Gospel Story Finder

Jayme W. used to wake up during the night hearing her little sister, Katie, cough and struggle to breathe. Katie has cystic fibrosis, and the buildup of mucus in her lungs makes it hard to breathe. When Katie started on a new treatment, Jayme decided to write a science paper about it. She submitted the paper to an international science competition and ended up winning first place among 10,000 entries.
What was your paper about? I wrote my paper on hypertonic saline therapy. Basically, the therapy is a seven percent salt concentration solution that is inhaled as a vapor. It goes into the cells of the lungs, and it draws out the mucus in the cells and makes it easier for the patient to cough up the mucus.
How has your testimony been strengthened through working with your sister? I have definitely seen the hand of God in the transformation of my sister from a sickly child. Seeing color in her face, watching her develop a love for running, and watching her feel well has been so miraculous. I know that could have been accomplished only with the help of God. My testimony of the love of God for each of us has grown immensely.
What has science taught you about gaining spiritual knowledge? In science and research, you don’t just get the answers handed to you. Knowledge is built step by step, and you have to do a lot of work on your own. You have to experiment, try different things, and if something doesn’t work, you just have to try again. Spiritual knowledge is also gained in small increments. The answers don’t come all at once, just a little bit at a time. Like gaining scientific knowledge, you also have to do research on your own like studying the scriptures, pondering, and praying. And if the answer doesn’t come right away, you have to keep trying.
What is your favorite scripture? My favorite scripture is Luke 1:37, which states, “For with God nothing shall be impossible.” This is such a simple statement, yet it is so profound! Just the thought that with God we can do anything fills me with hope and courage.

This story happened in Mexico.
Javi liked learning to do new things. He liked learning to play baseball. He liked learning the guitar. He liked learning to play new video games. So when Papá asked if he wanted to learn something new, Javi was ready.
Javi watched Papá open his laptop and bring up a site called “FamilySearch.”
“I’m going to teach you how to find the names of our ancestors,” Papá said. “Many of them lived a long time ago, and they didn’t have the gospel. When we find their names, we can go to the temple to be baptized for them. Then they will have a chance to accept the gospel.”
Javi remembered how good he had felt when he was baptized. If he could help his ancestors feel the same way, he wanted to learn how!
Javi watched Papá show him what to do. Then Papá passed the laptop to Javi. “Your turn!”
Javi grinned. He practiced clicking around and reading the names and dates. This was his family!
For the next few nights, Mamá and Papá helped Javi learn more about doing family history work. His older sister Lily started to learn too. It felt like playing a video game with a very important quest!
One Sunday, the bishop announced that the stake was holding a special challenge. The stake members would have 60 days to find as many names as they could to send to the temple. The goal was a total of 5,000 names. At the end of the 60 days, there would be a big party to celebrate. There would also be awards for the people who had found the most names.
“I want to help,” Javi said when they got home from church.
“Me too!” Lily said.
“How about you start right now?” Papá said. “See how many names you can find before dinner.”
Javi and Lily raced to the front room. Lily opened FamilySearch on her phone, and Javi worked on Papá’s laptop. Soon he found a record for his great-grandfather’s brother. It also listed three children who hadn’t been baptized. Javi whooped. He had found three names to send to the temple!
For 60 days Javi spent most of his free time doing family history. He searched for names almost every night after school. On Sundays, his whole family worked on it together.
At the end of the 60 days, Javi and his family went to the church building for the party. There were tacos, music, and lots of people. It was fun!
Finally, the stake president stood up.
“I am so proud of everyone,” he said. “Our stake found 10,000 names for the temple!”
Everyone cheered. Javi’s eyes got wide. That was twice as many as their goal!
Then the stake president announced the winners. The adult winner was a woman Javi didn’t know, but the youth winner was Lily!
“Now for the children. We had someone send in 216 names,” said the stake president. The crowd clapped so loudly that Javi couldn’t hear what the stake president said next.
Javi’s father nudged him. “Javi, he said your name.”
Javi could hardly believe it. Had he really sent in 216 names?
Javi walked to the front. He smiled big as the stake president shook his hand and handed him a certificate. It had his name on it!
“How does it feel to win?” the stake president asked.
“Really good,” Javi said.
It did feel good to win. And it felt really good to have learned a way to help so many people!
Illustration by Josh Talbot

Ministering on the Sabbath is something Sister Zola Adjei came to love while growing up in the Kpong Branch in Ghana. While home from boarding school during the summers, she and other youth would go in groups to visit members of their branch they hadn’t seen in a while. “It was a sacrifice because most of us felt very hungry after church, and we were so far from our homes that we didn’t have time to eat and gather again,” Sister Adjei said. But the sacrifice was worth it, as they were able to pray and sing hymns with their fellow branch members and invite them to church and activities. One of the youth would offer to walk with them to church the next Sunday.

“This practice formed a bond amongst us,” Sister Adjei said. “Some of us have stayed strong friends from the decisions we made to go out and bring back our lost friends by giving up a few hours of our Sabbath day.”

I used to feel terrible for not fulfilling my assignments at school, at work, and in the Church. One day I was thinking about how much and why I procrastinated, and I recognized that I was putting unimportant things ahead of the things that I should have been doing. I felt guilty all the time for not doing my best, and that was why I had feelings of unhappiness and depression.

As I meditated on my feelings of inadequacy, I tried to imagine myself as the daughter of God that I had been created to become. I pictured all the things I could do, and a feeling of love and peace came over my heart. I realized the importance of being a daughter of God and discovered that I was lacking confidence in myself and the determination to accomplish my goals. I knew that Heavenly Father loved me very much and wanted me to do better. I began to change, and now I know that nothing is impossible for me to do, if I will work at it.

We need to have confidence in ourselves, our potential, and our talents—and to value ourselves that way the Lord values each of us. If each one of us can catch the vision of our eternal potential, we will be motivated by that vision to do great things with our lives.

