Gospel Story Finder

One of Néstor’s students there, Carolina Urrutia, was particularly impressed by him. She felt that he was different, somehow, from other gifted people—so much so that she decided to find out why. Néstor was very willing to tell her about the gospel of Jesus Christ, and as a result, he had the privilege of baptizing her. Subsequently, she and Néstor were influential in the conversion of another of his students, an actress and teacher named María Reiñanco.

“Two or three nights a week I would wake up, frightened, unable to go back to sleep. Eventually, I began to fear sleep itself,” says Jan Sara of South Jordan, Utah. “Well-meaning friends offered suggestions, but nothing helped. Every night I asked Heavenly Father to help me have a good night’s sleep, but every night I would awaken in fear. I began to wonder what was wrong with me.
“One night as I knelt to pray, instead of asking Heavenly Father to help me sleep, I asked him what I could do to get rid of my terrible dreams. A strong feeling came to me to read the scriptures before I went to sleep. I got out my Book of Mormon and turned to Alma 37:37: ‘Counsel with the Lord in all thy doings … ; yea, when thou liest down at night lie down unto the Lord, that he may watch over you in your sleep.’ Since that night, I have changed my scripture reading time from morning to just before I go to bed. The peaceful feelings that come to me as I ponder the Book of Mormon help me to sleep, and the nightmares have ended.”

When I was in eighth grade and stood six feet tall, Aunt Ruth, who was visiting us from Baltimore, said one evening, “Well, dear, perhaps you’ll be a high-fashion model. They’re all tall.” Then she looked at my bony knees and elbows that jutted out. “And extremely thin,” she added. That night my mother tried to comfort me.
“There are worse things than being tall,” she said. “If only you’d stand up straight. You’ve just got to stop slumping. You’d look so much better with good posture.” The look on her face added, “Please, please stop growing.”
“If only I could be as short as you are,” I often said to Angie, my older sister. Angie had only grown to be five feet nine inches, and she did look like a model. She was leading a normal life in college and had lots of dates. I was sure if I could only be her height, all my problems would be solved.
“Be proud of your height,” Angie would say. “It’s great to be tall!” But I didn’t listen.
By the time I started at Jackson High School, I stood six feet one inch. Everyday I walked to seventh period with Mary Beth Johnson who was under five feet tall. We caused stares and smiles. I slumped even more when I walked with her, but I didn’t think our height difference was a good reason to tell her I couldn’t walk with her anymore. That sounded so adolescent.
My only comfort at Jackson was that there were several tall basketball players I’d see in the hall once in a while. Whenever I’d see one, I’d try to move as close to him as possible without being conspicuous. It felt wonderful to be small for a change. Bret Price (six feet six inches) had a fourth period class right next to mine, and I often had the chance to walk right behind him to class. I didn’t really have a crush on him, it just made me feel great to walk behind him. One day I guess I was walking a little too closely, because when he stopped I almost bumped into him. In fact, I couldn’t have stopped much closer. Another two inches and there would have been a crash.
“Sorry,” I mumbled.
“S’okay,” he said.
The rest of the way to my history class, I walked several yards behind him. But, I wasn’t far enough behind him because I heard his friend Bill Wallops, the senior vice-president of the school, say, “That jolly green giant is still following you, Bret.”
“Yeah,” Scott Williams said, “you’d better watch out. She’s your size.” Bret turned to look at me, and I ducked my head and walked into history.
“Watch it, guys!” I heard him say. “She heard you.”
I slid into my seat in the back of the room and slumped down. Jolly green giant. My dark green outfit had always been my favorite. I thought it looked good with my light hair and brown eyes. Now I hated it. I hated myself. I hated being a giant, a jolly green giant. I’ll never wear this awful thing again, I thought. No, never! All my old inadequacies came back—not that they had ever left. I thought of all the names I’d been called in elementary school: Shorty, Shrimp, Skyscraper Susan. They all seemed to flood my mind at once, and I could feel my face getting warm. But, I wouldn’t cry. No, I wouldn’t.
It was a miserable 40 minutes, and I was sure that if Mr. Randolf called on me, my voice would sound choked, and then everyone would know I felt miserable. I tried to hide behind Will Smith, the boy who sat in front of me. That was hard to do because he was only five feet eight.
If the class saw me cry, I was sure it would be passed around the school. “The Jolly Green Giant cried in history class,” they’d say. Then the school clown would be an even bigger joke. I sat in class a few minutes after the bell, partly to copy down the assignment, but mostly to make sure I wouldn’t run into Bret and his friends again. After I was sure they would be way down the hall, I picked up my books and walked toward the back door of the classroom. I hurried faster when I saw Bret looking in the front door.
“Hey,” he called, “wait!” Had he been looking for me? “A little green man asked me to give this to you,” he said as he caught up with me.
“What is it?”
“Read it,” he said, his dark eyes smiling. He tucked a folded piece of paper into my hand. His large, warm hand that had shot all those winning baskets touched mine.
“Okay.” I must have looked puzzled. He hurried down the hall, and I stood staring after him, stunned. He had spoken to me.
What would the note say? Some other cruel joke about my height? Maybe I should throw it in the trash before I read it. I had, after all, been hurt enough. But curiosity made me take the note to the restroom where I opened it.
There were just three words scrawled on the paper in an easy masculine handwriting. I looked up into the mirror. Girls, all shorter than I, were around me, primping, humming, giggling, gossiping, and making faces as they combed their hair and applied their makeup. I looked back at the note and read it again. “Tall is terrific.”
“Tall is terrific,” I whispered. “Terrific, oh sure.” I looked in the mirror again. Me, terrific? The image smiling back at me was not really as bad as I had expected.
Had I perhaps filled out a little? Was I really a little prettier? I held my shoulders back. I did look better when I stood up straight. And yes, I was rather pretty. It was true I stood many inches taller than the rest of the chattering, giggling girls, but if tall was terrific, that didn’t matter.
I kept my shoulders pulled back and my back straight as I walked into the cafeteria to my regular lunch table where I always ate with my friend Cindy. Before I got to the table, however, I saw Bret Price sitting three tables away with all the “big men” of the school. He was looking right at me and smiling. Bret Price, star basketball player of Jackson, was smiling at me as if to say, “We have a secret. We know you’re terrific!”

