Gospel Story Finder

“Do you think Moroni was lonely, Daddy?” Roslyn asked as her family finished the Book of Mormon in their scripture reading session for the day.
“What do you think?” her father asked, then commented, “Moroni was alone for many years after the big war destroyed his people.”
“He was probably lonely,” Roslyn said, as she thought of her own loneliness over the past several weeks.
“What do you think Moroni did that might have helped him feel less lonely?” her mother asked.
Roslyn thought about Moroni for a few minutes. “Well, he wrote a lot.”
Her mother responded, “Moroni wrote some wonderful messages from the Lord to us, didn’t he, honey? It probably did help him in his loneliness.”
Later, as she brushed her teeth and changed into her nightgown, Roslyn thought about their conversation. She opened her desk drawer and lifted out the journal that had been there since the last time she’d written in it, more than three months before. She used to write in her journal on Sundays, and sometimes in between, but after her sister Shelly was killed in a bicycle accident, Roslyn had not felt like writing in it or doing the things they used to do together.
Roslyn looked again at the empty bed in her room. She had other brothers and sisters, but Shelly had been the one closest to her age, and they had shared many interests. She believed that Shelly was now in a wonderful place and happy among others who loved her—Roslyn was glad about that—but she missed her sister very, very much.
Opening her journal, she began to read some of the things she had written. One Sunday’s entry said, “Our family went to Steve’s Cub Scout pack meeting Thursday evening. It was fun. After they gave out the awards, all the families went Christmas caroling and then went back to the meetinghouse for hot chocolate and cookies.”
On another Sunday, Roslyn had written, “Yesterday when Shelly and I finished our morning chores, we fixed sack lunches and went exploring on the cliff by our house. Chips went with us. It was kind of scary because Chips kept running between us and the cliff. He’s a very protective dog. I said a silent prayer that we would be safe—I didn’t want to fall into all those spiky trees and bushes below us! My prayer was answered, and Chips helped Shelly and me eat our picnic lunch as we sat on our hillside ’thrones’ (the big ‘chairs’ we carved in the dirt).”
As Roslyn read, it was as if Shelly was with her again. What a sweet feeling it gave her! She turned to the last entry she had recorded. It was mostly about her brothers, Steve and Wesley: “Today Steve cut a hole in the bottom of one of his old sweatsuits. He stood Wesley behind a little table with a blanket over it. Wesley had the sweatsuit on, but the legs of the pants were on the table. Steve put his arms through the pants legs and put shoes on his hands so that it looked like Wesley’s legs were sitting on the table. He hid behind Wesley and made the legs dance from side to side, up around his face, and all over. We all laughed and laughed.”
The picture of six-year-old Wesley and those funny, dancing “legs” came clearly into Roslyn’s memory, and she began to laugh again, even harder than she had then. It felt good to laugh.
Then she found a pen in her drawer and began to write. She wrote about Shelly’s accident—about losing her best friend, her dear sister. She wrote about how hard it was to still sleep in the same room and to do alone or with someone else some of the things they used to like most to do together. She ended by referring to Moroni and saying that he must have felt even lonelier than she did. “But Moroni is very happy now,” she wrote, “and writing in my journal makes me feel less lonely too.”

