Gospel Story Finder

Recently, I was privileged, along with a group of Primary children, to meet with President Russell M. Nelson in the replica of the Smith family home in Palmyra, New York. Listen as our beloved prophet teaches the children what they can do to step forward.
Sister Jones: “I’m curious to know if you might have a question that you would like to ask President Nelson. You’re sitting here with the prophet. Is there anything that you’ve always wanted to ask a prophet? Yes, Pearl.”
Pearl: “Is it hard to be a prophet? Are you, like, really busy?”
President Nelson: “Of course it’s hard. Everything to do with becoming more like the Savior is difficult. For example, when God wanted to give the Ten Commandments to Moses, where did He tell Moses to go? Up on top of a mountain, on the top of Mount Sinai. So Moses had to walk all the way up to the top of that mountain to get the Ten Commandments. Now, Heavenly Father could have said, ‘Moses, you start there, and I’ll start here, and I’ll meet you halfway.’ No, the Lord loves effort, because effort brings rewards that can’t come without it. For example, did you ever take piano lessons?”
Children: “Yes.”
Pearl: “I take violin.”
President Nelson: “And do you practice?”
Children: “Yes.”
President Nelson: “What happens if you don’t practice?”
Pearl: “You forget.”
President Nelson: “Yes, you don’t progress, do you? So the answer is yes, Pearl. It takes effort, a lot of hard work, a lot of study, and there’s never an end. That’s good! That’s good, because we’re always progressing. Even in the next life we’re making progress.”

The rules are simple but, for most, require a dramatic change in lifestyle: No violence. No drugs or alcohol during any performance or rehearsal. And they must be on time. “The choir is a school,” Pierre explains. “If we stay in school, we can learn. Many homeless people drink a lot and sleep during the day. At night they often don’t have a place to sleep, so they walk during the night. In the morning they find a place to sleep, and afterwards there’s nothing to do, so they drink. My work is to give them a schedule. I start them at seven o’clock in the morning, so they have to get up early, and they have to get to bed early.” Because of this schedule, many of the men, some of whom are alcoholics, have given up alcohol completely. Music has taken its place, and, as Pierre suggests, “Music is therapy.”
“It is a very positive feeling, a natural high,” says Roby, a former welfare recipient. “I don’t use drugs since I started with the choir. It’s got me so busy I need my sobriety or I can’t make it through the day.”

Claudia R. of Colorado, USA, tells how she held her ground:

“I feel like society is moving toward a gray area. For example, people will say about alcohol, ‘One sip isn’t going to kill you.’ That kind of rationalization is essentially playing mind games with yourself. And it’s in those situations—the ones that seem harmless—where agency is really tested.

“So you have to learn to stop, to put your foot down. Some people take what starts out as a gray area, and that gray area becomes really dark. And then you’re kind of stuck.

“I had gone on several fun dates with someone, but one time we were alone in the car in the dark, and he tried to pull a move on me. I knew that what he wanted to do could lead to other things. I was not going to let that happen, so I jumped out of the car.

“As single adults, when something goes against our standards, we have to take a stand. With dating, of course, you want to hold hands, hug, and kiss. But Satan wants to deceive us into thinking that the law of chastity is a gray area where partial obedience is OK.

“Our standards need to be firmer than ever. We need to decide before the difficult decisions come up. We have to put our foot down when things are wrong. I know our world isn’t easy; we have so many things going on. But the prophets and apostles have given us standards and guidelines. I carry a wallet-sized version of For the Strength of Youth with me, and it gets me through hard times.”

