Gospel Story Finder

David M., 18, Western Kasai, Democratic Republic of the Congo
My mother was diagnosed with cancer two years ago. I didn’t like watching her in pain, and I wished that I could do something. And although my mother got better, it was a hard experience. Your mother is in a place where she won’t feel pain or suffering. It’s hard not to see her anymore, but you are never alone. She will always love you, and our Heavenly Father will always be there to lift you up when you are low. You will never be abandoned. Jesus Christ suffered the pains of the world; He knows how you feel and what you are going through. Do as I did in my time of trial: go to Him and He will make your burdens light.

But Tavita excelled not only because of his love for the sports, but because he taught himself strict discipline. That discipline helped him learn Cantonese while still preparing to enter the Hong Kong Mission. “When I got my call to Hong Kong, my next thought was, ‘What is a 265 pound Samoan going to do there?’ But I knew that was where Heavenly Father wanted me to serve.”
At the beginning, Tavita had a tough time with the language. It was frustrating to not be able to communicate his strong feelings about the gospel. “Through patience and prayer I learned to endure. The relationship between my Heavenly Father and me grew closer, more than I ever thought it could. My knees literally had calluses on them.”
Patience and long suffering helped him succeed on his mission. These attributes have continued to help him succeed in his college studies and football career. Unlike high school, where he thought he had to prove something, all he has to prove now is his worthiness to his Heavenly Father.

“When I was nine, my family moved to Phoenix, Arizona,” Elder Gibbons continued. “Even as a young boy I had wanted to be a court reporter. So at the age of seventeen I studied shorthand and qualified to become one. Soon after that I lost my desire to be a court reporter. However, I used the skills that I learned, both in school and in my work as an attorney.
“In 1970 Joseph Anderson, secretary to the First Presidency, was sustained as a General Authority. I was Joseph’s bishop, and he told my wife, Helen, and me of the difficulty the Brethren were having trying to get someone to replace him. They needed someone who had had administrative experience in the Church, someone who could work well with the General Authorities and who could take rapid shorthand because they don’t use recording devices in the First Presidency meetings or in the temple.
“When we got home that night, my wife said, ‘Frank, I could hardly restrain myself from telling Joseph that the man the Brethren are looking for is you.’ We prayed about it. I called Joseph the next morning and said, ‘Can I see you?’ He said, ‘Yes, why don’t you come in at ten o’clock.’ Joseph told me later that he hung up the phone, turned to his wife, Norma, and said, ‘Frank Gibbons is going to come in and offer his services to the Brethren.’ Norma said, ‘You’re mistaken. Frank wouldn’t give up his legal practice for that.’ And he said, ‘Well, we’ll see.’
“I saw Brother Anderson at the appointed time and told him ‘I just wanted you to know, Joseph, that if the Brethren have need of my services, I’m available.’
“He called me the next day and said, ‘The Brethren would like to see you in the morning.’ So I went in that Thursday morning, and the Brethren asked me how long it would take me to free myself from my law practice. I said that it would take several months. Then President Tanner asked, ‘How can you afford to do it?’ President Lee spoke up and said, ‘Frank has come to the point in life where he knows that he can’t afford not to do it.’
“When I was a teenager, the thought of learning shorthand in order to work for the First Presidency never occurred to me. But I had a strong desire to learn shorthand, and I acted on it. Likewise, you children ought to dream, have ambitions, and set goals. It doesn’t make any difference if over the years those goals change. The fact that you’re striving to attain a goal means that you’re developing skills. And you can never tell how those skills will be used in the years ahead.”

Not long ago, I listened to a man and woman who spoke in my home ward. This man had served in many capacities in the Church, including that of bishop. Their most recent assignment was to fellowship a single mother and her children. He stated that it was the most joyful of all his Church experiences.
This young woman was full of questions. She was filled with fear and anxiety. She did not wish to make a mistake, to say anything that was out of line that might embarrass her or cause others to laugh. Patiently this man and his wife brought the family to church, sat with them, put a shield around them, as it were, against anything that might happen to embarrass them. They spent one evening a week with them at their home, teaching them further concerning the gospel and answering their many questions. They led that little family along as a shepherd leads his sheep. Eventually, circumstances dictated that they move to another city. “But,” he stated, “we still correspond with that woman. We feel a great appreciation for her. She is now firmly grounded in the Church, and we have no fear concerning her. What a joy it has been to work with her.”

President Hinckley, in a satellite broadcast last February, shared the story of a woman who became a member last year. She wrote:
“‘My journey into the Church was unique and quite challenging. This past year has been the hardest year that I have ever lived in my life. It has also been the most rewarding. As a new member, I continue to be challenged every day.’
“She goes on to say that when she joined the Church she did not feel support from the leadership in her ward. Her bishop seemed indifferent to her as a new member. Rebuffed, as she felt, she turned back to her mission president, who opened opportunities for her.
“She states that ‘Church members don’t know what it is like to be a new member of the Church. Therefore, it’s almost impossible for them to know how to support us’” (“Find the Lambs, Feed the Sheep,” Ensign, May 1999, 108).

