Gospel Story Finder

“A 14-year-old boy recently said to me a little hesitantly, ‘Brother Holland, I can’t say yet that I know the Church is true, but I believe it is.’ I hugged that boy until his eyes bulged out. I told him with all the fervor of my soul that belief is a precious word, an even more precious act, and he need never apologize for ‘only believing.’ I told him that Christ Himself said, ‘Be not afraid, only believe’ [Mark 5:36], a phrase which, by the way, carried young Gordon B. Hinckley into the mission field. I told this boy that belief was always the first step toward conviction and that the definitive articles of our collective faith forcefully reiterate the phrase ‘We believe.’ And I told him how very proud I was of him for the honesty of his quest.”

One night Braden was sitting in his bedroom playing a game. He thought he heard someone crying, but who could that be? Braden kept playing with his game. Then he heard the crying again. Something told him that he should go downstairs, and that maybe he could help. He got up and went downstairs.
His mom was sitting on the sofa, crying. What would make his mother feel better? He began cleaning up the living room. Then he put some ice in a cup for her. She was expecting a baby and liked ice.
His mother hugged him. She told him that she was feeling sick and lonely because Dad was out of town on business. She had asked Heavenly Father to please send someone to help her. Braden told her about the feeling that he should come downstairs. His mother told him that the feeling was the Holy Ghost, and that by following the Holy Ghost he had been an answer to her prayer.

I hope I may be pardoned for repeating a story I heard the other day in Lausanne, Switzerland. That was a sacred occasion, and I view this as a sacred occasion.
More than sixty years ago, a small boy on an Idaho farm went with his father to the field. While the father worked through the day, the boy amused himself with one thing and another. Over the fence were some old farm buildings derelict and tumbled down. The boy with imagination saw in them castles to be entered. He climbed through the fence and approached the buildings to begin his exploration. As he drew near, a voice was heard to say, “Harold, don’t go over there.” He looked to see if his father was around. He was not. But the boy heeded the warning. He turned and ran. He never knew what danger might have been lurking there, nor did he question. Having listened and heard, he obeyed.
That boy today presides over The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Through the years he has listened, and the Lord has magnified and protected and guided him by the whisperings of his Holy Spirit.

Elder Backman remembers with joy an experience he had while president of the Northwestern States Mission. “I invited my dad and mother to come up to visit us, and we took them to a district conference in the Bend District of Oregon. I asked my parents to sit beside us on the stand during the general session on Sunday morning. I asked dad to stand up and bear his testimony. He stood up there at the pulpit with tears in his eyes and said, ‘I know now to a greater degree how our Father in Heaven must have felt when he said, ‘This is my Beloved Son in whom I am well pleased.’ I just sat there and cried like a baby.”

This 74-year-old sister is joy personified. Having been a member for 30 years, she remembers Decembers in a very special way. She recounts: “On Christmas Eve, we make a dinner within our means. I take care of the soup, my daughter, Arlene, makes the salad, and so on. We invite the neighbors, who also bring food. We set up tables and chairs in my daughter’s garden and sit together for dinner. It is very comforting to share how little or how much you have with others.

There are those who are ready now, but there are not enough. I know of one lovely woman who is ready. She had been injured in the accident which took her husband’s life, leaving her a widow for the second time in her young life. She had not fully recovered from the mishap and had a family of young children to raise. Yet she paid tithing on the insurance settlement for her husband’s death. The clerk said to the bishop, “Sister So-and-so needs this money much more than the Church does. Don’t you think we should return it?”

The bishop asked me. I answered his question with a question: “What does Sister So-and-so need more than the blessings that come from paying tithing?” Imagine how the Lord will open the windows of heaven for this young mother because of her faith and devotion.

