Gospel Story Finder

When I served as president of the Canadian Mission, headquartered in Toronto, one missionary came to our mission without some of the talents of others, yet he devotedly plunged into his missionary labors. The work was difficult for him; however, he valiantly struggled to be his best self.
At a zone conference, with a General Authority attending, the missionaries had not done too well in a scripture quiz conducted by the visitor. The visitor, with a little sarcasm, commented, “Why, I don’t believe this group knows even the names of the basic missionary pamphlets and their authors.”
Well, that was the proverbial “straw” that broke the camel’s back. I spoke up: “I think they do know them.”
“Well, we will see,” he said, and then he had the missionaries stand. In making a selection of a missionary to prove the point, none of the bright-appearing, experienced, polished missionaries was selected, but rather my new missionary, who had a hard time gaining knowledge of such things, was singled out. My heart literally sank. I looked at the pleading expression on the elder’s face; I knew that he was paralyzed with fear. How I prayed—oh, how I prayed: “Heavenly Father, come to his rescue.” And He did. After a long pause, the visitor said, “Who authored the pamphlet The Plan of Salvation?”
After what seemed like an eternity, the trembling missionary responded, “John Morgan.”
“Who wrote Which Church Is Right?”
Again the pause, and then the reply, “Mark E. Petersen.”
“How about The Lord’s Tenth?”
“James E. Talmage wrote that one,” came the response.
And so it went through the list of missionary pamphlets we used. Finally came the question, “Is there another pamphlet?”
“Yes. It’s called After Baptism, What?”
“Who wrote it?”
Without hesitation the missionary answered, “The name of the author isn’t shown in the pamphlet, but my mission president told me it was written by Elder Mark E. Petersen by assignment from President David O. McKay.”
But what about the missionary? He completed an honorable mission and returned to his home in the West. Later he was called to serve as the bishop of his ward. Every year I receive a Christmas card from him and his wife and family. He always signs his name and then adds this comment, “From your best missionary.”

No eight-year-old hated wearing a coat more than I did. Sure, a coat might come in handy on an Arctic expedition. But most of the time, I thought going coatless made a lot of sense. Who wanted to worry about finding a place to hang a coat and then get in trouble for leaving it behind?
I definitely didn’t expect to need my coat that New Year’s Eve. My family would be driving to my grandparents’ house and spending the night. I’d suffocate if I had to wear my big itchy coat for two hours, wedged in the backseat of the station wagon between my two brothers. Once we got to Grandma’s, we would play board games until midnight and watch the parade on TV the next day. Then we’d sit down to eat Grandma’s pork roast, homemade applesauce, and butter cookies. I would be indoors the whole time—no need for a coat.
As we piled into the station wagon, Mom went down her checklist. Maybe she wouldn’t notice that I didn’t have my coat. Yes, we remembered our toothbrushes. Yes, we packed our pajamas.
“Where’s your coat, Lana?” She noticed!
“I won’t need it. I won’t be outside at all.”
“Go get your coat. And hurry, please. It’s already getting dark.”
I dashed inside and yanked open the closet door. My warm winter coat and my jacket hung side by side. The jacket! Light, silky, and comfortable, it was the perfect solution. As I reached for the jacket, I had a feeling that I should wear the big coat instead.
I ignored the feeling. Surely I wouldn’t need that stuffy old thing. The jacket would do just fine.
Again something nudged me toward the heavy coat. Shrugging it off again, I snatched the thin jacket and ran to the car.
They were waiting for me with the engine running. Mom frowned when she glanced at my jacket, but Dad put the car in reverse and backed out of the garage.
Halfway into the trip, a thick layer of fog rolled in. The headlights turned the fog a milky white that was difficult to see through. My parents were tense and quiet. The mood spread to the backseat, keeping my brothers and me quiet, too.
Without warning, a pair of headlights appeared suddenly in front of us. In a shattering explosion of glass and metal, we crashed head-on into a pickup truck that had strayed into our lane. The noise was deafening, and the silence immediately afterward was just as loud.
“Is everybody OK?” My father’s strained voice was the first to break the stillness.
A shaky response came from my older brother. “I think so.”
“All of you need to get out and stand in that field. I’ll help Mom.”
My brothers and I scrambled out of the backseat and stood on frozen mud next to the road. With Dad’s arm around her, Mom limped over to us. A painful bump on the head had shaken her, but she seemed OK.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Dad asked us.
With wide eyes, we each nodded.
Dad looked each of us over before hurrying back to check on the man in the pickup truck.
My thin jacket was no match for the icy December air. Even huddled up against Mom, my shivers wouldn’t stop. I thought of my warm winter coat hanging in the closet back home.
An ambulance came, then a police car. Voices squawked from the radio as the rotating lights dyed the fog red, then blue, red, blue. Dad came back and led us to the police car. We had shivered for over an hour in the bitter cold.
A police officer drove us to the hospital. The ambulance had already taken the other man. Dad got stitches in his hand, and the doctors examined Mom’s head injury. She was OK. My brothers and I had a few bruises, but we knew it could have been much worse.
My grandparents picked us up at the hospital and took us to their house. When Grandma tucked me into bed and kissed me good-night, my body seemed to melt into the softness of the sheets. For the first time that night, I felt warm and safe.
I was exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep. My thoughts drifted back to the moment when I had decided to bring my jacket. It dawned on me that the Holy Ghost had been telling me to wear my warm coat.
A few months earlier my grandpa had confirmed me a member of the Church, and I had received the gift of the Holy Ghost. I remembered the power in his hands when he placed them on my head. I had been so excited, so eager to hear what the Holy Ghost would say to me. Now I had ignored Him. My throat tightened as I fought back tears.
A new feeling came and took the tears away. I felt the love of my Heavenly Father. I knew He would help me through the difficult times in my life. He couldn’t take away every bad thing, but He would help me if I let Him.
I moved the curtains above the bed aside just enough to see outside. The fog was as thick as ever. No stars tonight. I imagined the stars, the moon, the planets, the entire universe. The God of all creation had wanted to give me a warm coat tonight.
A tear slipped down my cheek. This time it was a tear of gratitude. I rolled out of bed and onto my knees. I needed to tell Heavenly Father that I was ready to listen and obey the still, small voice.

