Gospel Story Finder

Our family lived in Hamburg, Germany, during World War I when food was rationed. City-dwellers often tried to purchase food from farmers, who sometimes had a little surplus. When I was fourteen years old, my mother gave me money for a railroad ticket and sent me to the country to try to buy food.
After a two-hour train ride, I arrived at a village where I began walking door to door. Though I visited more than forty houses, no one would sell me anything.
I was determined not to return home empty-handed and decided to walk the 4.5 kilometers to the next village where the train did not go. After walking about forty-five minutes and visiting all the houses along the way, I found a farmer who sold me forty-five kilos of potatoes. I could not believe my luck! The most I had hoped for was some butter or a few kilos of bacon.
The farmer lifted the sack of potatoes crosswise onto my shoulders, and I started back the way I had come. Before long, I realized the difficulty of my task—the potatoes weighed at least as much as I did. If I dropped my load onto the roadside and rested, I feared that I might not be able to lift it back onto my shoulders.
In the midst of this dilemma, I recalled my mother, who had taught me the scriptures and the power of prayer. I remembered an episode in the Book of Mormon where the Nephites, who were in bondage to the Lamanites, asked the Lord to lighten their burdens. The Lord had answered their prayers, and it occurred to me that the Lord might also lighten the weight of my burden. (See Mosiah 24:15.)
I began to pray. Instantly, I felt as if the load had been taken off my shoulders. I was able to walk with ease all of the way to the train station without resting.
At the station, another miracle occurred. Village police had the authority to confiscate any food found on passengers. Many people tried to hide their food, but there was no way I could hide the forty-five kilo sack of potatoes. However, as I boarded the train, nothing was said and I was allowed to take the potatoes home to my mother.
My search for food brought my family the physical nourishment we needed during a difficult time and developed in me an unshakable testimony that the Lord hears and answers prayers.

I give one last personal example of how the whisperings of the Spirit can come in the form of thoughts. Report card day for our oldest son, Ben, was never that great for him or for me. Though he was clearly smart and talented, his grades in math and science were never that good. This was difficult for me to understand because I had always loved math and science and had done well in those areas. It would be safe to say that more than once the Spirit was driven from our home because of contention over grades. One day when Ben was high-school age, I was pondering this issue of his grades and our contention when a thought came to me as clear as if it had been a voice: “You should be encouraging Ben in his strengths and worrying less about his weaknesses.” As I mentioned, Ben is extremely talented and creative. We decided to encourage him to take a photography class that he was interested in, art classes, and other classes that would allow him to show his strengths. He did well in those classes, and his grades got better. Interestingly, his grades in math and science also got better. Ben eventually made his way to BYU and graduated with a bachelor of fine arts degree in animation. He currently works at Pixar Animation Studio in Emeryville, California.

I have been a member of the Church all my life, but it took a girl who lived the standards to make me realize that I should do the same, and also that I should go on a mission. Naturally I enjoyed “By the Way She Is” in the September issue. I am deeply grateful to this young woman, for not only did she impress me with the importance of a mission and open up an entirely new world for me in the gospel, but she also helped me indirectly to find the joy of reading the New Era. You see, after two weeks out in the mission field I contracted an illness that left me with some time on my hands, and I happened onto a copy of the New Era. I read it and then frantically started searching for more copies. It may interest you to know that in a four-hour period, I read and reread seven copies.
Elder Leslie Dale MartineauCanada Halifax Mission

I was powerfully taught this lesson on a spring Monday eight years ago. The wife of my boyhood home teacher Craig Moore, Lila, was passing away. She was 92 and had been widowed for 16 years. Lila’s children, Kathy and Merrill, were on their way to Idaho but hadn’t arrived.

Lila was struggling for air with such strength that her legs rose off the bed with each breath. I had given her a blessing that mentioned the First Resurrection and reuniting with Craig. Yet, she was determined to remain on Earth. In what seemed to be delirium, she declared repeatedly, “I have too much to do.”

Into her final hour, Lila repeatedly asserted that she would get better. But the labored breathing began to slow. She held my hand to the end.

How blessed we are to have the capacity to honor and prolong the lives of our forebears. They can teach us things—from both sides of the veil—that we cannot otherwise learn before it is too late to make good use of them on Earth.