It was odd, Andrew thought as he looked in the mirror and tried to force the cowlick at the back of his head to lie flat; he was actually looking forward to tonight’s “date.” He hadn’t been enthusiastic about it at first, but now that it was almost time to go, he was excited.
His friend Jim had suggested a “practice run” before his big date with Alyssa Adams, his first since turning 16 last month. Jim said if they were going to double then Andrew needed practice—“so you won’t act like a goon and spill soup on your date or something.” Andrew agreed because (1) he didn’t have his driver’s license yet and Jim did; (2) he was nervous about going on his first date with a girl he really had a crush on; and (3) Jim had been on a couple of dates already, so he must know what he’s talking about.
Andrew talked to his dad about the idea too, and he agreed that practice might be a good idea. “Besides,” he said, “I know just who you should ask. She’d love to do something like that.”
At first, his father’s suggestion—and his enthusiasm—caught Andrew off guard. But dad persisted. “You’ve known her since … well … forever. She’s fun, and she’ll understand. She’s the kind of person who has as much fun playing ball with the guys as she does dressing up and going to dinner. She won’t even mind that she’s helping you get ready for a big night with somebody else.”
“You mean I have to tell her why I’m asking her out? That’ll make it worse,” Andrew said, ready to forget the whole thing.
“Of course you do; it’s only fair. Besides, if she knows ahead of time, she’ll probably be able to give you some pointers. I’ve seen her, and she’s pretty knowledgeable about those kinds of things. You’d feel rotten if she found out later that the only reason you asked her out was to practice for a date with someone else.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Andrew said reluctantly.
Nevertheless, Andrew still felt nervous when he thought about asking someone else out so soon. It had been murder trying to find the courage to ask Alyssa out. Now he was faced with the problem of having to ask someone he’d known all his life, and it wasn’t any easier. What if she laughed at him or told him his idea was dumb? He felt he had to do it, though, and after school one day he worked up the nerve to ask her.
“Hi,” he said, almost choking because his mouth was so dry.
“Oh, hi Andrew,” she said, looking up from her book. “What’s up?”
“Oh, nothing much, but I was wondering, uh, are you doing anything special Friday night?” he asked, looking everywhere but at her.
“I don’t think I’ve got anything planned. Why do you ask?” Finally he looked directly at her. “Well, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind going to dinner with me?” He looked at her for a change in expression. What showed looked more like surprise. “It wouldn’t be a real date,” he said quickly. “It would be sort of a practice date. I’ve never been to dinner with a date before, and I want to make sure I do it right.”
There was a pause, and Andrew didn’t know whether or not to keep talking. Suddenly, however, she smiled. “Sure! That sounds like fun. I’d love to.”
Soon the “rehearsal” was under way. They planned to go to La Traviata, the same Italian restaurant he and Jim would be taking their dates to next week. As they made preparations it became painfully apparent that Jim had been right all along. Andrew needed this trial run more than he thought. But she seemed to know exactly what to do. First, she helped him call and make reservations.
“What do I say?” he asked as he nervously dialed the number. “Just say, ‘I’d like to make reservations for two at eight o’clock tonight, and then tell them your name when they ask.”
“She says things so easily,” he thought. “I wish I had her confidence.” Then she helped him pick out the clothes he was going to wear. He had picked out his best pair of blue jeans, his favorite shirt and his cleanest, basketball shoes. She wisely chose the gray Sunday slacks with the blue blazer and firmly insisted that while inflatable shoes were quite fashionable in the gym, they were out when it came to dinner at a nice restaurant.
Finally, with his help, she took some plates and silverware from the cupboard and created an elegant setting on the kitchen table.
“Wow,” Andrew said, sitting down to the beautiful array of china and silverware in front of him. “I think I know some of this stuff,” he said, swallowing hard. “But maybe you could help me with a pointer or two. What’s this tiny little knife for?”
She gave Andrew a description of all the various utensils and their uses. She talked about the proper way to handle a salad and where the bread goes—everything. She even reminded him that it was not a good idea to tuck the napkin under his collar, or use his thumb to slide a stubborn vegetable onto his fork as she had seen him do before. He thanked her and said he’d try to remember.
She continued her explanation, but Andrew was only half listening. As he watched her he couldn’t help feeling like a jerk for using her to impress another girl. He noticed, probably for the first time, how pretty she was and how much effort she was going to in order to make things nice for him. What made it worse was that she had been so cheerful and enthusiastic about it from the beginning. She approached this like she approached so many things, happily and without a thought for herself. She was doing it all for him and he knew it. She really was a good friend, better than most, he thought. This date was going to be fun for both of them, but he couldn’t help feeling a bit guilty about it.
“Huh, what?” he said, quickly aware he had drifted too far.
“I said, ‘This fork is for seafood,’” she said, teasingly shaking it at him. “You use it on things like crab or shrimp cocktail, and no, there’s no alcohol in shrimp cocktail so it’s okay to eat. That about wraps it up. Any questions?”
“Nope, no questions, but it sure is a lot to remember.”
“Don’t worry. As a rule, you use the utensils on the outside and work your way in as you go. If you absolutely don’t know what to do, watch your date or the people at the table next to you. They might be able to help you out.”
“Got it,” he said.
“Good. Now I’ve got to rush or I’m going to be ‘unready’ for this ‘undate.’”
Andrew waited a bit before getting ready, then dressed quickly and found he still had a few minutes before it was time to leave. He went to the backyard and picked out the prettiest rose he could find. He carefully picked it as far down the stalk as he could and then bent the thorns off the stem. He resisted the temptation to put one of the thorns on his nose and play rhinoceros. He walked around the block, up the front steps, and rang the doorbell.
“Wow!” he said when she opened the door.
“Hi, Andrew. What do you think?”
“You look beautiful,” he said, visibly impressed.
“Thank you very much. You look rather handsome yourself. Good choice of wardrobe, if I do say so myself.”
“Thanks a lot,” he said, smiling back. “Oh, here,” he said, remembering the flower in his hand. “This is for you.”
“Why, Andrew, how sweet. Thank you. Let me put it in a vase.” She returned a moment later. “Are you ready?”
“Sure. Let’s go!”
At first, the rehearsal appeared to have worked. He offered her his arm, opened the car door, and let her in on the driver’s side since she had the driver’s license and he didn’t. They talked and laughed on the way to the restaurant, and when they arrived he was quick to get the door and offer an arm to his “undate.”
“I’m impressed,” she said, while walking to the door with her arm in his. “Someone must have taught you well.”
“Yeah, I had a pretty terrific teacher,” he said, smiling.
Suddenly, Andrew tensed and tried to look away, but it was too late. Their eyes had already met. Directly in front of them stood Ryan Adams, the captain of the basketball team and, worse, Alyssa Adams’s big brother. He was leaving the restaurant with his date.
He had seen them together and Andrew was positive he was going to hear about it at practice next week. Not only that, but Alyssa was sure to find out, and trying to explain would only make things worse. In an instant he made a decision. He’d tough it out. “Hi, Ryan,” he said.
“Hi, Andrew. How’s it going?”
“Fine. How’s the dinner?”
“Terrific. Watch out for the antipasto, though; it’s a killer.” Ryan rolled his eyes and pretended to spray some breath freshener into his mouth.
“I’ll think about it. Thanks.”
“See ya.”
“Bye.”
Andrew breathed a sigh of relief as he opened the door to the restaurant and they walked inside. At least he didn’t say anything then, he thought. He could only imagine what he was going to say at practice Monday.
The dinner was excellent, a true dining experience, and Andrew handled himself extremely well. He thought the dinner was over, though, when the waiter brought out small servings of sherbet for them. The waiter had to explain that the sherbet was merely a “palate cleanser,” something to eat so the taste of the previous course wouldn’t interfere with the taste of the next. Other than that, he managed to impress her by remembering everything she had taught him. He even proved to be a very good conversationalist by asking questions and paying attention to what she said.
At the end of the meal when the waiter presented the check, she reached into her purse and tried to pass some money to Andrew under the table. “For my half,” she said quietly.
“No way,” said Andrew. “I invited you here and I’m going to pay for it.”
“I just thought that since this was a “nondate” it might be different.”
“It’s not that different. Besides, with the way you’ve helped me I’d say it was worth every penny.”
He paid the waiter and left an adequate tip. They left the restaurant and he opened the car door again for her. “You’re spoiling me,” she said as she got in. “I might get used to this.”
“I suppose I could make it a habit. I probably should have all along, huh?”
“That’s okay. You haven’t done too badly. You’ve become quite a gentleman. Alyssa Adams is in for a treat.”
“Thanks.”
She pulled the car into the driveway and he escorted her to the door.
“Thanks for going along with my ‘trial-run’ idea. It really helped.”
“You’re welcome. Thank you for a wonderful evening. There’s just one thing, though.”
“What’s that?” he said, wondering what he could have done wrong.
“Don’t worry about Alyssa’s brother seeing you with me tonight. I’m sure he recognizes that his sister will be treated with as much courtesy as I received. If he’s any kind of brother, I think he’ll like that. I don’t think Alyssa will mind either. If you treat all your dates as I was tonight, you’ll have a lot of fun dating.”
At first, Andrew was surprised that she knew what he had been thinking at the restaurant when he saw Ryan. Then he realized he wasn’t surprised at all. He put his arm around her and kissed her on the cheek.
“Thanks, Mom,” he said. “You’re terrific.”

Sister Kristie Wilson
I am one of eight sisters working as a welfare missionary in a Vietnamese refugee camp. Since most of the people in camp have never heard of Jesus Christ or Heavenly Father and to help them better appreciate the Savior’s birth, we held a special activity just before Christmas. The Primary children reenacted the manger scene and story as told in Luke. They were as delighted to do it as we were to watch.
Christmas Eve we went caroling through the camp. It was a neat experience to roam through the billets and share the news of the Savior’s birth through song. The Spirit overcame language barriers, and we were avle to celebrate the Savior’s birth with one heart and mind. I have never been so exhausted. I have never been so at peace.

