Gospel Story Finder

Bright, hot, red-orange flames leap and lash out in the clear dark night. Grandpa drops a big pine log on the fire, sending a shower of sparks into the air. It needs to burn just a little longer, and then the coals will be ready to cook on. The season is initiated once again by our Memorial Day bonfire.
Memorial Day is the opening of a new season of ranch life. The excitement throughout the family is intense. Each age group anticipates the season in a different way, and each group has its own tradition for bonfire night.
As grandma scuttles around the kitchen gathering food and utensils on trays for the dinner, she gives out instructions for the rest of us. “Ed, go cut the willows and take some of the kids with you. Boys, go with Tom to gather more wood. Oh, and be careful with that saw. Someone take the little kids away from the kitchen. Find them something to do until dinner. Mitzi, could you please wash off the picnic table? You know how dirty it always is after a winter like this.” And so the day proceeds, each member doing something to get ready for the picnic and evening around the bonfire.
The bonfire pit is right in the center of the yard. It has been there as long as I can remember. I suppose grandpa built it when we first acquired the ranch, since he is generally building something for others to enjoy. It is quite a large pit and has big rocks encircling it. On one side of the pit lies the fish pond with an arched bridge over it. On another side is the house, surrounded by a big lawn and several swing sets. On the other side is the patio, where we eat. Across the pond grandpa and the children attack the willows. Each grandchild gets to hold a willow, bigger than himself, as it is lopped off the bush. The children each proudly carry their sticks across the bridge and to the table, where the fight over who gets to whittle begins.
Soon everyone starts to gather at the patio. As if from nowhere, children appear and grab hot dogs and sticks. Unlike other days, at the picnic you don’t have to eat food you don’t like, and if you want to eat one thing now and another later, it’s okay.
This Memorial Day holiday brings all my mother’s brothers and sisters and their families together. The mothers bustle around batting flies away, pouring mustard and catsup, cutting up hot dogs, serving salad, and warning everyone not to spill the pop. Fathers mention how good it is to have potato salad again, even if it must be eaten with hot dogs.
With dinner over, the family slowly assembles around the fire. Even the children are quiet, as if in awe, as grandpa pokes the fire back to life and throws on another log. This peace and tranquility lasts about ten minutes while everyone reflects on the fun times ahead. Children are thinking of horseback riding and rafting in the pond, playing hide-and-seek and chase games. Parents think of quiet evenings after the children are asleep, walks along the river, and conversations with each other.
One by one the kids become restless and leave the fire to swing, ride the tractor, feed the fish, or just run. Mothers disappear into the house and reappear laden with jackets. The older kids, forced into jackets, slowly disperse to meet later on the big back lawn for a game of “ditch.” This is a game quite similar to hide-and-seek, except that it must be played in the dark and there is no free place to run to. The adults sit around the fire and talk.
As the evening slowly fades away, the attendance around the fire diminishes. Three generations remain at the fire to the end: Grandpa, Uncle Tom, and I. We sit, enjoying one another’s company until our eyes meet; then the three of us race for the hose to put the fire out. Whoever gets to the hose first gets the pleasure of making the first big sizzle and puff of smoke. The other two tote buckets of water from the pond until all that is left of our fire is clouds of smoke.
Putting out the fire signifies the lighting of many more throughout the summer. Each bonfire proceeds in much the same way. Grandma fixes the food and gives instructions, grandpa cuts willows, the children play the same games each time, and the feeling of togetherness is ever present.

I met Regis Carlus for the first time in 1995 in France. He was not a member of the Church. His daughter, Charlotte, was being sealed in the Bern Switzerland Temple the next day, and he had written, asking if he could stop by my office to meet me. He had heard that I often inquired about him, and he was perplexed as to why.

After being called as a General Authority and assigned to serve in the Europe/Mediterranean Area Presidency, I received Mr. Carlus’s request to meet and hoped that he would follow his children into the restored gospel.

When Charlotte’s father was a university student in the 1960s, the missionaries had taught him the gospel. He was drawn to the restored Church and felt the power of the Book of Mormon. He decided, however, that joining a small, American-based church would not help his professional career.

Now, as I greeted Mr. Carlus and exchanged pleasantries that day in 1995, he asked why I had demonstrated such an interest in him.

After praying with him, I told him that these few minutes with him might be the only time in this life that I would see him. I complimented him on his remarkable daughter and son and told him I respected him immensely for raising two righteous children.

Then I spoke to him of the purposes of the Savior in restoring His gospel upon the earth, the role of the priesthood, the importance of family and the sealing power, and the gathering of a covenant people across the world.

I told him I felt that when the missionaries taught him as a university student, his righteous destiny was to join the covenant people of the Church. I asked that he not be offended as we read two verses that I felt applied to him.

Together we read in Alma about those “called and prepared from the foundation of the world … on account of their exceeding faith and good works; in the first place being left to choose good or evil; therefore they having chosen good, and exercising exceedingly great faith, are called with a holy calling … while others would reject the Spirit of God on account of the hardness of their hearts and blindness of their minds, while, if it had not been for this [for they were on the same standing] they might have had as great privilege as their brethren” (Alma 13:3–4).

I politely shared with Mr. Carlus that I believed he had been prepared to be with us, and when he refused because of the appeals of the world, the Lord continued to bless him with two choice spirits to be his children. They embraced the covenant path meant for his family. Then I invited him to accept the invitation he had been given 30 years before.

