Gospel Story Finder

When I was a teenager, my six-week-old sister, Carol, had whooping cough. Those were the days before antibiotics. I was working then as a mechanic at a bus station. I can remember coming home one night after my shift, seeing the lights on in my home, and knowing that it was a bad sign.
As I walked into the house, I saw Carol lying on the dining room table. She was having difficulty breathing and was turning blue from lack of air. We quickly summoned a neighbor, who joined Dad in giving her a blessing. I thought she was going to die, but I watched her stay alive by the power of the priesthood as they got her to the hospital. She stayed there for two or three weeks, and I continued to see the Lord bless her and help her get well. That experience of seeing the priesthood in action impressed itself forever upon my mind.

A personal story illustrates this council. Shortly after the flood, my family moved from Rexburg to Salmon, Idaho, which is 160 miles northwest of here. We farmed and raised beef cows, alfalfa and grain. One summer, when I was about 15, we had been experiencing a severe drought. I remember one particular day when my dad pulled up along the side of the tractor and waved for me to stop. With a concerned look on his face and a serious tone in his voice he said, "We need to pray and ask Heavenly Father for rain". Without any more discussion or hesitation my dad knelt down in the dirt next to the tractor, and I did the same.

My dad prayed.

My dad taught me, and more importantly showed me, the power of prayer. I don't remember exactly when the rain came, but I remember we received the moisture the crops needed, and I knew that my dad's prayer was answered.

I was born and raised in Marin County, California—at that time the fifth-wealthiest county in the nation. Living just north of San Francisco, I grew up literally surrounded by great mists, since on most days a heavy, dark fog rolled in off the Pacific Ocean.

My parents raised me in the Episcopal Church. I was baptized by Father Ewald, my dad’s adoptive father. My godmother was my mom’s best friend, a wonderful Jewish woman named Ann, and my godfather was my Uncle Gene, who became an Episcopal priest. From age nine to twelve I served as an altar boy.

However, I stopped attending church at age twelve and spent my youth playing sports. I cared nothing for books or schooling, only for baseball, basketball, tennis—and girls. I lived the superficial and worldly life typical of teens in that time and place.

My dad was a police officer and my mom an office manager, so we had only moderate means. But I spent my youth surrounded by spacious designer homes, expensive cars, exclusive tennis clubs, and well-dressed wealthy people living the so-called good life of parties, vacations, and the partaking of substances that brought ephemeral pleasures. I aspired to have all this. My goals were to play professional tennis and teach at a fancy tennis club. In other words, I wanted to live in the great and spacious building.

Meanwhile, one of my mother’s coworkers, Mrs. LoDonna Leininger, shared a copy of the Book of Mormon with Mom. Mom did not read the book but put it on the top shelf of her bookcase in the living room.

One day, at the end of November 1977, when I was nearly nineteen and was a freshman at the local junior college, I was at home relaxing and watching TV. Then I had what was—for me—a most unusual thought: since I was now a college student, I should perhaps try to become an “educated person” and actually read a book not assigned by a teacher. I went over to Mom’s bookcase. My eyes were drawn to a blue paperback book in the left-hand corner of the top shelf. I had a strong feeling that I should read that book.

So I reached up and took the Book of Mormon down and began to read. From the first verse I experienced a strange, powerful, and wonderful feeling, kind of like shivers up and down my spine. I thought a window must be open, so I checked the windows for a draft. After about twenty minutes of reading, I had to leave for work.

When I got home that night, I had that same strong feeling to read the Book of Mormon. So I brought it up to my room, sat at my desk, and read. I read through the night until about six in the morning, repeatedly experiencing this strange, strong feeling. The next day I read for a few more hours.

That evening when I came home from work, I was very tired and looking forward to sleep. But again I had the strong feeling that I should read the Book of Mormon. So I sat at my desk and again read through the night. I had many questions: Could these things really be true? Could God really exist? I came to 3 Nephi 11 and was deeply impressed with all that Jesus said and did.

At about 5 a.m. I was out of energy, sore all over, and nodding off to sleep. At about twenty pages from the end of the book, I decided that I would get some sleep and finish the book later. Then I had an overwhelming feeling and a very clear thought to finish the book now.

At the same time, I felt renewed energy, and the soreness disappeared. So I stayed in the chair and continued reading. I came to some verses that Mrs. Leininger had marked. She had underlined the verses in red pen, highlighted them with a yellow highlighter, and written in the margin in all caps, “Very important verses. Read these carefully!”

So I carefully read these marked verses—yes, they were Moroni 10:3–5—that included the invitation “And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true.”6 I had never prayed from my heart before, although as a kid in church I had knelt and recited written prayers from the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer. So I knelt at the side of my bed and, with faith in the Jesus Christ I had read about in the Book of Mormon, I asked God to forgive my sins and asked if the Book of Mormon was true.

