Gospel Story Finder

We live in the midst of the land of the Old Testament. The Tigris and Euphrates rivers are only a few hours’ drive from our house. The Sunday School lessons seem to bring this part of the world to life, so we decided to visit the places we were studying. Our first trip to the lands of the Bible was labeled a family home evening activity—but we stayed a week.

We started our journey at 4:00 A.M.; that is the only cool and refreshing time of the day in the Middle East. As a breeze blew across my face, I looked at the desert I had come to know so well. It looked like the sun was coming up on my right, but as I looked more intently, I realized it was just the roaring flames near the oil wells. Kuwait with all its oil has so much natural gas that most of it is burned off. The bright orange flames add color to the brown desert. We were heading this morning for the fertile crescent of ancient times, known to our generation as Iraq.

Our original family home evening activity expanded to include students, teachers, a school bus, and Nofan, our Arabic-speaking guide and bus driver. Nofan slowed the bus at the Iraqi border and told us to expect a long inspection. He was right; the border guards took over two hours to check the visas in our passports and search our bus. Finally, when our patience was emptied to a drop, we were allowed into Iraq.

Then the Bible came to life before my eyes. We passed some Bedouins herding camels, black-robed women riding on the backs of donkeys, square mud-brick houses, barefoot children tending goats.

Nofan drove us to Al Qurna where the Euphrates and Tigris rivers join. This area between the two rivers is the legendary Garden of Eden according to our guide. He even showed us a tree labeled in English “Adam’s Tree.” We believe otherwise, but it was a good lead-in to questions.

In the swamplands between the Euphrates and the Tigris live the Marsh Arabs. These people live as they have for centuries in barrel-shaped houses made of reeds called mudhifs. They still use Stone-Age utensils and live an isolated life. I wondered if this could be the way people lived in the days of the Bible. We stopped and bought a watermelon, broke it into chunks, and shared it with the kids who swarmed around us wherever we went.

In Genesis we had read about Chaldea and that after the flood Noah’s son Shem settled in this area. Abraham is the tenth generation after Shem. My excitement rose as our bus headed toward Ur, the birthplace of Abraham. The dry, dusty road finally brought us to a massive temple, the ziggurat of Ur, where the idol worshipers made sacrifices to their pagan gods. As soon as the bus stopped, my brother and I jumped out to climb the big stone steps to the top. The desert spread out far below us with a grand view of the excavated ruins of ancient Ur. Ur was no longer just a name in the Bible; I could see it! We climbed back down the ziggurat and followed the guide through winding passages excavated by archeologists. All around us lay broken clay pots and fragments of bone. I could imagine some of the pots being used by Abraham and his family. Terah, Abraham’s father, was a maker of images. Maybe he also made some of these pots. One of the teachers found an unbroken clay bowl, but after she carefully dug it out of the sandy cliff, it fell apart in her hands. As we walked deeper into the excavation, we saw skulls partly buried in the mounds. The guard pointed out the place where Abraham possibly lived. Unbelievable! He also showed us the Royal Tombs of King Mesannedpada who ruled about 2500 B.C. Forty-three of the King’s servants took poison and were buried with him. They believed in life after death, and I guess the King still needed his servants. What loyalty! The Queen’s goldleaf crown and some jewels were found in her tomb along with a harp. The guard told us these things were in the museum in Baghdad, so we headed the bus in the direction of Baghdad.

Baghdad—was it actually for real, or were those Arabian Night stories I read as a kid only fairy tales? I could see a golden minaret, but the fabled city of riches looked just like any other city in the Middle East—rather dirty, noisy, and crowded. We stayed overnight in a campground next to the Tigris River. We spread our sleeping bags out in what they called a “resthouse.” My parents took one look and went to a hotel.

A two hour drive from Baghdad brought us to the once great city of Babylon. Nebuchadnezzar was King of this city at the time Lehi left Jerusalem to come to the promised land. Nebuchadnezzar’s Ishtar Gate has been rebuilt and is big and impressive, but it is hard to visualize the once-famous hanging gardens. The ruins look just like ruins to me. It was in this city that Daniel interpreted the King’s dreams and became a ruler in the Babylonian kingdom. It was here that Daniel was brought as a slave when Jerusalem was destroyed. It was here that Daniel was put in the Lion’s den and was saved by the Lord. The stories of Daniel became very real to me.

The next day we decided to visit the old Assyrian capital of Nineveh in northern Iraq. The story of Jonah and the whale had always been a favorite of mine. It took Jonah a while to get to Nineveh because he thought he could run from the Lord, but when Jonah finally arrived there, he convinced the people to listen to him and repent and worship God instead of stone idols. The Lord saved the city from destruction that time, but it’s in ruins now. Nabi Younis (Jonah) Mosque stands on a mound overlooking Nineveh. We were told that Jonah stood on this spot when he preached repentance to the Assyrians.

