Gospel Story Finder

When the family received people at home, it was always an opportunity for Elder Ribeiro to escape and play football with friends. But when the two missionaries entered the house, Elder Ribeiro felt joy. He felt that joy every time the missionaries taught. This was a pure testimony that he still keeps in his heart. Now, looking back, he recognizes that this was the way God spoke to an 11-year-old boy. He says that when there are difficult moments in his life, he remembers the joy he felt when they joined the Church, and it still gives him a sense of peace.

We of the Council of the Twelve have heard President Ezra Taft Benson describe how his father was called to fill a mission. He left behind his wife, his seven children, the farm, and all that he had. Did he lose anything? President Benson tells how his mother would gather the family around the kitchen table and there, by the flickering light of an oil-fueled lamp, read the letters from her husband. Several times during the reading there would be a pause to wipe away the tears which flowed freely. The result? Each of the children later served a mission.

In about March 1991 in La Ceiba, on the north central coast of Honduras, missionaries were teaching a family, but the family lost interest after two lessons. Then in July, two lady missionaries found a record of the family and went back to visit. When they arrived, the mother in the family was weeping, and they asked her what the problem was. She told them about a dream in which she saw her twenty-year-old son, who had heard the first two lessons with the family but had died a month before the sisters’ visit. In the dream, her son had told her, “You and Dad must get baptized so I can get baptized.” And she asked them, “How can a dead person be baptized?” There was joy in that household when the family heard the rest of the missionary lessons. Four of them were baptized in August 1991.

And, of course, they like to have fun, too. Some of them got a chance one day when a New Era reporter and a Church photographer hit town wanting to see the countryside. Chile Osorno Mission president Lester Haymore graciously consented to serve as chauffeur, six seminary students agreed to be guides, and the trip to Los Saltos de Petrohué (Petrohué Falls) was underway.
The road lay through forests, past soaring mountains, and over rich upland meadows where cattle grazed. The group skirted Lake Llanquihue, largest lake in Chile and the home of slab-sided lunker trout. They rode through villages where oxen plodded and towns where automobiles rolled. In deep forests of green sunlight, hawks carved the sky overhead, and bird songs could be heard from the trees. Paced by guitar chords, the students sang as exuberantly as the birds.
Canta, canta, pajarito,
Canta, canta tu canción;
Canta, que la vida es triste
Y tu cantar me alegra el corazón.*
At Petrohué Falls, stone cliffs rose towering, precipice on precipice, like the edge of the world, and forests marched away to snow-crested volcanoes. The waters of the Petrohué River were an indescribable powder blue that taxed belief. This was no reflection of the sky, but the color of the water itself, a color to be found only in dreams and in Chile.
Through a thousand channels in the black volcanic rock, these menthol-blue waters frothed and roared downward into turquoise foam and delicious blue thunder. The rock walls below sent a sweet blue mist high in the air. The young men and women stood on a bridge over a fork of the falls, stung by the mist, shaken by the thunder, looking and looking and never getting enough of this magic river.
Their dark eyes filled with blue wonder; and with a hundred pauses for one last over-the-shoulder look, the students went back to their van and followed the Petrohué upstream to its source, Todos los Santos Lake. The same impossible blue as the river (varying to cold ultramarine in its depths), it stretched away to snow-capped mountains across the border in Argentina. Along its sides, towering mountains hunched down like shaggy green dragons taking long blue drinks.
Across a narrow arm of water, where the lake became the river, was a cabin. Behind it tall timber climbed the mountain to the sky. Before it rich alpine green ran down to the wind-rippled lake. On the shore was a pale blue rowboat with one oar dipped in sunlight. Just seeing the place brought thoughts of storybooks and enchanted forests, and a question. What would it be like to look out those windows every morning and see the Andes-topping sun warming the back of dragons—or to climb into the pale blue boat and row off between the deep blue sky and the soft blue waves?
Wrapped in the magic, the group walked along the black volcanic shore. Beyond, the white cones of Osorno Volcano wedged the sky. As they walked they threw volcanic rocks into the water, frolicked with a German shepherd that happened past, and sang the songs of Chile. Meanwhile, the sun curved down the sky, silvering the blue water and announcing that it was time to start for home. Reluctantly, they did.

Kate Hansen and her family haven’t had a real plan for her participation in luge. They seem to take and evaluate opportunities as they come. Heidi, Kate’s older sister, explains, “My brothers and I thought it was funny because she was luging, and no one really knows what that is. We thought she would only do it for a while, but then she would do well and get invited to train or to be on teams, so our family would say, ‘I guess she’ll move up.’”

Eventually Kate started to get noticed. In her first junior international competition at the junior level, she came in third, shocking everyone because she was so young and inexperienced. A few months later, at 15, she came in first at the Junior World Championship. She was only the third American to ever win. She now spends most of the winter months living with the team in Europe and competing on the Junior World Cup Tour. Her name has started rising to the top.

With the upcoming 2010 Winter Olympics, Kate will be invited to participate in the Olympic trials. There are only three slots on the team, and most of the competitors are much older. Kate finished sixth overall at the end of last season and looks forward to competing for a spot on the team. Whether she makes it or not, Kate has had fun participating and succeeding in luge, but it will not become the only focus in her life.

