Gospel Story Finder

The youngest elephant, the one called Mija, was missing. Choon’s father told him about it while they ate their breakfast.
“Late last night Mija pulled up the stake that holds her tie-chain and wandered away. Into the forest, no doubt.”
Choon stared at his father in dismay. He knew that elephants could move on their huge feet without making noise. “But her bell!” he cried. “Did no one hear it tok-tok?”
“All the elephants wear wooden bells that tok when they move in the night,” his father gently reminded him. “This is a sound we are used to.” There was worry in his eyes. He was the foreman of the lumber camp, and an elephant, even a young one, was valuable and must not be lost.
Choon’s own heart was troubled. Mija was his playmate. Because she was not yet old enough or big enough to work at carrying logs, she had plenty of time to walk with him in the forest. There they listened to the jabbering of the monkeys and watched little birds dart among the trees. They waded together in the river. With her trunk, Mija would squirt water over her back and shoulders. Swoosh! She would squirt water on Choon, also, while Choon ducked and laughed and shouted and splashed water back.
Now as his father made ready to search for Mija, Choon said, “I know the forest. I will go with you.”
His father answered firmly, “No, Son. Runaway elephants often become frightened. Then they are dangerous. Besides, who would carry food to the workers at noontime?”
This was Choon’s job, the boy well knew. Sighing a little, he trotted after his father through the door of their small house and across the clearing to the edge of the teak forest, where the elephants stayed at night. There were more than twenty of them—great, strong, wise creatures that did tasks too heavy for other animals or men.
Choon’s father patted the leathery trunk of his own elephant and spoke softly, “Ah, Mem Chang, fine one! This morning we go on a very important mission.”
Mem Chang gave a shrill squeal of welcome. Lowering her head, she wrapped her trunk around the man and lifted him onto her flat, broad forehead. Choon’s father didn’t use a pointed goad stick. Instead, he tucked a brown foot behind each ear and pushed against one or the other to tell Mem Chang which direction to take. Choon watched as the elephant shuffled down the forest trail. Her feet, as big as cooking pots, made scarcely a sound.
Soon there was noise from another direction. The elephant riders were coming to work. They shouted to one another and to Choon. “Sawaddii (hello)!”
Mahouts (elephant masters) these men were called. They wore white turbans on their heads. Tied around their waists were bright-colored panungs (long cloths).
At one of the mahout’s command, his elephant dropped to the ground and pushed its long ivory tusks beneath a teak log. Wrapping its trunk around the log to secure it, the animal rose slowly and carried it to the river. The log would float downstream to a mill, where it would be cut into boards. Teak logs from Thailand were strong and much sought after, Choon’s father had told him. They were used all over the world for making furniture and fine carvings.
Someday, when I am older, maybe I can be a mahout, Choon thought wistfully. He would willingly scrub his elephant clean with coconut husks. He would polish its long ivory tusks and whisper in its ear and sing to it. Choon knew that an elephant must love and trust its rider, or it would do little work and cause much trouble.
“And there will be trouble if I stand here daydreaming,” Choon scolded himself. The sun was climbing higher and higher. When it reached the top of the sky, the men and their animals would stop to rest. And they would be hungry.
Choon ran back to the house. Hanging from the pole outside the door was a great stalk of bananas that his father had brought from a nearby grove. Choon began to pull ripe golden fruit from the thick stalk. “Nueng, song, sahm! Si, hah, hok …” He counted rhythmically as he placed the bananas one by one into a net bag.
All at once he stopped counting. Had his ears really heard a tok-tok? Then he heard another sound, a kind of rattle. Choon gasped. “It is an elephant’s tie-chain.”
His heart beat fast. As the sounds came closer, he made himself turn slowly—until he was looking into the small eyes of a young elephant. “Mija!”
At the sound of her name, Mija’s big ears fanned the air. She shuffled, rattling the tie-chain that was still around one foot. A shiver of fear ran up Choon’s spine and down again. Mija was a runaway. Was she frightened and dangerous now?
Mija grunted and struck the ground with her trunk. Choon laughed out loud with relief. He knew what this meant. “Of course, Mija. You are hungry.”
Quickly he reached into the net bag and picked out an especially fine banana. Mija took it with her trunk and popped it into her pointed mouth. Choon gave her another, and another. The elephant ate eagerly. Then she wrapped her trunk, like an arm, around his shoulders and gently nuzzled his cheek. Choon, in turn, fondly rubbed her trunk.
They were still standing there when his father rode up on Mem Chang. “Choon!” he exclaimed. “You have found Mija!”
“No!” Choon laughed. “Mija found me!” Then he told about hearing Mija’s bell and tie-chain. “I was afraid,” he said truthfully. “But Mija wasn’t dangerous. She was only hungry—and lonesome, I think.”
“You have been a kind friend to Mija.” Choon’s father looked pleased and thoughtful. “When Mija is old enough to carry logs, she will need a mahout—someone she loves and trusts. I think, Choon,” said his father, “that Mija will want you to be her rider.”
Choon’s heart leaped for joy. “Mija! Oh, Mija, did you hear?”
Mija heard the happiness in Choon’s voice. She lifted her trunk and whistled—a squealing, singing, little whistle of pleasure.

