Gospel Story Finder

As we increase our interactions with the Savior—as we really come unto Him—we can become like Him. But what does it really mean to come unto Him? How can we do that? My interaction with a little three-year-old girl several years ago was a great model to me of the relentless, undaunted effort that can be put forth when we really want to be close to someone, when we really want to get to know them.

My experience with this little three-year-old gave me some new insights into coming unto Christ. I was attending sacrament meeting in Raymond, Alberta, Canada, in the ward in which I grew up. It was summertime, just a few years ago. As soon as I sat down in the row behind this little three-year-old girl and her family, she had her eye on me. (I think it was my earrings that initially caught her eye.) I asked her what her name was. It was the same as mine: Wendy. When I told her that was my name, too, she was thrilled! So was I.

The Savior wants us to take His name upon us. To have His name.

There was no hymnal near me, so I asked Wendy’s older sister to hand me one from the row in front of their family. Little three-year-old Wendy heard my request and scurried to the end of her row, passing the knees of her four siblings and parents, and then up to the next row, where she secured the book and brought it back with joy to me.

Now I’m not saying that Wendy’s efforts to retrieve that hymnal compared with what Nephi went through to secure the plates—but perhaps her willingness to “go and do” did! (See 1 Nephi 3:7.)

When we hear what the Lord needs us to do, do we respond willingly and quickly? Is that one way to come unto Him—to do what He wants us to do and do it quickly? Little Wendy had heard my request and completed this loving act.

Wendy’s desire to be close to me was evident when, as my dad and I sang the opening hymn, she leaned over the back of her bench and put her face right on our open hymnal and smiled up into our faces with her big brown eyes that were ?lled with light and love.

As the sacrament meeting continued, Wendy found every way she could to connect with me: entreating me to talk to her (and I would comply by softly whispering into her ear) and studying every aspect of my face and hands as much as she could from her position of leaning over the back of her bench. Finally, she could bear it no longer. She shimmied under her bench and up and onto my lap, where she happily, peacefully, joyfully stayed for the rest of the meeting.

Do we feel that same restlessness and urgency to come even closer to the Savior?

(I might add that little Wendy actually made several people happy with that move: me, of course; her parents, who were happy they didn’t have to tell her to turn around anymore; and the surrounding people in the congregation, who didn’t have to listen to her parents telling her to turn around.)

From Wendy’s new vantage point of being up close and personal with me, she was curious about the other people in my family. Pointing to my father, she said, “What’s his name?”

I said, “His name is Daddy.”

And with a mix of joy, amazement, and awe, she said, “I’ve got a boy named Daddy, too!”

When we are close to the Savior, when we come unto Him, we come to understand that not only does He have a Heavenly Father, too, but also that His father is our Father.

And we know that there was a time in the Garden of Gethsemane when the Savior, out of the depth and breadth of His suffering for us, called out to our Heavenly Father with the most familiar name of “Daddy” when He cried, “Abba!”

With little Wendy on my lap, I whispered into her ear telling her what a wonderful little girl she was, how much her mother and father loved her, and what she could do to show them how much she loved them. She was totally enraptured with hearing these things—totally silent and very reflective.

Over the nineteen years of our marriage, nine beautiful children have blessed our home, along with many financial and occupational disappointments for my husband Craig, failing health for me, and increasing responsibilities outside the home competing for our limited time. During the years, as the stress increased, I found myself saying or thinking, “Maybe we aren’t really right for each other.”
I had also noticed that when Craig and I got a night out together, we really didn’t have much in common. For instance, he’d want to see a movie, and I’d want to go to the temple. He’d want to watch a soccer game or something like that, and I’d want to go to a dance or a concert.
I must have expressed my frustration, because one day Craig found himself repeating my statement, “Maybe we aren’t really right for each other.” Hearing himself say this out loud bothered him, for he spent the next few days praying and fasting about our marriage relationship and the frustrations we were feeling.
Then one evening he said, “You and I are like the basic colors—red, yellow, and blue. Between the two of us we have everything necessary to make a successful marriage and an eternal family. Together, we lack nothing. Just as it takes all three basic colors to make all the other colors, you and I, with Heavenly Father’s help, have the ability to blend our qualities to make a happy, eternal marriage.”
As I thought about that, I saw our differences from a new perspective. In our family, Craig is the one who radiates love. I’ve sometimes been jealous of that ability because I wanted to do that, too. I have a lot of love in me, but my love doesn’t always seem to come out graciously. Once, when I told Craig that I felt sad about not being able to express my love well, he replied, “But you bring spirituality into our family. You love to read the scriptures and listen to general conference, and you’re always eager to share what you have learned.” Suddenly I realized that Craig and I were helping each other and our children: he showed me how to give love, and I shared with him what I had learned from the scriptures and prophets.
Now, when I get caught up in my daily work, I appreciate Craig’s encouragement to stop and relax with him. And when I find him doing more than he should when he helps our children with their chores, he appreciates my encouragement to become a better delegator and let them do more. We are also learning how much joy there is in taking turns: sometimes watching television together for him, and sometimes reading books aloud together for me.
We have discovered that we really do have a lot in common. We both dislike grocery shopping, for instance. But, more important, we have found that we both like long walks, our children, church, a clean house, fresh bread, and—each other! I like to talk; he likes to listen. I am consistent, persistent, dependable, and determined; he is kind, tolerant, patient, and unwavering. We are both honest, loyal, committed, and united in our eternal goal of reaching exaltation.
As I sat in the celestial room of the temple early one morning, I thought that he and I are like the crystal prisms hanging from the chandelier in that room, receiving the light and transforming it into all the sparkling colors of the rainbow. The love we share blends all of our differences into a beautiful, unfolding eternal relationship.
We have found that when we don’t give in to self-pity, anger, and selfishness, we become united. As long as neither of us ever gives up—he helps me when I begin to fail at something, I help him when he is down—we will continue to create a wonderful marriage.
Together, we have the resources to realize that dream. We have the joint responsibility to make and shape our marriage and family. When we are finished, the masterpiece that we have created will be our prize. We decide how beautiful that masterpiece will be.

