Gospel Story Finder

Before coming to Hawaii 43 years ago, I was asked a tough question; a question that I have thought about for many years.
“What will be your major field of study?”
The person who asked the question really didn’t know me well. His name was Samiu, - my second to the oldest brother. I must admit that this brother was strict and bossy; he enjoyed being that way and we all feared him.
Being the youngest in the family, he and I were always on the opposite end of things. He didn’t seem to agree with me on anything. When he asked me the question, I cringed since I had a premonition of what his reaction would be.
I told him that I wanted to major in “art”. And as predicted, he countered and said, “You don’t have to go to America to study art. You can do that in our backyard.” I smiled without saying a word.
Brothers and sisters, I returned to Tonga, in 1983 from BYU Graduate School, not only for the dedication of the Tongan Temple, but to unveil this sculpture of the Tongan king. I wanted to confirm to my brother, Samiu, that the answer I gave him ten years earlier was based on a prompting I had while on my mission. It was my dream to be a sculptor.
You are seeing the end results of that dream; however, the process didn’t come easy. Creating this sculpture of the Tongan king while I was in graduate school at BYU had its setbacks. I used 2-inch pipes for the armature, and I heated them with a torch to bend the pipes. This was done before applying the 3000 pounds of clay. I spent months working on the statue, based on pictures that had been sent for the project. One morning I went into the sculpture studio and found the 11-foot statue collapsed onto the floor. Obviously, the heating of the pipes weakened the metal and the armature was not strong enough to support a sculpture that big.
My professor asked me what I was going to do, and I simply told him that I was going to start over again. Everyone thought that I was going to give up. Within two weeks the whole sculpture was up again.

