Gospel Story Finder

My daughter and I were walking to the metro one day and were kindly offered a ride by an Emirati woman who shared with us experiences about her son who had medical difficulties that required them to travel to the United States for treatment. In the course of her story, her faith in and reliance on God’s will and watchful care was interwoven. I told her I would pray for her and her family, which she accepted with understanding and love.

David peered down at the chewed rope end in his hands. Dusty had freed himself again. Dropping the rope, the boy ran to the coop. He opened the door and counted the chickens, pointing his flashlight at each one. They clucked softly and blinked their eyes. All 18 were there. The week before there had been 20 hens, but Dusty, the yearling Labrador retriever David had bought for hunting, had killed two. After the killing, David had promised his father that he would work with the dog, tying him up until they could be sure he would do no more damage.
The boy walked quickly back to the post where his dog had been tied. “Dusty,” he called softly; then he glanced beyond the house at the sky. The glow in the east was becoming brighter.
He moved out past the haystack and whistled. He heard something moving beyond the fence in the field and crawled through. A dark form became Dusty, who bounded toward the boy, then crouched down, front legs forward, and barked. David reached for the rope, but the dog bounced away, ready for their usual romp.
“Dusty!” The words shot out. “Come here!” The dog came closer, and David grabbed the end of the rope. Even in the half-light David could see something smeared around Dusty’s jaws. He put out his hand and touched it; his fingers felt sticky. He ran his hands over the dog’s body—no cuts or breaks. Small tufts of something like fur clung to the black-red around the dog’s mouth. The dog had killed a cottontail once. David took some of the stuff in his palm and shone the light on it. Despite the blood he saw that the pieces were yellow, kinky. It was sheep wool.
David climbed under the fence, pulling Dusty behind him; then he leaned against the stack of hay. The dog could have gotten into the sheep hides that were tacked to the shed wall, but that wouldn’t explain the blood. “Stupid dog!” David jerked the animal back to the post where he untied the short rope and retied the long end onto Dusty’s collar. Just to be sure, he ran to the pelts, moving his fingers along their edges. They were untouched. Watching the back door of the house, he walked back to Dusty and stood next to him. He thought of their neighbors who had sheep—Johnsons, Morgans, Franklins, Mitchells.
Several years before, David had seen a sheep-killing dog shot. The recollection raced through his mind. He moved toward Dusty, then hesitated. Working the knot loose from the post, David quickly led him to the water trough. He tied him and sprayed water from the hose over Dusty’s head and chest. The dog shrank back, but the boy pulled him up again. Then, with a curry comb from the tack room, he cleaned the half-dried blood from Dusty’s hair and rubbed him all over with a gunny sack before tying him up again. He took the short, chewed piece of rope and put it in a paper sack in the trash barrel.
By now it was light, and David hurried to finish the chores. He looked at the back door. With his brothers grown and gone, David was responsible for the chores. For once he was glad his dad hadn’t come to help as he sometimes did. He had fed the pigs and chickens and was just separating the calf from the milk cow when his dad called from the back door. He tried again to get the stubborn calf in its pen before he left, but his father shouted, “Just come! I’ll do that later. Hurry!”
David went into the kitchen and followed his father through the house out to the truck. Climbing in, he looked across at his father’s grim face. “Something’s got into Morgan’s sheep. I saw them when I was down watering the cows.” David turned away, staring out the window. His hand gripped the seat edge. He didn’t look at his father all the way there.
At the pasture, David walked to open the gate. The sheep were huddled in a corner. The boy put his shoulder against the post to free the loop from the top. As he swung the gate around, he saw that halfway down the field several sheep lay quiet in the grass.
“Leave it open,” his dad called from the window of the truck. “I phoned Morgan, and he’ll be here soon.” David climbed back into the truck. They drove into the pasture and stopped by the first dead sheep. David opened the door and walked over to the carcass of the ewe.
His father stood next to David, shaking his head. “Probably a pack of dogs.” The boy looked up, the corners of his mouth turned down. A few flies crawled slowly over the flesh and yellow fat where the wool above the ribs had been laid back.
“Rotten deal,” his dad muttered, looking down the field at the other sheep. David nodded as he pushed on one of the sheep’s legs. It moved loosely.
“Davie.” He turned to see his father pointing down the road to where dust billowed from behind a truck. “It’s Morgan. He’ll want to know about Dusty.”
David bent over as if examining the sheep. “He’s tied up,” he mumbled without looking up.
“Are you sure? He hasn’t pulled himself loose?”
David put his hand out, touched the sheep on the neck, then pulled back quickly. It was warm and reminded him of the time he had touched the shot dog.
“David!” The bullet had crashed into that dog’s shoulder, smashing it. David looked at the truck turning into the pasture.
“No. He was tied up. I checked him this morning.”
David felt his father’s eyes on him; then he heard “Good.” The boy stood up. He watched his father walk toward Morgan, who was getting out of his truck. The two men shook hands.
“You see what did it?” Morgan leaned over the dead sheep.
“Nope. Too sloppy for coyotes though.” David’s father pushed a flap of loose skin on the side of the ewe with his shoe.
Morgan stood and turned toward David. “I think you’re right. I’m looking for dogs.” He was still looking at David, who was unable to move. There was silence; David heard his father’s steps, then felt his hands on his shoulders.
“Well, you’ll have to look somewhere else.” Morgan scowled for a minute, then turned back to the sheep. “Help me get them out of here.” David hadn’t moved, but stood looking at the ground. When his father called, he slowly came to help them. Bending over the body, they each grasped a leg, then lifted the sheep up, flopping it over into the truck. They drove on to the next dead sheep and tumbled it in with the other.
The last one wasn’t dead yet and tried to get up when they came. Morgan pulled a .22 from in back of the seat and shot her behind the ear. In the truck bed the bodies looked strange, sprawled together, their legs sticking out.
“I’ll call them that have dogs around.” Morgan’s voice was bitter. “We can’t have this happening.” The door to his truck slammed; dust followed him up through the field.
They got into their own truck. David picked at a torn place in the knee of his pants. Then he stopped and stared out the window.
“How much would those three cost now?” David looked up at his father.
“Oh, about $300.”
David played with the knob of the bin. He had $43 in his savings account. Summer was over, the time when he could make some good money, and he had spent quite a bit just getting Dusty. Even if he did pay back every cent, who would let him keep a sheep-killing dog?
“That’s sure a loss to Morgan.” His dad turned into their driveway. “I hope they find the dogs.”
David nodded, “Yeah.” He walked slowly up to the front door, then moved faster as his mother called out, “Hurry! The bus’ll be here any minute.” She was taking food out of the oven, where it had been kept warm, and setting it on the table. David put his school clothes on, then washed, his eyes showing in the bottom of the mirror. He reached for the soap, then stopped and listened. His mother had said something about a pack of dogs. “Was Dusty with them?” she asked.
“No.” It was his father’s voice. “Davie said the dog was still tied.” David refocused on his own image in the mirror, and then he bent over and scrubbed his hands. At the table he pushed the eggs into the potatoes on his plate.
“Are you feeling all right?” his mother asked, laying one hand on his arm.
“I’m just not hungry.” David moved his chair back and excused himself.
“Those sheep all torn up don’t exactly make for a good appetite, do they?” His father wiped his hand across his mouth.
In his room, David sat on his bed. Dusty wouldn’t try to get loose during the day, and tonight he’d tie him double tight. David would tie him with baling wire. He couldn’t chew through that.
“The bus’s here.” David took his book bag from his mother’s hand and ran out the front door. He climbed onto the bus and sat with the other sixth graders from the valley.