During the past four years, an enthusiastic program for prospective missionaries in the Fruitland Ward, Weiser Idaho Stake, has been established. The fruits of the program: nine out of ten boys in each group have served or will soon serve missions for the Church.
One particularly rewarding aspect of the program has been the fund-raising projects the young men have participated in to earn money for their missions. They’ve completed all sorts of projects, like cutting down an old orchard, removing the stumps, and then cutting and hauling the wood, which they then sold for firewood. They’ve hauled hay for local farmers; have propped up heavy-laden apple trees during harvest time and have then stacked the props at the end of the season; and have ordered bedding plants in the spring and sold them door to door. For another project they traveled to Portland, Oregon, to cut trees for Christmas (after obtaining a permit) and then brought them home to sell.
Each year the priests quorum has sponsored a ward talent show, asking a small donation for admittance. This has grown into an evening that the entire ward looks forward to. It’s planned, publicized, and emceed entirely by the young men, using ward talent as well as special numbers from the young men themselves.
The projects have been fun—and have helped start quite a few missionaries on their way, too!

“A long time before your grandma was born, one of her grandmother’s grandmothers lived in England. Her name was Elizabeth, and her husband died, leaving her with five children to care for. When the missionaries taught her the gospel, she knew that it was true and was baptized. In those days, new members of the Church left their homes to join the Saints in Utah. So Grandma Elizabeth gathered her children and a few possessions and boarded a boat for America. Just before the boat sailed, her brothers came alongside in a rowboat. They yelled up at her, ‘How can you take your children into that desolate wilderness? They may die! If you give up this foolish idea and stay with us, we will pay for your children’s education. They’ll have a good life here!’ But Grandma said no. She wanted to raise her children among the Saints, and she believed that they’d be safe. Do you know why?”
Katherine shook her head.
“Grandma had been given a special blessing before she left England. In it, Heavenly Father promised that if she lived righteously, all her children would reach Utah safely. Grandma faithfully kept her promise by keeping the commandments, and she believed that Heavenly Father would keep His promise.”
“Did He?” Katherine asked eagerly.
“You’ll soon find out,” Mom said with a wink. “Grandma Elizabeth was too poor to buy horses or oxen to carry her across the plains. She and her children walked and pulled a handcart, instead. There were no bridges across rivers in those days, so when the pioneers came to a river, they had to wade or swim across.
“One day Grandma was carrying her six-year-old son on her shoulders as she crossed a river. This river was deep, and its powerful current pulled at her so hard that she began to lose her footing and slip downstream. The people on the riverbank saw her being washed away. They yelled for her to let go of her son and swim for her life. ‘You’ll never make it with him on your shoulders!’ they shouted. ‘Let him go and save yourself!’”
“She didn’t let him go, did she, Mom?”
“No, sweetheart, she didn’t. She remembered Heavenly Father’s promise that her children would reach Utah safely. She fought to keep her head above water as the river surged around her. Her son’s legs hung down over her shoulders, and she gripped them tightly as she thrashed her legs to try to reach the shore.
“There were branches growing from the riverbank that Grandma Elizabeth could have grabbed to pull herself in, but she would not let go of her son’s legs for an instant. She prayed for strength to hold on, and at last she came to a shallow area near the river’s edge. She waded to the riverbank and leaned against it, trembling with exhaustion. After men from the handcart company lifted her son off her shoulders from above, she crawled up after him.”
“Oh!” Katherine exclaimed, giving a little jump. “I liked that story!”
“It’s not over yet,” Mom laughed. “Right on the banks of that river, Grandma Elizabeth knelt and said a prayer. She thanked Heavenly Father for giving her the strength to help fulfill her blessing to keep her children safe.”

