Gospel Story Finder

There are thousands and thousands of Latter-day Saints who have courageously proclaimed the name of the Church. As we do our part, others will follow. I love this story from Tahiti.
Ten-year-old Iriura Jean resolved to follow the counsel of President Nelson.
“In her school class they discussed their weekend … and Iriura talked about … church.
“Her teacher, Vaite Pifao, said, ‘Oh, so you are a Mormon?’
“Iriura stated boldly, ‘No, … I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints!’
“Her teacher replied, ‘Yes, … you are a Mormon.’
“Iriura insisted, ‘No teacher, I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints!’
“Ms. Pifao was amazed at Iriura’s conviction and wondered why she was so insistent on using [the] long name of her church. [She decided to learn more about the Church.]
“[Later, as Sister] Vaite Pifao was baptized [she expressed gratitude] that Iriura heeded the counsel of President Nelson.”

I recently observed from a distance a couple who at one time had faith in Christ but then decided to discard their belief. They were successful in the world, and they found pleasure in their intellect and the rejection of their faith.
All seemed well until the husband, still young and energetic, suddenly fell ill and died. Like an eclipse of the sun, they had blocked the light of the Son, and the result was an eclipse of hope. The wife, in her disbelief, now felt disoriented, painfully unprepared, unable to comfort her children. Her intellect had told her that her life was in perfect order until suddenly she could see no tomorrow. Her despair brought darkness and confusion.
Let me contrast her painful despair with another family’s hope in Christ during a heartbreaking time.
Twenty-one years ago the newborn son of my nephew Ben Andersen and his wife, Robbie, was life-flighted from their Idaho farming community to Salt Lake City. I arrived at the hospital, and Ben explained the severe, life-threatening complications with their baby’s heart. We placed our hands on Trey’s tiny head. The Lord blessed him with continued life.
Trey had heart surgery the first week of his life, and more surgeries followed. As the years passed, it became apparent that Trey would need a heart transplant. Although his physical activities were limited, his faith expanded. He wrote, “I have never felt sorry for myself because I have always known the importance of having faith in Jesus Christ and a testimony of the plan of salvation.”
Trey kept on his phone this well-known quote from President Nelson: “The joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives.”
Trey wrote: “I have always looked forward to serving a full-time mission, but … my doctors won’t let me serve a mission until at least a year after my transplant. … I’ve put my faith in Jesus Christ.”
Trey was excited at being accepted into the accounting major at BYU beginning this semester, but even more excited in late July when he received the very anticipated telephone call to come to the hospital for his heart transplant.
“One year,” Trey said, “and I will be on my mission.”
There were great expectations as he entered the operating room. However, during the surgery there were devastating complications, and Trey never regained consciousness.
His mother, Robbie, said: “Friday had been the most heartbreaking day … just trying to wrap our minds around it. … I had stayed up late just trying to process everything. … But Saturday, I woke up with a feeling of absolute joy. It wasn’t just peace; it wasn’t denial. I felt joy for my son, and I felt joy as his mother. … Ben had gotten up a lot earlier than me, and when we finally got a chance to talk, Ben had awakened with the exact same feeling.”
Ben explained: “Clarity came to my soul as God taught me through His Holy Spirit. I awoke at 4:00 a.m. and was filled with indescribable peace and joy. How is this possible? … The passing of Trey is so very painful, and I miss him so much. But the Lord does not leave us comfortless. … I look forward to a joyful reunion.”
Trey had noted in his journal these words from President Nelson’s general conference talk: “It doesn’t seem possible to feel joy when your child suffers with an incurable illness or when you lose your job or when your spouse betrays you. Yet that is precisely the joy the Savior offers. His joy is constant, assuring us that our ‘afflictions shall be but a small moment’ [Doctrine and Covenants 121:7] and be consecrated to our gain.”

When Steve and I were dating, I used to go sit on the beach while he would surf, often with a book in my hand to pass the time. Once, when the surf was really big, I climbed up into a platform that had been built into a tree so that I could see better. It was 12 to 15 feet at Sunset Beach, and Steve was practically beside himself with excitement.

The next couple of hours were some of the worst of my life. I don’t know how close any of you have been to 15 foot waves, but these were huge and close to closing out the break—which means unsurfable. You also have to keep in mind that Hawaiian surfers measure from the back of the wave, which means that the face of the wave, what you and I see from the beach, is double the size of the back of the wave.

For most of that time, I couldn’t even see him. I would see him catch a wave and then disappear into the huge crashing white wash. Then I would search desperately until I saw him catch the next wave. It was not fun. I kept thinking, “Is he going to make it back out? Am I going to lose him? What if he doesn’t come back up after this one?”

