Gospel Story Finder

One Sunday morning, as we were going to church, our son, Steven, who was about 6 years old at the time, noticed that some young people were playing soccer in our street. He said to himself, “I wonder why these people are playing soccer on Sunday while they should be attending church?” It was obvious our son knew that Sunday is a special day when we are required to do certain things, and therefore, we are expected to stay away from other things. Steven knew that Sunday is the day of the Lord and that we must keep it holy.

“My father’s family was driven from Mexico when he was fourteen years old. The men sent their women and children ahead by train, and they came later by horseback. On the way out of Mexico, Dad was nearly shot. He says he will never know why the man pointing the gun at him didn’t pull the trigger.
“When they arrived in Oakley, Idaho, the family had few material possessions; they didn’t have shoes or coats. A family meeting was held to see whether they should pay their tithing. They decided to do so. His family was always faithful to the Lord and my father has always been faithful too.”

As a young 12-year-old Scout, I received a gift of a much-desired addition to my Scouting equipment. It was a hatchet with a heavy leather cover! On the next overnight hike, we arrived in camp after dark, wet and cold from the heavy snow on the trail. All I could think about was building a big roaring fire. I immediately went to work chopping a fallen tree with my new hatchet. As I chopped, I was frustrated because it didn’t seem to be cutting very well. In my frustration, I worked harder. Disappointed, I returned to camp with only a few pieces of wood. By the light of someone else’s fire, I discovered the problem. I hadn’t taken the cover off the hatchet. I can report, however, the cover was chopped to shreds. The lesson: I became distracted with other things.

After completing one of these rounds in a more than usually successful way, I remember heading home in a very happy and grateful mood for the success the Lord has blessed us with. The sea was rough; but we weren’t concerned for we felt we were in the hands of the Lord. As we got close to our home island, the rough weather became more severe, the wind became stronger and the waves higher. Suddenly we found ourselves in the midst of a regular tropical squall which, though of short duration, was very dangerous. I felt, “Well, we will get through this all right. After all we have done and the success the Lord has blessed us with, we shouldn’t worry about this.”

But the storm increased in intensity, and suddenly with the emergence of two huge waves, the captain shouted those fateful words to the six of us aboard, “Abandon ship!” One can hear a lot of phrases in this life, but there are few as fearsome as those spoken by a captain in the midst of giant waves and inconceivable turmoil of elements.

We did what we had to do and dove in as the gargantuan waves thundered down on our frail little craft, leaving it broken and listless and the six of us sprawled on the surface of the boiling sea struggling for our lives. Now, I know missionaries are not supposed to swim, but sometimes one doesn’t have a choice. We struggled against huge odds to make the nearest shore, which was a small island we had just passed. I remember thinking that this really shouldn’t be. We shouldn’t be going through this. But we were, and all my thinking or wondering didn’t do much good—only swimming and exerting all the energy and effort I had helped.

After swimming for about an hour, we finally made it to the shore, exhausted but alive and gratefully so. Just to feel firm ground under our feet was a great blessing. How much more I appreciated life and solid ground than I had before. Just to be in that boiling sea and realize how tenuous life is, how quickly this earth life could come to an end, made a great impression on me. Sometimes we literally have to travel over rough waters in order to appreciate some of the fundamental blessings we have—like life itself, for instance. We probably don’t begin to understand or appreciate life as we should until we sense the closeness death has to all of us. As we sense these things, we can more clearly comprehend that there is a reason for our being here.

The storm passed rather rapidly, but we were still stranded for several days before we got things together and were able to make our way home over much friendlier seas.

This whole experience gave me a new outlook and appreciation for life. As I look back now, there was much more than our own strength involved in that horrendous task of getting to shore, but it still took all we could do. In a similar manner, even though it will take all the effort we can put forth to fulfill our missions here, there will still be much more than our own efforts involved in accomplishing them.

