Gospel Story Finder

I want to conclude with one final story about him. This account comes from Elder Marlowe Kent Ashton, a missionary that served in Tahiti from 1962 to 1965.

And one quick side note to all of you missionaries and future missionaries—please make sure to record these stories. Remember, everyone has a story and those stories matter. You don’t know how grateful I am to have these words about my great grandfather.

Elder Ashton said, “In 1964, Elder Thomas S. Monson, youngest member of the Council of the Twelve Apostles, was assigned to oversee the missions of the South Pacific. When he visited the French Polynesian Mission in Tahiti, I, one of the missionaries there, was asked to translate for him at a special conference where he would talk to the members and missionaries in the capital city of Papeete. At the end of the conference, we all stood to sing “We Thank Thee Oh God for a Prophet.”

During the song, Elder Monson walked down into the audience to stand by an old man in shabby clothing standing next to one of the pews. He put his arm around the man, and we all sang this song in French, Tahitian, and English. Although President Monson could not see what was happening, I was standing where I could see many members of the congregation shedding tears as they watched an apostle of the Lord standing by one of the great and most beloved members of the Church in Tahiti. His name was Tahauri Hutihuti.” 6

When I was preparing for this devotional, I saw that President Monson even shared part of this story when he was here in Laie in January 1999 at a BYU–Hawaii devotional. Over the years, I had heard President Monson share this story in General Conference and a couple of other talks. I’m going to finish the rest of the story in President Monson’s own words:

“As I said a tender good-bye to the Tahitians, each one came forward, placed an exquisite shell lei about my neck, and left an affectionate kiss upon my cheek. Tahauri, who did not speak English, stood by my side and spoke to me through an interpreter. The interpreter listened attentively and then, turning to me, reported: "Tahauri says he has no gift to bestow except the love of a full heart." Tahauri clasped my hand and kissed my cheek. Of all the gifts received that memorable night, the gift of this faithful man remains the brightest.” 7

I know this might sound strange, but I have been saving money to pay for my mission since before I was born. When my mother learned she was going to have a baby, she took an empty milk can, put a hole in it, and labeled it, “Mission Fund.” Since that day, my family and I have been saving for my mission.
Saving for my mission has been a family effort. After I was born, my uncles and aunts who came to visit would drop Philippine pesos into the mission fund can. And when holidays like Christmas or New Year’s came around, family members gave me money to add to my mission fund.
Sometimes my grandparents give me money for doing well in school and competitions. These gifts go to my mission fund too. Once, when I received several medals, my aunt counted all the medals I earned and gave me money for each one. After I paid tithing, this money also went into my mission fund.
When I was baptized, my desire to serve a mission grew even more. My family set a goal to save enough money to pay for my mission in full. Because I now have siblings, money we save is added to their mission funds too.
I am now nine years old and almost halfway to the age I will be when I serve my mission. My desire to serve a mission has increased because I know there have been so many people who have contributed to my mission fund.
I will continue to save for my mission. I know that Heavenly Father will bless me so that I can serve Him as a missionary one day.

