Gospel Story Finder

I could see the young deacons losing interest as my mission companion talked. He was explaining the importance of doing missionary work at their age—planting seeds with their friends.
One young man finally spoke up, “What can I do? I’m only 13. My friends aren’t interested in the Church, and even if they were, their parents wouldn’t let them join.” My companion persisted with the young men, but my mind drifted back to when I was about 12 years old.
I had a best friend, Chris. We did everything together. But whenever a group of us would gather to do something “crazy,” like throw snowballs at cars or toilet paper a house, Chris would always back out. He said his parents would be mad if they found out.
Then one day I talked Chris into stealing tennis balls from the people on the local courts. He followed me, even helped me gather a handful of balls, then took off with me through a hole in the fence. When we arrived at my house I noticed Chris’s face was white.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“We’ve got to take those balls back,” he blurted out.
“No way, they’re ours now,” I replied, but Chris grabbed them and started to run. I’ve always been faster than Chris, but I couldn’t catch him that day. He ran right to the tennis players and gave every ball back. He said he was sorry and then did something I’d never seen before. He asked them for forgiveness. I just knew we were going to be turned into the police, but the men let him go.
When we got home I had a few questions for my best friend.
“I’m a Mormon,” he said.
“I know. You told me.”
“But I didn’t tell you how important my church is to me.” He went on to explain the standards of honesty he had been taught and how he could not feel right about stealing.
Six weeks later I found myself in a font, full of water, ready to be baptized a Latter-day Saint.
Suddenly I came back to the deacons in front of me. I don’t know if it made much difference to those boys, but I was able to say it was an active young man their age who brought me into the Church. I told them they could and should do missionary work. They could plant seeds with their example, just as Chris had done.

After sacrament meeting the bishop called me into his office for a talk. Here it comes, I thought. I’m going to be the new teachers quorum president, I’ll bet. I was filled with pride and excitement. Wow, is the ward ever going to heap handshakes on me. Mom will be so proud!
I sat in the big chair across from the bishop. He was a pleasant man, smiling as always, but I felt that even so, this conversation was going to be an important one.
“Steve, we have an assignment for you,” he said. My heart raced.
“This is a special ‘good neighbor’ assignment. We’re concerned about Hasty McFarlan. He’s a pretty sad old man, you know. He needs someone to befriend him. He’s not a member of the Church, but God’s love reaches to all people, and we as members of his church have the responsibility to show it. Maybe I should say we have the privilege of showing that love.”
I guess I must have looked stunned.
“You know Hasty, don’t you, Steve?” asked the bishop.
My memory jumped back a couple of weeks to when some friends and I had made fun of the old man by singing jingles and shouting the jokes we had made up about him.
“Yes, I know him,” I said, choking down my disappointment and guilt. “He’s the old hermit who lives outside of town.”
“Right,” said the bishop. “I would like for you to go out and visit him two or three times a week.”
“Okay,” was the only answer I could manage.
The bishop must have detected my crestfallenness, because he leaned forward in his chair and looked at me carefully.
“Now, if this assignment will be too much, don’t be afraid to say so.”
I sighed. “Oh, I’ll do it, sir,” I said.
“Good,” said the bishop with a smile, and before I could catch my breath, he went on. “You can chop wood for the fire and get him food, blankets—whatever he needs to help him feel wanted. Be a friend. Your father is aware of the assignment, and he told me he would help you. Your Heavenly Father will be prompting you, too.”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
I was 15 years old then, and there were other things I would rather do—play football, hunt, fish, or just do the things my friends were doing. But I had told the bishop I would carry out the assignment, and I knew it wasn’t good to go back on my word.
Hasty lived in a little log cabin at the foot of a mountain, just outside the Idaho farming community I grew up in. On the long hike to his cabin after school that first afternoon, it seemed to me that every pine along the trail whispered Hasty’s loneliness.
Once a year at Christmas the old man got a free bath at the hotel, compliments of the sheriff. Probably, we all thought, it was the only bath he got all year. We used to say he looked like a pirate with that growth on the side of his head and his black eyepatch. Most of the kids and even some of the townspeople had the habit of making unkind remarks or doing something “clever” whenever Hasty was around. Would he remember me as one of the tricksters? By the time I reached the cabin, I was genuinely frightened.
I knocked, No answer. I knocked again. I knew he had to be in there. Where else could he go?
“Hasty?” My voice broke halfway through the word. I don’t know how long I must have stood there before I decided to go inside. The thick oaken door creaked as I pushed it open.
“Hasty?” I called again. “Hasty, are you there?”
Hearing a rustling, I poked my head in as far as I dared and peeked around the door. It was cold in Hasty’s cabin and very dark. I could just make out the figure of a man on the bed. Hasty was all slouched down, but not like he’d been asleep, or even like he’d been thinking. He looked like he was slouching because there was no reason to do anything else. I noticed that the soiled, mildewed blanket he was sitting on was more hole than blanket.
My heart was beating in my throat. I swallowed hard.
“Hasty, is there anything I can do for you?” I managed to blurt out.
I told him my name and that the bishop from the LDS Church had sent me to see how he was doing and to help out. He said nothing. The silent, staring troll was freezing my nerves.
“Hasty, your fire is out.”
No reply.
“Can I chop some wood?”
No reply.
I went outside, found an axe and some stacked stumps, and began chopping kindling. With every strike of the axe my brain pounded. What am I doing out here? Why me? Why?
“Quit grumbling,” a voice inside me said. “The old man is cold and lonely, and you can help him.”
I got a fire going and tried to talk to him, but after a few minutes I decided he wasn’t really listening. He needed a new blanket, so I told him I would get a thick, clean, comfortable one, and the next day I did. After that I came every other day. Slowly, over the next several weeks, he began talking.
One day after we had talked some he said, “Boy, why do you come? I’m sure a kid your age can find better things to do than visit a sick old varmint like me. But I’m glad you come.” And then he smiled.
At Thanksgiving I invited Hasty to our house for dinner. He didn’t come, but our family took part of the dinner to him. There were tears in his eyes as he tried to thank us.
I discovered as our visits continued that Hasty had been a sheepherder. Once he had had a wife and children, but they had gotten a terrible fever and died of it.
Feeling in his grief that his life had been shattered, Hasty wandered the whole country as a vagabond. A diseased growth on the side of his face made one eye blind. And the teasing and practical joking had begun.
But to me the old man didn’t seem as ugly and frightening anymore. In fact, after school I hurried to his cabin to help him and to listen to his stories.
When Christmas arrived, we invited him to dinner once again. This time he came, and what’s more, he came in a suit, all cleaned and handsome. He looked great. A smile curved his lips. Hasty was happy because we showed him he was needed.
As we finished dinner, the old man bowed his head for a second, and then raised it and said, “You people sure are wonderful. My life has been a shambles for a long time, but the love you’ve shown is making me a different person. I’m very grateful.”
As he said that, I could feel a little fire in my chest getting big. It felt good.

