Gospel Story Finder

The Salas Family: Second-Generation Leaders. Alfredo Salas, president of the Buenos Aires West stake, is an example of what is happening today in Argentina as a result of parents who have sacrificed old ways to adopt the vision of their new faith. “My parents joined the Church when I was 11,” says President Salas. “I grew up attending a little branch in Bahía Blanca.” When the seminary program was introduced, he wanted to attend, but his parents, already sacrificing to send him to school, were concerned it would interfere with his studies. To alleviate their concerns, he and his brother studied extra hard. To go to seminary, they would get up at 5:00 A.M. and run several blocks to catch a bus. After the bus ride, they ran eight blocks to the chapel. Then, to arrive at school on time, they ran the eight blocks back to the bus, which carried them back to their neighborhood, and then ran all the way to school. “This sacrifice cemented my testimony,” he reflects.

With the backing of his parents, a mission followed, which greatly deepened his testimony. When he returned, he faced a new dilemma because of his limited finances: whether to finish his schooling or get married. The choice was not easy. Nevertheless, he chose to marry, and it took seven more years before he finally received his degree in computer science. At age 26 he was called as a bishop and served in that calling during the final two years of his schooling. He subsequently went on to earn a master’s degree in business administration. As a result of his parents’ emphasis on learning, today President Salas is doing well as country manager of a computer programming company, and he is able to devote time to Church service.

Realizing that adversity can include suffering, destitution, affliction, calamity, or disaster, how can we best use it as an opportunity for personal growth and development? For one answer, let me share with you an incident in the life of a special friend, which he tells in his own words at my request. I find his experience a powerful sermon.
“It was the third Saturday in January a few years ago. I was excited to attend a seminar that morning. It was an agricultural seminar at the Brigham Young University, where I had been attending school. I had been home from my Honolulu Hawaii Mission six months and was going through all the adjustments of a returned missionary. The challenge of family, girls, school, and the fact that there were twenty-five thousand other students who were bright and aggressive—some with plenty of money; others, like myself, who were pinching every nickel—didn’t make things easier.
“I landed a job running a hydraulic press earlier that week in a machine shop. We made seals for hydraulic equipment. Following the seminar that morning, I went to work. Kimball, my roommate and former missionary companion who had gone to work earlier that morning, instructed me in how to make a new seal. After approximately twenty minutes, one of the smallest seals stuck on the face of the plate. I struggled to get it off with my left hand. As I turned back to give it my full attention and use my right hand, the machine closed on my left hand, causing a horrible noise as it crushed my hand just below the wrist. After what seemed an eternity, the huge press finally opened. My first thought when looking at my hand was ‘What a mess!’ Then that inner voice which I had come to know, love, and appreciate, whispered, ‘Jerry, you won’t have your hand.’
“Four hours of surgery followed. The first thing I remember hearing was the surgeon’s voice in the recovery room.
“‘Jerry,’ he said, ‘Can you hear me?’
“‘Yes,’ I said.
“‘We had to take your hand off.’
“The following four days were filled with tears, aches, friends, cards, letters, and family. Concerned people made it so much easier for me, especially Kimball. He let my parents and others close to me know and helped in every way he could. Never did I have to ask for one thing. It was already done. By his example and support, he gave me courage to face this new challenge.
“The days in the hospital were filled with painful, sleepless hours and nights. Those nights gave me an opportunity to think about the Savior and Joseph Smith as I had never done before. I reviewed the Prophet Joseph’s life from everything I had learned. He faced physical, emotional, and spiritual trial upon trial. How I marveled at his well-won victories. At this difficult time I promised the Lord I would try to accept all of my challenges as the Prophet Joseph Smith had accepted his.
“Of course, during the first night there were thoughts of ‘Why me? Was it something in my past? What have I done to deserve this?’ Then I thought, ‘No more rodeo, football, or skiing,’ and I wondered what type of a woman would want a one-handed husband. I hadn’t developed a good self-image or a great deal of self-esteem, so these thoughts magnified my concerns.
“Mom came to school and drove me home for the weekend. One thing she said that made me again appreciate her greatness was, ‘Jerry, if I could only give you my left hand and make it work, I would.’
“Sunday was fast Sunday. As I stood favoring my bandaged, shortened arm, I thanked everyone for their thoughts, prayers, and cards. I realized as never before that good friends and faithful family members make challenges less difficult.
“After the testimony meeting, an admired friend gave me a special blessing. So many questions were answered during his blessing. He told me this accident was not punishment for anything I had done but, rather, an opportunity to help me become a better person and to amplify those particular traits which needed to be developed. He shared the thought that this challenge could make me more understanding of people, problems, and life. As I look back now, each point of his blessing and encouragement has helped in a very fulfilling way.
“One of my greatest fears was the constant thought of how people would accept me. Would they be afraid of me, question my ability, or write me off before I could prove myself? Would girls turn down dates because I was different? Would it make them feel uncomfortable to be seen with me?
“I had dated several girls since my mission but had only dated Julie a couple of times. When I awoke the day following the operation in the hospital, she was there with other friends. I asked everyone else to leave the room, and I then proceeded to give her what I thought was the perfect speech. I told her that they had to take my hand off. If she felt embarrassed or ashamed to be with me or be seen with me on future dates, she need not feel obligated to continue in any future courtship. At that moment I could see fire in her eyes. She let me know in no uncertain terms that she was not there out of pity or duty, but only because she cared for me. She indicated she would help me but never feel sorry for me. Six months later we were married in the Salt Lake Temple.
“There were many job interviews, prejudices, and rejections of employment; but with continued encouragement, the Lord blessed us in innumerable ways. When our first little girl, Bracken, arrived, it left us short of money to go to school. So after a major decision, we went into business, which proved to be another learning experience. After a couple of years—with many reverses—I was able to find a career in personnel management, which not only fulfilled my goals but also answered my prayers.
“Today as I look back, I see the challenge of adversity as something upon which to build. Of course, I cannot say the experience was pleasant; it was horrible. However, I hope I have used this adversity in a positive way. When I see others in trouble, in pain, when real adversity is knocking, I have an opportunity not only to feel something of what they feel but perhaps I can also help them because they can see that I have challenges of my own.”

