Gospel Story Finder

While living in the Mongolia countryside, I was fascinated with the vastness of the rolling hills with no fences or barrier of any kind to keep their animals from wandering away. My wife and I both grew up on the farm with a love for animals. In my youth I spent much of my time trying to keep our animals fenced in. My father always had a band of sheep so I was especially interested how the Mongolian people kept track of their herds. I learned quickly that there is a difference between being a shepard and being a sheep herder. We were sheep herders, keeping our animals contained in fences and corrals. Our sheep had little agency as we herded them from fenced area to fenced area with force and a few sheep dogs. If ever our sheep escaped, they ran wildly through town. I remember one spring day while in Junior High we suited up in my PE class and headed out to the soccer field. I remember clearly trotting out with all of my friends only to stop, frozen in terror, as I recognized the women in a house dress and apron running across the playing field, with a broom, chasing four sheep. Yes, it was my mother trying to catch a few of our escaping critters. I didn’t know whether to help or hide. I followed along as the entire class joined in to help Mom get our sheep back home.

When I was about to receive my mission call, I had an experience with my dad that really impressed upon my heart and mind the importance of worthy hands.
I had the opportunity to accompany my dad to the house of a man we home-taught. This good brother had asked for a blessing. I was not yet a Melchizedek Priesthood holder, so I watched and listened as my dad placed his hands upon the brother’s head and spoke the words that the Spirit put into his mouth. I felt the Spirit strongly during the blessing.
Afterwards my thoughts lingered on my dad’s hands. Those rough, tough farmer hands had been kept clean by their owner. Because of that, they were able to be an instrument in the Lord’s hands to bestow the blessings and power of heaven upon one of many whom my dad cared for. I viewed the sacred power of those hands with awe and thought: “Wow. I want to have hands like those.” I knew that soon I could, but I would need to keep them clean throughout my life to do any good.
My dad has always used his hands for good. He has kept them ever worthy to hold the priesthood of God.

Often I have observed that strength and love come at the cost of sacrifice, shared in large part by the wives of the Seventy. A number of years ago I visited Elder Claudio and Sister Margareth Costa while they served in Bogotá, Colombia. After dinner one evening the Costas had an online video conversation with some of their grandchildren. As Elder Costa was translating for me, I learned that the grandchildren were referring to Sister Costa as “Computer Grandma.” At the end of the conversation, two grandchildren ages two and four embraced the computer monitor, giving Sister Costa a hug. Sister Costa later informed me that those grandchildren thought she and Elder Costa lived inside the computer.

—Someone else was impressed with the lost money, too—the girl who lost it. She had been encouraged by her LDS friends to join them at Chiemsee and was dismayed when her funds for the entire activity disappeared. Her roommates helped her to search, had prayed with her, and had come to the desk to see if the clerk could offer any suggestions.
“Twenty dollars?” he said, trying to hide his grin. “Why, yes, someone turned it in just five minutes ago. …”
“... and the young lady’s money was returned to her,” the article implies, but the full resolution is not present in the provided text.

Part of the power for the participants seems to come from the hill itself, like the mythological tale of the giant Anteaus who received all of his strength only while he was touching the earth. One could not help but be humbled while selling a copy of the Book of Mormon on the very hill from which the records in it were uncovered years before. I myself was caught up in the zeal of it and put myself to the test several times.
For instance, there was the man who helped me out on the freeway when I ran out of gas. In payment for the gas I thought I might as well give him the gospel—it was the least I could do. By the end of an hour he had enthusiastically agreed to see the missionaries. Among the audience, my favorite tracting trick was to claim I was a representative from a magazine (which I was) that was interested in nonmember opinions of Mormons. If they had no opinions to give, then I offered to inform them about the religion and get their opinions along the way. It worked great! At no time, though, did I do anything extraordinary except try to be an instrument of the Lord.

