Gospel Story Finder

I was baptized when I was 18 years old and I never thought about serving a mission. Missionaries and members of the Church use to ask me about it whenever we met. I used to say, “I will think about it, let me finish my studies.” I finished my studies. The members continued to ask, “When are you going to serve a mission?” I would answer, “Let me make some money then I will think about it.” Every time, I used to give excuses for not serving a mission.
One day I sat on the rooftop, thinking about what I should do, wondering why God had given me challenges. Just one thought came into my mind: “Go on a mission.” A few days later I watched general conference with lots of questions. The main one was about my mission. I was waiting for the answers, when I heard President Dieter F. Uchtdorf say, “Those who love and serve God and fellowmen and humbly and actively participate in His work will see wondrous things happen in their lives and in the lives of those they love”1. I felt very strongly that it was the perfect answer from Him that I needed. The next moment I spoke to my mom. She did not want me to serve a mission. She had said many times, “I can’t live two years without you.” That day I thought she might say no, but she said, “I am happy to send you on a mission.”
I submitted my papers and waited for my call letter for almost one year. Meanwhile I went on exchanges with missionaries and learned a lot from them. This preparation helped me to gain a strong testimony to never give up on my mission and taught me how important it is to serve the Lord. Eventually the wait was over. The call letter came. When I opened it and saw that I was called to serve in the India New Delhi Mission, I was shocked. I read the letter again and saw at the bottom, “your purpose will be to invite others to come unto Christ.” I felt joy and happiness. I was prepared to leave my home, family, and friends.
There is no other place I would rather be than in the India New Delhi Mission where I have come to know who I am and why God sent me here. Because of Jesus Christ, I have the power to deal with the burdens, obstacles, and temptations. He had delivered me from physical and spiritual danger. The mission field is like a washing machine where we, like a dirty cloth, can be put in it, to be twisted, spun and knocked around and come out brighter, cleaner and better than before.
The Lord demands our whole soul on the sacrificial altar. That is the price we must pay, and when we do, we become instruments in his hands. We are all answerable to Him in this life, and in the next, we will be held accountable when we are called before Him to make our report. When that time comes, I will stand before Him to give an account of my stewardship. I pray that I may be able to do so without embarrassment, apology, or excuse. I am not perfect, I do have my weaknesses, but I can say that I have tried to do what the Lord would have me do as his servant disciple.

The first Sunday I attended church with the missionaries, I recognized people I had grown up with and knew from the community. I saw one of my best friends from school, the elementary and high school secretaries, a girl I had not been exceptionally nice to in the past, and even a young man I once had a crush on.
Each of these individuals had a lasting impact on me. My best friend was a young woman of great integrity, and because of her I chose to continue investigating the Church. The secretaries who remembered me from school helped me know that I am important. I learned about godly love and charity from the young woman who embraced me despite my less-than-kind behavior toward her in the past. My early teenage crush set such a good example, I recognized his light and wanted to be around him.
These experiences helped me learn that, even before my first exposure to the missionaries, Heavenly Father had prepared me to receive the gospel through the people He placed around me. From them I learned that the small things we do can have great effect. Most important, I have learned that missionary work starts with me.

When I was young, our little family lived in a one-bedroom apartment. I slept on the couch in the living room. More than anything else in the world, I wanted to be an athlete. I did everything I was told might help me. While some of the advice I received was questionable, I tried it anyway, just in case it might help. I was advised not to eat chocolate, so I didn’t eat chocolate. I remember being told not to drink soda pop because it would “cut your wind.” I never drank soda pop. I was also told to sleep with the windows wide open to get plenty of fresh air, so all year long I slept with the windows open.
My dad, a steelworker, left home for work very early each day. Every morning he would quietly close the windows I had opened in the living room; then he would tuck the covers around me and stop for a minute. Often, half-dreaming, I would sense my dad standing beside the couch, looking at me. As I pretended to sleep, he would bow his head and quietly pray with all his attention, energy, and focus—for me.
Each morning he would pray that I would have a good day, that I would be safe, that I would learn and prepare for the future. And since he could not be with me until evening, he would pray for the teachers and my friends that I would be with that day.
In junior high and high school, I reached my dream to be an athlete. I played football and baseball. Our football games were usually played on Friday evenings. My father now worked out of town during the week. But each Friday afternoon, he left work and drove six or seven hours to make it to every one of my games. He never arrived in time for the start of the game, but the coaches would leave a sideline pass at the gate for him. I knew that sometime during the first half, I would look up and there he would be on the sideline, watching me. Then after church on Sunday afternoons, he would have to turn around and drive back to work.
At first, I didn’t really understand what my dad was doing those mornings when he prayed for me. But as I got older, I came to sense his love and interest in me and in everything I was doing. It is one of my favorite memories. It wasn’t until years later, after I was married, had children of my own, and would go into their rooms while they were asleep and pray for them, that I understood completely how my father felt about me.