After working in department stores selling men’s clothing for several years, I became quite proficient at coordinating shirts and ties with the suits I sold. It was rewarding to pick the perfect assortment, and my customers were usually pleased with the choices I presented them.
However, in one particular store, the suits were in an area illuminated with fluorescent lighting while the shirts and ties were displayed in another area under incandescent bulbs. This difference in lighting proved to be quite challenging.
It often happened that after a customer had decided upon a suit or two, I’d go select an array of shirts and ties that I thought would work well. But once the shirts and ties were moved from one section to the other and placed next to the suits, the result was surprising—the colors “changed” in the new light and did not match at all.
Taking a suit to the area that displayed the shirts and ties worked better. But even with this approach, customers often became confused, noticing that the suits we had in hand didn’t look like the ones they had just selected. A suit that looked olive green under the fluorescent lighting now appeared gray, taupe, or brown when viewed under incandescent lights. Black, charcoal, and navy suits underwent similar transformations.
More often than not, I had to solve the problem by taking customers out a nearby door to look at their selections in the daylight. By seeing with the light of the sun, we could quickly discern true colors and make appropriate choices.

When I was a newly called deacons quorum president, I wasn’t sure how to increase my spirituality. I started doing family history, usually each Sunday. I have been going to the temple every Saturday morning. My goal was to take male baptism and confirmation names as often as I could. After I went to the temple each week, I would feel a little more spiritual, and that way I was able to help my quorum better.
Josh B., 13, Utah, USA

I know a wonderful Gospel Doctrine teacher who lifts class members as she teaches, but that wasn’t always the case. After joining the Church, she received a calling to teach in Primary. She felt she had no teaching skills, but because she knew the importance of serving, she accepted. Fear quickly overcame her, and she stopped attending so she wouldn’t have to teach. Thankfully, her home teacher noticed her absence, visited her, and invited her back. The bishop and ward members assisted her. Eventually, with increased faith, she began teaching children. As she applied principles now taught in Teaching in the Savior’s Way, the Lord blessed her efforts and she became a gifted teacher.11

Shifting and squirming in his chair, Frankie whispered to Clarissa, “These chairs are hard. I’m bored.”
Sister Peterson, the Primary teacher, asked, “What did you say, Frankie?”
“Oh, nothing,” Frankie answered. He continued squirming.
Sister Peterson smiled. “It’s almost time to go home.”
“Home,” Frankie thought. He had been in so many homes he had to stop to remember which one he was in now.
After the closing prayer, Frankie sprang from his chair and raced into the hallway. As he skidded around the corner, he ran right into Mr. Adams—or “Dad,” as he was trying to remember to call him.
“Hi, Frankie, I was looking for you. Let’s go home.”
There was that word again—home. Frankie climbed onto the back seat of the van. Most of the foster families he had lived with drove vans. If he sat in the back, everyone usually forgot he was there. Then no one asked him questions. Questions made him nervous because he didn’t always know the answers. Then he felt—well, slow. The kids in the other places he had lived had made fun of him and called him names. Even the adults usually got annoyed when he didn’t understand everything right away. So Frankie chose the back row. It was safer that way. The problem was, it wasn’t working with this family.
“How was Primary, Frankie?” Mrs. Adams asked.
Frankie thought hard. He wanted to be honest. “Well,” he said slowly, “I tried to listen, but it was really hard.” He felt his whole body tense up. He was afraid that Mrs. Adams was going to be upset with him for not understanding. What she said surprised him. “What did the teachers say? Maybe we can help you understand.” She sounded very gentle, like she really wanted to help.
She listened patiently as Frankie tried to tell her what he heard in Primary. “Well, it was about God being my father, or something like that,” Frankie mumbled. The idea sounded strange to him. He thought for sure it would sound silly to Mrs. Adams. (“Mom,” he silently reminded himself.) He figured the other kids would tease him for giving the wrong answer, but they didn’t.
“That’s what Sister Robbins said in sharing time,” Taylor said. “She talked about how we’re all children of God, and about how He loves us—just like you do, Dad—and how that should help us to be good and to choose the right. Then we sang ‘I Am a Child of God.’”
Ashley waved her hands in the air and said, “That’s my favorite song!”
Frankie listened closely. They had heard the same thing he did, but they seemed to understand it. And he could tell by their faces that they believed it. Mom must have seen the confusion in his eyes because she said, “Frankie, we’ll talk more later about what it means to be a child of God.”
After dinner, the kids all plopped down on the big rug in front of the couch. Reaching for his scriptures, Dad said, “Let’s talk about what it means to be a child of God. Here is a scripture that might help. It’s in 1 Nephi 17:36, and it says, ‘Behold, the Lord hath created the earth that it should be inhabited; and he hath created his children that they should possess it.’” Dad paused. “What do you think that means?”
Ashley’s hand flew up. “It means that Heavenly Father is the Father of our spirits. He made this beautiful earth for us and sent us here to grow.” She nodded her head, as if agreeing with herself.
“That’s right,” Mom said. “Heavenly Father loves us and wants us to come back to Him, because we belong to Him.”
“Even me?” Frankie asked timidly. “Do I belong to Him?”
“Absolutely, Frankie. He loves you and wants you to come back,” Dad said. “He wants you to come back so much that He will help you in any way He can. One way He has already helped you was by sending you to us, so we can teach you about Him. If you will pray and ask Him, He will bless you and help you.”
Later that night as Frankie snuggled under the covers, he thought, “I have a Father in Heaven.” In all the foster homes he had been in, no one had ever told him about Heavenly Father. It felt good to know that there was someone in heaven he belonged to, someone he could always talk to. He had never felt like he belonged anywhere—until now. In his heart Frankie knew that Mr. and Mrs. Adams—Mom and Dad—loved him.
“Maybe that is why I am in this home,” he thought. “Maybe God wanted me here.” For the first time Frankie slid to his knees and started to pray. It felt funny at first, but he felt like it was the right thing to do. “If He is my Father, I bet He would like to hear from me. I bet He’s missed me,” he thought as he bowed his head.