The blizzard of 1831 was one of the worst ever. The people huddled by the campfires, their hands and feet blue from the freezing cold. They had little food, and tents and blankets were scarce. Most of the children were barefoot; three-fourths of them were naked.
Men, women, and children died in great numbers that winter. These people were the first of the Choctaw Indian Nation to travel the “Trail of Tears,” as it became known among the native Americans who were forced to leave their lands and relocate in Oklahoma.
Throughout that winter, the Choctaw continued to battle hunger and disease, hoping that spring would bring relief. It didn’t. Torrential rains added to their misery, swelling the rivers and turning the roads into muddy quagmires. It took them nearly five months to walk the 800 kilometers from the Mississippi-Arkansas area to their destination in Oklahoma.
A second group of Choctaw left for Oklahoma the following year. This time the United States government provided more food and supplies, alleviating the threat of starvation that had plagued the first group. But an epidemic of cholera swept down the Mississippi Valley and spread throughout the region. Heavy rains added to the suffering, and many of the Choctaw were forced through kilometers of swampland, swollen rivers, and dense forest.
They buried their dead along the way.
I had no knowledge of the pain and suffering of the Choctaw Nation until I developed an interest in family history. I learned that my Choctaw great-great-great-grandmother, Betsy Perkins, had left Mississippi with the tribe and had walked the “Trail of Tears” to Oklahoma. I placed her name in my family records, but I thought that I could do nothing further on that line. As far as I knew, no further information was available.
But on Sunday, 11 September 1983, at about three o’clock in the morning, I had a dream. I dreamed that I saw a native American woman with long braids streaked with gray. She was stirring something in a cooking pot. In my dream, I was in her home. Stretched animal skins formed the walls and roof, and poles of clean natural wood supported the walls, which were lashed together with leather strips. The home was small in circumference, but the roof was high enough for me to stand comfortably.
The woman spoke with me, and we talked for some time. I felt comfortable being with her and felt her warm hospitality. I don’t remember what was said, but she told me her name over and over again—Nanah-ku-chi. Another woman was with her, holding a child about two or three years old, with black shoulder-length hair. Their clothing, simple in design, appeared to be made from animal skins, cleaned and softened.
Three times the Spirit prompted me to get up and write, until I finally climbed out of bed and found paper and a pencil. I then sat at the dining-room table and wrote the words that came into my mind.
The Spirit made known to me that, if I were faithful, I would be led to find my ancestors’ names, and that Nanah-ku-chi, one of the women I had seen in the dream, was my ancestor. I seemed to hear in my mind, “Now is the time to labor for thy dead.”
I felt prompted to go to Philadelphia, Mississippi, where I would be given the names of those whose temple work needed to be done. “Be faithful, and it shall come unto thee line upon line,” the Spirit seemed to say. I have always believed in personal revelation, but this experience carried with it a force far beyond what I had expected.
After completing what I was prompted to write, I returned to bed. I had been asleep only a short while when Bradley, my three-year-old son, suddenly awakened me. “Indians, Indians. I dreamed about Indians,” he said. I was astonished; I felt that his words were an affirmation of my own dream. I was even more astonished when I later asked him about his dream.
“I dreamed an Indian chief came to our house,” he said.
“How did you know he was a chief?” I asked.
“He said he was a chief,” Bradley replied. “He asked me for some bread. I took him to the kitchen to get some. He said, ‘No, not that kind of bread.’”
“Were there other people with him?” I asked.
“Yes,” came the answer. “They were waiting for him.”
Later, as I sat in sacrament meeting thinking about the dreams, I silently prayed for guidance that I might be able to find the information necessary to do my Choctaw ancestors’ temple work. I felt impressed to acquire a copy of a record I had seen some twenty years earlier at the National Archives in Washington, D.C. It was the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll of 1831, and it contained records of the Choctaw before their trek over the “Trail of Tears” to Oklahoma. This census had on record some 3,000 heads of families and represented about 17,000 people. I had photocopied the pages from it that dealt with my ancestor named Betsy.
I wrote to the National Archives, requesting a microfilm copy of the entire record. I also contacted the Church Family History Library in Salt Lake City, Utah, and asked whether temple work could be done for people listed on the record. I then asked for and obtained permission to help do name extraction work on the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll.
I also went to Philadelphia, Mississippi, as I had been prompted. There, on the Choctaw reservation, I learned the story of the Nanah-weya. Archaeologists think that the Choctaw are probably of Mayan descent—from Central America—because their language, customs, and culture are similar to those of the Mayans. Choctaw legends tell of their migration from their old lands, where they had been persecuted. A prophet had told them of a land waiting for them, where they would be safe. Two brothers, Chataw and Chickasaw, led the people out of the old land.
The people followed the “leaning pole,” a sacred pole placed in front of the leaders’ camp each night. Some legends say that a sacred medicine bag was tied to the pole. Each morning, the people traveled in the direction the pole leaned. They carried their ancestors’ bones with them.
When they reached the area that is now Northern Mississippi, there was a tremendous rainstorm. The people thought that in the morning they would find the sacred pole flat on the ground because of the rain. Instead, the pole stood straight, its shaft buried deep in the mud.
That is where the people stayed. In the new land they held a great council to decide what to do with their ancestors’ bones. The decision they made was to build a large mound and bury them there. This mound, called the Nanah-weya, means “leaning mountain,” or “mother mound.”
I asked a Choctaw from Oklahoma if he knew the meaning of the word Nanah-ku-chi. He told me that it means “to bring out of the mountain.”
“You have said it just the way the Choctaw would say it,” he told me. “Nanah means mountain; Ku-chi means to bring forth.” I concluded that the words I had heard must have meant that the names of the Choctaw dead should be brought out of obscurity so that the Choctaws’ temple work should be completed.
My trip to Mississippi bore great fruit. There, in a courthouse, a woman gave my aunt and me a copy of some family records. Later, when I read through it, I was amazed. Before, I had had only three names on that particular family. Now I had more than sixty pages of information! There, at the beginning of the line, was the name of Ikenaby, an Indian chief who had lived during the early 1800s and who had married a white woman by the name of Kearney.
I continued to help with the work on the Choctaw-Armstrong Roll. Lorraine Nievar of Ardmore, Oklahoma, whose ancestors are Choctaw and French, also helped with name extraction work on the record. When the work was complete, 1,500 names from the record were sent to the temple in Dallas, Texas, so that Sister Nievar and her family could help perform their ancestors’ temple work. Another 1,500 names were sent to the Logan Utah Temple, where many of my friends and neighbors have helped with the work.
I believe that many members of the Choctaw Nation who lived during the early 1800s have accepted the temple work completed in their behalf. As I participated in baptisms for the dead one Saturday morning, I felt their gratitude. During one particular temple session, I was asked to speak to the members of a Logan ward. While we sat together in the temple’s chapel, I told them the story behind the names they carried that night. I remember that temple session as one of the most sacred I ever attended.
I recall feeling a vivid sense of light and joy at one particular point in the session. I thought of my son’s dream. My friends and neighbors were now giving the “bread of life” to those who had asked for it. I again felt that those whose work we were performing, though unseen, were grateful for the opportunity to accept the gospel. Though they had once walked the “Trail of Tears,” now they could walk the straight and narrow path of joy that leads to eternal life.
Many native American records have been compiled by various organizations. It is now possible to do more temple work for native American ancestors than ever before; many of them are eager to receive the saving ordinances of the gospel.
I learned just how eager they were one spring day while driving to Salt Lake City to talk with a woman there. Suddenly, I felt that I could hear the sound of drums beating. I seemed to see an Indian woman, dressed in an oversize plaid shirt, a Navajo skirt, and a silver medallion belt. The seat beside me was empty, but I could sense her presence.
When I arrived in Salt Lake City, I felt prompted to ask the woman with whom I had the appointment whether she had any Indian ancestors. But Carolyn doesn’t look Indian; she’s blonde and blue-eyed, I thought to myself. She’ll think I’m crazy.
When I met Carolyn in her office, the prompting for me to ask was just as strong as it had been in the car. So I asked if she had Indian ancestors.
“Yes,” she said. “My grandmother was Cherokee and was adopted by the Navajo.” She told me about how her “Granny” had worked as a nurse for many years with the Navajo in Arizona, Oklahoma, New Mexico, and Texas. Later, I asked Carolyn about the clothing her grandmother had worn, and she described to me the clothing I had seen the woman wearing.
I told Carolyn about the temple work we had done for the Choctaw. She was thrilled about the possibility of doing the same work for the Cherokee. The Cherokee were the second nation to walk the “Trail of Tears”; there is a record of the tribe in its entirety from 1835—before they had settled in Oklahoma. Carolyn is now doing extraction work on that record, preparing names for the temple.
I know that my Choctaw ancestors desired the blessings of the gospel. My love for my ancestors has grown as I have learned about them. Though they suffered great hardship in mortality, they are now receiving the great blessings of the temple.