In college I was given the privilege of joining a very elect honorary engineering society. As I attended the initiatory activities, everyone was drinking. I asked for a soft drink and was handed a glass. As I raised it to my lips, I could smell alcohol. I looked around the room. All the eyes were on me. These were professionals who had just given me a great honor. Should I pretend to drink so as not to offend? No. I sat the glass down and then noticed that three other inductees also sat their glasses aside. Do what is right and others will follow your example. Every time you make the right choice in the face of potential criticism, you build strength that makes it easier the next time. The reverse is also true. Satan counts on that.

“Me? No way. Maybe Mum and Dad, but not me.”

“He’s a good boy, is Stu,” Granddad said.

I didn’t answer. I wanted to tell Granddad about Stu, that I was worried about him, but I couldn’t betray my brother.

“Did you know that I joined the Church when I was about Stu’s age?” Granddad added.

“I guess.”

“My parents had been baptized a few years before, but I didn’t want anything to do with the Mormons. I had a gang of friends, and we liked going to the pubs.”

Just like Stu, I thought. “So why’d you join?”

“My Mum and Dad, and I had a younger brother, Reg. We used to be like you and Stu, fighting a bit, but we really loved each other. Anyway, there was a Mormon wardhouse down in Leeds. And every week Reg would invite me to go. It was about a two-hour trip to get there.”

“Twenty miles in the snow, uphill both ways, right?”

Granddad laughed. “All right, you’ve heard the story. But thinking of Mum and Dad and little Reg having to make that trip alone every week started to gnaw at me. So one Sunday when it was raining and miserable, I helped them harness the horse and went with them.

