Gospel Story Finder

We were free! We’d had a hard week of classes and felt like we deserved a break. It was a beautiful winter evening in Rock Canyon, and we were determined to enjoy it to the fullest.
Four of us had decided on a whim to get away from the pressures of college life by taking an excursion in the snow. It would be our first camp-out without any adviser or leader. We felt pretty independent. Our friends were surprised at our plans in light of all the snow that had fallen that weekend. We ignored them when they said we were crazy.
Jared and Derek had nearly finished the snow cave, our home for the night. We were actually doing it! Without any help from adults, or anyone else, we were making it work.
After cooking some hot dogs and having a long animated talk around the fire, we were ready to retire. I went in first. It seemed a bit crowded, and I wondered how we would fit four people into the cave. Pete and Jared followed. Derek was next.
Just as Derek was almost all the way in, the cave collapsed on us! I wasn’t sure what had happened since I was lying on my side facing the wall.
Luckily, the part of the cave that was above my head and chest hadn’t caved in. Pete wasn’t as lucky. Heavy snow was on his chest. I could tell that he was having trouble breathing. Peter’s voice let me know that the snow hadn’t covered his face.
None of us could do much since our bodies were pinned down. We were stuck. Every time we tried to move around, the ceiling would shift a bit. Every time this happened, I would ask Peter if he was still all right. The snow ceiling was getting closer and closer to his face. There was nothing that any of us could do. We were trapped!
Peter was the one who thought of it first. We needed to pray. We told our Father in Heaven that we needed his help. We couldn’t make it alone.
After praying, Jared looked up at the ceiling. He noticed something he hadn’t noticed before, a small opening. He had to struggle, but he eventually got his arm out of his bag so he could reach for the hole. He scraped snow from off of the collapsed ceiling and threw it out the opening. His hands were numb by the time he had freed himself.
Once Jared was out, he dug Derek out using the small shovel we had left outside the cave. Derek got to work getting Peter out while Jared warmed his freezing hands. With Peter free, I was the only one left in the cave with my legs still pinned down. The cave was no longer hanging over my head, so I felt practically free.
Someone suggested that we each say a prayer of thanksgiving. There, next to the collapsed snow cave, we thanked Father in Heaven and acknowledged that we couldn’t have made it without his help.
I learned an important lesson from that experience. Even though I seek independence, I don’t ever want to be independent of my Father in Heaven. Without his patient care, I might not be here today. I learned I always need his help and guiding hand.

Some time ago your mother and I visited a third-world country where sanitary conditions were much poorer than ours. We joined with a delegation of other doctors from all over the world. The president of our group, an experienced traveler, warned of risks. In order to avoid water that might be contaminated, we were even counseled to brush our teeth with an alcoholic beverage. We chose not to follow that counsel, but simply did what we had learned to do once a month. We fasted that first day, thinking we could introduce simple food and fluids gradually thereafter. Later, we were the only ones in our group without disabling illness.

Fasting fortifies discipline over appetite and helps to protect against later uncontrolled cravings and gnawing habits.

Cristina looked longingly at the red dress in the window. Four hundred cruzeiros! It might as well have been all the money in Brazil. Her father had to work a week to earn that much. Her mother earned even less, sewing in a shop in downtown Rio de Janeiro.
Her friend Angela was going to dance in the Carnaval (festival like Mardi Gras) parade this year, and Cristina wanted to be with her.
“Can’t you save up the money?” Angela asked hopefully as the two girls walked toward the beach. “Carnaval is still two months away.”
“Save what? I don’t get any pocket money. Anyway, Papa is far away, working in Curitiba, so I can’t ask him.”
“Maybe something will happen.”
“Maybe,” murmured Cristina. But she couldn’t imagine what could happen.
“Oh, look! There’s an old vulture.” Angela ran laughing down the beach to chase the big black bird. Soon she came running back. “Let’s go borrow Juca’s vulture kite.”
“I can’t, Angela. I’m sorry. I have to do my chores.”
At home, Cristina swept the one room, cleaned the ashes out of the stove, fetched water from the faucet in the street, then set rice and beans to cook over a new fire.
When Mama came home, she looked so tired that Cristina could not bring herself to speak of the costume. She thought about Carnaval a lot, though. It always began on a Saturday and ended on Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent. How she loved the costumes in the giant parade! And how she liked to dance to the fast samba drum music. There were always women in satin ball gowns of scarlet and glossy blue and dancers wearing splendid gold pantaloons or glittering silver skirts. Some wore wonderful hats topped with ostrich plumes. The thick, creamy plumes dipped and swayed with the dancers.
An idea popped into Cristina’s head: There might be a way I could get a costume!
After school the next day she rushed to the shop where her mother worked, and found Senhor Luis, the owner.
“Senhor Luis,” Cristina said, “could I work for you after school? I would work very hard.”
Senhor Luis thought a bit. “Well,” he said, “you could run errands and help keep the shop tidy. But I can only afford to pay you forty cruzeiros a week.”
In her head Cristina multiplied: forty cruzeiros times eight weeks are three hundred twenty cruzeiros. Perhaps Mama can lend me the rest.
“Thank you, Senhor Luis. I will do it.”
Week after week Cristina ran errands, swept the shop, folded shirts. She carefully put away her money. There was no time anymore to play with Angela, who would say, “Let’s watch television in the store window” or “Let’s pick green coconuts in Carlo’s backyard.”
One day Cristina stopped again to look at the red dress in the window. It was gone! Cristina rushed inside the store. Quickly she pushed aside the dresses on the racks; then she saw it. Will the shopkeeper sell it before I have all the money? she wondered. She had two hundred cruzeiros already. There were just three weeks left, and she still had to ask Mama to lend her eighty cruzeiros.
As Cristina helped at the shop, she noticed how her mother’s feet constantly rocked back and forth on the sewing machine treadle. All of Senhor Luis’s machines were operated that way, because he couldn’t afford to have electricity.
One day Clara, who worked beside Cristina’s mother, cried out, “My legs! Oh, my legs!” and she began to frantically rub them.
Cristina’s mother dropped her work and bent quickly to massage Clara’s legs. “Cristina,” she called, “help me.”
Cristina ran over and rubbed Clara’s legs, too, as hard as she could.
“Thank you,” Clara said a few minutes later. “I am better now.”
But Cristina was upset. She remembered the many times her mother rubbed her own legs when she got home from work. “Mama,” she whispered, “let’s invite Dona Clara to supper tonight.”
“What a good idea!” Her mother smiled, then suddenly looked worried. “But what will we have to eat?”
“I will think of something, Mama.”
At the butcher shop Cristina stood clutching her money in her pocket. “One pound of sausage, please,” she said, counting out sixty cruzeiros. Passing mounds of ripe yellow papayas and heaps of fragrant, purple mangoes at the grocer’s, she selected three beautiful, large oranges. Another ten cruzeiros gone! She bought some bananas and manioc meal too. All together she spent one hundred cruzeiros of her savings.
When her mother came home with Clara, there were marvelous smells coming from the stove. “What are you cooking, Cristina?”
“Sausage with beans, Mama. I bought it with some of my money. I got some fruit, too—see the lovely bananas and oranges?”
Mama smiled and hugged her. “Your father would be proud of you.”
“Come and sit, Mama and Dona Clara.” Cristina dished out the tasty beans, divided up the sausage, then added rice to each plate. The manioc meal went on top of the gravy. They had the fruit for dessert. Cristina saw how much her mother and Clara were enjoying their special supper, but she herself could hardly eat.
“It was delicious!” Clara said with a sigh when she had finished eating. “I feel much better now. Thank you, Cristina. You are a good girl.”
Clara lingered to chat with Mama, and Cristina heard their soft voices in front of the house as she washed the dishes. Soon afterward she went to bed and, despite her sadness, fell asleep quickly.
“Now you’ll never get your costume!” Angela cried the next day when she learned what Cristina had done.
“I felt sorry for Dona Clara, Angela. And my mother works so hard too.”
Her mother was waiting for her when Cristina went to work that afternoon. “Look!” she told Cristina excitedly.
Cristina saw a glowing, shimmering dress hanging on a rack. “A costume!” she whispered, not daring to speak louder for fear it would vanish.
Clara and Senhor Luis laughed. Clara said, “This morning I asked Senhor Luis for some remnants, and he gave me this beautiful material instead. Your mother and I made it into this costume for you.”
Senhor Luis beamed. “You have worked hard, child,” he said. “You deserve it.”
Cristina held the dress against herself. Its silky green material glinted and moved with her body, the rich skirt of many layers swirling about her knees. Soon, Cristina knew, it would be flashing among the other dancers’ costumes.

