Gospel Story Finder

María Coj was a 17-year-old member of the Church in Guatemala, the oldest of eight children. She was sick with cysticercosis, a parasitic infection that comes from eating contaminated food; with time it spread to her brain, causing terrible headaches and then blindness. To give her relief from the pain, it was necessary to move her from her home in Sololá to Guatemala City. Because of convulsions caused by the advance of the illness, her condition worsened, and it was only with life-support systems that she was kept alive. It was evident that she could not live long under those conditions.
At this same time, Erika Alonzo, age 12, a partially blind member of the Church, traveled 22 hours by bus from Honduras to Guatemala City to receive an eye operation. For two weeks she waited for a cornea from the United States to be transplanted to her eye, but none was available.
In the meantime, María died. Because her blindness was caused by pressure on her brain, her corneas were healthy. María’s father and mother authorized the cornea donation. The operation was a success.
On 12 July 1993, Erika traveled to Sololá to meet the Coj family for the first time. The surprised family asked her, “Can you see?” She answered, “I see everything clearly.” It was a spiritual meeting. Sister Coj, who did not understand much Spanish because her native language is Cakchiquel, felt the love and the spirit of the conversation. Because of the donation of María’s corneas, Erika can now see and enjoy everything around her. The death of one person and the love of her parents blessed the life of another. The medical miracle of one person being able to look through eyes of another is a surprising reality.

Deep in the Gran Chaco—the sparsely settled, arid wilderness that covers much of northwestern Paraguay—is Nivoclé Boquerón, a settlement of about forty Latter-day Saint families. These members, Nivoclé Indians, have nicknamed their village La Abundancia (“Bountiful”). Most speak only the Nivoclé language; some also speak a little Spanish. They have moved here from Mistolar, a larger, more remote settlement of LDS Nivoclé Indians. (See Elder Ted E. Brewerton, “Mistolar: Spiritual Oasis,” Tambuli, September 1990, page 10.) Missionary couples have helped the group in La Abundancia dig a water hole at each end of the village. The missionary couples are also teaching them to raise goats and to plant and harvest crops—enough to subsist on, and some extra to sell.
The branch meets in a one-room wooden chapel, lit by kerosene lanterns. Almost every evening, there’s something going on there, usually a seminary class that turns into choir practice later on in the evening. Both youths and adults participate in the choir, singing the hymns in beautiful four-part harmony without a piano.
Outside the meetinghouse is a homemade baptismal font. There’s an area where the boys play fútbol. There’s also a garden, a few trees, and a small cemetery.
Buried in that cemetery is Ireneo Arenas, the baby son of Jorge Arenas and his wife Rosa. In August 1989, Jorge and Rosa left Mistolar with their three young children and accompanied two other families on the journey of over 2100 kilometers by bus to the Buenos Aires Temple. “When we left Mistolar, the baby was sick with a cold,” says Jorge. “By the time we arrived in Buenos Aires, he was much worse. It was very cold. We went to the temple and were sealed as a family. The baby was still sick.”
When they returned to Paraguay, they decided to stay in La Abundancia, rather than traveling several more hours to Mistolar. The baby continued to get worse. “There was nothing we could do for him,” says Jorge. Five days later, the baby died.
“As I held my son, I was thinking how grateful I was that we had just been sealed in the temple. I know that he is with our Heavenly Father and that we will be with him again someday. Now we are trying to keep all the commandments of our Heavenly Father, because we are thinking of our baby.”
Jorge and Rosa have settled in La Abundancia. Formerly a branch president, Jorge is now in the elders quorum presidency and is assistant choir director and seminary teacher. They have three daughters: Dominga, 9; Basílica, 7; and Marivel, 2.
“When the missionaries first taught me the gospel,” he says, “I felt something that I thought was the Holy Spirit. I have felt that spirit often, especially when I am reading the Book of Mormon. Jesus Christ came to our ancestors here in the Americas. For a time, they obeyed the commandments. But later, they rejected them. I want to serve wherever I am called in the Church, because I know that as we serve in the Church, the Lord will bless us. I know that Jesus Christ died for us. He was resurrected for us. And he forgives us of our sins. I know that he lives.”

