Gospel Story Finder

Years ago I was on a mission in England. I had been called to labor in the European Mission office in London under President Joseph F. Merrill of the Council of the Twelve, then president of the European Mission. One day three or four of the London papers carried reviews of a reprint of an old book, snide and ugly in tone, indicating that the book was a history of the Mormons. President Merrill said to me, “I want you to go down to the publisher and protest this.” I looked at him and was about to say, “Surely not me.” But I meekly said, “Yes, sir.”
I do not hesitate to say that I was frightened. I went to my room and felt something as I think Moses must have felt when the Lord asked him to go and see Pharaoh. I offered a prayer. My stomach was churning as I walked over to the Goodge Street station to get the underground train to Fleet Street. I found the office of the president and presented my card to the receptionist. She took it and went into the inner office and soon returned to say that the president was too busy to see me. I replied that I had come more than 8,000 kilometers and that I would wait. During the next hour she made two or three trips to his office; then finally he invited me in. I shall never forget the picture when I entered. He was smoking a long cigar with a look that seemed to say, “Don’t bother me.”
I held in my hand the reviews. I do not recall what I said after that. Another power seemed to be speaking through me. At first he was defensive and even belligerent. Then he began to soften. He concluded by promising to do something. Within an hour word went out to every book dealer in England to return the books to the publisher. At great expense he printed and tipped in the front of each volume a statement to the effect that the book was not to be considered as history, but only as fiction, and that no offense was intended against the respected Mormon people. Years later he granted another favor of substantial worth to the Church, and each year until the time of his death I received a Christmas card from him.
I came to know that when we try in faith to walk in obedience to the requests of the priesthood, the Lord opens the way, even when there appears to be no way.

Last week my ward high priest group was assigned to clean the Conference Center across from Temple Square. We started at 9:30 in the evening. My first assignment was to empty the trash cans on the 2nd and 3rd foyer levels. After I finished I was asked to dust all the tables and bronze statuary. When I came to the hall with the portraits of the latter-day apostles I noticed the portrait of Elder Neal A. Maxwell was not hanging properly. So I reached up and adjusted it. Afterwards I thought, it isn't often one gets the opportunity to straighten out an apostle! As I was dusting the statues of the latter-day prophets, I looked deeply into their faces and felt such a sweet transcending peace. On the main entry level there is a statue of the Savior and one of Joseph Smith, facing each other from across the hall. I reflected on the grand moment when Joseph left his earthly bonds and took the divine hand of the Savior in the spirit world. What a glorious reunion! I cannot express the supernal feelings I was having. It was eleven o'clock on a snowy, January night. I was alone in that grand hall, yet not alone, because I felt that all the prophets and the Savior were there.

“When we got on the plane,” Brother Naga says, “I had 102 New Zealand dollars in my pocket. That was all our money. We didn’t know how we were going to pay our living expenses for the two weeks we would be in New Zealand.”
But Church members met the Nagas at the airport, arranged for lodging in a member’s home, and provided food and transportation.
“After we came back from the temple, the Lord blessed us,” Brother Naga says. “Not only were we able to buy furniture, we were able to extend our house.”

Illustration by Brooke Smart
Forty-five minutes after boarding the plane that would take me to Dallas, where I would meet with other missionaries en route to the Brazil MTC, we had yet to leave the gate. Finally the pilot came over the speaker and told us the plane had a mechanical problem that would take 15 minutes to fix. We were taken off the plane so work could begin.
Fifteen minutes soon turned into three hours. With each passing hour I began to worry I would miss my next layover, and I’d have to fly to Brazil alone, not knowing a word of Portuguese and running the risk of having nobody there to pick me up.
I started to get scared. I knew I was doing the right thing going to Brazil to serve a mission, but why couldn’t it go smoothly? Why was this happening?
I called my house from a pay phone. With tears in my eyes I asked my mom to contact the Church’s travel office to tell them I would miss my flight in Dallas. I wanted so badly to ask her to make the drive down to the airport to pick me up. I caught myself thinking, “Maybe I can leave for my mission next week.” But I knew that wasn’t the right thing, so I held my tongue. It was hard to say goodbye and hang up the phone.
I sat there for a second trying to collect myself, and I turned around. Just then a woman passed by me, holding her little boy’s hand. She saw my name tag and immediately stopped.
“Elder! Are you coming home or just leaving for the field?”
I told her I was just leaving, and with a smile she told me her little boy looked up to us missionaries. She wished me luck and left.
I don’t even know her name, but that conversation of less than one minute gave me the strength I needed to continue. It is one of the most memorable tender mercies I have experienced. I knew God was aware of me. He wanted me to do this—and I knew that I could.

