Gospel Story Finder

A few years ago I heard a story that has had a profound impact on my search for truth and understanding. I can’t even remember where I heard the story, but it has haunted me for years.
During World War II a young soldier became concerned for the safety of his wife and baby as the enemy armies pressed toward his village. He put them on a night train for a nearby neutral country to spend the remainder of the war with relatives. Traveling through the night, the young mother became very sleepy. As the conductor walked by her seat, she asked how long until the train arrived at her destination. Glancing at her ticket, he explained that hers was the next stop, but that she had plenty of time to rest. He promised to wake her before arriving. With that assurance, she fell asleep, and the train rumbled on through the night.
Sometime later, the train came to a stop. A man seated across the aisle who had overheard the conversation noticed that the conductor wasn’t in their car and that the young lady was sleeping heavily. Fearing that she would miss her stop, he kindly awakened her. She thanked the man, gathered her baby and her bag, and slipped off the train just as it pulled away.
When the conductor came back into the car and found that the young lady wasn’t there, he inquired about her. The man across the aisle spoke up. “You weren’t here, so I had her get off at the last stop.” The conductor became very upset and explained that the train merely stopped to take on water. There was no shelter available! After the train finally arrived at the next village a search party was sent. The freezing weather had taken its toll, and they found the young mother and her baby dead from exposure.

My wife had a birthday a few months ago. Being a dutiful husband, I determined we should go out to a movie together. We scanned the movie advertisements in the newspaper to find one that had the proper rating we thought we could enjoy watching. We picked out one with a PG rating, only to find after just a few minutes in the movie, the language was such that we could not tolerate it. I was embarrassed to come out and see the crowd standing in line. I didn’t want them to observe me coming out of a movie that had such vulgar language.

I had a particular experience in my life that showed me how using the wrong word can shock those who do not expect such an utterance to come from you. I was in boot camp in the Marine Corps during World War II. Of course, the language among my fellow Marines was not of the caliber that you would want to repeat. Being a recently returned missionary, I determined I should keep my language above the level which they were using. I endeavored consistently to keep from saying even the simplest and most common of swear words.

One day we were on the rifle range firing for our final qualification scores. I had done well in the 100-, 200-, and 300-yard positions. Now we were back at the 500-yard position. All I needed was a reasonable score—just hitting the target without even having to hit the bull’s-eye, and I would make Expert Rifleman. We had been charged up with the desire to excel and be the top platoon in firing for qualifications. I tensed up at the 500-yard standing position, and on my first shot threw my shoulder into the rifle. Of course, the flag waved—I had missed the target. And likewise, I missed the opportunity of being named an Expert Rifleman.

Out of my mouth came a little four-letter word that I had determined never to use. Much to my shock and chagrin, suddenly the whole range stopped firing and everyone turned and looked at me with their mouths open. Any other Marine firing from that position that day could have used the word I used without anyone paying attention. Because I had determined that I would carry the standards of the mission field into the Marine Corps, everyone was shocked when I forgot myself.

Many faithful Latter-day Saints have been warned by the Spirit, preventing injury or death. Among these was President Wilford Woodruff, who said:
“When I got back to Winter Quarters from the pioneer journey (1847), President Young said to me, ‘Brother Woodruff, I want you to take your wife and children and go to Boston and stay there until you can gather every Saint of God in New England and Canada and send them up to Zion.’
“I did as he told me. It took me two years to gather up everybody, and I brought up the rear with a company (there were about one hundred of them). We arrived at Pittsburgh one day at sundown. We did not want to stay there, so I went to the first steamboat that was going to leave. I saw the captain and engaged passage for us on that steamer. I had only just done so when the spirit said to me, and that, too, very strongly, ‘Don’t go aboard that steamer, nor your company.’ Of course, I went and spoke to the captain, and told him I had made up my mind to wait.
“Well, that ship started and had only got five miles down the river when it took fire, and three hundred persons were burned to death or drowned. If I had not obeyed that spirit and had gone on that steamer with the rest of the company, you can see what the result would have been.”

