Gospel Story Finder

Sara felt something was wrong the minute she stepped through the doors of the South Bay Winter Club. It was more than being fifteen minutes late for her session; it was a feeling she couldn’t explain. She dumped her skate bag on a bench and walked over to the rink where several friends already were at work.
“Hi, Becky!” she called. “Your loop looks great this morning.”
Becky looked up, waved with a sort of dying swan effort, then turned her back and went to work on her figures again.
Sara tried to get Mary Anne to look at her as well as Polly, who was skating on the next patch, but they acted as though she were the original invisible woman.
What’s going on? Sara wondered as she took her skates from the bag and put them on. I wonder why they’re ignoring me?
Ordinarily this was Sara’s favorite time of the day. She loved to skate in the morning, to walk into the arena and feel the cold air hit her cheeks, and then to stroke out on the rink and hear the scrape of blades on ice as she warmed up. She loved everything about figure skating, not only performing in the club shows, but the long hours of practicing and competing as well. Maybe that’s why she was advancing so rapidly and had a good chance to win the Canadian Juniors competition next week at Edmonton.
If only I didn’t have to compete against Carol. For the hundredth time she wondered why her best friend also had to be her closest rival for the figure-skating title. That’s the hard part. Will our friendship survive the competition?
Suddenly Sara looked up from her laces and glanced around the rink. “Where’s Carol?” she asked Polly, who had skated to the edge of the rink to wipe her face with a towel.
“Talking to Mr. MacGregor,” Polly answered, pointing a thumb at the rink manager’s office.
“Why? What’s she done?” Nobody was ever called to his office unless one of the skating rules had been broken.
“She hasn’t done anything,” Polly replied, placing heavy emphasis on the first word.
“Well, then, who has?” Sara asked, puzzled.
“Oh, come on, Sara,” Polly said disgustedly, and skated away without a backward glance.
Mr. MacGregor’s door opened and Carol came out. Even from a distance Sara could tell she had been crying. What’s wrong? Sara wondered.
Sara thumped along on her blade guards toward Carol, and they came face to face in front of the soft drink machine.
“Are you feeling OK?” Sara began. “Can I help?”
“Yes,” Carol began. “I mean no. Oh, I don’t know what I mean!” She headed for the rest room, then turned. “Mr. MacGregor wants to see you right away.”
Sara couldn’t believe it. Now he wanted to see her too. She skated over and knocked on his door.
“Come in,” said Mr. MacGregor, and Sara stepped into the office.
“Sara,” Mr. MacGregor said earnestly, “I’m afraid we’ve encountered a bit of a problem, and I need you to help us with it.”
“Me?” Sara heard her voice shoot up.
“Do you recognize this?” Mr. MacGregor asked and held up a skating costume. It was full of holes and the material was torn and shredded.
“Oh, no!” Sara cried. “That’s Carol’s costume. She was going to wear it to the Canadian Juniors next week.”
“Exactly,” Mr. MacGregor agreed. “Carol thought you might be able to tell us what happened to it.”
“I don’t understand,” Sara said. Her voice trembled with emotion. “Why would I know what happened to her costume? Does Carol think I would ever do anything to hurt her? We’re best friends.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” Mr. MacGregor seemed uncomfortable. “And Carol only reluctantly agreed that you might be involved after Becky told us what she saw.”
“Becky? What did she tell you?”
“Becky said you were all out on the patio eating your lunches together yesterday,” the manager said.
“That’s right,” Sara agreed. She remembered looking up into the warm spring sun and noticing the squawking blue jays building a nest in the tree that shaded the patio.
“Look,” Sara had said.
Everyone looked but Carol, who was busy sewing glitter beads on the dress that now lay in tatters on Mr. MacGregor’s desk.
“Then what happened, do you remember?” he asked.
“Sure,” Sara said. “One of the kids in the Novice class came out and said Toller Cranston had just walked in, so everyone ran inside but me.”
“Why didn’t you go too?”
“Well … I’ve seen Toller lots of times before,” Sara said finally. She didn’t add that she had his pictures pasted in her skating scrapbooks, but she still felt silly about running in with the other girls. “Carol left in such a hurry that she dropped her dress and scissors, so I picked them up.”
Sara stopped. She remembered Becky had come back just at that moment.
“Aren’t you coming?” Becky had said.
“In just a second,” she’d answered.
Now, standing before the manager’s desk, Sara fought back the tears. “Oh, now I understand. Becky saw me with the scissors and Carol’s costume in my hands. But I put them both down on the picnic table by Carol’s lunch and went indoors right after Becky.”
“I see,” said Mr. MacGregor. “Well, that’s all for now. Thank you for talking with me.”
Sara stumbled out of the office and to the rink where she removed her blade guards. Automatically she warmed up, hardly knowing what she was doing. She claimed her patch and started through her figures like a robot. Tears stung her cheeks as she traced circles that looked like pumpkins, and she changed edges in all the wrong places.
Some friends, she thought, as she nearly lost her balance on a one-foot figure eight. Why would they think I’d do something like that? Do they think I want to win that much next week? Then Sara began to get angry. I’ll show them, she decided. I’ll figure out who really did it.
As she traced her figures, she thought about each girl. Maybe Becky did it because she’s jealous. Or, what about Mary Anne and Polly? she wondered, pushing off on a loop. They could have come back and ripped Carol’s dress. Sara stopped skating suddenly and stood on the flats of her blades. What about Carol? What if she did it to point suspicion at me and force me out of the competition?
Sara started a slow spin. No, she thought, that’s too farfetched. Or is it? Carol was certainly ready to place the blame on me without waiting for an explanation. Now Sara realized as she continued to spin that it was really easy to doubt, to distrust someone, to believe whatever you heard about a person. It was the easiest thing in the world and she could understand Carol’s feelings. Maybe, she thought, maybe friendship is only a word that doesn’t mean anything anymore.
At noon, Sara took off her skates and headed for the patio with her brown paper bag. No one was there. She sat at the redwood table and ate part of a ham sandwich that tasted like it had been made from a shoe box. Suddenly she pushed it aside. A blue jay swooped down and sat on the edge of the table opposite her. “Help yourself,” she said, pushing the sandwich toward him. He began to peck at the bread, keeping a wary eye on her at the same time.
The door from the rink opened and Carol came out. There was an awkward pause before she finally said, “Hi.”
“Hi,” Sara replied.
“I … I’ve been wanting to talk to you,” Carol stammered.
“I’d like to talk to you too.”
“Sara, I didn’t want to believe what Becky said,” Carol began.
“Then why did you?”
“I don’t know. I guess when Becky told Mr. MacGregor and then he told me, well, it seemed easy to believe what they believed.”
“But we’re friends!” Sara almost shouted. “Friends don’t hurt each other like that, do they?”
The girls looked at each other. Carol said nothing, just twisted her hair with her finger. Sara stood up to leave. Carol turned to look at her, her eyes full of tears. “You forgot your lunch,” she said.
“That’s all right. I told the jay he could have it.” They watched as the bird pecked off a hunk of Sara’s sandwich, then flew to the nest in the tree above with it. At that moment, something shiny reflecting in the sun caught Sara’s eye.
“What’s that?” she said more to herself than to Carol.
“What?” Carol asked.
Sara didn’t answer because of a shivery feeling that she was about to discover something important. She stepped up onto the bench, then onto the picnic table.
Sara could almost see into the bird’s nest that was now being defended by two angry blue jays flying overhead. She reached up and felt around inside the nest and then pulled on something that felt like cloth.
“Look,” Sara said, holding a shred of material in her hand. There were several glittery beads still attached to it.
“My costume!” Carol cried out. “They did it! The blue jays did it.”
The birds swooped around them now, angry and ready for a fight. “Oh, Sara, please get down before you get hurt,” Carol said.
Sara jumped down, handed the scrap of material to Carol, and brushed off her hands.
“I’m sorry,” Carol began. “Sorry for not trusting you. Will you ever be friends with me again?”
Sara looked at her. Carol had hurt her today and now she could hurt back if she wanted to. Carol has it coming doesn’t she—a hurt for a hurt? But friendship is much more than a word. I’ve learned that today and maybe Carol will too.
“I’ve never stopped being your friend,” Sara said. They laughed as the blue jays scolded the girls from their tree branch. Then Sara continued, “Come on, there’s still time to make a new skating costume before next week, if you’ll let me help.” Then they linked arms and went back inside.