When he finally paddled in, I scrambled down out of the tree and ran to meet him. He was grinning ear to ear and totally pumped. “Steven,” I said, “don’t ever bring me to watch you in surf that big again.”

In hindsight, I shouldn’t have gone to watch him. I’ve lived on islands all my life. I know what big surf looks like, and I know the dangers involved. This was just the first time that someone I loved was out there in that crazy stuff! Steve and I worked out a compromise—he continued to surf big waves, and my rule of thumb as a spectator became 8 feet or under.

My parents supported me in all my decisions. Mom and Dad stood with me on the stand in sacrament meeting the day I received my Young Womanhood medallion. They were there when I graduated from seminary. They were with me when I received my patriarchal blessing, and they supported me as I attended Ricks College.
They were both with me the day I walked to the doors of the temple. I had finally reached the day when I would enter the temple and receive the blessings I had learned about. The angel Moroni, glowing in the early morning sun on the temple spire, seemed to proclaim my joy to the world. I kissed my parents good-bye as I entered.
If I had waited to decide where to marry, it would have been too difficult to leave my parents outside and be married inside the temple. I wouldn’t have had a strong enough testimony of the gospel and the importance of the temple. I may not even have had the opportunity to decide. Leaders, bishops, and friends helped me. My family supported me. But I never would have made it if I hadn’t first decided that I was going to the temple.
In the temple I learned more about Heavenly Father’s plan for me. I hadn’t reached the end of my goal at all. I had only made one more step. So I decided right then to keep my temple promises, no matter how difficult. I decided I was someday going to return to my Heavenly Father.

Carlos was excited for Christmas. This year there was something different in his home. A large tree made of shiny green paper was attached to the door.
Mom, why is there a tree on the door?
We’re going to do something a little different for Christmas this year.
Carlos wondered what would be different. His sister, Araceli, and his little brother, Diego, wondered too.
I made these paper ornaments for the tree. Each day we will write something about Jesus Christ on an ornament and then put it on the tree. By Christmas Eve, the whole tree will be covered!
Carlos liked that idea. Araceli ran to the ornaments and grabbed a red pencil.
Jesus was baptized.
That’s a good one. Can I write that Jesus did many miracles?
That would be perfect. You both have great ideas!
Every night after dinner, Araceli and Carlos made another ornament and put it on the tree. Diego helped by telling them that he loves Jesus.
When it was hard to think of more ideas, they looked in the scriptures. Carlos didn’t know there were so many verses about Jesus!
On Christmas Eve the whole family sang songs and read the ornaments they had put on the tree. Carlos was happy he knew so much about Jesus. He knew he was ready for Christmas this year.

For many years, my addiction to alcohol had a negative impact on my family life and prevented me from attending school as I would have liked.
Indeed, my life changed because of an addiction to alcohol and tobacco that had a profound impact on my professional, and especially on my family, life. I felt powerless, I could see my family go to waste, especially the education of my children. This was a great concern for me. This situation worried me deeply and I did not know how to get rid of it. Prayers and tears were put to work without result.
As for me, I began to take missionary lessons and to attend church intermittently because my addictions to alcohol and tobacco were a heavy burden.
I was not ready for baptism and asked for God’s help by seeking through the scriptures to find a way to put an end to this addiction.
This is how I read Doctrine and Covenants 89:18–21, “And all saints who remember to keep and do these sayings, walking in obedience to the commandments, shall receive health in their navel and marrow to their bones.
“And shall find wisdom and great treasures of knowledge, even hidden treasures;
“And shall run and not be weary, and shall walk and not faint.
“And I, the Lord, give unto them a promise, that the destroying angel shall pass by them, as the children of Israel, and not slay them. Amen”.
Miraculously, I stopped drinking alcohol and then stopped smoking. I was baptized a member of the Church in May 2002.
My life from that moment on changed radically to the astonishment of those around me. It was a true resurrection, a glimmer of hope for me and my family, so that my mother, who thought I was lost forever having seen me again, exclaimed with tears of joy in her eyes: “Truly your God whom you pray to now is strong.”

