Chapter 2
Lead Me, Guide Me
As their boat approached Niue, Mosese and Salavia Muti saw a rugged coastline dotted here and there with secluded caves and coves. True to Mosese’s dream, the island’s thirteen villages were situated along the water’s edge. Alofi, Niue’s largest village, lay on the western coast and served as a hub for the handful of roads that cut through the tropical forests and coral outcrops that covered the interior of the island. It was an isolated place, home to fewer than five thousand people.
Missionaries had first come to Niue in 1952. Now, four years later, there were around three hundred Saints on the island. The district president was a twenty-three-year-old American missionary named Chuck Woodworth. When he and the other missionaries were not sharing the gospel or tending to the island’s six branches, they were working on a new chapel and mission office in Alofi. There was no building supervisor on Niue, so the elders had not yet started digging foundations or putting up walls. Instead, they spent hours crushing the island’s hard coral rock into gravel to make concrete for the project.
Chuck was at his wit’s end when the Mutis arrived. He was a sincere, hard-working missionary, but he often grew discouraged when the Niuean Saints didn’t help the missionaries or live their religion as he thought they should. Salavia and Mosese were more patient and empathetic. The couple understood that every member on the island was new to the faith, still learning and growing.
Don’t worry, Mosese would tell Chuck. Everything is going to be fine in the end.
Mosese quickly won the Niuean Saints’ friendship and trust with his love of the gospel and knowledge of local culture. He took charge of the Church’s Boy Scouts program, taught gospel lessons, and crushed coral alongside the other missionaries. Salavia, meanwhile, looked after the well-being of the missionaries and Church members. She cooked meals, washed and mended clothes, and listened and offered advice when someone needed to talk. She also taught Primary and Sunday School lessons and gave sermons.
In September 1956, Chuck organized the first Relief Society on Niue and called Salavia to be their teacher. At first, some women in the Relief Society did not seem to respect her or show much interest in attending meetings. Salavia’s experience working with women in the Church had taught her to be sensitive to their needs. Knowing many people on Niue did not have modern kitchen appliances, she asked Langi Fakahoa, the Relief Society president, if she could hold an activity to teach the women a simple way of cooking a Tongan pudding without a stove.
Before the meeting, Salavia asked the members of the Relief Society to bring ingredients so they could make a pudding of their own. Of the fifteen women who came, however, only three brought the ingredients. Others simply looked on skeptically.
Undeterred, Salavia demonstrated how to prepare the pudding and boil it in water over an open fire. The women who brought supplies followed her every instruction, step-by-step, until their puddings were cooking as well. Salavia then brought out a pudding she had made before the meeting and offered everyone a few slices.
As the women nibbled at the dessert, their eyes widened. “Wow,” they said. No one had ever tasted anything like it. After the meeting, the three women who came with ingredients shared their pudding with the others, who went home determined to come better prepared for the next Relief Society activity.
Word spread about the pudding, and respect for Salavia changed. Women who had shown no interest in Relief Society began attending meetings. Several members invited their friends and relatives to the next cooking activity, and Salavia began calling Relief Society nights Po Fiafia—the Night of Fun.
Salavia was finding that teaching cooking and other skills was an excellent missionary tool. When the women gathered as a group, they shared stories, told jokes, and sang songs. The meetings brought the women closer together, creating friendships and strengthening spirits. Church attendance improved, and families seemed happier and more united because of the skills the women were learning in Relief Society.
In late 1956, members of the Relief Society throughout the world were looking forward to the dedication of a new building for their organization in Salt Lake City. The Relief Society now had around 110,000 members, and general president Belle Spafford wanted them all, no matter where in the world they lived, to feel part of a united sisterhood.
She herself had not always been an enthusiastic Relief Society member. At the time, women in the Church were not automatically enrolled in Relief Society once they reached adulthood, so she had been thirty years old before she attended any Relief Society meetings regularly. When her bishop called her to serve as a counselor in her ward Relief Society presidency, she balked. “That organization is for my mother,” Belle told him, “not for me.”
