Gospel Story Finder

Sam’s dad, Chris, has some precious possessions—six ordinary grey pebbles given to him by his daughter when she was little. Sam tells the story:
“I was about seven when my dad was going on a business trip for three days. He didn’t travel often, and I was nervous that while he was gone he would forget us. I wanted to give him something to remind him of his wife, my two older brothers, me, and even our dog. I don’t know what made me get the pebbles. I guess since I was in Primary, they taught me about the brother of Jared and his stones.
“I went outside and picked up six pebbles. I cleaned them off and put them in a paper towel. I took them upstairs and told him not to forget us while he was gone. I told him that each one was for a family member. It’s a good thing I gave him six, because my youngest sister was born after that, and she took over the dog’s pebble. I didn’t think he would keep them forever. Now he talks about them all the time. He was excited that his little daughter understood the importance of families and how the Church is based on family. He still keeps them in his trinket box and takes them with him whenever he has to travel. I didn’t know that as a seven-year-old I would have such an impact. It makes me feel kind of special as well.”

“Come, Patrick,” the old shepherd called to the boy who was warming his hands by the roaring fire, “time to climb the hill for the night.”
The boy stood up and, wrapping the bearskin cloak around him, answered, “Coming, sir.” Obediently, he followed the old man away from the warmth of the fire into the cold blackness of the surrounding countryside.
“It’s been a hard winter,” the old man said to Patrick as they trudged up the steep hill, “but you’ve learned your job well, and you haven’t complained about the cold or the long nights. When it is time for me to report to our king, I will tell him what a good servant he has in you.”
“Thank you,” the boy replied, “but I like the sheep. Caring for them is not hard for me. As for the cold,” he shrugged his strong young shoulders, “one learns to live with it. No use complaining.”
They reached the top of the hill and approached the fire that the day shepherd had lit as soon as the sun had started to set.
“Ho, Finn!” the old man called.
“Ho, Ober!” came the answer from a man kneeling by the fire. “I am very glad you are here. I fear my old bones are nearly frozen.” He smiled up at Patrick. “Ho, lad. Mind this fire tonight. Don’t let it die down. Listen.”
Patrick strained his ears. Mixed with the low whistle of the icy wind came another sound that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle.
“A-ooooooooo,” it sounded again from the distance, low and ghostly.
“Wolves,” Patrick whispered.
“Yes, boy,” old Finn agreed. “It’s been a hard winter for them too. One or two young sheep would make them a real banquet. Keep a sharp eye out.” He stood up and stretched. “I’m going down now. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Finn. We’ll see you at dawn,” Ober answered.
“You make the rounds to the west tonight, and I’ll make them to the east,” Ober instructed Patrick.
“Yes, sir.” Patrick picked up a pine stick and stuck it into the fire until the end blazed. Using it for a light, he set off into the inky darkness to check his master’s flock of sheep. He whistled his own little tune, so the sheep would know it was he who walked among them and not be frightened. Now and then he stopped to pat a woolly head.
It was on these dark, lonesome rounds that Patrick most missed his homeland and his family. It had been two years now since that night when he had been carried away by the strange and wild boatmen and transported to this harsh land. It had been two years of service to the king; two years of learning, growing, and longing to return to his home. But I must not let myself feel sad, he inwardly scolded.
Patrick finished checking the sheep and started back to the fire. “I must do my job while I look for a chance to get home again—somehow—someday,” he murmured.
Ober was sitting by the fire when Patrick returned.
“All’s well,” he said.
“It may be, lad, but keep the fire up. Those wolves seem bold tonight.”
“Would they come so close to the fire and humans, sir? I always thought wolves were wild and stayed well back in the forest.”
“They do, mostly,” Ober answered, “except when a winter like this one comes along, and there’s no game left in the forest for them. Hunger is a powerful thing, Patrick. I’ve lost many a sheep close to the fire on a winter night such as this.”
Ober and Patrick leaned against the big trees near the fire. Patrick stomped his feet to keep them from freezing. Something caught his eye on the other side of the fire. It was a strange, small gleam of light. No, two small gleams, like summer fireflies. Now there were four, now six!
Patrick’s heart thumped hard in his chest with a sudden fear. He knew what those lights were—firelight glinting in wolves’ eyes.
“Ober!” Patrick shouted. “Look!” As he shouted, a low growling came from where the small, hard lights gleamed.
“It’s a pack of them,” Ober called back. “Run, Patrick. It may be your only chance. It will be impossible for only two people to keep them from the sheep.”
“And leave you alone, sir?” Patrick asked, certain he had misunderstood.
“I’m an old man,” Ober answered, “and a servant like yourself, Patrick. I must stay and defend our king’s sheep, even if it means death for me.”
Patrick looked over at Ober. The old man had been his teacher, but, more than that, he had been Patrick’s friend ever since the king’s boatmen had captured him and brought him to this strange land. Run away and leave Ober here to fight the wolves alone? Run, even if it might mean a chance to escape? he asked himself.
“If you must stay, then so must I,” Patrick said firmly.
He looked up at the brittle black sky where tiny cold stars flashed. “Help me in this strange land,” Patrick seemed to say as he gazed toward the heavens. Then he grabbed a flaming pine bough in one hand and a heavy, club-like stick in the other. Hollering and shouting, he ran toward the growling pack of wolves.
He swung his club. Back and forth he passed the burning stick, all the time stomping and shouting. The startled wolves growled deeper and bared their yellowed teeth at him, but, helped by Ober, Patrick managed to drive them back, farther and farther.
At last the leader of the wolf pack, with a nasty, helpless snarl, turned and ran off into the trees. For a moment the others growled and snapped at Patrick’s club as he swung it at them. Then they, too, followed their leader into the trees.
“Well done, Patrick!” Ober thumped the young boy on the back soundly. “What a brave lad you are. You fought with the strength of ten men, and you saved the sheep. I would not have thought it possible that you could do it. It is truly miraculous!” Ober hugged the boy happily.
“We did it together, Ober.” Patrick smiled at the old man. Then he lifted his face to the stars and said quietly, “Together.”

