Gospel Story Finder

Dzuliah B., 13, Philippines
I love dancing and singing. When I was in fifth grade, I joined an interschool dance competition. Our choreographer decided to have practices on Sundays. Without thinking twice, I went to him and told him that I wouldn’t be available on Sundays because I honor the Sabbath day. He was disappointed, but I remembered my two favorite hymns, “Choose the Right” and “Do What Is Right.” After this incident, I felt the assurance that I did the right thing.

I learned this truth in a profound way as a young mother when I was diagnosed with a rare and debilitating illness while expecting my youngest child.

There were days I begged Heavenly Father for relief. I pleaded for the protection and life of my unborn baby. I wondered if I could endure.

My prayers for healing were not answered in the way I wanted them to be, yet I was carried, carried by tender mercies and by small, quiet acts of service, most of them anonymous.

I will never forget one day that was particularly challenging. A soft knock on my front door led me to find a simple decoration someone had left on my porch. No note. No recognition. Just love. Done for me, because of Him.

It was a reminder that the love of God transforms the way we love one another.

Christmas is a giving time of year for the young people of the Mt. Pleasant Second Ward, Mt. Pleasant Utah Stake. The youth were involved in service projects that helped emphasize the true spirit of giving.
In a combined effort to include the entire ward in their Christmas service projects, the Young Men and Young Women supplied 12 small Christmas trees to special members of the ward, some elderly and unable to get a tree for themselves and some who simply deserved a little extra cheer. The Young Men cut the trees, attached stands, and arranged to deliver the trees. The Young Women procured lights and decorations. The highlight of the evening was the surprised looks on the recipients’ faces as the youth went caroling to deliver the trees. One brother commented, “Why, no one has ever brought me a Christmas tree before!”

Rene, for example, lived in a nice apartment in Michigan, USA. But when she retired, her Social Security and pension weren’t enough to meet her expenses. Finances became such a worry that her children suggested she look into low-income housing.

She found a retirement residence and moved in. “I’m stress-free now because I have enough money to live on,” she says. “I like my new ward and neighbors, and this apartment is perfect for family parties.”

Only nine months ago I was totally blind to Mormonism. I knew absolutely nothing about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. That all changed on June 16, 1980, when two sister missionaries came to my home. They were so nice and polite that I was ready to be friends with them when they stepped through the front door. I never thought that people could be as happy and cheerful as they were each time they came to my home. I’m glad I met them.
Both were transferred on July 15. They visited me one last time on that day. I became excited when they told me I would be receiving a year’s subscription to the New Era, a gift from them to me. I was touched.
Now to the point. The New Era is wonderful! It keeps me up to date on the Church since I’m not allowed to attend services. Please keep up the fantastic work so that my faith can stand strong.
Lee GibsonDexter, Missouri

Dave and Rosemary Smart were live-at-home missionaries assigned to the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard in Maine. They learned of a young seaman in the coast guard who would soon leave for three months’ sea duty. The seaman and his wife, members of the Church, had three children.
Until the Smarts contacted them, the young couple were unaware of military relations missionaries. They were relieved to know that Elder and Sister Smart would be nearby to offer support to the family in the absence of their husband and father.
The Smarts introduced the couple to the manual Becoming a Self-Reliant and Resilient Family. They explained how to find it in the Gospel Library and on the Gospel Library app. The app version would be of benefit to the seaman when he was at sea and there was no wi-fi aboard ship. He realized that the manual would benefit him and his family and that it would assist him in his job. As a health services technician, he often counsels others.