I had been on my mission for 13 months when I received a phone call from my mission president informing me of the death of my dear sister Solange. This news broke my heart, and I shed tears of sadness as I remembered the beautiful moments we had spent together throughout her life of nearly 20 years. My pain over losing her was very deep.
As we approached the weekend, I realized that we were coming up on general conference. And in spite of my sorrow and pain, my companion and I went to watch the conference broadcast at the chapel.
Who would have known, but in his talk entitled “Confide in God Unwaveringly,” Elder Ulisses Soares recounted an experience that exactly described my situation. He said, “Years ago while serving as a mission president, I received a phone call from the parents of one of our beloved missionaries informing me of the death of his sister. I remember, in the tenderness of that moment, that missionary and I discussed God’s marvelous plan of salvation for His children and how this knowledge would comfort him.
“Although he was stunned and saddened by that adversity, this missionary—through his tears and with faith in God—rejoiced in his sister’s life. He expressed unwavering confidence in the tender mercies of the Lord. Resolutely, he told me that he would continue to serve his mission with all faith and diligence in order to be worthy of the promises that God had for him and his family. In this time of need, that faithful missionary turned his heart to God, placed all of his trust in Him, and renewed his commitment to serve the Lord with faith and with all diligence” (Liahona, May 2017, 35).
Dear brothers and sisters, I felt that every word, every sentence of this talk was addressed directly to me—and what a source of comfort! I testify that God speaks to us every six months through the mouths of His servants in general conference.

My fears about commitment took another bad turn when my dad got divorced a second time.
I was heartbroken by the news. I had suppressed my feelings about my parents’ divorce for most of my life out of love for my dad, but this news made all my anger, sadness, resentment, abandonment, and pain come out.
As I prepared to leave on my mission soon after, I counseled with Heavenly Father to help me let go of the hurt and have hope for a future marriage. I learned that healing takes time and continually seeking the Savior.

Unlike some student wards, the University Ward in Las Vegas has a mix of single and married people. A few couples even have children, so the younger women in the ward have to step out of their comfort zone to help the others.
Emily and her partner (who is also 19) go visiting teaching to the married, has-a-master’s-degree, has-a-baby Relief Society president (gulp). But, as with most other things, Emily takes it in stride and has even learned to enjoy it.
“Getting the call to be her visiting teacher was a little intimidating, I have to admit,” she says. “Since I didn’t know what it was like to be married or have a baby, I just had to ask her. Since I was forced to ask a lot of questions, I’ve come to know more about her. I really admire her, and I have learned so much from being her visiting teacher. And I hope maybe she’s learned a little something from me.”

Unfortunately, you will probably not always be successful in your shielding efforts. But the Lord will help you if you will rely on Him. President Henry B. Eyring relates a very instructive experience regarding the Lord's help. He was in a European city and stepped into a seemingly innocent shop. As soon as he was in the place he knew that he did not belong there, and he turned and walked out. But, for the next couple of days the offensive images on the walls remained in his mind, despite his fervent prayers. Then, finally the Spirit instructed him, that the bubble of his protection had been lifted and that he needed to "pray to be led not into temptation." "To be led not into temptation" should be a regular element of our daily prayers.

Before the trek began, youth and adults spent hundreds of hours building handcarts, welding wagon wheels, sewing clothing, preparing food, and planning. The youth, wanting to make the trek their own, put much of their own effort into the preparations.

Kaylene Forbes, a Laurel of the Soldotna Ward, said, “I did a lot of sewing to prepare for the trek. The skirts and the aprons weren’t very difficult, but the bonnet was hard. After I was finished, though, especially on the trek, I was glad that I did everything myself.”

Each handcart “family” was led by a young man and young woman, called a Pa and Ma, and were also accompanied by adult leaders. The Mas and Pas even arrived early for special training.

“We worked hard,” Brother Forbes, Soldotna’s Young Men president, said. “Hundreds and hundreds of hours, but it was worth 100 times the effort that went into it. It was better than we could have ever dreamed.”

Throughout the trek, efforts to bring to life 19th-century pioneers included a mock Mormon Battalion march and a women’s pull, but no one could plan for one disheartening element they had in common with the pioneers—the weather. One of the original handcart pioneers, John Southwell, who traveled in the Haven handcart company crossing Iowa in 1856, records that they experienced hail, rain, wind, and ankle-deep mud.

One hundred and fifty years later, when the Alaska participants reached the trailhead on the first day of their trek, rain gushed down. The long, muddy trail wandered up tall hills, and the handcart wheels sunk in deep sand.

On the third day, the group awoke to a terrible storm with winds blowing more than 50 miles per hour. Pegs pulled loose, tents collapsed, the rain pounded down, and dark clouds covered the entire sky. Fearing that the weather would stop the trek, the leaders knelt in prayer. President Randy Eberline of the stake presidency asked the Lord to calm the storm. Throughout the camp, trek families also knelt and prayed for relief from the weather. Suddenly, the clouds parted and a bowl of warm sunlight shone down. Kelly Maxwell, a priest from Sterling, described the answer to their combined prayers: “President Eberline prayed for there to be sunlight, and I was also hoping and praying that it would work. Minutes later we saw a break in the sky, and we started to see blue and then the sun just came out of the clouds.”

Kaylene described it this way: “The wind stopped, and you could see the clouds parting and the sun coming out. It was like seeing Moses parting the Red Sea, except this time God parted the clouds for us.”

Brother and Sister Matt and Jodi Clark arrived that evening to speak at a fireside. They reported that on the 100-mile drive from Anchorage it had been pouring rain. As they crested the last hill before reaching the camp, they saw the most incredible sight. Sunlight flooded the camp while the rest of the sky, as far as they could see in all directions, was full of dark clouds.

James Barrett, a priest from the Kenai Ward, said, “It was wonderful to feel the sun again, the warmth and the light that brought encouragement and hope. It was a miracle. It was as if the Lord had stretched out his hand and protected us from the harsh weather by surrounding our camp with sunlight.”