Visualizing the Old Testament prophets walking in the places where I walked gave me a stronger feeling about the scriptures and their teachings. Seeing these biblical places strengthened my testimony. The Bible has become a very important part of my life.

It was past midnight when the bus stopped in front of our house in Kuwait. We had driven all day through Iraq to get back in time to start school the next morning. In the Arab world our school week begins on Saturday. Good old mixed up Kuwait! It’s been a real blessing after all. Tonight as I kneel beside my bed I will thank my Heavenly Father for one more blessing, the opportunity of having the world as my home.

Sometimes what we must give up is not a possession but a cherished dream. Growing up in Taiwan, I had always dreamed of going to school in England. After receiving a university degree and studying in the United States, I returned home and made arrangements to continue my studies in England. At this same time I received a calling in the Relief Society. At first I planned to accept the calling for a short time—just until I left for England. Then after much consideration, I decided to postpone my studies abroad for a year.
It was during this year when I was “sacrificing” my studies in England that an amazing blessing came into my life. One day as I was walking by a bulletin board at church, I saw a notice that the Church’s Translation Department was seeking to hire a Chinese language supervisor. I felt the Holy Ghost prod me to apply, but I hesitated. The year was almost up, and it was time for me to go to England. But the Spirit encouraged me, and I applied and was hired. For me, working as a language supervisor for the Church is not just a job. It is a great privilege and blessing. But I could never have received this blessing if I had not been willing to give up my dream of studying in England.

Years after my baptism, I spoke with Sister Smallcomb and thanked her for still being willing to address my questions. I also expressed that I hoped I wasn’t bothering her.
“Marcus,” she said, laughing, “you can send me questions about the gospel for the rest of forever.”
It was so comforting to know that I had someone I could turn to for answers. In a way, Sister Neff and Sister Smallcomb were my mentors in the gospel, helping to guide me along my path of conversion and helping me understand what it means to be a member of the Church.
But they wouldn’t be the only ones to guide me.
I used to love having spiritual discussions with my family. But when I joined the Church, those conversations—at least for a season—became impossible to have. Spiritual discussions with my family left me feeling drained rather than invigorated.
Living the gospel without my family was not a trial I could endure by myself. Gratefully, my Heavenly Father and the faithful bishop in my young single adult ward were there to help.
No matter what I discussed with my bishop, I always grew spiritually. I felt the support and love I needed.
Maybe your spiritual needs aren’t filled through a bishop. But an institute teacher, a mission president, a senior missionary couple, a ministering brother or sister, a friend, and so many others can be there to support you.
How do we seek those mentors in our lives? One of the most important steps is doing your best to continue living the gospel. And you can trust that a perfect Heavenly Father can (and will) guide many Christlike people to help you.
You can also find a mentor by placing yourself in positive situations. Carrying out a ministering assignment, magnifying a calling, offering meals to missionaries and joining them for lessons, attending institute, and bearing your testimony are all ways to create opportunities to develop good relationships.
Throughout my journey, whenever I felt alone, Heavenly Father continued to send angels my way to comfort and strengthen me.
I realized that I was never truly in a position where I didn’t have support. Heavenly Father always led me to help, especially when things were tense at home. All I had to do was keep my faith in Him and keep my spiritual eyes and ears open for His guidance and blessings. I solemnly testify that the Savior’s words are true:
“But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you” (Matthew 6:33).
I lovingly encourage you to keep yourself involved in the gospel as you pray for Heavenly Father to guide you to the beneficial relationships and mentors that will help you stay on the covenant path and return to Him.

For years William R. Wagstaff, who served in the North Central States Mission from 1928 to 1930, felt disappointed he had not baptized more people. In the summer of 1929 he and his companion visited a farm family about 180 miles west of Winnipeg.
“Brother Wagstaff remembered giving a copy of the Book of Mormon to the mother and discussing the gospel with her during numerous visits through that and the following summer.
“He recalled that during each visit ‘she’d take off her apron and we’d sit down and discuss the gospel. She’d read and have lots of questions.’
“But at the close of his mission, she still had not been baptized, and he lost touch with her.”
Brother Wagstaff went home, married, and raised a family. Then in October 1969 he and his wife attended his missionary reunion. “A lady approached him and asked, ‘Aren’t you Elder Wagstaff?’
“… She introduced herself as the woman he had taught on the farm outside Winnipeg. In her hand was a worn copy of the Book of Mormon—the one he had given her 40 years earlier.
“‘She showed me the book,’ he related. ‘I turned over the front and there was my name and address.’
“She then told Brother Wagstaff about 60 members of her family were members of the Church, including a branch president.”

