Gospel Story Finder

President Gordon B. Hinckley mentioned in a talk that he sometimes wished “every girl had access to a sewing machine and training in how to use it. She could then make her own attractive clothing” (“Stay on the High Road,” Ensign, May 2004, 114).
The Young Women of the Hayden Lake Idaho Stake decided to take the prophet’s words to heart and started sewing. Every ward organized the resources, expertise, and time to help each young woman complete a sewing project. Most of the girls made skirts, but some chose to sew capris, aprons, quilts, sweats, even pajamas.
Before this year’s Young Women meeting, the stake held a fashion show where the girls showed off their projects and talked about the experience. Bethany Wise, a Mia Maid in the Hayden Lake First Ward, said her favorite thing about the project was learning she could do something she’d never done before. “Having my grandma and mom help me was really fun,” she said.

Faith is thriving among the Saints of Guatemala. Following are just a few examples:

Carlos Santíz, president of the Mazatenango Guatemala Stake, refers to notes made on a whiteboard during a meeting with bishops, explaining how they followed the direction of Church leaders to meet in council and plan to serve the needs of less-active members. “I’m grateful to the Lord for putting me in this stake presidency because it is a challenge—but a challenge I needed—and it has brought growth,” he says.
Nery Eduardo Marroquín, a counselor in the bishopric of a ward in the Retalhuleu Guatemala Stake, was an evangelical Christian before joining the Church five years ago through the influence of his wife, Ada. He grew up in a home where he learned the importance of personal prayer, the Bible, and worship of Jesus Christ as the Savior, but he felt there was something more. He found it in gospel ordinances that could allow him and his wife to have an eternal family. “Christ said no one will come to the Father ‘but by me’ [John 14:6],” he explains. “And the ordinances are through Him. That’s why it’s such a blessing to have a temple in Guatemala.”
Hector González of the Villa Nueva Guatemala Stake says the gospel has given him strength to face the cancer that cost him a leg and nearly took his life. At one point, he wondered why this should happen to him. His wife brought his patriarchal blessing to him in the hospital, and he found hope in its promise of a long life of service. When it became obvious that he would lose his right leg, he received a spiritual witness that all would be well. After the surgery, he recalls, “It was incredible the support I found in reading the Book of Mormon. It gave me the strength to go on.” Now back at work, he says, “I know the Lord has been watching over me. I know He has cared for me through all of this.”
Jorge Popá, a member of the Quetzaltenango Guatemala Stake, originally invited the sister missionaries to his home to help his wife understand the English instructions that came with the bread maker he had bought her. The sisters agreed—if they could also share the gospel message with the family. After the missionary lessons, Jorge and his wife, Mirna, told the missionaries they weren’t interested in baptism. But that night neither Jorge nor Mirna could sleep. At the same time, each felt moved to get out of bed and pray about what they had been taught, and each received the same manifestation of the truth. They sought out the sister missionaries at church on Sunday and asked to be baptized. After their baptism, the Popás faced the problem many converts face: how to tell their family they had broken with the traditional religion. Their four-year-old son (who is now a deacon) solved that problem at a family gathering. When someone served tea, he stood and announced, “We don’t drink that! We’re Mormons.”
Udine Falabella was president of the first stake organized in Guatemala, in 1967. In 1965, as district president in Guatemala City, he organized the first temple trip from the area, by bus across México to Mesa, Arizona, in the United States. It was a great blessing to Guatemala when the temple was dedicated in Guatemala City in 1984, he says. It was a blessing for him to serve later as its president; he was released in 2000 after more than four years in that position.
He recalls that, in dedicating the temple, President Gordon B. Hinckley pronounced a blessing of peace on the country. Not long afterward, the country’s long period of civil strife came to an end. Perhaps more important, though, was the fact that Guatemalan members could now enjoy the peace of the temple without having to travel so far from home.
Brother Falabella’s granddaughter Evelyn was married in that temple in December 2000. She says many young Guatemalans who see unhappy or failing marriages around them have lost faith in the institution of marriage and may feel it is better to put time into developing their careers, marrying later if at all. “I believe if I didn’t have the gospel in my life, I wouldn’t have dared get married right now,” she says. But through the gospel, she continues, there is peace in facing the challenges because we can know the eternal reasons for marriage and the everlasting blessings it can bring.
And that, says Brother Falabella, is indicative of the change that has come to the Church in Guatemala in his lifetime: thousands of strong Latter-day Saints now have all the means to implement full gospel programs and enjoy their blessings.
José Sazo agrees that the gospel blessings available in his country and his generation are rich—for those who strive to receive them. José, who was not yet born when that first stake was created in Guatemala, is now president of the Guatemala City Guatemala Florida Stake.
It takes constant, consistent effort to maintain strong families and marriages, President Sazo says. He and his wife, Claudia, both served missions in their country, and they agree that much of the secret to maintaining strong marriages can be found in two good habits learned by missionaries: frequent, loving companionship evaluations (conversations about how their marriage is going) and regular gospel study. “If I had a prescription for happiness,” President Sazo says, “it would be to study the scriptures together always.”
President Sazo adds that he and his wife “are agreed on this: we want to do everything we can for our children so they will become strong leaders and the Lord will be able to call them to do whatever He wants, without reservation.”
So it was with those strong Church members in this country more than half a century ago who were willing to persevere in the gospel no matter what challenges they faced. And so it is now with the heirs of this spiritual legacy: the future of the Church in Guatemala will be in the hands of those ready to answer the call of the Lord without reservation.