It was 1962, and I was 19. I had been called to serve a mission in Mexico when I learned I had cancer.
Cancer? Me? I thought only people in big cities got cancer. After biopsies and close examinations by competent specialists, I learned the problem I was having with the swelling in my right forearm was an osteogenic sarcoma. Translated, it meant I had a type of bone cancer which, in those days, was nearly always fatal, even with the amputation of the affected limb.
Fatal! At age 19, having something fatal had never crossed my mind. I was excited to serve my mission, marry in the temple, have a great family, and enjoy a wonderful life. Still, I loved the Lord and I knew He loved me. Whether allowed to remain here or leave this life, it would be okay.
The immediate outcome was the loss of my right arm. The extended outcome has proven to be a lifetime of adventure. As I look back, I can honestly say the loss of my arm, rather than being a tragic experience, has been one of my greatest blessings. I have learned and gained so much from it.
The adjustment was interesting. I had been working in logging and road-building operations in the Pacific Northwest woods, so my body was strong. But I was extremely right-handed and that greatly-depended-upon arm was truly missed. Although I could formerly throw a baseball farther than anyone on the team, with my left arm I could throw a ball only a few yards. Writing was really interesting. My penmanship could have been improved by almost any preschool child. Everything was a challenge: tying shoes, buttoning shirts, carrying large objects, driving, shaving, drawing, eating, being stared at, enduring phantom pain, and so on.
Very quickly I came to realize I had much to get used to, to learn, and to relearn. I also realized there was very little I could do about the fact I had only one arm, and my attitude about that fact—and in life in general—was totally up to me. I was at a crossroads. It was apparent I could cry if I wanted to, or I could handle this and all other challenges with faith and a positive attitude. My happiness and eternal well-being were dependent upon my choice. The decision was simple. I chose to be positive, creative, very active, and to do everything possible to fulfill my destiny as a son of God, sent to grow from an earthly experience. Once made, this choice was firm and I never looked back.