During trips to Newcastle, 17-year-old Aidan and his mother went to see various shows. One of these was the Book of Mormon musical.
After leaving the show, they encountered some real missionaries standing outside. Curious to know more of the Church, Aidan set up an appointment for him to meet with them another day. Aidan has always believed in God, been interested in hearing about different religions and has been curious to find and meet with missionaries.
When the missionaries spoke of the plan of salvation, the restoration, and the Book of Mormon, Aiden felt that this was exactly what he had been waiting for all this time. It immediately made sense to him. In between the lessons, Aidan also did his own research into the beliefs of the Church. He quickly decided to be baptised.
Aidan’s mother has been very supportive of her son’s decision to join. From the beginning, she attended church with him in Alnwick, Northumberland to support his wishes. One local member said, “It has been great to watch them attend church together, and you can only admire the mother with the way she both protects and supports him”.
As the months have gone by, Aidan’s mother also decided she wanted to be baptised.
As people embrace their curiosity, seek out authentic sources, and explore their faith together, miracles can occur.

Andrew Christofferson, who had returned to Lehi, corresponded with Fia, asking her to come to Utah. She wanted to emigrate, but she didn’t earn enough money to afford the voyage, so Andrew saved until he could send the money for her passage. She traveled to England where she boarded a boat for the United States. As she landed in Boston, an immigration officer noted her poor eyesight and refused her entry; her poor vision would cause her to be a burden on his country. Sadly she returned to England.
When Andrew learned what had happened, he determined to try again. Once again, he worked and saved and sent her the boat fare. He told her to try entry at New York City this time. Again Fia was refused entry because of her poor vision.
As Fia returned once again to England, she was befriended by a group of missionaries on their way to Europe. The missionaries took Fia to the mission home with them in Liverpool, England, where Elder Heber J. Grant of the Council of the Twelve presided with his wife and young daughters. Sister Grant found Fia sobbing in the hall as she waited with the elders, who were to be interviewed by their mission president. Through an interpreter, Sister Grant learned of Fia’s unsuccessful attempts to go to Zion. Also discovering that the young girl had no place to go and no money, Sister Grant felt compassion for Fia and asked if she would like to remain at the mission home to work as a maid. Fia gratefully accepted, though she had never had any experience as a domestic servant.
As they became better acquainted, Sister Grant realized that Fia had received a good education and possessed impressive musical talents. In spite of the fact that she had never done housework before, Fia knew how things should be done. She took pride in her work. Her disposition was so delightful that the whole family soon grew to love her. They marveled at her abilities, her patience, and her sweet spirit. They said she never spoke a cross word but always sang and gave praise to her Heavenly Father for the blessings she had received. Along with housekeeping duties, her first responsibility was the care of the two youngest Grant girls, Emily and Frances. Elder and Sister Grant traveled frequently on the continent, supervising the many areas of the European Mission, and they felt fortunate to know their daughters were under Fia’s care.
Fia believed in cold-water “Swedish” baths. Without a water heater in the bathroom, those who wanted a warm bath had to heat the water downstairs and carry it upstairs to the bathtub a bucket at a time, so Swedish baths were much more convenient. Each morning Fia filled the tub with cold water, tying a bag of rock salt to the faucet and letting the water run over it to simulate sea water. The squirming, protesting little girls were then given their morning “dip in the ocean.” After a quick bath, Fia rubbed them vigorously with a large fluffy towel. They said later that they hated their baths, but they loved Fia so dearly they were willing to endure them to please her.
Meanwhile, in Utah, Andrew Christofferson was unable to forget the lovely girl he’d fallen in love with. He remained single and continued to save money in hopes Fia would one day be able to make a successful journey to Utah.
As the mission term for the Grant family came to a close, President Grant decided to try to get Fia into the United States. He booked passage for her as a nurse for his children and hoped that as he was prepared to support her for the rest of her life, there would be no trouble with the immigration authorities. When their ship landed in New York, the excitement of returning home was nearly forgotten in the concern the Grant family had over whether Fia would be able to remain with them. But things went much easier than they had hoped. The immigration officers asked no questions and made no examinations. Fia was in!
The Grant family arrived in Salt Lake shortly before Christmas 1906. Fia was a most welcome addition. Elder Grant even talked of adopting her legally. Perhaps because of her age this was never done, but she was no longer considered hired help; she was loved and treated as a family member.
When Andrew Christofferson learned that Fia was living in Salt Lake City with the Grants, he wasted no time in calling to court her. Several months later, he asked Elder Grant for permission to marry Fia. Sophia and Andrew were married in the Salt Lake Temple on 14 June 1907 with Elder Grant performing the ceremony.
Andrew took his bride to Lehi to live in a very modest cottage. Circumstances were quite different from those to which she had been accustomed. The adjustments she had to make must have been difficult indeed. But Fia had never regretted giving up a life of ease for the sake of the gospel, nor did she regret giving up life in the comparative luxury of the Grant home for life on a small farm. She was cheerful and pleasant and made the best of her surroundings. She learned many new skills as a farmer’s wife and helped care for her mother-in-law as well.
In time their home was blessed with two sons and two daughters: Grant, Reed, Mia, and Ellen. The first boy was named after Heber J. Grant.
Because the light was very painful to her eyes, Fia seldom went out in public, but people were attracted to her home. She was known far and wide for her warm hospitality. All who came into her home felt her love. They were entertained and fed and, if downcast, were cheered and encouraged.
Aunt Fia’s one sadness was the loss of contact with her family in Sweden. To her knowledge, she was the only family member to have accepted the gospel. She always felt a keen responsibility toward her relatives and ancestors. She did what she could to secure their genealogy and have the temple work done for them.
Her dear Andrew died 17 June 1954. Aunt Fia lived alone in her home until she suffered a stroke a few months before her death. She was taken into the home of her devoted daughter, Mia, and cared for until she died suddenly of a heart attack on 8 May 1961, shortly before her eighty-second birthday.
Aunt Fia left memories that will be cherished by countless friends and relatives, and a legacy that will continue to bless many lives until we again enjoy the privilege of her friendship in the eternities.

