Gospel Story Finder

In July 2021, I had the blessing of working as an extra in the new Book of Mormon videos, filmed in the mountains east of Springville, Utah, USA. We were filming scenes that occurred following the “great and terrible destruction” (see 3 Nephi 8:11–12) in the New World, which attested to the Savior’s Crucifixion in the Old World.
During filming, my brother Byron lay in a hospital bed in California, USA, while my newborn granddaughter lay in a hospital bed in Salt Lake City, Utah. Byron was dying of cancer, and my granddaughter, born with a serious birth defect, was not expected to live.
When my husband and I arrived at our motel after the second day of filming, my sister called me, worried about Byron.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” she said. “Byron isn’t answering his phone or his messages.”
Of my five siblings, I was closest to Byron. He was the second child, and I was the youngest. He often took care of me when I was small. We grew up in humble surroundings in Guatemala. We had no television, but we had each other. We were poor, but we were happy.
I missed Byron when he moved to the United States, hoping to help our family financially. He found a job as a bus driver for a tourism company. Years later, I moved to the United States, married, and joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. After my baptism, my parents also joined the Church. When my husband and I settled in southern Utah, I saw Byron whenever he brought tourists to the visitors’ centers at the St. George Utah Temple and the Salt Lake Temple.
When I spoke to Byron about the Church, he told me, “Latter-day Saints have something very special. When I talk with people at the visitors’ centers, I can see that they are good, friendly people.” He agreed to meet with the full-time missionaries, but he was always working and almost never home.
Twice, Byron successfully underwent treatment for esophageal cancer. In 2020, however, the cancer returned. In June 2021, he was barely well enough to travel to Guatemala for a month-long family reunion. Our father had died earlier that year, and our mother had passed away in 2015, four years after they were sealed in the Guatemala City Guatemala Temple. Seeing his siblings one last time was Byron’s final prayerful wish.
Two weeks after he returned to California, he was hospitalized. Now he lay in a coma.
When I arrived at the video site the day after my sister’s phone call, I was weary and sad. “Father, please help me,” I prayed. “So many difficult things are happening in my life.”
Before the actors and extras gathered to film the scene where the resurrected Savior descends from heaven (see 3 Nephi 11:8), we were told to think about Him and what He means to us. As I tried to concentrate on the Savior during the scene, my thoughts turned to my family. In my mind I saw my father, my mother, and Byron. At that very moment, I heard Byron’s voice.
“Everything is OK,” he said. “I am all right.”
I felt such hope and comfort, as if I really were in the land Bountiful when Jesus came to teach and heal the people, showing them His body. I knew that He was the answer to my trials, that He and the Father were there for me, and that things happen for a reason.
That night, I learned that God had taken Byron home. I’m grateful for the faith I have that I will see him and my parents again. I’m also grateful that God heard our prayers for Athena. After she spent 88 days recuperating in the neonatal intensive care unit, we finally brought her home.

On March 10, 1978, he was called to be a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy. Two days after that interview he had a very special experience. “When my wife and I went down to share my call with my father and mother, it was one of the special evenings of my life. I don’t think I could have given my dad any other gift that would have made him more proud and happy. All my life I’ve wanted to make my parents proud of me because they made me proud to bear their name. Some of the most satisfying experiences that I’ve had have been when I’ve been able to do that very thing.

“I’m so grateful to my parents. The pattern of life they have established and practiced has been a powerful example to me in everything that I’ve done. My dad was a bishop. Some of my earliest memories are of running up to sit beside him on the stand in the 34th Ward in Salt Lake City. From that time on, I don’t remember when my dad didn’t have a responsibility in the Church. His pattern of life was that family and service in the Church came first and everything else was secondary. He taught us the payment of tithes and offerings, giving of our time and our talents and our means. One thing that thrilled me was when he was released from the stake presidency and made an adviser to the Aaronic Priesthood. He took that new calling and ran with it, just as he had when called to be a counselor in the stake presidency. That taught me a great lesson. My mother fully supports him in everything. She has had many responsibilities herself, including several years on the General Board of the Relief Society. My father is now 88, and my mother is 84. They recently returned from a trip to China. They have loved life all their lives.”

Elder Backman remembers with joy an experience he had while president of the Northwestern States Mission. “I invited my dad and mother to come up to visit us, and we took them to a district conference in the Bend District of Oregon. I asked my parents to sit beside us on the stand during the general session on Sunday morning. I asked dad to stand up and bear his testimony. He stood up there at the pulpit with tears in his eyes and said, ‘I know now to a greater degree how our Father in Heaven must have felt when he said, ‘This is my Beloved Son in whom I am well pleased.’ I just sat there and cried like a baby.”

In 1979 Elder Backman was called as general president of the Young Men. And so the unbroken chain of sharing is forged. He received strength from his goodly parents, made it his own through love and obedience, and now shares it with the youth of the Church.

What is his message for them? “Based on my personal experience, it is that they must recognize that they are children of God with potential to become as he is. If that is true, there’s no excuse for failure. And there is the seed within us to succeed at anything we want to do in life. As I look at young people today, I think, ‘If they just had self-esteem, the recognition of their own self-worth.’ That’s where it’s got to start. It’s difficult to serve valiantly until you get some faith in yourself and your own identity. I think often service and self-esteem come together. The sooner we learn that happiness comes through service, the sooner we’re going to come to a realization of our own potential and our own worth. That’s why my mission was so important in my life. I was able to forget myself and my troubles and my own worries and concentrate on serving others. I came to a realization that I am a son of God, that I have potential to perform great service, and that my happiness is dependent on the kind of service I render.

“When I was called by President Harold B. Lee to be president of the Aaronic Priesthood MIA, I had a most interesting conversation with him. He talked about the young people of the Church and about the challenges they face in growing up in this world in which we live. He expressed his deep concern about the fact that some of them could go through Primary, Sunday School, Mutual, priesthood quorums, and seminary and come out the other end without testimonies.

“He said, ‘Do you know why I think it is? Because our young people have grown up spectators.’ Then he gave me a challenge that I’ve never forgotten and that I’d like to pass on to the youth of the Church. He said, ‘Bob, I challenge you to provide a program that will prepare this generation to meet the Savior when he comes.’

