Gospel Story Finder

My three children and I were on our way home after shopping when we passed the man with the newspapers for the first time. I let Emmily, 2, hand him some money to buy a paper. Lisa, 6, asked, “What is that man doing? Why is he selling newspapers on the street instead of in the store?”
I explained that he was selling a special newspaper and that the people who sell the special newspaper don’t have much money. They often don’t have a home or a family to help them. But they can earn a little money by selling newspapers, and we can help them by buying one.
Many weeks later—on a rainy day—we were on our way to the children’s gymnastics lesson. Because we had to stop at the store, we didn’t take the direct route. After we had made our purchases, I wondered out loud which route we should take to the lesson. We could take a shorter route through a side street or a longer one taking us past the corner with the street vendor. I looked at Lisa and waited for her to choose.
“Let’s take the long way, Mom, and buy a newspaper,” she said. “Jesus would have done that.” We went the second mile that rainy day and bought one of many more newspapers.

In July 2021, I had the blessing of working as an extra in the new Book of Mormon videos, filmed in the mountains east of Springville, Utah, USA. We were filming scenes that occurred following the “great and terrible destruction” (see 3 Nephi 8:11–12) in the New World, which attested to the Savior’s Crucifixion in the Old World.
During filming, my brother Byron lay in a hospital bed in California, USA, while my newborn granddaughter lay in a hospital bed in Salt Lake City, Utah. Byron was dying of cancer, and my granddaughter, born with a serious birth defect, was not expected to live.
When my husband and I arrived at our motel after the second day of filming, my sister called me, worried about Byron.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” she said. “Byron isn’t answering his phone or his messages.”
Of my five siblings, I was closest to Byron. He was the second child, and I was the youngest. He often took care of me when I was small. We grew up in humble surroundings in Guatemala. We had no television, but we had each other. We were poor, but we were happy.
I missed Byron when he moved to the United States, hoping to help our family financially. He found a job as a bus driver for a tourism company. Years later, I moved to the United States, married, and joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. After my baptism, my parents also joined the Church. When my husband and I settled in southern Utah, I saw Byron whenever he brought tourists to the visitors’ centers at the St. George Utah Temple and the Salt Lake Temple.
When I spoke to Byron about the Church, he told me, “Latter-day Saints have something very special. When I talk with people at the visitors’ centers, I can see that they are good, friendly people.” He agreed to meet with the full-time missionaries, but he was always working and almost never home.
Twice, Byron successfully underwent treatment for esophageal cancer. In 2020, however, the cancer returned. In June 2021, he was barely well enough to travel to Guatemala for a month-long family reunion. Our father had died earlier that year, and our mother had passed away in 2015, four years after they were sealed in the Guatemala City Guatemala Temple. Seeing his siblings one last time was Byron’s final prayerful wish.
Two weeks after he returned to California, he was hospitalized. Now he lay in a coma.
When I arrived at the video site the day after my sister’s phone call, I was weary and sad. “Father, please help me,” I prayed. “So many difficult things are happening in my life.”
Before the actors and extras gathered to film the scene where the resurrected Savior descends from heaven (see 3 Nephi 11:8), we were told to think about Him and what He means to us. As I tried to concentrate on the Savior during the scene, my thoughts turned to my family. In my mind I saw my father, my mother, and Byron. At that very moment, I heard Byron’s voice.
“Everything is OK,” he said. “I am all right.”
I felt such hope and comfort, as if I really were in the land Bountiful when Jesus came to teach and heal the people, showing them His body. I knew that He was the answer to my trials, that He and the Father were there for me, and that things happen for a reason.
That night, I learned that God had taken Byron home. I’m grateful for the faith I have that I will see him and my parents again. I’m also grateful that God heard our prayers for Athena. After she spent 88 days recuperating in the neonatal intensive care unit, we finally brought her home.

Nell of Branford Hall It is 1664. Nell’s parents see how intelligent she is and allow her to learn from books and her father’s microscope, a new invention then. When the plague comes, though she understands (from looking through the microscope) how even dead fleas can transmit the deadly disease, she doesn’t want to understand why she can’t save her best friend from it. A story of courage by an entire village.