A notation beside the death date of a great-uncle in our family record read, “Died on way to New Zealand, buried at sea.” It was sad, surely, but had connotations of adventure. Little did we dream, however, of the impact these few words were going to have so many years later.
We let him rest at the bottom of the ocean for over a hundred years.
Then a very old letter from my great-grandmother came to light, and in it was a reference to “Catherine” in New Zealand. This awoke in us the realization that even though George Perkins died and was buried at sea, his wife and family went on, and we felt impelled to learn more about that family.
So we began the search, first in old shipping records. We checked the embarkation records from Greenock, Scotland. There we found information that “George Perkins, Gentleman,” his wife Catherine and five children had set out in the sailing ship Mooltan to that idyllic land under the Southern Cross. The names of those five children were a great find. I thought of those wide-eyed, excited little children going with their parents to build a home in a new land halfway around the world.
Next, I wrote to the Alexander Turnbull Library, and the Public Library at Dunedin, New Zealand, the Old Settlers’ Association, and the National Archives at Wellington. All sent prompt and fruitful replies full of information about these kinfolk of mine—where they lived, what they did, who they married. We learned of a baby born after their arrival there, a little girl who must have brought joy to the young, widowed mother.
I learned of cousins, very far from me in distance and time, and of a relative “killed in the Maori Wars.” My New Zealand family had suffered perils, trials, and hardships similar to those of their kin in Utah who were “killed by the Indians.” All were pioneers who started out from the same British shores.
I found that these early settlers were the founders of cities and towns, of businesses and farms, of family dynasties. I learned more about that great-uncle who while still in England had bought a great deal of land in New Zealand and had then sailed away with such high hopes only to die and find a resting place in the vast and lonely ocean.
I knew there must be present-day kinfolk still living in New Zealand, so I researched and found many descendants of those early kinsmen of mine. I put an advertisement in the Otago Times asking for the descendants of George and Catherine Scott Perkins to correspond with me.
Again the response was overwhelming—grandchildren, great-grandchildren, cousins two and three times removed. I have found them so friendly, so helpful, so anxious to give me all the information they had, and they were even willing to find information they did not have. Bits of legend and lore, added to the store I already had, helped me in writing family histories. I found that those pioneers to New Zealand, who traveled there at the same time as my other pioneer forebears came to Utah, had taken very good ancestral records with them. They could furnish me with some additional names, places of birth, and dates a generation or two further back.
We have had some of the family come to visit us, and even their friends have come. We have found them to be warm and friendly and very British. When they came, they brought more records. One lady in particular sat with me as I typed for most of one day in order to copy a very large pedigree chart her cousin had made for me.
Can someone be homesick for a place they have never been? I am sure they can, because the feeling I have now toward New Zealand is so strong. This warm feeling I have for that land is not just because it is one of the islands in the exotic South Seas, nor because it awakens a yearning that most of us have to visit “faraway places with strange-sounding names.” It is a deeper something awakened in me by the notation at the side of my great-uncle’s name. It has been interesting to study, to read, to search the maps of New Zealand.
I would like to walk down the streets of Christchurch and Auckland, to call on folks in Dunedin, Invercargill, Greymouth, Timaru, Buckland’s Beach—names now recorded in my family history book. I feel that some day I must visit there, and if I knock on the doors of the homes of my kinfolk, I know I will find a welcome. They will not be strangers, because we have met on the family tree and through the world of letters. What an opportunity—what an adventure there is in hunting folks!

