Gospel Story Finder

There may be times in our lives when it feels like the gospel process isn’t working the way we expected. What do we do then? We may have questions like “Why do none of my efforts seem to make any difference? How can I know I’m on the right path when nothing is happening?” As I’ve thought about trusting the process and how it can help answer these kinds of deep personal questions, I remembered an “ah-ha” moment I had years ago while living in Nauvoo.

One morning, from the shore of the Mississippi River, I could see almost the entire length of a one-mile-long train that was stopped on the tracks on the opposite side of the river. While sitting there, I heard the engines of the train start to rumble to life. The sound got louder and louder, reaching a deafening volume that could be heard across the river, even causing a vibration in my car. I curiously watched as the stationary train was straining for all it was worth in order to get moving. Yet I saw nothing—not even the slightest twitch of the train for quite some time. It took several long minutes of great energy from the loud revving engines before the train inched ever so slightly forward. A continual enormous amount of effort was required for the train to overcome its resting inertia. All of that energy, time, and hard work in the beginning was required before any movement was perceptible. Eventually, the train slowly picked up speed and many minutes later the caboose finally left my view.

The Lord taught me a lesson about trusting the divine process as I watched the train. Sometimes in our lives, we might feel like we are putting in an incredible amount of effort to do all the right things, but we can’t seem to see any results. We feel like we are at a complete standstill or spinning our wheels. We question if the process works. My experience with the train taught me that every effort we exert in the process of becoming more like the Savior is making a tremendous difference in our ability to move down the path. In some cases, it takes time and a lot of patience before our actions start picking up enough momentum to be noticeable.

In addition to digging, Abram has another great love—the Book of Mormon. When his younger sister passed away in 2005, Abram read the Book of Mormon for comfort. He says, “As I started reading it more, I really got interested, and now I’m studying more and more.”
Abram has learned a lot while studying. “It gave me a stronger testimony when Christ came to teach the people. And it talked about a lot of things that He taught that we still do today. That was a big leap in my testimony. It was really special,” he says.

To illustrate what he meant when he said, “and not to the bringing forth my word only, . . . but to the convincing them of my word, which shall have already gone forth among them,” I’d like to tell you a little experience I had when I was on a mission over in Holland. I was invited to talk to a Bible class of businessmen in The Hague. We met in the home of a prominent furniture dealer. There were about twenty men; the only woman there was the daughter of the man of the house. Each had his Bible, and they gave me an hour and a half to discuss universal salvation, which includes our work for the dead. I just gave them chapter and verse and an explanation and let them look it up in their own Bibles and read it. People believe it more readily when they read it themselves. Then when I was through I closed my Bible, laid it on the table, folded my arms, and waited for a comment. The first comment came from the daughter of the man of the house. She said, “Father, I just can’t understand it. I’ve never attended one of these Bible classes in my life that you haven’t had the last word to say on everything, but tonight you haven’t said a word!”
He said, “My daughter, there isn’t anything to say. This man has been teaching us things we’ve never heard of and has been teaching them to us out of our own Bibles.” That’s what the Lord meant when he said that the Prophet of this dispensation should not only bring forth his word but would bring men to conviction of his word that had already gone forth among them. I could tell you many more stories like that.

In my sophomore year of high school, after I had been learning and teaching from Preach My Gospel, a friend of mine came up to me during weight-lifting class and said, “Hey, Tanner, you’re Mormon, right?”
A little nervous, I answered, “Yeah, I am.”
“Can you answer a couple questions for me about your Church?” he asked.
I started to panic. What if I didn’t know the answers to his questions, or what if I just sounded stupid? Then I thought about it for a minute: “I’ve done this before. I’ve practiced in the class we have every month, and I can answer these questions. It’s no big deal. Why am I so scared?”
Because of what I had already learned and practiced, I was able to answer some of his questions and point him in the right direction. He got in touch with the missionaries and was later baptized and served a mission.

