Gospel Story Finder

Illustrations by Garth Bruner
Stay close! We don’t want to lose each other.
Can we go on that one?
That might be too scary for Lilly. Let’s find one we can all go on.
Can we please go on the rollercoaster next, Mom?
Mom? Lilly?
I’m never going to find them!
I need to pray.
Heavenly Father, please help me find my family.
Can you help me? I don’t know where my family is.
Sure, don’t worry. Let me make a call.
Mom! Lilly!
Tucker! We were so worried!
Heavenly Father answered my prayer.
Hey, Lilly, wanna go on the bumper cars?
Thanks to Tucker D. from Texas for sharing this story! We’re glad you thought to pray.

“I’m not used to talking much,” Kim’s father began, “except to my cows. But I would like to say that I’m proud of my daughter. I don’t tell her that often, though. You see, I was raised in a very strict home. My mother died when I was younger than Kim, and though my father was a wonderful man, he believed that showing affection made you weak. I don’t remember that he ever hugged me in his life. I guess that’s why I feel awkward about showing affection to Kim. But I’d like to tell a little story that I hope will show that I do love her.
“Kim was born in the winter months, and she caught pneumonia when she was only two months old. I tried to do the household chores because her mother had to care for her constantly. One night it was particularly hard for her to breathe. I took my little girl in my arms and blessed her and prayed for her … as hard as I’ve ever prayed for anything. Then, because her mother was totally exhausted, I sat in the rocker next to the stove and put my baby on her stomach across my lap and rocked her all that night. The doctor came the next morning and said that my rocking her in that position had given Kim’s little lungs a good night’s rest and that he thought that she was going to get well. So you see, that little girl is very special to me—she always has been, and she always will be.”

Christopher’s heart was heavy as he walked slowly to his family’s car after Primary. Why does everyone but me hear the still, small voice? he wondered.
In fast and testimony meeting, Brother Johnson told an experience he had while driving across a lonely stretch of highway. The still, small voice told him to take a different route home, one that would add about 10 kilometers to his trip. Although he had been eager to get home from his business trip, he obeyed the prompting. On his detour, he came across a car accident. A young family had been traveling to visit relatives. When the father, who was driving, fell asleep, the car drifted too close to the side of the road and rolled down a steep hill. Brother Johnson was able to call for help and administer first aid.
Bishop Benson told how he was prompted by the Holy Ghost to check on Sister Henderson during the week. Sister Henderson was a widow who lived about two kilometers up a dirt road off the main highway into town. When the bishop went to see her, he found her furnace had broken down. She didn’t have a telephone and was no longer able to drive, so she had prayed to Heavenly Father for help. The still, small voice had told her all would be well.
Later, Christopher’s Primary teacher, Sister Woolett, gave a lesson about the Holy Ghost. She told about when the still, small voice warned her to check on her sleeping baby. When she did, everything seemed all right.
But as she turned to leave, the voice again told her to check on her little boy. This time she went over to the crib and looked closely at him. There, next to him, was a large, jagged piece of glass. A framed picture that had been hanging above the crib had fallen. Most of the glass and the frame were behind the crib, but the large, jagged piece had fallen next to her sleeping son.