Butch, Mr. Morgan’s son, was talking with the other boys. “Yeah, there was six or seven dead.” David started to say something, but then stopped. “Dad said he’d shoot any dog anywhere around them sheep.” Butch went on, the others still watching. “I didn’t find no blood on my dog, but I chained him up anyway.” David thought of the Morgan’s dachshund, then laughed nervously with the other boys.
“What about your dog, Jimmy?” Butch still had them all listening. They turned to Jim Mitchell.
“That’s none of your business!” The boys, even Butch, were silent. Then Butch said, “Well, you’ve got to realize we just can’t have sheep killers around here.” But now the other boys were turning away.
David looked at his hands. He and Jimmy, sitting in the same seat, didn’t talk at first. Then Jimmy turned to David. “There was blood on our dog. Dad said we’ll probably have to get rid of him.” David said nothing but looked out the window on the opposite side of the bus. The bus passed their own field where his dad was just climbing onto the swather. David waved, making only a small motion, then leaned his head against the seat in front of him and looked at the floor.
Although the other boys moved straight to the lawn to play football after the bus unloaded, David went inside to the library. He found the book which he had read after Dusty had killed the chickens. It had told him that “once an animal gets a taste for blood, it isn’t easy to break him of that habit, but sometimes tying the victim around the dog’s neck will help.” They had left the chicken tied to Dusty until it was greasy and stinky, but it hadn’t worked. He had killed another chicken and now some sheep. David smiled at the thought of Dusty with the sheep tied around his neck. But he soon frowned again. “Once an animal gets a taste for blood. …”
The bell rang, and David went to his class. He watched Jimmy Mitchell, who sat staring at his desk, supporting himself with one hand to his forehead. No man in the valley would keep a sheep-killing dog. He looked across at Butch Morgan. He was chunky, like his father, and had plump cheeks and pink skin. He thought of Mr. Morgan’s .22. Dusty’s head would flop over; his body would crumple. He shook his head, bending over his book again.
“David,” he looked up at the teacher. “Will you work the first division problem for us now?” David walked to the front of the room, trying to remember how these problems should be done. He scratched the numbers onto the blackboard, then returned to his seat. He realized that he had forgotten to invert before he multiplied.
History seemed to go overtime, and the class dragged on through science. Finally the day was half over. David stood in line for lunch. Before he knew it, the secretary was holding out her hand for his ticket. He fumbled for his wallet and took out a ticket. He started to put his wallet away, but then he stopped, running his fingers across the deer pattern his dad had cut into the leather. It had been perfectly formed and carefully shaded, unlike store-bought things. He slowly folded the wallet and put it in his pocket.
David ate his lunch alone, away from the others. He then went back to the library and read more from the book about dogs. He turned the pages awhile, then put it away, walking to look out the window. Whatever the book said, people in the valley would remember that Dusty was a killer.
Butch, Kenny, and the others were out playing ball. David watched as Jimmy marched across the playground and pushed Butch down. David moved through the door and joined the group just as a teacher broke up the fight. Butch ran for the building, one hand across his face, his nose bleeding. The teacher walked away with one arm around Jimmy’s shoulders.
“What happened?” David asked.
“Oh, Jimmy called home and found out that his father shot their dog,” Kenny Jesperson answered, kicking his foot against the pavement.
David walked back to his class, his hands in his pockets. Jimmy came in and slumped into his seat. David watched him for a long time, but he turned quickly when Jimmy looked up. David felt his face turning red; he hoped no one noticed. He sat staring at the page.
The rest of the day was as slow as the morning. At last it was over. David wished the bus driver would go faster, but he went at half speed as usual. Then the bus stopped, and he was running from it, going around to where Dusty was tied. The dog wiggled his entire body in greeting. David found several loops of baling wire and hooked them together, trading them for Dusty’s rope. David held his arms around the dog and felt the fur against his face. He got some food and poured it into Dusty’s dish. The dog gulped the food, noisily crunching the pieces with his teeth.
David walked into the house. His mother was washing the dishes, singing as she dipped the plates into the soapy water. Half-afraid, David asked, “Where’s Dad?”
“Out in the machine shed.”
David hesitated; then he turned through the door and moved his feet several steps toward the shed. He stopped in the yard, returned to the kitchen through the back door, and walked to his room.
David lay on his bed. “They would shoot him if they knew.” He took off his shoes and slowly pulled off each sock. He walked to his dresser where the family picture stood. His older brothers were there and his dad was directly behind David in the picture, his hands on David’s shoulders. The boy held the picture; then he put it back. He finished dressing and left to do the chores.
“No TV tonight, eh?” His mother smiled as he walked through the kitchen. He shoved the screen door, letting it slam behind him. When he turned at the back gate, she was standing behind the screen, wiping her hands and watching him.
He put the milk bucket on the post next to the gate of the cow pen and walked over to dump wet barley to the grunting pigs. They ran in circles around him until he slopped it into their trough. The chickens ran to the fence, pecking at his feet as he filled their food and water containers. Some of them flapped their wings, trying to fly to the food. As David turned, he saw his father, squatting before Dusty, scratching the dog’s ears. Dusty wagged his tail. His dad’s back was toward David, who watched unnoticed. His dad stood; David turned to get grain for the cow. He poured the grain in front of her, and then sat on the milk stool, his head against the cow’s flank. He milked fast until his forearms ached.
“How was school today?”
“All right, I guess.” He turned his back to the milking.
“Only all right?” His dad was smiling. David kept milking. His father walked away, and soon David saw him return, pulling the strings off a bale of hay he had brought for the cow.
“I helped Morgan dress out the last sheep. It was good it wasn’t completely wasted.”
“Yeah.” David’s hands hurt, but he milked harder and harder.
“About through out there?” his mother called from the house. “Dinner’s ready.”
His father looked over at David’s nearly full bucket. “We’ll be right there,” he shouted back to the house. As David stripped the last of the milk from the cow’s teats, his dad climbed the fence to let the calf out of its pen. David finished and walked to the gate, where he stood waiting for his father. He looked at the ground. Tomorrow he would ride to school with Jimmy, sit in the same classroom. His legs and arms felt weary. When he was smaller, if he were tired his mother would hold him, rocking in the chair.
“Davie?” His father had already passed through the gate and was turned back, waiting for David. “Is something wrong?”
David’s chest tightened again. He thought of eating dinner tonight with his mother and father watching. He shook his head, blinking his eyes quickly. Then, gripping the pail handle, he moved through the gate. The boy heard the gate shut; then he felt his father’s hand on his shoulder, turning him around.
“What’s the matter, Davie?” David leaned against his father’s chest, feeling the man’s arms around him. He felt the cloth of his father’s shirt, rough on his face. He felt warm, but then the fear made his body grow tight again. He stepped back, still gripping the handle of the bucket, and looked up. His father’s face was puzzled. David began quickly.
“Dusty …” He waited, eyes down, until he could talk again.
“Yes?” His father took a step closer.
David took a breath. “Dusty was one of the dogs that killed Morgan’s sheep.”
His dad stared at him. “How do you know?”
“There was blood and wool on him this morning.” David kept his eyes on the ground. “I washed it off.”
His father’s shoulders seemed to sag; he looked away from David. The boy hesitated, then walked to the house, putting the milk bucket on the table. His mother looked at him, but neither said anything. The door opened and David’s father came in and rested his hand on David’s shoulder.
“What do we do now?”
David touched his father’s arm, then walked to the phone. “I’ll call Morgan.”
“Come on.” His father moved toward the door. “Let’s drive over there.” He told David’s mother what had happened; then together they walked through the back door of the kitchen. The screen door banged shut behind them.