Old Bob came into our lives in an interesting way. He was a widower in his eighties when the house in which he was living was to be demolished. I heard him tell my grandfather his plight as the three of us sat on the old front porch swing. With a plaintive voice, he said to grandfather, “Mr. Condie, I don’t know what to do. I have no family. I have no place to go. I have no money.” I wondered how grandfather would answer. Slowly grandfather reached into his pocket and took from it that old leather purse from which, in response to my hounding, he had produced many a penny or nickel for a special treat. This time he removed a key and handed it to Old Bob. Tenderly he said, “Bob, here is the key to that house I own next door. Take it. Move in your things. Stay as long as you like. There will be no rent to pay and nobody will ever put you out again.”
Tears welled up in the eyes of Old Bob, coursed down his cheeks, then disappeared in his long, white beard. Grandfather’s eyes were also moist. I spoke no word, but that day my grandfather stood ten feet tall. I was proud to bear his given name. Though I was but a boy, that lesson has influenced my life.

This truth is illustrated in the experience of two young missionaries serving in Europe, in an area where there were few convert baptisms. I suppose it would have been understandable for them to think that what they did wouldn’t make much of a difference.
But these two missionaries had faith, and they were committed. They had the attitude that if no one listened to their message, it would not be because they had not given their best effort.
One day they had the feeling to approach the residents of a well-kept four-story apartment building. They started on the first floor and knocked on each door, presenting their saving message of Jesus Christ and the Restoration of His Church.
No one on the first floor would listen to them.
How easy it would have been to say, “We tried. Let’s stop right here. Let’s go and try another building.”
But these two missionaries had faith and they were willing to work, and so they knocked on every door on the second floor.
Again, no one would listen.
The third floor was the same. And so was the fourth—that is, until they knocked on the last door of the fourth floor.
When that door opened, a young girl smiled at them and asked them to wait while she spoke with her mother.
Her mother was only 36 years old, had recently lost her husband, and was in no mood to talk with Mormon missionaries. So she told her daughter to send them away.
But the daughter pleaded with her. These young men were so nice, she said. And it would take only a few minutes.
So, reluctantly, the mother agreed. The missionaries delivered their message and handed a book to the mother to read—the Book of Mormon.
After they left, the mother decided she would read at least a few pages.
She finished the entire book within a few days.
Not long after, this wonderful single-parent family entered the waters of baptism.
When the small family attended their local branch in Frankfurt, Germany, a young deacon noticed the beauty of one of the daughters and thought to himself, “These missionaries are doing a great job!”
That young deacon’s name was Dieter Uchtdorf. And the charming young woman—the one who had pleaded with her mother to listen to the missionaries—has the beautiful name of Harriet. She is loved by all who meet her as she accompanies me in my travels. She has blessed the lives of many people through her love for the gospel and her sparkling personality. She truly is the sunshine of my life.
How often have I lifted my heart in gratitude for the two missionaries who did not stop at the first floor! How often my heart reaches out in appreciation for their faith and work. How often have I given thanks that they kept going—even to the fourth floor, last door.

When we had five young children, our family struggled to follow this prophetic counsel. It took us about 18 months to finally finish reading the Book of Mormon. Most days we read a page. Each of us read a verse and we helped our youngest daughter, aged four, repeat a verse after one of us read for her. To celebrate, we all went out to eat, and at the table I asked my family what their favourite Book of Mormon story is. The stories included Alma among the Zoramites, the journey to the promised land by Lehi’s family, Helaman and the stripling warriors, Mormon and Moroni, the missionary labors of Ammon, and the conversion of Alma the Younger. Finally, our four-year old daughter added her voice. She said, “Just Jesus!” She taught us a powerful lesson of childlike faith that day.

In closing may I share with you an example of one who determined early in life what his goals would be. I speak of Brother Clayton M. Christensen, a member of the Church who is a professor of business administration in the business school at Harvard University.
When he was 16 years old, Brother Christensen decided, among other things, that he would not play sports on Sunday. Years later, when he attended Oxford University in England, he played center on the basketball team. That year they had an undefeated season and went through to the British equivalent of what in the United States would be the NCAA basketball tournament.
They won their games fairly easily in the tournament, making it to the final four. It was then that Brother Christensen looked at the schedule and, to his absolute horror, saw that the final basketball game was scheduled to be played on a Sunday. He and the team had worked so hard to get where they were, and he was the starting center. He went to his coach with his dilemma. His coach was unsympathetic and told Brother Christensen he expected him to play in the game.
Prior to the final game, however, there was a semifinal game. Unfortunately, the backup center dislocated his shoulder, which increased the pressure on Brother Christensen to play in the final game. He went to his hotel room. He knelt down. He asked his Heavenly Father if it would be all right, just this once, if he played that game on Sunday. He said that before he had finished praying, he received the answer: “Clayton, what are you even asking me for? You know the answer.”
He went to his coach, telling him how sorry he was that he wouldn’t be playing in the final game. Then he went to the Sunday meetings in the local ward while his team played without him. He prayed mightily for their success. They did win.
That fateful, difficult decision was made more than 30 years ago. Brother Christensen has said that as time has passed, he considers it one of the most important decisions he ever made. It would have been very easy to have said, “You know, in general, keeping the Sabbath day holy is the right commandment, but in my particular extenuating circumstance, it’s okay, just this once, if I don’t do it.” However, he says his entire life has turned out to be an unending stream of extenuating circumstances, and had he crossed the line just that once, then the next time something came up that was so demanding and critical, it would have been so much easier to cross the line again. The lesson he learned is that it is easier to keep the commandments 100 percent of the time than it is 98 percent of the time.