“Come on,” Tracy insisted as she pulled on Kent’s arm. “It’s not that big of a deal. All we have to do is go in and read them a few stories; you’ll love it.”
Kent looked up at the tall white building towering above him. “Yeah, about as much as I’d love a broken arm. I hate hospitals.”
Tracy smiled and shook her head. “That’s why I like you Kent, because you’re so brave.”
“Real funny, Trace. Why don’t we catch a movie and get a hamburger like most people do on a date?”
“You’re the one who wanted to do something different,” she said, pinching his cheek.
“I said different, not crazy!”
“Okay,” Tracy grinned. “We’ll go in for one hour; then we can see the late movie.”
Before Kent could answer he had been dragged through the glass doors and onto the elevator. Soon they were on the second floor. The whole room was yellow: yellow walls, yellow carpet, little yellow tables and chairs. What had he gotten himself into? When he called Tracy last week he had said he wanted to do something different, but he never imagined he would be at a hospital reading to children, especially on Friday evening.
They walked over to the nurse’s station and rang the bell. A nurse appeared in the doorway and stepped up to the desk.
“Can I help you?”
Tracy spoke up. “Yes, we’re volunteers.”
“Oh good, the children like visitors so much.” She handed them each a stack of books.
Kent looked shocked. “Do we have to read them all?”
“Oh no, it’s completely up to you, but I’m sure that after you meet our patients you won’t mind. I’ll be right back,” the nurse said as she disappeared down the hall.
Kent looked at his watch. “Only 47 minutes and 35 seconds to go.”
Just then the nurse reappeared pushing a wheelchair whose occupant was a small, blonde-haired girl. She had a huge bright smile and sky blue eyes that sparkled like diamonds.
“Hi, I’m Mickey,” she said with so much enthusiasm it nearly knocked them to the floor.
“Hello, I’m Tracy and this is Kent.”
Kent smiled and shook her small hand.
Mickey winked at Tracy. “He’s cute.”
“Yes,” Tracy replied. “But we don’t want to talk about it or he’ll get a big head.” Kent could feel his face getting hot and turned away.
“He’s not as cute as me,” said a gruff voice from behind the nurse. She stepped aside to reveal a small boy with chubby, freckled cheeks and brown hair.
“No,” the nurse replied. “No one is as cute as our little Cliff.” He smiled and ducked his head.
“Come on over here, Cliff,” Tracy said. “I’m going to read to you.”
Cliff hobbled over on his metal crutches. “Way to go, nurse; it’s about time we got some good volunteers.”
Mickey spoke up. “Can’t Jacson come hear today?” she asked the nurse.
“No, Mickey. Jacson doesn’t feel very well today.” Mickey smiled and looked at Kent.
“I’ll betcha he’d go to Jacson’s room and read to him.”
The nurse looked at Kent. “If you don’t mind, he would enjoy it.”
Tracy squeezed his hand. “You can handle it, big guy.”
Kent smiled stiffly and stood up. “Okay, where is he?” Kent glanced at Tracy and pointed to his watch. She ignored him, opened a book, and began reading.
The nurse led Kent down the hall to a bright yellow door.
“Why is everything so yellow?” Kent asked her.
“Because yellow is a cheerful color and it makes people feel happy. Don’t you feel happy just being here?” Kent smiled his stiff smile again and stepped into the dark room. The smell of sanitizers and deodorizers reached his nose. He looked across the room at the small bed, and the even smaller boy lying in it.
“Hi, Jacson, I’m Kent. I’m here to read to you.”
“Just go tell them you did and get your money.”
“My money?”
“Yeah, the money they give you guys for reading to us sick kids.”
“We don’t get paid. I’m a volunteer. That means I’m here because I want to be.” Kent suddenly felt guilty.
“Well I don’t care. I still don’t want no story.”
“Okay.” Kent walked toward the door.
“Hey, Kent, do you play football?”
“Sure do. I’m the quarterback on my high school team.”
“Oh, that’s nothin’. When I get better I’m gonna be the best quarterback in the whole world.
“Is that so?” Kent said as he slowly made his way back to the bed.
“Yep, and you know what else?”
“What?”
“I can beat you in checkers.”
“Oh yeah? We’ll have to see about that.” Kent walked over to the small desk. He picked up the box of checkers and soon they were involved in a full-fledged checker battle.
After being beaten badly, Kent decided it was going to be a difficult task to win. “Okay, Jacson, one more game.”
The game was over more quickly than the one before it.
“I think you better give up, Kent.”
“Just one more game.” Kent suddenly realized he was enjoying himself.
After about seven more games there was a knock at the door and Tracy’s head poked in. “Come in, Tracy,” Kent called.
Jacson looked at Kent. “She’s pretty. What’s she doing with you?”
“I felt sorry for him,” Tracy grinned.
“Tracy, this is Jacson Williams. Jacson, this is Tracy Lewis.”
“Hi, Jacs.”
