Gospel Story Finder

Now to those who may be incapacitated in any one of a variety of ways, be it physical, mental, or financial—to those who cannot do what you would sincerely like to do for another—let me tell of a personal family experience.
Some months ago my wife drove down to Provo for her customary weekly visit with her mother, who had been ill for some time. On this particular day her mother had been having an unusually difficult time, and didn’t have the strength to hold up her head, or even open her eyes. Though she was physically restricted, she was very alert mentally, and as my wife was caring for her many needs of the day she visited with her about family and friends. My wife held her mother’s head up with one hand while she fed her with the other, and during the meal their conversation turned to one of our daughters and her husband who have five children under the age of seven. My wife commented to her mother that three of our daughter’s children had chicken pox at the same time. The fact that this little mother was unusually busy was obvious. My mother-in-law stopped eating, thought for a moment, and then in a weak, almost inaudible voice said, “I feel so sorry for Robin. I wish I could go to her home and help her.” A few moments later, as my wife pondered this wish, she observed, “You know, Mother, I think in your case wanting to is enough. Surely you will receive a blessing for service and selflessness as though you went to her home and helped.”
When I was told of the experience, I recalled the words of King Benjamin when, in his final address to his people, he said, “And again, I say unto the poor, ye who have not and yet have sufficient, that ye remain from day to day; I mean all you who deny the beggar, because ye have not; I would that ye say in your hearts that: I give not because I have not, but if I had I would give.” (Mosiah 4:24.)

Kim Clark, 19, and her sister Christy Ann, 17, of the North Bend Ward, Coos Bay Oregon Stake, have helped bring 18 of their friends into the Church in the past two years.

“Dennis and Lorry were friends of ours,” Christy said. “Kim knew Lorry from work and I knew Dennis from school. I was talking about our youth temple trip to Seattle, and Dennis said, ‘What’s that?’

“I told him about temple work, baptisms for the dead, and being sealed to your family. He said, ‘I want to be baptized so I can go to the temple.’”

Christy called the missionaries that night.

Meanwhile, at work, Kim was talking with Lorry.

“I said, ‘Do you go to Church?’ and that started us talking,” Kim explained. “Since I’m the stake Young Adult rep, it was easy to invite her to a Young Adult conference, then to church. I introduced her to the missionaries, and soon both Dennis and Lorry were having the missionary discussions.” Within two weeks, both were baptized.

In contrast, seniority is honored among ordained Apostles—even when entering or leaving a room. President Benson related to us this account:
“Some [years] ago Elder Haight extended a special courtesy to President Romney while they were in the upper room in the temple. President Romney was lingering behind for some reason, and [Elder Haight] did not want to precede him out the door. When President Romney signaled [for him] to go first, Elder Haight replied, ‘No, President, you go first.’
“President Romney replied with his humor, ‘What’s the matter, David? Are you afraid I’m going to steal something?’”

Jacqueline Soares Ribeiro Lima of Brazil related how two visiting teachers blessed her life and family after she was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and felt unable to attend church regularly: “My husband, Vladimir, did everything he could to help me through the worst phase of the illness. … He faced the worst moments alone—until two wonderful women were called as my visiting teachers.”
Those two women, Rita and Fátima, demonstrated their love by learning more about the disorder and supporting Jacqueline’s family. She constantly felt their true interest in her. Their service included hosting a small party for Jacqueline and sewing a dress for her daughter. Ultimately, the heartfelt concern of Rita and Fátima helped Jacqueline spiritually, and she resumed regular church attendance, buoyed by their strength.

