Gospel Story Finder

Togtokhin Enkhtuvshin, who now serves as president of the Ulaanbaatar Selbe Branch, recalls that during Mongolia’s socialist era, Mongolians “were not taught about religion. Moral values declined. Drinking, smoking, and moral sin became accepted. When I was a little boy, though, my grandmother taught me about God. She was Buddhist, but she told me about Jesus Christ. I felt that religion could unite our people and help them progress.”
Enkhtuvshin prayed to find something that would change his life and help the country. “I didn’t know what God I was praying to,” he says, “but my parents said that if there was a God, he would help me.” Eager to find out more about Jesus Christ, Enkhtuvshin accepted an invitation to study in Germany, where he knew he would find many Christian religions.
One day in Germany, Enkhtuvshin met Latter-day Saint missionaries on the street. “They gave me Russian and German copies of the Book of Mormon,” he recalls. “I read the book in one day and one night. I love this book.” Two days later he attended church, and during the summer of 1993 he was baptized. “I was excited to be baptized and thought I might be the first Mongolian member,” he says, “but I was concerned about returning home and not having the Church.”
Unaware of the gospel developments in his country, Enkhtuvshin returned to Mongolia the same month that six young elders arrived there to teach English, learn Mongolian, and share the gospel. He was shopping in a department store with his children when he noticed a familiar sight: clean-cut young missionaries! “At that time I knew that God was helping me,” he says. “I was very excited to find that I was not alone.”
Enkhtuvshin’s wife, Doyodiin Dashgerel, and their five children have joined the Church, and Enkhtuvshin has been a key figure in helping the Church gain government recognition. The Church was legally registered in October 1994.
As a professor, Enkhtuvshin struggled for many years to provide for his large family in a two-bedroom, Russian-built apartment. Inflation makes it difficult for Mongolians to live on an average salary of U.S. $50 per month, and they are dependent on imported goods that are expensive and limited in supply. With the new freedom of the market-based economy, Enkhtuvshin and his wife decided in 1994 to open a small delguur, or food shop. Shoppers in the couple’s food shop could find Dashgerel weighing sausage, cucumbers, or tomatoes in a four-foot-wide shop with a picture of the resurrected Savior on the wall behind her.

Then Malia held up the last picture. “Can I tell this part?” she asked.
“Of course,” Mom said.
The last picture showed a tiny baby girl wrapped in a fuzzy pink blanket. The baby’s eyes were closed, and she wore a tiny hat.
“We have wanted to welcome another child into our family for a long time,” Malia said. “Today we got a special phone call from the social worker. I’m going to have a sister!”
“That’s right, and we’ll see her tomorrow!” Mom said.
“It’s more exciting than Christmas Eve,” Malia said again, and she snuggled into her pillow.
“I know just how you feel,” Dad said.
Malia watched Dad put the pictures back in the box. Someday soon she would make a treasure box for her new sister too.

As a junior in high school, I was placed in an English class called Everything Is an Argument. We had to debate our feelings on certain topics, which was something I wasn’t looking forward to.
One day the teacher brought up the topic of whether or not we believed the Bible to be true or just made-up stories. It was a conversation I didn’t want to join. As the discussion went on, I was astonished at the number of people who claimed that the Bible couldn’t possibly be true, and I didn’t know how I could change their opinion. Just then, a student in the back of the class said he knew that the Bible was true. After that, a few others added their belief as well.
One student said he thought that people needed something to live for. I immediately thought of the plan of salvation, and before I knew it I found my hand raised for my turn in the discussion. I wasn’t sure what I’d say; I just knew I had to say something.
I began to question my reflex to shoot my hand into the air, but I thought that this might be the only chance these 28 people would get to hear about this marvelous plan.
My turn came and I told my class that I knew there was something we live for—a plan called the plan of salvation. The teacher asked me to explain myself, and I told him that I would have an easier time explaining if I could draw a diagram on the whiteboard.
With everyone’s eyes on me, I turned to the board and began to draw a diagram of the plan of salvation, full of circles and labels. The room was silent as the class watched. My heart was trying to run away from me because of how nervous I was that I’d say something wrong or that I wouldn’t be able to answer the questions I knew would come. As I turned toward my classmates, I had an overwhelming confirmation that the Holy Ghost would guide me to say the right things. I knew that the plan of salvation was true, and there was nothing stopping me from bearing testimony to my class of this belief!
I started with the beginning of the diagram and talked about as much as I could without confusing anyone. I was surprised to not hear anyone tell me I was wrong, and I was even glad when my teacher and a few classmates asked questions. At the end of my question-and-answer session, the bell rang for the dismissal of school, and I thankfully made a beeline for the door! A friend of mine caught up with me and told me that he respected me for standing up for what I believed in and wished that he had the courage that I showed in class. The Holy Ghost really helped me in class that day!
A few days later, my older brother was asked about the plan of salvation by a friend of his because her younger brother was in my class and had told her about it. To hear that someone had talked to his family about what I’d said was a great blessing to me. I love that I have the Holy Ghost to guide me in my life.