“If our young people could just realize how important they are in God’s eyes, coming to earth when they have and being the royal generation they are! I envy them the years they’ve got ahead of them because this Church is bound to grow and develop, and they are going to be its leaders. They are going to have some of the most exciting, fulfilling experiences that man or woman has ever had if they’ll just be where the Lord can find them.”

Elder Backman lives up to his own words, serving the Lord and his fellowmen with joy and enthusiasm. There is a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye as he travels around the Church or works in his office, ministering in the affairs of the kingdom. As chairman of the General Church Scouting Committee, he exemplifies the Scout motto, Oath, and Law as he meets with boys and leaders of boys. He has a special empathy for young men because he has not only been where they are, but he can actually remember being there. Like them, he has had challenges and sorrows and troubles, but he has overcome them by always being available to the source of all help. He has always been, and always intends to be, where the Lord can find him.

George Q. Cannon had a large family. Forty-three children. It wasn't always easy to keep them straight, as I found out in a recollection of Collins Cannon, one of the younger sons. Here is what Collins wrote:

"I was about eight and one day I came upon Father and Uncle Angus M. on Main Street. Before I go further with this anecdote I must [explain that] Uncle Angus was a kisser. He kissed all and sundry, young and old, male and female alike, and it didn't matter whether it was on Main Street or wherever...Uncle Angus had grandson twins...They were called Jack and Chick. They were about my age...I had chanced upon Father and Uncle Angus and I was attempting to slide by unnoticed on account of my dread of the kissing ordeal...Angus spotted me, halted me and you guessed it—he kissed me...Father looked on and said, 'Angus, which is that, Jack or Chick?' My world tumbled about me...and I cried out, 'No, no, Pa! I ain't Jack or Chick! I'm Aunt Martha's little boy.'"