About two weeks before the rededication of the Washington D.C. Temple in August 2022, my boss and I noticed that one of the European hornbeam trees leading to the temple looked sick. It was sparse in the middle and had some scraggly branches.
As the temple groundskeeper, I was concerned that the beautiful temple grounds were ready except for that one little spot. The tree was next to the fountain near the entrance to the temple.
We had a healthy backup tree growing nearby, and we discussed the possibility of swapping out the healthy tree for the sick one. But first we would have to take up the nearby sidewalk and grass and then move the sprinkler and electrical lines running through the area. My worst fear was that we would pull out the sick tree, transplant the replacement tree, and not have time to make everything around the tree look good for the rededication.
When I told my wife, Carolyn, that we might have to move the tree, she replied: “Just trim off the scraggly branches, and I’ll get my scripture sisters across the country to pray for it. The temple grounds are the Lord’s. He’ll bless the tree.”
Carolyn has a group of friends she calls her scripture sisters—members of the Church who used to live in the same ward. They studied Come, Follow Me together until they all moved, but they keep in touch. When prayer is needed, they call on each other.
After Carolyn told them about the sick tree, they told their children and other family members. Carolyn had no idea how many prayed for the tree, but she had faith that Heavenly Father would hear their prayers.
Within only a few days, the tree sprouted new leaves, filling in the sparse area. “Of course it’s looking better,” Carolyn said. She sent pictures of the tree to her scripture sisters, telling them, “Look how the Lord answered us!”
I knew that people were praying for the tree, so I wasn’t surprised either. I also knew that President Russell M. Nelson would soon bless the temple and the temple grounds during his dedicatory prayer. The tree would be OK.
We were grateful the Lord had honored our offering and faith.

Watch-care was experienced by a sister who worked nights at a hospital. Her visiting teachers began coming each month to the hospital during her lunch hour, which was in the very, very early hours of the morning. She was amazed that they were willing to make such a sacrifice but greatly appreciated it.

M. Russell Ballard
(43) A family enjoys missionary success after taking to heart the challenge to hasten the work of salvation.

Johnny slowed his bike before turning into Mrs. Jones’s driveway. It was the day before Easter, and it was time for the neighborhood Easter egg hunt.
“I knew it,” he thought. “There’s Randy Mills. He’ll get the prize. He always does. I’ll have to listen to him brag for another year.”
“Hey, come on, slowpoke!” Randy yelled.
“I’m coming.”
Randy laughed. “Why are you frowning? Afraid you’ll get beat again?”
“Come line up, children,” Mrs. Jones called. “When I say, ‘Go,’ the smaller children will run to the backyard. When I say it again, the older children will follow.”
A few minutes into the hunt, Randy ran up to Johnny. “How many eggs have you found?”
“Nine.”
“Me too. Maybe we’ll tie for the prize.” He ran off to find more.
Johnny poked about here and there. He sure hoped to find another egg and beat Randy. He was looking under an already-searched bush when he heard a small sniff. A little girl was standing behind the bush crying. It was Laurie, Johnny’s neighbor.
“Hi, Laurie. Why are you crying?”
“I don’t have any eggs!” Laurie sobbed. “If I could find just one egg …” Laurie was much younger than most of the children, and she was crying as if her heart would break.
“Children, I believe all the eggs have been found. Let’s count up,” Mrs. Jones said.
“Now I’ll never find one.” Tears ran down Laurie’s face.
Johnny felt very bad for the little girl. As he looked at his full basket, an idea hit him. He quickly slipped his prettiest egg under the bush. “Laurie, did you look really well under here?”
“I think so.” She came around to his side of the bush, her eyes searching everywhere. Suddenly her face lit up. “Ooooh! Look at the pretty egg!”
Randy walked up and pounded Johnny on the back. “Well, we tied for first prize with nine eggs apiece.”
“I only have eight,” Johnny said quietly.
“I thought you said you had nine.”
“I made a mistake.”
“Wow! The prize is mine. Say, you’d better learn to count better, Johnny.” He laughed over his shoulder.
Johnny watched Randy claim the prize. He would have to listen to Randy brag for another year, but somehow it didn’t matter anymore. He smiled, remembering Laurie’s face as she found just one egg.

