Gospel Story Finder

Michelle sat at her desk and tied the knot in her beaded necklace. After an hour of working, she had finished her gift for Mom. She went to find Mom, ignoring the 100 subtraction problems on her desk.
Mom was in the kitchen making dinner. “Mom, look what I made for you,” Michelle exclaimed as she handed her the necklace.
Mom looked at the necklace. “Thank you. It’s beautiful, Michelle,” Mom said. “I can tell you’ve put a lot of time into designing such a pretty pattern, but what were you supposed to be doing?”
Michelle remembered the math problems on her desk. Tomorrow was her 100-facts test for subtraction, and Mom wanted her to practice. But Michelle had taken a 100-facts test in class every week, and she wasn’t getting much better.
“My homework,” she said, “but I’m not very good at subtraction. How am I supposed to be able to do 100 problems in just five minutes?”
“Would you like me to help you?” Mom asked.
Michelle nodded.
“Then we’ll practice your math problems after dinner.”
After dinner, Mom held the timer while Michelle practiced. Michelle was worried. Having Mom time the 100 facts helped Michelle focus, but Mom couldn’t help her during class.
“Don’t worry,” Mom said after Michelle had worked for five minutes. “The scriptures say that ‘if ye are prepared ye shall not fear.’ If you’re ready to work and to pray for Heavenly Father’s help, you’ll see great improvements on your math tests.”
Every night during the next few weeks, Mom and Dad helped Michelle by timing her while she worked on a practice sheet. And every night Michelle remembered to ask for help in her nightly prayers.
At the end of the school term, Michelle and her parents reviewed her weekly test scores. Two months ago Michelle was only completing 30 out of the 100 problems, but on her most recent test she got 83 right!
“You’re doing great, Michelle,” Mom said.
“Yippee!” exclaimed Michelle. “All I had to do was prepare and pray.”

Let me share with you a personal experience on preparation. I grew up on a farm just south and a little west of Rexburg in the Lewisville area. My Father farmed and raised hay, grain, and potatoes. Oh, and yes we six boys, as we became old enough, milked several cows. My Dad's philosophy was I don't milk cows to get rich; I milk cows to raise boys. I really didn't like the farm work or milking the cows. It was a trial to me as was the farm work, but I did my share.

One day I spoke to my father about finding a different job than the work on the farm. He promised to talk with one of the bishops in our Stake about my desire. The following day he told me to stop by the tire store in Rigby. The tire store was only a few blocks from the school. I anxiously awaited the time to visit the store and check on this new opportunity to work. Mr. Pieper greeted me and after a short visit told me I could report to work the next afternoon. I was thrilled as I anticipated a salary and no more farm work. However, I soon found out that I had not understood the fine print in my Dad's plan. There was still work on the farm to be accomplished, and the cows were still part of my responsibility. Many times after work at the tire store I would walk the three miles home and help my brothers with the milking. I loved the work at the store; and following my mission, I was released by my Stake President, President Pieper. We visited about plans to return to school, and I must say I really didn't know what I wanted to do with my life as far as a vocation. He encouraged me to return to work, while I made my decisions.

One day President Pieper took me aside to visit about a change in my employment. Mr. Newton, the owner of the Rexburg tire store, was in desperate need of help. His employee had broken his leg on the job and he was not able to conduct business as usual. President Pieper asked, "If I would be willing to help out in Rexburg for the next few months." He also said, "I will continue to pay your wage until Mr. Newton is back on his feet. Then he asked, "How soon can you be ready to leave for Rexburg and do you have your lunch?" Then President Pieper said with a twinkle in his eye, "You never know when opportunity may knock, and you need to be prepared to open the door."

These experiences working for my Father, President Pieper, and Paul Newton prepared me for a comfortable place to make my livelihood. I truly like people and enjoyed serving people and helping them to be safe and comfortable as they traveled the highways of this great nation. We never know when opportunity may knock and we need to be prepared to open the door.

I remember one time meeting a fine young married man who was not very large in stature. He was a professional jockey who had worked for some Latter-day Saint men who owned a large stable of fine racehorses. They taught him how to be a first-class jockey and chose him to ride a truly great horse that they owned. They also taught Johnny the gospel, and he joined the Church.
A year later, his bishop called him to go on a mission. Johnny said, “I can’t go. I’ve got to ride this special horse in the Kentucky Derby. I’m the only jockey who has ridden him.”
However, after some thought, Johnny went to his bosses and asked for their permission to go on a mission. They told him that they had a huge investment in him and couldn’t spare him to go on a mission because of the Derby and the other big races that were coming up. They were sure their horse would win the triple crown. However, neither of his Latter-day Saint bosses felt very good about their decision, so the next day they told him if he wanted to go on a mission, they wouldn’t stand in his way.
He went on his mission, and on the day of the Kentucky Derby, he went tracting in Canada while the horse he would have ridden won. It went on to win the triple crown. The other jockey earned over $200,000 while this fine young man taught the people of Canada the gospel. To me he is an outstanding hero.

Four hundred and fifty kilometers northwest of Udorn, in Chiang Mai, workers are installing a fountain in the manicured grounds of a spacious, modern home. Three children are busily watching. They are Atikun, 13, Punjaree, 8, and Nathanon, 6. Their mother, Datchanee Limsukhon, is the only member of the Church in the family. Her husband, a neurologist, does not object to her Church membership, but sometimes she has to adjust her Church participation to meet her family’s needs.
Sister Limsukhon’s first contact with the Church came when, as a young woman, she heard branch members singing in a rented hall in Bangkok. She liked what she heard and wanted to join “that church” so she could sing with the other members. She believed the missionary discussions, but her family initially refused permission for her to be baptized. “But I knew that I wanted to be baptized, and I was in November 1969.”
In January 1970, she returned to her home in Chiang Mai and earned a nursing degree from the local university. She then went to the Church’s Language Training Mission in Hawaii, where she taught Thai to the missionaries for four months before she was called on a mission herself. On completing her mission in Bangkok, she had the opportunity to go to the United States for additional nursing experience in Utah and Texas. She then went to England to marry her Thai fiance, who was studying there.
When her husband completed his schooling, they returned home to Chiang Mai, where he has been in practice ever since.
“Since I am the only Latter-day Saint in my family, the standards of the Church are most important to me,” says Sister Limsukhon. “I am committed to living them.”

I was raised on a small farm in northern Utah. We were blessed to have enough land—not enough to make a living, but enough to make work for a young boy. My parents were good, hardworking, industrious people. In order to make ends meet, my father took outside employment. Each morning before he left for work, he would make a list of chores he wanted me to accomplish before he came home that evening.
I remember on one occasion one of the items on the list was to take a small broken part from our hay rake to the blacksmith shop to have it repaired. I was uncomfortable about going. My father hadn’t left any money, and I wondered what I should do. I put off going as long as I could. When all my other chores were finished, I knew I couldn’t avoid it any longer. Father expected the broken part to be repaired when he came home, and it was my responsibility to see that it was done.
I can still remember walking the mile or so to the blacksmith shop. I even remember how uncomfortable I was as I watched him weld the part. As he finished, I nervously told him that I had no money, but that my father would pay him later. I’m sure he sensed my anxiety. He patted me on the shoulder and said, “Son, don’t worry, your father’s word is as good as his bond.” I remember running all the way home, relieved that the part had been repaired and grateful that my father was known as a man whose word was as good as his bond.
As a boy I didn’t fully understand what that meant, but I knew it was good and something to be desired. It was years later that I recognized that a person whose word is as good as his bond is a person of honesty and integrity, a person to be trusted. In today’s world, there are some who think nothing of breaking their word, their promises, their covenants with man and with God. What a blessing it is to deal with those whom we can trust.

