Gospel Story Finder

After his mission, Elder Gong volunteered to provide Sunday evening firesides at the Provo Missionary Training Center. The firesides helped acquaint missionaries headed to Taiwan with the people, customs, and culture there. One of the missionaries was Sister Susan Lindsay from Taylorsville, Utah, the daughter of Richard P. and Marian B. Lindsay. Brother Lindsay was a member of the Second Quorum of the Seventy. “I felt Susan was someone I had always known,” Elder Gong says.

Two years later, some months after Susan had returned to BYU following her mission, Gerrit was in Provo with his family. His father was teaching at the university, and Gerrit had planned a two-week visit. The visit was extended to four weeks, as he and Susan dated every day. Then Gerrit left for an internship in Hawaii before returning to Oxford.

“We courted from two different hemispheres,” Elder Gong recalls. “I was trying to study in England while learning everything I could about her from across the Atlantic Ocean.”

“We got engaged over the telephone,” Sister Gong says. “He came home again at Thanksgiving, and we were married the first day the temple opened in the new year.” Two weeks later, they flew to England to start a new life together.

“When people get married, they talk about two families becoming one,” Elder Gong says. “And that’s what truly happened to me. I feel part of the Lindsay family, just as I am part of the Gong family.”

I had to do a school project about how I can make the world a better and more beautiful place. I couldn’t come up with an idea, but then I felt the Spirit and thought of an idea. Sharing the gospel would make the world a better place. I drew a poster showing a family being taught by the missionaries. Jesus wants us to share the gospel with everyone before He comes again. When we share the gospel, we prepare the world for Jesus to come.