Twenty-five years ago I completed my freshman year at BYU. At that time I never dreamed that I would one day address the faculty and student body in a Marriott Center devotional. For one thing, the Marriott Center didn’t even exist! For another, I was a Latter-day Saint convert of less than two years and didn’t feel overly confident in my ability to expound on Church doctrine. But I did feel prompted to embark on a full-time mission. I had baptized my best friend—also a BYU student—earlier in the year, and I was anxious to share the restored gospel with others.

Before I could serve, however, I had to submit to the rite of passage familiar to all who would serve missions. I had to have interviews with my bishop and stake president, fill out several forms, undergo medical and dental examinations, make financial arrangements, and attend to a variety of academic concerns. In preparation for my mission, I read or reread LeGrand Richards’ A Marvelous Work and a Wonder and James E. Talmage’s Jesus the Christ. I also tackled Talmage’s The Articles of Faith. With the zeal of a convert I had previously read Joseph Fielding Smith’s three-volume work Doctrines of Salvation and much of Bruce R. McConkie’s Mormon Doctrine. I had a vivid dream in which I saw myself called to Italy, where centuries before Paul had journeyed to preach to the Romans. When the call came, I was thrilled. The opening sentence of the letter read: “You are hereby called to be a missionary of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to labor in the Italy North Mission.” My dream had come true.

Because I came from a non-LDS family, I could not rely on them for financial support. I elected to pay for my mission with funds I had previously set aside for my college education. I looked forward to my mission as one long spiritual feast. Mine was to be the ideal missionary experience. I would love my companions, I would teach the gospel daily by word and deed, and I would baptize regularly.

After I had been in Italy for only four months, I was called as a senior companion to a brand-new elder, a “greenie” whom I’ll call Elder Brown. Proud of the linguistic skills that allowed me to enjoy a senior position after so few months in a foreign land, I looked forward to remaking Elder Brown in my own image—never minding that he was more handsome and more personable than I. Unfortunately, things didn’t work out exactly as I had planned. Elder Brown came from LDS pioneer stock and from a much more well-to-do family. His grandfather invariably included a twenty-dollar bill in his letters; I resented the perks that such extra cash allowed, even though my companion invariably shared his bounty with me.

Elder Brown had belonged to a social fraternity during his freshman year—the type that never would have accepted a nerd such as I—and, unfortunately, his fraternity brothers had exposed him to a number of undesirable things, including risqué magazines.

Then it happened. One afternoon during scripture study time in our apartment I caught him “reading” (if that’s the right word) an unapproved magazine—you know, the kind with a centerfold. It was an Italian edition of Playboy. He had purchased it while on splits with another elder, and I was furious. I felt that Elder Brown had ruined my ideal mission. I seethed in righteous indignation, but, rather than rebuking my companion and then showing forth an increase in love, I chose to become an expert on his every fault, which I cataloged and reviewed with some regularity in my mind. After a few challenging months together, my junior companion was transferred, and it was at that point that I began my revenge in earnest.

I have always been fond of telling stories (in case you haven’t noticed), and I soon captivated not only later missionary companions but entire districts with embroidered tales of my greenie’s sinful ways. Even after I returned from my mission, I continued to recount his problems. The one thing that I couldn’t understand, however, was the report that I had received from more than one source that Elder Brown, in contrast to me, had become one of the top baptizing elders of our mission and had been called to key leadership positions that had mysteriously eluded me.

A few years passed. Then one day Elder Brown appeared on my doorstep. He asked to come in. We spoke alone in my living room for over an hour. I asked what he was doing and learned that he was happily married and an extremely successful businessman and entrepreneur. Because of the way I had stereotyped him, I wondered about his activity in the Church. I was surprised to learn that he was not an elder (as was I) but a high priest and serving on a high council. He then stunned me by relating how his favorite high council talk was to share what he had learned from me while we were mission companions. He loved to tell young people preparing for missions how much better prepared doctrinally I—the convert—had been than he—the lifelong member—and how my example of gospel scholarship had inspired him to overcome his own shortcomings.

I began to feel pretty rotten about all the stories I had told about him. I prayed that he didn’t know what I had done, but somehow I sensed that he did know. He then acknowledged that at a family reunion one of his cousins, whom I had known in graduate school, had told him how I had recounted in her presence and in vivid detail an episode Elder Brown had long ago repented of. My former companion did not berate me; instead he asked if I could ever forgive him for his youthful mistakes. I knew then that it was I who needed to ask him for forgiveness. In the pride of my heart I had sinned, and I had sinned in multiple ways—in judging unmercifully, in harboring resentment, in planning and executing revenge, and, perhaps most of all, in not allowing the possibility that a brother could change, improve, and repent.