“‘Secret pals?’” My best friend Laura raises her eyebrows. “What’s that?”
I laugh. Laura loves anything that has to do with secrets. It doesn’t matter that she can’t keep one for more than about a minute before she feels like she’s going to explode.
“‘Secret pals’ is a project my Primary class is working on,” I explain. “Sister Sharp assigned each of us someone to be a pal to. We’re supposed to do nice things for that person and not let her know who’s doing them—it’s a secret. Get it?”
“Of course I get it,” Laura says. “It’s like you’re going to be Santa Claus to whoever your teacher assigned you to, right?”
“Well, sort of, I guess. But Sister Sharp said that our acts of kindness shouldn’t just be gifts.”
“So whose name did you get?” Laura asks, her eyes suddenly growing wide with excitement. “Ryan’s?”
I roll my eyes. Of course Laura would hope I got Ryan’s name. She thinks he’s really neat. Last year she made him a gigantic flowery Valentine card and signed it, “From Your Secret Admirer.” I’m sure she’d love to be his secret pal.
“No—we’re all girls in this class.” I hesitate. “I’m going to be Shiela’s secret pal.”
“Shiela? She’s weird!”
I take a sip of my milk, not saying anything. I remember that was how I felt Sunday when Sister Sharp gave me my assignment. I wasn’t very happy about it. You see, Shiela is new in town, and she wears faded, ugly clothes. Everyone calls her “Raggedy Shiela.” And she is kind of weird. She sits in class, not saying anything. If someone asks her a direct question, practically forcing her to speak, she answers in a whisper! Last week I asked her what math problem she was working on, and I had to say “What?” or “Huh?” about twenty times before she said it loudly enough for me to hear her.
Besides all that, she hardly ever comes to Primary. I didn’t see why I had to be secret pals with someone who seldom comes to class.
On Sunday I sulked all the way home from church. I didn’t want to go out of my way to be nice to weird Shiela. The assignment had put me in a bad mood.
“Lisa, is something the matter?” My mom asked when we got home. “You were awfully quiet in the car.”
I told her about having to be Shiela’s secret pal. “She doesn’t even come to church,” I grumbled. “I wish I could be a secret pal for Kari or Nancy—anyone would be better than Shiela.”
Mom stood silent for a moment, her eyebrows furrowed. I could tell she wasn’t pleased. “Lisa, let me tell you some things about Shiela.”
She sat down on my bed with me and talked to me very seriously. First she reminded me about Heavenly Father, about how we are all His children and how He wants us all to be happy and help one another. She reminded me that in an eternal perspective, Shiela is my sister. That made me feel unhappy because I knew I wasn’t acting the way Heavenly Father or Jesus Christ wanted me to.
Then, making me feel a thousand times worse, Mom told me some personal things about Shiela. Things that made me cry. Suddenly I was glad I had the opportunity to be her secret pal, because she really needs one. I promised myself that I would be the very best one I could possibly be.
“Hey, Lisa,” Laura says, interrupting my thoughts.
I play with the straw in my milk, unsure how to go on. “Did you know that Shiela’s dad died?” I ask Laura, pushing away the rest of my lunch.
Laura raises her eyebrows. “No. I don’t know anything about her.”
“Neither did I until Mom told me. She visit teaches Shiela’s mom. Shiela’s dad died in a car accident last year. That’s why they moved here. Her mom had to get a job. It doesn’t pay very well so she can’t buy many clothes for Shiela.”
“Oh. That’s sad,” Laura replies. “We should stop people from making fun of her.”
I look down at my lunch, feeling miserable. I used to make fun of Shiela—not out loud, but in my head. “You know what else?”
“What?”
“Shiela used to have a twin sister named April. She died in the car crash with her dad.”
I can see tears forming in Laura’s eyes. “Oh. How awful!”
“Yeah. Mom says that’s probably why Shiela is so quiet. When her sister died, she lost her very best friend.”
Instinctively we both begin to look for Shiela in the cafeteria.
“There she is—sitting over there by herself,” Laura says. “Let’s go invite her to play with us.”
Weeks go by, and Laura and I and Shiela are best friends now. Sometimes Laura and I make cupcakes or cookies after school and leave them on Shiela’s doorstep with a note saying, “From your secret pals!” We’re pretty sure she knows they are from us, but we don’t care. Whenever Shiela asks if we are her secret pals we say: “We’re your best friends—there’s no secret about that!”

