Gospel Story Finder

We sometimes find ourselves in a situation where we have to take charge and move, or nothing gets done. When I arrived at my mission in Tonga some thirty years ago, the mission president said, “I’ve got just the place for you. It’s a small island several hundred kilometers from here. It is nearly twelve kilometers around with about 700 people on it. No one speaks your language. I want you to go there and not come back until you know the missionary discussions and know how to speak Tongan.”

Well, I went; and to put it mildly, there were lots of problems. At one time we came close to literally starving to death because a hurricane wrecked the supply boat. But my companion and I kept moving.

Sometimes we made mistakes. However, whenever there was the possibility of our doing something seriously wrong, the Lord let us know and we did not do it. I assure you that if you are striving to do right, the Lord will let you know if you are starting to do something wrong. So listen! I am sure there was even more good we could have done, but at least we never stopped. We kept going. We did something; and that’s important.

When I left that little island after thirteen months, I had learned the Tongan language, and I had learned quite a lot about life. But most important, I came away knowing that God lives and that he had all knowledge and all power and that he was literally the Father of our spirits. I knew that he loved each of us personally and individually.

I knew that Jesus Christ was his Son, our Savior and Redeemer, a real person, a true friend, one who gave his life for us. I knew that because of the Savior, we can look forward to a glorious resurrection, and an eventual opportunity to stand in the presence of our Father in Heaven cleansed and pure.

I knew that God had a mission for me. I didn’t know exactly what it was in every detail, but I knew where to start. I knew I had to live closer to him. I knew I had to do better. I knew the path to take. I knew I could trust him. I knew that he would let me know what else I could do to fulfill my life’s mission. I have not been disappointed, and neither will you be.

Now I share an experience that taught me a way to gain spiritual guidance. One Sunday I attended the priesthood meeting of a Spanish branch in Mexico City. I vividly recall how a humble Mexican priesthood leader struggled to communicate the truths of the gospel in his lesson material. I noted the intense desire he had to share those principles he strongly valued with his quorum members. He recognized that they were of great worth to the brethren present. In his manner there was an evidence of a pure love of the Savior and love of those he taught.

His sincerity, purity of intent, and love permitted a spiritual strength to envelop the room. I was deeply touched. Then I began to receive personal impressions as an extension of the principles taught by that humble instructor. They were personal and related to my assignments in the area. They came in answer to my prolonged, prayerful efforts to learn.

As each impression came, I carefully wrote it down. In the process, I was given precious truths that I greatly needed in order to be a more effective servant of the Lord. The details of the communication are sacred and, like a patriarchal blessing, were for my individual benefit. I was given specific directions, instructions, and conditioned promises that have beneficially altered the course of my life.

Subsequently, I visited the Sunday School class in our ward, where a very well-educated teacher presented his lesson. That experience was in striking contrast to the one enjoyed in the priesthood meeting. It seemed to me that the instructor had purposely chosen obscure references and unusual examples to illustrate the principles of the lesson. I had the distinct impression that this instructor was using the teaching opportunity to impress the class with his vast store of knowledge. At any rate, he certainly did not seem as intent on communicating principles as had the humble priesthood leader.

In that environment, strong impressions began to flow to me again. I wrote them down. The message included specific counsel on how to become more effective as an instrument in the hands of the Lord. I received such an outpouring of impressions that were so personal that I felt it was not appropriate to record them in the midst of a Sunday School class. I sought a more private location, where I continued to write the feelings that flooded into my mind and heart as faithfully as possible. After each powerful impression was recorded, I pondered the feelings I had received to determine if I had accurately expressed them in writing. As a result, I made a few minor changes to what had been written. Then I studied their meaning and application in my own life.

Subsequently I prayed, reviewing with the Lord what I thought I had been taught by the Spirit. When a feeling of peace came, I thanked Him for the guidance given. I was then impressed to ask, “Is there yet more to be given?” I received further impressions, and the process of writing down the impressions, pondering, and praying for confirmation was repeated. Again I was prompted to ask, “Is there more I should know?” And there was. When that last, most sacred experience was concluded, I had received some of the most precious, specific, personal direction one could hope to obtain in this life. Had I not responded to the first impressions and recorded them, I would not have received the last, most precious guidance.