A few years ago, in the fall, it was business as usual for the seminary students in Welland. School and seminary started, with first-year students eagerly looking forward to what they knew would be a great year. And it was a great year, except for one thing. Brother Cunningham’s energy and health had declined over the summer break. Soon he was in the hospital, his lungs and digestive system failing. A lung transplant years earlier had improved his health dramatically and prolonged his life into his early 30s, but now he was as ill as he had ever been, without any sign that he would ever improve.
Seminary went on, now with much-loved team teachers Mike and Kim Hammond. The Hammonds helped the class not only to learn the gospel but also to remember their old teacher fondly. Brother Cunningham was never far from their thoughts.
At Christmas the students wanted to send their love. Many of Brother Cunningham’s major organs were failing, and the risk of infection through contact with other people was high. For his protection, they weren’t allowed to visit their teacher. They made a video instead, each including a personal greeting and get-well wishes. He would see that video, but he would never again see his students in person. Before the new year dawned, he was gone.
The funeral took place on the day of a blizzard, but more than 300 people attended, a testament to how much he would be missed. Many of the young men from the seminary class served as pallbearers, giving final service to the man who had served them.

Teaching children requires more than desire. It requires diligence on our part. Earlier I mentioned the song “Teach Me to Walk in the Light,” written by Clara McMaster. Sister McMaster shared with me that while serving on the Primary general board, she received the assignment to write a song about teaching children. She found this an especially daunting task and prayed to know how to begin and complete this assignment.

After much effort she submitted her work, only to be told that it was not yet right. She was not told what to change, only to continue the effort until it was right. She was spiritually exhausted, not knowing how to proceed. She again sought guidance from the Lord, made changes, and submitted another edition. This process continued three times until at last she was told it was perfect and she was not to change anything.

Even though there were many times that Sister McMaster wanted to give up, she diligently worked at what she had been asked to do and what she hoped would bless the lives of children. Her inspired music has been sung by adults and children in many lands and in many languages. This song represents the desire of my heart—that all children will learn to walk in the light of the gospel of Jesus Christ. This song begins with a plea from a child, “Teach me to walk in the light,” and ends with a commitment, “Gladly, gladly we’ll walk in the light.”