It was almost Halloween. Each day on their way to school, Toby, Janie, Beth, Davy, and Ben passed Mr. Greevey’s farm. Just beyond the cabbages and the rows of tall corn they would stop. Here big green pumpkin leaves covered the ground like a rumpled blanket. Nestled among them—some still streaked with green—were dozens and dozens of pumpkins. There were big ones and small ones, fat ones and tall ones. Each one was just right for a jack-o’-lantern.
Every morning Toby looked to see if frost had touched the pumpkin leaves. When it did, Mr. Greevey would let each child choose a pumpkin for his very own. Then Mr. Greevey would haul the rest of the colorful vegetables to market.
“I’m going to pick a tall one this year,” Toby said.
“I want a little fat one,” said Janie.
“I want one this big,” Beth said, making a circle with her arms. “After Halloween, Mother will make it into pumpkin pies.”
“Mmmmm, pies!” Davy sighed.
Ben didn’t say anything. He just stood there looking at the pumpkins.
One morning when their breath hung like little puffs of chimney smoke on the chilly air, the children stopped again at the pumpkin patch. It had happened! The pumpkin leaves were shriveled and black on the ropy vines. They ran all the way to school to tell the other children.
When school let out that afternoon, Toby, Beth, Janie, Davy, and Ben hurried back to the pumpkin patch. Mr. Greevey would be waiting there to call out, “Tell all the children to come and choose their pumpkins tomorrow!”
But when they reached the patch, not one of the pumpkins had been picked, and Mr. Greevey was nowhere in sight.
“Maybe tomorrow,” Toby said.
“Yes, maybe tomorrow,” the others agreed hopefully.
However, Mr. Greevey wasn’t there the next day or the next or the one after that.
“Halloween’s almost here,” said Davy.
“Do you think Mr. Greevey’s forgotten?” asked Janie with a worried frown.
“Mr. Greevey grows the pumpkins especially for Halloween,” said Beth. “Why would he forget?”
“Let’s go find out,” said Toby.
“Who’s going to knock on the door?” Davy whispered when they reached the house.
“I will,” Toby said, marching up onto the porch. He knew it wasn’t polite to ask for things, but Halloween was getting awfully close.
Mrs. Greevey opened the door. “Why, children, how nice to see you,” she said.
“We came—” Toby began.
“The pumpkins are ripe!” Davy blurted out.
“It’s almost Halloween,” Janie said shyly.
“My goodness!” Mrs. Greevey exclaimed. “So it is. I’ve been so busy taking care of Mr. Greevey that I hadn’t noticed.” She smiled. “And of course all of you want to choose your jack-o’-lanterns.”
They nodded silently.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to do it by yourselves this year. Mr. Greevey is much too sick to come to the patch.”
“Will he be better soon?” Toby asked.
Mrs. Greevey nodded. “In a week or two he’ll be just fine. Tell the other children to come and choose their jack-o’-lanterns too.”
“We will. Thank you,” said Toby.
The five children raced each other to the pumpkin patch.
“Choosing a pumpkin isn’t much fun without Mr. Greevey,” Janie said. She stepped carefully over the stiff, prickly vines. “He always helps me find just the right one.”
“Who will take the rest of the pumpkins to the market?” Davy asked, stopping to examine a fat round one.
They all stopped and looked at each other.
“Could we take them to the market for Mr. Greevey?” Toby asked.
“That’s a wonderful idea!” cried Janie. “Mr. Greevey has always been so nice to us. It’ll be fun to do something nice for him.”
“How can we get the pumpkins there?” asked Beth. “None of us is old enough to drive Mr. Greevey’s truck.”
“I know how we can do it,” Ben said.
They all turned to look at him. Ben never spoke unless he had something important to say. “We can haul them in my dad’s hay wagon. I know how to drive the horses. I’m sure Dad will let us use it.”
“Hurray!” Toby exclaimed. “Tomorrow is Saturday. We can get some of the kids at school to help.”
Early the next morning the children were at the pumpkin patch. “Do you think we should choose our pumpkins now?” Janie asked.
“Mr. Greevey will be disappointed if we don’t,” said Toby.
Everyone picked the pumpkin he liked best and set it in a row along the fence. Then they started to work.
“The big ones are too heavy to carry,” Beth said.
“You have to roll them,” Toby explained, turning a big pumpkin on its side. He carefully rolled it to where Ben and a bigger boy were loading the wagon.
The load of pumpkins grew higher. At last only the biggest pumpkin was left in the patch.
“We’ll never get that one on the wagon,” said Davy.
“Mr. Greevey usually saves the very biggest pumpkin for its seeds anyway,” Toby said. “Let’s leave it here until we come back.”
Everyone climbed aboard the wagon. Some sat on top of the pumpkins. Others wiggled down between them.
“Giddap!” Ben called. The big draft horses strained against the harness as the wagon turned out onto the highway. Soon horns began to blow. Toby looked back at the long line of cars.
A patrol car passed the wagon and stopped. “You’ll have to get this wagon off the highway,” the officer told them. “You’re blocking traffic.”
“But we’re taking these pumpkins to the market,” explained Davy.
“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to find another way,” said the officer. “Now let these cars pass.”
Ben turned the horses off the highway and stopped.
“Now what’ll we do?” Beth wailed.
Toby thought for a minute. “I know! Across this meadow is a dirt road that goes along the river to the other side of town. We can use that.”
“Giddap!” Ben shouted.
It was more fun riding on the river road than the highway. The trees along the dirt road were splashed with reds and golds and yellows. At last Ben stopped the wagon behind Mr. Colby’s market.
“I’m mighty glad to see you,” Mr. Colby said. “Everyone has been asking for Mr. Greevey’s pumpkins.”
The wagon was soon unloaded, and the children rode back to the farm.
“Now for the biggest pumpkin,” said Toby. “Listen.” He explained his plan.
“That’s a great idea!” the others all shouted. Everyone took turns helping to roll the huge pumpkin.
“It must weigh more than a hundred pounds,” said Davy.
Quietly they rolled the pumpkin up onto Mr. Greevey’s front porch. Toby slipped the check from Mr. Colby under the door, and they hurried away.
When Halloween came, there were jack-o’-lanterns everywhere. There were fierce ones and silly ones, funny ones and sad ones. But the biggest, happiest jack-o’-lantern was the one on Mr. Greevey’s front porch, smiling at everyone who passed by.

Switching locations and projects, in Santa Ana, California, the students at the institute of religion decided to celebrate Christmas with an “I Care” project. It has now grown into a year-round, community-wide effort of exciting proportions and ramifications. They called hospitals and day care centers and offered their services. The Children’s Hospital of Orange County signed them up to supervise the recreational therapy room on a four-hour shift basis. Because of the personal satisfaction in the work, so many students have signed up to help that a one-time turn is all many of them get. But young patients benefit from the big brother/big sister attention, and the hospital is overwhelmed with the caliber of college students who care.

Let me share two examples:

First, when my wife Dantzel unexpectedly passed away, I could not reach any of our children. There I was, alone, devastated, and crying out for help. Gratefully, through His Spirit, the Lord taught me why my dear Dantzel had been taken home. With that understanding, I was comforted. Over time, I was better able to cope with my grief. Later, I married my beloved wife Wendy. She was a central part of my second example.
When Wendy and I were on assignment in a distant land, armed robbers put a gun to my head and pulled the trigger. But the gun did not fire. Throughout that experience, both of our lives were threatened. Yet Wendy and I felt an undeniable peace. It was the peace “which passeth all understanding.”
Brothers and sisters, the Lord will comfort you too! He will strengthen you. He will bless you with peace, even amidst chaos.

