Gospel Story Finder

A few years ago, my mother was diagnosed as having a malignant brain tumor. Despite the crushing news, my father, a firm believer in miracles, insisted that she could recover if our family exerted the necessary faith. We prayed fervently, and Mother received many priesthood blessings. But her condition grew steadily worse.
Desperate yet undaunted, Father continued to attend the temple daily. As I stood at the window and watched him leave for the temple early one morning, I remembered a day many years earlier, when my little brother was thrown from a horse. Thinking he had suffered only a little bruising and a bloody nose, I was devastated when he died late that night. My world caved in, and for months I mulled over the painful question, Why hadn’t Heavenly Father sent a miracle to save my brother’s life?
I turned away from the window, thinking about miracles: Who is entitled to them? Are they granted strictly by faith? How, exactly, do you measure a miracle? Then I thought of my mother. Now she seemed to be slipping away—dying from a second brain tumor some thirty-five years after her first one had been removed. She had lived happily and productively—a full life—and I wondered if there could be another miracle in store for her.
When I kissed her for what would be the last time in this life, I told her I loved her. The serene look on her face as she passed away convinced me that I had witnessed one of the greatest miracles of all. Because of the reality of the gospel and of Christ’s resurrection, I knew she was smiling again, embracing all those loved ones who had gone on before.
I still don’t know how to measure a miracle, but it no longer matters. Miracles happen with every breath we take. And sometimes the best miracles are not in living, but in going home.

Sixteen-year-old Jenny Bales gathered her three charges and placed them around the park table to eat their lunch. Her stomach was sending hurry signals to her hands to open her own bag. Lunches were usually quiet, and after a hard morning it gave her time to think. The deep pain was still resting just past her empty stomach. She would try to understand it a little more today.
She pulled an apple from her sack and looked across the table only to see Scotty Redman staring at her, frustration wrinkling his face into a frown.
Angrily, he slapped his square-fingered hand on the park table and cried, “Make it stop, Miss Baoes! Make da win stop! I don like it. My bag bow away.”
Jenny listened to a boy a year older than her wail like a small child. She felt a small knot replace the hunger pains in her stomach. In the last two months she had worked with Down’s Syndrome children. They each had a unique personality. With Scotty, when his world tilted too far, you had to shift it back, or he cried, sulked, threw things, or sat stubbornly against the wall. In the classroom, you found the missing crayon or helped him find a project. But stopping the wind was impossible. Scotty didn’t know this, and explaining it to him wouldn’t help.
“The win bow my bag away. Make it stop right now!”
That wind won’t blow your bag away, she thought. Just sit on it. But Jenny knew that wouldn’t work either. When Scotty ate his lunch, the bag had to be on the table to the left of his food. Order. Things like they were supposed to be. That’s what he needed. She had wanted time today to think about her own pain, but she knew Scotty would not stop unless she did something.
“Make da win stop,” he said. This time fire sparked in his eyes.
“Boy, you’re stubborn,” she whispered to herself. She felt the muscles in her left shoulder tighten in defense. One of Uncle Jed’s sayings sifted into her mind: “Stubborn is just determination headed the wrong way.”
That reminded her of Uncle Jed. Last spring he had suggested she find a summer job where she could look out at people and not into herself so much. “It’d be good to surround yourself with some joy,” he had said.
“I’d like that,” Jenny had said as they walked along the sidewalk in front of her house. She thought it might be fun working at the water slide. At least there she could see people, families, having fun.
“There are some openings for summer youth counselors at Parkhaven,” Uncle Jed said.
“Parkhaven? That’s for retarded children isn’t it?” That didn’t sound very joyful to her.
Uncle Jed stopped walking. He turned to face her and then smiled. With his characteristic softness he said, “Do you remember the New Testament story about the pool at Bethesda and the handicapped folks who waited for someone to move the water so they could be healed?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember who they waited for?”
“An angel, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Some people have to wait for angels to help them while they are in their imperfect bodies. Actually, we’re all defective one way or the other. But because of the Savior and what he did in the Resurrection, we’ll eventually be wrapped with glory. Can you imagine how glad those children at Parkhaven are going to be when that happens? Now, though, while they wait for the time their bodies will become perfect, the children at Parkhaven have need of angels to soothe their spirits while they cope with bodies that don’t work as well as yours and mine.”
Jenny had felt uneasy about working with handicapped children. She was handicapped too, she thought—emotionally. She wanted someone to take care of her, not the other way around. But in the past she had trusted Uncle Jed’s gift of seeing things clearly when others couldn’t, so she took the job.
The first few days she felt nervous around the children. She fell into sympathy, nearly immobilized by what she imagined was their pain. She began to see, though, mighty spirits peeking through their disabilities. And she saw they persisted. She also learned that they didn’t need someone to feel sorry for them. They needed someone who saw them as valuable and capable. They needed help, like the rest of us. The only difference was sometimes they had trouble getting others to understand what kind of help or how to give it. But then again, Jenny had begun to think, maybe that wasn’t so different from the rest of us.
The demands of the job caused her to collapse on her bed at the end of each day. But she felt a new strength breaking through her own pain.
She looked across the table again. Scotty’s tongue darted down to his chin, across his lips and disappeared into his frown. His hands stayed wrapped around the top of the lunch bag. In the classroom things had order, she thought, but here the wind blew.
He slapped his chunky palms on the table again. “Make da win stop—now,” he yelled. His face turned beet red.
She hadn’t seen Scotty this disturbed before. She felt a little frightened and wondered what would happen if she couldn’t distract him or change his mind. But worse than the fear of what he might do, his stubbornness and anger grated still tender wounds. It felt too much like when Mom and Dad had separated. Six eternal months ago. Impasse. No solution. They had been stubborn. They still were.
When she let herself, she could still hear the echoes of the fights, the name calling, the doors slamming. As terrible as those were, they were better than the deafening silences that followed. Her world had tilted, and her order slid out of control.
She often wondered if Dad’s business failure was the real cause of the trouble. All she knew for sure was that it seemed to start when the money wasn’t there any more. No new clothes. Bill collectors on the phone and at the door. For a month after the separation she sulked, mad at the world, mad at her parents, and mad at Heavenly Father. Stubborn was the reason the family was apart now. Mom and Dad both demanding that something change, when it couldn’t. Stubborn—like Scotty, only worse. They knew better. They went to church, they used to pray, and the family used to work. Scotty was stubborn. They chose it. The anger was back. If she wasn’t careful, it would come pouring out, out of control like it sometimes did. It would land on Scotty and that wasn’t fair.
It was plain though that Scotty wasn’t going to eat lunch unless she made the wind stop. Maybe if she said a prayer. The divorce had taught her about prayer. When her parents first separated, she almost blamed Heavenly Father for the pain she was feeling. At night she muffled her sobs with a tear-soaked pillow until she fell asleep. In the morning she was never sure if it was anger, or loss, or confusion that greeted her first. Finally, though, when it was all more than she could bear, she had learned to ask for help, and the Savior’s healing hand would touch her heart for a moment while he retrieved from some lost corner of darkness, her peace—the peace that kept slipping away, but not so fast anymore.
So, she said a silent prayer. Then she told Scotty about the new pink dress she bought last Saturday—and waited for the wind to stop. His pudgy square fingers continued their grip on the top of the lunch bag. She finished her story and looked up to see the branches moving back and forth in the gusting wind. “I didn’t think that was the kind of prayer you’d answer, Heavenly Father, but what am I supposed to do?” she muttered under her breath. Then she remembered.
Jenny stood up and walked around to Scotty’s side of the table. His eyes drew a bead on her, every step she took. She sat down next to him then reached an arm around him. “Scotty, I’ve tried to make the wind stop, and I can’t. But I can be here.” He looked back into her eyes like he really wanted to understand. “I’ll sit right by your side while the wind blows. I promise. And if it blows your sack away, I can bring it back. Together we’ll keep things in order.”
Scotty’s tongue flicked again down to his chin. His hands loosened their grip on the sack. He opened it, pulled out a peanut butter sandwich, three carrot sticks, and a chocolate chip cookie. Then he set the bag to the left of his food. The wind blew and the bag flew away three times while he ate. But every time Jenny was there and brought it back to him. And every time he put it right back where it was supposed to be.