Last Saturday was Mommy’s day off. Daddy and I got up early and made her breakfast. We brought it to her in bed. Boy, was she surprised!
Daddy made her hot cereal with peaches because that’s her favorite.
I poured her some orange juice and put a muffin on a small plate.
Daddy put everything on a tray. Then we added a flower in a vase, and a card we’d made that said: Happy Day Off!
Mommy was so happy! She said that it was the best breakfast she’d ever had.
After she ate breakfast and got dressed, Daddy and I told her the rules: 1. No housecleaning. 2. No cooking. 3. No laundry. 4. No worrying about anything. Mommy said she liked those rules.
She sat on the couch, reading a book, while Daddy and I cleaned the house. Daddy put the dishes in the dishwasher, and I vacuumed the carpet. Then I dusted the furniture, and Daddy swept the kitchen floor. It was hard work, but it was fun, too! I like doing things for Mommy. She always does things for Daddy and me.
Mommy took a nice, long bubble bath while Daddy and I made lunch. She said that it had been so long since she had taken a bubble bath that she had almost forgotten what it felt like. I told her that she could use my bubble bath anytime she wants to.
After lunch, Mommy went shopping for a new dress. While she was gone, we did the laundry. Mommy said it was the best laundry job she’d ever seen.
After that, Mommy listened to music and took a nap. Then we took her out to dinner. She wore her new dress, and she looked beautiful!
Mommy gave us both a hug and a kiss. She said it was the nicest day off ever! She said thank you and told us how much she loves us. I am glad we gave Mommy a day off. It was fun, and it made her happy. We love her very much. She’s the best Mommy in the world!

The midnight sun ruled the June evening in Sweden, where its fiery red and yellow spears still pierced the solemn blue sky. Children played, tumbling and jumping as though they had not walked three miles to the Lutheran seminary that day and had not spent two hours that evening raking in the hayfields. Suddenly their laughter was interrupted by the shouting of an older boy running toward them down the soggy road.
The small blond ones stood alert, staring at the intruder, who shouted again, “The Mormons are coming!” Expressions on young faces hardened, and little mouths lost their smiles and became straight lines. Bright blue eyes clouded.
The children ran up the nearby hill, picking up stones and sticks along the way. At the top of the hill they gathered in a group and looked out over the rolling meadowland. No one was in sight except the boy who had sounded the warning. They waited for him on the hill.
When the older boy reached the other children, he shouted commands: “Girls, stop crying. Go to your homes and take the little ones with you. Ask your fathers to come help us. Ja (yes)! The Mormons are coming!”
The boys began stacking stones in the furrows near the road. Girls and younger children ran across the fields toward their small wooden houses.
Hulda and Anna, the twins, and their younger brother, Gustav, had the farthest to go. Their house and land, located at the far north corner of the farmland near Hogbrun, West Vinåker, were rented from a wealthy landowner. Gustav fell down, but the girls pulled him up, paying no attention to his ripped trousers. As they neared the house, they could see their mother, Ingrid, a younger sister, Carolina, and baby sister, Maria, picking bouquets of tiny white-belled lilies of the valley.
“Mor (Mother)! Mor! The Mormons are coming! Shall we go to Farfar (Grandfather) Lars’s? They’ll eat us up and burn our house!”
The young woman frowned at Gustav’s skinned knees and tried to comfort him. She looked at her five children, whose father had died a year before from pneumonia. “If your far (father) were here, he would not be afraid of the Mormons. I do not fear them either. Those Mormons may be from the devil, but if they come here, I’ll use this devil’s pitchfork on them! Go into the house and say your prayers and go to bed.”
The children crawled into their beds, but they could not sleep. Their mother stood outdoors in the changing light of the midnight sun, resting her body against the house. She sighed and closed her eyes and thought of the approaching Mormons.
Farfar Lars hated the Mormons. He had warned, “Don’t ever shake hands with Mormon missionaries or they’ll get you.” But Ingrid had to admit that those Mormon hymns Britta Larsson had sung, while they were spinning during her last visit, were comforting.
Ingrid’s thoughts were interrupted by the bellowing of the family bull. She looked up and saw him tossing his head and pawing the ground in the middle of the road. Picking up a rope from the front yard, Ingrid hurried toward the road. She voiced her irritation under her breath and snatched up a dead limb lying close by. Holding the limb in front of her and moving slowly, step by step, she approached the bull. The bull, with lowered head, took a step toward her. Ingrid trembled for a moment then retreated a step, caught her foot in a hole, and fell to the ground.
Suddenly the bull charged, and the young woman rolled into the ditch for what little protection it provided. Miraculously, the snorting bull missed her and charged down the road, tossing clods of mud with his horns as he went.
The shaking woman lifted her head and watched the bull grow smaller in the distance. Then she stood up and dropped a rock she noticed was still clenched in her fist.
The sound of shouting was heard from down the road. That bull has met someone else, Ingrid decided. The shouts increased, and the frightened woman picked up her twill skirts with trembling hands, swallowed hard, and forced her feet to run along the rutted road. Just over a rise she saw two men chasing the bull. The big animal stopped suddenly and again began pawing the dirt. The woman’s lips formed some word, but the cry caught and could not escape. Her eyes widened in fear, and again Ingrid swallowed. Her chest heaved rapidly, begging for more air before she started to run again.
One man threw his coat over the bull’s head and tried holding him by the horns while the other young man, who had found an old rope, secured it around the bull’s neck. Leading him toward the woman, the man asked, “Is this your bull?” His hair was dark, and he walked lightly and talked with a strange accent.
“Yes,” she answered in airy gasps. “He broke … out … of the field … and … and … nearly gored me when I fell.”
“Let us help you take him back and mend your fence,” offered the other young man.
The bull kicked and began pulling his captor down the road, and the young man shouted and made play by mocking the bull. Terror again crept into the woman’s eyes, but when the young men began to laugh, she laughed with them.
After the bull was penned and the fence mended, Ingrid said, “May I make something for you to eat?”
The men’s eyes lighted up, but then one of them answered, “We have an appointment in the village and we’re already late.”
“At least let me give you some knäckebröd (hardtack) and smör (butter),” insisted the woman.
“Thank you,” came the warm reply.
Ingrid went into the small frame house and reached up to the rafters, where several months’ supply of knäckebröd hung, dry and crisp. She slipped two of the large, thin disks of rye bread from the pole and carefully buttered each one. Adjusting the braids in her hair, she returned to the waiting men.
“Here,” she said, smiling shyly. “May this satisfy your hunger. And if you come this way again, please stop by to say hello.”
“Thank you, we hope to return soon.”
Ingrid watched the men leave. As soon as they were a few feet from the cottage, they broke off large chunks of knäckebröd and ate hungrily.
Just then the woman thought to warn them. “Watch out for the Mormons! They’re coming this way, you know.”
The men stopped their eating and walked back quietly, “We are the Mormons,” one of them said gently.
“And I hope you still mean your invitation to stop on our way back,” added the other.
Ingrid looked into their kind eyes for a moment. “Yes, I do,” she said. “I would like my children to meet you.”

