Gospel Story Finder

When I was called as elders quorum president in 2000, only seven elders were attending priesthood meeting. Also, we weren’t doing a good job of making our home teaching—now ministering—visits.
I knew we faced a great challenge to inspire the elders to step up. So, for starters, we decided to reorganize assignments and increase supervision.
And our elders quorum? The Lord blessed us as we moved ahead with a unified spirit. Our home teaching soon rose to 100 percent, and our priesthood attendance increased to 35 faithful elders.

When I was 21 months old, I was diagnosed with bronchial asthma. Thankfully, my mom is a registered nurse and she takes good care of me. It gets really bad during the winter, and I missed a lot of school. When I entered the third grade, my mom prayed for me and my dad gave me a priesthood blessing. On the last day of school, I was awarded a Perfect Attendance Award. Heavenly Father really answers prayers.

There are individuals who declare that those who support the Residential Living Standards—expecting that young men and young women not go into each other’s private living spaces (bedrooms and bathrooms as opposed to public areas like living rooms and kitchens)—are residing in the Dark Ages and need to get up to the decade of the nineties. A letter from a former student reflects the folly of attempting to explain away Residential Living Standards. The letter read, “I thought that the rules regarding Residential Living Standards were the most ridiculous rules that ever existed. After all, I reasoned, you should have been able to discern that nothing inappropriate was either intended or going on. After all, we only went into the bedroom to study together, to read the scriptures, and to pray. I am sorry to have to report that I came to know that the rules were not ridiculous. They were to protect us, and they were founded on principles. The reasons are clear to me now, and I want to apologize for my disregard of them. Should my children ever have the privilege of becoming students at BYU, rest assured that they will be instructed by their parents before they leave home that Residential Living Standards matter.”

This example will illustrate what I mean. A youth was taught by his uncles that he would be a great basketball player. He had been given a basketball when he was one-year-old. In grade and high school he became extremely good at the sport. He began to form visions of being a professional basketball player—but the Lord had other plans. While he was excited about the sport, he was also quietly making important decisions in his life, probably not realizing in any degree how significant they were. He, like you, had resolved to be obedient, no matter what.

In college he was not selected to be on the first string and sat on the bench. In the biggest game of the year his team won, and everyone carried the players off on their shoulders. He remained alone in the stadium. Later, as he was walking home, a car drove by with some of the player heroes. They were all members of the Church. They stopped and picked him up, inviting him to celebrate with them. He began to be uneasy as they drove away from town. When he saw them unwrap a package of liquor he said, “You shouldn’t do that. Let me out.”

They responded, “Who are you to counsel us? We had pity on you. That’s why we brought you along. You’re not a man.” They laughed and called him vile names as they drove off.

About the same time, in his favorite English class he received a grade far below what he deserved. He asked why and was told, “You’ve got greater capacity than this, and if you don’t do your best, you will receive a low grade every time.” His world seemed to be shrinking, but not his resolve to live righteously. He decided to excel in his English class and discovered powerful latent talents.

That man has given counsel from this pulpit. He has been a great influence for good throughout the world. Three of those boys who laughed and jeered were excommunicated later in life from the Church. Quietly, consistently, he has worked to bring them back. Two are now in full fellowship.

I first admired him for his extraordinary power of expression. Then I was lifted by the content of what his gifted mind expresses so eloquently. Now I can observe him more closely. I see that his life is a reflection of his love of the Master in whose footsteps he obediently walks. I strive to emulate that worthy example.

After a particular surgery, I fell into a deep depression. I understood the symptoms and tried to handle it alone. One evening I found myself sitting on a chair in our bedroom, unable to walk the few feet to the bed. When my dear husband entered, I explained to him about depression. I said that I would not likely make it till morning as I had so little energy and felt I was sinking fast. He replied softly, "You will make it. I will help you to the bed and stay right by you until morning, when we will call the doctor." And he did.

Some of you know the true story Corrie Ten Boom, a Dutch woman of deep Christian faith, who, with her family during World War II was imprisoned by Nazi leaders for hiding helpless Jews in their home in Holland. Her family suffered intensely from torture and humiliation inflicted by their captors. Her beloved sister Betsy died in captivity. Betsy especially was a light of faith, hope, and charity that transcended the sorrows they experienced and most of all hatred toward their captors.