I have been a member of the Church for five years. At first I was the only member in my family; my wife was very active in another faith. Now two of my children have been baptized, and my wife and a third child are receiving the missionary discussions. I firmly believe that these blessings have come about because I fasted and prayed and attended the temple. I exhort you to do the same and to have patience. Your desire may be granted when you least expect it.
José Marcos García,Newark (Spanish) Ward, Scotch Plains New Jersey Stake

You and I have been blessed with the promise of such an inheritance. I owe much of my happiness in life to a man I never met in mortal life. He was an orphan who became one of my great-grandparents. He left me a priceless heritage of hope. Let me tell you some of the part he played in creating that inheritance for me.
His name was Heinrich Eyring. He was born into great wealth. His father, Edward, had a large estate in Coburg, in what is now Germany. His mother was Viscountess Charlotte Von Blomberg. Her father was the keeper of the lands of the king of Prussia.
Heinrich was Charlotte and Edward’s first son. Charlotte died at the age of 31, after the birth of her third child. Edward died soon thereafter, having lost all his property and wealth in a failed investment. He was only 40 years of age. He left three orphaned children.
Heinrich, my great-grandfather, had lost both of his parents and a great worldly inheritance. He was penniless. He recorded in his history that he felt his best hope lay in going to America. Although he had neither family nor friends there, he had a feeling of hope about going to America. He first went to New York City. Later he moved to St. Louis, Missouri.
In St. Louis one of his co-workers was a Latter-day Saint. From him he obtained a copy of a pamphlet written by Elder Parley P. Pratt. He read it and then studied every word he could obtain about the Latter-day Saints. He prayed to know if there really were angels that appeared to men, whether there was a living prophet, and whether he had found a true and revealed religion.
After two months of careful study and prayer, Heinrich had a dream in which he was told he was to be baptized. A man whose name and priesthood I hold in sacred memory, Elder William Brown, was to perform the ordinance. Heinrich was baptized in a pool of rainwater on March 11, 1855, at 7:30 in the morning.
I believe that Heinrich Eyring knew then that what I am teaching you today is true. He knew that the happiness of eternal life comes through family bonds which continue forever. Even when he had so recently found the Lord’s plan of happiness, he knew that his hope for eternal joy depended on the free choices of others to follow his example. His hope of eternal happiness depended on people not yet born.
As a part of our family’s inheritance of hope, he left a history to his descendants.
In that history I can feel his love for those of us who would follow him. In his words I feel his hope that his descendants might choose to follow him on the path back to our heavenly home. He knew it would not be one great choice to make to do so but many small choices. I quote from his history:
“From the time I first heard Elder Andrus speak … I have always attended the meeting of the Latter day Saints and the instances are very rare indeed, when I [have] failed to go to meeting, it being at the same time my duty to do so.
“I name this in my history that my children may imitate my example and never neglect this … important duty [to assemble] with the Saints.”1
Heinrich knew that in sacrament meetings we could renew our promise to always remember the Savior and have His Spirit to be with us.
It was that Spirit that sustained him on the mission to which he was called only a few months after accepting the baptismal covenant. He left as his heritage his example of staying faithful to his mission for six years in what was then called the Indian Territories. To receive his release from his mission, he walked and joined a wagon train from Oklahoma to Salt Lake City, a distance of approximately 1,100 miles (1,770 km).
Soon thereafter he was called by the prophet of God to move to southern Utah. From there he answered another call to serve a mission in his native Germany. He then accepted the invitation of an Apostle of the Lord Jesus Christ to help build up the Latter-day Saint colonies in northern Mexico. From there he was called to Mexico City as a full-time missionary again. He honored those calls. He lies buried in a small cemetery in Colonia Juárez, Chihuahua, Mexico.
I recite these facts not to claim greatness for him or for what he did or for his descendants. I recite those facts to honor him for the example of faith and hope that was in his heart.
He accepted those calls because of his faith that the resurrected Christ and our Heavenly Father had appeared to Joseph Smith in a grove of trees in the state of New York. He accepted them because he had faith that the priesthood keys in the Lord’s Church had been restored with the power to seal families forever, if only they had sufficient faith to keep their covenants.

When he was a mission president, age 32, in Toronto, Canada, he woke one morning and felt a strong impression to visit a small branch up north. It was a change of plans and a quite a drive so he had to hurry. He arrived just after the meeting started and went in and sat down on the backbench. The branch president said to the congregation, we have a surprise, President Monson is with us today. We are going to ask him to come sit on the stand. So he began the walk to the front.
Unknown to him was the plight of one of his missionaries assigned to the branch. He had been out only a few months and was so discouraged he had decided to go home. In his mind, he and his companion had no investigators, no one was listening to them, the members were not helping; no one cared about him or even knew he was there. He had determined it was pointless to stay. He had packed his bag, slipped it under his bed intending to leave just after church and catch the train west.
So Mission President Monson is walking up to the front and feels impressed to stop—just for a second—and pat that new elder on the back. Then he leaned over and whispered in his ear, “The Lord loves you. He loves you for how hard you are trying and so do I.” And then he went up and sat on the stand.
That young elder didn’t go home. He stayed and became a great missionary. “I knew that he loved me,” the missionary has said. “That’s what I needed.” And he points to that moment when President Monson, prompted by the spirit—as he always is—had heard the voice of the spirit say, “Stop, say something.” And he did.