On October 25, 1995, Derrick Parke, of Carey, Idaho, died suddenly of a heart defect while playing racquetball with a friend. At the time of his death, he was attending his first semester at Ricks College and had just completed his mission papers. Derrick was known as an outstanding athlete in football, basketball, and track. He was an example to many for his sportsmanship, athletic ability, integrity, and kindness. The following is adapted from his father’s talk, given at his funeral.
As the bishop of the Carey First Ward, I was given the unique opportunity to interview my own son prior to filling out his mission papers. When the interview came to a close, and Derrick was about to sign his name on the line, I said, “Derrick, wait a minute. I want all the cards on top of the table. Are you worthy to go on this mission?”
He then looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Dad, I am.” And with that, he took the pen in hand and signed his mission papers.
Three days later he died.
But I don’t think that this was coincidental. Heavenly Father had a hand in this. I know that Derrick had a far greater mission to attend to, and that’s why he was taken. As I look back upon his life, there was never a better time for him to go. It was Derrick’s time to go home; he was ready. He lived his life in such a way that he was ready.
The walls of Derrick’s room are covered with laminated pictures of his success stories in sports; his trophies line the foot of his bed. But at the head of his bed is an 8-by-11-inch picture of the Savior. Derrick had his priorities in order. He knew what was first. He knew that the Lord was first, and that these other things were second.
I know that many young people would envy some of the successes that he’s had in sports. But the greatest success is to have the Savior by the head of your bed and to recognize that great blessing in your life. I know that we are an eternal family, and I know that Derrick knows that too. And Derrick knows that because he understood why he was on the earth.
It was this understanding that drove Derrick to do what is right. I know he had his personal prayers. He read the scriptures and attended seminary. The way Derrick lived his life showed that he loved the Savior.
President Boyd K. Packer once said that most people live and die, without knowing why they are here (see Ensign, Nov. 1983, p. 16). But that was not the case with Derrick. He knew why he was here. He had a strong testimony of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Not only was he desirous to be a missionary, but he was willing to pay the price to be worthy to serve a mission. And like everything else he did, he paid the price.
And because of this, he was ready to serve wherever the Lord chose to call him. It just so happened that the Lord called him home.

It was then that I moved to Kinshasa to commence my studies in law. Once I arrived in 2007, I enrolled at the University of Kinshasa. In my first year in 2008, we experienced a total strike at the University of Kinshasa. During the strike, I left the neighborhood where I lived to go to the commune of Masina to stay with my older brother.
And once in Masina, during the strike, I discovered The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the neighborhood where I lived with my older brother.
I made the decision to go to a meetinghouse of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on a Sunday. When I arrived at the building, a brother greeted me at the door and invited me to come inside. I then participated in the Sunday service and afterwards I was placed in contact with the full-time missionaries.
I took the missionary lessons for two weeks. After being taught, I had a strong desire to be baptized.
However, this was the beginning of strong opposition from within my family and my older brother who was like a guardian to me. He told the village to inform everyone that I wanted to become a member, that it is a bad church, and that no one should support me or contribute money to support my academic studies.
Consequently, I dropped out of law school and began preparing for a full-time mission. Thanks to Bishop Mutambay’s advice and direction, I remained a member of the Church despite opposition and began preparing for my full-time mission. I served in the Lubumbashi DR Congo from June 2013 to June 2015.
After serving as a full-time missionary, I came home and was fortunate to find the Church’s inspired Perpetual Education Fund program which allowed me to achieve my goals in completing my law studies through this program instituted by President Gordon B. Hinckley (1910–2008).
Today, I am a lawyer. My wife, Mireille, and I are parents of four children: Ross Power Kongo Kongo, Ron Cross Kongo Munemeka, Blacke Prestones Kongo Ibula, and Brian Lesser Congo. I accepted adversity by relying on my faith without knowing what was going to happen to me when I was abandoned for having chosen the restored Church.
I know that God is our Heavenly Father and despite difficulties and opposition He is there to help us. I will never be disappointed with the path I took and my decision to join His church.
I know this was the best decision I ever made. I will be forever grateful. Joseph Smith is the prophet of the Restoration, and I am grateful to be in the Church of Jesus Christ.

