Gospel Story Finder

On one occasion I met with a couple who had been referred to me by a bishop. As the couple started telling me about all the complaints against each other, I attempted to guide their conversation toward the affirmative aspects of their relationship—qualities they had first admired in each other, the deep pleasures they had shared, the mutual goals they had set many years before.
They began to talk about their family, friends, and other important people in their lives; it was apparent that they really did enjoy this aspect of their relationship. This led to a review of their goal for financial security, which they had successfully met. As we talked further, the antagonism gradually drained away. After a few additional meetings, the couple agreed to give their marriage a second chance.

Let me share with you one of my favorite and true love stories. I happened into the story very late in its development. One night I went with my husband to a company dinner party. I sat next to an older man who was there with his wife. She had suffered a stroke, and so consequently he would lean over to cut her meat and help her with her food. His manner was tender and very solicitous. As he finished the meal, he turned toward me with a sigh. I said to him, “You are so good to your wife.”

His reply: “Why shouldn’t I be? I love her.”

Then he told me about how they met and about their courtship and their life together. “The first time I saw her,” he said, “was at a party in Canada. She was giving a reading. She had long golden curls and wore a beautiful white eyelet dress with a pretty blue satin sash. I was so taken by her that I told my mother that that was the woman I was going to marry. She laughingly indulged me. I went on my mission, and when I came home she was engaged to another. I was asked to take a special assignment by the bishop, and when I protested he told me that if I would always put the work of the Lord first, I would find that the Lord would always take care of me. I made the long trek to Salt Lake City. When I came home, she had broken her engagement. We started to date and then we married.”

His wife rarely accompanied him in public after that dinner. It wasn’t long until her condition worsened, and she was completely bedridden and virtually unable to speak. He was a General Authority and went out on his regular conference assignments to visit and counsel the Saints. It was his practice to come home and tell her all about the conference. One day as he finished, he teased: “If you are not going to speak back to me, then I am not going to tell about my experiences. You must not love me any more.” Tears welled up in her eyes, and with great effort she rallied enough strength to form the words, “I do love you.” It was laborious and extremely slow, but with great effort she got the words out. He determined he would never again treat their love lightly, for the love they knew transcended even the crippling hindrance of her physical impairment.

At the funeral of this very special woman, Zina Card Brown, every speaker commented on her love both for her sweetheart, President Hugh B. Brown, and for others. Elder Marvin J. Ashton declared: “Some of us are where we are because of her.” President Marion G. Romney said: “Wherever she was, she was a loving lady.” President N. Eldon Tanner declared that President Brown was successful because of her love. President Kimball said that the love of President and Sister Brown was such that they would soon be together everlastingly. Her love pulled them toward immortality—a beginning of eternity.

The young missionary had spent the morning scrubbing the floors of the mission home, washing and ironing his shirts, and mending his socks. Then, since it was preparation day, he had decided to visit the university library. Finding nothing of particular interest in the book stacks, he pulled out his own copy of the Doctrine and Covenants and began reading section 76—Joseph Smith’s vision of heaven.
He became so absorbed in the Prophet’s description that he didn’t notice the passing of time, and it was night when he finally left the library. As he walked across the spacious lawn toward the streetcar, he looked up into the heavens: “There was no moon, but the sky was clear. … The Southern Cross and other brilliant stars, visible in the Southern Hemisphere, shone with unusual grandeur. As I gazed in wonder, I seemed to see beyond the stars the things I had been reading about. I could not then and I have not been able since to recall walking across the lawn.”
Retelling this experience in 1965, President Romney said: “Since that Saturday evening in Sydney, Australia, forty-three years ago, I have never been content to view life through the lens which reveals only the narrow span between mortal birth and death. I cannot remember of having made, during the intervening years, a single voluntary major decision or judgment without testing it by my knowledge of revealed truth.” (Address delivered at Brigham Young University, 27 May 1965, p. 20.)

Another homemaking art that was apparent was Becky’s ability to save and use money wisely.
Beginning in her early teens she began working at such part-time jobs as teaching piano lessons, tutoring second graders in reading, and selling chicken at a drive-in restaurant. Through her savings she was able to purchase a sewing machine, cookware set, typewriter, silverware service for eight, and a set of fine dishes.
“I never bought anything that wasn’t on sale and that I wasn’t sure I really wanted. I was in no hurry, so I could take my time and find the best buy. When I became engaged, I realized that if I had waited to buy these things until I was ready to set up housekeeping, I would probably have had to pay whatever price was asked.”

Being a witness of the faith of young people has increased my faith. One young mother wrote:
“When I was 13 I knew my life was not worth living. I was living in an abusive home where there never seemed to be lasting happiness. My two best friends told me they didn’t want to be friends with me anymore because I thought I was too good for them, which made no sense but left me feeling completely alone.
“As the battles in my house continued to rage, I went to my bedroom. I was so scared. I knelt and called to the one person I still knew I had. I pleaded to my Father in Heaven to somehow take me home. I said, ‘Father, I need to be with you. I need to feel your arms around me.’ As I sat crying and quietly waiting in that desperate moment for Heavenly Father’s arms to reach down, I heard a voice, ‘Put your arms around yourself, and I will be with you.’ As I followed that prompting, I felt Heavenly Father’s love assure me that I could go on, and I would go on and I was not alone.”
At a difficult time, this young woman turned to Heavenly Father. Her experience made her faith stronger and more real. The reward of her faith is evident in her temple marriage and family life today (see Alma 32:42–43).