It is not possible for me to adequately express what then happened, but I will try. I felt the same type of wonderful spiritual feelings I had felt since I first began reading the Book of Mormon but at an incredibly intensified level of power and depth. It was as if a river of pure water rushed through me, washing away all my sins. It was also like a ­raging fire purged away my old self. I felt completely clean and like an entirely new person.

Not only was there great power, but the depth of love I felt surpasses my ability to express it. I felt that although I did not know God, God knew me perfectly. And although God knew me ­perfectly—with all my sinfulness, pride, vanity, and selfishness—He still loved me perfectly. Likewise, the sure knowledge that the Book of Mormon was the word of God was seared into my soul.

I was changed in a profound way. I no longer wanted to be what I was and do what I was doing. I wanted only to do what God wanted me to do. I wanted only to love and serve others and tell them about Jesus Christ and the Book of Mormon. In my mind’s eye I saw glimpses of myself teaching various people and groups about Jesus Christ and the Book of Mormon. I somehow knew that this would be my future.

I climbed into bed but felt more wide awake and filled with enthusiasm than I ever had in my life. As I lay in my bed thinking about what had just happened, I heard Mom downstairs getting ready for work. I went down and told her I had read the Book of Mormon that her coworker Mrs. Leininger had given her. I asked if she would ask Mrs. Leininger to call me and answer some questions that I had about the book.

Mrs. Leininger called that evening, and we spoke for about three hours. She invited me to come to a “special church meeting” the next day, and I accepted.

When I was young, we moved to the city of Cartagena. Many boys there were smoking marijuana. I feel that I was blessed because I was never invited to do it. When I was ten or eleven, I became a Boy Scout. I was the only Scout in my public school, so I was chosen to be the leader for many things. I wore my uniform in parades. I collected things for the poor people in the city. I experienced the joy of giving.

If you were an Indian living in the jungles of Colombia, you’d be aware of another unusual father, the poison arrow frog. He’s small enough to fit into a teaspoon, very colorful, and a secretion on his skin is so poisonous that the Indians make poison-tipped arrows from it. If a small mammal or bird is shot with these arrows, it is immediately paralyzed. Some believe that this frog’s poison is deadly even to large animals.
This beautiful jungle creature and caring father takes care of his offspring right from the time that they hatch. The tiny tadpoles wriggle onto their father’s sticky back and hold on with their suction-cup mouths while their father carries them piggyback through the jungle.
Since tadpoles need their skin kept moist, every once in a while the father frog will go to a pool and dunk them. They aren’t strong enough to swim yet, so they cling tightly to their father’s back. After a few weeks of growing, they are ready to live in the water. One day when their father enters a pool, they drop off his back and swim away.

Just eight weeks ago I was holding a mission district conference on the island of Chiloe, an interior location in the south of Chile that gets few visitors. Imagine the responsibility I felt in addressing these beautiful people when it was pointed out to me that a very elderly man seated near the front of the chapel had set out on foot at five o’clock that morning, walking for four hours to be in his seat by nine o’clock, for a meeting that was not scheduled to begin until eleven o’clock. He said he wanted to get a good seat. I looked into his eyes, thought of times in my life when I had been either too casual or too late, and thought of Jesus’ phrase, “I have not found so great faith, no, not in Israel.”

In 1895, Charles E. Jensen (from Riverton, Utah) and James R. Welker (from Safford, Arizona) where sent from Tongatapu to the northern islands of Vava'u to open the door for the Lord's work. Elder Jensen wrote in his journal about the call to go to Vava'u:

August 27, 1895: In the evening we had a counseling meeting, at this meeting myself and Brother Welker were chosen to go to Vava'u to open up that part of the Tongan mission. This was quite a task as I was unlearned in the language and my companion also, and also to leave our good house and brethren and friends and to go where the servants of God had not been yet (Jensen, Journal #1, p.142-143).

Just imagine for a moment. Here we have two elders, who were unlearned in the Tongan language, and they were called to open the way for missionary work in Vava'u. It is clear from Elder Jensen's journals that he struggled with learning the Tongan language. Nevertheless, he was committed to learning the language. He studied and prayed. Elder Jensen woke up every morning, he went to a bush nearby his home, and he knelt down and poured his soul to God. In this "sacred grove," Elder Jensen expressed his deep gratitude to God; he pleaded with God to help him learn the Tongan language. In the end, the Lord answered his prayers, and he was able to understand the Tongan language. Elder Jones, one of Elder Jensen's companions in Vava'u, took an interesting approach to studying the Tongan language. He studied the Tongan language by making a handwritten copy of the Tongan dictionary. The missionaries did not have a copy of the Tongan dictionary so they borrowed the dictionary from a friend, and then make a handwritten copy of it. To me, these two elders exemplified the words of the Doctrine & Covenants 88:118, "seek learning, even by study and also by faith."

