Gospel Story Finder

Dr. Salesi Havili’s answer to a fervent prayer occurred in the operating room of the Vava‘u Hospital. Dr. Havili and his wife, Selu, had joined the Church one year previously, in 1977, and were preparing to go to the temple. But he found that an experience during surgery was a test of faith that he needed to pass before taking that step.
Within the limitations of an island hospital, two surgeons and Dr. Havili, the anesthesiologist, began operating on Mafi Vakaloa, an elderly gentleman. When the nurse whispered to Dr. Havili that she could no longer feel Mafi’s pulse, Dr. Havili discovered that the patient had died on the operating table. Panicking, he checked and rechecked everything, trying to discover what went wrong. Finally, he began to pray:
It was a desperate but shallow prayer at first. After all, I knew scientifically that Mafi was dead. And given the limitations of my knowledge and environment, I had exhausted my personal resources in trying to revive him.
I continued to pray, a second and third time. Guilt and doubt dominated my feelings. Although I begged Heavenly Father to restore Mafi’s heartbeat, I was too aware medically that he was dead, and too fearful that I had caused his death. But as I prayed again and again, I had the sensation that Mafi’s life depended on the genuine sincerity of my prayer and the quality of my belief—that this crisis was to test my faith, almost on the eve of my going to the temple.
Eighteen minutes had passed since Mafi’s heart had stopped beating. I asked more fervently, reasoning with the Lord and promising a total concentration of my life to him if he would revive this man.
Finally I bowed my head again and prayed with a fervor and intimacy unmatched in previous prayers. As I spoke to the Lord, I suppressed every fragment of doubt and prayed until I knew that when I opened my eyes, Mafi’s heart would begin beating.
Miraculously, it was so. Mafi’s heart resumed beating after twenty-five minutes of not beating at all. I was overwhelmed with joy and awe. The next morning, I told the doctors and the nurse what had happened. As I made my rounds to the different wards, I was touched to see Mafi’s wife sitting on the edge of her husband’s bed. Mafi was very much alert, articulate—and alive.

I remember walking home from church alone the day I became a deacon. I didn’t know much about the Holy Ghost then, but He bore witness to me as I walked home that I held the holy priesthood and that it was very important. I’ve never forgotten that.
Heavenly Father and His Son Jesus Christ love you very much. Children are pure and close to Heavenly Father, and you can have incredibly powerful spiritual experiences, just like my experience as a deacon walking down the street. If you will remember these spiritual experiences throughout your lives, they will serve as a very strong foundation for future spiritual growth.

When Jason Olson was a teenager, he was warned repeatedly by family members and others against becoming a Christian. He had two good friends, however, who were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and they often discussed religion. His friends, Shea and Dave, respectfully countered arguments that others had given Jason against faith in Jesus Christ. Finally, they gave him a copy of the Book of Mormon, saying, “This book will answer your questions. Please read it.” He reluctantly accepted the book and put it in his backpack, where it stayed for several months. He didn’t want to leave it at home where his family might see it, and he didn’t want to disappoint Shea and Dave by returning it. Finally, he settled on the solution of burning the book.

One night, with a lighter in one hand and the Book of Mormon in the other, he was about to set fire to the book when he heard a voice in his mind that said, “Do not burn my book.” Startled, he paused. Then, thinking he had imagined the voice, he attempted again to ignite the lighter. Again, the voice came to his mind: “Go to your room and read my book.” Jason put the lighter away, walked back to his bedroom, opened the Book of Mormon, and began to read. He continued day after day, often into the early hours of the morning. As Jason came to the end and prayed, he recorded, “I was filled from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet with the Spirit. … I felt full of light. … It was the most joyous experience I had ever had in my life.” He sought baptism and later became a missionary himself.

Young men in the Twin Falls 15th Ward, Kimberly Idaho Stake, came up with an unusual surprise for the young women in their ward. This year, their annual “Laurel appreciation night” featured a full-length production of Shakespeare’s Hamlet. In true Elizabethan style, the young men played all the parts.
Laurel appreciation night is a tradition the young men started a year ago by cooking dinner for the girls in their stake. This year, the young women enjoyed the play so much, they can’t wait to see what the priests will come up with next.
“We were honored because they provided an evening of entertainment just for Laurels,” says one young woman.

A quick shoulder fake to the right, and then with pistonlike force, his legs drove him down the left side of the foul lane. By now the opponent had recovered from his very slight disadvantage caused by the fake and with blinding speed had caught up sufficiently to block the shot. But there was no shot. It was a fake and then a pivot back to the left; a right-handed hook shot came off the glass into the net. The grueling tournament competition that had lasted all morning was over. Devin Durrant had just been victorious in the most prestigious high school one-on-one tournament in the nation. In so doing he had defeated, one at a time, five all-Americans.
There was little time to savor that victory in Louisville, Kentucky. In just a few more hours the big game between the United States all-stars and the Kentucky-Indiana all-stars would begin.
That evening as the game progressed through the first quarter, it was a see-saw battle all the way. But then, midway through the second half, the public address announcer shouted out in quick succession: “Devin Durrant with a jump shot.” “Durrant with a driving lay-in.” “A jump shot from the kid from Utah.” The United States all-stars now had the lead.
A few minutes later the game was over. As the excited crowd of 12,000 stood anxiously listening to the post-game announcement, the public address man shouted enthusiastically, “Tonight’s most valuable player is Devin Durrant.”
After Devin’s seventh-, eighth-, and ninth-grade years, we moved back to Utah. As we did, Devin left many choice memories in Kentucky. It was there that he formed the dream that he would be a star and someday, somehow, he would play in the Kentucky Derby basketball all-star game. The chances of ever doing that were minute, even if we stayed in Kentucky. But now that we had left Kentucky, the chances were a million to one, for no Utahn had ever been so honored.
After his graduation, Devin’s fondest dream to that time came true. He was asked to play in the McDonald’s high school all-American games, the third of which was a fulfillment of his dream—the Kentucky Derby Classic. I’ve never seen him more thrilled than he was at the news that he would return to his beloved Louisville.
Our family took the opportunity to return to our former home to see him play, and we rejoiced with him at the successes which I related earlier. The next day’s papers told the story of the boy from Utah, his dream, and how he had come home to Kentucky to make that dream come true.
A night later at a fireside, hundreds gathered and heard Devin explain his dream, his prayer, and his joy.

