Gospel Story Finder

Living in the deserts of Saudi Arabia are tribes of nomads called Bedouins. These people live in tents made of goat’s hair or wool, and they survive by keeping herds of sheep, goats, and camels. In one of these Bedouin tribes there once lived a very rich man. His name was Sheikh Bushnir, and he was the chief of his tribe.
One day Sheikh Bushnir became so ill with a fever that he thought he might die. It was true that he had a son to live on after him, but Ahmed, his son, was not a good man. He never tended the sheep or milked the goats, he was very greedy, and he was always spending his father’s money foolishly.
Even so, Sheikh Bushnir loved his son very much. One day the sheikh called his son to his bedside. “Ahmed,” he said weakly, “I am about to pass into the next life.”
Listening intently to his father’s words, Ahmed began to cry. Even though he was not a good man, he loved his father.
“Do not cry, my son,” said Sheikh Bushnir kindly. “All men—no matter how rich or great they are—must die. Now listen to what I have to say. Before I die, I want to give you a most wonderful gift.”
Ahmed wiped away his tears and moved closer to his father. “A gift?” he asked.
“Yes,” answered his father. “A most wonderful gift, a gift to be cherished above all others.”
“Is it worth more than a herd of camels?” asked Ahmed, his concern for his father replaced by his greed.
“It is worth much more than a herd of camels,” said his father.
“Is it worth more than gold or jewels?” asked Ahmed.
“More than even gold or jewels, my son. But the gift lies at the end of a long journey.”
Slowly Ahmed’s father spread out a map on the bed. The map was very wrinkled from having been folded and unfolded many times. “Here is where it is,” said Ahmed’s father as he pointed to a dark, round spot on the map.
“But that is in the middle of the Rub’ al Khali (Empty Quarter)!” gasped Ahmed.
“Yes,” said his father. “That is where the gift is buried.”
Ahmed looked sad as his father folded up the map. The Rub’ al Khali was a great desert where no one lived. Even for a Bedouin who was used to the hot desert, it would be a dangerous trip.
“Do you want the gift enough to risk your life for it?” asked his father.
Ahmed was silent for a long time. Finally his greed overcame his prudence. “Yes!” he cried. “For such a wonderful gift I will make the journey, no matter how dangerous it is.”
“Good,” said the sheikh. “You must leave at once. My mind will not rest until I know that you have made the journey and returned safely.”
“I shall do as you say,” said Ahmed, and he dashed from his father’s tent to make preparations.
The next morning Ahmed said good-bye to his father. Then he climbed onto his camel and set out alone into the desert. He knew that it would be safer to travel with one of the other young men from his tribe, but he did not want to share the wonderful gift with anyone.
The map outlined mile after mile of desert, but it revealed nothing about the burning sun and the hot desert winds. Whenever Ahmed thought of turning back, though, he remembered the wonderful gift waiting ahead, and his journey did not seem quite so harsh.
For three days Ahmed pushed deeper and deeper into the desert. His water was running low. He had been so anxious to leave that he had not planned well for the journey. Soon only one of his two goatskin bags of water remained. In the desert heat even a camel needs some water. But because Ahmed thought only of himself, he gave none of the water to his mount. That night while Ahmed slept, the camel ran off in search of water.
The next morning Ahmed realized that he should have shared the water with the camel. With the water that was left, Ahmed thought he might be able to make it back to the camp of a traveling caravan he had seen. However, his greed was too strong to allow him to go back without the gift, so he foolishly continued his journey on foot.
By the end of the fourth day Ahmed had used the rest of his water. He had only one wish: to see the wonderful gift before he died.
By the morning of the fifth day Ahmed was so weak that he could only crawl across the burning sand. Huge red blisters covered his hands and feet and knees. His eyes were almost swollen shut from the relentless pelting of the blowing sand. His lips were cracked and bleeding. Finally, when he thought he could go no farther, he came upon a small circle of stones. According to the map, this was where the gift lay buried!
Ahmed became frustrated as he scratched and clawed at the earth. Each time he pulled a handful of sand from the hole he was digging, more sand poured down from the sides. For hours he worked under the blistering sun. Finally Ahmed’s fingers touched a hard surface. He brushed the sand away and discovered a wooden chest. With his remaining strength, he tugged and pulled the chest from the hole.
Ahmed stared at the chest he had traveled so far to find. He was about to receive the most wonderful gift in the world, and he would not be able to enjoy it. As he fumbled with the latch on the chest, he thought, At least I can look at the gift I’ve given my life to find.
Ahmed began to cry when he saw what was in the chest. There were no jewels or golden coins. But there was something much more wonderful—three goatskin bags filled with water!
With gratitude and joy, Ahmed unstoppered one of the bags and brought it to his lips. Never before had water tasted so good. Never before had life seemed so sweet.
When he finished drinking, Ahmed looked more closely at the chest. Under one of the remaining goatskin bags was a note. He quickly opened it and read:
My Beloved Son,
I hope you are not disappointed by what you have found in the chest. I sent my men ahead of you to bury the priceless water. I knew that when I told you about the “wonderful gift,” you would rush foolishly into the desert. I also knew that because of your greed, you would give no thought for your life. That is why I buried water, not gold.
I did not lie to you, my son, when I told you of the wonderful gift. For the water in this chest has probably saved your life. And life, my son, is the most wonderful gift a man can receive.
Go now, Ahmed, with your gift of life and spend it as you like. Prize it above all other things, and you shall never be poor.
Love,
Your father
Ahmed carefully folded up the note and wiped the tears from his eyes. Feeling stronger, he tied the three goatskin bags together and tossed them over his shoulder.
Slowly Ahmed stood. He looked at the wooden chest one last time and smiled. Never again would he risk his life for gold or jewels. He would cherish his life and use it wisely. Yes, he had come a long way to find a gift that had always been his. But surely he was a richer man returning home than when he had left.

(Donna) Our fourth child, third son Wyatt decided when he was a student at BYU–Idaho that he wanted to go to dental school. Shayla’s husband is a dentist so we knew that it was pretty difficult to get into dental school. As Wyatt was nearing graduation, he applied to several schools with the hope that he would get admitted to at least one of them. It’s an arduous process. You have to take the DAT, dental aptitude test and fill out many pages of applications. You pay a fee to each school that you send an application to and then the hardest part of the process starts, waiting to hear if you’ve been accepted. Wyatt’s classmates started getting invitations for interviews and then admittance to various schools. Wyatt was not admitted to dental school that year. I thought he would decide to attend graduate school and move on. I asked him what his next strategy was. He said, Mom, I still want to go to dental school so I’m going to apply again next year. His plan was to work that year and then reapply. That’s what he did, the next year he went through the process again. He retook the DAT, got a higher score by a few points, and then sent out his applications along with the fees. He did get an interview that year, but no admittance. My thinking was that he should just move on, make a new plan. Wyatt had other ideas. He wanted to apply one more time. I thought it was fruitless. He’d been out of school for two years and there were recent graduates who probably had a much better chance than he did. I remember I told him he’d better come up with a plan B. He needed to progress. He sent out the applications for the third time and was interviewed by a couple of schools and then his dream came true. He was admitted to Marquette University in Wisconsin.
He and his wife knew what they wanted and they weren’t going to settle for less. He just finished his second year of dental school and is on the road to becoming a dentist.

