Gospel Story Finder

When the new mission president arrived, he eventually found out where I was and transferred me to another area. This second area consisted of 16 small islands. That mission president told me that we were so short of missionaries I would not have a companion. He told me that I should preach the gospel and build up the Church on those 16 islands. Those were my only instructions. Again I kept moving and trying to do some good. There were members on some of those islands. I often took them with me on preaching trips. We mostly traveled by small sailboat.

I suppose the Lord has his way of testing all of us. It seems that I was born with a weak stomach, and most of my boat trips (which were many) found me seasick. We would go to one island and tract all day and invite everyone out to a meeting that evening. The whole island usually came, sometimes a few dozen, sometimes several hundred.

Because I knew I wouldn’t be back for several months, I would start with lesson one and spend three or four hours and go through all the lessons. When I concluded, I would ask the people to pray sincerely that evening about what they had heard. Then I would explain that those who felt it was true and had a testimony of it should be down to our boat by 8:00 A.M. the next morning to be baptized and confirmed before we left for the next island.

We often baptized people, and they were good members of the Church. We gave them instructions and called couples from some of the other branches to help them. Then we would leave for the next island and try to get back a few months later. Thus, by constantly going around, we gradually built up several good branches that have today evolved into some very good units with some very strong leaders. There was a lot of persecution in those days; so when they joined, they were usually committed. They had a spiritual conversion. It wasn’t a social thing to join the Church. They had to believe it.

Three weeks ago I stepped into Yesterday. In that moment I rediscovered Today. And it is about Today that I wish to speak.
A Church assignment had carried me across the vast reaches of the Pacific to the land of Vietnam. For me, this was more than a flight over an ocean. It was a step back in time. More than 40 years ago, I had served on the battlefields of that land as an infantry officer. Etched in my mind over those intervening decades were memories of that place, its people, and my comrades in arms with whom I had served. Jacob once wrote, “Our lives passed away like … unto us a dream” (Jacob 7:26). So it had been for me. And now I was returning from my hall of memories to that place of memory after a near half century. My Church business concluded, I determined to once again visit those fields of desperate struggle. Accompanied by my dear wife, I made the pilgrimage.
I am not quite sure what I expected to find after so many years. What I did find was most unexpected. Instead of a war-ravaged people, I found a youthful, vibrant population. Instead of a countryside pockmarked by shell fire, I found peaceful, verdant fields. Even the jungle growth was new. I guess that I had half expected to find Yesterday, but what I found was Today and the promise of a bright Tomorrow. I was reminded that “weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning” (Psalm 30:5).
My pilgrimage back in time completed, I looked around upon those peaceful fields of Today and saw in their fertility the promise of Tomorrow. I thought of my friend Sergeant Arthur Cyrus Morris. I thought of that fateful Palm Sunday of Yesterday. And I was profoundly grateful for the Redeemer of Easter morning, who grants us life, whose descent below all things makes possible our rising above all things—Tomorrow, if we but seize Today. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

I don’t know what to say to the old people after we sing our songs. I don’t know anything about them.
You know that they’re your brothers and sisters.
“She’ll be coming ’round the mountain, she’ll be coming ’round the mountain, she’ll be coming ’round the mountain when she comes!”
Could I visit with you a moment, sir?
Mr. Gonzales hasn’t spoken in over a year, but I’m sure he’d love a visit. He doesn’t ever get any.
I guess you can’t answer me, Mr. Gonzales, but I hope you can understand what I’m saying. You remind me of my grandfather. He was a good man, and I feel that you are too.
A half hour later
It’s time for me to go, Mr. Gonzales. Being here must be hard for you, but I know that you’re not alone. I’m going to come back and see you again, and Heavenly Father’s watching over you. He never forgets His children.
It’s nice to see Mr. Gonzales getting a visit. Is he your grandfather?
No, he’s my brother.