At the end of January 1831, Joseph and Emma Smith traveled to Kirtland, Ohio, in a horse-drawn sleigh. It was very cold, and Emma was expecting a baby. They arrived safely in front of Newel K. Whitney’s store in Kirtland the first part of February. As they stopped, the prophet sprang from the sleigh, entered the store, and approached Brother Whitney, whom he had never met before. “Newel K. Whitney!” he declared, extending his hand to shake. “Thou art the man.”

“You have the advantage of me,” replied Brother Whitney. “I could not call you by name as you have me.”

“I am Joseph the Prophet. You prayed me here, now what do you want of me?” Joseph then explained that while he was still in New York he had seen Brother Whitney in a vision, praying for him to come to Kirtland. With great joy the Whitneys made room in their home for the Smiths until they could find another place to live.**

“No tree?” I sat up in bed.
“That’s right,” my companion replied.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
I couldn’t believe it. Only eight days before Christmas and Elder Sonderegger was telling me we weren’t even going to have a Christmas tree.
“Good night, Elder Mitchell,” he called out from the other side of our small apartment. Our room, which was barely large enough for two beds, a closet, and a desk with one broken leg, was again silent. I quietly lay thinking.
“No tree,” I muttered to myself. That was too much. I thought of the Christmas my family would be having—good food, carols, snow, friends, and of course, a tree. The only carols I’d heard were sambas; snow was nonexistent; all my friends were in the States; and now to top it off, no tree. I rolled over in my lumpy bed and stared at the cracks in the ceiling. Too soon, out of the corner of my ear, I heard a familiar buzzing.
“Oh no, not again tonight!” swatted in the general direction of the sound but missed. Quickly, I pulled a sheet over my head for protection, but this only intensified the humidity and heat. The perspiration began beading on my back. I stayed under the cover until my pajamas began sticking to my body, and then I furiously kicked it off. However, it was not much cooler since we didn’t even have a window in the room, and I still had the mosquitoes to contend with.
Suddenly, a flea began crawling up my leg. I reached down in time to pull it off before it bit me, but I knew I would not be so lucky all night long. I sighed, for I also knew it was going to be another long night. And mom had written that week, “Have a merry first Christmas in Brazil, Greg.”
“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the wayyyyyy. Hey, get out of bed, Elder Mitchell. Only seven days till Christmas. Yes sir, Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way to the shower. Ooohhhh what fun …”
The door of our small apartment slammed shut as my companion went out to shower. The night before hadn’t been very restful between the mosquitoes, fleas, and sticky, humid heat. Lying back in bed, I decided to rest a few more minutes. It was only a short time later that I heard a familiar monotone coming up the hall.
“… one horse open sleighhhhh. Hey, you’re still in bed.”
“Hey, I’m meditating,” I replied.
“Well, do your meditating in the shower.” Elder Sonderegger stood in his robe, with water dripping off his six-foot-three-inch, 215-pound body. “It’s 6:48, Elder Mitchell. Time to be up and Adam.”
“That’s at’em,” I corrected.
“Like I said, ‘Adam.’”
Pulling off my covers, I kicked my feet onto the bare, wooden-tile floor. Putting on my shoes and grabbing a towel, I turned to Elder Sonderegger.
“No tree, huh?”
“Oh.” He stopped whistling. “That’s right. This is your first Christmas here, isn’t it?”
“Yup and some Christmas this is going to be. They don’t even have the simplest Christmas tradition of a tree.”
“Oh.” He nodded understandingly. “Well, they do have some trees, but they’re pretty expensive.” His brow wrinkled and his lips came together as he pondered the situation. “Look, you go shower, and I’ll see what I can do. Okay?”
I shrugged my shoulders. What could he do? I guess this was just one of those times on your mission when you had to sacrifice. After showering, I felt cooler and a little better. Reentering our room, I noticed Elder Sonderegger sitting at the desk reading his triple combination and wearing a suspiciously mischievous look. Turning to my bed I saw why.
“What’s that?” I cautiously asked, pointing to an oblong-shaped package on my bed. It looked like a bomb.
“Don’t have the foggiest, old chap,” he said in his best phony English accent. “Why don’t you open it and see?”
I walked to my bed and pulled the papers off the package. Inside I found a small, green, artificial Christmas tree. True, it looked as if someone had sat on it, but it was a tree nonetheless.
“It’s not in really great shape,” Elder Sonderegger hastened to say, “but it might do in a pinch—or on a mission.”
It wasn’t in the greatest condition, but it didn’t look too bad. “Where’d you get it?”
“My ex-girl sent it last Christmas, and I’d forgotten all about it until you started this talk about trees and Christmas. It’s been through some pretty rough transfers though,” he said, picking up one of the bent aluminum branches and sticking it into the base of the tree.
I didn’t know what to say. “Thanks, Elder Sonderegger.”
“It’s okay. Come on, hurry and get dressed. Remember we have an 8:00 appointment this morning.”
As I dressed, he looked in his Bible for a devotional scripture.
“Here’s a good one. Will you read it?” he asked, handing me the Bible.
I began reading. “Matthew 25:40: ‘Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.’” [Matt. 25:40] I looked up.
“Amen, brother. Since you read the scripture, I’ll say the prayer.”
After prayer, we grabbed our briefcase, ran out the door, and hurried down the street to the blue and white pole marking the bus stop.
“Elder Sonderegger, I appreciate what you did about the tree and all,” I said, as we waited for the bus. “I was wondering if you could do anything about the snow situation?”
We laughed.
“To be honest, Elder Mitchell, being from Colorado, you wouldn’t know what good snow was if it hit you right between the earlobes.”
“You think Washington snow is better, I assume.”
