Gospel Story Finder

Something that happened during a Book of Mormon class years ago has had a great impact on my life. Our teacher, Brother Fernando Aguilar, told us an experience that had happened to his father, Santiago Aguilar II, who had been working hard to find genealogical information about his ancestors. He had been successful in submitting many family names for temple ordinances. Nevertheless, on one of his family lines, the information he could find stopped with his grandmother. Despite many trips and continual research, he had not been able to find the necessary information about her. But the Spirit gave him a sense of urgency to keep looking.
Brother Fernando Aguilar, currently a part-time coordinator for the Church Educational System in Chile, recalled: “One day my father had an impression that he should return to a small village 90 kilometers east of the city of Osorno—some 500 kilometers from his home in Talcahuano—even though he had recently visited our relatives there and had received genealogical information. He knew of no reason to return, but the impression would not leave. So with a prayer for guidance, he returned to the village. When our relatives saw him, they were surprised he had returned so soon, and they assured him they had given him all the genealogical information they had. He simply explained that he felt an urgency to return, even though he didn’t know why.
“My father spent the following day seeking—but not finding—additional information. After a tiring day, as he was walking to an uncle’s home, he felt impressed to change his route. My father followed the impression, even though he didn’t know where he was going or why. His new route led him to a large vacant lot filled with trash, and he felt a strong impulse to take the path through the lot.
“After entering the lot, he stopped suddenly and began to look around, seeking the reason for being in that spot so far from home. Looking down at his feet, he saw a yellowed, dirty piece of paper and picked it up. After shaking the dirt off, he recognized it as his grandparents’ marriage certificate, which included the names and other family information he was missing. This certificate was the key he needed to bring to pass the temple work for our ancestors.”

I worked at Disney Interactive Studios for about 13 years as an artist and producer, and one day when I pushed the elevator button to go up to work, I felt that I wasn’t supposed to be there. Well, I put that thought on a mental shelf and continued to work. How could I leave a stable and desired career? How could I leave the good people I loved and had worked with for the last decade or so?

But it pressed upon me, and I knew this feeling wasn’t going to go away. I tried to put together a plan so I had something in place before leaving, but no matter how I tried, it didn’t materialize. So I left without a job or opportunity in place. I cried and had many deep, heartfelt discussions with my Heavenly Father during this time.

What I learned was the plan was not to have a plan. I learned who I was minus any title, career, or status. Though painful as this change was, it was an invaluable space for me to learn about me and my relationship with my Heavenly Father. Just two months after I left, that studio that I thought was stable shut down out of the blue and without warning.

Throughout my experience in leaving Disney, I pondered and searched this quote from President Spencer W. Kimball: “Security is not born of inexhaustible wealth but of unquenchable faith.”1 Our true security and peace is born of faith in Jesus Christ. That faith in Christ is a choice we can make. I’m grateful He let me choose Him.

Illustration by Jessica Parker
I was six when I had to leave my birth family. It was very sad and scary. A few months after this happened, I first heard about Jesus Christ.
I started visiting a family who became my foster family. They had lots of kids who were kind to me and loved the Savior. My new family let me go to church with them, and I felt safe and happy there.
It took a few years of going to church and reading scriptures before I understood what the gospel was, and I wanted to get baptized very badly. I was 12 years old when I was finally adopted by my foster family, and I was allowed to be baptized if I wanted to!
At my baptism, I bore my testimony and felt God’s love surround me with a great strength.
Reading the Book of Mormon and learning about Jesus has helped me know I’m not alone and that I’m a child of God. Even when things don’t go how I want, He will always be there for me.
Violet B., Hawaii, USA

Life was not easy growing up in my family. We had financial difficulties along with other challenges of life. I recently asked my mom what blessings came to our family during those hard times because we were trying our best to live the gospel. She said we were blessed with health, and that we had always had a house to live in and food on the table. My siblings and I were regularly able to find jobs like mowing lawns and babysitting for neighbors. As we got older, we worked hard and sought education. We were always close as a family. Keeping our covenants with God brought specific blessings to our family that we still enjoy today.

I know that God’s promises are sure and that when we keep our covenants, He will provide us with help and guidance. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland once noted that it was interesting to him “that covenants are made personally, individually… Those ordinances are performed for individual persons, one by one, no matter how many must ultimately receive them.” [4] Because our covenants are individually made with God, we can have the individual reassurance that God will provide blessings and miracles unique to us and our circumstances, just as He did for my family when I was growing up.

Several years ago I served as a temple worker in the Santiago Chile Temple. During one evening shift I began to experience difficulty breathing, so I reluctantly requested to leave early.
As I walked to the subway station, I prayed that the train I needed would be there so I could get home soon. I thought my prayer was answered when I saw the train stopped at the platform. But as I approached, I saw the train staff rushing to help a passenger who was experiencing a possible heart attack. The words of my favorite hymn pierced my mind: “Have I done any good in the world today?”1 I immediately felt impressed to help.
I hurried to where the staff took the young man to wait for the ambulance, and they allowed me to stay. I prayed to know what to do and pled with Heavenly Father to spare the young man’s life. I didn’t want to leave him alone and scared, so I held his hand and tried to help him remain calm. I assured him that he had a long life ahead and that God had a purpose for him. I found out his family’s phone number, called them, and let them know their son was on his way to the hospital and was not alone.
When the paramedics arrived, I followed them to the ambulance. I felt I should stay with the young man until his family arrived. To my surprise, the paramedics decided I should come with them, so I held the young man’s hand all the way to the hospital.
Shortly after we arrived, they took him to the emergency room, and I went outside to watch for his family. When they came, his mother broke into tears, threw her arms around me, and said she was so glad there are still good people on earth.
A week later I received a phone call from the young man. He told me the doctors said that remaining calm had been critical during that time before he reached the hospital.
Until that day, he did not believe in God. I was speechless when he exclaimed, “You saved my life, and I am forever grateful to you! Now I know there is a God.”
When I left the temple early that day, the Spirit led me to the right place at the right time. I feel grateful to our Heavenly Father for guiding me and giving me courage to do as the hymn says and not let the opportunity pass by, even if the only thing I could do was hold the hand of a stranger.

