Gospel Story Finder

For a few, the tests are over. For some of the members of that ward, the tests ended early. I was reminded of one young man the other day. For me his face will always be young and bright with hope. He left our ward for a mission in Japan. Decades later I mentioned his name in a talk I gave to a group of Latter-day Saints in Tokyo. After the meeting a number of members came to me, their faces shining with the brightness that I remember in his face when he returned from his mission. They told that he was “their” missionary. If I understood their English, they said that he was the greatest missionary they had ever known.

I was released as the bishop when our family was asked to move to another state. I kept track of that missionary enough to know that he had graduated from college, applied to medical school, and been accepted. I did not know his plans for the summer before he began medical school, but I am sure that he looked forward with great anticipation to the years ahead.

A phone rang where we then lived, and I learned that he had been killed. He and friends had gone to climb a peak in the Wind River Range in the western United States. I was invited to speak at his funeral. I asked some of the young men who had been climbing with him, friends from our old ward family, to meet me at the chapel where the service would begin in a few minutes. We went to a room to be alone. After we had renewed our acquaintance, I asked if they would tell me something about our friend’s life. I think they knew why.

I wished to speak in the funeral about him and his life. They knew how much I had admired him. They also knew that I had not seen him nor spoken with him for a few years. They knew that I wanted to praise him but that the praise had to be true.

They told me this story: They had camped the night in preparation for the ascent to the peak. As they climbed, high on the face of the mountain, a storm came upon them. They could not see their way because of the clouds and the storm. Our friend had volunteered to go alone to find the path. He didn’t come back. They found later that he had fallen to his death, trying to save his friends.

Then, without my prompting with a question, they told me of more than his courage. They told me of where he had been on the trail of faith. They said that the night before the climb, while others had talked quietly and prepared for sleep, he had been studying his scriptures and his missionary lessons, in Japanese.

I suppose that in the time after his mission he had the trials and the temptations that are common to returning missionaries. The fact that he had applied to medical school makes it clear to me that he thought the tests of life stretched far ahead of him. Yet when life ended, he was ready. I think of him often. A stake president, who was his friend in youth, met me the other day in Virginia. I heard the same sound of love and awe in his voice that I heard from the members in Tokyo and from the fellow mountain climbers.

When such a life touches ours, we are never the same again. We want somehow to be as constant in our faith as he was. We want to know the way to endure whatever surprises life may give us, always ready with the power to pass the tests that come, always faithful, whatever the tests—to the end, whenever that may come.

The log cabin was small and homey, a chimney rising from one end and two windows and a door on the front.
Around it the fertile fields of Fayette, New York, were greening. Nearby trees were awakening to spring, shading the fresh, new blossoms struggling to lift their heads to the sun. Parked around the cabin were the horses, buggies, and wagons that had carried the many men and women who were gathered there on that Tuesday morning. It was April 6, 1830, the day chosen by the Lord for the official organization of His church in the last days (see D&C 20:1–2).
Inside the main room of the cabin, the Prophet Joseph Smith, only twenty-four years old, asked five of the men present to join him in legally organizing the new church so that the requirements of the law could be met. Then, after all those present had knelt together in solemn prayer, Joseph asked them if they would accept him and Oliver Cowdery as their teachers and leaders. They agreed. Joseph turned to Oliver, laid his hands on his head, and ordained him an elder in the Church. Oliver in turn ordained Joseph. In a confirming revelation, the Lord called Joseph “a seer, a translator, a prophet, an apostle of Jesus Christ, an elder of the church” (D&C 21:1).
The sacrament was blessed and passed. Others were ordained and confirmed. The gift of the Holy Ghost was given to many, and its presence filled the hearts of all. The small cabin overflowed with gladness and hope.
Among those who accepted baptism into the Church that day were Joseph’s parents, Joseph Smith, Sr., and Lucy Mack Smith. The young prophet was so moved by this and by the joy of the occasion that he went alone into the woods and wept.
The Church of Jesus Christ was again upon the earth. A prophet of God stood at its head. Its members were few and humble, some with little formal education, but that Tuesday they faced the future with great courage, and they were eager to learn the things of God and to serve Him and His church. Mistakes would be made and some would stumble, but the work would go forward, for the Lord promised them, and us, “I will bless all those who labor in my vineyard with a mighty blessing” (D&C 21:9).

As the Church’s Materials Management supervisor for Thailand, Kanogwan Wongwiraphab regularly handles requests from members for Church equipment and supplies such as sacred clothing and LDS publications.
But she was surprised one day when a woman visited her office to renew her Church magazines subscription. In that part of the world, members normally renew their subscriptions through their unit’s magazine representative. The woman, however, explained she did not have a ward representative. She was Buddhist and had learned about the Church magazines when a friend who was a member of the Church gifted a subscription to her.
“She started to tell me wonderful things about the Church magazines and how valuable they are to her children,” Sister Wongwiraphab wrote. “When her children came back from school and saw the magazines, they were so excited, and they read and finished them quickly.”
The woman praised the magazines for their “great worth” and for teaching her children good morals and vocabulary. She was so impressed she renewed her own subscription and gifted subscriptions to her coworkers so their children could also benefit.
“Even nonmembers can feel and see the value [of the magazines], and [they] want to share it with others,” Sister Wongwiraphab wrote.