“You know it.”
The bus came, and we left, but on the way we held an in-depth discussion on the relative merits of Colorado versus Washington snow.
Sorocaba, Brazil, is an interior city. And in our mission, interior is synonymous with hot, humid, and muggy. As the morning progressed, the temperature rose. After our lesson, we checked out some referrals and made some contacts, and then we were ready to return home for lunch. Leaning against the pole marking the bus stop, I was surprised by a tugging at my hand.
“Feliz Natal (Merry Christmas),” a small girl said, holding out her hand. She couldn’t have been more than seven or eight, although her eyes looked older.
“What does she want, elder?” I asked, turning to Elder Sonderegger.
Crouching down, he spoke with her for a minute and then stood up. “She said her father died three days ago, and they don’t have any food in the house.”
“Okay,” I said, “if she wants something to eat, let’s buy her some milk and pão dôce (sweet bread).”
Elder Sonderegger glanced again at her ragged, brown dress. “I think we at least ought to check it out. Maybe there’s something we could do.”
I looked at my watch. “We’ll be late for lunch if we go, and besides, we don’t have time to waste on some wild chase.”
He didn’t say a word.
“Oh, come on, Elder Sonderegger. Don’t be so naive, so gullible. We’re not out here to play welfare worker. We’re here to teach the gospel. Besides, even if we did go, we’d probably find her father in the house, unemployed but healthy.”
She looked up in polite confusion as we spoke in English.
“Elder Mitchell,” Elder Sonderegger reminded me, “Matthew 25:40: ‘When ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren. …’” [Matt. 25:40]
“Doesn’t apply.”
“What do you mean, it doesn’t apply?”
Stubbornly, I insisted. “Just what I said. She’s probably lying, and you know that. Come on, it’s time to eat.”
A trickle of sweat slid down my back. He still gave me the “I think we ought to go” look, and sighed. I was obstinate, but in the month we’d been companions, I’d learned he was even more so when he felt he was right.
“All right, all right. You win, but I bet dollars to doughnuts we find the father home—alive, well, and lounging around.”
A swirl of dust from down the road announced the coming of the bus. It careened toward us and slammed to a stop ten feet past the bus stop. We ran, two large Americans and one small Brazilian, and grabbing the handrail, jumped inside. It started up again, and I jerked open a window for some fresh air while Elder Sonderegger leaned across the aisle and began conversing with the little girl. Her name was Angela; she had never been to school, never had shoes, and from the looks of her skinny body, hadn’t eaten a good meal for some time. I began to feel a little sorry for her (and a little ashamed of myself) since a majority of the Brazilian kids attend school, are neatly dressed, and eat fairly well. After a 15-minute ride on the dusty bus, she indicated it was time to get off. We did so and began walking up a steep dirt road into a poor section of the city. There were no cars, no glass windows no grass—none of the things that could be seen in the rest of the city. Here there was nothing but dirt—dirt roads, dirt houses, and dirty children. And unlike the rest of the houses in the city that were kept in good repair, most of the red-tiled roofs here had holes and the walls were either unpainted or had peeling and chipped paint. I felt out of place in my clean white shirt and tie.
Finally, we arrived at what she called home. Most of the homes in Sorocaba had a good gate and fence surrounding them. Her gate consisted of a few strands of wire tied between two posts, which she opened and invited us to enter. In the back of the lot stood a two-room shack made out of cardboard and old signs. On either side of the dirt path leading to the house, instead of flowers, grass, or beautifully tiled entrances, as was the custom, we saw litter, debris, and one scrawny chicken scratching for something to eat. Not seeing a flower or tree anywhere, I doubted whether even weeds would have grown. Angela scurried inside and quickly reappeared at the doorway with a man, also thin, with blue eyes and dark hair, who appeared startled to have visitors.
“Entrem por favor (Come in, please),” he said, still looking surprised but apparently pleased to have guests.
“My name is Antonio.”
“You’re her father?” we asked, pointing to Angela, who was now just one of seven or eight small children scattered on the dirt floor.
He nodded. Most homes had at least a gas stove, but here a thin, pregnant woman was kneeling by an open fire, stirring a black kettle.
“Did you know she was begging this morning? And she told us you died three days ago.”
A look of surprise crossed his face. “I’m shocked to hear she was begging, and as for being dead, well, as you can plainly see, I’m not.” He laughed at his joke.
“Come on, Elder Sonderegger. I think we should go,” I said quietly.
Ignoring me, Elder Sonderegger said, “No, you’re not dead, but you still need help. We’re missionaries for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Stop,” he said shaking his head. “We have our own religion. But if you really want to help,” he said, looking at our clothes, “a hundred cruzeiros would be very helpful.” He eyed us again as if wondering whether he should have asked for more.
“No, we won’t give you money,” Elder Sonderegger said. “Have you tried looking for a job?”
Antonio protested. “But I’ve looked all over, and there isn’t one.”
Elder Sonderegger thought for a minute. “Okay, I’m sure we can help you find something. In fact, this morning I saw an opening for a mechanic’s helper at a garage. If you want it, we’ll take you down right now.”
Antonio turned and looked at his wife. “Well, we were just going to have lunch …” His voice trailed off.
Just as I thought. He didn’t want to take advantage of an opportunity put right in his way.
“But I guess I could go,” he hesitantly added. “If my wife would save some lunch for me.” She nodded unemotionally. “All right, senhores, let’s go.”
I thought I detected just a hint of trembling enthusiasm in his voice.