Regis Carlus did not join the Church in this life, but his children had chosen the covenant path, and they have remained on the path.

I grew up in Mongolia and believed in Buddhism. But one day a friend came to my home. She was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She talked to me about Jesus Christ and invited me to attend her church. I didn’t listen to her. She came again, but still I didn’t listen.
A few weeks after her visit I had a dream. In the dream a voice told me to go to church. I asked, “What? What church? I don’t understand.” The voice gave me directions on how to get to church. I was told, “Tomorrow morning go to this church. When you enter, two missionaries will be there to meet you.”
When I woke up the next morning, I was confused. “Who had come to me in a dream? Who had talked to me?” I wondered. But I decided to go to church.
I followed the directions and found the church. At the door were two missionaries to meet me. They shook my hand and invited me to attend the meeting. The members were nice, and everyone smiled. I felt very happy.
After sacrament meeting the missionaries invited me to hear the discussions. I said yes.
When Elder Johnson and Elder Sampson taught me the first discussion, I was confused, but they explained everything again. They had powerful testimonies. I asked many questions, and the elders always answered me. They read the scriptures with me and invited me to pray about what they had shared with me. Then they left my home.
I felt happy. I decided to ask God if what I was learning was true. I knelt down and prayed, “If God lives and loves me, if Jesus Christ lives, and if this Church is true, let me feel the Spirit.” After I prayed, my heart felt so good and so comfortable. I felt like I was flying. I felt the answer come to my heart: “God lives. He loves you! Jesus Christ lives. Do not be confused. This is the only true Church.” I knew this was the Holy Ghost testifying of the truth. I had received my answer from God.
Two days later the missionaries returned to my home. I told them about my feelings and that I wanted to be baptized. I was so happy I jumped up and down. During the next three weeks, the elders taught me the rest of the discussions, and I was baptized.
I know that God lives and that He loves us. Jesus Christ is our Redeemer and Savior. I know that Joseph Smith saw God the Father and His Son, Jesus Christ. I love the Book of Mormon and know it is the word of God. I am now serving as a full-time missionary in Raleigh, North Carolina, in the United States. I love my mission. This is the Lord’s work. I am so grateful I was guided to the true Church of Jesus Christ.

A wonderful example of this philosophy was shared by Arthur Gordon many years ago in a national magazine. He wrote:
“When I was around thirteen and my brother ten, Father had promised to take us to the circus. But at lunchtime there was a phone call; some urgent business required his attention downtown. We braced ourselves for disappointment. Then we heard him say [into the phone], ‘No, I won’t be down. It’ll have to wait.’
“When he came back to the table, Mother smiled. ‘The circus keeps coming back, you know.’
“ ‘I know,’ said Father. ‘But childhood doesn’t.’ ”

Photograph courtesy of Debbie Twigger
Young women in the East Midlands area of England wanted to do something special for the holidays to help out children in their community. Together with their Young Women leaders, they created 80 different handmade craft kits for children at the local hospital. These kits allow children who are patients to make crafts or do fun activities while they stay at the hospital. The kits include flycatchers, mobiles, puzzles, paper dolls, and puppets, all of which are ready for the kids to make.
“I was really happy to serve the children,” says 15-year-old Bethany H. “The feeling we got was nice.”
The young women built the kits during Mutual activities. When they delivered the craft kits, they also brought brand new Christmas decorations for the hospital. The project helped brighten the holidays for all involved. “I’d like to do it again,” Bethany says.

Elder Mark E. Petersen taught me another penetrating lesson about delegating when he was the supervisor of the missions on the East Coast in the late 1960s. He toured the North Carolina Virginia Mission over which we were presiding in order to give instruction and help.
Knowing of his very distinguished service as president of the European missions, I knew he would be able to give me the answers to all my mission supervision problems. So when we had a few spare minutes together, I would ask about a problem and invite his recommendation. In response he would most often say something like this: “I know one mission president who solved that problem in this way. Another in a more distant area solved it this way.” Always he outlined possible solutions but left the selection of the solution to me. After six days he left on the plane, having responded to my every request for help but leaving to me the responsibility to choose the solutions and accept the consequences of my decisions. That was one of many helpful lessons taught by an outstanding leader in the Lord’s work.