Corrie survives the ordeal and in a climactic moment after the war she actually encounters one of her Nazi guards who had been so brutal and mocking. They meet at a church service in Germany where Corrie had testified of Christ's charity, mercy, and forgiveness. The former guard, apparently not recognizing her from the prison camp days, walks up to her and thanks her for her message and says, "I am so grateful, Frauline, for your message, to think, as you say, [Christ] has washed away my sins." He held out his hand which Corrie hesitated to take. Memories of his cruelty flooded her mind and especially her sister's suffering and death. She cannot shake the hand of the man who had so mistreated them. In desperation she prays in her heart "Jesus…I cannot forgive him, give me your forgiveness." What follows, brother and sisters, is a great moment for all time. In her words:

"As I took his hand the most incredible thing happened. From my shoulder along my arm and through my hand a current seemed to pass from me to him, while into my heart sprang a love for this stranger that almost overwhelmed me.
And so I discovered that it is not on our forgiveness anymore and on our goodness that the world's healing hinges, but on [Christ's]. When he tells us to love our enemies, he gives, along with the command, the love itself" (The Hiding Place).

As a boy, President Joseph F. Smith, son of Hyrum, came west in 1848 with his widowed mother. He was called as a missionary to Hawaii when he was 15 years of age. He spent much of the next four years alone. He was released in 1857 at the age of 19 (just the age we call missionaries now). Penniless, he stopped in California to earn money for warm clothes.

With another man, . . . [Joseph] took passage in a mail wagon. They traveled all night, and at daylight stopped near a ranch for breakfast. The passenger and the mail carrier began to prepare breakfast, while Joseph went a short distance from camp to [gather wood and] look after the horses. . . . A wagon load of drunken men from Monte came in view, on their road to San Bernardino to kill the “Mormons,” as they boasted.

The oaths and foul language which they uttered, between their shooting, and the swinging of their pistols, were almost indescribable. . . . They were all cursing the “Mormons,” and uttering boasts of what they would do when they met them. They . . . caught sight of the mail wagon. . . . [His companion] and the mail carrier, fearing for their safety, had retired behind the chaparral, leaving all the baggage and supplies . . . exposed and unprotected.

Just as [one] drunken man approached, [young Joseph F.] came in view . . . , too late to hide. . . . The ruffian was swinging his weapon, and uttering the most blood-curdling oaths and threats ever heard against the “Mormons.” “I dared not run,” says [Joseph F.] Smith, “though I trembled for fear which I dared not show. I therefore walked right up to the camp fire, and arrived there just a minute or two before the drunken desperado, who came directly toward me, and, swinging his revolver in my face, with an oath cried out: ‘Are you a —— —— —— “Mormon?”’”

[Young Joseph] looked him straight in the eyes, and answered with emphasis: “Yes, sir’ee; dyed in the wool; true blue, through and through.”

The desperado’s arms both dropped by his sides, as if paralyzed, his pistol in one hand, and he said in a subdued . . . voice, offering his hand: “Well, you are the —— —— pleasantest man I ever met! Shake. I am glad to see a fellow stand for his convictions.” Then he turned and [left].

I am the only member of the Church in my neighborhood. My best friend, Jared, lives in the home behind mine. One day, I invited Jared to come to church with my family. He couldn’t come that day, and I decided to give him a Book of Mormon. I hoped that he would read it. I thought that maybe he wasn’t ready to come to church yet and that I would ask him another time. Mom didn’t think we had an extra Book of Mormon, but I went to the basement to look for one, anyway. I found three copies that our family had forgotten were there.
I combed my hair, put on a white shirt and a suit coat, and got some cookies from Mom to take to Jared. When my four-year-old brother, Cameron, found out that I was going to “be a missionary,” he wanted to go as my companion. He held the plate of cookies, and I knocked on Jared’s door. Jared and his mom invited us in, and we gave them the cookies and the Book of Mormon.
One Monday night Jared came over. Mom and Dad said that he could stay for family home evening. It was my turn to start with prayer. I asked Heavenly Father to bless Jared and all of my other friends. Then Cameron and I sang “When Jesus Christ Was Baptized.” Our lesson was on honesty, and we watched a filmstrip about it. After the lesson, Mom asked Jared if he wanted to say the closing prayer. He said yes, so Mom showed him how to pray. He did a great job!
It makes me feel good inside when I share the gospel with Jared.

