Gospel Story Finder

When I was in Young Men, I embarked on a rigorous hike up the tallest mountain in Arizona: Humphreys Peak. Our goal was to use mirrors to signal light to other participants on other peaks once we’d reached the summit. This required us to haul the heavy mirrors in our backpacks, and it was a tiring climb.
I remember feeling pain and exhaustion from the load on my back, which seemed to get heavier with each step I took. I often contemplated turning back, wishing I could shed my backpack and finally find relief. But with encouragement from my dad and my quorum advisers, I kept going. When we finally reached the summit, it was so fulfilling to look out at the incredible view and take off our backpacks. But it was clear to me that I could not have made it to my destination on my own.
Contemplating this experience from my youth has helped me realize that everybody is climbing a mountain in mortality. We all have a metaphorical backpack on our shoulders, and within each of our backpacks is a load of burdens. Some of us may have lighter burdens, while others are carrying almost unbearable loads, but one thing is for certain: we can’t carry them and make it to our destination alone.
With help from my loved ones, I was able to carry the burden on my back and reach the top of Humphrey’s Peak. And I know that as we help those around us by seeking to understand and to lift, we will be able to share the Savior’s light and make each other’s burdens light. We need each other. And our joy will be full as we reach our heavenly destination alongside our fellow Christlike climbers.

The second element is further demonstrated in this entertaining piece from the chronicler Francisco Davila’s writing in 1598:
“They say that anciently the world was to be destroyed, and it happened like this: as one Indian tied up his llama in a good pasture … the llama talked to him, saying: ‘Loco, what do you know, or what do you think? Understand that I am worried, and with good reason. You should know that in less than five days the sea is going to swell and burst open until only it covers the whole earth … you must take refuge on the summit of the mountain Vilcacoto.’ Carrying his belongings on his back, and taking his llama on a leash, the Indian arrived at the summit of the indicated mountain where he found many diverse animals and birds huddled together. … The waters rose until only the summit of this Vilcacoto was not covered. … Finally the waters rose so high that some of the frightened animals were almost in it. The fox, for instance, was close to the water, waving his tail in the waves, which is the reason why the fox’s tail is black at the tip. And at the end of five days, the waters began to recede and the sea returned to its former place, even lower than it had been before, and thus the entire earth was cleansed of people except the Indian referred to.”

When I was about 16, we had an activity about being a full-time missionary. We divided into pairs and lived like missionaries for a week. That was the first time I learned how important it is to share our testimonies with others. This activity helped me realize not only how hard it is to serve the Lord, but also the joy we feel by sharing the gospel and seeing how Christ’s teachings change someone’s life. It helped me understand what it is like to “stand as witnesses of God at all times and in all things, and in all places” (Mosiah 18:9).

Let me illustrate this with a story from the Church News:
“A group of religion instructors [were] taking a summer course on the life of the Savior and focusing particularly on the parables.
“When the final exam time came, … the students arrived at the classroom to find a note that the exam would be given in another building across campus. Moreover, the note said, it must be finished within the two-hour time period that was starting almost at that moment.
“The students hurried across campus. On the way they passed a little girl crying over a flat tire on her new bike. An old man hobbled painfully toward the library with a cane in one hand, spilling books from a stack he was trying to manage with the other. On a bench by the union building sat a shabbily dressed, bearded man [in obvious distress].
“Rushing into the other classroom, the students were met by the professor, who announced they had all flunked the final exam.
“The only true test of whether they understood the Savior’s life and teaching, he said, was how they treated people in need.
“Their weeks of study at the feet of a capable professor had taught them a great deal of what Christ had said and done.” In their haste to finish the technicalities of the course, however, they failed to recognize the application represented by the three scenes that had been deliberately staged. They learned the letter but not the spirit. Their neglect of the little girl and the two men showed that the profound message of the course had not entered into their inward parts.

