Gospel Story Finder

Growing up, I loved sports. When I was a teenager, I played basketball and baseball and ran track. But I always knew that I would never play or practice on Sunday. When you know that you are on the Lord’s side, decisions like this are clear. So when my team was scheduled to practice or play on Sunday, I never begged my parents to let me play. I simply told the coach that I wouldn’t be able to participate. My decision was easy to make because I knew I wanted to be on the Lord’s side.

When I was 17 I was the ward organist, and many times I would take my date to the church so that I could practice the organ, and she would sit and listen. This may well have been because I didn’t have any money, much more than because of her deep love for music, but we started a relationship in doing that and we found that we both liked music. I played the hymns and they brought a lovely spirit to our times together in a chapel as hymns were played with intermittent talk, perhaps followed by a five-cent ice cream cone when I took her home. Now, any one of you reading this might think these were strange kinds of dates, but the important thing in any generation is to find uplifting things you can enjoy together and do them! There’s nothing more boring—and potentially dangerous—than a date that starts out, “Well, what do you want to do?” Be creative, be enthusiastic, and prepare by thinking about the kinds of things that will help you get to know each other better. Decide well in advance where you are going, what you will do, and what time you will be home.

Some time ago, Sister Haycock and I accompanied President and Sister Kimball, President and Sister Tanner, and others on a visit to the Holy Land for the dedication of the Orson Hyde Memorial Gardens. While there, we visited a number of places held sacred in the memory of Christians, and particularly Latter-day Saints, because we were walking where Jesus walked.
We visited the Garden Tomb, and after sitting with President and Sister Kimball inside the tomb, we came out into the sunshine and beauty of the garden. The cameramen who recorded the trip were anxious to get pictures of President Kimball walking in the garden, but I was concerned because the path was paved with flagstones, making it rough and uneven underfoot. I cautioned President Kimball to be careful and not fall. He responded quietly and with dignity: “Don’t worry, Arthur. I am used to walking on holy ground.”

Some mothers, some fathers, some children, some families are called upon to bear a heavy burden here in mortality. Such a family was the Borgstrom family in northern Utah. The time was World War II. Fierce battles raged in various parts of the world.

Tragically, the Borgstroms lost four of their five sons who were serving in the armed forces. Within a six-month period, all four sons gave their lives—each in a different part of the world.

Following the war, the bodies of the four Borgstrom brothers were brought home to Tremonton, and an appropriate service was conducted, filling the Garland Utah Tabernacle. General Mark Clark attended the service. He later spoke with tenderness these words: “I flew to Garland the morning of June 26. Met with the family, including among others the mother, father, and two remaining sons, … one a lad in his teens. I had never met a more stoic family group.

“As the four flag-draped coffins were lined up in front of us in the church, and as I sat by these brave parents, I was deeply impressed by their understanding, by their faith, and their pride in these magnificent sons who had made the supreme sacrifice for principles which had been instilled in them by noble parents since childhood.

“During the luncheon period, Mrs. Borgstrom turned to me and said in a low voice, ‘Are you going to take my young one?’ I answered in a whisper that as long as I remained in command of the army on the West Coast, if her boy were called I would do my best to have him assigned to duty at home.

“In the middle of this whispered conversation with the mother, the father suddenly leaned forward and said to Mrs. Borgstrom: ‘Mother, I have overheard your conversation with the general about our youngest. We know that if and when his country needs him, he will go.’

“I could hardly contain my emotions. Here were parents with four sons lying dead from wounds received in battle and yet were ready to make the last sacrifice if their country required it.”

It is the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ that touched home and heart that ever-to-be-remembered day.

Christl Fechter moved to another country after war tore apart her homeland. She didn’t speak the language well and didn’t know anyone in her new neighborhood, so at first she felt isolated and alone.

As a member of the Church, she summoned her courage and began attending her new ward. She worried that her thick accent would keep people from wanting to talk to her or that she would be judged for being a single woman.

But she met others who overlooked her differences and welcomed her into their community of friends. They reached out in love, and she soon found herself busy helping teach a Primary class. The children were great examples of acceptance, and the feeling of being loved and needed strengthened her faith and helped rekindle her lifelong devotion to the Lord.