Now, please indulge me by allowing me to share one last story - my own.

My father was born and raised in Kahuku. At that time, Kahuku was mainly a plantation town with an operating sugar mill. My father's grandparents were amongst the first laborers to work in the cane fields. They had several children, and my grandfather was the first to be born in Hawaii. They raised their children as devout Catholics. My grandfather had limited education and after marrying at a young age, he also went to work on the plantation to support their seven kids. Sending their kids (my father amongst them) off to go to college was an expensive proposition, which was left up to them to pursue.

My dad's plan after High School was to enlist in the military. He and 6 of his friends, mostly plantation kids, went down to Fort Derussy less than one month after graduation to enlist. This was during the time of the Vietnam war, and they felt the need to volunteer and fulfill their civic responsibility instead of being drafted. My father wanted to go into the Air Force and have a career as an Aircraft Mechanic. However, after taking the hearing and vision tests, he was told to go to the processing window for reclassification instead of going with his friends to get physicals. He was processed out as a 4F - exempt from military service and selection. His friends considered him lucky, but he didn't think so at the time. But that perspective would change!

Somewhat unsure about what to do next, he decided to check out that Church school down the road – the Church College of Hawaii. He knew of some members in High School with last names that we still find here in the community, like Goo, Enos, and Owan. But it was the Huston family from Alaska that made a particularly positive impact upon my father. They had befriended him, and it was with their good influence in mind that he enrolled. He took some challenging classes and excelled, but his most challenging course would be in the subject called "The Book of Mormon." He sought out help with this class (as struggling students should). He approached Kimo Poai, who had just returned home from his mission. It wasn't long before the help extended not only in the subject matter but into the waters of baptism. My father was baptized in December of 1967, and Dennis Mau confirmed him.

After the school year ended, my dad was invited to stay with the Huston family for the summer break in the Seattle area. He was fortuitously hired by Boeing to work with aircraft attachment points and earned an excellent wage for the time - $4 an hour. This job was a reassuring blessing to my father since he hadn't been able to join the military to be an aircraft mechanic as previously planned. That earlier disappointment was pivotal in the opening of the door for my father to join the Church. Although it would be a year later, he was still blessed with the opportunity to work on aircraft. He ended up working for Boeing through the year and returned to school with good savings. As a point of reference, tuition was only $125 a semester at the time.

He would later decide to transfer to BYU in Provo to pursue engineering. By this time, his membership in the Church was nearly two years, and his friends who were serving missions were returning to school. One RM who was in the right place at the right time was Pete Kindara, who specifically asked my father if he thought about going on a mission himself. That rattled around within my father for a while. And before finishing the semester, my father withdrew to prepare to serve the Lord.

In the summer of 1971, he found himself on a mission to the land of his heritage in the Philippines. This call to serve in the Philippines would give increased appreciation to my father's parents in his decision to join the Church. His mission was the right thing to do and it put him in the right place at the right time as my father was very fortunate to meet old friends and relatives that would have otherwise remained strangers to him and lost to his parents. Another blessing that would come to my father was the offer of financial support by the Huston family. They were very gracious and angels to him.

In my father's first area, He would serve with a newly called leader, Bishop Selfaison. Little did he know at that time that this experience would pay dividends in his future as that Bishop's daughter was attending school at the Church College of Hawaii. After his mission, he would later meet and date her. They married in 1974 and had two children; Sonya and I.

I am a product of BYU–Hawaii. I am a result of the faith-filled decisions of my parents. Both my mother and father were pioneers in their own respect. Both were converts to the church and first-generation college students. Like many of the students we have here today, they come from very humble beginnings. Some of the turns they took in life were unexpected, but they allowed for the very blessings that I have received in my own life.

One of those blessings that illustrates how things are divinely orchestrated is the detail that the Hustons were baptized into the Church upon the invitation of a neighbor in Alaska named June Oberg - a recent convert herself. Her invitation came at the right time. The Hustons, who later moved to Hawaii, in turn, were instrumental in introducing the Church to my father and also later supported him on his mission. As you all became acquainted with my wife at the beginning of this devotional, what she didn't share about herself is that she was born and raised in Alaska. Her grandmother is the June Oberg, who introduced the gospel to the Hustons, who then shared it with my dad. All these events happened at their own respective right times and in the right places. And these sequences allowed my wife and I to meet and have an eternal marriage and family.

My family has been blessed by the legacy of faith of those who followed their faith and persevered - despite uncertainty and unknown twists in the road. Our lives have also been blessed by this place, this institution, and, more importantly, the Gospel. Because we have been so tremendously blessed, we, in turn, strive to live by our family motto, which is to "Be a blessing."