As a young college student of peace and conflict studies, I took great interest in any process that could be used for resolving conflict. One life-altering conversation with a friend introduced me to a process that I had never heard of before: companionship council.
While sharing about his mission, my friend told me that companionship council is the regular check-in where missionary companionships discuss how they are working together and how to improve. My friend had found the process so helpful as a missionary that he planned to use it in his marriage someday. The idea sank deep into my heart. I read about companionship council in Preach My Gospel and talked to other returned missionaries about their experiences with it. I saw how companionship councils, similar to family councils, could be used to address and prevent many of the destructive conflicts we face in our relationships today.
My husband, James, and I began holding weekly companionship councils before we were even married. I can still remember our first meeting. James was so open, kind, understanding, and willing to take my thoughts seriously that I felt confident in our ability to build a happy marriage.
Now well into our life together, we have continued the tradition of weekly companionship council. While our relationship isn’t perfect, we both agree that the many sessions we’ve held have helped us find deeper joy and fulfillment in our marriage than we thought possible.
Taking notes will also help you to remember—in the words of President Spencer W. Kimball (1895–1985)—“your triumphs over adversity, your recovery after a fall, your progress when all seemed black, [and] your rejoicing when you [succeed].” James and I are so grateful that we have kept a record of the nearly 800 companionship council sessions we have held over the years. What a joy it is to look back and see how far we’ve come!

My grandmother, a spiritual giant to me, taught me how to pray. She spent her winters with a daughter who lived a hundred miles away, so I saw her only in the summers. Sometimes I got to stay with her. I loved to climb between her sparkling white sheets and lay my head on her freshly ironed pillowcases. Her home was a house of order and love. And her homemade bread and Potawatomi plum jam was like a king’s dinner to me. She always kept a tin box of lemon drops and mints.

After biking to her house one day, I couldn’t find her in the kitchen, so I went into her bedroom. Through the window I noticed her out in her garden. Passing her dresser, I saw a new box of chocolates that someone had given her for Mother’s Day. The temptation was too great. I opened the box, picked out several pieces, and shoved them into my pocket before running outside to see Grandma.
The next day Grandma called and asked me to come over to her house. When I arrived, we visited for a while, then she offered me a chocolate. I cried and she cried, then we talked about what it means to be honest and about how disappointed Heavenly Father is when we steal. Grandma taught me other lessons that afternoon that helped strengthen my spirituality. She was the first one I called when I received my mission call. She died while I was in the mission home, and she was buried the day I arrived in New Zealand. I will always cherish the comfort and strength that she was to me.

Every time I have the opportunity to direct myself to young people, I have a difficult time to keep from weeping. You see, once I had a boy, and when he had spent one year in college, he went to war. I like to think he went bravely.
When he was interrogated by the sergeant in charge, the sergeant said, “There are these schools.” And he named them—“radio, cooking, foreign language, intelligence, hospital. …” He named about eight of them. The young men were told that they could go to one of these, if they wanted to choose, before they went further into the army. He said, “You can go to one of these schools, or you can take combat.” And my son and one other young man with him said without any hesitation, “We’ll take combat.”
Later I said to him, “Why did you ask for combat?”
And he said, “Someone has to do the fighting.” He said that he did not want to have it on his conscience that he had deliberately dodged so that some other boy might have to take a chance on being killed. He said, “If anyone has to die in this war, I would feel terrible if I didn’t take my share of the risk.”
To me he is still twenty—about your age. And so perhaps you will allow me to speak to you as though I were speaking to him. The advice I would give you, I would give him.

The first steps on the road to walking again actually took place in the water.
At 23 years old, Victor Penafiel watched others swim while he clung to a corner of the pool. His friend, Arturo Espinoza, saw his desire to swim and offered to teach him. But Victor had a great fear of water. Even before his accident, he didn’t know how to swim. Swimming wouldn’t be easy, especially with only one arm. After a year of struggling with Victor’s fear, Arturo guided Victor into the middle of the pool and removed the life vest he wore during lessons.
“Let’s see how you get out of this,” Arturo said, leaving him there.
Victor got out of it, and the challenge helped him see he could swim. After that, Victor never used a life vest. Now he loves swimming, he said, because when he is in the water, he feels free.

