Gospel Story Finder

My grandparents gave each of their grandchildren $1 and asked us to find a way to serve someone else with it for Christmas. My mom told us that a member of our ward collected gift cards to give to needy families for Christmas. I thought that would be a great idea, but I knew that $1 wouldn’t go very far. I decided to do some extra jobs to earn money for a gift card. I cleaned windows, dusted, emptied garbage, fed dogs, pulled weeds, and vacuumed for some ward members and neighbors. I was able to buy a gift card for a family to use at a grocery store. I knew that I had made a good choice. I know that it’s important to serve and give, especially at Christmastime.

All afternoon the children had filled the house with happy sounds of play and laughter. But toward evening, when Joseph Smith came with news that some wicked men had gathered into a mob and were looking for him to do him harm, a feeling of worry and fear settled over everyone.
A few minutes later some friends of “Brother Joseph” also came to the house and offered to help him escape or to stay all night and act as guards against the mob.
Instead of the lighthearted play of the afternoon, the children’s thoughts were now heavy with concern. They loved Brother Joseph. He always had a smile and a pleasant word for them, and never seemed in too much of a hurry to stop and talk with them as he walked about the streets of Kirtland, Ohio.
As the adults discussed how the Prophet could be protected, the children went with their playmates to Mother’s bedroom to talk about how they might be able to help their beloved friend.
The oldest boy was just ten and the youngest child only four years old. In solemn whispers they made their suggestions, but no one had any solution until a seven-year-old girl quietly said, “I know what we can do. We can pray and ask our Father in heaven to keep Brother Joseph safe from harm.”
At that very moment Mother passed by the partly opened door and overheard the suggestion. She hurried to the room where the men were talking and whispered something to the Prophet Joseph. He excused himself and went with her, and they arrived at the bedroom door just in time to see the children kneeling together and to hear their simple prayer for his safety.
Tears filled his eyes and then rolled down his cheeks. And as the children arose from their knees by the bedside, he heard one of them say, “I know Brother Joseph will be safe now. The wicked men can’t hurt him at all.” And he saw the other children nod in agreement.
He wiped his eyes and returned to the room where the men were still discussing his safety. Joseph Smith thanked them but assured them they need have no fear for his safety. He urged them to go to their own homes and rest, saying he no longer needed to worry about escape or about being guarded throughout the night, for he knew that the prayers of the children had been heard.
Everyone rested in peace that night and the next morning the thankful children had breakfast with their beloved Prophet Joseph Smith.

Walking slowly along the wet sand—hands in pockets and bare feet kicking the water that lapped at his toes—Guillermo (Gee-yer-mo) wished he had a present to welcome his friend Philip. Soon it would be time for Philip to arrive in Baja, California, after the trip with his family along the Oregon seacoast. Two years ago the two boys had been neighbors in Arizona. Will Philip be the same? he wondered. He was concerned that perhaps they wouldn’t still like the same things.
Guillermo stooped to pick up a flat, gray, roundish seashell almost hidden in the wet sand. It was a sand dollar! He turned it over in his hand with the feeling of awe and wonder he always felt when he thought about the legend of the shell. He slipped the shell into his jeans pocket as he heard the sound of his mother’s voice floating down from the bluff.
“Guillermo, it is time.”
He climbed the winding path up the bluff to their red brick home at the top and opened the heavy wooden door to enter a cool, tile-bordered room.
“Hurry, Guillermo, and help me set the table,” urged his mother. “Philip’s parents will want their lunch so they can be on their way to Cabo San Lucas. How nice that Philip can stay with you for a whole week!”
Guillermo had just finished putting a bright cloth on the table and had changed into a clean T-shirt when he heard a car pull into the yard.
“Here they are,” said his mother. “Tell Papa.”
“Papa, they’re here!” called Guillermo. Then he hurried outside, one hand in his pocket.
A red-haired boy ran toward him with a package in his hand.
“Hola (hello), Guillermo, como está usted (how are you)?”
“I’m fine, Philip,” Guillermo replied.
“I’ve been practicing Spanish,” his friend explained. “Look what I brought you.” He shoved the package into Guillermo’s hand and said excitedly, “Open it, OK?”
Guillermo opened the package. Inside was a plastic flying saucer.
“Muchas gracias, Felipe (many thanks, Philip),” he said, grinning.
Again he wished he had a welcoming gift for Philip. Then he remembered the sand dollar he had picked up. He put his hand into his pocket and drew out the flat seashell.
“I have a present for you, too, Philip. I’m sorry it isn’t wrapped.”
“I’ve never seen a shell like this before,” said Philip. “What is it?”
“It’s a sand dollar. However, some people call it a keyhole urchin. It’s found on the Gulf coast and Atlantic coast. After dinner let’s go to my room and I’ll tell you about it.”
Later when they reached his bedroom, Guillermo opened a shoe box on his dresser and took out a dry, sun-bleached sand dollar. “The legend,” Guillermo began, “says that this shell tells the story of the birth and death of Jesus.”
“How can a sand dollar do that?” asked Philip.
Guillermo pointed to the shell in his hand.
“The markings show up better on this dry shell than on yours. See, on the back there’s an Easter lily. In the center of it is the tracing of the star that guided the wise men to the Christ child.”
Guillermo turned the shell over. “Here on the other side are the markings of the Christmas poinsettia. In the middle are five holes, representing the wounds in Jesus’ body when He was crucified.”
“Wow!” said Philip, “that’s interesting.” Then, looking closely at the holes, he thought of something else and asked, “How does the shell move?”
“When it’s alive it’s covered with brown, hair-like spines, and it moves with them. It’s an animal like the starfish.” Guillermo pointed to a small hole in the bottom of the shell. “It takes food in through here.” He handed the shell to Philip. “Here, shake it,” he suggested to his friend.
Guillermo watched as Philip gently shook the shell and sand fell out.
“What’s inside, more sand?” asked Philip.
“No. Hold out your hand. Now watch.”
Guillermo broke open the sand dollar and out dropped several tiny white wing-like objects.
“They’re like folded butterflies made of ivory or bone!” Philip exclaimed.
“The legend says they are the white doves that spread goodwill and peace,” Guillermo explained.
“That’s really neat,” said Philip. “Can we look for more sand dollars on the beach?”
“Sure, Philip. Did you know that some women wear pendants of gold cast from real sand dollars? Other people thread sand dollars on strings and use them for wind chimes.”
“I can make a chime for my mother!” said Philip excitedly. “Or maybe I could make her a necklace for Christmas. Boy, Guillermo, I’m so glad I came!”

The Christmas I remember best happened when I was 12 years old. It all started one evening about a month before Christmas. The room had fallen totally silent. We all stood staring at Father, our jaws dropped in shock.
Just moments before, my three brothers and I had been wrestling with our two big dogs. My mother had watched, smiling, from the nearby kitchen table. But now, even her hands had gone perfectly still, stopping in midair as she sewed buttons back on a blue Scout uniform.
“What do you mean ‘No presents this year’?” my 16-year-old brother Mick asked slowly.
“Just what I said,” Father answered calmly. He sat down across the table from Mother. “Christmas has become all about ‘things.’ We worry too much about what we’re getting, how many presents are under the tree. Your mother and I have always taught you children the real reason we celebrate Christmas.”
“It’s Jesus’ birthday!” I piped up.
Father nodded. “That’s right, Nellie. But even though we all know the story of baby Jesus and can recite Luke chapter 2 by heart, I just feel that our home doesn’t have the right spirit in it during the holiday season. I think that if we forget about buying presents and really concentrate on the true meaning of Christmas, we’ll be more in tune with Jesus Christ and His gospel.”
“But, Dad,” I said, “we’ve always talked about how giving each other presents at Christmas is symbolic of Heavenly Father giving Jesus Christ to the world. Isn’t that true?”
Father considered this. “You’re right, Nellie. OK, let’s do this. No gift given in this family may be store-bought. Whatever you give each other must come from you,” he put his hand on his chest, “from inside you. You figure it out.” He got up and left the room.
“This is going to be the worst Christmas ever,” I thought.
“Is he serious?” Tyler asked Mother.
“He sure sounded like it.” She had already resumed her uniform mending.
“No presents …” Mick seemed in a daze.
Neil, my eight-year-old brother, looked like he was going to cry.
“So, what are we supposed to give each other?” I asked.
“Well, you all have about a month to ‘figure it out,’ as your father said,” Mother replied. She stood up with the finished shirt and left the room, humming a Christmas song.
Over the next four weeks, our house slowly filled with the Christmas spirit. We were all very secretive about what we were planning for everyone else, and we were excited about what we were giving. I never even thought about what I was getting.
Christmas morning dawned, chilly and white outside. For the first time since they had become teenagers, Mick and Tyler were the first ones up.
“Come on! Come on—get up!” They ran from room to room, waking up the rest of us.
Mother laughed. “I can’t believe you two. This alone has made my Christmas!”
Right after family prayers, the gift-giving started. What a wonderful, spirit-filled morning! We exchanged original poetry and songs. Neil had made “I’ll-do-you-a-favor” coupons for everyone. Mother had made copies of black-and-white photos of both sets of grandparents and framed them by hand for each of us.
All the gifts were truly given with love. But the one I remember the most was the one my father gave to me.
He handed me a plastic bag. Inside, I could see a slightly browned paper folded in thirds. All eyes were on me as I took the paper out and unfolded it. I gasped. It was the letter Father’s mother had written to him when he was 14 years old and she was dying of cancer. Her name was Nell, and I’m named after her. I had heard about this letter but had never seen it. I knew how precious it was to my father. And now he was giving it to me.
I started to read. The faith and spiritual strength of my grandmother radiated from her words. I read the six-page letter over and over again. The love she expressed for my father made me cry. The part that touched me the most was when she talked about leaving her family to join the Church:
I shared the letter with my brothers so that they could know Grandma, too. We’ve all grown up now, served missions, and been married in the temple. Every now and then, I pull out my father’s letter and read it again. Ever since my father gave it to me that Christmas long ago, it has been a source of strength for me. And I know, without a doubt, that my grandmother kept her promise to my father and has always been “right there beside” us.