Toby looked down at the ring Jerome had slipped onto his third finger. “It will keep us close while I am on my mission,” Jerome had said, smiling down at his ten-year-old brother.
Toby knew how special this ring was to Jerome. Their great-uncle had made it and given it to him when he was ordained to the priesthood. The band was silver, and Uncle had painstakingly carved “LDS” out of turquoise and soldered it to the band. Toby had never seen the ring off Jerome’s finger. “I won’t take it off my finger until I return it to you in two years,” he had promised the handsome missionary.
“Get up, Wind Wolf,” Grandfather called early the next morning. He used Toby’s Indian name only when he wanted him to hurry. “Today we must plant the corn, and old Grandfather Sun will scorch our backs if we do not begin soon.”
Toby quickly dressed, ate a biscuit, drank a glass of milk, and hurried outside. He loved helping Grandfather plant the corn, and he knew that if he kept busy, he wouldn’t miss Jerome as much.
Grandfather dug holes with the narrow, wooden spade that he had made himself. Toby crawled along the rows, dropping two kernels of corn into each hole from the leather pouch he wore around his neck. The sun caused bright sparkles to dance across the silver band on Jerome’s ring, making Toby squint at times.
When all the corn had been planted, Toby and Grandfather looked around at the large plot, pleased with their work.
Still on his knees, Toby reached up to wipe his forehead. He gasped. “Jerome’s ring! It’s gone!” He jumped up, looking frantically.
Grandfather placed his hand on Toby’s shoulder. “Nothing will be accomplished by acting like a chicken with its head cut off. You walk up and down these rows and look for the ring. I will do the same on the rows over there.”
But they did not find the ring.
“Oh, Grandfather, what can I do? The ring means so much to Jerome.”
“There is One who knows where the ring is,” Grandfather said, kneeling on the ground.
Of course! Heavenly Father knew where the ring was. He would help them find it. Toby knelt beside his wise grandfather.
“Now I am sure that I will find it,” Toby said. He got up and began to slowly walk up and down each row again.
But the ring still couldn’t be found.
“Why doesn’t Heavenly Father show me where the ring is?” Toby asked impatiently. “He knows that Jerome is serving him.”
“We will ask again tonight and look again tomorrow,” Grandfather said.
The next morning Toby was on his hands and knees when the sun cast its first beams across the field. He crawled along each row, looking desperately for the ring. Grandfather found him slumped against the hogan. “Grandfather, I have prayed many times and have gone over every inch of the cornfield. Why doesn’t Heavenly Father show me where it is?”
“Heavenly Father knows where the ring is, Toby. If he wants us to find it, we will—but in his own time.”
“Why wouldn’t he want me to find it right now?”
“Maybe there is something you need to find even more than the ring,” Grandfather answered.
“What would I need to find more than Jerome’s ring?”
“That is something you must find out for yourself.”
Sometimes Grandfather doesn’t make any sense, Toby thought. If my prayer isn’t answered right now, the ring will be lost forever.
But it was not found that day, either.
Each morning Toby got up early and made his way slowly and carefully through the cornfield, hoping to see the turquoise initials popping up through the soil. It did not happen. He was very discouraged, but he continued to ask Heavenly Father to help him find the ring.
“Why don’t you fast about it?” suggested his good friend Vincent.
Toby remembered the lesson his Primary teacher had given on fasting and on how miracles may happen when fasting and prayer are used together. He had thought that that was just for grown-ups. The more he thought about it now, however, the more he liked the idea.
It was hard going to school without breakfast, and even harder when all his friends brought out their lunches, but at the end of the school day, he felt good inside. He did not find the ring as he went through the cornfield that evening, but he did find peace. He felt very close to Heavenly Father.
One early morning a few weeks later, Toby heard his grandfather call, “Wind Wolf, come quickly!”
Toby ran outside wondering what was wrong. “Where are you, Grandfather?”
“Here in the cornfield.”
“What is it? Is something wrong?”
Grandfather pointed at a small, green plant sticking up through the brown soil.
“Jerome’s ring!” Toby fell on his hands and knees to see better. The bright, green cornstalk had grown through the silver band and lifted the ring right out of the ground. “It is as if the cornstalk is handing it to me.” Toby carefully lifted it from the tender seedling.
That evening when Grandfather was hoeing in the cornfield, Toby wanted to be near him. “Grandfather, you are very wise.”
“Many years make much experience; much experience makes much wisdom.” Grandfather smiled at Toby.
“I think I know now what it was that I needed to find more than Jerome’s ring.”
Grandfather sat down and leaned against a fence post. “Tell me,” he said, motioning for Toby to sit beside him.
“Well, if I had found Jerome’s ring right away, I would never have prayed all the times I did. I knew that I really needed Heavenly Father’s help, so I prayed differently than I usually do. I really talked to him. And when I fasted, I felt really good.”
“So what did you find, my grandson?”
“I found Heavenly Father’s love for me, Grandfather.”
Neither Toby nor Grandfather said anything for a time. Then Grandfather said, “Tomorrow you must write to your brother about his first convert.”

The wood had broiled in the sun for so many years that it was now the color of faded cardboard. Wind and rain had warped and cracked its weary surface.

Slap! A brush drenched the crevice where the old board joined the fence post. Slosh! A roller dipped in its tray, then spread a thick layer of rust-red latex over the tired timber, which drank its fill and noticed that its neighbors, too, were being refreshed by some benevolent teenagers. The old corral would never look the same!

Across the road, weeds and grass, fed by 80-degree spring water, had clogged irrigation channels. Now young men and women toiled side by side, knee and elbow-deep in moss and slime. As they freed paths for water to make its way to the pastures, they smiled and laughed and joked and cheered each other on. At the same time, their counterparts in another field were clearing away piles of dead palm fronds trimmed by previous work crews, piling trucks high with debris.

It was not a typical youth conference.