Illustration by Allen Garns
My father, a devout Christian, taught me to have faith in Jesus Christ. That faith helped me survive Nigeria’s three-year civil war in the late 1960s when I was in the army. Later, however, I became confused and quit attending church.
When I came to the United States in 1981 to get an education, I felt that I needed God in my life. For two years I attended different churches in Boston, Massachusetts, but none of them appealed to me. I didn’t feel the Spirit, so I stopped looking.
Not long after my wife, Mabel, joined me from Nigeria in 1984, I started having a burning desire to again draw closer to God and belong to a church. A friend visiting from Nigeria didn’t know I was looking for a church, but he told me about a church he had heard of that had a book called the Book of Mormon.
After that, I continued looking for churches. I found a church called The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The word saint caught my attention. I didn’t know there was a church with members called saints. That Sunday I decided to check it out.
At the sacrament meeting I attended, the congregation sang hymns in a reverent manner, priests blessed bread and water, and the service was conducted in order and humility. Afterward, as I walked to the foyer and contemplated the service, I heard my name.
“Simeon,” the voice of the Spirit said, “this is the place.”
At that point, two missionaries approached. They introduced themselves and the Book of Mormon. I looked at them and said, “I don’t know anything about the Book of Mormon, but I know the Bible. I am ready.”
They began teaching me the plan of salvation. Less than a month later, I was baptized. My wife joined the Church a short while later. A few years after that, we were sealed in the Washington D.C. Temple and our five children were sealed to us.
In the temple, many things have been revealed to me, but the words I heard my first day at church have been confirmed to me many times through revelation in the temple: “This is the place.” The impact of that statement from the Holy Ghost has forever changed my life and the lives of my wife and children.

Hannah held tightly to her mother’s hand. “It’s OK, Hannah. I can go with you to Primary,” Mom said.
Hannah looked around the chapel. She didn’t like this new building. But mostly she didn’t like not knowing anyone.
Last Sunday, Dad had gone with her to Primary. There were only boys in her class. But the teacher said that there was a girl who should be back in class this week. Hannah tried to peek around the tall grown-ups to see the girl who might be in her class.
Suddenly Hannah felt a tap on her elbow. She turned around and saw a girl who was just her height and wore her hair in two long braids.“My name is Natalie,” she said. “Sister Davis said that you were in our Primary class. You can come with me.”
The girl took hold of Hannah’s hand. Hannah looked at Mom. “Thank you for helping Hannah,” Mom said, smiling at Natalie.Hannah swallowed hard and let Natalie lead her out of the chapel.“Now I’m not the only girl in our class,” Natalie said. “Will you be my friend?”“Yes,” Hannah said with a big smile.In sharing time, Natalie sat down next to four boys. Natalie patted the chair next to her so Hannah would sit by her.
“Hi, Natalie,” a boy said.“Hi, Tait,” Natalie said. “This is my new friend Hannah.”Sister Walker asked everyone to sing “When Jesus Christ Was Baptized.” Hannah smiled. She had learned that song in her old Primary. “That’s my favorite song,” she told Natalie.“Tait and I like it too,” Natalie said.Hannah sang with Natalie and Tait. Sister Walker held up pictures of Jesus. Hannah smiled. Maybe she liked this new Primary after all.

In Ghana the field was also ready to harvest, due mainly to another Elias, Joseph William Billy Johnson, a preacher who obtained a Book of Mormon in 1964. He said:

"As I read the Book of Mormon I became convinced that it was really the word of God, and sometimes while reading I would burst into tears. I felt the Spirit as I read. I have a strong testimony [of] the Book of Mormon. It is a very powerful book!" Brother Johnson also knew that the Lord called him to be an Elias. He said:

Brother Johnson reported that he was strengthened and taught by dreams and visions, including instructions from the Prophet Joseph Smith and President Brigham Young. He later demonstrated his gratitude when his son was born, who today may be the only young man in Ghana named Brigham. On another occasion, when he was very discouraged his deceased brother appeared to him in a dream, and said: "Don't worry, you have chosen the only true church on earth and I am now investigating your church." I was surprised. I never knew that the church extended to another world. It was my brother who brought that knowledge to me. He said that if I didn't believe him, he would sing a song from my church, and he sang Come, Come Ye Saints. That was the first time I had heard that hymn. He said, "Don't leave the church my brother. Please see that I am baptized." Brother Johnson then noted: "It was my brother who enlightened me about baptism for the dead and brought it to my knowledge. Most of my relatives appeared to me in dreams [saying] "Reverend Johnson, do you know you have a work to do for us? Our great grandsons and daughters will be in your church soon. See that we are baptized."

"I learned these doctrines before the missionaries arrived. Nothing they taught us seemed strange. They simply confirmed what we had heard." For fourteen long years Brother Johnson helped organize ten congregations with over a thousand followers. He noted that in his dreams the Lord referred to his followers as Latter-day Saints, even though they were not yet members. Brother Johnson identified the name of the church by placing prominent signs in front of the buildings they used for worship.

