Gospel Story Finder

What I didn’t have the courage to do, though, was to pray. I felt like I couldn’t face God. I thought I was angry at Him, but in reality I was just ashamed of myself. In my mind, this whole “accident” seemed to be a punishment, partly because I had stopped going to church and I hadn’t been following His commandments, but mostly because I’ve experienced same-sex attraction for as long as I can remember. I mistakenly thought He was disappointed in and ashamed of me.
I was wounded both physically and spiritually.
When I was released from the hospital, my mental health suffered. Even though I had my family and friends around me, I still felt alone. I knew I needed Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ in order to heal, but I struggled to make myself pray.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I reached my breaking point and was willing to kneel down and pray for the first time in so long. I sobbed as I poured my heart out to Heavenly Father. I asked Him questions and told Him my concerns until I was out of breath.
Gradually, a feeling of peace filled me. And these words came to my heart and mind: “All these things will be for your good to refine your character. It was just an accident.”
Seriously?
Was this really just an accident? Not a punishment? That answer made no sense to me. But after a few days of pondering, I knew it was true. I also knew that Heavenly Father loved me. He had been calling me back to His flock for so long, and I was finally ready to return. I decided to go back to church and began an incredible, spiritually healing process with my loving bishop, who helped me fully invite the peace the Savior offers into my life.
Coming back to the Church was not easy. For so long, I had so much shame about myself. But the more I came to understand my divine identity, the less ashamed I felt. I know now that my feelings toward women don’t make me a sinner, and my amputation doesn’t limit my worth. These qualities do give me a different perspective and play a role in my spiritual growth. I also know that my perspective can bless others in the gospel. Through the Savior’s grace, I have been able to confidently accept that I am a child of God. I am loved completely. And Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were, are, and will always be ready to bless me as I turn to Them. Always.

Elder Daniel Cottam, of the Italy Rome Mission, said, “So I’m serving as one of the older missionaries in my group. I’m 22 right now, 20 when I started the mission. That is due to a few reasons. Number one, the band of course; I couldn’t go leaving them alone and miss out on all the fun. Another reason is that I am extremely shy, so a mission for me wasn’t always a guarantee in my mind. I also had very long hair and a beard and didn’t want to give them up; they were very much part of who I was and made me feel different and look cool. But the decision to serve a mission was largely thanks to my family, their wonderful examples and encouragement. Always being in the Church, I suppose I’ve never had a huge conversion experience. All the lessons at Church, things I’d heard from my parents over the years, my own studies and prayers allowed me to really put my trust in the Lord, put the band on hold, have my hair cut and overcome my social awkwardness. A test of faith, but worth it! The mission experience has been amazing! I have learnt and grown so much and come to a true and firm knowledge of the gospel and of my Saviour, so many blessings. If we had stayed as a band putting off the mission, I don’t think the band would have been quite so successful. Now we have met so many people who already love the music we have made and are excited for when we get back, a nice side blessing of building up the fan base all over the world!”

President Smith, in the same Tabernacle talk, also honored a little-known non-LDS woman who likewise helped the Church. Evidently when General Lucas, out of fear of General Doniphan, sent Joseph Smith to jail rather than execute him, he delivered Joseph into the charge of a General Moses Wilson. General Wilson, on the way to Liberty Jail, housed Joseph at his own home, in chains, where Mrs. Wilson developed deep sympathy for the unfairly treated Mormon leader. When the Wilsons moved to Texas, the general one day planned to raise a mob to punish Mormon elders preaching in the area. When Mrs. Wilson heard this, although an aged lady, she mounted her horse and rode 30 miles to warn the elders. Years later one of her sons told President George A. Smith that his mother “deeply deprecated the difficulties with the Mormons, and did all she could to prevent them.”13