“Hi. Is Kent really a quarterback?”
“Yes, and a very good one.”
Kent smiled. “Jacson here is going to be a pro.”
Tracy took Jacson’s hand. “I’m sure you’ll be a great quarterback.”
“Well, Jacson,” Kent said. “We have to go now, but we’ll be back next week, and I want you out of this bed and in a wheelchair, okay?”
“Okay,” Jacson said as he slugged Kent’s arm. “Next week I might let you win a couple of games too.”
“Well I’m going right home to practice.” They stepped out into the bright hall, and Kent looked down at his watch. He had been in Jacson’s room for an hour and a half.
“Sorry, Tracy, but I think we missed the movie.”
Tracy smiled and took his hand. “I don’t think anyone in this whole hospital minds one bit.”
The next week passed quickly for Kent as he found himself looking forward to his Friday night hospital visit. On his way to the hospital he picked up a sports magazine for Jacson. He couldn’t believe he had become so attached to a little kid, and in such a short time.
“I don’t even mind the yellow,” he thought as the elevator doors opened. He stepped over to the desk and rang the bell. The nurse from the week before was there again.
“Hello, it’s Kent, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, how’s Jacson?” The nurse led him over to the tables.
“I’m afraid he’s not doing very well at all. Jacson has leukemia.” The words hit Kent like a ton of bricks.
“Well sure,” he said. “But he’s a strong kid. He can tackle it.”
“I’m afraid not. Jacson is dying.”
Kent couldn’t believe it, a scrawny, freckle-faced kid had him feeling as though his heart had been ripped through his chest.
The nurse smiled. “After your visit last week he really improved. He even got out of his bed and into a wheelchair. He wanted you to know that.”
Kent tried to hold back his tears. What was he doing becoming attached to a little kid he barely knew? A feeling of joy passed through his body. It felt good to care about someone besides himself for a change.
“Can I see him?”
“Of course,” she replied. “He’s been counting the days since last Friday.”
Kent followed the nurse down the endless hallway. A million thoughts passed through his mind. What was he going to say to him?
“Only a few minutes,” the nurse cautioned. Kent stepped into the dark room. He walked over and opened the drapes. A shower of moonlight fell through. He looked down at Jacson’s frail body in the oxygen tent.
“Jacson?” he whispered.
Jacson’s eyes fluttered open and a huge smile covered his face. “Kent,” he tried to sit up but couldn’t. “I got in a wheelchair, Kent. I rode all around …”
“Don’t talk, Jacson. You need to rest.”
“I’m tired of resting. I want to play football.”
“Well, you can’t for a while. I brought you a magazine. You better get better so they can interview you.”
“Kent, I’m gonna die.” Kent turned away so Jacson couldn’t see his tears. “But it’s okay ’cause Mom says they have quarterbacks in heaven.”
Thunder shook the small window and the nurse poked her head through the door. “Kent, you’ll have to go now.”
“Okay, just a minute. Well, Jacson, I gotta go but I’ll be back real soon.”
He squeezed the small hand that reached out for his. “Thanks, Kent.”
“Anytime, Jacson.” He stood by the bed a moment, then slipped silently out the door.
“Nurse, I want to know when … when …”
“I understand, I’ll call you.”
Kent quietly left the hospital and drove home. Then next Wednesday Kent got the phone call he had been expecting all week. Jacson had passed away. Even though Kent thought he had prepared himself, the news sent chills down his spine. “He left something here for you if you’d like to come pick it up,” the nurse told him.
“Yes, I’ll be there in a few minutes.” He silently hung up the phone and made his way to the car. The ride was the longest he could remember. The nurse gave him a small box. Inside was the checkerboard and the little red and black checkers stacked in two neat piles. A small piece of paper was taped to the board. He carefully unfolded it, and read:
“Dear Kent, My Mom’s writing this letter because I can’t hold a pencil too good. I just want to thank you for being my friend and helping me to get better a little. I’m giving you the checkers so you can practice. I really wish I could see you play football. Maybe we’ll be on the same team in heaven. We’d win every game too. Well, I’m kinda tired so I’m going to sleep now.” Tears filled Kent’s eyes as he read the signature scribbled in Jacson’s own handwriting. “I love you, Jacson.”
Kent was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. He wanted to scream. He wanted to be alone.
“Hey, mister, do you play football?”
Kent turned to see a young face staring into his. “Yeah, do you?”
“I used to a lot, but now I have to settle for checkers.”
“Well,” Kent replied. “I just happen to have some with me.” He laid out the board, and they were soon playing. “What’s your name?”
“Bill.”
“Well, Bill, how do you feel about quarterbacks?”

