Gospel Story Finder

It was at first with wonderment, then disbelief, and finally with tears that I read “The Ugly Orphans” by Cindie, Vikki, and Adrian Moyer in the December 1982 New Era. We were ecstatic to find that our family was the answer to another family’s prayers. Our daughter, Gena, was the “little girl with the soft brown eyes” who took “Luke” from the Moyer family at sacrament meeting so many years ago in Medford, Oregon. Luke was renamed Heidi (as she was not male as they thought, nor were the other three), and she has been a joy to our family for all these years. The miracle of the puppies that someone tried to destroy continued for several weeks. We also knew and shared these miracles with the other two families who received puppies that evening. Heidi is a beautiful dog and looks just like a miniature Lassie, quite unlike the way she looked when we got her. It taught our family that one never knows when he might be the answer to someone else’s prayer.
The Lind FamilyAlbany, Oregon

I guess the fish just aren’t hungry today,” Don sighed. “Anyway, not the big ones.” He propped his cane pole on the creek bank and sat down on a large flat boulder. Summer showers had turned the clay banks into mushy red mud. He picked up a stick and began to peel the thick layer of mud from his shoes.
“I wonder why the little bait-stealing fish are always hungry and always bite,” Gary complained. “Why not the big ones? I’ve lost track of how many little ones I’ve thrown back, and I’m running out of worms.”
“Me, too,” Don said. “In fact, I’m out of bait. That’s why I pulled in one of my lines. I only have a chunk of wiener on the other hook, but I doubt that even the little ones will try for it. With two empty stringers, I think we may as well quit for today and go home.”
Don threw away the stick. But as he stooped to pick up his pole, he gasped when the cork suddenly disappeared. The line sang and it whipped through the water. The limber pole bent in an arc and was almost yanked out of his hands. “I’ve got a big one!” he shouted.
Gary dropped the pole he was reeling in and raced over to watch. “Get him! Don’t let it get away!” he hollered as Don slipped and almost fell into the water.
Desperately holding onto the pole, Don twisted like a cat, got to his feet, and braced his muddy shoes against a boulder. “He’s still on the line. And what a fighter!” he exclaimed.
The dark-haired youth gingerly tested the pole, but it bent too much when he tried to pull the fish out. What a monster it must be! he thought. This was his newest and strongest pole, and he knew that the only way to land this fish would be to drag it onto the bank. Otherwise, the pole would break and the fish would get away. He carefully lowered the pole, keeping the line taut, and began to back away from the creek.
“Wow! I’ve never seen such a big catfish!” Gary cried. “He must weigh fifteen or twenty pounds!”
“The way my arms ache, it feels more like thirty,” Don said breathlessly. Awed, he stared at the fish he had dragged away from the edge of the creek so it wouldn’t flop back in if it threw the hook. “Gather up the equipment and come on,” he said jubilantly. “I can’t wait to show him to my dad. I’m sure this whopper weighs more than that big one he caught last summer!”
On the way home, Gary offered several times to carry the fish, but no matter how tired he was, Don wanted everyone to know he had caught it. He beamed with pride when people admired his catch and asked where he had caught it. They always laughed when he told them the bait he had used was part of a wiener.
“Let’s go in and ask Mr. Evans to weigh it for you,” Gary suggested as they neared the neighborhood grocery store. “I can’t wait to find out how much it weighs.”
Mr. Evans whistled in surprise when he put the catfish on the meat scales. “Seventeen and a half pounds, boys. And I didn’t weigh my thumbs!” he chuckled. “I’ve fished around here for twenty-five years, but I’ve never caught one that big. You’re some fisherman, Don.”
Don smiled. “It sure wasn’t easy, Mr. Evans. That rascal nearly jerked off my arms and did his best to pull me in. He seemed to think he was the one who had caught me!”
Three blocks from home, Don leaned against a tree to rest a moment. The big fish seemed to gain a pound for every block they walked. He was exhausted, but not too tired to cross the street when Mr. Andrews called out and asked to see his catch.
The frail old man in the wheelchair was delighted. “I’ve taken many a fish from that creek,” he sighed admiringly, “but not since I was crippled in a truck wreck ten years ago. There’s nothing tastes better than deep-fried catfish!” Then he added wistfully, “Makes me hungry just thinking about it.”
“I think he was hinting for you to give him your prize catch!” Gary whispered indignantly as they walked away. “By the way, what are you going to do with it? If I caught a winner like that, I wouldn’t just eat it. I think I’d have my picture taken and put it in the newspaper. Then I’d have the fish mounted and hang it in my room.”
“I’m going to show it to Dad first. Then I’m going to clean it and take it back to Mr. Andrews. He can freeze part of it in his refrigerator and it should last him a long time,” Don said quietly.
“You’re going to give it away to that old man! Why would you do anything so dumb? We can catch him a mess of fish anytime. Besides, people can buy fish. Your family likes to eat fish, too, so why would you want to give it to him?” Gary asked disgustedly.
“Because I just thought of a boy who gave away his fish hundreds of years ago,” Don said. “You remember. It ended up that the few fish he had were enough to feed a multitude. Mr. Andrews only gets a small pension each month. Maybe he can’t afford to buy fish, and he can’t go fishing anymore. I may never catch another one this big in my whole life, so I want to do something special with it—like giving it to Mr. Andrews.”
Gary thought it over and nodded. Mr. Andrews was a proud old gentleman.
Gary grinned at his friend. “You’re right, Don. I can’t think of anything better to do with such a special catfish!”