One who exemplified charity in his life was President George Albert Smith. Immediately following World War II, the Church had a drive to amass warm clothing to ship to suffering Saints in Europe. Elder Harold B. Lee and Elder Marion G. Romney took President George Albert Smith to Welfare Square in Salt Lake City to view the results. They were impressed by the generous response of the membership of the Church. They watched President Smith observing the workers as they packaged this great volume of donated clothing and shoes. They saw tears running down his face. After a few moments, President George Albert Smith removed his own new overcoat and said, “Please ship this also.”

The Brethren said to him, “No, President, no; don’t send that; it’s cold and you need your coat.”

But President Smith would not take it back; and so his coat, with all the others, was sent to Europe, where the nights were long and dark and food and clothing were scarce. Then the shipments arrived. Joy and thanksgiving were expressed aloud, as well as in secret prayer.

President J. Scott Dorius of the Peru Lima West Mission told me their story. He said:
“Becky and I were married for 25 years without being able to have [or adopt] children. We moved several times. Introducing ourselves in each new setting was awkward and sometimes painful. Ward members wondered why we [didn’t have] children. They weren’t the only ones wondering.
“When I was called as a bishop, ward members [expressed] concern that I did not have any experience with children and teenagers. I thanked them for their sustaining vote and asked them to allow me to practice my child-raising skills on their children. They lovingly obliged.
“We waited, gained perspective, and learned patience. After 25 years of marriage, a miracle baby came into our lives. We adopted two-year-old Nicole and then newborn Nikolai. Strangers now compliment us on our beautiful grandchildren. We laugh and say, ‘They are our children. We have lived our lives backwards.’”18

While I never experienced any sort of physical trial like these saints endured, hiking hundreds of miles with little food or water, I have experienced my own “disappointment, temptation, and loss.” [13] These trials have shaped me into someone who better understands God’s timing and trusts more fully in His purposes.

About 10 years ago, I remember applying for a job I really wanted. I prepared carefully and went through several rounds of interviews. I just knew that this opportunity was the right next step for my career. But when the call finally came, I didn’t get the job. At the time, it was disappointing and hard to understand. When I think about it now, I can see that Heavenly Father had something better in store. The very next time I applied for a position—the one that brought me here to BYU–Hawaii—it was the right opportunity, and I am so grateful He guided me here instead.

Looking back now, I can see that my time here hasn’t just been about a job. The mission of BYU–Hawaii is to prepare students to be disciples of Jesus Christ and leaders in their homes, communities, and nations.[14] But I’ve realized that this mission has also helped to shape me. Being here has helped me become a better disciple of Christ. I’m far from perfect, but I try to be a little bit better each day. Some days are better than others. I’ve made temple attendance a regular part of my routine, and thanks to the example of many of you students, I now serve as a temple ordinance worker, and my husband and I are preparing to serve a mission at the end of the year. I’m several years away from retiring, and most people have wondered, “Why now?” But the impression to serve now is clear. I don’t think these habits, new opportunities, and blessings would have happened anywhere else.