When I returned from my mission, I met a beautiful young woman with long black hair down to her waist. She had beautiful, big honey eyes and a contagious smile. She captivated me from the first moment I saw her.
My wife had set the goal to get married in the temple, although back then the nearest temple required a trip of over 4,000 miles (6,400 km).
Our civil marriage ceremony was both happy and sad, for we were married with an expiration date. The officer pronounced the words “And now I declare you husband and wife,” but immediately after, he said, “until death do you part.”
So with sacrifice we set out to purchase a one-way ticket to the Mesa Arizona Temple.
In the temple, as we were kneeling down at the altar, an authorized servant pronounced the words I longed for, which declared us husband and wife for time and for all eternity.
A friend took us to Sunday School. During the meeting he stood up and introduced us to the class. As the meeting came to a close, a brother approached me and shook my hand, leaving a 20-dollar bill in it. Soon after, another brother reached out to me as well, and to my surprise, he also left a bill in my hand. I quickly looked for my wife, who was across the room, and shouted, “Blanquy, shake hands with everyone!”
Soon we had gathered enough money to return to Guatemala.

The next morning we ate breakfast in fog and wind. As we started to take tents down, rain descended. Standing in the wind, shivering and wet, we were eager to be on the move.
“I wonder how bad the pass is? We have a mile to go before we’re over. Let’s hit it!”
The mile took over three hours of hard climbing over rocks and across snowfields. The wind became a cold river of air pushing rain up the pass. The uncompromising trail went straight up into a world of swirling gray clouds and immobile black granite. It was impossible to stay warm during rest stops and impossible to climb steadily without resting.
Colleen pushed herself so hard she finally collapsed just before the summit. Sweating had caused her to become chilled from the wind. Brother Otte carried her pack, and, dressed in down clothing for warmth, she went on.
“I don’t think I’ll ever make it. Just as it seems we must be at the top, there’s another ridge to climb!”
“I wish there were some trees to break the wind. I’m so cold.”
Finally the vertical became horizontal, and we were at the summit. Everyone was cold, wet, and tired as we stopped for lunch just over the top of the pass in Canada. We rested at a stone crib that was used as a support for the old aerial tram cables that had lifted supplies over the pass during gold rush days. Girls took turns holding up a poncho, forming a windbreak for those who most needed to rest.
“I’m so cold. The wind blows right into my bones.”
After a much-needed cup of hot soup, the girls trudged on, moving as fast as possible in an effort to stay warm. Fog and rain made following trail markings risky and prayer a necessity.
“Where’s the trail? I can’t see the markings.”
“I don’t know. Just try to follow boot tracks.”
Descending slowly, the trail covered masses of ice, mini-glaciers of bright blue with frigid streams of melted water running beneath the caps of white. We didn’t take time in the punishing wind to fully appreciate the beauty of the high country, but it was too overwhelming to miss entirely.
“Look at those tiny bell flowers. They are such a delicate, waxy white; it’s incredible they survive!”
Alive with flowers and small plants, the high country was dotted with basins of water that would exist a few short weeks or a month until the winter snows began again.
Gazing miles and miles down the treeless trail of rock and tundra, we had the exhilarating impression of being at the very top of the world. We followed the river past a series of crystal-clear lakes until the tree line began again a few miles before Lindeman Camp. We walked along the brim of a deep gorge and looked far down to the violently boiling water, scarcely able to imagine the quiet of winter when the land would be ice-locked. The gorge had been used as a highway during winter by the gold rush stampeders.
Lindeman, now the site of a four-bunk cabin built by the Canadians, was once a sprawling city of tents. Eager to push on to the goldfields, many people lost their lives falling through the lake ice in spring. Men suffering from gold fever would rather risk their lives on rotten ice than take the extra time and effort to go overland.
The last group reached camp at 10:30 P.M. after stopping on the trail to rest and cook dinner. A mile from camp an “emergency squad” met the stragglers and helped carry their packs. Somehow 18 people were squeezed into the four-bunk cabin.
The last day of hiking was a forced march as we pushed hard to make our train reservations at Bennett. Stopping for a brief rest, Colleen, with tears in her eyes, called for her counselor.
“I just can’t go on. I can’t make it. My ankle hurts so bad.” “Would you like a blessing?”
“Brother Otte, we need your priesthood.”
After the blessing the pain persisted, but Colleen was blessed with strength and a new determination and was able to continue hiking.
Rest stops became more and more frequent as we tried to keep the line together. Finally the counselors decided to send the faster girls ahead to catch the train. We had 20 confirmed reservations and ten standby seats. If we missed the train, it might take a week to get all the girls back to Whitehorse, and we were almost out of food.
The trail bounced up, then down, up, then down, crossing boggy areas and following low ridges along Lake Lindeman, which could be seen a mile away through the primeval pine trees. Unfortunately we were concentrating so hard on putting one foot in front of the other that we missed much of the beauty. The last few miles were sprinkled with sandy patches that made hiking especially tiring.
Toward the end of the seven weary miles, a train whistle blew. Tired girls almost broke into a run, and it was hard restraining them to the pace.
“There’s the old church! We’re here!”
We were in time for a good meal at the station before the train left for Whitehorse.
Now, around the fire in Whitehorse after a Sunday of worship and a delicious meal with the Whitehorse Saints, we were reliving the experience one more time before starting home the next morning. As the fire died away, the chill went unnoticed in the warmth of the Spirit. A theme of priesthood and prayer threaded the testimonies.
“The last day as we were rushing to meet the train, we stopped at a rock outcropping to rest, and Brother Woolley asked me to say a prayer. As I knelt upon the earth, tears streamed down my face and an overwhelming feeling of sweet humility filled my being. I felt an overpowering desire to always be close to my Heavenly Father and live so I would please him. The words poured from my mouth and I prayed publicly for the first time in my life by the Spirit. I was prompted to ask for strength and that we might make the train on time. We did. I also asked for a special blessing upon the girls behind us. It was incredible, but they reached the station only 15 minutes to a half hour behind us. I’m so very thankful I had this camping experience and the opportunity to rely so heavily on the Lord.”
“The Lord’s blessing was upon us all through the trip,” began another testimony. “Although the weather was bad, it made us depend upon the Lord. They asked us if we felt we could hike to Jackson County, Missouri, and several girls said yes. This hike has been a proving ground and will be a source of strength for all of us the rest of our lives. As we look back on the Chilkoot Trail, we’ll know that with the Lord’s help, we can do anything.”