It’s 8:30 on a brisk Monday morning at the Harvard Business School. A wind that blows in off the Charles River hustles red, orange, and yellow leaves as they chase each other around the ivy-laden brick buildings. Students of all colors and sizes hurry to their classes, the difficulty of the material they studied the night before imprinted on their faces.
Once inside the classroom they place their name cards in front of them, arrange their notes, and chatter nervously. Who will be called on to open class, they wonder, hoping against hope that it won’t be them.
“Mr. Fullmer,” barks the teacher. “I believe it is your lucky day. You will open, please.”
Greg Fullmer leans forward, fingers his notes and begins. He is prepared. He should be. He was up until 2:00 A.M. poring over the text. Greg has to stay up studying a little later than most students because he has so many additional responsibilities. Last year he was elected to serve as the Harvard Business School’s student body president—the first Latter-day Saint to hold that position. School officials and students alike say he is one of the best they’ve ever had—that he did more in the first two months he was in office than most presidents ever do in an entire year. The six-foot-two, broad-shouldered former BYU student body president finishes his statement, and a number of hands shoot up. The discussion has begun.
Fifteen years ago, if you had told that 12-year-old farm boy from Rexburg, Idaho, that he would someday be a student body president of one of the most prestigious schools in the country, he probably would have smiled. Not laughed, mind you, because he always did believe that if your desires are righteous and if you’re willing to pay the price, you can accomplish what you want to. No, he would have smiled because you had just given him a new goal to work toward.
But then again, at that point in Greg’s life, you probably would have laughed right out loud when you tried to picture him as the handsome Harvard student who has a number of major corporations trying to recruit him. Greg was short, overweight, asthmatic, and not exactly what you’d call an academic standout. And although he was good-natured and had a positive disposition, he was no angel either.
“He was always teasing his sister and doing something to get you aggravated,” his grandmother, Loah Anderson will tell you. “I laugh with him now about it though, and tell him that if I had ever caught him, he wouldn’t be where he is today.”
His grade school bus driver would agree. Not long ago, he stopped Greg in church and said “You know, Greg, you’ve restored my faith in the youth of today.”
“How’s that?” asked Greg, flattered but slightly puzzled.
“You used to be the rottenest kid I knew,” the bus driver replied. “I just hated to see you get on that bus. But now I know that if you can make it, anyone can.”
Greg really wasn’t a troublemaker. He just liked to interact with people, and he was naturally curious. “We’d take him to a cafe,” his grandmother says, “and the kid would be up and out in a second. He wouldn’t sit at the table. He’d be over with the hostess, talking to the waitresses; then he’d go back into the kitchen to see what was cooking.”
Through most of Greg’s teenage years, he was six to eight inches shorter than his sister—his younger sister. She is 14 months his junior. In junior high school, he got along well with the other kids, but no one took him that seriously. “I ran for student body president in junior high and suffered a miserable defeat,” he said. “I didn’t even make it into the primaries, and that really hurt.”
So what motivated Greg to keep trying? How did he finally end up in the top student leadership position at Harvard Business School?
Well, you could say it was faith. Faith in the Lord, faith in himself, and the faith that his family showed in him.
Greg didn’t come from what most people would call the ideal, stereotypical family background. But he’ll tell you it was ideal for him. His parents were divorced before he was two, and he, along with his mother and his sister, moved in with his grandparents. Instead of lamenting the fact that he comes from a “broken home,” Greg makes the best of it. “I always felt like I had to excel to make up for not having a dad, so actually, it was kind of good for me,” he says. Besides, “it was like having the love and support of three parents, not just two.” His mother had to work during the day but made sure that when she came home she spent plenty of quality time with her children.
From his mother, Greg learned to listen to people, to understand their needs, and to try to help them. This became one of his greatest assets as he served in various student-government positions. From his grandmother he learned that you can achieve almost anything you want in life if you’re willing to work hard. He attributes his greatest achievements to that conviction, including funding his mission with the money he earned by opening a number of weight control centers in various parts of the country. From his grandfather, Greg learned patience and wisdom. “He didn’t have a formal education, so he’d get up early every morning and read books,” Greg relates. “He’s one of the most intelligent people I know.” Under that inspiration, Greg went from being an average student in junior high to being class valedictorian at BYU.
