Gospel Story Finder

The next faculty account I share deals with a much more serious act than barn burning. It has to do with forgiving someone who killed a wife and a child. Though the heinous act did not contain the element of intention inherent in the sin we call murder, the result was the same: a loving husband lost his companion and infant daughter, and a four-year-old son was robbed of a mother and baby sister. A colleague who now serves as a campus bishop shared his story in these moving words:

In a late evening of August we were beginning an eleven-hour drive from Cody, Wyoming, to Salt Lake to support our mother who was worried about my father’s open-heart surgery; we were close as a family and felt a strong need to be together.
My older brother was driving, his wife was sitting next to my youngest brother, who occupied the front window seat. My wife was behind my driving brother, holding our eighteen-month-old daughter, and I was on the opposite side with our four-year-old son stretched out on the seat, his head in my lap.
I awoke from a half-sleep to see headlights crossing the road to our side, my brother swerving to avoid head-on contact. Swerving helped, but there was contact, nonetheless, and it changed my life and my son’s life forever.
The left side of the car had received the most damage, my wife and daughter having absorbed the major portion of the shock. Although my daughter died later that night in the hospital, my wife took an entire week before she could finally go.
Everyone was hurt but me. While I was alone and assessing the damage, praying for a saving car to happen by in the loneliness of the Wind River Canyon, and then walking toward the other damaged car, I was immediately offended by an overwhelming stench of alcohol. I briefly checked and found the nineteen-year-old driver of the other car incoherent from drink, but otherwise unharmed. I was later told, after the police finally arrived, that he had tried to find me to fight me, since he thought I would be angered by what he had done. Eventually, he did find me and drunkenly asked me to forgive him for what he had done that night.
I certainly had not prepared myself for such a request. My immediate thought was that if I did say that I would forgive him, I would have to do it, since I would not play games with my mind and my heart, given the incomprehensible changes of my newly defined life.
I could not say no. I told him flatly that I forgave him, and I meant it. In honesty, I must say that I have never wanted to be his buddy or pal. Indeed, I cannot even remember his name, nor do I know where he is now. But I will be eternally grateful for his asking for forgiveness that Saturday morning before dawn, because in complying I was freed from the thrall of anger and hate that otherwise could have brought even greater sorrow into my life. From this tragedy I think I learned something new: Forgiveness brings true and genuine freedom, often to the forgiven, but always and without exception to the forgiver.

This fine brother shared with me his conviction that he never would have been called as a bishop had he refused the invitation to forgive. How could he speak on behalf of the Lord’s church and bear testimony to penitent ward members that they were forgiven if he himself had never been willing to forgive? The drunken driver in this story was, of course, tried in a civil court and will one day stand accountable before God for his actions.

A few weeks ago I attended the baptism of a man I have known for many years. It was a joyful occasion. Surrounded by his wife of forty-seven years and his children and grandchildren and other loved ones, this good man entered the baptismal covenant. He became a member of the Church he has long sustained and supported.
From the time he brought his Mormon bride to make a home in his beloved Southland, he had respected her beliefs and her desire to teach them to their children. Because there wasn’t a branch of the Church in their small city, their home became the first meeting place for the few Church members his wife could locate and invite to worship with her. Their home was always open to the missionaries, where a good meal and a place to sleep could be counted on. (His wife recalls as many as fourteen missionaries sleeping wall-to-wall in their small home on one particular night.)
As his faithful wife and children labored with the missionaries to build up the Church and the membership outgrew the walls of their home, he gave financial support for the branch, the ward, and finally the stake center as they came to be built.
During these many years, the gospel has been a lifeline that has enabled this woman to maintain her hope and trust in the Lord. It has been the strength that has bound their family together.
However, the full blessings which the Lord has to offer were unattainable by this family until this husband and father became worthy and willing to enter the covenant of baptism and receive the priesthood of God. Now this family can look forward to the exalting temple ordinances and the lifeline to eternal life which they could not provide for themselves.