During last April’s general conference, President Russell M. Nelson, the prophet of God, invited those members willing to join with him in a day of fasting and prayer for those afflicted with, and health care workers and families affected in one way or another, by this COVID-19 pandemic.1
Confined for several weeks in our home following the lockdown decreed by the South African government, we spent many hours in fervent prayer for people all around the world affected in one way or another by the pandemic. So great was our sense of fulfilment as individuals and as a family to know that we were responding to the prophet’s invitation. Our testimony of the divine calling of President Nelson as a prophet, seer and revelator has seriously increased. Our love and our desire to continue to serve individually and as a family have been strengthened despite the difficulties and conditions we were going through.

In school I had an assignment to create a family coat of arms. First I thought about what is important to my family. Then I started with a sheet of blue paper because I remembered the words from “Our Primary Colors” (Children’s Songbook, 258): “Blue is for truth in our thought and our deed.” Next I put on a green shield to remind me to choose the right, just like my CTR ring. I added a red heart on the shield because “red is for courage to do what is right,” and the heart is for the love that keeps our family together. I added a yellow Utah shape because I was born in Utah and because yellow is for “service from morning till night.” I added a picture of the world because my ancestors came from 14 different countries. I added a picture of the Book of Mormon because it is so important to my family. I added a picture of a baptism because we have to be baptized to return to live with Jesus. I added pictures of temples because they make it possible for our family to be together forever. And I added a white cat because I like cats and have two as pets. My teacher gave me a certificate for being the most creative, and she hung my shield on the wall for a long time. It also helped me to share the gospel with my friends.Rachel Mathews, age 8Valparaiso, Indiana

A story told by President Steve Studdert at a session of the Mount Timpanogos Temple dedication dramatically illustrates this. I repeat it with his permission. Before the temple dedication, the First Presidency invited the residents of the Utah State Developmental Center to a special open house of the temple. This center houses severely mentally and physically disabled sons and daughters of our Heavenly Father. I now quote from President Studdert’s account:

There was a man in his mid-sixties in the center. He had been there since age eight, and it had been 15 years since any family members had been to visit him. They had understandably quit coming because he never spoke to them, never showed any indication of recognition, and never expressed anything whatsoever to them. But on that morning the Spirit worked on this man’s brother, also in his mid-sixties, that today was the day for that overdue visit.

Together with his wife, somewhat apprehensively the brother walked into the room of his handicapped younger brother, not knowing what to expect. The brother, who we will respectfully call Fred, was dressed in his best clothes and waiting somewhat impatiently in his wheelchair. Seeing his older brother, Fred immediately broke into a wide smile, stood up, and embraced him with a not-so-gentle bear hug. There was sweet recognition for the first time ever.

So with a happy eye toward the temple, they ventured out. As Fred’s wheelchair was pushed across the street, he began to become increasingly unsettled. His brother became concerned, recognizing that Fred had not left his residence for many years and that maybe this unusual experience or the crowds were too much for him. They considered returning Fred to his residence, but the Spirit whispered, “Carry on.” As they entered the temple, Fred seemingly grew even more agitated. But they felt impressed to continue.

About 50 feet behind the temple recommend desk is a beautiful painting of the Savior depicted as a shepherd lovingly holding in His protective arms a small black lamb, symbolic of a tender lost lamb. This particular [Minerva Teichert] painting had never before been displayed in any temple.

As the three of them approached this powerful painting, Fred stopped his wheelchair and looked upward at the painting. And then in a voice as clear as any voice ever heard, [he] spoke one simple word: “Jesus.” This was the first understandable word anyone had ever heard him speak in his entire life, and he did so with certainty, clarity, and knowledge. He then folded his arms in the same manner as the Savior’s arms in the painting.

In that moment he grew silent and calm; peace flooded over his anxious mind and nervous body. His arms relaxed and remained firmly folded as were the Savior’s. They proceeded on the tour of the temple, quiet and reverential.