When Greg was 12, his family went through another change. After much deliberation, his mother decided to remarry, and although there was occasional strain, Greg adapted quite well to his new father, brothers, and sisters.
While other boys were out playing little league baseball, Greg spent a lot of time working on the family farm, milking and feeding cows, cleaning out the milk tank, you name it. He doesn’t regret the time spent—it taught him to work hard. But he won’t tell you he loved it either, although he did have a number of ways to make the long, tedious hours go by faster. He took great pride in trying to do the best job he possibly could. If he was working with others, he would talk to them, laugh with them, joke with them, and get to know them better. And then, when he had a spare second, he would dream about what he would try to accomplish in the future.
“I wasn’t the most athletic kid in the school, I wasn’t the most intelligent, and I certainly wasn’t the best looking, so I decided I’d try to be the friendliest,” he said. “One way to feel good about yourself is to make other people feel good about themselves.”
Included in his dreams was a desire to be a student body president. He got over his miserable junior high defeat and decided that he would run when he got to high school. But just a short time before he was to announce his candidacy, his best friend told him he’d decided to run and asked Greg to be his campaign manager. Greg complied and helped him win, deciding that he could run for the office when he got to Ricks College.
But when Greg got to Ricks, he decided to sacrifice his political ambitions in favor of serving a mission in Indonesia. “I had a lot of misconceptions about the mission field,” he admits. “When you hear missionaries come back and say those were the best two years of their lives, you think it’s going to be all roses, but it’s not. It’s the hardest thing you could possibly do, and that’s what makes it great. I really learned to appreciate things I had to work for and sacrifice for. I learned to accept, appreciate, and love people who were different from me.”
When Greg returned from his mission, he finished up at Ricks, then went on to BYU. He never had satisfied his dream of becoming a student body president, but the thought of presiding over BYU’s 27,000 students seemed overly ambitious to him. His sister Kristie was convinced he could do it though. She helped him find a running mate, served as his campaign manager, and after a lot of hard work, Greg was elected by one of the biggest margins in BYU history.
“That really helped prepare me for where I am now,” Greg says. And actually, he is quite surprised to be in this position at Harvard. He’d already satisfied his goal of serving as a student body president, and knowing how many hours he’d put into the position at BYU, he didn’t think he could handle it at graduate school. After much prayer and a lot of requests from fellow students, however, Greg decided to give it a try. A lot of hard work went into that election too, and it paid off.
Even though Greg has won a multitude of other awards and titles, he feels that some of his greatest satisfaction comes when his accomplishments put him in a position to answer questions about the Church. “I’m constantly being questioned about our beliefs,” he says with a smile. “And I’m always happy to talk with anyone.”
And they’re usually happy to listen. Fellow students scrutinize Greg a little closer than they do other classmates. Not only is he their president, but he’s also one of a handful of LDS people they might know.
Tomorrow he’ll probably be walking Wall Street, but today, on the brisk Monday afternoon, his class discussions are finished and he walks over to one of the numerous meetings he has each week. Many students call out to him, greeting him by name. Some glance at him with a mischievous look in their eyes and call out, “Hi, LARRY!” That’s Greg’s first name, but he hates to be called that and they know it. On the first day of class this year, the student body gave him a standing ovation and shouted out, “Larry! Larry! Larry!” It’s impossible to take yourself too seriously with classmates like that.
Still, many of them ask him how he’s accomplished what he has. “My theory of success,” he tells them, “requires two things—that you work hard, and that you pray hard.” Greg slides into his seat at the head of a large conference table, and the other student body officers begin to file in. He is prepared. He should be. He was up until 2 A.M. making use of his theory of success.