Thirty years later, she was in the eleventh year of her presidency, and establishing a permanent headquarters for the Relief Society was one of her main goals. She wanted the new headquarters to be a beautiful building where the women of the Church could enter and feel at home.
When the Relief Society was first organized in 1842, its members met on the upper floor of Joseph Smith’s Nauvoo store. Later, ward Relief Societies in the western United States built Relief Society halls where they could meet, conduct business, minister to those in need, and share their ideas, experiences, and testimonies. Around the turn of the century, the general presidencies of the Relief Society, Young Ladies’ Mutual Improvement Association, and Primary raised a sizable amount of money to build a headquarters for their organizations. To their disappointment, however, the plan did not materialize. The First Presidency called for the construction of an office building shared by the three organizations and several others, including the Presiding Bishopric.
The Relief Society had operated out of the second floor of this building ever since. It was a cramped, noisy space with offices, a boardroom, and an area for sewing temple clothes. Soon after receiving her calling in 1945, President Spafford proposed building a new home for the organization. The First Presidency agreed to the plan and asked the Relief Society to raise $500,000, half the cost of the building.
President Spafford and her counselors, Marianne Sharp and Velma Simonsen, then devised a fundraiser, inviting every member of the Relief Society to contribute as much as five dollars toward the building’s construction—a considerable amount when a loaf of bread cost twelve cents in the United States. After a few months of fundraising, President Spafford was elated to learn the women of the Church had already donated $20,000. She immediately picked up the telephone and called J. Reuben Clark, the second counselor in the First Presidency, to tell him the good news.
“Don’t be discouraged,” he said, evidently missing her excitement. “I know $20,000 isn’t very much when you have to raise half a million.”
President Spafford was not discouraged, and the sisters did not let her down. For decades, the Relief Society had been funding its local organizations by collecting yearly dues and holding regular fundraisers. To make their contributions, the sisters held potluck dinners, sewed and sold quilts, and held dances. Within a year, the building was fully funded.
The Relief Society acquired land across the street from the Salt Lake Temple, and President Spafford and her counselors worked closely with the architect to design the building. It had office space for the Relief Society general presidency, the general board, and staff supporting the organization’s many projects, including the Relief Society Magazine, welfare and social services, and the manufacture and sale of temple clothing.
Since President Spafford wanted the building to feel like a home rather than an office space, it had a comfortable lounge where women could meet friends, write a letter, or enjoy the wholesome spirit of the place. On the third floor, it had a large social room with a stage and kitchen, which stake Relief Societies could reserve for special events.
Gifts from Relief Society members around the world, such as a decorative lamp from Australia and an engraved table from Samoa, adorned the building’s rooms and halls. In Vienna, Austria, Relief Society president Hermine Cziep and other Saints had pooled their money to purchase a colorful porcelain vase and ship it to Salt Lake City. When they learned the vase had been made in 1830, the year the Church was organized, they felt they had been guided to it by the Lord.
“Just to think,” a woman in the Swiss-Austrian Mission said, “we are a part of such a wonderful building, and although we may never see it, we know it will help to make many women happy.”
The Relief Society Building, as the new headquarters was called, was ready for dedication in October 1956. Its design was a modern echo of classical architecture, complementing the style of the nearby Church Administration Building, which was completed in 1917 to house the offices of the First Presidency and other general authorities. To honor the Relief Society’s long history of storing grain, ornamental stalks of golden wheat adorned the exterior of the new building.
On October 3, President Spafford stood at the pulpit of the Salt Lake Tabernacle, looking out at an audience that represented a fraction of the many women who had sacrificed to bring about the Relief Society Building’s completion. She believed the funding and construction efforts had served as a unifying force within the organization.
“It has sealed together as one the sisterhood of Relief Society,” she said. “We pray that all that shall go forth from our Relief Society home shall enrich the lives and lead toward the eternal well-being of the daughters of our Heavenly Father.”
