Gospel Story Finder

Before leaving Australia for India, I was blessed to participate in the sealing of my father’s family members in the Melbourne Australia temple. Although I did not know my grandmother very well, this made me feel closer to her. And now that I am here, I am coming to understand my father better. I see his friendliness and hospitality in the Indians I meet every day and have come to know that it is part of the culture.

The first principle is to give and receive encouragement and help. All cross country courses are brutal, but the hilly, 10,000-meter championship course in Stillwater, Oklahoma, is considered by many athletes to be one of the most difficult cross country courses they have ever experienced. In a performance that Coach Ed Eyestone called “otherworldly,”36 Conner Mantz won this year’s National Collegiate Athletic Association (NCAA) individual men’s cross country national champion­ship. In a postrace interview, Conner described a powerful experience during the race:

During the race, Adriaan Wildschutt from Florida State came up next to me, and we ran together. When he came up next to me, he said, “Hey, man, we can catch these guys up ahead. Let’s work together.” At first I was like, “You know what, by all means you take the lead right now for me, because I am dying in this heavy headwind.” He took it for a couple hundred meters. Then I was able to bounce back and take it for about the next thousand meters.37

Conner’s experience stands out to me for two reasons. First, he was encouraged by his opponent in the middle of a championship race, which is a wonderful reminder that there are good people everywhere who are seeking to work together. Second, Conner had the eyes to see and the humility to receive the help he was offered.38 He could have brushed off his opponent and continued the race alone. But Conner accepted his opponent’s offer to work together. The two ran together to overtake the lead, ultimately taking first and second.

Many years ago I had an experience that greatly influenced my thinking about how to deal with potentially contentious situations. We all face them in our lives. How we choose to respond is within our power.

I had been invited to represent the United States at a conference in Japan that brought together officials and representatives from approximately twenty nations from around the world. Countries in Europe, North America, Asia, and Latin America were represented including the Soviet Union and East Germany. The Japanese, who were hosting the conference, had divided its work into three parts - the search for economic prosperity with an emphasis on trade policy, the search for justice with an emphasis on social policy, and the search for peace with an emphasis on arms control policy.

The format for the conference involved distributing the delegates into three groups with each group considering one of the three topics. The groups would then report their findings to all the delegates on the final day. At the time I was serving in the White House advising the President on economic policy issues and was pleased with the format and topics given my interest and expertise in trade policy.

The Japanese, in their deferential way, wanted the delegates to feel like they were not being asked to produce some preordained outcome and determined to have one of the delegates, a British Member of Parliament, Colin Moynihan, chair the proceedings. I was delighted. When we met that first evening, Colin Moynihan and I found that we had much in common. I had served a mission in Great Britain and later attended graduate school and taught in England for three years. I loved England and its people and we discovered that we had many common acquaintances. We both enjoyed sport. He had coxed the British heavyweight crew to a silver medal in the 1980 Moscow Summer Olympic Games. We quickly gravitated to one another and I felt confident that I had an ally.

When the design of the conference was outlined the delegates were asked to indicate which of the three subject areas appealed most to them. I naturally selected the area dealing with economic prosperity.

You can imagine my distress when my new friend informed me that I had been assigned to the group dealing with arms control policy. I protested that I knew little about the subject and could make a much better contribution on the economic policy panel. He responded that the Soviet and East German delegates were determined to serve on the arms control group and that it was imperative that the United States be represented on that panel. I could not dispute his logic. I saw the need and reluctantly agreed, but my enthusiasm for the task was distinctly limited.

In preparing for this assignment, I was eager not to misrepresent U.S. policy and so I quickly contacted our embassy and was provided with a stack of speeches, position papers, and other documents on the subject.

That evening I poured over the documents the embassy had sent, learning a great deal about the U.S. and Soviet positions on arms control. I approached the task as if I were going into a debate the following day. I outlined the central elements of U.S. policy and the evidence I would use to defend and advance it successfully. My experience as a debater propelled me down a path where I was fashioning a powerful case for the U.S. position.

