Gospel Story Finder

As a teenager, Sister Kalombo Rosette Kamwanya from the D.R. Congo, now serving in the Côte d’Ivoire Abidjan West Mission, fasted and prayed for three days to find the direction God wanted her to take. In a remarkable night vision, she was shown two buildings, a chapel and what she now realizes was a temple. She began to search and soon found the chapel she had seen in her dream. The sign said, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” Sister Kamwanya was baptized and then her mother and her six brothers. Sister Kamwanya said, “When I received the gospel, I felt like a captured bird that had been liberated. My heart was filled with joy. … I had the assurance that God loves me.”9

On December 17, 1973, the president of Lufthansa German Airlines in Frankfurt, Germany, received alarming news. Five terrorists had hijacked a Lufthansa 737 jet in Rome, Italy, and were making their way to Athens, Greece, with hostages on board. As they did so, 32 people lay dead in Rome, and one of the hostages now in flight was soon to be mortally shot and summarily dumped onto the airport runway in Athens. With guns to the heads of the pilot and copilot and with hostages trembling in terror, the unstable hijackers directed a bizarre path from Rome to Beirut to Athens to Damascus to Kuwait.

In an instant, the president of Lufthansa ordered into the air his chief pilot for the 737 fleet. Thirty-three-year-old Dieter F. Uchtdorf was to take a small group of emergency personnel and follow the hijacked plane wherever the guerrillas took it. In every setting possible he was to negotiate for the release of the plane, the pilots, and the hostages. Then, when all of this had been accomplished, he was to fly the hijacked 737 back to headquarters in Frankfurt.

With fortunately no more bloodshed, this mission, like so many others he had been on personally and professionally, was successfully accomplished. Unknown to him at the time, it was a portent of more important missions yet to come.

“Pay attention, boys,” Brother Loder said, breaking into our discussion of the basketball game our team had lost the night before. “We have a service project to think about.”
Brother Loder leaned forward in his dark suit, placed his forearms on his knees, and held his black pocket calendar in front of him. Brother Loder was vice president of one of the banks in town and everything he did was always precise, proper, and meticulous. He studied his calendar a moment and then asked, “Well, men, what are we going to do?”
The room went quiet. I always hated this part of our planning session. Service projects never were my favorite things. I didn’t mind doing them, but coming up with the idea was always a problem. They were always so much the same.
“Sister Seymour might need some help,” Brother Loder suggested after observing our sudden silence.
“Yes, that sounds all right,” Chris Frei mumbled without conviction. “She can always use some help.”
I leaned back in my chair and stretched. “The widows always get helped,” I muttered. “Let’s do something else this month.”
“Do you have any suggestions, Kyle?” Brother Loder asked, glancing over at me and adjusting the tie that didn’t need adjusting.
I thought for a minute. “How about choosing a widower to help?”
Brad and Chris began to smile while Brother Loder shook his head and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.
“We could activate Willard Watts,” I suggested, trying hard not to smile.
“Kyle, can we get back to our planning?” said Brother Loder, sternly.
“What’s wrong with activating Brother Watts?” I asked.
“Kyle, I’ve lived in the 12th Ward since I was a kid. To my knowledge Brother Watts has been inside this church twice during that time. Once for his wife’s funeral and the other time for a friend’s funeral. He smokes. He swears. For years he wouldn’t even let the home teachers inside his house. He’s been a prospective elder since I went on my mission.”
“Well, I say it’s about time we got him out to church.”
“Kyle, we want to end this planning session in the next few minutes.”
“So do we just give up trying to help him?”
“Kyle, he gave up on himself a long time ago.”
Because our stomachs were growling with hunger and we wanted to get home for lunch, Sister Seymour finally was nominated as our service project for the month, but as I left the church and walked home in the crisp January air, I couldn’t help thinking of Willard Watts and wondering what it was like to be given up by everyone.
Willard lived just five houses away from me in a small, red brick home with a large garage. He had been an automobile mechanic for years, so he’d set up an auto shop in his garage to make repairs in his spare time. He was a heavyset, old man with gray, short-cropped hair, a round head, and flat nose. He rarely spoke or smiled, and always looked mean.
Before I went into the house that Sunday afternoon, I glanced down the street toward Brother Watts’s place where a few patches of old snow littered his lawn. His old truck was parked in front and the living room drapes were pulled closed.
Mom called me in to dinner and that made me forget all about Willard.