“Look, Mom, there’s our neighbor!” I exclaimed as Mom backed our car out of the driveway.
“Yes, I’ve seen him sitting outside his house the last couple of days.”
I smiled and waved as we drove by. Mom waved, too.
He reminds me of Grandpa, I thought. “What’s his name?” I asked. “He looks like a nice man.”
“I don’t know. We’ve been here almost a year, but I’ve never met him.”
The next day as we got into the car to go to the grocery store, I noticed him again, sitting in his lawn chair under a big shade tree.
I called out, “Hi,” and waved. He smiled and slowly raised his arm to wave back.
“Would it be OK if I went over and met him sometime?” I asked Mom. “He looks like a nice man.”
“Sure,” she said. “Next time we see him, we’ll both go.”
Later that day, we saw him sitting in his chair again. “Hi,” I called, skipping across front yards. “My name is Kellie, and this is my mom.”
He stood up carefully and held out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you both. I’m Arthur Dunbar.”
“We live in that house over there,” I told him, pointing.
“Yes, I’ve seen you,” he said with a friendly smile.
“How are you doing?” Mom asked.
“Just a little slower than usual,” he replied. “Ever since my stroke, I haven’t been allowed to drive or go to work.” He looked down at his hands. “I get restless being housebound, so I like to sit outside in the shade—but I expect to be up and around again soon.”
“I have a new ring,” I said, holding out my hand. “I got it for my birthday.”
“That’s a very pretty ring,” he said, “and you’re as cute as a bug. How old are you, Miss Kellie?”
“I’m four years old.”
“A very grown-up four-year-old, right?” Mr. Dunbar asked, smiling.
“Yes,” Mom agreed, also smiling. “We’d better go now and let Mr. Dunbar rest.”
“I’ll come see you tomorrow, OK?” I asked. Mr. Dunbar looked at Mom. Both nodded, and we said good-bye.
Mr. Dunbar and I quickly became friends. When my cousin sent me a postcard, I ran across the yard and asked him to read it to me. When I found a beautiful rock in his flower bed, I brought it to his porch and let him feel its smooth edges. Later, he’d sometimes go to the store with Mom and me. I invited him to my soccer game, and when I played good defense, I could hear him cheering louder than anyone else.
One Sunday as we came home from church, he was sitting in his chair. I jumped out of the car to show him my outfit.
“Well, young lady, where have you been, dressed up so pretty?” he asked.
“Church,” I said, twirling around. As I twirled, I bumped into Dad, who had followed me.
“Hi, Peter,” Mr. Dunbar said. “I see you take your family to church.”
“Yes sir.” Dad looked down at me and grinned, then reached to shake Mr. Dunbar’s hand. “Would you like a ride to church sometime?”
“I’d like that,” Mr. Dunbar said after a pause.
“What church do you go to?” Dad asked.
Mr. Dunbar ran his fingers through his gray hair. “Well, what church do you all attend?”
“The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints,” I volunteered.
“Your church would be fine.” He smiled.
I took another spin in my new dress, adding a little jump. “We leave pretty early in the morning,” I told him.
“That’s all right, Miss Kellie,” he said. “I like to get up early and watch the sunrise.”
Mr. Dunbar had a great time at our ward. I introduced him to my friends and told him to go with my dad to classes. Soon after, he came to our house to listen to the missionaries. He said he felt peaceful when he heard the gospel. He decided to be baptized.
At the baptism, one of the speakers said that Brother Dunbar was joining the Church because I had been a good missionary. I was surprised. I hadn’t visited Mr. Dunbar to teach him about Jesus Christ. I just wanted him to be happy. Later, our stake president told me that being a good friend is a big part of being a missionary.
I’m glad that Brother Dunbar is now a member of the Church, and I’m glad to know that even a little child like me can help Heavenly Father—just by being a friend. Mom and Dad and I are still close friends with Brother Dunbar. We always will be.

Elder Dale G. Renlund shared a story in general conference back in 2015 about a young man he cared for in his capacity as a cardiologist. I would like us to listen to it now.

In 1986 a young man named Chad developed heart failure and received a heart transplant. He did very well for a decade and a half. Chad did all he could to stay healthy and live as normal a life as possible. He served a mission, worked, and was a devoted son to his parents. The last few years of his life, though, were challenging, and he was in and out of the hospital frequently.

One evening, he was brought to the hospital’s emergency department in full cardiac arrest. My associates and I worked for a long time to restore his circulation. Finally, it became clear that Chad could not be revived. We stopped our futile efforts, and I declared him dead. Although sad and disappointed, I maintained a professional attitude. I thought to myself, “Chad has had good care. He has had many more years of life than he otherwise would have had.” That emotional distance soon shattered as his parents came into the emergency room bay and saw their deceased son lying on a stretcher. In that moment, I saw Chad through his mother’s and father’s eyes. I saw the great hopes and expectations they had had for him, the desire they had had that he would live just a little bit longer and a little bit better. With this realization, I began to weep. In an ironic reversal of roles and in an act of kindness I will never forget, Chad’s parents comforted me.

I now realize that in the Church, to effectively serve others we must see them through a parent’s eyes, through Heavenly Father’s eyes. Only then can we begin to comprehend the true worth of a soul. Only then can we sense the love that Heavenly Father has for all of His children. Only then can we sense the Savior’s caring concern for them. We cannot completely fulfill our covenant obligation to mourn with those who mourn and comfort those who stand in need of comfort unless we see them through God’s eyes. This expanded perspective will open our hearts to the disappointments, fears, and heartaches of others. But Heavenly Father will aid and comfort us, just as Chad’s parents comforted me years ago.

Here's a test of obedience to the request of a living prophet in Sierra Leone. I quote from an article in the Church News a couple of months back (Peter Evans, CN, Saturday, Jan. 1, 2011.)

"The first converts baptisms in Freetown, Sierra Leone, came in June 1988. By 1990, Mustafa Touray and his family were organized as a home group in Sierra Leone's second largest city. By August 1990, a branch was organized in Bo and Brother Touray was called to preside. Two other groups were meeting in rented buildings.

There was enthusiasm for the growth of the Church, and the saints felt they had finally gained a toehold in this teaming city of ½ million. There was notoriety in the community and recognition by those of other faiths that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was there to stay.