While on a Church assignment in Cusco, Peru, my wife and I attended a combined Relief Society and Melchizedek Priesthood class. The teacher that day was the adult Gospel Doctrine teacher. Because of scheduling issues during the first two meetings, only about 20 minutes remained for him to teach what he had prepared.
He began by asking all members to stand who had joined the Church during the past two years. Five members stood. He wrote the number 5 on the board and then said, “Brothers and sisters, it is wonderful that we have these 5 members with us who have recently joined the Church. The only problem is that during the past two years, we baptized 16 new converts in this ward.”
He then wrote the number 16 next to the number 5 and with great earnestness asked, “So, brothers and sisters, what are we going to do?”
A sister raised her hand and said, “We need to go find them and bring them back.”
The teacher agreed and then wrote the word rescue on the board. “We’ve got 11 new members to bring back,” he responded.
He then read a quote from President Thomas S. Monson about the importance of rescuing. He also read from the New Testament about how the Savior went after lost sheep (see Luke 15:6). Then he asked, “So how will we bring them back?”
Hands went up, and he called on one member after another. Class members had suggestions about how they as a ward family or as individuals could work together to help recent converts return to church. Then the teacher asked, “So if you were walking down the street and saw a man you recognized as one of these recent converts on the other side of the street, what would you do?” One member said, “I would cross over and greet him. I would tell him how much we need him to come back and how eager we are to have him join with us again.”
Others in the class agreed and offered additional specific suggestions about how to help these members. There was an enthusiasm in the room, a determination to do what needed to be done to help these recently baptized members find their way back to full activity.
My wife and I left this lesson with a renewed desire to do something ourselves to help someone return to activity in the Church. I believe that everyone in the class left with such a feeling. Following this experience, I asked myself: What made this short lesson so effective? Why did everyone leave the class feeling so motivated to live the gospel more fully?
While participating in the class in Peru, I could feel the love the teacher had for those present as well as for the recent converts he was inviting class members to activate. Love seemed to permeate the room—from teacher to learner, from learner to teacher, from one learner to another, and from learners to the recent converts.
When a teacher’s motive is to cover the lesson material, the teacher focuses on content rather than on the needs of each individual learner. The Peruvian teacher seemed to feel no need to cover anything. He simply wanted to inspire class members to reach out to their brothers and sisters in love. Love for the Lord and love for each other constituted the driving force. Love was the motive. When love is our motive, the Lord will strengthen us to accomplish His purposes to help His children. He will inspire us with what we as teachers need to say and how we should say it.
The teacher in Peru did not read from the lesson manual as he taught. I am convinced he used the manual or conference talks to prepare for the class, but when he taught, he taught from the scriptures. He recounted the story of the lost sheep and recited the following verse: “And when thou art converted, strengthen thy brethren” (Luke 22:32). He shared President Monson’s invitation to all Church members to rescue those who have lost their way. The doctrines at the center of his lesson were faith and charity. Class members needed enough faith to act, and they needed to act out of love.
When the doctrines of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ are taught with clarity and conviction, the Lord strengthens both learner and teacher. The more class members offered their suggestions for reaching out to their brothers and sisters who were less active, the closer everyone felt to the Savior, who constantly reached out to others during His earthly ministry. Doctrine is the key to effective gospel learning and teaching. It unlocks hearts. It unlocks minds. It opens the way for the Spirit of God to inspire and edify everyone present.
Great gospel teachers recognize that they are not actually the teachers at all. The gospel is taught and learned through the Spirit. Without the Spirit, the teaching of gospel truths cannot lead to learning (see D&C 42:14). The more the teacher gives inspired invitations to act, the more the Spirit will be present during the lesson. The Peruvian teacher gave an inspired invitation. Then, as class members responded with suggestions, the feeling of the Spirit grew and strengthened everyone.
The teacher was not trying to cover the lesson. Rather, he was trying to uncover the lesson that was already inside the learner. By inviting class members through the power of the Spirit, the teacher helped members discover their own desire to act—to reach out to their brothers and sisters in love. As class members shared their ideas, they inspired each other because they were jointly drawing upon the Spirit.

Lest anyone believe I am announcing or planning dramatic changes in the university, let me promise you that I am not doing so. But let me also assure you that as our circumstances change and the needs of our students and community differentiate, so must the way in which the university conducts its teaching, learning, and other businesses be responsive to our current environment. As I make this observation, I am reminded of an experience President Henry B. Eyring shared with some of us a few years ago.

President Henry B. Eyring in his early years in Church Educational System leadership was asked by President Spencer W. Kimball to chair a committee of educators to think about and report on the distant future of education in the Church. As he visited with the prophet, President Eyring opined that universities would likely not exist in the Millennium as we know them today. He was stopped by President Kimball, who disagreed and made the case to Brother Eyring that universities had developed in ways that had resulted in great good over many years and likely would be found in recognizable ways for a very long time. I believe President Kimball convinced young Brother Eyring of this likelihood, and I know he and the other presiding Brethren feel the same today.

When I was a young man getting ready to graduate from high school, President Ezra Taft Benson challenged the members of the Church. He said, "There is a book we need to study daily, both as individuals and as families, namely the Book of Mormon."[6]
Although I may not have responded immediately, within a few months, as a young Marine, I began reading in earnest, and when Heather and I married in 1988, we made a commitment that we would read it together every day. When our children came along, we included them and taught them a nightly routine that included reading the Book of Mormon. Sometimes we would get home late at night, and we'd want to get the kids right to bed, but they would quickly remind us that we hadn't read scriptures yet. As a result of following through on that commitment to read the Book of Mormon every day, we have been blessed. We have been through the Book of Mormon together at least 30 times, and we stand as a witness to the blessings President Marion G. Romney promised when he said:
"I feel certain that if, in our homes, parents will read from the Book of Mormon prayerfully and regularly, both by themselves and with their children, the spirit of that great book will come to permeate our homes and all who dwell therein. The spirit of reverence will increase; mutual respect and consideration for each other will grow. The spirit of contention will depart. Parents will counsel their children in greater love and wisdom. Children will be more responsive and submissive to the counsel of their parents. Righteousness will increase. Faith, hope, and charity--the pure love of Christ--will abound in our homes and lives, bringing in their wake peace, joy, and happiness."[7]
Our two sons are grown now, beginning families of their own. Upon reflection, I have been concerned that perhaps our reading together may have been more repetitive than it was iterative. The repetition did help us grow, but did we get the full iterative power that we could have? I asked my sons for their thoughts, and Kaleb shared: "Each time through there are new adventures, new sermons, new lessons to experience. The beauty of reading the Book of Mormon as a family was experiencing those new experiences together each time we read.... The Book of Mormon never felt repetitive. The characters were familiar to me, but they were always teaching something new."[8] So I'm confident steady growth was achieved through our repetition, and as our individual and family experiences continually informed our reading, perhaps at times it was more iterative, delivering accelerated growth.

