Gospel Story Finder

On my office wall is a quote from Anne Morrow Lindbergh: “My life cannot implement in action the demands of all the people to whom my heart responds” (Gift from the Sea [1955], 124). For me, it is a needed reminder. A few years ago, already weary, I foolishly went late one afternoon to two different hospitals to give blessings to three individuals who were dying of cancer. Not only was I worn out, but worse, the last person really didn’t get much from me. Things had not been “done in wisdom and order.” I was running faster than my supply of strength and energy on that occasion. Those blessings would have been better given over two or three days, and I would have had more empathy and energy.

In the run up to New Zealand I had a lot of dreams about going there. I can remember this one dream in particular. I was standing on this stage with loads of people watching so when I actually got to New Zealand I had a lot of déjà vu moments. I felt like I’d been there before. It was a kind of realisation that I was on the right path, like I was meant to be there and to experience what I had experienced. I’m really grateful that Heavenly Father was helping and guiding me in the direction I had to go and preparing me, so when I got there I didn’t feel overwhelmed, I didn’t feel stressed, I didn’t feel worried. I felt quite at home, which I had not expected.

Thanks for the idea of sharing a subscription to the New Era. My friends were all delighted to have the subscription. One of my friends is even taking the missionary lessons now and is thinking of joining the Church. I can still remember when he received his first issue, which had a lot about the temples in it. After he had finished reading it, he came running over to my house, with his face glowing, and said “That’s where I want to be married—in the temple!” I’m not a member yet myself. It’s been a two-year wait for me, and I still have to wait another six months. Thanks for this wonderful missionary tool and especially for the article “Every Nonmember a Missionary.” I still remember my next door neighbor saying to me, “Here you are going around telling everybody about the Church, and you’re not even a member yet!” He is now planning to go on a mission when he’s 19. I have been fortunate to have been able to set a good example to many of my friends. As a matter of fact, I now have the opportunity to give a report in my California history class on the Mormon influence in California. It’s not going to be easy to limit myself to historical facts and not try to convert the whole class.
Adriana Lillian BrownMenlo Park, California

When I was seven, I learned one of the greatest lessons of my life. We were studying the environment in school. We discussed pollution and ways we could help decrease its terrible effects on the world. We talked about the oceans and how, even in little ways, we could change some of the things we do at home to make the world safer for all creatures.
I was still pretty young then, but I really took what we had been learning to heart. To me, the environment is a very important thing. The more I learned about why we should conserve our natural resources, the more I wanted everyone else to know the same things and think they were just as important as I did. I became a seven-year-old warrior fighting in the everyday battle to save Mother Nature.
One day, I came home from school having just finished drinking a soda. We had a recycling bin, which we used regularly, and with my newfound enthusiasm for caring about the environment, I went straight to toss my empty bottle in.
“Stop,” my mom said over her shoulder. “Our recycling company doesn’t allow us to recycle green plastic.”
I was shocked. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The recycling companies were supposed to be the heroes; why would they say we could recycle some things and not others? It didn’t make any sense to me. Disappointed, I dropped my bottle in the trash and headed back toward my room.
At that moment, I had an impression I’d never had before. Coming from a family that was not very religious, we had never had family prayer or even knew what prayer was, other than what we had seen on TV. But right then that was exactly what I felt I needed to do: get on my knees by my bed and pray about it. So I slipped into my room and, not really knowing how to begin, gave it a simple try.
“God,” I started quietly, “this is Ace. Thank you for the environment. Please let us recycle green plastic bottles in this area. It’s really important.” I closed with an “amen” and waited. I didn’t know what to expect. Although I wasn’t visited by angels or struck by lightning, I did feel something I had never felt before. As I sat there, I felt good. I felt like I wasn’t alone in the room anymore, although there clearly wasn’t any other person I could see. Something told me that what I had just done was right.
Life continued the same as it always had. In fact, by the next afternoon I had been so involved in usual things at school that I had mostly forgotten about the green bottle episode and the prayer.
When I got home, I went back to my room, but before long my mom called my name and asked me to come to the kitchen. When I did, I saw that she had a letter in her hand. She explained that it was from the recycling company stating that now we could recycle green plastics in addition to other things.
She handed me the letter. I looked it over, but I couldn’t believe it. The same feeling I had had the day before came rushing back to me. It was an answer.
That was an experience that has never left me. Every time I think about it, I’m still amazed that it could have happened at all. And it was this experience that, three years later, helped me to feel the truth of the gospel when the missionaries came knocking at our family’s door. It was the same feeling.

