Gospel Story Finder

This afternoon I want to describe and discuss a spiritual impression I received a few moments before I stepped to this pulpit during the Sunday morning session of general conference last October. Elder Dieter F. Uchtdorf had just finished speaking and had declared his powerful witness of the Savior. Then we all stood together to sing the intermediate hymn that previously had been announced by President Gordon B. Hinckley. The intermediate hymn that morning was “Redeemer of Israel” (Hymns, no. 6).

Now, the music for the various conference sessions had been determined many weeks before—and obviously long before my new call to serve. If, however, I had been invited to suggest an intermediate hymn for that particular session of the conference—a hymn that would have been both edifying and spiritually soothing for me and for the congregation before my first address in this Conference Center—I would have selected my favorite hymn, “Redeemer of Israel.” Tears filled my eyes as I stood with you to sing that stirring hymn of the Restoration.

Near the conclusion of the singing, to my mind came this verse from the Book of Mormon: “But behold, I, Nephi, will show unto you that the tender mercies of the Lord are over all those whom he hath chosen, because of their faith, to make them mighty even unto the power of deliverance” (1 Nephi 1:20).

My mind was drawn immediately to Nephi’s phrase “the tender mercies of the Lord,” and I knew in that very moment I was experiencing just such a tender mercy. A loving Savior was sending me a most personal and timely message of comfort and reassurance through a hymn selected weeks previously. Some may count this experience as simply a nice coincidence, but I testify that the tender mercies of the Lord are real and that they do not occur randomly or merely by coincidence. Often the Lord’s timing of His tender mercies helps us to both discern and acknowledge them.

When a group of young women in the state of Washington, USA, wanted to become more involved with family history, they decided to create an embroidered family-tree project. It ended up bringing their family history to life and taught them new skills along the way.
“This project was a great way for the young women in my ward to work together and have fun learning about our families,” says McKenna S., 14. “Creating my family tree has given me a new perspective on my ancestry. I learned about people I didn’t know who were part of my family, and I had the opportunity to be baptized for one of my great-grandmothers.”
To start the project, each young woman collected five generations of ancestors’ names. The group began by visiting a local family history center, where they learned how to do family history research online. Monica B., 14, especially enjoys researching names on new.familysearch.org and submitting her ancestors’ names for temple work. She says, “It was a neat experience to take family names—that I found myself—to the temple to do baptisms. I feel a stronger connection to my ancestors now and love seeing their names on the tree displayed in our home.”
The young women spent time working with their parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles searching for family information. All this time spent sharing family history stories and collecting names helped them strengthen their family relationships. For Madison F., 14, it became a family project. Her mother says, “This project helps the whole family. We knew very little about my husband’s side of the family and have had fun finding and reading through the names on his side of the tree, because most of them are people we had never heard of.”
After gathering names, the young women took a trip to the temple to begin the ordinance work for their ancestors. “I was very excited to take the names I had found to the temple,” Jerica D., 17, says. “It made the experience much more meaningful.”
In addition to learning about family history and temple work, the young women also learned how to embroider. They each embroidered their family’s last name onto a tree, and each leaf on the family tree has the name of a family member on it. At first, Tahna T., 13, resisted this part of the project because it wasn’t a skill she felt she was good at, but she learned to enjoy it so much that she continues to develop her talent with needlework.
The young women say that one of the best parts of this project was getting together for parties to work on their trees together. They met at a leader’s home and brought their family tree materials and snacks to share. Then they spent hours chatting, working, and snacking. They compared unusual and similar family names, helped one another with embroidery, and talked about how to lay out the leaves of their trees. Natasha T., 16, says, “I had a lot of fun working with the other young women, kind of like we were a family.”
Now the young women proudly display their family trees at home. Some of them have hung their trees in their bedrooms, while others have displayed them in their family rooms for visitors to see. They love to look at all the names and talk about them with their families. Breanna D., 15, says, “I thought it was really neat how we could look up so many people I was related to and know that they once lived and breathed just like me.”

Gbenga Onalaja is the only Mormon at his Catholic school in Ibadan, Nigeria, and he is a little bit shy. So when a visiting archbishop asked a question at a school assembly of more than 1,000 people, Gbenga hesitated more than a minute before he answered the question.

