Gospel Story Finder

Christmas was coming, and Miguel’s teacher was talking about his school’s annual holiday food drive. “Our goal is to collect two thousand pounds of food—a whole ton—to share with others who are less fortunate,” Mrs. Stevens said. “We’ll need everyone’s help to gather that much.”
As he trudged home after school, Miguel wondered what he could take for the food drive. His father was away again, harvesting crops for others. He sent money from time to time, but often they had to get along on what his mother earned cleaning houses. Sometimes the tiny cupboards in their trailer were almost bare. But Miguel knew that other families in the trailer park had even less.
He unlocked the trailer, shrugged off his backpack, and opened the kitchen cupboard. He found rice, some beans, tomato sauce, a few cans of soup, a sack of cornmeal, and some canned corn.
When his mother returned from work, Miguel told her about the food drive. “It’s to help poor people,” he explained.
“Of course we must give something,” she said. She handed him a can of refried beans. “Take this.” The can weighed one pound twelve ounces. Miguel put it into his backpack so he wouldn’t forget to take it to school.
Gradually the pile of food in the corner of the classroom grew into a small pyramid. Every day the class divided ounces into pounds and added up the new total. As often as he could, Miguel brought something else from the cupboard in the trailer. Mamá was happy for him to help the poor with whatever they could spare.
One night Mamá came home especially tired. She put a big brown sack on the tiny kitchen table. “Is something wrong, Mamacita (Mama)?” Miguel asked.
“The Ostermans are going to Florida for the holidays,” she said, “and they won’t need me to work for three weeks. But look at what I have! Mrs. Osterman gave it to me.” She pulled a shiny oval can out of the bag.
“Ham?” Miguel licked his lips as he studied the colorful picture on the can. Then he read the label. “Ten whole pounds! Caramba (Wow)!”
“We’ll eat it on Christmas Eve,” Mamá said. “Let’s invite Tía (Aunt) Margarita to join us. She has no one to enjoy the holiday with.” Tía Margarita was not really Miguel’s aunt, but she lived in the trailer next door and often visited Miguel and his mother.
“Will we have a Christmas tree?” he asked.
“Our home is small, my son, but look!” She pointed out the window to the tall scraggly pine tree near the entrance to the trailer park, decorated with a few strings of lights. “We have a huge, beautiful Christmas tree right there.”
Miguel looked at the canned ham almost every day. A thought was growing in his mind. The night before the last day of school, he asked, “Mamá, are we poor?”
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she smiled at him. “Of course not, mi hijito (my son). We have a cozy place to live, we have food in our cupboard, I have work; and best of all, we have each other. We are rich.”
“But, Mamá, about the ham …” Miguel hesitated and swallowed hard. “I want to give it to the food drive.”
“But why, Miguel? Don’t you want it for our special dinner?”
Miguel hugged her. “Yes, Mamacita, but—but I want to do more to help the poor people.”
“Of course, of course,” she said, hugging him back. “Take it tomorrow. I am pleased that you are so generous. I will make your favorite chili tacos for Christmas Eve, instead, and we can pretend that they are full of ham. Tía Margarita will think that we are doing the right thing too. Now it is time for me to say the blessing on our supper.” Miguel bowed his head. “We are thankful for this food,” she prayed. “We are grateful that we have enough to share. …”
The next day, after his mother left to clean for the Maxwell family, Miguel slid the ham into his backpack. It thudded against his back as he jogged to school, but he didn’t mind. “Look what I have brought for the food drive,” he said to Mrs. Stevens as he placed the shiny oval can carefully on her desk.
“How generous, Miguel! Are you sure you should give this away?”
Miguel nodded. “The poor people need it,” he said.
Late that afternoon the principal reported that more than a ton of food had been collected by the students. “I’m so pleased!” he announced. “Because of you, many of your neighbors will have a happier holiday.”
Miguel felt cheerful until his mother returned from work with bad news. “Mrs. Maxwell’s grandchildren are coming to visit for the holidays,” she said. “She won’t need me for two weeks. If I don’t work, I don’t get paid, Miguel. Maybe your father will send money soon, but we can’t count on it. He does his best, but he has to live too.” Then she smiled. “But we will have our special dinner with Tía Margarita. That will make a special Christmas treat for us, sí (yes)?”
While Miguel was washing the dishes after their supper, he heard footsteps outside. Someone was running near the trailer. He opened the door and peered into the darkness.
“Mamá, come quick! There’s something by our door.”
Miguel and his mother lifted two large boxes into the kitchen. Food spilled out of them—potatoes, rice, canned fruit, soup, flour, sugar, oranges, tuna fish. At the bottom of one box, he saw a familiar shiny oval can. “How can this be?” he asked. “I gave our ham away. Now it has come back to us.”
“I don’t know, Miguel. Someone must think we need it.”
“But we don’t, Mamá. Not nearly as much as some others. You said yourself we are rich. We must find someone who really needs the ham.”
“You are right, Miguel. Let’s do that,” she replied.
They put on their coats and stepped outside into the frosty night air. Miguel cradled the ham gently against his chest like a newborn babe.
The trailer park was quiet, and the windows of the neighbors’ homes glowed softly in the dark. Miguel and his mother walked from door to door until they came to a trailer where a little boy opened the door. His eyes grew wide when he saw the ham.
“For us?” he asked.
Miguel smiled and handed it to him. “For you,” he said.
The boy’s mother came to the door and thanked them, tears shining in her eyes. Miguel’s mother put an arm around him, and together they hurried home through the cold, feeling warm inside.
On Christmas Eve, Miguel, his mother, and Tía Margarita sat down to their chili tacos and laughed together. Miguel thought of the little boy with the ham and the people at school who would have a happier holiday because of what the class had shared. He knew then that giving had made Christmas better for everyone.