“A miraculous, but longer-term, experience happened on a trip to see the old Church museum in Salt Lake City. I thought it was neat to see a lock of Joseph Smith’s hair and the mummies, but afterward, when Mother and Dad went shopping, I chose to stay in the car. I was sitting there kind of bored and happened to see some pamphlets we’d picked up on Temple Square. One of them was the Joseph Smith story. I didn’t have anything to do, so I picked it up and read it. It was a wonderful experience. I had heard the Joseph Smith story before at home and at Primary, and I had believed it. But as I sat there in the car alone and read it, I had a spiritual experience as powerful as any I’ve had as an adult. The Spirit testified to me that what Joseph Smith was telling was true, and I had a greater love for Joseph. I wished that I had lived when Joseph Smith lived because I wanted to help him. I wouldn’t have apostatized, as some of his friends did.

Every home has times when a peacemaker is needed. President and Sister Eyring have four sons and two daughters. Once when their children were young, President Eyring was teaching a family home evening lesson about peace. While he was teaching, he noticed that two of his little boys were kicking each other! But as those two boys grew older, they learned how to be peacemakers and became each other’s greatest friends and helpers.

My three children and I were on our way home after shopping when we passed the man with the newspapers for the first time. I let Emmily, 2, hand him some money to buy a paper. Lisa, 6, asked, “What is that man doing? Why is he selling newspapers on the street instead of in the store?”
I explained that he was selling a special newspaper and that the people who sell the special newspaper don’t have much money. They often don’t have a home or a family to help them. But they can earn a little money by selling newspapers, and we can help them by buying one.
Many weeks later—on a rainy day—we were on our way to the children’s gymnastics lesson. Because we had to stop at the store, we didn’t take the direct route. After we had made our purchases, I wondered out loud which route we should take to the lesson. We could take a shorter route through a side street or a longer one taking us past the corner with the street vendor. I looked at Lisa and waited for her to choose.
“Let’s take the long way, Mom, and buy a newspaper,” she said. “Jesus would have done that.” We went the second mile that rainy day and bought one of many more newspapers.