I conclude with an experience Sister Bednar and I had with President and Sister Hinckley. We were eating dinner together at a banquet in Salt Lake City shortly after President Hinckley had returned from a demanding international trip. During the course of our conversation I asked President Hinckley this question, "President, given your travel schedule and the demands of your office, how do you keep up?" He smiled warmly and responded, "David, I do not keep up. I travel through so many time zones that when I am supposed to be wide awake, I am sleepy. When I am supposed to be sleepy, I am wide awake. The paperwork and other demands in the office are never ending." He then smiled and said something I will never forget: "But, David, I just keep going." Can you and I hear and recognize and feel the faith in that answer by the President of the Church. When he is tired, he just keeps going. When circumstances look difficult and even discouraging, he just keeps going. Regardless of the challenge, he just keeps going. In light of this episode with President Hinckley, please consider again the statement by the Prophet Joseph Smith: ". . . faith is . . . the principle of action in all intelligent beings."

I would like to close with an experience that occurred recently.
For three days in a row, my son Duffy (who is our eleven-year-old and plays on the school football team) leaped from some hidden corner of our home to throw a body block on me, in professional style. The last time he did this, in my effort to avoid the attack, I fell on the floor and knocked over the lamp and found my right elbow wedged up somewhere near my eyebrow. I completely lost my patience, and I scolded him for making me his tackling dummy.
His response melted my heart when he said with tears rolling down both cheeks, “But, Mom, you’re the best friend a guy could have. I thought this was as much fun for you as it was for me.” Then he added, “For a long time now I’ve planned what I will say in my first interview as a big time trophy winner. When they ask me how I got to be so great, I’ll tell them, ‘I practiced on my mother!’”

Sitting on the stand of the St. George (Utah) Tabernacle, waiting for her performance to begin, Sheena Rosander couldn’t help remembering the year before when she had been waiting to perform at a high school talent show.
“It was one of the only times I really had the jitters before a performance,” says Sheena. “I followed a rock group and knew immediately that the classical song I loved to play on the piano wasn’t really what kids wanted to hear. I depend so much on the Spirit to help me play, and that Spirit just wasn’t there.”
But this night, things were different. Thankfully, the Spirit was in abundance as her six functioning fingers flew over the keyboard of the grand piano creating music, the kind that brings a lump to the throat.
Sheena Rosander, 18, from Hurricane, Utah, was born with what some people consider a disability. But to Sheena, having only a partial thumb and no fingers on her left hand is a gift. “Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to have all 10 fingers, like how much easier keyboarding would be,” says Sheena. “But I usually just find a way to go around it. My mom wanted me to peel potatoes, and I was really struggling with that potato peeler. So I decided when I have my own family I’ll just have baked potatoes. There’s always a way to do things.”
And that’s pretty much how Sheena has been able to enjoy her favorite activities, like playing and teaching tennis, playing the violin, teaching piano lessons, and competing at performing-arts festivals.
In fact, she’s used her good attitude as a springboard to propel her into positive social situations. On her first day of kindergarten, when Sheena proudly displayed her hand at “show and tell,” one child told her it looked like a Cabbage Patch doll’s hand. Delighted, she added several Cabbage Patch dolls to her already thriving collection. Her favorite had red hair and blue eyes, just like Sheena.
That kind of confidence comes naturally. Even before she was born, her mother, Toni, decided all her children would learn to play piano. Sheena began lessons at age five.
“She was determined to play the piano,” recalls her teacher, Tammy Drake. “Her hand was never an obstacle. She would compensate with her right hand to achieve a full sound. Then one day, she began playing with her left hand, using her thumb and pinky stub. Sheena has shown all of us a new kind of courage and determination. Some listeners never even know about her hand. She plays beautifully.”
But piano wasn’t Sheena’s only interest. She developed a love for sports, particularly basketball. Just before ninth-grade tryouts, however, Sheena experienced what she would term the greatest challenge of her life so far. She developed immune thrombocytopenic purpura, or ITP, a blood disorder which causes bleeding under the skin. Her disease prevented her from playing basketball since even an accidental bump on her head could cause a major brain hemorrhage.
After a year of transfusions, cortisone, and other medications, Sheena faced the decision of whether or not to have her spleen removed. As she had done since she was a small girl, Sheena turned to the Lord in prayer for a confirmation of her decision. After her surgery, she continued to worry. What if the ITP returned and kept her from her normal activities?
“I kept asking Heavenly Father if I was done with it,” she says, “but I never felt like I was getting an answer. Then my friend Liesel Bennion and I went to EFY [Especially for Youth] at BYU—Idaho. I had a wonderful counselor there who gave a devotional about the woman who had suffered with an issue of blood for 12 years and touched the hem of the Savior’s garment. When she read the words, ‘Daughter, be of good comfort: thy faith hath made thee whole; go in peace’ (Luke 8:48) and sang a song called ‘Close Enough to Touch,’ my heart started pounding and tears sprang to my eyes. I knew at that moment I was done with the ITP. In a way I felt I also had touched the Savior’s hem by exercising faith in having the surgery.”
Not long after, the two friends decided to enter the Miss Hurricane pageant. This was not new to Sheena. She had tried out the previous year and had won the talent award but bombed the interview. So, in her typical style, she practiced with anyone who would interview her and tried out again. “I was so excited when I got first attendant, with talent and interview awards. And I was so happy for Leisel to be chosen queen. We’ve had a lot of fun together.”

