Gospel Story Finder

One winter day a few years ago, I was getting out of the SUV I drive to accommodate my six children. Now, SUVs are large and there was a decent first step from the car door to the frosty ground below. I slid across the seat, shifting all of my weight onto the supporting leg. Oblivious to the glossy sheen below me, my foot made contact with the icy surface, and the ground began to move. I tried digging in with my heels in an effort to unearth enough traction to prevent a stumbling fall on the polished city street, but before I knew it, I was treating the spectators around me with a delightful rendition of the crazy leg dance; you know the one, where you dramatically shuffle in place and swing your arms with an odd expression of anxiety on your face. You look absolutely ridiculous until gravity prevails, control is lost, and you find yourself on the ground, void of any remaining dignity. Now while this was happening, I was laughing uncontrollably, which made it even harder to maintain my balance or plan for a graceful landing. In addition, to provide the perfect climactic ending, I had stopped by Jamba Juice on the way to work to pick up a smoothie, and well, you can see where this is going. As my weight veered back, my arms were thrown forward instinctively which released the full force of the smoothie into the air. As I landed face up I could see my Orange Sunrise smoothie, filled with fruit and cream and topped off with an immunity boost, orbiting through the sky above me. As quickly as it happened the performance was over and I lay in the parking lot covered in my breakfast and laughing to myself thinking, boy I wish one of those people watching me had a video camera.

Sometimes, brother and sisters, we just need to laugh. Although I was a little sore the next day from the landing, I often think about that slippery fall, and I can’t help but giggle and smile, especially when I consider how ridiculous I looked. We are meant to have joy on this earth, though I don’t think a literal fall is what we must experience when we read in the scriptures, “Adam fell that men might be and men are that they might have joy.”[3]

Before I became president of the Church, I was assigned as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles to visit some of the countries of South America for various gatherings with the Saints. We were received well by the countries, by their officials, and by the press.
I was interested in a comment made by a representative of one of the largest papers in Brazil. She had heard my sermon the day before, on Sunday, in which I had spoken rather strongly about the restoration of the gospel. She asked me why Christ was crucified.
I answered: “Because he said, ‘I am the Son of God.’”
And her next remark shocked me: “He should not have said it, should he? He really was not, was he?”
I thought she was joking. I looked into her eyes for a moment and thought she was going to smile. But she did not. And I said firmly: “He said he was the Son of God because he was the Son of God.”
Later I read an article in the Easter paper of one of the largest cities in South America. The author was a minister with letters after his name. I read the entire article and in the half a page given front page notice, he never mentioned the Lord of heaven and earth, the Redeemer, the Savior. He always spoke of “Jesus.” He quoted two or three scriptures which mentioned Jesus of Nazareth as being more than the carpenter’s son, but never in his writing did he ever give any other title to the Christ who shed his precious blood for him.
During the same trip, I asked 400 missionaries gathered in a meeting, “What think ye of Christ and the claims that are made?” And I heard 400 inspiring testimonies from youth—sure testimonies, ringing with conviction.
I am reminded of what Paul said: “And I, brethren, when I came to you, came not with excellency of speech or of wisdom, declaring unto you the testimony of God.
“For I determined not to know anything among you, save Jesus Christ, and him crucified” (1 Cor. 2:1–2).
I could not see how we could really celebrate an Easter without discussing the Lord Jesus Christ. Why even the devils know that Jesus is the Christ. On one occasion the devils came crying out and saying, “Thou art Christ the Son of God. And he rebuking them suffered them not to speak: for they knew that he was Christ” (Luke 4:41). On another occasion “the evil spirit answered and said, Jesus I know, and Paul I know; but who are ye?” (Acts 19:15). And another time, “they cried out saying, What have we to do with thee, Jesus, thou Son of God? art thou come hither to torment us before the time?” (Matt. 8:29).
I believe that there was a considerable conviction in the heart of Pilate, who was constrained by his conscience to let the Savior go free, but because of political ambitions and other reasons, in spite of his wife’s importuning, he delivered him to be crucified. But even after that, he wrote on the cross in three languages—Hebrew, Greek, and Latin—this famous statement: “Jesus of Nazareth the King of the Jews.” The Jews, offended, came and said:
“Write not, The King of the Jews; but that he said, I am King of the Jews.
“Pilate answered, What I have written I have written” (see John 19:19–22).
You have read of Nathanael, the man without guile, who said, as he saw the Christ: “Rabbi, thou art the Son of God; thou art the King of Israel” (John 1:49).
Paul had hardly made his transformation, had just barely received back his sight from his unusual experience when he went straightway into the synagogues and preached Christ, “that he is the Son of God.”
Why will the divines of the day purposely avoid the names of the Deity whom they would choose to call only Jesus? There are tens of thousands of Jesuses in the world. In all the Spanish-speaking countries you find them on every hand. They pronounce it Ha-sús, but it is Jesus. But there was only one Jesus who became the Prince of Light, the Author of our salvation.
Joseph Smith said: “I had actually seen a light, and in the midst of that light I saw two Personages, and they did in reality speak to me; and though I was hated and persecuted for saying that I had seen a vision, yet it was true; and while they were persecuting me, reviling me, and speaking all manner of evil against me falsely for so saying, I was led to say in my heart: Why persecute me for telling the truth? I have actually seen a vision; and who am I that I can withstand God, or why does the world think to make me deny what I have actually seen? For I had seen a vision; I knew it, and I knew that God knew it, and I could not deny it, neither dared I do it; at least I knew that by so doing I would offend God, and come under condemnation” (JS—H 1:25).
You remember what Peter said when the disciples were asked, “Whom do men say that I the Son of man am?” They spoke up and said men thought him to be Elias or one of the other prophets, and then the Lord said again, and I can imagine his piercing eyes, wondering and expectant eyes, “But whom say ye that I am?” And the answer was one of the most stirring and glorious of all statements made, “Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.” And the next statement must never be overlooked: “Flesh and blood hath not revealed it unto thee, but my Father which is in heaven” (see Matt. 16:13–17). In other words, man has not told you this, but my Father has revealed it unto thee; a great revelation has come unto thee, and thou knowest it.
I asked 400 missionaries the Lord’s question which faces every man, woman, and child on this earth: “Whom do ye say that I the Son of man am?” And I was gratified at the hundreds of replies saying “Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.”
And that is my testimony to you, that Jesus is indeed the Christ, the living Son of the living God.

