 25, with just a few friends and family, they got married at a beautiful home on the North Shore.
They could have been mad about what their wedding wasn’t, but they chose to focus on what they were thankful for.
Finally, on June 30 last year, the Torios were the first couple to be sealed when the Laie Temple opened back up. Ayanna and Jonathan’s attitude reminds me that we can choose to be bitter for the circumstances we are given, or we can choose to be grateful for what we have.

Mary Ann learned of the Book of Mormon when Elder Thomas B. Marsh preached of the Restoration in Providence in 1830. From him she requested a copy of the sacred book, which she prayerfully read and believed. “She testified many times that the Spirit bore witness to her when she took the Book of Mormon in her hands, of the truth of its origin, so strongly that she could never afterwards doubt it,” wrote her biographer, Emmeline B. Wells.2

Two years later Mary Ann journeyed to New York to investigate the new religion firsthand. Her parents, who were visiting friends near Palmyra, had not told her enough about the new faith in their letters to satisfy her. So she joined her parents, and together they heard and embraced the restored gospel and were baptized by Elder John P. Greene, Brigham Young’s brother-in-law.

Recalling his childhood in the Church of England, Elder Cuthbert said, “I sang in the church choir in three services each Sunday. The choirmistress was a good teacher, and I learned to love the Psalms, which are songs of praise and thanksgiving to God. When I was eleven, the choirmistress went to Zululand, South Africa, as a missionary. Her example helped me become interested in missionary work at an early age.
“After I joined the Lord’s true Church, He called me as a district missionary, then as a stake missionary, and later as a mission president. Now, as a General Authority, I will always be a missionary. A Seventy is a special witness of Jesus Christ to all the world.
“I am sure that you Primary children know many missionaries, some perhaps in your own family. They are examples for you to follow; Jesus wants all of us to be missionaries. One of my favorite scriptures is in Matthew, when Jesus was instructing His apostles just before He ascended into heaven: ‘Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost’ (Matt. 28:19). He is saying the same to us today through His prophet, President Benson. Boys and girls, start preparing for your missions now—by study, by prayer, and by helping others.
“I have seen many examples of faith and courage among young missionaries in the Church. Ian Menzies, a missionary in Scotland, said, ‘I must finish my mission,’ even though he had a tumor on his brain. Through faith and determination and priesthood administration, he accomplished what others said was impossible. Peter Chaya, a missionary in Zimbabwe, Africa, fulfilled his mission on crutches. He had lost the use of both legs through polio when he was a child. Pip Lees served as a stake missionary in England. Her companion pushed her door to door in a wheelchair for two years.
“During December 1987, I had some Church assignments in Bolivia, a beautiful South American country where the Church is growing rapidly but where the people have very little. The Regional Representative, Elder Philip Kradolfer, accompanied me, and he brought a large suitcase full of toys. Just before Christmas each year, his children give up some of their toys to help the children living in the Altiplano, or high plateau region, of Bolivia. It was wonderful to see the children’s faces as they received a doll, a game, a book, or a purse. Jesus taught that it is better to give than to receive, and I am sure that you have felt the same happiness when you have been a secret helper.
“While serving in South America last year,” Elder Cuthbert recalled, “I met many people who had little to eat and hardly a roof over their heads. Many are hearing the gospel and are being baptized. The children are attending Primary and are preparing for missions, just like you.
“In your prayers, would you remember these boys and girls who have a very hard life? As you prayerfully express thanks for the blessings that you enjoy, fill yourself up with gratitude and let it overflow into service. As you help other children, you will not want so much for yourselves.”