Percy “Chappy” Winstanley, who presided over the first Durban stake created in 1981 and came up from Johannesburg to attend the Durban dedication, recalled Church members putting their lives on the line regularly—sometimes in helping with routine meetings and activities.
“We had a high councilor down in the Eastern Cape who would have to run the gauntlet of rioters throwing rocks at his car to go open the meetinghouse in the morning,” he said. “Then he would have to go back [to lock the building], and here came the rocks again.”

Now let me share a few quick experiences that show how doors will be opened if we do our part.
Everything I’m going to show you has been written and discovered in the last several weeks.
Recently I received an email from a complete stranger about someone on my wife’s line. When you post your family history on the Internet – and that’s one of the first things you need to do - you can get a lot of email if you do it right. The writer was responding to one of many postings I had placed on the Internet. His email said basically, is your Henry Wright born in 1782 the same person as my Henry Wright also born in 1782. Such exploratory emails are very common in the genealogical world.

When we affirmed the right dates, places and other names, he proceeded to deliver 1,100 names back to the 1500s, well researched, with documented sources. That led to much more, including old photographs and missing information to fill in stories. It even led to my wife rediscovering the best friend of her youth – a second cousin with whom we had lost contact 20 years ago.

My wife, Cathy, whose interest in actually doing family history, to put it diplomatically, has been… intermittent… over the years, mentioned to me after receiving this flood of names that she had been praying for help in finding her ancestors. I looked at her in surprise because she hadn’t mentioned it. ‘How long have you been praying about it?” I asked. “About three weeks,” she said. “But I prayed really sincerely.” I’m not sure what that says about my prayers for 40 years, but it does show that help may be closer than you think.

As a direct result of that one email, we added four pages to our family history website.

The family settled on Leman Copley’s land near Painesville, Ohio, and became the first people in the Church in this dispensation to try to live an economic cooperative order. (See D&C 48; D&C 51.) But Leman Copley soon withdrew his land and ordered the Saints off. Father Knight wrote, “We sold out what we could but Copley took the advantage of us and we could not get any thing for what we had done.” Newel Knight asked the Prophet for counsel, and in response Joseph Smith received a revelation directing the Knight clan to move once again, this time to Missouri. (See D&C 54.)

President David O. McKay emphasized the importance of being spiritually and physically alert with the story of Bishop John Wells, a former member of the Presiding Bishopric, whose son was killed in a railroad accident. A few weeks after the funeral, the mother was resting at home, mourning her son’s death, spiritually and physically alert. The son appeared to her and told her that when he realized he was in the spirit world, he first tried to reach his father but could not, and he said to her that his dad was too busy at the office.

One evening in the summer of 1837, Joseph and I drove a carriage into the little town of Painesville, Ohio, and stopped at the house of a friend for supper. We had scarcely finished our meal when a disturbance arose outside. A mob had gathered; there were angry yells and threats of murder. They demanded that our host bring Joseph and me out to them. Instead, he led us out through a back door and helped us to get away in the darkness.
Pretty soon the mob discovered we had escaped, so they dispatched riders to hurry along the road they thought we would take. Bonfires were lighted, sentinels were placed, they hunted the countryside.
Joseph and I did not take the main road, however, but walked through the woods and swamps away from the road. We were helped by the bonfires. Pretty soon I began to falter in our flight. Sickness and fright had robbed me of strength.
Joseph had to decide whether to leave me to be captured by the mob or to endanger himself by rendering aid. Choosing the latter course, he lifted me upon his own broad shoulders and bore me with occasional rests through the swamp and darkness. Several hours later we emerged upon the lonely road and soon reached safety. Joseph’s herculean strength permitted him to accomplish this task and saved my life.

Despite Františka’s diligent efforts and prayers, years passed without the return of Latter-day Saint missionaries. Despite such isolation, so thoroughly did the gospel permeate the Brodil home that Františka’s daughter Frances insisted she was raised in the Church.