Several years ago, my children and I built a four-thousand-gallon saltwater pond in our backyard and stocked it with various forms of aquatic life.* When I came home from work one day, I found two of my sons frantically trying to net all the bullseye puffers in our pond to bring them inside. They had found them floating helplessly at the water’s surface, probably because of the low temperatures of the approaching winter. When the biggest puffer hit the warm water of our family-room aquarium, it was shocked into activity and swam rapidly up and down the ten-foot aquarium. Then it turned belly-up. Well, I thought, that’s the end of it.

The next morning, however, the fish was still alive, though in no better condition. I went to work, expecting to find it dead when I returned that evening. But that night the fish was still gulping air. It just wouldn’t die. However, it didn’t get any better, either.

Days passed; the puffer’s condition worsened. Its body became bloated, and a fungus began to grow over its eyes. It was then that I thought that perhaps I should pray for the fish. In thinking about it, however, I reasoned that the puffer was, after all, just a fish and that it would make little difference to the eternal plan of our Heavenly Father whether it lived or died.

It’s true that the life of a simple fish may not seem important. But there have been times when fish have played important roles in teaching men some very significant lessons. Remember the great fish that swallowed Jonah, showing him that there was no place where he could hide from the Lord? Or the few fishes that Jesus used to feed the multitude? Or the fish with the coin in its mouth, which Jesus told Peter to catch? Or the great harvest of fish that the Apostles took when they cast their nets under the direction of the Master? I began to wonder if my involvement with the puffer could be a personal trial of my faith.

Day after day part of me wanted to pray for the fish, but another part of me told me not to bother. Finally, just before I went to bed one night, as I was looking at the puffer fighting for its life, tears welled up in my eyes, and I folded my arms, bowed my head, and offered a prayer that the fish would be made well.

The next morning I rushed to the aquarium. There was the fish, and what a sorry sight it was. It had now lost its sense of balance completely and had sunk headfirst to the bottom of the tank. It had apparently spent the night trying to right itself, only to rub all the flesh from its bony jaws against the rough sand at the tank’s bottom. Thick scales covered its eyes, and the tiny blood vessels in its fins were bursting. I said to myself, “What a dummy you are to think that the Lord would be concerned about a simple fish.”

I was certain that my faith had failed both me and the puffer. But though mortals may fail, the Lord fails not; and I was soon to learn that faith in Him, once exercised, can never fail. When I viewed the fish on the following morning, I beheld an astonishing sight. The scales that had blinded the puffer’s eyes were gone. Its jawbones no longer protruded from open wounds; the missing flesh had been restored. And the profusely bleeding fins were now clear and functional. The fish glided gracefully about the tank. Equally remarkable, when I put a glass thermometer into the aquarium to check the water temperature, the puffer swam over and promptly bit it in half, attesting dramatically to its complete recovery.

