Gospel Story Finder

That help came to my father years ago when his work took him to Australia. He was alone on a Sunday, and he wanted to take the sacrament. He could find no information about Latter-day Saint meetings. So he started walking. He prayed at each intersection to know which way to turn. After walking and making turns for an hour, he stopped to pray again. He felt an impression to turn down a particular street. Soon he began to hear singing coming from the ground floor of an apartment building close by. He looked in at the window and saw a few people seated near a table covered with a white cloth and sacrament trays.

Now, that may not seem like much to you, but it was something wonderful to him. He knew the promise of the sacrament prayer had been fulfilled: “Always remember him and keep his commandments which he has given them; that they may always have his Spirit to be with them” (D&C 20:77).

The winters in France can be very cold, and they can feel even colder when you’re riding a bike. Right after Christmas while I was serving as a missionary in the Belgium Brussels Mission, my companion and I passed a little lady, also on a bicycle.
I immediately noticed this woman had no gloves. On impulse, I asked her if she would like my gloves because I had received a new pair for Christmas. She hesitated and then talked to me about other things. We stopped our bikes and talked some more.
Finally, I took off my gloves and put them on her hands and said, “Merry Christmas.” Her eyes filled with tears and she hugged me. I felt so strongly the love Heavenly Father had for her, and I told her how much God loved her. She said her husband was sick and she had left the house to run some errands. I asked her if we could come and see her, but she declined because of her husband’s illness. I will never forget what I felt as I watched her ride off. I felt the sting of cold on my hands, but my heart was filled with the love of God.
The lesson I learned was that through service we can come to feel the love God has for each of his children. It is often by our service that God blesses others and answers their prayers.
I was just thinking that Mom must have been inspired to send me another pair of gloves for Christmas.

One of Sam Potaka’s daughters, Una Tsaclis, had become a family history expert. She had researched hundreds of ancestors, including her husband’s Greek progenitors. Because there are few members of the Church in Greece, her family history work was unique.
My wife and I were invited to go to the New Zealand temple with Una and other family members to perform sealings for their ancestors. It was an unforgettable temple experience. We realized that not only had many family members joined the Church because a good man listened to the Spirit and gave a ride to two missionaries, but now those family members and their children were performing temple ordinances for hundreds of Greek and Maori ancestors who had passed away without the opportunity of hearing the gospel. The Lord’s mathematics multiplies the opportunities to share and accept the gospel both in this life and after death.

My sophomore year of high school was really hard for me. I was struggling—I needed to know that someone loved me. We were studying the Book of Mormon in seminary that year. One day, I had to give a devotional thought, and I decided to give one on love. To make a point, I replaced some words in verses 10 and 12 in 1 Nephi 8, which talk about the tree of life and its fruit, but I paid no particular attention to the words I wrote.
The day of my devotional came, and I didn’t want to go to seminary. I had had a really bad morning, and all I wanted to do was feel sorry for myself and stay home. I went anyway and prepared for my devotional. When the time came, I read what I had written:
“And it came to pass that I beheld [God’s love, and it] was desirable to make one happy.
“And as I partook of the fruit thereof it filled my soul with exceedingly great joy; wherefore, I began to be desirous that my family should partake of it also; for I knew that it was desirable above all other fruit.”
As I read those words, the Spirit testified to me that they were true, and I was overcome with tears. The spirit of love and peace was so great! He really is aware of our problems, and He will help us through them. I know that Heavenly Father and Jesus love me, and Their love is greater than any other! Anytime I feel like I need a boost and need to feel Their love, I just read this scripture, and it helps me to remember that I am loved.