Let me share a couple of experiences with you.

As the project began to develop, it became clear that a scrap metal recycling project, in and of itself, was a challenge, but to include the removal of junk vehicles from the community as well, was an enormous task---one clearly beyond our experience as a committee, or as a community association. We recognized that Heavenly Father's help was needed.

And because the project included not one site but two sites, the problem became daunting. We now needed two sets of heavy equipment....in particular a front loader with a 4-in-1 bucket. We needed one at the BYUH parking lot, and one at the Cackle Fresh site. The company was adamant. Without the right heavy equipment, they would not come. The only heavy equipment of this description near enough was located at the Laie Corporation Yard, close to the Cackle Fresh site. Working through layers of City bureaucracy, the process was painfully slow. After numerous calls to the City, using every influence at hand including our City Council member, Donavan Dela Cruz, the answer was, "No, the City could not participate because of liability and other legal issues. We received the call on Thursday. The activity was on Saturday. Time was short. The back up option was to contact the Heavy Equipment Training Facility in Kahuku, which would be very costly. We than called Babes Keanu, owner of a trucking company in Hauula, who felt he could help with equipment he had. That seemed plausible, but still it was not enough. Finally, a call was made to Jeff Tyau, HRI's engineer, to intervene by working with the company's operations manager to assure him that with some adjustments, the equipment in Laie, plus the equipment they would bring, would be adequate to do the job. Finally, the next day, we received a call that everything had been worked out, and they were ready to come the next day. Our prayers were answered.