May Li walked home from school with her friend. The Taipei, Taiwan (China), sidewalk was crowded with people. Trucks, cars, and scooters roared past them. May Li was happy when she saw her building. She was tired and hungry. “Good-bye, Ling Ling,” she said. “I have to help my mother prepare dinner and then get my schoolwork done.”
“Ummm …” Ling Ling looked down as she started to speak. “Do you think I could come and help? You know I can chop fast, and I like to help.”
May Li was puzzled. Why did her friend always want to help fix dinner? This was the second time this week that Ling Ling had asked to help. And she had helped at least twice the week before. Each time Ling Ling helped, May Li’s mother invited her to stay for dinner.
May Li ran up the steps to her home, motioning for Ling Ling to follow her. “Come on,” she replied. “We’ll ask my mother if you can stay.”
Ling Ling jumped two steps at a time. She almost beat May Li to the top step. “Hsieh-hsieh (Thank you). I hope your mother says I may stay.”
May Li’s mind was filled with worries as they burst through the doorway to her home. She liked to have Ling Ling stay for dinner, but she worried that her parents might not like having her come so often. Most of all, she worried about Ling Ling. Maybe her friend didn’t get enough to eat at her own home.
“I’m home!” May Li called. “Ling Ling is with me. She wants to help prepare dinner.”
May Li’s mother greeted the girls with a happy smile. “It is nice to have a friend who likes to share your work. And you are welcome to stay for dinner, Ling Ling.”
Ling Ling jumped and clapped her hands. “Hsieh-hsieh! I would love to stay for dinner.”
“You should call your mother,” May Li said, “to make certain it’s all right with her.”
Ling Ling’s happy smile went away. “Yes, I need to call. Last time I stayed here for dinner, Mother was not very happy. She says that I stay too often.”
While Ling Ling went into the next room to call, May Li talked quietly to her mother. “I hope it is all right to bring Ling Ling home for dinner again. She likes to come here so much. I will eat less if we do not have enough.”
“I am not concerned about the food,” Mother said. “We are happy to share what we have. But I am beginning to wonder if Ling Ling is not getting enough food at home.”
“I know. I have wondered that also.”
May Li looked at the delicious vegetables soaking in the sink, and at the fish and pork ready to be fried. “Maybe Ling Ling only gets rice to eat—maybe she doesn’t even get enough rice!”
May Li wondered what to do, but before she could say any more, she heard Ling Ling hang up the telephone. May Li began to chop the vegetables. Chop, chop, chop. Quickly the mushrooms became many small pieces.
“Guess what?” Ling Ling exclaimed. “I can stay! What would you like me to chop?”
May Li and Ling Ling chopped cabbage, green peppers, and green onions. They laughed and giggled as they set rice bowls and kuaidze (chopsticks) on the table.
Dinner was almost ready by the time May Li’s father came home. He greeted everyone when he came in the door. May Li felt better. She knew that father would know what to do if Ling Ling’s family did not have enough food.
When dinner was ready, May Li’s father invited everyone to kneel for the prayer. He knelt beside his chair. “May Li, would you say the family prayer tonight? And be sure to remember all of our friends and their families.”
Of course! That was the answer! May Li knew that Heavenly Father loved Ling Ling’s family as much as He loved hers. She knew that He would answer her prayer and bless them. As she prayed, she thanked Heavenly Father for having Ling Ling in their home, and she asked a special blessing for Ling Ling’s family—that they would always have enough food to eat. When the prayer was over, everyone sat up to the table and started to eat.
“Hsieh-hsieh for that nice prayer,” said Ling Ling, “and for including my family.”
May Li looked at her rice bowl. “You’re welcome,” she said. “I hope your family always has enough food to eat.”
“Oh, we do,” Ling Ling said. “And my mother is a wonderful cook.”
“But, I thought …” May Li had a difficult time coming up with the right words. “I thought you didn’t have enough food to eat and that is why you like to come and eat at my house so often.”
Ling Ling looked down and stirred the rice in her bowl. “No, it isn’t the food at your house,” she said. “It is the prayer. I feel good inside when I kneel with your family to pray. I wish my family did that.” She paused, then added, “My mother said to invite you over to our house for dinner. If you come, I will ask my parents if we can have family prayer because you are there and it is your family tradition. Will you help me say the prayer if my parents agree?”
May Li and her parents looked at each other with surprise. May Li smiled. “I would love to go to your house for dinner,” she said. “I will help you chop vegetables. And I will be happy to help you say the family prayer. Hsieh-hsieh for asking me.”