The three of us left and walked down the hill to where the bus was parked. Entering, we paid his way, sat down, and the bus began its journey, dust billowing behind. It was about a half-hour ride to the garage, but since it was close to where we ate lunch, I could last that long. I looked at Antonio sitting on the bench across the aisle.
“Elder Sonderegger, you’re probably wasting your time again,” I whispered. “Do you honestly think that if we found him a job, he’d work? He probably wouldn’t stay more than ten minutes if he stayed at all.”
Shrugging, he simply said, “Maybe.”
Unexpectedly, Elder Sonderegger reached up and jerked the cord that signaled the bus driver to stop. Getting up from his seat, he raced to the front of the bus. I grabbed our briefcase and Antonio and followed. Ignoring my “What now?” look, he pointed to a sign he had seen from the bus window, Precisa-se serventes.
“The sign says they need construction workers. Why don’t we try there? It’d be closer to his home, and the pay would be better.”
By that time I had given up hope of ever seeing our lunch. “Lead on,” I wearily said. “We’re right behind you.”
It took only a few minutes to walk to where a few houses lay in half-completed shells.
“Have you ever worked construction before?” I asked. He shook his head and I shook mine in unison, looking at his lack of muscle. He reminded me of the skinny guy in the weight-lifting ads who always got sand kicked in his face, but he evidently was in good health. Elder Sonderegger started down to talk to the supervisor, and after a few minutes motioned us to come down too.
“Antonio,” Elder Sonderegger said, “the foreman has agreed to hire you starting early tomorrow. Do you want the job?”
“Do I want it?” he exclaimed. “You bet I want it! I’ve been all through this area looking for work. I didn’t know they needed workers so close to home.”
Antonio continued, “Can my son come, too? He’s only 17, but he’s strong.”
Hesitating, the foreman looked at us, then at Antonio. “Okay.”
Antonio walked to Elder Sonderegger and shook his hand vigorously. “You just don’t know what this means to my family, now that we will have two working members.” He turned to the foreman. “Six o’clock sharp tomorrow morning, I’ll be here with my son. Thank you, senhor.” Taking Elder Sonderegger by the hand again, he said, “And thank you.” I thought I saw a tear in Antonio’s eye.
“We’ll come back and see how you’re doing in a couple of days,” Elder Sonderegger said. “Okay?”
“Please do, and we’ll invite you home for dinner. Até logo, amigos.”
“Até logo, Antonio.”
We watched as he walked down the dirt road toward home, and once again we began walking to the bus stop and lunch.
“Elder Sonderegger …” I paused. I wasn’t sure how to say it. “I think I owe you an apology. I believe you were right and I was wrong.”
“That’s okay, Elder Mitchell.” Reaching the bus stop, he set the briefcase down. “Really makes you feel good, doesn’t it?”
“It sure does.”
A dusty cloud could be seen coming up the road. “Hey, here comes the bus,” he said. “We’ll have to hustle to get any lunch. I hope the dona didn’t throw it out.”
“The only question I have,” I said, stepping into the bus, “is how are we going to count these last two hours on our evaluation? It wasn’t member work or proselyting, and helping people find work isn’t listed on the sheet. Compassionate service?”
“Nope. We’re not in the Relief Society.”
We both laughed as the bus lurched to a start.
The next week was busy, with many families to teach during the holidays. We were so busy with lessons and contacting that besides being kept on the run, we hadn’t even had time to put up our little tree. A couple of days before Christmas we gave a lesson near the construction site where Antonio was working. Since it was only a few blocks away, we decided to drop in and see how he was doing.
“You know something, Elder Sonderegger?” I said as we walked toward the site. “You probably did more for that guy than anyone ever has. Why, this might be just the break he needs to pull out of the life he’s been living.” Crossing the street, I continued: “Think of what could happen now that he’s working: good food on the table, clothes and shoes for his wife and kids, and maybe even a nicer house one day. He could live like other Brazilians and have you to thank for it all.”
Elder Sonderegger blushed and tried not to show his enthusiasm. “That would be neat, wouldn’t it?”
We spotted the foreman easily but when we looked for Antonio, he couldn’t be seen anywhere.
“Probably in a corner somewhere or working on the inside of a house,” I suggested as we walked to the foreman.
“Who?” the foreman asked when we inquired about Antonio. “Oh yeah, that skinny guy you brought here last week. Neither he nor his son showed the next morning, and I haven’t seen them since.”
“Didn’t show up?” Elder Sonderegger asked unbelievingly. “You’re sure?”
“Positive,” he replied.
“Thanks,” Elder Sonderegger said dejectedly. He kicked at a dirt clod. “Let’s go, Mitchell.”
Picking up the briefcase, we silently walked out onto the street. “That Antonio,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, Elder Mitchell. You were the one who was right. I should have followed your advice.” Angrily he finished, “What a waste of time!” He stomped down the street.
But somehow, something wasn’t right. I just knew it wasn’t. Suddenly, as if in a flash, I understood. “Wait, Elder Sonderegger,” I called out. “It doesn’t matter.”
“What?” he asked, turning around.
I ran to where he stood. “I said, “‘It doesn’t matter.’”
“It doesn’t matter?” he asked lamely. “What doesn’t matter? Has the heat gotten to you, Elder Mitchell?”
“No, no, you don’t understand. It doesn’t matter what Antonio does. ‘When you’ve done it unto one of the least of these my brethren …’”
He paused and looked away. Then slowly he smiled. “You turkey. I guess you’re right. It really doesn’t matter.” He picked up the briefcase. “Come on, let’s go home and get that tree up. After all, what’s Christmas without a Christmas tree?”
I laughed. “That’s right. Can’t have Christmas without a tree.”
We sang “Jingle Bells” until the bus came. Still singing, we jumped on amid the mixed smiles and stares of other passengers. I didn’t mind, though, because they didn’t understand that this was my first Christmas.