We finally did it! My younger brother and I had saved enough money to buy the river raft of our dreams. I was 15 years old, and we had long anticipated the day that we could raft down the river near our house without a care.
As we walked to the river, I realized that we were missing something important: the paddles! Since it would take an additional 10 minutes to go back and get them, we decided that we didn’t need paddles. I thought to myself, “The river isn’t too rough. We will just jump in, sit back, and see where the river takes us.” After all, we were men, and men didn’t need paddles.
As we floated down the river, we saw snakes, turtles, shiny rocks, and mysterious floating objects—which remained mysterious since we could never get close enough to investigate them. Without paddles, we were at the mercy of the current and where it wanted to take us, which was often different from where we actually wanted to go. We tried paddling with our hands, but it was a slow form of navigation that did little except entertain the people watching our “progress” from the riverbank.
There were times when we got caught in the slow section of the current. My brother and I would gaze longingly at the enticing rapids, but we had no effective means of steering our way over to them. When we did find our way into a small set of rapids, we wished we hadn’t. As we came around a curve in the river we noticed several rough tree branches hanging only a few inches above the water. We frantically paddled with our hands, but they were no match for the current. We plowed face first into the coarse branches, leaving us feeling like we had been run over by sandpaper.
Nursing our wounds and egos, we reached the end of our trip and pulled the raft out of the water. We realized that without a paddle we had missed out on what could have been a more fun and exciting experience.

For one year, I taught English as a second language at the Universidad de Piura, in Piura, Peru. Piura was the headquarters city for the Peru Piura Mission.
The mission president, Chad Rowley, and his wife, Lisa, lived in my ward. They asked me to give English lessons to the missionaries serving in Piura. I accepted.
Using the Church’s English-language training program, I would meet with different groups of missionaries at the mission office to teach them English. It was a great spiritual experience for me to work with and get to know missionaries from South America and the United States. Weekday afternoons worked best because the city tended to be pretty quiet for missionary work until early evening.
Toward the end of my time in Piura, I was feeling homesick and worn out emotionally and professionally. One Friday afternoon, I was feeling particularly lethargic and depressed. I hoped the classes would be canceled because of missionary work, which took precedence over English lessons. That afternoon, however, that was not the case.
I left my apartment late and trudged to the mission office. As I walked through a park on the way, I prayed. I told Heavenly Father that I couldn’t endure one more minute, much less one more week. I was exhausted mentally and physically, and I needed His help.
I arrived at the mission office and went upstairs to wait for the missionaries. When they arrived for their lesson, I had no idea what to teach them. But to start, I asked one of the elders to say an opening prayer in English.
As the missionary began to pray, he said, “Please bless Sister Johnson.” Then he paused. When he continued, he added, “Please bless her to continue with the same strength as in the beginning.”
That missionary did not know I had prayed on my way to the mission office, and he certainly didn’t know what I had prayed about. But Heavenly Father did, and He answered that prayer by strengthening me.
There I was—a US citizen in Peru who was prayed for by name by a missionary from Bolivia. What a healing balm that afternoon at the mission office was. And what a powerful lesson I learned that day. No matter who or where we are—Heavenly Father hears and answers our spoken and unspoken prayers.