“If I can make life a little easier for someone, I’ll do it in a heartbeat,” Amy Gardner says, with a big smile. And that’s exactly what she did for some homeless children in Salt Lake City, Utah.
Amy, who was 16 at the time, went with her Mutual group, from the Holladay Tenth Ward of the Salt Lake Holladay Stake, to feed homeless families at the local family shelter. “I heard there was a baby in by the main desk,” Amy says. “I love babies so I went to see. When baby Heather was placed in my arms, tears came to my eyes. She was the most beautiful baby I had ever seen.” Amy spent the rest of the evening feeding and cuddling Heather.
Amy later learned about Heather’s background: her mother was in the Salt Lake County jail, and her father, who was from out of state, was waiting for his wife to make parole. Most of the time Heather was dressed only in a diaper and was hungry, not only for food but for love, too.
“When I got home and told my mom (Lindy Gardner) about Heather, I broke down and cried,” Amy says. “We went that night to the store and purchased a few items and put together a diaper bag for the baby.”
Amy continues, “The next day I went back to the shelter hoping I would find Heather. When I did, she was crying. We couldn’t comfort her. Then one of the ladies that works at the shelter asked Heather’s father if she could be hungry. His response was, ‘She’s had two bottles of water today.’”
The workers at the shelter gave Heather’s father a box of formula and other items to help him take care of his baby daughter. But Amy left heartbroken. “I was a wreck,” Amy says. “I cried all the way home.” Through all the tears and anguish, however, Amy was working on a plan to put together diaper bags for other homeless babies. So, “in a heartbeat,” she launched her plan.
That Sunday, Amy talked in her ward Relief Society about her experience and asked for help. “The response was tremendous!” Amy exclaims. “I even got calls from other stakes.” Amy also contacted a local hospital that donated most of the diaper bags. She sent out fliers in her neighborhood. And she talked to her child development teacher at Skyline High School, who offered extra credit to any student who brought in items.
Donations began to flood the Gardner home. Amy turned her missionary brother’s temporarily empty bedroom into a warehouse. “I had a shelf or a section of the room for each item, like in a department store,” Amy says. There were new bottles, pacifiers, formula, bibs, shoes, clothing, baby food, lotion, shampoo, toys, and wipes. She also washed all used clothing and blankets and sanitized the toys that came in.
By the end of the week she had filled 16 diaper bags so full she had to sit on them to get them closed. Amy says, “Besides the diaper bags we had three large plastic bags of clothes, one bag of blankets, and two boxes of toys. I even had cash left over to purchase board games and toys for the older children.”
Susan Anderson, the manager of the Family Shelter in Salt Lake City, says, “I’ll always remember Amy. I saw in her an example of so many young people in the Church who have been taught to love one another. We’re not sure what kind of heart we have until it is tested. When Amy’s heart was tested, she responded with everything she has been taught by her family and the Church.”
Amy’s attitude about helping others is capsulized in this comment: “When you think about it, we all have a lot of time. It’s what we do with our time that counts. True, I did spend every free minute for two weeks on the diaper bag project, but if you think of all the time I have, this was only a tiny pinch of it. And it was more than worth it when you see that it made a difference in a little child’s life.”

A number of families in the Richards Bay Ward, Durban South Africa Stake, are enjoying the fruits—or vegetables—of a year-old garden-plot program that began with the help of the full-time missionaries and the Church Welfare Department.
Many of the Church members in the townships surrounding the Richards Bay meetinghouse struggle financially because of high unemployment rates or low wages.
Elder Jack Davidson, a senior missionary serving in the area in 2006, saw a great opportunity in an unused portion of the Church property surrounding the Esikhawini meetinghouse and the excellent gardening skills of a few of the members. Vegetables could be grown year-round, and surplus produce could be readily sold to members of the community.
The Church had purchased property on which three small temporary Church buildings (a chapel and two sets of small classrooms) were built to serve the members’ needs at the time. These buildings, lawns, flowers, and parking occupied only about one-third of the property. The rest, about 45 meters wide by 80 meters long, was in tall, rough grass and weeds. This property was to be used for more permanent buildings as warranted in the future. A security fence surrounds the property.
It took almost six months for Elder Davidson to accumulate the resources to buy the tools, irrigation supplies, and other equipment and to build a secure building to house tools and supplies. The funds came from LDS Humanitarian Services and generous donations from family and friends.
The secure storage building was essential not only for security but for effective use of the site by members. Only a few members in Esikhawini have cars. If they were to try to garden without this building, they would have to carry heavy tools to and from their homes. Anything left on the site could be stolen. Also, some of the new gardeners would not be able to afford tools. With the building in place, members can check the hand and power tools in and out. Part of the overall ward gardening plan is for members and missionaries to take items from this set of tools and equipment to other townships in the ward to help members set up gardens. All the tools and power equipment are portable in a pickup truck.
Beginning in March 2006, more than a dozen full-time missionaries in the Richards Bay Zone of the South Africa Durban Mission set to work to help create the family garden plots and secure building and composting facilities.
Richards Bay Ward bishop Ted Baldwin laid the blocks for the secure building, and others helped as needed with this and the cement work.
Elder Davidson and the rest of the elders focused primarily on clearing the land so the plots could be laid out, the cultivating could get underway in earnest, the irrigation system could be installed, and the gravel could be cleaned out. Youth often turned out to help and to learn to use the equipment. The plots were to be 6 meters by 10 meters with one-meter paths all around.
As each plot was finished and ready for planting, families from the Esikhawini township were ready to take over and plant winter vegetables. Some of the families had already raised seedlings at home in anticipation of the gardens.
The number of individual plots had finally reached the set goal of 30 in early June. Throughout the process, the community took notice of the activities. On most days a few people would stop and ask the members or missionaries questions. Several of these conversations led to missionary lessons.

