Gospel Story Finder

While in an airport several years ago in São Paulo, Brazil, I saw in a bookstore showcase a book titled “The Book of Mormon: Another Testament of Jesus Christ.” I doubted that our decaying and directionless world would accept another testament of Jesus Christ, and I spent the weekend thinking about the book.
Finally, I could no longer endure my curiosity, and I returned to the bookstore to buy it. When I arrived, however, I couldn’t find it. I described the book to the store attendant, but he said he had never seen it. Nor could he find a record of it, even though all books displayed in the showcase were cataloged.
Sometime later while in a pharmacy, I noticed an open book on a counter. As I began to read it, I learned about a man named Korihor who insisted on doubting the power of God and was eventually struck dumb. When I reflected on the words I read, I recognized them as being from God.
During this time I had been looking for divine direction. One day I knelt and fervently prayed asking God to show me the true path that would bring me to Him. A few days later our son became ill, so I returned to the pharmacy. When I was about to leave, three young Americans wearing name tags entered. I immediately felt a warmth in my breast, which prompted me to speak with them.
They told me they were in Brazil to preach the gospel of Jesus Christ. I asked if they could teach me, and we scheduled an appointment.
When I heard about the Prophet Joseph Smith for the first time, I knew my prayer had been answered. Then the missionaries gave me a book. To my astonishment, it was a Book of Mormon—just like the one I had seen in the showcase. I again felt a sweet warmth and became so happy that I was barely able to speak.
The missionaries explained the origin of the book and then asked me to pray and ask God if it was true. I already had an absolute certainty of the divinity of the book, for the Lord had shown it to me—twice. Nevertheless, I examined it in great detail. Upon reading chapter 17 in 3 Nephi, I knew it contained a divine story because it contained the words of Jesus Christ.
The foundation of my testimony is in knowing that the Book of Mormon contains the word of God. It has changed me and continues to change me.

Just a few weeks ago a young man, while at a Scout camp in the mountains east of Salt Lake City, was struck by lightning, which took his life. His parents, grief stricken and devastated at the sudden loss of their son, struggled quietly and asked why this happened. Because their hearts were submissive and their faith strong, there came a great outpouring of love from the Lord. In the midst of their grief came a quiet, tender resolve to accept without anger the outcome of this experience. With their acceptance came a larger vision of the purpose of life and a remembrance of the covenants that were in place. Though still filled with anguish from their sudden loss, they found themselves standing on a higher plane committed to hold even faster to their covenants and to live such that they might be assured of a joyful reunion with their son.

“It is related of Tamerlane (1336–1405) the honored warrior, the terror of whose arms spread through all the eastern nations, and who was victorious at almost every step, that he once learned from an insect a lesson of perseverance, which had a striking effect upon his future character and success.

“When closely pursued by his enemies—as a contemporary tells the story—he took refuge in some old ruins, where left to his solitary musings, he espied an ant tugging and striving to carry a single grain of corn. His unavailing efforts were repeated sixty-nine times, and at each time as soon as he reached a certain point of projection, he fell back with his burden, unable to surmount it; but the seventieth time he carried away the grain of corn, in triumph, and left the wondering hero reanimated and exulting in the hope of future victory.”

Getting where he is now hasn’t been easy. He’s a sprinter with a marathon schedule. Moroni is off to school early. After school there’s just enough time to wolf down a snack before heading off to training. By the time he’s home, at around 8:00 P.M., he barely has time to eat dinner and do homework. Then it’s off to bed. Keeping up with Moroni isn’t a challenge just on the track.
“It’s a sacrifice,” Moroni says. “A lot of times I want to do other things, like hang out with my friends or play the guitar. But there’s no time.”
As Moroni tries to juggle his training schedule with homework, family, church, and friends, the scripture about a man running “faster than he has strength” takes on more than one meaning for him.
Like many Latter-day Saint teens, Moroni has had to be careful not to overload himself by doing too much. From his experience as a runner, Moroni knows that you can hurt yourself when you push too hard. As King Benjamin told his people, “It is not requisite that a man should run faster than he has strength” (Mosiah 4:27).
But to Moroni that scripture isn’t an excuse to stay in his comfort zone; it’s a challenge to increase his strength. When he began competing in the 100 meters at age 14, his top time was 11.9 seconds. Through growth and training, he has increased his strength and improved his time. Now Moroni’s best time in the 100 meters is 10.46 seconds—the Mexican record in the junior (minor) division.
“It’s the consistency in training,” he says, “every day without quitting. I know I have limits, but they can change. On the track there are times when I think I can’t make it, but stretching that much farther is part of the sacrifice to get better.”
Or in King Benjamin’s words: “And again, it is expedient that he should be diligent, that thereby he might win the prize” (Mosiah 4:27). That lesson hasn’t been lost on Moroni off the track.
“Trials that once seemed impossible aren’t necessarily,” Moroni says. “The Lord will never give us challenges we can’t overcome. We can overcome them even if at first we think we can’t. Never giving up is how we grow and get better. In the end, the sacrifices are worth it.”