“After his remarks, the archbishop asked the question ‘Who was Saint Martha?’” says Gbenga.
The Catholic designation of “Saint” threw Gbenga off a little bit, so he didn’t raise his hand. After several moments of uncomfortable silence, however, it appeared that no one knew the answer. Gbenga knew what he had to do.
“I raised my hand and the archbishop called me up to the front of the assembly. I was nervous and my leg was shaking, but I managed to answer that Martha was the sister of Mary and Lazarus.
“He then asked me to explain, so I told him what I knew. It was easy because I had learned it all in church.”
The archbishop was so pleased with Gbenga’s answer, he rewarded him with a scholarship for his last year at the school. Gbenga was also able to tell the archbishop about the Church.
Gbenga, who is a deacon in the Ibadan Third Branch, says, “Since that day, I have been referred to as ‘scholarship boy.’ Every time I hear that phrase, it brings back good memories and reminds me to listen to the promptings of the Spirit.”

Something that happened during a Book of Mormon class years ago has had a great impact on my life. Our teacher, Brother Fernando Aguilar, told us an experience that had happened to his father, Santiago Aguilar II, who had been working hard to find genealogical information about his ancestors. He had been successful in submitting many family names for temple ordinances. Nevertheless, on one of his family lines, the information he could find stopped with his grandmother. Despite many trips and continual research, he had not been able to find the necessary information about her. But the Spirit gave him a sense of urgency to keep looking.
Brother Fernando Aguilar, currently a part-time coordinator for the Church Educational System in Chile, recalled: “One day my father had an impression that he should return to a small village 90 kilometers east of the city of Osorno—some 500 kilometers from his home in Talcahuano—even though he had recently visited our relatives there and had received genealogical information. He knew of no reason to return, but the impression would not leave. So with a prayer for guidance, he returned to the village. When our relatives saw him, they were surprised he had returned so soon, and they assured him they had given him all the genealogical information they had. He simply explained that he felt an urgency to return, even though he didn’t know why.
“My father spent the following day seeking—but not finding—additional information. After a tiring day, as he was walking to an uncle’s home, he felt impressed to change his route. My father followed the impression, even though he didn’t know where he was going or why. His new route led him to a large vacant lot filled with trash, and he felt a strong impulse to take the path through the lot.
“After entering the lot, he stopped suddenly and began to look around, seeking the reason for being in that spot so far from home. Looking down at his feet, he saw a yellowed, dirty piece of paper and picked it up. After shaking the dirt off, he recognized it as his grandparents’ marriage certificate, which included the names and other family information he was missing. This certificate was the key he needed to bring to pass the temple work for our ancestors.”

After graduating with honors from high school, Bien studied political science at the Christian College of the Philippines. “We were talking in class about earthquakes,” Bien remembers, “laughing about getting caught in one.” Suddenly, the whole classroom swayed. It was an earthquake.

Terrified, everyone scrambled to escape. The building was dancing madly. Just as Bien was about to dash to safety through an open door, he was pinned by an avalanche of concrete.

“A broken chair jabbed at my stomach, one of my legs was in a half-kneeling posture, and I was face-down,” he remembers. His fractured right arm bled profusely under a block of collapsed flooring. Yet, incredibly, a huge chunk of fallen concrete had barely missed his head. “Classmates were crying for help, but I couldn’t budge,” Bien recalls. One by one they died, including three lying on Bien. The quake struck in late afternoon, and by evening it was pitch dark. Everything was silent.

“I cried,” Bien admits. But as he wept, a Primary song crossed his mind. He started singing “I Am a Child of God.” As each word pierced the silence, a feeling of peace came, a feeling that he was no longer alone. “I prayed, saying, ‘Father, if I still need to live, then please let me live.’” As he prayed, Bien remembered the Savior. “He suffered a lot more than I did,” Bien realized. The cave-in became a tremendous spiritual experience.

As the sun rose the following morning, so did Bien’s hopes. Rescue workers pried him from the rubble and carried him to safety. His relieved family was notified. Bien was rushed to a hospital. Doctors immediately amputated his right arm. “I woke up, looked at my right side and cried out, ‘What’s happening here?’ I thought I was dreaming.” Shock turned to sorrow. “I felt so lonely because I might not be able to do what I used to do.”

After three bedridden months, Bien went home. Nearly all of his 50 classmates had perished. It seemed the same thing happened to Bien’s will to live. How could he, a right-handed person, manage with just his left arm?

While tutoring his nephews one day, Bien felt prompted to practice writing the alphabet. At first it was pure frustration. “My mind knew the shapes, but my hand had difficulty following.” However, practice makes perfect; less than a year after that fateful day, Bien was not only writing with ease, but was also oil painting again. And he resumed college.

After a year, he felt it was time to make use of his newfound strength and serve a mission. His family was aghast. “We’d really worry about you,” his mother protested.

