Gospel Story Finder

It was now possible to think about organizing a trip to the temple for the members of the Reykjavík Branch. There was much preparing to be done—in addition to becoming worthy for temple recommends, branch members had to do genealogical research to find family names, and they had to save money for the trip. When whole families were planning to go, this became a sizable amount!

“There was a wonderful excitement, an extra amount of love and care shown among the members as they prepared for this experience,” recalls district president Ólafur Einarsson. “It brought a feeling of unity to the branch that we had not felt before.”

The necessary preparations were completed, and 38 members of the Reykjavík Branch—adults and children—journeyed to the London Temple in June 1995. For a week, they devoted themselves to the work of the Lord. “It was an unforgettable experience to see the joy on the faces of our group as the Spirit touched our hearts,” recalls one branch member. “The love and kindness we felt toward one another continued to grow as we shared the joy of our temple experiences.” They returned to their homes and families with strengthened testimonies and a renewed love of the gospel.

As the Church becomes stronger, the saga of the Saints in Iceland continues. In June 1996—still filled with memories of their experiences the previous year—some of the members of the Reykjavík Branch made a second trip to the London Temple. There, they once again were blessed to participate in holy ordinances as they renewed their covenants with the Lord—in the language of their Viking ancestors.

One preparatory event happened when I was in an auto accident while visiting France. Moments after I was strongly prompted to fasten my seat belt, the car skidded and plummeted down a 20-foot (6-m) embankment. Because of the warning voice and because I regained use of my feet and legs while others with similar injuries are often left permanently paralyzed, I began to understand that a divine power much greater than I was in control.

During the final months of our mission last year, we experienced an event that taught once again this profound principle that each of us is known and loved by God.

Elder Neal A. Maxwell was coming to New York City for some Church business, and we were informed that he would also like to have a mission conference. We were so pleased to have this opportunity to hear from one of the Lord’s chosen servants. I was asked to select one of our missionaries to provide the opening prayer for the meeting. I might have randomly picked one of the missionaries to pray, but felt to ponder and prayerfully select one whom the Lord would have me ask. In going through the missionary roster, a name boldly stood out to me: Elder Joseph Appiah of Accra, Ghana. He was the one I felt the Lord wanted to pray at the meeting.

Prior to the mission conference, I was having a regularly scheduled interview with Elder Appiah and told him of the prompting that I had received for him to pray. With amazement and humility in his eyes, he began to weep deeply. Somewhat surprised by his reaction, I started to tell him that it was all right and he wouldn’t have to pray, when he informed me he would love to offer the prayer, that his emotion was caused by the love he has for Elder Maxwell. He told me that this Apostle is very special to the Saints in Ghana and to his own family. Elder Maxwell had called his father to be the district president in Accra and had sealed his mother and father in the Salt Lake Temple.

Now, I didn’t know any of what I just related about this missionary or his family, but the Lord did and inspired a mission president on behalf of one missionary to provide a lifelong memory and testimony-building experience.

At the meeting, Elder Appiah offered a wonderful prayer and made a humble contribution to a meeting where Elder Maxwell taught the missionaries of the attributes of Jesus Christ. All who were there will never forget the feelings of love they experienced for their Savior.

Our leaders cheerily greeted us with a smile and handed everyone pieces of paper. Looking down, I saw a mournful face in a very bad, very old photograph on a paper. Next to the small picture was the story of Bodil Mortinsen. She had traveled with the Willie Handcart Company in October of 1856. I had been assigned Bodil’s name. I folded up Bodil’s biography and stuck it in my pocket.
...
We stood there in silence. Suddenly, I realized that I had not read Bodil Mortinsen’s story. I carefully pulled out the wilted paper and looked again at the mournful black-and-white face. I read her story. I stood where she had stood and envisioned her grieving over a lost parent or brother or friend. At the bottom of the page, I read:
“Two of those buried at Rock Creek Hollow were heroic children of tender years: Bodil Mortinsen, age nine, from Denmark, and James Kirkwood, age eleven, from Scotland.
“Bodil apparently was assigned to care for some small children as they crossed Rocky Ridge. When they arrived at camp, she must have been sent to gather firewood. She was found frozen to death leaning against the wheel of their handcart, clutching sagebrush” (President James E. Faust [1920–2007], Second Counselor in the First Presidency, “A Priceless Heritage,” Ensign, Nov. 1992, 84–85).
I had imagined Bodil standing here, perhaps mourning the loss of a family member. Now I realized that she hadn’t stood here at all. She was buried here.