On March 22, 2016, just before eight o’clock in the morning, two terrorist bombs exploded in the Brussels Airport. Elder Richard Norby, Elder Mason Wells, and Elder Joseph Empey had taken Sister Fanny Clain to the airport for a flight to her mission in Cleveland, Ohio. Thirty-two people lost their lives, and all of the missionaries were wounded.
The most seriously wounded was Elder Richard Norby, age 66, serving with his wife, Sister Pam Norby.
Elder Norby reflected on that moment:
“Instantly, I knew what had happened.
“I tried to run for safety, but I immediately fell down. … I could see that my left leg was badly injured. I [noticed] black, almost spiderweb-type, soot drooping from both hands. I gently pulled at it, but realized it was not soot but my skin that had been burned. My white shirt was turning red from an injury on my back.
“As the consciousness of what had just happened filled my mind, I [had] this very strong thought: … the Savior knew where I was, what had just transpired, and [what] I was experiencing at that moment.”
There were difficult days ahead for Richard Norby and for his wife, Pam. He was placed in an induced coma, followed by surgeries, infections, and great uncertainty.
Richard Norby lived, but his life would never be the same. Two and a half years later, his wounds are still healing; a brace replaces the missing part of his leg; each step is different than before that moment at the Brussels Airport.
Why would this happen to Richard and Pam Norby? They had been true to their covenants, served a previous mission in the Ivory Coast, and raised a wonderful family. Someone could understandably say, “It isn’t fair! It just isn’t right! They were giving their lives for the gospel of Jesus Christ; how could this happen?”
The Norbys told me, “Disappointment comes to visit on occasion but is never allowed to stay.” The Apostle Paul said, “We are troubled … yet not distressed; we are perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; cast down, but not destroyed.” You may be exhausted, but don’t ever give up.

Chung walked down a busy street in Taiwan. His friend Jiro was close beside him. People were everywhere! Shoppers looked at clothes for sale, kids played games, and people hurried by talking on their phones. Chung held tight to his school bag to make sure he didn’t drop it.
“I can’t believe the school year is almost over!” Chung said loudly so Jiro could hear.
“I know! I’m ready to be done with classes,” Jiro said.
Chung and Jiro passed stands that sold all kinds of foods. Dragon fruit and strawberries. Sizzling dumplings. Peanut ice-cream rolls. Delicious smells were everywhere! But all Chung could think about was how hot and sticky he felt.
“I feel like I’m in an oven!” Chung said.
“Me too,” Jiro said. “Let’s buy some drinks.”
They made their way to a stand selling brightly colored drinks.
Jiro pulled out some money. “Two boba teas, please.”
Chung knew that tea was against the Word of Wisdom. “Actually, could I have a mango juice?” he asked.
Jiro turned to look at Chung. Chung’s stomach squirmed. Did Jiro think he was weird for not getting tea?
The woman handed a cold boba tea to Jiro and a mango juice to Chung. Then the boys walked back into the street toward their homes.
Jiro slurped his drink. “Why didn’t you want tea? It’s so good!”
Chung bit his lip. “Um, I don’t drink tea.”
“Why not?”
Chung thought about how to answer the question. The missionaries had taught him about the Word of Wisdom. In his Primary class he’d learned that keeping the Word of Wisdom helped him have the Holy Ghost with him.
“I believe in God, and He wants me to take care of my body. He asks that we don’t drink tea or coffee or alcohol,” Chung said.
“How do you know that?” Jiro asked.
“I learned about it at church.”
Jiro took another sip of his drink. “That seems silly. It’s just tea! It won’t hurt you.”
Chung’s stomach felt like it was full of jumping frogs. How could he help Jiro understand? Maybe someone at church could help him explain it to Jiro.
“Would you like to come to church with me sometime? I go to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. You could learn about God and Jesus Christ.”
Jiro thought for a moment. “I don’t think so.”
“OK,” said Chung. He felt a little sad that Jiro didn’t want to come to church with him. But he was still glad he had shared his testimony.
Later that week at school, Chung’s teacher, Mr. Lin, called for everyone’s attention. “Tomorrow is the last day of class. Because everyone has worked so hard this year, I have a surprise. We will all be having boba tea!”
The whole class cheered. Everyone except Chung. He slid down in his seat. Telling his teacher he didn’t drink tea would be even harder than telling Jiro! Everyone would think that was weird, just like Jiro did.
Jiro raised his hand. “Mr. Lin? Chung doesn’t drink tea. It’s a part of his religion. Could he have a mango juice instead?”
Mr. Lin turned to Chung. “Is that true, Chung?”
Chung nodded.
Mr. Lin smiled. “OK. I’ll order you juice instead.”
After school, Chung and Jiro walked home together. “Thanks for doing that,” Chung said.
Jiro smiled. “You’re my friend. If something is important to you, then it’s important to me.”