At the beginning of the evening I was concerned about my lack of familiarity with the subject matter. As I warmed to the issues and learned many technical terms, I was pleased with the result of my efforts. I felt less anxious and more confident. It was now nearly 4:00 am and I determined that I needed to get some sleep, even if only for a few hours. As I concluded my prayers before retiring, an uncomfortable feeling settled over me. As I lay reflecting on it, sleep did not come. It became increasingly clear to me what would happen the next morning. We would meet and contend with one another. I would remain convinced that I was right and that the Soviet and East German representatives were wrong. I had what I thought were powerful, even sophisticated arguments. The Soviet and East German representatives would similarly remain persuaded that they were right and that I was wrong. Neither of us would successfully convince the other. At best, we would amicably disagree. There was also a strong possibility that we would engage in a polite but acrimonious exchange. We would both feel justified; nothing would change.

I then asked myself how the Savior would approach the situation. From his perspective, I saw the coming day in a whole new light. I recalled his words to the Nephites:

"For verily, verily I say unto you, he that hath the spirit of contention is not of me, but is of the devil, who is the father of contention, and he stirreth up the hearts of men to contend with anger, one with another" (3 Nephi 11:29).

Soon, I had a very different vision for the approach I should take. My task was not to attempt to win a debate but to produce agreement, to find common ground, to avoid contention. With this new framework in mind, I returned to my notes and in less than an hour I had detailed a number of areas on which I thought we could reach some agreement as well as a number of areas where we would inevitably differ. I was surprised that the first list was longer than the second.

When we gathered to meet as a group that morning, I offered to serve as the rapporteur responsible for writing the report the group would submit. Happily, the others readily agreed. I suggested each delegate offer some opening observations to get us started. We went around the room. I was the last to speak.

I noted that as rapporteur I was in a difficult situation. It would be easy for some to expect that I would bias my report to align with my views. That would not serve our group or me well. Accordingly, I made two proposals. First, I said that after preparing my report at the end of the day I would visit each delegation, show it to them, and get their concurrence. If there was anything in the report with which a delegate disagreed, I would take it out, no questions asked. The Soviet and East German representatives looked surprised and relieved. Second, I said that I didn't think our report would prove very useful if it simply rehearsed our differences. Accordingly, I suggested that we try to produce a list of things on which we could all agree. Having made careful notes while others spoke, I read a list of statements, based on what others had said, which I thought might serve as the beginning of that list.

We worked on the list most of the morning. Later we turned to the task of defining our differences. Not surprisingly, we did not agree on everything. But, by focusing first on an effort to find common ground our discussions avoided acrimonious contention and produced much agreement. We were not paralyzed by those things that divided us. In the process, we gained added respect for one another. There was no spirit of contention. An assignment I had dreaded turned out to teach me a valuable lesson.

Let me tell you of one young woman who has demonstrated remarkable strength in the face of great tragedy. On April 17, 1999, a big van broadsided a car and severely injured 16-year-old Emily Jensen. Her skull was fractured, and she was in a coma for three months, and six months in the hospital. She has had to learn everything again as if from birth. It would have been easy to give up, but giving up is not in Emily’s vocabulary. She works so hard at recovery that she runs the equivalent of a 26-mile marathon every day. Her faith, courage, and perseverance have strengthened and motivated many other hospital patients.
Emily is still working very hard to regain her speech. Even so, she fearlessly asks nurses, technicians, and therapists, “Are you a Mormon?” If they reply no, she tells them in her muddled sentences, “You should be. Read the Book of Mormon.” Emily dictated to her mother what she wanted written in five copies of the Book of Mormon that she gave to a doctor, three therapists, and a technician before she left the hospital.
Emily dearly loved one technician who had become totally inactive in the Church. They prayed together in Emily’s hospital room. In language that was difficult to understand, but with a spirit that was strong and clear, Emily told her that she needed to go back to church. That technician later wrote Emily: “I want to thank you so much for the Book of Mormon you gave me. I cried when I read what you wrote. I know someday I will love this book as much as you do.”
Emily’s life was recently brightened at Skyline High School in Salt Lake City. The student body picked her as this year’s prom queen in recognition of her extraordinary courage. Her classmates stood and cheered as she struggled to the stage of the packed auditorium, supported on the arm of the student body president. Though she continues to go each day for therapy, Emily’s life is still defined by her spiritual identity, her goodness, her kindness to others, and her strong testimony.