“Finished!” Mom said as she put the last of nine candles on the cake.
Tomorrow Maren’s friends were coming for her birthday party. There would be pizza, games, and best of all, presents!
“I can’t wait for the party,” Maren said. “Ella said she might get me a computer game, and Kisha told me I would love her present.”
Mom looked at Maren. “There is something you can do at your party that will be even better than opening gifts.”
Better than getting presents? Maren thought. What would that be?
“In family home evening we’ve been learning about Jesus and how He treated others,” Mom said. “Can you remember some things He did?”
“He was kind to others,” Maren said. “He healed them and took care of them. And He loved them all, even when they made mistakes.”
“That’s right,” Mom told her. “And if Jesus came to the party tomorrow, what do you think He might do?”
Maren thought for a minute. “Well, He would probably pay attention to everyone, not just some people. And I think He would try to help everyone have a good time.”
Mom smiled. “I think you’re exactly right,” she said. “And I think He would like being kind to everyone more than getting lots of presents.”
Maren nodded her head slowly. “Maybe.”
Mom gave her a hug. “Why don’t you try it and see for yourself?”
The next day was sunny and beautiful, just right for a party. Soon Maren’s friends arrived. Maren tried to do what Mom had said. She helped serve the pizza, and she held her baby brother for a while without complaining until Mom could take care of him. She thought that was what Jesus would have done.
After they ate, it was time to open presents. Maren was excited to get the new computer game and other fun things. She remembered to thank each of her friends. Then she noticed Riley sitting very quietly and looking at the floor. She realized Riley hadn’t brought a gift.
After all the gifts were opened, it was time to go outside for a candy hunt. The girls each grabbed a small bag and raced outside. But Riley stayed back and looked sad.
“Are you OK?” Maren asked, sitting next to Riley.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you a present,” Riley said quietly. “My family doesn’t have enough money right now.” Riley looked like she might cry.
“Oh, that doesn’t matter!” Maren said quickly. “I’m just glad you could come to my party, and I want you to have fun!”
Riley looked up. “Are you sure?”
“Of course!” Maren said as she put her arm around Riley. “Friends are way better than presents. Now let’s go find some candy!”
Riley smiled. “OK!” She and Maren grabbed their bags and ran to join their friends.
Maren felt good inside. She thought she had done what Jesus would do.
“That was a fun party,” Maren told Mom after her friends left.
“What was your favorite part?” Mom asked.
Maren thought for a minute. Then she said, “I really liked getting all my presents. But when I helped Riley feel better and made her smile, I felt so happy! That was the best birthday present of all.”

A few months ago, Sister Luthy and I returned from serving in the Helsinki Finland Temple. Our time there was a highlight in our lives. Since returning home we have had occasion to share some of our experiences with friends. One of the stories that Sister Luthy likes to relate concerns an impressive Russian couple who came to the temple to be sealed. The wife had been a high government official in Kazakstan and the husband had been a high-ranking officer in the Soviet Military. They had found the Church through the good example of an America businessman who is now a General Authority Seventy, Elder Pieper. The Russian brother told us that during his early years in the military, he had received harassment because he had Jewish-sounding name, so he decided to change it. Not having a knowledge of the Old Testament, he chose a name that he thought would free him from the Jewish connection. The name he chose was Solomon. Apparently no one seemed to recognize the irony, so he kept it.
Brother Solomon was able to attend General Conference some time ago and after attending the Priesthood Session, he lamented, "If only I had known about this earlier in my life, I could have raised sons in the Priesthood." If he were to visit this university today, I think he would have a similar lament about how he wished his children could have attended BYU. He would recognize how blessed you are to have the Gospel and to be here. But like every new convert in the Church, he now begins to build his own legacy, and to record his own history from which future generations will benefit. In years to come, I believe others will read about his experiences and his faithfulness, and it will help them.