“Last year,” announced the oldest girl, trying hard to be sophisticated in an ill-fitting sheath and high heels much too large, “I was to a party in the Linen Makers’ Hall. Hundreds of us there was, and a tree 30 feet high.”
“Was it grand, but?” asked a slightly envious voice.
“It wasn’t, for no one had time to talk with us like these good ladies are doing.”
I thought then that I had learned something about giving, but I was shortly to learn more.
The sophisticate I noticed, had traded her beads for the clay, the clay for a toy car, the toy car for the baby’s picture book.
“Sure it’ll do,” she said, trying to rewrap it. The used cellophane tape wouldn’t stick.
“And would you have a bit of string, Missus? And a pencil, please?” I produced them, wondering.
She tied the parcel awkwardly, and in large uneven letters she printed on it “TOMMY.”
She saw me looking and she explained: “Tis me wee brother, Missus. Nobody invited him to a party, and we can’t afford him no present.”
Ragged, messy little girl in your run-over, outsized high heels, I seem to remember that you are beautiful.

When they visited Adam-ondi-Ahman in Missouri, the Kikuchis visited with the nine missionary couples who were working there. They asked Elder Kikuchi to hold a fireside that night. In the meeting, after telling them of his boyhood hatred for Americans, he said, “But because I found my beautiful Savior through the work of humble missionaries who taught me about pre-earth life, I discovered that I am truly one of Heavenly Father’s sons. My perception totally changed. My values and my understanding of the meaning of life have changed because of the gospel. There is a purpose in life, and we have the light of the gospel, the spirit of the Lord, the power of God to obtain necessary ordinances, the love of God, and the great hope to live again and to meet God.
“I’m grateful, in a way, that my father didn’t survive the bombing, because if he had, I probably wouldn’t have been able to join the Church. My life would have taken a much different course. Where I was born and raised, there was no LDS church, and even now there is no chapel. I would have become a regular student in high school and college. And I may not have been humble enough to accept the gospel if I heard it.”
Elder Kikuchi then told the missionary couples that “I am so grateful, so thankful that you raised sons and daughters to serve as missionaries. Your sons came to my door. You may say, ‘My son didn’t go to Japan.’ But he came to my door because you prayed for all the missionaries, and some missionaries came and brought joy to my heart. Because you raised your sons and daughters and sent them on missions, many hearts were touched by them in Japan, in the Philippines, in Switzerland, in Germany, in Hawaii, and elsewhere. It did actually happen that a missionary from Idaho and a missionary from Salt Lake City knocked at my door. I know that God lives and that Jesus is the Christ and that this Church is true.”

Years ago I presided over a mission headquartered in the Midwest. One day, with a handful of our missionaries, I spoke with an esteemed representative of another Christian faith. This gentle soul spoke of his own religion’s history and doctrine, eventually repeating the familiar words: “By grace ye are saved. Every man and woman must exercise faith in Christ in order to become a saved being.”
Among those present was a new missionary. He was altogether unfamiliar with other religions. He had to ask the question, “But, sir, what happens to the little baby who dies before he is old enough to understand and exercise faith in Christ?” The learned man bowed his head, looked at the floor, and said, “There ought to be an exception. There ought to be a loophole. There ought to be a way, but there isn’t.”
The missionary looked at me and, with tears in his eyes, said, “Goodness, President, we do have the truth, don’t we!”

My best friends from school were trying out for a competitive soccer league. The tryouts were on Sundays. My mom told the coach that I was not going to try out for the team because the tryouts were on Sundays, which is our Sabbath day. The coach called back a few days later and said he had scheduled a special Wednesday tryout for me. I made the team. I know Heavenly Father blesses us when we keep the Sabbath day holy.

One Sunday while I was serving as mission president in Vladivostok, Russia, a rather amazing thing happened. I had gone to my office to gather some materials when a 13-year-old young man, Vladimir, whose friends call him Vova, knocked on the door. Vova is a deacon in the Vladivostok First Branch. He asked to visit with me in my office. He was accompanied by Sister Olga Vyachyeslavna Dryagunova. This sister speaks wonderful English, and the boy had asked her if she would act as his interpreter. Vova speaks no English, and I speak only a little Russian.
Vova had been an orphan, abandoned at birth because he was born with a cleft palate. The birth defect has since been partially repaired, leaving a scar. He was adopted by a wonderful woman who has treated him as her son. The boy is always happy. He has a smile on his face and a wonderful countenance when he passes the sacrament. He wears the mantle of a deacon as well as any boy I have ever known. He regularly bears a sweet and brief testimony of the truthfulness of the gospel. He is everything that a deacon ought to be.
At our meeting Vova spoke Russian and Sister Olga interpreted. She told me that Vova had come to fill out his application to serve as a full-time missionary. I asked, without a hint of a smile, “How old is he?”
She asked and he answered, “Nearly 14.”
Retaining my composure, I said, “Does he understand that he needs to be 19 before he can serve a mission?”
She responded, “He does, but he does not want to be tardy in getting his application in.”
I assured them that there was still time before we needed to send his missionary application to Moscow and then on to Salt Lake City. Neither the branch president nor I would forget when it was time for him to fill out his forms. I walked to the wall displaying pictures of the 44 missionaries then serving in the Russia Vladivostok Mission. I told Vova I was worried that the missionary papers might be returned if it appeared that I was recommending a 13-year-old boy for a mission.
Then I explained that since he was in my office where I conducted interviews with the missionaries, I thought it appropriate to ask him the questions that will be asked of him when he is 19, just to make sure that he was currently worthy to serve a mission. I then went through all the worthiness questions as though Vova were one of my full-time missionaries but tactfully passed over the boy-girl questions, thinking them premature. Besides, I didn’t want to embarrass Sister Olga.
Vova answered all my questions with the appropriate responses and with the wisdom of a boy twice his age. Upon further reflection, I guessed that he may have even asked one of the elders what interview questions he might anticipate from the mission president. I then told Vova that he could come back every six months, and we would repeat the interview process.
He then asked with some concern what he should say to let me know he was ready for another interview six months from now. I said to him, through Sister Olga, that it was time for him to have his first English lesson. I then said slowly, “This is what you should say to me, ‘President, I am ready for my missionary interview.’”
He repeated the important words he needed to know three times.
As I was ready to end the interview, Vova asked Sister Olga to ask me one last question. “President,” he said, “what advice do you have for me to prepare for my mission?”
I was a bit taken back. Few of my mature elders would have the wisdom to ask such a timely question. I pondered for a moment and then told him to do three things: First, I told him to read the scriptures each day. Second, I suggested that he pray to his Heavenly Father each morning and evening. Third, I told him to practice his English.
I confess the last suggestion was a little selfish on my part, as I was thinking how I would enjoy speaking with him in English and asking him questions about the things of his heart. I suggested he attend the free English classes taught by the missionaries, but he said his mother would not allow him to be out after dark. We agreed that he would work harder each day in his English class at school.
Later, when I saw the deacons in the hall after church, I asked Vova if he would like to repeat the phrase he needed to use to ask for his next interview. This he did in a fine manner. Then to my great surprise, I learned that each of the other deacons in the branch had also learned the magic words. Each one repeated while looking right at me, “President, I am ready for my missionary interview!”
Oh, the power of example! The joy of one willing to open his mouth and share the things he had learned with another was something I was trying to get all of my missionaries to experience! These Russian deacons were on the road to perfection.