After completing what I was prompted to write, I returned to bed. I had been asleep only a short while when Bradley, my three-year-old son, suddenly awakened me. “Indians, Indians. I dreamed about Indians,” he said. I was astonished; I felt that his words were an affirmation of my own dream. I was even more astonished when I later asked him about his dream.
“I dreamed an Indian chief came to our house,” he said.
“How did you know he was a chief?” I asked.
“He said he was a chief,” Bradley replied. “He asked me for some bread. I took him to the kitchen to get some. He said, ‘No, not that kind of bread.’”
“Were there other people with him?” I asked.
“Yes,” came the answer. “They were waiting for him.”
Later, as I sat in sacrament meeting thinking about the dreams, I silently prayed for guidance that I might be able to find the information necessary to do my Choctaw ancestors’ temple work. I felt impressed to acquire a copy of a record I had seen some twenty years earlier at the National Archives in Washington, D.C. It was the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll of 1831, and it contained records of the Choctaw before their trek over the “Trail of Tears” to Oklahoma. This census had on record some 3,000 heads of families and represented about 17,000 people. I had photocopied the pages from it that dealt with my ancestor named Betsy.
I wrote to the National Archives, requesting a microfilm copy of the entire record. I also contacted the Church Family History Library in Salt Lake City, Utah, and asked whether temple work could be done for people listed on the record. I then asked for and obtained permission to help do name extraction work on the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll.
I also went to Philadelphia, Mississippi, as I had been prompted. There, on the Choctaw reservation, I learned the story of the Nanah-weya. Archaeologists think that the Choctaw are probably of Mayan descent—from Central America—because their language, customs, and culture are similar to those of the Mayans. Choctaw legends tell of their migration from their old lands, where they had been persecuted. A prophet had told them of a land waiting for them, where they would be safe. Two brothers, Chataw and Chickasaw, led the people out of the old land.
The people followed the “leaning pole,” a sacred pole placed in front of the leaders’ camp each night. Some legends say that a sacred medicine bag was tied to the pole. Each morning, the people traveled in the direction the pole leaned. They carried their ancestors’ bones with them.
When they reached the area that is now Northern Mississippi, there was a tremendous rainstorm. The people thought that in the morning they would find the sacred pole flat on the ground because of the rain. Instead, the pole stood straight, its shaft buried deep in the mud.
That is where the people stayed. In the new land they held a great council to decide what to do with their ancestors’ bones. The decision they made was to build a large mound and bury them there. This mound, called the Nanah-weya, means “leaning mountain,” or “mother mound.”
I asked a Choctaw from Oklahoma if he knew the meaning of the word Nanah-ku-chi. He told me that it means “to bring out of the mountain.”
“You have said it just the way the Choctaw would say it,” he told me. “Nanah means mountain; Ku-chi means to bring forth.” I concluded that the words I had heard must have meant that the names of the Choctaw dead should be brought out of obscurity so that the Choctaws’ temple work should be completed.
My trip to Mississippi bore great fruit. There, in a courthouse, a woman gave my aunt and me a copy of some family records. Later, when I read through it, I was amazed. Before, I had had only three names on that particular family. Now I had more than sixty pages of information! There, at the beginning of the line, was the name of Ikenaby, an Indian chief who had lived during the early 1800s and who had married a white woman by the name of Kearney.
I continued to help with the work on the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll. Lorraine Nievar of Ardmore, Oklahoma, whose ancestors are Choctaw and French, also helped with name extraction work on the record. When the work was complete, 1,500 names from the record were sent to the temple in Dallas, Texas, so that Sister Nievar and her family could help perform their ancestors’ temple work. Another 1,500 names were sent to the Logan Utah Temple, where many of my friends and neighbors have helped with the work.
I believe that many members of the Choctaw Nation who lived during the early 1800s have accepted the temple work completed in their behalf. As I participated in baptisms for the dead one Saturday morning, I felt their gratitude. During one particular temple session, I was asked to speak to the members of a Logan ward. While we sat together in the temple’s chapel, I told them the story behind the names they carried that night. I remember that temple session as one of the most sacred I ever attended.
I recall feeling a vivid sense of light and joy at one particular point in the session. I thought of my son’s dream. My friends and neighbors were now giving the “bread of life” to those who had asked for it. I again felt that those whose work we were performing, though unseen, were grateful for the opportunity to accept the gospel. Though they had once walked the “Trail of Tears,” now they could walk the straight and narrow path of joy that leads to eternal life.
Many native American records have been compiled by various organizations. It is now possible to do more temple work for native American ancestors than ever before; many of them are eager to receive the saving ordinances of the gospel.
I learned just how eager they were one spring day while driving to Salt Lake City to talk with a woman there. Suddenly, I felt that I could hear the sound of drums beating. I seemed to see an Indian woman, dressed in an oversize plaid shirt, a Navajo skirt, and a silver medallion belt. The seat beside me was empty, but I could sense her presence.
When I arrived in Salt Lake City, I felt prompted to ask the woman with whom I had the appointment whether she had any Indian ancestors. But Carolyn doesn’t look Indian; she’s blonde and blue-eyed, I thought to myself. She’ll think I’m crazy.
When I met Carolyn in her office, the prompting for me to ask was just as strong as it had been in the car. So I asked if she had Indian ancestors.
“Yes,” she said. “My grandmother was Cherokee and was adopted by the Navajo.” She told me about how her “Granny” had worked as a nurse for many years with the Navajo in Arizona, Oklahoma, New Mexico, and Texas. Later, I asked Carolyn about the clothing her grandmother had worn, and she described to me the clothing I had seen the woman wearing.
I told Carolyn about the temple work we had done for the Choctaw. She was thrilled about the possibility of doing the same work for the Cherokee. The Cherokee were the second nation to walk the “Trail of Tears”; there is a record of the tribe in its entirety from 1835—before they had settled in Oklahoma. Carolyn is now doing extraction work on that record, preparing names for the temple.
I know that my Choctaw ancestors desired the blessings of the gospel. My love for my ancestors has grown as I have learned about them. Though they suffered great hardship in mortality, they are now receiving the great blessings of the temple.