When I read the article “A Magazine for All the World,” in the October 1998 Seito no Michi (Japanese), I decided to act on the suggestion that the branch present the public library with a copy of the magazine. I was able to place the magazine in the library, due in part to the service the sister missionaries give at the library and the courteous example of the elders. I hope it will be read there by many people.
Satsuki Sato,Nemuro Branch, Kushiro Japan District

One week after a recent assignment to create the first stake in Moscow, Russia,1 I attended a district conference in St. Petersburg. While speaking about my gratitude for early missionaries and local leaders who brought strength to the Church in Russia, I mentioned the name of Vyacheslav Efimov. He was the first Russian convert to become a mission president. He and his wife did wonderfully well in that assignment. Not long after they had completed their mission, and much to our sorrow, President Efimov suddenly passed away.2 He was only 52 years of age.
While speaking of this pioneering couple, I felt impressed to ask the congregation if Sister Efimov might be present. Far in the rear of the room, a woman stood. I invited her to come to the microphone. Yes, it was Sister Galina Efimov. She spoke with conviction and bore a powerful testimony of the Lord, of His gospel, and of His restored Church. She and her husband had been sealed in the holy temple. She said they were united forever. They were still missionary companions, she on this side of the veil and he on the other side.3 With tears of joy, she thanked God for sacred temple covenants. I wept too, with full realization that the everlasting unity exemplified by this faithful couple was the righteous result of making, keeping, and honoring sacred covenants.

