Gospel Story Finder

One situation featured the Donald Mabey family. Brother Mabey had moved his family from Salt Lake City to North Bay, Ontario, because of a business transfer by his company. Don was an elder in the Church but had been less than fully active in priesthood callings. He was about thirty-five years of age at the time and had a lovely family. The North Bay Branch was a struggling unit desperately in need of priesthood leadership. When I attended that branch and recognized this fact, I held an interview with Brother Mabey and said to him, “I am calling you to serve in the presidency of the North Bay Branch.”

He replied, “I can’t do it.”

I asked, “Why?”

He answered, “I have never done it before.”

“That’s no hindrance,” I responded. I took fresh hope from Don’s name, Mabey, and the words of a once-popular ballad, “Please don’t say no—say maybe.”

Brother Mabey said yes. Today he is a high priest living here in the West. All of his family members have entered temple doors and have received temple blessings.

The Hansen family creates a conference concession stand every year. The children earn conference coins by being ready on time, cleaning the breakfast table, and being kind. During the first session of conference, they earn coins by listening to speakers and completing quiet conference activities. Before the second session, the conference concession stand opens, and they can purchase goodies with the coins they earned. This tradition has become a family favorite!

Unlike most of the students at the Catholic University of Temuco, Heraldo Torres, originally of the city of Lajas, was a Latter-day Saint. His classmates observed that he was courageous in sharing his views on moral questions—even in the mandatory theology classes, where his opinions sometimes lowered his grades. But eventually he won the respect of many of his professors and fellow students.
Heraldo’s roommate and longtime friend, Roberto Jiménez, was also a Church member and had just come back to school after serving a mission. Like many converts, he was the only Latter-day Saint in his family. His successful return to the university laid to rest the concerns of many friends and relatives, who had tried to convince him not to interrupt his studies for a mission.
“When are you going on your mission?” Roberto sometimes teased Heraldo.
“Soon. When I graduate,” was the usual reply.
“Oh, you mean in ten more years?” Roberto would joke.
Before long the two roommates, both students of English, met another young man with the same major. His name was Luis (“Luchito”) Cornejo, and he was from the capital, Santiago. Although he was thought to be shy, Luchito accepted an invitation from Roberto and Heraldo to attend ward meetings and institute classes, and he found the gospel message very agreeable. At about the same time, he began boarding with the Hernández family, who were Latter-day Saints. His heart was softened by their many tender acts of kindness, and he decided to be baptized.
Luchito was only the first in a series of conversions—the first in this particular story of links of love. On one of his trips home to Santiago, he persuaded his mother and his sister to start learning about the Church. Both were baptized. He extended the same invitation to another classmate, Luis Soto, who also followed his footsteps into the waters of baptism.
At the time he joined the Church, Luis Soto lived at the same boardinghouse as Richard Spichiger, a student of auto mechanics who was a descendant of Swiss immigrants. Richard was very impressed by his neighbor’s manner and conduct. His favorable opinion opened the way for the full-time missionaries—who also lived in the boardinghouse—to teach him the discussions. After Richard was baptized, he accepted a call to the Chile Osorno Mission, where he, in turn, baptized dozens of people.
But back to Luchito. Even before Luis Soto and Richard Spichiger joined the Church, he had shared his new testimony with another friend—a young woman named Liliana Salazar. Like Heraldo, Roberto, Luchito, and Luis, Liliana was an English major. She would be honored that year as the top student in her class. But more important, the changes she was observing in Luchito’s life prompted her to study his beliefs. After a few months, she, too became a Latter-day Saint. Then, at her invitation, her father, mother, and sister Patricia heard and accepted the message of the Restoration. And then Liliana introduced a sixth student—her friend Guillermo Rosales—to the Church, and he also joined.
Through her activity in the Church, Liliana met another recent convert, Néstor Bravo, whom she later married in the temple.
Long before he joined the Church, Néstor had had a strong desire to succeed in his chosen field—dramatic arts. He had a job organizing theater workshops for university students in the southern city of Valdivia. His conversion began when he met Alejandro Arangua, a student of veterinary medicine and a faithful Church member. A beautiful rapport developed. Néstor recognized at once that his new friend was different from other young people. Guided by the Spirit, Alejandro shared his testimony with him.
After Néstor was baptized, the two began traveling throughout Chile together, giving mime presentations at Chilean seminaries and institutes. They found beautiful and artistic ways to incorporate principles of the gospel into their productions. In addition, both men bore their powerful testimonies to all who came to see them.
Eventually Alejandro moved away to accept employment. Néstor remained and was called to serve as stake clerk and then as a teacher of early-morning seminary. He created dramatizations of the lives of Nephi, Mormon, Alma, and Jesus Christ that left an indelible imprint on the minds of his young pupils. Professionally, Néstor became well known as a rising talent in the theater—and his mime group, Antumimik, toured several cities in Chile and Argentina. He was liked and admired as an educator as well, and in time he accepted a post at Universidad de la Frontera in Temuco.
One of Néstor’s students there, Carolina Urrutia, was particularly impressed by him. She felt that he was different, somehow, from other gifted people—so much so that she decided to find out why. Néstor was very willing to tell her about the gospel of Jesus Christ, and as a result, he had the privilege of baptizing her. Subsequently, she and Néstor were influential in the conversion of another of his students, an actress and teacher named María Reiñanco.
Carolina affirms that the gospel has increased her love for her Heavenly Father and for other people. One Sunday while she was taking a taxi to church, the driver became interested in the books she was carrying—her standard works. Their polite conversation grew cordial, and after arriving at the meetinghouse, Carolina invited him to attend services with her and to meet the missionaries. As he learned about the Church, the taxi driver, Luis Campos, was deeply impressed with the importance given to the law of chastity and with the idea of a living prophet. Two months later he was baptized.
Meanwhile, Carolina’s mother, living in the city of Chillán, joined the Church after hearing her daughter’s testimony during a visit at home.
How many people have been baptized because of Heraldo Torres, Roberto Jiménez, Néstor Bravo, and the others in this beautiful chain? Each year the question becomes more difficult to answer. More and more family members are being baptized. And many of the new converts are serving full-time missions and sharing the gospel with their friends—who, in turn, share it with other friends. It is a never-ending circle.
Little by little, member by member, links of love continue to be forged in the hearts of thousands of converts throughout Chile—as they are throughout the world.
And what happened to that university student, Heraldo Torres, who promised his friend that he would serve a mission when he graduated? He kept his promise. After receiving his degree, Heraldo accepted a call to the Chile Santiago South Mission. His letters home bore ample witness of the joy he felt as he continued to share his light with others.
It is interesting to note that this phenomenal growth of the Church in Chile took place even as Latter-day Saints were suffering heavy persecution and were being harassed by anti-Mormon attention in the media. But nothing succeeded in weakening the faith of the people. Like links in an ever-extending chain, members old and new have been united in love, in testimony, and in appreciation for the blessings of the gospel.
As the people of Chile have accepted the restored gospel, the Lord has blessed our land with peace and prosperity. Each day we come closer to seeing the fulfillment of the prophetic vision of President Spencer W. Kimball, who had such great love for this people and who promised that the Lamanites would blossom as the rose.
Of these people the prophet Nephi wrote, “The gospel of Jesus Christ shall be declared among them; wherefore, they shall be restored unto the knowledge of their fathers, and also to the knowledge of Jesus Christ, which was had among their fathers” (2 Ne. 30:5).
The links of love that unite us—that unite all of us as members of the Lord’s Church—are only the beginning of our Heavenly Father’s work to bring about the immortality and eternal life of man.

