Gospel Story Finder

Jon Fuller is watching the horseshoeing demonstration when we catch up with him. He first heard about his Mormon Battalion ancestor in a general priesthood meeting talk. Jon was impressed with the story of a John Barnet Cole, who helped rescue a stranded handcart company and who had seen in a dream the woman he would marry. When he repeated the story to his mother, she told him that John Cole was his ancestor. Now, he is learning that his forefather was even more impressive than he had imagined. Jon sums it up: “He was pretty brave!”

Keeping the Sabbath day holy is important to Melynne Murdock, 14, a former Miss Hawaii National Preteen who helped change the statewide pageant because of her commitment.
When Melynne was informed that the 1989 pageant in which she was to turn over her crown was scheduled for a Sunday, she asked the director if it could be changed. The director explained that a suitable location for a Friday-Saturday event could not be found on the busy island of Oahu. But he agreed to a change if Melynne could find a place and work out the details. She did.
BYU—Hawaii hosted the 1989 pageant, and the director was so impressed that next year’s pageant has also been scheduled there.
Melynne, 14, has since moved with her family, which includes seven brothers, to Lake Arrowhead, California.

It was almost Christmas, and my apartment was the only one with lights on.
My friends were scattered all over Europe, and my immediate family was celebrating together in Finland. And here I was, alone in a little apartment in England, tears rolling down my cheeks, a letter in hand.
But I wasn’t crying because I was lonely—these were happy tears. The letter was from one of my closest friends, and it got me thinking about all the good times we had when we were younger. I had no idea that all those moments would mean so much to me in the future.
There have been times in my life when I’ve felt like the loneliest person in the world because of depression, wondering if I would ever find friends who would love me.
When I was a teenager in Finland, I had the coolest group of Church friends that I sometimes took for granted. But then we grew up, slowly drifting apart without really noticing, until we barely spoke at all.
After this, I fell into a deep depression. Losing closeness with these friends made me feel like a burden. I wanted to reach out to them, but I told myself it would be selfish to drag them into my misery. So I lived in isolation and only dug myself out of my self-made hole of sadness (my bed) when I had to keep up my façade that everything was fine.
Despite getting professional help and taking antidepressant medications, I was still miserable and lonely when summer came. I was desperately seeking for ways to talk to people, and I became even more anxious because I felt like I was so bad at it. But when I heard about a summer school program at my university, I applied simply to force myself out of my apartment.
On the first day, I participated in one group activity and then quickly slipped away to cry at home.
But I had been trying to get better for too long to give up that easily. So I went back.
I didn’t know how to make conversation, and I was stressed about getting to know these strangers. But I knew I had to try. I refused to be alone any longer.
When I felt self-conscious and afraid, I reminded myself that we are all children of heavenly parents. We may all seem very different because of our varying backgrounds and lifestyles, but we all come from the same place. And that can bring us together.
Slowly and steadily, my teammates and I got to know each other. We would hang out in our free time, and then one day we ended up sitting on my apartment floor playing cards and eating cake that we had baked together.
I wanted to open my window in that moment and scream, “I did it!” These friendships were miracles in my life.
When I connected with these friends, combatting my depression became a lot easier. I even opened up about my mental health to them. And it turned out that most of them had similar struggles to mine. Many of them were going through difficult things and confided in me because I opened up first. Being vulnerable brought me closer to others and gave me the strength, hope, and support I needed to heal.
In the fall, I ended up moving to England as an exchange student, and I had to start all over again with making new friends. But this time I was confident that I could do it.
When I was in the colorless depths of depression, I struggled to feel God’s love and His Spirit. But by showing love and service and making deep friendships, I was able to accept the Savior’s healing power and bring His light back into my life.
Depression can make life difficult at times, but it also teaches me how to realign myself with God’s plan and gives me great purpose in loving and connecting with others and myself.
Spending Christmas so far away from home would have once sounded unimaginably lonely. But knowing and trusting that God provides all that I need to make connections and find peace—no matter where I find myself on this planet—I know I don’t have to feel that old loneliness again.

