Gospel Story Finder

While Moses was learning about the restored gospel, he called his brother-in-law, Maroyi, to tell him about the Church. Maroyi, who lives in a refugee settlement in Burundi, said, “We need this church in Burundi.” Soon Moses began teaching his sister and brother-in-law by telephone with the missionaries. Moses’s sister and brother in-law were baptized, along with eight others in Burundi, the same day Moses was baptized in Spokane. The group in Burundi has grown so large that they need another building to accommodate all the people who come every Sunday.

It was early evening when our family drove home after a short hike in the beautiful mountains. We had spent the afternoon hiking to a gorgeous waterfall, eating dinner, and hiking back out. As we drove the winding road out of the mountains, one of our young daughters started feeling queasy. We pulled over just a little too late; she vomited all over the car. We helped her out of the car. She hung on to me as she continued to vomit on the ground while I held her hair back to keep it clean.
As I was thinking rather despairingly of the mess in the car, I looked down at my daughter clinging to me. In that moment of distress, she wanted her daddy. And in that moment, my mind turned away from the messy car, and my heart turned toward my child. I just wanted her to be out of pain and feel like it was going to be OK. I had an overwhelming feeling of gratitude to be a dad. I wanted to always be the person my daughter wanted when she was in distress.
I wondered what I could do to be the kind of father my children will want to reach out to when they need help.
As I considered this question, I found a quote from President Brigham Young (1801–77), who once told parents to “study their [children’s] dispositions and their temperaments, and deal with them accordingly.”1 In my profession, I conduct research about family life, which, even for very straightforward questions, often takes weeks, months, or even years of careful study. I asked myself, Had I been studying my own children with this much attention?
Much of the time when I think on it, I realize I can do better. There are times when my children want to tell me about things I may have little interest in and I “check out,” nodding occasionally as they tell me something without me really, really listening. I’m still learning to understand my children and meet their needs, and sometimes I get it wrong. But as we move forward in these relationships, the Lord will often prompt us with the insights we need.
One of my sons had a difficult time when he was young. He was regularly teased and seemed to feel defeated much of the time. As parents, we also often corrected him. His emotions were regularly close to the surface, and we weren’t able to talk through things with him. As my wife and I made an effort to understand him, we felt like he needed to feel the Spirit more in his life and he needed to know his parents really did care.
I asked him if we could spend time together each night reading from the Book of Mormon. We didn’t focus on how long we read or how much; instead, we simply found something meaningful we could talk about. The goal was not to read the Book of Mormon but rather to help my son feel the love of his heavenly and earthly parents. While not a cure-all, the effort to give him what he needed helped us both. We both felt much brighter and closer to each other and to God. My son started asking questions as we read, and I began to understand him even better.
It’s not easy being a good dad, but I knew that seeking to better understand my children was something that would help. As I have tried to build relationships of love and care, my children have been more willing to come to me with their difficulties, giving me the opportunity to help guide them when they need it most.

Esi liked to sing. Singing in Primary made her happy. She knew that Jesus loved to hear her sing.
One day Mama and Baba were singing a hymn in sacrament meeting. Esi wanted to sing too, but she didn’t know the words.
“Why are you sad?” Mama asked Esi.
“I don’t know the words,” Esi said.
“I have an idea,” Mama said. “Next week when we sing, you can hum along.”
Esi felt much better. She liked to hum.
The next week Esi hummed while Baba and Mama sang the hymns. Esi felt happy. She knew that Jesus loved to hear her hum.