Amy explained that when her modern-day family saw the pageant performed in Nauvoo over a decade ago, they recognised the beautiful pioneer spirit there and knew they wanted to be part of it. After applying multiple times, they were accepted as part of the family cast of the Nauvoo and British Pageant to be performed in Nauvoo during 2018.
Remembering that amazing experience, Amy reminisced, “We danced and sang and worked day after day in the hot sun to learn our parts, to be ready to perform. Our kids danced and played music in the country band all while costumed from head to toe in 1840’s pioneer attire. One week of rehearsals and the next week is go time! It’s quite miraculous how it all comes together. I’ll always remember and cherish the feeling of unity we shared as a family.”

“What special things, Kate?” Papa winked at Mama. “I thought I was to get flour and sugar and salt. Nothing special about that.”
“You know, Papa,” Molly burst out. “Get a bolt of the prettiest calico you can find! Mama’s going to make me a new dress, and shirts for John, and curtains for our new glass windows!” She stopped, and everyone was quiet as Papa gave thanks for the food.
“Papa,” John asked, taking a bite out of his corn bread, “do you remember the other two special things?”
“Let’s see,” Papa replied. “I’m to get some smooth boards to cover this dirt floor.” His eyes sparkled. “We’re going to be the first family out here to have a real wood floor!”
“And then, Frank, if there’s enough money left over, get that last special thing,” Mama said excitedly. “Bring home some oilcloth to cover the walls with and some pretty wallpaper to go over the oilcloth. Then we’ll have a real house, like the one we had back east.”
They all looked at the hardpacked dirt walls. Papa had tried to make them look nice by painting them with whitewash, but most of it had come off. “I think if we put oilcloth up first, the wallpaper will last longer,” said Mama.
The little sod house seemed even warmer as Papa laughed. “I’ll do the best shopping I can,” he promised, and his smile wrapped around Molly like a hug. “Now, Molly,” he said as they finished their squash and ham, “get out your favorite book. It’s your turn to read tonight.”
Early the next morning as the sky turned pink along the eastern edge of the prairie, Papa hitched the horses to the wagon. “I’ll be back in three days,” he called as he drove off.
Molly watched until Papa was out of sight and only the tall prairie grass waved back at her.
Molly and John carried water to the chickens. They collected buffalo chips to burn in the stove and helped Mama milk the cow. They gathered the eggs and shelled the corn. They studied their lessons—and they counted three days.
By dinnertime on the third day Papa wasn’t home. Molly squished her nose flat against the wavy glass window. “I still can’t see him, Mama,” she said.
“Don’t fret, Molly. Papa’s been to town many times since we’ve been here.” Mama’s voice was calm and quiet. “Don’t you remember he said it would take three full days? Now let’s put the lantern in the window so he can see the light shining out over the prairie.”
They had just finished their mush-and-milk supper when John shouted, “Listen! I hear the wagon!”
In a few minutes Papa was in the house. He gave Mama a big hug and picked up Molly and John. “Just wait until you see the special things I’ve brought!” he said, whirling them around the room.
