Gospel Story Finder

My mind wanders back to another year and very different circumstances. I visited a man in a hospital. He was in an iron lung, a type of therapy that is rarely used today. He had no control over his body from his chin down. We talked of the disease that had rendered him in that condition and of his occupation. He was an insurance man, dialing the telephone with his nose or with his tongue, explaining to people that he could not come into their homes or into their offices but that he would like them to visit him at his address, which was the hospital, so he could talk with them about perhaps saving a few dollars on their car or life insurance.

Most hung up on him before he even had a chance to deliver his message, but a few would come to the hospital and sit next to that remarkable man as he would look into a series of reflecting mirrors, analyzing their insurance policies and telling them of ways they could have more effective coverage. He had decided before disaster struck that he was going to do everything he could to be self-sustaining. Of course, the Church was helping him, and the state of Utah was providing some assistance, but so much of his self-care was being provided through the courage he was displaying then and had displayed earlier.

When the Manti Utah Temple was under construction some 120 years ago, George Paxman worked as a finish carpenter. He and his young wife, Martha, had one child and were expecting another.
While hanging one of the heavy east doors of the temple, George suffered a strangulated hernia. He was in terrible pain. Martha laid him in a wagon and took him to the town of Nephi, where she put him on the train and took him to Provo. There he died. Spurning marriage, she remained a widow for 62 years, supporting herself with needlework.
Now permit me to diverge from this narrative to say that when I was engaged to marry my wife, I gave her a ring. When we were married, I gave her a wedding band. She wore them for years. Then one day I noticed that she had taken them off and was wearing this little gold wedding band. It had belonged to her grandmother. The ring had been given her by her husband, George. The ring was the only thing he left in this life. One day in the spring, Martha was housecleaning. She brought all of the furnishings out to give the house a thorough cleaning. Upon shaking the straw from the mattress, she looked down, and the ring was gone. She looked everywhere most carefully. It was the only physical remembrance of her beloved husband. She raked through the straw with her fingers but could not find the ring. Tears fell from her eyes. She went to her knees and prayed that the Lord would help her to find the ring. When she opened her eyes, she looked down and there it was.
Now I hold it in my hand. It is too small for all of you to see. It is 18-karat gold, old and scarred and bent. But it represents faith, the faith of a widow who pleaded with the Lord in her extremity. Such faith is the wellspring of activity. It is the root of hope and trust. It is this simple faith that all of us so much need.

Recently her grandfather was chosen to represent the Northern Ute tribe in the Salt Lake City 2002 Olympic torch relay. When officials asked Frank, Stephanie’s grandpa, to suggest someone for him to pass the torch on to, Stephanie was the first to come to his mind. “She’s really involved in sports,” her grandpa told them, “and I know she’s in good shape. I know she can do it.”

Stephanie smiles. “He’s always taught me that girls can do anything guys can do.”

Stephanie is a soccer player for her high school, so she was in great shape to run the torch. She credits her grandfather with helping her succeed there too: “My grandpa has the best work ethic of anyone I know. This work ethic has helped me in my commitment to sports, to my religion, and to my personal goals.”

When Stephanie received the Olympic torch from her grandfather under the picturesque Delicate Arch in southern Utah’s Arches National Park, it seemed more symbolic than real. More important than giving her the torch is the legacy of love her grandfather and family have passed on. She wants to continue that legacy in her own family.

“Go outside and play,” the hired girl said. “You know your mother needs to rest.” So Leta, Sina, Nilla, and Clyde walked from the backdoor, past the pretty tulips, and to the field. At one end of the field was a big root cellar. The part of the cellar not filled with potatoes or other root crops was a playhouse for the four children.

“Let’s get ready for dinner,” Leta said in a special voice that meant she was pretending to be Mother. “Sina, help me tie my apron.” She pretended to take an apron out of a drawer and put it over her head.

Sina pretended to tie a bow in the back, hurrying to finish so she could play the part of big sister. “I will set the table,” she said, turning over a wooden crate and draping it with an old dish towel.

“Nilla,” Leta ordered, “you go back to the house and find us some food to eat.”

Nilla was happy to have an important part to play in this game. She was almost back to the house before she remembered that the hired girl had sent them away and might not let her go into the house again. She looked around carefully until she saw the girl talking to a boy who had ridden up on a horse.