On the wide sidewalls of the magnificent celestial room are large mirrors. As they reached that point in the tour, Fred stopped the wheelchair and stood. Without movement or speech, he looked for several minutes into those mirrors. It was as if he were looking into an unseen eternity. [And, if I might interject, possibly seeing a time in the future when the Resurrection will make him whole.] Then he sat in his wheelchair, again folded his arms as did the Savior in the painting, and remained quiet all the way back to his room. . . .

Since that day in the Lord’s house, Fred has never again spoken an understandable word. The only word he has ever spoken is “Jesus.” [Stephen M. Studdert, personal account]

My wife’s mother, Barbara Smith Amussen, was an officiator in the Logan Temple for twenty years and a widow for forty years. She was a woman without guile. I loved her so much that I spent a lot of time with her, because she was a widow and there was no priesthood bearer in the home.
This choice woman knew the exact time she was to depart mortal life. Her husband, a Danish convert and Utah’s first pioneer jeweler and watchmaker, Carl Christian Amussen, appeared to her either in a dream or vision. She admitted, “I’m not sure which, but it was so real it seemed that he was right in the room. He said he had come to tell me that my time in mortal life was ending and that on the following Thursday (it was then Friday), I would be expected to leave mortal life.”
Her oldest daughter, Mabel, said, “Oh, Mother, you’ve been worrying about something. You’ve not been feeling well.”
Her mother replied, “Everything’s fine. I feel wonderful. There’s nothing to worry about. I just know I’ll be leaving next Thursday.”
Then she said, “Mabel, when the time comes, I’d like to pass away in your home in the upper room where I used to sit and tell the boys Book of Mormon and Church history stories when they were little fellows.”
As the time drew near, she attended fast meeting in her ward. She bore her testimony, and the bishop said she talked as though she were going on a long journey.
“She was bidding us all good-bye,” said the bishop, “expressing her love for us and the joy that had been hers working in the temple” (which was just a few meters away from the chapel). And then she bore a fervent testimony.
As the days passed, she went to the bank, drew out her small savings, paid all her bills, and went to the mortuary and picked out her casket. Then she had the water and the electrical power turned off in her home and went to Mabel’s home. The day before she died, her son came to visit her. They sat by the bed and held hands as they talked.
On the day of my mother-in-law’s death, Mabel came into the room where her mother was resting on the bed. Her mother said, “Mabel, I feel a little bit sleepy. Do not disturb me if I sleep until evening.”
Those were her last words, and she peacefully passed from this life to the next.

“When I tracked my phone usage, I realized that I was on my phone the most on Sunday. I thought that was sad because that’s when I should be trying to get closer to my Savior—but instead, I had been staring at my screen.
“As I started reading my scriptures, I would read the 10 minutes every night before I went to bed, which for me was just about a chapter a night. As I did this, I noticed that I was able to fall asleep much easier. I also found myself making better decisions throughout the week, and I overall just felt better about myself.
“I am grateful that I was able to receive this invitation, and I plan to continue to read for 10 minutes a day and say my nightly prayers.”
Ryan E., 16, Alabama, USA

I have a dear friend with whom I went fishing. He seemed uneasy during the trip and shortly confided to me that he had just returned from a visit with his son-in-law in another state. During this visit he had a strong feeling that he should give his son-in-law a father’s blessing but felt somewhat constrained because he was not his father.
As we discussed his uneasy feelings, it was decided that he should phone his son-in-law immediately upon our return from the fishing trip. During the phone call my friend’s son-in-law, with considerable emotion and tears, confided the great need and desire he had felt for a father’s blessing. He had earnestly prayed that his father-in-law, to whom he felt very close, would know of his desires and give him such a blessing.
When we pray to our Father in Heaven for help, he often answers us by inspiring one of his other children here on earth to provide that help. Generally speaking, the Lord does not speak with a clap of thunder but through the whisperings of a still, small voice as he inspires one of his children to help another in need.