I confess that as a young boy, Sunday was not my favorite day. Grandfather shut down the action. We didn’t have any transportation. We couldn’t drive the car. He wouldn’t even let us start the motor. We couldn’t ride the horses or the steers or the sheep. It was the Sabbath, and by commandment the animals also needed rest. We walked to Church and everywhere else we wanted to go. I can honestly say that we observed both the spirit and the letter of Sabbath worship.
By today’s standards, perhaps Grandfather’s interpretation of Sabbath day activities seems extreme, but something wonderful has been lost in our lives. To this day, I have been pondering to try to understand fully what has slipped away. Part of it was knowing that I was well on the Lord’s side of the line. Another part was the feeling that Satan’s influence was farther away. Mostly it was the reinforcement received by the spiritual power which was generated. We had the rich feeling that the spiritual “fulness of the earth” (D&C 59:16) was ours, as promised by the Lord in section 59 of the Doctrine and Covenants.

Mary Ann Young and her children were equally ill when Brigham left on the same mission, and their financial situation was equally precarious. One heartrending description describes her crossing the Mississippi River in the bitter of winter, thinly clad and shivering with cold, clutching her infant daughter as she went, going to the tithing office in Nauvoo to ask for a few potatoes. Then, still suffering with fever, she made her way with the baby back across the forbidding river, never to write a word to her husband about such difficulties.

I was hurt by his announcement. I had tried for years to interest him in religion but with no success. How could strangers from a different country suddenly convert him? I was determined to face them and show Jakub they had no chance in a debate with me.
When I saw the two young, smiling missionaries standing in the doorway of my parents’ apartment, I forgot about my goal to prove them wrong. They were happy and funny. They asked me lots of questions about myself and my beliefs. They respected my convictions. Later they told me that during that first meeting with the arrogant guy with long hair and ripped jeans who was smoking cigarettes, they had a hard time imagining I would ever be interested in becoming a follower of Jesus Christ. But I felt something special in their presence, and I was intrigued that their Church was the only Christian denomination I knew of that believed in a premortal existence.
I was also impressed with their testimonies and the strong convictions of Jakub and Robert ?elewski, his new friend from the Church. Robert was a psychologist, an intelligent but down-to-earth man whose insights and experiences strengthened my interest in the religion of the Latter-day Saints.
Everything the elders, Jakub, and Robert told me was fascinating, especially the doctrine of the plan of salvation, starting with premortality and ending with the three degrees of glory. But I didn’t see any point in joining the Church until I was able to grasp more fully their unique beliefs. My understanding of Christianity was that anciently, God performed miracles, sent angels, and called prophets, but all those things belonged to biblical times. Once the Bible was completed, humanity no longer needed miracles and revelation because scripture contains all we need to know.
A breakthrough came during our discussion about the Great Apostasy and the Restoration of the fulness of the gospel through the Prophet Joseph Smith. I realized that their beliefs were more consistent with the Bible than the claim that the Bible had replaced prophets and revelation. I felt real joy when I realized I might be living in modern “biblical times.”
I was ready to ask God sincerely for personal revelation, but an answer did not come. Finally, I said, “Heavenly Father, if You called Joseph Smith as Your prophet, I will obey every commandment You revealed through him.” Then the answer came to my heart and mind with surety, and I knew that God had restored the fulness of the gospel and that it is found in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

