Gospel Story Finder

I learned recently of loving service given to a mother when her children were very young. Frequently she would be up in the middle of the night tending to the needs of her little ones, as mothers do. Often her friend and neighbor across the street would come over the next day and say, “I saw your lights on in the middle of the night and know you were up with the children. I’m going to take them to my house for a couple of hours while you take a nap.”

Said this grateful mother: “I was so thankful for her welcome offer, it wasn’t until this had happened many times that I realized if she had seen my lights on in the middle of the night, she was up with one of her children as well and needed a nap just as much as I did. She taught me a great lesson, and I’ve since tried to be as observant as she was in looking for opportunities to serve others.”

The Angell family continued to move wherever the main body of the Saints settled. They suffered from mobs and persecution in Missouri and Nauvoo. Over the years, several of Truman’s and Polly’s young children died. While the last of the Saints were being driven from Nauvoo, Truman and a few other men remained behind to complete the temple and dedicate it to the Lord. He must have been heartsick to hear how that sacred building was later desecrated and burned.

The Lodi 2nd Ward Primary, Lodi California Stake, celebrated President Thomas S. Monson’s birthday with service. Each child completed an act of service and then filled out a card describing their service. Some children helped their family take food to a neighbor, others shared school supplies with kids that didn’t have any, and lots of kids helped around the house. These cards were sent to President Monson for his birthday. They also had a birthday party and made the rainbow cake President Monson’s mother made for him when he was a boy, featured in the August 2012 issue of the Friend.

Jane Manning watched the boat float from the harbor out to Lake Erie. She felt like her dreams were floating away with it.
Just one year ago, she had joined The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and decided to move to be with the other Saints in Nauvoo. Her mother and seven other family members had traveled with her down the Erie Canal to Buffalo, New York. But in Buffalo, they weren’t allowed on the boat because of the color of their skin.
“What do we do now?” her brother, Isaac, asked quietly.
The question echoed in the frosty air. Nauvoo was still 800 miles (1,287 km) away. They could give up and head home, or try to travel later. …
But Jane couldn’t wait! She knew the Book of Mormon was true. God once again spoke through prophets. She needed to get to Nauvoo with her family.
Jane squared her shoulders and looked westward. “We walk.”
And walk they did. Until their shoes wore out. Until their feet cracked and bled and they had to pray to be healed. Sometimes they slept outside, and the frost was so heavy it felt like falling snow. Some people threatened to put them in jail, thinking that they were escaped slaves. They didn’t know that the Mannings were a free black family. And still they walked, singing hymns to pass the time.
They were nearing Nauvoo when they reached a river.
“No bridge,” Isaac said.
Jane nodded. “We’ll just have to walk through it, then.” As she stepped into the river, the water came up to her ankles. Slowly, she inched forward. The water swirled up to her knees and then past her waist. By the time she reached the middle of the stream, the water came up to her neck! Luckily, it didn’t get deeper, and all the Mannings crossed safely.
At last they came to Nauvoo. Jane could see the beautiful limestone walls of the Nauvoo Temple on a hill overlooking the valley. Even though it wasn’t finished yet, it took her breath away. Someone directed them to the house where the Prophet Joseph lived.
A tall, dark-haired woman stood in the doorway. “Come in, come in!” she called. “I’m Emma Smith.”
The next few minutes were a blur. Jane met the Prophet, and he set up chairs around the room for all the Mannings. Jane sank into the chair gratefully and listened as Joseph introduced them to everyone there, including his friend Dr. Bernhisel. Then Joseph turned to Jane, “You have been the head of this little band, haven’t you?” he asked.
“Yes, sir!” answered Jane.
Joseph smiled. “God bless you! Now I would like to hear about your travels.”
Jane told about their injured feet and sleeping in the snow and crossing the river. Everyone listened quietly. “But it wasn’t terrible,” she finished. “We went on our way rejoicing, singing hymns and thanking God for His infinite goodness and mercy to us in blessing us, protecting us, and healing our feet.”
There was silence for a moment. “What do you think of that, Doctor?” Joseph finally said, slapping the man’s knee. “Isn’t that faith?”
“If it had been me, I fear I should have backed out and returned to my home!” Dr. Bernhisel admitted.
Joseph nodded and turned back to Jane and her family: “God bless you. You are among friends.”

The youth of the Pleasant View Seventh Ward, Pleasant View Utah Stake, wanted to prepare a special slide presentation on the life of Christ for the ward Christmas program. They started working on the project in June so that the scenes would have the spring look of Jerusalem instead of snow-covered Utah.
The group searched for locations that would suggest an inn, a manger, a tomb, and a large rock well. The foyer of a local Mexican restaurant had a rough stone wall, an iron gate, and a garden that served as the setting for the story of Zacharias and Elizabeth. Finding a tame donkey proved to be the most difficult task, but through an unexpected conversation, one was located.
Mothers were responsible for their children’s costumes. Creativity was encouraged. A large number of young people were in the cast because every family in the ward was given the opportunity to participate.
Christine Lee portrayed Mary; Aaron Barker represented Joseph; and Chris Casey had the challenge of taking the part of Jesus. They were often required to spend extra time in the filming because of the many scenes they were required to be in. Chris Casey showed great reverence as he took the part of Christ. The filming of Christ and the children seemed so realistic that both adults and children found themselves talking quietly.
As the group worked, they were pleased with the results. A simple background in a home appeared as a background for a temple room, and a small trail on a hill loomed large and sad for Jesus to labor with his heavy cross.
The finished slides were shown while a cassette tape related the drama of the story. Those involved in the filming were touched by the power of the scriptures and the significance that the Christmas story has in their lives.

The week after Brian’s sister Kathy went off to BYU to begin her freshman year, he was summoned to Dad’s study.
“I want you to write to Kathy once a month,” Dad said in his no-nonsense voice.
Brian, who never wrote anything to anybody if he could help it, was horrified. “Why?”
“For three very good reasons,” Dad said. “First, if you write to your sister now, she just might communicate with you when you’re on your mission, and letters are very welcome to missionaries. Second, I would like you children to keep in touch with each other after you leave home. And third, writing letters might improve your English skills.”
“But, Dad—”
“No buts. You can start now.” Dad handed Brian a pen, a sheet of paper, and an envelope. “I assume it won’t be necessary to check the letter before you mail it to make sure that you’ve actually written something?”
Brian, realizing he had no choice in the matter, shook his head. “But what can I write about?”
“School.”
Brian walked down the hall to his bedroom, grumbling inwardly all the way, and sat down at his desk. He had never enjoyed writing. Mom had to bribe him to write thank-you notes for birthday and Christmas presents. And now to have to write to Kathy, of all people! Brian didn’t think it possible that Kathy would be at all interested in anything he had to say. But when Dad made up his mind that something would be done, there was no getting around it. Brian sighed and thought about school.
“Dear Kathy,
“I don’t know how they worked homerooms when you were in high school, but this year homeroom period is between 1st and 2nd periods for ten minutes. I guess they figure that the tardy kids will be at school by then and the attendance will look good. Last Thursday I went from algebra (1st period) to English (2nd period) without thinking of homeroom at all. Suddenly I noticed that the halls were really quiet, and when I looked into my English room I saw all these strangers. “Homeroom!” I yelled and ran all the way to mine—on the other side of the building, of course. I got there just after the bell rang. Miss Holik said “Tardy,” and everyone snickered. I had to bring an excuse from Mom. How stupid can you get?”
Brian stopped writing and wondered how to end the letter. “Love, Brian” was too sissy. “Sincerely yours” was too formal. Finally he just wrote “Brian.” Brian folded the letter and put it into the envelope, which Dad had already addressed and stamped. He took it back to the study.
“Well, now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” said Dad.
Brian said nothing. He was calculating the number of months left before Kathy graduated from college and wondering how he could possibly think of things to fill up that many letters.
In October Brian conveniently forgot about Kathy’s letter until Dad reminded him by handing him paper and an envelope. “But Kathy never wrote back!” he protested.
“That makes no difference,” said Dad.
“But what can I write about?” groaned Brian.
“Neighbors.”
“Dear Kathy,
“The Miners next door went to Hawaii two weeks ago. Paul said the weather was gorgeous. He got a neat tan. It rained here all the time they were gone, and he’s really rubbing it in. For the last week all everyone has heard on the school bus is Hawaii, Hawaii, Hawaii and how wonderful it was and how great Paul’s father is for making so much money that he can take his family places like that. It’s enough to make you sick.”
In November Brian thought that he might as well get the letter writing over as soon as possible and went to the study to get his supplies early in the month. Dad was pleasantly surprised.
“You seem to be taking to this,” he commented.
“I just want to get it out of the way,” said Brian.
“What can I write about this month?”
“Church.”
“Dear Kathy,
“We had the road shows last week. I wasn’t going to be in ours, but Sister Fiedler talked to Mom and she made me. We did the story of David and Goliath set in the Wild West. Howard Brighty was Goliath, and you know how tall he is, and Keith Wertz was David, and you know how short he is. Keith had all these fake guns hanging on his belt, and in the middle of the road show they fell off. It looked good, even though it wasn’t supposed to happen. I was an Israelite cowboy. I had to square dance with Debbie Vandercook. We didn’t win any awards, but it was OK.”
In December Brian was excused from letter writing since Kathy was home for most of the month on vacation. She said nothing to him about his letters and Brian felt that the whole project was worthless. In January, though, it began again.
“What can I write about now?” moaned Brian.
“The weather.”
“Dear Kathy,
“If someone took a movie of what it looks like outside and showed it to someone else and said, ‘What month is this?’ they would probably say March. It’s been rainy and warm and slushy, just like March. The Scout skiing trip and the Ski Club trip (high school) had to be canceled. In March it will probably be cold and snowy like January is supposed to be. It’s disgusting.”
Two weeks later when Brian came home from school, Mom met him at the door.
“You got a letter,” she said.
“A letter?” said Brian. It wasn’t his birthday, and that was the only time he got letters. “Who from?”
“Kathy,” said Mom, handing it to him.
Brian took the letter into his bedroom to read. It felt very strange to get a letter from Kathy. Probably telling me she thinks my letters stink, he thought. He somewhat reluctantly opened it.
“Dear Brian,
“I must admit I was surprised when you started writing me letters, but I want you to know that I really enjoy getting them. They’re always fun to read, and they often bring back happy memories. In addition, they always seem to come at a time when I’m feeling a little homesick or depressed, and they really cheer me up. Keep up the good work!
“Love, Kathy”
Brian sat back in his chair with a feeling of total amazement. I guess I am doing something worthwhile after all, he thought. Kathy likes my letters! She likes my letters!
Brian carefully put Kathy’s letter back into its envelope and then rummaged around in his closet until he found an old shoe box. After dusting it off, he wrote “LETTERS” on the top and put Kathy’s letter inside. Then Brian headed down the hall to the study for his writing supplies. There was no harm in getting Kathy’s February letter done a little early. Perhaps, if he didn’t run out of things to say, he could even write to Grandma.