She came down the hallway of Glenwood High with all the grace of a fire engine rushing toward a burning building. She commanded attention in the brightest green dress Melanie Brannon had ever seen, topped by a pointy yellow collar that drooped like a wilting flower over her shoulders. She nodded and gabbed at every student in the hallway. Most of them just stared back.
Please, not the locker next to mine, Melanie silently pleaded as the stranger glided closer. She was a little taller than Melanie, very thin, her hair coal black, straight, and hanging to her waist. As she drew closer, Melanie noticed that her fingernails were painted in the same bright yellow as her collar.
It’s Halloween in September, Melanie thought, sticking her head inside her locker. It was the first day of Melanie’s senior year. She knew the next ten months were brimming with challenges: maintaining high grades, starting a job, applying for scholarships, and her new Church calling. Only two weeks before, Bishop Jackson asked her to serve as the Laurel class president. Her life was filled. There was no time for extras, including making friends with some day-glowing stranger.
“You must be a ‘B.R.’ too,” Melanie heard a fluttery voice behind her say.
“Excuse me?”
“A ‘B.R.’—your name must start with those letters. Aren’t the lockers assigned in alphabetical order? My last name is Brady. My first name is Arlene. I was named for my grandmother. She’s dead.”
“Oh—I’m sorry,” Melanie stammered.
“For the best. Grandmother was old and not well,” Arlene said vacantly. Then, she suddenly shifted gears. “Like my outfit? You wouldn’t believe how long it took me to put it together.”
“How nice,” Melanie mumbled, taking a few slow steps away from her locker. A school bell clattered. “I’ve got to go. It’s bad luck to be late on the first day.”
“How true,” squeaked Arlene. “One should never invite bad luck.”
Melanie darted down the hall but was stopped in her tracks by a familiar voice.
“Hey, Brannon! New friend of yours?” It was Craig Miller, probably the last person she wanted to hear from at that instant. “She’s great. Maybe she could help you with your wardrobe.”
“Funny, Craig. She has the locker next to mine, that’s all. Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got to get to Mrs. Foreman’s class.”
“Mrs. Foreman? A drill sergeant masquerading as an English teacher,” teased Craig.
“I asked for Mrs. Foreman. She does more to help her students get ready for college than any other teacher.”
“Can I call you tonight?”
“Sure. But I’m starting at Taco Tommy’s. I won’t get home until late.” Melanie disappeared into Mrs. Foreman’s English class just before the door was pulled shut.
Fourteen hours later, Melanie quietly unlocked the front door to her home. She slipped inside, glancing at a hallway mirror. She saw the reflection of a tired young woman who had arisen near sunrise, put in a hectic first day at school, and started a new job.
You smell like a taco, she thought.
“Melanie?”
She turned and saw her mother coming down the stairs. “I waited up for you, honey. Everyone else has gone to bed. How was the first day on the job?”
“It was good motivation for college. I’ve decided my future isn’t in fast foods.”
“You look tired. Remember, seminary starts tomorrow. When are you getting up?”
Melanie groaned. “About 5:30.”
“You’d better get some sleep.”
“Can’t. Mrs. Foreman gave us a short story to read.”
“Good night then. Oh, Craig called. You know, under that cool exterior, I think he has a crush on you.”
Melanie yawned. “Sorry I missed him.” She dragged herself up to her room and was soon reading at a small desk. But it was difficult to concentrate on the story by Chekhov.
Tacos. Beef tacos, chicken tacos. What was it Mrs. Foreman said about Russian authors? Unrecognized for what reason? Bet that’ll be on a test. And then there was that weird new girl, Arlene Brady. Yellow nail polish.
Melanie’s eyes dropped and she laid her head on her desk.
Beatrice Foreman gazed across her classroom like a hawk scouting for a mouse. She was in her 50s, an imposing woman with dark, penetrating eyes and a facial expression that stopped just short of a scowl. Her wrath was readily kindled by students who came to class unprepared.
“Mr. Crandall!”
The young man next to Melanie stood nervously.
“You read the assignment, I presume. Chekhov’s short story ‘The Kiss.’ Tell us about it.”
“Let’s see, there is a young soldier.”
“He receives a kiss from a young woman, but it was by mistake.”
“Not the first of Cupid’s arrows to miss its mark,” intoned Mrs. Foreman. “The symbolism. Explain the meaning, Mr. Crandall.”
“Uh … I think it stands for how we as human beings can take small, insignificant things, maybe even things that happen by accident, and take them to mean something bigger in life than they really are.”
“Better,” boomed Mrs. Foreman. “Continue, Mr. Crandall.”
“The kiss in the story, the soldier took it to mean a whole better life, a brighter future,” Dan said, with somewhat more confidence. “Someone cared for him, he thought. But he was wrong.”
“Your speech lacks precision, Daniel, but I believe you have picked up the essential grain of the story. Thank you.”
After class, Melanie and a friend, Gretchen Hunter, walked down a hallway.
They turned a corner. There was Arlene Brady. Melanie was caught off guard. “Hi, Arlene. How are you?”
Arlene stared at Melanie for a couple of seconds. “That’s the nicest thing anyone has said to me in days,” Arlene said. She hovered an instant, then swept down the hallway.
“Who was that?” asked Gretchen.
“Nobody,” grumbled Melanie. “Her locker’s next to mine.”
“Hey, Brannon!” Melanie cringed as she heard Craig Miller’s familiar greeting. “How about some ice cream tonight? Me and ice cream—an irresistible combination.”
“I really do like ice cream, Craig, but it’s a bad night. I have an interview with Bishop Jackson, plus a bunch of studying.”
“You’re just playing hard to get,” replied Craig. “But I know my charms will win you over in the end.”
The phone rang in the bishop’s office. Bishop Jackson reached for it and answered. While he was talking, Melanie glimpsed a name on a move-in list that was on his desk. She squinted and looked again. No mistake: Arlene Brady.
Arlene, the princess of weird, a Mormon! This is too much, Melanie thought as Bishop Jackson hung up.
“Bishop, you have a girl named Arlene Brady on the list there.”
He nodded. “I went to her apartment last week and talked with her father. The two of them are there by themselves. He’s not a member, and they move around quite often. He said Arlene doesn’t have many friends. I told him maybe we could help.”
“But she wears costumes to school,” Melanie said. “Yesterday she came in wearing an outfit that made her look like a diesel truck. I’m serious, Bishop. The exhaust pipes were silk-screened on her sleeves! She even had a little black spot underneath the engine. She told me it was an oil slick. The guys at school are calling her Oil Slick Brady.”
Bishop Jackson sat back in his chair. “Sounds like someone who needs attention. Melanie, I know this is a busy time for you. But I also feel it’s important for Arlene to have a friend. Will you give it a try?”
Melanie smiled weakly. “What’s her address?”
Melanie braced herself, standing in front of the apartment. She’d promised the bishop a visit, and that’s what Arlene Brady would get—one visit. Besides, Melanie had the perfect excuse. She needed to be to work in 15 minutes.
Arlene opened the door.
“Arlene? It’s me, Melanie Brannon, from school.”
“Come in.”
“I can only stay for a few minutes. I’m on my way to work.” Melanie entered. The apartment was sparsely furnished. It looked like the residence of a family used to moving quickly.
Melanie didn’t know quite what to say. Arlene was anything but mainstream Glenwood High, yet she seemed a little more normal than Melanie had anticipated. “Well, Arlene, why I came here tonight,” she started matter-of-factly. “I’m a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and I think you are too. We have a Laurel class, a group of girls our age, and I thought you might like to do some things with us.”
Arlene tilted her head and ran her fingers through her long hair. “Mormons. Yes, I remember being baptized with my mother a long time ago,” she said. “People from church come around to visit us, but we never stay in one place long enough to really get involved. My father changes jobs a lot. The longest we’ve stayed anywhere is two years. Sometimes it’s only a matter of weeks.”
“It must be hard to move that much,” Melanie said.
Arlene sighed. “This may sound crazy, but do you know what I fear the most? It’s not the new teachers or setting up housekeeping. It’s that every time I’m in a new place, I don’t know if I’ll make any friends. I like being an individual, but when you move around as much as I do, it’s hard for people to get to know you.”
Melanie looked closely at Arlene. Maybe that one statement accounted for much of her bizarre clothing and behavior. A plea for attention and a plea for friends. Arlene looked at a wall. “I’m telling you a lot and we hardly know each other. You must think I’m strange.”
“Maybe a little different, that’s all,” sputtered Melanie. Then, trying to change the subject, “Your place is nice.”
“Thanks,” Arlene said, a little more happily. “My father is on the road a lot. I try to have a clean apartment and something warm for him to eat when he gets home. He’s a good person. He doesn’t really understand me, but I know he loves me. That’s something I’ve learned from him—you can love someone without completely understanding them. Know what I mean?”