(Now - notice what happened.) 5 months later, in January 1991, mission president, Miles Cunningham, received a letter from Church President, Ezra Taft Benson, in which he asked the Saints in Bo to abandon their meetinghouses and go back to their homes to worship. The young leaders were very discouraged feeling that the buildings were such an important milestone for the Church in this part of Sierra Leone.

Uniformly, members were disappointed and unhappy about the request. Some members of the infant congregations were offended that the prophet in Utah would give such unwelcome advice. Others were heard to question whether or not the prophet understood their circumstances, and, lacking faith in the Lord's servants, they left the Church (those were not 'saints.' Others felt the stirring of testimony and confirmation of the Spirit, and while they didn't understand why President Benson would ask such a thing, they knew him to be a prophet. President Touray was sad and discouraged, but "recognized that [that saints] had been given a formal commandment, and had to obey. "I realized" he said, "it would be very important for us to obey although I did not know why at the time." The chapel doors were closed.

In March 1991 (2 months later), civil war erupted in Sierra Leone and this little nation became engulfed in a fiery battle that lasted more than a decade. Communities collapsed, infrastructures deteriorated, banks were closed, food was in scarce supply and repeated military coups left uncertainty as to who was a friend or foe. [Here's the point]: Churches were frequently targeted by the rebels with bullets and firebombs, and thousands of people lost their lives while sitting on pews hoping to pray and worship. But the members of the Lord's Church were safe from this harm for they were home -- worshiping in obedience to a prophet's counsel.

President Touray spoke of the miracle that had come to the people because of their obedience. "No member of the Church died in the city of Bo during the war : not one. The LDS Church was the only church that continued operating during the war in Bo : the only one. Every other church closed its doors. It was too dangerous for the people to walk to church and too dangerous to sit and worship. None of us (the Latter-day Saints) had any problem during the war. We worshipped through the whole war no matter how grave the situation was. Because we were obedient, our members received this great blessing."