Papa and Mama and Molly and John carried in the food supplies for winter. Then Papa brought in a big package. “Here’s your calico, Molly—the prettiest in the country, I’ll wager.” The calico was a soft blue, with little red and yellow designs scattered all over it.
“Oh, Papa,” Molly cried, “I’ve never seen such pretty calico!”
“Frank, it’s lovely,” said Mama. “Did it take you a long time to find it?”
“No,” said Papa, laughing. “I just matched Molly’s blue eyes.”
“And was there enough money to get the second special thing?” John asked.
“Wait and see,” said Papa. He came back with one wide, smooth board and laid it on the dirt floor. “There you are, Kate, the finest floor on the prairie!”
“But, Papa, that’s not big enough!” cried John.
Papa chuckled. “Don’t worry, John. The rest of the floor is in the wagon.”
“And the third special thing, Papa?” Molly jumped up and down on the board. “Did you get the oilcloth and the prettiest wallpaper in the country too?”
“I got the oilcloth and the best wallpaper you ever saw,” said Papa. He went to the wagon again and came back with two heavy brown packages.
Papa unwrapped a roll of oilcloth first. Then he opened a squarish package and held up a large dictionary. “Here’s the wallpaper. And it’s a brand-new 1870 edition, too,” he announced.
“Frank, I don’t understand. Where is the wallpaper?” Mama sounded puzzled.
“Just watch, Kate.” Papa’s eyes twinkled as he carefully fastened a piece of oilcloth over one of the hard-packed sod walls. Then he opened the dictionary and carefully cut out some of the pages with his knife. He took one of the pages and nailed it up, right through the oilcloth and into the sturdy wall behind it. He nailed up another, and another. Soon the wall was covered with pages. The white paper made the sod house look large and bright, and the words looked like tiny stripes across the wall.
“How beautiful!” cried Molly.
Mama looked at the wall without a word. Then she turned to Papa. “Frank, who else would ever have thought of papering the walls with a dictionary!” Mama’s eyes were bright as she hugged Papa. “You really did bring us something special!”
“And, Kate,” said Papa, “when we’ve learned all these words, we’ll just add more pages and keep on reading.”
Molly gave a happy sigh. “Papa,” she said, “now we have the prettiest calico, and the finest floor, and the smartest walls in the whole world!”

Question: What was Alma’s greatest challenge?
Answer: To help a son who had lost the way. My husband and I looked at each other, remembering the times we had prayed over our children as they struggled to make their testimonies secure. How well I remember the tears that came to one son’s eyes as he looked at his brothers and sisters, then said quietly, “That’s what dad and mom did for me.” He bore his testimony to the family, and at that moment our hearts were full.

Members from all over the Church contributed to the rescue of the German Saints. President Stover was part of an event which he would call “the most beautiful and inspiring thing that has ever been my privilege to witness during my entire membership in the Church.” It began on a visit to Holland when he graphically described the suffering of the German members. Cornelius Zappey, president of the Netherlands Mission, was so moved that he asked the Dutch members if they would plant seed potatoes in their flower gardens for their former enemies. They responded enthusiastically, and in November of 1947, they sent 60 tons of potatoes to Germany, along with 96 barrels of herring. They sent another 60 tons of potatoes in 1949.