Sister Woolett also related an incident from the lesson manual about one of the prophets being warned of danger by the still, small voice.
Why can everyone hear the still, small voice but me? Christopher wondered again. He knew that after his baptism almost two years ago, he was given the gift of the Holy Ghost when he was confirmed. So why doesn’t the Holy Ghost speak to me?
“How was Primary?” Mom asked as Christopher and his two younger sisters climbed into the car. Jill and Michelle started telling about their lessons and the songs they learned in singing time. Christopher stared sadly at the floor.
“What was your lesson about, Christopher?” Dad asked.
A tear rolled down Christopher’s cheek. “The Holy Ghost,” he replied softly. Sensing that something was wrong, Jill and Michelle quit chattering.
“Maybe we could talk about this a little more when we get in the house,” Mom said as they turned into the driveway.
Later Mom and Dad invited Christopher to come to their room. “Christopher,” Mom said, “can you tell us what’s bothering you?”
Christopher looked down. He didn’t want his parents to know the Holy Ghost didn’t talk to him. They probably heard the still, small voice all the time.
“Listen,” Dad said, putting his arm around Christopher, “we can tell you’re upset, and we’d like to help.”
Christopher felt tears ready to spill from his eyes. “Mom, Dad,” he said in a shaky voice, “why doesn’t the Holy Ghost speak to me? I’ve always tried to do what’s right. I know I make mistakes—like the time I spilled the red punch on the new carpet and said Jill did it so I wouldn’t get in trouble. But I did finally tell the truth. Do you have to be perfect like the bishop or Brother Johnson or Sister Woolett to have the Holy Ghost speak to you?”
Mom and Dad looked a little surprised. “Christopher,” Mom said, “the only perfect person to ever live on the earth is Jesus Christ. Everyone makes mistakes. Why don’t you think the Holy Ghost speaks to you?”
“I’ve never heard the still, small voice,” Christopher replied.
“Hearing a voice isn’t the only way the Holy Ghost can communicate with you,” Mom said. “Often it’s what you feel, not what you hear. Don’t you remember the good feeling you had after you prayed and asked Heavenly Father to forgive you for blaming your sister for the carpet stain? That feeling was from the Holy Ghost.”
“It was?”
“Or how about the time we were reading the scriptures,” Dad added, “and you suddenly understood what Jesus Christ was talking about in the parable of the wheat and the tares. That was the Holy Ghost teaching you.”
“I never thought about it that way before!” Christopher was starting to feel a lot better.
“And,” Mom said, “remember when you got lost last summer and you prayed for help? After you prayed, you felt calm and knew you should sit on the nearest bench and let us find you. That calm, reassuring feeling helping you know what to do was the Holy Ghost.”
Christopher smiled. Now he understood. The Holy Ghost had been talking to him—even if he didn’t hear the still, small voice with his ears! Now he said excitedly, “What about last week when I gave my talk in Primary? I’d studied it really hard, but when I got up, I had forgotten it. Then I said a silent prayer, and suddenly I could remember my talk. That was the Holy Ghost, too, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Dad said. “Helping you remember is also a part of the gift of the Holy Ghost.”
“All those times the Holy Ghost really was talking to me!” The warm feeling in Christopher’s heart helped him know it was true.