I remember when I used to dread fast Sundays. Going without food was awful. My stomach made big growling sounds all through sacrament meeting and Primary. It was embarrassing. All I could ever think about was food. And in sacrament meeting, the men and women always seemed to be crying. Mom said that it was because they felt close to Heavenly Father. I thought that it was probably because they were hungry.
That’s how I felt until something happened when I was nine years old. My younger sister, Millie, was climbing the big old tree in our backyard. No one was paying much attention to her because we were always climbing that tree. I was busy building a castle in the sandbox when I heard tree branches breaking. I looked up just as Millie hit the ground headfirst. When I ran over to see if she was all right, she didn’t move. “Millie!” I screamed. But she didn’t answer. I began screaming for Mom as loudly as I could.
Mom came running out of the house. White-faced, she bent over Millie to listen for a heartbeat and breathing. “Stay here,” she said to me. “I’m going to call the paramedics.” I didn’t know if Millie was dead or alive. I was afraid to even touch her.
Soon an ambulance and the paramedics came. After checking Millie with their instruments and bracing her head, they very carefully lifted her onto a stretcher and carried her to the ambulance. Mom got in too. Sister Lindsay, our next-door neighbor, came over to stay with my brothers, Ben and Jeff, and me. She told us that everything would be all right, but I wasn’t sure. She hadn’t seen Millie lying there.
Dad came home about eight o’clock that night so that Sister Lindsay could go home. Looking very sad, he said, “Millie broke her neck. Mom is going to stay at the hospital with her. She’s unconscious, and we can’t make her wake up. Even if she does wake up, there’s a chance that she might be paralyzed for the rest of her life.”
I wasn’t sure what paralyzed meant, so I asked, “Does that mean that she’ll never be able to walk again?”
Dad looked at me with tears in his eyes and said, “Yes, it does, Beth. She may not even be able to move her arms and hands.”
I was horrified. Jeff began to cry, and Ben pleaded, “Can’t they do something to make her get well?”
As Dad tried to comfort us, he said, “They’re doing everything that they know how to do. But we can do something to help Millie too.”
“If you mean prayer,” I said, “we’ve been doing that. I’ve never prayed so hard in my life.”
“I’m glad,” Dad said. “But prayer is only part of it. I called Grandma and Grandpa Wilson and Grandma and Grandpa Abbot, and they have called your aunts and uncles and cousins. Tomorrow they are all going to join with us in a special family fast for Millie.”
The next day we all fasted, and that evening Mom came home from the hospital to get some sleep. Before Dad went to take her place next to Millie’s bed, we all knelt and had a special family prayer for Millie. He told Heavenly Father that we wanted Millie to get well, but we would accept whatever He thought was best. We all felt better after the prayer.
Sometime in the middle of the night the telephone rang, and I was scared. Why would the telephone ring now, unlesssomething is wrong? I strained to hear what Mom was saying. Although I couldn’t understand all the words, she didn’t sound sad at all. I got up and went down to the kitchen.
“Oh, Beth!” Mom said as she hung up the receiver, “Millie is awake! She opened her eyes and said, ‘Daddy.’”
Ben was standing in the hall. “Can she move?” he asked.
Mom’s eyes clouded a bit. “No,” she said. “Not yet. But that doesn’t mean that she won’t. She may just need more time.”
Two days went by. The Relief Society sisters took turns staying with us kids and bringing in meals so that Mom could stay at the hospital with Millie, and Dad could go to work.
On the afternoon of the second day, the telephone rang. Sister Stevens handed it to me. I had barely said hello when Mom cried, “Oh, Beth, she moved her fingers! Millie moved her fingers!”
“Does that mean she isn’t paralyzed?” I asked excitedly.
“At least not from her waist up,” Mom replied. “I was just so happy that I wanted you to know right away. Tell the others, won’t you, Beth?”
Grandma Wilson arrived that night to stay with us. And Mom and Dad were both home for supper. Now that Millie was awake, they dared leave her for a little while. Mom said that the doctors were pretty sure that Millie would soon be able to move her toes and legs. “They said that children’s bodies mend much more quickly and better than adults’ do.”
“Mom,” I asked, “do you think that that’s why Millie is getting better?”
Smiling, she asked, “What do you think, Beth?”
My cheeks felt like they were glowing when I answered, “I think that Heavenly Father blessed her because of our fasting and prayers too.”
Dad grinned at me and said, “I’m sure of it.”
Millie had to stay in the hospital for a long time, and even after she came home, it was a long time before she could run and play like she used to. But she did get completely better.
I’m eleven years old now—almost twelve. I don’t mind fast Sundays anymore. I even understand why some people cry when they bear their testimonies—I did when I stood up to tell everyone that I knew that fasting and prayer really work.