In a stake in Chile the young women did this at camp by keeping a book of each other’s virtuous qualities. Each day they got better acquainted and wrote down the intrinsic good they were learning about each person there. At the end of the camp, they shared their thoughts, helping each person to see more of the divinity within herself. Their leader said, “We were literally basking in this wonderful spirit of kindness and goodwill. I can honestly say that I never heard a word of complaint from the girls! They were flourishing in a sweet spirit of mutual acceptance that is not often present among teenage girls. There was no competition, no contention. Our camp had become a little bit of heaven” (personal correspondence). The girls recognized and reaffirmed the divine natures of each other, and the Spirit filled the camp as these virtuous thoughts were expressed.

The light of the restored gospel had first shone in our home in an extraordinary way. My father, Mosese, was raised a Methodist. But through years upon years of personal study in the Bible, he had concluded that the true Church of Jesus Christ as described in the holy scriptures was not known on our tiny native island. He never once allowed our family to attend church services of any kind, yet we would gather together daily at his feet as he taught from the Bible. With each passing year, as my father continued to search the scriptures, he became more convinced that the true Church of Jesus Christ was not in existence.
Thus we remained in darkness until, finally, in 1971 our cousin Siga returned for a short visit. Siga had settled in Hawaii. We were excited about this unexpected reunion. Straightaway my mother prepared tea for our visitor, but to our surprise, he would not accept it. He explained that while in Hawaii he had been baptized into the Mormon Church and no longer drank tea. Having never heard of such a religion, my father questioned, “What kind of church is that?” Siga suggested that he look it up in the dictionary. Under the entry “Mormon,” my father read, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
Immediately my father jumped to his feet and pounded the table with his fist. In that instant, the Holy Ghost had confirmed in his heart that this was what he had been searching for all of his life. His whole countenance changed as he asked Siga to tell him about this church. A long conversation ensued as they began reading from the fourth chapter of Ephesians, discussing “one faith, one baptism” (Eph. 4:5) and the need for apostles and prophets. Siga suggested that my father contact the missionaries for further information.
And so it was that we learned, for the first time, of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My father began corresponding with President Ebbie L. Davis of the Fiji Suva Mission, who sent us a copy of the Book of Mormon. Other books and pamphlets regarding Church doctrine soon followed. All of these my father devoured, and he found answers to his questions. Within a short time, he desired with all of his heart that our family be baptized. The Church, however, was not on our island. We soon realized that to be baptized, we would have to go to where the Church was. And for us, that meant Suva.
At long last, after we had spent nearly two years planning and preparing, the day had finally come, and we stood aboard the Uluilakeba. Energy was thick in the air as we crowded on with the other passengers. Hope and excitement filled our hearts as we waited to depart on our journey.
The ship left the dock at approximately 8:00 a.m. on Monday, 10 December 1973. With all the emotions of that day, I hardly noticed the gusty winds and threatening clouds that loomed ahead. As the boat crawled into the open sea, however, the weather worsened. Soon forecasts came in of an approaching tropical storm. Despite the warnings, our captain was confident of a safe voyage. We continued onward, while around us the sea steadily grew fiercer and the rain fell harder. Before long all passengers were instructed to take shelter inside, while the crew navigated the rough waters.
The captain was a relative of my father, and he gave us his personal cabin to rest in while we endured the storm. There we huddled together as a family and waited. In spite of the now heavy rocking of the ship, after a few minutes, my brother and sister and I fell asleep.
After what seemed only an instant to me, we were awakened by my mother’s scream. Water was now coming in through a small porthole. Sitting up, I noticed that my father was not with us, and thinking he must have gone on deck, I left my mother and two siblings. Climbing up to the deck was quite difficult, although in my panic I did not realize why. I did not understand that the ship had taken too much water and was sinking. Just as I reached the deck, the Uluilakeba began to capsize, and I was plunged into angry waters.
My only instinct was for survival. Desperately I swam with all my strength to stay on top of the monstrous waves. Within a few minutes, I caught sight of an older man holding fast to two floating bags of coconuts. Managing to swim to him, I pleaded for a bag, and he mercifully gave me one. I took hold of the bag and clung to it for my life.
