Gospel Story Finder

My first impression of Edith Hooper was of white hair framing a wrinkled face. Her wide eyes looked as though she’d drawn a screen just behind them to keep people from seeing deeper inside.
Sister Hooper was an elderly widow, and a recent convert to the Church. My visit to her was my first experience with visiting teaching. I had been asked to go that month with a visiting teacher whose regular companion was ill.
Once inside Sister Hooper’s home, we noticed several glass cabinets containing a large collection of interesting seashells. Sister Hooper brightened noticeably when we asked her about them. But she kept a sense of distance and her television remained on during our entire visit. It was also apparent that she still struggled with a smoking problem.
I thought I felt her breathe a sigh of relief as we stood up to go, and I left wondering what good, if any, our visit had done. I had no way of knowing what a profound effect this woman was to have on my life.
It was eight years before our paths crossed again. I had forgotten all about Edith Hooper until I was assigned to be her visiting teacher. Our first visit to her home confirmed that she had not yet conquered her smoking habit. We soon learned that she no longer drove her car and didn’t get out much. She had few visitors, though she often spoke of two neighbors who checked in on her occasionally. Her main companion was her dog, Cindy.
During the next few months my companion, Virginia Lavender, and I discussed ways we could best help her. We decided to invite Sister Hooper out to lunch—and, since this was just before Christmas, we also bought her a small gift.
As we walked back to the car following the meal, Edith asked “Why are you doing this for me? No one else ever has.” The lump in my throat wouldn’t let me answer. That lunch date was the beginning of many to come.
As we made our monthly visits, we found Edith to be well informed on world and community news; she even had a favorite baseball team. What she didn’t see on television she read about. On several occasions, however, her speech seemed slow and her responses dulled. We would check back on her often after such visits.
One of her interests was genealogy. Sister Hooper had collected a lot of information that she needed help compiling, so I offered to help her type it up. We decided that both of us would benefit from attending the genealogy class in Sunday School. Saturday evenings I would telephone and remind Edith, then call for her the next morning.
We really came to know each other during those Sundays together. I learned that Edith’s mother had died when she was two, and Edith was raised in a convent for the next eleven years. Edith’s father remarried, and at age thirteen Edith was brought home from school to live and do housework. She had little opportunity to spend time with her father because her stepmother would send her from the room after her household tasks were done.
Edith attended high school and then met Gilbert, her husband-to-be. Gilbert was in the Navy fulltime, and when possible, Edith traveled with him. It was in Guam and the Philippines that she dived for her beloved shells. She had catalogued each shell in her collection with origin, specie, and the depth and place she had found it. Often she would dive all day.
She loved her husband’s family as the family she never really had and was pleased when in our genealogy work we were able to get clearance for baptism and temple work for her father, husband (who had died years before), and several members of her husband’s family. She was disappointed, though, that we were never able to get enough information to have her mother’s work completed.
One day I received a phone call from her neighbor saying that Edith had fallen and had been unable to get up. The neighbors had taken her to the emergency room at the local hospital and then to a rest home, where Edith was to live for the next several months. I went to see her, taking several things she wanted, and could see that, under their constant care, she was doing much better.
While she was gone, several women in our ward thoroughly cleaned her home and repainted her kitchen as a surprise. When she returned home, the sisters were organized to check on her daily, reporting any problems to me.
I learned that the difficulty she had been having with her speech was because she was not eating properly and had become weak. We talked about her diet and arranged to have a balanced meal brought in daily by a public service organization. We also discussed her smoking problem. She knew what was best for her, but she also knew that I loved her whether she smoked or not.
As Edith’s health worsened and she became more helpless, she often cried with frustration and embarrassment. I would put my arms around her thin shoulders and reassure her of my love and concern. Gradually this woman, who had never accepted or given affection, except perhaps to her husband, began to respond to my hugs and friendship.
One day another call came from Edith’s neighbor: Edith would not respond to knocks on her door. I arrived and, seeing how sick she was, called my doctor. He came quickly, diagnosed pneumonia, and we took her to the hospital. I visited Edith daily during her hospital stay.
Edith consented to rent her home to help pay expenses. I had begun writing out her checks, which she would sign, to pay her bills, and was eventually appointed conservator of her estate.
Edith had decided to donate her cherished seashell collection to Chico State University, with the understanding that she could choose a few to keep with her. Two university representatives, my husband, and I spent hours carefully packing the shells so none would be broken.
“How much money do I have in my bank account? What has become of my shells?” Edith asked me one day as I entered her hospital room. After I answered her questions, she gratefully replied, “I knew you would take care of them.”
Many days Edith was incoherent when I visited. But other times she would look at me with love in her eyes, protesting that I shouldn’t do so much for her. “Maybe I can be the daughter you never had,” I would reply.
One Saturday when the pneumonia had worsened and Edith was seriously ill, she was unable to respond to me. The next day my husband visited her and said she had recognized him and suggested that I go again the next day.
When I got there, I took Edith in my arms, as I had many times before, and asked if she knew who I was. She nodded that she did. I told her she was doing a good job and that I was proud of her. “You know I love you, don’t you?” I added. She nodded again.
That was our last meeting in this life. Edith passed away the next morning.
As we had agreed, I made the arrangements for her funeral. As I sat there at the services, noticing that there were no family members present, I wondered how often this sweet lady had heard the words, “I love you.”
“Impossible,” I would have said to anyone who had told me eight years ago that I would learn to love this withdrawn, stubborn woman. But she has touched my life in a way I can’t express.
I promised Edith that I would complete her temple endowment, and I have. The chapter is complete.