Ivor, my third son, was still living in the village. He was destined not to be with me long. He had been born two months early and was so tiny that his mother carried him on a pillow. He grew to manhood but suffered from a heart disease. He was the poet in the family, and even though his health was poor he was always happy. I can hear him yet as he sang to the trees in the woods that bordered our home. I remember that just a few days before his heart failed him that we walked together up into the meadow and we looked across the valley. He took my hand in his and spoke softly. “Listen, Dad,” and across the valley came the plaintive call of a cuckoo bird. “Isn’t it lovely? The cuckoo tells of the coming spring, and soon the meadow will be white with daisies, and the birds will sing joyful tunes. Oh, Dad, its a grand world that God has given us.”
He died in his sleep and was buried beside his mother in the little cemetery on the hill.
The funeral was quite an event in our village. It was the first Latter-day Saint funeral ever conducted there. Many people came out of curiosity, but most came because Ivor was loved and respected. Mr. Jones, the undertaker, in his black suit and top hat drove the wagon with the casket with a pair of black horses.
It was only a short distance to the cemetery, and the mourners walked behind the wagon. Soon the villagers started to sing. At first their voices were quiet like the summer breeze on the mountains. Then as the words came, “Feed me till I want no more,” their voices raised in a great crescendo like waves breaking on a rocky shore. Oh, my people from whom I came, your songs of mourning are still in my heart, and I know that my son and my Bess heard.

I had been in Barcelona, Spain, compiling the data collected by an eighteenth-century ancestor of my nonmember husband. I had obtained almost two hundred names. They came principally from diaries written in Catalan, my native tongue. I knew that, in addition to this information, my husband’s family had available about three hundred parchment scrolls of genealogy, all written in Latin and in fifteenth-century script.
Family circumstances allowed me to stay only a very short time in which to work with this Latin material, but I wasn’t able to decipher the writings. I had no money to make photocopies, and with such limited time, I commented to a friend that I worried for the souls who would have to wait longer for their work to be done.
She suggested that I get a priesthood blessing. I did, after a period of fasting, and through the blessing felt a surge of spiritual strength. But the monumental task still discouraged me, and I set aside the scrolls for a while.
Finally, when I only had one week left in which to translate, I fell to my knees in prayer, pleading for help. If it be the Lord’s will, I asked, please permit me to be an instrument in helping to redeem these people from their prison.
From that time on, my understanding of the writings became clearer. I was even able to translate without a dictionary. Each scroll became easier, and I read more and more quickly. I somehow obtained the privacy I needed and, though I worked nights with only a few hours of sleep, I wasn’t tired. I seemed to sense the presence of those I was working for, and that gave me much-needed spiritual support.
I found that rats had nibbled away at the documents over the centuries, taking away some of the data. However, in nearly every case, I located the missing information elsewhere in the documents. When I had forgotten to write down something, I sensed that I needed to reread the scroll. As I unrolled it, the information I needed fell before my eyes immediately. Whenever the translation became difficult, I prayed sincerely for help, and always received it.
I finished the translation in four days, just before I was to leave. The information I had gleaned went as far back as A.D. 1212. I saw no angels nor visions, but I had experienced a miracle every day—a miracle as natural as the sun rising.
I will always be grateful to my Father in Heaven for helping me. Now, more than ever, I have a testimony that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has the spirit of Elijah, which enables us to redeem the dead out of their prison. I know that through that spirit, “the prisoners shall go free” (D&C 128:22).

David Haight was busy as the young merchandise manager of a large Salt Lake City department store one day in the mid-1930s when a distinguished visitor walked into his office—President Heber J. Grant.
Was it true, the Church president inquired, that Brother Haight was preparing to leave Salt Lake City for a position in California? Yes, the younger man answered, wondering if President Grant was about to tell him not to go.
President Grant’s reply was a surprise. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said, commenting that more faithful young Latter-day Saint men should leave Utah and get out where their influence could be felt.
“He said, ‘May the Lord bless you,’ and shook my hand and turned around and walked out of the office,” recalls Elder David B. Haight of the Council of the Twelve.