My name is Alan Matthews.* I’m nine years old and have listened to many lessons in church and family home evening. None ever taught me so much about Heavenly Father’s love for me as the lesson I learned through our ducks.
I’m an animal lover. I have a huge collection of small plastic animals from all over the world, and I’ve read nearly every book on animals that our school library has to offer. The fact that I love animals so much is what makes what happened to me so amazing.
My parents, my brothers, and I live in the state of Washington. We have a huge yard with trees, a pond my dad made, and our own little hill. Last spring, my parents surprised us by coming home with two baby ducklings, Samson and Delilah. We raised them in the house until their adult feathers grew in and it warmed up a bit outside. They were cute and cuddly, and we loved to sit and hold them. But once they were old enough to set loose in the backyard, it was pretty hard to catch them when we wanted to hold one.
One day I found myself sitting by the edge of the pond, watching them dive for bugs and bathe themselves. The longer I watched, the more bored I became and the more I wanted to catch one of them to hold. I circled the pond several times, trying to get them to come out of the water. But they knew exactly what I intended and swam away from me. Finally, tired of going in circles, I sat down to try to come up with another idea.
That’s when I came up with what I thought was a foolproof plan. I began to toss small stones into the water beyond the ducks. The splash startled them and made them instinctively swim closer to me. With each stone, I became more confident that I’d soon have a duck to hold. Then the unexpected happened: I looked down to pick up a stone, and there were none left.
Fearful that the ducks would retreat to the other side of the pond, I quickly searched behind me for another rock. I spied one a little way off. Without taking my eyes off the ducks, I grabbed the rock. My fingertips barely had time to feel its smooth edges before I hurled it into the water.
In my hurry, my aim was a little off. Everything would have been fine except that Samson, spooked by my sudden movement, jerked around and headed right into the stone’s path. With a small thud, the rock hit him squarely in the head. For a moment, I sat frozen, shocked at what I’d done and afraid that he’d been badly hurt.
Delilah started beating the water with her wings and screeching at me. Samson jumped out of the water and ran straight across the yard to a little hut we’d built for them. I was relieved that he seemed to be OK, but my heart was beating so hard that I went to lie on my bed for a while.
Two days later the scene came back to haunt me. Mom was out feeding the birds and found Samson nearly drowned at the edge of the pond. Scooping him up and hollering for one of us to get Dad, she rushed Samson into the house. Delilah, who normally set up quite a wail when separated from her mate, followed and stood patiently on the back porch next to the door.
Samson was very cold and could not stand or control his wings very well. Dad wrapped him in towels and put him in a tub under a heat lamp. He showed no sign of improvement after an hour, so Dad brought in Delilah. She nestled right up to Samson.
The next few days, I spent a lot of time by the side of the tub, cleaning up after the ducks and feeding them. I found little comfort in helping them. Everyone tried to guess what had caused Samson’s illness. I felt terrible, knowing what was wrong and that it was my fault.
A week passed. We had seen little change in Samson. It was a warm spring day, and we were all outside enjoying the sunshine. I walked around aimlessly, hitting the ground with a stick that I’d picked up somewhere. I didn’t hear my mother walk up behind me. I jumped as she gently placed her hand on my shoulder.
“Alan, your father felt that I should ask you about Samson.” When I didn’t respond, she continued. “Sometimes we do something we’re not proud of, and it can make us very unhappy inside. It can make us so unhappy that it is like carrying a huge boulder around with us everywhere we go.”
I turned to face her. Tears began to well up in my eyes. I wanted to cry out, “Yes, that’s just how I feel!” but I remained silent.
“When that happens, we need to confide in our Heavenly Father and ask for His forgiveness and for the burden to be removed,” she said.
Finally I mustered up the courage to speak. I asked, “Is that all I have to do?”
“No,” Mother said. “We need to confess our sins, do whatever we can to make the wrong right, and promise that we will never do it again.”
I thought about what she had said. I knew that she was right, and I knew what I had to do. I looked up at her, unable to hold back the tears any longer. “Mom, I hit Samson in the head with a rock. I didn’t mean to hurt him, and I don’t want him to die.”
She pulled me close to her and hugged me tightly. “That surely has been a heavy burden to carry around all this time.”
I nodded. Then, pulling out of her comforting arms, I said, “I need to go to my room for a few minutes.”
She nodded in understanding, and I ran inside.
As I knelt beside my bed, I told Heavenly Father that I’d done something very wrong and that I was very sorry. I explained that despite our efforts, Samson was not getting any better, and I asked Him if He would help make things right. I asked for His forgiveness and promised that I would try to never again do something so careless. Closing in the name of Jesus Christ, I arose, amazed at how much better I felt inside already.
For the first time all week, I joined in the dinner conversation and played with my brothers. I now understood what my mother was saying about the weight, because I felt as light as a feather.
When I awoke the next morning, I hurried to check on the ducks and to get their food and water. As I went around the corner, the first sight that met my eyes was Samson, standing up and preening his feathers! He looked his old self again, and he started quacking for his breakfast. He had been healed! Excitedly I ran to tell my parents the good news. I had been forgiven, and I knew that Heavenly Father had helped make Samson better.
That evening I sat on my bed, writing in my journal:
“I know that I am a child of God, that He hears and answers my prayers, and that even a nine-year-old is important enough for a miracle.”