The next day included special devotionals, a memorial fireside, and a testimony meeting, solidifying the spirit of the experience. It started with a devotional in the wilderness for each handcart “family.” At the devotional the youth received a letter written by their parents. Some of the youth later said that during this quiet time they received their first witness of the truthfulness of the gospel. Cyril Zufelt, 17, of Soldotna said, “When I got my letter, I was touched. That was a huge turning point in my life. I’m never going to forget it.”

Then, after walking for several miles, the group was halted by the trail boss who instructed each person to pick up a rock. In a valley between two large hills, they held a special memorial service dedicated to all of the pioneers left behind on the trail, especially those of the Martin and Willie handcart companies, who had lost so many to the early winter weather and starvation. Each person placed their rock on a small memorial of the earlier pioneers. Sister Meyer remarked, “I couldn’t believe how hard it was to walk past that little memorial and think of the families that left loved ones behind. I don’t know how they had the strength to do it.”

As they packed up their tents, put away their bonnets and suspenders, and returned to inside plumbing, the youth took away more than blisters and soggy hiking shoes—they took with them an appreciation for the Saints who traveled 150 years ago and 3,600 miles away. Most of all, they took with them a stronger testimony of the gospel.

Lyssa DaVaney, a Laurel in the Homer Ward, said, “When I left for the trek, I knew that I would be coming back. The pioneers knew they would never go back to their homes again. The trek was such an awakening experience for me. I learned so much about the pioneers, Heavenly Father, and myself. I wouldn’t trade my experience for anything.”

I met a young man in the gym, and we became friends. For the next ten months we shared our ideas and thoughts about many things, but never religion. One day I found that my friend traveled with a Bible, so I asked him if he went to church and what the name of his church was. It was some long name—The Church of Jesus Christ of something something Saints. I wasn’t the least bit interested—it sounded like just another church to me.
My friend later told me he was going to serve the Lord for two years in another country. I figured he was going to be a pastor. As he left, I began to wonder what his church was like, and I began to search for their meeting place.
I found it a few months later, but I also found something more. As I walked through the doors of the meetinghouse, I felt a feeling that is impossible to describe; it was joy, peace, comfort, surety, and happiness all in one. It was like coming home. My questions had now been answered.
The members of the church welcomed me with open arms. At first, I was reluctant to accept these welcomes because it was a little too much. I wasn’t used to so many people. They welcomed me whether they knew me or not. At the end of the meeting time, a calm feeling came over me and I heard the words in my mind, “Debbie, this is the place, and these are the people you have been searching for.”
Looking back, darkness to light, my life in the ghetto was difficult, and a person could make it harder by making wrong choices. There was little opportunity for progression. But I wanted something worth living for. When the opportunity came to leave the ghetto with part of my family, I decided this was my chance.
Many of the girls I grew up with never left the ghetto. I could not have made it without following the desires of my heart and trusting in my Father above to lead me. At times, while walking around Ricks College in Idaho, I realize all that I have been blessed with. I was blessed with the chance to leave the ghetto, be baptized a member of this church, gain an education, and fulfill a mission in Utah. I know Heavenly Father loves us all and is mindful of our circumstances no matter where we are. He desires above all things our happiness.
I often feel that the song sung at my high school graduation was written for me: “This is my quest—to follow the star. No matter how hopeless, no matter how far. To fight for the right, without question or pause, to be willing to march into hell for a heavenly cause.” I know if I am true to God’s commandments, I will reach that unreachable star.

Recently I listened to a young mother address a ward Relief Society meeting. She told us that she is losing her eyesight. She expressed gratitude for those who had been reading to her, driving her to appointments, and for another sister who was teaching her to play the piano. Relief Society sisters through their acts of kindness had offered her their light and helped to lessen the fear of this very difficult time of her transition into a world of darkness.

During my world literature class one day, I felt the Spirit prompt me to leave and go to the restroom. I was in the middle of taking a test, and since it was only the second day of school, I didn’t want to make a bad impression on my teacher. But the longer I sat there, the more I felt I needed to leave. So I got a pass to go to the restroom. Several girls were there, including my friend Kelsey. As I was washing my hands, I saw a girl about my age with tear-stained eyes standing in the corner. No one seemed to notice her.
I smiled at her, and all of a sudden I could feel exactly what was wrong. "Is everything okay?" I asked.
The girl gave no answer. I knew immediately what to say, almost as if the Spirit were there saying it. "You’re new, aren’t you?" I asked.
Almost instantly she sobbed and nodded but still didn’t say anything. The Spirit told me she was having a hard time making friends. "Are you having a hard time making friends here?" I asked.
Then she spoke with relief that someone actually cared enough to notice her. My friend Kelsey and I quickly introduced ourselves, and Kelsey invited the girl to sit with her at lunch.
This made me realize the truth of the scripture, "I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you" (John 14:18). The Lord always knows when we need Him, but sometimes it’s through other people that He comforts us.

My thoughts go back to many years ago when I was working with a young woman who had been hurt badly by a member of her family whom she loved and trusted. The type of hurt she received manifested itself in her with emotional instability. She struggled with interpersonal relationships and had a lot of feelings of self-doubt. As we talked about her feelings for this family member it became apparent to both of us that she had not been able to forgive this person for what they had done. This young woman was a person of great talent and ability. Almost anything she put her mind to she seemed to succeed at. However, since the bitterness and anger had settled into her heart, there were few things that she was doing up to her capability. Almost all aspects of her life were on a downward spiral. She worked very hard trying to forgive this family member for the hurt that she felt. It was not an easy or a fast process, but it was one that when she was successful with, it produced a tremendous feeling of freedom and peace. The family member that had harmed her initially was repentant and the beginnings of a new relationship occurred.