The doctor’s words, “Chris, you have a tumor. Chris, you have cancer,” sent waves of shock, fear, and despair through me. I had felt sure the lump was a hernia or maybe a swollen lymph node, but it was not.
After my 15-year-old son’s diagnosis, events happened very quickly. The following morning we were at Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City for more CT scans, a bone scan, an MRI, a bone marrow aspiration, and a tumor biopsy. The news was not good. Chris had a small tumor on his pelvis near his left thigh. It was diagnosed as Ewing’s sarcoma, a type of bone cancer. Chemotherapy was scheduled to begin the next week.
As a nurse, I knew what we were in for medically. But I never expected the overwhelming fear and gloom that came over me. Those feelings soon changed, however.
Chris wasn’t even home from the hospital a day when his friends Ben Williams, Ben Brookes, and Jeremy Lamb picked him up so they could go to another friend’s house to watch videos and eat. That by itself calmed me. They were doing normal teenage things, and I was so relieved to see them not treating Chris any differently. I later found out the boys didn’t even talk about Chris’s cancer. “Why should they?” Chris asked.
When the chemotherapy began, so did the inevitable side effects, including hair loss. I don’t know why it bothered me so much, but it did—probably more than it bothered Chris. At first, there was hair on his pillow. Then it was in the sink. Finally, Chris shaved off what hair was left. Later that afternoon with Chris napping on the couch, the two Bens and Jeremy knocked at the door. As they came in, they doffed their hats to show Chris their cleanly shaved heads. They laughed together and watched a video of them all shaving each other’s heads.
“Now I wasn’t the only one with a shaved head. I just had the smoothest,” explained Chris.
A few days later at school, the four boys were walking down the hallway when a girl said, “They look like they have cancer.” Alone, that remark could have been devastating. Together, they just laughed about it.
One Sunday, as my husband and I sat in fast and testimony meeting with Chris’s older brother, Jeremy, fear continued to engulf me. Chris had been hospitalized again with a fever and low blood counts. We were new in our ward, and very few people knew of Chris’s condition. As I listened half-heartedly, a high councilman stood at the pulpit to bear his testimony. He talked about his love for some of the youth he’d met in another ward in our stake. He talked about how three of the priests there had shaved their heads for a friend who had cancer. Then his voice broke slightly when he said, “That boy lives in our ward now and is my home teacher.
“I wonder,” he continued, “if our youth would be that supportive.” The challenge was taken and met. That afternoon, our ward was graced by several very bald young men, including Chris’s older brother, Jeremy.
“One Sunday before sacrament meeting we were all lined up, and all of us were bald. The congregation just laughed,” Chris said.
Since that time, both the young men and young women of our ward continued to support Chris and our family. During one particularly hard hospitalization, friends traveled an hour to visit him and cheer him up. Two days after he came home, they picked him up and took him out for all-you-can-eat pizza.
Each day the young men of the ward would gather at the Owenses’ home across the street from us. They are the only ones with a usable basketball court, and the young men would come to play ball. As I watched out the window as they played, Chris would sometimes stop playing and just sit on the grass with some of the younger kids who had gathered and laugh with them as they’d steal his hat and rub his smooth head. “Even though it was my hardest summer, it was also my funnest,” said Chris.
And the love and support didn’t stop. Last September after church, we noticed a crowd of young men, young women, children, and their leaders walking toward our door. As they filled our small living room, they surprised Chris with a homemade quilt and pillow. The blocks of the quilt were each designed by different young women or young men with their own well-wishes, jokes, and funny pictures. They asked Chris to take the quilt and pillow with him to the hospital so he could be reminded of them and their love.
“The comments and pictures on the quilt made me laugh,” said Chris. “When I saw them coming up our driveway, I thought it must be some kind of activity, and I wondered why I hadn’t been told about it. It was a neat thing for them to do.”
After the young people had presented the quilt, the Sambongis, our neighbors from Japan, gave Chris his gift, a sembazuru, which translated means 1,000 paper cranes. The Sambongis told Chris that in Japan, cranes are said to live as long as 1,000 years, and that a paper crane will take away sickness when it flies away. They also gave him a note:
“Dear Chris, These paper cranes were made by a lot of people, including people in our ward and those you have never met before. We all pray for your recovery, and may the Lord bless you.”
The Lord has blessed us—with good neighbors, friends, professionals, and especially strong, loving young men and young women. And Chris knows it too.
The youth and the leaders of the Orem Sharon Park Third Ward, and Chris’s three friends from the Sixth Ward have been great. Their kindness and thoughtfulness during a very painful and difficult time has helped much more than they’ll ever know.

by John Jarvis

It was the first day of spring in the Rhone Valley in southern France, and the young people of Avignon celebrated with an exploration trek to an authentic castle—St. André.

Hanging on a cliff face, St. André overlooks the Rhone River in the small, medieval city of Villeneuve les Avignon. Crossing the “Bridge of the Kingdom” from Avignon to Villeneuve brought the car caravan of young Latter-day Saints into the old, narrow streets where the width of each car barely fit between the ancient walls. Members, friends, and missionaries enthusiastically greeted the magnificent guard towers of the castle entrance. With slits in the stone for archers and guard stations at the top of the towers, it was easy to understand why few would-be conquerors were able to withstand the rain of arrows and boiling oil to win the castle.

“My ancestors could have been soldiers here,” said Cathy as she explored the ins and outs of the fortress-castle that was built in 1360. The only entrance to the castle is between the guard towers where enormous wooden doors can be lowered to seal off the entrance.

Entering the castle courtyard, the group felt as though they had stepped back in time. Inside was a small village complete with bakery, homes, and stone chapel, all abandoned now. They thoroughly explored the castle including the dungeon. The group was impressed by the medieval French devotion to God. They discovered that the castle was actually built on the ruins of a 10th century abbey.

“It’s great to get out,” said Sylvie, “especially with other young people who believe as you do. There is always such a good feeling when we are doing things together.”

After the castle had been thoroughly explored, fun-loving Michele broke out the soccer balls she had stowed in the cars. In France, the only thing a group of young people like better than a good soccer game is two good soccer games. They organized the matches on the large, grassy plain just below the fortress.

It was an ideal day, and good company made it an exciting youth activity. From the castle high on a cliff overlooking the Rhone River Valley, some young members of the Church in France had learned something about their heritage and each other.