Getting ready to go to church with everyone in the family wearing two shoes that matched was a major accomplishment at my house. But somehow it seemed worse when I needed to be somewhere on time.
“What’s the matter with you?” I shouted at my younger sister as my father finally started the car and sped out of the driveway toward the church. “Can’t you keep track of your shoes for even one Sunday?” My mom and dad looked at each other with faint smiles as I continued: “I can’t believe this family. Nobody thinks about anybody but themselves! Nobody understands how I feel around here! I’ll be late for sure now!”
When we got to the church, my family quickly piled out, and I hurriedly moved over behind the wheel, anxious to leave as quickly as possible. Mom started telling me to drive carefully and not get home too late because it might storm. Dad was trying to tell me the fastest way to get to the other ward.
“All right,” I said to both parents talking at the same time. “Good-bye!”
“How am I supposed to give a spiritual talk when I’m feeling like this?” I thought as the wheels of the car screeched out of the church parking lot, and I sped toward another meetinghouse.
The meeting had already begun when I got there, and I had to walk to the front of the chapel alone. The bishop looked relieved when I finally sat down. The meeting sped by, and soon I heard my name announced as the next speaker. My heart suddenly began to beat frantically as I walked toward the pulpit. My shaky voice hardly seemed my own as I looked up momentarily at the strange faces in the congregation and began my talk.
“I’m going to talk about bridges,” I said quietly. “We need to build bridges to others if we want to come close together.” I cleared my voice twice and continued, “All the everyday things we do with each other can build bridges if we let them. Just eating and laughing or talking or working or going through the same hard times can be ways of building bridges if we communicate that we care and share our feelings.”
My nervousness made me glance at my paper much more often than I had at home when I had practiced my talk.
“We can build bridges by realizing that we are all basically alike. We all have many of the same fears and problems and desires and hopes.”
My words seemed insincere and forced. My mother had suggested my topic and supplied me with the material for my talk. I was glad to sit down when my talk was over.
After the meeting was over, I quickly jumped in the car and headed toward the mountains near my home. I just wanted to be alone for a while. My family had arranged for a ride home from their meeting, so I wouldn’t be missed for a while. It was always so noisy, and I never felt like I had the privacy I needed at home. The hills seemed an excellent escape for now.
That night the setting sun cast an orange tint over the white softness of snow capping the mountains. Slowly snowflakes began to dance off the windshield and whirl around the car as I headed up the small mountain road. The orange haze of the sun turned to blues and purples as I drove on. In the peaceful winter evening, I felt alone and yet not lonely. Night shadows drifted across the road, and slowly a few stars began to glimmer in the velvet blue sky. I drove on, oblivious of the increasing frenzy of the snowfall.
Soon the snow began to drift high against the sides of the small mountain road. Still I drove farther and farther into the mountains, unwilling to release the peace of the moment.
I began to notice that the storm had become a blizzard outside the car, and the road was beginning to become impassable. I decided I would turn around and start toward home the first chance I got. At a wide spot in the road, I turned the car for home.
The car began to skid out of control, and it rolled slowly over an embankment and hit against a tree. The sudden jolt brought me quickly back to the reality of the situation.
“What a dumb thing to do!” I shouted at myself as I tried to open the door and see how badly I was struck. The snow was almost covering the wheels of the car, and the incline back up to the road looked pretty steep. I started to dig the snow away from the tires and later crawled back, shaking, into the car.
I tried to start the motor again. The wheels spun with a futile sound. I gunned the motor, trying to get the car to move at least a little. But no matter how hard I pushed the gas pedal, there was only the same spinning sound of the wheels, and I could feel the car settling deeper into a hole.
I crawled out of the car again and anxiously worked at the snow around the tires. The wind was mercilessly blowing snow against me. I hadn’t bothered to wear a coat. I hadn’t told anybody where I was going. My high-heeled shoes and white lace dress hardly seemed fitting now. I crawled back into the car and tried the motor again and again. Finally the motor refused to turn over at all. The dead thud as I turned the key made me shiver.
“Well, I can’t stay here all night,” I said to myself.
I crawled out of the car and climbed back onto the road. The stupidity of my situation embarrassed me. I knew better than to start up a lonely mountain road at night with a storm brewing. It hadn’t seemed dangerous until now.
I folded my arms tightly around myself and began to shake as I looked down the long stretch of road. The wind and snow billowed and howled around me as I started to walk down the lonely dark road.
“How stupid can you be!” I began to shout out loud.
The strong storm wind was at my back, pushing me down the steep incline of the road and causing me to continually slip on the icy road. The heels of my shoes wobbled and made even upright walking hard in the wind.
“Just look at the mess you’re in, and it’s all your fault! There’s no one else to blame!” I continued to shout.
The wind continued to blow me down the hill. My dress was completely wet now, and it stung against my skin as the wind whipped it against me.
Farther down the road, I noticed a large piece of wood protruding through the snow. I wrapped my arms around the wooden pole and felt along its side. It seemed to be a large wooden rail of some sort. I thought it was probably part of the bridge that I could remember driving over on my way up the canyon. I held onto the bridge railing and slowly pulled myself forward. As I neared the end of the bridge and the last of its support, I saw a light glimmering in the distance.
“Hey!” I shouted. “I’m over here! Please help me!”
The light came closer and closer, and soon I saw an old man, clad warmly in winter clothes, peering at me as I hung onto the bridge for support. He put his arm around me and helped me walk farther down the road. He was silent as he edged me toward his home, hidden from view off the main road.
Once we were inside, the warmth from an open fire surrounded me. An old woman walked toward me from the kitchen when the old man called.
“Emma, come here. Got somebody in trouble.”
The old woman placed her warm wrinkled hands on my shaking shoulders.
“You just come right in here,” she said as she guided me to her bedroom and shut the door. “You can take off those wet things and wrap up in this and sit by the fire if you like,” she continued as she handed me a handworked quilt. “I’ll go get you something warm to drink.”
“Thank you,” I answered as she left the room.
The old woman smiled warmly and nodded as she shut the door. Later, after my wet clothes were hung up to dry and my cold body was full of hot chocolate, I wrapped up in the warm quilt by the fire. My companions had been strangely quiet, not asking any questions, only offering me anything I needed. I was glad of it. The old man and woman sat together on the love seat in front of the fire, silent and restful.
“I guess you’re wondering who I am and what in the world I’m doing up here in the middle of a storm. I guess you must think I’m pretty foolish. I should have had more sense, but well …”
“Oh, hush now. You don’t have to make any apologies to us,” the old woman interrupted. “We’re just glad we found you. It’s a long way back down this mountain you know.”
“What were you doing on the road at the end of that bridge?” I asked as I turned to the old man.
“Well, Emma and I were just going to bed when we thought we heard a voice in the wind. Sounded like somebody shouting. It was awfully faint, but we both thought we heard it. I took the light and went out on the bridge to see if I could see anybody. That’s where people have had trouble before. Emma and I built part of that bridge ourselves years and years ago. Seems people were always driving off or falling over the side into the river when it got dark or when it stormed. Emma and I built the railing on the bridge with old railroad ties, and nobody’s fallen over the side since then.”
“That shouting you heard,” I interrupted, “that was probably me shouting at myself for being so stupid. I hope you didn’t hear everything I said.”
“Just heard you on the bridge asking for help,” the old man answered. “There’s been quite a few others like yourself up here in the same predicament. All seem embarrassed like yourself too,” he continued.
“Well, I better call home before my family gets too worried about me,” I said as he finished.
“Phone’s back in the kitchen,” the old woman said as she stood up and guided me to the rear of the small house. “Most people who get stuck up here don’t have anybody to call. They just stay the night, and then Ben takes them down to town when the road is opened. One fellow though, he had a family worrying about him like you. He was one of my favorites.”
“Well, I guess I ought to be glad to have a big family that worries about me, but there’s so many of us, they probably haven’t even missed me yet,” I said.
The old woman smiled.
“Dad,” I said as the phone connection was made, “is that you? Looks like I need your help.”
The old woman slipped from the room as I finished telling dad where I was and how to get there. Dad seemed strangely brief and hung up before I could start apologizing. I walked back into the warm living room by the fire and started planning a good comeback for the inevitable lecture I would get from dad on the way home.
“Your father will be here before long,” the woman said as she headed for the bedroom. “You better put on some of my dry clothes to go home in. I’ll put your wet things in a bag for you.”
It seemed only minutes before dad came clanging up the road to the cottage in our neighbor’s four-wheel-drive truck with chains on the tires. He quickly knocked at the door and began hurrying me out of the house before I could say anything.
“Thank you,” I said as I hurried out the door. “I’ll be back to see you soon when the weather’s better. I promise I will.”
“Well, that’s why I gave you my clothes to wear home,” the old woman said. “It’ll give you a good excuse to come back and visit us. Most people need an excuse,” the woman said as she looked at my dad.
“Be careful of the turn at the bridge, John,” the old man shouted at my dad as we started to get into the truck.
“How does he know your name?” I asked dad. Dad interrupted me as he answered, “Oh, I will Ben. I nearly skidded into the river on the way in here. You’d think I’d know better by now. If it hadn’t been for the railing on the bridge that stopped the car, I would have had to spend another night up here.”
I crawled into the truck and sat confused, as far away from the driver’s seat as possible. Dad hopped into the truck and started slowly down the road.
“Dad,” I asked again, “do you people know each other? Have you been up here too? You mean, you did the same thing? Dad?”
My dad brought his broad arm over the back of the seat and coaxed me to slide over next to him. He smiled as I looked up into his face, and then he put his warm arm around my shoulders.