I awoke to the screech of the alarm clock, which seemed designed to double as an air raid siren in the event of a bombing. The man who had invented this clock must have been an electronic mastermind. He had somehow combined the gentle lowing of a disgruntled water buffalo with the cheerful melody of a less-than-well-oiled disc brake and five or ten of the world’s other most annoying sounds. My companion, whose hearing range automatically excludes the top 10,000 kilocycles before 7:00 A.M., had not stirred, so I staggered over to the still frantic clock. Then I realized that it was Christmas morning! All over the world, children would be awakening early and scurrying excitedly to the Christmas tree to find the gifts left by the traditional visitor. I silenced the clock and looked around. This was definitely not like the Christmas of childhood memory.
I was in a small apartment, nearly 7,000 miles from home in a land where words like thermostat and central heating described facilities available mostly to the well-to-do. I dove back into my bed (a mat on the floor) as the icy bite reminded me that my pajamas were not constructed for warmth. There is something unsettling about seeing your breath when you are indoors. It does not conjure up the same feeling that one receives while looking at a cheery Christmas postcard depicting rosy-cheeked children with clouded breath, gleefully frolicking around a newly built snowman. No, this was quite a different feeling.
I reached for the heater, trying to keep as much of the surface area of my skin from contacting the frigid air as possible. To my dismay, the heater would not light. Further inspection revealed the worst—no more gas! In our excitement and busy schedule during the holiday season, we had forgotten to have the tank refilled. Morning study would be held shivering under a blanket. My sometimes overactive imagination recalled a book I had once read on the Donner party, a group of early pioneers who had become trapped in the Sierra Nevada mountains during the winter, eventually freezing to death. What a wonderful Christmas this would be!
After a freezing morning study period, during which my toes and fingers threatened permanent inactivity, we sat down to a Christmas feast of mugi (a Japanese wheat cereal) and mizo (a soup made of bean curd). I tried to imagine myself eating roast turkey and drinking eggnog, but the consistency was simply not there. I tried to console myself with the thought that we were eating more healthy foods than Americans. No fat-ridden meats and calorie-strewn desserts for us! When I found that we were out of cinnamon and butter and would have to eat the mugi plain, however, all attempts at rationalization died. The Sugar Plum Fairy would be replaced by the Pickled Radish Ogre this year. What a wonderful Christmas this would be!
At 10:30 A.M. sharp, as families celebrating the day were just finishing the unwrapping of gifts, we bundled up and set out for church. Since the church was some distance, we rode our bicycles. The “Green Dragon” bicycle, as it is nicknamed by the missionaries, is built like an army tank, for durability rather than looks or speed. Like its military counterpart, it comes in a lovely shade of camouflage green. Although the army’s tank is said to weigh a few more pounds, the bicycle makes up for this by its ability to reach excessive speeds, sometimes 15 or 20 miles per hour. Both are able to withstand mortar fire for prolonged periods of time. Finally, it is fitted with a unique, slow-acting brake system that avoids sudden stops by bringing the vehicle to a standstill only after 50 yards of desperate braking, at the same time emitting a sound which is guaranteed to alert all other motorists within a two-mile radius. This would be as close as we would come to a one-horse open sleigh.
The meetinghouse is the top two stories of a small three-story building near the Kumamoto train station. We were having a special Christmas sacrament meeting. I was to be the program’s principal speaker. I have learned just enough Japanese to begin a very impressive sounding sentence while lacking the skills to finish it. Japanese is interesting in that you must think backwards to translate. If then you become stuck in midsentence and still think in English, being somewhat new to the language, you must look ahead in the sentence, think forward what you desire to say, and then translate backward and finally say it. (I won’t attempt to even broach the subject of pronunciation.)
I think my planned speech on “the meaning of Christmas” came out as a third-person account on the wise men’s camels. The members, however, were kind as always and smiled even at the more blatant grammatical errors, although I saw one or two of the sisters wince. I knew it had gone badly afterwards when one of the brothers told me that the talk was “good.” In Japan, everything is on an elevated level. If they don’t say it was “terribly good” or “amazingly skillful,” then it was really bad. “Terribly” or “amazingly good” mean just plain good. If in fact it really was excellent, then the complimentary phrases will be repeated 10 or 15 times. My talk, therefore, being only “good,” was not good at all. It’s all a little confusing.
After church, we returned to the apartment for lunch. Again the usual Christmas feast gave way to tuna fish sandwiches and soup. No figgy pudding.
Afternoon dendo (proselyting) was without success, unless you count success as making a large dog very happy by allowing him to take two missionaries by surprise and chase them unceremoniously out of his yard. Things turned from bad to worse when I was attacked by the flower cart. Really, it happened. I was riding along minding my own business when out of thin air an old woman pulling a flower cart appeared in my path. To this day I believe nothing outside of a formula racer could have appeared that quickly from nowhere. But from the looks of the cart, it had been a few years since the last Grand Prix. I tried to swerve and brake but clipped the side of it, sending me sprawling on the roadside, Swedish knit and all. The Japanese, due to their attention-shunning nature, try to ignore anything less than a major traffic fatality, so she kept right on going without a second look. I was tempted to cry “hit and run,” but she probably hadn’t done any running since before I was born. Besides, with my complete ignorance of the road rules here, I was probably somehow at fault. There wasn’t much to do but dust myself off, check for bodily damage (of which there was none), and thank the Lord that one of the few inexpensive things here in Japan was dry cleaning. With that I set off after my companion, who was losing a personal battle to not let the humor of the situation (from an observer’s standpoint) show on his face. At the time, I did not find it at all funny, however. What a great Christmas!
With afternoon dendo finished, we again returned to the apartment for dinner, the crowning event of Christmas Day. The curry and rice, however, did little to enhance the day.
We left the apartment to proceed directly to the evening’s only appointment, the Nagata family. I was grateful that the day was nearly over. It had become somewhat of a physical and mental marathon in which I had dropped out, mentally at least, at the 400-yard mark. The moment we emerged from the covering that roofs the apartment’s walkway, it began to rain, then snow. Real snow! Not enough to cover the ground, of course. Anyone living above the 38th parallel would scoff at it, yet there it was, the only bit we received all year. I had always thought that it would be more homelike to have a white Christmas, but at the moment I could only shake my head at the incredible timing that began the downpour as I left umbrella-less to face the elements. What a wonderful Christmas!
The Nagata’s invited us in with the customary Japanese formality, which we gratefully accepted partly due to an established sense of custom and partly because we would have accepted an offer to step into almost any shelter if it had been warm enough. The Nagatas were an elderly couple whose children had long since left home. They had allowed us to talk with them several weeks earlier and had shown interest during the subsequent introductory lesson, so we had made a December 25 appointment for lesson 1.
As we finished renewing introductions and cultural niceties and began to teach, it struck me that we were teaching about the birth and life of Christ on Christmas Day, a unique opportunity. I was glad that I knew the lesson well enough to be able to add some extra comments and feelings relating to the Christmas season. As the lesson progressed something special happened—not an event so much as a feeling, yet one so tangible that all within the room could feel it. I could see on the faces of the family the whisperings of comprehension as they heard for the first time the story of mankind’s greatest benefactor. We taught of the Atonement, the mighty struggle that took place within the Savior’s suffering body so our sins could be purged at the price of life’s blood; then the glorious renewal, the answer to Christ’s humble request, “Glorify thy Son, that thy Son may glorify thee” (John 17:1).
The Spirit was with us that night as we spoke. The Nagatas knew that we were not just two young men giving an historical account but two messengers testifying of their Master. We then instructed them in the simple steps of prayer. After offering a prayer of his own, my companion invited Mr. Nagata to do the same. As that humble little man, for the first time in his 60 years on earth, began to call upon his Eternal Father, I felt a happiness and a sense of purpose that transcended all other feelings. Gone was the cold, the loneliness of Christmas away from home. Banished were the thoughts of rebelliousness and complaint. The single purpose of a mission from God became very clear as a tangible blessing was manifested. Mr. Nagata had told us of the joy he had felt when some of his children had called from America, for Christmas. I could imagine that the Lord felt that sort of joy after a beloved child called from even greater time and distance.
As we rode home that night, the cold didn’t seem to bite quite so hard. Maybe I was too busy marveling at the many blessings the Lord had given me. The chance to live in an age when I could travel thousands of miles in a single day to share what I had been given. The love of family and friends. The joy of knowing my purpose and reason for living. The apartment beckoned as we rounded the final corner knowing that some hot chocolate and a blanket were moments away. A starlit Christmas night, now devoid of clouds, testified of an Eternal Creator with endless dominions who had sent his Son on a night like this. What a wonderful Christmas it had been!