We gradually rode faster as our bicycles passed under the arched gateway which admitted us into the heart of the old city. I was always impressed when I saw the massive city wall that was built over 800 years ago to protect the inhabitants of the beautiful city of Luebeck in Northern Germany.
I didn’t have much time to think about the wall, though, because I was busy just keeping the bicycle from bucking me off as we clattered over the narrow cobblestone street. The bicycle light generator attached to my front wheel whined as I raced my companion to our small second floor apartment on Kleine Burg Strasse.
Elder Peterson usually got home first—not because he was the senior companion, but because he had a new three-speed bicycle, and I had what we called a no-speed bike.
We were both almost flying as we turned the last corner and headed toward our apartment. Elder Peterson braked hard, jumped off his bike, and was halfway up the steps with a look of satisfaction on his face by the time I had pedaled the final distance.
We parked our bicycles inside the front entryway, locked the door, and hurried up the narrow stairs to the place we had both called home for about three months. We didn’t talk much as we quickly took off our jackets and ties and went to the small refrigerator that supplied us with our nightly supply of yogurt, creamy plain yogurt that we ate with canned strawberries, uncooked oat cereal, and raisins.
After a blessing on the food, we savored our homemade snack and discussed the events of the day.
“I think Frau Malchow is going to make it,” Elder Peterson said between mouthfuls of yogurt.
“Yes, if her husband would start reading the Book of Mormon like he promised, maybe they’d both get baptized.”
“Tomorrow let’s finish the last two streets in the neighborhood over by Sister Sasse and then start looking for a new area to tract in.”
“Sounds like a good idea to me. I’m not used to doing five or six hours of tracting a day without being able to get in and teach a single discussion,” I responded.
We rinsed out our large cups, changed, and knelt for personal prayer. I made a mental note to review one of the discussions the next morning so when we did get in I would be prepared to tell the fine family (I always had goals to teach families) about the plan of salvation.
We quietly crawled into our beds and were soon asleep. About 11:00 P.M. Elder Peterson was awakened by the telephone.
“Elder Klomp, wake up, it’s for you. It’s the mission president.”
I tried to shake the sleep from my head before I took the telephone.
“Elder Klomp,” the president said, “I don’t know exactly how to say this to you, but today I received a call from your sister and she told me that your father had just died. She wants you to call her and your mother at your brother’s home in southern Nevada tomorrow at 1:00 P.M. your time.
“If there is anything I can do for you, don’t hesitate to contact me.”
I mumbled a reply and hung up the phone. I was dazed. I stumbled over a shoe in the dark as I made my way to the tiny kitchen. I gazed out the window at the stars shining brightly.
Had I really heard what I thought I just heard? I asked myself. The cold tears streaming down my face led me to believe that I was awake and hadn’t imagined those words about my dad. I hadn’t been dreaming. I never had nightmares like that anymore anyway. Then it must be true!
Not my dad. My dad was always so healthy and strong! He was healthy before that stroke that temporarily paralyzed him. He was healthy the whole time I was growing up, even though he was a lot older than most of my friends’ fathers. Hadn’t he given me a big hug and tried to hold back the tears at the airport when I was getting ready to fly to Germany? Hadn’t he been proud of me, the last of his three sons to serve a mission for our Father in Heaven? Hadn’t he told me stories about his mission and taught me that I should prepare myself to be the best missionary I could possibly be? How could he be gone? Not my dad.
I need you Dad—I’m your little boy—help me know what to do, Dad, I thought to myself as I gazed out that little window at the wonders of the night. Dad, you were the one who first showed me Orion and the Pleiades, remember? Look over there—I’ve spotted the Big Dipper and the North Star too.
Please Heavenly Father, give me some kind of sign so I’ll know that my dad is with you and he’s okay. I love my dad. Please, help me!
That memory faded and was replaced with the discussion I had programmed myself to study. The details of the plan of salvation ran through my mind as the tears slowly dried on my cheeks.
I reviewed the premortal existence and the council of heaven and realized for the first time that my father must have been there. I knew my dad had been born to receive a body, like everybody else, and had obeyed the Lord’s commandments to the best of his ability as we all must. He was always the most selfless man I had ever known, and even though he didn’t talk a lot about his feelings, we always knew by the things he did that he loved Mom and us more than he could say.
Nobody enjoyed being home with his family more than my dad. About the only thing Dad would let take him away from his family was the gospel he loved so much. Few people had served in as many different capacities in the Church as my dad. I knew that he had successfully honored his first and second estates, and could surely expect a promising future with our Heavenly Father.
I tried to imagine my dad’s reunion with his earthly parents and little sister who had died over 50 years ago. It wasn’t hard to picture Uncle Lew and Uncle Vic also waiting with open arms to welcome Dad to his next field of labor, almost like a transfer in the mission field.
These thoughts made me smile as I continued to gaze out that tiny kitchen window. I knew I didn’t have to worry about what my dad would be doing in the future.
What about Mom, though? They had been married nearly 40 years. What would she do without him?
My stomach tightened nervously until I remembered that this was the week of the Klomp family reunion in Panaca, Nevada. All four of my older brothers and sisters and their families would be there with Mom to help her through this difficult time. She would be comforted by her children as she so often had comforted each of us. It seemed terribly fair somehow. I realized also that Mom was not a weak, ignorant, or faithless woman. She had helped me gain a better understanding of and love for the gospel of Jesus Christ and would certainly take strength from that same fountain of truth.
I don’t know how long I stood at that window, but I do remember being stiff as my eyelids began to droop again with fatigue. I stretched, still staring out the window, hoping to see something, anything which would show me that everything was all right. It wasn’t until later that I realized that my “sign” had come in the form of the Spirit filling my heart with peace, calming my fears, and warming me with the love of a faraway family and a God who was very near.
When I finally pulled myself away from the window, I wondered whether or not I should return home, leaving my mission only half served. I remembered scriptures about putting your hand to the plow and then turning away or loving father and mother more than the Savior. I felt confident that Dad would have wanted me to stay and finish the work I had been given to do, but decided that if Mom needed me, I would go home to help her.
I kept the whole thing pretty much to myself the next day and was determined not to let it affect the work. Actually it still didn’t seem real. It seemed like a hazy dream. But I still made plans to make the phone call to my family.
After a busy morning and a quick lunch, we pedaled to the post office so I could make the call. I waited anxiously in the long-distance line. When my turn finally came, I gave the man behind the desk the right telephone number, and he directed me to the appropriate telephone booth in the center of the building.
“Hello, Nancy, can you hear me?” I said when the connection was made.
“Yes, Rick. I’m so glad you were able to call. We’re all here taking good care of Mama and we want you to know that everything is fine. She wants you to do what you think is right.”
After speaking to Mom and some of the rest of the family and hearing that Dad had seemed really fulfilled and happy to have almost all his family around before he died, I knew that I wasn’t really needed at home. I was needed in Germany to do the work a prophet of God had assigned me to do. The still, small voice comforted me, and I was able to complete the second half of my mission in a way that honored my beliefs, my family, and most of all, my dad. He had endured, faithful to the end, and taught me to do the same. Did he ever quit or give up before he finished an assignment? Not my dad!