My mum tells us that as she was growing up, she got used to the promptings and influence of the Holy Spirit in her life. Sometime in July 1983, she was sitting by the roadside in front of her friend’s house, while the friend was platting her hair. What makes that day so special is her attitude and how she started the day. She was fasting for the Lord’s guidance in her life. She was used to this principle and knew that if she wanted something special from her Father in Heaven she needed to fast and to pray.
As she sat with her friend on the side of the road, the familiar voice of the Holy Spirit came to her, saying, “Winnie, count the cars that pass by, the fifth one is a pink-colored car. Follow and talk to the person driving it and you will have your freedom forever”.
She was more concerned about what it meant by being free forever and did not do the first part of the instruction. The third prompting a few seconds later was stronger and made her more attentive to the instruction she had received. It only took a short while before the fifth car came by and, lo and behold, it was as the Spirit had said to her—a pink-colored car. Winnie was an athlete in high school and ran. She used her amazing speed to chase the car as it passed by. After a few seconds, the car slowed down and stopped by the side of the road and then he took off. Frustrated that the Holy Spirit would give her instructions and not make it easy for her to reach him, she stopped by the kiosk to talk to the other man, inquiring if he knew the driver of the car that just sped off. He gave her the man’s name and told her where he lived. The residence was very far from her neighborhood, but she decided to walk to his home that same day.
When she arrived, Winnie was told that he was not at home. She came each day for close to a month and was told the same thing.
One day as she was about to leave, the familiar voice of the Holy Spirit whispered to her, “Winnie, he is at home, wait for him”. She politely told his wife that she would wait outside for him. A few minutes later, the man opened his front door, looked straight at Winnie, and called her by her full name. He explained to her that he knew why she was looking for him and told her that the only way to continue their conversation was to come back with Atobora Peter Brown.
This man was Joseph William Billy Johnson. He stands as a great pioneer in Ghana, introducing the Church and teaching from the Book of Mormon and writing to the brethren in Salt Lake City, Utah, U.S.A, long before the Church was officially organized in Ghana.
A few days later, as Winnie and Atobora were going around looking for an apartment to rent because their scheduled marriage was nearing, they met a pastor of a church. While they talked about the rent, the pastor stopped mid-sentence, looked directly at Winnie, and in a state that was obvious to them that he was overcome by the Holy Spirit said something like “You were told to go see a certain man and when you saw him, he told you to bring this young man with you and he would have a conversation with both of you together. You have not done that yet. When you go to him, he will introduce you to a church and that church is the true church of God.”
Atobora then asked the pastor why he was not a member of that church knowing that it is the true Church of God. The pastor admitted that the true Church did not have a paid clergy and he needed the offerings from his congregation for his upkeep. As soon as they left that pastor, they went to Brother Johnson’s home. Over the course of three weeks, he taught them all six missionary discussions and they were ready for baptism.
In September of 1983, because of pressure from her family, Winnie cancelled her baptism date, but Atobora went ahead. The following Sunday, Atobora was ordained a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood and the week after that, he baptized Winnie.
It has been more than 40 years since Winnie heard the familiar voice of the Holy Spirit who urged her to look for Brother Johnson and thereafter experience joy and rejoicing. Winnie and Atobora were blessed with four sons, two daughters, and nine grandchildren. All four sons served full-time missions. All six children have received their endowment in the house of the Lord. The fruits of the seed that was planted on that blessed day in 1983 keeps growing and spreading.
This is a legacy of love. It is a legacy that has blessed many of their ancestors and will bless generations to come.