Those who follow the game of rugby know that the New Zealand All Blacks, a name given because of the color of their uniform, is the most celebrated rugby team ever. To be selected for the All Blacks in New Zealand would be comparable to playing for a football Super Bowl team or a World Cup soccer team.
In 1961, at age 18 and holding the Aaronic Priesthood, Sidney Going was becoming a star in New Zealand rugby. Because of his remarkable abilities, many thought he would be chosen the very next year for the national All Blacks rugby team.
At age 19, in this critical moment of his ascending rugby career, Sid declared that he would forgo rugby to serve a mission. Some called him crazy. Others called him foolish. They protested that his opportunity in rugby might never come again.
For Sid it was not what he was leaving behind—it was the opportunity and responsibility ahead. He had a priesthood duty to offer two years of his life to declare the reality of the Lord Jesus Christ and His restored gospel. Nothing—not even a chance to play on the national team, with all the acclaim it would bring—would deter him from that duty.
He was called by a prophet of God to serve in the Western Canadian Mission. Forty-eight years ago this month, 19-year-old Elder Sidney Going left New Zealand to serve as a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
A mission instead of a place on the New Zealand All Blacks team? Sid responded, “The blessing of [bringing others] into the gospel far outweighs anything [you] will ever sacrifice.”

The mouths of “woman-driver” jokesters have been sealed, for the time being at least, by 16-year-old April Clark, an LDS student from Chico, California, who was selected by a panel, including Governor Ronald Reagan, to attend the National Youth Conference on Highway Safety held in Scottsdale, Arizona.
April was first selected to represent her high school at a conference with Governor Reagan in Los Angeles last January, where youth driving was discussed. On the basis of her performance there, and in consideration of her essay on alcoholism and driving, she was chosen to attend the national conference. There April joined with other youths from across the nation in voicing opinions on the implementation of safe driving practices.
April is a member of the Chico Second Ward in the Chico California Stake and is the pianist in her high school orchestra.

When my wife and I had been married for about six years, we were living in Makiki and my wife expressed the desire to attend graduate school on the mainland. Just a few months before this, we welcomed our oldest daughter into our family. Having a new child would make graduate school and a move even more challenging. My wife’s parents still lived in Boston, where my wife was born and raised, so we had a built-in support system there. We prayed and fasted about the decision and felt like it was the path that we should take.

A few months later, we sold everything that we had and left the island with only a couple of suitcases full of clothes and baby toys. We arrived in Boston and found a house to rent in an area called Cambridge Port. Our home was located a block from the Charles River, right by the BU bridge. It was a great location. Sister Yamamoto’s school was located right across the bridge. The historic Fenway Ball Park was less than a mile away. Right around the corner was an amazing mom-and-pop Italian pizza joint called “Stephanie's Pizzeria.” I can still remember the amazing smell of fresh calzones and pizza, which permeated the air.

The fall in the Northeast was terrific. We enjoyed apple picking, viewing the fall foliage, going to pumpkin patches, attending Redsox games at Fenway, and spending time with my wife’s family. It was an amazing place until the winter season came. I was cold to my very core for four months straight. We lived in one of those historical Cambridge homes that had big metal radiators used for a heating system. When you turned them on, they would start hissing and clanking and the temperature was very hard to control. The only thing that saved me during those winters was coming back here for a month in January during the winter break.

While we lived in Boston, we attended the Cambridge 1st Ward. The ward was mostly made up of married graduate students and their families attending the various universities in the area. Because the bulk of our ward was students, the Elders Quorum was constantly moving members in and out. One of my home teaching sisters needed to move from one home to another home that was only a couple of blocks away. Three or four of the Elders from our ward and the full-time missionaries showed up to help out.

I arrived at the house and much to my delight, it was a dream move. Sometimes you show up for a move, and the family is busily stuffing things into bags, boxes, trash bags or whatever they can find to transport their belongings. This sister had everything nicely packed, and she even had a moving truck. In less than 20 minutes, everything was completely loaded into the truck. The truck was packed so efficiently that only half of the inside of the truck was filled.

We were ready to get into our cars and drive over to the new house when the sister came out and warned us that parking was very limited around her new home and that it would be a good idea to ride over together. One of the Elders had a great idea or what seemed like a good idea. He proposed that we utilize the empty space in the back of the moving truck by jumping in and riding over to the house together. It was only a short couple of blocks. We all agreed to his proposal without thinking about it and piled into the back of the moving truck.

I was chatting with one of the missionaries when all of a sudden, the inside of the truck started to get dark. I looked toward the opening and the driver was pulling down on the rope connected to the rolling back door. Within seconds, the door was completely closed and the area was completely dark. Suddenly, you could hear a click of metal on the exterior of the door. I'm sure that you have all seen that round metal piece on the back of diesels and moving trucks that when turned locks into place, securing the door and locking the door from the outside. That click meant that we were locked inside.

Up to that point in my life, I had never experienced any kind of claustrophobia or anxieties from being in an enclosed space. While I was a student at BYU in Provo, I even went to a place called the Nutty Putty Caves a few times to explore with friends. The Nutty Putty Caves were located on the west side of Utah Lake. You would drive to this remote spot on dirt roads and then there was literally a hole in the earth that you would go down a network of caves. They had this one section in the Nutty Putty Caves called the birth canal. I am sure you can picture why it might be called the birth canal and I even went through that section and didn’t even think twice about it then.