I thought family history was ancient history that was completely irrelevant to me until I had an experience that helped me gain a new appreciation for it.
During a family home evening lesson on the life of one of my ancestors, I discovered that even though he lived more than 150 years ago, he learned lessons in his lifetime that can help me in my life today.
He kept a detailed journal, which included “11 Rules for Living.” In our family home evening lesson we discussed his rules and looked up scriptures that supported them. They are:
Say secret prayers (Matthew 6:6).
Keep your tongue in check (Proverbs 21:23).
Suppress anger (Proverbs 16:32).
Consider the effect of every action before doing it (Luke 14:28–29).
Cultivate humility and charity (1 Corinthians 16:14).
Let love be the mainstream of all your actions (John 3:16).
Think of Christ upon the cross (1 Corinthians 15:22).
Stop work when tired (Mosiah 4:27).
Do not eat, sleep, or drink more than needed (D&C 88:124).
Consider that others do not look on things as you do, and sometimes they are right (D&C 88:122).
Remember that you are never alone. Therefore, do nothing you wouldn’t do in the presence of angels (D&C 121:9).
My aunt embroidered these rules on a wall-hanging that we keep near our door to remind us to try to live by them. My Great-Grandfather Twede also taught me the importance of keeping a journal. I love writing in my journal and then reading back through what I’ve written. It’s interesting to see how I’ve changed and how much I’ve learned.
I have also learned that the rules my Great-Grandfather Twede lived by in the 1800s still work today. My favorite rule to live by is “Remember you are never alone. Therefore, do nothing you wouldn’t do in the presence of angels.” This has helped me realize that I should always strive to choose the right and live up to my standards. Studying Great-Grandfather Twede’s 11 rules for living has helped me appreciate his example and understand that family history is important to my life today.

I frequently found myself returning home from a busy day’s work, still under great pressures to complete an assignment before the following morning, only to find I had been committed to an act of compassionate service that night. As we would drive to our place of service, I would be mumbling under my breath, “Why me tonight? How will I ever get that job done before morning?” Then we would arrive at the place of service, and I would see the light in her eyes as she would perform her acts of mercy. I would see children dance with joy and parents weep with gratitude for her concern. On the way home I was mumbling a different tune. I was thanking the Lord for the privilege of being there that particular night.

In June 1830 the Prophet went to Colesville, New York, to preach and baptize. When he arrived he found that believers in the area had prepared several of their friends for baptism. After the baptisms, a meeting was scheduled that evening for confirming the new members.
As the people began to gather at the designated time, Joseph was arrested “on the charge of being a disorderly person, of setting the country in an uproar by preaching the Book of Mormon.” However, the constable experienced a change of heart, apparently after getting to know the Prophet:
“The constable informed me, soon after I had been arrested, that the plan of those who had got out the warrant was to get me into the hands of the mob, who were now lying in ambush for me; but that he was determined to save me from them, as he had found me to be a different sort of person from what I had been represented to him.”2
Although he had a duty to take his prisoner to court, the constable kept his word to protect Joseph from the mob. The would-be attackers surrounded the constable’s wagon on its way out of town. Before they could assault Joseph, the constable thwarted the attempt by whipping the horses and driving the wagon past them.
That night the two lodged in a tavern. The constable gave Joseph the bed in the room and slept on the floor with his feet against the door and a loaded musket by his side, because, Joseph said, he had “declared that if we were interrupted unlawfully, he would fight for me, and defend me as far as it was in his power.”3
The next day Joseph was acquitted, and he and the constable parted as friends.

The train carrying them had to make frequent stops while repairs were made to railroad tracks damaged by land mines. Brother Thach explains, “To clear the tracks, the train crew would unhook the locomotive from the passenger cars and use it to push ahead a weighted freight car to set off any unexploded mines. Then they would repair the track. This took so long to do each time that all of us on the train were afraid we would be stranded without food.”
Brother Thach says that at one repair stop, “I left the train and prayed that the Lord would help me find food for my family. They had not had anything substantial to eat for some time. After walking for about two kilometers I came to a village. I went to a house at the edge of the village and asked a lady if I could buy some food from her. She cooked a pan of rice, packed it in a banana leaf, added a pinch of salt, and gave it to me.” He paid her and took the rice back to his wife and the two hungry children, not forgetting to thank the Lord.