Many years ago, as a freshman at BYU–Hawaii, I was passing through some difficult life experiences. I was also aware of my imperfections and felt distant from my Heavenly Father. I was not guilty of any egregious sins, but I was not where I wanted to be spiritually. I was much like the boy who, through some carelessness, had wandered into the desert.

On a particular Sunday a conference was held on campus, presided over by President Spencer W. Kimball. He spoke to a large gathering of Saints who had come to hear the prophet. I remember feeling the Spirit as he spoke. Following the closing prayer all arose, and in respectful silence we watched that great man exit the building.

As we filed out, two young Polynesian students I had met at the dorms approached me and invited me to walk with them to the Laie Hawaii Temple, where they were going to spend the afternoon reading from the scriptures. I was a bit surprised at the invitation—not knowing them very well at the time—but I gladly accepted. When we arrived at the temple, we walked to the upper grounds. I didn’t have scriptures with me, so as they sat on the grass to read, I walked a short distance away and sat on a stone bench.

I cannot remember all that I thought and felt that day—it was many years ago—but I remember thinking about my Heavenly Father and about how I wanted to draw closer to Him. I started to pray, but as I did, I remember I felt heavy and discouraged. At that time in my life I had a hard time envisioning a God of love and compassion. I felt I was praying to someone who was always displeased and disappointed with me and far away. I didn’t understand the true nature of my Heavenly Father.

But my perspective was about to change. As I sat on that bench, my attention was suddenly drawn to a small group of people excitedly walking toward the entrance of the temple. I looked beyond them, and to my great surprise I saw President Kimball and some local and general Church leaders coming out of the temple. They were walking down a sidewalk that led to a gate where cars had just pulled up to carry them to the airport. A half dozen or so people lined the sidewalk, waiting to greet President Kimball as he made his way to the awaiting cars.

I stood up and apprehensively approached the sidewalk, deciding to remain a short distance away from where he would pass. However irrational it might sound, I was afraid to approach him. I had decided that as a prophet he might be able to peer into my heart and see my imperfections. I felt that I was in need of greater spirituality and a serious haircut, so I decided to remain what I considered to be a safe distance away from the sidewalk.

Well, I miscalculated. As President Kimball passed by, he looked right at me. I recorded in my journal what happened next: “President Kimball suddenly stopped and turned and headed right for me. The prophet grabbed my hand, gave me a hug, and kissed me on my cheek and then looked me in the eyes and said, ‘I love you.’”

I was overcome with emotion. The only words I was able to get out were thank you. I felt something in that hug and expression of love. I watched him through my tears as he climbed into an awaiting car. He looked through the window at us with such pure and loving eyes and waved good-bye as he drove away.

I then ran behind the temple and had a good cry. Yes, I felt President Kimball’s love for me, but his love pointed to the wellspring from which it flowed. I felt an outpouring of my Heavenly Father’s love for me, so real and so clear. The feeling remained with me for a time. President Kimball’s act of kindness could have come from the groundskeeper that day, because if it had flowed from fountains of charity, I am convinced the same results would have followed. Having it come from the prophet certainly made it very special, but what flowed through him and was communicated to me was my Heavenly Father’s love. Heavenly Father was reaching out to me through one of His special servants and two wonderful students, through whom the pure love of Christ had flowed to me that day.