When I was in graduate school in England, my father came to visit. His father’s heart knew I missed home.
My father loved adventure except in food. Even in France, noted for its cuisine, he would say, “Let’s eat Chinese food.” A long-serving patriarch in the Church, my father was spiritual and compassionate. One night, as emergency vehicles with loud sirens raced through Paris, he said, “Gerrit, those cries are the wounds of a city.”
On that trip, I felt other cries and wounds. A young woman was selling ice cream from a small pushcart. Her wafer cones were just the size for a single scoop of ice cream. For some reason, a large man confronted the young woman. Yelling and pushing, he tipped over her cart, spilling her ice-cream cones. There was nothing I could do as he crushed the cones with his boots. I can still see the young woman on her knees in the street, trying to save broken wafer pieces, tears of anguish streaming down her face. Her image haunts me, a reminder of the unkindness, uncaring, misunderstanding we too often inflict on each other.
On another afternoon, near Paris, my father and I visited the great cathedral at Chartres. Malcolm Miller, a world expert on the cathedral, pointed out three sets of Chartres stained-glass windows. He said they tell a story.
The first windows show Adam and Eve leaving the Garden of Eden.
The second recount the parable of the good Samaritan.
The third depict the Lord’s Second Coming.
Taken together, these stained-glass windows can describe our eternal journey. They invite us to welcome all with room in His inn.

Bishop Burton: I can remember how frightened I was the first time I was assigned to go home teaching. My companion was a less-active Melchizedek Priesthood holder, but he was a faithful home teacher. When we went into the homes of the people, that tough, large, rather rough-appearing man was as meek and mild as anyone could be and always insisted that we kneel in prayer with the families. He was a marvelous human being who taught me—a young teacher—how to be a home teacher.

Nearly four years ago, I received a call from a graduating BYU-Idaho student named Jonathan, whom I had mentored for over a decade since our time together in Boston. Jonathan had come from a broken home in inner-city Boston, out of a community where very few students attended college, let alone finished. In some ways, Jonathan was just happy to be graduating, but he could sense I was less taken with the milestone. My reply was loving but firm: "Jonathan, I am so pleased with what is happening. You have come so far, and I am so proud of you. But you also need to understand that this is actually just one step in a future path that the Lord has been preparing all along. Indeed, if you truly understood what the Lord expects, you would realize He needs you to keep working, even though you have made it this far."

In the three years since that graduation, Jonathan has moved on to meaningful professional work. Then, last year, he walked through another graduation from a master's program on the East Coast. He now manages millions of transactions at one of the nation's leading e-commerce companies. More importantly, Jonathan has grown in the work of his family and in his service to the Church.

Sandra, a BYU Relief Society president, told the following story. “I got up one morning and went out to my car. The tire was flat. Luckily it was Saturday and I didn’t have to be anywhere right away, so I called my home teacher and asked him if he could come over and fix it for me. He said sure, and a while later, there he was at my doorstep. I walked out to the parking lot with him, all set to give him moral support and compliments on his chivalry in coming to my rescue. Was I surprised when, upon arriving at my car, he handed me the jack and said, ‘Okay, Sandra, this is your car. You had better learn how to change a tire.’ At the time I wasn’t so sure I agreed with his reasoning, but I did change the tire! And I’m kind of glad now that I know how.”