My best friend lived in the apartment next door. Two years ago the missionaries came to her house and taught her the gospel. Mom and I sat with Lillie while she had the lessons. I soon turned eight, and Dad baptized both of us on the same day. I went to Lillie’s house every day after school. We always had doughnuts and played dress-ups, and we never had fights. Lillie had bright red hair, and she called me Judy even though I told her my name was Jody. She’d forget—I guess that happens sometimes when you’re almost 100 years old.
“Judy,” she’d say, “I’m so-o-o-o hungry. Let’s have a doughnut.” We’d sit down at her kitchen table. Lillie always took one bite of her doughnut and said, “This doughnut is pretty good, but it isn’t quite as good as my husband Marty’s. Did I ever tell you Marty was a baker?
“We had the nicest bakery shop. Marty got up before daybreak and baked the doughnuts; then while he slept, I waited on the customers. But he had a heart attack and died.” Lillie’s eyes filled with tears. “Did I ever show you our wedding picture?” she would ask, wiping away the tears and trying hard to smile.
I nodded my head because she showed it to me all the time. But Lillie would get out her photo album, anyway, and we would look at her pictures.
Every day Lillie asked, “How was school? You must study hard, Judy. I only got to go to the fifth grade. We didn’t have enough money. I needed to work. You are very lucky to get to go to school. Promise me you’ll study hard.”
I’d promise, and then we’d have a doughnut. Sometimes after I finished eating my doughnut and Lillie had told me about the bakery, she’d ask, “Would you like to play my piano?”
“Sure,” I always answered. I would play “I Am a Child of God” or “Book of Mormon Stories.”
“Oh, that’s just beautiful, Judy. This is my brother’s piano, you know. Mama sacrificed so that George could take lessons. He loved to play jazz. He bought this piano before he went to the war. But he died in the war. First George died, then Mama went, and then Marty. …”
I’d hug Lillie.
“I met Marty when I was seventeen. I was wearing a big satin ribbon in the back of my hair. He took me to the World’s Fair. It was in St. Louis, you know. We had to cross the Mississippi River on a ferry. I thought Marty was so handsome! Did I ever tell you that he was a baker?”
Lillie often showed me her certificate for sewing. “So many people liked my sewing that I finally put a sign in my window: Lillie’s Sewing and Alterations. Would you like to see the dresses I designed?”
Soon I’d be prancing around in a velvet evening gown with a pair of white lace gloves and gold glittery shoes. “Now for a hat. You can always tell a lady by her hat,” Lillie would tell me.
I’d add a feathery hat and twirl around.
“You look like a princess,” Lillie would say, clapping her hands.
It was at the end of fifth grade for me when Lillie moved to a nursing home. It was too hard for her to go to church anymore, but sometimes Mom took me to visit her. Lillie would be sitting in a wheelchair. “Oh, Judy, it’s so good to see you! Are you studying hard?” she always asked.
“I brought you some doughnuts, Lillie.” I’d put them on her lap and give her a hug.
“Oh, goody! I’m so-o-o-o hungry! You know, my husband was a baker, and he made the best doughnuts.” After she took a bite, she’d say, “Will you play the piano for me, Judy? George’s piano is in the dining hall.”
So I’d push Lillie to the cafeteria and play Primary songs.
One day she said, “You’ll be as good as George if you keep practicing. I don’t know where George is now, do you? George hasn’t come to see me, and neither has Marty. Where is my Marty?”
I was going to tell her they’d died long ago. Instead, I asked, “Lillie, do you like it here?”
Lillie had fallen asleep.
Every time I saw her after that, she was thinner and paler. “Judy, I’m so glad that you’re still in school. I only went to fifth grade. Judy, where is Marty?”
One day Mom got a phone call from the nursing home. She told me, “Jody, Lillie’s very sick. She wants to see you. It may be hard to see her … ?”
My stomach was in knots as I walked toward Lillie’s room. She looked tiny and frail lying in her bed, and her breathing was raspy. Her hair was white now. She was too sick to get it dyed. Mom and I went over to her bedside. I swallowed hard, then said, “Hello, Lillie—it’s me, Jody.”
“Ju-u-u-u-d-y,” she said, her voice scratchy and quiet. “Hug me,” she whispered.
I leaned over and hugged Lillie. Then I looked around her room. I saw her old dresser that held her dress-up lace gloves. On her nightstand were two books—the Book of Mormon the Elders had given her when she joined the Church and her photo album. Taped to the album cover was a picture of me. I smiled and hugged her again.
Suddenly her breathing was quiet. The nurse listened to Lillie’s heart, then turned to Mom and me and asked us to wait in the hall. Mom put her arms around me. I cried and cried. Finally the nurse came out. “Lillie is gone,” she said. She patted my shoulder and added, “Lillie loved you very much, Jody.”
That evening our bishop came to our house. “Hello, Jody,” he said to me. He shook my hand and then Mom’s and Dad’s. Then he took my hand again and patted it. “I am so sorry about Lillie, Jody. I understand that you were her good friend. I’m wondering if I could ask you a favor?”
Tears fell from my eyes as the bishop continued, “I have been asked to conduct Lillie’s funeral service, and since I’m new to the ward, I don’t know much about her. Would you mind telling me about her, Jody?”
I wiped away my tears and began to smile a little smile as I thought of all the stories I knew about Lillie. I began, “Did you know that Lillie’s husband was a baker?”

