Gospel Story Finder

If you are Vaga Babayan, 16, of the Severozamoskvoretsky Branch, you’ll rejoice in the hope of the future.
Two years ago, Vaga and his family, frightened by continual earthquakes in Armenia, moved to Moscow. His father found employment in a bakery run by relatives. Although Vaga studies hard all day, he also helps with the family business.
“One day my father and my sister met the missionaries. Dad invited them to our house. My mother had been searching for the truth and was excited to learn. They kept teaching us. Every time they came over, I felt a warmth in my soul. Three months later, my mother, my sister, and I were baptized.” His father, in Vaga’s words, is “still working” toward baptism.
“There are a lot of great things in Moscow,” Vaga says. “But the greatest of all is that I became acquainted with the Church here. The growth of the Church in Russia is creating a new history in our own lives.”
The power to change. That’s also a great gift, a gift even those with 850 years of experience might appreciate.

What’s going on?
Shhh! Let’s go talk in my room.
Don’t you think Mom and Dad have been acting weird lately?
Yeah. Sometimes when I come into the room they stop talking.
Last night when I got up for a drink of water—I mean, it was really late— they were in the kitchen whispering and looking at some papers.
I tried to find out what’s going on. The other day I asked Mom if she’s mad at me. Or if somebody’s sick or something.
What did she say?
She said nobody’s sick, I’m not in trouble, and nothing’s wrong. Of course I didn’t ask if you are in trouble …
You’re so funny.
C’mon, didn’t she tell you anything?
She said there’s nothing to worry about. They just aren’t ready to talk about it yet. I still don’t know what’s going on, but I kinda feel like everything’s OK.
Why?
Well, for one thing, I believe Mom. Plus, I’ve been praying about it, and … I dunno … I just feel more peaceful.
Kids, could you two come in the kitchen for a minute?
We know you’ve been wondering what’s going on. Well, now we can finally tell you the exciting news.
(To be continued next month.)

When I was a young man, I served in the Church as a counselor to a wise district president. He was constantly trying to teach me. I remember the advice he once gave to me: “When you meet someone, treat them as if they were in serious trouble, and you will be right more than half the time.” I thought then that he was pessimistic. Now, more than 50 years later, I can see how well he understood the world and life.

Great Britain has the world’s most regal (elegant) letter boxes. The tall cylinders stand like palace guards, their scarlet tunics emblazoned with a golden crown and the insignia of the queen. One such letter box stands sentry on Cottam Lane in Preston, in front of Ingol County Primary School. From time to time a pretty eight-year-old girl approaches and reaches high to drop in a letter addressed to Masha Melnikova in Mogilev, Belarus. The sender is Lorna Wilson, a Latter-day Saint, and Masha’s true friend.
Lorna’s father, Christopher, is a software designer who spends much of his spare time working for a charity called Medicine and Chernobyl. This organization provides medical aid for the Belarusian victims of a nuclear disaster in the nearby Ukrainian city of Chernobyl. Each year the charity brings a group of Belarusian children for a month-long visit to England. These children live downwind from Chernobyl, and their resistance to disease has been impaired. A month in a healthy environment helps them rebuild their physical and emotional reserves. Masha was one of these children.
Masha arrived at the Wilson home speaking almost no English. Lorna spoke even less Russian. Still, they managed to communicate with gestures and occasional help from a Russian phrase book. Within a day, somehow, they were best friends. Although Masha had her own room the first night, the two girls’ friendship blossomed so quickly that from the second night on, they chose to share a room. Lorna’s parents had to go in each night and persuade them to turn out the lights. They’d be talking away, drawing, and dressing dolls. Neither learned much of the other’s language, but they understood each other very well. On the morning Masha left to return home, Lorna was so upset that she couldn’t go to school.
That was unusual, because Lorna likes school. A very good student, her favorite subjects are art and math. When her school formed a group called the Troubleshooters from among the most able students, Lorna was the youngest person chosen. The Troubleshooters go to local businesses and help them solve problems. Lorna’s group first went to the Preston office of the Royal Mail. They were given two problems to solve. One was that the staff wasn’t looking at the notice boards. The other was that a stray letter was occasionally left in the bottom of a supposedly empty mail sack. The Troubleshooters went to work and produced many good suggestions, several of which were adopted. In a small way, Lorna was helping to speed her letters from the letter box on Cottam Lane to her friend in Belarus!
“Lorna’s an inspiration to me,” her mother, Helen, says. “I really do try to follow her example. When I go to a parents’ evening at school, her teachers tell me, ‘What can I say? She’s just wonderful!’”
Lorna wants to be either a zookeeper or an artist when she grows up. Whatever she chooses, she will do it well. She likes to do art and sewing, especially cross-stitch, and she always tries to do them perfectly. She has been taking ballet for three years. She also is a Brownie and a skilled Maypole dancer.
The oldest of six children, Lorna sometimes feels frustrated when a little sister wrecks a project or pinches (takes) her crayons. Even so, she loves her little brothers and sisters and takes good care of them. Her mother says, “We’re lucky Lorna is the oldest, because she’s a good example to the others. She isn’t perfect, but she’s very trustworthy, and she helps the others with reading and things like that.” In return, the younger children look up to her. Adam (6) is a football player and a dreamer. He has adopted all the older ladies in the ward. Hannah (5) is a gifted artist with a keen eye for beauty. Abigail (4) has her daddy’s sense of humor and likes to tease people. Sara (2) is sunny and outgoing. Everybody at church wants to take her home with them. Joshua (1) just started walking. He is a charming, happy boy.
The Wilsons are a close-knit family who take drives in the countryside when their busy schedules allow. They also like to play games together. Sometimes for family home evening they play a Book of Mormon game Sister Wilson made. It stretches clear across the floor. For many years they invited an elderly neighbor to each of their family home evenings and adopted him as their granddad. After his death, they began to invite a handicapped man from their ward. “He’s a lovely man with a beautiful spirit,” Sister Wilson says, “but he can’t speak. He has to use a machine to communicate.” The children welcome guests with open arms. At Christmas they invite in anyone they know is going to be alone. The family also goes caroling to some of the elderly people who live nearby.
Seeing firsthand the sorrows of others has helped the Wilson children appreciate their own blessings. When the Belarusian children came, they had very little in the way of clothing, and what they had was threadbare. Their diet in Belarus had been poor too. “We learned not to waste food,” Lorna says, “because some people have hardly anything.”
The family tries to read the Book of Mormon at breakfast each day, although sometimes it’s a struggle. Lorna’s favorite person in the Book of Mormon is Jesus Christ.
Preston and the surrounding areas were the sites of some of the greatest missionary efforts in the history of the Church. In 1837 Elder Heber C. Kimball led a group of missionaries there to begin the work in Great Britain. The Wilsons have stood by the River Ribble, where the first baptisms in Britain took place. They have walked through Market Square, where the missionaries preached. They have visited many places where the Spirit was poured out upon their land. It’s no wonder that they do missionary work whenever they can. They once had the favor returned when a nonmember referred them to the missionaries! One day the sister missionaries knocked on a door around the corner from the Wilsons where some older ladies lived. The missionaries asked them if they were interested in learning about the Church, and they said no.
“Well, do you know anybody who might be?”
“There’s a lovely family around the corner,” one of the ladies answered. “They have lots of children. They’d be good Mormons.”
She was right, of course.