“My father had a dairy products business and five or six horse carts. Sometimes I used to help him with the deliveries.
“I remember one of the first songs I learned in the Church was ‘Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam.’ I used to sing that song every day; in fact, my father got tired of hearing that particular song.
“One day I went to deliver two bottles of milk to a customer. The lady of the house heard me singing that song and came out and asked, ‘What are you singing?’
“‘I’m singing, “Jesus Wants Me for a Sunbeam,”’ I answered.
“‘What is that?’ she inquired.
“‘One of the songs we sing in my church,’ I replied.
“‘What church is that?’
“‘The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.’
“‘Well, I don’t know them. Do they have another name?’
“‘Yes, the Mormon Church.’
“‘Why don’t you tell me something about your church?’”
Elder Abrea concluded his experience by saying that after two weeks, the lady and her family began attending the Latter-day Saint Church. This was his first missionary experience.

Sophie’s grandparents live by the sea. Sophie and her younger brother, Jacob, love to help their grandmother clean the beach by carefully removing pieces of glass and other items. They make sure the beach is clean and safe for both animals and people.
Sophie says, “Jesus taught us to love each other and to help each other. Taking care of nature and helping to keep it clean and safe for humans and animals is a way of helping others. By taking care of the world around us, we take care of the home of all people. The world God created for us is a great blessing!”

Dusty the Cat entered our lives unexpectedly. He looked to be at death’s door. A filthy coat of long, matted hair hung on his boney frame, and dull eyes peered from his sad face. Dad decided to keep Dusty as a shop cat. Slowly the bedraggled feline regained his health. Matted fur became clean and beautiful.
But after several years, Dusty began acting funny. We took him to the veterinarian and found out that Dusty had gone blind.
Instead of confining Dusty to the safety of the shop, Dad installed a wire fence extending to the house and back. The small enclosure allowed Dusty to enjoy the outdoors without being in danger. Whenever Dad was near, Dusty would wander toward his voice until bumping into the fence. He would then move along the fence, getting closer to the familiar sound. At mealtimes, Dad would gently pick him up and carry him to food and fresh water.
When I first saw this, it reminded me of how we all come to our Father in Heaven, blind and in need. We are loved and comforted while being fed the bread of life and led to living waters (see John 4:6–14; 6:47–58). Our coats of sin are cleansed through the Atonement as we repent and live righteously. We can hear His voice through the Spirit and move toward our Father in Heaven without seeing Him. He will carry us gently toward eternal life.
The tenderness exhibited by my dad for Dusty may seem insignificant, but it illustrates part of the great love and mercy our Heavenly Father has for us.