Some of the most treasured moments in my teaching here have come during the conversations with these students after they have cheated in my classes.
During one such conversation, a student expressed his doubt that the gospel was true and told me he was considering dropping out of college. He was making a lot of money as a sales person and felt he would be just as successful without a college degree. I offered my encouragement and shared my testimony with him. Months later, I received the following message from him:
Oftentimes I think about the talk...we had in your office. Honestly, it has been [such a] treasure to me. It has literally changed my perspective towards what I really want and what is the most important thing in my life. I couldn't thank you enough for the guidance and help. I am coming back to graduate in the winter semester.
That conversation is a treasure to me as well.

Never feed the foxes! What does that mean? Breaking commandments is like feeding foxes. In England where we live, my wife and I had heard that foxes were right in town. We wanted to see a fox. A neighbor told us that if we left food for the foxes we probably would see one. Our butcher gave us some bones. Each night we would place some bones out in the backyard. Soon a fox came to eat. Then a few more. Now we have at least five foxes racing through our flower garden, digging up the lawn, and leaving a shamble every night, sort of like a furry Jurassic Park. What started out as a curiosity is now a problem, and sin is much the same. An indiscretion can begin a process that can make a mess of a whole life. Remember, if you don’t start feeding the foxes, they will never tear up your yard. If you avoid making the seemingly small and harmless mistakes, your life will be free of many larger problems later on. Be courageous by living straight. Create happy memories for yourselves and those around you.

Fourth, choose to find joy each day. Those who suffer often feel that the night just goes on and on, and daylight will never come. It is OK to weep. Yet, if you find yourself in dark nights of suffering, by choosing faith you can awake to bright mornings of rejoicing.
For example, I visited a young mother being treated for cancer, smiling majestically in her chair despite the pain and a lack of hair. I met a middle-aged couple happily serving as youth leaders though they were unable to conceive children. I sat with a dear woman—a young grandmother, mother, and wife—who would pass away within days, yet amid the family’s tears were laughter and joyful recollections.
These suffering Saints exemplify what President Russell M. Nelson has taught:
“The joy we feel has little to do with the circumstances of our lives and everything to do with the focus of our lives.
“When the focus of our lives is on God’s plan of salvation … and Jesus Christ and His gospel, we can feel joy regardless of what is happening—or not happening—in our lives.”

A few weeks after I was baptized and confirmed, I was called to serve as the Primary secretary in the Valle Dorado Ward in Mexico. This was a surprise to me because I was new in the gospel, but I loved my Savior and wanted to serve.
I told my bishop that many other people could do the job better, but through serving I learned that the calling had been inspired. By being with the children in Primary, I learned the principles of the gospel, beautiful hymns, and the Articles of Faith. I loved the little ones too, and through them I met their parents.
But my greatest education came from working with the Primary president and her counselors. They patiently helped me, they forgave my mistakes, and little by little, I learned how to fulfill my calling. We worked together in the Primary for three years and became close friends.
When we were released, we were called to serve in Relief Society. As a result of the love we shared, we served together in unity for two more years. These sisters taught me to delegate responsibility and to allow others to learn to become leaders. We shared food storage, fasted for a purpose, and went to the temple together. They helped me become a faithful, dedicated, and loving leader. I feel obligated to share what I learned so other sisters will have the same kind of experience that I had working with the sisters who trained me.
Laura Viga D’Alva, Mexico