When Cathy Gurley was young, she had a dream. More than anything else, she wanted to be Miss Rosewood, queen of her school. Her goal was to be someone that the other students at the school would look to as an example. So she practiced dancing and singing, talents she thought would help her win the contest.
When she was a senior in high school, Cathy was voted Miss Rosewood in the town of Goldsboro, North Carolina. Then she started winning other contests, like the district FHA Sweetheart, and queen of the Wayne County Fireman’s Pageant, and eventually Miss North Carolina Teen Hemisphere.
But on her way to those recognitions, Cathy became a real winner when she developed another talent. It wouldn’t help her win a contest, but it helped her win friends and lift the spirits of people who needed help. Cathy learned how to care about other people.
“I really enjoy helping people,” said Cathy. “When I smile, I like to see them smile back. And so many people need someone to help them.”
Cathy has been helping people—the elderly, the retarded, the handicapped. She’s spent hundreds of hours visiting her friends at rest homes, singing at dances for retarded people, visiting at a center for severely retarded people, adopting a grandparent, helping her mother teach a Sunday School class for the retarded, and being a friend to people who are too often friendless. Cathy’s mom gave her encouragement along the way and helped organize many of the parties where Cathy performed.
“My older brother Bobby is retarded, so it’s natural that I’d associate with other retarded children,” said Cathy. “I couldn’t ask for a better brother. He’s seven years older than I am, and I was born on his birthday. He’s always said that I was his birthday present. We’ve been very close.”
Cathy would go to parties for her brother Bobby and his friends and sing for them. “I’ve always wanted to be an entertainer, so it was fun for me. They don’t care how bad you sing. They appreciate even small things. The rest of us need to be more like they are.”
Cathy’s mother worked in rest homes when Cathy was little and sometimes had to work on holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas. “I wanted her to understand why I couldn’t be at home, so I’d bring her to the rest homes with me on those holidays,” said Sister Gurley.
“She’d leave me and go talk to the people. Cathy has never been afraid of a retarded or elderly or handicapped person, maybe because she was brought up around them.”
Growing up with her brother also helped Cathy develop sensitivity to others. Her mother said, “I’d come home from work tired, and Bobby would say he wanted to go meet his friends. I’d tell him I was just too tired and couldn’t get him dressed. Then Cathy would say, ‘If I dress him and get him ready to go, would you take him?’
“Christ told us we need to become like little children. So many of these people have that sweetness like little children. They never hold a grudge or lash out at people,” added Sister Gurley.
Cathy has also spent many hours helping at rest homes. “I guess because I was so close to my grandparents and my mother is a nurse, it was easy for me to volunteer my time,” said Cathy. “My Aunt Mamie worked as a recreation specialist at a rest home when I was 11, so she’d ask me and my cousin to go over there and help. We’d spend the whole day. We’d play bingo with the people. I’d help roll them in their wheelchairs out into the middle of the halls for supper, deliver the mail, read to them if they needed it, and just talk.”
Eventually, Cathy “adopted” a grandfather, a friend of her grandmother.
“My grandfather died when I was very young, so my grandmother started dating Waldo,” said Cathy. “They’d come out to my house to visit, and I enjoyed his friendship. When my grandmother died, he sort of got out of circulation and didn’t have any companionship. My grandmother had more or less taken care of him and fixed him supper each day. So Waldo and I kept in touch, and I decided to adopt him. I’d call and see how he was doing, stop by to see him, visit him on holidays, and take him treats. Now he’s in a rest home, and we keep in close touch.”
Cathy has helped with a Sunday School class for the handicapped, too, held in her home after regular church meetings. The first hour of the class the students learn about the scriptures, and the second hour they do crafts. Cathy often makes cookies or cupcakes for them. She also found time to organize a drill team for grade school girls.
Cathy has always found time to accomplish her goals. She has helped with political campaigns and even served as a page in her state legislature. She attended seminary for four years. (“It really helped me gain a testimony,” said Cathy.) She took modeling classes for several years, and her teacher encouraged her to enter the Miss Teen North Carolina Hemisphere competition.
“I won the state competition, so I competed in the nationals, which were held in Philadelphia and included the western hemisphere—Guam, Canada, the U.S., and the Bahamas,” Cathy said.
“I learned that it wasn’t that important to be beautiful. I just wanted to put on my jeans and be myself, but for 24 hours a day I was there fixing my hair and putting on lipstick, and I’m just not used to doing that much. You couldn’t go out of your door unless you were all dressed up, and that’s just not for me.
“I really enjoyed entertaining others for the competition, though, and it helped me develop a talent I didn’t think I had. I’d always taken ballet, but I realized I needed another talent to win the state competition. I told my mom, ‘I’ve got to sing!’ She smiled and said, ‘You can’t sing.’ And I said, ‘Well, I’m just going to have to learn.’ So I took lessons and practiced, and I won the contest. I realize now that I can sing and not be embarrassed. I met some nice people in the pageant, too.”
She also realized that she was an example to a lot of her friends. “Lots of times at high school I wouldn’t go to parties because I knew there would be drinking. Everybody would go, and I would sit home. It wasn’t always easy, but it was the right thing.
“Then some of my friends would tell me things like ‘I really don’t enjoy drinking, and I don’t know why I do. I wish I had the courage to say no.’ They’d see me and realize that they didn’t have to drink. It’s important to do what you know is right.”
In the Gurley’s front room, Cathy’s trophies are displayed. She’s won awards for most valuable cheerleader, most valuable model at her modeling school, FHA Sweetheart, and first-place in beauty, talent, modeling, and most photogenic for North Carolina Teen Hemisphere.
But she doesn’t need a trophy for the things that are most important to her. She carries those qualities around with her every day.
The Savior said, “A new commandment I give unto you, That ye love one another; as I have loved you, that ye also love one another” (John 13:34).
That’s another goal that Cathy’s working toward.

Perhaps you remember the story told by President N. Eldon Tanner. A young fellow came to him and said, “I made an agreement with a man that requires me to make certain payments each year. I am in arrears, and I can’t make those payments, for if I do, it is going to cause me to lose my home. What shall I do?”
President Tanner looked at him and said, “Keep your agreement.”
“Even if it costs me my home?” the man asked.
President Tanner replied, “I am not talking about your home. I am talking about your agreement; and I think your wife would rather have a husband who would keep his word, meet his obligations, keep his pledges or his covenants, and have to rent a home, than to have a home with a husband who will not keep his covenants and his pledges.” (In Conference Report, Oct. 1966, p. 99.)