The school bell rang as I finished copying the last spelling word from the board. I stuffed my books into my backpack. Kim, who sits between Eddie and me, left as Eddie rummaged around in his desk. Crumpled papers and books flew all over the floor.
“What are you looking for?” I asked.
“My spelling list for tomorrow’s test. My mom gets mad if I don’t bring it home. She says it’s the only way to keep making As, but it isn’t!”
I wish I always made As. I’m not very good at spelling. Dad helps me study every night, and I’d sure like to give him a 100 percent correct, A+ spelling test for Father’s Day, along with the shaving lotion I got him. He’d like that.
I laid my paper by my backpack and picked up a dirty, torn paper Eddie had stomped on. “Is this what you’re looking for?”
“Yeah. Thanks.” He shoved it into his pocket.
Erasing the board, Miss Clark said, “You boys had better get going.”
I helped Eddie stuff books and papers back into his desk, and we left. He lives next door to me, so we usually walk home together.
“Want to play a video game?” he asked. “Mom bought me a new one.”
“I’d like to,” I said, “but I have to study for the spelling test tomorrow. I don’t make As like you do, no matter how hard I study.”
Eddie looked at me funny. “You sit next to Kim. She always gets 100 percent.”
I wondered what that had to do with anything. “You sit next to her, too.”
He smirked. “Yeah, that’s the point.” He marched in the house and slammed the door.
When I got home I headed into the kitchen and tossed my backpack on the table. “I have some heavy studying to do to get that 100 percent on my spelling test tomorrow,” I said.
“Have a snack first,” Mom said. She placed a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of milk on the table.
“Thanks, Mom.” I gobbled up the sandwich and washed it down with milk, then dug around in my backpack for the spelling list. I couldn’t find it.
I dumped everything in my backpack out on the table. “Mom!” I said. “I can’t find my spelling list.”
Mom searched through the books and leafed through my notebooks. The list wasn’t there. She knew how much I wanted to give Dad a 100 percent correct spelling paper for Father’s Day, so she looked again. No list.
“Where do you remember seeing it last?” she asked.
“I laid it on my desk by my backpack while I helped Eddie find his list. Then Miss Clark said we’d better hurry.”
“Then it’s probably still on your desk. But you can call Eddie and ask him to give you the words.”
On the phone, Eddie started telling me the words, but he said the paper had gotten so dirty and torn that he couldn’t read most of it. “I told you, don’t worry about it,” he said. “You sit next to Kim.”
I hung up the phone. I had something to worry about, all right. I had trouble spelling. What difference did it make to me if Kim was a genius?
I told Mom all the words I could remember, and she wrote them down for me. I tried my best, but I couldn’t think of all of them.
“Don’t worry about it,” Mom said. “Remember, in our family we love each other no matter what. We care about making good choices and doing the best we can.”
When Dad got home, he helped me study. When I could spell all the words I had, he said, “Try to sound out the others. The important thing is to do your best.”
The next day, when time came for the spelling test, I sharpened my pencil and put my pink eraser by my paper. I wanted that 100 percent so much my hand shook.
I knew the first five words. The next one I had to sound out. I glanced past Kim to Eddie, wondering if he was having trouble, too. He was craning his neck, staring at Kim’s paper—cheating! So that’s what Eddie meant about sitting next to Kim! I kept my eyes glued to my own paper, afraid the teacher would think I was cheating, too.
Suddenly Miss Clark swooped behind Eddie. Without a word, she picked up his paper, crumpled it up, and threw it in the wastebasket.
Dad wouldn’t want a paper I had cheated on. He’d be disappointed in me, and I’d feel rotten about myself.
My back hurt from sitting stiffly while I sounded out words, erased them, and sounded them out again until they looked right.
I closed my eyes. “Please, Heavenly Father, help me keep my eyes off Kim’s paper and do the best I can,” I prayed silently.
Miss Clark called out another word. I felt more relaxed and could think more clearly. I finished my test and handed it in.
We got our papers back before the end of class. I covered mine for a minute, afraid to look at my score. Then I saw “100% correct, A+!” written in red ink. I couldn’t wait to get home to show it to Mom.
On the test I wrote, “To the best dad in the world, who helps me with spelling, and teaches me to choose the right and to do the best I can.” Then I put it with the shaving lotion.
I could hardly wait for Father’s Day.

7. Strive for Moderation
Part of the spirit of the Word of Wisdom is moderation in all things, except those things specifically forbidden by the Lord. It is well to avoid extremes in dress, hairstyles, makeup, conduct, speech, and music. Extremes may attract the attention of some, but they are more likely to turn off those you really want to impress.
When I was a young man, my friends and I went to an amusement park, where we rode the flying saucer. It was shaped something like an upside-down plate that went round and round. Most of us tried to get to the middle so we wouldn’t be thrown off by the centrifugal force as the saucer picked up speed. Sometimes those on the edge would grab a friend who was closer to the middle, but that would pull them both completely off the saucer. I soon recognized that the centrifugal force was far less powerful in the middle. I was quite safe in the center even though the saucer was still spinning. But it was risky when someone on the fringe latched on to me. I learned that safety comes from staying close to the center.

Illustrated by Dilleen Marsh
WELCOME! I’m Sister Simon.Hi! I’m Ramón.Hello. I’m Cathlyn.I’m Mei Lin.Hi! I’m David.And I’m Joshua.
Cathlyn, we’ve waited till we were in this beautiful place to tell you some wonderful news.You’re going to be a big sister in December. I’m going to have a baby girl.
Oh.
Are those sad tears, Champ? What’s wrong?I guess you’ll enjoy having a perfect little daughter who isn’t defective.
Defective? Oh, darling, you’re the least defective person I know. You’re as strong as Esther and as kind as Ruth. The baby will be so blessed to … have you as a sister!Maybe she’ll be ashamed of a sister in a wheelchair.
Or maybe she’ll be proud of a sister who’s the best basketball player on the block.I guess I could teach her to hit the outside shot.Or to hit a fastball—or cook an omelet. But mostly I hope you can teach her to be as good a person as you are.

I was taught by great elders. When I heard the message of the Restoration, I had an even greater confirmation that I should be baptized. But I wanted to know for myself the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon. The elders marked Moroni 10:3–5 in my Book of Mormon and invited me to pray and ask God if it is true.

