Gospel Story Finder

The second recent event that has forever changed me took place as I was on a business trip to the East Coast. I arrived late at the Idaho Falls Airport. The gate agent told me that I had missed the cut-off time to be able to check my bags by one minute. In a post-9/11 world there was nothing she could do, try as she might, to get the computer to allow her to check me in. I told her I appreciated her efforts and asked her if she could book me on a later flight. I texted my traveling companion and told him that I would not catch up to him until the final leg of our journey at Reagan National Airport in Washington, D.C. Because I was leaving later in the day, my flight connections were very tight and there was no room for error, or I would be sleeping in an airport that night. I came back and caught the next flight to Denver a couple of hours later. Everything was going smoothly, and I made that connection with no problems. We were all set for an on-time departure when the pilot announced that there was a group of vets who had been in Denver for training and were on their way to the airport. If everything went well, we would only be 30 minutes late departing and he felt he could make most of that time up in the air. As I sat there for the next half hour, I became somewhat agitated that we were waiting for a group of people who had probably thoughtlessly lost track of time while they were in the field tending to cows or horses or whatever veterinarians might be training on in the Denver area. After 30 minutes, the pilot came on and said that they were in the airport and being rushed through security. We would be on our way shortly. Soon a group of young men and their traveling companions entered the cabin of the airplane. Each of them was missing at least one limb. I quickly realized the error in my thought process. Because I was concerned only for myself, I hadn’t even considered that “vet” meant veteran. For the next three and a half hours I sat silently and ashamed for the frustration I had been feeling towards these young men that had sacrificed so much for me. As we began our descent into the Washington, D.C., area the pilot once again came on and said he had in fact made up most of the time we had lost in Denver. He said he knew that there were many on the flight who had tight connections but wondered if it would be appropriate as a demonstration of gratitude to allow these young vets to grab their gear and exit the plane first. We landed and taxied to the gateway. I was amazed as not one of the over 200 people on the plane jumped out of their seats and into the aisle to grab their bags to be the first out the door. All sat patiently, in a joint demonstration of respect, gratitude, and thankfulness to these young soldiers.

Last year while visiting family in Wisconsin, my cousin and I went on a youth temple trip to the Nauvoo Illinois Temple and performed baptisms for the dead. We had a bunch of family names that we took to the temple. My grandma told us about one of our deceased ancestors. Grandma had a close relationship with her. I got to be baptized for this family member and other ancestors, and it was a really cool experience, because I could feel their presence and know they will have a chance to accept the work done for them. When I go to the temple, I know I’m doing a great thing.

All those Scouting activities really paid off for 14-year-old Jared Stokes of the Peachtree City Ward, Jonesboro Georgia Stake. The obstacle courses and athletic competitions gave him the experience it took to win the “Radical Outdoor Challenge,” Entertainment and Sports Programming Network’s (ESPN) outdoor game show. Jared reigns as grand champion.
Several times Jared wore his BYU hat on national television, so everyone would know what school and religion he supported. He had to participate in activities like scaling a rock wall, walking across a tight wire over swampy cold water with swamp water being sprayed on him, BMX bike racing, swimming, canoeing, and marksmanship, to name just a few of the events.
But Jared hasn’t let all this attention go to his head. He’s still an active seminary student, teacher, and Eagle Scout candidate. He hopes his athletic feats will set a positive example of what good, clean living can do for you.

During my last phone call home as a missionary, I was saying goodbye after telling my family about all the blessings and miracles I’d been seeing, when my dad said, “Jake, I hope that all of these experiences are helping you to become fully converted.” Now, that sounds nice, but at the time, I was just a little offended. Did my dad think I still wasn’t converted? Of course I was converted! Wasn’t I? I mean, I was a full-time missionary! I’d spent two years teaching, baptizing, and converting others. What did he mean he hoped I was becoming converted?

True conversion requires much more than a two or three-year commitment. It requires what President Dallin H. Oaks once described as “the steady dedication of a lifetime.” In retrospect, I’m grateful for my dad’s reminder that the end of my missionary service was just the beginning of a lifetime of discipleship. I’m grateful he warned me that if I didn’t continue to strengthen my faith in Christ and maintain the spiritual habits I’d learned as a missionary that I might be sifted as wheat.