That was the way he looked when I reached the summit of Snowdon for the first time. As the highest mountain in England or Wales, Snowdon, for a six-year-old, seemed as inconquerable as Everest does to me now. The old miner’s track was surfaced with rough shingle that shifted unnervingly as we walked. The craggy gray rocks and scattered boulders were a stark contrast to the sailor-blue sky and white scudding clouds above. Occasionally, we would pass a stray sheep searching for an area to graze. These hardy animals were so used to human invaders that they barely noticed us passing.
It wasn’t long before my short legs were failing, and with them my spirits. The gray path seemed endless. “Come on, Sian. You can do it,” Dad coaxed as he heaved me onto his back. It made the climb more difficult for him but helped revive me. We trudged past crumbling stonewalls that had been built by a now forgotten shepherd long before the era of cement. From a distance they looked like huge scars on the face of the mountain.
At last we reached the final scree. Dad held my hand tightly as we scrambled up. When we reached the plateau on the top, we sat down breathlessly. I looked around. Far below I could see moving people like multicolored ants. As far as the eye could see there were mountain ridges, deep valleys, and in the distance the glint of blue from the North Sea. I gazed around in wonder, then laughed excitedly. “We made it, Dad. We reached the very top!” I looked up to see that the expression in my father’s eyes at that moment was a reflection of my own. It said, I love you, I have faith in you, and I know that you can do what you set your mind to do.

I live with my family in Bacolod City on the island of Negros, one of the many islands that make up the nation of the Philippines. Our home happens to be located near a rehabilitation center for people with disabilities.
I will never forget something that happened in 1992, when I was in the sixth grade. I had gone home for lunch, and I was in a hurry to get back to school. While crossing the street, I happened to notice some nursing students from one of the local professional schools. They were laughing. I wasn’t sure why until I saw him—the blind man. After I had crossed the street, he was almost at my side.
I had to wait there for the jeepney, a public transportation vehicle, to come. The blind man realized I was there and called out, “Friend, could you call a taxi for me?”
For some reason, I felt uncomfortable and embarrassed. I thought that if I helped him, the people across the street might make fun of me, too. Besides, I was afraid of him. In addition to being blind, he had other physical disabilities; he couldn’t seem to control one side of his body. I moved away from him slightly. Maybe he won’t hear me, I thought. Maybe he will decide he just imagined someone was here.
But it didn’t work. Even after I distanced myself from him, he knew I was still there. Over and over, he asked me to help him. I tried to be even quieter. If I could only stop breathing! I thought.
I was grateful when I saw the jeepney approaching. I got in quickly and left the blind man standing in the street. I told myself: Nobody knows about this. Nobody knows except me and that man, and he doesn’t even know who I am. But I knew I had acted very inconsiderately.
After I got to school, I couldn’t stop thinking about the blind man. I tried to concentrate on my lessons, but my mind was uneasy. Nobody knows. There’s no way he could ever recognize me.
When I went home, I decided to tell my mother what had happened. “Why did you let that opportunity pass?” she asked. “There is Someone who always knows. He expects us to help one another.”
Later I remembered my sister. She is mentally disabled. How would I feel if someone treated her like that? I cried as I remembered what I had done.
When I was in my first year of high school, I was given a chance to correct my mistake. As before, I was preparing to cross the street. I was really in a hurry because I could see an old friend on the opposite side. I wanted to catch up with her, and I called out to her.
To my surprise, I heard a voice behind me, a familiar voice. I looked back and saw the same blind man. He had heard me calling to my friend. Of course, he did not know I was the same person who had refused to help him once before. He asked again for my help.
I didn’t hesitate this time. I called a taxi for him and helped him get in. He thanked me briefly. When he was gone, I looked across the street. I had missed my friend, but I didn’t mind. I was happy that Heavenly Father had given me a second chance to help that man.
I’m in my third year of high school now, but I still remember what I learned from the blind man. I know that God loves all of us. And even if we think nobody can see the things we do, he always knows what choices we make—and he is always willing to help us make the right ones.