Minutes passed, and suddenly I spotted my mother. Seeing me as well, she swam over and we embraced. With words I will never forget, she told me to hold on to that bag no matter what, for it would save my life. Then, after kissing my cheek, she left me to search for my brother and sister. That was the last I ever saw of my mother.
As the storm continued to rage, I did not think about what had happened. I only fought to stay above the waves. Bobbing up and down in the sea, I could see many other people, but I could not find my family.
The hours stretched on like a terrible dream. Soon night fell, and we swam on in the darkness. After what seemed like forever, the sun rose again, and I held on through another day and another night. Finally, around 5:00 in the afternoon on Wednesday, a rescue boat discovered us.
More than two full days had passed. Of the approximately 120 passengers who had boarded the doomed ship, 35 were found alive in the water. We were taken to Suva and admitted to the hospital. There, I learned the details of what had happened. Less than four hours after leaving the dock, we had been struck by Cyclone Lottie, a short-lived Pacific storm. The Uluilakeba was never found. I also learned that of the five members of my family who had been aboard, I was the only survivor. My family’s plans to be baptized into the Church had sunk in the depths of the ocean.
Time moved forward, and I remained on the island of Viti Levu, the main island of Fiji. I went to stay with my older sister, who had moved away from home years before. In the chaos of the tragedy, President Davis lost track of me, and I lost track of the Church. Learning that I had survived, however, he instructed the missionaries to search for me. They looked for months but to no avail. President Davis’s time as mission president came to a close, and he passed the search on to his successor.
The years passed, but because of poor communication systems, I could not be found. The family I was staying with was not interested in the gospel, so I had little hope of finding the Church during my teenage years. I struggled with the loss of my family and wondered why I had been left alone. But I carried in my heart the truths my parents had taught me. Although at times I gave in to weakness and temptation, I always remembered my father’s testimony concerning Jesus Christ and His true Church. Eventually I got married and settled on Vanua Levu, the northern island of Fiji.
In March 1985 I was at work cutting coconut copra not far from the main road when an elderly couple in a small car stopped and called out to me. They asked me if I knew a man named Joeli Kalougata. But before I told them they had indeed found him, I asked what they wanted. They introduced themselves as Elder and Sister Kimber and explained that they were missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Finally they had found me! It was a glorious moment. Following six missionary discussions in two days, I was baptized on 18 March 1985, along with my wife, Elenoa. Our lives have never been the same since.
I look back on the great blessings my Heavenly Father has poured out upon me during my life. I will always be grateful for my loving parents and the principles and truths I learned from them. Because of my parents’ example, my wife and children and I now belong to the true Church of Jesus Christ.
In 1998 Elenoa and I flew to Tonga to enter into sacred eternal covenants in the Nuku‘alofa Tonga Temple and to perform temple ordinances for my parents and siblings. A few years later, our children were sealed to us in the new Suva Fiji Temple. I look at my family now—my eternal family—and thank the Lord for remembering me and bringing the gospel back into my life.

Many years ago I was visiting London with my family. We stayed at a hotel in Sloane Square. There is a statue of Sir Hans Sloane in the center of the square. As a young man in the mid 1600s, Hans Sloane became a physician and then developed a strong interest in botany. The 17th century physician used herbal remedies. Prescriptions were primarily herbal and not based on chemistry as they are today.

In 1687 Sloane accompanied the Duke of Albemarle to Jamaica as his personal physician. He catalogued the flora and fauna of Jamaica and identified about 800 new species of plants. He collected specimens of animals as well and pickled them or embalmed them. During their stay, Lord Albemarle died; it necessitated Sloane returning to London. Sloane pickled the body of Lord Albemarle so Lord Albemarle could be buried in England. Upon Sloane’s return, he wrote an extensive two volume natural history of Jamaica.[20]

In Jamaica Sloane had noticed that the people drank cocoa which he found “nauseous.” Sloane experimented with making medicines acceptable to children by mixing them with milk and honey. He mixed the cocoa with milk and sugar and found that it was delicious. Sloane became very wealthy when he sold his recipe to Cadbury Brothers who manufactured chocolate using Sloane’s recipe.[21]

What is perhaps most interesting to me is that Sloane used most of that money to collect botanical and other specimens that he had become so intrigued with as a young physician. He bought people’s collected specimens from all over the world and he put together an enormous collection. When he died, he donated it to the British nation. That was the beginning of the British Museum.