The report of that mistake, which I found in my files as I did research for this talk, reminded me of an even greater embarrassment that occurred during my own time as president of BYU. This one has never been reported, but since nearly forty years have now passed and since I do not want to continue selfishly concealing my unique knowledge of this matter, I choose to share it now.

In April 1974, BYU conferred an honorary degree on our beloved apostle Elder LeGrand Richards. Honorary degrees are titled by the awarding institution. Most frequently they are titled Doctor of Laws. In a creative moment, our BYU administration and board of trustees decided to give a unique title to Elder Richards’ degree: Doctor of Christian Service. The diploma was prepared and put into my hands, suitably framed in a presentation folder. With loving formality I presented it to Elder Richards in the commencement exercise.

As we took our seats, Elder Richards opened the folder and examined the diploma, which I had neglected to do. As the program went forward, he quietly handed me the opened folder and I read the beautifully inscribed degree: Doctor of Christian Science. Typical of that great gentleman, he never said anything about this embarrassing mistake. As for me, I quietly retained possession of the erroneous document, and we soon provided the correct one. Perhaps we will now have to endure the publicity we avoided in 1974, but I suppose we are now more suited to do so.

I remember the first time I encountered the Americans. We came through a dense pine forest, and we had to go across the street. We opened the branches and all of a sudden a huge tank was right in front, and the gun was aimed at us.
I was scared. I had never seen an American tank or an American. The top of the tank opened, and an American came out. Russian prisoners who had been freed by the Americans were sitting on top. They saw that we were shaking. The American asked me where we came from and where we wanted to go. I told him we wanted to go home. “No way,” he said. “You just jump on here, and we’ll take you along. At the next stop we’ll put you on a truck that will take you to a camp.”

The Russian soldiers seated on the tank made me think of a possible solution to our dilemma. During the war the feeling of love I had learned all my life in church was in my heart. I didn’t hate anyone. I thought about being my brother’s keeper.

The Russian soldiers imprisoned in our camp weren’t treated well. They went without much to eat and we had plenty, so we asked them to clean our mess kits, and they consented. We left food in them all the time just to feed them.

My commanding officer noticed, and he called me in. “What do you do with your mess kits?”
“The Russians clean them for us,” I replied.
“I checked and there was food in them.”
“We cannot eat it all. That’s why we leave it in there.”
“You know that’s strictly forbidden. I could report you and you would be in trouble. Don’t do it again,” he said, and patted me on the shoulder.

One of the Russians to whom we had given the food wrote me a note. He told me that whenever we lost the war or I needed help from the Russians to show them this note.

I had put it in my pocket, and at the moment that we were confronted with that tank I remembered it. I pulled it out and gave it to the Russians. They read it and then all of a sudden said, “Friend! Friend!” in German and talked to the American, telling him that I had given food to the Russians. He said, “I hear you have been good to the Russians. Instead of us taking you along, just go ahead.”

The first Christmas after my baptism, I felt that I would like to do something nice for someone in need. Since I had made most of my gifts, I thought I might be able to share some of the money I had saved. I hoped I had enough to buy someone a nice Christmas dinner.
Three days before Christmas I counted my money. I had $20. I asked my mom to ask the bishop what would be the best way to donate the money. He said there were families right in our area that needed help. The next day my dad and I walked to the bishop’s house. I had a special feeling inside as I handed him the money. I knew it was the Holy Ghost telling me that I was doing what Jesus wanted me to do.
On Christmas Eve my family enjoyed a delicious Christmas dinner. I had a big smile on my face, and my mom asked me what I was thinking about. I told her I was thinking about the family who got my donation. I was hoping that they were having a merry Christmas. The happy feeling I got from giving to a family I didn’t even know was better than any present I received. I will keep trying to follow the Savior.