Others were called upon to speak, and near the close of the meeting, the president suggested that I take the remainder of the time. “Have you had any inspiration?” I asked. He said that he kept thinking of the mayor. (The voters in that large city had elected a member of the Church to be mayor, and he was in attendance.) When I told him we could have a greeting from the mayor, he whispered that the man was not active in the Church. When I suggested that he call upon him anyway, he resisted, saying flatly that he was not worthy to speak in that meeting. At my insistence, however, he called the man to the stand.

The mayor’s father had been a pioneer of the Church in that region. He had served as bishop of one of the wards and had been succeeded by one of his sons—a twin to the mayor, as I recall. The mayor was the lost sheep. He came to the pulpit and spoke, to my surprise, with bitterness and with hostility. His talk began something like this: “I don’t know why you called on me. I don’t know why I am in church today. I don’t belong in church. I have never fit in. I don’t agree with the way the Church does things.”

I confess that I began to worry, but he then paused and lowered his eyes to the pulpit. From then until his talk was over, he did not look up. After hesitating, he continued: “I guess I just as well tell you. I quit smoking six weeks ago.” Then, shaking his fist in a gesture over his head towards the congregation, he said, “If any of you think that’s easy, you have never suffered the hell I have suffered in the last few weeks.”

Then he just melted. “I know the gospel is true,” he said. “I’ve always known it was true. I learned that from my mother as a boy.

“I know the Church isn’t out of order,” he confessed. “It’s me that’s out of order, and I’ve always known that too.”

Then he spoke perhaps for all of the lost sheep when he pleaded: “I know it’s me that is wrong, and I want to come back. I have been trying to come back, but you won’t let me!”

Of course we would let him come back, but somehow we hadn’t let him know that. After the meeting the congregation flooded up—not to us but to him to say, “Welcome home!”

On the way to the airport after conference, the stake president said to me, “I’ve learned a lesson today.”

Hoping to confirm it, I said, “If we had done what you wanted to do, you would have called on this man’s father, wouldn’t you, or perhaps his brother, the bishop?”

He nodded in affirmation and said: “Either of them, given 5 minutes, would have presented a stirring 15- or 20-minute sermon to the approval of all in attendance. But no lost sheep would have been reclaimed.”

Charlotte Clark was just six years old when her family left Nauvoo, Illinois, to travel west to the Salt Lake Valley. It was a long, long way to walk. Charlotte walked so much that she wore out her only pair of shoes. Every night when Charlotte knelt to pray, she asked Heavenly Father for a pair of shoes.
One day Charlotte and her sister were picking berries when Charlotte saw a pair of shoes. She and her sister ran back to their mother and father, saying, “Heavenly Father sent me shoes, and they fit perfectly!” Charlotte’s father was concerned that the shoes belonged to someone who had lost them. He told Charlotte that if the shoes belonged to someone in their wagon train, she should return the shoes to their owner. Charlotte’s family showed the shoes to everyone, but no one claimed them. Charlotte’s prayer was answered.