Harriet and her parents recently moved from their home near Melbourne to the countryside near Mornington, farther down the peninsula. Moving can be difficult for any teen. Even though Harriet had lived in several wards, moving was still a little scary and intimidating. But it has all worked out. “My new seminary class is just the ward group. We meet every day during the school year at 6:30 a.m. At first, I was really nervous, but somehow I just fit in. For an activity, we went on a fishing trip. The theme was becoming fishers of men. Before I went on the trip, I hadn’t seen any of the group. I didn’t even want to go. But everyone was really nice and talkative, especially Naomi and Leirosa. Then Young Women just grew. Some others moved in about the same time, and now we have a big group.”

The summer before my mission ended, I was serving with a missionary named Elder Causse. He was from a branch in Bourdeaux, France, a place I had once considered “out there in the mission field.”
One morning my mission president called me into his office and told me my father would be calling. When the phone rang, the president excused himself and left me alone. I was apprehensive as I picked up the phone.
My father greeted me, then told me his cancer had relapsed. He would again go through chemotherapy. I then spoke to my mother, who told me our ward was going to fast again. I said I would join in the fast as well. After I hung the phone up, I wiped away a few tears and walked out of the office.
On the way back to our assigned area, I explained the situation to Elder Causse. He promised to fast with me, and his promise gave me comfort. But he did not stop there. He wrote to his family in France and told them what had happened. They, too, said that they would fast for my father and that they would ask the members of the Bourdeaux Branch to join the fast as well. I was astounded that they would fast for the health of a man they did not know.
At that moment, the Spirit spoke softly to me, and suddenly I understood what it means to be “fellow-citizens with the saints, and of the household of God” (Eph. 2:19). We are of one faith, united in the gospel with bonds stronger than illness or death. We are truly brothers and sisters. None of us is a stranger, no matter what land we happen to worship in.

But it was in 1982 that the Komadinas made ballooning history. It started out as a service to the elderly in the Albuquerque 5th Ward, where the Komadinas live and where Jenny was at the time Beehive president.
“There was one couple, Brother and Sister Pat Miller, who had never been able to get out to the Fiesta,” Jenny said. “We thought it would be fun if we brought the Fiesta, or at least part of it, to them.” So instead of launching their two balloons at Cutter Field the Komadinas inflated them at the ward parking lot.
The youth of the ward sponsored a “balloon breakfast” and provided transportation for older members who might not otherwise have a chance to see a balloon up close.
“I can still remember what it felt like to touch the fabric, look at the basket, and watch them use hot air to make it fly,” Brother Miller said. “It was wonderful to think the youth would organize something so we could have a chance to see.” The breakfast also helped to fund a temple trip for the Young Men and Young Women.
After breakfast, many of the ward members joined the chase crew—the people and vehicles who follow along behind the balloon on the ground and assist when it lands. That’s where the history comes in. The Komadinas hold the record for the Fiesta’s largest chase crew ever—97 people in 23 vehicles. “Everywhere you looked you’d see them following you,” Amy said.

We experienced a special day in our family on January 4, 1997. My brother organized a party honoring the 200th birthday of Gustavus Adolphus Perry. He was an important member of our family tree. He was baptized in 1832 and became the first of our family to embrace the gospel. The Perry family history records this remarkable event:
As a part of the birthday celebration, my brother spent a year searching for the descendants of Gustavus Adolphus Perry. We were amazed at the record he had on the table before us as we celebrated. He had found more than 10,000 descendants of this good man. The number overwhelmed me. Suddenly I realized the value of a good name. In seven to eight generations, his family had sufficient numbers to organize three stakes of Zion.

Several years ago, a student who had studied at the Brigham Young University Jerusalem Center wrote to me soon after returning to the United States. She reported a particular challenge regarding Sabbath work: “One of the most difficult things I had to do was tell my boss that I couldn’t work for him on Sundays anymore. The last two summers it didn’t bother me to work on Sunday, but because of the knowledge I’ve gained since then, there’s no way I could justify it now.”
Her admiration for her boss made telling him difficult. “I guess I didn’t want to tell him because he’s been so good to me; I’ve always been able to count on having a job there.”
It took her three days, including a day of fasting, to get up the courage. “All I wanted was for him to understand my position. I took an olivewood carving as a peace offering—just in case. Of course, the conversation centered around Jerusalem and everything I’d done in Israel. I tried to prepare him for why I couldn’t work on Sunday.
“The conversation eventually came around to my job. My nerves betrayed me and my voice got a little shaky, but finally my feelings came out. The Spirit must have been there because there were tears in his eyes, and it was hard for him to talk, too. He told me that he respected my decision and was glad that I stood up for what I believed in.
“He also explained that his beliefs were a little different from mine and that he had to be fair and treat all of his employees equally. He never did come out and say I wouldn’t be working for him any longer—but we both knew. It felt like a weight had been taken off my shoulders. I don’t have a job, but that’s okay; something will work out.”