Will you pardon me if I tell you about my father? When he was about the age that I am now, he was fully retired. But he was active. He lived in a rather simple but comfortable home in a rural area. He had an orchard around him and enjoyed giving away the fruit. The yard of his home included lawns and shrubs and trees. It had a rock wall about two feet high separating one level from another. Whenever the weather was good he would sit on the wall, an old hat on his head to shade his eyes from the summer sun. When we went to visit him I would sit beside him. With a little prompting he would talk of his life—of the time when as a boy he lived in Cove Fort. He would smile as he told of the time that his brother found a loaded pistol in the telegrapher’s office. The boys began fooling around, the pistol fired, and his brother shot my father in the leg.

His father sent to Beaver for the doctor. The doctor arrived hours later and tried to remove the ball with a darning needle. He only made the pain worse. Father, sitting on his wall, would lift his pant leg, feel the flesh of his leg, and say that the ball was still there.

The family moved from Cove Fort to Fillmore, and when Father was in his late teens he came here to Provo and enrolled in the Brigham Young Academy. He was a student of Karl G. Maeser, whom he came to know well. From here he went East to school. He then came back and taught here until the First Presidency of the Church asked him to move to Salt Lake City and preside over the business college, for which the Church had great plans.

He was an educator. He was a successful businessman. He presided over the largest stake in the Church, with more than 15,000 members. He served as a mission president and in many other capacities. And now he was retired, and he sat on his wall. He was a great reader with a wonderful library. He was an excellent speaker and writer. Almost to the time he died, just short of the age of 94, he read and wrote and contemplated the knowledge that had come to him.

I discovered that when he sat on the wall, hours at a time on a warm day, he would reflect on the things he had read from his library.

I think he grew old gracefully and wonderfully. He had his books with the precious treasures they contained of the thoughts of great men and women of all the ages of time. He never ceased to learn. As he sat on the wall he thought deeply of what he had read the night before. He acquired the habit as a student here under Dr. Maeser. It was part of his BYU experience.

At times I almost envy him: time to read and time to ponder. What a blessing. He reminded me of leaves on the trees. When autumn comes with killing frost, the leaves change their color, and they give off a new beauty until they eventually drop to form a carpet on the ground.

Now, you are young, and why am I telling you of an old man and the wall on which he sat? I am telling you because I think it has a lesson for each of us. We must never cease to learn. We believe in eternal progression and that this life is a part of eternity to be profitably lived until the very end.

When we started talking about the sacrament in Sunday School, I thought I had a good understanding of it from earlier lessons in Primary and seminary and from completing my Personal Progress. But I found out I still had a lot to learn.
My teacher began the lesson by asking a simple question: “How do you keep your covenant to always remember the Savior?” I began to think about how I live each day and if I really always remember my Savior. Was I keeping my baptismal covenant the very best I could?
In class we talked about different things that would help us always remember Jesus Christ. Some of the things included having consistent daily prayer and scripture study, praying for the Spirit, singing hymns, taking time to ponder, writing in a journal, going to the temple, and keeping items around home that remind you of Jesus Christ, such as pictures of Him and of the temple. At the end of the class, we were asked to apply the things we’d discussed and to prepare all week long to take the sacrament the next Sunday.
During the week, I tried more diligently to focus on Jesus Christ. I studied scriptures about the sacrament, and I tried to allow myself quiet time to think about what I’d learned. Before then, I used to listen to popular music during most of my free time, but I decided to take a break and ponder sometimes or listen to hymns instead. I prayed for the Spirit to help me remember my covenant and tried to remember to act as the Savior would. I even took the advice to write in my journal, and at the end of each day I took time to reflect on what I’d done well and what I needed to improve. All week I looked forward to when I could take the sacrament again.
On Sunday, I prepared to go to church in a more reverent manner. I woke up early so I wouldn’t be in a rush to get ready right before I had to leave.
By living the principles from our lesson, I learned more about the sacrament and my baptismal covenant. It increased my testimony of the Savior and of His Atonement. I found that when I strive to remember Jesus Christ, I am much happier. It’s easier for me to deal with trials, because I know that He can help me through anything. I’m grateful for the sacrament and for the opportunity I had to make it a bigger part of my everyday life.

