Gospel Story Finder

This summer I had the privilege of attending an encampment of 900 young women in Alaska. Their influence on me was profound. They came to the camp spiritually prepared, having read the Book of Mormon and having memorized “The Living Christ: The Testimony of the Apostles.” On the third night of camp, all 900 young women stood together and recited the entire document word for word.

The Spirit filled the vast hall, and I yearned to join in. But I couldn’t. I hadn’t paid the price of memorization.

I have now begun to learn the words of “The Living Christ” as these sisters did, and because of their influence I am more fully experiencing the sacramental covenant to always remember the Savior as I repeat over and over the Apostles’ testimony of Christ. The sacrament is taking on a deeper meaning for me.

My hope is to offer the Savior a Christmas gift this year of having “The Living Christ” memorized and securely held in my heart by December 25th. I hope I can be an influence for good—as the sisters of Alaska were for me.

As my senior year of high school was coming to an end, I knew that yearbooks were going to be available soon. As I considered what I would write to my best friends, the idea came to me that I could write my testimony in every yearbook that I would sign.
But I didn’t know how appropriate it would be to write my testimony. What if they didn’t take it seriously? So I prayed and asked Heavenly Father what I should do. I felt a warm burning inside. I was determined to do it.
When yearbooks came out, I wrote my testimony in the books that were handed to me to sign. One day, after school, my friend Mike’s younger brother, Ben, asked me to sign his yearbook. I barely knew Ben. I considered not writing my testimony in his yearbook since I didn’t really know him, yet I felt impressed to go ahead.
Two days later, as I was walking home from school, I felt restless. I decided I wanted to play basketball. As I was thinking of whom to call, I heard someone walking behind me. I looked back, and it was Ben. He wanted to talk to me. I suggested that we play basketball, and he agreed.
As we began to play, I was joking around and having fun. Suddenly, Ben asked, “Are you a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints?”
I stopped dead in my tracks. No one had ever asked me that before. Many people had asked me if I was Mormon, but nobody had ever known the entire name of the Church. Today I was not thinking about sharing the gospel. My attention was on basketball and having fun. I shrugged and said, “Yes,” and started dribbling the ball.
A bit later, he asked, “Where is the church that you go to?”
Still thinking of basketball, I offhandedly answered him before dribbling by him to score.
A little flustered, Ben asked, “When does church start?” Then it dawned on me that he just might be interested in the Church. I offered to give him a ride the next Sunday. He said that he would like to do that.
After church, Ben and I watched part of a church video at my house before he had to go home.
The following Sunday, my Sunday School teacher was giving us a ride home. Out of the blue, Ben asked, “What does it take to be baptized?”
My teacher slammed on the brakes. I was stunned as well. “You have to have a testimony, I said.” Then I realized how silly it was in light of the fact that Ben already believed.
My Sunday School teacher called the missionaries. They set up a time to meet Ben and teach him the gospel at my house. He accepted the baptismal commitment without hesitation.
Ben was baptized about one month after I had signed his yearbook. He asked me to give one of the talks at his baptism. His parents came to his baptism. It was an exciting experience for me.
I am thankful that the Spirit of the Holy Ghost prompted me to go ahead and share my testimony in Ben’s yearbook. I am thankful for the opportunity to be an instrument in God’s hand in bringing the gospel to one of his beloved children.