True enough, when the young people from three of Las Vegas’ ten stakes had gathered for the conference’s opening session the night before, they had enjoyed a musical fireside, including an impromptu chorus starring the presidents of the Las Vegas, Las Vegas South, and Las Vegas Nevada Redrock stakes.

And it was also true that following the fireside there was a dance where young men and young women mingled and made new friends. And there were still a testimony meeting, meetings with featured speakers, and a ranch-style barbecue dinner to come. There would even be a game session featuring horseshoes, earth ball competition, a greased pig chase, an obstacle course, and a tug-of-war.

But the most impressive event was the all-day Saturday cleanup at the Warm Springs welfare ranch and farm, 60 miles northeast of town.

Following an early-morning breakfast at one of the stake centers, a dozen work crews (each identified by a specific T-shirt color) boarded a dozen buses (each labeled with a sign of the same color) and were conveyed across the sage-speckled desert toward the welfare property.

In transit, crew members, directed by captains of 10 and captains of 40 (to match bus capacity), were required to interview each other and fill out forms listing favorite foods, date of birth, hobbies, Church callings, and other get-acquainted facts:

“We purposely mixed people from different stakes so they would be able to make friends with new people,” explained Gary Tonks, 17, captain of the light blue bus. “We wanted them to work together at the farm, but we thought that would be easier if they knew each other first.”

The buses left the freeway and tooled along a lesser road, adrift in the barren mounds of an ochre, gray, and tan moonscape, dry enough to give a lizard thirst. Then, over one last rise, a patch of green! Green! Palm trees danced a wind-inspired hula, while streams, glinting like diamonds in the sun, encircled plants and fields in belts of silver.

Fortunately for the work crews, this was not some sand-weary traveler’s illusion, no mirage born of too much sun. Warm Springs, Nevada, is an oasis in every sense of the word. Thermal water gushes up here from an underground source, blessing the parched earth with life. A billboard beckons tourists to visit a privately owned recreational water slide; environmentalists on field trips inspect the warm-water canals for a fish species indigenous to the area; and the skyscraping palms converge in cavernous groves that offer seclusion and shade in summer and shelter from the harsh winter wind.

The property, purchased about four years ago, may eventually be developed to include pomegranate groves, grape vines, cottonwood trees (for firewood), range cattle, a dairy, a pig farm, a turkey farm, a catfish pond, a swimming pool, grain fields, and silos for storage. It is also used from time to time for camping and Scouting activities, and so many of the youth conference participants had been here before.

Each crew was assigned to a work area, again according to T-shirt color, and within minutes, the farm was engulfed by workers shoveling, carrying, hoeing, sawing, raking, hacking, and stacking. Invading mesquite bushes were whacked off at the roots, cut up, and carted away. Barbed wire was restrung and tightened. The farm manager’s yard was weeded and manicured until it looked professionally landscaped.

“We already had the bus leaders come out to the farm,” explained Jacie Summers, 17, of the 51st Ward, South Stake. “There were three or four sessions when they were allowed to come and practice doing all the jobs so that they’d be qualified to supervise. Now they’re in charge of groups, but they know what to have them do.” Her job? “Today we’re cleaning pig pens,” she said, grinning.

“Usually we go to a youth conference and sit in classrooms during workshops,” said David Brown, 18, of the 28th Ward, Las Vegas Stake. “We always have some people sitting alone, eating alone, not feeling involved. We felt like this was a way for them to feel part of the conference, for us to be able to work with others, and for everyone at the end of the day to feel satisfied with what we got done.”

“I like to work, and working with friends makes it fun,” said Andrea Hildreath, 17, of the South Stake’s 47th Ward. And Heather Rodriguez, 15, of the Third Ward, Las Vegas Stake, added that “it’s not the thing I’d normally anticipate doing for fun, but it’s what you make it. If you come in with a good attitude and make it fun, it will be. The best part was meeting lots of new people.”

“We explained at a fireside what we planned to do at the conference,” Jacie said. “We told them we were going to work and work hard, but we explained how they could help and how much good it would do for the farm.”

Evidently the appeal was convincing. “This is the biggest turnout we’ve ever had for a youth conference,” Jacie said. And Gary, who served on the steering committee with her, noted that more than 500 attended an activity originally planned for 300. “At first we were afraid people would be turned off by the idea of working, but it turned out to be one of the best ideas ever.”

A quick look around the farm would have been enough to convince anyone he was right. There were so many willing volunteers, one of the biggest problems was finding enough tools to go around. Another problem was distributing oranges to everyone for a morning break. There were plenty of oranges, but everyone was so involved working there was only a minimal distribution crew!

The strenuous labor made the juicy sweetness of the fresh fruit even more appealing, and the workers relaxed momentarily, leaning on the fence posts, hillsides, and even sides of automobiles. They talked, as they often do with those from out of town, about what it’s like to live in Las Vegas.

“Most people think you live in a casino,” said Bruce Tingey, 17, of the 51st Ward, South Stake. “They don’t realize that this is actually a home town for some, that people, especially Mormons, really live here. But there are lots of Church members in Vegas.”

“It’s easy to find good examples,” said Suzann Melaerts, 16, of the 31st Ward, Las Vegas Stake. “But it’s easy to find bad ones, too. You have to be strong. I’m glad for the opportunity to share with those who want to know about the gospel.”

“I’ve never lived anywhere else,” Andrea added. “But I’ve been other places. I love it here because the Church is so strong.” Bruce’s sister, Christine, agreed. “We have more opportunities to share the gospel here because a lot of people know about the Church already. It’s an ideal situation—plenty of chances to do missionary work, and yet there are enough members that you don’t feel like you’re all by yourself.”

Heather nodded her head. “About 50 percent of my friends are members of the Church. About 50 percent aren’t. I have an obligation to share the gospel. I want others to have the same happiness I do.”

Heather told of a friend who’s investigating the Church. “We talk a lot, almost every day,” Heather said. And others mentioned a young lady who was baptized shortly after last year’s youth conference. Looking around, they pointed out half a dozen nonmembers mixed in with the crowd around them.

“There were six or seven new members baptized last year in my high school,” Andrea said. “Three of them are on missions now.”

On another part of the ranch, Kristie Ferrell, a 16-year-old member of the Third Ward, Las Vegas Stake, sat chatting with a nonmember friend who accompanied her to the conference. They discussed the youth activities the Church sponsors, as well as Kristie’s active role in her ward. Kristie leads music for the Young Women and is second counselor in her Mia Maid class. She enjoys volleyball and basketball.

Soon others were describing fun activities, too. Suzann remembered girls’ camp hikes in the nearby mountains and seminary lessons that “gave me a good feeling and made me want to do right all day long.” Walter Wagner, 15, of the 19th Ward, Redrock Stake, mentioned the dances held each week at different chapels and the rappeling classes with the teachers quorum in Redrock Canyon. “lt was scary at first,” he said, “but we got used to it.”