“I’m not sure,” Melanie admitted.
“What about church? Want to join us?”
“Maybe. It depends on my dad’s schedule.”
Melanie glanced at her watch. It was almost six o’clock. “Wow! I have to run. I start work in exactly two minutes.”
Arlene smiled nervously. “Thanks for stopping by. Not many people do.”
“We’ll change that. Good night, Arlene.”
It was a busy night on the taco-building line. Nevertheless, Melanie couldn’t tear her thoughts away from the clean little apartment and the girl who lived there.
The next few weeks were a blur. Family, seminary, school, church, work, and studying crowded Melanie’s days. No matter how busy she was though, she took the time to talk with Arlene every day.
Arlene did attend a Church Halloween party, but it almost backfired. “A half-dozen people complimented her on the costume she was wearing,” Melanie confided to her mother after the party. “But it wasn’t a costume!”
Things finally clicked in November when Arlene agreed to attend the Laurel class.
She arrived at church wearing a long black dress, black gloves, her head crowned by a small black hat. “I thought I should wear something formal,” Arlene told Melanie. The Laurels were polite, but distant. Melanie realized that if Arlene were to become an active Church member, it would take more than the efforts of one person. It was well into the evening before she came up with a plan to help expand Arlene’s circle of acquaintances. Oddly, the key to the plan was none other than Craig Miller.
The opportunity to approach Craig came the very next morning on the front steps of school.
“Melanie,” he began earnestly. “I have to know. Is there any chance for us socially,” he cleared his throat, “like on a date?”
“Sure, Craig.”
He looked stunned. “There is?” he mumbled, slowly shaking his head. “Boy, that direct approach is powerful stuff.”
“I have Thursday night off. How about the symphony? But there’s one condition. I’d like to double.”
“Double? Sure.”
“With Arlene. Can you line her up?”
“Oil Slick? You want me to line up a friend with … with … that? Which of my friends am I willing to sacrifice?”
“How about Terry Packham?” persisted Melanie. “He’s a super guy, and he’s in a different school. He’s never heard of Oil Slick. She’ll be just plain Arlene to him. Terry’s more mature. He’ll do it.”
Craig cued on the word mature. He lowered his voice. “Oh yes, maturity. Still, there is the matter of Arlene’s somewhat unusual taste in apparel.”
“You won’t even recognize her,” promised Melanie.
“Then I’ll pick up the tickets and call Terry. Symphony. A very mature choice.”
“Craig—thanks. You’re the first guy I thought of. That’s a compliment.”
No sooner had Melanie disappeared than Craig pumped his fist into the air and bellowed “All right!”
Coaxing Arlene into the double date was trickier than Melanie expected.
“I’m not the dating type,” Arlene protested.
“That’s not true,” Melanie replied.
“I don’t have the right clothes to wear,” Arlene argued.
“I have some you can borrow,” answered Melanie.
“I’m too much of an individual to dress up like everyone else,” Arlene contended.
“Clothes don’t make you an individual. That comes from what you do with your life,” countered Melanie.
Arlene finally relented. “Okay, you win. You should sell life insurance. You’re the most tenacious person I’ve ever met.”
“Thank you,” beamed Melanie.
Tuesday night, Melanie tiptoed into her house after stopping by Arlene’s apartment. She had spent two hours helping Arlene find just the right clothes to wear. They finally settled on a cream-colored skirt and powder-blue sweater with a lace collar. With her hair in a French braid, Arlene’s subtle beauty was unmistakable. She’d smiled often that night, and not once had her conversation drifted into the strange lingo that she spoke at school. “I’m making a difference,” Melanie thought as she settled into bed.
The morning of the symphony dawned gray and rainy. Melanie sat up in bed after her alarm sounded. Her throat was scratchy and she ached from her toes to her temples. “Of all the days—the flu,” she mumbled. “I’ll feel better later on.”
But that wasn’t the case. Once she arrived at school her condition took a turn for the worse and not because of the flu. As the morning classes wore on, there was no trace of Arlene.
Where was she?
During breaks Melanie searched the hallways. At lunch, she didn’t eat, but looked for her friend. The end of the school day came. No Arlene and no hope. Melanie’s throat crackled and her forehead burned. Where was Arlene? She drove home and plopped on her bed. Her head throbbed. She closed her eyes and fell into a fitful sleep.
“Melanie,” a voice said softly. “You need to get up. How are you feeling?”
“Better,” Melanie said, though she wasn’t really sure. “I need to get going.” She was soon in the apartment’s parking lot. Melanie trudged upstairs to Arlene’s apartment. The drapes were open a little. She peered in. There was nothing. No chairs, no table, no couch. Nothing.
Car doors shut and Melanie heard Terry talking to Craig. In the dim light she could see the surprised look on Craig’s face as he neared the apartment.
“Melanie?”
“Craig … I don’t know how to explain … Arlene is gone, moved, I think. I don’t know why,” Melanie said softly. “Maybe I was too pushy. I’m sorry, Terry.”
Craig squeezed her hand. “You don’t want to hear this, but you look awful. I’m worried about you. It’s okay. Go home and get some rest.”
“Your tickets will be wasted,” Melanie moaned.
“Hey, you don’t think a couple of guys like Terry and me can get another date on short notice?” Craig said. Then, turning to Terry, he said, “My mom’s not busy. How about yours?”
Craig and Terry escorted Melanie to her car. “Will you call me tomorrow?” she asked.
“Count on it,” Craig said.
Melanie’s night was a long one. She’d drift off to sleep, then bolt awake, a sense of betrayal in her mind. Why hadn’t there been a call? A note? Melanie didn’t understand Arlene. She had looked so pretty two nights before. And Melanie had glimpsed a good, sensitive person beneath a carefully constructed facade.
When the alarm clock aroused Melanie, she felt tired, but the fever had subsided. She hurt, but it was no longer because of the flu. Bleary-eyed and with a heart that still stung, she prepared for school.
Mrs. Foreman adjusted her glasses and looked solemnly across the room. “I trust that you have all finished Macbeth. Let’s start with act 5.” She cleared her throat and read:
Life’s but a walking shadow; a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more; it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Mrs. Foreman scanned the class for a victim. “Your thoughts, Miss Brannon.”
Melanie wearily rose.
“Macbeth has just learned of the queen’s death,” she began haltingly. “He may also be pondering his own uncertain fate. He concludes that life is without lasting meaning and filled with hollow relationships.”
Mrs. Foreman walked slowly towards Melanie. “Continue, Miss Brannon, with your own thoughts on the subject.”
Melanie exhaled slowly. “My own view—I think Macbeth is wrong.” She closed her eyes and remembered Arlene’s words about not understanding someone yet loving that person nonetheless. “The purpose of life is to find joy and that comes by caring for others and serving them, even if you don’t always know why. You have to do it unconditionally. Life is much more than an hour on stage, much, much more.”
“You’ve given thought to the subject? Are you sure of your statement? It’s so simple,” Mrs. Foreman challenged.
“Yes, I am sure, Mrs. Foreman.”
Mrs. Foreman whirled around and marched back to her desk. She stood imposingly, weighing Melanie’s words. Then her features seemed to soften. “I agree with you. Life must be filled with unconditional service to have great meaning. It’s a lesson that I can’t teach you from a textbook. You seem to have picked it up on your own, Melanie. Thank you.”
Saturday afternoon, Melanie was shredding lettuce on the taco line. Tommy came out of his office. “Call for you, Mel. Sounds long distance.”
Melanie rushed into Tommy’s office. “Hello!”
“It’s me!” came the familiar squeaky voice.
“Arlene! Where are you? I’ve been worried sick.”
“I’m in New Mexico. Dad found a place he liked on his last trip, and you know how he is. Backed his truck up to our apartment and we loaded everything in. He found a job dispatching down here. He’s going to sell the truck. No more hauling. He says we can stay here a long time. I think this is home.”
“I’m so happy for you, Arlene.”
“I tried calling you before we left. The line was busy. Four times. Please don’t be unhappy with me. I feel bad about the symphony.”
“Don’t worry. The guys were great.”
“I’ll get the skirt and sweater back to you.”
“Forget it—they’re yours. You’ll need something to wear to church.”
“Melanie—I’ve thought about what you said. That you are a true individual by what you do with your life, not how you dress. I think I have the confidence now to change for the better.”
“Everyone has to choose their own path,” Melanie encouraged. “It sounds like you’re starting on a good one.”
“Please write. I’ll send you my address. Thanks, Melanie. You are a true friend.”
“And you, Arlene, are a true individual. Maybe we’ve both learned something from each other.”
Melanie hung up. She fairly floated back to the lettuce chopping board.
“Good news?” Tommy asked.
“The best,” Melanie said.