The Bridge Dancers Maisie’s mother has gone across the dangerous old footbridge to help a woman who’s about to have a baby. Maisie and her sister, Callie, have been forbidden to go on the bridge, and Maisie is grateful because she is afraid of it. But when Callie has an accident, Maisie must cross the bridge. You’ll have to read this slim paperback to see how she succeeds after turning back from the bridge in fear.Carol Saller8–11 years

As the Savior demonstrated with Herod, sometimes true disciples must show Christian courage by saying nothing at all. Once when I was golfing, I barely brushed up against a large cholla cactus, which seems to shoot needles like a porcupine. Thorns from that plant stuck all over my clothing, even though I had barely touched the cactus plant. Some situations are like that plant: they can only injure us. In such instances, we are better off to keep our distance and simply walk away. As we do, some may try to provoke us and engage us in argument. In the Book of Mormon, we read about Lehonti and his men camped upon a mount. The traitorous Amalickiah urged Lehonti to “come down” and meet him in the valley. But when Lehonti left the high ground, he was poisoned “by degrees” until he died, and his army fell into Amalickiah’s hands (see Alma 47). By arguments and accusations, some people bait us to leave the high ground. The high ground is where the light is. It’s where we see the first light of morning and the last light in the evening. It is the safe ground. It is true and where knowledge is. Sometimes others want us to come down off the high ground and join them in a theological scrum in the mud. These few contentious individuals are set on picking religious fights, online or in person. We are always better staying on the higher ground of mutual respect and love.