Soon the break would be over, and while the laborers finished their chores, adult advisers and some of the ranch hands would be butter-basting potatoes in charcoal-heated dutch ovens and slicing roast pork for the feast to come. The testimony meeting and choral performance scheduled for early evening would eventually be postponed until Sunday because of rushing desert winds, though the testimonies borne would be fervent and tender after a day’s rest gentled the effects of fatigue. Even the games, though riotous at first, would be short-lived because nearly everyone was exhausted.

But for one small moment, no one worried about all that. For one small moment in the bright, clear winter sunshine, there was a near-unanimous contentment, a happiness at being united in service and companionship with fellow Saints. And there was a realization that here there was more than one kind of oasis—that through service, love, gospel-sharing, and reaching out, the Saints in Las Vegas are building a spiritual oasis that will invigorate the desert people for eternities to come.

One day after a particularly hard shift in the hospital’s pediatrics unit, I was tired and grumpy. As I walked to the security desk, I noticed some beautiful flowers. When I commented to the person at the desk how beautiful they were and how good they smelled, she told me I could have them.
I was so happy! I thought that surely Heavenly Father wanted me to have the flowers to brighten my day.
Walking out of the hospital, I found myself behind a woman in a wheelchair. I grew impatient with her but finally was able to pass her as we exited the building. As I passed, she lifted her head and said, “Oh, what beautiful flowers.” I thanked her and hurried toward my husband, who was waiting in our car. I was excited to show him my flowers.
Suddenly I felt the Holy Ghost tell me that the woman needed the flowers more than I did. I was reluctant to give them to her, but I followed the prompting. When I asked if she would like them, I hoped she would say no.
“Oh, yes!” she replied. “I would love them. They are beautiful.”
I handed them to her, but as I turned to leave, she began to sob. When I asked if she was all right, she told me that her husband had passed away several years ago and that it had been more than a year since any of her children had visited her. She said she had been pleading with God to show her a sign of His love.
“You are an angel sent from God to give me my favorite flowers,” she said. “Now I know that He loves me.”
My heart broke. I had been so selfish. This woman needed a loving word, and I didn’t even want to talk to her. I was no angel. As we parted, I also started to cry.
When I reached the car, my husband asked what was wrong and why I had given away my flowers. He seemed confused but then relieved as I related the story.
“I sent you roses today. I felt that you needed them,” he said. “I was worried you had just given them away. If those weren’t the flowers I sent you, where are they?”
It turned out that the floral shop had forgotten to deliver the roses, so we drove to the shop. My husband went in and soon came out with a beautiful bouquet.
I couldn’t help but cry again. Heavenly Father had asked me to sacrifice those flowers, knowing that there was something better waiting for me and also that His lonely daughter needed a reminder of His love.

Shortly after the pioneers entered the Salt Lake Valley, a young man named David Cannon brought his wife, Wilhelmina, to southern Utah to help start a settlement. Wilhelmina, or “Willie” as she was called, was not at all happy. She hated the hot, dry desert, and cried constantly. She pleaded with her husband to take her back east, where plants and trees grew more easily and the weather was more moderate.
“Everything is so ugly here,” she complained. “If you can show me just one beautiful thing in this place, I will make myself content and stop complaining.”
David went up into the mountains and returned with a beautiful three-petaled blossom with delicate colors. Willie honestly admitted to both David and herself that it was indeed a thing of beauty. She never again complained but went to work with her husband to make a productive farm and lovely home in the St. George area, where they lived for many years.
Amazingly, the same kind of plant that inspired one discouraged pioneer with its blossom, saved the lives of countless others with its nutritious roots. It was the sego lily.

Living next to the border between Mexico and the United States, we enjoyed traditions of both cultures. Every year in school we had piñatas. One year I was sitting on the first row and the blind-folded child successfully hit the candy-filled piñata with a stick. I was the first one able to reach the candy when the piñata broke open. I had my arms around the whole thing. Within two or three seconds every other child in the school was on top of me. I was just flattened, and I lost everything.
The lesson I learned from that experience was that sometimes when we are greedy and try to take it all, we end up losing it all. If I had started passing the candy around, the other children wouldn’t have all jumped on top of me. But because I tried to take so much, I lost everything.

Chandradas “Roshan” and Sheron Antony of Colombo, Sri Lanka, decided to be sealed in the temple. Their friends Ann and Anton Kumarasamy were so excited for them. But they knew that getting to the Manila Philippines Temple wasn’t easy or cheap.
Roshan and Sheron had saved their money and booked flights months in advance to get a flight they could afford. Finally, the day came. However, during their layover in Malaysia, they discovered that to continue on to the Philippines, they either needed a visa or needed to fly on a different airline. It wasn’t possible to get a visa, and they couldn’t afford to buy tickets on another airline. But they couldn’t bear the thought of returning home without being sealed.
Unsure what else to do, Roshan called Anton. Anton and Ann desperately wanted to help. They were one of the few couples in Sri Lanka who had been sealed in the temple, and they knew what a blessing it was. But they had recently used their savings to help a family member in need, and they didn’t have enough money to help Roshan and Sheron buy tickets for a new flight.
In Sri Lanka it is customary for the groom to buy the bride a gold necklace so that she will have some money if her husband dies. Ann decided to sell her necklace to help buy the new tickets. Her generous gift made it possible for Roshan and Sheron to make their temple appointment in Manila.
“I know the value of a temple sealing,” Ann said. “I knew Sheron and Roshan would be a great strength to the branch. I didn’t want them to miss this opportunity.”3

As a small boy on the farm during the searing heat of the summer, I remember my grandmother Mary Finlinson cooking our delicious meals on a hot wood stove. When the woodbox next to the stove became empty, Grandmother silently picked it up, refilled it from the pile of cedar wood outside, and brought the heavily laden box back into the house. I was so interested in the conversation in the kitchen that I sat there and let my beloved grandmother refill the kitchen woodbox. I feel ashamed of myself and have regretted my omission all my life. I hope someday to ask for her forgiveness.

One day when we were visiting Grandpa, he asked us if we would like to see the inside of one of the hives. We all said yes, but we didn’t know how we could do it. Grandpa laughed and said it was easy.

First of all, he started a fire in a little can. It was a special can that he used to blow smoke on his arms. He said that bees don’t like smoke and that blowing it on him would help to keep them away.

Next, Grandpa put a big net over his head. Once a lot of bees had stung him on the face and it got so swollen that he couldn’t open his eyes. I guess he didn’t want that to happen again!