Mrs. Jennings held up a big glass jar for everyone in Henry’s class to see. “This is a Thankful Jar. Every day, I’ll ask one of you to share something you’re thankful for.”
Henry raised his hand. “Like what?”
“Anything,” Mrs. Jennings said. “Your family. A pet. Your friends. I’ll write down what you say and put it in the jar.”
How could Henry choose only one thing? All day he thought about the Thankful Jar. When Mommy picked him up, he couldn’t wait to tell her all about it. “I want to make a Thankful Jar for home! We can all write down things we’re thankful for. Maybe we can fill the whole jar!”
“Great idea!” Mommy said.
“Will you help me?” he asked. “I can’t spell all the words.”
“Of course I will.”
While Henry ate lunch, he thought of what he was thankful for. He waited while Mommy put his baby sister in her crib. Finally, Mommy helped him find a big jar. She cut some paper into wide strips. Henry grabbed a crayon.
“How do you spell ‘sister’?” he asked.
Mommy spelled the word out loud. Henry carefully wrote the letters down. She helped him spell sunshine and brothers and Daddy and snow and Primary and hermit crabs and other words. It took a long time to write them all. By the time Henry finished, his fingers were tired!
But Henry still had one more thing to write. He wrote Mommy on a slip of paper without any help at all. Then he showed Mommy what he had written.
“Look, Mommy!” Henry said. “I’m thankful for you!”
Mommy gave him a big hug. “I’m thankful for you too.”
Henry smiled. He was happy he had so many things to be thankful for.
See Come, Follow Me for Ether 6–11.

“Do I have to watch Bobby again?” Cindy asked.
“It’s just for a little while, dear. You know how he can get into things. You’re such a good helper.” Mother smiled at Cindy as she went out the apartment door with a basket of laundry in her arms.
Cindy sighed and shut the door. She turned and looked at her baby brother. Bobby banged two blocks together.
“Ah-bah, ah-bah, Mama!” Bobby yelled.
Cindy shook her head. “When are you going to really talk? When are you going to be a helper like me?”
“Me … bah.” Bobby laughed and started climbing up onto the couch.
“Oh no you don’t,” Cindy said as she picked up Bobby and put him on the floor by his toys.
“No, no?” asked Bobby.
“Right. Climbing onto the couch is a no-no. Let’s do something else. We can play Wonder Woman and Superman.”
“Dooper!” Bobby grinned happily.
Cindy ran to her bedroom to get her cape, but she couldn’t find it anywhere.
“I bet you lost it, Bobby. Tell me where you put my cape.”
“Bah-ma. Dooper?” said Bobby.
“I give up,” Cindy said. “If you’d just talk like the rest of us, that would be a big help.”
Cindy went into the bathroom and found two large towels. She tied one loosely around Bobby’s shoulders, then put the other one on herself. Cindy twirled on her toes, letting her cape fly out around her. Then she ran down the hallway. “Wheee!”
“Eeeeh!” Bobby echoed.
Cindy ran around the living room. Bobby ran too. Cindy leaped up and down. Bobby hopped the best that he could in imitation. Cindy jumped over the magazine rack. Bobby tried to do it, too, but he bumped his knee. He screamed. As Cindy turned around to see what had happened, her long cape flew out and hit a potted plant on the windowsill. The pot wobbled back and forth. Bobby stopped screaming. They both stood still and watched helplessly as the pot fell.
Crash!
“Oh, no!” cried Cindy, bending down to look at the mess. There was dirt all over the floor, but the plant didn’t look broken.
“No-no,” Bobby announced.
“It sure is a big no-no! Give me your towel. I’d better put them away and clean up this mess.”
While Cindy was in the bathroom, she heard her mother open the apartment door.
“Bobby!” she exclaimed. “What did you do?”
Cindy went back into the living room. Her mother was pulling Bobby away from the pile of dirt, where he was playing.
“Oh, Cindy,” Mother said, “I wish that you’d watched Bobby a little better.”
Bobby pointed at the floor and said, “No-no!” Then he ran out of the room.
Cindy knew that her mother thought that Bobby had broken the pot. It would be easy not to tell what had really happened. …
“Mom,” Cindy said at last, “I’m sorry.”
“I know, Cindy. It’s not your fault. Please get the dustpan and brush. I think that we can save the plant.”
Cindy didn’t move, even though she wanted to run away.
“Hurry up, dear.” Mother picked up the plant.
“I said that I was sorry,” Cindy said slowly, “because I knocked down the plant.”
“Oh, Cindy!” Mother looked at her and put down the plant. Then she hugged Cindy. “Thank you for telling me what really happened. Now we’ll clean this mess up together. You are a good helper.”
“Mama!” Bobby yelled. He had come back holding the dustpan and brush. He waved the pan in the air and said, “Me do.”
“Oh, Mom,” Cindy exclaimed happily, “Bobby is learning to talk better and to be a helper too.”