On the first Saturday after Brad Rawlins returned home from his sophomore year of college, he woke up at 5:00 A.M. After his morning prayer, he put on what he used for playing tennis—a pair of gray gym shorts and a long-sleeved white shirt. The shirt was a remnant of his mission that wasn’t good enough to wear to church but also not worn enough to throw away.
After lacing up his tennis shoes, he walked quietly to his parents’ room.
“Dad,” he whispered from the doorway. There was no answer; he walked over to the bed. “Dad?” he said loudly.
“What’s wrong?” his dad asked, sitting quickly up in bed.
“Nothing, dad. It’s just me.”
“What time is it?”
“Five thirteen. I just wanted to tell you that I’m going over to play tennis, or at least hit the ball against the practice wall.”
“You woke me up at 5:00 on a Saturday morning to tell me that?”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“What’s there to worry about?”
“I don’t know, dad. Parents are supposed to worry.”
“I never worry about you. You’re the most dependable person I know. How many boys when they are 15 plan their retirement?”
“I like to plan ahead. Did I tell you how my mutual funds did last quarter?”
“Brad, please leave me sleep,” his father groaned, lying back in bed.
Brad turned and padded silently toward the hall. At the door he paused to turn back to his father. “Let.”
“What?” his father snapped.
“Let me sleep, not leave me sleep,” Brad explained.
“What are you saying?”
“Poor grammar, dad. You should watch that.”
After Brad had left the house, his father lay in bed staring at the ceiling. After 15 minutes he woke up his wife.
“What’s wrong?” she asked sleepily.
“I’m worried about Brad.”
“Why? He’s a dependable boy.”
“I know.”
“He works hard. He’s faithful in the Church. How many other boys his age are ward clerks?” she asked.
“But he’s no fun. We’ve raised a 22-year-old, middle-aged son. How on earth is he ever going to talk a girl into marrying him?”
They both lay there staring at the ceiling.
It was a bleak summer morning. The clouds hung in ominous clusters. Brad pulled up to the curb in his small compact car. He heard the steady thump of a ball being hit against the only practice wall on the court. He got out to see who it was.
She wore a blue warm-up suit. Her long, dark hair was tied in a ponytail that swung to the rhythm of her moves as she repeatedly hit the ball against the wall.
He stood behind and to the left of her, fascinated more by the grace she exhibited in her fluid movements than by her tennis skill. Finally the ball hit a metal post on the fence and bounced crazily away from her toward Brad, who picked it up and threw it back to her.
“Are you waiting to use this?” she asked, wiping her brow.
“Yes, but that’s okay,” he said.
“I was waiting for a friend,” she explained, “but I guess he isn’t coming. I’ll let you use this, and I’ll jog home.”
“I play tennis, if you want to practice.”
“That’s called mixed singles, isn’t it?” she asked with a smile.
“I can give references if you’re worried about what kind of person I am. In high school I won a dictionary for a speech contest on good citizenship. I’m a returned Mormon missionary. That’s why I’m wearing this white shirt. In another year it will be worn out.”
“I’m LDS too,” she said. “Third Ward.”
“Really? I’m Second Ward.”
“Can you play tennis?” she asked.
“I’m sure I can beat you,” he replied confidently.
He was not prepared for her serve, which rifled along the line and out before he could get to it.
“Fifteen-love,” she announced dryly.
“That was a nice serve.”
“I know.”
For the first time in his life, he found it hard to concentrate on the game. He found himself entranced by her movements. She tossed the ball vertically upward with her left hand, her right arm moving the racket initially behind her, and then rapidly toward the descending ball, the two meeting in air like some rendezvous. He absorbed everything about her motion—the gliding of her ponytail, the concentration on her tanned face. He was watching her follow-through when he noticed a ball landing near his feet and bouncing away.
“Thirty-love,” she called.
“I’m really better than this,” he tried to explain.
In the next few minutes he managed to bring the game to deuce. In the process he gained a respect for her skill.
The clouds, which had been gathering in the valley, finally spilled over.
“Deuce,” she announced, preparing to serve.
“It’s raining.”
“This will only take a minute,” she said.
“What will?”
“To beat you.”
“I don’t want to get wet.”
“Do you want to concede?” she asked cooly.
“No.”
“Let me serve then.”
By this time the rain was falling heavily. They ran to his car and waited for it to quit.
Away from the court her face lost the cool front reserved for competitors and took on the ability to convey emotion. On this morning the emotion was that of sadness.
“What’s your name?” he asked her.
“Jenny Thomson,” she answered, gazing forlornly out the window at the sheets of rain dancing on the courts.
“You’re really sad about not winning?” he asked.
“No, it’s not that. The guy who was supposed to meet me didn’t come. We’ve been going together for a year. We used to come here every morning and practice. Last night we got into a big argument. I thought he might come this morning and we could work out our problems. But he didn’t come.”
They talked about school, the Church, her interests, his summer job as a computer programmer in a bank.
From out of the rain, a soaked figure of a young man running appeared. He stopped beneath an enclosed picnic area and looked around.
“Craig, over here!” Jenny yelled, suddenly happy.
He ran over to her side of the car. He was obviously an athlete; he wore a red warm-up suit for the university track team.
“Get in or you’ll drown!” Jenny laughed, reaching up to tousle his dripping hair.
Craig climbed into the back seat of the car with difficulty, joking with her about the cramped leg room.
“Hey, kitten, I brought you some breakfast,” he said, bringing a small bag of donuts from a sewn-in pouch of his sweat shirt.
“I don’t usually eat in the car,” Brad said politely.
They were so happy to be together that they didn’t hear Brad. Brad observed the look in Jenny’s eyes when she talked to Craig and suddenly felt very lonely.
Craig reached up and touched her hair and grinned. “Kitten, you look like a witch. Stringy hair. Look at that.”
“I don’t think she looks like a witch,” Brad said.
Jenny turned around to face Craig. “How about you? You look like a fuzzy teddy bear that was left out in the rain!”
She turned back to the front. The car was so small that it was difficult for them to face each other when they talked.
“If you want to give me the donut sack, I have a place for litter,” Brad remarked, knowing that they probably wouldn’t hear.
“I was hoping you’d come and that we could talk,” Jenny said.
“Kitten, I need to see your face when we talk.”
Brad got out of the driver’s seat and jumped in the back, while Craig ran around to the driver’s seat.
Brad picked up the empty bag in the back and put some of the crumbs on the floor into it. He found that one of the chocolate iced donuts had spotted the upholstery.
Craig reached out and grabbed both her hands. “What we’ve got is too good to just throw away.”
“If we’re going to marry, it will be in the temple. If it’s in the temple, you’ll need a recommend. If you want a recommend, you’ve got to attend church.”
“I know, and I will.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I’ve got a tournament.”
“Next Sunday?”
“I promised my brother I’d take him waterskiing.”
“When?”
“During the summer it’s hard to work everything in.”
“Say, Jenny,” Brad asked, “I’ve got a spray can of cleaner and a cloth in the glove compartment. Could you get it for me?”
Jenny released Craig’s hands and retrieved the cleaner and rag for Brad.
“Craig,” she said, “it’s always going to be that way. In the fall it’s football, and during the winter it’s skiing. When are you going to take things seriously?”
“Kitten, don’t you love me?”
“Sometimes it takes more than love,” she replied.
“What else is there?” Craig asked, putting his arms around Jenny.
Meanwhile, Brad sprayed the foam on the chocolate spot.
“There’s nothing more than love, kitten. Look, a man has got to live his life the way he sees best. Sitting for three hours on a hard bench is not my idea of excitement.”
“I don’t think it’s going to work out, Craig. Maybe we should call it quits now.”
He pursed his lips and looked at her. He leaned over and kissed her lightly. “Okay, kitten. It’s your decision. Good luck. I’ll see you on the courts.”
Then he was gone, running out into the rain.
She sat very still and watched him go, the red of his jogging suit fading into the dreary morning.
After a few minutes, the tears came.
“I keep tissues in the glove compartment,” Brad said. He got out of the back seat and slipped into the front. He sat and awkwardly studied the steering wheel while she sobbed. There were a hundred thoughts running through his mind, but nothing seemed appropriate.
As time passed silently, he determined he must say something. “Breaking up is so hard to do,” he said, recalling the lyrics of a song.
He continued. “Life is full of troubles. But just as the rain today will go away, leaving the sun to shine, subsequently the flowers to grow, giving happiness to children who view the flowers but forget the rain that begat them, so also is life.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked, a smile forming.
“I have no idea. I heard it on TV once. I hoped it would apply to this situation.”
She quit crying and entered the silent brooding stage. Finally she said, “I think I got some chocolate on your seat covers. I’m sorry.”
Brad came to life, overjoyed at something to talk about. “Don’t worry!” he said, reaching back to get the cleaner and rag. He found the spot in the middle of the front seat. “Watch this. You’re really going to get a kick out of this.” He sprayed a white, thick foam on the spot. “Watch those tiny bubbles go. Look, bend down and listen. Do you hear them?” She bent down, her head next to his as they intently watched the foaming action. When it quit foaming, he wiped it up and the spot was gone.
“How about that! It does that every time!” Brad announced triumphantly.
He gave her a ride home. Jenny invited him into her house to meet her mother. She explained that her father had died over a year ago.
It was a small, white frame house with picket fence in front and a large backyard with a garden and fruit trees.
Her mother came out from the kitchen to meet him. She was a short, rounding woman with a dab of flour on her cheek.
“Do I smell bread baking?” he asked.
“Saturday is my day to bake. Would you like a piece? I just took some out of the oven.”
Brad and Jenny sat around the kitchen table and had a thick slice of hot wheat bread dripping with butter and honey.
“This is very good,” Brad said enthusiastically. “I bet this wheat was ground today, right? I could tell. It’s very moist, too. What’s your secret?”
Jenny excused herself so she could change clothes.
“I take a cup of raisins, put it in the blender, and then add it to my recipe. You can’t really taste it but it does make the bread moist.”
“It’s very good. One thing I’ve always said is that my wife is going to learn how to bake bread.”
“Jenny said she’s going to learn this summer.”
They both stopped at the same time, aware of their hidden thoughts.
Brad stayed there the whole day, helping Jenny and her mother with the garden, mowing the lawn for them. At supper time the three of them had a picnic in the backyard.
When he left, she walked him to the car.
“My mother likes you,” she said.
“I am greatly appreciated by the mothers of the girls I date. What are you doing next Saturday?”
“I’ve got a tennis tournament. Why don’t you enter?”
The tournament was an all-day affair. When it was over, Jenny had won the women’s singles and Craig the men’s singles. That night Brad took her out.