Susan tossed a newspaper onto the Clarks’ front porch. As she started to walk to the Arnolds’, she heard an odd squishing noise and quickly turned around. Her little brother, Harold, was standing in the Clarks’ flower bed. Harold’s yellow boots were deep in the mud.
“I’m stuck!” he cried plaintively.
Susan set down her newspaper bag, put her arms around Harold’s middle, and pulled hard. Squoosh! The yellow boots rose from the mud. Harold and Susan fell backward.
When Susan stood up, she scraped the mud off her pants. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
Harold picked up the newspaper bag, but it was too heavy. Newspapers spilled into the mud. “I wanted to help you,” he mumbled.
“You’re too little to help. Go home,” ordered Susan.
“Let me walk with you, please,” Harold pleaded.
“You’re too slow.”
“I want to come! I can hurry.” Harold stomped his feet. Mud spattered off his boots and landed on Susan’s jacket.
“Go home!” roared Susan. She bent to pick up the muddy papers. When she stood up, Harold was gone.
At dinner that night Harold said nothing and ate very little. He went to bed early. Susan wanted to play checkers, but she had no one to play with. Dad was shining his shoes, Mother was doing the dishes, and Harold was in bed.
Susan sighed. Teaching Harold to play checkers last summer had been fun. She had enjoyed showing him how to rake the autumn leaves too. And they had had a great time last winter building his first snow fort. Now it was spring, and Susan decided that since she had nothing to do, she would think of something new to teach Harold. A few minutes later Susan had an idea and raced into the kitchen to tell her parents about it.
“What a fine idea!” exclaimed Mother.
Dad patted her shoulder and said, “Good luck, Susan.”
At breakfast the next morning, Susan said, “Harold, I’m sorry for yelling at you yesterday. Meet me here after school. I have a surprise for you.”
As soon as Harold got home that afternoon, he asked, “Where’s the surprise?”
“Come with me,” Susan answered. “I’ll show you.”
They walked to the Clarks’. Susan handed Harold a newspaper and said, “Put this on the Clarks’ porch.”
“OK,” Harold replied. He carefully put the newspaper inside the screen door.
Susan smiled at him.
They walked to three more houses. At each house Susan gave her brother a newspaper to deliver.
“This is fun,” said Harold.
Susan grinned and asked, “Do you want a job?”
Harold looked at Susan. “A job? Me? What kind of job?”
Susan gave Harold another newspaper. “This kind of job.”
Harold’s mouth fell open. “You mean your job?”
“Well, part of it. You can bring newspapers to these five houses every day. These houses are close to our house. Do you want to do it?”
Harold clapped his hands and shouted, “Yes!”
“Good,” said Susan. “Tomorrow I’ll teach you how to fold the newspapers. I’ll teach you other things too. I’ll show you how to put the papers in little plastic bags on wet days.”
“I can learn to do those things,” Harold assured his sister.
“There’s one more important thing to remember,” Susan told him.
“What’s that?”
“Stay out of the mud!”
They laughed together; then Harold raced home to tell his parents about his new job.

Being introduced to the responsibility of home teaching at such an early age made me feel like I was special, and it helped me to feel the Spirit. One of the people we home taught was a widow who lived alone. She struggled with various medical problems and always appreciated our visits and our company. Knowing that we were there to bring her happiness and to bring the priesthood into her home was a witness to me of how important our responsibility is.

Let me tell you of a time when my mother shared such simple truths by simply being open to having a conversation and recognizing an opportunity.

Many years ago, my mother was returning to Argentina for a visit with my brother. My mom never really liked flying, so she asked one of my sons to give her a blessing of comfort and protection. He felt prompted to also bless his grandma with special guidance and direction from the Holy Ghost to strengthen and touch the hearts of many who were desirous to learn of the gospel.

At the Salt Lake airport, my mother and brother met a seven-year-old girl who was returning home from a skiing trip with her family. Her parents noticed how long she had been talking to my mom and brother and decided to join them. They introduced themselves and their daughter as Eduardo, Maria Susana, and Giada Pol. There was a natural and warm connection to this sweet family.

Both families were excited to be traveling together on the same flight to Buenos Aires, Argentina. As their conversation continued, my mother noted that until that moment, they’d never heard about the restored Church of Jesus Christ.

One of the first questions Susana asked was “Would you tell me about that beautiful museum with the golden statue on top?”

My mom explained that the beautiful edifice was not a museum but a temple of the Lord where we make covenants with God so we can return to live with Him one day. Susana confessed to my mom that before their trip to Salt Lake, she had prayed for something to strengthen her spirit.

During the flight, my mom bore her simple but strong testimony of the gospel and invited Susana to find the missionaries in her hometown. Susana asked my mom, “How will I find them?”

My mom replied, “You can’t miss them; they are either two young men dressed in white shirts and ties or two nicely dressed young women, and they always wear a tag showing their name and also ‘The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.’”

The families exchanged phone numbers and said goodbye at the Buenos Aires airport. Susana, who since then has become my good friend, has told me many times that she felt so sad to leave my mom at the airport. She said, “Your mom glowed. I can’t explain it, but she had a brightness about her that I didn’t want to leave behind.”

As soon as Susana got back to her hometown, she and her daughter, Giada, went to share this experience with Susana’s mom, who lived just a few blocks away from their home. As they were driving, Susana happened to see two young men walking down the street dressed as my mom had described. She stopped her car in the middle of the street, got out, and asked these two young men, “Are you by chance from the Church of Jesus Christ?”

They said, “Yes.”

“Missionaries?” she asked.

They both replied, “Yes, we are!”

She then said, “Get into my car; you’re coming home to teach me.”

Two months later, Maria Susana was baptized. Her daughter, Giada, was also baptized when she turned nine. We are still working on Eduardo, whom we love no matter what.

Since then, Susana has become one of the greatest missionaries I have ever met. She is like the sons of Mosiah, bringing many souls to Christ.