The next evening I remembered that I had not yet read the Book of Mormon. As I began to read, I felt a very strong spirit. I prayed, and before I was finished, I knew that the Book of Mormon is true. I am grateful to God for having answered my prayer. I was baptized in July 2006.

The conversion of Carlos Rodríquez and his wife, Julia, dates back nearly twenty years. As a young married couple, they struggled to find the truth and finally decided to go to India on a religious quest. While driving through Turkey, they were stranded when their car broke down. They decided to stay there, turning their search to an investigation of Islam. But one day Carlos began reading the bible, and he realized he was a Christian, with a deep sense of gratitude for Jesus Christ.

The Rodríguezes returned to Spain, convinced that somewhere they would find the truth in a Christian church. In Barcelona, Carlos discovered a copy of the Book of Mormon among the few belongings he had stored there, and he began reading it. He became so absorbed that he read the book nonstop, without eating or sleeping, for forty-eight hours. As soon as he finished, he led Julia to a Church meeting place, hoping to find someone to teach him more. Unfortunately, it was Saturday afternoon, and no one was there. Just after Julia gave up and went home—telling him, “We can go to the chapel tomorrow, dear”—two missionaries arrived. A week later, Carlos and Julia were baptized. Carlos now serves as bishop in one of the Barcelona wards.

Similarly, at the moment any of the Father’s children write, none can realize the fruitfulness of such a work.
Susan Larsen of Blackfoot, Idaho, for example, didn’t realize that her entry, written after the birth of her first child, Stephani, would work a miracle for her five years later.
When her second child, Rebecca, was born, five-year-old Stephani was mature enough to sense a shifting away of all the attention. She didn’t understand why it was so, but it was, and she resented it. She became a difficult child. She pouted and whined around the house, until finally Susan went to her.
“You love Rebecca better than me,” Stephani cried. “You do, Mama; you do!”
What Stephani said was just not true, but how could Susan convince her of that fact. Telling her of her love would not truly convince her, but her journal might. So mother and daughter sat down together, and Susan read to her out of her journal.
“January 29, 1967. Yes, the baby finally arrived—an 8 1/2 pound girl. … Steve really beamed about the whole thing. Stephani was born on December 4, at 12:10 A.M., and that same morning, Steve passed around her picture in priesthood meeting. She looks just like him, bless her heart. Although she doesn’t sleep much during the day, she really is a good baby. … We really do love her.”
Through her mother’s journal, Stephani was able to share the birth-light for a few moments with her baby sister. When she was new, she, too, had been the focus of her family’s attention. They had loved her then, and they loved her now. She was happy again.

A true story from Kenya.
One bright Easter Sunday, Ryan woke up early and ran to the kitchen. He could smell the coconut and spices from the mahamri Mum had just made. Ryan took a bite of one of the warm, fluffy triangle donuts. “Mum! It’s Easter! Can we watch the Jesus movie today?” he asked with a big smile.
Mum looked at him and smiled. “Of course!”
Ryan’s little brother, Liam, ran outside as Mum and Ryan sat down to watch the movie.
They saw Jesus Christ perform miracles and serve people. Then when the people hurt Jesus, Ryan’s eyes filled with tears.
“Mum, why did they do that to Jesus?” he asked sadly.
“He chose to suffer for us,” Mum said. “He loves us so much, Ryan. He died so we can live again.”
When the movie showed Jesus Christ’s Resurrection, Ryan smiled. “Look, Mum! He’s alive again!”
“That’s right,” Mum said. “He is risen! Just like the angel said in the Bible.”
Later, Ryan went outside to play. He saw Liam playing with sticks under the mango tree.
“Liam! I want to tell you a cool story,” Ryan said.
Liam waited as Ryan sat down under the mango tree. “Is it about cars?”
“No. Even better!” Ryan said. “It’s about Jesus. He died, but then He came back to life.”
“Really?” Liam asked.
“Yes! An angel said, ‘He is not here, for He is risen!’ That means we can live again too.”
“Wow!” Liam said. “Jesus really is strong.”
Ryan nodded. He thought about how much Jesus Christ loved him. It made his heart feel full and happy. He had shared the good news with his family, and that made his Easter even more special.

With these thoughts in mind, an incident I was privileged to witness a few years ago takes on additional significance. I had a meeting scheduled with President Spencer W. Kimball. He had asked me to review some files and bring him some recommendations about them. As I descended from my office in the Church Administration Building down to the first floor where his office was, I became aware that the foyer of the building was filled with young people.