After joining the Church, her daily life was surrounded by home, school and Church activities. A few years after joining the Church, her father had a massive stroke which left half of his body paralyzed and he lost his voice of speech.
This incident did not allow Sabita and her sister to have much freedom in life anymore. They had many dreams but were obliged to work for the family while their mother attended to their father’s needs and the household, not forgetting their two little brothers who were still attending school.
Sometime after this incident, their branch president approached both sisters and asked if they would be willing to serve missions for the Church. They couldn’t readily say yes because of their circumstances. As they went home, they discussed with each other regarding this opportunity. Usha offered to stay home and work for the family to allow Sabita to serve a mission.
She was very happy for what her sister had said, but was also worried, thinking that Usha would be alone to meet the family expenses with her meagre salary. Their mother was not happy with this. As the news spread to their relatives, one of their first questions was, “What’s in it for you?
As Sabita was struggling to decide what to do, she happened to receive the answer through one of her regular institute classes. Her teacher quoted President Thomas S. Monson (1927–2018), “Do your duty; that is best; Leave unto the Lord the rest!”1
Sabita immediately decided to leave home to serve the Lord as a full-time missionary and was called to serve in the India Bangalore Mission in 2002. She said, “My family was taken care of. Miracles happened. The one and a half years that I served the Lord selflessly has been a lifetime experience of mine.”

One day when strolling down the road on which the Bridlington meeting house stands, my mind not taken up so much as usual with the needs of the day, I took to looking at the buildings that line this very ancient of streets.
My first observation was a surprising one, when I realised there had been eight churches of different denominations on the street at some point. Many were still there, but now used for different purposes than their builders intended. I then began to wonder at what had been on the sites of new buildings squeezed between the Victorian shops and houses. My curiosity aroused, I made a visit to our local studies library, and returned many times, as I became absorbed in the history of this road that had existed since pre-Christian times.
I was fascinated and felt that maybe others of the town would be also. This thought coincided with an invitation to attend a meeting to discuss ideas for the year’s Heritage Open Days (every September thousands of volunteers in towns and cities across the country organise events to celebrate Britain’s heritage and culture). I went along and volunteered to give a talk and put on an exhibition on the history of the street. Conscious that the biggest problem in doing so is finding a location, I had previously approached the Bishop and been given permission to use the church building.
A further thought had already come into my mind- why not extend the event to include a chapel Open House? Saddened by the missionaries’ lack of success in getting people to come into the building, I felt that putting on something of a nonreligious nature could be the encouragement people needed and hopefully once in the building, they might ask questions, pick up leaflets and read things on notice boards.
The foyer had the history of the Bridlington Ward, the Church’s involvement in humanitarian aid, emergency preparedness and ‘Just Serve.’ The notice board in the baptismal font told of Christ’s original Church, the apostasy and the restoration; and our belief in the need for baptism and the form it should take. Displays on the work of Relief Society, the Young Men and Young Women’s programmes and Primary, filled the classrooms, and the Elders Quorum were on hand to give help and advice on family history and show a film about one brother’s experience of finding out more about his family than merely their names and dates.
With excellent advertising on social media, in local newspapers and free events booklets supplied by the Heritage Week organisation, seventy people attended. No one asked the missionaries for the discussions, no-one new appeared at church the following day, but one man who attended the lecture approached me and raised my spirits when he expressed his appreciation for being able to tour the building and learn something of our beliefs. Others may have felt the same, but not expressed it. Seeds were sown and continued effort and new ideas will bring results. As Christ said: "If ye have faith as a grain of mustard seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, Remove hence to yonder place; and it shall remove; and nothing shall be impossible unto you." (Matthew 17:20)

On a recent assignment in the Philippines, I met Karen, who shared an experience she had as a Laurel while studying for a bachelor’s degree in hotel and restaurant management. A teacher required that every student learn to make and taste the variety of drinks that would be served in their restaurants. Some of the drinks contained alcohol, and Karen knew it was against the Lord’s commandments for her to taste them. In the face of serious consequences, Karen found courage to arise and shine forth, and she did not partake of the drinks.

Karen explained: “My teacher approached me and asked me why I was not drinking. He said, ‘Miss Karen, how will you know the flavor and pass this important subject if you do not at least taste the drinks?’ I told him that I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and as members, we do not drink things that are harmful to us. Whatever he expected of me, even if it meant receiving a failing grade, I would understand, but I would not fail to live my personal standards.”

Weeks passed, and nothing more was said about that day. At the end of the semester, Karen knew her final grade would reflect her refusal to taste the drinks. She hesitated to look at her grade, but when she did, she discovered that she had received the highest grade in the class.

She said: “I learned through this experience that God … will surely bless us when we follow Him. I also know that even if I had received a failing grade, I would not regret what I had done. I know that I will never fail in the Lord’s sight when I choose to do what I know to be the right thing.”15

I am very grateful to be able to read the New Era. I went to pick up my mail at the mission home today and found out that there wasn’t any mail for me. It’s been over a month since I have had a letter from home, but I was happy to see that my March New Era had arrived. I started reading it while walking down the street, and I walked into a wire that anchored a telephone pole! I read the magazine that day, and before nighttime I had read it from cover to cover. I always used to skip a few articles that didn’t seem interesting, but this time I read every article, and they were all interesting.
Elder Joseph Richard Wright, Jr.Philippines Manila Mission

Will you join me as we look in on a typical Latter-day Saint family offering prayers unto the Lord? Father, mother, and each of the children kneel, bow their heads, and close their eyes. A sweet spirit of love, unity, and peace fills the home. As father hears his tiny son pray unto God that his dad will do the right things and be obedient to the Lord’s bidding, do you think that such a father would find it difficult to honor the prayer of his precious son? As a teenage daughter hears her sweet mother plead unto the Lord that her daughter will be inspired in the selection of her companions, that she will prepare herself for a temple marriage, don’t you believe that such a daughter will seek to honor this humble, pleading petition of her mother, whom she so dearly loves? When father, mother, and each of the children earnestly pray that the fine sons in the family will live worthily that they may, in due time, receive a call to serve as ambassadors of the Lord in the mission fields of the Church, don’t we begin to see how such sons grow to young manhood with an overwhelming desire to serve as missionaries? I am sure that family prayer motivated a letter written some years ago by a young Latter-day Saint girl attending a Colorado high school. The students had been asked to prepare a letter to be written to a great man of their choice. Many addressed their letters to well-known athletes, to a noted astronaut, to the president of the United States, and to other celebrities. This young lady, however, addressed her letter to her father, and in the letter she stated: “I have decided to write this letter to you, Dad, because you are the greatest man that I have ever known. The overwhelming desire of my heart is that I might so live that I might have the privilege of being beside you and Mother and other members of the family in the celestial kingdom.” That father never received a more cherished letter.