After a decade of praying for missionaries to reenter the land, Františka felt impressed to write to the First Presidency of the Church. (This was prior to present-day policies, which encourage members to contact local leaders.) “An unseen power seemed to be pushing me to do it,” she said. “It was my last try in this matter. I thought the Lord would surely do the rest.”3

To Františka’s great joy, her letter to President Heber J. Grant got immediate results. On 24 July 1929, in the presence of the Brodils, Elder John A. Widtsoe of the Quorum of the Twelve dedicated Czechoslovakia for the preaching of the gospel and opened the Czechoslovak Mission, with Arthur Gaeth as president.

Of that glorious event, Františka said, “Few people can realize the joy we experienced; we had been praying years for this day … We thank the Lord from the bottom of our hearts.”

While working in the aircraft electronics shop at Ft. Lewis, Washington, I was in the habit of reading the classified ads in the Daily Bulletin. These ads often led to interesting bargains. Over the years they had provided us with the family car, a camping trailer, and various other items, both large and small. Little did I know that they would also provide us one of the greatest testimony-building experiences of our lives.
One day I came across an ad that said, “Guitar for sale. Contact Daniel Troxel.” Although I play the guitar, the ad itself was not what captured my attention. I already had a guitar. What did interest me was to see my surname (an uncommon one) in print. It was even spelled like mine. I decided that Daniel Troxel must be a relative, and so I made the first of what was to be many fruitless attempts to call and talk to him. He was on detail. He was in the field. He was on duty. He couldn’t be reached at that time. He was out. Would I please call back. It seemed that Daniel Troxel and I were not destined to meet. After several days of trying, I put the bulletin aside and forgot about Daniel Troxel.
Several weeks later I was surprised to see the same ad in the bulletin—“Guitar for sale. Contact Daniel Troxel.” With renewed enthusiasm I made another call and was again disappointed. But this time I was assured that if I would call later in the evening I would be sure to reach him as he was leaving the service and had to return to pick up his clothes. I carefully folded the bulletin and placed it in my pocket. When I arrived home that evening, I mentioned it to my wife for the first time. “Why don’t you call again now?” she said.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s try it one more time and see.” I called. There was a pause and a yell in the background for Troxel. He was there! I was elated. When he came to the phone, we talked of many things. I told him I was sure we were related. He agreed. He said it was lucky I called when I did because he had been discharged that very day and was leaving in the morning for his home in California. The only reason he was not leaving immediately was that a preacher was coming all the way from Alabama to speak and he just could not miss it. When I found that Daniel was interested in religion, I knew that I had to tell him about the true church.
“Daniel,” I said, “I have just got to talk to you. Can I meet you after your meeting?” I offered to pick him up, but he said he didn’t know how late his meeting would be. I let him know that I didn’t care how late his meeting was. I wanted to meet him and introduce him to my family. He must at least meet my lovely wife. He promised he would come to my house that evening no matter how late his meeting lasted. I gave him our address and explained carefully how to get there.
That evening the mealtime conversation was dominated by Daniel’s name. My wife became excited. Maybe we would convert Daniel. One thing was sure—Daniel Troxel would not leave our home without hearing our testimonies.
The evening slipped by—8:00, 9:00, 10:00. We began to become anxious, but at 10:30 the doorbell rang. My wife and I went to the door together. Sure enough, there was Daniel. He wore pinstriped bib overalls and radiated a simple country charm. He smiled broadly as we invited him in. We relaxed together around the fireplace, and the subject fell easily to religion as we discussed his meeting. He was greatly excited and talked enthusiastically of the preacher and the great religious revival he had just attended. There was a pause in our conversation, and I was moved to bear my testimony to him.
“Daniel,” I said, “you are here tonight because our Heavenly Father wanted you to be.”
“Yes,” he agreed, “I know that. If you hadn’t called exactly when you did we would never have met because today was my last day at the fort. I would already have been gone if it hadn’t been for the revival. Boy, you should have heard the speaker! He was really great!”
I agreed that he must have been, and then continued with my testimony. “Daniel, I want to tell you about the true church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” As I spoke the Spirit seemed to fill the room.
Daniel’s expression changed. He looked surprised. “Are you a Mormon?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “My wife Barbara and I are both Mormons. As a matter of fact, our whole family is Mormon.”
Then it was our turn to be surprised. “I’m a Mormon too,” Daniel said. “I’m a deacon in the Church.”
We found as we talked that Daniel did not have a testimony of the Church. His mother often wrote to him about the Church, but he always answered that when he got home he would attend many churches. We talked into the wee hours. We bore our solemn testimonies in love and gratitude that he was with us. We knelt in prayer, and as we prayed, the Spirit brought tears to our eyes and deeper sincerity to my voice as we asked our Father’s Spirit to enlighten Daniel’s mind and turn his understanding to truth. We shook hands, and Daniel promised to pray and study.
A year passed, and then I received a letter from Daniel and his mother. Daniel wrote: “After I got home from the army, I went back to the Church. It’s the best thing I could have done. I am now an elder, and my testimony is growing strong. I’m grateful for my army experience and especially for that last day at Fort Lewis when we got together.”
His mother added: “Dan certainly thought highly of you, and you must have set him a good example, because he is now very active in the Church. He is an elder, and I expect them to send him on a mission soon.”

