Gospel Story Finder

One father could not forgive his son for departing from the path he had been taught. The boy had friends the father did not approve of, and he did many things contrary to what his father thought he should do. This caused a rift between father and son, and as soon as the boy could, he left home and never returned. They rarely spoke again.

Did the father feel justified? Perhaps.

Did the son feel justified? Perhaps.

All I know is that this family was divided and unhappy because neither father nor son could forgive each other. They could not look past the bitter memories they had about each other. They filled their hearts with anger instead of love and forgiveness. Each robbed himself of the opportunity to influence the other’s life for good. The divide between them appeared so deep and so wide that each became a spiritual prisoner on his own emotional island.

James Arrington, the character actor and returned missionary who portrays Brother Brigham, said, “I first got the idea of doing somebody after seeing a one-man show on Will Rogers. I loved it! Right then I decided our people are great enough to have something done about them. I saw other one-man shows—Clarence Darrow, Harry Truman, Mark Twain—on TV and on stage, and wished somebody would write a script I could use. Then I thought, ‘Hey, I could write the script!’”
After concluding that Brigham Young would be a suitable subject for that type of theater, James went to work. For two years he gathered all the information he could find on the pioneer prophet. The more he learned about the colonizer, the more he grew to appreciate Brigham Young.
“Because of the hostile 19th-century press, Brigham was one of the most misunderstood men of his day, but his people loved him because of his kindness, his sweetness, and his humor,” James said.
The 20th-century version of Brigham, which will begin a national tour in February, has captivated audiences throughout the Intermountain West. On stage he reads letters, reminisces, carries on one-way conversations, and tells of his association with Joseph Smith.
“I want to shout hallelujah every time I think I ever knew Joseph Smith,” he tells his audience.
He then quickly points out that he had been a member for some time before he met Joseph. He recalls one occasion when he defended the prophet’s character, although he had yet to know him. At that time, he said, “I do not know Joseph Smith. I have never met him. I do not know his private character. I do not care anything about that for I never embrace any man in my faith. But the Book of Mormon and the revelations and the doctrine that have come through the Prophet Joseph Smith will save you and me and the whole world.”
Brigham then recounts a mission to Canada he served at his own expense. He traveled more than 2,000 miles on foot. “That shows the depth of his conviction,” James said.
Brigham Young also tells of his and Heber Kimball’s journey to Kirtland where they first met the Prophet of the restoration. He also comments on his subsequent missionary calls. “He traveled every summer on missions,” James added. “His mission to England, the one most Saints remember, did not come until after he had led the Saints out of Missouri and into Commerce, Illinois. Joseph later joined them when he and several companions escaped their captors in Missouri.”
Through missionary work Brigham’s self-confidence increased. He also learned principles of Church administration. This growth of confidence is revealed in the letters of Brigham to Joseph Smith.
“At first while on his England mission, he kept asking what he should do next. As the months progressed he began more and more to tell the Prophet what he had done and was planning to do,” said James.
“Brigham is one of the nation’s greatest men of letters. The Church Historical Department has more than 30,000 pages of letters on file. We don’t know how many were lost. These letters include messages to his family, advice to his children, communication with national leaders, and directives to Church officials.”
Remembered as an apostle and prophet and a colonizer, Brigham proudly tells his modern audiences that he is a skilled craftsman. “He specialized in carpentry, house painting, and glass glazing,” James noted.
“I’ve always felt that much of the happiness in this life comes from having something worthy to do and doing it well,” Brigham states. On occasion, the historical Brigham urged the Saints to habits of thrift and orderliness. He reported that he could go into his shop on the middle of a dark night and without any light locate whatever tool or item he needed.
Although his present-day performance is peppered with good humor, Brigham has moments of solemness. He tells the audience of the time he was stumping for Joseph Smith’s candidacy as president of the United States in 1844 and learned of the martyrdom in Illinois. He was in New York when he received notice of the assassination. “My first thought was whether Joseph had taken the keys to the kingdom with him. Then bringing my hand down on my knee I told them, ‘No, the keys of the kingdom are right here in the Church.’”
He then recounts that he and others of the Twelve who were then back east returned promptly to Nauvoo where they halted Sidney Rigdon’s effort to wrest control of the Church and proclaim himself guardian of the Saints and spokesman for Joseph.
The 20th-century Brigham intersperses historical accounts with interviews with his secretary, George Watt, and with members of the Church. James explained, “Brigham’s office was always open to any member of the Church and to outsiders. He called it interviewing and found a valuable means of correcting false concepts about himself and about the Church.”
Of such visits by nonmembers, Brigham says, “Though sometimes disagreeable, they are a valuable means of correcting false notions and extending courtesies to which the person, in some cases, is probably entirely unworthy.”
Naturally modest, Brigham never mentions the hundreds of communities settled under his direction, the beginnings of the vast sugar beet industry, nor the origin of Intermountain West drama under his urging. Instead, he passes by these major accomplishments, which have brought fame to him and to the Church, to remind the audience that he was also a painter-glazier.