It was autumn of 1997 and Gabin Mendene had just passed the baccalaureate examinations at his high school in Libreville, the capital city of Gabon. This was a great personal achievement, and he looked forward to a continuation of his studies at the university level. He was hoping to take advantage of a scholarship program that years before had been created by the government of this French-speaking African country. The program sponsored college-eligible students who were accepted at a public or private university anywhere in the world.
Gabin had applied to, and had been accepted at, L’institut Supérieur Industriel à Mons, a technical university in the southern Belgian city of Mons. The government’s scholarship would provide tuition, supplies, housing, and food assistance. He also received a one-way airline ticket for the 8,000-mile journey from Libreville to Brussels. The return ticket would be sent to him after graduation.
For the next four years he studied in an electrical engineering program and upon his graduation in 2002, Gabin prepared to return to Libreville. His program of study was finished, and he had received the last of his scholarship funds. He communicated with the program office in Gabon about his return airline ticket and was surprised to learn that due to bureaucratic complications, funding for his return airfare would be delayed. Gabin was crushed and felt completely stranded in a very difficult situation. He had no money, no place to live, and no prospect of finding even a temporary job since he was living in Belgium with a student visa.
It was during this period of struggle that he met two young men, Elder Roueché and Elder Marin, in Charleroi, Belgium. They taught him about the Book of Mormon and about the gospel of Jesus Christ. “These were some of the craziest ideas I had ever heard—angels, gold plates, and prophets living in our modern times,” Gabin recalls. After a few lessons, the missionaries invited him to go to the Charleroi Ward with them. Gabin protested, “I did not want to go to church with them.” But he finally told the missionaries that he would go to church once, and then he wanted them to leave him alone.
The following Sunday, they met on the sidewalk in front of the Charleroi chapel and walked through the front door. To this day, Gabin remembers the moment when his feet touched the carpeting inside the building. He heard a voice—more of an electrified feeling, really—telling him that this was a place where he belonged. After church services were over, he told the elders that he wanted to be baptized. This happened not long afterward.
Meanwhile, Gabin’s return ticket to Libreville remained undetermined. Fortunately, the kind-hearted Havrenne family, members of the Charleroi Ward, invited Gabin to live at their home in Erquelines, a small town near Charleroi, while his situation in Gabon was being resolved. After several weeks, his hosts insisted that he stay and proposed to have him help with the gardening around the house. “It was a difficult time in my life,” Gabin recalls. “Here I was, a trained electronics engineer with no money and no job—stranded in Belgium, pruning bushes and pulling weeds. But through it all I learned humility and this experience was one of the best lessons in my life.”
By 2005, Gabin still worked for his room and board as a gardener—and he was still struggling with the government of Gabon to organize his return. His Belgian student visa had long-since expired. In limited correspondence with his older brother in Libreville, Gabin learned that his family was very discouraged by the situation and desperately wanted him to return home.
By this time, he had received the Melchizedek Priesthood and had been ordained an elder. He also received his patriarchal blessing. In separate interviews, his bishop and stake president asked if he might be interested in serving a full-time mission. Gabin responded, “Yes, I would.” A missionary application was completed and submitted—and a few weeks later Gabin received his mission call from Salt Lake City. He was instructed to enter the missionary training centre on 20 June 2006—and then report to the Brussels Belgium Mission—a mere 60 kilometers from where he was then living.
Missionary preparation began in earnest and Gabin went to The Hague Netherlands Temple where he received his endowment. He was anxious to serve the next two years as a full-time missionary, but after having informed his family in Libreville of his plans, they became angry with him. They could not understand why he was interested in running off on a mission. “You must return home”, he was told. “After all, we supported you and it is selfish not to return home to help out the family.” Gabin became conflicted and during this personal struggle, he met with President Kevin S. Hamilton, who at the time was President of the Brussels Belgium Mission and who was to become his mission president. He asked for advice and counsel. President Hamilton, told him, “Trust in God—things happen for a reason. Everything will turn out all right, but in unexpected ways”.
A few days before his departure—and in a twist of fate that can only be understood by going forward in time to several years later—Gabin received two official letters in the mail. One, from the government of Belgium, indicated it had recently discovered that he was living in Belgium on an expired student visa and ordered him to be immediately deported back to Gabon. The second letter was from Libreville—and included his return airline ticket.
The stake president recommended that Gabin fly home and then he would work with the missionary department in Salt Lake City to get things sorted out. So, in the spring of 2006—nine years after first having left his family in Libreville—Gabin was finally going home. He packed a suitcase, and among his personal possessions were two copies of the Book of Mormon, his mission call, DVDs of both 2004 general conferences, his patriarchal blessing, a few tithing slips, and some temple garments.
Over the next few weeks, the stake president in Charleroi worked with the missionary department in Salt Lake City to resolve this unusual situation. Things became even more complicated because in 2006 the Church was not officially recognized by the government of Gabon and no ward or stake was organized in the country. Gabin, now living in Gabon, had no local priesthood leader. The Belgian government was not prepared to issue a missionary visa due to the expiration of the student visa. Finally, a decision was made to cancel his mission call. Gabin was home to stay.
He moved in with his older brother, and during that year, found a job as an electronics technician in a local business. The dreams of his higher education were beginning to come true.
With no organized Church unit in Libreville, Gabin held unofficial meetings on Sundays and family home evenings on Mondays at his home. Some friends and a few family members attended with interest. Gabin would teach from the Book of Mormon and they would watch 2004 general conference sessions.
Throughout this time, Internet services inside Gabon were unreliable and costly—and accessing websites outside the country was almost impossible. From time to time, Gabin was able to access Church websites and download a general conference talk or two. These he would print out and add to his Sunday “lesson plans”.
In 2008, he met Fleur and fell deeply in love. Gabin remembers, “I found a girl!” Fleur had a daughter, Eve, and he fell in love with her, too. Fleur and Eve usually attended a local Protestant congregation, but throughout their courtship, he taught them missionary lessons. They started attending his Sunday meetings and family home evenings on Mondays. Gabin and Fleur were married in 2013 in a civil ceremony.
At the beginning of 2014, Gabin found an article online reporting that Elder David A. Bednar, of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, had a few months earlier been in Libreville. It was just after the Gabonese government had officially recognized the Church and had permitted the beginning of missionary activities. Elder Bednar had dedicated the country of Gabon for the preaching of the gospel and he had organized the Libreville Branch. Gabin was stunned. For more than eight years he had likely been the only endowed member of the Church living in Gabon and suddenly there was a branch organized in his home city.
Using an email address found in the article, Gabin wrote to the Africa Southeast Area office, asking questions about the Church situation in Libreville. Elie Monga, president of the Brazzaville mission in the Republic of Congo, was informed and a few days later, while at work, Gabin received a visit from Elder Michael Moody, the first senior missionary to serve in Gabon.
After their initial greeting, Gabin said to Elder Moody, “I have a few questions. First, where can I pay my tithing?” For more than eight years, Gabin had carefully kept his tithing money in a small box.
“Second,” he asked, “Where can I buy new temple garments? Eight years ago, I brought a few to Libreville, and every night since I have been carefully hand washing them.” Elder Moody went to the car, opened his suitcase, and gave Gabin a brand-new pair of garments that he had been prompted to pack in his travel case that morning.
The next Sunday, Gabin, Fleur, Eve, Gabin’s nephew Yann, plus Annaïck and Pauline, Fleur’s nieces were six of the ten people sitting in the Libreville Branch sacrament meeting. Fleur was taught the missionary lessons and shortly afterward was baptized and confirmed a member of the Church. And so were Eve, Yann, Annaïck, and Pauline.
In 2015, Gabin adopted Eve. And later that year the three of them—Gabin, Fleur, and Eve—flew to Johannesburg, South Africa, where this unlikely story concludes with significant eternal consequences. Fleur received her endowment, she and Gabin were sealed together, and Eve was sealed to them both in the Johannesburg South Africa Temple.
In 2016, Elie Monga, president of the Republic of Congo Brazzaville Mission, travelled to Libreville to preside over a division of the Libreville Branch. Gabin Mendene was called to serve as president of the Libreville 2nd Branch. Shortly afterward, while attending district conference, Elder Kevin S. Hamilton—former Brussels Belgium mission president and now a General Authority Seventy and president of the Africa Southeast Area—looked out from his seat on the rostrum. And sitting there in the middle of the congregation was someone he had not seen in ten years—a patient man with an extraordinary conversion story and a church pioneer in Africa—Gabin from Gabon.