“Want to get yourself a glass of milk, Frankie?” Granny Bebe asked, smiling across the table. Frankie jumped up. He found a glass and pressed it against the stainless steel lever under the milk cooler. Milk poured into his glass.
Granny Bebe owned the restaurant, and she let Frankie help himself to whatever he wanted. Mama and his sister, Mary, had left Frankie with Granny Bebe to spend a few hours while they went shopping. He loved everything about the restaurant, especially the pretty colored lamps and all the people hurrying about. Frankie didn’t want to hurt Mama’s feelings, but as soon as he was big enough, he planned to come and live with Granny Bebe. This is where the action is, he thought as Granny Bebe introduced him to some customers.
Too soon Mama and Mary were back at the restaurant. Granny Bebe gave Frankie a big hug and told him to visit her again soon.
As they drove down the highway toward home, Frankie was already missing the restaurant. The only excitement in the part of the country where he lived was an airplane flying over now and then, headed for the airport ten miles away. Frankie loved airplanes almost as much as Granny Bebe’s restaurant.
The highway passed the airport and, as they neared it, Frankie saw cars parked all around the airstrip.
“Look, Mama!” Mary said. “This is the day that the planes are taking passengers for a ride.”
Mama turned the car off the road and pulled into a parking space. Sometimes Mama did unexpected things. “I’ve never been up in a plane,” she said. “Come on, kids, let’s go.”
Almost before Frankie knew what was happening, he was flying! Two pilots sat in the front seats, he and Mama sat behind them, and Mary and another passenger sat in the rear seats. The engines of the yellow plane made a thunderous noise. Frankie leaned as far forward as his seat belt permitted so that he could hear the pilots’ conversation.
“Where to, young fellow?” one of them asked him.
“Fly over Granny’s restaurant. You know—‘Bebe’s’!” Frankie had to shout to make himself heard.
“Roger,” said the pilot.
It took only a moment for the plane to circle toward Granny’s restaurant. The buildings in town looked like a model village, and the cars looked smaller than his pocket racers. The restaurant was in a crowded area, and Frankie had a hard time locating it among the other buildings. Finally he spotted the dome-shaped building with cars sticking out like little feet around it.
Mary tapped Mama on the shoulder. “Now ask him to fly over our house!”
Mama gave the pilot directions to their home in the foothills north of the highway.
As they flew along, Frankie pressed his nose against the small window of the plane, trying to identify places on the ground. He looked at the winding river and could see miles of it all at one time. He saw the tiny houses in their tiny yards and the cars crawling like ants along the highway. He leaned forward to listen to the pilots again.
“Look over there to your right,” the man flying the plane shouted. “See that house with the bright green roof on the side of the mountain? That house is my beacon. I always spot it before the airport.”
“Me, too,” said the copilot. “When I see that green roof, I know that I’m almost home.”
“Why,” Mama exclaimed, “that’s our house!”
Frankie could see that indeed it was their house that the pilots were talking about! The green roof shone like a jewel among the gray winter trees, and their very own yellow dirt road ran along the ridge next to the sloping fields of winter wheat. And the pond at the very edge of a cliff was the most beautiful of all. Frankie had helped Grandpa Townsend build it for a fish pond. He hadn’t realized before just how pretty it was.
“I wish everyone could see his home from the air,” Mama said. “Sometimes we are too close to things to properly appreciate them.”
“It sure looks different from up here!” Mary declared.
Now Frankie could see a silver-roofed house father down the little yellow road. An old truck was parked in front of it. “Look, Mary!” Frankie cried, pointing. “There’s Grandpa Townsend’s old orange pickup! I bet that he doesn’t know that we’re way up here!”
“No!” shouted Mary in agreement. “He’s probably waiting for you to help him feed the fish!”
Suddenly Frankie could hardly wait for the plane to land. He wanted to rush home and tell Grandpa Townsend about his flight and about how different the farm looked from the air.
Maybe I won’t move to Granny Bebe’s, after all, he thought. It’s pretty special living in a house that pilots use for a beacon. And pretty soon they’ll be talking about the boy on the yellow dirt road who waves to them when they fly over.

Recently in South America, a lady missionary, who impressed me greatly, told me the story of her conversion to the LDS Church and her missionary call. Before coming on her mission she was a nurse. Her roommate was a Mormon girl. The nurse liked the girl’s habits, was very pleased with her character and personality, and so she decided to study the LDS religion. The Mormon girl got two missionaries to teach the nurse the gospel.

When the nurse’s parents heard that she was favorably inclined toward the Mormon religion, they thoroughly opposed her actions. They forbade her to join the Church, telling her that if she did she would be disinherited.

The Holy Ghost had borne witness to her so strongly that the Church of Jesus Christ was the true church that she asked the missionaries to baptize her even against the wishes of her parents, whom she loved dearly. It grieved her when her father and mother told her not to return home.

After joining the Church, she had a very strong desire to go on a mission and so she decided to work and save the money. It took her three or four years’ time to save approximately $3,000. She was called to labor in South America, where she is doing an outstanding job in taking the gospel of Jesus Christ to the people of that land. When she returns home, she hopes to regain the love and favor of her parents.

I was able to work from home and be a stay-at-home mom for eight years, and then, because of financial circumstances, I needed to return to the workforce full-time. At that time, I had four young children and leaving them was very hard. When this happened, I was not very happy about it. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t stay home and raise my kids as I had always planned and desired to do. My perspective was limited. I was choosing to feel discouraged with my current reality and not embracing the joy of being able to provide for my family and use my skills in a different way.

I found myself adding things to my list of reasons why I should be unhappy working. When I felt I was forced to go to work, it made things hard. Now, to be clear, I loved my job and still do. I enjoyed being at work, which added to my guilt. Was I supposed to enjoy working when I could be at home taking care of my children? This misuse of energy and focus can lead us to believe that only changing what is outside of us can bring us joy. Unfortunately, this unconscious thinking can create a perpetual hamster wheel of short-lived and temporary pleasures but rob us of real joy. Ultimately, it can and will negatively impact how we feel about ourselves. The way we see our lives can help our perspective.