I don’t recall his name, but his shy and diffident young face comes clearly to mind. He was smaller and heavier than the other boys in his team, and I remember the look of fatigue on his face as he straggled behind the rest as they approached my outpost.
I recognized the look. It reminded me of myself and how I must have looked to the staff at the Philmont Scout Center in New Mexico years ago: the same chubby kid, the same struggle to keep up with the more athletic boys. I continued to watch him, his adviser following along closely, urging him on.
“C’mon,” he said optimistically. “We’re almost there.”
The boy didn’t have enough breath to answer.
The team had just arrived at Alpine Climbers Outpost. I welcomed them to the camp, introduced myself as the outpost director and rock climbing instructor, and gave them some information about setting up the campsite. As they set about their chores, I wasn’t surprised to see the chubby kid bunking with the team leader, just like I used to have to.
After a sack lunch, the whole group of us, loaded with ropes and gear, headed for an afternoon of adventure on the nearby cliffs. All the boys talked wildly with one another, hyping themselves up for what promised to be the highlight of their weeklong trek. I was pleased to see that even the chubby kid was caught up in the bold talk and in the adventurous spirit of the moment. Unfortunately, it lasted only as long as the hike to the area where the climb would begin.
Soon we were standing at the base of the cliff—a 75-foot high volcanic wedge, vaulting straight up from the canyon floor. I pointed out to the group the climbing route we would use, watching as the courage of my young friend fizzled away. He retreated from the base of the rocks, repeating over and over that he wouldn’t be caught dead climbing on those cliffs. I had no choice but to leave him alone for a while, or at least until my aides and I had the other boys climbing and the program well underway. When I finally got back to him, he was sitting alone in the shade by the stream, quietly watching the other boys climb as he lethargically tossed pebbles into the bubbling water.
“Are you ready to give it a try?”
“I can’t do it,” he said quietly.
“I don’t want you to ‘do’ it. I just want you to get on the ropes and try.”
“I’m afraid I’ll fall,” he admitted, and he started to cry a little.
“Oh, that just means you’re normal,” I joked. “I’ll tell you what. You get on the ropes and give it your best, and I’ll belay you myself. You can trust me. I never drop anybody.”
Eventually he agreed to my conditions, and I put him next in line so that he wouldn’t have any time to change his mind. We quickly got him into a harness, and I climbed up to take my position at the belay station.
“Climber on belay,” he hesitantly yelled up.
“Belay on,” I called back reassuringly.
There was a moment’s pause.
“Climbing.”
“Climb on,” I replied.
Getting up the first 20 feet of this climb is easy, and though he was nervous and hesitant, he got to the first ledge just fine. Now he had reached the difficult part of the climb. At this point, hand and foot holds are scarce, and a slight overhang allows gravity to pull awkwardly at the body’s weight, making balance difficult and creating an illusion of instability. A person climbing this for the first time usually finds it quite a challenge, but one that can be overcome with a good attempt.
My young climber didn’t agree. He froze, and for a long time clung to the rock in fear, repeating over and over, “I can’t do it, I can’t do it,” despite my assurances that he could. At one point, he asked if I would let him back down, but I hesitated, hoping that he would somehow gather up enough courage to try harder.
Then, after a moment of what I remember to be complete silence, he called up to me in a tearful voice, “Are you sure you’ve got me?”
“I’ve got you,” I replied calmly. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere but up!”
I felt the rope move as the boy ascended a bit, and I pulled with all my strength, hoping to relieve his arms and legs of a portion of his weight. He pushed himself a little higher, and again I took up the slack. Suddenly there was a tug on the rope that unmistakably signaled a fall. I jammed my thumb into the rope and pulled it tightly around my waist in order to hold the weight of the boy, who was now dangling safely below.
“You caught me,” he cried, thanking me over and over as he regained his hold on the rock.
“I told you I would.” And I added, “Piece of cake.”
I then remembered the conditions we had set before he started, and now that he had tried his hardest, I thought I’d better let him down.
“Okay,” I said. “Are you ready to go back down now?”
His answer delighted me.
“No, I’ll keep going.”
With renewed faith in the rope and a fresh burst of adrenalin, he resumed his climb. I’ve never seen anyone, before or since, work so hard and with such driving desire to get up that rock. It was still difficult for him, and he lost his hold again and again, but he persisted, encouraged on by the cheers of everyone around. After a long, hard struggle he made it to the top, and we helped him to a position away from the edge before he and I unfastened the rope that held us together. Relaxing in the shade of a nearby aspen, we sat together and caught our breath, reveling in the joy and the thrill of his accomplishment.
Then he said something that amazed me. “Let’s do it again.”
I learned the power of self-confidence from a small, chubby young man who at first doubted his abilities, then wouldn’t give up. I belayed him as he came up the second time, calm and full of confidence that he could overcome the obstacle. He made it to the top, of course, but without a single fall and without any help from me. I never would have believed that it was the same person coming up that second time, and yet there he was, poking his head up over the top. I guess in a way he really was a different person. He climbed knowing that he could make it. He learned to try when he was afraid of failure, and this ability would help him overcome more challenges in life than just a rock cliff.

