Gospel Story Finder

In 2007, I made my first visit to a church in Petit-Goâve, the southernmost part of Haiti in a chapel that currently houses Les Palmes Stake. On that Sunday, the joyful songs of the Primary children echoed throughout the chapel, creating an atmosphere of spirituality. The melodious words, “I am a child of God . . . teach me all that I must do to live with him someday,” seemed to transcend a childlike innocence upon me and a great desire to know everything. I was captivated by the vibrant testimonies of the Book of Mormon, the truths it teaches, and Joseph Smith, the prophet.
In the same year, after numerous lessons from dedicated and inspired missionaries, I took the step of baptism, thus beginning a spiritual journey within the restored gospel. The years passed. I served a full-time mission and married an extraordinary woman in the covenant of eternal marriage.
During my mission journey, I loved teaching from the Book of Mormon and had extraordinary experiences with the converting power of the Book of Mormon. Nephi’s purpose to persuade men to come to God is not only his purpose but also the ultimate purpose of the Book of Mormon. The passage from 2 Nephi 25:26 was always on my lips whenever I had to answer the question: what is the Book of Mormon about? “And we talk of Christ, we rejoice in Christ, we preach of Christ, we prophesy of Christ, and we write according to our prophecies, that our children may know to what source they may look for a remission of their sins.”
The experience of the converting power of the Book of Mormon did not end after my mission. In 2016, I was called to teach institute classes for adults. That year, we were studying the Book of Mormon. One day, as we studied King Benjamin’s powerful and inspired discourse in the book of Mosiah, two brothers in my class, carrying a secret burden of deep family problems, were moved to tears. Without saying a word, they left the classroom, and instinctively, I followed them. In the church courtyard, I found them talking, crying, and supporting each other. Respecting their privacy, I returned to the classroom, but concern tinged with hope accompanied me. At the end of the lesson, the two brothers returned, but this time, their presence was marked by peace. One of them spoke, sharing the miracle that had just occurred. He explained that thanks to the teachings of the Book of Mormon and the words of King Benjamin, they had found the strength to confront their family difficulties. In that testifying moment, I was reminded of Alma’s words, “The preaching of the word had a great tendency to lead the people to do that which was just—yea, it had had more powerful effect upon the minds of the people than the sword, or anything else, which had happened unto them.” (Alma 31:5).
That day, those brothers experienced the testimony of more than one in its fulness through the power of divine words, confirming the universal truth that the word of God can breathe life into the most wounded hearts.
I testify that the Book of Mormon is the word of God, that it contains the fulness of the eternal gospel, and that it can pierce the most wounded of hearts.

The happiness I feel in seminary is a lot like the happiness I feel when I’m in the temple. Before I turned 11, my siblings and friends had all been to the temple and I hadn’t. When they would go inside, I always waited outside. I kept hoping for the day I would be old enough to go inside myself.
When I was finally old enough to go inside and do baptisms for the dead, I felt a great peace. Even though my family and friends had described to me the feeling of being in the temple, I was so excited that I was able to feel that for myself.

When I was a boy, my mother had to go to work at Garfield Smelter and work like a man to help support the seven children. She worked the graveyard shift as much as she could, I’m sure to be with us during the day. I don’t know when the poor woman slept. One Saturday morning, she got off work about 7:00 or 8:00 A.M. She went to bed for a couple of hours and then got up. She had invited all her relatives to dinner. There must have been 35 or 40. She decorated the tables and arranged the chairs and put all the dishes and silverware out. She cooked and baked all day long. The dirty pots and pans and dishes stacked up.

Everyone came to dinner, and after dinner all the dirty dishes were brought into the kitchen. The food was cleared and stacked on the table and cupboards; then the kitchen door was closed and the family began to visit. It was about 8:00 P.M.

I remember standing all alone in the kitchen. In my young mind, I thought: My mother worked all night; she has worked all day to get this dinner. When everyone leaves, she will have to do the dishes and put the food away. It will take two or three hours, and that’s not fair. Then I thought, I will do them.

I washed the dishes, did the silverware, the glassware. We didn’t have an electric dishwasher; ours was a manual dishwasher, and that night I was manual. I used a half-dozen dish towels. I was drenched from head to foot. I put the food away, cleaned off the table and drainboards; then I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed the floor. When I was finished, I thought the kitchen was immaculate. It took about three hours.

Then I heard the chairs shuffling, and everyone left. The front door closed, and I heard my mother coming to the kitchen. I was pleased and thought she would be. The door swung open, and even at the age of 11, I recognized that she was startled. She looked around the kitchen, looked at me, and then there was a look I didn’t recognize at the time. I do now. It was something like “Thanks. I am tired. I think you understand, and I love you.” And she came over and hugged me. There was a light in her eye and a warmth in my heart. I learned it is a wonderful feeling to turn on the lights in our parents’ eyes.

When I was 14 years old, I began my first job, earning 2 U.S. dollars per hour as a construction laborer. The paycheck for my first week totaled 80 dollars. I wanted to buy an eight-track tape stereo, which was the newest music technology at the time. The full-function model I wanted cost 320 dollars. I excitedly shared with Mom and Dad my intent to purchase the stereo after completing four weeks of work.
My parents wisely taught, “It will take more than four weeks to earn enough money to buy that music player. You should express gratitude to God for His many blessings by paying 10 percent of your income as tithing. You will need to pay the government about 10 percent in taxes. And you should learn while young to obey the counsel of prophets in preparing financially for the future, including your mission; we suggest you set aside 30 percent of your earnings in a savings account.”
My teenage mind quickly calculated that if I did as my parents taught, I would have only 40 dollars each week to spend, which meant I would have to work at least two months to purchase my desired stereo. I found myself at a critical decision point—would obtaining material possessions be my priority, or would I sacrifice to pay tithing and set aside savings?
For the Strength of Youth counsels: “Pay [tithing] first, even when you think you do not have enough money to meet your other needs. Doing so will help you develop greater faith, overcome selfishness, and be more receptive to the Spirit.”2
I decided at age 14 to pay an honest tithing for the remainder of my life. I determined to follow the prophet in saving money for my mission and future education. This experience also taught me to distinguish between wants and needs. I wanted the newest technology, but I did not need it. So I decided to buy a much less expensive model with fewer functions, and it was still performing well when I left on my mission.