Everyone in the mission knew about Madame Dupont. Her husband, President Dupont, was the branch president of one of the smallest branches in France. He had labored faithfully for years to establish The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in his hometown in the Pyrenees Mountains. In all that time, however, his wife had opposed his membership in the Church. She didn’t like his “folly.” She wouldn’t listen to his testimony. And she wouldn’t allow missionaries in her house—not even in her courtyard!
The day I arrived in town as a brand-new senior companion, my junior informed me that the branch president’s wife was just getting up and around after a short sickness.
“Great,” I said, “let’s take her some flowers to wish her well. Maybe it will help to fellowship her.”
“You don’t know Sister Dupont,” he said. (We called her sister anyway.) “She’ll probably just snarl.”
I couldn’t believe anyone would refuse flowers after an illness. I was wrong.
I held the bouquet while Elder Granville knocked timidly at the gate.
“She’ll never hear you if you don’t knock louder than that!” I said, and I rapped on the wood. A small, gray-haired woman in her 60s peered at us through the window. I knocked again, and the front door of the house opened.
“Go away!” the lady said.
“But we have something to give you,” I replied.
“If it’s for my husband, just leave it at the gate,” she said.
“Let’s go,” Elder Granville whispered.
“We have something for you,” I said again, trying hard not to sound like I was yelling.
She opened the door and walked toward us from the house.
“Oh no!” Elder Granville whispered, pulling at my coat.
By now the short little woman was nearly up to us.
“What could you possibly have for me?” she asked.
“Flowers,” I said. “Flowers to wish you—”
“Don’t like flowers.” She cut me off. “Never did.”
“But—”
“Don’t like flowers. Don’t like missionaries either. Now leave me alone.”
“But there must be something you like,” I said, almost in desperation.
“Yes,” she said, “I like fruit. Fresh fruit. Never get enough of that around here. Now thanks for bringing the flowers, but I really don’t want them.”
And she turned around and walked back to the house.
“Au revoir,” I shouted after her. “Ayez une bonne journée!” It wasn’t the most authentic French, but I did want her to have a good day.
“Brother, were you ever lucky,” Elder Granville sighed as we walked away. “When Elder Stokeley and I said hello to her one day, she slammed the gate in our face.”
I handed him the bouquet of flowers.
“Let’s go tracting,” I said.
The next day was preparation day, and we were shopping at the market near our apartment. It was then that I saw the bushel of apples.
“Hey, Elder Granville,” I said, “I’ve got an idea.”
I picked up the basket and started toward the check-out stand. Visions of a month of apple crisp at every meal must have danced through Elder Granville’s mind.
“We can’t eat that many apples!” he said.
“They’re not for us. They’re for Sister Dupont.”
That left him speechless. For a moment.
“Elder Romney, you’re the craziest senior I’ve ever had!”
“I’m only your second companion since the LTM.”
“Well, you’re still the craziest senior I’ve ever had.”
By now the clerk was wondering what two Americans were doing arguing in English about a bushel of fruit. I set it on the counter.
“Nous prendrons toute la corbeillée,” I said.
“You’ll take the entire basketful,” the clerk repeated (in French, of course). “Très bien, monsieur.” Then, in an effort to be friendly, “Vous devez beaucoup aimer des pommes.” (“You surely must love apples.”)
“They’re not for us. They’re for a friend,” I said.
“For a friend.” The clerk tried hard not to be amazed. “Très bien, monsieur.”
“The whole bushel!” Elder Granville moaned.
“And we could have spent the grocery money for yogurt!” He picked up the rest of the groceries, and we headed for the door.
We did eat some of the apples. We even made some apple crisp and a pie. But most of the fruit went to Soeur (Sister) Dupont. We never delivered the apples in person. Each day we would leave one, with a note attached, in her mailbox. Sometimes the note would simply say, “Ayez une bonne journée.” Sometimes it would say, “Bon rétablissement!” (“Get well soon!”) One day I even stepped out on a limb and tried to translate “An apple a day keeps the doctor away” into French. I’m sure “Une pomme tousles jours vous protégera contre les maladies” lost something in the translation, but once again the wish was sincere. By the end of the month, when the apples started to shrivel, we would cut paper into the shape of an apple, write a note on the paper, and leave that inside the mailbox instead.
All this time Elder Granville kept telling me I was crazy. And all this time we never heard a word from Sister Dupont. At church President Dupont was as cordial and friendly as usual, but he never said a word about the apples.
We were having a dish of soup for lunch one day when we heard a knock at the door. I stepped from the kitchen into the hallway to answer it. I couldn’t believe it when I opened the latch and neither could Elder Granville. There stood Sister Dupont, with our latest apple message in her hand.
“What’s the deal with all these apples?” she asked. “Who do you think I am, Eve?”
“We just wanted to let you know we care,” I said.
“I thank you,” she managed. And she actually tried to smile. “But please, I’ve had enough apples for a while.” She pulled her black shawl more tightly around her head. I was about to invite her inside when she turned to go.
“Oh, by the way,” she said when she reached the top of the stairway, “my husband says I should invite you for dinner on Sunday night.”
“Dinner?” Elder Granville gasped from somewhere behind me. “With Sister Dupont?” I thought he was going to faint. But as soon as the door closed, we both whooped for joy.
Sister Dupont was a marvelous cook. There’s no cuisine like French cuisine, and it’s even better when it’s homemade. That first Sunday evening we mostly ate well and offered compliments. We also watched hope glimmer in Brother Dupont’s eyes. It had been a long, long time since he’d had missionaries in his home. This was the first time since his baptism some 17 years before. We returned for dinner the following Sunday, and the next, and the next. Through bits and pieces of the conversation, we patched together the Duponts’ story.
Before he met the missionaries, Brother Dupont said, he had been like a wanderer in a drought-ravaged land. Then suddenly he stumbled into a lake of water. The gospel was rich and refreshing to him, and he could not drink his fill. In his exuberance to immerse himself in his new-found treasure, he could not understand why others did not want to savor the same message. This lack of communication spilled into his marriage. His wife didn’t understand what had changed her husband.
As we ate, she told us of the war years, when he was bedridden. She had managed to find food for both of them, even during shortages. She had nursed him daily. Even after the war, he had required her constant care for several years before he gained the strength to walk. Then he had spent more years training and rehabilitating himself while she supported the family. No sooner had he started working again than two Americans began talking religion with him. Then he joined their church—he was the only member in town, and they baptized him in the river—and more and more of his life belonged to his church, not to her. She felt deprived, then embarrassed when parishioners laughed at her, the wife of the town fanatic.
President Dupont repeated over and over again that the Church was true, that he knew it was true, and that he would do whatever he could to share it with his wife. “But,” he said, “she just won’t listen.”
“Can’t you see?” I said one night after they had been sharp with each other. “What you’re really saying is that you love each other. Sister Dupont, all these years you’ve been asking your husband to spend more time with you. That’s important and it’s right. And President Dupont, all you want to do is share with your wife the thing that’s most precious to you. Right?”
He nodded yes. I turned to Sister Dupont.
“Can’t you see that he wants to share the gospel with you because he loves you?”
She didn’t say anything, but you could tell she was thinking. We excused ourselves quietly and went home.
Elder Granville’s prayer that night was straightforward and concerned.
“Please, Heavenly Father, help the Duponts to understand each other. They’re both good people.”
“Amen,” I said. And it sounded so good that I said it again in a whisper.
We had teaching appointments elsewhere for the next two weeks, and then we had to go to Bordeaux for district conference. Although we stopped to see President Dupont on branch business a couple of times, it was almost a month before we were asked back to the Duponts’ home. President Dupont delivered the invitation.
“You won’t believe it,” he said. “My wife’s been reading Church books! And she’s asking questions—good, honest questions. I try to answer them, but I get too pushy. She really wants to talk to you again.”
If we hadn’t had another teaching appointment, we might have rushed over right then.
“C’est incroyable!” Sister Dupont said the next time we all sat in the kitchen. “It’s incredible. Or it’s stupid! A 14-year-old boy can’t talk to God. And the Bible. It’s complete. Why should we need any more scriptures than we already have? And the priesthood. My husband’s never been to divinity school. Why should he be able to hold the priesthood?”
Good questions, all right. How could we handle this? I could imagine Elder Granville thinking this was more like the Sister Dupont of old. Maybe the niceness had been too good to last.
“Sister Dupont,” Elder Granville’s calm voice interrupted my thoughts, “we can answer all those questions for you. But we can’t answer them all at the same time. We have a series of discussions that will answer them one at a time. Would you be interested in listening to those discussions?”
She said yes.
How about that! I said to myself. There’s hope for this junior companion yet!
I wouldn’t exactly say that Sister Dupont became a golden investigator. But she did become our friend. She listened intently to the first discussion. She even joined us as her husband kneeled in prayer. And she invited us to dinner again the following Sunday. It was while we were finishing a serving of the thin mashed potatoes the French call purée that Elder Granville told Sister Dupont a story.
“Did you ever hear about the missionary who was eating dinner and asked his companion to pass the butter? The butter was right in front of him, but he couldn’t see it because it was so close.”
“What?”
“Simple. It’s like you and the gospel. All these years your husband has had it right here in front of you, but you couldn’t see it because it was so close. You keep asking where the butter is when it’s right in front of your plate.”
It may not have been the strongest analogy, but Elder Granville was trying. When we got home that night, he brought me a copy of the Book of Mormon.
“Why don’t you sign this with me?” he said, turning to a dedication on the flyleaf. “It’s for Sister Dupont.”
I looked at what he’d written.
“Voici le beurre,” it said. “Here is the butter.”
During the next two months Sister Dupont read the book—at least, she read more than half of it. And she had two more discussions, and prayed, and was talking to her husband more and more. And he was seeming happier and happier all the time. That’s when my transfer letter came.
I was moving north to Brittany where I would finish my mission. Elder Granville would be getting his third senior. The letter had been delayed by postal strikes. I would have to catch the first train in the morning.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to leave, Elder Granville,” I said. “We’ve been working so well here. The branch president’s happy and excited again, and the members are working with him. We’ve got some inactives coming out to church and a couple of solid investigators. The Marcellas family is getting ready for baptism. I guess I’ll just have to leave it up to you.”
A knock at the door.
“President Dupont!” Elder Granville greeted the visitor. “Come in, come in.”
President Dupont looked at me.
“I heard about the transfer,” he said. “I know you’re leaving tomorrow. My wife wants you to come say good-bye.”
There was a lot of packing and farewelling to take care of, but I knew I had to visit his wife.
“Of course we’ll be by,” I said.
The living room was dark, illuminated by a single bare bulb as many French living rooms are. The wallpaper, however, was a bright combination of browns, yellows, and tans. Sister Dupont was seated on the orange couch, a tray of cookies and hot chocolate before her.
“Hello, elders,” she said. “Have a seat. What’s this about Elder Romney leaving?”
“I’m afraid that’s right. Tomorrow morning.”
“That means there will be a new missionary here, too.”
“That’s right. Elder Taylor. He’s from New York.”
“I guess I’ll have to get to know him, too.”
I could see the smile on President Dupont’s face.
“I hope you will,” I said.
“Will you write to us?”
“Of course I’ll keep in touch,” I promised. “Trust me.”
“If you can’t trust the elders, who can you trust?” she said.
I thought I might cry.
I did keep in touch, especially five months later when I got home from my mission. It was hard, and President Dupont wrote to me more than I wrote to him. But we did exchange photos (I still have a nice picture of the Duponts with their grandchildren on vacation on the Spanish coast), and Christmas cards, and news of our families. Whatever I sent, even a postcard, I always got letters back, scrawled out in President Dupont’s longhand. He would let me know when he heard from one of the elders, especially from Elder Granville. He always included greetings from his wife, but I never received anything written personally by her. Other missionaries told me that she remained friendly and supported her husband, but she never joined the Church. Every once in a while I would write to her personally and bear my testimony to her through the mail.
I’ve been home for several years now, and this week I received an unusual letter from France. The address was strange, the handwriting unfamiliar. I opened it before I got to my desk.
“Dear Elder Romney,” it began, “I’ve wanted to write to you many times over the years, but I always figured my husband kept us in contact with you. Now my husband is gone. I wanted to let you know so that you could tell the other missionaries. He loved them all so much. Let them know the Church members held a funeral for him.
“I remember much of what you both told me about life after death. Perhaps my husband is there waiting for me, as you said he would be. I never did understand all you tried to tell me, all that he wanted to share with me, but I know you both believed it was true. I’m living with my daughter and her family now. Please write to me if you will.”
You know I will, Sister Dupont. You know I will.