On that frozen morning, I heard shouting and distressed moos in the distance behind me as I ran to get an axe and some rope.
OK, hold on—let’s back up for some context.
Two years before that snowy morning, my family had moved from suburbia to a tiny little plot of farmland in Missouri. Our new property had some forested land to explore and a small pond, which was nice, but I wasn’t a fan of all the animals that I was now expected to help take care of.
Now, back to that cold winter morning. We could tell there was a problem when one of our poor little cows didn’t come to his food dish at the regular time, even after we shook the food in a metal tin. They were trained to come running when we shook the tin. It seemed to be some sort of angelic summons to them, but the tactic didn’t work that morning.
We kept waiting and soon heard distressed moos off in the distance. We went to investigate and discovered that the cow had walked out into the middle of the frozen pond and had fallen in. The pond was only about five feet deep, but the cow was quite small and had to bounce on his hind legs to keep his head above the frigid water.
And that’s when the yelling started.
My parents directed me to run to our toolshed a quarter of a mile away and bring back an axe that we could use to break up the ice, as well as some rope. The moment I got back to the pond, we tried to use the rope to pull the cow out but quickly discovered a couple of things: one, none of us actually knew how to tie a lasso, and two, the only rope available was closer in strength and size to twine. It seemed to me that our little cow was a goner.
My dad and mom really cared about that cow, so my dad led the charge, axe in hand, and they started to literally chop their way through the ice towards the cow, clearing a 20-foot-long path for the cow to walk out of the pond. Everyone was worried that either the cow would kick my dad or that my dad would accidentally hit the cow with the axe, but somehow the crazy plan worked. The cow didn’t drown!
But the worry wasn’t over. As soon as the cow got out of the water, he started shivering like an old washing machine on spin cycle. My parents were freezing too, but they were more worried about the cow. My dad ran to get a campfire started in the middle of the field while my mom ran to get some quilts. Us kids corralled the cow close to the fire so that he wouldn’t run away. Soon, he warmed up enough to stop shivering and eat some of his hard-won breakfast.

Kaden was riding in the van with his mom. Mom had just bought some things at the department store. “I also got some bug tattoos,” she told him. She knew that he and his brothers liked to wear these stick-on tattoos.
“Why did you waste your money on them?” he asked.
“I didn’t,” she replied. “The store was giving them away free with anything that was bought.”
“But, Mom, the prophet said we are not supposed to have tattoos, so why would you take them?” He thought for a minute, then said, “May I use them as stickers on the front drawers of my dresser?”
And that is what he did with them. There was no question in his mind about tattoos of any kind! It was a good reminder for Mom.

Our grandson, then six-year-old Jeffrey Monson Dibb, accompanied by a six-year-old playmate, once paused at an end table in his house on which there was a picture of Elder Jeffrey R. Holland. Our grandson’s friend pointed to the picture and asked, “Who is that man?”
Jeff replied, “Oh, that’s Elder Jeffrey Holland of the Quorum of Twelve Apostles. He’s named after me!”
This same namesake of Elder Holland’s, along with his young friend, went for a walk one day. They marched up the front steps of a home, not knowing who lived there or what affiliation they might have with the Church. They knocked on the front door, and a woman answered. Without the slightest hesitation, Jeff Dibb said to her, “We are the visiting home teachers. May we come in?” They were ushered into the living room and were asked to be seated. With total faith the children addressed the woman, “Do you have a treat for us?” What could she do? She produced a treat, and they had a nice conversation. The impromptu teachers departed, uttering a sincere, “Thank you.”
“Come back again,” they heard the woman say with a smile on her face.
“We will,” came the reply.
The parents of the two youngsters heard of the incident. I am certain they were restrained in counseling the little ones. Perhaps they remembered the words from the scriptures: “And a little child shall lead them.”

As persecution increased in Nauvoo, Bathsheba and George helped finish building the Nauvoo Temple and were among the first to receive their temple ordinances. Bathsheba was present on that sorrowful day when the bodies of Joseph and Hyrum Smith were brought back to Nauvoo from Carthage Jail, and she, George, and their two children were among the hundreds of Saints who walked across the frozen Mississippi River to Winter Quarters.

Here at Church headquarters we hold many committee meetings, and early this year in one of those meetings, Elder Neal A. Maxwell was listening attentively to a presentation concerning the development of local leaders. Near the end of the meeting, Elder Maxwell asked, “Is there more that we can do to help bishops bring peace and healing to the Saints?” I was interested in knowing more of his concern, so just prior to his passing and in the privacy of his office, Elder Maxwell expanded on the doctrines associated with obtaining peace and healing. He gave encouragement to my sharing these remarks with Church members.
Elder Maxwell was and remains a wonderful example of selfless love. His concerns for others were bone deep, especially for those with physical and emotional pains. Walking out of his office, one could not help but be more committed to being Christlike. He set a standard for us all. He loved the Savior. He was indeed a true Apostle and disciple. We miss him.