Two years ago while filming Brother Johnson's story in Ghana, I walked with him through a dilapidated building that he had used twenty-five years earlier as a church meeting house. I noticed that the roof was patched with boards to keep out the rain, but my attention was drawn to one particularly colorful board. As I pointed it out to Brother Johnson, he gasped in surprise. It was part of the sign that stood in front of the building identifying the name of the church. It will be given to the Church History Museum as a treasured artifact from the pioneer period of Ghana.

One night at midnight, after many lonely years of struggle, Brother Johnson heard a short-wave news broadcast from England that announced that blacks could now receive the priesthood. He burst into tears of joy, knowing that the Church would now come to Africa. Following his baptism Brother Johnson served as Ghana's first branch president and later served several missions. Twelve years after his baptism he was ordained a patriarch.

My mother must have understood that principle of revelation. As a young man, I would close the back door very quietly when I came home late in the evening. I had to pass my mother’s bedroom on the way to mine. However quietly I tiptoed, just as I got to her half-opened door, I would hear my name, ever so quietly, “Hal, come in for a moment.”

I would go in and sit on the edge of her bed. The room would be dark. If you had listened, you would have thought it was only friendly talk about life. But to this day, what she said comes back to my mind with the same power I feel when I read the transcript of my patriarchal blessing.

I don’t know what she was asking for in prayer as she waited for me those nights. I suppose it would have been in part for my safety. But I am sure that she prayed as a patriarch does before he gives a blessing. He prays that his words will come to the recipient as the words of God, not his. My mother’s prayers for that blessing were answered on my head. She is in the spirit world and has been for more than 40 years. I am sure she has been exceedingly glad that I was blessed, as she asked, to hear in her counsel the commands of God. And I have tried to go and do as she hoped I would.

Another profound incident occurred when my hosts told me that a picture had been requested by the local newspaper. They wanted to take my picture with a gifted child. “Fine,” I said. “This should be easy, for probably any child will do for the picture.”

“Not so,” they said. “We need a gifted child; wait and see what happens.” I told them to locate the child, and I would cooperate as requested. Later they called and told me that they had a gifted five-year-old boy scheduled, and he would be there in the morning for a photo session. As I was thinking of this meeting, I wondered what I might give this small boy as a gift from America. As a general practice I take a few things with me that can be used as thank-you or friendship gifts. I had brought with me three small jars of Bear Lake raspberry jam and a couple of beautiful calendars. I did not think any of these items would necessarily appeal to a five-year-old boy. Then I reflected back to my hurried departure from home when I had cleaned out my purse and replaced only those items that I felt were needed on the trip. At the last minute I had included an item that could serve as a gift for this little boy.

In the morning the little boy came with his mother. There were also two people from the newspaper. One interviewed the mother while the other one came with me across the street with the small boy. We sat down on a bench by a beautiful river with black swans nearby. While the photographer took pictures, this small boy told me about the orbiting procedures of spaceships as he showed me the book he was reading. At a quiet time I told this little boy that I had brought him a magic ring from America.

“Magic? Is it really magic?” he asked.

I told him that it was not magic as most people think of magic, but that it could do magical things for him. We put the ring on his finger, and I asked him to identify the letters on the ring. He did so, and I told him what the letters represented. “Whenever you have an important decision to make, look down at your ring, and it will remind you to “Choose the Right” and to base your decisions on important principles.”

He was entranced with his ring and could not take his eyes off it. When we returned to meet with his mother, he ran up and told her about his ring. “Oh, my,” I thought, “his mother could be quite upset over this.”

But the mother listened intently to her son and then turned to me and, with gratitude showing in her eyes, simply said, “Thank you.” Somewhere in Perth, Australia, is a small and very gifted little boy with a Primary CTR ring.

Frequently the heavenly virtue of patience is required. As a bishop I felt prompted one day to call on a man whose wife was somewhat active, as were the children. This man, however, had never responded. It was a hot summer’s day when I knocked on the screen door of Harold G. Gallacher. I could see Brother Gallacher sitting in his chair reading the newspaper. “Who is it?” he queried, without looking up.
“Your bishop,” I replied. “I’ve come to get acquainted and to urge your attendance with your family at our meetings.”
“No, I’m too busy,” came the disdainful response. He never looked up. I thanked him for listening and departed the doorstep.
The Gallacher family moved to California shortly thereafter. The years went by. Then, as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve, I was working in my office one day when my secretary called, saying: “A Brother Gallacher who once lived in your ward would like to talk to you. He’s here in my office.”
I responded, “Ask him if his name is Harold G. Gallacher who, with his family, lived at Vissing Place on West Temple and Fifth South.”
She said, “He is the man.”
I asked her to send him in. We had a pleasant conversation together concerning his family. He told me, “I’ve come to apologize for not getting out of my chair and letting you in the door that summer day long years ago.” I asked him if he was active in the Church. With a wry smile, he replied: “I’m now second counselor in my ward bishopric. Your invitation to come out to church, and my negative response, so haunted me that I determined to do something about it.”
Harold and I visited together on numerous occasions before he passed away. The Gallachers and their children filled many callings in the Church. One of the youngest grandchildren is now serving a full-time mission.