In Vava'u, Elder Jensen and Elder Welker met Sione Pota, a preacher in the Free Church of Tonga. At the time there were only two Protestant churches in Vava'u, the Free Church of Tonga (Siasi Tonga Tau'at?ina) and the Wesleyan Church (Siasi U?siliana). Both churches strongly opposed the work of the two LDS missionaries. It was during this time that Sione Pota developed a close friendship with the two LDS missionaries. It is not clear from the journals how a preacher of a Protestant church became close friends with the LDS elders. Somehow, Sione Pota reached across both cultural and religious divide and embraced the missionaries. In other words, Sione Pota opened a path, t? e fihi, and laid the foundation for the Lord's work in the Vava'u islands.

After serving in Vava'u for several months, Elder Jensen remained while Elder Albert Jones (from Provo, Utah) replaced Elder Welker. Shortly after Elder Jones arrived in Vava'u, the missionaries needed to find a new home. In June 1896, they began looking for a new home in Vava'u. Sione Pota, heard about the missionaries situation and he offered his home to Elder Jensen and Elder Jones. Elder Jensen recorded the event in his journal:

July 2, 1896: "I arose about 7 o'clock washed and combed then started to read my bible when a native friend [Sione Pota] came in, he having heard that we would have to move from the place where we were then living, offered us his house, [he] said he did not care for any pay, but desired that we should come and live in his house. We decided the best way to keep a friend was to treat him well...The afternoon we went to his [Sione Pota's] place and made arrangement with him for his house for six months" (Jensen, Journal #2, p. 124).

It was a great risk for preacher to invite the missionaries to live in his home. I am sure that many of the people in Vava'u were wondering why a preacher would invite LDS missionaries to live in his home.

On July 9, 1896, Elder Jensen and Elder Jones officially moved into Sione Pota's home. It was at this home that many of the people of Vava'u heard about the principles of the gospel. The missionaries reported that people came to their home and asked questions about the Gospel. It was also at this home that the missionaries ran a school (taught English) and held their Sunday services. Every Sunday, the elders called the meeting by pounding a lali, a large Tongan wood drum. In Tonga, during this period, pounding a lali was the common method for letting people know that Church was about to begin. Tongans, both young and old, flocked to Sione Pota's home to hear the message of the Restored Gospel from the missionaries. It was not always easy to get people to attend their Sunday services. Young people were more interested while older folks were not so receptive. Perhaps it was difficult because the missionaries did not have a chapel to hold their meetings. Sometimes the Sunday service had about 12 people and other times they had only four people in attendance. Sunday services consisted of each elder speaking for about 30 minutes on the principles of the Gospel, and then performing the sacrament ordinance.

After serving in Vava'u for nearly a year, the elders finally saw the fruit of their labor. Yes, they had their first baptism in the island of Vava'u. Both Elder Jensen and Elder Jones noted this significant event in their journals.

July 12, 1896: "This was one of the happiest day that we had seen for a long time, at 11 am we commenced out meeting as usual but to a larger congregation than usual and some very high chiefs was present. I spoke first and the spirit of God rested upon me, and I spoke with ease and power. After meeting we had the privilege of taking two souls into the water of baptism the first two in the Vava'u group and in the evening confirmed them members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and after having confirmed them they bore a faithful testimony each which caused our souls to rejoice and we instructed them and encouraged them to do the will of God" (Jensen, Journal #2, p. 131).

July 12, 1896: "...May the glory be given to Him for opening the hearts of two of this people that they endure the mockery for the Gospel sake, and may many more will follow their example. I had almost given up in the hopes on even baptizing one while on this mission as my time is getting short and the people seem so indifferent to the Gospel. This evening at 7 o'clock as prearranged Namosi and Toutai came down and after offering up a few words of prayer we confirmed them to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, Bro. Jensen confirmed Namosi and I Sione Tania [Tanea] (Toutai is only a nickname)" (Jones, Journal #5, p. 23).

Many of the people in Vava'u mocked Namosi and Toutai for joining the Church. Shortly after their baptism, Toutai returned to his island, Ha'apai, and Namosi remained in Vava'u with the two missionaries. You can only imagine what it was like to be the only Tongan member of the Church in all of Vava'u. Elder Jensen and Elder Jones understood the challenges that Namosi faced. As good shepherds, Elder Jensen and Elder Jones invested time and energy in nurturing and strengthening Namosi's testimony.

Namosi faced many challenges but he remained faithful to the gospel.

Elder Jones wrote about one of the challenges Namosi faced:July 30, 1896: "This evening Namosi came in and spent the evening, he told us that some were talking of putting him up as the mayor (or bulekolo) at his island Huga but because he has joined the Church they would not have him because he would not work hand in hand with the Free Church..." (Jones, Journal #5, p. 31).