In conclusion I would like to return now to Janet’s fundamental principle, unadorned by corollaries, that we can learn from our mistakes. And, specifically, I would like to recount for you what I learned twenty years ago, almost to the day, from one of my great heroes and role models, Harold B. Lee. On September 11, 1973, following the last devotional address he ever gave at this university and about three months before his untimely death, President Lee gathered together a group of BYU administrators and talked to us for about an hour regarding some of the principles of leadership he had learned over the course of his life. He did this by telling us about a dozen stories. The stories fascinated me, as did the conclusions he drew from them. It wasn’t until a couple of days later that Elder Oaks, then president of the university, pointed out something I had not realized: Everyone of President Lee’s stories revolved around a mistake he had made at some phase of his life. Let me tell you the one example I remember best.
As many of you may know, President Lee was a great admirer of President J. Reuben Clark. Prior to being called as a General Authority, Brother Lee served as managing director of the Church welfare program. On that day in 1973 when he spoke to the BYU administrators, he told us how frustrated he had become while serving in his welfare position because of a lack of cooperation by employees in another Church office. Shortly after his call as a member of the Council of the Twelve, he said to his mentor, President Clark, “Now that I am one of the Twelve, do you suppose I can get some response from those people in such and such an office?”
President Clark’s response, as President Lee reported it that day, was, “Yes, my boy, now that you hold the whip hand, there is a great temptation to use it. But you must never do that.”
For me that story bore a powerful message about respect for the use of power and the mistakes that can be made in its misuse.

Another temple worker lost his wife after she had suffered a debilitating illness for several years. After her funeral he told me, “I thought I knew what love was—we’d had over fifty blessed years together. But only in trying to care for her in these last few years did I discover what love is.” By going where he had to go, in being afflicted in her afflictions, this man discovered wellsprings of compassion deep in his own heart that a hireling will never know exist. The accumulation of such discoveries produces the sanctifying process of becoming like the Good Shepherd—by living and giving as He does. Not incidentally, that kind of living breathes irreplaceable strength into the social interests of our culture.

On top of my desk sits a bright blue beanbag. On each side is a yellow sun. The beanbag sits there to remind me of a personal miracle I call “Sunbeam love.”
It began with a call to teach Primary a few months after I returned to Church activity. My past struggles had led to renewed spiritual commitments, and I was eager to serve.
My first day teaching a group of Sunbeams convinced me I was far from ready. As I met the children, I was shocked at how far down I had to look to find the tops of their little heads. Their faces looked up at me apprehensively.
For an introduction I had planned a beanbag game—with an oversized beanbag I had made myself. With the first toss, I knew immediately I had overestimated the size of these children. The throw sent a wide-eyed girl sailing backwards as she bravely absorbed the bag’s impact.
At home that night, I pleaded with Heavenly Father for help. How do I relate to such tiny, tender beings? Suddenly my vision focused on a picture on my wall. It was a portrait of Jesus Christ holding a small child. I studied the expression of love depicted in Christ’s eyes. How much He must love children! How He desires to reassure them of His love! I then realized with perfect clarity that this was exactly what the Savior wanted me to do: to love them in a way that would reassure them of His love.
It was a simple answer. But to me, it seemed I had been asked to perform a miracle. Six painful years as a stepparent, followed by a divorce, had left my heart numb—especially to the idea of loving someone else’s children. Throughout the night I struggled to reconcile the conflict in my heart. It was only after hours of praying that the Spirit convinced me I could change.
From that Sunday forth, a personal miracle began to unfold. Each week during Primary, I was guided by the Spirit in the art of loving. And throughout the year, I was loved in return. There were excited waves across the chapel during sacrament meeting, shouted greetings from grocery store aisles, and gifts of oddly shaped cookies.
Panic set in as the year concluded and my glorious row of Sunbeams graduated. My heart ached wildly for my little friends. Feeling abandoned, I sat numbly, surrounded by eight tiny strangers.
Then came the introductory beanbag game. As I picked up the worn, oversized bag, I paused, remembering a similar Sunday a year before. How overwhelmed I had felt then! And how far I had come! The memories attending this familiar beanbag fueled me with hope. As I met each pair of bright eyes, I saw their pleading looks, “Please love me, too.”
And so I did.