Kadabe stopped in the middle of the path. “We’ve come a long way since dawn,” he said. “We’ll be in Lalibela by noon tomorrow.”
Ayalu squatted on the ground, took roasted grain from a small leather bag, and ate.
Kadabe put his bundle down and untied it. He emptied its contents onto the ground, then formed the shemma—the square of white cloth that had held his possessions—into a turban. He shoved his own bag of roasted grain into a pocket. His extra shirt became a handy carrier for the books that he was taking to his sister, Gemma.
The boys went to school almost a hundred kilometers from their mountain village in Ethiopia, and now they were walking home for the Christmas holidays. Tomorrow they would see their families for the first time since September.
“I pray that there will be many rich and generous tourists in Lalibela who will need guides this season,” said Kadabe, “and that they all speak English. I need money for books, and the seat of my pants is as thin as a butterfly wing. I must earn enough so that Uncle Gebre can make me new ones.”
Ayalu nodded. He, too, had to earn the money for his own books and clothing. “I hope to herd Uncle Asabe’s cows,” he said. “He will pay me what he can. It’s good that you’ve learned English so well. You’ll make a good guide.”
After their rest the friends walked on. By nightfall they had reached a village where Ayalu’s aunt lived. She gave them food and a place to sleep.
Early the next morning they started out again. They conquered the kilometers one by one. The sun was high overhead as they climbed the last steep path and looked down upon their village.
Kadabe shouted, “Hello! Hello!”
Gemma was jumping rope in front of the house. “Kadabe! Kadabe!” she called as she ran. “Mother said that you would be here today.”
Kadabe hurried to greet his father at his loom behind the house. He was weaving another shemma to sell at the Thursday market.
“I like school,” Kadabe told his mother later, “but I also like coming home.” He sat on the low stone bench that ran along the wall outside the house. Gemma sat down beside him.
Mother was resting lightly on her heels before the red coals. She poured injera (a kind of bread) batter onto the hot griddle so that it would be ready for the family’s dinner.
“Did you learn more English words to teach me?” Gemma asked.
“Yes, many more,” Kadabe told her, “and I’ve brought more books for you.”
Gemma jumped up. “Please let me have them now! Please! I want to look at the pictures!”
Just then Ayalu appeared, breathless from running. “Kadabe, come quickly! There are English-speaking tourists in the marketplace, and they need a guide!”
Early that afternoon Kadabe picked up the heavy cameras and bags of the tourists and led them to the first stop, Biet Giorgig, an ancient church carved in the shape of a cross from solid rock.
The Englishmen asked many questions about the village as the group went from place to place, and Kadabe was prepared with answers that he’d learned at school. He told the men about King Lalibela, who had made this village his capital during the thirteenth century.
They thanked Kadabe for his stories, and they said that he spoke English very well. When they left, they gave him five dollars. “Good!” Kadabe said. “Now Uncle Gebre can make me some pants for school.”
But when Kadabe turned toward Uncle Gebre’s, he spotted the camera. He remembered setting it on the steps while he handed the other bags to the tourists. Now the jeep that carried the Englishmen was gone, and the camera was still here!
What can I do? Kadabe asked himself.
Ayalu found Kadabe, still on the steps, his forehead lined with hard thinking.
“Look,” Ayalu said. “I have a soccer ball. Let’s go over to the grass field and start a game.”
Kadabe held up the camera. Ayalu took it and hefted it. “It is not a worthless object,” he said.
“No. Its owner was proud of it,” Kadabe answered.
“Unless the man comes back for it, it is justly yours,” said Ayalu. “Money from its sale would buy many books.”
Kadabe thought about that for a minute, then shook his head.
“But what else can you do? You don’t know where the tourists have gone, do you?”
Kadabe jumped up. “I think I do know,” he said. “I heard them say that they would go to the market at Gondar on Thursday.”
“Thursday’s tomorrow,” Ayalu said. “You’d have to walk all night to reach Gondar by tomorrow.”
Kadabe didn’t want to walk to Gondar, especially at night. There were jackals and hyenas roaming around the hills. The paths were rough and indistinct, and it would be dark. He felt cold just thinking about it.
Kadabe passed the camera strap over his head. At home he went to the back to talk to his father, but he wasn’t there.
“He’s gone to bid on some cotton,” said Mother. “I don’t think that he’ll return until late tonight.”
“Mother,” Kadabe said, “I have a camera that belongs to one of the English tourists.”
Mother nodded.
“They have gone to the Gondar market,” continued Kadabe. “I think that I should take this to him there.”
Mother nodded again.
“Do you think that I should?” Kadabe wanted to know.
“You must decide for yourself,” Mother answered.
Ayalu waited with the soccer ball.
“Then I must do it,” Kadabe decided.
“You don’t have to,” Ayalu told him. “And it’s a dangerous journey.”
When Gemma heard that her brother was leaving, she pouted. “Soon you’ll return to school,” she said. “There won’t be any time for my lessons then.”
Mother quieted Gemma and handed Kadabe a bag of roasted grain and a water gourd. “Take care,” she said.
Kadabe left Lalibela as the day’s light faded to gray. “I can do it,” he told himself as he wrapped himself in his shemma. The camera was heavy on his neck.
It grew darker. Sounds from hidden sources made Kadabe’s heart race. His throat was dry, causing him to sip often from the gourd. Sometimes he stumbled on jagged boulders, and twice he fell. But he went on. Never have I wanted to sleep as much as I want to now, he thought as the first light finally showed in the east.
Just when he had decided that he’d left the path to Gondar somewhere behind him in the dark, he saw the smoke of the town.
The next day, just in time for the evening meal, Kadabe arrived back home.
Ayalu was waiting to see his friend. “Well, did the Englishman reward you for returning the camera?”
“No,” answered Kadabe, “he had already boarded the bus to leave, and I only had time to hand him the camera through the window.”
Ayalu shook his head. “You were foolish,” he said. “You walked to Gondar and back for nothing.”
“That’s right,” Gemma agreed. “You should have stayed at home to teach me.”
Kadabe looked at his mother.
She spoke softly. “Your brother has taught you something greater than the English words you want to know, Gemma. He has shown you that if you do not do what you know is right, knowledge is empty.”
As he looked down at his tired feet, Kadabe smiled in agreement.