Recently, BYU-Idaho graduate Lila Jolley was asked to speak at her convocation ceremony as she received her bachelor's degree. She said,
"I remember my very first science class here on campus... I went in thinking I had a testimony of our Savior. I came out with the knowledge that He created all things, that God is our creator... Every semester, as I took more and more advanced science classes, I was taught how the world worked, and my faith was strengthened. From physics, genetics, animal behavior, biochemistry, animal reproduction, nutrition, and organic chemistry, I began to realize that God is the ultimate scientist." [1]
Lila received one of the great blessings of attending this university and experienced, in fact, one of its great purposes: our earthly studies can, and should, strengthen our spiritual knowledge and bring us closer to God. Brigham Young, in giving direction to Karl G. Maeser at the time of his assignment to lead Brigham Young Academy, said, "I want you to remember that you ought not to teach even the alphabet or the multiplication tables without the spirit of God." [2] Lila gained her realizations because the Spirit of God was with her as she learned.
Her comments reminded me of my own experience at BYU. I remember concluding, after finishing a biochemistry course in graduate school, that I would likely not remember very many details of the class going forward in my life, but that course gave me a greater appreciation for God's creative genius. I had been given a small peek into the microscopic universe and came away more convinced there was indeed a divine Creator. I had received another witness, in the words of Alma, that "all things denote there is a God; yea, even the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it, yea, and its motion, yea, and also all the planets which move in their regular form do witness that there is a Supreme Creator." [3]
Similarly, God spoke to Joseph Smith about the witnesses found in the physical world and, referring to planets and stars, said, "Behold, all these are kingdoms, and any man who hath seen any or the least of these hath seen God moving in his majesty and power." [4]

A correlation exists between hope and gratitude. To illustrate, let me share a personal experience. Last Thanksgiving, Sister Nelson and I hosted a memorable gathering. All of our locally available daughters, sons, and grandchildren were there, among others. We counted sixty-three people at the feast. As part of our after-dinner program, Sister Nelson distributed a sheet of paper to each individual, headed, “This year, I am thankful for. . .” The remainder of the page was blank. She asked each to complete the thought, either in writing or by drawing a picture. The papers were then collected, redistributed, and read aloud. We were asked to guess who composed each reply, which, incidentally, was not very difficult.

Meanwhile, I observed a pattern. Generally, the children were thankful for food, clothing, shelter, family (and, occasionally, pets). Their pictures were precious, though not likely to be shown in an art gallery. Our youth broadened their expressions to include gratitude for their country, freedom, and church. The adults noted most of those items, but in addition mentioned the temple, their love of the Lord, and appreciation for his atonement. Their hopes were combined with gratitude. Counting blessings is better than recounting problems.

My wife has an aged aunt in Brigham City. She is the last of fourteen children. Perhaps seventy-five years ago, Millicent took her little brothers and sisters to town to see the Peach Days Parade. With excitement they walked the long way to town. They hadn’t been there long when a horse-drawn water wagon came along, sprinkling the streets to settle the dust. They watched it in awe and were greatly impressed. When it had passed they went home. They thought the parade was over. They were quite satisfied, until they learned the difference.

I remember a critical time in my life and how grateful I was when a still, small voice gave me direction to make an important decision. I had been with a retail firm for a number of years. We had enjoyed extraordinary success. We wanted to expand the business but needed a great deal of capital. In an attempt to raise the money, we contacted the best financial advisers we could find. They encouraged us to merge with a larger firm. The merger was successfully completed, and I was asked to sign a five-year contract to give continuity to management. Within a matter of months I found myself in a very difficult situation. The new owners wanted me to violate a trust that I felt I just could not do. After long discussions, they continued to insist and I continued to refuse. Seeing there was no way to break the deadlock, I agreed to leave the company. The timing for me was devastating. I had a wife who was seriously ill and required a lot of medical attention, a daughter away to college, and a son on a mission. I spent the next year just getting enough consulting work to pay my expenses.
After struggling for about one year, a company called me from California and invited me to come out and talk to them about working for them. I went out and negotiated a very good contract; I was delighted with the opportunity. I told them that I had to return home and discuss it with my family before I could give an answer. I returned home and after a careful discussion, I convinced my family that it was the right thing to do. In the process of calling the firm to accept the offer, a voice just as strong and powerful as I have ever heard came to me and said, “Say no to the offer.” I could not ignore the voice, so I turned the offer down, but I was distressed. I could not comprehend why I had been told to do such a thing. I went upstairs to my bedroom, sat on the bed, opened the scriptures, and they fell open to the Doctrine and Covenants, section 111. This was the only section given in the state of Massachusetts, where my home was at that particular time. These words literally jumped out of the page and met my eye:
“Concern not yourselves about your debts, … I will give you power to pay them. …
“Tarry in this place, and in the regions round about” (D&C 111:5, 7).
A great peace came to my soul. Within just a few days I was offered a fine position in Boston. A few months later I had the great privilege of hosting a conference in which President Harold B. Lee, then First Counselor in the First Presidency, was the featured speaker. The conference was a glorious success as we feasted on the words of President Lee. The following July, President Joseph Fielding Smith passed away and President Lee became the prophet. Three months later I was asked to come to Salt Lake, where I received a call to leave my profession and join the General Authorities.
I have often wondered what would have happened if I had not heeded the Holy Spirit in its counseling me not to leave Boston.