In 1959 he left the University of Utah and went into private practice. There he was, thirty-five years old and with a family of six children, in training all those years after medical school, going deeper and deeper into debt in order to properly prepare himself for his chosen profession.
Nevertheless, he was called to the demanding work of a stake president. Prior to his setting apart, Brother Nelson had mentioned that one of the serious challenges facing him as a surgeon was the difficulty of aortic valve replacement. In the blessing, Elder Spencer W. Kimball, then of the Quorum of the Twelve, promised him that the quality of his work as a surgeon would increase so that he would have the time to serve as stake president without jeopardizing his patients. Elder Kimball himself was to benefit later from this blessing, for in 1972 the open-heart operation that Dr. Nelson performed on Spencer W. Kimball included aortic valve replacement.
The operation was performed on President Kimball the following year on April 12. It was flawless—thousands of intricate manipulations performed without error, according to a blessing he had received under the hands of President Harold B. Lee and President N. Eldon Tanner. Even more special to Dr. Nelson was an overpowering feeling that came upon him at the conclusion of the operation: “The Spirit told me that I had just operated on a man who would become president of the Church,” he said.

I hadn’t prayed for years, but I finally had to go to my knees. I was afraid to, because I knew my guilt. That first time, honestly wanting to change and repent, was the biggest turning point in my life.
I tried to pray, but I couldn’t. I started to cry, the first time in years, and I felt like I was being torn apart inside. I fell over, still in a kneeling position, and my body went into convulsions. I kept praying in my mind, “Please help me!”
I almost fell unconscious. Then the physical pain passed, and I just lay there crying. I had a long way to go to clean up my life, but I knew that the first step was the hardest. I didn’t understand the Atonement, but the feeling of peace and comfort that engulfed me left no doubt that it was real.

Last June I couldn’t bring myself to attend girls’ camp, but the reports I have received are beautiful. Shannon’s group of fourth-year girls performed “Walk Tall, You’re a Daughter of God” at the first night fireside and dedicated it to my daughter. Every night thereafter they used “our song” as the closing song at the campfire meeting. The new Beehives did not know Shannon, but they could feel the Spirit as the tears flowed and the notes were sung.

It was the Saturday night following a wonderful Thanksgiving holiday. I lived in off?campus housing about a 10?minute walk from Brigham Young University, and few students were around. I didn’t have much to do that night, so I was flipping through channels when I came across a movie that had just started. It took a few minutes to realize that the movie was less than appropriate, and for a minute I thought, “What’s the big deal? No one is around. After all, it is on TV, so all of the worst parts must be edited.” However, the Spirit nagged me a bit, and I finally relented and decided to turn off the TV and read a book.
About half an hour later I heard a knock at the door. It was one of the other students from my student ward who lived in the neighboring apartment complex. He told me that one of the girls he home taught was sick and needed a blessing. He had spent the last 30 minutes calling members of the elders quorum and knocking on doors, trying to find someone who was both home and able to help give a blessing. Finally he had come to my door. I agreed to help, quickly got changed into Sunday dress, and then walked with him over to the girl’s apartment.
When we arrived at the apartment, it was readily apparent that things were not well. Immediately we went over to the ill girl lying on the couch and prepared to administer a blessing.
As I addressed the girl by name and prayed on her behalf, I found myself making promises of restored health and providing words of comfort that were not my own. I closed in the name of Jesus Christ, and as we opened our eyes, I saw a huge smile on the ill girl’s face. She thanked me for the blessing. She soon recovered from her illness and was able to get back to her studies and finish the semester.
As I reflect back on that experience, I feel a great deal of gratitude for the priesthood and the opportunity to be a priesthood holder. I am grateful for the promptings of the Spirit, who knew that I would be needed and helped me remain spiritually ready by making the right choice. I know that as we remain worthy, we will have the Spirit to direct and guide our path, that we might be ready and able to serve those around us.

The second example of lives filled with service, with which I shall conclude, is the missionary experience of Juliusz and Dorothy Fussek, who were called to fill an 18-month mission in Poland. Brother Fussek was born in Poland. He spoke the language. He loved the people. Sister Fussek was born in England and knew little of Poland and nothing of its people.

Trusting in the Lord, they embarked on their assignment. The living conditions were primitive, the work lonely, their task immense. A mission had not at that time been fully established in Poland. The assignment given the Fusseks was to prepare the way so that the mission could be expanded and gain permanence, that other missionaries be called to serve, people taught, converts baptized, branches established, and chapels erected.

Did Elder and Sister Fussek despair because of the enormity of their assignment? Not for a moment. They knew their calling was from God, they prayed for His divine help, and they devoted themselves wholeheartedly to their work. They remained in Poland not 18 months, but rather served for five years. All of the foregoing objectives were realized. Such came about following an earlier meeting where Elders Russell M. Nelson, Hans B. Ringger, and I, accompanied by Elder Fussek, met with Minister Adam Wopatka of the Polish government, and we heard him say, “Your church is welcome here. You may build your buildings, you may send your missionaries. You are welcome in Poland. This man,” pointing to Juliusz Fussek, “has served your church well, as has his wife. You can be grateful for their example and their work.”

Like the Fusseks, let us do what we should do in the work of the Lord. Then we can, with Juliusz and Dorothy Fussek, echo the Psalm: “My help cometh from the Lord.”