Sister Quashigah remembers hearing for the first time the Primary song, “I Know My Father Lives”. She felt empowered by the words “He sent me here to earth, by faith to live his plan. The Spirit whispers this to me and tells me that I can.”1
When she is faced with a difficult task, she has learned that the Savior will give her the power and strength that she needs, and the Spirit will guide her steps. Upon receiving her first Come Follow Me book, Sister Quashigah was devastated that she could not read it, but through the gospel literacy program, she has learned to read and can now explain the doctrines and principles of the gospel to her family and friends.

At the same time that I was caring for Mary, I had another patient whom I will call Jane. She was 42 years of age. Like Mary, she had a malignancy that could not be cured. Soon after she learned she had a terminal disease, she left home, moved into a local hotel, and followed a life-style in exact opposition to gospel teachings. She visited the bars and drank heavily, and she tried narcotics. In her own words, she was “living it up before she died.” She died screaming in pain, cursing God.

When I was 14, my dad left our family, and my mom was forced to flee the country. I was left with my three younger siblings, Ephraim, 9; Jonathan, 6; and Grace, 3 (names have been changed). Nothing could have prepared us for this sudden change. For the first time, we were alone.
Extended family soon offered to take each of us in, but if we went to live with them, we would be separated. It was a difficult decision. How could we reject their well-intentioned help? But at the same time, how could we give up years of playing, laughing, caring for one another, and watching each other grow?
Initially, my brothers and I turned down their help, thinking I could work to support us and we could stay together. But we knew that we could not provide the care our youngest sister needed, and so, with tears in our eyes, we let her go.
For the next few months, I worked as a building painter to buy food for my brothers and me. My income was insufficient to pay the bills for electricity and water, so we had to live without them.
Despite this trial and the gossip of others that accompanied it, our faith didn’t waver. Every night, I would gather Ephraim and Jonathan around a lamp to read the Book of Mormon. I would trim the wick so that it would produce less smoke, but we would still have to clean our noses that had turned black by the time we finished reading. But it was worth it.
Reading the Book of Mormon brought us closer to Christ. After we read, we would kneel together and take turns saying our prayers. We asked for comfort for our problem that seemed to be without a solution. We finished reading the Book of Mormon, and our faith in Jesus Christ grew stronger.
One day I came home tired from work and threw myself on our lower bunk bed. Looking up, I saw a paper posted under the bed above me. It said: “I Know That My Redeemer Lives!” My brother Jonathan had put it there. How close children are to the heavens that even a Primary child can be an instrument in sending a message from God to comfort a troubled heart and mind!
This testimony sustained me when I realized I just couldn’t provide for our needs and we had to leave our home. Jonathan was taken to live with my mother’s side of the family, but Ephraim and I chose to stay with our other grandparents because they were Church members. In their home we arose early to do chores before school and then cared for our grandfather late into the night. It was exhausting. However, the Lord was mindful of us, and we stayed close to the Church.
Every time I felt like giving up, I was reminded of the special moments I had had with my siblings as we read from the Book of Mormon surrounding a lamp. I know Christ was there beside us in those difficult times. From the moment our family members separated from one another, He did not forsake us. “I know that my Redeemer lives!”
Now, years later, I still have the picture of those words from above my bed in my heart and mind. That message has helped my brother Ephraim and me in our years of service as full-time missionaries and in striving now to live celestial marriages.
I could have missed a lot in my life had I doubted instead of trusting Christ. No matter how difficult life is, it has never been too difficult for the Savior, who suffered in Gethsemane. He can sustain one’s life with one sentence. He knows everything from the beginning to the end. His comfort is more powerful than any heartache this life can bring. Through His Atonement, there is no permanent problem—only constant hope, grace, peace, and love. Believe me, I know! I know that my Redeemer lives!