When I was attending Brigham Young University, I learned what it truly means to be a queen. I was given a unique opportunity, along with a small group of other students, to meet the prophet, President David O. McKay. I was told to wear my best dress and to be ready to travel early the next morning to Huntsville, Utah, to the home of the prophet. I will never forget the experience I had. As soon as we entered the home, I felt the spirit which filled that home. We were seated in the prophet’s living room, surrounding him. President McKay had on a white suit, and seated next to him was his wife. He asked for each of us to come forward and tell him about ourselves. As I went forward, he held out his hand and held mine, and as I told him about my life and my family, he looked deeply into my eyes.

After we had finished, he leaned back in his chair and reached for his wife’s hand and said, “Now, young women, I would like you to meet my queen.” There seated next to him was his wife, Emma Ray McKay. Although she did not wear a crown of sparkling diamonds, nor was she seated on a throne, I knew she was a true queen. Her white hair was her crown, and her pure eyes sparkled like jewels. As President and Sister McKay spoke of their family and their life together, their intertwined hands spoke volumes about their love. Joy radiated from their faces. Hers was a beauty that cannot be purchased. It came from years of seeking the best gifts, becoming well educated, seeking knowledge by study and also by faith. It came from years of hard work, of faithfully enduring trials with optimism, trust, strength, and courage. It came from her unwavering devotion and fidelity to her husband, her family, and the Lord.

On that fall day in Huntsville, Utah, I was reminded of my divine identity, and I learned about what I now call “deep beauty”—the kind of beauty that shines from the inside out. It is the kind of beauty that cannot be painted on, surgically created, or purchased. It is the kind of beauty that doesn’t wash off. It is spiritual attractiveness. Deep beauty springs from virtue. It is the beauty of being chaste and morally clean. It is the kind of beauty that you see in the eyes of virtuous women like your mother and grandmother. It is a beauty that is earned through faith, repentance, and honoring covenants.

Sister Kirts, a professional hairdresser, met a family who had come to her salon for haircuts. They were donating their hair as their family’s Christmas project. From them she got the information about donating hair and did a little research. A minimum of 10 inches of hair was needed, bound in a ponytail. Especially needed was fine, light colored hair that would be more appropriate for children’s wigs.
With some hesitation, Sister Kirts presented the idea to the girls in her ward. It wouldn’t help Jessica directly, but the donation of their hair would help other girls and boys. At first, the thought was stunning. Ten inches! That was so much. “They were petrified at first,” said Sister Kirts. “I didn’t want to pressure them. But later that day, the phone just started ringing. And, one at a time, the girls called and said, ‘I’m in.’ I couldn’t believe that they would do it.”
The word spread through the ward. Even two little girls from Primary joined the Young Women in donating their hair. The local newspaper and a television station covered the event because so many girls were donating their hair at the same time. And at Christmastime, people could not help but compare this event to O. Henry’s story “Gift of the Magi,” about a young couple who each gives up the thing they value most to buy a gift for the other. In the story, the young wife sells her long hair to buy a chain for her husband’s heirloom watch. He, in turn, sells the watch to buy combs for his wife’s beautiful hair.
After the young women’s story aired on the news and was printed in the newspaper, the salon offered to cut the hair of anyone who wanted to donate it. Dozens of people responded. “Teenagers have so much power for good or for bad,” said Sister Kirts. “For these people who came to donate their hair, their biggest reason was that if an 18-year-old girl can do this, I can too.”
Rachael Ward, another of the Young Women in the Redondo First Ward, was a little frightened to go back to school after Christmas vacation with her new short hair. “It was awful waiting for that day. Everyone noticed my hair, even people I didn’t know before. A lot of people looked at me differently. They said it made them realize that people really do good deeds for each other. It’s not just a story on television. That made me feel good.”
Rachael’s friend Brittanie Streetmaker also donated her hair. “I was nervous, but now whenever I look in the mirror, I think of a little girl who will be so happy to have a cute styled wig. My friends ask me if I miss my hair, and I say I do, but I don’t regret it for a second.”
Editor’s note: Jessica is home from the hospital. She still suffers from partial paralysis and is continuing treatment for aplastic anemia. She loves the way the girls sacrificed to help others.

Poverty defined Heber’s growing years but not negatively. Having little money was a challenge that never deterred him. Wanting to learn to pitch a baseball but not having enough money for a ball, Heber earned the money by shining boots for his mother’s boarders. Later he longed to attend the Salt Lake Theatre; instead of feeling sorry that he had no money to buy tickets, he obtained a job as a water carrier for theater patrons and was thus allowed to watch the plays.6

Elder David A. Bednar recalls a woman in his stake some years ago calling to request that he visit two young women who were being taken to the hospital following a horrific automobile accident. At that very moment, this sister received on another phone the terrible news that her own daughter had died from injuries sustained in the same accident. In a calm, deliberate voice, she said: “President Bednar, we must get in contact with the two other mothers. We must let them know as much as we can about the condition of their daughters and that they will soon be in the hospital.” Elder Bednar recalls that “there was no self-pity; … there was no turning inward. The Christlike character of this devoted woman was manifested in her immediate and almost instinctive turning outward to attend to the needs of other suffering mothers.” Elder Bednar observes, “Character is revealed … in the power to discern the suffering of other people when we ourselves are suffering; in the ability to detect the hunger of others when we are hungry; and in the power to reach out and extend compassion for the spiritual agony of others when we are in the midst of our own spiritual distress.”