President Benson’s testimony made a deep and lasting impression on a minister of that church, Father Alexander. A few years later, this minister told a Finnish member of our church, Sister Irma Airto, that of all the notable people who visited the Baptist church and signed the guest register, Ezra Taft Benson was the greatest. President Benson was visiting Russia as a high official in the United States government, but Father Alexander recognized him as a great spiritual leader. Father Alexander told Sister Airto, “When you meet Mr. Benson, tell him … that we know he is a man of God and I pray for him.” Sister Airto never expected to meet President Benson in person to convey this message. However, when he visited Finland and created the Helsinki Finland Stake in October 1977, she was able to deliver the message, strengthening her testimony that the Lord guides our affairs.

The story is told of a group of men who were talking about people who had influenced their lives and for whom they were grateful. One man thought of a high school teacher who had introduced him to Tennyson. He decided to write and thank her. In time, written in a feeble scrawl, came the teacher’s reply:
“My dear Willie:
“I can’t tell you how much your note meant to me. I am in my 80s, living alone in a small room, cooking my own meals, lonely and like the last leaf lingering behind. You will be interested to know that I taught school for 50 years, and yours is the first note of appreciation I have ever received. It came on a blue, cold morning, and it cheered me as nothing has for years.”

When I was 12, the missionaries began to teach my siblings and me. At first my father didn’t participate. He would just sit in a back room behind a curtain and listen. But then he read a Church pamphlet that described how a man and a woman married with the right authority could live together forever. This got his attention because even though his wife had passed away, he could be with her again. Once he learned this, he decided to be baptized. And we were all baptized as a family.
The newfound perspective that the gospel provided helped me realize it was possible to achieve better things in life if I applied myself and was obedient. I made the personal decision that I would do whatever it took to remain on the Lord’s path.

Our family is learning from a close relative, six-year-old Liam. This past year he has battled aggressive brain cancer. After two difficult surgeries, it was decided that radiation would also be necessary. During these radiation treatments, he was required to be all alone and lie absolutely still. Liam did not want to be sedated because he disliked the way it made him feel. He was determined that if he could just hear his dad’s voice over the intercom, he could lie still without the sedative.
During these anxious times, his dad spoke to him with words of encouragement and love. “Liam, although you can’t see me, I am right here. I know you can do it. I love you.” Liam successfully accomplished the 33 required radiation treatments while holding perfectly still, a feat his doctors thought would be impossible without sedation for one so young. Through months of pain and difficulty, Liam’s contagious optimism has been a powerful example of meeting adversity with hope and even happiness. His doctors, nurses, and countless others have been inspired by his courage.
We are all learning important lessons from Liam—lessons about choosing faith and trusting in the Lord. Just like Liam, we cannot see our Heavenly Father, but we can listen for His voice to give us the strength we need to endure the challenges of life.
Could Liam’s example help us to better understand King Benjamin’s words to become as a child—submissive, meek, humble, patient, and full of love? (see Mosiah 3:19).

Sister Kim told you about the earthquake. It was a 7.6 quake. Many people lived in tents for weeks or months, including some of our missionaries. Most of my responses were automatic because I was involved with Hurricane Iniki that hit Kauai. I was the Senior Medical Administrator at the time in the Guard, and was in the Diamond Head Crater Civil Defense Command Center when the first communications came out of Kauai. In the ensuing days, I worked with other relief organizations and military units to quickly take relief to the people of Kauai. From this experience, I knew exactly what to do when the earthquake hit Taiwan. I learned that experiences in other fields can be transferred to church callings.

About a week after the earthquake, I received a call from the vice-president of the Tsu Chi Buddhist Benevolent Society in Central Taiwan in the morning. He said, "President Kim, we are an organization of older people who have money and good will. We are in the process of building temporary housing for the victims of the earthquake. But we lack the muscles to pour cement and build the foundations for those homes. We know that you have young missionaries here. Can you help us?"
I said, "How many young men do you need?"
"About forty."
"When do you need them?"
"The cement trucks start arriving at 2:00 this afternoon."
I concluded, "I will try and give you the help you need."
I called my Assistants and had them call four zones of missionaries to bike to Chunghsing and help the Buddhists build their temporary housing. Some of them biked over two hours, but by 2:00 they were all working side by side with their Buddhist brothers. Some of our missionaries came from families in the construction business, so they were even of greater help. For two weeks they worked together and built a great relationship. Later, the Vice-President confided in me, "We actually had asked some other churches to help, but they declined saying that they needed to take care of their own members. Your church truly is a church where love has no bounds." This story was even printed in the Tzuchi Foundations' magazine, so we got great coverage from that. I learned that selfless service brings greater rewards most of which are unexpected.