“I know this is what the Lord wants,” Bien reassured her.

Months later, as a missionary, Bien received a family letter. “Don’t worry about us,” they wrote. “We’re boasting about you already.”

Bien’s personality affects just about everybody. At the Manila Missionary Training Center he was an inspiration, and his dedication has touched the Santa Maria Branch. But Bien admits there are still some challenges, like forgoing basketball and missing service projects like harvesting rice.

One of Bien’s favorite scriptures says God “will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will … also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it” (1 Cor. 10:13). It’s a scripture that helps Bien see everything as a learning experience.

Mission life, he says, “is like a school where I learn much, not only about the gospel but also about myself.” He hastens to add that it was in the rubble of another school where he learned to trust Heavenly Father.

Ask Bien to sum up his blessings, and he’ll share his motto: “I asked God for health that I might do great things, and I was given an infirmity that I might do greater things.”

Then he’ll smile and extend his friendship to you—with a warm, left-handed handshake.

Lance and Londa Chase were among the first to warmly welcome us to Laie. Lance touched many lives through his long and distinguished faculty career at BYU-Hawaii and his ministry as bishop of the Laie 2 nd Ward. We all admired his grace, stamina and dignity as he battled cancer for several years. When he went to Utah for a painful bone marrow transplant, the doctors said he needed to recuperate in a secluded place, a controlled environment where he would not have contact with people and potential germs which might attack his weakened immune system. He also needed to continue to visit the clinic almost daily for several months of follow-up treatments. Being far away from his home in Hawaii made this a problem. Then former VP of PCC and former bishop of Laie 2 nd Brian Bolles and his wife Joan, came forward and said, "Please take over our home. We will move in with Joan's parents. Our home is yours for as long as you need it." Convenient for the Bolles? No. Londa Chase told me that the Bolle's home had a very nice cooling system, but that the air conditioning in Joan's mother's home was broken during that hot summer. The treatment lasted from June through October, almost five months. During this time, the family would come by occasionally to pick up clothes or other goods, and the Chases never felt any resentment or negative vibes from the children or the parents. They were always cheerful and supportive and considered it a privilege and blessing to be able to help.

Remember the Samaritan? "What's mine is yours if you need it."