In modern history perhaps no more atrocious crime has been committed than the Holocaust, the systematic murder of millions of Jews, political prisoners, handicapped persons, and others by Hitler’s Nazi regime. Corrie ten Boom, a Christian political prisoner, survived the concentration camp at Ravensbruck, but her beloved sister Betsie did not. After the war Corrie traveled the world preaching sermons of reconciliation, peace, and forgiveness. Then it happened. She was called upon to practice what she preached. She records in her autobiography, The Hiding Place, the defining moment of her Christian discipleship:

It was at a church service in Munich that I saw him, the former S.S. man who had stood guard at the shower room door in the processing center at Ravensbruck. He was the first of our actual jailers that I had seen since that time. And suddenly it was all there—the roomful of mocking men, the heaps of clothing, Betsie’s pain-blanched face.
He came up to me as the church was emptying, beaming and bowing. “How grateful I am for your message, Fraulein,” he said. “To think that, as you say, He has washed my sins away!”
His hand was thrust out to shake mine. And I, who had preached so often . . . the need to forgive, kept my hand at my side.
Even as the angry, vengeful thoughts boiled through me, I saw the sin of them. Jesus Christ had died for this man; was I going to ask for more? Lord Jesus, I prayed, forgive me and help me to forgive him.
I tried to smile, I struggled to raise my hand. I could not. I felt nothing, not the slightest spark of warmth or charity. And so again I breathed a silent prayer. Jesus, I cannot forgive him. Give me Your forgiveness.
As I took his hand the most incredible thing happened. From my shoulder along my arm and through my hand a current seemed to pass from me to him, while into my heart sprang a love for this stranger that almost overwhelmed me.
And so I discovered that it is not on our forgiveness any more than on our goodness that the world’s healing hinges, but on His. When He tells us to love our enemies, He gives, along with the command, the love itself.

But there's more to this story. Amy wasn't the only angel that day. Again, since this was in the days before cell phones, I was supposed to be the message relay at our apartment. Ellen would call to tell me where she was with the tow truck, and Amy was supposed to call to find out Ellen's location. In the midst of my waiting, my parents called to see how my new apartment was--I had just moved in. I explained what had happened with Ellen's pickup and told them I had to get off the phone. Then my stepdad said something I'll never forget. He said, "Wait, she's in trouble. Where is she? I'll go get her." He was ready to drive across the state, six hours each way, to help a girl he had never even met. He probably would have driven her to Alaska. After I convinced him that Ellen would be okay with Amy's help, he let me hang up the phone, but only after I promised him updates about whether Ellen made it safely to her sister's house in Olympia. Later, I asked my stepdad why he was willing to help my brand new roommate--a girl he'd never met and he stated plainly--"she needed help. I'd want someone to help you."