I was ecstatic when, just after high school graduation, my uncle offered me a summer job working as his secretary in California. Eager to earn money for college and escape the sweltering heat of my home in Arizona, I accepted my uncle’s offer and moved to Los Angeles for the summer.
One weekend after I had moved in with my uncle’s family and started my job, my aunt took my two young cousins for a three-day visit to Grandma’s house. That Friday evening I arrived home from work before my uncle and was slightly disturbed to see the garage door left open. Thinking my aunt had forgotten to close the door, I pulled my car into the garage and got out.
On the bottom floor of the house was the garage, a short hallway, a small bathroom, and my bedroom. As I walked into my bedroom, I was surprised to see my empty suitcase lying upon my bed and my dresser drawers pulled open. I shrugged this off, thinking my aunt must have been looking for something.
I then walked down the hallway toward the bathroom. As I gripped the handle to open the bathroom door, what seemed like a small voice inside my head urged, “Go check the mail!” I didn’t question this unexpected thought, but immediately changed my course, turned from the door, and walked out through the garage to the mailbox. Mail in hand, I was walking back toward the house when I saw the hallway light suddenly turn off. It was then that I realized that something was wrong. Heart pounding, I dropped the mail right there in the driveway and ran to the neighbor’s for help.
Twenty minutes later, I was numbly walking with two policemen through the upper floors of my uncle’s ransacked, burglarized house. Couches were overturned, drawers were pulled out onto the floor, a stereo system and other valuables were missing. When we came to the bottom floor, I nearly fell over when I saw my bedroom closet door and my bathroom door, both of which I had left closed, standing wide open. At least one burglar had been hiding behind each door! It wasn’t until then that I fully understood the grave danger I had been in. That night, I fervently thanked my Heavenly Father that I had been prompted to turn away from the bathroom door.
Later I reflected on my patriarchal blessing, which urges me to always follow the promptings of the Spirit of the Holy Ghost. One promise of my blessing stood out in particular: If I would promptly do the things the Holy Ghost would place in my mind, I would be protected from crippling harm or injury.
How grateful I am for that quiet voice which whispered, “Go check the mail!” What a real and powerful influence the Holy Ghost can be.
Although I will always remember how I was protected from possible physical harm that day, I am most grateful for the great spiritual protection and guidance the Holy Ghost has given me throughout my life.

In September 2021, before the general conference, I visited the holy temple. I felt truly happy, telling my Heavenly Father about the joy and progress in my life, work, Church, and with my children. Having been divorced for nearly five years, I was content and hoped to remain that way.
The following week, a gentleman named José, that I knew somewhat through his daughter, sent me a friend request on Facebook. I was surprised, but nevertheless, we began chatting. During that time, my grandmother was very ill in the hospital. The night before she passed, I reached out to him for comfort, and he was there for me, even at 5:00 in the morning. His support meant a lot during that difficult time.
After my grandmother’s funeral on October 16, 2021, I asked José to meet and talk. I remember arriving at the restaurant, and he was waiting for me outside; we greeted each other with a hug and talked for several hours. On that first date, he told me, “I want to get married, and if it were with you, even better.”
From then on, we felt an incredible bond, as if we had known each other forever. Just days later, we knew we wanted to be together for life and decided to get married six months later.
Despite some challenges, we married civilly on April 8, 2022, in a small but joyful ceremony. We were sealed for eternity on December 17, 2022, in the Monterrey Mexico Temple.
For 11 incredible months, we shared many special moments until José began feeling unwell. After numerous tests, he was diagnosed with advanced cancer. We held onto hope through treatments, but his health declined rapidly. Despite his physical deterioration, his spirit grew stronger, his testimony deepened, and his gratitude never wavered. We spent our days reflecting on our experiences, feeling God’s love even in the most challenging moments.
Every day, we meditated on what we had learned that day and enjoyed sharing our feelings and the teachings of the Spirit. One of the most important things the Father taught us was patience because we prayed to be patient. We realize He doesn’t give us the gifts we ask for but allows us to develop them as we experience trials. Through the nights of tears and pain, we felt gratitude for the covenants we were able to make in the temple that promised us we would be together after this earthly life and through the eternities. It was the most beautiful blessing we received.
As his condition worsened, we had the chance to say our goodbyes, full of tears but also gratitude for our time together. The night before he passed away, he had a moment of clarity in the hospital. Not only did he see those of us visiting in the room, but he also saw people dressed in white around him and believed he was in the temple. We knew his time on this earth was short. On November 23, 2023, after eight months of fighting, José passed away. I held his hand until his last breath.
The 768 days I spent with José were the most intense, beautiful, and spiritually enriching days of my life, filled with service, adventures, learning, and trusting in the Lord. Through this experience, I learned that God loves and knows us infinitely. He knows the deepest desires of our hearts. I learned that selfless service brings us closer to the Lord and allows us to show love to those we serve. I learned that we can have moments of difficulty and still feel peace in our souls if we trust that God is watching over us.