A young lad stood at the pulpit in Sunday School trying to give an assigned talk, but he could not get the words out. His giant of a father walked from the congregation to stand beside his son, put his arm around him, and said, “I know Larry has prepared his talk and that he’ll be able to give it. He is a little frightened, so I’ll just speak to you for a moment and then I know he’ll be ready.” The father stood by his boy with his arm around him, and in a moment the lad gave his talk. And many wept.

Sometimes it’s difficult for Jenna to have a brother with special needs, but she has learned to be loving and compassionate from helping him. One time their grandparents gave them a few dollars to buy a toy at a gift shop. When they came back, Zack had a toy and Jenna didn’t. “Jenna had given Zack her money so he could have the toy that he wanted,” her mom says. “She always does little things like that without expecting to be rewarded for it.”

Primary also played a big part in helping me develop a testimony of the gospel. Many of my teachers encouraged me and helped me understand what I needed to do to gain a testimony. It was a gradual process. I finally realized I could not live off Mother’s or Dad’s testimony forever. I took the advice my Primary teachers had given me and read the Book of Mormon, prayed about it, and found out for myself it is true.

This year I was asked to be Santa in the school play. I was thrilled! I borrowed my papa’s Santa suit. All the little kids were excited when I walked into the gym all dressed up in the white beard and red suit. It was really fun being Santa. The best part was yet to come.
My papa dresses up like Santa every year and visits the nursing home in our town. It makes the older people there so happy. He told me that I should go to the nursing home dressed in the Santa suit and that it would probably be my favorite part of Christmas.
So after the play at school, my mom brought some oranges and we went to the nursing home. My little brother, Jaden, came along as Santa’s helper. I already knew a lot of the people there because our school class had visited the nursing home several times. I hoped that they wouldn’t recognize me!
When I walked in the door, I started ringing some Christmas bells that I had brought and shouting, “Merry Christmas!” A group of little grandmas was sitting at the end of the hall. When they heard the bells, they all looked at me and smiled. I gave them each an orange and visited with them. One lady asked, “Why have you come to see me?” I told her that I had come because it was Christmas and I wanted to make sure that she was being good. They all wanted their picture taken with Santa.
But the best part was when I went to visit Bill. He wasn’t in the hall. He was in his room with the door closed. That’s where Bill always is. He never speaks, and he usually doesn’t like visitors at all. I knew that because I had tried to make friends with him before but had never had any luck. The nurse was worried about me going into his room. I asked her if I could see him for just a minute. She opened the door, and I could see Bill lying with his back toward me, watching TV. I started to jingle the bells. As soon as Bill heard the bells, he slowly turned toward me. He sat up on his bed, and he got the biggest smile on his face. I wished him a merry Christmas and gave him a hug. He looked just like a little boy on Christmas morning. The nurse who was with me had a tear running down her cheek. She said that she had never seen Bill smile before.
My papa was right. I had the best feeling that night. I think that visiting the nursing home as Santa was one of my favorite parts of Christmas.

Many years later, in 1976, my mother and stepfather were living in Sugar City, Idaho, when the Teton Dam broke, and once again, everything that they owned was lost. After the flood, Mother walked into my home (I was married by this time) with a little plastic clothes basket that contained everything she had in the world—except for her family, her friends, and the gospel. These were difficult experiences, but with my mother’s help I learned a lot about the kindness of people and about seeing events in an eternal perspective.