My name is Job Abram Goldrup. Several years ago, when I was four years old and my older brother, Matt, was six and a half, Dad took us camping at a place called Blue Lake in northern California. It was in the middle of a very, very hot summer. Although most of the other lakes around there—even bigger ones like Clear Lake in Mendocino County—were very low and muddy, Blue Lake was filled with water.
We slept in sleeping bags on the ground that night, and Dad told us a story. I can’t remember what it was about, but I liked the soft sound of his voice and the feeling of being with him by the lake in the woods. I felt safe and loved and excited. The moon made silver, bouncy light on the water, and I heard an owl hooting in the dark trees whose branches swayed back and forth in the dry wind. I looked a long time at the warm, bright glow of our campfire. It made the dark not too scary, just like Dad’s voice did. Yep, I liked it there. A lot.
In the morning Dad made hot chocolate and cooked hot dogs. The chocolate had a few twigs in it because he spilled the chocolate powder on the ground and some stuff got mixed up with it when he scooped it up. But that was OK because Dad said there was hardly any use being in nature if you didn’t get a little of it in you. “Besides,” he added, “a little roughage is good for the system.” We just laughed and drank it down. It was kind of a strange breakfast—what we ate should have been for dinner, and what we had for dinner we should have had for breakfast—that was part of the fun of camping with Dad.
After breakfast, we rented a rowboat and went out on the lake. Dad made us wear orange life jackets. That’s the only part that wasn’t much fun because it was already getting hot and the life jacket made me hotter. But Dad said that just as the words of the prophets are meant to help keep us spiritually safe, life jackets are made to help keep us temporally safe.
I scrunched up my face something awful and fidgeted as if to shake that life jacket right off me.
“You have to plow your own furrow, huh, Joby?” Dad said, smiling and shaking his head.
I didn’t know what he meant. I scrunched up my face again and reached my hand down into the cool water. The water felt good. And, I have to admit, so did Dad’s counsel. Even if I didn’t understand it sometimes, I knew that it meant that he cared about me and my brother.
We kind of went around in a few circles before Dad started rowing straight. Matt whispered to me that Dad was about as good at rowing as he was at cooking.
Dad heard us and laughed. “I’m just taking the scenic route,” he joked.
After a while, we reached a small island near the other side of the lake. I felt like an explorer as Dad pulled the rowboat partway onto the pebbly beach. The island was covered with trees. A few big ones had long before fallen into the water along its edges, and there were logs on the beach.
There was only one problem: It was very hot! It helped to take off my shirt and shoes and wade in the shallow water along the beach, looking for rocks and small fish. It helped, but it wasn’t enough. “Dad,” I begged, “can’t I take off my life jacket? It’s so hot, and the water isn’t deep here. It hardly comes up to my knees.”
Dad, who was wading higher up the beach ahead of us, scratched his head and scrunched up his face. “I guess it would be OK, Joby,” he said at last, “as long as you don’t wade out any deeper.”
I promised that I wouldn’t, and Matt helped me get out of the jacket. I threw it up onto the beach. It felt great to have it off! My brother and I continued to look for rocks and fish below the surface of the water, Matt poking and turning the rocks over with a stick he had brought from camp.
A few minutes later, Dad looked back to check on me and my brother and yelled, “Where’s Joby, Matt?”
Matt looked this way and that, then, bewildered, back at Dad. “I don’t know—he was right here a minute ago.”
Dad raced up out of the water and faced the thick, tangly island trees. “Joby!” he yelled again and again, hoping I had decided to venture into the trees.
Matt was worried too. “Where is he, Dad?”
Dad didn’t answer. He ran into the shallow water close to where Matt stood, scanning the water about him. Then he ran along the beach, first in one direction, then another. Suddenly he stopped, looked down into the shallow water by a fallen tree, and screamed, “Joby!” He threw himself beneath the surface and pulled me up!
A big gasp came from me as I breathed in air at last.
“Are you all right?” Dad looked at me with tears filling his eyes.
I nodded. “I guess I stepped into a hole. A feeling like a voice told me ‘Stay calm. Your dad will come for you.’ So I did. I just started looking around at the big tree roots, waiting for you to find me.”
Dad started crying hard. He hugged me like he would never let go. And for a moment, I didn’t want him to, and I started to cry too.
Afterward we all sat on a log up on the beach, and Dad explained what had happened. He said that I had stepped in a pothole and very well could have drowned. It was because of Heavenly Father’s loving, watchful care that I was spared. Dad said that the voice-feeling I had was the Holy Ghost telling me what to do. I know that that’s true because of the special feeling I had while I was waiting for Dad to find me. “If you had panicked,” Dad said, “You would have swallowed water and might have drowned.”
I will always remember that day—listening to Dad’s story and sleeping by the campfire, eating those hot dogs and drinking the twiggy hot chocolate that Dad had lovingly prepared, the cool lake water on a hot summer day. But most of all I will remember my experience with the Holy Ghost that taught me how near He is to us—as near, Dad would say, as an amen at the end of a prayer.

Despite the cost of the trip, Brother Mateo; his wife, Altagracia; and three of their children were sealed in the temple in 2001. Since then they have sacrificed to save enough to visit the temple at least twice each year.
The work and the sacrifices, both physical and spiritual, are worth it to Brother Mateo.
“It’s not hard when you know what the purpose is,” he says. “We’re fighting for something more sublime than wordly things.”

He knew his sheep. He knew their names and he knew each of their ways. One day when we were searching for him and his flock, we saw one of his sheep separated from the rest.
When we found the flock, I said, “Peter, one of your sheep is lost. We saw it over on the other side of the mesa.”
He seemed remarkably calm about the news and said, “Oh I know. That’s Box. He’s the old one. He doesn’t have any teeth. He’s all right.” I was amazed. He knew all about that one particular sheep even though it was out of sight. Peter saw my surprise and smiled. He didn’t have any more teeth than Box.