“Why don’t we choose service as our goal?” suggested Kim, her blue eyes sparkling.
“We could do things for older people, little children, our parents, and each other!” added Jeri excitedly.
The rest of the second-year Beehives of the Bountiful 42nd Ward, Bountiful East Stake, chimed in with their ideas and comments about the different kinds of projects we could do. When a talent show was suggested, each of the girls committed herself to performing at least one number. Rehearsals were set for the following week, and the first performance was scheduled for three weeks later at a nursing home for the elderly. When the big night came, the girls were as nervous as if they were performing on Broadway! Their numbers went very well, however, and afterwards they visited with their new friends. The project was truly one of love, and thus it became known as our “Love Program.”
During the coming year we presented the “Love Program” several times—once to a 12-year-old bedridden girl—and in February we had a very special Valentine party for our grandmothers. The girls sent invitations, made special cards, prepared a buffet dinner, decorated the room with streamers and hearts and made candy hearts of dipped chocolate as favors.
Each time the program was given, the girls seemed to enjoy it more. “Before our program, I didn’t know I could write poems,” shared Jeri. “But when I saw others enjoying the poems I had written, it gave me confidence to write more. I even wrote one for my dad.”
“At first I didn’t want to play my guitar,” admitted Marti. “But when everyone else got so excited, I got excited, too. I’m glad I was kind of pushed into doing it.”
Our last performance of the “Love Program” was for the girls’ parents. The Mutual year was ending and we wanted them to know of some of the good accomplished. In addition to this, however, the girls also performed acts of service in other ways throughout the year. At Christmas, our Mutual provided gifts for a family and our class was assigned a two-year-old boy. For several weeks the girls baked cookies, brownies, cakes, and candies to raise money for our “Christmas boy.” When the girls weren’t doing this, they were making surprises for a “secret sister” in our class. What seemed to matter most to them was that they were doing something for someone else.
At the year’s end, Lynnette summed up the feelings of all the girls when she said, “I liked our year of service and I know that I am a better person for helping. I like knowing I can make people a little bit happier.”

Such a call of duty—a much less dramatic call but one which nonetheless helped to save a soul—came to me in 1950 when I was a newly called bishop. My responsibilities as a bishop were many and varied, and I tried to the best of my ability to do all that was required of me. The United States was engaged in a different war by then. Because many of our members were serving in the armed services, an assignment came from Church headquarters for all bishops to provide each serviceman a subscription to the Church News and the Improvement Era, the Church’s magazine at that time. In addition, each bishop was asked to write a personal, monthly letter to each serviceman from his ward. Our ward had 23 men in uniform. The priesthood quorums, with effort, supplied the funds for the subscriptions to the publications. I undertook the task, even the duty, to write 23 personal letters each month. After all these years I still have copies of many of my letters and the responses received. Tears come easily when these letters are reread. It is a joy to learn again of a soldier’s pledge to live the gospel, a sailor’s decision to keep faith with his family.

One evening I handed to a sister in the ward the stack of 23 letters for the current month. Her assignment was to handle the mailing and to maintain the constantly changing address list. She glanced at one envelope and, with a smile, asked, “Bishop, don’t you ever get discouraged? Here is another letter to Brother Bryson. This is the 17th letter you have sent to him without a reply.”

I responded, “Well, maybe this will be the month.” As it turned out, that was the month. For the first time, he responded to my letter. His reply is a keepsake, a treasure. He was serving far away on a distant shore, isolated, homesick, alone. He wrote, “Dear Bishop, I ain’t much at writin’ letters.” (I could have told him that several months earlier.) His letter continued, “Thank you for the Church News and magazines, but most of all thank you for the personal letters. I have turned over a new leaf. I have been ordained a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. My heart is full. I am a happy man.”

Brother Bryson was no happier than was his bishop. I had learned the practical application of the adage “Do [your] duty; that is best; leave unto [the] Lord the rest.”13

Years later, while attending the Salt Lake Cottonwood Stake when James E. Faust served as its president, I related that account in an effort to encourage attention to our servicemen. After the meeting, a fine-looking young man came forward. He took my hand in his and asked, “Bishop Monson, do you remember me?”

