Gospel Story Finder

My story begins with a loss that shaped my destiny. My father, Mr. Kofi Donkor Adane, died just a week before I was born. My mother, deep in her grief, held me for the first time with tears streaming down her cheeks. In my culture, there is a belief that a mother’s profound sorrow can cause a newborn’s spirit to “go back”—to return to the spirit world. Fearful of this, my aunt, Mrs. Faustina Boahin, came for me. She persuaded my mother that it would be safer if I stayed with her. And so, as a tiny baby, I left my mother’s arms and went to live with my aunt and uncle, growing up believing they were my true parents and that my cousins were my siblings.
My aunt was a strict disciplinarian. While my uncle was kind, my aunt believed in corporal punishment to “put me in line.” I was kept indoors, often watching the neighborhood children play football from behind the louvers of our window, shouting instructions as if I were their coach but never allowed to join. This isolation made school my sanctuary, a place where I could finally engage with friends, join clubs for acrobatics and drama, and feel a sense of belonging. Coming home late from these precious hours of play always meant a beating, but to me the fleeting freedom was worth the price.
The foundation of my life was shattered when my cousin, Kwesi, revealed the truth. “Is Faustina really your mom?” he’d tease, until one day he stated plainly, “No, she’s not. Auntie Mina is your mother.” I was stunned. Auntie Mina was the woman who visited often, always bringing a special gift just for me—a donut, an orange, a sweet—a fact for which my aunt had often scolded her. The pieces began to fall into place. I noticed the differences in treatment: I had more chores, I was denied meat at meals, and the punishments were more severe. The truth, once seen, could not be unseen.
I eventually moved in with my biological mother, Fatima Wilhelmina, and entered a new world: a Muslim household. My mother had been raised Muslim by her father, and she had remarried a Muslim man. I embraced this new identity with the fervor of a child seeking belonging. I learned to pray in Arabic, fasted during Ramadan, and perfected the ablutions. I even joined a wazi team, Muslim evangelists who would set up in town. My role was to read from the Bible, drawing parallels to the Qur’an, while others demonstrated Islamic prayer. I didn’t see it as outreach then; it was simply the faith I was living. For a time, it was my entire world.

I squirmed in my chair. The missionaries were staring at me. My older sister said to me, “Sis, just throw your cigarettes into the fireplace.”
I was learning about the Church at my sister’s house. Baptized a few weeks before, she now wanted me to join. The missionaries had just taught me a lesson about the Word of Wisdom, but our grandfather smoked, our parents smoked, my sister had smoked before she joined the Church, and I smoked.
It wouldn’t be that difficult to throw the cigarettes away. My sister and I both knew I could easily get more. It wasn’t that big of a deal, or so I thought.
Even though I didn’t like my sister telling me what to do, it was nice that she cared about me and was trying to help me. And I didn’t want to disappoint the missionaries. But more than that, I wanted to know if this Church was true. It all seemed so good, a better life. There didn’t seem to be any sense to the life I was leading, and I wanted to be a better person. I had attended many other churches and prayed often to my Father in Heaven to help me to find the true Church. Now smoking stood in my way. I had tried to quit before, but I could never stop. I knew it was a terrible habit, but it seemed impossible to break. I didn’t think I was strong enough.
When I hesitated, the missionaries told me that if I prayed to Heavenly Father with faith, He could help me quit. They added that while the true Church requires much of its members, Moroni 10:4 promises if I ask with a sincere heart, God will let me know whether the Church is true.
My sister said, “I know you have some cigarettes in your purse. Just throw them away.”
After what seemed like an hour of thinking about it, I threw them into the fireplace. Even though it didn’t seem like such a big thing to do, it turned out to be a turning point in my life.
I could have gone directly to the store on the way home and bought another pack, but because I really wanted to know the truth about the Church, I didn’t. When I got home, I opened my Book of Mormon and reread the promise in Moroni. Then I poured out my soul to Heavenly Father. I had prayed before, but this was one of the most sincere and intense prayers I had ever offered.
On my knees, I pleaded with the Lord to help me to know the truth and give me strength. When I stopped and listened, I knew that the Church was true and my searching was over. I felt calm and positive that the Lord was telling me I was heading in the right direction. I had received an answer!
I never smoked again. Miraculously, I never even had the desire. I thought I would still have cravings for cigarettes, but I didn’t. And more importantly, I now had a testimony of the Church and that Heavenly Father cared about me and would listen and answer my prayers.
My life had been blessed immeasurably. The Lord led me to the right Church and told me it was true. I had always wanted to know the truth and to have a more fruitful life. Now I did. Thankfully, I opened my heart, listening to the missionaries and a sister who was trying to help me. I am grateful to Heavenly Father for answering my prayer and giving me a testimony of the restored gospel.

Seek for Inspiration. Our prayers and faith help us open our hearts to let God change us. One woman I know felt concern about the TV shows her adult children let their children watch. She felt the shows modeled disrespect and quarreling, even though they were considered age-appropriate. Not wanting to intrude, she prayed and fasted repeatedly about what to do or say. One morning her daughter-in-law called to ask for advice about how to manage disrespect and quarreling among her children. My friend shared her observation about the TV shows, an influence her daughter-in-law had never noticed. The young parents addressed the issue with their children. Changes were agreed upon, and the atmosphere in the home improved.

I close with another story, illustrating how the spirit of the work of Elijah crosses the boundaries of blood ties in fostering honor between parents and children. I recently conversed with a woman who, as a baby, was adopted into a Latter-day Saint home. When I asked how long she had known she was an adopted child, she told me that when she was four, her father had presented a family home evening lesson on the plan of salvation. In the course of that discussion, he explained that sometimes parents who desperately desire children are unable physically to bring them into this life. In such cases, he said, the parents may fast and plead with the Lord to help them find a special child whose biological parents are unable to care for their child. Her father took her in his arms and explained that was how Heavenly Father had sent her to them. Hearing this tender story, I felt certain that the promises the Lord made to this woman’s adoptive parents were planted in her heart, and the result was her lifelong peace of mind and sense of belonging.