In December of last year, the Kingstown Branch of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints joined with the National Emergency Management Organization on the World Day of Service to hold educational sessions for church members and their friends on food and water storage and disaster preparedness. In addition to the presentations, seeds were provided to all attendees so they could plant their own gardens.
The following month, district and branch presidencies in St. Vincent and the Grenadines encouraged members to refocus their efforts toward being self-reliant both temporally and spiritually. Members took this counsel to heart and did what they could to increase their food and water storage despite their limited financial resources. Some even planted their own gardens. Since then, there have been many reminders to start preparing, even in small ways. Some sisters began purchasing water bottles and sharing them with others who showed interest. Others planted gardens and added to their food supply.
These preparations have been very beneficial as they have been used since the La Soufriere volcano began erupting on April 9, spewing ash into the air.
Sister Nichole Franklyn, Relief Society president in the Kingstown Branch, recalls, “We started a kitchen garden. We were happy, but it took a lot of work. We prayed each night over the crops, and Heavenly Father heard our prayers and blessed them.” Their simple garden has grown and is producing.
Not all the produce in their garden is ready to harvest, but they are reaping cucumbers and sweet peppers. They were worried that the ash fall would ruin their garden as it has much of the agriculture on the island. “Many crops have been completely wiped out, but God has spared ours. We were able to reap cucumbers. Right now, we can sell our cucumbers for five dollars per pound, but we opted to share with three shelters,” Sister Franklyn said.
The members were also encouraged to become spiritually self-reliant. Following the example of a group that started in St. Lucia where a group of sisters are meeting for prayer and scripture study at 5:00 am each morning from Monday to Saturday, the sisters in St. Vincent also began in earnest. They meet on Zoom with other members of the Church in the Caribbean Area at the same time. Despite the prevailing circumstances, the members are strong and without fear, and they continue to meet morning after morning.
Sister Franklyn is grateful for the blessings that her garden has brought to her family and to those in the shelters. “The Lord watches out for His children and provides when we are able to follow His teachings through our leaders,” she said. “It really feels good to give rather than to receive at this time.”

That’s when Olivio began to dream of playing ball in Portugal. He was fluent in Portuguese. (Angola is a former Portuguese colony, and Portuguese is the official language.) And what’s more, Olivio heard that they actually paid professional players salaries in Portugal. He would be able to send money home to his family.
It took Olivio a few years to get a visa to go, but once in Portugal it only took him a few days to find a professional team that wanted him. At six-foot-seven, he not only had the stature they were looking for, but he had the moves.
And it only took him a month to find something else. “I was on the metro, and I saw these two boys—they were only boys, but they were wearing nice suits, and they said they wanted to talk to me, so I said okay.”
“They started to teach me the discussions. The Joseph Smith story surprised me, but it felt good. Everything felt good. One week later I went to a conference. I attended the meetings, and afterwards I was baptized. Baptism is for the remission of sins. I was a good guy, but I knew I needed to be baptized.”
Little did Olivio know what that baptism would lead to. When he wasn’t playing basketball, Olivio was at church. “I tried to go to church all the time. Every time I would go, my mind would open up and I would learn something new. It felt good.”
Then one day, about a year later, one of Olivio’s American teammates said, “Hey—you’re Mormon. Don’t Mormons go on missions? Are you going to quit the team and go too?”
That got Olivio thinking. “The things I learned made sense to me, and I said, ‘Well, if these things come from God, I have to explain them to other people.’”
But leaving basketball—that would be tough. Olivio had just made the Portuguese national team, and they had offered him a very lucrative contract—lots of money, a car, and a luxurious apartment.
“It was a difficult decision to leave basketball, so I decided to get my patriarchal blessing. There it said that I was going to serve the Lord, so I decided to do it. God prepared me to come here and find the gospel by giving me these talents to play basketball. I don’t have a problem leaving it to serve him. I think I can help many people.”
And now, Elder Olivio Gomes Manuel, who left northern Portugal almost two years ago to serve in southern Portugal, is helping many people. He’s well known throughout the mission for his good nature and easy smile, his hard work, and his gentle rapport with the people he towers over.
That isn’t the kind of fame that makes you a star on national television—it’s more the kind of fame that makes you a star in the eternities. And while he won’t make millions from gigantic contracts and endorsements, he knows that his eternal reward will be far greater.
Still, you see his eyes light up when you put a basketball in his hands on P-day. Watching him glide around the court, you realize basketball is as natural for him as swimming is to fish. It seems to be what he was made for. Oh, once his mission is over he would like to use basketball to earn a university education. But then he wants to return to Angola “to help the Church and help the people grow there.” Elder Manuel speaks mostly Portuguese now, but he remembers his native language, an African dialect called Quinbondo, and he knows English as well.
Even though the end of this tale is far from written, it’s already a success story as tall as Elder Manuel himself. After all, the richest pro in the world can’t buy his way into heaven, and no matter how many autographs you’ve signed, if your name isn’t written in the book of life, your fame won’t mean a thing.
Elder Manuel has already gained more success than he ever hoped to, and his secret is simple: “I listen to God, and when I do what he says, he blesses me.”

