Gospel Story Finder

Last year I did something I’ve wanted to do for years—I gave my parents a book filled with letters from their friends and family. These letters recalled cherished experiences and expressed love and respect for my parents. As a result, my parents were reminded that there are many people who need them, love them, and look to them for inspiration and as an example.
I wasn’t surprised at the number of people who thought of someone they wanted to honor in this way. But I was surprised that everyone seemed convinced it was too difficult for them to do.
Nothing could be further from the truth. Compiling this book was one of the most exciting and enjoyable things I have ever done. I discovered things about my parents that I had never known before. Some of the letters made me laugh, like the one from an old friend who told me about a live chicken that laid an egg on center stage during my Dad’s big scene in the school play. Other letters told of experiences that filled me with overwhelming love and respect, such as the letter I received from a couple who gave my parents credit for inspiring them to marry in the temple.
Based on my experience, here are some suggestions for creating a book of joy, love, and memories:
1. Compile a list of the names and addresses of all the friends and family members that you can think of. Don’t worry if it isn’t complete at first—you can add to it as you go along.
2. Send a letter such as the one that follows:
Dear___________,
I would like to honor my parents, (insert their names here), this year (at Christmas, on their wedding anniversary, on their birthdays, etc.) with a book filled with highlights from their past. I want include letters, stories, memories, and photographs that will remind them of the joy they are to us and others.
Would you please help me with this project by writing down some of your memories of your relationship with Mom and Dad? If you prefer to tape-record your thoughts, I will transcribe them; or you may call and give me the information over the phone, and I will type it. Whatever you send will be treasured.
You can help me further by sending me the names and addresses of other friends of my parents so that I can ask them to participate in the project as well.
I appreciate you help. I am sure you can understand how much this will mean to my parents.
Sincerely, ____________.
Type the letter and mail copies of it to the people on your list.
3. As the letters come in, check the names off your list. Add any new names and addresses you receive, then mail letters to those people.
4. Compile the incoming letters in a book. A photo album, three-ring binder, or padded notebook all work well. The letters can be arranged in alphabetical order with a table of contents at the beginning so they can be easily located. Or they can be divided into sections representing different times in your parents’ lives.
Before you give the book to your parents, you may want to make copies of it to share with your brothers and sisters.