While growing up, Isaac Nii Ayi Kwei Martey was introduced to the Hindu religion by his father. He came in contact with The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints while he was staying with his uncle in Cape Coast. He met LDS missionaries as they were rescheduling an appointment with a neighbor. He approached them and consented to listen to the restored gospel. Isaac had in mind to thwart the message of the restored gospel. When the missionaries visited with him, they gave him the Book of Mormon and he loved the teachings he found there. He genuinely wanted to learn more.
He decided to take the challenge of praying about the Book of Mormon. He persistently prayed to know if it was true and he got his confirmation three weeks later. After the witness of the Holy Ghost, he was faced with a new challenge.
He informed his mother about his desire to get baptized and join the LDS Church, but she threatened to disown him if he ever did. All his relatives were against the idea of him joining the Church. Isaac had been admitted to study for his bachelor’s degree at Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology. Isaac told the Cape Coast missionaries of his plan to attend church at Kumasi without the knowledge of his family. Isaac had studied with them for a little over a year without getting the opportunity to attend church. While in Kumasi, he looked for the LDS Church but could not find it. A student colleague directed him to the LDS Church about a month later. Isaac again met with the Kumasi missionaries. They were impressed with his knowledge of the restored gospel, but this was no surprise, as he had been taught much by missionaries while in Cape Coast.
The missionaries fixed a baptismal interview date with Isaac. He agreed and got baptized on October 16, 2010. However, he kept all this from his family. Isaac had the privilege of performing a proxy baptism in the temple when he came to Accra for Christmas vacation. He shared his experience in the temple: “When I got to the temple, I felt so much about being different and I remember reading a talk in the waiting room by President Monson. ‘Dare to be a Mormon; Dare to stand alone. Dare to have a purpose firm; Dare to make it known’ (“Dare to Stand Alone,” Liahona, Nov. 2011, 61).” This impression compelled him to inform his mother about his newfound Church membership and the blessings he had acquired. Breaking the news, his mother was furious initially, but subsequently, she began to understand and accept his decision to be a Latter-day Saint. However, his extended family was unforgiving of his decision.
Isaac’s faith in the gospel began to enlarge, even to extent of desiring to serve a full-time mission. He decided to save some money toward such ecclesiastical ambition. His mother pleaded with him against it while his other relatives warned him to rescind his decision when he told them about his desire to serve the Lord for two years. Isaac stood firm and proceeded to work toward his mission goal rather than heeding to whims and caprices of family members.
He submitted his missionary forms and received the call to serve in Nigeria Port Harcourt Mission. Seven days after arriving at the missionary training center, he was informed that his mother had passed away. Having already lost his dad as a 15-year-old, his mother’s death made him an orphan. It was a really difficult time for him, and he was faced with the choice to either return home or continue with his mission. He prayed concerning this and sought counsel from his leaders. He finally decided on continuing his mission. He informed his family about his decision, and as expected, it was not well received. An uncle told him that if he went ahead with his mission, he should not consider himself as family to him. Even though he had the option to return home for his mother’s burial, he resolved to keep serving the Lord after he had read few passages in the scriptures:
“And another also said, Lord, I will follow thee; but let me first go bid them farewell, which are at home at my house.
“And Jesus said unto him, No man, having put his hand to the plough, and looking back, is fit for the kingdom of God” (Luke 9:61–62).
He served his mission faithfully and extended for a few more weeks before returning. Even though he hasn’t been accepted by his extended family, Isaac firmly believes that the Lord is mindful of the little things we do on this earth and the unending blessings we gain as we obey His commandments. “We all have different challenges, and the Lord has prepared our backs to these challenges that we face. … All He requires from us is a broken heart and a contrite spirit,” he says. Even though he is unsure of what lies ahead for him, he knows that if he relies on the Savior, he will be able to achieve all things.

It was Josef’s first time at Filip’s house. They had a great time building a cardboard spaceship. They even colored awesome flames on it. When Filip’s mom called them for dinner, Josef followed Filip into the kitchen.
“I’ll say grace,” said Filip’s dad.
What does that mean? Josef wondered. He watched Filip and his family as they each touched their forehead, then the middle of their chest, then the left side, then the right. Josef had never seen anyone do that before.
Filip held his hand out. Josef looked around and saw that the rest of Filip’s family were holding hands and bowing their heads. Are they about to pray? Is that what it means to “say grace”? Josef wondered.
Josef didn’t want to hurt Filip’s feelings, so he took Filip’s hand. Filip’s dad took Josef’s other hand and then started to pray.
“Bless us, O Lord …”
Before they sat down, Filip and his family touched their foreheads and chests as they had before.
When Josef got home, Mom asked about his day.
“Did you have a good time?” Mom asked.
“Yes,” Josef said quietly. He did have a good time. The spaceship was awesome, and the hamburgers were yummy. But something was bothering him.
Mom looked at him more closely. “You don’t sound OK. Is something wrong?”
“Well …”
Josef had so many questions! He kept thinking about that prayer. Why was it different from how he and his family prayed?
“Mom,” he asked, “how did you pray before you joined the Church?” Josef told her about Filip’s family’s prayer.
“It sounds like they’re Catholic, like I used to be,” Mom said. “They were making the sign of the cross with their hands. See how it looks like a cross? It’s a reminder that Jesus died for us.”
Josef smiled. “So Filip believes in Jesus too?”
“That’s right,” Mom said. “Do you remember what Filip’s dad said in the prayer?”
Josef had to think about it. “He thanked God for the gifts He gives us … and he talked about Christ!”
“See?” Mom said with a smile. “We’re not so different. I’m glad you could pray with Filip’s family.”
A few days later, Filip came over to play. They were playing outside when Dad called them in for dinner. Josef’s stomach rumbled as they ran to the kitchen.
“I’m starving!” said Josef.
“Me too,” said Filip.
Everyone took their places around the table. Filip sat next to Josef. Filip made the sign of the cross and reached for Josef’s hand.
“This is how we pray at our house,” said Josef. “We fold our arms, close our eyes, bow our heads, and pray.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“Easy,” said Filip.
Josef closed his eyes and smiled. He was glad he could pray with his friend.

When seminary started my freshman year, I was pumped and ready for it—but that excitement lasted probably about a week and a half. By then I was just tired, and I was going to bed late and waking up so early. Every morning, I just thought, “This is such a bummer.” And even though seminary was held at my kitchen table in my own home, I didn’t want to go. It was becoming such a burden for me.