Recently, some members of my family determined it would be fun to bicycle from Bozeman, Montana, to Jackson Hole, Wyoming, in the United States. This 225-mile journey would take us three days, and we would cross the Continental Divide on three occasions. We determined that traveling through the mountain passes with good weather would be a wonderful experience that would help us appreciate God’s creations.

After careful planning and preparation, two of my sons and my only daughter and I set out on the first day to cycle to our overnight stop in Big Sky, Montana. The morning was perfect, and we expected a delightful journey. However, as we traveled along, dark clouds gathered and brought rain, which eventually became sleet and hail and made us extremely cold and wet and miserable. As we concluded day one of our journey and reached our overnight destination, I was reminded that life can be just like that day. Fortunately, we had prepared for all types of weather conditions; had we not done so, it would have been difficult to complete our journey that first day. At each stage of life’s journey, we should set out full of hope and optimism, but we should be prepared nonetheless to face opposition or hardship at some point.

On day two of our trip, we headed to West Yellowstone. Everything was as it should be—the bicycles were running smoothly, our legs rested, as we progressed toward our second destination. It was then that I realized if we are not careful when everything is going just right in life, there can be a temptation to forget our Heavenly Father and give credit to ourselves for our happy state. Don’t make that mistake.

On day three of our journey, I learned that even though we may have some uphill struggles in our lives, our attitude will determine how we face them. On that day we crossed the Continental Divide three times, rising from an elevation of 4,800 feet to 8,300 feet. Climbing steep mountain passes on a bike requires the right attitude to get to the right altitude. It’s the same with life. By setting worthwhile goals and keeping your eyes fixed on them, you will learn self-discipline and accomplish much. Yes, there were times when climbing the steep mountain grades was as much as I could bear, but I didn’t give up, because I was fixed in my purpose.

As our family concluded the 225-mile bicycle journey, we learned that no matter how difficult things can become on this road we call life, great happiness is waiting for those who keep the commandments and endure to the end.

I entered the airport in Brasilia and looked around with excitement. It was the last day of my mission, and I was returning to my hometown in another part of Brazil by airplane—my first time flying!
I could see dark clouds and drizzling rain outside the airport windows, and I looked hopefully for any break in the clouds. I wanted the sky to be blue and the day to be sunny so I would be able to see the cities, the mountains, the forests, and everything else we would fly over. “When you fly,” others had told me, “things look so tiny.” I wanted to feel like the birds feel and see the things they see when they fly so high.
After the plane took off, I peered out the window eagerly. But the closer we got to the clouds, the stronger the rain pounded down. I shrugged my shoulders and sighed with disappointment: I couldn’t see anything. My first plane trip is turning into a flop, I thought, turning away from the window.
All of a sudden, the airplane passed through the clouds, and the sun’s rays shone brightly through the window, catching my attention. When I looked out the window, I saw a sky so intensely blue that it hurt my eyes. The clouds below us were a cotton blanket of spectacular whiteness. I wanted to jump out and run on top of them.
For two hours I stared at the wondrous world around me, amazed that above the dense clouds and storms that had assaulted my vision was such beauty and light. When the airplane eventually dropped below the clouds and into the gray again, I had almost forgotten the storm below.
Since that day, I have passed through many storms in my life, including the pain and loneliness of losing my mother. But I know that there is a purpose for the storms; I know what lies above the clouds.