At the heart of their celebrating, however, is the remembrance of Jesus Christ, and Finnish members use the season, like mission president Mel Luthy and his family, to live even more fully His teachings. On Christmas Eve in Finland, families often visit the graves of loved ones and leave lighted candles in the snow. An elderly sister, a widow, wished to travel from Helsinki to Porvoo so that she could visit her husband’s grave. She had, however, no means of transportation. The Luthys volunteered to share their holiday with her by driving her to the distant cemetery. It turned out to be a magical night—candles glowed and light danced. All was calm. All was bright.
Christmas had come to Finland!

Carrying a friend on a ten-mile mountain hike under the hot summer sun may not sound like a great way to spend a day of youth conference, but Todd Beam and Zach Reed of the Seattle Washington Shoreline Stake did just that. The hike would have been nearly impossible for their friend, Travis Freeman, because of physical impairments that require him to walk with crutches. Impossible, that is, without the help of a few good friends.
“Zach and I were on the committee that planned the youth conference. We wanted Travis to be with us,” says Todd. “We just had to figure out a way.”
With the help of a friend, Todd’s dad built a sort of cart with a seat in the middle for Todd and Zach to carry Travis up the mountainside. Dubbed the “Travis Trolley” it became a symbol for the conference, which focused on overcoming trials and giving service.
“I actually think it was harder for Travis than it was for Zach or me,” says Todd. “He had to hold himself up the whole time, and that was hard work.”
Travis, Todd, and Zach were put in the first of eight hike groups, so that if they fell behind, there would be seven more groups of youth and leaders to assist them. Trailing just slightly behind them was another boy, Layne Mohlman, who carried Travis’s crutches to be used at the conclusion of the hike. Even when the handles came off the cart three quarters of the way to the final destination, the boys didn’t give up. Zach carried Travis the rest of the way on his back!
The hike concluded in a large meadow, which, Todd reports, “felt just like coming into the promised land.” Though all the boys were tired, they were happy and proud of their accomplishments. Best of all, Travis had been able to experience the first true hike of his life.
All participants in the conference were given bracelets to wear as a reminder of the theme of the conference. The inscription on the bracelets read: “All these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good. The Son of Man hath descended below them all. Art thou greater than he? Therefore, hold on thy way” (D&C 122:7–9).
As Zach, Todd, Layne, and Travis learned, sometimes, “holding on thy way” means holding on to a friend.