There are ways to increase our association with our families while we serve in our Church callings by involving our families, when appropriate, in our Church service. Let me give you one personal example.
My father served as my bishop during the early years of my life. He was a busy man with a demanding legal practice. He was also active in civic affairs and in demand as a public speaker. And, of course, he was the father of six children. I was always grateful that my father had his priorities right. Mother was always his first priority. It was evident by the way he treated her. This was followed by a real dedication to each of his children.
When I was about six years old, I received a red wagon as a Christmas gift. It was exactly like this one in miniature. The little red wagon provided a real bond between my father and me. In his busy life, he had to find ways of involving his family in activities without diminishing his own productivity.
Much of his service as a bishop occurred during the Great Depression in the 1930s. Many of our ward members were in desperate need. As the bishop, he had the responsibility of supplying the means to sustain their lives. This seemed to be a good activity for a bishop, his son, and the little red wagon.
I would come home from school and find stacks on the side of the garage—flour, sugar, wheat, and other commodities. I knew that that evening my father and I would have the opportunity of being together.
When he would arrive home, the little red wagon was loaded with supplies to take to a family. The two of us, walking and talking together, would complete our welfare assignment by delivering the commodities to those in need.
I was able to witness firsthand the love and care a good priesthood leader had for his ward members. More important, I had an opportunity of spending precious time with my father.

“I’m tired of being a clown,” Till sighed one day. “I think I’ll leave the circus.”
So, still wearing his clown suit, he set out on his way through the German countryside. By the time the sun had set, Till was quite tired. He stopped in front of a little village bakery. Mmmm—the bread and rolls sure look good, the traveler thought. How I’d like to bite into one of those freshly baked rolls!
“I need a helper, friend,” said the baker, who suddenly appeared at the door to his shop. “Can you bake?”
“Bake, uh, why of course!” answered the clown with a smile. Now Till knew as much about baking as an elephant knows, but he was hungry and needed to earn some money.
“Fine, you’re hired,” the baker said, leading him inside. “Here’s your apron. Now let’s go to work.”
Till watched the baker carefully and did whatever his master showed him. This was fine for a while, but one morning the baker announced, “I’ve been invited to a wedding feast in a neighboring village, and I won’t be back until tomorrow. Tonight you’ll have to do all the baking yourself.”
Till was worried and thought, What can I do with no one here to show me? With a puzzled frown he turned to the baker and asked, “What shall I bake?”
“What should you bake? Ha-ha, what a joke! Bake owls and monkeys for all I care!” The master laughed, for he thought Till was just asking a silly question. Laughing uproariously, he repeated, “Bake owls and monkeys for all I care!” Then he left, slamming the door shut behind him.
“Owls and monkeys,” Till muttered. “Then owls and monkeys I shall bake.”
He mixed the dough just as his master always did. When it had raised to twice its size, he punched it down and broke off a piece about the size of a small ball. He squeezed and patted it until he had made a monkey figure with a long curling tail, and he used raisins for its eyes. He made tray after tray of monkeys until he had filled five trays.
With the remaining dough he shaped owls with round heads atop their small squat bodies. He gave them raisin eyes too. From ten o’clock at night until three o’clock in the morning he worked, baking nothing but owls and monkeys.
Early the next day the master baker returned, expecting to see the bread and rolls all finished. Instead he found the bakery full of owls and monkeys. “What is this—a zoo?” he shouted.
Till held up a final tray proudly. “See,” he said, “I baked owls and monkeys just as you suggested. Don’t they look real?”
“Out, out, you chowderhead!” cried the master. “But first you must pay me for the dough you’ve wasted.”
Till thought fast. “All right, I’ll pay, but only if you let me take the owls and monkeys with me.”
“Take them,” said the angry baker. “What do I want with such foolishness?”
Till paid the baker and gathered up all the owls and monkeys. He put them into a large sack and quickly left the bakery. Then he ran off to the marketplace in the center of town where people were beginning to arrive to do the day’s shopping. When they saw the funny clown with his baked animals, they were indeed amused.
“Owls and monkeys!” exclaimed one woman. “Look at these!”
People gathered to look and to buy, and soon everything was sold. Not one owl was left. Not one monkey remained. Someone had even bought the sack!
When the baker saw all the excitement, he rushed out of his shop. “I’ll get that rascal!” he cried. “I forgot to charge him for the wood he burned in the bake ovens. He owes me more money.”
The angry baker looked all around the marketplace, but Till had gone. All he saw was a crowd of happy people with their owls and monkeys.
And where was Till? Who can say!”