When I served as president of the Canadian Mission, headquartered in Toronto, one missionary came to our mission without some of the talents of others, yet he devotedly plunged into his missionary labors. The work was difficult for him; however, he valiantly struggled to be his best self.
At a zone conference, with a General Authority attending, the missionaries had not done too well in a scripture quiz conducted by the visitor. The visitor, with a little sarcasm, commented, “Why, I don’t believe this group knows even the names of the basic missionary pamphlets and their authors.”
Well, that was the proverbial “straw” that broke the camel’s back. I spoke up: “I think they do know them.”
“Well, we will see,” he said, and then he had the missionaries stand. In making a selection of a missionary to prove the point, none of the bright-appearing, experienced, polished missionaries was selected, but rather my new missionary, who had a hard time gaining knowledge of such things, was singled out. My heart literally sank. I looked at the pleading expression on the elder’s face; I knew that he was paralyzed with fear. How I prayed—oh, how I prayed: “Heavenly Father, come to his rescue.” And He did. After a long pause, the visitor said, “Who authored the pamphlet The Plan of Salvation?”
After what seemed like an eternity, the trembling missionary responded, “John Morgan.”
“Who wrote Which Church Is Right?”
Again the pause, and then the reply, “Mark E. Petersen.”
“How about The Lord’s Tenth?”
“James E. Talmage wrote that one,” came the response.
And so it went through the list of missionary pamphlets we used. Finally came the question, “Is there another pamphlet?”
“Yes. It’s called After Baptism, What?”
“Who wrote it?”
Without hesitation the missionary answered, “The name of the author isn’t shown in the pamphlet, but my mission president told me it was written by Elder Mark E. Petersen by assignment from President David O. McKay.”
But what about the missionary? He completed an honorable mission and returned to his home in the West. Later he was called to serve as the bishop of his ward. Every year I receive a Christmas card from him and his wife and family. He always signs his name and then adds this comment, “From your best missionary.”

Later, when I was 19, I was a missionary in French Polynesia, and I had to learn to speak two languages, French and Tahitian, without the benefit of the Missionary Training Center. It humbled me to the depths of my soul. I learned that missionaries did better when they would do everything they could to learn. Even though they made mistakes, the Spirit helped them. I found that without the Spirit, we couldn’t do anything. But when we had the Spirit, the languages, as well as the missionary work, started to unfold.

As a child she traveled with her family by train across the country to be sealed in the Manti Utah Temple.
“That was a very sweet experience,” she said. “I remember dressing in white and what that meant to my family. It was a magnificent experience, and even though I was really young, I remember the feelings I had, glimpses of white, and the beauty of that day. That experience gave me my first desire to keep the temple in my life always.”

Recently, while touring a mission, I met with missionaries which demonstrated many examples of faithfulness and all that the word implies. One of the missionaries is Elder Brad Bagan. He is a quadriplegic. He was injured playing in a neighborhood football game. He has very limited use of his hands. With great determination and persistence he has developed the ability to stand with a walker and pull himself along for short distances. He is a successful and happy missionary and an example of faithfulness to all the missionaries and members in that mission, and to all others who know him. He speaks with boldness and love. The companions who serve with him come to realize that if he, with all of his personal challenges, can successfully and cheerfully do missionary work they have no reason or excuse to keep from laboring themselves with all their heart, might, mind and strength. Through his demonstration of faithfulness he has shown many the way to victory on the path of happiness.

While this young elder was at the Missionary Training Center in Provo he had the opportunity to go the Provo Temple which is only a few blocks from the Missionary Training Center. Because of his severely debilitating physical condition it took him about two hours to make his arduous journey up the gently sloping hill to the temple on a very cold and windy day. When the MTC president learned about Elder Bagan's experience he felt very sad and told the Elder he would have been happy to provide transportation for him. Elder Bagan's response was impressive. He told the President not to worry or be concerned about what had happened. "It was worth it." The Prophet Joseph Smith taught that the pursuit of Holiness also keeps us on the pathway to happiness. The temple is a place of holiness and being worthy to enter there is essential to our eternal happiness. Whatever effort is required of us to go there will indeed be "worth it."