Back to Boston and the moving truck. I heard that metal piece click and we were locked inside. It was so dark that I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. All of a sudden, my chest began to constrict and I couldn’t breathe. My mind started to go crazy. I began searching frantically for a way to get out of the truck. I finally spotted a tiny pinprick of light coming from the bottom corner of the door. I rushed over, knelt down, put my face right by the hole, and tried to suck in air from the hole. It didn’t provide any relief. By this time my lungs were begging for air. I was desperate and my mind and body felt like they were going to explode. I am very lucky that it was pitch black because the people in the truck would have thought that I was literally crazy.

Drenched in sweat, I felt and thought that I was going to die. All of a sudden, one of the guys we were with flipped open his phone. Back in 2008, we had those cool phones that you flip open. The flip phone provided a small glow of light around his face as he looked at the screen. He must have thought that I was crazy when I scooted right next to him and hovered my face over his phone. The light on the phone immediately eased my mind and I could breathe again. My anxieties and panic immediately disappeared. It was amazing that the tiny bit of light would provide such a great relief. We arrived at our destination a couple of minutes later and I was liberated from the moving truck. We quickly moved the items into the house and then I let the guys know that I was going to walk back to my car and didn’t need a ride.

Thinking back to my moving truck experience, I later realized that I had a cell phone in my pocket during the entire experience. I had the tool that would have alleviated any kind of pain and anguish that I experienced. When we are in the midst of a problem or hardship, don’t we sometimes forget about the things that would help us the most? Sometimes we forget or blame God, we forget what the prophet and our church leaders have taught us, we forget the principles and doctrines of the gospel. We stop praying, stop reading our scriptures, and stop attending church. These are the times that we need those things the most. We forget the things that bring light and hope into our lives.

After Hsiao-lung was baptized, she shared the excitement she found in the gospel with her friend Chu Chih-t’ao.
“Everyone in the Church was so friendly to me,” Chih-t’ao, 17, now a member of the Second Ward, said. “But in the beginning my faith wasn’t strong. I read the scriptures when the missionaries taught me, and I prayed. I received an answer from God that the Church is true, so I decided to be baptized. But it was after I joined the Church that my testimony really grew, thanks to help from other members who showed their love and concern. Now I have a very strong faith.”

With temperatures rising and hot wind blowing in seemingly every direction, my companion and I spent days biking from one end of Yuma, Arizona, to the other in search of people to teach. The heat of summer can be especially challenging, and for a new missionary, it’s sometimes easy to get discouraged.
One day we had been visiting investigators and contacts, and none of them seemed to have the time or the interest to sit down and talk. As we rode our bikes, I began feeling a tinge of discouragement. I closed my eyes and silently prayed for help. The still, small voice of the Spirit whispered, “Pray with your companion.”
After suggesting this to him, we turned our bikes into a park and stopped. As I said the prayer with my companion, pleading for guidance to know where we should go, a feeling of calmness and peace flooded my body. In that instant I knew that our Heavenly Father would place someone in our path who would listen. We ended the day with several good visits with some of our investigators. The answer to our prayers, however, came in full strength that evening as we planned for the following day.
We began our planning session with prayer, again asking for the Spirit to guide us. As we talked about what to do in the morning during those first few hours before lunch, both of us felt an impression to visit a small trailer park behind a commercial section of town. My companion brought up the fact that not many people lived there and that it might be a waste of time to ride our bikes all that way to talk to only a few people. At the moment, we couldn’t decide if it would be worth our time, so we skipped that morning block of time and planned the rest of the day. The Spirit again whispered strongly to visit this area as we came back to plan the morning block. This time we acted upon the promptings and confirmed it with the Lord in prayer.
It was already hot as we left our apartment the next morning to tract in the small trailer park. By the time we got there, I was feeling fairly passive and indifferent and was not expecting much. We locked our bikes to a wooden pillar and stepped up to the front door of the first trailer. I took a deep breath and knocked lightly on the thin wooden door.
Several seconds passed before the knob slowly turned and the door opened, revealing a short Hispanic lady. My first thought was of how tired and stressed she looked. Almost immediately, familiar words filled my mind, and I began to speak. “Hello ma’am,” I started in Spanish. “How are you doing this morning?”
“I’m fine. Can I help you?” she replied.
“Actually, we’re here to help you,” I smiled. “We are representatives of Jesus Christ, missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
I slowly stopped speaking as tears welled up in her eyes. She raised her hand to her mouth, closed her eyes, and whispered her thanks: “Gracias.” She then took my offered hand and said, choking back sobs, “I have been praying all night for God to send me some angels, and you are here. How did you know?”
My voice trembled a little with emotion as I replied, “We were sent. I know we were sent to help you.”
She told us she was undergoing intense family problems and had been floundering on the brink of depression and hopelessness. In her struggles she prayed and asked for help, for an assurance of love, and for a light in her darkening life. We knocked on her door only seconds after she had ended her prayer.
During the next 30 minutes we presented the basic principles of the gospel, and the Spirit testified to her that they are true. As we felt the Holy Ghost, we knew that she knew our message is true. It was in that instant that I witnessed the necessity of having the Spirit lead us in all we do.
The woman thanked Heavenly Father in the closing prayer, expressing heartfelt gratitude. We stepped off the porch and into the hot and dusty day, our eyes a little misty due to the witness borne by the Holy Ghost. I closed my eyes as we walked and whispered, “Gracias.”