Such diligence in scripture reading had not been a long-established habit in our family. Perhaps we were not much different from many other families in the Church when it came to studying the scriptures. We knew we should study the scriptures; we wanted to study the scriptures, but we had never had much success in our attempts. Finally, we decided to dedicate ourselves to gaining a habit of scripture reading. To help us in achieving this goal, we adopted an approach presented by Carvel Whiting, our stake Sunday School president.
His method was simple. He made the habit of reading something each day the primary objective of his program. The goal was to establish an attitude, to raise the scriptures in our awareness. He did not specify how much we should study each day, nor did he suggest that we study in a specific way. We were simply encouraged to read the scriptures every day, no matter how briefly, and to keep a record of how many consecutive days we had read, even if we read only one verse.
Using this simple approach, we could read a few verses or ten pages on any given day. We could read through the scriptures chapter by chapter, or we could study topics. We could use this time to read our assignment for next week’s Sunday School lesson. We could vary from time to time—reading the chapters in sequence, but occasionally skipping to another section of the scriptures or focusing on a specific topic. We could even set a secondary goal to read a chapter a day (or half an hour, or five pages), but if we did not always meet that secondary goal, we were still having success and maintaining our daily scripture study habit as long as we read even one verse during the day.
We found that keeping a record of the number of consecutive days we read gave us a useful and flexible system for motivation and positive reinforcement. Specific numbers of consecutive days (for example, 10 days, 30 days, 50 days, 100 days, 200 days, 365 days) could be identified as milestones, at which we earned some form of reward or recognition in the family. The frequency and nature of the rewards could vary according to the age or maturity of the participants. For example, we had a fairly young family, so we had some type of simple treat every ten days for the younger children.
The program gave our family the motivation we needed to get started. During the first two years we used this approach, our family missed reading the scriptures together only twice. Three of us have passed the 365 day mark, and the record in our family for an individual is held by our oldest son, Tommy, who read 446 consecutive days before missing—during the time he was eight and nine years old. Our two oldest children, Lori and Tommy, have now read the Book of Mormon, the Pearl of Great Price, and the book of Genesis, and are well into the New Testament.

On Monday morning I went to school, where I am one of only five Church members among 1,200 students. A group of boys approached me and invited me to be a member of their group. I was outnumbered. They had body piercings and were taller and bigger than most kids. They bullied those who didn’t join them.
I’m also bigger than most kids, and I considered joining the group because I am shy. I thought that being part of a group would make up for my shyness. I asked them, “Can I think it over first?” They said yes.
I asked my parents for their opinion. They said I should pray and read the scriptures. Before I went to sleep, I read the scriptures and For the Strength of Youth. It says, “Choose friends who share your values so you can strengthen and encourage each other in living high standards” ([2001], 12). I also prayed for help: “Are they the right friends for me?”
The next morning during class, I opened my wallet-size For the Strength of Youth pamphlet. I read it again and knew what I had to answer. When they asked me, “So now will you join our group?” I said, without a doubt, “No.”
They asked me why not, and I simply said I didn’t want to get body piercings or to use my strength to hurt others. I said I wanted to be nice to everybody by following Jesus Christ. They looked at me as if to say, “You are wasting an opportunity to have popular friends.”
Today I have a group of friends who are different from that gang. My friends are good students, look clean, and behave well. Now I know that if I seek our Heavenly Father’s help, He will help me.

Many wrote to tell how the issue on the Savior helped clear up misunderstandings about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Barbara Mayes of Flagstaff, Arizona, USA, reported a comment from the woman who comes in to clean her home: “I have noticed many things that point to the idea that you believe in Jesus. How can that be? You two are Mormons. Are you Christians?” Sister Mayes gave her a copy of the March Ensign and they began a conversation. “As she reads, she continues to ask significant questions, and a closed heart has been opened,” said Sister Mayes.

Elder Gordon B. Hinckley
More than sixty years ago, a small boy on an Idaho farm went with his father to the field. While the father worked through the day, the boy amused himself with one thing and another. Over the fence were some old farm buildings, derelict and tumbled down. The boy with imagination saw in them castles to be entered. He climbed through the fence and approached the buildings to begin his exploration. As he drew near, a voice was heard to say, “Harold, don’t go over there.” He looked to see if his father was around. He was not. But the boy heeded the warning. He turned and ran. He never knew what danger might have been lurking there, nor did he question. Having listened and heard, he obeyed.

Every year Elder David O. McKay put his cow Bossie in a truck and took her up the canyon to graze on his farm. But one year Bossie disappeared before the family had moved her.
Lawrence: Father, I didn’t tie Bossie up, and now she’s gone! I was in the house for only a minute or two.
Elder McKay: Don’t worry. She’s probably headed up the canyon.
Elder McKay and Lawrence found Bossie at the mouth of the canyon. Someone had tied her to a post.
Elder McKay: Let’s see if she can get up the canyon by herself. I’ll leave this note on her halter:
Note: “Please let me pass; I’m going to grass.”
Bossie made it to the farm in the canyon in good time. From that year on, Elder McKay always let Bossie loose in the spring because he trusted her to go straight to the farm.