Some time ago I had a delightful conversation with an impressive 16-year-old young woman. I discovered she was the only member of the Church in her high school. I asked her, “What is the most difficult challenge you face being the only member?”
She was thoughtful and gave a very astute answer: “It is believing something is true when everyone else believes it is false, and believing something is wrong when everyone else believes it’s all right.”
I asked her a second question: “Do you know Joseph Smith is a prophet of God?” Her response was, “I think so, but I’m not sure.”
This morning I would like to ask the youth throughout the Church, “Do you know?”
The first time I knew I had a testimony of Joseph Smith was when I was just 11 years old and my parents took me to Temple Square in Salt Lake City.
My favorite activity was to collect all the free stuff. I became very adept at working the system. I would ask, “Is this free?” After a positive response I would reach out my 11-year-old hand and say, “Thank you. Is that free too? Thank you!” On occasion someone might say, “No, I’m sorry; those cost five cents.” Undeterred, I would lower my head and, showing much disappointment, say, “Oh, I always wanted to read that pamphlet, but I don’t have any money. Thank you!” It worked every time. The truth is, I never read it. I just collected it.
However, on this particular trip, I was alone in our 1948 Chevrolet, waiting for my parents, when I became inescapably bored. In desperation I looked down at the seat and spotted my stack of free stuff. I picked up a pamphlet entitled Joseph Smith Tells His Own Story and began to read it.
I was riveted, and my heart was filled with joy. After completing it, I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror, and much to my surprise, I was crying. I didn’t understand then, but I understand now. I had felt a witness of the Spirit. My parents weren’t there. My sister wasn’t there. My Primary teacher wasn’t there. It was just me and the Spirit of the Holy Ghost.
Now, this can happen to you, and something similar probably already has.
When seeking a testimony, those of you born into the Church may be looking for some spectacular spiritual feeling different than anything you have ever felt before. You may have heard converts testify of their conversion and wonder if you’re missing something. One reason it seems so spectacular to them is that it is new.
You have had the same feelings your whole life during family home evenings, youth testimony meetings, seminary classes, scripture reading, and on many other occasions.
Our missionaries are trained to help investigators recognize when they are feeling the Spirit. I remember on numerous occasions stopping in the middle of an intense, spiritual discussion and saying, “Let’s pause for a moment and talk about what you are feeling right now. You’re feeling like we’ve reminded you of things you had forgotten. You’re feeling that we are telling you the truth. You’re feeling peace. You’re feeling the Holy Ghost.”
I remember teaching an extremely intelligent woman who had a hard time accepting anything until she had nailed down every intellectual loose end. However, at long last we heard her say, “I cannot deny this feeling any longer.”
She joined the Church and was very happy for the next few years, but she gradually let her intellectual doubts creep back in and ultimately left the Church.
Fifteen years went by, and she came to visit our family. We took her to Temple Square. As we started up the circular ramp leading to the statue of the Savior, she paused and tearfully said, “Here comes that feeling again. My heart still yearns for what my mind won’t accept!”
Once you have felt it, you can never forget it.
Spiritual witnesses come at a young age to those who are exposed to spiritual experiences. As parents, teachers, and leaders, we are good at making certain you understand the rules and commandments. We could improve on helping you gain a testimony of the principles and doctrine. Perhaps we could pause more often and help you learn to recognize the Spirit.
Once you recognize those feelings for what they are, your faith in them will increase. Soon you will find that you have developed a spiritual sixth sense which cannot be misled.
At 11 years of age, I knew Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. I didn’t hear voices, see angels, or anything like that. What I felt was much more certain. My spiritual sense had been touched. I felt elation springing forth from the innermost part of my being, which is protected from all deceit. This spiritual sense vibrates only when activated by the Holy Ghost.
How does this spiritual witness feel? It is as difficult to describe as the scent of a rose or the song of a bird or the beauty of a landscape. Nevertheless, you know it when you feel it.
The scriptures give us some insights into these feelings:
“Verily, verily, I say unto you, I will impart unto you of my Spirit, which shall enlighten your mind, which shall fill your soul with joy; and then shall ye know” (D&C 11:13–14).
Sometimes the feeling is like a memory. We first learned the gospel in our heavenly home. We have come to this earth with a veil of forgetfulness. And yet lingering in each of our spirits are those dormant memories. The Holy Ghost can part the veil and bring those things out of their dormancy. Often my reaction to a supposedly newfound truth is, “Oh, I remember that!”
“The Comforter, which is the Holy Ghost … [will] bring all things to your remembrance” (John 14:26).
My young brothers and sisters, I invite you to “experiment upon my words” (Alma 32:27). Will you read and pray about the Joseph Smith story?
The wonderful thing about knowing it is true is that you know simultaneously that God the Father and Jesus Christ live and stand at the head of this Church today. I gained that knowledge when I was 11, and now I stand before you as an ordained especial witness of Jesus Christ and testify it is true. I also testify that the Lord wants you to know it is true, and He “will [reveal] the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost” (Moroni 10:4). In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I thought back to my first contact with Mormons. It was the summer of my second year in junior high school, when President Kimball visited Sapporo. I had attended many other churches, but at that meeting, there was something new: a unity of all the members. It seemed strange at the time. At other churches, people came to meetings, sat and listened, and then returned home. At the Mormon church, they all seemed to be working at life, trying to love it and enjoy it in a way the Lord would want them to. I thought of my second visit among the Mormons, too. That had been November 3 of the same year at the branch Thanksgiving party. My older sister invited me to tag along and told me all of the people there would seem like angels and we would be embarrassed just to be in their presence. That’s exactly how they made me feel! I had never been part of such a spiritual, family atmosphere.
From then on I had attended church weekly and everyone welcomed me with outstretched arms and warm hearts. The missionaries taught me about restored gospel truths, and they taught me how to pray to know the truth for myself. No other church had taught me how to pray, but in this church even small children could pray. I read the Book of Mormon daily and prayed about it. Gradually I began to understand my purpose here on earth and what’s important in this life. But I did not feel, yet, that I had a testimony.
In April, the branch start ed a Young Women program. At first there was only one participant: me! Even when I didn’t go, the teacher would wait for me. That seemed strange, too. Why was she so patient? Why did she wait so long even when she wasn’t sure I’d show up?
About that time, the mission presidents changed and the Suzuki family came to Sapporo. There was a young lady in the family, Naomi, who was my same age. We quickly became friends, since we were the only young women our age in the branch. She set a good example for me, and with her as a guide, I began to understand the patience of our teacher and the beauty of the gospel. Naomi’s example helped keep me going to church weekly and praying diligently. I was able to gain a small testimony and wanted from the bottom of my heart to be baptized.
I had talked to my parents once before about receiving that blessing, but they were against it. This time, armed with a tiny testimony, I tried again.
“Faith,” my father told me, “is not something that is grown in one or two days. It is the process of many years.” He felt that, to a student, school is more important even than religion, and he emphatically refused to give permission for baptism.
That had been a painful experience. But I got a grasp on myself, thought over what my father had said, and decided that one thing he had said was right. Religion should not be just a two-day spree, but a life-long adventure! I began attending seminary and studying the Old Testament in earnest. Fun lessons helped me gain insight into a subject new to me, and my knowledge of the gospel became fuller. However, I could not buy the home study manuals because that year was also the year for high school entrance exams, and my parents wanted me to spend time on school work, not religious homework.
I was overjoyed when the students in the class gave the manuals to me as a present! What could I give them in return? The best thing was to study those manuals hard. Even though my progress was slower than others, I was able to finish the manuals and turn them in to the teacher.
I also passed the high school entrance exams and felt relieved. My heart was lighter as I once again approached my parents about baptism, figuring I had proven I could be active in the Church and still succeed at school. Their response knocked me back into reality. “No,” my father said, “from now on school will be even tougher. You won’t have time for church and school too.”
My parents became increasingly upset by my diligence in attending Church meetings and would speak harsh words when I left the house on Sundays. After many months, however, they finally realized I wasn’t going to stop attending, and their resistance slackened somewhat. I continued studying seminary manuals, and my testimony grew more and more firm. But baptism still seemed impossible.
Finally, Naomi suggested that we should fast and pray about the situation. So every Sabbath day—for an entire year—we fasted. Naomi fasted and prayed right along with me. I could always feel God’s presence nearby, and my testimony became unshakable as we realized many other blessings that year. But my parents remained firm.
Last of all, my thoughts drifted to the beginning of this school year—my last in high school, the year of preparation for the college entrance examinations. I knew I would not be allowed to join the Church until the exams were over. I also wondered if my parents would allow me to be baptized even after the tests. One thing was certain, though. If I failed the exams, my parents would say, “The reason you failed is because you spent so much time with that church!” I had to prove that what they were thinking just wasn’t right. Somehow I knew that passing those tests was the key to my baptism, but I couldn’t see how.
I studied harder than I ever had before. Schoolwork passed ahead of everything, even Church assignments. Seminary studies began to pile up, but I rationalized that in order to be baptized, it was worth neglecting seminary in favor of schoolwork. The lack of seminary study worried me, however, for it was there I had grown the most and felt the strongest testimony. Now that testimony seemed to be shrinking as 13 home study books cluttered my shelf. My conscience told me I wasn’t doing what was right, that even with school there should be time for Church work and seminary too. On February 25 I promised myself I would complete all 13 books by March 4, the day exams began. Sandwiched in between my other schoolwork, seminary workbooks became a welcome break. On March 2, I handed all of my assignments, completed, to my amazed seminary teacher.
“It’s time,” the teacher supervising the exam said. I looked at the clock and whispered a prayer. Like a squadron of robots, the college entrance exam candidates rose and entered the testing area. Reluctantly, I joined them.
I passed! I couldn’t believe it! I was so excited! But several days later, when the scores were posted, I was listed. I would be able to go to college! I rushed to my parents with the good news and also asked if now I could finally have my wish—to become a member of the Church.
“No,” my father said simply. He startled the words right out of my mouth.
But my mother, although she had never done so before, came to my defense. She reminded him that I had been true to my studies and true to my religion for four years. “That’s such a good church that I don’t think my daughter would be doing anything wrong by joining it,” she said. “It is such a good church. I can understand why my daughter wants to go to it all her life.”
The three of us talked for hours, and I slowly realized my parents weren’t against me but loved me. They were concerned for my welfare and didn’t want me doing something blindly. I’m grateful to have such wonderful parents. I think they realized, too, that I wasn’t joining the Church on a whim. They gave me permission to be baptized! I made that covenant and received that ordinance on the same day I graduated from the Young Women program. My friends from seminary helped plan the baptismal service, and most of my family attended.
Of the high school- and college-age members of the Church in Japan, only about 5 percent have parents who are members. They may find that sharing the gospel with their families can be difficult and that parents of the Buddhist and Shinto faiths don’t always understand the joy that comes into someone’s heart through the knowledge of the gospel of Jesus Christ. But I truly believe that the Lord is mindful of us and will provide a way to help us. For me, it was through four years of patience that allowed my faith to grow strong.