Nilla went to the kitchen. The cupboard doors were open, but nothing was inside. They smelled of cleaning soap. On the kitchen table and chairs were boxes and bottles of various sizes and shapes.

One bottle with a worn red and white label caught Nilla’s eye. She did not know that the picture of the skull and crossbones on it meant it was poison. The label was loose, so she tore it off and threw it on the floor. Then she proudly took the bottle back to her sisters and brother, who were waiting in the playhouse.

Leta opened the bottle and looked at the white crystals inside. “Yes, this looks very good,” she said, closing it up again. “It will take a little while for dinner to be ready, so don’t sit up to the table yet.”

Leta pretended to be busy cooking over the stove, then sweeping the floor. She scolded the children from time to time when they were impatient waiting for their food. Finally she announced it was time for dinner.

When the children took their places at the table, Leta poured a little pile of the crystals in front of each of them. Clyde licked his finger, ready to eat right away, but Leta stopped him. “No food until after the prayer. And I will say it.”

This time, she reminded everyone of their father as she prayed. “Our Father who art in heaven,” she began. “We thank Thee for this food and for …” Her voice rose and fell as she prayed on and on. Her words were mumbled much of the time, so no one was quite sure what all she said. The others did hear her say, “Bless this food to our use” and “Bless the missionaries in the field.” Just when Sina, Nilla, and Clyde thought the prayer would end and the feast would start, Leta thought of a ward member she could mention in the prayer, and the prayer continued.

In the house, Mother, sick and weak, awoke with such a feeling of concern for her children that she found herself standing beside her bed before she was even fully awake. Making her way slowly out of the bedroom, she saw the hired girl asleep on the couch.

The kitchen was spotlessly clean, except for a faded red label that startled her as a breeze blew it across the floor. A picture of a skull and crossbones was on it—and the word strychnine. Mother hurried outside as fast as she was able. She saw no sign of her children in the yard, so she went straight to their playhouse in the cellar.

Leta had just said “amen,” and each child was raising a freshly licked finger over the “food,” ready to pick up the powder and eat it, when Mother’s shadow appeared in the doorway.

Mother had found the children in time! In her heart, she said her own prayer of thanks that the lives of her little children had been spared. She did not doubt for a moment that the Spirit of the Lord had awakened her and led her to the children.

That evening at supper, the children waited patiently through the rising and falling tones of their father’s long blessing on the food. It wasn’t hard to remember their own blessing on the play “food” they had almost eaten in the root cellar.

While they were eating, Nilla whispered to Leta, “Heavenly Father really does hear and understand each prayer, doesn’t He?”

“Yes, He really does,” Leta whispered back.

William hopped into the car next to Jeremy and buckled his seat belt.
Is everybody ready for preschool?
Yes!
Yes!
Jeremy’s mom started driving down the road, and William opened his lunch box. He pulled out a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and took a big bite.
Jeremy looked at William’s sandwich. It looked yummy. Jeremy was hungry.
Mom, I’m hungry. Do you have something for me to eat?
Sorry, Jeremy. We ate before we left. I don’t have anything else.
OK.
Jeremy was sad. He wanted a sandwich too.
William saw that Jeremy was sad. He pulled off a piece of his sandwich and handed it to Jeremy.
Here you go!
Thanks, William. You’re nice.
No problem. That’s what friends are for!

In my own life, I once prayed desperately for guidance about a very difficult decision I had to make. Days passed, then weeks, and I still felt no answer. But gradually, through impressions, through the words of others, and through quiet tender mercies, I realized He had been answering all along. His hearing was never in question; only my recognition was.

When answers seem delayed, we must remember silence is not absence. Sometimes God’s answer is “not yet,” sometimes it’s “not this way,” and sometimes it’s simply, “trust Me.”

Following is a true account of a middle-aged businessman who very keenly felt the Comforter enticing him to do good.

Brother Johnson (the name is fictitious) had been plagued with an enslaving smoking habit for two decades. He very much wanted to be active in the Church, but somehow this habit was a seemingly insurmountable barrier between him, the Lord, and Church activity.

One windy, wintry day at work, disgusted with his inability to refrain from smoking one cigarette after another, he felt a subtle spiritual prompting which made him leave his work and tell his employees he’d be gone for the rest of the day. Despite the chilling weather and the deep, new-fallen snow, he hiked into a secluded mountain canyon. Intent on seeking the Lord in private circumstances so he might pray fervently aloud, he hiked until the snow was hip-deep and he could walk no farther.