Recently a young ex-convict joined the Church after years of trouble and searching. His story is best told in his own words. Only the names have been changed. The following is taken from an address he taped while in prison. We publish it with his permission.
Brothers and sisters: I’m honored on this occasion to be able to speak to you about my life and to give some suggestions in regard to the gospel of Jesus Christ. The gospel has truly been restored in our time through Joseph Smith and all the other great souls who have been instruments in the hands of God and his Only Begotten Son, our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
For those of you who don’t know who I am, it might be best for me to start by telling you a little bit about myself. My name is Bill, and I am twenty-one years old. Up until a few years ago, I was very unfortunate spiritually. Indeed, my present situation somewhat reflects this fact. I guess by now you know that I am housed in the prison system of this state.
I was born in a Baltimore suburb to a fine family consisting of my mother, father, two brothers, and two sisters. I was raised in the Roman Catholic Church and even attended a parochial grade school. I started out as a relatively good child and continued so up until around the fourth grade. Yes, as early as the fourth grade I was on my way to a long road of filth of every kind. I started by getting involved with others who had the habit of stealing anything and everything. By age eleven I found it quite amusing to obtain entry into private premises in order to steal and vandalize. Of course, eventually I was caught and brought before a judge. I was fortunate this time not to receive any punishment for my crimes.
Time passed, and soon I was involved in every kind of unlawful act a person my age could get into. Time and time again I was caught and punished accordingly.
Of course, this kind of behavior caused my parents and loved ones much sorrow. Even with all their efforts to help me, I just seemed to get worse. As time passed, I was introduced to many of the radical, subversive factions of our society and the things that went along with them. It seems I went from one extreme to another trying to find a purpose in life. I was, of course, eventually introduced to one of the strongest underminers of all that is good—drugs. I experimented and tried to find myself using all the inventions of man. However, as time passed, I sensed my degenerated position. I soon realized I must pull myself from this hell on earth; so with all the courage I could muster, I managed to get accepted in the United States Army.
Once in the army and away from my old surroundings, I was able to muster some faith in God, of which I always had a little portion. I remember reading in the Bible and pondering the true meaning of the many prophecies. I even tried to get reactivated in the Roman Catholic Church. That, however, soon subsided, and I was on my way seeking and looking. I remember pouring out my soul in prayer much more frequently during this period, but I would always manage to find myself reunited with one of my various vices. Eventually I was transferred to another area. There I found a small group of seekers after the truth who interpreted God in their own way. I remember it was there that I thanked God for my restoration of faith, but I still was not satisfied.
Finally I became discontented and discouraged with the army. I was due to be transferred to Vietnam, so I decided to go absent without leave. Leaving the army behind, I traveled from the west coast to the east. Eventually I ended up back at my home. My parents were disappointed in me, of course, but they sympathized with me and consented to let me stay at home.
Well, before too long I was back in trouble, and I was getting worse. One night I happened to come across a gun. This led to other things, and I soon talked myself into using it for gaining money. Leaving details aside, I did use it and was caught. I was detained in the county jail to await trial. While awaiting my trial, I had occasion to visit a library they had there. There were a number of books dealing with religion that I asked to see. One of these was entitled Religious Truths Defined, by Joseph Fielding Smith, Jr. To this day I don’t know how that book got there. But praise be to God for allowing a sinner like me to even read it.
I commenced reading the book, which compares the doctrine of many contemporary religious establishments to those of the church called The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. To me it seemed that even a blind person could see the obvious truths the book professed. After all this I had found the true church. That night I prayed to God, and I told him I believed. I didn’t ask if it were true; I told him I knew it was true.
Brothers and sisters, there are no words I know that can describe the tremendous joy and will to do good continuously that I received from an enormously gigantic outpouring of the Holy Ghost the next morning. I was dazed. I couldn’t believe what was happening. Why God led me to that book and what he has planned for me, I don’t know. But I do know that I have found the true church and the true God. I know that God is real, that Jesus Christ is his Only Begotten. I know the Holy Ghost does exist and that he works on the hearts of men.
Well, I was eventually punished for my wrongs and crimes. I thought that God had let me down at first. However, I stayed in contact with his church continuously and was strengthened more and more. Eventually I quit smoking and drinking, and all my vices and bad habits have almost completely vanished. I have managed to get my high school equivalent and now I’m close to graduation from junior college with a degree in business administration. I have almost two years in seminary work completed and have managed to read the standard works a number of times. I have read many of the other books related to the Church and have followed the Church as closely as possible. To my regret, however, I did receive an undesirable discharge from the army, for which I am really sorry. I surely will try to make it up.
I recently started receiving the missionary discussions and anxiously await the opportunity to be baptized, to receive the gift of the Holy Ghost, and to get my patriarchal blessing. I believe in everything the Church says and does and can’t wait to be active in God’s work.
That is an extra-short version of my life’s story. Indeed, I could probably fill a couple of volumes with the complete version. But all in all, I have no doubts whatsoever concerning God’s church and work. How I look forward to the day I can be in it.
As for advice and suggestions, brothers and sisters, what can I tell you that hasn’t been told you by the prophets and authorities? I will say, Beware of the ways of the world. Be not concerned with societal standards or resulting sub-societies. “Fear God and keep his commandments, for that is the whole duty of man,” the Psalmist said. Please, trust God. Be pure. Don’t go through what I did, or even a minute portion of what I did. There’s no pleasure in it, only grief. So with that I will end my speaking. I give thanks to God above for bringing me this far, and for the change in my heart and the chance to tell someone my story so that maybe they can avoid what I went through. I also give thanks for all the great people I’ve met since my affiliation, for truly you are saints. May the Lord God of Israel be with you always and forever. Amen.