The teacher nurses a knife wound in her back. Gladys Saiah is not much older than her students. She and her sister were running an errand for their mother in an unfamiliar part of town when she was attacked and stabbed by a group of men. Gladys and her sister were fortunate; they were allowed to leave without further injury.
“As my sister and I began walking home,” she says, “I told Ellen we must first thank Heavenly Father for sparing our lives. We did, and then, arising from our knees, I asked Ellen, ‘Now will you please clean my back?’”
Though life in Soweto can sometimes be dangerous, the dangers are pushed into the background once the opening hymn and prayer start seminary. Class begins with scripture mastery, and each student recites a scripture word for word.
“And the Lord called his people Zion, because they were of one heart and one mind, and dwelt in righteousness; and there was no poor among them” (Moses 7:18).
“But the Lord said unto Samuel, Look not on his countenance, or on the height of his stature; because I have refused him: for the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart” (1 Sam. 16:7).
Soweto seminary students know the Lord helps them through the scriptures. Lucky Ndhiela knows his faith spared him a severe beating.
“One day our school teacher was very angry with our class,” says Lucky. “He said he had explained a science principle to us, and the other students said he had not. A still, small voice whispered in my ear, ‘You know it, Lucky—the teacher did teach us that.’
“So I raised my hand and said in front of the whole class, ‘You did teach us that.’ I felt so happy to say it.
“But the whole class shouted, ‘He did NOT!’ The teacher became very angry and started hitting them all, one by one. I sat near the back of the class, and while he was busy punishing the students in front, I bowed my head and began to pray.
“I remembered my scripture mastery, Proverbs 3:5–6 [Prov. 3:5–6], and said to myself, ‘Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.
“When the teacher came to my desk, his voice changed. His face changed. He said, ‘Lucky is praying to his God. I forgive him.’ He did not punish me, nor any others that day. That is how I know it is important to apply the scriptures in my life. My prayer was answered!”
Studying the Old Testament together had great impact on Soweto’s seminary students. Scenes like this one, described by a teacher, Leadh Vilakazi, are not uncommon:
“When we got to the story of Moses, everyone wanted to know everything concerning him. It was a wonderful feeling, as if Moses were among us.
“But the sad moment started when Moses was told he would not be allowed to enter the promised land, after all he had been through, and the faithful heart he had, and his hard work in leading the Israelites.
“‘Oh, what a painful and upsetting thing,’ my students grieved to me. And it was even a greater blow when the scriptures said Moses died. Everyone’s heart was moved, as if Moses had departed from us, and it was silent for a moment.
“When I looked at the students’ faces, tears were about to fall. Some of them looked down—they could not look at me. I heard one of the students say, ‘We now know that we had such a wonderful leader.’
“Another said, ‘Why don’t we sing “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet” ?’
“Then came another voice. ‘Oh, yes—just to thank our Heavenly Father for our beloved prophet for the last time.’ And so we sang, with our tears.”
Seminary student Girly Mbuli explains how her faith and love of the scriptures saved her from a terrible situation.
“One day my friend Tiny Gugu and I had to go to Zondi to take some books to another girl. On our way back we saw a gang of boys. Gangs here rape girls, steal cars, do everything horrible. We started to run, but it was too late.
“The boys faced us. They had weapons. They made us go up on a hill and meant to do awful things to us. On the way up the hill, I was saying a prayer to my Heavenly Father. I don’t remember which scriptures I tried to say, but I kept thinking of them. I asked for help to be calm and not afraid. I felt peace come into my heart.
“When you are on top of that hill, you can see everything. The boys looked down and asked where I was staying. I pointed to Jabulane, and something told me to say I was staying with my grandmother and my friend Lindiwe.
“The leader looked at me and said, ‘You are not afraid. Let them go!’ I later found out that the brother of my friend Lindiwe is the boss of this gang, and he stays in the house of my grandmother. That is why they let us go free.
“When I tell this story to people, they refuse to believe we survived. But I did, and I know why. It was because of my faith in Heavenly Father. I know that Isaiah 1:18 [Isa. 1:18] can be true for those guilty gang boys, if they will repent: ‘Come now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord: though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be white as snow.’”
Many people would be amazed at Girly’s charitable attitude. They would view Soweto as a terrible place. But Soweto is where these seminary students have received the gospel of Jesus Christ. Through study, prayer, and faith, they have found hope, confidence, courage, and love.
“I want to tell everyone not to forget their Heavenly Father, wherever you are,” says Girly. “He won’t forget you. He didn’t forget me.”

Then Cécile discovered the ashrams—religious retreats serving as orphanages. In each ashram there are about one hundred children, ages five through twelve. Many of these children were orphaned by disease, malnutrition, and tiger attacks. When they first arrive at the ashrams, the children are starving. Many have skin diseases and suffer from fevers, intestinal troubles, and rickets (caused by severe vitamin deficiencies). It takes most of the children three months to get used to the idea that they will still have rice to eat the next day. Currently, there are eight ashrams in Bengal, among them the Dayal Ashram (“happy house”) in Banipur, in the middle of the jungle.
“This ashram is very dear to me,” says Cécile, “because that is where I discovered the heart of Indians. I felt at home. I taught the children to play, sing, and laugh. They taught me to sleep on the floor, to eat using my hand as a spoon, to take off my shoes in houses and sacred places, and to appreciate the essential part of life—love.”
Very quickly, ties developed between Cécile and the children, who call her “Cécile Didi”—big sister Cécile. When she became ill with paratyphoid during her first stay, her little Indian friends nursed her and watched over her as if they were the big brothers and sisters. They massaged her legs and arms to relieve cramps caused by the disease.