Melissa whistled happily as she made her bed. Today was the day. Last night she had felt a little nervous about her decision until she said her prayers. After that, she knew that she was doing the right thing, even if she was only nine years old.
She thought of Misha, and the whistle died on her lips. Melissa had been in church when she first heard of the terrible accident. Brother and Sister Barton were in one hospital with broken bones and surgeries. Tanna and Brian were in another in traction. Misha was all by herself with a head injury in still another—and in a deep coma. Melissa didn’t understand everything about it, but she did know that it meant Misha might never wake up.
Melissa was smoothing out the bedspread when her mom called. “You’d better hurry. You don’t want to be late for school.”
Melissa smiled again. This was one morning she wouldn’t have to hurry.
“What’s taking you so long this morning?” Mom asked as Melissa came out of her room. “You should have finished breakfast by now. It’s almost time for scriptures.”
Melissa smelled the yummy aroma of orange biscuits fresh from the oven. “Oh, Mom!” she cried. “I didn’t know we were having biscuits today.”
“I know they’re your favorite,” Mom said. “I decided to surprise you.”
Melissa looked into the kitchen at the yummy biscuits and sighed. Then she walked into the living room and picked up her scriptures from the end table by the flowered couch.
“What’s going on, Melissa?” Mom asked. “You know you have to eat before we read.”
I have to tell her now, Melissa thought. I wish I could do it in secret like the scriptures teach, but I’ll have to explain to Mom. No one else, though.
“Mom,” she said, “I’m not going to eat today.”
“You certainly are!” Mom exclaimed. “You need a nutritious breakfast to do well in school.”
“I’m not just going without food,” Melissa said. “I’m fasting today for Misha. We’ve learned in family home evening and at church that we should do everything we can to help one another. Well, I’ve been praying for Misha, and I thought that that was all I could do. But then I remembered that I could fast for her, too, so I decided that today I would. Mom, I just have to do this! I know I’ll get hungry, but I know that Heavenly Father will help me. Please.”
Tears welled up in Mom’s eyes. “Oh, Melissa,” she whispered, “I’m sure that Heavenly Father will bless you and Misha both.”
By eleven thirty, Melissa began to feel really hungry. Morning recess had helped take her mind off food, but back in class, the hunger pains started to bother her again. Soon it was time for the class to line up for the cafeteria.
“Melissa, where is your lunch?” Jennifer asked. “I thought you hated the cafeteria food.”
Melissa looked at the floor. “I’m not eating today.”
“Not eating!” Jason squeaked. “Are you nuts?”
Ignoring him, Melissa hurried forward with the rest of the class. When they arrived at the cafeteria, she quickly washed her hands and moved toward their class table.
“Miss Black, are you on a diet?” the school principal teased. “Your lunch looks a little on the light side.”
“Oh, ah …” Melissa stammered, but the principal’s attention had turned to a commotion in the snack-bar line. Whew! Melissa thought. That was a close one. She walked quickly to her table and sat at the end of the bench.
“May I sit by you?” Tiffany asked.
“Sure.”
“I see you’re not eating today. Do you feel OK?”
“Oh sure, it’s just that … well, I’m just not eating.” It sure would be easier if I could just explain. I hope no one else asks me about this.
“Melissa,” said Megan, “why—”
Melissa stood up. “Excuse me.” She started toward the door.
“Where do you think you’re going, young lady?”
Melissa’s heart jumped. She turned and saw Mr. Winterton.
“Mr. Winterton,” she began. “I need to … to …” She didn’t want to lie, but she needed to be alone for a few minutes. “I need to go someplace quiet,” she finally blurted.
Mr. Winterton’s face crinkled in puzzlement. This was indeed an unusual request—one that he had never heard in three years of cafeteria duty. He studied Melissa a long moment, then surprised himself by saying, “All right, I think we can work that out. Come sit quietly outside this side door. No one should bother you there.”
Grateful, Melissa slipped through the doorway and sat down against the wall. The coolness of the cement blocks felt good against her hot back. She bowed her head and began a silent prayer. Dear Heavenly Father, please help Misha and her family get better. I know that Thou lovest me and that Thou lovest Misha. Please help her to get better and wake up. Please!
As Melissa ended the prayer in Jesus’ name, and sat quietly, a comforting warmth filled her, and she felt peaceful and happy. She knew in her heart that Heavenly Father had heard her prayer, and she was glad that she’d done everything she could to help Misha get better. She no longer felt hungry. She wasn’t worried about what to say to her friends, either. The Spirit was with her, and right now she didn’t need anything else.