“Why do bad things always happen to me?” grumbled Harold as he tried to pull his school backpack out from under him. It was a cold morning, and the road to school was very icy. He was late, and in his hurry, he had fallen just outside the school door and landed on his backpack.
Harold looked inside the pack. “Oh no!” he moaned. “This is worse than I thought.” When he’d fallen, he’d mashed everything in his lunch, including the little box of juice his mother had put in as a treat. It had squirted over everything. Harold pulled out his book report. It was dripping with apple juice.
“Why do bad things always happen to me?” he muttered over and over as he opened the school door and went down the hall to his class, holding up with two fingers the dripping book report.
“Good morning, Harold, how are you today?” asked Mrs. Bennett as he walked into the classroom.
“I’m terrible,” he growled as he hung up his coat and sat down.
Two girls nearby giggled. “Harold is always terrible,” Katie said.
“Always,” laughed Anna.
Mrs. Bennett went over and sat down next to Harold. “Why is everything so terrible?”
Without a word, Harold showed her the soggy and sticky book report. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out on the top of his desk and said, “See this? Bad things always happen to me. I can prove it because I have them all written down on this list. Now today I need to add what happened on the way to school. I fell on the ice. I squashed my lunch. Juice got all over my book report, and I think I bruised my elbow.”
“Well,” his teacher said, “that is kind of a tough way to start the morning. What else is on your list?”
Harold read down his bad-things list. “Yesterday I stubbed my toe. My two big brothers took all the chocolate milk at dinner before I could get any. I didn’t get a turn on the swings at recess. On Monday I lost my favorite little car, and my pencil broke during the spelling test. Amanda spilled her milk in the lunchroom, and it went all over me.” Harold took a deep breath and was about to go on.
“I see what you mean,” Mrs. Bennett broke in quickly. “I’m wondering, though, just why you keep all of that on a list.”
“Because if I don’t, I might forget something. You see bad things always happen to me.”
Mrs. Bennett looked for a long time at Harold and then pulled the pencil from behind her ear. “Do you know what I think?” she asked.
Harold shook his head.
“I think your list isn’t long enough.” Harold looked at his teacher in surprise. He thought his list pretty much covered everything. He had kept it in his pocket and added to it all week.
“I’d be really curious to see what your list looks like if you wrote down absolutely everything that happens to you today. You will need more than that little paper. Here, use this notebook. Start with what happened on the way to school, then add everything that happens to you all day.”
“OK,” Harold said, “but you’ll see that bad things always happen to me.” Mrs. Bennett just smiled, and he started writing. He made sure that he covered all the details about the apple juice, the ruined book report, the smashed sandwich, his bruised elbow—everything.
Math was the first class. They worked through the problems on the chalkboard while Mrs. Bennett handed back their tests. Harold’s had a big 100% written on the top! She winked at Harold when she gave it to him and said, “Better write this down in the notebook.” Harold got out his list.
In reading, the students were reading aloud a play called “Robin Hood Rescues Maid Marian,” and when they drew names, Harold drew the part of Robin Hood! Mrs. Bennett winked again, and Harold knew that he was supposed to write that down.
As the children put on their coats to go outside for recess, his teacher noticed that he had some new boots with a warm, fuzzy lining, and new gloves to match. “New boots, Harold?” she asked.
“Yep,” he said. “Mom got them for me yesterday while she was shopping.”
“Hmmmm.” Mrs. Bennett rubbed her chin, “That sounds to me like something that happened to you.”
“I know,” said Harold. “I’d better write it down.” While he was at it, he noticed that his coat was pretty nice and warm too. Then he realized that he hadn’t yet written down anything about the hot breakfast his mother had made for him.
As the day went on, Harold’s list grew longer and longer. Right after lunch, he put down all about how terrible it was to eat a smashed lunch and how Robert had laughed about his funny flat sandwich for an hour. But out on the playground, he scored three baskets for his team, and Nick asked him to play after school, and he had to put that on the list too.
During art, his paint water spilled all over. That went into the notebook in big, capital letters. Jenny helped him wipe everything up, though, and Mrs. Bennett winked again, so he knew that he was supposed to add “help from a friend” to his list. He was on the third page of the notebook already.
At the end of the day, Harold took the notebook back to his teacher. “Well,” he said to her, “I think I’ve recorded just about everything.”
“Good,” she said. “What do you think—shall we count up all the bad things now?”
Harold looked at his feet and fiddled with the old, crumpled list in his pocket. It was really hard for him to say it, but maybe everything wasn’t so terrible. “Mrs. Bennett,” he said as he looked at the notebook, “I think maybe I saved up all the bad things so long that I forgot to notice the good things.”
Mrs. Bennett smiled.
“This kind of a list is a lot more interesting to write than the old one. Do you think I could keep this paper?”
“Harold, you can keep the whole notebook,” Mrs. Bennett said. “I hope you keep adding things until it’s a very long list.”
Harold grinned. “Thanks,” he said. “But, you know, it still bugs me that my apple juice ended up all over my book report instead of in my lunch.”
“I bet it does,” Mrs. Bennett said, “but at least it helped you see not only that good things happened to you, too, but also that it helps to write things down. Hmmm—I think you’ll have good things happen to you next week when we start a lesson on journals. What do you think?”
“Yes!”

Sydney Rigdon had been with the prophet when some of the most incredible revelations and visions in this dispensation were given such as the one in section 76 where the Father and Son appeared to them in the Kirtland Temple. He was arrested at the time Joseph was. He was imprisoned for only two months. When released he proclaimed that not even Jesus had endured the suffering that he had. The trials that might have purified him as they did Joseph seemed to weaken him. Sydney after that time would gradually decrease in his influence in the Church and eventually would be excommunicated. He died in New York outside the Church. Once a man who had said with the Prophet Joseph, "we saw Him even on the right hand of God," he had lost everything that means anything. His posterity would likewise miss all the great blessings of the Gospel.
President Joseph F. Smith said, "When I as a boy first started out in the ministry, I would frequently go out and ask the Lord to show me some marvelous thing, in order that I might receive a testimony. But the Lord withheld marvels from me, and showed me the truth, line upon line, precept upon precept, here a little and there a little, until he made me to know the truth from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet, and until doubt and fear had been absolutely purged from me. He did not have to send an angel from the heavens to do this, nor did he have to speak with the trump of an archangel. By the whisperings of the still small voice of the Spirit of the living God, he gave to me the testimony I possess. And by this principle and power he will give to all the children of men a knowledge of the truth that will stay with them, and it will make them to know the truth, as God knows it, and to do the will of the Father as Christ does it. And no amount of marvelous manifestations will ever accomplish this. It is obedience, humility, and submission to the requirements of heaven and to the order established in the kingdom of God upon the earth, that will establish men in the truth. Men may receive the visitation of angels; they may speak in tongues; they may heal the sick by the laying on of hands; they may have visions and dreams; but except they are faithful and pure in heart, they become an easy prey to the adversary of their souls, and he will lead them into darkness and unbelief more easily than others."
Even though Sydney had seen visions, he apparently lacked humility and failed to submit himself to the requirements of heaven and to the order established in the Kingdom of God upon the earth. In so doing, he became prey to the adversary. His sad account should be a lesson to us.