When thirteen-year-old Thad is called to be the rope maker of the United Order in Orderville, he is thrilled to finally have a job. Rope making is not easy, but after a number of failures, he masters the craft. The tithing house clerk records his first batch of rope as “quality excellent.”
That Sunday, as usual, my Uncle Claude rode his horse over from Kanab to go to church with us. He was the envy of all the young men in town in his store-bought pants and shirt, bright bandanna, real felt hat, and fancy cowboy boots. I knew that he came over so often because he was courting a girl who lived down the street.
At dinner, Mother said, “Thad, tell Uncle Claude about your new job.”
He listened carefully as I explained about the rope machine. Then he said, “How about showing me what you’ve done.”
After dinner we rode over to the harness shop on his pinto horse. I opened the shop door and unshuttered the windows so he could see the machine.
Then I got out samples of all the different kinds of rope I had been making. I could see that he was impressed.
“Thad, do you think you could make me a horsehair rope on that machine? I’ve seen two or three, and they’re the best rope for lassoing cattle. I’ll be glad to furnish the hair. What do you say?”
I thought about it for a few moments, I had only worked with cotton and flax, and they were twine when I got them. Turning the horsehair into twine would be the hard part. It was much too heavy and stiff to use on a regular spinning wheel, so the job would have to be done by hand. “Uncle, I’d like to try,” I replied.
I soon made all the cotton and flax twine that had been delivered to me into rope. Brother Lamb came over one afternoon and showed me how to backsplice the ends of the rope to make them neat. As he left, he said, “I’m going to put in an order for some of your two-strand rope for a clothesline. Wait until my wife sees how uniform and clean your rope is!”
In just a day or two, all the rope I had delivered to the tithing office was gone and people started asking me when I was going to make more. All I could reply was, “When they bring me more cotton or flax. Put your order in at the tithing house, and I’ll fill it as soon as I can.”
It was two weeks before Uncle Claude rode up with a big sack full of horsehair from the manes and tails of many horses. He arrived on Saturday afternoon, and we went down to the harness shop and worked until dark, trying to make some of the hair into twine. Having watched wool being carded to be spun, we tried the same thing with the hair, using a currycomb to make it into uniform rows. We weren’t doing very well until a brief thunder shower drove us inside. Returning to the hair, we found that it twisted up very nicely when wet, just like our own wet hair combs better.
The next week, I worked until dark each day on the horsehair and soon had enough twine to try making a three-strand rope. The first two or three attempts didn’t produce a very good rope. The hair was stiffer and less pliable than flax or cotton, but I kept adjusting the tension on the machine and experimenting with how fast and hard to turn the handle to get the right twist. Soon I was turning out a nice-looking, uniform rope. Each night I took home the rope I had made that day and studied it, trying to work out how to make it even better.
I took that rope apart several times. Each time I put it back together it got better looking, and by the next Saturday I had a nice three-strand horsehair rope almost forty feet long for Uncle Claude.
I took the rope to show Brother Lamb, and he spliced a running noose in the end so that it could be used as a lariat. “Thad,” he said, “you will make your uncle the envy of every cowboy in Kanab. Now you need to make another rope to show at the town fair. You’ll probably win a first prize. Think about it.”
I did. Uncle Claude’s praise for the rope when I gave it to him on Sunday decided the issue. I would make a bigger, longer rope just for the fair, and I would do it without anyone knowing about it until it was done. But how would I get enough horsehair? When Theo mentioned the big dance the next Saturday, I had my answer.
Saturday night I carefully counted the horses around the hall. Most of them were teams still hooked to wagons and buggies. I waited till the dance was in full swing and the full moon came up before slipping out. After looking carefully up and down the street to make sure that no latecomers were about I got the pair of sheep shears I had hidden in the shrubs. Standing there, shears in hand, I almost changed my mind. A strong feeling came over me that it was wrong to take the hair without asking. But I wanted that first-place ribbon, so I ignored the feeling and went to work.
I started on the manes of the bishop’s team of good-looking young roans. In moments their hair was on the ground. I tied it into a bundle and went to work on their tails. I didn’t take all the hair, because they would need some left in their tails to keep the flies off.
Next came a team of matched black horses. Their manes were already clipped, so I only got hair from their tails, As I finished, I noticed that one had less tail left than the other—they were no longer a matched pair. The next horses were gray with long, unkempt manes that were hard to cut. Their tails were even worse—all tangled and full of burrs. As I started on the second horse, it kicked at me twice. I added their bundles of hair to my growing pile and moved on.
Occasionally someone would come outside for a breath of fresh air, but I just hid behind a horse, and no one noticed the extra legs. Working steadily, I soon finished the horses on one side of the street and crossed to the other. As I went past a wagon, a dog sleeping underneath started barking, defending his territory. I almost panicked, fearing that someone would come out to investigate. But I held out my hand in friendship, and the dog wagged his tail, stopped barking, and just watched as I clipped the team he was guarding.
The shears were getting quite dull and I wished I could stop to hone them back to a sharp edge. A half hour later my hands were red, and my arms and shoulders ached from the effort, but all the horses were clipped. I gathered the bundles of hair and made two trips to hide them in Brother Cox’s corn crib. I finished, washed my hands in his livestock watering trough, and went back to the dance.
Lounging against a wall as if I had never left. I glanced down at my pants. They were covered with horsehair of every color! Trying to look inconspicuous, I quickly rolled the hair into little balls and put them into my pocket. As the closing prayer was being said, I said my own little prayer that people wouldn’t be too angry.
After the amen, most people moved quickly outside into the cool evening air. I lingered behind, a little afraid. Suddenly the laughter and talk outside was interrupted by a loud, angry cry: “Someone’s clipped the mane off my horse!”
Everyone still inside the hall rushed out to see what had happened. I went out with the last of them and stayed at the edge of the group. Some were amused at the sight of horses with their clipped manes and tails. Others were not. Some said it needed to be done. Others replied that it was a poor job and would look bad for a long time until the hair grew back.
Everybody was asking, “Who did it?”
Someone suggested, “I bet it was those boys from Glendale or Kanab. They’re always trying to pull some trick on us. We’ll have to find a way to get even with them!” That made me feel as if the balls of horsehair were in my stomach instead of my pocket.
Before going home, I moved the hair to the harness shop, hiding it under the cotton and flax. During the next week, I worked on the horsehair rope when no one was watching. And in the evenings, when Brother Spencer had gone home, I worked on it until it got too dark to see.
First I soaked the hair overnight in the irrigation ditch. This not only made it clean but took the curl out of it and made it easier to twist together into twine-sized strings. When it dried it stayed in place just like my sisters’ hair did when they rolled it up at night.
Using three spools of twine each time, I made four ropes, each over 150 feet long. With all four spools full of three-strand rope, I twisted the whole thing together into one big rope of four big strands. It was hard work turning this much rope into its final size. It came out about the same diameter as a half-dollar coin and was the biggest and longest rope I had made.
With the rope finished, I back-braided the ends as Brother Lamb had taught me, soaked it again, and then stretched it tight between two trees to dry. While it was drying, I went over its entire length, tucking every loose hair back inside the rope. This made it even tighter and very neat looking. The drier it got, the tighter the twist became and the stronger the rope looked.
I stood there admiring my work, wondering how strong it was. I looked forward to the town fair. Perhaps they would test my rope in one of the pulling contests with teams of horses. Someone had told me that one strand of horsehair would easily hold ten pounds. There were hundreds of strands of hair in my beautiful rope. I wanted to feel excited and proud, but I couldn’t. I had no right to the hair, and I had no right to the rope. If only I had asked!
I tried to forget how I had gotten the horsehair, but people kept talking about it. One day at the harness shop, while I was waiting for everyone to leave so I could work on the horsehair rope, a man said, “We’ll have to watch our young men. They’re talking about going to Glendale or Kanab and pulling some stunt to get even for the horses’ tails and manes getting clipped.”
I spliced twine furiously and tried to think about the town fair.
At the fair, I entered the rope in the contest and won first prize. But I was not happy about it. The next day I went to the bishop and told him what I had done. I said I was sorry and asked him to forgive me. He did forgive me, and I felt better.
I also learned that it is better to do things the right way, even if it means losing the prize. I never forgot how uneasy I had felt while making that rope, and I never again took anything that did not belong to me.

