Gospel Story Finder

One Sunday evening after a fireside, my four-year-old son’s Primary teacher came to me and asked, “Did I tell you what Brandon did a few Sundays ago?” Almost apologetically, I responded that I hoped he had not caused a problem. Sister Brown smiled, then described the experience to me.
A lovely little girl in Brandon’s class did not have complete hair growth on her head due to a serious burn she had received as a baby. Through the years, because of her disfigurement, this little girl had suffered considerable thoughtlessness and cruelty from other children. Consequently, she was bashful and had a difficult time attending her Primary class alone. But this particular Sunday she had finally mustered enough courage to come. She sat next to Brandon.
As she sat down, Brandon reached over and gently placed his hand on Carmen’s face. He held her cheek for a moment, exchanging an understanding smile with her. Sister Brown related that it was one of the most touching moments she had ever experienced—that one child could be so sympathetic to another’s need to be loved and accepted.
When I returned home that evening, I gathered my son in my arms. “Sister Brown told me about the time you were so kind to Carmen and put your hand on her cheek to help her feel better,” I said. Brandon smiled shyly. “Oh, I remember that time,” he said quietly.
“It makes me especially proud of you when you are kind to others. Carmen is a pretty girl, and very special to our Heavenly Father.”
“I know. But why don’t the other kids think that?” His look told me that he really did not understand.
“They don’t think that because her head looks different.”
Brandon turned to me and said, “But mom, I didn’t see her head.”
The very essence of the gospel is contained in his statement. How great are the lessons little ones teach!

A fine member of the Church was talking with a neighbor who was not of our faith. When the topic of discussion turned to general conference, the neighbor asked, “You say you have prophets and apostles? And twice a year in a worldwide conference they reveal the word of God?”
“Absolutely,” the member replied with confidence.
The neighbor thought about that for a moment. He seemed genuinely interested and then asked, “What did they say in the last general conference?”
At this point the good member of the Church went from feeling excited about sharing the gospel to feeling embarrassed. Try as he might, he couldn’t think of the details of a single talk.
His friend found this troubling and said, “You mean to tell me that God speaks to man in our day and you can’t remember what He said?”
The brother felt humbled by this exchange. He vowed that he would do better to remember the words spoken by the Lord’s servants in general conference.

A short time after that reunion, young Bruford Reynolds, a son, who was also a bishop, called and said, “Did you know my dad is in the hospital? He had a serious heart attack. He is in the LDS Hospital, and we wondered if you knew.” I had not known. I told him that I would like to see him but I had to catch a plane in a little over an hour. I didn’t see how I could get up to the hospital before I had to leave. He then said, “Oh, that’s okay. Dad is going to be released tomorrow to return home.”
I said, “Tell him I love him, and I’ll drop in to see him as soon as I get back.”
I hung up the phone, thought for only a moment, and decided everything else could wait. I took my briefcase, airplane tickets, and drove to the LDS Hospital to see Bruford Reynolds. As I walked through the door, our eyes met. The love between a great man and boy spanned the years. I went over to him and sat down, and we talked. Then I said, “I know you have been administered to, but would you feel all right if I knelt by your bed and offered a prayer?” I knelt down and together we prayed. When I finished, my eyes were filled with tears, as were his. Then I bent down over him and kissed him on the forehead and left.
Bruford Reynolds died an hour later. I was one of his boys, saying “farewell” to a great adviser one last time.

This summer the older girls in our ward Primary went swimming at the local pool for activity day. Every girl came, and one brought a friend from another church. They were polite and courteous to each other and everyone around them. That alone would have made me proud, but the girls’ next actions were such that I’m sure Heavenly Father was proud, too.
A short while later, a man carrying a baby suddenly cried out, “I’ve lost my wedding ring!” With the baby in his arms, he could not find it by himself. Fortunately, he was standing near our girls. They instantly stopped playing and let the water settle. Within seconds, one of them spotted the ring and dove to get it for the man. He was very grateful.
Neither the woman nor the man asked to be taught by missionaries right then and there. But if they come into contact with the Church again, perhaps they will remember the examples set by the activity-day girls.

When our children were young, our family spent a few days at a beautiful lake. One afternoon some of the children put on life jackets before jumping off a deck and into the water. Our youngest daughter watched with hesitation, carefully observing her siblings. With all the courage she could muster, she plugged her nose with one hand and jumped. She immediately popped up and with a bit of panic in her voice yelled, “Help me! Help me!”
Now, she was not in any mortal danger; her life jacket was doing its job, and she was floating safely. We could have reached out and pulled her back on the deck with little effort. Yet from her perspective, she needed help. Perhaps it was the chill of the water or the newness of the experience. In any case, she climbed back onto the deck, where we wrapped her in a dry towel and complimented her on her bravery.

Once when I was five or six years old I woke up in the middle of the night. I was having an asthma attack and I couldn’t breathe at all! My mom said she would have to take me to the emergency room, and I was terrified. While she was getting our coats, I called out, “Heavenly Father, please help me!” When my mom came back to my room, I was lying on my bed, breathing slowly. We went to the emergency room where I had a treatment. I missed a day of school, but soon I felt as well as if nothing had happened. I know that Heavenly Father listened to me and answered my prayer.Marissa E., age 10, California

Two years later the Prophet came out of Liberty Jail and planned a winter trip to Washington D.C. to seek federal help for the Latter-day Saints who had lost their homes and property in Missouri. Not far from the nation’s capital, the horses pulling the stagecoach ran out of control of the driver for about four kilometers. Joseph carefully opened the door of the swaying stagecoach, pulled himself up over the side to the driver’s seat, where he got control of the reins and stopped the horses, saving the lives of the passengers. This event was confirmed by a letter of appreciation that appeared in a local newspaper.

