Gospel Story Finder

Elsie and Edwin Dharmaraju joined the Church in Samoa and were called by President Spencer W. Kimball to return back to their home in Hyderabad as missionaries to their family. In 1978, 22 of Elsie and Edwin’s family members were baptized, and from this beginning the first stake in the country was organized in Hyderabad in 2012.6

They also listened to John Santosh Murala, then serving in the mission presidency, talk about how his aunt Elsie and uncle Edwin Dharmaraju came to Hyderabad to teach their family the gospel. John was the youngest of the 22 pioneer members to be baptized in 1978.

Way back in 1969, I was in South America. I flew from Argentina to Santiago, Chile. The Andes mountains were dry. There was no snow. The grass was burned. Chile was in the midst of a devastating drought.

The people pleaded for help in bringing moisture.

We dedicated two new buildings on that visit. In each of those dedicatory services we pleaded with the Lord for rain upon the land. I have the testimony of many who were in those meetings that the heavens were opened and the rains fell with such abundance that the people asked the Lord to shut them off.

Ana chewed her last bite of tortilla. She loved her grandmother’s tortillas. They were the best part of breakfast.
Ana watched her grandmother, Abuela, wash the dishes. It was like any other morning. But one thing was not the same.
Most mornings Ana and Abuela walked to the market to buy food. But today there was no money.
What will we eat tomorrow? Ana wondered.
Then Ana remembered. Last night she saw Abuela put a few pesos in a little bag.
“Abuela, you have money to buy food,” Ana said.
“What money?” Abuela asked.
Ana ran to get the little bag of coins. Clink! Clink!
Abuela smiled. “That is our tithing. That is for Heavenly Father.”
“But what will we eat tomorrow?” Ana asked.
“Do not worry,” Abuela said. “Heavenly Father will help us.”
The next morning Abuela gave Ana the last tortilla. Then she sat down in her chair. She told stories about when she was a little girl. She did not look worried.
Then Ana heard a knock. She ran to open the door.
“Uncle Pedro!”
“I had a feeling I should visit,” Uncle Pedro said. He put three sacks on the table. One had flour for tortillas. Another had meat. Another had vegetables.
“Oh, my sweet son,” Abuela said. “Thank you!”
Ana was so happy. But there was one thing she wanted to know. “Abuela, did you know Uncle Pedro would come? Is that why you weren’t worried?”
“No,” Abuela said. “When I pay tithing, I have faith that Heavenly Father will bless me. And He did!”
Ana hugged Abuela. She felt like the happiest girl in Mexico. She and Abuela had faith in Heavenly Father.

One Saturday afternoon I decided to study the Sunday School lesson for the next day’s class. It was on miracles. “If ever we needed a miracle, it is now,” I thought. My mother was a widow, and our family was going through a difficult time financially.
Ever since my sisters and I were little girls, we had devoted ourselves to the art of horsehair weaving. We would wash the horsehair, color it with dyes, and then weave it hair by hair into shapes such as butterflies, mice, and copihues (the national flower of Chile). It is very fine work and unique to our country. All winter long we would weave, and in the summer we would sell our work at art fairs.
The national economy was depressed that year and greatly affected our business. In the past a major source of our income had been an art fair in Temuco, a tourist town in southern Chile. But that year we had not been invited. We had even called the fair’s organizers, but they refused to give us a booth. We worried about how this loss of income would affect us.
But as I studied the Sunday School lesson that afternoon, my attitude changed completely. First I read Mormon 9:19: “[God] ceaseth not to be God, and is a God of miracles.” This promise lifted my spirits. Then as I read verse 21, I felt even better: “I say unto you that whoso believeth in Christ, doubting nothing, whatsoever he shall ask the Father in the name of Christ it shall be granted him.”
I thought about the miracle my family needed, and I decided to travel the four hours to Temuco to plead our case.
When I arrived at the office of culture, I was discouraged to see many other people there to make the same request and to learn that all these people had been told no. Still I felt the Lord was with me.
When my turn came to speak to the man in charge, he bluntly told me there was only a remote possibility we could have a booth but that a final decision could not be made yet. I explained that a booth would mean bread for my mother during the winter months, but I felt as if I were talking to a wall. Then without thinking, I told him I believed in miracles and left his office.
I called my husband and asked him to fast with me. My mind constantly reverted to the words of the Sunday School lesson: “[God] is a God of miracles.” I needed a miracle—now.
I waited for six hours at the office of culture, feeling greater anguish with each passing minute. Finally I saw craftspeople arriving from every corner of Chile and also from other countries. The fair was starting. With a lump in my throat, I prayed, “Thy will be done.” Suddenly a feeling of peace overcame me, and I decided to talk one more time to the man in charge.
When I entered his office, I could see his attitude had changed. He courteously told me I could have a booth. Once again I told him I believed in miracles.
We made the money we needed at the fair, and I learned for myself that God continues to work miracles today. My faith grows each day because of all He gives me.