Let me leave ringing in your ears, I hope, what a refugee said to one of the beautiful ladies who is now a teacher at this university and was an outstanding person as others are here. I wish I could name them all, but that would be impossible and perhaps inappropriate. They put on a Christmas program for the refugees. I’m not going to try to pull your heartstrings and tell you what it is like in a refugee camp. There is no possible way. These people, devoid of everything, everything that we think of as important, with terrible memories, imposed upon viciously, incredibly, unbelievably by others, now gathered inside a fence or a wall hoping that sometime, someplace there will be a home for them beyond these six feet on a pallet which is home now. They had Christmas the way we celebrate it with one of our beautiful girls representing the Madonna, holding a little brown baby. They told the story, our great young ladies did, in song, in scripture, and explanation, and when it was all over, some came to talk about it, and one said with tears and wonder in her face and voice, “Why, the story of Jesus is a refugee story.”

Fill that in. Please let your imagination run. Then she said, “I’m sure they didn’t know who he was, or they would have given him their bed in the inn.”

Fortunately, our loving Father continued to direct an orderly evacuation amid severe devastation. Long-distance travel was dangerous. There were continuing aftershocks. Public transportation was shut down. Water and electrical supplies were interrupted, and it was nearly impossible to buy gas or food. Sister Tateoka and I understood very well that we were the only ones able to reach two elders in a mountainous area and two other elders over the mountain on the other side of the island. Freeways were closed, so this last trip would require a five- or six-hour drive one-way north up the mountain on back roads, another two to three hours over the mountains and down to Tsuruoka, and four more hours back to safety.
We left early on the morning of March 16 and arrived at Elder Ohsugi’s and Elder Yuasa’s apartment around 5:00 p.m. To pick up the last two elders, we needed to travel back south, over a mountain summit, and down to the city of Tsuruoka. With less than half a tank of gas, we knew that we could not turn back. As we began traveling to pick up the last two elders, snow began to fall. Soon, we found ourselves in a blinding snowstorm, traveling at less than 15 miles (24 km) per hour. I could not see the lines on the highway.
At 7:30 p.m., as we finally reached the summit, we were stopped by the police. An officer informed me that an avalanche had blocked the road and closed the mountain pass. He told me that we could go no farther; we had to turn around and take an alternate route to the other side of the island around the avalanche. Without enough gas to go around the avalanche, it appeared we had no way to reach Elder Lay and Elder Ruefenacht in Tsuruoka.
Dejectedly, we turned back as directed by the police. I asked the elders in the van to call every member of the Yamagata Ward to see if we could find someone who could give us some gasoline. We stopped and prayed earnestly, drawing upon all of the power of heaven we could. We prayed for another miracle and again turned to the Lord.
The missionaries called every active member. But no one had gasoline. Gas stations had run out of supplies and were closed. Then the elders were impressed to call an less-active friend, Brother Tsuchihashi. Our Heavenly Father had once again directed our path. Brother Tsuchihashi could give us 20 liters (5 gallons) of gas. But to meet this good brother, we had to travel another hour north, the opposite direction of where we wanted to go. The quantity of gas would be helpful but not sufficient to allow us to travel around the avalanche.
Having faith, we traveled north, still not knowing how we would pick up the other two elders. We made it to Shinjo City, where we received the 20 liters of gas. Soon thereafter, I received a call from President Yoshida, my counselor, who by now was very worried that we had not yet returned. He asked where we were, and when I told him Shinjo, he was shocked that we were so far out of our way. It was beyond his ability to reach us and help us return.
Then he looked on his map, and in a broken voice stammered, “There is a little-known mountain pass that will take you from Shinjo to the elders in Tsuruoka.” The Lord had prepared a way for us to be precisely where we needed to be to drive around the avalanche. The gasoline we were given was exactly the amount necessary to make the trip safely around the avalanche to pick up the elders.