“Seemingly out of nowhere, this civilization sprang up sometime around 600 B.C.” Professor Terry’s words crackled like lightning on the girl sitting seven rows back in his History of the American Southwest class. She usually dozed during this period, but for the first time in her five weeks of junior college, Robin was totally awake. There! He was writing the date on the board—600 B.C. The figures looked like neon lights on a dark landscape. She looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. No, they all appeared completely nonchalant. I must be the only Mormon in the room, she thought. Her attention returned to Professor Terry who paced in front of his desk as he described various artifacts and their possible functions. “I wonder if he could be a member,” she thought, as the lecture drifted farther and farther from the subject of the appearance of the mysterious civilization. “Why wasn’t I paying more attention?” she continued, making a mental note to do better. When the bell announced the end of class, Robin gathered up her books and made her way to the front of the room where the instructor was marking some lecture notes.
“Professor Terry?”
He looked up, gave her a quick smile, and said, “Yes?”
“Is it just a coincidence that the date you’ve written there is the same one that figures so prominently in the Book of Mormon?” she began, gesturing toward the date still written on the board. “And the way that culture just sprang up out of nowhere. …”
The professor’s amicable expression dissolved instantly.
“Here we go again,” he said impatiently. “You Mormons try to explain all this in terms of another culture.”
“But sir, the date … I mean, it’s such a coincidence. …”
“I know, Nephites and Lamanites and all that. You people just refuse to acknowledge that the American Indians could have developed such an advanced culture without outside help, without inheriting it from somewhere else. It’s a racist notion!” He bristled with annoyance now. “Something tells me he’s not a Mormon,” Robin thought.
“Yes, uh, well, do you know of any more books I could read on the subject?” she asked in her most ingratiating tone. She knew she probably wouldn’t get around to reading them, but she thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask anyway. She was right. Professor Terry smiled condescendingly and wrote down some titles on a piece of paper.
“Here,” he said, handing the paper to her. “Now you’re a nice Mormon girl, and I certainly wouldn’t want to change that.”
“Thank you.” Robin turned and left the room. “I suppose I should have told him that I know the Church is true,” she thought, “but how could I with him going on and on like that? I think maybe I’ll look up some of those books that support the Book of Mormon with real evidence. Professor Terry doesn’t even know there is any evidence. Then the next time this happens, I’ll be prepared.”
That evening, Robin was resting in front of the television when her mother got home from Primary. “I guess I’d better go help her with supper,” she thought, when she heard pots and pans being rattled in the kitchen.
Just then her mother’s voice called above the noise, “Robbie, honey, did you have a chance to type those papers for me? I have to take them with me in the morning.”
“Oh, I forgot, Mom. I’ll do it after supper, okay?” It seemed like there was always something waiting to be done.
Later that night Robin lay down on her bed and started reading a novel for her English class. Halfway through the third chapter, her eyes began to close. She closed the book, switched off the lamp, and succumbed to her sleepiness. Then a faint tap, tap, tapping intruded on her oblivious slumber. She raised her head. There it was again. Tap, tap, tap. The typewriter! Oh no! Her mother was typing the forgotten papers. “Oh, Mom, I’m sorry,” she thought to herself. “I’ll remember next time.” She buried her head in her pillow but couldn’t escape the typewriter keys that hammered her conscience senseless.
Midterm exams came up very quickly. Professor Terry handed out the freshly mimeographed pages that still smelled faintly of ink. Robin took hers a little apprehensively and started on the first section. These questions were multiple choice, and she was sure of most of the answers, so she felt confident as she turned to the second page. At the top was an essay question that stopped her cold: Describe the possible origins of the American Indian, basing your answer on presently known facts. “Oh no,” she thought, “I forgot all about researching this.”
As she sat there, stunned, all of Professor Terry’s evidence and opinions kept running through her head. She could not think of one fact to support her own belief. The clock showed five minutes had passed, and still Robin debated. “If I don’t hurry up, I won’t get to the end of the test,” she thought. “Besides, if I show his viewpoint, Professor Terry will see that I really do know the material and that I can answer his way if necessary. After all, he knows very well what I really believe.”
Robin wrote a whole page, including everything from parallel evolution to the Bering Strait theory. With relief, she moved on to the rest of the exam, completing the last question as the bell rang. “Boy, what you have to go through to get a grade,” she thought, and she dropped her exam on the table with the rest.
Monday afternoon, a week later, Robin got to class a little early. Professor Terry had said that he would probably pass back the midterms today, and she was anxious to see how he had reacted to hers. As the other students came in and took their seats, she thought how few of them she really knew. “This isn’t like high school,” she mused. “There doesn’t seem to be much time to get to know people once you’re in college.” Just then the professor entered the room, carrying the stack of examinations.
“Good afternoon,” he said, placing the papers on the desk. “I am quite encouraged after correcting your exams because, on the whole, they’re quite good. Of course, some are better than others.” The class laughed nervously. “I would like to read a few of the better responses to the essay question.” As he began reading, Robin heard his words with disbelief. They were her own. Professor Terry’s voice resounded through the lecture hall. She wanted to stop him, but she couldn’t move. “Out of all of those papers, why mine?” she thought. She sat motionless and watched as 42 people listened to the wrong answer.