Sometimes temptation to let down her standards can be almost overwhelming, especially when a cherished goal comes in sight. Like the time Jenny was invited to meet with well-known disk jockeys from a major radio station—on a Sunday.
She wanted so much to be there, supporting her hospital team and meeting influential people, possibly improving her career opportunities. Workmates kept pressuring her to go. But she refused, at the same time explaining her feelings for the Sabbath.
“I felt awful letting them down,” she says, “but I’d have felt even more awful letting myself and Heavenly Father down—and my workmates, too, because eventually they would have seen me as a bad example.”

Then one day my father dropped another bombshell. He’d decided to leave BYU—Hawaii to take a position at the University of Wisconsin. My heart began to thud. How could he? How could he be so cruel as to take me to a state only a lake away from Michigan? There wasn’t a dry eye among us when we boarded the plane.
But here I was in Wisconsin—my sobs and pleas had fallen on deaf ears. I shot the mirror another grim glare and turned away resolutely. No, this time I wouldn’t start a new junior high with secondhand clothes and expectant smiles. I’d grown up a lot since Michigan and knew better than that.
My ploy worked. I didn’t look or act like a nerd and found friends instantly—of the wrong variety. This was the crowd who had an ever-present cigarette on their lips and an expletive to fit every occasion. They were happy to draw me into their circle.
“Wanna drag?” became a phrase I was to hear repeatedly that year as someone in the crowd lit up and offered to share their nicotine.
Did I want a drag? Of course I did. More than anything in the world I wanted to fit in and be a part of this crowd. But I couldn’t—I was a Mormon. And that made me mad. It wasn’t cool to be a Mormon. There were only three Mormons at my junior high, including myself and my brother. I was okay, but in my estimation, the other two didn’t have a chance of being accepted. I didn’t want to be connected with either of them in any way. I kept my religion squashed as far under a bushel as I could. When kids offered me a cigarette I didn’t say, “No thanks, I’m a Mormon and we don’t smoke.” I said, “No thanks, I don’t smoke.”
“Why not?” they often asked.
“I don’t know,” I’d mutter uncomfortably. “It’s bad for your health, I guess.”
“You’re smart,” they’d respond thoughtfully, happily continuing to puff. I looked on in misery.
This crowd loved dancing to the music of Jimi Hendrix and “The Doors” and so did I. They also liked having parties in kids’ basements when their parents weren’t home. The lights were dimmed, the cigarettes glowed, and kids paired off. I wandered around pretending to fit in.
How I longed to do what the others were doing so I could truly belong. I clung to the memory of those happy years in Hawaii, marching barefoot down Moana Street to the beach with a slew of friends surrounding me. In Michigan it was different. I hadn’t fit in because my clothes were outdated and I looked like Popeye’s Olive Oyle in cat glasses. But that wasn’t the problem here. Now I was an identical clone of my Wisconsin friends, and I still wasn’t one of them. Outwardly we looked alike, but inside we were miles apart. I was like one of those Idaho Spud candy bars my dad loves so much—dark and rough on the outside, but full of fluffy, white, squishy marshmallow on the inside. I was a good kid trying to look bad. It wasn’t much fun.
I didn’t want to give up my friends, but how was I to fit in when I didn’t smoke, drink, swear, or pair off? Although I wanted to participate, I could never bring myself to that point. Something always stopped me. Still, the daily contact with these friends took its toll.
My parents watched me change from a cheerful, studious eighth grader to a belligerent, hostile ninth grader. I refused to attend early-morning seminary and Mutual activities—when I could get away with it. In our family, missing Sunday meetings wasn’t an option, or I would have done that, too. Because I was exposed to so much crude language, swear words came involuntarily to my mind each time something bad happened.
Like a brand, I carry the memory of the day one of those words found its way out of my mouth. I was strolling home from school with several friends when a male acquaintance snuck up behind me and playfully yanked my long hair. Shocked and angry, I whirled around to face him. The word popped out before I had a chance to think. Everyone used that word in such situations, but my friends stared at me in disbelief. I tried to pass it off, but inside I was terribly ashamed and made sure it never happened again.
My report card suffered when I figured out it wasn’t cool to get good grades. I’d always been very competitive and at the top of my classes. Now it was an embarrassment to admit I’d earned an A on a test. I became lazy and sloppy.
I don’t like to think what might have happened if my father hadn’t dropped another of his now famous bombshells—this time a happy one. He’d taken a position in higher education in the San Francisco Bay area, and we would soon be on our way to California! It wasn’t as good as announcing that we were returning to Hawaii, but the prospect of becoming one of those California girls the Beach Boys were always singing about appealed to me. I had no regrets about leaving Wisconsin. I was growing weary of the pretense. I’m not sure how much longer I could have kept that scowl on my face and in my heart without snapping.
It was a good move, and I found friends both in and out of the Church with solid values and morals. I’ve reflected many times since on that year in Wisconsin. I’m grateful I’ve never again been so sorely tempted and wonder what kept me from becoming as dark and rough on the inside as I was on the outside.
Maybe it was the 15 years of gospel teachings I’d internalized at home and church that I knew deep down were true. Maybe it was knowing how disappointed my parents would be if they found out I’d done something wrong. Maybe it was because I knew they trusted me. Maybe it was their righteous and sincere prayers in my behalf. Maybe it was because somehow I always knew I wasn’t like those kids.
I’m not proud of my behavior and attitude, but in any case, I weathered the year without any terribly serious mistakes.
Meanwhile, I’ve decided that while living the gospel can seem at times a chore and a bore, if I can hang on and trust what I’ve been taught is true, I’ll be grateful—sometimes rather quickly. In my case I’ve found I don’t have to wait until I die (like I used to think) to be glad I made good choices.
A year later, away from the influence of those friends, I was profoundly grateful I hadn’t given up important gospel standards. In fact, I’ve been grateful all my life.