One morning my parents went somewhere, and my little brother’s friend and his mom came over to babysit. My little sister and brother went outside to play with them. I decided to stay inside and do chores. First, I set the table for lunch. Then I made two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and put them in the refrigerator. Then I mopped the floor with wet paper towels. Then I went upstairs to clean my room. When I was halfway done, I heard the front door open. My mom and dad were home! When I told them what I had done, they were very proud of me. I felt good inside that I was helping my parents.

As I slowly added to my mother’s family tree, I received a message from someone I didn’t know on FamilySearch. A maternal family name I had sent to the temple was reserved by this person, and they asked me for help to find more information about their family.
Temple names can only be reserved by descendants of that name, meaning I was related to this person messaging me. I was astounded! My family had always believed that we were the only members of the Church on my mother’s side and that no one from her side lived in the USA. But we were wrong.
This person turned out to be a distant cousin—their family immigrated to the United States almost 40 years before my mother did and are active members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. By what can only be described as a miracle, they contacted me right when they were visiting my state, and we had the opportunity to meet each other.
We shed tears when we finally saw each other. As we shared our stories, we realized that we had so much more in common than we’d thought. There is something about finding long-lost family members that makes my heart grow with love—a love that has the power to heal loneliness and discouragement and remind me of my divine identity and eternal connections.
The blessings available to us when we do family history work are “breathtakingly amazing because of their scope, specificity, and consequence in mortality,”3 as Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles shared. The Lord blessed my family with relatives who could help us feel a bit closer to home and ease some of the loneliness we’ve been feeling.

The years since my mission have provided opportunities for the fulfillment of those missionary promises. I returned home to marry my high school sweetheart, Christine Swensen. She is a wonderful companion, and I love her dearly. As a registered nurse, she worked helping us to get through dental school. As school was drawing to a close and our sixth wedding anniversary was upon us, we were still without children. Then a door opened and an opportunity presented itself, and Ashley came into our lives. Our dear, precious Ashley.
A year later we traveled to Bolivia to bring Joshua home from an orphanage. He was two years old. I can still see that beautiful little boy walking to me with outstretched arms, saying, “Papa, Papa.”
Megan then joined us, not even twenty-four hours old when we brought her home. Then back to Bolivia for Daniel, five months old when we held him for the first time.
Several years later, while I was presiding over the Mexico Merida Mission, Jennifer joined our family—a beautiful two-week-old Guatemalan baby girl born in Mexico. She opened the hearts of our missionaries and members in southern Mexico. Natalie Joy came into our family three weeks before our mission ended. Her middle name, Joy, is an eternal reminder of the witness we received that she should be included in our family.
After sixteen years of marriage and six adoptions, Anne and Andrew naturally joined our family, to the joy and happiness of their brothers and sisters. As a family, we are forever grateful for the binding and sealing effect the temple provides for the members of Jesus Christ’s church.
With special promises made to the Lord under the stars in Bolivia at Easter time 1968, there is not a day goes by but that Chris and I embrace our children and feel of God’s love for all of His children. And now, as with Easter 1968, for me Easter season 1995 will be one never to be forgotten.

And, if you look to the left of the pulpit where Bella bore her testimony of prayer, you’ll see Nicolas, a teacher, putting away the sacrament trays after the meeting.
It might sound strange, but Nicolas’s testimony of the priesthood began with a head injury. “I was Rollerblading down a hill with a mate, and I hit something and cracked the back of my head open.” At 10 inches, the “crack” was more like a canyon, and the doctors said Nicolas would not pull through or he would have severe brain damage. A priesthood blessing from his dad and others in the ward proved the doctors wrong. “That experience gave me quite a shining testimony of the priesthood,” Nicolas says. The Lord preserved his life through the power of the priesthood, and Nicolas plans to honor his priesthood by serving a mission.

I know a wonderful Gospel Doctrine teacher who lifts class members as she teaches, but that wasn’t always the case. After joining the Church, she received a calling to teach in Primary. She felt she had no teaching skills, but because she knew the importance of serving, she accepted. Fear quickly overcame her, and she stopped attending so she wouldn’t have to teach. Thankfully, her home teacher noticed her absence, visited her, and invited her back. The bishop and ward members assisted her. Eventually, with increased faith, she began teaching children. As she applied principles now taught in Teaching in the Savior’s Way, the Lord blessed her efforts and she became a gifted teacher.11