“Who’s your hero, Jason?”
Jason Shaw looked away from his teacher. “I don’t know.”
“Do you know anyone you want to be like?” she asked.
Jason shrugged.
“Well, you still have a little time to think about it before you write your paper.”
Jason listened as his classmates named their heroes. None of them interested him. He didn’t want to be a police officer, a lawyer, or even the president of his country.
After school as he walked home, the wind blew off his cap. He raced after it, thinking, I wonder if I would like to be an Olympic athlete.
He pictured himself running around a track, pushing his legs harder and harder until he crossed the finish line ahead of his competitors.
“Jason! Jason!” the crowd in his thoughts cheered.
Someone grabbed his arm.
“Jason, didn’t you hear me?”
“Uh, no, Tony. What’s up?”
“Nothing. I just thought I’d ask you to walk home with me.”
“Sure. Come on. Who are you going to write your paper on?”
Tony grinned. “My great-grandpa. He won a medal in World War II. He saved a lot of lives. How about you? Think of anyone yet?”
“No. A war hero, huh?”
“Yep. He was a pilot in the air force.”
Jason looked up and imagined himself flying through the clouds. Maybe he would like to be in the air force and save lives. Or … or he could be a doctor. He imagined himself in an operating room.
“How’s his heart rate, nurse?”
“Good, doctor.”
“And his blood pressure?”
“Perfect! You’ve done it again. You’ve saved his life.”
Jason felt warm inside. It would be nice to save lives.
When he got home, he went to his room, pulled out a clean piece of paper, sharpened his pencil, and wrote: “My hero is someone who saves lives. He is a doctor.”
Looking down at his words, Jason didn’t feel as good about them as he had before. He didn’t really want to be a doctor. He didn’t know what he wanted to be. He pushed his paper aside and worked on his spelling lesson.
“How was school today?” Mom asked as she peeked into the room.
“Fine.”
“I see you’re busy with your homework. Is there anything I can help you with before I start supper?”
“No, thanks.”
“OK. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me. Oh—I talked to your Primary teacher today. She said you’re always reverent and that you’re a good example to your classmates. She really appreciates you.”
Jason felt happy. He loved his teacher. She made Primary fun, and he learned a lot about Jesus in her class. And she—a teacher—appreciated him! He took out his paper and started again: “My hero is a teacher. A teacher helps people learn and shows them how to be happy.”
He smiled. A teacher was perfect. Now what else could he say? After thinking about it for a few minutes, he couldn’t think of anything, so he put his paper away again.
After dinner everyone gathered in the living room for family home evening.
“What song would you like to sing, Jason?” Mom asked.
“‘Jesus Once Was a Little Child.’” It was his favorite song.
“Karen, would you say the prayer, please?” Dad asked.
Jason’s little sister folded her arms, and Dad helped her pray.
“Thank you, Karen. Your mother and I have planned a special lesson for tonight,” Dad said. “We are going to play a game called ‘I Can Try to Be like Jesus.’”
Jason listened closely. He liked games.
“We have some paintings of Jesus Christ and His life on earth,” Mom said. “We’ll talk about each painting and think of things we can do to be like Him.”
As he listened to Mom and Dad and talked with them about the Savior and how they could try to be like Him, a warm, strong feeling grew in Jason’s heart. He wanted family home evening to last forever.
When family night was over, Jason ran to his room and took out a fresh piece of paper.
He wrote: “My hero is someone who saves lives. He is a healer, a teacher, and a friend, and I love Him very much. I want to be just like Him. My hero is Jesus Christ.”

After World War II on a cold night in a train station in southern Japan, I heard a tap on the train window. There stood a boy wearing the same ragged shirt, a rag tied about a swollen jaw, his head covered with scabies. He held a rusty tin can and a spoon, the symbol of an orphan beggar. As I struggled to open the door to give him money, the train pulled out. I will never forget that hungry little boy standing in the cold, holding up his empty tin can.