Tim counted his money carefully. Seventy-five cents. He’d been saving for two weeks.
The neighbors were having a garage sale, and Tim was determined to find something for his little sister, Lisa, and his parents. Seventy-five cents isn’t much, but, he reasoned, prices at a garage sale are bound to be cheaper than those at a store.
Tim took his time at the garage sale, looking through the toys and stuffed animals. Nothing looked right for Lisa until he saw a tiny doll wrapped in a pink blanket. Fifty cents. He could buy it and still have a quarter to buy something for his parents. But what could he find for a quarter?
A blue book with a 25¢ tag caught his eye. It had a funny name in the title—The Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ. He flipped through the book, stopping to read parts here and there.
He turned back to the beginning and found that someone had written in it. Another scribbled-up book, he thought, disappointed. He had enough of those at home. He started to put the book down, then noticed that it wasn’t scribbling inside the book—it was a letter:
“Dear Friend,
“My name is Josh McHenry. I know this book is true. It tells about Jesus Christ. If you read it, you will learn more about Him.”
The letter was signed and had Josh’s address.
Tim read the letter again. He didn’t think his mom and dad were going to be excited about a used book, but he felt compelled to buy it.
He paid for the doll and the book and walked home, clutching the book to his chest. He spent the rest of the day reading it. He even turned down a chance to play football with his friends. By bedtime, he’d read over fifty pages.
Some of the words were hard, but he kept at it. He understood more than he’d thought he would. There was a lot of action, too, and he liked that. Even more, he liked the feeling he had when he read it.
The next morning he gave the book to his mother. She opened it and turned the pages slowly.
“There’s a letter inside,” Tim told her. He watched as she read it.
“Where did you get this?” she asked, an odd expression on her face.
“At the neighbors’ garage sale.”
She read the letter again. “I think you’ve found something really special.”
That evening, Tim wrote a letter to Josh, explaining how he’d found the Book of Mormon. Carefully he copied Josh’s address on an envelope and sealed it.
Each day Tim checked the mail, hoping there’d be a letter from Josh. Five days later, one came. Tim tore open the envelope and read the letter. Josh had included his phone number, and Tim called him. He sounded like a lot of fun, so when he invited Tim over to his house on Saturday, Tim was happy when his mother said she’d drive him to Josh’s house.
The boys played together all afternoon. Then Josh’s mother brought them peanut butter cookies to snack on. As they ate, Tim asked Josh why he’d written the letter in the book.
“Mom helped me write it a long time ago. I wanted to share my testimony with someone else, and my church leaders said this was one way I could do it.”
“What’s a testimony?”
“It’s what I believe,” Josh replied.
Tim listened closely as Josh told him about his church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Some of the things sounded strange, but Tim asked questions until he realized that it was time for him to go home.
“I’m being baptized next Saturday,” Josh said. He’d already explained that children were baptized when they turned eight years old. “I’d really like it if you could come.”
Tim promised to ask his parents.
The following Saturday, Tim dressed in his best clothes, then waited for his parents and sister. They drove to the address Josh had given him. The church building was simple but attractive and was surrounded by beautiful flowers and shrubs.
They found Josh and his parents in the foyer. Josh and his father were wearing all white clothes. The McHenrys led them into a chapel, where soft music was being played. A man welcomed everyone there. After the people there sang a hymn from the hymnbook, a woman offered a prayer. Tim was surprised as he heard people address each other as “Brother” and “Sister.”
Following two talks and a song, everyone went to a smaller room, which held the baptismal font. Tim watched as Josh’s father immersed Josh (lowered him completely under the water). After Josh and his father changed their clothes, Josh sat on a chair, and his father and three other men put their hands on Josh’s head and gave him a blessing.
A peaceful feeling settled over Tim as he listened to what Josh’s father said. Soon, Tim promised himself, I’m going to be baptized and become a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints too.

It wasn’t until after my first business venture broke down and my second one burned to the ground that I wondered if I would be able to take my fiancée, Beny, to the temple. We had heard that getting there would be a trial of faith, but when we made temple marriage our goal, we had no idea how thoroughly our faith would be tested.
Beny and I met in our native Panama after serving missions. At the time, couples in Panama who wanted to start their married lives in the temple were married civilly just before traveling to the nearest temple, the Guatemala City Guatemala Temple. It would be an expensive and difficult trip, but being sealed was a blessing we did not want to live without.
The day after I proposed, I lost my job. Undaunted, I decided to earn money by giving bus tours. My bus broke down the first night. Concerned but determined, I next decided to sell T-shirts. The morning I went to pick up the shirts from the manufacturer, I found that the building had burned to the ground the night before. It seemed that my hopes had gone up in smoke too.
It was only a few months before the next scheduled temple trip, yet to this point, every effort I had made to raise money had ended in abrupt failure. I left the smoldering rubble and went to find Beny.
“I have nothing,” I told her. “Maybe you shouldn’t marry me.”
“If I were marrying for money, I’d be married already,” she said. “But I’m not marrying for money. I’m marrying you because I love you.”
That was a turning point. We felt that we had passed an important test. As we pushed ahead with faith, doors began opening. I found work making furniture, though the pay wasn’t enough to meet our needs. Then a kind bishop offered to help us with our bus fare. As exciting as his offer was, it didn’t feel right. We were intent on being self-sufficient. But seeing that he truly desired to help, we asked him if he could give Beny a job instead. He did.
After earning enough money to travel to the temple, we married civilly and were at last on our way to Guatemala with 10 other Church members. But our test wasn’t over yet.
Widespread transportation strikes stopped us at the border of Costa Rica. After waiting at the border for two days, our driver decided to turn back. But Beny and I, along with two brothers and one other couple, decided not to give up. After watching our bus turn around and leave us, we walked into Costa Rica. We kept walking, sleeping in roadside shelters, until we reached the Nicaraguan border. From there we managed to take a taxi to the capital city, where we purchased a bus ticket to the Honduran border. Two days—and two more buses—later we finally arrived at the temple. We were happy, but we were dirty and tired, and we had spent far more than we had planned.
After cleaning up, Beny and I realized that we were missing our living-ordinance recommends! What made matters worse, our bishop in Panama was scheduled to leave that same day on a business trip. We were brokenhearted. Had we passed through all of our trials for nothing? We ironed Beny’s wedding dress and trusted that if the Lord had helped us get that far, He would see us through to the end.
Though we expected our bishop to be gone, we decided to call him anyway. To our surprise, he had not taken his business trip after all. He said he felt that he should stay home instead. We were thrilled! He promised to fax the needed paperwork as soon as he could get to a fax machine.
We waited and waited, all the while praying in the temple’s marriage waiting room. It was Saturday, and in two hours the temple would close until Monday. What could be taking so long? At last the fax arrived, with an apology from the bishop: the power had gone out just as he was preparing to send the fax.
Finally, after all our trials and delays, we were sealed eternally as husband and wife. Our joy—worth the working, the waiting, and the worrying—was full!
Not everyone getting married in the temple will face such challenges, but for Beny and me (and the others who went to the temple with us), these experiences were a refining process. Three of the four brethren who made it to the temple on that trip were later called as bishops. Two are currently serving as counselors in stake presidencies. We’ve all been so blessed. It was one of the greatest experiences of my life.
If our goal to marry in the temple had been only for worldly love, we wouldn’t have made it. But because we believed in the sealing power of the priesthood restored in our day, we didn’t give up, knowing that our temple marriage—for time and all eternity—was worth whatever sacrifice we had to make.