Flora and Ezra were sealed in the Salt Lake Temple on September 10, 1926. Despite Ezra’s innate goodness and his success in school, “some people continued to question Flora’s judgment. They did not understand why someone so accomplished, wealthy, and popular would settle for a farm boy. But she continued to say that she had ‘always wanted to marry a farmer.’ Ezra ‘was practical, sensible and solid,’ she said. And, she observed, ‘He was sweet to his parents, and I knew if he respected them, he’d respect me.’ She recognized that he was ‘a diamond in the rough,’ and she said, ‘I am going to do all within my power to help him be known and felt for good, not only in this little community but for the entire world to know him.’”8
With this vision of her husband’s potential, Flora happily went wherever they needed to go to provide for their children and serve the Church, their community, and their nation. This sometimes required her to live a simpler life than she had been accustomed to, but she embraced the challenge.
For example, on their wedding day, “the only festivity … was a breakfast for family and friends. After the breakfast, the new couple left immediately in their Model T Ford pickup truck for Ames, Iowa,” where Ezra would pursue a master’s degree in agricultural economics. “Along the way, they spent eight nights in a leaky tent. When they arrived in Ames, they rented an apartment one block from the college campus. The apartment was small, and the Bensons shared the space with a large family of cockroaches, but Ezra said that ‘it soon looked like the coziest little cottage one could ever imagine.’”9

The Holy Ghost also confirms the truthfulness of the scriptures and prophets. When Sister Flori Cobo de Lumbreras of Cádiz, Spain, read the Book of Mormon, she “had strong desires to ask God if this book was true, if Joseph Smith was truly a prophet, and if God wanted me to join the Church.
“I tossed and turned in bed, disturbed for four or five hours, and finally knelt at the side of my bed and began to raise my voice to my Father. The answer came with great strength to my heart. What joy! What peace! A warm feeling covered me.”