Rita David, 19Aguanambi Ward, Fortaleza StakeFortaleza, Brazil

My father’s name is Jean de Dieu Nsanzurwimimo. He was born in Rwanda’s Western Province. He married my mom, Emmeline Mukamusonera, in 1981, after they met in Kigali, Rwanda’s capital city.
My parents came from very different backgrounds; my father was a member of Rwanda’s majority ruling Hutu tribe, and my mother is from the Tutsi tribe. In Rwanda when they were growing up, there was an extended civil war and a long-simmering conflict between the two tribes. This animosity led extremist groups of Hutus to promote the ideology that all the Tutsi people living in Rwanda should be killed.
I was born in 1994, just four months before a series of events led to a catastrophic genocide of Rwanda’s Tutsi population, led by Hutu extremists who took over the government. During a 100-­day period from April 7 until mid-­July, nearly one million Rwandans were brutally killed, including as many as 70% of the Tutsi population.
Even before the 1994 Tutsi genocide, many leaders of the Hutu tribe taught that a Hutu man married to a Tutsi woman should be required to kill her and all her family to show his allegiance to his tribe. Because of those teachings, and to better protect his family, my father moved his wife and children to a small village near Cyangugu, in the far southwestern corner of Rwanda. Even in that small village, the majority of Hutu villagers spurned and rejected my mother because she was a Tutsi. But my father continued to protect us. In 1993, when the tension and genocide ideology increased, she was pregnant with me and caring for my three older sisters. Because it was known that she was a Tutsi, our family didn’t have many friends and it was dangerous every time she had to fetch water or go to the market. It was a very difficult time for her, but always my father was on her side, protecting her and taking care of his family.
During this time, there were constant meetings in the community where the locals were given machetes and guns and trained on how to kill the Tutsis. Every week they had a community meeting. In March 1994, my father attended a town meeting where it was announced that Hutu men married to a Tutsi woman would be required to kill her and all their children. It was a hard time for them. Some of the men and some of the women who were Hutus did kill their children.
In a meeting in early April, my father was ordered to kill my mother and his four daughters. When he came home from the meeting around 6:00 p.m., it was very dark because there were no street lights at the time. He immediately took us to a small island located in the southern part of Lac Kivu, a large lake dividing Rwanda and Congo. He told my mom that the villagers had determined that we were supposed to die, so we should hide in that place; he was going back home to find a safe place for us. He told her that if she saw any boats, she should ask them if they would carry us over to Congo, where we would be safe from the Rwandan genocide. She was able to find someone willing to take us across to Congo, where we spent the next five months, until peace was restored in Rwanda and it was safe to return.
All the while in Congo, and after we came home, we didn’t know what had happened to my father. When we came back we didn’t see anything; they didn’t allow us to enter the house where we had lived, and we were told everything that belonged to my father had been sold. It was a very hard time for my mom. We didn’t have a house to stay in. We didn’t have anything to eat. We went to the Seventh-­Day Adventist chapel, where we slept for a whole week. After that my mother carried all of us to town where she learned we could get small help from the new government.
In 2003, nine years after the violence ended, the government created a reconciliation program called “Gacaca” to help resolve the hard feelings from the killings. As part of the process, people who had killed others during the genocide confessed and asked for forgiveness. Through gacaca, we came to know that my father’s family members, after they looked everywhere for us and could not find us, had killed him. My mother and my eldest sister attended the hearing where my father’s family asked for our forgiveness, and they forgave them. They told my mother that they had thrown his body into the river after killing him, so we were never able to locate his body. Because I was so young at the time he saved us, I have no recollections of my father; I don’t know his face.
When I met with the missionaries, it was hard for them to tell me how God loves me and that He is my Father in Heaven. I did come to understand that because of the plan of salvation, I will meet my father once more. Because of my faith in the plan of salvation and the Atonement of Jesus Christ, I was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-­day Saints in 2013.
My mother continued to struggle to raise the four of us herself. She had many health and stomach problems and for much of the time she suffered. She was not able to go to the hospital because she was a Tutsi. She finally passed away on June 16, 2016, from what was discovered to be cancer. She knew I was a member of the Church of Jesus Christ. She believed that I had become part of a big family. She blessed me and said I was doing the right thing. She always taught me and my sisters to love one another and to serve one another. She said our father suffered himself to allow us to live. She said we should always work hard; it would make our father happy.
I know this gospel is true. I know I will see my family again. I know my father sacrificed his life to allow me to have this life today and I am very anxious to meet him once more and thank him for his wonderful sacrifice.
I was thrilled to receive the privilege to serve as a missionary, starting in August 2017. My mission allows me to teach the joy of the gospel to families around me. One of the greatest blessings the Lord has given me since I have been on my mission is that two of my sisters have joined the Church. One of my greatest ambitions after I complete my mission is to do the temple work for my parents so that our family can be sealed for eternity.
The plan of salvation can bring happiness in this life and eternal joy in the life hereafter. I know this to be true, in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