Broto stood on the pendapa (large porch) built on the front of his father’s bamboo house. The village, on the north coast of Java at the edge of the Java Sea, was filled with excited people.
They were arranging for a selamatan (feast) to be held that night because the dalang (puppet master) was making his yearly visit to the village. After the selamatan he would put on an Indonesian wayang kulit (shadow play) with his intricately carved leather puppets. This wayang kulit portrayed stories that were brought to Indonesia over a thousand years ago from India, and the people loved them.
Close by the tall rubber trees Broto saw an old woman stumble and fall in the dirt street. As she fell, something rolled out of her selendang (piece of cloth for carrying personal belongings). Broto saw Amat, the big bully of the village, rush out from the shadows and snatch up whatever the woman had dropped. Then he ran back among the trees.
The hot tropical sun beat against the old woman’s body, and dust arose around her. She cried out, and startled birds flew from the rubber trees, scattering their bright colors above her.
Broto jumped from the porch and ran to help the old woman get to her feet. He noticed that she had been carrying mangoes in her selendang and he assumed that Amat had picked up some of the fruit she had dropped.
Later, when Broto was eating a lunch of spiced meat, rice, and salad with his family, a crowd of people gathered outside the house and started shouting.
"Come outside, Broto!" they called.
"Give back the money, you thief!"
"Come and face the woman!"
Broto and his father walked out onto the pendapa. Amat stood in front of the crowd. "A terrible thing, stealing from a poor old woman!" he shouted with pretended anger.
Broto’s father raised his hands. "What is this all about?" he asked.
Amat pointed his finger at Broto. "He stole an old woman’s tax money. It was all she had, and the tax collector will be here next week."
Amat was so big and seemed so angry that Broto was frightened. He couldn’t find his voice to deny the accusation. All the people in the village were afraid of Amat.
Broto’s father pushed his son into the house and dropped the split-bamboo curtain that formed the front wall. They could hear Amat’s roaring voice.
"Give back the money or we’ll chase you and your family out of the village!"
After a few more shouts, Amat and the crowd left.
"Did you steal the money?" Father asked Broto.
"No," Broto answered. Then he told his father about what he had seen Amat do when the old woman fell.
"You must tell the people that you did not steal the money," his father said.
Broto agreed. But how can I convince them that my story’s true! he wondered. Everyone was too busy with their own affairs to notice the old woman fall and see what happened. She must have told how I helped her up and so everyone suspects me.
In the afternoon Broto walked by a roundabout way to the puppet master’s camp. Later that night he would help the old man, for they had become friends in times past. As he walked, he worked out a plan to let the people know that Amat had stolen the money.
At the camp he greeted the dalang affectionately and then told him what had happened.
"I must tell the people the truth," Broto said. "I have a plan but I will need your help."
"Kami berteman (we are friends)," the puppet master said. "I will be glad to help you."
Broto explained his plan, and the dalang immediately began gathering the puppets for the new characters. Broto went to work setting up the stage for the wayang kulit.
He stretched a piece of white cloth over a wooden frame. Then he hung a lamp behind the cloth. When the dalang held the puppets between the cloth and the lamp, the people watching would see the shadows moving on the white screen. Then the dalang would tell the story in a high, squeaky voice.
As Broto finished helping the dalang, the people began gathering in front of the screen, waiting for the selamatan. Broto watched the dalang arrange his puppets.
"Now I will prove my innocence," Broto said. "And I hope the people will be angry and punish Amat."
"You’ll gain virtue if you forgive him, and you’ll feel better too," the wise old dalang told him.
After the feast of vegetables cooked in coconut milk, rich-smelling meat curries, and turtle and goat’s meat on a stick dunked in peanut sauce, the dalang started his wayang kulit.
Watching their eager faces, Broto knew that whatever the villagers saw on the screen, they would believe as though it were a real happening.
The people enjoyed the show immensely, laughing and crying in turn. Then the scene on the screen changed. Lacy shadows of the rubber trees and their houses in the village appeared. The crowd became silent.
Then the old man began working his thin leather puppets and Broto held the trees and houses in place. While the dalang maneuvered the figures and told a story, Broto felt bitter and revengeful.
Then the people saw the shadow of an old woman hobble past the trees. They recognized her and let out a long sigh. "A-h-h-h!"
The dalang made the old woman’s shadow fall and she appeared to drop a bundle. The villagers saw a great, hulking figure dash from the trees and pick up something and then run back into the trees.
Then the dalang turned off the lamp.
Amat jumped to his feet, exclaiming, "That’s ridiculous!"
Now the villagers realized who the large puppet represented, and they were angry.
Broto stepped from behind the screen. Two men held Amat. "You have been wronged, Broto. Tell us to, and we will drive Amat out of the village!" one of the men said.
Broto saw the fear in Amat’s eyes and he remembered the old dalang’s words. "No," Broto said. "If Amat returns the money to the old woman, she will forgive him, I am sure. And I also will forgive Amat that we may all live in peace together in our village."