You may have read the story in the Ensign about the Hibbert family. (See Ensign, June 1980, pp. 41–42.) The husband and father of a large family was diagnosed as having terminal cancer. After the shock and fear were faced, the husband and wife counseled together and decided that the best thing they could do for their joy and peace of mind was to prepare themselves and their family for what was to come.
They chose to create family memories through shared experiences, to complete family histories, to have a year’s supply of food and other necessities to meet the financial emergencies that would come. A will was prepared and all insurance and legal papers were put in order. The children were taught to care for one another and to take responsibility in the home.
Just weeks before the death of Brother Hibbert, their home was destroyed in a fire. With it went much of the food storage, but there was still the togetherness of a family that had learned to work together, to plan and prepare, and to face a difficulty head on. With the death of Brother Hibbert, there was sorrow—but not grief. The family had developed the skills it takes to remain close and loving. They were prepared.

Desiree listened to her Primary teacher, Sister Ruiz, in wonder. She couldn’t believe what Sister Ruiz was saying. It seemed too good to be true. Desiree looked at the other children in her class. They didn’t seem to be as amazed as she was. Finally Desiree raised her hand. “Do you really mean it, Sister Ruiz? Would you really do anything for us?” she asked.
“Yes, Desiree.” The kind look in her teacher’s eyes, even more than her words, showed Desiree that she really meant it. But Desiree continued to wonder if it was really true. Maybe someday she would find out.
It wasn’t even a week later that Desiree was able to test her Primary teacher’s promise. One day when she came home from school, Desiree found a note taped to the front door and grabbed it. When she entered the house, no one answered her calls. The house was empty. A strange, spooky stillness surrounded her, making the hair on her neck prickle.
“Where are you, Mommy?” Desiree whispered as tears trickled down her face. She dropped her backpack on the couch and sat down next to it. Remembering the note in her hand, Desiree opened it. She recognized her mother’s handwriting, but the letters were joined together by slants. Her mother had forgotten that she couldn’t read cursive writing.
“I’ll do anything I can for you, because I love you.” The memory of her Primary teacher’s words came to Desiree’s mind. Maybe she couldn’t read cursive, but she could read typing and she could read numbers. She could find Sister Ruiz’s phone number and call her to ask for help.
When Sister Ruiz heard Desiree’s dilemma, she told her that she would be right over. To Desiree it seemed like a long time before she arrived, but even though Sister Ruiz lived in another town, she made the trip in just 10 minutes.
Desiree flung open the front door and ran down the sidewalk when she saw Sister Ruiz get out of her car. Through her tears, she handed her Primary teacher the note left by her mother.
Sister Ruiz read the note and smiled. “This says that your mommy is at your grandma’s house working on a quilt.”
Desiree suddenly remembered that her mother had told her to go to Grandma’s house, just down the street, after school. She had left the note to remind Desiree but had forgotten to print it in letters Desiree could read.
“Do you want me to walk you to your grandma’s?” Sister Ruiz asked.
Desiree shook her head. She looked up at Sister Ruiz. “You drove all this way just to read a note. Thank you.”
Sister Ruiz smiled, and Desiree noticed that her eyes were glistening with tears. “This wasn’t much, Desiree. I’ll do anything I can for you.”
“It was a lot to me,” Desiree said.
Sister Ruiz hugged Desiree. “I’m glad you think so.”
Desiree carefully looked both ways before crossing the street and walking down to Grandma’s house. Sister Ruiz watched to make sure she arrived safely. Then she drove away.
“Where have you been?” Desiree’s mother asked when she walked in. “I was starting to get worried.”
“I just learned that my Primary teacher will come all the way to my house to read me a note.”
“Why didn’t you read it yourself?” Desiree’s mom asked.
“Because I can’t read cursive.”
Desiree’s mother’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “I didn’t even think about it, Desiree. I’m sorry you had to call your teacher to help you.”
“That’s OK.” Desiree grinned. “My teacher said she was glad to do it, because she loves me.”