It had been a perfect day of exploring a narrow sandstone canyon and basking in the rugged beauty of southern Utah. I was a little worried that we hadn’t come across any signs of previous hikers in the canyon, but we had researched the route and had a good map, so we knew what lay ahead: a spectacular 150-foot rope descent through a waterfall into a picturesque canyon, leading out to the main road. As Dustin, Roland, and I neared what we expected to be the end of our adventure, we stopped to eat the last of our food and grinned at each other in anticipation.
Half an hour later, the canyon opened up to the sunlight, and in front of us the riverbed curved in a different direction than the map indicated. Our spirit of adventure overcame our better judgment, so we followed this new course. The soft sand quickly turned to rock, and we scrambled over boulders and potholes. We successfully negotiated a 40-foot drop, turned a corner—and stared in disbelief. There in front of us the ground melted away, dropping hundreds of feet to the Virgin River below.
It dawned on us that we had messed up somehow. There was no turning back; the slick canyon walls made ascension impossible. My two friends scouted the narrow ledge for a possible route down while I pored over the map. After awhile, my eye spotted another canyon on the map, and this one definitely matched the canyon we were in. Scanning the map, I could see that the cliff we were on was over 400 feet high. Dustin and Roland returned, and we talked about the possibility of trying to descend the cliff with the rope we had. Roland suggested we pray about it, and we quickly agreed.
It was a simple, sincere prayer. We thanked the Lord for keeping us safe and admitted that we had made mistakes. We told Him we were now trying our best to correct ourselves and return to safety. Laying before Him our problem and the possible solution of descending the cliff, we asked for a confirmation. And the Lord truly responded, touching each of us with a quiet feeling in our hearts that we should not try to go down the cliff.
As darkness fell, we realized our only way out was rescue. Our cellular phone received no signal, and we couldn’t go forward or back. When the sun sank behind the opposite mountains, the temperature dropped sharply, and we spent a sleepless night shivering together, hungry and thirsty, a few steps from a 400-foot cliff. Before trying to sleep, we again offered up a prayer of sincere thanks for protection, and a blessing of peace for our families, who had certainly figured out, by now, that something had gone wrong.
The next morning, by the time it was light enough to safely walk around the cliff’s edge, we had decided on several courses of action. We burned leaves to send up white smoke and scattered our equipment around the ledge to make us easier to spot from the air. After we split a granola bar, Dustin climbed up to higher ground to try to get reception for the phone, while Roland and I set about purifying water from a pool. We had made mistakes, and now we could only do everything in our power to be rescued, trusting that the Lord would comfort our families and lead rescuers to us. The day wore on, and our situation worsened. The fire melted our water container, Dustin had no luck with his phone, and we made plans for surviving another night. In that helpless state, I realized like never before my utter dependence on the Lord. I’d never felt so close to Heavenly Father when I prayed.
We thought we heard planes throughout the day, but neither the fire nor our yells brought them any closer. Around noon we heard the thumping sound of an engine grow and saw a helicopter in the distance, but our hopes faded when it flew out of sight. Then, quite suddenly, the search and rescue helicopter burst over the far canyon wall. It spotted Dustin above us and circled, looking for a place to land. Not long after, a rope dropped down to us, quickly followed by the search and rescue team with food, water, and our way home.
As we flew over canyon and mountain to our waiting families, I offered a silent prayer of thanks. The Lord had helped us make wise judgments and had helped our rescuers find us. He had also answered our plea to comfort our families. While they had spent a sleepless night, they had felt the Spirit whisper that we were OK. The Savior’s promise in 3 Nephi 18:21 is true: “Pray in your families unto the Father, always in my name, that your wives and your children may be blessed.” I learned that on the edge of a 400-foot cliff, waiting to be rescued.

Years ago, I felt a lot like young Joseph. I was confused by the “war of words and tumult of opinions” (Joseph Smith—History 1:10) coming from many different churches in Fiji. When I first met the missionaries, I had so many questions. Some have teased that I am a slow learner because I spent eight years investigating the Church. My conversion began through understanding the name of the Church.

During His mortal ministry, Jesus Christ established His Church. Over time, the doctrine and priesthood authority of His Church became lost. In our day, Jesus Christ restored through the Prophet Joseph Smith the same church He established when He lived on earth (see Articles of Faith 1:6). He also commanded through revelation, “For thus shall my church be called in the last days, even The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints” (Doctrine and Covenants 115:4).

The Church bears the name of Jesus Christ because it is His Church! After eight years, this truth resonated in my mind and heart. I was baptized at age 27 and soon called as a counselor in the ward Young Men presidency and an early-morning seminary teacher. Along the way, my testimony continued to grow.

My life transformed as I taught seminary, attended sacrament meeting, and listened to general conference. I also felt the soothing, comforting, and inspiring influence of the Spirit as I read the Book of Mormon—a tangible evidence and manifestation of the Restoration and the prophetic call of Joseph Smith.

When the Lord called Joseph “and spake unto him from heaven, and gave him commandments” (Doctrine and Covenants 1:17), He showed that He “does inspire men and call them to his holy work in this age and generation, as well as in generations of old” and that “he is the same God yesterday, today, and forever” (Doctrine and Covenants 20:11–12).

The Restoration that began with Joseph continues today. As Latter-day Saints, we are called to speak in the Savior’s name so “that faith … might increase in the earth,” His “everlasting covenant might be established,” and “the fulness of [His] gospel might be proclaimed by the weak and the simple unto the ends of the world” (Doctrine and Covenants 1:21–23). We are blessed to be able to help build up the Church and prepare the world for that day when Jesus Christ returns.

Elder and Sister Wakolo (far right) were endowed and sealed in the Nuku’alofa Tonga Temple in August 1995, a year after Elder Wakolo joined the Church. They are shown here with the temple presidency.

A year after my baptism, my wife, Anita, and I traveled to the Nuku’alofa Tonga Temple to be sealed for time and all eternity. My testimony of the Restoration made going to the temple so meaningful. The restored gospel of Jesus Christ truly means everything! My heart is filled with gratitude for the blessings it has brought to me and my family.

These precious blessings have come to the world through “Joseph Smith, the Prophet and Seer of the Lord, [who] has done more, save Jesus only, for the salvation of men in this world, than any other man that ever lived in it” (Doctrine and Covenants 135:3). We must be ever grateful for—and never lose sight of—what we have been given through the prophet of this last dispensation.