We are counseled to seek learning and gain education for several purposes, but one of them is to involve ourselves in a love for and a knowledge of great books. And we ought to be born again a great many times as a consequence. You are involved with a large number of great teachers and important philosophies that will also help you to be born again.

One of the most pleasant and productive experiences in my life happened in 1943 as the Japanese war was taking place. I heard Dr. Adam S. Bennion give a lecture on the value of great literature. You can sell the idea of the value of great ideas to anyone. That is, we all believe that we should be acquainted with great human thought. But almost everyone gets away from its benefit by saying that he doesn’t have time to read. To get away from this objection of not having time, Dr. Bennion said, “Suppose that you were going to be a prisoner in a Japanese concentration camp for the next four years and you could take with you the works of any ten authors. Which would you take, and what would you expect to get out of them?” That is, what are the values of great ideas, of great literature? His idea was to take the ten authors you would most like to resemble and then exhaust each one in turn. That is, you would read every thought and consider every idea that a particular author had ever recorded; you would rethink his every idea. The psychologists say that when you run an idea through your brain, it makes a little groove or engram. If you run through your mind the kind of ideas that went through the mind of Shakespeare or Emerson or the apostle Paul or Moses or Jesus of Nazareth, then your brain will tend to respond as their brains did.

From someplace I got the courage to make the start. I guess Shakespeare comes fairly close to the top of most people’s lists of great authors. So I got out Shakespeare’s 37 plays, his sonnets, and his poems and went to work. Reading them was pretty difficult at first. I read very slowly and perhaps not very comprehendingly. Shakespeare wrote a long time ago, and there were many things that I did not understand. I had to reread some things several times, look up their meanings, and ask people about them. But finally the clouds began to part, a little bit of the sunlight began to come through, and I had a tremendous experience with Shakespeare. Shakespeare looked with clearer insight into human life than do most men. He said his purpose in writing was to hold the mirror up to life, to show virtue her own image and scorn her own likeness. He said, “I your looking-glass will be and will modestly discover to yourself qualities which you yourself know not of.” I had a great uplift as I read his speeches and his arguments for success. And as he pictured life in miniature with his great characters acting and reacting upon each other, I was intellectually born again—a great many times. Each time we discover some inspiring thought, we can be changed, and changed for the better.

“There’s no way you’re going on that youth convention, Thomas, and that’s final.” Dad’s voice came loud and curt, bloodshot eyes narrowed, flashing danger signals. His lean, weather-beaten frame straightened to full height, his mouth clamping in a hard line.
I bit my lip, digging the heel of my boot into the dirt with sharp jerks.
“And if I hear any more on the subject, you can tell that James lad to stop picking you up for church Wednesdays. You’re slow enough at school without that … that … seminary stuff taking your time.”
He stomped off past the hen sheds, muttering and shaking his head. “Should never have let you join in the first place. Not been the same since. Always trying to change things, do things.” He tore down a dead branch overhanging the path, swishing it violently. “As if I haven’t got enough problems without you pestering. I’m sick of it, do you hear? Sick of it!” His words ended on a shout as he snapped the branch across his knee.
The hens scattered in all directions, squawking, flustered. One rushed panic-stricken into a pile of loose wire netting. I’d left it there this morning when the school bus arrived before I was ready. (Okay, so I was late—same thing.) Anyway, I never finished the job properly.
“Now look what you’ve done,” Dad yelled. “Can’t you do anything right? That’s all we need, a hen with a broken wing.” Grabbing the screeching hen, he marched back toward the house.
“Get on with the chores,” he flung over his shoulder, “and keep out of my way.”
The twisted, choking feeling in my stomach swam up my throat and stuck there. I hadn’t cried since Mum died in a car accident nine years ago, and I wasn’t about to begin now. We used to live on a Devonshire farm back then, but after the funeral we moved north to Yorkshire. It’s been so cold up here. Seems like Dad’s forever mad at someone for taking Mum, and I’m the one who gets it every time things go wrong.
I think he could use a few of those scriptures my teacher’s always quoting—especially the “forgiving” ones. I’m getting an idea what they’re on about.
I had really thought today would be a safe time to ask about the youth convention, though. I’ve never been to one before, and a boy’s 16th birthday should stand for something, surely?
But no such luck. In fact, the only bright moment was getting that card at breakfast. No one had ever bothered before. Come to think of it, no one had ever believed too much in me at all—that is, before this new seminary lady moved in to the branch. She seems to understand that I’m not as slow as I look. Probably because she’s an artist too.