It was near the end of the first semester of my sophomore year in high school when my English teacher announced a new assignment to the class.
“You will each be doing a research paper on a particular person,” he stated. “You may choose your person, but you will need to do some research on them, so they must be real people.”
He passed around the guidelines and told us that we were to give brief preliminary presentations in two days, and then, two weeks later, we were to present our papers in full. We brainstormed different ideas for people to report on, and my list included several great presidents and authors. But when my teacher mentioned that we could also choose “great religious leaders,” I knew that I needed to do my paper on Joseph Smith.
Two days later, I had to get up and tell the whole class who I was reporting on and give a brief outline of who he was. I felt so shaky when I got up to speak, even though I am usually a good public speaker. I was terrified to share my knowledge about Joseph Smith. Was I casting pearls before swine?
When my brief presentation was over, I sat down. And even though everyone applauded, I was disappointed in my inability to speak clearly and proudly about a man I knew was a prophet of God. My throat had been tight the entire time.
It was then that I realized that if I wanted to teach my class the truth about Joseph Smith, I needed to learn more about him for myself and truly come to know who he was.
I began researching the life of Joseph Smith at home, first in Joseph Smith—History, and then in an institute manual called Church History in the Fulness of Times. I found out many things concerning the life, First Vision, and martyrdom of Joseph Smith. After days of study and prayer I began to realize just how great a man Joseph Smith really was, and my testimony of him was greatly strengthened. As I began writing my report, my heart and mind were full of a greater knowledge of Joseph Smith, which gave me courage as I typed out my report. I titled my report “Joseph Smith: Seeker of Truth, Defender of Righteousness.” My heart swells with the power and truth in that title, even to this day.
The night before my project was due, I called the missionaries to ask them if I should tell my class about Joseph Smith’s First Vision and was comforted by their words of encouragement and approval. They even said that they would pray for me in my efforts.
The next day in class, I said many silent prayers—prayers for the Spirit to be there, prayers for me not to be weak in my speech, prayers for me to convey the power of my message through my voice. Finally, my name was called, and I got up to give my presentation.
I gathered my courage and told my classmates all about Joseph Smith’s search for truth and his First Vision. I recounted how the Prophet was persecuted throughout his life and even martyred for his testimony, but how he could not deny what he knew. The Spirit was very strong in the room as I ended by bearing my testimony that if we want to find out the truth of something, all we have to do is ask God with real intent.
When I was done, I sat down and silently thanked my Heavenly Father for the strong presence of the Spirit and for the strength that He put into my words. At the end of class, my teacher asked if there were any students who wanted to leave their reports for his other classes in the coming years, and I decided to leave mine, asking for the Spirit to be with those who would read it.
Now I realize that even if no one in that class joins the Church or changes their opinion about the Prophet Joseph Smith, my testimony was strengthened because I stood “as [a witness] of God at all times and in all things, and in all places” (Mosiah 18:9).

In the spring of 1945 I was able to test that lesson Leon had taught me those months before.

The war in the Pacific ended before we reached the Philippines, and we were ordered to Japan.

One day we flew out of Atsugi airfield near Yokohama in a B-17 bomber bound for Guam to pick up a beacon light.

After nine hours in the air, we let down through the clouds to find ourselves hopelessly lost. Our radio was out. We were, as it turned out, in a typhoon.

Flying just above the ocean, we began a search pattern. In that desperate situation, I remembered the words of my brother. I learned that you can pray and even sing without making a sound.

After some time we pulled up over a line of rocks jutting out of the water. Could they be part of the chain of the Mariana Islands? We followed them. Soon Tinian Island loomed ahead, and we landed with literally seconds of fuel in the tank. As we headed down the runway, the engines one by one stopped.

I learned that both prayer and music can be very silent and very personal.

Beyond their example of faith, and perhaps not seen at the time, they taught a lesson in courage and confidence. They took time from their studies to serve the Lord, believing that the Lord would somehow compensate and multiply their power to learn.

I know for myself that they were inspired to trust the Lord. When I was a student in my twenties, I was asked to be the first counselor in the Boston District in Massachusetts. It required traveling across New England every weekend when the other students were studying. My roommates couldn’t believe that I would be so foolish.

I did the same thing when I was a teacher at Stanford University where I served for three years as a bishop. The other professors thought that I was unwise. But trusting in the Lord, I found what you will find. Wherever you go and whatever work you do, all sacrifice is for Him.

On Tuesdays, we visit our Rest Home Grandma. She has no family of her own—no children and no husband. Mama says we are her family now. She’s so tiny she seems lost in her wheelchair when we push it outside. Then she grasps the arms of the chair, sits forward, and leans into the wind, “Faster! Go faster!” she chirps in a high-pitched voice. Her silky white hair flows out behind her as Mama jogs and pushes until we run out of breath. “Whee! Do it again!” Grandma chortles.