Why then do many of us “go it alone” and deny those who love us most the joy and blessings which come from sharing? The principle of helping one in need is well expressed in the touching love story of Thomas Moore, a famous nineteenth century Irish poet, who, when he returned from a business trip found his wife had locked herself in her upstairs bedroom and had asked to see no one. Moore learned the terrible truth that his beautiful wife had contracted smallpox and her milky complexion was now pocked and scarred. She had looked at herself in the mirror and demanded that the shutters be drawn, and that she never see her husband again. Thomas Moore did not listen. He went upstairs to the darkened room and started to light the lamp. His wife pleaded with him to let her remain in darkness alone. She felt it best not to subject her husband to seeing his loved one with her beauty marred. She asked him to go.

Moore did go. He went downstairs and spent the rest of the night in prayerful writing. He had never written a song before, but that night he wrote not only words but also composed music. As daylight broke, Moore returned to his wife’s darkened room. “Are you awake?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said, “but you must not see me. Please don’t press me, Thomas.”

“I’ll sing to you then,” he said. Thomas Moore sang to his wife the song that still lives today.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms
Which I gaze on so fondly today,
Were to change by tomorrow and fleet in my arms,
Like fairy gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored as this moment thou art
Moore heard a movement in the corner of the darkened room where his wife lay in loneliness. He continued:
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still.
Irish Melodies, “Believe Me, If All Those Endearing Young Charms,” st. 1; cited in Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations, p. 542.

The song ended. As his voice faded, Moore heard his bride arise. She crossed the room to the window, reached up and slowly withdrew the shutters, opened the curtain, and let in the morning light.

Several months ago I attended a conference in a stake that had compiled an impressive statistical record. By all observable standards, this was a stake composed of devoted, faithful Latter-day Saints. As I met with the stake president in our first interview, I was not surprised that he was anxious to review with me the excellent statistical record that his people were making. The reports had been arranged on his desk to facilitate this review. Before looking at them, I asked the president, “Tell me, how do you feel about your people? Generally speaking, in their spiritual qualities, are they standing on higher ground this year than they were a year ago?” I wanted to assess the president’s personal discernment regarding the spiritual strength of his members. He immediately seized this opportunity to direct my attention to the reports. Sensing that he had misunderstood the intent of my question, I explained, “I will be pleased to review the reports with you, but before we do, would you tell me how you feel about your people?”

My insistence on his making this kind of assessment apart from the information in the reports was both frustrating and perplexing to the president. I was sensitive to his frustration, and without further discussion we went through the statistical information. It indicated considerable progress in many areas that are amenable to a quantitative evaluation. I believe the reports were significant indicators of the spiritual quality of the people. However, I had failed to draw from the president the kind of discerning evaluation I had solicited. At the same time, I sensed that he was a little perplexed and somewhat pensive at the conclusion of our interview. His pensiveness continued throughout the meetings of the afternoon and evening and caused me some concern.

On the following day, as the president delivered his address in the general session of the conference, he surprised me by telling the members about his experience with me the previous day. He acknowledged his frustration over my apparent reluctance to go into an immediate review of his correlated reports, and this frustration had remained with him into the night. As he was pondering these things, there came into his mind an experience he had had during the week prior to the conference.

He had visited a member of the stake who was in a hospital recuperating from surgery. During this visit a nurse had entered the room, making her regular calls on the patients. She had gone to some charts that were hanging at the foot of the patient’s bed, carefully perused the notations, and then added some of her own. She had then stepped to the side of the patient, felt her pulse, placed a hand on her forehead, asked some questions, and received some responses. The president said, “It occurred to me that the nurse was attempting to assess some of the patient’s vital signs—some that were not reflected in the notations on the charts.”

The president said that it was then in his reflections that the purpose of my questioning the day before had registered with him. “I realized,” he said, “that Elder Larsen was asking me to assess your spiritual vital signs in ways that the reports may not have revealed.”

He then continued, “Today I am going to talk with you about those spiritual vital signs—those that go beyond the information on the charts.” He proceeded to give one of the finest talks I have heard a stake president give. Interestingly, he made no reference in his remarks to the statistical reports.

One day at school, my friend Sophia asked me what I believed in and if I belonged to any religion. I remembered the first Article of Faith, which says, “We believe in God, the Eternal Father, and in His Son, Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost.” So I shared that with her.
I also told her that I was a Christian and a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She listened to me and understood what I shared with her.
I felt very good because I knew that I had been brave to share my beliefs with my friend. Because of my hard work to learn the Articles of Faith, I was able to share the gospel and know what to say.