Often our opportunities to show our love come unexpectedly. An example of such an opportunity appeared in a newspaper article in October 1981. So impressed was I with the love and compassion related therein that I have kept the clipping in my files for over 30 years.
The article indicates that an Alaska Airlines nonstop flight from Anchorage, Alaska, to Seattle, Washington—a flight carrying 150 passengers—was diverted to a remote Alaskan town in order to transport a gravely injured child. The two-year-old boy had severed an artery in his arm when he fell on a piece of glass while playing near his home. The town was 450 miles (725 km) south of Anchorage and was certainly not on the flight path. However, medics at the scene had sent out a frantic request for help, and so the flight was diverted to pick up the child and take him to Seattle so that he could be treated in a hospital.
When the flight touched down near the remote town, medics informed the pilot that the boy was bleeding so badly he could not survive the flight to Seattle. A decision was made to fly another 200 miles (320 km) out of the way to Juneau, Alaska, the nearest city with a hospital.
After transporting the boy to Juneau, the flight headed for Seattle, now hours behind schedule. Not one passenger complained, even though most of them would miss appointments and connecting flights. In fact, as the minutes and hours ticked by, they took up a collection, raising a considerable sum for the boy and his family.
As the flight was about to land in Seattle, the passengers broke into a cheer when the pilot announced that he had received word by radio that the boy was going to be all right.7

One of the great men I know is Brother Dale Duffy from Boise, Idaho. Every young man who has ever come in contact with Dale will never forget his influence. It was Dale’s idea, as a Scoutmaster, to purchase boating equipment and float the Middle Fork of the Salmon River.

The troop started river running about the time my three oldest sons were in Scout and Explorer troops in the Boise 15th Ward. I remember well how Dale involved the young troop leaders in planning. Few men know better the meaning of the phrase “preparation precedes power.” We started a year ahead. Every boy who wanted to go had to earn the swimming and lifesaving merit badges and be able to swim two-thirds of a mile.

The biggest challenge they had to meet was the “Duffy Battle.” This was hand-to-hand combat with Dale Duffy in water over their heads. He made it a real challenge to see what kind of substance the boys were made of under pressure. During this battle, I’m sure each boy found just how hard he could fight for his life if he had to.

There were also hours of classroom training prior to the first float trip, followed by the practical application of this training as the boys floated down the Boise River in preparation for the Middle Fork experience. Following are some of the things my boys remember and will never forget from this special training:
• You are never on the river without a life jacket.
• Every boy must have a razor-sharp knife in a scabbard on his hip, for use in case he falls in and gets tangled in the rope.
• When you fall in, you face downstream, your feet in front of you to parry off the rocks that are down river.
• When you fall in, always stay with the boat if possible.
• When you swim to shore, swim to the closest shore, diagonally downstream. This conserves strength, and once you are ashore you can be picked up by another boat.
• If someone in your boat falls in, the closest crewmen should immediately grab him and pull him back into the boat as quickly and with as much strength as possible.
• Never pass the lead boat.
• The rubber raft assigned to bring up the rear never passes other boats.
• Never panic, no matter what the condition. Think back on your training and you will recall a specific teaching point or principle that will pull you through.
• Whenever anyone is floating loose after being capsized, pick him up in your boat immediately.
Of course, this is only a small particle of the training the boys received from Dale Duffy. They listened because they respected him and knew that anything they did not understand might put their lives in jeopardy.

On every trip the boys would go to a point just below Dagger Falls and jump into the cold, chill water and float down about 50 yards. This was to take away the initial shock of falling into the water should they capsize. We assigned a crew to each raft, with one of the boys assigned as crew leader. This boy was given total authority while on the river. Usually we would have about six rafts, with three to five boys and their gear on each raft.

I well remember one trip when Scott, my fourth oldest son, was on the same raft with me and three other fellows. On the first or second day of our trip we capsized (which was very common), and the raft got caught in a backwash and was being pounded by tons of water. I came to the surface and watched for my crew members. I counted them. One boy came up, then another, and then a third—but no Scott. I started to feel real concern when I looked back and forth across the river and couldn’t see him anywhere. Fifteen or 20 seconds is an eternity when you are waiting for your son to come to the surface. It’s the most helpless feeling in the world. Finally I saw Scott come to the surface and heaved a great sigh of relief.
“What took you so long?” I yelled to him.
“My foot got caught in the rope, and I was being pounded around because the boat was caught in the backwash.” Then he said, “But I remembered Duffy’s instruction, reached on my hip, pulled my knife out of the scabbard, cut the rope tangled around my foot, and floated free.” I owe my son’s life to Dale Duffy’s training.
About three weeks after our trip another group of river runners went down. Their boat wrapped around a huge rock. All of the crew except one climbed onto the rock. The other crew member got caught in a 50-foot rope and couldn’t get loose. By the time those on the rock had pulled him upstream against the current and lifted him out of the water, he had drowned. This young man was 21 years old. Scott was 13. The whole difference was in training.
On a different trip, Joe, my third son, got caught in a huge backwash behind a giant boulder. Usually the body is heavy enough that you sink down below the waves and wash, and the current pulls you under the backwash and away from danger. However, in Joe’s case the water washed him into the backwash, which threw him like a top back into the hole. This happened over and over, and we feared for his life, but Joe did not panic. He remembered that Dale had told him he would wash through, and so Joe let himself drop down into the water and eventually washed through.
There is an element of physical danger when you go down any river. There is an element of danger rappelling down cliffs or water skiing. Yet I would ten times rather have my boys face physical danger on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River than I would have them drag the streets of the city where vile and filthy temptations lurk at every corner and where their spiritual lives are in danger.
Let me tell you some of the great, exciting things that happen on the river. There are bridges that span the Middle Fork. We like to stop and climb up on the railings of the bridges and dive or jump into the beautiful, sparkling-clear river 25 or 30 feet below. The water is clean enough to drink. It is absolutely beautiful. There are cascading waterfalls that we shower beneath. There are high cliffs, such as those at “Pool” or “Hospital Bar” campsites, that we dive from. The water must be 40 or 50 feet deep. The cliffs are anywhere from 15 to 40 feet high.