The first Young Women camps in Mongolia were some of the most memorable experiences of my life. While serving a mission, my husband and I assisted the newly baptized leaders and young women. We had just one branch in Mongolia, and most of the people had been members less than one year. Acting as an adviser to the Young Women leaders, I knew camp would be a wonderful way for young women to recognize God’s love for them and appreciate His wonderful creations.
Quoting from my August 15, 1995, journal entry:
“Last week we went camping with the young women. It was fun … wet, but fun. It had rained the entire week before we left on Friday. That morning it was clear and warm, and we were excited to go. We got four small tents from the Boy Scouts here, and the girls brought two other tents. We had forty-three girls show up, seven leaders, and one other missionary couple.
“Overall, the camp was great. As soon as we pitched our tents, torrential rains came down on us. The Scout tents were less than ideal, and water drenched the heavy woolen blankets and clothes. We had to put 8–9 girls in 4-man tents. They didn’t seem to mind. They went hiking, picked baby strawberries by the handful, peeled potatoes in the creek … all in the rain. We didn’t hear a complaint.
“Friday night, we studied the Book of Mormon by candlelight. It was a great experience. The leaders led a discussion that would have gone on for hours if we hadn’t sent them to bed. They went to their wet tents and conducted testimony meetings. They loved every aspect of the evening. Everything is so new to these people. They have so few opportunities, and it is ever so rewarding to provide some worthwhile opportunities for them to learn and grow. I’m sure we have started a tradition of girls’ camp in Mongolia.”
The Church in Mongolia was in its infancy. They had no scriptures translated into Mongolian, no camp manual, nor even hymns in Mongolian. But for two days in the Mongolian steppe, they enjoyed God’s creations, studied the gospel together, became more united, and felt the Spirit as they shared their testimonies of their newfound religion.

Not long after we were married, we built our first home. We had very little money. I did much of the work myself. It would be called “sweat equity” today. The landscaping was entirely my responsibility. The first of many trees that I planted was a thornless honey locust. Envisioning the day when its filtered shade would assist in cooling the house in the summertime, I put it in a place at the corner where the wind from the canyon to the east blew the hardest. I dug a hole, put in the bare root, put soil around it, poured on water, and largely forgot it. It was only a wisp of a tree, perhaps three-quarters of an inch in diameter. It was so supple that I could bend it with ease in any direction. I paid little attention to it as the years passed.
Then one winter day, when the tree was barren of leaves, I chanced to look out the window at it. I noticed that it was leaning to the west, misshapen and out of balance. I could scarcely believe it. I went out and braced myself against it as if to push it upright. But the trunk was now nearly a foot in diameter. My strength was as nothing against it. I took from my toolshed a block and tackle. Attaching one end to the tree and another to a well-set post, I pulled the rope. The pulleys moved a little, and the trunk of the tree trembled slightly. But that was all. It seemed to say, “You can’t straighten me. It’s too late. I’ve grown this way because of your neglect, and I will not bend.”
Finally in desperation I took my saw and cut off the great heavy branch on the west side. The saw left an ugly scar, more than eight inches across. I stepped back and surveyed what I had done. I had cut off the major part of the tree, leaving only one branch growing skyward.
More than half a century has passed since I planted that tree. My daughter and her family live there now. The other day I looked again at the tree. It is large. Its shape is better. It is a great asset to the home. But how serious was the trauma of its youth and how brutal the treatment I used to straighten it.
When it was first planted, a piece of string would have held it in place against the forces of the wind. I could have and should have supplied that string with ever so little effort. But I did not, and it bent to the forces that came against it.

Steve Young is one of the most gifted young men that I have ever known. He is fast, strong, big, handsome, … and rich. It is easy for us to look at Steve and say, “With all those attributes, you ought to be great.” However, it is more than his physical attributes that have made him great; it is the way he thinks! When Steve was a junior and was starting his first season as our quarterback, we had one of the greatest opportunities presented to us in our football program at BYU. We were scheduled to play Herschel Walker and the University of Georgia, the defending national champions. We worked very hard and felt we had a chance to beat them if we played our very best and did not make mistakes.
Before 82,000 fans, and on a “rainy day in Georgia,” Steve threw five interceptions in the first half of the game—more than he would normally throw in five games! In spite of the interceptions and two missed field goal attempts, we were still tied 7–7 at halftime.
Going into the dressing room, I thought to myself that I must talk to Steve and assure him that everything would be fine. The rain, the crowd, the tipped balls, etc.—I had all the excuses ready for throwing five interceptions in one half. I started explaining this to Steve and before I could finish, Steve stopped me, looked at me as if I was crazy, and said, “Hey coach, there’s no problem. I can hardly wait to get back out there. We’re going to win.” I found myself thinking, “What do you mean there’s no problem, you dummy. You have just thrown five interceptions!” It’s the way he thinks. That’s what has made him what he is and enabled him to accomplish what he has done. As you know, this was just the start of a career that would see him become one of the finest quarterbacks to play the game of college football.