It was summertime. A traveling musical group had arrived at Church headquarters unannounced. They had been touring some of the national parks and had given concerts in several states. Impulsively, they had decided to come to Church headquarters to perform for the prophet.

President Kimball’s secretary, Arthur Haycock, was talking to them. He kindly explained that the prophet was extremely busy and was not feeling very well. Others had previously arranged appointments. He was very sorry, but the President would not be able to see them.

There was great disappointment. Brother Haycock sensed this, and in an attempt to make everyone feel better he suggested that perhaps they would like to come into the inner waiting room and sing. He assured them that this would be appreciated by others in the building. He said that in all probability the strains of their music would filter throughout the building, and President Kimball would be able to hear them even though he would not attend their impromptu concert.

This seemed to be an acceptable alternative, and the young visitors enthusiastically formed ranks and began to sing. Two or three songs were sung. As a closing number, in honor of the prophet they had not seen, the group softly and reverently commenced “We Thank Thee, O God, for a Prophet.” As they did so, from my seat in the waiting room, I noticed a shadow appear in a nearby doorway. It did not move during all three verses of the song. When the choir concluded, a slight figure stepped into view. It was President Kimball. He moved quickly to congratulate the conductor and thanked him for coming. He expressed admiration at the sweetness of the song; and then, caught up in the spirit of the moment, he began to shake hands with the members of the choir.

I watched with love and admiration. In that familiar, low, husky voice he would step up to a young person and say, “Thank you for coming,” “My, you are lovely,” “My, you are handsome.” To the young men he would ask, “I hope you are planning to serve a mission when you turn 19?” To the young women he would say, “I hope you are planning to marry in the temple when the time comes?” One by one, he extended this greeting to each of the singers.

He eventually came to a tall, rugged-looking baritone on the back row. The young man knew what the President was going to say before he arrived, and as the prophet took his hand he said, “President, I want you to know that I sent my papers in before we left California. I can’t wait to get home to find out where I am going on my mission.” President Kimball paused. He had left people in his office while he came out to listen to the choir. But obviously the young man’s statement had intrigued him. He stopped, stepped back, looked up into the handsome youthful face and said, “Would you like to know now?”

“I sure would,” was the reply, “but they told me I would have to wait until I returned home.” President Kimball smiled and said, “I think we might be able to tell you now.” He turned to Brother Haycock and asked him to telephone the Missionary Department and find out where the young man was to be called. Then the President finished shaking hands.

After a few moments, Brother Haycock returned. He had a folded piece of paper in his hand. He jokingly said that the Missionary Department had been reluctant to give him the information. He had to explain that the prophet wanted it. Then he gave the folded slip to President Kimball.

President Kimball stepped in front of the choir, which was still standing in almost assembled formation. It was as if he were the choir director. He opened the paper, looked at the boy, looked back at the paper, and then looked again at the young man. Then, including the entire group in the scope of his mischievous question he asked, “Are you sure you want to know?” By this time the young man was so anxious that he could scarcely contain himself. “Oh, yes!” he said. With the eyes of everyone upon him, President Kimball looked again to the paper, chuckled, and announced, “Taiwan.”

Pandemonium spread through the choir. They began to congratulate their friend on his mission call. President Kimball wished him well and waved good-bye. He went back to those who were waiting for him. The young visitors left the Church Administration Building thrilled, but somewhat unaware, I think, that they had participated in an extraordinary experience.

Brother Paul himself was a convert to the Church. While in Nassau as consul general, he became interested in the Church, made inquiries, flew to Utah, and attended general conference there. Impressed by what he learned, he was referred to two LDS families living in the Bahamas—the McCombs and the Ballards. These families had been holding church services in their homes. Alexander Paul and his family were taught the gospel and baptized. It was then that he invited the Ferriers to investigate the gospel.