A bright flash lit the night sky as the Russian built surface-to-air missile roared from its launcher. In a few seconds, it passed through the cloud cover over Hanoi and raced toward its rendezvous.
It was December 20, 1972. Two days earlier President Nixon had ordered full-scale bombing of Hanoi, hoping to force North Vietnam to negotiate an end to the war.
Captain Deverl Johnson, a pilot of one of the eighty B-52s sent on this mission, leaned forward intently in his seat.
This was the time in the flight when they were most vulnerable to enemy missiles. A few minutes earlier, as they approached Hanoi, they had evaded seven other missiles. Hanoi was living up to its reputation as one of the most heavily defended antiaircraft areas in the world. Now, as they approached their designated target, there could be no dodging. The mission came first.
The missile electronically locked onto the radar signal aimed at the plane by the enemy radar crew on the ground.
The crew released its bombs on target. Johnson began a turn to their out-bound heading back to their base in Guam.
The missile exploded when it was only a fraction of a second from the plane. It was not a direct hit, but its bright ball of fire hurled thousands of tiny pieces of metal through the plane.
In the cockpit, glass gauges on the instrument panel blew out as the shrapnel burst through the plane’s shell.
Fire warning lights flashed on two of the engines. Instinctively, Johnson quickly shut down the two engines.
Suddenly the lights went out, and they were flying in darkness, uncertain how much longer the plane would continue to fly.
Much later, when he was telling about this experience to a group of young people at a fireside, he was asked if he was praying then. “No, not then. It was all I could do to fly the plane. But before every flight, even now, I take several minutes for prayer. Of course, I have to hope that my Father in heaven has a good memory because some of our flights last up to 14 hours.”
In checking with the crew, he found out that his navigator had been wounded with shrapnel, but not seriously.
“See if you can get us some electrical power,” Johnson asked his copilot. The electrical monitoring equipment was on the copilot’s side of the cockpit.
Johnson retrieved a flashlight and shone it on the instrument panel. Most of that complicated set of flight instruments were useless to them without electricity. He had four flight instruments that didn’t need power to operate: a compass, an altimeter, a vertical velocity indicator, and an air speed indicator.
Two hundred fifteen knots was the optimum speed. Any slower than that and the wings would give more drag and less lift.
“I can’t get anything,” the copilot finally said, finishing his inspection of the plane’s electrical system. The electricity for the plane was generated by air-driven generators. Apparently the shrapnel had punctured the air lines.
The air speed indicator slowly approached the critical speed—217, 216, 215, 214. Johnson edged the plane downward in order to pick up speed. They were descending at 200 feet per minute.
Johnson felt his legs getting cold. The outside air, at 40 degrees below zero, whistled noisily into the plane through each tiny hole made by the shrapnel.
“We’re heading west,” the navigator announced. “We need to be heading south. At this rate we’re going to wind up in China.”
Johnson tried to turn the plane, but it wouldn’t respond. “I can’t turn it. We’ve got a fuel imbalance on one wing.” Without electrical power, he was flying the plane with his own strength. To make matters worse, the missile’s shrapnel had made enough holes in the fuel tanks on the left side that the resulting weight imbalance made it impossible to maneuver the plane.
The air speed indicator took another drop as the plane again slowed down. Johnson nosed the plane into a steeper descent—500 feet per minute. Four of the eight engines were working.
“At least we’ve got a full moon,” he thought, looking down on the cloud cover. The tops of some of the more rugged mountains jutted above the layer of clouds below.
His copilot retrieved a hand-held, battery-operated radio from a survival pack and tried to make radio contact.
Once more the plane slowed down. They were flying on three engines. Johnson steepened their rate of descent to 1000 feet per minute.
“If we can just make it to Thailand, we’ll be all right. It’s a friendly country, and everyone who’s made it back there has been picked up safely.”
The magic line was the Mekong River. Johnson and his copilot looked out, trying to spot the river by the light of the full moon.
“My legs are so cold,” he thought. Reaching down to feel them, he touched a strange, thick wetness. He shined a flashlight on his hand and saw blood. It was the first time that he knew he had been hit.
A panic began to gnaw at him—the fear that he was approaching his death—but years of training would not allow the panic to gain control.
A few minutes later another engine flamed out. They were flying on two engines and descending with a vertical velocity of 1500 feet per minute.
He checked the altimeter—20,000 feet. “How high are the mountains around here?” he asked his navigator.
“Five thousand feet.”
“Then we’ve got ten minutes to get out of here.”
Ahead of them, Johnson could see a rugged range of mountains about five minutes from them. “That’s the safest place to bail out,” he thought, “where the enemy soldiers will have a harder time reaching us than the rescue helicopters will.”
Each of the crew prepared for the ejection sequence. Each man went in his turn. The three crew members downstairs went first.
Finally it was the copilot’s turn. A hatch above him blew open, and suddenly he disappeared, seat and all, into the emptiness overhead.
Captain Johnson was the only one in the plane. As he let go of the controls so that he could begin the ejection procedure, the plane, now dangerously out of balance, lurched over on the heavy side.
He grabbed the controls and leveled the wings. “What if my ejection mechanism won’t work?” he thought desperately. The normal procedure in that case was to get to the openings left by the downward ejection of either the navigator or radar navigator, but with the plane out of balance, it would go into a steep dive the minute he let go. He wouldn’t be able to reach the bomb bay before the plane would crash.
His mind raced as he tried to come up with a plan in case his seat would not eject him. Finally he decided that he would try to crawl out the hole where the copilot had ejected.
The plans were not necessary. He pulled the ejection seat trigger. The hatch above him blew out. Automatically the control column stowed forward. An instant later he was hurled out of the open hatch as an explosive charge fired the pilot’s seat.
Out of the plane the seat, with him still strapped in it, tumbled about wildly. A second later, on schedule, the seat automatically separated from him.
He was spinning over and over in the air.
“The chute, what about the chute?” The panic, which he had controlled before, now consumed his mind as he realized the parachute should have automatically opened.
He felt an overwhelming depression. His thoughts were of his small family; he wouldn’t be able to be a father to his two children.
Seconds flew by as he plummeted to earth.
Suddenly he remembered there was a manual parachute release. He gained control over the panic.
He tried to pull his arms into his side to reach the manual release. Because of his rapid tumbling, the centrifugal force made it difficult to move his arms.
Finally he managed to move his arm to the handle. He pulled it and felt a beautiful jerk as the parachute opened.
He looked around. A few seconds later he saw a huge fireball light the sky as his plane crashed into a mountain peak a few miles from him.
Then he was falling through the cloud cover. Still disoriented and in shock, he was unaware of the ground coming up rapidly.
He slammed into the ground. Still in the darkness of night, he felt himself sliding down a steep slope.
Suddenly he stopped. His parachute had snagged on some bushes.
He spent the remainder of the night hanging upside down from his parachute straps. He was afraid to move until he found out where he was.
When it became light enough, he could see that he was about two-thirds of the way up a steep canyon about a thousand feet deep.
Cautiously he released one parachute strap and used the other strap to slowly pull himself hand over hand up the 15 feet to a more level area where he could rest.
Eventually the gray of night gave way to the colors of day.
Looking around he saw that a bright orange life raft had inflated when he hit the ground. He stood up and walked over to the raft. Taking his knife, he punctured it, then hid it in the bushes where it would be less likely to be spotted by the enemy. He also hid his parachute.
Looking around to make sure he was not leaving any signs of his presence to be picked up by the enemy, he limped into the deep vegetation and hid.
Alone in a jungle in Laos behind enemy lines is probably as good as any place to review your life. They had landed in Laos, about four miles from the North Vietnam-Laos border.
Rescue efforts depended upon radio. When the parachute opened, a radio tone was automatically broadcast on guard channel, which all U.S. aircraft monitored. Planes flying over the area picked up the beacons and notified rescue units.
The rescue helicopters decided to wait for the clouds to be burned off by the sun before attempting the rescue.
After five hours of waiting, he heard the helicopters coming in. He talked to the helicopter pilot by radio until he was nearby. Then he fired a flare to pinpoint his position.
The helicopter maneuvered until it was directly overhead and then lowered a rope. As the rotor wash from the helicopter blew the branches of trees madly about, Johnson had to fight to maintain his footing on the steep hillside.
Finally he managed to climb into the seat at the end of the rope. He gave a thumbs up signal and was reeled up into the helicopter.
The crew members were strung out over a four-mile area, and all but one were rescued. The missing man was never heard from again. It still isn’t known what became of him.
Johnson spent a week in the hospital in Thailand. He had lost quite a bit of blood from the shrapnel wounds in his legs. When he left the hospital, he was flown home for convalescent leave.
His night in enemy territory was over.
He has since been promoted to major and currently serves as a B-52 flight instructor at Ellsworth AFB in Rapid City, South Dakota. In the Church he serves as seventies group leader in his ward and stake.
In a recent sacrament meeting in his ward, he told about this experience.
“Sometimes people ask me what it was like to go through an experience like that.
“We were in a fairly secure environment in Guam. One day we were told about a hazardous mission we were to perform. We were warned that the enemy would do everything in his power to stop us. We were assured that if we had learned the information contained in our Air Force manuals, it would be a help to us in succeeding.
“Even if we had trouble, we were told that there was help for us. There was a way to be rescued. It involved sending someone in for us, someone who would be willing to put his own safety on the line for us.
“Above all, we were assured that there would be communication channels open for us to ask for help when we needed it.
“Doesn’t this sound a little familiar? To me it sounds like the same experience that every one of us here on the earth is going through.
“We also once lived in a reasonably safe environment. We call it the premortal existence. We were told about a dangerous mission and about the obstacles that the enemy would put in our way.
“The manuals that can help us to succeed here on earth are the scriptures. If we read them and learn the lessons contained in them, they will help us to accomplish our mission on earth.
“Even if we get into trouble, there is still hope for us. The Savior put his safety on the line to come to the earth to provide a way for us to be rescued.
“There are also communication channels here on the earth for us. If we pray, God will hear us and provide help. We also have a prophet on earth who can give us help and guidance.”