“Visits to this house are certainly a waste of time,” my visiting teaching companion said as we knocked on the weather-beaten door of a small and sagging house located behind another house. “We never find anyone home.”
I glanced at her and nodded, as the peeling paint dug deep into my knuckles with the repeated firm raps; but we lingered, hoping today might be different. It wasn’t, and we finally walked back along the heavily overgrown path to the street.
“Well, we’re really (see Matt. 5:41) trying to see this woman,” I said as we climbed into the car. “Even locating her place was a monumental accomplishment.”
Hidden from view by a larger house in front of it, the shabby little place had been difficult to find when we had made our first visit six months earlier. Altered ward boundaries had brought a few new families into our ward from another ward, and this sister had been added to our district. When the address seemed incorrect, we had persisted, and after stopping at two service stations and inquiring at several doors, we had finally followed the overgrown path and discovered the small house. But that discovery was followed only by disappointing silence.
Since no telephone number showed on Judy Kearns’s information card, we had checked the directory service, only to learn that she had an unlisted number. A look at the ward records showed us that she was an inactive convert of three years who was supporting two small children by herself.
With each visit we had left a friendly note asking her to telephone us, but there was no response. We had even left some fruit at her door and had stopped by on a weekend, but we were always met by empty silence.
“Just another lost cause,” I thought as we drove down the street toward home, but my conscience nagged. Had we really gone the extra mile? What was the extra mile? By gospel standards, it was not just filling an assignment, I remembered, but caring enough to magnify an opportunity to successful fulfillment. True, we had put our toes into the extra mile, but that was only a tiny distance, and full steps could be taken.
That night, after four telephone calls, I managed to locate the visiting teacher from Judy’s previous ward. The information I got was vague, but I did get the unlisted telephone number. As I hung up, a little stirring of excitement lifted my spirits, and I eagerly dialed her number, only to be met again with the disappointment of prolonged, hollow, unanswered ringing. I tried again the next day and evening, but with no success.
While I was on my way home from a late-afternoon dental appointment several days later, the thought flashed into my mind that Judy, too, might be on her way home. It was the end of the normal working day, and she must go home once in a while. Would she resent a visit at such an inconvenient time? On a quick impulse I swung the car in her direction and decided to take a chance. Stopping my car at the curb and looking down the long driveway, I could see the usual empty car stall, so I switched off the motor to wait. When twenty-five minutes had ticked by I shifted nervously, knowing my own family would be arriving home wondering where Mom and the usual dinner aroma was.
Uneasily I waited another fifteen minutes and was just getting ready to leave when an old, weather-beaten Volkswagen pulled into the driveway and filled the stall. By the time Judy had unloaded two small children from the car and located her house key, I was on the porch explaining who I was and expressing delight in finally having the opportunity to meet her. She responded with a cool, uncomfortable attitude, but my friendliness won and she invited me into her small living room.
I initially centered my attention on her young son and daughter, while they showed me their art work from nursery school and described in detail the skinned knee under Gary’s bandage. This gave Judy a chance to relax and observe me. Slowly she warmed up to my interest in her children, and she hesitantly began sharing some of her struggles to protect them from the ravages of a shattered marriage. I learned that her husband had left her and the children to find what he called his “personal freedom.” In her determination to survive, she began working at a job that did not pay much and was taking night classes to become a dental assistant. She had placed the children in a neighborhood christian church school, and was attending Sunday services there as well. It really didn’t matter where they went to church, she said, as long as they went.
My visit was short, but I had established a relationship and made an appointment for another visit on her day off. At the door, I looked straight into her eyes and bore my testimony to the truthfulness of the gospel, and begged her not to deprive her precious children of the chance to share in its beauty. Her eyes filled with tears and I squeezed her hand as I left.
Anxious to take another step for Judy, I tried to communicate with her home teacher. After three telephone calls devoted to locating someone with the latest list of assignments, I learned that the ward executive secretary would be the one with whom to talk. He wasn’t home when I called, and after repeated attempts all evening, I finally gave up.
Two nights later, I tried again, only to find he had left her records at church and that I should call the clerk’s office in a few nights to get the information. I called as suggested, but no one answered, and I began wondering if it really was important to contact the home teacher.
My visiting teaching companion was delighted when she learned I had actually made an appointment with Judy, and she brought new enthusiasm to our efforts as we approached the little house in the rear. Judy was waiting for us and received, with appreciation, the still warm cookies we had baked for her. The first part of our visit was light and friendly, but then Judy began sharing her fears and concerns for her children, the devastating feelings of inadequacy she had, and the agony of her financial struggles. We offered sympathy and dried her tears, but I knew more must be done. At the door I asked about her home teacher and learned she had never seen one since coming into our ward boundary. I was indignant! How could six months have passed without an assignment?
Sunday morning I was at church early to talk with the executive secretary. On investigation, we found that Ray Greer, a responsible, dedicated elder, was Judy’s assigned home teacher. I was baffled, and tried to locate him at church, only to learn he was on a two-week vacation. I was amazed at how many obstacles cluttered this extra mile I was trying to walk and I determined not to let them stop me. With that in mind, I contacted Ray on the day he arrived home. As I asked my questions, he looked at me in blank confusion. He knew nothing of Judy Kearns, or of an assignment to be her home teacher, and we quickly realized that the communication chain had dropped a link someplace along the way. I handed him Judy’s unlisted number, gave him notes on my information, and told him my urgent concern for her. He expressed appreciation for my help and seemed eager to correct the situation.
In a few short weeks the extra mile had turned into a miracle mile. It was the miracle of God’s organized plan in operation, the miracle of dedicated men honoring their priesthood, the miracle of women who care. It was thrilling to see the process in full operation, to see people eagerly following the Lord’s outlined programs. It was exciting to know that I belonged to his church.
Ray not only had an immediate visit with Judy, but he also invited her to share dinner and home evening with his family that week. At that gathering the children responded to each other, and soon Judy was enjoying the deep interest of Ray’s wife, who offered to come and drive them all to Sunday School. Judy was hesitant, but the children were eager, and she finally agreed.
Coming back to church gave Judy a new awareness of the importance of the restored gospel, and before leaving she had met the bishop, talked with the Relief Society president, and agreed to let one of the Primary officers pick up her children from nursery school to attend Primary. When the bishop learned that Judy would soon be a trained dental assistant and was concerned about a job, he asked the ward employment director to start looking for dentists who might be prospective employers. By the time Judy was certified, he had three good interviews waiting. She was offered all three jobs and chose the highest salary offer.
A few weeks later the Relief Society president visited Judy to request her help in giving some information about dental care to the night Relief Society. Judy responded and enjoyed meeting other working sisters who shared many of her same problems. She became a steady supporter of Relief Society. Then the bishop decided it was time for a Church calling. Junior Sunday School seemed to fit her schedule best, and in a short time Judy was one of its outstanding teachers.
Then Ray Greer, who had been concentrating on finding her a better place to live within the ward boundary, found an excellent home for them. While the elders moved her belongings, the night Relief Society put paper on the shelves and the Sunday School officers prepared food to make it a party. Judy had become special to a lot of people and a very vital part of our ward.
On the fast Sunday when Judy stood to bear her testimony for the first time, the chapel was especially quiet as we all listened closely. She humbly acknowledged her new-found security in the knowledge that the Lord walked with her and that his gospel brought the serenity to overcome fear and inadequacy. Tears of gratitude flowed down her cheeks as she expressed love for all those who had helped lift her life with their caring. As she finished, most of us reached for our handkerchiefs and sensed the elation of shared victory. Wiping my eyes, I marveled at the beautiful process that had brought about Judy’s transformation. And I knew, incredible as it seemed, that it had all begun with some meager efforts to go the extra mile in my visiting teaching assignment.
I realized that day with a new clarity that, insignificant as we may feel in the service of God, each of us possesses the ability to put His great plans into operation, to release marvelous power that changes and builds lives, to provide the outlet for dedicated, vibrant service. But this tremendous potential can move ahead only when we create the momentum, when we release the dams and allow God’s magnificent glory to go forward and make the extra mile a miracle mile!

Six years into marriage, we found that we were expanding our family. We were so excited to raise our son and teach him the gospel. But 24 weeks into the pregnancy, our little boy was born fighting for life. After just eight weeks he returned to Heavenly Father. As I held him for the last time, I recognized yet another wonderful blessing of the temple: our son had been born in the covenant and could be ours forever.