In actuality, people refused to give Namosi the chiefly title Fulivai. Namosi did not care about being a chief. All he wanted to do was to remain true to his testimony of the Gospel.

Even with the baptism of Namosi and Toutai, and the assistance of Sione Pota, the progress of the work was slow. The early years of the LDS Church in Tonga were difficult. The missionaries faced great oppositions from other churches. The missionaries only baptized three people in Vava'u (Namosi, Toutai, and Olsen). Only five years after the arrival of the missionaries in Tonga, the Tonga District closed and all the LDS missionaries returned to Samoa. It was a very sad time for the missionaries, for Namosi, and for Sione Pota. The Sunday the missionaries gave their farewell speech, no one came. Elder Jensen wrote about the event:

Sunday March 14, 1897: "At 11 o'clock we gave our usual sign for meeting but no one came to hear our farewell speeches. This is the second time since I had been in Vava'u that we could not hold a Sunday meeting..." (Jensen, Journal #3, p. 60).

Sione Pota was so sad when he found out that the missionaries were leaving Vava'u. He wrote these two moving letters to Elder Jensen and Elder Jones. I quote a few lines from Sione Pota's farewell letters to the missionaries:

March 16, 1897: To the Missionary of the Church of Jesus Christ.
Dear Mr. Jenisini,
I write you this letter to express my love. Ever since I heard that the boat was on its way to take you, I have not been able to rest. We have become friends... You're like a father to all of us. Misi Jenisini, keep in your heart our love and memories. I will never forget you. Send my love to your mother, to your children, to your extended family, to your family, 'ofa atu, Jone Pota Uaine.
Dear Mr. Jones,
...I am almost unable to complete my letter as memories of our relationship are coming to my mind. The Lord has been with us in our stay and in our work. I will never forget you while I am still alive. Please express my love to your family, to your father and your mother, to your brothers and sisters, and to all your kin. 'Ofa atu, J.P. Uaine, Your True Kin (Ko ho kaiga mo'oni).

The work of Elder Jensen, Elder Jones, Namosi, and Sione Pota (and also Elder Welker and Elder Koffoed) cleared a path for the Lord's work in Vava'u. I am sure that as the missionaries were leaving, they probably wondered what would happen to all the people that they have worked so hard to introduce to the Gospel.

In 1907 (after 10 years), 'Iki Tupou Fulivai, invited the LDS missionaries to return to Vava'u. 'Iki Tupou Fulivai is Namosi's first cousin and Sione Pota next door neighbor. Elder Heber J. McKay and Elder W.O. Facer returned to Vava'u to re-open the Church in Neiafu, Vava'u. Namosi was still alive in 1907, and the elders lived in Namosi's home. The Church has remained in Tonga since 1907.