Elder Pratt’s two former companions traveled on to Tahiti, where their teaching met with far less success. After a few months, Elder Rogers traveled west to a small group of islands and Elder Grouard sailed to the island of Anaa in the Tuamotus. Elder Rogers again met with little success and much opposition. When rumors finally reached him of the death of the Prophet Joseph Smith, he began to fear for the safety of his family in Nauvoo, and he returned to America. He died during the exodus from Nauvoo.

How could we have had a precious baby offered to us and not have taken him? After so many months of prayers, pleading, and hoping—how?
Yet a beautiful baby boy had come into the world, and we had decided he was not for us.
As we fought to restrain our emotions, we reflected on the experience that began with a strange telephone call in the middle of a January night one month earlier.
It had been a quiet night in the house, but all our nights were quiet. There was no cooing baby in a crib, no colorful baby toys, no diaper container hanging from the bedroom doorknob. Those happy things were found where children were.
The telephone rang late into that memorable evening. James, my husband, answered and was greeted by a vaguely familiar voice, an acquaintance.
“I understand from a mutual friend that you and your wife are interested in adopting a baby,” she queried.
“Yes,” James said, “we are very anxious to adopt a baby.” I sat up, surprised. The conversation continued, and I listened intently to his replies, wishing I could hear the voice on the other end of the line.
When James hung up the receiver, his hand was shaking, his voice nervous and tense. “That was someone I know through a friend at work,” he began. “She says she has a distant unmarried relative who is going to have a baby soon. The girl is young. She’s unemployed and unable to care for the baby when it’s born. Her family can’t help her. She wants to do what’s best for the baby and thinks she should place the child for adoption.”
That night we relived all the hope and excitement we had felt so many times before when we thought we might get a baby.
But weeks went by without word, and our anxious optimism faded. We talked in the evenings about this unborn child coming to our home. We knew the phone call had brought false hope, but we persisted with prayers and fasting.
“There are agencies that handle adoption placement,” James said. “Surely a social worker from an agency will contact her, or she will go to them. That would probably be best for the expectant mother anyway. Agencies with skilled social workers can help to find the best possible home for adopted children.”
He wasn’t saying anything we both didn’t already know. We had been working with a social worker through an adoption agency for months, and we knew that they provided a very necessary service to couples seeking children, and especially to unmarried young girls thinking about placing their babies for adoption.
The waiting took us into the snows and cold of February, and another quiet night. The ringing of the phone at 2:00 A.M. made my heart pound wildly. Startled, I got up and groped in the darkness for the receiver.
“Is James there?” asked a weary female voice.
“Yes, he’s here. He’s asleep, but I’ll wake him.” Whoever this is must need him now, or she wouldn’t call at this hour.
“Hello,” James mumbled, as he answered the phone, then listened. He was answering questions. “Yes, all right. We didn’t think she was still … Yes, I’ll call you back tomorrow.” He dropped the phone on the bed, sleep gone from his eyes. “She’s having the baby. Right now. She’s in labor and will soon deliver. And she’s expecting us to take the baby!”
We both sat silent. Stunned. Someone from somewhere had just called and said we have a baby for you. Right now! James broke the silence. “She didn’t go to an agency, and she didn’t contact a social worker. She told this relative to call us again and tell us that the baby is about to be born and she wants to have it adopted.”
Suddenly, all of the concerns we had both entertained about private adoption, but had never discussed, came flooding into a wee-morning-hour conference. We concluded that in the morning we must talk with our social worker and seek her counsel, backed by thirty years of adoption expertise. We knelt in prayer for the unknown mother in labor, for her peace of mind about the decision she was going to make. We asked our Heavenly Father to bless a baby who was about to be born. We asked him to bless us that we would be guided in our decision concerning the child.
That morning, we sat in council with a very wise, loving woman who had given years in the service of mothers and children. She listened intently to our story of the unexpected phone calls and responded thoughtfully. “I can’t, nor will I even try to make a decision for you,” she said. “I must leave that to your discretion and can only offer you my insight and understanding. I know how anxious you are to have a child, and I also know that agencies often require seemingly unbearable waiting periods for anxious couples. You have a ‘baby in the hand,’ so it seems, and I can promise you nothing. But I must tell you that I would have serious concerns about the fact that James is known by a relative of the baby’s mother.” She paused and thought before she spoke. “Years of experience have taught me that adoptive children generally do better when the identity of the natural parents remains totally anonymous.
“Adoption agencies, as you know, do extensive studies with both child and potential parents to determine which child is best suited for which family,” she continued. “This situation would not allow you that advantage, nor would you know any of the medical history of the child.”
Thoughts, professional views, fears and wisdom were covered in a two-hour exchange.
On the drive home, we were both silent. There was an undeniable tension in the air.
At home, we knelt in prayer, and I knew the answer before James told me what he was feeling. It was not the answer we had begged to receive. This child was not to come to our home. But why? A miracle, it seemed, and we were about to turn it away.
“I know this baby is not meant to come to our home, to be ours,” James said. “I don’t receive that confirmation, that peace of mind that comes with positive answers to prayer. But this mother is expecting me to find a home for the baby. The baby needs a home, a good home, and it needs one today.”
James and I talked at length about what would be best for the child. We made some telephone calls to friends and professionals who could offer the best advice. That evening, James telephoned the woman who had contacted us. He briefly told her why we could not take the child, and he gave her the name of a very experienced social worker who would work closely with the mother. She hung up and made the contact. Two days later, the baby boy, was placed in a special home where he would be loved and well cared for. We knew that somewhere the child was safe, comfortable, and in the arms of parents who desperately wanted a child. Yet we sat on the edge of the bed after receiving the news, wondering, lamenting. But even as we questioned, we knew we had been told by a loving Heavenly Father, with insight and understanding far exceeding our human limitations, that the child was not for us.
The cold winds of March found us home on quiet nights and at work during the day. About 8:00 A.M. on a Monday morning, James awoke singing. I asked him what it was that made Monday so wonderful, when it only meant going back to work after a great weekend. “I don’t know,” he laughed. “I just feel like it’s going to be a good day.”
I left for work at the usual time, and was exceptionally busy when the phone rang at 9:10. “Hello, Mary Ann, this is Carol.” Our social worker! I would have known her voice anywhere.
“Do you think they might let you off work long enough to come and pick up your baby boy?”
Everyone down the hall heard the jubilant exclamation. No one had to ask what the call was about. “A baby boy! That’s fantastic! When? Where? I’ll call James right now. We’re on our way.”
“Don’t hang up yet,” she said. “I need to give you some details and tell you something more about the baby.” I was so excited I could hardly listen, but as her conversation continued, I found it well worth the extra few minutes on the phone.
I contacted James. “Carol just called. You’re a dad! She has a baby boy for us. He’s there right now, waiting for us to pick him up and bring him home.” I was so nervous that I could hardly voice the next sentence.
“Carol told me about the baby just like I’m telling you. You see, that isn’t all, dear. There’s more. This little boy of ours has a brother.”
“What do you mean, a brother?” he asked.
“Twins,” I laughed. “You are the proud father of identical twin boys.”
A frantic drive to the agency, an apprehensive walk up the stairs to the agency’s second floor, and there, lying together in a wooden cradle with room to spare, weighing five pounds each, our beautiful baby boys!
Our twins had been born one day after the baby we had had a chance to adopt was born. On the day we had talked with our social worker, seeking her guidance, our babies were lying in the hospital’s intensive care nursery, weighing four pounds each. It was strict agency policy that prospective adoptive parents never be told about a baby until the infant was released from the hospital and made ready for placement. Carol and the other agency social workers had met and selected us as parents for the twins shortly before they were born, but we couldn’t be told until they were delivered, had gained weight, and could leave the hospital. Our boys were in the hospital, growing and waiting to meet us for seventeen days before we received the agency’s call on that glorious Monday morning.
Carter James and Jefferson Thomas were sealed to us in the temple after a six-month waiting period required by state law. The joy they have brought into our home is beyond my ability to describe. Both James and I feel so intensely that these handsome little straight-haired blonds were intended for us.
Often I look longingly, lovingly, at them and realize that had we not listened to the counsel of our Heavenly Father, they wouldn’t be in our home, and we might have forfeited one of the greatest blessings we have ever received.