One winter day as Christmas approached, I thought back to an experience from my boyhood. I was just 11. Our Primary president, Melissa, was an older and loving gray-haired lady. One day at Primary, Melissa asked me to stay behind and visit with her. There the two of us sat in the otherwise empty chapel. She placed her arm about my shoulder and began to cry. Surprised, I asked her why she was crying. She replied: “I don’t seem to be able to encourage the Trail Builder boys to be reverent during the opening exercises of Primary. Would you be willing to help me, Tommy?” I promised her I would. Strangely to me, but not to Melissa, that ended any problem of reverence in that Primary. She had gone to the source of the problem—me. The solution was love.
The years flew by. Marvelous Melissa, now in her nineties, lived in a nursing facility in the northwest part of Salt Lake City. Just before Christmas I determined to visit my beloved Primary president. Over the car radio, I heard the song “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing.” I reflected on the visit made by wise men those long years ago. They brought gifts of gold, of frankincense, and of myrrh. I brought only the gift of love and a desire to say “Thank you.”
I found Melissa in the lunchroom. She stared at her plate of food, teasing it with the fork she held in her aged hand. Not a bite did she eat. As I spoke to her, my words were met with a benign but blank stare. I took the fork in hand and began to feed Melissa, talking all the time I did so about her service to boys and girls as a Primary worker. There wasn’t so much as a glimmer of recognition, far less a spoken word. Two other residents of the nursing home gazed at me with puzzled expressions. At last they spoke, saying: “She doesn’t know anyone, even her own family. She hasn’t said a word in all the years she’s been here.”
Lunch ended. My one-sided conversation wound down. I stood to leave. I held her frail hand in mine, gazed into her wrinkled but beautiful countenance, and said: “God bless you, Melissa. Merry Christmas.” Without warning, she spoke the words: “I know you. You’re Tommy Monson, my Primary boy. How I love you.” She pressed my hand to her lips and bestowed on it the kiss of love. Tears coursed down her cheeks and bathed our clasped hands. Those hands, that day, were hallowed by heaven and graced by God. The herald angels did sing. Outside the sky was blue—azure blue. The air was cool—crispy cool. The snow was white—crystal white. The words of the Master seemed to have a personal meaning never before fully felt: “Woman, behold thy son!” And to His disciple, “Behold thy mother!” (John 19:26–27).

Sister Whang’s work in the camps led her to change her career from nursing to teaching. But after six years, in November 1958, she decided that if she wanted to fulfill her goal to help the poor, she needed more education. Her minister encouraged her to apply for an exchange program at the University of California at Berkeley. She was accepted. Taking the money she had saved from teaching and the promise of a paid sabbatical from her school, she enrolled.
Soon after she arrived in the U.S., Whang Keun-Ok met two Korean students from Brigham Young University who were working at Berkeley for the summer. They encouraged her to go to Provo, Utah. When she visited the BYU campus in the fall of 1959, she fell in love with the mountains and was impressed by the Latter-day Saints’ faith. She spent the next three years there, studying social work. Shortly after she returned to Korea in June 1962, she located the missionaries and was baptized.

“Please, Mom and Dad, bear me your testimonies,” I sobbed.
It was late Christmas Eve, and my mother and father had just retired after fulfilling their duties as Santa’s helpers. I was home from college for the holidays. I hoped the festivities would make me forget the gloom that filled my soul and that I would be able to feel a bit of peace. But even now, on the edge of my parents’ bed, I felt as if the empty feelings would never go away.
It started in the summer vacation. I made friends with a newly baptized girl stationed at the same military base as my parents. Soon after we met, she began sharing her concerns about anti-Mormon literature she was receiving from people where she worked. As summer dragged on, my testimony seemed to be evaporating. As I wrestled to answer her questions, I became spiritually exhausted.
“What if the Church isn’t true?” The thought plagued me. Nothing seemed to have any purpose if it was not true. Why bother to serve others? Why keep the commandments? What was there to be happy about?
Yet two things kept me hanging on. If the Church was not true, then the Book of Mormon would have to be false. I could not imagine giving up my favorite scriptures, stories, and prophets from its pages.
Second, I had received my patriarchal blessing when I was 13. I had come to appreciate the inspiration and love it represented. If I denied the Church’s truthfulness, I would have to discard my blessing.
As I returned to my room that Christmas Eve, I knelt and pled with my Heavenly Father. “Please, I have struggled now for months. I need to know if the Church is true.”
Quietly, as I knelt there in the darkness, a line from my patriarchal blessing filled my mind. “Have the courage and the determination to prepare yourself through study and through prayer.” Study and prayer! Somehow I had forgotten to continually strengthen my testimony as I had fought to save my friend’s.
The next morning, though it was Christmas, I slept in. Anxious to be on with the festivities, my two-year-old brother came to wake me. Sensing from my swollen eyes that something was wrong, he began to sing: “I am a child of God, and he has sent me here.” Then he stopped. “Lisa, sing ‘Child God’ too.”
I sang what I could through my sobbing. “Yes, I am a child of God! He has heard my prayer!” my heart shouted.
That Christmas, Heavenly Father gave me the gift of how to know again that the Church was true and the remembrance of his love for me. Now each Christmas I thank my Father in Heaven, not only for “peace on earth” as the words to the carol go, but also for peace in my heart.