Evan Stephens was born in Wales in 1854. By the time he was 12 years old, his family had moved to Willard, Utah, where he sang in the town choir. But when Evan learned that President Brigham Young was coming to hear the choir, he had a problem.
Evan looked down at the dusty road and dragged his feet as he walked home from choir practice. Everyone else in the Willard town choir had cheered at the invitation to sing for President Brigham Young. The men clapped each other on the back, while the women whispered excitedly from behind their books and fans. No one noticed the glum look on 12-year-old Evan’s face as he slumped down in his chair. The “Boy Alto,” as he was known, quietly slipped through the church doors and left practice by himself.
The problem wasn’t that Evan didn’t want to sing. He loved music. When his family settled in Willard, a town about 50 miles (80 km) north of Salt Lake City, he had been delighted to learn about the unusually good town choir. As the 10th child in the Stephens family, Evan had found little time between farm chores to learn much about music. In the Willard choir, he could finally learn more about it. He found himself moving in rhythm as he worked and dancing as he herded the cows. He felt music everywhere now.
No, the idea of singing for the prophet didn’t upset Evan. But choir members would need to dress in their best Sunday clothes for the performance, and he did not have any good clothes. His family didn’t have much money. He had never owned a nice coat or a pair of black Sunday shoes. He was ashamed to sing in front of the prophet while looking so shabby.
Evan looked down at his dusty feet. They were covered with dirt from the trail. He would have to scrub them hard before going to church Sunday morning. Otherwise, his feet would look black. Evan’s heart jumped at this thought. He could get black feet—really black feet—by using polish. Everyone would be looking at the faces of the singers, so no one would notice that Evan had black feet instead of black shoes.
On the day the choir was to sing to the prophet, Evan felt sweat on his forehead and the palms of his hands as he looked down at his black feet. He knew he must go—the choir needed him—but he wanted to hide so the prophet would not see him. With tears racing down his cheeks, he ran toward the bowery where the choir was going to sing.
At the bowery, Evan stopped. What if the prophet did see him? What would he think of a poor farm boy with painted black feet and no coat? Evan couldn’t let the prophet see him. Turning around, he bolted like a frightened colt. He ran right into the very man he had hoped not to see.
President Brigham Young grabbed the frightened boy by the shoulders. “Now, now, what’s this?” he asked. “What’s the matter? Why are you running away?”
Tears filled Evan’s eyes as he bowed his head and whispered, “I have no coat for the program and no shoes.” Swallowing the lump in his throat, he continued, “I painted my feet black with polish.”
The grip on Evan’s shoulders relaxed, and he felt the prophet pat him on the head. Looking up, he was surprised to see a kind look on President Young’s face and tears in his eyes, too. “Never mind that,” he told Evan. “Don’t you hesitate a moment. Go right on in.”
Relief wrapped around Evan like a soft, warm blanket. He blinked away the tears and returned the prophet’s smile with one of his own. He hurried to take his place with the choir. Happy to be accepted by the prophet, Evan sang his part perfectly.
President Young gave Evan an encouraging word and courage to do his part. This kindness influenced Evan long after the choir performance. He continued to study music and taught himself new skills.
When Evan grew up, he became director of the Tabernacle Choir. He served in that position from 1889 to 1916. Evan also wrote many sacred hymns and patriotic songs. He remained humble and always remembered the lesson he had learned from the prophet. Evan treated people like he did his music—with love. And like President Young, he listened with his heart.
Evan Stephens later wrote a hymn about courage, including the words, “Courage, for the Lord is on our side” (“Let Us All Press On,” Hymns, no. 243).

Carly W. from Rexburg, Idaho, USA, is a busy helper. At home Carly helps out by taking care of her family’s cats, dogs, and chickens. Because Carly is one of the best students in her class at school, she helps other children with math and reading. In Primary, Carly’s singing helps other children to feel the Spirit.
Because Carly has done such a good job helping others, some of her friends decided to help her too.
Carly was born with a disease called spina bifida. This disease makes it hard for Carly to use all of her muscles. Doing things like walking on uneven ground and climbing up stairs can be hard for her. At school, Carly wasn’t able to play on the playground because the playground equipment was hard for her to use. There were other children who also couldn’t play on the playground equipment.
“Sometimes I felt bad and frustrated at recess because I couldn’t play on the playground,” Carly says.
One of Carly’s friends, Halli Jo, and Halli Jo’s mom decided to earn money to build a playground that Carly and all the other students at the school could use.
Halli Jo, her mom, and a lot of other people worked to earn money for the new playground. It took a lot of work, but they were able to earn enough money to build a new playground that all the students could play on.
“It was a lot of hard work,” Halli Jo says. “But it never made me sad to do the work—it just made me love Carly more.”
Carly is happy to be able to play on the playground with her friends. She says, “I like walking up the ramps and going down the slides. Me and my friends have fun together.”