It was a hot and sultry July day in 1970. Though the wind was blowing in my face, my back felt wet, and perspiration formed on my arms. This was going to be a scorcher, and I only hoped that it would not be a wasted trip. I geared down into third as the little red, four-door Datsun rounded a turn in the road. Many thoughts raced through my mind as I drove toward San Fernando, Mexico, that morning.
It had been only two months since my co-companion, Elder Mont Garrett, and I had been transferred to the city of Matamoros, just across the border from Brownsville, Texas. I had been serving in the Mexico North Mission for two years now, and both Elder Garrett and I felt strange being transferred to a city so close to the United States.
Beginning in 1969 and continuing for the next several years, the Mexican missions had all experienced astounding success in converting people of all ages to the Church. While I had enjoyed some success during my mission, I was still not satisfied that I had done my best, and so the transfer to Matamoros offered a last opportunity to really succeed as a representative of the Lord.
Ten days earlier, as Elder Garrett and I were visiting with the district president, he casually remarked that Hermana (Sister) Villafranca, from the small farming community of San Fernando, had asked him to send the missionaries to visit her. Since neither my companion nor l had ever heard of San Fernando, it came as something of a surprise to us. I immediately asked if there would be any investigators present, if they would be willing to be taught the gospel, and how much planning had gone into this proposed “visit.” The district president smilingly replied that the Hermana had arranged to use her home in the city as a site for a Sunday School that would be held the following week. The district president and several members had agreed to attend and assist with the procedural problems if we would teach a class for investigators. I was rather skeptical of the entire idea but contacted the mission president and asked for permission to go.
The mission president was also somewhat reluctant to accept the idea, but he finally granted his permission—with the understanding that we should make arrangements to see that our commitments in Matamoros were met for that day. We would be able to return to San Fernando only if there were enough investigators present to justify the time involved. Since as zone leader I was responsible for all missionary work outside the city, Elder Garrett and I agreed that he would remain in Matamoros to work with a local companion and I would meet the district president in San Fernando on the next Sunday.
Other thoughts crowded in as I slowly drove toward San Fernando. I supposed that during the time of my mission I had told the Joseph Smith story over a thousand times, but it was something that I still enjoyed doing. I hoped to tell it with particular conviction to the investigators in San Fernando because, with my date of release only weeks away, I knew that my opportunities were very limited. Never did I dream, though, that the next six hours would bring one of the most spiritually exciting experiences of my life.
San Fernando lies about 80 miles south of Matamoros, and as my journey was coming to an end, I was aware for the first time of the physical setting. On both sides of the two-lane highway there were gently rolling hills and seemingly endless fields of sorghum and wild grass. Notwithstanding the hot and monotonously humid days, I later found that the mornings were cool and refreshing in the early hours, and the evenings were graced with strikingly beautiful orange, red, and purple sunsets that led to majestically silent evenings interrupted only by the music of insects. The intense feeling of peace was very relaxing.
My daydreaming was interrupted as I approached the outskirts of town. After asking directions from several hesitant citizens (seeing a gringo, especially one who could more or less speak the native tongue, was something of a novelty in San Fernando), I soon arrived at Hermana Villafranca’s home. The house was situated at the end of a long, uphill street that disappeared into the underbrush of the hillside. The thatch-roofed building was made of adobe bricks that had recently been whitewashed (I later discovered that Hermana Villafranca had ordered the whitewashing especially for this occasion). I drove slowly through a narrow gate and parked under a shaggy tree. The district president greeted me, stating that the Hermana would be along soon.
Minutes later we were roused from our conversation by the insistent honking of a horn that grew louder as a large truck approached. As the truck arrived I discovered the cargo area was bulging with faces of all ages, sizes, and descriptions. The good Hermana stepped down and encouraged her passengers to alight and make themselves comfortable. I exchanged the usual formal greetings with her, and then she immediately announced that we must hurry if we were to start the meeting on time.
In terms of her physical appearance, she was not unlike many Mexican women whom I had met. I soon learned, however, that the spiritual attributes of Hermana Villafranca were entirely her own and can only be described as breathtaking. She always radiated a spirit of goodness, and her seemingly inexhaustible supply of faith was a power that was undeniable and also entirely reliable.
The inside dimensions of Hermana Villafranca’s home were small, about 15 by 30 feet. She had removed all the furniture so that the single room with the hard dirt floor was converted into a hall for the entire congregation. There were about 50 people at Sunday School that morning, and as we sang the opening song a cappella, I couldn’t help but wonder how many were investigators and how many were Church members from outlying areas. I soon found out. After the opening exercises were over, I was asked to remain in the house and teach the investigators while the members moved outside for their lessons.
Sometimes nothing is more difficult than setting up an umbrella-type flannelboard, especially when you are shaking. I was about to present the Joseph Smith story to 30 anxious listeners!
As I began the discussion, the room was expectantly quiet. Every student listened with sincere interest. When I asked questions of the class, it seemed as if they had memorized the answers beforehand, and I found myself becoming more and more excited as it became apparent that I had not one golden contact, but a whole room full of them. When it came time to ask if, after they had studied, prayed, and listened to the rest of the discussions, they would be baptized, I was greeted with a chorus of “Sí.”
After the class was over, I quickly left the room to visit with Hermana Villafranca. Tears came to her dark eyes when I told of the class. She said that she had been looking forward to that day for many years. I could only look at her and marvel at her faith, determination, and persistence.
Two weeks later Elder Garrett and I conducted a small baptismal service in San Fernando. On this occasion I was able to baptize three of the class members, including Hermana Villafranca’s brother, in the shallow waters of a small river that passes through the north end of town. The next month I turned the work over to Elder Garrett and returned home.
The experience in San Fernando ended my mission in a very gratifying way. I sensed that it was an important incident, but I did not then realize how far-reaching the effects would be. Now, six years later, there is a branch with almost 200 members in San Fernando. It is there because of the missionary efforts of one stalwart sister who was not afraid to tell others about the gospel, and to do it with the faith that precedes any miracle.