Elder Dallin H. Oaks of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles
“As a 12-year-old deacon, I was pleased to accompany the bishop to deliver Christmas baskets to the widows of our ward in Vernal, Utah. The backseat of his car was filled with baskets of grapefruit and oranges. This was during World War II, when grapefruit and oranges were scarce, so they were quite a treat. He waited in the car while I took a basket to each door and said, ‘The bishop asked me to give you this Christmas basket from the ward.’
“When we had delivered all the baskets but one, the bishop drove me home. There he handed me the last basket and said, ‘This is for your mother.’ Before I could reply, he drove away. [Dallin H. Oaks was 7 when his father passed away in June 1940.]
“I stood in front of our house, snowflakes falling on my face, holding the basket and wondering. We had been delivering baskets to widows, but I had never thought of my mother as a widow. I had never heard her refer to herself as a widow. I wondered why anyone would think my mother was a widow.
“That Christmas experience was formative in my understanding of the eternal family and in my appreciation for the faith of my mother. She always taught us that we had a father and she had a husband and that we would always be a family because of their temple marriage. …
“I am grateful for temple marriage and for the assurance that we can be together as an eternal family.”4

Like other prospective missionaries, Lohran Saldanha Queiroz had to make a choice to serve a mission or not. But besides deciding whether to give up school, work, family, and friends for two years, Lohran had another tough choice: serve a mission or have the opportunity to play professional football in Brazil?
Lohran, a member of the Barra da Tijuca Ward, Rio de Janeiro Brazil Jacarepaguá Stake, has football in his blood. His father, Milton, is known simply as Tita throughout Brazil. He has played professionally in five countries, won many titles, been a top scorer in the state, and played on the national team.
Tita noticed his son’s ability early on. “I grew up with a football always close by,” Lohran remembers. “My father has always encouraged me. I started accompanying him to his practices when I was three or four and have been around professional players ever since.”
Formal training began for Lohran at age 6 in Mexico, where his father was playing football at the time. By age 12 he was playing in elite competitions back in Brazil. And when he was 17 Lohran played in the junior league—the fast track to professional recruitment. Lohran seemed destined for football stardom. But his 18th birthday was quickly approaching, and he started thinking more seriously of missionary service.
Lohran explains the dilemma: “I wanted to be a football player, and I wanted to be a missionary. They expect a player to go straight from the junior team to the professional league. To stop playing for two years and then expect to be hired at 21 is almost unthinkable.”
At age 17 Lohran made some decisions that led to what he calls the beginning of his conversion. He set goals to read the Book of Mormon daily, fast, and pray. He attended Mutual, firesides, and other Church activities more often. And when he began working regularly with the missionaries, he found a love of the people he visited and prayed for. He wanted them to have the blessings of the gospel. His desire to serve a mission began to grow. But when would it be best for him to serve? And what would happen to his football career after a two-year interruption?
Lohran sought to learn God’s will through fasting and prayer. That very week, he noticed the recently delivered issue of the New Era magazine in his home, and he began thumbing through it. He was attracted to the article “Ice Dreams,” about ice skater Chris Obzansky, who interrupted a promising skating career to serve a mission at age 19, losing the opportunity to compete in the 2006 Winter Olympics.
One passage in particular caught Lohran’s attention: as Chris was in sacrament meeting listening to his Young Men president talk about his own mission call, the Spirit told Chris, “You need to serve a mission when you’re 19, or you’re going to have a tough life.” Chris said, “The message was so clear I actually turned around to see if someone was there. The feeling came back 10 times stronger, and I knew I had to go on a mission.”
Lohran smiles. “When I read that, I felt it had been written for me. Age 19 is the age prescribed by the Lord. I realized that was the answer I needed, and it was like an enormous weight was taken off my back.” The time for Lohran to serve a mission was now. He talked to his bishop, made the necessary preparations, and never looked back. “It was not even difficult to make the decision of leaving football behind,” he says, “for I knew it was the right time to do it.”
Lohran served in his country’s capital, in the Brazil Brasília Mission. He was known as “Elder Happy” because of his contagious enthusiasm. “I am exceptionally happy serving people, sharing with them what I know is true,” he says. “It is so gratifying to see people change their lives after learning the gospel.”
Like all missionaries, though, he experienced his share of hardships. “Obviously, missionary life is not all fun,” he says. “There are difficulties, moments of weakness and loneliness, but all that is next to nothing compared to the treasures of a mission. These are years I’ll never forget, that I’ll always have in my mind and, more important, my heart.”
A few months ago he finished serving a successful mission. Now that he’s home, he has joined a football team in Rio de Janiero and believes more chances to continue his football career will come his way. With faith he says, “I am now waiting for the opportunities to come, opportunities that our Heavenly Father will bless me to enjoy.”

Adriana was bored. She wanted to play with her twin sister, Diana. But Diana had gone to buy food at the mercado with Mamá. Adriana sighed. The house felt very empty. She wished she’d gone with them.
Adriana decided to visit her neighbor Margarita. Margarita’s kids were all grown up, and she was like an abuela to Adriana. They always had lots of fun together.
Adriana went outside. The hot sun shone down on her as she walked to Margarita’s house. She poked her head inside the door. “Margarita, are you home?”
“Sí, I am in the cocina,” Margarita called. Adriana walked in. Margarita was sitting at the kitchen table with her head down.
“Buenas tardes, Adriana,” said Margarita. She looked up and gave a small smile. But she seemed sad.
“Is something wrong?” asked Adriana.
Margarita sighed. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
How can I help her feel better? Adriana thought. Margarita always seemed happy when they cooked together. “May I help you make tortillas?”
“I just finished making some,” said Margarita. She lifted a cloth napkin to show a stack of tortillas.
“Then may I help you eat tortillas?” Adriana asked with a grin.
Margarita laughed. “Of course. Let me just heat up some frijoles to go with them.”
Adriana stood by Margarita at the stove and stirred black refried beans in a pot. When the beans were done, she carried them to the mesa. Margarita brought the tortillas and the queso to the table too.
Adriana took a warm tortilla and spread beans over it. Then she sprinkled the cheese on top. It looked delicioso! Adriana couldn’t wait to take a bite. But there was something she wanted to do first.
“May I please say an oración?” Adriana asked Margarita.
“Sure.”
Adriana closed her eyes and folded her arms. “Padre Celestial, we thank Thee for this food. Please bless it to make us healthy and strong. And please help Margarita with whatever she needs. I’m glad she’s my friend. In the name of Jesucristo, amen.”
Adriana opened her eyes. Margarita had a big smile—a real one this time. While they ate, they talked about school and fútbol and books. Adriana loved talking with Margarita.
When they finished eating, Adriana gave Margarita a big abrazo. “Thank you for the snack. I had a great time!”
Margarita hugged Adriana back. “Thank you, Adriana. I needed a friend today.”
Adriana beamed. “I’m glad we’re amigas.”
“I’m glad we’re friends too,” Margarita said. “Why don’t you take the rest of these tortillas home? I’m so full.”
Adriana skipped all the way back to her casa. She felt full too—and not just from the tortillas! She was full of friendship from head to toe.