After beginning his study of A Marvelous Work and a Wonder, Hélio da Rocha Camargo started attending a nearby branch of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Soon his wife, Nair, showed interest in the restored gospel as well. “I no longer want to attend the Methodist church,” she said one Sunday. She wanted to go to church with him instead.
Hélio went on to study the Book of Mormon, reading it cover to cover in three days. Then he read the Doctrine and Covenants, the Pearl of Great Price, and every other piece of literature he could find about the Saints. He met often with the missionaries, paid tithing in his local branch, and continued to find answers to his questions about God and His plan.
He also attended enough Church meetings to know the Saints could use his help. Asael Sorensen, the mission president, was eager for the Church to expand in Brazil, and he believed that strong priesthood leaders would become a key part of that growth. Brazil now had roughly two thousand members, but fewer than seventy of them held the Melchizedek Priesthood.
Hélio was not going to join the Church, let alone take on priesthood responsibilities, until he knew God’s will for him. President Sorensen had developed a series of seven missionary lessons on such topics as “The Need for a Living Prophet,” “The Word of Wisdom,” and “The Purpose of Mortality.” Hélio practically devoured each of these lessons, but he still had more questions for the missionaries.
He and Nair were particularly shocked to learn about the Saints’ former practice of plural marriage. Hélio also questioned why the Church restricted men of Black African descent from holding the priesthood. Like the United States, Brazil had long ago outlawed the practice of enslaving Africans and their descendants. Unlike the United States, however, Brazil had not gone on to sanction laws segregating Black and white people, so there were fewer racial divides among Brazilians.
Hélio, whose own ancestors were Europeans, had never encountered a race restriction in his former church, and the practice troubled him. But his questions were not what was keeping him from joining the Church. As he studied with the missionaries, he longed to have an experience like Paul’s in the New Testament—a miraculous conversion, as powerful and sudden as a streak of lightning.
He decided to pray more and reread the Book of Mormon, hoping all the while to receive the confirmation he sought. Nothing extraordinary happened, and the missionaries seemed to be growing impatient with him. “You know the Church is true,” one of them told Hélio, “and it’s time for you now to make a decision.”
The missionary was right, Hélio knew. The restored gospel made perfect sense. But knowing that was not yet enough for him.
Early in 1957, in Salt Lake City, forty-eight-year-old Naomi Randall and members of the Primary general board were working hard on a program for Primary leaders worldwide. The committee had chosen “A Child’s Plea” as the theme for the program. They believed that many parents and Primary workers did not grasp how vital their role was in teaching the children of the Church. The theme was to serve as a reminder of their sacred call.
Primary general president LaVern W. Parmley wanted to introduce the program at the organization’s annual conference in April, so Naomi and her committee had only a few months to finish it. They had fasted and prayed about the program and believed they would have it ready on time. Then President Parmley called Naomi into her office.
“We need a new song to go with the program,” she said.
“Where do we get it?” Naomi asked.
“You can do it,” the president replied, noting that Naomi was already a well-known poet in the Church. She gave her the telephone number of Mildred Pettit, a talented musician and composer who had served on the Primary general board. “Get in touch with her,” President Parmley said. “The two of you can work out a new song.”
Naomi’s thoughts churned as she left the meeting. She wanted the adults at the program to remember the theme and recognize that little children needed their help to return to God’s presence. But how could she convey that message in a song?
After arriving at home, she spoke with Mildred on the telephone. “Write down any words, phrases, or message you have in mind,” Mildred advised her. “It is important to have the message before the music is written.”
That night, Naomi asked Heavenly Father to inspire her with the right words for the song. She then went to bed and slept peacefully for some time.
At two o’clock, she awoke. Her room was quiet. “I am a child of God,” she thought, “and He has sent me here.” The words were the opening lines of a song. She thought of more lines, and soon she had a first and second verse. “It’s not bad,” she thought. “I believe that’s all right.”