As I was leaving one of our Church buildings in Montevideo, Uruguay—10 minutes away from the temple construction site—I received a call from my wife telling me that soon the statue of the angel Moroni would be placed on the spire of the temple. Many feelings came into my heart as I listened to the anxious voice of my wife asking me to come get her and our son so we could witness this event. There wasn’t much time left. I had to travel to the other end of the city and then return to the temple.
Our hearts beat rapidly and the minutes seemed like hours as we traveled. The heavy traffic almost wouldn’t let us through, but we finally arrived, thanks to the Lord’s help.
The weather had been gray, rainy, and moderately windy for several days. But this afternoon the sky was a clear, calm blue, and the sun’s rays fell upon our heads like the blessings of heaven.
When we arrived we found several other members who had also come to witness this important milestone in the history of the Church in Uruguay. Several members, among them my wife’s mother, were Church pioneers in our country. Their eyes filled with tears as they enjoyed the blessing—so long awaited—of seeing the construction of a temple here.
The sacrifice of many people who had spread the gospel was given symbolic expression in the brilliant sheen of the angel Moroni as he seemed to fly through the sky and then come to rest in a place of honor. There he announced to the world the Restoration of the everlasting gospel and the opening of the doors of a country that needed the Lord’s helping hand to progress.
We saw the statue, straight and majestic, reach its intended place, reminding us of the love of the Eternal Father, which would soon allow us to be sealed together in love in our own land. We hope that our children and grandchildren will go into the temple and make sacred covenants and be a blessing to the country.
We knew that there was much left to do—both before and after the temple’s dedication in March 2001. We needed to prepare for the times still to come, and above all else, we needed to remember our ancestors, because they also would be blessed by this holy house. But we will never forget that beautiful September day. Our hearts overflowed with gratitude that we were allowed to witness the placing of a symbol of our Heavenly Father’s love.

During my investigation of the Church, my mom was against my joining. But Dad gave his consent to my baptism and sometimes sat with me during discussions. I’m very grateful to him for that. To all the Latter-day Saints out there whose parents are members, I want to say, “Count your many blessings.” When you don’t have a family to go to Church with on Sunday, or the privilege of experiencing the spiritual enlightenment that the family home evening program brings, or have the Melchizedek Priesthood in your home, you miss out on a lot of blessings. But one great blessing I do have is a father and mother and family who love me. Since I joined the Church we’ve drawn closer together than ever before.

“Daddy,” Kelly said, “Will you help me say a prayer?”
“Of course, I will,” Daddy said. “Do you remember how to start a prayer?”
“Yes,” said Kelly. “‘Dear Heavenly Father.’ Is that right?”
“That’s right,” Daddy told her. “Now, what comes next?”
“We thank Him for our blessings.”
“Right again!” Daddy said. “Then what?”
“We ask Him for the things that we need.”
“And how should we end our prayer?” Daddy asked.
“‘In the name of Jesus Christ, amen!’ “ Kelly said excitedly. “I remembered all by myself!”
“Yes, you did,” Daddy agreed. “Do you know what things you want to thank Heavenly Father for?”
“I’m thankful for you and Mommy, and Tony and Kimmy, and Grandma and Grandpa. And I’m thankful for my friends to play with.”
“Do you know what you want to ask Heavenly Father for?” Daddy asked.
“To help me to be safe when I’m playing, to be nicer to Tony and Kimmy, to not get angry, and to remember to pick up my toys.”
“I’ll be glad to help you pray, Kelly,” Daddy said, “but it sounds like you can do it all by yourself.”
Kelly smiled at Daddy. “Yes, I can! But will you pray with me, Daddy?”
“I’d be honored to,” he said.

Sherman and Austin are two of many chimpanzees living at the Yerkes Regional Primate Research Center in Georgia. They, too, have learned to communicate with humans by means of sign language. Taking it one step further, however, they have now begun to converse with each other by this means. Located in separate rooms with a small opening between them, Sherman will use his computer keyboard to ask Austin for a certain food. Austin will read his request and then proceed to fill his order, choosing from among as many as fifteen different delicacies, such as orange drink, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and candies. These chimpanzees are now at the point where they are asking each other for specific tools to help them reach food in hard-to-get-at places.