Just 12 years after Elder Jorge Fernando Zeballos was born on July 19, 1955, the first Latter-day Saint missionaries came to his hometown of Ovalle, Chile, in 1967.
The four North Americans walking around town piqued his curiosity, as did a favorable interview with them in the local newspaper. When the missionaries began playing in a local basketball league, Jorge, who loved basketball, followed their games with interest. Once he managed to slip behind the officials’ table to catch a glimpse of their team roster. Surprisingly, all were named “Elder.”
When a classmate told young Jorge that he and his family had joined the missionaries’ church, Jorge asked if he could come too. He attended meetings faithfully for seven months before the missionaries discovered that Jorge had not been taught or baptized. With the permission of his parents, Alberto Zeballos and Ines Zeballos, that was soon remedied.
Later, while at Santa Maria University in Valparaiso, Jorge met Carmen Gloria Valenzuela. “When I saw her for the first time, I knew I was going to marry her,” he recalls. “It was very strange, because I already had my mission call, and she was not a member.” Within a few weeks she was taking the missionary discussions, and he baptized her before leaving to serve in the Chile Concepción Mission.
Jorge and Carmen corresponded during his mission, began a courtship afterward, and were married on June 26, 1982, in the São Paulo Brazil Temple. They are the parents of five children.
Elder Zeballos has a degree in civil engineering from Santa Maria University and a master of business administration degree from Brigham Young University. Prior to his call as president of the Chile Concepción South Mission in 2005, he was a manager of corporate affairs for a mining company in Chile. Elder Zeballos, newly called to the First Quorum of the Seventy, has also served as a bishop, stake president, regional representative, and Area Seventy.

“Brueder Missionare, warten Sie einen Moment!” cried Sister Schmiedl, hurrying out of the apartment house door into the cold January air. My companion and I dismounted our bikes and turned to her. “I’m glad I saw you. Sister Jonas is sick; they’ve taken her to the hospital.”
“When did this happen? What’s the matter with her?”
“Yesterday afternoon … something to do with the liver. Brother Wist said they don’t expect her to last the week at her age.”
“Terrible!”
“Ja! She wants very much to see you, and she asked to be administered to.” Sister Schmiedl had that desperate but firm Austrian look that told us we had better get over to the hospital as soon as possible.
We pedaled our way in silence through the snow-clogged streets toward our apartment. Elder Rogers and I weren’t regular companions. His companion was the district leader. My companion, Elder Smith, and the district leader had gone to Linz to work for the day. We often traded so we could get different ideas on how to approach people about the gospel and to gain experience working with various elders. That particular day didn’t seem much improved by the absence of our senior companions. You see, Elder Rogers and I were both junior companions with very little experience. Between the two of us, we had a total of six weeks in the field.
Warming our stiff hands over the coal stove in the landlady’s kitchen, we wondered what we were going to do. Or more precisely, how.
“Have you ever given a blessing to the sick?”
“No, Elder Rogers, I haven’t. Not even in English.”
“Well, comp., this could be tricky. Neither have I.”
We knew stalling wouldn’t do any good. Even if Sister Jonas’s condition hadn’t been so urgent, delaying until morning wouldn’t guarantee Elder Smith’s getting back to perform the ordinance. The wind was whipping the dusty snow into a regular gale outside, and trains all over central Europe were being halted. Winter 1970 was to become one of the worst winters in the history of the continent, and that’s a lot of history.
We decided not to take the bikes, preferring a long walk to a slide that might take us to the hospital rather than visitors. As we went, our breath came out in big puffs of white vapor that froze to the fibers of our scarves and collars and gave our eyebrows and noses a Frosty-the-Snowman appearance. Fortunately, the hospital was not too far away, and Wels is a small town in any case. The nun at the desk looked doubtfully at us when we introduced ourselves as ministers of the Church of Jesus Christ, but our identification papers convinced her, and we proceeded down the corridor, even though there were no visiting hours on Tuesday.
Sterbezimmer 319 is a room where patients with only a few hours or days to live are kept isolated from others. It was a reasonably pleasant room, despite its awful function, and the white lace curtains gave a feeling of hope, even when hope was long gone. Sister Jonas lay in a bed by the window; from there she could watch the storm’s progress. Outside the wind was still playing ball with the fallen snow, but it seemed a few rays of sunlight were trying to find a way through the clouds. As we entered, Sister Jonas looked and smiled.
A nurse was there. “Don’t be long,” she said and then left, assuming we had come to give the last rites.
“I’m glad you came,” whispered Sister Jonas.
“Don’t be afraid. Do you believe you can be healed?”
“Yes, now I do.”
Elder Rogers produced a vial of pale yellow oil, and, in a quavering voice, anointed her. Now it was my turn. I paused. How did they tell us to pronounce a blessing at the Language Training Mission? An instant’s hesitation, and, “Otilie Jonas, Im namen Jesu Christi … ”
My time in Wels was almost gone, and I expected to be transferred to another town in a few days. Elder Smith had long since been sent to Vienna, and Elder Rogers had followed him. I looked out on our little congregation in sacrament meeting and had difficulty holding back the tears. The hardy souls in these small and sometimes obscure branches mean a lot to the missionaries who labor there. When I left home to come to Austria, I knew I’d soon return, but I knew when I left Wels I would probably never see these people again.
It had been a long winter, and even in the spring it was still a bit chilly. Others felt it too, and in the back, a sister got up and stoked the little potbellied stove. It was Sister Jonas. When she finished, she returned to her chair, and I got up to walk to the pulpit—what could I tell these people?
I told them about Sister Jonas. I told them how much it had meant to us to be there when she needed a blessing, though we had been so inexperienced. I told them how the Lord had helped us when we didn’t know what to do. And I told them that if they would trust in Him, He would help them too.
Afterward, Sister Jonas came up to me with tears in her eyes. “That blessing saved my life,” she said. “I know the Lord healed me.”