Atami, Japan, is an attractive city located on the east coast of Honshu, about 100 kilometers south of Tokyo. It is a famous vacation resort with comfortable hot springs, splendid sunsets, and high cliffs overlooking the sea.
The main attraction of the cliffs of Atami is the beautiful view, but they also attract people for a different reason: from their edge, many have plunged to their death.
On a May evening in 1987, I was driving toward Atami. I couldn’t stop crying, and I didn’t want to see the sunset. As I drove, the memories of the past few years ached inside me.
I had worked hard while I was serving in the Japan Sapporo Mission, on the northernmost island of Japan, with its cold, snowy winters. I felt that the Lord accepted my service, but I did not anticipate what awaited me when I returned home. I didn’t understand why, after all the hard work, there didn’t seem to be any rewards.
Specifically, I felt unfulfilled in my search for an eternal companion. I had found few opportunities to date, while others seemed to be finding eternal happiness easily. Any relationship that I thought might be lasting ended. Though my family was worried about my depressed state, I received strength from my Heavenly Father, which helped me through this difficult time.
Then questions began to arise. Why did I have to suffer so much? Did Heavenly Father still love me? As a returned missionary, I could not deny that the Lord lived or that his Church was true, but I began to question his love for me. Then, one night, thinking that I would never have the opportunity to get married, I lost all hope, and Satan took control. I decided to take my own life rather than face any more heart-breaking experiences. I wrote a farewell note to my parents and began driving to Atami.
Then, two miracles happened. First, as I got closer to the coastline, prepared to drive my car off the cliffs into the ocean, I noticed that a wall had been built to prevent cars from going over the edge. Second, the Lord cleared my mind long enough so that I could stop the car and think about my actions. I realized I could never take my life.
Sobered and much calmer, I drove home to find my bishop at home with my parents. They are not members of the Church, but they knew they could trust Bishop Kashikura. He gave me a blessing, and it seemed the nightmare was finally over.
But a week later, I again had second thoughts about my purpose in life. I didn’t know what to do. On that same day, I received a letter.
The letter was mailed from the United States, which was no unusual because I have friends there. But this letter was different—there was no return name or address. All I knew was that it was mailed from Flushing, New York, the day after I had driven to Atami to try to end my life. However, I did not know anyone from Flushing, New York.
When I opened the letter I found, “To You!” written at the top. Enclosed was a copy of the song “Going Home,” written in both Japanese and English. As I read the words, tears filled my eyes. The words told me that when I found myself alone, my memories could keep me strong. With those memories, I could never forget there is a place where I still belong, a place I can always turn to for comfort: “Home.”
I cried and cried and finally felt assured that Heavenly Father does watch over me. He loves me! Until I had this experience, I thought heaven was very far away, but the song helped me understand that God is very near. When we are faithful, we are already in our heavenly home here on earth.
That was the first and last time I ever heard from Flushing, New York. Perhaps I will never know who sent me those words. The experience reminded me of something President Spencer W. Kimball said, “God does notice us, and he watches over us. But it is usually through another person that he meets our needs” (Ensign, October 1985, page 3). I am eternally grateful for the person who had ears to hear and acted upon the prompting from the still, small voice from heaven.
I will never forget this experience, and, no matter how great the trials I shall have, I will never forget the place where I want to be—home, my heavenly home.

Some are overcome by major problems; others let small matters become big. Symonds Ryder was a Campbellite leader who heard about the Church and had a meeting with Joseph Smith. Moved by this experience, he joined the Church in June 1831. Immediately thereafter, he was ordained an elder and called to serve a mission. However, in his call letter from the First Presidency and on his official commission to preach, his name was misspelled—by one letter. His last name showed as R-i-d-e-r, not the correct R-y-d-e-r. This caused him to question his call and those from whom it came. He chose not to go on the mission and fell away, which soon led to hatred and intense opposition toward Joseph and the Church. In March 1832, when Joseph Smith and Sidney Rigdon were ripped from home during the night by an angry mob and tarred and feathered, a voice was heard to shout, “Simonds, Simonds [sic], where’s the tar bucket?” (History of the Church, 1:262–63). In less than 10 months, Symonds Ryder went from an eager convert to a mob leader, his spiritual decline starting with the offense taken over the misspelling of his name—by one letter. No matter the size of the issue, how we respond can reset the course of our life.

The children were enjoying their last day before school started. The day was filled with bike riding, baseball games, pizza, and trying to have as much fun as they possibly could. Toward the end of the day, a new boy appeared looking for someone to play with. My son John began playing with him. Soon afterward, John was invited to go swimming, but his new friend was not. Rather than leave the new boy alone, John turned down the offer. I’m thankful for John’s good example.

While serving as a mission president I asked a missionary who was having difficulty developing the spirit of his calling to go for a drive. We drove far up into the hills. No one was near. After several hours he finally revealed the problem he had been hiding and his feeling of guilt. He was ashamed of what he had done. I listened. We talked it out. Then we watched a missionary virtually come to life with the spirit of his calling.