There was a dance that Saturday at the institute. Frank and I stood on the edge of the dance floor watching and waiting before we committed.

When two girls came in, Frank nudged me with his elbow. I’d seen them in church before, but hadn’t said anything to them or even smiled in their direction. They moved to the far edge of the dance floor and talked to each other as lively as two birds. Frank, bold as usual, walked over and I followed.

“What do you think of the dance?” asked Frank when he got to them. He was nodding too much. He wasn’t nervous very often.

They stopped talking and considered.

“We just got here,” one said.

“But it seems okay, I guess,” said the other.

“Good,” said Frank.

One girl reached behind her and began tapping her fingernail rhythmically on the wood molding of the wall.

I thought Frank would ask one of them to dance then, but he didn’t. Instead he put his hands in his pockets and leaned backward, reflectively, like a professor who thinks he has something really important to say.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve loved music since I was a kid—classical music, that is. And I’ve always wanted to play a concert. And next Saturday night at the auditorium I’m going to do that. And I’d like you both to come and bring any friends you want ’cause it’s free.”

They considered him for a few seconds. One pushed a few wisps of hair out of her face and smiled, nicely.

He repeated the request to about a dozen other people before the night was over.

I worried that week about Frank and the concert. Despite his love of music and his skill at teaching, I knew he wouldn’t lie about his playing. If he said his fingers moved like fish sticks, they probably did. I didn’t want to see Frank, so full of confidence, flattened by failure.

Then all of a sudden it was Saturday night, and Frank was walking out onto the stage. Under the lights and on the stage he didn’t look his typical fearless self. He seemed pale and wispy, like a crumpled tissue in a dark blue suit.

He raised his hands above the keyboard.

“You can do it, Fish Sticks,” I gasped under my breath.

He flipped the hair out of his eyes, mumbled something to the piano, and struck the first chord.

That night I walked with Frank back to the dorm. We were quiet for most of the way, but I knew it couldn’t last. Finally he asked.

“So, how was it?”

“What?” I played dumb, stalling.

“The concert, bozo. My concerto sans orchestra.”

“Oh, it was good,” I said quickly.

He grunted. “I got off tempo a few times,” he said.

“Ahh, no one noticed,” I lied.

“Seriously, I want you to tell me what you thought of it.”

I looked over at him.

“Well, I guess your playing could still use a little work,” I said.

“Yeah, I guess,” he admitted. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets. “It frustrates me sometimes—that I can’t play.”

“No, I didn’t say that.”

“No, I know. I can hear the music in my mind and I know how it’s supposed to come out, but it just doesn’t. Like tonight, Fish Sticks took over. I was halfway through and I wanted to climb up on top of that piano and jump up and down.”

I let out a little laugh and Frank looked over and began laughing too.

We rounded the bend and stopped under a streetlight, looking up at our dorm.

“So why didn’t you?” I asked.

He flipped his hair off his forehead to reveal raised eyebrows. “My students, most of them, were in the audience.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, tonight I shared something personal with them,” he said. “I showed them that Fish Sticks isn’t the greatest pianist in the world. And maybe that means they can mess up sometimes, too. You know, they can make mistakes. It’s okay.”

I waited for more.

“You remember the parable of the talents?” he asked.

I shrugged and nodded my head. “Sure. If you got it, use it—or lose it.”

“That’s the idea,” he said. “The servants who are given more talents use them, but the guy who gets only one talent buries it. And in the end, the Lord takes his talent away.

“Well, most of my students are around eight or nine, and if you ask them they’ll tell you they can play the piano—no problem. I bet if you ask them that same question in a few years—when they get into high school or college—they’ll probably say they can’t play. Most of them will lose their confidence, their belief in their talents.

“But I think the world needs more writers, and singers, and, uh, actors, and pianists. I want these kids to share their gifts with others. And I think they will if they know it’s okay to mess up once in a while on the way. That they don’t have to be the best.”

I smiled and told him, “You know, I was listening to music when I began to realize I really believed in God.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. I just realized that it was impossible for music as beautiful as Beethoven wrote to come out of nothing. There had to be something more to the universe. There had to be a God. It was soon after that experience that I started to investigate the Church.”

“And the people who were playing the music you listened to, well, someone had to believe in their talent. Someone had to be there when they played wrong notes to keep them going.”

Frank tilted his head, ready to sweep the hair out of his eyes, but stopped. Instead, he reached up and pulled his hair straight out.

“You know,” he said. “I just might get a haircut on Monday.”