It’s Friday night. From Recife to Rio and from Salvador to São Paulo, the great megalopolises of Brazil teem with life as young people fill the streets, heading down beach boardwalks and downtown drives to outdoor festivals and markets, movies and shows, restaurants and clubs.
But in a certain corner of São Paulo—Brazil’s largest metropolis, with a population of 21 million—all the bustle of a big-city Friday night is forgotten as dozens of teenagers play a part in something most unusual.
They sit in small groups around a large, luminous building, occasionally checking their watches as they talk quietly into the night. They’re not staying up late to go to a dance club. They’re not lingering for the late show. They’re eagerly awaiting something of far greater significance, something their ancestors have also waited for: their assigned time to do baptisms for the dead in the São Paulo Brazil Temple.
Because this temple has been the only one in a nation of more than 700,000 Latter-day Saints, its doors have been open all night every Friday and until late Saturday in order to accommodate the busloads of Church members from outlying areas who are able to travel to the temple only on weekends. Upon their arrival, stakes are assigned times round the clock to do temple work.
According to former São Paulo temple president Aledir Barbour, handling such large numbers of temple goers “is now our greatest challenge because so many stakes want to come, but we cannot accommodate them all as we’d like.” He pauses, then smiles and adds, “But certainly it is a challenge we like to have.”
The white-haired, soft-spoken temple president cites the example of a group of youth and their leaders who traveled by bus from Belo Horizonte, a large city about 200 kilometers northeast of São Paulo. Youth from this stake brought with them the names of 10,000 ancestors, all of whom the teens had identified through their own research. The group stayed from Tuesday to Friday, but it wasn’t nearly enough time to perform the baptisms for all their ancestors.
The temple baptistry is so full of youth patrons, individuals can usually be baptized for only four or five deceased persons each time they come to the temple. And this is after many teens and their parents from outlying areas have saved for months to travel to the temple and have ridden on a bus for days to get to São Paulo.
When the São Paulo Temple was dedicated in 1978, it could handle the Church membership in Brazil, which then totaled less than 60,000. But membership in Brazil has increased more than tenfold since then, and for some time the temple has been consistently overflowing.
Fortunately, the rapid growth that has caused such a challenge is also a catalyst in bringing about wonderful change—change that is already beginning to bless the lives of Brazilian youth.
Peering through the rails of a fence, 17-year-old Fabio Fogliatto and his friends of the Canoas Brazil Stake watch intently as workers in hard hats construct a building near the southern tip of Brazil. Fabio notes with satisfaction that one of the workers leaves the construction site before smoking a cigarette. “He must know this is a sacred site for us,” Fabio says.
On the other side of the fence from the teens is a spectacular sight. Against the backdrop of the city, the walls of the Porto Alegre Brazil Temple rise out of the red earth.
“Just watching them build the temple, I can feel it really is a temple of the Lord,” says Ivan Carvalho, age 14, of the Esteio Ward. “It makes me feel even stronger that I want to come here to do ordinances for the dead and for myself.”
Fourteen-year-old Guilherme Recordon of the Estância Velha Ward adds, “And now that we have to go only 20 kilometers instead of 300, maybe we’ll be able to come here every week!”
The feelings of these boys represent a growing excitement all across Brazil as temples are built. Another temple is nearing completion in Campinas (a city just west of São Paulo), and yet another will be dedicated soon in the northern city of Recife. As the Church builds temples in Brazil, youth here are constructing their own temple-worthy lives.
Living worthy of going to the temple can be anything but easy for young Brazilians. They are teased by their peers if they don’t use drugs, alcohol, and tobacco. Extreme immodesty is common on billboards and prime-time television. Many students carry pornographic magazines to school. During carnaval, a weeklong festival Brazil is famous for, immodesty and immorality parade in the streets.
But Latter-day Saint youth say that looking to the temple helps them keep the commandments despite the many temptations and trials they face. “At school, when you won’t look at the [pornographic] magazines, people make fun of you. But I have a goal to serve a mission and marry in the temple, so I already know that if they push this stuff at me, I won’t do it,” says Fabio Marques, age 16, of the Campinas Fourth Ward, Campinas Brazil Stake. “I’ve already made my decision.”
Fabio says having a temple so close to his home in Campinas will strengthen him and his Latter-day Saint friends. “It’s hard to get to the temple in São Paulo, but soon we’ll be able to do baptisms for the dead more easily and frequently at the Campinas temple. And each time you do that, you make a stronger goal to return to the temple and to be worthy to marry in the temple.”
Whenever challenges seem too much for 18-year-old Janise Figueiró, she looks at a little bottle of red earth she received from her Young Women president in the Higienópolis Ward, Porto Alegre Brazil Moinhos de Vento Stake. “Whenever I look at that soil from the temple site, I remember to live worthy.”
Fourteen-year-old Juliano Garcia of the Guaiba Jardim Ward, Porto Alegre Moinhos de Vento stake, was thrilled with the prize he won. Although he had been a Church member for just under a year, he won a scripture chase in his multistake seminary bowl. As he began to look through the pages of his prize, a booklet entitled The Holy Temple by Elder Boyd K. Packer of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, he became fascinated with the pictures of temple baptismal fonts and celestial rooms. Juliano didn’t know much about the temple, but as he read in the booklet about baptism for the dead, his heart turned to his deceased grandparents. “I thought about my grandparents, how great they were, and I thought that more than anything I wanted to go to the temple for them.” Juliano hasn’t been able to travel to the São Paulo temple, but he is now preparing to go in Porto Alegre.
As Juliano and other Brazilian teens continue to construct their own temple-worthy lives little by little, they do not doubt that when the doors of the new temples are ready to open, they will be ready to enter.
When the angel Moroni appeared to 17-year-old Joseph Smith in 1823, he told the young prophet that Elijah the prophet would “plant in the hearts of the children the promises made to the fathers, and the hearts of the children shall turn to their fathers” (JS—H 1:39).
This prophecy is literally being fulfilled in the hearts of young Brazilians. “The Spirit of Elijah is working … , especially on the young people, to do work for their ancestors. It’s something that we cannot explain,” says former São Paulo temple president Aledir Barbour.
For example 16-year-old Jeferson Montenegro of Canoas (pictured below) and Suelen Alexandre (age 15); José Meirelles (age 18); Priscila Cavalieri (age 18); Carlita Fochetto (age 14); and Carolina (age 16), Christiane (age 15), and Carlos Rodriguez (age 12) of São Paulo volunteer in their Family History Centers for 10 to 20 hours each week. They assist Church members in their research, enter extracted names into the computer system, and search for names of their own ancestors.
These teens aren’t unusual. Many Brazilian youth have found the names of hundreds of their ancestors and have eagerly begun their temple work. Why? “I feel the influence of the Spirit of Elijah,” says Jeferson. “It makes me feel a closeness with those who’ve gone before me.”

Several years ago, while on vacation, I wanted to go kayaking for the first time. I rented a kayak, and full of enthusiasm, I launched into the sea.
After a few minutes, a wave overturned the kayak. With a great deal of effort, holding the paddle in one hand and the kayak in the other, I was able to regain my footing.
I tried again to paddle my kayak, but just a few minutes later, the kayak tipped over again. I stubbornly kept on trying, to no avail, until someone who understood kayaking told me that there must be a crack in the shell and the kayak must have filled up with water, making it unstable and impossible to control. I dragged the kayak to the shore and removed the plug, and sure enough, out came a large amount of water.
I think that at times we move through life with sins that, like the leak in my kayak, impede our spiritual progress.
If we persist in our sins, we forget the covenants we have made with the Lord, even though we keep capsizing because of the imbalance that those sins create in our lives.
Like the cracks in my kayak, the cracks in our lives need to be dealt with. Some sins will require more efforts than others to repent of.

Recently I heard of an excommunicated man who stormed out of his Church court bitter and unrepentant. Many of us, if we had been in that court, would have said, “Good. He’ll have time now to make his peace.” And we would have thought, “Good riddance.” One of the high councilors present that night spent three evenings a week for the next several years visiting this man until, mellowed, repentant, and regenerated, he was reinstated in the Church. As the Prophet Joseph Smith has said, “Nothing is so much calculated to lead people to forsake sin as to take them by the hand and watch over them with tenderness.”

A taxicab driver in Washington, D.C., displayed a picture of his two children on the sun visor in front of him. “They are beautiful children,” I said. “You must love them very much to carry their photos in your cab. I have children, too, and grandchildren, and I miss them when I’m away from them.”
“Why are you away?”
“I’m here for Church meetings. Are you a religious man?”
“Yes, ma’am. I am a Christian.”
“So am I! That’s wonderful!” I said. “You and I are alike in two ways—we both love our children, and we both are Christian.”
“Ma’am, do you believe in the Holy Spirit?” he asked.
“I do. I’m a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
He looked puzzled.
“Have you heard of the Mormons?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s another name for our Church,” I explained. “We believe in God, the Eternal Father, and in His Son, Jesus Christ, and in the Holy Ghost.”
That started a discussion based on the first five articles of faith. The fifth article of faith led to our talking about the authority and power to seal families forever. This interested him—he had seen the beautiful Washington Temple.
I asked him if he’d like to know more. He said that he would, and he agreed to listen to the missionaries. I had him write his name and address for me, and as soon as I reached my hotel, I telephoned the mission office and gave his name to the elder who answered.