My name is Thomas, and I am a gatherer.
This year in Primary we are learning how to gather. Our leaders asked us to gather our families for prayer and scripture study. They want us to practice gathering so we will know how to gather now and when we grow up—on missions, at school, or even when we are alone. That way we can always spiritually gather with Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ and find peace in Them.
My job is to gather my family for morning prayer. I ask, “Will you please join me for prayer?” My brother Henry gathers us for evening prayer and scripture study.
One Saturday morning, we left early to play basketball. Afterward, we ran errands. I suddenly remembered and said, “Mom, we forgot to gather to pray.” She told me we could gather when we got home. But I said, “We need to gather and pray right now!” She asked me to say the prayer, but she kept her eyes open because she was driving.
Mom and Dad tell Henry and me how thankful they are that we gather our family for prayer and scripture study. They say our small voices make a big difference in our home. They tell us that because we gather, our family is blessed.

Boy Scouts from the Elk Grove First and Third wards of the Sacramento California South Stake organized an ice cave freeze-out, an event they hope to hold annually. The winter camp was held at the 7,000-foot level on Echo Summit between Sacramento and South Lake Tahoe.
The group backpacked two miles on snowshoes to the main campsite. There they were taught basic snow survival techniques and how to build several kinds of snow shelters by experienced leaders. These shelters served as sleeping places for the Scouts during the nights when temperatures dropped to 15°F.
The Scouts were surprised to find very little spare time for fun or horseplay as nearly every available minute was spent in preparing and serving food, building snow shelters, learning survival techniques, or just staying warm by the fire. The Scouts found that the Boy Scout motto, “Be Prepared,” is more than just a motto. They found that extensive planning and preparation were essential for a comfortable snow camping experience.

Several years ago, I had the opportunity of traveling with the President of the Church to attend a series of area conferences. I will never forget the contrast between two conferences that were held just a few days apart.
The first area conference was held in a large arena, and as we sat on the stand, we noticed continuous movement by the people. We saw individuals throughout the arena leaning over and whispering to family members and friends seated next to them. Giving the members the benefit of the doubt, we thought that maybe the large building helped cause the lack of reverence.
A few days later, we were in another country attending another area conference in an arena much like the first. When we entered the building, however, an immediate hush came over the congregation. As we sat through the two-hour general session, there was very little movement among the people. Everyone listened intently. Great attention and respect were shown all the speakers, and when the prophet spoke, you could hear a pin drop.
After the meeting was over, I asked the priesthood leaders about what they had done to prepare the people for the conference. They told me their preparation had been simple. They had asked priesthood holders to explain to the members of their families, and also the families they home taught, that at an area conference they would have the privilege of hearing the words of the prophet and the apostles. The priesthood leaders explained that the reverence their people felt for God and His servants was the basis for their reverent behavior at the conference.

The Missionary Mom. Craig and Dawn Armstrong and their son Anthony, from Salt Lake City, Utah, USA, tell how Sister Armstrong was a homeless single mother when she met the missionaries. The gospel they shared helped her to turn her life around. She later married Craig, and the story comes full circle when Anthony goes on a full-time mission to South Africa to share the gospel that so blessed his mother.

Grandpa had a great desire to serve, and no matter what the job, he was dedicated to it. He served as stake clerk for many years. When the shaking of his hand became so severe that it became difficult to write, the stake president asked him if he would like to be released. Without hesitation and with a twinkle in his eye, Grandpa replied, “You know, President, it’s not writing I have a problem with. It’s fishing. Whenever I go fishing my hand gets to shaking so that I can’t tell if I’ve got a fish on the line or if it’s just me.” With that, Grandpa continued to serve in his position almost until his death.