Another time—it was the Sunday before Thanksgiving, about 1943—I went to priesthood meeting where a member of the bishopric said: “This Thursday is Thanksgiving. We ought to all have family prayer in our homes.” Then he said, “Let’s put on the blackboard the things we are grateful for.” We did, and he said, “Include these things in your Thanksgiving prayer.” I got sick to my stomach, as we never had a prayer or blessing.
That night at 6:30 we went to sacrament meeting. At the end of the meeting, the bishop stood up and was very tender. He told about the young men from our ward who had been killed and wounded in World War II. He talked about our liberty, our freedom, our flag, and this great country, and our blessings. Then he said, “I’d hope every single family would kneel and have family prayer on Thanksgiving Day and thank God for His blessings.”
My heart ached. I thought, How can we have family prayer? I wanted to be obedient. I wanted to have a prayer for Thanksgiving. I even thought I would say it if someone asked me, but I was too shy to volunteer. I worried all day Monday, and all day Tuesday, and Wednesday at school.
Thursday we all got up. There were five boys and two sisters. We skipped breakfast so we would have a real appetite for Thanksgiving dinner. I kept thinking, Please, Heavenly Father, let us have a prayer.
Finally at 2:30, my mother called us to come and eat. We cleaned up and sat at the table. Somehow Mom had managed to have a turkey with all the trimmings. She put all the food on the table, including the turkey. I thought my heart would burst. Time was running out. I looked at my father, then my mother. I thought, Please, now, someone, anyone, please can’t we have a prayer? I was almost panicky; then all of a sudden everyone started to eat. I had worked hard all morning and afternoon to work up an appetite, but I wasn’t hungry. I didn’t want to eat. I wanted to pray more than anything else in this world, and it was too late.

One of my earliest memories is of attending Sunday School class as a five-year-old in the basement of our old ward meetinghouse. I recall one day watching the dust particles move in the shafts of bright sunlight as our teacher read to us the story of how Joseph Smith prayed and our Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ came and stood before him. I can still feel myself sitting there, looking and listening, surrounded by the towers of sunlight. But most of all, I remember the warm feeling swelling within me when I heard about Joseph Smith seeing and talking to our Heavenly Father.
Later that day at home, I found a book of my father’s that looked like the one my teacher had read from. I didn’t know at the time that it was a copy of the Triple Combination. I couldn’t read it, but just holding the book in my hands and looking at its pages recaptured for me what I had felt in Sunday School.

My sister-in-law Janey (name has been changed) was raised in the gospel and was a very committed member of the Church. After her seemingly happy temple marriage dissolved, people in her small community began to spread rumors and make judgments about her. She distanced herself from many of her friends and eventually the Church.
She started dating a young man, Andy, who soon moved in with her. I worried about what to tell my kids. My three young daughters loved their aunt Janey. Not only are our families very close, but she was their dance teacher, so they saw her several times a week.
For many months, they thought that Andy was visiting a lot, but I finally had to tell them that Janey and Andy were living together. I explained that the choice they made was a serious sin. My daughters seemed to understand, and we had a good discussion about the importance of living gospel principles.
Then a bomb hit. Janey happily announced to the family that she and Andy were expecting a baby. Again I worried about how this news would affect my children. Did they realize that this is not how Heavenly Father wants His children brought to earth? If they were around this situation, would they think it was acceptable and normal?
I fretted for weeks, not wanting to tell my children of this newest development. A month later Janey and Andy decided to get married. Why hadn’t they waited to announce the pregnancy until after they were married?
Resentment boiled up inside me. How could I love Janey but not what she had done? How could I teach my kids to continue to love their aunt but not the choices she had made?
I wondered if Janey had gone through something similar. Had she regretted her choices but, unable to change the consequences, accepted them and decided to move forward?
I felt shame at my harsh judgments and at my inability to love the way Jesus Christ expects us to love. As I reflected on the Savior’s life, I remembered that He always sought out the sinners, teaching them through His words and example, and loving them. It was this love that softened hearts and changed people.
I realized that too often I loved people as long as they were acting the way I thought they should, but as soon as they made a mistake, I condemned them in my heart. What a hypocrite I was! I realized I needed to repent. I needed to learn to love the sinner without endorsing the sin. Finally, I was able to release the anger I held against Janey and truly love her again.
I had another good discussion with my children. I emphasized the importance of getting married before having a baby. We were able to look forward to the birth of a new baby in the family. We all wanted to support Janey and share in this special time of her life. My kids realize that Aunt Janey did something wrong, but they still love her and Uncle Andy and hope their beautiful family will someday decide to come back into the waiting arms of our Savior, Jesus Christ.