In fact, it was twenty years ago this month that I first met my dear sweetheart, Melinda.
I had been home from my mission for about four months, and I was attending my BYU ward for the first time. As the opening hymn began, I looked up at the person leading the music (as I should, right?), and she was the most beautiful young woman I had ever seen. That evening I saw her again at ward prayer, but I was way too scared to go up and introduce myself to her. Fortunately for me, Heavenly Father took care of that little detail by inspiring our bishop to assign us to the same family home evening group. They announced the new groups that very evening. We flirted for a few months before we finally started dating, and we were married the following June.
Since that time, every significant blessing that has come into my life I have shared with my best friend and eternal companion. I love every moment we get to spend together, and there are never enough of those moments!

Hup, Twop, Threp, Four! I was in the army, alright. Hurry up and wait, a G.I. haircut, oversized fatigues, and only three days out. I was lonely already—demoralized to boot.
Imagine my joy when, while reading my newly issued, olive-drab, miniature Book of Mormon, I was approached by a nice looking fellow soldier.
“Hi! You a Mormon?”
“Yes! You too?”
“No, but I have always wanted to talk to a Mormon. You mind if we talk?”
My heart skipped two beats at the prospect. I was a new, green convert to the Church myself and could hardly wait for the opportunity to share.
“What do you want to know?”
But after a few minutes I wished we had never begun to discuss the Church. This guy turned out to have a master’s degree in philosophy from Columbia University. Since I was no match for him, he proceeded to take me apart, morsel by morsel.
“You can’t possibly prove that the God you believe in really exists, can you?”
“Well … no, but …”
“If God is really as good, if he is really as concerned with all people as you tell me he is, how can he allow all the suffering, wars, hunger, etc., that exist in the world?”
“Well, it … doesn’t have …”
My answer drowned in the laughs of my fellow barracks mates who had cautiously gathered around us. It was probably just as well since my answer was inadequate anyway. In less than half an hour, after I had been picked clean, I returned to my bunk to lick my wounds, stunned, bitterly resolving that this wasn’t going to happen to me again.