While serving as bishop a number of years ago, I became alarmed by the number of young people who came to me, frightened and confused, thinking their parents were not in love and were even heading for divorce because of family disagreements. Because I knew the parents well and knew they were deeply in love, I explained to their children that while this was unpleasant, it was sometimes a part of marriage and did not mean the family was about to disintegrate.

After school Doug dashed home and pounded up the steps into his family’s new apartment. He could hardly wait for the baseball game to start at the park.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?” asked his mother as he sped from his room, carrying his baseball glove and aluminum bat.
“Across the street to play ball,” Doug said. Eric, from one of the other apartments, had told him that a group of boys got together after school to play baseball. Doug hoped he could make some friends in the new neighborhood.
“I want to go, too!” Doug’s younger brother, Jimmy, shouted as he dashed into the room.
“You know what’ll happen, Jimmy. Why don’t you stay here and play Baseball Master with Dad?” A game board version of real baseball, Baseball Master was won by a player’s knowledge of baseball strategy. Jimmy loved it.
“I don’t know about that,” called their father. “Jimmy’s too good for me.”
It was true. At Baseball Master Jimmy could outhit, outsteal, and outscore almost anyone.
Doug glanced at his watch and hustled off. He hoped that Jimmy would take his advice. It would save them both a lot of embarrassment.
Jimmy didn’t. Doug cringed as Jimmy trotted up to the group of boys in the park and asked to play. Jimmy looked over at Doug and grinned, but Doug ignored him.
Doug ended up playing second base for one team, and Jimmy played right field for the other team. Doug hit a home run his first time at bat. Jimmy struck out. Doug made his catches look easy at second base. Jimmy missed every ball that came to him in right field.
Doug felt sorry for his brother when Jimmy was yanked from the field by his team captain and replaced with another boy. Doug wished Jimmy would go home, but he didn’t. Jimmy stood behind the backstop, cheering for everything his team did.
When Doug hit his third home run to win the game. Eric and the other boys from the apartments slapped him on the back and chose him to be one of the two captains for the next game.
Doug heard some of the boys on the other team complaining, “We might have won if that clumsy kid hadn’t shown up.” Doug avoided looking at Jimmy. What if they knew that that “clumsy kid” was my brother? he thought.
Doug played catch with his new friends for a while and then walked home.
Jimmy was sitting on the apartment stairs, his head down. “Doug, how come I’m no good?” he asked.
Doug shrugged. Jimmy had always been awkward. The doctors blamed it on poor hand/eye coordination. There wasn’t much Jimmy could do about it. It was a shame, too, because he loved baseball. And he knew more about it than anyone else Doug knew.
“After supper I’ll help you with your catching and hitting,” Doug offered.
After eating, they headed down the apartment steps toward the park. Suddenly Doug spotted Eric and a couple of his new friends on the baseball field. He froze. “Um, Jimmy, let’s go play out behind the apartments. It’s too crowded over there.”
“I saw those boys,” Jimmy mumbled as they turned around. “You’re ashamed of me. That’s why you didn’t talk to me at the game today, isn’t it?”
Doug didn’t answer. He worked with Jimmy until it was nearly dark, without much success. “Why don’t you be our cheerleader?”
Jimmy shook his head. “I want to be part of the game.” He looked up at Doug as they walked back to the apartment. “Are you going to pick me on your team tomorrow?”
Doug was silent. How can I pick Jimmy? he wondered. What would the other guys think?
Before bed that night Doug walked past Jimmy’s bedroom and heard him praying. “Heavenly Father, why can’t I play sports? Why am I so uncoordinated?”
Doug wondered the same thing. Why did Jimmy have to sit home studying baseball while everyone else was out playing it? It didn’t seem fair. There had to be something Jimmy could do on a team besides cheering.
In his room Doug prayed about it. But no answer came to him.
The next day Doug waited at the park as the other boys arrived. He’d already decided which ones he wanted. They’d be the best. Maybe after choosing them, he’d pick Jimmy.
When Jimmy joined them, pounding his glove, several guys groaned.
Eric poked Doug in the ribs. “Who is that kid anyway? Do you know him?”
Doug pretended that he didn’t hear Eric, but it made him feel strange inside. Doug didn’t like the feeling. He realized he’d been acting ashamed of Jimmy because Jimmy had a problem with his coordination. That wasn’t Jimmy’s fault.
“He’s my brother!” Doug said loudly. “And he probably knows more about baseball than any of us.”
The other boys stared at him.
Eric snickered. “Him?”
“You don’t have to be able to hit home runs and make dazzling catches to know how the game is played.”
“All right,” said Eric impatiently. “Let’s get the game started. Pick, Doug.”
Doug looked over the group, but he couldn’t seem to decide. Every time he saw Jimmy’s eager face, his picks got all jumbled around in his head. Sure, he knew the guys who could hit, but hits didn’t always win games. Sometimes strategy did. Suddenly he knew the answer to his prayer.
“My first pick is Jimmy,” Doug announced, pointing to his brother.
“He can’t play,” someone said.
“Not to play,” Doug said, as Jimmy proudly scurried to his side, “but to be my manager and to plan strategy.”
There were some laughs. But when Doug’s team won the game by ten runs, no one was laughing. Jimmy’s strategy had worked.
Eric was chosen as one of the captains for the next game. Doug saw him eyeing Jimmy. “I already know who my first pick will be,” Eric said.
Doug smiled at Jimmy. “So do I.”