When we organized a genealogy class, particularly for a group of nonmembers in town who were doing genealogy as a hobby, we asked Heavenly Father for help in finding a teacher. He sent us another family; the wife was a genealogy expert. She agreed to teach the class every Tuesday night. She was also an excellent pianist and an expert in arts and crafts, which was a big asset to the branch. Her husband became the Sunday School president, and we had another child for Primary.

I was in a fast and testimony meeting only last Sunday. A 15- or 16-year-old boy stood before the congregation and said that he had decided to be baptized.
Then one by one, boys of the teachers quorum stepped to the microphone to express their love for him, to tell him that he was doing the right thing, and to assure him that they would stand with him and help him. It was a wonderful experience to hear those young men speak words of appreciation and encouragement to their friend. I am satisfied that all of those boys, including the one who was baptized last week, will go on missions.

Julischka Schlatter, 8, lives about an hour away from Bern, Switzerland’s capital. She could tell you about the city’s quaint medieval streets, its old cathedrals, and the Glockenspiel, a clock tower built in 1530. But instead, she will probably tell you about the beautiful white building on a hill nearby. Here President David O. McKay dedicated the first European temple 50 years ago, and Julischka is glad he did! At age 6 she entered the Bern Switzerland Temple with her mother, Chantal, and stepfather, Philipp, to be sealed together as a family.
“I remember the beautiful room and bright chandelier,” she says. She remembers wearing white and seeing her parents waiting for her in the sealing room. She especially remembers listening to the temple sealer’s words.
“That day was very special,” Julischka’s mom says. “I didn’t receive just a husband for time and eternity, but my daughter too.”