By the time I was old enough to understand what alcohol was, I knew my mom had a problem with it. Family members tried to hide her issue from my sister and me, but they could only conceal the early-morning binges and hangovers for so long.
Our mom was an alcoholic—and no excuse or elaborate story could change that.
As a young girl, I believed that addiction was a choice. I felt burned then each time my mom walked through our door with the scent of liquor on her breath after promising to let it go. It was like she didn’t want to change. But years of her painful tears, failed attempts, and crashing withdrawals taught me otherwise.
When I was in middle school, I began to realize that my mom’s addiction wouldn’t “go gentle into that good night,” as poet Dylan Thomas once wrote1—and not because she didn’t want to change. It wasn’t about the lack of willpower on her part or that she was choosing alcohol over her family. She was trapped in her addiction.
As President Russell M. Nelson explained: “Addiction surrenders later freedom to choose. Through chemical means, one can literally become disconnected from his or her own will!”2 Finding recovery would be a fight between her body and spirit for years to come.
After she had achieved six months of sobriety, I started to recognize my mom again—the one who used to dance in the car and write beautiful poetry and tell embarrassing jokes to all of my friends. It was as if someone behind the scenes suddenly switched back on the light in her eyes and was working overtime to keep it on. She hadn’t been sober for that long in years, and it felt good to have her back.
But it didn’t last. One night, before she had the chance to speak, my sister and I knew. Her glazed eyes and blushed cheeks said it all: after six months and four days, she had relapsed. For a moment, we considered walking out of the door, away from the worry and fear, but we knew that she wanted to change. We couldn’t do it for her, but we could support her as she walked the road to recovery.
Over the next few months, my sister and I looked for ways to help my mom keep pushing forward toward long-term sobriety. It wouldn’t be easy, but she had done it once, and we knew she could do it again.
Having witnessed my mom go through withdrawals before, we knew what to expect, so we gathered all of the liquor and wine bottles that we could find and dumped them down the drain. Then we stocked up on Gatorade at the grocery store and deep-cleaned the house; it was our best attempt to remove my mom from the environment that she was in when she relapsed.
After a few days, my mom was well enough to go back to work, but we knew the fight wasn’t over. Up until that point, the depth of her addiction was hidden from most of our family and friends. Over the years, it had become somewhat of a secret—a source of shame, something that social science researcher Brené Brown explains “derives its power from being unspeakable.”3 If we wanted her to stay sober, we needed to break the silence.
Deciding to open up to our family and some trusted friends was hard, but it was also liberating. Shame “corrodes the very part of us that believes we can change and do better,”4 so the very act of talking about her addiction gave my mom (and me!) hope again. We weren’t alone, and for the first time in years, we started to picture a life unruled by her addiction.
I’m not going to try to sugarcoat it: maintaining hope isn’t always easy. For years I supported my mom as she tried to get sober, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t experience sadness, disappointment, and frustration along the way. Speaking of the difficult journey one faces to overcome addiction, President Nelson explained: “Each one who resolves to climb that steep road to recovery must gird up for the fight of a lifetime. But a lifetime is a prize well worth the price.”5
Throughout my life, my mom has fallen down more times than I can count, but I’m proud to say that it’s been six years since she took a drink. Though it has taken me years of learning and relearning how to best support her, watching her recover has taught me that no one is ever too far gone. No matter how many times the person you love relapses, keep going—keep trying to support them in whatever way you can. Recovery is a lifelong commitment—a journey filled with tears, victories, failures, and triumphs—and it’s worth fighting for.

I close with another story, illustrating how the spirit of the work of Elijah crosses the boundaries of blood ties in fostering honor between parents and children. I recently conversed with a woman who, as a baby, was adopted into a Latter-day Saint home. When I asked how long she had known she was an adopted child, she told me that when she was four, her father had presented a family home evening lesson on the plan of salvation. In the course of that discussion, he explained that sometimes parents who desperately desire children are unable physically to bring them into this life. In such cases, he said, the parents may fast and plead with the Lord to help them find a special child whose biological parents are unable to care for their child. Her father took her in his arms and explained that was how Heavenly Father had sent her to them. Hearing this tender story, I felt certain that the promises the Lord made to this woman’s adoptive parents were planted in her heart, and the result was her lifelong peace of mind and sense of belonging.