My angel mother, Jasmine Bennion Arnold, clearly understood her role to help in the rescue of our Heavenly Father’s wounded or lost sheep, including her own children and grandchildren. What a marvelous role grandparents can play in the lives of their grandchildren.

Mom was usually assigned to visit teach those struggling with their faith, the less-active and part-member families; however, her flock included several others that no one had assigned her to visit. Generally her visits were not just once a month, as she quietly listened, ministered to the sick, and gave loving encouragement. The last several months of Mom’s life, she was homebound, so she spent hours writing them letters, expressing her love, bearing her testimony, and lifting those who came to visit.

It was about that time Bob began talking again about going on his mission. We hadn’t mentioned it much, but then one day he said, “Well, I guess when we get home I’ll start getting ready for my mission.” From then on, he talked about a mission more and more. One night, about 1:00 A.M., after a long, hard day, he rolled over in his sleeping bag and said, “Dad, tell me about eternal life.” We talked for about two hours. Then, with his last effort, he said, “That’s for me,” and fell asleep. For me that made the whole trip worthwhile.
We slowly made up time, and by the end of the trip, arrived in the small eskimo village at the mouth of the river right on schedule. We had one half of a meal left. Our canoe was so badly damaged we had to abandon it (after notifying Canadian officials). We had run every set of rapids on the river but one (whether we were tired or afraid of the one we portaged around I’m not sure), so we didn’t claim any records. But Bob had been lost and now was found. The day after we returned home, he went to see the bishop and expressed his desire to serve the Lord. He is now serving in the Illinois Chicago Mission.

One evening my missionary companion and I knocked on the door of a young man who was an international student studying at one of London’s many universities. He invited us in, and we explained that we were missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He seemed eager to learn more about the Restoration of the gospel, so we testified of the Prophet Joseph Smith and told him about a sacred book from our Heavenly Father called the Book of Mormon. We emphasized that it was sacred because it testifies of Jesus Christ.
We explained that he could know for himself of its truthfulness and offered to give him a copy. As I handed the Book of Mormon to him, he got up from his chair and left the room without saying a word. I held the Book of Mormon in my hand momentarily, and my companion and I looked at each other in puzzled silence, wondering what to do. I put the book down on the table.
We could see our young friend in the kitchen washing his hands and drying them on a fresh towel. He came back into the room and picked up the Book of Mormon from the table and simply said, “My people always wash their hands before they touch something sacred.” Tears came to my eyes as I watched this young man open the Book of Mormon for the first time and turn its sacred pages with his clean hands.
I was sent on a mission to teach the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, yet I was the one being taught by this young man with his clean hands. In many cultures—including my own—it isn’t necessary to wash our hands before reading the scriptures, but his simple gesture of respect was a reverent and powerful reminder of the sacredness of the Book of Mormon.

“When our children were very small, I started to write down a few things about what happened every day. Let me tell you how that got started. I came home late from a Church assignment. It was after dark. My father-in-law, who lived near us, surprised me as I walked toward the front door of my house. He was carrying a load of pipes over his shoulder, walking very fast and dressed in his work clothes. I knew that he had been building a system to pump water from a stream below us up to our property.

He smiled, spoke softly, and then rushed past me into the darkness to go on with his work. I took a few steps toward the house, thinking of what he was doing for us, and just as I got to the door, I heard in my mind—not in my own voice—these words: “I’m not giving you these experiences for yourself. Write them down.”

I went inside. I didn’t go to bed. Although I was tired, I took out some paper and began to write. And as I did, I understood the message I had heard in my mind. I was supposed to record for my children to read, someday in the future, how I had seen the hand of God blessing our family. Grandpa didn’t have to do what he was doing for us. He could have had someone else do it or not have done it at all. But he was serving us, his family, in the way covenant disciples of Jesus Christ always do. I knew that was true. And so I wrote it down, so that my children could have the memory someday when they would need it.

I wrote down a few lines every day for years. I never missed a day no matter how tired I was or how early I would have to start the next day. Before I would write, I would ponder this question: “Have I seen the hand of God reaching out to touch us or our children or our family today?” As I kept at it, something began to happen. As I would cast my mind over the day, I would see evidence of what God had done for one of us that I had not recognized in the busy moments of the day. As that happened, and it happened often, I realized that trying to remember had allowed God to show me what He had done.”