We jog and stroll and jog some more. “I wish I could ride all day,” she tells us. But before we get back to the rest home, she is fast asleep. We love our Rest Home Grandma.

The young men and women also spoke of activities they enjoy together—excursions to a nearby river, theater productions, costume parties, outings on the snowy slopes of the Sierra Nevadas, and jaunts over the mountains to sunny Mediterranean beaches. Sometimes they also visit the royal chapel of the cathedral where Ferdinand and Isabel lie in sumptuous tombs. Here also repose their daughter Juana the Crazy and her husband Felipe the Handsome. Theirs is one of the saddest and most bizarre tales in Spanish history. When Juana’s unfaithful husband died young, the grief-stricken queen became convinced that she was to be the recipient of a great miracle. If she had enough faith, her husband could be brought back to life. For three years she traveled around Spain with his coffin by her side, trying to find the holy spot where the miracle would happen. From time to time she would have the coffin opened to check Felipe’s progress, and every time the body was more hopelessly decomposed. Finally she allowed it to be buried, but hope was not yet dead in her. She shut herself up in a nearby monastery to await the wonderful event. She was later declared insane by her son Carlos V, who took the reigns of government from her and made her a permanent prisoner in the monastery. She died there many years later. Now Juana and Felipe and Ferdinand and Isabel all lie together in honored splendor under carven stone, enjoying the prerogatives of royalty to whatever extent the dead can enjoy them, while time rots their banners and tarnishes their splendid armor.

Power. That’s what the seminary council at East High School in Salt Lake City wanted. Not the power that builds fortunes or lights buildings, but the power that builds testimonies and lights the fire of the Spirit.
The council members decided to draw on all their powers of creativity to create an opening assembly for the school year that would get everyone excited about following the Savior. They knew that music is an especially powerful tool (particularly hymns, like the ones you’ve read on these pages), and that when paired with visual images, it is even more effective. The scriptures have power, too. So they decided to find a scriptural theme for the whole seminary to live by for the year.
But they knew that to make a good decision, they would have to rely on another power—the power of prayer.
“When we got together to make the final selection for our scripture theme for the year, we knelt down and prayed,” says Meggan Felt. “After we voted, it seemed that everyone knew the right scripture.”
That scripture was 2 Timothy 1:7–8: “For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind. Be not thou therefore ashamed of the testimony of our Lord.” [2 Tim. 1:7–8] A scripture that talks, not only about power, but also about love. It was a perfect fit.
“This scripture is a reminder to me that the Savior is always there,” says council member Enos Beebe.
And, after seeing the assembly that the council had spent hours putting together, which featured a slideshow of artwork of the Savior paired with music about his life, other students echoed Enos’s thoughts about the scripture. And that made all the work worth it.
Even if it did take a “powerful” long time.

And so it was on Tuesday morning of this week, just after 9:00 a.m. as the Bishopric was beginning a meeting with the Asia Area Presidency, who are here for conference, that I was called to meet with President Monson, along with his counselors. Moments later, as I walked into the boardroom adjacent to his office, I must have looked nervous sitting across the table, as he kindly spoke to calm my nerves. He commented, noting my age, that I seemed quite young and even looked younger than my age.

Then, within a few moments, President Monson described that acting on the will of the Lord, he was extending a call to the Quorum of the Twelve to me. He asked me if I would accept this call, to which, following what I am sure was a very undignified audible gasp, in complete shock, I responded affirmatively. And then, before I could even verbalize a tsunami of indescribable emotion, most of which were feelings of inadequacy, President Monson kindly reached out to me, describing how he was called many years ago as an Apostle by President David O. McKay, at which time he too felt inadequate. He calmly instructed me, “Bishop Stevenson, the Lord will qualify those whom He calls.” These soothing words of a prophet have been a source of peace, a calm in a storm of painful self-examination and tender feelings in the ensuing agonizing hours which have passed day and night since then.