I was raised on a farm in Kansas where we lived next door to my Grandma Dew, and I was her shadow. We went everywhere together—to the bank, the doctor, the Early Bird Garden Club, and to an endless procession of Church meetings. When it came to the gospel, Grandma was zealous. She would talk about the Church anytime and with anyone—including her eldest granddaughter.
I’ll never forget an interchange she and I had one night as we drove home from yet another meeting. It began when I blurted out a question that flashed through my eight-year-old mind: “Grandma, what if the gospel isn’t true and we’ve been going to all of these meetings for nothing?”
Charming little eight-year-old, wasn’t I?
“Sheri, you don’t need to worry about that,” she answered, “because I know that the gospel is true.”
I challenged her: “How can you know for sure?”
Several seconds passed before she said slowly, “I know for sure that the gospel is true because the Holy Ghost has told me that Jesus Christ is our Savior and that this is His Church.” She paused, and then she added something I will never forget: “And, Sheri, He’ll tell you too, and when He does, your life can never be the same again.”
I still vividly remember what happened next. A sensation unlike any I had ever experienced charged through my body, and then I began to cry. Though I didn’t understand the reason for my outburst, I’m sure Grandma realized exactly what was happening—that the Spirit was bearing witness to me that what she had said was true.
I am grateful to testify that during the intervening years I have come to know for myself that Jesus is the Christ, our Savior and our Redeemer. And with that knowledge, my life has been changed forever.

A man who grew up in the Church, served as a full-time missionary, and married a lovely woman was surprised when some of his siblings began speaking critically of the Church and the Prophet Joseph Smith. After a time they left the Church and tried to persuade him to follow. As often happens in such cases, they bombarded him with essays, podcasts, and videos produced by critics, most of whom were themselves disaffected former members of the Church. His siblings mocked his faith, telling him he was gullible and misled. He didn’t have answers for all their assertions, and his faith began to waver under the relentless opposition. He wondered if he should stop attending church. He talked with his wife. He talked with people he trusted. He prayed. As he meditated in this troubled state of mind, he recalled occasions when he had felt the Holy Spirit and had received a witness of truth by the Spirit. He concluded, “If I am honest with myself, I must admit that the Spirit has touched me more than once and the testimony of the Spirit is real.” He has a renewed sense of happiness and peace that is shared by his wife and children.

Uruguay was originally part of the Argentine Mission. Mission reports in the Church Historian’s Office tell about the beginning of missionary work in Uruguay. Here is part of the exciting story:
“The first contact between the Church and the people of Uruguay began in January 1940 when Rolf R. Larson, an Argentine missionary, was chosen to represent Argentina in the South American basketball championship in Montevideo. He became the attraction of the tournament, and many newspaper articles were published about him in which he was always referred to as a Mormon missionary.
“His stay in Montevideo created such an interest that the president and secretary of the Argentine Mission went to Montevideo with a supply of tracts. They spent three days visiting and talking with people. They were invited to the YMCA to a luncheon and were permitted to explain their beliefs.
“Through Larson’s playing and his good sportsmanship, a friendly atmosphere was created toward the Church.”

“Many years ago, before you were born, Daddy and I bought this house. I was expecting Rachel and became sick not long after we moved in. I had to stay in bed for about a month. One day, not long after I became ill, Sister Chester came over. She cleaned the kitchen; made dinner for your dad and me; and washed, dried, and folded all the dirty clothes. I tried to get her to stop, but she smiled that special smile of hers and said, ‘Just being neighbors, girl. Just being neighbors.’

“She came over almost every day to fix dinner and do chores until after I had Rachel. On days when she couldn’t come, she sent her granddaughter over with dinner.

“Now that she is older and can’t do as many things as she used to, it is my opportunity to help her. Doing things for others helps us to feel useful and good inside. Besides, it is what Father in Heaven wants us to do.”