One day I was moved by a hymn I heard. I learned the hymn in my own language, Portuguese, and as I struggled to translate it into English, I remembered that my Latter-day Saint neighbor, Jesuina, often received American missionaries in her home. I asked her if the missionaries could translate it for me. The next day they left a translation with a short note that read, “It was a pleasure to be able to help you. One day we would like to meet you.”
When I met the missionaries a week later, they invited me to visit their church. But I did not like Mormons. Members of my family and leaders of other churches I had investigated criticized them, calling them a dangerous sect. They made many absurd criticisms that I believed to be true. One rainy Sunday shortly thereafter, however, I awoke with a great desire to visit their church—to repay them for their kindness but also out of curiosity. During the first meeting, people went to the pulpit and testified they knew that the Church and the Book of Mormon were true and that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God. Somewhat disturbed, I left the meeting and went to Sunday School.
When the teacher mentioned scriptures or stories from the Bible, I was eager to participate. But when she spoke about the Book of Mormon, I remained quiet and pensive. Why another book if we already had the Bible? Before I left, the teacher thanked me for my participation and then surprised me by giving me her copy of the Book of Mormon.
When I returned home, I went to my room, knelt on the floor, and began a sincere conversation with Heavenly Father. I told Him that I felt something special about the Mormon Church but that I didn’t want the adversary to delude me. I prayed that He would help resolve my confusion and show me which church was true.
Afterward I felt a great desire to read the Book of Mormon. I prayed again for strength and direction. During my prayer, I felt a strong and good feeling—an interior warmth. I knew I was not alone at that moment. A thought came instantly into my head: “Read the book!”
I opened it and began reading. Before I had finished the introduction, tears began running down my face as the Lord revealed to me the mystery of the Native Americans. The Book of Mormon seemed prepared especially to respond to my concerns. I felt great joy to have my questions answered. It was as though the ancient Americans had spoken from their graves to tell me about their lives and to testify that they also knew Jesus and that He had suffered for them as well.
Amazed with my discovery, I sought out the missionaries and listened to their lessons. On Easter Sunday, March 31, 1991, I descended into the waters of baptism—the best decision I had ever made.
I feel immensely grateful to Heavenly Father for His mercy and great wisdom. I know that He is just, that He has not forgotten any of His children, and that He is eager to reveal His plan to all humankind. I know that the Book of Mormon is a sacred book. It is true.

A good example of weathering this trial of faith is Yolanda Cantos of the Tolosa Branch, Tolosa Philippines District, on the island of Leyte. In 1985, when Yolanda was 22 years old, she visited relatives on Samar, a neighboring island. Her relatives invited her to listen to the missionary discussions. She agreed, but because she was a devout member of another church her real intention was to challenge the missionaries. “I knew they were wrong,” she says. She listened, though, and despite her intentions, she says, “the Spirit worked with me, and I couldn’t find any fault in their teachings.” Fearing that they were misleading her, she returned home to Tolosa. But when she prayed, she couldn’t forget what the missionaries had taught her, so she returned to Samar to continue the discussions.
“I was challenged twice to be baptized,” she says. “I knew the Church was true, but it was hard for me because of my family and friends. They belonged to another church, and I was a member of the choir. But when I went to witness the baptism of a friend, I heard a voice asking me why I had rejected Him so many times. And when I saw my friend immersed in the water, it was as if I saw myself being baptized. After that I told the missionaries that, no matter what happened, I wanted to be baptized.”
Her baptism took place a week later. When her mother learned of it, she wouldn’t allow Yolanda in her home anymore. She said if Yolanda would deny her new faith, then she would be welcome again. Yolanda assured her mother that someday she would understand her choice. Then she returned to Samar to live with her relatives and to fast and pray for her family. One month later her brother was baptized, and a year later her mother joined the Church. “It was through fasting and prayer,” explains Yolanda.
The path to the Lord’s Church wasn’t easy, but the rewards have been well worth the trial of faith Yolanda endured. She was married in the Manila Philippines Temple in 1993; her husband, Felix, a returned missionary, is president of the Tolosa Branch; and they have two sons, Jed Ephraim and Russell Jacob.

The best illustration is a great real-life example. Wilfried Vanie, his seven siblings, and his mother joined the Church in Abidjan, Ivory Coast, when he was six years old. He was baptized at eight. His father, the main provider in the family, died when Wilfried was eleven.

Though saddened by the family situation, Wilfried decided to continue in school, with his mother’s encouragement and with Church support. He graduated from secondary school and served a full-time mission in the Ghana Cape Coast Mission, where he learned English. After his mission, he went on to the university and obtained a diploma in accounting and finance. Though it was hard to obtain employment in this field, he found work in the tourism and hospitality industry.