I laughed. “You sure you feel okay?” I asked.

“I feel fine,” he said as he started to run toward the dorm. “Honest,” he called out. “I feel great.”

Frank Calio is a band teacher now. He lives in Idaho. When I called him to let him know I’d written his story he laughed. “Call the story ‘Fish Sticks,’” he said. “The kids at my school call me Old Fish Sticks. Every year I play a little at our school recital. I’m better than I was in college, but I still make mistakes and the kids get a good laugh. But they all know in my class it’s okay to mess up while they’re learning. I just want them to play music and to try hard. That’s all.”

For a second profile, I turn from Mexico to a missionary at the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah, desperately struggling to become proficient in the German language, that he might be an effective missionary to the people of southern Germany. Each day as he opened his German grammar text, he noticed with interest and curiosity that the front cover displayed a picture of a most quaint and ancient house in Rothenburg, West Germany. Beneath the picture, the location was given. In his heart that young man determined, “I’ll visit that house and teach the truth to whoever lives within it.” This he did. The result was the conversion and baptism of Sister Helma Hahn. Today she devotes much of her time speaking to tourists who come from all over the world to see her house. She delights in telling them of the blessings which the gospel of Jesus Christ has brought to her. Her house is perhaps one of the most frequently photographed houses in the entire world. No visitor leaves without hearing in simple yet earnest words her testimony of praise and gratitude. That missionary who brought to Sister Hahn the gospel remembered the sacred charge: “Go ye therefore, and teach all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost” (Matt. 28:19).

Aurelia stood on the bank of the Mississippi River and looked back across it. Never before in her eleven-and-a-half years had she been west of the wide river, and now here she was in Iowa.
She shivered in the February cold and tucked one hand into her coat. With the other, she held George’s hand. He was only six and was her responsibility. Ellen, thirteen, and nine-year-old Catherine walked ahead with seven-year-old Howard; little Lucy rode in the wagon with Mama, who was still very sick. But Aurelia and George stood and looked back across the river to Nauvoo.
Aurelia murmured, “Farewell, Nauvoo,” and turned with George to face the west. It would be a long journey to the Rockies, but she had her family and the true gospel. She was ready.

Ann:
“I love medicine so much, I’d practice it even if I didn’t get paid,” says Dr. Ann Osborn, a four-year convert who graduated Phi Beta Kappa from Stanford School of Medicine in California. She has a list of many accomplishments, including the fact that she was the Most Outstanding Woman in her 1970 graduation class, completing her studies one year ahead of the rest of the students. She graduated in psychology from Harvard, earned her M.D., and served her internship at the LDS Hospital in Salt Lake City. She recently returned to Stanford, where she’s a resident in diagnostic radiology and is fulfilling a National Institute of Health traineeship.
Ann tells of her conversion with gratitude, joy, and the warmest smile:
“Four years ago I was in medical school. I had a Latter-day Saint professor whom I admired very much. He won the teaching award, which was presented by the student body, year after year. At that time I was very disappointed with what I saw in the religious world. I was a Methodist and saw that religion itself had very little effect on people’s lives. One day I asked this professor, who was also my aquatic school instructor, why he was so happy. He told me it was because of his religion, and then he began to tell me the Joseph Smith story. I discredited the golden plates, not knowing what they were, but knew that there had to be something beneath a religion that influenced a Mormon’s life. He promised me that if I’d go to a Latter-day Saint service, I’d find a faith with wonderful depth. I did go and found a beautiful spirit there. I was moved in a way I couldn’t understand, and I lost my control. Feeling tears in my eyes made me angry because I didn’t have a handkerchief, but most of all, I didn’t want to feel that way. I walked out of the meeting, but something told me to go back. I was baptized two weeks later, after having the discussions. In eight months, my sister Lucy was also baptized, and my brother and his wife joined in February 1971. Incidentally, before my brother knew anything about the Church, he asked a Mormon bishop to officiate at his garden wedding because he respected him so much.
“I found myself studying Church history more than medicine. I felt like an infant with so much to learn. For what other reason do we learn as much as we can if not to help the Lord with his work? We need humility about our knowledge to admit that we really need him and can call on him.
“I enjoyed my internship at the LDS hospital very much. I was thrilled to work with physicians who were elders. They work in the intensive care unit with a bottle of consecrated oil. It creates such a different doctor-patient relationship. I chose radiology as my field because it’s an eight-to-five job; there’s very little weekend work, and it leaves plenty of time for family and Church. I look forward to a temple marriage and a family of my own someday.”