Recently I heard a mother recount how she had helped her first three daughters complete their Personal Progress requirements by doing what was expected—staying informed and signing off projects. Then she tenderly explained, tears flowing down her cheek, “Recently I have been working with my fourth daughter by actually doing her projects with her. It has made all the difference in our lives and our relationship. But oh, what sadness I feel when I realize what I lost by not doing this with my other three daughters.” The saddest words of tongue and pen are those that say, “It might have been!”

Recently I received a letter from a fine young man in the missionary training center in Provo, Utah. The story of his commitment, in essence, goes like this:

“Swimming has been one of the most important things in my life, and my family has made incredible sacrifices in order for me to excel. I can remember getting up at 4:00 A.M. every morning, along with my dad, who would take me to my workout. And every afternoon my parents would come and pick me up. It was very expensive going to championship meets in many parts of the country, but somehow, my parents always managed to help me attend.
“Well, I did quite well, and last year I qualified for the Olympic trials. I had been swimming on the University of Arizona swim team, and had some of the fastest times in the country. At the same time, I was trying to decide about a mission.
“I only had one year of eligibility left, and in that year I would be captain of the swim team. Two years of a full-ride scholarship were also available to me if I stayed. If I left to serve, I’d lose them. While I was swimming over ten miles a day in preparation for the Olympic trials, however, I decided to send in my mission papers.
“Soon I found myself in Austin, at the trials. My team was among the most elite to go, and about eight of us had times good enough to make the Olympics. Things didn’t go well for me, though, and I failed to make the team. The goal I’d worked for all my life, the goal my family had come from across the country to see me achieve, was now out of reach. I wanted to jump right back in the pool and start training for the 1992 Olympics.
“Then I remembered I’d sent in my mission papers. How could I leave a loser, though? My coach told me he knew I could break the records I wanted in the next year, and that if I left, I would be throwing away everything I’d worked all my life for.
“The following week was agonizing. I was pulled in many directions. I talked to my leaders and prayed and prayed. Finally, I had the overwhelming feeling that now was the time to go on my mission. You don’t argue with the Spirit.
“I’m on my mission now. I have no regrets about this choice, and I’m happier than ever. Sure, it’s been tough, but when you lose your life in Christ, you find it. I know what it’s like to have potential to do something and not quite make it. It’s a small taste of torment. I don’t want this to happen when I face my God at Judgment Day. It takes commitment.
“We must decide now, I believe. I didn’t ask myself every morning if I wanted to go to practice or to sleep. I decided beforehand, and there was no choice to be made when morning came. We have to be committed. But to be committed 100 percent, we need the help of the Lord. You need to have the discipline and commitment to do the things you’ve promised, long after the emotion under which you made the commitment has died.”

As mission president, I attended a mission Relief Society conference. Our mission Relief Society president, a relatively recent convert, announced something of a course correction. Some local societies had strayed, and she invited them to conform more closely to the direction set by the general presidency of the Relief Society.
One sister in the congregation stood and defiantly told her that they were not willing to follow her counsel, saying they were an exception. A bit flustered, she turned to me for help. I didn’t know what to do. I was not interested in facing a fierce woman. So I motioned for her to proceed. Then came the revelation!
This lovely Relief Society president, small and somewhat handicapped physically, said with gentle firmness: “Dear sister, we’d like not to take care of the exception first. We will take care of the rule first, and then we will see to the exceptions.” The course correction was accepted.

We live on a beautiful Pacific Island that does not have a temple. But members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in New Caledonia are familiar with traveling long distances to visit the house of the Lord.

My family and I saved our money during the COVID-19 pandemic and in December 2023, we were able to travel to Utah to visit our daughter and the many temples available there. After five years of not being able to do work for our ancestors, we had prepared 65 names to take to the temple during our stay.

It was a challenge to line up appointments for all the temple work we had planned for Utah. We were desperate to help our ancestors, and as our return date approached, our incredible adventure began—we secured four baptism sessions in four different temples on the same day.

We entered the baptistry at the Provo Utah Temple early in the morning, and I begged Heavenly Father to provide a miracle for the work we needed to do. I had faith that He would also want to see my ancestors baptized.

The patrons at the baptismal font were moving slower than usual that morning, but I explained our situation to a sister working in the temple, and she invited other willing patrons to help perform the work with us.