Eventually I said to myself, “Why am I even going? I don’t need to go!” But then I decided to change my attitude. I started writing down something I’d learned every morning, and I did that for the rest of the year. At the end of the year, I read the things I’d written. Going to seminary and writing down insights every day helped me appreciate seminary and have a stronger testimony of the gospel—especially when I read through all of it and realized how much I’d grown.
Annie P., Texas, USA

I want to share with you some of the great blessings the Book of Mormon can bring to us. The Book of Mormon can and does change lives. After our son John received his mission call to Japan, he said to me, “Dad, before I enter the Missionary Training Center, I am going to read the Book of Mormon twice.” I said to John, “That is quite a demanding goal.” I felt his resolve and made the decision to follow his example. I began reading early each morning. A few days later when I came home from work, John said to me, “I caught up with you today.” I asked, “What do you mean?” His response: “I caught up to where you are in the Book of Mormon. You left it open on your desk.” The next morning after my reading, I felt inspired to turn about 150 pages past where I was. I left my Book of Mormon open where he could not miss it and went to work. After a meeting that morning, I checked my voice mail. The very first message said, “Yeah, sure, Dad!”

Why this story? As I watched my son read from the Book of Mormon, I began to see a special change in his life as he prepared to enter the Missionary Training Center. That experience has anchored my son to the gospel of Jesus Christ.

I have just recently graduated from high school and turned 18. During my last year of school, I met a very special young man. I had wanted to tell him everything about the Church, but I didn’t know how to go about it.
One day I received the temple marriage issue of the New Era. All of the stories were very interesting. But one particular story seemed to stand out the most—“A Marvelous Work.” It was about a young woman who gave the Book of Mormon to a friend and introduced him to the Church. I read over this story a few times before I decided to let my friend take the New Era and read through it. I also decided to give him a Book of Mormon.
After doing so, my family and I decided to send the missionaries to his home. Not too long after that, he was baptized. He received the priesthood and serves as second assistant in the priests quorum.
I would like to thank the people who write for the New Era, and especially those who write articles pertaining to missionary work, including “A Marvelous Work.”
Beverly BradenApple Valley, California

