Gospel Story Finder

In their ward in Winnipeg, the Primary is small. Michael and Kaylene are the only members of the Church in their school. “Michael is really missionary-minded,” says his mom, Judy. When the missionaries in his ward had an open house at the church, Michael wrote his testimony in a few copies of the Book of Mormon and did his best to give them to his friends at school. None of his friends were interested, but Michael says that he’s not going to give up.

Raquel “Liriel” Domiciano was about to sing in front of millions of people. Was she worried about messing up? A little. Was she worried about what to wear? Naturally. But what worried her most?

Only 19 at the time, Liriel, a member of the Church for five years, wanted to stand as a witness “of God at all times and in all things, and in all places” (Mosiah 18:9).

Liriel was about to perform in Brazil’s largest televised talent competition, the Raul Gil Amateur Show. She had been told she couldn’t say anything about her religion. But she knew that many of Brazil’s Latter-day Saints would be watching, and she wanted everyone to know she wasn’t ashamed of the gospel. After praying in her room before her first performance, she looked up and saw her Young Women medallion. It was the answer she had been looking for.

Liriel wore her medallion during every level of the competition. Eventually she and her partner, tenor Rinaldo Viana, won the contest, signed a recording contract, and watched as their first CD became the second-highest best-seller in Brazil’s history, with more than one million copies sold.

Wearing the medallion as she performed was her way of letting people know she was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and willing to stand as a witness, even in front of millions.

It was the first time in ten years the annual all-Alaska youth conference had been held in Fairbanks, a grown-up mining town, rather than the more metropolitan Anchorage. The youth of Fairbanks had decided they needed a challenge and a chance to show the Anchorage Saints they were willing to share the load. So they decided to host the conference for more than 300 people in their small city. They knew there would be struggles; perhaps they didn’t know just how hard the struggles would be. But they were determined.
The first trial was the weather. The committee began its work in October and continued through the winter when the temperatures reach 30 to 70 below zero and when the sun only weakly shines three hours a day. Planning sessions for the conference were held in homes even when Sunday School and other meetings were canceled in the chapel because of the cold. Some members of the committee drove as many as 33 miles to attend the sessions. At those low temperatures and in that darkness, life and death situations can arise from as common an occurrence as a stalled car. There were no mishaps, although constant worry.
The steering committee pushed on; their faith grew with each challenge. The sunny June day that sat so patiently on their calendars was a beacon of hope, and those silly moments that sprang up so unexpectedly were buoys of spirit. They found their worries slipping into laughter.
They worried about planning menus and getting enough food for the crowd they expected. Finally, two girls sat down with an expert Relief Society sister in the branch and cooked up scrumptious menus that included fried chicken, fresh vegetables, fresh fruit, potato salads, and homemade desserts. Then they found that a local supermarket would give them a discount on their food purchase. Finally the sisters in the branch Relief Society offered to run the kitchen. Their worries were eased and they found themselves laughing together at the fun they were having.
One by one the problems were tackled. Working together, the young planners became excited by the great conference taking shape. The months passed quickly.