I had always had the same dream. Ever since I could remember, my dream was to ice-skate in the Olympics. I worked very hard at it, skating in all my free time. Although I loved skating with all my heart, the time it took to practice left me with very little time for my friends.
I knew that I was lucky to have three close friends, because I was shy and it was difficult for me to make friends. When my parents told me that my father’s company was transferring him to another state, I was heartsick.
“Mom, we can’t move,” I protested. “It will mess up everything! I’ll have to get familiar with a new rink, a new practice schedule, a new coach. And since I’ll be unknown at the new rink, I’ll go to the bottom of the list for practice hours. And I won’t know a single person in the whole state, except you and Dad.”
“I know, Melissa,” Mom soothed, “It isn’t going to be easy for any of us, especially you. But we’re all going to have to do our share of sacrificing. You may have to work a little harder to reach your goals, but you’ll manage somehow.”
I knew that Mom was right, but I was still terrified of facing a new situation, and the thought of trying to make new friends made me feel sick to my stomach.
Mom and I drove to the ice rink in Danville, our new hometown, the first night we arrived. It was a Friday night, and the rink was open for public skating. Mom had an appointment with the owner to discuss practice time. I wanted to try out the ice.
I slipped into my skates and joined the twenty or so people on the ice. My spirits were so low that I just glided along without really putting any effort into it.
I watched the people closely. Most of them were in groups of two or three, except for a few girls my age. There were four of them, and I could tell by the way they were skating that they were not beginners. These laughing, boisterous girls were the girls I’d be sharing ice time with.
I tried to get up the courage to say hello and introduce myself, and I almost did—until I realized that they had noticed me and were eyeing me with interest. I knew that they were trying to size me up, and I lost all my confidence. I was relieved to see Mom coming out of an office door. I exited the ice quickly.
“How’s the ice?” Mom asked.
“It’s OK,” I mumbled.
“Well,” she started, “as you guessed, you’re going to have to share ice time. Practice times are Monday and Wednesday afternoons from four to six, and Tuesday and Thursday from three to five. You can be on the ice every morning from five to seven, but only with your coach. I set up an appointment for you to meet the coaches tomorrow. The sooner you pick one, the sooner you can get started.”
Mom went on and on about the business end of skating, and I was happy to let her. I was afraid if she tried to involve me in the conversation, she’d see how miserable I was feeling.
I chose a wonderful coach, and after a couple of weeks we had a routine down. We practiced every weekday morning for an hour, two on Saturday, and two hours in the evenings, Monday through Thursday.
I went to school and church and skated with the four girls I’d seen that first night at the rink. But I still had not made any friends. I knew that it was mostly my fault, because I hadn’t really tried. It was easier to pretend that I was too busy. But now that my schedule was no longer new, I was getting bored and lonely. I wanted to be friends with those girls more than I’d wanted anything since we’d moved. I decided that I was going to make an honest effort to befriend them.
Mom made a batch of her best fudge brownies, and I took them with me one Monday morning. It was just the icebreaker I needed. That day I became friends with Julie, Ann, Michelle, and Kelly.
For the next couple of days, everything went well. I was thrilled to have them for friends, and they seemed to like me, too. Danville was starting to feel like home.
On Friday night, we all met at the rink during public skate time to have a little fun. It was nice to just glide along the ice with a chill in my face and my hair blowing behind me and not worry about figure eights or double toe loops.
We had been on the ice for about twenty minutes, when Julie snickered and pointed to a heavyset girl of our age, coming onto the ice. “There she is again! I can’t believe that cow is coming on the ice.”
I couldn’t believe my ears! Who is she? I wondered. I hadn’t seen her here before.
“Hey, Moo-ey Mary, who let you out of the barn?” Julie hollered at her.
The other girls giggled. I looked from face to face, trying to decide what to do. I looked back at Mary, who was trying to ignore them, but I could see that her feelings were hurt.
My first thoughts were for myself. Why is this happening? I know that going along with them is wrong, but if I say anything, I’ll probably lose them as friends. Maybe I could just ignore the whole thing. I grabbed Ann’s arm. “Come on,” I said, “let’s skate.”
“Wait a minute,” she said. “I want to watch this.”
“Try not to crack the ice,” Julie yelled, and the girls laughed as if on cue. Then they all began to moo.
I looked over at Mary to see what her reaction to this would be. I could see tears running down her cheeks. She was so upset that she was shaking. Everyone on the ice had stopped to look at her.
Mary tried to continue skating, but as she reached us and realized that she would have to pass by us, she went completely white in the face. I had never before known what it meant to feel dirty, but I did now.
I had already noticed that she wasn’t a very good skater and that she had labored to get this far without falling. The other girls were calling her names now, too, and I saw some boys coming our way, laughing.
Mary let go of the handrail, which she had clung to for these past few minutes, and tried to pass us. I could tell that she wasn’t going to make it. Michelle jumped out at her, knocking her off balance, and she fell with a thud to the ice.
The boys, who had joined our circle, started to shake in imitation of an earthquake. It made me sick to my stomach to watch the girls go into peals of laughter over this. I felt angry—mostly with myself.
“Why are you doing this?” I blurted out. “Why don’t you leave her alone. She has as much right to be here as we do.”
Julie turned toward me, all traces of friendship gone from her face. “If you like her so much,” she spat at me, “then why don’t you be her friend?”
I hesitated. But I knew right from wrong, and this was wrong!
“I will!” I said. “I’ll be glad to.”
I skated over to Mary, who had been trying to get on her feet without success. I took her arm, and as I did, I saw that Kelly was reaching for the other one. Together we helped her to her feet and to the handrail.
“My name is Melissa,” I said. “And this is Kelly. Don’t pay any attention to them. They made mistakes and fell when they were learning to skate, too.”
“That’s right,” Kelly agreed.
“Thank you,” Mary managed to say. “Can you help me get to the gate?”
“Oh, please don’t go,” I pleaded. “Stay and have some fun. Kelly and I will give you a free skating lesson, won’t we, Kelly?”
“You bet,” she said. “You can have as many as you like.”
My actions caused me to lose three friends that day. But I made two lifelong, special ones, and I’ve never been sorry for making the right choice.

Really loving people hasn’t been tried very often in the world of international relations, and it’s rare even in the world of national affairs. But at least one very notable experience comes to mind. Gandhi was the man who led India to her independence. Many have seen the film recently made of his life.

Remember how he began to realize that turning the other cheek and doing good for hateful deeds would unloose great powers for his people? One distraught Moslem man came to him in his suffering. His son had been killed by the Hindus; in retaliation he took the life of a small Hindu boy. Heavyhearted, he sought relief from Gandhi. And Gandhi told him he could find comfort if he would find an orphaned Hindu boy and raise him as his own . . . only he was to raise him as a Hindu—not as a Moslem. There is a sacrificing in love—a sacrificing that brings immortality. Gandhi suffered a great deal, but ultimately millions of people were granted more freedom. Only the assassin’s bullet cut his life short. One wonders what he might have contributed further to sacrifice and vulnerability in the development of the new nation had he lived.