I suddenly realized who he was. “Brother Bryson!” I exclaimed. “How are you? What are you doing in the Church?”

With warmth and obvious pride, he responded, “I’m fine. I serve in the presidency of my elders quorum. Thank you again for your concern for me and the personal letters which you sent and which I treasure.”

“What’s this?” I said to myself as I walked into my bedroom and saw a vase and flower on the dresser. It was a bud vase of green glass, with a yellow ribbon tied around it. It held a red velvet rose, made with obvious care and skill.
I knew my 15-year-old daughter, Ellen, had made flowers like this before, usually for friends or to give away as presents. But why would she be giving one to me? Though we rarely quarrel, she and I had quarreled earlier in the day, and the storm clouds between us had not yet evaporated.
And what was this—a note addressed to me? I opened it and read:
“Dear mom, this may seem like a small thing to give, and it may only be a copy of the real thing, but it still has the beauty of a real rose. This rose isn’t real, though, and that’s on purpose. Because real roses die. But this one will always be alive. And so will the love I have for my mother. Even though it sometimes seems that I don’t love you, I do love you.
“Just like when there’s dust on the rose and you blow it away and everything seems new, the same is true when we’re upset. Blow the dust away and our love shines clean and new. I love you, mom. I always will.”
Tears dropped down my cheeks. I felt ashamed for not having been the first to apologize, but Ellen had apologized first. She had more than cleared the problems between us. She had given me a gift of love.
We still disagree occasionally, but now we both know how superficial that dust on our relationship is, and we have learned to quickly blow it off. After we have, then, with warmth and tender appreciation, I walk into the bedroom and blow the dust off my velvet rose, too.

There were at least two Latter-day Saint connections to the Titanic. Both illustrate our challenge in understanding trials, tribulations, and tragedies and provide insight as to how we might deal with them. The first is an example of being appreciative for the blessings we receive and the challenges we avoid. It involves Alma Sonne, who later served as a General Authority.9 He was my stake president when I was born in Logan, Utah. I had my mission interview with Elder Sonne. In those days all prospective missionaries were interviewed by a General Authority. He was a great influence in my life.
When Alma was a young man, he had a friend named Fred who was less active in the Church. They had numerous discussions about serving a mission, and eventually Alma Sonne convinced Fred to prepare and serve. They were both called to the British Mission. At the conclusion of their missions, Elder Sonne, the mission secretary, made the travel arrangements for their return to the United States. He booked passage on the Titanic for himself, Fred, and four other missionaries who had also completed their missions.10
When it came time to travel, for some reason Fred was delayed. Elder Sonne canceled all six bookings to sail on the new luxury liner on its maiden voyage and booked passage on a ship that sailed the next day.11 The four missionaries, who were excited about traveling on the Titanic, expressed their disappointment. Elder Sonne’s answer paraphrased the account of Joseph and his brothers in Egypt recorded in Genesis: “How can we return to our families and the lad be not with us?”12 He explained to his companions that they all came to England together and they all should return home together. Elder Sonne subsequently learned of the Titanic’s sinking and gratefully said to his friend Fred, “You saved my life.” Fred replied, “No, by getting me on this mission, you saved my life.”13 All of the missionaries thanked the Lord for preserving them.14