The choppy waters of the North Sea gently rocked the Speedwell anchored at Delfshaven, Holland. Crowding the ship’s deck were the passengers, along with their families and friends who had come to say good-bye.
Roger gathered his little sister Ellen into his arms. “Be happy that you are going to America,” he said. Ellen wrapped her arms around his neck, and her tears wet his cheek. Releasing herself, she ran to her parents, Kathrine and Edward Howard.
“Oh, Papa! Mama!” she exclaimed. “I don’t want to go away and leave my sister and brother behind.”
“Don’t worry, little sister,” Sarah said, comforting her. “Roger and I will come to America before long. Just wait and see. And remember, Ellen, although you’re almost the littlest Pilgrim on board, you must be brave, because you’re going to a brave new world.”
“Sarah, why are Pilgrims so poor?” Ellen asked. “If we were rich enough, our whole family could go to America. Then I wouldn’t feel so awful.”
“Come on, Ellen, dry your tears. I’ll tell you what—let’s play one more game of pretend before you go. Let’s pretend that I have lots of bags of gold,” suggested Sarah.
Ellen liked to play pretend with Sarah. “What are you going to do with lots of bags of gold?” she asked.
“I’m going to buy a whole fleet of ships. I’ll tell all the Pilgrims to get aboard, and I’ll take them across the ocean where they can never be persecuted again.” Sarah’s smile broadened. “Better still, let’s pretend that I’m a genie. I’ll wrap a magic web around King James, and I’ll say, ‘Aye, Your Majesty, you’re going to be banished to a faraway island where you can never rant and rave and thunder at people or throw them into prison or hang them or clap them into the stocks again. Never again will you tell people how to worship, for they will belong to any church they like.’ And then I’ll sit and watch while he flies into a rage. His beard will bristle, and his face will turn red. Then he’ll spin off into the air to an island of peacocks and apes.”
As Ellen giggled, Sarah hugged her and said, “See, it’s better to laugh than to cry.”
Edward Howard had gone down the plank for one more piece of equipment. When Ellen saw him returning with a strange, heavy load, she asked, “Papa, why are you bringing that big iron screw clamp onto the ship?”
“I’m not sure,” he replied, “but something tells me we’re going to need it.” Papa had worked at the docks for the twelve years they’d been in Holland; he understood about ships.
Sarah and Roger were small when their parents had fled from England to Holland with a group of Separatists, or Pilgrims, but they still remembered the persecutions of King James I. Ellen had been born in Holland, and she loved it because it was home to her. The Dutch people were good to the Pilgrims, allowing them to worship as they pleased. But now the Pilgrim children were speaking mostly Dutch, and the older ones were marrying into Dutch families.
“No one would ever know you’re a little English girl,” Mama once said to Ellen.
“We need to find a country of our own,” Papa declared.
In church on Sundays Ellen bowed her head and listened to Elder Brewster pray. He always thanked Heavenly Father for the kindness the Dutch people had shown them, but lately he had been adding, “Please don’t let us lose our English heritage. Guide us to a land where we can worship as we desire and where we can bring up our children as Englishmen.”
Finally, the prayers were answered, and everyone knew that America was to be their land of promise. A London company agreed to pay their passage there in return for furs, fish, and lumber from America. A patent was given them to settle in the northern part of the Virginia colony. What the Pilgrims didn’t know was that the settlers in Virginia were still bound to the Anglican Church, because King James was not interested in granting freedom of worship to any of his subjects anywhere. However, the king was very interested in the wealth that the English emigrants would send back to England from America.
Since not everyone could go to America at once, it was agreed that Elder Brewster would go with the first group. Pastor John Robinson would remain with those who planned to come later.
So on a July morning in 1620, the emigrants gathered on the deck of the Speedwell and knelt with Pastor Robinson. He stretched his hands toward heaven and, with tears streaming down his cheeks, commended them to the Lord. Then he disembarked.
The people on shore were also crying as they watched the departing ship. Aboard the Speedwell, the rails were crowded with excited, heavyhearted passengers frantically waving a last farewell to those still lining the quay. Ellen waved at Sarah and Roger until they were finally lost from view.
They sailed for England where the Mayflower awaited them. From there the two ships started for America but had to turn back when the Speedwell began leaking badly. The passengers on the Speedwell had to board the Mayflower. Finally the Mayflower, with 102 passengers and its crew, set sail for America on September 16, 1620. Of these voyagers, only thirty-five were Pilgrims. The others were either members of the Anglican Church or strangers and had no intention of changing their religion.
Master Christopher Jones was a rough seadog, as sea captains sometimes had to be. He was also good and kind. He loved his stout, chunky Mayflower and said of her, “Aye, she is apple-cheeked, double-decked, and a fine, sweet ship.”
Closely packed below deck were the stores and livestock of the colony—goats, swine, poultry, bread, butter, cheese, eggs, fish, vegetables, clothing, books, cooking utensils, farm implements, muskets, armor, cannon, and goods for trade with the Indians. The ship’s cargo was so heavy that she rode very low in the sea.
While the Mayflower skimmed westward with the breeze in her sails, Ellen played on deck with four-year-old Mary Allerton, the youngest passenger on board.
“Mary,” Ellen said, “shall we play pretend?”
“How do we play pretend?” Mary asked.
“Well, first, you make believe you’re my sister. Now I need to find a brother. Let me see … John Howland will be just right.” Walking briskly up to him, she said, “Ahoy, mate. A jolly good day it is.”
“Righto!” replied John, grinning. “That it is.”
“Aye, and a jolly good day for pretending,” Ellen added. “Would you like to pretend you’re my brother?”
“I’d like that very much,” the boy answered.
“Then it’s all settled. We are a family. Families stick together on ocean voyages and help each other.” Pretending helped ease Ellen’s homesick longing for Sarah and Roger.
One day a gale came shrieking out of the north. It tugged at the rigging, and the ship strained and groaned. Below deck, the passengers huddled together and comforted each other.
Clinging to her father, Ellen cried, “Papa, is the ship going to sink?”
“No,” he replied. “The Lord wants us to arrive in America.”
“How do you know, Papa?”
“Because He saved us once before when we fled from England and were driven by storms on the North Sea. When the water washed over us, the mariners cried out, ‘We sink! We sink!’ With divine faith, Elder Brewster cried, ‘Yet, Lord, thou canst save!’ The ship recovered, the violent storm ceased, and the Lord filled our minds with much comfort.”
Just then a wall of water lashed across the deck of the Mayflower. Wood cracked and splintered, and the main beam buckled, pulling deck boards with it. Water seeped through to the lower deck.
Cries of terror went up. “The ship is sinking!” a seaman cried.
“Brewster,” a stranger sneered, “I’ve heard about the miracle on the North Sea. See if your prayers can save us now.”
Elder Brewster looked the man in the eye and said, “We know for a certainty the Lord can save. But right now we need to combine work with faith. Come, let’s be up on deck.”
Strong and lusty seamen were struggling against the winds and the waves. The passengers ran to help them push boards against the fractured beam, trying vainly to press it up and together again.
“This iron muscle will help!” Edward Howard shouted. He came forward carrying the great iron screw clamp he had brought from Holland, and the mast was soon repaired. In gratitude the Pilgrims knelt while Elder Brewster committed them once more to the Lord.
For several days the Mayflower wallowed in the subsiding storm. At the first hint of sunshine, Ellen tugged at John Howland’s hand. “I need you to walk on deck with me,” she said.
“All right, little sister, we both need the fresh air.”
On the upper deck, Ellen admiringly patted the main beam so securely mended with her father’s clamp. At that moment a capricious wave sloshed over the deck, and John was washed overboard. Clinging to the mast, Ellen screamed and screamed. Swiftly sailors came. Miraculously John had caught hold of the topsail halyard (rope) that was dangling over the side. The halyard ran out at length, but John held on tightly, and the sailors hauled him in.
Relieved, Ellen buried her face in her hands. “Lord, thank Thee for helping John get hold of the halyard,” she whispered.
Waves and wind were gentle at last. Sailors climbed rope ladders up the mainmast and loosed the sails. While the Mayflower sailed smoothly under the stars, the passengers sweetly slept.
When Ellen awoke, she heard the cry of a newborn baby. Her feet swiftly pattered past the cabin doors until she came to the bedside of Elizabeth Hopkins. Wrapped in a blanket beside her lay the tiny baby. Ellen stared in wonder.
Little Demaris Hopkins grinned and announced, “He’s my brother!”
“Just imagine, Demaris, having a brother born in the middle of the ocean!” Ellen exclaimed.
Steven Hopkins, the baby’s father, patted Ellen on the head. “Guess what we’re going to name him! We’re going to call him Oceanus (Latin word for ocean).”
“Oh, my!” Ellen exclaimed and ran swiftly to tell her mother.
Every day Elder Brewster led the daily prayers, in spite of jeers and complaints. If mighty King James had not intimidated the Pilgrims, however, surely the strangers on board could not.
One of the worst tormenters was a huge, brawny seaman. “Aye, I’ll be burying half of you praying psalm singers at sea,” he taunted. Often he cursed and swore at them bitterly. Then one morning he was stricken. By afternoon he was dead, and his lifeless body was lowered over the side of the ship.
For sixty-six long days and sixty-six long nights, they sailed westward. On the dawn of November 10, 1620, the lookout spied a faint dark line off the starboard bow and raised a cry: “Land, ahoy!” Excitedly the passengers crowded the rail, peering toward the horizon. “Aye, there she is!” Edward shouted. Encircling his wife and little daughter in his arms, he said, “We’re almost home. There is our first glimpse of America.”
All about them people were laughing and crying. As the promised land came closer into view, the Pilgrims burst into songs of joy.
The Mayflower anchored in Cape Cod harbor. After the men had signed the Mayflower Compact, a severe sickness struck the colony. Winter came early and terribly. Many died, but the survivors built their homes at Plymouth and, with God’s help, endured. In time the little settlement grew into a lasting community, and the Pilgrims gave thanks for their new land of freedom.