“And what have you planned for humble, unobtrusive, feminine me tonight?” she asked as they walked to the car.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“My mother figures I’m challenging your masculinity by doing better than you today. She doesn’t want you to get away. What are we going to do to celebrate my victory?”
“We could go to the movies?” he replied.
“That’s not the most original idea I’ve ever heard.”
“You don’t want to go to the movies?”
“Whither thou goest, I will go. On my mother’s orders.”
“I’m willing to listen to your suggestions,” Brad said, opening the door for her. “If you don’t want to go to the movies, what do you want to do?”
She mimicked a movie star. “Take me to a nice quiet place. I want to be alone with you.”
“You’re not serious?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your faith in me is underwhelming. I’ll show you where I want you to take me.”
He followed her directions. When he pulled up the drive where she had directed him, he said, “It’s a cemetery.”
She grabbed her neck with both hands as if choking herself. “Aaargh! There’s something moving in the bushes.”
He parked the car, and she led him hand in hand past the rows of marble markers to her father’s grave. “Dad,” she said as if introducing someone, “this is my friend, Brad. He’s good with computers, fair in tennis, a returned missionary, and probably the most decent guy I’ve ever met. Say something to dad, Brad.”
“Jenny, he’s not here.”
“I know, but I come here sometimes to remember. You’re the first person I’ve ever brought here.”
Brad looked down at the marble slab. “Sir, your daughter is taking good care of your roses.”
They sat down on the lawn. She talked to him about her father—all the little girl stories of a daughter who loved her daddy. Then they walked back to the car.
It was a warm night, and the smell of flowers was rich. He reached out and said simply, “I forgot to tell him that I love his daughter.”
“Brad, I’m not ready for this.”
“I want to marry you—in the temple.”
“No, it’s too soon.”
“When you broke up with Craig, you told him you wanted someone who was faithful in the Church. That’s me.”
“I know it doesn’t make sense. I’m not completely over Craig I guess. Craig was like fireworks. You’re more like a comfortable fire on a snowy evening. A relationship needs some excitement, some brass bands. I’m still hung up on the dream of Prince Charming who will come and take me away to his castle.”
“Jenny, life isn’t that way. If the prince takes you away forever, then he’s got to arrange for your luggage. So he trades his white charger for a work horse and a cart. And if he’s been in a suit of armor all day in the summer, you’ll have some shirts to wash.”
“I guess it boils down to the fact that I’m not in love with you. I should be, Brad, but I’m not.”
“Please try. Okay?”
“Okay. My mother is going to kill me if I mess this up.”
They spent much of their summer together. Brad took a new interest in after-shave lotions, certain brands of toothpaste, but nothing seemed to change between them.
It finally happened on a hot August day. Brad had worked during the morning, but he met Jenny for lunch downtown. After lunch they went to a jewelry store to look for a gift for a friend of Jenny’s who was getting married.
“What would you suggest I get her?” she asked Brad as they browsed among the expensive items.
“Some bread pans.”
“For a wedding gift?” she asked.
“Why not?”
“You’re really hung up on homemade bread.”
“I just think it’s important for families to learn to live sensibly.”
“Well, you’re very sensible,” she replied cooly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“A marriage has got to be more than two people grinding wheat together. Don’t you ever do anything for fun? Have you ever taken a bunch of pitted olives, put one on every finger, and then sucked them off one by one?”
“No.”
“Not in your entire life? I think that’s incredible.”
“Is it too much to ask a wife to learn to bake bread?” he asked, his voice taking on an edge to it.
“It wouldn’t stop there with you! You’d want me to learn to make pickles, too! Well, aren’t I right?”
“Homemade pickles are nice,” he reflected.
“I knew it.”
“Jenny, you’re not going to get me to argue. I’m not going down to your level. I’m above that. I can control my temper!”
“Then quit shouting,” she said.
“I’m not shouting. We’ll just ask an impartial observer a simple question. I’ll go ask that man over there.”
He walked over to a distinguished man looking at some diamond bracelets. “Excuse me. Could you answer a simple question we have? Do you think it’s too much to ask a wife to learn to bake bread?”
Jenny stood on the man’s other side. “No,” she snapped, “that’s not the question we want to ask. The real question is, do you want me to be something I am not?”
The man stared at Brad on one side, at Jenny on his other side, and then quickly turned, bumping into Brad as he fled from the store.
“It’s all your fault,” Brad said self-righteously. “You offended him.”
Jenny ran out of the store. Brad followed her as she hurried along the sidewalk filled with the busy lunch-hour crowd.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m going home.”
“You can’t walk home. It’s five miles. I’ll give you a ride home.”
“No you won’t. And quit following me!”
“I’m not following you. I’m walking beside you.”
They continued this way for a block.
“Don’t you ever sweat?” she asked sharply. “It’s 97 degrees out, and you’re wearing a suit.”
“It’s a summer suit. Besides, I perspire as much as anyone.”
“Not you. You’re perfect.”
He yanked off his suit coat. “Look,” he said, pointing to a damp part of his shirt, “do you know what that is? It’s perspiration!”
“You can’t even say the word sweat,” she accused.
“That’s gross.”
“See what I mean?”
“Okay, Jenny, you asked for this!” Brad shouted. “SWEAT!” Curious shoppers looked up from the store windows as Brad and Jenny rushed by.
“It doesn’t matter to me now,” Jenny said curtly.
“Does that mean you won’t marry me?”
“Of course that’s what it means. I’ve got to be me. That’s all I can be. We’ve both tried to fit into each other’s mold, and it won’t work.”
They walked silently for the next three blocks.
Finally Brad broke the terrible silence. “Do you want a mint? I saved them when I went to my cousin’s reception last week. They’re still good.”
When Brad reached into his suit coat, he found a diamond bracelet.
“Jenny, why did you do this to me?” he asked with a pained expression.
“I didn’t eat any of your precious mints.”
“There’s a bracelet in my suit coat.”
“I didn’t put it there.”
“Do you know what they’re going to do to me if they catch me with this?” he asked.
“I think it’s ten to twenty years. Maybe less for a first offense. Brad, I’m going to ask you a question, and you must answer me truthfully.”
“What’s the question?”
“How did this urge to steal develop? Maybe it started with candy when you were a kid. But now it’s out of control, isn’t it?”
“Jenny, I’m an Eagle Scout. What’ll I do? I can’t think, Jenny. You’ve got to help me.”
“Turn yourself in. It’ll go easier for you. At least that’s what they always say on TV.”
“When this hits the papers, they’ll release me as ward clerk, won’t they? Just when I got the membership records up-to-date.”
“Wait a minute!” Jenny said sharply. “That guy we were talking to! When he bumped into you, he must have slipped the bracelet into your pocket. He’s the thief. He must have been worried about the cops. This way, if the cops nab him, he’s clean. But if, on the other hand, he gets out okay, then he comes looking for us. If I turn around, he’ll probably be following us. He might even kill us for the bracelet.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” Brad said.
“I’m going to drop a mint when you hand it to me. When I pick it up, I’ll turn backwards to see.”
When she stood up again, and they began walking, she was strangely silent.
“What’s wrong?”
“There are two men following us,” she gasped. “Please, let me scream.”
“No, if you scream, they will know that we know about the bracelet. We’ve got to work out a plan.”
“Brad, if we don’t get out of this, I want you to know that suddenly I realize that I’m in love with you. You’re so brave, so cool, so dependable in a crisis. You won’t let them kill me, will you?”
“I’ll try not to.”
“That’s all I get, just a college try?”
“I’m sorry. Of course I won’t let them kill you.”
They continued walking, Brad thinking and Jenny holding tightly to his arm.
“They think the bracelet is in my suit coat, right? Suppose we act like we’re very hot, and I put my suit coat on the ground while we get a drink at the park. They’ll go for the suit coat, and we’ll make a dash for it.”
“That’s brilliant,” she said. “Great thinking, Brad.”
They entered the walkway into a neighborhood park. “No, it won’t work,” she said.
“Why not?”
“If the cops come, we’re accomplices. You’ve got to slip the bracelet out of the suit and take it back with us to the jewelry store.”
Brad took out the bracelet with the next mint and gave it to Jenny. They sat down on a park bench. Taking off their shoes and leaving the coat on the bench, they entered a children’s wading pool where four children were playing in the water.
She splashed him.
“Why did you do that?” he asked, his shirt dripping.
“Just for effect,” she said. “We’re supposed to be very hot; we’re cooling off here.”
“Oh, right.” He reached down and scooped up an armful of water, soaking her face and hair.
They edged over to the opposite end of the circular pool where two boys were folding newspapers on the lawn.
“Hey,” Brad whispered, “we need to borrow your bikes.”
“You’re crazy,” one of the boys answered.
“It’s no use,” Brad said to Jenny.
Jenny looked at the oldest boy. “Please, if you don’t help us, we’re going to be killed. Trust me, won’t you?”
“Okay,” the boy said.
They jumped out of the pool, grabbed the bikes, and began peddling barefoot along the lawn toward the street. The two burly men who had been following them raced to the suit coat. Finding nothing in the pockets except a mint, they ran after the two.
“We’re going to make it, Jenny,” Brad said, looking back at the two men gasping after them a half block back.
“Brad, I’ll learn to make wheat bread.”
“No, that’s okay. I don’t want to change you. Not really. I need you just the way you are, Jenny.”
They reached the jewelry store two blocks ahead of the men. Parking their bikes, they ran inside.
A lady clerk came over quickly. “You don’t have any shoes on, and you’re both soaked. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Simon, I’ll talk to them.” A large, bald man came out of the back room.
“What do you want?” he asked.
“We were here a while ago,” Brad explained. “We got in an argument about baking bread and Jenny said I was trying to change her, which I don’t really want to do at all, and we asked a man, but he was a crook, and then he left, and then Jenny left because she was mad and …”
“What he’s trying to say,” Jenny interrupted, “is that this bracelet is hot.” She took the bracelet from her pocket and placed it on the counter.
The man picked it up and felt it. “It certainly is. How hot is it out there today anyway?”
“No, what she means,” Brad began—
“I know what she means,” the man said. “You see, I’m a plainclothesman.”
“Maybe so, but I like your tie,” Brad said.
“No, Brad,” Jenny said. “What he means is that he’s a cop.”
“You mean a policeman?”
“Yes, Lieutenant Compton.”
“Don’t throw us in jail. We can explain,” Brad said.
“I know,” the detective said. “When we caught our thief, he didn’t have the bracelet on him. We figured you were either accomplices or being innocently used. I sent two men to follow you.”
“Well, lieutenant, I guess this about wraps it up,” Brad said, with a sudden bravado.
“Not quite,” Jenny said.
“What else?” the detective asked.
“An engagement ring.”
“There was no engagement ring, just a bracelet,” Brad said.
“For me, Brad, for me.”