A cloud of dust blew along the canal bank where Sharif braked to a stop. And the hot Egyptian wind made his blue and white striped galabeya (shirt-like robe) whip around his legs as he climbed off the bicycle. He smiled at the big boy in the shirt and pants.
“Mutashakkir (Thank you) for letting me ride it, Karim! Your bicycle is beautiful!”
“You’re welcome,” replied the boy. “I must go now. My father wants me to take some medicine to one of his patients.”
Sharif watched his friend pedal off toward the village of mud-brick houses. He scuffed at the ground with his bare feet.
“Oh, I wish, I wish, I wish,” he recited to himself. “I wouldn’t even care if it fell out of the sky and hit me right on top of my head!”
“What’s going to hit you on your head?” asked a small voice behind him.
Startled, Sharif looked around. His little sister, Nadia, was standing there.
“Aeeb (For shame), Nadia! You scared me,” scolded Sharif.
“Ana aasefa (I’m sorry), my brother. But what’s going to fall on your head?” Nadia asked again, twisting one dark braid around her finger.
“Oh, that,” answered Sharif. “I was wishing for a bicycle, my sister. But Baba (Papa) says it would cost more pounds than he earns in a whole year! Someday though …”
“Sharif! Nadia!” a voice called.
“That’s Baba,” said Nadia. “I forgot that he sent me to get you.”
“Yalla beena (Come on, let’s go)!” shouted Sharif.
He pulled his galabeya up to his knees and off they ran toward home, Nadia’s braids flying in the air behind her.
Sharif’s father smiled when the children reached him. “Sharif, I have a big job for you,” he said. “Your Uncle Hamid is not feeling well this summer. Since your cousin Tarek cannot deliver the milk to all the customers by himself, I want you to help until your uncle is better. Of course you will have to ride Uncle Hamid’s old bicycle, with the milk cans on the sides.”
Sharif could hardly believe his ears. He would get to ride a bicycle every morning!
“Oh, Baba!” he answered. “I am sorry that Uncle Hamid is sick. But I will do a good job of helping Tarek. You’ll see!”
The next morning Sharif was up before the sun. He ate his beans, bread, and white cheese quickly, then ran next door to Cousin Tarek’s house. Together they went out to milk the water buffaloes. Then they attached two covered milk cans to each of the bicycles, Tarek’s shiny new one and Uncle Hamid’s old one.
The cans were so heavy it made hard work pedaling along the dirt road. Riding very slowly at first, Sharif delivered milk to the houses on one side of the road while Tarek took the other side. At each house Sharif carefully lifted a can off his bicycle and poured some creamy white milk into the pan that was brought out to him.
“Mutashakkir,” the customers said to Sharif and dropped the shiny piasters (coins) into his hand.
The scorching sun rose in the sky. Sharif was hot, and the splashing of the milk as he poured made him thirsty. He tried to ignore the cool sound and to become better at riding the bicycle. He learned to make change when his customers did not have the exact number of piasters.
Summer was almost over and Uncle Hamid was feeling better. Now Sharif had only one more day to ride the bicycle on the milk deliveries.
That night his uncle called to him from his front door. “Tarek tells me you have done a good job of helping him,” he said. “Since tomorrow is your last day delivering, how would you like to keep the bicycle for the rest of the day? You may bring it to me before it is time to take the milk the next morning.”
“Oh, Uncle!” cried Sharif excitedly. “That is just what I’d love to do! And I will take very good care of your bicycle!”
The next day Sharif worked faster than ever. He didn’t even think of being thirsty. All he could think of was having the bicycle to himself when he was through.
At last he and Tarek returned to the house and took off the empty milk cans. “Mas salama (See you later)!” he called to his uncle as he pedaled away down the road.
Sharif pumped as hard as he could, and the breeze cooled his face. It was like flying! He waved to the fellaheen (farmers) working in the fields. He weaved in and out the rows of tall palm trees.
At last he reached the main road that led after many miles to the great city of Cairo. The smooth pavement stretched invitingly before him. Up and onto the pavement he went, urging the bicycle to greater and greater speeds. He pedaled until his legs were only blurs, then leaned back and let the bicycle coast.
Cars and buses roared by, enveloping him in clouds of smoke. But he didn’t care. Faster and faster he sped, watching the pavement under him whiz by. A shout made him jerk his head up. “Haaseb (Look out)!”
Not more than thirty feet in front of him was a flock of sheep being herded across the road. It was too late to stop!
Sharif pulled the bicycle sharply to the right. There was a screech of rubber and clatter of metal as bike and boy careened off the road and into the ditch.
Sharif lay still for a moment. What happened? he wondered. Then he remembered. The sheep and grumbling sheepherder were already across the road and into the field on the other side.
Sharif looked at the bike, and a sick feeling crept into his stomach. The handlebars were twisted, and one wheel was bent out of shape.
He pulled himself and the bicycle upright, then began the long walk home, pushing the crippled bicycle. His thoughts whirled around inside his head. I’m not so big after all. I promised to take care of the bicycle, and look what I’ve done! he mourned.
By the time he reached home, the sun had already gone down. He was glad there was no one outside to see him. With his father’s tools he began to work on the bicycle. It was lucky he had helped his father fix the farm equipment so many times. He hammered and bent and twisted the metal back into shape. His body ached and his eyes kept trying to close. At last he stood back and looked at his work. Well, he said to himself, that is the best I can do.
Slowly he pushed the bicycle next door to his uncle’s house and left it beside his cousin’s shiny new one. Then he went home to a cold dinner, a scolding, and bed.
Most of the next day Sharif spent trying to think of how to tell his uncle about the accident. It’s such an old bicycle; it already had its share of dents and scratches, Sharif told himself. Should I even tell Uncle Hamid about it?
In the early afternoon his father came back from the village. “Uncle Hamid is coming to eat with us,” he announced. “He wants to talk to you, Sharif.”
Sharif felt his face turn red. Uncle Hamid knows about the accident! he decided.
As Sharif’s mother set an extra place at the table, Uncle Hamid appeared at the door. “Asallamu alikum (Greetings)!” he said.
“Ahlen wa salen (Welcome)!” they answered.
“Uncle, I must tell you—” Sharif began nervously, as his uncle sat down.
“One moment, boy,” interrupted Uncle Hamid. “Since I am the guest, it is my turn to speak first.” Uncle Hamid cleared his throat. “Your cousin Tarek has decided to study at the university in Cairo,” he began proudly.
“But what has this—” Sharif started to ask.
“Be patient, Sharif,” his uncle went on. “Since Tarek will be gone, I’ll need someone to help me milk the buffaloes and deliver the milk before school. I need a boy about your size who can ride a bicycle … and who can fix one!” he added, a twinkle in his eye.
“Oh, Uncle Hamid, I—” Sharif started to explain.
But his uncle interrupted him, “Since every spare piaster must be sent to Tarek, he has decided that you can ride his bicycle to deliver milk. If you do your job faithfully and well, at the end of the year the bicycle will become yours.”
“Oh, Uncle!” shouted Sharif, jumping up and hugging his uncle. “When do I start?”
“One thing is certain, my son,” laughed his father. “You will not start anything until we eat dinner!”
And with that, the whole family began to fill their plates.
“I’m glad, my brother,” whispered Nadia, leaning across the table.
“About what?” asked Sharif.
“I’m glad the bicycle didn’t hit you on top of your head!” she answered.
Sharif laughed. “It did, my sister!”
Then he grinned at his uncle. “But it won’t ever do it again!”