The following is taken from a Los Angeles newspaper account attesting to the strength of people who have risen above the sordid revenge and ugly bitterness which so often prevail in such circumstances:

“Three men were apprehended for the kidnap-murder of Marvin W. Merrill of Los Angeles. I knew Marvin personally—this young man grew up in my community—from his childhood. … Angelo B. Rollins, a black postal employee, was selected by the mail-carriers at Wagner Station to represent them by reading a eulogy at the funeral services. Elder Merrill had served the postal department for more than 20 years. Scattered throughout the chapel and overflow room were scores of postmen who came directly from their postal routes, still in their uniforms. … Rollins said: ‘No man can condone the actions of the perpetrators who ended his life. These vicious and vile acts that make us bow our heads in shame, point an accusing finger at innocent millions as a nation of offenders. In my sinful weakness, I would have rent them limb from limb,’” said this man, “‘but the still small voice of the Master said, “Vengeance is Mine.” … This Mormon Elder, Marvin Merrill, firm in the strength of his faith, and steeped in the teachings of Christ, would probably have said of them, as did our Savior at Calvary, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”’” (Cited in The Miracle of Forgiveness, p. 295.)

Last March, as you remember, devastating rock and mud slides engulfed six small towns in the mountains east of Lima, Peru. All of these towns were within the Lima Peru San Luis Stake. The slide left 25,000 people homeless. Eighteen LDS families lost their homes completely, and 198 other families were left in dire need of food, clothing, and medical supplies.
The day after the slides, one member of the stake presidency and two other Church members waded through waist-high mud and debris for five kilometers to assess the damage. They found that more than three hundred people, members and nonmembers, had taken refuge in the Chosica chapel.
The following day, the stake presidency called a meeting of their eleven bishops and branch presidents. They made many assignments to furnish needed supplies. They asked each ward and branch to furnish work teams to go to the homes of members and help them clean up.
The stake presidency resolved to handle the problem without seeking help from outside stakes. They soon found that they could not handle it all alone. They went to their Regional Representative and asked him to coordinate economic help from other stakes in the region. The Saints of Peru rallied together.
As an example, the Iquitos stake sent thirteen crates of clothing, each weighing thirty kilos (about sixty-six pounds). Other stakes and wards donated food, bedding, and mattresses.
Selling quilts and refreshments, young women raised more than three hundred dollars. One young priest, a senior at his high school in Lima, led a group of twenty-eight of his classmates, all nonmembers, to Chosica to help with the cleanup.
The stake Relief Society presidency visited the area frequently and instructed the sisters in classes on hygiene, sanitation, nutrition, and “how to organize family living in a tent.”
The stakes did not intend to seek assistance from the general welfare funds of the Church. Stake leaders called in all fast-offering reserves from their wards and branches. They asked stake members to participate in a special fast on 29 March 1987 to raise funds that would help cover the expenses.
Some bore tender testimonies. Let me share just two. Sister Guadalupe, a nonmember, lost everything. Then in the shelter of a little room in our chapel, she gave birth to a baby boy. She stated that the Lord had helped her escape. She learned that everything of the world is temporary and can be lost. She thanked the branch and the Church for opening its doors to her and for the assistance she received.
Sister Leonora de Contreras, a Relief Society president, said she knew the gospel was true. She expressed thanks for her husband, who holds the priesthood and is a pillar of strength. The catastrophe destroyed the fruits of their lifetime of labor in less than thirty minutes. She recalled the words of their son who is serving in the Peru Trujillo Mission. As he left home, he said to her, “Mami, whatever happens, if you need help, ask the Lord, and stay close to the Brethren.” She expressed appreciation to stake leaders for their assistance.

Allow me to share this afternoon with you one of the most precious things to me—the story of how I myself was found.
Just before I turned 15, I was invited by my uncle Manuel Bustos to spend some time with him and his family here in the United States. This would be a great opportunity for me to learn some English. My uncle had converted to the Church many years before, and he had a great missionary spirit. That is probably why my mother, without my knowing, spoke with him and said she would agree to the invitation on one condition: that he did not try to convince me to become a member of his Church. We were Catholics, and we had been for generations, and there was no reason to change. My uncle was in complete agreement and kept his word to the point that he didn’t want to answer even simple questions about the Church.
Of course, what my uncle and his sweet wife, Marjorie, could not avoid was being who they were.3
I was assigned a room that contained a large library of books. I could see that in this library there were roughly 200 copies of the Book of Mormon in different languages, 20 of them in Spanish.
One day, out of curiosity, I took down a copy of the Book of Mormon in Spanish.
It was one of those copies with a sky-blue soft cover, with the figure of the angel Moroni on the front. When I opened it, on the first page there was written the following promise: “And when ye shall receive these things, I would exhort you that ye would ask God, the Eternal Father, in the name of Christ, if these things are not true; and if ye shall ask with a sincere heart, with real intent, having faith in Christ, he will manifest the truth of it unto you, by the power of the Holy Ghost.”
And then it added: “And by the power of the Holy Ghost ye may know the truth of all things.”4
It is difficult to explain the impact that these scriptures had on my mind and heart. To be honest, I was not looking for “the truth.” I was just a teenager, happy with his life, enjoying this new culture.
Nevertheless, with that promise in mind, I secretly began reading the book. As I read more, I understood that if I really wanted to get anything from this, I had better start to pray. And we all know what happens when you decide not only to read but also to pray about the Book of Mormon. Well, that is just what happened to me. It was something so special and so unique—yes, just the same as what has happened to millions of others around the world. I came to know by the power of the Holy Ghost that the Book of Mormon was true.
I then went to my uncle to explain to him what had happened and that I was ready to be baptized. My uncle could not contain his astonishment. He got into his car, drove to the airport, and returned back with my plane ticket to fly back home, with a note addressed to my mother that simply stated, “I had nothing to do with this!”
In a way he was right. I had been found directly by the power of the Book of Mormon.