Our horned toad seems very happy, but we will probably let him go pretty soon. I think my dad wants to keep him though. Dad watches him a lot and has showed him to the Cub Scouts. Once he even put him in his coat pocket when he went home teaching. One of the families told Dad that they had some rattlesnake eggs. They handed him an envelope that was supposed to have the eggs inside, and when he opened it there was a trick paper clip wound on a rubber band that spun around and made a noise like a rattlesnake. My dad said he jumped and threw it on the floor, and everyone laughed. He had the last laugh, however, when he had them reach into his pocket and pull out the horned toad!

To Joseph Fielding Smith, “family is the most important organization in time or in eternity.”7 He was raised in a family governed by love, faith, high moral standards, and diligent work ethic, and he sought consistently to bring those same principles into his own family. (See chapters 4, 15, and 16 of Teachings of Presidents of the Church: Joseph Fielding Fielding Smith.)
He married Louie Emily Shurtliff in the Salt Lake Temple in 1898. One year later he was called on a mission to Great Britain for two years and was loyally supported by his wife. Upon his return, the two resumed their lives together and were blessed with the births of two daughters. Sadly, during a difficult third pregnancy Louie passed away.
In his sorrow Joseph prayed, “Help me, I pray Thee, to so live that I shall be worthy to meet her in eternal glory, to be united again with her, never again to be separated. … Help me to rear my precious babies that they shall remain pure and spotless throughout their lives.”8
At the urging of his father, the bereaved father of two prayerfully sought for a wife and a mother for his young children. His righteous desires were blessed in having Ethel Georgina Reynolds brought into his life. They were married in November 1908 in the Salt Lake Temple. This marvelous woman became the mother of Joseph’s first two daughters and later gave birth to nine additional children.

Deacons and others of the Aaronic Priesthood who perform today this sacred service, please know this to be a sacred duty. I recall that as a bishop, one morning the boys in the ward over which I presided had assembled—sleepy-eyed, a bit disheveled, and mildly complaining about arising so early to fulfill their assignment. Not a word of reproof was spoken, but during the following week we escorted the boys to Welfare Square in Salt Lake City for a guided tour. They saw firsthand a lame sister operating the telephone switchboard, an older man stocking shelves, women arranging clothing to be distributed—even a blind person placing labels on cans of food. Here were individuals earning their sustenance through their contributed labors. A penetrating silence came over the boys as they witnessed how their effort each month helped to collect the sacred fast offering funds which aided the needy and provided employment for those who otherwise would be idle.
From that hallowed day forward, we no longer had to urge our deacons with regard to collecting fast offerings. On fast Sunday mornings, they were present at 7:00 a.m., dressed in their Sunday best, anxious to do their duty as holders of the Aaronic Priesthood. No longer were they simply distributing and collecting envelopes. They were helping to provide food for the hungry and shelter for the homeless—all after the way of the Lord. Their smiles were more frequent, their pace more eager, their very souls more subdued. Perhaps now they were marching to the beat of a different drummer; perhaps now they better understood the classic passage, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”

I once interviewed a woman for baptism who had been guilty of a very grievous sin. During the interview I asked if she understood that she could never repeat that sin. With deep emotion in her eyes and in her voice, she said, “Oh, President, I could never do that sin again. That is the reason I want to be baptized—to cleanse me from the effects of that terrible sin.” Hers is a story of redemption.

I guess I’ve really changed a lot, for the better, I hope. I got into a big argument with Jared today, though. I know I should show more love toward him, but it’s hard when he acts as aggravating as he did today. He came storming into the house, shouting, “I hate girls!”
“Why?” I asked.
“They’re stuck up, that’s why! The Church leaders are always telling us fellows that we should get married, but how can we when all the girls think they’re too good for us?”
I felt like hitting him. “I like that! I spent all last year losing weight and trying to make myself attractive like President Kimball tells us to, but do you think guys are swooning at my feet? No! The trouble with you and all your snobby friends is that you only want to take the glamorous girls out. They already have plenty of dates. You never pay any attention to the girls who have to try hard to be pretty!”
He considered that. “Don’t all girls try hard to be pretty?”
I thought for a moment. “I guess we all just try to be our best.”
And, as far as I know, that’s the truth.