When he was all ready, Grandpa walked over to one of the hives, gave it a squirt of smoke, and lifted off the top board. Then he pulled out a sort of screen that was covered with bees busy making honey in little compartments called honeycombs. Dad took lots of pictures of the bees working so we could remember what they looked like.

After he checked the top layers of both hives, Grandpa took his net off and walked over to where the bees were drinking water. Then he did something really brave. He caught a bee by the wings between his fingers and held it close to his hand and let it sting him! Grandpa said that this was just like getting a shot for the measles. By letting a bee sting him every once in a while, he believes he won’t get too sick if someday a whole bunch of them sting him again.

LaRae is Gene’s wife and the mother of two teenage children. She usually gets very tired before the day is over but on her perfect day she felt very invigorated. She was able to accomplish many of the things she wanted to do. “But,” she added, “by trying to keep a day perfect, I realized some of the habits I had gotten into. For instance, I would suddenly get mad at Gene for some silly, insignificant reason. It was just a habit with me. Now I’m working on correcting it.”

Whenever Robert Norton got on a bike, he was a whole new person.
“Robert would go outside at eight in the morning and ride his bike in our driveway until ten at night. He got so good at it that he was the fastest Special Olympics cyclist in Connecticut,” says his younger brother Lee. “Before he got involved in Special Olympics, Robert was a loner. But when he came to Special Olympics, he opened up. He made friends, and kids at school started talking to him, though they hadn’t before.”
For nearly 30 years, the Special Olympics has been helping athletes with disabilities compete with one another on local, national, and international levels. Robert, who was mentally disabled, competed in many Special Olympics before he died in 1992. “I miss my brother, and I never put him out of my mind,” explains Lee. “The Special Olympics really fulfilled Robert’s life and was a great thing for him.”
Robert’s memory lived on when the Special Olympics became a great thing for a group of Latter-day Saint teenagers, too—including Lee.
During the summer of 1995, leaders of three stakes in the United States—in Connecticut and Rhode Island—were planning to combine three youth conferences into one. “The stake leaders were interested in youth conference ideas, and they asked kids what they felt like doing,” recalls Lee, 15, a teacher in the New Haven Stake’s Newtown Ward. “We talked about doing community service—you know, gardening and stuff like that.”
Then came the suggestion to help at the Ninth Special Olympic World Games, to be held in and around New Haven, Connecticut. The idea was met with great enthusiasm, and it wasn’t long before more than 400 Latter-day Saint youth from the three stakes were signed up as volunteers.
The youth conference theme was “Ye Are the Light of the World.” And the LDS teens were just that. They served in a wide range of ways—from cheerleading to working in concession stands. “We really felt that we were like a candle and we could pass that light on to each other through caring about and serving these athletes. You really can do that by just being a great example,” says Lee, who couldn’t have asked for a better way to serve. The competitions were in his home state, and if there’s one thing Lee knows, it’s the Special Olympics.
Because of all the time he spent when his brother Robert was competing, and then in 1994 when Lee was a Special Olympics volunteer for Connecticut’s state games, Lee understood what volunteering at the World Games would involve. And he was able to watch other youth his age learn how much fun they could have through helping and serving special-needs athletes.
“I was really happy to see that all the kids were totally involved. They went up to the athletes and gave them hugs, high-fives, or whatever they needed,” says Lee.
Ben Johansen agrees. “We had a lot of fun. We wanted to serve, and everything was totally focused on serving. These athletes do their best with the abilities they’ve been given. I’ve learned that the winners in this life are the ones who do the most with what they have, not who crosses the finish line first.”
The first International Special Olympics was held in July 1968 in Chicago, Illinois. It involved 1,000 Special Olympians from Canada and the United States. It has grown to include more than 7,000 athletes from about 140 countries and to involve 45,000 volunteers. In 1993, for the first time, the winter Special Olympics were held outside North America, in Austria. European summer Special Olympics have been held in Belgium and Scotland.
At 1995’s track-and-field venue in Connecticut, the LDS youths gathered near where the athletes entered the track and shook hands, gave pats on the back, and offered encouragement. The athletes’ smiles got even bigger when their LDS helpers asked for their autographs.
“They are really happy when you smile or say congratulations to them. As soon as you start talking to them, they become cheerful and talkative,” says Stephanie Perry.
That attitude rubbed off on the LDS volunteers, too.
“At other youth conferences I’ve been to, we do service, and then one of our leaders gets a letter of thanks. Half the people who worked on the project don’t even realize what we did was appreciated. It’s so much better being interactive,” says Merilee Hales. “You could see the excitement these kids had when we would shake their hands and give high-fives.”
Says Ben Stratford, “The best thing about it was the time we spent with the Special Olympians and the example they provided for me.”
On a brutally hot day in New Haven, many of the young men and young women gathered in Yale University’s football stadium with brooms in hand. Their job was to sweep up debris in preparation for the Games’ closing ceremonies. While Lee swept piles of garbage into bags, he stopped to consider what they had been doing during their three days of service.
“Sweeping is just manual work. After you’re done sweeping, the stadium is not going to remember you sweeping it,” he says. “But these athletes will remember you. They’ll remember us. That’s what really means a lot to me. And I will remember them.”
When Lee was interacting with the Special Olympians, he had seen real joy and happiness, especially when the athletes would smile at him.
And as Lee smiled back, he couldn’t help but think of his brother Robert.