When I returned to Buenos Aires, my mother realized that I truly wanted to be baptized. Since I had a somewhat rebellious spirit, instead of opposing me, she very wisely took my side. And without even knowing it, she did my baptismal interview herself. Indeed, I believe that her interview was even more in-depth than those that our missionaries conduct. She told me, “If you want to be baptized, I will support you. But first I’m going to ask you some questions, and I want you to think very hard and answer me honestly. Do you commit to attend church absolutely every Sunday?”
I told her, “Yes, of course I’m going to do that.”
“Do you have any idea how long church is?”
“Yes, I know,” I said.
She replied, “Well, if you get baptized, I am going to make sure that you attend.” Then she asked me if I was truly willing to never drink alcohol or smoke.
I answered, “Yes, of course I am going to comply with that as well.”
To which she added, “If you get baptized, I am going to make sure that that is the case.” And she proceeded on in that way with almost every commandment.
My uncle had called my mother to tell her not to worry, that I would get over this soon. Four years later, when I received my call to serve in the Uruguay Montevideo Mission, my mother called my uncle to ask him exactly when I was going to get over all this. The truth is that from the time I was baptized, my mother was a happier mother.

When it was announced on Sunday that the young men in my ward were going to do baptisms for the dead, I thought to myself, Too bad I can’t go. I never gave it another thought because I knew it would be too difficult for me to go. I have cerebral palsy.
After my mom picked me and my brother, Beau, up from school on the day the young men were going to the temple, she said we needed to hurry. The bishop would be picking us up at 5:30 P.M. I didn’t pay attention because I thought she was talking only to my brother.
Then she said, “Bart, you need to hurry and eat and get showered and into your Sunday clothes.”
I said, “What? I’m going?”
She told me the bishop didn’t want me to be left out. He thought it would be nice if I went and watched the other boys do baptisms for the dead. I couldn’t believe it. I was going to the temple!
As we hurried to get ready, I couldn’t quit smiling; just the thought of going to the temple made me happy. Rick Hansen, my teachers quorum adviser, drove me to the temple in his van. My wheelchair fit inside just fine.
The temple was beautiful. I had heard people say how strong the Spirit is in the temple, and they were right. As I watched the other boys being baptized, I wished I could be baptized, too.
Just then Bishop Homer came over to me. “Come on,” he said. “We need to get you dressed.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant or where we were going. He took me back to a special dressing room for temple workers, and he and Rick tried to figure out how to get the baptismal clothes on me. They did a pretty good job. I looked down at myself and thought how wonderful it was to be dressed in white.
Then a temple worker gave me a card with my name on it. The bishop took me into the baptismal font area, where I waited for my turn. As I sat and waited, a special feeling came over me, I kept looking up at the ceiling and thanking my Heavenly Father for this chance he had given me. I also thought about the people I would be doing the baptisms for. I wondered what they would think about me being baptized for them.
Then my turn came. It was so quiet you could have heard a pin drop. I felt as if all eyes were on me. The bishop scooped me up in his arms and carried me down into the baptismal font. It took both the bishop and Rick to baptize me because of my floppy trunk and stiff limbs. After the ordinance for each name was completed, the bishop made sure I was still breathing all right. I did a total of five baptisms. The bishop and Rick then dressed me and placed me back in my wheelchair, and the bishop even combed my hair with his comb. Beau told me that when the bishop pushed me out of the dressing room he had sweat coming down his face. I’m not sure the bishop realized how much work it was going to be to dress me.
As we went over to do the confirmations, I felt warm all over. I thought to myself, How could people not know that the Church is true? I am grateful my bishop cared enough to give me the chance to be baptized in the temple. It’s so beautiful inside the temple. The powerful feeling inside helped me know the Church is true.

Returning to college to begin my sophomore year, I found myself the only active member of the Church at my school. In my freshman year of college, there were two of us who were. The summer after my freshman year, the other LDS student left on a mission, and that fall no new LDS students showed up in the incoming freshman class. I was alone.
With no other LDS students near me and my family thousands of miles away, feelings of loneliness and uncertainty crept into my life. I began to doubt and question the Church and myself. I still knew that the Church was true, but I was full of questions. If Heavenly Father really loved His children, why was I the only one out of so many to have the gift of the Book of Mormon? Why did only one person out of an entire college believe in the restored gospel?
I still went to church every week. I read the Book of Mormon every night and prayed every morning and night. That’s what made it so hard. I was trying to do everything right, yet I still felt like Heavenly Father was not answering my prayers, and I still felt fear and doubt. All I needed was a spiritual boost. I wasn’t looking for a huge sign or miracle. I just wanted to feel the Spirit in the same strong way that I had previously felt it.
So many times in my past I had answers to prayers, experiences in the temple, or moments reading the scriptures when I had felt the Spirit so strongly—moments when my testimony of the Church was confirmed. All I needed was to feel that same Spirit again. I prayed frequently, pleading with my Heavenly Father to let me know again, let me feel again, let me have a reason to throw away all my doubts.
I never did have an “aha!” moment. I was not brought to tears with convincing feelings of the Spirit. There wasn’t just one clear answer to my prayers. It took time, but over the next weeks and months, as I continued to try to do what was right, I found small answers. A verse in the scriptures, a speaker at a singles conference, and President Hinckley’s words at general conference all helped me to slowly shove out my doubts.
Throughout that semester I learned that I did not always feel the Spirit in the same way. Sometimes I had a strong, warm feeling; sometimes I felt overwhelming joy; but sometimes I just felt okay. I realized that there is strength in remembering previous spiritual experiences. I did not need to have another strong spiritual confirmation of the truthfulness of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I just had to trust in the feelings I had previously.
Hebrews 10:32 says, “Call to remembrance the former days, in which, after ye were illuminated, ye endured a great fight of afflictions.”
I had been “illuminated” by the Spirit before, and with the help of the Spirit I had endured trials before. I had to remember those previous experiences. Satan would like me to forget my earlier testimony-building feelings and experiences, but I can fight his efforts by having faith in myself, in the Church, and in the Spirit that I had felt before.
“Let us hold fast the profession of our faith without wavering” (Heb. 10:23). I now know that even when we do have doubts and fears and it seems like Heavenly Father isn’t answering our prayers, we have to just keep praying. He is always there and always listening.