Some years ago I became acquainted with the story of a young family whose little son was tragically ill with cancer. Every night the father sat with his boy, holding him in his arms. The pain seemed less when daddy held him close. The father slept on a mattress on the floor beside his son so that he could reach him whenever the boy cried out. The parents bore their sorrow with courage. They prayed, they loved, they served. Faith gave them strength to meet the test.

During our mission, I once accompanied my husband when he went to interview a man for baptism. While my husband conducted the interview, I waited outside with the sister missionaries who had taught this man. When the interview was finished, my husband informed the missionaries that the man would be able to be baptized. This dear man wept and wept as he explained that he had been certain that the serious sins he had committed in his life would prevent him from being able to be baptized. I have seldom witnessed the joy and happiness of someone coming out of the darkness and into the light equal to what I witnessed that day.

Another false philosophy that appeals to the Mr. Hyde side of our natures is that peeking into pornography is harmless. This is a terrible deception. Pornography is as addictive as cocaine or any illegal drug. I recently received a heartbreaking letter from an excommunicated man whose soul is filled with sorrow and regret. With his permission, I quote the following from his letter: “I hope that this letter will confirm to any who have doubt that the path of destruction only reaps sorrow and grief and no sin is worth this price.”

He goes on to state: “I have brought grief and sorrow upon myself. Only now do I fully realize the great destruction that I have brought upon myself. No selfish or lustful desire is worth losing your Church membership for. I have brought terrible grief to my wife and two wonderful children. I am grateful for my wife’s great efforts to help me overcome my sins. My wife has been a victim of my sins and had to endure great sorrow and suffering. I long for the day that I can again be a member of the Lord’s Church and for our family to be an eternal family.”

The letter goes on to admit: “My sins are a direct result of my early childhood addiction to pornography. Without a doubt, pornography is addictive and is poison. Had I learned early in my life to apply the power of self-mastery, I would be a member of the Church today.”

Twelve-year-old William Moroni Palmer leaned against his mother’s arm. “Read the story about David and Goliath,” he said.
“I read that one to you yesterday.”
“Then how about Daniel and the lions?”
“You already know that by heart.”
“I know. But David and Daniel were so brave. I wish I was as brave as they were.”
“They were more than brave,” his mother said. “They also had great faith in the Lord. They knew He would help them.” She put her arm around her son. “Besides, you are as brave as they were. Every day you face a world of darkness, and every day you face it with a smile.”
William reached for the Bible his mother held, and she put it into his hand. He gently caressed the cover. “Oh, I wish I could read it!”
His mother tousled his hair. “You can read it in your mind,” she said, her voice growing firm. “Daniel 6:23.” [Dan. 6:23]
William sat up tall. “‘Then was the king exceeding glad for him, and commanded that they should take Daniel up out of the den. So Daniel was taken up out of the den, and no manner of hurt was found upon him, because he believed in his God.’”
“Very good,” his mother said. “Because you have memorized it, you can read it any time you’d like.”
Just then his father stepped into the room. “It’s official,” he reported. “Elder Heber C. Kimball is coming to the conference your mother and I will be attending in Ogden.”
“He’s in the First Presidency now!” His mother jumped to her feet and ran to the front door. “Hyrum,” she called to William’s brother, “come here, please. I have something wonderful to tell you!”
For the next several hours, William’s parents, his married brother and sister, and even nine-year-old Hyrum excitedly talked about the upcoming conference.
William only listened. Ever since he had learned that President Kimball was coming, a great shivery feeling had filled his heart. Did he truly have enough courage—and enough faith—to ask what he so desperately wanted to ask?
After a while, his mother returned to his side. “What is it, Son?” she asked. “Aren’t you excited too?”
William nodded. “Yes, but …” He swallowed hard. “Mother, would you ask President Kimball to come to our place after the conference and bless me so that I can see?”
His mother pulled him into her arms. “Dear William, do you believe that you can be healed?” she asked.
William thought of Daniel climbing out of the lions’ den. He pictured David swinging his slingshot above his head. “I know I can, Mama, if he will come and if the Lord wills it.”
“Then I will bring him. He gave me a blessing to heal me when I was dying in Nauvoo, and he promised that he’d shake hands with me in the west, so I’m sure that he will come.”
When conference day arrived that day in 1858, William’s father gathered his family for prayer. He prayed that he and his wife would have a safe journey, that all would be well at home, and that William would receive his sight, if it was God’s will. Then the boys’ parents left for the conference.
While they were gone, William spent most of his time in his parents’ room, praying. “Please, Heavenly Father,” he pleaded, “let President Kimball come.”
Finally, just as the warm afternoon air was beginning to cool, William heard the clickety-jingle of the family surrey. He ran to the front door and listened harder. The Apostle’s voice!
“Is this the boy you told me of?” President Kimball asked as he stepped through the door.
“It is,” his mother said. “But would you like to eat with us first?”
“This must come first. He has waited long enough.”
William’s father placed a chair in the middle of the room for William to sit on. Then he and President Kimball gave William a blessing.
“Open your eyes, Brother William,” President Kimball said, “and you shall see.”
William’s eyes flew open. He sat stunned for a moment, then jumped from his chair and ran out the door. “Oh! I can see! I can see! Oh, Mama, I can see!” Then he fell to the ground and hugged it.
How grateful he was that God had not only restored his sight but had also taught him that if he had faith in Him, all things were possible.

Katie rummaged through the storage box, carefully looking through the crumpled packing paper. She still couldn’t find what she was looking for.
She put everything back in the box and went to find Mom.
Katie had looked behind the piano, under the couch, even in Thomas’s crib. It was lost. She had to tell Mom.
“Mommy, the baby Jesus is lost!”
Katie led Mom to the nativity set in the living room. Joseph and Mary and the shepherds were there. The Wise Men—even a camel and a donkey—were there. All of the figures were gathered around the empty manger.
“It looks that way, doesn’t it?” Mom said.
“I can’t find Him anywhere! I looked and looked.” The nativity would be ruined without the baby Jesus.
Mom went to the bookshelf. “He isn’t lost,” she said as she reached up and took something from the top shelf.
Katie sighed in relief. “There He is!” she said. “I’ll go put Him in the manger.”
She reached for the figurine, but Mom put it back on the shelf. “This year we’re going to put the baby Jesus in the manger on Christmas morning,” Mom said. “It’s a tradition Dad learned in France.”
“But everyone looks so sad,” Katie said.
“I don’t think they’re sad,” Mom said. “To me, it looks more like they’re waiting.”
Katie looked at the figures. She could see the place in the manger where baby Jesus belonged. Some of the figurines were reaching out to the empty spot.
“I guess so,” Katie said.
“Remember before Thomas was born how excited you were for him to come?” Mom asked.
Katie smiled at her baby brother, who was playing on a blanket. “It felt like forever!” she said.
“Did you know that prophets waited for thousands of years for Jesus to come to help us return to live with Heavenly Father?” Mom asked.
Katie remembered seeing a picture in Primary of a prophet writing about the Savior’s birth. “I think so,” she said.
“Prophets like Isaiah thought about and wrote about what the Savior would do when He came,” Mom said. “They spent their whole lives waiting for Him to be born. That’s one of the reasons we set up the nativity like this, to remind us that many people waited a long time for the Savior to come.”
“I would get tired of waiting my whole life,” Katie said, looking at the shepherds who were waiting for Jesus.
“But there’s also another reason we do this,” Mom said.
“What?”
“Do you remember in family home evening when we talked about the Second Coming?”
Katie thought for a minute. “Isn’t that when Jesus comes again?
“That’s right,” Mom said.
“When will that happen?” Katie asked.
“Well, we don’t know. But we’re waiting for Jesus to come, just like the shepherds in the nativity and just like the ancient prophets. That’s the other reason we’re waiting until Christmas to put the baby Jesus in the nativity—to remind us that we’re waiting for Jesus too.”
“Will He come to a manger again?” Katie asked.
“No, He won’t be a baby again. The next time Jesus comes, He’ll be resurrected. But the empty manger in the nativity reminds us that just like you’re waiting for Christmas morning, and just like people waited for Jesus to come to earth, now we’re waiting for Him to come back. We didn’t lose the baby Jesus. This is part of the way our family plans to remember Him.”
“We just need to wait,” Katie said with a smile.
“That’s right,” Mom said.
“OK,” Katie said. “But while we’re waiting, can we make some sugar cookies?”