It was about 4:00 P.M. on a cheerless February day in 1977, and I was sitting in my office at the university, preparing for a night class, when the phone rang.
“Dad?” the voice came. “Mom said to call and tell you she’s taking John to the hospital.”
“Hospital?” I asked. “What for?”
It was Kathryn, and she sounded rather nervous. “Well … see … I was coming home in the wagon, and he wanted me to give him a ride on the fender.”
“Oh no,” I groaned. “How many times have I warned you guys about—”
“But it was only about half a block,” she said, “and I was going really slow. He didn’t even get hurt until I stopped, and I told him I didn’t want him to get on in the first—”
“Okay, never mind. Just tell me what happened. How bad is it?”
“Not very bad. I mean, I don’t think so. He just sort of jumped off, and then fell over backward and hit his head.”
My anxiety had suddenly mounted. “Well, what’s his condition? Is he really hurt? Is he in a lot of pain, or what?”
“No,” she replied, “he’s just been acting kind of funny. He can’t remember things, and the fingers on his left hand keep curling in like he’s trying to scratch something.”
Moments later I had phoned the hospital emergency room and was talking to my wife, Sharon. “He’s not in much pain,” she informed me, “and his memory’s pretty well returned. They just want to keep him under observation for a while and maybe take some X rays to make sure his skull isn’t fractured.”
“All right,” I replied and felt better. “I have to prepare for my night class, but call me if he gets any worse; I’ll be right over.”
Darkness had settled in a faint wintry drizzle, and I was halfway through a three-hour class session when my son Tony, a member of the janitorial crew, appeared in the doorway. Just behind him was our good friend and neighbor Dr. Evan Memmott, head of the college audio-visual department. Both of them appeared very solemn. I will never forget, in fact, the expression of tragedy on Evan’s rugged, empathic countenance. He seemed to be on the verge of tears, and in that instant I concluded that my son had died.
What occurred during the next few minutes is blurry; I was standing there in the hall, looking into their eyes, hearing the urgent agony of my own voice as though it were spoken by someone else. “What is it? What’s happened?” My thoughts mingled in relief and anxiety over the reply. Johnny was alive, but he had taken a distinct turn for the worse and was having convulsions.
He was sitting on the edge of a hospital bed as we arrived, and was surrounded by his mother; Dr. Grant Way, our pediatrician; and two or three nurses. Johnny’s face was sallow, tinged with grayish green, his hair was in a rooster tail, and he looked terribly frail and vulnerable. They were holding a crescent-shaped pan under his chin, and there was blood in it. My stomach clenched.
“Johnny,” I said quietly and placed my hand on his shoulder with great care. “You okay, pal?”
He actually smiled a little, spit futilely into the pan, and someone wiped his lips with a tissue. “Not too hot,” he managed. “I’d better lie back down.” Pretty courageous, I thought, especially for a kid of 13.
“All right.” I helped lower him to the pillow. “Want us to administer to you?”
He closed his eyes, breathing through his mouth. “Yeah … I guess … only don’t press too hard.” I glanced at Evan, and we laughed a little. No, we’d try not to be heavy-handed about it.
Later, conferring with Dr. Way in the hall, I learned that John had landed on the back of his head but had sustained a fracture on top, right down the middle, and that he might be suffering from subcranial bleeding, perhaps even a blood clot. Dr. Way glanced toward the bed and its occupant. “Looking better now, though, isn’t he?” I nodded a bit dubiously, still offering silent prayers in hopes of building up some kind of reservoir.
They kept him there for the next 48 hours, but despite the excellent care, his mother stayed on hand during the days, his father during the nights. At 6:00 A.M. on the morning of his scheduled departure, having made “steady improvement,” he suddenly developed intense pains. “My head’s killing me,” he moaned. “It feels like somebody’s cut a cross right down the middle of it.”
The nurses had been making their rounds every 30 minutes at first, now every hour, observing him carefully, shining a light in his eyes to see if the pupils were properly dilated, but I didn’t wait. His description of the pain greatly disturbed me, and even as I left the room, he was tossing about, clasping his head and moaning. I returned moments later, having received approval to give him another mild painkiller. A nurse would be there soon.
Soon, however, was too long. John made no response as I entered the room. “Johnny!” I said, “are you all right?” I bent over him, frowning, clasping his shoulder. “John? Can you hear me?” But his eyes were glazed, losing their color, and a tiny bubble was forming between his lips. He was turning gray again—receding, shriveling before my eyes. Dying! Absolutely incredible … absolutely true. Johnny!
I bolted for the door. “Get the doctor in residence, quick!” I shouted. “He’s in a coma, and he’s fading fast!” A young nurse swished into the room—checked his pulse, his eyes, did other things (I don’t know what), and left, crying. Crying! Undoubtedly she had been trained not to display such emotion, but sometimes emotions take precedence regardless of the circumstances.
I’m not certain of the following sequence, but a call was placed immediately to Dr. Way, and I phoned Sharon moments later. She took the news with what can only be described as beautiful fortitude and asked one question: “Is there someone there who can help you administer to him?”
“I’ll find somebody,” I replied, asking her to phone family and friends and request their prayers.
I have never known doctors to arrive with such speed. Within the first two or three minutes a young intern, Ed Parker—a bearer of the priesthood—appeared, and somehow, before we even had time to perform the administration, Dr. Way was there as well. I don’t recall what l said during that blessing, but I do know that I made some strong, unqualified commitments to the Father of our spirits if only he would spare my son, his son. I do know that despite my failings, I have been a better man since. I do know that almost immediately after our administration, the light returned to John’s eyes, that he emerged from the depths of his coma, speaking a little, communicating all that was required to neurosurgeon J. H. Hauser, who had also arrived with remarkable swiftness.
Shortly thereafter, Dr. Hauser explained that a large hematoma (blood clot) was exerting pressure on John’s brain and that it might still be growing. “We have two options,” he said. “One is to use drugs. That may help eliminate the clot, but we can’t really be certain of their effectiveness or the speed with which they will act. The other is to bore some holes in his head and remove the clot directly.”
“Please do exactly what you would do if he were your own son,” I said, and moments later Johnny was on his way to the operating room for surgery that was to last almost two hours.