It was a typical Ohio winter night, cold enough to be snowing, yet warm enough to be raining. I was making an almost futile attempt at driving and checking street signs at the same time. Jim Bowen and Mark Auckerman, eighteen-year-old non-LDS friends, were reading off the street signs as we slowly drove down the ice-covered street.
“All I know,” explained Jim, “is that Chris lives on Dibert Avenue, and it’s somewhere off this street.”
“But are you sure it’s down this far?” asked Mark.
We were in the south end of Springfield, a district that none of us was very familiar with. I was stuck with the treacherous task of driving and decided we should just keep going until we found Dibert Avenue or came to the end of the street we were on.
Slowly we drove on, block by block, attempting to read each sign as we passed it. Just as we were about to give up hope and turn around, we saw it. “Dibert,” we chorused happily.
Because of the ice and the poor condition of my tires, I turned the car into a parking lot about 20 yards past Dibert. By making a U-turn in the lot, I stopped the car perpendicular with the street we had been searching for. Now the problem was which way to turn on Dibert. As Mark and I argued about whether to turn right or left, Jim drew our attention to the house directly in front of us.
It was a two-story frame house, like most of the dwellings in this part of the city. The front of this house was a small store; the back appeared to be a couple of apartments. The store faced the street we had just turned off, and we faced the side of the house.
Through a side window we could see some kind of flame throwing shadows on the walls inside. The window shades were drawn, and we couldn’t see if the flames were in a fireplace or a stove. But soon we realized that the flames looked too big for a stove and too high off the ground for a fireplace.
Leaving the engine running, I put the car into park and jumped out, followed closely by Mark. As we reached the window, we could see the flames were much taller than we had realized. We hopped the fence and ran to the back door. We pounded as hard as we could, but no one answered. The door was locked. I ran around to the front of the building while yelling to Jim to go call somebody.
I kicked open the front door and leaped over the counter just inside. There was a small room between the front of the store and the apartment in back.
In the living room of the attached apartment was a young woman who was screaming hysterically and trying to beat out the fire with a small rug. What appeared to be a large overstuffed sofa was completely engulfed in flames. The paper on the wall had caught fire, and the flames were shooting up the wall and across the ceiling directly above her.
My first reaction was to bend down low, turn, and leave the room. The heat was intense, and the smoke was quickly filling the room.
I screamed at the woman to leave but finally had to grab her by the arm and drag her out of the room. I asked her if there was anybody else in the house. Before she could answer, there came cries from upstairs.
“My children,” she sobbed.
“How many?” I asked.
She said there were two children upstairs. She pointed to a doorway right next to the flaming couch. Though only a few seconds had elapsed, the flames had now engulfed the entire wall and were shooting across the entire ceiling.
Glancing at the doorway, I realized that even if I could make it through, there would be little chance of returning the same way.
My thoughts turned to Heavenly Father. It seemed there was only one thing to do. Putting my complete trust in God, I darted for the flame-engulfed doorway, my face burning as I ran up the narrow stairway as fast as I could.
Standing at the top were the two children, a five-year-old girl and a two-year-old boy. They were crying for their mother. I tucked a child under each arm and turned to run back down the stairs. Their mother had broken away from Mark and was about three-quarters of the way up the stairs when I turned around.
I heard a loud boom. The flames were now coming about halfway up the inside of the stairwell.
In that split second on those stairs, I prayed harder and with more intensity than I had prayed in my entire life. I now realized that not only my life but the lives of a woman and two children depended on my actions. I remember praying, if not saying aloud, the words, “Not my will, but thine.”
I suddenly remembered Mark was still downstairs and started yelling at the top of my lungs for him. Mark later told me that the loud boom I heard was the living room ceiling collapsing and that a huge piece of blazing plywood had fallen to the floor just as the woman disappeared into the doorway. He had stayed downstairs and tried to confine the fire by shutting doors throughout the house. He never heard me yell that we were going out a window.
Knowing that the smoke wasn’t going to leave us much time, I ran up the stairs to look for a window.
When I reached the second floor, I ran straight into a totally dark room that apparently had no windows. I could feel the soles of my feet getting warm and realized that the smoke was getting more unbearable by the second. The woman led me down the hall to a small window that led out onto the roof.
She climbed out first and I followed, still squeezing a child under each arm. When we reached the edge of the roof, I could see that smoke was pouring out of every window in the house. I saw Mark on the ground right below us and yelled that I was going to drop the children down to him.
Pivoting, I tossed the little boy about three feet away from the house to Mark, who made a perfect catch.
The smoke was so thick now that I couldn’t see the ground, but I heard a voice I didn’t recognize and dropped the little girl off the roof. I was told later that a man had seen the blaze, stopped his car, and ran over to Mark in time to help catch the little girl.
The woman was still sobbing and crying hysterically. Mark had put down the little boy and broke the fall of the woman as she fell from the roof. I jumped feet first and landed unhurt.
Safely on the ground, I ran to the apartment on the other side of the house. There, Jim and I pounded on the door, but no answer came. After a few seconds, we broke the glass and unlocked the door. We checked the entire house and found that no one was living on that side.
My thoughts, as we ran back around the building, were the products of years of Boy Scout training—treatment of smoke inhalation, shock, and exposure. The woman and the children were brought to my car, which was warm and still running. The little boy asked where his puppy was, and even though I had seen no dog, I tried to assure him his puppy was all right. By now the fire trucks and ambulance were parked at the front of the house, so I told Mark and Jim to meet me at the hospital.
Everyone was treated and released.
When we returned to the scene of the fire, we counted nine fire engines. The blaze had been doused, and all that remained of the building was the charred frame. It sent chills up my spine to look at the house, smoke still billowing from the windows. As we stood there solemnly looking at the destruction that had taken place, a fireman emerged with what looked like a small stuffed animal. It was the little boy’s puppy. It had hidden in a downstairs closet in some kind of air pocket and had survived the two-hour blaze without so much as a scratch.
A feeling of relief and thankfulness swept over me. I realized that chance had not led us to this house, but that a heavenly force had inspired us to make that wrong turn. I knew that without the Lord’s help, several people would likely have lost their lives. Before this experience I had thought my faith was weak, but I knew then that if it had not been for faith, I would have panicked at the thought of death. Because of the teachings of the gospel and the understanding it gives us of death, I was able to think clearly and do what had to be done. I realized that my life was in Heavenly Father’s hands. I’m thankful now that we were spared and that my faith was strengthened immensely by an inspired wrong turn.