Some of the first forks were brought to Europe from Byzantium, a rich and powerful empire to the east. About a thousand years ago a Byzantine princess came to live in Venice, a city in Italy. She ate with a fork. The priests thought her way of eating was so fancy that it was sinful. They scolded her. They preached against her in church. Soon afterward, the princess caught a terrible disease and died. Many people believed that she was punished for using her fork.

WELCOME!I’m Sister Simon.Hi! I’m Ramón.Hello. I’m Cathlyn.I’m Mei Lin.Hi! I’m David.And I’m Joshua.
What on earth are you doing, Josh?Archaeology.Sure you are.
This is a very promising dig. I’m unearthing evidence of an early twenty-first century civilization.The early twenty-first century is right now.Exactly. From here I’ll work backward. Soon I’ll be in Book of Mormon times.
Right. So what have you discovered?This!
A CTR ring?Don’t you see? This proves that a young man who wanted to choose the right inhabited this dwelling. I bet with a little more digging, I’ll find a baptismal certificate.
Impressive.Brilliant might be a better word.

He obtained a position in the government of Venezuela and was sent to London. While there he urged people with influence to force Spain to withdraw from his country, but had little success.
Disappointed, he went back to San Mateo where reports of his revolutionary talk had reached Venezuela ahead of him. So before he was thirty he was banished from his beloved country, his estate was taken from him, and he was left without money or friends. Somehow he managed to get passage on a small boat that took him to the little hot and sandy island of Curacao in the Caribbean Sea.
The island belonged to England at that time and English merchants provided him with food and a bed. Although Simón talked of a revolution against Spanish rule in Venezuela, they were surprised when he and his young cousin Ribas left the island and set sail for Colombia.
Arriving there, the two young men recruited an army of two hundred untrained men who had no uniforms except ragged civilian clothing. Their powder and bullet pouches were made of roughly sewn cowhide, and their worn-out muskets and bayonets were almost useless. Few of them had hats to cover their heads, and most of them had tattered leather sandals on their feet. But Simón was able to inspire and persuade them to follow him. After only a little training, this army captured a Spanish riverside fort in a surprise attack. There the men found ammunition, clothing, and food.
Simón was soon joined by other revolutionaries. Some battles were lost, but more were won. With odds almost beyond belief, Simón was able to rally his forces and add to them after every defeat. They followed him over the nearly insurmountable Andes Mountains, half frozen, hungry, and exhausted. Several women, wives of the soldiers, took part in this march across the mountains and one of them gave birth to a baby on the slopes of Mt. Pisba. At last they reached the plains of Venezuela where the small band of ragged revolutionaries fought a well-equipped army more than twice its size—and won!
Still poorly equipped and outnumbered, Bolívar then led his troops into other countries and also helped them to obtain their freedom.
However, Simón Bolívar, who was so successful in encouraging, training, and leading armies under the most adverse conditions, was unable to unite the various governments of the countries as he wanted so much to do. Disillusioned by the politicians’ jealousies, littleness, and bickering, he once wrote, “It is a terrible truth that it costs more strength to maintain freedom than to endure the weight of tyranny.”
Another time he saluted all men who fight for freedom with these words:
“I drink to the heroic endurance of the soldiers of both armies, to their loyalty, patience and courage. I drink to the men who, defying all terrors, take up the cause of liberty . … But perish all who desire bloodshed and who shed blood in an unjust cause.”
In November of 1830 Simón Bolívar, who had resigned from active government leadership, despaired of uniting South America and, hurt by the political intrigue of men in governments, became ill. Escaping a planned assassination against his life while in Bogota, Colombia, he fled to Santa Marta, the oldest permanent settlement in South America. Alone, misunderstood, and almost penniless he died there December 17, 1830. His farewell message to his countrymen urged them to continue fighting for freedom.
Statues of Simón Bolívar have been erected in the countries where he was once president, and the standard silver coin of Venezuela is named the bolivar after him—El Libertador, the liberator of South America!

When I was 11 years old, my bishop called me in for an interview in his office. He said, “Ulisses, it’s time to start your preparation to go on a mission.” I was astonished because I was only 11 years old! But he said, “We have to start that process now.”
My bishop said, “I’ll interview you once in a while to see how your progress is.” Then he gave me some direction. He taught me about the commandments, the priesthood, worthiness, and honesty. I was so impressed because he looked in my eyes and said, “You will serve a mission if you follow the directions I am giving you.”
I always remembered his words, especially when I faced a challenge. For example, one time my mother gave me money to go to a store to buy some fruit. For some reason the cashier gave me back more money than I gave her to pay for the fruit. I started walking home, and when I opened my hand, I saw that I had more money than I had started with.
Satan tried to convince me that I could keep the money for myself. I thought, “I have some money to do whatever I want, and then I will give back the correct change to my mother.” But then I thought, “No, that’s not what the bishop told me. To be a missionary I have to be honest.” I felt the Spirit at that time and went back to the store to give back the money. I felt good in my heart. I thought, “I was honest, I obeyed the commandments, and I am preparing for my mission. I will be a missionary, and I need to be honest.”