That’s when Olivio began to dream of playing ball in Portugal. He was fluent in Portuguese. (Angola is a former Portuguese colony, and Portuguese is the official language.) And what’s more, Olivio heard that they actually paid professional players salaries in Portugal. He would be able to send money home to his family.
It took Olivio a few years to get a visa to go, but once in Portugal it only took him a few days to find a professional team that wanted him. At six-foot-seven, he not only had the stature they were looking for, but he had the moves.
And it only took him a month to find something else. “I was on the metro, and I saw these two boys—they were only boys, but they were wearing nice suits, and they said they wanted to talk to me, so I said okay.”
“They started to teach me the discussions. The Joseph Smith story surprised me, but it felt good. Everything felt good. One week later I went to a conference. I attended the meetings, and afterwards I was baptized. Baptism is for the remission of sins. I was a good guy, but I knew I needed to be baptized.”
Little did Olivio know what that baptism would lead to. When he wasn’t playing basketball, Olivio was at church. “I tried to go to church all the time. Every time I would go, my mind would open up and I would learn something new. It felt good.”
Then one day, about a year later, one of Olivio’s American teammates said, “Hey—you’re Mormon. Don’t Mormons go on missions? Are you going to quit the team and go too?”
That got Olivio thinking. “The things I learned made sense to me, and I said, ‘Well, if these things come from God, I have to explain them to other people.’”
But leaving basketball—that would be tough. Olivio had just made the Portuguese national team, and they had offered him a very lucrative contract—lots of money, a car, and a luxurious apartment.
“It was a difficult decision to leave basketball, so I decided to get my patriarchal blessing. There it said that I was going to serve the Lord, so I decided to do it. God prepared me to come here and find the gospel by giving me these talents to play basketball. I don’t have a problem leaving it to serve him. I think I can help many people.”
And now, Elder Olivio Gomes Manuel, who left northern Portugal almost two years ago to serve in southern Portugal, is helping many people. He’s well known throughout the mission for his good nature and easy smile, his hard work, and his gentle rapport with the people he towers over.
That isn’t the kind of fame that makes you a star on national television—it’s more the kind of fame that makes you a star in the eternities. And while he won’t make millions from gigantic contracts and endorsements, he knows that his eternal reward will be far greater.
Still, you see his eyes light up when you put a basketball in his hands on P-day. Watching him glide around the court, you realize basketball is as natural for him as swimming is to fish. It seems to be what he was made for. Oh, once his mission is over he would like to use basketball to earn a university education. But then he wants to return to Angola “to help the Church and help the people grow there.” Elder Manuel speaks mostly Portuguese now, but he remembers his native language, an African dialect called Quinbondo, and he knows English as well.
Even though the end of this tale is far from written, it’s already a success story as tall as Elder Manuel himself. After all, the richest pro in the world can’t buy his way into heaven, and no matter how many autographs you’ve signed, if your name isn’t written in the book of life, your fame won’t mean a thing.
Elder Manuel has already gained more success than he ever hoped to, and his secret is simple: “I listen to God, and when I do what he says, he blesses me.”