In May 1921, President David O. McKay (1873–1970), then of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, visited Sauniatu. He was so beloved that his departure brought great sorrow to the people, who wept and kissed his hands as they sang their farewells. The scene was so tender and heart-wrenching that Elder McKay dismounted his horse, hung his umbrella on a tree branch, and raised his hands to leave an apostolic blessing upon the land and the people of Sauniatu.
Today, a monument stands where that event took place. A portion of the apostolic blessing is shared on its plaque. President McKay blessed the people that their hands would be able to produce the necessities and comforts of life. He prayed that the plantations would be fruitful, and the leaders would be wise. He asked for a special blessing on the mothers, fathers, young men and women, and especially the little children. Above all, he prayed that they might have a ‘clear understanding of the truth’ and make rapid progress in gaining a knowledge of God and His work. ‘May thy peace abide here in the village of Sauniatu.’

My name is Rachel. I live near the Paris France Temple.
The temple is really important to my family. Before the Paris Temple was built, we would go on family trips to the Frankfurt Germany Temple several times a year. It took 10 hours to drive there and back!
We loved watching the new temple be built. Every week after church, our parents drove by to let us see how the construction was going. First they tore down an old building and dug a big hole. Then they started building the temple higher and higher. Soon the house of the Lord was there!
My siblings and I are excited to go to the temple someday. My oldest sister, Esther, gets to do baptisms first. We are all waiting anxiously for our turn to go too. We love the temple and are happy to have one in our very own city!

Covey: I was in one Afrikaans area for a long time, an area I had heard was “tracted out.” I was with a South African companion when we knocked on the door of this lady whose husband had died just a few days before. She was very religious; in fact she was baking a cake for a bazaar in her church. After one month she and her daughter were baptized, and a few months later she was called to be the Relief Society president. She helped bring many people into the Church. All in an area that was supposedly “tracted out.”

One year after Mohamed Turay had joined the Church in Caldwell, Liberia, the 1989 war broke out. As rebels moved closer to Caldwell, he saw people in his community leaving. He had a dream in which a bomb fell near his home. Finally, after seeing an article in the newspaper describing how people were being beheaded, Mohamed knew he and his family were in danger and he resolved to flee Caldwell. Mohamed believed the dream was a warning from God. “It was a blessing for my family,” said Mohamed. “A serious blessing.”
“Come,” he told Abie, his wife. “Today, we’ll not sleep here.” Mohamed took Abie and their children to the border where they would be safe. But he had to return to Caldwell to make final arrangements for their departure. Just hours before rebels took the city, Mohamed managed to escape and join his family.
The Turay family resettled in Bo, Sierra Leone. Although there was no Church presence there, they were encouraged to stay and help establish a branch. They started a home group with only the five members of the Turay family. Not long after they started talking to people about the Church, missionaries arrived, and the first baptismal service was held in Bo. On that special day, 31 people were baptized in the Sewa River. Mohamed was soon called to preside over the new Bo Sierra Leone District. Under Mohamed’s leadership, one small branch eventually grew into four branches.
In 1991 war broke out again—this time in Sierra Leone—resulting in over a decade of famine and violence. “Rebels were killing civilians and the road to Freetown was blocked,” said Mohamed. There was not enough food to feed their children and Mohamed and Abie knew they needed the Lord’s help, so they knelt together in prayer. No sooner had they finished their prayer than a Church leader came to their door with a package containing enough money to provide a bag of rice to each family in the district. Their prayer was answered.
When the fighting reached Bo, Mohamed was targeted as a religious leader in the community. He was forced to separate from his family and to hide from the rebels until it was possible to get back to them. Once the family was reunited, they knew they had to leave. But where? How? As they were formulating their plan, a young man approached the family and asked where they were going. “We want to escape from here,” Mohamed said. “Follow me,” the young man answered. After following the young man through the bush for some time, he suddenly disappeared. “By the time we could wink our eyes, we couldn’t see him,” said Mohamed. “That was the greatest miracle, which we will never forget.”
They continued on their journey but they knew their safety depended on being able to travel through the dangerous territory without a sound. They worried that their baby’s crying would put them at risk, but, as Mohamed later recalled, “the angels sealed his mouth; he never cried.” They continued travelling through three more villages—an arduous trek through dangerous terrain—until they arrived at safety.
After the immediate danger had passed, Mohamed and Abie returned to Bo and joined the other Saints in looking out for one another. “Nearly every day, we used to go around and check on our members,” he said. “unity was built among the Church members.” In addition, food, blankets, clothing, and hygiene kits were provided by the fast offerings of Saints around the world—a gift that helped the Turay family recognize the value of their own tithes and fast offerings.
Following the war, the Saints in Bo helped rebuild their community. Abie worked in health clinics and shared her training in neonatal resuscitation with other professionals. In 2004, civic and tribal leaders attended a groundbreaking ceremony for the first Church-built chapel in Sierra Leone. Two years later, Mohamed was released after serving 14 years as a district president. In reflecting on this service, he said, “I know that the Lord had wanted to use me as an instrument in His hands to do His work.”