What a great experience for boys to feel that exhilarating challenge and accomplishment as they work up enough nerve to dive from these high cliffs. Then there are several hot springs that other travelers have turned into pools and tubs where one can lie and soak his aching muscles and relax. Fishing is great. We usually have several griddles of fish during the trip. I really never cared much for trout until I ate some of that solid pink and white meat cooked out in the open. Now, just thinking about it, I crave some.
As a rule the weather is excellent, with not more than one day of rain during a week’s trip; it is usually hot under a sunny, clear sky.
Among the exciting activities on the river is the water fighting that is carried on between crews of separate boats; they splash each other with bailing buckets, oars, and paddles.
In some places the water is absolutely calm, and one can just lean back, drop into the river, and float downstream in the cool, beautiful water. Occasionally we can even float through rapids in a life jacket or on an air mattress.
We watch for sandbars for overnight camping. These usually lead right out into deep pools, and we swim before and after dinner, and often again just before bedding down. There is a huge bonfire to stand around and warm up by in between dips. One of the most thrilling experiences is to awaken in the middle of the night and look up at the majesty of the heavens. The stars are breathtaking, and there is no smoke, fog, or cloud to obscure the view. Sometimes when there is a full moon, we float the river at night. Such a sight is seldom seen anywhere else in the world. The Milky Way appears almost as a cloud, stretching from one end of the sky to the other. All the constellations stand out, giving evidence that God is truly in his heaven, and these are his creations. He rules over the heavens and the earth. On some of these occasions I feel so near to God, I seem to feel his Spirit and know that he is willing to answer our prayers.
We read in the Book of Moses that Moses saw the beginning from the end and all the creations. And he said, “Now for this cause I know that man is nothing, which thing I never had supposed.” (Moses 1:10.) Under a star-filled sky on the river, I feel just the reverse. I feel the total importance of man in God’s plan.
Every bend in the river, every new tributary, every change of scenery brings a new and exciting challenge. Because of the varying water levels, the river changes every trip. It is never the same. There are always challenges to keep a young man excited and involved in maturing to his full manhood. We see all kinds of wildlife that can rarely be seen any other way—mountain goats, mountain sheep, moose, elk, eagles, hawks, and all kinds of wild bird life such as chuckers, field grouse, and so forth—all adding to the experience of floating the river.
If we spend more than one day on a sandbar, we organize track and field activities, high jumping, broad jumping, racing, shot putting, and underwater swimming—anything that the mind of a young man can conceive. Often we engage in a game of flag football. Frisbies are usually aboard, and sometimes chess boards are brought along to help a river runner relax with a good mate after a hard day of rowing. Underwater swimming with snorkels and fins can be exciting.
From the river we see Indian caves and Indian writings on high walls. At Veil Falls a beautiful, sheer waterfall drops some 300 feet, making a gentle shower of rain at the bottom. Underneath in the huge cavern are many authentic Indian writings. We’ve never visited Veil Falls without seeing mountain goats on the high ledges in the cavern.
Another exciting experience is to see the salmon going upstream to spawn. We always see several, and it affirms our testimony that Christ truly is the Creator. These salmon fight their way over tremendous waterfalls, obstacles, and powerful currents, returning to the spot where they were born that they might spawn and start the life cycle again.
We constantly see deer on these trips. They are gentle and fairly tame, with a sense of curiosity that brings them close to camp. Our young men are impressed with the gentleness of the deer in the high, primitive areas.
White water river running is exciting, but there is an element of danger there. One must be well prepared, in top physical condition, and must love a good challenge. He should love the out-of-doors and feel the exhilaration that comes from the cold night air and an invigorating swim, as well as the heat from the warm fire.
I have never known a young man who floated down the river who didn’t raise his spiritual level many degrees. There’s something highly inspiring about seeing the majesty of God’s creation in the primitive areas of Idaho. Almost every young man seems to be attracted to finding a secluded spot where he may kneel and communicate with the Lord. I’ve seen this happen again and again. My own experiences are the same. Early in the morning and late at night I find a peaceful place where I can kneel along the river and look up at the majesty of the heavens and the multitudinous creations of the Savior. I feel very close to him in that sacred setting, and it is during these hours that I pledge to the Lord every ounce of energy that I have—pledge to follow him at all costs—and have a desire to keep kindled in my bosom the powerful and holy feelings that come as I kneel before him.