When I was a teenager, I got really sick. My parents didn’t have enough money to send me to the hospital, so we went from church to church looking for someone to help, but no one could. After a while we gave up, and I was left suffering both physically and emotionally.
I remember asking, “What is the purpose of life? Why am I here? Are miracles even real?”
When I had a little bit of strength during this sickness, I would read religious books from different denominations, trying to find answers and peace. One day I silently prayed to God, telling Him the desire I had to join a church—but I didn’t know which one!
A year later I recovered physically but still had many questions. One day I saw my brother talking to two young men wearing white shirts. They invited me and the rest of my siblings to join their conversation.
This was the first time I heard about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and the Book of Mormon.
That same week, we were invited to attend a church service, and soon I was invited to be baptized. I accepted without hesitation. I’ve been a member ever since and eventually had the privilege of serving a full-time mission.

A woman in my ward taught me a priceless lesson about the sweet peace that comes from a sure faith in Jesus Christ and His Atonement.
This woman’s patriarchal blessing promised her the joys of motherhood. But years passed while she and her husband prayed and waited for children. Finally, their prayers were answered. For nine months their lives were filled with joyous preparations. They painted a special room; bought furniture, clothes, and other baby supplies; and offered many prayers. The doctors said she would never be able to have another baby after this one, so her dreams were wrapped up in this child.
The day came when this sister gave birth and heard the cry of her baby.
“It’s a beautiful boy,” the nurse said.
The mother closed her eyes and offered a prayer of thanksgiving. Four minutes later, the baby was dead.
I saw her in sacrament meeting two weeks afterward. As the music director, she walked to the front of the chapel and took her seat beside the organ. Under her direction we sang “I Know That My Redeemer Lives” (Hymns, no. 136). She stood straight and tall, her face bright, her testimony radiating. At times the words came with great difficulty for her. She swallowed and pressed her lips together. Then she stopped singing, but her arm continued to move, conducting us as we sang.
Later, with tears coursing down her cheeks, this sister bore her testimony in these simple words: “I know that my Redeemer lives. I know that He is just and that He loves us. And because He lives, my son also lives.”
In her faith I saw an assurance of the reality of our Redeemer, whose Atonement for us makes immortality and eternal life possible. Her son had been taken, but she knew that he would be restored to her someday.

1832–1919
“She took me in and was a mother to me.”
She and her husband joined the Church in Hawaii.
She cared for Joseph F. Smith when he was sick as a young missionary.
When Joseph F. Smith was the prophet, he promised her she would live to see the temple in Hawaii.
When the temple in Hawaii was finished,she was able to go inside and be sealed.
Joseph F. Smith, as quoted by Charles W. Nibley in Gospel Doctrine, 5th ed. (1939), 520.