It was the rainy season in the Philippines and had been raining all day. Rain often brought unwanted creatures into our house—usually spiders, rats, and such.
As my companion and I arrived home after a day of proselyting, we noticed a light on at our neighbors’ house and we thought we would visit them. We decided to stop at our house and pick up some photographs of our families to show them.
We kept the pictures on the bottom shelf between our beds. As I reached for mine, I suddenly felt a pain in my right hand. Looking down, I saw that a snake had just bitten me.
I called to my companion, Elder Regis, and he ran to see what the problem was. I showed him the blood on my hand and said I’d been bitten by a snake. A neighbor ran in because of the commotion and helped us look for the snake. We found it when it struck from under the bed at a board Elder Regis was holding. The neighbor cried out, “That’s a Philippine cobra!”
Elder Regis killed the snake. I realized I was getting dizzy, so we rushed to Bishop Rotor’s house because he had some experience treating snakebites. He hurriedly began to do what he could to help me.
My chest was becoming heavy, and it was hard to breathe. A darkness seemed to cloud my thoughts, and I began to lose consciousness. Then I heard a voice say, “If you want to finish your mission on earth, you need a blessing.”
I stayed conscious long enough to say, “Will you give me a blessing?”
The bishop answered, “Yes, just let me finish this first.” It was hard for me to stay alert, but I heard the voice persist, “You need a blessing now. You cannot wait.” This time I said in a commanding voice, “Give me a blessing!”
I don’t remember the words of the blessing my companion and Bishop Rotor gave me. But I put all my trust in the Lord and His priesthood. During the prayer I began to come to my senses, and I vomited repeatedly. As I heard the final words of the blessing, the vomiting stopped. I was aware of my surroundings and felt a warm feeling of comfort and love fill my body. I knew that my Father in Heaven loved me and I would be OK.
My zone leader, Elder Howarth, brought to the bishop’s home a doctor who was investigating the Church. By this time about two hours had passed. We left for a hospital located about an hour away from where I was serving.
On the way the doctor asked me to tell him what had happened. Elder Howarth said, “Doctor, shouldn’t we speed up?” The doctor’s answer was, “Why? He should already be dead. He is a lucky man.” The Philippine cobra is the deadliest snake in the Philippines.
If people say God is not a God of miracles anymore, they don’t understand this gospel or His love for us, His children. I know my life was spared and I suffered no lasting effects because of the power of God’s word: “And by the power of his word did they cause prisons to tumble to the earth,” wrote Moroni, “yea, even the fiery furnace could not harm them, neither wild beasts nor poisonous serpents, because of the power of his word” (Morm. 8:24).

The first week after my calling to be a bishop on this campus, those many years ago, I interviewed everyone in the ward. I met with an impressive freshman I’ll call Joe. I felt Joe had potential to be one of my future ward leaders. However, over time, Joe gradually drifted to the back row and into the shadows. Five years later, after his graduation, there was a knock at my door. It was Joe. His problem? Pornography. Over time, he had cheated himself and the Lord from his best self. He had spun a life of secrecy, deception, and half-truths. He was afraid to seek help earlier.
Now with honesty, responsibility and humility, we started a process of recovery – to break the cycle of indulgence before his return home.
I later thought of the cost of Joe’s years of pernicious enslavement: diminished spirit, avoidance, alienation, demoralization, no mission, no leadership development, no temple marriage, no significant promises waiting after his graduation into a career. Yes, the loses were significant. Pornography causes a rewiring of the brain’s neural circuits and will contaminate the whole person. Our brain center that controls impulsiveness becomes supercharged, our brain center for willpower shrinks. Our conscience becomes desensitized, our personality will be dulled. Family relationships and decision-making capacities, impaired. Ability to pray, lessened. Capacity to love and the ability to serve others, diminished. Our testimony of the truth will start to slip away, probably so gradual at first that we won’t even realize it is happening until it is too late. Then, we will rationalize evil to be good.

Some years ago, Elder ElRay L. Christiansen told about one of his distant Scandinavian relatives who joined the Church. He was quite well-to-do and sold his lands and stock in Denmark to come to Utah with his family. For a while he did well as far as the Church and its activities were concerned, and he prospered financially. However, he became so caught up in his possessions that he forgot about his purpose in coming to America. The bishop visited him and implored him to become active as he used to be. The years passed, and some of his brethren visited him and said: “Now, Lars, the Lord was good to you when you were in Denmark. He has been good to you since you have come here. … We think now, since you are growing a little older, that it would be well for you to spend some of your time in the interests of the Church. After all, you can’t take these things with you when you go.”

Jolted by this remark, the man replied, “Vell, den, I vill not go.” But he did! And so will all of us!