The Lord declared that “this gospel of the kingdom shall be preached … for a witness unto all nations; and then shall the end come” (Matt. 24:14). Can it possibly be accomplished? I remember an insight that suggested how it can happen.

I met a woman in South America who had just joined the Church. Fired by a great love for that which she had found, she had gone about enthusiastically telling others. During a period of only seven months since her baptism, she had referred 300 acquaintances to the missionaries so that they might explain the gospel to them. At one point, 60 had come into the Church. More likely came in. In São Paulo, Brazil, I met the young missionary who first had taught her the gospel. He, too, had been a convert, had gone on a mission to represent the Church at considerable financial sacrifice. The woman of whom I speak was one of 43 he had assisted in bringing into the Church to that point. This young man of Brazil had expanded himself more than 100 times—43 converts of his own and 60 through one of those he converted, with more from others of his converts to come.

Yes, this work requires sacrifice, it requires effort, it requires courage to speak out and faith to try. This cause does not need critics; it does not need doubters. It needs men and women of solemn purpose. As Paul wrote to Timothy: “God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.
“Be not thou therefore ashamed of the testimony of our Lord” (2 Tim. 1:7–8).

I wish that every member of this church would put those words where he might see them every morning as he begins his day. They would give us the courage to speak up, they would give us the faith to try, they would strengthen our conviction of the Lord Jesus Christ. I believe that more miracles would happen over the earth.

I know that God lives, that Jesus is the Christ, that this is their holy work, and I plead with you and with the God of heaven that we shall have the power and the faith and the devotion to roll it forward to its great destiny.

Though there may be occasional setbacks, the Lord’s great latter-day work is not going to fail, and it continues to get stronger.
Within the Church there is a great host of good and decent youth, youth who are thankful for their parents and their parents’ righteous teachings.
Service will ever be this people’s watchword, particularly as youth, couples, and members throughout the Church involve themselves in service to those who need the gospel.
The Lord’s latter-day work requires sacrifice, effort, courage, and faith.
The Apostle Paul’s counsel to Timothy is counsel to us. We would be blessed to consider it daily: “God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind. Be not thou therefore ashamed of the testimony of our Lord” (2 Tim. 1:7–8).

The sweetness of this M&M is so important that I want to tell you about my last son, Kyle. He is a great kid. When he was sixteen he started to be a cowboy and started to ride bulls—and there is only one thing stupider than a bull. When Kyle turned nineteen, I filled out his papers for his mission—and those papers sat. Some of his friends got things together and left on their missions, but not Kyle. I think we filled out two sets of mission papers for him, and then when he was coming up on twenty-one, I threw out all his papers.

Later that year he came to me asking where his missionary papers were, and I hit the fan. I told him that I was sick and tired of his hypocrisy and that I didn’t want him to go on a mission—in fact, I didn’t care if he ever went on a mission. Then it flashed before me that I was going to heck for treating my son so rotten and preventing him from going on a mission instead of bringing salvation to his soul. So I asked him if he had been praying about a mission. He told me that he had been putting a lot of thought into it and had had some feelings about going. That wasn’t good enough. I had heard that before, so I told him he had to find out what the Lord wanted him to do. I was very heated throughout this conversation, and it would have been very easy for Kyle to say, “Well, so much for that.” But he didn’t. He had been feeling something, and I think the Spirit had already touched his life. He did go on a mission and is now married to a great young lady, and their second boy is on the way.