One Sunday my counselors and I visited a Church meeting. We gave talks about the temple and the special things that happen there. After the meeting, a 12-year-old boy named Colby came up to me and shook my hand. We chatted about the temple. Then I challenged him to find a family name to take to the temple.
A short time later, I got a letter from Colby. Here’s what Colby told me:
“I went home and found a new name. It turns out that I found my third great-grandfather!
“A while later I went to the temple and got baptized for him. It was really special because my brother got to baptize me and my dad got to confirm me for him.
“I felt a warm feeling inside that brought peace. I feel like what I did for my grandfather was really good because now he can go to the celestial kingdom to live with his family. For the whole rest of the day, I felt really good inside.
“I also found out that no one knows who my third great-grandpa’s parents were, so I can find their names and take them to the temple too!”
What an outstanding example Colby is! No matter how old you are, you can be an example to your family and friends. You can share the gospel with everyone you know—even your ancestors!

When I was a student in dental school, the financial outlook of our local economy was not very encouraging. Inflation dramatically decreased the value of currency from one day to the next.
I remember the year when I was to enroll in surgery practices; I needed to have all the necessary surgical equipment before enrolling that semester. My parents saved the needed funds. But one night something dramatic happened. We went to buy the equipment, only to discover that the amount of money we had to buy all the equipment now was sufficient to buy only a pair of surgical tweezers—and nothing else. We returned home with empty hands and with heavy hearts at the thought of my losing a semester of college. Suddenly, however, my mother said, “Taylor, come with me; let’s go out.”
We went downtown where there were many places that buy and sell jewelry. When we arrived at one store, my mother took out of her purse a small blue velvet bag containing a beautiful gold bracelet with an inscription that read, “To my dear daughter from your father.” It was a bracelet that my grandfather had given her on one of her birthdays. Then, before my eyes, she sold it.
When she received the money, she told me, “If there is one thing I am sure of, it is that you are going to be a dentist. Go and buy all the equipment you need.” Now, can you imagine what kind of student I became from that moment on? I wanted to be the best and finish my studies soon because I knew the high cost of the sacrifice she was making.
I learned that the sacrifices our loved ones make for us refresh us like cool water in the middle of the desert. Such sacrifice brings hope and motivation.

Our family hears Him when we watch general conference together. Our family has a general conference tradition. Before each semiannual and general conference of the Church, we take the time to write down questions that we would like to receive answers to and revelation to guide our lives. Without fail, we have always received answers to our questions, and we always hear the voice of the Lord in general conference. A great example of hearing the Lord’s voice through general conference happened to my daughter Camilla. In October of 2011, we had recently moved from Provo to Salt Lake City. This move was particularly hard for Camilla, so we decided to home-school her for the remainder of that school year. Not having friends was hard on Camilla, as it would be for any 3rd grader. Her question for the October 2011 General Conference was simple, “How can I make more friends?” Our family is always aware of each other’s questions, so we can be mindful of and help each other to find answers during conference. The very first speaker of this entire conference was Elder Richard G. Scott. Listen to the following comment he made about the power of the scriptures and its ability to be a friend to us: “The scriptures provide the strength of authority to our declarations when they are cited correctly. They can become stalwart friends that are not limited by geography or calendar. They are always available when needed.[11]” We all looked at Camilla when Elder Scott said this, and her eyes lit up and she smiled the biggest smile. Not only did Camilla learn that the scriptures can be a source of strength and companionship to each of us, even to the point of being stalwart friends, but she learned that God does speak to us through general conference.