The spirit you bring from your service in the temple will touch many within your circles of influence—some you may not have even considered. At the conclusion of one of our visits to the temple in Washington, D.C., the group of members shared testimonies as the bus rolled across the miles toward home. One after another, participants shared their joy and gratitude for the immediate and eternal blessings of the temple. Our nonmember bus driver finally couldn’t stand it any longer. He grabbed the microphone and expressed appreciation for being with us. He then said, “I don’t know what you people have, but I feel something different here.” Of course, a ward mission leader on the bus got his contact information and later gave it to the missionaries.

He soon revived and was on his way with 500 of the Saints under the care of Captain Daniel Thompson of Fillmore, Utah. William’s journal paints a vivid picture of the means of transporting travelers across the plains in those days:
“Eighty-four sturdy wagons pulled by ox-teams met us there on the Missouri. They were accompanied by splendid teamsters and a very fine captain dedicated to his calling. When all was loaded up, including my own things, we departed for The Valley, but not before we knelt and prayed to the Almighty. The days, weeks, and months to follow were filled with events the heart and mind shall never forget. The evenings were filled with singing and dancing which caused the mind and body to forget the hardships of the day. There was also sickness and death of the fragile which grieved us.”
William chose not to dwell on the subjects of sickness and death; nor did he choose to mention much about the “walking blisters” he doctored every night by the light of the campfires. He certainly had found a good use for the healing salve he’d brought all the way from England. He would remove his “foot soldier boots,” wash out his socks, and soak his feet in a bucket one of the good sisters loaned him. His soaking bucket was not exclusively his, however, as there were others who needed it too. After the soaking process, the bucket was gratefully returned to its place in the back of a wagon until the next evening. William took pity on another young fellow with the party whose shoes were in much worse shape than his own. One evening he took his dress shoes from his bag and gave them to his friend. He would get another pair when he reached his destination, after he had worked and earned enough to buy them. Slits had to be made in the sides as they were too narrow for the boy’s feet, but they were a welcomed gift, nonetheless. Not long after that incident and near the end of the journey, someone noticed blood oozing from William’s boots, leaving a marked trail on the sand and rocks behind him. He was ushered to the back of one of the wagons and made to ride for the remainder of the day. It was his first ride, and he felt guilty and uncomfortable for accepting it. He knew the oxen were already pulling their limit and hated to add to their burden. The soles of his boots were gone, but they had served him well as his father had said they would. He would finish the journey with gunny sacks wrapped around his swollen, bruised feet.
He was not one to complain. Instead he wrote: “I was among the best of company. I was treated like a son and brother, which indeed we were brothers and sisters in the gospel. When tragedy or discomfort struck one, and it did many times, it struck us all.”
Emmigration Canyon was ablaze with her fall attire of reds and golds as the weary but rejoicing Saints descended her well-cut and marked paths that first day of October in 1866. The travelers were warmly received by others who fully understood all that had transpired over the past three months for they, too, had endured and conquered the obstacles that arose between the point of departure and the scene of arrival. Now they stood together in the winners’ circle, ready for the next challenge. William must write home to his family who were anxiously awaiting the news that “Zion had been reached!” Little did he know that they had heard his ship had gone down and were grieving his loss. Oh, how welcome his letter would be! It would inspire new faith and hope.

Sammy looked sad as he watched the pictures on TV. Floodwaters were flowing through streets and towns on the other side of Australia. Sammy thought about the boys and girls whose homes would be filled with mud. He thought about how their toys would be ruined.
Sammy went to the cupboard. He took out a shopping bag and filled it with toys he didn’t play with anymore. Sammy took the bag to Mum.
“These are for the boys and girls in the floods,” he said.
“That is very kind, Sammy,” Mum said. “The people in the floods will also need many other things.”
Sammy and his older brother Benjamin had been saving their money for a new toy. Sammy kept his money in a jar. Sammy grabbed the jar and took out all his money.
“I want to give this to the people in the floods too,” he said.
As he put the money in an envelope, Benjamin walked into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?” Benjamin asked.
“I’m sharing money with the people in the floods,” Sammy said.
“That’s a good idea,” Benjamin said. “I’ll share my money too.”
Mum drove Sammy and Benjamin to a mall where they could donate their money to the people in the flood.
“You are a good example, Sammy,” Benjamin said as they walked together holding their envelopes.
Sammy smiled. He felt good all over. He was the little brother, but he had been a big example.