Let me share with you two examples, not too uncommon, of people who, hour by hour, day by day, and month by month, have taken the time to love one another. I say these examples are not too uncommon because, gratefully, all around on a daily and continuing basis, we see true love in action. I’m thinking first of a mother who, through death, suddenly was left without a husband. With her were three sons ranging in age from early teens to almost missionary age. Through the years by example and hard work she has independently provided finances, encouragement, and unity. The feeding and keeping processes have resulted in the development of three great missionaries, students, husbands, and fathers. One recently remarked, “Mother has always taken the time to show her love.” This mother continues the true processes of love today as her sons pursue higher education and the opportunities of their own families.
Some time ago we were attracted to the skills and attitude of a local building contractor. His desire for perfection and his pride in his work led me to ask questions and get acquainted. As a young man he was left as the sole supporter of several younger brothers and sisters. Formal education was of necessity terminated at the eighth grade. Shortly after his brothers and sisters were able to make their own ways, he married. One year after marriage his wife was afflicted with what was to become a long pattern of serious illness. For twenty-five years as her health steadily worsened, he cared for her and their two sons. Operations were performed and expenses ran high, but he worked, cared, and loved without reservation. After the visit I knew I had met a man. Yes, love does take time. Love is enduring, and here was a “not so ordinary” man whose conduct demonstrated to me that he knows the true processes of love in keeping, feeding, and sharing under all conditions.

Elliot Grow had it made. The summer before his senior year of high school, he was an aspiring lacrosse player with a promising future, and it looked like he just might land a starting spot on his school’s basketball team as well. But calamity struck for Elliot one day in June when he tore the meniscus cartilage in his knee during a recreational league basketball game.

Surgery came shortly thereafter, followed by three months of intense physical therapy. It was a lot of hard work, but Elliot persisted. Eventually he made it off the crutches and back onto the basketball court. Some people would probably complain about the months of lost training and the pain, but Elliot feels a sense of gratitude.

“I feel blessed that I am still able to do what I love. I love playing lacrosse. I love playing basketball. I don’t take that for granted anymore. When I am out there, I play as hard as I can and I don’t only play for me. My little brother had a brain tumor when he was three, so he can’t do some of the things that I’ve been able to do. Now I play for him.

“Before my injury, I would have thought, ‘My body is mine. I can do whatever I want with it,’” he says. “But after this surgery, I have realized that my body is a gift and I should take care of it the right way.”

Now I would like to speak of the special meaning the temple has for me. Part of this message is going to be sensitive, so I will appreciate your prayers as I give it so that I do not become too emotional.
Fourteen years ago the Lord took my wife beyond the veil. I love her with all my heart, but I have never complained because I know it was His will. I have never asked why but rather what is it that He wants me to learn from this experience. I believe that is a good way to face the unpleasant things in our lives, not complaining but thanking the Lord for the trust He places in us when He gives us the opportunity to overcome difficulties.
Fourteen years ago the Lord decided it was not necessary for my wife to live any longer on the earth, and He took her to the other side of the veil. I confess that there are times when it is difficult not to be able to turn and talk to her, but I do not complain. The Lord has allowed me, at important moments in my life, to feel her influence through the veil.
I know that I will have the privilege of being with that beautiful wife, whom I love with all my heart, and with those children who are with her on the other side of the veil because of the ordinances that are performed in the temple. What a blessing to have once again on the earth the sealing authority, not only for this mortal life but for the eternities. I am grateful that the Lord has restored His gospel in its fulness, including the ordinances that are required for us to be happy in the world and to live everlastingly happy lives in the hereafter.

I know those things by the only way any of us can know them. The Holy Ghost has spoken to my mind and heart that they are true—not just once but often. I have needed that continuing comfort. We all experience tragedy during which we need the reassurance of the Spirit. I felt it one day as I stood with my father in a hospital. We watched my mother take a few shallow breaths—and then no more. As we looked on her face, she was smiling as the pain left. After a few silent moments, my father spoke first. He said, “A little girl has gone home.”
He said it softly. He seemed to be at peace. He was reporting something he knew was true. He quietly began to gather Mother’s personal things. He went out into the hospital hallway to thank each of the nurses and doctors who had ministered to her for days.
My father had the companionship of the Holy Ghost at that moment to feel, to know, and to do what he did that day. He had received the promise, as many have: “That they may have his Spirit to be with them” (D&C 20:79).