In the opening exercises of our priesthood meeting, the bishop announced that many of the teachers would be assigned new senior home teaching companions. Filled with the gentle excitement that accompanies such changes in assignment, I left the chapel wondering who my new companion would be. I strolled down the hallway hoping that I had been chosen as the companion of one of the young, dynamic elders in the ward. I looked in the open classrooms that lined the hallway and imagined working with a powerful, spiritual man intent on fulfilling his calling. At the end of the hallway was the Relief Society room where the high priests met.
Turning to go up the stairs, I looked into the room and my eyes caught a glance at an old man sitting in an almost tattered gray suit. He was sitting alone, thoughtfully, with his fingers intertwined. He wore round, wire-rimmed glasses and had a slightly blotchy, leathery complexion. I had seen this brother before, but I did not know him by name. And it seemed to me at the moment that he represented the companion I would like not to have. Please not him, I said to myself. He’s too old.
Upstairs the teachers quorum adviser informed me that I would be the companion to a brother Oliver Johnson. The name did not mean anything to me, but he was soon described as an elderly high priest who had round glasses, often wore a gray suit, and kept bees. That was him. That was the man I had seen downstairs a minute before. I was deeply disappointed. I reasoned that I deserved it after what I had thought about him, but that did not diminish my dissatisfaction. If anything, it made my yearning for a powerful young man—someone I knew—even greater.
Though I wanted to be a good home teaching companion, I still begrudged my assignment as the companion of this old, slow-walking, slow-talking brother. I remember in particular how critical I was of his driving. I was in the process of getting my long-awaited driver’s license, and I thought there was no better driver than myself. The first time we went out as companions, Brother Johnson drove up in a 20-year-old worn out car. In that outdated vehicle it seemed to me that he drove well below the speed limit.
But to accompany the slow, steady pace of his driving, he talked slowly and steadily, perhaps sensing my impatience and reluctance—my youth. As we visited our families monthly, I came to realize that dressed in that gray suit and tattered old hat was a man whose power was experience. He talked about the mission he and his wife had been called on. (During the course of the mission his wife had died, but after she was buried he returned to finish his calling.) He talked about Indian trails, about his bees, and about people who seemed to me to be out of another time period.
The more we talked the less critical I became. The slow driving no longer irritated me. It gave us more of a chance to talk. His old car, his funny glasses, his withered hat, and his pocket watch with the broken crystal no longer bothered me. It was as if he got younger, and as his years shed in my mind, some of them must have fallen to me.
Of all the topics we discussed, I was most drawn to Brother Johnson’s activities as a beekeeper. One early summer day, he called me and told me that he was going up the canyon to see how some of his bees were doing. He asked if I would like to come. We drove casually up the canyon, and he told me how he had started in beekeeping and what he did to help the bees produce their honey. We drove off the paved road, up a bumpy dirt road, through some streams. Periodically I had to get out, open sheep fence gates, let Brother Johnson drive through, and join him after I closed the gate.
We finally got to the hives. He gave me an old veil—a hat with material mesh that came down in front to protect my face from the bees. He told me to be sure my long-sleeved shirt (which he had warned me to wear) was buttoned at the wrists. Then he gave me some rubber bands to put around the wrists. He told me to push my pant legs inside my socks. As Brother Johnson did these things himself, he explained to me that if the bees flew or crawled up a sleeve or pant leg, they would not be able to get out, so they would become afraid and sting. I marveled that he did not wear any gloves. As he got the smoker ready with which he subdued the bees, I asked him if he got stung very often.
“Oh, you get stung every once in a while—usually if the bee gets scared or doesn’t know you. Or they may sting if you don’t know what you’re doing. And they sting if they get trapped.” As he said that he looked at me, and from beneath that distorting veil I saw the bright, shining eyes and the quick smile of one who knew what he was talking about. Brother Johnson was slow, methodical, careful as he lifted the tops off the hives and puffed in the smoke to relax the bees. Some landed on him, crawled on his gloveless hands. Some even buzzed agitatedly around his head, but he never cringed or moved away. I kept a safe distance where I could watch. I was not going to let bees crawl on me and have a chance to sting me.
Some of the hives were doing better than others, and I marveled that Brother Johnson could tell what was wrong, why some hives were not producing, and then correct the problem. He did not take any of the honey that day, but he promised me that when he did he would bring me some. He told me that you chewed the honey out of the honeycomb and spit the wax out. He said it was better than eating the honey itself because you had to work for what you got. I didn’t understand then how that could be. But once I had tried it, I knew.
A few years later in the mission field, I received a letter from my mother with a newspaper clipping. At the top of the clipping was the picture of the man who had so kindly taught me something of bees, something of aged men, and something more. The face in the picture of that obituary notice was strangely lifeless—so unlike the face I had seen in the Relief Society room the first time I remember seeing him, but much more unlike the face behind the beekeeper’s veil that day in the canyon. And though I could ask with Paul, “O death, where is thy sting?” I felt a quick pain of regret and sadness at the passing of this gentleman, this brother. And yet my mind is ever soothed by the memory of that rich, sweet honey he encouraged his bees to produce and which he gave to me—with the wax to chew out for myself.

Being the youngest in his family (Steven has four older sisters and one older brother) means that Steven has plenty of people who are willing to help him learn. His older brother, Russell (13), has helped teach him how to use the family’s home computer. Steven’s dad works with computers, and he has helped Steven too. One night Brother Brantzeg created a program to picture flags of different countries. Steven worked with him as they put all the right colors in the right places. Later that evening, Steven changed the flags himself. All of a sudden, the red, white, and blue Norwegian flag was pink!
Many sports interest Steven. He plays basketball with his brother-in-law, Kevin. He also plays baseball, and he likes to go sleigh-riding. When Steven wanted a bike of his own, he and his dad went to a thrift store and bought one that needed a lot of work. Together they fixed it.
Steven isn’t sure what he wants to do when he grows up. Right now he thinks that being an artist and owning a ranch sound like good ways to earn a living. One thing he is sure of, however: Before he buys that ranch and becomes an artist, he wants to serve a mission. He wants to share all those stories that he loves in the scriptures with people in other parts of the world. He will even be able to share them with children who don’t yet know how to read!

At age 19, I moved to Jakarta and joined my mother. We had been separated for many years because mother had to find a job to survive when my father died. I was very lonely in this big city of 8 million people. I turned to the New Testament to study about the Savior. I had forgotten the scriptures for many years during my teenage years. One day, in early 1977, as I stood in the main train station seeing my friend off to his home town, a young lady came over and asked me about the starting date of the school year. She had mistaken me as her class mate. This introduction led me to the invitation to join her family at Church. What a miracle that was, a mistaken miracle I called it. I went with them to a small Church. I received a warm welcome. It was my first time attending a meeting of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The missionaries taught me and I accepted baptism and was confirmed a member of the Church on the 30th of April 1977.