Eight-year-old Martin Wang raced upstairs to the third floor of his apartment building. He pressed the doorbell and waited impatiently.
“Ni hao (How are you)?” his mother greeted him cheerfully when she opened the door.
Martin didn’t answer. His mother continued talking in Mandarin, asking him what he had done in school that day and if he wanted sweet rice in bamboo leaves for a snack.
“No,” answered Martin in English, “I want a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, like all the other kids have.”
“Haole (All right),” said his mother, still talking in Mandarin. “But sweet rice tastes much better.”
“I don’t care,” said Martin. “I want what all the other kids have.”
That evening at supper, as Martin’s father and mother talked about getting ready for the Chinese New Year, which would begin in a few days, Martin burst out angrily, “Speak English!”
“Martin,” said his father. “Why are you so upset?”
“I want you to speak English like everyone else,” said Martin. “And I don’t want to go to the New Year’s festival anymore. I’m tired of being different.” Martin threw down his napkin and ran to his room, crying.
Martin’s mother followed him. “Did something happen in school today?” she asked, sitting next to Martin on his bed.
“Some of the kids said I have funny eyes,” Martin sobbed.
“They’re not funny,” said his mother. “They’re just different from your classmates’. Chinese people have almond-shaped eyes. Yours are especially handsome because you have an extra fold on each eyelid.”
“I don’t care,” said Martin. “I want to be just like everyone else.”
“No one is just like everyone else,” his mother told him. “Right now it seems hard, but someday you’ll be glad for your Chinese heritage.”
The next day at school Martin’s teacher asked him if his mother could come in and tell the class about the Chinese New Year. Martin blushed with embarrassment. He was afraid that the other kids would tease him even more. But Martin did ask his mother, and she said that she would be happy to talk to his class.
A few days later, when Martin woke up, he groaned, remembering that his mother was to accompany him to school. At breakfast he said, “I have a stomachache.”
“I’m sorry, Martin,” said his mother. “I’ll tell you what; if you still don’t feel well after I’ve told your class about the Chinese New Year, you can come home with me.”
Martin tried to think of another excuse to stay home, but his mother whisked him out the door and into the car before he could think of one.
In his classroom Martin sat with his head down, staring at the floor. He thought that the other children would make fun of his mother’s broken English. Instead, the children watched with great interest as she held up a bright red sheet of paper with gold characters painted on it and explained that the characters meant “Happy New Year.”
Then she showed the children how Chinese written characters are sometimes like pictures. She wrote: (mù), which means “tree.” Then she wrote (lin), which means “forest.” Then she held up some small red envelopes covered with gold characters.
“What do you think these are for?” she asked.
One of the children raised his hand and guessed that they were for sending letters.
“No,” said Martin’s mother with a smile, “but that’s a good guess. These are special envelopes that we put money into and give to the children as New Year’s presents—right Martin?”
Martin nodded his head reluctantly.
Out of a large plastic bag, his mother pulled a scary-looking dragon head with a long colorful sheet attached to it. The children all oohed and aahed.
Martin looked around in surprise. Everyone seemed excited and genuinely interested. And no one, he realized, had snickered at anything that his mom had said.
“This is a Chinese dragon,” said his mother. “We use it for the dragon dance during the New Year’s celebration. The person chosen for the dragon’s head has to practice for many months. If you would like me to, I will show you a little of the dance. Who would like to be part of the dragon today?”
All the children—even Billy, who had teased Martin about his eyes—eagerly waved their hands and begged to be part of the dragon.
After all the children had a chance to try the dragon dance, Martin’s mother said that she had one more thing to show them. “You must be very careful with these,” she continued. “Adults are the ones that usually light them for our celebrations.” From a sack she pulled a long string with small rolls of red paper attached to it.
“Firecrackers!” yelled one of the boys.
Everyone in the class pushed to the front of the room to have a closer look.
“Boy, you guys are lucky!” Billy told Martin. “You get to set off firecrackers for New Year’s.”
Martin looked at him and smiled. Maybe being Chinese wasn’t so bad after all.
When everyone had sat down, Martin’s mother asked him in Mandarin if his stomach still hurt. Without thinking, he answered her in Mandarin.
“You mean that you can speak Chinese, too?” asked Billy.
Martin nodded.
“Wow!” Billy exclaimed. “Maybe you can teach me some?”
Later, as they lined up together for recess, Martin smiled. “Pengyou,“ he said to Billy as they ran across the blacktop. “That means ‘friend.’”