Enough is enough, and the mailman was feeling a little bit sorry for himself as he wiped away the water that had cascaded onto his face from his plastic-covered hat and delivered one of the last letters of the day. The return address on the envelope was 50 East North Temple, Salt Lake City, Utah 84150.
The leaders of the Van Nuys California Stake who received the letter read it a second time and looked quizzically at one another.
“What’s a Heritage Arts Festival?” one of them asked.
“I don’t know,” another answered, looking out a rain-streaked window and sighing. “Let’s read the letter again.”
The letter wasn’t much help. It made it quite clear that the young people of the stake were to hold a Heritage Arts Festival, but it simply didn’t explain what one was. And so, with only a title to go on, they forgot all about the rain and started exercising their ingenuity.
They decided that whatever else the festival turned out to be, it should be something that “shows our neighbors and friends what young Latter-day Saints can be.” They met with the youth and adult leaders of the various wards in the stake and came up with a full calendar for an April afternoon and evening. The festival was to include craft and food booths emphasizing Mormon pioneer heritage, facilities for family picnics, and a creative arts contest. The theme would be “From Then Till Now—1830–1975,” and the evening would end with a program in which each ward in the stake would represent one time period from then till now. And in a rather bold move, considering the weather, they decided to locate the booths out-of-doors.
A few months later, on the morning of the festival, the wards of the stake were busy practicing their skits and working on their booths. Inside the stake center a young man in blue jeans and a Civil War coat wandered by toward the stage where Abraham Lincoln was being fitted for his tall black cardboard hat. The great emancipator was wearing a cast, having recently broken his leg, and would have to lead his people through the Civil War in that condition.
It was a bright, sunny day in the San Fernando Valley, without a hint of smog. The weatherman had predicted rain; the young people and their leaders had prayed for good weather. The weatherman was a good meteorologist, but he was simply out of his league.
At about 4:00 in the afternoon the crowds started arriving. They wandered from booth to booth, enjoying the displays and the free samples at the food booths. Some of them ate picnics on the lawn, where tables and chairs had been provided for them.
As the crowds milled around the booths, a distinguished looking group of men in dark hats and coats appeared carrying a bucket, an easel, and some pictures. One of the men upended the bucket and mounted it while another set up the easel. Soon the crowd was being treated to an authentic 19th century street meeting—authentic, that is, except for the bullhorn that the preacher used. The meeting started with four of the missionaries singing “Sweet Is the Work” in beautiful harmony, followed by a gospel sermon and another hymn. Wags from the local wards provided some unsolicited heckling, but the elders handled it in fine form, turning the barbs back on their assailants. Then a man from the Spanish Branch wandered by and shouted, “Puras mentiras!” (It’s all a lie!) in a voice of pious conviction.
“What this good brother says is true—whatever it was he said!” the missionary exclaimed, pointing his cane for emphasis. Another street meeting was held every quarter hour or so, with a different stake or full-time missionary preaching each time.
At the booth of the Spanish Branch a lady demonstrated how to make delicate bread-dough roses. An onlooker asked a question, and the lady spread her hands and replied, “I’m no expert”; then she smiled as a teenager arrived. “Here’s the expert,” she said, and the girl took over the demonstration. In front of the candle-dipping display a young fellow watched the laborious process and shook his head.
“They didn’t really have to go through all that just to make a candle, did they?” he said.
A knot of people gathered in front of the Candy Kitchen, inhaling the aroma and happily licking chocolate-smeared fingers. A young lady took her first look at a real chunk of homemade lye soap and asked, “Is that cheese?” A father barely put his son down at the arm-wrestling area and then smiled a little doubtfully, rubbing his hand. “Wait till next year,” his son smiled.
As 7:00 P.M. approached, more and more of the youths turned the booths over to their adult leaders and went inside to get costumed for the evening’s performance.
In the Junior Sunday School room a ward warmed up for its presentation. Some girls with beauty spots on their cheeks and fiery red lipstick on their lips, wearing fringed flapper dresses, frilly garters, voluminous strings of beads, and head-hugging hats, chewed gum furiously and kicked their way through a deadpan Charleston. Young men in striped vests, black bow ties, and cardboard skimmers practiced a little soft-shoe. One of them pistoned his hat on and off, keeping pace with his eyebrows and looking like a one-man chorus line. A long-lashed brunette gave several experimental flounces with her feathered boa, rolling her eyes in the top half of a glamourous pout. A blonde in black net stockings stood knock-kneed, squinting into a tiny mirror as she applied her makeup. The pianist bounced up and down on the stool in time to the music, and a young man knocked out the rhythm with the back of his knuckles on the top of the upright piano.
In the men’s room, costumes were going on. A young man in a white T-shirt with the arms rolled up scowled into the mirror, seeking just the right air of bored insolence. Then he combed his hair carefully back into a classic ducktail. When he was ready, he looked exactly like a refugee from the 50s trapped somehow in the wrong decade.
All 350 cast members eventually gathered in the chapel to await the beginning of the program. The flappers and bobby soxers mingled with Civil War belles, barbershop quartets and fine ladies from the 90s, Confederate and Union soldiers with lipstick wounds, rock fans, victims of the Depression, soldiers from both world wars, carefully gowned and hatted ladies carrying placards demanding the vote for women, rough-clad pioneers, and a sea of others. The chapel looked like a passenger lounge in a time machine terminal.
Near the door a woman with a bag full of fruit pointed a half-peeled banana at her gowned and rouged daughter. “Eat it! You’ve got to eat something or you’ll get sick.” The girl looked heavenward in a voiceless sermon on the woes of raising Mom, but she ate it while her mother smiled proudly at her.
There were some last-minute instructions and a prayer. An electric wave of preshow jitters filled the room as the crowd sounds drifted in and the hour drew near.
To start the show, the flags of each ward, which had been designed by the young people, were brought in to the flourishes of a trumpet fanfare and set up in their places.
Johnny Whitaker, popular young Mormon entertainer, emceed the show. After the invocation and a few words of introduction, he swang into a rousing rendition of “I Believe in Music,” and on the second verse the 350 young people came streaming down the aisles, singing along with him. “I believe in music. I believe in love!” They sang to a packed house, easily more than 1,000 spectators, many of them standing around the edges of the hall and at the back. There was standing room only and then only behind somebody else. After their grand entry the cast filed into a room where they awaited their turn to perform.
“Reach back, America, into the dim, far-off pages of beginnings—to the beginnings of our Mormon heritage where all the things that touched others touched us,” Johnny began; and “From Then Till Now” became a reality.
The stake Young Adults presented the first period, the early days of the Church when the Prophet Joseph was alive, depicting a trial scene in which he was found innocent of the charges but warned not to preach his doctrine any more.
The Sherman Oaks Second Ward handled the pioneer era, showing a camp scene from the trek across the plains and throwing in a rousing old-time square dance, complete with a professional caller who donated his services.
The Civil War era was interpreted by the Panorama City Ward, complete with Abraham Lincoln, Civil War songs, and both armies.
The San Fernando Ward recreated the gay 90s, featuring the beautiful songs of the period, bicycles built for two, barbershop quartets, and boundless optimism.
The Van Nuys Ward brought to life the first two decades of the 20th century, including a war, boogie woogie, automobiles, and suffragettes.
The Sylmar Ward recreated a rousing, roaring 20s with authentic song and dance numbers, raccoon coats, flappers, the Charleston, jazz, and no tomorrow.
The Spanish Branch recalled the dismal 30s in their skit, featuring songs and dances of the period that showed optimism in times of adversity.
The Van Nuys Third Ward interpreted the 40s with a war, a Statue of Liberty wheeled in on a dolly, and songs, dances, and people of the period.
The Sherman Oaks Ward zeroed in on the 50s with an American Bandstand presentation, singing songs such as “Mr. Sandman” and “Rockin’ Robin.” There was also a personal visit from “Elvis.”
The Sepulveda Ward presented the 60s, complete with rock concerts, the Beatles, and protests.
Everything went smoothly from the audience’s point of view. Scenery changes seemed to happen by magic, and the show flowed as if it had been rehearsed a hundred times, although there had been only one full-stake rehearsal. But back stage between skits was a different story as the exiting cast, scenery, and props from one ward met the next ward coming on stage. Then covered wagons warred with Confederate soldiers, and the Statute of Liberty was buffeted by hordes of pretty girls with parasols. It was a mammoth stampede in which each decade seemed bent on trampling another, but somehow everything always untangled itself in time for the curtain.
When it came time for the 1970s, the cast members in their various costumes all took their places at the front of the hall to form a 350-voice choir. They had practiced their songs on Sunday evenings for several weeks, and there was a fine, gentle spirit as they sang songs of love and peace.
Just before the closing prayer, two children walked into the spotlight and sang “I Am a Child of God,” the choir joining in on the last verse. It was an appropriate ending to a performance full of love and understanding and hope.
In retrospect, the festival provided not only entertainment and fun, but some wonderful memories and a lot of learning. For example, preparation of the displays and the program required the youth to do some serious research. The young people who prepared the genealogy booth studied the principles of genealogy and made a trip to the local Genealogical Society branch library.
Others learned how to make soap, candles, and other essentials the same way pioneers did, not to mention many contemporary craft skills. Some high school history teachers may also be surprised at the knowledge of U.S. history their LDS students have picked up by researching a time period for their skits.
The festival was also a wonderful missionary for the many nonmember and inactive young people who took part. For example, a band that was composed of both member and nonmember youths not only got everyone in the group excited about the Church, but made them decide to keep the group together after the festival.
A number of nonmember adults took part also, doing everything from teaching dance steps to sewing costumes. One non-Mormon hair dresser volunteered to style the hair of all the girls in her ward in the style of the period they represented.
The adult leaders in each ward rolled up their sleeves and worked hard right alongside the youth. Typical was one good sister who attended the dress rehearsal the night before the performance, did some energetic dance steps to illustrate a bit of last-minute choreography, sang her heart out, and then went to the hospital that night and had her baby.
The separate parts of the production were not actually brought together until the last few days before the festival, and there was a lot of pressure and hurry for those in charge. One sister was so caught up that she drove her daughter to school one morning and was parked in front of the school before realizing that she had forgotten the daughter.
But in spite of this one bit of absentmindedness, the young people of the Van Nuys Stake know very well that they are not forgotten, nor will they forget this experience. No one told them in advance what a Heritage Arts Festival was, but no one had any doubts afterwards. It was not only a good way to bring in some sunshine in place of rain, but it was also a great way to serve and grow and learn to love one another. Above all it was a way to “show our neighbors and friends what young Latter-day Saints can be.”