Bishop Brown’s relationship with his family is one of respect and love, of understood meanings, and of honest and helpful criticism. Joanne, Bishop Brown’s oldest daughter, remembers that when she went to BYU there was a lesson given in her student ward about loving your parents, and the counsel was given to the new students at BYU to write their parents and tell them of their love for them. Joanne said, “In our home we didn’t say I love you, we just loved each other.” But Joanne followed instructions and wrote her father and mother telling them how much she really did love them. When Bishop Brown received that letter he called his daughter immediately. Joanne says she will always remember how touched and grateful her father was for her expression of love to him.

Some years ago, my wife, Isabelle, received an unusual ministering assignment. She was asked to visit an elderly widow in our ward, a sister with health challenges and whose loneliness had brought bitterness into her life. Her curtains were drawn; her apartment was stuffy; she did not want to be visited and made it clear that “there is nothing I can do for anyone.” Undeterred, Isabelle responded, “Yes, there is! You can do something for us by allowing us to come and visit you.” And so Isabelle went, faithfully.

Some time later, this good sister had surgery on her feet, which required her bandages to be changed every day, something she could not do for herself. For days, Isabelle went to her home, washed her feet, and changed her bandages. She never saw ugliness; she never smelled stench. She only ever saw a beautiful daughter of God in need of love and tender care.

Over the years, I and countless others have been blessed by Isabelle’s gift to see as the Lord sees. Whether you are the stake president or the ward greeter, whether you are the king of England or live in a shack, whether you speak her language or a different one, whether you keep all the commandments or struggle with some, she will serve you her very best meal on her very best plates. Economic status, skin color, cultural background, nationality, degree of righteousness, social standing, or any other identifier or label is of no consequence to her. She sees with her heart; she sees the child of God in everyone.

No one could ask for a finer day, Josiah Kimball thought, so clean and sparkling and smelling of summer that it makes me want to stop everything and hold tight to this minute, never to let it slip away.
Josiah smiled at the idea. He tipped his head back and mimicked a meadowlark hidden in the grass.
“Was that you, ’Siah?” Emily Jane exclaimed. “Sometimes you sound more like birds than birds do.”
Josiah laughed at her praise, then tried walking backward on the rocks across the shallow stream. But two of them were too far apart for backward stepping. He had to turn for that space. Tillman Reid dropped down from a tree to try walking the rocks. He couldn’t do even as well as Josiah had, and he fell in the water.
At last Josiah sighed. “I guess we have to get on home to help with chores.”
“I have to pick peas for Mama before dark.” Emily Jane sounded as reluctant as Josiah felt.
“Come play again soon,” Tillman invited.
“We stayed too long, didn’t we, ’Siah?” Emily Jane asked hesitantly.
“Yes, but we can hurry. And the sun’s just about down.”
His sister nodded her head in agreement. When they came to their pasture fence, Josiah suddenly stopped.
“Emie, we could cut through the pasture this once,” he suggested, “and save all that way around by the lane.”
“But ’Siah,” Emily Jane took a quick breath, “Papa wouldn’t like it. He’s told us—”
“I don’t see that old Jersey bull anywhere,” Josiah persisted. “He’s probably grazed his fill and is lying down under the cottonwoods. Come on, Emie, it’s getting late. We can run.”
After a moment Emily Jane followed Josiah under the fence.
Once on the pasture side of the wire strands, they stood without moving. “I don’t see that bull anywhere,” Josiah whispered. The shadows were growing long and heavy but no movement was seen.
“Stay close behind,” Josiah instructed.
He set off at a quick trot, Emily Jane at his heels.
“ ’Siah!” Emily Jane’s voice made no more sound than the whispering of their feet in the grass, but he heard.
At the same moment, Josiah saw a dark shadow move in the cluster of pinon pines. A streak of light glinted from curved horns as the bull gave a menacing toss of his head.
“Run, Emie!” Josiah commanded. “Go back!”
Emily Jane could run fast when she needed to, and Josiah kept right behind her.
They could hear the outraged bellow and the thump of hoofbeats of the bull following them, growing closer.
Almost side by side they dropped to the ground to squeeze under the bottom strand of wire. Josiah’s hip pocket snagged on a barb.
Catching his breath, Josiah turned to his sister. “You all right, Emie?”
She nodded, “Th-that’s why Papa said never to go in the pasture. He knew. And—and—”
They stared at the bull through the wires. The immense animal, knowing they were out of reach, had stopped and was pawing the ground and throwing sand and dirt every which way.
“We’ve got to run, Emie. All that time wasted, and now we still have to go the long way.”
“I can’t, ’Siah. Even if Papa and Mama are cross, I can’t run any more—not for a little while.”
Partway up the lane, Josiah paused. “Emie—” He looked away, then glanced back. “Let’s not mention the pasture. We can just say we were late leaving the Reids.”
“I guess,” Emily Jane agreed.
Mama’s face was set in straight lines as they hurried up to the house and stammered out their excuse.
“Well, you’ll be till dark finishing your work,” she said. And then she smiled. “It has been a lovely day and hard to think of work. But get busy now, or you’ll not finish. Your father’s waiting, ’Siah.”
Papa had more questions than Mama had, but at last he said, “I guess there’s been no harm done this time, son. But you must learn to do as you’re told.”
At supper Josiah had trouble looking straight at Papa or Mama. Twice he glanced at Emily Jane, but she wouldn’t look at him. When the supper dishes were finished, they all went to the front porch to cool off.
“You two are certainly quiet,” Mama laughed. “You must have worn yourselves out with play.”
Papa said, “They act wearier than during haying season. We’d better keep them busy at work from now on.”
Josiah made a laughing sound, but he didn’t feel like laughing. Deep inside of him was a shamed feeling that wouldn’t let go.
“ ’Siah, you tell.” Emily Jane’s voice came out of the darkness.
As if he had been waiting for those words, Josiah started to talk. Papa and Mama didn’t say a word, though the swing had stopped moving.
“At chores, you said no harm had been done. But it had, by our not telling.” Josiah hesitated. There was heavy silence.
After a moment Emily Jane continued. “That bull sounded so close! I’m still scared.”
“It’s been a harsh lesson,” Papa said. “Be sure you’ve learned well.” His voice dropped lower, sounding more like Papa. “And by telling, you’ve made a beginning.”
The swish-away of the swing started up again.
Josiah took a deep gulp of fresh air. It smelled of Mama’s flower garden. This minute was too good to let slip away and be past. He held it for as long as it would stay.