Brandon, another remarkable friend, has chosen to live with that same perspective.21 Paralyzed in an accident at age eighteen, just before he was supposed to leave on a full-time mission, he has spent as many years living with a lack of physical mobility as he did with a fully functioning and highly athletic body. Brandon will be the first to tell you that the change was excruciatingly difficult to accept, yet he has chosen to use his considerable gifts and talents to bless others, rather than dwell on what he wishes he still had. As he serves in a bishopric, his sensitivity to the Spirit allows him to understand, comfort, and encourage those with whom he counsels. Again, choosing to prioritize those things over which he does have control allows him to experience unexpected joy and to progress eternally.

“Andrew! The bus is here!” Nana called.
Andrew raced out the door. He waved goodbye to Nana, Papa, and his little sister, Amy. Amy was too little to go to school, so she stayed home with Nana and Papa.
Andrew liked school. He liked playing with his friends at recess. He liked his teacher, Ms. Kimball.
After morning recess, Ms. Kimball said, “Next week we are going to have Bring-a-Parent-to-School Day. When your parent comes, make sure they bring something from their job to show us. We’re excited to hear from them!”
Andrew’s face got hot. He didn’t have anything to say about his parents. He didn’t remember a lot about his mom. She left when he was little. And Andrew didn’t even know his dad.
Andrew listened as other kids talked about their moms and dads. Tony’s mom was a firefighter, and Jessica’s dad worked at the zoo. Everyone hoped her dad would bring a monkey or sloth to class!
“What about your parents?” Tony asked Andrew.
Andrew looked at his feet. He shrugged. “I live with my grandparents.”
Andrew loved Nana and Papa, but they didn’t have cool jobs. Nana sold blankets and baby clothes. Papa drove a food truck. Andrew wasn’t so sure about Bring-a-Parent-to-School Day.
That night Andrew read the first chapter of the Book of Mormon: “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents …” (1 Nephi 1:1).
I don’t live with my parents, Andrew thought. I just live with Nana and Papa.
Just then, Amy walked into Andrew’s room, hugging a fuzzy blanket. She held it up for Andrew to see. “Nana made!”
“Yeah, Nana made that blanket for you.” Andrew smiled a little.
He thought about all the nice things Nana did for him—making breakfast before school, helping with homework, playing games with him and Amy. Nana was a lot like a mom.
Then Andrew thought about Papa. Papa read stories to Andrew every night. He helped with homework too. He also taught Andrew how to ride a bike. Papa was a lot like a dad.
Andrew’s smile got bigger. He was really grateful for Nana and Papa. He still felt nervous about bringing a grandparent to school. But it was going to be OK. I may not have goodly parents, he thought, but I have goodly grandparents, and that’s something special.
On Bring-a-Parent-to-School Day, Andrew sat with Papa in the back of the class and listened to the other kids’ parents. Tony’s mom brought her firefighter uniform. She let everyone try on her helmet. Jessica’s dad brought a turtle from the zoo.
“Your turn, Andrew,” Ms. Kimball said.
Andrew walked to the front of the class with Papa. He took a deep breath and said, “My Papa drives a food truck. He meets lots of people, and he works really hard.”
Andrew looked up and saw Papa smiling. Then Papa talked about driving his truck. He also gave everyone a treat from his work! The kids in Andrew’s class asked Papa lots of questions about his job.
Andrew was happy to have Papa with him. He and Papa and Nana and Amy were a family—and they were a goodly one.