Years ago, when we were landscaping the yard of our new home, my father, who owned a hardware store, asked me if I would like some rose bushes that he had for sale at a very discounted price. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. I thought that roses would look very nice next to the white rail fence that bordered our front yard. I bought more than twenty rose bushes.
We live close to the base of Rock Canyon, which means that there is very little soil and a lot of rocks. Kevin took on the arduous task of digging the holes for the roses. Due to the difficulty of digging, we decided to dig the holes just big enough to pour in enough soil to surround the roots of the roses—not really the ideal amount of soil, but, given the situation, we hoped it would be adequate. As it turns out, it was.
Our roses thrived. We really didn’t do too much to them. They were watered whenever the lawn was watered, they received plenty of sunshine, and, happily, they did well in our yard, rocks and all.
Normally I would prune the roses as soon as it looked like they needed it. One year, however, I waited longer than usual to prune them—about a month longer. The roses already had quite a bit of new growth on them, but I decided to prune them anyway. When I was finished, there wasn’t much left. I had cut them back drastically—much more than I usually did. But I was pleased with the results.
Who knew that pruning roses a month later than usual—and drastically at that—would have unexpected consequences? Immediately after I had pruned the roses, I had several people tell me that it was too late in the season for cutting roses and that I had cut them back too much. Initially it didn’t bother me, but pretty soon I began to believe them. I started to feel like I had done something I shouldn’t have. I started to doubt my decision. I was sorry I had cut my roses.
I remember one man asking me incredulously, “What have you done? Do you realize that you won’t have roses this year?”
And a woman in our neighborhood who had a lovely garden quipped, “You shouldn’t have cut them so late and so much!” And then she added, “Oh well, we live and we learn.”
I felt terrible. I believed I had ruined my roses! At that point I did the only thing I could think of doing. I called my mother! I knew she would help me feel better. She was a gardener. She had roses.
I told her about the terrible thing I had done. And, to my pleasant surprise, she assured me that I hadn’t done anything wrong. She advised me to go to a nursery and buy a book on roses. I would find that I hadn’t ruined them.
I did as she suggested. I bought a book on roses and was relieved to find out that I hadn’t ruined them. In fact, I read that when pruning roses, you should cut them back “severely.” I definitely had cut my roses back severely. The book was very helpful. It taught me that the only way I could ruin the roses was to pull them out of the ground, stop watering them, or prevent them from getting sunlight.
Now I had two sources of assurance: my mother and my rose book. Even though I had some reassurances that my rose bushes would be fine, I was still a little sensitive and skeptical. I really hoped the roses would grow back, but there remained some doubt in my mind—doubt that was reinforced by continued negative assessments from my neighbors.
I anxiously checked on my roses every day, looking for any kind of growth. Finally I saw growth and was thrilled that I hadn’t ruined my roses after all. I don’t know why I worried so much. I hadn’t pulled them out by the roots, I hadn’t stopped watering them, and they were receiving plenty of sunshine. Eventually there were fully bloomed roses in my yard again—a month later than normal, but there were roses!

At age 54, before he was called as a General Authority, President Russell M. Nelson attended a meeting in which President Spencer W. Kimball challenged attendees to “be of service to the Chinese” and “learn their language.”
Although he was a busy heart surgeon at the time, President Nelson took this counsel to heart. He found a tutor to help him learn the Mandarin language.
It wasn’t long before President Nelson found himself sitting next to a distinguished Chinese surgeon, Dr. Wu Yingkai, at a medical convention. Because of his Chinese language studies, President Nelson was able to have a conversation with Dr. Wu. From there, the two doctors formed a lasting friendship and even visited each other’s countries.
President Nelson’s goal to learn Mandarin led to positive exchanges with China, as President Kimball had hoped for. After he was called to the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, President Nelson even performed his last heart surgery on China’s most famous opera singer by special request.

Let me tell you another story about a tough choice. I felt, that when I got home from my mission, I wanted to carry this [same extraordinary] spirit [I felt] with me. I knew that in order to do that, I had to have a great wife. I thought about my life, and I thought, where am I going to find this great wife? I remember thinking, "Am I going to find her in Japan? Am I going to find her in China? Should I go back to Mexico where I served a mission? Maybe she's in Provo? Where is this woman that I need to meet?" and I prayed about it many, many times, trying to understand from the Lord where I should go to meet this woman. One night, I had a dream, and in my dream I was standing on a hillside. There was a small house behind me, and I was on a hillside that overlooked an area that I recognized, so it was familiar. I looked down at my foot, and under my foot, I saw a single daisy. I moved my foot, and as the daisy came up, the impression came to me, "She's right under your feet." I thought, "Well, maybe I don't need to go to China; maybe she's right around here somewhere."