During World War II, as a teenager I was privileged to serve as president of the teachers quorum. I was asked to learn and then apply the counsel from the Doctrine and Covenants, section 107, verse 86: “The duty of the president over the office of the teachers is to preside over … the teachers, and to sit in council with them, teaching them the duties of their office, as given in the covenants.” I tried my best to live up to this defined duty.
In that quorum was a young man, Fritz Hoerold. He was short in stature but tall on courage. Soon after Fritz turned 17, he enlisted in the United States Navy and was off to training. He then found himself on a large battleship in a number of those bloody engagements in the Pacific. His ship was severely damaged, and many sailors were killed or wounded.
Fritz returned home on leave following such an engagement and came back to our teachers quorum. The quorum adviser invited him to speak to us. My, he looked resplendent in his Navy blues with appropriate war ribbons attached. I remember that I asked Fritz to tell us any thoughts he had for our benefit. After all, we were about the same age. With a wry smile, he responded, “Don’t volunteer for anything!”
I didn’t see Fritz again from that time when we were 17 until, a few years ago, I read a magazine article concerning those same battles at sea. I wondered if Fritz Hoerold were even still alive and, if so, if he lived somewhere in Salt Lake City. Through a telephone call I found him and sent the magazine to him. He and his wife expressed to me their thanks. Having learned that Fritz had not as yet been ordained an elder and hence had never been to the temple, I wrote a letter encouraging him to qualify for the blessings of the temple. On two occasions we happened to see one another at restaurants. His dear wife, Joyce, always urged me, “Keep working with this man of mine.” His daughters voiced their approval of their mother’s urging. I kept up my encouragement.
Just a few weeks ago, I saw in the newspaper obituary columns that Joyce, Fritz’s wife, had passed away. How I wished that I had been more successful with my private project to get Fritz to the temple. I noted the time and place of Sister Hoerold’s funeral service, rescheduled other appointments, and went to the service. Immediately upon seeing me, Fritz made a beeline to my side. We both shed a few tears. He asked me to be the final speaker.
When I arose to speak, I looked at Fritz and his family and said, “Fritz, I am here today as the president of the teachers quorum of which you and I were once members.” I proffered how he and his family could become a “forever family” through temple ordinances—ordinances at which I pledged to officiate when that time came.
I concluded my remarks, choking back the tears of emotion, by saying to Fritz in the hearing and view of his family and all in attendance, “Fritz, my dear friend and fellow sailor, you have courage, you have determination. You put your life on the line for your country in a time of peril. Now, Fritz, you must heed the call of the bos’n’s whistle: ‘All aboard—anchors aweigh’—for your journey to exaltation. Joyce is there waiting for you. I know your dear children and grandchildren are praying for you. Fritz, as your teachers quorum president of long ago, I will strive with all my heart and soul to make certain you don’t miss the ship that will carry you and your loved ones to celestial glory.”
I gave to him a Navy salute. Fritz stood and returned the salute.

“We also used to go to Huntsville, Utah, every summer; that’s where my mother grew up. Mother was President David O. McKay’s sister. I can’t remember President McKay when he didn’t have white hair. He was a great man, loving and kind and never saying an unkind word about anyone.
“I was so impressed with Huntsville that when I was nearing eight years of age, I decided that I wanted to be baptized in Spring Creek, which runs just a half block north of the old McKay home. It was late November, and the weather was very cold. There was ice along the edge of the creek when we stepped across it into the old swimming hole where Mother and President McKay had both been baptized.
“My mother was a very spiritual person. She taught us well the importance of living to be worthy to receive the impressions of the Spirit and to follow them.
“When I was older, I had a remarkable spiritual experience. I had taken my family to Burley, Idaho, to see my wife’s family. Coming back, we had a flat tire on a very sharp curve. I stopped the car on the curve because I didn’t want to ruin the tire. As I pulled off the two-lane highway and started to jack the car up, I had the strongest impression to move the car ahead. I ignored the feeling and continued to jack the car up. Luckily the car slipped off the jack. I again had an impression to move the car ahead. I said, ‘OK,’ and I pulled it ahead about twenty yards from where it had been to the straight-away. I had the wheel off and was about ready to put the spare tire on, when I saw two cars speeding west, one car passing the other. Then I saw another car coming from the opposite direction. The three cars passed each other on the curve exactly where our car had been. I don’t know how many of us would have been killed if we had not moved. From then on I’ve tried to follow my impressions the first time—I don’t wait for a second time. When you follow your impressions, you don’t always know what would have happened if you hadn’t done so, but it pays to heed them.
“It’s important for us to learn that serving others is the only way to gain real happiness. My father taught me something that has always impressed me: There’s no limit to the amount of good that you can do if you don’t care who gets the credit. If we can keep this in mind and serve the best that we can, whatever our assignment is, and try to be thoughtful of others, our happiness will multiply. Happiness doesn’t come to us by just seeking it. It comes to us as we serve other people. It’s important to understand that and to do things that are beyond the call of duty, to be helpful to our mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and all our friends. By helping them in ways that will bring them happiness, our own happiness will be increased.”