In the spring of 2020 when missionaries around the world were returning to their home countries due to the COVID-19 pandemic, three sister missionaries from the island nation of Kiribati were serving in the Barbados Bridgetown Mission. Sister Manoua Bokai left her home to travel to the missionary training center on Dec. 31, 2018, so she only had a few months left to serve. Sister Tekimatang Auria had been serving for about six months as she started serving on Sep. 10, 2019. Sister Kiakia Barekiau, who had begun her MTC training on Jan. 14, 2020, had just arrived in Barbados on March 16.
Barbados closed due to the pandemic just a day or two after Sister Barekiau arrived. She was supposed to go to the island country of Saint Lucia, but because of the closure she stayed in Barbados. As a brand-new missionary, she and her companion taught people over the phone, by Facebook messenger, by Zoom, and through WhatsApp.
Sister Auria and Sister Bokai were in Saint Lucia when the countries closed, and people were required to stay at home. “We only had a small phone, not a smart phone for a long time,” Sister Auria said. “It was hard to teach people because we could not have a Zoom meeting or any other video chat. We could not see them; we could only talk on the phone.”
In August of 2020, President Alan L. Fisher and Sister Elizabeth H. Fisher, the mission president and his companion, gathered all the missionaries in the Barbados Bridgetown Mission together in Barbados. President and Sister Fisher recalled, “We loved working with these sisters and having the opportunity of becoming very close to them during the pandemic. We believe the Lord wanted them to have this experience, learn these lessons, and have an opportunity to develop relationships with each other and their mission leaders in a way that wouldn’t have happened otherwise. One of the tender mercies we experienced was sharing in the ordinance of the sacrament with them in their apartment. We prayed, sang, and shared scriptures from the Book of Mormon. This repeated connection together brought a bond of love and strength between us and between these sweet missionaries and the Lord. He lifted them and was a constant sustaining influence.”
One of the things Sister Bokai loved best about serving in the Barbados Bridgetown Mission was teaching about the Restoration of the gospel, especially sharing the First Vision. “I know that the Spirit touches the hearts of the people. You can feel when they are receptive and listening carefully. Every time we started to teach about the First Vision, distracting things would happen—phone calls, family needing them, etc.—but Heavenly Father blessed us, and we would get through it. There is power in teaching about the First Vision because, even though I was not there, I know it really happened, I know that God the Father and Jesus Christ truly appeared to Joseph Smith.”
President and Sister Fisher commented, “One of the blessings that evolved for sisters and for us was the power of singing together to bring the Spirit into teaching sessions and into their lives. The sisters sang through Zoom to the volcano-evacuated saints in St. Vincent. They brought them such peace and hope. As we taught with them, and especially each time they recited the account of the First Vision, the Spirit was poured out upon the people they taught, as well as on us and them!”

My husband and I recently completed a project which to us serves as a kind of analogy for celestial family building—we built a house.
From the time when both of us were young and we didn’t even know each other, we had dream houses in mind. Mine was full of loved ones, sunshine, warmth, creativity, smells of good things cooking, and was surrounded by trees and flowers. His was a peaceful haven from the world, warm and cozy—with a fire in the fireplace, a bookcase full of books, his favorite music playing, and the smell of good things cooking. When we met and married, the building of that house came high on our list of priorities. We felt that creating our physical environment here on earth would be a wise use of our stewardship. (It was also the only way we could afford a house like we wanted.) We believed in Winston Churchill’s statement: “First we shape our buildings; thereafter they shape us.” We spent years studying homes by the master designers and architects and looking at homes. Finally we found the ideal location for the house—and then our planning began in earnest. As we paid for the property, we drew house plans and collected ideas from books, magazines, and other homes. We kept our ideas in a folder, then a box, then several boxes.
We tried to draw our own house plans, but our drawings never quite matched the ideal in our minds, so we searched for a designer to help us. We found one who shared our ideas of what a home should be and was willing to help us plan the kind of home we wanted. In fact, because of his own special abilities, he added dimensions we could not have conceived of. Throughout the planning and building, we prayed for help and guidance, and our prayers were answered often in surprising ways.
Some builders told us we could not build the home we had in mind for the money we could afford to spend. Some told us to throw away our dreams. “A standard plan is easier and cheaper to build,” they said. But we were not interested in the easiest thing to do; we had a dream. So we decided to build it ourselves.
The time of building was exciting—and discouraging. It seemed to take forever, but finally there was a footing, a foundation, a wall. One small step at a time, the house took shape. Sometimes we made mistakes and had to do things over. Other times we had to compromise and settle for less than the ideal. Often we went back to the designer and the blueprints for clarification and help. We worked very hard day after day—sometimes doing big, impressive things like putting up a wall or nailing down a floor, but more often doing chores that didn’t show but were still important. We did much of the work ourselves, but occasionally it was necessary to hire experts who possessed skills or tools we did not have.
At last the big day arrived. We packed up our belongings and moved into our dream home. It is not quite perfect, but it is warm, full of people we love, sunshine, creativity, books, music, and the smell of good things cooking. And sometimes it is even peaceful and quiet—after midnight and before 6:00 A.M.