“We just have to get that colt,” I whispered to Jared as I thought of Woody Peterson’s new colt wobbling around on his long, skinny legs. Since we had seen him that morning, I hadn’t thought of anything else.
Jared scrunched up his nose and closed one eye as we sat in the front yard under our willow tree. Finally he asked, “Jarom, do you think that Dad would buy us Woody’s colt?”
I shook my head sadly. “If we’re going to get a colt, we’ll have to buy it ourselves.”
“But we don’t have any money.”
I sighed and nodded my head. For a long time we lay on our bellies under the willow tree, trying to think of some way to buy Woody’s new colt.
Suddenly I yelled, “I know! Let’s start a store.”
“A store?” Jared asked. “What would we sell?”
I pressed my lips together really hard and squinted so that I could think better. “First we have to save up our candy and treats. And we can make lemonade. … We can sell anything we want to!”
That night when Mom served us chocolate cake, Jared poked me and whispered, “Jarom, remember—we have to save this for the store.”
I froze. I stared down at Mom’s chocolate cake, then thought of Woody’s wobbly colt. I wanted that cake badly, but I wanted Woody’s colt more. So we wrapped our cake in plastic and stuck it in the freezer. And later, when our home teachers brought a plate of cookies, Jared and I put ours in a plastic bag and stored them in the freezer too.
Before we went to bed that night, we checked our drawers. Jared found three sticks of gum, and I found two candy canes that I’d saved from Christmas. From then on, every time we got ready to eat something, we’d stop and ask ourselves if we could sell it in our store.
The next morning Mom gave us oatmeal mush for breakfast. Jared made a face at his. Suddenly he jumped out of his chair, ran over to the kitchen cabinet, and jerked out a plastic bag. Before Mom knew what was happening, Jared had dumped his mush into the bag.
“Jared!” Mom scolded. “Just what do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m saving my mush for the store.”
“Nobody’s going to buy mush in a bag,” I growled at Jared.
“Maybe there’s somebody who just loves mush,” Jared argued.
“I don’t care who loves mush,” Mom said to Jared. “You’re going to eat yours—right now!”
Two weeks later, after Jared and I had saved everything that we could, we dragged the family picnic table around to the front of the house and set it under our willow tree. Then we spread out our treats on it: four pieces of pie—two cherry and two apple—cake, candy bars, gum, cookies, candy canes, licorice ropes, fudge, brownies, and other stuff. Mom made the lemonade for us, then printed a huge sign—THE JJ WILLOW-TREE STORE.
I grinned at Jared. “With all this stuff, the whole town will come to our store. We’ll be able to buy Woody’s colt today!”
Jared looked at a piece of cake. “Do you think that this stuff is still good?”
“We kept it in the freezer, didn’t we?”
“Don’t you think that we ought to make sure? We don’t want anybody buying bad stuff.”
I grinned. “Well, maybe you’re right.” Without another word, we each gobbled down a piece of cake.
Besides Mom and Dad, who each bought a cup of lemonade, Sister McCauley, from across the street, was our first customer. “Well, my, my,” she twittered, looking down at all the good things that we had there on the table. “I’m just dying for something good to eat. How much is that piece of chocolate cake?”
Well, I knew that Sister McCauley had plenty of money, and we were going to need lots of money to buy Woody’s colt, so I told her, “One dollar.”
She gulped. “It must really be good cake,” she said, looking down the table at the cookies. “How much is one of those cookies?”
“Only a dollar,” I answered. “They’re good too. Most of this stuff’s a dollar,” I explained. “Everything except the pie.”
“How much is the pie?” Sister McCauley asked, her face brightening up.
“Just two dollars. You see, the pie’s the best thing we have.”
She coughed. “I only have a quarter with me.”
“We sold Mom and Dad some lemonade this morning for a quarter,” Jared blurted out.
“I’ll take it.” Sister McCauley slapped her quarter onto the table.
“Don’t you think you’re charging too much?” Jared asked after she left.
“The more we charge,” I explained, “the more money we’ll make. Shoot, by the time we sell all this, we’ll have about a hundred dollars. We’ll be able to buy Woody’s colt for sure.”
“What are you two doing?” our friend Robert asked. He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking up and down our table.
“We started a store,” Jared announced. “Do you want to buy something?”
“How much are those brownies?”
“A dollar apiece.”
He frowned, dug his money out of his pocket, and counted it. “I only have seventeen cents,” he finally announced.
“Oh, come on, Jarom,” Jared protested. “Let him buy something for seventeen cents. After all, he’s our friend, and how are we going to keep any friends if we sell things for a dollar?”
“We’re trying to buy a colt, remember?”
“There are things more important than colts,” Jared came back. “I’ll give him something of mine for seventeen cents.”
“Oh, all right,” I gave in. “What do you want, Robert?”
“I’ll take a brownie,” he said. He stuffed the whole thing into his mouth and swallowed it in about three chews. Then he hurried off.
As soon as we lowered our prices, business picked up. Mr. Gibson bought two cups of lemonade when he came home for lunch. James, Randy, and Russell, who live down the street, finished off our cake. Aunt Salina bought our fudge and a cup of lemonade.
A little before noon two boys who had moved in down the street the week before came tromping down the sidewalk with their little sister. They were all sweaty and tired, and they stopped in the shade of our willow tree to rest. They stared wistfully at our goodies. After they’d been there a while, I asked, “What do you want to buy?”
The older boy shook his head and mumbled, “We’re just looking.”
“Well, if you’re not going to buy anything, you’d better not be using our shade,” I grumbled. “The shade’s just for customers.” I looked away so that I wouldn’t see the little girl, who was staring longingly at the pitcher of lemonade. Jared saw her staring, too, and he grabbed a cup, poured it full of lemonade, and pushed it across the table to her.
“But she doesn’t have any money,” I protested.
“I know, but she looks awfully thirsty.”
“How are we going to make money if we give our stuff away?”
Jared shrugged. “What’s wrong with making people happy instead?”
“Well, her brothers look thirsty, too,” I grumbled, grabbing the pitcher and pouring two more cups of lemonade.
By a little after lunch we had sold everything except one squashed brownie, but we had made only four dollars and seven cents. I glared at our empty table and the little pile of money.
“It’s all right, Jarom,” Jared said. “We can have a store another time.”
“I wanted to buy Woody’s colt today,” I muttered.
“But we had fun running the store.”
“I didn’t want to just have fun. I wanted Woody’s colt.”
“A lot of other people had fun because of our store too. That’s as good as a colt any day, isn’t it?”
Just then we heard Trina Wheeler coming down the street; she was rubbing her eyes and sobbing. “What’s the matter, Trina?” Jared asked.
“I was going to Becky’s birthday party,” she sobbed. “I didn’t have a present to give her, so I was taking her two dollar bills that I’d saved. But I lost them. Now I don’t have anything to give her.” She sat under the willow tree and began to cry even louder.
“Where’d you lose the money?”
Trina shrugged. “I have a hole in my pocket. I’ve looked all over, but I can’t find the dollars.”
Jared reached for the squashed brownie. “You can take this if you want. At least it’s something. Becky will understand.”
Trina shook her head and cried.
I fidgeted on the picnic bench, feeling sort of empty inside.
“Shoot! Don’t cry, Trina,” Jared burst out. “We’ll give you two dollars.”
“Two dollars!” I put my arms protectively around our little pile of money. “What about the colt?”
“Well,” Jared said, shrugging. “We don’t have enough for the colt, anyway. In fact, we don’t even have any place to put the colt if we could buy it. Couldn’t we give her two dollars?”
I shook my head furiously, still thinking of Woody’s colt. Then Trina sobbed again, and I wondered what it would be like to have to stay away from a birthday party because I’d lost my present. “Oh, all right—we’ll give her the two dollars.”
Jared handed Trina our only two dollar bills, and her face lighted up with the happiest grin that I’d ever seen. It was so big that it spread right over to my face too. “Oh, thank you!” she squealed, jumping to her feet. “You’re the best friends ever.”
I felt a warm, happy tickle in my stomach. “You might as well take this, too,” I said, pushing another dollar’s worth of change toward her.
“Oh, no,” she said. “You have to save something for your colt.”
I shrugged. “We still have over a dollar left. That’s plenty.”
As Trina headed down the street to Becky’s party, I broke the last brownie in two, and handed the bigger piece to Jared. The happy feeling that we had was lots better than a colt any day.