The coming days would try the Saints, including the Whitneys. In a nationwide economic downturn and banking panic, many turned against the Church and the Prophet. Commanded to move to Missouri, Newel hesitated. He had poured his life into his store in Kirtland. Much of the wealth it made sustained the Church. How could he just walk away?

The Lord chastised him for paying too much attention to worldly things and for “littleness of soul” (Doctrine and Covenants 117:11). Newel repented and obeyed. He settled in Nauvoo, Illinois, where he continued serving as bishop and later as Presiding Bishop.

“Minicraft 34 ready,” Maris said into the communication system in her space helmet as she prepared to be launched.
Just before her minicraft slid into the launching chute, Maris looked out of a small porthole. Around the edge of the launching pad she could see the huge banners rippling in the wind—GALACTIC JUNIOR DIVISION SPACE RACE. And beyond some high barriers a crowd of people watched. Maris knew her family was there among them.
Through the communications system she could hear the loudspeaker announcing her turn. “Contestant number 34, Maris Parker, representing Earth,” it blared.
She waved to her family. “Next time you see me,” she whispered even though they couldn’t hear her, “I’ll be someone you can really be proud of.”
If everything goes right and I win the race, I’ll soon be wearing the Space Princess crown! Maris thought to herself happily.
Her little spaceship took the launch smoothly and was soon orbiting the asteroid that was hosting the race. Ahead of her she saw numbers 32 and 33. All the other minicrafts were already out of sight, but that was all right. The race was being judged on accuracy as well as on speed.
Suddenly she saw number 32 wobble as it completed its first maneuver at checkpoint 1. Piloting number 32 was Rel, the quiet, silver-eyed girl from the asteroid Pallas.
Maris wished she could talk to Rel and tell her to make a small adjustment in her controls. But Maris knew that if anyone communicated after launching she lost points. That was the rule.
Rel finished the first maneuver awkwardly and shot off toward checkpoint 2. Minicraft number 33 moved into the first maneuver. Narda, the girl from the fifth moon of Jupiter, was the pilot. Narda was good, and she was as determined as Maris to win the race. She would be hard to beat.
Narda finished the maneuver perfectly and went on. It was Maris’s turn. She felt the minicraft respond instantly to her touch, and she knew she passed the first test.
The second checkpoint was harder and the third worse. Maris knew that she performed them well, but ahead of her she saw that Narda did them just as well. She wondered how Rel, who was out of sight now, had done.
At the third checkpoint Maris lost a little time because she had to repeat a turn around a drifting space buoy. I’ll have to pick up a little speed somewhere or Narda will win, she decided.
Maris sighed. It seemed as though she had always come in second or third or fourth in everything she did. But I don’t have to come in second; I can still win, she thought with renewed determination. So Maris speeded up her minicraft. She was right behind Narda now. And Narda made a mistake! She was supposed to make a figure eight at checkpoint 6, but she did a simple oval and had to repeat the maneuver. Maris did it correctly and was now ahead.
Her hopes were high as she headed for checkpoint 7. Just three more checkpoints and she could return to base. If I can just keep doing everything perfectly, I’ll be wearing the Space Princess crown within an hour, she mused.
Narda was nowhere in sight behind her as Maris approached checkpoint 8, the most difficult part of the course. At this checkpoint the girls had to orbit a wandering asteroid that flip-flopped through space, making sure their ships didn’t get caught in the asteroid’s weak gravity field.
Maris was halfway through her maneuver when she saw another minicraft ahead of her. She was ready to pass the spacecraft when she realized it was in trouble. For some reason its speed was cut down to the danger point.
Losing precious seconds, Maris guided her own spacecraft close enough to see the number on the faltering minicraft. It was number 32, Rel, the girl from Pallas.
“Rel!” Maris shouted into the communication mouthpiece, “what’s the matter?” Maris knew she was losing points for breaking the communications rule, but what else could she do?
“Oh, Maris! Thank goodness you’re close by.” Rel’s voice was charged with relief. “I’m having a fuel injection problem and it’s slowed me down, so I can’t get away from the asteroid’s gravity pull. Maris, I’m so scared. I may be forced to land.”
Land! Crash was a more accurate word if Rel had to go down on that asteroid. Its surface was an ugly array of jagged peaks and narrow valleys.
“Rel,” Maris said as calmly as she could, “you must stay up. And you can if you make your calculations so that you meet the least possible resistance.”
“But I can’t.” Rel’s voice was shaking now. “I’m not a very good pilot. I can’t do all that figuring.”
“Yes you can.” Maris made her own voice sound firm. “You are an excellent pilot or you wouldn’t be representing your asteroid in this race. Now, look at your charts and instruments.”
There was silence for a moment, then Rel spoke again. “I’ve tried to radio for help, but we’re in a dead space behind the asteroid. I can’t get through to the base. Will you send a rescue ship for me as soon as you get there?”
Yes, Maris thought. I could do that. I could go on and win the race, and then send help back. The Space Princess crown was still within her reach. She wanted so badly to continue, but she couldn’t. Not yet anyway.
“I’ll stay here with you for a while,” she told Rel. “I’ll contact someone else to send the rescue ship.”
Just then Narda’s minicraft came into view. “Narda,” Maris called over her radio, “you don’t have to answer and lose points. But please radio for the rescue ship as soon as you can make contact with the base.” Quickly she explained the problem.
Narda gave no sign that she heard. She just went on toward the next checkpoint.
For the first time Maris felt panic, for herself as well as for Rel. What if Narda doesn’t say anything and something happens so that Rel and I both crash on the asteroid? she worried. We might never be found!
Rel’s minicraft was slowly losing power and was drifting badly. Maris had no time to think about herself. She had all she could do to keep Rel calm and help her do the necessary figuring to keep from crashing. She tried not to let her fear show as she gave Rel instructions. Rel was calmer now and followed directions instantly. She was even thinking for herself.
The two spacecrafts were very close to the asteroid. Maris was studying it, trying to find a smooth place big enough to land if necessary, when she saw another minicraft approaching.
Number 33! Narda had come back.
“Narda,” Maris exclaimed. “I thought you would be wearing the Space Princess crown by now.”
Narda rolled her ship in greeting. “I thought about it. But crowns give me headaches. Besides, you’re so far off course now that if I didn’t hang around up here where the radio waves can get through, the rescue ship would never find you.”
Before Maris could say another word, Narda sent her minicraft out into space where it hung like a beacon, guiding the rescue ship to the stricken Rel.
Hours later, after the rescue ship had arrived and gathered Rel’s minicraft into its magnetic embrace, they all landed safely at the base. The competition was over—Melona from the planet Mercury had been crowned Space Princess.
Maris, Narda, and Rel hugged each other on the landing pad while their families cheered. But Rel’s silver eyes were troubled. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I made both of you lose your chances for the crown.”
Narda shrugged and said, “Don’t worry. There’ll be other races.”
Maris squeezed Rel’s hand. “I thought the crown mattered most, but it doesn’t seem so important now,” she said warmly.