I had looked forward to Sunday afternoon all week. Resting on a bench in our backyard, I listened to some soft music. As I sat there, I felt impressed to write in my journal.
The thought came to me to bear my testimony. It seemed like a great idea for something to write. I began to scribble down the feelings in my heart.
I started with the common things most people believe in. I believe the Church is true. I believe that we have a living prophet. I honestly did believe these things were true, although I didn’t know if I had a real testimony.
Then something unusual happened. I decided to write that I believed that the Book of Mormon was true. I started to write, but something didn’t feel right. I had read the entire Book of Mormon, and I had developed a great belief that it was true. But at that moment, I had to think about that belief.
I continued writing my testimony onto the page. I again stopped to think when I was about to write that I believed Heavenly Father answers prayers. Several times in my life, a prayer had been answered immediately. I knew prayers were answered.
Reading over my testimony, my attitudes began to change about what a testimony is. I realized I had always had a testimony of the truth of the gospel of Jesus Christ. It was a quiet testimony that had always been there until at this moment it had become just strong enough for me to know it was there.
I used to think that a testimony came suddenly, like a brilliant burst of the Spirit of the Holy Ghost in the heart. I never realized that a testimony could develop quietly and gently.
My testimony had been growing, almost without my knowing it, until I took the time to discover it was there.

For years, I never understood the Savior’s power. But when life got tougher as a teenager, I tried praying more sincerely. To my surprise, I found Jesus Christ and Heavenly Father waiting for me all along.

As I drew closer to God, I was able to feel His grace and mercy despite my personal inadequacies. I understand now that He knows my name. He knows my strengths and potential better than anyone—especially myself.

One day while my new companion, Sister Neumann, and I were teaching a sweet young woman, her boyfriend, Tom, came to see her. She had warned us that he did not want her to continue meeting with us. Tom saw our bicycles in front of the house and knew we were there that morning, so he decided to wait outside until we left. As he waited his curiosity grew stronger and stronger, and he thought of more and more questions to ask us. Eventually his interest overcame his reservations, and he came inside to put us to the test. After briefly explaining the basic principles of the gospel and outlining the Apostasy and the Restoration, we made an appointment to begin teaching him the next evening. He was baptized 10 weeks later. I was so full of joy I would have reenlisted for 10 years if I could have.