Glancing back over his shoulder across two hundred yards of dry powdery snow, Brian could hardly believe he had lengthened the distance between himself and the nearest challenger.
Tom Stacy was trying hard to repeat his last two wins in the annual cross-country ski race. But Brian was trying just as hard to capture the championship that had eluded him twice before. Realizing there was less than a mile to go, Brian was confident that Tom had little chance of catching up.
Listening to the soft shush, shush of his skis, Brian watched the clouds boiling over the hills and across the valley. The sky seemed to be getting darker and heavier by the minute.
It could be a whopper, he thought. But it’s probably a couple of hours away. Then his thinking drifted to Tom and how disappointed he would be at his failure to make three wins in a row. This was the last year Tom and Brian would be eligible for this particular race. After the ski season they would both be past the age limit. It was Brian’s last and only hope for a win which, he remembered bitterly, he might have had last year except for a stupid mistake.
Coming in ahead of Tom would be final proof of his skill. They were both good skiers. But then, Tom was good at everything he tried—swimming, running, jumping, and all kinds of team sports. Brian, though not inept, had never been outstanding in any of those things. But when he started skiing he discovered he had an unusual talent for it.
Casting another look backwards, he saw the space between himself and Tom hadn’t changed. As he rounded the brow of a hill, Brian noticed a small dark object in the snow ahead but he paid little attention. He kept his even, steady stride, not easing up or increasing his lead. Though it seemed unlikely, with a superhuman burst of speed Tom could overtake him.
Brian couldn’t help watching the dark object in the snow ahead. Then he saw it move and his curiosity was heightened. When he came closer, he found that a dog was struggling to get through the snow, but it was making little headway through the powdery drifts.
Brian tried to offer some encouragement to the dog as he passed by. “Come on, boy. You can make it,” he coaxed.
Hearing Brian’s voice, the animal looked up with a beaten, hopeless expression. The dog whined, a pathetic, pleading sound as forlorn as its expression.
Glancing from the stricken animal to the finish line ahead, Brian convinced himself the dog likely belonged to one of the nearby farms and, in spite of its painfully slow progress, should be able to get home.
He went on a few feet and the dog whined again. When he turned around, Brian was met with an expression even more pathetic than before. “You little mutt,” he said dismally. “Why do you have to keep looking at me that way?”
Sidestepping back, he made a quick decision and weighed his chances of carrying the dog to the finish line before Tom caught up. It might be a tip-to-tip race after all, but Brian still felt capable of winning.
It wasn’t until he knelt down that he discovered the dog was favoring one foot, trying to struggle through the snow on three legs. As Brian took the leg to examine it, the dog yelped with pain.
“Oh, oh, fella,” he said. “You’re in trouble.”
Tom had already cut the distance between them in half. The storm, too, was getting closer and uglier and might easily turn into a blizzard.
Brian picked the dog up in his arms. “Come on,” he said hoarsely. “We’ll win this race together.”
After another two or three hundred yards, however, it was plain they wouldn’t be able to do it. The dog was too heavy. It had already slowed Brian so much he could hear Tom’s skis behind him, sliding over the snow. At this rate he might not even come in second because the next racer wasn’t too far behind Tom.
No more than a minute later, Tom’s skis were even with Brian’s.
“What are you trying to do,” Tom asked, when he saw Brian carrying the dog, “give me a handicap?”
There was no taunt in the way he said it and Brian knew it was an offhand, spur-of-the-moment remark. Then Tom slowed and asked seriously, “What’s the matter with the dog?”
“It’s hurt, Tom,” Brian said. “I’ll bet its leg’s broken.”
Tom came to a complete stop and asked with sincere interest, “Are you sure?”
“I don’t know. He can’t move it at all, and the little fella yelps whenever I touch it.”
Tom shot a look backward at their nearest pursuer, who was gaining rapidly.
“Take off your coat, Brian.”
“What for?”
“Just take if off,” Tom repeated, at the same time unsnapping his own parka. He laid it out on the snow and asked Brian to do the same, then he lapped them across one another. As Brian settled the dog gently on the makeshift sling, Tom carefully wrapped the trembling body. Then he worked the coats around until the snapped sides were underneath, providing a snug, hammocklike cradle.
“Grab the sleeves on your side, Brian.”
Brian picked up two sleeves and Tom held the sleeves on the opposite side. By the time they started again, their closest competitor was a scant hundred yards away.
Matching strides, the boys kept together as they approached the group of people waiting at the finish line, their pursuer still too far behind to catch up with them.
“If you cross that line one inch ahead of me,” Tom teased as they neared the end of the race, “I’ll wring your neck.”
“I won’t,” promised Brian, smiling.
The tips of their skis crossed the finish line so close together that the judges had no choice but to call the race a dead heat.
“I wouldn’t have believed it could happen,” the official said, but the expression on his face showed that he was glad about the way the race turned out. “I guess the only thing we can do,” he added, “is to let you share the trophy. I suggest we flip a coin to see who gets it first.”
“That’s all right with me,” Tom said.
“Okay with me too,” Brian agreed, grinning broadly.
It wasn’t exactly the kind of win either of them would have preferred, but Brian couldn’t help feeling a warm satisfaction as he and Tom watched one of the cars drive away to take the dog to a veterinarian.