Two years ago my wife and I visited some of these sites. Two experiences come to mind that have relevance to this search for balance. In Jackson County we sat on the lawn within the boundaries of the future Jackson County temple. It was sunset. We were alone. We talked of history. We talked of prophecies of the future. But we remember most the sweet, peaceful, spiritual witness that Jesus Christ stands at the head of this Church and that Joseph Smith is what he claimed to be, a prophet of God. No amount of historical research alone can bring to pass that spiritual witness. It comes only when we become attuned and learn to recognize spiritual things. However, the spiritual witness was intensified by our knowledge of what has happened and what will happen there. That evening we found the elusive balance.

The night before my football team’s first practice of the season, I was so excited I couldn’t sleep. All my life I’d wanted to play little league football. I’d saved up my money over the summer so I could pay for it myself, and now at age 14, I was finally going to fulfill my dream.
But during the practice the next day, something really surprised me. It wasn’t how hard my coaches made our team work or how hard they pushed us—I was expecting that. No, I was shocked at the filthy and vulgar language all the players and coaches were using. At first I tried to ignore it and not let it bother me, but after a while it started to have an effect on me. I found myself thinking those words and—even worse—repeating them under stress. I prayed to my Heavenly Father and asked Him to help me be strong. I felt that I needed to be an example to my teammates and my coaches. Then I promised myself and God that I wouldn’t swear.
Later in the season, my team was preparing to play our rivals. Right before the game, my coach gave us a pep talk. Our whole team was really motivated, and my coach had us gather to say a cheer. He told us the cheer, and unfortunately it contained swear words. I didn’t have much time to make a decision, but I remembered the promise I’d made to myself and to Heavenly Father. An idea came to my mind to say the cheer, but when the swear word came up, I would just replace it with a different, appropriate word.
During the cheer, the player next to me noticed what I said, and after the cheer he started to make fun of me. He went up to the coach and said, “Harsh is Mormon, and he’s not man enough to swear. He’s too churchy!” I thought the coach would get mad at me or start to make fun of me as well, but instead he stood up for me and told my teammate, “Hey, leave Harsh alone. He has a lot of heart and can show you up anytime on the football field!”
I was surprised. I thought my coach would respect me if I swore like everyone else. But he actually respected me more because I was true to my standards and set an example for him and the rest of the team.
I don’t know how big of an impact my example had on my teammates and coaches, but I realized later how much that experience strengthened me. Now, four years later, it’s easier for me to stand up for what I believe in, no matter what situations I find myself in. I also realized that when we make a decision to obey the commandments, we are not alone—the Holy Ghost will help and support us through our trials.

Several years ago our oldest son shared with me a lesson he had learned about prayer. He was a very busy student at BYU. One evening he sat down to eat a quick dinner and, out of pure habit, said, “Please bless this food to nourish and strengthen my body.” He opened his eyes and looked at his food: a Twinkie and a can of soda. He realized there was no way that food was going to nourish and strengthen his body.
He later explained to me that the experience taught him the meaning of the phrase “vain repetitions.” When we repeat the same stock phrases over and over in prayer, but not with real intent—when our heart and mind are not in the prayer—then we are only engaging in vain repetition.

“My Mother opened a little country store to help keep our family out of debt. I worked with her in the store quite a bit. She taught me about respecting and serving people. Once, when I was fourteen, my mom and dad went to Salt Lake City for a conference and left me to take care of the store. The Hutterites in our area wouldn’t go to the bank to cash their huge grain checks, so Mom was an insured cashier, and we would sometimes have thousands of dollars in the store safe. I knew the combination to the safe, and I knew that my parents trusted me, so I opened and closed the store on time and took care of the customers.”

Sister Kapp believes that “the way to be happy and feel good about yourself and to please Heavenly Father is to learn to be obedient. Even if we don’t understand why we should or should not do certain things, if we will just trust in our parents and in the wisdom of our Father in Heaven, one day we will understand. My hope is that every child will develop the self-discipline to do what he knows is right. When we’re obedient, we’re happy; when we’re disobedient, we’re not happy. It’s just that simple. Let us, then, choose to be happy.”

Listen to another experience of a young boy on the trail.