“And you know, I found a lot of answers.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, I was wondering about life and death and just a lot of things. And after that, whenever I didn’t go, I felt like I was missing out, that I should be in church. That sound daft?”

“No. That’s how I feel when I miss church. Once I pretended to be sick to get out of going. You won’t tell Mum will you?”

“Never.” He winked at me again.

He stood and tucked the bag of mushrooms under his arm.

“When I needed some direction in my life, my brother showed me where to look,” he said slowly. “And if you know someone who is a little lost, well maybe you need to give him a little hint. Nothing pushy, just a nudge.”

I looked at Granddad. It was obvious we were both thinking of Stu, but we never said his name.

On Tuesday, April 26, members of the Coalinga Ward welfare committee met with other welfare leaders of the Hanford Stake in an emergency preparedness training seminar. Each ward was given a hypothetical disaster and assigned to come up with a plan of action for dealing with that situation. The scenario for the Coalinga Ward read: “A severe earthquake has caused major damage to the city of Coalinga and surrounding area. Power and communication by telephone are out. Fires are burning in some areas of the city. Many homes and public buildings are partially or totally destroyed.”
As Coalinga Ward leaders discussed their plan of action that Tuesday night, no one suspected that in less than a week they would actually be putting it into effect. Bishop Fowkes, a geology professor, conducted the session. “It’s not very likely that we’ll see a major earthquake in Coalinga,” he began. (Coalinga’s location in relation to the San Andreas fault made a large earthquake seem unlikely.) “But we’ll go ahead with this exercise and come up with a plan anyway,” the bishop continued.
The following Monday, May 2, at 4:43 P.M., an earthquake measuring 6.5 on the Richter scale hit just outside of Coalinga on an unknown fault. The downtown area was devastated, buildings caught fire, power was disrupted, and several homes were knocked off their foundations. Nearly every home sustained damage of some kind. It was time to implement the plan.

In January 2018, we laid to rest a giant of a man, a prophet of God—President Thomas S. Monson. No words can do justice to the magnitude and magnificence of his life. I will forever cherish our friendship with gratitude for what he taught me. Now, we must look forward to the future with complete faith in our Lord, Jesus Christ, whose Church this is.
On January 14, all of the living Apostles met in the upper room of the Salt Lake Temple. There, they made a unanimous decision, first, to reorganize the First Presidency now; and second, that I serve as President of the Church. Words are inadequate to tell you what it felt like to have my Brethren—Brethren who hold all the priesthood keys restored through the Prophet Joseph Smith in this dispensation—place their hands upon my head to ordain and set me apart as President of the Church. It was a sacred and humbling experience.
It then became my responsibility to discern whom the Lord had prepared to be my counselors. How could I choose only two of the twelve other Apostles, each of whom I love so dearly? I’m deeply grateful to the Lord for answering my fervent prayers. I am very thankful that President Dallin Harris Oaks and President Henry Bennion Eyring are willing to serve with me as First and Second Counselors, respectively.

When I was about ten, my older brother had a serious health problem. The blood in his hands was not circulating properly, and they hurt very badly. At that time, my family lived in a small town on the border of Brazil and Argentina. The medical facilities there were not very good, so my mother and my brother traveled to the big city of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, to see the doctor. Because my father had to work during the day, my baby brother had to stay with another family. So every day I went to visit him. And every day I prayed for my older brother.
The doctors told my mother that they needed to amputate (cut off) my brother’s hands. Mother refused. “No, I know that the Lord will take care of my son,” she said. One night after my mother and brother had returned home, he was in great pain. I shared a room with him, and I remember him crying because his hands hurt so much. While he cried, Mother knelt by his bed, praying. The next morning, I saw him sleeping peacefully. Mother was also asleep, still kneeling at his bedside. We were not members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, but Mother had great faith. Eventually my brother’s hands did get better. He lost the tips of some of his fingers, but he did not have to have his hands amputated.
Mother also had great courage. And she taught us to be of good cheer. She told my brother that even though he had lost part of some fingers, he still had everything else. So my brother did not get discouraged. When he got older, his first job was as a typist. Today he is an attorney.