I recall a few years ago seeing a drama enacted at the Salt Lake International Airport. On this particular day, I got off an airplane and walked into the terminal. It was immediately obvious that a missionary was coming home because the airport was full of conspicuous-looking missionary friends and missionary relatives.

I tried to pick out the immediate family members. There was a father who did not look particularly comfortable in an awkward-fitting and slightly out-of-fashion suit. He seemed to be a man of the soil, with a suntan and large, work-scarred hands.

There was a mother who was quite thin, looking as if she had worked very hard in her life. She had in her hand a handkerchief—and I think it must have been a linen handkerchief once, but now it looked like tissue paper. It was nearly shredded from the anticipation only the mother of a returning missionary could know.

Two or three younger brothers and sisters were running around, largely oblivious to the scene that was unfolding.

I found myself wondering as to who would be first to break away from the welcoming group. A look at the mother’s handkerchief convinced me that she would probably be the one.

As I sat there, I saw the returning missionary appear. I knew he was the one by the squeals of excitement from the crowd. He looked like Captain Moroni, clean and handsome and straight and tall. Undoubtedly he had known the sacrifice this mission had meant to his father and mother.

As he neared the group, sure enough, someone couldn’t wait any longer. It wasn’t the mother, and it wasn’t any of the children. It was Father. That big, slightly awkward, quiet, and bronzed giant of a man ran out and swept his son into his arms.

The missionary was probably 6?2? (188 cm) or so, but this big father grabbed him, lifted him off the ground, and held him for a long, long time. He just held him and said nothing. The boy put both arms around his dad, and they just held each other very tightly. It seemed like all eternity stood still. It was as if all the world had gone silent out of respect for such a sacred moment.

And then I thought of God the Eternal Father watching His Son go out to serve, to sacrifice when He didn’t have to do it, paying His own expenses, so to speak, costing everything He had saved all His life to give. At that precious moment, it was not too difficult to imagine that Father speaking with some emotion to those who could hear, “This is my Beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased” (Matthew 3:17). And it was also possible to imagine that triumphant returning Son saying, “It is finished” (John 19:30). “Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit” (Luke 23:46).

Even in my limited imagination, I can see that reunion in the heavens. And I pray for one like it for you and for me. I pray for reconciliation and for forgiveness, for mercy, and for the Christian growth and Christian character we must develop if we are to enjoy such a moment fully.

I stand all amazed that even for a man like me, there is a chance. If I’ve heard the “good news” correctly, there really is a chance—for me and for you and for everyone who is willing to keep hoping and to keep trying and to allow others the same privilege.

I marvel that he would descend from his throne divine
To rescue a soul so rebellious and proud as mine. …
I think of his hands pierced and bleeding to pay the debt!
Such mercy, such love, and devotion can I forget?
No, no, I will praise and adore at the mercy seat,
Until at the glorified throne I kneel at his feet. …
Oh, it is wonderful, wonderful to me!5

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Among the many wonderful things I would like to remind you about, I love and will conclude with a brief statement from a great book written long ago. It is about a slave who lived in Christ’s time and watched him on a certain special Sunday in the midst of a multitude.

Suddenly, for no reason at all that Demetrius could observe, there was a wave of excitement. It swept down over the sluggish swollen stream of zealots like a sharp breeze. Men all about him were breaking loose from their families, tossing their packs into the arms of their overburdened children, and racing forward toward some urgent attraction. Far up ahead the shouts were increasing in volume, spontaneously organizing into a concerted reiterated cry; a single, magic word that drove the multitude into a frenzy.

“Do you know what is going on?” said Demetrius. [He was talking to another slave.]

“They’re yelling something about a king. That’s all I can make of it.”

“You think they’ve got somebody up front who wants to be their king? Is that it?”

“Looks like it. They keep howling another word that I don’t know—Messiah. The man’s name, maybe.”

Standing on tiptoe for an instant in the swaying crowd, Demetrius caught a fleeting glimpse of the obvious center of interest, a brown-haired, bareheaded, well-favored Jew. A tight little circle had been left open for the slow advance of the shaggy white donkey on which he rode. . . . There had been no effort to bedeck the pretender with any royal regalia. He was clad in a simple brown mantle with no decorations of any kind, and the handful of men—his intimate friends, no doubt—who tried to shield him from the pressure of the throng, wore the commonest sort of country garb.

It was quite clear now to Demetrius that the incident was accidental. . . . Whoever had started this wild pandemonium, it was apparent that it lacked the hero’s approbation.

The face of the enigmatic Jew seemed weighted with an almost insupportable burden of anxiety. The eyes, narrowed as if in resigned acceptance of some inevitable catastrophe, stared straight ahead toward Jerusalem.

Gradually the brooding eyes moved over the crowd until they came to rest on the strained, bewildered face of Demetrius. Perhaps, he wondered, the man’s gaze halted there because he alone—in all this welter of hysteria—refrained from shouting. His silence singled him out. The eyes calmly appraised Demetrius. They neither widened nor smiled; but, in some indefinable manner, they held Demetrius in a grip so firm it was almost a physical compulsion. The message they communicated was something other than sympathy, something more vital than friendly concern; a sort of stabilizing power that swept away all such negations as slavery, poverty, or any other afflicting circumstance. Demetrius was suffused with the glow of this curious kinship. Blind with sudden tears, he elbowed through the throng and reached the roadside. The uncouth Athenian, bursting with curiosity, inopportunely accosted him.