When I was a child, I lived in Zwickau, Germany. My grandmother had a friend with white, flowing hair. Her name was Sister Ewig, and she invited my grandmother to church. When our family went there, we saw many children. All of us were very impressed by the families, the children, and the music, especially the singing. I felt at home right away. My whole family—except me, because I was only six years old—were baptized members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. When I was eight, I was baptized in a public swimming pool by my father.

I should like to discuss for a moment the enormous influence which missionary work has had on my own life. My parents, who grew up in Mexico, had not served missions prior to their marriage. But when a call came to the seventies quorum to which my father belonged for a volunteer to serve a short-term mission, he went, even though it meant leaving a farm and a large family of small children for his wife to care for. She welcomed that opportunity to sacrifice for Church and family, and I well remember how heroically she bore her burdens during those difficult winter months.

Later, during the long, cruel years of the Great Depression, even though my parents suffered severe financial hardship, they always kept one of their children in the mission field.

My father passed away at a relatively young age, and after he was gone and we children had married, my mother asked for, and was given, permission to serve a mission in Mexico.

If there is honor attached to my call to the First Quorum of the Seventy, and indeed there is, it goes not to me, but to those whose examples of sacrifice and dedication have influenced my life so greatly. I pay tribute to them for their tireless and unceasing devotion to the Church and to their family. They have wielded an immense influence upon their ten children and their other numerous posterity.

John’s shoes needed repairing. He had worn them out running up and down on Steensbakken (Steens Hill), where he lived with his mother, Anna Widtsoe, and his two-year-old brother, Osborne. After the death of their father when Osborne was only two months old, the family had moved from Froya, the outermost island off the coast of Norway, to the mainland. They lived in a small apartment in Trondheim, the town known as the Cathedral City. The two little boys and their mother often looked out over the beautiful old capital city to the harbor and the fjord that zigzagged out toward the ocean.
When John showed Mother how his shoes had worn, she asked a neighbor to recommend someone who could repair them. He knew just the right person, he said, and soon a boy came to their door. He was a shoemaker’s son who picked up and delivered shoes for his father. A few days later the boy brought back John’s shoes neatly mended. A strange little pamphlet was tucked into the toe of each shoe.
John’s father had been a schoolmaster. Before he died he had taught his young son to read, but there were so many unfamiliar words in the pamphlet that the boy could not understand what was written.
The next day his mother wrapped another pair of shoes that needed repairing into a parcel, tucked them under her arm, and set out on the half-hour walk to the shoemaker’s shop. She seemed more quiet than usual when she returned, and during the next few days she was thoughtful and restless.
When the shoemaker’s son delivered the second pair of shoes, new pamphlets were tucked into the toe of each one. John knew that his mother spent many hours carefully studying them. The next Sunday she arranged for someone to be with the boys while she went to a meeting at the shoemaker’s sturdy log house.
It was not until some years later that she told John what the shoemaker had said when she went to his shop that first time to ask him why he had put a pamphlet into each of John’s shoes.
“You may be surprised,” he had answered, “to hear me say that I can give you something of far more value than soles for your child’s shoes.”
The pamphlets were Mormon missionary tracts. Because of them John, his mother, and his brother became members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. None of their relatives or friends approved; all became unfriendly toward Anna and the boys.