Trevor Chapman is something of a detective. When his search for a significant Eagle Scout project wasn’t fruitful in his hometown of Sitka, Alaska, he decided to dig a little deeper and went looking for someplace nearby that could use his help. He put the word out to several small towns in the Sitka area. The people of Angoon, located on nearby Admiralty Island, said they’d love Trevor’s help on a project to improve their town.
But what should he do? After some thought, Trevor looked in the phone book and discovered that Angoon didn’t have a library. So he and his fellow Scouts went to work collecting books—nearly 2,000 of them—to be used in various community and civic centers around Angoon.

In the vision we had for our family, we wanted Christiane to stay home to rear our children. This meant sacrifice. Shortly after we learned that a baby was on its way, Christiane reminded me of the mutual decision we had made even before our wedding day that she would immediately stop working outside the home as soon as a baby was born. I tried to escape what I knew would be additional responsibility by mentioning that she was contributing one-third of our family income. She answered simply, “I will take care of the children, and you take care of putting food on the table.”
I knew she was right; we had discussed it long before. It was in tune with our vision of family life, it was in tune with the words of the living prophets, and it felt right. So she gave up her well-paying career as a nurse to be close to the children and to meet their daily needs, and I had to get my act together to provide food and shelter. The Lord blessed us to be able to fulfill this aspect of our vision.

It had just started to rain when seven-year-old Angela stepped into the tent. Her two older brothers, Michael and Mark, were already inside. Mom and Dad had their own tent set up not far away.
“Let’s say our prayers before we get into our sleeping bags,” Michael said.
The three children knelt in prayer. Angela thanked Heavenly Father for her many blessings, and she asked Him to keep them safe from the storm and to help them sleep well.
After her prayer, she slid into her sleeping bag. For a long time all was quiet except for the plomp, plomp, plomp of the rain against the roof of their tent. Then she heard Michael’s voice. “Hey, Angela, wasn’t Mount Rushmore cool?”
“Yes,” she answered with a yawn.
“So were the animals in the park,” said Mark.
“I liked them too,” Angela agreed. She pictured the buffalo calves grazing so close to the road that she could see their eyes watching the slow-moving cars.
Flash! Boooooom!
Angela squeezed her eyes tight. “Go to sleep,” she told herself. “It’s just thunder.” It had rained almost every day that her family had been on vacation. Every time it rained, lightning shot across the sky like hot arrows, and thunder echoed on and on like beating drums.
Flash! Boooooom!
Angela pulled the sleeping bag over her head. “Go to sleep,” she told herself again.
“Mark, are you awake?” Michael whispered into the darkness.
“Hmmm?” Mark’s voice was heavy with sleep.
“Are you awake?”
Flash!
Mark opened his eyes. “I am now,” he said.
Boooom!
“Angela, are you awake?” Michael asked.
“Yes,” Angela whimpered. “I’m scared. I want to go to Mom and Dad’s tent.”
“It’s raining too hard,” Michael said. “You’ll get soaking wet. Besides, it’s not safe to go out in the lightning.”
Angela frowned. “But I’m really scared.”
Flash! Flash!
“You don’t need to be scared,” Mark said. “The lightning is really cool! It’s just a bunch of static electricity in the clouds.”
Boooom!
“And the thunder sounds like a big whip!” he added.
Angela shuddered. “I don’t like it!”
Flash! Boooom!
“Well, then think of things that make you happy,” Mark suggested. “That might help.”
Angela closed her eyes and thought about a field of yellow flowers. She imagined herself running down a hill into the field, laughing.
Flash! Boom! Flash! Flash! Booooom!
“It’s not working,” Angela said, shaking. “I’m still scared.”
Suddenly, rain began pelting their tent. Angela scrunched deep within her sleeping bag. What could she do to stop feeling scared? Then a quiet thought entered her mind. “Why don’t we sing?” she shouted, hoping her brothers could hear her above the noise. “My Primary teacher said that singing Primary songs can help us feel better.”
“OK,” Mark said loudly. “What should we sing?”
“How about ‘I Am a Child of God’?” Michael suggested.
Slowly, quietly, Angela started to sing.
“I am a child of God,
And he has sent me here …”
Angela stopped. Her brothers weren’t singing with her. “They must not be able to hear me,” she thought. So she sang louder.
“Has given me an earthly home
With parents kind and dear.”
Her brothers were singing now.
“Lead me, guide me, walk beside me,
Help me find the way.
Teach me all that I must do
To live with him someday.”
(Children’s Songbook, 2–3)
Flash! Boom!
“Now what should we sing?” Angela asked.
“Let’s sing that one again,” Michael said.
Over and over, Angela, Michael, and Mark sang “I Am a Child of God” until the storm passed and peace returned to their tent.
“It worked!” Angela told herself as she snuggled into the warmth of her sleeping bag. “Finally I can go to sleep.” As she closed her eyes, another thought gently filled her mind. “I am a child of God, and I know He will help me find the way.”