One of those “great friends” was his brother Joaquim. When Tino invited Quim (pronounced “Keem”) to his baptism, Quim was surprised to learn that his brother had even been attending a church.
The brothers had developed different interests through the years, and Quim used drugs, lived a dissolute life, and claimed not to believe in God. He was on a downward spiral. “Maybe if I hadn’t learned about the Church, I wouldn’t be alive now,” Quim reflects. But because Tino wanted some of his family to attend his baptism, Quim agreed to go.
The chapel was a different world to Quim, with its wholesome atmosphere and well-groomed people. After the baptism, Quim was invited to hear a missionary discussion, so he stayed. He responded positively to all of it. “I was surprised at myself,” he says.
At the end of the discussion, Quim was asked to offer the prayer. “I had never offered a prayer in my life,” he says. But the missionaries taught him how to do it. “I never have offered a better prayer than I offered at that moment,” he recalls. At the end of it, “I stood up—and I felt like I was flying!” He asked the missionaries repeatedly: “What is this? I don’t understand. What is this I am feeling?” A great sense of peace, light, and joy had come over him. All evening, Quim kept talking about what he had felt.
By the next day, however, he had almost convinced himself that the experience hadn’t really been so important. “Listen, Tino,” he said, “I don’t want to go to your Church anymore.”
But during the following week, the desire to know why he had experienced such wonderful feelings after that prayer built up in him. Quim’s resolve to stay away from Tino’s church collapsed. It was late at night, Tino recalls, when Quim shook him awake to say, with some intensity, “I want to go to church tomorrow.”
“And from that moment, I wanted to be baptized,” Quim says. “As soon as I heard the other discussions, I believed.” It was a joyful discovery to learn “that our Father cares about each of his children.” He was baptized just three weeks after his brother was.

I saw a young man nearly overwhelmed by a new call not long ago. The Lord had inspired His servant to call him to be the president of a stake. The young man had never been a bishop. He had never served in a stake presidency. The stake had in it many men of greater maturity and experience.
He was humbled when he heard the call. His wife through tears said to the servant of the Lord who called him, “Are you sure?” Her husband said quietly that he would serve. His wife nodded her support, tears streaming down her face. As you might have done at such a time, he wanted to talk with his father, who was far away. He called him that afternoon on the telephone. His father has been a dairy farmer all his life. He raised the boy into a man through milking cows and letting his son observe him stop to talk with neighbors to see how they were doing. The next morning, in his first talk as a stake president, this is how he recounted the conversation with his father:
“Many of you that know me know I am a man of few words. I must have gotten that from my father. As I called him yesterday to let him know that I was being called as a stake president, his one response to me was, ‘Well, you better do a lot of praying.’ That was his counsel to me. What better counsel could he give?”

A lovely lady who has since passed away visited with me one day and unexpectedly recounted some regrets. She spoke of an incident which had taken place many years earlier and involved a neighboring farmer, once a good friend but with whom she and her husband had disagreed on multiple occasions. One day the farmer asked if he could take a shortcut across her property to reach his own acreage. At this point she paused in her narrative to me and, with a tremor in her voice, said, “Brother Monson, I didn’t let him cross our property then or ever but required him to take the long way around on foot to reach his property. I was wrong, and I regret it. He’s gone now, but oh, I wish I could say to him, ‘I’m so sorry.’ How I wish I had a second chance to be kind.”

As I listened to her, there came to my mind the doleful observation of John Greenleaf Whittier: “Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these: ‘It might have been!’” Brothers and sisters, as we treat others with love and kind consideration, we will avoid such regrets.

