Gospel Story Finder

I was born in Port Moresby, Papua, New Guinea, the third child in my family. Ours was a poor family. My childhood was not marked by happy occasions such as Christmas and birthday celebrations that most children remember as they grow up. In fact, it was at these times that we were the most unhappy, knowing and seeing how other children were given gifts and treats.
We were poor for the most part because my father spent his small paycheck drinking on weekends. We were always hungry. When my mother tried to make Father see how we were suffering, he would become violently angry and would strike her until she was hurt and sobbing. How hard she tried to defend us children and care for us.
Christmases came and went. It was always the same for us. There was no money for presents and goodies. My sister and I would wake early on Christmas morning to the shouts of excitement from the neighborhood children who had found Christmas presents waiting for them.
Sometimes we children went off to the city dump to find something we could use or play with to comfort us. I longed for something new and shiny, a special gift just meant for me at Christmas.
Our lives began to change spiritually, but financially we were still poor. My childish longing for a real Christmas with presents meant just for me never materialized.
I am a grown young man now. I am fulfilling a mission for the Church. Now I can look back and realize I have been blessed with some very special gifts—not the ones that children open at Christmastime, but gifts that are forever and can be cherished each day of my life.

When I was set apart as one of two Sunday School teachers for our Young Adult class in Taipei, Taiwan, my bishop promised that the Holy Spirit would help me whenever I needed it. I didn’t realize then how important that promise would be.
I was among the younger members in the class, so I was nervous. It helped having a teaching partner. She would give the lesson one week, and I the next. I diligently prepared my lessons, and people told me how much they enjoyed them. I felt that everything was under control.
Then one Sunday I went to class and found that my teaching partner, who was to teach the lesson that day, wasn’t there. My face was pale as I ran to telephone her.
“I’m sorry,” she said sleepily. “What time is it? I guess I overslept.” She was still in bed, and the class should have already started!
As I crossed the hallway to the classroom, my stake president greeted me with a smile. “My wife and I would like to join your class today,” he said brightly. Too surprised to say anything, I weakly nodded my head and smiled feebly. My only thought was on the lesson, which, if I remembered correctly, was based on 3 Nephi, chapters 15 through 19. [3 Ne. 15–19]
Seven minutes of class time had passed when I walked into the crowded room. The class president offered a prayer. Then, with trembling hand, I opened the Book of Mormon. I had planned to invite class members to share their testimonies, because I didn’t know what else to do. But as I began reading the scriptures, I felt some power greater than myself helping me select appropriate verses for discussion. My tongue was loosed, in the same way the Lord had promised Oliver Cowdery: “And at all times, and in all places, he shall open his mouth and declare my gospel as with the voice of a trump, both day and night. And I will give unto him strength such as is not known among men” (D&C 24:12).
Never in my life had I felt such humility. I knew that it wasn’t me, but the Spirit, that was teaching. I felt as though I was the Lord’s musical instrument, and he was filling the classroom with beautiful harmony through me. I was so overwhelmed that I felt physically weak.
Joyfully I read with the class the profoundly touching scene when the Savior said to the Nephites: “Blessed are ye because of your faith. And now behold, my joy is full. And when he had said these words, he wept” (3 Ne. 17:20–21).
There wasn’t a sound in the room. Everyone had tears in their eyes. To me, the account we had read was more than just words. In my mind I could vividly see the Savior and those faithful disciples around him. I could sense that the Savior was close to us, and we to him.
Finally, I shared the prayer of the Savior for the Nephites when he asked that, “because of their faith, … they may be purified in me, that I may be in them as thou, Father, art in me, that we may be one, that I may be glorified in them” (3 Ne. 19:29). “Think about that,” I said to the class. “Our Savior may be glorified in us, if we purify ourselves and become one with our Lord. What bliss, and what a blessing!”
Then I wept.
This wonderful experience was a fulfillment of my bishop’s promise. It taught me that the Lord has great love for us and that the Spirit is always there to help us if we live worthily and abide by the counsel of those who preside in righteousness over us.