“See him—close up?” he asked.

Demetrius nodded.

“Crazy?” persisted the Athenian.

“No.”

“King?”

“No,” muttered Demetrius, soberly—“not a king.”

“What is he, then?” demanded the Athenian.

“I don’t know,” mumbled Demetrius, in a puzzled voice, “but—he is something more important than a king.” [Lloyd C. Douglas, The Robe, chapter 4]

As old as I am, I can well remember falling in love with my wife. It was not an easy process. I had been back from my mission for nearly a year when I first dated Marilyn. We had common friends and were friends with each other, but she was waiting faithfully for a missionary. Probably one of my first motivations to date her was to (as we called it at the time) “cut his grass.” It is to Marilyn’s credit that I had to ask her out about six times before she reluctantly agreed to go with me. It was right here on this campus. In fact, for our first date we went to a play in the Kirkham Auditorium. It was exciting to fall in love. You know how it is. Somehow you suddenly run into each other between just about every class. I remember studying in the library and having them threaten to throw me out because I kept talking to her. I am pretty sure that I was convinced that I loved her and wanted her to marry me long before she felt that way. We took classes together. I went to devotional with her. In my innocence I thought that surely no one ever felt love more intensely than I did at that time. There were challenging times along the way, and a couple of times I thought I had lost her to someone else. But through my patient persistence, she finally agreed to marry me. I guess like some of the students I visited with in preparing this talk, I reached a point where the thought of ever doing anything that would hurt her was completely abhorrent to me. I wanted to do everything I could to make her happy.

It was only after we were married that I discovered that even though love can happen naturally, it takes constant work to keep it strong. One of the important things about a marriage is that it is a living thing; it either grows or atrophies. And like any living thing, it must be nourished daily to remain healthy and strong. It takes healthy doses of hearing “I love you” or receiving unsolicited small and large acts of kindness and thoughtfulness to make a marriage strong. It is amazing what can happen if a husband helps wash the dishes or vacuums a floor or makes a bed or when a wife brings an ice cold glass of lemonade to her husband as he labors pulling weeds in the garden. That is what helps make a marriage strong.

Over the years Marilyn and I have played a game called “I love you as much as . . .” Some of my best efforts have been “I love you as much as all the dust particles in the air in Idaho on a dry, windy, summer day” or “I love you more than all the national debt.” I have learned that romantic little thoughts like these go a long way towards keeping love alive and strong.

Long ago there was a rich man named Yaacov who did very well selling his wares in the city. His family lived in a big house, rode in fine carriages, and ate the best foods. They lacked nothing that could make them happy and healthy.
One day Yaacov took his finest carriage and drove out into the country to do some business. He was in a great hurry and rode all day without stopping so that he could reach his destination before nightfall. But when darkness came, Yaacov was lost in a wild, unfamiliar country far from his home. “We must find a place for the night, or we will faint from hunger and exhaustion,” he told his horse. The horse whinnied in agreement. Both kept their eyes open for a likely place to stop, but they saw nothing.
Finally Yaacov spied a light in the distance through the trees. He turned his horse toward it, and soon they arrived at a very humble hut. This is not much, Yaacov thought, but maybe the good people inside will give me shelter. He knocked at the door.
A thin man dressed in tattered clothing opened it. When Yaacov explained his need, the man replied, “We have very little, but what we have is yours.”
The inside of the one-room hut was even shabbier than the outside. There was a small fire in the grate, rushes on the floor for beds, and only one chair, which the man offered to Yaacov.
That night the man, his wife, and their little boy treated Yaacov with all the respect and courtesy due a guest in their home. There was little to eat, but the family shared what they had. Yaacov noticed that the man ate very little, leaving him the best of the food. At bedtime they gave him the warmest place by the fire. Yaacov was touched by their kindness and vowed that he would never forget them.
Before he left the next day, Yaacov took the little boy aside, gave him a piece of paper, and said, “Here is my address in the city. If ever your family is in need, call on me.” Then, getting directions from his host, he hurried off to his business destination.
Ten years passed, and Yaacov had become even richer. His family had finer carriages, more expensive furniture, and even costlier food. He had forgotten all about that night when he was lost in the country.
One night while Yaacov and his family were seated at the dinner table, there came a knock on the door. Yaacov was called into the great hall.
“This young man says that he knows you, sir,” said one of the servants.
Puzzled, Yaacov looked the young stranger up and down. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember you. Who are you?”
“Once, a long time ago,” replied the young man, “you came to our home in the country. You were lost and hungry, and you spent the night in my parents’ home.”
Yaacov then realized that the young man before him must have been the little boy in the humble hut in the country where Yaacov had been so graciously received. “What can I do for you?” Yaacov asked kindly.
“My father and mother are both very ill, and I have lost my job while trying to care for them. Now we have no more food, and they need medicine. If they do not get help soon, they will surely die and I will have failed in my duties as a son,” answered the young man, adding, “I will work hard for you at any task if you will only help my parents.”
“I will provide for your family, but I will not ask you to work for me,” Yaacov told the young man. “Your parents need you now.”
That very night Yaacov sent a doctor with the young man to attend to his parents’ needs. The next morning Yaacov sent ten wagonloads of food and provisions to the family. Yaacov’s wife and daughter also went to help care for the sick man and woman. Within a month the poor family was happy and healthy and much better off than they had ever been before. Yaacov then found the young man a good job in his business and paid him well for his work.
When asked why he did so much for a family whom he hardly knew, Yaacov replied, “They took food from their mouths to feed me and treated me kindly when I was in need. I am still in their debt, for what is my sacrifice compared to theirs? A kindness should be stored away in a person’s heart and returned with interest when it is needed.”