A week later, the two of us were lying on the grass of the football field staring into the deep blue expanse above. We were the only people left after track practice.
“Can I ask you a question?” she said.
“Go for it,” I encouraged, not expecting to hear what came next.
“Does your church make you happy?”
I stared at her in surprise, my heart immediately leaping into my throat.
“Yes,” I croaked nervously. In our two-and-a-half-year friendship, she had never asked me anything about the Church. It was always me offering pieces of information hopefully, never getting much of a response.
“Why?” Annemarie ventured timidly. Before I could even take a breath, she rushed on. “Is it because you have friends in your church? Ever since I’ve decided not to party with my friends, it’s been harder than I thought it would be. Thank goodness I have you.”
I sensed her loneliness. I had watched her. She wasn’t teased or even shunned, but something was definitely different between her and her old friends. A sense of camaraderie had vanished.
“It must be nice to have lots of friends who don’t resent you for your morals,” she concluded wistfully.
“Annemarie,” I began carefully, “I have made wonderful friends through church. They’d all love to get to know you better too. You’re not as alone as you think. However, the Church does not make me happy because of my friends.” Gulping, I tried to keep my voice from wavering. “The Church brings joy because it’s true.” Suddenly I was overcome with warm confidence and satisfaction at bearing such blunt testimony.
Unfortunately, her reaction was not one of tears or even strong interest. Annemarie merely smirked. “That’s what my church says too. But it has not changed my life much.” She pulled herself off the grass and onto her feet, stretching toward the sky. “We’ve been here for almost an hour!” she exclaimed. “Race you to the locker room.”

When my husband Steve and I were first dating here at BYU–Hawaii, he was not a member of the Church and had spent the first two years of his education dodging missionaries. Then he met me, the great-great-great granddaughter of Kerisiano Te’o. Soon after our first date, we realized that we were heading down a path that most probably had marriage at the end of it. To me, that meant setting a date in the big white house on the hill. That meant that Steve needed to join the Church.

We set up lessons with the missionaries at my family’s home here in Laie, and Steve began to go to church with me in the Laie 2nd Ward. He would pick me up for church with his surfboard in his car, covered by a towel, and right after Sacrament meeting, he would say, “See you later!” and spend the rest of the day in the water on his beloved board.

After a while, not being known for my patience, I finally asked him what the hold-up was:
“Is it Joseph Smith?”
“No, I believe Joseph Smith had the First Vision.”
“Is it Jesus Christ?”
“No, I believe in Christ.”
“Is it the gospel?”
“No, I believe the gospel is true.”
“Then what?!”
“If I get baptized I won’t be able to surf on Sundays anymore,” he said.

That may seem like a small thing to those of us who are not surfers, but to Steve, who would surf before, in-between, and after classes, who came to BYU–Hawaii because it was the closest university to Sunset Beach, the consequences of becoming a member of the Church was to give up the one day when, as all surfers know, or at least Mormon surfers, that the waves are always the best.

Steve’s choice to take action 31 and a half years ago early in the morning at Clissold’s Beach where my dad baptized him has meant that we can be together forever, that our eight children are also ours forever. It doesn’t mean that it has become forever easy—he still won’t go check the waves on Sunday because it is not worth placing himself in temptation’s way.

One day, my family was driving home from the lake. I went with my Grandma Ninya. Grammy was visiting. My little cousin Tori and I were in the backseat. Tori was tired. I whispered, “You can go to sleep, baby,” and she said, “Sing me Jesus.” I asked her, “Sing Church songs?” She said yes. So I sang “I Love to See the Temple.” Then I sang “Do As I’m Doing” and “I Am a Child of God.” She fell asleep. As I sang, I felt something inside of me. I felt the Holy Ghost. I am glad my cousin knows about Jesus and honors Him.Hillary Odom, age 10Ogden, Utah