In 1999, a woman newly baptized in the Church wrote the following letter to President Hinckley: “‘My journey into the Church was unique and quite challenging. This past year has been the hardest year that I have ever lived in my life. It has also been the most rewarding. As a new member, I continue to be challenged every day.’ …
“‘Church members don’t know what it is like to be a new member of the Church. Therefore, it’s almost impossible for them to know how to support us.’…
“This woman goes on:
“‘When we as investigators become members of the Church, we are surprised to discover that we have entered into a completely foreign world, a world that has its own traditions, culture, and language. We discover that there is no one person or no one place of reference that we can turn to for guidance in our trip into this new world. At first the trip is exciting, our mistakes even amusing, then it becomes frustrating and eventually, the frustration turns into anger. And it’s at these stages of frustration and anger that we leave. We go back to the world from which we came, where we knew who we were, where we contributed, and where we could speak the language.’”7

When I was a small boy, each December my father would take us all across the street to the home of Bishop Duncan for tithing settlement. The bishop did not have an office in the ward building, and so he had to conduct business in his home. We would all sit in his living room and, one by one, he would invite us into the dining room. Our tithing might be 25 cents, or maybe 50 cents, but it was a full tithing. He wrote out a receipt and recorded the amount in the ward record. The amount may have been so small that it cost more to record it than it was worth. But it established a habit which continued through all of these years. With the payment of tithing have come innumerable blessings as the Lord has promised.

Photographs by Ntebaleng Twala and courtesy of the family
She rides her horse. She stands up on top of her horse. But that’s not all. This 12-year-old from South Africa even sails over jumps with her horse!
It takes a special kind of relationship between horse and rider to pull off such feats safely. And Kelly K. truly is quite close with her horse, Delta. Yet if you ask what her most important relationships are, she’ll probably tell you about her family.
“My siblings are really important to me,” Kelly says. Her parents are important to her as well, of course. Kelly explains that sometimes it’s harder for teens to stay as close to their parents when they get a bit older, but she’s found some strategies that help. “For me, it’s just the simple things, like talking with my parents or spending time with them that has improved our relationship.”
That closeness makes a huge difference in her life.
As Kelly says, staying close as a family starts with spending time as a family. One of the ways they enjoy spending time together is to get up close and personal with some of the biggest animals on the planet! “We go on safari rides several times a year,” Kelly says. Plenty of great memories have piled up during these rides.
“The funniest memory is when it was pouring rain one time,” she says. The safari ride was going full speed, which made those raindrops sting. So her family huddled close together, laughing, to form a sort of human shield against the rain. And it worked! “We made each other warm!” she says.
Sports are another big part of her family, especially among her siblings. It’s another way they spend time together, both in playing together and in cheering each other on. As the youngest of five, Kelly has found that the easiest way to bond with her older siblings is to make the effort to learn more about their sports. “I love watching my older brothers play rugby or golf. And I also try and learn their sports a little so that when they’re practicing we can interact and play together.”
Kelly’s older sister is also into riding horses, so that’s a great and natural way for the two of them to connect. Kelly also enjoys running track, and her siblings love to support her.
In addition, the whole family loves playing cards and other games together. As President Dieter F. Uchtdorf, then-Second Counselor in the First Presidency, has said, “In family relationships love is really spelled t-i-m-e, time.”1
With Kelly’s family members being some of her greatest friends, they also help fill in gaps when other friendships hit bumpy patches. For example, there aren’t a lot of Church members where Kelly lives. Sometimes the difference in values between Kelly and her friends has been a challenge for her.
“When I was younger, I kind of got lost in what my friends wanted me to be,” she says. “But reading the scriptures and praying helped. I also turned to my family.
“One time I asked my friends to change their bad music, but that didn’t really work. They just said, ‘If you don’t like it, go home.’ So I prayed and asked Heavenly Father what I should do. He told me to call my parents and go home.”
Come what may, she knows she can rely on her family for help. “My mom and dad, they’re always there.” And so is the rest of her family! One time, two of Kelly’s friends moved away. This was especially tough because Kelly had grown very close to those friends. Once again, her family made the difference.
“My family was there for me when I needed a shoulder to cry on or just to talk,” Kelly says about that difficult time. “They always know how to help me and just wrap me up in a blanket when I need it.”
With all she loves about living in South Africa—the weather, the safari animals, the temple in Johannesburg—there are also a few hard parts about living without many other Church youth nearby.
However, she knows the gospel and her faith in Jesus Christ have been her strength. “I don’t know where I’d be without the gospel,” Kelly says. “I am grateful that the Church is there. The scriptures really bless my life. And Heavenly Father is always going to be there. I live my standards because they help me feel happy and safe. And I don’t really want to be like the kids who get into a lot of trouble. I’d rather choose the right, because I know the gospel is true.”
There’s another massive motivation to Kelly for living the gospel—and that’s her love for her family. “I know that I can be with my family forever if I stick to the right path,” she says. “And I want to be with my family.”