Augustina Constantie Doorson was born on July 1, 1863, on the Sarah Plantation in the district of Coronie, west of Paramaribo, in the country currently known as Suriname. She was born the day slavery was officially abolished in the country that was then known as Dutch Guiana, located in the northeast part of South America. Augustina’s mother, Molly Doorson, and Molly’s sister, Eva Doorson, were slaves on that plantation. Life for the slaves was hard and did not change for 10 years after slavery was abolished because the government had to repay each plantation owner for each person freed. The family eventually moved to Paramaribo, a larger town in Dutch Guiana, to find work.
Augustina, Molly, and Eva were ancestors of Imro Wehl, who lives in Suriname. Imro, a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, is an enthusiast of family history and spends hours finding names to add to his family tree. He started to have dreams of his great-grandmother, Augustina, who appeared to be asking for help. He remembered that his mother, Sieglien Wehl-Biezen, had also dreamed of her mother, Augustina, years before requesting her to free her but didn’t understand what the dream meant. Imro realized he was the answer to his great-grandmother’s plea for help. As a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, through the sealing power of the temple covenants for the dead, he could help her find the peace she had been waiting to receive.
Imro worked for years, gathering names of family members to add to his family tree. He strongly felt he was receiving help from ancestors on the other side of the veil. He received impressions that helped him eventually find over 90 individuals. Imro said it felt like miracles were happening repeatedly as he continued to find additional family members. Surprisingly, he even felt impressed to include the names of Augustina, Sieglien, Molly, and Eva’s former slave master, Edmund Desse, and his family. Imro said this showed him how deeply Augustina had forgiven him despite the suffering her family endured.
In September 2024, Imro and the Paramaribo Suriname District planned a 10-day temple trip to the Belém Brazil Temple. Over 20 members flew from their home country to Brazil with the names of family members ready to have their temple work done. They worked in the temple every day, all day long, except Sunday and Monday, to complete their work. They started with baptisms for the dead and finished by invoking the power of the sealing of couples to one another and the sealing of the sons and daughters to their parents. Imro enlisted the help of his fellow district members to complete the temple work for his family. Even the temple workers stayed late, after 10:00 p.m. at night, to help Imro and the group complete his work.
Sister Lusanne Libretto, a member of the group traveling to Brazil, had an unforgettable experience at the temple. She recalls, “This was my most profound moment since I joined the Church.”
Early in the morning on September 13, 2024, the group attended the temple to do baptisms for their ancestors. Lusanne was given five names to be baptized for. She sat quietly in the chapel, waiting for her husband to change his clothes while the rest of the group entered the baptistry. As she waited, she felt strangely restless, as if she was being urged to go inside and start the baptisms immediately. She said, “I literally felt that I was being pushed forward. I passed the entire group, and to the surprise of my fellow brothers and sisters, I was helped first. They wondered why I was in such a rush to pass them to the first row, and rightly so. Once I started the baptisms, the first name I was given was that of Eva Doorson [Imro Wehl’s great-aunt].”
Later that evening, when Lusanne returned for another ordinance session, she received Eva Doorson’s name again. She was amazed and felt a strong bond with the deceased woman as if Eva had chosen Lusanne to help her.
At the end of another ordinance session, Lusanne said, “I was tired, but a temple worker handed me one more name to complete in addition to the five I had already done. To my surprise, it was Eva Doorson again. With tears in my eyes, I knew with certainty that she wanted and had chosen me to do all her work at the temple. I never asked for her name, but I kept getting it pressed into my hands. Even though I was exhausted, I felt grateful that I had listened to the gentle promptings of the Spirit.”
On September 21, 2024, Imro, Lusanne, and others from the Paramaribo Suriname District returned home with gratitude for the opportunity to attend the temple and for their shared memories. Imro witnessed ordinances completed for over 90 family members, including his great-grandmother, Augustina, his grandmother, Molly, his mother, Sieglien, and his great-aunt, Eva, as well as his father, brother, and son. It was a deeply emotional experience that strengthened his bond with his family, both past and present. In his testimony, Imro said, “The best time we can spend here on earth is in the temple with our Heavenly Father.”

Rainbow stepped from the shelter of the wigwam just as the soft summer rain stopped. Turning her face to the sun and closing her dark eyes, she took a deep breath. Everything smelled fresh and new after a rain.
“I see Rainbow enjoys the scent of the earth after its bath too.” Rainbow didn’t have to look to see who had spoken to her, for she knew well the voice of her great-grandfather.
“Oh, Great-Grandfather, isn’t it lovely!” she exulted. Her delight in it was even greater now that she was sharing it with the person she loved most.
Great-Grandfather nodded. He patted the ground, inviting Rainbow to sit with him. “That which you are named after is especially beautiful this day,” he said, looking above the tall trees to the colored arch stretching across the sky.
Rainbow loved the many colors of the rainbow, but every time she saw one, she was reminded of her own plainness. She felt her spirits sinking, and the world no longer seemed as lovely as it had a short time ago.
Sensing Rainbow’s mood changing, Great-Grandfather asked, “Why do you grow sad?” When she didn’t answer, they both sat in silence. He would let her decide when the time was right for talking.
This was Rainbow’s thirteenth summer, and her sorrow grew deeper with each one. The daughter of a Sioux chief, she was proud of her heritage, yet …
“Great-Grandfather, Running Antelope is able to run with the swiftness of an antelope, isn’t he?”
Great-Grandfather gave Rainbow his complete attention, “Yes, he is as quick and surefooted as an antelope.”
“My other brother, Red Fox, is skillful and cunning.”
“As the red fox is, so is he.”
While they talked, Rainbow had been watching the multicolored rainbow grow pale and fade away. I wish that I, too, could fade away, she thought. “Great-Grandfather, on the day of my birth, you chose my name. Is that not true?”
“That is true.”
Picking at the fringe on her dress, Rainbow whispered sadly, “But the rainbow is beautiful.”
“Yes, it is beautiful—as are you.”
She was surprised at his answer. No one had ever told her that she was beautiful, and she knew why. She was not beautiful; not even pretty.
“Great-Grandfather, I love you for saying so, but I am plain, and I know it.”
The old man rose on wavering legs. He paused, letting his limbs gain strength. “Stay here; I will return.”
Lost in her misery, Rainbow hardly noticed his absence. It haunted her that she couldn’t live up to her name as her brothers lived up to theirs.
She was shaken out of her thoughts when something was pressed into her hand. Looking up, she found Great-Grandfather had returned. He squatted beside her and said, “As a child, you received joy from this. Do you remember?”
She nodded, gazing at the smooth object she held. The solid glass bar had three sides, each end exactly like the other. It was transparent, but by holding it just right, she could see the seven colors of the rainbow reflected on a boulder or on the side of the wigwam.
“I have had this many years,” Great-Grandfather told her. “When you were a baby and I first held you, I knew you to be as this glass.”
Rainbow looked at him in wonder. “How can that be?”
“The glass, though attractive, is plain. Its beauty is hidden, yet is always there. To me, you are beautiful. I see the colors of the rainbow within you. They radiate your inner beauty with every smile and every tear for others.”
Rainbow threw her arms around him. “I love you, Great-Grandfather!”
“And I love you, beautiful Rainbow.”