Then and there he approached the Lord with great humility. He pleaded with the Lord to strengthen him so that he might be free from the insidious power that nicotine held over him. After mighty prayer, he arose a new man.

The chains were broken. And as he followed the Lord’s admonition in John 8:32, six months later he was called to be the bishop of his ward. He served faithfully and well.

As we pray, the Lord will guide and prepare us to do our part. One summer, while touring Europe with the BYU International Folk Dancers, I learned an important lesson. I was sick and I became discouraged. I wanted to quit and go home. We were in Scotland to perform our show for the members, investigators, and missionaries. We went to the mission home for a prayer. As I entered, I glanced at a stone in the front garden. Chiseled in the stone were the words “What-e’er thou art act well thy part.” That message went like electricity to my heart. I felt that that stone was speaking to me. It changed me. I knew at that instant that I had a part to play not only on that dancing tour but throughout my life and that it was very important to “act well” my part.

On his thirty-third birthday Wilford Woodruff was preaching in the town of Hanley in England. He was extremely successful in that location, and so he was surprised when the Lord directed him to leave and go southward where he was literally directed to the John Benbow farm just outside of Birmingham. A group known as the United Brethren had banded together and were praying for the Lord to send messengers with the fullness of the gospel.

From this group alone Elder Woodruff baptized 45 preachers and 160 members of the congregation. One of the policemen sent to arrest this dynamic missionary for preaching the gospel joined the Church himself after listening to Elder Woodruff speak. Two local officials from the Church of England who went to spy on the meetings, also ended up asking for baptism at his hand.

Wilford Woodruff—in 1840—brought 336 people into the Church in one year. Then, responding to the call of President Joseph Smith, he and the other Brethren set sail for home, bringing with them a boatload of converts.

“I feel the Spirit and receive promptings through sudden ideas and thoughts. This happens when my mind is open to God. At Young Women camp, I felt really lonely. I walked to my cabin and prayed about it. Afterward I had the feeling to turn around. I did and met with my leaders. We had a great time ziplining and eating snow cones! This experience helped me learn how I can feel the Spirit.”
Harper J., 14, Oregon, USA

Let’s take a quick trip around the universe in the MandM 4000 Space Explorer and find things to be thankful for.
Blast off!
I’m thankful for all of Heavenly Father’s creations.
I’m thankful for beautiful things.
Let’s land on this strange planet and meet new life forms.
Initiating landing sequence. Hold on tight!
Greetings, Grandpa—I mean, strange being from the Planet Grampatron! We come in peace from Planet Earth in search of things to be thankful for.
Here on Grampatron, we are thankful for our families, especially our grandchildren.
That was a very wise alien. I’m thankful we met him.
Me too.

In 1895 my great-grandfather, Abinadi Olsen, was called on a mission to the Samoan Islands. Obedient to the call of the prophet, he left his wife and four small children, including my maternal grandmother, Chasty Magdalene, in the town of Castle Dale, Utah. He traveled by train and ship to the mission headquarters in Apia, a journey of 26 days. His first assignment was to labor on the island of Tutuila.
After many weeks of living in what he called a grass hut, eating strange food, suffering severe illnesses, and struggling to learn the Samoan language, he seemed to be making no progress in his missionary work. Homesick and discouraged, he seriously considered boarding a boat back to Apia and telling the mission president he didn’t want to waste any more time in Samoa. The obstacles to the accomplishment of his mission seemed insurmountable, and he wished to return to his wife and children, who were struggling to support him in the mission field.
A friend who heard Abinadi Olsen describe the experience some years after his return, quoted him as follows:
“Then one night, as I lay on my mat on the floor of my hut, a strange man entered and in my own language told me to get up and follow him. His manner was such that I had to obey. He led me out through the village and directly up against the face of a perpendicular solid rock cliff. ‘That’s strange,’ thought I. ‘I’ve never seen that here before,’ and just then the stranger said, ‘I want you to climb that cliff.’
“I took another look and then in bewilderment said, ‘I can’t. It’s impossible!’
“‘How do you know you can’t? You haven’t tried,’ said my guide.
“‘But anyone can see’—I started to say in objection. But he cut in with, ‘Begin climbing. Reach up with your hand—now with your foot.’
“As I reached, under orders that I dared not disobey, a niche seemed to open in the solid rock cliff and I caught hold. Then with my one foot I caught a toe hold.
“‘Now go ahead,’ he ordered. ‘Reach with your other hand,’ and as I did so another place opened up, and to my surprise the cliff began to recede; climbing became easier, and I continued the ascent without difficulty until, suddenly, I found myself lying on my pallet back in my hut. The stranger was gone!
“‘Why has this experience come to me?’ I asked myself. The answer came quickly. I had been up against an imaginary cliff for those three months. I had not reached out my hand to begin the climb. I hadn’t really made the effort I should have made to learn the language and surmount my other problems” (Fenton L. Williams, “On Doing the Impossible,” Improvement Era, Aug. 1957, p. 554).
It is hardly necessary to add that Abinadi Olsen did not leave the mission. He labored for three and a half years, until released by appropriate authority. He was an exceptionally effective missionary, and he was a faithful member of the Church for the rest of his life.