As I began studying the Book of Mormon for seminary, I experienced the feelings Elder Parley P. Pratt (1807–57) of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles described when he first found the Book of Mormon. “I opened it with eagerness, and read its title page,” he wrote. “I then read the testimony of several witnesses in relation to the manner of its being found and translated. After this I commenced its contents by course. I read all day; eating was a burden, I had no desire for food; sleep was a burden when the night came, for I preferred reading to sleep” (Autobiography of Parley P. Pratt [1985], 18).
As I read, the Spirit of the Lord bore witness that the Book of Mormon is truly another testament of Jesus Christ. Through seminary the Book of Mormon became much easier to read. Whenever it was hard to follow, my teacher helped me understand. I received a testimony that the Book of Mormon is “the most correct of any book on earth, … and a man [will] get nearer to God by abiding by its precepts, than by any other book” (Joseph Smith, Teachings of the Prophet Joseph Smith, sel. Joseph Fielding Smith [1976], 194).
I was baptized on 5 March 1995. By the time I was 21 I was a seminary teacher myself, helping others know of the divinity and truthfulness of the book that changed my life.

I looked at them as they finished their story; their faces shone with happiness. In what I thought would be a closing question, I asked in halting Spanish what they were now doing in the Church. Among them were a bishop, a Sunday School superintendent, another bishop, an executive secretary, and a mission presidency counselor.
I turned to the father, Manuel, and asked what he was doing. He replied that he was serving as a counselor in a bishopric. I was ready to finish with one last item when one of the brothers added that the bishop to whom their father was serving as a counselor was one of their brothers.
Then came one of the choice moments of my interviewing life. Turning to the bishop son, Víctor, I asked, “How does it feel to have your father as your counselor?”
With poignancy, he gently answered, “I have great love for my father. He has always counseled me well in my life. He has been an example to me. He has been my inspiration. When I have had difficulties in my life he has helped me. Who else could I ask to counsel me but my father?”
Tears began to well up in my eyes, and I slowly turned to Manuel: “How do you feel about serving your son as a counselor?”
In the great dignity natural to the Spanish tongue, Manuel Cerda softly, slowly, and in an emotionally quivering voice said, “I have great love for my sons. It is an honor to counsel them. It is an honor to advise others to listen to them. I believe I feel something like God the Father felt when he said, ‘This is my beloved Son in whom I am well pleased. Hear ye him.’ (Matt. 17:5.) I understand well love between father and son.”
I turned and went around the circle again. “What,” I asked, “brought about this family love?”
The father, Manuel Cerda summed up the answers of the others—“It was the gospel that changed our home. It taught us to see each other as eternal friends. It has taught me affection and love. It has taught me to esteem my children. We fight against anything that seeks to divide us, that affects our esteem for each other. The truth has changed our lives.”

One young woman decided after reading her patriarchal blessing that she wanted to do something grand to help the poor and needy. After unsuccessfully trying to give aid to some people she saw on the street, she thought she’d failed. Then she got home and found her brother crying because he’d been teased at school. After taking him out for ice cream and listening to his troubles, she learned a lesson. “The poor are just as likely to be in your home as on the streets,” she says. “There are all sorts of needy people in the world—those who need food and shelter, of course—but also those who need love, counsel, and encouragement.” (Read the rest of her story at lds.org/go/needyNE11.)

Counseling with my bishop. I came to appreciate my bishop’s guidance in helping me make a number of sound decisions. He checked on our family often and made sure I was all right and my family was well cared for. He was my support both temporally and spiritually.
One day the bishop called me into his office and discussed with me each of my children, one by one, to see how they were doing. We came up with a plan to make sure each of my boys received priesthood support through their quorum and auxiliary leaders. He also discussed my financial situation and made sure we had food in the house, and when Christmas came he checked again to be sure we had something to go under our tree.
Besides helping my children, he gave me priesthood blessings and helped me explore my new role as a single sister. What a comfort it was to know I had his backing.