Lloyd, who is now studying law at Northern Illinois University in De Kalb, was not surprised by his father’s call as a General Authority. “All through his life he’s been very close to the Spirit.” One night Lloyd had asked to use the car to go to a party. He was getting ready to back out of the driveway when his father came out and asked him not to go, explaining that he felt impressed that it would not be wise. They learned later that another car had rolled off the road Lloyd would have taken, and felt the impression must have been a warning.

“I hate Santa Claus!” I exclaimed, glaring at the jolly old elf painted on a mall window.
Mom looked at me with raised eyebrows. “You certainly have the Christmas spirit,” she said.
I hurried with her to the car, trying to find the words to explain how I felt. “It’s just that I’m sick of Santa and Rudolph and Frosty and all that,” I said, as I put my shopping bags in the trunk. “I mean, aren’t we supposed to be celebrating the birth of the Savior?”
“I agree. Christmas is getting too commercialized,” Mom said.
We drove past the town hall. A poster told people to bring their Sub for Santa goods in. “And that’s another thing,” I blurted. “I hate the way people feel a tug of guilt on their heart strings at Christmas time and donate all their old stuff to charity. Why can’t people be generous all year long? As if they’re fooling anyone.”
Mom smiled. “Christmas is a good time to start.”
But I didn’t care what she had to say. Before long I was mad at everyone, and by the time we pulled into our driveway I had made up my mind that I wasn’t going to act any different just because it was Christmas. I wasn’t going to be hypocritical like the rest of the world. And as for the Savior’s birth, I’d just celebrate that in April.
After dinner we cleared the table and sat down to do homework. “Hey, help me with this algebra problem,” my brother Tom said.
“I’ve got homework to do,” I snapped.
“C’mon, it’s Christmas,” he pleaded. Boy, was that the wrong thing to say. I told him I didn’t care if it was Christmas. “Ask someone who has time,” I said.
“How about someone who needs blessings because she’s acting like the Grinch.”
“All right!” Mom’s stern voice cut in. “That’s enough you guys. I’ll help you Tom. Your sister’s carrying a grudge against Christmas this year.”
“I think her shoes are too tight, or her head’s not screwed on just right, or maybe her heart is two sizes too small,” Tom said as my mom dragged him to the other side of the table.
It was hard to concentrate on my homework because the ugliness inside me was growing. I couldn’t understand why I was feeling worse instead of better. After all, I wasn’t being a Christmas hypocrite, pretending to be jolly when people the world over were starving and suffering.
Just then the doorbell rang. Mom looked at me then quietly walked to the door. Her surprised gasp brought the rest of the family to her side, including me.
There stood our home teachers dressed as shepherds. They waited until everyone had gathered around, probably waiting for some of the shock to dissolve too. “We’re on our way to Bethlehem, and we thought we’d stop by and tell you what’s happened. You see, we were watching over our flocks when suddenly an angel appeared to us. At first we were terribly afraid, but the angel said, ‘Fear not, for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord’” (Luke 2:10–11).
There was something about the simplicity and sincerity of their message that got to me. My lip started quivering and I quickly bit it to keep it under control. I didn’t hear any more. I was too busy remembering how awful I’d been, all because I didn’t want to be a hypocrite. Tom was right. I had been the worst kind of Grinch, griping about how horrible everyone is, when I wasn’t willing to change myself for the better. At least the people I complained about were generous and kind part of the year. I certainly wasn’t.
“We’re going to see this miracle which has come to pass,” one of the shepherds said. With that they disappeared into the night, leaving us stunned into silence, meditating on their wonderful message.
Then it hit me. They were going to share this marvelous event with others, to help them feel the true spirit of Christmas.
I wiped my eyes and cleared my throat. “I’ve got some Christmas messages of my own to deliver,” I said. “I’ll start with you.” Turning to Mom I gave her the biggest hug I could manage. “I’m sorry for all I put you through. I know I can be a real pain sometimes.”
Mom smiled. “I guess part of being a mother is learning to take a lot of frustration.”
I looked at Tom who was grinning triumphantly.
“Probably the hardest thing I have to do is apologize to you, Tom,” I began. “But if I didn’t, you wouldn’t believe me when I tell you that my heart has really grown tonight.” He shrugged his shoulders and brushed past me. I noticed the reddening of his ears, a sure sign he was embarrassed.
I followed him to the kitchen table and sat down. “Tom,” I asked, “can I help you with your algebra?”
Tom looked up at me, and a slow smile spread across his face. “Sure,” he said. “And maybe you can help me wrap some presents too.”
I smiled back. “I’d like that.”
And for the first time that Christmas, I meant it.