“Why can’t you keep your half of the room clean?” Alicia complained to her new stepsister. “It looks like a tornado just hit the place!”
“It isn’t that bad,” Megan answered. “Anyway, as soon as softball season ends, I’ll have more time to clean up. I may have to spend some extra time in practice for the next few days.” She folded a pair of jeans and put them into a drawer, threw her baseball mitt onto a chair, and put her pajamas under a pillow. “There—a start!”
Alicia sighed. She was glad to have Megan as a stepsister, but they were about as different as night and day. Megan was tall, slender, and very good at sports—but not very good at cleaning her room. Alicia was short, not-so-slender, and very good at cleaning her room—but her athletic skills were limited to being a substitute umpire in the junior girls softball league.
No wonder, then, that after Megan’s dad married Alicia’s mom, patience was in demand in their new home!
Actually it was a new home only for Alicia and her mom. After the marriage, they had moved into Megan’s dad’s house. “Welcome to my jungle!” Megan had said. “Here, let me push some of my junk out of the way. You can have this half of the room, OK?”
Alicia’s heart sank. Her old room had been as neat as a pin. Here, the clutter was unavoidable! On the floor were magazines, socks, baseball mitts, jeans, shoes, softball trophies, pillows, even orange peelings. Well, Mom told me there would be adjustments, she thought. I guess this is what she meant.
There were two more adjustments Alicia had to make. The first one came that weekend. Alicia’s old ward had been small enough that everyone knew everyone else’s first name. That’s where her dad’s funeral had been held three years ago. That’s where she had been baptized, had learned about Heavenly Father’s love, and had prayed for guidance when her mom said that she was going to remarry.
Her new ward was so big! So many people! After Megan had introduced her friends, she felt a little better. Singing the old familiar hymns was comforting too.
“You’ll get used to our new ward,” her mom told her that first Sunday. “Just remember, the important thing is not the building, but the reason for the building—to worship Heavenly Father and to learn to live the gospel.”
The next adjustment came when Alicia went to her new school. All the kids stared at her in her new classes.
Some of them giggled and whispered behind their hands to each other.
The teachers were all nice. And when Miss Younger found out that Alicia had been a substitute umpire at her old school, she asked her to umpire at the softball game that evening. “Megan’s team is playing for the school championship,” Miss Younger explained. “Our regular umpire is sick today. We could really use someone with your experience.”
Alicia wasn’t sure she was that experienced, but Megan had said, “Oh, come on, Alicia! You can do it! Just call them the way you see them.”
“OK,” Alicia had reluctantly agreed.
Now she reminded Megan as they headed out the door for the ballpark, “Remember that during the game I’m not your stepsister—I’m the umpire!”
“Fair enough!” Megan replied. “And you remember that if we win this game, we go to the city championship game next week.” She grinned. “I hope that won’t affect your decisions, Miss Umpire!”
“Why would it?” Alicia asked.
Megan laughed. “Because that means it would be another week before my half of the room gets cleaned!”
Alicia laughed too. “Well, if you win, I’ll clean your half of the room myself.” She quickly added, “But just for one week. And I don’t do orange peelings!”
* * * * * *
The stands were crowded. Alicia’s heart pounded as she took her place behind the catcher. “Play ball!” she called. She hoped that her voice sounded more confident than she felt.
As the game progressed, Alicia’s self-confidence returned. Finally it was the bottom of the last inning. Megan’s team, one run behind, was at bat.
The first batter flied out to the shortstop. The second batter drew a base on balls. After the next batter struck out swinging, Megan—the cleanup hitter—was up!
“Home run! Home run!” her team’s fans shouted.
“Strike out! Strike out!” the other team’s fans screamed.
“Strike one!” Alicia called as Megan let the first pitch go by without swinging.
Megan turned to look questioningly at Alicia but didn’t say a word. She tightened her grip on the bat, took a practice swing, then stepped back into the batter’s box.
The next pitch was right over the middle of the plate. Megan put all her strength into a smooth, level swing. The crack of the bat against the ball echoed over the field like a rifle shot. The ball arced high, headed for deep center field.
The center fielder took off like a small cyclone, but the ball landed just beyond her outstretched glove. Quickly scrambling after it, she wheeled and threw with all her might toward home plate.
The runner on first pounded around second, then third. The ball and the runner seemed to reach home plate at the same time.
“Out!” shouted Alicia, raising her thumb high in the air.
“What? No way!” Megan’s teammates shouted angrily, crowding around Alicia. Their shouting grew louder and angrier. Butterflies began doing flip-flops in her stomach.
Megan pushed her way through the crowd. “Leave her alone! If she called her out, that’s the way it was.” She led Alicia through the crowd. “Come on, Ump, let’s go home.”
Home! The word sounded like music to Alicia. She had a new ward, a new school, a new home—and a new family. She smiled gratefully at Megan. “You can stop calling me ‘umpire’ now. The game’s over. Now you can call me ‘sister!’” She laughed. “And even though your team didn’t win, I’ll still help you clean your half of the room!”