On a map, the town of Bluewater, New Mexico, is just a small dot near the northeastern corner of the state. But to me it is a very important town, because it is there that I was born and raised. It was my world. Here I learned many lessons, not the least of which was one taught by the episode of the “gentile cow.”
The countryside around Bluewater is beautiful, but beautiful in a harsh way. It is a dry region, and much of the level valley is covered with sandy red soil which the constant wind piles around fence posts and other objects. A deep gully runs across the valley.Only during the rainy season does it hold any water, and then it is a raging torrent colored red by the soil. Near the head of the gully where there is a runoff from the hills, some cottonwood trees have managed to send their roots down deep enough to be sustained by underground water. They are so firmly situated that they are not affected by wind or drought. As a child I had hope my testimony of the gospel would become as deep-rooted and as unbendable as those cottonwood trees.
Bluewater was really a community divided between the Mormons and the gentiles. Northward lived the rich (we thought) gentiles. They owned the General Merchandise Store and the garage with a gasoline pump. There also was a small Union Pacific Railway Depot and the United States Post Office. Southward, the Mormons had a little concrete church meetinghouse and a red brick four-room schoolhouse. There was not much socializing between the groups. The Mormons went up to the store to get produce and to fill their gasoline tanks in their cars at the garage and get their mail at the post office. Few trains ever stopped at the depot, so few people went there. The gentile children came down to school, and the gentile adults came occasionally to Church socials and dances.
During the depression of the 1930’s, we lived mostly on potatoes and pinto beans. The ultimatum was, “If you don’t grow it, you don’t eat it.” Momma could make potatoes and beans taste like gourmet food, but she could not make them into milk for the children. In this little town there were no telephones, sidewalks, electric lights, or paved streets—and no dairies. There wasn’t even any money to buy canned milk. A milking cow was a necessity for a family. Our cows were all dry. My parents worried about their eight children. As the oldest child, I worried too.
One day as I helped Momma with the dishes, I asked, “Are we going to starve?” She countered, “We haven’t starved yet, have we?” I knew we hadn’t starved, but we had hungered for variety, and now we needed milk. She continued as much for herself as for me: “So long as we pay our tithing, I can’t think the Lord will let us starve. He has always looked after us.” I knew this was true, and I knew that my parents always paid an honest and cheerful tithe on every thing they received. Every tenth calf went for tithing. I saw Momma write on the calendar each night the number of eggs she had gathered that day, and each month a tenth went to the Lord. I was reassured. Besides, it was spring and new crops were being planted.
One day not long after this, I hurried home from the school bus. As I came up the path to the house, I saw my two little brothers and my sister looking at something by the gate. It was a smouldering cigar butt. I could not think how a fat cigar butt could have gotten inside our gate. The only smoking Mormon I knew smoked thin cigarettes.
“Where did it come from?” I asked.
The answer could only make more questions. “Mr. Thigpen threw it there.” Mr. Thigpen was the foremost-gentile. He owned the General Merchandise Store.
“Why was he here?”
The next answer did nothing to solve the mystery: “He’s going to give Daddy a cow.”
My sister reached out her foot and kicked the cigar butt. We stood horrified. But lightning didn’t strike, and the earth didn’t swallow her up, so my brother took the shovel and covered the remains of the cigar with sand.
Daddy came out of the house and put a bridle on the horse that was in the corral. Momma came out and said, “Are you going now?”
“Yes, Mr. Thigpen said to come get a cow. He’ll change his mind when he sobers up, but we’ll milk her tonight anyway.”
He threw the saddle on the horse’s back and fastened the cinch. “I’ll be back in a little while.” He got on the horse and trotted off to the north. I was too mystified to ask if I could go too.
While Momma prepared supper, I worked on my school lessons. I had to get them done before dark because we were out of coal oil for the lamp. Momma put wood in the stove. She stirred the food in the kettles, then pushed the kettles to the back of the stove where they would keep warm but not burn. She took the bread from the oven and turned it out of the pans onto the sideboard by the stove. The she set the table.
By this time the children who had been watching at the gate came running through the house. “Daddy’s home! The cow’s here!” They ran out of the kitchen door. I ran out, too. Momma followed with a milk pail. My brother quickly opened the corral gate. We all watched as the beautiful little Jersey cow with the big milk bag stepped daintily inside. She stood waiting to be milked. No famous opera singer ever had a more appreciative audience.
Daddy milked the cow. We stood there listening to the sound of the milk filling the pail. We all walked into the house behind Daddy who carried the milk pail. He opened the stove door to light the darkened room. He strained the milk and set the pitcher on the table. Momma sliced a warm loaf of bread and set the beans, potatoes, and bread on the table. We all sat down, and Daddy said the blessing on the food and thanked the Lord for his kindness to us that day.
Mr. Thigpen did come back a few days later. He was a bit chagrined by his generous offer. However, he covered his embarrassment by offering Daddy a job to pay for the cow and also to receive goods from the store for pay.
“Well,” said Momma, “we don’t know in what way the Lord will help us. I never thought a drunk gentile could answer a prayer.” The roots of my testimony anchored about three meters deep.
It has been many years since we sat around that table eating our supper by firelight, but the scene is as bright to me as an unshaded light bulb. I have traveled to many places in the world and eaten many remarkable meals. I have sampled milk that has been pasteurized, homogenized, pulverized, refined, and vitalized, but no milk has ever surpassed, or even equaled, the soul-satisfying milk that the Lord sent to us by that gentle “gentile cow.”