I didn't know much at that time about the church, but I knew that Joseph Smith was a prophet. Yes I knew it! I felt my Heavenly Father's love. Somehow, I felt that life had a purpose and meaning. I could see a light for the future.

Learning to Be a Southerner
Lana Gabrylczyk, 18, Sevierville Branch
When I first moved here, I didn’t think I would ever pick up the accent. Now I live with my mom in a true Tennessee holler. I really picked up the accent. When I went back to Idaho to visit, my friends there all laughed. I would say, “Hey, what ya’ll doing tonight?” They would answer, “We all aren’t doing anything tonight.” They teased me about saying “ya’ll.”
I’ve learned to make biscuits and gravy. There is an old lady that lives at the end of Mom’s holler. I called her one day and said, “Cora, how do you make biscuits?”
She said, “Take about a cup of milk.” Then she kept telling me a pinch of this and a scoop of that.
I asked her, “How much is that?”
She said, “As much as you want.” I just threw up my hands. I finally had to go visit and watch her, but mine still don’t turn out as good as hers.

I discovered joyful endurance during a time when I wanted to quit. In July 2022, I was half-way through a 13-mile Spartan race. Spartan races are obstacle courses organized by the company Spartan. The courses test physical and mental endurance through a series of 20 to 30 obstacles set up on trails ranging in length from 3 to 13 miles with 500 to 3,000 feet of elevation gain.

I was on a course at Snowbasin Resort on Mount Ogden in Utah. Kelsey Winn, a writer for Spartan, describes:
Snowbasin was home to the 2002 Winter Olympics. . . If it’s a challenge fit for Olympians, it’s certainly fit for Spartans. . . Mount Ogden. . . will have you climbing a 3,000-foot vertical to its summit in one of our toughest treks yet. The trails here are designed for epic ski conditions, so get ready for the staples of the course: intense elevation, technical terrain, and leg-burning hills. [3]

While I was staring up one of these “leg-burning hills,” my entire body felt tired from the hills, obstacles, heat, and altitude. Reaching the top seemed like an impossible climb. “It would be so easy to quit,” I thought.

My coach, who was racing with me, said, as if he read my thoughts, “You can do this. Focus on the next step.” His words took my focus from the top of the hill to my feet. Taking one more step was possible. I couldn’t control the hill’s height or slope, but I could control my choice to climb. The choice to climb became a joyful discovery of my ability and motivation to endure.

A warm spiritual feeling mixed with the customary Scottish rain brought the first annual Scots-Irish Youth Convention to a close last summer. Two hundred youth and leaders from Northern Ireland and southwestern Scotland gathered together in the heart of Glasgow, Scotland, for a weekend of sports activities, talent-sharing, workshops, and testimony building. All participants were members of the Scotland Glasgow Mission, which unites the two lands that are otherwise separated by 65 miles of sea.
After registration on Friday afternoon, the youth participated in a three-hour talent show that helped them to get acquainted as well as entertain each other. Saturday morning was filled with workshops that discussed such topics as the environment, career selection, and “How Others See Us.” Also included was a “keep-fit” class conducted by Brother Eric Bower, convention chairman and professional soccer player.
Soccer, volleyball, and table tennis were in the afternoon’s schedule, followed by a gala banquet. A fully-kilted, tartan-dressed Scottish piper (complete with bagpipes) entered the banquet hall just prior to the beginning of the meal and entertained the diners. The young people topped off the day’s events with a disco.
Sunday morning dawned brightly and began with a priesthood session and Young Women meeting. Elder James A. Cullimore of the First Quorum of the Seventy presided at a testimony meeting that followed.
One of the most significant events of the convention occurred after the participants returned to their homes. One of the young men attending the conference (a non-Mormon) spoke so enthusiastically about the weekend that his parents agreed to let him and his brother take part in the seminary and youth programs of the Church. As a result, the whole family has begun taking the missionary discussions.
Altogether the conference was considered a great success and plans are being made for the second convention to be held in August. It will take place in Northern Ireland.
by Dan Anderson

“When I was about seven, Dad sort of hoodwinked me into milking cows. He said, ‘You’re not big enough to milk the cows.’
“Well, I knew I was big enough to milk them, so I said, ‘Of course, I can milk them.’ I got up early, got the bucket, and went out and milked the cows.
“My dad then said, ‘I believe you can milk the cows. You’ve got the job!’ For the next dozen years I milked eight to twelve cows each night and morning.
“Dad was a lot smarter than I was. One day I said to him, ‘I don’t want to milk cows.’ He replied, ‘That’s OK. You don’t have to want to. … as long as you do it.’”

After we had finished the gully project, my nephew and his bride asked to have their wedding reception in the gully and garden. They planned to come and help with the final tidying up before the event.

But time slipped away. They were busy and unable to come. The day of the open house, I awoke at 6:00 a.m. feeling grumpy. I got up, grabbed my bucket and clippers, and walked to the bottom of the gully’s 58 stairs. As I worked my way up the stairs trimming the English ivy, my feelings calmed. At about 8:00 a.m., I heard a lawnmower in the front yard. I took a break to see what was happening.

When I reached the front yard, Elder Nelson had finished mowing his lawn and was now mowing my lawn.

“You don’t need to do that,” I said.

“Yes, Grant,” he replied, “I need to do this for you today.”

Elder Nelson knew how to hear Heavenly Father. That day, God knew I needed some help.

That experience changed me. Afterward, when my wife and I prayed each day, we began asking to be made aware of those around us who needed our help.

The fickle wind can carry balloonists into some truly quixotic adventures. They flew over Tony’s house one day, and just then the wind died, so they hung there for a while. The milkman came by on his route and looked up and said, “Those guys must be insane!” “That’s my husband,” Sister Seymour replied. Tony had his kids come out, and he talked to them from the balloon, reminding them to brush their teeth. “They’re pretty obedient when you talk to them from the sky,” he says. His little daughter Amy thought quietly about it all day and finally asked, “Mommy, did Daddy die and go to heaven?”