This was one of those boys who is present in almost every Scout troop. He is the one who has wanted to be included in everything but somehow never quite measured up. When his pack was all put together, it seemed that there were always one or two things left out. Maybe it was the salt; maybe it was the cooking equipment. On one occasion he even forgot to pack his bedroll. That spring his Scout troop planned a trip to the high Uintas as a culminating activity for their summer’s work and training. In order to qualify, each boy had to take five successive hikes, each one requiring the development of a particular skill that would be needed on this longer venture into the Uintas. This young man worked hard, but every trip seemed to present the same dilemma: something was missing. He didn’t quite qualify under the regular circumstances. Well, additional help needed to be given, and his Scout master willingly provided the additional training. After the fifth trip the lad had reached the point where he finally qualified to go on the extended hike. The Scoutmaster was grateful—kind of a mixed gratefulness because he knew that he would have that young man with him on a difficult backpacking trip for several days. He could see himself having to carry the young man’s pack or having to carry the young man himself or discovering that some very important, essential items had been left at home. But the boy had qualified, and so the Scoutmaster cheered him on with these words: “I’m surely glad you made it. Come on, we’ll make it together, and you’ll really like it.”

Well, the day for the trip came, and they started on their way up into the Uintas. As had been anticipated, at the end of the first day’s hike something was missing. When they were ready to put up the tent, the stakes had been left out. Quickly they cut some stakes from the limbs of a fallen tree. It wasn’t a serious matter; they could put the tent in its rightful place, and the troop could continue on its way.

The second day had barely gotten underway, however, when one of the boy’s pack gave way. It had been put on incorrectly and therefore had worn out prematurely. Since each boy had made his own equipment as a part of the requirement for preparation for the trip, the boy again had been responsible for the error. Well, they improvised. The Scoutmaster was able to help him make a new strap from a piece of leather and a belt, and they continued their journey. It seemed that every day was the same.

At the end of the sixth day they reached the summit. They arrived at the close of the day, near sundown. A magnificent scene unfolded before them. The Scoutmaster was pleased and relieved. All the boys had made it to the top. He then looked around, and to his dismay the thing he had feared the most had happened—yes, our young Scout was missing. Where was he? His pack was there, but the boy was nowhere in sight. The Scoutmaster went back down the trail quite a distance, and, still unable to find him, thought he should return and get some help from the other boys. As he came back up the trail near the top, he noticed a clearing that he hadn’t seen on his way down. There was the boy. The Scoutmaster walked toward him. As he came closer, he detected that the boy was kneeling, so he hesitated within earshot and could hear the boy speaking. The boy, out at the edge of the clearing near a rock where he could look down across the peaks over the great valleys, was saying as he named each peak, “Number one, I beat you. I climbed. I beat you.” Then he named the next peak, then the next, each time with the same exclamation, “I beat you. I climbed beyond you.”

When he reached the fifth peak, tears were streaming down his face, and he repeated again, “I beat you. I beat you. I made it.” The boy closed with a prayer of gratitude.

Not wanting the boy to know he was there, the Scoutmaster (Elder S. Dilworth Young) remained hidden from view. He knew that that had to be a moment for the boy to be alone. It was his accomplishment, not the Scoutmaster’s. As the Scout came from the clearing where the Scoutmaster stood, the man took the young boy in his arms, held him close to him, and congratulated him on his success.