When I was sixteen in Billings, I went with a group to repel off the rim rocks rising up north of the Montana city. I had never done anything like this and was scared spit less. Now, I warn all of you: Do not do what we did. The guys parked their car close to the edge, blocked up the wheels with rock, and tied off ropes on the bumper. Those of us who can remember, back in the ancient days, car bumpers were made of steel instead of plastic. They strapped on me a homemade harness with a Karabiner and serpentine the rope through it; and then they placed a safety rope around my waist--just in case. The guys showed me what to do and lined me up at the rims ledge. My knees were shaking, I thought, "What have I got myself into and why did I let them talk me into this."

Getting up the courage, I jumped off the edge and before I knew it I was hanging upside down, screaming at the top of my lungs, about thirty feet below the edge, knowing any minute my life would be over. The guys from above, kept calling out to me, over and over again, "Turn around so we can pull you up."

After many attempts, I finally was able to pull myself around and then immediately they were all able to pull me up. I was never so thankful to be back to the top. Just a note, I did get the courage to do it again and was quite successful. I later loved it so much I got my own gear, and my friends and I would drive up to the top of the rims and foolishly tie off on my old 60 Chevy Bumper. Again, I caution you: Do not do this! Always and I stress always, have the right equipment and proper training.

I was recently assigned to preside over a stake conference at the Salt Lake Granger West Stake in Utah. During this event, I met a stake president who has diligently developed his ability to discern the promptings of the Holy Ghost through righteous living and daily repentance. As part of our ministering efforts, we coordinated visits to three households. Upon completing our final visit, we found ourselves with approximately 30 minutes remaining before our next engagement. As we traveled back to the stake center, President Chesnut received an impression to visit one additional family. We both agreed to follow this prompting.
We proceeded to visit the Jones family, where we discovered Sister Jones confined to bed due to illness. It was apparent that she needed a priesthood blessing. With her permission, we administered to her. As we prepared to depart, Sister Jones asked how we knew of her urgent need for a blessing. The truth is, we didn’t know. However, our Heavenly Father, who was aware of her needs, did know and inspired President Chesnut to visit her home. When we are receptive to the guidance of the still, small voice, we are better equipped to more effectively minister to those in need.

Even Elder Maxwell’s young grandchildren knew him for his emphasis on the scriptures. Many of you will probably remember that in his final general conference message he told about a time he visited his grandchildren late one evening. His grandson Robbie had already gone to bed. When Elder Maxwell arrived, his mother said, “Robbie, Grandpa Neal is here!” He heard a tired little voice from the bedroom saying, “Shall I bring my scriptures?” (CR, April 2004, 48; or “Remember How Merciful the Lord Hath Been,” Ensign, May 2004, 46). Like Josiah the boy-king and little grandson Robbie, we should learn early in our lives to love the scriptures, to feast upon them, and to learn from them.