As I sat there on the porch, I continued thinking about Cindy’s question. In one of our Primary lessons we learned that the Holy Ghost is the Spirit of truth. Our teacher said that He would help us not to lie. I guessed I needed help with that too. I remembered the day Mom had come into the kitchen right after I had accidentally knocked the sugar bowl to the floor. Before she could even speak, I said, “Shauna made me do it.”
“Janna, look out the window,” she told me. “What do you see?”
I saw Shauna swinging on a rope hanging from the tree. I said, “That’s how she made me do it. I was thinking about hurrying out to swing with her, and it made me bump into the table.”
“Janna.” Mom tilted my face toward hers. “None of us breaks dishes on purpose. We all have accidents. It isn’t the sugar bowl that counts. It’s you. More important to me than all the dishes in the cupboard—even the crystal glasses—is a little girl who tells the truth.”
I looked down at the floor. I knew I should’ve said I was sorry, but I didn’t. Instead, I asked, “Don’t dishes sometimes get too close to the edge and fall off by themselves?”
“Oh, Janna Lynn,” Mom said, and I wished she’d spanked me instead of looking at me the way she did. It would have made me feel a lot better.
I was still sitting on the porch thinking when Katie and Shauna came running around the house. “Come and play catch with us,” they called.
We threw the ball back and forth to each other, and then Katie threw one that was too high for me. Running backward to catch it, I slipped and fell on my backside in a clump of Mom’s blue irises. Mom came out of the shed just then with a pair of clippers to cut a bouquet. I looked at the smashed flowers and was just starting to speak, when something inside of me seemed to say, “No, Janna Lynn, you’re not going to say Katie made you do it.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I said. “I ran backward and fell.”
“Yes, I know. I saw you,” she replied.
“And you’re not mad at me?”
“Of course not.”
The way she laughed, I almost felt good about sitting on her flowers.
“Just look at all those irises that you didn’t sit on,” she said. “A daughter who tells the truth is more important than a whole yard full of flowers!”
Goodness! That must have been the Holy Ghost prompting me to the the truth, I thought. And He’s helping me to learn what a great feeling you have when you know you’ve done the right thing. I could hardly wait to tell Cindy.