There came an anxious knock at the crude wooden door of the dwelling of two elders. When the door was opened, they saw a small girl crying. She had been running and was gasping for air. The elders struggled to piece together her message, delivered amid sobs: Her father had suffered a severe head injury and would die unless the elders saved his life. Men of the village were at that moment carrying him to the missionaries. She pleaded for her father’s life, then ran to be with him.
The elders were in an area with no doctors or medical facilities. There were no telephones. The only means of communication was a rough road up a riverbed, and they had no vehicle. The elders were not trained in medicine. Besides preaching the gospel, they labored diligently to improve the sanitation in their assigned, remote village. But the people of the valley trusted them, and although they did not know how to care for a serious head wound, they knew Someone who did. They knelt in prayer and explained their problem to an understanding Heavenly Father.
They felt impressed to clean the wound, close and bandage it, and give the man a blessing. One companion asked, “How will he stand the pain? How can we cleanse the wound and bless him while he is in such suffering?”
They knelt again. “We have no medicine. We have no anesthetic. Please help us to know what to do. Please bless him, Father.”
As they arose, friends arrived with the injured man. Even in the dim candlelight, they could see that he had been severely hurt and that he was suffering greatly. As they began to cleanse the man’s wound, an unusual thing happened: he fell asleep. Carefully, anxiously, they finished the cleansing, closed the wound, and provided a makeshift bandage. As they gently laid their hands on his head to bless him, he awoke peacefully. Their prayer had been answered, and his life saved. The trust of the people increased, and a branch of the Church flourished.

Ronald Millet of Long Beach, California, has a book of remembrance of his own that is complete with certificates to prove his birth, baptism, graduation from Primary, and ordinations in the Aaronic Priesthood, with achievement awards for each year. He has many special events recorded that show his progress thus far in his spiritual journey.

As a dedication to his father, who died three years ago, he is compiling and writing a very remarkable life story in the form of a book of remembrance. Through a lively correspondence with his dad’s former friends and personal interviews with relatives and old friends, he has built a beautiful memorial and testimony of the life of his father. Many testimonies and incidents that might have been lost are now written down and illustrated with available pictures. What a literal treasure.

This book has been arranged in chapters dealing with the different periods in the life of his father, such as childhood, schools, mission, and church activities. Ronald said, “I look forward to each day that I am able to spend with my father’s life story. I have uncovered so many accomplishments that I did not know of before. I hope I can carry on his honored name.”

I recall a few years ago seeing a drama enacted at the Salt Lake International Airport. On this particular day, I got off an airplane and walked into the terminal. It was immediately obvious that a missionary was coming home because the airport was full of conspicuous-looking missionary friends and missionary relatives.