My decision stunned my family. My older brother declared that if I went on a mission, I should not plan on having anything to do with my family in the future.
But as Nephi promised, the Lord prepared a way for me to do what He asked (see 1 Ne. 3:7). I left for the Taiwan Taichung Mission in May 1996. Right before I left, my brother held me in his arms and tearfully told me that he opposed my going because he hated to lose me. Throughout my mission, my family gave me their full support.
Serving a mission changed my life. I came to understand more clearly my relationship with Heavenly Father. My testimony grew, and the significance of the work, of bringing souls to Jesus Christ, became eternally impressed on my mind and heart.
What is most dear to me now that I have completed my mission is the promise I made to God that I would endure to the end. I remember my mission president’s words as a group of us were soon to be released. He said he wanted us to stay worthy so we could all be together again in heaven someday. I have thought of this challenge often, especially during times of trial.
My heart is filled with gratitude. I am grateful that God has protected me and provided me with learning experiences. Many of these experiences were surprising and unexpected, but they all have stretched me into becoming more like the servant of the Lord I so much want to be.

In August of 1985, the Asia Area Presidency and our wives toured the main Asian countries in company with Elder and Sister Marvin J. Ashton and Bishop and Sister Robert D. Hales. I was finally participating in an “invasion” of Japan, but this time with love and a desire to share with the Japanese people the gospel of Jesus Christ. We later went to Korea and then to Hong Kong and finished our tour in the Philippines.
As a part of our activities in the Philippines, we were shown the great war memorial in Manila dedicated to those from our country who had given their lives during World War II. It was a sad but sacred experience. Sister Wilcox and I shed tears when we saw the name of one of our dear friends from Weber College who had been successful in entering the Air Force directly following Pearl Harbor. He was listed as “missing in action.”
Our experiences at the Manila war memorial reminded us of many personal friends who joined the services in the first years of that war and who did not return. Had I become a part of those early engagements, the possibility of losing my life would have been very great. Had I been willing to tell an untruth concerning my hay fever, I would have been immediately moved into the first bitter battles where so many lost their lives.
Looking back to that eventful day, I realized that I survived one of the greatest tests of my life in telling the truth about my hay fever. My life was spared. There had been a great temptation to tell a “little lie,” but the counsel my father had given me was sound and enduring and served me well. I share it with you humbly: always be honest.

In a high school not far from here, a young mentally handicapped student we will call Frank wanted so much to be accepted by the popular crowd. He would follow them around, always on the outside looking in, hoping to be included but never achieving it.
One day in the cafeteria, some of the more popular boys and girls encouraged Frank to get up on the table and dance. Thinking he would please them, he did it. In his awkward way, he twisted and twirled. The group yelled, clapped their hands, and laughed. They were laughing at him, and Frank thought they were laughing with him.
A few tables away, Dave was eating lunch with a friend and watching it all. He courageously leaped up, faced that crowd of tormentors, and through clenched teeth said, “I’ve had as much of this as I can stand!” He helped Frank down and said, “Frank, you come and have lunch with us.”
The Savior is counting on you to be a champion of those who need you, and they are all around you—in your school, in your neighborhood, in your family.