This story happened in Bolivia.
It was a hot morning. Thais and her friend Claudia talked and laughed as they walked across the soccer field. They had just finished gym class, and now they were going to math.
The younger kids were having break time. Thais watched them play.
Then she saw a little girl sitting alone on the steps. When they got closer, Thais saw that she was crying.
Thais waved for Claudia to come over to the little girl.
Claudia frowned and shook her head no. “We’ll be late.”
Before Thais could say anything, Claudia walked away.
Thais looked at the little girl. She was about five years old. Her face was hidden between her knees, and she covered her head with her hands.
Thais sat next to her. The girl moved away a little.
“Are you OK?” Thais asked softly.
The girl didn’t answer. Thais wasn’t sure what to say or do.
“Can I help you?” she asked next.
The girl shrugged.
“My name is Thais. What’s your name?”
Finally the girl looked up at Thais. “Nicol.”
“Why are you crying, Nicol?”
“Everyone teases me for being chubby,” she said between sobs.
Thais wiped Nicol’s face. “I’m sorry they said that. It doesn’t matter what people think.”
“They say I’m not pretty.”
“Well, I think they’re wrong!” Thais said with a smile. “You are very pretty and also very special. Did you know that?”
Thais thought of one of her favorite songs from Primary. She knew what to say now.
“You are a child of God,” Thais said, taking the girl’s hands.
Thais talked a little with Nicol. She explained how important Nicol was to Heavenly Father, her family, and many others who loved her so much. Bit by bit, Nicol began to smile.
After a few minutes, Nicol stood up and hugged Thais tightly. “Thanks!” she said.
Thais watched her new friend run away with a big smile. It felt good to help Nicol feel better and know how much God loved her.
Then Thais jumped to her feet too. I better run like Nicol or I’ll be late for math! she thought, smiling as she hurried to class.
Illustrations by Flavio Remontti

I had a wonderful time laboring as a full-time missionary in the Hawaii Honolulu Mission. It was filled with experiences I will remember for the rest of my life. One in particular showed me how our Heavenly Father knows each of His children and their needs.
One night I was working with my district leader. We had returned to my apartment after a hard but satisfying day of proselyting and were having my monthly interview.
Following the interview, he asked me, “Would you give me a blessing?”
I was shocked, and my heart began to pound. I wasn’t used to being asked to give a blessing. I asked him why he wanted one. He confided that he was having a bit of difficulty and needed some help.
Still not knowing exactly what his concerns were, I agreed to give him a blessing. Before I laid my hands on his head, I said a silent prayer that I would be inspired to know what to say to help my missionary friend.
As I placed my hands on his head, the most amazing feeling flowed from the top of my head to the soles of my feet. I cannot remember the words I spoke, but I was the instrument through which Heavenly Father spoke to one of His sons who needed wisdom.
When I took my hands from his head, he turned to me with tears rolling down his cheeks and expressed his gratitude. What he told me next was as much a surprise as when he asked me to give him a blessing: I had spoken words that had also been pronounced in his patriarchal blessing. They provided him with the comfort he needed.
The Lord truly does know each of His children, and through the power of the priesthood, we can be instruments in blessing the lives of our brothers and sisters as we all strive to return to His presence in the celestial kingdom.

Based on folktales and dances of west Africa, the storyline of the celebration followed Kwaku Anansi, who searched for all the good things in the world to keep for himself. Each stake and district sang and danced and gave him something good, like courage, love, or family. But when Anansi saw the Accra Ghana Temple, its beauty convinced him that he should share all the good things he had collected.

In a short amount of time, Ethel successfully recruited over 150 students from the Hawaiian islands. These Students were so anxious and blessed to enroll in a college that was affordable, close by, and most importantly tailored specifically for them by a Prophet of God.

The College began with an opening assembly in the chapel of the Laie First Ward because that was the largest facility they had to accommodate everyone.

“True to prophetic vision, the college was now a reality and the official opening an important event in history. We were pioneers and it was exciting to be involved with The Church College. The faculty and staff were very compatible and the students were wonderful. We had 153 students that first historic year and it has continued to grow.”

Ethel was mindful that our students were tremendously blessed by this institution. She explained how one student, Glen Auna, was so excited to be admitted to this school that he arrived two weeks early, and they didn’t know what to do with him.
Portable buildings were used as dorms and classrooms while the campus was being built by service missionaries until 1958. The girl's dormitory was up on the hill near the temple, and the boys were housed a couple of miles away at Kokololio, or Kekela Beach Park.