As a witness of the Lord Jesus Christ, I bear witness of the Book of Mormon that led me to Him. I found the Lord Jesus Christ within the covers of the Book of Mormon as a 19-year-old missionary, walking through the rain and the mud of England, riding a bike with mud clear up the back of my coat and over the top of my head, tracting in cities that had never been opened, with baptisms that did not come for a long time. Those nights I went back to No. 3 Gilmore Road and read and read and wept. I knew that Jesus was the Christ, that the Book of Mormon was true, that the gospel had been restored. If the folks in England didn’t understand that, then I would just keep knocking on their doors until they did.

Whenever I think of the Savior’s parable of the sheep and the goats and of His wonderful promises to those who serve Him (see Matt. 25:31–46), I picture a young boy named Luan.
I first met Luan in February 2001 at a Young Men camp in Recife, Brazil. In Brazil, it was the time of Carnival—a holiday that has become four days of unruly partying. During Carnival, stakes often hold youth conferences and camps to give Latter-day Saint youth a fun and wholesome alternative. In my assignment as President of the Brazil North Area, I was visiting one such Young Men camp in the Recife Brazil Boa Viagem Stake.
When I first saw Luan, I noticed that he was quite thin and did not have even a single hair on his head. I also noticed that he had many friends. And I learned that he had just turned 12 and was going to be ordained a deacon during the camp.
I also learned that Luan had bone cancer in his left leg. In fact, just before camp he had learned that the cancer was progressing so rapidly his leg needed to be amputated immediately. But because Luan wanted so badly to receive the Aaronic Priesthood at camp and to play soccer with his friends one last time, his doctor had agreed to postpone the surgery for a week.
Now, surrounded by his brothers in the Church, Luan literally beamed with happiness. After his priesthood ordination on Sunday, Luan bore a beautiful testimony about his faith in the gospel and his gratitude for the Savior’s love.
I approached Luan, and we became fast friends. After his surgery, I visited him in his home, along with his bishop, Ozani Farias, and his stake president, Mozart B. Soares. These good leaders were a blessing in Luan’s life. They were always there to comfort, support, and help him.
I felt the Spirit very strongly in Luan’s home. Luan, along with his mother and sisters, had joined the Church eight months earlier. There was no father in the home, and Luan’s mother worked hard to provide for the family. Their small house was tidy and clean, and I knew that simple home sheltered a very special family.
During our visit, we noticed that the family lacked many basic things. For example, Luan had to sleep on an uncomfortable couch because he had no bed. But when we asked what the family needed, they replied, “We have the gospel, our friends at church, and a happy family. Thank you, but we need nothing else.”
A short time after our visit, Luan’s condition worsened, and his doctors found a large tumor at the base of his spinal cord. It could not be removed surgically, so Luan went to the hospital for another round of chemotherapy.
One night when President Soares and I visited Luan in the hospital, we found him in a lot of pain. He asked us several questions, including “What is death?” and “What is dying like?”
I explained that dying is part of eternity and that death is not a closing door but a door that opens for us as we go back to the presence of God. Luan understood and smiled. He said that now he was prepared. Then he asked us to give him a blessing, and we did so.
In the bed next to Luan was a 14-year-old boy named Pedro. Now Pedro asked us to bless him too. I asked if he had faith in Jesus Christ, and he said he did. We explained what the priesthood is and that we would be blessing him in the name of Jesus Christ. He closed his eyes and smiled as we blessed him. Next an 18-year-old young woman asked us to give her a blessing too.
I found out that Luan and his mother had comforted Pedro and many of the other young cancer patients and their parents. As I left the hospital that night, I was edified to see that Luan and his mother, though suffering themselves, found the strength to visit others and minister to their needs.
When President Soares asked Luan what he would like to do when he left the hospital, Luan said he would like to perform vicarious baptisms in the Recife Brazil Temple. After Luan left the hospital, President Soares and Bishop Farias helped him fulfill this desire. Luan performed as many baptisms as his strength would allow. At the end of his day at the temple, he was beaming with happiness that he could do something for others, even though he was in great pain himself.
Luan Felix da Silva died on 20 August 2001. Whenever I think of my friend and fellow servant, I am reminded of the Savior’s words:
“Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you … :
“For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in:
“Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me. …
“And the King shall … say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matt. 25:34–36, 40).