Two young women in this seminary class, both 16, are named Brigitta. “From my classmate Seres Brigitta I heard about the Church for the first time,” says Bozó Brigitta. “I began attending sacrament meeting and made a lot of friends here. So when youth conference came, I naturally thought I needed to go. At the conference, I felt for the first time that I needed to belong to this church. I was baptized a week later.”

Two months after Brigitta’s own baptism, her mother and her 15-year-old brother, László, were baptized. (Her father had died six years earlier.) “Now the three of us—our whole family—are members of the Church. It’s wonderful!”

“At first I thought just my friend would be baptized,” says her classmate Seres Brigitta. “I was amazed that her family also joined the Church.”

I want to introduce you to my friend, Aaron Franco, one of the Young Single Adults in our ward in Salt Lake City. Aaron has been on a different path than most of us church members. Here is his story in his own words…

“I was raised devoutly Jewish in New York City. I have always had a testimony of God because the Jewish faith believes in the Old Testament. However, I always knew something was missing.

When I was twelve, I was in the car with my soccer coach who was listening to Christian music for several hours. I distinctly remember the lyrics to a song. '...He knows my name, He knows my every thought, and He hears me when I call.' Somehow, I knew the 'He' in that song was Jesus Christ and I felt the spirit so strongly. But I quickly denied those positive feelings because believing in anything other than Adonai, which means Heavenly Father in Hebrew, was considered blasphemy. I was jealous of my friends who celebrated Christmas or could make the cross symbol on their chests when entering a soccer field.

On another occasion, I remember feeling the Spirit when a friend was talking about Jesus. I felt an overwhelming joyful emotion that was difficult to describe. She assured me that it was the Holy Ghost. That feeling left a spiritual yearning in me that I could never quite replicate in Synagogue.

I had always felt connected to God. But as the years passed and my life choices took me away from religion, I stopped believing that God loved me. I had left home and was playing semi-professional soccer. My lifestyle reflected the way I imagined God felt about me. Following a traumatic soccer concussion in 2017, I began to battle depression, anxiety, and many other traumatic experiences. One night, when I thought my life was over, I got down on my knees and begged for help. I told God, 'Take my life. I will do anything and go anywhere you tell me to. Any church, any temple or any mosque. Please end my suffering and help me find the truth that will heal me.' Then God intervened in my life. He replied to me, 'I’ve got you in Utah now. Go talk to some missionaries.' I laughed. That was a mistake; that can’t be. So, I asked several more times and God plainly told me to go investigate The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The rest is history.”

Aaron continues, “Three months later I was baptized. I now hold the Aaronic and Melchizedek priesthood, and I attend the temple weekly. I have callings in my ward, I received my patriarchal blessing, and I have a beautiful girlfriend who is a returned missionary and is helping me navigate my covenant path. God moves quickly when you’re willing to listen. I’m so grateful. I walk by faith, not by sight. I have a testimony that Jesus is the Christ, that Heavenly Father loves His children, that the Book of Mormon is true and that we have a living prophet today. I love my new relationship with Jesus Christ. He knew me long before my conversion, and many seeds were planted for me along the way. My spiritual questions closely paralleled those of young Joseph Smith, when he prayed to know which church he should join. The First Vision was an answer to his prayers, and my new life is an answer to mine.” End of quote.

It has been a privilege to watch Aaron find his way to the covenant path and thrive there. He is my friend and example. How many Aarons are out there? My faith is renewed when I think about his journey. I’m so grateful he didn’t give up— and that the gathering of Israel is happening all around us as missionary work continues in our day.

On a beautiful September afternoon, my husband and I were in the temple awaiting the opportunity to participate in temple ordinances. Chris, a friend of ours, entered the room. It was great to see this young man, who had recently returned from a mission to Russia.

As the session was about to begin, a lovely young woman sat next to me. She was radiant, smiling, and filled with light. I wanted to know her, so I quietly introduced myself. She whispered her name, Kate, and I recognized her last name as a family that had lived in Michigan, where my family once lived. Kate was their grown-up daughter, who five weeks earlier had returned from her mission to Germany.

During the session the thought kept entering my mind: “Introduce Kate to Chris.” I put this prompting aside, thinking, “When, where, how?” As we were preparing to leave, Chris came over to tell us good-bye and I seized the opportunity. I pulled Kate over and whispered, “You are two virtuous young people who need to know each other.” I left the temple satisfied that I had acted upon my prompting.