Crocodiles, sharks, and sea snakes may seem to be strange things to mention as memories from childhood. But when Domingos Liao was growing up in Darwin, Australia, they were an everyday part of his life.
Domingos and his friends would ride their bikes to the mouth of Rapid Creek, where fresh water and sea water mix.
While wading across, dodging jellyfish adrift in the current, they would watch for sharks that had wandered in from the sea, crocodiles buried in the mud, poisonous sea snakes, and stonefish with their venomous spikes. Despite the perils, they crossed the river again and again, lured by what they knew was on the other side.
“It was a land of promise,” Domingos remembers. “We could catch buckets of fish. The beaches were untouched and clean. There were green fields where nobody had been before.”
Today a bridge crosses the river. The open spaces have become a park, crisscrossed with jogging paths and frequented by university students. Still, Domingos likes to visit the river, to remember and to think.
His young life is full of memories. They begin on the island of Timor, several hundred miles north of Australia. His Chinese parents were working in the Portuguese colony there (Domingos is a Portuguese name) when it was invaded by Indonesia. The men fled to Portugal. Women and children escaped to Australia. “My mother, myself, and some other relatives came on one of two boats that got away,” Domingos explains. “We were lucky to survive.”
Domingos’s father later joined them in Darwin. Thanks to hard work, the family prospered. Two more boys were born. Domingos learned English. He discovered sports—cricket, karate, tennis, soccer, handball, volleyball. He excelled in school, in music, and in art. He worked in his uncle’s restaurant.
One day his aunt, a newly baptized Latter-day Saint, introduced his family to the missionaries. Soon the Liaos family joined the Church. “We were active for about a year,” Domingos says. “Then my parents stopped going. I kept on for a while; then I started to play cricket on Sundays. But my conscience kept nagging me that I should be in church.”
It was at this time that Domingos’s grandfather, who lived in Melbourne, suffered a stroke. He wasn’t expected to live. Domingos, 16, felt compelled to pray. “I told Heavenly Father that if he would give Grandfather a chance, I would devote my life to the Church. But I didn’t just wait for him to recover. When we returned home, I returned to church. I’ve been taught that if you promise something, you should do it.”
Grandpa did get better. And by the time he did, Domingos was going to church, not just to keep a promise, but because he truly believed it was the right thing to do.
By the time Domingos turned 18, his Church activity began to irritate his father.
“Dad thought seminary was getting in the way of my schoolwork, so he banned me from getting up early to go. I wanted to honor him, so I quit going. But I still did seminary at home. Then he didn’t want that either, so I put that away.
“Then he would find me reading my scriptures and think I hadn’t done my homework, even though my grades were good. One time he grabbed my scriptures and threw them in the rubbish bin. I had spent the last two years reading them and marking them, and they are really precious to me. The next morning I was able to get them back, but I had to give them to the branch president for safekeeping.”
It wasn’t long before Domingos’s father banned him from everything related to Church activity—scripture study, Mutual activities, home teaching, and, finally, Sunday meetings.
“Even though I was 18 and legally my own person, my first reaction was to obey. Really. You want to obey your father because he is your father. But I knew I couldn’t break my promise to Heavenly Father to attend church.
“Dad said if I went that Sunday, not to worry about coming back. So I packed my bags. My prayers were very sincere that night. The next morning, when he saw me dressed up, he was furious.”
Domingos left, but his parents came to the chapel and found him. They reached an agreement that he could attend every other Sunday. “I wasn’t happy with it, but it was better than nothing,” he says.