Trying to protect himself from the cold, Manco hunched with bent knees and pulled his pointed knit cap tightly over his ears. He was glad his brightly woven poncho hugged his body. A fierce wind swept up the rocky canyon, and there was snow in its breath.
Impatiently, Manco shifted his weight. When will Papacome? he wondered. He promised me that it would be today. The boy’s stiff fingers touched the bamboo flute that had been tucked into his belt earlier that morning.
“My son,” his father had said with just a trace of a smile pulling at the corners of his wide, wind-wrinkled mouth, “here is the flute I have been carving for you. Today, I will teach you to play it.”
Manco felt a flush of pleasure as he remembered his father’s words. His father was Túpac, the finest flute player in the region—perhaps in all Peru!
Manco carefully noted the location of each of the family’s llamas and alpacas. When he was certain that the flock was safe, he drew the flute from under his poncho.
Túpac had carved the tiny finger holes and the mouth hole with the greatest care as he hunkered down by the cooking fire in their home high on the mountainside. He and his family grew corn and potatoes on the steep slopes there, and he and Manco climbed even higher each day to tend their small herd.
Manco put the polished wood to his lips. He wanted to send a shimmer of sound—a sound like the ones his father made—into the crisp air. But he knew he could not. He would wait until Túpac returned and taught him how to do it properly. And, he thought, I will someday be the finest flute player in all Peru. Someday my fingers will fly over the tiny holes, rippling like the birdsong I will play. And someday the women will weep at my songs of mourning, even as they shed tears when Papa played for Sinchi, who was called to the land of spirits.
Manco stood suddenly. He saw a small, dark speck descending the white ridge high above him. As the speck grew larger, the boy could see his father’s bright red cap against the snow, his face bent down to protect it from the icy blasts. He was struggling awkwardly to keep the wind from blowing him off the ridge.
The boy quickly scanned the hillside. One of the young animals was missing! Why had he not noticed it before? He had failed in his task. Now he knew why his father was having such trouble coming down the mountainside; now he could see the young llama gathered securely into his father’s warm poncho.
Suddenly Papa uttered a sharp exclamation. His legs twisted under him. Snowslide!
The snow enveloped Papa’s dark figure, and Manco could see him no more. Manco plunged toward the rocky canyon that split the shoulder of the mountain. It would take a long time to descend to the bottom, then climb upward to where the snow had buried Papa.
Manco thought of going for help, but he knew there wasn’t time. Papa needed someone now, and Manco was the only one there.
When the boy reached the snow line at last, his arms and legs were like stones. His hands were bleeding, and his eyes were blurred with stinging perspiration and with his own tears. If only he could find Papa, he would never again fail to perform his tasks.
Searching the mass of snow and debris before him, Manco couldn’t see Papa anywhere! But wait—above the gasps of his own breathing, Manco heard a low moan. Swiftly he climbed higher and a little to the right. He saw a large, rough mound of snow moving slightly. “Papa?”
The boy tore at the snow with his bare hands. First he uncovered the young llama, which hobbled over to join the flock as soon as it was freed. Then Manco’s rapid digging uncovered an arm, then Papa’s shoulders, then his capped head. Túpac’s face was a strange color. His eyes were closed.
“Papa? Can you hear me?”
Túpac’s eyelids fluttered, then closed again. The look of tenseness and pain never left his face.
Manco pushed the snow from around his father’s limp form. He knew that he would not be able to get Papa home—it was too far.
There’s a shelter just over this ridge, he remembered. It’s only made of fallen tree limbs and branches, but it will be warmer there and out of the wind.
As Manco struggled to lift his father to a sitting position, Túpac came to and cried out with pain. But he struggled to his feet, saying, “I think that with your help, Manco, I can make it to the shelter.”
Evening shadows hurried behind them as they made their way over the ridge. A few meters before they reached the shelter, Túpac slumped to the ground, overcome by pain and by his exertion. Manco was forced to drag his father the rest of the way.
Manco laid his father on a hastily made bed of leaves. He took off his own poncho and covered Túpac with it. Then he quickly cleared a space near his father, built a small fire, and set out to get help.
Manco soon found his uncles, who climbed up the mountainside and carried Túpac to his home. The boy’s mother and Cora, his sister, carefully tended to Túpac, cleaning and bandaging his wounds, and giving him soup to eat, and administering medicine. Manco watched anxiously until he saw his father fall into a relaxed sleep. Then the boy went to his own bed, exhausted.
It was late the next morning when he opened his eyes. His father, still in pain but feeling better, spoke his name.
“Yes, Papa?”
“The flock—is it safe?”
“No, Papa. I—I left them on the mountain.”
“You are the man of this house now,” his father told him. “Gather them and care for them. Go. And God be thy friend.”
Manco could not believe his ears. He was “the man of this house now”? But it was his negligence that had caused Papa’s accident. Papa knew why Manco hesitated, yet he had called his son, who had erred, a man. The boy’s eyes stung suddenly. He bent over his father to hide tears of gratitude. “Yes, Papa. Thank you,” he whispered.
Manco stood, feeling somehow taller and older. He would not fail Papa this time. He would care for the herd alone.
Manco put on his poncho, pulled his cap over his ears, and went to the rough-hewn door.
“My son?” Túpac lifted himself slightly.
“Yes, Papa?”
“When you return, I shall teach you to be the finest flute player in all Peru.”