As the Church grew in Bulgaria, so did the idea of a public, Christ-centered Christmas program. President and Sister Warner asked Zlatina Biliarska, a retired journalist and member of the Church, to compose the script for the program. Zlatina was hesitant.
“I don’t know if I can do that,” she told Sister Warner. “I have no idea how to do such a program. It is too difficult.” Sister Warner encouraged Zlatina to think the assignment over before rejecting it completely.
The next morning Zlatina contacted Sister Warner. “I went home and started thinking about it,” Zlatina said. “It came to my mind what the program should be.” The following day she handed Sister Warner the draft of a three-part program that she had worked on all night.
“It was absolutely beautiful,” Sister Warner said. “It was perfect. She had truly caught the vision of Christmas.”
With the help of Sister Warner and Sister Leslie Davis, a missionary, Zlatina completed the final draft. The program was not simple. It involved three separate scenes—a traditional Bulgarian scene, a secular Western European scene, and a simple Nativity scene. It contained 28 songs—many of which would need to be translated into Bulgarian. It called for elaborate scenery and costumes and for a cast and choir of more than one hundred people. The prospect of the members putting on such a production was truly daunting.
Sister Evanka Pashinova, who had been an opera singer before she joined the Church, orchestrated the production. She translated unfamiliar songs into Bulgarian and organized the choir. Despite the distances members had to travel to rehearse (as long as two hours’ travel each way), choir members were enthusiastic and committed. They never missed a rehearsal. The musical portion of the program began to come together.
Several individuals blended their talents to create the costumes and scenery. Elena Shtilianova, a fine seamstress, made or found the costumes for all three scenes. An investigator who is an actress with the National Theater arranged for the Father Christmas costume. Another sister who is an artist painted exquisite backdrops. In a country where rolls of paper are often not available, she somehow found the materials needed to create the scenery. The investigator who had provided the Father Christmas costume also borrowed spotlights from the National Theater—as well as the union technicians who came with them.
As the complexity of the production and the number of participants and guests outgrew the meager facilities of the mission office, a banquet room at the Moscow Hotel in Sofia was reserved with funds from the mission office. Although it had only a small stage, an upright piano, and very limited space, it was the best that could be found. The choir members laughed about “standing room only” and offered to stand offstage when they weren’t performing so everyone could squeeze in.
The work took on a rhythm of its own as the weeks of rehearsal went on. The members’ excitement crescendoed into confidence, and everyone began to look forward to the chance to sing of the birth of the Savior and of his place in their hearts.
But as the excitement grew, the group’s harmony was invaded by discord. Newspapers and television spoke against the Church. Missionaries were physically abused. Rocks were thrown through the windows of the mission home and the mission office. One night the whole front of the mission office was painted with obscenities.
As the anti-Church sentiment grew, the manager of the Moscow Hotel began to worry about the possible consequences of allowing the Church to hold a Christmas program in her hotel. Less than 36 hours before the program was to begin, she notified the mission office that the members would not be able to use their reserved room after all.
Some of the members were devastated by the news, believing that the Christmas program would have to be canceled. President Warner was more trusting.
“Heavenly Father knows where we are and how much we need to have this program,” he said. “Let’s leave it in the Lord’s hands.”
The Lord heard their prayers. When the assistants to the mission president, Elder Trent Murray and Elder Hannon Ford, returned to the Moscow Hotel to get the mission’s money back, the manager explained why she was reluctant to allow them to use the reserved room on the main floor and led them to a room on the second floor.
“If you can promise that your people will come in the back door instead of the front door, go up the back stairs, and not use the lobby, you can use this other room,” she said, opening the door to a much larger ballroom. It was two and a half times larger than their reserved room, and it had a wonderful grand piano. It even had a Christmas tree and other holiday decorations.
On a cold Saturday afternoon in Sofia, missionaries met the members and investigators arriving for the program and directed them to the back door, where they entered the hotel inconspicuously. More than 400 guests crowded into the ballroom. Even the dour faces of the spotlight technicians, who were unhappy to be working on a holiday, could not spoil their festive spirit.
The 150 choir members sang beautifully, and the audience joined in for a sing-along. By the time a young couple placed their baby in the manger for the final scene, the room was filled with joy and music. Even the spotlight technicians were singing and clapping along with the others.
The Spirit was so strong that no one wanted to leave. But like every performance, the Christmas program had to conclude. The same child’s a capella solo that had opened the program—her “Silent Night”—ended it. As the audience and the participants returned home, echoes of their experience—their “Joy to the World”—reverberated in their hearts and warmed the chill in the Bulgarian air.

Sister Hurtado’s mother was a widow who supported her four children by what they made from a store they ran in their home. Sunday was the day the family did the most business. They lived across from a movie theater, and moviegoers would stop at their store to buy refreshments. They also sold cooking oil in large containers, and their customers always came on Sunday.
The missionaries taught and baptized the whole family. The Sunday morning following their baptisms, Sister Hurtado asked her mother who was to stay at home to tend the store. She was shocked by her mother’s response. “We are closing the store for the whole day. We are now members of the Lord’s church, and we will keep his commandments.”
Sister Hurtado reminded her mother that they would lose their best business, but her mother was firm in her decision to honor her covenant with the Lord.
They closed the store that Sunday and every Sunday thereafter. To Sister Hurtado’s surprise, they did not lose the business of those who had bought oil on Sunday. Their customers learned to come on other days to buy. In fact, their overall sales increased, even though the family was working six days instead of seven.