Brad plays nervously with his key ring. He will go to his new ward for the first time tonight, and he feels less sure of himself than usual. He has been thinking about how he will get acquainted and has decided the best plan is to just keep as quiet as possible for awhile. That way he will see what others are like before they form opinions of him. Brad smiles as he turns the key in the ignition. He isn’t sure just why, but somehow getting Dad to let him take the car tonight was very important to him.
Brad doesn’t realize that his keeping quiet does not prevent people from forming opinions of him. He also doesn’t recognize that the car makes him feel more confident in a new situation.

A hundred-pound sack of rice landed on my back. If this was what Dad called “small odd jobs,” he had another letter coming from me. Tottering under the load, I almost fell over a chicken as I followed another moving rice bag. My uncle stood on a truck exuberantly shouting directions. But his sing-song Cantonese went right through me. The din of trucks, chickens, dogs, and babbling people clattered to the sky on this narrow Hong Kong street. I could make no sense of anything. All I could do was wonder why I was here when home was on the other side of the world?
“If you can’t make up your mind between going to college or finding a job,” Dad had said, “at least you can take a look at your roots.”
Roots? I had plenty of roots—all firmly implanted in American soil. After all, I was a second-generation American.
Dad had ignored my tirade. “Besides, Uncle Cheung is the only one left back in Hong Kong. Poor guy. No kids, lost his wife last year, and you could cheer him up. He probably gets awfully lonely, being retired and only doing a few jobs here and there,” Dad said.
Staggering under another rice sack, I watched a small shriveled man lithely carry his own enormous load.
“It was a very good day,” Uncle Cheung kept saying after finishing work. Were those the only English words he knew? I didn’t pay much attention to what he was saying. I was busy thinking about getting rid of this Hong Kong sweat under a cool shower.
The minute we walked into his rectangular cinder-block room, I remembered. The bunk beds were still stacked against the stark walls. The lonely white rice cooker was still on the floor in a corner, and the television stood on its rickety wooden table. But no bathroom or kitchen facilities had magically appeared.
Grumbling, I sauntered down to the common washing facilities in the middle of this huge building called an H-block because it was shaped like the letter.
I continued grumbling. “I know there’s better housing near here. It’s not that Uncle Cheung can’t afford it.”
When I returned, Uncle Cheung was in front of his door happily talking to a neighbor. I couldn’t figure out why he needed any cheering up from me.
The H-block was coming alive now. Woks sizzled outside people’s doors. Oil, fish, bean curd, vegetables, pork, and chicken created an aroma my nose had never before encountered.
Dinner was rather loud, not because of our lively conversation but because several jets at Kai Tak Airport picked that time to take off. They drowned out everything. I thought they might take our building with them. I wouldn’t have minded if they had taken me too. In between roars, I kept repeating one of the few Cantonese phrases I knew: “Hou sihk.” If my sounds and tones were right, it meant “delicious.” Uncle Cheung nodded and smiled gratefully, shoveling rice and fish into his mouth with his chopsticks. I wished I was back in America eating pizza with my friends.
Dad’s last words to me when I got on the plane were: “Re-learn the language,” and now Uncle Cheung was waving his hands and talking excitedly to me. It was time to bring out my trusty Chinese-English dictionary. What did Dad mean, “Re-learn the language”? How do you re-learn something you’ve never learned in the first place?
After a series of facial expressions, gestures, and dictionary pointing, I figured out that Uncle Cheung was going someplace after dinner and he was wondering if I wanted to come. I declined, choosing instead to stay and watch TV.
Unfortunately, the one English-speaking station was as fuzzy as the Chinese stations were unintelligible. I took out some paper.
“Dear Mom and Dad,” I wrote. “Is there any chance I could grab a plane back a few weeks early?”
The first time I saw her we were pressed almost nose to nose on the Hong Kong subway. I didn’t mean to have such a close first encounter, but I had no other choice.
“You need the day off,” my uncle had said, his eyes showing concern for my aching back and my diminishing appetite for rice and strings of greasy green vegetables. I didn’t object. I didn’t seem to be cheering him up much, and I always turned down his offers to go out with him in the evenings. Even on Sundays—my favorite day to sleep in—he was out the door long before I woke up to another day in Hong Kong.
With no work to do, I happily headed to the subway. Each train car bulged with people, with hundreds more waiting to get on. After missing several trains, I realized my only hope was to shove with the rest of them. But my technique was less than graceful, and I bumped noses with the most beautiful girl in the world. Drawing back in embarrassment, I knocked five heads behind me. Our noses remained one inch apart.
I tried not to stare at the girl’s soft dark eyes, sleek black hair, and delicately shaped face. If only I could say something to her. The Cantonese equivalent of “How are you?” (Neih hou ma?) sounded too trite. And how could I ask her if she’d eaten yet, even if it was a typical Chinese greeting. I wanted to reach for my dictionary, but my arms were straitjacketed in. Besides, how would it look for a Chinese guy to be sounding out Chinese tones in front of all these other Chinese people. No one knew I was an American.
The conductor droned out the stops in both English and Chinese. It was so muffled I couldn’t tell the difference. Suddenly, the beautiful girl was politely pushing her way out. Dumbfounded, I watched her disappear through the jostling crowd. “She’s gone forever,” I mumbled. By the time I realized Tsim Sha Tsui had also been my stop, I had missed it and was speeding under the harbor to Hong Kong Island.
When I finally made it back to Tsim Sha Tsui, I didn’t shop much. I got sidetracked at McDonald’s and a pizza place instead.