I was invited to a birthday party, and they popped a balloon full of candy for us to pick up. Some of the children didn’t get any. One child who didn’t was crying. He wanted some of the candy from the balloon. I gave him two pieces of the candy I had picked up. Then he started to look around, hoping to still find some candy on the floor. Without him seeing, I threw a piece for him to find. He grabbed it and said, “Finally I got one.” I felt warm inside because he was happy again.

“Once, we cashed in our frequent-flyer miles,” Elder Gong says. “We let each person choose a destination. We started in Washington, D.C., where we were living, then went to England, the Czech Republic, Greece, Turkey, India, China, and Japan.”

“We had one firm rule during that trip,” Susan says. “Wherever we went, we ate what local people ate.” Finally, in Japan at the end of the trip, Elder Gong told his sons he was taking them to a restaurant world-famous for beef. At McDonald’s, four hungry sons and two parents consumed 17 hamburgers!

I was 12 when I heard about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I met two LDS missionaries on the bus. They asked if they could come teach my family.
The missionaries left us a copy of the Book of Mormon and a pamphlet of Joseph Smith’s testimony. My parents were wonderful people. But they did not join the Church at that time.
The two items stayed on our bookshelf for many years. Then one day when I was 18, I looked through our bookshelf for something good to read. I picked up the Book of Mormon and read the first chapter. A special feeling came to me as I read.
I had a unique experience by which I knew the book was true. The Book of Mormon had a special message about Jesus Christ’s Atonement. I learned more about my own life and about Heavenly Father’s blessings.
Later I learned that even though Joseph Smith was only 14, he had the courage to read the scriptures and ask Heavenly Father which church was true.
From that time on, I have always followed Joseph Smith’s example. I read the scriptures and ask Heavenly Father for help and guidance. Prayer and the Book of Mormon are very important parts of my life.