It is a warm day—June 29, 1844.
A boat approaches a horseshoe bend in the Mississippi River. On that bend is a city. A traveler on the boat seeks to find the city on his map, but the map, printed a few years previously, shows no such city. On inquiry, he is told that the city is Nauvoo. A brief stop is to be made.
At the docking, the traveler becomes curious as to why long lines of people wait to enter a large home on the river front. Being in no hurry, he informs the boat’s captain that he is going to remain in Nauvoo, perhaps overnight.
As he approaches the end of the line, it becomes apparent that these are grief-stricken people. The ladies and many men are weeping.
“Excuse me,” he says, approaching a mourner, “but what are these lines for?”
The mourner looks up in amazement: “You mean you don’t know?”
“I’m a stranger here,” he says. “I just arrived on the boat.”
“Oh,” replies the mourner. “We are waiting to view the bodies of Lieutenant General Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum who were killed two days ago.”
“Lieutenant General Smith?” the visitor says questioningly.
“Yes, he was the lieutenant general of the Nauvoo Legion, an army of 5,000 men.”
“How many others were killed with them?” asks the visitor.
“None. That is probably the main reason why Joseph died. He believed that his enemies wanted his life alone, and if he had to die, he thought that the lust for blood would be satisfied without the rest of us being killed. He wanted his brother Hyrum to live, but Hyrum insisted on remaining at his side.”
“How did the trouble begin that led to their death?” asks the traveler.
“Well, the public reason given was the destruction of the press of the Nauvoo Expositor,” replies the mourner. “The newspaper was owned by Joseph’s enemies, and they published slanderous and inflammatory articles and lies, seeking to build hatred against Joseph Smith. So an order to close the paper was issued by the city council and the mayor, Joseph Smith.”
“Joseph Smith was also the mayor of this city?”
“Yes.”
“This must be a very new city,” says the traveler. “It isn’t even on my map.”
“Yes, it is new. Just six years ago this was nothing but a swamp.”
Shaking his head in disbelief, the traveler says, “It is a beautiful city. I noticed as I came up the river that the farms and corrals are outside of town.”
“Yes, this is the way Joseph planned the city.”
“Joseph planned this city?”
“Yes, so that the people, mostly farmers, could have the advantages of city life—so that we might associate together and learn from each other.”
The traveler then comments on the wide, straight streets and the well-built houses and wonders what the large building under construction is to be. The mourner informs him that it is the temple and that Joseph had designed it to be the dominant landmark in the city.
“Joseph Smith designed the temple!” the stranger exclaims. He then remembers: “You were telling me what led to his death.”
“Oh, yes, the Expositor incident,” says the mourner. “But the trouble began a long time ago, even before Joseph translated the ancient record.”
“He was a translator?” repeats the visitor. “What happened to the translation of this ancient record.”
“It has been published. It is called the Book of Mormon.”
“Has he published any other books?” asks the stranger.
“Oh, yes, as president of the Church …”
“President of the Church?” exclaims the visitor.
“Yes, president of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Almost everyone here in Nauvoo is a member of the Church. As president he published the Doctrine and Covenants and …”
“What kind of book is that?” asks the amazed traveler.
“It is a book of revelations that were given to the Prophet Joseph Smith …”
“The Prophet Joseph Smith!”
“Yes. God the Father and his resurrected son Jesus Christ appeared to him and conversed with him in his youth. In fact, it was after Joseph, full of joy and enthusiasm, told his neighbors he had seen a vision that the persecution first began. Not only was Joseph persecuted, but also all of his followers were. Why, some of the people you see here have been driven from homes in New York, Ohio, and Missouri. In Missouri none of us were paid for our losses. Joseph tried to obtain redress but was refused. That’s the principle reason why he became a candidate for the presidency of the United States.”
“A candidate for the presidency of the United States!” cries out the bewildered stranger.
The mourner continues: “It was four days ago that Joseph bid a reluctant farewell to his family, looked longingly at the temple and then at his farm, and said, ‘This is the loveliest place and best people under the heavens.’ He then rode toward the county seat at Carthage to turn himself over to his enemies. He said, ‘I am going like a lamb to the slaughter, but I am as calm as a summer’s morning.’ He was promised protection and a fair trial, but two days ago, on June 27, a band of over a hundred men with blackened faces stormed the jail. A few moments later, Joseph and Hyrum lay dead.”
“How old was he?” asks the traveler.
“Thirty-eight years old,” says the mourner.
The visitor looks on in disbelief and thinks to himself: “Lieutenant general, translator, author, mayor, prophet, Church president, city planner, architect, presidential candidate—what manner of man was this Joseph Smith?”
This little scene has been imaginary, but well might many people have thought these things about Joseph Smith.

3. Serve and Lift Others
Our talents are gifts given to us to bless the lives of others. Don’t hide your talents or play small. Struggling students and overachieving students often receive attention, but what about the ordinary ones in the middle? Are there invisible people around you that you should take notice of? Do we look for others that may be standing outside our circle and pull them in? I remember years ago coming out of Relief Society in time to see my daughter standing alone outside the circle of girls in her Young Women class. The sad look on her face will never be erased from my memory. In our Church, these things should never happen. I challenge you to look out for the ones that need to be loved and pulled into your circle. It is our opportunity to represent the Lord and share His love.

One Sunday, while serving in the Fifth Quorum of the Seventy, I was invited with my quorum to meet with Elder Richard G. Scott for training. It was a powerful experience, as he indicated that his purpose in bringing us together was to bear his witness of the Savior. He taught us to respect inspiration. Inspiration is always grounded in truth. My notes from his remarks closely paralleled what he said in general conference at about this same time. In conference, he spoke of how to study scriptures:

When I am faced with a very difficult matter, this is how I try to understand what to do. I fast. I pray to find and understand scriptures that will be helpful. That process is cyclical. I start reading a passage of scripture; I ponder what the verse means and pray for inspiration. I then ponder and pray to know if I have captured all the Lord wants me to do. Often more impressions come with increased understanding of doctrine. I have found that pattern to be a good way to learn from the scriptures. [3]

On that Sunday, he taught us that this same protocol is also fruitful whenever we feel the Spirit or have an impression that has come under the influence of the Holy Ghost. He urged us to write such impressions down, then to pray about whether we had captured them correctly. Make corrections. And when it is right, we should ask if there is more. He said that in his experience, “Often, there is.” And if so, write it down, repeating the process until you have it right, and then ask what else you might learn.