During the winter of 1990, I was serving as a full-time missionary in Lérida, a city located in the Spain Barcelona Mission. My companion, Sister McKee, had become ill, and we had to stay in our apartment for several days. We were frustrated, especially because we finally had some investigators who were making progress and needed to be taught. We had others who weren’t progressing and needed to be encouraged. We prayed for ways to be useful during this difficult time.
One morning we were reading about the Savior, and we began to share our feelings about Him. Suddenly we knew how we could put our time to good use. We could create a presentation about the life and mission of Jesus Christ.
As we prayed for assistance, a feeling of peace came over us. We began to envision the illustrations we needed and to hear the words that would accompany them. We felt prompted to look in specific places, and there we found phrases or paintings that were exactly what we needed. We remembered issues of the Liahona and the Ensign where certain pictures were printed. We asked the members and other missionaries to help us get pictures we didn’t have. We had similar experiences locating music.
After working for several days, we finished the planning part of our work. We began practicing again and again to coordinate the music with the text, so that everything would fit together when we shared the presentation.
The name for our work became obvious. In the process of completing our project, we had come to understand aspects of the Savior’s mission we had never been aware of. Each of us could now say with much greater conviction, “I know that my Redeemer lives.” That phrase became the title.

I am always humbled and grateful when my Heavenly Father communicates with me through His inspiration. I have learned to recognize it, to trust it, and to follow it. Time and time again I have been the recipient of such inspiration. One rather dramatic experience took place in August of 1987 during the dedication of the Frankfurt Germany Temple. President Ezra Taft Benson had been with us for the first day or two of the dedication but had returned home, and so it became my opportunity to conduct the remaining sessions.
On Saturday we had a session for our Dutch members who were in the Frankfurt Temple district. I was well acquainted with one of our outstanding leaders from the Netherlands, Brother Peter Mourik. Just prior to the session, I had the distinct impression that Brother Mourik should be called upon to speak to his fellow Dutch members during the session and that, in fact, he should be the first speaker. Not having seen him in the temple that morning, I passed a note to Elder Carlos E. Asay, our Area President, asking whether Peter Mourik was in attendance at the session. Just prior to standing up to begin the session, I received a note back from Elder Asay indicating that Brother Mourik was actually not in attendance, that he was involved elsewhere, and that he was planning to attend the dedicatory session in the temple the following day with the servicemen stakes.
As I stood at the pulpit to welcome the people and to outline the program, I received unmistakable inspiration once again that I was to announce Peter Mourik as the first speaker. This was counter to all my instincts, for I had just heard from Elder Asay that Brother Mourik was definitely not in the temple. Trusting in the inspiration, however, I announced the choir presentation and the prayer and then indicated that our first speaker would be Brother Peter Mourik.
As I returned to my seat, I glanced toward Elder Asay; I saw on his face a look of alarm. He later told me that when I had announced Brother Mourik as the first speaker, he couldn’t believe his ears. He said he knew that I had received his note and that I indeed had read it, and he couldn’t fathom why I would then announce Brother Mourik as a speaker, knowing he wasn’t anywhere in the temple.
During the time all of this was taking place, Peter Mourik was in a meeting at the area offices in Porthstrasse. As his meeting was going forward, he suddenly turned to Elder Thomas A. Hawkes Jr., who was then the regional representative, and asked, “How fast can you get me to the temple?”
Elder Hawkes, who was known to drive rather rapidly in his small sports car, answered, “I can have you there in 10 minutes! But why do you need to go to the temple?”
Brother Mourik admitted he did not know why he needed to go to the temple but that he knew he had to get there. The two of them set out for the temple immediately.
During the magnificent choir number, I glanced around, thinking that at any moment I would see Peter Mourik. I did not. Remarkably, however, I felt no alarm. I had a sweet, undeniable assurance that all would be well.
Brother Mourik entered the front door of the temple just as the opening prayer was concluding, still not knowing why he was there. As he hurried down the hall, he saw my image on the monitor and heard me announce, “We will now hear from Brother Peter Mourik.”
To the astonishment of Elder Asay, Peter Mourik immediately walked into the room and took his place at the podium.
Following the session, Brother Mourik and I discussed that which had taken place prior to his opportunity to speak. I have pondered the inspiration which came that day not only to me but also to Peter Mourik. That remarkable experience has provided an undeniable witness to me of the importance of being worthy to receive such inspiration and then trusting it—and following it—when it comes. I know without question that the Lord intended for those who were present at that session of the Frankfurt Temple dedication to hear the powerful, touching testimony of His servant Brother Peter Mourik.