By the time Nicky got to the street where he lived, he was almost jogging. When he reached his house, he dashed inside, slamming the door a little too hard, and called, “I’m home, Old Nonno!”
There was no answer.
Nicky rushed through the house, looking for Old Nonno. Finally he found Old Nonno sitting in a rocking chair on the back porch, enjoying the warm spring sunshine. “Hello, Old Nonno,” Nicky said as he went up to his great-grandfather and put his arms gently around the old man’s neck to give him a hug. “Are you ready?”
Old Nonno smiled at Nicky through his watery, cloudy, 102-year-old eyes. They were kind eyes, understanding eyes that had seen much during his lifetime. “Of course I’m ready!”
Both his grandfather and his great-grandfather had lived with Nicky and his parents. Grandfather was called Nonno, so great-grandfather was called Old Nonno. Then two years ago Nicky’s grandfather had died. But it had been his great-grandfather who had taken the time to talk and play with Nicky. He couldn’t imagine a better friend than Old Nonno.
By the time Nicky changed into his work clothes and went back outside, Old Nonno was already in the garden with the wooden boxes filled with the tomato plants that the two of them had started weeks earlier from seeds.
Nicky carried a bucket of water to the garden and Old Nonno started forcing his thick, pointed stick into the soft soil and pulling it to one side to form a hole. Nicky poured water into the hole, then held a six-inch tomato plant in it while Old Nonno pressed the soil around the plant’s roots.
When they finished the second row, Old Nonno paused. He picked up a handful of the black dirt and slowly straightened up, a faraway look in his eyes. Some of the dirt trickled between his fingers. Nicky looked at Old Nonno’s gnarled knuckles, swollen and misshapen by arthritis, and he wondered if being old hurt. Then Nicky looked up into Old Nonno’s face and saw that it wasn’t pain that had caused him to stop. It was his memories.
Old Nonno had been a teenager when he’d left his parents in Italy to live in the United States. It had taken many years of hard work before he’d been able to buy a small vegetable farm just outside a big city where, for almost fifty years, he had raised millions of tomatoes and other vegetables. Now that land was covered with streets and lawns and trees and homes.
Old Nonno bent over and patted his handful of black dirt around the last small tomato plant, then turned to Nicky. “Let’s hurry and clean up here, Nicky, so that we can go tend our magic garden.”
Fifteen minutes later they were upstairs in Old Nonno’s room. Except for the door, the closet, and the window, all the walls of Old Nonno’s room were covered with bookshelves filled with books that the old, cloudy eyes could no longer read.
“Your mind is a magic garden,” Old Nonno often said to Nicky. “It’s a magic garden because anything that you plant there grows into either seeds or weeds. Every day you choose which one you plant in your magic garden.”
Old Nonno sat down in a big chair and used his hands to lift his feet onto the footstool. From the table next to him he took a small framed picture of his wife and looked at it lovingly. Nicky had never known Old Nonnì. She had died more than twenty years before Nicky was born.
Nicky sat in his chair on the other side of the table and opened up Old Nonno’s Bible to the bookmark. Every day, the first thing was for Nicky to read to Old Nonno from the scriptures.
Nicky found the next marked verses, and read aloud: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
“A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted” (Eccl. 3:1–2).
As Nicky closed the Bible and put it back on the table, old Nonno said quietly, “Isn’t that beautiful, Nicky? That’s one of my favorite passages.”
Nicky nodded, although he wondered if he’d really understood what he’d just read. He decided to think about it later. For now, he’d just continue reading. “We finished Huckleberry Finn yesterday, Old Nonno. What do you want to read now?”
“That one,” Old Nonno said, pointing.
Nicky got the large book, opened it to Chapter One, and started to read. He looked at Old Nonno, who had his eyes closed and a happy smile on his face.
Throughout the spring, Nicky and Old Nonno pulled weeds in the outside garden and supported the growing tomato plants with wooden stakes. By summer the little yellow flowers on them became green tomatoes that grew larger every day. Nicky and Old Nonno tried to guess which of two tomatoes that they were especially watching would ripen first.
The day came when one of the tomatoes was fully ripe. As soon as Nicky’s baseball practice was over, he hopped on his bike and pedaled hard for home. He and Old Nonno were going to pick the tomato, eat it with their lunch, then walk to the ice-cream store and buy a treat. But when Nicky pulled into the driveway, his mother was outside waiting for him.
“Nicky,” she said softly, “something has happened to Old Nonno. Your father went with him in the ambulance to the hospital a few minutes ago, and I’ve been waiting here for you.”
Nicky dropped his bike on the lawn and got into the car. As his mother started to back the car out of the driveway, Nicky called out, “Wait!” He got out of the car, ran back to the garden, and tenderly picked the ripe tomato.
The hospital was only three miles away, but the drive seemed to take forever. Maybe it’s nothing serious, Nicky hoped.
At the admittance desk Nicky’s mom asked the emergency room nurse about Old Nonno. A few minutes later, a doctor in pale green hospital pants and shirt came through the metal swinging doors with Nicky’s dad.
“There was nothing more we could do,” the doctor said. “But if it’s any consolation to you, Mr. Mariani seemed to die peacefully.”
Nicky’s mom started to cry, and so did Nicky. Finally, when his tears subsided, Nicky realized that he was still holding Old Nonno’s tomato. He took it to the nurse’s desk. “Maybe somebody here would like to have this,” he said, handing her the tomato and trying to smile.
The nurse took the tomato and smiled back kindly.
The morning of the funeral the sun shone brilliantly in the blue sky. A good day for farming, Nicky thought as he walked between the rows of tomatoes—Old Nonno’s last crop. Just a few months ago Old Nonno had poured a bunch of tiny seeds into the palm of Nicky’s hand. Now those seeds had turned into rows of healthy plants with bushels of beautiful tomatoes on them.
Nicky went to Old Nonno’s room to wait while his parents finished getting dressed for the funeral. He walked past the bookshelves, stopping to read some of the familiar titles. Books. Hundreds of books that Old Nonno loved. Thousands of seeds for their magic garden. Nicky sat in Old Nonno’s big chair, picked up the picture of Old Nonnì, and looked at her smiling face. Wherever Old Nonno is, he decided, he’s with Old Nonnì, and they are happy together.
He glanced up at the books again as he suddenly understood the real magic of Old Nonno’s magic garden. The books were still here in this room, but Old Nonno had taken the “seeds” in them with him!
A similar thought came to Nicky in the cemetery as he watched the casket being lowered into the grave. It wasn’t really Old Nonno inside that casket; it was just the body that Old Nonno had left behind, an old, worn-out body.
As the casket settled into the grave, tears clouded Nicky’s eyes, and a dull ache persisted. He was really going to miss Old Nonno. But through the pain, some familiar words came into Nicky’s mind: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.” When he had read them before, they were only words. Now those words had meaning. “A time to be born, and a time to die …” Other seeds that had been planted in Old Nonno’s magic garden came to Nicky’s mind: “For as in Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all be made alive” (1 Cor. 15:22).
Suddenly it was becoming clear to him. Everything has a purpose. Even death has a purpose, and it is not really that scary. When he had been helping Old Nonno plant seeds in his magic garden, he had also been planting his own magic garden of special memories that would last forever.

Amy Jo looked up at the big clock on the living room wall. The short hand was on four, the long hand on twelve. She had waited the whole day for four o’clock to arrive.
She hurried to the front window of her new house and opened it. It was a warm, sunshiny day. Quietly she watched and waited. Soon an older woman holding a polka-dot umbrella rounded the corner. Next to her trotted a shaggy dog named Bert. Amy Jo knew his name because every day the old woman and the dog stopped in front of Amy Jo’s house and the old woman would say, “Well, Bert, where’s our slowpoke today? Where’s ’Lizabeth?”
“There she is,” Amy Jo called when ’Lizabeth finally appeared. But Amy Jo was shy and spoke so softly that no one heard her. All anyone could hear was ’Lizabeth crying loudly as she ran to catch up to the old woman and Bert.
“Meow. Meow,” cried the orange cat with white paws, but Amy Jo knew she was really saying, “Wait for me! Wait for me!”
“Why don’t we go out and say hello?” said Mother as she peeked through the window with Amy Jo. “Miss Gray seems like a nice person. I think she lives just around the corner. And I bet that Bert and ’Lizabeth would like to make a new friend too.”
Amy Jo shook her head. “I don’t want to,” she said, feeling afraid.
Miss Gray carried her polka-dot umbrella opened, even when the sky was full of sunshine. And her white hair was stiff and stuck out every which way. Her thick glasses made her eyes look small and of mean, and her shoes were heavy looking and lumpy. Amy Jo did not want to meet Miss Gray, only Bert and ’Lizabeth.
“Are you sure?” asked Mother.
“Uh, huh,” said Amy Jo shyly.
“Well, maybe tomorrow,” said Mother.
Amy Jo watched as Miss Gray walked on with Bert by her side and ’Lizabeth calling, “Meow. Meow. Wait for me! Wait for me!” She watched until they were tiny specks at the end of the long sidewalk.
Every day they passed Amy Jo’s house, pausing in front to allow ’Lizabeth to catch up. Amy Jo longed to hold the orange cat, pet her fluffy fur, and touch her soft white paws. Mother had said that someday they might also have a pet, “Small, like ’Lizabeth.”
’Lizabeth was special, but Amy Jo liked Bert too. The more she saw the two of them, the more she wanted to make friends. But she was too afraid to talk to Miss Gray, even though Mother had said that it would be all right.
“How about today?” Mother would ask as Amy Jo stared out the window.
“No. Not today.”
“Well, maybe tomorrow,” said Mother.
But then something strange began to happen. Amy Jo still ran to the window each day at four o’clock, but Miss Gray and Bert and ’Lizabeth began to come by later and later.
“Oh my, Bert,” said Miss Gray one afternoon, “where’s our lazybones today? Where’s ’Lizabeth? I declare, she’s getting slower and slower all the time.”
After a few minutes ’Lizabeth would appear crying, “Meow. Meow. Wait for me! Wait for me!” But she didn’t run to catch up to her friends. She just walked along. And each day Amy Jo saw that ’Lizabeth looked bigger and rounder than the day before.
“Oh, Bert,” said Miss Gray one rainy day. “Where’s our ’Lizabeth? Poor ’Lizabeth. She’s just not herself lately.”
Amy Jo began to worry as ’Lizabeth finally turned the corner. She was growing so fat that she had to stop to rest on her way to Miss Gray and Bert. When she reached them, she rubbed her back against Bert’s shaggy legs and meowed loudly as if to say, “Thank you for waiting.” Bert licked her face.
“That means they’re friends,” Amy Jo told her mother. “I want to be their friend too.”
“Really?” asked Mother, smiling. “Is today the day we say hello?”
“No. Not today.”
“Well, maybe tomorrow,” said Mother.
But the next day when Miss Gray and Bert walked by Amy Jo’s house, they didn’t stop to wait for ’Lizabeth. Amy Jo watched closely for the orange cat, but there was no ’Lizabeth that day. No “Meow. Meow. Wait for me! Wait for me!” Amy Jo felt sad.
There was no ’Lizabeth the next day, either. Or the next. Amy Jo was very worried.
“Where’s ’Lizabeth?” she asked Mother.
“I don’t know,” said Mother. “Why don’t we go ask Miss Gray.”
“No,” said Amy Jo.
But many days passed, and still there was no sign of the orange cat with the white paws.
Where can she be? Amy Jo wondered. What has happened to ’Lizabeth?
One hot afternoon Miss Gray and Bert stopped in front of Amy Jo’s house, but again just to rest for a moment. “I do miss our ’Lizabeth,” Miss Gray said, patting Bert’s head. “Things are just not the same without her.”
“Where’s ’Lizabeth?” Amy Jo called, but not loud enough to be heard.
“Where’s ’Lizabeth?” she called the next day, but again no one could hear her soft words.
Amy Jo was sure that something terrible had happened to the orange cat.
“Where’s ’Lizabeth?” she wailed that night as Mother tucked her into bed.
“Tomorrow I’ll ask,” said Mother.
“Me, too,” said Amy Jo bravely. “I want to ask too.”
But at four o’clock the next day the telephone rang. Mother was still talking when Miss Gray and Bert turned the corner. Amy Jo grabbed Mother’s hand, but Mother said, “I’m sorry, Amy Jo, but this call is important.”
Amy Jo watched anxiously as the polka-dot umbrella passed by the front gate. “Where’s ’Lizabeth?” she called in her loudest, bravest voice.
Miss Gray stopped. Bert stopped beside her. “Did you hear something, Bert?” she asked.
“Where’s ’Lizabeth?” Amy Jo called again.
“Who wants to know?” asked Miss Gray, looking around.
“Me,” said Amy Jo, running out to her front porch.
“Me who?”
“Me, Amy Jo.” She hurried out to the sidewalk.
“How nice to meet you, Amy Jo,” said Miss Gray.
She smiled, and Amy Jo saw that her eyes did not look mean, after all. And it was very shady under the pretty polka-dot umbrella. Amy Jo patted Bert’s shaggy head and decided that she liked Miss Gray very much.
“ ’Lizabeth should be along any minute now,” said Miss Gray.
Amy Jo turned and watched as ’Lizabeth rounded the corner. “Meow. Meow,” she called. “Wait for me! Wait for me!” Then she ran to catch up, just as she did before. Amy Jo felt happy to see ’Lizabeth again and gently touched her soft orange fur.
Suddenly, Amy Jo heard lots of meows, and around the corner came one, two, three, four black kittens with white paws. Far behind them ran a tiny orange kitten with white paws that looked just like ’Lizabeth.
“Meow. Meow,” the tiny kitten cried. “Wait for me! Wait for me!”
“Oh, how sweet,” said Mother, coming out of the house. “No wonder we haven’t seen ’Lizabeth for a while.”
“We’re very proud of her,” said Miss Gray. “Aren’t we, Bert? But I’m afraid we’re going to need someone else to walk with us, to be sure that everyone stays together.”
“I will!” said Amy Jo. She wasn’t afraid of Miss Gray anymore. They were friends already. Maybe Mother would buy her a polka-dot umbrella too. And maybe, just maybe, she would ask Miss Gray for the little orange kitten that looked just like ’Lizabeth.