It was Sunday, and the brethren of the Constitución Ward, Guadalajara Unión México Stake, were convened in priesthood meeting. The elders were listening to a lesson by the quorum president, a gifted teacher. Among those present were a newly ordained elder and his father, who was returning to church after a long period of inactivity.
The lesson that day was on the elders quorum itself. “What is a priesthood quorum?” the president asked, and the brethren in the class gave several responses. It is like a family, they said, and the brethren in the quorum should be genuinely concerned about each other’s welfare and help one another.
As bishop of the ward, I joined the group in time to hear the end of the lesson. Raising my hand, I asked for permission to speak. “I’ve just learned this morning that Brother Noriega, one of our quorum members, has not been able to get the machinery he needs to plant his crops,” I said. “Since the rains have already begun, it is urgent that the seeds be planted right away. Brother Noriega could run the risk of not getting his crops planted, because he is elderly and doesn’t have anyone to help him.”
I suggested that on the following day, we all go help Brother Noriega get his seeds planted. Certainly all of us together could do the job, even without the needed farm machinery. Everybody became excited about this opportunity to put the day’s lesson into practice, and the quorum president made the necessary arrangements.
The next day, Brother Noriega was waiting for us with tools and seeds. He hadn’t been able to sleep, he said, knowing that the elders quorum was coming to help him. While some of the brethren cleared the ground, others broke the soil or dropped in seeds and covered them. Two of the most enthusiastic participants were the recently reactivated member and his son.
It was dark when we finished our task. Dirty and weary, we had blisters on our hands and thorns in our clothes. But we all felt great satisfaction in having served one of our brethren—and we felt that we had really learned the meaning of our lesson in priesthood meeting. Brother Noriega expressed his gratitude, saying that he felt young and strong again as he worked side by side with his brothers in the quorum. The newly reactivated man also said that taking part had given him new strength and courage.
Just as we were leaving, rain began to fall, and we all got wet. But we felt that the shower was a blessing. Heaven’s rain was just what we needed to truly complete our day of sowing.

Jean would always remember the night when she really learned that her Heavenly Father hears and answers sincere prayers, even when uttered by a weary 17-year-old in the backwoods of southern Georgia.
At graduation time, Jean learned that her trials had only begun. Mother remarried and moved far away. Jean had no choice. She had to go live with our father in rural Georgia. He lived in a tiny, isolated town where he was the minister of the only church.
Our father had always been bitter toward the Mormons, and that bitterness had turned to hatred when all three of his daughters had been baptized. Jean was his baby, his special pet, and it cut him to the quick to see her not only in a religion different from his but as a Mormon and a devout Mormon at that. He looked upon her move to his house as an answer to prayers. Now things would be different. Now he would be able to show her the error of her ways.
Although I live more than 200 miles away, I came as often as possible during the summer and took Jean to my home in Columbia. However, the summer soon ended, and Jean had to start commuting to college. Jean had a car to make the drive back and forth to school but not for her personal use on weekends. The nearest branch was 30 miles away, and even if she could get there, Dad wouldn’t let her go. There wasn’t an institute at her small college, and it just seemed that there was no way for her to have any contact with Church members.
Days turned into weeks, and then months had gone by since she had attended a meeting. She read her scriptures, wrote daily in her journal, and spent hours on her knees. As she grew closer to her Heavenly Father through earnest prayer, Jean’s testimony of the gospel grew. She began to realize how often she had taken the opportunity to attend meetings and functions of the Church for granted, how she had even wished meetings would hurry and be over. During this time, Dad made every effort to break her testimony. He quoted scripture after scripture, but Jean’s seminary scriptures stood her in good stead. She was able to parry with scriptures of her own. Sometimes he threw things at her that she couldn’t or, to stop an argument, wouldn’t defend. While her testimony wasn’t harmed, it did make Jean weary as she faced each day on the defensive, knowing that everything she loved and considered holy would be denounced in her father’s booming voice at mealtimes, in discussions with her stepmother, or in his verbal prayers.
Some nights only hours on bended knees kept her from total despair. She fought back the desire to rage against her Heavenly Father for deserting her. Soon even the scriptures she loved were difficult to read because they produced such a terrible longing for her old friends, teachers, and bishop. Often she lay in bed at night with tears streaming down her face trying to remember that she wasn’t the only Latter-day Saint in the world. She tried to be strong, but she was young and alone and there had been no contact with members for so long.
One night in January, Jean reached rock bottom. Her father and stepmother had baited her and prayed aloud for her soul until she was ready to scream. No one understood the trials she was going through. Her sisters sympathized, but we were too far away to be any help. Finally Jean knelt by her bed and poured her heart out as she had so many times in the past. She told her Heavenly Father that she knew he loved her and that he had promised no burden heavier than she could bear. She begged for some sort of help because the burden had grown so heavy that she could not bear it any longer.
When Jean left Natchez, her records had been sent to the nearest branch. Once the records were received, she was assigned home teachers. However, as no one had ever met Jean and she lived so far away and had never attended a meeting, the home teachers didn’t visit her. In their minds, she was probably someone who had joined the Church at age eight but had never been active. Someone in the branch had heard that a Mr. Swilley in Egypt, Georgia, was the Baptist preacher there, and this Jean was probably his wife. No way were they going to drive all that way to get a door slammed in their faces!
In a small branch, the work load is heavy for each member. The home teacher lived 15 miles on the other side of the town where the branch was located, a total of 45 miles one way on country roads from Jean. Months went by, and each month his home teaching report was complete except for Sister Swilley. Being a good and conscientious man, this bothered him. He decided to go at least once just to see what sort of circumstances she was in.
The night came when he couldn’t rest until he had made the effort to see this sister. He called his companion, a young boy of 16, and they began the long drive. As they drove farther into the countryside, they began to be uneasy and wished they could turn around and go home. Yet something urged them on. Little did they know that at that moment, Jean Swilley was on her knees begging her Father in Heaven to throw her a lifeline. As her prayer ended and she dried her tears, Dad knocked on her bedroom door. “Jeanie, there are two men outside, and they are asking for you. They are Mormons, and I won’t ask them in, but you can go talk to them on the porch.”
Jean flew through the house and onto the porch. She stood on the steps, and tears fell again as the older of the two men stretched out his hand and said, “We are your home teachers …” He didn’t have to say anything else because Jean fell into his arms and cried out all the pain and loneliness that was there. Finally someone had come. God had indeed heard her prayers.
As Jean told her story to these wonderful men, I know that their hearts were touched. They expressed sorrow for not having come sooner and promised to make the branch president aware of her situation. They prayed with Jean and told her to call them when it got too hard and left with the most beautiful words Jean had ever heard, “You aren’t alone anymore.”
Jean is still not allowed to go to church, but her spirit is so much stronger now that she knows her Father in Heaven is aware of her needs and answers her prayers. Dad said the home teachers could keep coming as long as they had a talk with him first. When Jean explained the situation to the home teachers, they told her that they would talk with him and do it gladly.
Jean’s home teachers had every excuse in the world not to visit her. It was inconvenient—one and a half hours just in driving time. She had expressed no interest in seeing them. They did not think she would welcome them, and they were busy with other church responsibilities. Still, they obeyed the promptings of the Holy Spirit.
Those home teachers will never know just how happy they made my sister nor will they know how thankful they made me for a Heavenly Father that heard my sister’s prayers. How can they know what will come of their talk with my dad? Or that Mother, who had drifted so far away that she denied the Church on every opportunity, would cry when told that her baby girl wasn’t quite so wretched anymore and why. How could they have known that Mother would say through her tears, “I knew He would take care of her and hear her prayers.” I know that more good will come because those two men listened and obeyed. I hope that I will learn to listen and obey. I hope we all will.