It was cool inside the Western Presbyterian Church of Palmyra on Sunday, that twenty-first day of September, 1823. Fall had just come blowing in, laying the smoke flat on the chimney tops, but there was no fireplace inside the frame meetinghouse on Church Street. It was not considered necessary to provide comforts in a house of worship.
Joseph and Don Carlos, who were not Presbyterians, had accompanied their mother, Hyrum, Sophronia, and Samuel to meeting. The other members of the family attended the newly built Methodist church in the eastern part of Palmyra. As Joseph passed the Reverend Daniel C. Hopkins on the way out, he smiled and was about to comment on the sermon when the minister abruptly turned away. Joseph and his family had almost grown used to being treated with a shrug and turn of the head, so they quietly walked on through the doorway. On several occasions, men of high standing in the most popular churches of the day had instigated bitter persecution against Joseph and his family. Joseph thought often of the intense bitterness that would cause someone to try to kill him in the dooryard of his home.
He had struggled to sort out an answer. Discussing his concern one evening with his mother, he asked, “Why should professors of religion excite people against me? I went to God in prayer to ask which church I should join. God the Father and Jesus answered my questions in person.”
“The Lord told you not to join any of the churches,” his mother answered. “He even went so far as to say that some of their doctrines were wrong. In the minds of the ministers, that would seem to challenge their position, their authority as leaders of the churches.”
“But the words are the Lord’s, not mine!”
“I know, Joseph. They’re trying to discredit your vision, to smother with ridicule and abuse that which they find themselves unable to silence with argument.”
Joseph recalled his mother’s words as he walked down the meetinghouse steps that morning. A red-headed boy with a splash of freckles taunted in a whisper that was meant to be heard, “Had any visions lately?”
When Joseph turned and caught his eye, the boy snickered and ran down Church Street.
Suddenly chilled, Lucy hugged a shawl to her shoulders as a husky, weather-beaten farmer called out, “Well, I do believe that’s young Joe Smith coming out of our meetinghouse!”
The men began joking about visions, taunting Joseph to argue with them. But he walked on in silence, his mouth tightened around a reply that he would not utter. No use starting a war of words, especially when he wasn’t right sure of the answers.
Lucy’s heart cried out to her son, Joseph, Joseph, don’t let them hurt you. Alvin, noticing his mother’s anguished expression, took her arm and said comfortingly, “Remember that Father has often said that Joseph has a lot of courage for a stripling. He can take it on the chin. If he had a mind to, he could wrestle the two of them to the ground with one arm tied behind his back.”
Lucy knew it was true. She also knew it took strength and courage to bear the humiliation in silence.
But six-year-old Don Carlos was flushed with anger. He backed away from the men, fretting like a cornered owl. Then suddenly he stopped for a moment, his face curiously without expression. When he caught up with Joseph again, he was smiling broadly. In guarded tones he confessed, “There’s one good thing about having four front teeth missing at once. You can stick out your tongue with your mouth closed.”
Joseph chuckled all the way to the wagon. “I’ll never tell,” he promised.
After picking up the rest of the family at the Methodist Church, the Smiths headed their horse down Canandaigua Road toward home. Joseph watched the dirt spill from the back of the wagon wheels in gritty whispers. If only the haunting questions would leave his thoughts as easily. But they kept rolling around in his head. And the constant creak of the wheels echoed the swallowed cry in his throat—Why haven’t I heard? Why haven’t I heard? Why haven’t I heard from the Lord?
Since his vision, Joseph had worked with his father on the farm as usual, waiting for further instructions from the Lord. But three years had passed and there had been no word. Strange, he thought; or is there a reason? It troubled him to think there might be something he should be doing—or not doing.
If, however, the heavens seemed closed to Joseph, the world about him was opening up. During those years Joseph watched the village of Palmyra grow from about seven hundred settlers to almost one thousand. He helped his father and Alvin build a lean-to on the back of their log house. It served as a sleeping room and somewhat relieved their crowded condition. Not long after it was completed a baby sister was born, the last of ten surviving children. So, under the direction of Alvin, who was by then a very able carpenter, a much larger frame house was begun nearby.
In 1822 the Erie Canal that had been started five years before reached Palmyra. The waterway was nearly parallel to Mud Creek and Main Street, and all three ran through the entire length of the village that extended for about a mile.
Whenever he could, Don Carlos accompanied Joseph on his weekly trips into Palmyra. “Let’s go see the big ditch,” Don Carlos would plead, almost before the wagon wheels began to roll. Then his six-year-old eyes would fill with such anticipation and hope that Joseph somehow always managed it.
One day as the two of them leaned on the fence, watching the long, shallow boats move along the canal, they sensed that this was indeed one of the great wonders of their age. “Just think, Don Carlos, when all the sections of the canal are finished it’ll stretch from the Hudson River to Lake Erie, over three hundred and sixty miles,” Joseph said.
Don Carlos didn’t much care about all that. He just wanted to walk beside a team of mules and pet them as they pulled the boat through the water. He didn’t like the way the mule driver rode on his horse behind them, cutting them with his long whip and scowling and cursing.
“Palmyra will soon be one of the most important canal towns in western New York,” Joseph explained to his younger brother.
But Don Carlos was still thinking about mules. “Some day I’ll have my own mule team. I’ll ride a horse behind them and crack my whip in the air and they’ll pull the boat up and down the big ditch. And I’ll see Buffalo and Syracuse and even the Atlantic Ocean.”
Joseph smiled. Don Carlos had his future all planned out.
“I wonder what I’ll be doing?” Joseph mused aloud. “Three years ago when I talked with the Lord, He seemed to have something in mind for me. I wonder why I haven’t heard what it is.”
Don Carlos looked up at his seventeen-year-old brother and shrugged. “Maybe the Lord’s forgotten,” he said.
Joseph had to laugh at that, but his heart yearned for answers.

Frédéric, a research biologist from Sandy, Utah, was born in France but his roots are in India. In 1854 his great-great-grandfather, Arokium (he had no last name and his name has become the family surname), left his village of Thanjavur in Tamil Nadu and sailed from Chennai with his parents to Mauritius. His father was an indentured servant contracted to work in the sugar cane fields there.

After the death of his own father two years ago, Frédéric began to wonder about his family history. “We could trace all our family in Mauritius, but the connection to India was lost,” he explained. “I was curious about this great-great-grandfather Arokium, whose first name became my last name, so I asked my aunt for his picture. I had tears in my eyes when I saw it. I took a copy to the National Archives [in Mauritius] to find out where he came from.” That is where Arokium’s quest began.

More than 150 years after his ancestors left, Frédéric returned to India to find out more about them. “Being in Chennai,” he said, “is very emotional for me. This is where all my ancestors boarded ships at different times to come over to a strange land. I believe that it was heart-rending to leave, but they kept moving forward with hope in their hearts. They have sacrificed a lot for us to be where we are today.”

He added, “It is important to know their story to better appreciate my life now and understand the amazing legacy they left to me: courage, hope, hard work, hospitality, strong family values and faith in God.”

Frédéric wants to help others find their Indian roots. For this reason, he has created the Indian Diaspora Genealogy Group on Facebook.

His message to Saints in India is to get a temple recommend; start talking to family members and gather names, old photos and stories; get in touch with a family history consultant; download the FamilySearch app and create an account; enter your ancestors’ names and get their temple work done.

After the fireside in Chennai, Frédéric talked excitedly with a young woman from the audience. It appears that they have ancestors from the same village in Tamil Nadu. Perhaps her research can help him find another generation of family. They exchanged contact information.

“This is a labor of love,” Frédéric said. “After all they have done for me, this is the least I can do for them.”