I have a valise which was owned by Robert Redford. (I don’t mean the movie star; I mean my grandfather.) When Grandfather Redford died, Mother and her brothers and sisters gathered together to distribute his personal belongings. Each family member was given a first-choice selection. Unknown to us, Mother prayed that she could have Grandfather’s temple clothes, which he carried in a black valise with the initials R.R. printed on it. Grandfather spent his last years as a temple worker in the Logan Temple.
Mother got her wish.
As a teenager, I thought it strange that Mother would prefer that little black bag to furniture or other items of worldly value. But then I thought of how my mother had taught me the sacredness of the temple long before I could fully understand its meaning. Her attitude about going to the temple and her handling of the temple clothing first caught my attention. Mother was always happy to visit the house of the Lord. What happened inside the temple wasn’t talked about specifically; but I heard parts of the temple vocabulary spoken with great respect, words like sacred, holy, spiritual, pure, celestial, endowments, sealing, the veil.
When I finally went to the temple as a missionary to receive my own endowments, Mother gave Grandfather’s temple clothing to me.
It would be difficult for me to describe my first experience in the temple. It was beyond anything earthly I had witnessed. I didn’t comprehend all that I was taught that night, but the deep feelings instilled in me were sublime. Clothed in the inheritance from my grandfather and accompanied by my mother, I began what was to be a continuum of incomparable spiritual visits to the holy temple. Based upon those experiences, I would like to share with you what I have learned about the temple and what it can mean in your own lives.

Whenever he was in New England, Brigham was anxious to visit and teach his many relatives there. In October, after he had returned to Kirtland, his cousin Willard Richards, who had read the Book of Mormon, visited him:
“I invited him to make his home at my house, which he did, and investigated thoroughly the principles and doctrines set forth by the Prophet and Elders of the Church. Dec. 31st, he requested baptism at my hands, which ordinance I administered to him in the presence of Elder Heber C. Kimball and others, who had spent the afternoon in cutting the ice to prepare for the ceremony.”16

Michael gazed at the tiny, soft bed of straw. “I am glad that baby Jesus will have a soft, warm bed for Christmas Eve,” he thought.
For the past week Michael had carefully tucked little pieces of straw into this tiny manger, one piece at a time. Michael thought that it just might be the best Christmas he ever had because now he was old enough to understand what Christmas was all about.
A week ago Mom had given a family home evening lesson about the true meaning of Christmas. She said that Jesus Christ was the greatest gift Heavenly Father gave to the world. Then she presented each child in the family with a small, empty manger and a tiny figure of the baby Jesus.
“For the next week you will each have a chance to give a present back to Heavenly Father,” Mom said.
“How can we do that?” Michael asked.
“Your gift to Heavenly Father will be to serve others,” she said. “Each time you do a good deed or help another person, you may add a piece of straw to your manger. The more kindness you show to others, the softer the manger will be on Christmas Eve.”
“I hope I can get more straw in my manger than anybody else!” Michael thought.
The next day Michael started working to collect straw.
“Mom, can I help you sweep the floor?” Michael asked, when he saw her cleaning the kitchen.
“I’ll help you find your teddy bear,” he told his little brother when he cried for his lost toy.
“I want to shovel some snow too,” he said when his dad went outside to shovel the driveway.
Within a few days Michael’s little manger looked very different. It was stuffed full of straw! But Michael noticed a change in himself too. He started to enjoy doing kind things for others because he knew it was what Heavenly Father wanted him to do. Sometimes he even forgot to add a piece of straw to the manger when he helped.
Michael decided that doing nice things made him feel good inside. On Christmas Eve, as he stood by the soft lights of the Christmas tree, Michael gently laid his tiny baby Jesus in the manger, which was now overflowing with straw.
Michael knew he had done the best he could to show his love for Heavenly Father and Jesus. This was the best Christmas ever.

Last summer, my ward went to the temple. Before going on the temple trip, my mom told me that she had found some names that I could take. Immediately, a name popped into my head: Grace A. Smith. I felt like I knew her, and maybe I did. We printed the names, and sure enough, there was a Grace A. Smith waiting to be baptized.
I quickly looked Grace up on FamilySearch.org to see if there were any pictures or stories about her. There weren’t any pictures, but there was something much better: her brother, sisters, and husband all needed to be baptized! At the temple, I was baptized for Grace and her sisters.
I learned that I not only have a family here but a family waiting to see me in the spirit world too. It must have been exciting for Grace to be with her mom and dad there in the temple and especially to have her brother, sisters, and husband with her. Even though someday I will leave my family here on earth when I die, there will be many family members there to meet me. I am excited for when I can see them again.
Isabel J., New Mexico, USA

As strange as it seems, it was during the Vietnam War that I discovered the great secret to a peaceful, happy life. I had been in sustained combat for two months, and the experience was taking its toll upon my physical and spiritual strength. Mail from home was seldom delivered to the battle front; neither were there sacrament meetings nor Sunday services to boost my spirit each week. My only resource was my own prayers. I felt isolated and alone.
Little by little, the daily grind of combat and the constant scenes of death were wearing me down and hardening my heart. I found myself becoming almost like the Nephite warriors—thirsting for the blood of the enemy (see Morm. 3:9).
On 9 July 1972, after a day-long tactical march, my battalion settled into a tiny deserted hamlet that had only recently been attacked. The huts lay smoldering in the last rays of sunlight. In an adjacent field, we found the body of a young North Vietnamese soldier. As we searched his clothing for intelligence information, I looked upon this enemy with cold eyes.
Papers were found on the fallen soldier and taken to the commander. My interest was kindled when I heard that the papers did not contain intelligence information—but that they were a diary. I marveled that this enemy soldier had taken time to keep a journal, and I wondered what his last recorded thoughts might have been.
That evening, I obtained a rough translation of the diary. I read it by the flickering light of my small cooking fire.
“I do not know where we are,” it read. “Our officers say that we are fighting bravely against American imperialists who have invaded our homeland. We fight bravely, but we are poorly supplied. I am lonely. I miss my family far away. I wonder how they are doing. I miss my home and wish to be back in the mountains and walk in the forests. I wish to see again the flowers, the birds, and the animals of home.”
I stared at the paper, stunned by the words. These were not the words of an enemy. These were the words of a kindred spirit! His people and mine had met as foes, glaring at each other over a seemingly unbridgeable gulf of cultural, ethnic, and political differences. But we were not really enemies in spirit. In other circumstances, we could have been brothers.
Suddenly, I understood that Vietnam was not the real war and that my comrades and I were not the real warriors. The real war was waged first in heaven by Lucifer. On earth, the real enemy was not the North Vietnamese, nor any people, but the unseen forces of evil that wage a war of ignorance and spiritual bondage against all mankind.
The real warriors fight under the banner of Jesus Christ. These warriors do not kill or destroy, but rather heal and offer life—eternal life —through the merits of Jesus Christ and a knowledge of his restored gospel.
That day in Vietnam, as I sat by the fire, I discovered that happiness and peace come from understanding the worth of a human soul regardless of race, creed, or political views, and from knowing that we are all children of our Father in Heaven. To know this is to love all people, even those who may appear to be the enemy.