Charlotte and her sisters were huddled around the dining room table with paper and pen, each absorbed in a world of her own. Although the wind and snow were blowing through the moors outside, the girls were comfortable sitting by the fireplace in their long woolen dresses.
Born in the early 1800s, Charlotte, Emily, and Anne Brontë grew up in a bleak parsonage on the Yorkshire moors of England. After their mother’s death when they were small children, Aunt Branwell, kind but proper, came to look after the family. Their father was good and loving but kept very much to his study.
Once a friend named Ellen Nussey, whom Charlotte had known at school, came to visit for a few days. After walking through the moors with Charlotte and realizing how isolated her friend’s parish home was, Ellen asked, “What do you do with yourself around here?”
“Oh, we’ve plenty to keep us busy,” Charlotte answered. “We teach Sunday School and visit the sick to help father. During the day we help Tabby, our cook, with the food preparation and Aunt Branwell with the housework. The best part of each day is spent by ourselves in our own special part of the moors. In the evenings we … well, we write stories.”
“How exciting!” Ellen replied. “What kind of stories do you write?”
“One night a long time ago we were sitting by the fireplace waiting for it to get dark,” Charlotte said. “Aunt Branwell never let us waste candles until it was dark enough to really need them, so we began to tell stories. We made up some countries along with our favorite heroes, and we’ve been writing little stories about them ever since.”
So began the love of writing by three young sisters who were to be found each evening sitting in front of a candle with pens in hand.
Charlotte found it necessary to bend very low over her paper because of her nearsightedness, and the scarcity of paper didn’t help. The girls had to train themselves to write so small that even a tiny piece of paper might contain a complete story or a lengthy poem.
One night Anne and Emily were writing on a flyleaf that had been carefully torn from a book. Charlotte was finishing a tiny book she had made by sewing small bits of old paper together. She had already completed several little books like this that she kept locked in a writing desk—a small rosewood box.
For many years the girls were too shy about their writing to share it even with each other. It took a small accident by Charlotte to get them to share their work and their dreams of someday having their work published.
Charlotte was moving Emily’s notebook one day to set the table. She had done this many times in the past and had never neglected Emily’s privacy by reading her work. This day, however, the notebook fell open accidently to some poems, and before Charlotte could close it her eyes caught a few lines.
Having studied the best poets at her boarding schools, Charlotte was capable of recognizing good poetry when she saw it. Emily’s poems were good, very good, and Charlotte couldn’t put the notebook down. She knew her sister’s work must be published.
“Charlotte! How dare you!” Emily cried as she came into the dining room.
“It was an accident, Emily; really it was.” Charlotte realized what her sister must think. “Your poems are so good, though, I couldn’t quit reading them.”
Emily’s anger lasted for three days during which she didn’t speak to Charlotte. After all was forgiven, the door was open for the sisters to discuss their work with each other and make plans to try to publish it.
There was something more than their love of writing that made the sisters want to publish their work. It was a fear of having to go out in the world to make a living. It had been hard enough on them to leave home for some schooling, but it was unbearable to stay away after that.
Each served as a governess to wealthy families for a short time, but they could not stand the cold indifference shown them. They longed for the warmth and love of their own home and family. At different times each one of them gave a quick notice to either school or employer and returned to the family.
They finally decided to each contribute some poems into a collection to be sent to an editor. The poems were accepted for publication, but the girls had to pay the printing expense. Only two copies were bought at that time, but these same two copies would be worth a fortune today.
Before the poems were sent off, the girls had a decision to make—what names to attach to their work. Women’s writing was not regarded highly then, so they desired to choose names that were neither feminine nor masculine. Each chose a name using her first initial. Anne chose Acton, Emily, Ellis; and Charlotte, Currer. They wanted the last name to begin with B and finally decided upon Bell.
While they were waiting for the poems to be published, they began a new, larger project. Each was at work on a novel. Emily chose to write about some old ruins that could be seen on a hilltop near their home. She had been entranced by the place for several years as she had watched the wind wuther (blow) through the moors up to the old ruins. She planned to call her book Wuthering Heights.
Both Anne and Charlotte expressed some of their unhappy experiences and feelings when serving as young governesses to wealthy families. Through Agnes Grey Anne told of the selfishness and bad tempers shown her by the “respectable” people for whom she had worked. Charlotte wanted to write about a poor, plain girl like herself, and after much thought she chose the name of Jane Eyre for her heroine.
Anne’s book had very little success at the time it was published, but she ignored that and immediately began another. Emily’s book received more attention, but not all of it was favorable. Jane Eyre, however, was soon being read by people all over the world. In time all the books written by the Brontë sisters became classics in English literature.