There is one more journey that my heart holds dear. It happens to be a story within a story: my family’s journey of conversion. In the book of 1 Kings is an account of the faith of a widow in Zarephath, who in time of drought and famine gave up her family’s remaining food for the prophet Elijah: “As the Lord thy God liveth, I have not a cake, but an handful of meal in a barrel, and a little oil in a cruse.”18

The gospel came in our lives at a time when we had been sufficiently humbled by trials. The most that we literally could offer at the altar was not even a morsel of bread, for we had none but our very faith. It was all that we had. Thus, I liken the widow of Zarephath to a widow in the Philippines, the widow of Tondo with seven children. She is my mother. Let me tell you our story.

There are six girls and a boy in our family—a mix that does not bode well in a society where women are not regarded as men’s equals. I am the fifth child in that brood of seven. I was six when my father died of cancer. Our eldest had just turned 18, and the youngest was two years old. The memory is still vivid in my mind as though it happened just yesterday. My mother was by my father’s bedside, exhausted and with her face drenched in tears. Each of the children was summoned by name to approach our father’s side. With my mother holding my father’s right hand, each of us, from the oldest to the youngest, placed our right hand on top of our parents’ hands. There are seven children. There were seven right hands placed atop each other in a solemn act of promise. It was our father’s dying wish that we look after each other. Then there was silence—a silence broken by my mother’s wailing, then by her defeated sobs. My father had passed away.

Without a stable breadwinner and with seven children left to a mother without a job or a college degree, our finances were tenuous. We grew up in poverty—not just income poverty but also a scarcity of opportunities. We were too poor to get an education, but my mother persisted in her dream to have each of her children complete a college degree. She believed in the power of education to enlighten and transform lives, to equalize social standing, and to be the vehicle out of our dismal circumstances. She borrowed money even at high interest rates to keep us in school. I remember rejoicing in being able to take exams (yes, those were joyful, not dreadful, moments), because it meant that my mother was able to pay our tuition. Eventually, the only way for us to go beyond high school was to qualify for scholarships.

Four years after my father died, two young American men knocked on our door looking for my mother. They introduced themselves as missionaries. Behind them was a throng of Filipino children fighting for their attention and calling out, “Hi, Joe.” Under the sweltering Philippine heat, these young men stood out in their white shirts, ties, and black briefcases; to us they looked like a toss-up between James Bond and CIA agents. I was about to say to them that my mother had told me to tell them that she was not home when my mother’s friends and their children, who came with the missionaries, showed up. My mom overheard and motioned to me to let them in. I quietly asked myself, “What are we getting ourselves into?” Inviting these Americans in was social suicide, as my mom was known in our community for her staunch devotion to the dominant faith.

When my father was alive, he had always invited the missionaries. Not my mother. When my father died, we knew that any opportunity to hear these missionaries died with him. “What could they possibly offer that we still do not have?” was my mother’s quick retort to any previous attempts at having our family taught. The year after my father died, martial law was declared in the Philippines. On top of that there was a national shortage of rice—the country’s staple food. To stave off the shortage, rice was combined with corn and rationed to five kilos per family. Food and jobs were scarce. For us to survive, my mom marshaled every inch of strength she had. She talked a friend into allowing her to be paid a meager sum for helping to deliver rice. She would leave at 4:30 in the morning and would come home at 11:00 at night. At the end of the day she would pick up grain after grain of rice and corn that had spilled on the floor of the delivery truck. She would not stop until she had several handfuls for tomorrow’s meals. Our life was already at its worst. How could listening to these Americans help? What could these missionaries offer that would make our life better?