As a boy and a young man, I prepared to serve a full-time proselytizing mission for the Church. Like Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles counseled us, I wanted to be a missionary, not just to go on a mission.1 But because of my medical challenges, the Missionary Department informed me that it was not in my best interest to face the stress of a full-time mission. Although it would have been easy to become bitter, I had prepared to serve my Savior, and I was prepared to accept His will for me.
What happened to me is called being honorably excused. That means that Church leaders saw my worthiness and my desire to serve but encouraged me to serve in other ways. Like many others who cannot serve a full-time mission, I felt prompted to do more than just “get on with my life.” I wanted to serve, so I did—as a local Church-service missionary. With help from my bishop and stake president, I found a way to serve the Lord while living at home.
There was a need at the Church’s Audiovisual Department, and since I live near the Church Office Building in Salt Lake City, I could help. My stake president extended a call, set me apart, and developed special rules for me during my year of service. Though the rules seemed strict to me, I learned that I was blessed when I followed them. While other service missionaries with different stake presidents may have different rules, these were the ones I followed:
Stick to a daily schedule: arise at 6:30 a.m.; study the scriptures and Preach My Gospel for two hours each day; exercise for 30 minutes each day; go to bed at 10:30 p.m.
Follow the Church’s dress code.
Listen to classical or Church music only.
Limit computer use to e-mail; limited television viewing; no video games.
Participate only in group activities—no dating.
Have monthly interviews with my bishop.
Sometimes when I was down in a crawl space under a building in 100-degree heat (38ºC) winding up cable all day, I found myself wondering what it had to do with bringing to pass the immortality and eternal life of man (see Moses 1:39). Was I really part of the team sharing the gospel around the world? I knew that Mosiah 2:17 says that when we are in the service of our fellow beings we are in the service of God, but it took me a while to believe that was true.
I learned that just like a proselytizing mission, a service mission isn’t about you. It is about learning to do what the Lord needs done. During my service, I helped set up and take down lights, run sound for meetings, and transport equipment. It was hard, dirty work, and I will never take general conference for granted. In fact, now when I watch any broadcast, my whole body aches because I know the intense work involved.
During my Church-service mission, I learned the importance of punctuality, responsibility, doing the job right, and giving my best effort. While my parents had tried to teach me these things, I didn’t understand until I saw how wasting time and effort can directly affect the work of others. Before my mission, it was easy to focus on just having fun. But once you are on your mission, you realize it will not be fun to be the companion who doesn’t know how to work. Part of preparing to serve is learning how to work.
I also learned to appreciate those who work behind the scenes. I saw how hard Church leaders work without drawing attention to themselves or expecting special treatment. I saw others serving who had greater challenges than I did, teaching me that everyone can serve in some way.
I realized that I have been blessed with strengths and abilities and that through hard work I could do more than I had been doing. I learned that as I respect other people, I like myself better. It’s easy to get in the habit of looking down on people in order to try to feel better about ourselves. But respect works both ways, and those who represent Jesus Christ must be respectful.
The most important lesson I learned, however, was that the Lord will help you do difficult things. It was hard to stay home, hard to do menial chores, hard not to be the center of attention, hard to obey mission rules, and hard to hear people tell me I wasn’t on a “real” mission. But the Lord helped me. I know He will help you do the things you need to do to be happy, to feel good about yourself, to grow, and to be a better person. Get down on your knees, bow your head, and be honest with yourself as you pray. Then get ready to serve wherever and whenever you are called.

As I struggled with that question, I chanced to be reading some speeches of Winston Churchill. For many years Churchill warned against the evils of the Nazi government in Germany. His was a minority voice, resisted or resented by many, and his speaking out blocked his political career. Then, when many of his predictions had come true and England and France were being defeated in the first year of World War II, Churchill was made prime minister. England stood fast for more than two years until the United States was compelled to enter the war. In that critical period, many of Churchill’s associates and newly converted supporters advocated his taking punitive measures against those who had contributed to the unprepared, precarious position in which the British found themselves. In that setting, Churchill spoke these words in the House of Commons in June 1940:

There are many who would hold an inquest in the House of Commons on the conduct of the Governments—and of Parliaments . . . —during the years which led up to this catastrophe. They seek to indict those who were responsible for the guidance of our affairs. This also would be a foolish and pernicious process. . . .

Of this I am quite sure, that if we open a quarrel between the past and the present, we shall find that we have lost the future.8