Shortly after hearing this story, I was playing with my little brother Samuel (3) on the balcony of our home. Before I knew it, Samuel had closed the door and locked me on the outside. I couldn’t open the door and started shouting for someone to come and open it. But no one heard me. I remembered the story, so I decided to pray that my mama would know where to look for me. At the same time, Mama felt that she should look for me, and she decided to check the balcony first. I was really excited because I had had an answer to my prayer, just like the little boy in the story. I know that Heavenly Father is there and answers my prayers.Emily Erlacher, age 5Lichtenberg, Austria

Suzanne has several food allergies. She has been particularly touched by the sensitivity of the priests in her ward as they prepare the sacrament. “I am so humbled by the young men who have made it safe for me to take the sacrament,” she says.

One Sunday, the sacrament was not passed to her. The priests preparing it had noticed that her bread had been cross contaminated by the other bread on the table.

“They found me after sacrament meeting, explained what happened, and told me they had received special permission from the bishop to administer the sacrament to me in a classroom,” Suzanne says. “I cried as they blessed and passed the sacrament in that small room. I could feel the Savior’s love so strongly and His knowledge of how much I had struggled with this challenge.”

“Showing willingness to make a safe environment at church for people with severe allergies is also showing a willingness to bear one another’s burdens,” says Suzanne.

The youth of the Las Cruces New Mexico Stake hit the city parks en masse, but the purpose was work rather than recreation. Under the direction of their youth leaders, 80 young people accepted the challenge to help the city pick up trash and paint tables and rest rooms in the parks.
One lucky group climbed in the muck of a drained pond to clear moss from the edges. Braving dead fish, broken glass, and boot-grabbing mud, the young men and women slogged through the slime, swinging pitchforks. It was a dirty job, and this group did it without a complaint.
Employees of the city parks department were grateful for the participants’ efforts and praised their good work.

We lived on a hill, but it wasn’t so steep that it couldn’t be used for pick-up games of baseball in the spring and summer. The street was the ribbon that tied together the lives of each boy on our block.
After supper was over, the boys would gather on the same corner, and when enough were there, we’d pick sides. We used a rubber ball that we bought at Mr. Pinelli’s variety store for a quarter. We’d play baseball until it became dark.
One breezy June evening, Ricky Cray, the best hitter on the block, was up to bat. My best friend, Chuck Grable, was next to me in the “outfield,” which was the stretch of road between Mr. LaSalle’s and Mr. Kominski’s.
Ricky sized up a belt-high pitch and plastered the ball a good 20 feet beyond my grasp. I put my head down and furiously chased the ball. Suddenly, I came upon two sets of the shiniest black shoes I’d ever seen. I looked up and there were two young men in suits, smiling. One of them was holding the rubber ball.
“Lose something?” he said cheerfully. He flipped the ball to me and I heaved it toward my friends, just as Ricky crossed home plate.
Chuck came over to me. “Who are those guys? That one made a nice catch.” We didn’t see men in suits in our neighborhood often.
“I don’t know. Maybe they’re selling something. Like books.”
“I think they’re police,” confided Chuck.
“No, they’re too young. And they’d be more secret. Look, they’re stopping at every house on the street.”
The next hitter popped a lazy fly ball toward Chuck who easily snagged it. We went to take our turn at bat. Home plate was near our house, and the two men in suits were just stepping to the door.
Father answered. I heard one of the young men say they were from a church and they had a message about families. Father sized them up.
“Are you selling something?” he asked.
“No, sir,” replied the one who had fielded the ball.
“Are you honest?” Father asked. It would have been an odd question from anyone but my father. That’s the way he was, a man who took himself and others at face value.
“Yes, sir, we try to be,” the same man answered without hesitation.
“Are you boys from around here?”
“No. Elder Cone is from Bountiful, Utah. And I’m from Boston.”
Father smiled. “Then come into my house. I’m Joseph Rosa, and this is my wife, Leslee.” As soon as the one said he was from Boston, I knew my father would invite them in. A little thing like that, being from Massachusetts. Yet it changed our lives forever.
We saw the young men in the suits and white shirts many times over the following weeks. Father and Mother listened to them, prayed with them, studied with them, and fed them pasta until they almost could no longer get into their suits. When the elders came, Father pulled me out of the baseball games. “If what they say is true, then you need to hear it also,” he told me. I could see how important this was to my parents. Father’s eyes blazed as the missionaries taught us. “Yes, that seems right. I’ve always believed that,” he often said.
“We have reached a decision as a family,” Father told the missionaries one night. They both looked nervously at each other. “We would like to be baptized.” The two young men almost leaped into the air. The following night, Father and I went to a department store and bought our church clothes. A week later, the four of us were baptized. Never again did my parents talk about the missing piece. We had found it.