In more recent times, Joseph Smith was coming of age in a time of religious revival. He wanted to find God’s word and join his Church. He read the Bible, listened to sermons, talked with family and others. And yet despite all that, he found no answer to his question of which church to join. Joseph recalls:

"In the midst of this war of words and tumult of opinions, I often said to myself: What is to be done? Who of all these parties are right; or, are they all wrong together? If any one of them be right, which is it, and how shall I know it?" (Joseph Smith History 1: 10)

He found a partial answer reading the Bible:

"... I was one day reading the Epistle of James, first chapter and fifth verse, which reads: If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him.
Never did any passage of scripture come with more power to the heart of man than this did at this time to mine. It seemed to enter with great force into every feeling of my heart. I reflected on it, again and again, knowing that if any person needed wisdom from God, I did; for how to act I did not know, and unless I could get more wisdom than I then had, I would never know…"(Joseph Smith - History 1: 11-12)

Joseph acted on the small answer he received. He went in faith and asked God. In response, God the Father and Jesus Christ appeared to him. He asked them his question, and the answer was not one he expected: He must join none of them. Joseph’s journey of not knowing was concluded in the most wondrous way possible: knowledge gained directly from God. He used the phrase afterwards, “I have learned for myself…” His faith had been rewarded and his lack of knowledge was corrected.

Church members had survived every hardship endured by other citizens of their country. For example, Elfrieda (Frieda) Glasnerová Vanecková, a Jewish convert baptized in 1932, spent two years in a concentration camp, as did her husband and two sons. On the day she was freed, Frieda had been scheduled for execution. When President Toronto found her recovering in the hospital, she wept with joy to see him. Eleven members of her extended family had perished at Auschwitz. Now she had been reunited with someone of her faith. Her two sons were later baptized.

“It took six months for the judge to make the adoption final, and we went to the temple as soon as we could,” Mom said.
In the second picture Malia was wearing a delicate pink dress, sitting on her parents’ laps and laughing. Mom and Dad were smiling down at her and the temple shone in the background.
“After the sealing ceremony, the temple sealer told us that if we chose to keep the commandments, we would be a family forever,” Mom said.
Malia wanted to live righteously so she could be with her family forever.

“The toughest part about learning the bagpipes was sticking it out,” says Austin, who has been playing for four years. Tyler Abeyta, a former Nauvoo band member currently serving a mission in Sacramento, California, agrees. “I was 13, and after a month of trying to learn the bagpipes, I quit. My good friend was also taking lessons, and he encouraged me to start again. I knew with all my heart if I were to even come close to learning the pipes, I would need the help of my Heavenly Father. So I kneeled down one night. I asked Him for His help and His blessing to be upon me as I continued to learn. When I started again, I definitely knew that the Spirit was with me and helped me along the way.”

President Kimball told the story about being in the hospital after one of his operations. He was lying on a gurney that was being wheeled onto an elevator. The floor of the elevator was not flush with the corridor floor, and as the cart moved into the elevator, there was a big bump. President Kimball, just coming out of the anesthetic, heard the orderly take the Lord’s name in vain. This great man said to the orderly, “Oh! Don’t say that! He is my best friend.” The young man apologized and promised to never do it again.

The influence of Heber’s mother, Rachel Ridgeway Ivins Grant, was equally as powerful. Rachel’s wealthy family in the eastern United States offered her a large income if she would renounce the gospel of Jesus Christ. But she refused and stood by her testimony. After the death of her husband, the young widow, who had been left penniless, worked sewing clothing and taking in boarders in order to provide for her son.
She taught Heber the value of hard work, and together they eked out a meager existence. In the process, Rachel and Heber grew very close. He was later to say of her: “I stand here today as one whose mother was all to him. She was both father and mother to me; she set an example of integrity, of devotion and love, of determination, and honor second to none. I stand here today as the president of the Church because I have followed the advice and counsel and the burning testimony of the divinity of the work of God, which came to me from my mother.”4

Darlington Ward graciously gave up an evening to join with Kings Church to pack numerous food parcels for single people in Darlington. Karen Nolan reflects back on that evening: “My family and I really enjoyed working with members of our ward and the staff at Kings Church Food Bank to pack over a 100 food parcels for single people in Darlington. It was a small act of service which we all enjoyed, but I know it was greatly appreciated.”