Malcolm Tent was still a young man when he began putting rocks in his pockets. It started one day when his boss, Mr. Gump, got angry at him for something that wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t yell back at his boss, because he might lose his job. In fact, there wasn’t anything he could do except be angry inside. “But,” he thought, “I’m not going to forget this. No way.” On the way home from the bus stop that night, he thought to himself, “I’ve got to remember how angry I am. I don’t want to forget in the morning.” Suddenly he had an idea. There was a small rock on the sidewalk in front of him. He picked it up and said softly to himself, “I’ll keep this rock in my pocket to remind me of how unfair Mr. Gump was.”
And that’s what he did. That night he put the rock on his dresser with his keys and comb. The next morning, when he got dressed to go to work, into his pocket went the ugly gray rock.
All that day and the next, the heavy bulge in his pocket reminded him that he should be angry at Mr. Gump. Strangely, Mr. Gump seemed to have forgotten about the whole thing. But not Malcolm Tent. Oh no. In fact, during the next two weeks, Mr. Gump made Malcolm angry several more times, and Malcolm decided he’d better get a rock for each time so he could keep better track of these things.
And so it was that Malcolm Tent’s trousers began to look baggy and strange. But at least he remembered not to forgive Mr. Gump or be friendly or anything like that.
Maybe if Malcolm had only collected rocks when he got angry at Mr. Gump, this thing might have died out and been forgotten. But there was the taxi driver who drove right by and left Malcolm standing in the rain. Into his pocket went a shiny, rain-slick pebble from the gutter. (Of course, Malcolm had no idea of the taxi driver’s name, but it didn’t matter.) Then there was the grocery clerk who shortchanged him. And the newspaper delivery boy who threw his paper into a rain puddle. And the neighbor whose dog barked late at night. And … well, Malcolm discovered that there were all kinds of people and things in the world that can bother you.
Speaking of discoveries, Malcolm also discovered that when all of your pockets are full of rocks, a belt won’t hold up your pants. (He discovered that fact while his arms were full of grocery sacks.) So he made himself a sturdy pair of leather suspenders to help hold up his pants.
But soon the time came when he didn’t have enough pockets in his pants, so he had to wear a jacket everywhere he went—the kind of jacket with lots of pockets. And it wasn’t long before the jacket looked as funny as his trousers. And smelled just as dusty. And got even heavier because it had more pockets.
Anyone else might have given up at this point, but not Malcolm. He bought one of those big sturdy briefcases like salesmen use. After all, when you start to look for them, there are all kinds of things in life that can bother you. And when you are always tired from carrying so many rocks around, you get angry even easier.
Years went by, and Malcolm’s collection of reminder rocks spilled out of his pockets and briefcase and all over his house. He had rocks on the kitchen sink, and in his closets, and all over the floors. A few times he even put a rock in his bed so he could remember to be angry during the night. Let’s face it. Malcolm had become a strange, unpleasant man. And most people avoided him when they could, which made him even touchier. Rocks are not very good company. They are hard and dusty, and in the winter they are very cold.
Now, Malcolm might have gone on to become a mean old man completely buried in rocks. But one day he received a telephone call from a geology professor at the university. Dr. Igneous had heard of Malcolm’s large rock collection (who hadn’t?), and he wanted to bring his geology class on a visit to see it.
“Well,” thought Malcolm, “at last here is someone who appreciates my rocks. Wait until they see all of these reminders of how often people have wronged me.” An appointment was made for the next Saturday, and Malcolm spent the next few evenings dusting and arranging.
At last Saturday came, and at two o’clock in the afternoon the doorbell rang. There, on the porch, stood Professor Igneous and seven of his best students, all dressed in their best outdoor clothing. Several had rock hammers dangling from their belts, and one or two carried cameras. And everyone carried a notebook and pencil.
Professor Igneous himself looked rather ordinary. But he had a ready smile. And his face was deeply tanned from spending years out of doors. As a matter of fact, there was something about his eyes, too. They looked deep and dark, but they had a sparkle that said he enjoyed life. And when he looked at you, it was the same look he gave mountains and rock formations—as though he were trying to peer inside. This was a scientist who liked people at least as much as he liked rocks.
As the professor and students stepped into the rock-filled living room, Malcolm expected to hear oohs and aahs. You know, like you hear at a fireworks show. Instead, there was an uncomfortable silence. The group just stood there looking around, nudging a few of the rocks with their toes. Then the students looked at their professor, waiting for him to say something. After all, this was not the collection of beautiful gems and minerals they had expected. These were ordinary hunks of limestone and sandstone and quartzite. Why, there were even chunks of broken asphalt and concrete!
Finally, Professor Igneous spoke: “Ahem,” he cleared his throat. “Perhaps you would be so good as to explain your collection to us, Mr. Tent. I can honestly say we’ve never seen another collection quite like it.” In the background, his students nodded in agreement.
“Well,” Malcolm began nervously, “I, uh, well … that is . …” It had been a long time since he had said much of anything to anyone.
Professor Igneous could see how nervous Malcolm was. The poor man kept swallowing so hard his Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down. (Some of the students thought he was trying to swallow one of his rocks.)
Trying to help, the professor said, “Why not begin by telling us why you chose these rocks.” He picked up an ordinary gray rock that looked like most of the others. “Why did you choose this particular piece of limestone for your collection?”
“Oh, is that what it is? Well, I think that’s the one I picked up when the laundry didn’t have my shirts ready on time. Wait! No, I think that’s for the time my favorite television show got canceled. Or was it the time I ran inside to answer the phone, and the caller had the wrong number? Or … “Here he paused to search his memory. There were so many rocks! And they were so much alike—gray, hard, cold, dusty. Suddenly, Malcolm realized that that was all Professor Igneous and his students could see. To everyone else these were just plain old everyday rocks. Malcolm had to explain, to make them see.
“There’s more to these rocks than you might think. Every one of these rocks represents a time somebody made me mad, or wasn’t very nice to me, or hurt my feelings. I picked up these rocks as reminders.”
Now the professor and his students were really amazed. They all began to speak at once: “I never heard of such a thing.” “How long have you been doing this?” “Can I take a picture of you with your rocks?” “Some field trip!”
Professor Igneous spoke again, and everyone became quiet. “Well, Mr. Tent,” he began slowly, “I must admit you’re the first person I ever met who collected rocks for that reason.” He paused and looked around. “You’ve been very kind to invite us into your home. And we don’t want to take up too much of your time. But do you suppose that while we are here we might see your other collection?”
A blank look came over Malcolm’s face. “I don’t have any other collection.”
“Oh, I see. I just thought you might have collected something to remind you of the nice things people have done and said. But, well, never mind. Perhaps we ought to be going now. Thank you so much for allowing us to come into your home. I think my students have learned something important.”
He gathered his students around him, and they moved toward the door. Then, turning to Malcolm once more, the professor said, “We still have some time left this afternoon. Could you perhaps direct us to some of the other people with similar collections?”
Once more Malcolm was unready with an answer. “I don’t know of any other collections like mine.”
“Oh. I just thought that perhaps some of the people you know would have collected something when you … I mean … if you ever … uh … annoyed them.” Then, quickly, he added, “Yes, well, good-bye, and thanks again.”
Without waiting, the professor and his students turned and marched off down the sidewalk.
Long after they were gone, Malcolm stood there, looking just like one of his rocks—cold and gray and very still. Within him, the professor’s words echoed. Around him, the house was silent. Too silent. He suddenly realized how pleasant the students’ friendly chatter had been. How long since he had had a friendly talk with anyone? Come to think of it, did he even have any friends anymore?
Then, before he could stop it, the thought came into his mind: “I’m becoming just like my rocks.” As Malcolm sat alone in the dark, he finally realized what unpleasant companions rocks are. And how unpleasant he … Well, some thoughts are hard enough to think without actually saying them.
For several days, for hours at a time, Malcolm sat still as a rock, thinking rock-hard thoughts. You might have thought he had finally become petrified. But deep inside him, something was waking up and beginning to grow, like a seed in the spring soil.
If you think it’s hard to find a home for extra kittens or such, you should try finding someone who wants a bunch of very ordinary, dusty, gray rocks. In fact, just try gathering them up when they are scattered all over. Malcolm tried to hire cleaning ladies. They all told him the same thing: “I don’t do windows, and I don’t pick up rocks!” A “Free Rocks” sign in his window brought no results. Finally he realized that this was something he would have to do himself.
The neighbors still talk about the time Malcolm backed a rented trailer up to his front porch, and about the tremendous cloud of dust that rose as the rocks were shoveled out into the trailer. They also talk about how much better Malcolm looks, how his clothes fit so much better (has he lost weight?), and how he actually smiles now.
Malcolm’s neighbors also point with pride to his attractive yard, with trees and flowers and bushes planted everywhere. They don’t have any explanation for his sudden interest in gardening. But one neighbor, Mrs. Kratz, did notice that after she had taken a piece of cake to him, Malcolm went out to the flower bed and planted a single seed.

December was spent meeting people, primarily through asking about rooms to rent, even if they did not need one. “We made a good many friends,” they reported.
In January 1884 they began to hold small meetings in homes, mainly at the home of a widow named Mahrburg. But then “the adversary began to wake up,” said Elder Biesinger, and their contacts started to shun them. Mrs. Mahrburg was warned by the police that if she permitted Mormons to hold another meeting in her house she would be prosecuted and the missionaries arrested. But police activity did not prevent the two elders from holding a baptismal service in the Simmering Canal on February 2 for P. Chalewa, a native of Poland, and Josephine Jellinek, an Austrian. This brought Church membership in Austria to three, Elder Hammer having baptized Paul Haslinger of Lambach on November 25 before joining Elder Biesinger.