Like medicine and golf balls, new experiences are often hard to swallow. Take dancing.
Now you might not think a church youth dance is something to be afraid of, but for my friends and me, this one was different. It was our first.
Unfortunately, the bulk of our adolescent training to this point was in camp-outs and knot tying. Girls had scarcely begun to crack our vocabulary. We tried to look excited, but secretly we were scared stiff.
So when the music finally started, we found ourselves standing at the edge of the dance floor, staring straight ahead like timid zookeepers looking into an alligator pit. Just one false move and …
“Do you want to dance?”
Yipes! A girl I had known since first grade was standing in front of me in a new role: potential dance partner. What do I say? What do I do? I wanted to say yes, but I choked.
“Uh … thanks, but I’m just going to watch for a while.”
Rats! I couldn’t believe what I had just said. But while I was busy feeling sorry for myself, she turned to Rob, a friend of mine, and asked him. Incredibly, he said yes.
What courage! The rest of us watched in awe as the couple moved to the middle of the room. Though Rob wasn’t winning any awards for grace or style, it looked like he was actually having fun. And when the music changed, he asked someone else to dance.
Wow! He made it look easy, but my remaining friends and I would definitely need more experience before trying something that risky. Until then we would stick to safer jobs, like supporting the cultural hall walls.
After hours of indecision, the night finally ended. I had kept my position along the wall, but by holding out I had forfeited any chance of having a good time.
When the next dance came, it was a stake Halloween dance, so I could pretend to be as confident as the identity I was assuming. I chose to be Zorro, but as I walked in the hall carrying my sword and wearing my mom’s frilly white blouse, it didn’t look like I was going to leave my mark anywhere quick. I laid low by the refreshment table and tried to muster some courage.
Then suddenly a girl approached me. She was dressed as a princess.
“Do you want to dance?” She assured me she didn’t bite.
To this day I don’t know who said yes, me or Zorro, but the next thing I knew I was out there—talking and dancing (or at least flailing my arms and legs). I didn’t know exactly what to do, but no one seemed to care.
When the music stopped I was brimming with confidence. I cautiously walked up to a girl dressed as an angel, and feeling like I was on top of the Empire State Building, I closed my eyes and jumped.
“Do you want to dance?”
“Sure, let’s go!” she said.
Really? I could hardly believe it. I had landed on my feet. As we headed to the floor, I realized how much better it was to join in instead of hold back. I started searching for something witty to say. After all, I had nothing to lose.

“We won’t have any openings for months, and if you work here, you would have to work on Sundays.” The manager of the first store to which I applied for a job sent me on my way.
It was the summer before my senior year in high school, and I had been driving all over town filling out applications. My plan was to save up enough money to be able to attend college when I graduated. On each application, I indicated I could not work on Sundays. I was firm in my commitment to keep the Sabbath day holy.
A few days later, I handed a completed application to the manager of another store. He quickly scanned the paper and in disbelief asked, “You can’t work on Sundays?”
Without hesitation, I answered, “No.”
He laughed derisively and replied, “You’ll never get a job in this town!”
Feeling deflated, I left the store and climbed into my car. I said a quick prayer out loud, “Heavenly Father, what am I going to do?”
The unmistakable feeling from the Spirit came, and I knew everything would be all right. The prompting was so strong that I responded out loud, “OK.”
About one week later, I received a telephone call. It was the manager from the first store. He said that some of their young cashiers had been stealing money from the registers and that he had fired them. He asked me if I would like to come work for him, adding that I would only have to work on Sundays if there was an emergency. I worked at that store for about one year and only worked one Sunday.
When I began my job search, I decided I would simply have to find a position that did not require Sunday work. I know now that the Lord had a hand in helping me find that job. I have a sure testimony, just as Nephi, that “the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save he shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which he commandeth them” (1 Nephi 3:7).