Kent Madrian is carefully maneuvering his six-foot-six-inch body and an old Kirby vacuum cleaner over grandma’s best rug. Grandma is keeping a watchful eye on her furniture.
Bump. Kent runs into the easy chair and starts to go around it.
“You’ve got to move the chair,” Grandma says. “To get underneath.”
“I know, Grandma.”
After a few more turns around the floor Kent hits the switch and the machine’s rumble dies. “What do you want for dinner, Grandma?” Kent asks.
In case you haven’t noticed, there is something unusual about this scene—grandparents usually take care of grandchildren, not the other way around. But in this house, things have changed for a while. For four months Kent has been living with his grandparents, helping them out when they couldn’t take care of themselves.
Then in January Kent’s grandma hurt her arm and wasn’t able to do normal tasks around her house. Grandpa had been confined to a wheelchair and was also unable to help.
Though preparing to leave on a mission to Italy in April, Kent moved in. “My grandparents had always been there for me, so I saw it as an opportunity to pay a small part back,” he says.
Kent moved in with the idea he would be cleaning, cooking, shopping—and he did all those things. But ask him about peeling potatoes or making breakfast and he’ll change the subject. He’d rather tell you what Grandma and Grandpa taught him.
“Grandma got me ready for my mission in a lot of ways,” he says. “She taught me how to iron and cook, but more importantly she helped me spiritually. I had a lot of time to read in the scriptures and I talked to her about what I was reading.
“Grandma taught me a lot of the gospel is learning to think about the other guy,” says Kent. “And that’s how you find yourself, by serving others.”
So, he says he came away a better person by just being around Ruby and Delos. Then again, he was a pretty decent guy to start. Let Grandma Ruby give you an example. “At first, Kent slept in a sleeping bag at the foot of Grandpa’s bed. Kent wanted to be there if Delos needed to get up in the night. After a few nights I made Kent sleep in another room because his back was hurting.”
Or Ruby will tell you how Delos enjoyed watching baseball games on television. Delos and Ruby couldn’t afford cable service so Kent dipped into his college savings to pay for a sports channel so Delos could watch Cincinnati Reds’ games.
But as close as the three got in those months, Kent faced the same challenges most young people do in relating to older people. When asked if he had to listen to the same story more than once, Kent flashed a gee-whiz grin and nodded. “I’d hear the same story like six times over. I’d just be nice and listen.”
That, however, was a small price to pay. Kent now believes he knows his grandparents.
“I have always loved them,” says Kent, “but I guess I never really understood them. I think I do now. They are just like all of us. They have the same needs. The only difference is they have a lifetime of experiences to tell you about. If you get to know them, they can be some of the best friends you have.”
Kent has now left on his mission, but the memories he has of those last months with his grandparents cannot be erased. “It was hard leaving when you know you’re needed,” he says. “But I’m needed in Italy too. They understand that.”

Stelio Mauahiti lived next door to an attractive building in Paea on the island of Tahiti. He was told it was a church, but he didn’t really know what kind of church. The grounds were always neat, and people seemed to come nearly every day to participate in a variety of activities. On Sundays, he could hear the singing as the doors and windows were always open. Other days, he watched boys near his own age play basketball on the outdoor court. He paid particular attention to the two young men who wore white shirts and dark trousers.
Soon he was playing basketball with them. Then he started to listen to what they had to say. He and his mother agreed to be taught the gospel. At their baptism, Stelio made up his mind to serve a mission someday.
That day has come. Elder Mauahiti was called to serve in the French Polynesia Mission. One of his first assignments was to the village of Uturoa on the island of Raiatea. Mission life is very different from his life before his mission. Now he is the young man in the white shirt and dark trousers. Now he is the one who plays basketball on the outdoor court with those who are wondering about the Church. Now he is the one who does the teaching.
Best of all, Elder Mauahiti sees the same thing happening to his people that Elder Pratt saw 150 years ago. He’s seeing people change for the better. “I have seen the difference between the homes of members and the homes of nonmembers,” says Elder Mauahiti. “I have seen lives changed, hearts touched by the Spirit. I know that it’s not me who makes the difference, but the Spirit of the Lord working through his missionaries.”

I attended church and seminary, but my family later fell away. I had friends at church and went to seminary and Mutual to be with them. I didn’t care about the gospel or the teachings and thought church was generally boring. My life grew troubled as I began to engage in activities such as shoplifting and vandalism. My father became abusive, and I thought about suicide.

However, suicide was never an option. I couldn’t do that to my mother, whom I loved deeply. So I was left to find an answer. I looked around and saw my friends from church. The one thing they had that I didn’t was a testimony. So at the age of 16, four years after my baptism, I sat down to read the Book of Mormon for the first time.

It was difficult, and it took me nearly two years. As I read in 3 Nephi about the Savior’s visit to the Nephites after His Resurrection, where He blesses their children and angels descend from heaven and encircle them, it was as though I stood among the Nephites and saw with my own eyes that miraculous event. The Holy Ghost bore witness of that great moment.