For as long as I can remember, our family had no contact with my dad’s side of the family, except for his two sisters. I had never known my grandfather, much less anything about my father’s genealogy. That all changed a few years ago.
My grandfather had disapproved of our religion, and in past years he had often criticized it in his letters to my family. My father had tried many times to reason with him, but it never worked. So unfortunately, when I was four years old, our family lost all contact with him.
Then in January of 2002, I began looking through our family records for names to take to the temple during an upcoming temple trip. To my disappointment, I discovered only five temple-ready names in my mother’s files. We had very few names on my father’s side, and the few we had were already done. I prayed hard for a long time about where to start researching further.
Then one day, out of the blue, we received a letter from my great-uncle Birl, my grandfather’s older brother. He wrote that he wanted to get back in contact with our family, and he enclosed his e-mail address and two sheets of genealogy. The Sunday before we received the letter I had been set apart as the first counselor in the Beehive class presidency. My blessing said I would “receive the materials needed to support the Church and my family.” I felt that Uncle Birl’s letter was the answer to that blessing and my prayers.
Still, I was a little uneasy at first. I had never even heard of my Uncle Birl before, and for all I knew he could disapprove of our religious beliefs as my grandfather did. But the more I thought about it, the more excited I got. I finally had names for the upcoming temple trip.
After looking over the genealogy, I went to my room and got down on my knees, asking my Heavenly Father for guidance. Should I contact my uncle and pursue the rest of the family history? My answer came. A few minutes after I finished my prayer, a peaceful feeling washed over me, bringing me again to my knees in awe. I knew that this would unite our family again.
That night I e-mailed my uncle. Since then, Uncle Birl has sent me vast amounts of information, including his complete database of more than 6,000 names he has been compiling throughout his life. Many of these files he had already given to the Church. He has told me more than once that he has great respect for our beliefs.
I love my Uncle Birl very much. Through him, I was finally able to meet my grandfather and reopen the gates of communication between us. With all this help, our family has been able to supply the members of our ward with many names they can take to the temple.
Every time I go to the temple to perform baptisms for my ancestors, I know I am really making a difference. I truly believe this is one of the greatest services we can do here on this earth. And every day as I learn more about my ancestors, I am also learning more about who I am.

This story happened in the USA.
Dominic climbed in the car and buckled his seat belt. “Where are we going?” he asked Mom.
“We’re going to serve someone,” Mom said. “A family needs help getting some food.”
They drove to a big gray building. Dominic had never been there before.
“What is this place?” he asked. “I thought we were going to the store to get food.”
Mom closed the car door. “It’s called a bishops’ storehouse. It’s kind of like a grocery store, except you don’t have to pay for the food here.”
Dominic’s eyes got big. “It’s all free?”
“Sort of,” Mom said. “When we fast, we can pay a fast offering, just like how we pay tithing. That money helps buy the food that goes into this storehouse. Then when someone from church doesn’t have enough money, they can ask the bishop for help and come here to get what they need. In places that don’t have a storehouse, the bishop has other ways to help.”
Dominic walked up to the door with Mom. “So the family we’re helping today doesn’t have enough money to buy food?”
“Not right now,” Mom said. “But that’s why we’re helping! All the members of the Church help each other, so none of us go hungry.”
Dominic nodded. “I’m glad they’ll be able to get food.”
“Me too. Now, let’s go! I’ll show you how it works.”
Dominic and Mom walked into the storehouse. It had rows of shelves with different things on them, like a store.
Mom pulled a paper out of her bag. “This is called a ‘food order.’ It’s a list of things the family needs. Our bishop and Relief Society President worked together to help them make the list.”
“You always use a list when you shop too, Mom!” Dominic said.
“That’s right! We’ll make sure to get everything on the list so the family has what they need.”
Mom got a shopping cart. Then a volunteer helped them find the things on the list. Dominic pushed the cart while Mom put the things inside it.
“OK, I think we’re done!” Mom looked at the list again. “Let’s make sure we have everything. Did we get bananas?”
“Yes!” Dominic said.
“Bread?”
“Yes!”
When they were done, the volunteer helped them put the food in their car. Dominic waved goodbye.
“How do you feel?” Mom asked as they drove home.
“Great!” Dominic said. “But also . . . not great.”
Mom looked surprised. “Why do you feel not great?”
“Because seeing all that food made me hungry! Can we have lunch when we go home?”
Mom smiled. “Of course! A hard worker like you needs food too.”
Dominic smiled back. He felt good inside for helping someone today.
What can you do to help people in need?
Illustrations by Dagmar Smith

In recent days we have had the honor of having again in our home as a guest a noble, quiet man from Mali, West Africa, an elder in the Church, who has taught his people how to dig wells for themselves and how to use the water on gardens which miraculously produce fresh vegetables and grain that grow on land which heretofore has grudgingly yielded only meager crops of millet. Literacy and health programs have been introduced.