“We’ll do our best,” they had said. That was all—no promises.
By now we had formed quite a congregation—his mother, Grandfather Allred (who spontaneously offered perhaps the simplest, most fervent and beautiful prayer I have ever heard), various medical personnel, several of our own children, and our neighbors the Memmotts—true Good Samaritans. We sat there together in the main waiting room, conversing quietly, and young Mike Memmott, one of John’s best buddies, was blinking back tears. That fall in the road three days earlier had momentarily knocked John unconscious and left his head bleeding rather profusely. Bending over him in great anxiety, Mike had called John’s name, then actually picked him up and carried him into our home.
During the half hour that followed, we phoned our oldest son, Mark, then at the Language Training Mission in Provo in preparation for his departure to Hamburg, Germany. We also phoned the Ogden Temple to place John’s name on the prayer roll and learned that someone else had done the same thing at the Salt Lake Temple. Shortly thereafter we received a call from the receptionist at the LTM in Provo. “President Pinegar took the liberty of placing your son’s name on the rolls at the temple here,” she said. “We hope you don’t mind.” Hoped we didn’t mind!
Such an incredible interplay of feelings! Such a sense of spirituality, of belonging, of family—not only our immediate kin, but all those others, virtually everyone we talked to, in fact! Friends of our daughters were now on hand also, and various acquaintances passing through the hospital had stopped to visit with us, offering words of concern and consolation. It seemed as though everyone knew our young son personally and truly loved him.
And yet, despite all those things—love, comfort, faith, buoyant warmth—there was the lingering odor of fear, pervasive as the smell of antiseptic, the kind that seems to shrivel one’s innards a little. At one point I encountered a doctor friend on the elevator and explained briefly our son’s condition. “That’s too bad,” he said. “Same thing happened to the Jones boy last week, very same accident. He never made it through the operation.”
Somehow that observation didn’t add much to my spirit, nor had our son Mark’s earlier response to our phone call. “I always thought John was too good for us to keep him very long,” he had said. Pacing the hall outside the operating room, I glanced at the forbidding green doors marked “Surgery—Unauthorized Personnel Not Permitted” and reflected upon that other boy, the one who hadn’t made it. I had met his father, and I knew in part his family’s grief, for at one point I had supposed that my own son was dead. At another, I had literally seen the life fade, and who really knew the outcome even now? No assurance of anything, only those final words: “We’ll do our best.”
Leaning against the tiled wall with one hand, I rested my head on my outstretched arm. “Father in Heaven,” I asked, “why did that other son have to die? Why all the pain and sorrow for his loved ones?” I knew full well, of course, that answers are rarely given to such questions. “Is it right,” I inquired, “for me to ask that my own son be spared under the circumstances?” I remembered the blessing, my commitment to rededicate my life if only John could be spared. But who am I, the thought came, to be setting up conditions for the Lord? I should be constantly striving to live a better life regardless of the circumstances.
There was no one in the hall. I closed my eyes and continued. “Father,” I said, “I have no right to bargain or to establish terms. Thy will be done in all things.” Pausing, I struggled for some small particle of wisdom. “On the other hand, if we’re allowed to keep him, well, I can guarantee you this: it will certainly be great motivation.”
The surgery was pronounced a success, and I remember walking with my arm around Sharon out into the sunlit parking lot of that winter morning; we were trying to reassemble ourselves emotionally, breathing deeply the air of mortality, offering our thanks. The morning was very pure and bright, almost transparent.
I remember the night that followed—Johnny in the intensive care unit, head furled in white wrappings like a swami, taking intravenous fluid, moaning occasionally, causing my heart to fibrillate slightly each time it happened. The following afternoon, having improved rapidly, he was returned to the pediatrics ward.
I remained in the hospital each night, Sharon taking the days so that I could continue my classes at the college nearby. And Johnny rapidly grew better, startling everyone—doctors included—with the rate of his recovery. Periodically, however, there were the low points—the time, for example, I was lying with a blanket and pillow on the floor of his private room, and awoke to hear him crying. He was standing in the bathroom and didn’t quite know where he was. “What’s the matter, son?” I called.
“I don’t know,” he lamented, “I don’t know!” Guidid, I hoisted him into it.
“Having pain?” I asked. “Need me to call the nurse?”
“No,” he sighed and turned his head away from me for a moment. “It’s just that I’m still getting headaches, and I keep thinking about those holes and not havin’ no hair or nothin’.” He knew it was atrocious grammar, but he didn’t care and neither did I. “It’s just that … well, for a minute, I didn’t know where you were, and I couldn’t handle it.”
I paused, and then laid my hand on his brow with utmost care. “I understand, buddy. Just let your old dad handle it for you, okay? Everything’s going to be all right, just great, in fact, and we’ll have you home before you know it. Your hair will grow back in no time.”
He had turned to face me now, and I could see his eyes, big and brown with luminous depths in his pale face, almost like a painting by Keane. “Not like yours,” he smiled. All my own hair had deserted me in one great apostasy a few years earlier.
“No,” I grinned. “Mine will have to await the resurrection. But then, man, watch out because you know what I’ll be sporting?”
“What?”
“An Afro the size of a tumbleweed!”
“Hey, all right!” He began to laugh, but it hurt his head.
He looked thoughtful, frowned a little, but it was a pleasurable frown somehow. “I can’t exactly remember,” he said slowly, “but, well, I sort of do in a way, like I can still feel it.”
“Yeah,” I said, “we can really feel some of these things, can’t we?”
“Yeah,” he said.
My hand was on his wrist now, and I could feel the life there, pulsing, pulsing, pulsing, all very steadily. Yes, strong and steady now, and it looked as if we were going to keep him. It looked as if he would go on to become a doctor as he had planned, perhaps even a surgeon. It appeared that he would realize some special calling here on earth, for there had always been a special spirit about him, and at times he seemed to move along in something like a state of grace.
“John the beloved,” I said.
He peered at me inquisitively, not really comprehending.
“Huh?”
“Never mind,” I replied. “Just rest now. Try to get some sleep.” It was the secret name I had given him that night long ago, the one reserved for very special occasions.