The bus load of excited seminary students were singing their way from Santiago, Chile, to the Andes Mountains. From my seat on the bus, I listened with delight as some fifty young people from all over Chile sang hymn after hymn together, sharing the spirit of the gospel with brothers and sisters they had just met. The joy on their young faces made me think of small children playing with a Christmas toy.
It was 1973, and I was a teacher in Chile’s pioneer early-morning seminary program. Together with my wife and several other adult leaders, men and women, we were on our way for a day at the beautiful Morales Baths in the Maipo Canyon of the Andes.
When we arrived at our destination, our group was ecstatic to see and touch snow for the first time. Immediately, the young people began running through the snow, throwing snowballs, and even rolling down the hills. Even though our smooth-soled shoes were not suitable for hiking in the snow, we enjoyed our play. Then a mountain guide, a member of the Andean Club, saw our group. He warned us of deep pits covered with snow and other dangers of the mountainside. Then he led us, single-file to a shelter at the summit of the mountain, where we would camp and eat.
Our high spirits were subdued a little by his warning, but it was when we started for home that afternoon that we met dangers that required us to listen to another guide—the Holy Ghost.
By the time we boarded our bus, it was getting late and we were tired. As the driver started the bus, a wheel spun deep into the snow. We all got out to lighten the vehicle’s load. Then someone suggested that some of us could walk on ahead while the driver solved the problem. Twenty of us—all men—began our descent, confident that the bus would soon catch up with us.
Suddenly, it began to snow, and as we went along, it snowed harder. Before we knew it, night had fallen, covering the sky and the snow-covered ground like a black mantle. By this time we had walked for about an hour. Fear came upon us, and we stopped walking. One of our group who was a Boy Scout had us form a circle and sing cheerful songs with body movements to warm and entertain ourselves. But as we searched in vain for reflected light from the bus headlights, we began to feel the seriousness of our situation.
After a while, the bus did come along. But when it finally reached us, we saw that it was empty except for the driver. He told us that the bus had a broken part and that he must go down the mountain for repairs. He had left the women at the shelter, he said, and we should return there and wait for him to come for us the next day.
With that, the bus drove away, leaving us to make the long walk back to the shelter. Snow quickly covered the tracks of the bus, and we could not see the road. As we walked, our clothing got soaked and cold, and our feet sank into the soft snow with each step. Some sang, and others walked in silence. But I know that there was a prayer in each heart.
We reached a point where we had to decide whether to turn right or to keep going straight. There were various opinions, none of them based on knowledge. In that moment, we prayerfully entrusted our steps to the direction of our Father in Heaven, who guided Lehi safely through the desert. We did not have the Liahona to guide us. We had no leader to show us the way, but we did have the gift of the Holy Ghost.
We turned to the right and continued our march further into the snow-covered mountains. Suddenly someone cried, “There they are! See that light!” Our enthusiasm and hope were reborn, and, like a well-trained choir, we began singing “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
Then someone in our group said, “Quiet! Listen!” And in the silence we heard the distant voices of our brothers and sisters at the shelter joining in our grateful chorus: “Glory, glory, hallelujah! His truth is marching on.”
We tried to keep singing, but our emotions kept us from doing so. In vain we tried to stop the tears that rolled down our cheeks. But as we hurried on to meet the rest of our group, we thanked our Heavenly Father for guiding and protecting us.
The next morning was Sunday, and we awoke to the wonder of a world covered with new snow. Warm inside the shelter, we gathered for Sunday School and sacrament meeting. An older couple and another young man who had also been trapped in the storm and the caretaker of the shelter also met with us. There were heartfelt messages, prayers, and songs of praise. Afterward, the nonmembers expressed their gratitude for being able to attend our meeting and for the opportunity to meet with such exceptional young people.
Later that day, the bus arrived to take us back to Santiago. What had begun as such a carefree adventure had become an experience we would always remember. Never would we forget that our Heavenly Father had saved us on that dark mountain through the guidance of the Holy Ghost.