My bishop and I sat in his small, organized office. He peered at me through his glasses. “A patriarchal blessing is like a blessing from Heavenly Father. And as you go through life, little by little, more of your blessing will make sense.”
I got up from the small wooden chair and shook the bishop’s hand. He then gave me a patriarchal blessing recommend. I thanked him and left the office.
Lately I had been pondering some questions. Does Heavenly Father really love me? Does he really know who I am? Does he know me individually and love me for who I am, not just because I’m one of his daughters?
I would try to come up with as many answers as I possibly could. “God loves you because you’re his daughter,” my teachers would tell our class during Young Women lessons.
“You should feel special because you’re a child of God,” my Primary teachers had told me.
I knew those things were true. I knew he loved me. I knew I was a child of God. But would Heavenly Father be able to point me out among all of his children? Did he love me for my qualities, my personality?
I rode to the church house with my mother and walked briskly to that small office where the patriarch was waiting. He was an elderly man with a smile and soft, kind eyes.
He gave us a quick review of what a patriarchal blessing is and how sacred it is. He then put his hands on my head and began talking for my Heavenly Father.
I listened closely to every word he said. I felt the Spirit so strongly at times I couldn’t help crying. I received the answer my heart had wanted to hear: “I assure you that your Heavenly Father knows you well and loves you.” The patriarch also mentioned several things only my Heavenly Father knew. I felt a complete feeling of love and caring.
I know now that my Heavenly Father loves me and knows me, just as he does each of you. He loves you for who you are.

Spring Hill provided an even more important opportunity than teaching youth. One of the teachers under Eldon was named Sara Merrill. He had never met her officially, but he had glimpsed her previously one day in Cardston and said to a friend, “Someday I’m going to marry her.” They were married on December 19, 1919. Their union was blessed with five beautiful daughters, the first being born in October 1920 and the last in August 1931.

I was born and grew up in Burley, Idaho, USA. My father had a farm and a ranch there, so I spent my time working in the out-of-doors. My family had been members of the Church for generations, and I was raised in a faithful home. But while I was in high school, my testimony was tested by an opportunity I had sought out.

I knew of a person from our high school who had been an exchange student. I thought it sounded like an interesting experience, so I researched the idea of becoming an exchange student, found out the procedure, and applied. I was accepted. I was then 16 years old. I had taken one year of German, so I assumed, as did my adviser, that I would be assigned to go to Germany. This particular exchange program took all your information, matched it up with families willing to act as hosts, then assigned you to a country.

When I was accepted, I was assigned to Brazil, and I agreed to the assignment. I lived with a wonderful family in São Paulo. They had six boys and one girl, just like my family at home. Fortunately, they spoke English. It turned out to be a great experience, even though I was there only for the summer.

During my time in Brazil, I made some friends who were in that stage in life when they were experimenting with things. They started inviting me to go out with them to have fun with some girls they had met.

I was thousands of miles from home in a country where nobody knew me except my host family. The friends who would invite me to go out with them used the line “No one will ever know.” In many respects that was true. Certainly, none of my American family would ever know. I was a teenager, far from home, with an invitation to do what was wrong, and nobody would ever know.

But I knew that I would know. I knew the Lord would know, so I said no to their invitations and continued to say no. They asked repeatedly, sure that they could persuade me. It was not a one-time challenge, but every time I declined, I grew more determined to stand my ground.

“No one will ever know” is a rationalization that Satan uses against us in our lives. It’s a lie. I discovered that for myself during my summer in Brazil. Falling for Satan’s lie is, in fact, how many people get into such things as Internet pornography. They think they can do it in a way that no one will ever know. But in every case, they know and God knows.

Please don’t ever buy into that lie in any aspect of your life. I’m thankful that I was able to see the false reasoning for what it was and not give in. The Spirit helped me feel the truth. I also relied on the fact that because of what I had learned in my family, I knew what was right. My parents had taught me the truth. I learned the truth in Primary, in Sunday School, in Aaronic Priesthood, and in seminary. That foundation of the gospel was in my home, in the upbringing that I had had, and in Church lessons.

My experience with temptation as an exchange student came from the outside, from persistent friends. It was an external challenge to the things I believed, and I was able to stand firm. But as additional experiences came to me, I learned that we are going to be tested from all sides. Some of the most difficult challenges are internal ones, when the temptations that have to be resisted take place in the quiet of our own hearts and minds.

Shortly after this call came to me, I was traveling by plane from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, to Salt Lake City. A young businessman stepped to my seat in the plane and introduced himself as a Latter-day Saint. He asked if I was traveling to attend meetings, and I answered, “Yes.”
“Will you see President Benson?”
“I think that is unlikely in view of the nature of the meetings.”
“When you see him, will you tell him that though we have never met, I have a deep love for him?”
He returned to his seat.
It was late in the day; soon the lights were dimmed, giving me ample opportunity to think about that experience.
Brothers and sisters, there is great safety in having a love for the Brethren. As we traveled through the night, I remembered an experience that had come to me in this tabernacle some years ago. It was, I believe, the last time that President Joseph Fielding Smith spoke in a general priesthood meeting. He said:
“Now, brethren, I think there is one thing which we should have exceedingly clear in our minds. Neither the President of the Church, nor the First Presidency, nor the united voice of the First Presidency and the Twelve will ever lead the Saints astray or send forth counsel to the world that is contrary to the mind and will of the Lord” (in Conference Report, Apr. 1972, p. 99; or Ensign, July 1972, p. 88).
When President Smith made that statement, the Spirit bore witness to me that it was true. That same Spirit bears witness anew today.