Allan sat on a bench outside his house. The sun was setting. Palm trees stood against the pink and orange sky.
He turned the page of the book he was reading. It didn’t have any pictures. But Allan didn’t mind. He loved reading this book!
His eyes skimmed across Papa’s neat writing. He remembered this part! It always made him laugh.
Just then, Papa came outside. “What’s so funny?”
“I’m reading one of your books.” Allan grinned. “I like the part about the coconut.”
“Oh, you mean my journals.” Papa sat beside Allan. “They tell the story of my life. But they are not just about me. You are in them too. And so is Mama, and your brothers and sister.”
“Like Nephi!” Allan said. “He wrote stories about his life, and he wrote about his family too.”
“Right!” Papa said.
“I like the parts about you best,” Allan said. “Like when you were a missionary here in Tahiti.”
“I like the stories about you best,” Papa said. “Did you know that we named you after Elder Bednar’s middle name?”
“You never told me that! I can’t wait to read that part.”
Papa smiled. “There are lots of stories in my journals. I’ve been writing in journals since I was eight.”
“Since you were eight?” Allan asked. “That’s a really, really long time.”
Papa laughed. “I’m not that old.”
Allan thought for a bit. “I’m turning eight soon,” he said. “Could I get a journal for my birthday?”
“Of course!” Papa said.
“Then I can write my stories so that someday my kids can read them.”
“That sounds like a great family tradition!” Papa said.