The foundation collection of the natural history part of the entire British Museum came because of the great desire for knowledge of that incredible man, Hans Sloane.

We eagerly climbed the steps to the Upper Room—the traditional site of Christ’s last supper. During our short stay in Jerusalem, our group of American students and teachers had seen the signs of past wars—but also some encouraging signs of peace and hope in this holy, yet often-bloodied, city. Now we had come to the Upper Room to review the quiet moments the Savior had spent during the last Passover of his life.
Gathered in the large room with its high ceilings and graceful arches, we realized that this wasn’t the actual setting of that sacred event: the building we were in had been constructed on this traditional site by Franciscan monks in the 1300s.
But that didn’t matter. Jesus Christ did celebrate his last Passover in an upper room somewhere in this city, he did wash his Apostles’ feet, he did give them the sacrament, and he did urge them to “love one another.” (John 13:34.) We were worshiping the Son of God and the event in his life was very real; the setting was not the important thing.
Whenever we stopped at a biblical site, we hoped there would be time and privacy enough to read the scriptures together and sing hymns as a group. In some cases we were undisturbed; in others, another tourist group came behind us and we politely moved on—or moved to one side out of the way. Since time was precious during our visit to the Holy Land, we began to hope for as few intrusions as possible.
After we had gathered in the Upper Room, someone in our group read Christ’s words from the New Testament, and then we all began to sing the song “Love One Another.” As we sang, another group of visitors entered the room. They were led by a bearded priest wearing a long brown robe, speaking a language I didn’t understand.
I’ll have to admit that while we sang, I thought more about the other group than about the words of the song; because they had come, we would have to leave instead of lingering. And I wondered if they considered our song and our presence as an intrusion into their own brief moments in that room.
We finished and, without a word, began to leave. As I passed the priest, he unexpectedly turned to us. With an accent, he said three short words: “God bless you.”
“God bless you.” The words seemed to be more than a common salutation. They were like a prayer—a blessing spoken in kindness by a stranger in a land that has known more intolerance than peace. Perhaps he had been touched by our simple singing of the Savior’s words. Perhaps he was simply expressing goodwill to a group of fellow worshipers. In either case, his words carried with them the spirit of the Savior’s own words at that Passover meal—words that we had just sung and that I had been too preoccupied to hear.
As I walked back down those steps into the busy city, I hummed the song again to myself—and was thankful for a stranger, a friend, who had gently reminded me of its message.

I stood in the foyer as the second counselor in the bishopric asked me to speak in sacrament meeting about the importance of temples. With my eyes down and an embarrassed flush creeping into my cheeks, I asked for a different topic to speak on. I hadn’t attended the temple in several years because of life choices that had disconnected me from my Heavenly Father, and I did not feel qualified to speak about the temple.
After that experience, the temple kept coming to my mind, and I felt a growing desire to be there but also battled feelings of unworthiness. I felt afraid that Heavenly Father would not want me in His sacred house.
As general conference approached, I nervously listened to the speakers, hoping that I would feel some indication that God still loved me despite my mistakes. That was when then-President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, said: “It matters not how completely ruined our lives may seem. It matters not how scarlet our sins, how deep our bitterness, how lonely, abandoned, or broken our hearts may be. … There is no life so shattered that it cannot be restored.”
I felt clearly that God was speaking to me. I had been wondering for months how to come back to Christ, and that conference message was His call for me to make changes to enter His house again.
I met with my bishop to discuss entering the temple again. He helped me understand the role Jesus Christ could play in my life and how accepting His Atonement could help me give my burden of pain and sin to Him. I began to pray for understanding, strength, and patience with myself. By trusting God a little more and doing a little better each day, I gradually reconnected with the light of the Savior.
Working with my bishop and learning more about my Savior deepened my testimony of my identity as a daughter of Heavenly Father. I understood that my loving Redeemer would never ask me to separate myself from Him but that Satan would try to make me feel like I didn’t belong in the temple. With this knowledge, I eventually felt ready to enter God’s house again.
With a crisply folded recommend in my hand, I stepped toward the temple for the first time in years, suddenly anxious about my place in God’s house. The closer I got to the doors, the more uncertainty ran through me. Would I look foolish for not knowing where to go or what to do? Was I too old to be going to the temple for baptisms?
The man at the front desk smiled as I entered, welcoming me to the temple. That morning rejuvenated my spirit as temple workers reassured me of my place in God’s house.
As I left the temple, one of the workers waved to me as I walked down the hallway to exit the baptistry. With a whispered, joyful voice, he said, “Thank you for coming to the temple today—we needed you here!” I promised him that I would come back the next week as I looked forward to feeling the warmth of the temple again.
Because of our divine identities as daughters and sons of heavenly parents, each of us can find belonging in the temple. There is nothing that can permanently keep us out of God’s loving reach if we desire to be in His presence. He wants us there, and as we take small steps to become more like our Savior each day, we can align our lives with His and always remain temple worthy. I know that because of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, we can enter God’s holy house and receive the blessings waiting for us inside.
And as I’ve experienced, those blessings are worth everything.