Rushing to make the subway before rush hour, I took one of the last places on the long silver benches lining each side of the car. I was still thinking about that girl when she suddenly appeared. “Is this seat taken?” she was asking me. At least I assumed that’s what she was saying. I smiled, motioning nonchalantly for her to sit down.
I looked at her, disappointed she didn’t recognize me. I ruffled through my dictionary, hoping no one would notice. What could I say to her?
Suddenly, I had something to say as the train jolted forward and I slid into her.
“I’m sorry,” I blurted out in English.
She looked up, smiling. “No problem.”
“You speak English too!” I gasped.
She giggled. “At least I like to practice English.”
She looked at me quizzically. “You must be from America.”
“How did you know?”
“Your English doesn’t sound so British,” she said.
“You speak English very well,” I said.
She smiled demurely. “Oh, not so well. My brother and I like to speak English together.”
“Do you ever practice English with anyone else?” I asked.
“Well, yes …” she said.
The train screeched to a stop. I skidded into her again. “This is my stop,” she said, leaping up.
“It’s mine too,” I said.
“It is?” she said with surprise. “I thought you’d be staying in a hotel.”
“No, I’m staying with my uncle in the H-blocks,” I said.
“We live there too,” she replied.
“Really?” I exclaimed, not expecting such a beautiful girl to live in a plain, rectangular room.
It was time to go our separate ways. I hadn’t mustered enough courage to ask her name, and now she was leaving.
Then she called back. “I’m sure my brother would like to talk to you about America. He wants to go there.”
Here was my chance. I stuttered, “My name is Tod. Do you have a name too?”
“Yes. It’s Ling Fa. My brother is Lai Jan. Maybe we could all get together at the park tonight and talk English.” Yes! We had made a connection.
I almost ran over my uncle as he tromped up the stairs loaded with vegetables and fruit. I hugged him, watermelon and all.
“You had a good day?” he asked with a grin.
“It’s been a great day.”
I met Ling Fa and her brother that night, and quickly became fast friends with them. We did a lot together, including going to a dragon boat race practice a few days later. Lai Jan was one of the boatmen in the race held each year during the Dragon Boat Festival, a Hong Kong celebration.
“Maybe you could help us out today,” Lai Jan said to me, as we headed to a small inlet on the harbor. “One of the guys in the other boat said he couldn’t make it today.”
“Who me?” I laughed. “Never seen a dragon boat in my life.”
Then a sleek dragon boat splashed into view. It looked like the longest canoe in the world, except its sides were painted with green dragon scales and a ferocious dragon head stuck out the front with a green tail flowing out the back. Forty paddling boatmen were almost lost in the spray. A drummer stood in the middle beating a large drum in a steady cadence.
“I’m just sure I can do that,” I joked. “But I don’t even speak Chinese.”
“No need to speak Chinese,” Ling Fa answered. “Just paddle with the beat of the drum.”
After being introduced, I stepped gingerly into the boat. I had never seen so many people in such a narrow boat. Gripping my paddle, I nodded to the guy next to me.
“Good luck,” shouted Lai Jan from the boat next to mine. I realized we would be racing each other.
Soon, we were gliding over the water. I concentrated on paddling to the beat of the drum. I was actually getting the hang of it. The faster the drum beat, the faster we paddled. On my right, I could see the menacing dragon head of Lai Jan’s boat. Lai Jan grinned at me.
When our drummer beat faster, my paddle responded. I wanted to win this race. We pulled ahead of Lai Jan’s boat, which began lagging way behind.
My strength melted the minute we rounded the buoy and headed toward shore. I knew something was wrong. It looked as if there had been a big traffic accident in the middle of the water. A limp body was being pulled into a boat. It was Lai Jan.
When I stepped to shore, Ling Fa ran to me sobbing, “Please, please. I don’t want it to be true.”
When I asked what had happened, Ling Fa said, “It was so strange. Suddenly he was spilling out of the boat when another boat hit him.”
Soon sirens were crying, and Lai Jan was loaded into an ambulance. He briefly opened his eyes and said something to Ling Fa.
“What did he say?” I asked.
“He said he wanted a blessing from his home teacher.”
“Home teacher?” I said, perplexed.
“It’s someone in my brother’s church,” she answered, as she got in the ambulance with her brother. I ran to catch a bus that would take me to the hospital.
When I arrived at the hospital, I looked for Ling Fa’s beautiful face. But it wasn’t her I noticed first. Startled, I saw Uncle Cheung talking to Ling Fa.
“This is Lai Jan’s home teacher,” she said.
Home teacher? My uncle was a teacher in a church?
“He’s going to give my brother a blessing now.”
I watched in awe as my uncle placed his wrinkled hands on Lai Jan’s head. As I listened, I wish I could explain what happened to me. But I doubt even my best buddy back home could know what I felt. I understood everything. Not just individual words, but the meaning of all Uncle Cheung was saying. There was no need to speak English or Chinese. There was a calmness and peace like nothing I’d ever felt before. I knew some power beyond me—the power of God—would heal Lai Jan.
When I lifted my eyes, Ling Fa was quietly crying. I wondered if she understood how I felt.
Lai Jan’s eyes blinked open, focusing on Uncle Cheung. “I knew you would come.”
Ling Fa gently placed her small hand on my uncle’s arm. “My brother says you help everyone.”
Uncle Cheung shook his head modestly. But his eyes smiled. “I just love everyone.”
I wasn’t supposed to understand, but I did.

David’s father, Raymond, had taught him two important secrets to obtaining goals: give it your all and never quit. David was used to giving his all, so it was no surprise when he was back at school the Monday after he left the hospital.
“I was in a body cast and neck brace,” David says. “I had absolute faith I would get better but soon realized I was completely unlike the other 800 kids in my school. After that first hard week, though, I knew I could do anything I wanted; I just had to find a different way.”
A few months later his brother suggested David run for student body president. David again gave it his all, and he went from sports star to school leader. “That year was awesome,” he says. “It was the perfect preparation for my mission.”