I have become a product of that, because when my mother’s family arrived here in Salt Lake City, they were sent out to Tooele to settle. Then later they were sent up into Idaho, where a sawmill and a gristmill were needing to be built. My father’s family had settled in Farmington, Utah, part of this colonization that I’m referring to—the colonization that made people stronger and gave them opportunities. Rather than being lost in a big city, they were asked to move to a smaller community where they could develop their ability and where there would be more schools and a need for more schoolteachers and where people with talent would develop their ability. Out of all of this, my family were asked to leave Farmington and Tooele, to sell their green acres, and go out into southern Idaho, where there was nothing at that time but sagebrush.
In a little settlement of that kind, my mother and father fell in love. By the time they were 20 years old and ready to be married, where would they be married? In the Logan Utah Temple. How would they get there? By buggy. How long would it take? Well, five or six or seven days. Highways and good roads? Of course not. They went by roads made by wagons going over the sagebrush and through the bushes and over the rocks. Where would they be married? Where would they be sealed? Only one place—the temple. They went by buggy.

I recall sitting in this historical Tabernacle back on October 1948 when the semi-annual conference of the Church was in session. Elder Matthew Cowley of the Council of the Twelve was speaking. He related an incident that made a deep and lasting impression on me. While serving as president of the New Zealand Mission he visited a good Maori sister who sincerely believed and observed the principle of tithing. Brother Cowley told of this experience in these words:
“Now, on one occasion I called in as I always did when I visited that vicinity, to see this grand little woman, then in her eighties, and blind. She did not live in an organized branch, had no contact with the priesthood except as the missionaries visited there. We had no missionaries in those days. They were away at war.
“I went in and greeted her in the Maori fashion. She was out in the back yard by her little fire. I reached forth my hand to shake hands with her, and I was going to rub noses with her and she said: ‘Do not shake hands with me. …’
“I said: “Oh, that is clean dirt on your hands. I am willing to shake hands with you. I am glad to. I want to.
“She said: ‘Not yet.’ Then she got on her hands and knees and crawled over to her little house. At the corner of the house there was a spade. She lifted up that spade and crawled off in another direction, measuring the distance she went. She finally arrived at a spot and started digging down into the soil with that spade. It finally struck something hard. She took out the soil with her hands and lifted out a fruit jar. She opened that fruit jar and reached down in it, took something out and handed it to me, and it turned out to be New Zealand money. In American money it would have been equivalent to [about] one hundred dollars.
“She said: ‘There is my tithing. Now I can shake hands with the priesthood of God.’
“I said: ‘You do not owe that much tithing.’
“She said: ‘I know it. I do not owe it now, but I am paying some in advance, for I do not know when the priesthood of God will get around this way again.’”
Then after a brief pause and with considerable emotion Brother Cowley continued: “And then I leaned over and pressed my nose and forehead against hers, and the tears from my eyes ran down her cheeks. …” (CR, Oct. 1948, pp. 159–60.)