Sabrina, 18, remembers the sister missionaries coming to home evening when she was 10. “They taught me simply but firmly that God reveals truth through prayer. They said I needed to kneel down and ask Heavenly Father in humility to give me a testimony. ‘Me kneel down?’ I thought to myself. A few days later, Mom wanted to go for a walk with my sisters and me. Even though the sun was shining and I wanted to go with them, something stopped me. I knew it was the perfect time. I knelt down in the dining room. I pleaded with Heavenly Father to let me know if the Book of Mormon was true. I asked Him if the principles I was taught in church were true. Five minutes went by. After I ended my prayer I remained on my knees. Suddenly, a ray of light illuminated my face. I could not understand this, because the house was dark. But there was a small window in the kitchen without a curtain, and the light was coming from there.
“I felt so happy. I realized that my Father had answered my prayer in this way. Now I have a testimony of all these things, and I know they are true. I know that prayer has tremendous power.”

I was introduced to a trail in Israel by my good friend Ilan. “It’s called the Jesus Trail,” he said, “because it’s the path from Nazareth to Capernaum that many believe Jesus walked.” I decided right then and there I wanted to walk that trail, so I began planning a trip to Israel.
Six weeks before the trip, I broke my ankle. My husband worried about the injury; my greatest concern was how I would walk the Jesus Trail one month later. I am stubborn by nature, so I didn’t cancel the plane tickets.
I remember meeting our Israeli guide that beautiful June morning. I hopped out of the van and then pulled out a set of crutches and a knee scooter. Mya, our guide, took one look at my cast and said, “Uh, I don’t think you can walk this trail in that condition.”
“Maybe not,” I replied. “But there’s nothing that prevents me from trying.” She gave a slight nod, and we began. I love her for that, for believing I could walk the trail broken.
I navigated the steep path and the boulders for a time on my own. Then, moved by the sincerity of my commitment, Mya pulled out a thin rope, tied it to the handlebars of my scooter, and began to pull. She pulled me up the hills, through lemon orchards, and along the banks of the Sea of Galilee. At the journey’s end, I expressed gratitude for my sweet guide, who had helped me accomplish something I could have never accomplished on my own.

During 1995 we experienced many commemorations marking the 50th anniversary of the end of World War II. For those of us who are veterans of this terrible conflict, these commemorations have been times of thoughtful reflection. It is interesting what memories stay with us year after year, long after the historic event happened. For example, while I was watching a recent TV documentary on the war, suddenly into my mind came an old green footlocker. Let me explain why the green footlocker left such an indelible impression on me.
As I entered the mission field, I was blessed to be assigned to a very special senior companion. We had the privilege of laboring together for almost a year before a transfer occurred. With World War II raging, we knew at the end of our missions we would soon be called into military service. We both agreed that when we returned home we would try to enlist in the navy and hope that somehow our paths might cross as we served. Much to our surprise, on the first Sunday as marines we ran into each other at a Church service. Both of us had volunteered for the Marine Corps!
When we completed our boot camp, we were both assigned to the Second Marine Division and were blessed to have our companionship last nearly three more years. After the battle was over on the island to which our division was assigned, we were able to obtain a tent for our Church services. We made benches, a pulpit, and a sacrament table out of any piece of lumber we could find. Under the sacrament table we placed that special green footlocker. The footlocker was carried from island to island as the Second Marine Division completed its orders. The contents included a wooden plate, a wooden sacrament tray, a card containing the sacrament prayers, and several boxes of small paper cups.
When the battle was over and the island secured, many of the veterans in our division were rotated back home, including our Church leadership. My missionary companion was sustained as our group leader, and I was called to be his first assistant.
The contents of the green footlocker represented all we held dear. As we gathered each week on the Lord’s day, opened our footlocker, and used the contents to prepare, bless, and pass the sacrament, it was a spiritual and uplifting experience that renewed our faith and gave us hope for the days ahead. That special hour together each week removed us from the trials and hardships of everyday life.
Even though the island had been secured, air raids continued. Soon our tent chapel was filled with many holes caused by shrapnel tearing through it. Because of the frequent tropical rains, it was uncomfortable to sit in a tent with so many holes in it. We determined that our meetings deserved better quarters, and through the efforts of the members of the Church from the marines, the army, the navy, and the air corps we were able to obtain enough material to construct our own chapel on the island. Now the green footlocker was placed beneath the table in a dedicated building where we could meet and worship together.
When our duties on the island were complete, we boarded a ship and moved on to another assignment. Our green footlocker remained in the chapel for others to use. I don’t know its final destination, but I will always fondly remember that green footlocker.

At seventeen, John registered at Brigham Young College in Logan. Two years later he graduated, and soon after that, he boarded a train bound for Cambridge, Massachusetts, and Harvard University. The venture was financed by bank loans and mortgages against his mother’s property. It was at Harvard that John met his future wife, Leah Eudora Dunford, who attended classes there one summer. In 1894 John graduated in chemistry with highest honors and accepted a job as professor of chemistry and as chemist at the experiment station at Utah State Agricultural College (now Utah State University) in Logan.