I could not read any more, as my eyes blurred with tears. When I regained my composure, I continued reading. A few more weeks passed, and I finished the book, knelt, and prayed to know if it was true. But I got no answer.

Days passed with me kneeling regularly and pleading to know if the book was true, if the Church was true, but still I got no answer. Despairing, weeks after I’d finished reading, I knelt one more time and asked, “Heavenly Father, is the Book of Mormon true?” The answer that came was not what I expected: “I have already told you. You know it is.”

I had gained my testimony weeks before, when I read about Christ blessing the children. I knew that this Church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, is the kingdom of God on earth, restored by a prophet and led by a prophet, as in days of old.

It is no exaggeration to say that the Book of Mormon saved my life, but it would be more accurate to say the restored gospel saved me and continues to renew me and nourish me each day. It is my most precious possession.

One of the great blessings of my childhood was that my mother spent significant time reading to me and my younger brother Howard. She had a great sense of the importance of good books, and she used them to teach and entertain us. This all served to expand our limited young lives to matters far beyond our daily experience. The reading had begun when I was a runabout preschooler and Howard, who had been born with severe physical disabilities and could not run about, needed special attention. The blessing for me was that I got special attention too.
The books were wide-ranging and grew in sophistication as we grew. I remember nursery rhymes, poetry, folktales from Russia, the adventure in Thunder Cave—and the scriptures. Together we read parables, incidents such as the woman at the well, even the great abstractions.
One day Mother read: “Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up. …
“Beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things.
“Charity never faileth” (1 Cor. 13:4, 7–8; see also Moro. 7:45–46).
Howard interrupted the reading, as he often did, with a question: “What is charity?” He wanted to know the meaning of what we had just heard; I was still caught up in the way it sounded. I only wanted to go on with the reading, but I could tell Mother was pleased with his inquisitiveness. She taught us then, and later, that good questions can be important if we are truly searching to understand and that sometimes good answers that are good enough may take a lifetime of looking. Then she put down the New Testament and read from the Book of Mormon:
“But charity is the pure love of Christ, and it endureth forever; and whoso is found possessed of it at the last day, it shall be well with him [or her]” (Moro. 7:47).
There it was in one verse—the concentrated essence of a much larger whole, a definition given for a profound yet available truth. What I heard that day was clearly beyond my childhood comprehension, but the spirit of love was there and was as real as any of the other details of my young life.

Everyone said, “Five, that’s wonderful! Now you can go to school.”
But I wasn’t sure I wanted to go to school. Mom drove past the school so I could see it. She smiled, but I thought it looked like a scary place. I saw many older boys and girls playing ball. They were all so big!
I was afraid to ride in the school bus too. It groans as it creeps up the hill by our house.
The morning I started school, Mom and Dad seemed happy because I was getting to be such a big girl. When I got dressed, Dad took my picture for our scrapbook.
Mom and I met Kari and her mother at the bus stop on the corner. Kari and I sat together after we got on the bus. We stopped a few times for other children and their mothers.
At school, Mom led me down the hall, past the library and a giant painting, and into my room.
I had already met my teacher, Miss Sorenson. I wondered if she’d remember my name.
“Welcome to kindergarten,” said Miss Sorenson. She smiled and told us about the schoolwork we would do. She even had name tags for us.
Kari and I explored. Records and picture books filled some shelves. There was a piano in the corner near the door.
Miss Sorenson showed us a workbench and a small kitchen. We worked at tables, with a shelf above for our crayons and scissors.
After school I was worried about finding my bus stop. But Miss Sorenson pinned a card on me with my name and bus stop, and a fifth grader helped me. So it was easy.
Now I like school. We listen to stories and learn new songs. Sometimes we cook, and one day we learned about caterpillars. Some days we visit the library or play in the gym. One day we even made gingerbread men.
Now I know my way around. The school is big, but I am too. After all, now I’m five!