María Isabel Parra de Uribe of the Villas de La Hacienda Ward, México City México Tepalcapa Stake, tells of an experience common to many who have sought blessings of healing. Five months pregnant, she was suffering intense pain. Tests showed she needed surgery immediately, and she was told she might lose her baby.
“My husband and I were confused,” she says. “We didn’t know whether to have the surgery or not. We decided to ask God if surgery was the right choice. After our prayer, we felt peaceful and calm.
“While I was waiting to be taken to the operating room, my husband gave me a priesthood blessing. When it was over, we felt not only calm but certain our baby would survive.
“After I came out of surgery, a nurse said, ‘Everything is all right. Your baby is fine.’ I smiled to myself, realizing, I already knew.”
The power of godliness had been manifest in her life.

Michael sat in a corner with a stack of brightly-colored books on his lap. Tears ran down his cheeks, splashing onto bunnies and mice and dinosaurs.
Mommy sat down beside him and pressed her cheek against his. “I understand,” she said. “I’ve been doing some crying myself.”
Michael dug his fists into his eyes. “Books are better!”
Mommy stroked his hair. “Books are better?”
“Book stories have good endings.”
“Oh, I see. And Grandma’s story …”
“Had a terrible ending! What’s the use of being good if you just have a sad ending, anyway?”
Mommy sighed. “Michael, we haven’t seen the ending of Grandma’s story.”
“She’s dead!”
Mommy picked up one of Michael’s favorite books. “Michael, is every page of this book happy?”
Michael took the book and opened it. “No,” he said, “this page is really sad, but it isn’t the last page.”
Mommy smiled. “And we both know that Grandma’s death isn’t the last page of her story, either. Let’s pretend that we’re reading a book with Grandma’s story in it. We’ve just read the sad page about her dying, and it made us both cry. Now let’s turn to the next page. Is it a dark, sad page or a bright, happy page?”
Michael closed his eyes. “I can’t see it very well,” he said. “I hope it’s a bright, happy page.”
“Look at the picture. Is Grandma alone?”
“No, she’s with Heavenly Father. And Grandpa!”
“Are they smiling or frowning?”
“They’re smiling.” Tears still ran down Michael’s face, but he was smiling too.
“Is that the last page in the book?” Mommy asked. “Or are there more?”
“More. Someday we’ll be with Grandma and Grandpa too.”
“And will that be a sad page or a happy one?”
Michael thought about it. “Both, I guess. Happy for us, but sad for the people we leave behind.”
Mommy nodded. “Keep turning pages, and you’ll see that the story never ends. But there will come a page when all the dying is finished, and our spirits are reunited with our bodies forever. Can you see the picture of the One who made that possible?”
“Yes, it was Jesus.”
Mommy gave Michael a tight hug. “Yes it was, sweetheart, and if we follow Him, our stories may have sad pages, but no sad endings—OK?”
Michael stood up and set his books on a shelf. “OK. And I’m going to make my story a good one, like Grandma’s.”

I am a product of ministering from almost forty years ago. I had been baptized when I was nine years old, but my family had become less active during my twelfth year and so I drifted away. I started going to a different local church with my friend, who was my next-door neighbor. Over the next few years, life went on and after I married, I was contacted by my assigned Visiting Teachers. They called faithfully each month and over time set the foundation for Home Teachers to be assigned to our family. During those visits we never discussed the fact that I was not attending church; and my husband who knew very little about the Church and was not really interested in religion, didn’t feel pressured or uncomfortable accepting them into our home. We felt only genuine concern and friendship coming from them during their visits.
What struck us most was the kindness and joyful spirit that our Home and Visiting Teachers brought into our home. We developed a close relationship with one of our Home Teachers, who never ceased to offer his assistance when needed—inviting us into his home and in time, inviting me to a conference where Elder Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018), then of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, spoke.
During that conference it was as if Elder Monson knew what was in my heart and that he was speaking directly to me that day. I left with a strong desire to return to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and to become once again a part of His fold. A few months later, after the missionary discussions, my son was baptized, and we started to attend Church.