My testimony to you, independent of Elder Scott’s, is that in this way, treasures of truth can come to us that we may never access without displaying this level of diligence and respect for the impressions we receive. It goes without saying, that to gain this benefit to our studies, we must live faithfully, repenting, and keeping the Spirit close.

As Elder Scott concluded, he said he wanted to share aspects of his testimony that he had learned through this process. He wanted to be helpful to us in our ministries, called as we were as members of the Seventy to stand as especial witnesses. He spoke in slow, deliberate phrases, his eyes often focused on some middle distance. It seemed to me that he was imploring the Spirit for permissions to say more than words might say, negotiating with the Spirit, wanting to share everything that he knew and had experienced as a special witness, but without offending the Spirit by crossing into understandings too sacred for expression. It was a time I think, worlds without end, that I will not forget.

As I drove home from that meeting down the I-15 corridor, fairly aglow with the spirit of what I had just heard and felt and experienced, my eyes fell upon a scene of singular drama. To the east, nestled in the cut of a mountain, was the Draper Utah Temple, glowing incandescently in an almost supernal way, lit as it was by a shaft of sunlight bursting from the west between jostling cumulous summer clouds that were shadowing the rest of the mountain side. Towering above the temple, the divided sunlight reflected off of an enormous summer thunder head pulsating 5 miles and more up into the air and, at its base, sending shoots of misty strands of fog down the canyons and escarpments of the mountain range below. Brilliant white at the top, it was nearly black with moisture at its powerful base, flashing lightning and rumbling thunder as it dwarfed and closed in on the luminous temple on the hill. I thought absently, “Look out, little temple. You are in for a pounding.” I don’t often talk to temples, and when I do, they never talk back—until then, when I heard a response deep inside of my soul. The temple didn’t talk to me. But I seemed to see its vertical walls round slightly as it leaned it’s shoulders toward the roiling menace in its approach. And I thought I heard it say, “Bring it. Bring your winds and your rain, your violence and your tumult, your confusion, your chaos. Gape open the very jaws of hell. I will not be moved. This is what I was built for. I am consecrated to this very purpose, to stand as a sanctuary from this and every storm. Holiness to the Lord. The House of the Lord.”

The temple has been for me that place of shelter from the storm. Each temple is, in its way, the very axis mundi, the center of the world, the centering of things. Connect the dots that comprise your connection to the purposes of life. Draw a line through every commandment, every calling, and every ordinance, every act of service, every work of salvation and exaltation of the gospel, and you will form a line that runs directly through the altars of the temple.

There is a book that I have always remembered since I first read it many years ago. I feel it illustrates the scripture found in 1 Thessalonians 5:18, which reads, “In every thing give thanks.” Many of you may be acquainted with Corrie ten Boom’s book entitled The Hiding Place. It is the true story of two Dutch women who were imprisoned during World War II for harboring Jewish refugees. Its message bears reminding.

Corrie and Betsie ten Boom lived by the precepts of Christ and found great comfort in reading the Bible. Their prison barracks were dimly lit, dirty, foul smelling, crowded, and constantly patrolled by guards. Corrie was put into a cell with her sister, which was a blessing for them both. Her constant worry was that the guards would see their Bible and take it away, since it was a great source of hope and comfort to them.

The place was so infested with fleas that the sisters could not move without instantly being covered with the bugs. They were very familiar with scriptures concerning gratitude and thankfulness in the Bible. Betsie told Corrie that they should thank God for the fleas. Corrie wasn’t sure she could do this, but she and Betsie bowed their heads and thanked God even for the fleas.

Weeks later Corrie was struck by the blessing that came from her obedience to thank God in all circumstances. Betsie had heard a supervisor say she wouldn’t step through the door of their cell because of all the fleas, and neither would the guards. It was because of the fleas that they were able to continue to keep their Bible without the guards finding it. They were also able to hold worship meetings and share Christ’s message with other prisoners. God asks us to give thanks even when there may seem to be little for which to be thankful. The ten Boom sisters fully understood this admonition. (See Corrie ten Boom, with John and Elizabeth Sherrill, The Hiding Place [New York: Bantam, 1971], 197–99, 208–9.)