Wow! What can I say about that super article “Hasty” in the November New Era? It came across to me with immense spiritual power. My companion and I are teaching an old man who fits the description of Hasty. He’s so lonely. His wife died recently, and he had retired into a world of his own when we tracted him out. Every time we drop by to see him it seems to brighten up his day and ours. I’m sure it’s because we bring with us the message of the restoration of the gospel.
Elder Harold Z. StanderFlorida Tallahassee Mission

Caroling isn’t much of an Argentine Christmas tradition. In fact, Christmas here is quite different from the traditional snowy scene you might think of. Because we live in the Southern Hemisphere, Christmas always makes me think of a large fruit salad!
So when my parents suggested we try caroling as a family, my siblings and I felt a mix of confusion and excitement. We weren’t sure of our musical abilities, so we decided to make and bring some cookies to give the people we visited a reason to smile, at least.
A man named Joaquín had been a part of our ward for as long as I could remember. That December he had gotten very sick and could no longer attend sacrament meeting. My dad and brothers were among those who took the sacrament to him in the hospital after church on Sundays.
On the Sunday before Christmas, our whole family jumped into the car to visit Joaquín, hoping we would bring a warm Christmas spirit. When we arrived, the nurse directed us to his bed. He had his scriptures and a hymnal at his bedside, as if he had been expecting us.
He was so obviously happy that we were there, and we all immediately felt such love for him. My brothers prepared, blessed, and passed the sacrament. Before leaving, we sang the beautiful melody in “Far, Far Away on Judea’s Plains”: “Glory to God in the highest; peace on earth, goodwill to men” (Hymns, no. 212).
Certainly it was peace and goodwill that entered our hearts as he called us “angels” and thanked us for visiting, when all we had wanted was to bring those feelings to him.
Julia G., Buenos Aires, Argentina

“Before our young children could read well, we made picture cards of words they were likely to hear during conference. We gave a reward each time they heard and found three cards. Sometimes we put a poster-sized paper on the wall and let them run up and make a tally mark or draw their own picture every time they heard a word or idea. Sometimes we cut out images from old Church magazines and let them glue a collage on a paper for each session. We put these papers in plastic sleeves to use as quiet books in sacrament meeting later!” —Anita P.

I remember walking home from Primary one afternoon when I was about eleven years old. I had been deeply moved by the lesson Sister Squires had taught us about Gethsemane and the Savior’s crucifixion. I remember saying to my father that since Jesus Christ was God, this suffering would not have hurt Him as much as it would an ordinary person.

My father got the scriptures from our living room and read to me from the nineteenth section of the Doctrine and Covenants. He read several verses to me, among them verses 16–19:
“‘For behold, I, God, have suffered these things for all, that they might not suffer if they would repent;
“‘But if they would not repent they must suffer even as I;
“‘Which suffering caused myself, even God, the greatest of all, to tremble because of pain, and to bleed at every pore, and to suffer both body and spirit—and would that I might not drink the bitter cup, and shrink—
“‘Nevertheless, glory be to the Father, and I partook and finished my preparations unto the children of men.’” [D&C 19:16–19]

After my father finished reading the scriptures, he turned to me and said, “Because Jesus Christ was God, it hurt Him more, not less.”

Don’t think that only grown-ups can understand the doctrines of the Church or learn from the scriptures. The Spirit can help you feel and know these things too. Don’t worry if you don’t understand everything you read or hear—grown-ups don’t, either. I can’t tell you how grateful I am that Sister Squires told us about the Savior’s Atonement and Crucifixion. Her lesson troubled me. It led me to ask more questions. I’m also grateful to a father who knew the scriptures and who didn’t think I was too young to learn. I’m sure Sister Squires didn’t tell us everything she knew, and I’m sure I didn’t understand everything she told us. But I felt that day what I think she felt, and it made a difference in my life.