The last time I saw my little sister, Lorraine, was in a sound-proof hospital room that smelled of sweet soap. She lay in a huge metal bed with sterile white sheets, surrounded by tanks and tubes and oxygen equipment. The doctors confirmed what she herself knew:
“Mommy,” she said in her calm, sweet voice, “mommy, I’m going to die.” She asked us to pray for her—we who had forgotten how to pray.
The night before she died, I sat at her bedside while mom and dad got a few hours of much-needed rest. She was in a coma, and I held her delicate hand in mine under the oxygen tent, trying to make her live through my own will-power. My throat ached as I thought about how little I really knew her. Ten years separated us—ten years and my own personal apartment and exciting career.
After a few minutes, I heard someone enter the dimmed hospital room. I looked up to see a man, slightly balding, with soft eyes and a kindly smile.
“Hello,” he said in a gentle voice. “I’m Brother Hughes, your home teacher. I—just found out.”
“Brother?” I wondered silently. “Oh … a Mormon.”
Home teachers were those men who always came in dark suits and who were very nice and chatted for a while and then politely left. Or were those missionaries? We were inactive and in fact had avoided contact with the Church during the two years we had lived in this city. I wondered how he had found us.
“How is she?” he asked. He was smiling a soft, wise smile, the kind that comes mostly from the eyes. I knew he did not feel more righteous than we were, and I felt he was not there just out of curiosity. Somehow I could feel that he really cared.
For some reason, my first reaction was to try to impress him by delivering a detailed clinical description of the many complications that had led to the hopeless prognosis the doctors had given. But instead, only a strange groan escaped my lips, and the tears began to fall unrestrainedly.
I don’t really remember everything Brother Hughes said to me that night, except that when he left I knew Lorraine would be alive somewhere, and that this pitiful little body with the thin, golden hair was only the shell that had housed her for a time. Not that he actually came out and said it, but somewhere in the back of my mind I could see her running and stretching out her arms to a loving being who held her just like dad had done.
Lorraine left us. But Brother Hughes came again and again.
A year later, in the temple, we shed tears as the Spirit bore witness to us that Lorraine was with us as we were sealed together as a family. And a few days afterward, I was married in the temple.
I often think about Lorraine, and when I do, I remember that wonderful home teacher who taught us once again to pray, who showed us again the one true way where tragedy is supplanted by eternal hope.

One Saturday morning Brady picked one of his favorite books from his shelf and wrote inside the cover: THIS BOOK BELONGS TO ME. Brady wasn’t sure why he had done it, but now that he had done it, he wanted to write those same words in every book that he owned. So he did.
At noon his older sister Kate walked into his room to tell him lunch was ready. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Nothing,” he said, closing the book he had been writing in.
“You are, too, doing something,” insisted Kate. “I saw you. You were writing something in one of your books. Let me see what it is.”
“No!”
“Yes!” Kate tried to grab the book from Brady. They tugged at the book between them. Kate won. She always did.
“This book belongs to me,” she read aloud.
Out loud it sounded dumb to Brady.
“Brady,” said his sister, “how is anybody going to know who ‘me’ is? You need to write your name.”
To Brady’s surprise, Kate’s question and suggestion made sense. “Oh,” he said. “Thanks.”
His sister said, “You’re welcome.”
After lunch Brady spent most of the afternoon adding his name to the writing in the front of his books. Each one looked like this: THIS BOOK BELONGS TO ME, BRADY.
By the time he was done, he felt so proud to see his name in all of his books that he began writing it on everything—his tennis shoes, his ruler, his shoe box with his shell collection in it, his map of the world, and his baseball mitt.
Then Brady wondered if his mother would be angry and yell at him for writing his name on everything. He decided he didn’t want to find out. So he taped a big sign to his door that read: THIS ROOM BELONGS TO ME, BRADY. KEEP OUT!
It wasn’t long before his sister knocked on his door and asked, “What’s going on, Brady? What’s the sign for?” And before Brady could say “keep out,” his sister had opened the door, walked into his room, and sat down on his bed. “May I borrow your bike, Brady? Just for a few hours?” she asked.
A strange new feeling came over Brady. He shouted, “No! It’s my bike. It belongs to me, Brady. And you keep away from it!”
“OK, OK,” said his sister, and she left.
That night, at the movies, Brady’s mother reached over and took some popcorn from Brady’s popcorn box.
“Mom,” whispered Brady.
“Be quiet,” whispered Brady’s father. “Watch the movie.”
But as soon as Brady looked back at the screen, his mother reached over and took some more popcorn. She did it again, and again!
Brady stood and said loudly, “Please, Mom, stop taking my popcorn!”
And she stopped. Brady thought it was because everyone in the theater had turned and glared at her.
For several days afterward, whenever someone wanted to “help” Brady finish his ice cream or whenever someone wanted to “borrow” a stick of his gum, Brady puffed up big and said: “No, it belongs to me, Brady.” He had never felt so powerful.
Now Kate never walked uninvited into his room. And there was never any confusion about what belonged to Brady. At first Brady was glad to know that he could make people leave him alone. But he noticed something else had changed too. When Brady wanted to use his sister’s paint set or to stick his finger into the cookie batter to taste it, or to “borrow” his father’s shaving lotion, he was always told “No! It belongs to me.” And Brady had to do without.
Brady began to feel uncomfortable and left out. When he thought about it, he couldn’t remember exactly why he had started naming and claiming things in the first place. He decided that he liked the way things were before.
Brady knew he couldn’t take his name off all of his possessions, but he could do one thing. He could take down the KEEP OUT sign from his door and put another one up instead.
So he did.
This one read: WELCOME, FRIENDS!