My own family, anticipating the celebration of this 90-year milestone in my life, started helping me remember and appreciate the experiences of my long life. For example, my niece gathered and shared with me several letters that I had written to my parents nearly 70 years ago from my marine outpost on the island of Saipan in the Pacific during World War II.
One of these letters particularly caught my eye. It was a letter I wrote to my mother for her to open and read on Mother’s Day 1945. I would like to share some excerpts with you in the hope you will see why I will ever be grateful to my loving father and mother for the lessons I learned from their teaching in the home. My parents are the defining example I retain of goodly parents who placed their marriage and the proper rearing of children as their highest priority.
My Mother’s Day 1945 letter began:
“Dear Mom,
“For the last four years I have had the great misfortune of spending Mother’s Day away from you. Each year I have wanted to be with you and tell you just how I love you and how much I think of you, but since it is once again impossible, I will have to do the next best thing and send my thoughts through the mail.
“This year more than any of the others I can see just what having a wonderful mother has done for me. First of all, I miss the little things you used to do for me. Whenever I got out of bed in the morning, I never had to worry about whether I’d find a clean shirt and clean socks. All that I had to do is open a drawer, and I would find them. At mealtime I always knew that I would find something I liked, prepared the best way possible. At night I always knew that I would find clean sheets on my bed and just the right amount of covers to keep me very comfortable. Living at home was really a great pleasure.”
When I read these first two paragraphs of the letter, I was shocked by how sentimental they sounded. Perhaps living in a tent and sleeping under a mosquito net on a camp cot had my thoughts returning to my very special home.
My letter to my mother continued:
“But deeper is the feeling for you because of the example you set for me. Life was made so enjoyable for us as a family that we wanted to follow in your footsteps, to continue on through experiencing the same joy that had been ours in our younger days. You always found time to take the family into the canyon, and we could count on you to do anything from climbing mountains to playing ball with us. You and Dad were never going on vacations alone. The family was always with you. Now that I am away from home, I always like to talk about my home life because it was so enjoyable. I couldn’t turn from your teachings now because my actions would reflect on your character. Life is a great challenge to me to be worthy to be called the son of Nora Sonne Perry. I am very proud of this title, and I hope that I will always be worthy of it.
“I hope that next year finds me with you to show you the good time I have been planning to show you on Mother’s Day for the past four years.
“May the Lord bless you for all the wonderful things you have done for this troubled world.
“All my love, Tom”
As I reread my letter, I also reflected on the culture of the family, the ward, the stake, and the community in which I was raised.
Culture is defined as the way of life of a people. There is a unique gospel culture, a set of values and expectations and practices common to all members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. This gospel culture, or way of life, comes from the plan of salvation, the commandments of God, and the teachings of living prophets. It is given expression in the way we raise our families and live our individual lives.
The first instruction to Adam for his mortal responsibility is found in Genesis 2:24: “Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.”
The joining together of a man and a woman to be legally and lawfully wed not only is preparation for future generations to inherit the earth, but it also brings the greatest joy and satisfaction that can be found in this mortal experience. This is especially true when the powers of the priesthood proclaim a marriage to be for time and for all eternity. Children born to such marriages have a security that is found nowhere else.
Lessons taught in the home by goodly parents are becoming increasingly important in today’s world, where the influence of the adversary is so widespread. As we know, he is attempting to erode and destroy the very foundation of our society—the family. In clever and carefully camouflaged ways, he is attacking commitment to family life throughout the world and undermining the culture and covenants of faithful Latter-day Saints. Parents must resolve that teaching in the home is a most sacred and important responsibility. While other institutions such as church and school can assist parents to “train up a child in the way he [or she] should go” (Proverbs 22:6), this responsibility ultimately rests on the parents. According to the great plan of happiness, it is goodly parents who are entrusted with the care and development of Heavenly Father’s children.
In our remarkable parental stewardship, there are many ways that goodly parents can access the help and support they need to teach the gospel of Jesus Christ to their children. Let me suggest five things parents can do to create stronger family cultures:
First, parents can pray in earnest, asking our Eternal Father to help them love, understand, and guide the children He has sent to them.
Second, they can hold family prayer, scripture study, and family home evenings and eat together as often as possible, making dinner a time of communication and the teaching of values.
Third, parents can fully avail themselves of the Church’s support network, communicating with their children’s Primary teachers, youth leaders, and class and quorum presidencies. By communicating with those who are called and set apart to work with their children, parents can provide essential understanding of a child’s special and specific needs.
Fourth, parents can share their testimonies often with their children, commit them to keep the commandments of God, and promise the blessings that our Heavenly Father promises His faithful children.
Fifth, we can organize our families based on clear, simple family rules and expectations, wholesome family traditions and rituals, and “family economics,” where children have household responsibilities and can earn allowances so that they can learn to budget, save, and pay tithing on the money they earn.
These suggestions for creating stronger family cultures work in tandem with the culture of the Church. Our strengthened family cultures will be a protection for our children from “the fiery darts of the adversary” (1 Nephi 15:24) embedded in their peer culture, the entertainment and celebrity cultures, the credit and entitlement cultures, and the Internet and media cultures to which they are constantly exposed. Strong family cultures will help our children live in the world and not become “of the world” (John 15:19).
President Joseph Fielding Smith taught: “It is the duty of parents to teach their children these saving principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ, so that they will know why they are to be baptized and that they may be impressed in their hearts with a desire to continue to keep the commandments of God after they are baptized, that they may come back into his presence. Do you, my good brethren and sisters, want your families, your children; do you want to be sealed to your fathers and your mothers before you … ? If so, then you must begin by teaching at the cradle-side. You are to teach by example as well as precept.”
The proclamation on the family says:
“Husband and wife have a solemn responsibility to love and care for each other and for their children. ‘Children are an heritage of the Lord’ (Psalm 127:3). Parents have a sacred duty to rear their children in love and righteousness, to provide for their physical and spiritual needs, and to teach them to love and serve one another, observe the commandments of God, and be law-abiding citizens wherever they live. …
“… By divine design, fathers are to preside over their families in love and righteousness and are responsible to provide the necessities of life and protection for their families. Mothers are primarily responsible for the nurture of their children. In these sacred responsibilities, fathers and mothers are obligated to help one another as equal partners.”
I believe it is by divine design that the role of motherhood emphasizes the nurturing and teaching of the next generation. But it is wonderful to see husbands and wives who have worked out real partnerships where they blend together their influence and communicate effectively both about their children and to their children.
The onslaught of wickedness against our children is more subtle and brazen than it has ever been. Building a strong family culture adds another layer of protection for our children, insulating them from worldly influences.
God bless you goodly mothers and fathers in Zion. He has entrusted to your care His eternal children. As parents we partner, even join, with God in bringing to pass His work and glory among His children. It is our sacred duty to do our very best. Of this I testify in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

When his grandpa had a mild heart attack, Chris gave up his bedroom to his grandpa and grandma so that they could stay at his house. He did this and many other things without complaint. He helped Grandpa with his IV (medicine that Grandpa had to carry around with him), got him something to drink when he was thirsty, brought him his supper, and did anything else he needed when he couldn’t get around very well. Chris even helped Grandma in the kitchen. A happy, loving child, Chris always has a smile on his face and a song in his heart. He is active in the ward Primary and has borne his strong testimony in fast and testimony meeting at church.