Jeffrey didn’t even remember waking up—he just slipped from pleasant dreams to smelling Mom’s cooking. He wiggled his feet between the sheets as he listened to her distant, busy, kitchen sounds.
Later that morning, after his mother had gone visiting teaching, Jeffrey repeated her instructions over and over to himself. “I won’t be gone long,” she had said, “and I’ll be right next door if you need me. There is one thing I would like you to help me with while I’m gone—and two things I want you to not do.”
The thing Mom wanted him to do was one of Jeffrey’s favorites—the dishes. And the not-do things were easy—he wasn’t to eat any cookies or watch TV.
Just before she left, his mother had hugged him and then stretched her arms out wide. “This much,” she’d said. Jeffrey had smiled and stretched his arms out, too. “This much, Mom.”
Once, when Jeffrey was much smaller—he was almost seven now—his mother had asked him how much he loved her. He had flung his arms as wide as he could and said proudly, “This much!” That gesture had become one of their private messages to each other.
Jeffrey stood on the kitchen stool, washing the dishes with a sponge and setting them in the warm rinse water. He felt important for doing something to help Mom. As he worked, he thought, I won’t take a cookie, of course, but I wonder if they’re cowboy cookies?
Cowboy cookies were his favorite. Mom made them with oatmeal, coconut, semisweet chocolate, and raisins. He looked at the bear-shaped cookie jar on the far end of the counter. “I’m not going to take one,” he said aloud, “but I wonder … ?”
He moved his stool, climbed up to the counter, and pulled the jar to him. As he lifted the lid, the welcome smell reached him almost as quickly as his memory of it. Yep, they’re cowboy cookies all right!
His tummy grumbled, wanting one. “Nope, I won’t,” he told his tummy. But as he looked into the jar, he saw a bump on the side of one cookie—you know, the little bump that sticks out so that the cookie isn’t quite round. Mom probably wouldn’t mind if I just ate that, he thought.
Almost on their own, his fingers picked up the cookie and removed the little chunk from its side. It was a short move from there to his mouth. Mmmm, it was good! He set the cookie back in the jar, but now it had a ragged dent in its side. When Mom sees that, she won’t like how it looks. He took the cookie out and looked in the jar. That looked better. He put the lid back on, returned the jar to its place, and climbed off the stool, cookie in hand.
Jeffrey never thought that he would eat a cowboy cookie he didn’t like, but as he sat at the table, eating this one, all he could think of was how sad Mom would be if she knew.
He climbed back up to the sink and continued to wash the dishes. At least I didn’t look at the TV. During the day, there weren’t programs on he wanted to watch, anyway. Then he remembered watching cartoons about this time of day at his friend Mark’s home. Mom said no watching TV, and I’m not going to. But, he thought, I can just check to see if that channel with the cartoons is on our television.
He dried his hands on his apron, went to the television, and turned it on. It came to life with older people doing boring, older-people things. He turned to the station he thought Mark had had on. There were the cartoons! He watched the captivating characters scurry across the screen. As he burst out in laughter at them, his feet, as if on their own, backed him onto the couch.
He was only there a moment, he was sure, when he heard steps coming up the walk! It must be Mom! He shot up from the couch, shut off the TV, ran to the sink, and began to wash more dishes.
When his mother had unlocked the door and come in, Jeffrey didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. He was ashamed of himself and hoped that she would never know how poorly he had done. He felt even worse when his mother rested her hand on his shoulder and asked, “Jeffrey, are you all right?”
“Yes.” But his voice didn’t even convince him.
Mom sat down at the kitchen table. “Come here,” she gently requested. “You know what?”
“What?”
“You have chocolate on your face.”
Jeffrey didn’t even try to wipe it off. He just sat down heavily on the chair next to her and hung his head.
“What happened, little buddy?”
The story poured out in a flood of tears. As she listened, she tenderly pulled him over onto her lap and rocked him back and forth. After a while she gently asked, “Do you know why you didn’t do what you really wanted to do?”
Jeffrey didn’t know. He wished that he did, and he told her so.
“Do you love me?” she asked.
“Yes, Mom—you know I do.”
“How much?”
He smiled a little. “More than this.” He opened his arms wide.
“Then,” she said, “let me tell you an important truth. You must promise never to forget it, and you must use it.”
He nodded, listening to her closely.
“OK,” she said, “Here it is: We will never arrive at the place we don’t want to go, if we don’t take the first step to get there.”
“Yeah?” Jeffrey waited for her to tell him the rest.
“That’s it.”
“I don’t understand.”
Mom explained, “There are things you will not want to do because they make you sad. And there are things you will want to do because they make you happy. No matter how hard the first step seems that takes you to happiness, once you take it, everything gets easier.
“And,” she continued, “no matter how easy or safe the first step to sadness seems, don’t take it. Then you will never get to where you don’t want to be. You see, you fooled yourself when you decided to just see if the cookies were cowboy cookies.”
“Ohhhh.” Jeffrey began to understand. If he hadn’t looked in the cookie jar to see if they were cowboy cookies, he wouldn’t have seen the cookie with the bump. Looking was his first step to where he wished he had never gone. He thought of how innocent and small it had seemed to him at the time. “And,” he blurted, “the first step with the TV was when I turned it on to see if there really were cartoons.”
Mom smiled, pleased that he understood. “Every first step we take is always the most important. After we take it, the other steps always come quicker, made stronger by the first one. So, if we never take the first step …”
“… we will never get there,” Jeffrey completed. “And that’s why the first step is the most important step.”
He and Mom sat together quietly for a while. “Will you remember?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, I’ll remember,” he assured her. It was so simple. I won’t fool myself and take the wrong first step again, he promised himself. He turned to Mom. Together, they said, arms stretched wide, “This much!”

My third example highlights the importance of recognizing and accepting the will of God in our lives. Several years ago there was a young father who had been active in the Church as a boy but had chosen a different path during his teenage years. After serving in the military, he married a lovely girl, and soon children blessed their home.

One day without warning their little four-year-old daughter became critically ill and was hospitalized. In desperation and for the first time in many years, the father was found on his knees in prayer, asking that the life of his daughter be spared. Yet her condition worsened. Gradually, this father sensed that his little girl would not live, and slowly his prayers changed; he no longer prayed for healing but rather for understanding. “Let Thy will be done” was now the manner of his pleadings.