When I was a teenager, I set the goal of getting a degree in sports. I prayed a lot, asking the Lord to make it so practices would be on Saturdays. However, my team’s practices were scheduled on Sundays. I had to make a choice: give up on my goal or skip church. Since both were important to me, I compromised. I would go to practices for two Sundays and then go to church on the third Sunday. Unfortunately, this little deviation from my faith led to sin, causing much suffering.
It did not take me long to realize my mistake. I asked to be on a different team. However, it was too late; the wrong had been done. I had half opened the door, and Satan had pushed it wide open. Eventually I gave up competitive sports.
I learned two valuable things. The first is that when we seek to compromise with the Lord, we are in great danger. The second is that I had made the mistake of believing my faith was strong enough that I could do without Sunday meetings. Our spirit needs nourishment just as our body does. If we were to eat only one meal and then skip the next two meals, we could not remain in good health.
I love Sundays now. The Lord has blessed me in my studies and my health above measure.

Although I was disappointed by Brother Kelly’s answer, he spoke the truth. Had I spent high school dating only one person, I would have missed out on meeting people who helped prepare me to recognize my husband when I met him years later. No wonder I couldn’t know the answer to my secret question. Some of my classmates married old friends, but I didn’t. At age 16, I was nine years away from meeting my future spouse!
In the years following high school, I dated a few men seriously until the Holy Ghost confirmed that “the appropriate time” and person had come into my life. I’m grateful I waited for the best time to pursue exclusive relationships and received all I’d hoped for: a sense of belonging in a marriage that could last for eternity, and a confirmation that Heavenly Father was happy with my decision.

Perhaps this is more easily illustrated than defined. Our pioneer forefathers are good examples. They sang, “Gird up your loins; fresh courage take” (“Come, Come, Ye Saints,” Hymns, 1985, no. 30). They feared no toil and no labor. Among them were Johan Andreas Jensen and his wife, Petra, who left their native Norway in 1863. Their family included six-week-old tiny twin daughters. As handcarts were pulled in their rugged journey, one of those little girls died along the way. The child who survived grew up to become my Grandmother Nelson!

Tragically, some believe their sins are so serious they can never be forgiven. President Spencer W. Kimball told of a woman who confessed a serious sin but said, “I know that I … can never be forgiven.”

President Kimball replied, “You can be forgiven.” Together they read scriptures detailing the Savior’s willingness to forgive, including Matthew 12:31–32 [Matt. 12:31–32], where the Lord says he will forgive every sin except “blasphemy against the Holy Ghost.”

With renewed hope, she looked at President Kimball: “I believe you. I shall … obtain that forgiveness.” She returned sometime later “a new person—bright of eye, light of step, full of hope.” She had repented and felt the Lord’s healing forgiveness (The Miracle of Forgiveness [1969], 340–42).

Desiree tried to be glad as she remembered Mom waking her up in the middle of the night and carrying her outside while Dad had called the fire department. They had quickly crossed the street to safety.
Later, Desiree learned how they had been awakened when the fire started—Dad had heard someone calling him. He woke up to see the house filling with smoke. Because they woke up and quickly got help, their home hadn’t burned down, but there was still a lot of smoke damage and a big mess to clean up.

The Dauphins’ mother, who is single, isn’t a member of the Church, and she often has to be at work on Monday evenings. So Marco and Rosenelle hold family night, complete with a game, songs, prayers, and a lesson. Sometimes the full-time missionaries are invited. It’s a challenge to coordinate their efforts, but all the Dauphins say it’s worth it.
“Joining the Church was a real relief for us,” says Marco. “When we have the Spirit in our home, we feel closer together. We just feel better.”