When Robert L. Backman was 12 years old, his father was called to be president of the South African Mission. Young Robert soon found himself living in Capetown and attending Rondebosch High School, a very strict English prep school. “The first weeks of school were a difficult time for me. I was strictly a minority and felt like a curiosity. I cried myself to sleep at night more than once, particularly when missionaries I had come to love went home. I wanted to go home with them.”
At school, Robert was indeed something of a curiosity. “Everybody wanted to hear me speak, so at recess they’d gather around me and try to provoke me into conversation, and then they’d try to mimic my accent.” Appalled at his student’s barbarous American twang, one cultured British teacher undertook to reform Robert’s speech. “Martha came down the garden path carrying a large basket of tomatoes,” he would intone in his most cultured diction, each vowel floating heavenward like a balloon. Then the young American would deliberately repeat the phrase with a Yankee accent so heavy that the good professor would shake with anguish. “He’d slam his ruler down on the desk he was so angry. We had a contest. I was just as stubborn as he was and bound and determined he wasn’t going to break me of my accent. He never did.”
To make matters worse, many of the parents of students didn’t want their children becoming too friendly with this young foreigner who might not only corrupt their speech but, since he was a Mormon, might undermine their morals as well. To a boy that age, belonging is very important, and so all this was difficult to accept.
There was another problem. After the easygoing pace of schoolwork in the United States, Rondebosch was academically tough. Robert studied English, French, Latin, math, chemistry, physics, and a couple of history courses all in the same term, attending school from 8:00 till 4:00 five days a week and till 1:00 on Saturday. And every night there was a crushing load of homework.
Discipline was also strict. Once a young school fellow made a remark that Robert took exception to, and a fight ensued. The two antagonists were ushered into the office of the headmaster, who politely asked them to please touch their toes. “He then pulled out a bamboo rod with a little steel tube right up the middle of it and gave us six good ones across our bottoms to teach us not to fight.”
But while the first weeks went badly at school, Robert turned more to the Lord and his religious faith for support, performing his duties as a deacon with great pride. His young faith grew strong. “I don’t think I’ve ever doubted. I’ve questioned. I’ve been exposed to a lot of other philosophies in my schooling, but I’ve never really had any doubt. I have always believed that Joseph Smith was a prophet. I’ve never had any question about the Savior and his mission, his death and resurrection. I suppose that part of that is due to my exposure to the missionaries quite early in my life. They buttressed me during those traumatic years when one ordinarily might be having some of those real doubts.”
And so, gradually, an unhappy situation became a happy one. “I got used to it and won my way, as youngsters usually do, and I ended up playing some rugby on the junior squads and made friends at the school and began enjoying myself.” Even the heavy academic demands turned out to be a blessing. “It was really a good discipline to my life and set me in some study patterns that have been of great benefit to me ever since.” And though it must have seemed merely a question of survival to young Robert at the time, it was a battle won, and his spiritual strength increased.

Brother and Sister Perez were sealed in the Arizona Temple in 1965. Wanting their children who remained at home to be sealed to them, Sister Perez prayed to make this blessing possible. In response, her tortilla business increased, helping provide the funds needed for them to make another temple trip three years later. Next, Brother and Sister Perez felt an urgency to have their married children sealed to them as well. She prayed for help again, and again the number of her tortilla customers grew. The money it brought in helped fund a temple trip with the rest of the children, along with spouses and children. In 1975, Brother Perez was called as the patriarch of the newly created Quetzaltenango Stake.

One day at school my very good friend came up to me and handed me an envelope. Inside was an invitation to her birthday party! I couldn’t wait to go. The card said, “We will be watching a movie!”
At lunch I asked her what movie we would be watching. She told me the name of the film, and I answered that I wasn’t allowed to watch R-rated movies. She told me she would rent something else for me. But when the day of the party came, my friend had forgotten a movie for me to watch. So, she and my friends tried to talk me into watching the movie. Instead of watching it with them, I went into her little sister’s room and watched a G-rated movie and really enjoyed myself.

My wife, Laura, and I were heartbroken when our first child, our four-month-old daughter, Cynthia Marie, died because of complications with spina bifida. This tragedy caused us, two grieving young parents, to search for a way to be with our daughter again someday. We were not members of the Church at the time.
One morning Laura poured out her heart to Heavenly Father, pleading, “Dear Father, I want to be with my daughter again someday, but I don’t know how. Please show me how.”
At that moment there was a knock on our door. Laura went to answer it with tears still streaming down her face. There stood two missionaries. Eventually, Laura and I both gained a testimony of the truthfulness of the Book of Mormon and were baptized.
Laura wanted to make sure that all our family members had the chance to receive the gospel. For the first 15 years after our baptism, Laura prepared names for the temple, and then we took them to the temple together. After a while Laura’s arthritis got so bad that I took the names to the temple unaccompanied.
Laura passed away three years ago after a long battle with arthritis. Searching for a way to be with our little girl has brought about the temple work of thousands of our beloved ancestors. We have experienced many miracles while doing family history research and temple work (see D&C 128:18, 22).
Norman Pierce, baptized with Laura Pierce in Louisiana, USA, in 1965

“When Elder Goaslind was a young boy, he fell and hit his head while skiing. “That morning when I came home,” he recalled, “my eyes were very dark. The next morning when I tried to get up, I could hardly move, so my parents called the doctor and took me to the hospital. It was determined that I had a concussion. I still remember the blessing that my father gave me, and shortly after the blessing I regained complete mobility. That priesthood blessing had a real effect on my life, not only because I was healed but also because I learned firsthand that the Lord answers prayers.

“I encourage you children to get close to your Heavenly Father, and one of the finest ways to do that is to really talk to Him. He will hear and answer your prayers in His own way and in His own time. I would encourage you not to be discouraged but to put your trust in the Lord, especially when you have important decisions to make.”