Young: Exercise not only helped me out for after my mission, but while I was there it would get me going for the day. I couldn’t go running for miles, because you have to stay with your companion. So I’d have him sit out on the front step while I ran about 20 times up and down the street. Some companions would join in. One was a baseball player. He enjoyed it. It was a chance to do something with your companion after you’d been out teaching all day.

In 1979, while serving as Sunday School general president, I was invited to attend a Regional Representatives seminar during which President Kimball gave an inspiring address about opening the doors of nations then closed to the Church, such as China. He challenged all present to study the Mandarin language so we could offer our professional skills to help the people of China.
To me, President Kimball’s challenge seemed like a prophetic mandate. So that very night I asked my late wife, Dantzel, if she would be willing to study Mandarin with me. She agreed, and we found a tutor to help us. Of course we didn’t learn to speak Mandarin very well, but we learned enough so that when I was invited the very next year (through a series of highly unexpected events) to go to China as a visiting professor to teach open-heart surgery, I was in a better position to accept the invitation.
Fast-forward five years to 1985, the year after I had been called to the Quorum of the Twelve. One day I received an urgent request to go to China to perform open-heart surgery on that nation’s famous opera star, regarded throughout China as a national hero. I explained that my full-time ecclesiastical responsibility prevented my coming, but the doctors in China pleaded with me to come at once to perform the life-saving operation.
I discussed the matter with my quorum president and the First Presidency. They felt impressed that, as a favor to the people of China, I should make the trip and perform the operation.
That I did. Gratefully, the operation was a success! Incidentally, that was the last open-heart operation I ever performed. It was in Jinan, China, on March 4, 1985.
Now fast-forward again, this time to October 2015. Wendy and I were invited to return to Shandong University School of Medicine in Jinan. We were amazed when I was warmly welcomed as “an old friend” of China and was reunited with surgeons I had taught 35 years earlier. A highlight of our visit was meeting with the son and grandson of that famous opera star. All of these amazing experiences were enabled for one reason: I heeded the counsel of a prophet to study Mandarin!

“Tell me about this picture, Mom,” Jeff asked. He had pulled a picture out of the large red velvet photo album that had been his great-grandma’s. “Who is the little boy? I’ve never seen him before. The little girl looks like you.”
Mother sighed. “It’s a picture of my cousin Kenny and me. Kenny was my best friend too. We both loved the early spring, when buds began to form on brown branches, green grass peeked out from patches of melting snow, and the river roared through the farm with spring runoff. Kenny was deaf and couldn’t hear it, but he could feel the spring sun warm his back as he played with Bridget, his huge pet sheep who was about to have baby lambs.
“We were both five. We talked to each other with our own made-up sign language. I loved playing with his large collection of farm toys, and he was always willing to share them.
“On that beautiful spring afternoon, the snow had been totally replaced by a carpet of green grass, and the creek had calmed from a roar to a strong, pleasant chuckle. Our mothers decided to let us go fishing.
“I was eager to try out my new bamboo fishing pole. A real fishing pole. Always before I had used a thick stick, like the one Kenny was still using.
“We sat side by side on our little perch, not moving so that we wouldn’t scare the fish. I threw my line into the creek, just the way my mother had shown me, being careful not to get it tangled. Kenny just sat there with his stick-pole, a sad expression on his face. Oh no! I thought. He wants a new pole too.
“Soon he motioned to me in our own private language that he wanted to use my new fishing pole. I shrugged him away, pretending not to understand. He tried again, more insistent this time. I looked away, pointedly ignoring him. Frustrated, he tried to pull the pole out of my hands.
“I pried his fingers off my pole and pushed him away. I wanted to tell him, ‘Just let me use it first for a little while. I’ll let you try it if you’ll only wait until I’m ready.’ But I didn’t know how.
“He was hurt and turned away. I reached over to pinch him, angry because he wouldn’t let me enjoy my new pole even for a moment.
“I looked up to see my mother taking our picture. My face burned with shame. I felt small and little and mean. I didn’t feel like fishing anymore.
“Handing my precious new pole to Kenny, I left to go play with Bridget. I loved to put my fingers deep into her soft wool. I looked back to see that Kenny was offering me his thick stick and motioning for me to come back and sit by him, but I ignored him.
“We had a picnic that day on the vast green lawn, with fancy little sandwiches cut in the shape of hearts, pink lemonade, and Aunt Dorothy’s angel food cake. We laughed when Bridget tried to steal a nibble.
“That was the last time I ever got to play with Kenny. Our mothers had planned this special day for us because Kenny was going into the hospital to have surgery, which the doctors hoped would help his ears.
“But something went wrong. Kenny died. My mother said that Kenny went to live with Jesus. I didn’t understand why he couldn’t stay right here with us.
“I missed him terribly. His mother put away all his farm toys and never got them out again. I wanted to play with them because then I could pretend that he was playing with me.
“Mom’s pictures came back from being developed, and the pinch was in that picture! Mom had the picture made big and ordered several copies so that Grandma and all my aunts and uncles could have a picture of Kenny.
“I have always felt sad about that mean pinch. Every time I see that picture of Kenny and me fishing, it makes me feel bad.”
Jeff looked up at his mother’s sad face. “Don’t you remember what you told me when I said I hated Jared because he teased me? You told me that learning to get along was just like taking piano lessons. It takes practice, and sometimes you stumble.
“And when I was learning to ride my bike, Daddy held on to me as long as he could, then ran beside me to try to keep me from falling. Sometimes I fell anyway. You said learning to be like Jesus Christ was something like that, only His hand is always there for us when we reach for it.
“Mama, I think from now on when you look at this picture of the pinch, it should remind you of Jesus Christ instead of making you feel sad.”
Mother gave Jeff a big hug and kiss. “Thank you, Jeff. From now on, when I look at this picture, it will make me happy. I will think of the love and forgiveness of Jesus Christ.”