I will never forget my first viewing of The Man of La Mancha, a play about growth and redemption. Don Quixote will not permit Aldonza, a woman sadly abused by men, to be what she thinks she is. He calls her his lady, his beautiful, pure, fair, lady. He gives her a new name, “Dulcinea,” which infuriates her. But over the course of the play his view of her takes hold, and at his deathbed someone speaks to her, calling her Aldonza. “My name,” she replies with great feeling, “is Dulcinea.” The audience breathed as one. We were all caught up in the marvelous spiritual triumph that had taken place before our eyes. And as we left the theater there was an almost tangible bond that united us.

My mom called all the children in my family together one morning. She told us that President Howard W. Hunter had been sick and had died. We were sad because President Hunter was our prophet and we loved him.
“Who will be our new prophet?” Erik, my youngest brother, asked.
“Well, the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles will be in charge until another prophet is chosen,” Mom answered. “But remember, Jesus Christ is the head of this Church. We will not be left without a prophet.”
“Really?” I asked. “We’ll have a new one?”
“Absolutely,” Mom said. She explained to me that when a prophet dies, the members of the First Presidency return to their places in the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, and with the guidance of the Lord, the Apostles reorganize the First Presidency. Mom also explained that the Church follows a pattern established by the Lord. When the Lord calls a new Apostle, that Apostle gradually moves forward in seniority in the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. At the death of the President of the Church, the senior Apostle becomes the new President of the Church. But, Mom said, we can pray to know for ourselves that the new Church President has been chosen by the Lord.
A little while after President Hunter died, I got a phone call from my friend Molly, who is not a member of the Church.
“Hey, Angie, that’s too bad about your prophet,” she said. “My dad and I were really worried about you. What’s your church going to do? Is your church over now?” she asked me.
I almost dropped the phone because I was so surprised.
“Of course not,” I said, remembering my mother’s words. “The Lord promised us that we would always have a prophet.”
“You mean, they’ll just choose the new prophet?” Molly asked. “Don’t you need an angel to come down and declare that he’s the prophet?”
“I believe God will choose another prophet. Jesus Christ is the head of the Church,” I said with a smile because I knew it was true.
“But how do you know the new prophet is chosen by God?” she asked.
She didn’t understand that we could pray to Heavenly Father and find out. But I knew exactly what I was going to do. I prayed to know. Right after I finished my prayers that night, I knew that the Lord would take care of His Church.
A few days later an announcement was made that the new President of the Church was President Gordon B. Hinckley.
I raised my hand high a few weeks later during general conference to sustain President Hinckley as the prophet. And in the years that have followed, I have continued to raise my hand to sustain him. I support him in all he says and does. I am thankful that President Hinckley has been called of God to be our prophet. Truly, the Lord does not leave us alone.