Women and men who can hear the voice of the Lord, and who respond to those promptings, become invaluable instruments in His hands. I will never forget an experience I had following a stake conference. I was asked to participate in a blessing for a young woman who was suffering with cancer. The family were converts, and they had found peace through the promptings of the Spirit. Prior to our giving the blessing, this dear sister said to me: “Elder Ballard, I am not afraid to die, but I would like to live here with my family. I am prepared to accept the will of my Father in Heaven. Please bless me to find peace and to know that He will be with me.” What faith, insight, and courage the Spirit had blessed her with! A few months later the family advised me that Heavenly Father had called her home. She died in peace, and the family lived in peace because they were familiar with the Spirit. One of the sweetest messages the Spirit will relay is how the Lord feels about you. And that reassurance will strengthen you in a way that almost nothing else can.

I want to tell you how I am trying to be like Jesus Christ. I moved from Utah to Pacific Grove, California. My teacher gave me an assignment to make a montage about myself. My mom and I decided to make part of the montage about the Church. I am the only member of the Church in the fifth grade at my new school.
Making the montage answered a lot of questions, like why I don’t play on Sunday, why I don’t swear, and what my gospel standards are. I hope I can be more like Jesus.

To understand the implied responsibility each of you have as recipients of this investment, I want to share with you a story of someone who didn't start with as much opportunity or life resources as many of today's BYU-Idaho students. Heber J. Grant was raised by a single mother. He grew up in poverty, in a home where his mother was forced to take in boarders to help provide for the family. And yet, despite these challenges, Heber J. Grant would go on to do remarkable things and later be called as an Apostle and eventually as the President of the Church. But despite his initial liability of growing up in poverty and without a father, Heber J. Grant did have one distinct advantage in his life.

After his father was buried, his bishop, Edwin D. Woolley, gave him a name and a blessing. In that blessing, Bishop Woolley saw by revelation that the infant boy would one day become an Apostle of the Church.[5] As President Henry B. Eyring later described, "People then and since have called Heber J. Grant a 'child of promise.' He was. But his departed father didn't make the promises to the child, [nor did Bishop Woolley]. His Heavenly Father did."[6]

Elder Sheldon F. Child, former member of the Second Quorum of the Seventy, shared a personal experience in regards to the impact of his father’s honesty and integrity. Elder Child was raised on a farm, but it did not provide enough income for their family. Consequently, his father obtained outside employment leaving young Sheldon to care for many of the farm chores.

Elder Child recalls: “I remember on one occasion one of the items on the list was to take a small broken part from our hay rake to the blacksmith shop to have it repaired. I was uncomfortable about going. My father hadn’t left any money, and I wondered what I should do. I put off going as long as I could. When all my other chores were finished, I knew I couldn’t avoid it any longer. Father expected the broken part to be repaired when he came home, and it was my responsibility to see that it was done.

“I can still remember walking the mile or so to the blacksmith shop. I even remember how uncomfortable I was as I watched him weld the part. As he finished, I nervously told him that I had no money, but that my father would pay him later. I’m sure he sensed my anxiety. He patted me on the shoulder and said, “Son, don’t worry, your father’s word is as good as his bond.” I remember running all the way home, relieved that the part had been repaired and grateful that my father was known as a man whose word was as good as his bond.

“As a boy I didn’t fully understand what that meant, but I knew it was good and something to be desired. It was years later that I recognized that a person whose word is as good as his bond is a person of honesty and integrity, a person to be trusted. In today’s world, there are some who think nothing of breaking their word, their promises, their covenants with man and with God. What a blessing it is to deal with those whom we can trust” (“As Good As Our Bond”, The Friend, November 1997).