When we make decisions by thinking celestial, we realize that some things aren’t as important as our minds might have us think, and we put that into perspective. When I returned to the workforce, my mind wanted me to think that I couldn’t raise my children as I wanted to because I was working. What I learned is that I was absolutely able to teach my children about the gospel and share important moments with them. It just looked different from what I thought it would.

It took me many years and a lot of understanding to see the eternal perspective of my life circumstances. I learned that joining the workforce would help me to grow as an individual and put me in an environment that allows me to serve others. Now, working outside the home isn’t the path for everyone, but it happened to be the path for me. We are working towards becoming our best selves, and every step we make in the right direction is helping us move forward. The great news is that the Lord has a plan for each of His children. Trials are meant to help us learn, grow, and develop so that we can become more like our Heavenly Father. When we are on this path and can see from an eternal perspective, we can also experience the joy that the gospel brings.

When Elders Brigham Smoot of Provo and Alva John Butler of Salt Lake first arrived in Tonga, in 1891 they had their moment of exile, as the saints on the pioneer tract heading west. Tonga at this time was heavily engaged in religious and political upheaval. King Tupou I, was the leader of the Free Church of Tonga, and Tungi, the Minister of Lands, was the leader of the Wesleyan Church. They were both heavily engaged in competing for more membership enrollment in their individual churches.
When the two young Mormon Elders arrived, Tonga was prejudiced against them, and a law was passed prohibiting Tongans from hosting foreigners in their homes. This penalty was $500.00. The government was not enthusiastic to give the LDS missionaries a permit to lease land; although Germans and English merchants were allowed to. The Elders thought this was totally unfair. Life was very tough in Tonga for these missionaries because of this law in addition to the language barrier.
The missionaries finally found an apartment of an English merchant, situated in the middle of Nuku’alofa. They took their luggage into a back room and immediately set up their living room for cottage meetings. Little did the Elders know that their apartment was situated only a block from the Parliament House. Governors, and ministers of the kingdom, and legislative members started to visit their cottage meetings out of curiosity. They came early in the morning before their legislative sessions, again during lunch and in the afternoon.
On August 7th, the new Prime Minister of Tonga, Tuku’aho, was one of the dignitaries who visited the Elders’ meetings. He was touched by the Elders message. Perhaps they were guided by the Light of Christ. The Premier was impressed by the power of their performance for these reasons:
Five months later, Tuku’aho, could not contain the spirit of respect he had for the Elders. He decided to ignore the pressure from without, and to assist the Elders. He left the Premier’s office and escorted Elder Smoot, and pleaded with his father, Tungi, the leader of the Wesleyan Church, to give a portion of their land for the Elders to lease. He later assisted the Elders to organize the first LDS Church in Tonga in 1891, and the first school in 1892. Simply because his conscience urged him to do so. It was the same Spirit that prompted his wife to register their son, William Tungi, in the same school in 1894. This young boy of 7 became the consort of Queen Salote Tupou III in 1917.
Here we witness that the Elders moment of exile ended with a miracle. Today the present King of Tonga, Tupou VI, is named after his great grandfather Tuku’aho. And the King’s son, Prince Ata was baptized a member of the LDS church here in Hawaii in 2015. No one in Tonga, even the Royal Family, thought that was possible. But with perseverance and sensitivity from the light of Christ all things are possible. From the humble beginnings of these two American missionaries came great miracles and blessings, simply because of the Light of Christ. Tonga now has two LDS high schools, many primary schools, beautiful LDS chapels in every village in Tonga and a beautiful temple. 57% of the population in Tonga today is LDS which means that Tonga has the highest percentage of Latter-day Saints in the world per capita.

Illustrated by Dilleen Marsh
WELCOME!I’m Sister Simon.Hi! I’m Ramón.Hello. I’m Cathlyn.I’m Mei Lin.Hi! I’m David.And I’m Joshua.
Hey, Ramón, let’s get going. We’ll be late for the project to help Brother Hollister.
I’m afraid I can’t make it. Brother Hollister’s a great guy, and I really want to help him, but my uncle just invited me to go to the ball game.
OK. See you later.
I mean, I can help Brother Hollister some other time, right?
Of course. Don’t worry about it.
Look, I know he’s helped others all his life, and times are tough for him right now, but a guy needs to have some fun, too, doesn’t he?
Absolutely. Enjoy the game.
Sure, I always feel great after one of these projects, and there’ll be other ball games, but … Oh, all right then, you’ve talked me into it. I’ll call my uncle and get a rain check on the ball game.
Boy, you really know how to pressure a guy.
What?