Debbie dashed out of the school as soon as the bell rang. She was dimly aware of her name being called, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t face Jill and Kelly after her latest fiasco. Debbie hurried across the school yard without looking back, her blond curls bouncing crazily as she ran. And she didn’t stop running until she had reached home and slammed the front door behind her.
“Hi, Debbie,” her mother called from the kitchen. “Could you please come and help me, honey? I’m running late, and I have a million things to do.”
Debbie hesitated. She didn’t want to refuse, but first she had to calm down and get her thoughts in order. “I’ll just change and be right down,” she called back, racing up the stairs.
She flung herself facedown on her bed, burying her burning cheeks in the cool bedspread. Her ears still rang with the teacher’s gently teasing voice: “Honestly, Debbie, does my lesson go in one ear and straight out the other?”
“Math!” Debbie groaned. “I just can’t understand it.” Prickly tears stung her eyes again. She had felt humiliated, and she was certain that the entire class was laughing at her, and not at the teacher’s remark. I may as well give up. I’m never going to pass math, she though, and cried harder into her pillow.
Debbie heard her older brother, Mark, arrive home. It’s easy for him, she thought. He breezes through math. I’m the only dummy in this house.
Splashing, her face with cool water, Debbie examined her reflection in the bathroom mirror. “I don’t look stupid. In fact, I look pretty normal,” she murmured miserably, brushing her hair. “You wouldn’t know by looking at me that I can’t do anything right.”
In the kitchen no one noticed that there was anything wrong with Debbie as she peeled some vegetables and mixed a meat loaf while her mother sorted laundry into loads.
“How are you, short stuff?” Mark inquired good-naturedly, using his habitual nickname for her.
“In three years time, I’ll be taller than you, stringbean,” she replied, her gloom beginning to lift.
After the blessing on the food, Dad asked Mark and Debbie his usual question: “How was school today?”
Debbie was expecting the question, but she hadn’t planned on bursting into tears. She blurted out the whole story, adding, “I’m sorry, Dad. I really have done my best, but it just isn’t good enough!” Excusing herself from the table, she fled to her room again. Her head was whirling and buzzing in complete confusion.
They’ll be having a family council now to decide how they can help me, Debbie though when she’d calmed down a bit. I guess most families have one member who’s having problems. She heard movement below, but it was a half-hour’s anxious wait before she heard anyone climb the stairs. Her father softly rapped at her door and said, “Please come downstairs, Debbie. We need to talk with you.”
After Dad left, Debbie reluctantly descended the stairs, unsure of the reception she would get. She got what she’d never expected to get—a round of applause!
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Dad announced as she timidly walked into the dining room, “our guest of honor for this family home evening is Miss Debbie Hayden.”
Around the table sat her brother, her parents, their neighbor Mrs. Craske, and Debbie’s friends Jill and Kelly. At the head of the table was a seat reserved for Debbie, and her father guided her to it. “Our first speaker,” he continued, “will be our new neighbor, Mrs. Craske.”
In a daze, Debbie heard herself praised and thanked for her help while the Craske family was moving in—for looking after their little boys, for helping to unpack cartons, for running errands. “And,” Mrs. Craske concluded, “for being a truly thoughtful, unselfish young lady.”
Next Jill and Kelly stood up. They had come to tell Debbie how much they appreciated her for helping them with their English projects. They praised her for her pitching ability on their class softball team. And finally they thanked her for her loyal friendship. Debbie’s cheeks flushed scarlet with embarrassment, but she felt a rush of pleasure at the same time.
“My turn!” Mark declared. “I want to tell everybody what a good sport Debbie is. I tease her all the time, and yet she’s always ready to help me out by mending my ripped football shirts or by cleaning up after me before Mom sees the mess I’ve made. She’s a pretty good sister, and I’m glad she’s around.”
“Coming from Mark, praise like that is equal to getting a Nobel Prize,” Father teased.
Mother stood up. “Honey, I don’t think I could manage without your help,” she stated, squeezing Debbie’s hand. “Just tonight you cooked the supper—and you make better meat loaf than I do. I can always rely on you, and lots of times I don’t even have to ask because you’re already there to lend me a hand. I don’t always tell you how grateful I am for your help. From now on, I promise that will change.”
Debbie knew what her mother meant about taking people for granted. She couldn’t remember the last time she had shown her own appreciation to her family and friends. She resolved to tell them all tonight—and regularly in the future.
Her father took Debbie’s arm and gently urged her to stand beside him. “We didn’t realize you were feeling so upset about math,” he began. “But you’re bright and do well in your other subjects. You’ve let your worries about math get out of perspective, Debbie, and you’ve overlooked all the things that you do well. Each one of us here wants you to know that you’re a thoughtful, loyal person. We’re all proud of you. All anyone expects of you is for you to try to do your very best.”
Dad’s right, Debbie thought later as she lay in her bed, waiting for sleep to come. It’s a question of perspective. I can do some things well. And I’ll still work hard on my math—without letting it get me down.