It was not really a special occasion. Georgia, Janice, and I had all agreed long ago that we needed a break from the house and kids at least once a month, and so we had set aside the third Thursday of every month for a girls’ day out. Today was the third Thursday, but other than that, there was nothing out of the ordinary about it. And it wasn’t even until we had all gone through the salad bar that I got any indication that this day might be one that I would long remember.
We’d all loaded our plates with lettuce and cucumbers and mushrooms. Then we sat down congratulating ourselves on ordering such a calorie conscious meal, never mind that our salads were each drowned in a half-pint of blue cheese salad dressing. As is common with conversations between mothers, the subject soon turned to sick kids and then doctors.
“Have you been to that new doctor in the children’s clinic?” Georgia asked.
“Yes, I took Harry to him last month,” Janice replied enthusiastically. “I sure was impressed with him.”
“Me too!” Georgia agreed. Up until then, I wasn’t really paying much attention. I’d never been to this new doctor; I didn’t even know who he was. But Georgia and Janice had been debating the merits of every doctor in the city for as long as I had known them, and this was the first time I’d ever heard them both give the same doctor such a hearty approval.
“He really listens to you,” Georgia was going on. “I had my Cheryl in there awhile back. She was just getting over a cold, but I didn’t think she seemed right. The other doctor wouldn’t even listen and kept insisting she was fine. But not Doctor Bloomberg. He paid attention to what I was saying, and sure enough the child had silent pneumonia.”
I nearly choked on a piece of lettuce.
“What did you say that doctor’s name is?” I asked.
“Doctor Bloomberg,” Georgia said.
“Gerard Bloomberg,” Janice added.
It couldn’t be, I told myself. It could not possibly be the same Gerard Bloomberg. But then, how many Gerard Bloombergs could there be in the world, and how many doctors with that name? Not that I was certain that the Gerard Bloomberg I knew was a doctor, but that was what he had said he wanted to be. Or rather, that was what Marny had said he wanted to be.
Marny was my roommate at college. I was a junior; she was a sophomore. I arrived at the apartment a couple of days before she did, but by the time she got there I had a picture painted in my mind of just what to expect her to be like. For two days solid people were stopping in and asking if she was there yet. By the time she was, the bulletin board was covered with messages for her, mostly from boys.
And Marny did not disappoint my expectations. She bounced into the apartment like a cheerleader returning from cheerleading camp. Her head was covered with a mass of golden curls, her eyes were deep blue, and her mouth a perfect pink rosebud. I decided that I probably was not going to like her when she spoke.
“Hello,” she said in a voice that was much more intelligent sounding than what I would have expected. “I’m Marny Southwick. It looks like we’re going to be living together for a year. It’ll be fun getting to know each other.”
She sounded so sincere and friendly that I had to like her. If Marny was anything, she was likable.
Gerard Bloomberg was in our ward. He was probably at church the first week we went, but I didn’t notice him there. In fact, if Gerard had not been assigned to me as my home teacher, I probably would have gone the entire year without noticing him. Gerard was an easy person to overlook.
As it was, he turned up at our door the second week of the semester. I answered the door when he knocked.
“Hello,” I said.
Gerard looked me squarely in the chin and asked if I was Kitty Olson. I said yes, and he said he was my home teacher. It was probably the most in-depth conversation we ever had.
We went into the living room and sat down. Gerard’s gaze now shifted to my shoes. He said he hadn’t been able to get a hold of his companion yet but had figured he ought to get over and see me. It was quite a speech for Gerard, and he had quite a time getting it out. By the time he finished, we were both ready to heave a sigh of relief.
At that moment Marny arrived. She dumped her pile of books onto the table with an exaggerated groan and looked around. Her eyes stopped on Gerard.
“Oh, sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know you had company.”
“This is my home teacher, Gerard Bloomberg,” I said.
“Hi,” Marny smiled. “I’m Marny Southwick.”
Gerard looked up at Marny. His face turned the exact shade of red that I had been looking for in a lipstick, and then he dropped his gaze.
“I’ll just sit over here and study,” Marny went on. “Don’t let me bother you.”
But it was obvious that she did bother Gerard. He had found it difficult to talk with just me in the room. Now he found it even harder. As he stuttered and stumbled through the little message he had prepared, I noticed that his gaze occasionally shifted from my shoes to Marny’s. He finished quickly and left.
“Poor fellow,” I said when he had gone.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Marny said. “I thought he was kind of cute.”
I wondered how Marny could tell. All I had seen was the top of Gerard’s head.
“But he’s so shy,” I said.
“Lots of guys are kind of shy,” she replied. “They just need someone to bring them out.”
Marny was asked to be the Spiritual Living teacher in Relief Society. Her first lesson was on charity. It quickly became apparent that she was taking the lesson seriously. And it also quickly became apparent whom she had chosen as her own special charity case—Gerard Bloomberg.
It was the Saturday following her lesson that our stake held a dance. Gerard was there when we arrived, but he was seated across the room in the darkest corner of the gym. His arms were folded and his head down; he almost appeared to be praying. Marny spotted him immediately and began to make her way to him, but it was halfway through the evening before she got there.
Some things are hard to figure. Marny had been at school no longer than any of the rest of us. In fact, not even taking into account the extra year I had on her, I’d been there a good two days more than she had. But she seemed to have made at least twice as many friends. And that was why she took so long getting to Gerard. Every time she tried, someone would stop her to talk, and then she’d get asked to dance. Marny was too nice to ever tell anyone that she had someone else she wanted to talk to. That was part of her charm. When Marny talked to you, you felt like you were the most important person in her life. But midway through the evening, I noticed Marny seated next to Gerard.
Gerard’s position had not changed, except that if it were possible, he looked even more withdrawn. But Marny seemed oblivious to his discomfort. She was chatting away as though she were catching up with her best friend. I shook my head. Some times, I thought, it seems that the most charitable thing to do would be to simply leave a person alone.
Marny took every opportunity after that to talk to Gerard. She’d invite him to sit with us in Sunday School, visit with him at socials, and if she happened to see him on campus, she’d run out of her way just to say hi.
One evening at dinner we were discussing several of the more desirable young men in the ward, when Marny changed the subject to Gerard.
“Gerard Bloomberg went on a mission to Tennessee,” she said.
We all stared at her in dumbfounded silence for several seconds. Then Karen, the most vocal member of the apartment, put what we were all thinking into words.
“My goodness! It probably took him the entire two years to teach the first discussion to one family.”
Of the five other girls around the table, four of us burst into laughter at Karen’s remark. But Marny did not laugh. She looked at us all as sternly as she could and said, “I don’t think that’s funny. I’m sure Gerard made a fine missionary.”
I could tell she was serious and quickly controlled my mirth.
“Marny, we all like Gerard. He’s nice, but he’s just so … so …”
“So backward,” Karen filled in for me.
“Well, it’s not funny to laugh at other people’s problems,” Marny said. She got up and left the table indignantly.
After that we never laughed about Gerard in front of Marny, but we did it plenty when she wasn’t around. When Marny announced that Gerard wanted to be a doctor, it took every ounce of self-control we contained to keep from laughing. In fact, Karen had to excuse herself to get a drink of water, and I heard her choke as she drank it. After all, how could Gerard, who seldom looked at anyone above the ankles, ever become a doctor? But we were smart enough not to tell Marny that.
“You see, he grew up on a farm,” Marny explained, “and he loved caring for the sick animals. He enjoyed helping them get better. Then on his mission, he taught a lot back in the Appalachians and saw the poor conditions some of those people live in. He thought if he could become a doctor, once he was established and making some money, he could take some time to go back there and help them get better medical care.”
I wondered how Marny had ever gotten Gerard to tell her all that. When Gerard came home teaching, other than his memorized messages, I had trouble getting him to comment on more than the weather.
One night some time later I was lying on my bed studying as Marny got ready for a date.
“Who you going out with tonight?” I asked.
“Gerard,” she said nonchalantly.
“Gerard!” I exclaimed sitting up.
“Yes,” she replied not seeming to find anything odd about it.
“Did he actually ask you out?” I asked.
“Well, he did need a little prodding. I mentioned a movie I wanted to see and asked if he wanted to see it too. When he said yes, I sort of suggested we see it together.”
“Oh,” I said lying back down. “I should have known.”