Once, in company with Elder Gene R. Cook and the mission president, we traveled in a very remote region on the Altiplano, or high plain, in Bolivia. We had traveled much of the day in a four-wheel-drive vehicle. We had crossed an arm of Lake Titicaca on an ancient ferry. We followed mountain roads first built by the ancient Incan Indians.
Once, we had to build a stone ramp to emerge from a river bed which formed something of a road in the dry season. Lifting stones at an altitude of more than thirteen thousand feet is no small task.
We came eventually to our destination, Huacuyo. It is really not a village so much as houses scattered about the mountains, as high, I suppose, as men live anywhere on earth.
There we found what we were seeking—a little adobe and stone chapel. The few Saints in the region had built it themselves with no help from the Church.
The distance and forbidding terrain made this, I’m sure, as remote from Church headquarters as any place on earth.
The chapel had a dirt floor and rude hand-hewn benches. The interior walls had been whitewashed. Hanging on the front wall were three pictures: the President of the Church and his two counselors—the First Presidency.
I repeat the words of Paul:
“Continue thou in the things which thou hast learned, … knowing of whom thou hast learned them.” (2 Tim. 3:14; italics added.)
Even in that remote little branch the members could identify those who hold the keys of authority.

I saw something else on the wall of that little chapel in Huacuyo. It was a rudely printed poster. I could not hold back the tears as I read the heading “preparacion para ser estaca”—preparation for stakehood.
There followed a list of qualifications for a stake of Zion. A stake of Zion there in the remotest village atop the Andes Mountains? Oh, yes! That will be one day. And when it comes, one of us will be there to give authority to the leaders. When a stake of Zion is organized anywhere on earth, a man sitting on this stand must be there to confer the keys of presidency. Only from those who have the authority and it is known to the church that they have authority can they receive them. There is yet a further witness. Any seeking soul—any member—has the right to know by the gift of the Spirit about the call of our leaders.

What I didn’t have the courage to do, though, was to pray. I felt like I couldn’t face God. I thought I was angry at Him, but in reality I was just ashamed of myself. In my mind, this whole “accident” seemed to be a punishment, partly because I had stopped going to church and I hadn’t been following His commandments, but mostly because I’ve experienced same-sex attraction for as long as I can remember. I mistakenly thought He was disappointed in and ashamed of me.
I was wounded both physically and spiritually.
When I was released from the hospital, my mental health suffered. Even though I had my family and friends around me, I still felt alone. I knew I needed Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ in order to heal, but I struggled to make myself pray.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I reached my breaking point and was willing to kneel down and pray for the first time in so long. I sobbed as I poured my heart out to Heavenly Father. I asked Him questions and told Him my concerns until I was out of breath.
Gradually, a feeling of peace filled me. And these words came to my heart and mind: “All these things will be for your good to refine your character. It was just an accident.”
Seriously?
Was this really just an accident? Not a punishment? That answer made no sense to me. But after a few days of pondering, I knew it was true. I also knew that Heavenly Father loved me. He had been calling me back to His flock for so long, and I was finally ready to return. I decided to go back to church and began an incredible, spiritually healing process with my loving bishop, who helped me fully invite the peace the Savior offers into my life.
Coming back to the Church was not easy. For so long, I had so much shame about myself. But the more I came to understand my divine identity, the less ashamed I felt. I know now that my feelings toward women don’t make me a sinner, and my amputation doesn’t limit my worth. These qualities do give me a different perspective and play a role in my spiritual growth. I also know that my perspective can bless others in the gospel. Through the Savior’s grace, I have been able to confidently accept that I am a child of God. I am loved completely. And Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ were, are, and will always be ready to bless me as I turn to Them. Always.