On Thursday of that week, members of the Relief Society presidency visited to introduce themselves and welcome our parents to the ward. On Sunday the bishop came to meet them and inquire whether they needed anything. He spent almost an hour with them, genuinely getting to know them and asking if they’d be willing to take ministering assignments.
Within two weeks of their arrival, they had ministering brothers and sisters assigned to them and were contacted by both. They also received ministering assignments and were introduced to their assigned families. Even with Mom’s late-stage dementia, her ministering companion made the effort to invite her and bring her along as they visited the sisters they were assigned to. The ministering brothers were consistent, loving, and genuine. They immediately found a commonality with roots from Wyoming, and my parents felt loved from the first visit.

I was accepted at BYU Provo when I was already 27 years old. I had been out of school for several years. When my first semester ended and I got my grades, I was afraid to arrive home and show them to my wife. My grades were terrible. I started preparing a mental plan in my own defense. I thought to myself: I will show my wife my grades, she will not be pleased, then I will tell her that this school is too hard, that I am not prepared for college and that we'd better go back to Brazil. And as I walked home carrying my grades (just like a child goes back home to show mom his grades) I started rehearsing in my mind what I was going to say to my wife. When my wife saw my grades, first she agreed that they were really bad. Then I immediately started telling her my feelings of inadequacy, and my desire to interrupt school and go back home. Then she said, "Carlos, we have come all the way from Brazil over here for you to graduate from this university, and we're not going back home until you graduate. I don't care if you need to take a particular class 2 or 3 times, but we will not go back home until you have graduated!"

After hearing those words from my wife I thought, well, I have no way out. I'd better stay in school. So dear brothers and sisters, the fact that I am here this morning sharing my testimony with you is thanks to my dear wife who at a very crucial moment of decision, gave me the help and support I needed.