As I grew up in Perth, Australia, religion was hit-and-miss for me. I was christened a Methodist, attended denominational schools, and sporadically attended a Baptist congregation with my grandmother. Despite this spiritual inconsistency, praying seemed natural to me—thanks to my grandmother, who shared her faith and taught me to read from the Bible. I am grateful for her consistent influence in my life because, despite my worldly pursuits, I intuitively began to build a belief in Jesus Christ. As I reflect back, I realize that Heavenly Father was preparing my heart to receive the restored gospel.
One preparatory event happened when I was in an auto accident while visiting France. Moments after I was strongly prompted to fasten my seat belt, the car skidded and plummeted down a 20-foot (6-m) embankment. Because of the warning voice and because I regained use of my feet and legs while others with similar injuries are often left permanently paralyzed, I began to understand that a divine power much greater than I was in control.
Two years later, while I was back in France as an exchange student, Kayla Barth, a fellow student from California, boldly invited me to attend church with her. Kayla’s unbounded enthusiasm for the gospel fascinated me. I hung on to every word as she shared the plan of salvation. It all sounded so familiar, as if I had heard it before.
When I walked into the Angoulême chapel for the first time, it was like being wrapped in a warm blanket. I had come “home.” That same day, in the Gospel Essentials class, the missionary who was teaching shared a powerful testimony of the First Vision. As he explained how the Holy Ghost testifies to us, warmth radiated from my heart and filled my entire body. This powerful witness left an indelible impression on me, one that has carried me through trials that have tested my faith.
About a month after first stepping into the Angoulême chapel, I decided to be baptized. I was 18 and didn’t need parental permission. But when I called my family in Australia with the joyous news, I was shocked and disappointed to discover they had a negative attitude about the Church and opposed my desire to be baptized.
This weighed heavily on my heart. Should I go ahead against the wishes of my family, whom I loved dearly? Or should I delay baptism until I returned to Australia, where I faced the possibility of greater opposition?
Matthew 19:29 helped me make the decision: “And every one that hath forsaken houses, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands, for my name’s sake, shall receive an hundredfold, and shall inherit everlasting life.” Was I willing to put the Savior first—even before my family? The answer was yes, and on December 16, 1989, I was baptized and confirmed a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My remaining time in France was filled with a peaceful joy I had never known before.
When I returned to Perth, my family welcomed me with open arms. But my attempts to share the gospel with them were met with stiff opposition. They even made arrangements for me to see religious “experts” who could “enlighten” me and help me to see the “error” of my chosen path. This was a great test of faith for me, and after an onslaught of anti-Mormon propaganda, I found myself questioning my decision.
Yet in the quiet chambers of my heart, I could not deny that what I had experienced in France was from God, so I sought the Lord’s Spirit to strengthen me. I fasted and prayed every Sunday for weeks, I buried myself in the scriptures, I received priesthood blessings for guidance and strength, and I attended church weekly to associate with the Saints. Instead of dwelling on what I couldn’t understand or didn’t know, I focused on those things that I did know: I am a child of God, Jesus is the Christ, Joseph Smith restored the Lord’s Church, the Book of Mormon and the Bible are the word of God, and families are forever. With this new perspective, my testimony began to grow and strengthen again.
The last challenge I had to face that year was the issue of being married in the temple without the presence of my family. A young man I had met in France and with whom I had been corresponding came from California to visit me for three weeks. It became clear to us both that we wanted to be married, but I was faced with another difficult decision: do I get married in the temple to be sealed for time and all eternity, or do I get married elsewhere so that my family can be a part of the ceremony?
I followed the counsel of my stake president and married in the temple in February 1991. At the time, my family felt deeply hurt, but they have come to recognize the Church as a blessing in my life. As they have watched our children grow in the gospel, they have expressed gratitude for the things that we are teaching them and for the kind of people they are becoming.
Recently one of my children expressed gratitude for the decision I made to accept the gospel and raise a family unto the Lord. Her sincerity moved me to tears because I realized that the decision to live the gospel had blessed not only my life but hers.
I am eternally grateful to Heavenly Father for the miracles and the influence of earthly angels who led me home to the gospel of Jesus Christ. Twenty years later I realize that all the trials, heartache, and risk of offending my family were worth it. The gospel is everything to me. It is true. It is my home.

A picture forms on my monitor involving a father aboard an airplane on a short business trip. He has with him his five-year-old son and is almost wishing his son were not there because it is a very rough trip. There are downdrafts and updrafts and head winds alternating with tail winds, and some passengers are feeling a bit queasy. Apprehensively, the father glances at his son and finds him grinning from ear to ear. “Dad,” he says, “do they do this just to make it fun for the kids?”
Good parents and family and leaders and friends do go to great lengths to make it fun for the kids, but the fun they are thinking of is wholesome fun; it hurts no one, and it lifts the spirit and is good to remember tomorrow and through a lifetime and forever. It never detracts from the real, long-term joy we came into this world to experience.