“Landscape Architecture,” read the cover on the merit badge pamphlet. It looked interesting. I said to myself, “Self: Let’s get the landscape architecture merit badge.” I didn’t realize that I had nearly sentenced myself to an early death.
About the first thing the pamphlet said to do was to visit with the merit badge counselor. But I lived seven miles southeast of Puckerbrush Junction in Boondocks County, Oregon*—and the telephone had not yet been invented.
So I said to myself, “You don’t need a merit badge counselor. After all, you’re big and strong and handsome and you don’t need help from anybody. Naw. You go ahead and knock out the requirements first, and then talk to the merit badge counselor.”
Well, that turned out to be a not-so-good decision.
Actually, I got along pretty well through requirements l-a and l-b and l-c. Soon I had whipped out 2-a and 2-b. Even 3-a wasn’t too bad. I got through 3-b all right.
And then came 3-c: “Build a retaining wall to terrace a slope. Fill in behind the wall with dirt. Plant flowers along the top of the wall.”
Hmmm. Terrace the yard, huh? With rocks or with wood? Build it how tall? Build it how long? (The sort of questions merit badge counselors are so good at answering.)
I checked with Mom, and now I know how the Great Wall of China came to be: Some poor Chinese Scout, working on a merit badge, must have asked his mother how big she wanted a rock retaining wall to be. Mom said she thought I should start at the porch with a five-foot-high wall and continue on toward the forest for four or five miles.
Piece of cake, right? Wrong.
After gathering up a bunch of stray rocks and stacking them up to form maybe six feet of wall, I decided the whole thing was a genuine botch. See, before you start stacking rocks, you need to take a shovel and dig back into the slope a few feet. (That’s so the ground at the base of the wall is level, right?)
Out came all the rocks. Then came the shovel work. Grunt. Scoop. Throw the dirt out of the way. Restack the rocks.
Naw. That’s no good either. The rocks were all shaped like watermelons. How do you get watermelons to stay stacked up?
I said to myself, “What if you took a sledgehammer and cracked the rocks open so there would be a flat side to each stone?”
Go get the hammer. (We’re talking 14-pound hammer—the kind that put John Henry in a pine box.) Whack the rocks. Whack them again. Watch them shatter into useless rubble.
But not all of them. Soon I learned that you have to find a natural crack in the rock, and then hammer on the crack. (That way you get nice, flat sides instead of broken rubble—sometimes.)
Stack them up. Hey, this is looking pretty good! But I’ve run out of rocks, and the wall is only maybe ten feet long.
No problem. This whole 11-acre farm is made up of male and female rocks and litters of rock puppies. But they’re all hiding back in the forest, and they’re mostly buried beneath the ground.
Take the wheelbarrow and the shovel and a six-foot-long steel bar, and go get ’em! After you’ve found a likely candidate, you dig all around it, then pry it out of the ground with the bar. Then you grunt and sweat and strain and try to get it into the wheelbarrow.
Now you lay the wheelbarrow down on its side next to the rock. Roll the rock partially into the wheelbarrow. Now sweat and strain as you lift the wheelbarrow and the rock into an upright position. Now center the rock in the wheelbarrow. Now push the wheelbarrow over rough ground back to the work site. Now collapse.
After a few million hours of this entertaining little game, I had a pretty good pile of rocks near my retaining wall. Then came the charming little dance with the 14-pound hammer and the six-foot steel bar. Find the natural crack in the rock. Whang on the crack with the hammer. Ding on it with the pointed end of the steel bar. Sweat like a hog.
Given enough of this, the rock usually would break more or less where it was supposed to, yielding two or three usable stones with flat surfaces (“dressed stones”) to face the front of the Great Wall.
And then I made an awful discovery: My wall wasn’t straight! I mean, it was close to straight, and it wasn’t really all that bad. But as you stood by the porch looking down the wall, there was a definite zigging and zagging. And the top was uneven enough to make a fellow seasick just looking at it.
Time to start over. Out came all the rocks. Then I took a piece of string and stretched it out about 50 feet toward the forest and tied it to a stake in the ground.
Now we’re cooking on the front burner, kids! Up went the rocks again into a medium-pretty-good-looking wall. Now I had an absolutely straight wall, and the top was exactly level.
But about this time Little Brother came toddling along the top of my wall in his diaper ensemble and did a two-and-one-half gainer with a full twist (difficulty 6.3) to the terrace five feet below. Little Brother wasn’t hurt—though he made plenty of noise—but Mom decided the Great Wall needed a set of stone steps (so Little Brother could go from one level to another without having to use a parachute).
Out came all the rocks back to about ten feet from the house. Get the shovel. Dig back into the dirt to make room for stone steps. Select the flattest stones for stair treads. Stack ’em up. Pull ’em out. Try again. Eventually, I got the stairs to where they looked about medium-pretty-good. Now back to the wall itself.
Out of rocks again. Back to the forest. Find a rock. Dig around it. Pry it up out of the ground. Roll it into the reclining wheelbarrow. Tilt the wheelbarrow up. Center the rock. Push the wheelbarrow to the work site. Break up the rock. Fall over dead.
Then go get another rock. And another. And another.
(Say, friends, guess what this sort of thing does for your biceps and your triceps and your quads and your pecs. Soon, when I got on the school bus, I had the girls gasping in astonishment at my mean, lean, steel-belted, rock-stacking machine of a body. It’s embarrassing, having to step over the bodies of fainting females.)
Anyway. When my wall was out to about 60 feet (I lie not!)from the porch, I made a startling discovery. That much rock wall, absolutely straight, looked … well, it didn’t look right.
Straight stone walls are what you put around prisons. I decided what I really needed were some graceful curves in my wall. (Is the Great Wall of China straight? Of course not—and now you know why.)
Time to tear it all out again for the 87th time. Clear back to the stairs. (No, I didn’t rebuild the stairs!)
Then take the shovel and reshape the dirt to accommodate a curving wall. Then stack up those idiot rocks again. Then fill in behind them again with dirt.
Did it look pretty good? I should hope to shout! It looked purely wonderful! (Eat your heart out, Chinese Scout!)
I said to myself, “I wonder how long this wall is.” My tape measure showed 72 feet of wall five-feet high, including a set of stone steps. But it didn’t look … finished.
I mean, over here you have a beautiful stone wall, and right next to it you have the wilderness. I looked at the thing, and I scratched my head, and then I looked at it some more.
After about a week of this, I figured out how to solve my problem. (With the help of a merit badge counselor, I could have had my answer in maybe ten seconds.) What I needed to do was to gradually taper the wall off so it would look like the wall just sort of grew out of the hillside.
Then I conned Mom into buying some gladiolus bulbs to plant in the fill dirt behind the Great Wall. Finally, I was finished with 3-c.
My stone wall had gone from medium-rotten to not-so-pretty-good to medium-pretty-good to about as handsome a wall as any 13-year-old Scout ever had built (including Chinese Scouts).
Make that 13-and 14-year-old Scouts. During the 11 months it took me to do 3-c, I had had a birthday.
The other requirements didn’t amount to much, and soon I was ready for the long-postponed visit with the merit badge counselor.
On Sunday after church, Brother Perry drove out Puckerbrush Road into Boondocks County to pass me off on the Landscape Architecture merit badge.
Brother Perry and I were sitting on a couple of lawn chairs near the stone stairs at the base of the stone wall as he asked me various questions. We got through l-a and l-b and l-c and so on down to 3-c.
“Now let’s see your retaining wall or terrace,” he said.
“Right behind you,” I said, pointing to the Wall.
“You helped your father build this?” he asked.
“I built it myself, sir,” I replied (with incredible modesty).
Brother Perry looked at me with one eye sort of squinted half shut and said something about “We believe in being honest. …”
“Really, sir,” I said. “I built it myself.”
“With some help from … ?”
“From no one, sir. Really. I did it myself.”
“After your father brought in the dressed stones for you?”
“No, sir. I even dressed the stones myself.”
“After your father brought the rough stones to the work site?”
“No, sir. I dug the stones in the forest and brought them here in the wheelbarrow.”
There was this long pause. Then Brother Perry said, “Young man, take off your shirt.”
I did. Brother Perry looked at my biceps and my triceps and my quads and my pecs.
Then he said, “Let me look at your hands.” I showed him two large, strong hands well-decorated with thick callouses. Finally, Brother Perry was convinced.
“Here,” he said. “Let me sign that thing. You’ve earned your merit badge, son. Except it ought to come with gold plating and oak-leaf clusters and be presented to you by the President himself.
“But there is one word of advice I’d like to give you: I’m glad you’ve worked so hard on this merit badge. But maybe it’s possible to do too much. Maybe you could have earned several merit badges for all your work, instead of just one.”
At the time I thought maybe Brother Perry was right. But now as I look back on it, I’m not so sure. Building the Great Wall of Oregon taught me some really important things about hard work and pride in doing a job right. And those lessons have helped me again and again—on my mission, in my college work, in my career, in my Church work. Even when the Great Wall is gone, the ability to work hard and to keep after something until it is right will remain.
And now I say to myself, “Aren’t you glad you really earned your merit badge?” And myself agrees.