I took my college entrance exams, filled out applications, and sorted through the letters offering track scholarships. A mission was only two years away. I took a part-time job at a restaurant to help save money for it.
Mom was doing great and Dad landed a promotion at work, one that took him off the dock and into an office. He was almost 50, and I was happy to know that his days of heavy physical labor were over.
On the track, my times kept improving. I hadn’t lost a race in two years, but my streak was in jeopardy. At an invitational meet in Sacramento, I was going to race the top runners from California, including Michael Banks, a senior from Los Angeles.
I had never met him but knew his reputation. On Mondays at practice my coach kept me apprised of Michael Bank’s achievements. “You were good on Friday, Tom. But Banks was two seconds faster.”
“Tomorrow’s the big race?” my father asked innocently the night before the meet.
“It is. I’ve never been so nervous about a race in my life.”
“You run in a circle four times; then it’s over. What’s so tough about that?” he kidded. “You’ll do fine, Tom. I’ll leave work and drive up to see you.”
My father was a stake clerk and went to a meeting of the stake presidency that night. I was asleep when he got home, yet he had already left for work when I arose just after six.
“Couldn’t Dad sleep?” I asked my mother at breakfast.
“No. He met with the stake president last night. He has something to tell you, but I’ll let him do so in his own way.”
I couldn’t imagine what he wanted to tell me, and I didn’t think of it again. Michael Banks and his fearsome times were crowding out everything else.
“Good luck. We’ll be there to watch and we’ll be proud of you whether you win or not.” She kissed me on the cheek, and I left for a half-day of school before driving to Sacramento with my coach.
Almost 11 hours later I stood at the starting line in the fifth lane. A half-dozen other boys stretched and shook their arms, preparing for the race. Tension was thick, a very real presence. My stomach was wound tight and I felt a little sick. Michael Banks stood two lanes away, looking confident, hands on his hips, staring down the track. We had met in the tunnel on the way to the track. He nodded in my direction and I murmured hello. That was all.
My coach gave me a few last-minute instructions. “Take the lead early in the fourth lap. If you don’t, Banks will out kick you down the stretch. You have the better stamina, but you can’t match his kick. Good luck, Tom. You’ll give it your best, I know.”
We were called to our marks. I scanned the crowd, but I couldn’t see my parents. I tried to block the worry from my mind. Concentrate, I must concentrate, I repeated softly. Your parents are in the stands. Don’t worry. The starter raised his pistol, and it cracked into the air. Arms and legs rushed, and there was a jostling of elbows as we started around the first corner. I began talking to myself in my mind.
How do I feel? Legs are tight, relax. Who’s on my shoulder? Don’t get boxed in. Breathe, breathe, relax. Keep your arm motion smooth. Glide, not too fast. Where’s Banks?
Glide, glide. Move outside when you can. Was that Banks in the lead? No. Maybe neither of us will win. Wouldn’t that be something. Don’t make your move yet. Do I have enough left in me to even make a move? You’ll die by the fourth lap. Remember what the coach said.
The second lap was nearing an end. My head hurt and I could taste blood in my mouth. I guessed I was in fifth place. My legs were rubbery. I didn’t have much.
Maintain, just maintain. Let your mouth go slack. Glide a lap … Oh, what’s the use? You don’t have it today, Tom. Banks has this one.
My pace slowed a bit. I was on the inside lane. I turned my head slightly and saw a familiar face, hands cupped to his mouth, standing on the infield. It was my father.
Quick strides brought me within hearing range. What was he shouting?
“Tommy … !”
Yes, Father.
“… Paula—you’re an uncle.”
What? An uncle? A boy or a girl? Get this race over, Rosa. You’re an uncle!
I forced my arms to pump faster. I moved to the outside and fought past two runners. Third place now and Banks clearly in the lead.
Paula, she isn’t due for two more weeks. But … But … a new baby in the family!
My pace quickened. I took over second place. Only Michael Banks loomed ahead. My lungs burned and my legs ached. Still, I managed to pull even with him. In unison, Michael Banks and I ran, leaving the others behind. We came around the bend again. There was my dad, shouting jubilantly.
“Tommy …”
The crowd was going berserk as Banks and I matched strides. Could I hear my father? I drew nearer and heard only two words: “You will!”
I will … I will … Now!
I moved inches ahead with a half-lap to go. Now! My fists rammed forward; my legs pounded the track. The lead grew to a foot, then a yard. I heard Michael Banks’ strained breathing behind me. Never had a race been so hard for me.
A baby!—Paula was a mom. My mom was a grandmother. And my father, a grandfather, who somehow made his way to the infield because he knew I needed to hear him.
I rounded the last corner, now in a dead sprint, my chest heaving.
Remember Banks’ kick. Don’t hold anything back. Pump your arms, run on your toes.
The tape loomed ahead. I frantically ran toward it. A few yards away, I stumbled, fought to keep my balance, and broke across the finish line. Michael Banks whisked in behind me. I turned and we threw our arms around each other. “Great race, man,” he gasped. “You ran inspired.”
“You’ll never know,” I panted.
I walked to the grassy infield. I knew that I should keep moving, but my legs refused. I sat down, then leaned back. I looked up into the clear, blue sky. A face filled it, the face of my father.
Some boys, they say things about their fathers. They say they aren’t friends, that there is too much of a difference for them to understand each other. They say they don’t know if their fathers love them. I feel an emptiness for those boys and their fathers. When thousands were shouting in a very tough race, it was my father’s voice that I listened for and heard.
On the way home, my parents told me why they were late. They got a phone call from Paula’s husband just as they were leaving. When they arrived at the stadium, the race had just started. One look told Father that I was struggling. Before he stopped to think about it, he was at the edge of the stands heading to the infield. He said he thought it was the only chance for me to know he was there.
“What a day,” he sighed. “And I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night. I suppose that’s what happens when the stake president asks you to serve as the bishop.”
He said it so casually that the impact didn’t hit me for a few seconds. My dad was going to be the bishop of our ward!