Two months now. Michele and Shawna were gone, Dad was in Houston on business, Mom was playing golf in Provo—and I sat under the locust taking in the dance of monarch butterflies along the hedge. So peaceful, so quiet, so dull. I amused myself by considering that the Savior was never a “returned missionary.” I had come to distrust the phrase. His mission was a mere three years, and he never went back home with nothing to do. Returning from a mission was a personal loss. You had to go on from there—become a goshawk and keep flapping your wings. I decided to make myself useful by helping Dad. He wanted the locust limbs trimmed away from the chimney before summer school.
On the roof I caught my breath after tossing off limbs. Gracious, I was thin! Wiping my forehead I saw Sister Hunter, two backyards away, bent over a rototiller—just as I had seen her husband do. Oh—it struck me: Brother Hunter had died of a heart attack a few weeks into my mission. How could I—I hated to even think the word—forget? Certainly he still hoed his beets and flooded his yard. Had he and Sister Hunter made it to the temple? Since my little medical problem I saw the temple as the abode of Deity, the place where, whatever the need, one found solace. Mom and Dad had worked with them after Brother Hunter joined the Church. But I hadn’t heard the results. As I grew up Sister Hunter offered me candy and nursed a bruised knee. She used to give me ice cream bars and a hug.
I climbed down from the roof and walked quickly down the block and into the driveway leading to her fence. After catching my breath, I said, “It’s the carburetor.”
“This pesky machine,” she said, “I want to kick it.” She was not old, only about 65, a small woman with hair the color of a fresh Oregon waterfall. She liked to wear a white cardigan sweater in cooler weather. Her eyes were green. She had a small, doll-like mouth that gave an appearance of youth. She loved to make vegetables and flowers grow.
With a screwdriver I adjusted the carburetor. But the short, frayed cord came taut under my jerked pulls. Nothing happened. I checked the oil—nothing wrong. Sister Hunter hovered above me like a mother eagle, watching first here and then there. Finally I got a spark plug out of our own lawn mower and, after more tinkering, the rototiller started. She said, “You’re a wonder. I never could have done that.”
After tilling her garden, which was deftly situated between the bank of grapes and the gray shed in the back, I helped her hand weed the corn against the side fences. I hadn’t had this much fun with dirt since the preparation day in Salem when I helped Brother Goss tie up his tomatoes. After a few mornings weeding by hand, we stood by her prospering garden as water filled the rows. She smiled and said, “Wouldn’t Henry be proud?”
Several “situations”—she refused to call them problems—plagued Sister Hunter. The grimy red pickup gathered heat in the driveway, and the water pump had quit in her washing machine on the back porch. I asked Mike Nelson, a young acquaintance at church, to help me, and within a few days we had installed a new fuel line in her ancient pickup. We road tested it through town with Jack, Sister Hunter’s faded-blond retriever. He wasn’t much help when I stalled at the Suprette Market. All he did was hang his head and loll his tongue. We ended up at the back of the store giving him water out of a discarded paper cup. Back at Sister Hunter’s we guzzled lemonade while taking breaks from her washing machine. I bought some frozen cans of lemonade to replenish her supply—and threw in a small pot roast for good measure. Mike thought I was nuts, but I wanted to do it. I found out she hadn’t had a special Sunday dinner since her husband died. Sure enough, at church she invited us over, and I graciously declined, not wanting to negate my good deeds. But she insisted. The next Sunday we arrived, and I discovered the table set with stunning china and sparkling silverware, a bouquet of peonies, and the steaming roast. Afterward I teased her about such a nice meal. Then we listened to a tape of a general conference talk by Elder James E. Faust on temple work while Mike fell asleep on the couch.
The next Tuesday I cornered Mike in an aisle of Pay Mart with a brilliant idea.
“Clean every one of her windows?”
“Yeah. Why not?”
“Inside and out?”
“Sure. It’s a small house.”
“You’re out of your tree.”
“So?”
So we armed ourselves with squeegees, clean rags, and spray bottles of glass cleaner and assaulted Sister Hunter’s windows, Mike outside, me inside. Her place sparkled, not a book out of place, not a dog hair on the couch, the islands of throw rugs floating on the polished hardwood floors. I spied on a lamp table a photograph of her husband, taken years ago. It stood behind an opened Bible which had on it a red pencil and glasses and which lay on an intricate doily. A hallowed feeling lingered in the house.
Both Mike and I figured our small act of kindness was finished. But one afternoon as I drowsed under the locust and thought about Sister Hunter, a strong feeling came over me that we hadn’t done enough. Her pickup ran, her washing machine purred, her windows shone, and her garden was a showpiece, the cool upturned earth mellowing in the furrows. What more could we do?
By now summer school was heating up, and I was busy as an instructor in the elders quorum. For diversion I hiked a few miles above Strawberry Reservoir, until I was too tired to go on and had to return. In the solemn hours I picked out lonely love songs on my guitar. Then late one evening as Mom and I endured our brewer’s yeast milk shakes I asked her about the Hunters’ temple sealing. Mom shrugged. “I don’t know what happened. Since her husband died she has stayed pretty much to herself.”
That night, in the privacy of my room, I poured out my heart to the Lord for courage to finish our task.
On a Friday after class at the Y, without Mike, who was shopping for a quick-action .22, I found myself enjoying the pungent aroma of cut apples in Sister Hunter’s blue kitchen.
“I appreciate you and Mike so much,” she said over her apples. “I’m an old sourpuss, I know. I’m too set in my ways. Won’t even talk to Bishop Thompson that much, but the home teachers are a blessing. Those young rascals think I can’t do for myself. But I can.” She glanced up at me. “Since Henry passed away, I’ve had to.” She went back to slicing apples, their whiteness glistening under her knife. Then she stopped and looked up at me again. “I never had a more trying time than when I waited for Henry to join the Church. I thought he never would, and I kind of gave up. But through it all I had to stay true—true to what I felt. You know, you’re the first one to take a real interest. And I don’t know how to say thanks.”
Like the goshawk, Sister Hunter had fierce eyes. They were light like a hawk’s, but green. She had learned to take care of herself—to keep her eyes alive by the spirit of life. She had flown into the cold recesses of fear and come back. She had fought harsh winds and long boreal hours of loneliness. The contempt I had read in the goshawk’s eyes, as in Sister Hunter’s, was a disdain for giving up—for anything vulgar or hurtful—a disdain for anything that kept him from flying freely through his northern forests.
I told her thanks were not necessary, and then I said good-bye, without having asked her about going to the temple. In Grants Pass, Oregon, I had strenuously challenged a hardened truck driver to quit smoking and he did, but I had not yet brought up the matter of the temple with Sister Hunter because I hadn’t found the words. We had talked about the temple, and we had listened to the words of an Apostle, but just what I should say had not come to me, short of simply asking, “Why haven’t you gone to the temple?” Tomorrow I would ask her.
On the back porch she stopped me. “You wait here. I want to show you something.”
She came from the house with a flat, white box, tattered and crushed, but still with its lid. She sat down beside me and opened it. She lifted out a lace veil from the box.
“This was my mother’s temple veil.” The veil, pure and white, held a sacred aura.
Sister Hunter’s eyes were intense, sparkling. For some time we sat on the back porch steps. Quietly, still composing herself, she asked, “Would you—and your folks—come with me to the temple some day? If I am worthy? Would you stand in for Henry?”
“Need you ask?” I replied, in hushed voice. “Of course.”
For days I thought about Sister Hunter’s temple veil. I had spent too much time worrying about myself. I too wanted to attend the temple and consecrate my service. The goshawk, Dad said, had to keep flying, and it too, after long hours, must have wondered about going on, wondered how it might finish what it had started. Sister Hunter had somehow shown me the continuity I sought between my mission and my present life—simply by being available to serve.