The next time he got ready for church, his father again told him that if he went, he could never return. “The second time was just as bad, probably worse. I’d been waiting to receive my patriarchal blessing, and the patriarch, who can come only about once a year, had come from far away. I got there for the appointment, but my father came at the same time. I had to go home and missed my blessing.”
The third time that his father confronted him in a similar way, Domingos left home and moved in with his grandmother. “Eventually my mum came and said my father was all right and wouldn’t get angry again. So I came back.”
While at his grandmother’s home, Domingos had developed a desire to serve a full-time mission. “I prayed, and the answer was very certain that I should go when I turned 19. From then on, my mind was made up—I just needed to prepare.”
He found that if he completed his first year of study, the University of the Northern Territory would agree to give him two years off to serve. But he would have to carry an even harder class load for a few months before he left. “My coordinator actually encouraged me and said the mission would be a good experience,” Domingos says. Domingos continued something he had done since high school—telling fellow students about the steps of repentance and the plan of salvation.
He intensified his scripture study, memorizing many passages. “The scriptures brought me peace,” he says. “They reminded me of the things I should be doing.”
He joined the full-time missionaries when they gave discussions. He often bore his testimony. He kept a journal, writing in it every day. His Church leaders interviewed him, found him worthy, and sent in his missionary application.
Then one day, this time when he returned from church, his father ordered him out of the house for the fourth time. “It was pretty final,” Domingos says. “He was not pleased with my plans for a mission. He said if I went, I wouldn’t be his son anymore.”
Domingos’s branch president, Michael Kuhn, invited him to live in his home until the mission call arrived.
Finished with his schoolwork, Domingos filled his days with prayer, uplifting music, Church activities, missionary work, and scripture study. Sometimes he would read the scriptures all day long.
And then the letter came: “You are called to labor in the Hong Kong Mission.” Domingos returned home for a short time to try to make peace with his family before he left. “Mainly because they knew they could not change my mind, they yielded,” he says. Before he left, the family went out to dinner together and took lots of farewell photos.
Letters written from the Missionary Training Center and from the mission field reflect the joy that quickly followed:
—“At the airport I was able to meet one of the missionaries who taught me, Elder (Hoyt) Skabelund, and his wife and baby and parents. I am slowly learning Cantonese. The people in the MTC are wonderful.”
—“I’ve received two letters from my mother. Everything is going well at home. They are being blessed greatly, and they know it! My family and relatives are now happy that I am serving a mission. Surely God is a God of miracles!”
—“I have done my first street display, talking to everyone who goes by. I have taught the six discussions in Cantonese.”
—“Now I have been transferred to Macau, a Portuguese colony neighbouring the coast of China. I am pretty lucky because not many missionaries get to serve here. We are teaching an investigator, and he will be baptized. I know that God called me here to do a special work.”
—“Every inconvenience was worth overcoming to read the Book of Mormon. Every insult was worth swallowing to keep the Sabbath holy. Every moment was worth waiting for to kneel in private prayer, every pain worth enduring to attend church. Every blow was worth taking, every torment worth suffering, every tear worth shedding to come on this mission.”
Today in Macau, Elder Liao looks out the window of his missionary apartment and sees a promised land.
“When I decided to go on a mission,” he says, “I knew there would be strong currents against me. I didn’t really know the dangers lurking in the water, what might try to sting me or to swallow me up. I was thinking only about making it. Now here I am, and I know that it’s worth it.”
And he is eager to build a bridge to help others, including his family, to cross over to the other side.