“As I watched the tray come down my row, I couldn’t help feeling embarrassed. This Sunday would be the first time in my life I hadn’t been worthy to partake of the sacrament. The tray was quickly coming closer to me, and I was drowning in feelings. What would my parents think when I didn’t take the sacrament? My little brother and sister? I was supposed to be their example.
“When the tray came to me, I quickly passed it on, bowing my head. I felt as if everyone in the chapel was looking at me.
“The week before, I had talked to my bishop. I entered his office and started crying in shame before I even sat down. As I told him everything I had done, I thought he would be angry with me or say I had no hope of being forgiven. Instead, I noticed he was crying too. He let me know he was very pleased I had come to him. It felt good to know that he had been called by the Lord to help me with my problems. It felt good to know that I had someone to talk to while trying to apply the principles of the Atonement in my life. I knew I could trust the bishop and I could share my feelings with him.
“When I finished talking with my bishop, he told me he loved me. ‘I am going to help you as much as I can to get through your problems,’ he said. At that moment I knew everything would eventually be all right.
“My first time not taking the sacrament was hard, and I have to relive that experience every Sunday until the bishop tells me I can once again partake. But I am grateful to have the blessing of repentance in my life. I know I can be clean again through the Atonement of Jesus Christ. Because of this experience and the struggles I am going through, I never want to be unworthy again. Not partaking of the sacrament is hard. But it has helped me more fully appreciate my Savior’s sacrifice for me.”

I was 10 years old when my family embraced the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. I was baptized the same day with my dad and mum. One of the new aspects of the culture of the gospel that we enjoyed was attending Church meetings on Sunday, renewing our covenants, and keeping this sacred day holy in our home. My family used to live very far from where Church meetings were held. I remember that as a family we prepared for the Sabbath day. My parents reminded us during family home evening what to do to prepare for the Sabbath day. We prayed, studied the scriptures and prepared our clothes during the week. On Sunday, we woke up early in the morning having only one thing in mind, which was getting ready to arrive on time at the gathering place at least 30 minutes before the meeting started.
My dad used to say that if you are in a rush and get to sacrament meeting all sweaty, you will have a hard time focusing on what matters the most during the sacrament meeting, which is the Savior Jesus Christ.
I will never forget these lessons from my parent’s example and their devotion to the Lord. Sister Mutombo and I strive to teach the same principles to our children even though it is not always easy.

Dan’s missions fulfilled Joseph Smith’s last recorded prophecy. The night before the Prophet Joseph Smith was killed, he heard gunfire outside the window of Carthage Jail, so he chose to sleep on the floor. Near him was Dan Jones. The Prophet asked Dan if he was afraid to die. He replied, “Has that time come, think you? Engaged in such a cause I do not think that death would have many terrors.” Then Joseph prophesied, “You will yet see Wales, and fulfill the mission appointed you before you die.”2
The Prophet’s promise was fulfilled in 1845, when Dan and his wife, Jane, were called to serve in Wales. Dan used his talent for speaking to teach the gospel with great conviction. He was fluent in Welsh and English, and witnesses recorded that he spoke so captivatingly that he could hold his audience’s attention in either language for hours.
While in Wales, Dan published Latter-day Saint periodicals, tracts, and books in Welsh. Under Dan Jones’s direction, missionaries in Wales established 29 branches and baptized nearly 1,000 people each year of his first mission. He was called on a second mission to Wales in 1852, and despite growing persecution of the Church, some 2,000 people were baptized in four years.
Upon his return to Utah, Dan helped bring many Welsh converts to Utah. When he died at age 51, he had helped bring an estimated 5,000 people to the western United States.

After my baptism, I had a lot of victimization in my neighborhood and family. There were false testimonies and all sorts of mockeries, but I endured. Two weeks after my baptism, I left for north Togo to continue my studies. Though the Church wasn’t there, nothing could prevent me from obeying the principles and reading the Book of Mormon every day. The missionaries called often to find out how I was doing, and that comforted me. After completing school, I decided to stay in Lomé to be closer to Church members and pursue a university degree in civil engineering. After a couple of years, I deferred my studies to serve a full-time mission. On June 23, 2016, I was called to serve in a newly created mission in the Democratic Republic of the Congo, Mbuji-Mayi. Today I am a missionary and, in a few months, I will finish my mission with honor. I have learned a lot from the Church and by the daily reading of the Book of Mormon, which is the keystone of our religion. Although weak, I have been shaped by the Lord to bring souls to Him, and I rejoice in this privilege that He has granted me to fulfill this sacred duty of the priesthood. Criticisms from our neighbors and family should not make us leave the Church. I know that Jesus Christ lives, that He has reestablished His Church through the Prophet Joseph Smith, and that this Church has the same organization as that of the primitive Church. We are created in the image of our Heavenly Father, and I share this in the precious name of Jesus Christ, amen.