I would like now to relate one last very personal experience in faith that demonstrates these six suggestions.
On July 29, 1977, Sister Cook and I had just finished visiting the Bolivia Santa Cruz Mission and were stalled in the Cochabamba, Bolivia, airport for some five hours. I recall that we were very tired, having had few hours of sleep the night before. We were both delighted to have a few hours rest in the airport. As I was drifting off to sleep, I had a very strong feeling that I should awaken and write down some ideas. The desire to sleep was strong, but the promptings of the Spirit were more powerful. I did write; in fact, I wrote for nearly three hours, solving some organizational problems I had struggled with for a number of years previously. I felt a great outpouring of the Spirit on that day and excitedly wrote down each inspired thought. The experience took most of the time of the delay.
We were then off to La Paz, Bolivia. We were graciously met by President and Sister Chase Allred at the airport and driven in their van to the mission office. We locked the car and left our luggage and briefcase in the van.
Upon entering the office, the president was confronted with the difficult case of a woman whose husband was dying. While President Allred and I assisted with her needs, Sisters Cook and Allred left for the mission home.
When the president and I returned to the van, I realized immediately that all of our goods were gone but assumed that Sister Cook had taken them with her to the mission home. While we were driving toward the home, I discovered that the right front window-wing had been damaged and began to fear that our goods had been stolen.
Arriving at the mission home, we found that our luggage had indeed been stolen. The loss of a substantial amount of money and all our clothing created an immediate but only temporary problem. More disheartening than all was the fact that my scriptures were in my briefcase along with the inspired ideas I had just received in Cochabamba. The overwhelming sensation of discouragement, anger, and inability to do anything about the situation was overpowering.
My wife and I prayed alone. We prayed with those present. We tried to enjoy our dinner but could not. Who could know of the great loss I personally felt? The scriptures had been given to me as a young man by my parents, a sacred inscription placed in one of them by my mother and in the other by my since-deceased father. I had spent literally thousands of hours marking and cross-referencing (and loving every moment of it) in the only tangible earthly possessions I had ever considered of much value. I had on many occasions instructed my wife that if there were ever a fire in the home, she should first remove the children and then, if there were time, save my scriptures and not worry about anything else.
The president and I had much to discuss as we were to be together only that evening. However, I felt a strong impression that we must do all in our power to recover the scriptures. After supper, all present knelt in prayer once again. We determined to search the immediate area near the mission office and in a nearby field, hoping that the thief or thieves had taken the salable items and discarded the English books.
In the prayer we pleaded that the scriptures would be returned, that the persons who had taken them would be led to know of their unrighteous act and repent, and that the return of the books would be the means of bringing someone into the true church.
Eight to ten of us then loaded into the van with flashlights and warm clothing and drove up to the mission office in the central city. We scoured vacant lots across the street and adjacent streets and alleys; we talked with guards and anyone else we could find and exhausted all possibilities. No one had seen or heard anything. Finally we returned home, dejected, able only to pray individually and wait. President Allred and I worked late into the night to finish our business, and the next day Sister Cook and I flew back to Quito, Ecuador, where we lived.
During the next few weeks, the missionaries searched the lots again. They looked in hedges and garbage cans, searched a nearby park, placed a sign on a wall where the books were stolen, requesting their return, and kept a watchful eye to see if the books might show up in an unexpected place nearby. In sheer desperation, trying to do all in their power, the missionaries decided to place an advertisement in two daily newspapers, offering a reward and giving explicit information concerning the books.
In Quito, Ecuador, I began a personal spiritual struggle that was a very difficult one for me. After nearly three weeks, I had not studied in the scriptures at all. I had tried on numerous occasions, but every time I read a verse I recalled only a few of the many cross-references I had made over twenty years. I was disheartened, depressed, and had no desire whatsoever to read. I prayed many times expressing to the Father that I had never tried to use my scriptures for any purpose other than glorifying his name and trying to teach others the truths that he had taught me. I pleaded with him to do whatever had to be done in order to have them returned. My wife and little children prayed incessantly for the same blessing. Even after two or three weeks they continued praying every day, “Heavenly Father, please bring back daddy’s scriptures.”
After about three weeks, I felt a strong spiritual impression: “Elder Cook, how long will you go on without reading and studying?” It seemed to me to be a test or a trial and to have something to do with the “cost” of the blessing I desired. The words burned, and I determined that I must be humble and submissive enough to start all over again. With my wife’s permission to use her scriptures, I began reading in Genesis in the Old Testament, marking and cross-referencing once again.
On August 18, a friend, Brother Ebbie Davis, arrived in Ecuador from Bolivia and laid my scriptures on my desk along with a manila folder which contained the papers that I had written in Cochabamba and some recently prepared mission budgets that were also stolen. He indicated that they were the only things recovered, that he had been given those items by the mission president in La Paz as he boarded the plane, and that he did not know how the books were found, but that I would be told when I arrived there in the next few days to tour the mission.
The joy I experienced in that moment and later that day is indescribable. To realize that my Heavenly Father could, in some miraculous way, lift those books out of the hands of thieves in a city like La Paz and return them intact, not one page removed, torn, or soiled, is still beyond me. How the faith of our family and many Bolivian missionaries was rewarded! That day I promised my Father that I would make better use of my scriptures and my time as instruments in his hands for teaching the gospel.
On Sunday, August 21, I flew to Guayaquil, Ecuador, and on to La Paz, Bolivia, arriving on August 22. Upon arrival I was given the following account:
A lady had been in one of La Paz’s hundreds of marketplaces. She saw a drunk man waving a black book around. She had the strongest spiritual impression that something holy was being desecrated. She approached the man and asked him what it was. He did not know but showed her the book. She asked if he had anything else. He pulled out another black book. She asked if there were more. He removed a folder full of papers that he said he was going to burn. She then expressed the desire to purchase those things from him, to which he agreed, for the price of 50 pesos or about $2.50, U.S. currency.
After the purchase had been made, she felt totally taken back by what she had done. She realized the books and papers were in English—she didn’t speak, read, or understand English—and she had no desire to have any English books. It would have been like one of us paying nearly 10 percent of our monthly income to buy some books in a language we could not read. She immediately began a search for the church that was named in the front of the books. After approaching a number of other churches, she finally arrived at the mission office in La Paz, directed by the hand of the Lord. She had never heard of the reward nor of the advertisement in the newspaper, which was to appear that very day. She did not ask for any money, not even to reclaim the 50 pesos that she had paid. The elders received the books with rejoicing and paid her the reward anyway.
She told the missionaries that she was associated with a Pentecostal sect, but listened very intently as they unfolded the gospel to her. She recalled reading something about Joseph Smith from a pamphlet she had picked up in the street two or three years earlier. After their first discussion with her, they reported, “She is a golden contact.” After the second discussion, she committed to baptism. Two weeks later, September 11, 1977, on a Sunday afternoon in La Paz, Bolivia, Sister Maria Cloefe Cardenas Terrazas and her son, Marco Fernando Miranda Cardenas, age 12, were baptized into the true church of Jesus Christ by Elder Douglas Reeder.
Who could describe my deep, discouraging, depressing, disheartening, overpowering feelings of helplessness when the scriptures were lost? Who could describe my great feeling of joy and rejoicing when we saw the power of heaven revealed in this miraculous way? Our Heavenly Father does hear and answer the prayers of his sons and daughters if they exercise faith in the Lord Jesus Christ. The Lord said: “For verily I say unto you, That whosoever shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; and shall not doubt in his heart, but shall believe that those things which he saith shall come to pass; he shall have whatsoever he saith.
“Therefore I say unto you, What things soever ye desire, when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them.” (Mark 11:23–24.)