The weather was beautiful, and we were nearing the end of another marvelous week at girls’ camp. As youth camp leaders we gathered the rest of the young women and began the transition from the light-hearted fun of the afternoon to the more reverent atmosphere we desired for that evening’s program. One of the leaders suggested we sing some hymns.
We clustered together and started singing. As we sang, I noticed someone was a little out of tune. I thought someone was being silly, so I glanced sideways at those near me. But when I listened more closely, I realized who it was.
One of the youth camp leaders with us that year had Down syndrome. She had a tremendous spirit and loved each of us without reserve. And we loved her. She sang with all her heart, often being touched by many of the words that most of us mouthed without really thinking about them.
I reflected on how many times Alisa had been the one to go up to one of the girls who needed a hug. I remembered how dedicated she was to the gospel. I recalled her sweet testimony at the many youth conferences we had been to. And then I realized how many times Alisa felt the Spirit when the rest of us were too busy, too silly, or too tired.
I suddenly understood that Alisa was in tune where it really mattered. She was in tune with the Spirit. As long as she stayed on the path she was on and followed the guidance of the Holy Spirit, someday she would likely raise her voice in perfect harmony with a heavenly choir to sing praises to our Lord. For now, though, the most important thing was to be in tune spiritually.

Recently I received a new assignment. I had been serving in the Africa Southeast Area. It was thrilling to serve where the Church is relatively young and being established, and we loved the Saints. Then I was called to return to Church headquarters, and to be honest, I was less than enthusiastic. A change in assignment brought some unknowns.

One night after contemplating the upcoming change, I dreamed about my great-great-grandfather Joseph Skeen. I knew from his journal that when he and his wife, Maria, moved to Nauvoo, he desired to serve, so he sought out the Prophet Joseph Smith and asked how he could help. The Prophet sent him to work on the prairie and told him to do the best he could, so he did. He worked on the Smiths’ farm.

I pondered the privilege that Joseph Skeen had in receiving his assignment that way. Suddenly I realized that I have the same privilege, as we all do. All Church callings come from God—through His appointed servants.

I felt a distinct spiritual confirmation that my new assignment was inspired. It is important that we make that connection—that our callings literally come to us from God through our priesthood leaders. After this experience, my attitude changed, and I was filled with a deep desire to serve. I am grateful for the blessing of repentance and for my changed heart. I love my new assignment.

Nell was so excited she could hardly wait to change her Sunday clothes and run out to tell Dad what she had learned at conference. She didn’t even take time to put on her shoes, but ran barefoot across the dusty yard.
It was June 1899. There had been no rain in southern Utah for more than two years. The streams and even the wells around St. George had dried up. No crops could grow without water, and thousands of cattle had died on the range. Some of the families had already moved, and now Dad was also preparing to leave. Earlier that morning he had decided he was too busy packing the wagon to go to conference, even though President Lorenzo Snow had come all the way from Salt Lake City to talk to the people.
“Dad! Oh, Dad!” Nell called as she ran to him. “You can take our things out of the wagon. We don’t have to leave! In conference today President Snow said if the people will pay their tithing and plant their fields, the rains will come and we’ll have food.”
But Dad didn’t seem to understand. He just shook his head and sat down on the tongue of the wagon, staring out across the barren fields.
Dad had explained again and again that they could not live through another year without rain. There was very little food on their pantry shelves, and all the money that was left was the twenty dollars Grandfather had given to Nell.
Later that evening as Dad was washing up for dinner, Nell overheard him tell Mother they should all be ready to start at six the next morning. “We can make Thomson’s ranch by noon if we do,” he said.
The family sat down to a simple meal. No one spoke. Nell felt so sad she could hardly choke down the food. Finally she swallowed hard and said, “Grandfather once told me a story about how the people were blessed by doing exactly as Brigham Young asked them to do.”
Her father and mother stopped eating to listen as Nell continued, “When I said I wished I had lived then so I could have followed a prophet, Grandfather said that President Snow is our prophet today just like Brigham Young was then and that we should all follow him.”
After Nell finished telling the story, she asked Dad to take her precious twenty dollars. “You can give it to Bishop Thorne,” she explained, “to help bring rain to St. George!”
Early the next morning Nell looked out the window and saw a great cloud of dust blowing at the far end of the field. She dressed quickly and ran out across the dry ground.
When Dad saw her, he stopped the horses and held out his arms. Nell flew into them and he held her close. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” he said. “I thought you’d never get here in time to help me plow the field and plant our seeds!”
During the hot dry weeks that followed, the people of St. George anxiously scanned the cloudless sky and sadly shook their heads. But neither Nell nor her father were at all surprised when on the second of August it began to rain.