What happened to Paola Yáñez, her doctors said, was a medical miracle. The Quito, Ecuador, teenager’s condition suddenly improved, her father was able to give her one of his kidneys, the transplant operation was a success, and she had a second chance at life.
But Marco Yáñez, her father, says that what happened to him was equally amazing. He found the gospel, and the change it made in his life gave him a second chance too.
A childhood bout of nephritis had damaged Paola’s kidneys, but medicine had helped her live. When she was 15, however, her condition worsened. One kidney failed, and the other was deteriorating rapidly. Despite dialysis treatments, Paola was slowly dying. She was allowed to drink only a cup of water a day, and her activities were severely restricted because her lungs, pancreas, and heart had been affected.
It was impossible to take her to the United States or Cuba for a transplant—she would have to find a donor in Ecuador. Tests showed that her father could not be a donor. Her mother could, but then doctors found that dialysis had left Paola’s level of antibodies so high that the transplant would be rejected. Paola prayed that somehow her life would be spared.
At this point, in June 1988, the Latter-day Saint missionaries knocked on the Yáñez family’s door. Paola’s mother, Carmen, recalls that she invited them in so she could taunt them. When they told her they had a message that could help her, she angrily said, “How can you help me when my daughter is dying? I don’t believe there is a God!”
Despite Carmen’s initial antipathy, the missionaries continued to visit the family. At first Marco felt that he was simply too involved in his daughter’s care to pay attention to the missionaries. But finally he listened, out of curiosity. He found they had answers to his questions about the purpose of life.
Marco did not believe in a personal God. For him, God was a universal energy source or a great, distant being uninvolved with human beings. But when his daughter’s condition was at its most critical, he prayed, asking God to either heal his suffering daughter or take her. He prayed, “If You exist, please show me. Please give me the life of my daughter.”
Following his prayer, Marco felt strongly that Paola’s condition would change. He asked the doctors to test him and his daughter again. They told him the test would be a waste of time, but they agreed to do it.
They found that Marco actually was a suitable donor—and that Paola’s condition had improved enough that she could receive a transplant!
The day before the surgery, Marco and Paola accepted priesthood blessings from the missionaries.
Both Marco and Paola expected to recover in the hospital for some time after their operations. But Marco was able to leave five days later, and Paola, who expected to stay for two months, left after only 13 days. Marco attributed their quick recovery to their priesthood blessings, and he knew that he had to take the missionaries’ message seriously.

A young man from the East stopped in my office on his return from his mission in Argentina, where he spent an extra six months helping the missionaries learn the language. Calling him by name, for I knew him and his parents before he left for his mission, I said: “Do you feel that it was a waste of time for you to go on that mission—that you should have been completing your education and getting ready for marriage?”
He replied: “If the brethren would like to make me happy, just let them load me on a plane tomorrow morning and send me back to Argentina.” And he hadn’t yet seen his loved ones whom he had left at home.

In 1999, I made a significant decision to leave my position at the Polynesian Cultural Center as a full-time musician to become a teacher. This choice felt monumental. While I loved my job as a musician, my passion for shaping young minds compelled me to pursue a career in education. I felt strongly that this was where I was meant to be.

In the scriptures, we learn that “children are an heritage of the Lord.” [4] This profound truth resonated with me as I embarked on my teaching career. I remembered the Savior’s admonition in Matthew 18:3, where He taught, “Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.” [5] This scripture reminded me of the purity, faith, and obedience that children embody, and it became a guiding principle in my teaching philosophy.

In Sister Jean A. Stevens’ April 2011 general conference talk, “Become as a Little Child,” she shared how Jesus Christ taught us to look to children as examples of faith and obedience. [6] I found this message to be a reminder that I needed to be humble and always to contemplate my purpose: Was I merely going through the motions, or was Heavenly Father guiding my every step? As I began teaching, I realized the profound influence I could have on my students’ lives, and I embraced this opportunity with enthusiasm.

One pivotal moment in my journey occurred when a principal recognized potential in me that I hadn’t seen in myself. She asked me to sign a piece of paper, which I later discovered was my enrollment in the administrator licensing courses for the Department of Education. It was a leap into the unknown, but I felt a divine nudge encouraging me to take that step. As I embarked on this new journey, I understood that every experience—every twist and turn—was leading me closer to understanding my purpose.

After five years of teaching, I became a principal, and I felt both exhilarated and intimidated by the responsibility. In 2012, I was asked to transfer from He‘eia Elementary to King Intermediate School, a challenge that tested my resolve. I often pondered whether I had the capability to help the youth of this community, but deep down, I felt that Heavenly Father had a plan for me, even if I couldn’t see it clearly at the time.

The trials and tribulations of being a principal were many, but so were the blessings. I leaned into my faith and the principles of the gospel, relying on the teachings of our Heavenly Father to guide me. After many nights of fasting and prayer, I reorganized my teaching philosophy and based it on the fundamentals of the Church’s Children and Youth program. The structure and organization of this very well-established program was something I needed to learn and morph into my organizational structure. With this structure in place, my admiration for the Church’s infrastructure was deepened. I learned that students need to feel loved, to have a sense of purpose, and to be valued. To achieve this, it was essential to value the teachers, for they are the backbone of the educational experience.