He started as a waiter in a five-star hotel, but his passion to improve pushed him to learn more until he became a bilingual receptionist there. When a new hotel opened, he was hired as the night auditor. Later, he enrolled in BYU–Pathway Worldwide and is currently studying a course to obtain a certificate in hospitality and tourism management. His desire is to one day become the manager of a high-end hotel. Wilfried can provide for his eternal companion and two children, as well as help his mother and his siblings. He currently serves in the Church as a member of the stake high council.

Not long after that, things began to go terribly wrong. One night I was awakened by noises coming from another room. I got up to check and found Mum pacing the living room floor, her face a mask of pain. Tears coursed down her cheeks, and her hands were clenched so tightly at her sides that the nails bit into her flesh. When she found that she had been discovered, she sat down and buried her face in her hands, sobbing like an abandoned child.
I ran to her side, and held her to me. “Mum, what’s wrong?” I asked anxiously. I hated to see her like this. It seemed as though her sobs came from the deepest parts of her soul.
“Please, Brad, don’t tell your father you saw me like this,” she pleaded through her tears.
“What’s wrong?” I persisted.
Mum shook her head. “I wish I knew,” she said. “I’m aching all over. I can hardly stand it, Brad.”
I groped vainly for something comforting to say. Instead, I said, “How long has this been going on?”
“Three or four days,” she answered, sinking back into the couch. “The pain starts in my head and works its way down into my arms. It feels like it’s inside the bone.”
We sat in silence for a few moments, and Mum began to relax a bit. The agony was beginning to ease.
After that, I would lie awake at night, straining my ears for sounds of movement in the darkness. Sometimes I would hear the door creak as my mother crept outside to suffer in the privacy of the backyard. She had insisted that I say nothing to my father, so I let it bottle up inside me until it almost drove me crazy.
But it wasn’t long before Dad found out the truth for himself. Mum would become exhausted for no reason, and she would fly off the handle at any little thing. Explosive anger was foreign to Mum’s personality. Dad worried about this strange behaviour, but when he questioned it, Mum shrugged it off. Finally, when she quit eating and started losing weight, Dad practically had to drag her to the doctor.
That first visit to the hospital became a prison sentence for my mother. Nurses took a series of blood tests, which finally led to several minutes of sheer torture—a bone marrow biopsy. Soon a diagnosis was reached.
Dad sat with Mum, whispering words of encouragement as she lay hurt and weak on the sterile white of the hospital bed. A doctor entered the room. One look at his face told my parents that the news wasn’t good.
“We have the results of the tests,” he began. Dad couldn’t stop the question from coming out. “Is she going to be all right, doctor?” he asked.
The doctor cleared his throat. “Mr. Davis, your wife is suffering from acute myelocytic leukemia.”
Mum caught her breath. “What exactly is that?” she interrupted.
The doctor explained as best he could, using a lot of big words that we didn’t understand. But one thing was very clear—Mum’s condition was serious.
After that things really changed in the Davis household. Mum couldn’t do much in the way of housework, so we all had to pitch in and do our bit. Jason and I weren’t very skilled at washing and ironing, but worse than that was the constant worry and anxiety that we felt for our mother. She really suffered—more than anyone I had ever known. A series of drugs were prescribed for her to take at home, and every week she faced a trip to the haematology clinic for more tests and injections. The results were brutal, but she bore these things well.
The doctors really did do their best. But their best wasn’t good enough. They just couldn’t get the cancer to go into remission. Finally, a lung infection put Mum into the hospital for round-the-clock medical attention. Dad, who couldn’t bear to see her suffer alone, had a bunk set up so that he could be constantly by her side.
Now, we all sat in a little waiting room on a scorching November afternoon, waiting for the doctor’s verdict. When would the surgery end? Would our mother be all right? I guess we must have sat there for an hour or so before the surgeon finally made an appearance. He was a small man with a balding head and a grey moustache. Entering the room, he paused, studying the floor. My father stood up. “Doctor Wilson?” he said tensely. For a while, nobody made a sound. Then doctor Wilson spoke.
“We tried,” he began. I could see that this was a hard speech for him to make. “We couldn’t save her.”
There was stunned silence for a moment. Then Bronwyn burst into a flood of grief. My whole world had just fallen apart. I felt a bitter anger welling up from the deepest recesses of my soul. I had prayed desperately that my mother would be cured, but God had done nothing. Why? A gentle breeze danced in through the open window, played briefly in the corners of the room, then left the way it had come, carrying with it my faith in God.