In 1973, my husband and I sat calmly listening to a Church speaker describe how disfellowshipments and excommunications had increased in recent years within the Church. As I shook my head sadly, feeling secure in my temple marriage, testimony, and Church activity, I hadn’t the least notion at that time of how my future would be devastatingly affected by this process.
My life was drastically altered some seven years later when my husband, an active Melchizedek Priesthood holder, returned missionary, former bishopric member, and father to our six children, was called before a Church court and disfellowshipped.
I felt rejected, betrayed, and frightened that this could happen to me. As I poured out my soul to the Lord, searching for answers, I learned eternal truths that helped me through this heartrending experience. In a way only he could do, the Lord has mercifully stood me back on my feet, both emotionally and spiritually.
I’m convinced my anguish couldn’t have been more intense had I been the one disciplined in court. I had tried long and hard to do all the Lord asked of me. I’d married a wonderful young man who glowed with a testimony of the gospel, and I now felt betrayed. He had changed, and I had no control over the situation. I wept for our young son approaching Aaronic Priesthood age and wondered how we could explain that his father could not confer this precious priesthood on him. Another son would be baptized in a short time. Again we would have to search for an explanation. I was afraid to face family, friends, and ward members. Although I’d done my best to assure myself and my children of happiness, it seemed as though I were living in a nightmare.
Finding a way to deal with grief and disappointment developed into a full-time job. Needing someone to talk to, I turned to the Lord for help and comfort. He became my loving counselor.
Several years earlier, at the death of our infant son, I had blamed myself for the loss. An understanding doctor wisely counseled that this was common, but nonetheless wrong. A grieving person naturally searches for something he might have done to prevent tragedy. “Don’t give in to the temptation to blame yourself,” he advised.
Following the Church court, I found myself falling into this trap again. Gradually I realized I could neither control nor take responsibility for my husband’s actions. I began to concentrate on the things I could control and change in myself.
At the same time I tried to accept not only my situation, but my husband as well. I learned that comparing our spiritual progress to that of other couples was useless. When I read about exemplary fathers and husbands, I still struggled with discouragement. Yet I was able to tell myself, “Their situations are different. The Lord will help me with mine.” As I expressed gratitude for blessings I did have, a loving acceptance grew within me. Along with it, the attitude in our entire family improved. To my amazement, I discovered times when I was happier and more at peace than I’d been in years.
Sometimes I hesitated asking for certain blessings, fearing that my husband’s situation might prevent our receiving them. The Lord quickly dismissed my apprehension, however, and over the years presented us with material and spiritual blessings.
My self-esteem had been shattered by our experience with the disfellowshipment. I was busy many hours each week, serving as president of one of the ward auxiliaries. How could the Lord, or for that matter, the bishop, possibly expect me to continue in this calling? Emotionally and physically, I was drained. But nothing was mentioned concerning my release, and I stayed in that position. I later understood this to be the Lord’s way of demonstrating a need for my abilities. At the same time, our children continued to do well in and out of school. Here the Lord was assuring me that we weren’t failing as parents. These experiences lifted me and convinced me of my worth.
As the weeks, months, and years went by, the pain sometimes grew less and sometimes grew stronger. I got used to most people avoiding the issue in conversation. Few got past the fear of not knowing what to say, and so said nothing. I’ll always appreciate the friend who sincerely asked, “How are things going?” and listened patiently as I told her.
The Lord continued to comfort and teach me. Often I complained about my husband’s unwillingness to change. Without exception, Heavenly Father refused to accept my criticism. Through inspiration he referred me, in a loving way, to scriptures on tolerance. He also reminded me of my special role as a wife. I was convinced that parts of Doctrine and Covenants 25, where the Lord calls Emma Smith to aid and comfort her husband, applied as much to me as to Emma. Over and over I read this section, each time believing more in my husband’s worth.
I prayed regularly for an increase in love toward my husband. The Lord answered in unusual, but practical ways. I sought opportunities to give of myself, knowing those we serve become those we love. I didn’t have to look far, as my husband was hurt in three minor accidents within a year. During his short convalescent periods at home I provided emotional care and concern. I was rewarded many times over with greater love and appreciation for him.
I realized, too, that my service didn’t need to be a huge undertaking. Since my husband was away from home much of the time, I tried to make him the center of my attention when he was at home. Saying something positive or complimentary to him each day grew from a challenge into a habit. I also refrained from criticizing my husband, either to him or anyone else. These small efforts worked wonders. Like a dying plant rediscovering light and nourishment, our love regained vitality.
I drew great comfort and hope from the twenty-seventh chapter of Mosiah. Here an angel appears to Alma the Younger because of the faith and prayers of his father. (See Mosiah 27:8–17.) Through this scripture the Lord assured me that he answers prayers said in behalf of others. I have made it a point to never cease praying for my husband. More difficult, but just as important, is maintaining faith that one day his heart will change.
Charity, I’ve also discovered, is a gift from God. Shortly after the Church court, I was suddenly consumed with a deep affection and acceptance for my husband. I longed to help and support him in every possible way. This sweet sensation stayed long enough for me to realize that I wanted it always. I pray regularly, as Moroni suggested, “with all the energy of heart [to] be filled with this love.” (Moro. 7:48.)
My husband has now been reinstated into the Church. Though many changes for good have come, his gospel commitment and spiritual desire for activity have yet to return. I’ve accepted the fact, however, that only he can control those things. Instead of focusing on our failures, I can now express gratitude for the things we’re doing right. I’ve discovered, to my surprise, that it’s possible to be happy in any situation. I’ve also learned that through the most painful experience of my life has come my greatest growth.
Editor’s note: At the author’s request, her name has been withheld.

To share another example, we must first understand more of the story surrounding the Book of Abraham. It begins, oddly enough, with Napoleon. When he invaded Egypt at the end of the 18th century, he opened the way for European nations to start gathering artifacts from Egypt. It was in the years just after his invasion that most of the great European museums gathered their large Egyptian collections. One of the people who engaged in gathering artifacts from Egypt and shipping them to Europe was an Italian named Antonio Lebolo. One of the many shipments he gathered ended up being sold in America sometime after Lebolo’s death. Eventually, a fellow named Michael Chandler ended up in charge of taking this collection of 11 mummies and several portions of papyri around to various cities as a kind of traveling curiosity show. After some time, he began selling some of the antiquities to various people for their own collections. The last person he visited, when he only had four mummies left, was Joseph Smith in Kirtland, Ohio.

The Prophet felt inspired that he needed to acquire the papyri that accompanied these mummies. Chandler was not willing to sell the papyri separately from the mummies, so Joseph Smith raised the funds to buy the entire collection. He soon discovered through inspiration that the papyri contained the writings of Joseph of Egypt and of Abraham. He began work on translation and eventually published what we know as the Book of Abraham in the Church’s newspaper the Times and Seasons. It was this 1842 serial publication that later became part of the Pearl of Great Price.

After the Prophet’s death, his mother retained the mummies and papyri and supported herself by charging people to see the curiosities. When she passed away, Emma Smith and her new husband, Lewis Biddamon, sold the collection to a man named Abel Combs. Combs sold them to a museum, and eventually, they ended up in another museum in Chicago. That museum burned in the Great Chicago Fire of 1871, and sadly, mummies and papyri burn exceptionally well. Thus, all of Joseph Smith’s former Egyptian collection that was in the museum was lost forever. For a long time, we thought that those were all the antiquities Joseph Smith had owned, but that was not the case.