Once you learn to spell the name of your home town, “Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysyliogogogoch,” you’d think the rest would be easy. Still, it was a major accomplishment for 13-year-old James Roberts, a member of the Reading Stake and resident of the long-named village on the island of Anglesey, North Wales, to be accepted into the Indefatigable School.
The Duke of Edinburgh is the patron of the Indefatigable School, which trains young men for leadership careers, especially within the armed forces. Although James learns all the normal school subjects there, he also has lessons in navigation, canoeing, seamanship, mountaineering, orienteering, archery, and as many other sports as he can manage.
“In our spare time we have to do our own laundry, clean the school, and prepare and serve the food,” says James. “It’s a good training for my mission.”

When I went to preschool, we had a concert that was planned to be on a Sunday. My mom told me that if I want to be like Jesus Christ, I should do what the prophet says. She also said that the prophet told us that we need to go to church on Sundays but that I could choose.
I had learned a lot of songs for the concert and had worked hard at preschool.
The last day of school, my mom asked me if I wanted to go to the concert. I told her that I did really want to go, but it was on a Sunday and I wanted to go to church and follow the prophet.
My mom gave me a big hug and said that I had made a good choice. I felt really good inside because I followed the prophet’s teachings.

“Michael and Carson, I could use your help today,” Dad said, putting on his work shoes. Brian’s older brothers were watching TV, and they hardly moved.
“C’mon, guys,” Dad said. “Hard work is good for you.”
“OK. But what’re we doing anyway?” Michael muttered.
“We’re planting some bushes along the front of the house. I’ll need help digging and hauling dirt. It’ll be fun working together.”
“Doesn’t sound like fun to me,” said Carson.
Brian frowned. He didn’t really want to spend his whole Saturday working either. Plus, it was going to be hot today. But Dad said he needed help. “I’ll help,” Brian said.
“That’s really nice of you, Brian. But the ground is hard clay, so it’s going to be a tough job. And hauling off the dirt won’t be easy with that steep hill next to our house.”
“I can do it,” said Brian.
His older brothers looked at Brian doubtfully. After all, he was only eight years old.
“OK, boys,” said Dad, “let’s get to work.”
Dad was right. The ground was so hard they had to use a pickax to loosen it up. But while Michael and Carson were off tossing dirt at each other, Brian and Dad finished digging the first hole.
Once the wheelbarrow was full, Dad asked Michael to dump it in the woods near the house. To get there he would have to go partway down and across a steep hill.
“I don’t think I can do it,” Michael said, pushing the wheelbarrow only a few feet. “It’s too heavy. I’ll fall down the hill!”
Carson gave it a try next. “Too heavy!” he agreed. “Dad’s the only one strong enough for that.”
That’s when Brian stepped forward. “I can do it,” he said. He lifted with all his might. He started pushing the wheelbarrow forward slowly.
“That’s OK, Brian. I’ll get—” Dad began. But Brian was determined.
“There’s no way you can make it!” said Michael.
As the hill got steeper, Brian got faster and faster. Now he wasn’t pushing the wheelbarrow; it was pulling him! Dad started after him, but Brian held on tight and steered it to the right. He slowed it down just enough to stop it in front of the bushes at the edge of the yard. Then he heaved it over with a mighty shove and dumped the load.
“Whoa!” said Michael.
“No way!” said Carson.
“You definitely win the prize for hardest worker today,” said Dad as Brian climbed back up the hill.
“Phew!” said Brian, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “I’m just glad I made it back alive!” Everyone laughed.
When the wheelbarrow was filled again, Michael said, “I’ve got this load.” They all watched as he slowly followed Brian’s pathway down the hill and over to the trees, where he dumped another load of dirt. Michael was breathing hard when he got back.
“That was tough,” Michael said, wiping the sweat from his face. “I still can’t believe you did that all on your own, Brian.”
Sometimes hard work just sounds so hard. But when you finish you feel so good!
“Yeah! How did you do that?” Carson asked, stretching his arms after hauling the next load.
Before too long the new bushes were planted. Brian had never been so hot and sweaty and tired. But he was glad he could do a hard day’s work with his Dad and brothers. It really had been fun working together.