Twenty-six months ago when I first arrived in Germany, I wrote home to Layton, Utah, and asked my mother to subscribe to some Church publications for me. A couple of months later I was surprised to receive my first New Era. At the time I mistakenly thought I was much too old and mature for such a magazine. But as the months came along so did the New Era, and I found myself being uplifted by such wonderful stories as “Strike the Steel,” “Jensen and Ernstein,” and “If Thou Art Willing.” The poems, stories, and articles are in keeping with the common, simple philosophy of the Church. I shall always read the New Era—especially during my last months of duty here in Europe. I know that it will be a strength to me on my future mission. The magazine has helped me keep the Spirit of the Lord during these years of military service. I sincerely thank the Lord for this blessing.
Sherman FleekMainz, Germany

During those depression years, a large government truck would come by at Christmastime with turkeys for needy families. Word of this went through the school, and I rushed home and told my mother that there were free turkeys. She pointed out that we raised our own chickens and had a beautiful rooster picked out for Christmas dinner, and that the turkeys should be available for people who were in great need. She always played down our own poverty and pointed out that there were many people who needed help more than we did. She told us to worry less about ourselves and more about helping those people. Her compassion made a deep impression on our minds.

A convert to the Church once said, “As a father I believed in caning my children. The slightest infraction of a rule was answered with prompt physical punishment. Then the gospel came into our home. I saw my children in a new light. They were my children, yes, but they were also children of our Eternal Father. How could I abuse a child of God? I began to develop an entirely new point of view toward my children, and they reciprocated with a new attitude toward me.

“Do we have discipline in our home? Yes, but of an entirely different kind. We are no longer adversaries. There are still some penalties for wrongdoing, but such penalties are of a different nature and are accepted as properly deserved, and not resented with bitterness as they once were. Now there is respect for one another, and more than that, love. What a difference the gospel makes,” he concluded.

“Yes,” I added, “what a difference the gospel makes when it is accepted and lived.”

I know that devotionals can transform lives. Not so many years ago, as an undergraduate student, I entered this very building out of breath and distracted by one of the myriad issues that can cloud a student’s mind. Elder Marion D. Hanks was the assigned speaker. The building was quite full, and I remember finally finding a seat just under the clock on the top row of the top concourse. I don’t remember Elder Hanks’ topic—I’m sure it was important—but I do remember that I was troubled by a personal matter. As I sat, feeling miles away from the speaker, wandering in my own private world, I suddenly felt the Spirit reach up to me to answer my personal concern through the words of Elder Hanks. It was as though he took a time-out to speak with me one-on-one, as if there were a special conduit reaching directly to me to tell me, even in a sea of faces, that the Lord cares about me personally—as I know he cares about you. I’d like to speak personally to you about my experiences, and I pray that what I say may add power to yours.

I have the privilege of serving with a great Church leader from Indonesia, Subandriyo. He joined the Church as a young man. He is from a poor home without many of the material things of this life. When Subandriyo fell in love with Steffi, he went to ask her mother if they could marry. He had no money, nothing for a traditional wedding party. But this is the promise he made to Steffi's mother. "I have no money for a wedding, but I promise you that I will make your daughter the happiest woman on earth and I will always take care of her." He has kept that promise.

Meanwhile Gary focused his attention on football. His wrist, sprained during a preseason scrimmage, kept him from starting the first game of his junior year. Then someone else earned the starting quarterback position, and for the first time in his life, Gary, fit and ready, sat on the bench. That was a discouraging time for him, but he quietly worked, watched, and waited for his chance to play. Nearly halfway through the season, the chance came.
“We were behind by seven, with one minute and three seconds left to play, 70 yards to go, and a 40-mile-an-hour wind in our faces,” Gary recalls. “But things clicked, and we almost won that game. We were on the three-yard line when time ran out.”
The game had ended, but the Sheide era at BYU had begun. In less than two seasons Gary broke records that it had taken other WAC athletes three years to set. During his brief career Gary threw 595 times and completed 358 passes for 60.3 percent, 4,524 yards, and 45 touchdown passes. He set a conference record for completed passes (32) and touchdown passes (6) in one game. He also set a WAC record for completion percentage. United Press International twice named him National Back of the Week, and the Associated Press named him National Player of the Week. He was on the All-WAC first team, was the United Press Most Valuable Player in the WAC, and was eighth in the Heisman Trophy voting. He was second in the nation in passing for two years running. He led BYU to a Western Athletic Conference championship and the right to play in the nationally televised Fiesta Bowl.

One day my mother, Linnie P. Gold, related an experience to me that has shaped my life ever since.
She said that after World War II Church members were asked to donate clothing for the destitute people in Germany. My mother was therefore collecting from our drawers and cupboards well-worn discarded clothing that was too good to throw away. Suddenly she heard a voice say, “Is this what you would give to Me?”
“Oh no,” was her immediate cry. And she quickly began gathering the best clothes in the house. As editor of the ward newspaper to be printed the next day, she quickly penned a poetic appeal for clothes. Readers were deeply touched by the appeal and responded in abundance.
I know now why my mother gives so very freely and is always doing things for others. She gives to Him.