It’s something like the experience of a young girl who was walking with her grandmother. The song of the birds was glorious to the little girl, and she pointed out every sound to her grandmother.
“Do you hear that?” the little girl asked again and again. But her grandmother was hard of hearing and could not make out the sounds.
Finally, the grandmother knelt down and said, “I’m sorry, dear. Grandma doesn’t hear so well.”
Exasperated, the little girl took her grandmother’s face in her hands, looked intently into her eyes, and said, “Grandma, listen harder!”
There are lessons in this story for both the nonbeliever and the believer. Just because we can’t hear something doesn’t mean there is nothing to hear. Two people can listen to the same message or read the same scripture, and one might feel the witness of the Spirit while the other doesn’t.
On the other hand, in our efforts to help our loved ones experience the voice of the Spirit and the vast, eternal, and profound beauty of the gospel of Jesus Christ, telling them to “listen harder” may not be the most helpful way.
Perhaps better advice—for anyone who wants to increase faith—is to listen differently.

Should you become discouraged in your efforts, remember that sometimes the Lord’s timetable does not coincide with ours. When I was a bishop many years ago, one of the leaders of the young women, Jessie Cox, came to me and said, “Bishop, I am a failure!” When I asked why she felt this way, she said, “I haven’t been able to get any of my Mutual girls married in the temple, as a good teacher would have. I’ve tried my very best, but my best apparently wasn’t good enough.”

I tried to console Jessie by telling her that I, as her bishop, knew that she had done all she could. And as I followed those girls through the years, I found that each one was eventually sealed in the temple. If the lesson is engraved on the heart, it is not lost.