It was not a good time. Questions swirled in my head that seemingly didn’t have answers. For months I had been struggling with who I was and what direction my life was taking. To remedy this problem I began attending many different churches, searching for the truth. But it seemed I always ended up at the church my family went to. Somehow, though, it never felt quite right. As I thought about my feelings, I just assumed I felt this way because my life was so mixed up. I was also associating with the wrong crowd and allowing these people to influence my life, which didn’t help matters. Deep inside, all I felt was utter loneliness.
I realized I needed to change my life. I stopped hanging around with people who were a bad influence on me, and I stopped putting myself in situations that would force me to choose between God and my friends. Even with these changes, I didn’t feel like I was receiving any answers or encouragement from God, and I sometimes wondered if He really was there.
In December I graduated from college, and I decided to move back in with my family in Utah. Those plans changed when my dad took a job in another state. Since I had already accepted an internship in St. George, Utah, I decided to stay. In St. George, I began going to my church, but once again felt alone and desolate. It was as if part of me were dead or missing.
One night in my room, I cried out to the Lord and asked Him for guidance and direction. I started to tremble and cry because I so desired to have Him in my life.
At that moment, I heard something or someone say, “Read the Book of Mormon.” It wasn’t a booming voice; it was gentle, quiet, and peaceful. This prompting confused me. I had been exposed to the LDS Church before and had no desire to learn about it. In fact, a high school friend had given me a copy of the Book of Mormon, and I had given it away.
I tried to brush off the voice, but it came again: “Read the Book of Mormon.”
“Why would I want to read the Book of Mormon?” I thought. The prompting came again. “It’s the perfect time. You’re on your own now.” As crazy as this seemed, I suddenly felt a strong desire to get a copy of this book, and I figured the visitors’ center at the St. George Utah Temple was a good place to start. I went on a tour with Sister Pang, a missionary serving in the center, and afterward we watched a movie and talked. The feeling of a presence—a holy presence—was so apparent that I had to fight back tears. It was like I was on the verge of discovering something wonderful. Sister Pang gave me a Book of Mormon as I left.
I went straight home and immediately began reading. As I studied 2 Nephi 27, I began to feel very tired. I almost closed the book, but again I knew I had to press on. I said a prayer that I would be able to understand what I was reading, and I continued. As I re-read the passage I decided to compare it to Isaiah 29 and 30. For me, these scriptures were the key that unlocked knowledge and understanding of the gospel. I knew then without a doubt that the words in the Book of Mormon were true. They were another testimony of Jesus Christ.
I rushed out of my room and told my roommates the Book of Mormon was true. To see the shock and excitement on their faces was great. I rushed to the visitors’ center, but Sister Pang wasn’t there. So I met Sister Taylor, and we talked for hours about the gospel. I asked the missionaries to teach me the discussions, and I set a baptism date after the first discussion.
It wasn’t all easy after that. For the next couple of weeks I received letters and phone calls from my family and friends telling me what to do—and what not to do. I didn’t mind giving up my friends and my lifestyle. But my family’s dislike of my decision made this time in my life very difficult. I decided to stop taking the discussions, to stop praying, and to stop reading. For a week I turned away from everything. I felt so alone and confused. Then one day I called my dad and told him I was determined to be baptized. He told me he loved me and then he hung up the phone.
The joy and peace I felt at that moment cast out everything else. I immediately prayed that Heavenly Father would comfort my family. I began the discussions again, and soon I received a letter from my father. He again told me he loved me no matter what, and I would always be his daughter.
The Lord had taken care of my family and led me to a new life. I’m so thankful for the missionaries, and I’m thankful for my friends who strived to live the gospel principles. Mostly, though, I’m grateful to be a child of God. Every day I’m amazed at the love and the comfort the Lord brings to me. To be recognized by Heavenly Father is so precious.

Apparently the Lord tried to make his presentation as memorable as possible, which recalls the story of the chief engineer of a certain company whose services had been dispensed with. He asked the president why he had been dismissed. The president said, “You let us make a mistake which cost us a lot of money.” The engineer replied, “But certainly you must remember that I specifically advised you not to do that.” The president replied, “Yes, I remember that you advised us not to do it, but you didn’t pound the table when you advised us.”

Once when Grandma and Grandpa Wakefield were visiting us from Minnesota, we watched some eggs that were hatching on the wall of our house. Right beside the egg case a spider had built a nest; and whenever a small mantis came out, the spider would dash over and bite him, spin him up in a web like a mummy, and pull him over to his nest. I wanted to squash that spider, but Grandpa said that spiders need to live too.