When I was baptized, I was very excited to be a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. At the same time, I remember being extremely anxious about joining a church where I didn’t know anyone besides the missionaries who had taken their time to teach me about the restored Church and the Book of Mormon. I was living in Austria at the time. I got to know a few members in the Church but at that time I had not really made strong connections with anyone. My first Sunday as a new convert was truly blessed as the young missionary who had convinced to come to church sat by my side translating what was being said as my German was still poor. The sacrament meeting left me with so much peace in my heart as I felt an understanding of the message of the day. I was introduced to Sister Toni who smiled and sat next to me during Sunday School and Relief Society meetings.
After church she invited me to her home for lunch and I met with the rest of her family. This family became my first friends in the church, they always picked me up for church activities. Through them I began to know more and more about the gospel and every Sunday I looked forward to going to church. Other Church members were equally friendly.

It was a calm day at my job as a volunteer firefighter, so I decided to read the Book of Mormon. When one of my co-workers saw me reading, he asked if I knew how we could put on the armor of God in modern times. As we were talking, the alarm sounded. There was a fire in a nearby store.
We quickly put on our firefighting gear and went straight there. The flames were huge, and as we approached the store, something exploded in our direction. The flames engulfed us. The explosion disoriented my co-worker and me for a few seconds. But thanks to our equipment and protective clothing, we suffered no injury.
When we returned to the station after fighting the fire, I asked my co-worker if he remembered his question about the armor of God. He said he did, and I explained that the armor of God is like our protective firefighting gear. We must always wear it so we can withstand the powerful attacks of the adversary. If we keep the commandments, we will be blessed with the protective power of the armor of God, and the Holy Ghost will be our guide.

Emilee Dolberg, 12, of Stockton, California, came out on top in several subjects in her grade. She placed first in the handwriting contest, first in spelling, first in the math contest, first in essay writing, and first in the talent competition (she plays the piano).
Emilee went on to compete with individual winners from other schools on a district level. She was first in handwriting, third in math, and first in essay writing. Her essay placed fourth nationally.
Emilee is secretary of her Beehive class in the Stockton Fourth Ward.

Recently at a stake conference, Elder Charles “Tiny” Grant, one of our fine regional representatives, shared an experience with us. He said that some years ago while he was the football coach at Ricks College, he met a man named Hal Barton, who was famous for his love of fishing. He was warned, however, that “although Hal knows where to find the big fish, he often goes into strong waters to find them.”

Their first opportunity to go fishing together was in February as the ice was breaking up. As they walked together up the river, Hal pointed to an island about 50 yards away and said, “Coach, that is where we will find the big ones.” The day was cold, and now they had to cross a dangerous part of the river. The coach soon discovered that the rocks were round and slick, and the water was only inches from the top of his waders. Since he is six feet five inches tall, that meant it was deep. He was about to tell Hal that he was afraid he couldn’t cross the water, but realized that the football coach could not admit that he was afraid.

Just then Hal said, “Coach, this is how we are going to cross the water. You take a step and get a firm footing while I hold your hand and arm steady. Then I will take a step while you stand firmly and furnish the support. We will work our way through this roiling, swift water over these slippery rocks.” With this mutual support, they crossed the river safely and caught the big ones.

Not long ago, one of my daughters came home from a date. I heard the garage door open, the car pull in, and the garage door close, but strangely, I could still hear the car running. Since I know this can be dangerous, I went to the garage to investigate. When I opened the car door, I found my daughter hunched over the steering wheel sobbing. She had just experienced a heart-wrenching break up with someone she cared deeply about. It was so hard for me to see this. I wanted to crawl into the car, take her into my arms, and just hold her. But somehow, I instinctively knew that she needed to be alone for a time. I turned off the car, quietly closed the door, and went inside. As I sat in the living room agonizing from a distance, the thought came to me that I was then experiencing, to a small degree, what the Father must have felt as he watched His perfect Son suffer when He withdrew His spirit. It was a meaningful lesson for me and one I doubt I could have learned with as much power and clarity in any other way.

Shortly after I moved into a new neighborhood, the local bishop sent a letter welcoming me to the ward and apologizing that my home teachers hadn’t contacted me yet. Although I appreciated and saved his letter, I rarely attended church and didn’t take the first step back to full activity until one Sunday morning several years later.
Feeling that I should go to church, I looked up the meetinghouse closest to me and headed off, alone and nervous. The parking lot was full. I pulled in, feeling like an out-of-place stranger labeled “less active.” As I approached the back doors, a woman ahead of me struggled with an unwieldy baby carrier while shepherding another child alongside her. Despite her full load, she held the door open for me with a smile and said, “Hi, I’m Sally!” Caught off guard by her friendliness, I returned the greeting. Sally continued down the hall, leaving me glad I had come.
When the bishop announced the blessing of new babies during fast and testimony meeting, I was surprised to see my new friend give the baby to her husband to take to the front. Her newborn was being blessed that day, and she had still taken the time to greet me! I sheepishly reflected that if I had just had a new baby, welcoming an unknown woman to church would be the last of my concerns.
Becoming active was a gradual process, but Sally and other thoughtful members continued to befriend me. Diligent visiting teachers set up appointment after appointment. Friendly ward members called to tell me about stake conference or changes in the meeting schedule. Single adult leaders consistently invited me to activities, even when they knew my polite “Maybe I’ll come” really meant “Don’t plan on me.” And eventually their efforts were rewarded.
Although Sally’s simple greeting took no planning and very little time, her kind act helped open the door for me to enjoy the blessings of Church activity. Many years later I still reflect often upon the results of Sally’s smile.