I had learned how to “line fish” just a few weeks before from my old fishing buddy, Howdy. His real name was Wesley Howdyshelt, but I called him Howdy for short. I was 12 years old, and he was a retired auto mechanic who lived just a short distance from my house. Howdy used to tell me over and over again, “Bobby, only throw out enough line to hold 15 hooks and make sure it is tight before you leave. Make sure you check it every day.”
I smiled as I thought, So, here I am, following Howdy’s advice.
I carefully reached down to take hold of the line. But just then, the town’s emergency siren went off. The shrill sound could be heard for miles around, and it was used only for emergencies.
If there were several short blasts, followed by several long ones, it would be for a fire. If it were sounded for a tornado, it would be one long, continuous blast.
It was one blast. I froze in my tracks.
Now what am I gonna do? I thought. If only I had listened to my mother …
My mind raced back to less than an hour before, when I had been sitting at the kitchen table in our home, eating lunch, with the television on in the background.
Just then, a deep, rough-sounding voice came over our television set.
“We interrupt this program to issue a tornado warning from the National Weather Bureau for all of Van Buren County. You are advised to be alert for possible tornadoes and if necessary seek immediate shelter for your own protection. Please stay tuned to this station for further information.”
Yeah, yeah, I thought. We hear that all the time. In fact, I had lived in Keosauqua, Iowa, for more than seven years and had heard the tornado warnings over the TV more times than I could count, and not once had I ever seen a tornado. Not once.
I got up abruptly from the kitchen table and started to go outside.
“Where are you going?” asked my mother.
“Oh, nowhere. Just outside for a while.”
“Please stay close to the house and remember the tornado warning,” Mom reminded me as she put the last dish into the sink.
Outside, I ducked around the corner of our house, whistled for my dog, Tricksy, grabbed my bike, and started coasting down the steep hill in front of our house.
I wasn’t really disobeying my mother, I rationalized. After all, I would stay close to home. The river wasn’t that far away.
When I got to the river, I hopped off my bike and looked at my watch. Nine minutes flat. Not bad.
I inspected my line and was pleased to find that no one had bothered it.
And then I heard the siren.
My heart was pounding fast and loud. I dropped my fishing line and turned and ran as fast as I could back towards my bicycle. As I ran, I kept thinking about how worried my mom would be when she heard the siren and couldn’t find me.
I leaped onto my bike. The sky was pitch black, and a brilliant lightning bolt flashed across the sky as it started raining and the wind began to blow. I could hear and feel the crash of thunder all around me.
As I reached the bottom of the last steep hill that curved its way up to our house, I thought, Good, only a few hundred yards left to go. But I was already soaking wet and out of breath.
The wind was so fierce, that for every forward step I pedaled, the wind seemed to blow me two steps back. My eyes stung with pain from the rain and hailstones being driven into my face. Hail covered the ground, and I began to slide. I fought hard to maintain my balance and to keep going. It was then that I knew I could not make it back home by myself.
“Oh, Heavenly Father,” I prayed as I pedaled. “Please help me! I disobeyed my mom, and now I’m in real trouble. Please help me. I promise to obey in the future.”
The warning siren blocked out the sound of a tree crashing just in front of me, forcing me to ride around it.
I kept telling myself over and over again, “You’ve gotta keep going. You can’t stop now. Heavenly Father will help you.”
I finally reached the front yard of our house. Suddenly, the wind stopped, the hail stopped, and the rain became a drizzle.
Waterlogged from head to foot, my hands and face stinging from the severe pelting by the hailstones, I almost laughed out loud. It had just been a bad summer storm. I had been worried over nothing.
I dropped my bike and started for the back door when I heard a distant noise, like an approaching freight train. A strong gust of wind came up and the back door almost flew out of my hands as I frantically tried to open it. The sound of hailstones beating against our house sent chills up my spine. I yelled out for my mother, but there was no response.
“Mom, where are you,” I called out. Still no response.
I began to shake with the terror of being alone when, out of the corner of my eye, I could see her standing at the bottom of the steps leading into our cellar, motioning to me. I scrambled toward her, taking two steps at a time.
Quickly we walked to the northwest corner of the cellar, sat on the cold, damp cement, and threw a blanket over our heads to protect us from the flying glass and debris.
I could hear Mom praying, “Father in Heaven, please protect my family and our home. Please watch over us.” I didn’t hear the rest of her earnest prayer, because of the roaring thunder overhead.
Our home began shaking from the immense power of nature’s mighty destructive forces. I clung desperately to my mother’s side, and together we held each other close. Never in my life had I felt the closeness and love of my mother more than while we huddled there, during that tornado.
Suddenly the noise and the shaking stopped, just as quickly as they had started. I was almost afraid to look out from underneath the blanket. Mom and I just sat there in the dark for several minutes. Then, with the help of a flashlight, we made our way through the debris that covered the floor in the cellar. Holding hands, we walked up the rickety cellar stairs.
The back door was gone, the kitchen in shambles, all of the windows broken out, and glass and wood fragments everywhere, but miraculously the roof was still intact. The old cherry tree that had stood only 20 feet from our back door was gone, and the three oak trees that had lined our front yard were twisted and broken like matchsticks.
Our prayers had been answered. Our home still stood and we were alive.
I learned valuable lessons that day—lessons that I will never forget. I learned that Heavenly Father loves me and answers prayers. I learned that I needed to use wisdom in all my decisions and obey the commandments. And most importantly, I learned to listen to my mother.