Born on May 16, 1952, in Bungoma, Kenya, to Nathan and Lenah Sitati, Elder Sitati was 34 when a business associate invited him, his wife, Gladys Nangoni, and their five children to attend church in his home. The family had become disillusioned with organized religion but felt something special with this small group of Latter-day Saints. So they returned week after week. Six months later, in 1986, the family joined the Church.

“Our Area Presidency has challenged us to read the Book of Mormon before stake conference. Will you try?” my dad asked me. “I’ll try,” I said reluctantly. I was reluctant because I had recently been in a bicycle accident and had received a serious concussion. I remember the exact date of my accident—27 July 1993—because it was my younger brother Brent’s 12th birthday.
The morning of Brent’s birthday, I did not have a present for him, so I decided to ride my bicycle to a store to find something. The store was not far away, but getting there required riding along a busy state highway. Thinking I would be safer, I rode on a seldom-used sidewalk that ran by some condominiums not far from my home. Toward the bottom of a hill, the sidewalk became uneven and was covered with sand, dirt, and plants. The sidewalk was not easily seen from either the highway or the condos. I headed down the hill, picking up speed as I went, but my trip didn’t take me where I had planned to go. I ended up in the hospital instead.
I have no memory of what happened. All I remember is the pain. I later learned that two teenage boys found me. They contacted a neighbor, who called my mom and the paramedics.
Five days later, I was still delirious. I had more than 40 stitches over one eye and on my chin, and bandages covered other cuts and scrapes. While I was in the hospital and at home, many loving people in our ward visited me and brought me gifts—although I can’t remember most of it.
Later, when I was feeling better, my parents had a speech pathologist test me. The tests showed moderate to severe impairment of my ability to retrieve general information, organize thoughts, and speak intelligently. My mental age had dropped. Although I was nearly 15 years old, I was performing at a 12-year-old level.
One of the most frustrating consequences of the accident was not being able to read. I could see the words, but my mind couldn’t process them. It was almost as if I had forgotten how to read. So my dad’s request that I read the Book of Mormon within a two-month period would be an immense challenge.
That night, I knelt by my bed to pray to Heavenly Father. During my prayer, I felt strongly that if Heavenly Father wanted me to read the Book of Mormon, He would help me. After the prayer, I got up, sat in bed, and opened the Book of Mormon to the first page. I slowly looked at the words in front of me and began: “I, Nephi, having been born of goodly parents …” I was reading! I could actually understand the words! Part of me was totally amazed and excited. Yet part of me wasn’t surprised at all. Somehow I had a complete assurance that I would be able to read the Book of Mormon if it was the Lord’s will and if He was helping me.
After only one month, I finished reading that great book of scripture. The Lord and the Book of Mormon had taught me how to read again. More important, my faith in Heavenly Father increased, as did my testimony of prayer and the scriptures. That faith and testimony sustained me years later as I served as a full-time missionary in the Korea Seoul West Mission.
I’m grateful my dad challenged me to read the Book of Mormon. Because of that challenge, I was able to understand that Heavenly Father can bless us in our trials. I’m also grateful for miracles—not only for the miraculous coming forth of the Book of Mormon and the miraculous Restoration of the gospel, but also for miracles that happen today to people like me.

It was Sunday, and the brethren of the Constitución Ward, Guadalajara Unión México Stake, were convened in priesthood meeting. The elders were listening to a lesson by the quorum president, a gifted teacher. Among those present were a newly ordained elder and his father, who was returning to church after a long period of inactivity.
The lesson that day was on the elders quorum itself. “What is a priesthood quorum?” the president asked, and the brethren in the class gave several responses. It is like a family, they said, and the brethren in the quorum should be genuinely concerned about each other’s welfare and help one another.
As bishop of the ward, I joined the group in time to hear the end of the lesson. Raising my hand, I asked for permission to speak. “I’ve just learned this morning that Brother Noriega, one of our quorum members, has not been able to get the machinery he needs to plant his crops,” I said. “Since the rains have already begun, it is urgent that the seeds be planted right away. Brother Noriega could run the risk of not getting his crops planted, because he is elderly and doesn’t have anyone to help him.”
I suggested that on the following day, we all go help Brother Noriega get his seeds planted. Certainly all of us together could do the job, even without the needed farm machinery. Everybody became excited about this opportunity to put the day’s lesson into practice, and the quorum president made the necessary arrangements.
The next day, Brother Noriega was waiting for us with tools and seeds. He hadn’t been able to sleep, he said, knowing that the elders quorum was coming to help him. While some of the brethren cleared the ground, others broke the soil or dropped in seeds and covered them. Two of the most enthusiastic participants were the recently reactivated member and his son.
It was dark when we finished our task. Dirty and weary, we had blisters on our hands and thorns in our clothes. But we all felt great satisfaction in having served one of our brethren—and we felt that we had really learned the meaning of our lesson in priesthood meeting. Brother Noriega expressed his gratitude, saying that he felt young and strong again as he worked side by side with his brothers in the quorum. The newly reactivated man also said that taking part had given him new strength and courage.
Just as we were leaving, rain began to fall, and we all got wet. But we felt that the shower was a blessing. Heaven’s rain was just what we needed to truly complete our day of sowing.