Today is one of those days when getting out of bed is nothing but a trial. Six o’clock is just too early for any sane soul to be up. Even the birds aren’t yet awake! And besides, it’s Sunday—a day when I should be resting from my labors. But I have to go to work, and needless to say, I’m not thrilled. But I’ll go, grudgingly. Just let me sleep ten more minutes.
My name is Jana, and that is the attitude I had on that certain Sunday morning. Even though I love my work as a nurse at LDS Hospital in Salt Lake City, I just wasn’t in the mood to be there.
I arrived at the hospital promptly at 7:05; I was supposed to arrive at 7:00. Seeing the time on the clock in the hall, I panicked and pushed the elevator button several times, only to see that the elevator was on the fifth floor and not coming down. No time to waste. I ran up the six flights of stairs. By the time I reached the top, I was exhausted—huffing and puffing, my heart pounding in my ears in rebellion against the sudden exertion. I was relieved to know that I was in a hospital and if I had a heart attack, someone could save me.
I went down the hall, passing the clerk who looked up from her work and said without emotion. “They’ve started without you.” I smiled and stumbled into the report room where all the other nurses were gathered, to receive instructions for the day.
In the meeting several patients were assigned to me, each with special problems and needs. I had baths to give, bed linens to change, equipment to monitor, temperatures to check, food trays to deliver, medical charts to complete, medications to administer, bandages to change, sore muscles to rub, and to top it all off, doctors to please. Unfortunately, the work was not going to get done by itself. I had no choice but to start on the work.
In the midst of all the activity, a voice came over the loud speaker in the hall, “Any patient who would like to go to church, please notify your nurse.” Oh yes, I had almost forgotten; it was Sunday. I asked each of my patients if they wanted to attend the short half-hour meeting. No one seemed interested; most were too ill or too tired. That was how I felt too. Only one little lady, Mrs. Whitmer, an arthritis and bone cancer patient, answered my question with a quiet yes. This dear woman—who was confined to bed and in pain with every movement, every touch—desired to attend the meeting.
I told the brethren conducting the meeting that Mrs. Whitmer needed to be wheeled to church in her bed. Then without delay, I hurriedly prepared her for the trip, combing her hair, washing her face, and changing her gown and bed linen. She grimaced with pain at every move, but she never uttered a word of complaint. No sooner had I finished getting her ready than the brethren came for her, and off she went. I turned my attention to other patients without giving her another thought.
The day progressed, and finally my work period was over. I could relax! Before leaving duty I checked once more on the patients who had been under my care. Mrs. Whitmer had long since returned from church and was resting calmly—and so was everyone else, thank goodness. As quickly as I had run to work that morning, I ran back to my apartment, ending another working day.
A few days later when I was working the evening shift, just as I was ready to finish, the call light went on in room 4. I thought, “Why do they wait until I’m ready to leave before they call for me?” But I really didn’t mind. I went down the hall through the darkness to the patient’s bedside. It was Mrs. Whitmer.
“Jana?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered.
She reached out and gently took my hand. In a quiet, quivering voice she said, “I just wanted to thank you for helping me get to church last Sunday. I haven’t been for awhile because I’ve been so ill, and you’ll never know how much it meant to me that day to go. When I partook of the sacrament …” There was a long pause; then in trembling words she continued: “I felt God’s Spirit, and I just knew that Christ is my Savior.” And with that she began to cry. I realized that I too was shedding some tears. This beautiful woman, as weak as she was, was stronger than I had ever been. She had a glowing testimony.
I couldn’t help but recall the times when I had only gone to church out of habit, never partaking of the Spirit, though I always partook of the bread and water. I also recalled the Sunday when I prepared Mrs. Whitmer for church and how hurriedly I had done so, as if it were a burden on me. Never would I feel that way again.
The two of us cried together that night, only for a few minutes, but it was long enough to share our souls. No other words were spoken; none needed to be. The tears and the touch of our hands had said it all.

On Monday morning I went to school, where I am one of only five Church members among 1,200 students. A group of boys approached me and invited me to be a member of their group. I was outnumbered. They had body piercings and were taller and bigger than most kids. They bullied those who didn’t join them.
I’m also bigger than most kids, and I considered joining the group because I am shy. I thought that being part of a group would make up for my shyness. I asked them, “Can I think it over first?” They said yes.
I asked my parents for their opinion. They said I should pray and read the scriptures. Before I went to sleep, I read the scriptures and For the Strength of Youth. It says, “Choose friends who share your values so you can strengthen and encourage each other in living high standards” ([2001], 12). I also prayed for help: “Are they the right friends for me?”
The next morning during class, I opened my wallet-size For the Strength of Youth pamphlet. I read it again and knew what I had to answer. When they asked me, “So now will you join our group?” I said, without a doubt, “No.”
They asked me why not, and I simply said I didn’t want to get body piercings or to use my strength to hurt others. I said I wanted to be nice to everybody by following Jesus Christ. They looked at me as if to say, “You are wasting an opportunity to have popular friends.”
Today I have a group of friends who are different from that gang. My friends are good students, look clean, and behave well. Now I know that if I seek our Heavenly Father’s help, He will help me.

John’s wife, Lois Gay Tucker, passed away on 19 June 2014. They had six daughters and one son: Jennifer, Elizabeth, Karen, Anita, Lynis, Larissa and David. “I can bear testimony of the value of having a great helpmeet, having 57 years together we helped each other through many challenging experiences, including times with very little money to feed our family, but we always paid our tithing, and we survived those times with the Lord’s help . . . and we knew He would [help] because of our faith in Him.”

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

As a young girl, I dreamed of being part of a forever family. I was 12 years old when my family was sealed in the São Paulo Brazil Temple. I perfectly remember kneeling with my family at the temple altar and being sealed with my siblings to our parents for time and for all eternity. I knew then that this was the type of family I wanted. I placed a picture of the São Paulo Temple beside my bed, and I looked at it every night, renewing my commitment to have nothing less than an eternal family.