Despite almost superhuman effort, Lame Hawk had fallen behind with his second load of fish. He could not keep up with his friends and cousins. The braves were taking a mighty catch from vine nets they were casting in the river; and the young boys were carrying the fish to the women, who were waiting to prepare them for smoking on racks set over smoldering fires.
The youth was deeply humiliated and frustrated by his lameness. He sank down on a log to rest and stared at his moccasins with bitterness. He strained to stretch his legs out so they would be even. It was a futile effort. Lame Hawk had been born with one leg much shorter than the other. When he walked he reeled from side to side like a crippled bear! I’ll never be able to run, trail, or hunt as well as other braves, he thought angrily.
Lame Hawk started as Nimbock suddenly stepped out of the forest and sat down beside him. The youth’s keen ears had not heard Nimbock’s approach. Lame Hawk felt ill at ease. Nimbock, too, was different, or so everyone said, and many people avoided him if possible.
The big man was a harmless dreamer who lived apart from the tribe. The people said that, although he was at least forty years old, he was neither brave nor child, but trapped somewhere in between.
Nimbock could not speak, but he seemed able to read thoughts. It was disconcerting to be the target of his unblinking stare. Lame Hawk flushed with resentment and drew up his feet to hide his crippled leg. Nimbock arose, a look of disappointment on his face, and faded back into the trees.
Lame Hawk started to shout a warning about the high wind that had forced his people to detour around the forest today because of the danger of falling limbs and dead trees. But for Nimbock there was no other way; his home was deep in the forest, and to get there he had to risk the danger that he was certainly aware of.
The Indian youth was sorry he had not spoken to Nimbock or given him some fish. Nimbock, of all people, knew the agony and loneliness of being “different.” I should have been friendlier. Did other youths taunt Nimbock when he was young? Is that why he lives alone now? Lame Hawk wondered. He knew that feeling too. Even one’s friends could be cruel when they were angry. And the hurt remained long after the irritation was over.
But Nimbock had other talents. He could carve wood into almost anything. He made beautifully detailed animals and birds. When his carvings were painted and mounted in lifelike poses, one almost expected them to run or soar away. And his painted clay pots were works of art. The women traded Nimbock clothing and woven rugs for such treasures.
Lame Hawk arose and braced himself against the wind just as the ground trembled, and a mighty tree toppled and came crashing down. As he bent to pick up his fish, the youth was puzzled by a rhythmic drumming sound. It was different from that made by a male grouse. Twice more he heard it, although fainter now, as he limped along fighting the wind.
Nimbock! The tree must have fallen and struck him! The silent one cannot cry out for help, but he could use one piece of wood to drum on another, Lame Hawk thought hopefully.
Forgetting about his own safety, Lame Hawk dropped the fish and hurried into the forest where the tree had thudded down. He caught his breath with horror when he reached the spot. Only Nimbock’s head, shoulders, and arms were free; the rest of his body was trapped under the tree trunk. One hand still clutched the short limb he had used to signal for help, but Nimbock had fainted.
The youth circled the tree and tried to pull Nimbock free from the other side, but it was hopeless. Panic overwhelmed him as he considered the size of the tree. Even if he were able to run to the river, it would not help. A hundred braves could not move such a giant tree without chopping it into sections, and the blows of many axes would add to its crushing weight!
Sadly, Lame Hawk had to admit that without a miracle there was no need to hurry to the river. He would sit near the trail and wait for the men, then bring them here to remove Nimbock’s dead body. He knelt near Nimbock’s head, and was surprised he could still hear the silent one’s ragged breathing. Nimbock has always lived alone, but it doesn’t seem right that he should have to die alone, Lame Hawk decided. He sat cross-legged and waited.
Being slow of limb Lame Hawk had had to use his mind to solve problems. If his body could not do something others could do, he found another way around the obstacle. The youth tried to forget about Nimbock and consider nothing but the tree. Suddenly his face brightened with hope. Not he nor a hundred others could raise it, but he could remove the soil and let Nimbock settle into a ditch, away from the crushing force!
Using his bare hands and sharpened sticks, Lame Hawk began to tunnel under Nimbock’s limp body. He worked tirelessly, ignoring his blistered and bleeding hands and watching with satisfaction as the ditch deepened. Fortunately a loose layer of leaves and soil had cushioned the crushing force, and Lame Hawk felt more optimistic about Nimbock’s survival now.
The weary youth stopped to wipe trickles of perspiration from his grimy face. He was surprised to see Nimbock awake now and watching him, a slight smile on his face.
“You’re almost free,” Lame Hawk panted. “I’ve dropped you down clear of the tree. Now I have to scoop a trench away from the trunk and slide you out, like pulling a knife from its sheath.”
With incredible effort Lame Hawk pulled the man from the box-like depression and out into the trench. But he couldn’t have done it if Nimbock had not braced his hands against the trunk and pushed with his feet. When Nimbock was free, Lame Hawk’s throbbing leg collapsed and he fainted from exhaustion.
It was Nimbock’s drumming that drew the returning braves to them at dusk, and the two of them were carried to the village on stretchers made from the fishing nets. The women took turns nursing Nimbock back to health, and his strong body responded.
A bond of friendship was welded between Nimbock and his rescuer, but Lame Hawk was puzzled by Nimbock’s curious interest in his crippled leg. He sent for the youth several times a day and motioned for him to walk back and forth in front of him. Then he would closely examine both of the boy’s feet. He also sent for old Seque, the finest moccasin maker in the tribe, and made dirt drawings with a stick. He always hid the wood he was whittling when the youth came to see him. And only Lame Hawk seemed to notice that Seque was making a pair of brightly beaded and quilled but mismatched moccasins—one at least four inches taller than the other! It was all very mysterious.
There was feasting and a dance after the fish were smoked and stored away for winter eating. Nimbock was almost fully recovered and would probably return to his home after the festivities. He and Lame Hawk sat together, watching the firelight play over the dancers and enjoying the chants and throbbing drums.
Lame Hawk was surprised when his friend pressed something into his hands. He drew back dismayed when he saw that the gift was the ridiculous-looking mismatched moccasins! Everyone was watching them now and smiling as broadly as Nimbock, who was urging that Lame Hawk try them on. The youth felt betrayed. How could Nimbock focus everyone’s attention on his lameness!
Nimbock sensed with disappointment that Lame Hawk had misunderstood his gift. He took back the tall moccasin, and with signs he showed how he had carved a platform to fit inside. The bewildered youth still didn’t understand its purpose, but he tried them on to please Nimbock.
A look of wonder crossed Lame Hawk’s face when he stood up and walked a few hesitant steps without lurching to his crippled side! For the first time in his life, his legs seemed the same length!
With practice, he thought exultantly, I’ll soon be walking with scarcely a limp. Lame Hawk stood straight, happy to find that he was as tall as his friends who rushed to surround him, pushing and shoving with joy.
“Tall Hawk! Tall Hawk!” they shouted, giving him a new name.