A few days later Richie loaded up his pillow and sleeping bag into the backseat of the station wagon. He ran into the house. “Come on, Mom. It’s time!”
“Just a minute, honey.”
“Mom, Uncle Dave said five thirty, and it’s five twenty-seven now. Let’s go!”
“OK!” Mom smiled. “I think someone is excited about his first camping trip.”
Mom dropped Richie off at his cousins’ house and gave him a hug and kiss good-bye. “Now, be sure to tell Uncle Dave thank you for letting you join them. Dress warm tonight, and be careful.”
Richie waved good-bye, anxious to leave for the camp-out. Soon he and his cousins were traveling up the narrow road that wound through the green canyon. Once they reached the camping ground, they all worked together to set up the tent and build a fire.
Richie marveled at the green fir trees that reached up into the sky. The sky grew dark, and twinkling stars appeared. “I’ve never seen so many stars,” he told his cousin Todd. “It’s like I just took a pair of dark glasses off and can really see what’s in the sky.”
“You can see so many stars now because we’re away from the lights of the city,” Todd explained. “City lights usually drown out most of the stars.”
After a tinfoil dinner of hamburgers and potatoes, everyone gathered to sing around the fire while Uncle Dave played his guitar. The smell from the campfire clung to Richie’s sweatshirt. The soothing sound of the music and a full stomach made it difficult for him to stay awake. He had to fight to keep his eyes open.
“It looks like you are all having a hard time staying awake,” Uncle Dave said. “Let’s call it a night.”
“Come on, Richie, let’s hit the sack,” Todd called. Richie followed him and Douglas into the tent. He snuggled into his fluffy red sleeping bag and quickly fell asleep.
A few hours later Richie awoke with a start. He blinked to adjust his eyes to the darkness, then remembered that he wasn’t in his bedroom but in a tent. The only sound was the steady hum of the crickets outside. His stomach felt queasy as the dream he had just had came back to him. I wish I was home, he thought. I wish I was in my own bed and that I could go get Dad.
He looked around. No one else in the tent was awake. Richie shivered. He didn’t want to wake Todd or Douglas. They were older, and he didn’t want them to think he was a crybaby. Still, the gnawing in his stomach didn’t go away, and the darkness seemed to surround him.
Thoughts of black bears and hungry mountain lions with fiery eyes filled his mind and added to the fear he already felt from his dream. If Dad were here, we could …
Richie quietly pulled himself onto his knees. “Heavenly Father,” he whispered into the darkness, “please help me to not be afraid. …”
When he finished his prayer, he felt warm and safe. As he climbed back into his cozy sleeping bag, he thought, I’m so glad that even if Dad isn’t here, I have another Father who can help, a Father who is always just a prayer away.

“Figuratively, all of us need to transform ourselves into modern Captain Moronis in order to win the wars against evil. I know a very faithful young deacon who transformed himself into a modern Captain Moroni. Inasmuch as he has sought to follow the counsel of his parents and Church leaders, his faith and determination have been tested every day, even at his young age. He told me one day he was surprised by a very difficult and uncomfortable situation—his friends were accessing pornographic images on their cell phones. In that exact moment, this young man had to decide what was most important—his popularity or his righteousness. In the few seconds that followed, he was filled with courage and told his friends that what they were doing was not right. Moreover, he told them that they should stop what they were doing or they would become slaves to it. Most of his classmates ridiculed his counsel, saying that it was a part of life and that there was nothing wrong with it. However, there was one among them who listened to the counsel of that young man and decided to stop what he was doing.
“This deacon’s example had a positive influence on at least one of his classmates. Undoubtedly, he and his friend faced mockery and persecution because of that decision. On the other hand, they had followed the admonition of Alma to his people when he said, ‘And now I say unto you, all you that are desirous to follow the voice of the good shepherd, come ye out from the wicked, and be ye separate, and touch not their unclean things’ [Alma 5:57].”
Elder Ulisses Soares of the Presidency of the Seventy