In those early years of artificial kidney development, the expense and lack of facilities meant that treatment was restricted to a few fortunate people. Kidney center personnel were responsible to determine who would receive treatment and who would not. As I approached the artificial kidney center, my application seemed a bit lacking. I was, after all, single with no dependents, no real income, and no resources. But I did have something that encouraged me—a super family. And the doctors knew it. They reasoned that because I had such close and supportive family, I would always have people around to help take care of me. This made me a good candidate for a new experimental kidney machine which can be used at home—and perhaps someday, even for a kidney transplant.

I learned a great deal during those three years I was on the kidney machine. My faith in the Lord grew as I watched his hand guiding my life. I was close to my family, and in spite of the kidney machine I loved life more than ever before. I had never been so free, nor as happy. Yet, I yearned to be rid of my mechanical companion.

This goal, like so many others, became a family project. We often spent family home evenings and family interviews discussing alternatives to being on the kidney machine and the justifications for a kidney transplant.
I recall one memorable week when the family was all together after an extended period of separation. Missions, marriages, and college had scattered us across the globe for a number of years. Then Christmas of 1970, like a magnet, brought us all back home again.
During that week we spent a great deal of time talking about my health. We had all researched the possibility of a kidney transplant, and each member of the family had personally volunteered to donate one of their kidneys to me.
One afternoon while playing basketball with my brothers, I stepped back for a moment and watched them play. Each was a superb athlete. Craig had been a contender for the Olympic swimming team; he was now married and had a family. Barry had been one of the best football players in the state and was now an expert snow skier. And Kevin was one of the best high school basketball players in the state.
“Thanks anyway,” I thought as my eyes brimmed with tears. “I love you all for the desires of your hearts, but I simply don’t feel right about it.”
With Christmas over, Barry returned to Brigham Young University and Craig and his family returned to their home in California. I eagerly busied myself with missionary labors, and all returned to normal.
Then one evening a marvelous and unexpected event occurred during family prayers. My father said the prayer, and when the prayer was completed we all knew what was to transpire. With tears in our eyes we discussed our feelings. Yes, each had felt the same confirmation. We should go ahead with the transplant.
In retrospect, that decision may have been the greatest miracle of all. Logic and personal feelings just didn’t matter anymore; we knew what the Spirit had directed.
That evening I made a long-distance phone call to my brother Barry in Provo, Utah, and talked with him about the transplant. I explained to him the answer we had received and asked him to pray about it. But Barry eagerly accepted immediately saying he had prayed about it many times and was simply awaiting my call. I told him we could wait until June, but the next day he dropped his classes and came home.
After Barry arrived, however, the surgical team discovered that he had developed an immunity to Parrot’s Fever while serving his mission in Mexico, and they feared a reaction to the medications necessary after the transplant. To Barry’s deep disappointment, it was determined that his kidney was not transplantable.
About two weeks later, we had another of those extra special family home evenings. And again we felt impressed to proceed with a kidney transplant. Again I went to the phone and called a brother, this time my older brother, Craig. Again I received a positive response.
Within a week, Craig, his wife Penny, and their one-year-old son Jason flew in from California. That same afternoon I went to the hospital, and Craig was admitted the next day.
Our names were placed on the prayer rolls of six temples from London to Los Angeles by friends of the family.
The night before surgery we held family home evening in my hospital room. At one point I tried to tell the family that it didn’t seem worth the risk or sacrifice required of my brother to attempt that transplant. But Dad looked at me soberly, put a hand on my shoulder, and softly said, “We all feel that this is what the Lord wants, and your brother is proud to be able to do it. Remember, Brent, we’ll all live to see you running across the park lawn again, with that large grin of yours.”
Surgery began the next morning at 6:00 A.M. with my nurse giving me a sedative before the operation. At the end of the day I opened my eyes to see my parents close to my bed. I was back in my hospital room, and I knew everything was all right.
I remember seeing other members of the family briefly that evening. But I couldn’t find Craig. “How is Craig? Where is my brother?”
A familiar hand rested on my shoulder, and I heard my mother’s voice: “Brent, Craig is fine and your new kidney is fine, too.” With those words I went to sleep. “Thanks, Father in Heaven. Thanks, Craig. Thanks a lot, family.”
During those first few days after my transplant, I got a feeling that something was wrong when I looked at the troubled faces of my parents and brothers. All was not well with Craig. By the third day I was sure he had died and no one would tell me about it. Actually, he hadn’t died. But he was very ill and having a difficult time recovering from his part of the surgery.
On the afternoon of the third day, my father and brother carried Craig to see me. He was the color of a ripe banana. With a half smile on his face he said, “How’s it going, brother?” At that moment, seeing his pain and considering his sacrifice, I knew what love was and what having a family meant.
Two days later, the medical reports indicated that my body was rejecting the new kidney. It appeared that we had failed. Drastic medical measures were taken, but with little success. As it turned out, the most powerful aid of all was prayer. Etched deeply into my soul is the memory of many nights when family members knelt around my bed and one by one prayed to our Father in Heaven. I listened as my brothers wept, praying that I might live. Then, silently, none of us able to speak, we’d touch hands to say good-night. And they were good nights, for we each experienced the pure love of Christ.
My body’s rejection of the kidney was finally overcome; Craig, too, rapidly regained his health and strength. Today, my doctors report that I am one of the healthiest kidney recipients in history. I have a beautiful wife, two sons, and a daughter. Craig, now the father of three, lives a normal life surrounded by people who still don’t know why he made that quick trip to Seattle, Washington, several years ago.
I can testify that one of the greatest joys of mortality comes when a family is spiritually united in seeking the Lord’s aid and comfort. I am awed by the love displayed in my behalf. When I think about my family I think about the Lord, who is the true head of our gospel family. I think about his love, his devotion, and his willingness to sacrifice for us. And I feel that I have gained a special testimony and appreciation of the atonement of Jesus Christ, for I know what the love and sacrifice of an older brother can mean.