A couple of weeks later, an old friend of mine from high school, who had been a non-member at the time, who chose to come to BYU-Hawaii and while she was here, gained a testimony of the Church, and was baptized at Temple Beach her name was Jo Ellen, met me at Young Adult meeting after church one day.

We reminisced for a while, and she came back to me and said, "I'm going on a mission." I thought, "Great! You're going to be a great missionary! You're going to have a great time! My good friend, Jo Ellen, go have that mission." "Would you mind I would like to go to the temple one last time before I go on my mission. I don't you suppose you would and this is kind of embarrassing, but I don't suppose you would mind going to the temple with me?" "What's the harm in that? I would love to go to the temple with you."

We went down to the Los Angeles temple, and while we were in the temple oh my goodness, in white, she looked beautiful. I couldn't take my eyes off of her; she glowed. I remember I had forgotten about this dream, but while we were in the temple this dream came back to my mind, and I thought, "here's my daisy." So for anniversaries, we give daisies to each other.

She was supposed to go on a mission, but I knew it was her. The thing about this dream, though, in the temple, at that moment, I recognized the house: it was hers. I recognized the hillside: it was hers. And I knew that I had found my daisy. She went on a mission. I wrote her every week. She sent me two "Dear John's." We got married shortly after her mission.

I made the right choice, and it's made all the difference.

On another occasion, when Governor Carlin of Illinois sent Sheriff Thomas King of Adams County and several others as a posse to apprehend the Prophet and deliver him to the emissaries of Governor Boggs of Missouri, Sheriff King became deathly ill. At Nauvoo the Prophet took the sheriff to his home and nursed him like a brother for four days (Cannon, p. 372). Small, kind, and yet significant acts of service were not occasional for the Prophet.

Do you remember the day you entered into that covenant to serve Him? I was a conscientious eight-year-old. I wanted to keep the commandments. I wanted to feel my Savior’s approval. I remember that after I was baptized my father took me to a store, gave me a dollar, and told me to pick out something that would remind me of my baptism. I found five small pictures of the Savior and hung them in my room. I looked at them often and felt that He really did care about me. I wanted to please Him, but I wasn’t sure that I knew what all of the commandments were, and I worried that maybe I was not keeping all of them. Though my understanding of the covenant I made at baptism has increased over the years, as I partake of the sacrament each week and renew my covenants, I continue to feel His love for me, and I still want to please Him and feel His approval. One thing I know for certain: I am happy when I’m involved in His work.

When Wilford Woodruff first met the Prophet in April 1834 at Kirtland, he wrote:
I saw him out in the field with his brother Hyrum: he had on a very old hat. . . . I was introduced to him, and he invited me home with him.
I accepted the invitation, and I watched him pretty closely, to see what I could learn. He remarked, while passing to his house, that this was the first hour he had spent in recreation for a long time.
Shortly after we arrived at his house, he went into an adjoining room, and brought out a wolf-skin, and said, “Brother Woodruff, I want you to help me to tan this.” So I pulled off my coat, went to work and helped him, and felt honoured in so doing. He was about going up with the brethren to redeem Zion, and he wanted this wolf-skin to put upon his waggon seat, as he had no buffalo robe. . . . Well, we tanned it, and used it. . . . This was my first introduction to the Prophet Joseph Smith. . . . I rejoiced to behold his face and to hear his voice. I was fully satisfied that Joseph was a Prophet. [Journal of Discourses, 7:101; also Millennial Star 53 (1891): 627–28]).

Brother Woodruff had reason later on to expand that first impression. After long association with the Prophet, he wrote: “I have felt to rejoice exceedingly in what I saw of brother Joseph, for in his public and private career he carried with him the Spirit of the Almighty, and he manifested a greatness of soul which I had never seen in any other man” (Journal of Discourses, 7:101).