Like many people my age, whenever the stake leaders come to our ward, I brace myself for an hour or two of lessons on morality and the danger of straying from the gospel path. I had never thought much about what they said or even really understood what it was like to get off the “strait and narrow path” until I had a rather painful experience.
My family lives out in what is affectionately referred to as “the sticks.” Next to our property are remnants of an abandoned plantation. The only secure building is a rickety old barn with a loft brimming with hay. Over the years this has become a favorite haunt of mine.
My lesson came when I was attempting to make my way towards the barn to mull over a problem a friend had asked advice on. In order to get there one must follow an almost hidden path along the stream to an old road. I had never experienced the obstacle of fallen leaves on the path before, so I was paying careful attention to the stream in order to stay at least close to the path.
After a while I felt this was unnecessarily laborious and time-consuming. I tried a shortcut, which I thought would not be a bad idea as long as I stayed within sight of the stream.
I was wrong. In the woods one cannot stray too far from the path or he will end up in an undesirable place. Well, I ended up making a wrong turn.
When I finally realized that I was going the wrong way and would not be meeting up with the stream, I did not immediately turn around and try to retrace my steps. Instead, I thought I knew what I was doing, so I fought on through the tangle of trees. Suddenly I realized I was surrounded by the largest bunch of wild rosebushes I had ever seen. Being dressed in a T-shirt, shorts, and an old pair of deck shoes, I was not overjoyed at the prospect of fighting my way out of this predicament.
My dog, Peppy, had followed and when we arrived in this area tried several times to divert my attention and show me an easy way out. But my ego would not let me follow a dog. How could he know where I wanted to go? Eventually I got to the field next to the barn and then reached my destination, but not without much struggle and pain.

I remember vividly an experience I had near the end of my mission: A small eight-year-old boy and his mother taught me the importance of paying tithing.
At that time I was working in the mission home with the president of the Mexico and Central America Mission. He called my companion and me into his office one day and told us that he was sending us to Oaxaca. He handed us a list of the names of all the people who had joined the Church during the brief time missionaries had served there; they had been withdrawn some months previously. Our assignment was to look up everyone on the list, see how they were getting along, and, if possible, arrange for a sacrament meeting so that the members could meet together and partake of the sacrament. Then we were to bring back a report.
We made the overnight trip on the little narrow railway, arriving very early the next morning. As soon as we got off the train, we began tracking down addresses.
The first place we went to was a street lined with long adobe walls with doorways in them. When we found the address we were looking for and walked through the doorway, we found a whole group of homes inside. Tucked back in one corner was the home of the woman we were seeking. She lived there with her eight-year-old son and infant daughter.
As she came out of her small house, she recognized us by the way we were dressed, and rushed to give us a warm Mexican greeting. Then, without saying another word, she turned around and went back into her home.
Moments later she returned, carrying a small clay jar. She reached into the jar and pulled out some pesos and centavos (Mexican money). She told us that her family had saved ten percent of what they had earned. Most of that tithing had come from her son, who worked at the plaza in the center of the city, shining shoes. When he returned each day, he immediately put his tithing into the little jar so that the money could be turned in to the missionaries whenever they returned.
I can remember my feelings as that woman handed me the money. She was standing there in threadbare clothes and no shoes, and her children were in the same circumstances. I knew that there were things she would have loved to buy her children. I knew that there were many things that they desperately needed money for.
At first I wanted to give the money back to her and to encourage her to spend it where it was most needed. But then I realized that that was not my right. She and her son had saved that money carefully, knowing that it belonged to the Lord and wanting Him to have it. I realized, too, that they would be blessed for it.
I learned a great lesson that day about the importance of paying tithing and the blessings it can bring. I also learned a lesson about faith. That little boy and his mother had not known if missionaries would ever return to their home, but they were committed to the gospel principles, and they had faith that, if they were obedient, the Lord would bless them.