Roberto frowned. This was only his second time at Primary since he had moved from Chile to America, and already his teacher was telling the class she loved him.
How can she say such a thing? Roberto wondered. She does not even know me. And besides, why should anyone love a chubby boy who doesn’t have nice clothes to wear? Tears threatened to fill his eyes as he thought of the many relatives and friends he had left behind in South America. He had been so lonely since his father had died. He and his mother had come to Utah so that she could learn English and attend Brigham Young University.
“I have made each of you a special valentine,” Sister Porter said, handing each child a shiny foil heart on which she had written “I love you.” Roberto took his but shrugged off the hug his teacher tried to give him. Later, when he got home, he tore up the card and threw it in the garbage.
All that week, Roberto felt very sad. During class, he looked out the window and daydreamed about moving back to Chile. He was never going to fit in here.
On Thursday afternoon, Roberto walked home from school. He forgot all about locking the door behind him when he saw a note from his mother taped to the refrigerator: “I’m taking a test. I’ll be back at 5:30. Read the Friends Sister Porter dropped off for you.”
After fixing himself a snack, Roberto began to leaf through the magazines.
First he looked at the pictures. Then he started to read a few stories. After a while he noticed that the sad and lonely feelings were starting to go away.
Then he remembered the unkind things some children had said on the school bus that morning when they thought that he couldn’t hear. One of the children had been in his Primary class! Hurt and anger began to build up inside him again until he looked down at the magazine in his hands. There was a picture of the Savior with little children all around Him. Roberto was surprised to find tears of happiness in his eyes. It was almost as if a voice was saying to him, “Jesus loves you, Roberto.”
A feeling of warmth and love surrounded him, and he knew somehow that the Savior truly did know him and love him. He was filled with hope and an overwhelming assurance that in time he would have many friends in his new school and ward.
Roberto thought back to Sunday and how Sister Porter must have felt when he pulled away from her hug. I will make her a valentine, he decided, jumping up and gathering paper and crayons. Then he remembered the new colored markers his mother had bought for her college classes. They were on top of the highest shelf in the kitchen, and he climbed onto the counter to get them.
Stretching as far as he could, he couldn’t quite reach them. He jumped just a little but lost his balance and fell. Twisting awkwardly, he plunged to the floor and heard an ugly cracking noise as he landed on his left arm.
Never had he felt such pain! His arm felt as if it was on fire. He knew that he should telephone his mother, but as soon as he tried to stand, waves of nausea and dizziness washed over him, forcing him back to the floor.
The clock on the wall read ten to four. Swallowing back the tears, Roberto began a silent prayer, asking Heavenly Father to send someone to help. As he worked up his courage to crawl to the phone, a car pulled into the driveway. His mother! Heavenly Father had sent her home early! But then he heard a knock, and after several moments, a familiar voice called his name.
“Help me!” Roberto yelled. “I’m hurt!”
The door opened and Sister Porter looked in. “What happened?” she asked, hurrying to his side.
“My arm—I think I broke it.” Roberto was embarrassed by his tears, but his teacher didn’t say anything about them as she gently helped him up and made him as comfortable as possible on the couch in the living room.
“Where’s your mother?” she asked him then. “Your arm will need to be X-rayed.” After leaving a message at the university for his mother, Sister Porter sat beside him. “I see you’ve been reading the magazines I sent over. Did you find any stories you really liked?”
Roberto felt a little shy, but talking helped keep his mind off the pain. “I read a lot of the stories, but the best part was finding this picture of Jesus with the little children. I have never seen it before.”
Sister Porter studied the picture, and a very peaceful look came to her face. “I think that this is a special picture, too, Roberto. Whenever I look at it, I feel how much love Jesus has for all children.”
Roberto found himself telling his teacher about his feelings on Sunday and all during the week. Then, somewhat sheepishly, he admitted that he had torn up the valentine he had received in class. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I was going to use my mom’s special markers to make you a valentine. They were up high, and when I climbed up to get them, I fell.”
Sister Porter smiled as she gently patted his cheek. “Crayons will do fine.”
Just then Roberto’s mother came in. “Roberto! Oh Roberto!” She knelt beside him, very tenderly feeling the large lump on his arm. “It must be broken. We will go to the hospital right away.” She looked at Sister Porter with worry and pleading in her eyes. “There will be many insurance papers. My English is not very good. …”
“Don’t worry about a thing,” Sister Porter said. “I’ll call my children and have them fix supper. I’ll go with you to the hospital and help you with the papers.”
That evening was a long one. Many people were waiting in the emergency room, and it seemed forever before a nurse called Roberto’s name and he was examined and X-rayed. Never having had a cast before, Roberto felt a bit nervous. But Sister Porter stayed with him the whole time, entertaining him with a story about the time her oldest son had fallen from the backyard swing set and had broken his wrist.
Roberto lay on the examining table after the cast was applied. He was surprised to see that it was almost nine o’clock. “Aren’t you hungry?” he asked his teacher. “Doesn’t your family need you?”
“They’ll be fine,” Sister Porter said, producing a granola bar from the depths of her purse. “Feel up to sharing this?”
They ate and talked while they waited for Roberto’s mother. Sister Porter had found a Spanish-speaking nurse to help his mother fill out the insurance forms.
“Do you know why I came to your house this afternoon?” Sister Porter asked.
Roberto shook his head.
“I was on my way home from running errands, and I felt prompted to stop my van. I think you must have been praying for help. Were you?”
“I was! I asked Heavenly Father to send someone. I am very glad He sent you.” Roberto smiled at his teacher.
Sister Porter asked to borrow a red marking pen from one of the nurses passing by.
“What do you need a marker for?” Roberto asked.
Sister Porter winked and uncapped the pen. “In this country, we have a tradition,” she said. “If someone gets a cast, we write nice messages on it. May I be the first to write on yours?”
Roberto nodded, curious and pleased.
Sister Porter drew a large red heart, then wrote I • U in the middle of it. She grinned mischievously. “This one you can’t rip up and throw away!”
“Don’t worry,” Roberto said, his eyes twinkling. “Today I have learned that you really do love me!”