It seemed like ever since we left Sugar Creek, the plains had been fighting us with wind, rain, and bad trails. Father said, “We have done well to cover seven miles today, but our wagons are in bad shape and we’ll be spending the next few days repairing them. Besides, if there is a storm tonight—and the sky gives every appearance of delivering one—the ground will be too muddy tomorrow for the few tired teams we have to move the wagons.”
Just as we finished setting up camp, another storm set in. But in spite of the rain, the Jacksons came over to our tent and ate their dinner with us as was their custom. After dinner we sang a few songs, to the accompaniment of the wild wind and thunder. When the Jacksons left, we fetched our bedrolls and had prayer. Then father put out the lantern.
The dark tent suddenly seemed less homey. The wind shivered its sides and the icy rain drove right through the canvas. I felt sad thinking about our comfortable home we had abandoned in Nauvoo. But I was too tired to be bothered for long and was soon sleeping soundly.
It seemed like I had only been asleep for about five minutes when I awoke to find Father clutching my shoulder, trying to rouse me. “What’s the matter?” I grumbled.
“The storm frightened off some of the horses last night. All of the boys and men in camp are going out to round them up.” Father handed me my boots and added, “I don’t know about the rest of the families, but we’ll never get anywhere without all of our animals.”
I sure will be glad when we catch up with the other Saints, I thought. I missed my friends who had gone ahead and hated the idea of our family being stranded out on the plains alone for even a week waiting for another horse. I pulled on my boots and tucked in my shirt. Just then my stomach growled noisily. Father laughed. “Come on. Sister Jackson’s fixing some breakfast for us, then we’ll have prayer and start out.”
If there was anyone whose breakfast could make me get out of bed, it was Sister Jackson’s. She made the best biscuits I’ve ever eaten. On the way over to the Jackson’s tent, I noticed that the wind was still blowing, but it wasn’t as vicious as the night before. The sky was cloudless. We might be cold while we search, I thought. But at least we won’t get rained on.
After everyone finished breakfast, we had a prayer and then all the boys and men in camp divided up into pairs. I was to go with Brother Jackson. We headed out on foot toward the southeast, with some leftover breakfast biscuits in our pockets and two canteens of water. We searched for a good four hours and found nothing but a few blurred tracks on the muddy plains.
Brother Jackson and I finally stopped to rest and eat the biscuits we’d brought. We were discussing whether we should head back to camp when I heard it. At first I thought the sound was just the whimpering wind. But it kept coming, mournful and low, even when the wind dropped for a minute.
“Do you hear that, Brother Jackson?” I asked.
He cocked his ear forward as though he thought it would sharpen his hearing. “Don’t hear a thing, Jonathan,” he answered.
“Sounds like it’s coming from over there.” I pointed toward a patch of scrub not far off.
Brother Jackson plugged his canteen and pushed himself to his feet with a groan. “We better go and see,” he said.
About a quarter mile away we found our family’s horse, Josy, lying between two large bushes.
“She’s been bit by a rattler,” muttered Brother Jackson.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“Just look at that leg! Sore as can be. And her nose is all swelled up too. It was a rattler, all right, no doubt about it.”
“What can we do?”
“Not much.” Brother Jackson’s eyes looked a little misty.
“We can’t just leave her here to die!” I shouted. “We need her too much.” I was almost in tears.
Brother Jackson put his hand on my shoulder. “I know how you feel, son.” He paused and then added. “She might make it on her own if she keeps still and has water. Then again, maybe there’s time to get back to camp for some snake-master root for her. Anyway we won’t give up.”
“Let’s head back to camp then,” I said, ready to run all the way back if necessary in order to save Josy.
“Hold on, Jonathan!” Brother Jackson grabbed both my shoulders and looked straight at me. “You need to stay here to keep Josy calm and give her some water every now and then.” My face must have shown how much I didn’t want to be left alone. Brother Jackson gently added, “It may save her life.”
I looked around at the empty surroundings. Then I looked at Josy. She might die if I didn’t stay. All I could say was, “All right.”
“Good,” said Brother Jackson. He helped me build a fire and then took one last drink from his canteen and handed it to me. “Keep these canteens warm by the fire and try to get Josy to drink a bit. But mind you save some water for yourself, and don’t go getting yourself bit by no rattler either.” He gave me an encouraging slap on the back and then strode off toward camp.
I sat on a rock and put my head in my hands to pray, but mostly I just shed a few tears. A moan from Josy brought me around. I took off my neckerchief and wet it with the warmed water.
“There, girl, everything will be all right,” I murmured as I wiped the horse’s forehead. I wondered if she could tell how frightened I was. “Just relax.” I put a little water in my cupped hand for her to drink, and she was able to take some.
I reckon I nursed Josy off and on for about three hours. Between times I just lay next to her and tried not to think of the lonely plains. But every time the wind stirred a bush, my heart jumped, and I thought it might be another rattlesnake.
Finally the wind died down and it was warmer. I guess the sun made me drowsy because I fell asleep. When I woke up, I couldn’t remember where I was for a minute. It was getting dark and a mist was coming up. Then Josy made a noise. She was not lying by my side anymore, but was standing up! The swelling of her nose had gone down some, and her leg didn’t look too bad either.
Brother Jackson wasn’t anywhere to be seen. I thought he should have returned by now, so I called, “Hal-loo!” hoping that he would be close by searching for us. The mist made my voice sound like I was in an empty room. There was no answer.
The fog increased, and the little light there was began to fade. I decided to head back to camp. “Come on, girl,” I said, “let’s go home.” Josy seemed to understand and quietly followed behind me as I started back in the direction we had come.
The farther we walked the darker it got. The fog was setting in good and thick. At first I kept calling out, “Brother Jackson!” every few minutes. But after a while I quit. Josy seemed to be doing well. I thought she’d be fine if I could get her back to camp and let her rest.
We walked on and on. I wasn’t certain any longer in which direction we were going. All the time we walked I kept praying that we’d get back to camp and that Josy would live. I prayed for Brother Jackson, too, wherever he was. I had almost decided we should stop for the night when I heard a wisp of music. This is it, I thought. I just knew I was done for and that it was angels singing their choruses while coming to get me.
Then I recognized the song. It was “Gentle Annie!” And our camp band was playing it!
It was hard to tell exactly which way the music was coming from, because the fog did strange things to sound. But the music was getting louder, so I knew we must be headed in the right direction. I think Josy heard the music, too, for her spirits seemed to pick up just as mine had.
Before long I could see the glow of a campfire through the fog, and gradually the outline of the wagons appeared.
“Jonathan, is that you?” my father called as he ran out to greet me. He grabbed me and swooped me up off the ground. “I’m sure glad to see you. The band’s been playing for two hours, hoping you’d hear it—ever since we found Brother Jackson.”
“Brother Jackson?”
“Yes. Brother Edwards and I found him as we were coming back from searching for the horses. Seems he fell and hit his head and knocked himself out. We couldn’t figure out what he was saying about you.”
I explained about finding Josy and the snakebite as we entered camp.
“We organized a search party for you, but the fog became too thick and we all had to come back.” Father looked at Josy’s leg and shook his head unbelievingly. “And to think that you made it back—and with Josy too.”
I smiled. “Will Brother Jackson be all right?” I asked.
“Yes, but he needs to rest for a few days. By the time we get the wagons repaired I hope both he and Josy will be ready to travel.”
I was happier at that moment than I had been for a long time. Josy was going to be fine. And I had learned that it didn’t matter where I was as long as I was with my family, for that’s where home really is!