Genealogical research has always been difficult for me because I didn’t have the necessary information about most of my family members. However, that didn’t stop me from getting the booklet “My Family: Stories That Bring Us Together” and writing down my information about my parents and two grandmothers, who are still alive. My grandmothers also helped me gather the necessary information about my two deceased grandfathers and other important names.
I still felt like I didn’t know much about my family and couldn’t find the answers because I didn’t know who to ask without upsetting anyone. In Haitian culture, asking about relatives who have passed away can make people feel suspicious or angry. Often, the closest family members think you’re only asking so you can get something, like an inheritance, from the person who died.
For about four years, I had to make do with only the information I had while constantly thinking about how to find what was missing. Then I received a miracle that changed everything.
On September 12, 2024, I enrolled in a family history institute class, hoping to find answers to some of my genealogical questions. A few weeks later, one of our cousins visited our family. He was a distant cousin on my maternal side, and we only met him a year before, after a family member created a WhatsApp group.
During this brief visit, I talked with him and exchanged a few thoughts about spirituality. That’s when he told me he was a Latter-day Saint and was already familiar with the principles I was teaching him. I was so happy to know that I had a distant family member who had also received the blessings of the gospel. Even though he also told me he had distanced himself from the Church in recent years, I didn’t lose hope that he might one day return.
As we talked, he started telling me stories about family members I had never heard of—stories that gave me exactly the information I needed for my family history research. He also mentioned that someone in the family had written a full document about all the generations in our family. He said it had everything needed to really understand our family’s past and present.
I was both happy and surprised to discover that such a document existed in our family. However, despite my excitement, I was hesitant to ask him for the PDF version of the document, fearing I might be misunderstood. After he left, I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I felt the Spirit prompting me to ask my cousin for access to it.
After several minutes of reflection and prayer, I contacted him and asked for the PDF version of the family document he had mentioned during his visit. I reminded him that it would help complete my genealogical research, which we Latter-day Saints hold in such high importance. He replied quickly and enthusiastically, saying he remembered this sacred work and was happy that I was asking for the document. Less than five minutes later, I received it.
I was amazed to find the 259-page document more complete than expected. It had all the information I needed about a key branch of my mother’s family. While reading, I saw a familiar last name: my BYU–Pathway missionary’s name. On a whim, I messaged him to ask if the names were part of his family too. He said yes, and as we talked more, we discovered we were first cousins.
The following week, I shared this with my institute class. I felt deeply grateful—not only for the family names and details but also for reconnecting with a Church member and missionary who had once helped me with school.
This experience strengthened my testimony of the power of family history work, the ongoing gathering of Israel, and the truth that God always prepares a way for those who have faith to accomplish what He commands (see 1 Nephi 3:7). With faith, I also know that God will help me find the missing information on my paternal line so I can continue completing my family tree.

One important teacher was my neighbor, Mrs. Carey. I was a young boy when World War II was raging, and every day after school she taught me about the war and the countries that were involved in it.
Mrs. Carey took me through the war day by day—in Europe, city by city; in the Pacific, island by island—explaining what was happening. In the process, I learned about history and geography. My interest in other countries was sparked during the hours I spent in her home.