Years ago I supervised the Indian seminaries. When I visited a school at Albuquerque, the principal told me of an incident that happened in a first-grade class.
During a lesson, a kitten wandered into the room and distracted the youngsters. It was brought to the front of the room so all could see it.
One youngster asked, “Is it a boy kitty or a girl kitty?”
The teacher, unprepared for that discussion, said, “It doesn’t matter; it’s just a kitten.”
But the children persisted, and one little boy said, “I know how we can tell if it is a boy kitty or a girl kitty.”
The teacher, cornered, said, “All right, you tell us how we can tell if it is a boy kitty or a girl kitty.”
The boy answered, “We can vote on it!”

Until last month, Heath Edwards had one killer of a schedule. Each weekday morning during the school year Heath’s alarm would go off at 4:30 A.M. That’s 4:30 in the morning. The sun isn’t even close to being up at 4:30, school isn’t for another three hours, and the temptation to push the snooze bar is a real one. That is unless you happen to be a world-class swimmer with designs on making the 1996 United States Olympic team. If you want to swim in the Olympics, you don’t stay under the covers.
So Heath, a 17-year-old from Columbia, South Carolina, would leap—okay, he’d roll—out of bed and get ready for another trip to the pool. Harbison Recreation Center, located about a mile from the Edwards’s home, has been kind of Heath’s home away from home for the last five years. If he wasn’t at his parents’ house, the first place you’d want to check is at Harbison, where there is a better-than-average chance you’d find Heath either in the swimming pool or in the weight room.
Thirty minutes after getting up to another dark morning, Heath, his close friend Elizabeth Peake, and the rest of the Harbison Aquatic Team members would jump in the pool, and that’s how each weekday would begin.
After the 90-minute workout, Heath and Elizabeth would go to the Dutch Fork Ward building for their 6:45 seminary class. There’s no need to call it early-morning seminary. If 6:45 is early morning, what does that make 4:30? Brother James Daves’s class would end around 7:30, and Heath and Elizabeth would go their separate ways. Heath would hop in the family’s Plymouth Horizon, run home, knock down some breakfast, and then head to Irmo High. Meanwhile, Elizabeth would go across town to Lexington High. The just-completed 1993–94 school year was the fourth year Heath had this schedule. It was Elizabeth’s first.
“I used to go to the pool and then go home before going to school,” Elizabeth remembers. Of course that was before she became a member of the Church. And it’s Heath’s, uh, fault Elizabeth added an extra hour to her already-busy schedule.
“You know how a lot of guys cuss?” Elizabeth asks. “Well, Heath wasn’t like that. And he was really nice to everyone. He was just different from any guy I’d ever met. But I didn’t know he was a Mormon at first.”
She soon found out. And before long, Heath was inviting Elizabeth to ward parties and dances. Then one Sunday Heath took Elizabeth to the Dutch Fork Ward sacrament meeting because his mother was singing. “I liked church a lot. I liked how members would bear their testimonies, and how the congregation would give the sermons. I eventually started going with him every Sunday,” Elizabeth says.
The more she heard and saw, the more interested she became. Eventually, Elizabeth requested that Heath arrange for her to be taught by the missionaries. After listening to the missionary discussions for several weeks, Elizabeth asked Heath, who had just been ordained a priest, if he would baptize her.
“When Elizabeth got baptized, it was probably the most spiritually uplifting experience I’ve ever had,” Heath says. “It was too great to describe when I baptized her. And I know Elizabeth knows this Church is true. It’s a great feeling to know I introduced her to the Church because of the way I acted.”
That’s how Elizabeth came to add an extra hour to her morning routine, a routine that ended for Heath last month when he graduated from both Irmo High and from seminary.
Next month, Elizabeth will begin her senior year of high school, but it will be different. She’ll have her usual 4:30-in-the-morning routine. She just won’t have Heath there with her. In August, Heath will leave Columbia for his freshman year at the University of Georgia. He’s accepted a swimming scholarship at the Athens, Georgia, school, and is a prized addition to the Bulldog swimming program. How valuable is this guy? Last year, Heath had the fastest 200-yard butterfly time in the United States for his age group (17–18), and he also recorded the third fastest 100-yard butterfly time.
He was the 200 butterfly national champion in 1993, and finished second in 1992. He’s competed in the United States Olympic Festival, and he was recruited by several different universities. A lot of college swimming coaches wanted Heath to swim at their schools, and he had a huge decision to make when it came to choosing a college to attend. In the next two years, he’ll be making a few more decisions.
In November of 1993, Heath signed his letter of intent to attend Georgia, and he’s already committed to swimming for the Bulldogs through the 1995–96 season—his sophomore year. If things work out according to plan, he’ll be competing in the 1996 Summer Olympics in nearby Atlanta, Georgia. After that, he wants to go on a mission, whether he makes the Olympics or not.
“I’m definitely planning on going on a mission. Right after my sophomore year, depending on how close or how far I am from making the Olympic team, I’ll talk to my parents about what I’m going to do about a mission,” Heath explains.
Although a full-time mission is still a few years away, Heath’s current timetable hasn’t stopped him from sharing the gospel anyway. Elizabeth is an example of that, and so is Elizabeth’s mother, Sandy. Fourteen months after Elizabeth’s September 1992 baptism, Heath baptized Sandy.
“I knew Sister Peake felt the Spirit. She would always come to church with Elizabeth or when my mom invited her. Then she came to me one day and told me she wanted to get baptized. Nobody else knew,” Heath says. “She wanted to surprise Elizabeth and everybody else.”