After two years as stake director of public affairs, I was given the opportunity to join the Interfaith Council as a second to Julie Jones who represented the Church. I made it my mission to go to as many other faiths’ places of worship and activity as I could, working around my own church attendance. In reaching out, I came to experience some ‘holy envy’, to see some of the inspiring and faithful worship practices of others that could enrich me; by stepping into their places of worship, it was possible to meld hearts.
I made so many friends among the other faiths, found such goodness out there, that my life has been blessed enormously. It has given me so much hope and optimism for the future. It reminds me that the world is a good place, despite much wickedness and confusion. We know that come the Millennium, good people of all faiths will be there, making the Zion communities for which we all long. I have found many of them here in Wales; they can be found wherever you live.
Fortunately for me, Julie Jones had been the interfaith specialist for the adjoining Merthyr Stake and had done a great job in representing the Church and getting the Interfaith Council for Wales (a voluntary body of faith leaders, chaplains, and representatives of local interfaith bodies) to meet for more than their annual administrative meetings, and to start learning about each other. There were now several activities that I was invited to attend with her, several put on by the Interfaith Council and others put on by the faiths themselves.
It was during this time that I felt inspired to start a Welsh Interfaith Choir, with our stake choir director, Lisa Pengilley, as chorister. It was popular and attracted around 50 people for regular monthly practices. Being involved in this choir and learning to sing the words of MP Jo Cox, who died in 2016, “We have far more in common than that which divides us,” led to many moist eyes in the room, not to mention mine.
I was keen to get as many people as possible at grass roots involved in this work and started a program of events known as Faiths in Focus, where the different faiths invited others to celebrate a festival with them. This was a great chance for members of different faiths and cultures to mix, from which further friendship developed.
These activities culminated in a big event during Interfaith Week in November 2019. (The organisation of this was personally stressful, due to the chair having resigned just three weeks earlier.) The choir sang at our chapel in Cardiff at the end of a wonderful torchlit walk between three other places of worship, supported by around 150 people of different faiths and including an MP, a Welsh Assembly member and its deputy minister. I had spent a lot of time praying for the success of the event and was powerfully reminded that this was His Church and work, and not mine—and I should not worry quite as much.
Then to my immense surprise and shock, after only a year of sitting on the Council, I was elected its chair (Julie had by now been called to important work elsewhere). I was consumed for a short time with many doubts and worries that I would sink amidst all the many things I needed to do, and how could I possibly balance my life? However, in the middle of my anxiety, I found myself reading an Ensign article which touched me, this section in particular:
“In the midst of your personal and diverse needs, to balance life’s pursuits and challenges with your spirituality, you will come to realise that balance is achievable. The Lord does not require you to do something you cannot accomplish …
“As daunting as keeping this balance may seem, I promise that one of the greatest miracles of your mortal existence will be your ability to find balance between your spirituality and other important life roles. This can take place in a way that will allow you not just to maintain your spirituality and life’s important roles at status quo, but also to grow and develop in both of these important areas.”2
Remarkably, it has proved true, and most of the time I manage to keep all the balls in the air. Curiously, ever since being chair, due to COVID-19, the Council has never met in person and yet I would say that we are much closer than ever, as we have met more often using Zoom to try and deal with the needs of people, organising service, encouraging members to take the vaccine, supporting each other’s activities, and so on. And now I am blessed with two able interfaith specialists, one from each stake.
In conclusion, my latest musings follow from recent readings in Come Follow Me (relating how some were commanded to go to Missouri, some to stay, some to sell, some to go on missions, some to teach in their locality, and so on), that we all have different life journeys, different roles to play, and we are all much needed in these roles. There is little point in comparing ourselves.
We each just need to do the best we can in the role we have been given. For me it is interesting that I was placed in my solicitor job, but there is little doubt that it has assisted my path in interfaith work; particularly in the small country Wales, where we have regular opportunity to rub shoulders with politicians, mayors, and their like. But each of our journeys is different. And sometimes God does not reveal the future all at once. And sometimes, things take longer than we think, but He has it all in hand if we just make ourselves available and listen.
Knowing that He is on our side helps us do things that we might never have the courage to do without Him. And it is our job, just like those early Saints who were asked to create Zion out of the wild, wild West, which must have seemed impossible to them, as it may be to us to build Zion here, in our own communities, particularly in troubled times.