During a trip to the Mediterranean, I diligently attended Church meetings wherever I could. In Seville, Spain, I enlisted the aid of a hotel receptionist, the local telephone directory, and a city map to help me find the local Latter-day Saint meetinghouse. I wrote down the address and the name of the Church in Spanish. Saturday evening I prayed to know what time the meetings started, and I felt a strong impression that I needed to be there by 10:00 a.m.
Just before I left for church at 9:30 on Sunday morning, I prayed again that I would be able to find the meetinghouse. Following my map, I began to navigate a maze of narrow streets. It was a delightful morning. I passed cafés and a bird market full of squawking birds.
I made it to the designated address only to find nothing that remotely resembled a church. I walked up and down the street looking in vain. I was confused and anxious, and it was almost 10:00 a.m.
Finally, I prayed to my Father in Heaven: “Thou hast commanded me to go to church, and here I am, but there’s no church here.”
Just then a well-dressed man in a suit came around the corner. He looked like a member of the Church, and I felt impressed to stop him. In a somewhat garbled manner, I told him I was looking for a church. He said something I didn’t understand, and I looked perplexed. So he opened his briefcase, and I saw two leather-bound books that looked like scriptures. I handed him my slip of paper on which I had written “La Iglesia de Jesucristo” (The Church of Jesus Christ). He smiled and pointed back along the way I had come, and together we walked to church. The building was located at a different address just a few minutes away and was easy to miss if you didn’t know it was there. It was set back in a small square, behind large gates.
At the meetinghouse I soon found out that the man who had helped me was none other than the bishop of the ward and that the meetings began at 10:30 a.m. I had arrived with time to spare.
During the ward’s fast and testimony meeting, I felt impressed to bear my testimony. With a missionary translating my words from English into Spanish, I bore my testimony and described how the Lord had provided a way for me to get to church. The bishop then bore his testimony and explained that he had to park farther away that morning, so he was later than normal. When he saw me, he thought I looked like a member of the Church, so he stopped to help me. He then spoke of members who are lost spiritually and said we have to help them find the Church.
Over the years my memories of the sights of Seville have faded, but my memory of finding the church there hasn’t. That memory is a testimony to me of the great love our Father in Heaven has for us and that His hand is visible in my life if I just look for all the things that “work together for [my] good” (Romans 8:28).