When I was a young boy, my parents received a gift that became fascinating to my younger brother David and me. The gift was a miniature model of the golden plates the Prophet Joseph Smith received from the angel Moroni. As I recall, the model plates had 10 or so metal pages with words written on them. However, those pages weren’t what caught our attention.
We had been raised hearing the stories of the Restoration. We knew of and had sung in Primary about golden plates hidden deep in a mountainside and delivered by the angel Moroni to Joseph Smith.1 As the curiosity of our young minds stirred, there was one thing we really wanted to see: what was written on the small section of the model plates securely sealed with two small metal bands?
The plates sat on an end table for several days before our curiosity got the best of us. Although we clearly understood that these were not the actual plates Moroni had delivered, we wanted to view the sealed portion. So on several occasions, my brother and I tried using butter knives, old spoons, and anything else we could imagine to pry apart the sealed portion of the plates just enough to see what they contained—but not enough to break the small bands. We were at least smart enough not to leave a trace of our mischievous boyhood curiosity. To our disappointment and frustration, these attempts to “pry at the plates” were always unsuccessful.
I still don’t know what—if anything—was hidden under that sealed portion. But the embarrassing part of our story is that to this day, I have no idea what was written on the portion of the metal pages that was meant to be read. I can only imagine that these pages contained stories of the Restoration and testimonies of Joseph Smith and the Three and Eight Witnesses, who saw the actual plates Moroni delivered.
Knowing the diligent nature of my younger brother, I imagine it very likely that he read all the words written on the model plates in our parents’ home. I, however, ignored those plain and precious truths and instead exerted my effort searching for those things that were not meant to be revealed.

While I was growing up in Korea, my father allowed his children to attend the church of our choice, but often during dinner we disagreed about our different religious beliefs. Because of this contention, my father wanted to unify our family’s religious beliefs. Since my younger brother was going to meetings of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints with my uncle, my dad began attending meetings with them to learn more about the Church. I also attended and was impressed by fun Mutual activities and how the seminary program strengthened young people spiritually.
When I was 16, my parents and I were baptized, and the rest of our 23 family members and relatives joined the Church within seven months.

I had a similar experience in a fifth-period class, later in the day. An afternoon class in a hot climate is not always the optimal setting for keeping students’ attention. As a matter of fact, this class was a particular challenge to me. As I considered my role in their temporal salvation (because they seemed so impossible to reach), I thought that the only way I could ever help save them would be to wait until they all died and then do work for the dead. That, however, was not a viable option. But I gave them the same challenge I had given the rest of the classes and continued to teach them.

At the end of the year a young man named Larry, who was in that fifth-period class, came to me and said, “You might want to look at this.”

Here is his first response:

I don’t really know there’s a God. I only go to church to make my mom and dad happy. I wish I had a testimony, but I don’t. Sometimes I feel like I have an important job on earth, but I don’t know what it is. I’m always wanting to do something wrong.

I am an eyewitness to the “always wanting to do something wrong” part.

Nine months later this young man wrote:

I know the Church is true. I have a testimony of it. I love my Big Brother and my Heavenly Father, and I know They live. I know Joseph Smith was a prophet of God, and I have a testimony of it.

I love this church with all my life. Some say they do not know if they would give their life for it, but I know—if need be, and my Father willed it—I would.

That is the power of the word in a young man’s life.