The cool grayness of the concrete on which I was standing matched the lonely feelings growing inside of me. It was my first day—in fact my first hour—at THE DORM, and I had contracted a severe case of homesickness.
“Why have I come so far away?” I moaned to myself. “Why did I let my father just drive away and leave me here?”
Here was May Hall, and I was beginning my freshman year at Brigham Young University. I soon discovered that most of the others on my floor felt similar apprehensions (“We can always transfer to the state university at semester time,” we comforted ourselves), yet at semester time none of us transferred. And by the time spring came, despite our excitement to go home and visit our families and hometowns, we left our roommates tearfully. During the course of only eight months, we had made lifelong and eternal kinds of friendships.
When I think back on my freshman year now, I remember Mary and Suzanne and the pizza they had delivered to their first-floor window so that the rest of us wouldn’t know they were breaking their diets. I remember five of us dragging Christmas trees to the dorm from the grocery store four blocks away. I remember the fun of sharing care packages from home, and eating crackers with Linda on the grassy lawn of Helaman Halls. I remember fasting together and kneeling in prayer with all the girls on my floor.
By the time I graduated from college, I had had 18 roommates (not counting the other 35 girls on my floor my freshman year), and more important, 18 girls I considered my lifelong friends. Looking back I realize my roommates and I became close because we shared so many things together. We had to learn a lot about sacrifice, giving, and working things out. There had been some tears, some moments of frustration, some sadness. But through it all, we had discovered the beauty in each other and the joy that comes from loving the people you live with.

I experienced this firsthand; when you follow a prompting, God will send you more. I saw this when my wife and I were on our honeymoon in China. We were going on a tour, and the last day was to be in Shanghai on a Sunday. Weeks before the trip, my wife was determined to keep the Sabbath day holy and attend church while in China. After hours on the phone and researching on dial-up internet (anyone 40 and over will know what I am talking about, and it was SLOW) she found that there was one congregation in Shanghai, and I think only two or three in all of China. [My wife] had the desire to take the sacrament. The only address she could find was the words “Golden Tower”. I thought for sure there was no way we would find the church with those great leads…Golden Tower, really?

Well, the last day of the tour arrived, Sunday. I thought for sure we would not go to church. I mean, really, we had no address, we were in Shanghai, it was like finding a needle in a haystack. I was doubtful, but my wife felt very strongly that we would find the church. She felt an urgency that morning to just go, or she would miss the sacrament. She jumped in a taxi, with me in tow, and she showed the taxi driver the characters of the words Golden Tower on the back of our hotel card. The taxi driver nodded like he knew exactly where to go. And off he sped. We were hopeful, but our hopes quickly faded when we looked out and almost every building looked like a golden tower. Our driver took us to a few “Golden Towers”, but none were the church. About 20 minutes into this, my wife said, “I think the driver is just racking up our bill on purpose. He doesn’t know where to go. She stopped the taxi and said we need to get out of here now.” Not wanting to lose my new wife in China, I quickly jumped out and followed her. She said, “I feel it’s in this area, let’s pray.” So, we stepped out of view of others and said a quick prayer. When we opened our eyes, my wife looked around and identified a lot of golden-capped towers.

But she said, “Let’s go this way” and off she ran. I followed. She was following the impressions in her heart and in her mind. We ran through a park, across a river, and through a sketchy alley. And then we saw a tower, but there was an open gate with two officers holding automatic rifles. Ruth looked at me and said I think this is it. All I saw was the guards, and sadly, instead of thinking we found the church, I was thinking, “I don’t want to be detained in China”. She ran off to the building, and the guards, alarmed by her running, glared at us. We slowed down and waved and meekly walked past them.

About 50 yards to the building, we saw a minivan pull up, and jumping out of the van was a family, dressed in Sunday best! I could not believe my eyes, but still skeptical. We ran up and yelled, “Are you members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints? Is this the church building Golden Tower?!” They quickly looked at us and whispered, “Shhhh, follow us”. And then they ran into the building. My wife ran with them! I was standing there thinking of what headlines would be on KHON News of a missing Hawaii couple in China! I caught up, and after walking up flights of stairs in silence, we came to an office with a small sign that said, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints business offices.” We went in, passed some offices, and then to an open area with rows of chairs. Then the family started talking. They said, “Welcome to our sacrament meeting!” The government allowed them to gather on Sundays for church, but the members still needed to be cautious of gatherings outside or announcing we had church. I was blown away at the miracle of finding the only church building in Shanghai. And we made it 10 minutes before the services started.

My wife had a righteous desire, and the Spirit confirmed to her that her prayer to worship on the Sabbath at church would be possible. We realized later that every decision my wife made under the influence of the Spirit was moving us closer and closer to the church. We never took a road or alley or even a step that led away from the church building. Once my wife followed an impression, the Spirit would give her another, and then another, until we arrived safely at the Golden Tower. She never doubted, despite my doubts. It was truly a miracle. We found the needle in the haystack. This experience I had with my wife was so crucial to our marriage. We learned how the Spirit works in our relationship. I learned to trust my wife and the impressions she receives. We learned that when we follow the impressions, God gives us more impressions. And as we learned to follow more, our confidence in God answering our prayers, grew stronger.