“I thought the church I used to belong to was the only church around,” says David Falentino Benod. “But I wasn’t really satisfied with it. At school, when the rest of the class went to chapel, I used to hide in the bathroom. I’d seen the missionaries in the streets before, and one day my father invited them in to teach us. On Sunday we went to church and then to a baptism, and we felt wonderful. We set a date right there for the baptism of our family of nine.
Of course, joining the Church is not always an easy step. Many times it means leaving old friends behind, and often parents and brothers and sisters don’t understand. “The hardest thing to do,” says Llissel Ventura, “is to explain to our friends why we follow the Word of Wisdom. Many here smoke and drink and take drugs. They often tease us. But I just drink my jugo de china (orange juice), and I’m fine.”
Luis Espinal has found an interesting solution to this kind of peer pressure. “I know people who have vices and they would really like to get over them, but they don’t think they have anyone to help them. I try to be a good friend to them, and I bring them all to church. Some leave, but some continue coming, and some become members.”
All over the Dominican Republic you’ll find teens with this longing to reach out to others. In fact, when asked what they wanted the rest of the world’s youth to know about them, the Dominican teens replied:
“Tell them we love them. We want to meet them someday. We may not be very elegant, but we’re very nice and always happy.”
“Tell them we’re all a team.”
“Tell them we think it’s “bien chevere” (really cool) to be members of this church.”
“Tell them that the Church is very important in our lives. We may be different from them in some ways, but we all have the same goals and dreams.”
“Tell them we know the Church is true and that God loves us all. Christ did a very marvelous thing for us—he paid for our sins. He has given us light, and we’re trying to let our lights shine so those around us can see too.”
The light of the gospel. That’s it. That’s what enables the Dominican seminary students to “see” even when the electricity goes out. That’s what enables them to recognize the truth when it comes knocking on their doors. That’s what makes them so eager to serve missions and help their friends. It’s the light of the gospel that fuels their fires and helps them forge a republic of faith.

A new senior companion faced a sophisticated woman lawyer who was polite but very intellectual. When the missionary asked her who the boy prophet saw in the column of light, she answered, “I am an atheist.” The elder didn’t really understand the implication, so he repeated the question. She answered again, “I am an atheist. You want me to say that Joseph Smith saw the Father and the Son, but I do not believe in God.”