Sigifredo Verano probably didn’t seem like a very good contact when the missionaries first met him in California. He wore long hair and a beard, in the style of some of the rebels of the early 1970s. He worked full-time supporting his family, then studied for several more hours each day trying to educate himself for better employment. That left little time to listen to missionaries.
Most of his friends at work were atheists or agnostics, and Sigifredo himself hadn’t attended any church regularly for nearly twenty years.
When the missionaries first met his wife, Ana Lucia, she told them that they were welcome to come talk with him—if they could find him with time available. After several brief visits, he finally said, “Yes, go ahead and teach me. Let’s get it over with!”
It is a tribute to the love and dedication of several missionaries, and to the faith of the Verano children, that Sig and Ana Verano finally came into the Church. But it is their own diligent obedience that has helped build their strong testimonies.
Sig Verano had emigrated from his native Colombia, South America, to California, in 1963. Ana, the girl he was growing to love, was temporarily left behind while he began preparing to support himself, and possibly a family, in his new country.
He had received only three years of formal schooling in Colombia and spoke little English. In Los Angeles, California, his first job was making hats at the minimum legal wage, so he studied newspaper advertisements looking for something that would pay more. He spotted a training course for a “machinist.” The pay looked good, and in South America, a maquinista—train engineer—had regular employment, so he enrolled.
Sig did well in the course, but inquired after some time when they were going to get to the “big machines.” Be patient, he was told—that would come after the training. Toward the end of the training, he still had not seen a train engine. One day, he asked a co-worker how much they would travel in their future jobs. “What does travel have to do with this work?” the co-worker replied. After some confusing discussion, Sig finally asked, exasperated, “Will you please tell me exactly what we are learning?”
But Sig’s new job as a machinist was enough to provide the support he and Ana would need. They had continued their courtship by mail and were married by proxy in 1964. She emigrated to the United States in 1965. Edison, the first of their children, was born in 1966, followed by Julie in 1968 and Marbell in 1972.
Sigifredo was constantly studying to better himself educationally and economically. “He would finish one course and start another,” Ana says. He became a skilled automotive mechanic who was much in demand.
Though Sig had never denied the existence of God or committed grave sins, religion was not a significant part of his life. But he couldn’t accept the philosophies of his atheistic and agnostic friends. Once, Sig had pressed one of the agnostics with the question, “If you were to join any church, which one would it be?” The man answered, “I would become a Mormon,” and cited the goodness of the Latter-day Saints as his reason.
In fact, it was the good example of the only Latter-day Saint he had ever known—“an example of a good man”—that persuaded Sig Verano to listen to the Latter-day Saint missionaries for the first time. What they taught sounded like the truth to him. The Word of Wisdom made enough of an impression that the young mechanic gave up his cigarettes and liquor and began to pray on his own. Nevertheless, it wasn’t easy for him to go to church because he had long since broken the habit of attendance. Soon, he stopped listening to the missionary lessons.
But the Verano children enjoyed Primary, which then was held one afternoon a week. Sig or Ana would drive them to the chapel for the meeting. One afternoon, the car wouldn’t start. “Well, it isn’t my fault,” Sig told them. “I guess you won’t be able to go.”
Back in the house, six-year-old Edison wouldn’t give up. “Let’s pray,” he pleaded. So they knelt in prayer, then went back out to the car. To Sig Verano’s surprise, it started immediately.
After this experience, the Veranos attended Church meetings for a time, but quit after a few weeks. During this period there were several “coincidences” that helped to keep the Church in their thoughts. Sig’s mother-in-law, visiting from Colombia, spoke favorably of the clean-cut young American missionaries whose meetinghouse was near her home. An old friend from Colombia, now a sailor in the merchant marine, came for a visit. At dinnertime, he asked if he could say a blessing on the food—and Sig Verano recognized from his prayer that he was a Latter-day Saint. The friend, a convert who studied the scriptures ardently during his long voyages, bore his testimony to the Veranos, not knowing they had been investigating the Church.
Earlier, Sig Verano had told one pair of missionaries that they could come to visit as friends, but not as teachers. Before one of them went home at the end of his mission, he and his companion stopped by to visit and to invite the Veranos to meet his parents at a small farewell gathering hosted by friends. The Veranos were so impressed with the loving Latter-day Saints they met that they began taking the missionary lessons again.
But Ana Verano, faithful to the traditions of her forefathers’ church, became stubborn when she realized her husband was serious about joining The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She felt she didn’t need to be baptized again. So they reached an agreement: since the children liked the Church, he would take them there after his baptism. She would continue to go to her church.
But repeatedly during the week preceding Sig’s baptism, Ana dreamed of the Savior’s baptism by John in the River Jordan. She concluded that it was an indication, meant just for her, of the right thing to do.
Sigifredo and Ana were baptized in January of 1974. Their son Edison was baptized later that year, after his eighth birthday.
The Veranos’ struggles with faithfulness were not yet over, however, and neither was the loving work of others in fellowshipping them.
A fine home teacher, George Baker, helped keep them active in the Church, Brother Verano recalls. Unused to attending church meetings three times a day, beginning with priesthood at seven A.M., Brother Verano was ready to quit. The early meetings were difficult because he was working from midnight to six A.M. But Brother Baker, who could not go himself, arranged for someone to drive the Veranos to ward meetings, and kept them coming.
The Veranos’ spirituality grew as they faithfully attended meetings and obeyed gospel principles.
He was called as president of his stake’s Spanish-speaking branch, created in 1978, and was made bishop when, after five years, it became a ward.
The creation of that branch was a blessing also for Ana Verano. What little English she knew had made it difficult for her to participate in an English-speaking ward. In the Spanish-speaking branch, she could hold callings and grow in service as her husband had.
“My real testimony has come through working in the Church,” Brother Verano says. “Constant service is one of the things that strengthens one’s testimony.”
The first Spanish-speaking ward in their stake was divided shortly after its creation, and Sig was called to the high council. He now serves as stake executive secretary for the three Spanish-speaking wards in the Los Angeles California North Hollywood Stake. Ana serves in the stake’s English-language name extraction program.
Among the vocational courses Sig Verano completed in his wide-ranging studies was one in real estate sales. It led to a profitable new career—and to further strengthening of his testimony.
His sales career didn’t begin well. He was fired after only one week when the owner of the real estate agency learned the new salesman’s religion following Brother Verano’s refusal to work on Sunday.
“The gospel is so important in our lives that Sunday is empty if we can’t go to Church meetings,” he explains. But the owner of the real estate company said that the Mormons put too much time into Church service to be successful. Go work for a small agency where the owner will not care so much about sales success, he told Sig Verano.
Brother Verano took the dismissal as a challenge. He found a job with a larger agency, and, working only part-time in 1979, was its top salesman. He has consistently refused to work on Sundays; as branch president and bishop, he also devoted part of his Saturdays to Church service. Yet for several years he has been among the company’s top five salespeople.
In Church service, Brother Verano says humbly, he has gained knowledge that the Lord lives, that through him we can be redeemed, and that he has placed prophets on earth to help guide us. Those who only tentatively believe that the gospel is true can come to know of its truth with certainty as he has—by testing it in obedience and in service to others.
“When I was baptized into the Church,” he reflects, “I believed. But now I know.”