Not very long ago, I was here at Ricks College (as BYU-I was known then) doing many of the same things you are doing: taking classes, working a job to hopefully have enough money to buy food and pay tuition, living outside my parent’s house for the first time, etc.
During this time in my life, I was often asked WHAT I wanted to be, and I had 2 answers:
Over the next few years, I worked toward those goals. But as time went on, the WHAT changed. One of these became better than I originally planned.
A mentor asked me why I wasn’t going to grad school so I could come back to teach at Ricks. That had never occurred to me until Dr. Cullen suggested it.
I looked into different opportunities, did a lot of praying, and decided to change my educational goals. I then worked hard for a few more years, earned a master’s degree, and was hired as a faculty member at Ricks College—which, a few months later, President Gordon B. Hinckley announced would transition to BYU-Idaho. And I’m still here.
The other goal (to become a wife and mother) hasn’t happened for me. I prayed about it, did what I could to meet worthy men, went on dates (some amazing and some not so fun). I watched roommates, friends, younger siblings, cousins, and others be married and sealed in the temple.
I wondered what I was doing wrong. Was I not righteous enough, was I not trying hard enough, was I too picky, was I not pretty enough, was I not, was I not, was I not . . . .
This brought me to one of the lowest points in my life and I started doubting most of the decisions I had ever made. I prayed a desperate prayer.
The response I received was unexpected. Heavenly Father told me to stop focusing on whether I was married or not, that He would take that worry away from me, and that I should focus on the other opportunities He was providing for me.
This answer to my prayer changed my life. Instead of worrying about WHAT I was or was not, I started focusing on WHO Heavenly Father wanted and needed me to be as His child and a member of His kingdom.

One of my family's unanswered prayers is to have children. My husband, Marc, and I experience unexplained fertility issues, and for several years, I wasn’t sure how this painful experience would ever be for our good.

Desperately wanting to be parents, even getting pregnant a couple of times—but ultimately ending in miscarriages. Our hearts broke. The ache was amplified by well-meaning but unaware comments from people in our community. These people didn’t know that building a family wasn’t something we were putting off; it was something that was consuming almost every waking moment of our lives for several years.

Eight years ago, after our second miscarriage, my grief was almost unbearable. My body and emotions spiraled. I felt so depressed, betrayed by my body, and angry, oh so angry, I didn’t even want to pray.

And some days I didn’t. But I kept at it. I continued going to Church, knowing that God would heal and mend our broken hearts. During this time, I listened to the sacrament prayers with such intensity. I desperately needed to receive the promise “…that they may always have his Spirit to be with them.” [33]

Another name for the Spirit is the comforter. In John 14:18, the Savior promises His disciples, “I will not leave you comfortless: I will come to you.” [34]

We needed the Spirit to comfort us during one of our most difficult experiences.

Slowly, I started to trust God with my hopes and dreams again.

President Jeffrey R. Holland shared, “God expects you to have enough faith and determination and enough trust in Him to keep moving, keep living, keep rejoicing. In fact, He expects you not simply to face the future (that sounds pretty grim and stoic); He expects you to embrace and shape the future—to love it and rejoice in it and delight in your opportunities.
God is anxiously waiting for the chance to answer your prayers and fulfill your dreams, just as He always has. But He can't if you don't pray, and He can't if you don't dream. In short, He can't if you don't believe.” [35]

Through this trial, God began shaping us into something we could not become otherwise—we learned empathy and compassion, we learned to understand invisible struggles, we learned to assume positive intent, and to listen without judgment. This experience has refined us, and we are not defined by being childless here on earth. This season of childlessness has allowed us opportunities to give, love, serve, and support others in capacities that otherwise would have been nearly impossible.

I can see His promises unfolding—that all these things truly have and can be “…for [our] good.” [36]

Earlier this year I attended the funeral of an extraordinary ordinary man—my husband’s uncle Don. One of Uncle Don’s sons shared an experience he had as a small child, shortly after his parents had purchased their first home. Because there were five small children to feed and clothe, there was not enough money to fence the yard. Taking seriously one of his divine roles as the protector of his family, Uncle Don drove a few small wooden stakes into the ground, took some string, and tied the string from stake to stake all around the yard. He then called his children to him. He showed them the stakes and string and explained to them that if they would stay on the inside of that makeshift fence, they would be safe.
One day the visiting teachers watched in disbelief as they approached the house and saw five little children standing obediently at the edge of the string, looking longingly at a ball that had bounced beyond their boundaries and out into the street. One little child ran to get their daddy, who, in response, ran and retrieved the ball.
Later in the funeral, the oldest son tearfully expressed that all he had ever hoped in this life was to be like his beloved father.

When we choose incorrectly, we suffer the consequences of those choices but through the principle of repentance and the atonement of the Master we can again experience the good. An example of this comes from an experience I had over 30 years ago. As a young district leader in Cape Town, South Africa, I was asked to conduct a baptismal service for a previously excommunicated member named Jimmy.

Jimmy had been a convert to the church in his teens. Like many of you, he was the only member of the church in his family. When he reached 19-years of age he accepted a call to serve a mission to England. While on his mission he made a serious mistake that resulted in his excommunication from the church. Upon returning home, his guilt feelings, and the non-acceptance of the members caused him to become completely inactive. In an effort to escape his environment, he became a mercenary soldier in Angola. During the war, he was captured and put into prison.