When the car horn honked, Ricky jumped to his feet, grabbed his sleeping bag and his pillow, banged the front door open, and ran outside. “Bye, Mom. See you tomorrow,” he called without even looking back.
Mrs. Oglethorpe’s green station wagon sat in the driveway. Steve pushed the back door open for Ricky. “Hey, Ricky!” Steve greeted him.
Ricky had always admired Steve, who was a year older and the best athlete in their school. Although they lived on the same street, they had not been good friends until this year, when they both played for the Dodgers. All spring and summer they’d practiced together, and Steve taught Ricky how to pitch. Steve was a great pitcher. Besides having a sharp-breaking curve and a sinker, he could throw the ball so hard that it would almost knock your glove off. All of Ricky’s pitches looked the same—slow balls.
“Hi, Stever! Hello, Mrs. O,” Ricky said as he climbed into the station wagon. “Oglethorpe” always seemed to get mixed up in his mouth and never came out right.
“Hi, Ricky. All ready?” Mrs. Oglethorpe asked.
“You bet!”
As Mrs. Oglethorpe was backing the station wagon out of the driveway, Ricky’s mom hurried out of the house. “Ricky!”
She caught up with the car, and asked, smiling at Ricky, “Didn’t you forget something?” “Something very important?” She held out Ricky’s baseball glove.
“Oh, wow! How’d I forget that?” “Thanks.”
“Don’t forget your promise, Ricky,” Mom said. “In bed and asleep by ten o’clock. No later.”
“OK. I will.”
“Remember what Dad said. ‘You don’t want to be tired for the big game tomorrow.’”
The Dodgers were in first place, and tomorrow’s game against the Giants was the last game of the season. If they won, they’d stay in first place, and with Steve pitching, they should win easily.
Because Steve’s family was leaving on vacation right after the game, Brad had decided to have a sleepover party tonight to celebrate the last game. It wasn’t a big party—just Brad, Steve, Jason, and Ricky.
The boys played catch in the backyard while Brad’s dad grilled hamburgers. The delicious-smelling barbeque smoke floated through the hot, summer-evening air. Even baseball couldn’t keep the boys’ minds off the sizzling hamburgers and the food on the picnic table. Everyone laughed as Brad grabbed his stomach and rolled on the ground, moaning about how hungry he was. Then Jason, who was getting a drink from the hose, decided to cool off Brad, Steve, and Ricky, and soon a water fight was going. It ended abruptly when Brad’s dad got soaked. It felt so good to be cool, though, that the boys didn’t mind the soggy hamburger buns and the limp chips. The coleslaw, pickles, corn on the cob, and lemonade tasted great too. Then there was watermelon—complete with a seed-spitting contest—and brownies and vanilla ice cream for dessert.
When it got dark outside, the boys went inside and started a game of Monopoly but didn’t finish it. Then they played video games for a little while. Mostly they talked baseball.
They were still talking baseball as they laid out their sleeping bags in front of the TV. Brad brought in a huge bowlful of popcorn and put a movie into the video recorder. That was when Ricky looked at the clock on the video recorder—9:59. Hey, he thought, how’d it get to be so late so early? There’s a movie and lots more fun coming. It just can’t stop now!
Ricky heard a grandfather clock chiming in another part of the house. Ten bongs. Rats! I wish I hadn’t promised to be in bed by ten. He looked at Brad and asked hesitantly, “Don’t you think it’s kind of late to start a movie?”
“Nah,” Brad replied. “Not for a sleepover party. I’ve stayed up lots later than this before.”
“But we have a game in the morning,” Ricky said, “and we can’t be tired.”
“That game’s no sweat,” Jason said. “We beat ‘em before when Steve pitched.”
“Well, I don’t know about you guys, but I’m going to bed.” Ricky changed into his pajamas, climbed into his sleeping bag, and fluffed up his pillow.
“Come on, Ricky. This is a great movie. It’ll scare your socks off,” Brad said.
Ricky sighed, casting a longing look at the popcorn and the VCR, but said, “No. I’m going to sleep. Good night, guys.”
Jason threw his pillow at Ricky. “Hey, how come you’re such a party pooper?”
“He promised his mom and dad that he’d be in bed by ten,” Steve said as he got out a big bag of candy.
“Ricky, they’ll never know what time you went to bed if you don’t tell them,” Jason said.
“Yeah,” Brad urged. “We won’t squeal on you.”
“Let him alone, you guys,” Steve said. “Have some candy.”
Brad got up. “Let’s go find some more stuff to eat before we start the movie.”
Ricky rolled over, away from the glare of the TV. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. He thought it would be hard to fall asleep, but it was easy. He never even heard the rustling of cookie and candy wrappers, the opening of pop bottles, the joking and giggling, and the scary movie music.
The next day was a perfect day for baseball. The sun shone brightly on the green grass and tan dirt of the diamond.
Steve had pitched only part of the first inning before his stomachache had gotten so bad that he’d had to leave the game. Now it was the last inning. The Dodgers were ahead, 5–3, but the Giants had one more chance to bat. Jason was pitching. He walked the first four Giants, so the score became 5–4, the bases were still loaded, and there was still nobody out.
The coach walked out to the pitching mound and talked to Jason, then looked around at the other players. His eyes stopped on Ricky. He waved at Ricky, calling him in.
“Just throw strikes, Ricky,” the coach said, handing him the ball. “You’re playing well today. I know you can do it.”
Ricky threw some warm-up pitches, and the umpire asked if he was ready. Ricky nodded. The batter stepped up. Ricky looked around at his teammates and checked the runners. If he walked a single batter, the game would be tied. If two runners got in, the game would be over, and the Giants would win. Ricky looked in at the batter. The kid was grinning.
Ricky paused and said a silent prayer. Then he wound up and threw the baseball hard.
“Outside and low—ball one!” the umpire yelled.
Ricky tried another fastball.
“High! Ball two!”
The next pitch hit the dirt in front of the batter.
“Ball three!”
Ricky kicked at the dirt and looked in at the batter, who was grinning bigger than ever. Ricky could hear the Giants cheering. He thought of the times he and Steve had worked together on pitching. Steve had told him not to worry about the batter. Just think about the target. Get the ball into the catcher’s mitt.
Ricky looked at the catcher and his mitt. Then he wound up and threw.
“Steee-rike!”
Ricky threw another strike. The batter just watched it, expecting to stand there and be walked.
Ricky pitched again.
“Strike three! You’re out,” the umpire yelled.
The Dodger fans cheered, and Ricky heard Brad behind him yell, “Come on, Ricky! You can do it!”
The next batter swung at the first pitch and missed. He wasn’t going to just stand there. Ricky pitched again, and the batter hit it—right back to Ricky. Ricky grabbed the ball and threw it to the catcher for the force-out at the plate.
Two outs. But the bases were still loaded, and the Giants’ best hitter, Jay Cottrel, was coming up to bat. Jay was big. And he was swinging the bat like he was ready to hit the ball over the fence.
Ricky thought of the catcher’s mitt and pitched.
Crack! The ball sailed through the air.
“Foul ball!” shouted the umpire. “Strike one.”
The Giant fans yelled for Jay. The Dodger fans yelled for Ricky.
Ricky rolled the ball around in his glove. He couldn’t pitch fast enough to get the ball past Jay the way Steve could. Jay was going to hit it. No doubt about it. So don’t let him get a good hit, Ricky thought. Steve had taught him how to put spin on the ball, so Ricky grasped it on the seams the way Steve had showed him.
Ricky took a deep breath. Everyone else was standing and yelling with excitement.
Ricky wound up. He threw the ball, spinning it off his fingers.
Jay swung. The bat cracked against the ball. But the ball went straight up in the air. Ricky called for it and moved under it. Down it came—down, down and smacked into Ricky’s glove. The Giants were out! The Dodgers had won!
All the other Dodgers ran over to Ricky, patting him on the back and giving him high-fives.
“Ricky, you’re a hero!” Jason yelled.
Ricky looked over at his mom and dad in the stands. They were yelling and cheering with the other parents of the Dodgers. He couldn’t help smiling at them. He knew how proud they were of him, and he was glad to know that they could be proud of him even for things that they didn’t know about—like how he kept his promise to them at the sleepover. They might never know that he’d kept that promise. But Ricky would know. And that was even more important.