Peter stared at the Pinewood Derby kit he’d received at his Cub Scout meeting. It contained a block of wood, four nails, and four wheels, from which he was to make a car to race.
Peter wasn’t too excited about the derby. Last year, he and his dad worked hard to shape, sand, and paint his car. But even though they’d tried to make a good car, it hadn’t won a single race.
He remembered his dad telling him, “Peter, you did your best, and that’s what’s important. No one wins all the time.” That had made him feel a bit better.
This year Peter faced a more difficult problem. His dad was out of town on a business trip and wouldn’t be home until after the derby. How was he going to get a car ready all by himself?
That evening, Peter’s mom said that they could work on the car together. She gathered all the tools she could find: a hacksaw, a pocketknife, a screwdriver, a hammer, and a piece of sandpaper.
First, she tried to whittle away pieces of the block with the pocketknife. “I had no idea this wood was so hard!” she said through clenched teeth as she fought to chip a piece away. With a sigh, she put down the knife. “This isn’t going to work.”
Next they tried the wobbly hacksaw. Taking turns, they managed to saw a small piece off. However, once they started shaping the wood into Peter’s design—a triangle to make it have less wind resistance—the blade snapped in half partway through.
“I suppose our last chance is to use the hammer and screwdriver to chisel away some of the wood in the direction of the cut we started,” Mom said.
Peter and his mom struggled for almost an hour. Bit by bit, pieces of the wood broke away. Then, amazingly, the car he’d hoped for began to appear. Except it was covered by strange gouges made by the screwdriver blade. And there was a blob sticking out in front. Mom suggested it might be part of the engine sticking out, like on fancy race cars they’d seen on television.
Then disaster struck. Suddenly there was a loud CRACK! A chunk of wood snapped away from the rest. Gone was the triangular shape they’d worked for. Now a deep gash appeared on the car, making it look lopsided.
“Oh, Peter!” Mom exclaimed. “Look what I’ve done!” Peter could tell by her voice that she was close to tears.
He studied the sad little shape resting on the counter and smiled. “That’s OK, Mom. You did your best. I can paint this part,” he touched the mistake, “and it will look good. I bet it’ll even make it more aerodynamic.”
Over the next two days, Peter carefully sanded his funny-looking car, trying to smooth out the gouges left by the screwdriver, but they were too deep. So he painted it. And he painted it again. Instead of trying to hide the problems, he accented them to make the whole car look more interesting.
The time came to go to the church for the derby. When he got there, all the other boys had fancy cars. Some had racing wings, and others glistened like plastic models instead of painted wood blocks.
Peter’s friends came running to see his car. He held it out proudly. “My mom helped me with this car,” he said before anyone could say anything about its odd shape. “And we did our very best!”
Soon the races started. When Peter’s name was called, he handed the Cubmaster his car.
The Cubmaster took one look at it, then held it up for all to see. “Look at this unusual car. You can tell that a lot of hard work went into making it.”
Peter glanced over at his mom and smiled. The Cubmaster was right.
As the night went on, Peter won two races, but then lost the third and was out of the running for a trophy.
After it was over, the leaders passed out the awards. Each boy got a certificate and a badge for participating. Then the Cubmaster said, “Now I’d like to present a special trophy for the most unique car in the competition. It showed great effort and creativity in its design.”
Peter looked over at the cars, wondering who would receive the trophy with the golden car on it. It looked just like the first-place trophy.
“Congratulations to Peter Olds,” the Cubmaster announced.
Peter was stunned. “Me?” he asked.
His friend nudged him. “Go on,” he urged, “go get your trophy.”
Peter walked up to the stage and accepted the trophy. He looked at everyone who was clapping and cheering for him. His mom smiled up at him.
He felt warm all over. Suddenly he realized that it was great that he had received a trophy, but the real prize was his funny little car. He didn’t need a trophy to know its value. It was special because his mom had done her very best to help him, showing him how much she loved him. He couldn’t ask for more.

After reading the Old Testament several years ago, I gained an interest in its teachings, especially the writings of Isaiah, and continued to study it. In 2010, I found myself seated on a flight next to a Jewish rabbi. I started a conversation by asking him about some passages in Isaiah. As our conversation progressed, we discussed the importance of priesthood authority as understood in the Old Testament.
The rabbi asked me where members of my church get their priesthood authority. I seized the opportunity to tell him about Joseph Smith’s First Vision and the restoration of the Aaronic and Melchizedek Priesthoods. We discussed the translation of the Book of Mormon and its purpose as “Another Testament of Jesus Christ.”
The rabbi was intrigued. He asked how old Joseph was when he had the First Vision. When I told him Joseph was 14, about the same age as Samuel of the Old Testament, he replied that many prophets were called in their youth. He said it was consistent that God would call Joseph Smith in his teen years.
I opened my scriptures, and together we read the testimonies of the Three and Eight Witnesses. I told him that several of the witnesses had left the Church but that none ever denied having seen the golden plates.
“How could they leave the Church after seeing an angel and the plates?” he asked.
“I remember that the children of Israel built a golden calf shortly after witnessing the parting of the Red Sea,” I replied.
He turned to 1 Nephi and began to read. He stopped and said, “This text is Hebrew.”
He then explained why the text appeared to be an English translation of Hebrew. I told him the book was written by a tribe of Israel. I cited Ezekiel 37:15–20, which speaks of the stick of Judah and the stick of Joseph. We agreed that the stick of Judah represents the Bible, and I explained that the stick of Joseph is the Book of Mormon.
After our three-hour conversation the rabbi expressed an interest in obtaining a copy of the Book of Mormon. When I returned home, I sent him a copy personalized with my written testimony. I am thankful that my efforts to study the Old Testament had prepared me to discuss the scriptures and share my testimony with my new friend, a rabbi.