I was ordained a deacon in a branch so small that I was the only deacon and my brother Ted the only teacher. We were the only family in the branch. The entire branch met in our home. The priesthood leader for my brother and me was a new convert who had just received the priesthood himself. I believed then my only priesthood duty was to pass the sacrament in my own dining room.
When my family moved to Utah, I found myself in a large ward with many deacons. In my first sacrament meeting there, I observed the deacons—an army, it seemed to me—moving with precision as they passed the sacrament like a trained team.
I was so frightened that the next Sunday I went early to the ward building to be by myself when no one could see me. I remember that it was the Yalecrest Ward in Salt Lake City, and it had a statue on the grounds. I went behind the statue and prayed fervently for help to know how not to fail as I took my place in passing the sacrament. That prayer was answered.
But I know now that there is a better way to pray and to think as we try to grow in our priesthood service. It has come by my understanding why individuals are given the priesthood. The purpose for our receiving the priesthood is to allow us to bless people for the Lord, doing so in His name.
It was years after I was a deacon when I learned what that means practically. For instance, as a high priest, I was assigned to visit a care center sacrament meeting. I was asked to pass the sacrament. Instead of thinking about the process or precision in the way I passed the sacrament, I instead looked in the faces of each elderly person. I saw many of them weeping. One lady grabbed my sleeve, looked up, and said aloud, “Oh, thank you, thank you.”
The Lord had blessed my service given in His name. That day I had prayed for such a miracle to come instead of praying for how well I might do my part. I prayed that the people would feel the Lord’s love through my loving service. I have learned this is the key to serving and blessing others in His name.

Herman Paleka first came to CCH as a non-LDS student in 1958, the fall the permanent campus was dedicated by then Church president and prophet, David O. McKay. He writes:

"The afternoon after the dedication, I was sitting in the choir seats set up in the auditorium, just enjoying the quiet and the newness of the building, when in walked president David O. McKay. He sat in the middle of the room. I was suddenly moved by a strange and powerful feeling . . . that I had never felt before.
I later dated an LDS girl who was trying to share the gospel with me along with my two stake missionaries, Raymond Sasaki and Ishmael Stagner.… One day she asked if I say my prayers. I said sometimes. She asked if I would pray about the things we talked about.
I went into the hills in the back of the college to pray. As I prayed, the same feelings that I had in the auditorium came again…. In October 1960 I joined the church…."

Herman served a mission, graduated from this campus, and for years thereafter lived in Kauai. He became a popular professional educator, a bishop, stake president, and later as a missionary to Nigeria with his wife, Joan.

I was just tying my shoe when I heard my mother’s bedroom door open. She had gone in there a couple of hours before, saying she just needed some time alone. My excitement subsided and a lump formed in my throat as I looked at her pale face. Her eyes were red from crying. I hated to see my mother hurting.
“Mom, are you all right?” I managed to get out.
“Yes,” She swallowed hard, holding back more tears. “Where are you going?”
“Well, I have that party tonight for our birthdays—but if you don’t want me to go …”
“No, go ahead.” She let the tears flow and turned away.
I sat there numb on my bed wondering if I should go or not. I really wanted to go with my friends, but I knew Mom needed me more. She had been divorced when I was only three, so she confided in me a lot.
“Mom, if you would rather I didn’t go …”
“It’s not that,” she said between sobs. “I’m sorry, but I just don’t have any money to give you.”
“I don’t need any. I saved some from my last baby-sitting job.”
Money was always such an issue at our house. There was never enough. Sometimes I would ask God why we were always so short on money when I faithfully paid my tithing.
“I have to work the graveyard shift again tonight, so I would appreciate it if you would be home before I leave.”
“I will be,” I assured her.
“I just don’t know how I’m going to do it. I don’t get a paycheck for a few more days, and we have no money at all. I don’t even have enough gas in my car to get to work tonight.”
“You can have this money of mine. I don’t need to go.”
She shook her head no and hugged me. “No, it’s for you and your friends’ birthdays.”
I felt sick inside. Here I was going off with my friends to enjoy pizza while my mother was home wondering how she was going to get to work. I tried to think of how I could help her, but I just didn’t know. Then the thought crossed my mind of my tithing money. It was just sitting in my dresser waiting for me to take it to church. I had never spent my tithing money, but this was for a good reason and surely the Lord would understand.
I walked back to my room and opened the drawer, but something wouldn’t let me take the money. All I could do was close the drawer and leave the room.
“Have fun, honey. Please don’t worry. I’ll figure something out. I don’t mean to burden you with these things.” Mom smiled the best she could and kissed me on the cheek.
I did have fun with my friends. We ate pizza, played the jukebox, and mostly giggled about everything. It’s amazing how much eight 13-year-old girls can eat!
Every once in a while I would find myself thinking about that tithing money. What would it hurt to not pay it just one time? Maybe that money was my blessing for always paying my tithing. Maybe it was still in my drawer for a reason. But no matter how I tried to justify taking the tithing money, I knew my conscience wasn’t going to let me.
Soon the night was over, and we were all giving our money for the bill. I got a dollar back in change. I felt in my pocket to see if I had any other money that I could give to Mom, but I didn’t. So I put the dollar in my pocket and decided I would give it to her. It wasn’t much. In fact, it wasn’t enough to buy gas, but it would help a little. At least I felt better knowing I had something to offer her when I got home.
I thought I would cry when we needed more money for a tip. I slowly reached into my pocket. I knew a dollar wasn’t much, but I was so happy I had it to give to Mom. My throat was so tight I couldn’t even swallow. I couldn’t tell anyone about giving the dollar to my mom. I was too embarrassed. I really wanted to lie and tell them I didn’t have any money.
As my hand touched the dollar bill I felt something else. The tears in my eyes left as fast as they had come. My heart began racing as I pulled my hand out and there was the one-dollar bill and a crisp new ten-dollar bill. My heart almost stopped beating. I didn’t know how that ten-dollar bill got there, but to this day I know where it came from!