You may recall the Old Testament story in 1 Samuel 9 and 10 of how the prophet Samuel anointed Saul to be king. What intrigues me about that story is how Saul ended up crossing paths with the prophet. Saul's father had lost some donkeys and he sent Saul and a servant to find them. They traipsed across the countryside in pursuit of the animals. Eventually, they found themselves near the hometown of Samuel, so they sought out the prophet to seek help in finding their donkeys. By the time they found Samuel, he told them the asses had already safely returned home. But the Lord had told the prophet that Saul was really there for a much more important reason--to be anointed to rule over all Israel.[16] It seems the Lord used the wandering donkeys to get Saul where he needed to be. They were, in essence, a divinely directed diversion.
Sometimes such diversions take the form of storms that redirect our paths. This was literally the case in the life of Parley P. Pratt. As a young man, Parley set out for the Western frontier beyond Detroit, but a winter storm made it impossible for him to get any further than 30 miles west of Kirtland, Ohio, where he ended up settling.[17] It was only 18 months later that Sidney Rigdon came preaching in Parley's Ohio neighborhood[18] --something that never would have happened had Parley reached his destination of choice west of Detroit. Sidney's preaching prepared Parley, and Parley returned the favor after joining the Church. Parley's first stop on his mission was in Kirtland, where hundreds of those he taught accepted the restored gospel, including Sidney Rigdon and many from his congregation.[19] Brother Pratt would later serve as an apostle and would help convert John Taylor.
What can we learn from the experiences of Saul and Parley? In the case of Saul, we learn that sometimes we may be led to a new place in our lives for what we assume is one reason, when the Lord has actually led us there for a much more important purpose. Such divinely directed diversions can be an important tool to get us to places we otherwise might never have sought out ourselves. If our vision is too narrow, we may find ourselves frustrated at times, just as some members of Zion's Camp were when they weren't allowed to do battle in Missouri. But when we ask Heavenly Father to help us recognize His purposes, we often discover hidden benefits and designs in life's inspired diversions.
In the case of Parley, the cause he had chosen for himself was a good one, but the Lord had an even greater cause in store for him. The Lord often has better places and grander purposes in mind for us than we have in mind for ourselves. In my own life, I have repeatedly experienced the Lord diverting me from paths and plans I had chosen for myself, redirecting me instead to higher purposes. Sometimes such divine diversions in our lives will be the result of storms that appear to be devastating setbacks when we encounter them, preventing us from going where we had planned to go. The woman or man you are dating may dump you, but when that happens, the Lord usually has a better match in store for you. Success on the admissions test for the graduate school of your choice may evade you, but that may mean that the Lord has an even more fulfilling career ahead for you in a field you might have otherwise overlooked.

Muhammad (Arabic, “praised”) was born in 570 C.E. in Mecca, a prosperous city that was a center of caravan trade and religious pilgrimage in the northwest Arabian peninsula. Orphaned in early childhood, he lived a life of poverty as a youth, working as a herdsman for his family and neighbors, an occupation that gave him ample time and solitude to contemplate the deeper questions of life. Muhammad gained a reputation in the community as a trusted arbiter and peacemaker as indicated in the following account:
“At one time the Quraish [Muhammad’s tribe] decided to rebuild the Ka’ba [sacred shrine], to re-set the stones above the foundations. In one of the corners they wanted to put the black stone, but could not decide who should have the honour of placing it there. They would have quarrelled violently if [Muhammad] the young man they all admired and trusted had not come by. They asked [him] … to settle the dispute. He told them to spread a large cloak and place the black stone in the middle. They did so. Then, he asked a man from each of the four clans who were in dispute to take hold of a corner of the cloak. In this way they all shared the honour of carrying the stone.”

To become consistently charitable is a lifelong quest, but each act of love changes us and those who offer it. Let me tell you the story of a young woman I met recently. Alicia, as a teenager, had drifted far from the Church, but later she felt stirrings to return. She often visited her grandfather in a retirement home on Sundays. On one of those days she decided to attend the Latter-day Saint meetings there. She opened the door and found a Relief Society meeting, but no empty seats. As she was about to leave, a woman motioned to her and scooted over to make room for her on her chair. Alicia said: “I wondered what the woman would think of me. I was covered with body piercings, and I smelled of smoke. But she didn’t seem to mind; she simply made a place for me at her side.”

Alicia, heartened by this woman’s charity, returned to activity. She has served a mission and is now sharing that same kind of love with other women. The elderly sister who shared her chair understood that there is a place for every woman in Relief Society. Sisters, we gather for strength, but we bring with us all our weaknesses and imperfections.

Alicia told me something I will never forget. She said: “I only do one thing for myself when I go to church: I take the sacrament for me. The rest of the time I watch for others who need me, and I try to help and nurture them.”

My grandma had taught me to pray at night before going to bed. But to whom was I praying? What was he like? Where did he come from? These were questions that couldn’t be answered. I felt as if I was in a dark and dreary world with no hope of light.
Determined to understand more about this mystery, I started attending the church to which we then belonged because Grandma said God could be found there. But it didn’t do much good. It confused me more. They taught me about Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost, which, I was told, belonged to God, and they were all one.
I visited many other churches. When we studied the Bible and the life of Christ, I felt a very different feeling.
I discovered that this feeling had something to do with Christ, the Bible, the Holy Ghost, and God, but I was still confused. I started to pray and have trust in the Lord. Still, there was something missing. Although I could have the feeling while reading the Bible, I couldn’t have that feeling with me all the time.
One teacher told me a way to retain this feeling was by being baptized, so I was baptized. But nothing changed. All churches seemed the same, so I decided to stay home and study on my own. I found myself praying more intensely for the Lord to help me find the true path that led to him. He heard my prayers.
I met a young man in the gym, and we became friends. For the next ten months we shared our ideas and thoughts about many things, but never religion. One day I found that my friend traveled with a Bible, so I asked him if he went to church and what the name of his church was. It was some long name—The Church of Jesus Christ of something something Saints. I wasn’t the least bit interested—it sounded like just another church to me.
My friend later told me he was going to serve the Lord for two years in another country. I figured he was going to be a pastor. As he left, I began to wonder what his church was like, and I began to search for their meeting place.
I found it a few months later, but I also found something more. As I walked through the doors of the meetinghouse, I felt a feeling that is impossible to describe; it was joy, peace, comfort, surety, and happiness all in one. It was like coming home. My questions had now been answered.
The members of the church welcomed me with open arms. At first, I was reluctant to accept these welcomes because it was a little too much. I wasn’t used to so many people. They welcomed me whether they knew me or not. At the end of the meeting time, a calm feeling came over me and I heard the words in my mind, “Debbie, this is the place, and these are the people you have been searching for.”
Looking back, darkness to light, my life in the ghetto was difficult, and a person could make it harder by making wrong choices. There was little opportunity for progression. But I wanted something worth living for. When the opportunity came to leave the ghetto with part of my family, I decided this was my chance.
Many of the girls I grew up with never left the ghetto. I could not have made it without following the desires of my heart and trusting in my Father above to lead me. At times, while walking around Ricks College in Idaho, I realize all that I have been blessed with. I was blessed with the chance to leave the ghetto, be baptized a member of this church, gain an education, and fulfill a mission in Utah. I know Heavenly Father loves us all and is mindful of our circumstances no matter where we are. He desires above all things our happiness.
I often feel that the song sung at my high school graduation was written for me: “This is my quest—to follow the star. No matter how hopeless, no matter how far. To fight for the right, without question or pause, to be willing to march into hell for a heavenly cause.” I know if I am true to God’s commandments, I will reach that unreachable star.