To our surprise, our mother listened to the missionaries. She even attended an area conference at the Araneta Coliseum presided by President Spencer W. Kimball. That was an act of boldness to go against the predominant religion. This was the 1970s. People’s minds were strongly averse to changes. It must have exacted much willpower from my mother to stop drinking coffee and to stop smoking—just because two foreigners barely in their twenties said so—at a time when nicotine patches were unheard of. It must have taken real faith to part with a widow’s mite for tithing.

It was only out of politeness for my mom and the missionaries that I listened. My elder sisters did not want any part of this. Despite our obvious annoyance with the missionaries, they continued to visit and responded to us with love and patience. My mother, my younger sister Ruth, and myself were the first to be baptized. My older sisters followed months later. My brother was baptized when he turned eight. It took years and a temple in the Philippines for our father to be baptized by proxy and for us to be finally sealed as a family.

What did the missionaries offer? They offered us the opportunity of knowing that families can be together even beyond death—something my father had always hoped we could be. The missionaries taught us that we have a Heavenly Father who knows each of us by name and who loves us dearly—a concept so foreign to us, for the God that we knew lashed out with punishments and heard only memorized prayers. The missionaries taught us that our bodies are sacred. They taught us the value of preparedness—temporal and spiritual. The missionaries taught us about where we came from and where we are going. The missionaries offered a message so sweet that it was “most desirable above all things.”19 It filled us with joy—not just momentary bliss, but peace and radiance that continued to sustain us through difficult times.

The fruit of the gospel is remarkably sweet, and we paid a high price for it. Following our baptism, relatives and friends distanced themselves from us. They charged my mother with blasphemy and insanity. Some refused to extend any help despite our needs. The loss of that social safety net was economic suicide for a family already living on the edge of poverty. Even as young children we were not spared from many trials, and we had to grow far beyond our years. When I was attending a private school of another religious faith, a nun confronted me in front of my sixth-grade class for choosing to be baptized as a Latter-day Saint. I came home that day in tears. My sister and I were eventually disqualified from receiving the highest academic honors. We were denied the very measure of success that we had worked hard for. This was not the end. Many more challenges came.

How did we keep the faith? First, it was never because we were smarter or stronger, nor were our lives easier. With the help of the Holy Ghost, a conversion rooted within our hearts drove the change. What helped us was that we stayed on course. We did not give up at the very first sign of adversity. We kept going even when the tempests in our lives were raging.20 We kept paying tithing even when the choices came down to not having enough to eat. We kept coming to Church with the thought that if we continued to do so, eventually principles that were once unclear would make much more sense. We kept going with the understanding that people around us were not perfect but were putting forth the effort to be better.

Second, while it is true that our happiness now and forever depends on the degree of spiritual change in our personal lives, we still needed others’ support. We were not always brave or fearless, nor could we clearly see even a step ahead into life. We had to rely on borrowed light until we mustered the strength to light our own lamps. We could not have made it this far without the love, understanding, encouragement, and kindness of members and friends.

Has the Lord been mindful of our sacrifices? Yes! He is continually involved in our lives. There was no way that a mother widowed at age 41, without a job and a college degree, could have possibly raised seven children from two to 18 years of age without divine help. Heaven must have heard her many pleadings and interceded in so many ways that it amazes us even to this very day. Through the Lord’s design and blessings, each of us was able to complete our studies: two doctors, a nurse, a lawyer, an accountant, a hotel and restaurant manager, and an IT support specialist. Thus was the promise of Elijah also fulfilled to the widow of Tondo:

And she went and did according to the saying of Elijah: and she, and he, and her house, did eat many days.
And the barrel of meal wasted not, neither did the cruse of oil fail, according to the word of the Lord, which he spake by Elijah.21

One would not understand how tenderly, patiently, and lovingly the Lord tended our family if I were to skip the sad parts. This is a story of struggles; but, most important, it is a story of faith, hope, and hard work. This is a legacy of faith that we want to leave to our children and their children’s children. The best help heaven extended to us was giving us missionaries who were motivated, who were willing to work long and hard until our hearts were ready to listen and to be touched by the Spirit. These were missionaries who were able to recognize hearts as though the Lord Himself was there. I cannot thank these missionaries without thanking those who lent them to the Lord: their mothers and fathers. To parents of missionaries and their families, thank you for lending your sons and daughters to the Lord. Thank you for your sacrifices.