Recently, in handling some souvenirs which I possess, I held in my hand a pocket piece which reminded me of a pleasant experience.
Several years ago, boarding an aircraft in Denver to return to Salt Lake City, having been invited to be a member of the Church Building Committee, I met a member of our staff making the same journey. With him was a gentleman he had chanced to meet. Seated in the aircraft together, we engaged ourselves in conversation. I asked the gentleman about his present occupation. He informed us that he was a building engineer, presently engaged in building a church in one of the larger cities in the state of Texas. He recounted to us some of the frustrating experiences that he and their finance committee had in raising funds from the members of his church; they had tried most everything such as direct solicitations, dinners, bazaars, some games of chance—none of which was very successful.
To solve the financial problem, they called a special meeting. It was during this meeting, he said, that they had come upon a capital idea, after someone had suggested going to the scriptures to try the Lord’s way. The scripture came from Malachi:
“Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in mine house, and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open you the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it.” (Mal. 3:10.)
From this the committee conceived a unique idea of getting that message to their members by coining a pocket piece made of copper with a coating to make it appear as a bright gold coin, about the size of a fifty-cent piece, inscribed on one side with the words, “One tenth is the Lord’s” and on the other side, “Bring ye all the tithes and I will pour you out a blessing that there shall not be room enough to receive it.”
These coins, he said, were distributed to the members. The thought was that as the men would reach into their pockets and the ladies into their purses for change, the bright gold coin would be the first item they would see, and it would remind them of their duty. He smiled and handed to each of us the souvenir coin and said: “This was successful! The people have responded and now we are moving ahead with our project.”
As he said that, I thought, “A true principle discovered, properly applied, brings a correct result.”
After some pause, he turned the conversation to us and queried of us as to our present endeavors, to which we replied: “Coincidentally, we too are engaged in building churches, employed by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“How many churches are you building?” he asked.
“At present, a few hundred,” was the reply.
A surprised look appeared on his face. “That’s a lot of buildings! How in the world do you pay for them? Where do you get the money?”
“From our Church membership, and coincidentally again, the great secret you discovered in the principle of tithing has been a tenet of the Lord’s Church from the early days of its restoration,” was the reply.
This afforded an extensive discussion of the great devotion of the Latter-day Saints, not only in paying their tithing, their fast offerings, additional construction funds, temple funds, welfare funds, budgets, missionary funds, etc., but also of their giving much of their free time in Church services, in the administration of and participation in the Church programs. We explained the extensive missionary program and the devotion of our young people to it. He seemed intensely interested, sat back in his seat, and thoughtfully said: “That’s amazing! You must have something we do not have.”

Probably all of us have had experiences when we really needed someone to help us. I remember once as a small boy I surely did. While playing on a mountainside near our home, I fell into the middle of a huge, prickly cactus plant. Oh, did it hurt! The prickly spines of the cactus went through my sneakers, through my stockings, through my trousers, through my shirt—they went through everything! I felt like a human dart board.
Immediately I let out a cry that was loud enough to shake the mountains. I couldn’t move up, down, in, or out. Every movement I made seemed to send those needles deeper and deeper into my skin. I just stayed there and howled.
I was five years old at the time and my older brother, who immediately rushed to my rescue, was eight. He was overwhelmed at the sight of me and the complexity of my plight. Nevertheless, he began to pull out some of the spines, but they seemed to hurt more coming out than going in and I howled even louder. Furthermore, the pin-size wounds bled so when the spines were removed that after a few minutes I looked like an advertisement for Red Cross donations.
Finally my brother saw that his feeble plucking was hopeless. There were dozens of spines yet to pull, and I was still screaming at the top of my lungs. He did the only thing an eight-year-old brother could do. He ran down the mountain, got his small red wagon, and labored painfully to get it up the side of the hill to where I was awaiting death—I thought. With some tugging and hauling and lifting—and plenty of noise from me—he got me out of the cactus and into the wagon. Then in some miraculous way, known only to children and Providence, he navigated me down off that steep mountain in his wagon.
The rest of the story is blurred in my memory. As I recall, my mother got me out of my clothes and the rest of the prickly spines out of me. What I do remember clearly and will never forget is the sight of my brother tugging that wagon and determinedly making his way toward me. He was so concerned that he worked wonderfully hard to get to me. If I live to be one hundred, I suppose no memory of my brother will be more vivid than the view I had of him that day. I needed him desperately. And there he was, coming to help!

Fifteen years ago I, like Alma and the sons of Mosiah, experienced “a joyful meeting” (Alma 27:16). I had traveled from my home in Argentina to Salt Lake City to attend general conference and to perform temple ordinances there for my deceased relatives. To my surprise, in the corridors of the Salt Lake Temple, I ran into Brother Evans Jones, the missionary who baptized me 40 years before. Despite the passage of time, we joyfully recognized each other.
We had met previously in 1942, when I was 12 years old and living in Córdoba, Argentina. On 5 February of that year, a small group of us gathered at an irrigation canal for my baptismal service. I still remember the feeling I had when I stepped into the water and felt the muddy bottom under my naked feet. I walked carefully, knowing I was doing something very important. My heart beat loudly in my chest as I made sacred promises to the Lord.
Since then, I have been privileged to see the work of the Lord grow in Argentina as thousands have entered the waters of baptism. In those early days, we considered 10 people at church meetings good attendance. Today Argentina is home to 10 missions and 46 stakes, and we are blessed to have a temple in Buenos Aires.
Fifty-two years after my baptism, my assignment as a counselor in the Argentina Córdoba Mission presidency took me back by that canal. I was able to observe that the waters of the old canal are still running, still giving life to the plants growing there—just as my baptism in that water gave a new life to me, my family, and my posterity. Thank you, Elder Jones, and thank you to everyone who shares the precious treasure of the restored gospel.