Let’s go, guys. Time to get up,” a loud voice said, unconcerned that my exhausted body needed more rest. “Yeah,” I moaned in my most convincing tone. I rolled 90 degrees and half opened one eye to see what time it was. The illuminated digital clock read 4:35 A.M. in bright red. Dad’s portly figure towered at the bedroom door. The hallway light surrounded him, giving him the aura of a heavenly messenger dressed in white. Dad’s message, however, was not exactly prophetic: “We’ve got cows to milk. You guys awake?”
“Okay, okay,” Steve said slightly annoyed.
I closed my eyes, then felt my nose with my hand. It must have been ten degrees colder than the rest of my body, which was warmed by a stack of six blankets. I snuggled, eyes closed, listening to the wind howl outside the bedroom window. I heard the bathroom door open. “Let’s go, Steve,” I said to my brother as I slowly rolled to the edge of my bed. I flipped back the covers, sat up, and quickly pulled my pants over the insulated socks and long johns I wore all night. I grabbed one flannel shirt and slipped it on, then imitated the procedure with a second.
I heard the back door close as I headed downstairs. Steve was right behind me. In the coatroom I donned another pair of pants over the ones I had on, then two more flannel shirts of a quilted style, and a dirty green army jacket. Snowmobile boots, a heavy winter cap over my ears, a thick scarf, and sheepskin gloves completed the outfit. I took a deep breath and looked at Steve. He glanced back, in almost identical clothing. We pulled open the door and stepped out into eight inches of swirling, drifting snow.
Steve’s voice was muffled by the scarf over his mouth, but I detected a sarcastic tone as he talked, “Sure is a lovely morning.”
“Yeah,” I replied, pointing to the thermometer by the milk house. “Let’s check the temperature.”
Out of habit, we walked single file, stepping in Dad’s boot tracks. The barn lights shone brightly through the windows. I could see Dad’s reflection and knew he was throwing hay to the cows. Half asleep and shivering I was barely aware of what I was doing. Dad, however, was bustling around feeding and checking each cow to make sure she had made it through the night okay. We both stopped at the telephone pole, and Steve scraped the ice off the thermometer as I adjusted my view of the mercury. “It’s only twelve below,” I mumbled, “five degrees warmer than yesterday morning.”
As we stepped in the barn and untied our scarves, the warm air penetrating our nostrils was filled with the sweet aroma of oat straw and alfalfa hay. Johnny, our dog, ran to greet us. We each took a second to say good morning to him. Then, without speaking to each other, we moved to do our preassigned chores. In sleepy silence Steve and I prepared to milk as Dad fed the cows. The clanking of neck chains and hooves on concrete was drowned out when I turned on the radio.
As we milked I watched Dad and wondered what it would be like without him. He never missed a morning in the barn. He was never late, and he never complained. No matter what happened (and things inevitably would go wrong, especially in cold weather) he always handled it with cool, efficient professionalism. I wished I could be as patient as he was. He always shared a positive attitude, explaining that things were never as bad as they could be.
The next words were spoken half an hour later when Dad said he needed to check the heifer barn to make sure the water wasn’t frozen. We heard on the radio the wind chill outside was about 55 below. He left but returned in five minutes. We watched as he got the propane torch. “Not too bad,” he shouted cheerfully on his way back out the door.
“I’ll bet that water is frozen solid. He just doesn’t want us to get perturbed at the cold.”
“Yeah,” Steve agreed, “that’s Dad.”
At 6:45 Steve and I were almost done milking. Dad returned. “Took you awhile, Dad. Everything okay up there?” I asked.
“No problem. Everything’s fine,” he said reassuringly.
I looked at Steve in disbelief. His face said without words exactly what I was thinking. “Right, Dad!”
We assembled in a circle and made sure each one knew what needed to be done before breakfast. After deciding who would do what, we dispersed. It took an extra 30 minutes on cold winter mornings to make sure every water line, calf, cow, tractor, and truck was safeguarded from the elements. I took some shortcuts while cleaning the feeder, hoping Dad wouldn’t check. It was a dumb thing to hope, but my fingers were numb and my nose resembled a circus clown’s. Of course Dad checked and discovered my slothfulness. As I refroze my fingers finishing what I hadn’t done before, I imitated Laman and Lemuel and murmured against Dad’s thoroughness.
At 7:20 we sealed up the barn and braved the bitter cold again on our way to the house. Around the breakfast table we discussed the things to do today and decided who would be responsible for each. The list seemed long, especially when I thought of the icy cold weather.
I expressed my disgust at the arctic conditions and complained to Dad about all the trivial things he wanted done. He smiled and explained the importance of each of the “trivial” jobs. I nodded in agreement, my face indifferent. Strangely, I looked forward to the next eight hours. I didn’t realize it then, but Dad was teaching me each day invaluable lessons about responsibility and preparedness. I was in the eighth grade.
Twelve years have passed since that cold January morning. We don’t milk cows anymore, but Dad hasn’t changed a bit. He still shares a positive attitude even after a crippling accident that has left him disabled. The lessons he taught us surface in my conversations and experiences all the time now. At last I understand what he has taught me by his example. I love my dad.