Combs had given a small portion of the papyri, the fragments that had been mounted on paper and framed, to his housekeeper. Her descendants eventually sold them to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. The people there recognized the drawing that was the source of Facsimile One and knew they were something of interest to the Church. They waited for the right time to make a connection with the Church, which finally came in 1967 when a visiting scholar from the University of Utah did some research at the Metropolitan Museum. He arranged for a meeting with Church leaders, at which time the Metropolitan Museum gave the papyri to the Church. The Church has maintained possession of these few fragments ever since.

In tournament golf competition, there is a rule that a contestant must be disqualified if he signs an incorrect scorecard or turns his card in without signing it. A famous golfer named Gary Player did that once and was eliminated from a prestigious tournament. He was asked if someone in the scoring tent couldn’t have reminded him to sign his name on the score card.
“My friend,” Player replied, “there are responsibilities in life. You cannot shove your responsibilities onto the shoulders of someone else. This was my responsibility. I failed to do it, so I must suffer the consequences.”

One story I like to share is when many years back, a missionary serving in the Honolulu Hawaii Mission, called us to see if he could come meet my parents. He shared that his mother was once the girlfriend of one of my Dad’s coaches in Canada. She often came to practices and games and would see my father’s interactions with my younger brother and me.
She knew we were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and admired our family relationship and how my father had different standards from other players. Later in her life, missionaries happened to knock on her door and she remembered what she saw and felt with our family and she welcomed the missionaries in her home. Obviously, she joined the church and raised her sons to serve the Lord.

Richard set about building a home and planting a field of wheat. A hailstorm destroyed his crop, however, and he and his wife and infant son faced a winter with no income and little food. Despite these hardships, Richard was inspired with an idea, one that he could not ignore. He wanted to start a Sunday School for the children in the valley. With his bishop’s approval, Richard began construction on an adobe building in which to hold Sunday School. He worked long hours hauling sandstone and logs, plastering walls, and making benches.
At last it was finished. On December 9, 1849, the first Sunday School in Salt Lake Valley was held. Richard led the children in a song, said a prayer, read a short scripture, then began to tell the story of Jesus. Years later he declared, “I was early called to this work by the voice of the spirit, and I have felt many times that I have been ordained to this work before I was born, for even before I joined the Church I was moved upon to work for the young. Surely no more joyful nor profitable labor can be performed by an elder.”
For four years Richard planted crops, and for four years the crops failed. He resolutely continued with the Sunday School, though, and found peace and satisfaction in teaching the children.

Let me share with you a personal experience on preparation. I grew up on a farm just south and a little west of Rexburg in the Lewisville area. My Father farmed and raised hay, grain, and potatoes. Oh, and yes we six boys, as we became old enough, milked several cows. My Dad's philosophy was I don't milk cows to get rich; I milk cows to raise boys. I really didn't like the farm work or milking the cows. It was a trial to me as was the farm work, but I did my share.

One day I spoke to my father about finding a different job than the work on the farm. He promised to talk with one of the bishops in our Stake about my desire. The following day he told me to stop by the tire store in Rigby. The tire store was only a few blocks from the school. I anxiously awaited the time to visit the store and check on this new opportunity to work. Mr. Pieper greeted me and after a short visit told me I could report to work the next afternoon. I was thrilled as I anticipated a salary and no more farm work. However, I soon found out that I had not understood the fine print in my Dad's plan. There was still work on the farm to be accomplished, and the cows were still part of my responsibility. Many times after work at the tire store I would walk the three miles home and help my brothers with the milking. I loved the work at the store; and following my mission, I was released by my Stake President, President Pieper. We visited about plans to return to school, and I must say I really didn't know what I wanted to do with my life as far as a vocation. He encouraged me to return to work, while I made my decisions.

One day President Pieper took me aside to visit about a change in my employment. Mr. Newton, the owner of the Rexburg tire store, was in desperate need of help. His employee had broken his leg on the job and he was not able to conduct business as usual. President Pieper asked, "If I would be willing to help out in Rexburg for the next few months." He also said, "I will continue to pay your wage until Mr. Newton is back on his feet. Then he asked, "How soon can you be ready to leave for Rexburg and do you have your lunch?" Then President Pieper said with a twinkle in his eye, "You never know when opportunity may knock, and you need to be prepared to open the door."