In New Zealand, Denny and Alex were childhood friends who attended different churches. Friendship blossomed into courtship, and courtship into marriage. Religion had never been discussed during their dating years, but after they were married, Denny and Alex faced a dilemma: Which church should they attend?
At one point, Denny, who was a member of the Church, felt he could not continue living in a way that felt divided. His father gave him simple counsel: “Keep going to church. They are your family.” He listened. Two years later, his wife chose to be baptized. In time, they were sealed in the house of the Lord. What began with tension ended in unity. They chose to come unto Christ—together.

Recently, as our small group of missionaries was traveling from the Ghana Accra Missionary Training Centre to our mission assignment in Lubumbashi, we met two women at the Kenya airport departure lounge. As newly trained missionaries having a great desire to teach, we approached and made acquaintance with them. After introducing ourselves, I had the opportunity to present the message of the gospel of Jesus Christ, which is what we strive to share with everyone.
It was difficult for those women to give us much time to listen, or to accept an appointment, or even to take the pamphlets we offered them. But an idea came to my mind that we should not insist but rather that we should just bear simple testimony of the gospel.
Right before boarding the plane bound for Lubumbashi, one of those women approached and told me that she had been thinking about what I had said and was now aware that this message was important for her and her whole family. Her interest came about simply because of the testimony I had borne and the confidence that I had to say that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the only true Church here on the earth.
She also said to me that she had been asking herself two questions: “Why was this young missionary able to bear such a sure testimony?” “How can I also gain a testimony of these things myself?”
Apparently, my testimony had preoccupied her, and I immediately realized that just bearing our testimony influences many people to ponder and be converted.
This airport experience taught me that our testimony does not depend on eloquence—or the power of our voice—but it does depend on the conviction of our heart. That is why when we become converted, our testimony has power and affects those who listen to it.