The Scouts of the Millcreek Sixth Ward, Salt Lake Millcreek Stake, found a way to help one of their fellow Scouts and good friend earn his Eagle Award.
Kim Berry, 15, was diagnosed as having terminal bone cancer. When he realized the seriousness of his illness, he set three goals for himself: to get his patriarchal blessing, to read the Book of Mormon, and to finish the requirements for his Eagle Award.
Kim completed all his merit badges. But as his strength began to fail, he needed some assistance in completing his Eagle project. He turned to the members of his Scout troop. After receiving permission from the local council, Kim and his mother prepared a flyer announcing that his Eagle project would be gathering canned goods for the state food bank. His friends delivered the flyers door-to-door. Then all the boys in the troop, with the help of adult leaders in pickup trucks, collected the donated goods and delivered them to the food bank. The response was tremendous, and the troop gathered hundreds of pounds of food.
Craig Larson, Scoutmaster, said that the Scouts in the troop were very serious about helping Kim. They worked hard to get his project done quickly. They appreciated the chance to do something for their friend.
Kim received his Eagle Award one week before his death. He also completed his other two goals.

My father’s name is Jean de Dieu Nsanzurwimimo. He was born in Rwanda’s Western Province. He married my mom, Emmeline Mukamusonera, in 1981, after they met in Kigali, Rwanda’s capital city.
My parents came from very different backgrounds; my father was a member of Rwanda’s majority ruling Hutu tribe, and my mother is from the Tutsi tribe. In Rwanda when they were growing up, there was an extended civil war and a long-simmering conflict between the two tribes. This animosity led extremist groups of Hutus to promote the ideology that all the Tutsi people living in Rwanda should be killed.
I was born in 1994, just four months before a series of events led to a catastrophic genocide of Rwanda’s Tutsi population, led by Hutu extremists who took over the government. During a 100-­day period from April 7 until mid-­July, nearly one million Rwandans were brutally killed, including as many as 70% of the Tutsi population.
Even before the 1994 Tutsi genocide, many leaders of the Hutu tribe taught that a Hutu man married to a Tutsi woman should be required to kill her and all her family to show his allegiance to his tribe. Because of those teachings, and to better protect his family, my father moved his wife and children to a small village near Cyangugu, in the far southwestern corner of Rwanda. Even in that small village, the majority of Hutu villagers spurned and rejected my mother because she was a Tutsi. But my father continued to protect us. In 1993, when the tension and genocide ideology increased, she was pregnant with me and caring for my three older sisters. Because it was known that she was a Tutsi, our family didn’t have many friends and it was dangerous every time she had to fetch water or go to the market. It was a very difficult time for her, but always my father was on her side, protecting her and taking care of his family.
During this time, there were constant meetings in the community where the locals were given machetes and guns and trained on how to kill the Tutsis. Every week they had a community meeting. In March 1994, my father attended a town meeting where it was announced that Hutu men married to a Tutsi woman would be required to kill her and all their children. It was a hard time for them. Some of the men and some of the women who were Hutus did kill their children.
In a meeting in early April, my father was ordered to kill my mother and his four daughters. When he came home from the meeting around 6:00 p.m., it was very dark because there were no street lights at the time. He immediately took us to a small island located in the southern part of Lac Kivu, a large lake dividing Rwanda and Congo. He told my mom that the villagers had determined that we were supposed to die, so we should hide in that place; he was going back home to find a safe place for us. He told her that if she saw any boats, she should ask them if they would carry us over to Congo, where we would be safe from the Rwandan genocide. She was able to find someone willing to take us across to Congo, where we spent the next five months, until peace was restored in Rwanda and it was safe to return.
All the while in Congo, and after we came home, we didn’t know what had happened to my father. When we came back we didn’t see anything; they didn’t allow us to enter the house where we had lived, and we were told everything that belonged to my father had been sold. It was a very hard time for my mom. We didn’t have a house to stay in. We didn’t have anything to eat. We went to the Seventh-­Day Adventist chapel, where we slept for a whole week. After that my mother carried all of us to town where she learned we could get small help from the new government.
In 2003, nine years after the violence ended, the government created a reconciliation program called “Gacaca” to help resolve the hard feelings from the killings. As part of the process, people who had killed others during the genocide confessed and asked for forgiveness. Through gacaca, we came to know that my father’s family members, after they looked everywhere for us and could not find us, had killed him. My mother and my eldest sister attended the hearing where my father’s family asked for our forgiveness, and they forgave them. They told my mother that they had thrown his body into the river after killing him, so we were never able to locate his body. Because I was so young at the time he saved us, I have no recollections of my father; I don’t know his face.
When I met with the missionaries, it was hard for them to tell me how God loves me and that He is my Father in Heaven. I did come to understand that because of the plan of salvation, I will meet my father once more. Because of my faith in the plan of salvation and the Atonement of Jesus Christ, I was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-­day Saints in 2013.
My mother continued to struggle to raise the four of us herself. She had many health and stomach problems and for much of the time she suffered. She was not able to go to the hospital because she was a Tutsi. She finally passed away on June 16, 2016, from what was discovered to be cancer. She knew I was a member of the Church of Jesus Christ. She believed that I had become part of a big family. She blessed me and said I was doing the right thing. She always taught me and my sisters to love one another and to serve one another. She said our father suffered himself to allow us to live. She said we should always work hard; it would make our father happy.
I know this gospel is true. I know I will see my family again. I know my father sacrificed his life to allow me to have this life today and I am very anxious to meet him once more and thank him for his wonderful sacrifice.
I was thrilled to receive the privilege to serve as a missionary, starting in August 2017. My mission allows me to teach the joy of the gospel to families around me. One of the greatest blessings the Lord has given me since I have been on my mission is that two of my sisters have joined the Church. One of my greatest ambitions after I complete my mission is to do the temple work for my parents so that our family can be sealed for eternity.
The plan of salvation can bring happiness in this life and eternal joy in the life hereafter. I know this to be true, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

About a year later I felt the promptings that it was time to leave Hawaii and to pursue my master degree in Athletic Training, at BYU-Provo. I called home to let my family know that my friend and I had made the drive safely from southern California. On that call, I learned that my father’s annual physical exam, that he had the day after I flew out, had produced suspicious results from his blood test and the doctor scheduled him for another blood test to confirm the findings. My mother then told me that the bishop (who was also our home teacher and dear family friend) was going to give my Dad a blessing. There was a longer pause then normal, realizing that she was trying not to be emotional for me. I knew coming to Provo was the right thing at the right time. I had stayed home two years to work and saved money, but I had also gained the benefit of spending some priceless time with my father.