While in South America, I was touched by the sacrifices made by many of our Saints to have their families sealed to them for eternity. I shed tears of gratitude as I heard some of the experiences recounted.
One of our stake presidents brought his family to the São Paulo Temple from Lima, Peru. It is normally a nine-day bus ride, but, because of bus strikes and other problems, the journey took them fourteen days of travel.
Upon their arrival at São Paulo, the family went to the first session they could, and the sealing ceremony was performed. Then they immediately prepared to leave. The temple president asked them if they were staying the night. The father replied that the family had to leave immediately since they did not have sufficient money for lodging and food. He said that they would have to travel several days without food as it was. That represents the spirit of sacrifice of many of our Saints worldwide.

“Bucky, Bucky,” called Mother. “Where is that boy?” she asked Kelly. “He was here a moment ago.”
Kelly looked under the kitchen table. “He’s not under there. Maybe he’s hiding.”
“It’s time for his nap. Where can he be?”
“I’ll find him,” Kelly said. She looked behind the door, but Bucky wasn’t there. She looked in the broom closet, but Bucky wasn’t there, either. Next, Kelly went to Bucky’s bedroom and looked under his bed. No Bucky. This calls for real action, she thought.
Kelly went to her own room, opened her toy box, and tossed toys onto the floor. At the very bottom of the toy box, she saw what she was looking for. Holding the magnifier to her eye, she chortled, “Now I’ll find him!” She replaced the other toys, then went back to the kitchen and asked Mother, “Is this where he was last seen?”
“Yes.”
Kelly looked all around the kitchen. “Aha!” she cried. “The cover is off the cookie jar.” With her magnifier, she followed the trail of cookie crumbs out the door. Oh dear, she thought. Cookie crumbs will be hard to see in the grass.
Some little birds were feeding beside the toolshed. Maybe that’s where he is. Birds can find crumbs anywhere.
Kelly opened the toolshed door. “Bucky,” she called, “are you in here?”
Bucky wasn’t in the toolshed, but he had been there. Kelly found a tiny piece of his shirt caught on the rake. She closed the shed door and looked all around. It had rained, and there was a puddle in the driveway. Bucky loves puddles, she mused.
Wet footprints led from the puddle to the sidewalk. Kelly followed them to the corner. Then there were no more. “Hmmm,” Kelly said, scratching her head.
“Hello, Kelly,” said Mrs. Jones.
“Hello, Mrs. Jones. Have you seen Bucky?”
“He was here just a few minutes ago,” Mrs. Jones replied. “I think that he rode off on the back of some boy’s tricycle.”
“Did you see which way they went?”
Mrs. Jones shook her head. “I was busy in my garden. They were gone when I turned around.”
“Thank you,” said Kelly. As she looked up and down the street, she thought, Mrs. Jones had said “some boy’s tricycle.” If it had been Mike or Tony, she would have said his name. So it must have been the new boy over on the other street.
Kelly ran down the block and around two corners. She didn’t see Bucky. She didn’t see the new boy. And she didn’t see a tricycle.
I think that the new boy lives here, Kelly thought, running up the steps of the pretty brick house and ringing the doorbell.
A lady carrying a baby came to the door. They both smiled at Kelly.
“Hello,” said Kelly. “Have you seen a boy about this big?” She held up the bit of cloth that had caught in the rake. “He had on a shirt this color with a tear in it.”
The lady looked at the cloth. “There was a boy here with a shirt like that, but he’s not here now. And my Charlie is taking his nap.”
Kelly thanked the lady and went back down the steps and headed down the block the other way toward home. Mr. Harvey was sitting on his porch. “Have you seen Bucky?” Kelly asked him.
“Not today,” answered Mr. Harvey.
Mr. Harvey saw everything. He sat on his porch all day. He talked to everyone who went past. If Mr. Harvey didn’t see Bucky, Kelly decided, then Bucky didn’t come this way. Where could he have gone?
Kelly looked back the way she had come. If Bucky had gone back that way, she reasoned, I would have met him. So he had to cut through Charlie’s backyard.
Queenie woofed at Kelly after she had cut through the new boy’s yard and was passing Mike’s house.
Bucky’s afraid of Queenie because she’s so big, but he loves her new puppy! Kelly thought, excited.
She ran as fast as she could around the house. There they were, curled up together in a sunny corner of the porch, fast asleep.

As our family grew in the gospel, the sales management position I held became more and more demanding, often requiring me to be away from home two or three nights a week. I also had found some new friends not of our faith who caused me to start to have doubts about some aspects of Church doctrine.
I enjoyed discussions with these new intellectual friends. They tried to use the scriptures to prove that the Church was not following some basic concepts given as commandments since the time of Adam. I should have borne testimony of the restored gospel and turned away. Instead, I began to listen to them, and my little doubts about doctrine started to grow. Soon I stopped paying tithing and going to the temple. When I stopped attending church, my wife protested, as did our daughters when we ceased holding family home evening.
During this time, two people from the Church never gave up on me. Our home teachers invited me to church every Sunday, sometimes in person and other times by a phone call. They visited our home at least once and sometimes twice each month. They even knew when we needed something. I especially remember the time I ordered a garden shed that was delivered unassembled during my absence. Upon returning home, I found our home teachers had already assembled the shed.
I particularly admired our senior home teacher, Des Gorman, an Irish Canadian. He was a genuine person who truly cared for people. To me he represented the Church, and I felt the Church must be a good organization, even if I wasn’t attending.
Eventually we were blessed with a baby boy. Our home teachers reminded me that it is a priesthood practice to name and bless a baby at fast and testimony meeting. I did not want to participate, though I finally agreed to allow our baby to be blessed by others.
Brother Gorman stood in my place and was the mouthpiece for a beautiful blessing on our son, Ronan. As I listened I received a powerful witness from the Spirit. I had been proud. I had made some big mistakes. I had nearly lost my testimony of the truthfulness of the restored gospel. I still had my family, but I had almost lost the sweet peace the gospel brings. Many tears flowed while my wife, Brother Gorman, and the bishopric supported me as I repented.
From that time on I have been active in the Church. Our home teachers have continued to support me. Our baby boy is now a returned missionary, married in the temple, and raising a family of his own. I feel his life is a tribute to the man who gave him a name and a blessing.