My friends and I were going downstairs. When we got to the elevator, I had an uncomfortable feeling and asked my friends not to use it. They decided to do it anyway. I took the stairs. When I got downstairs, my friends weren’t there. The elevator had gotten stuck! It was a while before they got out. I was happy that nothing serious happened. I also felt good that I followed the Holy Ghost.
Amalie N., age 10

The famed scientist, Madame Marie Curie, returned to her home the night of the funeral for her husband, Pierre Curie, who was killed in an accident in the streets of Paris, and made this entry in her diary:
“They filled the grave and put sheaves of flowers on it. Everything is over. Pierre is sleeping his last sleep beneath the earth; it is the end of everything, everything, everything.” (Vincent Sheehan, trans., Madame Curie: A Biography by Eve Curie, Garden City, New York: Garden City Publishing Co., 1943, p. 249.)

When I was a child, in my family we would put together a huge jigsaw puzzle each Christmas, one that would take a week to finish with thousands of small, look-alike pieces, I hated to do the sky. It was very difficult to put together an all-blue sky. But my mother liked that part of the puzzle and she usually chose to start working there. It would have been foolish to argue with her that her piece of blue sky really belonged down in my blue water, because neither of us could be sure about it at that point. But what we did know was that each piece fit in only one place, and that we could complete the picture only by placing each piece correctly. When the Lord allows the scientists to discover all their part, and he sees fit to reveal his part, it will be the same completed picture.
This is how I have come to look at the plan of the Lord. We need to stop worrying about each small piece and try to fit the whole picture together by keeping in mind the end result. The Lord knows where each piece goes and how it fits into his plan. Each of us should help by putting ourself, an intricate and important piece of that puzzle, in the proper place.

Abel had an interview with the bishop to talk about receiving the Aaronic Priesthood. “I’m grateful for my bishop and other leaders who guide me,” he says. Abel and his family recently attended a Priesthood Preview. All the boys turning 12 during the year were invited to attend the program with their parents and families. They heard talks and testimonies by leaders, teachers, and one of the boys. Abel and some of his friends stood up in front and sang “A Young Man Prepared” (Children’s Songbook, 166–67), a song about the priesthood. Parents gave letters to their sons encouraging them in their preparation. “I felt the Spirit there,” says Abel.