By the time I was old enough to understand what alcohol was, I knew my mom had a problem with it. Family members tried to hide her issue from my sister and me, but they could only conceal the early-morning binges and hangovers for so long.
Our mom was an alcoholic—and no excuse or elaborate story could change that.
As a young girl, I believed that addiction was a choice. I felt burned then each time my mom walked through our door with the scent of liquor on her breath after promising to let it go. It was like she didn’t want to change. But years of her painful tears, failed attempts, and crashing withdrawals taught me otherwise.
When I was in middle school, I began to realize that my mom’s addiction wouldn’t “go gentle into that good night,” as poet Dylan Thomas once wrote1—and not because she didn’t want to change. It wasn’t about the lack of willpower on her part or that she was choosing alcohol over her family. She was trapped in her addiction.
As President Russell M. Nelson explained: “Addiction surrenders later freedom to choose. Through chemical means, one can literally become disconnected from his or her own will!”2 Finding recovery would be a fight between her body and spirit for years to come.
After she had achieved six months of sobriety, I started to recognize my mom again—the one who used to dance in the car and write beautiful poetry and tell embarrassing jokes to all of my friends. It was as if someone behind the scenes suddenly switched back on the light in her eyes and was working overtime to keep it on. She hadn’t been sober for that long in years, and it felt good to have her back.
But it didn’t last. One night, before she had the chance to speak, my sister and I knew. Her glazed eyes and blushed cheeks said it all: after six months and four days, she had relapsed. For a moment, we considered walking out of the door, away from the worry and fear, but we knew that she wanted to change. We couldn’t do it for her, but we could support her as she walked the road to recovery.
Over the next few months, my sister and I looked for ways to help my mom keep pushing forward toward long-term sobriety. It wouldn’t be easy, but she had done it once, and we knew she could do it again.
Having witnessed my mom go through withdrawals before, we knew what to expect, so we gathered all of the liquor and wine bottles that we could find and dumped them down the drain. Then we stocked up on Gatorade at the grocery store and deep-cleaned the house; it was our best attempt to remove my mom from the environment that she was in when she relapsed.
After a few days, my mom was well enough to go back to work, but we knew the fight wasn’t over. Up until that point, the depth of her addiction was hidden from most of our family and friends. Over the years, it had become somewhat of a secret—a source of shame, something that social science researcher Brené Brown explains “derives its power from being unspeakable.”3 If we wanted her to stay sober, we needed to break the silence.
Deciding to open up to our family and some trusted friends was hard, but it was also liberating. Shame “corrodes the very part of us that believes we can change and do better,”4 so the very act of talking about her addiction gave my mom (and me!) hope again. We weren’t alone, and for the first time in years, we started to picture a life unruled by her addiction.
I’m not going to try to sugarcoat it: maintaining hope isn’t always easy. For years I supported my mom as she tried to get sober, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t experience sadness, disappointment, and frustration along the way. Speaking of the difficult journey one faces to overcome addiction, President Nelson explained: “Each one who resolves to climb that steep road to recovery must gird up for the fight of a lifetime. But a lifetime is a prize well worth the price.”5
Throughout my life, my mom has fallen down more times than I can count, but I’m proud to say that it’s been six years since she took a drink. Though it has taken me years of learning and relearning how to best support her, watching her recover has taught me that no one is ever too far gone. No matter how many times the person you love relapses, keep going—keep trying to support them in whatever way you can. Recovery is a lifelong commitment—a journey filled with tears, victories, failures, and triumphs—and it’s worth fighting for.

July 1990: I had come home. I was back in Prague, in my native country of Czechoslovakia—a country I had left twenty-two years before. I left because I couldn’t tolerate the political climate of the time. Now, within a few months, an overwhelming change had been wrought in the country, and I was free to return.
I suppose I expected to feel the same as I had so many years before. But I felt like a tourist. Everything seemed smaller and shabbier, and I felt as though I had lost my family and childhood roots.
But a few days after I had arrived, as I was walking along a crowded street, I suddenly felt a kinship with the people around me. I was among my own people. A great feeling of love and belonging came over me, and I felt the joy of the freedoms that they had gained after forty-five years of strict control.

In 1996, August 13, I’m working in our store at the ZCMI center and one of our little desk girls came up and said, “Mac, Elder Haight’s secretary is on the phone and she wants to talk to you at once.” I said, “Fine.” I knew Elder Haight well. He started at ZCMI a long, long time ago, and then I had later on, and we used to share war stories. We used to go over and take a break and we’d talk about things that had happened and things we thought should happen. I knew him well. Sweet, kind senior apostle. So I went over and answered the phone, and his secretary said, “Elder Haight wants to talk to you at once.” And I said, “Fine.” Elder Haight got on the phone and said, “Mac, how are you?” And I said, “Elder Haight, I’m just fine,” and I was at that time. And he said, “I’d like you to bring your wife and come over tomorrow at 11:00. Can you kids do that?” And I said, “Okay.” He said, “Then I’d like to take you two to lunch. Could you have lunch with me?” And I said fine, and then I thought he was going to hang up, but then he said, “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow at 11:00. By the way, we’re calling you two to be the directors of the Washington Temple Visitor’s center,” and then, Click, he hung up on me. True story.