Finally, honesty is the best policy. I learned this truth in a dramatic manner during boot camp when I served in the Navy 55 years ago. After those first three weeks of isolated training, the good news came that we would have our first liberty and could visit the city of San Diego. All of the men were most eager for this change of pace. As we prepared to board the buses to town, the petty officer commanded, “Now all of you men who know how to swim, you stand over here. You will go into San Diego for liberty. Those of you who don’t know how to swim, you line up over there. You will go to the swimming pool and have a lesson on how to swim. Only when you learn to swim will you be permitted liberty.”

I had been a swimmer most of my life, so I prepared to get on the bus to town; but then that petty officer said to our group, “One more thing before we board the buses. Follow me. Forward, march!” He marched us right to the swimming pool, had us take our clothing off and stand at the edge of the deep end of the pool. Then he directed, “Jump in and swim the length of the pool.” In that group, all of whom could supposedly swim, were about 10 who had thought they could fool somebody. They did not really know how to swim. In the water they went, voluntarily or otherwise. Catastrophe was at the door. The petty officers let them go under once or twice before they extended the bamboo pole to pull them to safety. With a few choice words, they then said, “That will teach you to tell the truth!”

How grateful I was that I had told the truth, that I knew how to swim and made it easily to the other end of the pool. Such lessons teach us to be true—true to the faith, true to the Lord, true to our companions, true to all that is sacred and dear to us. That lesson has never left me.

The Holy Ghost also warns us against the dangers and evils in this life. Dorothea Speth, now wife of Spencer J. Condie, records an unforgettable experience that occurred on February 13, 1945, in Dresden, Germany. This was the night that Dresden was firebombed, and Sister Condie’s parent’s home was hit. As the firestorm was raging through the streets, her parents decided to take the four daughters and head for the Elbe River, which was down a wide street about four blocks from their home. She says:

For safety, we did not all walk together. My father took one of my older sisters and my twin sister and began to lead the way. My mother, my oldest sister, and I were to follow as closely as possible. As my father started walking, he headed towards a narrow side street instead of choosing the wide street which led directly to our goal, to the river. Mother stopped, not wanting to follow down the narrow, burning street and began calling Dad to try to persuade him to turn around and take the more direct route along our street, which seemed so much safer and quicker. But due to the firestorm, Dad could not hear her plea, and he continued walking along the narrow side street.
With each passing second, the distance between us increased, but Mom was still not willing to abandon her plan. Then I heard my older sister plead with her, “Mom, let’s follow Dad; he holds the Priesthood!” With this reminder, we started to move quickly, trying to catch up with Dad, who led us safely in a roundabout way down to the river.

After they reached safety, a neighbor lady came to tell them that she and her husband had taken the wide street to the river.
Her husband, tall and slender, walked very quickly leading the way, but she, somewhat short and heavy, could not follow so quickly, and lagged behind. Suddenly she saw her husband burnt alive in front of her eyes. Unknown to anyone, liquid phosphorous from one of the bombs had covered the street. It could not be seen but was immediately ignited whenever anyone stepped on it. There was nothing she could do to save her husband, she could only turn around and save herself. [Dorothea Speth Condie, “Let’s Follow Dad—He Holds the Priesthood,” in Behind the Iron Curtain: Recollections of Latter-day Saints in East Germany, 1945–1989, coll. and trans. Garold N. Davis and Norma S. Davis (Provo: BYU Studies, 1996), 33–34]

As a holder of the priesthood, Sister Condie’s father had listened to the Holy Ghost and had saved his family from a fiery death.

President Thomas S. Monson has described such a “leap of faith” with Elder John H. Groberg.