Personal revelation is the profound blessing received following baptism when we are “sanctified by the reception of the Holy Ghost.” I can remember a special spiritual revelation when I was 15 years old. My precious brother was seeking guidance from the Lord as to how to respond to our dear father, who did not want my brother to serve a mission. I prayed with sincere intent too and received personal revelation of the truthfulness of the gospel.

Personal revelation is based on spiritual truths received from the Holy Ghost. The Holy Ghost is the revealer and testifier of all truth, especially that of the Savior. Without the Holy Ghost, we could not really know that Jesus is the Christ. His seminal role is to bear witness of the Father and the Son and Their titles and Their glory.
The Holy Ghost can influence everyone in a powerful way. This influence will not be constant unless one is baptized and receives the gift of the Holy Ghost. The Holy Ghost serves also as a cleansing agent in the process of repentance and forgiveness.
The Spirit communicates in marvelous ways. The Lord used this beautiful description:
“I will tell you in your mind and in your heart, by the Holy Ghost, which shall come upon you and which shall dwell in your heart.
“Now, behold, this is the spirit of revelation.”
Although its impact can be incredibly powerful, it most often comes quietly as a still, small voice. The scriptures include many examples of how the Spirit influences our minds, including speaking peace to our minds, occupying our minds, enlightening our minds, and even sending a voice to our minds.
Some principles that prepare us to receive revelation include:
Praying for spiritual guidance. Reverently and humbly we need to seek and ask and be patient and submissive.
Preparing for inspiration. This requires that we be in harmony with the Lord’s teachings and in compliance with His commandments.
Partaking of the sacrament worthily. When we do this, we witness and covenant with God that we take upon ourselves the name of His holy Son and that we remember Him and keep His commandments.
These principles prepare us to receive, recognize, and follow the prompting and guidance of the Holy Ghost. This includes the “peaceable things … which bringeth joy [and] … life eternal.”
Our spiritual preparation is greatly enhanced when we regularly study the scriptures and truths of the gospel and ponder in our minds the guidance we seek. But remember to be patient and trust in the Lord’s timing. Guidance is given by an omniscient Lord when He “deliberately chooses to school us.”
The Holy Ghost will also provide revelation in our callings and assignments. In my experience, significant spiritual guidance most often comes when we are trying to bless others in fulfilling our responsibilities.
I can remember as a young bishop receiving a desperate call from a married couple a short time before I was to catch an airplane for a business engagement. I pled with the Lord before their arrival to know how I could bless them. It was revealed to me the nature of the problem and the response I should give. That revelatory guidance allowed me to fulfill the sacred responsibilities of my calling as bishop despite very limited availability of time. Bishops all over the world also share these same kinds of experiences with me. As a stake president, I not only received important revelation but also received personal correction that was necessary to accomplish the Lord’s purposes.
I assure you that revelatory guidance can be received by each of us as we humbly labor in the Lord’s vineyard. Most of our guidance comes from the Holy Ghost. Sometimes and for some purposes, it comes directly from the Lord. I personally testify that this is true. Guidance for the Church, as a whole, comes to the President and prophet of the Church.
We, as modern Apostles, have had the privilege of working and traveling with our current prophet, President Nelson. I paraphrase what Wilford Woodruff said about the Prophet Joseph Smith; it is equally true of President Nelson. I have seen “the workings of the Spirit of God with him, and the revelations of Jesus Christ unto him and the fulfillment of those revelations.”
My humble plea today is that each of us will seek continuing revelation to guide our lives and follow the Spirit as we worship God the Father in the name of our Savior, Jesus Christ, of whom I bear witness in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Prison Warden Kenyon J. Scudder has told this story:
He happened to be sitting in a railroad coach next to a young man who was obviously depressed. Finally the man revealed that he was a convict returning from a distant prison. His imprisonment had brought shame on his family, and they had neither visited him nor written often. He hoped, however, that this was only because they were too poor to travel and too uneducated to write. He hoped, despite the evidence, that they had forgiven him.
To make it easy for them, however, he had written them to put up a signal for him when the train passed their little farm on the outskirts of town. If his family had forgiven him and felt that he could rebuild his life in his own home and own town, they were to put a white ribbon in the upper branch of the apple tree located in the lower pasture near the railroad tracks. If, however, they felt it would be best for him to rebuild his life in a new environment, in a new city, they were to do nothing, and he would remain on the train.
As the train neared his home town, the suspense became so great he couldn’t bear to look out of his window. His companion changed places with him and said he would watch for the apple tree. In a minute, he put his hand on the young convict’s arm. “I can see the tree,” he said.
The young man then asked, “Does it contain a white ribbon?”
The reply, “Not one white ribbon, but a white ribbon on every branch!”
In that instant, all the bitterness that had poisoned a life was dispelled. Warden Scudder said to the young man, “I feel as if I have witnessed a miracle.”
The young man responded, “Perhaps you have.”