When I was 15, my father and I took a walk one Sunday evening. Suddenly, my father stopped and suggested that we go to the Mormon Church. I was surprised, but out of curiosity I went with him. The choir was singing a beautiful hymn. I had never heard anything so touching.
After the song, a missionary stood up and gave a talk about the Godhead. He later talked to my father and me for a few minutes.
I didn’t go back to church until one year later when I went to learn English from the missionaries. When each English class ended, we drifted into religious discussions. The missionaries taught me about the gospel and how to pray to God the Father in the name of Jesus Christ. They told me about the Restoration of the gospel through the Prophet Joseph Smith, the coming forth of the Book of Mormon, and many other gospel principles.
All this was so new to me, yet it had a familiar sound. I studied the scriptures intently and prayed sincerely for enlightenment, which was given to me.
My father noticed a change in me. But when he realized that I was getting serious about the Church, he became angry and forbade me to go to church. I went anyway. Frequently he sent my brother to bring me home in the middle of Church meetings.
When I turned 17, my father asked me what I wanted for my birthday. I told him I wanted his approval to be baptized. He pounded his fist on the table and shouted, “Never!”
By this time my parents had joined a different church. My father sent the church’s minister and others to talk to me, but I was firm in my testimony of the gospel. Father told me I was a disgrace to the family, and I was forced to leave home. I stayed at the home of a Relief Society sister for about a week. During that time my father’s heart was softened, and he allowed me to come home.
Within several months my father realized that nothing could take away the testimony I had of the gospel, so he gave his consent for me to be baptized. My joy and happiness were so great that they made a deep impression on my father. He even wanted to go with me to Oslo to attend my baptism.
All through this time, my mother didn’t say very much, but I could tell that she believed the gospel was true. We spent many hours talking about the gospel together.
However, the struggle was not over at home. My father wouldn’t listen to me. I put pamphlets on his nightstand, as he always read long into the night. I invited the missionaries to our home often, and they talked to my father, but nothing seemed to help.
One day my father asked me, “Do you ever pray?” I told him that I prayed every day that his eyes would be opened to the truthfulness of the gospel. He responded that it was all from the devil but then said, “Let’s pray together.”
I said, “All right, you pray to your God, and I will pray to my God, and we will see which answers first.” So we did.
Soon after that I started noticing that he was reading the pamphlets and the Book of Mormon. He went to church several times with me but would never talk about it or show me any change in his beliefs. Still, there was rarely a day when we didn’t discuss different principles of the gospel.
One day, after three years of this, he told me he was going to Oslo and wanted me to go with him. When we arrived at the station, one of the local elders was there. I asked him where he was going.
The elder said, “Don’t you know? I’m going to baptize your father.”
I cried and laughed! One month later my mother and youngest brother were also baptized. My sister and her husband joined the Church a short time later, as did three of my brothers.
Sara Elvira Eriksen’s faithful posterity in the Church now numbers in the hundreds. This account from her personal history was submitted by her children, Rose Anderson, Betty Farley, Aksel Tanner, and Janet Bylund.

David loved serving at D.I., but his missionary efforts didn’t stop there. In the evenings, he team taught with full-time missionaries. These efforts resulted in several conversions, including one young woman who asked him to perform the baptism.
“I figured if she had enough faith to ask me to baptize her, I had enough faith to find a way to do it,” remembers Elder Eves. And so on 1 January 2000, Elder Eves sat in his shower chair in the font, said the baptismal prayer, and lowered Robin Rasmussen into the water. No one will ever forget the spirit present that day.