Jaanus Silla was in his last year in high school in Harjumaa, Estonia, when he started thinking seriously about religion.
Although he lived in a country that frowned upon worship, Jaanus still knew a few things. His mother, a divorcee, had taught him to believe in God. Sometimes, when he was younger, they had attended a Christian church at Christmas, after trimming their tree with candles and waiting for Jôuluvana, the Estonian Santa Claus.
Recently, while trying to decide about his future, Jaanus had even prayed for the first time. He remembered the prayer, short but sincere:
“Father in Heaven, if you exist, then help me.”
He finished high school and went to work in a photo studio, developing film and studying photography while his search for spiritual truth continued. Meanwhile, the tremor of political change had begun to softly shake Estonian life. People began to question the government openly for the first time.
One evening Jaanus and some friends carried the Estonian flag, fluttering over their shoulders, on the way to a patriotic song party. Enraged police saw the flag and chased them down. When they caught them, the police grabbed the flag and ripped it, but Jaanus and his friends were only reprimanded. This treatment by the police was a big change for the better.
“There is a special feeling in Estonia,” Jaanus later explained in an excited voice to his mother. “People are patriotic. We all feel this new warmth and happiness.”

I grew up without a dad, so I always turned to Heavenly Father for support. I would kneel by my bed and just talk to him, sometimes even cry. I always felt that he was there—loving and caring for me—just like a real dad.
I suppose I had been searching for the truth for some time. I had visited many of my friends’ churches, but all of them described my Heavenly Father as a mean and spiteful God. I knew this could not be the same being I had been talking to all my life.
Then, one Saturday afternoon, two young men dressed in suits showed up at our house. Their accents were different from the Chicago sounds I was used to. They were from Gary, Indiana, the home of the largest Sunday School in the Midwest, they said. Every Sunday they brought up a big school bus to drive people to their service. And they promised anyone who rode in the bus would receive a free goldfish.
My younger sister Mary thought that was cool. She would go anywhere for a free goldfish. Mom agreed with a little hesitation. I think she had been searching for the truth too. I thought that giving away free goldfish sounded like a commercial more than a church, but I agreed.
The next morning the huge yellow school bus pulled up in front of our house, and we boarded. But about three blocks down the road, the bus driver drove into the back of a parked car. What a mess!
The police came and found out that the driver didn’t even have a license to drive the bus. They took him down to the station and left us stranded. After a few minutes of sitting in the bus, Mom decided that it wasn’t meant to be, and we walked home. Mary was upset because she didn’t get her goldfish.
About a week later, we heard a knock on the door. Mary answered it and again found two young men in suits standing at the door. They were from some church and had funny sounding accents too. Mary was still sore about the goldfish. “We’re Catholics, and we don’t want any,” she said, in her best imitation of Mom’s voice.
“We’d like to talk to your mom anyway,” they persisted.
Mom went out and sat on the front porch with them for quite a while. She came back with a blue book in her hand. “Did they have goldfish?” Mary asked.
“No, but I think they might have something better,” Mom replied.
A few weeks later, after Mom had finished reading the blue book she called the Book of Mormon, she let them come back and teach us. As I listened to their description of Heavenly Father—a warm, loving Father who cares for us and wants us to return to him—a comforting feeling came over me. I could feel tears flowing down my cheeks. Finally, I knew I could stop searching. I had found the truth, and there were no free goldfish attached.

MORRIN: And he's also engaged to be married soon. So, Clayton, I really appreciated what you shared on the discussion board. Would you mind sharing with us your experience?
BRASSFIELD: So when I returned home from my mission, the very first job that I had was at a lumber mill. And working at the lumber mill was a lot different than any job I'd ever had. It was a lot harder, and I had no experience. When I first started, I was really, really terrible at my job. I had a lot of times where I just wanted to give up, because I knew that the guys that I worked with didn't like me because I was so bad. I knew that if I didn't get better, I could lose my job. One thing that always helped me to persevere and to finish this job and not quit when I wanted to or when I had other opportunities for other jobs was asking myself the question of how I could expect my future children to persevere in hard things when I couldn't do it myself. And when I thought about that, it helped me to continue on, and I eventually became really good at my job and became one of the best employees that they had. And now when I'm off track or not at school, they allow me to come back and work, even if it's just for a week at a time.
MORRIN: Thank you, Clayton. Like I shared with you earlier, I really appreciated the long-term perspective you had when you were trying to figure out what you were going to do and if you were going to continue in this job that was really hard at the time, that you looked forward to the future and considered your own future family. So thank you for sharing that.