Those of us who have entered into the waters of baptism and received the gift of the Holy Ghost have covenanted that we are willing to take upon ourselves the name of Jesus Christ, or in other words, we declare ourselves to be disciples of the Lord. We renew that covenant each week as we partake of the sacrament, and we demonstrate that discipleship by the way that we live. Such discipleship was beautifully demonstrated in recent events in Mexico.
It had been a beautiful spring for the fruit-growing communities in northern Mexico. The fruit trees were in full bloom, and expectations were high for a bounteous harvest. Plans were already being made to pay off loans, replace needed equipment and aging orchards, and meet personal commitments such as school tuition for family members. Plans were even being made for family vacations. There was a general air of optimism. Then, on a Monday afternoon in late March, a winter storm moved in, and it began to snow. It snowed until about three o’clock in the morning. Then, as the clouds moved out, the temperature plummeted. Throughout the night and early morning, every effort was made to save at least a part of the fruit crop. It was all to no avail. It simply got too cold, and the crop was totally frozen. There would be no fruit to be harvested and sold this year. Tuesday dawned with the sickening and disheartening loss of all those wonderful plans, expectations, and dreams of just the day before.
I received an email regarding that terrible Tuesday morning from Sandra Hatch, the wife of John Hatch, then-first counselor in the presidency of the Colonia Juárez Chihuahua Temple. I quote portions of that email: “John got up early—about 6:30—to run up to the temple to see if we should cancel the session this morning. He came back saying that the parking lot and road were clear, so we decided to go ahead. We figured that maybe some of the workers who didn’t have orchards would come, and we could put all the workers into the session. … It was so inspiring to see the men come in, one after another. There they were, after no sleep at all, and figuring their crops were lost. … I was watching them during our preparation meeting, and they were having a hard time staying awake. But instead of figuring they had a good excuse to not come, they were there. And there were 38 people in the session (a full session)! It was an uplifting morning for us, and we thanked Heavenly Father for good people who do their duty, no matter what happens. I felt a special spirit there this morning. I am sure He was pleased to know that we love His house and felt that it was a good place to be on such a difficult morning.”
The story does not end there and in fact is still ongoing.
Most of those who lost their fruit crop had some land available on which to plant alternative crops for the season, such as chili peppers or beans. These crops could provide at least some cash flow sufficient to survive on until next year’s fruit crop. However, there was one good brother with a young family who did not have additional land and was facing a year with no revenue at all. Others in the community, seeing the dire situation of this brother and acting on their own initiative and expense, arranged for a piece of property, used their own equipment to prepare the land, and provided the chili plants for him to plant.
I know the men about whom I have just spoken. Knowing them, I was not surprised at what they did. But those who do not know them will probably be asking two questions, both beginning with the word why. Why would they come to the temple to perform their duties and to serve after having been up all night long, only to realize that they had lost the greater part of their revenue for the whole year? Why would they use what were now scarce and very precious resources to help another in desperate need when they themselves were now in such dire financial straits?
If you understand what it means to be a disciple of Jesus Christ, then you will know the answer to these two questions.
Making the covenant to be a disciple of Christ is the beginning of a lifelong process, and the path is not always easy. As we repent of our sins and strive to do what He would have us do and serve our fellowmen as He would serve them, we will inevitably become more like Him. Becoming like Him and being one with Him is the ultimate goal and objective—and essentially the very definition of true discipleship.
As the Savior asked His disciples when He visited the American continent, “Therefore, what manner of men ought ye to be?” And then, answering His own question, He said, “Verily I say unto you, even as I am” (3 Nephi 27:27).
Becoming as the Savior is not an easy task, especially in the world in which we live. We face obstacles and adversity virtually every day of our lives. There is a reason for this, and it is one of the primary purposes of mortality. As we read in Abraham 3:25, “And we will prove them herewith, to see if they will do all things whatsoever the Lord their God shall command them.”
These tests or trials vary in nature and intensity. But no one will leave this mortal existence without passing through them. Mostly, we picture trials as the loss of a crop or a job; the death of a loved one; illness; physical, mental, or emotional incapacitation; poverty; or loss of friends. However, even the attainment of seemingly worthwhile objectives can bring their own dangers of unhelpful pride, where we aspire more to the honors of men than the approbation of heaven. These may include worldly popularity, public recognition, physical prowess, artistic or athletic talent, prosperity, and riches. Regarding these latter trials, some of us may have feelings similar to those expressed by Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof: If riches are a curse, “may [God] smite me with it. And may I never recover!”
But these latter types of trials may be even more daunting and dangerous and more difficult to overcome than the former. Our discipleship will be developed and proven not by the type of trials that we are faced with but how we endure them. As we have been taught by President Henry B. Eyring: “So, the great test of life is to see whether we will hearken to and obey God’s commands in the midst of the storms of life. It is not to endure storms, but to choose the right while they rage. And the tragedy of life is to fail in that test and so fail to qualify to return in glory to our heavenly home” (“Spiritual Preparedness: Start Early and Be Steady,” Liahona and Ensign, Nov. 2005, 38).
I am the proud grandfather of 23 grandchildren. They never cease to amaze me with their grasp of eternal truths, even in their very early and tender years. As I was preparing for this talk, I asked each of them to send me a very brief definition of what it meant to them to be a disciple or a follower of Jesus Christ. I received wonderful answers from all of them. But I would like to share with you this response from eight-year-old Benjamin: “Being a disciple of Jesus Christ means being an example. It means being a missionary and preparing to be a missionary. It means to serve others. It means you read the scriptures and say your prayers. It means you keep the Sabbath day holy. It means you listen to the promptings of the Holy Ghost. It means going to church and going to the temple.”
I agree with Benjamin. Discipleship is all about doing and becoming. As we obey His commandments and serve our fellowmen, we become better disciples of Jesus Christ. Obedience and submission to His will bring the companionship of the Holy Ghost, along with those blessings of peace, joy, and security that always accompany this third member of the Godhead. And they can come in no other way. Ultimately, it is total submission to His will that helps us become as our Savior is. Again, becoming like Him and being one with Him is the ultimate goal and objective—and essentially the very definition of true discipleship.
Discipleship is what I saw being practiced in the Colonia Juárez Temple and in its nearby fields as brothers and sisters in the faith reaffirmed their commitments to God and to each other despite heartrending adversity.
I testify that as we obey His commandments, serve others, and submit our will to His will, we will, indeed, become His true disciples. I so testify in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

While I was serving as mission president in Scotland from 1975 to 1978, the Church had much opposition and criticism. On one occasion three ministers made derogatory statements publicly in a particular city. I wrote an open letter to the local newspaper announcing that we would be holding a public meeting there to dispel some of the misunderstandings which were being voiced around. It was a wonderful meeting. We first showed the fine Church filmstrip Meet the Mormons, and then I spoke to the large group concerning our beliefs and way of life. When we opened the meeting for questions, a number of people who were not members of the Church stood and said kind things about the Church and the Latter-day Saints they knew. Positive results ensued, and the work moved forward.

