From the time we amble into Primary at age 3, we are told to call people brother and sister.
When we reach missionary age, we are told we will come to love the people in the place we are called to serve.
The concept that we are all children of the same Father is about as basic to our faith as anything can get.
I have yet to serve a mission, but I intend to in about five years when I put aside the inconvenience of earning a living. That doesn't mean that I have been immune to the joys of making connections with people living in faraway places.
This past October, my dear bride, the saintly Susan, and I took a once-in-a-lifetime trek. In a bit less than a month, we made our first visits to Italy, Greece, Turkey and Egypt, and collected mental and photographic images of people and places we will never forget.
I've always lived in areas where Latter-day Saints were somewhere between invisible and a tiny minority. I learned as a kid that there are great people in the world who don't follow our faith but remain individuals of honor whom I am grateful to know.
There was the Catholic priest from Australia, who led Susan and me through the catacombs beneath Rome. His encyclopedic knowledge of the catacombs was impressive, but it was his concern for my bride, who was limping on a twisted knee, that made him forever memorable to me.
I will never forget the petite Florentine guide Brenda who led us through the maze of her hometown’s streets and was continually explaining how this artist or that architect “realized” his great creation.
One Sunday during our trip, we found a tiny branch meeting on a couple of floors in a commercial building outside of Rome. We were treated as long-lost family by the entire branch.
One brother, a then-unemployed computer expert who had been a manager in the European Space Agency, spoke flawless English.
This gentle man made it his responsibility to translate every word of the fast and testimony meeting for us, and after the spiritual feast, he took us to his family's apartment to share an incredible meal and the warmth of an Italian family.
Susan and I were clearly the "brother and sister" he had never before met.
We were in Egypt when we met Mohamed Shehata Ali, a handsome, 30-something university-trained Egyptologist who spoke near-perfect English.
The young man, who liked to wear mirrored aviator sunglasses and a T-shirt that read, “I (heart) NY,” was our guide during two jam-packed days during which we learned to appreciate his humor, candor and insight.
In the hours we were together, he told us of the suffering of his homeland, of its grinding poverty, rampant corruption and government repression that he claimed were the modern plagues of Egypt.
After we got home, Susan and I often talked about Mohamed, his dedication to his faith, his passion for his home. We were touched by what we saw there.
I know nothing of Mohamed’s politics. I don’t know if his assessment of the evils of his government was accurate. I am convinced he passionately believed what he told us.
When the demonstrations erupted in Cairo’s streets, Susan and I knew Mohamed was in the middle of the protests. We watched the TV coverage of the events in Egypt, and we worried. We had learned, even in our brief visit, to care for the Egyptian people, who for us were personified in one young man.
Susan sent out e-mails to Mohamed, and a message finally came in response.
“Thank you for your concern. I am OK. Situation is so bad, but freedom is worth it, and changing this regime is worth it. We are making history here, and destiny must listen.”
We didn't know any of these people long enough to say we truly loved them, but in a matter of just a few weeks, we learned to appreciate fellow Saints, and we made connections with people of other faiths and languages who touched our hearts and proved that we truly are all children of the same Father.