In 1936, 68 years ago, one of the secretaries to the Quorum of the Twelve told me what a member of the Twelve had told her. She said that in the coming general conference there would be announced a program which would come to be recognized as even more noteworthy than the coming of our people to these valleys as pioneers.
Now, parenthetically, you should not tell your secretary what you should keep confidential, and she should not tell anyone else when she is given confidential information.
But that was what happened back then. It never happens today. Oh no! I should add that my able secretaries are never guilty of such a breach of confidentiality.
As you who are acquainted with the history know, there was announced at that time the Church security plan, the name of which was subsequently changed to the Church welfare program.
I wondered back in those days how anything the Church did could eclipse in anyone’s judgment the historic gathering of our people to these western valleys of the United States. That was a movement of such epic proportions that I felt nothing could ever be so noteworthy. But I have discovered something of interest in the last short while.
We receive many prominent visitors in the office of the First Presidency. They include heads of state and ambassadors of nations. A few weeks ago we entertained the mayor of one of the great cities of the world. We have likewise recently entertained the vice president and the ambassador of Ecuador, the ambassador from Lithuania, the ambassador from Belarus, and others. In our conversations, not one of these visitors mentioned the great pioneer journey of our forebears. But each of them, independently, spoke in high praise of our welfare program and our humanitarian efforts.
And so as I speak in this great priesthood meeting, I wish to say a few words concerning our efforts in behalf of those in need, be they members of the Church or otherwise, in various parts of the world.
When the modern welfare program was put in motion, it was designed to take care of the needs of our own people. In the years that have followed, thousands upon thousands have been served. Bishops and Relief Society presidents have had available to them food and clothing and other supplies for those in need. Numberless members of the Church have worked in volunteer capacities in producing that which was required. We now operate 113 storehouses, 63 farms, 105 canneries and home storage centers, 18 food processing and distribution plants, as well as many other facilities.
Not only have the needs of Church members been met, but aid has been extended to countless others. Right here in this Salt Lake City community, many of the hungry are fed daily by non-LDS agencies utilizing LDS welfare supplies.
Here, in this city, and in a number of other places, we operate beautiful stores where there is no cash register, where no money changes hands, where food, clothing, and other necessities are provided to those in distress. I believe that no better milk, no better meat, and no better flour is found on any grocery shelf than that which is distributed from the bishops’ storehouses.
The principles on which these establishments operate are essentially what they were at the beginning.
Those in need are expected to do all they can to provide for themselves. Then families are expected to assist in taking care of their less-fortunate members. And then the resources of the Church are made available.
We believe in and take very seriously the words of our Lord:
“Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world:
“For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in:
“Naked, and ye clothed me: I was sick, and ye visited me: I was in prison, and ye came unto me” (Matthew 25:34–36).
This is the Lord’s way of caring for those in need which, He declared, “ye have … always with you” (see Matthew 26:11).
Those who are able voluntarily work to provide for those who are not able. Last year there were 563,000 days of donated labor in welfare facilities. That is the equivalent of a man working eight hours a day for 1,542 years.
A recent issue of the Church News carried the story of a group of farmers in a small Idaho community. May I read briefly from that account?
“It is 6 a.m. in late October, and frost already hangs in the air over the sugar beet fields of Rupert, Idaho.
“The long arms of the ‘beeters’ stretch out over twelve rows, slicing the tops off sugar beets. Behind them, the harvesters thrust their steel fingers into the soil and scoop up the beets, pulling them up toward a belt and into a waiting truck.
“… This is the Rupert Idaho Welfare Farm, and those who are working here today are volunteers. … At times more than 60 machines [are] working in harmony together— … all owned by local farmers.”
The work goes on throughout the day.
“[At] 7 p.m. … the sun has set, leaving the land dark and cold once again. The farmers head home, exhausted and happy.
“They have finished well another day.
“They have harvested the Lord’s sugar beets” (Neil K. Newell, “A Harvest in Idaho,” Church News, Mar. 20, 2004, 16).
Such remarkable volunteer service goes on constantly to assure supplies for the storehouses of the Lord.
Since the early beginnings, the program has moved beyond caring for the needy to the encouragement of preparedness on the part of families of the Church. No one knows when catastrophe might strike—or sickness, or unemployment, or a disabling accident.
Last year the program helped families store 18 million pounds of basic foods against a possible time of need. Hopefully that time will never come. But the good, wholesome, basic food so stored brings peace of mind and also the satisfaction of obedience to counsel.
Now there has been added another element. It began some years ago when drought in Africa brought hunger and death to uncounted numbers. Members of the Church were invited to contribute to a great humanitarian effort to meet the needs of those terribly impoverished people. Your contributions were numerous and generous. The work has continued because there are other serious needs in many places. The outreach of this aid has become a miracle. Millions of pounds of food, medical supplies, blankets, tents, clothing, and other materials have staved off famine and desolation in various parts of the world. Wells have been dug; crops have been planted; lives have been saved. Let me give you an example.
Neil Darlington is a chemical engineer who worked for a large industrial company in Ghana. Eventually he retired.
He and his wife were then called as a missionary couple. They were sent to Ghana. Brother Darlington says, “In areas of famine, disease, and social unrest, we were there as representatives of the Church, extending a helping hand to the destitute, the hungry, the distressed.”
In small villages they drilled new wells and repaired old ones. Those of us who have fresh, clean water in abundance can scarcely appreciate the circumstances of those who are without.
Can you picture this couple, devoted Latter-day Saint missionaries? They drill into the dry earth. Their drill reaches the water table below, and the miracle liquid comes to the surface and spills over the dry and thirsty soil. There is rejoicing. There are tears. There is now water to drink, water with which to wash, water to grow crops. There is nothing more treasured in a dry land than water. How absolutely beautiful is water pouring from a new well.
On one occasion, when the tribal chiefs and the elders of the village gathered to thank them, Brother Darlington asked the chief if he and Sister Darlington could sing a song for them. They looked into the eyes of the dark-skinned men and women before them and sang “I Am a Child of God” as an expression of their common brotherhood.
This one couple, through their efforts, have provided water for an estimated 190,000 people in remote villages and refugee camps. Contemplate, if you will, the miracle of this accomplishment.
And now, literally thousands of their kind—married couples, couples who otherwise might simply have lived out their lives in largely idle pursuits—have served and are serving in scores of ways and in scores of places. They have worked and continue to work in the impoverished areas of America. They have worked, and still do so, in India and Indonesia, in Thailand and Cambodia, in Russia and the Baltic nations. And so the work expands.
Joining with others, the Church has recently provided wheelchairs for some 42,000 disabled persons. Think of what this means to people who literally have had to crawl to get about. With the aid of selfless doctors and nurses, neonatal resuscitation training was provided to nearly 19,000 professionals in the year 2003 alone. The lives of thousands of babies will be spared as a consequence.
Last year some 2,700 individuals were treated for eye problems, and 300 local practitioners were trained in sight-saving procedures. The blind have literally been made to see.
Where devastating floods have come, where earthquakes have created disaster, where hunger has stalked the land, wherever want has been created by whatever cause, representatives of the Church have been there. Some 98 million dollars in cash and in-kind assistance have been distributed in the past year, bringing such aid to a total of 643 million dollars in just 18 years.
I have been a firsthand witness to the effectiveness of our humanitarian efforts. In traveling the world, I have seen the recipients of your generosity. In 1998 I visited the areas of Central America, which had been ravaged by Hurricane Mitch. Here the distribution of food and clothing was quickly organized, and the cleaning and rebuilding of devastated homes and shattered lives was a miracle to behold.
There is not time to go on recounting the reach of these great and significant programs. In extending help we have not asked whether those affected belong to the Church, for we know that each of earth’s children is a child of God worthy of help in time of need. We have done what we have done largely with the left hand not knowing what the right hand is doing. We seek no commendation or thank-yous. It is compensation enough that when we help one of the least of these our Father’s children, we have done it unto Him and His Beloved Son (see Matthew 25:40).
We shall go on in this work. There will always be a need. Hunger and want and catastrophes will ever be with us. And there will always be those whose hearts have been touched by the light of the gospel who will be willing to serve and work and lift the needy of the earth.
As a correlated effort we have established the Perpetual Education Fund. It has come about through your generous contributions. It is now operating in 23 countries. Loans are extended to worthy young men and women for education. Otherwise they would be trapped in the stagnated poverty their parents and forebears have known for generations. Some 10,000 and more are now being assisted, and experience to this date indicates that with such training they are now earning three to four times what was previously possible.
The Spirit of the Lord guides this work. This welfare activity is secular activity, expressing itself in terms of rice and beans, of blankets and tents, of clothing and medicine, of employment and education for better employment. But this so-called secular work is but an outward expression of an inward spirit—the Spirit of the Lord, of whom it was said, He “went about doing good” (Acts 10:38).
May heaven prosper this great program, and may heaven’s blessing rest upon all who serve therein, I humbly pray, in the sacred name of Jesus Christ, amen.