Not since I left France in 1965 had I personally known another missionary called to serve there, until Sister Marian Ream departed from our ward for Paris in the winter of 1978. I wrote her letters of encouragement, and she responded with postcards telling me of the progress of the mission.
The following summer I was startled to find enclosed with her letter a picture of me and a junior companion taken in Versailles in 1964. Where had she found this picture?
“Dear Gladys,” her letter read, “A strange thing happened last week. We were at the Desmurs home to talk with them and get some copies of the Book of Mormon they had for us. When they found out I had always been a member of the Church, Sister Desmurs stood on a chair in her front room and got this picture down. She pointed to the missionary on the right and asked me if I knew her. I looked for a minute and said, ‘I’m not sure, but I think it’s Sister Farmer who lives in my ward in Provo, Utah.’ The whole family was very excited to think I might have identified this missionary. Sister Desmurs had tears in her eyes. She said it was because of the testimony of this sister that she had joined the Church. She had asked countless missionaries since if they could identify and help locate her.”
Sister Ream went on to describe the family to me. The father, now second counselor in the ward bishopric, had joined the Church several months after his wife’s baptism. The entire family of seven was active and very helpful to the missionaries.

Summer evenings were filled with neighborhood children gathering under the streetlamp at the end of our cul-de-sac to play night games. While these were often thrillingly scary, they occasionally took a mischievous turn. One evening under the cover of dark, my childhood best friend and I followed our older siblings to the doorstep of a woman who lived nearby. Imagine our surprise when the older kids rang her doorbell and then dashed down the street. Stumbling along behind, not quite sure what had just happened, I remember feeling dread that I was certainly going to get in trouble for this one. And I did. The policeman from my sleepy little town who was dispatched to answer the call found me hiding and crying in my friend’s basement. The officer kept me from a certain life of crime as he described the horrors that befall little girls who are thrown into the slammer. I was effectively scared straight that night, and I have never been tempted to doorbell ditch since.