This story happened in Canada.
“Mamá, guess what?” Ana’s older sister, Mila, said. She held up her report card from school. “I have As in all my classes!”
Ana rolled her eyes. Why did Mila always have to be so perfect?
“That’s great,” Mamá said. “I’m proud of you.” She turned to Ana. “And how are your grades?”
Ana handed Mamá her report card. “They’re fine,” Ana said, looking down. Ana tried hard in school. But she didn’t have perfect grades like Mila did.
“I’m proud of you too,” Mamá said. She gave Ana a hug.
She’s just saying that to make me feel better, Ana thought. Mila had always been smarter than her.
But Mila wasn’t just better at school than Ana. She was better at everything. She had more friends. She had prettier hair. She was better at sports. Everyone loved Mila.
Ana’s parents tried to help.
“You are so important, Ana,” Papi would say.
“You are beautiful and smart,” Mamá would say.
But Ana didn’t feel important or beautiful or smart. Not compared to Mila.
One day Ana and Mila were playing a board game. “Looks like you won again,” Ana groaned.
“Want to play something else?” Mila asked. “We could go outside. I bet you’ll beat me at soccer!”
“No!” Ana snapped. “I’m tired of losing, and I’m tired of you always being better than me.” She felt like there was hot water boiling inside her.
Mila’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry—”
Ana turned and ran to her room before Mila could finish. “I’ll never be perfect like you!” she said, and slammed the door.
Ana lay on her bed with her face in her pillow. She felt so angry!
She huffed some deep breaths. When she was calm, Ana knelt to say a prayer. “Dear Heavenly Father,” she said, “please help me. I’m always jealous of Mila.” Her voice got quiet. “I feel like I’ll never be good enough. Do You really love me?”
A warm feeling spread from Ana’s head down to her toes. Then she had a thought. Heavenly Father loved people because they were His children. Not because they were the best. Maybe Ana didn’t have to be better than anyone else to be loved. She was loved right now.
Ana stayed on her knees. She didn’t want the good feeling to go away. Heavenly Father did love her—a lot.
Then there was a gentle knock at the door. It was Mamá. She sat on the bed next to Ana. “I heard you were upset.”
Ana nodded. “Yeah. I feel better now though. I know I shouldn’t be angry at Mila for getting good grades or winning. And I said a prayer, which helped a lot.”
Mamá put her arm around Ana. “How did you feel when you prayed?”
“Good,” Ana said. “I felt like I was really important to Heavenly Father.”
Mamá pulled Ana close. “You’ve always been really important—to Heavenly Father and to us. But I’m glad that you know that now.”
“Me too. I’m going to tell Mila I’m sorry for yelling at her.” Ana smiled. “And ask if she wants to play soccer!”
Illustrations by Marina Martin

When I was baptized I wanted to have a strong testimony like other members of the Church. I fasted and prayed until I gained a small testimony, but I still felt a little sad. Then I read “A Growing Testimony” by President James E. Faust, Second Counselor in the First Presidency, in the January 2001 Liahona (Spanish). President Faust said that our testimonies will continue to grow, and I know this is true. My testimony is getting stronger every day. I’m grateful and happy to be a Latter-day Saint and to have a growing testimony.
Gilberto Cordero Castro,Coronado Branch, San José Costa Rica Toyopán Stake

As the years go by, I continue to reflect on the Sabbath days of my youth and young adulthood. I still remember the first day I passed the sacrament as a deacon and the little glass cups I passed to the members of our ward. A few years ago a Church building in my hometown was remodeled. A compartment in the pulpit had been sealed. When it was opened, there were some of these little glass cups that had remained hidden for years. One of them was presented to me as a memento.
As I think about those sacrament cups from my youth, one in the sheltered valley of my boyhood home and the other thousands of miles away in the Pacific, I am filled with gratitude that the Savior of the world was willing to drink from the “bitter cup”17 for my sake. And because He did, I can say with the Psalmist, “My cup runneth over”18 with the blessings of His infinite and eternal Atonement.