Jenny knew something special was going to happen that Christmas of 1938. She had just been baptized. Her baptism had been so special that she knew Christmas would be special too. But she didn’t know how it would be special.
On Christmas morning Jenny woke up early. She heard Dad and her brother Marcus go out to milk the cows, and she knew she had to stay in bed until they came back. That was the rule on Christmas.
“Mayda,” she whispered to her older sister. “Mayda, are you awake?” Jenny wanted to talk about the special day, but Mayda was still asleep. So was Herbie, who slept in a crib across the room. He was only two years old, but she would have been happy to talk even to him.
Jenny sighed and thought about the day ahead. Maybe the special thing would be something under the Christmas tree.
“A Shirley Temple doll!” she whispered. That’s what she hoped it would be—a Shirley Temple doll with curly yellow ringlets, eyes that opened and shut, and frilly clothes with dainty little shoes! Jenny already had a doll, but it was a rubber baby doll with hair and eyes just painted on. When Jenny put the doll to bed, its eyes stayed wide open, staring up at her. A Shirley Temple doll that was under the Christmas tree would make it a really special Christmas!
Finally Jenny heard Dad and Marcus come back from milking the cows. Mama came into the bedroom to get Herbie. “Everybody up,” she said cheerily. “It’s Christmas.”
The large room that was both kitchen and living room was warm and cozy when Jenny got there. Dad and Marcus were warming their hands over the big black stove.
“It’s a cold one today,” Dad said. “I think it’s going to snow.”
As soon as Mama and Herbie and Mayda came, they all went over to the tree. Jenny and Mayda had decorated it the day before with rings of colored paper and strings of popcorn. Mama had said that maybe next year they could afford a string of lights. But it was pretty, even without lights.
Jenny didn’t let herself look underneath the tree until after they had all held hands and sung “O Little Town of Bethlehem.” She liked that part of Christmas morning.
Finally it was time to look under the Christmas tree. She spotted her gift right away. It was a doll, all right, but not a Shirley Temple doll. It was just another rubber baby doll, although this one did have eyes that opened and shut. Mama had made the doll a set of tiny clothes and a little pillow and quilt. It was a nice doll. But it couldn’t be the special thing.
Mama said she liked the paper-plate comb holder Jenny had made for her in school. Dad was patting his new shaving lotion onto his face. Mayda flipped through the pages of her new autograph book, saying it was just what she wanted. Marcus grinned as he examined his new jackknife, and Herbie galloped around the kitchen on his new stick horse that had a carved head and a rope tail. Maybe the something special will be something that happens, Jenny thought.
The family ate breakfast, finishing up with an orange for each person, which was almost special, but not quite.
Since it was Sunday, Jenny wondered if what she was waiting for would happen at church during the Christmas program.
Dad went out to hitch the horses to the sleigh. They had an old truck, but it always froze up in cold weather. Jenny liked the horses better anyway.
Mama filled the sleigh with quilts, and they all got in. Just as they were starting out, the Sorensens, who lived farther up the road, came along. The sleigh bells on their horses jingled, making it really sound like Christmas. They all waved, except Raymond, who stuck his tongue out at Jenny. That meant he really liked her! It made Jenny happy—but still, that couldn’t be her special thing.
The Christmas program was nice. Aunt Jessie Fugal sang “O Holy Night,” and didn’t miss even the highest notes. Teeny DeMars played a piano solo, and Red Sorensen played a violin solo. Then Bishop Johnson gave a talk about the birth of Jesus. To close the meeting, some of the Junior Sunday School children presented a tableau of the manger scene while everyone sang “Silent Night.”
It was time to go home, and still the special thing hadn’t happened. Jenny felt disappointed.
Snow was falling. Mama put a blanket over Herbie’s head and ran for the sleigh, followed by Mayda, Marcus, and Jenny. Dad helped them crawl in under the quilts. Then he shouted to the horses. “Giddap!”
The snowflakes were as big as popcorn as they wafted down, and were so thick that it was hard to see the Sorensen sleigh only a few yards away.
“Jenny,” Mama said, “this is the way it was snowing on the day you were born.”
The day I was born, Jenny mused. The day I came to live with Dad and Mama and Mayda and Marcus. Of course Herbie hadn’t been born yet.
Jenny looked around at them, at their heads poking out from under the quilts. They all smiled at her.
The day I was born, she thought again. If I had been born to some other family, I probably wouldn’t know any of them!
Suddenly Jenny knew that this was the special something she had waited for all day. It wasn’t a special gift or a special happening. It was a special knowing. It was knowing that she was where she wanted to be, with the people she wanted to be with. It was knowing she was right where she belonged.
Jenny snuggled down under the quilts, knowing. It truly was a special Christmas.