Soon his daughter was in a coma, and the father knew her hours on earth were few. Fortified with understanding, trust, and power beyond their own, the young parents prayed again, asking for the opportunity to hold her close once more while she was awake. The daughter’s eyes opened, and her frail arms reached out to her parents for one final embrace. And then she was gone. This father knew their prayers had been answered—a kind, compassionate Father in Heaven had comforted their hearts. God’s will had been done, and they had gained understanding. (Adapted from H. Burke Peterson, “Adversity and Prayer,” Ensign, Jan. 1974, 18.)

Once or twice a year the Wagners drove from their home in Evanston, Wyoming, to the Church Distribution Center in Salt Lake City. Every trip was full of alphabet games and Primary songs. Today’s trip was even more fun. Heidi’s sister, Amanda, was getting married soon, and the family planned to do some extra shopping. Between today’s games, they talked about the wedding, which was going to take place in the Salt Lake Temple.
Heidi loved to listen to her father and mother talk about the temple. “You can each set a goal to go to the temple,” Dad said. “Even Heidi, as young as she is, should make that one of her most important goals.”
“Every time I go to the temple, I feel Heavenly Father’s love and know that He will bless me and watch over me,” Mom added.
Heidi wasn’t completely sure that she understood everything that her parents were saying, but she knew that she wanted to go to the temple someday.
The Wagners visited the Distribution Center, then drove downtown. As they went past the temple, Heidi had goose bumps when she looked at the beautiful building.
After lunch they all went shopping. Dad and Daniel went to a sports store, and Heidi followed her mother and sister to a department store, where Amanda tried on dress after dress. Amanda will never pick one, Heidi thought. Tired and bored, she found a nearby nook and settled down on her coat. Soon she was asleep.
At first when she woke up, she didn’t know where she was. Then she remembered—shopping! She looked all over for her mother and sister. They were gone! She couldn’t even find a clerk to help her.
Heidi’s heart began to beat faster and faster. Her face felt hot, and she wanted to cry. Then something caught her attention. Was that her mother’s coat going down the escalator? “Mom,” she called, running toward it. But when she reached it and started down, the woman in the coat was gone.
As Heidi wandered through the store, she saw someone wearing a jacket like her sister’s. Heidi yelled, “Amanda,” but the person kept going and went out the large main doors. Heidi ran after her. She looked up and down the street but didn’t see anyone she recognized. Tears began to fill her eyes. Where was her family?
She looked at the people waiting for a traffic light to change to “Walk.” That’s when she saw the spires of the temple. She remembered her mother’s words, “Every time I go to the temple, I feel Heavenly Father’s love and know that He will bless me and watch over me.” That sounded like what she needed right now!
The light changed, and Heidi crossed the street with all the other people. A young man and woman, who were carrying little suitcases like her mom and dad did when they went to the temple, were going into Temple Square toward it, so she followed them. They went past flowers and trees and interesting buildings, one of which had a statue of Christ that Heidi wanted to see. She didn’t dare stop to explore now, though, but followed the young couple out of Temple Square and along the wall until they came to a tall, black, wrought-iron gate. The man turned as Heidi came through the gate behind them. “Hi,” he said. “Are you coming in here too?” He seemed surprised.
Heidi nodded, “I need to go to the temple.”
“What’s the matter?” asked the woman. “Are you lost?”
Tears again filled Heidi’s eyes, and she nodded again. “I need a big blessing, and Mom and Dad always said they get blessings by coming to the temple.”
The couple took Heidi through the gates and to the doors where a woman dressed in white came to help. She looked like Heidi’s grandma, and Heidi felt better. “She says she needs a temple blessing,” the man explained. “We think she’s lost.”
“You’re a little young to be coming to the temple alone, aren’t you?” The lady smiled and took Heidi’s hand, Heidi felt warm and safe. Turning to the couple, the older woman said, “She’ll be all right. You go ahead.”
The couple went down some stairs, and the lady took Heidi into a room near the door. She invited Heidi to sit on a chair. “I’m Sister Chumn,” she introduced herself.
“What’s your name?”
“Heidi Wagner.”
“And why is it that you came to the temple today?”
Tears built up again in Heidi’s eyes, but she tried to not cry. Sister Chumn picked her up and sat down with Heidi on her lap. “It’s all right. Just tell me, and we’ll see what we can do.”
“I got lost from my mommy. She told me that if I go to the temple, Heavenly Father will bless me.” Tears ran down Heidi’s cheeks. “I want my mommy.”
Sister Chumn smiled and hugged Heidi tightly.
“Where were you before you came to the temple?”
“Across the street, in a mall with lots of stores.”
Sister Chumn reached for the phone and dialed a number. After talking to someone for a minute, she hung up and turned back to Heidi. “That was a man who will find your family. I imagine that they’ve been looking everywhere for you. We’ll just sit here and wait until they come.”
When Heidi’s parents arrived, she ran to them. After long, happy hugs, her parents turned to Sister Chumn and thanked her, and Heidi gave her a big hug. “I’m so glad I came to the temple today. It’s a wonderful place!”
Sister Chumn smiled at Heidi. “When you get older, you come back and I’ll show you just how wonderful the temple really is. Your mommy is right—the temple does bring blessings from Heavenly Father, and today He blessed you and me and all of us.”