“This is going to be the most boring family home evening ever!” groaned Jeremy, slumping in his chair as he pushed his carrots into his potatoes. “Couldn’t we just stay home and make Easter treats? What kind of Easter celebration is this?”
“We’ve already discussed this,” said Dad firmly. “Too many Easters have come and gone with very little thought about its real meaning. It’s time our family made a change. Tonight’s service project is the sort of thing the Savior was doing the last week of his life—helping others.”
“But why her?” moaned Jeremy.
“That’s enough,” said Mom. “Finish your dinner. We don’t have a lot of time before the sun goes down.”
Sullenly Jeremy sat up and started in on the cold potatoes. It wasn’t that he had anything against their next-door neighbor, Mrs. Adams. And it was obvious that an eighty-year-old widow needed help. But why couldn’t they do something for someone like Sister White? Every time anybody did anything for her, she treated them with delicious homemade cookies.
Or what about the Spencers? Jeremy’s Primary class had helped them move in. The very next Sunday Sister Spencer had even cried as she bore her testimony about “those wonderful Blazer boys.”
And the time Jeremy’s Cub Scout den had cleaned up the playground at the park hadn’t been too bad, either. The mayor himself had written them a thank-you note and sent them each a coupon for an ice cream cone.
But it was going to be different with Mrs. Adams. She hardly did any cooking—people brought most of her meals in to her. She didn’t go out in public enough to tell anybody else how wonderful Jeremy’s family was. And she certainly didn’t have enough money to treat everyone to ice cream. Besides that, she was hard of hearing. She would probably sit in her house watching TV and never even notice that they were working in her yard.
Cleaning Mrs. Adams’s yard was about as hard as Jeremy had imagined. It took his whole family nearly two hours to rake up the dead leaves and grass and prune the bushes on the side of her house. It was nearly dark when they finished. And he had been right about Mrs. Adams and the TV. She had it turned up so loud that they could hear it outside. She never knew what was going on only a few feet away, right outside her door. Even so, Jeremy started to smile when he thought about how surprised she would be.
Jeremy’s oldest sister, Kim, was helping him tie up the last bag of dead leaves. “I know how you feel about tonight. I had to cancel plans with my friends!”
Jeremy didn’t know what to say. Kim was in high school and was so busy that he hadn’t really talked to her for a while.
“But this morning in seminary,” Kim went on, “Sister Hansen reminded us that no one has ever done more for other people on this earth than Jesus. When he prayed in Gethsemane and when he died on the cross, nobody said thank you. Anyway, I started thinking that maybe it would be a good way to celebrate Easter, to do something hard without getting thanked.” She smiled. “You’re quite a worker, you know that? And I happen to know that Mom made brownies for us, so cheer up.” She picked up the bag and carried it out to the curb.
But it wasn’t the brownies that Jeremy was thinking about as he watched her go. He was thinking about how strangely peaceful he felt. The last dark pink of the sunset was just fading, and he could barely see the rest of his family as they gathered up the rakes, pruning shears, and other things and headed home. But he knew that his family were there, and he knew that he loved them. He could see Mrs. Adams through her living room window as she stood up with her cane to go into the kitchen. And while Jeremy didn’t understand all of those feelings he was having, he knew for sure that Easter time was never going to be the same again.

“And the winner of our school reading contest is Joshua Hawkins!”
Marcus watched his friend Josh high-five his way to the podium. The principal, Mrs. Houston, shook his hand and gave him a certificate. Marcus knew Josh deserved to win. He could read a book in one afternoon that would take Marcus two weeks to finish.
Next, Trina got an award for winning the science fair. Then Mrs. Houston gave out awards for straight As and for the highest scores on the state achievement tests. Marcus kept listening, but Mrs. Houston didn’t call his name.
Marcus hoped the assembly would be over soon. He was tired of sitting, and his hands were getting sore from clapping. Most of all, he was disappointed. He wished he could be the best at something.
Finally, Mrs. Houston adjusted her glasses and smiled. “Our last awards are for perfect attendance,” she said. Marcus slumped in his seat. Last month he had chicken pox, so he wouldn’t be getting an attendance award either.
On the way home, Ari leaned over the bus seat and poked Marcus on the arm. “Hey, Josh got three awards, but Trina only got two,” he said. “How many did you get?”
Marcus’s face felt hot. “None,” he said.
Marcus got off the bus and kicked a rock up the driveway to his house. Mom was in the garden pulling weeds. “How was your day?” she asked.
Marcus frowned. “We had an awards assembly, but I didn’t get any awards,” he said. “I’m not the best at anything.”
Mom put down her weed digger. “Well, maybe it seems that way,” she said. “But who does your teacher ask when she needs someone trustworthy to take a message to the office?”
“Sometimes she asks me,” Marcus admitted.
“And who always reminds us when it’s time for family home evening?”
“I do,” Marcus said.
“Who found a ten-dollar bill at the store and turned it in, even though he was saving money to buy a soccer ball that he really, really wanted?”
“I did,” said Marcus.
Mom ruffled Marcus’s hair a little. “And who can make your little brother laugh when no one else can?”
Marcus couldn’t help smiling when he thought about his brother’s goofy laugh. “Me,” he said.
“Well,” said Mom, “you may not think you’re the best at anything, but you’re doing your best to be the kind of boy Heavenly Father wants you to be. And I wouldn’t be any prouder if you had come home with a whole armful of awards.”
Marcus gave Mom a hug. He noticed how hot and tired she looked. “Do you need some help with the weeding, Mom?”
“Thanks, Marcus. You’re the best.”