It might be helpful for us to remember that every criminal and every weakling and every sinner has some great ideals and ambitions inside of him by which he judges himself. I once attended a meeting at the state penitentiary where expressions were made in a religious meeting by many of the inmates. Without exception they said, “Some of the best people in the world are in this penitentiary.” I am sure that in many ways that is the truth. Some people in the penitentiary are more sympathetic, more kind, and more humble than some of those on the outside may be. Some of them are so generous that they would give the shirt off their back to a friend in need. Some of them pray wonderful prayers and have fine testimonies of the truth. But they made a few little mistakes—like killing someone, or robbing a bank, or getting drunk at the wrong time, or taking a few liberties with righteousness. They were practicing going someplace that they did not want to be. We ought to remember that we ourselves frequently have some blind spots so that we don’t see ourselves as we actually are.

“I felt like Nephi [must have felt] before he knew the message of the Lord,” recalls Roberto Asioli, president of the Rimini Italy District. “I was doing the correct things in my personal life before I heard the gospel, but I lived in a tourist city where there are many amusements and discotheques, and it was not a very spiritual place.” In fact, Brother Asioli was working in a discotheque in 1981 when he first met the missionaries. He was a discouraged young man working through a very sad time in his life. His wife, Loretta, had just lost a baby and was in the hospital.

Roberto was home alone when the knock came at the door. “I looked out the window and saw the elders standing there. My spirits were so low—I just was not in the mood to listen to them, so I didn’t open the door.”

But at the same time the next evening, a knock came at his door again. “This time I opened the door and invited the missionaries to come in,” he recalls. “We started to talk, and I felt their spirit immediately. It was not difficult for me to receive their testimony—it was the right time for me to hear the gospel message.”

As Roberto learned more about the gospel, his greatest desire was to share his feelings with his wife and tell her of his wish to be baptized. Her reaction was not what he had hoped for—she was not interested, and she was not happy with his new-found religion. Disappointed, Roberto worried about accepting the gospel and being baptized without his wife. He prayed for Loretta to recognize the same spirit and happiness that he had found, and he considered postponing his baptism until she could share his feelings.

“When I spoke to the elders about my concern for my wife, they gave me a blessing with a promise from the Lord,” says Roberto. “They said, ‘If you will be baptized, you will show your faith to the Lord, and He will never leave you alone. You will convert your wife.’”

So Roberto continued to study the gospel. When the elders came to their home, Loretta would go into the kitchen and stay there until they left. “She was completely separated from me during this time,” says Roberto. “To me, it was very hard to consider joining the Church—thinking that she would always ‘stay in the kitchen’! It was very, very hard! But I remembered that the elders had told me, ‘The Lord will never leave you alone.’”

Twenty days after the elders knocked on his door, Roberto Asioli was baptized. He was one of the first members of the Church in Rimini. He knew that he was at a crossroads—he had to make some decisions. What should he do about his work in the disco? What could he do to share the joy of the gospel with his wife? He decided to quit his job at the disco and give all his energy to living the gospel as he should.

And Loretta watched. She watched as he started a new job, one that was not very secure. She watched as he lost that job and began his own business. She watched as he woke up early on very cold Sunday mornings and went to church on his motorbike, never trying to force her to accompany him. She watched as he studied his scriptures. And she watched as he prayed alone by his bedside each night.

And they talked. Their conversations at first were not about the Church or about the missionary lessons—they talked about their life, about their marriage. Loretta remembers, “I realized that the Church and the message of the gospel were very important to Roberto. I realized that I couldn’t stay indifferent to this—I am his wife! I had to learn more about the gospel, so I started reading the Book of Mormon.” Roberto baptized Loretta only two months after his own baptism.

Others were watching, also. When, at a family dinner, Roberto first refused the wine that was offered, Loretta’s father concluded, “He has really gone out of his mind!” But their families watched as Roberto and Loretta accepted a new and beautiful way of life. They saw that this new religion was not like fine clothes they wore only on Sundays—but one that they lived each day of their lives. They watched as they prayed together before meals.

“In the beginning, it was very hard to break the wall of prejudice with Loretta’s parents and with mine,” says Roberto, “but now they are happy that we are members of the Church.”