Sometimes the hand of the Lord needs to get some outside help from mothers who are close to the Spirit. Such was the case with Theodore Maeda who planned to attend the University of Hawaii with his friends after he graduated from Waianae High School in 1962. His mother Berniece Young Maeda, however, felt much the same as President McKay did about the infant college in the cane fields.

"The low tuition school was built especially for the students of the Pacific," she told her son. "No, you're going to CCH. The Church has built a school for the local students and that's where you should go," she insisted. [xxiv] Reluctantly, Maeda took her advice and went to La'ie where he grew to love the college and the opportunity for an intimate education where everyone was equal, rich or poor or racially.

He was later elected student body president and after his graduation returned as a member of the BYUH financial department where has been for 30 years. His sister Sharlene B.C.L. Furuto has been professor in the School of Social Work since 1975.

As time went by, a pair of missionaries taught us the riches of the restored gospel, of the doctrine of the plan of salvation, and of eternal families. We were baptized, and when my father began his calling as district president, his first objective was to journey to the temple and receive the blessings which would come because of that sacrifice. It was a 15-day journey covering 4,800 miles (7,725 km)—a journey filled with difficulties and setbacks, highways in poor condition, uncomfortable buses, not even knowing the route, but with great hope in the ordinances we would participate in.
Upon arriving in the city of Mesa, Arizona, we headed down an avenue at the end of which we could see the house of the Lord, gleaming and beautiful. I remember the joy which filled our hearts; we all broke out in songs and praising, and tears ran down the cheeks of many Saints.
Later in the temple we knelt as a family to hear the beautiful promises about an eternal family, with the certainty that our mother, though absent, was now our mother forever, and we felt the peace which comes from knowing that we are an eternal family.
The promise of life eternal thus gave us the riches of eternity! “Behold, he that hath eternal life is rich” (D&C 6:7).

Reader B: An ancient Arabian fable tells the story of a traveler who met the great and deadly Plague going into the city of Cairo, Egypt. Their conversation went thus:
Reader 5: “Oh, Mighty Plague, bringer of disease, why do you go into Cairo?”
Reader B: The Plague answered with wind and destruction in its voice:
Reader D: “I come to kill 3,000 people. I come to take 3,000 lives.”
Reader B: Weeks passed. Again the traveler met the Plague on his return journey and said:
Reader 5: “Oh, Plague, you told me you would kill 3,000, yet you killed 30,000—people 30,000 instead.”
Reader B: And the Plague answered back:
Reader D: “No. I killed but 3,000. The rest died of fright.”

Her life-long dream had turned into what now seemed like a nightmare. During the long, hot summer days of picking potatoes and cucumbers, Alice had envisioned herself walking across the campus as a student at BYU. It was the goal that had kept her going when she would otherwise have given up.
Her determination had brought her to BYU for fall semester. And now the frustration, the pressure, the anguish that she faced seemed more like a nightmare than a reward for such effort.
She hadn’t planned it this way. In fact, after arriving she had hardly planned at all.
Alice was one of the students in my class. Somehow she hadn’t realized the big difference between going to school and learning.
Alice found the social side of college life more enticing than studying and learning. The urgency of preparing for her final exams hit her only after the opportunity for preparation had almost passed. It all seemed like a nightmare now. She must not fail, but she was unprepared. She had not committed herself to an education; she was just going to school.
She remembered people often asking her back home, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” Growing up had seemed so far away until this day. Now she was searching for the answer to that question, not for them but for herself. What did she want to do with her life and how did an education fit in?
We must all face that question eventually if we are to be responsible for our lives.
When you find the answer, you’ll have a sense of what you want to learn or what kind of job you may someday have or how you can become a better mother and wife, because of your education. You’ll catch a glimpse of a bigger picture—a purpose, a destination, a course of action for this life that determines what you can become through the eternities. It’s when you catch even a glimpse of the excitement, the benefits, the opportunities, the richness of life that an education can provide, that the discipline required to study becomes a small price to pay.
With your eye toward eternity, education is the treasure you will take with you and give you so much the advantage in the world to come (see D&C 130:18–19). And for today, it opens doors to opportunities that would otherwise be closed tight. Nephi writes, “To be learned is good if they hearken unto the counsels of God” (2 Ne. 9:29). If we lack wisdom we are to ask, and when we seek diligently we will know the truth. And the truth shall make us free (see John 8:32)—free to make wise choices; free to experience life with ever-changing, wonderful, new horizons; free to speak up and speak out for what’s right; free to influence those who are seeking truth; free to prepare in the time of youth for a rich and rewarding lifetime; free to hold on to the love of learning your whole life long making every day more zestful.