These experiences working for my Father, President Pieper, and Paul Newton prepared me for a comfortable place to make my livelihood. I truly like people and enjoyed serving people and helping them to be safe and comfortable as they traveled the highways of this great nation. We never know when opportunity may knock and we need to be prepared to open the door.

After our missions, we both had a feeling that we would meet our eternal companions in Provo, Utah. One Sunday, I met with my Bishop and he pronounced a blessing on my head, that when I met my eternal companion, our children would dance around us. My father had given me a blessing a couple months before I met Jr. He said that the way you will meet your eternal companion would be like none other before. I would like to share with you the story about how we met. The week I met my husband was most likely the toughest week I had ever had while attending school. Things just seemed to be falling apart for me. I felt like a failure. My friend, Opapo Fonoimoana, who had served with my husband in Jamaica, that his mission companion was coming to visit. However, I was not very interested. One morning I was getting ready for work as I put on my make up, I could hear these words loud and clear, “Opapo’s mission companion is so handsome,” “Opapo’s mission companion is very wonderful.” I looked at the mirror, and asked, “who is Opapo’s mission companion?” The voice kept on, “Opapo’s mission companion is so sweet. Opapo’s mission companion is so beautiful!” I didn’t understand what I was hearing but I could not deny what I heard. Later that afternoon, I walked in my home to meet Opapo, on the ground there sat his mission companion. He got up to shake my hand, the moment our hands touched, and there was such an electric shock that raced through my hand to the rest of my body that I took my hand back quickly. I had never felt anything like it before. That week, my husband had a strong prompting to ask me out, I said yes, and the rest is history.

We were blessed with children immediately. One day, when my oldest was about three, he said to me when I was cooking dinner in the kitchen, “Mommy your handsome prince is home! Mommy your wonderful husband is home.” At that moment, my memory recalled the voices I heard that morning when I was putting on my make-up. Our Heavenly Father allowed me, with tender mercy, to identify the voice that had brought my husband and I together. It was our oldest son Sefanaia. Bishop’s blessing came to my mind, “When you meet your eternal companion, your children will dance around you.”

But one of the best adaptations of all came when Claudia and Sandra announced, out of the blue, that they wanted to be baptized. The Bisgaards had not been pushing their religion on the new family members. After all, they had enough to adjust to at first. But they were always included when they wanted to be. The Spanish-speaking sister missionaries came by now and then, but they were there to translate more than proselyte.
“One day the missionaries told us they were going to a baptism, so we asked them about it,” explained Claudia. “When they told us that in this church they baptize children when they’re eight so they understand everything, we decided that we needed to be baptized now too. We wanted to be members of the Church.”
Their new parents made certain that they understood what they were doing before they were baptized. The girls took the missionary discussions and attended many Church meetings prior to their baptismal date. Brother and Sister Bisgaard wanted to assure that their new daughters didn’t feel pressured into their decision and had sincere testimonies of the truthfulness of the gospel.
As time goes on, more and more adjustments are made and the family becomes more unified. They’re not yet perfect. What family is? There are still occasional tears, but there’s also a lot of laughter. As far as the kids are concerned, the pros far outweigh the cons. “Four new sisters mean four times as much joy,” Christopher concludes, tugging Jennifer’s ponytail as she toddles by.

Backstage in the Philippine International Convention Center, Elder Gordon B. Hinckley was talking to a man whose face glowed with spiritual excitement and joy beyond description.
The date: Sunday morning, the 29th of May, 1977. The time: 5 minutes before the opening ceremony of the Combined Special Conference that was to culminate in the writing of Church history in the Philippines. The topic between them: an Apostle of the Lord making a divine call—the man accepting the call with happiness overflowing in his heart.
This was the man Elder Hinckley introduced the day before to Elder Jacob de Jager as the man called Moses.
The only other person who learned a few minutes after about this divine calling was his wife and later, when he was sustained by the multitude as one of two Filipino Stake Patriarchs, the spiritual events in their lives flashed back in their minds.
During this moment of unbridled job, Moises Marzan Mabunga, Sr., who first saw the light of day in Naguilian, La Union February 13, 1917, and Vicenta Mercado of Manila, silently shared with each other their testimony of finding the gospel of truth and live after many years of searching, radiantly recalling the day, 13 years before, when two missionary sisters (Sisters Garrison and Smithen) knocked on the door of their home at Molave Street, Project 3 in Quezon City, to bring the message of the restoration.
The events that followed after this meeting with the missionary sisters were as varied as they were interesting. At first, Bro. Mabunga was obstinate and unmoved by the assuring words of the missionary sisters. He had to rationalize for more than four months, and later to ask and pray in the presence of no one but God for divine guidance. On July 11, 1964, at Brother Grimm’s residence at Sta. Mesa, he was baptized with his wife and children.
Blessed with a family of six boys and six girls, Bro. Mabunga (who recently retired as Project Superintendent of Manila Electric Company) has other blessings. Two of his sons served full-time missions. Moises, Jr., is now Bishop of the Rego Park Ward, Plainview Stake, New York. Son Danilo completed his mission only last month.
In October this year, Brother and Sister Mabunga will leave for the United States to fulfill the dream of being sealed for eternity in a temple of the Lord.
His record of Church assignments can be compared to that of a tiny acorn growing into an oak tree: 1st counselor, Sunday School presidency; Superintendent, Mutual Improvement Association (M.I.A.); 2nd Counselor and 1st Counselor, Branch presidency; Branch President; 1st Counselor, District presidency; and Stake High Councilman upon organization of the Manila Philippines Stake in May, 1973.
And now, the Filipino called Moses has a new calling worthy of his name.