I stood in the warm font, my white dress billowing around me. I was excited to be baptized, to be clean! Elder Daniels put me under the water, and I came up soaking and smiling. When I opened my eyes, I felt so good. I never wanted to do anything wrong again. My parents smiled at me.
“You did great,” my mom said after I was confirmed. She had even written me a poem for my baptism day. My dad was not a member of the Church, but I knew he felt OK about my choice since he let me take the missionary discussions.
Two of my best friends from the fifth grade came to see my baptism, and my parents took us all out for yummy ice cream afterward. My favorite food!
My friends and I took our cones and explored the gardens near the ice cream shop. The creamy ice cream on my cone looked so good. But on my first lick, the whole scoop fell off the cone and onto the grass!
Without thinking, I said a word my mom had asked me not to say. I slapped my hand over my mouth, realizing what I’d said. I was so sad. I didn’t know what to do. My parents thought I was just sad about my ice cream. They offered to buy me another, but I didn’t feel like eating anymore. Who cared about ice cream? I’d just made a terrible mistake and ruined my perfect day. I wasn’t clean anymore!
The rest of the day I felt awful about what I had said. And I didn’t want to tell my mom because she might get mad at me for saying a bad word. I was embarrassed that I had spoiled my new clean record so soon after being baptized.
That night I prayed for forgiveness. “Heavenly Father, I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to say that word. It just came out. I don’t want to say it again.”
I went to bed unhappy, and on Sunday morning I still wasn’t feeling very good. When we got to church, I waved hello to Elder Daniels with the same crummy feeling in my stomach.
I felt even worse when my mom said, “I’m so glad you decided to be baptized.”
During sacrament meeting a familiar tune made me look up. It was the sacrament hymn. The words were about Jesus. As I started to sing, I concentrated on the words. They spoke about Jesus’s amazing Atonement and how wonderful it was. Then I remembered something the missionaries taught me. They said that every time I sincerely repented and took the sacrament, it would be just like I was baptized all over again! I could repent. Instantly my heart felt lighter, and I realized that everything would be OK.
I was so relieved and so grateful for the sacrament that day. I took the bread and water and promised Heavenly Father I would do my best the next week to keep all His commandments. I was so happy. I knew that I was clean again.

Car horns blared and taxis and buses jostled for a place in the traffic. As Benjamin Misalucha sat in the marketplace watching the automobiles roll by, he reached for a handkerchief and mopped his brow. He hoped his wife would be done with the shopping soon. The weather was hot and muggy, as it often is in the Philippines, and he was eager to get home and relax with his children.

Then he noticed a sign, high on the side of one of the buildings overlooking the square. “No other success can compensate for failure in the home,” the sign read. He found himself contemplating the message and believing in its truth.

“During those times I was young, about 30, and had four children. We had everything, comparatively speaking, compared to other Filipinos, but I was not satisfied with my life. In my heart I knew I was searching for something more,” he said.

He didn’t guess that the quotation from President David O. McKay had been inscribed on the sign by missionaries living in the building, the same kind of Mormon missionaries who had already visited with him for three weeks when he lived in Manila, the capital city. He had also been visited twice by the elders here in Davao, another large city in the south.

A short time later, Benjamin Misalucha was transferred by his pharmaceutical company to Cebu City, an important community on one of the central islands. It was in Cebu that Mr. Misalucha and his family would discover the secret of what had been lacking in their lives.

The Misaluchas were excited about their new home. Cebu and the region surrounding it are important in the history of the Philippines. It was here that Ferdinand Magellan, who sought to circumnavigate the earth, first introduced Christianity to the islands. What is reputed to be Magellan’s wooden cross still stands in the city plaza. From 1565 to 1571, Cebu was the Spanish colonial capital, and Cebuanos later played key roles in the fight for independence from Spain. During World War II, in reprisal for guerilla action, Cebu City proper was almost entirely razed. But the port remained intact and the city was rebuilt. Today Cebu remains an inter-island trade and domestic airline center. Its citizens are a conglomeration of farmers, factory workers, and businessmen. The Misaluchas soon discovered that, like Filipinos everywhere, the people of Cebu are quick to smile and just as quick to lend a helping hand.

“Filipinos are basically close,” Benjamin’s wife, Avelina, explained. “We maintain close family ties, and ties with other Filipinos as well. We share experiences, even material things.”