The elder had never encountered an atheist before, and his first impulse was to give up and leave, but the Spirit said, “No, she will listen. Just answer the questions for her.” So the elder proceeded and said, “You are right. He saw the Father and the Son.” He continued with the presentation, but instead of asking questions directly, he asked them indirectly and answered them himself for her.

At the end of the presentation he taught her how we pray, and then courageously asked her to kneel with them and to be the voice. She did kneel and did pray to her Heavenly Father. Never again did she say that she was an atheist. She and her family subsequently were baptized.

Lucio Gil Díez, bishop of the Belén Ward, Santa Cruz Bolivia Equipetrol Stake, finds one of his primary concerns is helping new converts stay committed. “I know how it feels to be new in the Church,” he says. As a young man out of work, he went with a family member to a chapel under construction. He was introduced as an “investigator.” “What is that?” he asked, looking around the construction site. “I haven’t come to investigate anything.” But he soon did investigate and eventually join the Church. He was called as a bishop for the first time at age 27.

Knowing how important finding friends can be to new converts, Bishop Díez supports weekly fellowship evenings held on Mutual nights—as do many wards and stakes throughout Bolivia—to encourage greater love and friendship among members, investigators, and new converts. “The ward is invited to come together Thursday evenings, and many bring friends along. Each week a different family takes charge. It’s a lot like a family home evening,” he explains.

When someone joins the Church, the ward is invited to the baptism, and the new member is invited to the fellowship evenings. “We feed them spiritually,” explains Bishop Díez, “and we give them callings.” In one family, baptized only eight months, the wife is already serving as Relief Society president; her husband, as elders quorum secretary; and their son, as deacons quorum president.

In His love for us, God has decreed that any worthy man, regardless of wealth, education, color, cultural background, or language may hold His priesthood. Thus, any properly ordained man who is clean in hand, heart, and mind can connect with the unlimited power of the priesthood. I learned this well as a young missionary years ago in the South Pacific.

My first assignment was to a small island hundreds of miles from headquarters, where no one spoke English, and I was the only white man. I was given a local companion named Feki who was serving a building mission and was a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood.

After eight seasick days and nights on a small, smelly boat, we arrived at Niuatoputapu. I struggled with the heat, the mosquitoes, the strange food, culture, and language, as well as homesickness. One afternoon we heard cries of anguish and saw a family bringing the limp, seemingly lifeless body of their eight-year-old son to us. They wailed out that he had fallen from a mango tree and would not respond to anything. The faithful father and mother put him in my arms and said, “You have the Melchizedek Priesthood; bring him back to us whole and well.”

Though my knowledge of the language was still limited, I understood what they wanted, and I was scared. I wanted to run away, but the expressions of love and faith that shone from the eyes of the parents and brothers and sisters kept me glued to the spot.

I looked expectantly at my companion. He shrugged and said, “I don’t have the proper authority. You and the branch president hold the Melchizedek Priesthood.” Grasping at that straw, I said, “Then this is the duty of the branch president.”

No sooner had I said this than the branch president walked up. He had heard the commotion and came from his garden. He was sweaty and covered with dirt and mud. I explained what had happened and tried to give the young boy to him. He stepped back and said, “I will go and wash and put on clean clothes; then we will bless him and see what God has to say.”

In near panic, I cried, “Can’t you see? He needs help now!”

He calmly replied: “I know he needs a blessing. When I have washed myself and put on clean clothes, I will bring consecrated oil, and we will approach God and see what His will is. I cannot—I will not—approach God with dirty hands and muddy clothes.” He left me holding the boy. I was speechless.

Finally he returned, clean in body and dress and, I sensed, in heart as well. “Now,” he said, “I am clean, so we will approach the throne of God.”

That marvelous Tongan branch president, with clean hands and a pure heart, gave a beautiful and powerful priesthood blessing. I felt more like a witness than a participant. The words of the Psalmist came to my mind: “Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? … He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart” (Psalms 24:3–4). On that tiny island a worthy priesthood holder ascended into the hill of the Lord, and the power of the priesthood came down from heaven and authorized a young boy’s mortal life to continue.

With the fire of faith glowing from his eyes, the branch president told me what to do. Much additional faith and effort was required, but on the third day that little eight-year-old boy, full of life, was reunited with his family.

I hope you understand and feel these truths. This was a tiny island in the midst of a huge ocean—with no electricity, no hospital, no doctors—but none of that mattered. For in addition to great love and faith, there was a branch president who held the Melchizedek Priesthood, who understood the importance of cleanliness of hand and heart and its outward expression in cleanliness of body and dress, who exercised the priesthood in righteousness and purity according to the will of God. That day his individual power in the priesthood was sufficient to connect with the unlimited power of the priesthood over earthly life.

When I look into the heavens at night and contemplate the endless galaxies therein, I am amazed at what a tiny dot our little earth is and how infinitesimally small I am. Yet I do not feel afraid, alone, insignificant, or distant from God. For I have witnessed His priesthood power connecting with clean hands and pure hearts on a tiny island in a vast ocean.

Should we feel the assignment too arduous or time-consuming, let me share with you the experience of a faithful home teacher and his companion in what was then East Germany.

Brother Johann Denndorfer had been converted to the Church in Germany, and following World War II, he found himself virtually a prisoner in his own land—the land of Hungary in the city of Debrecen. How he wanted to visit the temple! How he desired to receive his spiritual blessings! Request after request to journey to the temple in Switzerland had been denied, and he almost despaired. Then his home teacher visited. Brother Walter Krause went from the northeastern portion of Germany all the way to Hungary. He had said to his home teaching companion, “Would you like to go home teaching with me this week?”