Before long, she had three verses and a chorus, each in the voice of a child pleading for spiritual guidance from a parent or teacher. Naomi got out of bed and wrote down the lyrics, surprised by how quickly they had come to her. She usually labored over every word she wrote. Dropping to her knees, she thanked her Heavenly Father.
In the morning, she called Arta Hale, a counselor in the Primary general presidency. “I have some words,” she said. “See if they have any worth.”
“My goodness, girl, they give me goose pimples,” Arta said after Naomi had read her the lyrics. “Send them off!”
In less than a week, Naomi received a letter from Mildred. Enclosed she found music for the song and some revisions to the chorus. Since sending the lyrics to Mildred, Naomi had tried to imagine what the song would sound like. When she finally heard the melody, she was thrilled. It was just right.
On April 4, 1957, soloists and a choir of Primary children sang “I Am a Child of God” at the annual Primary conference. Aside from Mildred’s help with the words of the chorus, the song was just as Naomi had written it in the middle of the night. The Primary leaders at the conference learned it so they, in turn, could teach it to the children in their own wards and branches.
Some time later, at the invitation of apostle Harold B. Lee, the Primary general board spoke at a dinner for general authorities at the Relief Society Building. Their presentation featured a choir of children from different nations and races dressed in traditional clothes—a reminder of the Church’s growing diversity. As the children sang the chorus of “I Am a Child of God,” its universal message touched the hearts of the audience:
Lead me, guide me, walk beside me,
Help me find the way.
Teach me all that I must know
To live with Him someday.
When the song ended, President David O. McKay approached the children. “We will listen to your plea,” he promised. “We will walk beside you.” He then turned to the general authorities and said, “We must accept the challenge to teach these children.”
Elder Lee was equally moved. “Naomi,” he said after the dinner, “this is one song that will last through eternity.”
By May 1957, Hélio da Rocha Camargo was tired of studying the teachings of the Church to no end or purpose. For all his learning, he lacked a divine witness of its truth. Without that witness, he was standing still.
Finally, he turned to President Asael Sorensen and his wife, Ida, for help. The couple had been an immense support to him and Nair after they left the Methodist church. Sister Sorensen had taken a particular interest in Nair, and she met often with her to make sure she was learning and understanding the gospel. She also perceived Hélio’s struggles and wanted to offer what counsel she could.
“Hélio,” she said one afternoon, “I think the reason you have not gained a testimony is because you are looking for contradictions in the doctrine.”
Sensing the truth of her words, Hélio decided to take an objective look at his religious beliefs. He carefully weighed everything he had learned about the restored gospel and found the doctrine to be both coherent and consistent with the Bible. He still had questions about plural marriage and the priesthood restriction, but now he was willing to accept the limits of his understanding. He had faith that God would lead the Church by revelation.
Hélio also realized that he did not need a flash of lightning to confirm the truth of what he had learned. A testimony had come to him gradually over the last few months—so softly and naturally that he did not even realize that the light of eternal truth already surrounded him. Once he understood this, he fell to his knees and thanked God for revealing the truth to him.
Hélio asked the missionaries to come to his house on a Monday night a short time later. “What do I need to do now to be baptized?” he asked.
Elder Harold Hillam outlined the steps. “You will have to be interviewed and then have your baptism papers signed by the mission president,” he said. “We’ll have the baptism on Saturday.”
Elder Hillam interviewed him immediately and found—to no one’s surprise—that Hélio was keeping the commandments and had a solid understanding of the gospel.
On the day of the baptism, June 1, 1957, Hélio went to the mission home, the only place in São Paulo where the Saints had a baptismal font. He and Nair had spoken earlier about her own desire to be baptized, but she wanted to study a little more before she joined the Church. Hélio could understand that desire.
The baptismal font was in the backyard of the mission home. It was a chilly day, and when Hélio stepped into the font, the cold water startled him. But as he came out of the water, newly baptized, a comforting warmth enveloped him. Joy flooded his being, and it lingered with him for the rest of the day.