June pushed as Grandpa pulled the old red wagon up and down the long rows of vegetables. Grandpa stooped to inspect a knee-high, leafy green plant. “June, here are some nice big green peppers. Do you think that they are ready to pick?”
June stooped down to look. “Yup.” She carefully picked one and held it up to Grandpa for final approval.
“Yup,” Grandpa agreed. “Just right.”
June smiled and picked two more. She carefully placed them next to the corn in the wagon. The wagon was almost full, but there were still cucumbers, green beans, and squash to harvest.
She beamed as she looked at the beautiful fresh vegetables in the wagon. There were big red tomatoes, ears of yellow corn, orange carrots, leafy green lettuce, red radishes, and now, big green peppers.
Grandpa and June had planted the big garden in the spring. First they got the soil ready. Next, June helped Grandpa plant seeds in little holes. Then they carefully covered them with dirt.
After the seeds were covered, she helped Grandpa sprinkle the rich, dark soil with water. Up and down the long rows they went, digging and planting and watering.
They had also put in some small plants. “If we plant these instead of seeds, we’ll get vegetables sooner,” Grandpa explained. “I just can’t wait to pop a ripe tomato into my mouth!” Grandpa loved tomatoes.
Together June and Grandpa watered their garden almost every day. Grandpa put on his big black irrigating boots, and June tugged on her little blue rubber puddle hoppers. It was fun walking up and down the long rows, getting their boots muddy while they made sure that each plant got enough to drink.
Grandpa and June spent a lot of time weeding the long rows of vegetables, too. “Weeds drink up all the water,” Grandpa explained. “Now what is this I see?”
June squatted next to Grandpa to have a look. “Does it look like the plants around it?” Grandpa asked.
June compared the green plant to those near it. “Nope.”
“Weed or vegetable?”
“Weed,” June stated firmly and pulled it out with a hard jerk.
“Yup,” Grandpa said with a big smile, “you sure are a good gardener.”
June looked up at Grandpa. “Wow, Grandpa, we sure have lots of vegetables!”
“Yup, with lots more to come!” He unloaded the last acorn squash from the wagon onto the back porch. He sat down and wiped his forehead with his little red handkerchief. “Well, June, do you think we can eat all these vegetables ourselves?”
“Nope. We couldn’t eat that many in a hundred years.”
“You’re right,” Grandpa replied with a chuckle. “Well then, what do you think we should do with them all? I hate to waste any of our hard work.”
June thought a moment. She was proud of the vegetables and didn’t want to waste any, either. “I know! Let’s share them!”
“Now, that’s what I call a good idea! But who do you think would want some?”
June didn’t have to think very hard. “Sister Rencher doesn’t have a garden since she can’t bend down to pull weeds anymore. I bet she would like some.”
“Yup,” said Grandpa thoughtfully. “Who else?”
June’s mind was working fast. “Sister Rice works all day. She doesn’t have time to plant and care for a garden.”
“Good thinking, June. And the Sorenson’s next door don’t have room in their yard for a garden. I bet they would like some.”
“May we give some vegetables to my Primary teacher, Sister Johnson?” June asked. “I know she would like them.”
“Yup,” Grandpa said. “Now, how many people is that?”
June counted on her fingers. “Sister Rencher is one. Sister Rice is two. The Sorensons are three, and Sister Johnson makes four.”
Grandpa scratched his gray head. “How can we get all these vegetables to all those people?”
“I know! I know!” She jumped up and went into the house. Soon she was back, carrying four big brown grocery sacks. “We can put vegetables in a different sack for each person!”
“That’s a great idea,” Grandpa said. Together June and Grandpa thoughtfully chose vegetables for each person and carefully put them into the sacks.
“How can we get the sacks of vegetables to the people?” Grandpa asked.
“Can we take them in our wagon?”
“Yup. I think that will work.” Grandpa said. “You always have such good ideas! Now, who should we visit first?”
“The Sorensons. They’re the closest.”
Later, June held Grandpa’s hand as they pulled the empty wagon home. They had delivered all their vegetables. June’s small hand felt warm and secure inside Grandpa’s big one. She felt good inside.
“Grandpa, it’s sure fun to plant a garden. It’s even more fun to weed and water it. But do you know what’s the most fun of all?”
“What?”
“Sharing the vegetables.”
“Yup,” said Grandpa with a big smile.

When I was teaching sixth grade a number of years ago, a 14-year-old boy dressed in gang attire was marched into my classroom. He was two years older and four years larger than the other 30 students. Quickly I discovered Brian did not read, had not attended school with any regularity, and had lived with a variety of guardians in a number of cities.
Report card time was coming up, and I came to school on my day off to finish recording the children’s work and mark the report cards. As I entered the classroom to gather up the records, I could see Brian had the class in an upheaval. I suggested to my grateful coteacher that I would take Brian with me. With some first-grade primers filled with pictures, we headed to the library, talking a little football on the way.
We settled ourselves at a table where I was marking report cards. I asked him if he had ever had a report card.
He shook his head and said, “No.” I asked if he would like a report card.
He looked directly at me. “Only if it said I was a good boy.”
I made out a special card for him, emphasizing his strengths. I wrote his full name on it and his ability to include everyone and make people laugh. I specifically mentioned his love of sports. It was not a traditional report card but seemed to please him. Not too long after that, Brian disappeared from our school, and the last I heard of him, he was living in another state. I hoped he had my report card saying that he was a good boy in his pocket, wherever he was.

A temple trip to do baptisms for the dead took on new meaning for the youth of the Oklahoma City Oklahoma Stake. To prepare for their temple trip, the youth worked in the name extraction program and personally performed the baptisms in behalf of the people whose names they had extracted.

The Young Women worked in pairs. One would read and the other would print the information on extraction cards. The girls began to feel a close relationship with the people on the film. They prayed for guidance when names were not legible and often were able to decipher the writing.

The Young Men became interested in the program and began participating in name extraction in preparation for the temple trip. The Young Women helped train the Young Men in the correct ways of filling out extraction cards.

When the youth traveled to the temple, they felt the significance of what they were doing because they had been involved through the whole process.

Many years ago I was returning home after dropping my husband off at school. The drive would take me through a canyon in the mountains of Utah.
I had our new baby, April, with me. This was long before infant car seats, so April lay wrapped in a blanket on a pillow in the front seat, her head resting on my leg.
To stay awake on this late trip I was singing the last hymn we had sung at church, “Abide with Me; ’Tis Eventide” (Hymns, no. 165). As I sang it started raining. When we reached the canyon the rain turned to snow and began sticking to the pavement.
Rounding a bend on the narrow two-lane road, I found a herd of deer directly in my path. I hit the brake, and the car slid. On my right was the mountain, and on my left the road dropped off to the river. There was nowhere to go but straight ahead. Holding the steering wheel with one hand and grabbing my baby with the other, I got ready for impact. But to my amazement, the deer just stepped aside, allowing us to pass.
After clearing the herd, I looked in the rearview mirror. The herd hadn’t frozen in the headlights or scattered—as deer normally would when frightened. They had merely backed up enough to let a little Volkswagen bug through. It felt to me like our parting of the Red Sea. I rejoiced for the 10 miles (16 km) home, thanking God for “abid[ing] with me.”
When I arrived home and got out of the car, I realized what a tragedy it could have been and wasn’t. Tears started to flow. Even if I had hit just one deer, it could have caused serious damage to the tiny car and injury to my baby and me. The near miss had occurred five miles (8 km) from the nearest farmhouse, and we hadn’t passed any vehicles on the road through the canyon or the rest of the way home. I cried with joy, holding my baby in my arms and thanking God for protecting us from harm.