His companion said, “When will we leave?”

“Tomorrow,” replied Brother Krause.

“When will we come back?” asked the companion.

“Oh, in about a week—if we get back then!”

And away they went to visit Brother Denndorfer. He had not had home teachers since before the war. Now, when he saw the servants of the Lord, he was overwhelmed. He did not shake hands with them; rather, he went to his bedroom and took from a secret hiding place his tithing that he had saved from the day he became a member of the Church and returned to Hungary. He presented the tithing to his home teachers and said: “Now I am current with the Lord. Now I feel worthy to shake the hands of servants of the Lord!”

Brother Krause asked him about his desire to attend the temple in Switzerland. Brother Denndorfer said: “It’s no use. I have tried and tried. The government has even confiscated my Church books, my greatest treasure.”

Brother Krause, a patriarch, provided Brother Denndorfer with a patriarchal blessing. At the conclusion of the blessing, he said to Brother Denndorfer, “Approach the government again about going to Switzerland.” And Brother Denndorfer submitted the request once again to the authorities. This time approval came, and with joy Brother Denndorfer went to the Swiss Temple and stayed a month. He received his own endowment, his deceased wife was sealed to him, and he was able to accomplish the work for hundreds of his ancestors. He returned to his home renewed in body and in spirit.

And what about the home teachers who undertook this historic and inspired visit to their brother, Johann Denndorfer?

Knowing personally each member of this human drama, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to learn that on the way from Debrecen, Hungary, to their home in East Germany, they sang aloud: “Dangers may gather—why should we fear? Jesus, our Leader, ever is near. He will protect us, comfort, and cheer. We’re joyfully, joyfully marching to our home.”

[As the play progresses, a new family enters town to join the United Order—Brother WILLIAM RUSSELL, an ailing widower, and his teenage daughter, CATHERINE ANN. The newcomers have just met BROTHER GARRISON, president of the Order. EZRA is also present.]
BROTHER RUSSELL: I wish we did have more to consecrate to the Order. But these two bags are all we own of the world. And this necklace of my daughter’s. It’s real gold.
CATHERINE ANN: Papa! No! You gave it to me when I turned sixteen. It’s mine!
PRESIDENT GARRISON: That’s all right, Miss Catherine Ann. Jewelry and keepsakes are not required. And we’ve never turned anybody away yet on account of poverty.
BROTHER RUSSELL: No, I couldn’t come and not bring something that’ll help. Please, Catherine Ann, for me?
[Slowly CATHERINE ANN takes off the necklace and gives it to her father, who hands it to PRESIDENT GARRISON.]
PRESIDENT GARRISON: When there are people starving in Orderville, we will sell this for food. Until then, I reckon we need somebody who can take very good care of it. Miss Catherine Ann, I’m asking you to be steward of this necklace.
CATHERINE ANN [taking it gratefully]: Thank you.
PRESIDENT GARRISON [smiling]: You’ll find that life here isn’t so bad as you’re expecting. If you put your heart into it, you’ll catch the vision of the Order and see it like we do.
CATHERINE ANN: To be honest, I just don’t see it at all. What’s wrong with living like—like regular folks?

I remember a personal experience that helped me learn to replace doubt with hope. I was serving as a stake president at the time. My children were small. My wife and I owned a tortilla-making business, and we worked long hours.

One of those nights, when my wife and I had to make tortillas from midnight until 3:00 a.m., three young men came to our shop. All three were high on drugs. Two of them wore ski masks and long raincoats. The raincoats hid their weapons. They threatened us, put us inside the shop, and closed the door. One stood guard outside, repeatedly shouting, “Kill them! Kill them!”

One of the young men put the barrel of his gun against my temple and forced me to lie down. The other put the barrel of his gun to my wife’s chest. I prayed that my children would not become orphans, and the Lord protected us. The robbers finally locked us in the bathroom and disappeared, driving away in my truck.

We escaped and called for help. The police came and so did my brother. As soon as possible, we took my wife home. Then my brother and I went looking, unsuccessfully, for my truck. Feeling very sad, I returned home at 5:00 a.m.

To my surprise, my wife and children were not there. A neighbor told me that my four-year-old daughter was suffering stomach pain, and they had rushed her to the hospital. Knowing that we would desperately need money for her care, I felt I had no choice but to return to the tortilla shop and fill the orders for the day. Since my wife and I were the only workers, I was alone, rushing like crazy, kneading, putting dough in the hopper, adjusting the size, running back and forth to finish tortillas and wait on customers.

By now it was 8:00 a.m. I began to reflect on the events of the night. The question went through my mind, “If you are the stake president, why is all this happening to you?”

I pushed the malicious thought aside and prayed for strength. Then I heard a voice behind me: “President.” It was my bishop and a brother from the ward, my home teachers.

The bishop said, “We don’t know how to make tortillas, so we can’t help you here. But don’t worry about your truck, your wife, your sick daughter, or your other children. You stay here and we will help you with the rest.” My eyes filled with tears of gratitude.

They took charge of everything but tortillas. That afternoon when I returned home, I found my house clean and tidy, my shirts ironed, and food waiting for me. No one was home, but I knew that the Relief Society had been there. The police had found my truck, and someone from the ward had paid to get it released.

I quickly went to see my wife and daughter. The bishop had been there and had given my daughter a blessing. She had appendicitis, but everything was under control.

As my wife and I talked, we were impressed that the bishop had not used fast offerings or items from the bishops’ storehouse to assist us. Rather, he used the resources and mercy of the members of our ward.