Voices in the front room awoke Sherrie. Through her outside window she could see nothing but blackness. It can’t be morning already, she thought. Listening, she heard Mama say, “Perry, please don’t go. Storm warnings on the news are urging people not to travel today unless absolutely necessary.”
“It is absolutely necessary. If I can pick up this load of freight, it will get us out of a bind.”
“Perry, please. A couple of days won’t make that much difference.”
“I might be able to beat the storm if I go now. It isn’t supposed to hit the Wasatch Front until this evening.”
Sherrie heard Daddy tell Mama goodbye, the front door open and close, and Daddy’s big truck rumble out of the yard. Turning her face to her pillow, she prayed softly, “Dear Heavenly Father, take good care of Daddy, and bring him safely home.” Then she drifted off to sleep.
By early afternoon, the heavy clouds had turned to snow. Sherrie ran home from school through swirling flakes—a rare and exciting thing. It practically never snowed in Hurricane, Utah, for just like nearby St. George, this was “the place where the summer sun spends the winter.”
When Mama turned on the TV to watch the six o’clock news, the newscaster was announcing that the blizzard had arrived hours earlier than expected and that Salt Lake City was snowed in. Pictures showed trucks and cars stalled in the snow.
When it came time for family prayers, Mama said, “Sherrie, I believe that it’s your turn tonight.” Everyone silently knelt and bowed their heads.
“Heavenly Father,” Sherrie began, “thanks for the snow to play in, but we’d like to have not so much of it for the people traveling on the roads. Take good care of Daddy, and bring him home safely. And if Thou would, please send a bright angel to protect him from danger, and help him to return soon. Thanks for taking good care of us and keeping us well. We love Thee, Heavenly Father. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Morning brought the sunshine. The storm was over, and Hurricane’s skift of snow was reduced to tiny white patches in the shade. Good! Daddy will have safe traveling today, Sherrie thought. But when she came home from school, his big truck wasn’t in the yard.
The evening news showed that weather conditions were still bad in northern Utah. Mama looked out the window often as she prepared supper. “Sherrie, please help Annie set the table,” she said.
Sherrie set Daddy’s place first. Then she drew little flowers on a card and wrote, “We love you, Daddy,” and put it by his plate.
Mama was just taking a pan of biscuits from the oven when Daddy’s truck rumbled into the yard. A stampede of children greeted him as he came through the door. It took some doing to hug his way through them before he could greet Mama. Happy faces surrounded the table, and Mama put on the roast and the vegetables. She had even made Daddy’s favorite lemon pudding.
“Dad, did an angel guard you on this trip?” Clay asked. “Sherrie prayed for one for you.”
As Daddy looked up from his plate, Sherrie shyly ducked her head. Daddy regarded her tenderly.
“Yes, Sherrie, an ‘angel’ did guard me. You see, snow and ice aren’t the only dangers on the road. My rig held the road just fine, but something far worse than a breakdown almost happened. On my way home I stopped on the outskirts of Salt Lake to gas up the truck and get a bite to eat. Then I pulled out onto the road. After I had gone a mile or two, a man rose up in the sleeper behind me and jabbed a pistol in my back.
“‘Pull over,’ he demanded. I stopped as soon as I could. Still keeping me covered, the man climbed onto the seat beside me. ‘Do as I say,’ he ordered, ‘and I won’t hurt you. But if you give me any trouble, I’ll shoot you.’ Then he barked, ‘Empty your wallet, and be quick about it.’
“Since I was looking down the barrel of that pistol, I didn’t argue. I dug my wallet from my pocket.
“‘Hand me the money first,’ he ordered, ‘then I’ll look at the credit cards.’
“I handed him the money I got for delivering the freight, about two hundred dollars in bills. Then, as I started to pull the cards from my wallet, Sherrie’s picture fell, faceup, onto the seat beside the man. He gasped. Like a man hypnotized, his gaze was riveted on Sherrie’s picture. The pistol fell from his limp fingers, and the money scattered to the floor. He buried his face in his hands and shook with deep, anguished sobs. Speechless, I watched him. Time seemed to stand still. How long I watched that big, burly man shaking with sobs, I don’t know. It seemed quite a while, but it must have been only minutes. Finally he raised his face, took another look at Sherrie’s picture, and asked hoarsely, ‘Is that your little girl?’
“‘Yes,’ I replied.
“‘She reminds me of my own little girl. I can still feel her arms clinging around my neck, and I can hear her crying and begging me not to leave her and her mommy. I’m no criminal. I’ve never robbed anyone in my life. But today I was desperate. The picture of your little girl has brought me back to my senses. Forgive me, please.’
“Perspiration stood out on the man’s forehead. He wiped his face on his sleeve, opened the door, and got out. ‘Hey, mister, don’t you want your pistol?’ I asked. Reluctantly, he picked it up. ‘Here,’ I said, handing him a couple of twenties. ‘I’m sure that you can use this.’
“He looked at me with disbelief as he took the money, then, swallowing hard, said, ‘Sir, you’re a lifesaver. You can’t possibly know what a difference this makes. God bless you.’
“I watched as he cut across a field toward a cluster of houses, and then I gathered the rest of the money from the floor. Sherrie’s picture still lay on the seat where it had fallen. As I picked it up, her smile danced in front of me through a river of tears. Over and over I whispered, ‘My angel, my darling little angel.’ My heart is so filled with thankfulness for all of you. Surely I am blessed.”
The sweet silence that filled the room seemed too sacred to be broken. At last Sherrie said softly, “Heavenly Father let my picture fall onto the seat by that man, didn’t he, Daddy?”
Stroking her dark curls, he replied, “Yes, Sherrie, my precious, bright angel. I’m sure that He did.”