In a society in which sharing is so accepted, it might seem unusual that someone would stand out as being particularly kind and generous. But such was the case with the local Parent Teacher Association (PTA) president. Right from the start she went out of her way to help the Misaluchas adjust to their new city. Soon Mr. Misalucha was serving on the PTA board. He eventually found out that the PTA president was also the wife of the local Mormon bishop. His curiosity grew and grew.

“One day I saw both of them walking home, and I ran over to catch up with them,” Mr. Misalucha explained. “I told him I wanted to know more about his church. He said he could recommend a couple of nice young men who could teach me about it.”

For the next ten months, the elders became a regular fixture in the Misalucha home. Benjamin Misalucha would entertain them with stories about previous encounters with missionaries, before he fully understood who they were: “They knocked on my door and asked me if I was the head of the house. I was all hot and perspiring from doing some chores, so I told them, ‘No, I’m just the janitor here.’ It’s something I say jokingly to my family all the time, but the missionaries believed me!”

Avelina would always provide cold water or juice, cake, or even siopao (doughy, white, steamed Chinese bread stuffed with sausage and eggs). And of course, the children, who numbered five by now, would have fun teasing the missionaries and telling jokes before the serious gospel discussions began.

“I wanted answers from the Bible,” Benjamin said, “because I didn’t believe in the Book of Mormon yet. And they showed me answers in the Bible. I was totally perplexed by how they could always get answers to questions I couldn’t even answer myself.” Slowly his perplexed state gave way to understanding. The missionaries could find the answers because they knew the truth. He summoned a family council.

“Take this individually into prayer,” he told his wife and children. At the next family council, they all voted in favor of becoming Latter-day Saints. The family was baptized on April 29, 1978, a Saturday.

“Ever since we’ve been members, we’ve been blessed,” Brother Misalucha said. He began working for an insurance company, and his business has grown steadily, “in spite of the fact that some of my friends were hostile. They told me I’d return to my former church within two years. But I had found the true church, Christ’s church. Our family bonds were stronger. The children were becoming more pronounced in developing their skills, learning to speak in public and overcoming their shyness. I knew I was following the Lord’s way.”

Last Easter during general conference, President Russell M. Nelson called on us to increase our faith.1 These last few months have been rather challenging for my family—physically, emotionally, financially and spiritually. Between March and May this year, a second surge of the pandemic hit Madagascar, my home country, in an unprecedented way, completely overwhelming the health system. Many people and even doctors were asking questions like, “What is happening to us?” “Where is God?” and “Are we such bad people to deserve such a calamity?”
Our family has not been spared, as my wife and I, most of my siblings and their spouses, and my parents were infected. My mother, my wife and I, having a more serious form of the disease, had to be hospitalized and were put together in a single room. After ten days of treatment and improvement, my wife and I were discharged with a recommendation to rest in bed for several more weeks.
My mother was left alone. Her feeling of loneliness turned to depression, as none of us could visit her. She then requested to be brought home and treated by me, a medical doctor. We all reasoned with her, as it was impossible to meet her oxygen needs at home. As her condition worsened, she became angry with all of us, and her desire to go home became a command. We finally were all convinced to bring her home as we miraculously found a solution to her oxygen supply needs. Once home, she slowly improved each day. But on the following Sunday morning, she suddenly went into cardiorespiratory arrest before my eyes. I immediately started, with the help of my brother, the best—and longest—resuscitation I have ever provided. We finally had to resign ourselves to the fact that she would pass away. With my eyes filled with tears, I signed the official medical death declaration for the woman who gave birth to me.
After comforting my loved ones, my mind became filled with questions and doubts. Had I, as a doctor, done something wrong in the care I had provided to my mother? Did we make the wrong decision in bringing her home? Those moments of doubts and questioning required me to work on increasing my faith to feel peace.
I received a call from Elder S. Mark Palmer, the Africa South Area President, who ministered to me with so much love. As I reported how my mother passed away for a reason I did not understand, he said: “As a doctor, you do not understand. But as a servant of the Lord, you do.”2
I have always had a strong faith in the Lord Jesus Christ, but what Elder Palmer said helped me get back on the right track.