I didn’t think much of that first date of theirs, but then Gerard, all by himself, asked Marny out again two weeks later. And then again a week after that. Pretty soon they were going out regularly every two weeks—sometimes even every week.
Now for Marny that wasn’t much. Marny had a date nearly every night of the week. And there were lots of boys she was dating more often than Gerard. But I was certain that there was no one Gerard was dating more often than Marny. In fact for Gerard, I had no doubt that once every two weeks was going steady.
That worried me. After all, it was obvious that Marny’s interest in Gerard was simply as a service project. She was being nice to him to help him feel better about himself. A lot of good it was going to do if she ended up hurting him.
I decided to take action. There was one boy in particular that Marny seemed to date more than anyone else. His name was Bart Hansen. Bart was a perfect match for Marny. He was as handsome as she was pretty—the kind of guy every girl dreams about and every parent approves of. One simply had to look at Bart to know he would go places.
Now, if Marny should happen to become serious with Bart, I was certain she’d cut out her other beaus. And if it happened soon enough, maybe Gerard wouldn’t be hurt as badly as if things dragged on. The end of the semester was near. Perhaps Marny could just let things fizzle out gently when she went home for Christmas vacation.
That evening as Marny and I dressed for bed, I turned the subject to Bart.
“He sure is a neat guy,” I said.
“Yes, he is,” Marny agreed.
“And the two of you make the cutest couple.”
“You think so?”
“Oh, everyone does. Have you two talked about marriage?”
“No,” Marny said picking up her brush and running it through her hair.
“If he asked you, you’d say yes wouldn’t you?”
Marny turned around and studied me for several seconds. “What are you getting at?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said trying to sound casual. “I just think of all the guys you date, Bart is the best for you, and it would be a shame to lose him because of the other guys you’ve got hanging around. Guys don’t always appreciate a lot of competition.”
“Well, Bart hasn’t even mentioned marriage,” Marny said matter of factly, “so I don’t see any point in discussing it. Frankly, I’m not sure what I’d say if he asked me.”
The conversation had not gone exactly as I had planned, but at least I had put some ideas into Marny’s head. I hoped that the more it rattled around in her brain, the more concerned Marny would become that by dating so many other guys, she might lose Bart. I had no doubt that when the weeding out process came, Gerard would be the first to go.
It was several nights later, and I was sleeping soundly when I felt a hand shaking my shoulder and a voice saying, “Kitty wake up.”
I opened my eyes and blinked several times. It was Marny just getting back from a date. Her face was pale and her manner seemed agitated. I sat up.
“Are you okay, Marny?” I asked.
“Oh, Kitty,” she exclaimed, “Gerard asked me to marry him.”
“Oh no,” I moaned. “How did he take it when you said no?”
“But, Kitty,” Marny protested, “I didn’t say no. I said yes.”
I shook my head. I had to be dreaming. Karen and I would get a good laugh out of this in the morning.
But then Marny took my hand and said, “Aren’t you happy for me?”
I could feel her hand. It wasn’t a dream; it was real.
“Oh, Marny, why?” I said.
Marny looked confused. “I love him,” she said simply.
A phrase from Marny’s lesson on charity ran through my mind. “Charity is the pure love Christ has for everyone, and we should all try to gain that kind of love for everyone too.” I wanted to take Marny by the shoulders and shake her and say, “Marny, you don’t have to marry Gerard to prove that you have charity. You’ve been kinder to him than anyone else. You’ve done enough! You can’t marry a guy just because you feel sorry for him!” But I didn’t say it. I figured that by morning Marny would be thinking more clearly and see how silly this was.
But come morning, Marny was as determined as ever. She announced her engagement to the others at breakfast. If Marny thought my reaction was unenthusiastic, theirs was downright chilly. They all sat silently and stared at her. When she said, “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” they all mumbled a semblance of “Congratulations,” and excused themselves.
But Marny was not to be daunted by our opinions. She spent the next weeks making plans. She would skip the next semester of school and stay home to plan the wedding, which would take place that spring. Had I not known the groom, I would have thought her the perfect picture of an excited bride to be.
I kept hoping that I would find a chance to talk to Marny seriously about what she was doing. Sure, planning a wedding was fun, but once the wedding was over, she would be married to Gerard. Forever! But that chance never came, and Marny left for home at Christmas vacation.
I went to the couple’s reception. Marny looked radiant. Her gown was lovely, her manner gracious. She was in every way perfect. Beside her was Gerard looking as though his tie was too tight. That was the picture of them that I had carried in my memory through these past 12 years.
I had wondered what became of the couple. I was certain that one day Marny would wake up and realize what she had done. It would be sad when she did. I liked both Marny and Gerard. I didn’t want either of them to be hurt. But when Marny realized what a mistake she’d made, one of them would be.
As the years passed I thought of Marny and Gerard less and less often, until now I had almost forgotten them. Now, with Georgia’s comment, it all came back.
“Kitty, are you still here?” Georgia brought me back to the present.
“Yes,” I laughed. “I was just thinking. I had a roommate who married a Gerard Bloomberg that wanted to be a doctor. I just wondered if it was the same one.”
“I’d think it’d almost have to be,” Janice said.
“Have either of you met this doctor’s wife?” I asked.
Both of them shook their heads.
“But he has a picture of her on his desk,” Janice said.
“Yes,” Georgia chimed in. “She’s blond and really smiley.”
It sounded like Marny.
It was almost time for the kids to get home from school when I finally got home. My first move was to get out the phone book. Sure enough there was a number for the Gerard Bloomberg residence. It took three tries before I could get up the courage to dial the number. I listened to the phone ringing, half hoping no one would be home. Then I heard someone pick it up and say “Hello.” The moment I heard the voice, I knew it was Marny.
“Marny?” It came out as a half whisper.
“Yes, who is this?”
“Kitty Murdock … you knew me as Kitty Olson.”
“Kitty!” Marny exclaimed. “Where are you?”
I explained to her that we were living in the same town and gave a brief account of how I had discovered it. When Marny suggested that we must get together and catch up, my curiosity got the better of me, and I said that right now was good for me.
I left a note for my kids saying I’d be back soon, then grabbed my purse from the counter. I followed the directions Marny had given me and soon found myself in a fashionable neighborhood.
Marny rushed out to greet me when I pulled in. She hugged me affectionately and made me feel welcome immediately. They’d just moved into the house a month earlier, she informed me, so she hoped I wouldn’t mind the disorder. I saw no disorder.
The house was spacious, yet homey. The furnishings, right down to the picture over the sofa, were straight out of a magazine spread. Out back were four children playing. Marny called them in and introduced them, then sent them off to do their homework.
It was all exactly what I would have pictured for Marny: a lovely home, well-behaved children. All of it was perfect, except the husband.
We sat in the living room and visited for an hour. Then the question I had been carrying all afternoon came out.
“Marny,” I asked, “has Gerard changed?”
Marny seemed to think for several seconds, then shook her head.
“No,” she said, “he’s still the same old Gerard.”
I paid little attention to the next part of the conversation. I was trying to sort things out in my mind. My friends had raved about Gerard, yet how could he be such a wonderful doctor if he was still the “same old Gerard?”
A silver sedan pulled into the driveway and a tall handsome man got out.
“Here’s Gerard now,” Marny announced.
I took a second look at the man walking up the sidewalk. Surely Marny was joking.
Marny got up and met the man at the door.
“You’re early, dear,” I heard her say. “Come see who’s here.”
Marny led him into the living room. Here, at closer range, I could see that this man’s facial features were indeed those of Gerard Bloomberg, but nothing else about him was. He carried himself tall and confidently. Not once did he even glance at my shoes. When he spoke, he looked straight in my eyes, and when I spoke, I felt as if he was truly interested in what I was saying.
I can’t recall much of that conversation. I think I was in shock for the duration. But then Gerard excused himself to make some phone calls.
I turned to Marny. “You said he hadn’t changed!” I exclaimed.
Marny looked at me blankly as if she really didn’t know what I was talking about. It was then, seeing her confusion, that the reality of it all finally hit me. After 12 years, I finally understood. Marny’s interest in Gerard had begun as simply an act of charity. But Marny had taken the time to do something none of the rest of us had done. She had gotten to know Gerard. She had dug past the backward farm boy exterior that the rest of us saw and had found the heart of the man. To Marny, Gerard had always been the sensitive young doctor that I had just met.
In light of that, I realized how shallow my exclamation sounded.
“It’s just that Gerard used to be so shy,” I explained weakly.
Marny smiled softly. “Yes, I guess he was a bit shy,” she said. “But really, other than that, Gerard is just the same as he’s always been.”