The best part of our walk that day wasn’t riding in the shiny red wagon that Grandpa had given me for my birthday, even though it was lots of fun. And it wasn’t the snowflakes making polka dots on my blue coat and pants. The best part was when Mama stopped the wagon in front of Mr. Tanner’s pet shop.
Mr. Tanner’s window was full of frisky puppies. I got out of the wagon and pushed my nose against the cold window. The puppies ran to me and tried to lick my nose through the glass. Mama and I laughed.
“Oh, look, Cassie!” Mama exclaimed as she pointed. High up on a shelf I saw a cage of fluffy kittens. I waved, but they were busy chasing each other’s tails.
“What’s that?” I asked and pointed to a small ball of gray fur in another cage.
“I can’t tell,” Mama replied, “but here comes Mr. Tanner. Let’s ask him.”
“How’s my friend Cassie today?” asked Mr. Tanner, coming out of his shop. He brushed the snow from my hat. “Did you ever see so many little rascals?” he asked, chuckling. “Sure hope I can sell them all by Christmas.”
“What’s in that cage up there?” I asked, pointing to the gray furry ball.
“It’s a bunny,” he answered. “The last one too. Do you like her?”
Just then the bunny turned and looked at me with her big brown eyes. Her ears stood straight up, and she wiggled her tiny button nose. I wanted that bunny for my very own. “How much does she cost?” I asked.
“Just one dollar,” said Mr. Tanner.
“Oh, Mama!” I exclaimed, delighted. “I have a dollar in my piggy bank. Please, may I buy the bunny?”
Mama hugged me. “We’ll have to ask Grandpa first,” she said. “We’d better go now. It’s snowing hard, and we have a long way to walk.”
When we got home, Grandpa had supper on the table. After we’d sat down and he’d said the blessing on the food, I told him about the bunny in Mr. Tanner’s window.
“Eat your soup, Cassie,” he said. “It’ll warm your tummy.”
“Grandpa,” I said, “I have a dollar.”
“Drink your milk,” he said, filling my cup.
I love my grandpa a lot, but sometimes he just doesn’t listen to me.
“Grandpa!” I said in a loud voice. “Can I please have the bunny? You have Mama to take care of, and Mama has me, but I don’t have anybody.”
“It’s up to your mama,” he said as he buttered my bread, “but I would say no. It’ll just make a lot more work for me.”
So Mama said no. She might have said yes if she didn’t have to go to work every day. Nobody heard me say that I would take care of the bunny.
Whenever Mama and I walked to town to buy Christmas presents, we’d stop and look in Mr. Tanner’s window. Every time, there were fewer and fewer puppies and kittens, but the bunny was always there, and I was glad.
On Christmas Eve Mama and I walked by the pet shop one more time. All the animals in the window were gone. All but one—the bunny. She wiggled her nose, and I blew her a kiss. I wished for the hundredth time that Grandpa would change his mind.
Mr. Tanner saw us and came out of his shop. He whispered something to Mama, and Mama smiled and said she thought it would be all right.
“Cassie,” said Mr. Tanner, “would you take care of this bunny for me tomorrow? The shop will be closed, and it wouldn’t be right to leave her alone on Christmas Day.”
“Oh, yes!” I cried, and I quickly led Mama and Mr. Tanner into the shop. Mr. Tanner put the bunny into a small box with air holes and handed Mama a bag of rabbit food. I got to carry the bunny box all the way home!
“What in the world!” Grandpa exclaimed when he saw the bunny. “Didn’t we say a rabbit would be too much trouble?”
“It’s just for tomorrow,” Mama explained. “Cassie and I will take care of her.”
“I can do it all by myself,” I said.
Grandpa wasn’t so sure and just said, “Hmmmmm.”
I found a bigger box and put an old window screen over the top of it. I put food and water and the bunny inside. After she had eaten, I took her out and petted her and put her back until after supper.
Grandpa wouldn’t even look at her. Well, maybe he did once or twice—but just for a minute. He made a fire in the fireplace and set up our Christmas tree and strung the twinkly lights. Mama helped him hang the ornaments and strings of popcorn while I took care of the bunny.
At bedtime I put the bunny back in the box and left it by the fireplace so she would stay warm. Grandpa took me upstairs and tucked me in.
“Grandpa, can’t the bunny stay?” I pleaded.
But Grandpa just kissed my forehead and pulled the blanket up to my chin.
“Sometimes it’s hard to say no,” he said slowly, “especially to someone you love. Maybe someday, Cassie, but not now. Grandpa has no extra time.”
“I promise I’ll take care of her,” I called, but Grandpa was already downstairs.
Christmas morning I woke up before anyone else and tiptoed downstairs in my nightgown. The lights on our tree blinked on and off, and the room looked bright and sparkly. Under the tree were presents with my name on them, and my stocking, stuffed full and topped with an apple, hung from the mantle. Grandpa was asleep in his big chair by the fireplace. Our afghan lay across his lap. I tried not to wake him as I ran to the bunny box and looked in. The screen was off and the box was empty!
“Here, bunny, bunny,” I called softly, but she didn’t come. I peeked under the furniture. Then I searched all the other rooms, but the bunny was gone. I felt scared, and my heart went bump, bump, bump.
Mama came downstairs. “Cassie, what are you doing?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
“The bunny’s lost!” I cried. “I can’t find her anywhere.”
Mama hugged me. “She has to be here somewhere.” But even with both of us searching, we couldn’t find her. “Oh, dear,” Mama said. “Maybe we made a mistake bringing her home.”
“What’s all the commotion?” Grandpa asked as he yawned and opened his eyes. “And why the sad faces? It’s Christmas!”
“The bunny’s missing,” said Mama, “and we’ve looked everywhere. What are we going to tell Mr. Tanner?”
Grandpa laughed and lifted the afghan. The bunny was fast asleep in his lap. “You tell Mr. Tanner that he’s sold another rabbit,” Grandpa said. He winked at me, and his whole face smiled. “I tried to tell her that she couldn’t stay, but she does have the biggest brown eyes, doesn’t she?”
I sat on the chair next to Grandpa.
“Cassie,” he said, “Grandpa forgot just how soft and cuddly little rabbits can be. No more pet shop for this bunny. She has a family now, and we’ll all help to take care of her.”
I hugged Grandpa hard, and Mama kissed his cheek. Later, when I opened my Christmas presents, I knew that I already had the best present of all.

Susan woke with a start. What was that noise? She listened carefully. The wind howled through the eucalyptus trees and knocked seedpods onto the roof above her bedroom. The noise of their falling sounded like heavy rain, and it had awakened her.
Susan sighed. Her family had just moved into this house, and she wasn’t used to all the new sounds. It didn’t help that Susan now slept alone. In their old house she had shared a bedroom with her older sister.
She pulled her blankets up under her chin as another shower of pods hit the roof. She was scared, lonely, and, she realized, missing her dad. Susan’s dad was an officer in the military. He was away on training. Although he wasn’t in danger, Susan suddenly grew frightened. What if someday her dad was sent to war and got killed? She didn’t want to grow up without her father. She needed him.
Tears pricked her eyes, and Susan knew she needed help to calm her growing fears. Her sister wasn’t nearby, but she knew that Jesus and Heavenly Father were always close.
Gathering her courage, Susan slipped out from under her blankets and knelt by the side of her bed. She prayed to Heavenly Father to help her, to take away her fear.
And then Susan heard something. It was softer than the clatter on the roof. It was her mother’s voice, and she was singing. As her mother walked through the house, finishing up her chores and getting ready for bed, she sang.
Susan’s mother had a beautiful voice and sang often, but this was the most wonderful song Susan had ever heard her sing. Though Susan didn’t recognize the tune, the words were about Jesus. The song filled her with peace.
Susan thanked Heavenly Father, then climbed back into bed, and listened to her mother’s song. Tears came to her eyes again, this time tears of gratitude and relief. She felt that all was well. She knew she had a loving family. She knew that Heavenly Father cared about her. She believed that no matter what happened, there would always be a reason to hope. Susan knew that whenever fears threatened to overcome her, she could find peace by remembering the night her mother’s song was stronger than fear.

In His love for us, God has decreed that any worthy man, regardless of wealth, education, color, cultural background, or language may hold His priesthood. Thus, any properly ordained man who is clean in hand, heart, and mind can connect with the unlimited power of the priesthood. I learned this well as a young missionary years ago in the South Pacific.