We’re used to having fires in this area, so when I saw the sky looking really smoky that morning, I wasn’t too worried. I was somewhat new to the area, but those who’ve lived in Paradise for a long time—especially those who live by the canyons—have been evacuated before.
This time, however, high winds carried the fire so fast that officials completely underestimated how long it would take to reach us. Most of us had no idea what was going on until the town was burning everywhere. Our situation went from “slightly concerned” to “emergency! Get out!” within one hour.
The evacuation was chaotic—and fast. Most people had to drive through fire to get out of town. As I drove out with my kids, smoke was everywhere. Embers had blown all over town and fires erupted everywhere. A lot of people left with their homes on fire or their neighbor’s home on fire. I didn’t know if our home would be destroyed or not.
As we drove, I had a conversation with God. I prayed that we would get out safely and that our home would be spared. We had only been in our house about two years. As a family, we worked together on improvements. My husband and children helped me redo the countertops and the floors. We called it our “cabin in the woods.” I loved my home, but I tried to be strong enough to submit my will to God’s will.
A few days later, we found out our home was gone. We had made it beautiful, and now it had burned down. But looking back, the time we spent in our house was such a wonderful time. I’m so grateful that God gave our family that time in that house.

When I was about 12, I was asked to sing a solo in my home ward. My parents encouraged me to memorize the hymn so that I could look out into the audience. I worked on the song for many weeks until I could sing it without looking at the words. When the Sunday arrived, I sat on the stand and felt my heart pounding. I had sung in other wards before, but I felt nervous singing in front of people I knew. My greatest fear was that I would make a mistake.
When it was time, I stood up and walked up to the microphone. I felt my stomach flip. I was too afraid to make eye contact with anyone, so I looked at the clock at the back instead. My accompanist began to play the introduction, and I started to sing. I made it halfway through the hymn without any difficulties when I looked down from the clock to the congregation. Suddenly, I forgot the words to the hymn. My accompanist continued playing for a few more measures until she figured out I had stopped singing. She went back to where I had left off and encouragingly played the melody, hoping to remind me of the words.
The words did not come. Fear began to rise within me. My face flushed with heat, and I could feel my ears turning red. My mind raced through the words of the hymn trying to remember what came next, but the words did not come. I looked out into the audience feeling humiliated and embarrassed. My heart crumpled with disappointment and embarrassment. I began to cry. Tears rolled down my cheeks, and I hung my head, burying my face in my hands. I felt everyone staring at me. I wasn’t sure whether I should sit down or stand there until I could remember the words.
Suddenly, I felt a firm hand on my shoulder. I looked up through teary eyes to see my bishop, Bishop Smith, smiling at me. He leaned down and told me that he would sing with me. He then nodded to the sister to begin playing. Bishop Smith’s beautiful baritone voice filled the chapel as he began to sing. He knew the words! As soon as he sang them, I remembered them as well. With his arm around my shoulder, I felt the courage to begin again, and together we finished the song.

On 29 November 2018, my dear wife, Ruth, went into labor with our fourth child. Although this was an exciting and joyous moment for us as a family, there was some major concern. The pregnancy was at 32 weeks and the expected delivery was to be late January 2019. This was approximately eight weeks early. The thought—and the now-evident reality—of getting our baby preterm was disturbing.
Before we rushed to the Aga Khan University Hospital in Nairobi that night, I said a silent prayer and beseeched the Lord so that both the mother and baby would be protected. As we arrived at the hospital, the doctors warned me of the possible dangerous outcomes of preterm delivery. They mentioned that the baby’s development could be affected due to incomplete time in the womb. In the worst-case scenario, loss of life happens, and mom and baby could be lost. Although this terrified me, I knew that God was in the details. I knew that the Lord would do His will upon my wife and baby. This assurance gave me a lot of peace. I had prayed many times for other pressing matters in the past, and I had seen the hand of the Lord. He had answered all my prayers from the days of my youth. I knew He would not forsake us even in this case however difficult it seemed.
Around this time of trial, my ward, Zimmerman, was split and I received a call to become the bishop of one of the two newly created wards. This was a very challenging moment for me, but I knew that God would provide a way to accomplish this immense task. I could juggle between my new calling, taking care of the three children at home—all of whom were still young—making regular visits to the hospital, and give honest labor to my employer.
From my past interactions with other bishops, it was evident that the calling of being a bishop was considered one of the most challenging callings in the church—feared and loved in equal measure. However, I confidently knew that whom the Lord calls He qualifies and that He would provide a way for me to be a successful bishop as well as fulfill all other responsibilities placed on my shoulders. As Nephi states: “And it came to pass that I, Nephi, said unto my father: I will go and do the things which the Lord hath commanded, for I know that the Lord giveth no commandments unto the children of men, save He shall prepare a way for them that they may accomplish the thing which He hath commandeth them” (1 Nephi 3:7).
Things went on well and our baby, David, was born weighing 1.5 kg (approximately 3.3 pounds). The doctors said he looked good for his age and that he was not in any extreme danger. He was placed in the neonatal intensive care unit and he responded very well to the care given by the doctors and nurses. Like many other times in the past, I saw the hand of the Lord and His choicest blessing in my wife’s and son’s lives. This experience helped me appreciate our great medical technology and the selfless acts of the hospital personnel. David is healthy and thriving now and has been a great addition to our family. He is a source of joy to us all. His siblings Payson, Precious, and Natasha love him dearly. He is a constant reminder of the greatness of God.