Second, cheating takes away the satisfaction of doing well in your classes. Nothing will give you more confidence in your abilities than doing well in a class by studying hard. One young chemistry student found out that someone in his chemistry lab had the answer book for all the lab experiments they would be assigned that semester. It seemed like the whole class played around in the lab and then filled in the correct answers while he did his lab work without cheating. He was made fun of, but in the end, when the class was assigned individual projects for their final grade, he was way ahead because he had actually learned the things he was supposed to have learned.

[As the play progresses, a new family enters town to join the United Order—Brother WILLIAM RUSSELL, an ailing widower, and his teenage daughter, CATHERINE ANN. The newcomers have just met BROTHER GARRISON, president of the Order. EZRA is also present.]
BROTHER RUSSELL: I wish we did have more to consecrate to the Order. But these two bags are all we own of the world. And this necklace of my daughter’s. It’s real gold.
CATHERINE ANN: Papa! No! You gave it to me when I turned sixteen. It’s mine!
PRESIDENT GARRISON: That’s all right, Miss Catherine Ann. Jewelry and keepsakes are not required. And we’ve never turned anybody away yet on account of poverty.
BROTHER RUSSELL: No, I couldn’t come and not bring something that’ll help. Please, Catherine Ann, for me?
[Slowly CATHERINE ANN takes off the necklace and gives it to her father, who hands it to PRESIDENT GARRISON.]
PRESIDENT GARRISON: When there are people starving in Orderville, we will sell this for food. Until then, I reckon we need somebody who can take very good care of it. Miss Catherine Ann, I’m asking you to be steward of this necklace.
CATHERINE ANN [taking it gratefully]: Thank you.
PRESIDENT GARRISON [smiling]: You’ll find that life here isn’t so bad as you’re expecting. If you put your heart into it, you’ll catch the vision of the Order and see it like we do.
CATHERINE ANN: To be honest, I just don’t see it at all. What’s wrong with living like—like regular folks?

Like my friends in Rexburg, one nonmember couple in Florida focused on helping the community rather than laboring on their own property. When some Latter-day Saint neighbors offered help with the two large trees blocking their driveway, the couple explained that they had been overwhelmed and so had turned to helping others, having faith that the Lord would provide the aid they needed at their own home. The husband then shared that before our Church members arrived with offers of assistance, the couple had been praying. They had received an answer that help would come. It came within hours of that assurance.

Zachary was spending his first summer on his grandparents’ farm. Zack loved the farm. He woke up early each morning and jumped happily out of bed. First he helped Grandpa milk the cows. Then he dashed to the kitchen to help Grandma by setting the breakfast table and putting food out for the cats that were stretching lazily outside the back door.
One sunny morning Zack’s grandfather had a surprise for him. “How would you like to go on a hayride today?”
Zack grinned a huge grin. “You mean a ride in a big wagon filled with hay? That would be super!” he exclaimed, jumping up from the breakfast table.
“Whoa there, Zack,” Grandpa chuckled. “How about finishing your breakfast first?”
Zack didn’t know if he could sit still that long, but he sat down to give it a good try.
After breakfast, Zack and his grandfather drove to the Steins’ farm. Mr. Stein was preparing the wagon for the hayride, and Zack saw about eight other kids running in the yard. They all seemed to be as excited as he was. Zack felt shy because he didn’t know any of the other kids. Just then a pudgy boy in a red sweatshirt gave Zack a big smile. That smile helped a lot, and Zack grinned back. He felt much less shy.
“OK, kids,” Mr. Stein said, “who would like to try out my new hay wagon?”
Zack loved the feel and the smell of the sweet hay as he climbed into the wagon. The hay poked softly through his T-shirt and stuck in his hair. Mr. Stein drove the wagon all around the countryside. The bumpy ride put tickles in Zack’s tummy. He felt as if he might grin for the rest of his life!
Then a few of the other kids started to tease the boy in the red sweatshirt, the one who had smiled at Zack and made him feel good. The kids were teasing the boy about being overweight. He pretended not to hear them and bravely kept a smile on his face. But Zack knew that the teasing hurt the boy’s feelings. Zack wished that he could help, but when the boy looked over at him, Zack looked away. He didn’t know how to help.
The day was still sunny, the hay was still sweet, and the wagon was still bumping along, but Zack didn’t feel as happy anymore. When the hayride was over, he hopped quickly down from the wagon and ran over to his grandpa’s truck.
“Are you OK?” Grandpa asked. “I expected you to be full of smiles after the ride.”
Zack told Grandpa about the boy being teased. “Grandpa, I don’t know why I feel so awful. I didn’t tease him. But I feel just as terrible as if I had!”
Grandpa thought for a moment, then hugged him tightly. “Zack, I think you feel bad because someone else had his feelings hurt. I’m proud to have a grandson who can feel compassion for others.”
Zack thought about the way the boy in the red sweatshirt had made him feel more comfortable when he first arrived at the Steins’ farm. Suddenly he knew what he could do to help the boy—and himself—feel happy again! “Do you know who the boy in the red sweatshirt is?”
“Yes, he is Teddy Ames. His dad owns the farm next to ours.”
“Would it be OK if we stopped there on our way home?” Zack asked. “I can’t change what happened today at the hayride, but it might make Teddy feel better to know that he has a new friend right next door.”

“At one tournament I met a soccer player from another state who wanted to know why I wouldn’t play on Sunday,” Jodi said. “That opened the way for me to tell him about the gospel. When he went home, we began writing letters to each other. I sent him a Book of Mormon. That was a little frightening for me. I didn’t know how he would react. But he read it and wanted to know more. So I sent him some Church pamphlets, and after a while he decided to be baptized.