With the expansion of the Church in Europe, there are now countries where the Church has been for less than 15 years. I spoke with a mission president serving in his homeland of Russia who has been a member for only seven years. He told me, “The same month I was baptized I was called as a branch president.” Did he feel overwhelmed at times? Absolutely! Did he try to implement the full range of Church programs? Fortunately not! How did he grow so strong in such a small congregation in such a short time? He explained, “I knew with all my soul the Church was true. The doctrine of the gospel filled my mind and my heart. As we joined the Church, we felt part of a family. We felt warmth, trust, and love. We were only few, but we all tried to follow the Savior.”
They supported each other, they did the best they could, and they knew the Church was true. It was not the organization that had attracted him, but the light of the gospel, and this light strengthened those good members.

The first concerns a hippie couple who were walking down the street. They both had long hair and were dressed in typical hippie attire, complete with beads, sandals, and headbands. The fellow said to the girl: “I’m going over and pick up my unemployment check. Then I’ll drop in at the university to see what’s holding up my check for my federal education grant. After that I’ll pick up our food stamps. Meanwhile, you go over to the free clinic and check your tests, pick up my new glasses at the city health center, then go to the welfare department and apply for another increase on our eligibility limit.

“Then I’ll meet you at five o’clock at the federal building for the mass demonstration against this rotten establishment.”

I will never forget that morning. I was the first customer in the restaurant when it opened at 5:00 A.M. As I sat down at a booth I noticed my reflection in the window. I looked like something that had just crawled out from under a rock. It was my last semester in college, and I had stayed up all night working on a midterm project. I was tired and in a terrible mood. All I wanted was my breakfast and some peace and quiet. I decided to pamper myself, so I ordered a huge breakfast of eggs, pancakes, juice, and toast. I knew it was extravagant on my student budget, but I was too exhausted to care. As soon as I had ordered, I noticed a recreational van pull into the parking lot. It was one of those 30-foot monsters, the type you always get stuck behind when going up a long hill. Out jumped an older couple, probably in their sixties. As they walked into the restaurant I could just feel their energy. At a time when I wasn’t even sure my heart was pumping blood, the last thing I needed was to be exposed to the type of optimism they seemed to exert. I shuddered to think that my morning privacy was about to be violated.
There were six booths along the east wall and I had taken the most remote one. I could not understand why the couple chose the booth right next to mine. Irritated, I began a cold, critical analysis of these people in my mind.
The man’s hair was cut short in a crew cut. I was sure he was president of an Elks or Eagles Club somewhere in America’s heartland. He wore nondescript black oxfords with white dress socks, green polyester slacks, and a J. C. Penney’s sport shirt buttoned to the top button. As one would expect, he wore a leather string tie with a gaudy turquoise center piece. I guessed that he had been up since 4:00 A.M., run six miles, sung in the shower, and just couldn’t wait to hit the road. I secretly vowed that I would never, even if my life depended on it, be like that man.
I looked at the Mrs. in amazement as she sat with a road map fastidiously calculating the mileage for the day’s trip. She was a bundle of energy with makeup that didn’t cover the wrinkles, a yellow ‘smiley patch’ on her windbreaker, and an endless stream of conversation.
When they had finished their breakfast and were getting ready to leave, I made my final assessment. Who were they? I imagined he was a retired independent businessman, probably had his own tool-and-die shop in an Indianapolis industrial park. He was no doubt a good Republican, a retired colonel in the National Guard, and had the best-trimmed lawn on the cul-de-sac. She must have served on a thousand PTAs and would consistently have the Christmas shopping done by mid-July. Together, they were a tribute to the virtue of hard work, reaping their rewards as they discovered America in their Winnebago II, I thought sarcastically. They epitomized the kind of smug, self-satisfied materialism that takes good care of itself but ignores the poverty, pain, and sorrow of the rest of the world. Oh, they might give to the United Way or help organize a cancer drive, but I was willing to bet the price of my meal (considerable by my standards) that they wouldn’t recognize a real human need if it walked up and punched them in their middle-class noses.
As they paid their bill, I noticed the lady speak to her husband and then to the waitress. Then, looking a little flustered, the waitress left the register, hurried over to my booth, picked up my check, and returned to the couple. I had no idea what was going on. I felt myself getting angry. What right did these people have to ruin my breakfast? Why didn’t they just quietly leave and let me be?
Finally, they left and I calmed down. A minute later, the waitress returned to my booth and set my check on the table. I didn’t bother to ask what the commotion had been about. I finished my breakfast, picked up the check, and headed for the cash register. Just as I reached the waitress I noticed that my check had “Paid” written across the top. As I began to question the waitress, the Mrs. walked through the door and headed for her booth to get something she had left behind. The waitress then explained to me that the couple had paid my bill. Completely chagrined, I turned and tried to mutter some sort of thank-you to the lady as she passed by me on her way out the door.
“Oh, you’re more than welcome,” she said. “We have a grandson in college, and we know how hard it is. We love ya, study hard!” A second later she was out the door and into the waiting van.
As I watched that long van signal and turn onto the dark highway, I again made a secret vow. I pledged that I would never, even if my life depended on it, forget those two people and the lesson I had just learned about judging others.