My beloved brethren: Last Saturday I was honored to speak to several hundred young men and women graduating seminary students from the high schools in Utah Valley. Under the leadership of a council of their own peers, they had planned a full day’s activity, which included visits to Welfare Square and the Beehive House, a talent assembly, a devotional and testimony meeting, and a lovely dance. To my knowledge, the only adult who took active part was the area supervisor who introduced me. The rest of the adults present were there to give silent support, and, by evening, were feeling their age after sharing a day of youthful vitality and enthusiastic activity.
I wish every adult leader in the Church could have been in attendance to share the spirit of that testimony meeting. With deep emotion, one lovely girl spoke of her reaction when it was discovered that her father had cancer. How she prayed and prayed that he be healed, then came to the realization that her prayers were selfish—that our loving Father in heaven was in control and that she should submit to his will. She evidenced a very mature outlook on life, something that some of us as adults never experience in a lifetime of living.
A handsome young man, obviously a football player, told of how his testimony had been strengthened through association with fine, faithful friends, most of them a year older than he. Graduating from high school and soon to be separated from one another, they had a “last fling” together, a visit to the lovely grounds of the Provo Temple. Then they went to a quiet spot where in the late evening hours 12 future leaders of the Church bore their testimonies of the divinity of the gospel and expressed their love for one another.
I have never heard so many expressions of love for friends and adult leaders who had influenced their lives.
The meeting was closed with “I Know That My Redeemer Lives.” I have never heard those beautiful lyrics sung with more genuine feeling. Tears fell freely as those great young people sang from their hearts.
I mention their experience because it is so typical of many other experiences I have enjoyed among this royal generation of youth. As Bishop Brown has stated, there has never been a finer generation. I have great confidence that the kingdom of God will be in capable hands as they assume their future roles of leadership, and I am equally confident that they now are capable of assuming much more responsibility for their own welfare than we have been willing to give them.
With the new direction given to the Aaronic Priesthood MIA program, it now becomes our responsibility as adult leaders to give our youth the opportunity to grow in their capacity to lead, to serve, and to love.
What a challenge adult leaders have in helping youth, particularly youth leaders, to learn their duty and perform to their fullest capacity while still leaving room for their own initiative and challenge as they anxiously engage in a good cause, doing many things of their own free will.
The Church leadership of the future will be built upon the foundation that is laid today. If youth are denied opportunities to test their own strength, then the leadership foundation will be weak and unready. Equally as serious, however, is thrusting unprepared youth leaders into situations in which they fail because the demands of that situation exceed their experience and capacity. Discouragement and doubt will result. The balance between enough responsibility and too much calls for fasting, prayer, and diligent service by youth and adult leadership as they labor together to build the kingdom. The Aaronic Priesthood MIA organization as introduced by Bishop Brown provides a setting where such a fine balance may be struck. With the bishopric of the ward—the presidency of the Aaronic Priesthood—in direct charge, the bishop’s youth committee, composed of the priests group leader, the Aaronic Priesthood quorum presidents, the girl class presidents, and the adult presidents of the Aaronic Priesthood MIA, becomes a forum where youth leaders can communicate with the bishopric. They can be totally involved in selecting their activities and be tested and taught great leadership principles without being smothered by too many adult leaders. Yet, this youth committee expands to the ward Aaronic Priesthood council with the addition of the adult leaders of the age groups, who can temper unbridled enthusiasm and zeal with their experience and practicality, exercising some degree of control without dominating the youth councils.
Bishops, an effective youth committee is vital to the success of your Aaronic Priesthood program. It may surprise you what these bright young people will come up with in the way of individual and group service projects and meaningful activities or suggestions for implementing their program.
If you have not discovered it yet, you will. Our young men and women have a deep sense of purpose and a keen appreciation for our social needs. They want to be of service; they want to be useful; they want to make this a better world in which to live. Witness the joy of the youth who gathered by the hundreds to clean ditches and gather the debris left by the recent floods in southern Arizona, or those who cleaned up an entire Utah community in a day of service.
An active youth committee in Cache Valley made it their project to take care of the aged and shut-ins. Each week the girls would prepare suppers and the boys would prepare lessons or activities to take to the homes of the unfortunate, giving them plenty of tender loving care in a family home evening situation. What do you think that did for those young people to be involved in such a worthy, compassionate service?
Their deep desire to be of service and to demonstrate their love can even benefit the bishop. In Sacramento, California, while the bishop was away on vacation with his family, the youth committee determined to paint his house. These young people had the time of their lives working together and anticipating the pleasant surprise of the bishop when he returned. A real bond of love was established between the youth and their bishop with such meaningful service.
Bishops, we urge you to make use of your youth committee; make it the effective instrument it should be to meet the needs of the youth of your ward. I hope every one of you will keep in mind the words President David O. McKay gave us so stirringly: “The spirituality of a ward will be commensurate with the activity of the youth.”
You will note, from Bishop Brown’s explanation, that each member of the bishopric has been given a particular age group—both boys and girls—to direct. What a marvelous opportunity this gives for the presidency of the Aaronic Priesthood to help our youth leaders learn the duties and responsibilities of their respective callings. And what a blessing it will be for our youth leaders to enjoy a close relationship with the great youth leaders of the ward.
To you Aaronic Priesthood quorum leaders, I hope you understand that the Lord outlined your duties as presidents of the Aaronic Priesthood quorums. He directed you to preside, to sit in council with your quorum members, and to teach them their duty. He didn’t give that assignment to your advisers; he gave it to you. You share the responsibility, with the bishopric, of blessing the lives of every member of your quorum as you fulfill your sacred calling. What a transformation takes place when young Jack Smith becomes President John Smith, deacons quorum president, entitled to revelation from the Lord in directing the affairs of that quorum, and President Smith really assumes the responsibilities of his office. You are too young for such responsibility? The apostle Paul sensed something of the inadequacy young men feel when they are thrust into leadership. He counseled his young “son in the faith,” Timothy, “Let no man despise thy youth. …” (1 Tim. 4:12.)
Dana Miller was approaching his twelfth birthday, looking forward to becoming a deacon. One evening, just prior to his birthday, the front doorbell rang. Dana’s father, a high councilor in the stake, answered the door to find three young men on the porch. “We are the deacons presidency and have come to call on your son, Dana.” Admitting these quorum leaders, Brother Miller retired to another room while the presidency sat down with Dana and outlined his duties and responsibilities as a priesthood holder. That visit had more impact on a boy’s life than hours of counseling from an adult could have. Today Dana is president of the deacons quorum. What kind of a president do you think he is with that kind of an introduction to the priesthood and example from his leaders?
The Lord has assured us, “For the power is in them, wherein they are agents unto themselves.” (D&C 58:28.)
My beloved young brethren, why are we so anxious to have you assume responsibility and learn your duties as priesthood bearers? Perhaps our reason was best stated by Elder Ezra Taft Benson in a speech he delivered to an Explorer conference several years ago. He said: “We are not a church of organized sitters; we are a church of organized workers, and we want you to get into it with all your enthusiasm and power. Young men, my brethren, we want you on the field. We want you sweating it out. We want you to have responsibility because you grow under responsibility.”
You royal generation, you special people that God has reserved to come forth in this day, may God bless you with an understanding of who you are and bless you with a knowledge and understanding of the mission that he has in store for you. May your lives reflect that you are disciples of Jesus Christ, and may you, like our elder brother, grow in “wisdom and stature, and in favour with God and man” (Luke 2:52), that you will be prepared for the awesome responsibilities that he has before you. I challenge you to do so, to honor your priesthood and to show these good brethren of ours, who are placing increased responsibility on you as bearers of the priesthood, that you are worthy of that honor.
I bear my witness to you that God is our Father, that he loves you. He has given you the opportunity to come to this life to gain a body and to experience the joys and the sorrows of life that you can return to him and be prepared for even greater service. May God bless all of us who render service to him. May we honor our priesthood and truly represent his cause, I pray humbly in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