I learned from a mission president recently that one of his young sister missionaries, nearing the end of her very faithful and successful mission, said through her tears that she must return home immediately. When he inquired as to the problem, she told him money had become so difficult for her family that to continue her support, the family had rented their home and were using the rental proceeds to pay her mission expenses. For living accommodations, they had moved into a storage locker. For water, they used a neighbor’s outdoor tap and hose; and for a bathroom they went to a nearby gasoline station. This family, in which the father had recently passed away, was so proud of their missionary and so independent in spirit that they had managed to keep this recent turn of events from most of their friends and virtually all of their Church leaders.

When this situation was discovered, the family was restored to their home immediately. Long-term solutions to their economic circumstances were put in place, and the complete amount of remaining missionary support for their missionary daughter was secured overnight. With her tears dried and fears allayed, this faithful, hardworking young sister finished her mission triumphantly and was recently married in the temple to a wonderful young man.

My wife and I requested the addresses of Namie and Joan and wrote to them on their missions. We had never met them and didn’t know them at all but felt such an instant bond that is difficult to describe in words. It was almost as though they were our own daughters! Through our letters, we rekindled a love for the Bautista family and especially for Namie and Joan—who were full of the Spirit, working hard as full-time missionaries. In a letter, Namie asked if she could telephone us on Christmas Day, as her parents didn’t have a telephone at the time. With the approval of her mission president, she called on Christmas Day in 1997, and we both just cried for several minutes. I then reminded her that an international long-distance collect call was too expensive to waste just crying to each other. We laughed and had a wonderful conversation, even with her limited English skills. She invited us to come to the Philippines the following summer for her homecoming talk.

In the summer of 1998, as Namie returned home from her mission, I made plans with my 16-year-old daughter to go to the Philippines. We arrived in Manila and met with Ruth. We attended the Manila Philippines Temple together. Then we flew south to her family’s home in Tiwi. It’s impossible to describe the joy of seeing Romeo and his family again. The deep bond of brotherhood was instantly renewed. We talked and hugged and reminisced; we ate together and read scriptures with his family each night we were there. They were such strong rocks of testimony in their small branch. We attended sacrament meeting in the Tiwi Branch and listened to Namie report on her mission. It was amazing. It was nearly celestial. Truly this was missionary heaven.
At that time, Romeo was serving as the branch president of the Tiwi Branch. He had been instrumental in bringing the gospel to his extended family in northern Luzon. Romeo took his family to the temple, where Naty and their children were sealed. Now all five of the children have been married and sealed in the Manila Temple. Several married returned missionaries. Joan was instrumental in converting her boyfriend. She waited with him for a year after his baptism and then married him in the Manila Temple. Naty died suddenly in 2007, but the family remained strongly rooted in the gospel. They are thankful for the sealing covenant and know they will see their beautiful wife and mother again if they are faithful.
Now there are more than 70 members of the Bautista family who are active in the Church. The family and extended family have accounted for 17 full-time missions and 14 temple marriages. Family members have also served as bishops and branch presidents; stake and district presidents; and Relief Society, Young Women, and Primary presidents and counselors! Romeo’s son, John, was a bishop in the Quezon City area. Ruth’s husband was a high councilor in that same stake. Lyn’s husband was also a branch president in Tiwi. The Bautista family surely is building a strong legacy of service and strength in the Philippines.
My wife and I served a senior mission in the Philippines San Pablo Mission from 2008 to 2010. One day at the temple in Manila, most of the Bautista family gathered for the marriage of John Bautista (Romeo’s son) to Sister Victorino, one of the sister missionaries from our San Pablo Mission who had completed her mission and recently returned home.
Our mission president asked if we would like to attend that joyous event, and we immediately made plans to be there. My wife knew of my relationship with the Bautista family but was completely blown away by how many family members there were and how much they loved her. She had 70 new friends for life.
I often think of Doctrine and Covenants 18:15: “And if it so be that you should labor all your days in crying repentance unto this people, and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great shall be your joy with him in the kingdom of my Father!” Like a ripple in a pond, the influence of one soul, Romeo, has sent out waves of strong testimonies and Church service in the Philippines.
I was fortunate to help toss the pebble into the pond four decades ago with the baptisms of Romeo and Avelia. I have experienced unspeakable joy in my relationship with this great family, now into their third generation of gospel living. This is truly the ongoing legacy and joy of missionary work. This is a little bit of missionary heaven!