After the session, it was time to return to Argentina. But since the bus had developed a mechanical problem, we had to stay Saturday night in Santiago while it was being repaired. However, even this difficulty turned to our advantage. Again we held a home evening as an entire group—rejoicing in hymns, prayers, and testimony. All of us were as one.
On Sunday our bus, reverberating with the hymns of Zion, finally started for home. Eventually some of us slept, while others remained awake, letting pass through our minds the thoughts of those past few days. We arrived at our own meetinghouse at 2:30 on Sunday afternoon and held our sacrament meeting according to the commandment of the Lord.
How many things we had to tell our brothers and sisters! How we wished that someday they might feel what we had felt!
Brother Ávila’s dream had been fulfilled.

As a teenage boy, I struggled a lot with my identity. I wondered why I was on this earth and who I was supposed to become. When I was about 13, the principal of my school gave every student a copy of the New Testament with English and Japanese side-by-side. “It isn’t for religious purposes,” he said. “It is a very good translation, so use it to study English.” When I opened it up though, it gave scripture references for when you feel lonely, need answers to your questions, or are struggling. I could relate to all of those situations!
I read about Jesus Christ. “Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). “Take up [your] cross, and follow me” (Matthew 16:24). The words resonated with me even though I didn’t fully understand them. I wondered who Jesus Christ is and what it means to have Him as a Savior. I wondered if I was the only one feeling such a connection to what was supposed to be a textbook.
A few years later I met some missionaries for the first time. My parents had warned me about the young Christians who were going around preaching. As I was walking home, a tall American missionary with a kind smile stopped me. I didn’t know what to do. I was afraid he would talk about his church. If he had, I might have run the other way! All he asked was how to find the post office. I told him and then walked home.
As I walked away, I felt something. If I see the missionaries again, I thought, I will talk to them.
Not long after that, I ran into a different set of missionaries. I was shocked that God would hear and answer the prayers of a boy like me, until I read about Joseph Smith. I had read in the New Testament to pray always, but God appearing to a man? It felt both radical and right. Rather than run away, I set up an appointment to have them teach me.
A month into meeting with the missionaries, they invited me to be baptized. I didn’t want to turn them down, but I was hesitant to leave the tradition of my parents and everyone around me. There were two paths before me, and I knew there was only one way to know which one to take—I had to pray like Joseph Smith. I asked Heavenly Father, in the name of Jesus Christ, if the things the missionaries had been teaching me were true.
That was my turning point. From then on, I knew for myself that the restored gospel is true. No one could take that knowledge away from me. I knew which path to follow, and nothing could change that.
I had many questions when I was younger. I learned that I am a child of God, He loves me, He has a plan for me, and He wants to answer my prayers. This knowledge changed my entire perspective on life. I learned that who I am and what I do is significant.
Before I learned that I was a child of God, I wanted to blend in with everyone. I was afraid of standing out. But after I learned that I am a child of God, I realized I can stand out; I can be different.
Praying and realizing that I am a son of God gave me the courage to explain my feelings to my parents, but they didn’t quite understand. They thought I was rebellious and too immature to make the decision to be baptized. They were embarrassed that their son was following this strange religion rather than their traditions. I knew who I was and what I wanted, but I also wanted to honor my parents and hoped they would honor my religion.
I explained my situation to the sister missionaries. They had an idea—they could come talk to my parents so that they would feel better about this religion. I told them I was afraid my parents wouldn’t want to talk to them. Then one of the sisters suggested that we fast together.
When I didn’t eat breakfast, my mom was worried. “Why didn’t you eat?” she asked. I explained that I was fasting, and that made her even more concerned.
“First you are going to this no-man’s land of religion, and now you are not eating. I’m worried. I’m shocked! I’m going to call those missionaries.”
She did call the sisters, and somehow they got themselves invited to our house for dinner!
We had a great time. The missionaries taught my parents the hymn “I Am a Child of God” (Hymns, no. 301), and we sang it together. My father loved that. After dinner with the sisters, neither of my parents was worried about me going to church. And I felt I was able to honor them by living the gospel because it really encompassed everything they had taught me. I thought if I loved them long enough and treated them kind enough, eventually they would understand. It took 35 years after my baptism, but my mother was baptized and went through the temple just a few years ago!
Knowing that I’m a child of God has impacted many of my life decisions. I also know that as we follow the Spirit and do what Heavenly Father asks of us, even when it seems hard, He will bless us. That is always the best choice.