Let me conclude with an intimate “Are you there?” experience. Sister Ashton and I live in downtown Salt Lake City. From our sixth floor condominium window, we have a full view of the Salt Lake Temple. We enjoy frequent views of the majestic structure, particularly when the sun is setting or at night when the lights are on.
A few years ago, Sister Ashton developed a sudden need to receive hospital attention. After taking her to be admitted, we prayed. Then I returned home and prayed privately. Worried about the suddenness of the medical problem, and thinking of the deep affection I have for her, I was not able to sleep.
After a restless hour or so, I got out of bed, walked to the living room, and looked at the temple. The lights on the outside of the temple are on all night. I remember well walking around the living room countless times looking at the temple and saying to myself with a bowed head and with unwavering faith, “I know He is there.” It was a kind of silent crying out for that reassurance and strength we have been discussing.
I have total confidence and faith in the wisdom and omniscience of a loving, merciful Heavenly Father. Please know He is there. I testify He is. He is a living, loving Father, and as the Prophet Joseph discovered, we can ask Him our innermost desires and He will not upbraid! Pray constantly for help, endurance, and understanding. God does answer our prayers.

One is humbled by the spiritual submissiveness of the dying young mother of twenty-six, understandably anguished at the prospect of not rearing her two children, one of whom she so recently made ready to lay down her life for, if necessary. The baby arrived safely, but, alas, the gallant mother could not tarry. With childlike faith this young sister touchingly inquired, “If I am to die, then how can I help my husband and my parents as they watch me die?” Surely she (and others similarly situated) faithfully conforms to King Benjamin’s portrait of a Saint as one being “willing to submit to all things which the Lord seeth fit to inflict upon him, even as a child doth submit to his father.” (Mosiah 3:19.)

When I decided to become a full tithe payer, I felt hesitant about telling my husband. He handles the finances, and I knew he would not welcome the addition of another expense when we were trying to get out of debt. I decided to fast and pray to prepare for the discussion.
When the time felt right, I approached him prepared to give a speech about the commandment and blessings of tithing. Instead, when I opened my mouth I started telling him how much I loved him and how the gospel had helped me see what a wonderful man he was. I told him everything that made me proud to be his wife, and I said that even if he never joined the Church, I would always love him.
My husband rarely cries, so when I saw him tearing up I knew he was deeply touched. He admitted he had been worried he might lose me because, with my life in order, I wouldn’t need him anymore. He had been feeling worthless as a husband because he felt he wasn’t supporting me enough.
I had been so involved with my own happiness I hadn’t realized that my husband had been feeling left out. My Heavenly Father had guided me to discuss what my husband needed most.
When the time did eventually come to discuss tithing, my husband agreed that I could pay it if I could figure out how to eliminate another bill. I didn’t know how I would do it, but I resolved that January 1995 would mark the beginning of my tithe. On New Year’s Day, I noticed several chicken pox on my four-year-old as I helped her undress after church.
Because my daughter couldn’t go to day care, I called a coworker on the graveyard shift and asked if we could switch shifts so I could stay home during the day. When I received my paycheck two weeks later, I realized that the amount I needed for tithing was the amount I would have paid a baby-sitter. As expected, my two-year-old broke out in chicken pox two weeks later, but I was again able to switch shifts with someone. I realized this was Heavenly Father’s way of telling me I would be able to find a way to pay my tithing, and I have been able to do so ever since.