Grandpa smiled, remembering the leaf whistles Jason’s dad had blown in his childhood days. Then Grandpa seemed caught up in a special memory, and his thoughts began to tumble out.
“I remember a time your daddy came home from school with a big problem. Your grandma told me that he’d gone to his room after he got home, and he just stayed there till suppertime. I noticed how quiet he was when we sat down at the table to eat, so I persuaded him to take a walk with me afterward, and he finally blurted out what was bothering him.
“It seems he’d had an argument on the playground at school with his best friend, Jimmy. Joe’d become so angry that he’d hit Jimmy and made his nose bleed. Then Joe had walked away and come home. Now he felt sorry for what he’d done, but he couldn’t face Jimmy and apologize. Joe had too much pride—but he didn’t feel good about himself, either.
“Then I thought of my treasure—a seashell that I’d brought home with me from the war,” Grandpa went on. “I’d found it on the beach where we landed late one night. As I held it to my ear, it seemed to speak to me. I kept it because the sound of the sea seemed to whisper in my ear. It reminded me of the still, small voice inside me trying to keep me on the right path.
“I hadn’t thought of my seashell for years, but after our walk together that night, I looked for it. I handed the seashell to your daddy and told him to listen to it. When he placed it near his ear, I told him that it was a reminder of the still, small voice of conscience that each of us has within us. Then I asked him what the small voice would tell him about asking forgiveness.
“Your dad sat on the bed next to me. ‘I can’t say I’m sorry,’ he cried. ‘I just can’t!’
“I told him that he must apologize if his friendship with Jimmy was worth keeping and if he wanted to be at peace with Heavenly Father and with himself.
“It was hard for Joe to go to Jimmy and ask for forgiveness,” Grandpa went on, “but he finally listened to his conscience and patched up the hurt feelings.
“I kept the seashell on my desk for a long time afterward,” Grandpa told Jason. “Having to say that he was sorry was a particularly difficult lesson for your dad to learn. It was hard for him to admit his mistakes, just as it is for you and me. He had some stubbornness to overcome. I often reminded him of the seashell and invited him to listen to its voice. It helped him remember to listen to the still, small voice inside himself that was always there. As we grow up, we are constantly faced with choices to make, and seeing the seashell reminded Joe to listen to his conscience and choose the better way. And that is why I consider the seashell a treasure.”

I first heard about Sharon when my bishop requested that I go to our local hospital to administer to a woman who had been hurt in an automobile accident. I had just returned from visiting another sister in the same hospital, which was some distance from my office. Because I had not been able to get much done that day, I really didn’t want to make that trip again and was feeling somewhat annoyed at the inconvenience. As I drove toward the hospital, my thoughts were not very positive.
Sharon and her family had been on their way home from a vacation when their vehicle had collided straight into a large truck.
Sharon was seriously injured in the collision, with a deep cut over her eyes, a fractured arm, a broken nose, internal injuries, and a badly crushed skull. One of Sharon’s sons was killed in the accident. Another son had a broken leg. Her husband and the two remaining children were slightly injured.
In the hospital emergency room the doctor had examined her briefly and had told the staff he had no hope of saving her life. Sharon had asked for a priesthood blessing.
When I arrived at the hospital, another member of my ward was waiting for me, ready to help me administer the blessing.
My companion searched Sharon’s head for a place to apply the consecrated oil—a difficult task, because her skull was so severely injured. He finally located a small, clear area to one side of her head.
I searched my mind for the words for her blessing. I had never administered to anyone who was dying before, and I didn’t know what to say. I let the Spirit guide my words. I remember assuring her that she would live to raise her children, that her earthly mission was not yet over, that her family still needed her, and that her injuries would heal quickly.
This was startling to the hospital’s emergency room staff, which consisted of nurses and nuns. They were expecting last rites, and they were stunned to hear us tell a woman who was mortally injured that she would be all right.
One of the nuns who spoke with us after the blessing was excited to think that Sharon had a chance for recovery. The same nun called me the next day to say that Sharon wanted to see me.
She was sitting up in her hospital bed when I arrived. She had a bright smile on her face and a sparkle in her eyes. She thanked me for the blessing and asked me to read from the scriptures. As I was preparing to leave, she asked me to adjust her oxygen mask, which kept slipping off her face. As I reached for the head strap, I noticed that there was no sign of her skull injury. Her head was whole, with no evidence of bleeding or broken bone.
Two weeks later, Sharon walked out of the hospital with only her arm in a sling and a small bandage on her forehead. The incident had provided a rare opportunity for both of us. For Sharon it was a chance to demonstrate her extraordinary faith in the priesthood; for me, it was a time to renew my commitment to give priesthood service readily whenever it is needed.