As missionaries in the Canada Winnipeg Mission, my companion and I were serving in the beautiful city of Prince Albert, Saskatchewan. I had grown up in Laie, Hawaii, in the shadow of the Laie Hawaii Temple. My companion, Elder Larmour, came from Belfast, Northern Ireland. Our families and wards back home supported us, but at times our monthly allotment of funds was held up en route. Such was the situation that brought about this experience.
At the beginning of one month, after I received my check, we waited for Elder Larmour’s to be forwarded from the mission office. As usual, our rent was due and the cupboards were getting bare. We had to decide whether we should pay the rent with my check or buy food. We paid the rent.
A few days passed and we still hadn’t received Elder Larmour’s money. We had eaten all the food in our apartment, except for half a bag of frozen mixed vegetables and an old freezer-burned soup bone that took some effort to pry loose from its icy confines. With these ingredients I cooked a vegetable soup. It wasn’t much, but we were grateful for what we had.
The next day we decided to tract in an area not too far from home. The street seemed endless, and no one was interested in our message. Hunger pangs tormented us, and we were both getting faint from lack of food. As we came to the end of the street, we decided to take a break. We found a bench in a park at the end of this street and tried to recover our strength. My companion said in a sincere plea, “I’m hungry.” My heart went out to him as we sat there. I was twice his size. I knew I would be able to endure for quite a while, but I did not think he’d be able to go on for long if he didn’t get something to eat.
I was the senior companion, so in my heart I pleaded with Heavenly Father to provide the means we needed to get us through. I looked across the park and noticed a short street with about five homes on it. It was a continuation of the long street we had just tracted. I turned to my companion and said, “Come on, let’s finish this street.” He turned to me and said, “Let’s just go home.” We came to an agreement that if we finished the street and no one was interested, we would then head home.
As we walked past the first home, a couple was busy in the driveway doing some work on their car. A call of “Not today, guys” kept us moving to the next home. As we approached the door, we could smell the wonderful aroma of home cooking. Suddenly the door opened wide, and a smiling, middle-aged woman greeted us with “Come in, boys. I hope you’re hungry!”
With hesitation we entered her home, not knowing what to expect. She led us to the dining room, where two places were already set. We sat down and she busied herself with serving us. I started to get a lump in my throat, anticipating a feast fit for kings. Or perhaps we would be thrown out when she finally came to her senses and realized who we were.
After filling the table with pork chops, mashed potatoes, gravy, and all the fixings, she said, “I don’t know why I cooked all this food, but something told me to do it. I wasn’t expecting company, and I live here alone. I’m sure glad you boys happened by. You haven’t eaten, have you?”
I replied, “No, but do you know who we are?”
“You’re Mormon missionaries, aren’t you?” she answered. “So don’t you say a blessing on the food before you eat?”
We did bless the food and give thanks for the many blessings the Lord had given us. And to this day I cannot think of a better meal than that meal the Lord provided in our time of need.

Lori:
We have a lot of members and very strong wards around a place called “Trash Mountain,” which is an open dump where people live. Members there are pickers and collectors. They make their money off of recycling plastic and aluminum that they get out of the dump. They live in teeny little houses that we have been to dozens of times.
Bob:
One day we could hear music blaring, and we noticed a tent was being set up. In Cambodia, that either means somebody is getting married or somebody has died.
Lori:
We found out that a mother of five or six kids had just died. There was no husband to speak of. The children just woke up and realized their mom was dead.
One daughter was just sobbing. Through a translator, she said, “I’m the oldest. I’ve got all these siblings. I don’t know what I’m going to do.”
I just scooped her up in my arms. How could I not? This girl just lost her mother. I spoke to her in English and said, “I know you don’t understand me, but I promise you will see your mother again. You are going to be OK. You are not going to be left alone.”
So many experiences like this have given us a special connection with the people of Cambodia.