It was an incredible and emotional experience to witness all 65 ancestors baptized by proxy, one by one, after the significant effort we had made to find them! We were so grateful for this first miracle. The Spirit was strong, and we could feel the relief, gratitude and happiness from those 65 precious souls.

This sister who helped us—we call her our “Sister Miracle” now—invited us to her home, wanting to know more of our family’s story. Our two families enjoyed talking over waffles about missions, temple work, family history, and all our blessings from Heavenly Father.

As the evening ended, Sister Miracle asked for a priesthood blessing of comfort as she had just been diagnosed with aggressive cancer and was preparing for chemotherapy, surgery and radiation.

Together with her husband, I pronounced a blessing that her life would not be cut short, that she would see her children serve missions, and enjoy watching her grandchildren grow up.

Later, Sister Miracle shared with me about our visit:

“It was a tender mercy from the Lord, knowing that He was aware of me and my new trial with cancer. My faith was strengthened in Jesus Christ. I am blessed to have had this experience with my new friends from New Caledonia.”

She continued to share what she is learning:

“We all experience different trials and challenges in our lives. I am choosing to center my life on Jesus Christ and keep my covenants with Him. I have confidence that He will bless me in His perfect way. I often use the phrase ‘but if not’ in my prayers. I ask for healing and strength, but if I am not cured from cancer, I trust that He will bless me in His perfect way. I have confidence that He will provide miracles as well as little tender mercies along the way; to help me know He is aware of me.

“This message from Elder Soares explains how I feel: ‘I know that when the Lord sees even a spark of desire or a flicker of righteous effort in our willingness to center our lives on Him and on the ordinances and covenants, we make in His house, He will bless us, in His perfect way, with the miracles and tender mercies we need.’”

From the day of our first visit, we prayed for Sister Miracle. Treatments became more complicated, and her white blood cell count was often too low to continue chemotherapy at the same pace. Even with these complications, I had faith and trusted the Lord for her recovery.

Seven months later, Sister Miracle and her husband called me on my way to work. Through video chat, they explained the post-surgery results, after the cancer growth had been removed. Miraculously, the doctors found no cancer cells in that tissue. Words could not describe my joy and tears over this new miracle!

While such a miraculous response is not always the outcome in life’s challenges, Heavenly Father is aware of our needs and has provided strength through covenants with Him.

Indeed, for Sister Miracle, the sustaining help and love she felt from Heavenly Father was the real miracle in her life. As President Russell M. Nelson has said: “All those who have made a covenant with God have access to a special kind of love and mercy.”

He also said, “Every woman and every man who makes covenants with God and keeps those covenants, and who participates worthily in priesthood ordinances, has direct access to the power of God.”

I testify that, like our Sister Miracle, we can fully benefit from the infinite power and love of God through faith, covenants, service, and obedience. God is a God of miracles. He is loving and merciful. His Son is our Savior here on earth and beyond the veil. His power is infinite and available to all His children.

I lived in South Africa for a little more than two years. One of the things I learned is the necessity of having a way to help me reach all my daily destinations. I found GPS to be vital. It’s an electronic map that allows me to move around to fulfil my duties, whether they are family related, professional obligations, or my ecclesiastical responsibilities.
Whenever I paid attention to this electronic map, I would reach my destinations on time and quickly return home to my family. But, when I missed a roundabout or a crossroads, the GPS would take me down very long roads and I would sometimes be delayed in getting to my destination—or get completely lost on the way to another unknown destination.

Tears came to my eyes when I read of a mere boy in one of our eastern cities who noticed a vagrant asleep on a sidewalk and who then went to his own bedroom, retrieved his own pillow, and placed it beneath the head of that one whom he knew not. Perhaps there came from the precious past the welcome words: “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matt. 25:40).