Margaret stood on the deck and looked out at the blue ocean around her. The ship rocked up and down on giant waves.
Margaret’s family had sold almost all they had to sail to the United States. The trip would take six weeks. Margaret was sad to leave their home in Wales. But she was excited about her new home too.
A few months before, Margaret’s family had met missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Margaret and her parents were baptized. And now they were going to join the other Saints in Zion.
The trip had been hard so far. Margaret’s mother was ill. And her father was sick from years of working in the coal mines. So Margaret took care of them. She took care of her little brother and baby sister too. It was a big job. But Margaret didn’t complain.
Sometimes the boat rocked so much on the water that Margaret’s stomach felt sick. Other times she was afraid. When she was scared, she squeezed her eyes shut and asked Heavenly Father for help.
One day Margaret heard shouting. “There’s a leak in the ship! We’re sinking!”
Everyone panicked. The captain told everyone to find buckets. People scooped buckets of water to dump over the side of the ship.
Margaret wanted to help. She knelt by her bed and prayed as hard as she could. “Please Heavenly Father, help me think of some way to help.”
A peaceful feeling filled Margaret’s heart. She knew Heavenly Father was watching over her. He would help them.
Then she had an idea.
She pulled two white wool blankets off her bed and ran to find the captain. “Here,” she said. “Put these in the hole to stop the leak.”
The captain liked Margaret’s idea. He stuffed the blankets into the hole. Then he poured a big bucket of hot tar over them. When the tar cooled, the leak was sealed!
“Thank you for giving up your blankets,” said the captain. “Your quick thinking saved the day.”
Margaret smiled. She knew Heavenly Father had answered her prayers. Her pioneer journey was just starting, and she knew He would help her each step of the way.

In the first week of August I went to the Idaho Falls Temple to be sealed to my parents for time and eternity. While my parents went through a session before the sealing, I sat in the youth waiting room of the temple. This was a time for quiet reflection, and while I sat there, I read through the entire September 1978 issue of the New Era. This was very inspiring to me. I especially enjoyed the story “Religion, Rebellion, and Rebecca.” When I returned home from the temple, I dug out all the New Eras from the past year or so and began reading them. Since then the New Era has become an important part of my life, and I look forward to it each month. I was surprised to find that one of my best friends is also an avid reader of the New Era. We have been trying to get others to read this fine Church magazine.
Lonny NorthrupOntario, Oregon

Ten-year-old Jesse Brewster of Lakeview, Oregon, made a step toward keeping his baptismal covenants by following the commandment, “Thou shalt not steal.” (See Mosiah 13:22; Ex. 20:15.) While Jesse was at the store with his mother, he saw a candy bar he really wanted but did not have any money to buy it with. He knew that his brother had some money saved in his room, and when he got home, he took some of that money, went back to the store, and nearly bought the candy. He realized at the last minute how wrong that would be. He put the candy bar back and bravely confessed to his brother.

By being honest, Jesse showed that he was willing to live by the covenants that he had made when he was baptized. He learned from this experience that “following what I know is right is always better than a candy bar.”