A turnspit dog! Before last week Jonathan had never even heard of a turnspit dog. Though the morning was cold, Jonathan was snug and warm in his homespun suit. Pulling his sled, he followed the snowy trail that led through the sparsely settled New England woods to the Sewell’s cabin. As soon as he heard that Mister Sewell had sent to Philadelphia for a turnspit dog, Jonathan’s curiosity would not let him rest until he had seen it.
In the early 1700s the settlers’ usual way of roasting meat was to put it on a spit, a long piece of metal supported between two andirons in front of the fireplace. It was a tiresome chore to turn the meat by hand, so someone had hit upon the idea of training small dogs for this work.
On his way to the Sewell’s, Jonathan passed Mistress Clark’s cabin. He noticed that no smoke curled from the chimney. Mistress Clark was a widow and very old. She’s probably still sleeping, Jonathan decided.
Finally Jonathan reached his destination.
“Why, it’s young Master Jonathan Adams!” Mister Sewell cried heartily. “Come in!”
Then Jonathan saw the turnspit dog. He had not known quite what to expect, but surely not this!
The spit, holding a joint of meat, was attached to a set of wheels that in turn was attached to a treadmill. Around the treadmill was a railing, inside of which was a little dog—running, running, running. As he ran, the treadmill engaged the wheels of the spit and slowly turned the savory meat.
Suddenly the dog looked up at the newcomer, and Jonathan thought he had never in his entire life seen such sad eyes. “Please rescue me!” the little dog’s eyes seemed to be pleading.
Then Jonathan saw with horror that Mister Sewell held a long switch that he occasionally flicked in the direction of the turnspit dog.
Jonathan knew at once that he must do something to help the wretched little animal. He felt sure his parents wouldn’t mind if he had a dog, so, turning to Mr. Sewell, he pleaded, “Sir, will you sell me your turnspit dog?”
Mister Sewell burst into laughter. “Tell me, just how do you propose to pay for my trained dog?”
It was a fitting question, for Jonathan had no money.
Jonathan left the Sewell cabin feeling heartsick. The way homeward led down a gentle slope, but Jonathan found no fun in gliding down the hill on his sled. How in the world can I rescue that little dog from such cruel slavery? he agonized.
When Jonathan reached Mistress Clark’s cabin again, he saw that smoke still didn’t rise from the chimney. Worried, he went up to the door and lifted the knocker.
“Come in,” called a feeble voice.
In the cabin Jonathan saw that Mistress Clark’s fire had gone out during the night. Now, shivering with cold, she was vainly trying to start another fire.
“Oh dear,” she sighed, “my son in Philadelphia sent me this tinder wheel but I cannot make it work.”
“I know how to work a tinder wheel,” Jonathan offered. “Let me try.” Jonathan began spinning the small steel wheel, using the piece of cord that was attached. It was much like spinning a humming top. As the wheel spun, it struck a piece of hard stone or flint fixed in the side of a little trough filled with bits of old linen that served as tinder. Paper was far too valuable to be used to start a fire.
Finally Jonathan produced a tiny spark. Blowing softly, he nursed the spark into a small flame that fed on the tinder. Quickly he gathered wood shavings to use as kindling. In a few minutes a glowing fire burned in the fireplace.
“Thank you, thank you!” said Mistress Clark. “My son is always sending me newfangled things I cannot use. Just last month he sent me this roasting kitchen.” She pointed to a metal box with an open side that would face the fire. A spit, turned by a crank on the outside, ran through it from end to end.
Suddenly Jonathan had an idea.
“If you have no need for the roasting kitchen, will you let me have it?” he asked excitedly. “In return I will stop by each morning to start your fire if it has gone out. I will also fetch your water and run your errands!”
Mistress Clark smiled. “Yes,” she replied, “take the roasting kitchen. I will be grateful for a little help.”
Mistress Clark and Jonathan put the roasting kitchen onto the boy’s sled, and he began to climb back up to the Sewell cabin.
“What have we here?” asked Mister Sewell as he helped Jonathan set the roasting kitchen onto the floor of the cabin.
Jonathan saw that the little turnspit dog was still running on his treadmill. How tired he must be by now! he worried.
Jonathan turned to Mister Sewell. “Sir, I have come to make you a trade. I will trade you this fine new roasting kitchen for your turnspit dog. Notice how it stands on legs to make it even with the fire! See how the little door in back can be opened to baste the meat!”
“It is true,” said Mister Sewell, “that I could enjoy such a new roasting kitchen. Yes, perhaps it would be a good trade—if you really want the dog.”
“Yes, yes, I do!” cried Jonathan.
He had only to whistle once and the little dog jumped over the railing of the treadmill and into the boy’s arms.
“You are my dog now!” Jonathan said joyously, and the dog bounded along at his little master’s side as they set out for home.

In 1946 I visited Hawaii shortly after a huge tidal wave, where walls of water some forty feet high struck Hilo and the Hamakua coast, and I saw the devastation that resulted. Homes had been overturned and shredded, crushed into splinters like toothpicks; fences and gardens were obliterated; bridges and roads were washed away. Bathtubs, refrigerators, mangled autos lay strewn all about the streets. Where one of our little chapels had stood, nothing remained but the foundation. More than a hundred people lost their lives; as many more were injured; thousands were left homeless. I heard many stories while there of suffering, of heroism, of salvation.
One woman told how she received a telephone message from friends to get out and to leave—that a tidal wave was coming. She looked out to sea and saw the monstrous wave approaching, like a mountain. She and her husband picked up the baby and ran for their lives up the hill. However, two of their little girls were away from home playing near a clump of lauhala trees. They saw the wave coming, ran into the trees, and held tightly with their arms around the tree trunks. The first gigantic wave washed entirely over them, but they held their breath and clung with all their might until the water receded and their heads were again above the water. When the wave receded, they quickly ran up the hill before the succeeding waves came. Together, the family watched from the safety of the hill as their home below disappeared under the pounding of the waves.

My friend Katie was sick. She’s in my class at school. She didn’t come to school for two months. I heard that the doctor didn’t know what was wrong with her. Everyone in class wrote get-well cards to her. We felt sorry for her.
I told my mother about Katie. We talked about it and thought that it was a good idea to fast for her. That Sunday, we prayed and fasted for her.
One Sunday, I made cookies and a card for her, and after church, I took them to her house. Her dad took the cookies and the card and said, “She is getting better and is coming to school tomorrow.” That made me feel very happy.
The next day at recess, we all were so happy that we crowded around her. We were happy to see her again.