As I prayed that night I asked Heavenly Father to give us, my family and I, the time so we would be able to accept His will. Early the next week my parents had received the official diagnosis that my father was in the early stage of Juvenile Leukemia, terminal for older people. It was determined that once the cancer progressed Chemotherapy would start, giving him 6 months to maybe 2 years to live. I saw my father for what would be the last time, when a couple months later my parents came up for the October General Conference.

Seven months later, on the last day of classes in my second semester, I got the phone call at work that “Dad was in a bad way and was not going to make it.” My mother asked if I would come home and with the money I had saved prior to school I was able to buy my round trip ticket home. My Dad died as my flight took off that evening from Salt Lake City Airport, but I was on my way home for my Mother and I would be there with my family as he passed beyond the veil.

As I sat there on the porch, I continued thinking about Cindy’s question. In one of our Primary lessons we learned that the Holy Ghost is the Spirit of Truth. Our teacher said that He would help us to not lie. I guessed I needed help with that too. I remembered the day Mom had come into the kitchen right after I had accidentally knocked the sugar bowl to the floor. Before she could even speak, I said, “Shauna made me do it.”
“Janna, look out the window,” she told me. “What do you see?”
I saw Shauna swinging on a rope hanging from the pecan tree. I said, “That’s how she made me do it. I was thinking about hurrying out to swing with her, and it made me bump into the table.”
“Janna.” Mom tilted my face toward hers. “None of us breaks dishes on purpose. We all have accidents. It isn’t the sugar bowl that counts. It’s you. More important to me than all the dishes in the cupboard—even the crystal glasses—is a little girl who tells the truth.”
I looked down at the floor. I knew I should’ve said I was sorry, but I didn’t. Instead, I asked, “Don’t dishes sometimes get too close to the edge and fall off by themselves?”
“Oh, Janna Lynn,” Mom said, and I wished she’d spanked me instead of looking at me the way she did. It would have made me feel a lot better.
I was still sitting on the porch thinking when Katie and Shauna came running around the house. “Come and play catch with us,” they called.
We threw the ball back and forth to each other, and then Katie threw one that was too high for me. Running backward to catch it, I slipped and fell on my backside in a clump of Mom’s blue irises. Mom came out of the shed just then with a pair of clippers to cut a bouquet. I looked at the smashed flowers and was just starting to speak, when something inside of me seemed to say, “No, Janna Lynn, you’re not going to say Katie made you do it.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I said. “I ran backward and fell.”
“Yes, I know. I saw you,” she replied.
“And you’re not mad at me?”
“Of course not.”
The way she laughed, I almost felt good about sitting on her flowers.
“Just look at all those irises that you didn’t sit on,” she said. “A daughter who tells the truth is more important than a whole yard full of flowers!”
Goodness! That must have been the Holy Ghost prompting me to tell the truth, I thought. And He’s helping me to learn what a great feeling you have when you know you’ve done the right thing. I could hardly wait to tell Cindy.

My father was the great-grandson of Charles Shumway, the first convert to the Church in our family. The missionaries found him living in the state of Wisconsin and shared the gospel with him. He was so happy that the next day, when he went to the sawmill where he worked, he told his coworkers what the missionaries had told him. One big man did not agree with his message and beat him up. He crawled back home, wounded.
When he had healed, he told his family, “I have to go find out if Joseph Smith really exists and if there really is such a thing as a prophet, like those missionaries told me.” He traveled to Nauvoo, and when he got there, yes sir, there was a prophet.
He returned home for his wife and family, headed toward the Mississippi River, built a raft, and floated back down to Nauvoo. For the rest of his life, he followed the prophet and tried to do exactly as he was directed. Under the direction of Brigham Young, he led the first company of Saints across the Mississippi after they were driven out of Nauvoo. He came into the Salt Lake Valley with Brigham Young on July 24, 1847. Later, President Young asked him to settle in Arizona. He did, and that’s where my family has stayed ever since. Thanks to my great-great-grandfather who accepted the gospel, my great-grandfather, my grandfather, my father, and I have all been active members of the Church.

Let me share an experience that happened about ten years ago. My wife and I were living in Pennsylvania. Things were going pretty well; I’d been promoted. It was a good year for us, though a trying year for Janet. That year she had our fourth child, graduated from college, passed the CPA exam, and was made Relief Society president. We had temple recommends, we had family home evening. I was in the bishopric. I thought we were headed for “LDS yuppiehood.” Then one night the lights went out. Something happened in my wife that I can only describe as “dying spiritually.” She wouldn’t talk about it; she wouldn’t tell me what was wrong. That was the worst part. For a couple of weeks she did not wish to participate in spiritual things. She asked to be released from her callings, and she would not open up and tell me what was wrong.

Finally, after about two weeks, one night I made her mad and it came out. She said, “All right. You want to know what’s wrong? I’ll tell you what’s wrong. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t lift it. I can’t get up at 5:30 in the morning and bake bread and sew clothes and help my kids with their homework and do my own homework and do my Relief Society stuff and get my genealogy done and write the congressman and go to the PTA meetings and write the missionaries . . .” And she just started naming one brick after another that had been laid on her, explaining all the things she could not do. She said, “I don’t have the talent that Sister Morrell has. I can’t do what Sister Childs does. I try not to yell at the kids, but I lose control, and I do. I’m just not perfect, and I’m not ever going to be perfect. I’m not going to make it to the celestial kingdom, and I’ve finally admitted that to myself. You and the kids can go, but I can’t lift it. I’m not ‘Molly Mormon,’ and I’m not ever going to be perfect, so I’ve given up. Why break my back?”

Well, we started to talk, and it was a long night. I asked her, “Janet, do you have a testimony?”

She said, “Of course I do! That’s what’s so terrible. I know it’s true. I just can’t do it.”

“Have you kept the covenants you made when you were baptized?”

She said, “I’ve tried and I’ve tried, but I cannot keep all the commandments all the time.”