Let’s start the final lap of our run together today as I share two more examples that bring this all together.

This experience about fighting the good fight and finishing the race is tender to me. A couple of years after we moved to Hawaii, I got a new best friend — Lausi’i Tafua, Jr. The Tafua family was in our ward, and I had worked with Junior in the Young Men’s program. One day, out of the blue, I got a call from his wife Diane. She explained that the TV show “Wheel of Fortune” would soon be filming in Honolulu for what was called “Best Friends Week.” Instead of one person spinning the wheel and guessing the phrases, teams of best friends would be competing. Diane said she wanted Junior to be on the show, and Junior said he’d only do it if they could think of someone who would be good at the game, so she asked if I would be Junior’s best friend and audition for the show.

We didn’t make it past the second tryout round, but over the years our families have joked about our “bestie” relationship. Shortly after that TV tryout, Junior found out he had cancer. Over the next several months, he fought a horrible fight, riding the knife’s edge of killing the cancer without killing his body. Through perseverance and faith, with loving support from family and friends, he completed that course, with the cancer going into remission.

Fast forward several years, and in 2012 Junior faced another fight. The cancer was back. With a daughter Nalia leaving soon on a mission, another daughter Maila headed for college, and his only son Mika just a couple of years away from receiving the Melchizedek Priesthood, Junior was faced with another decision. Should he choose to fight again? The prognosis, even with radiation and chemotherapy, wasn’t promising, but Diane and his family wanted him to persevere.

As the months passed, though, Diane saw what Junior was going through—his pain and suffering, his strong body wasting away from the battle. She struggled with her feelings—she hated seeing her eternal companion in such agony, but weren’t her desires righteous? Adding to the stress of taking care of her husband and her family, Diane wondered whether this was a fight worth fighting.

Ultimately, through some very special experiences, Diane came to know that Junior’s fight should come to an end. Once she received that confirmation, both she and Junior felt the peace that comes from submitting to the Lord’s will, even though it’s not the course we might have designed for ourselves. On February 10, 2014, Junior’s fight was over, and he finished his course. Free from the pain of his mortal experience, I believe he now watches over his family while they run their own races—part of an unseen support team we often take for granted.

As he approached the end, I had a good final visit with Junior. We laughed once more about almost being famous TV buddies and other precious moments. But I also remember his looking straight into my eyes and saying, “I’m at peace. I’m ready to go home. I want to see you in Heaven when it’s your turn, so you’d better be good.” Junior’s example and his admonition has had a profound impact on my life. I decided I needed to run my own race a little better because I want to be with him, my best friend, when my course is finished.