The Lord is always looking out for us, providing opportunities. One of the best personal examples connecting this idea with the concept of starting over involved an experience I had while branch president in Winnipeg. We had an unfortunately high level of inactivity there, with the church having grown only by very small increments over the years in the city. There were only 2 branches when we first arrived, in spite of the church's having been there for many, many years. One of the families in our branch included a mother who attended sporadically, a father who did not attend, and children who came fairly regularly. For a period of time the father eluded me and I still did not have a picture of him. Then we noticed a brother come and sit right near the back door one Sunday. Neither of my counselors knew him and in my mind I decided it was probably Brother McCullough. Still, he managed to slip away right after sacrament meeting before I could get down to him. The next Sunday he was there again, and I determined he was not going to escape this time, and walked down to the exit during the closing hymn. When he went to walk out, I took him by the hand, looked him in the eye and said, "You need to see me." He was stunned. "How did you know?" he said. "You'd be surprised what branch presidents know," was my off hand remark. I steered him into my office and sat him down. "Tell me about yourself" seemed to be a fairly innocuous way of beginning, and I did. To my surprise I discovered he was not the brother I had thought he was. But he did not realize my mistake, and only later did I come to see it was not a mistake, but an inspired act prompted by the Lord. For it turned out that this man was from Texas and had tried to get as far away as possible after his excommunication, which had cost him his family, his livelihood, and of course his membership in the church. He had taken a teaching job in Canada, too embarrassed at his failures to remain in the area where people knew him. He had spent some months in Winnipeg, staying away from church, but gradually felt a pull to return and had decided to do so anonymously. I expect it would have happened eventually one way or another, but because of this moment when I was prompted to take him aside, this man began the steps towards returning to the church and became a stalwart once he was finally cleared to be baptized again. The branch came together around him and took satisfaction in his individual achievement, a source of love and support. He was so grateful to have the opportunity to start over, and he committed never to make the kind of mistakes again that had cost him so much in this life. This had to be one of the most satisfying moments of my church service.

In 1998, when I was Young Men president in my ward, I participated in a stake youth camp. As I was resting after a game, I saw a young man I didn’t know. He was sitting alone on a little mound away from the camp. He had an unpleasant expression on his face. I felt I needed to go over and talk to him.
I introduced myself and asked his name. I don’t remember all that we talked about, but I do remember that I shed a few tears. It was a special conversation that lasted until they called us to the next activity. I rarely saw the young man after that and never had another chance to talk to him.
In August 2005 we had a meeting at our stake center. This same young man came up to me and gave me a letter. It read:
I started thinking today about our conversation in San Martin Park in about 1998. Just to remind you, I was sitting by myself and feeling a bit sad. You came up to me and said you felt you needed to talk to me. You said … the time had come to choose—either to stay with the Church and follow Jesus Christ or leave it and not enjoy the blessings that come from activity in the Church. The one thing that really stayed with me was when you said that if I fell, my whole family would fall with me, but if I would keep moving forward, they would come too.
… A great desire arose in me to help them. … So from the day we had that talk, I made the decision to be faithful to the Lord, and even now, after seven years, I am still faithful, and my family is firm in the gospel and faithful to the Lord. … Thank you so much for being so straightforward and truthful with me. You’ll never know how much good it did.
This young man is now a returned missionary who has been married in the temple. I am grateful to the Lord for giving me the opportunity to serve as a leader. I am grateful to come to understand the importance of putting myself in others’ shoes so I can try to understand what they are going through.
Alejandro Humberto Villarreal, Argentina