Childhood abuses or neglect of children that occur after birth are more publicly visible. Worldwide, almost eight million children die before their fifth birthday, mostly from diseases both treatable and preventable. And the World Health Organization reports that one in four children have stunted growth, mentally and physically, because of inadequate nutrition. Living and traveling internationally, we Church leaders see much of this. The general presidency of the Primary report children living in conditions “beyond our imaginations.” A mother in the Philippines said: “Sometimes we do not have enough money for food, but that is all right because it gives me the opportunity to teach my children about faith. We gather and pray for relief, and the children see the Lord bless us.” In South Africa, a Primary worker met a little girl, lonely and sad. In faint responses to loving questions, she said she had no mother, no father, and no grandmother—only a grandfather to care for her. Such tragedies are common on a continent where many caregivers have died of AIDS. Even in rich nations little children and youth are impaired by neglect. Children growing up in poverty have inferior health care and inadequate educational opportunities. They are also exposed to dangerous environments in their physical and cultural surroundings and even from the neglect of their parents. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland recently shared the experience of an LDS police officer. In an investigation he found five young children huddled together and trying to sleep without bedding on a filthy floor in a dwelling where their mother and others were drinking and partying. The apartment had no food to relieve their hunger. After tucking the children into a makeshift bed, the officer knelt and prayed for their protection. As he walked toward the door, one of them, about six, pursued him, grabbed him by the hand, and pleaded, “Will you please adopt me?” We remember our Savior’s teaching as He placed a little child before His followers and declared:
“And whoso shall receive one such little child in my name receiveth me.
“But whoso shall offend one of these little ones which believe in me, it were better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck, and that he were drowned in the depth of the sea” (Matthew 18:5–6).
When we consider the dangers from which children should be protected, we should also include psychological abuse. Parents or other caregivers or teachers or peers who demean, bully, or humiliate children or youth can inflict harm more permanent than physical injury. Making a child or youth feel worthless, unloved, or unwanted can inflict serious and long-lasting injury on his or her emotional well-being and development. Young people struggling with any exceptional condition, including same-gender attraction, are particularly vulnerable and need loving understanding—not bullying or ostracism.
With the help of the Lord, we can repent and change and be more loving and helpful to children—our own and those around us.
There are few examples of physical or emotional threats to children as important as those arising out of their relationships with their parents or guardians. President Thomas S. Monson has spoken of what he called the “vile deeds” of child abuse, where a parent has broken or disfigured a child, physically or emotionally. I grieved as I had to study the shocking evidence of such cases during my service on the Utah Supreme Court.
Of utmost importance to the well-being of children is whether their parents were married, the nature and duration of the marriage, and, more broadly, the culture and expectations of marriage and child care where they live. Two scholars of the family explain: “Throughout history, marriage has first and foremost been an institution for procreation and raising children. It has provided the cultural tie that seeks to connect the father to his children by binding him to the mother of his children. Yet in recent times, children have increasingly been pushed from center stage.”
A Harvard law professor describes the current law and attitude toward marriage and divorce: “The [current] American story about marriage, as told in the law and in much popular literature, goes something like this: marriage is a relationship that exists primarily for the fulfillment of the individual spouses. If it ceases to perform this function, no one is to blame and either spouse may terminate it at will. … Children hardly appear in the story; at most they are rather shadowy characters in the background.”
Our Church leaders have taught that looking “upon marriage as a mere contract that may be entered into at pleasure … and severed at the first difficulty … is an evil meriting severe condemnation,” especially where “children are made to suffer.” And children are impacted by divorces. Over half of the divorces in a recent year involved couples with minor children.
Many children would have had the blessing of being raised by both of their parents if only their parents had followed this inspired teaching in the family proclamation: “Husband and wife have a solemn responsibility to love and care for each other and for their children. … Parents have a sacred duty to rear their children in love and righteousness, to provide for their physical and spiritual needs, and to teach them to love and serve one another.” The most powerful teaching of children is by the example of their parents. Divorcing parents inevitably teach a negative lesson.
There are surely cases when a divorce is necessary for the good of the children, but those circumstances are exceptional. In most marital contests the contending parents should give much greater weight to the interests of the children. With the help of the Lord, they can do so. Children need the emotional and personal strength that come from being raised by two parents who are united in their marriage and their goals. As one who was raised by a widowed mother, I know firsthand that this cannot always be achieved, but it is the ideal to be sought whenever possible.
Children are the first victims of current laws permitting so-called “no-fault divorce.” From the standpoint of children, divorce is too easy. Summarizing decades of social science research, a careful scholar concluded that “the family structure that produces the best outcomes for children, on average, are two biological parents who remain married.” A New York Times writer noted “the striking fact that even as traditional marriage has declined in the United States … the evidence has mounted for the institution’s importance to the well-being of children.” That reality should give important guidance to parents and parents-to-be in their decisions involving marriage and divorce. We also need politicians, policy makers, and officials to increase their attention to what is best for children in contrast to the selfish interests of voters and vocal advocates of adult interests.