Turning to our own time, let me share with you an example of faith, of courage, of compassion, of victory. It illustrates how it is possible to meet life’s challenges—head-on. It exemplifies the ability to suffer physical impairment, endure pain and suffering, and yet never complain. Such are Wendy Bennion of Sandy, Utah, and Jami Palmer of Park Valley, Utah. Both are teenagers; both have borne similar afflictions. Their situations run almost parallel. Since Wendy’s battle has been of a longer duration, I shall speak today of her.
Stricken with cancer at a tender age, subjected to long periods of chemotherapy, Wendy persevered valiantly. Teachers cooperated, parents and family helped—but the mainstay in her affliction has been her indomitable spirit. Wendy has brought cheer to others similarly afflicted. She has prayed for them; she has sustained them with her own example and faith.
After Wendy completed eighteen months of chemotherapy, a balloon-launching party was held in her honor. The public media covered the event. One of the many balloons launched that day was found miles away by Jayne Johnson. It had landed in her backyard, and she discovered it just as she was starting her own chemotherapy treatments. She wrote to Wendy, indicating she had been feeling sad and frightened but that finding the balloon and the note inside—which told about Wendy, her cancer, and the completion of her treatments—had given her the strength and that Wendy was a real inspiration to her. Wendy said, “I think she was supposed to find that balloon so that she would know that it’s not the end of the world and that people do get better.”
Though Wendy’s cancer recurred and a second round of therapy was needed, this choice young lady has not wavered, nor has she shrunk from her course. Rarely have I witnessed one with such courage, such determination, such faith. The same can be said of Jami Palmer. They personify the words of the poetess Ella Wheeler Wilcox, who wrote:
It is easy enough to be pleasant,
When life flows by like a song,
But the man worth while is one who will smile,
When everything goes dead wrong.
For the test of the heart is trouble,
And it always comes with the years,
And the smile that is worth the praises of earth
Is the smile that shines through tears.

One day when Tommy was about eight years old, he and his grandfather were sitting on the front-porch swing. An elderly man from England lived on the same street. His name was Robert Dicks, but most of the neighbors just called him “Old Bob.” He was widowed and poor.

Old Bob came over and sat down on the porch swing with Tommy and his grandfather. He said that the small adobe house where he lived was going to be torn down. He had no family, no money, and nowhere to go.

Tommy wondered how his grandfather would respond to the sad story. His grandfather reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather change purse. He took out a key and put it in Old Bob’s hand. “Mr. Dicks,” he said tenderly, “you can move your things into that empty house of mine next door. It won’t cost you a cent, and you can stay there as long as you like. And remember, nobody is ever going to put you out again.” Tears filled Old Bob’s eyes.

Now I would like to tell you of a little experience I had in the mission field that illustrates what I think the Lord meant when he indicated that not only would the Prophet bring forth His word, but he would bring men to a conviction of His word that had already gone forth among them.

When I was in Holland, I was invited to talk to a Bible class of businessmen. We met in the home of a prominent furniture dealer. There were about twenty men; each had his Bible. The only woman there was the daughter of the man of the house. They gave me an hour and a half to discuss universal salvation, which includes our work for the dead, preaching in the spirit world, and baptism of the living for the dead. I just gave them chapter and verse and let them read the passages in their own Bibles. Then when I was through, I closed my Bible and waited for comments.

The first comment came from the daughter of the man of the house. She said: “Father, I just can’t understand it. I have never attended one of these Bible classes in my life that you haven’t had the last word to say on everything. And tonight you haven’t said a word.”

The man shook his head and said: “My daughter, there isn’t anything to say. This man has been teaching us things we have never heard of, and he has been teaching them to us out of our own Bibles.”