With limited space and resources, it’s not easy to have a garden or a supply of food. But “our bishop told us that it’s not a matter of having a place to garden—it’s a matter of finding a way to obey the principle,” Lindo says. So he improvised. “I got some wood and made a box. Then I took several bus trips out to the country and brought sacks of soil back with me. I planted some vegetables.”

When the 1990 earthquake hit, they were glad they had put some rice and canned foods in a closet. Although their apartment building was destroyed, they were able to salvage and use some of their supply.

“We do our best,” he says in his unassuming way. “The Lord knows whether you’re doing all you can do.”

The Mia Maids of the Academy Park Ward in Kearns, Utah, recently held a combined Young Women activity called a PJ’s party. The idea was to help the young women think about three important things to remember before going to bed each night: Prayer, Journal, Scriptures. Each girl wore a pair of pajama pants they had made the previous month. They put together folders with scripture-study and journal-writing suggestions, and then each girl painted a prayer rug to place by their beds.
“My prayer rug is inspirational,” says Holly, one of the Mia Maids. “Every night my prayer rug is there reminding me to say my prayer before getting into bed. It really has changed my praying habits.”
Photograph courtesy of the Academy Park Ward

My road to BYU–Hawaii began with my conversion to the gospel. After reading the Book of Mormon and attending church regularly with my mom, I experienced a profound conversion to the gospel of Jesus Christ at the age of 16. Although my mom was quite active in the church, my parents were divorced when I was young, and I mostly stayed at my dad’s house.

I grew up in a Hawaiian community outside of Hilo on the Big Island, called Keaukaha. I was raised by the ocean there. In my youth, the water and waves served as a kind of pu‘uhonua or sanctuary for me, a buffer from life’s stresses on land.

So, I surfed a lot. And I got pretty good at it. By the time I was 15, I was ranked as a top amateur in Hawaii and the United States. But right about that same time, I found myself turning to my mom with some serious life and death kinds of questions. She, in turn, gave me a copy of the Book of Mormon, and I started attending church. Through my experiences reading the Book of Mormon and praying, my belief and confidence in God and myself began to rise.

I'll never forget the first time I read the Book of Mormon. It was a cool, sunny, and very green Saturday in Keaukaha. I was in my room, it was quiet, and I had just finished the first 30 pages of the book of Mormon. Although I had already been accustomed to prayer, I remember feeling closer to Heavenly Father after praying that day.

After completing the book of Mormon and investigating the church rather thoroughly, I was baptized in the ocean by my Bishop, Alley Auna. It was a cold early misty morning. The service was held at James Kealoha or 4-miles Beach Park near my home. Sanford Okura confirmed me a member of the church just afterward. In that blessing, he said that I would do great things for the Lord. As the blessing progressed, I noticed that it had a familiar ring to it. You see, a couple of years earlier, my grandfather, Mal Helekunihi Duke, gave me a similar blessing: saying that I would go on a mission, and eventually be an influential leader. At that time, however, all that was going through my mind was, "Yeah right grandpa, I am not going to join your church." Years later, as I sat, wet, in a white jumper getting confirmed a member of the church, my grandfather's voice returned to me, and I realized that I had received this blessing before. But this time, I believed it.