Spooked by a ravaging band of Shoshone hunters, Little Wind’s pony has escaped into high rock country. His father, Ten Days Walking, has ridden in another direction with several tribesmen to reclaim a band of village ponies that also fled during the melee.
Fearing that any delay will spoil the chance of catching his pony, Little Wind doesn’t tell his mother of his departure. But he is unaware that beyond the fog-shrouded mesa a giant winter storm is brewing.
Little Wind moved in a hurried, anxious fashion through the deepening drifts of snow. His young eyes eagerly searched the white wilderness beyond the hoof tracks for his stray pony, expecting at any moment to discover the animal patiently waiting for him in the swirls of mist. But as minutes multiplied into hours, all that greeted the boy’s intense anticipation were the dark shapes of some lightning-split scrub oak, a clump of rocks jutting up, or bunches of brushwood scratching together in the new wind.
The wind! It had returned. Its stirrings were barely noticeable at first in the wee rattlings of ice-cloaked underbrush. It was only the piercing chill that invaded even the warmth of Little Wind’s big otter coat that first kindled his awareness of the wind’s growing intensity.
The boy paused to wipe the wintry drippings from his frosted brow and looked with difficulty up the sides of the gigantic ice-blurred mesas. They loomed above him like dark mythical giants that grow out of the smoke and tales spun by the old ones around the great fires. Then Little Wind shuddered at the chilling sight of a formless black cloud mass that loomed over the top of the buttes and out of the mist.
The boy gathered the otter coat more tightly about himself and continued on at an even more urgent pace, all the while feverishly searching for any sign of his pony, whose tracks were now completely obliterated by the snow. He leaned heavily on his sense of hearing to assist him in his search, his ears straining beyond the sound of the crunching beneath his numbed, moccasined feet. But the strident whine of the ghostly wind would have made it impossible to hear the nicker of his pony, even if he were close-by.
More than once Little Wind glanced back over his shoulder through the whirling curtain of ice toward what he guessed was the direction of home. Home. How far away it seemed, farther away even than he was from heaven’s door.
Laughing Water, Little Wind’s mother, stepped out of the family tepee into the howling, icy wind. Worry spread across her countenance like mourning paint. It had been some time since Yellow Fox, himself concerned about his friend’s safety, had informed her of Little Wind’s departure from the village. The awesome skies and unusually cutting winds filled her anxious heart with mounting fear. Even her father-in-law, Red Owl Watching, who was usually optimistic, had lifted himself from his sickbed to gaze with troubled uncertainty. He had seen many frightful storms, but never one such as he now beheld.
Laughing Water had beseeched some of the husbands of the other families to seek out her son, but while they were in full sympathy with her fears and concern, they were without horses. And if they were to venture out into the killing freeze on foot—even a little way—they would most surely perish. Aside from the fact that they had their own families to care for, in the wild swirling snow they would not be able to see their hands in front of their faces, let alone a small boy in an invisible wilderness of driving ice.
Laughing Water brushed the unbidden tears from her dusky cheeks and gave a sidelong glance in the direction taken by Ten Days Walking and the others. His eyes were eagle sharp, even during the foulest weather or throughout the darkest night. She quickly looked back in the other direction, hoping somehow that Little Wind would suddenly appear alive, safe. But the only thing that broke forth from the worsening blizzard was another blast of gale-force wind. Red Owl Watching lifted his raspy, failing voice against the wind and begged Laughing Water to come inside by the fire. “We have enough souls to pray for, good mother. Let it not be that we must pray for you too.” She turned slowly and went inside.
The winds grew wilder still. Little Wind struggled along blindly in the wracking cold, banging his hands together in an effort to keep his blood from freezing up like the tiny prairie streams long since turned to ice. Still he tried to catch some glimpse of his pony, but it was useless. His hands had already become so numb that he could scarcely feel them, and his feet felt as though they were only extensions of his soaked leggings that plodded along through the drifts as if by instinct. The wind tore through his otter coat like a great spear. And everywhere shards of flying ice were so thick that he could not tell where he was going or where he had been.
Little Wind stumbled a few more feet, turning one way, then another. Whirling around to escape the stinging ice, he lost his footing, tripped over a small log fall, and collapsed in the snow. He tried to pull himself up, but a rushing wind slammed against him. In a moment the snow began to cover the small fallen form.
Ten Days Walking and the other braves had at last returned to the village, chilled but successful. Their scattered horses had been recovered. As the Sioux chief dismounted, Laughing Water clutched at his heavy wraps, tearfully recounting the story of Little Wind’s flight into the storm after his pony. Ten Days Walking wrapped his big furs back about his face so that only his eyes were visible, eyes filled with concern and fear. He mounted his buffalo runner again and faced the screaming storm. How can I possibly save Little Wind? he wondered sadly. It had been only with great difficulty that he and the other braves were able to find their village! And the storm was now so incredibly furious that he wondered if even the Great Spirit could find his boy. He reeled his horse around, eyed Laughing Water with stinging emotions, and pitched headlong into the savage white squall.
Little Wind lay beneath a cloak of snow. Still alive, yet unable to move, and on the edge of slipping off into a final, frozen sleep, his thoughts—untouched by the weather—raced home to his father’s fires, his mother’s steaming broth, and the warmth of loved ones pressing near. And with these warm memories, he was ready to make his final journey to the land of the Sky People, who lived beyond the fury of the wind and the thrashing winter blasts, a place where the sun shone forever and the plains were green and fine. He could almost see it now. Surely, he thought, I am on my way to heaven.
He dared to open one eye, just a little. And in his delirium he seemed to see something through the falling snow. It was a glow! Could it really be the welcoming fire in the village of the gods? Yet he had not left mother earth, for the storm still raged about him.
The light grew brighter, nearer. Little Wind opened both eyes, looking with awe and disbelief. The glow came from … an animal! It was the old buffalo that he had befriended in the great four-legged’s final hours, the one with the broken horn and the ghostly blue eyes! Little Wind looked harder, scarcely able to believe what his eyes were beholding—a white glow in a white wind. “The spirit of the great four-legged!” he muttered as the bison seemed to drift nearer still, its pale blue eyes watching the boy in the snow.
In his mind, Little Wind started to question the animal’s presence. Why would the old buffalo … ?
Suddenly his father’s words, spoken to him on the great hunt when he had pleaded compassionately for the bison, came back to him as if on the wind. “Such kindness,” Ten Days Walking had promised with prophetic surety, “will one day return itself upon you, my son, whether this old four-legged lives or dies. And this because of the goodness of your heart.”
The huge animal figure, still immersed in a strange glowing light, paused a moment before Little Wind then lay down beside him, its great fur coat engulfing the boy like a blanket of heavenly warmth.
Ten Days Walking plowed forward on a prayer through the raw, heaving weather, his cries for his son muffled by the louder cry of the wind. Suddenly he pulled up, for in the lee of a jack pine he saw the outline of a figure under the snow, one so clearly seen that it was almost as though a light pointed toward it.
Ten Days Walking piled off his horse and scooped Little Wind up into his arms. He quickly bundled the boy inside his furs. But how odd, he thought, that the boy still feels so warm! He wiped tears of thanksgiving from his eyes and stood there in the storm, thanking the Great Spirit for the life of his son.
After a moment, Little Wind spoke softly. “Did you see the light, Father? It was the spirit of the old buffalo. I saw him. The Great One sent him to keep me warm until you could find me.”
The mighty Sioux warrior chief hugged his son with matchless pride, lifted his head heavenward in the fury, and cried out his gratitude with a reverence Little Wind had never heard before. Then Ten Days Walking mounted his horse with Little Wind beneath his wrappings, gave the buffalo runner its lead, and let instinct carry it in the direction of home.
Little Wind never found his pony, but that day his testimony of the love of the Great Spirit soared as high as the eagles. Two weeks later his grandfather’s spirit made its journey to the lodge of the Great One. Fifteen years later, Little Wind would take his father’s place as chief of the tribe. And the story of that day, when the spirit of the old buffalo came to a young Sioux boy to return life for life, would be told and retold around the fires of every Indian nation for generations to come.