When it was announced on Sunday that the young men in my ward were going to do baptisms for the dead, I thought to myself, Too bad I can’t go. I never gave it another thought because I knew it would be too difficult for me to go. I have cerebral palsy.
After my mom picked me and my brother, Beau, up from school on the day the young men were going to the temple, she said we needed to hurry. The bishop would be picking us up at 5:30 P.M. I didn’t pay attention because I thought she was talking only to my brother.
Then she said, “Bart, you need to hurry and eat and get showered and into your Sunday clothes.”
I said, “What? I’m going?”
She told me the bishop didn’t want me to be left out. He thought it would be nice if I went and watched the other boys do baptisms for the dead. I couldn’t believe it. I was going to the temple!
As we hurried to get ready, I couldn’t quit smiling; just the thought of going to the temple made me happy. Rick Hansen, my teachers quorum adviser, drove me to the temple in his van. My wheelchair fit inside just fine.
The temple was beautiful. I had heard people say how strong the Spirit is in the temple, and they were right. As I watched the other boys being baptized, I wished I could be baptized, too.
Just then Bishop Homer came over to me. “Come on,” he said. “We need to get you dressed.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant or where we were going. He took me back to a special dressing room for temple workers, and he and Rick tried to figure out how to get the baptismal clothes on me. They did a pretty good job. I looked down at myself and thought how wonderful it was to be dressed in white.
Then a temple worker gave me a card with my name on it. The bishop took me into the baptismal font area, where I waited for my turn. As I sat and waited, a special feeling came over me, I kept looking up at the ceiling and thanking my Heavenly Father for this chance he had given me. I also thought about the people I would be doing the baptisms for. I wondered what they would think about me being baptized for them.
Then my turn came. It was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. I felt as if all eyes were on me. The bishop scooped me up in his arms and carried me down into the baptismal font. It took both the bishop and Rick to baptize me because of my floppy trunk and stiff limbs. After the ordinance for each name was completed, the bishop made sure I was still breathing all right. I did a total of five baptisms. The bishop and Rick then dressed me and placed me back in my wheelchair, and the bishop even combed my hair with his comb. Beau told me that when the bishop pushed me out of the dressing room he had sweat coming down his face. I’m not sure the bishop realized how much work it was going to be to dress me.
As we went over to do the confirmations, I felt warm all over. I thought to myself, How could people not know that the Church is true? I am grateful my bishop cared enough to give me the chance to be baptized in the temple. It’s so beautiful inside the temple. The powerful feeling inside helped me know the Church is true.

Sometimes miracles have helped people perform family history work. One miracle took place in 1971, when heavy rains poured upon the island of Fiji for nearly a week and furious winds bent the palm trees almost double. Ocean waves mixed with rain washed onto the island, and rocks, branches, and even rooftops floated down the flooded streets.

Molimau Tupa’i, the Church microfilmer in Fiji, became worried about the microfilming supplies he had left in his office. As he entered the office building where he worked, he saw that the floor was covered with water. He felt upset as he approached his office, fearing the films, books, and maps he had left on the floor were ruined. To his surprise, although everything looked wet and damaged, the water was actually flowing away from his supplies on the floor! His office was the only one in the building that still had electricity. For days afterward, all regular work on the floor stopped while cleaning crews fixed things. Brother Tupa’i’s work, however, continued as usual.

Life was still difficult, so much so that I left home for a brief time to give myself moments of reflection. I went to a friend’s house outside of Abidjan. One day around 6 am, a voice said to me: “Get up quickly and join your children in Abidjan”.
When I arrived, my children taught me that they should be baptized at The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, whose missionaries had previously taught my children, but to whom I paid little attention because I was not attracted to religions. I was therefore invited to attend the baptism of my children at the Quatre Etages Ward.
Bishop Etian’s speech had a positive impact on me. It was the story of the “King with the Severed Finger” told by Muslim folk wisdom. A king had a finger cut off during the hunt and imprisoned his advisor who told him to let Allah (God) prevail in all things. Sometime later the king and his retinue were captured in the bush by cannibals who did not want him because of his disability. He was therefore the only one released and his life spared. He ran to deliver his servant, apologizing profusely. The latter replied that God is never wrong and that everything works together for our good. He said, “If you hadn’t put me in jail, I would be with you, captured, devoured by the cannibals, and probably dead today.”
From that moment on, I made a firm resolution to take my life and that of my children totally into my own hands by being baptized. From then on, I decided to forgive my husband for the wrongs I had suffered. My husband is still not in our home, but I have a more brotherly and kinder relationship with him through the power of forgiveness. I undertook income-generating activities that have allowed me to provide for my family and especially to ensure the schooling of my children for more than 15 years. Today, two of my daughters are starting careers as teachers in public schools. My last son has just been admitted to the university for which I am looking for ways to finance the courses. They make me proud. I have been able to go to the Accra Ghana Temple where I was endowed and sealed to my deceased parents.
I hope one day to be able to remarry in the temple to have an eternal marriage. The lessons I draw from my life is that everything works together for the good of one who believes in God.

In the city of Bangalore the Roshan family was introduced to the gospel through an uncle. At the time, Rakesh, 18, or “Rocky” as everyone calls him, was the only family member to be baptized. He wasn’t serious at first, but as he attended church, read the scriptures, and heard the testimonies of others, he gained a testimony of his own. After his baptism, however, Rocky became somewhat inactive and the elders began to visit the family regularly again. This led to the baptism of Rocky’s older brother, Dinesh, whose example of faithfulness and love not only led Rocky back into activity, but led their parents to the waters of baptism also.