Everyone needs to be home taught—but at sea? It was a misty Saturday evening. The guided-missile frigate USS William H. Standley was anchored in Golfe-Juan Harbor located between Cannes and Nice, France—a port commonly frequented by U.S. naval ships during their extended Mediterranean deployments.
Aboard the Standley, Navy Chaplain Thomas Pocock was expecting nothing unusual that evening—a little reading; perhaps he’d write a letter or two. Then he heard his name over the ship’s loudspeaker system: “Chaplain Pocock, call the quarterdeck!”
He called immediately and was informed by the messenger-of-the-watch: “There are three sailors from the USS Franklin D. Roosevelt here to see you. Should I escort them to your stateroom?”
Before the chaplain remembered who he knew on the FDR, he opened the door to three Mormon sailors. The leader announced, “We’ve come to home-teach you, Chaplain.”
Then the largest of the three put his arm around the chaplain and said, “We love you, brother.”
During the next three hours all felt the meaning of the scripture, “For where two or three are gathered together in my name, there am I in the midst of them.”
Each visitor recounted his experiences in the Church, in the service, and in his role of sailor-missionary.
Chaplain Pocock knew one of the men. Bill Woodson was an old friend who had been baptized in June of 1970 while stationed at the Naval Air Station Memphis, in Millington, Tennessee.
The other two sailors were almost as new in the Church as Bill. Paul Quiring, the group leader, was baptized in November of 1969 while stationed in Vallejo, California. He had been introduced to the gospel at the Naval Training Center (boot camp) in San Diego.
The third man, Dave Kellogg, was baptized in May of 1970 while stationed at the Naval Station, Key West, Florida. Dave was the second counselor in the LDS group aboard the carrier as well as the priesthood advisor and instructor.
As his friends rose to leave, tears ran down the chaplain’s cheeks. What a thrill to know that three sailor converts, with a total of less than nine years membership in the Church among them, cared enough to deliver a gospel message on the high seas.

My husband and I wanted to help our family feel the Spirit more in our family scripture study. We had heard Elder Gene R. Cook, then of the Seventy, suggest singing a hymn before family scripture study, so we decided to implement this counsel. Although our teenage sons were somewhat resistant to the idea, they agreed to give it a try.
The following day I played hymns on our stereo about 30 minutes before our scheduled reading time. What happened next changed everything for us. This music had touched our then 13-year-old son (who had been the most resistant to our initial proposal) to the extent that he wanted to sing all the verses of the hymn, and he even wanted to sing more than one hymn! This same son now relies on the hymns when he is discouraged or tempted.
We use the hymns not only for family scripture study but also at family home evening and on Sundays.
Marci Owen, Utah, USA

Hans Eduardo Nieto, a nine-year-old boy living in Guayaquil, Ecuador, has been a missionary since he was born.
Hans’s family is made up of Hans and his mother. When he was born, his mother was not a member of the Church. But the family she worked for as a housemaid were Latter-day Saints. They asked if they could take the baby to church to receive a blessing.
Although Hans’s mother didn’t want to go, she allowed them to take her baby for the blessing. Hans has attended church ever since. Wherever he and his mother lived, she found members to take him to church.

Chieko Nishimura Okazaki had goodly parents too. Her grandparents moved from Japan to Hawaii. Her parents worked hard on a plantation. They were Buddhists, Buddhism being the main religion in Japan. They did not know about Jesus Christ. But they knew about goodness. What did they teach Chieko?
She said, “They taught me to be kigatsuku (key-got-sue-koo). That means to do good without being asked. When my mother was sweeping the floor, she would say, ‘Chieko, what would a kigatsuku girl do now?’ I would think for a minute, then run to get the dust pan and hold it for her. Or when she was washing dishes, I would pick up the dishtowel and begin to dry them. She would smile and say, ‘You are a kigatsuku girl.’
“My parents taught me other things. They taught me to work hard and to always do my best. That’s why I could work hard in school, go to the university, and become a school teacher and even a principal. They taught me to always love the truth. That is why, when I found the Church, I loved it and was baptized a Latter-day Saint.”
Chieko respected, honored, and loved her parents by helping without being asked and by following the righteous principles that they taught her. Now she is the first counselor in the General Presidency of the Relief Society. Her father is dead; her mother is still a Buddhist. Sister Okazaki says, “I know that she is proud of me because I still try to be kigatsuku, and I love her very much for teaching me good things.”