Allie carefully placed the jars of freshly canned pears in the canning cupboard. All summer she’d helped Mom can fruits and vegetables. Only the shelf for peaches remained empty, but it would probably stay that way because they didn’t have any peach trees and money was too tight to buy any peaches. Closing the cupboard, Allie raced up the basement steps. She still had time to go over to Kim’s to help get the horses ready for the horse show tomorrow. Kim had promised to let her ride in the rescue race.
Mom was talking on the phone when Allie reached the kitchen. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” her mom was saying.
“Where are you going?” Allie asked the minute her mom hung up.
“Aunt Trudy is in the hospital, and Uncle Eric wants me to come right away. Will you run up to the attic and bring down the brown suitcase while I call your father? Please hurry—I have a dozen things to do before I leave.”
The next hour flew by in a flurry of packing and last-minute decisions. When Dad arrived with Allie’s brother, Rod, they sat down to a hurried meal.
“Who’s going to take care of things here while you’re gone?” Rod asked when he heard the news.
“Allie can manage the housework and cooking,” Mom answered.
Allie dropped her fork. “Does that mean that I can’t go to the horse show with Kim tomorrow? Kim promised that I could ride Socks in the rescue race.”
Rod rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Are horses the only thing that you ever think about?”
“That will do,” Dad said sternly as he pushed back his chair. “I’m going to drive your mother over to Randell. I’ll be back around eleven.”
Mom gave Allie a quick hug. “I’m depending on you to take care of things while I’m gone. You may go with Kim tomorrow if you finish your chores first.”
“Thanks, Mom.” Allie watched her parents drive away, then dashed out of the house, past the empty stables, and across the back pasture to Kim’s house to help her get ready for the next day.
The next morning Allie leaped out of bed and fixed breakfast.
“Dad, will you drop me off at Pringles on your way to the mill?” Rod asked as he ate the last slice of toast. “I finished at the Kellys’ yesterday, and Mr. Pringle hired me to mend his pasture fences.”
“Sure,” his father said, reaching for his hat. “They’re talking about closing the mill again this winter, so every extra job you can get will help out here. Let’s go.”
Allie rushed through her housework, then dashed upstairs to change clothes before Kim came. She had just finished fixing her hair when she heard a truck pull into the yard. She was out the back door before she realized that it wasn’t Kim.
“Morning, Allie,” Mr. Kelly called. “Rod said that you folks could use some peaches. We had a good crop this year, so I brought you some.” He lifted two large boxes from the truck and stacked them on the porch. “Tell your mother that she’d better can them today, or they’ll be too ripe.”
A mouth-watering smell rose from the boxes. What a waste! Too bad Mom isn’t here to can them, Allie thought. Then she remembered what her father had said a few days earlier: “If the mill closes again this winter, we’ll need all that Mom has canned and more.”
When Kim arrived a short time later, Allie had changed back into her old clothes and was washing jars.
“Aren’t you ready yet?” Kim asked.
“I’m not going.” Allie shook the soapy water from her hands. “I tried to call you.”
“Not going! Why not?” Kim demanded. “You can’t miss this competition. Diane Pringle is going to be there with Shalazod. It’s the last time we’ll see her gorgeous horse before she goes away to college. And what about the rescue race? I thought that you were dying to be in it.”
“I’m sorry,” Allie said, motioning toward the back porch. “Mr. Kelly brought us some ripe peaches. I can’t go off and let them spoil.”
Three quick blasts on a horn put an end to the discussion. “Mom’s getting impatient. See you later,” Kim called as she ran down the steps.
Allie rushed to the back porch. She wanted to yell to Kim to wait for her. But she caught her lower lip between her teeth and turned back to the kitchen. As she got out the canning equipment, she tried not to think about the horses and all the fun that she was going to miss.
It was past noon when Allie finished the first box of peaches. She was hot and tired. Peach fuzz made her arms itch, and the floor and stove were sticky with juice.
“Mom always makes it look easy,” she grumbled as she started on the second box of peaches.
Allie was lifting the last rack of jars from the canner when her father and brother came home from work.
“What’s all this?” her father asked. “I thought that you were going to the horse show with Kim today.”
Allie added the hot jars to the ones already covering the counters. “I was, but Mr. Kelly brought us two boxes of peaches this morning, and they needed to be canned before they spoiled.” She looked at the cluttered kitchen. “Sorry—I haven’t had time to start dinner yet.”
“I think that we can make do with soup and sandwiches,” Dad said. “Rod, give Allie a hand while I make a phone call.”
When dinner was over, Allie was almost too tired to move, but she felt a surge of pride when she looked at the rows of bottled peaches.
“How about taking a walk with me,” her father said.
“Right now?” Allie didn’t want to get out of her chair.
“If you’re too tired, I guess I’ll just have to pick out the best stall for Shalazod by myself.”
“Shalazod?”
Dad nodded. “Mr. Pringle asked me today if we could board him while Diane is away at college. Diane likes the way that you handle horses. At first I had decided to say no because I figured that you’d spend all of your time with the horse and neglect everything else. But after what you did today, I’ve changed my mind.”
“Oh, Dad!” Allie threw her arms around his neck. “It’s a dream come true! It’s almost as good as having a horse of my own.”
“Come on, let’s go pick out his stall. Shalazod will be here the day after tomorrow.”
Allie didn’t feel tired at all as she raced her dad to the stables.

Many years ago, my ministering brothers invited me to seriously study the Book of Mormon. When they gave me this invitation, I realized that, although I read a little from the Book of Mormon each day, I wasn’t seriously studying it.
They shared a promise with me that was based on words from President Ezra Taft Benson: “There is a power in the [Book of Mormon] which will begin to flow into your lives the moment you begin a serious study of the book. You will find greater power to resist temptation … to avoid deception … to stay on the strait and narrow path” (Teachings of Presidents of the Church: Ezra Taft Benson [2014], 141).
I accepted their invitation, and in the following months I saw that their promise was fulfilled. It has changed my life.

I met Paulo on a hot day in southern Brazil. Church meetings had ended, and the meetinghouse was almost empty except for a few members sitting in the hallway. My husband, then serving as president of the Brazil Curitiba Mission, was meeting with Edson Lustoza Araújo, the district president from Guarapuava, in Paraná.
“Sister Paulsen,” said Brother Jason Sousa, who was serving as a counselor to my husband, “did you notice the brother sitting in the hallway with mud on his boots?”
Many roads in southern Brazil are made of red dirt, so mud on shoes is common.
“You mean the thin, dark-haired man in his late 20s?” I asked.
“Yes, his name is Paulo Tvuarde. He walks to church almost every Sunday, except when the mud is so thick that he can’t make it. He’s been doing that for 14 years—since he was 15.”
“How far does he walk?” I asked, unprepared for Brother Sousa’s response.
“Oh, 40 kilometers,” he said matter-of-factly. “He leaves at 3:00 a.m. to make it to church on time. It takes him eight hours.”
Quickly converting kilometers to miles, I realized that Brother Tvuarde walked 25 miles to attend church in Guarapuava!
“Why would he do that?” I asked incredulously.
“Because he believes that the Church is true.”
“Well, of course,” I said, a little embarrassed at the obvious answer. “What I meant was, why does he have to walk that far?”
Brother Sousa explained that Paulo lived in the country, taking care of the family farm so that his 74-year-old mother, who had a heart condition, could live in Guarapuava, where she received medical attention. President Lustoza was her cardiologist.
“Paulo lives by himself, plows the fields, and feeds the few animals that they have,” Brother Sousa said. “There is no electricity or running water. The farm is eight kilometers from the nearest bus stop. Worse than that, the bus doesn’t run on Saturdays or Sundays. So he walks to church.”
President Lustoza, who had entered the room with my husband, said Paulo usually attended three out of every four weeks. “He doesn’t miss unless the roads are impassible,” he said. “He stays overnight on Sundays so he can take the bus back on Monday.”
If Paulo attended church three out of every four Sundays, then he spent more than 300 hours walking nearly 1,600 kilometers (1,000 mi) each year just to attend church!