Born at the outbreak of the First World War, he received only the very basic formal education. That finished when aged fourteen. He understood it would greatly reduce his chances of earning a good living. Frugality however, was bred in him; everything had a use, even when its original purpose was no longer possible. Volunteering for the RAF in World War II, he made full use of discarded parachutes. Silk from the canopies was given to my mother to make baby dresses, while my father wove the cords into table mats. He repaired our shoes and built cupboards and shelves from wood salvaged from demolition sites. He grew our needed fruit and vegetables in a garden, which the local Anglican church allowed him to use in return for growing flowers to decorate their magnificent medieval minster.

I pounded on the door as the tears streamed down my face. I tried turning the doorknob again, but it was locked. “Please let me in,” I begged. My sister had been struggling with an eating disorder, and I knew that behind the door she was doing something that was harmful, both physically and spiritually.
I knocked on the door again. She knew I was out here. After waiting in silence, I heard her muffled response. “Please go away,” she said. “I don’t want your help.”
Her words broke my heart. My parents knew about my sister’s problem, and they had been taking the right steps to help her. All she needed now was someone she could talk to, someone who could help her find the strength to fight her addiction. I wanted so much to be that person, but she refused to let me in. Overwhelmed with emotion, I lay on the ground and began to sob.
At that moment, I understood a little bit better how our Heavenly Father feels when He sees His children participating in acts that bring them pain. More than anything, all He wants is for us to let Him in so that He can help. He has said, “Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me” (Revelation 3:20).

In February 2013, I returned to New Zealand on vacation. Being an avid hiker, I booked a four-day hiking excursion of the famous Milford Track in Fiordland National Park on the South Island.
I was joined by three Americans and 37 other hikers from around the world, including Australia, Brazil, England, Finland, Germany, Israel, and Uruguay. During our adventure, we shared thoughts, experiences, and opinions as best we could given our language barriers. It didn’t take long for our cultural differences and preconceived opinions to melt away under our growing bonds.
At the end of our third day of hiking, one of the hikers wanted to build upon our growing friendships and sprang to his feet, announcing that we should hold a talent show. He said he would begin the show. He chose to share his storytelling talent, which he had been practicing at his business office in Caesarea, Israel. His story went well, so he announced that he would tell another one. But as he shared some off-color remarks, I realized that the evening could easily turn out to be something less than uplifting.
During his story, I felt a strong impression to sing for the group. But what would I sing to my newfound friends from all over the world? The answer came to me forcefully: “I Am a Child of God” (Hymns, no. 301).
I felt a strong impression to sing for the group. But what would I sing to my newfound friends from all over the world?
I was anxious but drew upon my memories of and love for the Primary children of New Zealand. I rose to my feet and explained that I would sing a special song that I had sung nearly 40 years ago with children in New Zealand. I explained that I had been a missionary, had taught these children, and had grown to love them. I then said a silent prayer, asking for help to sing in a manner that would bless the group.
The song went well, and afterward I could feel the Spirit. My new friends smiled, and the song seemed to open their hearts. It wasn’t long before others rose and began sharing their musical talents. A group of four ladies, previously reluctant to participate, sang selections from their church choir. Another hiker taught us a Jewish folk song.
At the end of the talent show, a beautiful young woman from Australia sang three songs in Maori, her native tongue. Truly the Spirit of our Heavenly Father had distilled upon us and helped us realize that we were all children of God, not just “strangers and foreigners” (Ephesians 2:19) from various lands.

“My father was the greatest influence on me. He was such an example of one who quietly serves! He would sit back and listen to everybody’s opinion and then make a wise judgment. One day I decided I didn’t want go to sacrament meeting. My father wasn’t alarmed. He only said, ‘Just remember that when you don’t go once, it’s easier not to go the next time. That’s how we can fall into bad habits. I would suggest that you go every time, and then you won’t have to keep remaking that choice.’ That’s all it took. I didn’t argue with him, and I didn’t feel unhappy about going to church that day—or any other day. And l’ve always remembered that advice when I’ve been tempted.