Janie Sigoda stared at the strange hat and bright red notebook on the table. She was still wondering what they were for when her father started the family home evening lesson.
“Did you know,” he asked the family, “that the Nephites kept records but that they didn’t always remember to write all the important things that happened to them?”
Janie forgot about the hat and notebook and raised her hand. “Yes, Dad,” she said, “in Primary Sister Lind said that Jesus asked the Nephites why parts of the story of Samuel the Lamanite hadn’t been recorded.”
“It sounds like you already know the story,” Dad said with a smile. “Can you find it too?”
Janie opened the family copy of the Book of Mormon and searched through Third Nephi. “Here it is!”
Her father began reading while Mom held the baby. Janie and her brother, Chris, sat by Dad in his big chair so that they could read together the Savior’s words about Samuel the Lamanite.
“You see,” he finished, closing the book and looking at each of them, “keeping records is very important to the Savior.”
Janie’s eyes went back to the notebook, and even before her father spoke again, she guessed what he would say.
“Do you all see this red notebook?” Dad held it high, and the baby tried to reach and grab it. “This isn’t just any old notebook,” he went on. “It’s a special reporter’s notebook. We don’t want to miss great stories in our family record either.”
He picked up the funny hat and stuck a card with Family Reporter printed on it into the hatband. “Each month someone gets to be the Sigoda family reporter. Who will be it first—Mom, Chris, me, or Janie?”
“Oh, please let it be me,” Janie begged.
Dad winked at Mom, then smiled at Janie. Pulling her close, he put the hat on her head and handed her the bright red notebook. “Here’s your equipment, Miss Sigoda. Next month you can read your report of our family stories to us.”
The month passed with lots of stories to write. One Sunday they visited Grandma, and Janie made sure that she wore her reporter’s hat and carried her notebook. Grandma always had great stories. “Tell me something about Dad when he was a boy,” Janie asked her privately after dinner.
“Oh, your dad!” Grandma laughed. “I remember the time our bishop asked the congregation to raise their hands if they wanted a new parking lot. Every person there but one raised his hand to vote yes. Then, when the bishop asked if anyone was against the new lot, your dad raised his hand high and called out, ‘I am, bishop. If you put in a parking lot, we won’t have anyplace to play basketball.’ The rest of the congregation laughed for ten minutes!”
That was a good story to report, but the best one Janie wrote was of when Chris was baptized. She worked hard to get all the details exactly right for the family records. She made sure to include the facts that Dad baptized Chris and that both grandfathers were witnesses to the baptism. And she carefully wrote down each word of Chris’s testimony after he was confirmed: “I want to thank Mom and Dad and my sisters for all that they teach me,” he said. “I know that this church is true and that Heavenly Father and Jesus love me.”
The month ended too soon for Janie. She read her stories on family night, wearing her reporter’s hat. She especially liked watching her brother’s big smile when she finished by reading all about his baptism.
“Janie,” Mom said, “Dad and I are proud of you, and I know that Heavenly Father and Jesus are too.” Dad gave her a big hug, then said, “You’re the last person to hold the family record, and like the prophets in the Book of Mormon, you get to pick who keeps the record next. So, who will it be?”
Janie looked first at her mom, then at her dad, then at Chris. She could see his eyes shining just as hers had shone the month before. “Chris,” she said, “I give the record to you.” She handed the hat and precious red notebook to him. As Chris jumped up and down and put the reporter’s hat on, Janie smiled. She knew how he felt—being a family reporter was great.

This next example shows you do not have to be wealthy or old to be an instrument for good. Eighteen-year-old Marie “Djadjou” Jacques is from the Cavaillon Branch in Haiti. When the devastating earthquake struck near her town in August, her family’s house was one of tens of thousands of buildings that collapsed. It’s almost impossible to imagine the despair of losing your home. But rather than giving in to that despair, Djadjou—incredibly—turned outward.
Associated Press
She saw an elderly neighbor struggling and began taking care of her. She helped others clear away debris. Despite her exhaustion, she joined other Church members to distribute food and hygiene kits to others. Djadjou’s story is just one of many powerful examples of service carried out by youth and young adults as they strive to follow the example of Jesus Christ.

Many years ago, Sister Bednar and I were busy trying to meet the countless competing demands of a young and energetic family—and of Church, career, and community responsibilities. One evening after the children were asleep, we talked at length about how effectively we were attending to all of our important priorities. We realized that we would not receive the promised blessings in eternity if we did not honor more fully the covenant we had made in mortality. We resolved together to do and to be better as a husband and a wife. That lesson learned so many years ago has made a tremendous difference in our marriage.