While living in Germany, Sister Condie and I became acquainted with a marvelous couple from Switzerland, Brother Georg and Sister Annaroesli Birsfelder, who were serving in the Frankfurt Germany Temple.* In February 1991, at the end of their temple shift, Brother and Sister Birsfelder were taking a stroll together down one of the little Friedrichsdorf streets near the temple. Suddenly a car driven by an elderly man swerved around the corner, over the curb, and onto the sidewalk. The car struck Sister Birsfelder and hurled her through the thick, plate-glass door of a store. She was rushed to the hospital, where she was treated for a double skull fracture, a concussion, and a severely injured eye.
For seven weeks she lay in a coma, unaware of her surroundings. Georg stayed at her bedside as much as possible, patting her hand gently and speaking to her in tones of love and encouragement. Finally she opened her eyes. Two months after the accident, she began to speak and to eat solid food. Later she was able to stand up and take a few steps and converse once again in English, German, and French. It was a miracle! Our prayers had been answered.
She still experienced considerable pain, and it was apparent that she had permanently lost the sight of her right eye. Three months after the accident, the driver of the car visited her in the hospital. Filled with anxiety and fear of legal reprisals, he asked, “Do you hate me for what I have done to you?”
He was not prepared for her reply: “Do you know who I am? I am a Mormon. In our religion we learn to love and forgive one another. No,” she said, “I don’t hate you. I love you and forgive you.” The elderly man had a heavy burden lifted that day.

“Please, somebody, open the door,” Jeff called.
Mother placed a casserole in the microwave, turned on the timer, then hurried to the back door and opened it. “You’re late,” she said.
Jeff came into the kitchen and set down a big brass horn.
Father turned from rinsing salad greens in the sink. “What,” he asked, “is that?”
“It’s a sousaphone,” Jeff said proudly.
“What’s a sousaphone?” His little brother, Ben, looked up from setting the table. “Wow!” he said, staring at the enormous horn.
“It’s like a tuba, only its bell is turned so that you can carry it in the marching band.” Jeff wriggled into the center of the circular tubing and let the horn with its flaring brass bell rest on his left shoulder. “Like this, see?”
“I see,” his mother said. “But what about your trumpet? I thought that you were going to play trumpet in the school orchestra again this year.”
“What I really want to do is play in the marching band,” Jeff explained. “But they have too many trumpets already. So Mr. Gunderson said that he could teach me to play the sousaphone. He’s been looking for someone to play it.”
“And he found you,” Father said, putting the salad greens to drain. “Isn’t that a lot of horn for a boy?”
Jeff drew himself up straight and shifted the sousaphone carefully. “Mr. Gunderson says that I have good posture and the best breath control in the brass section. That’s what’s important.”
“Blow on it!” Ben shouted, dancing around Jeff and the big horn. “Blow on it!”
Jeff put the large mouthpiece to his lips and blew—baroomph! braphoom!
“I’ll need to practice,” Jeff said quickly. “Mr. Gunderson is going to give me lessons every week.”
The microwave pinged, and Mother took out the casserole. Father tossed the salad while Jeff washed up for dinner.
Afterward, while Ben and Father watched TV, Jeff helped Mother with the dishes. “Do you really want to play the sousaphone?” she asked.
“Oh yes!”
“You realize that you’ll need to practice a lot, just as you had to when you learned to play the trumpet?”
“I know. Mr. Gunderson thinks that I should be good enough to march with the band in the Thanksgiving Day parade.”
“In just three months?”
“They’ll be simple pieces, Mom. Mr. Gunderson is going to make some of the sousaphone parts simpler this year. And by next year …”
“This means a lot to you, doesn’t it, Jeff?”
“Oh yes, Mom!”
Mother put her hand on his shoulder and smiled, “Well, then, you work hard at it, Jeff.”
And Jeff did. Mr. Gunderson gave him a private lesson once a week, and he practiced at least half an hour every day. He learned to hold the big mouthpiece correctly against his lips to get a proper tone. He was careful not to puff his cheeks out too much when he blew into the instrument. It didn’t take as much breath as he had thought it would, only about as much as when he blew up a balloon.
“Why do they call it a sousaphone?” Ben asked. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor in the family room while Jeff practiced.
“It’s named after John Philip Sousa. He was a famous bandleader and composer. They call him the ‘March King.’ He’s the one who wrote ‘Stars and Stripes Forever.’”
“Oh, I love ‘Stars and Stripes Forever.’ Can you play that?”
“Not yet.” Jeff took a deep breath and went back to his practicing.
“Jeff wants to play the sousaphone in the worst way,” Father joked to Mother, coming in from the garden. “And that’s the way it sounds.”
“Now, John,” Mother said, “remember those first weeks with the trumpet?”
“I remember,” Father said. “And I’m sure that he’ll soon be as good on the sousaphone as he became on the trumpet.”
Jeff polished the sousaphone carefully with cheesecloth, making the coiled tubing and the flaring bell shine. It’s the most beautiful instrument I’ve ever seen, he thought.
By the end of October he had learned how to press the valves just right. He had learned how to move his lips and control his breathing for a steady supply of air.
“You’ve made real progress, Jeff,” Mr. Gunderson told him.
“You’re beginning to sound a lot better,” his father said.
“I’m proud of you,” Mother said and smiled.
“Will you be in the Thanksgiving Day parade?” Ben asked.
“I sure hope so!” Jeff replied.
The band began to practice for the parade the first week in November. It wasn’t hard to do the marching part, but making the square turns with the big instrument on his shoulder was a bit tricky to learn. Jeff didn’t have to play anything really difficult—just some deep, satisfying bass notes to mark the beat of the tunes.
At last it was Thanksgiving Day. Jeff’s family drove him to where the parade was to begin. His mother kissed him. Father clapped him on the shoulder, and said, “Good luck, Son.” Ben yelled, “I’ll wave to you, Jeff!”
The band marched along Main Street, sounding loud and clear. Soon they reached the reviewing stand, where the mayor and other officials watched. Jeff carried himself proudly in his red and blue uniform with its white trim and with the big sousaphone resting on his shoulder.
“Hey, Jeff! Jeff!” Ben was jumping up and down and waving. “That’s my brother!” he told everyone.
“Way to go, Son!” Father called.
Mother smiled and waved.
Jeff tilted the bell of his sousaphone toward them ever so slightly and made a little bow. Then he marched on, blowing strong, true tones: Oompah! Oompah!