The Thomas family lived on a farm about ten miles from town. Although Tommy and Mary loved the trees, the stream where they swam in the summer, and all the animals and chickens, they were often teased about their plain clothes and country ways by their city-bred schoolmates.
Tommy, in the fifth grade, wasn’t bothered much by the teasing, but Mary, only a first grader, almost cried whenever her best friend, Cathy, asked her why she always wore plain cotton dresses and sturdy walking shoes.
One day, when Mary came home from school looking very sad and thoughtful, Mama asked, “Why the long face, Kitten?”
“Mama, why don’t I have any frilly dresses or shiny shoes?”
Mama sat down at the wooden kitchen table. “Honey, sit down, and I’ll try to explain it to you.”
Mary slid onto a chair and propped her chin on her hands.
“Your papa and I both grew up on farms, but we went to the city after we were married. When you were just a baby, Papa and I decided that it would be better for all of us to move from the city, so we bought the farm.”
“Why did you and Papa leave the farm in the first place if you liked it?” Mary asked.
“Remember last week when you went to Cathy’s birthday party and you told me how new and fancy Cathy’s house is?”
“Yes, Mama,” Mary answered.
“That’s why Papa and I went to the city. We thought that people in the city had nicer things than we had. But we found out that the ‘nicer things’ weren’t as important to us as the life-style that we could have on a farm. Papa earned a good salary in the city. I got a job there, too, but that meant that I couldn’t be home with you and Tommy. It costs more money to live in the city and buy all the things that people there tend to think are important to have.”
“But what does that have to do with why I can’t have pretty store-bought dresses?”
Mama continued patiently, “On the farm Papa doesn’t make as much money as he did in the city. And I don’t have a regular, paying job. We have plenty to eat, but the money we make has to go for equipment, mortgage payments, seed, and other necessities. Maybe when we’ve finished paying for some of the equipment, we can buy more things, but we just don’t have money for extras now.”
Mary understood better, but how she longed for some of the things her classmates had! Looking up at Mama, she asked wistfully, “Would Heavenly Father be upset if I prayed for a frilly dress?”
“I don’t think so, Kitten. But remember that Heavenly Father only promises to give us what’s best for us. He doesn’t always give us what we simply want.”
“I understand, Mama,” Mary answered with a smile. “May I go out and play now?”
“OK,” Mama said as she hugged Mary before the little girl scampered outside.
Tommy had come in during the conversation and had stood quietly listening.
“Mama, do you really believe that Heavenly Father will make a way for Mary to get a dress?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Tommy,” Mama said slowly. “But I know that she’s still too young to completely understand why she can’t have one.”
“I understand, Mama,” Tommy said as he banged out the door. “I’m going to help Papa till dinnertime.”
Mama lowered her head and prayed, “Heavenly Father, we thought that we were doing the right thing to come here, but children can be cruel to each other. It hurts me to see Mary and Tommy teased and ridiculed. Please help us. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Mama quickly rose from her chair. There was baking to be done. On Saturdays people in town gathered at the community center, where baked goods, handicrafts, and other things were brought to be sold. Mama had learned years ago that she had a talent for baking. And the small amount of money she earned with her baked goods was needed for necessities. Last year’s drought had hit the farm hard.
Papa had often said that she sold her wares too cheaply, but she always replied that she made a fair profit. Papa knew that she gave away a loaf of bread or a cake or a pie when someone looked hungrily at the goods and Mama knew that he couldn’t afford to buy anything. Papa was pleased that Mama did it and that she always masked her charity by saying that the item wasn’t selling well or that it would become stale at home. In that way she made the recipient feel that he was doing her a favor.
That night, as Mama heard the children’s prayers, tears came to her eyes when Mary timidly asked, “Please, Heavenly Father, may I have a frilly dress?” Mama was to hear this plea repeated many times during the next few weeks, for Tommy always included Mary’s request in his own prayers.
Spring planting began, and soon school would be out. Mary was confident that Heavenly Father would provide a fancy dress for her to wear on the last day of school. Mama had racked her brain to find a way to get a dress for Mary, but all the available money had gone for seed and fertilizer. Then, one lovely Sunday afternoon as the family sat in the living room after church, they heard a thump outside the front door.
“What’s that?” Papa asked as he rose from his chair. He opened the screen door. “It’s a big sack of something,” he called to the others. They crowded around him as he untied the cord and opened the sack. “Pecans!” he exclaimed. “Why would anyone leave a huge sack of pecans at our door?”
Mary, who had watched the sack-opening expectantly, wailed, “I didn’t pray for pecans.” She went back into the house.
“What are we supposed to do with them?” Tommy asked. “They’ll go bad before we can eat them all.”
Mama knew what to do with them. If I can only make my idea work, she thought. Aloud, she said, “Please take them into the pantry, Tommy. I’m sure that whoever left them knew that we would find a use for them.” Her eyes gleamed with hope.
The next morning at breakfast, Mama tried to keep her excitement from showing as she said to Papa, “I’ll need the truck for a while this morning, honey. I’ll be back to help with the planting as soon as I can.”
“OK. What’s up?”
“It’s a surprise,” she answered with a happy smile. “If it works out, you’ll all know soon enough. Right now it’s time for school, kids.” Mama gave them a hug and scooted them and Papa out the door. She was impatient to get her plan under way.
Finally she was on her way to town. She went directly to the small bakery on Main Street. Half an hour later she emerged with several boxes, which she loaded into the truck. Back at the farm Mama hurriedly stored the boxes in the pantry, changed clothes, and headed for the fields, humming a tune.
Papa looked up. “You got back quickly,” he commented. “From the look on your face, I’d say that things went your way. Are you going to tell me about it?”
“Not yet,” Mama replied, grinning. “I won’t be able to help you as much on the farm for a couple of weeks, though, and I’ll need the truck for about an hour every day.”
Each morning, as soon as the children left for school and Papa went to the fields, Mama worked in the kitchen. And each afternoon she put things in the boxes she’d obtained, loaded them into the truck, and went to town, always returning with a happy smile.
Finally, one Saturday morning Mama announced, “I must go into town by myself for a little while, but when I come back, I’ll have a surprise for each of you.”
“Well, Mary, Tommy, let’s get our chores done,” Papa said. “Working will make the time pass faster.”
With everyone helping each other, time did indeed pass quickly. They were setting the dinner table when Mama bustled in with several packages. She handed the first one to Papa, who quickly opened it.
“The new LDS editions of the scriptures!” he exclaimed. “I’ve really needed them in teaching my Sunday School class. Thank you, honey.”
Mama held out a second package, saying, “Tommy, here’s your surprise.”
Tommy’s present was a catcher’s mitt. “It’s just what I’ve been wanting. How’d you know, Mama? I tried not to let on.”
“You’ve been a regular Spartan about it, Tommy,” Mama told him. “But mothers have ways of knowing such things.”
Mama handed the last, and biggest, package to Mary, who had been sitting quietly all this time. “Here’s yours, Kitten.”
Mary slowly opened the box, then squealed with delight. In it lay not one, but two beautiful, frilly dresses—one blue, the other a soft, pale green. “Mama, oh, Mama! Heavenly Father does answer prayers!” she exclaimed as she hugged the dresses to her. “Thank you, Heavenly Father! And thank you, Mama!”
“Now, dear,” Papa said, “tell us how you managed all this.”
“Well, I bake a really good pecan pie, and when Heavenly Father provided that big sack of pecans, I made a deal with the bakery. They furnished all the ingredients except the pecans and ran a special the rest of the month on pecan pies. I did the baking for a percentage of each pie sold, and they sold very well! Even after tithing, I was able to buy these gifts.”
“But, Mama,” Tommy interjected, “where is your gift? You got us what we wanted. What did you get for yourself?”
“I got the best gift of all,” Mama replied.
“What’s that?” Mary asked, puzzled. “I don’t see any more packages.”
“My gift is seeing the pleasure on your faces. I got the joy of giving.”
“I didn’t pray for pecans,” Mary said, “but Heavenly Father knew what we needed and gave us much more.”
“He always does, honey. He always does,” Mama said softly.