Kendra:
At the beginning of 2018, I kept hearing the name “President Monson.” At this time, I didn’t know this was the prophet. One night the missionaries came over and asked how I was doing.
“I’m doing fine,” I said, “but a person’s name keeps coming to my head, and I don’t know who it is.”
“What’s the name?” They asked.
“President Monson.”
“Kendra, that’s not just any name,” they said. “That’s the name of the prophet who just passed away. You should look at some talks he gave and see what the Lord wants you to learn from him.” I looked at some of his messages, and they were really touching and helped me. From there, it just seemed that the gospel kept coming back to me.

Within weeks of my call to the Twelve in October 2015, I had the opportunity to get an up-close glimpse of the past professional life of President Nelson. I was invited to attend an event where he was honored as a pioneer of heart surgery. When I entered the venue, I was astonished to see the large number of professionals there to honor and recognize the work that President Nelson had done many years before as a medical doctor and surgeon.
That evening numerous professionals stood and expressed their respect and admiration for President Nelson’s outstanding contribution to his medical specialty. As impressive as each of the presenters was in describing President Nelson’s various accomplishments, I was even more spellbound by a conversation I struck up with a man seated next to me. He did not know who I was, but he knew President Nelson as Dr. Nelson, director of the thoracic surgery residency program at a medical school in 1955.
This man was President Nelson’s former student. He shared many memories. Most interesting was his description of President Nelson’s teaching style, which, he said, brought with it a large measure of notoriety. He explained that much of the teaching of heart surgery residents was conducted in the operating room. There, residents observed and performed surgery under faculty supervision, as a laboratory classroom. He shared that the operating room environment under certain faculty surgeons was chaotic, competitive, pressure filled, and even ego driven. This man described it as a difficult environment, sometimes even demeaning. As a result, resident surgeons even felt their careers were often on the line.
He then explained the unique environment found in President Nelson’s operating room. It was peaceful, calm, and dignified. Residents were treated with deep respect. However, following the demonstration of a procedure, Dr. Nelson expected the highest standard of performance from each of the residents. This man further described how the best patient outcomes and the best surgeons came out of Dr. Nelson’s operating room.