Children are also victimized by marriages that do not occur. Few measures of the welfare of our rising generation are more disturbing than the recent report that 41 percent of all births in the United States were to women who were not married. Unmarried mothers have massive challenges, and the evidence is clear that their children are at a significant disadvantage when compared with children raised by married parents.
Most of the children born to unmarried mothers—58 percent—were born to couples who were cohabitating. Whatever we may say about these couples’ forgoing marriage, studies show that their children suffer significant comparative disadvantages. For children, the relative stability of marriage matters.
We should assume the same disadvantages for children raised by couples of the same gender. The social science literature is controversial and politically charged on the long-term effect of this on children, principally because, as a New York Times writer observed, “same-sex marriage is a social experiment, and like most experiments it will take time to understand its consequences.”
I have spoken for children—children everywhere. Some may reject some of these examples, but none should resist the plea that we unite to increase our concern for the welfare and future of our children—the rising generation.
We are speaking of the children of God, and with His powerful help, we can do more to help them. In this plea I address not only Latter-day Saints but also all persons of religious faith and others who have a value system that causes them to subordinate their own needs to those of others, especially to the welfare of children.
Religious persons are also conscious of the Savior’s New Testament teaching that pure little children are our role models of humility and teachableness:
“Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.
“Whosoever therefore shall humble himself as this little child, the same is greatest in the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 18:3–4).
In the Book of Mormon we read of the risen Lord teaching the Nephites that they must repent and be baptized “and become as a little child” or they could not inherit the kingdom of God (3 Nephi 11:38; see also Moroni 8:10).
I pray that we will humble ourselves as little children and reach out to protect our little children, for they are the future for us, for our Church, and for our nations. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Photographs by Christina Smith
I thought I was going for a short weekend trip to visit my family during a brother’s wedding. But when my wife, Etelani, dropped me off at the airport, handed me a packed suitcase, and told me to stay with my parents until I was ready to be a husband, I knew things had become serious. I would have to make drastic changes in my life.
As I watched her drive away, little did I know how much she hurt. She told me later that she then drove to a safe place to park along the road, where she sobbed. I hadn’t realized how much my behavior—drinking and doing drugs—was hurting her, and I didn’t realize how much it was hurting me.
We both grew up in Samoa, where we met. My family joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when I was in high school. But the commandments got in the way of my lifestyle and the parties I liked to attend. By the time the other members of my family were sealed in the temple, I was not active in the Church and made every excuse to stay away from Church activities.
After Etelani and I got married, we moved to Seattle, Washington, where my family lived. Then we moved away from them to Utah. There, Etelani tried desperately to help me change my ways.
Often, I would be gone for a week or two at a time drinking and partying while she remained at home, not knowing where I was. She hurt deeply, realizing she could not change me. These were dark and painful days for her. She became despondent, riddled with pangs of insecurity. She wondered if my unruly actions stemmed from her inability to bear children.
“If we are meant to stay together,” she prayed to Heavenly Father, “then please help me know what to do.”
The Spirit prompted her to act when my parents called to announce that one of my brothers was getting married. The day Etelani dropped me off at the airport, she said, “I think this is a good time for us to be separated.” As it turned out, it was 10 months before we got back together.
My parents and siblings were active members of the Church. My mother was strong in her testimony and was aware of my situation. During the 10 months I lived with my parents, she gave me kind and gentle invitations to join the family at church and church activities, and she reminded me of the importance of being sealed to Etelani in the temple. Those simple invitations, and being surrounded by my family’s love, helped me return to church.
While Etelani was in Utah, working overtime hours to distract her from her sadness, I was undergoing a transformation brought about by my mother’s love and the Savior’s atoning grace.
I had tried many times over the years to kick my bad habits, but I never could. In the past, I had used every excuse to stay away from church, but now as I confronted the loss of my wife, I knew I had to change.
Change wasn’t easy. “Who am I to be saved?” I wondered. In the past, I had tried to change by myself. Alone, I couldn’t beat my habits, but with help from Heavenly Father and His Son, along with the scriptures, fasting and prayer, the sacrament, and repentance, I knew I could change. Becoming involved in the Church and exercising faith in Jesus Christ changed my heart and my way of thinking (see Mosiah 5:7; Alma 5:12–13). I soon found that I could do things I couldn’t do before.
With steadiness, over time I came to feel the Savior’s mercy. He was aware of Etelani and me. I felt that He loved us. His love changed my appetites. I no longer obsessed over past indulgences. When I finally had a testimony of the gospel, I wanted to be with Etelani again.
When she saw that I held a steady job and had saved money for a place to live, she joined me in Seattle. She still wanted us. After I had demonstrated that my devotion to her and the gospel was real, we adopted a daughter. Having a child helped me commit to the changes I had made. I knew I had to be a good father for her. I liked where I was heading, and I wanted to take my family with me. I was sealed to my parents. Etelani and I adopted a son. And we have been sealed in the temple as a family. God has been good to us.
Tony with his son, Tony Jr.
Having gone through the refiner’s fire, I know from firsthand experience that the Savior can change us. But first, we must get close to Him. You’ll be amazed at what He can do. Feeling His divine love can lead to sincere repentance, and that can change you—no matter how far you have fallen.
I’m grateful for a second chance. I’m grateful for the gospel. I’m grateful the Savior brought me back. And I’m grateful He helped me become a better husband to my wife and father to my children.
If we have faith in the Savior and trust in Him, we will be surprised at the changes He can make in us.
Tony remains grateful the Lord helped him become a better husband to his wife, Etelani, and father to his children, Tony Jr. and Prelain.