“Read the scriptures again? I’ve already done that for two years and made it through each of the standard works four times!”
Thus wrote a returned missionary after I challenged my institute class to read and ponder the scriptures twenty minutes each day for a month.
I suppose I made that assignment partly out of curiosity. I wanted to see if these modern young people could discover for themselves in a month’s time some of the power that ancient prophets found in the scriptures available to them.
Nephi wrote, “For my soul delighteth in the scriptures, and my heart pondereth them, and writeth them for the learning and profit of my children.” (2 Ne. 4:15.) He also said that the words that he had written would be made strong unto his people, “for it persuadeth them to do good … and it speaketh of Jesus, and persuadeth them to believe in him, and to endure to the end, which is life eternal.” (2 Ne. 33:4.) He further said his words are the words of truth, “and they teach all men that they should do good.” (2 Ne. 33:10.)
Following his encounter with Sheram, Jacob described the Nephites in these words: “And it came to pass that peace and the love of God was restored again among the people; and they searched the scriptures, and hearkened no more to the words of this wicked man.” (Jacob 7:23.)
Alma described the effect of his words upon some of the people of Ammonihah by saying, “many of them did believe on his words, and began to repent, and to search the scriptures.” (Alma 14:1.)
The four sons of Mosiah, in the midst of missionary work following their conversion, “waxed strong in the knowledge of the truth; for they were men of a sound understanding and they had searched the scriptures diligently, that they might know the word of God.” (Alma 17:2.)
The Psalmist wrote:
“O how love I thy law! It is my meditation all the day.
“Thou through thy commandments hast made me wiser than mine enemies: for they are ever with me.
“I have more understanding than all my teachers: for thy testimonies are my meditation.
“I understand more than the ancients, because I keep thy precepts.
“I have refrained my feet from every evil way, that I might keep thy word.
“I have not departed from thy judgements: for thou hast taught me.
“How sweet are thy words unto my taste! yea, sweeter than honey to my mouth!
“Through thy precepts I get understanding: therefore I hate every false way. (Ps. 119:97–104.)
I used these scriptures to help my students understand that it was not enough just to read. Prophets have used the words diligently, pondering, meditating, and feasting to explain how we should approach the scriptures. Clearly we should read with careful thought and much pondering. Even when we are not reading we should reflect constantly on God’s word. The prophets have promised that this will lead to new spiritual insights and to greater righteousness.
The scriptures show us that we can ponder in two ways: we can meditate on the scripture itself, or we can relate what we read to our personal lives.
Moroni taught the first kind of pondering when he exhorted Book of Mormon readers to ponder in their hearts what they read. (Moro. 10:3.) Nephi was caught away in the spirit while he sat pondering in his heart the things that his father had seen. (1 Ne. 11:1.)
The eyes of Sidney Rigdon and Joseph Smith were opened following a studious and prayerful consideration of John 5:29. Joseph Smith stated, “… while we meditated upon these things, the Lord touched the eyes of our understandings and they were opened. …” (D&C 76:19. See also D&C 76:11–18.)
The second kind of ponderings led to the Sacred Grove. The Prophet Joseph said of James 1:5:
“Never did any passage of scripture come with more power to the heart of man than this did at this time to mine. It seemed to enter with great force into every feeling of my heart. I reflected on it again and again, knowing that if any person needed wisdom from God, I did. …
At length I came to the conclusion that I must either remain in darkness and confusion, or else I must do as James directs. …” (JS—H 1:12–13.)
This kind of reflection can help all of us make commitments that will decrease darkness and increase light. We must ask questions as we read, questions such as, How does this apply in my life today? or What lesson can I learn from this?
I was confident that if my students would read the scriptures in this way, they would find in them the same inspiration that Nephi and Moroni did. I encouraged them to start with the Book of Mormon, feeling it would probably be the most powerful influence. Elder Marion G. Romney has said, “I am persuaded by my own experience and that of my loved ones, as well as by the statement of the Prophet Joseph Smith, that one can get and keep closer to the Lord by reading the Book of Mormon than by reading other books.”
In order to evaluate the experience, I assigned each student to write a reaction at the end of the month.
Those reactions justified my confidence in the scriptures. The returned missionary who had resented the assignment wrote, “I have rediscovered an exciting adventure. I have once again astonished myself with the wonder of learning and understanding the gospel as it has been presented to us by the prophets. The gospel has become even more relevant in these last few weeks than ever before. I understand more clearly that faith and the strength of one’s testimony are things that vary from day to day and must be kept current.”
The other students’ responses were equally enthusiastic. It was apparent that scripture study affected them just as it affected the ancient prophets. It vitalized their prayers, improved their sensitivity to spiritual things, increased their productivity, strengthened their self-mastery, and changed their attitude toward life.
One student spoke of a more sensitive conscience: “It seemed to have a residual effect on my conscience of not letting me rationalize so easily . … Especially since I had become engaged, I had noticed that I was trying to rationalize a few things, play it close to the line between black and white. I don’t say reading the scriptures was the only influence, but I am glad for their influence.”
Several students spoke of a new spirituality. A law student wrote: “One significant thing distinguishing the past year for me is the matter of scripture as a means of maintaining spiritual sensitivity. The results have been so undeniably stimulating to the spirit that I am now confident that daily scripture study shall be a life-long pursuit.”
A girl active in her sorority found that scripture reading helped her stay spiritual at school: “Well, I decided that if I promised to read the scriptures for thirty days, I would do it for thirty days—which wouldn’t do me too much good. So I promised to do it for the rest of my life. That was about six months ago. I’ve almost read the Book of Mormon three times since then and oh the difference! It has made possible the thing that I have always thought impossible, which is to be spiritual during the school year.”
Some students who had never enjoyed the scriptures discovered what a delight they could be. Wrote one girl, “I have tried to read the Book of Mormon many times, and each time felt that something was lacking. I had to force myself because I didn’t enjoy it and couldn’t figure out what was wrong. This year I’ve loved every minute of reading the scriptures. I now read the Book of Mormon every morning, and I wouldn’t miss it for anything. I thought it would be terribly hard to get in the habit of reading every morning, but it hasn’t been.”
Another wrote: “I am one who often used to ‘tune out’ when scriptures were read, not purposely, just automatically, and also one of those people who has never read the Book of Mormon. I started to read it two or three times but never got past 2 Nephi. … my whole attitude toward the scriptures and even the gospel itself has changed. Not that I didn’t feel a testimony before, but my testimony was built on faith and not scriptural knowledge. Now I feel that I have a much better understanding of the gospel and how it applies to me personally. Every time I read the scriptures at home or when we read them in class, I feel a closeness to God and Jesus Christ and more of a desire to do good. Even my prayers have changed, and I’ve only read through Enos.”
Students discovered that the scriptures brought them closer to God and made their whole lives happier. A boy living in the dorms wrote: “When I read scriptures out of the Book of Mormon, it seemed as though my whole day went more smoothly. I was happier with people. My life became cleaner. I would pray night and morning, which was hard to do before. I can control habits easier and ignore social pressures that are in the dorms. I really can’t explain the feelings I have, but all I know is that I feel closer to God.”
A freshman girl said: “It is amazing how quickly a life can change, especially when it is your own. Six months ago I would have said that any kind of a drastic change could not take place in a short period of time. But since I have been reading the scriptures every day my whole attitude toward life has changed. I once felt that the scriptures were irrelevant to today, that they applied to the days of the prophets of long ago. But as I have read and studied the Book of Mormon, I am amazed at the insight that can be gained by applying the principles within. I find a constant challenge to improve—not just the challenge, but the means by which I can work on that challenge.”
A returned missionary active in campus affairs found his life changed when he read and pondered the scriptures: “My reading in the scriptures was a fantastic experience—so much so that it will be only natural to continue. I can make a valid comparison of the changes it can bring about because I had a break during the quarter when I didn’t read every day (about two to three weeks). Before and since this period my daily reading was a longed-for thing—something that increased in interest each day. During those days my thoughts were clearer, my mind more at ease, my temperament with others more appealing and less offensive. But above all, my thoughts were cleaner and purer than ever before, and thus I was happier because my soul was in much better harmony with the Lord. During the period when I didn’t read daily, I did some regretful things, and my desires in prayer slipped. I believe meaningful prayer and scripture study go hand in hand.
“I thought I knew the Book of Mormon from my study while on my mission and especially after reading it several times in another language. But to ‘ponder in your heart’ is something special—something that can be done over and over. This is what I’m doing each morning now and am enjoying it immensely.”
The scriptures are for people of all ages. Young children can also learn to read, ponder, and appreciate them. A father recently assigned two of his children, ages eight and nine, to read four chapters from the New Testament each Sunday. At first they had to be prodded, but they gradually developed interest and even began to read on other days of the week. Soon they were reading before going to bed each night. When they finished the New Testament, they started the Book of Mormon. Within three months the older child finished the Book of Mormon and started it again.
The lesson to be learned from these experiences is clear. We owe it to ourselves to begin a program of daily scripture study. In that way we can experience the “well of living water” spoken of by the Lord (D&C 63:23) and the “Divine Anchor” described by President McKay. Shortly before his death, President McKay challenged the members of the Church to try harder than ever to be worthy of daily inspiration and influence from the Lord. Daily meditation based on the scriptures will help us feel closer to the Savior, his teachings, and his work. But remember, the more consistently we read, the more natural and delightful the experience becomes. A returned missionary writes, “A year after my return from the mission field I’m still spending at least a half hour daily reading the scriptures. It’s so much a part of me now that I can’t imagine my day going by without it. It seems as normal as eating.”
As the Prophet Joseph Smith stated, “The things of God are of deep import; and time, and experience, and careful and ponderous and solemn thoughts can only find them out.”