The funeral was held on Tuesday morning. I didn’t go. I couldn’t stand to see them put her into the cold earth. Besides, I had been to LDS funerals before. Always they were so cheerful and positive, telling us to have faith in God and that things would be fine with the departed loved one. I wasn’t sure I even believed in God anymore. I went fishing in an effort to forget the pain I was feeling.
I arrived home as the sun was sinking in the evening sky. My fishing expedition had been a failure, and I badly wanted to speak to my father. Jason and Bronwyn were solemnly seated in the living room, but Dad was nowhere to be found. I went to look for him in the yard.
When I was a little boy, I had a pet dog called Bunyip. He was my best friend. We were inseparable. But one day Bunyip was bitten by a snake and died. I was shattered, and there was nothing my parents could do to console me. So my father went into one of the fields and painted a huge smiling face on a large granite boulder. He called it the Happy Rock. After that, whenever I felt sad, I would go to the Happy Rock, and my sorrows seemed to magically vanish.
It was here that I found my father, perched atop the boulder, its great, smiling face showing the strains of time. He looked pathetically vulnerable as he sat, gazing sadly at the retreating sunset. I quietly announced my presence. For a moment, he didn’t respond. Then a wistful smile briefly crossed his sun-browned face.
“I guess the old rock has lost its magic,” he said. Then, for the first time in my life, I saw my father cry. Again I felt bitterness within. How could the Lord give us a Christmas gift like this?
Weeks passed and I quit going to church. There was nothing there for me. A few people visited, encouraging me to go back, but I wouldn’t listen. How could I ever feel comfortable in church again?
One day I got a call from Sister Robinson, the Relief Society president. “Oh Brad, I’m so glad you’re home,” she said. I immediately felt my defences go up. If this was something to do with church, she could forget it.
“Yes, Sister Robinson, what can I do for you?”
“Well, it’s like this,” she began. “I’m supposed to be at the hospital tomorrow to read to some of the children, but I won’t be able to make it. I was wondering if maybe you could go in my place.”
“Gee, I don’t know,” I started to object.
Sister Robinson cut in: “Brad, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, but I don’t know who else to ask.”
I finally agreed to go because I didn’t know how to refuse her. Putting down the phone, I wandered into the living room. With four days left before Christmas, it looked as if the Christmas spirit had passed right over our place. There were no decorations, no trees, no Christmas cards. Instead we had sympathy cards lined up along the mantelpiece. If my Christmas was to be miserable, at least I could try to take some of the Yuletide cheer to some little kids in hospital.
At the hospital the next day, I was assigned to a frail little girl named Marcie. They told me she was nine years old. She looked about four. She was hooked up to some kind of machine which kept her alive, yet she smiled as if she hadn’t a care in the world. I felt awkward, dressed in my robes of self-pity, while she lay upon her deathbed as cheerful as spring sunshine. We visited for a while. As we talked, I marvelled at her wisdom and perspective. I didn’t know what was wrong with her—I didn’t have the heart to ask. She knew that she probably wouldn’t see her tenth birthday, yet she wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t bitter.
I surveyed the pile of books at her bedside. There were many to choose from. “What would you like me to read to you?” I asked.
She pointed to a worn copy of the Easter story. “That one,” she said.
I picked it up. “Honey, you don’t want to hear this. It’s Christmas,” I told her.
“No,” she repeated, “I want to hear that one. It’s my favorite.”
So, during the hot Christmas season, I read of the sufferings of Christ to a little girl who loved God. When I finished, she was staring into my eyes with a look that pierced my soul. Placing her tiny hand into mine, she said, “I have lots of pain, but never as much as Jesus had. When I’m really hurting and I’m all alone, I speak to the Lord because he knows how I feel. He loves me.”
I hurried home that afternoon because there was someone I wanted to speak to. When I got back to the farm, the first place I headed for was the Happy Rock. It was out of sight of the house and was an ideal spot for what I was about to do. Dropping to my knees, I opened my mouth to pray, but nothing came out. My heart was thumping. Finally, in desperation, I cried out, “Oh God, where are you?”
From a million miles away, deep within my own mind, I heard the glorious tones of an orchestra. The music grew louder, until it crashed over my being like a wave from the ocean. Then, as clearly as any spoken voice, I heard the words of a favorite carol: “Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: ‘God is not dead, nor doth he sleep . …’”