The declaration in D&C 135:7—which identifies Joseph and Hyrum Smith as the fellow servants John saw in vision—is corroborated by an interesting experience of Captain John Lawn, as reported by his son: “My father was one of the guards, placed by Governor Ford, at Carthage Jail, the day before Joseph and Hyrum Smith were martyred; and heard each of them speak from the stairway to the guard below; and when Hyrum spoke, he told them to take their pencils and note down Revelation, the sixth chapter, from ninth to eleventh verses inclusive; ‘For,’ said he, ‘that is now about to be fulfilled.’…My father made a note of it, at once, and was so much affected by what he had both seen and heard while there, that as soon as he was released from duty that evening, he came home and read those three verses to my mother, and turned the leaf down. The above incident was told me by my mother, some years afterward, as nearly as I can remember, as related by her; and she showed the Bible to me, with the verses marked, and the leaf down. I have this Bible now, just as he left it in 1847, when he died.”

We all have concerns and needs that we can feel alone in. He cares about our concerns no matter how great or small. I have felt the need for His help when worrying about seemingly small things like the ever-present friend I call “house repairs.” Without a spouse to consult with, I can worry alone about the right contractor, fair costs, taking time away from work to be home, and being a good steward over my finances and home. It was a triumph the other day to get my garage door fixed! The Lord heard my concern. And though small in the grand scheme of things, He answered my prayer. How? Through a kind neighbor, the help of the Spirit, and a video on YouTube, I was blessed to know what to do to fix the door.

Speaking about his mother, who is still living, Elder Kikuchi said, “Mother is not a member of the Church yet, but I think she’s ready to join. She was left alone because my father was killed during World War II. I was four and a half, my brother was six and my sister was almost nine. My youngest sister was just one.

“I think Mother was with Father only ten years. Before he passed away, it was not difficult for him to earn enough money to support his family. He owned seven large fishing boats and had a lot of employees. But after he died, there was no one to run the business.

“Those days after the war were difficult, and it was hard for Mother to earn money. As far as I can remember, she did everything—selling, custodial work, and work in a factory where fish were dried. She worked very hard to earn money, and when the wintertime came, her fingers would sometimes bleed because of the weather and rough work. One time she became ill, and the skin came off her fingers. Even the joints were infected. That was a pitiful time for her.

“In order to keep food on the table, my mother planted a large garden. She would plant all kinds of vegetables—potatoes, pumpkins, eggplants, corn, beans, sweet potatoes, carrots, and cabbages. My brother and sister and I would get up very early and help her in the garden before we left for school. In the summer we would go to the seashore and pick up seaweed. We would dry the seaweed and then sell it.

“My brother and sister were helping my mother financially by doing part-time work after school. My responsibility in helping the family was to prepare the dinner for the family and sweep the floors.

“In spite of these struggles, my mother was able to raise her children.

“Even though she was tired at night, she would read bedtime stories to us.

“Mother never says anything bad about others. That’s only one of the beauties of her character. Whenever we would start to talk about someone’s shortcomings, she would always say, ‘Sh-h! Hush!’ She also cautioned us, ‘Do not destroy or stain your family heritage. That is the way you can show love to your parents. You don’t need to bring gifts to us, just be a good person. Do not steal. Do not lie. Go the extra mile when helping people. Work double for what you want to attain. If a person needs help, you must help, for some day you may need help yourself.’”

Elder Kikuchi’s concluding tribute to his mother was, “Everybody in our town where I grew up respected my mother. I am really proud of her.”