Mary had been a member of the Church for two years and was just starting to fill in her family tree. Her ward family history consultant helped her find ancestors the first few times she went to the temple. The next time she planned to attend the temple, she wanted to do some initiatory work and decided to see if she could obtain an ordinance card on her own.

Following the steps for Ordinances Ready outlined below, Mary logged on to the Family Tree mobile app to quickly find an ancestor who needed initiatory work, but she didn’t have a printer available. She saved the card to her cell phone photos, and a temple worker printed the card for her when she arrived.

John’s family had been a part of the Church for many generations. He wanted to go to the temple on behalf of a family member but assumed there wouldn’t be any persons with work left to do since his family had been active in temple work for such a long time. His ward family history consultant invited him to give Ordinances Ready a try.
John followed the steps, selecting the ordinance he wanted to perform. He was surprised and excited to see Ordinances Ready find a person—a fifth cousin, twice removed. He printed the card on his home computer and took it with him to the temple. With a special joy in his heart, John was able to perform the ordinance for a family member.

It was a rainy day in March 1988. I was taking my car to the mechanic because the hazard and blinker lights did not work. As I drove toward the highway, I felt a strong impression that I should move into the right lane for slower traffic. But when I reached the road, I somehow ended up in the left lane—the one for faster traffic.
I was traveling at about seventy kilometers per hour when I rounded a curve in the road and saw a car stopped ahead of me in my lane.
Many thoughts flashed through my mind. I thought about switching on my right blinker to signal to the traffic behind me that I wanted to change lanes, but the blinker didn’t work. I thought about braking and turning to the right, but a truck was traveling parallel to my car. And to my left was a long, muddy shoulder.
Not knowing what else to do, I stepped on the brakes. Despite the wet, slippery road, my car stopped a few meters behind the car in my lane.
As I got out into the rain and signaled to the other cars and trucks that came around the curve, I thanked Heavenly Father that I was safe. I also asked his forgiveness for not listening to the warning he had sent to me.
I had been taught a lesson on listening to the promptings of the Holy Ghost that I will never forget.

It was a hot summer day in southern California, and I was a typical teen enjoying my summer by sleeping late. I was getting out of bed when the doorbell rang. I raced my mom to the door. We were both surprised by a group of 10 to 15 teens my age.
They greeted us with a smile and explained that as part of a youth conference they were on a service scavenger hunt for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They showed us a list of services and asked my mom to check off the items on the list they could do. My mom did, and they were soon busy pulling weeds, washing windows, and mowing our lawn. It was fun watching them all work together.
When the chores were complete, you could tell they had worked hard by the sweat on their faces and the dirt on their hands, but they looked pleased with the work they had done and thanked us for the opportunity to serve.
My mom offered them a big tip, but they refused. Feeling like they should not leave without us giving them something, I quickly ran into the house and returned with cold glasses of water.
After refreshing themselves, they asked if they could leave us with a song. As they sang “I Am a Child of God,” I felt a respect and love as you would for old friends, even though I had just met them.
I joined them for the next few houses, working side by side, feeling a sense of peace and acceptance. As I walked home, I was consumed in my own thoughts. I was in awe at how the youth were spending their day serving others.
I went straight to my room and wrote a thank-you letter for their service and how they had touched me. Without signing it, I put the letter and all the money I had, about $39, inside the envelope and drove to the church to tape it to the door.
From that day on, my life would never be the same. Not long after, I started spending time with youth in the Church and was touched spiritually by so many members helping me on my journey. Part of that journey was hearing the missionary discussions that led to my baptism a year later. Since that time, I have been married to a worthy man in the San Diego California Temple, and we have two beautiful daughters.

One of the most remarkable stories is about my great-grandfather, who was Liberia’s first doctor. His mission was to bring healing and hope to those in need. He was later transferred to the deep forests of what is now the Nimba region, where he was granted vast lands to establish his medical mission.
This land became the foundation for a legacy of service and family. My great-grandfather had 24 wives and many children, and from generation to generation, his family grew. My grandfather, Samuel J. Mentee, was among them, and he continued the family legacy. By the time of his passing, he left behind an incredible record of 170 grandchildren, of which I am one.

