"Since today is Thanksgiving, I wanted to share with you a recent email from my mom. I don't remember much from when my father was diagnosed with a brain tumor, but one memory has been firmly planted in my mind. I remember one evening when I was very young maybe 6 or 7, when the family gathered around in the entry way of my parent's bedroom. We were all kneeling down as my father began to pray. I don't remember much but I do recall his voice as he began pleading with our Father in Heaven that if he would spare his life, the my father would serve the Lord all the days of his life. This made a huge impact on my life. It's funny how I don't remember the experience that my mom shares during a blessing, yet I remember my father's simple, heartfelt plea from father to father. It was until the last few years as I have talked with my mother that I finally understand the sickness, pain and hope that they experienced as we were all yet children. Their legacy of faith and prayers of both my parent's have helped me to share in that faith and strengthen my own as I walk through this earthly existence.
This picture is one of my favorites of my father as he feels and shows the love of the Savior to these orphaned children. On this day of thanksgiving, I am so very grateful for my father and his undeviating example of faith in the Savior Jesus Christ and to my mother who has been a strength and blessing in my life. I don't think the people of Africa know how truly blessed to have them. Here's the message from Sister Basso" - Melia
"At the beginning of every week in the Area Offices we have a Devotional to set the tone and invite the Lord's blessings into our various avenues of service. We sing hymns, have special musical numbers and speakers. This week I was asked to give a talk on the subject of miracles. Of course, I thought of the tender mercies of Heavenly Father when he gave us a huge miracle and preserved the life of our beloved family patriarch." - Sister Basso
Take a moment to read "It's a Miracle! The Gift of Life"
On the subject of miracles, I suppose that the current miracle is that we have been in Africa for 25 days and have survived food poisoning, driving on the wrong side of the road, proselytizing in Hillbrow and being trained by Savages !
In 1986 I ran twice a day, broke my ankle, nursed four kids through chicken pox and co-produced “The Music Man.” Life was good! My husband, Chuck, was the National Sales Supervisor for ConAgra. One day he returned home from a business trip in Las Vegas with head and neck pain accompanied by severe nausea. He thought he might have food poisoning from the horseradish on the Vegas prime rib special. The symptoms quickly went from bad to worse as he lost all feeling on one side of his head. One eye began to wander out of control and distorted his vision and balance. We sought medical care. Eyes were examined and a neurologist was recommended. After a spinal tap and other tests, he was diagnosed with Foix Syndrome. An esophagogastroduodenoscopy was done to determine if his stomach could tolerate the strong medication. After purchasing the $600 prescription, the doctor called and said, “Don’t take it. I think I may have missed the diagnoses.” He referred us to an appropriately named brain surgeon, Dr. Noodleman. The preliminary diagnosis was a cerebral aneurysm. More procedures were done and more long faces were seen. He spent a year being probed by specialists and enduring tens of thousands of dollars worth of tests including MRI’s and an angiogram.
Three days before Christmas, it was determined that he had a very aggressive brain tumor that was housed in the mouth of the carotid artery and was pressing against the optic nerve. During the course of the testing, the tumor had grown from pea size to walnut size. Due to the precarious location of the tumor, brain surgery posed about as great a risk as doing nothing. However, Dr. Noodleman felt that his only hope for survival was the life-threatening surgery which would likely be attended by a poor quality of life.
Chuck spent the entire year vomiting, losing weight, suffering great pain, building faith and treasuring family time. It was a bleak and worrisome Christmas as we celebrated with six happy, excited children who were largely unaware of the seriousness of their daddy’s illness. We were particularly sensitive to the reason for the season that year and felt a special closeness to the Savior.
After the holidays, we shared the news of what the new year could bring. Fasting and prayers on Chuck’s behalf became regular activities among our families and friends of many faiths. I had to face the possibility of having to raise six children . . . alone. After helplessly watching Chuck suffer for fifteen months, I finally struggled to utter the most difficult prayer of my life. “Thy will be done” came out in a tear-drenched whisper. With the probable unfavorable outcome of surgery, we opted to lay it all on the alter and trust in God’s will.
Our Stake Conference in the Spring of ’87 brought a visiting General Authority to our meetinghouse. The Stake President requested a special blessing on our behalf from Elder Dean L. Larsen. Our six little ones shared that sacred experience and added their tears to ours as we felt the spirit touch our lives. In that crowded office, a priesthood blessing was pronounced that declared that Charles Kaluhi Basso would be healed through natural causes. It was as if the hands of the Savior had been placed upon him and the voice of the Lord pronounced the blessing.
It took nearly a year for his body to heal naturally through divine intervention, but thanks to that miraculous healing, he went on to serve as a Bishop, a Stake President and my beloved missionary companion in South Africa. Six children were blessed to have a healthy, capable, playful father. Fifteen grandchildren now lovingly call him “Papa.” I call him my miraculous gift from Heavenly Father.
God lives! Faith precedes miracles and gratitude forever follows them. I so testify in the name of Jesus Christ, Amen.
Written by Joy Basso
One of our most touching moments of the season came on a Sunday when a young boy at church read a well-known poem. Although I have heard and read the favorite verse many times, I have never heard it quite the heartfelt way it was expressed from the handcrafted pulpit in a small church built with trailer modules. A boy with a short, thick carpet of black hair, huge searching eyes and glimmering white teeth filling up a broad smile looked eager to share his message. He had a clean white shirt that had a crease across the cuff as if some attempt had been made at pressing it. The rest of his wardrobe looked like it had been retrieved from a donation bag. We couldn’t see if he had shoes on or not. He approached the pulpit tentatively and then spoke in a reverent tone with a pronounced Zulu/South African accent these heartfelt words from “In the Bleak Midwinter” by Christina Rosetti 1872. 