Moving from a small high school in a small town to a big one in a faraway place is hard enough. But it’s especially rough if your name is Ferger Brown. Some people with different names shorten them, or use a nickname. There is nothing you can do, however, with Ferger. Shortening it doesn’t help, and the only nicknames I ever received were worse than Ferger.
In every class that first day of school my junior year, I endured the snapping of other students’ heads in unison when I answered “Here” in my deep bass voice to each teacher’s incredulous question, “Ferger Brown?” Had I been six feet and 190 pounds with the face of a movie star, I suppose any name might have been considered dashing. As it was, at five-feet-four, with a hook nose; long, skinny face; and glasses, I looked—as one of my friends back home said—”just like my name.” Added to that, I had a voice lower than sea level. For some reason, when I turned 13, my voice went bottom fishing and never came up.
As I walked out of my second-period class, a girl with blond hair walked up and said, “Hi, I’m Stephanie Hays. You’re new here, aren’t you?” Her freckled nose crinkled when she smiled, and I thought things may not be so bad around here after all.
“Yeah,” I answered, returning the smile. “We just moved here from Steamsprings, Illinois.”
“Welcome to Hillsdale High,” she said.
I was ready to start strolling down the hall with this beauty when a character who looked like he had been on Mr. America vitamins since the third grade walked up to us. He was muscular and at least six-five.
“This guy bothering you, Steph?” he asked.
“No, he’s new here. I was just introducing myself.”
Brute Force—that’s what I immediately named him—looked down at me from on high.
I stuck out my hand and said, “I’m Ferger …”
“I know what your name is,” he said, cutting me off. “I heard the teacher.” He looked down at my hand but didn’t take it. Then he looked up again. “I don’t think you’ll have to worry about anyone forgetting that name, or that voice.” He grinned, looked at my hand once again, then said, “Come on, Steph. Or do you want to hear Frogger croak again?”
“The name’s Ferger!” I boomed, aware that my basso profundo voice had the power of intimidation—unless, of course, the person I was trying to intimidate happened to be looking at me.
Brute Force and Stephanie walked out of the room. I started to leave when I felt a tug on my shirt sleeve. I turned to see a kid with glasses, red hair, four well-placed pimples, and a big grin. “That’s Brandon Wallerstadt—heaven’s gift to this school and every girl here. Don’t worry about him. I’m Jason Carr. Welcome.”
Jason, it turned out, was a great find. He was a straight-A student who seemed to know everyone at school. For some reason, he took me under his wing. He never even teased me about my name.
Brute Force Wallerstadt did, though. Every time he saw me, he made a snide remark or said something like, “Croak for us, Frogger.”
It was about midterm when Jason started inviting me to go to church with him. I didn’t know much about churches, but I figured if Jason liked this place it must be pretty good. And it was. Three hours of church every Sunday, though, nearly wiped me out. But I kept hearing this stuff about a Savior, about priesthood, about the Book of Mormon, about testimonies. It was fascinating. We talked about angels, visions, gold plates, premortal life, three kingdoms. I’d come home every week with some new idea that spun around in my head for days.
My life with Brute Force was another matter. That is until I found out we had one thing in common: golf. With spring lurking around the corner, I told Jason I was thinking about trying out for the golf team. He rubbed his hand through his red hair and said, “Did you know Brandon Wallerstadt led the team last year as a sophomore?”
I hadn’t known until then, but that was when a plan hatched deep within my devious soul. I had been toying with the idea of asking Stephanie Hays to the junior-senior prom. Despite Brute Force Wallerstadt’s attempts to brand her his exclusive territory, we had become friends. It seemed she didn’t want to be tied to just one guy. To get free sailing for the prom, though, I needed to get Wallerstadt completely out of the way. And I was sure I could do it.
You see, I was born thinking the ninth green of the Steamsprings Municipal Golf Course—right out our back door—was our yard, and that golf balls were teething rings. My dad gave me my first set of golf clubs when I was two. My sophomore year I led the Steamsprings golf team and carried a four handicap. Before I tipped my hand at the varsity tryouts, I thought I might challenge Wallerstadt to a match for the rights to ask Stephanie to the prom.
I sat down in the lunch room at the table with Brandon and his friends and made him the proposition. The winner gets to invite Stephanie to the prom. Brute Force looked at me and laughed. “You know how to play?” he asked.
“I played for my high school last year,” I said, as nonchalantly as possible.
A glint came into his eye. “Frogger, you’re on. Friday after school we’ll play at my dad’s club. There are two lakes there, so if you get tired of golf, you can jump in with the other frogs and croak away.”
I pushed my glasses up on my nose and wondered if my knuckles could reach across the table to his perfect rows of white teeth.
I had asked Jason to be my caddie. That meant he’d drive the cart carrying my clubs and cheer me on. We arrived at the Hillsdale Country Club in my old Chevy. I wore blue and orange plaid shorts and a green and white striped shirt. I’ve always thought ugly distracted opponents.
Brandon, of course, drove up in his red convertible dressed in $400 worth of clothes. His clubs and balls were some of the finest money could buy. One of his buddies was there to caddie for him.
Brute’s father came out from the clubhouse to the tee, looked at me like I was an alien, and said, “Son, I hope you won’t disappoint me.”
For the first time I saw Brandon Wallerstadt flinch. “I won’t, Dad. I won’t.”
“If you don’t come in at 74 or better today, you’ll play two rounds on Sunday. Understand?” his dad said.
Brute suddenly didn’t look so brutish. Sheepishly he smiled and said, “Don’t worry, Dad.”
We flipped a coin and Wallerstadt won. He had honors. He teed his ball and nailed a high draw down the right side of the fairway. I had aptly named him. Brute must have hit the ball 315 yards. But it wasn’t a smart play. It meant he had to drop a delicate wedge shot over the bunker, and in front of another if he wanted a chance at birdie. Since this was a short par-four, I took out my two-wood and drove my ball down the left side of the fairway.
My second shot put me within eight feet of the cup. Brute dumped his ball in the front trap, but a brilliant shot out of the sand put him three feet from the cup. My putt for birdie rimmed out, he sank his, and we were both even-par after the first hole.
We played even until the par-five ninth hole. Again, Brute made the mistake of driving too far. His ball rolled into a fairway bunker. By the time he finished, he was one-over and I was one-under. Quite a spectacular nine for me, I thought. And a pretty darn good one for him, too. He even complimented me on a couple of my shots.
Brute’s father was waiting for him as we headed for the tenth tee. I didn’t stand too close, but when Brute told him his score you didn’t need spy gear to hear he was upset.
On the back nine, the lead seesawed until we reached the 17th tee. We were even with two holes to go. I had the honors on the little par-three. I took my seven-iron and dropped the ball within three feet of the flag. Brute overhit his shot and it rolled off the back of the green. He chipped up, but his putt slid off to the right. My birdie to his bogey put me two-up going into the last hole.
“You’ve got him,” Jason hooted as we rode to the final tee. I looked at Brute. I’d expected him to throw clubs after bad shots. He hadn’t. He didn’t make too many bad shots, either. Actually, he was somewhat of a gentleman on the course. But now I could see he was just plain despondent.
Ready to finish him off, I teed my ball, looked over at Brute, and said, “Brandon, you don’t have to answer this, but what happens if I beat you?”
“You get to ask Stephanie to the prom,” he snapped.
“No,” I said. “I mean between you and your father?”
“He’ll yell at me for not concentrating and insist I spend an hour on the driving range before I go home. But you haven’t won yet. Let’s go,” he said, looking down the fairway.
I drew back my club and hit a perfectly placed drive 250 yards down the middle of the fairway. Brandon, trying too hard, pulled his shot to the left. Still, it went about 290 yards.
I laid out my second shot, but it faded to the right. Not what I wanted, but still okay.
Brute tried to hook his second shot around a bunch of trees, but the ball flew straight, landing near mine. It looked like we were five yards apart and about 80 yards from the green. Only an absolute disaster would keep me from winning now.
As I surveyed my shot, there was Brandon’s father casting a huge shadow behind the 18th green. He stood there with his legs spread and arms folded across his chest as he watched.
“Brandon, do you like golf?” I asked.
“I hate it,” he said bitterly.
“You’re very good,” I said. “Why do you hate it?”
“Him,” Brandon said, nodding toward his father. “He wants me to be a golf pro. It’s his dream and I can’t say no. All I have to do is play golf and he gives me anything money can buy. Would you walk away from that?”
“Let’s get this over with, Ferger,” he said. I was stunned. It may have been the first time he didn’t call me Frog or Frogger.
Looking at Brute, I remembered what Jason’s Sunday School teacher had said once: “It was never the Lord’s plan to make yourself taller by standing on someone else’s sore head.”
I took a practice swing. “If you par out, you’ll have a 74 and you won’t have to play on Sunday, will you?” I asked.
“Don’t worry. Even if I birdie this and finish with a 73, if you beat me I’ll get extra duty.” Then he looked me square in the eye. “Ferger, I underestimated you. You’re a fine golfer and good guy.”
“I underestimated you, too, Brandon,” I said. And I had. He was an excellent golfer, and somewhere under that jerk veneer, there seemed to be a nice guy lurking. Then I spoke in my most solemn, adult voice. If you were to win this round, would you go somewhere with Jason and me on Sunday?”
“Where?”
“It’s kind of a different place, but I think you could use it.”
“Okay, but I’m not worried. You’d have to shank this ball to lose.”
Which I did. And Brute beat me by one stroke, finishing with a 74 to my 75.
As Jason and I left the course, Brandon was walking with his dad, who was slapping him on the back. I called to him, “Remember, Jason and I will be by at ten Sunday morning to pick you up.”
“Okay,” he said, shrugging his shoulders.
“What are we doing with Wallerstadt on Sunday?” Jason asked.
Then he looked at me like I was crazy when I told him we were taking Brute Force to church with us.
It’s now two years later, and Brandon Wallerstadt—former jerk, now close friend—and I will be going on our missions in two weeks. I’m going to California and he’s been called to England. Jason will leave for Australia two weeks after that. I would have never supposed a shanked golf shot could have put two guys like Brandon and me together. Brandon’s dad wasn’t happy when he first told him he wanted to join the Mormon church and perhaps go on a mission. His dad still thinks Brandon has thrown away a great career, but he’s accepted his son’s decision.
Oh, about the prom that year. That Sunday when we picked up Brandon, he said I could ask Stephanie to the prom if I wanted to. So I did. But someone had told her about our golf game for the right to ask her and she got mad and wouldn’t speak to either one of us for months. Eventually she forgave us, and even came to both of our missionary farewells. Before we leave, Brandon and I are going over to her house to give her a Book of Mormon. The problem is, we’re having trouble trying to decide who should give it to her.
Perhaps we should play golf.