Haroon remembered the excitement of the day the announcement was made that the language would be written with the same alphabet he used to study English. Airplanes had dropped leaflets all over the city to tell the people the good news.
People began learning to read and write Somali at once.
Three months later Haroon’s father, who was a clerk in a government office, told him, “Next week I must pass a literacy test in Somali in order to keep my job.”
That same week Haroon and three of his friends sat at a sidewalk cafe sipping a spicy beverage. Jama ran up to them, waving the first edition of the Somali daily newspaper.
“Just look at this!” he shouted. Proudly he read the name “Xiddigta Oktoobar (October Star).”
Soon five heads were bent over the pages, sounding out familiar words that looked strange in print.
Radio Mogadishu began broadcasting literacy lessons daily. Everyone in town was learning to read now. Classes started all over the city.
In August of 1974 the literacy campaign was taken to the nomads in the bush country. All schools, except technical schools and the senior classes, were closed for the year. Students fourteen years and older were sent into the bush to teach the nomads to read and write Somali.
Thousands of students were assigned to various sections of the nation. Haroon was one of these. He had stepped up to the official handing out the supplies. “Nabad miyaa,” he greeted.
“Haah waa nabad weeya,” came the cheerful answer. “Here is what you’ll need, Haroon: a blanket for cold bush nights; a folding blackboard that is used as box for the eraser, pens, pencils; a textbook; and a class register. Nabad gelyo. Llaah ha ku barakadeya (Go in peace with God’s blessing).”
Haroon began with great confidence, but he found the nomad chief was not interested in learning anything from a city youth who knew nothing about camels. Only the children and some women attended classes—sometimes.
Haroon longed for the comforts of his father’s house, especially plenty of water for showers. He longed for a chance to talk with friends, for most of the men here ignore him.
Just when he felt especially low in spirit, he met Osman, a former schoolmate, traveling with another group of nomads. Osman was bubbling with enthusiasm about the literacy campaign and all that he was learning from the nomads. “I even helped load the camels for this move,” he said with a grin. “I’d never touched a camel before. And do you know what?” Osman continued, stroking the flank of the animal near him. “This animal actually obeyed my command to get up after we had put on its load.”
After they parted, Haroon thought about Osman’s words and obvious enjoyment of his experience. I guess I’ve just been thinking of one part of the president’s challenge. I think I know so much the nomads should learn that I haven’t thought about learning anything from them. He softly repeated the president’s words, “Haddaad taqaan bar, haddaadan aquoon baro.” (If you know, teach; if you don’t know, learn.)
That night he moved closer to the men around the campfire. He was captivated by the stories Chief Abdi told of Somali heroes of the past. Just before he fell asleep, he thought, I ought to write those stories in Somali. But the next day there was no time for classes nor for story writing, for the clan had to move to find more pasture.
Haroon tried to be helpful. By the time they got settled in their new location, he was feeling as though he were almost a part of the group. However, he was also feeling sick with a fever. He did not complain, but when Chief Abdi heard about his sickness, he was concerned. He sent a young man to find a special plant that was used for a fever medicine. To Haroon he said, “Perhaps you want to return to your father. Life in the bush is hard.”
But Haroon was determined to remain, now as eager to learn as to teach. After his recovery, when the chief observed Haroon’s genuine desire to learn of the nomadic way of life, he became more friendly. He ordered his people to attend classes.
Sometimes in the afternoon when the youths gathered under the spreading branches of an acacia tree, the camels shared the shade. It was very different from the classroom in the city where Haroon had studied English. Here the blackboard hung on a tree. And the strong, acrid odor of camels hung on the dusty air.
Some of the nomads were keen students and helped others. Little children chanted the alphabet as they herded goats. They wrote the letters in the dust while goats nibbled whatever they could find.
One evening when the full moon shone over the settlement, Haroon read to the group a story the chief had told some weeks earlier. The men sat enthralled, realizing in a way for the first time that these marks could tell a familiar story.
Chief Abdi was thoughtful as Haroon finished. “That is good, Haroon,” he said. “If we write our history, our children will not forget. I must learn this writing also.”
Chief Abdi became an earnest pupil, and with his constant encouragement, others came more regularly.
Later in Mogadishu, there was a big celebration when Haroon and thousands of other boys and girls returned to the capital after eight months among the nomads. Crowds lined the streets to welcome them and to celebrate the completion of one more phase in the fight against illiteracy.
The schools opened and these youths returned to being students again. But there was a difference. The experiences in the bush had changed them and increased their appreciation and understanding about some of the problems their country was facing. Many now had a growing respect for the skills of the nomads who could survive in the harsh desert. They also had a greater appreciation for the Somali nomadic culture of their ancestors.
Six months later Haroon was walking home from school one day through the noisy city streets when he suddenly caught the strong, unmistakable scent of a herd of camels. Memories rushed into his mind. Then he saw the herd come around the corner at the end of the block. They jostled each other as cars and taxis honked their horns. A bushman was bringing a herd to the slaughterhouse. Haroon went to talk to the nomad and found he knew Chief Abdi’s clan very well.
The man handed Haroon a letter showing signs of being carried many days in the folds of the man’s skirt. Haroon opened it and read greetings from many in the clan. It was written by the hand of Chief Abdi himself. He thanked Haroon for teaching him and his people.
Haroon was happy to know that Abdi was also following the president’s words: “If you know, teach; if you don’t know, learn.”