After I finished school and before I went on a mission, I completed mandatory military service. While I was in the military, I picked up a habit that I’ve kept to this day: to pray always.
Obviously, the environment in the military wasn’t always very spiritual—the lockers, the pictures, the talk, the movies people watched at night. But I knew I was going to go on a mission. I wanted to stay strong. I didn’t want to fall. I didn’t want to give in to peer pressure. So I developed a habit of praying in my heart all the time.
Walking from building to building, going up and down hills in the forests, lying in the foxholes, playing war games—wherever I was, I would engage with Heavenly Father in prayer whenever I could, filling minutes and sometimes hours by communing or talking with Heavenly Father in order to draw close to Him and stay strong. Mostly, I would just give thanks.
This habit is still with me. When I’m driving somewhere or sitting in a bus or walking someplace, it has become natural for me to always have a prayer in my heart or to “pray always” as the scriptures say (see, for instance, 2 Nephi 32:9). That’s a good habit to develop at an early age.

I was grateful for that school year to end. The summer was a welcome escape from my old friends who didn’t understand why they saw less and less of me. I knew that the less I saw of them the easier it would be to begin repenting. Some of them didn’t care. Some hated me and my new religion. Some were very hurt and just didn’t understand. But I understood, and I knew that I would always be different.
I caught hold of the gospel and hung on tight. I worked furiously to catch up in knowledge with my friends who had been raised in the Church.
I tried to be perfect because I was convinced that I could never escape my sins. I thought that by knowing all of the answers in church and receiving awards in seminary I could somehow make up for all that I had done. I remember thinking at the time that I could never be free from my haunting past. I accepted that fact and resolved to be perfect in order to compensate.
One of the hardest steps of repentance (at least for me) was to forgive myself. Like the scripture that asks how we can love God whom we have not seen when we hate our brother whom we have seen (see 1 Jn. 4:20), how can we grow closer to Him when we hate and refuse to forgive ourselves?
For four long years I struggled. To everyone around me I seemed spiritual and well versed in the scriptures. Others told me how far I had come and how well I was doing, but only I knew the black that lined my heart. I had forsaken my past sins, and I was sure that God was pleased with my new life. But I felt that he was holding my past over my head, waiting for me to fall again.
Finally, in despair and confusion, I asked for a blessing. Words cannot express the peace that entered my heart as I received this personal revelation: I would receive the comfortings of the Holy Ghost and know that I was in good standing with Heavenly Father.
How could that be? My mind didn’t understand it, but my heart accepted it. So I believed it.

A few weeks ago as a Stake, we were trained by Elder Auna of the Seventy and President Warner of the Honolulu, Hawaii Mission on “Hastening the Work of Salvation.” During the training, Elder Auna gave this advice on how he approaches others about the Church. He will meet someone for the first time, begin a conversation, and then ask them where they are from. When they say where they are from, he then says, “Oh, we have a church there.” Then, inevitably, they will ask, “Oh, what church is that?” Then the discussion begins and an invitation is extended.

Well Dave Fullmer, 1st Counselor in the Sunset Beach Branch, attended that training and decided to put Elder Auna’s advice to the test and follow the promptings of the Spirit.

While driving on the North Shore a few weeks ago, Dave picked up a couple of hitchhikers. They began with small talk until Dave asked, “Where are you from?” One of the two answered, “We’re from Honolulu.” Dave then said, “Oh, we have a church there.” Then according to Dave, there was uncomfortable silence for about 30 seconds. Then one of them asked, “What church is that?” From the discussion that then followed, it was learned that the young man who asked the question was baptized years ago and was lost, and he was now found by Brother Fullmer.

One of the strongest recollections I have of being a missionary is how close I drew to the Lord through the practice of regular prayer. In my day the Mission Home was located on State Street in Salt Lake City. It was a large house that had been converted to a mission training center. It had large dormitory rooms with perhaps as many as 10 beds in a room. We checked in on Sunday night.
The week before I entered the mission field was an exciting time. There were a lot of parties and farewells. I am afraid that I was not properly rested and prepared for the training I was to receive at the Mission Home. As the evening of our first day in the Mission Home came to a close, I was weary. While waiting for the other missionaries to prepare themselves for bed, I stretched out on my bed and promptly fell asleep. My sleep, however, was interrupted by a feeling that I was surrounded. As the fog of sleep lifted, I heard the words of a prayer being said. I opened my eyes, and much to my surprise I found all the elders in my dormitory room kneeling around my bed, concluding the day with a prayer. I quickly closed my eyes and acted as if I was asleep. I was too embarrassed to get out of bed and join them. Even though my first experience with prayer as a missionary was an embarrassing one, it was the beginning of two wonderful years of frequently calling upon the Lord for guidance.