When I was young, my family immigrated from Tonga to the United States. My father was a boxer when we lived in Tonga, and he started training me to box after we arrived in the States. His master plan was that I would be the heavyweight champion of the world someday. He taught me not to be scared. You can’t be scared in the boxing ring if you want to succeed. My father may not have been active in the Church at that time, but he taught me so much about facing difficulty and having courage in the face of fear.
Learning to box uniquely prepared me for my profession. I went to Brigham Young University on a football scholarship. And even performing what most people regard as probably the scariest thing to do on a football field—catching a punt—I always did it calmly. I was never really afraid. In fact, I loved the challenge of football.
My father anticipated that I would have a professional career in sports—it turned out to be in football, not boxing. But I think my training helped me both to have faith and to look forward with faith and hope in uncertainty.
Vai’s father celebrates his son’s touchdown on the field.
Photograph by Mark Philbrick / BYU © BYU Photo

This first photo is of my siblings and me. I’m the medium-sized one smack-dab in the middle. The year is 1952 and the setting is Salt Lake City, where I was born and raised. While I have many fond memories of this stage of my life, one seems to stand out more prominently than the rest.

My ten year old brother Mike and I who was seven were left in charge of our younger twin brother and sister one night when Mom and Dad went out for their weekly date. In my mind’s eye, I can see the four of us lying on the living room floor in front of our 12-inch black-and-white television set, no doubt watching a favorite program. All these years later, I can distinctly recall a sudden, powerful impression I had to stand up and walk into the kitchen. Once in the kitchen, I had the inexplicable idea that I should get down on my hands and knees and examine the tiny crevice under the kitchen cupboards. What I saw temporarily stunned me: Through that tiny crack, I could make out red, flickering flames!

Frantically, I ran back into the living room to tell my brother what I saw. “Mike! I think there’s a fire in the basement!” He just laughed at me, but I persisted and convinced him to go down into the basement with me to look. He nonchalantly led me through the quiet sewing room and then opened the door into the laundry room. There, in a large box of fabric, we saw flames shooting almost to the ceiling! Mike yelled at me to take the twins across the street to our neighbors and call the fire department. Meanwhile, he quickly unhooked the hose from the back of the washing machine and started dousing the flames.

By the time the two big fire engines arrived at our house, Mike had the fire out. My parents pulled into the driveway at about the same time the firemen did! It was quite an exciting scene for my family and all of our neighbors. We had caught the fire before it was able to do any real damage to our house. The only thing that was burned that night was an insignificant box of mother’s sewing scraps.

Standing outside our family home with the firemen, I knew without a doubt that Heavenly Father loved me and trusted me enough to send seven-year-old me an important message: Go look in the kitchen under the cupboards.

I remember an experience when I was the General Manager of a multinational armoring company. My secretary came in to my office one morning and told me that a client was in our plant floor and that my sales directors and sales managers were all out. Nobody could entertain the client so could I please go out and talk to him, she asked. I agreed then went out to our plant floor. When I looked around, there was only one person there besides our manufacturing personnel. He was very stout, unkempt and unshaven. He was wearing slippers, worn out khaki shorts and his T-shirt with a fading print had a tear on the left shoulder. I assumed that the client had gone back to his car and had left his driver. Nevertheless, I walked over to him, smiled, said good morning cheerfully, shook his hand and introduced myself. Then I gave him my best sales pitch. This turned out to be providential for I learned 30 minutes later that he was the client and was one of the wealthiest men in the nearby province of Pampanga. He owned the only telecommunications company there and had several schools and businesses. He had even run for mayor in one of the towns. He eventually bought several of our armored vehicles which cost about P5 million each. I sometimes wondered what would have happened had I treated him poorly like he didn't matter. Do we treat each other as the sons and daughters of God that we are?