During this time, I recalled President Gordon B. Hinckley’s counsel in his opening remarks for the April 2005 general conference to “stand a little taller” in every aspect of our lives. He taught us to “lift our eyes and stretch our minds to a greater comprehension and understanding of the grand millennial mission of this The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” [7] I sought to create an environment where students and teachers alike felt valued and inspired, a place where we could all stand a little taller and believe that we have the capability to achieve greatness. I believed that by fostering a culture of love and support, we could create a nurturing atmosphere conducive to learning and growth.

These school years brought many challenges, but also great rewards. In 2013, our school received the STRIVE HI Award, recognizing our students for achieving the highest test results in Hawaii. That same year, I was honored as Hawaii’s Principal of the Year, and later, received the National Principal of the Year award. As I stood on that stage, accepting these honors, I couldn’t help but reflect on my journey and the divine hand that guided me. From a small town in Turangi, moving to Hawaii, and never thinking these opportunities would be offered to someone like me. Those that were honored were principals with unbelievable experiences—and then there was me! The question that always came to mind was, “Why me? What does my Heavenly Father want me to do with this opportunity? How do I share my testimony on this platform?” The spotlight was overwhelming, and I felt a surge of insecurity and inadequacy. I began to pray earnestly, seeking guidance from Heavenly Father. I realized that every blessing and recognition was not just for me, but for my students, my community, my culture, and my family, but most importantly for our God.

A few years ago, I accepted the assignment of driving Church leaders to a conference that was to be held about 330 km away from the city of Lubumbashi. I used to drive regularly on this road, which was very difficult due to its poor condition, potholes, and ravines. No one could drive on it without having a bad experience. So, we decided to take a back road that we thought would be a bit more practical than the poorly-maintained main road. We were certain to get there without any problem, as usual—but unfortunately, this time, that was not the case. We were involved in a serious accident—one that prevented us from reaching our destination. There we were—right in the bush with no means of communication and with a vehicle that could no longer be driven because it was completely damaged. Thankfully, there was no loss of human life and no one was injured except for some scratches on the driver.
Knowing the importance of the task at hand for the leaders whom I was driving that weekend, meaning the Area Seventy, the mission president at the time and his counselor, I was completely devastated! I blamed myself and took upon me all the responsibility for this accident even though I did not know the cause of this unfortunate incident and was not even responsible.
After observing that we were all unhurt and seeing that I was blaming myself, the Area Seventy approached me and said, “We do not know why this accident happened, but God only knows. We will be able to understand this unfortunate incident in the days to come—do not blame yourself but let us thank God that we were not seriously injured.” My heart was calmed a bit and I found relief because of the words he had uttered during this difficult time of our journey. I have always been grateful for the way he looked at the incident and how that had comforted me. I am very grateful for Elder Joseph W. Sitati and for his example to me at that time.

I share with you a treasured family experience which had its beginning back in 1959, when I was called to preside over the Canadian Mission in Toronto.
Our daughter, Ann, turned five shortly after we arrived in Canada. She saw the missionaries going about their work, and she too wanted to be a missionary. My wife demonstrated understanding by permitting Ann to take to class a few copies of the Children’s Friend [now called the Friend]. That wasn’t sufficient for Ann. She also wanted to take with her a copy of the Book of Mormon so that she might talk to her teacher, Miss Pepper, about the Church.
Just a few years ago, long years after our return from Toronto, we came home from a vacation and found in our mailbox a note from Miss Pepper which read:
Dear Ann:
Think back many years ago. I was your schoolteacher in Toronto, Canada. I was impressed by the copies of the Children’s Friend which you brought to school. I was impressed by your dedication to a book called the Book of Mormon.
I made a commitment that one day I would come to Salt Lake City and see why you talked as you did and why you believed in the manner you believed. Today I had the privilege of going through your visitors’ center on Temple Square. Thanks to a five-year-old girl who had an understanding of that which she believed, I now have a better understanding of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Miss Pepper died not too long after that visit to Salt Lake City. How happy Ann was when she attended the Jordan River Utah Temple and performed the temple work for her beloved teacher to whom she had reached out so many years ago.