I tried to pick out the immediate family members. There was a father who did not look particularly comfortable in an awkward-fitting and slightly out-of-fashion suit. He seemed to be a man of the soil, with a suntan and large, work-scarred hands.

There was a mother who was quite thin, looking as if she had worked very hard in her life. She had in her hand a handkerchief—and I think it must have been a linen handkerchief once, but now it looked like tissue paper. It was nearly shredded from the anticipation only the mother of a returning missionary could know.

Two or three younger brothers and sisters were running around, largely oblivious to the scene that was unfolding.

I found myself wondering as to who would be first to break away from the welcoming group. A look at the mother’s handkerchief convinced me that she would probably be the one.

As I sat there, I saw the returning missionary appear. I knew he was the one by the squeals of excitement from the crowd. He looked like Captain Moroni, clean and handsome and straight and tall. Undoubtedly he had known the sacrifice this mission had meant to his father and mother.

As he neared the group, sure enough, someone couldn’t wait any longer. It wasn’t the mother, and it wasn’t any of the children. It was Father. That big, slightly awkward, quiet, and bronzed giant of a man ran out and swept his son into his arms.

The missionary was probably 6?2? (188 cm) or so, but this big father grabbed him, lifted him off the ground, and held him for a long, long time. He just held him and said nothing. The boy put both arms around his dad, and they just held each other very tightly. It seemed like all eternity stood still. It was as if all the world had gone silent out of respect for such a sacred moment.

And then I thought of God the Eternal Father watching His Son go out to serve, to sacrifice when He didn’t have to do it, paying His own expenses, so to speak, costing everything He had saved all His life to give. At that precious moment, it was not too difficult to imagine that Father speaking with some emotion to those who could hear, “This is my Beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased” (Matthew 3:17). And it was also possible to imagine that triumphant returning Son saying, “It is finished” (John 19:30). “Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit” (Luke 23:46).

Even in my limited imagination, I can see that reunion in the heavens. And I pray for one like it for you and for me. I pray for reconciliation and for forgiveness, for mercy, and for the Christian growth and Christian character we must develop if we are to enjoy such a moment fully.

As I rounded the last corner on my way to see the missionaries, I felt a strong force trying to keep me from going. It was like walking against a 100-kilometer-per-hour wind, which I had done before, only it was stronger. But this was a spiritual “wind,” not physical. I was just about to give up and turn around. I knew this force wanted me to doubt everything, but I finally said, “No, no. I know there’s a God.” I felt that truth deep in the roots of my soul. I knew He would battle this force for me.
I reached the chapel door, just a normal chapel door, but I had to pull with all my might to force it open. When I entered I saw some members and felt their spirit, and the opposing force was gone, broken. I felt the sweet peace in my heart again, and felt it even more strongly several days later as I was baptized and confirmed. I still feel it to this day.

In her book My Grandfather’s Blessings, Dr. Rachel Remen tells of becoming good friends with a couple and their young son, Kenny. When she visited, she would sit on the floor with Kenny and play with his two Hot Wheels cars. Sometimes she would have the one without a fender and he had the one with a door missing and sometimes vice versa. He loved those cars!

When a gas station chain offered a Hot Wheels car with every fill-up, she recruited the staff at her clinic to go to that particular station and collect the cars. As soon as she had all of the models, she wrapped them in a big box to take to Kenny. She hoped she wouldn’t offend his parents, who lived quite meagerly. Kenny excitedly opened the big box and took out the cars one by one. They filled the windowsills and even extended to the floor. What a collection! Later, while visiting the family, Rachel noticed Kenny just staring out the window. When she asked Kenny, “What’s the matter? Don’t you like your new cars?” he looked down very sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I guess I just don’t know how to love so many Hot Wheels.” (See “Owning” [2000], 60–61.)

When I was a mission president in Central America some years ago, two of the elders brought a Catholic Benedictine monk into my office.

He had noticed the elevating nature of the Church due to an in-depth study he and others had been commissioned to do of 243 different churches. This study had been ordered by the Catholic church with honorable intent; they wished to know the similarities of the 243 churches to see the possibilities of more union and brotherhood.

After researching for over five years, they came to at least these two conclusions:
There were only two churches that had high moral values; one was The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
There was only one church that followed all the prophetic utterances of old—in other words, accepted and followed all the Old and New Testament—that was the Mormons.