Though all of us have to do things we do not like, it is important that you ultimately enjoy your work. If you can’t stand to be indoors, maybe you had better try to find something that you would like to do outside. One high school senior loved to fish and camp, and consequently he became very knowledgeable about nature. He got in touch with two prominent naturalists and they hired him. His job? To help study the habits and life of the grizzly bear in Yellowstone National Park.

Desiree’s lower lip quivered as she watched her mother carry her dresses into the dry cleaner. She knew they wouldn’t be clean in time for church on Sunday. Mom had explained that to her, and Desiree had said that she understood, but now she wasn’t sure. When Mom came back, Desiree bit her lip to make it stop quivering. She didn’t want Mom to know she was upset.
“I want a new dress,” Desiree said when Mom got into the car. “It will be my first day in Sunbeams.”
“Sweetheart,” Mom answered, “you don’t need a new dress. Your dresses will be just fine when the smoky smell is gone.”
“But what will I wear on Sunday?” Desiree frowned.
“I don’t know yet,” Mom replied. “We’ll find something.” When Desiree sighed unhappily, Mom added, “Just be glad that no one was hurt in the fire.”
“What if I pray for a new dress?” Desiree asked.
Mom sighed. “I think it would be better to pray that some other little girl could get a new dress.”
“Why?”
“Well, it might be a good idea to focus on being thankful that we didn’t lose very much in the fire instead of worrying so much about things we want,” Mom explained. “We should pray for others to have the things they need.”
“We don’t have everything we need,” Desiree said.
“Yes, we do,” Mom said. “We might just have to wait a little while to get it all back.”
Desiree drew pictures in the frost-covered car window with her finger the rest of the way home. As she thought about what Mom had said about praying for others, she decided it would be a good idea. She knew of children her age who needed shoes, clothes, and even enough food to eat. The more she thought about them, the more sorry she felt for acting selfish. Her mother was right; she did have everything she needed.
“Hey, there are your cousins,” Mom said as they pulled into the driveway. Desiree’s cousins were standing on the front doorstep with a big plastic bag on the ground beside them.
After Mom parked the car, she let Desiree’s two cousins inside. They were both older than Desiree.
“Look what we have!” the girls exclaimed.
“What is it?” Desiree asked.
“When we heard about the fire, our mom helped us go through some of our things,” Angela, the oldest cousin, explained. “Here, you can have these.”
Desiree took the big plastic bag and eagerly opened it. Inside she found some toys, stuffed animals, and clothes. At the very bottom was a pretty Sunday dress. Desiree squealed with delight as she pulled the dress from the bag. “Look!”
Mom clapped her hands in surprise. “Oh my goodness! How did you girls know she needed a dress for her first Sunbeam class?”
Angela shook her head. “We didn’t.”
“Thank you!” Desiree cried happily.
“Remember to thank Heavenly Father, too,” Mom said. “He’s the one who inspired your aunt to send us the dress.”
“But how did He know? I didn’t pray for one—honest!” Desiree said.
Mom hugged Desiree and smiled through happy tears. “He knows what we need even before we ask Him, just like He knew we needed to get out of the house before we started smelling smoke. Remember?”
“Wow!” Desiree smiled. “He really does know everything.”
Carrying her new dress up the stairs, Desiree went into her room to pray in thanks.

In more than 39 years being a member of the Church, I can honestly say I have only missed Church once! Remarkable, isn’t it? One Sunday morning I had to decide, while holding my scriptures in one hand, should I go to Church or to a barbecue? I chose to attend the barbecue. There was a big festival coming to the township of Mbizo, Kwekwe, where I lived. My feelings were conflicted.
At first, I told my friends—who were not members of the Church—that I would join them after Church. I reasoned with them that I would sneak out after the first hour. My friends knew my weaknesses and the things I liked best. They reasoned: “If you go to your Church first, you will miss the most fun part of the festival! The barbecue will be finished before you get there”. So, I chose to go to the barbecue and to miss Church.
When I learned later that morning that the festival had been cancelled, it was too late for me to go to Church. I simply stayed in my home: the one-room apartment which was separated by a curtain from the main house. I felt a sense of loss—there was a big vacuum within me.
About 12:30 that afternoon, I heard a voice outside: “Does Eddie Dube live here?” I couldn’t believe my ears. “Am I dreaming?” I asked myself.
At that moment, all I could think of was to hide. As I was eyeing the space under my bed, as it was the only possible place to hide, John and Jean Newbold were standing behind the curtain which separated my room from the main house. Reluctantly, I let my branch president and his dear wife in. Sensing my apprehension, Jean spoke first. “Eddie, you live in a nice safe neighborhood. Do you like this place?” she asked. After my affirmative response, they lovingly told me about the sacrament talks, and that they had missed me at Church. We visited for a while, and then they left.
Their words—“Eddie, we missed you. We missed you at Church today!”—kept ringing in my mind that afternoon and throughout the night. Those words have strengthened me up to this day. My children, and now my grandchildren know this story about John and Jean, who left the ninety and nine and went after the one. My great-grandchildren, my posterity will also know this story one day!
One invitation may not yield the needed results, as it did for me. Missing church for one day may be easy for anyone, but if not checked it can quickly become a habit. Can you imagine if John and Jean did not come on that very Sunday? Perchance another activity or distraction might have come my way. I could have easily slid back into my old habits. What a joy that they came!