The first event took place in Tonga during World War II.
It was nighttime, but the moon and the stars gave Finau a feeling of assurance as he carefully guided his canoe across the wide expanse of the gently undulating Pacific Ocean. He constantly studied the stars, so he knew he was going in the right direction. The moon was up, and its brightness was only obscured by occasional wisps of high clouds.
He had heard something about a “war” going on. Several of his friends had gone to the main island and traded their carved tikis and woven baskets to the American soldiers for money—more money than they had seen in all their 16 or so years of life. Finau had collected his very best baskets and carvings and was already anticipating what he would do with the money he was sure to get from the Americans.
The sky was starting to lighten a little, and he could see the waves breaking on the reef in the distance. He knew he was about there.
The sun had just come up as he paddled his canoe through the reef opening and into the quiet lagoon. He saw an American soldier with a gun standing on the shore and made his course towards him. He had heard of guns and of the war and of the American soldiers and of all the money they had and of all the things that money could buy. But now as he actually saw an American and observed his gun and realized he would have to talk to him, he became very nervous and uncertain of just what to do. Finau had learned a few words of English in his local school, but would it be enough? How much should he ask for his goods? He only knew pence and shillings and pounds, and he’d heard that the Americans used dimes and dollars. What were they worth? What would they buy? How should he begin?
Finau felt a little fear as he pulled his canoe up to the beach and the soldier came over. There was no one else on the beach. Would the soldier just take his goods? Would he shoot him? Uncertainty gripped his feelings as he climbed out of the canoe and pulled it onto the beach. He was here and he had traveled all night, so despite his fear he must go ahead.
“You buy?” he said to the soldier as he lifted a few baskets and tikis from the boat.
The young American soldier came over and looked at the items. “How much for this?” he asked, taking a beautifully carved tiki in his hand.
Finau almost panicked. He wasn’t sure of the meaning of the strange words, but he felt he wanted him to say a price, so he blurted out, “Very good. Number one tiki. You buy. One pound.”
The soldier looked quizzically at him, “You’re new at this, aren’t you? How about two dollars for the tiki and these three baskets?”
Finau wondered, “Is that enough? Maybe I should ask more and see what happens.”
“Number one tiki, number one basket. Two dollars tiki, two dollars basket.”
“Oh, you’re a little bargainer are you? I’ll tell you what. I’ve got a carton of cigarettes here. Cigarettes are worth more than money. I’ll give you this whole carton for everything you have here. I guarantee you it’s a good deal. They are good cigarettes. Here, I’ll show you.” The soldier lit one and took a puff and then offered it to Finau.
Up to now Finau had been uncertain of himself, but as he recognized the cigarettes and realized the intent of what was being said, he straightened up and firmly replied, “No!”
“Oh, come on. One sale and you’re all through. Think of the time you’ll save, and if you don’t want to smoke them all yourself you can trade them for other things—even money if you want. They’re rationed, you know. Who can tell their value under these circumstances and in this faraway place? Come on, let’s trade.”
“No,” retorted Finau.
“Come on, come on. What’s the matter? I’ll give them to you first, and you can unload your goods and leave them on the sand. You won’t get a better deal.” The soldier was noticeably irritated by this “stupid native’s” refusal. He looked down at him with all the superiority he felt and again said, “Go ahead. It’s okay. Cigarettes are valuable. Don’t be so stupid.”
Finau, groping for words, stood erect and said, “No, me no smoke. Me Mormon.”
It was as though he had shot the young American. The soldier jerked in startled surprise. He carefully studied Finau, then looked past him and stared longingly into space. He looked again into the lowly native’s eyes. Then he took the carton of cigarettes from under his arm, placed it in his right hand, crushed it, and heaved it far into the lagoon.
Finau wondered, “Why?” He looked at the carton with its bobbing packages scattered about. Then he looked again at the soldier as he turned to walk away from the shore and heard him say, “Yeah, I know. So am I.”

This past year, my stake leaders challenged the youth to find the name of an ancestor to take to the temple during the youth conference temple trip. Our family had reached many “dead ends” in our family history work, but I was determined to find at least one name.
Our ward family history consultant patiently taught me how to set up an LDS Account and log onto FamilySearch.org. She encouraged me to find my ancestors and taught me how.
To find more family members in our well-researched ancestry, I had to be creative. I started searching for descendants of my direct-line ancestors. For instance, I found a great-great-great-grandfather with several daughters who had never joined the Church. As a result, very little temple work had been done for them and their posterity. I also searched every ancestral line for work that was incomplete.
I immediately began to feel a genuine love for each relative I found. They are real to me! The Holy Ghost helped me know where to look, and within two months, I found and submitted over 1,500 names for ordinance work. The spirit of Elijah has touched my heart.

There are many opportunities all around us to be missionaries—we just need to recognize them. I was recently on an airplane flying home from England. I started talking to the man sitting next to me. We talked for a while about business and other things, but finally I said that I wanted to tell him about a very special book, the Book of Mormon. We spent the next four hours talking about it, and when we were through, he said, “This has truly changed my life.” All it took was the courage to open my mouth. The Lord will often tell us what to say.

At an early age I learned the power of the word. While living in Tonga, before I was blessed with sisters for a while it was just me, and five brothers . Life was a beautiful challenge. I loved my brothers, I wanted to be like them play with them, learn the haka with them (picture). At times I think my family forgot I was a little girl, and if it weren't for the few dresses I wore during church and special times like family photos (picture) I think maybe others would have thought there were 6 little Moleni boys instead of 5. Thanks to beautiful parent who love the Lord we read from the book of Mormon daily. We had hanging on a wall in our home a picture of the stripling warriors (picture). We loved that picture and we loved them. My brothers wanted to be like them and I in my confusion being surrounded by so many little boys, I also wanted to be a stripling warrior.