My first assignment was to a small island hundreds of miles from headquarters, where no one spoke English, and I was the only white man. I was given a local companion named Feki who was serving a building mission and was a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood.

After eight seasick days and nights on a small, smelly boat, we arrived at Niuatoputapu. I struggled with the heat, the mosquitoes, the strange food, culture, and language, as well as homesickness. One afternoon we heard cries of anguish and saw a family bringing the limp, seemingly lifeless body of their eight-year-old son to us. They wailed out that he had fallen from a mango tree and would not respond to anything. The faithful father and mother put him in my arms and said, “You have the Melchizedek Priesthood; bring him back to us whole and well.”

Though my knowledge of the language was still limited, I understood what they wanted, and I was scared. I wanted to run away, but the expressions of love and faith that shone from the eyes of the parents and brothers and sisters kept me glued to the spot.

I looked expectantly at my companion. He shrugged and said, “I don’t have the proper authority. You and the branch president hold the Melchizedek Priesthood.” Grasping at that straw, I said, “Then this is the duty of the branch president.”

No sooner had I said this than the branch president walked up. He had heard the commotion and came from his garden. He was sweaty and covered with dirt and mud. I explained what had happened and tried to give the young boy to him. He stepped back and said, “I will go and wash and put on clean clothes; then we will bless him and see what God has to say.”

In near panic, I cried, “Can’t you see? He needs help now!”

He calmly replied: “I know he needs a blessing. When I have washed myself and put on clean clothes, I will bring consecrated oil, and we will approach God and see what His will is. I cannot—I will not—approach God with dirty hands and muddy clothes.” He left me holding the boy. I was speechless.

Finally he returned, clean in body and dress and, I sensed, in heart as well. “Now,” he said, “I am clean, so we will approach the throne of God.”

That marvelous Tongan branch president, with clean hands and a pure heart, gave a beautiful and powerful priesthood blessing. I felt more like a witness than a participant. The words of the Psalmist came to my mind: “Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? … He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart” (Psalms 24:3–4). On that tiny island a worthy priesthood holder ascended into the hill of the Lord, and the power of the priesthood came down from heaven and authorized a young boy’s mortal life to continue.

With the fire of faith glowing from his eyes, the branch president told me what to do. Much additional faith and effort was required, but on the third day that little eight-year-old boy, full of life, was reunited with his family.

I hope you understand and feel these truths. This was a tiny island in the midst of a huge ocean—with no electricity, no hospital, no doctors—but none of that mattered. For in addition to great love and faith, there was a branch president who held the Melchizedek Priesthood, who understood the importance of cleanliness of hand and heart and its outward expression in cleanliness of body and dress, who exercised the priesthood in righteousness and purity according to the will of God. That day his individual power in the priesthood was sufficient to connect with the unlimited power of the priesthood over earthly life.

When I look into the heavens at night and contemplate the endless galaxies therein, I am amazed at what a tiny dot our little earth is and how infinitesimally small I am. Yet I do not feel afraid, alone, insignificant, or distant from God. For I have witnessed His priesthood power connecting with clean hands and pure hearts on a tiny island in a vast ocean.

Now, may I close on a personal note to illustrate a dimension of discipleship. Regarding you as graduate students, not as lower-division students, in discipleship, I will speak to you about something we don’t usually speak about in the Church.
We sometimes speak of defining moments. These defining moments in our lives usually focus on single episodes that can sometimes be outwardly, as well as inwardly, quite traumatic. Yet these defining moments are usually preceded by small, subtle preparatory moments. Moreover, the defining moments are also followed by many smaller moments that are shaped by the preceding and defining moments.
Here’s an illustration. In a long ago May, in 1945, there was such a moment for me on the island of Okinawa at age eighteen. There was certainly no heroism on my part, but, rather, a blessing for me and others during the shelling of our position by Japanese artillery. After repeated shellings that overshot our position, their artillery finally zeroed in. They should have then fired for effect, but there was a divine response to at least one frightened, selfish prayer. The shelling halted. The prayer was accompanied by my pledge of a lifetime of service—a pledge that, though imperfectly, I’ve tried to keep. With this blessing and pledge, I was nudged toward discipleship without realizing what service would be required. I knew I had been blessed, and I knew that God knew that I knew. I remembered the pledge after the war when my overseas savings gladly went to finance a mission. This mission, of course, was yet another step in the direction of discipleship.

When I was eight, I chose to be baptized. As I was immersed in the water, I felt a special happiness that came from the Spirit. Shortly after my baptism, my mother passed away. I felt sad, depressed, and frustrated. No child should have to know how it feels to lose their mother.
However, three years later we went to the temple and were sealed as a family. The special feeling of the Spirit came back that day, and I felt that my mother was there by my side in the temple. I have faith that I will see her again someday.