When our twin daughters were small, we decided to take them to the public pool and teach them how to swim. I remember starting with Rebekah. As I went down into the water with her, I was thinking, “I’m going to teach Becky how to swim.” But in her mind was the thought, “My dad is going to drown me. I’m going to die!” The water was only three-and-a-half feet deep, but Becky was only three feet tall. She was so frightened that she began to scream and cry and kick and scratch. She was unteachable.

Finally, I threw my arms around her and held her and said, “Becky, I’ve got you. I’m your dad. I love you. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you. Now relax.” Bless her heart, she trusted me. She relaxed, and then I put my arms under her and said, “Okay, now kick your legs.” And she began to learn how to swim.

A few months later, during Christmas time, Radmila began to hear more about Jesus Christ. There were shows on television about his life, and people talked about him more. She wanted to learn about him, and she remembered the Book of Mormon. She began to read it. “I couldn’t understand a thing,” she recalls. “It wasn’t that the German was too difficult for me, it was just that I didn’t understand words like repentance because I had never heard of them before.”
She decided she would call the missionaries for help. At the same time, two new missionaries were praying for inspiration about which investigators on their list to visit. They both felt that Radmila needed them. When they knocked, she opened the door and said, once again, “Oh, come in—I’ve been waiting for you.”
She still didn’t want to hear the missionary discussions, but she set up a study schedule with them. Each week she would read ten chapters in the Book of Mormon, write down her thoughts, and then discuss them with the missionaries.
“They were so patient with my sometimes provoking and unimportant questions,” she says. “One time I told them not to come in because I hadn’t read that week. They suggested that we read together. We started reading about Ammon, and then they said they had to leave. I couldn’t believe it. For the first time, I was beginning to feel the Spirit and get excited about the book. As soon as they left, I went to my room and finished the story.”

We, too, can choose whether to forgive those who have hurt or offended us, or to remain angry with them. Eight-year-old Nils Evensen from South Jordan, Utah, has learned to follow Nephi’s example of being forgiving. When Nils turned eight, he saved all his birthday money and bought a toy that he really wanted. He was always very careful to put it away after playing with it so that it would not get broken. One day, a friend accidentally sat on the toy and broke it. Nils’ eleven-year-old sister, Linnea, said that instead of getting angry with his friend, Nils told him, “It’s OK—we can glue the pieces back on.” Because Nils chose to be forgiving, he was able to keep a friendship that might have been badly hurt if he had chosen to get angry.