My mother was a recent convert to the Church when she was called to be the Relief Society president in our small branch in San Salvador. She told the branch president that she was inexperienced, unprepared, and inadequate. She was in her 30s, had very little formal education, and her whole life had been devoted to the care of her husband and seven children. But the branch president called her anyway.
I watched my mother rise to the occasion. While serving, she learned leadership skills and developed new gifts such as teaching, public speaking, and planning and organizing meetings, activities, and service projects. She influenced the women in the branch. She served them and taught them to serve one another. The sisters loved and respected her. She helped other women to discover, use, and develop gifts and talents; she helped them become builders of the kingdom and of strong, spiritual families. She stayed faithful to the temple covenants she made. When she passed away, she was at peace with her Maker.
A sister who served with her as a counselor in the Relief Society wrote me a letter years later: “Your mother was the person who taught me the way to become what I am now. From her, I learned charity, kindness, honesty, and responsibility in our callings. She was my mentor and my example. I am now 80 years old, but I have stayed faithful to the Savior and His gospel. I have served a mission, and the Lord has blessed me greatly.”

When I was about 17 years old, one day I met my cousin to see a movie at the other end of the city. Afterward my cousin suggested that I sleep over at his house, but I declined because I wanted to return home.
There were no streetlights, so I started home in the dark. At this time in my life I was not very confident. So to give myself a sense of security, I began to sing softly as I walked. The farther I went, the more afraid I became.
While I was passing a soccer stadium, I heard a small voice tell me, “Thierry, change sidewalks!” I didn’t want to believe it was anything other than fear, so I ignored the voice. After I had gone several meters, the voice became more distinct: “Thierry, change sidewalks!” I told myself again that I was only afraid. I continued on the same side of the street, now almost at a run. Suddenly I heard the voice the third time: “Thierry, change sidewalks now!” I didn’t listen.
I then noticed at the next corner four or five individuals. I ran to the other side of the street, but it was too late. The group saw me, and they attacked, wanting whatever I had in my pockets. I tried to defend myself, but I couldn’t do much. Finally I fell to the ground and pretended to be unconscious. When they all left, I got to my feet with difficulty and ran home as quickly as possible.
Twenty years after this adventure I now work for the security of others. I have found myself in more serious situations than this and have again heard the voice that tells me what to do. Needless to say, I don’t need to be warned three times now.
I know that the experience I had as a young man, while painful, allowed me to discover the voice of the Holy Ghost. Today this voice is very familiar to me.