The magazine left behind by an American serviceman in his shop was a little worn-out, but the young Filipino still found it inviting to read.
As if by design and not by pure chance, his fingers flipped the pages to an article about a prophet who died a hundre years before. In 1946, during the early days of the Republic of the Philippines, any story about as modern-day prophet would sound preposterous, but not for this young Pampango who became oblivious to the passing of time as he became deeply engrossed with the article on Joseph Smith and the Mormons who were, to him, a strange and unknown people.
The story he read lingered in his mind and there were searching questions he wanted to ask. There was the compelling need to know more about Joseph Smith and The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He had to find out, but there was no way to do it. … and nobody to turn to for enlightenment.
Then, one Saturday afternoon, he noticed an American captain from Clark Air Force Base who appeared to be completely different from the others during off-duty hours in matters of pleasure and other mundane activity.
The thought raced in David’s mind that the captain could be a Mormon, and he debated with himself on whether to ask him or not. How embarrassing it would be if the captain was not a Mormon and be offended by his impertinence. But an unseen force seemed to direct David to him, and he slowly approached the captain with faltering steps.
“Sir, may I ask you a question?” David shyly asked. The officer nodded. “Are you a Mormon?” he continued.
The officer’s lips broadened to a wide smile, and David almost shrank with shame with the thought that he had asked a silly question.
But the chance meeting and the unikely question proved to be the turning point in David’s life. The captain was a Mormon!
A strong bond of friendship was immediately struck between them—and, not long thereafter, David became a convert to the Church.
This episode came to life again on Sunday morning as Elder Gordon B. Hinckley highlighted the May 29, 1977 Special Combined Conference at the Philippine International Convention Center.
Elder Hinckley’s opening statement was a vividly recounted narrative on how David came as the only Filipino member early in the morning of May 28, 1961 to the American Battle Memorial Cemetery at Fort Bonifacio, where a small LDS group led by Elder Hickley gathered to initiate missionary work in the Philippines.
As he listened to Elder Hinckley’s testimony about him, tears welled in the eyes of David, recalling that thirty-one years before, a worn-out magazine and a chance meeting ushered into his life the greatest moment of truth.
This is the story of David D. Lagman of San Fernando, Pampanga and how he found it—the truth—long before we did.—P. Ocampo, Jr.

When I was growing up in Japan, I was given a Bible at school. It had English and Japanese words next to each other. Our principal told us to use it to study English.
As I read it, I learned about Jesus. Who is this person who is so full of love? I wondered. The words He said made me happy. I wanted to know more about Him.
A little while later, I met the missionaries. They gave me a Book of Mormon and asked me to read it and pray about it. I loved reading about Jesus in the Book of Mormon too. I prayed and felt it was true.
No one in my family wanted to learn about the Church. Jesus taught that we should honor our parents, but my parents didn’t want me to join the Church. That was hard.
I told my parents how I felt. I told them about my prayers. They didn’t understand. They wondered why I wanted to leave our religion behind.
I kept trying. Eventually my parents said I could be baptized. Many years later, my mother was also baptized.
I know that I was blessed for wanting to follow Jesus. I love learning about Him, and I know following Him brings blessings.

When Leigh got home from school, she found her mother carefully going through a big cardboard box of clothes. “What’s that?” she asked her mother.
“Another box of things from the Ellers.” Her mother held up a green corduroy jumper and asked, “Do you like this one?”
Leigh nodded her head, but after rummaging through the box, she held up a red velveteen party dress with lace ruffles and said, “I like this one better.”
“That’s lovely, Leigh!” her mother exclaimed. “It hardly shows any wear at all.”
“Why do the Ellers give us their clothes?” Leigh asked, examining a white silk blouse.
Her mother looked up and reached out to stroke Leigh’s copper hair, then turned away and sighed, “Because we need them, Leigh, and the Ellers are kind enough to share with us.”
Leigh didn’t mind wearing the Ellers’ pretty clothing, even if it was used. Since the Eller girls went to a different school, no one in Leigh’s school recognized her “new clothes.” Leigh never told anyone about the hand-me-down box.
One day in school Mrs. Kratz, Leigh’s fourth-grade teacher, announced, “I want each of you to think about what you want to be when you grow up.”
All the children moaned—all except Leigh. Leigh had wanted to be a writer ever since she had first learned how to read.
“And,” Mrs. Kratz continued, “I want each of you to be prepared to tell us what you’ve decided in a little speech next Wednesday.”
“A speech!” Leigh gasped quietly. She had never spoken in front of a class before. What will I say? she wondered. What will I wear?
When Leigh got home from school that day, she tore through the house, frantically calling her mother.
“What’s the matter, Leigh?” her mother cried. “Are you hurt?”
Leigh explained breathlessly, “I have to give a speech in class next Wednesday.”
“A speech?”
“I have to talk about what I want to be when I grow up, and I have to do it in front of the whole class! I have to look my best so no one will laugh at me, and I don’t have anything to wear!”
Mother came down from the ladder where she’d been hanging some curtains that she had washed. “What about one of the dresses that the Ellers gave us?”
“Not hand-me-downs,” Leigh protested. “Not this time. For once can’t I have a new dress?” she pleaded.
“Well, perhaps we can afford to buy fabric to make you one,” offered her mother.
Looking at her feet, Leigh barely whispered, “Not a homemade dress. A new store-bought dress—like the Ellers wear. Just this once. Please.”
Mrs. Baugh knelt before her daughter, placed her hands on Leigh’s shoulders, and looked straight into her troubled eyes. “We can’t spend very much on a new dress, but we’ll go look Saturday.”
Leigh was ecstatic as she hugged her mother. Later that night Leigh lay awake in bed, thinking about a store-bought dress. She said “look,” Leigh reminded herself, not “buy.” But I have twelve dollars saved from babysitting, and with what Mother has, I should be able to buy a dress as nice as the Ellers wear. She drifted off to sleep, dreaming about her first trip to one of the fine dress shops in town.
But when Saturday came, they didn’t go to a fancy shop. They went to a factory outlet store that didn’t look much different from the local grocery store. Leigh tried to conceal her disappointment as her mother led her to a rack full of dresses her size. One by one, they pulled the dresses off the rack and held them up to Leigh, looking for the perfect one for her first speech. The dresses were nice but not special—just plain cotton-polyester dresses like Leigh had worn before the Ellers started sending their clothes. Leigh hesitated, then asked, “Where are the fancier dresses, Mother?”
“Oh, Leigh,” her mother sighed good-naturedly. “There aren’t any fancy dresses in here, and if there were, we couldn’t afford them.”
Leigh wandered to the front of the store and peered out the big plate-glass window. Across the street a little girl in a beautiful blue coat and hat was just leaving an expensive dress shop with her mother, who was laden with ribbon-tied boxes. Leigh turned toward the check-out counter in the factory outlet and watched the cashier stuff purchases into plain brown paper sacks.
Mrs. Baugh came up and put an arm around her daughter, then looked out the window at the store across the street. “Maybe someday, Leigh,” she murmured.
“Let’s go home and see if we can find something in the hand-me-down box,” Leigh offered, trying to smile. “The red velveteen dress with the ruffles is much prettier than any of these dresses.”
Back home, Leigh tried on the red dress and was as pleased with how it felt as with how it looked. The velveteen was wonderfully soft, and the red brought out the natural rosiness in her cheeks and the highlights in her hair. Her mother pinned a new hem while Leigh twirled about in her slip, planning her speech.
On Wednesday Leigh practiced her speech aloud one last time while her mother carefully pressed the velveteen dress. Leigh had never felt more confident in her life.
When she got to school, Leigh noticed Linnie Lubette staring at her.
“Is that a new dress, Leigh?” Linnie asked with a sneer.
“Yes,” Leigh answered. “I got it for my speech today. Are you all ready?”
“Of course,” Linnie answered. Then she took Leigh’s arm and jeered, “Didn’t I see that dress at my ward’s Christmas party?”
Stunned, Leigh pulled away and sat down as Linnie started snickering. Then Leigh remembered that the Ellers and the Lubettes belonged to the same ward. Cindy had probably worn the dress to their ward’s Christmas party. If Linnie had admired it, she would remember it. Leigh was embarrassed and wished that she had worn any of her other dresses.
Suddenly she heard her name called.
“Why don’t you go first, Leigh?” her teacher asked. “We’re anxious to hear about your career choice.”
Leigh slipped out of her seat and walked slowly to the front of the room. Before she even had a chance to gather her thoughts, her teacher spoke again. “My, don’t you look lovely today, Leigh. Is that a new dress?”
Before Leigh could respond, Linnie chirped, “It’s not new. It’s a hand-me-down from Cindy Eller.”
Leigh was mortified. Now everyone would know that she wore hand-me-downs! She hung her head to hide the tears that were welling up in her eyes.
The room fell silent.
Leigh felt her teacher’s arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “We’re both fortunate, Leigh. See this dress that I’m wearing? It’s a hand-me-down too.”
Leigh looked up for the first time and stared through tear-filled eyes at her teacher’s pretty blue dress. “You see”—her teacher turned to explain to the class—“I can’t afford many nice dresses like this. But my sister, who is a doctor, has many beautiful clothes. She shares them with me because she loves me.”
Leigh slowly turned her gaze from her teacher to Linnie, who was shrinking into her seat.
“I’m glad, Leigh,” her teacher continued, “that you have a friend who is kind enough to share her nice things with you. Now,” she said, going back to her desk, “tell us what you want to be when you grow up.”
Leigh cleared her throat. “I want to be like your sister.”
“A doctor?”
“No,” Leigh replied, smiling. “Someone kind enough to share with others.”