Becky edged closer to her father on the hard seat of the buckboard, trying to convince herself she was not afraid. As they rounded a bend in the road, the trees hid even the tall church spire. It was as though Jacksonville no longer existed.
Pa seemed unaware of her fears. His tanned face creased into familiar lines as he smiled down at her. “Sure is nice having company,” he said.
“Do you think Mrs. Arnold will be all right?”
“With your Ma watching her?” Pa laughed. “Isn’t a better nurse this side of the Cascades.”
Silence fell between them. The only sounds were those made by the rumbling wheels and the clanking harness chains.
If only Ma hadn’t gone to nurse Mrs. Arnold, Becky thought. Then I would be home now, safe behind the walls of our log cabin, instead of going with Pa on his daily trip to pan for gold.
It was early in the day, but Becky pulled at the brim of her calico sunbonnet. The summer sun was hot in southern Oregon, and Ma had warned her not to get sunburned. She stared ahead at the road that became rough as they left the town behind. Trees lined one side, their branches stretching like hungry arms toward the shallow creek that glittered to her right.
Becky jumped as a shadow passed overhead, then shielded her eyes to watch a hawk swoop low over the trees. She wished she could be as brave and proud as the hawk. There was nothing to be afraid of, she assured herself once more. After all, there hadn’t been any trouble with Indians for almost two years now, and she was foolish to fear anything else with her father beside her. Still, she felt uneasy.
They had traveled for nearly two hours when Pa pulled the buckboard to the side of the road. He jumped to the ground, and his strong arms swung her down beside him. He pulled a pick and shovel from the back of the wagon and handed Becky the battered pan he used for gold panning. “Will you carry the pan?” he asked.
Becky nodded, pleased to be helpful, then followed close behind as her father pushed through the bushes that lined the creek bed. Loose stones rolled beneath Becky’s feet, but she fought to keep up with him. She didn’t want to be left behind. They walked a few yards upstream until they reached a point where the rushing water curved in its course, creating a tiny cove. “Why don’t you sit over there on that big rock?” Pa suggested. “Can’t have you falling in. Your mother would skin us both alive if I brought you home soaking wet.”
Obediently Becky perched on the flat gray rock. She touched the velvety texture of the moss growing in the crevices of the stone—how soft it felt!
Pa crouched beside the stream and patiently swirled the pan, letting water spill over its side. He poked at the sand in the bottom of the pan before he scooped up another shovelful of gravel and began the process again.
Becky stretched her cramped muscles and wiggled her toes. The rock was hard, and she wished she had brought a book to read. Occasionally her father turned to smile at her, and once he showed her a tiny glimmer of color he found in the bottom of the pan.
At last he glanced at the sky and rose from his crouched position. “Why don’t you run back to the wagon,” he suggested, “and fetch the lunch pails? It’s time we had something to eat.”
Becky hesitated. Surely he doesn’t expect me to go back to the wagon all by myself, she worried.
A slight frown of irritation wrinkled Pa’s forehead. “Well, go on,” he urged. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
She took a deep breath and slid off her rock. She couldn’t admit how frightened she felt. He would never understand. She moved downstream, picking her way carefully, her skirt held up to the top of her sturdy boots. Her father waved once and turned back to his work.
When Becky rounded a bend, she knew she had almost reached the wagon. She quickened her steps and tried not to think of anything except getting back to Pa.
A rustle in the bushes made her stop, and a flicker of movement caught her eye. A snake! Is it a rattlesnake coiled there, ready to spring? she wondered. Becky’s heart seemed to stop beating and she was unable to move. Then she saw a patch of brown fur and forced herself to edge closer. Cautiously she pushed the bushes aside. A small brown and black animal crouched on the ground, its foot caught in a snare. Its dark eyes were wide with fear as it stared at the girl.
Becky knew it was a river otter. She had seen their hides stretched to dry behind Parker’s Store and knew a lot of the townspeople trapped them for their pelts. But she had never seen a live one before. “Poor thing,” she crooned, and crouched down and extended her hand carefully.
The animal backed away as far as the snare would allow, and its lip quivered in a weak snarl.
“I won’t hurt you,” Becky said quietly as she reached for the vine that held the otter’s foot. Perhaps she should get Pa to set it free. But she knew he would tell her this was someone else’s trap and that they had no right to release the animal. Yet she couldn’t bear to leave it here like this.
As Becky grasped the snare, she worried that the otter would try to sink its teeth into her hand. Instead, the animal cringed against the rocky ground, shivering with fear. Her fingers trembled as she fought to loosen the loop from the otter’s foot. At last she pulled it free and waited for the animal to run away, but it continued to cower in the bushes.
A rock shifted behind her and Becky whirled around. She looked up into the black eyes of an Indian. Maybe it’s one of his traps, she thought. The man’s scowling face made her catch her breath, but she rose to her feet and stood between him and the injured otter. Run, little otter! she thought fiercely. Run, before he catches you again.
The man’s gaze fell on the snare Becky held in her hands, then moved to the animal she attempted to shield. “You set him free.” It was a statement, rather than a question, but Becky nodded, unable to speak.
Slowly the scowl faded from the man’s face. He took the snare from Becky’s lifeless fingers and studied it for a moment. Then he hurled it into the stream where the current quickly carried it out of sight.
“It is good,” the Indian said abruptly. “The otter is my brother. I am named for him—Swift Otter.”
Becky watched him, uncertain what he would do next. She heard the rustle of leaves behind her and saw the otter disappear into the bushes.
“You have saved his life,” Swift Otter said. “He will be wiser now.” He studied her for a moment in silence, then said, “You are brave for so small a girl.”
The Indian turned and walked away from Becky. She stared after him. She wanted to call out, to ask him where he came from, but he was gone.
At last Becky moved toward the wagon. Swift Otter had called her brave. All her fears were still there, but he hadn’t seen them. She suddenly realized that in her concern for the trapped animal she had forgotten to be afraid. Perhaps in time she could learn to be brave—as brave as Swift Otter thought she was.
A shadow passed overhead, and this time Becky didn’t jump. She raised her face and watched the hawk swoop across the clear blue sky.

A few years ago a member of the Church shared a copy of the Book of Mormon with an Amish friend in Ohio, USA. The friend began to read the book and could not put it down. He and his wife were baptized, and within seven months two more Amish couples were converted and baptized members of the Church. Their children were baptized several months later.

These three families decided to remain in their community and continue their Amish lifestyle even though they had left the Amish faith. However, they were subjected to “shunning” by their close-knit Amish neighbors. Shunning means that no one in their Amish community will talk to them, work with them, do business with them, or associate with them in any way. This includes not just friends but also family members.

Initially, these Amish Saints felt alone and isolated as even their children were subjected to shunning and were removed from their Amish schools. Their children have endured shunning by grandparents, cousins, and close neighbors. Even some of the older children of these Amish families, who did not accept the gospel, will not talk to or even acknowledge their parents. These families have struggled to recover from the social and economic effects of shunning, but they are succeeding.

Their faith remains strong. The adversity and opposition of shunning has caused them to be steadfast and immovable. A year after being baptized, the families were sealed in the temple and continue faithfully attending the temple on a weekly basis. They have found strength through receiving ordinances and entering into and honoring covenants. They are all active in their Church group and continue searching for ways to share the light and knowledge of the gospel with their extended families and community through acts of kindness and service.

Your “Scavengers Welcome” article in the March issue was so impressive that we just had to try it. And try it we did, with about 500 youth at our regional Mia Maid and teacher conference. It was great!
We used between 80 and 90 cooperative adults as team leaders and divided the youth up into teams of unsuspecting strangers. We then sent them out to impress an apprehensive city. Our youth gave piggyback rides to children, pulled weeds, washed cars, and along with several other things, sang Primary songs to a new type of audience!
Our feedback included the comment from one team leader that “Actually doing it was a lot better than reading about it in the New Era.” This is an activity we would like to encourage others to participate in as it is a fulfilling and rewarding experience for both the participant and the recipient.
Deanna ElisonRichland, Washington

Like many LDS teenagers in Africa, I was one of a handful of Church members in my high school. I became accustomed to sharing my beliefs with my friends, and I was known for having a certain set of standards. Fortunately for me, I don’t remember ever being ostracized for being different. If anything, I was respected and admired. My friends looked to me as a sort of anchor during an often difficult and confusing period of their lives.
One day during the final year of high school, I joined a group of friends to watch a movie. As we bought our tickets, the movie poster did not give an indication of the movie rating. Somewhat naively, I decided to buy a ticket anyway in the hope that the movie would be aboveboard.
Two minutes into the movie, I realised my hopes were in vain. The opening scene was shockingly vulgar. As I covered my eyes with my hands, I realised there was only one thing to do: leave. I was near the end of a long line of people, some of whom I was keen to make a favorable impression on. There was no way to make an inconspicuous exit. But there was also no way I could sit through that movie and be true to myself.
With a racing heart I leant over to a friend and whispered, “I’ll see you outside.”
Grabbing my popcorn, I picked my way in the inky darkness past the long row of friends. Back in the light of the ticket office, I wondered how to spend the next few hours as I awaited the others. To my surprise, I soon heard steps behind me.
One of my friends appeared, smiling. “I didn’t like that movie either,” she said. Thirty seconds later, we heard a second pair of footsteps, and then a third. After a few minutes, a large group of us had formed.
I looked around me, incredulous. When I had decided to leave, there was no way I could have predicted that more than half of my group of friends were secretly hoping for a way to get out too.
Marianne Williamson said, “As we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give others permission to do the same.”