A whistle sounded down the track as the early-morning, Vienna-bound train came into view. “Right on time!” Josef cried. He looked up at his sister with excited, sparkling eyes. “I can hardly believe it, Berta! At last I’m going to see the white stallions—the Lippizaners!”
“Ja (yes),” Berta said, but there was a worried look on her face. “You are young, Josef, to go to the city alone. And you are so often careless with your money.”
Josef grinned. This was one time he could not afford to be careless! Before he could speak again, the train shuddered to a stop.
“Auf Wiedersehen (good-bye), Berta!” Josef swung aboard and found a compartment; it was empty except for a small girl in a bright red coat. He opened the window and waved to his sister, who waved her white handkerchief in farewell as long as the train was in sight.
Josef closed the window and turned to the girl. “My sister thinks I’m too young to travel alone,” he said in German, smiling. “She’s afraid I will lose my money or give it away.” His smile faded when the girl gave a little choked sob. “Is— is something wrong?” he asked, anxiously.
As Josef spoke, a tall, uniformed conductor entered the compartment. “She does not understand German, so she does not know what you are saying,” he explained.
“She is American.”
“Is she traveling alone?” Josef asked in surprise. “Ja, to Vienna. Her grandfather will meet her there,” the conductor replied. After the conductor left, Josef stole a glance at the girl. How young she is, he thought, and how frightened! “My name is Josef,” he said in careful English. “What is your name?”
At the sound of the familiar words, the girl’s face brightened. “Margaret Taylor,” she said eagerly, then started speaking so rapidly that Josef threw up his hands.
“Slowly, please!” he pleaded. “I have studied English only a short time.”
Margaret started over and Josef understood. The girl went to a private school in Switzerland and was on her way to meet her grandfather, who was in Vienna on business. Mademoiselle Dumont, a teacher who had planned to travel with Margaret, had learned the night before that her mother was ill. “I told Mademoiselle I was not afraid to go alone,” Margaret continued, her voice catching in a sob, “but I am afraid. Maybe I won’t be able to find my grandfather. What will I do then?”
Josef’s kind heart melted. “Do not be afraid, Liebchen (little one),” he said to comfort her. “I will help you find your grandfather.”
Margaret turned to Josef, her eyes bright. “Oh, thank you!” she cried. “I will not be afraid with you for a friend.” After a moment she asked, “Do you live in Vienna, Josef?”
“No,” he replied. “I am going there to see the Lippizan horses.”
“The white horses that dance!” Margaret cried. “I have heard about them.”
“Ja!” Josef’s eyes sparkled. He slid his hand into his pocket to make certain his purse was safe. In it were the Austrian schillings he had earned working in Herr Meyer’s grocery store every day after school. “It has taken me a long time to save enough money,” he said.
“I will ask Grandfather to take me to see the Lippizaners, too,” Margaret said.
“It is not expensive,” Josef explained, “not if you buy standing room in the second gallery, as I will do.”
A whistle sounded, and the train pulled to a stop at a small station. A boy holding a tray of bottled drinks and crusty bun sandwiches tapped on the window. Margaret eyed the sandwiches longingly.
“Are you hungry?” Josef asked.
Margaret’s eyes clouded. “Mademoiselle forgot to leave me any money,” she said in a small voice.
“I will buy us each a sandwich,” Josef said, and he opened the window. Margaret selected two ham sandwiches and two cherry-flavored drinks.
Josef gulped when he heard the price. He took out his purse and carefully counted out the schillings. “Ach!” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “Food is expensive when one travels by train.”
“My grandfather will pay you back,” Margaret said confidently, smiling at him.
“I did not mean that!” Josef said, blushing. “I still have enough.” He placed his purse on the seat beside him in order to take the sandwich Margaret handed him.
Margaret chattered away happily, and in no time at all—or so it seemed to Josef—the train stopped at the next station. A man selling china figurines came to the window. Margaret gave a cry of delight, opened the window, and picked up one of the figurines, a white Lippizan horse with a crimson-coated rider. “I want it, Josef. Please!” she pleaded.
“It costs too much!” Josef protested when he heard the price.
“Oh, please, Josef, Grandfather will pay you back,” Margaret insisted.
Josef reluctantly paid for the figurine. Then he counted the coins he had left: fifty groschen—only half a schilling. “It is a good thing the next stop is Vienna,” he groaned.
“Don’t worry,” said Margaret. “I told you Grandfather will pay you back.” She slipped the figurine into her pocket, snuggled down in her seat, and was soon fast asleep.
When the train pulled into the Vienna station, Margaret’s eyes flew open. “Are we there?” she asked.
Josef nodded. “Where is your luggage?”
“Mademoiselle sent it ahead,” Margaret explained. She clung tightly to Josef’s hand as they stepped from the train onto the busy platform. Then she gave a sudden squeal of joy, broke away, and ran toward a tall gray-haired man who hugged her warmly. As Josef started toward them, a troop of uniformed schoolboys marched in front of him. When the boys had passed, Margaret and her grandfather had disappeared.
They’ll be waiting for me inside, Josef decided. But they weren’t there. He searched the station and the platforms and then ran outside to where a line of taxis waited, but there was no sign of Margaret or her grandfather.
Josef’s heart sank. How foolish he had been! How Berta would tease when she learned that he had spent his money on a little American girl who forgot all about him when she saw her grandfather. Josef smiled wryly. At least he had his return train ticket and enough money for trolley fare to the palace where the horses performed. I might get a glimpse of them in their stables, he thought.
Josef got off the trolley and was walking toward the hippodrome (arena for horse shows) at the palace when a taxi screeched to a halt at the curb. The door flew open, and a streak of crimson dashed toward him.
“Josef! Josef!” Margaret cried happily. After giving Josef a hug, she gave him a handful of schillings. “Here is the money I owe you.” Then she turned to face the tall man who had come to stand beside them. “I told you we would find him here.”
“I’m Samuel Taylor, Margaret’s grandfather,” the man said, smiling. “I hope you will forgive my granddaughter. She was so happy to see me that for a while she forgot how kind you had been to her—”
“We went back to the station, but you were gone,” Margaret interrupted. “Grandfather was very angry when I told him I had spent your money.”
“I still am,” Mr. Taylor said, but his lips quirked a little.
Margaret tugged at her grandfather’s sleeve. “Tell him, Grandfather!” she urged.
“We would like you to be our guest at the performance of the Lippizaners today, Josef. I have seats for us in the royal box at the end of the great hall.”
“Thank you, sir!” Josef cried, his eyes sparkling. Instead of standing in the second gallery, he would watch the Lippizaners from the box where the kings and queens of Europe sat.
Margaret slipped her hand into Josef’s. “We’ll have just as much fun there as in the gallery!” she cried.
“Indeed, we will!” Josef agreed and laughed aloud.