José A. Moscão was noticing a trend: the youth who were coming to the Campinas Brazil Temple had a lot of “down time.”
Brother Moscão, the director of the family history center located adjacent to the temple, knew that because of the distance many youth had to travel to get to the temple, most came in caravans and stayed for several days. The time between their sessions in the baptistry and meals and waiting for their parents and leaders who were participating in other temple ordinances couldn’t be avoided.
But maybe, he thought, he could offer the youth an alternative to wandering the temple grounds whenever they had some free time.
So he did.
He began inviting youth into the center and offering to teach them how to do FamilySearch indexing.
At first some were shy or reluctant. But Brother Moscão said that when he spoke to them of rescuing people from darkness and bringing to light their names in obedience to the words of a living prophet, the youth were touched (see David A. Bednar, “The Hearts of the Children Shall Turn,” Liahona and Ensign, Nov. 2011, 24–27).
That the temple and the family history center are located within the same facility is significant; it underscores in a physical way that temple and family history work are two parts of one great effort. That, said George A. Oakes, Campinas Brazil Temple president, is something that the youth in the temple district are coming to learn.
“Prior to the emphasis on getting them involved in family history and indexing, their trip to the temple was mainly for the purpose of being baptized for the dead. Now indexing experiences are becoming part of their work,” he said.
When youth come into the center, Brother Moscão and the missionaries volunteering at the center cover the following principles in a brief, informal orientation:
They are becoming saviors on mount Zion (see Obadiah 1:21).
They are heeding the call of a prophet (see “The Hearts of the Children Shall Turn”).
They are rescuing people from darkness—the darkness of long-forgotten films and the dusty books of registry offices and churches. Indexing brings those names to light and makes them searchable so that their families can find them.
In joining this work, they will be participating in another aspect of “the most glorious of all subjects belonging to the everlasting gospel, namely, the baptism for the dead” (D&C 128:17).
They will be using their time in the great work of redeeming the dead, which blesses families.
All of us are part of the family of God, so in indexing the names of people they do not know, they are still helping their family.
Once they understand how to participate in indexing, they have an opportunity to teach their family members and other young people in their wards and branches to participate too.
Brother Moscão and the missionaries then use the center’s computers to show teens how to start indexing and how to install and use the software when they get home. Once they understand, Brother Moscão said, they “begin to index with a force like no other.”
The numbers reflect that enthusiasm. In the first two months of 2012, visitors indexed 6,370 names; 3,305 of those were indexed by youth ages 12 to 18. In fact, to accommodate the growing interest in indexing, the Campinas family history center often extends its regular hours of 8:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. and stays open as late as 10:00 p.m.
But the youth aren’t leaving indexing behind when they leave the temple. When they get home, they continue their role in what Brother Moscão calls “the army of more than 170,000 active indexers that the Church has today.” Many are meeting goals for Duty to God and Personal Progress with their indexing work.
Earlier this year, Isabela A., age 16, of Vila Velha, Espírito Santo, Brazil, traveled with her mother and sister to the temple; the last day of the trip was the one-year anniversary of her grandmother’s death. Isabela was baptized for her grandmother, and her mother did the other temple ordinances for her.
“I felt during this trip that I needed to do something good,” explained Isabela. “I wanted to learn to index, and I received help from Brother José Moscão.
“Then, when I was being baptized for my grandmother, the Spirit touched me deeply. I realized there were many people beyond the veil waiting endlessly, and they needed my help. I realized I could give a bit of my time to serve and that I could do a lot for these people. Indexing is a labor of love.”

Blanca Campo, a 17-year-old at the time, was one of the first piano students of Elder and Sister Heywood. She was unable to attend the regular weekday classes because she spent six days of the week in another town marketing products for the family business. So the Heywoods scheduled Sunday afternoon classes just for her.
Blanca purchased her own teclado so she could practice the hymns during her spare moments at market. After three weeks of practice, she was prepared to play in a Christmas sing-along with other new piano students.
Soon after, Blanca was called by her father, Bishop Rafael Campo, to serve as the Paguche Ward pianist. As he set her apart, Bishop Campo was impressed to call Blanca as a teacher of music for their ward. She still serves in this capacity, sharing her talents with her family and ward members.
When Blanca accompanied a stake youth choir later that summer, and she heard a recording of herself playing “Carry On,” she humbly smiled and exclaimed, “I can’t believe that I am the person playing that music!”

The S¶o Paulo Tabo¶o Stake chose the theme of “Changing the World” for their youth conference during Carnaval. As they cleaned the square of a local public building, they had opportunities to introduce several people who passed by to the Church. They also knelt in prayer before giving copies of the Book of Mormon to many of their neighbors, none of whom refused the gift.
“These were the most wonderful days of my life. I learned how to help and serve my fellowmen. I am very happy to be a member of the Church. I want to serve a mission and help the people of the world to be as happy as I am.”
Debora, Second Ward, Bosque

When we could find one, we set up camp next to a stream. One time when we did, Ed and I took off with the fishing pole to look for a deep hole in the nearly dry creek. We found a beautiful spot out of sight of camp but close enough that we could still hear the cries of Annie-I-over. There was a strict rule that no one got so far away that he couldn’t see or hear the camp.
When we got off alone together like this Ed tried to show me how to talk, and I learned to say a few new words. “Look at that frog,” he shouted and bounded across the mossy stones to grab it.
“Frog,” I said. “Frog.”
“What a beauty! Look how big he is. I wonder how far he can jump.”
We stayed until nearly dark testing his ability. By the time we heard Papa coming to get us, the frog’s record was six feet, measured with Ed’s feet.
“Papa, look at my pet,” Ed called as he came closer. “Can I keep him? Can I?”
“That’s a fine frog all right,” Papa said. “But you’d better leave him here. He’d only die if we took him with us.”
“I can take him in a bucket of water. He won’t die.”
“A bucket of water is not the same as a stream. This is his home.”
“Please, Papa.”
“No, Ed. Now put him down, and I’ll tell you a story on the way back.”
“What about?” Ed asked.
“About a frog.”
“A true story?”
“Absolutely.”
Papa’s stories were always worth whatever we had to give up to hear them. Ed put his pet down carefully in a sheltered spot by the stream and took hold of Papa’s other hand. Then the three of us began to walk toward camp.
“What’s the story?” Ed asked.
“How butter was discovered.”
“You said it was about a frog.”
“So it is. You see, a long time ago, a frog jumped into a bowl of cream that was left by a dairymaid to keep cool at the edge of a stream. All night long he paddled around trying to get out, and when the girl came the next morning to get the cream, it had turned to butter.”
“Was the frog still alive?”
“I don’t remember that, but since there was no cream to spread on the bread, the dairymaid used the butter. She was afraid she’d be scolded for being careless enough to leave the lid off the cream, but everyone said the new spread was better. ‘Betty’s better spread’ they called it and wanted her to make more.”
When we got back to the wagon Mama had a good hot supper ready. Afterward we had a campfire program and evening prayer. Then the children were put to bed, and soon the fiddle began its tune and the grown-ups were moving their feet in time to the music. We happily watched them from the place where we slept beneath the wagon.
The next morning was washday, which meant the clothes were put into a half-full water barrel with a bar of homemade lye soap and jostled clean as we rode along. When we stopped, they’d be rinsed, wrung out, and hung on ropes stretched between trees. It wouldn’t take long to dry them if there were a little breeze.
Washdays were always planned between two stops where there was plenty of water so we wouldn’t run short. And since it was an extra busy day for Mama we had to help more than usual. Before camp broke up she assigned the chores.
“Caroline, you take care of the chickens,” she said. “Make sure they get fed and watered and don’t let any of them get lost when you turn them out to run.
“Dora, I’ll need you to watch Frank and Georgie while I do the washing. And Ed, you can churn the butter.”
Just then I saw the look come into Ed’s eyes that meant he had an idea, and I knew what it was because I had it too. Although he didn’t need to, he jerked his head at me in a way that said come on. Grabbing a bar of soap and a towel, we ran off in the direction of the stream.
“Where are you two going?” Mama called, and Ed shouted, “To wash our hands.”
“You told a lie,” I accused.
“No, I didn’t. We’ll wash our hands.”
The frog hadn’t got warmed up enough to move around yet so he was still where we had left him.
Ed started to lather him with the soap, and he slipped away. He picked up the slick frog again and said, “Have to get him clean enough.”
After he’d washed and dried the frog, he put him inside his shirt. We stayed by the stream cutting willows until the camp was ready to leave and then ran and jumped in the back of the wagon.
Mama was riding up front with Papa, holding Frank on her lap, and Georgie was asleep in his wash-basket bed. Caroline was walking with her friends.
Ed plopped the frog into the butter churn, and we settled into the back of the wagon for a leisurely ride. We reached over the tailgate, dragging our willows in the dust to make patterned trails behind us.
Several times we peeked into the churn where the frog was still swimming around, but there was no sign of butter. Ed started to work on teaching me some new words, and we forgot about everything else.
At lunchtime Mama asked, “Did the butter come yet?”
“Not yet,” Ed said.
“Well, it will pretty soon,” she encouraged. “Even the bouncing wagon helps it along.”
Then Papa told her the frog story. “Now don’t go giving these children any crazy ideas. It would be just like Ed and Dora to try that out.” She looked at us. “AND DON’T YOU DARE!” she warned.
We were glad she didn’t check out the butter churn before the wagons started up again. We decided that as soon as it was safe, we’d get the frog out of the cream and churn the way we were supposed to. When we lifted the lid, there sat the frog on an island of butter it had made. We laughed and laughed, and Ed put the frog inside his shirt to keep him safe until later. He wasn’t going to turn him loose here where there was no water.
As soon as we stopped, we took off for the stream to release the frog, and no one but us ever did know how the butter was churned that day.