Monica May wasn’t exactly active in the Church during high school, but the summer before she went to college she decided to make church a regular part of her life. She missed the gospel.
Once at college she wasn’t perfect with her goal, but by the end of her first semester, she looked forward to church as well as her institute class.
Monica had always known the gospel principles. But “I didn’t see the importance of them until I came to institute,” she says. “It’s really opened my eyes. My testimony has grown, and institute has increased my desire to work at living the gospel.”
It was during this realization that Monica’s blossoming testimony was put to the test. It seemed she had found the perfect man. He was a handsome engineering student; he wanted to marry her; her parents thought he was great. But there was one major drawback—he was not a member of the Church.
During this same time, Monica had also developed a strong friendship with Chad May, who had returned from his mission in Taiwan and seemed quite serious about her.
Confused about what she should do, Monica turned to prayer and what she was learning in institute for answers.
One evening, the answer finally came. After watching part of a rec league basketball game Chad was playing in, Monica slipped out of the gym to go on a date with the other guy. But on the way, she says, “I got this terrible feeling in my stomach. I’d had this kind of prompting before, not acted on it, and regretted it. So this time I listened.” She never dated the engineering student again. And less than a year later, Monica and Chad were married in the Dallas Temple.
“Institute provided a constant reminder of my standards,” Monica says. “Without it I wouldn’t have known which way I should be going.”

While my dear wife and I were serving as mission leaders in Thailand, Laos, and Myanmar, we witnessed firsthand the power of God that comes to those who make and keep sacred covenants in the temple. The Temple Patron Assistance Fund made it possible for many Saints in these three countries to attend the temple after doing all they could through personal sacrifice and preparation. I recall meeting a group of 20 faithful Saints from Laos at an airport in Bangkok, Thailand, to help them transfer to another airport in Bangkok to catch their flight to Hong Kong. These members were brimming with excitement to finally be traveling to the house of the Lord.
When we met these good Saints upon their return, the added gospel maturity and associated power resulting from receiving their temple endowment and entering into covenants with God were evident. These Saints clearly went forth from the temple “armed with [His] power.” This power to do more than they could do themselves gave them strength to endure the challenges of Church membership in their home country and to go forth bearing “exceedingly great and glorious tidings, in truth,” as they continue building the Lord’s kingdom in Laos.