I grew up on a farm in Washington State, where my parents raised kids and cattle. I was the youngest in our large family, and at 14 I was busy trying to balance chores at home with my budding social schedule.
Each day after school it was my responsibility to feed and count all 60 head of cattle to make sure that each was safe. To a 14-year-old girl, this was a tedious chore, so I avoided counting them. In the winter it wasn’t as dangerous because none of the cattle were calving, but when the spring hit, it was critical that the pregnant heifers that had never given birth were each watched carefully. But I was too busy worrying about my hair and braces to be bothered about a few cows.
I clearly remember the day I was pulled out of school and rushed home to help. One of our young heifers, my very own actually, had been in labor for three days, hidden in the woods, suffering with no food, no water, and no help. The unborn calf had perished days before, and the cow had been unable to birth it. So, with the help of a vet, my father and I had to remove it from her.
When I pulled up in the truck and saw my father standing there, I was sure he would be angry with me. He had told me thousands of times to count the cattle, always asking if they were all there and all safe. But I was too busy to listen. I was too busy with things I thought were more important, like basketball practice. Or I would wait too long and feed them in the dark, making it impossible to count the herd. At the time, my own things really did seem more important. I didn’t understand; I didn’t have the big picture yet.
When I looked at that poor animal suffering from starvation, crippled and ruined, never again to bear a calf, I knew my father had been right. I had chosen not to listen to his simple instructions, and the consequences affected far more than my own life. I spent the next two months nursing the animal back to health, working her through the paralysis, and doing my best to repair the damage I had caused.
My father? He loved me. He put his arms around me and knew that I would never do it again. He knew that I had learned the lesson the hard way, but it was learned. If only I had listened. It was my own laziness, my own selfish insistence on my personal comfort that had kept me from following my dad’s simple instructions that would have saved a life.

About two years ago, when I was 16 years old, I noticed that one of the value experiences in my Young Women Personal Progress book was to learn about the importance of patriarchal blessings.
I began to study everything I could find on patriarchal blessings. When I finished, I realized that by receiving a patriarchal blessing I could know my lineage and learn what the Lord desires of me, the blessings he has prepared for me, and what I have to do to receive them. I decided to ask my bishop to interview me for a recommend to receive a patriarchal blessing.
On 19 April 1995, I went to the patriarch’s home in our stake in Buenos Aires, Argentina. As he put his hands on my head, I felt absolute peace. A shiver ran through my whole body, and I felt great joy. Many times I had used the word joy as a synonym for happiness, but at that moment, I realized that joy is much more than mere happiness. Joy is a feeling so different from all others and so special that it cannot be imagined. To know what it is, one has to experience it.
When the patriarch finished the blessing, one tear after another ran down my cheeks. The patriarch, too, had tears in his eyes. I thanked him for having served as intermediary between the Lord and me. As I left, I couldn’t stop feeling how beautiful the experience had been and how I wanted everyone to have it.
I am grateful for the responsibilities the Lord has given me. I know the promises and warnings in my blessing are the will of my Father in Heaven for me, and I know that as I am faithful he will be at my side, helping me to overcome my weaknesses.
I know now that patriarchal blessings can be guides for our lives, just as the Liahona was a guide in ancient times. If we follow the instructions we are given, we can “continue in the way which is narrow, until [we] shall obtain eternal life” (Jacob 6:11).

Carrie hurried around the corner of the grocery store aisle, trying to keep the cart out of the reach of her six-year-old brother, Andy.
“No fair!” he cried. “You’ve pushed it the whole time we’ve been here.” He tried to grab the cart, but nine-year-old Carrie twisted it away quickly, accidentally hitting a row of ketchup bottles lined up neatly on a shelf. Two of the bottles crashed to the floor, shattering and spraying the bright red contents everywhere. The two children stared in horror at the broken glass and scarlet ketchup.
Mom came around the corner just then, saying, “I want you two to stay with me. …” Her words trailed off as she saw the mess on the floor and the misery on Carrie and Andy’s faces.
“It looks like there’s been an accident,” she said. “It’s all right. Sometimes things break and have to be cleaned up. There’s no use crying over spilt ketchup.”
Mom found a clerk, who cleaned up the mess without getting mad at Carrie or Andy. Carrie still felt terrible. She knew it wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t been swinging the cart to keep it away from Andy. Before they left the store, she quietly told Mom how the bottles had been broken. Mom listened solemnly while Andy stood with a scared expression on his face.
“Are we in trouble?” Andy asked, struggling to keep from crying.
Mom hugged Andy. “No, I think you feel badly enough about what happened that you’ll be more careful in the grocery store from now on. But, Carrie, what do you think you need to do to make up for the store losing those two bottles of ketchup?”
“I think I need to pay for them. I didn’t mean to break them, but it was still my fault.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” Mom said. “I can lend you the money for now, and you can pay me back at home.”
At the cash register, Mom explained that Carrie had been playing around with the cart when the bottles broke, and so she wanted to pay for them. The clerk thanked Carrie for being so honest, and Carrie felt much better.
At home, Carrie didn’t feel quite as good when she gave Mom part of the money she’d been saving for a tape player, but she was still glad she didn’t have that sick feeling in her stomach that she had felt when the bottles exploded on the floor. She remembered how red everything looked. She had been afraid she would see that stain on the floor forever, reminding her of her mistake, but it had come clean with a wet mop.