My family and I had been on a cruise, and I had become really sick. Unfortunately, we didn’t have much medicine with us and were not near any local doctors to get the help I needed for my infection and the pain I felt.
One night I felt tremendously sick. The little medicine we had was not working. I could not sleep, and my moans and groans were waking my brothers and sisters. After all that my parents and I could do, my father asked, “Do you want a blessing?”
I had never had a priesthood blessing because of an illness before. I didn’t know what to say. I thought it would help, but I was still not sure. “Please, Heavenly Father,” I prayed, “please let the blessing work.”
“Sure, I would love one,” I weakly said to my dad.
During the blessing I had a wonderful feeling inside, despite all my pain. Very slowly I felt the pain go away, and suddenly I felt very tired. I could tell that my infection had not gone away, but the pain left. After the blessing I was filled so much with the Spirit I was unable to speak.
I now know that priesthood blessings are given to help us through life’s troubles. I know what to do now when I am asked the question “Do you want a blessing?”

This brings me to the story of Jose Cruz. The fulltime missionaries in my ward found this agricultural worker from Huahaca, Mexico living with other workers from Mexico in a small apartment in Waipahu last fall. Separated from his wife and four children for over a year to earn additional income to defray the costs of an expensive C-section delivery of his youngest daughter, Jose wanted to find a Church to attend while in Hawaii. His roommates recommended a Pentecostal church nearby, but the missionaries soon appeared at his apartment before he had a chance to make a decision on a church to attend. When they explained to me that Jose was willing to hear the Gospel, but only spoke Spanish, I found a member in the ward who had served in a California Spanish speaking mission, (who was in Hawaii only for the summer while accompanying his wife on assignment as a traveling nurse) to assist the fulltime missionaries on their teaching visits. I later enlisted the help of my nephew (and BYU-Hawaii student) Micah Kamoe, who had just returned from his Mexico City mission to go on exchanges with the missionaries in their teaching appointments. When Jose attended sacrament meetings and Sunday school, there was always a Spanish speaking translator at his side. Another brother in the ward whose mother was Peruvian later came forward, and he regularly accompanied Jose to Sunday school lessons to provide translation assistance.

Because of his regular attendance, Jose was soon befriended by a couple in the ward, the husband of which was serving in Army. Both husband and wife had served missions in Concepcion, Chile, and their children grew to love Jose as the family fellowshipped him. Brother Cruz joined the Church in January, and much of the baptismal program was presented in Spanish specifically for his benefit. It wasn't long before this fellowshipping couple began to reach out to Jose's family in Mexico, and missionaries were sent to his wife Lucelia. His wife had dreamed that Jose had found Jesus Christ in Hawaii while seeking for a church, and was astounded when she shortly received a picture of her husband at the Laie Temple Visitor's Center before the Torvaldsen statue of the Christus. She then knew that her dream had been had come to pass. His wife and three children were taught the Gospel and baptized within two weeks of the first visit of the missionaries in February. Another son fulfilling military service in Mexico has not yet received the Gospel, but Brother Cruz is excited to share the Gospel with him.

Vito Monte, a returned missionary in our ward from Costa Rica, now provides translation services for Jose in sacrament meetings and Sunday school.