When the former Governor of Missouri, Lilburn Boggs, was shot, Porter Rockwell was charged with the crime. Without any evidence of his guilt, Porter was taken prisoner and kept in an unheated dungeon without any bedding for over nine months. He was given food that even the dogs refused to eat. Without his natural stamina, Porter never would have survived the ordeal.
One day a Sheriff Reynolds came to the jail and offered Porter a large sum of money if Porter would take him to Joseph Smith so that the Prophet could be captured. “I will see you damned first,” responded Porter.
After Porter’s release from jail, he walked most of the way to Nauvoo, Illinois. He arrived at Joseph Smith’s house on Christmas Day in 1843, as the Prophet and his friends were having a supper party. “During the festivities,” Joseph recounted later, “a man with his hair long and falling over his shoulders, and apparently drunk, came in and acted like a Missourian. I requested the captain of the police to put him out of doors. A scuffle ensued, and … to my great surprise and joy untold, I discovered it was my long-tried, warm, but cruelly persecuted friend, Orrin Porter Rockwell.” (History of the Church, 6:134–135.)
It is believed by those who knew Porter Rockwell best that it was on this occasion that the Prophet Joseph promised Porter that if he remained faithful to the Church and didn’t cut his hair, he would never suffer death from a bullet. From then on, Porter wore his long hair braided and tucked into a bob at the back of his neck.
The sight of Joseph and Porter riding together out to the Prophet’s farm was not uncommon. And when Joseph went to Washington, D.C., to see if government authorities could help right the wrongs suffered by the Saints at the hands of the Missouri mobs, Porter went with him.
It may have been supposed that Porter was only a bodyguard to the Prophet Joseph. However, frequent mention was made of his attendance at council meetings with Joseph Smith and other Church leaders. And when Joseph decided to leave Nauvoo and go west to help lessen the persecution of the Saints, Porter and only two others went with him. Afterward, when the Prophet learned that his departure was thought by many to be an act of cowardice, he said, “‘If my life is of no value to my friends it is of none to myself.’” Turning to Porter, he asked, “‘What shall I do?’ Rockwell replied, ‘You are the oldest and ought to know best; and as you make your bed, I will lie with you.’” (History of the Church, 6:549.)
After Joseph and Hyrum were killed in Carthage Jail, Porter went west with the first party of pioneers. He believed that the Prophet Joseph would have wanted him to do that. His services as a scout and game hunter were invaluable.
In 1849 Porter Rockwell was appointed deputy marshall of Great Salt Lake City, and he was a peace officer in Utah until his death. When pursuing lawbreakers, Porter was relentless, and his endurance was legendary. He would follow a trail at a gallop in his buckboard where others would walk their horses, searching for clues.
Detractors make much of the fact that Rockwell could neither read nor write. Yet he was remarkably successful in a number of business enterprises. It should be remembered, too, that illiteracy was not uncommon in the nineteenth century.
Porter remained loyal to his family and friends, and he was generous to others who needed his help. A touching act of Porter’s charity, recorded in a letter, was the gift of his shorn hair to the widow of Don Carlos Smith, the brother of Joseph Smith. The woman had lost her hair when she had typhoid fever, and Porter’s hair was used to make her a wig. When Porter’s hair regrew, he wore it in a bob again.
Porter traveled thousands of miles on horseback in service to the Church as a scout, guide, and expert in solving problems with Indians. When he died during the summer of 1878, he had been a member of the Church longer than anyone else then living. At his funeral service, Elder Joseph F. Smith of the Council of the Twelve said, “He had his little faults, but Porter’s life on earth, taken altogether, was one worthy of example, and reflected honor upon the Church. Through all his trials he had never once forgotten his obligations to his brethren and his God.”