It was cold! Nicole and her friends hurried into the busy café to warm up for a few minutes. As they stood inside, Nicole glanced at the menu.
“I’m going to get some hot chocolate,” she said.
“Me too,” Beth said.
Audrey looked at her watch, and Heather said, “We don’t have much time. Remember, my mom is picking us up at two o’clock.”
Nicole looked at the long line. It would sure be nice to have a cup of hot chocolate to keep her warm while they finished their Christmas shopping. “Beth and I will meet you in the clothing store next door,” she told Heather. “We won’t take long.”
Heather and Audrey left, and Beth and Nicole got in line.
“Look, they have French vanilla,” Beth said, pointing at the menu.
Nicole’s eyes brightened. “Yum! I love French vanilla hot chocolate.” But then she frowned, a little uncertain. “It doesn’t say French vanilla hot chocolate,” she said. “It just says French vanilla.” She bit her lip. “Isn’t there a French vanilla coffee too?”
Beth shrugged. When it was Nicole’s turn to order, she asked the employee about it, just in case.
“It’s hot chocolate,” the lady behind the counter assured her.
“Great!” Nicole said. “I’ll have a large French vanilla.”
Beth ordered one too, and they left the café. When they met up with Heather and Audrey, Nicole sniffed her steaming cup. She gasped. “I think this is French vanilla coffee!”
Beth took a sip. “I think so too. But oh well. It’s nice and hot. I’m getting all warmed up.”
“But it’s coffee!”
“So?”
Nicole told her friend, “I belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I’m not supposed to drink coffee.”
“You can drink coffee this one time,” Heather said impatiently. “You don’t have to be perfect every second of the day. We won’t tell anyone. Just come on. We need to hurry.”
Nicole could see that the line in the café was now even longer, and they didn’t have much time left to shop. But she knew what she needed to do. “I’m going to exchange this for hot chocolate,” she said firmly. “You guys go ahead. I’ll meet you at the toy store.”
She started to walk away alone, but Audrey caught up to her. “I’ll wait with you,” she said. Audrey was a Latter-day Saint too.
As the girls stood in line, Audrey said, “I’m glad you didn’t drink the coffee.”
Nicole smiled. “Me too.”
When Nicole explained to the lady behind the counter that the drink was actually coffee, the lady apologized and exchanged it for hot chocolate. Then Nicole and Audrey hurried through the cold to catch up with their friends. Nicole felt warm inside, but not just from the hot chocolate. She knew she had chosen the right. Despite what her friends had said about no one ever knowing, Heavenly Father knew. And she felt He would be proud of her.

In 1992, just three years after Naume and I were married, we were struggling with the basic necessities of life. A friend?—Jerry D. Hymas from San Diego, California, USA?—taught me a self-reliance principle that has made a difference in our lives, even in times of Zimbabwe’s economic meltdown, which we experienced from 2000 to 2008. Jerry said to me, “Eddie, here is a formula for financial success that has worked for me over the years and has enabled me to retire early. When you receive your paycheck, you (1) pay tithing, ten percent; (2) pay ten percent to yourself; and (3) save ten percent for emergency purposes.” Then he looked at me and said, “Never spend money you do not have.”
Naume and I have always paid our tithing and enjoyed the promised blessings, but we did not know about the other 20 percent he shared with me. Since then, Naume and I tried to the best of our ability to follow this model, and it has blessed us tremendously.
I recommend this to anyone, especially young adults and young couples. Navigating through life may seem daunting, but moving forward with faith and with a vision will help you reach your full potential. One has to have a financial plan. President M. Russell Ballard, Acting President of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, promised, “When one learns to master the principles of setting a goal, he will then be able to make a great difference in the results he attains in this life.”1
For purposes of simplicity. here is what I would teach my grandchildren: I would teach them what to do with a dollar. I would teach them that their financial ability depends on what they do with a dollar. From the onset they would need to understand two challenges of life:
The development of their full potential.
The wise use of all their resources.
Most people, including myself, have gone through life saying, “If I had more money, I would have a better plan.” What I failed to grasp is that if I had a better plan, I would have sufficient money. While Jerry Hymas in 1992 taught me the plan of financial prosperity, this plan actually was taught by our loving Father in Heaven, in the Old Testament when He said, “Be fruitful, and multiply, and replenish the earth” (Genesis 1:28).
If you have a dollar never spend more than 70 cents. If my grandchildren—wherever they may be, or in any circumstance they may be in—if they could just grasp this principle, never spend more than 70 cents of each dollar which comes their way, through gifts or labor they will prosper. They will understand what the Lord said, “the earth is full, and there is enough and to spare” (D&C 104:17).
These principles will bless all of us: those who are currently employed need to plan for the future as well as those of us who are struggling in life and surviving hand to mouth. This concept would be a great blessing and help in being self-reliant. My suggestions on where to begin would be this:
Ten cents is for the Lord. Pay tithing. President Russell M. Nelson taught: “To develop enduring faith, and enduring commitment to be a full-tithe payer is essential. Initially it takes faith to tithe. Then the tithe payer develops more faith to the point that tithing becomes a precious privilege.”2 This life-changing teaching from the Lord’s prophet is very true.
Ten cents is forcapital. Put it somewhere where you cannot access it or use it. This could be for 10, 15, or more years. When I think of this ten cents, I am reminded of my mother. She would sift through very good ground nuts and maize and put some aside for seeds. She would fumigate—or we were made to believe, so that we would not be tempted to roast that maize and eat those ground nuts when we were hungry. Mother never used the seeds, even in the dire situations. She would rather have us go without than to eat those seeds. They were to be planted in the following rainy season and have them multiply. She would do the same in each harvest. She was never dependent on government handouts.
Ten cents helps to make sure that you would not buy anything in credit—except for a house. When one invests this ten cents, its having someone else use it with an interest to yourself. It’s not the amount that counts, it’s the PLAN!
Do this and watch the numbers change and fulfill your Heavenly Father’s blessing to you, be fruitful! In reality it is not more of what we will get, but what we are becoming. Our forebearers saw what they would become.
During the Great Depression in the United States of America, the Lord’s prophet, seer and revelator declared: “Our primary purpose was to set up, in so far as it might be possible, a system under which the curse of idleness would be done away with, the evils of a dole abolished, and independence, industry, thrift and self-respect be once more established amongst our people. The aim of the Church is to help the people to help themselves. Work is to be re-enthroned as the ruling principle of the lives of our Church membership.”3 This principle has blessed lives inside and outside the Church throughout the world.
My humble invitation to you is to rise and be fruitful.