Let me tell you of an important event that we have had in the Church in the last few months. Not too far from Church headquarters, in Idaho, there was a great tragedy. A great earthwork dam collapsed. There were 17 miles of water backed up in the canyon behind the dam. All of that was loosed on the valley below. It was a beautiful, quiet, sunny Saturday morning. Just below in the valley were two or three little communities—7,800 people in all. A few miles farther down the valley were another 25,000 to 30,000 people, almost all of them Latter-day Saints. All were going about their work, getting ready for Sunday.
The first place the water hit was the Wilford Ward area. It was washed away, all of it: all of the houses, all of the barns, all of the fences. The ward chapel was completely destroyed. The ward was gone, just like that.
Then the water hit Sugar City. The same thing happened. Sugar City was gone. The stake center stood and a few of the houses, but they were terribly damaged. The water broke into the wall of the stake center and picked up all of the benches and just tore the inside of the building out. Then it broke out the other wall and went on its way.
In all, 790 homes were destroyed. Many of them vanished without a trace. Some places you could see a cement foundation. Another 800 homes and many businesses and churches and schools were badly damaged.
Now you are wondering about the people, about the 25,000 Latter-day Saints, all in the face of this flood that Saturday morning. Very few died by drowning. Only six. That is a miracle. An expert said that 5,300 should have perished.
But only six died by drowning. How could that be? They couldn’t just run upstairs and get on the roof and be safe, because the houses were washed away. They couldn’t just run up on the hill—most of them had several miles to go before they reached safety. Then how were they saved? There was a warning. It was only a short one. Some of them only had a few minutes. But there was a warning. And Latter-day Saints pay attention to warnings. If we are living righteously, we are easily warned. And so, the word went out just before noon that the dam was beginning to crumble. Those who heard obeyed the scripture. Let me read another verse or two from the Doctrine and Covenants.
“Behold, I sent you out to testify and warn the people, and it becometh every man who hath been warned to warn his neighbor.” (D&C 88:81.)
And that is what happened in Idaho. Some of them heard, and they began to warn their neighbors. Now how did they do that? Call them on the telephone? “It’s a beautiful day today, a nice day for a ride. Do you think you would like to go over to Rexburg some time this afternoon and visit the college? It’s up on the hill. Oh, you are too busy. Well, you think about it, and I’ll call later this afternoon.” No! no! That isn’t the way it was! If they got them on the phone they didn’t speak, they screamed: “The dam is breaking! Get your children! Get to high ground!” They ran from neighbor to neighbor. And they knocked on the door, and if no one would open, they kicked the door down or smashed in the window to warn them.
Only six drowned. What about them? One was a fisherman just below the dam. He had no warning. Two people heard the warning but didn’t believe it. They were found in their car, but they had moved too late. Three others heard the warning but went back to get some of their possessions. Latter-day Saints pay attention to warnings.
There are pages of miracles that took place individually. One young man was in town when he heard the warning. He knew that his parents were not at home out on the farm, but his little sister was there, and she was sick in bed. When it was all over, she had been saved.
One father was at the college in Rexburg doing some work that Saturday morning; someone knocked on his door and said, “Turn on your radio; I’ve heard that the dam is breaking.” He thought of his wife and the boys out irrigating on the farm. And he had the car. There was no time for him to go. When it was all over with, his wife and his children were there with him, warned and rescued by the neighbors. Now there is a great message in this.

Many years ago it was my privilege to provide a blessing to a beautiful 12-year-old young lady, Jami Palmer. She had just been diagnosed with cancer. She learned that her leg where the cancer was would require multiple surgeries. A long-planned hike with her Young Women class up a rugged trail was out of the question, she thought.
Jami told her friends they would have to hike without her. I’m confident there was disappointment in her heart.
But then the other young women responded emphatically, “No, Jami, you are going with us!”
“But I can’t walk,” came the reply.
“Then we’ll carry you to the top!” And they did.
None of those precious young women will ever forget that memorable day when a loving Heavenly Father looked down with a smile of approval and was well pleased.

Some 12 years ago, there was a tennis match with two LDS physicians and a nonmember medical student from Brazil. With no intervening communication, last month in Curitiba, Brazil, Valentim Goncalves stood by me again, not on a tennis court but instead in a regional conference to translate for me. Thanks to his innate goodness and the good work of others, ophthalmologist Valentim is not only a member but is a stake president in Curitiba. Valentim and his special wife, sealed in the temple, have been blessed with three lovely children. This remarkable rendezvous added to my already appreciative wonder over the workings of the hand of the Lord (see D&C 59:21).