I soon met Susan, my eternal sweetheart. I taught, baptized, and married her in 1975, and we were sealed in the Salt Lake Temple in 1976. We had three children and became involved in various Church callings. I was also very involved in our family business. I often thought about the Bautista family and how they were doing, but I didn’t know of any way to contact them.
Then one special day in 1997, I received a letter from a Mrs. Avelia Wijtenberg, postmarked from Mackay, Queensland, Australia! I didn’t know any such person there, but when I read the letter, I learned that Romeo’s sister Avelia had met and married a Dutch-Australian man and had been living in Queensland for some years. She had found my old mailing address in her notebook one day while doing some spring cleaning.
Avelia and I began a letter-writing campaign, eager to know about what had happened to each other over the past several decades. She was also able to give me a mailing address for Romeo, who had moved to Tiwi, in the southern part of Luzon Island in the Philippines.
That year, as Romeo and I wrote back and forth, after 24 years of no contact, our old relationship was rekindled. Romeo said that he and Naty now had five children. Naty and the rest of the family had been baptized in the years after I returned home. Their eldest, Ruth, had served a mission in the Philippines Davao Mission, and the second and third daughters, Namie and Joan, were serving missions in northern Luzon and Guam, respectively. They had a fourth daughter, Lyn, who later served in the Philippines Baguio Mission, and finally, a son, John, who later served in the Philippines Cagayan de Oro Mission.
My wife and I requested the addresses of Namie and Joan and wrote to them on their missions. We had never met them and didn’t know them at all but felt such an instant bond that is difficult to describe in words. It was almost as though they were our own daughters! Through our letters, we rekindled a love for the Bautista family and especially for Namie and Joan—who were full of the Spirit, working hard as full-time missionaries. In a letter, Namie asked if she could telephone us on Christmas Day, as her parents didn’t have a telephone at the time. With the approval of her mission president, she called on Christmas Day in 1997, and we both just cried for several minutes. I then reminded her that an international long-distance collect call was too expensive to waste just crying to each other. We laughed and had a wonderful conversation, even with her limited English skills. She invited us to come to the Philippines the following summer for her homecoming talk.
In the summer of 1998, as Namie returned home from her mission, I made plans with my 16-year-old daughter to go to the Philippines. We arrived in Manila and met with Ruth. We attended the Manila Philippines Temple together. Then we flew south to her family’s home in Tiwi. It’s impossible to describe the joy of seeing Romeo and his family again. The deep bond of brotherhood was instantly renewed. We talked and hugged and reminisced; we ate together and read scriptures with his family each night we were there. They were such strong rocks of testimony in their small branch. We attended sacrament meeting in the Tiwi Branch and listened to Namie report on her mission. It was amazing. It was nearly celestial. Truly this was missionary heaven.
At that time, Romeo was serving as the branch president of the Tiwi Branch. He had been instrumental in bringing the gospel to his extended family in northern Luzon. Romeo took his family to the temple, where Naty and their children were sealed. Now all five of the children have been married and sealed in the Manila Temple. Several married returned missionaries. Joan was instrumental in converting her boyfriend. She waited with him for a year after his baptism and then married him in the Manila Temple. Naty died suddenly in 2007, but the family remained strongly rooted in the gospel. They are thankful for the sealing covenant and know they will see their beautiful wife and mother again if they are faithful.
Now there are more than 70 members of the Bautista family who are active in the Church. The family and extended family have accounted for 17 full-time missions and 14 temple marriages. Family members have also served as bishops and branch presidents; stake and district presidents; and Relief Society, Young Women, and Primary presidents and counselors! Romeo’s son, John, was a bishop in the Quezon City area. Ruth’s husband was a high councilor in that same stake. Lyn’s husband was also a branch president in Tiwi. The Bautista family surely is building a strong legacy of service and strength in the Philippines.
My wife and I served a senior mission in the Philippines San Pablo Mission from 2008 to 2010. One day at the temple in Manila, most of the Bautista family gathered for the marriage of John Bautista (Romeo’s son) to Sister Victorino, one of the sister missionaries from our San Pablo Mission who had completed her mission and recently returned home.
Our mission president asked if we would like to attend that joyous event, and we immediately made plans to be there. My wife knew of my relationship with the Bautista family but was completely blown away by how many family members there were and how much they loved her. She had 70 new friends for life.
I often think of Doctrine and Covenants 18:15: “And if it so be that you should labor all your days in crying repentance unto this people, and bring, save it be one soul unto me, how great shall be your joy with him in the kingdom of my Father!” Like a ripple in a pond, the influence of one soul, Romeo, has sent out waves of strong testimonies and Church service in the Philippines.
I was fortunate to help toss the pebble into the pond four decades ago with the baptisms of Romeo and Avelia. I have experienced unspeakable joy in my relationship with this great family, now into their third generation of gospel living. This is truly the ongoing legacy and joy of missionary work. This is a little bit of missionary heaven!

When I was nine years old, I committed a crime. I made a decision to steal a comic book from a store. The owner did not catch me stealing, but at home my parents were suspicious, knowing that I had no money to buy the comic book. Once my mother got the truth from me, she took me back to the store, where I confessed my guilt to the owner. He let me decide how to make full restitution and how I was going to go about learning not to steal again.
The store’s floor was made of hardwood, and each evening the owner would throw sawdust down and sweep it to get up all of the dust and dirt that accumulated during the day. That job was assigned to me. I was sure that I would only have to do it for a few days. As I came into the store each afternoon after school to do my sweeping, the proprietor would nod his greeting and motion toward the broom and cardboard box of sawdust in the back. It was weeks before he told me one night that he thought I had swept long enough.
I tell you this particular story, not to relive the sin, but to point out that it is the sweeping and the price I had to pay that I remember vividly. I still have the memory of taking the comic book, but the feelings of guilt, heartsickness, distress, and deep sorrow are long gone because I was helped to repent. I remember those long hours of sweeping now to remind me of the price of stealing. That encourages me not to be dishonest again.