The day we arrived in Merthyr Tydfil, we went to the local history centre and spent a couple of confusing hours trying to decide how to begin our search. At a loss, we decided to pick up a few pamphlets and go to the Pant Cemetery where we were sure we could find the grave of Morgan Thomas, Margaret Rowland’s husband, or at least find someone who could guide us to the grave.
When we arrived, we were stunned, having been used to our western American cemeteries of limited size. Pant was huge! Hill upon hill of ancient gravestones in every conceivable state of disrepair. We all stood in disbelief as we stared at the task before us. We ultimately decided just to walk around a bit as we prayed to be guided in the right direction. After about 30 minutes of wandering, we met and determined that this would be a hopeless endeavor and somewhat discouraged, we left for dinner.
The next morning, we went to the Engine House (a genealogical repository and information center) in Merthyr to begin our research. It is there where the miracles began as we entered the Engine House and met miracle number one, Terry Jones.
My brothers Richard and Joe, Joe’s wife, Eileen, and I were downstairs learning about the history of the iron industry in the town when Richard’s wife, Sharon, and my friend Sandy went upstairs to wander and look for restrooms. There, they encountered a gentleman working on a computer and began a conversation with him about our quest. When they mentioned trying to find one grave amongst the 10,000 in Pant Cemetery he realized that we really did need some help. He introduced himself as Terry Jones and arranged for us to meet him at the cemetery office across the street where he introduced us to Deb, the keeper of records. Here we not only found Margaret’s grave site number, but others who were related and resided next to her. We were able to arrange with Deb’s husband, the caretaker of the cemetery, to meet later that day to see the graves.
Miracle number two occurred when we returned to the cemetery and realized that all six of us had previously stood very near the actual site of the graves at some point as we wandered the cemetery. The reason we didn’t see the graves was they were covered entirely by a huge tree that had completely swallowed them. We had previously photographed the tree because it was so immense and imposing, but for no other reason.
We returned later to cut away some of the lower branches so that Sharon could crawl inside and read the writing on the headstones, and we discovered that we had many more relatives buried in this plot than we realized.
Miracle number three came with a visit to the Colly Isaf farm upon which Margaret and Morgan Thomas farmed. It is no longer in the Thomas family, but the current owners allowed us to visit and to photograph the place where our family lived. We discovered the name of the farm listed on the back of a photograph found in material one of our aunts had given us.
Miracle number four occurred throughout the following year as Terry continued to do research for our family and discovered many more links in the family chain, but culminated with a discovery of John Thomas, a direct descendant of Margaret Rowland and Morgan Thomas.
John currently lives on Penrhiw farm which has been in the family since 1724 and he and his wife, Celia, were willing to meet with us. He sent us a lineage chart of all the siblings of Job who remained in Wales, adding much needed information to connect our family to those who had died. This discovery came about through another miracle, number five, that of Terry meeting Father Powell at St. Catwg’s Episcopal Church. While looking for Edward Rowland and Ann Miles, he mentioned John as a possible Thomas still living on the farm.
Miracle number six, cheap tickets to Wales even though it was at the time of the royal wedding. The window for these tickets was short, and directly after we booked them the price doubled.
Miracle number seven again involved Terry Jones who had looked for one year for the marriage of Edward Rowland and Ann Miles (Job and Margaret’s grandparents). Three weeks before we returned to Merthyr in 2018, he found it.
When we arrived in Merthyr, the scene had already been set by those who had been directing our lives for the past year. It felt as though we were in a giant genealogical chess game over which we had no control. Terry was beginning to feel the same forces in action as well. Every morning he would present us with a list of places we would visit that day. One day he showed us his list, which had two sides. He said that he created one list the night before and then this morning, for some unknown reason, he changed it and added a new place: Gadfield Elm Chapel in Gloucestershire. He said he didn’t know why he added it but thought it would be interesting for us to see. Of course, we acquiesced.
Miracle number eight: As we got to Gadfield Elm we discovered the reason. The first ownership of the chapel was given to Wilford Woodruff by the United Brethren, but it rested on or near brother Benbow’s farm. Many of the early members were baptized in Benbow’s pond. And Benbow was the maiden name of Terry’s wife. Terry was stunned. He kept saying he had no idea why he had changed the itinerary for the day, but we all knew why.
The next day we visited St. Catwg’s church and we were met by Father Powell and his lay reader Carolynn Corbin, who showed us around this very impressive 2,000-year-old building. While chatting, my brother Richard discovered miracle number nine that Carolynn was a Parry and quite likely a very close cousin of ours. We exchanged emails and discovered that we did indeed have a common ancestor. This led to a wonderful afternoon tea and the uniting of another branch of Welsh and American lines. After just a few minutes with this family we knew we had met before.
Miracle number ten: We discovered that we were not in charge in other ways as we went to Terry’s home for juice and to collect a book of remembrance that he had found when cleaning out the Engine House. He had asked Richard and Sharon to take the book of remembrance back to Logan where they live to find its owner. He showed Sharon this photo of a family reunion taken in 2004 (he had been doing research for the person who sent it to him), and she recognized someone. She immediately texted that person, and as a result, the connection was made between the photo and the owner of the book of remembrance.
There were more miracles during our visit that involved finding graves that were hidden in cemeteries, discovering writing on tombstones that were covered in lichen and moss, and potentially uncovering ancestors of whom we had no knowledge. If you ever doubt that the veil is thin or that there are others across that veil who wish their work done, let these experiences prove to you that you can be an instrument in their hands. If you allow yourself to be open to the impressions, the promptings, or urgings, as a member of this Church or not, the work of Elijah can be accomplished. Please always live so that you can be a vehicle in the work of redeeming your dead; so that when you meet them, they will encircle you with their joy and gratitude.

In April of 1847, Brigham Young led the first company of pioneers out of Winter Quarters. At that same time, 1,600 miles to the west the survivors of the Donner Party straggled down the slopes of the Sierra Nevada Mountains into the Sacramento Valley.
They had spent the ferocious winter trapped in the snowdrifts below the summit. That any survived the days and weeks and months of starvation and indescribable suffering is almost beyond belief.
Among them was 15-year-old John Breen. On the night of April 24 he walked into Johnson’s Ranch. Years later John wrote:
“It was long after dark when we got to Johnson’s Ranch, so the first time I saw it was early in the morning. The weather was fine, the ground was covered with green grass, the birds were singing from the tops of the trees, and the journey was over. I could scarcely believe that I was alive.
“The scene that I saw that morning seems to be photographed on my mind. Most of the incidents are gone from memory, but I can always see the camp near Johnson’s Ranch.”1
John Breen did not come to that morning at Johnson’s Ranch simply by desiring it. He wallowed and clawed his way up over the pass, suffering every step of the way. But once he knew he would survive and the suffering would end, surely he did not complain at the ordeal. And he had help all the way down. He was with rescuers.

My name is Koshi. I live near the Sapporo Japan Temple. I loved sitting by a window in my house and watching the temple be built.
During the open house, I invited my good friend to come with us. He thought everything was beautiful.
I like to think of the temple dedication as its birthday. That day was also my birthday. And President Monson’s too! My parents and I got to be in the temple when it was dedicated. I even got to meet President Monson.
I am so grateful to live near the temple. When I have hard days at school, I can walk through the grounds on my way home. I feel Heavenly Father’s love for me when I am there. I look forward to when I can go inside to do baptisms and later get married there.