My mom passed away when I was 12. That’s when I started to have questions about what happens to families after this life. The priest at the church I attended told me that when we die, we will not have families. He said I will see my mother again, but I will not recognize her as my mom, and she will not recognize me as her daughter.
That was not the answer I had hoped for. I continued attending church with my family, but my questions persisted. I also wondered, “Where are the prophets? Where are the Apostles?”
When I turned 14, I searched “Jesus Christ” on the internet. It led me to a website for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Not long after that, two missionaries knocked on my door. They wanted to share a message about Jesus Christ. I invited them in and asked my father to join us.
The first question the missionaries asked me was, “Do you know that families can be eternal?”
I replied, “No, they cannot.” Then I told them what I had learned from my priest. After our discussion, I found the elders on Facebook. I watched videos of them saying goodbye to their families. I wanted to know why they had left their families to come to my country and why they believed as they did. I called the phone number they had left me and said, “Elders, I need to go to your church on Sunday.”
For two years, I attended church and met with the missionaries. My family, however, was not open to the Church. When I turned 18, I told my family I wanted to be baptized. I tried to share the gospel with them, but they were not ready.
In 2015, I was doing proxy baptisms in the São Paulo Brazil Temple. While I was there, a man asked me if I was preparing to serve a mission. I said I hoped to serve someday. Then he said, “I think you need to prepare to serve a mission and speak French.”
I thought to myself, “Why French? I’m from Brazil. How will I serve a French-speaking mission?” Nevertheless, because of that experience in the temple, I started studying French.
A few months later, I was at a bus terminal in São Paulo reading the Book of Mormon in French. When the woman next to me saw the book’s cover, she started speaking to me in French. I had been studying the language for only a few months, but I understood her perfectly!
To my surprise, she knew about the Book of Mormon because she had met the missionaries in Paris, where she lived. She asked me many questions about the Nephites and the Savior’s visit to the Americas. Inexplicably, I was able to speak to her as if I were speaking in my native language. I gladly gave her my Book of Mormon.
At the beginning of 2020, I went to England to study English through an exchange program. I met a girl there from Morocco. Her questions about why I didn’t drink alcohol led to a discussion about the Word of Wisdom, the Church, and the Book of Mormon. I showed her my Book of Mormon in French, and I was again able to answer questions about the gospel in French.
I realized that people need to know about the gospel and this special book in their own language and that I could use the Book of Mormon to be an instrument in God’s hands to help others.
Inaê Leandro (right) with one of her companions, Sister Wongsin Elisaia, while serving on Temple Square in Salt Lake City, Utah.
Later, when I opened my mission call, I learned I was going to Temple Square in Salt Lake City, speaking Portuguese.
“Really?” I thought. “Everyone there already knows about the Church, and they don’t even speak French in Utah.”
When I told my family, my father asked, “You are leaving your high school teaching job, your home, your career—everything—for a mission? How much will they pay you?” He was surprised when I told him I would pay for my mission myself.
At first, I didn’t know why I was called to Utah, but Heavenly Father knew where I needed to be. At Temple Square, I quickly learned that if you know 10 languages—or only 2 or 3—you can teach in all 10 languages there. My companions and I gave tours in Spanish, Portuguese, and English at Temple Square and at the Humanitarian Center at Welfare Square. We also taught online in different languages through the ComeuntoChrist.org website.
I have experienced the gift of tongues for myself. When we have the desire and the enthusiasm to learn a language, and if we work hard, God blesses us in miraculous ways that help us speak and understand.
“When we have the desire and the enthusiasm to learn a language, and if we work hard,” says Inaê, “God blesses us in ways that help us speak and understand.”
I love reading the Book of Mormon in other languages. Doing so helps my language skills and grows my testimony and understanding of gospel principles.
Whenever I called home on preparation day, I shared details about mission successes and experiences. I focused on what I had in common with family members, and they shared their travels and things that were happening at home. They even told me how they fed the full-time missionaries pizza because they had heard stories of nice people in Salt Lake City taking care of my companion and me.
It has been 16 years since my mother passed away. That was a difficult day, but I know that families can be eternal. I know I will see my mother again. I know she will recognize me as her daughter. Many people don’t have this knowledge.
That’s why I served a mission. That’s why I learned new languages. And that’s why I still try to help others find gospel answers for themselves.

One day, my mission president called me to be one of the assistants for the Ghana Accra Mission. This calling gives me a lot of opportunities to speak in large group settings. Because of being in the office, I was able to meet the new missionaries coming from the MTC. A lot of them do not speak English, only French. One day, after my portion of a training, my mission president asked me to give a small training in French and mentioned that I should tell them where I came from. They could not believe that I was from the DR Congo. I was able to encourage and strengthen them, telling them that they should trust in the Lord and believe in the gift of tongues, that it is REAL!

I would like to express my deep gratitude for the New Era. Though I am 35 years old, it is my favorite reading each month and is a great asset to my teaching at Solano College. Last Christmas our family gave nine gift subscriptions to young nonmember friends and students. Now six of them have joined the Church. Brother Leavitt’s articles on the very special people and land of Chile have opened doors for missionary work with friends we have in Chile as well as with former Chileans living in California. What a joy to know the gospel of Jesus Christ is true and that the New Era has a part in publishing the good news.
Stephen DavidsonVacaville, California