Following Ranger School, I was assigned as an infantry platoon leader with a battalion of the 25th Infantry Division, stationed at Schofield Barracks, Hawaii. Pat and I were thrilled! We arrived in Hawaii in May 1965 looking forward to three years in the balmy trade winds of the islands. We found an idyllic little cottage on the beach on the North Shore of Oahu. But our idyll was short-lived. Six months later, our battalion received orders for Vietnam.
The night I left, we sat silently on the sofa in our little cottage, holding hands and listening to the surf lapping against the shore. A military friend in our ward agreed to drive me to Hickam Air Force Base near Pearl Harbor for my 2 a.m. flight to Vietnam. At the fateful hour, I held her in my arms one last time and then stepped through the door, closing it behind me. I looked back at that door that now separated us and wondered if I had just seen her for the last time. My friend and I drove silently through the darkened sugar cane and pineapple fields, my heart in agony. Then, suddenly, there flashed into my mind’s eye a brilliant memory! I remembered! I saw Pat kneeling across from me at the altar of the holy temple as we were sealed for time and eternity. In that instant, though the future was no less uncertain, I knew with surety that no one could take my Pat from me. We belonged to each other! Forever! When I reached the air base, I telephoned her. She was still awake! We visited briefly, laughed a little, and said farewell. But it was different than before. Though midnight, for me the sun was already rising.
For her part, Pat did not shrink. Following a spiritual impression, she remained in Hawaii in our little cottage, even though the other officers’ wives in our battalion returned to the U.S. Mainland. When I was wounded ten months later and returned to Hawaii for surgery, she was there waiting for me.
The teaching? In the midst of crisis or doubt remember what you already know!

The way members live their beliefs can bring blessings into their own lives as well as into the lives of others. Karin Messell of Århus, who grew up in the Church, met her husband, Jesper, at work. When they were married in 2001, he was not a member. Jesper now counts his wife’s example as a great blessing in his life. Partly because of it, he was baptized in 2003, and they were sealed in the Copenhagen temple a little more than two months after its dedication in 2004.
Jesper has embraced the standards and values of the gospel, including the importance of the family. As a couple, the Messells have chosen to sacrifice material things so Karin can be at home when they have children. Jesper says, “We can choose: do we want a big house, or do we want Karin at home?”

Wilford didn’t let old age get in the way of his work. One of his favorite activities was gardening outside with his children and grandchildren.
Grandson: Grandfather, may I help?
President Woodruff: Of course. Take that hoe over there, and help me get rid of these weeds.
One day, Wilford was upset when one of his grandchildren finished hoeing a patch of vegetables a little before he did—even though he was 90 years old!
Grandson: Grandfather, I’m all finished.
President Woodruff: I’m getting old. That’s the first time in my life that one of my grandchildren has ever outdone me in hoeing.

“Another experience I had as a child was being taught the value of work by both my father and my mother. Mother had a large cactus plant, and it had sent out some new little shoots. Mother taught us that those were the children of the big plant, and she showed us how we could plant the little cactus shoots in their own pots so they could grow. We must have had twenty-five or thirty little plants, each in its own pot. When the plants were about three inches high, I loaded them into my red wagon and sold them around the neighborhood for twenty-five cents a pot.
“My father asked, ‘What are you going to do with the money you earned?’ I told him my plans, and he reminded me to pay my tithing on the money, which I did. Many years later, when I was president of the Genealogical Society, I went to the Granite Mountain Records Vault, where the old records of the Church are stored. While I was there, I thought, I wonder if my childhood tithing records are here? I took the time to look up the financial records of our ward when I was a child, and there was the record showing the amount I had paid on the money from those cactus plants! After all those years, the record was still there!

Church membership has brought some sacrifices. “When I was baptized, my father—a military officer—said, `You’re not my son anymore.’ I spoke to him with love and bore my testimony of the Church. But he rejected me and treated me as if I had betrayed my family. And my brothers and sisters distanced themselves from me.”

Carlos’s mother had studied the gospel privately, long before Carlos was baptized. She was converted and had set a baptismal date. “But my father wouldn’t permit it. He told her, ‘If you get baptized, you will never come back.’ So she wasn’t baptized before she died.”

Years later, his father became seriously ill, and Carlos spent many days and nights with him. “Before my father died, a Catholic priest came to do the last rites. But my father said, `I don’t want it. I’m with my son.’ The priest objected, ‘We need to do the prayer.’ But my father said, ‘No, I’m going to do it with Carlos.’ His last words before dying were, ‘Carlos, if I live, my life will change.’ When he said that, I realized that we should do the temple work for him and my mother. And we have done so.”

When I was in college, I went on a study abroad to the United Kingdom. At the time, I was really struggling to feel close to Heavenly Father. I went to sacrament meetings and church on Sundays, and I went to Catholic mass and a beautiful, quiet Quaker meeting. I went often to Evensong, a lovely Anglican choral service. I was looking for any place I could feel peace. I read prayer books in cathedrals and spoke the Apostles’ Creed with people whose beliefs were, in many ways, so close to mine. And I found God again.
I felt so much love and truth in those spaces. The message I got was that if God loved all His children enough to give them so much truth and beauty, then He also loved and knew me.