I could tell you many more stories like that!

One of the great blessings of my childhood was that my mother spent significant time reading to me and my younger brother Howard. She had a great sense of the importance of good books, and she used them to teach and entertain us. This all served to expand our limited young lives to matters far beyond our daily experience. The reading had begun when I was a runabout preschooler and Howard, who had been born with severe physical disabilities and could not run about, needed special attention. The blessing for me was that I got special attention too.
The books were wide-ranging and grew in sophistication as we grew. I remember nursery rhymes, poetry, folktales from Russia, the adventure in Thunder Cave—and the scriptures. Together we read parables, incidents such as the woman at the well, even the great abstractions.
One day Mother read: “Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up. …
“Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.
“Charity never faileth” (1 Cor. 13:4, 7–8; see also Moro. 7:45–46).
Howard interrupted the reading, as he often did, with a question: “What is charity?” He wanted to know the meaning of what we had just heard; I was still caught up in the way it sounded. I only wanted to go on with the reading, but I could tell Mother was pleased with his inquisitiveness. She taught us then, and later, that good questions can be important if we are truly searching to understand and that sometimes good answers that are good enough may take a lifetime of looking. Then she put down the New Testament and read from the Book of Mormon:
“But charity is the pure love of Christ, and it endureth forever; and whoso is found possessed of it at the last day, it shall be well with him [or her]” (Moro. 7:47).
There it was in one verse—the concentrated essence of a much larger whole, a definition given for a profound yet available truth. What I heard that day was clearly beyond my childhood comprehension, but the spirit of love was there and was as real as any of the other details of my young life.

Although I was active in my Catholic faith, I felt that something was missing in my life. At 16 years old I have investigated eight different churches as I searched for the truth that would provide meaning and direction to my life.
I discovered that my friend Clint was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and he introduced me to the missionaries. They taught me a lot of things: I learned how to pray, and I was introduced to the Prophet Joseph Smith. I read the Book of Mormon and prayed if it was true and if the Church was really of God. I didn’t know it was the Holy Ghost, but I definitely felt the truthfulness as I felt a burning in my bossom.
I was baptized on March 13, 2012, and I fully embraced the Latter-day Saint way of life. I attended Church services and other activities, served and volunteered my time, and really felt like a true disciple of Jesus Christ.

Recently I turned 16 and was ordained a priest by my grandpa. A few days later, I went to the temple with my brother and the other youth in our ward to help officiate in baptisms for the dead.
Every experience that I have had at the temple has been spiritual, but I felt like this time was different. As soon as I walked onto the temple grounds, I could feel my heart beat a little faster in anticipation of this new experience of being able to perform baptisms.
I felt like any worries that I had were left outside the temple doors. I really felt peace inside the temple. I felt clean and pure. The Spirit was incredibly strong the entire time. I knew my testimony was growing and I was coming closer to Jesus Christ. When I baptized my brother, I knew that both of our testimonies were being strengthened.
It makes me happy to know that the Lord has trusted us as youth to assist those who have passed on in preparing to enter the kingdom of God.
Kiefer C., Utah, USA