The April morning sun colored each detail of the spacious, modern, cream-colored building. The building was surrounded by green grass, and it looked like it might be a school. We walked through the door carrying carpet-cleaning catalogs under our arms.
Erika, my fiancée, was helping me make sales calls; we were trying to find new clients for the company I represented. The heels of our shoes, worn down from walking, clicked on the red-brick floor. As we continued down the hall we both realized that this building was a church. We proceeded cautiously because we did not know what customs and rules might apply here.
I wondered if this church might have red carpets like the ones I had sometimes seen used for weddings. But everything in this building was simple, yet elegant.
A group of friendly children and young people greeted us, and Erika asked them who we should see.
“Robert Vázquez,” replied a small boy. “I’ll get him for you.”
I glanced at Erika and quietly told her that if they tried to convert us, we would say we had another appointment and escape to her house.
I was completely satisfied with the religion of my parents. Although I was not completely devout, neither was I a black sheep. I was one of those irregular little lambs who attended church according to the season. But through sermons, Bible study, and moral lessons, I had become convinced of the existence of a loving Heavenly Father; of His Son, Jesus Christ, who atoned for our sins; and of the Holy Ghost. I had been taught about commandments and ordinances. I also knew of our undeniable imperfection as mortal beings.
I considered myself against money offerings, idol worship, and every other superstition or precept not founded on divine love and justice. I had been taught to pray and worship God without the intervention of saints. I believed in love, humility, service, the dangers of judging others, and the balm of forgiveness. I knew many members of my church who were virtuous, righteous, and exemplary. It seemed just short of impossible to consider another religion.
Holding Erika’s hand, I arrived at a room that seemed to be a classroom. There I met Mr. Vázquez.
“What shall I call you? Father? Reverend? Pastor?” I asked.
“Just call me Brother,” he replied. He invited us to go with him to services on the following day, and I was surprised to find myself accepting his invitation.
The next day Erika and I went to a Sunday School class. We were introduced to names like Nephi, Moroni, and Helaman. I felt as if I were in a foreign land without an interpreter. Nevertheless, both Erika and I felt there was something familiar about the ideas we were hearing. They sounded similar to those in the Bible. And so I dared to raise my hand, and I stood and affirmed that Jesus Christ was our greatest example of humility because He always subjected Himself to the will of the Father. Brother Jorge Montoya, our teacher, agreed with what I said. That surprised me. What kind of church was this where even a heretic, which is what I thought I must be to members of the Church, could speak and have the teacher agree?
So we continued attending. I received a Book of Mormon and read it in a single week. I gained a testimony, took the missionary discussions, and was baptized and confirmed on 3 May 1996.
The next day I felt as if I were walking around with a 100-watt lightbulb over my head. I was so happy I went out of my way to help strangers.
The following month Erika and I were married. And on 29 September I had the privilege of baptizing her. A year later we were sealed in the México City México Temple.
Best of all, I never felt that I had to leave the road I had been traveling in my former religion. My former knowledge was embraced and perfected by the true Church of Jesus Christ. My conversion was like passing from the light of a cloudy day into the greater light of a sunny day—like rowing a boat and someone starts the motor.
I realize there are many righteous, good, and holy people in other religions. Although they do not have the constant companionship of the Holy Ghost, they are illuminated by the Light of Christ. Still I wonder how we can help these good people see that the exceedingly bright light of Jesus Christ makes the lanterns, streetlights, and candles of other beliefs inadequate. There is no greater truth than pure truth, and pure truth encompasses and perfects the true beliefs of all good people throughout the world.
I know now that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the only church that contains the fulness of truth. And I know that Jesus Christ has opened His arms and the doors of His house to all who wish to follow Him.
I did not sell any carpet-cleaning services that morning in April. In fact I have never sold a single square meter of carpet cleaning to any member of the Church. Nevertheless, I am sure that in that single day I gained more—a thousand times more—than anyone could have imagined.

One evening as night was falling, I was driving with my children when I noticed a boy walking along a lonely road. After passing him, I had a distinct impression I should go back and help him. But worried it could frighten him to have a stranger pull up beside him at night, I continued driving. The strong impression came again with the words in my mind: “Go help that boy!”
I drove back to him and asked, “Do you need some help? I had a feeling I should help you.”
He turned toward us and with tears streaming down his cheeks said, “Would you? I’ve been praying someone would help me.”
His prayer for help was answered with the inspiration that came to me. This experience of receiving such clear direction from the Spirit left an unforgettable imprint that is still in my heart.
And now after 25 years and through a tender mercy, I connected again with this boy for the first time just a few months ago. I discovered that the experience isn’t just my story—it is his story too. Deric Nance is now a father with a family of his own. He too has never forgotten this experience. It helped us lay a foundation of faith that God hears and answers our prayers. Both of us have used it to teach our children that God is watching over us. We are not alone.
On that night, Deric had stayed after school for an activity and had missed the last bus. As a young teenager, he felt confident he could make it home, so he started walking.
An hour and a half had passed as he walked the lonely road. Still miles from home and with no houses in sight, he was scared. In despair, he walked behind a pile of gravel, got on his knees, and asked Heavenly Father for help. Just minutes after Deric returned to the road, I stopped to provide the help he prayed for.
And now these many years later, Deric reflects: “The Lord was mindful of me, a skinny, shortsighted boy. And despite everything else going on in the world, He was aware of my situation and loved me enough to send help. The Lord has answered my prayers many times since that abandoned roadside. His answers aren’t always as immediate and clear, but His awareness of me is just as evident today as it was that lonely night. Whenever the dark shadows of life blanket my world, I know He always has a plan to see me safely home again.”