When my mom died unexpectedly at age 61, I felt completely blindsided. She was my source of love, gentleness, support, strength, and laughter. I felt that I had been robbed of my mother and that my three children had been robbed of their grandmother. I even felt anger toward Heavenly Father. How could He do this to us?
For a while, I would wake up in the middle of the night unable to fall back asleep. One morning, I woke up at 3:00 a.m. Hoping to distract myself from life without my mother, I looked on my phone and found a cooking video on my newsfeed. It was comfort food in all its glory: chicken pot pie. I thought how amazing it would be to have a chicken pot pie, but I didn’t feel up to preparing any food for my family other than pouring milk into a bowl of cereal. For now, I would have to do without any comfort food, or so I thought.
Within one day of each other, two friends brought me chicken pot pies. I broke down and cried. I was incredibly touched by their kindness. I knew this wasn’t a coincidence. It reaffirmed to me that God was mindful of me, that He loved me, and that He cared about my seemingly insignificant desire for a chicken pot pie even when I had been angry with Him. I needed this reminder so much.
I’m grateful for those friends who brought me chicken pot pies. They ministered to me in ways they couldn’t have imagined. They helped me feel my Heavenly Father’s love when I needed to feel it the most.

Page 104: President Henry B. Eyring, First Counselor in the First Presidency, told a story about his father searching for church one Sunday while he was visiting Australia. As he searched, he prayed at each street intersection to know which direction he should walk. Soon he heard singing and knew that the Holy Ghost had helped him find his way. Think of a time when you felt the Holy Ghost. How did it make you feel?

In order to describe the valuable role of the Holy Ghost as witness, I will continue the story of Fernando and Bayley. If you remember, I shared that Fernando and his brother had been baptized, but his parents and three younger brothers had not. And, despite receiving numerous invitations to meet with the missionaries over the years, each time the family declined.
Upon the painful passing of Bayley and her baby daughter, Fernando’s family was inconsolable. Unlike Fernando and unlike Bayley’s family, they found no comfort or peace. They could not understand how their own son, along with Bayley’s family, could bear their heavy burden.
Eventually, they concluded that what their son possessed and they did not was the restored gospel of Jesus Christ and this must be his source of peace and comfort. Following this realization, they invited the missionaries to teach their family the gospel. As a result, they received their own witness and testimony of the great plan of happiness, which brought them the sweet peace and calming comfort they were desperately seeking.
Two months after the loss of Bayley and their unborn granddaughter, Fernando’s parents as well as two of his younger brothers were baptized and confirmed and received the gift of the Holy Ghost. Fernando’s youngest brother looks forward to his baptism when he turns eight. They each testify that the Spirit, the Holy Ghost, bore witness of the truthfulness of the gospel, leading them to a desire to be baptized and to receive the gift of the Holy Ghost.

One of my friends, Andrew, is a member of the Church. I have known him since kindergarten. I always knew he was a member of the Mormon Church, but I didn’t really know what the Church was about.
In ninth grade a girl, Katie, sat next to me in ceramics. I found out she was a member of the Church also. I became interested in the Church because of my two member friends. I began to ask Katie and Andrew questions every single day. Of course they were glad to answer my questions because they got to share their testimonies.
One day Katie offered me a Book of Mormon and told me that if I read it, I would get a really good feeling. I declined the book because I was really busy and didn’t think I had time to read it. But then in 10th grade I started thinking about the Church again, and whenever I thought about the Church, I would always get this really good feeling inside of me, which I later learned was the Holy Ghost.
I called Katie and told her I would like to get that Book of Mormon. She told me that she had a better idea and invited me to meet with the missionaries. I knew there was something very special about the Church, because I got that good feeling, so I agreed to meet with them.
Those lessons were the best thing I have ever done. I looked forward to them every week because of the feeling I got inside when I was being taught. When the missionaries invited me to get baptized, I gladly accepted. My baptism was the best event I have ever had in my life. Katie and Andrew spoke, as well as some other member friends I made at church. Ever since I joined the Church I have been very happy. It is my favorite place to be in the entire world.