The tardy bell rang just as I ran through the front door of the seminary building. Quickly, I slid into my seat, the third desk back on the first row, expecting another ordinary day in fifth period and not the memorable experience I was about to have.
“I’d like to welcome you all here today,” our teacher began. He said that every day, but we all knew he meant what he said. He was affectionately known as Brother C., and it was his genuine concern for each of his students that made this class of impatient ninth graders put aside their important conversations and daydreams to listen to him.
“Today we’re going to do something a little different,” he said. “I’ve prepared a special lesson centered around a concept President Kimball taught, and it starts with a very important question.
This should be a good change, I thought. I wonder what this important question is.
“Okay. Here is the question. What is the most important word?”
I sat up with a start. I knew someone was going to say boys, girls or something else ninth graders think about. I heard Brother C. call on someone.
“Kathy, what do you think is the most important word?” he asked.
“Um … um … boys!” she said, as the entire class became swallowed in laughter. Someone had to say that.
“All right, quiet down,” Brother C. said. “Let’s be serious.” Slowly, Tony raised his hand and said he thought families was an important word.
“That’s a good answer. Any other ideas?” questioned Brother C., as he sat down on the corner of his desk. “Let’s hear some response.”
David said, “I think love is the most important word because if we all love each other, then we’re happy.”
I liked his answer, and I was fascinated by the question. The class hour sped by as people were called on to tell what they thought the most important word was. Each time an answer was given, Brother C.’s kind voice said, “That’s a good answer, but it’s not the word I’m looking for.”
We went through what seemed like a thousand words: love, family, scriptures, prayer, faith, Christ, priesthood, prophet, resurrection, temple, and eternity. I began to wonder if there was really an answer. Finally, Brother C. looked at the clock.
“You’ve all given wonderful answers,” he said. “But the word I was looking for encompasses all of the beautiful words you’ve mentioned. The most important word is remember.”
“If you remember,” he said, “you won’t forget to pray. You won’t forget to serve or love. You will remember to read the scriptures. You will not forget your family and friends. You will remember to obey the prophet. You’ll keep in your heart the knowledge that Jesus Christ sacrificed his life for us, and you will love him as he loves you. You will remember why you came to this earth. And you will remember you are sons and daughters of God. You can return home to him if you remember to keep his commandments and live your lives the way he has asked.”
Then he bore his testimony and told us how much he loved us. We knew he did. I felt his love for me when I saw the twinkling smile in his eyes as he came over and shook my hand. I knew he loved me when he asked, “Will you remember?”
I almost told him yes, but just then the bell rang—but I remembered.
Most of the things I learned in seminary haven’t remained as vivid in my mind and heart as that lesson. But that lesson, and that day, I did not forget.
When temptations came, I remembered to get on my knees and pray. When I was discouraged and felt alone, I remembered that families can be forever. And no matter what crisis came, I remembered. I knew my Father in Heaven was near, and I knew he loved me.
But more important than anything else, I remembered who I was and why I was on earth. It kept me trying when I wanted to give up, and it helped me remember things like giving, learning, scriptures, and love.
Now, when I think of those important gospel truths which have become so precious to me, I also remember that day I ran in late to seminary. I am grateful for a caring, loving seminary teacher, and in my mind I see the twinkling smile in his eye as he shakes my hand. I hear him ask me if I remember, and I do. Will you?

“When we were married, your dad and I didn’t wait to start our family, like many couples do. When you were born, he was still in college, studying to be a teacher. People told us then that we should wait to have children.”
“Wait for what?” Deborah asked.
“Until your dad was out of school and had a good job. Or until we had a house and money in the bank. People have a lot of reasons for waiting to have children.
“President Ezra Taft Benson was the prophet then. He counseled families to not wait to have children, so we didn’t.” Her mother squeezed Deborah’s hand. “You were our first. And you were very, very precious to us. It didn’t matter that we didn’t have a lot of money or that we had to make do with what we had. You were more than worth it, and you still are. So are your brothers and your sister and whoever is coming this time. Your dad and I love each of you with all our hearts.”
“I’m glad you listened to the prophet.”
“So am I, sweetheart.”

Two missionary couples recently shouldered much of the responsibility for sending and receiving the microfilm files. Manfred Hechtle, a native of Mannheim, Germany, and his wife, Karin, born in Königsberg, German East Prussia, moved to the United States more than 40 years ago. They returned to Germany as missionaries because “we knew it would be wonderfully rewarding to help people all over Europe discover more about their family history,” explains Sister Hechtle.
The Hechtles also spent quite a bit of their mission time traveling to various family history centers to offer assistance. “When they asked us, we taught the family history center directors and their staffs how to use Church computer programs,” says Elder Hechtle. “These visits also gave us a chance to repair and maintain the microfilm and microfiche equipment.”
The couple also helped present family history seminars.” We piled our equipment into a station wagon and headed out,” says Elder Hechtle. “We then taught members and others interested in learning about the Church’s family history programs.”