Then I rejoiced because I knew what was wrong, and I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. It wasn’t any of those horrible things I thought it might be. Who would have thought after eight years of marriage, after all the lessons we’d given and heard, and after all we had read and done in the Church, who would have thought that Janet did not know the gospel of Jesus Christ? You see, she was trying to save herself. She knew why Jesus is a coach, a cheerleader, an advisor, a teacher. She knew why he is an example, the head of the Church, the Elder Brother, or even God. She knew all of that, but she did not understand why he is called the Savior.

Janet was trying to save herself with Jesus as an advisor. Brothers and sisters, we can’t. No one can.

The night my brother overdosed on heroin is one I’ll never forget. I can still recall every detail: the thud of his body hitting the floor, my parents’ yells, the terror, the confusion, and the hopelessness that sank in when I realized we were back to square one with his seemingly never-ending battle with addiction.
When my brother didn’t respond, I actually surprised myself. Despite the chaos around me, an unnatural inner strength came over me that enabled me to help my parents get my brother stable. I held his stiff gray hands and spoke slowly to him as he stared back with dull eyes. Though I couldn’t believe what I was seeing, I was surprisingly calm as we waited for him to come to. I realized later that this timely calmness was the Lord’s sustaining power.
After he was stabilized and taken to be treated at a hospital, the reality of the situation struck me. My momentary heaven-sent strength ran out, and I collapsed with grief. My heart broke. My chest ached as I lay curled on my bed, and I couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t sob hard enough to keep up with my emotions. “How is this my life?” I thought. “He’s never going to beat this! I can’t do this anymore!”
In that moment when I collapsed with grief, I felt like I had been lifted into the air by an unseen force—a gale-force wind that slammed me to the cold, dark ground of rock bottom—a place reserved not just for addicts but for those who love them, a place I’m becoming all too familiar with.
When my brother overdosed, he had been clean for two years. We were finally seeing the light after watching him battle the brutal consequences of addiction for more than a decade. But the moment he was again exposed to his vice, everything he had worked to build in the past two years came crashing down.
After briefly seeing freedom on the horizon, we had been sucked by my brother’s relapse back into the raging, messy, and seemingly inescapable hurricane of addiction, a storm that buffets the addict while also tossing their loved ones to and fro.
I’ve come to learn that the Savior will never leave me to drown either. In my life, it has always been small instances of the Lord’s mercy that allow me to keep paddling against the stormy waves life throws at me. He enabled me to remain calm and hold myself together when my brother needed me, He has helped me muster up enough strength to get out of bed on days when I believe I have no strength left, and He continues to offer me peace despite my constant numbing fear of the unknown.

I know of an instance where a young Latter-day Saint father, following a tradition in the United States, bought a box of cigars to give away to announce the birth of his first child. Naively he offered a cigar to the bishop. The bishop crumpled up the cigar and threw it into the trash in front of the father. This thoughtless act so offended the new father that he never came back to church. In fact, he has raised his entire family of children and grandchildren outside the Church.
In my opinion, the bishop was partially responsible for the loss of this soul and should have searched until he had found this “coin” and returned it. If he had immediately apologized for his thoughtless act, the new father probably would have returned and could have even been made stronger than before.

When I returned home from my mission, I did not struggle with pornography; I simply did not have access to it. That changed in the late 1990s, when the Internet became increasingly pervasive. I accidentally stumbled across some pornographic images online, and I returned to pornographic sites over and over again during the following months. The web had ensnared me.
I wanted to reach out to someone for help, but I wasn’t sure whom—or how. How could I talk to my parents about this? How could I admit to my bishop that even though I had made so much progress, I couldn’t stop engaging in this immoral behavior? I desperately wanted to stop, but I was too embarrassed by my weakness to confide in anyone, so I kept my addiction to myself.
I didn’t even tell my wife, whom I married in 2000. I wanted to tell her about my struggle when we were dating, but I was terrified that she would look down on me or, worse yet, refuse to marry me. So I lied. And I continued to do so in our marriage. I found myself being sneaky to prevent being caught. I hid pictures on my computer. When my wife asked me about particular Internet links, I denied knowing what she was talking about. Addictions are like that; they create great liars. I knew it was creating a wedge in our marriage and causing her great pain, but I would not acknowledge that I had a problem. What mattered most to me was not my behavior but how people perceived me.
My double life—and the resulting loss of the Spirit—made me vulnerable to increasingly serious sins, including infidelity. My wife had strong impressions that something was wrong and told me about them. With great remorse, I admitted to what I had done.
That was my lowest point, the point at which I realized that I had to change. Sitting across from me was the woman I loved. She loved me. I had betrayed her. I determined then to do whatever it took to save our relationship and our family.
I began meeting with my bishop regularly in working through the repentance process and Church discipline. He recommended I attend meetings of the addiction recovery program, offered through LDS Family Services. I had never heard of the program. I learned that the group held free, confidential meetings based on the 12 steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, adapted into a framework of the doctrines and principles of the Church.
I admit that during the first few meetings, I thought, “I don’t need to be here. I don’t really have a problem with pornography. I can quit any time.” That, of course, wasn’t true.
With my bishop’s encouragement, I continued to attend. My pride began to melt away, and I began to work the steps of the program: honesty, hope, trust in God, truth, confession, change of heart, humility, seeking forgiveness, restitution and reconciliation, daily accountability, personal revelation, and service. For the first time in a long time, I was living a “sober” life, a life free of pornography. Recovery isn’t ever really “over,” but I had been introduced to a new level of freedom. It came because as I participated in the 12 steps, I came to understand what was behind my addiction.
I learned that most people battling addictions have turned to some kind of “self-medication” to fill the voids they feel in their lives. Pain, sorrow, loneliness, fear, or other kinds of discomfort can act as triggers that can entice people to use this self-medication to make them feel better. Some people use prescription drugs. Others use illicit drugs. Others use alcohol. For me, pornography offered the short-term, artificial “quick fix” I thought I needed.
Knowing what triggered my addiction was one thing. Avoiding environments that aided my addiction was another. This stance requires being vigilant 24 hours a day, seven days a week for the rest of my life. I cannot get online “just to browse.” In fact, if I am by myself, I don’t go online at all. I can’t look at an ad and entertain thoughts in my mind. We don’t have cable TV in our home. When I commute to work, I avoid taking certain roads because I know there are billboards along those roads that could trigger inappropriate thoughts. If I start to slip and my mind begins to wander, I turn to my wife, to my bishop, and to prayer for strength.
My addiction affects the most minute parts of my life, but taking these precautions is worth it. I cannot neglect these defenses because I know what my addiction can do to me and to those I love.
It’s not just a matter of avoiding the bad, though. I also must make constant, conscious efforts to turn to the good. Several of the 12 steps have helped me do this by bringing me closer to God.
Every day when I wake up, I get on my knees and thank Heavenly Father for giving me the opportunity to repent of my sins and to come to Him through the Atonement of His Son, Jesus Christ. I ask Him to let me know His will so that I can do it. I ask Him to lead me away from temptation. I pray as though I rely on Heavenly Father every minute of the day—because I do—and I keep that prayer in my heart throughout the day. I pray again each night. I also spend some time in the scriptures daily so that I can focus my thoughts on virtuous things. If I don’t make these a habit, I don’t have the Spirit in my life. And left on my own, I am not strong enough to resist temptation.
For a long time I believed I could overcome my behavior anytime I wanted to by my own willpower. But I failed miserably. After a while I got tired of doing it on my own, especially when “on my own” wasn’t working. I realized that I could not do what I needed to do without the Lord’s help. Ether 12:27 helped me understand this better. The Lord told Moroni, “My grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them.”
Once I went to Him, still doing all I could do (see 2 Nephi 25:23), I realized that I could do much better and become much more with His help than I ever could dream of by relying on my own merits (see Alma 7:14).
My wife and I now serve as facilitators at the addiction recovery program meetings. She has learned—and is helping others understand—that the Atonement is for not only those who are working to overcome an addiction but also those who have been affected by the addiction through no choice of their own. If we turn to the Savior, His grace can work in all of our lives.
To those who are battling addiction and to the people they love, I can attest that there is hope. There is always hope in the gospel of Jesus Christ.
I am deeply grateful to Jesus Christ because He literally saved me from the chains of sin. Addiction is like being held by chains that “bind the children of men, that they are carried away captive down to the eternal gulf of misery and woe” (2 Nephi 1:13). When I realized I was in trouble, I didn’t know where to turn. I was desperate because I could not free myself from my predicament. But the Lord could free me. When I turned to Him, He was there to help.
I can relate with Ammon: “Yea, I know that I am nothing; as to my strength I am weak; therefore I will not boast of myself, but I will boast of my God, for in his strength I can do all things” (Alma 26:12). I know that God can help us do all things, including overcoming the chains of addiction.