Over the past year my best friend has been struggling with leukemia. He had to stay in the hospital for many months and had to undergo chemotherapy. I have prayed for him every night and have been able to see him make progress. Throughout this difficult time, I have grown to know that Heavenly Father is there for us, and He loves all his children. I know that He wants us all to return to live with Him someday and that He wants us all to be happy.
When I think about my friend’s illness too much, I start to worry about the future. But when I think of Heavenly Father’s love for all of us, the pain goes away. I have come to know that I can always turn to Heavenly Father in prayer and that He will be there.
When my friend had a relapse and his cancer returned, I wondered if all of our faith and prayers were in vain. But I soon turned to the Lord for comfort and realized that no matter what happens, Heavenly Father loves my friend and will look after him. I just have to have faith in His plan.

When my daughter Sabrina was four years old, she had terrible growing pains in her legs. I, too, was troubled by growing pains as a young girl. It was very late one evening, way past Sabrina’s bedtime. I was exhausted because she would not stop crying. When the pain medicine did not work, I told her that we needed to pray and ask Heavenly Father to help take away her pain. We knelt down together, and I offered a simple prayer that her pain would subside and that she would be able to sleep. I put Sabrina in bed next to me and rubbed her legs until we both fell asleep.

In the morning, I was awakened by squeals of delight from Sabrina. She said, “Mom, my legs don’t hurt anymore!”

But what she did next melted my heart. She immediately looked up to heaven and said, “Thank you, Father!”

I know some of you worry about being misjudged, ridiculed, and even harassed if you stand up for Heavenly Father, the Lord Jesus Christ, and the Church. I understand your concerns.

I served in the British Mission after the end of World War II as a young missionary. At that time Mormons were “a hiss and a byword” (3 Nephi 16:9), and missionaries were laughed at and ridiculed. People even threw things at us, and some would spit at us. However, we did not retreat, but we continued to bear our testimonies and share the gospel. Like Abinadi, we did not shrink; like Paul, we did not shrink; and like the Savior, we did not shrink. At the time we could not have imagined the impact of our labors. We had 14 districts and no stakes. Today, 46 stakes of Zion are found in the British Isles.

Christmas away from home. My favorite gift was my first Christmas away from home, when my parents, sister, and I went to visit my brother and his family.
We were used to family Christmases at our house, but this year my other siblings were going elsewhere, and we decided to visit my brother, Josh, and his family because they couldn’t come home. I wasn’t sure what to expect, and I thought that if we weren’t home for Christmas, it wouldn’t be fun. It seemed that Christmas just wouldn’t be the same. My parents, sister, and I had already opened our presents to each other before we left home.
When my brother picked us up at the airport, my four-year-old niece, Kialey, started to sing Christmas songs, and I started to feel better. On Christmas morning I enjoyed watching the faces of my nieces and nephews light up as they opened their presents. It was nice, instead of focusing on what I got, to look at others opening their presents and to feel their joy.Hannah S., Montana, USA

I’ve moved a lot in my life. A few years ago, we moved to Dubai for a short time. When I unpacked my suitcase, the last thing at the bottom was my scriptures. I thought that I should read them. I did, which is kind of unusual because I’m not always great at following promptings. But I started from the very beginning, and I think I read five or six chapters.

Later, I was asked to give a talk in church. I was impressed to talk about the importance of scripture study. I wrote my talk and thought, “Wow, I should really read the scriptures more.” It also kind of became a competition between me and my dad. He was in Alma, and I wanted to catch up to him. I started reading my scriptures every day—sometimes 10 or 15 chapters!

I started to notice a lot more spiritual experiences. When you’re reading that much, it makes room for you to have personal revelation. I was really creating time for the Lord.

I started keeping a spiritual journal. In one entry, I wrote, “I was reading 3 Nephi about how Jesus Christ came down to the people and all the wonderful things He did. I felt so close to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ today.”

I was really surprised how many experiences I had, especially when I was looking for them. I was like, “Wow, God is really talking to me a lot.”

Studying the scriptures really helped me, especially with all the mental stress of moving so much. The scriptures are Christ’s words. He speaks to us through them. Through His words, I am able to draw closer to Him.