The Primary children in the Willow Creek First Ward, Sandy Utah Willow Creek Stake, learned about the pioneers when they performed in a play for their ward. They acted out scenes from the building of the Kirtland, Nauvoo, and Salt Lake Temples, and some things that happened in between. It took them all summer to plan and to learn their parts, but on the night of the big pageant, they were ready.
Before the curtain opened, two children dressed as Joseph Smith and Brigham Young stood onstage and talked about building the Kirtland Temple. “The Lord has made it perfectly clear,” Joseph said to the audience. “He has commanded us to build a temple here in Kirtland.”
These early Church members donated their time, talents, and money to follow the Lord’s commandments. “I think they had to sacrifice a lot to build the temple,” says Kyle Esplin, 9, one of the narrators. “I’m paying my tithing now to help build up the Church.” When Kyle pays his tithing, he tries to remember the sacrifices the pioneers made.
The Latter-day Saints lived in Kirtland, Ohio, for eight years before they were forced to leave. They moved soon after they completed and dedicated the Kirtland Temple. When they arrived in Nauvoo, Illinois, they started to build another house of the Lord. Nauvoo became a large, prosperous city, and the people were happy there for some time. But soon they began to be persecuted, so the Nauvoo leaders formed a band of young men called the “whistling and whittling brigade.” The young men in the brigade looked for any suspicious-looking strangers and followed them, whittling sticks and whistling.
Jesse Fackrell, 10, one of the narrators, enjoyed watching the brigade on stage. “I thought it was neat that the boys went around and watched for troublemakers and protected the people,” he says.
Another sacrifice the early Church members in Nauvoo made was donating pennies to the temple fund. “I think they really felt good about giving something up for something else really important. It might have only been a little, but they felt thankful to be able to give their money,” says Mary Garbett, 10. One of Mary’s parts was being a harvester in the fields. In her role, she sold the vegetables she gathered so she could have money to donate to the temple.
Mary and other children in the ward also went to their stake center for the dedication of the new Nauvoo Temple in June 2002. Seeing the dedication helped the children better understand the sacrifices made by the pioneers for the original Nauvoo Temple.
After working hard to build the Nauvoo Temple, the people had to leave it behind after the Prophet Joseph was killed. Mobs forced many of them out of Nauvoo in the dead of winter. Brigham Young led them to a new home in the West.
Though life was very hard for the pioneers, and they really did walk and walk, they also managed to dance and sing during their trek west. The children in the play performed a quilt dance and had a hoedown with real fiddlers to show the audience that the journey was joyful at times. Many of the pioneer children had great adventures on their way to the Salt Lake Valley. They saw buffalo and mountains, and they preferred to walk a lot of the time because riding in the wagon was so bumpy.
Jeffrey Yee, 11, and his younger brother Ryan, 6, performed the parts of James and Joseph Kirkwood. James was one of the young heroes of the pioneer trek. He, his mother, and his three brothers had come from Scotland, and they set out together to cross the plains with their handcart. James took care of his four-year-old brother, Joseph. When Joseph was too tired to walk any farther on Rocky Ridge, James carried him. When they finally got to the camp, James set his little brother down safely by the campfire. James died beside the fire from the cold and exhaustion.
“I think that he was very responsible and brave. His little brother must have been grateful for a brother to look up to,” Jeff says about his character. “Because he was kind to his little brother, he helps me know it’s not nice to make fun of my little brother. He usually needs help because he is so young, so I try to help him.”
Though getting there was difficult, the Saints finally made it to the Salt Lake Valley, where Brigham Young dug his cane into the soil and said, “Here we will build the temple of our God.”
Davis Esplin, 11, learned a lot from performing the part of Brother Brigham. “I have a new respect for Brigham Young because I didn’t know how hard it was to build the temple.”
After dedicating the cornerstone, it took 40 years to complete the Salt Lake Temple. By that time, Wilford Woodruff had become President of the Church. He dedicated the temple on 6 April 1893. There was even a special dedication session for children under eight so that more Primary children could attend.
The Saints spent years building each of the three temples, suffering setbacks along the way. But they never gave up. Why did they do it? Zach Fackrell, 12, says it was because “they had faith and they knew it was important to get it done so they could do what the Lord wanted them to do.” Zach’s brother Jed, 10, says the temple is really important to him because “that’s where you can do baptisms for the dead, and that’s where you can get married so you can live with Heavenly Father again.”
Some children long ago had the right idea. After the Salt Lake Temple was completed, two boys brought their younger brothers to the temple so they could touch the walls. “We want them to know how great the temple is,” one of the older brothers says in the play.
“Yes,” the other boy says, “so they’ll want to go inside when they get big!”
Those children knew the importance of building temples, even though it required so much. They knew that just as they could touch the temple, the Spirit inside the temple could touch them, too. That was why they walked, and walked, and walked. …

John Lloyd Stephens, a New York lawyer, and Joseph Smith never met, nor is there any evidence that Stephens ever read the Book of Mormon. Yet Stephens’ most important achievement in life would later stand as a physical testimony to that spiritual book translated by his fellow New Yorker, Joseph Smith.
That achievement began in the Honduran jungle on a hot, steamy November day in 1839 when John Stephens and his two native helpers dug up a statue from the forest floor. “Francisco found the feet and legs, and Bruno a part of the body,” wrote Stephens, “and the effect was electric.” Victor W. Von Hagen wrote that on that date, “a new world, a new science—American archaeology—came into existence.” John Lloyd Stephens was its founder.
No stranger to travel or fame, Stephens had already rambled through and written about Europe, the Near East, Egypt, Arabia, and the Holy Land. But he still had itchy feet and visions of the past and had not yet discovered his real destiny.
On a visit to London, Stephens first stumbled over his future in the form of Descriptions of an Ancient City, by a Capitán Del Rio, who had visited a strange, ruined city in Mexico called Palenque. He later learned of a second lost Mexican city, Uxmal. In 1835, he eagerly pounced upon a professional journal describing a ruined Honduran city, Copan.
Palenque, Copan, Uxmal. His mind now stirred with visions of nebulous civilization that had existed in Central America. Amazingly enough, he seemed the only one interested. “Instead of electrifying the public,” he wrote, “little notice was taken [of the Copan article].” Nonetheless, he announced his intention to search for those lost cities.
“Nonsense!” roared scientists and public alike. Indians had never progressed beyond savagery. Americans of that age could believe in almost anything other than an “Indian” civilization, in spite of evidence from the conquest. Such proofs were either ignored or downgraded as Spanish public-relations puffery. Scholars and historians held fast to their antiquated beliefs and scorned Stephens’ efforts.
There was, in truth, little documentary evidence to counter what scholars supposed. Joseph Smith’s detractors would vilify him for plagiarism, for example, when there was nothing to plagiarize. Even in 1839, the very well-educated—and rich—Mr. Stephens had great difficulty scraping up any real evidence of an ancient American culture. His meager references were poor in detail. And in Joseph Smith’s time, records were even poorer—or nonexistent.
This dearth of information made even the irrepressible Stephens a bit skeptical, but he had high hopes. In company with a kindred spirit—and accomplished artist—Frederic Catherwood, he set sail for Central America.
Their first goal, Copan, was a sickly village of mud-walled huts. But discovery loomed near. A native guide led them through the jungle to a riverbank. Opposite reared a hundred-foot-high stone wall—the edge of ancient Copan and of a new era in history. Quickly crossing the river and scaling the wall, they found themselves amid the fallen relics of a forgotten civilization.
“Working our way through the thick woods,” Stephens wrote. “we came upon a square stone column, about fourteen feet high … sculptured on all four … sides … in very bold relief … they were works of art … some equal to the finest monuments of the Egyptians.
“America [said historians of the 1830’s] was peopled by savages; but savages never built these structures, savages never carved these stones. When we asked the Indians if they knew who made them, their dull answer was ‘Quién sabe? [Who knows?]’”
The scholars and historians of the Western world could not have answered any better. Copan—and the Mayas—surged to their lofty level of art and culture while Europe descended into the gloom of the dark ages. They conquered the jungles and strung their cities through Yucatan like sparkling gems on a jeweled collar. But for the Old World, their deeds and histories were as quiet as the silent jungle they lived in.
Sometime before A.D. 900, however, the Mayas abruptly and mysteriously stepped off the stage of history. For a thousand years, Copan lay buried by the thick, heavy Honduran jungle until disturbed in 1839 by Stephens and Catherwood.
The pair could not see it all—the jungle was too thick. They concentrated on the unburied “idols,” or stelae. These were huge, thirty-ton monoliths carved with an incredible profusion of figures, flowers, and animals. Erected on set dates to commemorate events unknown to us, they climaxed the Mayan genius.
In a two-year journey, Stephens and Catherwood discovered and rediscovered Copan, Palenque, Uxmal, Chichén Itzá, and forty other ruined Mayan sites. The mystery deepened, and Stephens’ reactions were rhapsodic. At Palenque, he said:
“Here were the remains of a cultivated, polished, and peculiar people, who had passed through all the stages of the rise and fall of nations; reached their golden age, and perished entirely unknown. The links which connected them with the human family were severed and lost, and these were the only memorials of their footsteps upon earth … In the romance of the world’s history, nothing ever impressed me more forcibly than the spectacle of this once great and lovely city, overturned, desolate, and lost; discovered by accident, overgrown with trees for miles around, and without even a name to distinguish it.”
The dedication of the two explorers in uncovering these mysteries baffles the modern mind. In an age when gentlemen stayed at home, these two suffered hunger, malaria, myriads of insect attacks, extreme physical discomfort, and near brushes with death. To accomplish what?
History judges Stephens among the great. His contribution is rated equal to Jean Francois Champollion (1790–1832), French Egyptologist who discovered a stone that had writing in three languages. From the stone, he was able to decipher ancient Egyptian writing; or to Heinrich Schliemann (1822–1890), German archeologist, who excavated the city of Troy in Anatolia, proving this legendary Greek city actually existed.
From our point of view. Stephens’ importance is momentous: John Lloyd Stephens and Joseph Smith never met, but the Book of Mormon’s cry in the wilderness was now reinforced as Stephens’ physical testimony of Lehi’s people swept over the world.