Whether or not a boy can whistle hardly seems like a matter of life and death, but to Oliver it was. He wanted to whistle in the worst way, but he couldn’t! No matter how much he puckered and puffed, drew and blew, or wheezed and squeezed his breath through his lips, he couldn’t whistle. It seemed as though he’d sent enough air in and out of his mouth to turn a windmill, but he still couldn’t make one note of the simplest tune.
Even so, when he heard that the Church leaders in Nauvoo were recruiting young boys for a whistling and whittling brigade, he hurried downtown to join. If there was one thing he could do, it was use a pocketknife. Oliver knew how to carve almost anything he set his mind to. He only had to look at a piece of wood to see what shape was hidden inside. Then he would carefully cut the wood away until he’d freed the polar bear or squirrel or flying eagle trapped inside. It was exciting to watch it happen. No one else understood how he did it. He might be just the boy the brigade needed to do some carving for them.
The youngsters in Oliver’s neighborhood met behind the blacksmith’s shop to find out what this whistling and whittling group was all about.
“Boys,” Brother Johnson began, “we need your help. Ever since the mobbers in Carthage killed the Prophet Joseph Smith and his brother Hyrum, they’ve been trying to force the Saints to move out of Nauvoo. Now they’ve repealed the city charter, and we don’t even have any police to protect us from these ruffians. We need a little more time to get ready before we can leave, and you boys can help give us that time.”
“We’ll be glad to help,” Oliver said. “What can we do?”
“Just walk around town whistling and whittling,” Brother Johnson answered.
“We already do that,” Will Baines said.
“Exactly!” Brother Johnson replied. “It doesn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary. Whistling is a happy sound, and whittling is a harmless pastime. Who could object to that?”
“But what good will it do?” Ezra wanted to know.
“Plenty,” Brother Johnson explained, “because while you are doing it, you will be watching and following any strangers who come into town. With so many eyes watching them, they probably won’t do too much damage.”
“What if they don’t like it?”
“What can they do? You’re too little to pick on and too many to lick.”
“So all we do is whittle and whistle and watch?”
“That’s all. Don’t answer any questions and don’t ask any. Just keep up the noise. It will warn everyone who hears it to be alert.”
It sounded like an easy job—even fun. The boys began buzzing with eager anticipation.
“Just one more thing,” Brother Johnson began, waiting until all the boys were quiet. “We need to decide on a signal to call you all together when someone spots a suspicious-looking character.”
One of the boys let out a long shrill whistle, followed by two short ones.
“Perfect!” Brother Johnson said. “Now let’s see if all of you can do that. The boys tried out the warning one at a time.
That’s when everyone found out that Oliver couldn’t whistle—and when Oliver found out that whistling was more important than whittling in this brigade. Anyone could hack away at a stick with a knife and pretend to be making something. For that matter, he could pucker up his lips and pretend to be whistling too. But if he got in a tight place with a stranger and couldn’t send a signal, it might very well be a matter of life and death!
Oliver hurried to his thinking place in the grove by the river and cut off a length of green willow to whittle on. Looking it over, he thought, Oh, good—the sap is running! A pleased smile crossed his face at the thought of what this stick would become. He sat down and began to carve.
Carefully choosing the right spot on the wood, he sliced the narrow end straight across. A little way down he notched out a crosswise hole that removed a leaf node. Three or four inches below this, he sunk his blade just the depth of the bark and made a ring around the branch as he turned it. Next he tapped the bark gently with the handle of his knife to loosen it so the bark would slip off easily.
Suddenly Oliver heard the slap of oars in the water below him and the muffled sound of rough voices. Quickly he looked for a place to hide, but there was none. He froze his movements and wished he could become invisible. Even more, he wished he could send the whistle signal to the other boys.
The rowboat pulled in to shore, and a coarse-looking man jumped out.
“You’ll have to hustle,” the man in the boat warned, “to get it done before anyone sees you. They won’t be expecting anybody to come from this direction. I’ll wait for you around the bend.”
The boat glided away, and Oliver held his breath as the man climbed the slope toward him. He came closer and closer.
A flicker of fright in the man’s eyes betrayed his surprise at seeing the lad. Then his face turned hard. “What are you doing, boy?” he demanded.
“Just carving this stick,” Oliver told him.
“Into what?” the man wanted to know.
“I’ll show you.”
“Haven’t got time to watch,” the man said gruffly, eyeing the knife.
“It’ll take less than a minute,” Oliver assured him, watching carefully to see if his delaying tactic was working. The boy gave the bark a gentle twist, and a tiny craaack told him it was loose from the inner wood. He slid the bark tube off quickly, then began to deepen and lengthen the notch in the wood, forming a plan of action in his mind as he did so. He must not make an error.
“I happen to need that jackknife you’re using,” the man said in a threatening tone. “It just might come in handy.”
Handy for what? Oliver asked himself. Hurting someone?
“I’m nearly through with it,” he said as calmly as he could, folding the blade back into the handle and sliding the knife into his pocket. He slipped the bark tube back onto the whistle he had whittled.
“All finished,” he said. “See?” He held it out to show the stranger.
“What is that thing anyway?” he asked. “Looks like a whistle.”
Oliver gulped at the lump in his throat. What he was going to do next might very well be his last act on earth. Whether it was or not, he had to do it!
“Let’s see if it works,” he said to the man. He took a deep, desperate breath and put the whistle to his lips. Then, with all his might, he blew a long, shrill blast followed by two short ones.
“Yep, it does,” he said in a pleased voice.
But the man was not pleased. He grabbed the whistle with one hand and the back of Oliver’s collar with the other. He shook the lad like a cat shakes a mouse.
“You be quiet, boy,” he growled. “And give me that knife!” Quicker than Oliver believed possible, the man had the knife open at his back and was shoving him up the slope. “You and I have some work to do in this town.” His crazy laugh terrified Oliver. “And when we get done,” the man continued, “I’ll make sure you get all the credit.”
As Oliver stumbled up the bank, he hoped with all his heart that the boys had heard his signal. His ears were keenly tuned for the sound of their answering whistles. Just as he reached the top of the hill, he heard them. He blinked away a tear of relief and said a silent prayer of thanks that the Nauvoo Whistling and Whittling Brigade was on duty to escort this stranger through the city. No one ever found out what mischief the stranger had in mind because he was soon surrounded by noisy, curious boys and quickly decided it was time to leave town.
He had been right about one thing, though. Oliver did get all the credit.

While I was serving as a full-time missionary in my homeland of Ecuador, one day I had a definite feeling that someone special was waiting for us—someone who would accept the gospel.
As my companion and I walked, we came to a humble house. An elderly lady, perhaps 80 years of age, smiled sweetly at me. I smiled at her in return. I was ready to keep walking, but the woman looked so happy to see us. Something told me to stop right there.
Many people in that little town were illiterate, so I asked her if she could read. Her answer was an enthusiastic yes. I was suddenly filled with excitement. I felt that she was the person the Lord wanted us to teach. I took a Book of Mormon from my bag and showed it to her. I was surprised when she began to read aloud from the first page without needing glasses. I asked her if she would like to have the book, and again she answered yes. Happiness glowed in her tired eyes—eyes that had long been seeking a better life.
We began to teach her the gospel, and the Spirit bore witness to her of its truthfulness. Such tender feelings filled my heart.
As we concluded our lesson, I showed her chapter 11 of 3 Nephi, which tells about the visit of Jesus Christ to the Americas. She promised to read it. She marked the page herself and kissed the book, beaming with an unspeakable joy.
We made other visits to our new investigator, and we were delighted to find she read everything we assigned her. After completing her daily work, she would read the Book of Mormon late into the night. She also started attending church, although it took two hours for her to walk slowly to the meetinghouse. Her feelings about the Book of Mormon and Jesus Christ grew rapidly and deeply. After hearing all of the missionary lessons, she wanted to be baptized and pay tithing.
What great blessings this dear woman received! Her heart was ready to follow the Lord, and His Spirit guided us to her. She taught us about love, courage, sacrifice, joy, and obedience. Above all else she taught us that it is never too late to change.