A recent issue of the Church News carried the story of a group of farmers in a small Idaho community. May I read briefly from that account?
“It is 6 a.m. in late October, and frost already hangs in the air over the sugar beet fields of Rupert, Idaho.
“The long arms of the ‘beeters’ stretch out over twelve rows, slicing the tops off sugar beets. Behind them, the harvesters thrust their steel fingers into the soil and scoop up the beets, pulling them up toward a belt and into a waiting truck.
“… This is the Rupert Idaho Welfare Farm, and those who are working here today are volunteers. … At times more than 60 machines [are] working in harmony together— … all owned by local farmers.”
The work goes on throughout the day.
“[At] 7 p.m. … the sun has set, leaving the land dark and cold once again. The farmers head home, exhausted and happy.
“They have finished well another day.
“They have harvested the Lord’s sugar beets” (Neil K. Newell, “A Harvest in Idaho,” Church News, Mar. 20, 2004, 16).
Such remarkable volunteer service goes on constantly to assure supplies for the storehouses of the Lord.

In October 1980 I was riding my bicycle when I suddenly realized my foot brake was not working. I panicked, not knowing when or how I would be able to stop. When my wild ride ended and I finally coasted safely to a stop, I ended up next to Rodico Flores, a good friend and high school classmate. I explained what had happened, and then we chatted for a little while. During our conversation, he asked if I had time to come to his church. Since I knew he was a good person and I admired the other Latter-day Saints I knew, I decided to go the next Sunday.
On Sunday I noticed that the building his church met in was clean and beautiful. I felt something different there. I was met by a person who shook my hand and even put his arm around me, telling me he was happy to see me. I felt good, even though I was a bit shy and nervous. This brother took me to a class for investigators.
After the lesson two young women introduced themselves as full-time missionaries. They asked if they could visit me at my home. I quickly told them I was busy and started giving them excuses. But they still asked me to tell them when I was available, and I responded that I was available early Monday morning. I said they could come but only if they wanted to come at 4:00 A.M.
To my surprise, they looked at each other and said, “Brother Solomon, we will be there.” Then I insisted that it was hard to reach my family’s house, that it was located in the middle of a fishpond, that we had a lot of dogs. I told them they would have a hard time getting there. But they said again, “Brother Solomon, we will be there.” After I left, I forgot all about our appointment because I didn’t believe they would be coming.
Early Monday morning I was surprised to hear the dogs barking and a voice calling, “Brother Solomon! Brother Solomon!” I looked out the window, and I started to feel differently about the missionaries. I felt a confirmation that they were true servants of God. I invited them in and listened to their message. After a while I told them to come every day with a lesson, which they did. They taught me until I was prepared for baptism.
Just after my baptism on 31 October 1980, a friend invited me to a ward party. I said to myself, This Church is nice; they even throw a party for me. I later realized I wasn’t really the guest of honor. But at the party my friend introduced me to a young woman and told her to take good care of me. Annie Ortiz was indeed a good fellowshipper. At this time, she is still taking good care of me. We were married in 1985 and sealed in the Manila Philippines Temple.
Since my baptism, I have grown in the gospel as I have been given opportunities to serve. In 1983 I was called to serve full time in the Philippines Davao Mission, and four months after my marriage I was called as a bishop. I also served as a stake president and in a mission presidency. My wife and I are happily married and have two children, Ezra and Brigham, and we are looking forward to a lifetime of service.
I am grateful for the happiness I have found in the Church, for the dedicated missionaries who persevered, and for the broken bicycle brake that actually helped send me on my way.