When I was a young man, I spent summers working on my Uncle Bill’s farm. Each year we would spend weeks getting our old John Deere 95 Hillside Combine in working order to harvest our grain. The 95 Hillside was old even back then; I was pretty sure that the model just before it was pulled by horses. It was a tremendous effort to get the combine ready each season. One year, my uncle was able to purchase a used Massey Ferguson Combine. The Massey Ferguson was still old but newer than the 95 Hillside and it featured a cab, which I was very excited about.

One morning, my uncle asked me to drive up to the field and start cutting grain with the new combine. I was thrilled! As a newly licensed teenager, any excuse to drive, let alone run the combine, was exciting. Upon arriving at the combine, I went through a mental checklist of things my uncle had taught me, and within a few minutes, I was off and running. It was exhilarating until at the top of a hill I heard a loud clang from the engine. I quickly looked around the combine, and gauges and everything seemed to be okay, so I decided to ease the combine off the hill before checking what had happened. By the time I reached the bottom of the hill, however, the combine was overheating. I started to panic. I had once observed my father let an engine run after climbing a hill to help it cool off so I decided not to turn the engine off. While sitting there I realized I was in the middle of a tall growth of grain. My uncle’s warning to never park a hot vehicle in a field pierced my thoughts and escalated my panic. I jumped out of the combine and rolled around on the ground to flatten the grain around the combine. Then I jumped back into the combine praying that the engine had cooled down. It had not. Panicked, I ran back to the pickup and drove to a neighbor’s field to ask for help. When I explained the situation to my neighbor, he just looked at me and said, “Well, did you turn it off?” I didn’t say anything, I just backed away jumped in the pickup, and drove as fast as I could back to the combine. When I arrived, the combine was sputtering and cackling. I quickly turned the engine off. At that moment, I had the thought that I should open the hood and see what had happened to the engine. I opened the hood to discover that the fan pulley had broken. No amount of letting the engine run would have cooled it down. Suddenly the weight of what I had done pressed down on me. For those of you who are unfamiliar with farm economics, losing a combine is a big deal. I was defeated; a wave of emotion hit me as I thought about how I would explain this to my uncle.

As I pulled up to the driveway, my uncle came out to meet me. I took a shaky breath and, with my head down, explained what had happened. I ended with the comment, “I guess you’ll never want me to run your equipment again.” He paused for a moment, looked at me, and said, “Well, you’re a better operator now than you were this morning.” I was taken back. I thought maybe he doesn’t understand how bad it is, but to his credit, he never said anything more about it, even when we had to pull out the old John Deere 95 to finish the harvest.

After that moment my feelings towards my uncle changed. I had always been a good worker; I was obedient and did my duty, but the mercy my uncle had shown to me was beyond my understanding. He could have crushed me in that moment by validating all the negative thoughts I was having about myself—how stupid I had been, how I had known better, how broken I felt inside—but instead he built me up and used this experience to help me grow. After that, I would wake up at 4 AM and get dressed, then lay in bed until I heard his footsteps on the floor above. Then I would race up the stairs to meet him by the door because I never wanted a day to start without him knowing how grateful I was and how much I loved him. My uncle’s mercy had switched my obedience from doing “chores” to working because I loved him.

This experience has helped me contextualize God’s love for me, because if my uncle could forgive me for ruining the combine, then I could start to understand how a loving Heavenly Father could forgive me of my combine big failures. I could start to get a glimpse of His willingness to work with me on the sins that so easily beset me.[3] And while I don’t understand how He could offer up His Only Begotten Son for me,[4] the fact that He did has changed the way I keep His commandments. I pray each day because I never want a day to go by that I don’t express my love for Him. I pour out my heart unto Him in my weakness because I need God in my life. Understanding God’s mercy and love for me, getting a glimpse of what Christ suffered for me, changes my obedience from compliance and duty to love and service. I cleave unto God because I love Him.

In 1850 Brigham Young sent ten missionaries to the Hawaiian Islands. Without understanding the language and culture, they became so discouraged that five of them went home. The youngest of the five who stayed was Elder George Q. Cannon. He went to the Lord in prayer and was inspired to go to Lahaina on the island of Maui.
When he got there, two ladies went screaming into a nearby house and brought out a gentleman. The night before, this man had had a dream that a messenger of God was coming and that he must feed him. The man was Jonathon H. Napela, the magistrate of that area. The two men became close friends, like Alma and Amulek in the Book of Mormon (see Alma 10–15). Because of the guiding hand of God and Brother Napela’s great help, missionary work began to do very well in Hawaii.