“He’s paying us twenty cents a row.”
“How many of you went?” Papa wanted to know.
“Me, Dora, Georgie, Frank, and Helen,” Ed replied.
“Helen, too?”
“She helped some.”
“But my arms got tired and Ed let me come home,” Helen explained.
Papa reached down to give her a hug. “Good girl,” he said. “I’m proud of all of you. Go ahead and help Mr. Clarke. I can finish our crop. We’ll all have to work fast to get done before the storm gets here.”
“What storm?” Ed asked.
“The one that’s coming before too long.”
“How can you tell?” I wanted to know.
“I can just feel it,” Papa answered.
The golden harvest weather held all week, and we worked from dawn until dark every day. By Friday night the flat corn heads were all pulled and stacked in the fields. Mama had been cooking all day for a picnic, and we could hardly wait for morning to come.
Before daylight, Papa climbed the ladder to our barn loft. “You’d all better get up,” he said. “I need lots of help today.”
“But you promised we could have a picnic, Papa.”
“Can’t help it,” Papa said. “We’ve got to get the corn in. A humdinger of a storm is on the way. Dora, I want you to come with me to warn the neighbors. Ed, you go hitch up the wagon and take Frank and George over to Clarke’s. Use his wagon, too, and after his crop is in come back and start on ours.”
There was a tone in Papa’s voice I’d never heard before. It sent shivers down my back. I dressed as fast as I could and hurried the boys along. We gulped down the breakfast Mama had waiting and flew out the door just as the sun peeked over the sand hills.
“There’re no clouds, Papa,” Ed said.
“They’re coming,” Papa declared. “Now get going!”
The boys ran toward the barn. I jumped on the horse that was waiting for me, and Papa and I rode off to warn the neighbors that a big storm was on the way.
“You’re crazy,” Mr. Cooper told Papa. “There’s not a cloud in the sky.”
“Not yet,” Papa said, “but there will be.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Mr. Cooper said and closed the door. We jumped on our horses and rode to Mr. Younger’s store. He could help us spread the word.
“Doesn’t look to me like any storm is coming,” he drawled as he gazed up at the cloudless sky.
“You’re right,” Papa agreed. “But mark my word, it’ll be here before nightfall, and it’s a big one.”
“Oh, I doubt that.”
And this was the answer everywhere we went. Papa finally decided that it wasn’t any use to warn the people, so we went on home to help the boys. “The price of corn will be sky-high this year,” he said, “and we can’t afford to leave it in the field.”
We worked like demons and were piling on the last wagonload when the wind came up and nearly tipped it over.
“Head for home!” Papa shouted.
We all jumped on the wagon and by the time we pulled into the barn, hail was peppering the ground and beating everything flat. It was the worst storm I can remember. Some of the hailstones were the size of eggs. What the hail didn’t flatten the wind did. The broomcorn crop was a total loss that year except for the few fields that were brought in as a result of our warning.
Papa was right about the price. We made a big profit that year, and the other farmers were sorry they hadn’t listened to him. (To be continued.)

During the tears and other hubbub of leaving from the airport, I paid little attention to all the words of advice and caution everyone was giving me. All I could see was the jet pulling up to the gate and visions of converting the entire countries of Guatemala and El Salvador. Finally, we were told to board. There was a rush of last minute hugs, kisses (from my parents and sisters), and, of course, that special handshake from a smiling beauty with a quivering chin.
When I reached the door leading to the boarding area, my father said, “Son, obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy in life.” I nodded a hurried “Sure, Dad” and was off. As I walked to the plane, I laughed to myself. “Dad, you got your ‘mords wixed’ again. You meant to say, ‘Obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy on your mission.’” With that, I tossed his advice into the oblivion of my memory, filed under “Parental Counsel.”
Seven months later, my father was dead.
In those first wavering hours after my mission president told me of the tragic plane accident, I found myself much like the cartoon character who has a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. The devil said: “What are you doing here? All that life after death bit is a bunch of bunk. You go on a mission and what happens? You break your foot; go to the hospital; come to a strange land, with strange people and strange customs; and your father gets killed. Sure it’s the happiest two years of your life. Two thousand miles away from home, and you’re all alone.”
Such thoughts were foreign to me. I had been a faithful member of the Church all my life; yet, the thoughts were there.
The angel on my other shoulder said: “Stand tall, Elder. You had a great father you can be proud of, a mighty patriarch who taught you the gospel in all things. You know eternal life is a true principle of the gospel, and you know your father will be waiting for you. You’ve had a testimony of the gospel since you were old enough to cry. This is no time to start doubting.”
In the midst of this struggle between doubt and reality, my father’s last words at the airport came echoing into my mind: “Son, obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy in life.” Dad hadn’t mixed his words up at all. Those final words to me were inspired counsel that would guide me for the rest of my life. My father lived as he taught, and a few weeks following his passing, the full testimony of his life was made manifest to me.
Finances became a major concern. I had enough money in the bank to cover 11 of the remaining 15 months of my mission and hoped Mom could get enough together for the remaining four. My plans for college were now pushed back into the realm of hopes and dreams. However, the Lord takes care of his missionaries.
I received a letter from my mother telling me that I needn’t worry about finances anymore. A man had contacted my bishop and asked if he could support me for the rest of my mission. This is not too unusual, since there are many good-hearted men in the Church, but the twist in this instance was in what the man told my bishop: “I’m not a member of your church, but out of the love and respect I have for Horace Rappleye, I’d like to support his son for the rest of his mission.” And he did. For 15 months the money was placed regularly in my bank account by the anonymous benefactor.
He remains anonymous to this day.
My father’s life of obedience brought blessings to him even after he died. His death became the highlight of my mission. That may be a strange thing to say, and I wish my father were still alive, but my mission thereafter became a living testimony to my father’s life. I soon found how precious it is to live “all the rules.” No matter how small or insignificant the rule seemed, if I obeyed, I was happy.
We are told by the Lord, “There is a law, irrevocably decreed in heaven before the foundations of this world, upon which all blessings are predicated—
“And when we obtain any blessing from God, it is by obedience to that law upon which it is predicated.” (D&C 130:20–21.)
This scripture is true. Whenever I find myself slipping into depression or unhappiness, I usually find it is because I am not being obedient in all things as I should. At these times a comforting echo reverberates in my head: “Son, obey all the rules, and you’ll be happy in life.”