From the moment the inspiration to serve a full-time mission ignited within me, I felt a deep sense of urgency to begin preparing. I trusted that God had a precise and purposeful plan for me. I started my mission papers and completed all the necessary paperwork within just one month.
As I waited to complete the final preparations, I faced challenges that tested my faith. But those challenges were nothing compared to what I was about to face.
During this time, I experienced sexual assault. In the wake of the assault, I struggled to determine what my future would look like.
I had a new question: Why did I have to endure such a traumatic event, especially while I was trying to do the Lord’s work?
My life was engulfed in uncertainty, fear, and doubt. I believed that I was beyond repair. I couldn’t see how I would ever recover from such a devastating experience. I felt deeply isolated and filled with despair.
I worried that the experience had made me unworthy, so I reached out to my stake president for guidance. He suggested that I seek solace in Jesus Christ’s healing Atonement. He emphasized that Christ was the ultimate source of healing and peace and encouraged me to read the Book of Mormon.
I continued to grapple with confusion and doubt. My mind was clouded, and I didn’t know what to do. My stake president counseled me to put my mission papers on hold while I sought professional help from a psychologist. The coping mechanisms they taught me, along with support from friends, helped me in my healing process. But I especially found solace in the temple.
You Are Not Less Worthy
“The abuse was not, is not, and never will be your fault, no matter what the abuser or anyone else may have said to the contrary. When you have been a victim of cruelty, incest, or any other perversion, you are not the one who needs to repent; you are not responsible.
“You are not less worthy or less valuable or less loved as a human being, or as a daughter or son of God, because of what someone else has done to you.”
Elder Patrick Kearon, Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, “He is Risen with Healing in His Wings: We Can Be More Than Conquerors,” Liahona, May 2022, 38.
During this period of intense pain, I also turned to God in prayer for healing, strength, and peace. As I immersed myself in the Book of Mormon, I started to experience a profound sense of calm. The healing power of Jesus Christ became especially meaningful to me. I came to the realization that what I had gone through was not my fault, and I felt comforted knowing that God was aware of my struggles and “will fight [my] battles” (Doctrine and Covenants 105:14). This understanding brought me the reassurance and clarity I sought.
Jesus Christ took upon Himself “the pains and the sicknesses of his people … that his bowels may be filled with mercy” (Alma 7:11–12). Christ possesses an intimate understanding of the past traumas we have endured and offers us solace and tranquility. He also enables us to forgive, even if it takes a very long time to do so.
As I’ve worked through my pain with both professional and spiritual help, I’ve gained peace. I recently received my temple endowment and my mission call, all thanks to the power of Jesus Christ.
Elder Patrick Kearon of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles taught: “Jesus specializes in the seemingly impossible. He came here to make the impossible possible, the irredeemable redeemable, to heal the unhealable, to right the unrightable, to promise the unpromisable. And He’s really good at it. In fact, He’s perfect at it.”
The truths of the Atonement of Jesus Christ became a reality to me as He made what I thought was impossible in my life possible. He healed my fears, doubts, and confusion, and miraculously, He healed me.

As soon as the constable took Joseph Smith away, Joseph Knight, Sr., went out and hired two men, a Mr. James Davidson and a Mr. John S. Reid, who were “respectable farmers who were well versed in the laws of their country,” to help Joseph during his trial before Justice Joseph P. Chamberlain.
Newel wrote in his journal:
“On the following day a court was convened for the purpose of investigating the charges which had been made against Joseph Smith, Jun. On account of the many scandalous reports which had been put in circulation, a great excitement prevailed. …
“The trial commenced among a crowded multitude of spectators, who generally seemed to believe Joseph guilty of all that had been alleged against him, and, of course, were zealous to see him punished for his crimes.”
Many witnesses were called up against Joseph Smith, including Josiah Stowell, for whom he had worked, and Mr. Stowell’s daughters, whom Joseph had known socially. Despite many attempts to elicit something from them which could be held against Joseph, all of the witnesses reported that Joseph Smith had dealt with them fairly and kindly.
Joseph Smith was acquitted by the Chenango County court of all charges, and at the very moment he was released, officials from the neighboring Broome County presented another warrant for his arrest.

In addition to the summer farm work, Franklin’s father kept him busy at home. To make sure he didn’t run out of jobs around the house and to develop his sense of responsibility, his father had coops and runs for fifty chickens built in the backyard. Franklin had to feed and water the chickens, keep the coops clean, and gather the eggs. Since there were more eggs laid than the family needed, he was allowed to sell the extra eggs and keep the money. Brother Richards said, “I’m grateful that I had a father and mother who taught me the joy of working, the value of spending less than I made, and the importance of paying my tithing.”
Back then tithing was paid to the bishop’s storehouse, sometimes in kind, meaning eggs, wheat, or other farm produce. During 1908, when Franklin was only eight years old, he paid $7.50 in tithing on earnings of $75.00. He still has the bishop’s storehouse receipt. In those days $75.00 was a large amount of money. It represented a lot of hard work.