As a child I struggled and felt shame for years before deciding to tell someone that I had been abused. When I was 13, I felt an impression that it was time to talk about it. After a service activity at Mutual, I went to a trusted leader, who spoke with me tenderly and took me to see the bishop the same evening. I was relieved by the bishop’s warm countenance as he invited me into his office. I remember feeling the weight of years of secrets lift as my bishop listened. I recall his pure tears as he heard my story. I felt the love of Heavenly Father, and I felt reassured that the abuse was not my fault and that I was still pure and virtuous. This was the beginning of my path to healing, a path that would continue for many years.

During a recent open house and media day for a new house of the Lord, I led a group of journalists on a tour through the sacred structure. I described the purposes of temples in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and responded to their many excellent questions.
Before entering the celestial room, I explained that this particular room in the house of the Lord symbolically represents the peace and beauty of the heavenly home to which we can return after this life. I indicated to our guests that we would not speak while in the celestial room, but I would be happy to answer any questions after we moved to the next stop on the tour.
After exiting the celestial room and as we gathered at the next location, I asked our guests if they had any observations they wanted to share. One of the journalists said with great emotion, “I have never experienced anything like that in my entire life. I did not know quiet like that existed in the world; I simply did not believe such stillness was possible.”
I was struck by both the sincerity and the starkness of this person’s statement. And the journalist’s reaction highlighted one important aspect of stillness—overcoming and tuning out the commotion of our external environment.
As I later pondered the journalist’s comment and reflected on the often hectic pace of our modern lives—the busyness, noise, diversions, distractions, and detours that so often seem to demand our attention—a scripture came to my mind: “Be still, and know that I am God.”

The story of the train is one of Brian’s favorites. One explanation of the drawing is that many years ago an important chief of the tribes who lived near Storybook Canyon was invited by the big chief of the white men (the president of the United States) to visit Washington, D.C. The Indian chief and many important leaders from nearby tribes traveled by steam train to the East. There they spent several weeks as the honored guests of the president.
When the Indians returned from Washington, the chief climbed onto the ledges of Storybook Canyon and there, like his people had done for many generations before him, he carefully carved into the soft rock the story of that important event. The train that the chief drew on the ledge is over ten feet long.

Before joining the ward team, I didn’t know the other teammates very well, but as we played basketball together they quickly became my friends. In fact, all of Skip’s friends from church became my friends—the boys who played basketball and also the girls who were their age. I didn’t know how to dance, so after Mutual activities several of my new friends and I would go to someone’s basement and play old records while they taught me how to dance. I’m still not a good dancer, but they taught me enough so that I could impress Carolyn Lake, another Latter-day Saint girl. After my mission to the Gulf States, Carolyn agreed to marry me.

My brother and a family friend received their mission calls. We drove eight hours to the temple in Freiberg, Germany, so they could receive their temple endowments.
We stayed for five days so my family could do a lot of temple work. There is a hostel for families on the temple grounds. Some other children and I helped the gardener, and he gave us ice cream. We had a lot of fun.
I look forward to next year when I will be 12 and will be able to do baptisms in the temple.
Alicka S., age 11, Slovakia