Kate was seeking a holy place the night I met her in the temple. Desiring to weave tightly the eternal relationships that come through temple service, she followed the pattern set by her parents of regular temple attendance.

Not much happened the night I introduced Kate to Chris, but in seeking another holy place the following Sunday, Kate saw Chris amid hundreds of young single adults at an institute devotional. There they found out more about each other. A few weeks later, Chris invited her to watch general conference with him. They continued seeking places that invited the Spirit throughout their courtship and were eventually sealed in the temple, the holy place where they were introduced. Both are now fulfilling the sacred responsibility of parenthood, weaving their testimonies of the plan of salvation into the lives of three little boys, showing them the way on the covenant path.

Nearly 200 years ago, the American short story “Rip Van Winkle” became an instant classic. The main character, Rip, is an unambitious man who is very good at avoiding two things: work and his wife.
One day, while wandering in the mountains with his dog, he discovers a group of strangely dressed men drinking and playing games. After accepting some of their liquor, Rip becomes drowsy and closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens his eyes again, he is surprised to find that his dog is gone, his rifle has rusted, and he now has a long beard.
Rip makes his way back to his village only to discover that everything has changed. His wife has died, his friends are gone, and the portrait of King George III in the tavern has been replaced by a portrait of someone he does not recognize—by General George Washington.
Rip Van Winkle had been sleeping for 20 years! And in the process, he had missed one of the most exciting periods in the history of his country—he had slept through the American Revolution.
In May 1966, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. used this story as an illustration for his speech “Don’t Sleep Through the Revolution.”1

This brings me to the story of Jose Cruz. The fulltime missionaries in my ward found this agricultural worker from Huahaca, Mexico living with other workers from Mexico in a small apartment in Waipahu last fall. Separated from his wife and four children for over a year to earn additional income to defray the costs of an expensive C-section delivery of his youngest daughter, Jose wanted to find a Church to attend while in Hawaii. His roommates recommended a Pentecostal church nearby, but the missionaries soon appeared at his apartment before he had a chance to make a decision on a church to attend. When they explained to me that Jose was willing to hear the Gospel, but only spoke Spanish, I found a member in the ward who had served in a California Spanish speaking mission, (who was in Hawaii only for the summer while accompanying his wife on assignment as a traveling nurse) to assist the fulltime missionaries on their teaching visits. I later enlisted the help of my nephew (and BYU-Hawaii student) Micah Kamoe, who had just returned from his Mexico City mission to go on exchanges with the missionaries in their teaching appointments. When Jose attended sacrament meetings and Sunday school, there was always a Spanish speaking translator at his side. Another brother in the ward whose mother was Peruvian later came forward, and he regularly accompanied Jose to Sunday school lessons to provide translation assistance.

Because of his regular attendance, Jose was soon befriended by a couple in the ward, the husband of which was serving in Army. Both husband and wife had served missions in Concepcion, Chile, and their children grew to love Jose as the family fellowshipped him. Brother Cruz joined the Church in January, and much of the baptismal program was presented in Spanish specifically for his benefit. It wasn't long before this fellowshipping couple began to reach out to Jose's family in Mexico, and missionaries were sent to his wife Lucelia. His wife had dreamed that Jose had found Jesus Christ in Hawaii while seeking for a church, and was astounded when she shortly received a picture of her husband at the Laie Temple Visitor's Center before the Torvaldsen statue of the Christus. She then knew that her dream had been had come to pass. His wife and three children were taught the Gospel and baptized within two weeks of the first visit of the missionaries in February. Another son fulfilling military service in Mexico has not yet received the Gospel, but Brother Cruz is excited to share the Gospel with him.

Vito Monte, a returned missionary in our ward from Costa Rica, now provides translation services for Jose in sacrament meetings and Sunday school.

I do not think that this Spanish speaking capability in a small ward in Ewa Beach is unique in the Church, but I do believe the willingness of the Church members to reach out to an individual far away from home in such a linguistically miraculous manner exemplifies what the Savior means by salt of the earth. In their acts of individual charity these members had certainly not lost their savor. Those of you with foreign language capabilities can bless the lives of many in your earthly sojourn.