Several years ago our family was serving a mission in England. Ed was the president of the England London South Mission. Our three youngest children accompanied us. After our first year in England, our son Cory returned to Provo to finish his senior year in high school. Cory's life was taken in a car accident shortly after he returned home. We were given permission to return to Provo for Cory's funeral, then we returned immediately to England and our mission responsibilities.

It was a difficult time. I missed everyone in our family. A few weeks after our return to England we received a letter from our daughter Kelly. She had included pictures of her children. It was so good to see their faces. I paused at that moment and offered a silent plea, "Heavenly Father, I wish you could send me a picture of Cory." In the next few days a letter arrived at the mission home from a young man from our ward. He had befriended Cory during Cory's year in England. He explained that he had felt a strong impression that he needed to write and tell us what a good influence Cory had been to him. He told of his recent desire to serve a mission because of Cory's example. It was a tender letter and touched my heart. I thanked Heavenly Father for sending me such a beautiful picture of Cory.

There is a spirit that pervades our homes when there is a love of the Lord, a love for one another, and a commitment to obedience that springs out of that love. As I speak of that spirit, I remember our mission home in Frankfurt, Germany, where my husband served as mission president. Our daughter, Marianne, was ten years old at the time. Some of her friends from school would come to the mission home and occasionally stay overnight. One night, one of her friends said, “I like to come to your house because I feel safe here.” Marianne understood what she meant—all of our family knew the spirit of the mission home. It was a legacy that was left by thousands of dedicated missionaries who had passed through that home and shared their testimonies and their love for their Heavenly Father and the Savior. It is a spirit that can be felt in all of our homes when as families we share testimonies and feelings of the Spirit as we read the scriptures and when we kneel together in prayer.

We have time to develop a variety of talents and interests. During my medical training, I didn’t have a very generous income. One year, I decided to make all of my Christmas presents myself. Searching for ideas, I bought a paperback book on batik (the art of dyeing designs on fabric). To my delight and surprise, I discovered an undeveloped artistic talent. The art gallery owner who framed the batiks I had made for presents liked them so much he invited me to produce a one-man show! With brisk sales from the show and subsequent commissions, I not only supported myself during my residency but saved enough for a partial down payment on a house.

When Julio was 13, he was sexually abused by his uncle. Over time, he began to withdraw from his family and isolated himself. At times, he functioned as though nothing had happened, but occasionally he was flooded by emotion. He has always been able to manage life—even feeling intense happiness, like at the birth of his son. He also feels broken. His son is now approaching the same age when Julio was abused, and as Julio contemplates his son’s potential experiences, he is wrestling with thoughts and feelings about his own self-worth and eternal identity.

The abuse Julio endured at the hands of his uncle did not change Julio’s worth and worthiness. He never sinned but was sinned against. At times it can be hard to remember your worth and worthiness when you have been abused. Remember, you did not sin, your worth has never decreased, and you are worthy to continue on the covenant path.

As Julio began to trust in the Lord, He helped Julio realize that mortal experiences don’t change the love our Father in Heaven has for us. He is now learning to see how even though terrible things happened, they did not change his fundamental worth, eternal identity, or worthiness.

Our main purpose in life is to prepare to return to live with our Heavenly Father (see Alma 12:24). Trauma can cloud this purpose and prevent us from seeing who we are. Finding a specific purpose in our daily actions can help us move forward and even remember our main purpose in life. Julio began to move forward and find purpose in his daily actions when he realized he wanted to help his son.

Some years ago I attended a meeting at Ricks College with a group of seminary teachers. President Joseph Fielding Smith, then the President of the Council of the Twelve, met with us. One of the teachers asked about a letter being circulated throughout the Church at that time from a dissident member who claimed that many of the ordinances were not valid because of some supposed mistake in the procedure in conferring the priesthood. When President Smith was asked what he thought about the man’s claim he said, “Before we consider the claim, let me tell you about that man.” He then told us of several things about him and about the covenants he had not kept. He concluded with this statement: “And so you see, that man is a liar, pure and simple—well, perhaps not so pure.”