In very beautiful paper, I wrapped a Bible; a copy of the Book of Mormon; the pamphlets “Why Families,” “What of the Mormons,” and “The Prophet Joseph Smith’s Testimony”; plus a card showing where we have the local branches of our church here in Ibadan. I gave it as a Christmas present to the principal investigating officer in the general post office here.
I felt good giving this gift because this man was very kind and I felt he deserved to come to a knowledge of the truthfulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ. I can say that my Christmas gift affected not only him but his entire family because of the card his wife sent me which included his handwritten note saying, “Your wonderful Christmas gift has been received. I am appreciative of your very kind gesture. Thank you.”
—Amuzie NwachukwuIbadan, Nigeria

When I was a branch president in Nigeria, a young sister who was a convert expressed her desire to serve a mission. Her father, not a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, strongly disagreed with her plan. Our branch council discussed the situation. We decided it would be appropriate for the branch presidency to visit her father.
The visit was initially unsuccessful until I felt inspired to share with her father the story of Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son Isaac, as described in Genesis chapter 22. Abraham is an example of trust and faith in God. Even though Isaac was Abraham and Sarah’s only son, born when they were both old, when the Lord asked for a sacrifice Abraham willingly obeyed.
As Abraham was about to sacrifice his son, an angel intervened. “Lay not thine hand upon the lad,” he said, “neither do thou any thing unto him: for now I know that thou fearest God, seeing thou hast not withheld thy son, thine only son from me” (Genesis 22:12). The word fear in that verse means “to feel reverence and awe for [God] and to obey His commandments.”1
The father was touched by this reminder of Abraham’s obedience. He said he never expected that he could be asked to do something similar, albeit not of the same magnitude. He accepted to have his daughter serve and to support her financially for 18 months.
The sister served honorably. When she returned, she married a man in the same branch. They still serve faithfully in the Church and have three children. All of her siblings have become members of the Church. Her brother also served a mission. And her youngest sister is married to my youngest brother.
When I think back about this father’s decision, I am impressed. He let his first child, a convert to a faith different from his, serve a mission. I am also reminded of the blessings his family received as more of his children became members of the Church. Today they are happily married to worthy spouses, faithfully living the gospel of Jesus Christ. The father never joined the Church, but surely his sacrifice, like Abraham’s faith in God, is “counted … to him for righteousness” (Genesis 15:6).

One day I went to a birthday party. The first part was watching a PG-13 movie, so I didn’t go to that part. I went in the middle of the party, and we ate pizza and cupcakes. After that we started watching another movie. It looked bad. I told my friend’s mom that I couldn’t watch it, so she turned it off and we played appropriate video games instead. I feel that I made the right choice. I will follow the prophet’s counsel to never watch bad movies in my life.

It worried me when I noticed that my good friend was not coming to church anymore. Her close friend, I found, had recently passed away, and she was beginning to doubt. One day I invited her to a party with some girls from church. I made it a goal to bring up the Church once. After the others left, we talked about various Church topics that I would have never thought to talk to her about. I learned that by doing my part, the Lord will take care of the rest. All we need to do is open our mouths (see D&C 28:16).

Rebecca T., 16, Washington, USA

In England, when John Taylor was seventeen, he was appointed to be a preacher in his church. He was given assignments to preach in areas outside the city.
John: The Lord has commanded us to pray always in His name.
After John arrived in Canada, he continued to go to church and study the Bible. He and his wife, Leonora, joined with some of their friends to study the Bible.
John: We need to pray that God will send His servant to give us the truth!
Leonora: Yes, and to pray that we will know it when we hear it!
In Kirtland, Ohio, Elder Heber C. Kimball called Elder Parley P. Pratt to serve a mission to Toronto, Canada.
Elder Kimball: Elder Pratt, you will find a people prepared for the gospel, and they shall receive thee.
Elder Pratt: If a servant of the Lord extends such a promise, I will go to Canada.
When Elder Pratt first visited with the Taylor family, John Taylor began to study what Elder Pratt preached.
John: If I find your religion true, I shall accept it, no matter what the consequences may be; and if false, then I shall expose it.
For three weeks, John Taylor followed Elder Pratt wherever he preached. He studied and prayed about what Elder Pratt taught.
Elder Pratt: Joseph Smith translated this book, the Book of Mormon.
On May 9, 1836, John and Leonora Taylor were baptized.
Elder Pratt ordained John Taylor as an elder, and they worked together to spread the gospel. Their first baptisms were President Taylor’s parents, Agnes and James Taylor.
John Taylor remained loyal to the truth of the gospel.