As a lad just twenty, called to the Tongan Mission, he was assigned to an outer island with a native missionary. After eight seasick days and sleepless nights on a storm-tossed sea, they reached their destination. Not one soul on the island spoke English. Here he acquired his gift of the language. Then came a devastating hurricane which struck the isolated island with tropical intensity, destroying the food crop and contaminating the water supply. There was no means of communication with the outside world. The supply boat was not due for almost two months. After four weeks the precious store of food, mainly taro, a native vegetable, was severely rationed. Four additional weeks passed. All food was gone. No help arrived. Bodies became emaciated, hope dwindled, confidence waned, some died. In desperation, John Groberg waded into the swampland where insects covered his face and, with a sweep of his hand, entered his mouth— his only nourishment.

The end drew near. The island’s inhabitants sat in an idle stupor. One morning, nine weeks from the time of the hurricane, John Groberg felt a gentle hand upon his shoulder. He turned his head and gazed into the eyes of an elderly Tongan man. Slowly and with meticulous care, the old man unwrapped a precious prize, even his most treasured possession—a small can of berry jam. He spoke: “I am old; I think I may die. You are young; you may live. Accept my gift.”

What were the words penned by Charles Dickens in a Tale of Two Cities? “It is a far, far better thing that I do than I have ever done; it is a far, far, better rest that I go to than I have ever known.” Add to them the declaration of the Savior: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

Then came the speck on the horizon and a shout of joy as the supply ship came into view.

In the town of Drammen, a few miles from Lier, there is a beautiful new branch chapel, and in spite of the busy schedule at school, Bonnie was able to attend Church meetings and participate in branch activities. “When Mr. Gurholt from the school drove me from Oslo to Lier, I thought to myself, ‘Oh, there aren’t any Mormons way out here.’ But there were! And I found that I knew the mission president too. The missionaries lent me their Norwegian books from the Language Training Mission and the sisters invited me to go tracting. I really enjoyed that. Several of my friends at school even agreed to have the missionary lessons, and one family was baptized shortly after I left Norway.”

Of particular value to me personally was the chance to visit the Temple. I recognize that it can be difficult for some to visit the temple when struggling with depression or other conditions that make it difficult to feel the spirit, and I have felt that, but at other times, the House of the Lord has been a true refuge to me and a place where the Lord could heal my heart, gradually, over time. It is the sort of place where we can not only get a glimpse of what is ahead of us, but also, in the Lord’s time, a broad view of the expanse of eternity, however short lived that can sometimes be. I have seen miracles in the temple that have let me know the Lord was there and cared for me at times when I most needed to know those two things. I believe that attending the temple when we can is a way of showing faith that can, when the Lord is ready, produce miracles. And this brings me to a last and important point that I want to make. While we all go through trials and we all face darkness, there are sometimes trials that need special care. It was in the Temple that I first got confirmation that one of the helps for me would be medication that could help me through the physical elements attached to my spiritual and emotional trials. I was very reluctant to approach that kind of help. I knew that darkness was something I would meet in my life, but I thought real faith should get me through it without other help. Even when the Lord confirmed to me in the temple that it would help, it was difficult for me to accept, though without that confirmation it would perhaps never have happened. Afterwards, this was more difficult because I didn’t find the medication that would help me the first time. Everyone is a bit different. Some of you may have difficulties thinking of talking to a counselor or even talking to a bishop about such things. There are many resources available for us in this time that have not been available in all times to combat some of the afflictions we might have to endure. Not all of them are for everyone. For some, only a good friend is needed to talk to, or a bishop, for others counselors or medication can help. As a good bishop once told me, whatever leads us towards the light is right. Let the Lord lead you where he will.

“I shared a room with my sister. We liked to be together, but when were very young we argued about who was taking more than her share of the bed. One day we decided to settle the problem. We took a pen and drew a line right down the middle of the sheet. Mother didn’t like that solution and explained that we were not to mark on the sheets again. When we were older, our parents told us we could each have our own room. Dianne moved her things into another room, but it only lasted one night. We really preferred being together, so the next day she moved back.

Elder Renlund spent his career as a cardiologist, treating patients with heart failure. He saw many patients die. But after a patient named Chad died, the emotional distance he maintained in times of crisis as a physician shattered when Chad’s parents joined him in the emergency room. In that moment he saw Chad through their eyes.
Of this experience, Elder Renlund said, “I now realize that in the Church, to effectively serve others we must see them through a parent’s eyes, through Heavenly Father’s eyes. Only then can we begin to comprehend the true worth of a soul” (page 94).