In the spring of 1970, our priest had announced that we would be selling our school to the Mormons. “You Chileans think that the Catholic Church is the only religion,” he said.
I thought, “Of course, what else?”
Our priest continued, “All of you will write a report on The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
Since the LDS mission office was only two blocks from our home, I went there to find information for my school project. When I got home, I looked at the pretty pamphlets about the Church and at the Book of Mormon. My copy of the book contained Moroni’s special promise right on the first page:
“And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.
“And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things” (Moro. 10:4–5).
When I read that promise, I received a spiritual witness that those words were true and that the Book of Mormon was true. But I was fifteen and not ready to be “religious,” so I decided not to do anything specific about my feelings. My interest had been stirred, though, and I earned the best grade in the class with my report on the Mormons.

As I walked down the dusty, Brazilian country road, my mind strayed to a day in my childhood. Now, I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and was serving the Lord as a missionary. But the setting took my mind back to a loving aunt, a wonderful day, and a promise.
Aunt Rocilda and her family lived on a large farm. Our extended family was very important to us and we loved to visit her. Since a day in the country was a day away from the pressures of everyday life, I always looked forward to our visits to the country—especially Aunt Rocilda’s farm. I could tell that one of her greatest joys in life was making me happy.
One particular day, I had played hard and taken advantage of every opportunity to enjoy the farm. Aunt Rocilda had given me a fish to take home and it seemed that she had shown me her love more than ever that day.
As I prepared to leave, I hugged her and made her a promise; I wanted to somehow repay her for her Christlike love. “Someday,” I said with the sincerity of youth, “I will go to Sao Paolo and I will bring you back a big gift.”
As I grew up, the dream of Sao Paolo never faded, though the remembrance of my promise did. One day I learned that Aunt Rocilda had died. As I mourned, I remembered my promise to her and I grieved that I would never be able to fulfill it.
However, I did go to Sao Paolo and there I met two Latter-day Saint missionaries. After being baptized, I worked toward a mission and the blessings of the temple. As I entered the Missionary Training Center in Sao Paolo, I thought of my aunt. What would be the greatest possible gift I could give her? I felt a strong desire to share the blessings of the gospel with Aunt Rocilda, and I made sure that temple ordinance work was done in her name.
Though Aunt Rocilda didn’t receive the “big gift” in this, earthly life, I feel that she has accepted the greater, eternal gift.

When I was about three or four years old, my mother was the ward Relief Society president. Part of her responsibility, it seemed, was always to have a quilt in progress in our home. At any given time, sisters would filter in and out of our basement to quilt for a while. Often my mother would thread a needle for me and let me “quilt” with the sisters. (My clumsy stitches were patiently removed when I was not around.) I relished these moments and learned at a young age to love quilting and Relief Society.
My mother died suddenly when I was only five. It wasn’t until years later that I found out she had left me a great gift of love. The Christmas of my 19th year is one I will always remember, for that was when I received this most precious gift from my mother, although she had passed away 14 years earlier.
I hadn’t known it, but before my mother died she had pieced together two special quilt tops, one for my older brother and one for me. She had used little pieces of fabric from our dresses and shirts. But she had passed away before she could put the quilts together and do the quilting.
When I turned 19, my older sister felt it was time to complete the quilts for my brother and me, and she asked the ward Relief Society to finish them. The sisters sewed the intricate stitches without knowing how much it would have pleased my mother.
On Christmas Day when I received the quilt, I loved the gift with all my heart. But I had no idea how much more it would yet come to mean to me.
Years went by, and I married and started a family of my own. I kept my quilt wrapped in a plastic bag in a drawer to protect it from damage and wear. One day I took it out and was carefully admiring it when one of my little boys came into the room and asked me where I got the quilt. I explained to him that his Grandma Brown had made the quilt for me before she died.
“Who is Grandma Brown?” my young son asked.
How it pained me that my children had never known the mother I cherished. It hurt that she could not put her arms around them and tell them she loved them in her tender, gentle way. I explained to my son once again that Grandma Brown, my mother, was someone special in heaven who loved him.
“Why do you have that quilt, Mommy?” he asked.
Suddenly it came to me. I knew exactly why I had the quilt. I unfolded it and wrapped it around his little body. “I have this quilt so Grandma Brown can give you hugs even though she is in heaven,” I said.
A big smile spread across his face, and I could see that this was the best answer I could have given him.
Since then the quilt has made its way out of the drawer much more often. Whenever a family member is hurt, sad, or in need of extra love, the quilt is a great source of comfort. I love touching the quilt, knowing my mother’s hands have touched it also.
Many years have passed, and I can now quilt correctly. My sisters and I have spent many hours around quilting frames, talking about our mother. Since I am the youngest, my sisters tell me stories about her to help me know her better. Yet no matter how many stories I hear, nothing has helped me or my children turn our hearts to my mother more than the quilt I got for Christmas the year I turned 19.