But he wasn’t always so well known. Reared by his grandparents on Kuria, a small dot of land south of Tarawa, Tune didn’t come to the capital island until he was 13 or 14 years old. He had been taught traditional skills, but his grandmother felt he needed a good secondary education. So they came to Tarawa, where a few private schools, one run by a religious group, were located.
His grandmother enrolled him in the religious school. “But then just before school started,” Tune says, “I dislocated my hip playing soccer. I was admitted to the hospital on Tarawa. Unfortunately, a lady using traditional medicine tried to heal me by massaging the hip. Instead, she destroyed it. And then it got infected. I became very sick.
“When the doctors told my grandmother I might die, she called my family to Tarawa. I heard them talking to the doctors one day outside the curtain around my bed. The doctors said, ‘We don’t have any hope. This infection in his hip is very bad, and now it’s getting into the rest of his body.’
“When I heard that, I thought, ‘Wow! They think I’m going to die!’ I was raised a Christian, so I started praying. I said, ‘God, my only hope is You. If You spare my life, I promise to be a missionary. I will spend my whole life serving You.’ Of course, what I had in mind was the kind of missionary you see in the Protestant and Catholic churches. This was in 1972, before the LDS Church came to Kiribati.
“I was flat on my back in bed and couldn’t even sit up. But as I continued to pray, one day I found I could sit. After a while I could stand, then walk. I was in the hospital for two years.” Tune left with a bad limp, but he had survived.
“When I was released, for some reason I didn’t want to go to the Protestant school anymore. I wanted to go to another school called AKAS. So my grandmother enrolled me in 1974. During that year, Eb Davis, the LDS mission president in Fiji, came to our school to select 10 students to attend Liahona High School on Tonga. Attending high school is a great opportunity. Only two groups had gone before. I was older than most and had been out of school for two years, so I didn’t have much hope I would be selected. But I was.
“The big problem for my family was finding the money to purchase the required round-trip airfare. I asked my father, ‘How will you get the money? We don’t have any.’ My father had a terminal illness that left him unable to work, but he said, ‘We’ll get the money.’ My mother sewed for the hospital and had some money saved. My uncle and other relatives also helped. It seemed a miracle, but we came up with the money.
“So there I was in 1975 at Liahona High School. When I came to the campus, I thought I was in heaven. The people were clean, the school was clean, and the men were wearing ties. And then I discovered this was a church school, run by Mormons. I had no idea what a Mormon was, so I asked.
“That first Sunday I started the missionary discussions. Grant Howlett, one of my teachers, taught me. I was really excited. I had promised the Lord I would be a missionary if He healed me, and I knew I couldn’t be a missionary until I joined the Church. I was baptized on 22 June 1975—the first from our group. When my friends asked why I joined the Church so quickly, I said, ‘I couldn’t reject anything they taught. I just felt it was what my Father in Heaven wanted me to do.’
“Two months after I was baptized, the students from Kiribati were asked if anyone was interested in going home to introduce the Church there. I gave them my name. But when they learned I was 17, they told me I was too young.” Six young men accepted the call to take the gospel to Kiribati. They began in late 1975.
“Before they left, I asked them to talk to my parents. They agreed. I also sent many letters to my family bearing my testimony. They accepted the gospel and were baptized.” His grandmother, Tebwebwenikai Ribauea Tune, was the first person in the family to join.
“I finished school in 1978 and still wanted to be a missionary. By then I had also met my future wife, Maii. We decided I would serve a mission; then we would meet in Hawaii and be married in the temple. But I wasn’t sure how I was going to get to Hawaii or finance a mission.”
Tune considers what happened to him over the next few years miraculous. After graduation he stayed in Tonga translating for the Church. A family from the high school helped him go to the New Zealand temple, where he received his endowment in 1979. Within a few months he was serving a mission in Kiribati. After his mission he was able to attend BYU—Hawaii to further his education (he was the first person from Kiribati to graduate from BYU), and it was there he and Maii were married (the first couple from Kiribati to be sealed in the temple). An impression to return to Kiribati instead of accepting a job in the United States led to an encounter at the airport in Fiji with the Area President, Elder John Sonnenberg. A few days later Elder Sonnenberg called Tune to be Kiribati’s district president. President Tune’s ecclesiastic duties took him to Salt Lake City, where he had hip-replacement surgery. Limping no longer, he now outwalks most of those who attempt to keep up with him.
While serving as district president on Tarawa, Tune also filled an appointment as principal of Moroni High School, an LDS high school that resulted from the missionary work of Grant Howlett and his wife, Pat. When the Howletts came to Tarawa in 1976, the AKAS school was having financial and leadership problems. The Howletts supplied the leadership and petitioned the Church to buy the school. Eventually, the Church agreed.
Unfortunately, there was some opposition from people in the government. But the Lord had an agent in place. Baitika Toun, a member of the Church elected to parliament, helped convince several key lawmakers that a school run by the Church would be of great benefit to the I-Kiribati. The Church purchased the school and called the campus Moroni Community School (now Moroni High School).
The school has indeed proved a blessing, not only to the I-Kiribati but to the Church as well. “Moroni High School is seen as the model school in Kiribati,” Tune says. “Our graduates are skilled and have high moral values. They are sought out for responsible positions. And the Church is seen as the model church—in terms of morals, standards, and the focus on the family.”
The Church didn’t always enjoy such a reputation in Kiribati. “When it was first introduced, we were accused of being non-Christian,” Tune says. “We were even tried in parliament. But that just gave us a chance to preach the gospel to the leaders of our country. We cleared up the confusion.”
The school is now educating a new generation of Latter-day Saints who have strong testimonies and are eager to share the gospel. That is one reason the Church is growing so fast in Kiribati. Another is the gospel light that shines in the lives of Kiribati’s Latter-day Saints. “We have high standards and strong families,” Tune says. “People are attracted to that. When I started my mission, there were between 50 and 100 members of the Church in Kiribati. When I finished, we had 500. We now have close to 6,000. That’s about six percent of the population. After only 20 years, the Church had become the third largest denomination in Kiribati.” When Tune was released in 1996 after serving nine years as district president, the district was reorganized as a stake, and he was called as bishop of the Eita Ward (now the Eita First Ward).
It is now near sunset. Tarawa lies somewhere off the bow of Tune’s boat. A few terns and noddies fly past on their way to roost. Tune’s eyes follow them instinctively. The birds fly directly to land at dusk; by following them, a seafarer can always find home. Behind the birds, the sky has turned gold, tinting the sea gold as well. The light reveals a smile on Tune’s face. In the large cooler at his feet are four tuna that decided to join him during the trip home from Abaiang.
“The members here are like the seabirds,” he says. “The Great Fisherman has many fish to catch. We members are the birds showing the missionaries where those people are. And by the lives we live, we show our friends and relatives the way to eternal life.”
At the same time, the members of the Church in Kiribati are themselves among those gathered by the gospel net. If at times they soar in joyful anticipation of heaven’s joys, at other times they dive into the depths of mortal experience. Yet always there is the Light—and the leap of faith into it. At such times, for that brief moment, sea and sky become one.