Pornchai Juntratip carefully walks into the room and senses the location of his visitor. He smiles, brings the palms of his hands together, bows his head, and offers the traditional Thai greeting: “Sawat dee khrap.”
Brother Juntratip is a slim, delicate-looking man whose youthful face belies his forty-six years. Visitors sense an ethereal quality about Brother Juntratip, who has been described as “a man without guile, untouched by worldly influences.” A Church translator in his native city of Bangkok, Thailand, Brother Juntratip has achieved much in his life despite losing his sight in his teenage years.
“I was about eight or nine years old when I lost the sight in my right eye. But it wasn’t until I looked through binoculars that I realized I could see only through my left eye. I lost the use of that eye when I was about fourteen years old. Now I can see only the difference between light and dark.”
But having lost the ability to see with his eyes, Brother Juntratip has been able to develop the ability to see with the Spirit.
“I was in my late twenties when I first met the Latter-day Saint missionaries. They were bicycling by the house one day and saw me. They stopped and introduced themselves and asked if I had ever heard of the Church. When I said no, they told me about Joseph Smith and the First Vision.
“From what they told me, I felt that Joseph Smith was a good man who had done nothing wrong. At their suggestion, I knelt and prayed to Heavenly Father to know if what they had told me was true. When I got up from my knees, I had this soft, warm feeling down my spine.”
The elders arranged to come again, this time bringing Braille editions of the Book of Mormon and The Articles of Faith by Elder James E. Talmage—both in English.
But Pornchai says he had been prepared for this moment. His father, a bank clerk, started teaching him English when Pornchai was nine years old. When he was ten, he began working with a tutor. Later, he enrolled in a four-year high school correspondence course offered by a college for the blind in the United States. He had completed the course and received an American high school diploma shortly before the missionaries stopped to talk to him.
“When I look back on those years, I realize that everything fitted into place,” says Brother Juntratip. “Not only was I able to read the books the missionaries gave me, but I think I was also prepared spiritually to receive the gospel message.
“I grew up observing the customs of two religions. Like most Thais, I was raised a Buddhist. My parents, being of Chinese descent, would observe Chinese religious customs, such as the new-year festival, the ancestral festival, and the new-moon festival.
“But I had read of Jesus Christ, and as a small boy—a long, long time ago—I had watched movies in which the Lord was depicted, like The Ten Commandments and The Robe. And I believed in God. I told myself that there must be a God, because if there were no God, who created the universe and all the good and beautiful things in it? There had to be an omnipotent Being.”
Brother Juntratip was baptized on 6 December 1976, at the age of twenty-eight.
By then, his parents had died, but he faced opposition from his two younger brothers. “They were university-trained engineers, and their only religion was materialism. They couldn’t understand what I was doing.”
Three years later, they opposed his decision to attend Brigham Young University—Hawaii Campus. “My brothers were sure I’d fail,” recalls Brother Juntratip, “and they didn’t want the embarrassment of having to bring me home.” To try to keep him from going, his brothers took control of a piece of property his mother had left him. He had planned to sell the property to acquire money for college expenses. But his brothers said they would hold the property so that if he failed, they could sell it and use the money to bring him home.
But Brother Juntratip still went ahead with his plans and enrolled at BYU—Hawaii. He wrote to an airline company asking them to let him fly half-fare. They responded by giving him a free ticket.
Pornchai studied English literature at the university, taping the lectures and also listening to taped versions of the study text. He supported himself by transcribing oral history tapes.
He graduated in December 1983 and then entered BYU at Provo, Utah, for graduate work in English literature. “Because I did well while in college in Hawaii, my brothers let me have the money from the property sale to pay my way to Utah,” says Brother Juntratip. “I had to give so much time to my studies that I couldn’t work to support myself, but luckily I was awarded a scholarship. I received my master’s degree in June 1986 and returned to Thailand.”
For seven months after returning to Thailand, Brother Juntratip taught students in his home. Then he was offered a position as translator for the Church.
“I had been praying that I would find employment that would fit my particular circumstances, and the translation job does that. I translate seminary and institute student manuals into Thai.”
At first, Brother Juntratip hired someone to read the English text to him. He would dictate the Thai translation into a tape recorder, and the tapes would then be transcribed. These last two steps were eliminated when he taught himself to use a Thai-language typewriter. Later, he replaced the typewriter with a computer, making revisions and corrections easier. In addition, he now receives a taped version of the original English text.
Brother Juntratip met his wife, Kwanjai, a couple of years after his return from BYU. She had served a mission in Thailand.
The Juntratips were sealed in the Manila Philippines Temple in June 1990 by the temple president, Floyd Hogan, who had been Kwanjai’s mission president. Their son, Pituporn, was born in August 1991. “His name means patriarchal blessing,” explains Brother Juntratip. “We hope he grows up to be a good missionary like his mother.
“I remember that when the missionaries presented the discussions to me, I felt the gospel message they taught me was true, was good,” he says. “By striving to live my life according to the gospel, I have come to know for a certainty that it is true and it is good.”