I am fortunate to come from a heritage of faith and spiritual learning on both sides of my family. My parents, John and Rhonda Kauwe, taught me the gospel in word and deed. As a sixteen-year-old on the island of Molokai, life experiences led me to reflect on my personal commitment to the Savior. I studied and pondered for several weeks and yearned to grow in faith. I worked to be more obedient and sought a stronger personal relationship with Jesus Christ and our Heavenly Father through personal prayer. On a perfect spring morning, I knelt in the sand at the Kapuaiwa Coconut Grove and asked Heavenly Father to confirm to me the truthfulness of the restored gospel of Jesus Christ. That morning I received a clear confirmation that Jesus Christ was my Savior and that The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints provides the path to salvation. While life has challenged me in many ways since then, the spirit has confirmed to me on several occasions that these things are true.

When my parents realized my desire to be baptized, they surprised me by agreeing to have the missionaries come for a visit. When they arrived at our home, my parents had a good feeling. After talking for a while, the missionaries invited us to sing a hymn, “Love at Home” (Hymns, no. 294). As we sang together, my mother had tears in her eyes. Everyone was touched.
This experience softened my parents’ hearts, and a year and eight months after I first met the missionaries, I was baptized. I later served a mission in Utah and have had many wonderful opportunities in the Church.

I would like to believe that the elderly woman that helped Opapo and the missionaries was my grandmother, Malia. She is my Dad’s mother. And if it wasn’t her, then it is definitely something my grandmother Malia would do. She was a convert to the church. She too had a dream. In her dream, she saw 2 personages wearing white appearing on her ulu or breadfruit tree in front of her fale or hut. When she awoke in the morning and shared her dream with her family, she noticed that her ulu tree in front of her fale has now bear two types of breadfruits, one ulu maopo and one ulu ma’afala. It was then she knew that the church was true and she was baptized. That ulu tree continued to bare two types of breadfruits and it was a symbol of my grandmother’s testimony to everyone that came to Fitiuta, Manu’a of the truthfulness of the gospel. That story has been told many times and the ulu tree became a landmark where people would go and see and be amazed. It was through this dream that my grandmother found her voice and never stopped singing in bearing testimony about Joseph Smith and the true gospel of Jesus Christ.

After the divorce, I realized I couldn’t use my parents’ marriage as a model for my own future marriage. For a while I didn’t know what a strong, happy marriage looked like. Then, a few years after my parents’ divorce, I started noticing the big differences between their marriage and marriages in which the spouses truly loved and liked each other.
To counterbalance the negativity of my parents’ marriage, Heavenly Father has blessed me with an abundance of “power couples” in my extended family—aunts and uncles and grandparents who have very strong marriages. Whenever I’m at family gatherings or visiting relatives, I watch these couples closely, noting things they do or have that I want in my own future marriage. One uncle easily and habitually slips his arm around his wife’s shoulders and jokes with her in whispers. An aunt always takes time out of her busy schedule to talk with her husband when he gets home from work. And another couple does almost everything together.
There’s romantic love: sweet kisses (often in public), affectionate nicknames, and holding hands. But there’s also deep friendship: humble apologies, good-natured laughter, and impressive teamwork. They understand that, as Jeffrey R. Holland of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles explained, “the first element of divine love … is its kindness, its selfless quality, its lack of ego and vanity and consuming self-centeredness.”1 These friendships have developed over time as both spouses continually live the principles of the gospel—treating each other with Christlike kindness and respect. They seem to live President Russell M. Nelson’s counsel that “marriages would be happier if nurtured more carefully.”2 Through these fantastic examples of friendship-based marriages, I have seen that liking my future husband will be as important as loving him.