Togtokhin Enkhtuvshin, who now serves as president of the Ulaanbaatar Selbe Branch, recalls that during Mongolia’s socialist era, Mongolians “were not taught about religion. Moral values declined. Drinking, smoking, and moral sin became accepted. When I was a little boy, though, my grandmother taught me about God. She was Buddhist, but she told me about Jesus Christ. I felt that religion could unite our people and help them progress.”
Enkhtuvshin prayed to find something that would change his life and help the country. “I didn’t know what God I was praying to,” he says, “but my parents said that if there was a God, he would help me.” Eager to find out more about Jesus Christ, Enkhtuvshin accepted an invitation to study in Germany, where he knew he would find many Christian religions.
One day in Germany, Enkhtuvshin met Latter-day Saint missionaries on the street. “They gave me Russian and German copies of the Book of Mormon,” he recalls. “I read the book in one day and one night. I love this book.” Two days later he attended church, and during the summer of 1993 he was baptized. “I was excited to be baptized and thought I might be the first Mongolian member,” he says, “but I was concerned about returning home and not having the Church.”
Unaware of the gospel developments in his country, Enkhtuvshin returned to Mongolia the same month that six young elders arrived there to teach English, learn Mongolian, and share the gospel. He was shopping in a department store with his children when he noticed a familiar sight: clean-cut young missionaries! “At that time I knew that God was helping me,” he says. “I was very excited to find that I was not alone.”
Enkhtuvshin’s wife, Doyodiin Dashgerel, and their five children have joined the Church, and Enkhtuvshin has been a key figure in helping the Church gain government recognition. The Church was legally registered in October 1994.
As a professor, Enkhtuvshin struggled for many years to provide for his large family in a two-bedroom, Russian-built apartment. Inflation makes it difficult for Mongolians to live on an average salary of U.S. $50 per month, and they are dependent on imported goods that are expensive and limited in supply. With the new freedom of the market-based economy, Enkhtuvshin and his wife decided in 1994 to open a small delguur, or food shop. Shoppers in the couple’s food shop could find Dashgerel weighing sausage, cucumbers, or tomatoes in a four-foot-wide shop with a picture of the resurrected Savior on the wall behind her.

We are grateful for the beautiful publication the Liahona, which we eagerly receive each month and make the most of as a family. In the July 2006 issue, for example, we enjoyed great articles that helped us prepare our son for baptism and confirmation. The high-quality photography catches the attention of our little girl, who does not yet know how to read but can understand visual messages. On a Sunday afternoon we played “Sunday Box: Pencil Spin” and had a very good time. Family bonds were strengthened.Cazorla family, Spain

When I think of this principle, I remember a brief encounter with a charitable influence in my own life. One December I found myself facing some unexpected surgery. As I slowly began to awaken in the recovery room, I distinctly felt someone’s hands taking my vital signs and ministering to my needs. The hands felt competent and caring, and they conveyed such a sense of peace and comfort to me that I immediately knew all was well.
Despite my semiconscious state, the experience made a vivid imprint on my spirit, so much so that upon fully awakening, I recalled the touch of those hands. During the week I lay in the hospital, many nurses cared for me, but I never found the one I was looking for.
The morning of my release, a nurse came in to do a last-minute check. I immediately recognized her touch. “I’ve never seen you, but you’ve taken care of me before, haven’t you?” I said.
“Yes,” she said, surprised, “but only once. I cared for you in the recovery room five days ago.” Though that experience was many years ago, I can still recall the kindness and charity conveyed in the touch of her hands.