First, an honored and respected name. I will be eternally grateful to a father who thought enough of me to give me his name. It was a name of honor and respect in the community in which I grew up. It carried before it the title of bishop from the time I was six months old until just a few months before I left to go on my mission. How proud I was of his service. I was pleased that he had the patience to involve me in his responsibilities. Working on a welfare farm, cleaning the chapel, balancing ward financial records, carrying a sack of flour to a widow, etc., were a part of my early life. I was with him so much I received the nickname of “Bishop.” I attempted to wear it with pride and honor. It had the effect of making me reach a little higher. I wanted to try to be on the same plane as my father. Should not every child have the same opportunity?

Fathers, is it not your obligation to give your children an honored and respected name?
Second, every child needs a sense of security. I often think of the security of our old family home. It was a fortress against the adversary. Each morning and evening it was blessed by the priesthood as we would kneel in family prayer. That power was also manifest as my father blessed his family in time of need.
Fathers, is it not your obligation to give your children a home blessed with the power of the priesthood?
Third, an opportunity for development. My children taught me a great lesson one day. We had moved from California to New York where I had accepted an employment opportunity and we were in the process of finding a new home. We started close to the city, but each day that passed we would move further out to find a home more suited to our needs. In Connecticut we found just the one. It was a beautiful home nestled in New England’s radiant forests. We were all pleased with the selection. The final test before making an offer for purchase was to ride the train into New York to check out the commuting time. I made the trip and returned very discouraged. The trip required an hour and a half each way. I returned to the motel where my family was waiting for me and gave them the choice of having a father or this new home. Much to my surprise, they said, “We will take the home. You are not around much anyway.”
The shock of that statement was overwhelming to me. If that statement was true, I needed to repent fast. My children deserved a father. Is it not our obligation as fathers to spend as much time as possible with our children, to teach them honesty, industry, and morality?
Fourth, give your children the opportunity of having a joyful, happy childhood. The priesthood manual a few years ago quoted a story written in 1955 by Bryant S. Hinckley. It is as follows:
“‘Three hundred twenty-six school children of a district near Indianapolis were asked to write anonymously just what each thought of his father.
“‘The teacher hoped that the reading of the essays might attract the fathers to attend at least one meeting of the Parent-Teacher’s Association.
“‘It did.
“‘They came in $400 cars and $4,000 cars. Bank president, laborer, professional man, clerk, salesman, meter reader, farmer, utility magnate, merchant, baker, tailor, manufacturer, and contractor, every man with a definite estimate of himself in terms of money, skill, and righteousness. …
“‘The president picked at random from another stack of papers. “I like my daddy,” she read from each. The reasons were many: He built my doll house, took me coasting, taught me to shoot, helps me with my schoolwork, takes me to the park, gave me a pig to fatten and sell. Scores of essays could be reduced to “I like my daddy. He plays with me.”’
“Not one child mentioned his family house, car, neighborhood, food or clothing.
“The fathers went into the meeting from many walks of life. They came out in two classes: companions to their children or strangers to their children.
“No man is too rich or too poor to play with his children.” (The Savior the Priesthood and You, Melchizedek Priesthood Manual, 1973–74, p. 226.)
I am aware how concerned we each are with the leadership we find in the world today. To change the head of a nation, state, or community towards righteous leadership may require our earnest efforts for years. But there is something we can change today to make the world a better place in which to live. Husbands and fathers, the power is within you as bearers of the priesthood. Enjoy the inspiration of God, our Eternal Father, to lead, guide, and direct your families in righteousness. You stand at the head of the only organization I know of that can be eternal. Should not that charge and responsibility receive top priority in your life?
God bless you to understand your duties and responsibilities to be righteous husbands and fathers, I humbly pray in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

It is instructive that the second Latter-day Saint connection with the Titanic did not have a happy mortal ending. Irene Corbett was 30 years old. She was a young wife and mother from Provo, Utah. She had significant talents as an artist and musician; she was also a teacher and a nurse. At the urging of medical professionals in Provo, she attended a six-month course of study on midwife skills in London. It was her great desire to make a difference in the world. She was careful, thoughtful, prayerful, and valiant. One of the reasons she chose the Titanic to return to the United States was because she thought the missionaries would be traveling with her and that this would provide additional safety. Irene was one of the few women who did not survive this terrible tragedy. Most of the women and children were placed in the lifeboats and were ultimately rescued. There were not enough lifeboats for everyone. But it is believed that she did not get in the lifeboats because, with her special training, she was attending to the needs of the numerous passengers who were injured from the iceberg collision.

The lost opportunity might relate to family, occupation, talents, experiences, or others. All of these were cut short in the case of Sister Corbett. There were songs she did not sing and potential she did not fulfill in this mortal life. But when we look through the wide and clear lens of the gospel instead of the limited lens of mere mortal existence, we know of the great eternal reward promised by a loving Father in His plan. As the Apostle Paul taught, “Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.” A line from a beloved hymn provides comfort, solace, and the clear lens: “And Jesus listening can hear the songs I cannot sing.”