Anson B. Call was the bishop when I was a young boy. He was bishop for twenty-five years. He was a man of great faith. Pancho Villa was one of the leaders of the revolutionaries in Mexico. He had sworn in his wrath that he was going to kill all the North Americans living in northern Mexico. He killed some United States soldiers and was headed toward the Latter-day Saint colonies.
When the Saints in the colonies heard about this, they were concerned because they were right in his path. Bishop Call and some of the other leaders were asked what to do. Bishop Call said that he felt impressed that all the families should go home, say their prayers, turn out their lights, go to bed, and trust in the Lord. I imagine that many didn’t go to sleep. When Pancho Villa was near, a miracle happened. It looked to him like the town was lighted. He thought another army was there, so he went around it. Hearing these stories and seeing great men like Bishop Call and others strengthened my faith.

Marin Watt was a direct descendant of George D. Watt, the first member of the British Isles to be baptized. He visited from his home in the USA and met the cast member playing his ancestor in the show. He commented, “It truly was an experience of a lifetime for me personally. Having been told of the event of George D. Watt and the race to the River Ribble and his being the first person baptized has always had a special place in my heart. But, now I have been there. I have walked the footsteps of my Great Great Grandfather. I have been at the Temple which is there because of baptisms over 186 years ago involving my ancestors. I heard and witnessed how the people of the British Isles know of that baptism and what it still means to them today. I was able to watch the pageant, in England, of those events surrounding the introduction of The Gospel of Jesus Christ in my ancestral land and so much more.”

The name Ceská Trebová brought to my mind Sister Lukasova, the sole member of the Church in that town in earlier years. In 1948, she requested that missionaries come to her area. My companion and I tracted in Ceská Trebová for many weeks, and Sister Lukasova helped us arrange several informal gatherings. When the police disrupted one of our meetings and subjected us to intense questioning, the mission president called us back to Prague. Sister Lukasova’s contact with the Church was cut off.

Karen said she thought writing to her parents and sharing her experiences at the conference with them was a good idea. They aren’t members of the Church, and she wanted to share some of her enjoyment with them. She was first introduced to the Church by her next-door neighbors, who invited her to a home evening, then to worship services. “Now I go to church every Sunday, even though I’m not a member yet,” she said. “I do my seminary, too. Having friends who are members has given me a place to turn for support.”

After my baptism in 1994, I told my Heavenly Father that I desired to be useful to him and that I would serve in our branch as best as I could. In 1995, I was called to serve as the branch president.
Sometimes my tasks are hard, and there have been many challenges, especially during my first months of service. But when I kneel down and ask Heavenly Father for his help, he never denies me his support.
Michele Bartoli,Lecce Branch, Italy Catania Mission

Jens and Ane Cathrine Andersen had a deep and abiding testimony of the truthfulness of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. Despite angry mobs and community and parish persecution, they joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in 1861.
By spring of the next year, they heeded the call of Zion, beckoning 5,000 miles (8,000 km) away in the Salt Lake Valley. Gathering to Zion meant leaving behind their good life in Denmark—including friends, extended family, and a beautiful farm that for generations had been passed from father to eldest son. Located in the village of Veddum, near Aalborg, on the fertile Jutland Peninsula in northern Denmark, the farm was large and productive. It employed dozens and brought respect and means to the Andersen family.
Sharing those means with their fellow converts, Jens and Ane Cathrine paid the emigration costs of approximately 60 other Saints making their way to Zion. On April 6, 1862, the Andersens, with their 18-year-old son, Andrew, joined 400 other Danish Saints on the small steamer Albion and sailed for Hamburg, Germany. Arriving at Hamburg two days later, they joined more gathering Saints aboard a larger vessel to begin their transatlantic voyage.
The joy of gathering to Zion, however, soon turned to sorrow. Several children who had embarked on the Albion were carrying the measles virus. As the disease swept through the ranks of the immigrants, 40 children and several adults died and were buried at sea. Among them was 49-year-old Jens Andersen, my great-great-grandfather.
Jens’s dream of reaching and building Zion with his family and fellow Danish Saints ended only 10 days out of Hamburg. One historian wrote, “A deliverer who like Moses never set his own feet on the promised land was Jens Andersen of [Veddum], Aalborg, who had assisted no fewer than sixty of his fellows to emigrate; he met death on the North Sea in 1862 soon after leaving [Germany].”1
Was the Andersen family’s sacrifice—leaving their comfortable farm and losing their loving husband and father—worth it? I’m confident the world would say no. But the world lacks faith, foresight, and the “eternal perspective”2 offered by the restored gospel of Jesus Christ.
Andrew with members of his family
What became of Ane Cathrine and her son, Andrew? Did they despair and return to Denmark following their sad six-week journey to New York City? No. Relying on their testimony of the Savior and the plan of salvation, and trusting in God, they courageously pressed forward by train, steamboat, and wagon train. They reached the Salt Lake Valley on September 3, 1862, and joined in building Zion.
They settled in Ephraim, Utah, where Andrew married and started a family. Later, Andrew moved his family, including his mother, to Lehi, Utah, where he became a successful farmer, banker, and mayor. He served a three-year mission to his home country, more than two decades in bishoprics, and more than three decades on the high council or in the high priests quorum. Three of his sons served missions in Denmark and Norway.