One day after my doctor told me that I would have to receive physical therapy for months, I went home in tears and asked Heavenly Father, “How long will I have to endure this?” Immediately, it was as if a tender and clear voice told me, “You can’t progress without trials. You still need even more.”
I couldn’t believe that I had received an immediate response to my prayer. At that moment, I was determined to move forward in faith. I decided to resubmit my mission papers and serve God, despite my challenges. A few months later I received my mission call to the Guatemala Guatemala City South Mission! But getting to that point wasn’t easy either. It took a lot of bravery and courage to accept my circumstances, forget myself, and invite others to follow Christ.
My mission was wonderful. I learned to value the principles of the gospel even more, and I found confidence in myself to share my testimony and bring hope to many people who didn’t know where to find it. I felt my heart being changed by Heavenly Father. I had never experienced what it felt like to love total strangers and be willing to give everything I had for them without hesitation until now—walking day in and day out, rain or shine, my feet tired and sore.

I can attest to the truth of President Snow’s statement. Relief Society has always been comprised of those who put others first and self last. I remember that when I was a small boy during the Depression, my mother was the secretary-treasurer of the ward Relief Society. Back then dues were paid to assist those in need. Mother was not really a bookkeeper, so Dad would help her. The individual contributions were never so much as a dollar, but rather would be a quarter, a dime, a nickel, a few pennies.

I learned many lessons from my mother. I must have been a very active boy, for Mother was always telling me, “Slow down, Tommy, slow down. You’re on the verge of Saint Vitus’ dance!” You know, I never did know what Saint Vitus’ dance was. All I knew was that Mother said I was on the verge of it—and the way she spoke the words, I assumed it was a drastic ailment.

Since we lived just a block or two from the railroad tracks, frequently men, unemployed, without funds for food, would leave the train and come to our house for something to eat. Such men were always polite. They offered to do some work for the food. Indelibly imprinted on my mind is the picture of a gaunt and hungry man standing at our kitchen door, hat in hand, pleading for food. Mother would welcome such a visitor and would direct him to the kitchen sink to wash up while she prepared food for him to eat. She never skimped on quality or quantity; the visitor ate exactly the same lunch as did my father. As he wolfed down the food, Mother took the opportunity to counsel him to return to his home and his family. When he left the table, he had been nourished physically and spiritually. These men never failed to say thank you. Tears in their eyes revealed ever so silently the gratitude of their hearts.

At our wedding shower, she gave me the strings she had cut from her kitchen apron, symbolizing that she would let him go. And she did. She didn’t bring pots of hot soup regularly to our house to make sure that he had a good, nutritious meal. She didn’t arrange his dental appointments for him.
She didn’t always remember my birthday, but she did better than that: She remembered me kindly and gave me the most precious gift of all—her confidence that I could handle my life with her son and her grandchildren.

I am directed to the loft, which is much coveted by all but reserved for me since I’m the oldest grandchild. But I’m not convinced that’s where I want to be spending my nights. So I go to the basement to see if there are any spare rooms. That’s where I find four mattresses spread on the floor, with little girls’ clothes everywhere. Perpetual slumber-party-city. I’m doomed.
“Marti! Wanna see a caterpillar?” It’s my six-year-old cousin, Erin.
“Nah,” I say, turning back to the stairs. “I’ve seen lots of them, thank you.”
I discover a room loaded with books that’s kind of between floors. I’m looking at the books and thinking maybe I could move in when I hear a thundering sound above me. I look up to see the room is just under the staircase. That would be like living under a freeway overpass. Anyway, the room is soon overflowing with boys and their sleeping bags.
“Aunt Rebecca (that’s my mom) told us to use this room. She’s gonna use the one we were in. Isn’t this neat?” My cousin looks around at my brothers and his other male counterparts. They seem to be in agreement; they are staking out their individual territories.
So I head upstairs to find all the rooms there are taken by at least two people, some by four or five. Will I ever have a quiet moment for the next three weeks?
I go downstairs to explain my dilemma to my grandma, but she’s nowhere to be found. Grandpa tells me she went on a walk with Deenie, my little sister.
“Anything I can do for you?” I ask Grandpa, who is playing a computer game.
“Well …”
Grandpa pushes the pause button on the computer and turns around to look at me as he takes my hand. I think he knows I need to talk.
“Too bad we can’t do that with life,” I say, pointing to the button he’s just pushed.
“Unfortunately, life can’t be paused,” he says. “That’s why we have pause buttons on computers instead.” He squeezes my hand. “Now what’s troubling you?”
“I’m supposed to sleep in the loft, and I don’t really want to stay there because it’s all open and everything and everyone will see me and I’ll see everyone else and it’ll be all noisy and everything and …” My voice begins to sound like Minnie Mouse’s.
“Well, the only problem is there are lots of cousins who want that loft.” As if to emphasize the point, we hear a bang and then we hear several cousins running into the back bathroom.
“Are you willing to take whatever room is vacated? Even if there are other cousins there?”
Not exactly, I think. I want a room to myself. But just about anything would be better than the loft.
“Okay,” I declare.
“Then it’s set. Just wait and see.”
That night at dinner, my grandfather announces there will be a contest for the loft. A spontaneous cheer erupts, and I spill my spaghetti on my jeans.
“After dinner,” Grandpa announces, “we’ll all go down to the lake and skip rocks. Whoever is the best rock skipper will get the loft.” This declaration is followed by more cheers.
The rock skipping winner ends up being Tamara, Aunt Sarah’s 12-year-old. I’m amazed the boys didn’t out-skip her, but I think they’re too excited about being all together in the library room. I don’t skip any rocks. I just watch. When the contest ends, we all end up eating gooey cake that adds yet another interesting color to my jeans. And then I’m moved in with my six-year-old cousin, Erin.