After my baptism, my focus in life shifted from a religious-like devotion to competitive surfing to a deep desire to understand God and his will for me. This quest led me to a pursuit of knowledge: first through spiritual education in the form of personal study and seminary classes, to a desire to pursue higher education.

In January 1976, I received a telephone call from a friend who worked for social services. He asked if my wife and I would be willing to take in a foster child. At the time we had two young children of our own, but we agreed to open up our home to 17-year-old Kathy.
Soon after arriving in our home, Kathy asked if she could attend church with us. Of course we said yes, and soon Kathy was attending church regularly. Many of Kathy’s friends from her former congregation noticed her absence, and they were unhappy to find out that she was attending the LDS Church.
One day after school, Kathy told us that her former church was planning to stage a “Save Kathy” night for their youth ministry meeting. Kathy asked if I would accompany her to that meeting and help her defend the Church. I reluctantly agreed because although I didn’t want to argue with her friends about doctrinal differences, I knew that she didn’t yet know enough about the Church to defend it. I decided to bring another guest, Richard Jones, who had just returned from his mission.
The day of “Save Kathy” night was a day of fasting and prayer for all of us. I prayed that the Spirit would be present at the meeting and that there would be no contention.
When we arrived at the church that evening, we sensed some animosity, but the youth minister welcomed us warmly and invited us to tell the group about the Church and our beliefs. As Richard shared what was then the first missionary discussion and taught about the Restoration, the 15 or so young people in the room listened carefully. Even the youth minister was captivated.
We then spent the rest of the evening answering questions and having a wonderful discussion about the gospel. The animosity we had felt at first quickly subsided as we calmly explained our beliefs. There was respect on both sides. The Holy Ghost filled the room as we shared our testimonies and responded to questions.
At the end of the discussion, the minister thanked us for coming. Then, as we turned to leave, a young woman rose and said she wanted to tell us something. She said that before we came, she didn’t think Mormons were Christians, but now she believed we might have been better Christians than she was.
We could not have scripted a better ending to our discussion. I know the meeting would never have gone so well if we had not fasted and prayed, pleaded for the Spirit to be present, and petitioned the Lord that there be no contention. Only with the Holy Spirit present can we be effective in sharing the gospel message.

Just as I did on every other day, I arrived at work on 2 May 1997 at 8:00 A.M. I was going to begin work when the boss said he wanted to talk to me. Throughout our conversation, I sensed he wanted to fire me. He spoke of bureaucratic problems with the employment agency I worked for and of laws I didn’t know much about.
Ultimately, I was let go, and I walked away thinking, What will happen now? I will arrive home and say I have been fired, and my grandmother will be disappointed. She and others in my family depended on me to work and help my family financially.
All at once, I remembered: I could pray to God. Maybe He would help me find work yet today. I walked into some trees, got on my knees, and prayed, “Heavenly Father, please help me find work today, so I won’t have to go home and make my grandmother sad.”
I thanked Him, arose, and began walking. With a happier outlook, I thought, If I lost that job, then it must be because I will find a better one. I walked for about two kilometers until I passed a construction job where a friend of mine was working. When he saw me, he asked, “Rui, aren’t you doing anything?”
I explained what had happened, and he said, “If you want to, you can work here.” He was in charge of the job. Of course, I agreed to work there.
And so it was that at 8:00 that morning I was fired, and about 9:30, just 1 1/2 hours later, I was working again. God had heard my prayers, and He blessed me in a short time with even better work.
Great is the power of prayer.

One night, my mom and I were at the store and a store employee was helping us. He said it was his last day at the store because he was moving. He said he was getting married in a month. Mom said she loved being married because “it’s being married to your best friend.” He said, “Everyone I talk to says don’t get married, so it’s good to hear that. Thank you.”
We walked past him again on our way out, and I gave him a pass-along card. Mom told him the things on the card have added a lot of joy to her marriage. He said thanks. I felt good, and I was so excited about being a missionary that it took me a long time to get to sleep that night. I felt so happy.