Construction work on the Quezon City Chapel progressed fairly well. However, I encountered a little problem—the construction approach and methods used in the Philippines varied from the construction approach and methods I was used to in the United States. For instance, it was hard for me to get used to seeing so much timber set up prior to actual digging of the foundations but I learned soon that I cannot change the methods used and expect to get chapels constructed, at least right away. But one method that I insisted the contractors use is the use of pumped concrete to the ridged frames so that there will be a monolithic pour and not have any cold joints in the truss structure. The workers were not familiar with this method but later on the men worked well in handling the moveable pipes for the flow of the concrete.
About five months after construction work on the Quezon City Chapel started, work on another chapel—the Caloocan Chapel, began with the same contractor. The aesthetics of the chapel site and the chapel itself can be classed as possibly the best in Asia at that time.
Even before the Caloocan Chapel was finished we bid another chapel—the Clark-Angeles Chapel in 1972. Engineer Avelino V. Tanjuakio was the contractor who won the bid. Ground breaking was held on June 6, 1972 on the very day that the big flood of 1972 started. Construction work started on September 1972. This chapel became a landmark to travellers going to Baguio and the northern parts of the Philippines. It is located along the national road and people now are able to see a Mormon chapel springing up in their midst.
In 1973 President Carl D. Jones became the President of the Manila Mission. Plans to build more chapels were placed on the drawing board. We were also beginning to purchase more chapel sites.
After Clark-Angeles Chapel was completed, work on the Cavite Chapel started. It was interesting to note that laborers digging the foundations of the Cavite Chapel were always digging in one meter of water because the water table was almost ground level and we had two pumps constantly pumping out the water so that steel could be set and concrete poured. I respected those laborers for the way they worked and the conditions under which they worked. I had to learn tolerance to a greater degree than I had known before.
Members have now become excited with the building program. Until the Quezon City Chapel was constructed there was only one chapel in the Philippines. It is the Buendia Chapel which was reconstructed in 1974 due to the deterioration of the laminated trusses. A Stake office was also built within the chapel compound. The tremendous growth of the Church by now demanded the construction of more chapels. When the Cavite Chapel was finished and the reconstruction of the Buendia Chapel was accomplished, we planned the construction of chapels in the southern regions as all of the chapels so far built were in the Manila area.
In 1975 chapel construction was started in Davao, Bacolod and Cebu and they were completed in 1976. At this time the Marikina Chapel and Los Baños Chapel were constructed.
The Cebu Chapel was a construction challenge due to its location, being on the site of the last resistance of the Japanese in World War II and the hill it was constructed on had many tunnels which had to be sealed and filled. Because of its split level type of construction and its aesthetics, people from far and wide acclaim the Cebu Chapel as the best in Asia. It is a very prominent looking edifice which also serves as a missionary tool in proselyting.
By this time nine chapels were constructed and one rebuilt—the Buendia Chapel. In 1977 four more chapels were constructed for Pasay Ward, Manila Ward, Santa Mesa Ward and Baguio Branch, making a total of 13 chapels built and one rebuilt. At present there are a total of eleven chapels now to construct and/or ready for ground breaking. There are approximately 25 additional chapel sites and a Stake office to build, new Mission offices, building to be remodeled in Ozamis, and the remodeling of the Manila Mission office.
But with all these construction works, the highlight of my stay in this country is seeing the baptism of two fine men who worked with me—Juanito Gutierrez, my first contractor who is now Bishop of the Marikina Ward, and Engineer Avelino V. Tanjuakio who is now Governor Elect of the Kiwanis of Luzon. I will cherish my association with many wonderful people and friends especially my efficient secretary, Miss Nilda Austria.
My family and I will go home with our hearts full of love for the Filipino people and will long remember our experiences here in building chapels for the Lord. I have constructed many buildings in the million dollar bracket but I can say without reservations that the last eight years in the Philippines have been the greatest challenge of my life. Truly, the best eight years of our life have been well spent in the Philippines.
Since we arrived my family has increased three more. I now have two sons, David and Daniel, ages 5 and 8, and a daughter Rebecca Rachel, 3 years old. This is an actual fulfillment of our patriarchal blessings. Certainly, we will leave with mixed emotions when the time comes. My daughter LaVonne said, “Papa I don’t know anything except in the Philippines, I grew up here.” I think we all did a little.

On a windy Sunday morning the doors of our chicken shed blew open while we were at church. All nine of our chickens escaped. When we got home, we found three chickens in the garden and five in our yard. But we couldn’t find Ginger though we looked and looked. That night there was a terrible storm with wind, rain, and lightning. We were all worried that Ginger would not survive. All of us prayed that she would be safe.
The next morning a delivery man came to the front door with a package. When Mom opened the door, Ginger walked right into the house. I learned that if you need help, you can pray. Heavenly Father will answer your prayer, even if it is a small prayer for a pet chicken.Dallin P., age 9, Utah

When Jeremy is not doing schoolwork, church work, or socializing with his friends, you might catch him involved in another rather surprising activity. Jeremy is a painter. His mother, an accomplished artist herself, has been a tremendous help and inspiration to him in this area and many others. With his canvas propped up in front of him, he holds the brush with his teeth and produces some impressive artwork. His favorite subjects are birds, but he created a Christmas scene that the Make-A-Wish Foundation used on their annual Christmas card. Make-A-Wish had previously helped Jeremy by making his lifelong dream of visiting Hawaii come true. By letting them use his painting, he was able to help them in return.

I wanted to write you and thank you for your article “I Didn’t Fit In” (May 2000). When I read it, I felt so grateful that I was not the only one in this vast world that has experienced that feeling of stupidity when you stand up for what is right in a crowd of people who are not doing what’s right. My roommate recently invited me to go with her to another city to visit a friend she hadn’t seen in a while. I agreed to go with her simply because she is my friend and I wanted to support her. When we arrived at the house, I walked in and was overwhelmed by the smell and the smoke. Everyone was doing drugs. I crouched in the corner hoping they wouldn’t see me, but of course they did and they started pressuring me to smoke. It became so overwhelming that I ran outside, got in my roommate’s car, and just cried until she finally came back out. During that time, I prayed harder than I’ve ever prayed. I longed so badly to be surrounded by my good LDS friends. I realized that even standing up for what you believe in is not enough. You have to be in the right places because the Spirit will not dwell where others around you are doing things to drive it away.
Name Withheld (via e-mail)

If you don’t like the thought of graduating from school as the only member of the Church in your class, you can always do what Tammy Shick of the Ridgeway Branch, Pennsylvania Pittsburgh Mission, did. She helped convert two of her classmates.
But her missionary work didn’t stop there. She gave a class presentation on the Book of Mormon and presented a copy of the book to her non-LDS teacher. She also wrote a class research paper on Church history.

When we came to Copenhagen, Denmark, we waited there until there were about 300 that were going to Utah. Anthon H. Lund, who just before he died was the counselor to President Heber J. Grant, had charge of the company to Utah. We left Copenhagen to go to Hull in England over the North Sea. When we started, the weather was fine and there were the same joyful songs of the Saints as when we left Norway. Some even danced. But soon the mountainous waves began to roll. It was not long before some began to make haste to the side of the ship. Oh, didn’t they feed the fish! I laughed at them and wondered what was the matter with them. I tell you I didn’t laugh long. My turn soon came. But we arrived in Hull safe and sound, and there we boarded the train for Liverpool. We got there in about eight hours’ ride, and there we boarded the steamer Nevada for New York, North America.
It took us 14 days to cross the Atlantic. Some of the way it was very stormy, and I was seasick all the way. But we landed in New York safe and sound. There we boarded the train for Utah. In about four days we arrived in Salt Lake City, July 17, 1872, late in the evening. Before coming to the station the president of our company, Anthon H. Lund, told us that when we arrived at the station, a good many of us would meet relatives and friends, and some of them would take us home with them. But he said, “Do not let any of them take you home with them just then, for you will all be taken to a banquet. Instead, take them with you to the banquet.”
It was then about ten o’clock in the evening. The name of the house I did not know, but it was large enough for all of us to sit down at the tables at once. As far as I can remember, there were about 300 of us. They had all gone in but myself, for I did not think I belonged. I knew I was not a Mormon, though all the rest of them were. As I have told before, I was rather bitter. But Brother Lund came out and saw me a ways off. He came over to me and asked me where my parents were. I said they had gone in but I didn’t belong. He then took me by the arm over to the door and said in Danish, “Please go in. You are welcome.” So, of course, I went in. I tell you it was the best supper I had ever seen, all kinds of good things. When we got through with the meal, it was about midnight, but the tables were still spread and plenty of all kinds of good things on the tables. We were to go and help ourselves. It was all for us.
There was no one who called for us, so we stayed around in that hall till morning. I don’t know just what the rest of them did, but I lay down on a bench by the table and fell asleep. When I awakened, the sun was up and the rest were awake and busy. I didn’t wait for breakfast, for there was still plenty of food on the tables, and we were told that we were welcome to all and to help ourselves. I did so, and I surely had a good breakfast that morning as well as supper the night before.