Malou Ducta shivered in the darkness as she prayed. The typhoon, still raging out of control, was threatening to shatter the small house where she and the others were huddled. The friendly sea had become a violent stranger. Everybody was crying.

Hours ago, Malou and her family had evacuated their small house of nipa palms and wood at the edge of the sea near the city of Sorsogon. They had waded through chilling chest-deep water and muddy debris to reach a friend’s house higher on the hill.

Now, as the tumult outside continued, Malou kept praying. Suddenly she thought of her college notebook! How could she have forgotten it? Tucked inside its cover was the money she had been awarded from a Church scholarship fund. This money would pay for her final exams. With the money, she could take the exams and graduate. Without it, her dreams of graduating—and of getting a job to help support her family—would shatter like a tiny nipa hut in a storm.

“I was praying as if talking to a friend, and I said to the Lord, ‘It’s your money, and you know that if I don’t have it, I can’t graduate from college.’ I kept praying, asking Heavenly Father to save the money.”

At 2:00 A.M., the men ventured outside. “They found out that there were no more houses by the seashore,” Malou says. In tears, everyone ran to see for themselves. “All were destroyed. All gone.”

The shore was littered with debris and with bodies of people and animals that had died in the storm. “We were just thankful that no one in our family had died,” she says. “The only things we were able to save were our lives and the clothes that we wore. I felt comforted about losing my tuition money, because it was only money.”

People started digging in the sand and mud, trying to salvage whatever they could find. “One of my cousins shouted at me: ‘Oh, this is your folder!’ I ran and got it. It was wet, but the money was all there!”

As Malou recalls that moment, she again begins to cry. “Heavenly Father really knows my need.”

The only other belongings Malou’s family recovered were some irreplaceable photos—photos of her parents when they were young, a photo of the family dressed in white on their baptism day, and a photo of the family in white on the day they were sealed in the Manila Temple.

Since that 1987 typhoon, Malou has graduated in accounting and has served a mission. With donated funds and materials, the family has built a new house on the same spot at the edge of the sea, because they have no money for land elsewhere. On the wall in picture frames are the water-stained photos and her college diploma. “It’s really a miracle for us,” she says, “a great lesson.”