When I was a new mission president in Brazil, I was interviewing some elders. I asked one to tell me about himself.
“I am very shy,” he said. He worried that his shyness was getting in the way of being able to serve.
I asked, “Do you think the Lord can help you to be a good missionary anyway?”
“I believe the Lord can do anything.”
“Then let Him help you. Do you think you can do that?”
“I can,” he said.
I have to confess that as he walked away, I thought, “Well, I hope it works.”
Weeks passed and soon the same missionaries came for interviews again. This time the shy elder’s companion said, “President, I don’t know what you told him, but it certainly made a difference. He’s become great at talking with people.” And so I was looking forward to visiting with him again.
When he came into my office, he looked down at his feet.
“I have some good news,” he said. “I’m still shy, but I asked the Lord to help me. Then I opened my mouth and started to speak. And you know what? I do it all the time now. I don’t even remember what I say. The incredible thing is that people like it. They feel the Spirit. They relate to me and to what I have to tell them.”
I was amazed to see how this missionary was transformed when he put his trust in the Lord. He became a great instrument in bringing happiness to many people.

Winters in Europe can feel even colder than usual when you’re riding a bike. One day right after Christmas while I was serving in the Belgium Brussels Mission, my companion and I rode our bikes past a lady also on a bicycle.
I immediately noticed she wore no gloves. On impulse, I asked her if she would like my gloves because I had received a new pair for Christmas. She hesitated and then talked about other things.
Finally, I took off my gloves, put them in her hands, and said, “Merry Christmas.” Her eyes filled with tears, and she hugged me. At that moment I felt a portion of the love Heavenly Father has for her, and I told her God loved her very much. She said her husband was sick and she had left the house to run some errands. I asked if we could come and see her, but she declined because of her husband’s illness.
I will never forget what I felt as I watched her ride off. I felt the sting of cold on my hands, but my heart was warm with the love of God.

During the autumn of our freshman year in high school, one of my close friends lost her youngest sister to leukemia. The day I heard the news, I saw my friend from a distance, standing apart from the others at the bus stop. I could see her grief stamped clearly across the features of her face, and I yearned to do something to comfort her, but the situation made me suddenly shy. Although I had known the girl for years, I did not know what to say or do. So I avoided her. Some time later, after the shock of her sister’s death had subsided, my friend said to me, “I always thought it strange that neither you nor any of my other friends said anything to me when Katy died.”

When our Heavenly Father made provisions for us to become mortal, he knew, of course, that we would all one day travel through a “valley of shadow and tears.” Painful changes, illness, death—we cannot avoid them. Yet if there is anything more difficult than dealing with these things ourselves, perhaps it is watching a good friend attempting to cope with them. Witnessing a friend wrestle with the effects of any personal tragedy can often leave us feeling helpless. “What can I say? What can I do?” we may ask ourselves at such times. This sense of helplessness, unfortunately, causes many of us to do what I did: turn our backs on the problem.

That we should do otherwise is made clear by the scriptures. Through word and deed the Savior indicated that we must not neglect those who are suffering. Recall, for example, his response to the news of Lazarus’ death. John tells us that “Jesus wept.” Although Christ surely knew that he could raise Lazarus from the dead, he still grieved for his friends Mary and Martha to the point where he was actually moved to tears. His concern for them then caused him to take specific action to alleviate their sorrow and glorify his Father by commanding that Lazarus return to the realm of the living.

Perhaps we cannot work miracles in the manner of Christ, but as with all things, we can follow his example of caring. What can we do, then, when a friend is suffering? Perhaps one of the most important yet difficult things to do is to verbally and frankly acknowledge the problem a friend is facing. My friend remarked, “If any of you had even approached me and said, ‘I’m sorry,’ we would have both been more comfortable, more at ease with each other and the situation.” It is crucially important that we do not allow tragedy to become a barrier to communication. Verbalizing sympathy may be exactly what a sorrowing friend needs.

A word of caution may be in order here, however. A friend of mine named Doug lost his father in an automobile accident when he was in junior high school. Though he knew they meant well, it was difficult for him to hear peers whose parents were still living say, “I know exactly how you feel.” The fact is they probably didn’t, and consequently their well-intentioned remarks sounded callous. A simple “I’m sorry” would have been more appropriate. Furthermore, Doug felt oppressed by those people who felt it was their duty to get him to “talk about it” every time they associated with him. Once he felt the concern and sympathy of his friends by their simple expressions of sympathy, he preferred to bring up the subject himself.

As important as acknowledging a situation is, it would be wrong to assume that words alone are enough. Though we may truly mean it when we say, “Let me know if there is anything I can do to help,” most people might hesitate to call on us, fearing that they would be imposing on our time by doing so. How much better it is to take the initiative and actually do something for a friend without being asked.

I know of one Laurel-aged girl named Diana who will always appreciate what a good friend did for her without being asked during a critical period of her life. When she was 17, Diana became extremely and chronically depressed. Her depression was so severe that she eventually required medical attention. When her friend Rachel learned of this, she made quietly sure that she was available whenever Diana needed her. To this day Diana maintains that the phone calls, long walks, tennis matches, and lengthy conversations on a variety of subjects, including her illness, were instrumental in helping her return to full health and activity.