I do not think that this Spanish speaking capability in a small ward in Ewa Beach is unique in the Church, but I do believe the willingness of the Church members to reach out to an individual far away from home in such a linguistically miraculous manner exemplifies what the Savior means by salt of the earth. In their acts of individual charity these members had certainly not lost their savor. Those of you with foreign language capabilities can bless the lives of many in your earthly sojourn.

There is little time for the many prophecies of Joseph Smith and Paul. They both pass the test of pre-inspiration, a topic for another talk and much more. There is room for a brief comment on the prophecies of each concerning martyrdom. Both Paul and Joseph Smith had predicted safety in earlier persecutions, but they accurately predicted their own deaths. This is a simple translation of that thought in Paul’s final letter, 2 Timothy: “For I am already on the point of being sacrificed; the time of my departure has come” (2 Timothy 4:6, literal translation). From 1842 Joseph Smith had said that his work was virtually through and he could die at any time; in 1844 he negotiated on final arrest, bluntly telling Governor Ford in several letters that the legal process was a pretext “till some bloodthirsty villain could find his opportunity to shoot us.”17 Joseph gave himself into the hands of his enemies with full knowledge of his impending death. I am convinced on the basis of Nauvoo sources. Contemporary journals record his forebodings on the way to Carthage, and Willard Richards wrote the Prophet’s words there the day before martyrdom: “I have had a good deal of anxiety about my safety, which I never did before—I could not help [it].”18 And his non-Mormon lawyer recalled that Joseph said on the morning of the martyrdom “that he should not live to see another day, so fully was he impressed with the belief that he would be murdered, all of which proved true.”19

I enjoyed the article “We Are His Hands” in the July 2010 New Era. In October 2005 I arrived in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, as a humanitarian missionary. One of my assignments was to take the Cambodian LDS Young Adults into the provinces to poor or remote government schools and put on a puppet show to teach the children how to stay well through good hygiene—clean water, clean hands, and clean food. I realized on our first outing that I would have the privilege of seeing what so many thousands of people Churchwide have never seen—the recipients of the hygiene kits, which were distributed at the end of the puppet show.
At one location I noticed that almost all of the children had something in their hands, around their necks, or even on their heads. I asked what they were, and was told, “Those are the hand towels in your church’s hygiene kits.” The kits had been distributed two months earlier. Almost every child there had their towel and used it much like you would a “blankie” or a comforter. It was also used to shield them from the hot sun. I wanted to cry with joy when I understood their appreciation and love for that which was given to them by His helping hands around the world.

Ten-year-old Gavin is in the fifth grade, and he likes to do missionary work. Twice already he’s given friends copies of the Book of Mormon, and several times he’s invited his nonmember friends over for family home evenings. He always prays that he will be a good missionary.
One Friday Mr. Leitzmiller, Gavin’s schoolteacher, had taught his class about the Mayan Indians of Mexico and Central America. Then, after the class was over and the students were filing out, he stopped Gavin and asked if they could talk a moment. When they were alone, Mr. Leitzmiller (who was not a Latter-day Saint) said, “Do you know if Jesus appeared to the Indians in this part of the world after He died on the cross?”
Remembering what he had been taught in family home evenings, at Primary, and on other occasions, Gavin replied, “Yes, He did!”
“I once had a Mormon roommate in college,” Mr. Leitzmiller continued, “and I thought that I remembered his telling me about Jesus coming to the Western Hemisphere after His resurrection. Gavin, do you have a book that tells about that visit?”
“Yes,” Gavin answered. “It’s called the Book of Mormon.”
“Could you bring it to school with you on Monday?” the teacher asked with great interest.
Gavin said that he would.
That evening during supper Gavin told his family about his teacher’s request. They were all very excited for Gavin’s opportunity to do some more good missionary work.
On Sunday Gavin’s dad went to the stake center and picked up “Christ in America,” a pamphlet that tells what happened when Jesus came to the Americas after He was crucified.
That night Gavin carefully wrote on the inside cover of a new copy of a Book of Mormon, “This book tells about Jesus visiting America. It is a true story.”
Early Monday morning Gavin took the copy of the Book of Mormon, with the pamphlet tucked inside, to school and gave it to his teacher before class started. “Mr. Leitzmiller, here’s the book that you asked me to bring,” he said. “I hope that you’ll read it.”
The teacher promised Gavin that he would, and Gavin ran outside to play before the bell rang for school to begin.
When Gavin said his prayers that night, he asked Heavenly Father to bless his teacher as he read the Book of Mormon so that he would know the truth about Jesus.