I assumed that was all I’d be needed for in giving blessings before my mission, but the next day came the most unexpected phone call of my life. It was my mom, who had been trimming some old tree branches at my grandma’s house. She’d fallen, twisted her knee, and now could not get up because of the pain. Instantly I sprinted from my uncle’s house to go help. When I got there, I helped my mom up and we slowly walked inside my grandma’s home so that Mom could sit down.
Then came the request I will never forget: my mom asked me for a blessing. I, being only an 18-year-old teenager, but also being a newly ordained elder, could accept that call to serve for the second time that week. The blessing finished with everyone in tears and my mom feeling much better.

These intrepid pioneers were waiting for apostolic direction on how and when they would be heading further west. Everyone’s plans were altered when Brigham Young, the President of the Quorum of the Twelve, issued a call for men to volunteer to serve in the United States Army in what came to be known as the Mormon Battalion.

Robert Harris Jr. was one of over 500 Mormon pioneer men who responded to that call from Brigham Young. He enlisted, even though it meant he would leave behind his pregnant wife and six little children.

Why would he and the other men do such a thing?

The answer can be given in my great-great-grandfather’s own words. In a letter that he wrote to his wife when the battalion was on its way to Santa Fe, he wrote, “My faith is so strong as ever [and when I think of the things that Brigham Young told us], I believe it about the same as if the Great God had told me.”

In short, he knew he was listening to a prophet of God, as did the other men. That is why they did it! They knew they were led by a prophet of God.

In that same letter, he expressed his tender feelings for his wife and children and told of his constant prayers that she and the children would be blessed.

Later in the letter, he made this powerful statement: “We must not forget the things which you and I heard and [experienced] in the Temple of the Lord.”

Combined with his earlier testimony that “we are led by a Prophet of God,” these two sacred admonitions have become like scripture to me.

Eighteen months after departing with the battalion, Robert Harris was safely reunited with his beloved Maria. They stayed true and faithful to the restored gospel throughout their lives. They had 15 children, 13 of whom lived to maturity. My grandmother Fannye Walker, of Raymond, Alberta, Canada, was one of their 136 grandchildren.

For example, the next summer I was concerned about the friends my teenage daughter was spending so much time with. But when I tried to talk to her about the situation, she discounted what I said and became more distant. While I was jogging and thinking about the proclamation one morning, the Spirit highlighted in my thoughts the last sentence in paragraph seven: “Extended families should lend support when needed.” I slowed the pace of my jog, and an image of my younger sister came into my mind. This sister had experienced many trials in her life and was now nearly full term with her seventh pregnancy. The impression I had was that we, as extended family, should lend her support right now. So I bought a plane ticket for my daughter and asked her to spend a week serving in my sister’s home.
In this distant place an interesting thing happened. During the day my daughter found joy serving my sister’s family. And after the children were asleep, she and my sister had many long talks. My sister was able to talk to my daughter in a way that I had been unable to. She told her how decisions she had made as a teenager had produced a lifetime of challenges. When my daughter returned home, something had changed in her. She began making choices that blessed her life. My sister, her family, my daughter, and I were all blessed by this trip, which was prompted by the words of the proclamation.

W’Dojo was the oldest and wisest of the Kikuyu elders. His ears had heard many sounds, and his eyes had seen many sights. He was at peace with everything and everyone around him. It was said that W’Dojo could smell the rains long before they fell and that he could touch the soil and tell if it was time to plant. He was rarely wrong. Now W’Dojo had a feeling that he would soon die, and he was preparing for the event.
Among the young boys of the Kikuyu villages, it was a time for learning. This year they had a special honor: W’Dojo was to be their teacher.
Thirty boys sat quietly at their teacher’s feet, eager to learn. They had been sent to learn as much of the teacher’s wisdom as they could. When old W’Dojo spoke, he extended an invitation to each boy: “Those who want to learn, come follow me to the mountain. Begin at sunrise. Don’t be afraid or worried, for the way will be clearly marked.”
All the boys were anxious to learn and chorused, “We will follow you to the mountain.”
Early the next morning twenty-five boys met on the road. Five boys had decided to sleep late and muttered, “Go on. We will catch up with you later.” They never did.
By noon the sun was hot and the ground was dry and dusty. However, the path led to a water hole. The boys splashed and played in the fresh and cooling water. Five of the boys decided they would stay longer to play and have fun. “Go on. We will join you later,” they said. Of course they never did. Now only twenty boys traveled toward the mountain.
The day was long, and the way became narrow and difficult. Rocks blocked the path, and thornbushes scratched the boys’ legs. “We are tired, and our feet are sore,” five of the boys complained. “We must stop. You go on, and we will join you later.” But that evening there were only fifteen boys left.
The path led to a deep, wide river. Crocodiles, looking like sleeping logs, lined its banks. Several of the boys were terribly frightened and turned back. Only seven boys followed the path past the crocodiles to shallow water, where they crossed in safety.
It was almost sunset. The boys were tired and hungry. They hadn’t eaten all day. Suddenly, the African plains came alive with the sounds of wild animals. Several of the boys cried out: “We have no fire!” “We have no food!” “We have no spears!” “We have nothing!” Four of them hurried to a nearby village to wait until morning. When they returned the next day, they couldn’t find the path that led to the mountain. So they returned to their homes.
The three boys who had stayed on the path slept in the trees and ate wild berries. They reached the foot of the mountain the next day at midmorning. The mountain was huge, dark, and cold. The rocks were sharp and ragged. “I am afraid to climb,” said one of the boys, and he turned back.
Just before they reached the top, the last two boys came to a deep cleft in the rocks. One jumped across without any trouble. The other stood looking into the deep, dark split. “I can’t jump,” he said. “I can’t.”
“It looks hard,” cried the first boy, “but try. If old W’Dojo could jump across, you can too. He told us not to be afraid. Try.”
The second boy stood looking at the split in the rock. “No,” he said. “Learning is not worth this much.” He turned and walked away.
The last boy climbed until he came to a cave in the side of the mountain. W’Dojo sat at the entrance, waiting.
“Welcome, my brother,” the old one said. “You truly want to learn. And so it shall be. You are worthy of what I have to give. What is your name?”
The boy answered, “I am Jomo.”
“Come, Jomo,” said W’Dojo. “You have much to learn.”