Squinting at the bright winter sky, I was sure we were going to have a mild, sunny Christmas. This was somewhat of a disappointment, as I had come to love the snowy Christmases of Colorado. My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by an icy snowball splatting against my neck.
“Ha ha! Gotcha!” screamed my little brother as he scurried away from me.
It was the day before Christmas. At 13, I was old enough to be left in charge of the house while our parents went into town 10 miles away to pick up previously purchased Christmas gifts. So that we wouldn’t prematurely discover our presents, Mom and Dad had cleverly arranged to leave them at the stores until Christmas Eve.
Trying to make the time go faster on what always seemed like the longest day of the year, my three younger brothers and I were playing in the three-day-old, crusted snow. We had started out making a snowman, but before long we were in a wild snowball fight.
“Ha ha ha. Gotcha back!” I yelled as I tackled my brother and the two of us fell, laughing, into a snowbank.
Although our family had moved to Denver more than six years before, it was still surprising to me how quickly the Colorado weather could change. Before our snowball fight had ended, the sky became overcast and, minutes after that, snow began to pelt the ground in furious streaks of gray.
Remembering that my parents had left me in charge, I gathered my brothers into the house. We spent the rest of the afternoon peering out at the driving snow, so thick now that the houses across the street were only dim shadows. The blanket of snow reached two feet, but still the heavy flakes continued to fall. I tried to sound confident as I told my brothers that our parents must be on their way home.
As evening drew near, one little brother playfully jumped off the front porch into the new snow. Were we ever surprised when all three feet of him disappeared into the snowy white! He reappeared looking like Frosty the Snowman.
Now it was early evening, and I was beginning to feel as grim as the quickly blackening sky. No parents. No phone call. Four frightened children alone in a storm on Christmas Eve.
Finally the phone rang. My heart beat rapidly as I answered, “Hello?”
It was my mother. My spirits rose but quickly sank again when she told me what had happened. Mom and Dad were completing their errands when the blizzard had struck, coming on so suddenly and with such force that driving became impossible. Drivers left their cars in the roads and walked to whatever shelter they could find.
After trying to get home all afternoon, our parents finally gave up, left the Christmas gifts in the car, and forged through the waist-deep snow toward the house of some friends. Mom was calling from their house.
I could feel her sadness and worry as she told me they wouldn’t be able to make it home for Christmas. “Listen, honey, you’ve got to take care of your brothers and do whatever you can to make it a happy Christmas. We don’t know when we’ll be able to get back home.”
Although I was relieved my parents were safe, my heart was heavy as I hung up the phone. “Some Christmas!” I said to myself. How could I possibly make it happy?
My younger brothers still believed in Santa. What was I supposed to tell them? There would be no Santa, no presents, and worst of all, no parents.
I could hardly look at my brothers’ dismayed faces when I told them we’d be all alone for Christmas. But when my youngest brother started to cry, I made up my mind that somehow Christmas was still going to happen.
“Hey, guys, this’ll be great,” I exclaimed with hope. “We can stay up as late as we want and do something fun and different tonight.” The boys’ moods began to brighten. We decided to gather our sleeping bags together and spend the night underneath the Christmas tree.
Pajama-clad, we gathered in the family room, cozied up in sleeping bags, gulped hot chocolate, and read the entire Christmas story from Luke. “Fear not, for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy” (Luke 2:10).
There were no presents, no Christmas Eve parties, no Santa, not even parents, but something magical happened that night. We felt the peace and comfort of the Holy Spirit, which testified of Jesus Christ, who had come into this world to become our Savior. We felt this joy, this warmth, this feeling of love for our Savior and for each other—and that was all we needed. Looking back, it was one of the happiest Christmas Eves I can remember, that night when four children discovered the true joy of Christmas.
In the morning we awoke to weather that all but betrayed the storm of the previous day. All we could see was the warm light of the sun dancing off a frozen sea of snow. It was the loveliest Christmas morning I had ever seen.
As I sat enjoying the incredible scene, I was surprised to see two large objects racing toward our house. “It’s Santa’s sleigh!” exclaimed my youngest brother, amazed to see anything traversing this kind of snow. But the two snowmobiles which soon pulled up in our front yard brought something far better than Santa and his sleigh could possibly have brought us.
We ran to the door to greet two very relieved and joyous parents. Mom and Dad gathered us in their arms and explained that our neighbors, hearing of our plight, had given up their Christmas morning to make the long trip on their snowmobiles to bring our family together for Christmas. Mom and Dad were teary-eyed as they told us how happy they were to be safely home with us.
Later, as we sat down to Christmas dinner, I marveled at how we could be so joyful when there were no presents to open and no parties to enjoy.
But as I looked around the table at the jubilant faces of my family, I realized that, even as a child, you don’t need presents, parties, or Santa to feel joy at Christmas. The remarkable joy of Christmas comes from gifts money cannot buy—the companionship of loved ones, feelings of the Spirit, and, most importantly, the gift of the Son of God.