Sister Christensen just happened that day to be working in the Relief Society Building as a hostess, and I’d only been over there, I think once, so I thought I better go over there and tell her. So I walked across the street to the Relief Society Building, and I walked in and she looked up and it frightened her. She thought something had happened to the children. She said, “What’s wrong?” And I lied to her and said nothing. Then I told her, and then she went white, and we spent an interesting day thinking about that. The next day at 11:00 we went over to Elder Haight’s office, and it happened to be that after the 13th of August comes the 14th of August and that was and still is Sister Christensen’s birthday. And we didn’t tell Elder Haight that, but we went over and he told us about the Washington Temple Visitor’s Center. Fifty-seven magnificent acres, spiritual acres, right next to the temple. The beltway comes around you can see the temple. You’ll have people from all over the world and just how magnificent it was and how much he loved that area. And then he took us down to the lunchroom where the General Authorities have their lunch, and I’d been there once or twice before, and people look at you, the other General Authorities, and wonder if you’re in trouble or why you’re there. Some know. But he wanted to pay for us, so we went through the line and he pays, takes us over to a table, and we sit down and immediately Elder Holland came over. Now, we had lived in Elder Holland’s ward and knew him well. He used to come over to my home and three or four of us would work out in the mornings. So we knew Elder Holland and then Elder Hales came over. I knew Elder Hales quite well because when he couldn’t find someone to play golf with on a Friday or Saturday, he knew that I could always get him on a golf course. He’d call and say, “Can we go look at land?” So, I knew them, but here is this senior apostle with two junior apostles - this was fun. And Elder Holland started in on Elder Haight - did you tell them this, did you tell them this, did you tell them this - a little from Elder Hales, but really Elder Holland. Finally, Elder Haight said to the two junior apostles (he called them boys), “Boys, I’ve been doing this for a long, long time. Now the first thing you do is you get them to say yes, and then you talk about those things.”

We went back to Washington, D.C. and we were frightened. We were really frightened. You’re open 365 days a year, you have people from all over. At Christmas time for about 40 days you have the festival of lights and you have about 400,000 lights out around the temple grounds, and people come clear from New York, Boston and they come to see the lights. Then we have concerts inside and we are getting referrals. It’s an extremely busy time. And you might have thirty buses to park and no where to park them, and if the temple president should say that if they got on his part of the area and take the patrons’ [parking], we were in trouble. It was a busy time. We learned a lot. We had a lot of things going on. We found that you had to have people in the visitors center, and our responsibility was to make friends, to give everyone who came there a spiritual experience, to get a referral and to send them out with something in their hand. We have the greatest sister missionaries in the world.

On July 14, 2010, a grandson was added to our family. Jonah was born with Treacher Collins syndrome, caused by a mutation in a single gene that variably affects late-stage craniofacial development. As we learned more about Jonah’s condition and the surgeries that would be required to restore some of his underdeveloped capacities, I thought that maybe this was the real storm.

Despite the difficulties he faced, Jonah turned into a brilliant, bright star in our lives. A bone conduction hearing aid allowed him to hear until the time that a surgery could repair his outer ears. He was bright and generous and kind. Jonah relished all those challenges that face every other child his age, mainly those of trying to reach the highest of heights.

When Jonah was fourteen months old he passed unexpectedly from this life—not from any complication from the surgeries he had faced or from his general condition but by a random series of events that are commonly avoided by every toddler almost every day of his or her life. He inhaled a fruit snack that, despite all valiant and professional effort, could not be cleared from his airway.