“Good morning!” she practically shouted as she pulled my covers off. I gave her my usual cheerful grunt, then proceeded to let out a long, mournful yawn. Yep! It was morning; I wished it were not. I am not what you would, even casually, call a morning person.
Then there’s my mom. How she ever keeps that smile on her face when she goes to bed so late at night is a mystery to me. Maybe she sleeps with a clotheshanger in her mouth. I’d go bananas if I didn’t get my full 7 1/2 hours of peaceful slumber. I guess Mom’s just used to it. She could go to bed early, but she would rather fold clothes, finish up the dishes, or do something where she can have some time to herself. Believe me, she certainly needs it.
I come from a pretty big family—four brothers, four sisters, and one dog—so Mom doesn’t get much time for breathers. Like this morning for instance. Mom was polishing shoes between pouring and flipping pancakes. She was also going through her purse, looking under cushions, and searching Dad’s pockets looking for lunch money. She ended up writing checks. Then while she was busy ironing a shirt for my brother, I got the chance to complain to her. I politely explained that either she and I would have to go shopping after school or I would have to quit school because I didn’t have anything to wear. I calmly told her I was sick and tired of making my older sister’s bed just so I could wear something of hers. Mom wasn’t much help. All she did was suggest a few strange outfits that I wouldn’t be caught going to the moon in.
As soon as I was through, my sister started whining to Mom. She was upset that Mom had fixed pancakes because she was on a diet. Mom said she didn’t have to eat them, and my sister shot back, “Mothers who care about their children on diets, don’t tempt them with pancakes!”
“Oh brother,” Mom said as she looked at the ceiling.
By now the family had to hurry and eat so there would be time for family prayer. I was right in the middle of a perfectly buttered and jammed pancake when the dog came running through the kitchen.
“Stop the dog! Stop the dog!” my youngest brother yelled. My mom told him to hold on so she could find out what was going on.
“The dog just had a new experience!”
“What are you saying?”
“He threw up on the carpet!”
Mom just groaned and told everybody to hurry and come for prayer. It took five to ten minutes for everybody to kneel down. Then as soon as we had prayer, and a lecture from Dad on turning off the lights, chaos hit our humble home. Everyone claimed they hadn’t had their turn in the bathroom. Nobody could find his schoolbooks. Everyone was going to miss the bus. My sister was wailing because she couldn’t find her navy blue socks. I knew where they were—on my feet. I told her she could wear my white ones. My dramatic younger brother said he had to have a note to excuse him for being sick the day before or he’d be accused of sluffing and classified as a delinquent for life. Mom was trying to help everybody as she reminded us all that she only had two hands. Finally, five good-bye Dad’s, and four good-bye Mom’s were said. (My sister was still mad about the pancakes.)
Well, I never got my turn in the bathroom, so I went to school with seeds from the raspberry jam stuck between my molars. I was sitting in seminary trying to get some of them out with my tongue when my teacher asked, “How many of you here honor your father and mother?” My hand went up like everyone else’s, of course. Then the teacher spent the rest of the class explaining what honor really means.
“Honor,” he said, “to show respect, consideration, courtesy, admiration; to pay attention to, think much of, etc.”
We talked about honor until I felt good and guilty, but I also determined to try harder to honor my parents, especially my mom parent. I think I’ll start by telling them how much I love them. Then comes the part that really counts—showing them.

In 1867 young Brigham Thomas Higgs lived a block away from the temple on North Temple Street. B.T., as he was known by his family and friends, was nine years old when his father, Thomas, began working on the Tabernacle, which was being built next to the temple. B.T. and neighborhood friends could often be found at the Temple Block, delivering lunches or messages to brothers and fathers who worked on the Tabernacle or the Great Temple.
A few of the young boys even worked part-time with their dads at the Temple Block on the various construction projects there. B. T. used a wheelbarrow to deliver to the other workers the wooden pegs his father made for the Tabernacle rafters. There was always some cleaning up or moving of piles of lumber or tools for the young men to help with.
Henry Moyle, a curious young boy, could be found having lunch with his dad on almost any day at the Knox Carpenter Shop on the Temple Block. Known as the “Lunch-Bucket Brigade,” many of the young boys joined workmen gathered at the shop to discuss the topics of the day as they ate lunch together. Young Henry gladly took his father’s lunch to him and lingered as long as possible to listen to the conversation. Later, the young man helped his father, James Moyle, a stone mason, build the temple itself.
Henry and B. T. spent most of their after-school and after-chore time, however, playing ball or another game with friends on the nearby dusty streets. B.T.’s favorite game was “mumble-peg.”
A favorite game for all the young boys and girls in the neighborhood was hide-and-seek. The Temple Block was a perfect place to play this game because there were many large granite stones there to hide among. You could find B.T., Henry, and their brothers and sisters and friends playing among the huge stones on the warm days throughout the year.
Before the railroad came to Salt Lake City, the temple stones were brought to the Temple Block by ox teams from the quarry twenty-five miles south of the city. Annie Wells recalled seeing the “sight of the great stones one at a time being hauled along the streets by two yoke of oxen.” When the oxen slowly marched through town to the Temple Block with their “sacred load,” Annie, like other children, stood and watched them pass “with a feeling of awe and reverence,” praying for the day the temple would be completed. The children wanted to go into Heavenly Father’s house. They knew that they could be a “forever family” after they went to the temple.
When the railroad came to Utah, the oxen were no longer needed to make the long trip from the quarry to the Temple Block. A train line between Salt Lake City and the quarry brought the heavy stones right to the temple site in just a few hours instead of days, as before. The oxen were still used, however, to haul the granite stones down to the train station at the mouth of the canyon.
During hot summer months many mothers and fathers in the city took their children to the shaded groves and cool streams in the nearby canyons. One of the young boys, Joseph Fielding Smith—later a Church President—recalled watching the men loading stones there to be brought to the city for the temple. He remembered the “ox teams and how they tugged with their heavy loads” and that sometimes, when the loads were too heavy, the “rough-cut blocks skidded from the wagons.”
The Temple Block seemed to change every week or so as new stones were brought to the area. Everyone was always anxious to see what new hiding places could be found. As the stones were put in place, the temple walls reached higher and higher in the sky, and the children knew that the temple would soon be completed.
In order to finish the temple, the prophet Wilford Woodruff asked everyone to make special contributions to the temple fund. Even young children were encouraged to give whatever they could. Many children worked on holidays and gave all their earnings to the temple fund. Other children asked to do extra chores around the house in order to earn some money to give.
During this time, one young Primary boy was trying to earn enough money to buy something for himself. He found work at a neighbor’s farm. After working very hard, he was paid twenty-five cents—a lot of money in those days—for his efforts. He “clutched the coin and ran home” excitedly to show his father how much he had earned. “Pa, look what I have!” he proudly announced. “The next time you go to Provo,” he continued, “I can get a new pair of jeans with this money.”
His father reminded him of the prophet’s request for funds for the temple. “President Wilford Woodruff needs ten cents of this quarter for the Salt Lake Temple. Here, I’ll give you fifteen cents for the coin, and we’ll go together to give the dime to our bishop, who will send it to Salt Lake City.” The boy gladly took the money to the bishop so that he, too, could help build the temple.
It took the workers forty years to complete it. President Woodruff dedicated the temple on April 6, 1893, during the first dedication service. All children eight years and older were invited to attend special dedication sessions held in April. Many of the children felt a special spirit during these meetings in the temple, and several saw angels in the room, just as the children had seen angels at the Kirtland Temple’s dedication in 1836.
On Saturday, April 22, 1893, a special session for children under eight years of age was held so that many more Primary children could attend. Seven-year-old LeGrand Richards, later an Apostle, attended this session with his mother. He was impressed when he saw the prophet in the temple that day. He said later, “I always remembered exactly what President Woodruff looked like and what he wore on that day for the rest of my life.” Unlike his older sister, who saw an angel during an earlier dedication session, LeGrand said, “I looked around for angels, but I didn’t see any!”
Primary children were almost always present during the forty years of construction of the Salt Lake Temple. They all helped in some way to build the Great Temple. And during the dedication services, as many as fifteen thousand of them attended the special meetings—one hundred years ago.