When business meetings brought me to my childhood hometown of Mansfield, Massachusetts, I looked up the Web page of my old middle school. At the end of a list of current faculty members was Mrs. Christine Pfeil, my eighth-grade English teacher who was a truly influential person in my life.
When I was in eighth grade, difficulties at home left me angry and distracted from school responsibilities. Other teachers didn’t pay attention to my altered attitude and slipping grades, but Mrs. Pfeil took a personal interest. She would never accept less than my best. Often she would write on my assignments, “You can do better—try again.” Grudgingly, I would redo the assignment, thinking, “OK, you want something better? I’ll give you something better!” In her class, I felt intelligent and appreciated. When I left Qualters Middle School after eighth grade, I knew I could succeed scholastically because of Mrs. Pfeil’s belief in me.
As I looked at her name on the Web page that day, it suddenly seemed overwhelmingly important to tell her as soon as possible how she had influenced my life. I determined to find her, so at noon the next day, I excused myself from a business meeting and sped to Qualters.
I had just tried her locked classroom door when I saw Mrs. Pfeil walking down the hallway. “Carl Nelson!” she exclaimed. “I haven’t seen you in 25 years! What are you doing here?”
Impelled to deliver my message, I began abruptly. “I feel I need to tell you personally how important you were in my life. In eighth grade I was going through difficult times, but you expected my best. Precious few demanded that much from me then. As far as I can tell, your faith in me was the major reason I began trusting in my own abilities. I don’t know what my life would have been like without a teacher like you.”
As I spoke, Mrs. Pfeil’s eyes became wet. “I have to tell you a story,” she said. “I have always wanted to be a writer, even though I felt God wanted me to teach. Last night I was feeling hurt that I had never received any appreciation for my work. I told God that unless I received some thanks the very next day, I was going to retire from teaching and work on my writing. And now here you come after all this time to thank me on this particular day—this blessing is almost too much!”
Mrs. Pfeil and I were unable to talk longer. Her students began arriving, and I left, humbled that Heavenly Father let me share in helping one of His children. Reflecting upon my brief experience with Mrs. Pfeil, I remained impressed that no matter who we are or what church we belong to, our loving Father works in our lives to answer our prayers.

On the day of tithing settlement, I was getting ready to go with my family to talk with the bishop. I couldn’t find my money. After looking in all the normal places for a while, I was getting worried that I couldn’t be a full-tithe payer. I prayed and felt prompted to look under the couch in our living room. The couch seemed like an unusual place to look, but I followed the Spirit and went to look there. My change purse with the money in it was right where I was prompted to look! I was happy that I followed the prompting and that I could go to tithing settlement and be a full-tithe payer. I am so glad that I received the gift of the Holy Ghost when I was baptized, because He will help me and guide me throughout my life.Ashley Field, age 9Wildwood, Missouri

Illustration by Alberto Ruggieri
I was feeling afraid and alone. Then I moved to another country and went to church for the first time in a long time. I was living with my mom in a little town in Mexico where everyone knows each other. I knew right from wrong, but I was confused and the only active young woman in the whole town.
I wanted to fit in, so I did one thing that made sense back then: have a boyfriend. This was only one of the first mistakes I started to make. I started giving in to peer pressure and believing I was old enough to think and choose for myself, which meant becoming an inactive young woman who lived in darkness.
I lived in darkness for a year, with every passing day becoming darker. My poor decisions led to arguments with my family, and I realized I couldn’t keep living with them. But it wasn’t until the death of a close Latter-day Saint friend that I realized something was missing. Unfortunately, I blamed God and the gospel. I stopped believing that blessings came from being obedient. I knew that if I didn’t decide to start living the gospel, I would continue ignoring my connection with the Church and keep living in a worldly manner.
I was sitting on my bed in a dark room, crying and feeling sorry for myself when I realized that I was afraid—afraid of being there alone with no one to talk to, afraid of not being able to fix all the wrongs I had done, afraid that no one was going to forgive me, especially God.
Eventually, I moved to Minnesota, USA, with my grandparents, who are not members of the Church. My stepdad flew with me, and my first Sunday there, we went to church, but only for sacrament meeting. By the end of the meeting I had already decided to leave the Church, but to my surprise, just when we were going to the car, we saw the bishop running to catch up to us. He asked us a few questions and invited us to come back next Sunday—and we did.
The next Sunday, just as sacrament meeting was ending, before I could stand up, I was surrounded by the young women from the ward—young women who would help me change my life.
I suddenly entered a completely different world: a world with a bishop and a Young Women president who cared for me and, most of all, young women who tried to live the gospel daily, who strived to live high standards and stand for the right. They shined so much that they could brighten the path before me.
That’s when I realized what I had to do: “Let [my] light so shine before men, that they may see [my] good works, and glorify [my] Father which is in heaven” (see Matthew 5:16). And so I started by going to church and Mutual every week, reading the Book of Mormon and praying every day, dressing modestly, using better language, going to the temple, and preparing myself to get my patriarchal blessing.
I had completely changed, but I didn’t realize it until Young Women camp, when I felt the Holy Ghost and discovered that I had a testimony—a testimony that would remind me that God loves me, that He has a plan for me, and that He doesn’t want me to be alone. A testimony so bright and strong that it changed me. A testimony to share and light not only my path but others’. A testimony that is not afraid to shine in the dark.
The author lives in Baja California, Mexico.