I had been on my mission in my home country of Peru for several months when I met Santiago. He attended a Sunday School class for new members, but he had not been baptized. Nor had he taken the missionary discussions. I learned that he had a speech impediment that made him feel insecure because he had difficulty communicating.
For most of his life, Santiago had been able to speak clearly and had been blessed with a beautiful singing voice. But then he suffered a stroke. After a long time in a rehabilitation center, he had learned to walk again, but he still had trouble speaking.
We were thrilled when Santiago decided to meet with us. During our first visit, he tried to talk, and we tried to understand. He especially enjoyed reading aloud from the Book of Mormon. We loved and admired him.
One day while we were discussing gospel ordinances, Santiago said he was ready for baptism and confirmation. After we had finished the discussion, he stood up, eyes shining, and with great difficulty asked, “Elders, after I’m baptized, will I be able to talk normally again?”
I was taken aback for a moment and at first didn’t know how to answer. But responding to the influence of the Spirit, I said confidently, “Yes, if you have enough faith, the Lord will grant your desire.”
On the day of his baptism, I remembered Santiago’s question when he was asked to bear his testimony. Realizing that some of the Lord’s promises aren’t fulfilled immediately, I wondered if Santiago would feel disappointed if his ability to speak didn’t immediately improve. In the days that followed, he still struggled to talk, but he didn’t seem to be concerned.
I was soon transferred and didn’t see Santiago again until the end of my mission, when I went to say good-bye before returning home. My companion and I didn’t find him home and started to leave, when suddenly we heard a strong voice calling to us. It was Santiago!
We entered his house, and he talked about how happy he had been as a member of the Church. After a few minutes I realized that he was speaking almost perfectly. Surprised, I said, “Santiago, you talk fine now!”
He said he knew the Lord would grant his desire. So he showed faith and did his part, reading aloud from the Book of Mormon and doing exercises his doctor had recommended. “The Lord has seen my efforts and has given my voice back to me,” he said. “And it won’t be long before He blesses me with the ability to sing again.”
I could not hold back my tears. That day Santiago taught me a great lesson. The promises of the Lord aren’t always fulfilled quickly, but they are fulfilled nonetheless.

It was my very first Christmas after Dad died. I was only seven then, but I was the man of the house—at least that’s what Dad had always told me whenever he went someplace. Whenever he had to go away, he’d say to me, “Son, you’re the man of the house while I’m gone, and I want you to look after Mom and Aaron.”

Aaron’s my little brother, and he was only four that Christmas. We didn’t have much money with Dad gone; at least that’s what Mom told me. Now when she went to the store, she didn’t buy peanuts and candy like she used to when Dad was still alive. Aaron didn’t get much for his birthday either—just a ball, and it wasn’t even brand-new. I didn’t tell Aaron that because he liked the ball just fine.

Christmas was getting close, and I was getting excited. I told Aaron all about Christmas. He couldn’t remember the other ones because he was just a baby back then. I told him about the lights and the decorations and about Jesus in the manger and about the presents and the stockings and Santa Claus. Aaron doesn’t talk much, but he listens a lot. I really like Aaron because he’s a good listener.

Lots of times when we were in bed at night, Aaron would ask me to tell him about Christmas. I’d talk and talk until I was sure he was asleep, but as soon as I stopped talking, he’d whisper, “Alma, tell me again,” and I’d have to start all over. He’d never go to sleep until I finally told him that my throat was sore and that I had to stop talking.

The thing Aaron liked most to hear about was the Christmas tree. He’d make me tell him about it all the time. Whenever I talked about the tree, his eyes got really big and he’d smile. He always asked me if we would have a tree, and I’d say, “Sure. Everybody has a tree. You can’t have Christmas without a tree.” Well, I shouldn’t have said that, because later Mom told me that we couldn’t afford to have a tree.