My dad’s older than all my friends’ dads. He’s too old to do anything.
At the pool last summer, Jimmy’s dad did a triple somersault off the high dive. Everyone cheered. I asked my dad if he would do one too.
He laughed. “Steven, I wouldn’t survive a fall like that. Let’s get in the pool, and I’ll teach you the backstroke.”
So I learned the backstroke, but no one was cheering.
In the fall, I went out for soccer. Megan’s dad was the coach. He ran up and down the field with us for hours, shouting out the plays and showing us how to kick. My dad watched from the bleachers.
“Dad, can’t you be assistant coach or something?” I asked.
“I don’t have the energy to keep going for that length of time, Steven. But I’ve thought of a few new plays I’d like to tell your coach.”
Megan’s dad used the plays, and we won most of our games. At the end of the season banquet, Megan’s dad got a trophy. My dad just watched and applauded.
During the winter, our class went on a ski trip. All the fathers came, and they all skied down the toughest slopes. All except my dad. He would only go on the bunny slope.
“I don’t need any broken bones at my age,” my dad said when I begged him to try a bigger hill. And instead of always skiing, my dad helped some of the beginners learn to stay up on their skis.
Then at the end of the school year, our class had a parent’s day program. Most of the parents took off work to come and talk about their jobs. Since my dad was retired, I figured he wouldn’t have anything to talk about.
I sat next to John. I didn’t see his father on the stage. “Where’s your dad?” I asked.
“He couldn’t come. He’s away on a business trip. He’s gone a lot.” John wasn’t too happy about that.
“My dad’s always around.”
“You’re lucky.”
One by one the parents got up and talked about their jobs. Some of them had really exciting jobs. One was a pilot and one was a paramedic. One father even taught skydiving. After the skydiver, it was my dad’s turn. What is he going to talk about? I wondered.
“My job is my son Steven,” he began. “I like to help him learn things and to participate in his activities. I hope I’m always there when he needs me. He doesn’t think I do anything exciting, but to me, being with him every day is the most exciting thing I could do.”
I was so surprised, I couldn’t move. Even when everyone else in the room stood up and applauded him, I still couldn’t move.
After the program I ran to find my dad. I told him that I understood and that I was glad he wasn’t too old to be my dad.

Now let me describe for you a similar situation with different outcome. Ten years ago, my youngest daughter graduated in three years from BYU-Idaho with a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree. First green flag: three years. Her husband also earned his Bachelor of Fine Arts degree. But they both graduated with zero student loans. Second green flag. Like all couples just out of school, they have struggled. She is a stay-at-home mother of five children. They live very frugally. After graduation, her husband earned some additional certificates and degrees that have opened additional avenues of earning. They are making steady upward progress, partly because they do not have a crushing debt load. They avoided a black hole because they made good choices. They have options open to them.

Julia Mavimbela’s life suddenly changed in 1955 when her husband, John, was killed in an automobile accident. Evidence at the scene suggested that the other person involved, a white man, had veered into John’s lane. Yet that man was not ruled at fault. Rather, white police officers said that blacks are poor drivers, so John was responsible for the crash.1

Julia was 37 years old with four children and another on the way. She had been wronged by racism, the police, and the justice system. Yet she eventually learned not to give in to bitterness; rather, she spent her life striving to be healed and to heal her beloved country through Christlike service. It was her love of the land, her faith in God, and her dedication to living by her faith’s principles that made this possible.

Julia was born in 1917, the last of five children. Her father passed away when Julia was five years old. Her mother was left to raise the children on her own, finding work as a washerwoman and a domestic worker.

Julia’s mother was a religious woman who taught her children from the Bible. “My mother had taught me to swallow the bitter pills of life and encouraged me never to look back but to look ahead,” Julia said. Julia’s mother also understood the importance of education and did all she could with her limited means to see that her children received formal schooling.

Photographs courtesy of Thoba Elizabeth Mavimbela Karl-Halla
Julia received more training and education and worked as a teacher and school principal until she met and married John Mavimbela in 1946. John owned a grocery and butcher shop. Julia gave up her career to work there. Together they built a home and had children. Despite the restrictions of apartheid, life was good. However, that all changed with John’s death.

On her husband’s tombstone, Julia inscribed these words:

In loving memory of
John Phillip Corlie Mavimbela.
By his wife and relatives.
But the lump remains.
May his soul rest in peace.

Describing the fourth line, Julia said, “At the time of writing, the lump that remained was one of hatred and bitterness—for the man who caused the accident, for the policemen who lied, [and] for the court who deemed my husband responsible for the accident that took his life.”2 One of her greatest trials was to overcome this bitterness and anger.

Shortly after the death of her husband, in a night of “troubled sleep,” Julia had a dream in which John appeared to her, handed her some overalls, and said, “Go to work.” Describing the result of this dream, she said, “I found a way of getting myself away from the worries of these years, and that was through community involvement.”

Twenty years later, in the mid-1970s, the blacks’ reaction to apartheid had gone from peaceful protests to violent outbursts. One of the flash points for the violence was Soweto, where Julia was living. She said, “Soweto became unlike any place we had known—it was as if we were in a battlefield.”

Julia feared that her wound of bitterness would reopen: “It had been over 20 years since John’s death, but I could still feel the pain of that time.” In an effort to seek healing, both for herself and for her people, Julia thought, “Perhaps if I can teach the children to love working in the soil, all is not lost.” She established a community garden that symbolized hope to people who knew only fear and anger.

As she worked with the children in her community garden, she would teach them: “Let us dig the soil of bitterness, throw in a seed of love, and see what fruits it can give us. … Love will not come without forgiving others.”