There’s a little more to the story about McKay Hatch and his No Cussing Club (page 33). McKay’s father, Brent, sent us some information about his son and the club he started. The club really took off but not without some kids making fun of McKay and giving him a hard time. One guy who started out hassling McKay eventually changed his way of talking, joined the club, and became one of the officers.

One day a few years ago when my wife and I were riding a train in Holland, a lovely lady some 85 years young shared our six-seat compartment. I greeted her in Dutch, and we spoke for a few minutes when she said, “You’re an American. I can tell from your accent, but where did you learn to speak Dutch?” I told her that I had been a Mormon missionary to Holland some 25 years earlier. Then I asked the golden question, whether she knew anything about the Mormon church.
She had been a missionary with her husband for the Dutch Reformed Church in Indonesia for 25 years, and she said yes, she had heard of the Church. But then she said, “The Mormons are foolish people.” To my question of why she thought we were a foolish people, she said, “They don’t believe in Christ.” I was stunned for a minute. I wondered how someone who knew enough to be a missionary for another church would think Mormons do not believe in Jesus Christ. When I overcame my shock, I asked her if she had read the Book of Mormon. She said she had seen it and read in it a little, but she thought that it was just further evidence that we believed in Lehi and Nephi, and Mormon and Moroni, but not in Jesus Christ.
I asked her if she believed in Abraham and Moses, in Enoch and Isaiah, and Jeremiah and Ezekiel; and she said she certainly did. I wondered how she could believe in those men and still believe in Christ. She answered immediately that those men were Old Testament prophets, and some of them had prophesied that the Messiah would come. I then told her that Lehi and Nephi, and Mormon and Moroni, and even Joseph Smith were also prophets of the Lord Jesus Christ, that they were called to teach other of the Lord’s children than the Jews. And had she read more carefully in the Book of Mormon, she would have seen that its prophets taught of Jesus Christ.
Just as I was warming up to my discussion of how the Book of Mormon teaches of Christ, the train pulled into her stop, and she had to leave. But I sat musing in my mind how someone could even look at the Book of Mormon and not see it is a Christian book. Doesn’t the title page declare that “Jesus is the Christ, the ETERNAL GOD”? But then, that statement appears almost at the end of the second paragraph, and maybe she didn’t read that far.

After that, missionaries and Church leaders frequently traveled to visit the Torales family. The family also shared the gospel with neighbors, some of whom were baptized. Finally, because of the great distances and sacrifices involved, a branch was created at the Torales home in 1986, with Brother Torales as branch president.
Every Sunday, the porch between the two rooms of their small home becomes a chapel as folding chairs and a pulpit are set up. The sacrament is blessed and passed to the members. Classes are held under a tree or over by the flower garden. “We are happy having our meetings here,” says Sister Torales. “We don’t need anything more.”
“We feel the Spirit of the Lord here with us,” President Torales says.
A couple of nights each week, family members visit neighbors and teach them the gospel. “We walk far to reach them,” says 22-year-old Zulma. “Many people receive us. They all know us.” Baptisms take place in the nearby river.

I was just a little younger than most of you on that fateful Sunday morning, little realizing that that event would involve me personally. Without walking you through all the details, several months later I found myself fulfilling General MacArthur’s commission that he would return. I went in two days ahead of him. Several weeks later, near this very date, on the island of Leyte, I learned a great lesson as a young Latter-day Saint in combat. I belonged to the seventy-seventh infantry division. At the time, we were fighting General Yamashita, who was the General MacArthur of the Japanese infantry. Theirs was a crack outfit. We had just taken the Valencia airport and secured it on the island of Leyte, about two days before Christmas 1944. In making preparation for the final assault on a rather large mountain near the airport, we were commissioned to dig in our foxhole at the base of the hill. There were about one thousand of us in our particular garrison. We did not know it at the time, but the enemy, holding the top of the ridge, numbered approximately three thousand. Whenever you take the offensive in combat, just as in football, you need a little greater power. But we didn’t have that intelligence at our disposal at the time.