I was in trouble then, because it was getting really close to Christmas, and everybody on our street had trees in their windows. Aaron was getting more excited. He asked me every night to tell him about Christmas and the Christmas tree.

I didn’t know what to do, but I knew I had to do something. Well, on Sunday my Primary teacher told a story about a pioneer boy who found his own Christmas tree. He just went outside and found a tree in the woods and cut it down. It didn’t cost him anything. I didn’t hear the rest of the story. All I could think about was getting a tree.

On the way home I looked for a tree. We weren’t pioneers or anything like that; we were just poor. We didn’t live in the woods either, but there were some Christmas trees growing in our neighborhood. Lots of people grew Christmas trees in their yards, and there were some growing in the park, but most of them were too big for our house. We didn’t have a very big house, so I knew I had to get a little tree that would fit.

I looked and looked, and I almost decided that there weren’t any trees our size when I saw one in Brother Hubbard’s yard, right next to the sidewalk. The tree was about as high as my mom, and it was really fluffy. It had lots of branches, and it was kind of blue and green. I knew that that was the tree I was going to get for Aaron.

That night in bed I told Aaron all about the tree and asked him if he would help me cut it down. He said he would, and then he asked me to tell him about Christmas again.

The next day, when Mom was in the house cooking supper, Aaron and I went to the garage and got an ax and one of Dad’s saws. Dad had two axes, but one was too big for me. The other one was still kind of big, but I was the man of the house and I figured I could use it.

We put the ax and the saw into my wagon and started down the street. At first Aaron pushed while I pulled, but after a little while he climbed into the wagon and rode.

Brother and Sister Hubbard weren’t home when we got to their house. I was glad because I didn’t want to ask them if I could cut down their tree. I figured it would be easier to just cut it down like the boy in the story and not ask anybody anything. Besides, I didn’t think Brother Hubbard would mind. He was the nicest man I knew, next to my dad. Brother Hubbard was our home teacher, and he visited us all the time. He did lots of nice things for us, especially after Dad died. He told us that whatever we needed he’d try to get for us. So I didn’t think he’d care if we cut down his tree, because Aaron really needed a Christmas tree and I didn’t know how else to get him one.

I got right to work, but Aaron just sat in the wagon and watched. Although he was cold, he didn’t ask to go home. He wanted a Christmas tree. First I had to saw off some of the branches so I could chop at the trunk. That was kind of hard because the branches prickled my hands and face.

As soon as I got the branches out of the way, I got the ax out of the wagon and started to chop, but it didn’t work very well. The ax was too big, even though it was Dad’s little one. It kept hitting into the branches and bouncing off the trunk. I knocked some bark off, but I couldn’t chop down the tree. I kept trying, though, until I dropped the ax on my foot. Then I just had to cry because the ax was heavy and my foot really hurt. I didn’t let Aaron see me, though. I put my head down close to the trunk and pretended I was looking at it.

I finally decided to use the saw, and it worked better. Pretty soon I had cut halfway through the trunk. But the tree still didn’t fall over, and the saw kept getting stuck. It would squeak and then stop. I pushed and pulled and kicked the tree, but that just hurt my foot, and I scratched my face on some branches. I was tired by then, and my hands and feet were cold. I started to cry. This time Aaron saw me, and he started to cry too. When I tried to get him to stop crying, he said that he was cold and wanted to go home and that we could get Mom to come back and help us. Yet I was the man of the family, and this was my job.

While we were both crying, Brother and Sister Hubbard drove up in their car. They didn’t know what we were doing at first, but as soon as they got out of their car, they could see. Brother Hubbard’s a nice man. He’s old—kind of like a grandpa—and he’s my best friend, next to Aaron.

“What are you boys doing, Alma?” he said when he walked over to us. Sister Hubbard stayed by the car and watched. I wasn’t crying anymore. I just stared at Brother Hubbard’s big feet. They were bigger than Dad’s. Aaron stopped crying too.

“We’re cutting a Christmas tree for Christmas,” Aaron said. “We’re going to put it in our house, and we don’t even have to buy it. Do you want to help us?”

Brother Hubbard didn’t say anything, and I didn’t dare look at him. “We can’t buy one,” I whispered, “because we don’t have any money, but my Primary teacher told me about a pioneer boy who cut down a tree, and he didn’t have to buy it. We aren’t pioneers like the boy in the story, but we thought it would be all right, since we didn’t have a tree. Yours was the very best tree. I hope you don’t need it.”

Brother Hubbard thought for a minute and then asked, “Does your mother know you’re here, Alma?” He put his hand on my shoulder, and I shook my head.