In 1932 the Olympic Games tryouts and the national A. A. U. (Amateur Athletic Union) championship meet were combined. Colonel M. J. McCombs called Babe into his office at the insurance company where they worked. He told her that he thought that she could represent the company team and win the national championship all by herself!
Over two hundred entrants were competing in the women’s events, and “for two-and-a-half hours I was flying all over the place. I’d run a heat in the eighty-meter hurdles, and then I’d take one of my high jumps. Then I’d go over to the broad jump and take a turn at that. Then they’d be calling for me to throw the javelin or put the eight-pound shot.”
Babe placed fourth in the discus and the hundred-meter dash at that meet. She tied for first in the high jump, and she won the running broad jump, the eighty-meter hurdles, the javelin throw, the baseball throw, and the eight-pound shot put. Along with the six gold medals she won, she set four world records and scored thirty points for her company’s “team.” The second-place team—with twenty-two members—scored only twenty-two points!

In October 1984, I was working as a quality control supervisor for a paper mill in Orani, Bataan, Philippines. Like most paper mills, ours recycled waste paper. One day, the book Meet the Mormons was included in a load of magazines. I got curious, took it into my office, and started reading it. I learned about Joseph Smith and his vision, and I readily accepted that God would reveal himself to a boy. I did not understand the section on the priesthood hierarchy, but I liked the Relief Society section. I read the book several times.
For many months, I had been trying to find more meaning in life. I had always been an active Catholic, and had even attended several meetings to become a Franciscan nun. Still, I felt like a piece of wood drifting in the ocean.
Two weeks later, I was inspecting the raw material in one of the delivery trucks when I noticed a blue book. It was the Book of Mormon! I asked the driver if I could have it. I took it back to my office and started reading. Inside the front cover were the steps of prayer. “Maybe I should try praying this way,” I told myself. It also listed the pages that told of Christ’s visit to America. I eagerly turned to those pages. Here were the Beatitudes and other teachings Jesus gave to the Jews! Were these chapters not copied from the New Testament? Then I realized that he was the very same Christ. Surely he would give the same teachings. I wondered if Christ might have come to the Philippines, too. I turned to 1 Nephi. Who were Lehi, Nephi, and Laman? They were such strange names. I treasured both books.

Ryan* came through the door and placed his schoolbag on a peg in the hallway. His mother called to him, “Be sure to check out the bathtub. You won’t believe this.”
His curiosity aroused, Ryan walked directly to the bathroom. He didn’t know what to expect, but what he saw made him shudder. In the bottom of the tub were five hairy tarantulas. Each was half the size of a man’s hand.
As Ryan peered tentatively over the edge of the tub, his mom touched him on the shoulder. “I can’t even look,” she said nervously. “The girls promised me that those things couldn’t get out of the tub. I’ll have nightmares for a week over this.”
“Who brought them?”
“One of those things has a tag tied to its leg. That will answer your questions,” his mom said as she turned away.
Getting the tag off the tarantula’s leg took half an hour and occasioned the gathering of several of Ryan’s friends, who thought this was the coolest dance invitation they had seen yet. The house was in an uproar. On one side, the tag read: “Hey, big guy! How about going to the girl’s dance with me? Kim.” On the other: “Don’t hurt the spiders. They’re rented.”
When the last of the visitors had drifted away, Mom said to Ryan, “You don’t seem that excited about the invitation. Is Kim somebody you want to go with?”
Ryan replied after a pause, “Yeah, I guess.”
“She’s certainly a gorgeous girl. I was impressed by her poise and self-confidence,” his mom continued.
“Uh huh.”
“And her friends were very classy. I’ll bet they don’t have any trouble dating the boys they want to.”
“Not much.”
“Is she the person you hoped would ask you?”
“Not really,” said Ryan.
“Tell me about her,” his mom pressed.
Ryan was starting to feel impatient with the conversation. He ended it more abruptly than he meant to by saying, “I don’t think it would be a good thing for me to go out with her. She and her friends are making some bad choices.”
That’s what Ryan did. He just didn’t feel right about accepting an invitation from Kim, no matter how cleverly it was presented. In the end, he chose to do what was right. I hope and pray that you will be faithful in developing the ability to do the same.

By this time, I wanted to continue going to church on my own, but that was such a challenge! It was hard for me to sit alone at church. I felt like everyone was staring at me and feeling sorry for me because my family wasn’t with me. To ward off sympathy, I would sit with my head bowed, reading a book until the meeting started. I felt sorry for myself and thought the challenge wasn’t worth it. I decided that without a family, the Church was not going to be true for me.
It was another small miracle of friendship that brought me back. Wendolyn and I had been friends since childhood, but we’d slowly drifted apart. One afternoon, Wendolyn and her mother sat me down and told me about the importance of going to church. They offered to have me go and sit with their family. My main stumbling block was removed! I had people to sit with who cared!
Through the rest of my high school years, my friendship with Wendolyn deepened, and my testimony of the gospel along with it. Wendolyn’s mother even offered to help me pay for a mission if I ever decided to go. I was touched by their willingness to sacrifice for me and for the gospel.
I know it is sometimes hard to accept an outsider into your family, but these two families accepted me, and to them I owe my active participation in the Church today. I will be eternally grateful to these friends. What small miracles of friendship can do!

I was sitting in the corner of the celestial room by the organ during the dedication of the Memphis Tennessee Temple. President James E. Faust (1920–2007), a member of the First Presidency from 1995 to 2007, had come to dedicate the temple. He and several other leaders were seated behind the microphone. A local Church choir filed in and stood behind them.
A young woman I visit taught was a member of the choir. Throughout the meeting, I prayed that she would receive what she had come for. She had confided in me that she came to the temple dedication that day to find out her standing with the Lord. She had committed serious sins in the past, and though she had repented, she still struggled to feel good about herself and even to feel good about singing in the choir.
I stared at President Faust, feeling that he, as a representative of the Lord in the First Presidency, ought to be able to do something. But how could I tell him, and how could he do anything? After the meeting, he would file out of the room just as he had come in, and there would be no introductions, no handshakes, and no words exchanged. I understood that he was busy and had travel arrangements, but still I prayed.
President Faust, deep in thought, looked at me for a while—the muscles in his eyebrows were knit together. When the meeting ended, a happy expression flooded his countenance with light.
He looked at me again and then suddenly stood up, turned around, and stretched his arm forward as far as it would go. He pointed directly at my friend. Then he said firmly and loudly, “The Lord loves you!”
President Faust’s gesture was small and simple yet so powerful that it could have come only from the Holy Ghost communicating to him what I could not. Those few words blessed my friend and continue to sustain my faith that the Lord is mindful of the details of our lives and “that by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (Alma 37:6).