As we got off the bus, we saw a tent belonging to a bedouin family. Farther from the road, two or three children were watching a flock of sheep grazing there on the hills outside Bethlehem. Our tour group was finishing a two-week stay in Israel, and we had come to Shepherds’ Field for a testimony meeting.
As we sat on the rocky hillside and looked in one direction, we could see Bethlehem. If we looked slightly to the left in another direction, we could see Herodion, a fortified mountain atop which Herod the Great had built a luxurious palace complete with pools, gardens, and two hundred white marble steps. We had visited it earlier in the day. Now, looking at it, I felt as if it represented all the material successes one could ever wish for. On the other hand, the village of Bethlehem seemed to symbolize everything I had learned about Jesus during our visit to the Holy Land.
I looked back and forth, from Bethlehem to Herodion. The question came to me: Which am I choosing? Of course I want to follow the Savior. But are my day-to-day decisions and actions taking me in a different direction?
As we sang Christmas carols and shared testimonies, I thought of how easy it is to make the wrong things our first priority. How easy it is to expend a lot of time and worry on things that are unimportant in an eternal frame of reference. How easy it is to pretend that material possessions are forever! And how difficult it is to remember that Jesus said, “No man can serve two masters.” (Matt. 6:24.)
The question would not go away: Which direction am I going? Then, over and over again, almost like a prayer, I heard the words of the shepherds: “Let us now go even unto Bethlehem.” (Luke 2:15.)
I have thought of that experience often since returning home—the sun dropping behind the Judean hills, the flock of sheep nearby, and the peace I felt as I recommitted myself to worry less about the things of the world and to seek more diligently the kingdom of God.
Sometimes still I can hear the shepherds from that long-ago night on a hill far away, saying, “Let us now go even unto Bethlehem.” And I remind myself to choose wisely. Herodion lies in ruins, but Bethlehem remains.

A full-time mission is an event Brian’s in full training for. He often brings friends from high school to church and seminary with him, hoping to interest them in the gospel.
Victor Venegas, 18, who joined the Church three years ago, says Brian’s friendship helped him feel welcome in the branch. “Brian and I have been friends since I joined the Church,” says Victor, who is also on Hempstead’s baseball team.
“When I first went to church everybody was nice, so I kept coming back,” he says.

Along with six other Mormons, Debra attends the Hazelwood Integrated College in Belfast, a school where the student body is about 50 percent Catholic and 50 percent Protestant. “I’m fairly new at the school, and at the start they’re all, ‘Oh, she’s one of them mad Mormons,’ and they tease you about being a moron, because it sounds the same,” Debra says. “But now, they’re asking questions, like why I don’t take tea or coffee. They’re kind of interested in it more.”