We had the opportunity to meet President and Sister Richard W. Winder. He is the first mission president in Czechoslovakia since before World War II. My sister was very curious about President and Sister Winder, the life they had left behind in Salt Lake City to fulfill their mission assignment, their unpretentious way of living in Czechoslovakia, and the love they showed for the people. She felt of their spirit, and cried.

Five days before I was due to leave Czechoslovakia for home, President Winder informed me that President Gordon B. Hinckley of the First Presidency would be visiting Czechoslovakia and holding a meeting in Brno, 160 kilometers from Prague. President Winder asked if I would attend the meeting and act as an interpreter for President Hinckley. I accepted, and with Ilona, I drove to Brno.

That meeting was a highlight of my visit. With President was Sister Hinckley, and President Hans B. Ringger, president of the Europe Area, with Sister Ringger, President and Sister Winder, and my brothers and sisters in the gospel. President Hinckley understood how nervous I was, acting as his interpreter and translating Church terminology into Czech, and he was very considerate. It was a very spiritual experience for us all. My sister didn’t take her eyes off of him, and her face shone at me from the congregation.

Since my visit, I have learned that the gospel seeds I planted have started to bear fruit. My niece, Olga, has been baptized, and she is now living with a family in London, England. She wrote to me: “When you visited with us, I heard you share your testimony of the gospel, and although I didn’t completely understand what you meant, I wanted to know more. Now, as a member of the Church, I know. I feel as though I have grown in wisdom beyond my years. Life makes sense to me, and for the first time I know what to do.”

In returning to Czechoslovakia, I found my family and friends—roots that I thought were lost. And I have come to realize that the basic desire for truth is never dead. I am sure that the gospel will spread in Czechoslovakia and that the Czech and the Slovak Saints will take their rightful place in the worldwide family of the Church.

In Tullahoma, Branden talks with two fellow Eagle Scouts, Joseph Jackson and James Ferguson. They’re close friends who all got their Eagles within months of each other. Joseph built picnic tables for a senior citizen center. With proper approval, he upgraded speed bumps in the road outside the center and installed and painted concrete parking barriers to help with traffic flow. But the highlight, he says, was meeting with those who use the center and hearing them say thanks for what he’d done. “Now I drive by and see them seated at the tables,” Joseph says. “I know the people, and I see how I helped them. I know it’s the kind of thing I’d like somebody to do for me.”

When I was taking a bath one morning I could see what I thought was a bar of soap on a shelf high above me. I reached up to grab it. Suddenly I had a strong feeling that I should not pick it up. I said to myself, “Who knows what could be up there?”
When I stood up to see what was on the shelf, I discovered that the blue and red object I had seen was not my soap but a razor. If I had grabbed it, I could have cut my hand on the sharp edge. The Holy Ghost warned me, and because I listened I wasn’t hurt.Christina G., age 8, Missouri

Illustration by Allen Garns
One Christmas years ago I had too much on my mind to savor the season. My husband, Andy, had developed a cough that, following medical tests, briskly evolved into lung damage, surgery, reconstruction of his esophagus, and biopsies—“just to be safe.” His surgery occurred a week before we moved to a new home.
A few weeks before Christmas, I visited with my neighbor Janae. She asked if I was ready for Christmas. I managed to reply that I was as ready as I would be. I mentioned that we’d always made Christmas cookies with my grandma just before Christmas, and that I’d wanted to make aprons for the girls but probably wouldn’t get around to it.
A week later I settled in the overstuffed chair beside our Christmas tree. The girls were in bed, and Andy was working in his office when I heard the doorbell. I opened the door to find Janae on my doorstep, holding three packages as snowflakes fell behind her.
“Come in,” I said, certain that she could sense my surprise.
“Thanks, but I need to get back,” she said. “These are for your girls.”
Janae handed me the packages.
“They’re aprons,” she said. “They’re not the best, but I was able to finish them tonight.”
In a moment of humbled astonishment, I breathed a thank-you. We hugged, and I watched her make her way home.
As I sat again in my chair, I carefully unfastened the white satin ribbon of one box. Upon opening it, I found a homemade apron fashioned from Christmas fabric. I ran a seam between my thumb and forefinger as I thought about Janae. She had four small children, including twins who were just over a year old. She taught piano, and she held a busy and important calling in our ward.
I tried to figure out when she would have had time to make aprons, and I knew at once that she didn’t have time. She made time.
Tears fell as I felt the love of Heavenly Father extended through Janae—a measure of warmth and comfort as I was encircled about “in the arms of [His] love” (D&C 6:20).
It has been many years since we received the aprons. My daughters have long since outgrown them, but I keep them in my pantry, hanging by their strings from a polished hook underneath newer ones. Each time I see Janae’s gifts, I’m reminded of the comfort and love I felt that night. They remind me of what I want to be—a disciple of Jesus Christ worthy of revelation and willing to give service.