For example, years ago, on a small island in Tonga there lived an elderly sister by the name of Vaikato Tavutu. One day a group of Tongan building missionaries came to the island to erect a chapel. After they arrived, they discovered that this sister knew all the details for the design and layout of the building. The missionaries could not understand how she knew all this without ever seeing the blueprints. It turns out that decades before the building missionaries arrived, Sister Tavutu was experiencing an illness when the apostle, George Albert Smith, visited the tiny island and gave Sister Tavutu a priesthood blessing.

During the blessing sister Tavutu said she was able to understand all the words in her own tongue and he promised her that if she would be faithful, she would live to see a beautiful chapel erected on her island. She saw this chapel in a vision and saw that it would have a “gold steeple that shone in the sunlight.”

The supervising labor missionary went on to say:

“One day [many years after her vision, Sister Tavutu] became very ill. Her brother went to her and told her she had better repent of her sins and confess her lies [about her vision about the chapel which had never come]. He told her she knew that she had told lies all those years and now she was going to die with that on her conscience. Well, Vaikato recovered; and after many years, her vision was fulfilled.

“Vaikato was not certain of her age but thought she might be 102 or so. She was on the work site each morning helping to fill the barrels with water with which to mix the mortar; she was also carrying the coral bricks to the builders. I spoke to her through an interpreter and told her not to carry the water. The buckets were too heavy for her and the men could do it. I also asked her to please only carry one brick at a time, as they were about the size of our cinder blocks. However, as soon as I was out of sight, she started carrying two bricks at a time again. One of the Tongan builders came to me and asked for some gloves for Vaikato because her hands were bleeding from the rough blocks. I got down from the scaffold and went to the lady, admonishing her again through the interpreter to only carry one brick at a time. I took off my gloves and gave them to her.

“The tears started running down Vaikato’s cheeks, and I thought I had wounded her feelings. Then I noticed the tears rolling down the interpreter’s face. He told me: ‘The little lady said that the Savior’s hands had bled for her and that she was not ashamed to have her hands bleed for the Savior’s work.’” (Eric Shumway, Tongan Saints: Legacy of Faith, 178-180).

Let me encourage you faithful married couples without children at home to go on missions. The Lord needs you out in the mission field. Forget your fears. We don’t expect you to do everything the young missionaries do. In fact, I was in Idaho trying to eliminate the fears of some high priests, and I said, “You retired couples don’t have to memorize scriptures like the young missionaries, you don’t have to memorize any presentations unless you want to.” I told them, “You don’t have to get up early in the morning like the young missionaries do to study, and if it is raining or snowing, you don’t have to go outside until you feel up to it. …” At that point a fellow down in the middle shot up his hand and said, “When can I go? That’s a better life than I’ve got now!”

Recently, I attended a stake conference and heard a story of member activation that moved me deeply. The bishop of one of the wards in the stake took a keen interest in arousing inactive brethren to Church activity. He knew that the first step was one of communication, that he must have a meaningful visit with each inactive brother.
So he began by telephoning one of them. The wife answered the phone and said, “Bishop, I surely appreciate your call. My husband is outside, but I will have him come to the phone.”
When the husband heard that it was the bishop that wished to speak to him, his reaction was as expected. He attempted to sidestep this phone call and responded, “Tell the bishop that I’m out sawing logs,” and with a humorous touch, “Tell him I’m dead.”
The brother spoke the truth more literally than he realized. It was true. He was sawing logs, and tragically, he was dead to the spiritual things of his life.
A good wife, however, is a mighty force in any man’s life, and, in a kindly manner, she persuaded her husband to come to the phone.
Then the bishop, using the power of suggestion and in a friendly voice, said, “I should very much appreciate having a visit with you for a few moments this evening in my office.” The brother couldn’t refuse so warmhearted an invitation, and a meeting took place.
The testimony of the bishop and his deep concern kindled a fire in the heart of the inactive brother, and he agreed to join the temple preparation class that was about to begin.
Each session, taught by a tactful teacher with a great knowledge of the truth and an inspiring testimony, motivated the inactive brother. He resolved to strengthen his family and bind them together eternally through the blessings of the temple.
This good brother may still be sawing logs, but there is now much more. He has added for himself an indescribable dimension of happiness, as well as joy to the lives of each and every family member.