I had just passed my 12th birthday and had my interview with my bishop for ordination as a deacon. My father, who had served as a bishop a few years previously, ordained me. During his prayer he blessed me that I might appreciate those who had made it possible for me to enjoy the blessing of the Church and especially the priesthood.
Being only 12 years old I didn’t quite understand what he meant. The next Sunday I assisted in passing the sacrament. Mother had fussed over me to see that I was properly dressed for this occasion, while Dad just looked on and smiled.
I must confess it was an interesting and exciting event. Being a deacon meant I was growing up, and this was a comforting thought.
After lunch that day my father came toward me with a family book in his hand. He explained it was the journal, or the life story, of my grandfather who lived in Wales.
“I want you to read this,” he said, “especially these last pages.” With that he placed it on the table in front of me and left to join mother in the living room.
Now why should a 12-year-old boy want to read ancient stuff like that when there was a football game on T.V.? There was only one good reason, and that was my father wanted me to read it. He had put a marker in the page where he wanted me to start.
This is what I read:
It is November and cold outside. I can hear the wind whistling through the beech trees down in the woods. I am sitting in front of my fireplace in my old leather-back chair with Mom’s old knitted shawl over my lap. There is a little table by my side, and I am writing on a lined tablet. The lines are wide because my eyesight is not as good as it once was. The dancing flames from the fire seem to stimulate my thoughts, and I relive the years when my beloved wife and I first joined the Church. The wind was blowing off the ocean when we waded into the water off the coast of Wales. Bess’s health was poor, she being with child, andshe was concerned about the effects of the cold water on her and the unborn baby. The presiding elder blessed her that all would be well, that there would be no bad effects from the cold water. It turned out that way. There are other places in my history where I have told of the persecutions we endured, but now I must tell you about my three sons.
William was the firstborn, and from the beginning there was a strong bond of love between him and his mother. Then when he was a young man she died suddenly and he was brokenhearted. No longer was he the carefree young man we knew but became quiet and withdrawn. Then one day he came to me and said, “Father, I have decided to leave home and go to America. I want to go to Zion where the Saints are. I have applied for a visa, and when it comes I shall be leaving.” About a year later the visa was granted, and William made preparations to leave.
Then came the day of his leaving. How can I describe that day? I stood on the doorstep of my cottage on the hillside and watched him go down the hill with his trunk slung over his shoulder. I knew I would never see him again, and part of me went with him. Would I miss him? Would I miss the sun if it failed to rise over Rhysog Mountain? He was my firstborn son, whose life was a lesson in faith and humility. He was the peacemaker in the family. The days passed, and the ache in my heart was eased. His letters came with regularity, and they told of his joy of being with the Saints.
One day a year or so later my second son, John, spoke to me at supper, “Father, I have decided to join my brother in America. I have applied for a visa.”
I looked at this boy, hardly into manhood. How different he was from his brother. Handsome he was with dark hair with a bit of wave in it. He had a smile that was captivating, and he was very popular with the girls. Somehow he reminded me of when I was a young man. I too had dark hair with a bit of wave in it, and I was popular with the girls. But Bess came along and stole my heart.
I went to the railroad station and wished him good-bye. My tears fell on his shoulder as the train pulled into the station. As it left I felt as if part of my life went on that train.
The walk back home was the loneliest walk of my life. I had to try hard to keep bitterness out of my heart. That which I loved the most, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, had taken away two of my sons.
Ivor, my third son, was still living in the village. He was destined not to be with me long. He had been born two months early and was so tiny that his mother carried him on a pillow. He grew to manhood but suffered from a heart disease. He was the poet in the family, and even though his health was poor he was always happy. I can hear him yet as he sang to the trees in the woods that bordered our home. I remember that day only a few days before his heart failed him that we walked together up into the meadow and we looked across the valley. He took my hand in his and spoke softly. “Listen Tad” (that’s Welsh for Father), and across the valley came the plaintive call of the cuckoo. “Isn’t it lovely? The cuckoo tells of the coming spring, and soon the meadow will be white with daisies, and the thrush will sing a joyful tune. Aye, my Tad, it’s a grand world that God has given us.”
He died in his sleep and was buried beside his mother in the little cemetery on the hill.
The funeral was quite an event in our village. It was the first LDS funeral ever conducted there. Many people came out of curiosity, but most came because Ivor was loved and respected. Jones, the undertaker, in his black suit and top hat drove the hearse with a pair of black horses.
It was less than a mile to the cemetery, and the mourners walked behind the hearse. Soon the villagers started to sing. At first their voices were quiet like the summer breeze on Rhysog Mountain. Then as the words came, “Feed me till I want no more,” their voices raised in a great crescendo like waves breaking on a rocky shore. Oh, my people from whom I came, your songs of mourning are still in my heart, and I know that my son and my Bess heard.
When I returned home after the funeral, I took my sons’ letters out of a drawer and read them again. My oldest son wrote, “I am now the high priest group leader, and also a supervisor at the temple. I am so grateful that you taught me the gospel.”
The letter from son number two read, “I am excited today, for I have been ordained the bishop of my ward. How can I thank you enough for teaching me the gospel?”
The fire is burning low, and my hand is so tired I can’t write more at this time.
The next words were in my father’s handwriting:
Your grandfather passed away a few days later, and he was buried beside his wife and third son.
As I finished reading I looked up to see my dad standing there. His eyes were moist and so were mine, but a 12-year-old cannot stay sad very long. “Dad,” I asked, “were you the second son?”
“Yes, my boy, I was the second son.”
“Your hair is not dark anymore, but there is still a bit of wave.”