Many years ago, there was recounted to me an experience of a President Ballantyne who grew up in Star Valley, Wyoming. This is harsh country. The summers are short and fleeting, while the winters linger and chill. President Ballantyne told of a special Christmas season from his boyhood days. He said:
“Father had a large family; and sometimes after we had our harvest, there was not very much left after expenses were paid. So Father would have to go away and hire out to some of the big ranchers for maybe a dollar a day, a little more than to take care of himself and very little to send home to Mother and the children. Things began to get pretty skimpy for us.
“We had our family prayers around the table. On one such night when Father was gone, we gathered together, and Mother poured out of a pitcher, into the glass of each one, milk divided among the children—but none for herself. I, sensing that the milk in the pitcher was all that we had, pushed mine over to Mother and said, ‘Here, Mother. You drink mine.’
“‘No. Mother is not hungry tonight.’” Mothers are never hungry in cases like that.
So he said, “It worried me. We drank our milk and went to bed. I could not sleep. I got up and tiptoed down the stairs, and there was Mother, out in the middle of the floor kneeling in prayer. She did not hear me as I came down in my bare feet, and I dropped to my knees and heard her say, ‘Heavenly Father, there is no food in our house. Please, Father, touch the heart of somebody so that my children will not be hungry in the morning.’
“When she finished her prayer, she looked around and saw that I had heard; and she said to me, somewhat embarrassed, ‘Now, you run along, Son. Everything will be all right.’
“I went to bed, assured by Mother’s faith. The next morning, I was awakened by the sounds of pots and pans being used in the kitchen and the smell of cooking food. I went down to the kitchen, and I said, ‘Mother, I thought you said there was no food.’
“All she said to me was, ‘Well, my boy, didn’t you think the Lord would answer my prayer?’ I received no further explanation than that.
“Years passed, and I went away to college. I got married, and I returned to see the old folks. Bishop Gardner, now reaching up to a ripe age, said to me, ‘My son, let me tell you of a Christmas experience that I had with your family. I had finished my chores, and we had had supper. I was sitting by the fireplace reading the newspaper. Suddenly I heard a voice that said, “Sister Ballantyne doesn’t have any food in her house.” I thought it was my wife speaking and said, “What did you say, Mother?” She came in wiping her hands on her apron and said, “Did you call me, Father?”
“‘“No, I didn’t say anything to you, but I heard a voice speak to me.”
“‘“What did it say?” she asked.
“‘“It said that Sister Ballantyne didn’t have any food in her house.”
“‘“Well, then,” said Mother, “you had better put on your shoes and your coat and take some food to Sister Ballantyne.” In the dark of that winter’s night, I harnessed the team and placed in the wagon bed a sack of flour, a quarter section of beef, some bottled fruit, and loaves of newly baked bread. The weather was cold, but a warm glow filled my soul as your mother welcomed me and I presented her with the food. God had heard a mother’s prayer.’”