One night about a year ago in a hotel in Lisbon, Portugal, I was by myself and found out what it means to suffer “jet lag.” (You cross part of the way around the world, and when it’s time to sleep you’re not sleepy.) So as I went to sleep at 10:30, being tired, I woke up at 11:30 and couldn’t go back to sleep. It was a wonderful opportunity for me to do some reading, because usually when I read it puts me to sleep. But I had the experience of reading extensively that night. Out of the eleventh chapter of 3 Nephi, the Savior in his visit to America declared:
And this is my doctrine, and it is the doctrine which the Father hath given unto me. . . .
And whoso believeth in me, and is baptized, the same shall be saved; and they are they who shall inherit the kingdom of God.
And whoso believeth not in me, and is not baptized, shall be damned. . . .
. . . and whoso believeth in me believeth in the Father also; and unto him will the Father bear record of me, for he will visit him with fire and with the Holy Ghost. [3 Nephi 11:32–35]
As I read those passages I felt the truth of them by the power of the Holy Ghost, which came to me and bore witness to me that this was truly the doctrine of our Father in heaven and Jesus Christ, his Son.

With the hovering heat it seemed more like the Fourth of July than Christmas Day. It was the kind of heat Santa Cruz, Bolivia, is famous for. But I soon forgot about the stickiness and my longing for a white Christmas in my excitement to visit Lily and her family.
I had thought about them often, worrying that the children wouldn’t receive any gifts for Christmas because of the economic situation of the family. Yet during the three months I lived with them, they always offered to share whatever they had with me and my companion.
The courage and determination of Lily, the mother, had impressed me as I watched her fight to support her six children by her own ingenuity and the sparse, sporadic help of her estranged husband. She was always an example of faith and trust in the Lord. She often visited other sisters in the ward she knew needed help, even when she was greatly in need of help herself.
I had wanted this to be a special Christmas for the family, so I bought gifts for the children and wrapped each one in pretty paper. But I had a hard time finding a gift for Lily. I kept thinking of the one thing I knew she needed.
Oftentimes missionaries would leave personal belongings behind to make room for souvenirs in their suitcases. Clothes that had been well broken in during their mission life were usually left with friends. Lily had always admired the one thing I hadn’t thought of leaving behind—my coat. It was a burgundy raincoat with a removable wool lining. My mother had helped me pick it out, and I loved it. We had bought it on a special sale where a certain amount of the price was deducted if you traded in another coat which would be given to charity. My mother had donated one of her coats to help me buy mine. My raincoat was my favorite possession. But now I just had two months left in my mission and it was summer.
They had invited us to join with them in their meal of chicken and rice. We gratefully yet reluctantly accepted. I knew that what we ate would be subtracted from their share. We talked and laughed, and the children opened their presents.
Lily told us how blessed they had been that Christmas. All the children had received one nice present through the telephone company where their father worked. Since they all had received a nice toy, she had asked each one to take a favorite toy, not one that was all worn out, and wrap it up. They each took the toy to church with them and gave it to one of the children in their ward who had not received anything for Christmas.
While we were talking, Lily motioned to the girls to go get something from the back of the house. The girls returned a few minutes later with a small package they laid in my lap. I opened it, and pulled out a white, odd-shaped, furry ball that had orange ears and crystal blue eyes. I wanted to cry. It was probably the funniest little stuffed dog I had seen, yet it meant more than any other gift I had received. I tried to protest. They didn’t need to give me anything. But there was no getting out of it. That little fur ball was mine.
It was then that I went to the corner and picked up Lily’s present. When I gave it to her she at first refused. “No, it’s your coat. I couldn’t.”
But as I insisted she began to cry.
She didn’t expect to receive anything, yet she had given me so much by her example of selflessness and her great power to love.
Now, years later, when I hold that little dog in my hands, I can still feel the warmth of our embrace and our tears intermingling. I remember the sweet peace I felt that Christmas day with a family that thought more about giving to others than they did about receiving.