In a desert region one day, a number of travelers set out on a trip. It was hot and the journey was long. They had little in common except their shared desire to arrive at a distant city. Each carried provisions and water expecting to replenish their supplies along the way. Not long after leaving their homes, a great storm arose. Dust clouds darkened the sun, and the wind brought swirling sands which quickly filled the low places in the road. What at first had seemed a pleasant outing suddenly became a hazardous undertaking. The travelers soon realized that the question was not merely when they would arrive at the city, but whether they would arrive at all.
Confusion and doubt affected the company. Some sought shelter, while others attempted to turn back. A few moved onward through the storm. The end of the first day found them scattered, with inadequate provisions, wanting water, and lost in the desert. A new day brought hunger, thirst, and despair. The storm still raged. Hope was in short supply. Familiar landmarks were gone. The road, which had been narrow and hard to find, at best, was hidden by silt and debris. No one knew where to go to find it. Many claimed to know the way, but as they could not agree, each traveler wandered in his own way in search of water or the shelter of a settlement.
At the end of yet another day, two of the group, half-blinded by dust and with their strength nearly gone, came unexpectedly, with something more than good fortune, upon an inn and way station. There in the sanctuary of walls and roof, they refreshed themselves and counted their blessings. There they replenished their stores and contemplated the remaining portion of their journey. The weather remained unsettled. The wind continued to blow. The poorly marked road wound ahead through hills where the sand piled deep and where it was said that robbers sometimes preyed upon unsuspecting travelers.
One of the two was anxious to reach his destination. He had important business in the city. He gathered his supplies and water and paid his account. Early in the morning he set out in haste in an attempt to cross the hill country by nightfall. But the windblown sand had blocked the road. He was forced to dig and detour. When night came, he was far from the city, exhausted and alone. When he fell asleep, thieves found him, took his supplies, and left him without strength and without water to face almost certain death.
The second traveler was also desirous of reaching his destination. But he remembered the others in the desert behind him. They were lost and would soon perish without water and without hope. He alone knew where they were. He alone knew their condition and their need. He likewise arose early and paid his account. He glanced at the hills with their promise of the city beyond, and then turned back down the road whence he had come. The sky was a little lighter now. He recognized some of the landmarks. He knew about where he had left his traveling companions. He called out to them by name, for he knew them. After hours of patient searching, he found many of them. He shared with them life-giving water from his own containers. He told them he knew the way. He spoke as if he had authority, so they followed him, and he brought them to the way station with him. There they rested and regained their strength. They were given directions regarding how to reach the city. They renewed their provisions, filled their water containers, and went out again to face the storm.
The journey was still difficult. The wind still blew and clouds obscured the sun. The road still wound through the sometimes deep sand, and thieves were still in the hills. But this time the traveler was not alone. The group was large. When sand blocked the way, work parties were organized to remove it. When some faltered, the strong shouldered the burdens of the weak. When night came, there were watchmen to man the watch. After many days, the second man and his friends arrived safely at their destination.
When they arrived there, those who had been rescued and given water gathered around the second traveler and said, “We could not have come to this place without you. We shall ever be grateful to you for searching for us, for finding us, for sharing your water and your bread. We know that you put aside your own journey and submitted to the hardships of the desert in order to help us when we were lost. What can we do to repay you?”
And the second man replied, “Thank me not, for by no power of my own did I find the way station. The water there would have been bitter had I not shared it with you. I know that I could not have arrived at the city without you. Your strength and encouragement enabled me to continue on. Your presence prevented robbers from attacking. I have come to realize that in order to save my own life, I had to save yours as well. I know now that it is not so much the haste of one’s journey but rather what he does along the way which determines whether he will arrive at his destination. Thank me not,” he said. “In truth, I have not brought you to this place, we have brought one another.”