Some mothers, some fathers, some children, some families are called upon to bear a heavy burden here in mortality. Such a family was the Borgstrom family in northern Utah. The time was World War II. Fierce battles raged in various parts of the world.
Tragically, the Borgstroms lost four of their five sons who were serving in the armed forces. Within a six-month period, all four sons gave their lives—each in a different part of the world.
Following the war, the bodies of the four Borgstrom brothers were brought home to Tremonton, and an appropriate service was conducted, filling the Garland Utah Tabernacle. General Mark Clark attended the service. He later spoke with tenderness these words: “I flew to Garland the morning of June 26. Met with the family, including among others the mother, father, and two remaining sons, … one a lad in his teens. I had never met a more stoic family group.
“As the four flag-draped coffins were lined up in front of us in the church, and as I sat by these brave parents, I was deeply impressed by their understanding, by their faith, and their pride in these magnificent sons who had made the supreme sacrifice for principles which had been instilled in them by noble parents since childhood.
“During the luncheon period, Mrs. Borgstrom turned to me and said in a low voice, ‘Are you going to take my young one?’ I answered in a whisper that as long as I remained in command of the army on the West Coast, if her boy were called I would do my best to have him assigned to duty at home.
“In the middle of this whispered conversation with the mother, the father suddenly leaned forward and said to Mrs. Borgstrom: ‘Mother, I have overheard your conversation with the general about our youngest. We know that if and when his country needs him, he will go.’
“I could hardly contain my emotions. Here were parents with four sons lying dead from wounds received in battle and yet were ready to make the last sacrifice if their country required it.”
It is the gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ that touched home and heart that ever-to-be-remembered day.

In October 1983 I was attending a party in Rosario, Argentina, when to my surprise, I noticed a young lady reading a book. It was not just any book—it looked exactly like the one I had been searching for. Rays of light actually seemed to be coming from it, as if it were saying, “Here I am.”
The young lady had not been introduced to me, but I overcame my shyness and approached her. I glanced at the open book but could see nothing except the word Alma at the top of the page. My heart beat with excitement. It had to be the right book.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but could you please let me see your book?”
Again to my surprise, she started asking me questions.
“This book?”
“Yes, that book.”
“Do you know what book this is?”
“No. That’s what I want to find out.”
“Why?”
“I’m interested in it.”
“Yes, but why?”
“Well—because. It’s very important to me.”
“But can’t you tell me why?”
I began to be exasperated. “If you don’t want to lend it to me, at least tell me the name of it.”
Again she said, “But tell me why! Why do you want to know what book this is?”
I realized I would have to explain. “I came to this country about two years ago,” I said. “I didn’t know a soul, so I spent a lot of time reading the Bible, reading it very conscientiously. The more I read, the more I became convinced that my church is in error. One day I fasted and prayed and asked the Lord if my church was the right one or if I should search for another.
“The Lord answered my prayer. I had a dream in which the Lord showed me a prophet named Joseph. I learned that he is somehow associated with the right church. The doctrine of that church is based on a book that is as important as the Bible. When I find it, I will find the true Church of Jesus Christ. The only thing I know about the book is its outside appearance and the one word I saw inside, the word Alma. I think it is the same book you have in your hand.”
Now the young lady was taken by surprise. She told me the book was the Book of Mormon, and understanding that my intentions were good, she at last gave the book to me. I glanced at the title. Then it was my turn to ask questions.
“Do the Mormons have this book?”
“Yes.”
“Who wrote it?”
“Several prophets who used to live on this continent.”
“Didn’t a man named Smith write this book?”
“No. By divine command he translated the writings found on gold plates.”
“Well, then! It is a real treasure!”
“It definitely is.”
My happiness was great. Even before I read the Book of Mormon, I was sure that it was true—and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the true Church.
The young lady with the book introduced me to the missionaries. They soon gave me my own copy of the Book of Mormon.
Since I found it, the Book of Mormon has been my inseparable companion. When I read it, I feel comfort from pain. I find hope when I am discouraged, and I feel the love of God when everything seems futile.