“In this new school year I want each of you to take a turn at the beginning of class in discussing with us the book that has impressed you most in life,” said our literature teacher, Mrs. Protschka.
I wondered what book I should present. Mother and I were living in Bonn, West Germany then, and I had just started ninth grade. I thought maybe I would introduce Lew Wallaces’s Ben-Hur. But was that really the book that had impressed me most in life?
No. I knew it was the book the two young missionaries who had baptized my mother and me had given to me a few years before—the Book of Mormon.
But I was the only Latter-day Saint in the school; could I dare to introduce this new scripture in my class?
I remembered how I had read this book, prayed about it, and received a confirmation that it was holy scripture.
When I told my mother about my idea, she encouraged me to do what I felt was right. The hard work began. I decided to start by explaining the Book of Mormon like a story, beginning with Lehi and his family’s departure from Jerusalem. After much prayer and thought, the right words began to flow into my mind. God was answering!
As I waited for my turn, I noticed that many of the other students presented books that in some way dealt with Satan and the dark side. Now more than ever, I wanted to be the Lord’s advocate to these people.
At last it was my turn. Usually the students wrote the titles of their books on the chalkboard at the beginning of their presentations, but I asked our teacher’s permission to save it until the end. I told her I wanted it to be a surprise.
Mother told me later how she had spent almost the entire morning of my presentation praying that my report would go well and that the class would be receptive. And indeed her prayers helped. At the beginning, when I started explaining Lehi’s vision and his travel through the desert, some students wanted to make fun of it, “It’s the Bible! It’s the Bible!” But suddenly the class became quiet, and I related the history of the Book of Mormon smoothly and calmly, bearing testimony of its truthfulness. The Spirit of the Lord was so strong it seemed almost tangible.
After about twenty minutes I finished, leaving my teacher and the class speechless. Then Mrs. Protschka asked what they thought. They all began to speak very highly of me and expressed admiration for my courage in presenting such a religious book at school.
I was asked to talk more about the Church and my mother’s and my conversion. After class, some of the students even asked me for a copy of the Book of Mormon.
From that day, I made friends to whom I still feel very close, friends who defended me later in front of others. They even wrote and supported me years later when I served a mission in Spain.

Let me share with you an experience I had when I was 12 years old, the effect of which lasts to this day.
My mother said, “Eduardo, hurry up. We are late for the Church meetings.”
“Mom, I’m going to stay with Dad today,” I replied.
“Are you sure? You have to attend your priesthood quorum meeting,” she said.
I replied, “Poor Dad! He is going to be left alone. I’m going to stay with him today.”
Dad was not a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
My mother and sisters went to Sunday meetings. So I went to meet Dad in his workshop, where he liked to be on Sundays, and as I had told my mother, I spent a while, that is, a few minutes with him, and then I asked, “Dad, is everything all right?”
He kept up his hobby of repairing radios and clocks, and he just smiled at me.
Then I told him, “I’m going to go play with my friends.”
Dad, without looking up, said to me, “Today is Sunday. Aren’t you supposed to go to church?”
“Yes, but today I told Mom I wouldn’t go,” I replied. Dad went on about his business, and for me, that was permission to leave.
That morning there was an important soccer game, and my friends had told me that I couldn’t miss it because we had to win that game.
My challenge was that I had to pass in front of the chapel to get to the soccer field.
Determined, I dashed towards the soccer field and stopped before the great stumbling block, the chapel. I ran to the opposite sidewalk, where there were some big trees, and I decided to run between them so that no one would see me since it was the time the members were arriving at the meetings.
I arrived just in time for the start of the game. I was able to play and go home before my mother got home.
Everything had gone well; our team had won, and I was thrilled. But that well-executed run onto the field did not go unnoticed by the deacons quorum adviser.
Brother Félix Espinoza had seen me running quickly from tree to tree, trying not to be discovered.
At the beginning of the week, Brother Espinoza came to my house and asked to speak with me. He didn’t say anything about what he had seen on Sunday, nor did he ask me why I had missed my meeting.
He just handed me a manual and said, “I would like you to teach the priesthood class on Sunday. I have marked the lesson for you. It is not so difficult. I want you to read it, and I will come by in two days to help you with the preparation for the lesson.” Having said this, he handed me the manual and left.
I didn’t want to teach the class, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell him no. I had planned that Sunday to stay with my father again—meaning, there was another important soccer game.
Brother Espinoza was a person whom young people admired. He had found the restored gospel and changed his life or, in other words, his heart.
When Saturday afternoon arrived, I thought, “Well, maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up sick, and I won’t have to go to church.” It wasn’t the soccer game that worried me anymore; it was the class I had to teach, especially a lesson about the Sabbath day.
Sunday came, and I woke up healthier than ever. I had no excuse—no escape.
It was the first time I would teach a lesson, but Brother Espinoza was there by my side, and that was the day of a mighty change of heart for me.
From that moment on, I began to keep the Sabbath day holy, and over time, in the words of President Russell M. Nelson, the Sabbath day has become a delight.