Third, we must live courageously in accordance with the light and testimony that we have received. We are promised, “He that receiveth light, and continueth in God, receiveth more light; and that light groweth brighter and brighter until the perfect day.” It takes real effort and sacrifice to live the gospel courageously. For some years temple worship for the Saints who live near Manaus, Brazil, has meant traveling two days in a crowded riverboat on the Amazon River, followed by two days’ travel in buses through the hot tropics to the Recife Temple. Arriving worn out and tired, they would shower, dress appropriately, and immediately begin their temple worship. After several days of service to the Lord, they would make the long, difficult journey home. The words “but as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord” were beautifully reflected by their sacrificing actions.

By that time, we were ready to continue proselyting indefinitely, but we had run out of nonmember friends whom we knew well enough to invite. Sometime later, after we had become good friends with about thirty nonmembers we repeated the same successful experience. Then we moved to Tucson, Arizona. After again making about thirty nonmember friends, we invited them to our home for the discussions. These two experiences with groups here were as successful as before. Again, about two-thirds accepted our invitation to participate in the lessons and of those about three-fourths accepted our invitation to be baptized. June, my wife, and I did the teaching in these groups, since by this time we had been called on stake missions. Had we not been missionaries for the Church, however, we would have again sought the help of full-time missionaries.

My brothers and sisters, let me tell you of a recent experience. We were in the city of Bacolod on the island of Negros, in the Republic of the Philippines. There, to my great surprise, I met a man I had not seen in years.
The weather was steamy hot, as it always is in Bacolod, the center of the once thriving Filipino sugar industry. My friend was in a short-sleeved white shirt with dark trousers, his shoes shined. His beautiful wife, Marva, was beside him. I said, “Victor Jex, what are you doing here?”
He smiled and replied, “We’re doing the Lord’s work. We’re helping the people. We’re missionaries.”
“Where do you live?”
“In a little house in IloIlo on the island of Panay. We came over on the ferry for the conference.”
I thought of when I had last seen them. It was a few years ago. They then lived in a beautiful home in Scarsdale, New York. He was a widely recognized and honored chemist, with a doctorate in chemical engineering. He worked for one of the big multinational companies headquartered in New York. He was credited with putting together the chemical ingredients of a product now sold around the world, the name of which is known to millions of people and the profit from which has run into many millions of dollars for his company.
He was well paid and highly respected.
He was also the president of the Yorktown stake of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He had under his direction a corps of church workers who served faithfully in their local wards, many of whom commuted each day to and from New York City, where they held high and responsible positions in some of the great corporations of America. He was their church leader.
Now he was retired. He and his wife had sold their beautiful home, had given their children what furniture they wanted, and donated the rest to others. They had disposed of their cars and everything except their clothing, their family photographs, and their family history records. They had made themselves available to the Lord and His Church to go wherever they might be sent at their own expense. They were now in the Philippines Bacolod Mission, working among the wonderful, friendly, brown-skinned people of the area. Unemployment is high in this region, and there is much of misery. But wherever Elder and Sister Jex go, they touch for good the lives of those among whom they serve.
They are there to heal the suffering people, to teach the gospel of Christ, to give encouragement and strength and hope and faith. They are there to heal wounds of misunderstanding and contention. They are there to bless the sick and to help those with diseased bodies and frustrated minds. Their smile is infectious, their laugh a joy to hear. They are living humbly among the poor, down at the level of the people, but standing straight and tall to lift with strong hands.
This former New York executive and his charming companion are in the service of the Savior, giving their full time, their resources, and their love to bless with healing the lives of many who are discouraged and need help. Here is a retired New Yorker, a man of great learning and recognized capacity, living in a home with few conveniences, a simple little place that would fit in the living room of his former house.
He and his wife are there, with others of their kind. They are two of a band of remarkable and dedicated older missionary couples who minister to the wants of people with numerous problems. They receive no financial compensation. They pay their own way. This world’s goods mean little to them. As I said, they sold all they had when they left to come to the Philippines. They will stay for as long as they are assigned by the Church to do so. Then they want to go on another mission. They are healers among the people, serving in the cause of the Master Healer.

From the time she was a young child, Sister Lifferth has had a testimony of prayer, reinforced by simple experiences. Once, for example, her parents had gone to the temple, and young Margaret lay in bed, worried about their safety because of the bad weather. A cold had left her coughing and even more resistant to sleep. “I remember crawling out of bed, kneeling down, and praying that I would stop coughing and that my parents would get home safely,” she says. Her coughing did stop, and she was able to sleep peacefully. The next morning she found that her parents had indeed arrived safely at home.

When I got home from school there was a tornado watch, and I cried because I was scared. I felt that I should pray for the people near the tornadoes, and for the tornadoes to stop coming our way. I still didn’t feel better. Then my mom told me to pray, so I prayed in my mind that I would feel better. A little bit later my tears went away. When my dad came home, we watched the news and there were no tornadoes coming our way.