Photograph by German Sittner
Beatriz S., 15, is originally from São Paulo, Brazil, but she recently moved to Curitiba with her family. Once she was there, she started having problems with hair loss. “I did all the tests, thinking it was a lack of vitamins, but it was stress. It was psychological,” Beatriz says.
She found herself in a new place with no friends and a strange new culture. But when she felt alone, she knew that she could always count on Heavenly Father.
“I set a goal to make friends in my stake and to control my stress, and I downloaded an app that helped me control my breathing,” she explains. The app helped her practice meditation, and she focused a lot on the scriptures in her meditation. The hair loss eventually stopped as she adjusted.
“Now, I can see that I’ve improved a lot. I don’t think I’ll ever get that anxious again, because I’ve learned to focus on Jesus Christ. I’ve learned that I just need to control my breathing and help people.”

A number of years ago I was in Atlanta, Georgia, as an attorney representing a man who was buying a business. After several days of negotiations we reached an agreement and signed the closing documents. That evening one of the sellers invited us to a dinner to celebrate the closing. When I arrived, he offered me an alcoholic drink, which I declined. He then said, “Are you a Saint?” I didn’t fully understand what he meant, and he repeated, “Are you a Latter-day Saint?” I responded, “Yes, I am,” and he said he had been observing my personal habits during our negotiations and had concluded that I was either LDS or had a stomach problem. We both chuckled. He then informed me that he had only known one member of the Church on a personal basis, David B. Haight. They were both executives in Chicago with a large retail chain following World War II. He told me of the significant influence Elder Haight had been in his life and that he held him in the highest regard.
As I flew back home to San Francisco, I thought about what had occurred, especially in two respects: I was surprised at how it felt to be asked if I was a Saint, and I was impressed with the positive influence one outstanding example—Elder Haight—had on this good man.

In January 1844, Joseph Smith announced his candidacy for President of the United States, but on June 27, Joseph and his brother Hyrum were killed in Carthage Jail. The next morning their bodies were placed in two wagons, covered with branches to shade them, then driven to Nauvoo. They arrived in Nauvoo about three o’clock in the afternoon and were met by huge crowds of silent people. It was the saddest day Nauvoo or the Church had ever known.
John Taylor, who was with Joseph at Carthage, wrote, “Joseph Smith, the Prophet and Seer of the Lord, has done more, save Jesus only, for the salvation of men in this world, than any other man that ever lived in it” (D&C 135:3).
Many of the anti-Mormons thought that Joseph’s death would bring an end to the Church, but it did not. The Saints knew that the Church was God’s Church, not Joseph’s, and so they carried on God’s work. Instead of dying out, the Church continued to grow. What the mobs did not understand was that the faith of the Saints was much stronger than their fear.

In the months leading up to Christmas in 1998, my husband and I wanted to celebrate Christmas in a different way than we had ever done before. In the past we had celebrated Christmas by meeting with relatives and friends, having dinner together, and opening our gifts on Christmas Eve, which is the tradition in our home country of El Salvador.
But this year we felt a deep desire to teach our two small children the true meaning of Christmas. We wanted our children to know that Christmas is more than lights and bright colors, more than parties and celebrations, more than wrapping paper and ribbons, more than decorating a tree, more than hugs and best wishes.
As Christmas Eve drew near, we weren’t sure what we were going to do that night, but I felt free of the stress that normally overwhelms me at Christmastime. We decided we would not go out with friends that night or make any other social commitments. Instead, we would spend the night in simple celebration as a family. Our thoughts would center around our Savior.
On Christmas Eve, I prepared a delicious dinner. As we sat down at the table, our young daughter, Ileana, said expectantly, “It seems like someone is coming tonight.” I struggled to keep tears from my eyes. I hoped Jesus Christ would indeed accept our humble invitation.
After dinner, my husband taught us about the birth of Jesus Christ as described in the second chapter of Luke. When he read verses 13 and 14—“And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men”—we silently joined with the heavenly hosts in thanking our Eternal Father for sending His Son to atone for our sins. Then Ileana read to us the meaning of Christmas symbols. We opened a few simple gifts and took photographs.
Our evening together was filled with reverence, love, and gratitude for Jesus Christ. We experienced a sweet joy we had never felt before on Christmas Eve.