One time in gym class we were about to start the social dance unit. Someone asked the teacher whether or not we needed to bring gym clothes for this unit. She answered, “No, you don’t. But don’t wear shoulderless shirts to gym. I realize that they’re currently in style, but it’ll make the boys feel uncomfortable because it doesn’t cover very much. The more the shirts cover, the more comfortable the boys will be.”
At this, little conversations broke out among the class members: “If that’s the case, then I’ll wear a long-sleeved shirt” and “I won’t wear one of those for sure.” Being a member of the Church, I knew that shoulderless shirts weren’t modest. I’d never worn one, so it wasn’t asking a lot of me, but it’d be harder for others. Yet at the next gym class, not a single girl wore that style of shirt. A week later I still didn’t see anyone from that class wearing a shoulderless shirt to school, even on the days we didn’t have gym.
It seems that they all got an important message about modesty that day. It was neat to hear the importance of modesty discussed in a positive way in a non-Church setting, which strengthened my testimony of what I’d already been taught and accepted. The answer my teacher gave, though simply stated, changed the way a lot of the class dresses and thinks now: if it’s too immodest for social dance, then it is and will always be immodest for anything else. So why wear it?

Throughout my life, even before joining the Church, I always tried to hold high standards, and above all I wanted to keep my integrity pure and stay true to myself. As a teenager, I often felt alone and disillusioned by the fact that I seemed to be part of a small minority who strove for purity and high moral standards.
For instance, when I did not reciprocate the interest some boys showed me, some people I knew were dismayed. They told me I should have gone on a date with those boys simply to be able to tell people I was dating someone. (Of course, it was understood that “dating” meant something much more serious than going out for ice cream.) Regarding one boy, a girl I knew said, “He’s a drummer and looks like a surfer, so why wouldn’t you want to date him?” These arguments didn’t resonate with me, and I withstood these temptations. I do not regret my decisions, but it was often a difficult and lonely path.
However, in some respects, I treasure these experiences, because they caused me to inquire into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to find others with standards that were aligned with mine.

While my dear wife and I were serving as mission leaders in Thailand, Laos, and Myanmar, we witnessed firsthand the power of God that comes to those who make and keep sacred covenants in the temple. The Temple Patron Assistance Fund made it possible for many Saints in these three countries to attend the temple after doing all they could through personal sacrifice and preparation. I recall meeting a group of 20 faithful Saints from Laos at an airport in Bangkok, Thailand, to help them transfer to another airport in Bangkok to catch their flight to Hong Kong. These members were brimming with excitement to finally be traveling to the house of the Lord.
When we met these good Saints upon their return, the added gospel maturity and associated power resulting from receiving their temple endowment and entering into covenants with God were evident. These Saints clearly went forth from the temple “armed with [His] power.” This power to do more than they could do themselves gave them strength to endure the challenges of Church membership in their home country and to go forth bearing “exceedingly great and glorious tidings, in truth,” as they continue building the Lord’s kingdom in Laos.

Recently three generations of a family were grieving at the death of a five-year-old boy. He died accidentally while with his family on a vacation. I was granted the opportunity to watch once again how the Lord blesses the faithful with relief and the strength to endure.
I watched the way the Lord made their great burden lighter. I was with them as the Lord’s covenant servant—as you will be often in your life—“to mourn with those that mourn … and comfort those that stand in need of comfort.”5
Because I knew that was true, I was pleased and at peace when the grandparents invited me to meet with them and the parents of the little boy before the funeral.
I prayed to know how I could help the Lord comfort them. They sat down with me in our living room. I had warmed the room on a cold night with a small fire in the fireplace.
I had felt to tell them that I loved them. I told them that I had felt the Lord’s love for them. In just a few words I tried to tell them that I mourned for them but that only the Lord knew and could experience perfectly their pain and grief.
After saying those few words, I felt impressed to listen with love while they talked about their feelings.
In the hour we sat together, they spoke far more than I did. I could feel in their voices and see in their eyes that the Holy Ghost was touching them. In words of simple testimony, they spoke of what happened and how they felt. The Holy Ghost had already given them the peace that comes with the hope of eternal life, when their son, who died without sin, could be theirs forever.
When I gave them each a priesthood blessing, I gave thanks for the influence of the Holy Ghost that was there. The Comforter had come, bringing hope, courage, and increased strength for all of us.
The father and the mother of the little boy bore witness of the Savior that evening in my living room. The Holy Ghost came, and all were comforted. The parents were strengthened. The burden of grief did not disappear, but they were made able to bear the sorrow. Their faith increased. And their strength will continue to grow as they ask for it and live for it.