Layna Cahone ran lightly up the front steps of the house and into the living room. “Dad,” she called, “are you home?”
“In the kitchen.”
She went to the kitchen doorway. Her father stood by the stove, stirring something in a small pan. “I knew that you’d be too busy again to fix supper,” he said, “so I opened a can of soup.”
Layna felt a quick stab of guilt. She had thought having just herself and her father home would be rather enjoyable. Charles was in the service, and Mother had gone to help Anne with her first baby. Layna had promised that she’d see to it that her father had adequate meals and clean clothes, but she realized now that she’d been pretty lax.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get here earlier, Dad,” she told him, “but I was talking to Debbie and forgot the time. You want toast with your soup?”
“Never mind, dear, but it would be nice if you would—”
“Oh, good grief,” she cried, “just look how late it is! I’m supposed to be at a meeting—decorating committee for the dance. May I take the car?”
He inclined his head slightly toward the hook behind the door where the car keys hung. Hurrying out, Layna thought briefly that her father must have had an especially tiring day. The lines around his mouth appeared deeper than usual, and his skin looked gray.
For a moment Layna paused with her hand on the car door. She really should go back and at least fix him dessert; but then, remembering the confusion in the school auditorium—decorations half finished, no decision made on the music—she climbed into the car and drove away.
Darkness had fallen before she reached home again. All the windows were dark. Wondering where her father could have gone, Layna turned on the kitchen lights. His soup, uneaten, was on the kitchen table. A cold chill went through her.
“Dad?” She flipped on a lamp in the living room. Her father lay on the couch. His hands, clenched into fists, were on his chest and his eyes were closed. Layna ran to him and bent down, realizing at once that he was fighting desperately to breathe.
“Oh, Daddy,” she cried, “what is it? What’s the matter?”
His eyes opened. “Heart,” he gasped hoarsely. “Doctor—”
Layna rushed to the phone, grateful that emergency numbers were written down, because her fingers shook so badly she had trouble dialing the doctor’s home number. She breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving when Dr. Shannon, answering, said, “An ambulance will be there in just a few minutes. I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
But even though she knew that little more than fifteen minutes had passed before she and her father were speeding toward the hospital, Layna hadn’t known a stretch of time could be so agonizingly long. She looked at her father, lying half conscious on a stretcher, telling herself over and over, “I wouldn’t know what to do if my father died.” What would life be like without the good, quiet man whose gentle strength had supported her every day of her life? She knew that a world without him would be not only empty but frightening.
At the hospital her father was wheeled down a long, busy corridor. After she could no longer see him, Layna stood, not knowing what to do, until a nurse came to ask if she could register for her father at the front desk.
In the office a woman asked, “Does your father carry insurance?” and Layna remembered the card he carried in his wallet.
“I’ll have the orderly get it and bring it to you,” the lady said.
The sight of the wallet, handed to her a few moments later by a young man in a white coat, made Layna intensely aware of the seriousness of her father’s condition. She took the wallet, feeling the soft leather, worn smooth, and after giving the woman the necessary information, she went to call her mother, who assured her that she’d be there by morning. Then she sat in the waiting room, holding the wallet tightly, as though she could gain comfort from something that was his.
Thinking of how many important things the wallet held, Layna remembered a picture that she knew her father had carried for a while—a snapshot of herself and Charles and Anne taken in the mountains one summer. Wondering whether the picture was still there, she opened the wallet. As she did so, a tightly folded piece of paper fell out.
Absently she unfolded it. As she read the brief paragraph, she knew with a stabbing sense of her own failure that a letter she had seen in a newspaper the week before, one that had touched her, had also been seen and saved by her father.
She read the clipping again: “I have lived nearly fifty-five years and have worked hard to care for my family. My children have all they need. Why can’t they see me as a person who loves them and needs their affection? I’d gladly give every cent I have if my son or one of my daughters would only take my hand and say, ‘I love you, Dad.’”
Layna folded the clipping carefully as tears streamed down her cheeks. Oh, Daddy, she thought, don’t die. I want a chance to say what I’ve been too thoughtless to say to you all these years.
Slowly the hours passed. Layna rested, eyes closed, remembering many little things about her father, such as the day when she was in her early years at school and had complained because he absentmindedly took steps that were too long, and then how, smiling, he had shortened his stride to fit hers. She thought about one of her birthdays; he had come home from work looking a little sheepish because the stuffed tiger he’d bought for her was too big to wrap.
She remembered big things, too, like the time she’d had her appendix out and had awakened to see her father sitting beside her bed. She had known immediately that she’d be all right. She thought of the nights when she’d gone on dates and he had told her, “I know we can trust you.”
Just then Dr. Shannon came into the room. Jumping up, Layna ran to him. He put his hand on her arm.
“Everything’s fine, Layna,” he assured her gently. “Your father’s resting.”
After drawing a shaky breath, Layna asked, “Can I see him?”
The doctor nodded. “Yes, but just for a minute.”
Slowly, feeling almost shy, Layna entered the room where her father lay on a high, narrow bed. How strange, she thought, to see him so quiet, this big man who was always busy and interested. His face was white, but the worry lines on his forehead seemed eased, his eyes composed.
Pulling a chair close to the bed, Layna sat down. She looked at her father and smiled, then covered his strong, work-worn hand with hers.
“Daddy,” she said softly, “I love you.”