Salote:
Two years after our son Esa died of lung cancer, our daughter Esalynn died of meningitis. In the temple, I felt a strong prompting to speak with a senior sister missionary there who also lost two children years earlier. She told me, “If you make your home a holy place, you can feel your children’s presence there.”
That has become our goal. Everything we do is to make our home a holy place. We want to feel them close.
We don’t know how to parent children beyond the veil. But if we do our best to live righteously, we believe they will feel our efforts. In our family devotionals, we welcome Esa and Esalynn by name.
In our home, even when we have a disagreement, we try to resolve it quickly. We want our home to stay a holy place as much as possible. As we’ve done so, we have all felt hope and healing and love.
Sakiusa:
The experience of losing Esa and Esalynn has ultimately brought our family closer together. We counsel together with our other children. We attend the temple as a family. We live our lives as simple as possible and choose gratitude every day. As we talk about what it means to be sealed as a family in the temple, that sealing becomes alive in us. And through all of this, we do feel the presence of our children.
One of the first things we did to make our home holier was to start reading the Book of Mormon daily. At first, we shared Book of Mormon stories with pictures for our younger children. Then we added videos. Now we’re reading more from the Book of Mormon. I can testify of the power of the Book of Mormon.

Mary Bommeli was my great-grandmother. Mary was born in 1830. The missionaries taught her family in Switzerland when she was 24. She was still living at home, weaving and selling cloth to help support her family on their small farm. When the family heard the restored gospel of Jesus Christ, they knew it was true. They were baptized. Mary’s brothers were called on missions. The rest of the family sold their possessions to go to America to gather with the Saints.
There was not enough money for all to go. Mary volunteered to stay behind because she felt she could earn enough from her weaving to support herself and save for her passage. She found her way to Berlin and to the home of a woman who hired her to weave cloth for the family’s clothing. She lived in a servant’s room and set up her loom in the living area of the home.
It was against the law then to teach the doctrine of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Berlin. But Mary could not keep the good news to herself. The woman of the house and her friends would gather around the loom to hear the Swiss girl teach. She talked about the appearance of Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ to Joseph Smith, of the visitation of angels, and of the Book of Mormon. When she came to the accounts of Alma, she taught the doctrine of the Resurrection.
In those days, many children died very young. The women around the loom had lost children in death, some of them several children. When Mary taught the truth that little children were heirs of the celestial kingdom and that those women might again be with them and with the Savior and our Heavenly Father, tears rolled down the faces of the women. Mary cried too. All those tears got the cloth wet that Mary had woven.
One night there was a knock at the door. It was the police. They took Mary to jail. At the jail, Mary asked for a pencil and some paper. She wrote a letter to the judge. She wrote about the Resurrection of Jesus Christ as described in the Book of Mormon, about the spirit world, and about the final judgment. In the morning she asked the policeman to take her letter to the judge.
It wasn’t long until the policeman came back to Mary’s cell. He told her that all charges were dismissed and that she was free to go. Her teaching the doctrine of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ [got] her cast into jail. And her declaring the doctrine of repentance to the judge got her cast out of jail.

Ben loved his father’s wagon shop. It was a busy place, with the music of saws, planes, hammers, and chisels filling the air all day long.
“Don’t get too close to the workers,” his father often warned the curious boy. “And leave the sharp tools alone.”
“But I want to make a wagon of my own, Daddy. Why can’t I?”
This plea usually earned him some boards, a few tools, and a spot out of the way where he could hammer to his heart’s content.
Then came a joyous day when his father promised to make him a wagon for his birthday. It would be exactly like the big ones—only smaller.
“Just think,” he told his mother, “a real wagon—all my own! I can take baby brother for rides, and I can bring things for you from the store. Won’t that be fine?”
Mother agreed that it would be. She was almost as happy as her little son.
On the morning of Ben’s seventh birthday, he awoke to find his dream had come true. There in the living room was his beautiful new wagon, gleaming with a fresh coat of paint. Tears filled Mother’s and Father’s eyes as their happy son gave them a loving squeeze. Then out he went to run up and down the street and show his friends the rare gift.
True to his promise, Ben took his baby brother for many rides. He also ran errands for his mother most willingly. Ben and his dog, Bones, became a familiar sight around the streets of Nauvoo. With his father’s help, Ben rigged a harness and trained the clever animal to pull the wagon and his young master around the streets near home.
One of Ben’s favorite errands was to start down Mulholland Street, turn past the lot where the great temple was being built, and go on to Parley P. Pratt’s store. It was a stirring sight to see the workers shaping and placing the stones as the stately building rose above the hill. Besides, there were good things at the Pratt store. Ben often brought a jug of sweet molasses home to Mother.
One day he paused near the temple lot to watch a worker carving a stone. The chip, chip, chip of the chisel driven deftly into the stone was so captivating that Ben lost track of time. He did not notice that two workers had also paused to look intently at his little wagon.
“That wagon would be a mighty handy thing to haul our tools about in,” one of the men said. “Sonny, how would you like to let us have your wagon to help build the temple?”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t do that,” Ben replied.
The man looked at him closely. “Isn’t your father the boss of the big wagon shop?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, we’ll talk to him about it.”
Frightened at the thought of losing his precious wagon, Ben ran home with Bones at his heels. Arriving, he burst into tears. “Mother, you won’t let them take it away, will you?”
Mother looked up in alarm. “What are you talking about, Ben?”
“Some men at the temple asked me for my wagon to haul their tools in. When I said I couldn’t give it to them, they said, ‘We’ll see your father.’”
“Perhaps they were just joking. Come now, you are late for dinner. You’ll feel better after you eat something.”
But he was too worried to eat much. And just after his father finally came home, the same two men appeared at the door.
That night Ben and his parents had a heart-to-heart talk. “You see, Ben, everybody is giving something to help build the temple,” Father said. “I know how you feel about your wagon, and I’m not going to make you give it away. But just think about it. Ask Heavenly Father to help you decide what to do. It is the house of the Lord we are building.”
“I know you will do what is right,” Ben’s mother said. At bedtime she kissed his tearstained face, patted his rumpled hair, and left him to say his prayers alone.
The next morning, Ben pulled his wagon down Mulholland Street and over to the temple lot, followed by his faithful dog. Walking up to the man who seemed to be in charge, he said, “I’ve brought you my wagon to help the men building the temple.”
Looking into Ben’s face, the kind man replied with feeling, “God bless you, my boy. I know what this means to you. No one has made a greater sacrifice to help build the Nauvoo Temple.” He gripped Ben’s shoulder gently.
Ben walked slowly home with Bones by his side. He had done his part.

We had a great season, even though we lost more games than we won. At the end of the season, the whole team was invited to a team member’s birthday party. They were going to have a barbecue and go swimming. It was going to be the last time I would see the kids on my baseball team, because we weren’t in the same grades and went to different schools. I was really excited about going until I realized that it was on a Sunday.
My parents didn’t think a birthday party was an appropriate activity for Sunday, but they told me I was old enough to make my own choice. I really, really wanted to go. The party was three weeks away. I prayed and I prayed about it. I decided to go to the party, even though I didn’t feel completely right about it.
A few days later I was reading the Book of Mormon and came across 2 Nephi 28:8, which says, “Eat, drink, and be merry; nevertheless, fear God—he will justify in committing a little sin.” [2 Ne. 28:8] I excitedly told Mom that I found my answer—it was OK for me to go to the party!
She told me to reread the verse and include the verses that came before and after it. After I read a few more verses, I realized that the scriptures were telling us that saying it is OK to commit a little sin is false and foolish doctrine. No amount of sin is OK. I knew then what I should do, but I still hadn’t made my decision.
I continued to pray about it for the next week. Finally I decided that I shouldn’t go. I felt really good about my decision. My mom called my friend’s mom and told her I wouldn’t be going to the party. On the day of the party, while on the way home from church, we dropped off a present to my friend and said hi to everyone and then went home.
I’m glad I did what I felt Jesus Christ would want me to do, and I’m glad I chose the right.