Even without Isabela Quiroga to worry about, that day was every bit as discouraging as all the others I had struggled through in Bolivia. Like every other morning of my week-old mission, the heavy rain of a monsoon squall had quickly beat the dirt until it danced in muddy splashes, and just as quickly had rolled away over the flat horizon. By the time Elder Skye and I started our trudge through the muddy streets of Montero, the sun was milking the moisture out of the ground in a heavy vapor that rolled over our skin. As usual, Elder Skye led the way while I followed behind, wiping the sweat off my face and picking at the shirt plastered to my body.
“Why do we have to go back there?” I asked him. “After all, she said ‘Come by if you can.’ Let’s just go home for lunch and tell her we were busy.”
“You don’t understand,” Elder Skye told me. “We’ve gotta go back. You’ll see how it is after you’ve been here awhile.”
The only thing I understood right then was that I wouldn’t be able to eat anything at Isabela’s house. As I followed Elder Skye’s confidently squared shoulders through streets I didn’t ever expect to be able to tell apart, I longed for the assurance I had felt one short week before.
On the flight down from Miami, I had joked with the other missionaries about the stern warnings we received from our teachers in the Missionary Training Center. Our brash enthusiasm let us laugh at all their talk of strange foods, alien customs, and a way of life that was far less comfortable than the one we’d known. Nothing could intimidate brand-new missionaries with new suits, shiny shoes, and a spiritual high—at least that’s what I thought.
That confidence in my ability to cope began to fade almost as soon as I stepped off the jet into the thick, moist air of the Bolivian lowlands. The first day in mud-bound Montero, my cozy optimism was replaced by shock almost as fast as my shiny new shoes were replaced with knee-high rubber boots. Not one sight, sound, or sensation was familiar. The language everyone spoke bore little resemblance—in either speed or accent—to the Spanish I had been practicing. There was everything to learn from scratch. When I arrived in Montero from the mission home, I couldn’t even hail a taxi, and ended up dragging my suitcases across town to meet my companion.
Sights, sounds, smells. Learning to clap before entering a dooryard, making purchases in a bustling market without checkout stands. The hundreds of new images of that first week kept me awake at night, trying to sort them all out.
That particular morning, however, it was a stateside memory that preoccupied me. As we neared Isabela’s house, I was remembering with recently acquired fear that someone had told me, “Don’t eat in the homes of the poor people.”
For several days before Isabela’s lunch invitation, my maladjustment to Bolivia had reached the point where I couldn’t even eat in our own apartment. My appetite disappeared every time I found myself facing a plate of guiso or a strangely-spiced soup. Even the vaguely American dishes prepared by that kind sister couldn’t overcome the problems of a stomach—and a mind—that had never been south of the border before.
Just when I began to seriously worry that I might not be able to make it in Bolivia, Isabela invited us to come to lunch the next day and doubled my distress. The home where Isabela lived with her five children was the type I had been warned about. The adobe walls of the lot enclosed a mud courtyard, two rooms with only beds and chairs for furniture, and a ceilingless kitchen where the clay tiles showed above the rafters. The money Isabela made selling vegetables in the marketplace couldn’t pay for anything more.
On our previous visits, Elder Skye and I had sat on the only two chairs while Isabela and her children crowded the beds. In their rapt attention to the discussions, they didn’t notice how uncomfortable I was in those meager surroundings. That uneasiness, however, was nothing compared to the alarm I felt when Elder Skye accepted the invitation to actually eat in their home. Twenty-four anxious hours later, as we headed down her street, I was so afraid my stomach hurt.
As we approached the house, the little boy watching the street ran inside to let Isabela know we were coming. At the open gate, we paused and Elder Skye clapped his hands, bringing the boy flying out again to take us both by the hand and laugh, “Pasen, pasen no mas!” “Come in, just come in!” Elder Skye laughed with him as he tugged us across the flat stepping-stones dropped in the mud, and I looked around the courtyard and remembered that the elders in the mission home had said the water in Montero had amoebas.
At the door to the kitchen, we paused to kick the clods from our boots. In the middle of the room Isabela and her sons and daughters stood around a table set with only two places. With a guilty feeling, I realized she had never doubted we would come.
“Pasen, sientense.” “Come in, sit down.”
With simple grace, Isabela offered us her two chairs, her smile showing her pleasure that we had come to eat at her table. Isabela was a short, quiet woman with the harshness of Bolivian widowhood etched in her face, her sinewy arms, and her strong brown hands. Nevertheless, there was beauty in the dignity, strength, and kindness evident in the features inherited from her Inca ancestors.
Once we were seated, the children clustered around the table, their smiles flashing in their dark faces. They joked with Elder Skye and laughed when I didn’t understand the Quechua words they mingled with their Spanish. Coming back from the stove, Isabela shooed them away and set a steaming bowl of gray mush before each of us. With the poetic phrasing of her Kolla people, she told us, “He esperado su buenallegada con trigo.” “I have awaited your good arrival with wheat.” Then, while our sweat dripped onto her table, she asked us to forgive her for not having anything better to offer.
I almost trembled as I looked at that bowl of boiled wheat. But then a strange thing happened. As Elder Skye offered a blessing and I sat with my eyes closed, another voice replaced his in my mind. “I have awaited your good arrival with wheat.” Amidst all the jumbled images of the past seven days, those words were something I finally understood. I realized how much that gruel meant to the family, and that they would wait until we left to share what remained in the pot. When Elder Skye finished, I stared at my bowl for a long time, and then, with a look at Isabela’s smile, I ate the wheat.
In the months that followed that meal, I learned to love Bolivia and its food. I ate chicharrón and picante, and not only survived, but thrived. I also grew to love the people I met, and again and again during my stay there, I experienced through them the joy the gospel brings to those who embrace it. Isabela’s act of Christ-like love helped me to put aside my own cares and serve others, and I never forgot the words that were so sweet and delicious to a lonely and discouraged soul.

Jenni Lynn was still worried about yesterday’s Primary lesson. Carefully shutting her bedroom door, she pulled her thinking chair out of the corner and sat down to give some thought to what she had learned in Primary. Jenni Lynn was seven years old, and Sister Hendley, her teacher, had told the children about baptism and confirmation. Sister Hendley said that every person who was confirmed a member of the Church received the gift of the Holy Ghost.
Jenni Lynn was afraid of ghosts. When her friends told ghost stories, she plugged her ears. When scary shows came on television, she ran into her bedroom and shut the door. Shawn, her big brother, and Lisa, her big sister, laughed at Jenni Lynn and called her a scaredy-cat. She didn’t like their teasing, but still she was afraid of ghosts.
She wanted to be baptized and to become a member of the Church. But I don’t want to have a ghost around, Jenni Lynn worried. In two more months I’ll be eight. What can I do?
At dinner Jenni Lynn watched Shawn and Lisa. She watched Mother and Daddy too. They had all been baptized and confirmed. They all had the gift of the Holy Ghost. But they didn’t act as though they were scared. She was the only one. Maybe I shouldn’t be afraid either, she reasoned.
The telephone rang, interrupting Jenni Lynn’s thoughts.
After Dad had answered the telephone, he said, “Grandma is coming a day early. I have to go to the airport after dinner and pick her up.”
“Oh, my,” said Mother. “I’m going to need some help getting everything ready.”
“We’ll help!” the children said, jumping up from the table.
Shawn helped clear the table. Lisa didn’t complain once as she did the dishes. Jenni Lynn helped Mother get Grandma’s room ready. She dusted the dresser and helped Mother put pretty flowered sheets on the bed.
“Grandma will need a blanket, too,” said Mother. “Jenni Lynn, will you please go get the comforter out of the cedar closet.”
Jenni Lynn ran into her parents’ bedroom. She started to open the cedar closet and stopped. Sister Hendley had said that another name for the Holy Ghost is the Comforter. What if a ghost were in the closet? She turned and ran back to her mother. Trying not to look frightened, she asked, “What’s a comforter?”
“It’s a soft, fluffy quilt,” Mother answered as she opened the dresser drawers to see if they were clean.
“Why is it called a comforter?” Jenni Lynn asked.
“Because it’s warm and soft. When you wrap it around you it makes you feel safe and good inside,” Mother explained.
Jenni Lynn sighed with relief. There wasn’t a ghost after all. She ran back to the bedroom, opened the door to the cedar closet, and lifted down a beautiful pink satin comforter. It was shiny and slippery to touch. Then she sat on the bed and pulled the comforter around her and over her head until there was only a hole big enough to peek through.
Mother was right, thought Jenni Lynn inside her comforter cave. I feel warm and safe in here. She sat still for a long time because it felt so good.
“Hurry, dear,” said Mother, coming into the room. When she saw her daughter, she asked, “What are you doing all wrapped up in that comforter?”
Jenni Lynn peeked out. “It feels good, Mother,” she said. “Just like when you hold me on your lap.”
“Does it, little one?” smiled Mother as she sat on the bed and cuddled Jenni Lynn close.
“Mother, why do they call the Holy Ghost the Comforter?” asked Jenni Lynn.
“Because He’s a special friend. He comforts you. That means He makes you feel warm and safe and helps you solve your problems,” answered Mother.
“Just like this comforter makes me feel warm and safe; right, Mother?” asked Jenni Lynn.
“Almost,” said Mother. “Except He’s a real person.”
Jenni Lynn snuggled closer to her mother and said, “But I thought that He was a scary ghost. I was afraid of Him.”
Mother laughed. “You and your ghosts! Well, He’s not that kind of ghost. The Holy Ghost is just a name that shows He is a spirit without a body. He loves us and Jesus sent Him to help us. Now why don’t you help me put that satin comforter on Grandma’s bed?”
Jenni Lynn jumped off the bed and helped Mother gather up the comforter in her arms. Just as they reached the door, she looked up at Mother and said, “Know what? I can hardly wait until I have the Holy Ghost for my friend.”