As a thirteen-year-old deacon's quorum president, one fast Sunday I encouraged the entire deacons' quorum to go up as a group to bear our testimonies. Part of my motive was quite deaconish as I suggested, "Let's make the bishop faint." All of us went to the stand together, and each of us bore his testimony, even the rascal of the group. When my turn came, I stood to bear my testimony. I said only a few words and was surprised to find myself in tears. Something happened that I had not expected. I had shared a Primary testimony many times before, but this was different. I was concerned about the health of a grandfather figure in my life. A powerful feeling came into my heart, an assurance of God's eternal plan. The fire of testimony burned in my soul, and I knew that the Church was true. I have never forgotten that event or those feelings.

Annette swung her blue vinyl scripture carrier back and forth as she ran down the sidewalk and leaped up the steps of the church. Even though she couldn’t read yet, she had wanted her own scriptures, and today she was bringing them to Primary for the first time. “Look, Sister Harris! Look what I got for my birthday!” she said excitedly, waving her scriptures.
“That’s great! We’ll be using them in Sharing Time today,” Sister Harris said, smiling.
Annette watched curiously as Sister Harris carried a big blue dishpan of water, some building blocks, and various other things into the classroom. Annette couldn’t wait for Primary to begin.
“Today,” said Sister Harris, “we are going to learn about some Book of Mormon people called the Jaredites. They lived in a place called Babel. Wicked people there thought that they could get to heaven by building a high tower instead of by keeping the commandments.”
Sister Harris placed a red block on a green one, then added blue and yellow ones to make a tower. “Heavenly Father was angry with what they were doing,” she said, “so He made it so that the people couldn’t understand each other. Voulez-vous m’aider?” she asked, motioning toward the blocks and looking around the room. “Personne ne me comprend?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.
All the children giggled. “What are you saying?” Annette asked.
“I was asking if anyone would like to help me build the tower. You couldn’t understand me because I was speaking French,” Sister Harris explained. “That’s like it was in Babel. The people couldn’t understand each other, so they stopped building the tower. The Jaredite family was righteous, though, and Heavenly Father allowed them to keep their language. He told them that He would lead them across the ocean to a promised land.”
Sister Harris picked up a round plastic container with a snap-on lid. It was painted brown to look like a boat.
“The Lord told the brother of Jared exactly how to build eight barges. Each barge, which is a kind of boat, was built to be strong and tight—like this container—and each had a closable hole in the top and bottom so that whichever hole was out of the water could be opened.”
Sister Harris put the container in the pan of water and pushed it under to make big waves go over its top.
Annette looked puzzled. “But how did they see when it was dark?” she asked.
“Good question, Annette,” replied Sister Harris. “They didn’t have electricity like we do, so the Lord told the brother of Jared to think of a plan. The brother of Jared prepared sixteen small clear stones, one for each end of each barge.”
Sister Harris counted to sixteen as she took some tiny rocks out of a box. “The brother of Jared asked the Lord to touch the stones with His finger so that they could give off light. He did as He was asked, and the Jaredites were able to travel safely to the promised land.” She swished her hand in the water until the container reached the other side of the pan, then dried her hands on a towel and picked up her scriptures. “The story about the Jaredites is in the book of Ether, near the end of the Book of Mormon.”
Annette’s teacher helped her carefully turn the pages of her new scriptures till she found the right place. “Now,” she said, “to help you always find the story of the Jaredites, draw a picture of a barge right in your scriptures. Then your mom and dad can read it to you.”
Annette chose several of Sister Harris’s colored pencils. She drew a purple boat, squiggly blue lines for water, and two tiny yellow circles inside the boat for the stones of light. Then she drew a finger so that she would remember that the Lord had touched the stones.
After Primary, Annette hurried to the Relief Society room to find her mother. “Look, Mom,” she said, opening her Book of Mormon right to the picture she had drawn. “I can find the story of the Jaredites all by myself now! Will you read it to me right after dinner, please?”