For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted a brother—someone to play with and talk to, someone to share hiding places and cookies with. I can’t count the number of times I asked Heavenly Father if He would please, please send a little brother to our house. So when I found that my mother was going to have a baby, I was overjoyed. I knew it was going to be a brother. I just knew it. And I was right!
Daniel Benjamin was born kicking and screaming on February 14. For a while we called him our special valentine, then just Benny. I got to hold him when he was only three days old, and I was so proud that I nearly popped the buttons right off my shirt! Lots of days, I rocked him in the rocking chair after school. Sometimes I told him about things at school, but most of the time I sang to him. Mom said I was a lot of help, and Dad said I was a great brother.
When the snow melted and the tulips came up, I was allowed to take him outside and push him in his stroller. I was given a new baseball mitt for my birthday, and I let Benny try it on, but he just chewed on it. “When you get big enough, I’m going to teach you to be the best shortstop ever,” I told him. Every day I showed him new things and waited for him to get old enough to play with me. But he never did.
He did get bigger and stronger. He learned to roll over and sit up and finally to walk. But something was wrong. Sometimes he sat on the floor for hours, staring into space and rocking back and forth. I tried to teach him to play with blocks and to roll a ball, but he just pushed the ball away. The blocks he lined up on the windowsill over and over again, always exactly the same way. If I tried to move them, he screamed and kicked. When I talked to him, he looked right through me as if I weren’t there. Mom and Dad tried over and over to get him to say “Mama” or “Daddy”—anything at all—but he just popped his thumb into his mouth and looked away. Once in a while he let Mom or Dad hug him, but whenever I put my arms around him, he pushed me away. That made me feel really sad.
By the time Benny was two years old, Mom and Dad had taken him to nearly every doctor around, but nobody seemed to know what was wrong. Finally they took him to a big hospital far away to see a special kind of doctor. He said that Benny was severely autistic. That meant that he might never be able to talk, or play with me, or be in Cub Scouts, or do any of the things that regular brothers do.
The more I thought about it, the worse I felt. There was a big, empty place somewhere inside me, and an aching that wouldn’t go away. I guess Mom could tell I was hurting, because one day when I was sitting on the couch, she came over and sat beside me. “Want to talk?” she asked quietly.
For a minute I just kept looking out the window; then I swallowed hard and looked up. “Mom, does Heavenly Father really love us?”
“Of course He does,” she answered, putting her arm around me.
“Well, sometimes … sometimes I wonder. Why did Heavenly Father let Benny be autistic? Doesn’t He love Benny?”
“Yes, David,” Mom said, pulling me closer. “Benny is very special to Heavenly Father, just as you are. But I know how sad and confused you must feel, because sometimes I feel that way too. But sad times happen to everyone. They’re part of living. And learning. They can teach us things we never knew before—things about ourselves and about what’s really important in life. Even though they’re painful, these times can help us grow.”
“But Benny’s the only brother I have,” I said, blinking to keep the tears from falling.
“Wait here a minute.” Mom stood up and left the room. When she came back, she had something in her hand. “I want to tell you about another Brother, a Brother who loves you and cares about you and who will help you and be a Friend to you all your life.”
“Another brother?”
She held out a small picture of the Savior. “Our Elder Brother, Jesus Christ, knows how sad we sometimes feel. Sad things happened to Him too. But He has given us a reason to have hope and to live our lives with joy.”
I didn’t see how I could ever feel really happy again, but I kept listening.
“We have a great opportunity to follow the Savior’s example by loving Benny and helping him in a kind and patient way. Sometimes it will be hard, and we’ll get discouraged. But if we keep trying, we’ll grow to love Benny more and more. And we’ll become more like Jesus.”
“I already love Benny a lot,” I told Mom, “so I guess I’m already a little like Jesus.”
Mom nodded and gave me an extra squeeze. Then she told me something I’ll never forget. “Because Jesus loved us so much, He made it possible for us to be resurrected. Do you know what that means?”
“I think I do. It means that when we die, we won’t have our bodies for a while, but then we’ll have them again.”
Mom nodded. “And in the resurrection there will be no crippled bodies or minds. Can you imagine what that means?”
For a long moment I didn’t answer. I was thinking of things I had never imagined before, and a warm feeling was growing inside of me, crowding out the empty, aching place. I looked at Mom. “It means that someday Benny will know me! He’ll talk to me and be my friend and hug me back.”
“Yes,” Mom answered. “And he will love you for all you’ve done for him.”
For a few minutes Mom and I sat there, thinking our own thoughts. Then I went to Benny’s room. He was sitting on the floor in a pool of sunshine, rocking silently back and forth. I knelt beside him, and for a while I just looked at him. His soft hair glistened in the sunlight, but his eyes were empty and far away.
“I love you, Benny,” I said softly. “And Jesus loves you too. We’ll always be your friends, because that’s what brothers are for.” I put my arms around Benny’s shoulders, and for just the smallest moment he stopped rocking and let me hold him.

A few years ago I attended groups sponsored by the LDS twelve-step addiction recovery program. I attended with a dear friend, and we supported each other. These groups are held every day of the week at various locations throughout the Wasatch Front. Recovering from addiction is a lifelong challenge.
My friend and I learned practical lessons from group members. I learned that successful days of sobriety are never lost. When you slip and fall back into old patterns of addiction, it is critical that you immediately get back on track, repent by following the necessary steps, and move forward to add another day of sobriety to your “new history.” You do not lose any of your days of sobriety. Instead, you keep those previous days of sobriety and simply add your new days to the tally. I appreciated the fact that you keep making “new history”—what a positive way to think about getting back on track and staying on track.
Contrary to Satan’s voice, which tells us that things are hopeless, that we are worthless, and that we are forever lost, our Savior wants all of us to repent as quickly as possible, get back on track, and come unto Him.