My great-great-grandmother Eliza Cusworth was born in England in 1824 and married Joseph Burton in 1846. They lived happily for a few years and had two children, Joseph and Martha. In 1849 two LDS missionaries came to the area, and both Eliza and Joseph listened to them, gained testimonies of the gospel, and were baptized. The counsel of the prophet at that time was for the Saints to migrate to Utah. Joseph and Eliza started saving so that they could make the journey.

Joseph was employed as a carrier delivering goods from the depot to various stores. While lifting at work he broke a blood vessel, which resulted in his death a short time later. His dying request to Eliza was for her to migrate to Utah so she could do their temple work and raise their children among the Saints in Zion. Eliza promised him she would do this.

Understandably, both Eliza’s and Joseph’s families discouraged her from making what they said was “a foolish journey.” Eliza’s mother said that if Eliza would stay with them, they would take care of her and her children, and she would want for nothing. Joseph’s family offered to give her any amount of money if she would stay in England. It was a difficult decision for Eliza. However, she had made a promise to her dying husband, and she knew the gospel was true, so she chose to go.

In the spring of 1856, at age 32, Eliza packed her trunks and embarked on the 6,000-mile journey with Joseph and Martha, her two children. They went by train to Liverpool, England, and boarded the shipHorizon on May 25, 1856. During the voyage Eliza suffered from severe seasickness. It got so bad that for about 10 days she was unable even to care for her children. The Horizon landed in Boston on June 30, 1856, and then Eliza and her children traveled by boat and train to Iowa City, Iowa, where the railway ended. She had planned to join a wagon train at Iowa City; however, upon arrival she discovered that they were too late—the last of the wagon trains had already gone. She had no choice but to wait for handcarts to be made. When the handcarts were ready, the travelers were told they would have to leave most of their belongings behind, as they could bring only necessities on the handcarts. Eliza’s trunks contained many of her valuable possessions—silverware, linen, bedsheets, and clothing. Most of it had to be left behind.

Eliza joined the Martin Handcart Company, which left Iowa City on July 30, 1856, for the 1,300-mile trek to Salt Lake City. She pulled the handcart, little seven-year-old Joseph walked and helped her pull the cart part of the time, and four-year-old Martha rode in the handcart. During the first part of the journey everyone got along quite well. At night many would gather around the campfires after supper and sing songs such as “Come, Come, Ye Saints.” However, travel was slower than expected because they had to stop frequently to repair the hurriedly made handcarts.

The days wore on, and the members of the company tried to encourage one another. Often the only fuel available was buffalo chips with which they made fires to do their cooking and dry their clothing. After a while their food began to run low. Sometimes the men were able to kill buffalo, but after the company’s store of salt gave out, the meat often made them sick. Toward the latter part of their journey, the food was almost gone, and rations were reduced to one-fourth pound of flour per person per day. The season was getting late and the nights were cold—their clothing was thin, and they had little bedding. In their weakened condition, many became discouraged and wondered if they would ever reach the Salt Lake Valley.

When the company reached Devil’s Gate, they ran out of food entirely. At some ranchers’ cabins they tried to buy food, but the ranchers could sell them only some pelts of deer and mountain sheep that were dry and old. After soaking them and scraping off the hair, they cooked them into a soup that was thickened with their last remaining flour. Eating this helped relieve their hunger for a time.

Eliza waded across the Sweetwater River three times in one evening. First, she took little Joseph across on her back. When she reached the other side, Joseph was so frightened that he wouldn’t stay by himself and tried to follow her back. Eliza had to tie him to a nearby tree while she went back to get Martha. Then she had to go back a third time to get her handcart. She spent part of the night in freezing weather drying her clothes over the fire.

An early winter storm struck as the group was plodding its way along the Sweetwater River about 50 miles north of what is now Rawlins, Wyoming. The company waded through an icy stream and sought shelter in a nearby cove. Using frying pans and tin plates, they cleared the snow away as best they could and pitched their tents beside a tiny spring. As the desperate Saints huddled together in the cove, everyone hoped and prayed that they could survive until help arrived.

Brigham Young heard that the handcart company was marooned in the snow and sent rescuers with teams and food to assist them. More than one-fourth of the 500 members of the Martin Handcart Company perished, and many more would have died had Brigham Young not sent the rescuers. Eliza and her two children suffered greatly, but somehow they made it, arriving in the Salt Lake Valley on November 30, 1856.

When Eliza reached the Salt Lake Valley, she inquired about William Cusworth, a cousin who had gone to Utah earlier in the season in a wagon train and with whom she intended to make her home for a while. She learned that he had become discouraged and had taken his family back to Iowa. She and her children were taken to the home of Isaac Leney, where they received care for a few weeks. Little Joseph lost two of his toes because his feet had been frozen.

They eventually settled in Pleasant Grove, where Eliza met and married Nathan Staker, a widower with several children. Eliza and Nathan moved to Mount Pleasant, where they helped pioneer Sanpete County. In addition to Joseph and Martha, Eliza had four children with Nathan Staker: three daughters and one son. Eliza raised her children and was a faithful Latter-day Saint all of her life, dying at age 90.

By any objective standard it was foolish for her, a single mother with two young children, to attempt the 6,000-mile journey by boat, train, and handcart. Why did she do it? Because she wanted to keep a promise she had made to her husband. As I look back on her decision 153 years later, I believe she did the right thing. She was able to make it safely, have her and Joseph’s temple work done, and raise their children in Zion. Because she was true to the promises she made to her husband and to God, I and her other descendants have been blessed beyond measure. I am confident that she and her husband Joseph are now together. I bless her name and am proud to call her my great-great-grandmother. One day when I meet her, I will embrace her and thank her for having the courage and humility to keep a promise to her husband and to follow the counsel of a prophet.