On April 30, 1844, the ship Timoleon came in sight of the small Pacific island of Tubuai, 640 kilometers (400 miles) south of Tahiti. Canoes filled with men paddled out to greet the passengers. When they met Elders Addison Pratt, Noah Rogers, and Benjamin Grouard, the first Latter-day Saint missionaries to arrive in the region, they greeted them happily. For nearly 50 years, Tubuaians had received Christian missionaries—most from the London Missionary Society—and embraced Christian teachings. Previous missionaries had occasionally visited the island’s two villages, Mahu and Mataura, but they usually stayed only a short time. Telii,1 a local woman from Mataura, was also excited when she learned that new gospel teachers were on the island. The island’s kings and chiefs attempted to convince one of the missionaries to remain as their teacher, and Telii and her husband, Nabota, offered their home as a place for the missionaries to stay.2
The missionaries initially declined these invitations. The people, anxious to have them stay, persisted. “I took the subject into prayerful consideration,” Elder Pratt said, “and was soon convinced that should I leave this island, I should be running away from duty.”3 Elders Grouard and Rogers sailed on to Tahiti while Elder Pratt remained and accepted the invitation to live with Telii and Nabota. The couple immediately began helping Elder Pratt study the local language, and they learned the gospel as visitors asked Elder Pratt to interpret scripture, offer spiritual guidance, and provide healing blessings.4 As Telii and Nabota listened to Elder Pratt preach, the fire of a growing testimony was kindled in their hearts. In late July 1844, Telii and Nabota were the first natives of Tubuai to be baptized. Many others soon followed.

Many years ago when I served as a bishop, I presided over a large ward with over 1,000 members, including 87 widows. On one occasion I was visiting, along with one of my counselors, a widow and her mature handicapped daughter. As we left their apartment, a lady from the apartment across the hall was standing outside her door and stopped us. She spoke with a foreign accent and asked if I were a bishop; I replied that I was. She told me that she noticed I often visited with others. Then she said, “No one visits me or my bedfast husband. Do you have time to come in and visit with us, even though we are not members of your church?”
As we entered her apartment, we noticed that she and her husband were listening to the Tabernacle Choir on the radio. We talked with the couple for a while, then provided a blessing to the husband.
Following that initial visit I stopped by as often as I could. The couple eventually met with the missionaries, and the wife, Angela Anastor, was baptized. Sometime later her husband passed away, and I had the privilege of conducting and speaking at his funeral services. Sister Anastor, with her knowledge of the Greek language, later was to translate the widely used pamphlet Joseph Smith Tells His Own Story into the Greek language.

From the moment of his conversion, John Taylor was committed to giving his all to the Lord’s work. Through his decades of service, he placed his trust in the Lord, knowing that if he served faithfully, the Lord would sustain him and enable him to accomplish His will. On one occasion when Elder Taylor was preaching the gospel on the Isle of Man near England, he had arranged for the printing of some tracts he had written in response to the false accusations against the Church and the Prophet Joseph Smith. However, the printer refused to deliver the tracts until he was paid in full. Anxious to distribute the tracts as soon as possible, Elder Taylor prayed to the Lord for help, which was soon given.

A few minutes after his prayer was offered, a young man came to the door, and upon being invited to enter handed Elder Taylor an envelope and walked out. The young man was unknown to him. The envelope contained some money and a little note which read: ‘The laborer is worthy of his hire,’ and no signature was placed thereon. A few minutes later a poor woman engaged as a fish vendor came to the house and offered a little money to assist him in his ministerial labors. He told her there was plenty of money in the world and he did not wish to take her money. She insisted that the Lord would bless her the more and she would be happier if he would accept, whereupon he received the offering, and to his surprise the poor woman’s mite, added to what the young man had given him, made exactly the amount sufficient to pay the printer the balance due him (Andrew Jenson, Latter-day Saint Biographical Encyclopedia, 4 vols. (1901-36), 1:16).