This monk accepted the challenge to study the Book of Mormon and prayed to have divine verification of its truthfulness. As a result, he accepted the Savior by being baptized into this, His church.

He is now an active teacher in a high priests quorum in Central America.

He saw by investigation the edifying, lifting influence of the Church and hearkened unto the voice of the Lord.

My parents often attended meetings after church, and I would watch my three younger brothers and help them make lunch—though they were often short-tempered and hungry. Usually if they started fighting, I could solve the small problem quickly. But sometimes it was hard to make peace once a fight had started because I’d get agitated.
One afternoon, my brothers were having an especially hard time getting along. I found that my efforts to make peace only made things worse because I was upset. So I just made my own lunch and stopped talking. Finally, I announced, “I’m going to pray. Can we please be quiet for a minute?” Once they settled down, I asked for a blessing on the food. Before I closed the prayer, I added, “And please help us to be peacemakers.”
At first, they seemed not to hear and began fighting again. I was annoyed but knew I needed to be as loving and calm as I could be because I’d just prayed for peace. After a minute, I felt very calm. I ate without saying anything, and the boys eventually stopped fighting. I realized the peace I felt was an answer to a simple prayer. I had prayed to be a peacemaker, and my Heavenly Father had helped me stay calm when it was so tempting to yell. I know that He can truly give us peace.

One day when they had very little to eat, Agnes’s mother sold a quilt and a bedspread and used the money to buy food. She often traded trinkets and gifts to the Indians for dried meat, which proved to be a great help, especially when the cold wind was blowing and they couldn’t build a fire. On such days, she would give each of her children a piece of dried meat and some bread. Sometimes she took a small piece of meat and made a stew, thickening it with a little flour and some salt. It tasted so good on a cold night!

Every year my parents took me to visit Aunt Ruby and Uncle George, who lived on a dairy farm. I enjoyed visiting them because there were so many different things for me to see and do. I played in the barn, helped feed the animals, rode on the tractor, and explored the big red shed.
One year, a few days after we had arrived, I was helping Uncle George feed the animals in the barn. “You sure are quiet this morning, Justin,” he said.
“I was thinking about something my Primary teacher said in class last week.”
“Oh—what did she say?” Uncle George asked as he pitched a forkful of hay to one of the cows.
“She said that making right choices will help me keep the promises I made to Heavenly Father when I was baptized. The problem is, it’s hard to always make the right choice.”
Leaning on his pitchfork, Uncle George nodded. “It is hard to always make correct choices, Justin. But when we live the gospel standards and follow the strait and narrow path, like the scriptures tell us to, the Lord will help us.”
I thought about the “strait and narrow path,” for the rest of the morning. When we finished feeding all the animals, Uncle George said, “Thanks for your help, Justin. I surely appreciate it. What would you like to do now?”
“I’d like to go over to my friend Jeff’s and play, but Mom and Dad usually drive me to his house.”
Tilting his hat back on his head, Uncle George said, “And they’ve gone into town to help Ruby with the shopping. I’d like to take you over there, but I have to fix the tractor.”
He put his arm around my shoulders and led me to a big dry ditch. “If you get in this ditch, you can follow it all the way to Jeff’s house. Do you think you can do that?”
I told him that I was sure I could do it. Before he sent me on my way, he gave me two warnings. One, I was to stay in the ditch. If I got out, I could get hurt or lost. Two, I was to keep going, even if I got tired. Then he assured me that if I followed his instructions, I would have no trouble reaching my friend’s house.
At first I was nervous. The grass on both sides of the ditch was so tall that I couldn’t see over it. But soon I began to see interesting things all around me and being in the ditch didn’t bother me. I found a small, white-colored snail shell, a lot of joint grass I could pull apart, and milkweed pods filled with silk and seeds. Then I found a round, clear pebble that I shined up and put into my pocket.
After a while, the newness of my adventure began to wear off. I’d seen everything twice, and my legs were beginning to hurt. I felt like I’d been walking for miles and miles. My faith in Uncle George’s words began to waver. Maybe I’d already passed Jeff’s house. I wasn’t even sure if I was still going in the right direction. My uncle’s warnings were still clear in my mind, but I carefully climbed to the top of the ditch so that I could see over the tall grass and find out where I was.
Happily, I saw that only a fence and a large, green pasture stood between me and my goal. All I had to do was walk through the pasture, and I’d be there. The day took on a new excitement. My goal was in sight; my uncle’s warnings were forgotten.
Finding a hole in the fence, I slipped through. All I thought about was the fun Jeff and I were going to have once I reached his house. I paid no attention to what might be going on around me, until I heard a loud snort and the snapping of breaking sticks. Turning, I saw a large bull charging toward me out of the tall willow patch at the edge of the pasture.
Running wasn’t my greatest talent unless I was scared. And I was really scared. I ran like the wind. It felt like I was running a hundred miles an hour. I could hear the air whistling around my ears. Everything around me was a blur. I had a new goal in life—to reach the fence before the bull reached me. All the time, I was silently praying that Heavenly Father would bless me to run faster than the bull.
The fence was getting closer, but so was the bull. I didn’t dare look over my shoulder, because I was afraid it might slow me down. Although I was only nine years old, I already knew that the shortest distance between two points was a straight line. So I ran, as straight as an arrow, back to the hole in the fence I had climbed through earlier.
I was sure I felt the bull’s hot breath on my neck as I dove through the fence to safety. The bull snorted loudly as his nose pushed through the hole and he realized he couldn’t reach me.
My life had been spared. Heavenly Father had answered my prayer. My heart was full of gratitude to Him. I would see the sun come up in the morning. I would see my family again. I could still play with my friend. Life was good!
Now all I wanted to do was return to the “strait and narrow path” and follow my uncle’s instructions. I knew that there were no bulls in the ditch. It was a safe place. I also knew that I would never forget the words my uncle told me that morning. “Go down the ditch in the direction that I’ll show you. Stay in the ditch, because if you get out, you could get hurt or lost. And you need to keep going, even if you get tired.”
I had learned that my Primary teacher and Uncle George were right. There is great safety when choosing the right and following the correct path. I was sure that the Lord had helped me run faster than the charging bull. He had saved my life, and I was grateful. I was glad to have a chance to be back on the right path, and I knew that Heavenly Father would always help me stay on the “strait and narrow path” if I would listen and obey.