Years ago I took a young man, 20 years of age, into the waters of baptism. My companion and I had taught him the gospel. He was the first in his family to hear the message of the restored gospel. He asked to be baptized. The testimony of the Spirit made him want to follow the example of the Savior, who was baptized by John the Baptist even though He was without sin.
As I brought that young man up out of the waters of baptism, he surprised me by throwing his arms around my neck and whispering in my ear, tears streaming down his face, “I’m clean; I’m clean.” That same young man, after we laid our hands on his head with the authority of the Melchizedek Priesthood and conferred on him the Holy Ghost, said to me, “When you spoke those words, I felt something like fire go down from the top of my head through my body, all the way to my feet.”

I was far from home attending an international conference for my job. Hundreds of people attended, but I was the only one from my state and region.
One evening a dinner was hosted for all the attendees. As we entered the dining hall, each of us received four tickets to use at the bar to order free alcoholic beverages. It occurred to me how easy it would be for someone far from home to be tempted by such an opportunity, thinking that no one would ever know. It was a fleeting thought, and I handed the tickets back to the person at the door.
During dinner I sat with seven strangers. I drank water as we ate, talked, laughed, and exchanged information that would help us in our employment.
As we entered the dining hall, each of us received four tickets to use at the bar to order free alcoholic beverages.
The next morning at breakfast I greeted a gentleman who had been seated at my table. I was excited to notice by his name tag that he was from my hometown—a town I had not lived in for 35 years. After high school I had left home for college, married, and moved away.
As we discussed places and community events we both knew, he asked me if I still had family there. I replied that I did not but that I had many good friends there and that we kept in touch. He asked who they were, and I began to name some of them.
After the first few names he stopped me and said, “Wait, are you a Mormon? All the people you have named are Mormons.”
When I acknowledged that I was a Latter-day Saint, he told me what fine citizens those friends were and how they had served the community and been good examples to all. For several minutes he shared his admiration for the Church and my friends, telling me how they had been advocates for good in the community.
As we parted, I could not help but think what might have happened had I chosen to use those drink tickets. I had been taught to choose the right by those very people we spoke of. I would have been uncomfortable and ashamed to admit that I was a member of the Church had I used the tickets.
How grateful I am for the example of those worthy, active, serving friends—35 years later and 2,000 miles (3,220 km) away from the home of my youth.

The need was critical.
In early 2013, five cases of measles broke out in the Za’atari refugee camp in the Middle Eastern country of Jordan. More than 100,000 Syrian refugees, living in overcrowded conditions, were at risk of contracting this highly contagious, dangerous virus. The Jordanian government planned a massive immunization campaign to keep the disease from spreading. The plan was to immunize at least 90,000 Syrian refugees between the ages of 6 months and 30 years within a two-week period.
But there was a problem. The United Nations Children’s Emergency Fund (UNICEF) had the serum. The Jordanian Ministry of Health had the clinics. What they didn’t have were cold-chain supply items—syringes, containers for sharp instruments, serum coolers—and time was running out.1
Enter Ron and Sandi Hammond, senior welfare missionaries serving as country directors in Jordan for LDS Charities. As Ron and Sandi already had working relationships with UNICEF and the Ministry of Health, they quickly joined the collaboration between these organizations to determine how LDS Charities could help.
Ron says, “We inquired about the cost of purchasing the cold-chain supply items. When they told us, we said, ‘We think LDS Charities can help.’ They said, ‘How fast? We’ve got to get moving on this!’”
Within 20 hours LDS Charities had approved the purchase of the necessary cold-chain supplies. “When we informed the Ministry of Health and UNICEF,” Ron says, “they were awe-struck. How could an NGO [non-governmental organization] move so quickly? Not only did the immunization campaign go forward on schedule, but it also inspired a nationwide campaign that inoculated hundreds of thousands of Jordanians and Syrian refugees.”
Photograph courtesy of Samir Badran, UNICEF-Jordan
Crisis averted.
Furthermore, this productive partnership among UNICEF, Jordan’s Ministry of Health, and LDS Charities created the potential for future collaboration.