Jeff wanted to be a missionary just like his older brother who was on a mission in Colombia. But how can I be a missionary when I’m afraid to talk to people? Jeff wondered.
Just last week the Primary president asked all the children to be missionaries and bring somebody new to Primary.
“We have a wonderful Primary,” she told the children, “but think how much better it would be if we had more children to share our Primary with.” Then she asked the boys and girls to raise their hands if they thought they could bring a friend the next week. Jeff raised his hand. Now he wondered why he had done it. How was he ever going to get the courage to talk to anyone at school about the Church?
Jeff and Jimmy were the only two LDS boys in the fifth grade. They were also the only Blazer boys in the Primary. They had a good teacher and Jeff knew that one of the reasons why he had raised his hand to be a missionary was to please her. He knew that if other boys came, they would like Sister Fillmore and the good lessons she gave.
Jeff remembered two full-time missionaries in their sacrament meeting one time telling them about the good feeling they had when they shared the gospel with others. Jeff wanted that good feeling too. But how was he ever going to have it when he was so timid?
Jeff walked into the kitchen and slumped down in a chair by the table where his mother was decorating some dish towels with her textile paints. Jeff asked, “Won’t that paint wash out of the cloth, Mom?”
“No, Jeff, the paints are made to stay right in the fabric.”
“Hey, that’s neat. Can you paint anything on the towels you want to?” asked Jeff.
“Sure, son. You sound excited about something,” replied Mother.
Jeff was excited. He had an idea. “Mom, can I paint something on my yellow T-shirt?” he asked.
Mother laughed. “I don’t know what you have in mind, but go ahead.”
Jeff was back in a few minutes, grinning and waving his shirt. He laid it on the table and smoothed out all the wrinkles. Then, with Mother’s black painting pen, he drew on the front of the shirt a great big face with two round eyes and a large smile. Underneath the face he wrote, HAPPINESS IS GOING TO PRIMARY.
When the paint was dry, Jeff turned the shirt over and on the back he printed in large letters, WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT PRIMARY - WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW MORE? He could hardly wait to wear his shirt to school.
The next day when he walked into the coat hall there were several boys there already. As Jeff took off his jacket and hung it on the hook, one of the boys was quick to notice the bright yellow T-shirt with the big face painted on the front and the letters on the back. “What does your shirt say, Jeff? Let me read it.” said Andy.
Jeff stood still, his heart pounding. All of a sudden he thought, What if they make fun of me?
Andy read the words on the shirt out loud. “Primary?” he questioned. “What’s Primary?”
Here was Jeff’s big chance. He prayed inside that he would say the right thing. “Well, in Primary we learn to—” Jeff’s voice tightened up on him and the words got stuck in his mouth.
All of a sudden, Greg, one of the other boys, interrupted. “Hey, Jeff, isn’t Primary where you learn about Scouting and other neat things you were telling me about the other day?”
“Scouting?” questioned Andy. “My dad was an Eagle Scout and he wants me to be one too. Can I go to Primary with you Jeff? Can just anyone go?”
Before Jeff could answer, Greg said, “Me too! I never have anything to do after school. My parents both work and nobody’s ever home.”
Jeff could hardly believe what he was hearing. His voice came back and he felt relaxed and happy. “Sure,” said Jeff, “anybody can come—the more the better. It’s on Tuesday and we learn lots of neat things besides Scouting. You’ll really like our teacher. She’s just great.”
The bell rang and the boys filed into the classroom. Jeff’s seat was by his Primary friend Jimmy. As Jeff sat down, Jimmy looked at Jeff’s shirt and said, “Do you think that’s going to work?”
Jeff’s smile got bigger and bigger as he whispered, “It already has!”
At recess Jeff told Jimmy about Andy and Greg. He could hardly believe what had happened. Jimmy became excited about painting a missionary T-shirt too.
“Wow!” he exclaimed. “If we can get the whole Primary wearing these shirts to school, a lot of kids will soon be interested. Our Primary will grow bigger and bigger.”
Even shy boys can be missionaries. It just takes some doing, Jeff concluded.
Already Jeff was beginning to have that good feeling that the missionaries had talked about. Wouldn’t they be surprised when they heard about the first T-shirt missionary!