As I interact with other young single adults, I’ve noticed that sometimes it can be easy to be so focused on our marital status that we don’t pay attention to those around us. For example, when I first started attending a family ward rather than a young adult ward, I believed I deserved extra attention, pity, and looking after because I was single. I have yet to find an instance when having such an attitude ever did me any good.
During the first year in my ward, I was surprised that many of my other ideas turned out to be myths. I learned that married people can be friends with single people and that I could make a difference in people’s lives. Some mothers are overjoyed to have a friend come over for a visit when their husbands are gone for work or Church callings. Parents are often grateful when an adult can provide some individual attention to their children, and most are quite willing to “lend out” their children for movies or other activities.
I also learned that I was not the only person who was single. Other ward members are empty nesters, divorced, or widowed and also struggle to deal with life’s issues on their own. And despite my belief that married people are happier, I met some who dealt with depression, job loss, or disabled or wayward children. Those with such struggles always appreciate a listening ear.
But these realizations and friendships did not happen instantly. They took time and effort as I consistently attended my Church meetings, served in callings, and looked for opportunities to help. When my bishop asked me to teach the six-year-olds, I felt inadequate. However, after my first month, several parents thanked me, saying how much their children enjoyed coming to class. To this day some of my closest friends in the ward are family members of those children.
I try to always be available to help others in my ward, but on occasion I have been the one in need of service. Once when I needed to paint a room in my home before moving, I was in the middle of final exams and also had to leave town for a wedding. When I mentioned these circumstances to a sister in my ward, she told me she would get some other sisters together to paint the room. Their service saved me lots of time and money.
The members of my ward seem not to define me by my marital status because I don’t define myself by it. In conversation I don’t bring up my lack of a spouse; instead, I talk about my job, studies, hobbies, and immediate family. By my focusing on these topics, people often see that there is more to me than what is lacking.
A wise friend once told me that friendship is a two-way road; you can’t give some without receiving some in return. I realize that all my friendships will never provide me with the same experiences that a spouse and children would, but I also know that Heavenly Father loves all His children. No matter our circumstances in life, it is possible to feel loved and accepted.