In 1895 my great-grandfather, Abinadi Olsen, was called on a mission to the Samoan Islands. Obedient to the call of the prophet, he left his wife and four small children, including my maternal grandmother, Chasty Magdalene, in the town of Castle Dale, Utah. He traveled by train and ship to the mission headquarters in Apia, a journey of 26 days. His first assignment was to labor on the island of Tutuila.
After many weeks of living in what he called a grass hut, eating strange food, suffering severe illnesses, and struggling to learn the Samoan language, he seemed to be making no progress in his missionary work. Homesick and discouraged, he seriously considered boarding a boat back to Apia and telling the mission president he didn’t want to waste any more time in Samoa. The obstacles to the accomplishment of his mission seemed insurmountable, and he wished to return to his wife and children, who were struggling to support him in the mission field.
A friend who heard Abinadi Olsen describe the experience some years after his return, quoted him as follows:
“Then one night, as I lay on my mat on the floor of my hut, a strange man entered and in my own language told me to get up and follow him. His manner was such that I had to obey. He led me out through the village and directly up against the face of a perpendicular solid rock cliff. ‘That’s strange,’ thought I. ‘I’ve never seen that here before,’ and just then the stranger said, ‘I want you to climb that cliff.’
“I took another look and then in bewilderment said, ‘I can’t. It’s impossible!’
“‘How do you know you can’t? You haven’t tried,’ said my guide.
“‘But anyone can see’—I started to say in objection. But he cut in with, ‘Begin climbing. Reach up with your hand—now with your foot.’
“As I reached, under orders that I dared not disobey, a niche seemed to open in the solid rock cliff and I caught hold. Then with my one foot I caught a toe hold.
“‘Now go ahead,’ he ordered. ‘Reach with your other hand,’ and as I did so another place opened up, and to my surprise the cliff began to recede; climbing became easier, and I continued the ascent without difficulty until, suddenly, I found myself lying on my pallet back in my hut. The stranger was gone!
“‘Why has this experience come to me?’ I asked myself. The answer came quickly. I had been up against an imaginary cliff for those three months. I had not reached out my hand to begin the climb. I hadn’t really made the effort I should have made to learn the language and surmount my other problems” (Fenton L. Williams, “On Doing the Impossible,” Improvement Era, Aug. 1957, p. 554).
It is hardly necessary to add that Abinadi Olsen did not leave the mission. He labored for three and a half years, until released by appropriate authority. He was an exceptionally effective missionary, and he was a faithful member of the Church for the rest of his life.

Pat was my best friend, at least he was until my sense of humor got in the way.
Pat and I played football together at BYU. He played offense; I played defense. But we became good friends anyway. We lifted weights together, played racquetball together, and ran together in the off-season.
When I first met Pat, I was a recent convert to the Church and he was a lazy life-long member. He went to church once in a while, but he really wasn’t active, at least not as active as I thought he should have been.
We always joked around a lot. He teased me about my skinny arms; I teased him about his pot belly. Any topic was fair game for our joking: the way we dressed, missed racquetball shots, blown plays on the football field. Most of the joking was pretty clever, and it helped pass the time we spent working to become better football players.
One day, as we were getting dressed, I started teasing Pat about being inactive.
“Let’s see, Pat,” I said, “this Sunday is even numbered. Does that mean you’ll go to church? Or do you only go on the odd-numbered days?” He didn’t answer, so I continued to razz him. “Or do you just go every other month?”
I laughed. He remained quiet.
During the car ride back to our apartments, I didn’t let up. My teasing continued nonstop, and he sat sullenly throughout the trip.
Finally, just before we pulled up to my apartment, Pat spoke up, only “spoke up” isn’t the right expression. “Yelled” is more accurate.
“Listen, Chris,” he said, barely controlling his anger, “don’t ever tease me about the Church. Never.” And with that, I got out of the car. He slammed the door closed and drove off. The next day, some of our mutual friends came to talk to me.
“Hey, Chris,” said one, “lay off teasing Pat about the Church. You really hurt his feelings yesterday. See, he’s trying to get active; he’s been working at it for a long time, and you just don’t understand.”
I was stunned. I couldn’t believe that a guy so big, so strong, so good at handing out teasing and taking it, could ever have his feelings hurt. But he did. And worst of all, that incident ruined our friendship. Of course, I apologized to Pat immediately. I felt horrible about the whole thing—horrible that I had really wounded a good friend, and horrible that I had ruined a great friendship. Sure, we remained friends, but it was never the same again.