He was not sure why his life was spared, but during this time he began to reflect on the things that were of most importance in his life. He passed the hours singing hymns like "Come, Come ye Saints" to the extent that he could remember the words. Finally, he was liberated from prison and returned to his home in Cape Town. He was determined to return to the church to “pay the Lord back” for preserving his life. However, his fear of the social implications of returning to church soon resulted in his compromising the resolve he had made and he fell into his old ways.

It was about this time that he met a girl who had just arrived from England on a freight ship docked in Cape Town. They met in a bar near the dock on Friday evening and were married by Saturday night. [Now I would not recommend this type of courtship to any of you students…. I know this is BYU-Hawaii but a little longer courtship is probably advisable]. After a few weeks, on a bright Sunday morning, his new wife said to him, "Jimmy, I think we need to start going to church. What religion are you?" Jimmy was embarrassed and told her he didn't have a religion and asked her what church she belonged to. She informed him she was a Mormon and that she would like to find the Church and become active again. The moment of truth had arrived.

Jimmy then told his wife of his story and the fears he had in returning to church. His new, understanding wife just said, “Let’s go back. I'll be with you to give you support.” Thus Jimmy began again to make correct choices that set his feet on the road to repentance and forgiveness.

As I sat in that baptismal service and listened to two sisters sing the primary song "Baptism" in perfect harmony, [the same music we heard sung so beautifully at the beginning of this devotional], I thought of how the Savior taught that the whole hath no need of a physician, but the sick (see Matt 9:12). His grace is sufficient for all. His atonement covers the mistakes of all who humble themselves, who learn of him, who walk in the meekness of his ways... You see, he gives to all men who choose good and come unto him, Peace.

So what can we learn from this experience? No matter what bad choices we have made, there is always a way back through the atoning blood of the Savior. We also learn from the experience the importance each of us plays in helping those in the “returning” process.

The road to recognition in this country has been both difficult and frustrating. Since receiving our European assignments, Elder Ringger and I have traveled to Czechoslovakia at least once each year to meet with governmental officials in Prague. Two transoceanic journeys were rewarded only with failed appointments or hopes dashed with the empty statement that “your request for recognition is still being studied.” When we returned to Prague on 6 February 1990, however, we found that the official with whom we had been dealing had been removed from his chair. When his successor heard our complete story, he said, “Your request for recognition will be approved this very month. Your people may again worship in full dignity. Your missionaries may again return to this country.” Recognition was granted February 21, effective 1 March 1990.

When that important declaration was made, I sensed that the real hero in this story was our district president in Czechoslovakia, Jiri Snederfler. Some two and one-half years earlier, Elder Ringger and I had learned that recognition could be formally requested only by a Czechoslovakian member of the Church. So we went to the home of Brother and Sister Snederfler. We explained that we had just received that information from the chairman of the Council of Religious Affairs. Knowing that other Czechoslovakian leaders and thinkers had been imprisoned or put to death for religious or dissident belief, we told Brother Snederfler that we, as his Church leaders, could not and would not make that request of him. After contemplating only a brief moment, Brother Snederfler humbly said, “I will go! I will do it!” As he spoke, his wife, Olga, shed a tear. They embraced and said, “We will do whatever is needed. This is for the Lord, and His work is more important than our freedom or life.”

Some months later, when the papers were properly prepared, Brother Snederfler submitted them personally. He and our members were then subjected to strict surveillance. The Saints continued in courage and faith. Ultimately, after periodic fasting and prayer and complete compliance with all requirements, that glorious announcement of recognition came. How I admire the Snederflers and all these stalwart members who endured so much interrogation and risk!

Brother Snederfler has been called to preside over the Freiberg Germany Temple effective 1 September 1991, succeeding President Burkhardt, who has given more than six years of devout and faithful service. Sister Olga Snederfler will serve as temple matron, succeeding Sister Inge Burkhardt.

On 1 July 1990, a mission in Czechoslovakia, forbidden for forty years, was again opened, with Richard W. Winder as president of the Czechoslovakian Mission. He had served in that country on his first mission as a young man. His wife, Barbara, was released as general president of the Relief Society to accompany her husband on this crucial assignment for which they alone were so uniquely qualified.

As spiritually uplifting as the youth conference was, it was still full of the kind of excitement and fun associated with any youth conference. During a practice take one afternoon, “Moroni” delivered his lines with stirring perfection. After he was finished, there was a moment of silence, and then an eruption of applause. Charlie Malolo, who played Anti-Nephi-Lehi, shouted above the clapping, “Moroni, I’d follow you anywhere!”

The two-day production ended with a battle scene at dawn. When the perfect light flooded the canyon where they were filming, the youth began to reenact a war. Suddenly, a “Lamanite’s” sword snapped in two. It was proof, said some of the “Nephites,” that the Lamanites were unjust in attacking the Nephites!

One of the most exciting things about the conference, of course, was the finished product. Instead of getting a traditional T-shirt or hat as a keepsake, the youth will have their own copy of the Book of Mormon movie to view again and again.

“I can’t wait to see the video when it’s done,” says Kelsie Cook. “I’m going to show it to my kids and grandkids and tell them that I learned the story and was part of reenacting it.”

There’s no doubt that this youth conference was a lot of work, and many leaders and youth sacrificed much to get ready. But being part of the reenactment made it all worth it.

“It is so impressive to see the story happen visually,” says Stacey. “It really helps me understand the Book of Mormon.”