On the other side of the ocean, Americans consider cricket in much the same unprofessional light. I know, because long, long ago I also nourished that same opinion. Only I made the mistake of discussing it with Trevor Wright, my English buddy at a Boy Scout summer camp I attended while living in England.
Word got around quickly about the “American’s comment,” and I soon found myself challenged by the entire troop to join in a cricket match. Feeling that the opinion they had of America was always directly influenced by what I did, I felt called upon to acquiesce and participate in the game.
Of all the foolish mistakes I have made in life, that was certainly the greatest. I had no idea of the mischief they were brewing up to teach me that cricket is not for kids, or cream puffs, or upstart Americans.
It was one of those languid August days when you’d sooner lie on your sleeping bag reading a comic book than run around outside playing games. But I had made my commitment, and I strolled out to the cricket pitch with comics in hand, the apparent epitome of unconcern. Sides were chosen up, and I was chosen last. Not realizing that I was chosen last because they had so little confidence in my cricket prowess, I thought it was a result of my taunts about their game.
Our side was up first, and it was a long while before it was my turn. You see, one of the first things you must realize is that cricket is not a game at all, but a siege. The shortest match of any seriousness at all starts at 11:30 A.M. and ends at 6 P.M., with an hour off for lunch and half an hour off for tea and biscuits. Normal matches last two or three days, while test matches, the big events in the cricket world, take five. In test matches, an all-England team goes out to play in Australia once a year, and an all-Australia team comes to England. As soon as they know which team is really best, they can have a real match, I guess. Meantime they keep testing it out.
Well, I took Trevor aside and asked him for a capsule lesson on cricket, admitting that I knew nothing about the game. He was greatly surprised, but in spite of his amazement, he did his best to tell me what was important. The following covers the gist of his explanation:
Both cricket and baseball are similar in three important aspects—they both involve a ball and a bat, and each game is won by the side earning the greatest number of runs. However, where baseball’s element is air, the ball touching the ground only incidentally, cricket’s is grass. You will hear old cricketers debate for hours on the state of the field, or “pitch” as they call it, because the fortunes of the game so thoroughly depend on it.
The game is concentrated on a strip of well-rolled turf, sixty-six feet long, at either end of which are two wickets. Each wicket consists of three stumps of wood driven into the turf, with two bails, small bits of wood shaped like spark plugs, balanced on top. From one wicket, the bowler (never called pitcher) tries to knock the bails off the stumps. The batsman (never called batter) attempts to thwart the bowler, either by blocking the ball with his bat or by banging out what in baseball would be a hit. (But, there are no foul balls in cricket.) After six balls have been bowled from one end of the wicket (the unit of play called an “over”), the whole field changes around; another bowler takes charge, and the batsman at the opposite end of the wicket receives his bowling.
The team principle is pretty basic. There are eleven men on a side, and whichever side bats first must play until ten men are out—or in the language of the game, until ten wickets have fallen. (The eleventh batsman, obviously, has no one left to partner him and consequently can score no more runs.)
This, however, is a ludicrously simple summation of what practically never happens; the game is so full of ifs and buts, so prone to uncertainties and unknowns, that no two games are ever alike, and none is in any way predictable.
“Just remember,” Trevor impressed upon me, “don’t let the ball hit your wicket when the bowler bowls it, and if the hit seems good enough, run.” As he left to take his position at bat, I smiled to myself in anticipation of my glorious time at bat. It would be, I thought in English slang, a piece of cake.
I watched the course of the game a while longer before returning to my comics. What seemed the oddest thing to me was that the batsman held the bat much like a golf club, and the bowler would walk away from the batsman, turn, run about ten yards, whirl his arms and legs like a windmill, and then throw the ball. No, he doesn’t throw—that’s illegal—he bowls it, making sure it bounces before reaching the batter. It all reminded me of an antelope suddenly seeing and then chasing some victim.
Another hour passed before someone yelled out my name and all the fielders shifted positions as if expecting me to play into their hands. I stepped up to the popping crease, an area four feet from the wicket in which a person bats and tags the base when running.
I had all the confidence in the world. After all, I was pretty good in baseball, and here was a bat a yard long and twice as wide as a baseball bat, and all I had to do was hit that little five-ounce red leather ball. I figured we had the game won. Old Casey was at bat.
The bowler and I eyed each other like a Spartan confronting an Athenian in battle, and he walked back for his crazy run-up. It seemed the minute he stopped running, everybody started laughing. I didn’t even see the ball until I looked back and saw the wicket knocked over. With drooping shoulders, I walked off the field after what must have been the shortest time at bat in cricket history.
I don’t even recall eating dinner that night—I was too busy eating crow.
By the end of the evening, after talking with Trevor at length, I had decided that not only was cricket the most complicated game in the world, but the most lethal. A fast bowler hurls the ball ninety miles an hour onto the ground at the batsman’s feet. According to what sort of spin he puts on it, and whether the earth is dry or wet, the ball flies into the air at any one of a hundred angles. It might hit the batsman in the face and break his nose, it might smash his thumb or his wrist, or it might knock him cold.

Featured in the magazine was an account of a once proud airplane, a mighty bomber, found rather well preserved in an isolated corner of the vast Sahara Desert. The bomber and crew had participated in the famous raid over Rumania’s Ploiesti oil fields. The craft had been struck by antiaircraft fire, which completely destroyed its communication and navigational equipment. As the stricken plane turned toward its desert landing field, a sudden sandstorm obliterated familiar points of reference. The field’s landing lights were shrouded by sand. The plane droned on, even far beyond the landing field, into the desert wastes until, with fuel exhausted, it settled on the Sahara, never to fly again. All crew members perished. Home and the safety and shelter there to be found had been denied. Victory, hopes, dreams—all had been swallowed by the silence of the desert’s dust.

There was an increase in use of social media as leaders and members shared messages of events, activities, and inspirational messages to the community. Stake Light the World Facebook groups were used to encourage more to share how they were lighting up the world. To help encourage all members to get involved in the Light the World initiative this year, Rebecca Ballard (special media specialist in the Belfast Northern Ireland Stake) took on the task of posting one item per day on their stake social media featuring a member or missionary serving from the stake and sharing one of their favourite ways to serve.