A few days later, while my daughter was recuperating and my wife was helping me in the tortilla shop, three women arrived. They were the mothers of the young thieves and had come to offer their apologies. They explained that the police had caught their sons. Later these mothers practically dragged their sons into the shop to ask forgiveness, and we forgave them.

Early one morning, four-year-old Max was awakened by his growling stomach. Everyone else was still sleeping.
He jumped out of bed and went quietly to the kitchen.
“I’m going to make my very own breakfast,” he said in a low voice so he wouldn’t wake anyone up.
“I think I will make myself some eggs.” He got out the frying pan, then thought, That sure sounds good, but I’m not allowed to use the stove by myself. So he put away the frying pan.
“I know—I’ll make some brown-sugar oatmeal.” But when he looked at the kettle, he remembered that he wasn’t allowed to touch it. Sometimes it had very hot water in it, and he might burn himself.
“I guess I’ll make some toast.” He got out the bread and reached for the toaster before he remembered that he wasn’t to use the toaster by himself. So he put the bread away.
Max was getting very hungry by now. But he didn’t want to wake up anybody, and he still wanted to make his own breakfast.
He had an idea. He got out the pita bread, a spoon, the peanut-butter jar, and a banana. He carefully spooned some peanut butter into the pita-bread pocket. He peeled the banana, broke it in half, and tucked one half into the pocket too. There it was, a pita surprise!
He went to the fridge and got out the milk. He was just pouring it carefully into a glass, when his mom came into the kitchen. “That looks really good!” she said. “Is this for me?”
“Uh—sure, Mom.”
Mom picked up the pita surprise from Max’s plate and took a bite. Then she took his glass of milk, drank some, and said, “This is good! You’re a sweetheart to have made my breakfast this morning. Thank you very much!”
“You’re welcome, Mom.” Max hurried to make himself another pita surprise.
Now on weekends, before Mom goes to bed, she puts out on the table the pita bread, a spoon, different spreads, and some fruit. Max-the-chef is in charge of making everyone a pita surprise for breakfast.

Anthon stepped from his doorway onto the cobbled street, hesitated, and turned back to his wife—“the best in the land” he called her.
“Are you coming, Ibine?”
His wife stepped out of the doorway. She was wrapped in woolen scarves and a heavy coat. The February night was icy cold. Their destination was the seashore, a few blocks from their home. The children followed Ibine out the door. Thorvald and Astra were too young to be baptized but not too young to be excited for their parents. Only Anthon didn’t feel excited. He was quiet and pensive while walking along the clean-swept streets of Aalborg, Denmark.
As he passed his little garden, now covered with the white of winter, he remembered the first time he had met the missionaries almost two years ago. It was in the summer of 1893. They had come by and talked with him as he stood bent over, pruning bushes.
“Those missionaries planted a sweet seed in my heart that day. It all seemed sensible,” he remembered. As he walked slowly along he remembered other things, too. “The next day the minister came, and I told him what the missionaries had told me. He tore every word to pieces, and he filled me with his talk again. The next time the elders came, I told them what the minister told me. They taught me the gospel again and planted the seed again. It soon became obvious that I had to know for myself.”
The night was very dark. The children cuddled close to their parents. The hand of tiny Thorvald squeezed his father’s and pretty little Astra clung to Ibine. Anthon looked down at Thor and remembered his own childhood. He remembered the cows he had herded, the wooden shoes he had worn in winter, his own sister who died in a terrible blizzard too far from home to get help. He remembered the worried look of his father who couldn’t support his family of nine during the mid-1800s war with Germany. He remembered working from 2:00 in the morning until 11:00 at night on a farm in order to help. He remembered crying in bed at night. “I wondered what I was sent on this earth for. I couldn’t see what good I was doing. All I could see ahead was endless work to no real worthwhile end.”
The frigid cold gripped Anton’s face, and he wondered if the children or Ibine were uncomfortable. The chilling breeze made him think of glacier ice, and he remembered learning that ice-age glaciers had left his Denmark an undulating flatland well suited to farming and agriculture. He was grateful that at least a few years of formal education were mandatory—that his country believed in the virtues of learning and working. He saw ships’ masts in the harbor poking above the fields.
He and his family were nearing the place where they would be baptized. A sick feeling of loneliness hit him in his stomach. “My homeland, my forefathers, all that has been good to me—am I giving up their trust in me for a far-fetched religion sprouted in a distant; new country?”
Then he and his little family turned the corner of the last block. They could see the ice-covered water clearly. Anthon felt the whitened wool next to his skin. He had been ordered to wear it constantly since his illness. His illness! Yes, he remembered the birth of his testimony. He had been healed after 12 months of life and death struggle with pneumonia. The elders had said that with faith and a special blessing called administration he could be healed. He had submitted to their counsel and believed. Shortly after, Anthon had resolutely cleared away the dark clouds that had been gathering around his search for truth. He told the ministers of the other churches that he could not serve two masters. (See Matt. 6:24.) They had been good neighborhood friends, but with his decision to join the Mormons, that friendship ended—the ministers gave him up as a lost soul.
Every member of the Mormon church who lived in Aalborg was there on the seashore, some holding lanterns. It was a small but cheery group. They sang hymns and smiled. But Anthon was still quiet. He looked into the faces of his beautiful children and wondered if he was doing what was right for them. He knew he would have to find a private school for them because the prejudice in the public schools against the few Mormon children was too much for such young children to bear.
The singing was over. A prayer was given to open the meeting. The missionaries asked a blessing on Brother and Sister Jensen that as they were baptized they would not fall ill from the freezing temperatures. A hole was chopped in the ice. The sacred ordinance was performed for both Anthon and his wife, Ibine. The two new members were welcomed with hugs and handshakes and sent quickly home to their warm fireplace. It was then that Anthon noticed something special—something unexpected. On their way home he found himself walking, almost skipping, with lightened step—his wife and children smiling at him all the way. The heavy burdens of worry had been lifted. He knew he had done the right thing, and above all he knew now that there was something important for him to do in life.
“I went to my former friend and minister the next day to bear him my testimony. I was so happy that I felt I could convert the whole world, and I wanted to,” he later recorded. “I wanted everyone to feel the peace and the joy that came from my baptism. And the most wonderful thing of all, I had an assurance that greater joys and greater knowledge were yet in store—not only for me but for my beautiful family.”