In our afternoon sessions, we had been working on the second movement of Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata. The notes on the page seemed deceptively simple, but it never felt quite right when I played it.
“This time, Maria,” he said, “don’t hang on the notes like you own them. Let them sing through you. Pathetique doesn’t mean ‘pathetic,’ like in English. It means great, powerful emotion. Listen as you play. This second movement is flooded with hope. Remember, you and the piano are the instruments for the master.”
After that speech, what could I do? I thought of the master Beethoven penciling in the notes; then I closed my eyes and began. The feel of this movement had always eluded me. But this time the sounds told my fingers how to play, and the music shimmered in the room forming a momentary blanket against the coldness in other parts of my life. When I finished, I looked at Todd. A tear trickled down his cheeks.
“I can’t tell if that was for the master of the universe or from him, Maria.”
The Master he was talking about wasn’t Beethoven. I remembered Papa’s pain and said, “If you mean God, it was neither.”
“Then you know nothing of gifts,” he said.
“I know there is no God.”
He hesitated before he spoke. “Can I share something?”
“If it’s more of your Mormon religion, I don’t think so.”
“Why?”
I told him about Papa, about his singing, about his pain.
“Perhaps Mormon missionaries can help—him and you,” he said.
“Don’t count on it.”
Sunday evening Todd showed up with two college-age young men. I didn’t think Todd and his friends could help Papa, but after our visit in the music room the day I mastered the Pathetique, I was willing to try. Todd talked that day of what he called eternal things, and although Todd’s words were strange to me, they were full of hope. Even if there was only a slight chance they could help Papa, I wanted to try. I had not told Papa, though. I was afraid he’d say no if I asked.
I let Todd and his friends in, and Papa entered from the kitchen, two drinks already down and another in his hand.
“Papa, this is Todd. I’ve told you about him. He helps me with my music.”
“Ah,” Papa said, crossing the room to shake hands. “You are the boy with fingers of gold, Maria says.”
“She’s kind. But she has gold of her own, Mr. D’Alesso.” Todd stepped back. “Mr. D’Alesso, this is Elder Sals and Elder Warran.”
“What, you have the same funny first name?” Papa asked, grinning.
“No,” Elder Sals smiled. “That’s what missionaries in the Mormon church are called.”
Papa’s lips tightened. “You have a business here? In my home?”
Todd looked at me.
“I forgot to tell you, Papa. I invited them over to talk to us about their church.”
“They go.” Papa turned, and over his shoulder he said, “Now,” and walked back to the kitchen.
I apologized to Todd and the elders, and they left.
Papa came back into the room. I wanted to yell at him for being so rude, but I knew most of it was my fault for not telling him.
“These boys. They fill your head with the funny ideas, and you believe them. Then you find out the truth, and you be bitter. Eh, I know. You listen to your Papa. There is no God. You stay away from that boy and his friends.”
“Okay, Papa. I won’t talk religion with him.”
“No. No more practice with him. He’s bad.”
“No, Papa. I can learn more from Todd in one afternoon than I can from Mrs. Talesworthy in ten years. I won’t quit my lessons.”
“You will stay away,” he shouted. “Final.”
“Please, Papa.”
“Final!” he screamed.
Where my relationship with Papa had been cool and distant before, it now became icy. To disobey Papa was unforgivable, to not work with Todd on my piano, unbearable. In the evenings I went to the library, to a friend’s house, or I occupied myself in my room doing homework or reading.
A few weeks passed, and Pauly came home from college for the weekend. We ate a quiet dinner where Papa asked questions, the same questions Papa always asked—How’s school? You keeping your grades up? You don’t do nothing to let them take your scholarship away? Then later, alone, I told Paul what had happened.
“Papa chooses to pine away his life,” Paul said. “We buried our mother; he buried his joy. Do what you have to do to live your life, Maria.”
Monday, as we walked together between classes, I told Todd I was ready to start piano lessons again.
“Did your father say it’s okay?” he asked.
“It doesn’t matter what my father says. It’s my life.”
“You should obey your father.”
“Then I’m destined to take lessons from Mrs. Talesworthy for the rest of my life.”
“There are worse things.”
“Yeah,” I smiled, “like watching you sight-read Chopin without even one mistake.”
“Oh, there are mistakes. You just don’t hear them, yet. But your ear’s improving. Look, there has to be a way to reach your father. I feel responsible for bringing up the idea of talking religion to him in the first place. Maybe I should visit him, apologize, tell him I won’t discuss religion with you, and ask him to let us work together again.”
“No. That’s hopeless, and maybe unwise—especially if you came when he was drinking.”
“Is he mean then?”
“No, not really. Just more stubborn.”
Todd seemed stumped. Then he shrugged his shoulders and said, “If it’s supposed to work out, it will.”
I stopped walking and grabbed his arm. “People can’t just hope things will work out. They have to do something, Todd.”
Todd turned to face me. “So, what are you going to do?”
“Men!” I said and whacked him on the shoulder.
We both laughed, but I knew he was right about obeying Papa.
The warning bell rang, and Todd started to walk away, then turned around. “You might pray,” he grinned, and was off.
The thought that I could pray had never occurred to me. I’d only seen it done by preachers on TV, or in the movies. I had to do something, though. I thought about Todd’s suggestion the rest of the day and decided I would try it.
That night I poured out my heart at my bedside and after a half-hour climbed in bed. There was no flash of light, no inspiration, no singing angels, nothing. But the melody of Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata playing in my mind and an understanding that I must do something.
I stared at the dark ceiling and made a mental list of my options. I could try to persuade Papa to see a doctor. That hadn’t worked before; perhaps, though, it was worth another try. I could leave things as they were and hope that in time he’d heal. But Papa was growing more sullen each week. I could talk to Uncle Ricard and ask him for help. But he was a thousand miles away. I could let Todd talk to Papa, but that hadn’t gone over too well before. I had tried to bring Todd’s name up on two occasions since the missionaries’ visit, and Papa got angry. I told him I wanted to know more about what Todd believed, and he didn’t like that.
Of course I could confront Papa and insist that we either work together or threaten to move out. Chances were, though, I’d end up on the street. And if he threw me out, I didn’t know what would happen to him or me. What I really wanted to do was take responsibility for my own life, let Papa do with his what he would, and secretly start lessons with Todd again.
But that’s not what I did.
It was after dinner the next evening. We had eaten and cleaned up, mostly in silence. When we were through, Papa headed for the bottle of scotch and the TV.
“Papa?” I said.
“What?”
“Can we talk?”
“About what?” His eyes grew darker.
Oh, how I longed to see the brightness in them again. Why did Mama have to go? “Papa, I’m dying.”
“What? You make a joke?” His eyes widened.
“I don’t have a disease or anything, but I’m dying. My music is dying, and so are you.”
“Look. I don’t need you to tell me what I am doing.”
“Papa, I remember one spring afternoon when we were barbecuing and Pauly asked you to sing. You opened your mouth, and the notes came out like the Creator himself had touched your voice. And the world stopped to listen. I asked you that day if you had always sung. Do you remember what you said?”
“No. It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. It matters to me, and it matters to Mama.”
“There is no Mama for you, Maria; no wife for me.”
“Papa, you said that you thought God sent music to give us joy and Mama to show us he loved us. Do you remember?”
Papa lifted his gaze and stared at the wall. “I remember.”
“I don’t know why she died, but you mock her life with your constant self-pity.”
He raised his voice. “I lost my wife.”
“And I lost my mother,” I shouted. “And now I’m losing you.”
“You will not talk to me like that.”
“Why not? If it’s not like this it won’t be at all.” I pounded the table. “The only talk you do these days is to the TV and your bottles of scotch.”
“You give your dad some respect. Hear?” He rose off his seat, his face flushed, and I knew I was close to a point of no return. I could stop now, and in a few days things would be more or less frigid normal. If I pushed him too far, I could lose him as surely as I had lost Mama.
“Papa, what if Todd is right? What if there is a God, and what if Mama is alive, living with him in another world, waiting for you? What if your being with her again depends on what you do here? What if your selfishness and self-pity kept you from being with her after you die?”
He looked as if each word was a well-aimed bullet. He sunk back in his seat. After a moment of silence, he said, quietly, “No one can know about these things.”
“Todd says he and a lot of other people do.”
For the first time in my life I saw Papa as a little boy, a frightened child who had lost hope.
“Father, may I play you a song?”
“You hate me, Maria?”
“No, I love you, Papa. Please, may I play for you?”
He nodded his head and followed me into the living room.
“Sit down, Papa, and listen.”
I closed my eyes and, this time, pictured the Master, like in a picture Todd had shown me. And Mama stood beside him.
I began the second movement of the Pathetique. When I finished, I looked at Papa, deep in his chair, and he said with a softness to his face, “You play like you want God to hear you.”
“I do, Papa. I want to play so well that he will tell Mama how beautiful it is.”
Papa came over and stood behind me. He put his strong hands on my shoulders. “This Todd. He taught you to play like that?”
“No, Papa. You did.”
I felt his hands tremble against my shoulders, and he said, “Tonight, you play for me, Maria, and inside I sing again.”

Lloyd, who is now studying law at Northern Illinois University in De Kalb, was not surprised by his father’s call as a General Authority. “All through his life he’s been very close to the Spirit.” One night Lloyd had asked to use the car to go to a party. He was getting ready to back out of the driveway when his father came out and asked him not to go, explaining that he felt impressed that it would not be wise. They learned later that another car had rolled off the road Lloyd would have taken, and felt the impression must have been a warning.

Ron’s hobby requires that he use his imagination to make ordinary items appear to be something else. For example, the first project Ron built was a model grainery. He needed something to look like miniature corrugated metal siding. He gave it some thought, then used aluminum foil laid on top of some corduroy material and pressed into ridges with a fine-toothed comb. The result had the look of corrugated iron.

Although Ron’s talents are not widely publicized, he did pick up a best of show award in woodworking at the Utah State Fair. His projects are often on display in craft shops in the Salt Lake City area.

Because be grew up in Utah, Ron likes to research and photograph old mining towns. He then uses the information he gathers to guide him in reconstructing what the town might have been like many years ago. With styrofoam, plywood, plaster of paris, and small items from hobby stores, Ron is careful about detail. “I like to add enough detail so it looks like you could walk right into it. Sometimes I just get down at eye level and stare into it awhile and try to visualize what would look appropriate.” Perhaps that is Ron’s biggest talent. He has an ability to make a scene look real. There is an authenticity to his work, a feeling that any moment the screen door on some miniature shanty will swing open, or a tiny whistle will call the men back to the mines to work.