As the two boys, nine and eleven years old, hurried toward their home, they were remembering every detail of the past week so they could tell their family.
The Christmas holiday that they had spent with one of their father’s friends in the country, was over. There had been snow and gifts and laughter and fun. But best of all, there had been plenty of food to eat, and the farmhouse was always warm.
Riding back from the country on the bus, the boys talked about how things at home used to be when Father was well and there had been plenty of food and their house had always been warm. Mother laughed often then as she cared for their lovely home.
Now they lived in an old house and there wasn’t even one rug on the cold floors. But riding toward home on the bus, the boys cautioned each other not to talk about the warm comfortable farmhouse they had just left, and especially not to mention the bright and beautiful carpet in the living room.
Once before, the previous summer, the boys had been invited to spend a few days in the country. When they returned, they told the, family about the fun they’d had. Mother s face had been sad and quiet when they talked about how the carpet in the living room had made the whole farmhouse beautiful and about how warm and soft it felt to their feet.
“Someday,” she said, “we’ll have a beautiful warm carpet, too. I promise you.
The boys were almost home, now. They were anxious to share their gifts, to tell about their holidays, and to be with their family again.
The elder of the two boys was first to reach their front door. He ran into the living room and then stopped suddenly, looking down in amazement. There on the floor was a beautiful turkey-red Oriental carpet!
Mother hurried to greet her boys whose eyes were wide and questioning as they looked first at her and then at the floor. Finally, she said, “It s probably silly, but this is my Christmas present to us. I painted it. It won’t keep your feet warm but it is pretty, don’t you think?”
The boys looked at her again, and there at the floor where she had painted a brilliant carpet design over the rough boards. Their eyes filled with tears. The rug was more beautiful than anything they had seen in the country, and suddenly their feet felt almost as warm as their hearts.

Fourteen years have passed since the day Latter-day Saint branches in Viet Nam were disbanded and I began my long struggle to leave my beloved homeland.
I was born 27 December 1923 in Hue, the ancient capital and royal city of Viet Nam. My family lived in a large palace because I am descended from the royal Vietnamese family. My ancestors ruled Viet Nam for about 300 years.
My last name, Cong Ton Nu, is actually a title meaning countess. My first name, Tuong-Vy, means rose. My father, Huong-de, was prime minister to the last king, Bao Dai, who ruled until 1945. Huong-de is also a title. If you showed it or my name to a Vietnamese, he would know right away that we are descendants of the royal family.
When I was twenty years old, I graduated from Viet-anh Lyceum in Hue. A few months later, I married Le-Van Luong, one of my high school teachers. We had a very good life. The wars did not affect us much. I stayed home and took care of our four daughters and two sons while my husband taught school. We had plenty of money and employed servants to help us. We moved to Saigon in 1950.
Unfortunately, my husband and I divorced in 1965. After that, I had to work, so I became a high school teacher. I eventually started to manage and then own an information center and travel agency.
In 1967, Robert Lewis, a member of the Church, came to my office. He wanted a Church pamphlet, The Testimony of Joseph Smith, translated into Vietnamese, so I took it to a translator. When he finished, I gave the translation to Brother Lewis. He took it to church for the Vietnamese members to read. But they did not like it; it did not mean anything to them. Brother Lewis brought it back to me, and when the translator said he couldn’t do any better, I decided to try myself. I was not very good at speaking English and worried about how to translate it. I took the pamphlet home and stayed up all night reading it. As I read, something strange happened to me. It was as if someone unseen was helping me understand. The first translator translated word for word; but as I finally understood part of the testimony, I put it aside and wrote the translation in my own words. I translated according to the thoughts and feelings that were impressed upon me. I did not know it at the time, but I was translating by the Spirit.
I gave the translation to Brother Lewis and said that I would refund his money if he didn’t like it. But the members read it and said they understood what it meant. They said, “It communicates feelings—it affects us.”
Brother Lewis told me he would bring some more material to translate. So then I translated four or five pamphlets. They were all accepted.
As I worked on those pamphlets, I began to love the Church and the doctrines and teachings of the gospel. I asked Brother Lewis to send some missionaries to me. He sent two American servicemen. They taught me for three months, and I was baptized. My oldest son, Le Phuc-Hung, was also baptized a few months later.
In the early 1970s, I was extended a call to translate the Book of Mormon. I wondered how I would be able to do this because I was still manager of the travel agency, my office was noisy, it was on the busiest street in Saigon, and I had to supervise a large staff. I had a big house, but my six children and their families lived there. So I could neither translate at my office nor my home. I was also serving as Relief Society president in my branch. I needed a private place where I could think and study. I prayed to my Heavenly Father, “How can I find the time and the place to translate this book and still earn a living?”
Soon after, my son Le Viet Hung, who had just joined the military, came to me early one morning. To my great surprise, he gave me a gift of 400,000 piasters that the had just won in a government contest. When I got the money, I gathered my children and told them, “I will give you my home and all that I own. I will leave my job, take a portion of the contest money, and buy some land in a remote area.”
My children agreed—the property was worth about six million piasters—and I found a quiet place about one acre in size, fifteen kilometers from Saigon. There I built a cottage and planted a garden.
In my new home I prayed, “How can I translate; my English is not good enough?” I secluded myself and studied extensively. I read many books on the life of the Savior, and, because my French was better than my English, I studied a French Book of Mormon. I read the English Book of Mormon many times. When I came to sections that I found difficult to translate, I would often dream about them and see where I could find help in other books I owned. And as I translated, I pondered. I forgot myself. It was almost as if someone else was helping me write. I know that Heavenly Father blessed me that the translation might be a good one—many have studied it and said so. It took me two years to finish.
After the Book of Mormon, I translated the Doctrine and Covenants and the Pearl of Great Price. Then, in 1975, I started on some more books but was not able to finish because North Viet Nam took over South Viet Nam.
A few weeks before the North Vietnamese came, the full-time missionaries left, taking with them my translation of the Book of Mormon which was printed in Salt Lake City, and my work on the Doctrine and Covenants and the Pearl of Great Price. Both of these latter translations served as a major source for the final printed versions. But it was to be many years before I had the opportunity to see them. I was asked to move into the chapel to take care of it, but a week later, I received a call from the American embassy giving instructions on when and where the Vietnamese members could leave the country. I was given the privilege of being the first to board the airplane taking us to freedom. I felt humble and grateful, but my heart was confused. Most Vietnamese are attached to their motherland. The idea of leaving home forever hurt so much that many could not think of leaving. My Heavenly Father had given me great blessings in that land, so I felt loyal to it and decided to stay.
When the North Vietnamese took over Saigon, they imprisoned all South Viet Nam’s government officials and military, including Brother The, the president of our branch, and all my brothers, a son, and a son-in-law. At the end of 1975, they confiscated my property. They also wanted to put me in jail because of my past contact with Americans.
And so I tried to escape from Viet Nam. I went to an island, Phu-Quoc, close to Cambodia. I took all my scriptures, translations, and books and buried them in the beach; then I bought a boat preparing to escape. But I was not successful. The police put me in prison for three days, but because I was an old woman, they let me go. I was not able to go back to get the books and translations. They remain there to this day.
For five years I stayed close to the coast and used all my resources and strength trying to escape. I used a different name each time I tried because people would recognize my last name. I tried many different disguises—a merchant, a nun, a peddler.
One attempt I remember well. About eighty men, women, and children escaped in a small boat. Within two days, we reached international waters, but the boat’s engine failed. We drifted for fifteen days. We ran out of food and drinking water and just lay motionless on the boat’s deck awaiting death.
Finally we heard the noise of a ship’s engine. We waved for help. It was a ship from Europe. After giving us food and water, they towed our boat back to Vung-Tau harbor and the North Vietnamese. We wept openly. Many men, unable to accept such a fate, jumped into the sea and sank beneath the waves. The police imprisoned us. Luckily, I spent only a few months in jail.
On my last attempt in 1981, I was with about twenty people, waiting at the Vung-Tau beach at night for a boat. The security guards saw us and gave chase. Two women and I began to climb a hill fearfully. After about an hour, we came to a small deserted enclosure and remained there until morning.
When the sun rose, we could see we were in a cave that had been converted into a shelter complete with doors that were still in good condition. The floor was concrete, and the cave contained some used cooking utensils and pieces of broken furniture. We felt hungry, so we went out to search for food. To our surprise, we found that we were in a large, deserted orchard with trees filled with mangoes, apples, and other fruits. It was a still, quiet place, with a small pagoda nearby.
In the evening, the two women prepared to leave, but I was so weary from the fears of the past years and so despairing that I didn’t want to move anymore. I chose to stay.
The first night alone, I became afraid of my lonely, deserted situation. I left the cave and knelt down on a rock to pray. Through my tears and my loneliness, I asked Father in Heaven to give me the courage and strength to survive this ordeal. A peace and calm came upon me, and I knew that I could remain there.
This is my testimony of prayer. Whenever I have been upset or have struggled with particular challenges, I have prayed. Heavenly Father always hears and answers my prayers. He always listens to his children.
My life as a hermit began. Shaving my head, I disguised myself as an old, poor Buddhist nun. Occasionally, I went to the market down the hill to exchange ripened fruit for things I needed. I learned that the cave was called the Tiger Den—because a tiger used to live there before the villagers drove it out and made the cave into a shelter.
Each day at sunset, I sat on a rock looking out over the Pacific Ocean. I often imagined that on the other side of the water was our Heavenly Father’s temple, near which many of my brothers and sisters were living in happiness. I couldn’t help but weep, remembering the wonderful times I had had with my fellow Saints in the Saigon chapel.
Four years passed by slowly. I pondered and prayed. I wrote songs, poems, and books and tended a garden. No one knew who I was. Two of my children were still in Viet Nam, and I was able to send them letters. But I could not receive any—I didn’t have an address. Besides, I could not visit or receive visits from anyone because I felt I would bring trouble to them.
One morning, after working very hard in the garden, I felt unusually tired and decided to go to the hospital. In the office, I put my identification card on the desk; it was the only document I had with my real name on it. A woman close by saw it and asked, “Are you Mrs. Cong Ton Nu Tuong-Vy?”
I backed away and said, “Why do you ask?” She gestured for me to follow her to where she had her bag. From it she took out a letter, removed one page and allowed me to read this paragraph: “My dear Sister Thuy, you should try to find Mrs. Cong Ton Nu Tuong-Vy, who we think is living somewhere near the Vung-Tau seashore. The Church of Jesus Christ at Salt Lake City wants to contact her. Signed Quoc-Phong.”
When I saw the name of the Church, I burst into tears. Through my new-found friend, I was able to contact the remaining members in Saigon. It was 1985, ten years since I had lost contact with the Church.
Christmas that year was a memorable one. I took the bus to Saigon, where the members met together for the first time in ten years in Viet Nam. The meeting was in a park. There were nearly one hundred people there. We had ice cream and cake. Later, at our table, brethren holding the priesthood broke bread and poured water into small glasses for the sacrament. We bowed our heads and prayed silently. Our joy was full.
From that day forth, our small branch awakened as if from a deep sleep. A presiding elder was chosen to lead us. We were able to communicate sometimes with the Church and other members through VASAA (Veterans Assisting Saints Abroad Association). I was finally given permission to leave Viet Nam. VASAA had helped to arrange with the Canadian and Vietnamese governments for my exit visa. My oldest son living in Toronto, Ontario, sponsored me.
Less than a year later, in March and April 1988, I was finally able to visit Salt Lake City for ten days and attend general conference. I met many friends, missionaries, and General Authorities. The first time I saw Temple Square I could not help but weep for my blessings. In the Tiger’s Den, it had been my greatest wish to see the temple. At last, I was able to receive my endowment in the Lord’s House.
Although I am now in the United States, the memory of my experiences in Viet Nam stays with me. I pray that our Lord will bless all my brothers and sisters who remain in Viet Nam. I know by personal experience that nothing can destroy the gospel our Heavenly Father has given us.