Finally, it is important to remind ourselves that the effects of many personal tragedies can be long lasting. Painful feelings are not always resolved quickly, and it often takes a great deal of time for a person to work through his or her grief. We must be careful not to assume that just because an individual has resumed his normal activities, he no longer requires special attention.

A boy named Stan related the following experience to me. One summer afternoon his younger brother was involved in an accident that left him paralyzed from the waist down. Immediately after the accident, friends of both boys, as well as ward members, were very supportive and attentive. Within a few weeks, however, the visits and offers to help became fewer and fewer. Before long Stan, his brother, and other members of the family felt isolated because of the tragedy. A few short weeks were simply not enough time for them to come to terms with the new and difficult realities that confronted them individually and as a family. Continued support from caring friends would have been truly appreciated.

As much as we would like to, we cannot often change the circumstances causing a good friend pain. We can, however, help him to deal with that pain by caring, the kind of caring that translates itself into words and deeds of genuine compassion. Expressing sympathy, demonstrating concern through specific action, and making a long-term commitment to the person in need are all important steps we can take in helping a person we love come to grips with the circumstances of his or her life.

In April 2006, I married Teni Leavai in Auckland, New Zealand. Although we were both members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, we weren’t active at the time, so we had an intimate civil ceremony performed by my bishop. Then we began to make changes in our lives so that we could progress spiritually, more fully participate in the gospel, and embark on our journey together as a family.
Before we knew it, it was 2012. Teni and I had grown even closer and were deeply in love—it is an amazing feeling, being married to my best friend—but something significant was missing. For six years, I just couldn’t fall pregnant. I began to think I might forever be an aunt, but never a mum.
We felt so incomplete.
One evening, we received a phone call which would change our lives! There was news of an unborn baby boy and an expectant mother determined to find a good family for him.
On the night that Kahn Ui was born, his birth mother—tears streaming down her face—delicately placed him in my arms and whispered, “He’s yours now. Thank you for loving him as much as I do.”
Alert and curious, baby Kahn looked up at me, completely unaware of the miracle that had just taken place. He fit perfectly in my arms, and it is with that same ease and sense of familiarity that he also fit into our family.
My husband and I entered the wonderful world of parenthood together. We took turns feeding our baby throughout the night; we talked to him, sung to him, and shed tears of immeasurable joy as we got to know him.
We realised a profound truth in those early days. As much as Kahn needed us, we—his new parents—needed the Lord more than ever. We prayed for His guidance as we learned our new roles.
Little did we know, another miracle was in store for us.
When Kahn turned 4, we holidayed in our homeland of Samoa, where we reconnected with Kahn’s birth family. They welcomed us with open arms, and Kahn’s birth grandmother wept when she recognised him. “Your son is gorgeous,” she said. “He’s so active, and he looks like he enjoys his food, too.”
It was an emotional reunion. They thanked us for loving and nurturing Kahn—and then they asked if we had room in our lives for another child.
My husband and I were astonished.
We discovered that Kahn’s birth mother had another baby. Naree Alalafaga was 5 months old at the time and, again, her family wanted more for this child than they were able to offer.
My mother’s words echoed softly in my mind: you reap what you sow.
It wasn’t by chance we met our miracle daughter this way. The Lord knows our deepest desires, and what is best for us. So, when our reunion with Kahn’s birth family brought a precious addition—his baby sister—to our home, it just felt right.
We relocated our growing family to Australia and then, in September 2017, our family was sealed, for time and all eternity in the Melbourne Australia Temple. It was a powerful experience; one we will cherish forever.
With hearts bursting with love for our newly sealed family, how could we know Heavenly Father had yet another miracle surprise for us?
Imagine my shocked delight only three months later when we discovered I was pregnant. How could this be? We double checked the home pregnancy test—positive! We took two tests just to make sure. We both wept. I know the Lord was with me through every step of that pregnancy. I felt the love and strength of my parents, from the other side of the veil, assuring me that everything would be fine.
In the early hours of 12 August 2018, our precious little girl was born. My husband named her after his mother—Faaifomailelagi, which in Samoan means ‘sent from heaven’.
Motherhood is one of the most difficult things I have experienced, but it is by far the most fulfilling. To this day, our children continue to make us better people and better servants of the Lord. They teach us patience, forgiveness, humility and so much more.
I know that all my challenges have been for my good. When we endure our trials well and learn from them, we discover that it is never by chance that things happen, but by divine design and all in God’s timing.