When I was in Brazil serving as a counselor to the Area President, I was sent to reorganize a stake that was having problems. The president of the stake and his first counselor were not worthy to serve. So the second counselor had been carrying the whole burden of that stake for six to eight weeks.
When I got there I found that this second counselor was a young medical student. He had been married not too long ago, and his wife was a nurse. He was very busy, yet he was carrying this terrific responsibility, made even greater by the terrible circumstances of the stake presidency. As I talked to him, I thought that this worthy young man, because he was a busy medical student, should not be called as stake president. It would be too much of a burden for him.
So that evening when I knelt by my bed I prayed, “Heavenly Father, bless Elder Milder and me that we will be inspired to know whom we should call as stake president and resolve the difficulties of this stake.”
A strong feeling came over me that said, “I’ve already shown you the new stake president.”
And I said to the Lord, “Oh, no you haven’t!”
All night long I wrestled with the Lord. I kept waking up with the impression that that young medical student should be the stake president, but I thought, “No, no, no. He should not.”
The next day when we started interviewing, Elder César Milder, an Area Seventy, and I agreed that the second counselor should not be the stake president, even though he was worthy, because it would be too much to give him. We had interviewed a bishop who would do well. Then we interviewed a man who had just moved into the stake. He had served in a stake presidency. He had been a bishop twice. He was financially secure.
When we finished the interviewing, I told Elder Milder, “Give me the three names of those whom you think we ought to consider.”
He gave me the name of the bishop and this man who had just moved into the stake. Then he said, “I still feel we cannot ignore this second counselor.”
And I said, “Well, those are the three names that we should consider, but I agree that we should not, however, call the second counselor to be the new stake president.”
So, in prayer, we presented the name of the man who had just moved into the stake, and I understood at that moment what a stupor of thought was (see D&C 9:9). We did not get a confirmation at all. We prayed about the bishop and did not get a confirmation.
I said, “Well, I guess we’d better present this second counselor’s name before the Lord and see what He thinks.”
A powerful witness overwhelmed us. Our bosoms really did burn within us. Tears flowed down our faces as we received that confirmation.
So we met with him and his wife. I told him the reasons he shouldn’t be the stake president, then I said, “But apparently the Lord doesn’t care about any of those reasons. Therefore, on His behalf I extend the call to serve as stake president.” He accepted.
Later, while in Salt Lake City for general conference, I met with Elder Russell M. Nelson of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. After the meeting he said, “I’m being assigned to visit a stake conference in Brazil, but not to reorganize the stake. I’m not sure why I’m being sent. Do you know anything about this stake?”
It was the same stake where I had called the second counselor to be the stake president, so I told Elder Nelson the circumstances of the stake president being called.
He said, “You know, Elder Wood, we do not usually call medical students to serve as stake presidents.”
I said, “I didn’t know that, but I believe it, and I would not have done this on my own.”
After the stake conference, Elder Nelson came to Recife, Brazil, where I was living. When he got off the plane, he said, “Elder Wood, you did the right thing. That man was indeed called of God, and he has made a great difference in the stake.”

Illustrations by Bradley H. Clark
On January 12, 2010, Heavenly Father showed me His power after a four-story concrete building collapsed around and on me following a terrible earthquake that devastated Haiti.
While I was crying out under the weight of the rubble, a peaceful voice spoke to me: “Jimy, why don’t you pray instead of shout?”
I couldn’t stop shouting, however, because I was afraid I was going to die within a few minutes. The voice, which sounded like a good friend motivated by a great desire to help, spoke to me again: “Jimy, you must pray.”
The pain in my legs was becoming unbearable, and I was running out of oxygen in the darkness that surrounded me. The voice came one more time: “Jimy, you must pray.”
At that moment I stopped resisting. In a feeble voice I said: “Heavenly Father, Thou knowest my strength, and Thou knowest how long I can bear this pain. I ask Thee, please take this pain from me. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Immediately after uttering this simple prayer, I fell asleep. I don’t remember what happened after that, but when I awoke from a profound sleep, the pain was gone. A short while later, rescuers found me as they searched for victims among the ruins of my office building.
Afterward I learned that of the five employees on the second floor of the Port-au-Prince building where I worked, I was the only one who came out of the debris alive. Because of my injuries, I lost one of my legs and spent several months in the hospital. But I know that the Holy Ghost prompted me to pray and that Heavenly Father answered that prayer.
I can testify that Heavenly Father answers our prayers in His own way and according to His own desires—wherever we are and whenever we pray.

Like most of you, I can attribute and connect my life’s journey to those who came before me. I can see how their circumstances, sacrifices, and choices impacted me and my life. In order for me to share about my experience here at BYU–Hawaii I would like to give you a little background knowledge about my upbringing and family’s history in Laie.

My maternal Great Grandma Ruby Freeman was raised in Sandy, Utah. She was hanai’d by her aunty, Augusta Winters, wife of President Heber J. Grant. She was hanai’d because her mother passed away at 38 years of age leaving behind nine children. My Great Grandma Ruby Freeman is the mother of my grandpa, Roscoe Sorensen. My Grandpa Sorensen was blessed to serve a mission in Hawaii from 1939-1941. It was during this time he first saw my Grandma, Caroline Hubbell. He saw her while she was dancing hula at the Royal Hawaiian when he and his companion were invited to eat there. He saw her again at church which I am sure left a lasting impression. Upon completion of his mission and returning home to Utah, my grandpa headed back to Hawaii where he was reconnected to my grandma and the two were eventually married. At this time, my grandpa began civilian work at Pearl Harbor during World War II. Not too many years later my grandparents were given the opportunity to buy land and settle in Laie with the early saints. They chose the area directly across from what is now the entrance to TVA and the faculty townhomes. Years later the Church College of Hawaii was established and my grandpa worked as a Groundskeeper until he retired. He also served as one of the first bishops in Laie and was a stake patriarch in his later days. Grandpa Sorensen was a known cowboy in Laie and ran the slaughterhouse which provided meat to the saints in the community. While neither of my grandparents attended what is now known as BYU–Hawaii - I truly believe that their commitment to the church and the college eventually led me to attend school here and return in the capacity in which I now serve. I am grateful for my great grandmother and her sacrifices and teachings which I know led my grandpa to serve a mission in Hawaii which eventually led to him marrying my grandma and their family being raised in the Laie community.

I am the oldest of five children—four girls and one boy. In 2022 my brother, Houston, suffered a heart attack. Unfortunately he was not found right away, and his long-term lack of oxygen caused a brain injury. Over the days we spent with him in the intensive care unit, I can safely say that I have never prayed harder or exercised more faith. And yet, day by day, Houston got worse, and eventually we were told that he would not live. It was hard to accept that despite the faith and prayers of so many wonderful people, we were going to lose Houston. And yet we did. My heart was broken.

But pain and sadness and faith can coexist. I and many others fought all the anticipatory fears of losing Houston and facing life without him with as much faith as we could muster. We kept praying, kept hoping, and kept trusting that God knew Houston’s path even when we could no longer see the miracle we were hoping for.

Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf said:
There are so many things in life that God sees differently than we do. . . .
We tend to think of joy as the absence of sorrow.
But what if joy is not the absence of sorrow?
What if joy and sorrow can coexist?
What if they have to coexist?22
The pain of losing my brother helped me to seek peace and to solidify my faith in the covenants I had made with God and the promises that came with them. My sorrow solidified and increased my joy and belief in the Atonement and Resurrection. I could act with the hope that my brother could be restored completely. I know that in those great moments of pain, it can seem impossible that joy could coexist. It may not be the joy we hoped we could experience had the miracle we prayed for been granted, but God does not leave us alone.