Don was moved to a rehabilitation center in Denver, Colorado. He was quite unprepared for what he encountered at his new residence in the paralytic ward. Everyone seemed depressed, discouraged, and despondent. Patients could not understand how Don, who was in an equally distressing condition, could seem so happy. Some of them asked, “Why are you always so happy and smiling?” Don replied, “My smile keeps the tears from my eyes, and my laughter keeps away the feeling of unhappiness.”
With courageous determination Don took advantage of the special care he now received. Long after others would tire and leave the gymnasium, he would remain—trying, trying, trying. Through his valiant effort, accompanied by humble prayers to his Heavenly Father, he was finally strong enough to go up and down the parallel bars alone; and then he was able to walk with braces and crutches. His new mobility permitted him to attend church services. This spiritual comfort brought him great joy, but he was totally surprised by the reception he was given upon his return to the hospital. Everyone teased him for going to church! In his characteristic way, Don’s smile merely broadened at their taunting. He resolved to do something about the gloomy atmosphere in this, his new home, so he happily embarked upon the next chapter of his mission.
In the days that followed, he could be seen wheeling himself down hallways and into every room where patients would receive him, preaching the gospel to all who would listen. He became known cheerfully as “the prophet,” a title that he accepted graciously.
In the evenings he often sang as he accompanied himself with his guitar. Others began to join in, and the spirit spread. Friday nights soon became known as the time for singing and entertainment and patients joined together with singing and laughter. Patients began to smile and call each other by name.
On the night of Don’s departure, a special program was held in his behalf. His many new friends shook the rafters with a song sung in his honor: “Too Many Chiefs and Not Enough Indians Around This Place.”
The courage and spirit of this young man had affected the lives of others and left an indelible impression.
Two of the residing patients and two members of the nursing staff who waved good-bye to Don had accepted the gospel of Jesus Christ as a result of his influence. Many looked to the future with new hope, and each felt a personal loss at his departure.

In a recent letter to the editor, I read:
“One is continually hearing about the ‘Terrible Teenagers’ with their obnoxious dress and deplorable actions. How refreshing it was to have a most thrilling experience with—yes, four teenagers.
“One evening I was hosting a special guest from New York City. We were on our beautiful Temple Square, admiring the Seagull Monument. As we turned to go, four teenagers approached us. I immediately felt the [in]security of my gentleman guest, when one of the group stepped forward and said, ‘Lady, we would like to present you with this rose to make you happy, and hope that you will have a nice evening.’
“There clutched in his hand was a beautiful, long-stemmed American Beauty red rose, with a spray of fern, artistically wrapped in cellophane.
“‘We bought this rose to give to someone, and when we saw you, we thought you were the one.’
“As they turned to leave, I quickly got their names, expressing my most profound appreciation and admiration for their thoughtfulness and kindness to me, which was so unusual, and how I was quite overwhelmed to think that four teenagers would have the desire for such a gracious act, and that no one would appreciate it more than I would, a little grandmother, as I gave each one a big hug.” (Irene E. Staples, Deseret News, 22 Sept. 1985, p. A-19.)

I was twelve years old when my grandfather died. To me he was the epitome of a saint—kindly, gentle, purely good.
His death was difficult for me to believe, and it made me very sad. I had not only lost a friend but I was also convinced that somehow heaven had allowed him to die too early. In my childish (though enthusiastic) understanding of the gospel, I had been sure that he was destined to be a great leader in the Church before he left this world. He was a man of great charity, who had literally given his shoes to a beggar knocking at the door, his coat to another man who was colder than he. I was sure that his death came too early. He had too much more service to give.
As I look back now, I see that I equated service with high callings. So many of the Saints have a basic goodness, a charity that qualifies them to be disciples. But serving is not synonymous with position. Whether serving in a visible calling or in secluded corners, disciples follow the example of the Christ. A calling may formalize our work for him, but serving is a blessing available to all of us, whether officially called through the Church organization or in our daily association with others.
My grandfather tried to copy the Savior’s life. My grandfather’s life was not wasted. I was deeply affected by his life, and I’m sure many other people were also influenced by him. I will tell my own children about the patterns of goodness that emerged in his life in simple yet powerful ways. Any one of us can become a disciple by following examples of goodness as he did.

Romeo and I have been friends since childhood. He became very unhappy with me when he discovered that I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in October of 2013. He criticized me for joining the Church, and often said to me, “I just do not understand why in the world you chose to join a cult.”
I tried very hard to convince my friend that the Church is not a cult or a devilish movement as he perceived. I encouraged him to investigate the Church and invited him to meet with the full-time missionaries. But my friend forcefully insisted that under no condition could he accept the Book of Mormon as a second Bible. Under no condition could he accept the Prophet Joseph Smith as a true prophet of God. And under no condition could he become a member of the Church.
After much effort to speak with him about the restored Church and gospel of Jesus Christ, I decided not to talk to my friend anymore about the Church, the Book of Mormon and the Prophet Joseph Smith. Rather, I decided to just be a good friend to him.
Not long after, I enrolled in the PathwayConnect online program in 2019. I thought my good friend would also be interested in pursuing his education, so I introduced the PathwayConnect program to him and invited him to enroll. He enrolled and found that it was rewarding. He enjoyed his affiliation with the Church through the PathwayConnect online program as he interacted with members of the Church throughout the world. They shared gospel thoughts related to the weekly academic lessons.
One evening in December of 2020, my friend called me on the phone to inform me that he had finally made up his mind to join the Church. He explained to me how a feeling of peace, joy and belonging filled his mind and soul whenever he attended a PathwayConnect gathering and participated in group charts online.
I then asked my friend, “What about the Book of Mormon and the Prophet Joseph Smith?” To this he responded, “Because you and other members have shown me and believe the Book of Mormon to be the word of God, and Joseph Smith to be a true prophet of God, I too believe!” He later invited the full-time missionaries of the Church to teach him and was baptized in early 2021.

I feel we can never compare the levels of people’s burdens. Each has his or her own set of problems, and it’s up to each person to learn the lessons from them. In the past year, my family has lost my mother and brother-in-law to cancer. Both were kind, good, righteous people who were strong in the Church. For the longest time I would not try to learn from this. Instead I could only ask God why. Then, with the help of a blessing from my bishop, I was able to learn the lesson I needed to learn. I was able to gain a greater love towards my brother and sisters. I finally realized how much my family means to me. I know that if we pray for help, our trials will become blessings and make our spirits even stronger.
Jenifer Jakoubek, 17Chehalis, Washington