Kim relates the time she ran for a student-body office and got up to make her much anticipated campaign speech. She wasn’t too nervous about it, since she was used to speaking in church. But that proved to be her undoing. After elaborating on how she could help the school, she closed her speech, “in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.” It brought down the house.
Kim says it really helped to acknowledge the mistake instead of ignoring it. Everybody was laughing about it anyway, so she decided she would rather laugh with them than hide out. It made everyone much more comfortable, and even though she didn’t win the election, she was included in conversations instead of being whispered about.

I was a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood when World War II exploded upon the world. I was ordained an elder when we were all marched away to war.
I had dreams of following an older brother, Leon, who at that time was flying B-24 bombers in the Battle of Britain. I volunteered for air force pilot training.
I failed the written test by one point. Then the sergeant remembered that there were several two-point questions, and if I got half right on two of them, I could pass.
Part of the test was multiple choice. One question was “What is ethylene glycol used for?” If I had not worked in my dad’s service station, I would not have known that it is used for automobile antifreeze. And so I passed, barely.
I prayed about the physical. It turned out to be fairly routine.
You young men should not complain about schooling. Do not immerse yourself so much in the technical that you fail to learn things that are practical. Everything you can learn that is practical—in the house, in the kitchen cooking, in the yard—will be of benefit to you. Never complain about schooling. Study well, and attend always.
“The glory of God is intelligence, or, in other words, light and truth.”
“Whatever principle of intelligence we attain unto in this life, it will rise with us in the resurrection.”
We are to learn about “things that are above, and things that are beneath, things that are in the earth, and upon the earth, and in heaven.”
You can learn about fixing things and painting things and even sewing things and whatever else is practical. That is worth doing. If it is not of particular benefit to you, it will help you when you are serving other people.
I ended up in the Orient, flying the same kind of bombers that my brother flew in England. My mission, as it turned out, was in teaching the gospel in Japan as a serviceman.
Perhaps the hardest challenge of war is living with uncertainties, not knowing how it will end or if we can go ahead with our lives.
I was issued a small serviceman’s Book of Mormon that would fit into my pocket. I carried it everywhere; I read it; and it became part of me. Things that had been a question became certain to me.
The certainties of the gospel, the truth, once you understand it, will see you through these difficult times.
It was four years before we could return to our lives. But I had learned and had a sure testimony that God is our Father, that we are His children, and that the restored gospel of Jesus Christ is true.

As a teenager, Sister Kalombo Rosette Kamwanya from the D.R. Congo, now serving in the Côte d’Ivoire Abidjan West Mission, fasted and prayed for three days to find the direction God wanted her to take. In a remarkable night vision, she was shown two buildings, a chapel and what she now realizes was a temple. She began to search and soon found the chapel she had seen in her dream. The sign said, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” Sister Kamwanya was baptized and then her mother and her six brothers. Sister Kamwanya said, “When I received the gospel, I felt like a captured bird that had been liberated. My heart was filled with joy. … I had the assurance that God loves me.”9

But Bishop Carvalho did not come from a close family, and joining the Church helped him learn how to be a better parent and spouse. “I didn’t understand my responsibilities as a father. Sometimes, when I came home from work, all I could think of was how tired I was,” he explains. “The gospel was like a light that showed me the way. I began to understand my purpose as a man and as a father.”
Now, Bishop Carvalho says, he could not handle his many work and Church responsibilities without the support of his wife and two children. He says it is a great blessing to have been called as a sealer in the Swiss Temple, because temple work is so important to him. He functions in the calling when he travels to Switzerland with Portuguese temple excursion groups.

The place was solemn and forgotten as only an old graveyard can be. It was a grotesque, weedy pause between railroad tracks and decaying buildings, a shabby plot where crumbling cherubs tilted above sagging gray monuments. Grass grew high there, and the chiseled epitaphs had disappeared under a slow tide of moss. It was a good place to ignore.
That’s why it didn’t make much sense one morning when a squad of bright-faced young men and women showed up at the rusting gates with hoes and shovels and clippers and mowers, and went to work. Heads appeared in the windows of the surrounding buildings, and the questions flew. Who are they? What are they doing here? What’s in it for them? And the answers didn’t make much sense either. The young people sweating among the tombstones weren’t even from the neighborhood; no one had asked them to come, and they weren’t getting anything out of it. For all anyone knew, they might have been so many ghosts come back to spruce up their own exclusive little subdivision.
And when they left, with the weeds out, the grass mowed, and the monuments standing straight, everyone knew that the neighborhood had become a nicer place to live, but no one knew who the mysterious band of “ghosts” were, and it’s not likely they ever will.
And that suits the young men and women of the Richardson Ward in Dallas, Texas, just fine. They’ve discovered that being doers of the word instead of just hearers isn’t merely a scripture—it’s a beautiful, happy principle of life. It means doing the yard work of widows in the area, helping to maintain the chapel, working on community projects, and even cleaning up an abandoned graveyard—just because they need doing.
Whether cleaning up a graveyard, staging a dance festival, or spreading the truth, they have discovered where happiness is at. It’s at home—wherever you are—if you’re living the gospel.