“Oh no, it’s Asa’s turn to drive to the bishopric meeting,” I heard my dad grumbling to my mother.
“He’s just trying to do his share,” Mom said.
“I know. But it’s always so uncomfortable to ride in that old truck of his. There are springs in the seat that stick out and rip my slacks, and cat hair all over. He’s just too proud to skip his turn and let one of us drive.” He was still grumbling when he went into the bathroom to tie his tie.
Asa Newcomb was my father’s counselor in the bishopric. He was a middle-aged farmer, and the years had not been kind to him. His old truck was a ’49, rusty-blue cab, with a wooden bed and rails that went halfway down along the sides. My father and Asa had been counselors together before Dad was made bishop, and so Dad had been riding in the truck to meetings for quite a few years.
As a kid I had enjoyed riding with Asa’s boys when we went on Cub Scout outings, and later when we were Scouts his was the easiest truck to load with our equipment. But now I understood more of what Dad felt. It was not too pleasant to show up at the movies or a dance in that big, old truck that rattled your teeth during the entire ride and tore small holes in the back of your pants.
Maybe it was because of the truck that Dad had such a thing about pride. He was always lecturing us on being too proud or not having enough humility. In fact, we were a family of six children, and Dad was a history teacher at the local junior college, so we all felt we had plenty of humility. It was perhaps a humility imposed upon us by circumstances, but it was humility all the same. Dad always felt that Asa was “too proud” in insisting on taking his turn to drive. “A more humble man would recognize the problem and not insist on making us all uncomfortable,” he would say.
That night while Dad was at his meeting, our furnace blew up.
My two younger brothers, Ned and Phil, and my three-year-old sister, Amy, and I were in the living room watching a special on TV. My two older sisters, Beth and Ann, were in the kitchen doing dishes. My mother had just gone out to deliver a loaf of newly baked bread to a neighbor. Almost as soon as we heard the explosion, fire ripped through the corner of the kitchen above the furnace. My sisters screamed, and Ann was hit on the head by a piece of flying debris. The shock of the explosion threw all of us to the floor, and the youngest ones started crying.
“Get them outside,” I yelled at Ned. He lifted Amy, grabbed Phil by the arm, and then ran out the front door. I ran to the kitchen doorway. Beth, with tears streaming down her face, was trying to pull Ann away from the flames that were already starting up the walls. I ran in and helped her lift, and together we dragged Ann through the front door and onto the lawn. Mother and our neighbors all along the street were running toward us. In a few moments I could hear the wail of the fire siren in the distance and remember thinking that either the explosion had been heard all over town or someone had called the fire department in a hurry.
Even with the speed with which the fire department arrived, most of the house was in flames. The paramedics checked Ann and then took her to the hospital for observation even though she was now conscious. She had a big gash in the side of her head, and she kept saying, “My new haircut! It cost me $7.50.” My mother was holding Amy, Phil was huddled close to her side, and we were all crying.
The firemen poured water onto the house, and by the time Dad rushed out of his meeting and home, the fire was out.
That night we slept at Aunt Verna’s. We heard that the living room structure was all right, and part of the upstairs, but all the furniture was ruined by water and smoke damage, and Dad’s study containing his books and papers was completely destroyed. I think that was what hit him the hardest.
We had the clothes we were wearing, and maybe, after some rummaging, we would be able to find a few other things. It rained hard all night, and Mother said it was a blessing because that would mean the fire was really out.
The next morning we held a family council around Aunt Verna’s kitchen table. The first thing Beth said was, “I’m not going to wear someone else’s hand-me-downs!”
“We don’t know yet that you’ll have to,” Dad said.
And Phil said, “And I don’t want any old broken toys like they fix up at Christmastime.”
“I think we’re all rushing things,” Dad said. “We need to get out to the house and see what’s there first.”
“Helen, telephone,” Aunt Verna called from the living room. My mother had been answering the telephone all morning; usually it was someone calling to offer help or food.
This time it was Ann. Mother had called the hospital twice during the morning to see how she was. Ann could come home anytime we could go get her. Aunt Verna and Mother went in Aunt Verna’s car, and the rest of us got into our car and went back to our house to begin salvaging what we could.
The first thing we saw when we rounded the corner on our block was Asa’s truck. It was parked in front of our yard, and there was Asa and his oldest boy pulling the charred furniture into the driveway.
We got out of the car, and Dad walked up to Asa. “Asa,” he said, “you can’t take time away from your spring planting to do this today; we can manage.”
“No, Robert,” Asa said, slowly. “I knew where I was needed today. You’ve got a good, strong family, but I want to do whatever I can.”
That became the phrase of the day. Whenever anyone else showed up to help, it was always with the phrase, “I want to do whatever I can.”
The Relief Society president was there when my mother burst into tears over the exploded fruit and vegetable bottles and the melted wheat containers. The president must have said something to someone, because soon people started coming to the house with cases of canned goods. They would stack them in the garage, which was pretty much intact, and then shake Mom and Dad’s hands and leave. Dad was obviously running out of things to say to people and seemed to be repeating over and over, “You shouldn’t have. How can we ever repay you?” And all day that truck of Asa’s was in front of the house—except for the times that Asa and Dad would decide that a load should go to the dump.
My junior league baseball team showed up about the time that school let out and helped clean up the mess in the front yard. We were invited to dinner at three different homes and finally ended up at our next-door neighbor’s. After dinner Dad went back to the house to work while the rest of us watched TV and tried to relax. I followed him to the house a few minutes later.
He was sitting on the empty back steps with his face burrowed in his hands. I sat down beside him, and he looked up.
“John,” he said. “I don’t know how we can accept all this charity. Something inside me says that we should do these things ourselves.”
“But, Dad,” I said, “everybody seems to want to do something for us.”
“I know,” he answered, “but we’ve got to do for ourselves, too.”
Just then a little gray-haired lady came around the corner of the house. She was Sister Adams, a widow I had home taught. She had a cloth shopping bag in her arms.
“Bishop Andrews,” she said, “I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I had to finish these things first.” She opened her bag and got out three pairs of homemade pillowcases, the kind with embroidered girls wearing big skirts on the front and flowers and crocheting around the edges. “I think you’ll need these when you get back into your house. I’ve heard that insurance never goes far enough to cover things like linens.”
Dad stood up. “Sister Adams, you shouldn’t do this. Aren’t these the kind of things you sell to that store downtown? You can’t afford this.”
“Why, Bishop Andrews,” she said, almost indignant, “after all these years of doing for others, haven’t you learned that one needs to do these things? I need the blessings, and this is something I can do.” She turned quickly to me. “And you, John, you’ve been over to my place dozens of times to rake leaves or shovel snow. I need to do something for this family.” Then she turned to go. “You of all people should know, Bishop, that sometimes it’s better to receive than to give.” She walked away and left us there, and Dad sat down again on the steps, the pillowcases in hand.
That night in our prayers Dad thanked the Lord for all the blessings that the day had brought and especially asked that we could accept with love all the things that others wanted to do for us.
The next morning when we drove over from Aunt Verna’s, Asa’s truck was in front of the house again. He was standing and surveying the damage, and there was a big bag of potatoes on the back of his truck.
“With the help of a couple of men in the ward, we ought to be able to get things roughed in and part of your roof on, Robert, before too long. That way the insurance money will go further.” I could see Dad was thinking this over.
“Asa, why are you doing all of this?” he asked. “You don’t have the time to spend away from your work and your family.”
“I’m a proud man, Robert,” Asa said slowly, “and things have been hard for us for a long time now.” He turned away for a moment. “And, Robert, you’ve allowed me my pride. And you’ve taught me what a humble man is. You’ve always been open with me and accepted me on my terms. Now I have to try and be a little like you. A humble man helps his neighbor, like you’ve helped me. You remember that year you helped me get the potatoes in after I hurt my back? Well, understand that I’m not repaying that kindness. I’m trying to duplicate it; and because you’re a humble man, I know you’ll accept my attempt at being a servant for once.” His speech finished, he turned back to studying the house.
Dad sniffed twice, and I had to wipe the moisture from my own cheek. On his way down to the truck to get the potatoes, he called back, “Asa, I wonder if you could give me a ride in your truck over to the college. I need to check my mail and things, and my wife needs the car.”