Photograph courtesy of Josh C.
Josh C., a 13-year-old from Alberta, Canada, loves hanging out with his tight-knit group of Church friends as often as possible. All in the same deacons quorum, they love to play basketball, hit the ski slopes, and do all sorts of other activities together. They also look out for and support one another.
About a year and a half ago, when Josh’s life took an unexpected turn, his deacons quorum was there for him every step of the way. Toward the end of sixth grade, Josh began having small seizures. Despite trips to the doctor and antiseizure medication, the seizures grew worse over the summer. Several months into seventh grade, Josh had to drop out of school for health reasons.
Throughout this time, his friends helped him every chance they could—even if that meant just taking him treats and playing games with him when he wasn’t feeling well enough to leave the house. “I feel lucky,” Josh says about his quorum members. “They are always there for me.”
Ultimately, neurologists recommended surgery to remove the lesion in Josh’s brain that was causing the seizures. Josh’s friends decided as a group that they would fast for him on the day of his surgery. The eight-hour surgery took place during a school day. His friends went to school and spent lunch together as they normally did, but they didn’t eat. “It was neat they thought of doing it on their own,” says Josh.
The surgery was a big success. While Josh’s recovery hasn’t always been easy, his friends have stayed by his side all along.
Now in eighth grade, Josh hasn’t had a single seizure since the surgery 14 months ago. He feels so grateful for his friends and for the gospel. “People are there for you. Heavenly Father is there for you,” he says. “Look at your blessings—not at your trials—and see how Heavenly Father is helping. You don’t have to be afraid.”