Kevin remembered the first time he had seen Jed. It was when they were both nine years old. A boy from a new family in the neighborhood had walked across the street and watched Kevin practice doing chin-ups on the branch of a tree in the front yard.
“How many can you do?” Jed had asked.
“Twenty,” Kevin had answered.
“That’s not so many. I can do 30.”
By the end of the day, they were both doing 40 chin-ups.
Through the years they had mutually pushed each other through one challenge after another. They were both presented with their Eagle Scout ranks at the same time. After that they continued to learn new skills—skiing, playing the guitar, cross-country running, baseball, fly fishing, and, just before Kevin had left, rock climbing.
On many Friday afternoons in the summer, Jed and Kevin drove into the mountains and camped—spending time hiking, fishing, or climbing the sheer granite spires near where they camped. By Saturday night they were packed again and heading toward home so they could carry out priesthood responsibilities on Sunday.
If it hadn’t been for Jed, I’d never have become an Eagle Scout, or even done much at all, Kevin thought as he rolled out of his sleeping bag and crawled over to his suitcase. Rummaging through it, he found his warm-up suit, socks, and tennis shoes, which he put on. He padded quietly through the house, being careful not to disturb his parents and two younger brothers.

“Choises le bien.” That is what my Primary teacher had said. In English that means “choose the right.” She then gave each of us a CTR ring—in French it is a CLB ring—and challenged us to make good choices in our lives. The whole week after that lesson, I tried extra hard to do what I thought Jesus Christ would have me do.
On Monday, when I saw Nicolette fall down, I hurried to help her. This made me feel good inside. My teacher had said that when we made good choices, we would have a warm, peaceful feeling.
On Wednesday, I fought with my sister Tiffany. She had taken the toy I wanted to play with, so I grabbed it from her. Then I saw my CLB ring. Taking the toy from her like that was not choosing the right. When I thought about that, I gave it back, and I again felt happy inside.
On Friday, I did not want to help clean the house, but I knew that the Savior would want me to help my mother. When I was done, I felt snugly warm inside, like my heart was wrapped in a new quilt.
Although I felt good about the choices I had made, something bothered me. What if I did not know what the right choice was? What would I do then?
The next morning I heard Maman’s (Mom’s) voice coming into the room like a tickle of sound. “Bonjour, bonjour (Good morning, good morning),” she said as she came over to me and playfully rubbed my head. Then she stretched to reach Tiffany on the top bunk. Maman’s stretch made one leg leave the ground like the flamingos we saw on our family vacation. I laughed and Maman laughed, but Tiffany did not wake up.
“J’ai faim (I’m hungry),” I said as Maman did another flamingo stretch to try to wake Tiffany. This stretch ended in a “flamingo flop” on my bed. We both giggled.
“So you are hungry? I am making crepes (thin pancakes with something rolled inside). What do you want in yours?”
I was not sure what to choose. What was the right choice? I looked at my ring. I still did not know what to choose. “Maman, what should I choose? All week I have known what the right choice was when I tried to do what Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ would have me do. Now I don’t know what I should have in my crepe.”
Maman pulled me close. “You knew before because you were choosing between good and bad. Heavenly Father will help you to make those choices. But some choices are between two good things. Then Heavenly Father may let you choose by yourself. There are many choices that you can make—like what to wear or what to study in school.”
“Or what I want for breakfast? I want peaches and cream in my crepe.”
When I said that, Tiffany sleepily added, “I want strawberries in mine.”