One young man wrote this of his experience in exercising this power:
“At one time I attended a ward which had almost no Melchizedek Priesthood holders in it. But it was not in any way dulled in spirituality. On the contrary, many of its members witnessed the greatest display of priesthood power they had ever known.
“The power was centered in the priests. For the first time in their lives they were called upon to perform all the duties of the priests and administer to the needs of their fellow ward members. They were seriously called to home teach—not just to be a yawning appendage to an elder making a social call but to bless their brothers and sisters.
“Previous to this time I had been with four of these priests in a different situation. … They drove away every seminary teacher after two or three months. They spread havoc over the countryside on Scouting trips. But when they were needed—when they were trusted with a vital mission—they were among those who shone the most brilliantly in priesthood service.
“The secret was that the bishop called upon his Aaronic Priesthood to rise to the stature of men to whom angels might well appear; and they rose to that stature, administering relief to those who might be in want and strengthening those who needed strengthening. Not only were the other ward members built up but so were the members of the quorum themselves. A great unity spread throughout the ward and every member began to have a taste of what it is for a people to be of one mind and one heart. There was nothing inexplicable in all of this; it was just the proper exercise of the Aaronic Priesthood.”

Playing Santa to the Henrys was Dad’s idea. At home evening two weeks earlier he asked if the family wanted to do a Christmas project again this year. We did our first project about six years ago; I was Nickie’s age. We took some toys to the Sub-for-Santa program, and I remember that I wasn’t very excited about giving away my toys, except for a few old broken ones that I thought I could part with. Then at school I heard a man talk about how much some gifts had meant to his family. He cried, and I barely managed not to. I went right home and wrapped up my biggest Tonka truck. It was only two years old and still in great shape.
Every year since, our family has contributed to Sub-for-Santa. When Dad asked about this year’s project, I thought that he intended to do the same. “There’s a family in our neighborhood who could use some help,” he said. I was surprised; I never thought that there were people in our own neighborhood who would not have a good Christmas.
“Who?” the family asked, almost in unison.
“Well, you know the Arnold Henry family, don’t you?” Dad started.
I knew the Henrys only slightly. They had moved into the ward in September or October. There were three or four kids, all young. The oldest boy was about eight or nine. That’s all I knew about them, but some of my little brothers and sisters were acquainted with the Henry children.
“Brother Henry had a job at the steel plant, but they had a cutback,” Dad continued. “The bishop mentioned last Sunday that Brother Henry hasn’t yet found work.” Dad paused long enough for us to get his message, and unanimously we adopted the Henry family as our Christmas project.
The grass was damp, but Nickie and I continued to peer through the hedge at the house. “Why don’t they come to the door?” Nickie whispered impatiently.
“Did you hear the bell ring?” I asked.
“I’m not sure,” he said.
“The first rule of successfully rousing people,” I sermonized, “is to listen for the ring. You were in too much of a hurry.”
“I’ll do it again,” Nickie said.
I guessed that he wasn’t sorry to have to repeat his dramatic approach. I watched him go again. This time he crawled to the locust tree like an infantryman under fire. Too much TV, I figured, had programmed him against simply walking up to the door, ringing the bell, and then running. I thought how silly he would look to the Henrys if they opened their door and saw this ten-year-old boy elbowing his way across their lawn. And I thought again about the change I’d seen in Nickie in the last hour.
From the time that we had decided as a family to assist the Henrys, the bulk of the work had fallen on Mom. She’s a good organizer—or maybe prodder is a better word. Every day she’d ask, “Who has an idea for the Henry’s three-year-old girl?” or “What should we do about a tree? Will they have one or shall we take one?” She kept us interested and excited.
On the first day my littlest brother, Tommy, age four, ran to his room and came back with a toy car he wanted to give. I suggested that we take a small decorated tree, whether or not they already had one. Since I had an after-school job and was earning a little money, I offered to buy it as my contribution. My two sisters, Ann, 13, and Tricia, 7, started working together to make presents.
Everyone got involved except Nickie. I don’t know why, unless ten is a selfish age or something, but he just wasn’t very interested. When Mom pressed him for a commitment, he said he’d put in a “quarter or something” on a present. I could tell that she was disappointed because he wasn’t catching the spirit of the project. But I remembered how I felt at his age on our first Sub-for-Santa, and I couldn’t be too hard on him.
It wasn’t that Nickie wasn’t a good kid. Once when he was about three, a neighborhood friend complained to Nickie that he was hungry. Nickie went to the refrigerator, stuck his hand into a bottle of home-canned fruit, and carried a dripping peach half to his buddy. He can be generous all right. So Mom didn’t push him; I think she knows that sometimes good deeds just can’t be forced.
Finally, the big night arrived. The excitement mounted as we gathered the things together to take to the Henrys. Even Nickie seemed a little more interested, but I don’t think he felt as much a part of it because he hadn’t really contributed.
The Henrys live only four blocks away; and we thought it would be fun to walk. But because we had quite a few things to carry, including a decorated tree, we loaded the station wagon instead. As the holder of the family’s newest driver’s license—only—six months old—I took my now-unquestioned place behind the wheel and drove past the Henry’s house. Only the porch light was lit. “Great,” said Dad, who was facing backwards in the third seat, holding the tree out the rear window. “They’re not home. We can take our time.”
I made a U-turn and drove past the house from the other direction. Still no sign of life, so I coasted to the curb two houses away, and we unloaded. We must have looked comical strolling down the sidewalk like a Christmas parade in the dark. We were quiet, so as not to draw attention from the neighbors, and we kept an eye out for cars, hoping the Henrys wouldn’t return too soon.