Apr. 13, 1853 I went to Cranberry Head, near to Yarmouth (2). Here I found Brother John Robinson and Brother Benjamin T. Mitchell at Mr. Moses Shaw’s. The Brethren (Robinson and Mitchell) said that they were going to travel together. The Brethren both said that I was too young and inexperienced to travel with either of them. They said I had better go to Halifax and see Brother A. D. L. Buckland and get counsel from him.

Apr. 14, 1853 I went into Yarmouth. Came back to Mr. Grace’s. He treated me kindly. I stayed until Saturday. Started for Halifax. (3) Left Cape Sable to my right hand. Traveled two hundred ten miles around the coast capes and bays to get to Halifax. I had to rely upon Him whose business I was on. I felt my weakness. A poor, ill-clothed, ignorant boy in my teens, thousands of miles from home, amongst strangers. The promise in my Blessings, the encouraging words of President Young to me, with the faith I had in the Gospel, kept me up. Many a time I would turn into the woods and brush in some desolate place, with a full heart, wet eyes and face, to call on my Master for strength and aid. I believed the Gospel of Christ. I never had preached it. I knew not where to find it in the scriptures. I had to give my Bible to the boatman at the Digby Gut for passage across.

When my husband died in 2010, I bore my testimony that he was the one who trained me to be self-reliant. Looking back, I learned that he was preparing me, so I could do things on my own, because he would not always be around. He wanted me to be free. He helped prepare me to accept the gospel and to love the principles of self-reliance.
My mother and father were farmers. They sent me to different schools, and we moved around. When I was in 11th grade, I did not have anyone to support me. I was living in a tent.
One day, I was on my way to live at my auntie’s whose husband died. She was a pepper trader in the market and did not have much. That is when I met my husband for the first time. He would joke with me and soon he admired me. He was much older than me. He said, “I will help you and then you will achieve more.” He looked around and said, “Your garden is dead, and you do not have a job. I can help you.” And so, I went with him to live in another village.
He helped me to work with my hands. My husband was from Zimbabwe and was a professor. He said, “You will plant. You will plant okra and greens.” We raised ducks, chickens, and pigs.
We did it so we could be self-reliant and eat. “You can go to the garden when we need food. We do not need to buy,” he would say. He had his money from his job, but he taught me to plant, plant, plant everything that we would have bought at the market, so we could be as self-reliant as possible and not spend our money on things we could grow.
My family was critical of my new life with my husband. They thought he was working me too hard. “You are not treating her good,” they would say. “You are making her work too hard. Why aren’t you buying her clothes?” We resisted them until they got tired because I was happy.
When I was pregnant with my first daughter, I enrolled in night school. I worked hard and had another child and my husband sent me to college where I earned my associates degree in animal husbandry. This made a way for me to teach at the Booker T. Washington Institute. I taught there from 1986 to 1990. I was teaching students how to raise goats, chickens, and sheep. After the war years, I was chosen to teach agricultural skills to the ex-combatants to help reintegrate them into society. It was very hard and dangerous. But I was grateful for the job.
By then my parents realized I was doing the right thing for myself and for my family. I was working and earning my own money. They could see I was doing something better for the future.
My husband and I raised our children the hard way, but we taught them the value of education and work. During the war years in Liberia my husband protected us. He was wise, and through his fierce determination, we stayed in one place and miraculously we, and all of our children, survived.
Now our three children are all college graduates.
After my husband died, the missionaries came into my life. I resisted the gospel message at first. I had become very independent. But one day they said to me, “Sister Ncube, you know, we are not looking for members. What we are after is your soul. We are pursuing you for your soul.” That went deep in my heart. I sat down and said, “I agree. I will be baptized.” For the first time in my life, I learned what true freedom was. When I was baptized my soul was set free.
The gospel has taught me to be a strong Latter-day Saint woman. I am happy because the gospel and the Church give me the opportunity to live in a better way. I love teaching the women in my branch and community how to live the teachings of the gospel for the betterment of everybody.
I strive to live the Savior’s teachings when He said, “And I give unto you a commandment that you shall teach one another the doctrine of the kingdom.
“Teach ye diligently and my grace shall attend you, that you may be instructed more perfectly in theory, in principle, in doctrine, in the law of the gospel, in all things that pertain unto the kingdom of God, that are expedient for you to understand” (Doctrine and Covenants 88:77–78).
I was baptized on Liberia’s Independence Day, but for me it was the day I would declare, “Now, I know the truth. I know I am free. I am free indeed.”