He showed up one night in a dream. He was reasonably good looking except for the fact that he was dressed in a carrot costume. “Hi there, I’m Carrot Guy,” he said. “Or if you like Dickens, think of me as the Ghost of Carrots Past.”
Strangely enough all her dreams took place in what looked like a movie theater. She yelled up to whoever worked in the projection room. “Hey, let’s get on to something a little more interesting here, okay?”
Nothing happened. She turned to face him. “How can you stand to go around dressed up like that?”
“If you think this is bad, try being a cabbage sometime.”
“Look, no offense, okay, but I don’t appreciate you taking up my valuable dream time. I want to dream about Kyle tonight.”
“This is really important stuff here. I’m going to take you on a nutrition journey in your dreams.”
She yelled at the projectionist. “I want another dream, and I want it now!”
“Nothing else is going to happen until I’m finished.”
Down in front of the theater a dim figure who looked like Kyle was standing in the shadows.
“Kyle, is that you? Look, come and take me to the junior prom. Or else we could go on a picnic. You don’t have to make any serious commitment here, you know, because it’s only a dream.”
Kyle stayed where he was.
“It’s no use. We need to begin our journey.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you dressed like that.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t go out with carrots.”
In a flash he was gone, and in another flash he was back. This time he was wearing jeans and a shirt. The only clue about his identity was a designer carrot sewed onto his shirt. “How’s that?” he asked.
“Better.”
“Are you ready to go?” he asked.
“Where are we going?”
“To lunch.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“We’re not going to eat. We’re going to watch you eat the lunch you were served at the school cafeteria today.”
Suddenly they were in the school cafeteria. People walked right through them. “Busy place,” he said.
“Can we go see Kyle?”
“He wouldn’t be able to see you.”
“I just want to stare at him.”
“Instead of that let’s watch you eat lunch.”
“And then can we watch Kyle for a while?”
“We’ll see.”
They walked to the table where she’d sat at lunch that day. “Let’s see,” he began. “We got two slices of bread, some margarine, carrot and celery sticks, a bowl of soup, and a tuna sandwich. That’s what they put on your tray. What did you eat?”
“Nothing.”
“All you had for breakfast was a glass of orange juice. So why weren’t you hungry?”
“I don’t know why. I just wasn’t.”
“Why don’t we ask your stomach if you were hungry?”
“Look, if my stomach is going to start talking in this dream too, then I’m out of here. I’m serious. I’ll wake myself up and never go to sleep for the rest of the night.”
“Relax. Stomachs don’t talk; they just growl. And your stomach was growling while you sat there and looked at your lunch. You were hungry, but you didn’t eat.”
“I’m trying to lose weight.”
“Why?”
“I weigh too much.”
“Did your doctor tell you that?”
“No. I can tell that I do though.”
“How can you tell?”
“I just can.”
“You didn’t eat anything for lunch then, did you?”
“No.”
He sounded hurt. “You threw away everything—even the carrots?”
“I tried to get my friends to eat some of my lunch but they didn’t want it either.”
“But you were still hungry.”
“Not really.”
“Your stomach was growling and you felt weak. You lasted until two thirty and then you bought two candy bars and ate them.”
“I only had one candy bar.”
“It was two. And then you felt so guilty you promised yourself that, to make up for it, you wouldn’t eat supper.”
“I want out of this dream.”
“Sorry but you’re stuck with me for a while. You hardly ate a thing at supper, and then you went to your room to study. At nine o’clock you went downstairs and dished out a quart of ice cream and took it to your room and ate it, and then you felt guilty again and promised yourself that tomorrow would be different and you’d skip breakfast and lunch to make up for the ice cream. Would you like to see those scenes again?”
“No.”
“There’s a pattern developing that can do you a lot of harm if it continues. Why is this happening?”
“I told you before. I need to lose weight.”
“You want to look like the girls on TV that advertise diet soda, is that it?”
“No, but what’d be wrong if I did?”
“Why not accept the body you have rather than the one the billboards and magazines and TV ads say you should have?”
“I just want to lose ten pounds, that’s all. What’s so bad about that?”
“What do you know about nutrition?”
“Enough.”
“The truth is you don’t know much, and what you think you know is wrong.”
“How do you know what I know or don’t know?”
“Let me test you. You think that to lose weight you have to really cut down what you eat. Right?”
“Yeah sure.”
“Wrong. If you quit eating then your body thinks there’s a famine and it starts storing fat cells like crazy, trying to get ready for when there’s no food at all coming in. If you want to lose weight, you have to eat a lot so your body doesn’t worry about where the next meal is coming from.”
“If I ate a lot then I’d gain weight.”
“Not if you eat the right things.”
“What are the right things?”
“Vegetables, fruits, bread, cereal, things like that. And cut down on those double cheese bacon burgers and fries.”
“Basically you’re telling me to eat the way my mother says.”
“Yeah basically.”
“It’s got to be more complicated than that.”
“Is what you’re doing now working for you?”
“It would if I’d just stick to it.”
“Right now you spend most of your time thinking about food. You’re either feeling guilty you ate something or else you’re craving something to eat. You’re becoming totally preoccupied about food. If you ate normally, you’d have more time to think about other things.”
“Like Kyle.”
“If you ate more normally, you’d have more energy to go over and talk to Kyle instead of just looking at him from a distance.”
“I could never do that.”
“Why not?”
“I just couldn’t, that’s all.”
“He’d like to have someone he could talk to.”
“He would?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’ll do it, but first I want to lose ten pounds.”
“If you wait that long, Diane will be his best friend.”
“All right, I’ll do it, and I’ll eat sensibly and everything. Now can you go away so I can dream about Kyle.”
“Not yet. We have one more visit to make. We need to talk about something else.”
Suddenly they were standing in her kitchen at home. “This is last Sunday right after church,” he said. “Do you remember what happened?” You wanted to watch TV. You asked your dad, and he said he thought you shouldn’t watch TV on Sunday. It really made you mad because the reason you wanted to watch is because you were writing a report about dolphins in school and this was a special hour show about dolphins. Do you remember being angry?”
“Yes, I had a good reason to watch the show.”
“You were angry, but all you did was get up from the table and go to your room and shut the door.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“You didn’t explain anything. You just kept your feelings inside of you.”
“What do you think I should have done, started yelling?”
“No, it’s good to control anger, but you need to express your feelings. You could have told your dad you didn’t think it was fair. You could have explained why you wanted to see that particular TV program.”
“It wouldn’t have done any good.”
“Maybe you still wouldn’t have been allowed to watch TV, but at least talking about how you felt would have got your feelings out in the open instead of keeping them bottled up inside you.”
“It’s no big deal.”
“I think you got even by eating that quart of ice cream in your room later that afternoon. And then you felt so guilty about it you went in the bathroom and on purpose threw everything up. Didn’t you?”
She wouldn’t look at him. “I promised myself I’d never do it again.”
“You’re getting into a pattern that keeps repeating itself. It doesn’t leave much time for anything else, does it?”
“I told you, I’ll never do it again. Now can I dream about Kyle?”
“This is probably not something you can stop all by yourself. You need to tell your parents what’s going on.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“It would really upset them.”
“They’re not china dolls that’ll break at the slightest problem. They can handle it.”
“Why do I have to tell them?”
“So they can get you some help if you need it.”
“I can stop it myself.”
“Maybe you can, but you still need to tell them right away because they already sense something’s wrong. They just don’t know what it is. Promise me you’ll tell your parents in the morning.”
It took her a long time to decide, but finally she said, “Okay.”
The scene changed and Kyle was there with a big smile on his face. “Thanks for calling me last night,” he said.
“I called you last night?” she asked.
And then it was morning and her mother opened the door to her room and told her it was time to get ready for school.
As she walked into the kitchen a few minutes later, her father was reading the paper and her mother was fixing breakfast. She sat down at the table, looked around, took a deep breath, and began. “Mom, Dad, there’s something I need to talk to you about. There’s this problem I have and I may need some help.”
Her father put down his paper, and her mother came away from the stove.
And then they talked.

It was midnight, December. Outside my parents’ bedroom window, snow fell lightly, softly, beautifully. The earth was covered with a layer of white like a shroud. I sat on a chair next to my mother’s bed watching the snow. The house was silent. The only sound was my mother’s breathing. Her breath came in such long intervals I wondered how anyone could live on so little air. I realized how close death was for her.
Early in the fall, after four years of chemotherapy, radiation treatment, and surgery my mother came home and said, “Enough, I won’t go back.”
In the following months she grew thinner and weaker and the pain she felt seemed to increase every hour. It was all so gradual, like watching summer turn to fall and fall turn to winter, but with a terrible twist. My mother had always taken care of herself, eating right and exercising, but by Thanksgiving she was too weak to take more than a few steps.
In the first week of December, when the powerful drugs my father gave her with an injection began to wear off, the pain would leave her screaming. Something in some untouchable secret part of me began to unravel.
A few weeks later she slipped mercifully into a coma, and then we took turns sitting with her day and night. We didn’t want her to be alone when she died. Somehow all of us felt she knew we were there.
Sitting with her in the night it seemed a darkness settled over me. How do I explain what I felt? I never realized anything could reach me so deeply.
What I felt sitting with mother was much more terrible and darker than what I felt under the ice. This thing cracked the very bones of who I am, and I knew I would never be the same again. It’s not death that hurt this way. Death is hard but I could accept it as a natural process, something which happens to all of us. What hurt and what challenged everything I thought and believed and felt was watching someone I love suffer incredible pain for months. It’s an age-old question, an ancient nightmare rune. How can God let this happen? At midnight, at one o’clock and two o’clock, with the weight of this question a darkness settled over me like snow covering the earth out the window, and I felt the faith and belief I had slipping through my hands like water.
A few weeks later, just before Christmas, my mother died. It was a good funeral, but there was no answer to the question burning inside me. For months I moved through life an awake somnambulist. Why? Why is there so much suffering in the world? Why does God allow it to happen?