Many other special examples of the strength of Christ’s mission crowd the memory. I share just one or two. Some years ago I was privileged to dedicate a chapel built by the Church in the Kalaupapa leper colony on the island of Molokai in the Hawaiian Islands. The experience was tender and touching and unforgettable.

A musical number by the branch choir, comprising most of the members of the branch, was a poignant highlight. They came forward haltingly from the congregation, many being helped by others to the front of the small, attractive building. They arranged themselves in choir grouping, some of them literally leaning for support against each other. The sight was one that will linger in memory. Many were blind and many halt and lame. They literally supported each other as they sang hymns of praise and thanksgiving to God.

There were a lot of tears at Kalaupapa that day.

As Easter time approaches, let me share with you the tender story of an eleven-year-old boy named Philip, a Down’s syndrome child who was in a Sunday School class with eight other children.

Easter Sunday the teacher brought an empty plastic egg for each child. They were instructed to go out of the church building onto the grounds and put into the egg something that would remind them of the meaning of Easter.

All returned joyfully. As each egg was opened there were exclamations of delight at a butterfly, a twig, a flower, a blade of grass. Then the last egg was opened. It was Philip’s, and it was empty!

Some of the children made fun of Philip. “But, teacher,” he said, “teacher, the tomb was empty.”

A newspaper article announcing Philip’s death a few months later noted that at the conclusion of the funeral eight children marched forward and put a large empty egg on the small casket. On it was a banner that said, “The tomb was empty.”

A patriarch received a call one afternoon from a concerned mother of a young daughter who was physically challenged from birth. This dear mother asked if her daughter could possibly receive a patriarchal blessing. The patriarch informed her that if her daughter could obtain a recommend from the bishop, he was sure the Lord had a blessing for her. A short time later the patriarch was informed that the bishop had given this sweet young girl a recommend to receive a patriarchal blessing.

An appointment was made. The blessing was given and gratefully received. Her lineage was given. She received a blessing suited to her needs and unique situation. Lives, focus, and attitudes were changed. She was told that through her cheerful acceptance of the efforts and sacrifices of those who loved and cared for her, she would be blessing their lives, and to accept their offerings graciously and willingly.

Now may I just share with you a wonderful and beautiful story. Brother Isogai is 17 years old, and he passed on to me his conversion story.
“My family consists of three members. We are now living in our grandparents’ home because two years ago my parents got divorced. Since then our grandfather and my mother started working to support us. Some time in October 1979, I met the missionaries on the street near Shibuya station. I studied and I was baptized, and I became inactive following my baptism.
“Since my family was not stable, I was not happy, and I wondered about my future, though I was baptized—about my life, about my family. I wondered, I wondered, I wondered every day.
And one day I wandered through Shibuya again. I was feeling depressed. With the feeling of depression and emptiness in my heart, I was walking toward a church without conscious direction. While there, I attended a beautiful baptism service. I was very impressed and inspired by it. I decided to come back to the church, which I did.
“I learned of the importance of the missionary work, and I helped the missionaries, and I did this almost every day. I went to the street with the missionaries. And I contacted many people. One day I had been praying, and I received a strong feeling that I should teach my own family. I had baptized seven of my friends within two months. So I started to introduce the gospel to my family. First, I thought I should introduce it to my mother. My mother has many friends, and she was attending another Christian church. Because of that, she refused to be baptized. But because of the beautiful fellowshipping and the cooperation of the missionaries, I finally did baptize her. Then we went into the temple during the open house for the Tokyo Temple. When we saw the sealing room, we all cried because we knew that we could be together for all eternity, and we have decided to go to that sacred spot again. My sister got baptized September 11, and I felt so strongly I should introduce the gospel to my grandparents, which I did. Now they have studied and believe, and they are ready to be baptized next Saturday, this Saturday. And I will baptize them. Oh, what great blessings I receive.”