Elder Robert M. Daines was working as a law and business professor at Stanford University when he was called to serve as an early-morning seminary teacher.
As a lifelong Latter-day Saint, Elder Daines knew the gospel, but something about the calling pushed him to study the scriptures like never before. His wife, Ruth, said he often went to bed early and arose at 4:00 a.m. because he needed three hours to prepare for his daily lesson with 15 students.
“Some people have talent; some have to hustle,” he said. “I’m in the ‘You’d better hustle’ category.”
Elder Daines said he pored over the scriptures for hours each day because he wanted to know and feel the Savior’s love and then help his students make the same connection. The decade-long experience had a powerful impact on his faith and testimony.
“I feel like I was truly converted and came to know Jesus Christ as a seminary teacher in Palo Alto, California,” said Elder Daines.

“I didn’t know what feeling the Spirit felt like until the start of this year,” said Tiago Pereira. “I was speaking to my dad, and he really helped me understand. We were just driving along, and my dad asked me if I had a testimony. At first I said, ‘Well, I’m not really sure.’ Then he asked me to describe the feelings I had when I felt the Spirit. As we were talking, I felt the Spirit again during our conversation. Both of us were crying by the end. It was good. From then on, it’s been easier to understand when I feel the Spirit.”

While serving as a mission leader in Japan some years ago, I conducted an interview with a man who had joined the Church a year earlier and was seeking to receive a temple recommend.

During our conversation, this new member described how deeply grateful he was for the blessings he had received in the year since his baptism. To me, he showed a covenant confidence resulting from his gospel understanding, which was deeply rooted in him. He was a converted disciple of Jesus Christ who had experienced a mighty change of heart (see Mosiah 5:2).

Following the interview, I told the district president how impressed I was that the missionaries and members had found, and spiritually nurtured, such an outstanding man with such potential.

I was stunned to learn that when this man began meeting with the missionaries and attending church, he was homeless and in nearly hopeless circumstances. This brother’s study of the gospel and his conversion over a period of months led to his miraculous change, putting him on a path of spiritual and temporal self-reliance and joy.

The gospel gave this brother a clear picture of the purpose of his life. Plain and precious gospel truths brought him answers to important questions of mortality. Such blessings are equally available to you and all God’s children through the gospel of Jesus Christ.

The joyful recent convert I met in Japan years ago found the restored gospel of Jesus Christ through his diligence and that of missionaries and members. He discovered his purpose and expanded his vision of the great plan of happiness, which brought him blessings and joy that lifted him temporally and spiritually.

I am so grateful for the gospel of Jesus Christ. I have received a thousand witnesses in the course of my life with my missionaries and my family. I saw a daughter one night beside herself with the pain of an earache. My wife came and said, “Jim, I think you should give your daughter a blessing.” I went and gave my lovely girl a blessing; and, brethren, before I could finish the words, she was asleep. I want you to know that my life has been and will be dedicated to the things of God, for I know He lives, and I love His work, and I love and know the principles of the gospel are true. I pledge my support to the prophet and to the Council of the Twelve Apostles, and to Brother Richards and the other presidents. I pray that it might be said of me as the apostle Paul said at the end of his days: “This one thing I do.” (Philip. 3:13.) In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

But while Pedro’s academic curiosity and craftsmanship would have made him stand out in any community, one other quality made him unique. There have been few characters in the course of written history with whom faith and fact were synonymous. Pedro was one of these.
Even for those of us who use the term daily, faith is a paradox. Conspicuously absent in many who bear its robes, it sometimes finds a more congenial soil under homespun wool and leather thongs.
At any rate Pedro’s faith was both simple and factual. We had bought a diesel engine that generated electricity for our school and church building. A film arrived from Church headquarters depicting the struggles of early pioneers in southern Utah. President Lorenzo Snow, president of the Church at that time, promised the pioneers that a devastating drought would end if they would pay their tithing.
That year Pedro’s village was experiencing a drought. Potatoes and corn were drooping in despair at the rainy season’s slow arrival.
Pedro arrived the morning after the film was shown to pay ten soles (less than 50 cents) in tithing. He then went home and sat on his porch to wait for the rain.
It rained.