We often find it difficult to accept things that we cannot change. I know a man who does not believe in God. He continually stresses that he is only happy, at least as most people understand happiness, when he himself has control of every situation and has a firm grip on the reins of his life. Several years ago he had an accident. At that time, he almost despaired at the fact that others held the reins and had the power to decide what would happen to him. He kept asking himself the question, “How could I have had so little control over my life that such an accident could happen to me?” When he started to feel better, he attributed his recovery to himself alone, not to the doctors, and definitely not to the prayers of his faithful wife. He simply could not accept the reality of his accident.

In 1895 my great-grandfather, Abinadi Olsen, was called on a mission to the Samoan Islands. Obedient to the call of the prophet, he left his wife and four small children, including my maternal grandmother, Chasty Magdalene, in the town of Castle Dale, Utah. He traveled by train and ship to the mission headquarters in Apia, Samoa, a journey of 26 days. His first assignment was to labor on the island of Tutuila.

After many weeks of living in what he called a grass hut, eating strange food, suffering severe illnesses, and struggling to learn the Samoan language, he seemed to be making no progress in his missionary work. Homesick and discouraged, he seriously considered getting on board a boat back to Apia and telling the mission president he didn’t want to waste any more time in Samoa. The obstacles to the accomplishment of his mission seemed insurmountable, and he wished to return to his wife and children, who were struggling to support him in the mission field.

A friend who heard Abinadi Olsen describe the experience some years after his return, quoted him as follows:
“Then one night, as I lay on my mat on the floor of my hut, a strange man entered and in my own language told me to get up and follow him. His manner was such that I had to obey. He led me out through the village and directly up against the face of a perpendicular solid rock cliff. ‘That’s strange,’ thought I. ‘I’ve never seen that here before,’ and just then the stranger said, ‘I want you to climb that cliff.’
“I took another look and then in bewilderment said, ‘I can’t. It’s impossible!’
“‘How do you know you can’t? You haven’t tried,’ said my guide.
“‘But anyone can see’—I started to say in objecting. But he cut in with, ‘Begin climbing. Reach up with your hand—now with your foot.’
“As I reached, under orders that I dared not disobey, a niche seemed to open in the solid rock cliff and I caught hold. Then with my one foot I caught a toe hold.
“‘Now go ahead,’ he ordered. ‘Reach with your other hand,’ and as I did so another place opened up, and to my surprise the cliff began to recede; climbing became easier, and I continued the climb without difficulty until, suddenly, I found myself lying on my pallet back in my hut. The stranger was gone!
“‘Why has this experience come to me?’ I asked myself. The answer came quickly. I had been up against an imaginary cliff for those three months. I had not reached out my hand to begin the climb. I hadn’t really made the effort I should have made to learn the language and overcome my other problems” (Fenton L. Williams, “On Doing the Impossible,” Improvement Era, August 1957, p. 554).

It is hardly necessary to add that Abinadi Olsen did not leave the mission. He labored for three and a half years, until released by appropriate authority. He was an exceptionally effective missionary, and he was a faithful member of the Church for the rest of his life.

A passage from the novel Les misérables illustrates how priesthood holders can treat those individuals viewed as strangers. Jean Valjean had just been released as a prisoner. Exhausted by a long voyage and dying of hunger and thirst, he arrives in a small town seeking a place to find food and shelter for the night. When the news of his arrival spreads, one by one all the inhabitants close their doors to him. Not the hotel, not the inn, not even the prison would invite him in. He is rejected, driven away, banished. Finally, with no strength left, he collapses at the front door of the town’s bishop.
The good clergyman is entirely aware of Valjean’s background, but he invites the vagabond into his home with these compassionate words:
“‘This is not my house; it is the house of Jesus Christ. This door does not demand of him who enters whether he has a name, but whether he has a grief. You suffer, you are hungry and thirsty; you are welcome. … What need have I to know your name? Besides, before you told me [your name], you had one which I knew.’
“[Valjean] opened his eyes in astonishment.
“‘Really? You knew what I was called?’
“‘Yes,’ replied the Bishop, ‘you are called my brother.’”