About this same time, Elder Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985), then of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, visited Japan and encouraged the youth of the Church to achieve four goals: (1) receive as much higher education as possible, (2) serve a full-time mission, especially the young men, (3) marry in the temple, and (4) gain skills to support a family. Until that point I had never planned to accomplish these four things. But I later knelt and prayed: “Heavenly Father, I want to accomplish those four goals. Please help me.”
I knew that in order to stay on the path of the chosen, I needed to follow the counsel of the Lord’s servants. I committed to do all I could to follow Elder Kimball’s advice and to work hard to build up the Church.
For the next several years I continued to work toward my four goals. I served as a construction missionary for two years, helping build two chapels in my home country. Then I was called to serve a full-time proselytizing mission. Soon after returning home, I married in the temple the woman from the Matsumoto Branch who wrote me the letter. Later I landed my dream job in a foreign trading company. As I followed the word of the Lord and the counsel of the prophets, I felt that again I was on the path of the chosen. And I am striving to stay on that path today.

After the New Era printed “Walk Tall, You’re a Daughter of God,” our stake gathered together a special group of young women and taught them the song. My daughter and I heard them sing it at a stake Mutual event. This song touched Shannon deeply. She heard it again at girls’ camp that year. At the close of that camp an event took place which I shall remember as long as forever. We closed camp testimony meeting singing this wonderful song. As we sang “Walk Tall, You’re a Daughter of God,” Shannon and I embraced each other, crying and singing all at once. Thank you for that memory! I had less than a year left of holding my daughter. At the last she was in too much pain to be touched, and finally she was paralyzed so she couldn’t hug me anymore either.

In the last area of my mission, my companion and I served in two villages located in the interior of the state of São Paulo, Brazil. Between the two villages was a shortcut through the forest we had never taken because we felt it was dangerous and that we weren’t likely to meet anyone there.
One afternoon as we approached the shortcut, the Holy Ghost touched my heart, telling me that we should enter the forest. I looked at Elder Andrade and told him about the impression I had just received. He told me he had felt the same thing.
Shortly after we had started down the unfamiliar trail, we saw a woman walking toward us. The trail was narrow, and as we passed her, we couldn’t help but notice that she was crying.
When she looked up, she invited us to follow her to her home, where we met her husband. Immediately we began teaching the receptive couple the gospel. After a few weeks we invited them to be baptized. We were excited when they readily accepted because it had been a year since the ward’s last baptism. We were grateful we had acted on the prompting to enter the trail that day.
A short time before their baptism, however, the wife said she needed to talk to us. She said that for years she had had a recurring dream. In her dream she found herself waiting in the center of São Paulo. An older man approached her and said two young men were coming to change her life. She would then see two young men approaching, but her dream always ended at that point.
One day a few weeks earlier, she was sweeping the floor in her house when a voice told her that two young men were approaching and that she needed to go at that moment to the shortcut trail, where we had first seen her. Not understanding the prompting but wanting to know the answer to her dream, she dropped her broom and walked to the trail.
As she walked, the images of her dream came to her mind as if in a movie that ended with her finally seeing the faces of the two young men. She also saw that each wore a black name badge. Moments later, she said, Elder Andrade and I appeared before her on the trail. Emotion overtook her, and she could not help but weep.
Today, remembering that sacred experience, I feel the Spirit and again see in my mind the tear-streaked face of that sister who embraced the gospel. Gratefully, my companion and I had the sensitivity and the courage to follow the path the Lord wanted us to take that day.