In the moments after I received the call from my wife that Jonah had died, I sensed the coming storm—the rapid drop in the barometer and the desperate need to head to sea. It was, however, not my anchors that were to be tested but those of my daughter and her good husband. For my wife and me as parents, this trial was almost harder to bear because we were no longer at the tiller; we were not directly engaged in the struggle.

Jonah’s life and our experiences with Jonah were special and sacred, but they were not unique. I fully recognize that there are some in this room today and some who are listening whose diverse histories of tribulation have required them to patiently lean on the Lord, to learn by bittersweet experience, and to have hope in eternal promises. Many of these histories enrich our lives when they are shared. Many remain lovingly and carefully conserved deep in our hearts.

My daughter chose to process her incredible grief by writing. She wrote honestly, very publicly, and prolifically for more than a year about her grief, sorrows, triumphs, and hope. It is no coincidence that we began the devotional today with the hymn “Lord, I Would Follow Thee” (Hymns, 2002, no. 220). This has become one of my favorite hymns and the most difficult one for me to sing all the way through because my daughter adopted a line from the second verse as the title of her blog: In the Quiet Heart Is Hidden.

I quote, with her permission, a good portion of her first entry because it so poignantly illustrates the elements of Paul’s learning cycle: faith, tribulation, patience, experience, and hope. I trust that you will see each of these ­elements in her narrative.

“A Month Without Jonah”

A month ago I was just like you—going about my life, busy schedules, plans, trying to be a good wife, mother, sister, daughter. I loved being a mom but occasionally felt overwhelmed by the constant job of motherhood. In a moment my life, my relationships, my purpose, my job changed.

The moment I knew Jonah was leaving this earth was the moment I felt my faith and everything I believed in being ripped away from me. I questioned everything. I have wept every day since he died and wish I could hold him again. As I have cried and prayed and sought answers, I have found some truth and so much comfort. I am not yet at the point where I am grateful for this trial, although I believe that can happen, but I’m grateful for what I have learned.

Prayer Works

I was with Jonah when he died. I watched him choke and struggle and slip away from me. That memory is so vivid that I feel it happening again when I close my eyes at night. I see it, I feel it, and it causes a rush of adrenaline to flood my body. It has been horrifying, and each night I know this memory is coming. But each night I pray to God to comfort me, to give me peace, and the peace comes, like a warm blanket wrapped around me, and I sleep. I prayed that God would help me let go of that memory, and I felt impressed to write it all down, every detail, in my journal. I did that yesterday, and last night I laid in bed without my heart and mind racing, at peace. . . .

Miracles

I believe that life is full of trials, and none of us will escape hardship or death. I also believe that God is a God of miracles. Almost instantly I was able to see small miracles in the experience of losing Jonah, but I found myself saying, “God, that is not the miracle I wanted.” The miracle I wanted was for Jonah to be restored to health, to live. On the surface it seems like such a miracle would have done more for our faith than this experience of trying to make sense of his death and grieving.

Over the past month as I have studied the scriptures and have thought about this, I have found many examples of people who saw angels or incredible signs from heaven only to doubt them later. I can relate to that. After Jonah’s funeral there was a beautiful rainbow that arched over our home. It instantly felt like a sign to me, almost perfectly biblical. A sign of peace and promise, but I felt myself doubt it as well. Perhaps the rainbow was a coincidence, simply a natural occurrence. I wanted another sign to back that sign up.

I can see how relying on signs and miracles becomes an addictive game. On the other hand, the slow and steady work of praying for answers and comfort is a refiner’s fire. As I have worked at grieving and understanding, I have felt a steady strength that I cannot deny. I cannot say it is a coincidence. I can only say that it is the love of my Heavenly Father, that He sends me comfort and helps me get out of bed each day. I don’t understand why this happened, but I know that God loves me and is sending me small miracles each day. Sometimes believing is seeing. [Julia Harker Hall, “A Month Without Jonah,” In the Quiet Heart Is Hidden: Simple Reflections on Love, Loss, and Living an Unexpected Life, 29 October 2011, inthequietheartishidden.blogspot.com/2011_10_01_archive.html]