The construction of a temple in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala, fulfilled a dream for Mónica Elena Fuentes Álvarez de Méndez. She is the daughter of a pioneer in the Church who instilled in her a love of the gospel and all its blessings. Her mother, Magda Ester Álvarez, was baptized in 1953, six years after Latter-day Saint missionaries first arrived in Guatemala.
Mónica grew up in the Church and eventually married a good man, Enio Méndez, who was not a member. He supported his wife and daughter in Church activities and admired its members, but he showed no interest in being baptized. Nevertheless, Mónica remembers her mother telling her that one day her husband would become a member. “I never lost faith,” she says, even though she had no idea what could bring about his conversion.
Her mother enjoyed the blessings of periodic visits to the temple in Guatemala City and was filled with joy in 2006 when a temple was announced for Quetzaltenango. But Magda Álvarez suffered from a terminal illness and passed away in 2008, before the temple in Quetzaltenango could be built.
Mónica and her young adult daughter, Mónica Esther Méndez Fuentes, served together as guides during the open house for the Quetzaltenango Temple. Enio attended the open house with them, and unbeknownst to them, he went back two more times.
Leaving the temple together on the last day of the open house, Mónica and her daughter wondered if Magda Álvarez’s prediction about Enio could ever come true.
Enio had always believed it was acceptable for him to be a member of his church and his wife and daughter to be members of theirs so long as they respected each other’s beliefs. But his experiences at the temple open house gave him much to think about. “I began to fast, without saying anything to them, and to pray,” he recalls. He went into the mountains, where he likes to go to ponder. “I asked the Lord, ‘What should I do, then?’” In fact, he already knew what was right, but he needed to resolve doubts.
Enio was baptized in April 2012—a deeply moving occasion for both his wife and his daughter.
The Méndez family was sealed in the Quetzaltenango Temple in October 2013. Sister Méndez expressed their joy at an eternal goal achieved and their hope to be faithful until the end of their lives.

We learn of the dedication which was given to the seminary program in its very beginning by reading from a diary of John M. Whitaker, one of the early instructors of the seminary program. In April of 1915 he was employed as an instructor in the Granite Seminary with a salary of $1,500 per year. He found little to work with as he assumed his new position. His diary records:
“I had to start without the least scratch, or outline, and I thought out many approaches to the new problem before me. I had taught several years at the University of Deseret. But there I knew my course well, but to commence a course now, where here-to-fore the Bible alone had been the guide, and to meet the need of the hour when students of the age coming into high school and junior work, with strict outlines and supervision, with everything before them and now coming from the discipline of high school requirements, into religion class work where they could come if they desired or remain away, … but to take religion which was frowned down upon during the week days, only for Sundays, was a task too great to undertake alone. So I did as I have always done when presented with a task, went in humility and prayer to my Father in Heaven and in my simplicity told him my problem and asked for inspiration, guidance, wisdom and courage for the task before me. … I was unknown to most of the Faculty and students of the Granite High and so during the summer I thought out how best to make a beginning.”
He became enthusiastic about the beginning of the year in teaching at Granite High School and looked forward to registration day, on September 3, 1915. A crowd of students was on hand, and his journal entry describes the event: “Commenced a very important period of my life and one that will, I am sure affect the destiny of thousands of the youth of Zion, if the plans maturing in my mind blossom into fruition” (quoted in Lyman Clarence Pedersen Jr., “John Mills Whitaker: Diarist, Educator, Churchman” [master’s thesis, University of Utah, 1960], 167).
His diary records events step-by-step which led to the tremendous success he had in carrying forward this program over the years. Significant is the statement of the late S. Dilworth Young, one of the Seventy, who was one of Brother Whitaker’s earliest seminary students: “Had Elder A. Theodore Tuttle been clairvoyant, he would have seen in the year 1914 a fourteen-and-a-half-year-old stripling entering the first seminary instituted by the Church. Across the street from Granite High School a building had been constructed—one room in size—a teacher employed, and the school opened to students. I was that stripling. There died yesterday the third teacher of that particular seminary. The teacher was John M. Whitaker.
“I should like to make a short tribute to Brother Whitaker. He likely did not know the profound influence he had upon me as a boy, as I studied minutely under him and Guy C. Wilson before him, the detail of the Bible, the Book of Mormon, and the Doctrine and Covenants. I look back upon it now, realizing that there was where I got my first detailed knowledge of these standard works. Could I have enough influence I would see to it that every boy and every girl in the Church had a like experience under a man of faith” (in Conference Report, Apr. 1960, 80).