Andy Taylor had a problem. And he was worrying about it so much that he hardly noticed anything else going on around him. He didn’t even hear the click-clacking music of his skateboard wheels as he rolled along toward Mr. Weber’s house.
The problem had started right after his baptism. “Now remember, Andrew,” Sister Thomas had said, “every member of the Church should be a missionary. And that’s what you are now—a real member.”
Even though he had always felt like a member, Andy knew now that he really was a member. Still, he’d asked Sister Thomas if even Primary kids were supposed to be missionaries, and she’d said “Yes, even Primary kids.”
When he got home, Andy asked his father the same question and got the same answer. That’s why he was going to see Mr. Weber. Maybe Mr. Weber can help me, he thought. He’s a great thinker.
Andy screeched his skateboard to a stop in front of Mr. Weber’s house, opened the door, and walked in. “Mr. Weber,” he called. “It’s me, Andy Taylor.”
Several months ago, shortly before Andy’s eighth birthday, Mr. Weber had been injured in a terrible automobile accident. He couldn’t walk or talk or do anything now except lie in his bed. He even had a full-time nurse to help take care of him.
Andy had started coming to see Mr. Weber every day after school, just for short visits, to keep him company. At first the visits had been hard for Andy because he had had to do all the talking. Then one day Andy discovered that Mr. Weber could sort of talk to him by blinking his eyes—one blink for “yes” and two blinks for “no.” After that they talked about everything. Well, Andy did all the real talking, and Mr. Weber did all the blinking, but it was almost like they were both talking out loud.
It was because he and Andy had become such special friends that Andy was allowed to walk into Mr. Weber’s house whenever he wanted. And now Andy just had to talk to his friend about his problem. “Hi, Mr. Weber,” Andy said as he seated himself on a stool by the side of the bed. He always sat close enough to clearly see Mr. Weber’s eyes. “Did you get a lot of rest today?”
Mr. Weber blinked his eyes once for “Yes.”
“Great! I have a really big problem that I want to talk over with you. Is that OK?”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked.
So Andy explained about his baptism, about how he was now a real member of the Church, and about how every member of the Church should be a missionary. “But how can I be a missionary when I’m only eight years old?” Andy asked. “Maybe only grownup members are meant to be missionaries. Is that right, Mr. Weber?”
“No,” Mr. Weber blinked.
“You mean kids should be missionaries, too?” Andy asked.
“Yes.”
“That’s what Sister Thomas, my Primary teacher, said, and my father agrees with her. But being a missionary kind of scares me. You see, I don’t know how to be a missionary.”
Mr. Weber blinked once. “Yes.”
“Yes?” Andy repeated, surprised. “I do know how to be a missionary?”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked.
“But I don’t knock on doors like real missionaries do.”
“No,” Mr. Weber blinked twice.
“And I’ve never read to you from the Bible or the Book of Mormon.”
“No,” Mr. Weber answered.
“Boy, am I lost.” Andy tried to think of anything that he might have done that would make Mr. Weber think of him as a missionary, but Andy’s mind was as empty as the time he had flunked a spelling test. He just sat there and couldn’t think of a thing.
Andy glanced up and saw that Mr. Weber’s eyes were closed. It was his way of telling Andy that he wasn’t talking enough. If Andy didn’t talk, Mr. Weber couldn’t blink.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Weber. I know you want to talk, but I’m stumped. How can I be a missionary?”
Mr. Weber’s eyes glanced quickly from one side of the room to the other, then he stared really hard at Andy. Deliberately he did the same thing again.
Let’s see, Andy thought. By first looking at his room and then at me, he’s trying to tell me something. “You want me to figure out some connection between your room and me?”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked.
Andy got excited, knowing that he was close to the answer. “Let’s see. Your room and me, and we’re talking about me being a missionary. Am I being a missionary by visiting you in your room?”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked again.
Andy was pleased with his lucky guess. Suddenly he remembered pictures he had seen of pioneers throwing seeds from sacks slung over their shoulders. “I remember something from a Primary lesson,” Andy said. “Farmers plant seeds that grow. And when I’m good and do good things, maybe I’m planting ‘missionary seeds.’”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked, and his eyes were really shining now. That meant that Andy had it right.
“So even though I’m only eight years old and I don’t knock on doors like real missionaries do, I can still be a missionary by setting a good example and by being kind and thoughtful. And visiting you is one way that I do good—is that it, Mr. Weber?”
“Yes,” Mr. Weber blinked.
“Wahoo!” Andy yelled. “That’s it! I can be a missionary by helping those around me. I’m going to help Mrs. Gandey in her garden and Mr. Thompson with his lawn. And I’m going to keep visiting you. Thanks, Mr. Weber.” Andy jumped down from the stool and added, “I’m glad that we had this talk. I’m going to be the best missionary that you ever saw!”
“And thank you, Andy Taylor,” Mr. Weber’s eyes seemed to twinkle back. “I’m glad that we had this talk too.”

Our guinea pig was Christy. When Christy was two years old, a little girl in our town was kidnapped. Trying to be wise parents, we spent a lot of time role-playing with Christy what she should do if approached by a stranger. We even showed her pictures of the kidnapped girl and reminded Christy what had happened in the case.

Our efforts had mixed results. Christy was never kidnapped, but she was also unable to sleep alone for three months.