Something special happened when our stake in Santiago, Chile, assigned the young women and their leaders in La Florida Third Ward to participate in a “12 days of Christmas” activity. Each day for 12 days we went to visit Sister Brigida, a sister in our ward who is more than 80 years old and can no longer come to church. Each time we went, we took her and her young granddaughters something different. To prepare for our visits, the young women and their mothers baked bread or cookies and made or purchased small gifts.
Sister Brigida’s home did not have many of life’s comforts, but it was full of love. The warmth and kindness she extended to us was touching, and it made a strong impression on the girls. They still remember how beautiful Christmas was and how good they felt as they gave of their time.
Even though I hadn’t asked the young women to bring a gift for our visit on Christmas Eve, I saw with great joy that each one had prepared a small, personal gift for Sister Brigida and each of her granddaughters. Many of the young women cried that night as they embraced Sister Brigida. The gratitude and love on her face was her gift to us.
That Christmas Eve, we forgot about presents and shopping and found the real meaning of Christmas. We discovered that service to others is a celebration of love and life—the way the Savior lived His life.

One day on the way to work I saw two young men preaching the word of God in the street. They stopped me and asked if I wanted to know more about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. At the time, I didn’t know where my family was headed. We had no spiritual compass to find our way.
I had been drinking alcohol that morning, so I don’t remember much of what the missionaries told me. But they gave me a Book of Mormon and a pamphlet about the Prophet Joseph Smith, along with their phone number. Later that day, I started reading. Something touched my soul when I read the Book of Mormon, and I was amazed how a 14-year-old boy could have such a great vision.
I was searching for truth, so I started meeting with the missionaries. After taking most of the lessons, I knew I needed to get baptized. But as the day of my baptism approached, we held a lesson that was hard for me to hear. That lesson was on the Word of Wisdom.
That lesson was hard for me because I drank a lot. My work environment was tough. Everyone I worked with drank, and so I did too. I would often go out drinking after work and come home late at night.
But the missionaries did a great job. I still love them for it. They taught me that God wants us to be strong and that He gave us the Word of Wisdom to bless us. Obeying this law was really hard for me, but slowly, I started to keep it. I remember calling the missionaries every day, updating them on my progress, and telling them that I did not drink that day. They were so happy with my progress.
With their help, I got baptized and entered the fold of Jesus Christ. I felt the Spirit that beautiful day! But I was alone when I joined the Church. I wanted my family to be with me.
When I talked to my wife, Clirime, about the Church, she would not listen at first. Her grandfather belonged to a different religion, and she wondered why The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints had even come to Albania. I knew that the only way I could bring her into the gospel was through my example. Through our actions, people can see who we really are.
Clirime noticed changes in me as I gave up alcohol and started coming home early from work. Because of the changes I was making, she started to feel the Spirt of God as I told her about the Church. I cannot describe the happy feeling I had when she told me that one day she would also get baptized. Soon she began taking the missionary lessons, which I helped the missionaries teach. I was especially happy when she set a date for her baptism, six months after I was baptized.
With her baptism, and the baptism of our two children when they each turned eight, I felt that we could become an eternal family. But baptism was just the beginning. To prepare to go to the temple, we knew that we had to follow God to the end of our lives, keeping the commandments, going to church, partaking of the sacrament, serving in callings, reading the scriptures, and learning more about covenants and the plan of salvation.
The day we were sealed as a family in the Frankfurt Germany Temple was another beautiful day. In the temple, I came to understand more about the plan of happiness our God has for us, and I felt His love.
I still remember the promises Clirime and I made in the temple. Whenever something goes wrong or we are having a hard time, my mind goes back to those promises.
As a family we try to live in harmony with each other because that is what we felt in the temple. Every time I think of the temple, I feel happy and blessed. I know that God is real and that He loves us and wants us to be happy.