As I sat in sacrament meeting pondering the prayer on the bread, the words kept repeating themselves in my mind: “that they may always have his Spirit to be with them” (Moroni 4:3; D&C 20:77).
“Always,” it said—not just at certain times. Why, then, several months earlier, had my husband and I not been prompted regarding how to protect our 11-year-old son before he was killed in a bicycle-automobile accident? Why would Heavenly Father not “always” watch over us and warn us?
I had been taught in Primary and believed that the Holy Ghost would protect us. He would use the still, small voice to watch over, guide, and warn us of danger. This thought had been in my mind since Ben had passed away. I missed him very much, and my heart ached for understanding and peace.
Where was my warning voice? Where was the Holy Ghost? I felt that we were doing our best to be righteous. We paid our tithing, attended our meetings, and served whenever we were asked. We were far from perfect, but we held family home evening and scripture study. We were trying.
About this time I was sitting in a Relief Society class when the teacher told a story of a close relative.
This story hit me hard, but as I sat in my chair in tears preparing to stand and leave the room, a great comfort washed over me. I felt peace that the Holy Ghost had indeed been with me. In my case He had not been there as a warning voice but as a comforter.
From the time of Ben’s accident, I had felt strength beyond my own and had been comforted by my Heavenly Father’s love. I lacked understanding at times of why certain things happen, but I had never doubted His love.
I have faith that God understands all things and will never leave me comfortless. The Holy Ghost plays many roles in our lives. He can protect us, but He also guides us, comforts us, teaches us, and provides understanding and other blessings.
I learned that Heavenly Father does keep His promises. He had “always” been with me.

Is it true that “with God nothing shall be impossible”? (Luke 1:37). José Javier Alarcón, 16, of Maracaibo, has tested this scriptural promise.
“When I was eight or nine years old, my parents divorced. Later a friend invited me to church, and eventually I wanted to be baptized. But my mother, who had been baptized but hadn’t been active for many years, wouldn’t let me. When I was 12, she finally allowed me to be baptized. As I grew in the gospel, I started to pray that my mom would come back to the Church. A couple of years later, she did!”
José Javier’s mother, Miriam, admits that she had been apart from the Church for eight years and “didn’t ever intend to come back. But when my son began praying with great faith for me … something started to happen inside me. I began to feel a strong desire to pray and read the scriptures. One night the Lord changed my heart, and from that night I changed completely. So I owe it to my son. I thank the Father for giving me such a wonderful son!”
“It’s a gift from God,” says José Javier. “I had to do part of it. But it was actually God who did all of these things.”
Now José Javier, his mother, and his younger brother, Jesús David, 10, have visited the temple. José Javier has been baptized for the dead, and their mother has received her endowment.

My new husband and I knew the importance of family home evening in helping families learn to love each other and grow together, but our children were grown and on their own. It was hard for us to hold a family night until we decided to invite my husband’s mother. At the time my mother-in-law was 74 years old and belonged to another church. She worked in a flower shop and scarcely ventured from her routine of going to work and then home.
At first she was a little hesitant to come because she knew nothing of our faith, but now she looks forward to Monday nights. We share dinners, laughter, and music and have become very close. We know that she does not want us to try to convert her, but she does allow us to share stories about our faith. One evening I read a talk from one of the Church leaders. We all felt the Spirit. We have had opportunities to show her the Ensign, and she looks at every page. We have taught her what temples are for, and she has watched Church videos. We do these things sparingly, as the Spirit guides us.
Before one of our family home evenings, I asked her to teach the lesson. She brought pictures of herself when she was young and of my husband when he was a baby. I heard stories of aunts, uncles, grandmas, and grandpas. The happiness in her eyes as she relived these experiences made my heart almost burst. I realized then that the commandment to have family home evening is divine instruction from our Father in Heaven.
Many doors have been opened for my mother-in-law to learn things pertaining to the gospel. I don’t know that she will become a member of the Church during her life on earth, but I do know that our family has been strengthened and our love increased.
Dani Jeanne Stevens, Logan Ward, Huntington West Virginia Stake