Lisa watched as her 16-year-old sister, Michelle, sat on her bed and read the Book of Mormon.
“Aren’t you going to the dance?” Lisa asked. Lisa was 11. It would be three more years before she could go to a stake dance. “I wish I was old enough to go,” she said as she sat down on Michelle’s bed.
Michelle smiled at her. “You bet I’m going! But I want to finish reading before I go,” she said. “I just have a couple of pages left.”
Lisa sat quietly while Michelle read. She knew her sister had looked forward to the stake New Year’s Eve dance for weeks. Michelle had saved her money from her job at the mall and had bought a new dress to wear that night.
Lisa also knew that Michelle had set a goal to finish reading the Book of Mormon by the end of the year. Lisa was reading too, but she wasn’t finished yet.
Michelle looked up and grinned as she closed her scriptures. “Done!” she said. “I finished the whole Book of Mormon! Lisa, do you want to pray with me?” she asked.
Surprised, Lisa nodded. She and Michelle had prayed together for family home evening and family prayer, but never just the two of them.
Lisa listened as her sister prayed. Michelle told Heavenly Father how much she loved the scriptures, the prophet, and Jesus Christ. After the prayer both girls were silent for a long moment.
Lisa finally looked up to see tears on Michelle’s cheeks. “Why are you crying?” she asked.
“I’ve read the Book of Mormon before,” Michelle explained with a smile as she brushed the tears away. “But I never really understood the words on the cover until now—‘Another Testament of Jesus Christ.’ This time I learned that the Book of Mormon really does testify of Jesus Christ.”
Lisa suddenly felt a rush of love for Michelle. “I’m glad you’re my big sister,” she said.
Michelle brushed a hand over Lisa’s hair. “I’m glad you’re my sister too,” she said. “Want to help me do my hair?”
“Sure!” Lisa said. They both brushed Michelle’s long brown hair until it was shiny and smooth.
Michelle kissed Lisa’s cheek, then hurried to get ready for the dance. Lisa picked up the scriptures. She had just set a goal for the year. She was going to finish the Book of Mormon too.

Mark and his mom tromped through the snow to the car. Dad had scraped the frost from the windows and warmed up the car, but he wasn’t coming to church. He was reading on the sofa instead.
“I hate going without Dad,” Mark grumbled as he settled into the front seat beside Mom.
“I’m sad that Dad’s not going with us too,” Mom said as she backed out of the driveway. “But I still love going to church.”
“Well, I do too,” Mark said. “But you know what I mean, right? I wish our family could be more like Doug’s family.”
Doug was Mark’s best friend at church. Doug’s dad went to church every Sunday. He always had a smile and a high-five for Mark.
Mom rounded the corner onto the main road. “I do know what you mean,” she said. “Doug has a wonderful family. And I always thought our family would be more like that. It’s hard that it isn’t. I hope Dad can work out his questions and problems and start coming to church with us again. But that’s for him to figure out. You and I can’t do it for him, and worrying won’t help.”
“What will help?”
Mom paused for a minute before she answered. “Keep loving him. Pray for him. Work on our own testimonies. Try to be happy. Remember what a good dad he is, even if he’s not the same as other people’s dads.”
Mark thought how good it felt to get into their nice, warm car with the windows cleared. “I think I understand,” he said.
Mark thought about Mom’s words all week long.
He thought about them on Tuesday night when Dad sat down to help him with homework.
“You’re working really hard,” Dad said. “You know what? I think you’re going to be really successful all through school. I hope you always remember how important it is to get a good education.”
He thought about her words on Wednesday afternoon when Dad surprised him by picking him up at school. They ate lunch together and watched ice skaters in the park.
“I don’t have to teach a class until later today, and I just wanted to hang out with you,” Dad said.
Mark thought about Mom’s words on Thursday evening when he came home from Webelos and found Dad listening to music while grading papers.
“Isn’t this song amazing?” Dad asked. “It was written by one of my favorite composers.” Mark had to agree that the music was beautiful.
And Mark thought about her words on Saturday morning when Dad took him snowshoeing. They saw intricate ice crystals clinging to tree branches, a rabbit whose fur had turned white for snow camouflage, and crows feasting on winter berries.
“Remember how blessed we are to live in this world, Mark,” Dad whispered as they watched wispy clouds drift overhead.
On Sunday, when it was time for church, Mark saw Dad lying on the couch. He had been praying that Dad would come to church this week, but he stopped and gave Dad a hug before he went out to the car. “I love you, Dad,” he said. “You teach me so many good things. I’m glad you’re my dad.”

My dad coaches a high school baseball team. I am the batboy. I travel with the team on their baseball trips. Sometimes when our team players struck out or didn’t play well, they would swear. This made me feel bad inside. I told them not to swear. They stopped swearing. Even though I am young, I was able to be an example to others who are big. I know this makes my Savior happy.
Toby S., age 8, Utah, USA