Robert sat on the swing in his backyard and stared at the overcast sky. It was a boring Friday afternoon, and he couldn’t think of anything to do. His best friends, Will and Jason, were visiting their grandparents over the Thanksgiving weekend. Robert didn’t have any grandparents. The juicy brown turkey and shimmering red cranberry sauce had been eaten yesterday. Oh, there’d be turkey sandwiches and turkey soup, but the actual turkey dinner was only a memory. Even the pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream was a thing of the past—Robert had polished off the last slice right after lunch. There was nothing to look forward to now but a long, empty weekend.
Robert kicked at some of the leaves on the ground. The air was cold, and the sky seemed like a gray blanket above him. With his luck, it would probably snow too. As he stared at the clouds, he saw something red out of the corner of his eye.
Turning his head, Robert saw that that something red was floating past the chimney of a house down the street. It was a balloon! A bright red balloon was floating lazily on the wind currents.
Robert watched the bobbing balloon, fascinated. Forgetting the cold, overcast afternoon, he stood up and ran toward the balloon.
The balloon drifted lower and lower until it was directly over Robert’s head. When he reached up to grab it, the balloon drifted out of his reach. He ran after it and jumped when he was directly beneath the bright object. His hand snagged the balloon’s short string, and he pulled it down. A bright red balloon was a wonderful thing to have on a gloomy Friday-after-Thanksgiving!
As Robert ran his hand over the balloon’s smooth surface, he felt something strange. Turning the balloon around, he saw a label stuck to the side of the balloon. It read:
HAPPY THANKSGIVING!
From Ethel Gazelle
Pine Crest Nursing Home
St. Louis, Missouri
Robert had never received a Thanksgiving balloon before. And this balloon had traveled more than sixty miles! Why, his Thanksgiving weekend was turning out to be pretty exciting. Even if he didn’t have grandparents to visit like Will and Jason did, he had a Thanksgiving balloon.
Suddenly Robert had an idea. Holding tightly to the balloon’s string, he raced home. Carefully he released the balloon in his room, where it rose slightly and hovered over his books and papers. Robert pulled off his jacket and hung it on its hook. Then he sat down, found a clean piece of paper and a pencil, and wrote:
Dear Mrs. Gazelle,
I found your red balloon on the Friday after Thanksgiving. Thank you for sending it. It traveled more than sixty miles to Union, Missouri, where I live. My name is Robert, and I’m nine years old. Would you like to be my pen pal? I never had a Thanksgiving balloon before. I like it very much.
Sincerely,
Robert Webster
Satisfied, Robert carefully copied Mrs. Gazelle’s address onto the front of an envelope. Then he wrote his address in the upper left-hand corner. He folded his letter, tucked it inside the envelope, put a stamp on it, sealed it, and took it to the mailbox on the next block.
Robert wondered if Mrs. Gazelle would write back. Maybe they could be pen pals for a long time. He could send her letters and birthday and Christmas cards.
It would be almost like having a grandmother.

Even through these multitude acts of kindness, her finest hours were yet to come. Five years ago our lives were shocked with an announcement that she had contracted a terminal disease. Her life expectancy could only be another six months to a year. She accepted this decision with a faith and courage I never expect to see equalled. As the doctor made this announcement to us, she turned to me and said with all the faith and peace that she could muster, “Don’t tell anyone about this. I don’t want it to change our way of life or have anyone treat us differently.” Now her life was filled with physical hardship. It seemed to only make her more sensitive for the physical needs of others. Her empathy for her fellowmen increased, for now she had a greater appreciation for need.
Three serious operations followed in very short order. There were only a few who knew about them and they were sworn to secrecy. Her pattern of life in the hospital was always the same. With her careful planning, she would attend church on Sunday, the operation would be performed early Monday morning. By Tuesday, she was trying to get out of bed. By Wednesday she would be up moving around, trying to regain her physical strength. Thursday would find her helping the nurses assist others who were in the hospital. Friday she would spend trying to convince the doctor that she was ready to go home. By Saturday morning the doctor would give up in despair and discharge her. Sunday she would be back in church looking radiant. No one would ever suspect that she had just gone through major surgery. After the meeting I would rush down to take her home to get her some needed rest. And as I would come close to her I would hear her say to someone else in need, “Now don’t worry about a thing. I’ll have dinner ready for you and at your home on Thursday night.”
She placed her illness entirely in the hands of the Lord, and he blessed her with enough strength to endure and just enough energy to live the kind of life she wanted to live. After a difficult night, I would plead with her to remain in bed. Her answer was always the same: “No, I am not going to start that.”
The Lord blessed her with four additional years that medical science could not promise her. How grateful we are for those years, for it was during this period that she was able to stand by my side as we were honored in these present positions. She was able to see, at least in some degree, what she had tried to make of me.
The Lord made it as convenient as possible in his timing to call her home. He waited until I had completed my traveling schedule for the year. And on the first Saturday I had been home in many months, he called her to leave mortality.
Her last acts were so typical of her. She was up preparing breakfast for her family. I heard her drop a dish and give a little moan. As I rushed from my study, thinking she had injured herself, I found that she was suffering from a stroke that was causing her to lose the use of her right arm. I quickly picked her up and carried her in to a little couch I had just recently convinced her that she should have near her kitchen so she could rest during the day.
There was terror in her eyes as the paralysis started to spread down her side. I told her I was going to rush a call to the doctor. She said, “First, give me a blessing.” As I laid my hands on her head that morning, the Lord in his great mercy let me know that her time had come. As I left the room to call the doctor after that blessing, she was literally fighting to move her right arm and her right leg. And the last words I heard her utter were, “I will not live as a half a person.”
Her next two hours, her last in mortality, were the only two I know of in her life that she was not carrying her full load and a little extra for someone else. The Lord in his mercy has let her pass through the veil and relieved her from her anxiety and pain. Now she is whole again, and I am certain paradise is a much more joyful place because she is there.
For the hundreds of messages of sympathy we have received, we express our appreciation. If we had taken time to classify them, I think we would have found that we could have sorted them in two piles that typified and characterized her in her life here on earth. The first pile that we would have sorted—as we heard from the eastern part of the United States—would be something like this: “She gave us our first Book of Mormon and was an inspiration to us. How grateful we are to have known her. We will always remember her gracious hospitality to our family on the day of our baptism. It was such a happy occasion to have dinner in your home on that particular day.”
She was deeply grateful for her membership in the church of Jesus Christ. It was the foundation on which her life had been built. It was her sustaining power, her hope for the eternities. She was anxious to share her witness of the mission of our Lord and Savior with others. A fundamental part of her storage program, which included, of course, the basics of wheat, canned goods, and other inventories, was a supply of a dozen copies of the Book of Mormon. She would count those just as religiously as she would count her other supplies and replenish them in the same order. She used to comment about her inventories: “When we use the food, the inventory is gone. When I make a gift of the Book of Mormon, I never stop receiving the benefit and enjoyment of that gift.”
The second group of letters would read in part this way: “Your wife and mother was my stake leader in Spiritual Living. For one year I met with her for forty-five minutes each month and she had a profound influence on my life. She will always be one of the truly unforgettable people I have known. To me she exemplified spiritual living. She understood the needs of others and sought diligently to supply those needs.”
The Lord has said to us, “Thou shalt live together in love, insomuch that thou shalt weep for the loss of them that die, and more especially for those that have not hope of a glorious resurrection.
“And it shall come to pass that those that die in me shall not taste of death, for it shall be sweet unto them.” (D&C 42:45–46.)
I understand this scripture now as never before. Even though there is great loneliness without her, her passing was sweet because of the way she had lived.
In tribute to her today, I recommend to you her way of life. I watched service consume pain. I witnessed faith destroy discouragement. I have seen courage magnify her beyond her natural abilities. I have observed love change the course of lives.
May God grant that her memory will bring satisfaction and fulfillment to your life, I humbly pray in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