It is not difficult to apply these principles in a family setting, especially to our children. Parenting is good training to become good Christians; occasionally children think of their parents in that context. Years ago, Jack Smith told of a poignant story of two young boys at Christmastime.
“I didn’t question Timmy, age nine, or his seven-year-old brother, Billy, about the brown wrapping paper they passed back and forth between them as we visited each store.
“Every year at Christmastime, our Service Club takes the children from poor families in our town on a personally conducted shopping tour. I was assigned Timmy and Billy, whose father was out of work. After giving them the allotted [U.S.] $4.00 each, we began our trip. At different stores I made suggestions, but always their answer was a solemn shake of the head, no. Finally, I asked, ‘Where would you suggest we look?’
“‘Could we go to a shoe store, Sir?’ answered Timmy. ‘We’d like a pair of shoes for our Daddy so he can go to work.’
“In the shoe store the clerk asked what the boys wanted. Out came the brown paper. ‘We want a pair of work shoes to fit this foot,’ they said. Billy explained that it was a pattern of their Daddy’s foot. They had drawn it while he was asleep in a chair.
“The clerk held the paper against a measuring stick, then walked away. Soon, he came with an open box. ‘Will these do?’ he asked. Timmy and Billy handled the shoes with great eagerness. ‘How much do they cost?’ asked Billy. Then Timmy saw the price on the box. ‘They’re $16.95,’ he said in dismay. ‘We only have $8.00.’
“I looked at the clerk and he cleared his throat. ‘That’s the regular price,’ he said, ‘but they’re on sale; $3.98, today only.’ Then, with shoes happily in hand the boys bought gifts for their mother and two little sisters. Not once did they think of themselves.
“The day after Christmas the boys’ father stopped me on the street. The new shoes were on his feet, gratitude was in his eyes. ‘I just thank Jesus for people who care,’ he said. ‘And I thank Jesus for your two sons,’ I replied. ‘They really taught me more about Christmas in one evening than I had learned in a lifetime.’”1

Elizabeth Fetzer Bates, a piano teacher and the mother of six children, became totally blind in 1951. She accepted her blindness as a challenge and decided that she would learn to do everything that she could. She said, “I wrote ‘Pioneer Children’ because we are all pioneers—we’ve never been in today before.”
In 1969, she wrote “Book of Mormon Stories” because she loves the Book of Mormon and is grateful for America.
She thinks that children like this song because it is simple and true.
Sister Bates still teaches piano lessons, and she believes that everyone should write a song. “Heavenly Father has created so many lovely things that we should sing as we walk along! We can always be happy if we remember to be grateful.”

In preparing what I could share with you today, I recall a piece of advice I received at devotional when I was your age and attending BYU-Provo. I don’t remember exactly which General Authority gave this advice. I think it was Marion D. Hanks, but I haven’t been able to verify that. I don’t know why the 14 words given were so deeply embedded in my memory. I would guess that there were angels watching over me who knew that the memory of those words would influence generations of Clarks to come, so they sat on my shoulder and said: “Remember this; you’re going to really need this advice.”
This is the advice: “Be where you are supposed to be when you are supposed to be there.”
Now, imagine that you’re me, back when I was your age. And maybe it’s not so hard to imagine because your own circumstances are probably a little bit similar. At the time I so powerfully internalized that advice, I worked for custodial services every day from 4 a.m. until 7 a.m. and had scheduled my first class for 7 a.m. It seemed logical at the time—since I was on campus early, schedule all my classes early. However, as you can guess, it wasn’t that easy; and the temptation every day after work was to find an empty recliner or cot in one of the women’s restrooms on campus and skip that first class. If I did that and fell asleep, I could easily miss the whole morning of classes. So I had to resist the temptation and walk sleepily to class repeating to myself, “Be where you are supposed to be when you are supposed to be there.”
But there was another more important way the advice influenced me. Following the advice helped me develop a pattern of always attending my church meetings. I had followed that pattern at home with my family, but now I was on my own, and I was tempted to sleep in on Sundays. Again I resisted the temptation and with those words echoing in my memory, I attended Sacrament Meeting, Sunday School and Relief Society every Sunday.
I also attended my family home evening group meetings and activities regularly. And I can tell you that habit had direct positive impact on the lives of my children. That’s literally true, because it was in Family Home Evening group that I found my true love. Where would our children be today if I had skipped out on Family Home Evening?