Hans Eduardo Nieto, a nine-year-old boy living in Guayaquil, Ecuador, has been a missionary since he was born.
Hans’s family is made up of Hans and his mother. When he was born, his mother was not a member of the Church. But the family she worked for as a housemaid were Latter-day Saints. They asked if they could take the baby to church to receive a blessing.
Although Hans’s mother didn’t want to go, she allowed them to take her baby for the blessing. Hans has attended church ever since. Wherever he and his mother lived, she found members to take him to church.

Illustration by Brad Teare; The Lord Jesus Christ, by Del Parson © IRI
Emma tightened her grip on her backpack as she walked into her new classroom. It was the first day of school. She had her favorite dress on, and Mom had packed a special treat with lunch—animal crackers.
Today is going to be great, Emma thought to herself. As long as—
Emma stopped and stared across the classroom. There she was. Violet.
Last year Violet had hogged the monkey bars every recess. She had called Emma names. She had even stolen Emma’s best friend!
Violet saw Emma and stuck out her tongue. Emma glared back, gripping her backpack even harder. Violet had been mean all last year, and it seemed this year wouldn’t be any different.
“Welcome to a new year, class!” Miss Caldwell said from the front of the room. “Let’s assign seats.”
The desks were lined up in twos across the classroom. Miss Caldwell ran her finger down the roll, then she pointed at a pair of desks in the back. “Emma. You will sit back there.”
Emma sat down in one of the back desks. She hoped Liselle would sit next to her. Or Jaime. Or—
“Violet.”
Emma’s head jerked up. Did she hear that right?
Yes. Miss Caldwell was still pointing at the desk beside hers. “You will be Emma’s neighbor, Violet,” she said.
Violet trudged toward Emma with a frown. Emma put her head on her desk and stared at the wall. It was going to be a long year.
At math time Miss Caldwell wrote some problems on the board for the class to solve. “You may work alone or with your neighbor,” she said.
Emma quickly hunched over her paper, pretending like she was busy. The problems were pretty easy. She was just trying to avoid Violet. She hadn’t looked at her once all morning.
Something poked her shoulder. It felt like a pencil. Emma ignored it.
Another poke. Violet was poking her! Emma kept working stubbornly.
Violet’s third poke was hard enough to hurt. Emma could feel herself boiling up inside. Was the whole year going to be like this? She thought about raising her hand to tell Miss Caldwell. Or maybe she’d just give Violet another glare.
Then Emma heard a sniffle. Was someone crying? The pencil poked her again. She looked over and saw Violet staring at her. Her pencil was in her hand, and there were tears in her eyes. Her paper was covered in eraser smudges.
Violet twisted the pencil in her hands. “Can you help me?” she asked quietly.
Emma looked at her for a minute, shocked. Violet wanted her to help? After how mean she had always been? Emma turned back to her own paper. Violet could work alone. She didn’t deserve Emma’s help, even if she was her neighbor!
Emma silently faced forward. She could hear Violet crying softly next to her. The scriptures always said to love her neighbor—but Violet was different! Emma was only sitting next to her in class!
Emma went back to her own work. Then she stopped. Maybe Violet wasn’t different. Maybe when the scriptures said to love your neighbor, they meant everyone. Even the mean ones. Even if it was hard.
Emma sighed and slowly put her pencil down. She turned to Violet and tried her best to smile. “Can I help?” she asked.
Violet nodded, wiping her tears away with her hand.
Emma leaned over Violet’s paper and started helping with the first problem. She already had a warm feeling inside her. She wondered if Violet liked animal crackers.

Then I thought of my niece Ashley. She too knows of the love her Father in Heaven has for her, yet her experience was quite the opposite of Jocelyn’s.
About a year ago Ashley was walking with her father and mother across seaside boulders near their home in northern California. Her dad was photographing beautiful scenes for watercolors he would paint. Out of nowhere and with no forewarning, a rogue wave engulfed the shore, carrying her father out to sea and dragging her mother along the boulders. Ashley was inland far enough that the killer wave missed her. Terrorized by what she had just witnessed, she ran for help.
Within minutes, a man with a cell phone called emergency numbers, and a rescue began. Her mother had landed in a precarious spot where she could be reached only by helicopter. She was in excruciating pain with a broken back and arm and with numerous cuts and gashes due to the vicious rocks and fierce ocean. Ashley’s father was nowhere to be found. As Ashley’s mother lay on the edge of the sea waiting for rescue, she felt her husband’s presence, and she knew without a doubt that he was gone. His body never was recovered.
Heavenly Father didn’t save Ashley’s dad. Yet Ashley still knows that He loves her. She says: “During that time I felt comfort from the Holy Ghost. I knew I would see my dad again. And I felt the Lord’s love through the kind care of others.”