In that situation my heart and my mind naturally drifted back home. I was a nineteen-year-old boy at the time, and Christmas had always been very special in our home. So I was naturally thinking of mom and dad and my brothers and my girlfriend and what they would be doing on that special occasion. As Christmas Eve approached, a slight drizzly rain set in on the mountainside. It was cold and shivery for those of us who knew better circumstances, but dug in we did. I was even bold enough to keep a family tradition going. A 37 antitank gun was located near my foxhole position, and I hung my stocking on the muzzle and settled in for the night. The rain continued. It turned to bitter cold, high in the mountains. We knew, because of the characteristic of the enemy, that about midnight they would invade our lines. They would often send in suicide squads to weaken our front and then follow with infantry attacks. And so we were preparing for the inevitable. About eleven o’clock that evening, Christmas Eve 1944, out of nowhere on the side of the mountain a young tenor, whom I had never met before and still haven’t, from somewhere on our infantry line in a beautiful voice sang a solo: “It came upon the midnight clear, that glorious song of old.”

By the time he got to the second verse, one thousand American soldiers had joined him. Why, you would have thought these hard-crusted old infantrymen were the Mormon Tabernacle Choir! He next sang “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing,” “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” and a great medley of songs that are very dear to us. Then he concluded with “Silent Night, Holy Night.” We all joined in chorus with him. I guess, because of the circumstances, I haven’t been touched quite like that before or since.

Twelve o’clock came, and the enemy didn’t come. For the first time in my combat experience, they had not acted according to schedule. One o’clock, two o’clock, and all night we sat ready with our weapons. But the enemy still didn’t come. The next morning, as Christmas dawn broke, we very carefully came out of our foxholes, gave each other an exchange of greetings, talked about home, girls, the things that mattered most. The day passed. We had an interesting Christmas dinner, as you can in a front-line situation, and then on into Christmas night. Finally, about five minutes to twelve, as Christmas was fading into another day, the first enemy mortar crossed our lines, and World War II had commenced again. But for twenty-four hours I was a personal witness that peace on earth, goodwill toward men, can actually occur when people are touched by a true spirit.

I remember from my college days the report of an eminent historian. He had gone to southern Utah to gather some of the local historical facts. He had looked up the oldest man in the community—a man in his nineties. In the interview he suggested to the man that he was living in what might be termed “a forsaken little place on the desert.” He asked him, “How did you get here?”

The man told him that he had been called there on a mission.

He said, “Who called you here on the mission?”

The man said, “The President of the Church.” (I think it was probably John Taylor or Wilford Woodruff.)

The historian said, “But you’ve stayed here all your life. Why didn’t you ever go back?” The old man did not have much of an answer and the historian pressed the point, asking, “Why didn’t you go back to a better place?”

Then tears came to the old man’s eyes and he said, “No, I could not go back. I was called on a mission and I have not been released.” And then from the porch of this humble little house he pointed over to a sage brush hill where there were headstones and said, “I’ll go there before I’ll go back.”

A few years later I was called to be a counselor in my ward Relief Society presidency. I felt inadequate to fulfill this calling. I began to study the principle of charity. I prayed to develop more Christlike charity for the sisters I served. But I wasn’t quite sure what this spiritual gift would look or feel like.
My anxiety was weighing on my mind as I made lunch one day. My third daughter, Annie, was sitting on the middle landing of our stairs, engrossed in her two-year-old imagination. I watched as she leaned forward to grab a toy, lost her balance, and tumbled down four or five stairs. I ran to her and tried to calm her as she cried. I quieted her enough to hear a little sob coming from the kitchen table. I looked over to see five-year-old Claire crying.
“Come here.” I said. “What’s wrong?”
She ran to join Annie and me in a family hug. The words she spoke were a direct answer to my prayerful question about charity.
“I saw Annie start to fall, and then I watched her and saw how sad she felt,” she said. “I would rather fall down the stairs for Annie than watch her have to fall down.”
The thought immediately came to my mind through the Spirit, “That is charity.”