“Why can’t Grandma be like Caroline’s grandmother?” complained Gina as she folded the towels. “Yesterday Caroline’s grandmother sent her a new skateboard. It’s really neat! She gives her presents all the time. Grandma never gives me anything.”
Mother stopped in the middle of changing the baby’s diaper. “Gina! I’m surprised at you. Grandma Ross loves you and has always been very good to you. You’re nine years old now and that’s old enough to understand love doesn’t need a price tag. Grandma Ross doesn’t have money to spend on fancy toys. She started working when Grandpa became ill, and most of her money pays for his hospital bills.”
Gina could feel her face getting hot. She knew that what Mother said about Grandma Ross was true, but knowing didn’t make her feel any better. She carried the towels into the hall closet and stacked them neatly on the shelves. “I’m through,” she announced. “Now may I go with Caroline? She said I could try out her skateboard.”
Mother put little David down to crawl on the floor. She sighed and looked at Gina. “You may go after you set the table. And remember to put on an extra plate. It’s Thursday and Grandma Ross will be here for supper.”
Gina pretended she was skateboarding around the dining room as she put the plates on the table. Then she grabbed the knives, forks, and spoons. Mmm, mmm. Her arms were outstretched to balance her skateboard pose as she sailed behind the chairs and placed the silverware beside each plate. “I’m finished, Mom,” she called to the next room. “Now may I go?”
“Yes,” her mother answered, “but be home in time for dinner.”
With only thoughts of skateboarding in her mind, Gina ran up the hill and around the corner to the familiar brown house. Caroline answered the bell. “Hi,” she greeted her friend. “I thought you’d never come!”
“Well, I’m here!” Gina said breathlessly. “Where is it?”
Caroline opened the screen door and pushed the slender skateboard out for Gina to admire. It was bright red with glistening flecks of many different colors. She spun the wheels and they made an even, purring sound.
“Wow! What a neat skateboard!” exclaimed Gina. “How did your grandmother know what kind to buy?”
“Well,” confided Caroline, “last time she called I hinted around a lot …” Her voice trailed off and she looked at Gina. The two girls giggled. “C’mon, let’s go.”
Gina watched enviously as Caroline balanced herself on the board and then breezed past her down the sloping sidewalk. She could hardly wait for her own turn. Finally Caroline handed her the shiny skateboard, but Gina promptly fell off. After a few more tries she managed to stay on, and soon she was feeling like an old pro. Gliding down the hill made her heart pound, but she loved it. Finally Gina noticed that the sun had gone down. “I’ve got to go home,” she said quickly. “My grandmother’s coming for dinner—Thursday night, you know.”
Caroline reached down for the skateboard and tucked it under her arm. “You sure are lucky, Gina,” she said. “All my grandparents live so far away I hardly ever get to see them. Well, sometimes I see them on Christmas and sometimes in the summer, but they don’t just come over for dinner like your grandmother does.”
Gina looked at her friend in amazement. “But your grandmother sends you presents all the time,” she said. “All that furniture for your dollhouse, new games and clothes, and now a skateboard. I wouldn’t mind all that.”
“Sure, that stuff’s OK, but it’s not like having a real person who can be with you. Well, see you tomorrow at school.” Caroline’s voice seemed a bit sad to Gina.
“Bye, Caroline,” Gina said softly, staring after her friend. Suddenly many thoughts went racing through her head. Maybe Caroline did have a lot of things sent to her, but she didn’t have a grandmother who played checkers with her, guessed at her riddles, and always came to school for open house. She didn’t have a smiling grandmother to give her a warm hug every Thursday night.
Gina smiled as she ran down the hill toward home, thinking gratefully of a loving grandmother who would be waiting there to greet her.

While training to be a jet fighter pilot, I prepared to make such vital decisions in a flight simulator. For example, I practiced deciding when to bail out of an airplane if the fire warning light came on and I began to spin out of control. I remember one dear friend who didn’t make these preparations. He would find a way out of simulator training and then go to play golf or swim. He never learned his emergency procedures! A few months later, fire erupted in his plane, and it spun toward the ground in flames. Noting the fire warning light, his younger companion, having developed a preconditioned response, knew when to bail out of the plane and parachuted to safety. But my friend who had not prepared to make that decision stayed with the plane and died in the crash.

My friends and I could hardly wait for the weekend to come so we could hit the ski slopes. We were 15 years old at the time and all good skiers.
One Saturday, we had been skiing for about half the day on some pretty steep slopes. The weather was crisp. The sky was blue. All around us there was beauty, and we were having fun on the ski jumps.
As we were coming down one of the jumps, my friend Chris slipped and fell on one of his skis. His bindings popped out, and he took a hard fall. Chris took off his glove, and we were both alarmed to see blood dripping from his arm. As Chris rolled up his sleeve, I could see that he was badly cut. I asked for one of our friends to find the ski patrol.
I helped Chris take off his sweater and removed my cotton shirt with long sleeves and made a tourniquet above the deep cut. At the same time I was prompted by the Holy Ghost to have Chris hold his arm up above his head.
The ski patrol finally arrived, but they did not know that Chris had cut a main artery in his arm because the tourniquet was so well placed that it had stopped the bleeding.
Chris was rushed to the hospital. When the doctors discovered the damage to the main artery, they said Chris would have bled to death if the tourniquet had not been placed on his arm the right way and his arm held above his head.
The accident had happened fast, so I had to act quickly. I told Chris that I had been prompted by the Spirit to do the right thing. I later realized I had also followed instructions from my first-aid training as an Eagle Scout.
That evening Chris’s parents called my home and thanked me for saving their son’s life. I hope to always remember to listen to the still, small voice that directed me at that crucial time.