Blessings come in surprising ways. In February 2013, I had been serving for six years as an Area Seventy in the Pacific Area and had been asked to extend for a seventh. We had, however, been invited to the Office of the First Presidency, and my wife, Kay, and I were waiting to meet with then-­President Dieter F. Uchtdorf in his office. The thought that he was about to call me as a General Authority had not entered my mind, and we were even more surprised when he told us that we would be living and serving in West Africa until we received a new assignment some years in the future.
We did not suspect that our hearts were about to be filled with love for the wonderful West African people. But they quickly were. Immediately we arrived in Accra and began to meet the members of the Church and others in the countries of Ghana, Nigeria, Côte d’Ivoire, Sierra Leone, Liberia, Togo, Benin, Senegal, Guinea, Mali, The Gambia, and Burkina Faso. What incredible blessings we have received, and what wonderful eternal relationships have been forged.
“I think the Spirit of the Lord is brooding over Africa,” said Elder Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve in the first of two videos about the growth of the Church in Africa after years of political strife. “His hand is on the work. His Spirit is stirring the people,” said Elder Holland.
This has been most evident to Kay and me in the incredible growth we have witnessed here. Just before our arrival, and earlier in July 2013, the 38th stake of the Africa West Area had been created by Elder Joseph Sitati in Warri, Nigeria. And then in June 2018, I was blessed to preside over the creation of the 100th stake in the Africa West Area in Lagos, Nigeria. These 62 additional stakes (29 in Nigeria, 13 in Ghana, 9 in Côte d’Ivoire, 4 in Sierra Leone, 4 in Liberia, 2 in Togo, and 1 in Benin) were created in less than five years!
And the 100th stake was formed just 30 years after the first ever West African stake. I have personally had the privilege of forming the first branches in Dakar, Senegal; Conakry, Guinea; and Bamako, Mali; and of witnessing the land of Senegal dedicated for the preaching of the gospel by Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles. I have accompanied this same Apostle as he dedicated the new Ghana missionary training center, and I have been blessed with numerous other spiritual experiences.
The growth, however, has not simply, or even primarily, been in numbers. Kay and I, together with the other members of the Area Presidency, are witnesses almost daily to incredible faith in the face of adversity and temporal poverty. But there is no spiritual poverty in West Africa. The region is rich in those things most precious—the faithful sons and daughters of God. And the mandate of our Saviour for West Africa as so clearly stated in the following verses has been accepted: “And if any man among you be strong in the Spirit, let him take with him him that is weak, that he may be edified in all meekness, that he may become strong also. . . .
“Behold, this is the way that mine apostles, in ancient days, built up my church unto me” (D&C 84:106, 108). In fact, it has been embraced as our united call for action in the phrase “one take one.”

Brother Cliff Smith, a member of the Loughborough Ward, has been a regular figure playing the organ for decades. Now, at the age of 89, he still plays at Sunday worship services.
As a boy, he took piano lessons, completing all of his grades. His piano teacher recommended to his parents that they approach the organist and choirmaster at the parish church for further tuition, as she could not advance him any further. Cliff was accepted into the local parish church as a chorister in a large choir, and as a pupil at the organ. He made good progress, and at the age of 13 he was asked by the headmaster of his school to play the organ for the daily assemblies which were held in a church close to the school. He continued this until he left school at age 17.
In 1965, Cliff and his wife, Betty, invited missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints into their home. In 1966, Betty was baptized. Cliff attended Church with her and was asked to play the piano at meetings, and also acted as branch clerk on assignment from the branch president. In 1968, the year the branch was made a ward, he was baptised and called as second counsellor in the bishopric. In 1973, the ward was blessed with a small organ, so his talents were used to accompany the Sunday services, and this has continued ever since.
For Cliff, there have been many musical highlights which he has cherished. He has provided music for many happy wedding days, for baptisms, social activities and funerals. Every Christmas Day, the Loughborough Ward holds a carol service, which he has thoroughly enjoyed being part of.
Cliff wrote music for the words written by the then stake president, Ernest Hewitt, entitled “This Is Our Place”. This song was sung at the close of the area conference in 1971 attended by President Joseph Fielding Smith (1876–1972) in Manchester. Then, in October 1973, President Harold B. Lee (1899–1973) and Elder Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008) attended a regional conference held in a local cinema theatre. Cliff was privileged to play the organ for the conference, and then again for sacrament meeting at the Loughborough meetinghouse in the evening, with President Lee in attendance. These have been choice and uplifting moments.
Reflecting on his service in Church music, Cliff wishes to acknowledge all who have inspired him along the way, and from Doctrine and Covenants 25:12, the promise: “For my soul delighteth in the song of the heart; yea the song of the righteous is a prayer unto me, and it shall be answered with a blessing upon their heads”.
Music has certainly been a blessing in Cliff’s life.