Instead of just making a small-scale representation of a scene, Ron has captured some of the feeling of that time period. The shale sidehills he scrapes out of plaster of paris look amazingly like the hills of southern Utah. Instead of neat, orderly town areas, Ron’s miniatures have the careful casualness that real life creates—a bottle abandoned in a vacant lot, scrap lumber being split for kindling, a diminutive dog straining at his leash to get to a cat perched on a fence post—things that would actually exist in such a town.

To do such detailed work, Ron has developed a great deal of patience. When not working on his models, he enjoys listening to music and getting out in Utah’s back country to hike, ski, or go camping. But wherever he goes, Ron is observant. Instead of just looking, he really sees.

Ron’s capacity to see clearly has expanded into new dimensions since serving in the Arkansas Little Rock Mission. The experience he had spreading the gospel has given him insight into people that he grew to love and admire. Now when he creates the small towns and little scenes, he can imagine the type of people who once lived in the full-size version and what their lives might have been like. This second sight is valuable to an artist and allows him to preserve something of the heart as well as of earth and stone.

To Ron Wolters, his model building is more than an interesting hobby. It has been a way of studying history and his heritage while preserving them in miniature.

The house was dark and warm, but a cool breeze filtered through the open window and brushed across Maggie’s face as she slept. Suddenly Chip’s excited barking made her sit up in bed. She blinked her eyes open and looked out the window at the moonlit yard below, where Chip tugged at his chain and barked frantically. Then she heard Father rush down the stairs and stumble through the kitchen. The back porch light flicked on and instantly flooded the backyard with light. Maggie quickly wiggled her toes into her slippers and reached for her robe.
From his room, eight-year-old Robbie demanded sleepily, “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” Maggie replied. “Chip’s barking at something in the yard.”
Downstairs, Maggie and Robbie joined their mother, who stood near the kitchen door. They watched as Father raced back and forth across the lower end of the yard.
“He’s trapped something!” Robbie shouted.
Maggie slammed out the screen door and ran across the dew-covered grass to see that Father had cornered a stray dog. He finally got close enough to clamp an empty bushel basket over it. Instantly the dog whimpered and scratched, trying frantically to escape. Father carefully raised one edge of the basket, grabbed the dog by its scruff, and secured him in the shed.
“Two of them were at the rabbit cage,” Father said softly. “They got in by digging under the fence. The other one got out the same way.”
They stood at the rabbit cage where Floppy lay stiffly. His fur was stained with blood, and Maggie did not have to be told. “Floppy’s dead,” she whispered.
Her father hugged her tightly. “Yes, honey.”
They walked slowly back to the house and explained to Mother and Robbie what had happened.
Robbie’s face puckered, and his chin quivered. Without a word, he turned and ran to his room and slammed the door. Maggie looked up at her mother and father. They were both crying silently.
Maggie didn’t think that she could fall back to sleep, but when morning came, she knew that she had. Wearily she stretched, then remembered: Floppy is gone—all because of two vicious stray dogs! She sat up and looked out at the shed. That dog ought to be shot! she thought. Floppy was our pet, and he never hurt anyone. She remembered the day when her parents had brought him home. He had hopped playfully around the yard while Father built his cage. Tears welled in Maggie’s eyes as she forced herself to look down at Floppy’s pen. It was empty. She sprang from her bed and dressed. “Where’s Floppy?” she demanded when she reached the kitchen.
Mother turned from the stove. “Your father put him in a box, honey. When we return from town, we’ll bury him beneath the plum trees in the meadow.”
Maggie nodded and began to set the table.
Later, as their parents climbed into the truck, Mother asked, “Are you two sure you won’t come to town with us?”
Maggie shook her head. “I’ll stay and dig the grave.”
“I’ll stay, too, and help Maggie,” Robbie said.
“I’ll get new fencing,” Father told them. “And the dogcatcher will pick up that stray dog this afternoon.”
“What will they do with him?” Maggie asked.
Father shrugged. “Make sure that he doesn’t have rabies, then try to find his owner, I suppose.”
“Do you want anything special from the grocery store?” Mother asked.
Maggie and Robbie shook their heads. As soon as the truck drove away, Maggie said, “I’ll do the dishes. You get the shovel.”
Robbie nodded, then turned and shuffled toward the shed.
“And give Chip food and fresh water, OK?” Maggie called.
Robbie nodded and kept walking, his shoulders drooping. As Maggie went inside, angry thoughts churned in her head. She wanted to get a big stick and beat the dog that had killed Floppy. She hoped that it died of hunger! No punishment is too cruel for it, she decided.
She washed the dishes, and each time she looked at Floppy’s pen, tears slid down her cheeks. Finally she was done, and she went out on the porch. Funny—things looked just as they had: White daisies bloomed by the porch, and purple irises waved their filmy heads in the morning sun. The vegetable garden sported tiny green sprouts, and birds chirped around the feeder. Only one thing was different—and nothing could erase last night’s tragedy. “Robbie?” she called.
When she saw her little brother step out of the shed with the shovel, Maggie stepped off the porch and walked toward him. “Did you feed and water Chip?”
He nodded. “I fed and watered the stray dog, too,” he told her. “Father said that he’d put a pan in there last night, but it was empty. I guess that he finished whatever was in it long ago.”
Maggie stared angrily at Robbie.
“He’s just a little dog, Maggie,” Robbie explained quickly, “and he’s really hungry and scared. He gobbled the food down and didn’t even try to run away.”
Maggie didn’t care how hungry and scared he looked—he’d killed Floppy!
Robbie kept right on talking. “I thought about Chip. If he didn’t have a home or anyone to feed him, maybe he’d have done the same thing . …”
Maggie blinked, and her anger turned to understanding. Robbie’s right. Jesus taught that we’re supposed to forgive … especially those who hurt us … even a hungry stray dog. … Maggie’s frown softened. “Come on,” she said, taking the shovel from him. “Let’s go dig the grave. Then we’ll make a marker for it.”
“What will it say?” Robbie hurried to keep pace with his sister.
“How about ‘Here lies Floppy, our loving pet’?”
“He was a nice pet, wasn’t he?” Robbie asked.
“He sure was,” Maggie agreed as she started along the path to the meadow. “And nothing can take that away.”

Photograph of Concepción, Chile, from Getty Images
When I read in the Book of Mormon about how Nephi always supported his visionary father, I concluded that most youth in the Church were probably like Nephi. But when my family decided that we needed to move to the desert, I felt more like Laman and Lemuel. I didn’t want to leave my home.
Like Nephi and his brothers, I was “born of goodly parents” (1 Nephi 1:1). Both joined the Church when they were teenagers, and my mother waited for my father while he served a mission. They were active, hardworking members of the Church.
When I was in high school, the economy slowed down in our region of Concepción, Chile. Jobs dried up, and my father began having trouble finding work. Finally, he began looking for a job out of town.
His job search took him north to the city of Calama, in Chile’s mining region. He is a construction engineer, and he found a good job there. But he was alone and far away. We saw him only when he could afford the 32-hour bus ride home.
After a few years of seeing my father only two or three times a year, my mother felt that it was time to make a change. My parents concluded that the rest of our family needed to move north.
My younger brother had no problem moving. And my older sister, who was in college, set a good example for me.
“I’ll sacrifice my studies,” she said. “We need to be with our father.”
Everyone supported the decision to move except for me. I wanted to be with my father too, but I resisted making changes and personal sacrifices. I had my friends, I knew my surroundings, I enjoyed my lifestyle, and I wanted to go to college in Concepción. I did everything I could do to convince my mother that we shouldn’t go.
Finally, she said, “Son, your father is alone. He wants us with him. I wish you understood, but you’re too focused on yourself.” Then she reassured me, “We will have opportunities there.”
In my heart, I knew she was right—even though my head wasn’t convinced. I didn’t have a strong testimony at the time, but I decided to pray about whether I should go with my family. A clear answer came to me: “You need to leave this place.” I was sad, but I told my parents I would go.
Concepción is a green place with lots of trees. It receives 50 inches (127 cm) of rain per year. Antofagasta, the city near Calama we were moving to, receives only 0.1 inch (0.25 cm) per year.
The most shocking thing for me about the move was the actual trip. As we made our way north by bus, watching the transition from green to brown was agonizing. I wondered, “Where are the trees? Where are the cows in the countryside?” All I saw was dirt, rocks, and hills.
Obviously, northern Chile is a desert, so what else could I expect? I was reminded of how Laman and Lemuel felt when Lehi’s family left the land of their inheritance and headed into the wilderness.
I had a lot of fears when we arrived in Antofagasta. What would happen if I didn’t make any friends? What would happen if I couldn’t get used to the area? What would happen if my hopes for the future didn’t come true?
In the end, I shouldn’t have worried. My mother was right about the opportunities awaiting us—especially the spiritual opportunities.
Before our move, the gospel wasn’t a priority for me. The Lord was in the background. But in Antofagasta, people came into my life who helped me see the beauty of the gospel. I received help from special priesthood leaders. I made friends who remain a treasure to me. My spiritual life changed completely.
Sergio visits with friends at institute.
I’m grateful I listened to my mother. I’m grateful the Lord answered my prayer. I’m grateful I had the courage to move north with my family.
Here in the desert is where I made the changes that helped me become who I am today. Here is where I committed to embrace the gospel, serve a mission, marry in the temple, and dedicate my life to the Lord. Here is where I determined that I no longer wanted to be like Laman and Lemuel.
For my family and me, the wilderness turned out to be our promised land.