I knew that coming back to the realities of life after a mission might be hard, so I wanted to do everything I could to stay on the covenant path.
So when my stake announced that the Buenos Aires Argentina Temple was looking for more ordinance workers, I volunteered. I had been praying for some direction in my life, and I also believed President Russell M. Nelson’s promise that “the Lord will bring the miracles He knows you need as you make sacrifices to serve and worship in His temples.”
I couldn’t think of a better way to keep an ongoing appointment with the temple than to be an ordinance worker!
My life was so busy when I started working in the temple. I had university classes, and my temple shift was quite a few hours each week. It was a sacrifice—but a wonderful one.
Over time, I noticed that when I paid attention to the words of the covenants that the temple patrons were making, my own covenants started becoming more meaningful to me.
For one, I have always believed the truth that families can be eternal through the temple sealing. And helping patrons do work for their ancestors and seeing their deep love for their families inspired me to do my own family history work. I was able to do ordinances for my aunt and my grandmother who had passed away, and this made the blessings of those covenants become so precious to me.
Another time, while I was helping in the baptistry, I was observing all the beautiful faces of the patrons. While I helped them, I felt the Spirit as I thought about the Savior’s baptism. Seeing my brothers and sisters in the temple deepened my testimony of the privilege of making covenants with God.
I have served as an ordinance worker for five years now, and I have had so many simple but profound spiritual experiences like these. They remind me of how powerful our covenants with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ are!
When I think about the blessings of covenants, I think of the people of Alma in Mosiah 24.
Despite facing so much hardship, Alma’s people remained faithful to Heavenly Father. They “pour[ed] out their hearts to him; and he did know the thoughts of their hearts” (verse 12). And in response, the Lord reminded them to “lift up your heads and be of good comfort, for I know of the covenant which ye have made unto me; and I will covenant with my people and deliver them out of bondage” (verse 13).
He also promised that He would strengthen them and make their burdens light (see verses 14–15).
And as the people of Alma kept their covenants, their faithfulness and trust in Heavenly Father’s timing freed them from bondage, and they “pour[ed] out their thanks to God” (verse 21).
I feel like this is what we can experience every day as God’s covenant people. The temple reminds me that when I find myself in “bondage,” either from challenges in or outside of my control, my covenants bind me to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ.
Because of this covenant relationship, I have access to Their healing and enabling power.
I’ve always been grateful for my temple covenants. But being an ordinance worker has helped me see them as the life-changing gifts they are.
President Nelson also reminded us that “the reward for keeping covenants with God is heavenly power—power that strengthens us to withstand our trials, temptations, and heartaches better. This power eases our way. Those who live the higher laws of Jesus Christ have access to His higher power. Thus, covenant keepers are entitled to a special kind of rest that comes to them through their covenantal relationship with God.”
You don’t have to be an ordinance worker to see the power of your covenants in your life. If you simply visit the temple as often as your circumstances allow you to, with a desire to learn more, I know you will see the blessings President Nelson promises.
Regardless of how close you are to a temple, pondering the deep, beautiful blessings of covenants and how they connect you to Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ can help you stay joyful and faithful on the covenant path.
This has been true for me.

Healed the captain’s steward on a journey back to North America.

When Elder Snow left England to return to Nauvoo, Illinois, he brought a large group of newly baptized members with him. They all booked passage on the ship Swanton and prepared for the long journey to North America.

Although the captain of the Swanton was not unkind to the Latter-day Saints on his ship, he wasn’t exactly friendly either. He usually distanced himself from them. But after about two weeks at sea, something happened. The captain’s steward was badly injured in an accident. No one expected the steward to live through the night.

But one of the faithful sisters who had been attending to the dying sailor had a suggestion. She told the steward that Elder Lorenzo Snow could give him a blessing and that it might save his life. The steward—who was working to support his wife and two children back in Germany—eagerly agreed.

In the middle of the night, Elder Snow was awakened and asked to come to the dying man’s room. When he arrived, he met the captain of the ship. The captain thanked him for coming but expressed the hopelessness of the situation. Elder Snow could see that the captain had been crying.

He went into the room, laid his hands upon the steward’s head, and gave him a priesthood blessing. Immediately after Elder Snow finished the blessing, the man sat up and got out of bed. The steward was completely healed, and he returned to his duties the next day.

The healing of the steward changed things on board the Swanton. The captain began to spend as much time with the Saints as he could spare, and he even studied the gospel and attended Church meetings. The other sailors were just as impressed. When the ship reached its destination, the crew lovingly bid the Saints farewell. Through the power of the priesthood, not only was a man’s life saved, but several others were also given a glimpse of God’s power and love. The steward and many members of the crew were eventually baptized.

“Look! There’s a honeybird. If we follow, it will lead us to honey,” exclaimed Kirmani to his younger brother, Suku.
The two African boys, dressed in khaki shorts, were playing lion hunting on the edge of their village.
“Tye (Hurry)! Tye!” urged Suku. Dropping their assegais (spears) they ran to their mother for gourds to gather the honey in. Then one of the boys lighted a torch from the cooking fire to smoke out the bees.
“Be sure to leave some honey for the bird,” called their mother as they ran to follow the honeybird.
“Nidyo (Yes),” Suku answered while Kirmani laughed.
“Don’t tell me you really believe the old tale that you must leave a share of honey for the bird, or it will lead you into danger” replied Kirmani scornfully.
“But what of Abu’s father who took all the honey from a hive. He was led on by the bird, so they say, and ended up in a leopard’s belly,” persisted Suku.
Kirmani didn’t argue. He picked up the assegais (spears).
Suku carried the gourds and Kirmani the smoldering torch of grease-soaked moss tied to a long stick.
As they trotted across the veldt (grazing area) dotted with thornbush, a little gray bird flew back and forth just as though it were making sure they would follow. After the bird led them into the forest, it disappeared into the dense foliage. Kirmani ran ahead, but Suku was thinking. Should I leave honey for the bird even though Kirmani won’t.
“Look! There’s the bird. It’s following the old animal trail,” Kirmani called excitedly.
When Suku reached Kirmani, the bird had settled on a branch of a moss-covered tree. Bees were streaming in and out through a small hole in the trunk. “The bird has guided us to honey,” cried Suku, clapping his hands.
Kirmani poked at the hole with his assegai (spear). Rotting wood fell away, leaving a big opening. He thrust the torch inside and smoked out the angry bees.
Suku stood on Kirmani’s shoulders to reach a branch near the hole. He pulled himself up onto the branch and then peered inside. “There is much honey,” he called happily.
Kirmani climbed up the tree and with sticks the boys scraped honey into their gourds. The bird hovered above them, crying plaintively.
When Suku had all the honey he could reach, he slid down the tree. Kirmani scraped out the last bit, licked his stick, then dropped to the ground.
“Nothing for the silly bird,” he said boldly.
The bird lit on the tree but soon flew off, calling.
“It’s coaxing us on,” said Kirmani. “It may guide us to another hive. Suku, you’re not afraid the bird will lead us into danger are you?” He ran ahead. “I dare you to follow it.”
Suku hesitated. We’re getting deeper into the jungle, he thought uneasily. We should have left the bird a share of honey. But he couldn’t ignore a dare. Reluctantly he started to follow.
Suddenly Suku heard a crack, a swoosh, and a frightened cry from Kirmani. He raced ahead and found his brother with his legs pinned beneath a heavy branch from a tree. He tried to lever the branch off Kirmani’s legs with his assegai (spear), but the spear shaft broke.
“Ayah! Ayah! I am going to die,” moaned Kirmani. “The old tale is true. The bird is having its revenge.”
“I will go and tell father,” said Suku and thrusting an assegai (spear) into Kirmani’s hand, he ran for help.
Kirmani groaned with pain. He could hardly move, and he was alone in the jungle with danger all around him. Maybe the honey bird will bring a leopard to kill me, he thought despairingly. Nervously, he peered around. To his astonishment, the bird was perched on a branch overhead.
“It has not flown away to find a leopard,” he murmured half aloud. “It’s only looking at my honey gourd.” Some of his fear left him.
Kirmani’s gourd was sitting on the ground nearby. With his assegai (spear) he nudged it and spilled some honey. He kept still. Presently the bird flew down and began eating the amber honey.
As Kirmani watched, he remembered what Brother Andrew, his teacher, had said about the honey bird not wanting to seek revenge. The thought made him feel better.
Soon Suku returned with their father and a rescue party. They lifted the heavy branch off Kirmani’s leg, made a vine litter, and carried him home.
While Brother Andrew dressed his wounds, Kirmani told his story. “You must know now that the bird was guiding you to another bee tree because it was hungry,” Brother Andrew explained. “It cannot get the honey for itself and you left it nothing. Don’t you think the honey guide deserved a share?”
Kirmani felt ashamed. “Suku wanted to leave some for the honey bird, but I didn’t understand. From now on when the little bird guides me to honey, I won’t be greedy. I will always leave it a share.”