She said, “I knew deep in my heart I was breaking up the soil of my own bitterness as I forgave those who had hurt me.” The lump of bitterness that remained after John’s death started to dissolve.

In 1981, Julia was introduced to the Church. The missionaries, performing community service in Soweto, found a boys’ center in desperate need of repair. For several weeks they cleaned up the premises.3

One day, Julia was asked to serve at that same boys’ club. When she arrived, she was astonished to see “two white boys hurling their spades into the brown dust.” The missionaries asked if they could come to her home and deliver a message. Three days later, Elders David McCombs and Joel Heaton showed up wearing their missionary attire and name tags.

Julia said that the first two missionary lessons “went in one ear and out the other.” But on their third visit, the missionaries asked about a photograph of Julia and John on her wall. She mentioned that her husband was dead, and the missionaries felt prompted to tell her about the plan of salvation and baptism for the dead. She said, “Then I started listening, really listening, with my heart. … As the missionaries taught me the principle of eternal relationships, I had the feeling that here is the way to be with my parents and my husband.” Julia was baptized five months later.

A month after her baptism, Julia spoke at stake conference. “When I walked to the podium,” she said, “I think most everybody was shocked. It was their first time seeing a black person speaking at conference—maybe for some of them the first time ever to hear a black person address an audience.” She felt prompted to talk about her husband’s death and the years of difficulty she had. She described her bitterness and how she “had finally found the church that could teach me to truly forgive.”

Her struggles with misunderstanding and prejudice, however, were not over, even after apartheid ended in 1994.

Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, in his April 2015 general conference talk, “Latter-day Saints Keep on Trying,” told of an incident Julia and her daughter Thoba experienced when they “were treated less than kindly by some white members.” Thoba complained about their treatment. What could have easily become an excuse to leave the Church became a priceless teaching moment. Julia replied, “Oh, Thoba, the Church is like a big hospital, and we are all sick in our own way. We come to church to be helped.”4

I lived most of my adult life in the San Francisco Bay area. The Oakland Temple is located high on a hill across the Bay from San Francisco. Even when fog rolls in, one can see the glow of the temple on the hill at night. I often heard the following story while living in that area. When there was an energy shortage in the mid 1970's in the United States, a request came from the government that all businesses and establishments turn off lights at night to conserve energy. The lights of Oakland Temple were turned off. After the first night of darkness, telephone calls started to come from the Armed Forces, all surrounding airports, port authorities and cities. All related the same problem. When ships and planes came in, they all used the temple lights to mark their position in order to land safely or to guide ships to the harbor. A petition was made: Could the temple lights be turned back on? A special permission was obtained, and the temple lights provided the steady light needed to guide all safely to their final destination around the Bay Area.

Now back to Highway 89. I have recounted the experience of my first two photographic trips along the highway, but it was on my third trip where I really challenged myself to see the possibilities that the highway offered. This trip was undertaken with a much different goal in mind: I determined that I would travel the entirety of the highway—more than 2,200 miles—and that I would make a photograph every mile. This time the project took more than a year and dozens of excursions to complete. What I learned over those months of driving, stopping, looking, thinking, and photographing made me a more intense observer and a better photographer. In the same manner, we need to practice seeing the miracles that God has provided and that He continues to provide to us daily. It isn’t always easy. Let me share an example of a small miracle which I nearly missed because I was out of practice and viewing things through a lens of skepticism. This miracle happened years ago when my son Chris was very young. Chris had come to tour the space research facility where I worked with his elementary school class. At the end of the tour, I was supposed to take Chris and run some errands before heading home. As usual, I was in a hurry. Our car at that time had a slowly failing battery—it sometimes took two to three tries before the car would start. When we got into the car to run our errands, I turned the key and to my dismay all I got was “click-click-click.” I tried it again. Same result. Again. Same result. I probably repeated this eight to ten times and by then even the clicking was getting weaker. I was upset and I slammed my palms on the steering wheel in frustration. Then from the back seat I heard Chris say, “Don’t worry, Dad. I will say a prayer that the car will start.” I thought to myself, “Don’t bother. The battery is dead. It ain’t going to start.” I was just about to get out of the car to call my wife when Chris said, “Try it again.” I almost didn’t. I knew better. A prayer wouldn’t change anything. But it did. I turned the key once again and . . . the motor turned over!
I took a moment, said a silent prayer of my own, one of thanks and seeking forgiveness for my faithless skepticism.
Was that small event really a miracle? For me it absolutely was. It was a miracle showing that God cares about even the little things in our lives. It wasn’t flashy or showy. No mountains moved. No one was healed. But it was a miracle. God was teaching me to see.