As a new missionary in Japan, I had a hard time understanding anyone, let alone getting to know them. It was difficult to learn to love people I didn’t even know, especially when I couldn’t understand what they were saying. But I made an effort to show my love for them, and I appreciated their efforts to reach out to me.
Each week, my companion and I received a loaf of homemade bread from a sister in the ward named Sister Senba. She showed her love for the missionaries by baking homemade bread and writing small but heartfelt notes.
I was touched that someone cared about me. I felt impressed to show my gratitude to her in some small way. I wrote her a note expressing how grateful I was for her and the sacrifices she and her family made to help the missionaries. We became friends, and I began to think of her as my “mother away from home.”
Months passed. Early one Wednesday morning I received a call from my mission president, who asked me to transfer down to Okinawa. When I hung up the phone, I was filled with the most bittersweet feeling. I dreaded having to say my good-byes. Each phone call to tell members of the ward I would be leaving on the following day made my heart hurt. Saying good-bye to the people I had come to love so much was more difficult than I had imagined it would be.
As I finished these calls, I noticed that the only one who had not answered the phone was Sister Senba. I was sad I would not be able to say good-bye to a member who had become so close to my heart.
The next morning two other missionaries and I left for the airport. When we arrived at the ticket counter and tried to buy tickets, the workers told us that our cards had been declined. We did not have any money to pay for the tickets, and the flight was leaving in 10 minutes! The three of us were in a panic. We were about to miss the flight and be stranded at the airport for the day.
But all of my panic turned to comfort when I turned around and saw Sister Senba walk into the airport. I was shocked that she was there because she hadn’t known what time our flight was. As she scrambled over to us, she smiled and gave us all bread to bring onto the plane.
Truly the Lord uses small means to bring about His work.
As we explained to her that we were going to miss our flight, she became saddened. None of us knew what to do. Then Sister Senba began rummaging through her purse, looking for something that could help us. She jumped happily into the air when she found a small envelope in her purse in which, weeks ago, she had placed ¥50,000—the exact amount of money we needed. She gave us the money, and we were able to get our tickets in time. We thanked her with every ounce of gratitude our souls could muster, said good-bye, and rushed onto the plane.
After the plane took off, my fellow missionary turned to me and said, “Isn’t she amazing?! That was a miracle!”
I then realized how truly miraculous it really was. He then said, “What does your note say?” I saw he was reading a note that was with the bread Sister Senba had given him. As I realized I had one too, I pulled out the note and read a small piece of paper personally addressed to me, which immediately made my eyes swell with tears. It said, “I love you! Please don’t forget me! I will never forget you!”
At that moment I felt the Spirit more strongly than I ever have before. Sister Senba’s example taught me how important it is to follow the promptings of the Spirit—no matter how small or strange the prompting might seem. Through these promptings we have the power to change lives for the better. I know it was not a coincidence that she came to the airport. It was a miracle.
Truly the Lord uses small means to bring about His work. How blessed we are as members of this Church to have His influence in our lives. Let us all remain worthy to receive these promptings and bless the lives of the children of God.
Editors’ note: Sister Senba was promptly reimbursed by the mission.

When I was about ten or eleven, many of our relatives came to visit. There must have been 35 or 40. Mother had invited them all to dinner. After dinner everyone went in the other room and sat down to visit. There were piles of dirty dishes and silverware everywhere. The food had not been put away, and there were dirty pots and pans from all the preparations.

I remember thinking that later on everyone would leave, and my mother would have all the cleaning up to do. An idea struck me. I started cleaning up. It was in the days before electric dishwashers. Mother had always been very clean, and she taught us how to wash and wipe dishes correctly. I started in on this mountain of work. Finally, about three hours later, I had finished drying the last dish. I had put away all the food, cleaned off all the counters, the sinks, and the floor. The kitchen was spotless.

I will never forget the look on Mom’s face later on that night when all the guests had left and she came into the kitchen to clean up. I was wet from my chest to my knees. It was worth every particle of effort I had put into it just to see the look on Mom’s face. It was a mixture of emotion, relief, and pride. I made a decision then that I would try to put that look back on her face over and over and over again. I think I was able to do that.

Now no one should suppose that I did everything right. I could have been a lot better, but I think Mom would agree that I honestly tried.