Our stake asked us to pray for missionary experiences, and I had a very special one when I was with my family on a vacation in the Florida Keys. One day I was out on the beach watching the waves when I noticed a lady sitting next to me reading a magazine. The magazine happened to be the Friend. Being shy, I was afraid to start a conversation with her. But I had a very strong feeling that I should. So I began by asking her if she was a member of the Church. She said she was an investigator. Our conversation continued for at least 30 more minutes. She had many different types of questions. For example, she asked about Church missions and what my family does for family night. I tried my very best to answer all of her questions. This experience strengthened my testimony. I also learned that I need to be ready to answer people’s questions.

Cambodia has gone through many tragic civil wars. I was born right after the conflicts ended. Life was difficult and food was scarce as my parents struggled to raise eight children. At times, I wondered what my future could possibly hold under such conditions.
In1998, my life changed when I joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I was baptized one year before finishing high school. Lacking the financial means to attend college, I chose to serve a full-time mission. While serving, my spiritual eyes were opened. I came to understand God’s eternal plan for His children and how I could prepare to establish an eternal family of my own.
The spiritual truths of the restored gospel allowed me to know that one day I would marry in the temple and be sealed to my wife and children forever. I pictured us going to church together, singing hymns together, studying the gospel together, and one day sending my children on missions and then seeing them start their own families sealed in holy temples. What a beautiful vision I had for our family. I hope everyone has this kind of vision.
My dream began to be fulfilled in 2005, when I was sealed to a lovely woman in the Hong Kong China Temple. Since then, the eternal path has become clearer. The Lord has blessed us with five energetic sons.

One day Elder Smith was taken desperately ill with a raging fever. He was given a priesthood blessing, but he remained ill. He almost passed away. His condition was very critical on many occasions. For the next three months, he was tenderly cared for by a native brother and his wife. This young couple did everything possible to save the young missionary’s life and gave him the best they had through tender fatherly and motherly love, even fasting and praying for many days. This young missionary never forgot a kindness and never forsook a friend. He always treated and honored this wonderful Hawaiian lady, Ma Manuhii, as his own Hawaiian mother.

Faith in Sage’s future wasn’t easy. During those first terrible days, Michael and Denise faced the agonizing possibility that Sage would die. “We mourned for the Sage we had known,” they say, “and then we faced the challenge of accepting the new Sage. Spiritually and emotionally, we were healed as she was healed.”
The support from fellow Saints and neighbors was a vital part of that healing. Ruth DeBuck stayed with Denise those first few nights in the hospital. They lay on separate beds pulled together, their heads touching, holding hands.
“We talked through the night, working through the nightmare,” Ruth says. “We talked about what it would mean if Sage died, and what it would mean if she lived. All a mother feels and wants for her daughter had been suddenly ripped away, and Denise had to deal with that loss. Those first few days, we had to let the old dreams go, then dream new dreams.”
Ruth has seen those dreams blossom. “We see Sage some time in the future being married in the temple,” she says. “Some young man, kind and pure, who can see through the physical to her spiritual beauty, is with her. We see her with children of her own, living a life in the gospel, taking the joy offered, living beyong the burn.”