I have in mind a special moment in Church history which has a great bearing on our testimonies and on the progress of the gospel. I hope that it has been duly recorded by those who keep the history. I refer to what happened on the 4th of April, 1974.
The story really begins on the 26th of December, 1973. President Harold B. Lee passed away suddenly on that day. His death was completely unexpected. It is necessary to remember that over a period of twenty-five years, members of the Church had awaited the time when Harold B. Lee would become the president. There had been every reason to think that this would eventually happen, due to his relative youthfulness and because he occupied a position in seniority following Joseph Fielding Smith and David O. McKay, both of whom were of advanced age. In addition, Harold B. Lee had gained more than average prominence. His leadership in the welfare and priesthood programs of the Church, his forceful nature, and his sound judgment had made him one of the apostles most listened to and one whose influence and advice were most respected. He had an evident spiritual stature which commended him to the members of the Church as one of the great men of our time. He possessed an unusual ability to relate as a personal friend to countless people. It was expected that when he became president he would preside for twenty years or more.
Suddenly he was gone!—called elsewhere after only one and one-half years. It was the first time since the death of the Prophet Joseph Smith when the president had died before it was time for him to die. In deep sorrow and concern the surging questions arose in the minds of the people, much as they did at the time when Joseph Smith was killed in Carthage, Illinois. “What will we do now? How can we carry on without the prophet? Our great leader has gone. Can the Church survive this emergency?”
Of course we knew that the Church would survive, but it could not possibly be the same. We had never expected Spencer W. Kimball to become the president, and we had not looked to him for the same leadership evident in the life of Harold B. Lee. We knew, of course, that he would manage somehow, until the next great leader arose, but it would not be easy for him, and things would not be the same. “O Lord,” we prayed, “please bless President Kimball. He needs all the help you can give him.” Such seemed to be the attitude in the hearts of the Latter-day Saints during those days of mourning.
We return to the 4th of April, 1974. There were gathered that morning in the Church Office Building, all of the General Authorities as well as the Regional Representatives and other leaders from around the world. We were to be instructed once again, as we had been periodically during the past seven years. On each preceding occasion Harold B. Lee had given us our direction and sounded the trump of leadership. Now he was no longer there, and we all felt his absence deeply. Again came the questions: “How can we proceed without our great leader?” “How can President Kimball fill the empty space?” And again the prayers went forth: “Please bless President Kimball.”
The moment came when President Kimball arose to address the assembled leadership. He noted that he also had never expected to occupy this position and that he missed President Lee equally with the rest of us. Then he reviewed much of the instruction which President Lee had given over the past years, and our prayers in behalf of President Kimball continued.
As he proceeded with his address, however, he had not spoken very long when a new awareness seemed suddenly to fall on the congregation. We became alert to an astonishing spiritual presence, and we realized that we were listening to something unusual, powerful, different from any of our previous meetings. It was as if, spiritually speaking, our hair began to stand on end. Our minds were suddenly vibrant and marveling at the transcendent message that was coming to our ears. With a new perceptiveness we realized that President Kimball was opening spiritual windows and beckoning to us to come and gaze with him on the plans of eternity. It was as if he were drawing back the curtains which covered the purpose of the Almighty and inviting us to view with him the destiny of the gospel and the vision of its ministry.
I doubt that any person present that day will ever forget the occasion. I, myself, have scarcely reread President Kimball’s address since, but the substance of what he said was so vividly impressed upon my mind that I could repeat most of it at this moment from memory.
The Spirit of the Lord was upon President Kimball and it proceeded from him to us as a tangible presence, which was at once both moving and shocking. He unrolled to our view a glorious vision. He told us of the ministry performed by the apostles in the day of the Savior, and how the same mission was conferred on the apostles under Joseph Smith. He demonstrated how these men had gone forth in faith and devotion and were clothed with great power, by which they had carried the gospel to the ends of the earth, reaching further, in some ways, than we with the strength of this modern church are doing at the present time. He showed us how the Church was not fully living in the faithfulness that the Lord expects of His people, and that, to a certain degree, we had settled into a spirit of complacency and satisfaction with things as they were. It was at that moment that he sounded the now famous slogan, “We must lengthen our stride.” (See Ensign, Oct. 1974, p. 5.) I doubt that everyone fully understands that directive even now. If it were put into the vernacular it would sound much more like: “Let’s get off our dime!” “Get going!” “Move!”
President Kimball bespoke other messages: “We must go to all the world.” “Every boy should go on a mission.” “Open the door to new nations.” “Send missionaries from Mexico, South America, Japan, Great Britain, and Europe.” (See “When the World Will Be Converted,” Ensign, Oct. 1974, pp. 2–14.) This was a new vision, disturbing and exciting, added to the old.
The thought came to me: “Imagine! At any moment the president might call any or all of us to go to distant lands or otherwise extend the preaching of the gospel.” I little realized that within six months I would be en route to Portugal for that very purpose.
President Kimball spoke under this special influence for an hour and ten minutes. It was a message totally unlike any other in my experience. I realized that it was similar to the occasion on the 8th of August, 1844, when Brigham Young spoke to the Saints in Nauvoo following the death of the Prophet Joseph. Sidney Rigdon had returned from Pittsburgh, where he had apostatized, to try to capture the Church. Many people testified, however, that as Brigham Young arose, the power of the Lord rested upon him to the extent that he was transfigured before them, with the appearance and the voice of Joseph Smith. That moment was decisive in the history of the Church, and the occasion of April 4, 1974, is parallel.
When President Kimball concluded, President Ezra Taft Benson arose and with a voice filled with emotion, echoing the feeling of all present, said, in substance: “President Kimball, through all the years that these meetings have been held, we have never heard such an address as you have just given. Truly, there is a prophet in Israel.”
Now I affirm that since April 1974 things have indeed not been the same. This is no attempt to eulogize President Kimball into a figure greater than other presidents of the Church, but to point out the continuing spiritual power which attends the prophet of the Lord, whoever he may be. But President Kimball has nevertheless launched us into a new perspective and is causing us to take giant strides. Since that day no one has worried the least little bit about who is the Lord’s prophet.