Years ago, as a young missionary, I was assigned to a group of seventeen small islands in the South Pacific. One day a member told me that if I would be at a certain harbor on a particular island at sunset the next day, a family would meet me there and listen to the discussions.
What joy that news brought! I was working alone at the time but quickly found four members who were experienced sailors who agreed to take me to this island.
Early the next morning the five of us started out. A nice breeze moved us swiftly along the coast, through the opening in the reef, and out into the wide expanse of the vast Pacific Ocean.
We made good progress for a few hours, but then the wind began to play out and soon quit, leaving us bobbing aimlessly on a smooth ocean. I suggested that we pray. We pleaded with the Lord three times to send some wind, but still the sails hung limp and listless.
I thought, All that stands between us and the family is a little wind. Why won’t the Lord send it? It’s a righteous desire.
A faithful older brother unlashed the tiny lifeboat and softly said, “Get in. I am going to row you to shore.”
I was dumbfounded. It was miles to shore. The sun was hot, and this man was old. He said, “We have an assignment from the Lord. Before the sun sets this day, you will be teaching the gospel and bearing testimony to a family who wants to listen. Get in the boat.”
We got into the boat; the old man bent his back and began to row. He did not look up, rest, or talk. Hour after hour he rowed and rowed and rowed, fulfilling the calling he had from the Lord—to get a missionary to a family who wanted to hear the gospel. He was the Lord’s wind that day.
Just as the sun dipped into the ocean, the lifeboat touched shore. A family was waiting. I went to their home and taught them the gospel. The family believed and eventually was baptized.
How often do we quit because we pray for wind and none comes? Instead, we need to listen for the Lord’s answer when we pray and then act upon it. On the boat, five men prayed, but only one heard and acted. God gave him the strength to be His wind that day, and He will give us the strength to be His wind when we do what He asks.

Family—what a sacred name for those we love the most. If someone asked you to name the greatest thing about your family, what would it be? I know that most families, including mine, are not perfect, but every day we are trying to be more kind and thoughtful to each other. This past month my father died. I learned many lessons from my dad. He had such great faith. He said, “Dying is just like walking into another room.” The day he died, I thought: My dad died today! This was his last day on earth! He has just walked into another room. It was such a sweet, sacred experience for my family and me.

A few Sundays ago as I sat in a sacrament meeting in Germany, tears of gratitude filled my eyes and my heart was full. I saw eighty-two little children sing songs of love to their Heavenly Father. I was so grateful for the Church which has been reestablished upon the earth, and that I too had one day been a Primary child, and my children also, and had learned those songs and the love they express. I’ve sung those songs thousands of times since my youth and am grateful for the love and the message they bring. On this very same day in that sacrament meeting was a new convert who is awaiting the arrival of her first child. She was so touched by the children, the Church, the Primary, and the love of our Heavenly Father that was there. She later excitedly said, “Oh, I can hardly wait to have my child so she can go to Primary.”