“Another thing that I enjoyed as I was growing up was playing the piano. I studied it and played it in Church. In fact, my first calling was ward organist. I earned a music merit badge from Alvin A. Beesley, who ran a music store. He was the son of Ebeneezer Beesley, an early Church composer. Alvin Beesley was absolutely the most enthusiastic man that I have ever known. Before he signed my music merit badge, he said, ‘All right, George, I will pass you on the condition that you come and play in the Sunday School orchestra.’ I said that I would. Playing in that orchestra was a horrible experience because I didn’t know how to follow an orchestra leader. But Brother Beesley was so encouraging and so enthusiastic and so understanding with us that I suffered through it happily.”

If we remember that our families can be eternal, our trials won’t seem as difficult. A man from Hong Kong, Lee Hing Chung, learned this for himself. When he lost his arm in an accident and could not work to support his family, he became very depressed. He and his family later joined the Church and were sealed in the temple. Before Lee was baptized, he thought that money would make him happy. After he was baptized and made temple covenants, he found true happiness because he understood Heavenly Father’s plan. He said, “When I attend church on Sunday with my family, I am so grateful that we are together and that we can be together forever. … The temple reminds me to be good, to be disciplined, to be worthy.”* Temple blessings give us hope, happiness, and a desire to become like Heavenly Father so that we can be with our families forever.

Let me provide another example of disconnecting gradually and physically from things as they really are. Today a person can enter into a virtual world, such as Second Life, and assume a new identity. An individual can create an avatar, or a cyberspace persona, that conforms to his or her own appearance and behavior. Or a person can concoct a counterfeit identity that does not correlate in any way to things as they really are. However closely the assumed new identity approximates the individual, such behavior is the essence of things as they really are not. Earlier I defined the fidelity of a simulation or model. I now emphasize the importance of personal fidelity—the correspondence between an actual person and an assumed, cyberspace identity. Please note the lack of personal fidelity in the following episode as reported in the Wall Street Journal:

Ric Hoogestraat is “a burly [53-year-old] man with a long gray ponytail, thick sideburns and a salt-and-pepper handlebar mustache. … [Ric spends] six hours a night and often 14 hours at a stretch on weekends as Dutch Hoorenbeek, his six-foot-nine, muscular … cyber-self. The character looks like a younger, physically enhanced version of [Ric]. …

“… [He] sits at his computer with the blinds drawn. … While his wife, Sue, watches television in the living room, Mr. Hoogestraat chats online with what appears on the screen to be a tall, slim redhead.

“He’s never met the woman outside of the computer world of Second Life, a well-chronicled digital fantasyland. … He’s never so much as spoken to her on the telephone. But their relationship has taken on curiously real dimensions. They own two dogs, pay a mortgage together and spend hours [in their cyberspace world] shopping at the mall and taking long motorcycle rides. … Their bond is so strong that three months ago, Mr. Hoogestraat asked Janet Spielman, the 38-year-old Canadian woman who controls the redhead, to become his virtual wife.

“The woman he’s legally wed to is not amused. ‘It’s really devastating,’ says Sue Hoogestraat, … who has been married to Mr. Hoogestraat for seven months.”5