When DeNeece came home from college this summer, we shared a free, unpressured week, our strengths and talents working together. I played the piano while we sang duets, we created unusual gifts for our family, and we walked and talked again. We spent many nights until dawn sitting on her thick shag rug sharing memorable experiences of the past years. We also talked about qualities such as being thoughtful, fellowshipping, and understanding others. Then we prayed together that our love for each other might grow continually. We talked about serving the Lord, but each in her own individual way. Finally, we were able to begin unifying our growing snowballs to create one strong snowman.

When Mom and Dad said we’d be living in a one-room cabin in Nauvoo this summer, I wasn’t excited about being so close with my family. But we’d be performing in the City of Joseph pageant, which sounded fun, so I thought I’d give it a try.
On opening night, as I looked at the performers in their 1840s costumes, I felt a oneness with my Nauvoo ancestors. How real they seem to me now. Lots of people have told us how the pageant has touched them, too.
Tonight our family won an award from the director for working so well together. I guess it’s not so bad to be close as a family!

It has taken me six years to forgive a family member who hurt me and others in the family. This person lowered my self-esteem, and I have felt taken advantage of. For a while I felt this person deserved to be hated, but I know I was wrong. I had to find a solution to a four-year grudge. I felt I should pray about it. Every time I prayed I would ask Heavenly Father to help me forgive and stop having bad feelings toward this person. It didn’t come all at once, but took two years of praying and even fasting. In those two years I slowly was rid of those bad feelings of hatred. I had finally forgiven that person. I felt so much better about myself.
Name withheld