He once gave an order that no one could enter the munition lab wearing military boots or spurs, for fear that a spark struck by the iron might cause an explosion. A guard was stationed at the door to enforce the order.
One day José appeared wearing both boots and spurs. The guard stopped him. “You cannot pass, my general,” he said.
“I was the one who gave the order,” answered José, “so I can change it.”
“True,” replied the guard, “but up to now the order stands. You cannot go in.”
The next day José came back but again the guard refused to let him enter the lab wearing his boots and spurs. José left and later returned wearing a pair of sandals.
In a few minutes the guard was summoned to the general’s office. José de San Martín put out his hand in greeting and said, “I have brought you here to congratulate you. It is always good to know a man who obeys orders.”

When I was called to serve a mission in 1980 to the Philippines, I was the oldest son and the oldest grandson on both sides of my family to accept a call. The last missionary to serve was my father, who served in the 1950s. I had never been away from home for more than a night or two in my life. Sensing my nervousness, my bishop told me I would be the best missionary ever to have served from our ward. That gave me some confidence. I am pretty sure he deliberately gave that message to every missionary. Fast forward two months, I am now serving in some very remote village hours from the mission home and across the planet from my family. There was only one telephone in town, no email, and we received our mail in batches, a month's worth of letters at a time. I was not only very homesick but became both anxious and depressed. Best missionary—not hardly! I began to doubt and, true to my fallen-man nature, became very focused on myself. I beat myself up for every negative thought. I tried listening to hours of church music, memorizing scriptures, and doing countless pushups—all trying to make myself feel better. When I shared my challenges with my mission president, he invited me to “cross the bridge.” He told me, “You are on the man-to-man side of the bridge. You are only focusing on yourself, your happiness, your baptisms, your chances for leadership. When you cross the bridge, your whole focus shifts to bringing others to Christ. Your investigators, your companion—everyone you have been asked to serve. On your side of the bridge, it is all about yourself; on the other side of the bridge, it is all about others.

After my mission, I learned that as a discouraged young missionary Gordon B. Hinckley received this simple counsel from his father: “Dear Gordon, . . . I have only one suggestion: forget yourself and go to work.” [10] Like Elder Hinckley, I took my mission president’s advice and poured myself into the work. And though it wasn’t immediate, my homesickness, anxiety, and depression lifted. Regarding the value of serving God by serving others, Sister Ester Rasband stated, “It is still true that we must lose ourselves to find ourselves. There is no “I” in PEACE.” [11]

Here’s one example. Afton B., a Beehive president, and her presidency thought and prayed about their class members’ needs. They felt they should help them learn more about how to share the gospel, so they looked in the “missionary work” section of the Mutual activities website (lds.org/youth/activities). The activity “mini mission” caught their attention (see lds.org/go/mini10NE). They decided to go for it: live like missionaries for a week.

After inviting the deacons to join, Afton and her presidency paired people into companionships. Afton made handouts with some guidelines: go to bed and wake up earlier, study the scriptures and Preach My Gospel, and pray morning and night.

“Normally, I just read my scriptures at night, but I started reading them in the morning also,” Bryson C. said. “It really made a big difference in my day.”

The youth were “called to serve” in their ward. The presidency assigned each companionship to teach a family and set up appointments. They also created a basic lesson plan for the “missionaries” to build on.

This kind of teaching was a new experience, but they learned a lot. “We taught a family with little kids,” said Lindsey G. “We’d prepared a lesson, but we felt prompted to do something different to help the kids learn better. I guess sometimes even missionaries have prepared something and the Lord has them do something else.”

“I learned the Lord is on my side,” William W. said. “He’s there to help me.”

The Beehive presidency took the lead, listened to the Spirit, and assisted their fellow young women and young men. The success they had is what happens when quorum and class presidencies take the lead.

He learned to work hard and long on his father’s farm, and he was not one to give up easily. When he was called to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles in 1943, he was shocked, overwhelmed, and humbled. In his first talk as an Apostle at the October 1943 general conference, he testified:
“I remember reading that Jacob wrestled all night, ‘until the breaking of the day,’ for a blessing; and I want to tell you that for eighty-five nights I have gone through that experience, wrestling for a blessing. Eighty-five times, the breaking of the day has found me on my knees praying to the Lord to help me and strengthen me and make me equal to this great responsibility that has come to me.”