The week I stayed with Uncle Alex and Aunt Cindy was the week their garden cranked out a year’s supply of zucchini. Uncle Alex called it the “Zucchini Explosion.”
Uncle Alex is a lot like me, only grown up. We even have the same name, sort of. You see, my name is Elliot Alexander Cranton. His name is Alexander Elliot Cranton. Aunt Cindy says we’re quite a pair.
We ate supper on the patio the first night, and there it was on my plate—zucchini. Uncle Alex is a lot of fun, and I like Aunt Cindy too. But zucchini and I don’t get along at all. They look like giant cucumbers, and they just mush around in your mouth.
I ate as much as I could stand, then spread the rest around on my plate. I didn’t want to hurt Aunt Cindy’s feelings, but I didn’t want to eat the zucchini, either.
After supper three of Aunt Cindy’s friends stopped by to visit.
“Would you like to take home some zucchini?” she asked them.
“My family won’t eat them,” said the tall one.
“My family won’t touch them,” said the short one.
“My family won’t even look at them,” said the one in between.
I wasn’t surprised.
Uncle Alex and I excused ourselves and went to catch lightning bugs.
We caught about twenty-five and put them into a jar. I thought the breathing holes in the lid were small enough when I took the jar into the kitchen, but I guess they weren’t.
I don’t know why Aunt Cindy was so upset. Only one got on her foot. The rest were on the ceiling. And the walls. And the floor.
“Alexander Elliot and Elliot Alexander,” she shouted, “get these bugs out of my kitchen!”
“If you insist, but we sure could have saved on the electric bill,” Uncle Alex joked.
The next night we ate in the kitchen. We had a zucchini casserole. I offered to scrape the dishes so that Aunt Cindy wouldn’t see how much I’d left on my plate.
After dinner, Uncle Alex and I hunted for fishing worms. We put them into a paper cup with some dirt, then put the cup into the refrigerator to keep the worms fresh.
“Alexander Elliot and Elliot Alexander,” shouted Aunt Cindy when she looked in the refrigerator, “what’s this next to the zucchini?”
She looked into the cup. “Get these worms out of my kitchen!”
Aunt Cindy did not even want to understand about keeping worms fresh.
We ate in the dining room the next night. We had zucchini with some kind of sauce on them. I’d swallowed more zucchini that week than I’d eaten before in my whole life. But it wasn’t enough for Aunt Cindy.
She looked at our plates and shook her head. “I’ve already put away more zucchini than we’ll need for the winter.”
“Leave the zucchini to us,” said Uncle Alex.
“Sure,” said Aunt Cindy, smiling a little. “You two are just like those zucchini. I don’t know what to do with them, and I don’t know what to do with you!”
After supper I helped Uncle Alex move the picnic table out by the road. We put the zucchini on the table. I made a sign that said ZUCCHINI—20¢ EACH.
Eight cars went by. I changed the price to ten cents.
Fourteen more cars went by. No luck.
I made a new sign that said ZUCCHINI—FREE TO A GOODHOME. Sixteen cars later, we gave up.
“Let’s look in Aunt Cindy’s cookbook,” I suggested. “Maybe we can find a recipe for chocolate-covered zucchini.”
“I’ll try anything,” said Uncle Alex.
We went into the kitchen and got out the cookbook.
“Uncle Alex,” I asked, “why doesn’t Aunt Cindy ever make zucchini bread? It sounds kind of good.”
“It is,” Uncle Alex said. “You don’t even know you’re eating zucchini. Aunt Cindy says it’s fattening.”
“Let’s make some.”
That was when I found out that Uncle Alex is not very handy in the kitchen, especially with messy things like flour and eggs. After we put the bread in the oven and were just starting to clean up, Aunt Cindy came in with her three friends.
“Alexander Elliot and Elliot Alexander,” she shouted, “what have you done to my kitchen?”
I don’t know why she was so upset. There was just a little flour on the counter. And on the floor. And on Uncle Alex.
“What is that wonderful smell?” asked Aunt Cindy’s tall friend.
“It’s zucchini bread,” I told her.
“How delightful!” said the short one.
“It does smell delicious,” said the one in between.
When the bread was done, Uncle Alex cut a slice for each of us, even Aunt Cindy.
It was really good, and it didn’t mush around in my mouth.
Uncle Alex gave each lady the recipe and a big sack full of zucchini.
“Oh, thank you,” said the tall one.
“How thoughtful of you,” said the short one.
“Are you sure you don’t want to keep some for yourselves?” asked the one in between.
The next day, Uncle Alex and I picked three zucchini from the garden. We took them in to Aunt Cindy.
“Alexander Elliot and Elliot Alexander,” she shouted, “get those zucchini out of my kitchen!”

When I was a child, I played the violin. I wanted it to sound pretty. I wanted to play for my parents and have them say, “Oh, Joy, that’s beautiful!” But it didn’t sound beautiful. It squeaked!
Sometimes when I didn’t practice, my teacher would say, “Joy, did you practice this week?” It made me want to practice so I could play better the next week.
Looking back, playing the violin was a good experience because it was hard. Even though I didn’t always like practicing, I learned so much from setting a goal to practice a little bit every day.

Darcy jumped over a puddle. She giggled. Rainy days were fun. She and Mom raced leaf boats in the water. Darcy cheered as her leaf floated by.
She tiptoed between the puddles with colored chalk in each hand. She colored the sidewalk and even a big rock. The colors looked so pretty against the gray sky. Darcy didn’t mind the cold.
Darcy looked up at the cloudy sky.
“Mommy, can Heavenly Father see me right now?” Darcy asked.
“Yes. Heavenly Father can see you right now,” said Mom.
Darcy thought for a moment. Then she held up her hand and waved.
“Hi!” she said, waving at the sky. Maybe Heavenly Father could see her waving to Him!
At last Darcy and Mom went inside to warm up.
Darcy grabbed some paper and painted a bright rainbow. She showed it to Daddy when he got home. She told him all about her rainy-day fun.
After dinner, the sun was setting. “Let’s go see the sunset,” Daddy said.
They walked outside. It smelled like the earth had a shower. The clouds were puffy and pink. And in the sky was the brightest, most beautiful rainbow!
“Do you remember who makes rainbows?” Mom asked.
“Heavenly Father makes them!” said Darcy.
Darcy wrapped her arms around herself like a hug. “I think He is saying ‘hi’ back to me!”