When my parents realized my desire to be baptized, they surprised me by agreeing to have the missionaries come for a visit. When they arrived at our home, my parents had a good feeling. After talking for a while, the missionaries invited us to sing a hymn, “Love at Home” (Hymns, no. 294). As we sang together, my mother had tears in her eyes. Everyone was touched.
This experience softened my parents’ hearts, and a year and eight months after I first met the missionaries, I was baptized. I later served a mission in Utah and have had many wonderful opportunities in the Church.

My parents have served in the temple for more than 30 years—Dad as a sealer, Mom as an ordinance worker. They also served five full-time missions together—in Riverside, California; Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia; Nairobi, Kenya; the Nauvoo Illinois Temple; and the Monterrey Mexico Temple. In Mexico they worked hard to learn a new language, which wasn’t easy at 80 years of age. But they sought to do the will of the Lord rather than to pursue their own desires in life.

Some of my friends in school use Heavenly Father’s name in vain. It had always bothered me, but now I thought about it even more. I wondered what I could do about it. I wanted my friends to know that Heavenly Father is special. I decided to ask my mom and dad about it. I wanted to say something to my friends, but I was afraid that they would be mad at me and not play with me anymore. My parents told me two stories that helped a lot.
After hearing that, I decided I would try to be like those I had heard about and stand up for the right. The next day at school when I heard one of my friends say something bad, I asked him not to say it anymore. I was still afraid, but it turned out OK. He agreed and is still my friend. I felt good inside because I had done the right thing, just like Jesus always did.

The incident made news headlines around the world. A Latter-day Saint missionary had fallen off a 230-foot (70-m) cliff in Australia—and lived! That’s like falling from the top of a 23-story building.
Sometimes a miracle can be told in a single sentence. But for Elder Matthew Weirich—the missionary who fell—every detail of his story testifies to him that the Lord has a plan for his life that he has not yet completed.
Elder Weirich, from Fredricksburg, Texas, had just three months left of his missionary service in the Australia Sydney South Mission. On a preparation day in June 2004, Elder Weirich and three other missionaries got permission to visit a local park to see some of the animals unique to Australia. On the way back from the park they saw a sign pointing to the Grand Canyon lookout. It was close by, so they decided to stop and see what the Grand Canyon looked like in Australia. It is at this point that Elder Weirich’s memory of the day ends. Days later, in the hospital, he had to ask his companions what happened next.
The group had walked to the lookout and then followed marked paths below the lookout to some caves. The path had some crude rock steps back up to the lookout, and one of the missionaries lost a shoe that had been loosely tied. The shoe rolled partway down an incline. From his position Elder Weirich could see that the shoe was caught in a bush just a few steps from the path. It seemed easy to retrieve, and he offered to get it. His companions said that Elder Weirich called out that he had the shoe. Then they heard the noise of sliding rocks. Since they couldn’t see Elder Weirich, they didn’t know what had happened. But when he no longer answered their calls, they were afraid he had fallen.
The three missionaries looked as far over the cliff edges as they dared, then prayed and went looking for a cell phone to call the police. They heard a car door slam in the parking lot and ran to ask the man who had just arrived if he had a phone they could borrow. He did, and they called 000, the emergency number.
An hour later a rescue squad arrived just as darkness was falling. It was turning cold, and the heat-seeking helicopter flying overhead could find no sign of Elder Weirich. Everyone was afraid there was no longer a survivor to rescue.
But they were wrong.
At dawn the next day searchers made their way to the bottom of the cliff. They found Elder Weirich, alive but semiconscious. They carefully loaded him into a stretcher and flew him out by helicopter. He was taken to the hospital, where the medical staff expected to work on someone with many broken bones and other serious injuries. It turned out Elder Weirich had some swelling in his brain, but the only broken bones were his nose and two small fractures above his eye, all of which were left alone to heal.
Looking back, Matt lists the miracles that helped him survive.
Before his mission, Matt had been a pole-vaulter. In fact, he was a national champion in high school and was planning on going to college on a track scholarship. Perhaps—although Matt can’t remember exactly what he did while falling—his training took over and helped him adjust as he fell so he landed in a way that reduced his injuries.
At the top part of the cliff he hit several ledges that slowed him down, evidenced by the scrapes and cuts on his arms, before he took the final 90-foot (27-m) free fall.
The weather had been below freezing every night. But on the night he spent at the bottom of the cliff, the temperature was 10 degrees warmer than usual and did not dip below freezing.
He crawled a few feet after he landed, his head ending up downhill, which may have helped maintain good circulation to his injuries.
He was rescued by experts and given excellent medical care.
His survival story created great interest throughout Australia. Suddenly people everywhere wanted to talk to missionaries. Doors were opened. Many people wondered why this apparent miracle had happened and were asking searching questions about God and the Church this missionary represented.
Matt found other blessings from this experience. He says, “This whole event has brought me closer to my family and has helped me understand the value of life. It is more than just living day to day or thinking that you’ll be able to make up for mistakes later.
“I have stopped asking why. I’m now asking, ‘What can I learn from this?’ All I know is that I was an instrument in the Lord’s hands. I have seen some of the effects on other people. I’ve come to the conclusion that the Lord has things for me to accomplish. When temptations come my way, I realize that I wasn’t saved to fall into sin. I have to remember that the Lord has a plan for us all.”
Matt Weirich has returned from his mission. He has recovered and is a pole-vaulter on the track team at Brigham Young University, where he continues his studies.