Years ago we took our then-teenage daughters to the temple for the first time. My oldest daughter had then the privilege of participating in the baptism of her deceased great-grandmother. Days later we held our family home evening and invited the children to bear their testimonies about the experience in the house of the Lord. As our oldest daughter started to express her feelings, tears came down her face when she mentioned her great-grandmother’s name and tried to describe how and what she felt during the ordinance. We all realized that she was recognizing right then that a “swelling motion” moment was taking place. That strong impression has been an anchor for her testimony and conviction of the gospel.

Some years ago a woman complained to me about her unresponsive husband. I asked her to describe some of his behavior. She indicated that in most cases he was a very negative person. He would come home in the evening and complain about the untidy home. Occasionally dinner was not ready on time, which elicited criticism. She was neither as attractive nor as intellectually stimulating as her husband desired. He was negative with the children as well, offering very critical comments.
I then asked the wife to describe her behavior toward her husband. She admitted that most of the things she did were designed to hurt him. In fact, quite often she planned a meal late just to make him angry. Likewise, the more he urged her to take better care of herself, the less desire she had to make herself more attractive. Their home was frequently in disarray simply because she had no motivation to clean it. On the whole, she did little to please or praise him.
I felt that there was enough basic love within their marriage that they could correct the situation—provided they made a strong effort to develop positive feelings for one another. I suggested that she return home and change her appearance, clean the house, read a good book, and attempt to become more interesting and attractive. She was counseled to greet her husband each night with a smile and a positive attitude.
Such a drastic change in attitude came as shock to her husband. Initially, he was very suspicious, certain that something was wrong or that his wife was being pleasant because she had some ulterior motive. But as she continued with the positive behavior, he began to enjoy the special attention she gave him and was pleased with the positive comments. He spent more time at home, and developed a better relationship with the children. The marriage soon became good and productive again.

I have a testimony of those words and what comfort they give. Four years ago, when I found myself quite suddenly a widow with the youngest of my five children leaving for a mission, I felt alone. I did a lot of walking at that time, and one day I told a neighbor I found myself thinking about youth. She said, “Really? I wonder why?” I concluded that perhaps I was trying to remember who I was before I was married. I said, “If I ever have a chance to work with young people again, I will be so much more patient, so much more gentle, and so much more loving.” And I have since added, “I will do all in my power to encourage young people to prepare for the future.”

VROOM. VROOM. VROOM. Ashley looked out her window. She saw a blue truck. She saw big piles of dirt. The neighbors were building a new house.
“What makes dirt piles?” Ashley asked. “Who makes houses?”
“Trucks make dirt piles,” Mom said. “Builders make houses.”
“My teacher said Jesus made everything,” Ashley said.
“Yes,” Mom said. “Jesus made everything they build houses with.”
Ashley looked in her yard. “Like trees, and rocks, and dirt?” Ashley asked.
“Yes,” Mom said. “Jesus also made our bodies. Our bodies can build things.”
Ashley was happy. Jesus helped her neighbors to be able to build a house. She knew He could help her make things too.

I am so thankful for all the help I received from full-time missionaries for both getting to the temple and while there. A senior missionary couple, who are serving a humanitarian mission in Nepal, went with our group to the temple. They were like shepherds to us, making sure we had food and shelter and no problems in our travels and getting us to all the places we needed to be. Missionary sisters, serving in the family history center across the street from the temple, helped me prepare the family group sheet I needed so I could be sealed to my deceased parents. While inside the temple, missionaries guided us every step along the way. I know Heavenly Father will bless all these missionaries who come from halfway around the world to serve us. They are wonderful people.

Although they are not full-time missionaries, there was a Filipino couple, Jimmy and Rose Albos, who were especially kind to us. They catered meals for us and arranged the sightseeing which we did one afternoon. I am thankful to them from the bottom of my heart. May the Lord bless them for their generosity to our group.