I was asleep in my bedroom one May morning when my older brother shook me awake and said, “Get up! They think Dad is dead.”
Those words and that situation are branded vividly into the far corners of my mind even though I was only eight when Dad died. The clear memory of that morning never leaves, and I’m glad it doesn’t. That’s part of the link between life and death.
When I sat on the front porch that spring day, I thought, If I live to be an old man, it’s going to seem like an eternity before I see Dad again. I was feeling sorry for myself, and I believe it was a normal reaction for anyone who loses a family member. As well as feeling very, very sad, I also felt cheated.
The week of Dad’s death and burial was hectic, traumatic, and totally different from anything else I had ever done. Life was a blurred and chaotic state. Existing schedules were thrown to the wind as life suddenly took a direction that seemed almost a reversal from previous paths and routes. Confusion entered my mind like it never had before.
For my family, the memories were far too painful after Dad died, so Mother sold our house and we moved to another city. She felt strongly that our lives would be happier in a different location where we could all look ahead instead of looking back. I think she felt that way because her immediate plan was to remain a widow the rest of her life. For me, the rest of my life was a long, long time to go.
As I thought and prayed about the move away from lifelong friends—a deeply traumatic experience for any young person—the Holy Ghost whispered to me, “Trust her. She is your mother. She will not lie to you or deceive you. Everything that she is doing is for your own good.”
As time passed, I longed for Dad on many occasions. Nevertheless, my life went on with joy, happiness, and pleasure. My grandfather—Dad’s father—spent much time with us, striving to be a father figure. The bishop often took us on father-and-son outings. Home teachers took us fishing and saw to other needs. School teachers showed great interest. Many adults gave of their time and talents so that we could experience those things that normally happen to young people.
Still, I longed for both parents to be in attendance when I was elected student-body vice president, when I scored three touchdowns in the first football game of my senior year, and when I graduated from high school.
None of this is ever meant to imply that Mother did not do a great job. But growing up with only one parent is a tough assignment. One parent can only do so much, and one is never as good as a team of two.
What I learned, though, is that when a parent dies, the world does not stop. There were days when I wished it would slow down so I could sort out the feelings of my heart. However, God will not ask more of us than what we are capable of giving. He will watch over us and protect us as we strive to do what’s right.
The hurt of burying one parent never goes away. The deep longing to be near them will never totally disappear. Dad’s comments to me during my childhood are so vivid that my memory signals that we will never be completely separated. As time goes by now, the storm clouds mostly pass like speeded-up, time-lapse photography. I quickly see that the sky is blue again.
That is the promise we each have, for God said, “Blessed is he that … is faithful in tribulation. … Ye cannot behold with your natural eyes, for the present time, the design of your God concerning those things which shall come hereafter, and the glory which shall follow. … For after much tribulation come the blessings. Wherefore the day cometh that ye shall be crowned with much glory; … Remember this, … that you may lay it to heart, and receive that which is to follow” (D&C 58:2–5).

Wow! What an answer to prayer! Letters from home are always a bright part of the week for missionaries, but when a letter from a precious little sister indicated she needed some close sisterly advice, I felt more than a little helpless since I am so far away. What could I write to help her without being preachy? In practically the same mailing we received some copies of past New Eras. I started thumbing through the issue I had managed to talk the elders out of (August 1973) and read “The Winner” by Judy Kay Welch. There it was! The very illustration I needed for her. Nobody can tell me there wasn’t a guiding hand in my receiving that particular New Era and that special letter at the same time.
If I had written every time the New Era has helped me you would have received a mountain of letters from me by now. I thank the Lord for parents who have always recognized the importance of the Church magazines in our home.
Sister Evelyn SmithBolivia Mission

Eun-Suk was raised in circumstances that required both her parents to work and be out of the home for most of her younger years. She remembers a painful experience as a young girl. Following her school performances, it was the custom for parents to present the children with flowers. Her parents never attended any of her performances.

My parents had never been there, so it was the worst in my experience. All the families came, and they gave flowers, but no one ever gave me flowers. It was the most painful experience. I don’t want my children to have that kind of experience.

So where did Eun-Suk learn to become such an outstanding women? Where did she learn, as she puts it, her “best lessons”?

I learned a lot of things from family and school, but learned the best things from Church. I honestly say that—in the Church.