Through the front door of the modest, but neat, row house at 50 Rock Street in Lowell, Massachusetts, comes the exotic aroma of Asian food. Two little Cambodian girls sit on the front steps flashing smiles that are even more inviting than the wonderful fragrance that fills the warm, humid midafternoon air. Step into the living room and you are immediately impressed with the strong sense of family community. The walls are lined with poster-size photographs of relatives: exquisite Cambodian brides in ceremonial costumes juxtaposed among Americanized Asian youth proudly standing by their Trans Am automobiles. A dozen friends, neighbors, and cousins are comfortably seated on well-worn sofas and the floor, happily talking as they watch a Cambodian video. Children seem to outnumber adults three to one but play contentedly among themselves.
The kitchen is a bustle of activity. Fifteen-year-old Savy is at the table grinding a small mountain of garlic and curry with an oversize mortar and pestle. Nineteen-year-old Soph is mixing a crowd-size pot of prohok (seasoned fish) and squash soup. Others chat and laugh while working among boxes of Thai noodles, limes, and all sorts of exotic spices.
This could be the home of any one of thousands of southeast Asian families that have settled in this melting pot city of 100,000. But 50 Rock Street is the home of Chea Touch (pronounced Cheea Tooch), a 12-year-old Cambodian boy and recent convert to the Church. Although a member of the Billerica (Massachusetts) Ward for less than a year, and the only member of his family to join the Church, this remarkable young man has been directly responsible for the baptisms of 15 other Asian friends.
“It has not been easy for my family and me to come to a new country. There are many things we don’t understand, and we have many struggles. The elders have shown us that they care about us and they want us to be happy,” relates Chea. He adds, “I’ve always known I have a Heavenly Father who loves me. It’s been wonderful to learn more about him and know what I must do to return to him. I want my friends to know the truth so they can have the happiness I do.”
Chea’s efforts, combined with those of the stake and full-time elders assigned to this area, have resulted in a total of 150 convert baptisms in eight months.
Our story begins in 1987 when two elders, Paul Gooch and Garrett Black, were assigned to the Massachusetts Boston Mission. Since there had not been elders in Lowell for a number of years, they felt it was appropriate to seek special help from Heavenly Father on the missionary effort. At that time there were only two Cambodian families who were members of the Church in that area.
Elder Gooch’s journal entry of April 11, 1987, reads: “On this beautiful, clear, spring day, Elder Black and I went upon the top of Fort Hill overlooking the city. We asked that Lowell be blessed as a place of refuge for the Asian people where they could rest in peace and safety, where the Spirit could dwell amidst them in their homes.” Both elders felt inspired. The entry continues, “We asked that Lowell be blessed as a place where the Asians might come to know Jesus as their Savior.”
The elders’ first meeting with Chea was quite accidental. Looking for another family, they happened to knock on his door. Chea was the only family member who spoke English. In the course of their conversation, he told them that he loved Jesus, wanted to find a church, and made them promise to take him to church the next Sunday. Elder Gooch recalls, “I was very impressed with Chea. He was extremely mature and seemed like a 25-year-old in an 11-year-old body.” Chea’s parents told the elders that their son visited several Christian churches on his own, but “didn’t feel right in any of them.”
Chea’s maturity is no doubt a result of many of the things he has experienced in his young life. Like many Cambodians who have found refuge in the United States, Chea and his family are survivors. He was four and his sister Soph was ten when they escaped with their parents from Cambodia after suffering through long days of fear and hard work on a rice farm. The Touch family does not like to speak about the events in their past life. It is painful to recall the tortures and brutal slayings. Seven of their children died in Cambodia.
Chea and his remaining family were able to escape one night in 1979 after the Khmer Rouge was overthrown by the Vietnamese forces. They trekked through the mountains and made their way to the Kavidan refugee camp in Thailand.
They lived in the refugee camp until 1984, when relief organizations sponsored their relocation to the United States. They’ve been in Lowell, Massachusetts, since then. Chea now has two younger sisters: Lundi, who is six, and Dani, age four.
After hearing the discussions and attending sacrament meeting, Chea knew he had found what he was looking for. “The people are so nice. I feel I belong. As I learn the scriptures and read the Book of Mormon, I can feel Heavenly Father’s love for me.” Chea loves to sing and adds, “The music makes me very happy.” Although his parents have taken the missionary lessons, attend church often, and fully support Chea, they have not joined.
After his baptism, Chea and the elders became very good friends. “Almost every day Chea would hop over the back fence and climb the stairs to our apartment,” recalls Elder Gooch. “After fixing himself a piece of unbuttered toast, he would tell us about friends and relatives he wanted us to visit. Sometimes we had a hard time keeping up!”
With a twinkle in his eye, Chea recalls the first person he told the elders about. “Sothom Chea was in my class at school. At first I was afraid of him. I thought he didn’t like me. I asked him if he would like to meet my friends, Elder Black and Elder Gooch. When Sothom said yes I was surprised but very, very happy.” Chea accompanied the elders to all of Sothom’s discussions. He says, “I enjoyed translating the lessons. I learned so much. I could feel the Holy Spirit. Besides, it was fun.”
Old as well as young have benefited from Chea’s desire to share his newfound knowledge. His neighbor, Sophon Heng, a mother of four, and her elderly mother Hong Heng were baptized as a result of Chea’s efforts. Sophon recalls, “Chea was so kind to us. He asked us if we would like to meet two men who would teach us and make us happy. When we said yes, Chea and the elders came to our home each week and taught us the gospel.”
For Chea it is not a sacrifice but a real joy to share Heavenly Father’s message. “Each time I go with the elders I seem to learn something new. I enjoy learning about how to return to Heavenly Father—what I must do and what I must avoid.”
Irene Danjou, Chea’s former Primary president, beams as she remembers, “Each Sunday he would bring a different friend to church. He’d introduce them to me, spell their names, tell me their ages, and sit with them until they felt comfortable. Then he would go to his own class. He did this every week for a whole year!”
One example of Chea’s diligence and enthusiasm as a young missionary is recorded in Elder Gooch’s journal: “I was home for lunch, sitting on my hardwood rocking chair, trying to prepare a talk for zone conference. Somehow I just couldn’t get my thoughts gathered. The telephone rang. It was Chea. He told me that he wanted Elder Black and me to visit the Vongs, a Cambodian family that had been in Lowell for a year. They were praying and fasting to find a church they could attend.”
Saveth Vong and her three children, Chetena, Chendra, and Tola, had narrowly escaped execution. Her husband, a pilot in the Cambodian Army, had been captured. Saveth and her children managed to get out of prison three days before they were scheduled to be shot.
Chea smiles as he recalls his and the elder’s first visit to the Vong home. “Everyone seemed so eager to learn. There were many questions. The Spirit was very strong.” Although the Vongs used a Book of Mormon printed in Cambodian, they needed help with gospel principles. Chea played an important role, assisting the elders as he translated discussions and shared his own experiences in the Church. Elder Gooch’s journal entry continues, “Day after day, Chea sat quietly by Saveth helping her understand the things we taught. He never seemed to tire of the message of the gospel.”
Indeed, as Chea taught the gospel his testimony grew. He recalls, “I remember reading 3 Nephi 27:7: ‘Therefore, whatsoever ye shall do, ye shall do it in my name; therefore ye shall call the church in my name; and ye shall call upon the Father in my name that he will bless the church for my sake.’ [3 Ne. 27:7] I thought, how could it be that I’ve never seen this scripture before? It makes so much sense. Heavenly Father’s true church must be named after his Son!”
This scripture also confirmed for Chea what he knew in his heart was true—that if he prayed to Heavenly Father in the name of Jesus and asked for help to share the gospel message, Heavenly Father would bless his efforts.
When the Vongs made the decision to be baptized, Chea was delighted. Elder Gooch recalls that evening, “While we were driving home, Chea asked Elder Black and me to stop by a grove of trees in a nearby park so that we could thank Heavenly Father. We took turns giving thanks and expressing our joy. When we were finished, Chea climbed on my shoulders. After a few quiet moments Chea lovingly looked down, flashed his million dollar smile and said, “The Holy Ghost is with us, Gooch, isn’t it?”
“Yep, Chea, sure is.”
“I know—I felt it!”
The Vongs were baptized a week later.
Chea will be entering the sixth grade this fall. He loves to fish and play basketball and enjoys video games. Like other Cambodian youth in America, he plays an important role in helping his parents learn their new language and culture. The adults spend long hours working to make ends meet and don’t have much free time to learn English. The youth, on the other hand, pick up the language quickly and bring it home. Chea’s been particularly fortunate. Along with his regular public school classes, he’s in a special program at the Sylvan Learning Center in Chelmsford, Massachusetts. Director Joan O’Brien sees Chea as a unique child. “I think he’s a youngster who will be a real leader in the Cambodian culture. He’s like a pitcher that cannot be filled.”