And someone else was watching from afar. “My brother was always watching what I was doing and what I was not doing,” recalls Roberto. “I never told him to leave his church and come to my church. I just cared for him and loved him. Eight years ago, I gave him a copy of the Book of Mormon, and I introduced him to the missionaries. Three years ago, I baptized him.”

Since the Asiolis joined the Church, their family has grown. They have three children: Matteo, 11; Alice, 7; and Thomas, born just last May. The Church has also grown during this time. When Roberto Asioli became the branch president 13 years ago, there were only 10 people in the Rimini Branch; there are now more than 90 members.

For three years—from April 1991 to April 1994—President Asioli presided over the original Florence District. In that assignment, he spent a great deal of time traveling to the 14 branches in his district, and he often made the two-hour trip over mountainous roads from Rimini to the district headquarters in Florence. In his present assignment, President Asioli continues to be an example to the Saints in the new Rimini Italy District. The time and effort required to fulfill his callings have not seemed to discourage President Asioli. “My work in the Church requires a lot of planning and organization, but I grow. What is easy is not the work of the Lord!”

Hundreds of members of the Church have been touched by the love and dedication shown by Roberto and Loretta Asioli, and yet perhaps many more have noticed their quiet example—and are watching.

My Grandma Jeri and I have been making fudge since I was a little girl. Because my grandparents live in Utah and we reside in Colorado, we didn’t visit them as often as we liked. When we did, my grandma always made time for us to cook up some delicious fudge.
When my grandparents got their mission call to Cambodia, I was so excited for them to be able to share the gospel, but I was also sad, because it meant that I wouldn’t see them for two years. Their farewell was a bittersweet moment, not only because they were leaving but also because I was munching on bittersweet chocolate fudge.
My grandparents had been gone about a year when my uncle, their youngest son, got engaged. My grandma got special permission to attend the wedding. Excitement ran through my body as I gave her a hug. It was so good to see her and the rest of my family.
After the wedding my grandma and I were talking. My eyes lit up with excitement, and I asked if she wanted to make fudge. The batch was small, but it tasted just as good as I remembered.
It was hard to say goodbye before we left for the airport, but I knew that soon she’d be back. In grandma-fashion, she wanted to make sure we had something to eat on the plane, so I took the rest of our fudge. Needless to say, with a hungry dad and daughter, the fudge was gone before we got off the plane.
I will never forget how lucky I was to have that special time to talk with my grandma. I can’t wait until she gets home from her mission so that we can continue our tradition.

While I stood as a proxy for my father in baptism, my mother saw my father’s face. Myself and my son performed the baptism for my father-in-law, and we felt his presence.

A few years later at a devotional held following a visit to Adam-ondi-Ahman, the supervisor of service missionaries in the area asked me to share the story of my conversion. I did so and then thanked the couples attending the devotional for preparing their children to serve missions and for figuratively sending them to my door.
As I shook hands and prepared to leave, the supervisor spoke up. “Before we dismiss this meeting,” he said, “I have a personal confession to make.” I don’t remember his exact words, but in essence he said:
“As you know, I served my country as a U.S. Marine while I was a young man. While serving, I killed many Japanese soldiers. I thought I had served my country faithfully, but for many years, whenever I saw Orientals, particularly Japanese people, I experienced great depression. Sometimes I could not even function. I visited with Church authorities and discussed my feelings with professional counselors.
“Today, when I faced Elder and Sister Kikuchi and their son, a flash of memory returned. But then I listened to Elder Kikuchi share his testimony and conversion story, his love for the Lord and the gospel, and his love for each of us. He said he had hated Americans and American soldiers but that the gospel had changed his life through the Lord’s healing power. When I heard this, I also seemed to hear a voice from the Lord saying, ‘It is finished. It is OK.’”
He put his hands outward, raised them, and said, with tears in his eyes, “All of my guilt has been taken away. My burden is lifted!”
He came to me and hugged me. Then our wives approached, and we all hugged each other and wept.