“I’m the man of the house,” I said, “and I wanted to surprise her.” I looked up at Brother Hubbard and then at Aaron and then back at Brother Hubbard. “Can I talk to you for a minute?” I pulled Brother Hubbard by the hand and took him behind the tree so Aaron couldn’t hear us. “I’ve been telling Aaron all about Christmas, but now it doesn’t look like we’ll have too much Christmas. Tommy—he’s my friend at school—says Santa Claus is just your mom and dad. Well, we don’t have a dad now, and Mom is poor, so if there isn’t a Santa Claus, we won’t have any Christmas at all unless we get a tree. That’s why I needed a tree. I really want Aaron to have a Christmas. He can’t remember the other ones, and I want him to have a real good Christmas, even if Santa Claus doesn’t come.”

I don’t know why I started to bawl, but I did, I guess my foot still hurt. Brother Hubbard patted my shoulder and said, “Well, Alma, it doesn’t look like that tree will be doing much good where it is now. Do you want me to help you finish cutting it down?”

I looked up at him, and he was smiling, so I figured everything was OK. I just nodded my head. I was afraid I’d start to cry again.

When Brother Hubbard had finished cutting down the tree, he said, “Alma, don’t worry too much about what your friend Tommy said. I don’t have a dad or a mom anymore, but Santa visits me every Christmas.”

“He does?” I asked.

“Sure. And I bet he’ll come to your house. In fact, I know he will.”

Brother Hubbard dragged the tree home for us, and I pulled Aaron in the wagon. When Mom saw the tree, she was really happy. She even cried.

On Christmas Eve Aaron and Mom and I sat around the Christmas tree and sang. Mom told us about Jesus and all the people who came to see Him when He was born. We were almost ready for bed when someone knocked on our door. I answered it, and there stood Brother Hubbard with a big box in his arms. It was filled with oranges and apples and nuts and fruit cake and a turkey and candy and lots of other good things. Mom invited Brother Hubbard in, and while Aaron and I looked through the box, she and Brother Hubbard whispered in the corner. When they were through, Brother Hubbard put his arms around me and Aaron and asked us if we were ready for Santa Claus. I nodded my head, but I really didn’t believe Santa Claus would come. I was afraid Tommy was right and that Brother Hubbard was just trying to make me feel good.

I guess Brother Hubbard knew what I was thinking, because he patted me on the back and smiled. “He’ll be here, Alma. You wait and see. He hasn’t forgotten you and Aaron.”

Aaron and I had to go to bed then. I was tired and wanted to go to sleep, but Aaron wouldn’t let me. He made me tell him everything I knew about Christmas. I don’t know which one of us fell asleep first, but it didn’t seem like I’d been sleeping very long when I felt Aaron shaking me and heard him whisper, “Alma, he’s here! He’s here! Wake up!”

Finally I opened my eyes. I couldn’t see anything but a crack of light under our bedroom door. Someone had left the light on in the living room. “Who’s here?” I asked grumpily.

“Santa Claus!”

“Santa Claus? Who said?”

“I can hear him, Alma! I can hear him! He’s out by the Christmas tree!”

“Go back to bed, Aaron,” I said. “I’ll turn the light off. It’s not Santa Claus. Go back to bed.”

I stumbled down the hall to the living room. Aaron was right behind me. I was too tired to stop him. All I wanted to do was turn the light off and get back into bed. Before I could, Aaron yelled, “It is Santa Claus! Alma, it is Santa Claus!”

I turned around and there he was! Aaron ran and kissed him on his white beard. I couldn’t even move; all I could do was stare. Santa’s eyes got big. He was surprised. I could tell. I was afraid he was going to go away and not leave us anything. Mom used to say that if we didn’t go to sleep, Santa wouldn’t come.

“Aaron, come here,” I hissed. “We aren’t supposed to be here.” But Aaron didn’t mind me. Santa was holding him, and Aaron was squeezing his neck and wouldn’t let go.

All of a sudden, Santa started to laugh. He sounded a little like Brother Hubbard, but Brother Hubbard is skinny, not fat. He put Aaron and me on his knees and laughed and hugged us. He looked at me and said, “I heard you didn’t think I was going to come.” I looked at the floor. “Well, I’m here,” he said. “I brought you and Aaron something very special, but you must go back to bed while I work. You’ll see everything in the morning.”

Santa carried us to our beds and tucked us in. He kissed us both on the forehead, and his beard tickled my cheeks and nose. It felt good. I didn’t go to sleep for a long time. I listened to Santa doing things in the living room. When he left, I listened for him on the roof, but I didn’t hear anything.

I wanted to go out and see what he’d brought, but I didn’t dare. I knew I had to go to sleep. As I lay there thinking, I was glad that I was the man of the house and that Brother Hubbard and I could get Aaron a Christmas tree. That was one of my very best Christmases.