There are great blessings in having modern-day prophets. President Hugh B. Brown (1883–1975), a former counselor in the First Presidency, told of a discussion he had with a member of the British House of Commons who had previously been a judge. This man said he thought God had not spoken to people on earth since the first century, and President Brown responded by explaining to him about Joseph Smith and the Restoration.
“The judge sat and listened intently,” President Brown recalled. “He asked some very pointed and searching questions, and at the end of the interview he said, ‘Mr. Brown, I wonder if your people appreciate the import of your message. Do you? … If what you have told me is true, it is the greatest message that has come to earth since the angels announced the birth of Christ.’”

A story from my own family history illustrates this principle. My great-grandfather Joseph Watson Maynes was born in 1856 in Hull, Yorkshire, England. His family joined the Church in England and then made their way to Salt Lake City. He married Emily Keep in 1883, and they became the parents of eight children. Joseph was called to serve a full-time mission in June of 1910, when he was 53 years old. With the support of his wife and eight children, he returned to his native England to serve his mission.

After serving faithfully for approximately two years, he was riding his bicycle along with his companion to Sunday School services in Gloucester, England, when his tire burst. He got off his bicycle to assess the damage. When he saw that it was serious and would take a while to fix, he told his companion to go ahead and begin the Sunday service and he would be there shortly. Just as he finished saying this, he collapsed to the ground. He had died suddenly of a heart attack.

Joseph Watson Maynes never saw his wife and eight children again in this life. They were able to transport his body back to Salt Lake City and have his funeral service at the old Waterloo Assembly Hall. A statement made at his funeral service by Elder Anthony W. Ivins of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles teaches us an important lesson about life, death, and endurance: “This is what the gospel gives us—not immunity from death, but victory over it through the hope we have in a glorious resurrection. … It applies to [Joseph Maynes]. … It is a pleasure, and it is a satisfaction and joy to know that men lay down their lives in righteousness, in the faith, true to the faith.”4

This family story inspires me to try my very best to follow the example of endurance and spiritual stamina illustrated by my great-grandfather. I am equally inspired by the faith of his wife, Emily, whose life after Joseph’s death was certainly a heavy burden to bear. Her testimony was strong and her conversion complete as she spent the rest of her life true to the faith while supporting her eight children on her own.

When I was the Presiding Bishop and one of my counselors, Bishop Ashton, died, I asked for Brother [Thorpe B.] Isaacson. He was then at the head of a large insurance business that he owned and operated. And when President George Albert Smith asked him if he was willing to serve as my counselor, he said: “Yes, but I would like to go back East and arrange with my company to appoint a manager, because you know in the insurance business so much depends on renewals. But,” he said, “if they won’t let me do it, I’ll tell them to take the business.” I happen to know that the tithing he had been paying was just about the equivalent of what his allowance was when he became a counselor in the Bishopric! And not only that, for the first six months after he received his allowance, he turned it back to the Church. He said: “I’ve never been on a mission, so it is about time I did something.”

Returning What Was Stolen
Many years ago when I was practicing law in California, a friend and client who was not a member of our faith came in to see me and with great enthusiasm showed me a letter he had received from an LDS bishop of a nearby ward. The bishop reported that a member of his congregation, a former employee of my client, had taken materials from my client’s work site and had rationalized that they were surplus. But after becoming a committed Latter-day Saint and attempting to follow Jesus Christ, this employee recognized that what he had done was dishonest. Enclosed in the letter was a sum of money from the man to cover not only the cost of the materials but also interest. My client was impressed that the Church through lay leadership would assist this man in his effort to be reconciled to God.
Elder Quentin L. Cook of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles

Christmas was a very exciting time for my brothers and me! Our parents would take us to see the decorative lights in Cape Town, which were always very impressive; there was always a Primary party celebrating Christmas and the birth of the Saviour—and our schools closed over the “Festive Season,” YEAH!
For weeks we would construct a letter to Father Christmas. We would write and rewrite the letter every time we saw something in the shops that we wanted. We would each state that we had been good boys and really needed the item we had put down for him to bring. We would give Dad the letter to mail, addressed to “Father Christmas, North Pole.” My dad worked in the post office, so we thought that if he posted it, it would get there much sooner.
We were chased to bed early on Christmas Eve as ‘Father Christmas will not visit us with presents,’ Mom said, if we were still awake. But first, we had to put out something for him to drink and eat. It was amazing to me how there were no presents under the tree when we went to bed but when we awoke, the presents had magically appeared and of course, Mom and Dad knew nothing about it.