In a 1988 address to the Democratic National Convention, the Reverend Jesse Jackson told about his mother, “a working woman,” he said, who on “so many of the days . . . went to work early, with runs in her stockings.”14 He implied that others made fun of her because of the condition of her nylons. Although he does not elaborate, given the era and the coldheartedness of some human beings, one can imagine that some of her coworkers might well have whispered to one another behind her back, in tones just loud enough for her to hear, “Look at that dumb woman. She doesn’t even know enough to wear good stockings to work.” Apparently responding to such observations, Reverend Jackson stated, “She knew better, but she wore runs in her stockings so that my brother and I could have matching socks and not be laughed at at school.”15
A charitable act? Undoubtedly. And, I suggest, made more so by the fact that Reverend Jackson’s mother did indeed know what was proper work attire. Had she been completely unaware that wearing nylons with runs in them was not the style, her act, although still laudable, would not have been quite as selfless—not quite as charitable. Her knowledge of the way things were, though perhaps making her choice a bit more difficult, allowed her to exercise charity at a higher level than would have been possible had she been ignorant of the price she was being asked to pay.

One mother told the following experience that helps to explain this idea. She said, “Sometimes while we are eating, one of my children will get my attention and signal to me while his mouth is full of food. Grunting and waving, he will try to motion for me to do something for him. I know perfectly well that what he wants is for me to pour him a glass of milk, but I will wait until he uses words to ask me before I will do it. It’s not that I can’t understand what he wants but that I feel it is important for him to learn how to communicate well.”

Of all the hundreds of papers, quizzes, and exams from my undergraduate degree, I am holding in my hand the only thing I saved from my entire undergraduate experience. This is a Chemistry 105 exam. I vividly remember watching the professor handing a big stack of exams to the person on the front row and saying, "Find your exam and pass the pile along." This was long before FERPA laws protecting privacy, so public humiliation or adoration (depending on how you performed) was always a looming possibility. I hastily retrieved my exam and hurried out of class. As I was walking out of the building, I quickly glanced at the exam and saw the number 76 scrawled across the top in red pen. "76?" I quickly stuffed the exam into my backpack. I felt as if someone had punched me in the stomach. My mind raced, and I started thinking that obviously I wasn't smart enough to be at a university, for surely everyone else in the class scored much higher than I did. I envisioned my fellow classmates celebrating together at the student center, toasting their success with chocolate milk. The number 76 kept flashing over and over in my mind as I walked toward my apartment by going down the stairs south of campus leading to a botanical pond. Nearing the bottom of the stairs, I pulled the dreaded exam from my backpack, hoping that I somehow read my score incorrectly. But sure enough, that red 76 was still there. But then I saw something I hadn't noticed before. My heart raced when I saw a tiny minus sign. You see, I didn't get a 76 on this exam; I missed 76! And sure enough, in the corner was the number 24. Surely this is the lowest score in school history given to someone who actually tried to do well. I was so stunned that my first impulse was to jump into the botanical pond, swim to the bottom, and hide from the entire world. Little did I know that botanical pond was less than three feet deep. So that plan would have also received a score of 24 as it too would have been doomed to failure.

Now you may ask, "Why in the world did you save that particular exam as your only memento of your undergraduate academic experience?" It is because this experience impacted and shaped me in significant ways--ways I hope to always remember. I am not proud of failing (or failing with such absolute certainty). What happened next, however, was something that required pioneer-like courage. Somehow, I resisted the overwhelming urge to pack all my belongings into my car and drive home and leave school and all my humiliation in the rear-view mirror. It was during this time that I came across a quote that was attributed to Winston Churchill that read, "Success is not final, failure is not fatal; it is the courage to continue that counts."[11] I climbed up on Winston's shoulders and strained to see beyond this setback. But it took every bit of courage I had to get up, dust off my pride, place my ego in check, return to class, and get back to work. And because I couldn't muster that type of courage on my own, I climbed up on the shoulders of the pioneer Saints and listened to them invite me yet again to "Come, Come, ye Saints... Gird up your loins; fresh courage take. Our God will never us forsake; and soon we'll have this tale to tell-- All is well! All is well!"