In the 1960s, a man named Joseph William Billy Johnson learned about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and gained a testimony of the restored gospel. He could not join the Church, however, because he lived in Ghana, which had no congregations and no missions. At the time, the priesthood and temple restriction didn’t allow men of African descent to be ordained to the priesthood, which made Church organization in Ghana impossible. Church leaders in Salt Lake City encouraged Billy in his testimony of the gospel and sent him Church literature to help him grow in his faith. For more than a decade, he led a congregation of believers while waiting for the Church to come to West Africa.
One evening in June 1978, Billy Johnson returned to his home in Cape Coast, Ghana. He and other members of his congregation had been fasting, as they often did, but the fast had done nothing to lift his spirits. He was tired and discouraged because more believers had stopped worshipping with him and returned to their old churches.
Billy longed to feel spiritually and emotionally strong again. A couple of months earlier, a member of his congregation had told him about a revelation she had had. “Very soon the missionaries will come,” she had said. “I have seen white men coming to our church. They embraced us and joined us in worship.” Another woman announced that she had received a similar revelation. Billy himself had dreamed of some white men entering his chapel and saying, “We are your brothers, and we have come to baptize you.” Afterward, he had dreamed of Black people coming from far and wide to join the Church.
Still, Billy could not shake his discouragement.
It was getting late, but he couldn’t sleep. A strong impression overtook him to listen to the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC) on the radio—something he hadn’t done in years.
He found the radio, a brown model with four silver knobs near the base. The radio crackled to life as he turned it on. He fiddled with the knobs, and the red pointer glided back and forth across the dial. But he couldn’t find the broadcast.
Then, after an hour of searching, Billy finally made out a newscast from the BBC. The reporter announced that the President of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had received a revelation. All worthy men in the Church, regardless of race, could now hold the priesthood.
Billy collapsed, bursting into tears of joy. Priesthood authority would finally come to Ghana, bringing all the blessings of the gospel to his people.
Missionaries arrived in Cape Coast later that year, baptizing Billy Johnson and hundreds of other believers. Since that time, the Church has spread rapidly throughout Ghana and neighboring countries in West Africa. The Cape Coast Ghana Temple was announced in October 2023; it will be the third temple in the country.
To read more stories from modern Church history, see volume 4 of Saints, available in the Gospel Library and in print.

It just took a little imagination and a good idea and Patricia Louderback ended up a winner. A member of the Moanalua Ward, Honolulu Hawaii West Stake, Pat was a top contributor to her state health fair. Pat won trophies for her poster urging drinking parents to “Go Home to Your Family” and another emphasizing “Alcohol Doesn’t Make Your Problems Go Away. It Adds to Them.” George R. Ariyoshi, Governor of Hawaii, presented the awards to Pat.
After graduating from Moanalua High School next year, Pat hopes to enroll as a sociology major at Ricks College in Rexburg, Idaho.

Several months ago I spoke at a Relief Society conference at which more than 300 women were in attendance. The Young Women had also been invited to this event, and I noticed a number of teenage girls in the audience. Early in my talk I heard the sound of whispering at my extreme left. Looking in that direction, I saw three attractive young women talking quietly to one another.
Immediately I felt a little resentful. I am used to audiences giving me their full attention, and I am not very tolerant of people working against what a speaker is trying to do. However, I have spoken to enough young groups to know the gigantic challenge it is to keep them with you, to keep their eyes riveted on the speaker, their hands out of their purses or away from combing each other’s hair, to keep them from trying on each other’s shoes or from poking each other and giggling.
Yet I believe strongly that audiences, even young ones, have an obligation to give complete courtesy to a speaker, to listen without causing distraction. My usual course of action, when a person in the audience continues to cause a disturbance, is to stop speaking, look at the offender and smile until I am noticed and the disturber is sheepishly brought back into line. Then I continue speaking. This generally works.
I glanced occasionally at the three girls on the front row as they continued to whisper to one another, but they did not notice my glances. My resentment built. Where were their mothers, anyway? Why did they come if they didn’t want to hear what I had to say? Why do the leaders force young people to go to things they don’t want to go to and aren’t prepared to appreciate? How dare they talk through my incredibly marvelous and moving presentation when everybody else in the hall was clearly spellbound?
I was reading “The Steward,” my favorite poem to read aloud, and the quiet buzz continued. Several times I looked at them and they looked back and then went on with their quiet conversation, the three of them leaning in together. At the end of the poem I closed the book and looked directly at them. I smiled. They smiled back. And giggled. I smiled at them until they stopped giggling and looked at me without a sound. I then continued my talk.
Their conversation was not totally squelched, however. It was quieter, but every once in a while I noticed them leaning in to one another and whispering. I gave up and finished out the talk, wishing that whoever had made them come had just let them be and wishing that young people these days placed a higher value on courtesy.
After the talk, as we were having refreshments in the cultural hall, a woman came up to me and shook my hand. “Sister Pearson,” she said, “I hope those girls didn’t disturb you too much. Let me tell you about them. They’ve only been in the country a week. They came from Lebanon, and they just missed the massacre [September 16–17, 1982] by eight hours. They probably would have been killed, but somehow they were taken out of the country and arrived here. Our ward has sort of adopted them. We wanted to have them come tonight in spite of the fact that they don’t speak English very well. They were sitting there trying to help one another figure out what you were saying.”
A tremor ran through my consciousness, shattering a perception and letting me see behind judgment into reality. I no longer wanted to take the girls and shake them by the shoulders. I wanted to take them in my arms and tell them how glad I was that they had come. Suddenly I knew their secret, and it changed everything.