I have a dear friend who has struggled with depression at times in her life. She is such a perfect example to me of how thoughts lead to actions and actions lead to habits. At one particular point in her "teenager mothering era," she really struggled with depression because of feelings of inadequacy and feeling deep concern for one particular son who was doing things that she knew were very detrimental and damaging to himself and to the family.

During this period of depression, my friend spent a lot of time on her knees seeking guidance. She said that as she prayed for help, the name of a new sister in the ward kept coming to her mind. She could not keep this new acquaintance out of her thoughts, so the next morning, she telephoned the woman. This sister and her family had recently moved into our ward so that they could be near better medical facilities for their young son who had a rare form of cancer that was causing tumors to grow in his brain. He was slowly losing his eyesight because of these tumors. This young mother truly needed a friend and a helper. The mother had two other children who also needed attention. Quickly, my friend became a frequent visitor and caregiver to this family. Her thoughts were no longer focused just on her own personal problems but on her friend's family. This resulted in my friend's depression quickly subsiding, and her wayward teenager was also positively affected by the little boy his mother was helping.

While in the wilderness Nephi, the son of Lehi, was permitted to see in vision the things that would transpire concerning the destiny of America—the promised land. He said, “And I looked and beheld a man among the Gentiles, who was separated from the seed of my brethren by the many waters; and I beheld the Spirit of God, that it came down and wrought upon the man; and he went forth upon the many waters, even unto the seed of my brethren, who were in the promised land.” (1 Ne. 13:12.)

This, as we know, refers to Christopher Columbus, who was impelled by the Spirit of God to cross the ocean for the rediscovery of America, thus assisting in the furthering of God’s purposes.

Columbus himself, in a letter to the Spanish hierarchy, wrote, “Our Lord unlocked my mind, sent me upon the sea, and gave me fire for the deed. Those who heard of my emprise called it foolish, mocked me, and laughed. But who can doubt but that the Holy Ghost inspired me?” (Quoted in Mark E. Petersen, The Great Prologue, Deseret Book Co., 1975, p. 26.)

During the voyage, after weeks of sailing with no sign of land, mutiny raised its head. Finally, Columbus promised the captains of the Pinta and the Niña, both of whom wanted to turn back, that if no land was sighted in forty-eight hours, they would turn back. Then he went to his cabin and, in his words, “prayed mightily to the Lord.” On October 12, the very next day, they sighted land.

As an illustration of the need to follow the counsel of priesthood leaders, I’d like to tell you about two elders serving in Moncton, New Brunswick. Moncton was a cold place, both weather-wise and also in terms of the success these two particular elders were having. They called me very discouraged after a particularly long stretch of rejection. I suggested they consider proselyting in the near countryside where hopefully the people would be a little friendlier.

The next day the elders drove out, parked their car, and spent the day going door to door, without any success. When they came back just after dark to their car, they discovered that it had been vandalized: some one had taken a “cow pie” and smeared it all across their car’s windshield, doors, and windows. The afternoon sun had caused it to melt through the cracks of the doors, where it had then frozen in place.

That night I received an even more discouraged phone call from these elders. The senior companion, Elder Cooper, was very disheartened, and felt the full brunt of rejection. He wondered out loud over the phone whether he was worthy to be a zone leader, if they should be transferred, or if he should just give up and go home. He just couldn’t see that they were accomplishing anything, and felt the intense opposition of Satan. I spoke with him for a while, and as his priesthood leader I suggested that they find the other elders across town and ask for a priesthood blessing and that he and his companion recommit themselves to the work. We talked about how difficult things had been but how important it was that they carry on.

These elders did not know it at the time, but this was a pivotal point in their missions. Nothing changed in the next few weeks; they chose to carry on, faithful to their calling and in accordance with the commitments that they had chosen to accept when they became fulltime missionaries. They received their priesthood leader’s invitation, obeyed, and moved ahead, choosing to stay focused on preaching the Gospel with love. To me, it was most important that they be obedient and faithful and continue to work hard. Later in their lives, this strength of character and commitment has led to successes in their careers and families. They now serve with distinction in their families, wards, and communities. Their success then and their success now come from following their priesthood leaders.