When the first COVID-19 lockdown was implemented in May, Paisley Stake director of communication, Douglas Yates foresaw that a Scottish government requirement to wear face masks may be imposed on most people as they went about their daily lives.
Using good local contacts, he persuaded six local community organisations, including The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, to donate to procurement funds to allow him to source and purchase fabric, elastic, tape and thread.
Cotton fabric, elastic and thread was sourced from a Glasgow supplier and purchased as they were needed over a five-month period. Volunteer sewers were recruited locally, including some Latter-day Saints, and production of various coloured face masks began. The goal was to produce a sufficient number of good quality, 100 percent cotton face masks which were washable and reusable, at a very modest cost, making them affordable to all families. The price point was set at £1 for a pack of two face masks.
The face masks went on sale at the end of May and by the end of September, when demand waned, more than 5,000 face masks had been bought by local families. Money raised through the sale of the masks was donated back to three charitable organisations which have outreach programmes to help others.
An evaluation of the initiative by the volunteer arm of East Renfrewshire Council judged the face masks initiative to have made a valuable contribution to the community and to have been a great success.

When I was a very small boy, my father found a lamb all alone in the desert. The herd of sheep to which its mother belonged had moved on, and somehow the lamb got separated from its mother, and the shepherd must not have known that it was lost. Because it could not survive alone in the desert, my father picked it up and brought it home. To have left the lamb there would have meant certain death, either by falling prey to the coyotes or by starvation because it was so young that it still needed milk. My father gave the lamb to me and I became its shepherd.
For several weeks I warmed cow’s milk in a baby’s bottle and fed the lamb. We became fast friends. I named him Nigh—why I don’t remember. It began to grow. My lamb and I would play on the lawn. Sometimes we would lie together on the grass and I would lay my head on its soft, woolly side and look up at the blue sky and the white billowing clouds. I did not lock my lamb up during the day. It would not run away. It soon learned to eat grass. I could call my lamb from anywhere in the yard by just imitating as best I could the bleating sound of a sheep.
One night there came a terrible storm. I forgot to put my lamb in the barn that night as I should have done. I went to bed. My little friend was frightened in the storm and I could hear it bleating. I knew that I should help my pet, but wanted to stay safe, warm, and dry in my bed. I didn’t get up as I should have done. The next morning I went out to find my lamb dead. A dog had also heard its bleating cry and killed it. My young heart was broken. I had not been a good shepherd or steward of that which my father had entrusted to me. My father said, “Son, couldn’t I trust you to take care of just one lamb?” My father’s remark hurt me more than losing my woolly friend. I resolved that day, as a little boy, that I would try never again to neglect my stewardship as a shepherd if I were ever placed in that position again.
Not too many years thereafter I was called as a junior companion to a home teacher. There were times when it was so cold or stormy that I wanted to stay home and be comfortable, but in my mind’s ear I could hear my little lamb bleating, and I knew I needed to be a good shepherd and go with my senior companion. In all those many years, whenever I have had a desire to shirk my duties, there would come to me a remembrance of how sorry I was that night so many years ago when I had not been a good shepherd. I have not always done everything I should have, but I have tried.

For example, in a casual conversation I had recently with the president of one of the full-time missions of the Church, he told me that when he received his mission call from the First Presidency, he asked his employers for a leave of absence. Within three years his financial interest in the company in which he was employed would be large enough to support him and his family for the remainder of their lives.

His employers, being non-church members and unfavorable toward his going on a mission, refused to give him a leave of absence. Also, they informed him that he would lose all of his financial benefits in the company if he accepted the mission call. In spite of this terrific financial sacrifice and the loss of his job, he accepted the mission call and is now faithfully serving his church and his God.

I asked the mission president, “Why didn’t you tell the First Presidency of the financial loss you would suffer if you went on a mission at that time and ask them to postpone your call for three years?”

He replied, “The Lord didn’t call me on a mission for three years from now. He called me to serve now. My wife and I decided to obey the call of the Lord and trust that our financial affairs would be taken care of later.”

Such a sacrifice to render Christian service is certainly astounding. It is a modern missionary miracle.