It was fast and testimony meeting in the ward. Several young people had stood up and testified of the goodness of the Lord and his blessings unto them. Then an elderly gentleman stood on his feet. There were lines of care on his face, and time had turned his hair to a silver color. But his voice was clear like the tones of a bell on a frosty morning:
“I know that God lives and guides our destinies. I am here today because he heard my prayers as a boy and guided my footsteps.”
To understand his words we must go back many years to the time when a 12-year-old boy became a man and went to work.
He lived in a coal-mining village in the little country of Wales, where almost all of the male inhabitants worked at the colliery (coal mine and its connected buildings). In a few weeks he would be 12, and like other boys in the village he would go down the pit to dig coal. He was a normal boy who understood that he must leave school to go to work to help support the family. But one morning as he was on his way to school, an incident occurred that was to affect his life. He was to learn the meaning of fear.
Coming up the hill toward the cottages where the miners lived was a small cortege. Two men were carrying a stretcher while one walked in front. Their faces were black with coal dust. On the stretcher was a body, a small body covered with a brown blanket.
“And who is it now?” someone asked.
“It is little Davey Edwards,” the man in front replied. “Part of a tunnel caved in on him, poor lad.”
The boy continued on to school, but his thoughts were not of schooling but of Davey Edwards. Together they had roamed the hills. They had picked chestnuts from the thicket of trees on Mynyddyslwyn Mountain and picked wild blackberries along the bank of Gwyddon Brook. They had stood together where the golden gorse ended and the woodland began and listened to the plaintive call of the cuckoo bird telling of the approach of spring.
“Yes,” he thought to himself, “those days are gone. Soon Davey will be in the graveyard in Llanvach Hill, and it will be the coal pit for me.” For the first time in his life he knew the meaning of fear. But he kept the fear inside of him.
His 12th birthday came, and his father informed him he was to start work at the colliery the following Monday. On Saturday afternoon they went down to the village where his father took him to the haberdashery and bought him a pair of moleskin trousers and a Welsh flannel shirt. He also bought him a box for food and provisions and tea can, and a pair of leather straps to buckle below his knees to prevent the coal dust from going up his trouser leg.
Monday morning was cold and wet, but not as cold as the boy’s heart. He was assigned to work as a partner to Dai Jenkins, an experienced miner. The management discouraged father and son from working together because it looked bad if two members of a family were killed in one accident.
He stood by the side of Dai Jenkins as the elevator cage descended. Through the glimmer of the miners’ lamps he looked across the cage at his father, who smiled back at him. By his father’s side was another 12-year-old boy from the village.
The cage landed on the bottom with a bump. As the gate was opened and the men stepped out, the smell of horses and donkeys assailed the boy’s nostrils. These animals were used to pull the loaded coal wagons out of the tunnels and the empty wagons back in. A man with the title of hostler took care of the animals.
The boy followed his partner along the narrow tracks until they reached the end of the tunnel where they were to work. Dai removed his jacket and hung it on the nail that protruded from a timber that supported the roof. He did the same with his lunch box and tea can. The boy did the same.
The coal bed was only a meter thick so Dai spent most of his time on his knees swinging his pick. It was the boy’s responsibility to load the coal into one wagon and the muck into other wagons. The hostler would then come and take them to the elevator cage at the bottom of the shaft where they would be hauled to the surface.
So the days went by, and each day the boy’s hatred for the darkness grew. There were times when there was a squeeze, a time when the earth settled and it seemed the timbers supporting the roof must snap and he and Dai would be crushed. It was at times like this he thought of his friend Davey and wondered if he too would be taken home on a stretcher covered over with a brown blanket.
There was, however, a time during the day that he really enjoyed. Dai would lay down his pick and say, “Come, bachen (term of endearment), it’s time for a little food and a sip of tea.”
Together they would sit in the dim light of their lamps and eat the food in their lunch boxes. Occasionally, Dai would give the boy a Welsh cake that his wife made. This seemed like heaven to him.
One day while Dai was digging with his pick, a strange and unusual thing happened. They broke through the end of the tunnel into a small cave. It was no bigger than a small room, and the roof seemed to be of solid rock. At about shoulder height a shelf ran across one side of the wall.
One can only wonder why on that same day as they sat together eating their lunch there was a sound like thunder that echoed through the mine. The earth shook. Dai jumped and grasped the boy by the arm.
“It’s an explosion, bachen (term of endearment); there may be fire. We must put the brattice cloth (temporary partition of cloth) across the opening. It could be the only chance we’ll have.”
Hurriedly they nailed the heavy cloth across the mouth of the little cave and then sat and waited. Soon they felt the heat as the flames approached.
On the surface the villagers crowded around the mine top. Rescue squads had been sent down but came back almost immediately.
“No one could live down there,” was their report. “The main is on fire. God help those who are down there.”
The mine owners met and made a quick decision. A canal that ran close by must be turned into the mine to extinguish the fire.
A woman cried out, “What about our men?”
Her anguished cry was answered with a shake of the head. In the little cave the heat was almost unbearable, but somehow a little air was coming in. Time seemed to stand still and hours went by. Then they heard the water. It came seeping into the cave, first to shoe tops, then to the knees, and it continued to rise.
Dai climbed up onto the shelf and pulled the boy up beside him. As the water rose, the heat subsided. Then came an eerie silence.
“Bachen,” whispered Dai, “can you pray?”
“Yes, I can,” replied the boy. “Before my mother died, she taught me.”
“Then pray for us. It is all we have left.”
The boy closed his eyes, and for a few moments no words would come. Then they came slowly as from a troubled heart:
“Gentle Jesus, we reach out to you in this darkness, having nothing left but your help. If it be thy will, let us see the light once more. Let our feet climb the hill to our homes. Let us hear the song of the birds and see the sun rise over Rhysog Mountain. We are alone and we need your help. Amen.”
He felt Dai’s arm around his shoulder and heard his voice. “Thanks, bachen. I am not afraid anymore.”
Hours went by and night must have come because they slept. When they awoke, their lamps had gone out. Now there was complete darkness, darkness that was black and foreboding. With the blackness came fear, cold, trembling fear. The boy saw himself being carried up the hill on a stretcher, his body covered with a brown blanket. Dai sensed his fear and put a comforting arm about his shoulder.
“Bachen,” he said, “could you sing a little bit?”
The boy hesitated for a while, and then in a fear-stricken voice, he sang: “Jesus lover of my soul, let me to thy bosom fly, While the nearer waters roll, when the tempest still is nigh.” In his boyish tenor he sang the chorus: “Hide me, oh my Savior, hide, till the storm of life is past.” He felt Dai shaking with emotion, so he could not continue.
It is hard to know how fast or slow time passes in the darkness, but the pangs of hunger and thirst came to them.
“Chew on a bit of leather, bachen,” Dai reminded him. “It will help the hunger.”
The boy removed the leather strip from below his knee and chewed on it. It was new leather, and the taste of the tanning was still in it. But it helped to relieve the pangs of hunger.
Sleep came again and another day passed. Dai was quiet now, as if realizing the end was close. As a result of hunger and thirst, the boy had become quiet and listless. The complete darkness had settled on him like a shroud. He only waited now for death.
Then suddenly from far away a voice was heard: “Is anyone there?” The voices came closer. Then someone threw aside the brattice cloth, and his light shone on Dai and the boy.
“It is a miracle,” he shouted to the other rescuers.” They are alive!”
Dai was able to walk, but they carried the boy to the elevator cage that transported them to daylight and life.
The boy’s father had been killed in the explosion, so Davey Edwards’ family took him in. In a few days some relatives from farther down the valley came to get him and take him to their home. They were lovely people, it was said, except they had joined some strange church that had originated in America.
Together the boy and his new family made plans, and the day came when they emigrated to America. Here they made their home in the valley of the mountains.
The old man was bringing his testimony to a close. “So, my brothers and sisters, out of fear came faith, and out of darkness came living light.”