“There, it’s all done!” Jeff said as he knotted the bridle line to his kite. Jeff felt proud as he held up the kite to check the glued tissue paper edges. He was sure he would win the Highest Flyer Award in the kite tournament to be held the next afternoon.
As Jeff picked up scraps of paper and sticks from the porch floor, he heard the creak of rusty hinges. “Oh, no,” he groaned. “Robin Hood has escaped again!”
With a sick feeling, Jeff remembered his father’s words, “If that dog steals something just once more, Jeff, he’ll have to go!”
Hurdling the porch steps in one leap, Jeff raced to the alley and whistled. He hoped that maybe this time Robin Hood hadn’t picked up anything belonging to someone else, but his hope faded as Robin Hood came around the corner dragging a big paper fish. With his tail wagging, the dog dropped his gift at Jeff’s feet.
“Bad dog!” Jeff scolded. Robin Hood retreated to the farthest corner of the yard. Jeff remembered to close the gate this time, but he felt guilty that he had let his dog get loose.
The paper fish was ripped, but Jeff could see that it had been skillfully painted with loops to look like fish scales. Turning it over, he saw the broken basswood and knew it had been a kite. Someone had probably made this strange-looking kite to enter in the tournament, and Robin Hood had stolen it.
Jeff knew what he had to do. He started walking toward Mr. Peterson’s fruit market, taking the broken fish kite with him. Mr. Peterson knew just about everybody, and many times before he had helped Jeff find the owner of Robin Hood’s other gifts.
“Has Robin Hood been at it again?” Mr. Peterson asked Jeff as he polished an apple. “That carp kite’s in pretty bad shape.”
“Do you know who it belongs to?” Jeff asked.
“Wouldn’t take much to figure out,” answered Mr. Peterson. “A new boy about your age has been coming into the store a lot lately. His name is Jimu, and he’s talked to me about carp kites. The carp stands for courage, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know,” said Jeff.
“Japanese boys fly carp kites every year on Boys’ Festival Day,” said Mr. Peterson. “It’s supposed to remind them to be courageous.”
“Do you know where Jimu lives?” Jeff asked.
“No,” said Mr. Peterson, “but he usually goes toward Miller Street.”
Jeff thanked Mr. Peterson and went back home. His shoulders drooped as he climbed the steps. Robin Hood, stretched out by the lilac bush, opened his eyes and watched.
“Come on,” Jeff called as he picked up both kites. “We have a job to do.”
Jeff and Robin Hood walked up and down Miller Street, but they couldn’t find anyone who knew of a boy named Jimu.
“Sorry I can’t help you,” said a lady who was watering her lawn. “Why don’t you ask your dog?” she joked.
“Why didn’t I think of that!” said Jeff. He gave the carp kite to Robin Hood to carry in his mouth.
“Take it back!” Jeff commanded.
Robin Hood seemed to understand. He held the kite tightly between his teeth and led Jeff to the corner, turned right, and then disappeared down an alley. Jeff followed the dog down the alley and through an opening in a high wooden fence, where Robin Hood stopped.
This must be the house, Jeff thought as he walked into a strange garden. There were dwarf trees in low vases sitting in raked white sand.
“Ohayo (good morning),” said a voice, and a short black-haired boy came around the corner of the house.
“You must be Jimu,” Jeff said. “I’m Jeff.”
The Japanese boy bowed. His dark eyes looked from Robin Hood to the carp kite and back to Jeff.
Jeff didn’t know what to say at first, but once he got started, the story came tumbling out.
“Sumimasen (very sorry),” Jimu said after Jeff finished. “Perhaps you should try a cardboard collar.”
“I don’t understand,” said Jeff.
“I have a friend who had a dog with a sore ear,” Jimu explained. “He cut a big wheel-shaped piece of cardboard and then cut a hole in the middle. He put it around the dog’s neck so the dog couldn’t scratch its ear. His dog also had difficulty picking up objects with his mouth.”
“That sounds like a great idea,” Jeff said. “I’ll try it. But that won’t help you fix your kite, so I want you to have mine instead.”
Jeff held his kite out to Jimu, who took it and looked at it carefully.
“Very nice,” Jimu said at last. “But please come with me.”
He led Jeff to a sliding door at the back of the house. They both removed their shoes and went inside.
“Please sit on the tatami,” Jimu told Jeff as he pointed to the straw mat on the porch floor. He put Jeff’s kite on a low table covered with jars of paint and a brush.
Jimu picked up the brush and asked, “May I?”
Jeff nodded. He watched Jimu swiftly paint an outline of a fish on the kite Jeff had given him. Soon a carp filled the kite as Jimu painted half-hoop scales all over.
“Now you’ll have a kite to fly today,” said Jeff.
Jimu smiled mysteriously as he excused himself and disappeared behind a screen.
When Jimu returned, he said, “I already have a kite.” He held up a paper fish. “The first one I made broke, and Robin Hood must have found it in the trash.”
“But why did you paint this beautiful fish on my kite?” Jeff asked.
“Because it took much courage for you to come to me,” Jimu answered. “And the carp stands for courage. You would honor me to fly your kite with me today,” he added.
“That would be great,” Jeff answered. And the two boys, with Robin Hood tagging along behind, picked up their kites and ran out into the field together.

When my son Joseph was 12 years old, he traveled with me to Kenya in east Africa. We flew into Nairobi, which is the capital city, then got into four-wheel-drive vehicles and journeyed out into the area inhabited by the Masai people.
The Masai live in huts encircled by what I call the original barbed wire fence. Actually, they cut down thorn trees and pile them up in a semicircle or an oblong circle. At night they herd their cattle inside and shut the gate by dragging a thorn bush across the opening. The people and the cattle live together.
Health, nutritional, and sanitary conditions being what they are, the average life span for a Masai today is about 38 years. But they are a friendly, happy, beautiful people.
When Joseph arrived in the village, he suddenly found himself surrounded by 30 or 40 Masai children his own age. As is their custom, they wore no clothing. I can guarantee that this was very disconcerting to my son. They were laughing, smiling, and talking to him, trying hard to transcend the enormous cultural and language barrier.
Our guide explained that we were in a pretty remote area, and that although these children had seen white men before, Joseph was probably the first white boy they had ever seen.
I could tell Joseph wanted to be friendly, so I handed him a chocolate bar.
“Give them a piece of candy,” I said.
He opened the package and broke off a square. He tried to hand it to a boy who seemed about 14. I will never forget the reaction of that boy. He looked at the chocolate and shrunk back. He didn’t want to have anything to do with it.
So I said, “Show them that you eat it.”
Joseph put a square of chocolate in his mouth, then handed another square to this same 14-year-old boy. The boy looked at it and held it. He was suspicious as he tried to understand it. Then he took the first, tiniest little nibble, then a larger nibble; then he put the whole piece in his mouth. You could see the joy come over his face as he tasted chocolate candy for the very first time.
Then we handed out squares to all the other children, and they weren’t afraid to try it because they’d seen someone they knew eat it and he had enjoyed it. There was something wonderful about that chocolate.
Later in our trip, we came back to that same village. As soon as we arrived we were mobbed by the same group of 30 or 40 children, and we didn’t need a translator to know what they wanted. They wanted more chocolate, more of something wonderful and sweet.
I would like to compare the taste of that chocolate bar to the taste of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Although the gospel tastes sweet and wonderful and good, sometimes other people don’t understand it, and it’s hard to get them to take just a tiny nibble. But if they’ll take that nibble, and then a larger nibble, they will arrive at a marvelous moment when they place it in their mouths and taste the wonderful sweetness.
I think that we, as members of the Church, are much like my 12-year-old boy was, surrounded by a world of people who want more of something they don’t even understand. I believe that many of the prayers of the people on this earth can only be answered by the members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The Lord has given us the mandate to take the gospel to every nation, kindred, tongue, and people. We can’t say, “They might not understand.” We must help them. There is nothing that will be sweeter to them than the gospel, nothing that will bless them more than the knowledge of the truth.
We have something wonderful and sweet, something much more vital than a chocolate bar, something that affects everyone for all eternity. We have tasted the gospel, and we know it is good. We cannot and we must not ignore the opportunity to help others taste it, too.