Siedeh took a big breath and walked into her new classroom. It was her first day in fourth grade.
Last year, Siedeh was in second grade. She did so well that her school let her skip third grade. Siedeh was excited to do harder math problems and read more books in fourth grade. But she wasn’t happy that she would have to leave her old friends.
As she looked around the room, Siedeh felt small. All of her new classmates looked older and taller than she was. What if she didn’t belong?
She chose a desk and sat down. A tall girl sat next to her. “Hi,” Siedeh said.
“What are you doing here?” the girl asked. “I thought you were supposed to be in third grade.”
“The school moved me up a grade,” Siedeh said nervously.
The girl made a mean face. “Well, I don’t care how smart you are. You’re still just a baby.”
Siedeh felt awful inside. For the rest of the week, she was too scared to talk to any of her classmates. Each time she heard someone laughing or whispering, she frowned. They were probably saying mean things about her.
Just when she thought things couldn’t get any worse, Siedeh got a math test back. She wanted to cry when she looked at her score. Math was her favorite subject. She had never scored this low on a test before.
When she got home, Siedeh couldn’t hold back her tears. “I don’t have any friends,” she told her parents. “I don’t belong in fourth grade. I’m not smart enough.”
“I’m sorry it’s so hard,” Siedeh’s mother said. “But you are smart. And you are still learning.”
Siedeh wiped her eyes. “I wish I could go to third grade instead.”
Dad was quiet for a moment. “Would you like a priesthood blessing?” he asked.
Siedeh nodded. Maybe a blessing from Dad would help her feel better.
Siedeh sat on a chair, and Dad put his hands on her head.
“I bless you that you will not be afraid,” Dad said. “And I bless you to love your new classmates. As they get to know you, they will love you too.”
A calm feeling spread through Siedeh. She felt that her dad’s words were what Heavenly Father wanted her to hear.
After the blessing, Mama helped Siedeh work on her math problems. Soon Siedeh was feeling a bit better.
The next day at school, Siedeh remembered her blessing and tried to be brave. She smiled at her classmates. When she showed love, she felt less afraid of them! Some of them were even really nice. She worked hard to learn, and soon her grades improved too.
By the end of the school year, Siedeh had many friends. She was glad Heavenly Father had helped her be brave. And she was grateful she could always have the blessing of priesthood power to help her.
This story took place in Liberia.

Our experiences in mortality are like the little boy and his father flying a kite on a windy day. As the kite rose higher, the winds caused it to tug on the connecting string in the little boy’s hand. Inexperienced with the force of mortal winds, he proposed to cut the string so the kite could rise higher. His wise father counseled no, explaining that the string is what holds the kite in place against mortal winds. If we lose our hold on the string, the kite will not rise higher. It will be carried about by these winds and inevitably crash to the earth.

Anne Luthy, Annette’s mother, knows Finnish well, and she helped translate Annette’s testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel onto the inside cover of several copies of the Book of Mormon. Annette took the books to school, where she is one of only three members of the Church, and gave them to five of her teachers and several of her classmates. She also found occasion to tell her friends the Joseph Smith story.