In 2006, I attended a general priesthood meeting in our stake. A senior missionary couple—I’ll call them the Gardners—came to talk to our stake.

Elder Gardner spoke about the blessings of paying fast offerings. He explained how, throughout his life, he had learned that when he didn’t have any ideas on how to make more money, he received the following counsel from his wife: We need to increase the amount of fast offerings. Elder Gardner told his wife they needed more money, not less! Nevertheless, he decided to follow her advice and increase the amount of fast offerings. During his powerful and profound message, I received an impression to triple our fast offerings. I even wrote the total in my notes.

At dinner that night, I explained to Andrea the experience I had, told her my feelings, and showed her the number I had written in my notes. She stopped eating, looked at me, and asked, “Do we have the money to pay that amount?” I said, “That’s what I felt,” and she immediately said, “If you felt it, let’s do it!”

So, the following day, on Sunday, I grabbed the donation envelope and tripled our fast offering.

The next day at work, I received a call from the human resources manager, who told me, “Mr. Spannaus, we had miscalculated some of the deductions we take from your salary, and we need to reimburse you this amount of money.” To my surprise, the amount was the new fast offering amount for an entire year.

Perhaps some of you may think that it would have happened anyway. To me, this was another testimony that the Lord does not need our money; He needs our heart and will, and He can multiply our blessings any number of times—according to what He determines is expedient for us.

I want to testify to all of you that fasting develops generosity, and when you develop this generosity, he blesses you abundantly. I promise you that if you try it, you will see the hand of the Lord in your life.

In 1926 President Fred Tadje, president of the German-Austrian Mission, called a mission conference to be held at Dresden, Germany, in August. The missionaries were to walk to this conference from their fields of labor basically “without purse or scrip,” although they had to carry a small amount of money or they could be arrested as vagabonds.
Elder Alfred Lippold and his companion, Elder Parker Thomas, took the north route. Somewhere along the way, the two called at a home where they met a woman and her eight children. She told the elders that her husband had left her and the children and that they were now without money. After she had let them in, the woman said: “If you travel without purse or scrip, then you must be hungry. Sit down.” She gave each of them a big slice of bread with plum jam on it. The missionaries blessed the breakfast and in the blessing on the food asked the Lord to give the woman what she needed.
The missionaries then departed. After they had walked about a mile, Elder Thomas said, “I must go back,” which he did without explanation.
On his return, Elder Lippold asked, “Why did you go back?”
Elder Thomas explained: “In our prayer we asked that the woman be given what she needed. I had what was needed—a $20 bill. It was in my pocket, and I went back to give it to her. It would have burned a hole in my pocket.”

A man I met from northern India had never even heard the name of Jesus Christ until he saw it on a calendar in the shop of a shoemaker. The Spirit led him to conversion in a Protestant church. Later, during a visit to a distant college town, he saw an advertisement for an American group called “The BYU Young Ambassadors.” During their performance, an inner voice told him to go into the lobby after the program and a man in a blue blazer would tell him what to do. In this way he obtained a Book of Mormon, read it, and was converted to the restored gospel. He has since served as a missionary and as a bishop.

Several years ago while my wife and I were serving in Venezuela, our youngest son left the comfort of his high school to join with us. He did not complain, but it was obvious that he struggled as he went to this country where everything was new to him; but in an amazing turn of events, the experience went from one of trial to a huge blessing in his life. He accomplished this by changing his own attitude and developing a determination to succeed.