The air was stiflingly hot, and birds filled the blue Portuguese sky. Nearby, some of my nephews were playing in the river, plunging into the water to escape the heat.
I wished I could escape my troubles so easily. I had recently decided to become active again in the Church. Through the Holy Ghost, the Lord had confirmed my decision, but my family and friends didn’t understand. They had criticized and abandoned me, and I felt utterly alone. A request to watch my sister’s boys swim had offered some needed moments of peace in what seemed a constant battle against forces intent on keeping me from the truth.
I had brought my Book of Mormon with me, and while my nephews splashed in the river, I sat under a tree and read. Tears started to flow as I thought of those I loved who told me I was making a mistake. I was so sure I was doing the Father’s will.
Suddenly it occurred to me that I could no longer hear my nephews. I looked toward the river, but they weren’t there. Concern, bordering on panic, flooded my heart.
And then I heard a young voice calling out my name. I turned to see my nephews standing behind me, smiling, cheeks as radiant as the light of the sun. The youngest, about five years old, was hiding something behind his back—an arrangement of multicolored flowers he and his brothers had picked from the nearby field. He presented them to me in a voice that sounded like music to my ears.
Tears sprang again to my eyes. But this time they were tears of happiness. As I embraced my nephews, I lifted my face to the sky and saw rays of sunlight shining through a break in the clouds. A great peace filled my heart. Because of this small, simple gesture—made with love—I knew I was not alone. Even though they did not understand my decision, my nephews—and all my family members—still loved me. But more important, Heavenly Father knew of my trials and was there to sustain me with His infinite love and concern.

After I received my mission call, my parents and I traveled to the Mesa Arizona Temple so I could receive my endowment. As we prepared to climb a set of stairs that led to the temple’s ordinance rooms, I saw on a wall above a doorway the Savior’s words: “Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God” (Matthew 5:8). The Spirit immediately bore witness to me that I was in a sacred place doing a sacred work.
I didn’t understand all the symbolism in what I saw and heard that day. But I felt the Spirit as I made covenants and received further light and knowledge essential for my eternal progress.

A few weeks after I arrived in Germany as a missionary, my trainer and I knocked on the door of an older woman, who agreed to let us teach her.
During our first lesson, we invited her to read a scripture aloud. Through thick glasses, she read with great difficulty, stumbling over the words. And her responses to our questions were short. We weren’t sure how much she understood.
We asked her to read certain passages in the Book of Mormon before our next visit. When we came again, she had read them but didn’t seem to understand them. We wondered if she might have some challenges with learning. We wondered if we should go on teaching her. But we kept going.
At our next visit, we were surprised when she said she wanted to be baptized. Then, as we continued teaching her, we noticed that her reading actually got better. Her answers to our questions were still short but seemed better and surer.
I was soon transferred to a different city, but my trainer wrote to me later to say that this woman had been baptized and was supported by the branch members. If you had asked us weeks earlier who of all our contacts was most likely to be baptized and find a place in the Church, she would not have been at the top of our list.
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My companion and I weren’t sure whether the woman we were teaching in Germany was very likely to get baptized. We didn’t know her heart, but God did. I’m glad we felt prompted to keep teaching her.

Over 100 years ago, in the Samoan Islands of the Pacific Ocean, a young man named Tom Fanene was an important help during a life-and-death situation for members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
Tom lived in a village called Sauniatu, which had been founded by Latter-day Saints in the area as a place for them to gather and make a community. Just like Saints of God in other times and places, they experienced trials as well as miracles as they worked to build God’s kingdom together. One trial came in 1918, when an influenza pandemic reached the village.
As soon as the illness arrived, it was devastating, and it spread quickly. Nearly every one of the roughly 400 villagers was bedridden because of it. Only a couple of them were well enough to get around: an older man and 12-year-old Tom.
During the 1918 influenza epidemic, Tom exercised faith as he worked hard to care for the people of the village. “Every morning I went from house to house to feed and clean the people and to find out who had died,” he said.
He fetched buckets of water from a spring and brought water to every house. He climbed coconut trees, picked coconuts, husked them, and opened them to collect the juice to bring it to the sick. He also killed all of the chickens in the village to make soup for each family.
The 12-year-old Tom Fanene helped nurse his village to health during a pandemic.
Illustration by James Madsen
During this pandemic, around one-fourth of all of the people in Samoa died of influenza. Some of the people in Tom’s village died as well. Tom helped dig graves and bury more than 20 of them, including his own father, Elisala.
But thanks to Tom’s hard work and loving care, many people in his village survived. He made a big difference to those people and to the building up of the Lord’s kingdom in Samoa. He was “laying the foundation of a great work.”
The 1918 influenza pandemic hit them hard. But Tom helped many to survive. Children went back to school, and villagers again formed the Sauniatu Branch Band (above).