After I joined the Church, my brother talked about missionary work almost every day. He always encouraged me to go on a mission. With his help, I filled out my mission application. I will never forget how happy my older brother and I were then.
One evening my brother called me to come and meet with him after work. He wanted to talk with me about some things relating to my mission. We set a time to meet at the central square.
Around this time parliamentary elections were happening in Mongolia. When we met at the central square, citizens were holding a demonstration because of the election. Police were there, but the demonstration was getting violent and scary, escalating into a riot. A big building and several cars were on fire, and people were screaming. It was frightening.
My brother and I had met far away from the demonstration, but he was worried. He gave me money for a taxi and told me to go straight home. He told me that I would see him the next day. He planned to go back to his home, which was close to where he worked. The taxi arrived, and we said a quick good-bye before I drove away.
I soon found out that the government had closed all the roads because of the rioting. Unable to get to my home, which was in the outskirts of the city, I spent the night at work instead. Armored cars and armed soldiers were everywhere. The fighting worsened, and that night a state of emergency was called. It lasted for four days.
When the state of emergency ended, my brother-in-law came to pick me up. We got to his home to find all our relatives waiting there. They were all crying. I learned that my older brother had been shot as he was walking home.
My heart felt like it was going to burst. My brother died when he was 24 because of that demonstration. The days following my brother’s death were among the most horrible of my life.
It was during this difficult time that I received my mission call. After having been through my conversion, baptism, and mission paper preparation with my brother, I was left to open my mission call alone. To my surprise, I was called to serve in my own country.
Since I was alone, I knelt down right there and thanked my Heavenly Father in prayer. And I prayed for my brother. I cried and cried while I prayed. At this time, when there was so much hurt and loneliness in my heart, I felt the Spirit witness of the plan of salvation more deeply to me, and my faith was strengthened.
Left to right: Amarsanaa and his brothers, Dorjsuren and Amarsaikhan
Even though my brother was not there to open my mission call with me, I will always be grateful to him. I am also very grateful that God has given us the plan of salvation through the Atonement of Jesus Christ. It is the most amazing plan. If we follow this plan, we will feel peace in our hearts.
The scriptures tell us: “O how great the plan of our God! For … the paradise of God must deliver up the spirits of the righteous, and the grave deliver up the body of the righteous; and the spirit and the body is restored to itself again, and all men become incorruptible, and immortal, and they are living souls” (2 Nephi 9:13).
I know that my brother is alive in the spirit world. This knowledge gives me the confidence I need to do well on my mission. I know he will be with me during the difficult times—and so will the Lord.

Our camp near the ice caves at Banff, Alberta, was the scene of my first effort at getting along with guys who couldn’t cook, who argued over who got to light the fire, and who complained more than I did after a long hike. It wasn’t quite like home, but we set up camp and decided on rules to make things run smoothly.
The first night my feet were freezing, and I wanted to climb into my sleeping bag to warm up and go to sleep. I learned a lesson when the patrol leader suggested that a better way would be to do what the group wanted and warm my feet by sitting near the fire for a while instead of going to bed. Another time a fellow hurt his ankle. This meant he had to be carried down to camp. Some of the boys had to stay with him until everyone else finished exploring the caves. We solved the problem of who was to stay, and other similar problems that came up, by the discussion/vote method. “Choose a number from one to one hundred,” the patrol leader would say, and then if you chose the wrong number, you smiled, stayed, and cleaned camp or buried garbage.
Scout camps help fellows become real friends. We learned to help each other, to serve, to give in sometimes, and to abide by the rules of the camp for the benefit of all. If casual friends can get along and have a great time living together by the common consent method, I guess real families ought to be able to, too.

Perhaps one of the most poignant stories, however, was related by Peggy Buchanan, of Waynesboro, Virginia, as she described her first visit to the rest home: “I went to visit Edna. She was in bed and kind of sick. I had a picture of a lily mounted on matboard, with a poem on the back. I was going to read the poem and give her the picture. She didn’t respond much, so I decided to talk to her instead. I asked her if she liked flowers. She said yes and started talking a bit. She is a great lady, and she brought out something in me. I told her about my grandmother’s flowers, and she listened while I shared parts of my life with her, which was very rewarding. Then she fell asleep, and I left. Outside the door, a woman in a wheelchair asked me to pick up her blanket and tuck it in. She cuddled up and snuggled back in her chair and was happy. I got to see about five ladies that day and helped them all. As I was leaving, I went down the back hall and asked if I could visit anybody else. I started to go, when someone called out to me and said to please come in. She reached her hand out and said, ‘Please don’t leave. We love you.’”
Peggy said, “I love you, too,” and spent several more minutes chatting with the woman. As she left, Peggy knew “that lady was happy, and that it meant a lot to her to have people visit.” She also knew that despite the pressures of school, dating, and work, she had found friends and would find time to come back often.