Lucius was halfway through dinner when the soft glow of candlelight on Joby’s hair caught his eye. He gazed fixedly at the lad across the table, then noticed Joby’s parents staring curiously at him. Lucius spoke softly. “It’s the lad’s hair. It has a gold-dust shine just like lamplight reflecting on miller moths. Or like the gold on the waves at the last light of day.”
The Kelseys were often touched by Lucius’s poetic way of saying things, and the old fisherman always spoke with such deep reverence that it was hard to doubt what he said. That’s why the trio waited anxiously for Lucius to put the last forkful of potatoes into his mouth and wipe the leavings from his beard. They knew a colorful tale would follow—it always did.
“It’s the least I can do,” Lucius would say, “after a meal like that.”
Joby’s mother always glowed with appreciation. “Tonight,” she announced, “there’s blackberry pie—after your story.”
Lucius’s eyes grew as large as plump berries. “It’s liable to be the shortest story I ever told,” he replied, and everyone laughed.
The three Kelseys sat spellbound. Ocean waves seemed to roll and fall off Lucius’s tongue. Masts split, and men were hurled into the sea!
Suddenly Lucius stopped. Joby and his parents traded puzzled glances. The boy saw the same troubled look on the fisherman’s face that he had observed before as Lucius gazed out through the window at the heaving sea.
“Were you washed overboard, too, Mr. Potter?” Joby asked, caught up in the man’s story.
Then, as though the boy’s question had released a floodgate, Lucius’s painful secret tumbled out. He seemed almost relieved now in the telling of it … “Me and two others,” he sighed. “We were securing the rigging when the wave hit. I … I tried to save the men,” he said with anguish, “but I was the only survivor.”
“Is that why you never take anyone with you on your skiff, Mr. Potter?” Joby’s father asked gently.
Lucius nodded. “I never want anything like that to happen on a boat of mine again.” He rose from the table. “It’s late. I’d better go.”
“It wasn’t your fault in happened,” Joby’s mother consoled him.
“Mom’s right,” Joby chimed in. “You were in a storm.”
“It could’ve happened to anyone,” Mr. Kelsey added. “You have no reason to punish yourself, Mr. Potter.”
“Perhaps,” muttered Lucius as he turned toward the door and opened it. “But it’s a shameful thing when a man loses faith in himself.” He stepped out into the raven-black chill and was swallowed by the darkness.

This leads us to the profound gift described in the proclamation: “children are an heritage of the Lord.” [25] And yet, we live at a time when having children can be viewed as a transition of loss—loss of freedom, loss of identity, loss of public recognition, loss of pleasure. I recently sat beside a new mother. Her infant, just 6 weeks old, was still struggling to nurse and bottle feed. His utter dependence struck me. He gazed directly into his mother’s face, locking his eyes on hers. In spite of having no real capacities, it was clear that he recognized her. I could see in his eyes that she was his entire world. For a second, his mouth broke into a smile, and I watched her exhaustion give way to radiance.

Can we possibly measure what it means to the expansion of our own purpose, meaning, and identity, to bring another life into being, to be another’s entire world, to quite literally enter eternity, becoming part of the past and the future forever, to have the privilege of knowing and witnessing the divinity of another, and to make possible their eternal life?

We planted a garden, weeded it, and irrigated it. Some of my choicest childhood experiences were irrigating with my father. Our turn began at 2:00 A.M., so Dad and I would pitch a tent in the yard and go to bed about 9:00 at night. We’d set the alarm clock and get up at 2:00 and turn the water in. Then we’d get up every half hour until 6:00 to change its flow. During all my growing-up years, Dad and I spent many nights irrigating side by side. It’s a great experience to be with your father like that.