My nightmare began when I was only seven and my mom remarried. We really liked my new stepfather. He was kind and fit in well with our family. I felt really safe around him. Everything was great until one day, when everyone else was busy, he sexually abused me.
I didn’t understand what he had done to me. I felt scared, confused, and so ashamed. But I was too afraid to tell anyone. I thought it would ruin my family’s newfound happiness and that no one would believe me anyway. So I decided to stay silent.
He had only hurt me that one time, but the memory of the abuse always weighed on my mind. I eventually became so paranoid that someone would see through my pain and uncover my secret that I tried to hide the truth by becoming good friends with my stepfather. He was especially kind to me, and I actually started liking him again.
But then things got worse. When Mom started working at nighttime, my stepfather began regularly abusing me. I felt so helpless. I wanted to speak up, but my stepfather was well liked, and I thought everyone would side with him. So at night when I was alone, I begged God to help me keep my secret.
One day the abuse finally stopped. I had no idea why. Though he was no longer hurting me, I always felt dirty and ashamed. I hated myself. Sometimes I even debated whether death would be easier than my reality. I still wanted to speak up, but I was afraid of what the truth would do.
Then one Sunday at church when I was 14, I listened to a lesson about making big decisions. My teacher encouraged us to fast and pray and promised that God would strengthen us to do the right thing. After church, I kept thinking about what she had said. I wondered if I asked, would God really help me speak up?
The next day I fasted for courage to tell Mom about the abuse. I couldn’t focus during school because all I could think about was how she would react. By the time I got home, I felt extremely sick. I again prayed for strength, but I didn’t feel prepared to tell her.
That evening, I approached Mom when she was cooking dinner. I didn’t know what to say, but when I looked into her eyes, I found the courage to just start speaking. Once I began, everything I had been hiding for years spilled out.
Mom and I just sat on the couch and cried together. Afterward, we contacted our branch president and called the police. My stepfather was held accountable for what he had done to me, and I was given the protection I needed—I would never have to see him again.
During that time, it was difficult retelling my experience to the authorities and having friends ask where my stepfather was, but with my family’s support, I was no longer alone. Together, we rallied around a new family theme: “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me” (Philippians 4:13). Our extended family also offered their love and support and, over time, we began healing together.
Mom and I both attended professional counseling, which was a big help! My counselor was exactly what I needed. She helped me understand all the emotions I was feeling and helped me cope with my bad memories. I never realized how much I was hurting until I started feeling whole again.
I didn’t think the pain would disappear just because I spoke up, but I also didn’t realize how much time (and patience) it would take to heal. For so long, I had felt worthless. I had to relearn to love myself.
I found the most peace as I turned to my Savior and my Heavenly Father. Recognizing that They knew exactly how I felt gave me strength and hope. I relied on Them during the darkest moments. Over time the memories began to fade, and I really felt peace through the Savior’s love.
One of the most rewarding parts of the healing process was recognizing that I did have a bright future. When I was being abused, I couldn’t even imagine having a normal life. I felt permanently broken. But through help and healing, I found things to look forward to. I began telling my story to other girls who were hurting, and I even decided to serve a mission. Sharing my testimony with others strengthened me.
I’m not defined by what my stepfather did to me. He forever changed my life, but I’m choosing to use my experience to help others. Some days are still hard, but through everything, the Lord has strengthened me, and I know He will continue to help me. I’ve transformed from a victim into a survivor.

I was channeling my inner superspy. The problem was, I’d been doing that all week and it hadn’t worked out very well so far.
I stood with my friends on a grassy hillside far removed from civilization. Stretched between this hill and the next was a thick steel cable that ran 40 yards (37 meters). The cable hung 6 feet (2 meters) above the ground, spanned a small valley between the hills, and had a downward slant.
In other words, it was the perfect cable to slide down in spy-like glory. My friends and I had no idea why the cable was there in the first place. We only knew that a most manly destiny was calling loudly. We were there to heed the call.
And yet, that stubborn cable wasn’t cooperating. Turns out we needed more than blindingly awesome courage and determination to accomplish our goal. We needed something to help us slide down. Our first two attempts that week hadn’t resulted in our sliding more than a few feet before friction stopped us cold.
But that didn’t discourage us. My friend had an old 10-speed bike that he donated to the cause for our third attempt. His theory was that if we removed the front handlebars, spokes, and wheel from the rest of the frame, we could place the rim (tube and tire removed) on top of the cable. Then, wrench in hand, we could attach the handlebar and front spokes to the wheel by aiming them up around the underside of the cable. It was a giant pulley.
I was to be the guinea pig lucky person to try out our complex mechanism first. So there I stood, channeling my inner spy and poised and ready to earn some manly bragging points. I gripped the handlebars, took a deep breath, and howled in excitement while lifting my feet.
In milliseconds the other hillside started rushing toward me. Wind whipped through my hair as I flew across the gap between hills. I slammed into the far side with enough impact to steal the air from my lungs. I jumped to my feet, dusted myself off, and yelled to my friends, “You guys gotta try this thing!”
Only … most of my friends didn’t want to try the spy cable after seeing how my flight ended. Truth be told, nor did I after that excellent-but-wild ride. As exciting as the trip down had been, the jolting stop at the end was anything but fun.