“Peter, give me that thumbtack!” The Primary class fell silent, every eye on Peter.
He surrendered the thumbtack, protesting, “Jeffrey started it!”
Sister Brock glanced at the boy next to Peter. He was sitting quietly with his scriptures open. She turned back to Peter. “Young man,” she scolded, “this is your last warning. I’ll have no more troublemaking!” She turned and hurried back to the blackboard.
Jeffrey smirked at Peter, flashing the thumbtack he’d been hiding in his pocket. Peter lunged for it. Sister Brock turned just as Peter slammed into Jeffrey, sending both boys crashing to the floor.
Peter’s triumph of getting even with Jeffrey quickly faded in the tomblike silence in the den at home. He squirmed under his father’s penetrating gaze. From His picture on the wall, the Savior seemed to be looking gravely down at him also.
Peter looked away. Even though Sister Brock had learned the truth after class—and Jeffrey was being talked to by his father—Peter knew that his temper had gotten him in trouble far too often.
Minutes passed. The only sound was the ticking of the wall clock. Why doesn’t he say something? Peter wondered as his father seemed lost in thought. Maybe he’s forgotten I’m here.
Dad’s voice interrupted Peter’s thoughts. “Peter, let’s pray.” His father had already knelt. Quickly Peter slid to his knees.
After praying for help to solve their problem, they both sat down. Then Dad leaned forward, his eyes measuring Peter. “Peter,” he said, “I want you to try an experiment. For the next three days, you are to try to follow Jesus’ example whenever you get angry. Do you think you’re strong enough?”
“Strong enough?”
“Yes, Peter, strong enough.”
“But, Dad,” Peter objected, “Jesus never acted strong and tough.”
Dad seemed disappointed. “It takes a lot of strength to love and forgive others.”
Peter grumbled, “I know we should love others—but our enemies? And only cowards would turn the other cheek.”
Again, silence. Grown-ups were sure confusing.
“Well, Peter?”
“Well, what?”
“Are you strong enough?”
Peter gave up. “Sure,” he declared. “All I’ll have to do is nothing.”
“Glad to hear you’ll try this experiment. I think you’ll find that Jesus Christ was no coward.” Dad stood, offering his hand, “You can report to me on Wednesday after Scouts, OK?”
Peter shook his hand, smiling in relief. This would be a snap!
His first test came Monday after school. When he opened his bedroom door, his little sister, Amanda, and her friend Alex jumped in alarm. Plastic model pieces flew everywhere.
“My race car!” Peter shouted. “I’ve told you to leave my things alone!” He grabbed for Amanda, but she and Alex bolted for the door.
“You’re going to be sorry,” Peter fumed, steadying himself against his desk. His glance fell on his picture of the Savior with happy children around Him. Peter groaned. The experiment!
He breathed deeply, trying to calm down. How do I know what Jesus would do? he thought crossly. The Bible didn’ttell us anything about Jesus having a little sister who wrecked His stuff!
All at once, Jesus’ crucifixion came to Peter’s mind. No, just people wrecking His life! he realized. Even when the soldiers killed Him, Jesus didn’t get mad. Instead, He asked Heavenly Father to forgive them. A quiet feeling settled on Peter. He began to feel sorry for getting angry at Amanda. He went to find her.
As soon as Amanda saw him, she began whimpering, “We didn’t mean to break it, Peter. It just slipped. …”
“I know,” Peter said softly. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. Come help me rebuild it, then I’ll show you how it works, OK?” The joy on Amanda’s face matched the warm glow in his heart.
His success carried him all the way to Wednesday morning, when Brad Duncan came back to school. The moment Brad dunked him at the drinking fountain, Peter knew that chicken pox had not improved Brad’s personality.
As Peter came up sputtering, his friend Jeremy grabbed his arm and shouted, “Come on—let’s get him!”
“Aw, let him go,” Peter answered.
“Let him go! Are you crazy?”
I must be, Peter thought. What could he say—Well, Jer, there’s this experiment … ? No, that’d really sound stupid. “Look,” he hedged, “it just isn’t worth the bother.”
“What’s wrong with you?” Jeremy challenged. “You getting wimpy or something?” When Peter didn’t answer, Jeremy shook his head in disgust and walked off.
Miserable, Peter went to class. Everyone had lined up at the door. Wednesday was library day. Peter noticed Jeremy whispering with some other kids. They gave Peter weird looks. Great! thought Peter. Now everyone thinks I’m a coward. He wondered if the Savior had felt like this when His friends deserted Him. How did He stand feeling so alone?
Just then Brad sauntered into class. Miss Lewis had him join Peter at the back of the line. “Hey, Pete,” he snickered, “your shirt’s all wet!”
Peter ignored him. All the way down the hall, Brad kept jabbing him, each time a little harder. Peter was really getting mad.
When Miss Lewis stopped at the office, Brad shoved Peter so hard that he went sprawling. Peter forgot all about the experiment. He scrambled up, his only thought was to get even with Brad Duncan! He shoved Brad against the wall. “Cut it out!” When Brad glared back, Peter clenched his fist.
“Peter!” Miss Lewis had returned. “Get back in line,” she ordered. “Brad, up here next to me!”
All at once Peter remembered the experiment! I’ve failed, he realized, I’m really not strong enough after all.
The rest of the day Peter worried about reporting to his father. The experiment had been harder than he’d ever imagined. Especially with Brad. Had Jesus felt like that with the Pharisees? What had kept Him from getting mad?
When Peter sat down in the den that evening, he felt too ashamed to look up. Then Dad asked the dreaded question. “Well, Peter, were you strong enough?”
Peter sighed. “Only sometimes,” he admitted.
“Tell me about it.”
So Peter told him, first about Amanda and then about Brad. When he finished, Dad was smiling warmly. Maybe he hadn’t understood.
“Dad,” Peter repeated, “I really tried, but I’m not even half as strong as Jesus.”
“I know, Peter. Neither am I.”
Peter was startled. Even his father struggled to be good?
As if reading Peter’s mind, Dad explained, “I think it takes all this life, and even some of the next, but you’ve taken a big step in that direction. I’m proud of you.”
Slowly the words sank in. Peter studied the Savior’s picture on the wall, thinking about what Dad had said. Someday, I’d like to be that strong, he thought.
He realized that Dad was waiting to go to dinner with him. When Peter walked over, his father gave his shoulder a firm squeeze. “Keep up the good work, Peter.”
Peter smiled back. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Thank you, Peter.”