Growing up, I didn’t believe there was a God. My life was full of turmoil, and in my darkest days I was depressed enough that I wanted to end my life. That was when the missionaries came knocking on my door. The gospel was exactly what I needed; I was drawn to it like a magnet.
My trials didn’t end after I joined the Church, but I was in a better position to resist the influence of the adversary. For the first time, I knew what happiness felt like.
However, depression didn’t loosen its grip easily. At one point I wanted to give up again. At that moment Sister Ting, the bishop’s wife, called. She told me she had a feeling she needed to call me. She asked how I was doing. I bore my soul to her. To me, she was an angel sent by God.
That incident empowered me. My faith was strengthened. I felt like I could conquer death. I felt delivered, like it says in Alma 36:2–3:
“They were in bondage, and none could deliver them except … God. …
“… Whosoever shall put their trust in God shall be supported in their trials, and their troubles, and their afflictions, and shall be lifted up at the last day.”
I still have trials, but I will not be easily beaten again. God has supported me through all my trials and worries. He has saved me from spiritual prison and bondage, even death. He is my Savior.

Dan Jones had been baptized into the Church in the spring of 1843, and he was with Joseph Smith at Carthage Jail the night before the Prophet was killed. As they lay next to each other on the hard floor, the Prophet asked his Welsh friend if he was afraid to die.
“Has that time come think you?” Dan asked. “Engaged in such a cause I do not think that death would have many terrors.”
The Prophet then gave what would be his last recorded prophecy as he told Dan, “You will yet see Wales and fulfill the mission appointed you ere you die.”

“It’s time for our friendly visitor!” Sister Palmer said.
Elijah could hardly stay in his seat. He was so excited.
“Who will it be?” whispered Lily Kate.
“I don’t know,” Elijah whispered back.
Sometimes a special visitor came to Primary. It was always someone different, but the visitor usually talked about a story from the Friend magazine. That’s why Sister Palmer called him a friendly visitor.
One time the visitor was dressed up like a farmer and read a story about a boy who took a watermelon without asking.
Elijah stared at the door, waiting. All of a sudden, a tall man with a black helmet and a vest came through the Primary door.
“It’s a pilot!” whispered Brinkley.
“That’s my dad!” said Lily Kate.
Brother Owen was a helicopter pilot. He asked Lily Kate to come to the front of the room and pretend to fly a helicopter with him. Lily Kate put on a helmet and safety gear, and she and her dad started to fly. They listened to the control tower on the radio so they would know which way to go and where to land. It was so much fun pretending to fly through the clouds!
Then Brother Owen looked at Elijah.
“I have time for one more flight,” he said. “Do you want to try?”
Elijah nodded. He jumped up from his seat and ran to the front of the room.
Brother Owen helped Elijah put on his gear and flight gloves. They got ready for takeoff. But this time Brother Owen said they didn’t need to listen to the control tower. He said the weather was beautiful and they knew how to fly.
Elijah held out his hands like he was steering the helicopter. It was great! They made noises like they were flying through the air. Zoom!
“Oh no!” said Brother Owen. “A tree! Look out!”
Elijah tried to fly away from the tree, but it was too late. Brother Owen shook their chairs as they pretended to crash to the ground.
“I guess we made a mistake, huh?” asked Brother Owen.
Elijah nodded.
“I guess we should have listened to the control tower,” Brother Owen said. He turned to the other kids. “Do you know why it’s important to listen to the tower?”
“So we can have a good flight and not crash into things,” said Lily Kate.
“You’re right,” said Brother Owen. “The control tower has a computer that can see everything. The control tower tells the pilots if they are going the right way. They also make sure there’s no danger ahead.”
“Like really tall trees,” Elijah said.
“Exactly!” said Brother Owen. “And guess who is like a control tower for us? He helps us choose the right and teaches us important things in general conference.”
“The prophet!” one of the kids called out.
“That’s right! Like a control tower, President Monson can see the big picture.” Brother Owen held up a picture of President Monson from the Friend magazine. “He gets revelation from our Heavenly Father to help us stay on the right path. He warns us if there are dangers ahead. When we listen to our prophet, we can be safe and happy, just like the pilots who listen to their control tower.”
Brother Owen gave the kids a salute.
“Time to fly home,” he said. Then he disappeared through the Primary doors just as fast as he had come in.
Elijah liked all of the special friendly visitors. But this had been his favorite one of all.