Dominic, the ward deacons quorum president, said that his priesthood responsibilities have taught him the importance of the fast offering. “We collect the offerings every first Saturday of the month. I am glad to do something to help the poor, to know that I can do something. It’s a lot of responsibility because there are only two active deacons in the quorum. But it fills me with joy.”

Later, standing beside a statue of the carabao (water buffalo) that is the national animal of the Philippines, Dominic outlined plans to reactivate four more deacons he’s responsible for. “We need the others. We visit them and try to include them in activities like swimming and basketball. You have to be friends with the inactives to reactivate them! I like to tell jokes to my deacons quorum, and we’re always talking together about happy days. I’m learning a lot about being a leader.”

One woman told me that her husband – when he came home hungry and found her outside watching the kids play – would go inside the house and lock all the doors, so she and the kids had to wait for an hour or more on the back porch until he decided to open the door. While milder than some marriage problems I just mentioned, this was still a very destructive pattern. It damaged the wife’s feelings of personal worth and it was destroying her feelings of love for her husband. It also was lousy modeling for the children. Her response had been patience, long-suffering, and serious efforts to forgive, but it wasn’t working and she was becoming bitter. I shared with her the three realm model and suggested that she was trying to skip from the telestial realm to the celestial. She was responding to her husband’s telestial behavior with what she thought were celestial efforts. However, showing patience with destructive, telestial behaviors or trying to forgive unrepented, ongoing injury – typically results in an acceptance of victimization that doesn’t benefit either victim or victimizer. The victim remains vulnerable to abuse and, almost inevitably, loses respect and love for the victimizer, while the victimizer continues unabated on their personal road to destruction.

Instead, I suggested this woman draw a terrestrial boundary with her husband. She agreed to make sure she always wore clothes with pockets. In the pockets she was to put driver’s license, cash, credit card, or checkbook, and keys. She also packed the car with extra clothes and supplies for the young children. She then told her husband that she was no longer willing to accept behavior that she knew – and he knew – was not acceptable to God. If he locked the door on her again, she said, she would take the kids and go to place where they would be safe and not feel like beggars at their own door -- perhaps the library, a movie, a park, or a restaurant. Then, when she was ready, she would call to see if he were willing to take this problem to the bishop or to a counselor to learn better ways to deal with his anger. After she “drew that terrestrial boundary line,” he never locked the door on his family again, and he came into counseling where, working together, they made great improvements in their marriage.