Once Trent had many friends. There was Martha, who raised hamsters. There was Tommy, the break dancer. And there was Bobby, who was always pulling surprises out of his pocket. Sometimes he had a rubber snake or a lollipop, and once he had a live lizard!
Now Trent had no friends at all. He and his mother had moved to a new city. The apartment house was full of people, but Trent didn’t know any of them.
“It won’t seem like a birthday party without friends,” Trent grumbled.
“Saturday is a long way off,” said Mother.
“But I haven’t any friends here.”
“Maybe you aren’t trying hard enough to make any.”
Coming home from school on the bus the next afternoon, Trent thought about what his mother had said. Have I tried hard enough? he wondered. What can I do? He began thinking of some familiar faces. There was the old lady who sat with her cat at the window of her apartment on the ground floor. There was the red-headed girl he’d seen on the elevator.
Trent looked around the bus. Wasn’t the boy sitting on the front seat the one he’d seen walking a dog the other day? And the boy sitting across the aisle from him got off at the same bus stop that he did. Trent mustered up his courage, crossed the aisle, sat next to him, and said, “Hi, I’m Trent Collins. What’s your name?”
“Jeremy Brown. You’re new at school, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Trent. “Here’s our stop.”
They stepped off the bus. Trent pointed to the right. “I live in the next-to-last building on the block.”
“I live around the corner on the top floor of that tall building,” Jeremy said, pointing to it. “We can see the whole city from our windows. If you’d like to come home with me, I’ll show you!”
“I’ll have to call and tell my mother. May I phone from your house?”
“Sure,” said Jeremy.
Trent called his mother, and Mrs. Brown spoke to her, too, saying that she was glad that Trent could stay.
When Jeremy showed him the view from the window, Trent exclaimed, “Wow! You can see the whole city. How tiny everything looks!”
“Use these,” Jeremy said, handing Trent a pair of binoculars. The rest of the afternoon the boys watched the busy city.
When Trent left, he invited Jeremy to come to his home on Saturday at three o’clock. Then, on his way home, Trent saw the boy with the dog. Maybe I should say, “Hi” first to him, too, Trent thought. So he walked toward the boy.
The boy turned his head and quickly walked away.
He’s pretending he didn’t see me, thought Trent. I wonder why.
On the elevator at the apartment house, Trent saw the redheaded girl. She was carefully carrying a white carton with wire handles.
“You must have something special in that carton,” Trent said.
“Fish,” said the girl, not looking up.
Trent’s mother was cooking supper when he went into the kitchen. “Did you have a good time at Jeremy’s house?” Mother asked.
“Yes, he’s my first new friend,” Trent replied. “But the boy with the dog and the girl in the elevator weren’t friendly, even though I was.”
“Maybe they’re just shy,” said Mother.
“I never thought of that,” Trent said. “May I make butterscotch pudding for dessert?”
“If you’ll go to the store for a carton of milk.”
The wind whistled down the street as Trent walked to the store. Walking toward him was the boy with the dog. The wind ruffled the pages of the newspaper the boy carried under his arm. Suddenly the wind tore the paper loose. It flew through the air, flattened against the wall of a building, then took off again. It swooped down and flapped against Trent’s legs. He caught it and quickly rolled it up and handed it to the boy. “Here’s your paper.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m Trent Collins. I just moved here a couple of weeks ago.”
“Hi. I’m Jimmy Boyd.”
“What’s your dog’s name?”
“Skipper.”
“I like dogs,” Trent said, “but they aren’t allowed in my apartment building. May I play with Skipper sometime?”
“Sure. I’m taking him to the park tomorrow after school. Do you want to come?”
“That sounds great,” Trent replied.
After school the next day Trent met Jimmy and Skipper, and they went to the park. They raced with Skipper and threw sticks for him to fetch. Then they played ball.
On the way home Jimmy said, “You’re a good ballplayer, Trent. We’ll have to do this again.”
“That would be fun,” said Trent. “Would you come to my house on Saturday at three o’clock?”
Jimmy said, “Sure,” and they said good-bye.
As Trent neared his home, he saw the old lady hobbling from the apartment, leaning on her cane. “Here, Kitty, Kitty,” she called.
“I’ll find your cat for you,” Trent said.
“Oh, would you?”
The cat’s probably raiding the garbage, Trent thought, hurrying toward the alley. He found the cat sitting on top of a garbage can, licking its paws. Trent picked it up and took it to the old lady.
“You must come and have some milk and cookies,” said the old lady. “I’ll get it ready while you check with your mother. Tell her Mrs. Grable invited you.”
Sitting at the table, Trent and Mrs. Grable got acquainted. “These cookies are really good,” said Trent.
“They taste better when you’re eating them with someone,” replied Mrs. Grable. “You’ll have to visit me again.”
Trent promised that he would and invited her to his house on Saturday at three o’clock.
Stepping into the hallway, Trent met the redhead again. “Did the fish taste good?” Trent asked.
The girl laughed and laughed and laughed. Finally she said, “They weren’t for eating. They’re my pets. I have an aquarium with lots of tropical fish. C’mon, I’ll show them to you. I’m Cindy.”
Trent told her his name, and she introduced him to her dad when they got to her apartment on the eighth floor.
“I didn’t know that there were so many interesting-looking fish,” Trent said. “What kind of fish are they?”
One by one Cindy pointed out the fish. “That’s a swordtail, a molly, a harlequin, a zebra, an angelfish.”
Before long, Trent could identify most of Cindy’s fish. When he left, he said, “Now it’s your turn to visit. See if you can come to my apartment on Saturday at three.”
“OK,” agreed Cindy.
At last Saturday came. Trent waited eagerly for the sound of their buzzer. “Surprise!” he said, greeting each guest and handing out party hats.
Jimmy and Cindy and Jeremy and Mrs. Grable were astonished. “We didn’t know that it was your birthday,” they all said. “We didn’t bring any presents.”
“Yes, you did,” said Trent. “You brought yourselves, the best presents of all. A few days ago I didn’t have any friends, and now I have you!”