This year a new Laurel, Sara,* came to our Young Women class. She arrived with many challenges. She is mentally handicapped and is sometimes difficult to understand because her speech is unclear. Sara is home-schooled. Her family brings Sara to midweek activities so she can have some interaction with her peers. When I first met her, I wondered how she would be accepted by the Laurels in my class.
I didn’t have to wonder long, though, because Sara was welcomed with open arms.
One of the first activities she came to was a craft night. All the Young Women were making finger puppets to give to the local children’s hospital. Without prompting, a few girls from the Laurel class invited Sara to sit at their table. She remained there the entire evening, working alongside all the other girls. At subsequent activities, Sara was always included, without prompting from the adult leaders.
Our ward-sponsored “Back to School Dance” at the beginning of the school year was especially memorable. I was in the ward library making a few copies before the activity began. As I was waiting, someone came from behind me and gave me a hug. It was Sara.
I noticed she was dressed up for the occasion. She followed me into the cultural hall and watched the others dance. She tapped her feet to the music and said, “I know this song.”
We weren’t on the sidelines long before one of our class members came over and said, “Hey, Sara, come dance with us.”
Sara leaped from her chair and followed this girl out onto the dance floor.
Sara’s classmates have accepted her in a way that is genuine and caring. When I think of Sara and the other Laurels in my class, I often think of the scripture, “Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matt. 25:40).

Getting up early on a Saturday morning to shingle roofs, paint houses, and mow lawns after being soaked in a mountain downpour the day before might deter some people, but not youth from the Alpine Utah Stake.
Nearly 400 youth and 100 leaders and adults joined forces on June 10, 2006, to work on a huge fix-up project as part of their stake’s three-day youth conference. The stake’s “Extreme Neighborhood Makeover” literally transformed a small neighborhood in Provo, Utah: 5 houses were reroofed, 15 were painted, and a few new lawns were put in. In all, 25 houses in the neighborhood had at least one type of repair performed.
“It’s a party,” “This is fabulous,” “It’s amazing,” and “I can’t believe how early they were here,” were some of the comments by residents as they watched the youth descend on their neighborhood with scrapers, paint, and ladders.
“It’s just been amazing to watch how hard these kids have worked,” said Joseph Nilson, stake president of the Alpine Utah Stake. “To me, you don’t have to go too far to find service opportunities, and it’s wonderful for them to get out and see their religion in action.”

My sweet Frances had a terrible fall a few years ago. She went to the hospital. She lay in a coma for about 18 days. I sat by her side. She never moved a muscle. The children cried, the grandchildren cried, and I wept. Not a movement.

And then one day, she opened her eyes. I set a speed record in getting to her side. I gave her a kiss and a hug, and I said, “You’re back. I love you.” And she said, “I love you, too, Tom, but we’re in serious trouble.” I thought, What do you know about trouble, Frances? She said, “I forgot to mail in our fourth-quarter income tax payment.”

I said to her, “Frances, if you had said that before you extended a kiss to me and told me you love me, I might have left you here.”