The Arizona Temple was the only other Mormon place she ever had me visit. If I asked her what she wanted to do for a night out, she’d always reply, “Let’s go visit the temple. I love it there.”
I gave in, and we went there a few times. Usually we just walked through the grounds and admired the gorgeous landscaping, but after our third visit she talked me into touring the inside of the visitors’ center.
Inside, we saw several films and met many very friendly people. After the films and introductions, we went on a guided tour of the center. At the conclusion of the tour, our guide bore his testimony of the things we had seen that night. Liz cried.
After that experience, the temple was one of her favorite topics. “Chris, isn’t the temple a beautiful place? That’s where I’ll get married someday. I’ve promised myself that.”
“I guess I wouldn’t mind getting married there either,” I said. “It’s really no different than a cathedral.”
“It is different. When two people are married in the temple, they’re married forever.”
“That’s fine with me. I’ve always believed that true love lasts forever.”
Liz grew very serious. “You don’t understand. Only active members of the Church are allowed in the temple. You wouldn’t be allowed to enter.” She explained again that when her time came, she would be married in the temple. No other place was acceptable for her.
“But what if you really love a guy who’s not LDS?” I asked. “If you really love someone, it shouldn’t matter where you get married. All that matters is that you’re together and you’re in love.”
“If two people really love each other,” she answered shaking her head, “they’d never settle for anything less than an eternal relationship.” She paused and looked me in the eye. “I never would.”
As we neared the end of our senior year, we had many arguments about temple marriage. Liz maintained that she’d never marry outside of the temple. I argued that, in true love, the ceremony was not important. Love was eternal regardless of the type of marriage.
The more we discussed it, the more she talked about the temple and how special it was. I was confounded. It was obvious that we were falling in love, yet Liz wouldn’t budge on her temple marriage hang-up. I felt positive that if our love matured, she would eventually give in and agree to be married anywhere. I was wrong.
One afternoon at school, Liz met me at our locker. Her eyes were tearfully red, and her voice was taut with emotion. “Chris, I’ve decided that we can’t see each other anymore. We can’t go out again—ever.”
Her words stunned me. “What do you mean? Look, I don’t care what your parents think …”
She looked up at me with tears streaming down her face. “It’s not my parents. It’s me. I can’t allow myself to date you. I don’t want to fall in love with you.”
“Liz, you’re just upset. Why don’t we just talk this out like we’ve always done? You’ll feel better in a little while.”
She backed away from me. “No, I’ve made up my mind,” she sobbed. “I can’t afford to see you again!” She pressed a shiny black paperback into my hands and ran down the hall.
We stopped seeing each other. Liz started going out with LDS guys, and I moped around campus. I thought about the many discussions we’d had. What was it that made her so stubborn about a temple marriage? Why wouldn’t she compromise? What made her so special?
Several weeks after we broke up, I returned to school late one spring afternoon. I searched through the mess in my locker and soon found what I was looking for. The little black paperback was slightly dog-eared but still readable. Maybe it would answer some of my questions. I glanced around to make sure no one saw me carrying an LDS book, tucked it inside my jacket, and went home.
When I got home I hurried upstairs with my secret bundle and hid it in my desk drawer. I knew my parents wouldn’t approve of me reading Mormon “propaganda.”
Two weeks passed before I had a chance to be alone with the book. When I had the opportunity, I took the book out of my desk, stretched out on my bed, and started to read.
I opened the book, A Marvelous Work and a Wonder, and skimmed its pages. A section about the Joseph Smith story caught my eye, so I read it carefully. As I read the story of Joseph Smith’s vision, I knew that it was true. I also knew that if his story was true, then the church he founded must also be true.
A little later I agreed to take the missionary discussions, and I rapidly gained a testimony of the principles of the gospel. After the discussions, I knew that I should join the Church, and after much fasting, praying, and soul searching, I was baptized. Liz was there. She cried.
A little more than a year after I was baptized, Liz and I again visited the temple, this time to be married for time and all eternity. That was 13 years ago. Today, and every day, as I watch our family blossom and grow, I’m grateful for the strong testimony of that cute little Mormon girl. I’m thankful that she was courageous enough to refuse to compromise on an issue that meant eternal happiness for her, and eventually, for me too.

Kallie Sommercorn, 19, who is in college in Logan, Utah, says she used to be shy when she was younger. “I would freeze up whenever I was put in social situations,” she says. “I never knew what to say, and I always felt like I would just make a fool of myself.” She was also afraid to speak in front of people or to answer questions in class. “Once high school hit, I really had a desire to change this,” she says.
So Kallie started involving herself more in conversations. Although she used to stumble over her words when talking with friends or answering questions in class, with practice she was able to overcome most of her shyness. “It was a lot easier when I finally realized that people didn’t think what I was saying was dumb.”
“I would pray and pray and pray that someone would help me overcome my shyness, but then I realized that I needed the Lord’s help to overcome it,” Kallie says.

Years ago I taught a seminary class filled with some of the best and most successful students in the school. And because of who they were, they had a great influence in the lives of others. They were looked up to and admired by the other students. Sometimes, even without knowing it, they could create a social pressure among the other students in the school. The effect of this peer pressure—this attitude of one’s age group—was demonstrated to us one day in class. We all learned a sorry lesson that almost any of us can bend to peer pressure. Here’s how it happened.
I had read a magazine article on negative peer pressure. The article described an experiment I was tempted to try on my class of students. The experiment was designed to show, in a very convincing way, how powerful peer pressure can be. It didn’t really occur to me that the experiment might have some negative consequences.
In class the next morning I did as instructed in the experiment. On the chalkboard I drew a star, a circle, an oval, and a square. I told my class that for the class period, the objects on the board were to be identified as a star, a circle, an oval, and a triangle, even though the square was obviously a square. It was now to be called a triangle and nothing else! In a moment they would have an opportunity to convince an unsuspecting visitor that the square was actually a triangle.
Five of my most influential students were invited to sit on chairs at the front of the class. We had a football player, a young lady very involved in various school activities, the school student president, a top scholar, and a young man successful in everything he attempted. A sixth chair was left vacant for our visitor, a freshman, a student in his first year, who immediately recognized that he was among the “best” of the high school. My class students made him welcome, and he began to relax and enjoy himself in their company.
I invited him to take the vacant seat in front of the class. I explained that when it came his turn, he was to simply identify the objects drawn on the board. He agreed. The others smiled. The lesson began.
“Mr. Footballer, will you identify the objects on the board?” I asked.
In a deep, manly voice he said, “Star, circle, oval,” and then, coming to the square, he confidently said, “Triangle.”
Our visitor, forgetting himself, let out a laugh, but the rest of the people in the room were absolutely silent. He quickly searched the faces of those present for acknowledgement of Mr. Footballer’s obvious mental fumble, but my students were playing their parts. To them that square was nothing more than a triangle. Mr. Freshman had a bewildered expression.
I then turned to the young lady.
“Would you please identify the objects on the board?”
She enthusiastically replied, “Star, circle, oval, triangle.”
The freshman fidgeted in his seat.
The class remained silent. Twice more the question was asked. The student president and the successful young man answered as we had planned.
By now our visitor looked slightly ill and had that “may-I-please-be-dismissed” expression on his face.
The scholar responded to my question, “Star, circle, oval, triangle.”
Now it was the freshman’s turn. With each object his voice grew weaker, shakier, and less confident.
“Star … circle … oval …” Then silence.
We looked at him. He looked at us.
“What’s the last object?” I asked.
Silence.
“Come on, what is it?”
Then finally, quietly he spoke.
“Triangle.”
I thought we’d all break the tenseness of the moment with a good laugh. The experiment had worked. But instead there was silence.
I searched the students’ faces. They were all deep in thought. Some heads were bowed.
Then I realized something. Each one in the class knew how the embarrassed freshman felt. Each in a foolish moment, wanting so badly to be accepted or to be part of a group, had in his own way called a square a triangle, had committed a wrong when there should only have been a right. Even I could add my name to the list. And we all realized, especially me, that we had been unkind to put the freshman in such an awkward situation.
We spent the remainder of our class time sharing feelings and regrets, but more importantly sharing desires, hopes, and longings to be more courageous. Mr. Footballer put his arm around the freshman, and we all reassured him that we’d made the mistake of giving in to pressure before, too. By the end of the class he was accepted by his peers—not because he’d given in, but because we’d all come to see the importance of never surrendering, of calling a square a square despite the consequences.
When the bell rang, we left as a group, wiser, more hopeful, and with a greater resolve to stand for that which is right even though we were subject to the pressures of the world.