It was at the beginning of seventh grade that I first met Randa. She was assigned to the desk right behind mine.
Her family had just moved into the area. She was the oldest child and only girl in a family with six children. Her family was neither rich nor poor. They fit right in with everyone else. In fact, the only thing unusual about the family was Randa.
Randa had been born with a serious malformation of the face. The first thing I noticed about her was a long, purple scar down her cheek. It was a result of one of many corrective surgeries. There would be many more surgeries in her future. The left lens in her eyeglasses was frosted to help conceal an artificial eye.
Now, I used to have a case of acne that I thought was terminal. Whenever I looked in the mirror, I would think, “Someday I’m going to grow out of this.” Whenever Randa looked in the mirror, she knew she was not going to grow out of it.
Still, Randa and I ended up talking about everything during class. I teased her unmercifully, and she would tease me right back, with a measure added. We developed a friendship and began to share things besides sharp retorts with each other.
One of the subjects we talked about frequently was her dream of her wedding reception. Randa described the flowers, the decorations, the bridesmaids’ dresses, even the music. She had indomitable optimism. I would quietly listen to her and think, “Randa, why do you do this? There isn’t going to be a wedding.”
Her physical problems created some tough social situations. I admit that my classmates and I were not as sensitive as we should have been. We made all sorts of comments about her—not all nice. I’m embarrassed to say that I made my share of “funny” remarks at her expense.
During our high school years she ran for cheerleader. I suppose she was hoping that a success would win her some social acceptance. But Randa’s dreams were ravaged by the electoral process.
Dances weren’t easy for Randa either. One night, at a church dance, one of the brighter guys made a proposition. You could show real courage by asking the “ugliest” girl there for a dance. Better yet, you could stay for a second dance just to prove your courage had staying power. That was followed by a lot of laughter, and a lot of “I will if you will” promises.
Suddenly one of the guys broke away from the group and asked Randa for a dance. Then he stayed for a second. When he returned to our group, he said, “Okay guys, you promised.” One by one, they asked Randa to dance, and stayed for a second. Randa danced 16 times that night. She had the time of her life—only to learn later that she was the object of a cruel joke.
But Randa did have a date to all the formal dances—with her father. She always had a nice formal and a corsage, just like the other girls. Her father would be dressed in a nice Sunday suit, just like the other guys. Randa and her father would dance a few dances and sit out a few, just like the rest of us. At about 10:00 P.M., Randa and her father would go home, not like the rest of us. We would go to a late dinner or party.
But life was not bad for Randa. She was blessed with a lot of spunk and a great attitude. She had a beautiful singing voice and sang whenever she was asked. She had a wonderful sense of humor, too. In spite of her painful experiences, she was not introverted. She pursued her dreams boldly. Randa was determined to live life as it came.
After high school, our paths parted. I went to college and served a mission while Randa pursued higher education as well.
A short time after returning from my mission, I received an invitation to what I considered an amazing social function. It was Randa’s wedding reception! I stepped into the cultural hall of her ward and looked around with a mixture of awe and satisfaction. The flowers, the decorations, the bridesmaids’ dresses, even the music were exactly as she had described them all those years before. In the reception line I met Randa’s husband, who was tall, dark, and handsome. He knew who he was and what is important in life. I was very impressed.
Years later, at a class reunion, I was happy to find that Randa was still reaching for the stars with her usual enthusiasm. She’d made some outstanding achievements. She had seven healthy children. She had served as campaign manager for a successful candidate for the U.S. Congress. She had been elected to the school board in her community. And while juggling all these demands, Randa went back to college and completed a bachelor’s degree so she could qualify to teach the handicapped.
It took me many years to learn how well Heavenly Father knows and loves each one of us. And when I finally had a better idea of this, I realized I had some sore repenting to do for the offenses I had caused Randa.
I called her and asked her forgiveness for all the unkind things I had said and done at her expense. She could only remember one time I was cruel. Her memory had been much kinder to me than mine was. She freely forgave me.
I hope that in the future I’ll have the courage to behave the way I believe. If I had done that in seventh grade and all the grades that followed, life could have been more gratifying for Randa. It’s such a little thing—to ask to be treated with kindness. It’s really only a little thing to be kind. I realize, though, that the little things, done consistently, make a very big difference.

I would like to use my own family as an illustration of what I have in mind. Mother and I were filling a mission together over in Holland when we had a little girl born to us, and after we had been home a few years she passed away. When she was born, my wife has told me over and over again that she felt she saw an angel bring that spirit to her. And yet she is gone. Then I think of her four sisters. You voted here today to sustain one of them as a counselor in the general presidency of the Relief Society. Her other three sisters are just as noble and wonderful, although their talents may be just a little different.

When I think of this little one that we laid away when she was three-and-a-half years old, I thank God I have the faith to believe that God reigns in the heavens above and in the earth beneath and that this little one will ultimately enter into her glory and be equal to any of her four sisters who have tarried here upon this earth and raised their families. I thank God for the statement of the apostle Paul when he said that “If in this life only we have hope in Christ, we are of all men most miserable.” (1 Cor. 15:19.) In this brief period of mortality, it would not be possible for God to accomplish for all of his children all that he has in mind for them, the ones that are true and faithful.

I think of the statement of Moses as recorded in the Pearl of Great Price: “For behold, this is my work and my glory—to bring to pass the immortality and eternal life of man.” (Moses 1:39.) I wonder sometimes if we ever stop to analyze that statement. I think we can understand what “to bring to pass immortality” is, that we will never die after we come forth in the resurrection, as President Romney pointed out this morning. But what about eternal life? As I interpret this, I find in it the feeling that all that God has ultimately planned for his children who are faithful and true shall come to them in his own due time.

We read in the Book of Mormon that we are not all born at the same time (and that doesn’t matter) and that we don’t all die at the same time. (See Alma 40:8.) I think of the words of Abraham when he saw the placing of the spirits here upon this earth, that the Lord would prove them to see if they would do all things whatsoever he had commanded them. Then he adds: “And they who keep their first estate shall be added upon.” (Abr. 3:26.) That was in the spirit life before we came to mortality. “They who keep their second estate shall have glory added upon their heads for ever and ever.” (Abr. 3:26.) This little girl of ours kept her second estate as far as she could at her age.

Then I think of the statement of the Lord to the Prophet Joseph Smith when he said: “The works, and the designs, and the purposes of God cannot be frustrated, neither can they come to naught.” (D&C 3:1.) In other words, no one can stand in the way of God achieving what he has decreed for his children. Then a further statement in the Doctrine & Covenants where the Lord said: “His purposes fail not, neither are there any who can stay his hand. From eternity to eternity he is the same.” (D&C 76:3–4.)

Then there are the words of the Lord to the prophet Nephi when he said: “For my work is not yet finished; neither shall it be until the end of man, neither from that time henceforth and forever.” (2 Ne. 29:9.) Now that should enable us to comprehend and realize that there will never be a time when God will cease to do his work to bring to pass, as we read in the Pearl of Great Price, the glory that will be added upon their heads forever and ever.

Coming back to our family, we had four daughters before we got a boy and he grew into beautiful young manhood; we lost him in an accident down at the beach in California while I was the president of the stake there. He was just turning 16 and he stood as tall as his father, and to think now of his own brothers who are here: they have their families, and one of them has just been serving as one of the Regional Representatives of the Twelve. I can’t believe that boy will come out any less exalted in the eternities that are to come than his brothers who have lived here in mortality. When he died, the principal of the high school came to our home (and he was not a member of the Church) and told Sister Richards that our son was the best boy he had ever had in his school, and we felt that, too, as he grew into manhood.