“It’s not going to work,” I grumbled to Leigh as I looked down at the workbench we were making for Dad’s Father’s Day present. There were bent nails sticking out all over, and the legs were wobbly and crooked.
Jordon, my four-year-old brother, scratched his head. “Are you sure this is what Dad wanted?”
“Something like this,” I muttered.
Jordon looked at the workbench a little longer, then sat on it. It creaked and wobbled, then crumpled into a pile of broken boards.
Jordon jumped up, his mouth open and his eyes big. He looked at me, then at the broken workbench. “It broke, David,” he bleated.
I was about to get mad, but I realized that this was the best thing that could have happened. “Don’t worry, Jordon,” I consoled him. “It wasn’t any good anyway.”
“So what are we going to do?” Leigh demanded. “Father’s Day is tomorrow.”
I shrugged. There just didn’t seem to be anything we could get for Dad. Then a great idea came! “I know!” I shouted, jumping up. “Ever since Mom ran over Dad’s fishing pole last spring, he’s been saying he needed a new one,”
“But we don’t have enough money to buy a fishing pole,” Leigh said.
“We don’t need to buy one,” I said, grinning. “We’ll make him a willow fishing pole. They’re the best kind.”
“Sure,” Leigh said. “Dad’s always telling us how he used to cut himself a willow, put on some fishing line, and catch lots of big fish. He said everybody ought to have a willow pole.”
We raced down the street, past the park, across the school grounds, and into the vacant lot behind the supermarket. There were some tall poplar trees there, and growing out of the trunk of one of the biggest trees were the best willows around. They were really shoots from the poplars, but everyone we knew called them willows.
We cut a long one, chopped off the top, and trimmed off the leaves and twigs. It was a beauty, about ten feet long—just the kind of pole a guy would need to catch a whopper of a fish.
We borrowed some of Dad’s fishing line, one of his hooks, and one of his floaters and got that fishing pole all ready. Then we hid it in the garage.
After church the next day, Mom wanted to have the presents after we ate dinner, but Jordon, Leigh, and I shouted, “No! Presents first!”
“Close your eyes,” Leigh told Dad as I went to the garage to get the willow pole. “It was too big to wrap,” she explained, “Don’t peek.”
I had a hard time getting the pole inside because it was so long. I knocked a lamp shade off the lamp and brushed the magazines off the bookshelf but finally got the willow pole into the kitchen.
“You can open your eyes now,” Leigh said as I pushed the fishing pole into Dad’s hands, banging the light overhead.
“It’s just what you always wanted!” Jordon exclaimed.
“Your very own willow fishing pole,” I added. “You always said they were the very best kind.”
Why, it took Dad’s breath away. He just looked down at the fabulous willow pole and grinned and shook his head. “Well, it sure does look like a fine pole,” he finally managed to say.
“If I had known that you were going to get your dream wish,” Mom said, “I wouldn’t have bought you what I did.”
She left the room and came back with a long package. Dad tore off the paper and ripped open the box. There was another fishing pole. But this was just a store-bought one, not nearly as good as our genuine willow pole. But Dad tried to act happy anyway.
“I could take mine back and get you a couple of white shirts and a tie,” Mom suggested.
“Oh, that’s all right, Vella,” Dad told her. “I’ll keep the store-bought pole—just in case.” He shrugged. “Well, a fisherman like me can always use two poles.”
Dad was really excited. “You know what we’re going to do tomorrow?” he burst out. “I’m getting off work, and we’re going fishing. The whole family!”
Monday was better than Father’s Day. Mom packed a good lunch while Dad and I packed our fishing gear. We had a hard time with the willow pole because it was so long, but we finally managed to tie it on top of the van. Then we were off. We sang songs and listened to Dad tell fish stories about when he was younger and he and Uncle Joe had gone fishing with their willow poles.
When we finally reached the lake, we piled out. “Hey, David,” Dad called, “do you want to carry the willow pole?” He winked.
I sure did want to, but I didn’t think that that would be fair to Dad. “No, Dad. This is your special day. You go ahead and carry the good pole.”
As we walked along the edge of the lake, there were a few people fishing already. All of them noticed Dad’s fabulous willow pole.
“Hey, where’d you get that fancy pole?” a man called out.
“Want to trade?” another man asked with a grin.
Dad gripped the pole, and his cheeks turned red. “I wouldn’t trade this for anything,” he said, shaking his head. “This is my Father’s Day present. A genuine, guaranteed-success willow pole.”
We found ourselves a private spot at the end of the lake, where the pine trees grew tall. Mom and Dad, Jordon, Leigh, and I found a big rock that poked way out into the water to fish from.
“I tell you what, David,” Dad said. “Why don’t you and Leigh try out the willow pole first, and I’ll struggle along with this store-bought one. They’re kind of tricky things.”
Well, I sure did want to try out Dad’s new willow pole, but I knew how much he wanted to use it, so I shook my head. “No, Dad, you’d better be the first to use the willow pole.”
“By all means,” Mom said with a smile. “Let the kids use the store-bought one. You enjoy the willow pole.”
It took a little work getting used to that store-bought pole with all its funny gadgets. I got the line tangled up a few times and hooked Leigh in the pants once and Jordon in the shirt twice, but before noon I had two fish.
At first, Dad didn’t catch anything, but he claimed he was waiting for a big fish to come along. He said he wasn’t going to bother with the little ones.
In the afternoon, Jordon and Leigh took the store-bought pole to another spot, and I slipped up next to Dad as he sat fishing on the rock. All of a sudden there was a little tug on the line. Dad got all stiff and sat up straight. There was another tug and then a huge jerk, and Dad jumped to his feet and started shouting and dancing around.
“It’s a big one, David,” Dad yelled. “That’s a granddaddy fish! Didn’t I always tell you that a willow pole was the best fishing pole in the world?” He shook his head. “Wait until I walk back to the van with this monster. Then we’ll see what they say about my willow pole!”
Dad fought that fish for a long time before he could start pulling it to shore. A couple of times that old fish jumped out of the water, and it was big all right! It was huge!
“Get me the net, David,” Dad ordered.
I raced back to the picnic spot where Mom was resting and grabbed the net. “Dad’s got a big one,” I shouted. “It must be the biggest one in the lake.”
I raced back to Dad with Mom right behind me. Dad was still dancing and pulling and twisting and yelling. I’d never seen him so excited. I handed him the net, and he began pulling that granddaddy fish right up to the rock. We were both looking down into the churning water, just waiting for that big fish to get close enough for Dad to slip the net under him. It got closer and closer, and Dad started to reach out with the net, when suddenly there was a loud crack and then a quick pop. The willow pole had snapped in two!
Dad lunged for the fish, tumbling into the lake head first. He still had the net in his hand, and he began whipping it through the water, hoping to catch that great big granddaddy fish. But it was gone.
“Can we swim too?” Jordon called as he and Leigh came running back. “We’ll even take our shoes off.”
“Just give me the other pole,” Dad gasped. “I’m still going to catch that fish?”
Leigh got a sick look on her face. She took a deep breath and said, “I think Mom got gypped.”
Dad wiped a piece of moss out of the corner of his mouth. “How did she get gypped?”
“Well, Jordon and I were fishing down that way.” She pointed down the shore. “I leaned the pole against a rock. Then Jordon and I went hunting crawdads. We caught one and ran back to show Mom. Jordon tripped on the pole, and I tripped on Jordon, and … and we both fell on the pole. And it’s not unbreakable.”
“Yeah, it broke in three places,” Jordon said.
All of a sudden I heard someone laughing. Mom was sitting on a log, holding her sides and laughing so hard that tears were running down her cheeks. Dad just stood in the water and looked at her.
“Don’t worry, Dad,” I said. “We can get you another willow pole. There are lots more where that one came from.”
Dad started pulling himself out of the water. “David, that’s the best news I’ve heard all day.”
“I think that next time,” Mom said, trying to stop laughing, “I’ll get you a couple of white shirts and a tie.”
“Do you think you’ll ever forget this Father’s Day?” I asked.
Dad looked down at me. Suddenly his face turned into one great big smile. “No, David, this is one Father’s Day that I’m going to remember for a long, long time.”