My daughter and I were walking to the metro one day and were kindly offered a ride by an Emirati woman who shared with us experiences about her son who had medical difficulties that required them to travel to the United States for treatment. In the course of her story, her faith in and reliance on God’s will and watchful care was interwoven. I told her I would pray for her and her family, which she accepted with understanding and love.

More than a hundred years ago President Brigham Young sent a family to a small, remote place in Arizona to make peace with the Indians.
The father of the family was away on Church business when an impression came to him that something was wrong at home. He headed there at once, arriving about four o’clock in the morning. He found his wife gently cradling their little baby daughter in her arms. The baby had fallen into an open fireplace and was severely burned.
The father took their infant in his arms and gave her a blessing. He promised her that she would live, that she would not be disfigured, and that she would sing before the prominent people of the world. The baby girl did live. She was not disfigured, and she grew up, raised a family, and sang in the Tabernacle Choir. The powers of heaven gave life back to that tiny child. And that sweet baby girl, who owed her life to the power of prayer, grew up and gave me life. She was my mother.

On October of 1992, a new freshman without much enthusiasm for life arrived at Page (Arizona) High School. Darryle had spent the last several years in a boarding school for the handicapped. He was confined to a wheelchair because of cerebral palsy; he had no ability to speak, see, or walk; and he had limited use of his arms. When he first arrived, he was very scared, and nobody seemed to know how to help him.
As teachers we were becoming quite frustrated trying to find something that would capture his interest. Things changed when someone brought in a tape of Navajo drum music. That perked Darryle up. He loved this music, and we knew we had to capitalize on this.
It was arranged for Darryle to attend the band class, something he seemed to enjoy. I, too, was excited, but I knew I only had the personnel to take Darryle to the class once a week.
Enter Brad Ross. Brad was a quiet, shy sophomore with a great love for music. The next afternoon, about the time band began, Brad walked into my special education classroom. He was very quiet, and I could tell he was nervous. But that didn’t stop him. He marched up to me and asked if he could take Darryle to band with him.
I was stunned. I let Brad take Darryle, but I remember thinking that it wouldn’t last.
What followed was the most honest expression of heroism I have ever witnessed. For the next three years, Brad never missed a day. Each day he would come to my classroom and escort Darryle to band practice. Darryle became as much a part of the band as any other member. Every day, Brad would set Darryle up with different percussion instruments. With eager delight, Darryle would sense the music and gleefully join in the rhythms he felt. Under Brad’s patient tutoring, Darryle learned to play the snare drum, bass drum, tambourine, maracas, and the triangle. Even though Darryle’s rhythms did not always match the rest of the band’s, Darryle was totally involved.
Many changes had to be made to accommodate Darryle, but Brad always made them—never asking for help.
The things Brad did were thoughtful actions that required discipline and sacrifice. His heroic efforts affected the other students and touched the hearts of many teachers and parents. He had the bravery necessary to walk into a classroom full of special education students, make friends with someone who needed a friend, create a new program for a peer, and provide the selfless service necessary to see it through.
Brad recently completed an honorable mission in the Oklahoma City Oklahoma Mission.

Later as he related the story of his conversion, I realized that Alex’s pain and sorrow had been difficult, but they also helped him become humble enough to bend his knees and ask for help. Alex explained: “One night when my burdens were too heavy to carry, I remembered the words of a good friend who had reminded me that I could always pray for help. That night I decided to give it a try. There was not another door open to me, and since my mom had taught me how to pray, I kneeled down and closed my eyes. As I started to plead for help, the most wonderful feeling came over me. I’ll never forget that feeling; I felt the pure love of Christ. I felt that my problems were taken away from me. My desperate feelings haven’t come back since, and I have been blessed with a testimony of Jesus Christ. My heart was changed, and I desired to follow Jesus Christ.”

I remember a conversation I had with a friend who is not a member of our faith. He was surprised to learn that any worthy man in our Church could receive the priesthood. He asked, “But how many priesthood holders do you have in your ward?”
I answered, “Between 30 and 40.”
Perplexed, he continued, “In my congregation, we have only one priest. Why do you need so many priests on Sunday morning?”
Intrigued by his question, I felt inspired to reply, “I agree with you. I don’t think we need that many priesthood holders at church on Sunday. But we do need a priesthood holder in every home. And when there is no priesthood holder in a home, other priesthood holders are called upon to watch over and minister to that family.”
Ours is not just a Sunday church. Our worship continues each day of the week, wherever we are and in whatever we do. Our homes in particular are “the primary sanctuaries of our faith.” It is most often in our homes that we pray, we bless, we study, we teach the word of God, and we serve with pure love. I can testify from personal experience that our homes are sacred places where the Spirit can abound—as much as, and sometimes even more than, in our formal places of worship.

When the Rabasto family joined the Church about four years ago, they devoted their whole hearts to it. After moving to the Bahamas from the Philippines, their dad, Adolfo, was called to the branch presidency. They hold regular family home evening. Archie and Roselle, the two high schoolers in the family, both attend seminary every day. They read the scriptures daily as a family. Rinna, the oldest sister in the family, is a student at Brigham Young University.

What the family loves most about the gospel is the Christmas present they received last year. During the holiday break, the family took a trip to the temple in Orlando, Florida, to be sealed.

“I felt really excited to be in the temple,” says Archie. “I remember my sisters crying, and I felt happy and peaceful.”

From Orlando, the family said good-bye to Rinna, since she was leaving for college. They miss her, of course, but they say they feel calm about her being so far away in Utah, since they know they’ll always be a family, no matter where they go.

“Everyone in the temple kept telling us how great we looked with our white clothes and jet-black hair,” says Roselle. “We felt great, too. You could feel the air-conditioning in the temple, but I felt a warmth inside my heart. The feelings I had there were indescribable.”