Lupe sat on the front steps of her apartment building. She was lonely. Her friend Ramona was away for the day, and Lupe had nothing to do and no one to play with.
I wish I had a pet, Lupe thought. But there was a big sign in her apartment building that read NO PETS ALLOWED.
Lupe saw her Uncle Jorge walking along the street with a package under his arm. He sat down on the steps beside her. “This is for you,” he said.
Lupe was excited. She opened the package. In it she found some wonderful treasures—a pad of white paper, crayons, colored pencils, and a little pair of scissors.
“Thank you!” cried Lupe. “Thank you, Uncle Jorge.”
Lupe had a happy afternoon. She drew with her colored pencils on the white paper. She colored with the crayons. She cut with the little scissors.
That evening Ramona came home. She and Lupe sat on the steps of their apartment building.
“I have a lot of pets,” said Lupe.
Ramona shook her head. “You can’t,” she said. “Pets aren’t allowed in our building.”
“But I have pets,” said Lupe. “I got them from Uncle Jorge.”
Ramona looked as if she did not believe Lupe.
“I’ll tell you about my pets,” said Lupe. “I have a brown and white giraffe, a black and white zebra, a black gorilla, an orange monkey, and a red rooster.”
“That’s impossible,” said Ramona. “Nobody has pets like those.”
“I have,” said Lupe. “I’ll show you.”
Lupe took Ramona upstairs to her apartment. In Lupe’s bedroom Ramona saw hand-drawn pictures of a giraffe, a zebra, a gorilla, a monkey, and a rooster.
“See!” Lupe laughed. “My pets are paper pets!”

Little Evaline Burdick sat on the floor of her family’s small log cabin in Kirtland, Ohio. It was wash day, and there were clothes and bedding hanging outside on the line and drying on the lawn. She played happily while her mother tended to the washing.
Evaline saw a tall, handsome man with sandy hair walk up the steps of their front porch and enter the open door of their cabin. He greeted her mother and then picked Evaline up. He held her in his left arm and crossed the room to a large mirror. They both looked in the mirror and smiled at each other. Gently he set her back on the floor and asked where her father was.
When the kind man left the room, Evaline’s mother called her over and told her that the man was Joseph Smith, a true prophet of the Lord. What a good man he was! Evaline would never forget that experience.

One day, 15-year-old Lucy Morley was helping her neighbor, Abigail Daniels, weave cloth. As they worked, three missionaries knocked at the door. They said that Jesus Christ had sent them to share a message.
The men told Abigail and Lucy that Jesus had called Joseph Smith to be a prophet. They also told them about the Book of Mormon.
To Lucy’s surprise, Abigail became angry. She made the missionaries leave.
Lucy knew the missionaries were servants of God. She told them to visit her family down the road.
The missionaries went to the Morley home. Lucy’s parents invited the missionaries to teach them and their friends.
That night, 17 people were baptized. In the next few days, 50 more people heard the missionaries and were baptized. Even Lucy’s neighbor Abigail changed her mind. She and her husband, along with Lucy and members of her family, chose to follow Jesus Christ by being baptized.

This was way back in 1996. Not long into my first semester, I received a call from the Honor Code Office asking me to come in for a meeting. I had no idea what they wanted to discuss, but I scheduled an appointment and went. When I arrived, the staff member asked if I had shaved within 24 hours of taking my last test in the testing center. I told him I was only shaving about once a week, since I was sixteen years old and didn’t have much facial hair. He explained that I had committed to being clean-shaven and that I hadn’t been following that commitment.

At the time, I was annoyed, confused and even a little offended. I thought he was taking this too seriously. I couldn’t help but laugh to myself, thinking “I hardly need to shave at all. They’re overreacting.” I also wondered, “with everything going on with other students, they are worried about me and my facial hair?!”

Ultimately, the Honor Code Office wasn’t the problem. I was. I was struggling to fully embrace something that I chose to accept and committed to follow. This happens to even the best of us, so I guess I am in good company.

Consider that prophets like Moses, Jonah, and Lehi made commitments to follow the Lord and occasionally struggled to resist the temptations of the natural man. At times they complained and even hesitated to follow through on their commitments.

Each of them repented when reminded of their responsibilities and the associated blessings. For the record, I repented too—from that point on I shaved every day until I graduated. I have to admit, shaving still isn’t my favorite thing, but the blessings that have been brought into my life through the gospel and the Church Educational System are undeniable.

Lastly, this from the rededication of the Mexico City Mexico Temple just three weeks ago. It was there with President Henry B. Eyring that we saw our beloved friend Lisa Tuttle Pieper stand in that moving dedicatory service. But she stood with some difficulty because with one arm she was holding up her beloved but severely challenged daughter, Dora, while with the other she was trying to manipulate Dora’s dysfunctional right hand so this limited but eternally precious daughter of God could wave a white handkerchief and, with groans intelligible only to herself and the angels of heaven, cry out, “Hosanna, hosanna, hosanna to God and the Lamb.”

With covenants, obedience to gospel principles becomes rooted in our very soul. I am familiar with a couple where, at the time of their marriage, the wife was not active in the Church and the husband had never been a member of the Church. I will refer to them as Mary and John, not their real names. As children began to enter the picture, Mary felt keenly the need to raise them, as the scripture says, “in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.” John was supportive. Mary made some important sacrifices to be at home to teach the gospel on a consistent basis. She ensured that the family took full advantage of Church worship and activity. Mary and John became exemplary parents, and their children (all energetic boys) grew in faith and devotion to gospel principles and standards.

John’s parents, the boys’ grandparents, were pleased with the wholesome lives and achievements of their grandsons, but because of some antagonism toward the Church, they wanted to attribute this success exclusively to the parenting skills of John and Mary. John, although not a member of the Church, did not let that assessment go unchallenged. He insisted that they were witnessing the fruits of gospel teachings—what his sons were experiencing in church as well as what was happening at home.

John himself was being influenced by the Spirit, by the love and example of his wife, and by the urgings of his sons. In due course, he was baptized, much to the joy of ward members and friends.

While life has not been without challenges for them and their sons, Mary and John wholeheartedly affirm that it is in fact the gospel covenant that is at the root of their blessings. They have seen the Lord’s words to Jeremiah fulfilled in the lives of their children as well as their own: “I will put my law in their inward parts, and write it in their hearts; and will be their God, and they shall be my people.”