It had been a long week. I walked into the fireside broadcast late, struggling to filter out thoughts of exams, assignments, work, and friends. I hoped that somehow the words of the prophet could pierce through all these concerns and sink into my heart.
Oh, how I hoped and silently prayed for help to focus on the words of the prophet. And my prayer was answered. I walked into the fireside with my view clouded and troubled. When I left, I had a refreshed outlook on life and some plain, simple truths—a recipe for happiness.
Be grateful, be smart, be clean, be true, be humble, and be prayerful. How simple these statements are. How great a difference they can make in my life!
I know this gospel contains truth that is lacking elsewhere. I know that the prophet loves me. I am grateful that our Heavenly Father and the Savior love us enough to give us specific, individual guidance in our lives through prayer and through the words of our prophet. These things are plain, simple, and true.
Lisa Ware, age 19,Rochedale Ward, Eight Mile Plains Australia Stake

Bang! Crash! The broomstick hit the garbage can lid such a blow that Steven fell to the ground. “You’re not supposed to hit so hard. I’m not a real dragon, you know.”
“Sorry, Steve,” Mike said. “I know you’re not, but I wish you were. I mean—I just wish there were still dragons around someplace.”
“Me too,” said Steven. “I’d slay them all and rescue people.”
“And when we got back to town they’d have a big parade for us,” suggested Mike.
“And root beer floats,” Steven added.
“But it’s no use,” Mike complained. “There’s nobody to rescue anymore. No dragons. No maidens in distress. Nothing exciting to do.”
“Steven! Are you out there?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“I need something at the store. Will you go for me please?”
“OK, Mom, in a minute.”
“That gives me an idea!” Mike said, jumping up from the grass. “There’re still people to rescue. Your mom needs to be rescued right now.”
“That’s not rescuing! I go to the store all the time.”
“Yes, but this is different. Now we’ll go looking for chances to help people just like knights did in the olden days!”
“OK,” said Steve, catching his friend’s enthusiasm. “And if it’s a lady, we can give her a red rose from one of our bushes. Knights love to do stuff like that.”
“Thanks, boys,” said Steven’s mother when they returned from the store. “I really needed these things in a hurry. You saved my day.”
“Well,” said Steven, “that’s our job.”
“Here you are, madam. This red rose is for you to remember us by,” Mike added. “Now we have more knight work to do.”
“Night work?” asked Steven’s mother incredulously, as she put the rose in some water. “But it’s only two o’clock in the afternoon! However, I’m grateful for your help whatever time you’re going by.”
“It was our pleasure, madam, and all in a day’s work,” Mike said, bowing extravagantly.
The boys were pleased as they ran outside. “Now what?” they said, laughing because it sounded like one voice. Looking around for something else to do, they noticed that Mrs. Thompson’s yard was covered with leaves. A half hour later there was not a single fallen leaf to be seen, and a red rose was tucked into Mrs. Thompson’s mailbox. “She’ll never know it was us, “Mike said, grinning with pleasure.
Just then the two knights saw something that alarmed them. Little Jimmy Black had wandered into the street, chasing a big beach ball. And a car was coming around the corner only a block away. “Mike! Quick!” shouted Steven. “You get the ball. But be careful!” The two boys ran at top speed down the sidewalk. Looking carefully, they walked quickly into the street.
Mike grabbed the ball, and Steven picked up Jimmy.
Just as the boys returned to the curb, the car whizzed past and Mrs. Black ran out of her house. “Boys,” she cried, “I can’t thank you enough! I saw Jimmy in the street, but by the time I got here, you already had him out of the path of that car. I’m so grateful to you.”
“That’s all right. You don’t have to thank us. We like doing this kind of work.” The two boys smiled.
Just then Mike’s mother called from his house, “Mike! Steven! Could you come here a minute?”
As the two boys climbed the porch steps, they saw a tray and began to smile. “I thought you might like a treat,” said Mike’s mother.
“Root beer floats!” said Steven. “My favorite!”
“Mine too!” Mike agreed. “Being a real, live knight is lots more fun than fighting pretend dragons.”
When Mike’s mother came out to pick up the tray and glasses, the boys were already gone. But their empty glasses were neatly placed on the table, and beside them lay a beautiful red rose.