As a member of the German military, I spent more than half of 1999 in Sarajevo, the capital of Bosnia and Herzegovina. My military assignment came with great challenges and long hours, but I always took time off to attend church in a small chapel used by various denominations in our camp of 750.
When I arrived at the chapel one Sunday afternoon, I found the doors locked. I learned that the other members of the Church in the camp had been transferred. I was disappointed because I had looked forward to worshipping and partaking of the sacrament. Before coming to Sarajevo, I had been busy serving as a branch president in Germany and was able to partake of the sacrament regularly.
Several weeks later, I was assigned to accompany my general on a visit to an American division. During lunch, an American captain who had seen me talking to other soldiers asked if I was a member of the Church. After I told him I was, he gave my name and contact information to the senior group leader of the Church there.
Soon a Brother Fisher contacted me. Following an interview, he set me apart as the group leader of the Church in Sarajevo with the assignment to set up a group. (A group is a Church unit in military installations, similar to a branch.)
I began posting meeting times on bulletin boards and sending out invitations, hoping to find other Latter-day Saints in military barracks in Sarajevo. For the first few weeks, no one else attended. So on Sundays, I sang, prayed, and gave talks by myself. Following Church guidelines for leaders and members in the military, I was able to bless and partake of the sacrament without a second priesthood holder. This brought me great joy.
I held my solitary meetings in English so I could improve my English language skills. The first talk I gave was about Joseph Smith. No one visible was in the room, but I sensed the presence of others. The Holy Ghost strengthened me and revealed to me how important it was for the work of the Lord to begin anew in this place.
A few weeks after I held my first Sunday meeting, a young American soldier entered the chapel. She had been baptized only a few months before. I was so happy! Two weeks later, another sister arrived. Then two brothers came. With the help of the Lord, the Church began growing in Sarajevo.
Now the Church has a branch in Sarajevo. As I remember my time there, I reflect on the honor the Lord gave me to serve in a special way—to be a little cog in His work and to know that “out of small things proceedeth that which is great” (D&C 64:33).

The last file we’ll look at is probably the biggest. It’s been around the longest. Anthony’s first job was as a bagger at a grocery store on an air base. He saved 25 percent of his money for his mission fund at first. He later got a job at a car wash through a friend in his seminary class. He’s been working there ever since and has been saving half his earnings for his mission. A few months ago, however, Anthony realized he wouldn’t meet his goal if he maintained this saving pattern. He would have to step it up. So he cut his other expenses and started putting away much more money. And he counts it as a blessing of paying tithing that he also got a raise at work. He’s going to make it.
And it’s a good thing too, because he just got his mission call to Boise, Idaho. Because he’s been through saving for his mission, Anthony has some advice: “Be prepared to work for your money, but I can testify that when you work to earn as much as you can, then the Lord will take care of the rest.”
He also counsels other young men and women preparing for missions to be spiritually ready. He reads his scriptures every night and morning, studies Church history, memorizes the scripture mastery scriptures, and listens to advice from his parents, among other things, all in preparation for his mission.
Like Nathan Neeley, Anthony also remembers being inspired when he sang “I Hope They Call Me on a Mission” in Primary. Through his faith, diligence, and preparation, the hymn he’s singing now is “Called to Serve” (Hymns, no. 249).

Our friend Jasmine was a good example to us too. Jasmine was 12 years old. Her family became our good friends when we lived in the Middle East. In her country, Church members can’t talk about the gospel with others. It’s against the law. But Jasmine decided she could share the gospel by doing what Jesus did. She could show love and kindness to others. Wherever Jasmine went or whatever she did, she tried to be like Jesus. She was a bright example to others.

Tim was a good hiker. But this hike seemed very long. He and his family had hiked all the way to a lake. Tim liked seeing the little fish in the water. He liked throwing rocks in the lake. But now he was tired and hungry. Hiking was hard!
“Will you carry me?” he asked Dad.
“I’m sorry,” Dad said. “I have to carry your little brother.”
Tim started to cry. He was so tired. He did not want to walk anymore.
“Will you carry me?” he asked Mom.
“I have to carry baby Mia,” Mom said. “But I can hold your hand. We’ll walk together.”
Mom held Tim’s hand. “You can do it, Tim. We can do hard things.”
When Tim got tired, Mom pointed to the colorful flowers. They stopped to drink some water.
Then they hiked a little more. “We can do hard things,” Mom told Tim. “You are doing such a good job.”
Soon Tim could see the car. “Look! We’re almost back!”
When they got back to the car, Mom gave Tim a big hug. “You did it!” she said. “You really can do hard things.”
Tim smiled. He felt so proud. He had hiked the whole way!