Atami, Japan, is an attractive city located on the east coast of Honshu, about 100 kilometers south of Tokyo. It is a famous vacation resort with comfortable hot springs, splendid sunsets, and high cliffs overlooking the sea.
The main attraction of the cliffs of Atami is the beautiful view, but they also attract people for a different reason: from their edge, many have plunged to their death.
On a May evening in 1987, I was driving toward Atami. I couldn’t stop crying, and I didn’t want to see the sunset. As I drove, the memories of the past few years ached inside me.
I had worked hard while I was serving in the Japan Sapporo Mission, on the northernmost island of Japan, with its cold, snowy winters. I felt that the Lord accepted my service, but I did not anticipate what awaited me when I returned home. I didn’t understand why, after all the hard work, there didn’t seem to be any rewards.
Specifically, I felt unfulfilled in my search for an eternal companion. I had found few opportunities to date, while others seemed to be finding eternal happiness easily. Any relationship that I thought might be lasting ended. Though my family was worried about my depressed state, I received strength from my Heavenly Father, which helped me through this difficult time.
Then questions began to arise. Why did I have to suffer so much? Did Heavenly Father still love me? As a returned missionary, I could not deny that the Lord lived or that his Church was true, but I began to question his love for me. Then, one night, thinking that I would never have the opportunity to get married, I lost all hope, and Satan took control. I decided to take my own life rather than face any more heart-breaking experiences. I wrote a farewell note to my parents and began driving to Atami.
Then, two miracles happened. First, as I got closer to the coastline, prepared to drive my car off the cliffs into the ocean, I noticed that a wall had been built to prevent cars from going over the edge. Second, the Lord cleared my mind long enough so that I could stop the car and think about my actions. I realized I could never take my life.
Sobered and much calmer, I drove home to find my bishop at home with my parents. They are not members of the Church, but they knew they could trust Bishop Kashikura. He gave me a blessing, and it seemed the nightmare was finally over.
But a week later, I again had second thoughts about my purpose in life. I didn’t know what to do. On that same day, I received a letter.
The letter was mailed from the United States, which was no unusual because I have friends there. But this letter was different—there was no return name or address. All I knew was that it was mailed from Flushing, New York, the day after I had driven to Atami to try to end my life. However, I did not know anyone from Flushing, New York.
When I opened the letter I found, “To You!” written at the top. Enclosed was a copy of the song “Going Home,” written in both Japanese and English. As I read the words, tears filled my eyes. The words told me that when I found myself alone, my memories could keep me strong. With those memories, I could never forget there is a place where I still belong, a place I can always turn to for comfort: “Home.”
I cried and cried and finally felt assured that Heavenly Father does watch over me. He loves me! Until I had this experience, I thought heaven was very far away, but the song helped me understand that God is very near. When we are faithful, we are already in our heavenly home here on earth.
That was the first and last time I ever heard from Flushing, New York. Perhaps I will never know who sent me those words. The experience reminded me of something President Spencer W. Kimball said, “God does notice us, and he watches over us. But it is usually through another person that he meets our needs” (Ensign, October 1985, page 3). I am eternally grateful for the person who had ears to hear and acted upon the prompting from the still, small voice from heaven.
I will never forget this experience, and, no matter how great the trials I shall have, I will never forget the place where I want to be—home, my heavenly home.

Several months ago my husband performed the baptism of a dear friend. As I sat in the service, my mind and heart raced over her years of preparation for that single event—the principles carefully taught, constantly observed, and quietly accepted, the acknowledgment of God’s hand in life events, the sweet confirmation of the Spirit as difficult, but right, choices were made. My mind recalled the past and rejoiced in the present, and I couldn’t help but anticipate the future. I hoped with all my heart that this good woman would remain actively connected to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints for the rest of her life—that she would continue to learn and live the gospel and experience the fulness of its blessings.
I telephoned our newly baptized friend last week to ask how things were going for her. Her response was enthusiastic: “My husband and I have been called to teach the 15- and 16-year-olds, and I’m learning so much!” I felt reassured and excited. What better place than a classroom—for her and for each of us!