After everything was positioned on the front step, right under the porch light, we went to the neighbor’s yard to watch through the hedge, but we weren’t very well hidden. It was cold enough that it wasn’t fun staring at the porch, and we were just about to leave when a car turned in the Henry’s driveway.
“Come on,” Mom said. “They’ll see us when they get out of the car.” We tried to look casual as we strolled down the walk to the car. But Nickie, his spying instincts aroused, insisted on staying.
“Dad, can I stay?” he pleaded. “I won’t let them see me. I just want to watch while they find all that stuff. Then I’ll run home. Okay?” Dad consented, so Nickie crawled back to the hedge while the rest of us got in the car and drove home.
We’d been home about ten minutes and were sitting around the Christmas tree talking about our adventure when the front door flew open. In ran Nickie, all out of breath. It was obvious that he was excited about something. Without saying a word he went straight to the tree and pulled out a square box wrapped in shiny red paper.
“What’s up, son?” Dad asked.
“I want to take this present to the Henrys, Dad. I … didn’t give very much,” he said.
I couldn’t believe it! Everyone knew what was in that package. Nickie’s Little League baseball mitt, which he had inherited from me and which had already snared more than its share of fly balls, had seen its day. Since the end of last season Nickie had been talking about getting a new one. “And if I happen to get it at Christmas,” he had hinted with ten-year-old subtlety, “I’ll have plenty of time to break it in before spring.”
When Dad and I handed Nickie the wrapped mitt for him to put under the tree until Christmas morning, we could tell from the grin on his face that he knew what it was. And now he was going to give it to a family he hardly knew! Up until ten minutes ago he was only willing to give them a quarter! It didn’t make sense.
“They’ve got a nine-year-old boy, Dad,” Nickie said quietly. Dad swallowed and looked at Mom. She had a strange expression on her face. I wanted to say, “Hey, man, you can’t give away your new mitt!” but Mom just said, “Are you sure that’s what you want to do, Nickie?”
“Yea, Mom, I’m sure,” he replied as he ran out the door.
No one said anything for a minute, and then Dad asked if I would go with Nickie. It was a little late for him to be out alone, and I knew that Dad wanted me to find out what was going on—if I could. By the time I grabbed a coat and ran outside, Nickie was already a block away. I couldn’t catch him, and by the time I reached the hedge, he was doing that Indian scout thing across the lawn.
Nickie was now back with me behind the hedge after his second dash to the door. This time, results. Brother Henry opened the door, saw the red package, and shouted, “There’s more!”
Suddenly the doorway was filled with little faces, all wearing expressions of disbelief at finding yet another gift on the doorstep. We watched them pick up the package, shake it, and pass it around. They even came down the steps and looked around the yard and down the street. Then they went in and turned off the porch light, and we started home.
Nickie wasn’t running this time; he was quiet. After walking half a block I asked him what had changed his mind.
“Well, after you left for home,” he began, “I sneaked up to the hedge and watched while the Henrys started into their house. They stopped dead when they saw the stuff on their step. Then the kids ran up the steps. They shook every present, walked around the tree, and looked up and down the street. Finally, they gathered up everything and went inside.”
Nickie stopped talking, and we walked a while without saying anything. It was getting colder.
“Then what?” I finally asked. What I really wanted to say was, “What changed you? What made you give away your baseball mitt that you’ve wanted for so long?” but I refrained.
“They’d all gone in except the oldest boy and his dad,” Nickie continued. “They were starting to bring in the tree when I heard the boy say, ‘Dad, do you think the Lord blessed us with these things?’ His dad said, ‘I’m sure he did, son, but what do you mean?’ Then the boy—his name’s David—said the funniest thing. He said, ‘Well, it’s just that these things were brought to our house while we were taking Christmas to some poor people.’”
My feet stopped. I looked at Nickie.
“They were what?” I gasped. “Taking Christmas presents to other people? Why … why, they don’t even have a job! I mean, they’re supposed to be the poor people!”
“That’s what he said,” Nickie went on. “Then his dad said that even though they didn’t have much money right now, they wanted to share what they had, and that these presents must have come from people who felt that same way.”
“Right then I decided,” Nickie continued,” and I’m glad I did. I’ll bet David Henry never had a you-know-what before.”
He grinned at me, and I knew the secret was out. It was all right to talk about it.
“Come on,” he said. “Let’s run.”
I could have beat him home, but instead I kept an even pace. As we turned in our driveway and leaped up the front steps together, I noticed that it was just beginning to snow.

Let me share with you for a few moments the positive, progressive attitude of a friend of mine formerly confined in the Utah State Prison. “I don’t want to blame anyone back home for my being in prison, but it is factual that I had no family relationships. I was involved in the family home evening program at the prison. Without the people [parents] who had been assigned to me through this program, many times I would have given up. These people loved me as if I were their own son. I have never had that, even when I was a small boy. Now with their help and the help of others I believe I can make it back a day at a time. I am not proud of having been in prison, but I am proud of my recent experiences while there. We have a tendency to blame others. We don’t want to blame our parents for not loving us, because we know they do, but maybe they didn’t have the guidance and direction in their lives to apply when they were bringing us up.”
Perhaps in the minds of many of us this fine young man would be justified in knocking his parents, knocking society, and knocking our systems, but he didn’t. Instead, he is thanking those who have helped him and is sincerely grateful for the direction in which his life is moving today.
Church attenders in prisons are, unfortunately, in the minority and are often classified by their associates in uncomplimentary terms, but this fine young man, bless his courage, is not ashamed to be identified as a member of “God’s Squad.”