I occasionally look at this exam and remember that "failure is not fatal" and that it's the "courage to continue that counts." I remember that every storm will eventually break if you just hold on long enough. I remember that learning is a process and not an event and that I could do difficult things even when it takes more time, strength, effort, and courage than I think or feel I have. Most importantly, I am reminded that life is not determined by a singular performance, and there are times when you need to be courageous. So when your mettle is tested, please climb up on the shoulders of those who came before you so you can see further and know that it's "not so bad! Not so bad!"

When we know and act, I believe the third fundamental is to have this blessing called testimony, or the witness that the Spirit brings. I thought and thought and had a hundred examples and am going to use the simple one of the bishop in Taiwan. Some of you will have been there and may know the bishop in Taipei. He had to leave the mainland of China with the defeated armies thirty years or so ago. He has been there thirty years, totally out of communication with his wonderful wife and his children, unable to write, unable to let her know or her him of present things. He joined the Church a few years ago. He has been a marvelous, strong, unselfish bishop for a number of years. I keep thinking about him. What gives a man enough hope, enough faith, enough endurance, to put up with that when most of us scarce stand a day or a week or a month away from those we love the best? There is something that strengthens us, that testifies this is true and that motivates us to move in this way.

A few years ago the Wall Street Journal recounted a heartwarming tale of one who magnified his talents in providing compassionate Christlike service to one of God’s children. More than twenty years ago, Dr. Ian Jackson, a world-famous craniofacial surgeon, was on a charity medical mission from his native Scotland to Peru. There he met David Lopez, a tiny Indian boy just two years old who had virtually no face at all. A gaping hole covered the area where his mouth and nose should have been. There were no upper teeth or upper jaw. To drink, David simply tilted back his head and poured the liquid straight down. His lower teeth could actually touch his forehead. Most of David’s face had literally been eaten away by a terrible parasitic disease called leishmaniasis.

Relief workers begged Dr. Jackson to help. He was leaving for Scotland the next day but agreed to try to rebuild David’s face if the boy could come to Scotland. Eventually a way was found, and the Jacksons went to Glasgow Airport to pick up David. As he walked down the ramp, they saw a tiny boy wearing scuffed white boots and a hand-knit poncho. A woolen cap was pulled so low on his head that only his big brown eyes and the round hole beneath them were visible.

The Jacksons took David into their home and into their hearts. There followed long years of surgery—more than eighty operations in all—as Dr. Jackson attempted to give David a new face. All of the doctor’s services were donated. Each summer, as other children played, David was in the hospital, his head swathed in bandages.

The painstaking, pioneering surgical efforts to rebuild David’s face went on for fifteen years. Today David looks like a young man who has been in a serious automobile accident, but he is well-adjusted and fully functional. He used to be teased and tormented about his looks, but over the years that has died away.

In 1982 Mrs. Jackson flew to Peru to try to find David’s parents. After a long journey downriver from a remote Catholic mission, David’s father was found. He explained that the boy had been born healthy but that he developed leishmaniasis after having been bitten by an infected sand fly. The father took his son to the mission to seek treatment.

The father gave permission to the Jacksons—who had developed a deep love for David—to adopt him as their own. Since 1984 David Lopez has been David Jackson. (See Neal Templin, “Look of Love: As His Face Is Molded, Boy Finds His Surgeon Becoming His Father,” Wall Street Journal, 13 November 1992, A1.)

During the years she lived in my parents’ home, she told us Church history and scripture stories at bedtime. The way Grandmother spoke of Jesus Christ, I knew she loved Him. One afternoon my cousin and I went into Grandmother’s room for a visit. She looked at us thoughtfully.
“Now, children, I’m going to die pretty soon,” she said. “And when I’m gone, I know you will feel sad. But I don’t want you to cry too much. I will be with Jesus and with your Grandpa Amacher, you know.” Grandma’s faith helped me come to know Jesus Christ.