Inspiring is the missionary service rendered by Walter Krause, who lives in Prenzlau, Germany.
Homeless following World War II, like so many others at that time, Brother Krause and his family lived in a refugee camp in Cottbus and began to attend church there. He was immediately called to lead the Cottbus Branch. Four months later, in November of 1945, the country still in ruins, district president Richard Ranglack came to Brother Krause and asked him what he would think about going on a mission. Brother Krause’s answer reflects his commitment to the Church. Said he: “I don’t have to think about it at all. If the Lord needs me, I’ll go.”
He set out on December 1, 1945, with 20 German marks in his pocket and a piece of dry bread. One of the branch members had given him a winter coat left over from a son who had fallen in the war. Another member, who was a shoemaker, gave him a pair of shoes. With these and with two shirts, two handkerchiefs, and two pairs of stockings, he left on his mission.
Once, in the middle of winter, he walked from Prenzlau to Kammin, a little village in Mecklenburg, where 46 attended the meetings which were held. He arrived long after dark that night after a six-hour march over roads, paths, and finally across plowed fields. Just before he reached the village, he came to a large, white, flat area which made for easy walking, and he soon arrived at a member’s home to stay the night.
The next morning the game warden knocked on the door of the member’s house, asking, “Do you have a guest?”
“Yes,” came the reply.
The game warden continued, “Then come and take a look at his tracks.” The large, flat area on which Brother Krause had walked was actually a frozen lake, and some time earlier the warden had chopped a large hole in the middle of the lake for fishing. The wind had driven snow over the hole and covered it so that Brother Krause could not have seen his danger. His tracks went right next to the edge of the hole and straight to the house of the member, without his knowing anything about it. Weighed down by his backpack and his rubber boots, he would certainly have drowned had his pathway been one step closer to the hole he couldn’t see.

When I was president of TransCanada Pipelines, we had an office boy who did only what we asked him to do. He would wait until called to run an errand, or stand around waiting for instructions, never offering to be helpful. As the company grew and the job became more than he could handle, we hired another lad, even younger, who was alert and always looking for extra things to do to be helpful. He would finish an errand and then see or ask for something else to do. In just a few months one of the departments wanted him for a position of greater responsibility, and within two years he had three advancements, salary increases, and more responsibilities. The other lad remained an errand boy.

Kendra liked her new home. She liked her new bedroom. And she liked her new Primary.
She liked everything about her new house except for one thing. She missed living near her grandma. Visiting Grandma didn’t happen very often now.
One day after lunch, Mommy brought in the mail.
Here’s a letter for you, Kendra.
Who sent me a letter?
She had never received a letter before.
It’s from your grandma. Let’s sit down and I’ll help you read it.
Dear Kendra,You are a good big sister to your baby brother. I love you very much, and I miss you. Remember that there is someone else who loves you and always watches over you.Love, Grandma
Grandma’s talking about Heavenly Father!
That’s right, Heavenly Father loves you.
I want to write a letter to Grandma.
Mommy found a piece of paper and a pencil. Kendra sat at the table and did her very best printing. Mommy helped her spell the words.
Dear Grandma,Thank you for the letter. I miss you too. I know Heavenly Father is watching over you.Love, Kendra
Kendra put the letter into an envelope and licked the flap. Mommy helped her write Grandma’s address on the envelope. Then Kendra put a stamp on it and put it in the mailbox.
I’m glad Grandma loves me even though we live far away now.
Grandma will always love you, no matter how far away you are.
Just like Heavenly Father will always love me!
Kendra felt warm and happy.

“There’s never anything in this house to eat!” I complained as I surveyed our half-empty refrigerator. in desperation I opened the meat keeper and then pulled out the vegetable drawer. There I saw it. Between the folds of the plastic bags containing the asparagus and the cabbage, someone had attempted to hide a cream-filled, golden yellow sponge cake, a Twinkie.
“It’s my lucky day,” I said for the benefit of that someone—my nine-year-old sister, Valarie. There was little doubt in my mind that she was the one who had hidden the Twinkie because she is the sneakiest member of our family and had been hiding things ever since I started my growth spurt.
Just as I expected, she immediately swooshed over, jumping and screaming, “That’s my Twinkie!”
“Yours?” I said. “Who says?”
“You know you ate yours,” my sister shouted. “Now give me that!”
Technically speaking, of course, she was right. Mom had bought six packages of Twinkies and had given each of us a package. I had done away with my two Twinkies in a matter of seconds. Valarie had apparently eaten one and then saved this other one. Yes, technically, I had eaten my portion. But why should a kid who is barely over four feet tall receive the same food allotment as someone who is destined to play varsity basketball? I needed nourishment. I walked casually, though swiftly, down the stairs and to my room.
I knew what would come next. Within six seconds Valarie was pounding on my locked door. “You’ll be grounded! I’ll tell Mom and Dad! You won’t be able to drive until you’re 18! I’ll take your tapes! I’ll … I’ll tell everybody you like Becky Fitzgerald!”
Now I knew I was pretty safe when it came to the first few threats. I could plead innocence. How was I to know that the Twinkie belonged to Valarie? It was just right there in the vegetable bin. The mention of Becky, however, did bother me slightly. But then I realized that since Becky already knew I liked her, it wouldn’t matter if Valarie blabbed. No, nothing Valarie said or did could affect me. Nothing.
So, as she pounded on the door, I opened the wrapper slightly and squeezed the Twinkie. Sure enough, it was perfect. Along the seam line, I could see the slightest hint of the cream filling.
To me, there is no greater treat than a Twinkie for your everyday, put-it-in-your-mouth variety of junk food. And this particular Twinkie would be especially satisfying because my sister was pounding on my door.
In fact, the sheer delight of the moment made me grin. I knew I was grinning because I could see my reflection in the mirror on the medicine chest in the bathroom adjacent to my room. The reflection of myself with that Twinkie poised near my mouth and ready to go in would normally have been a fine sight if at that moment my eyes hadn’t shifted to the picture in the corner of my mirror. It’s the picture of Christ that Sister Engright gave me. I can’t even remember the exact circumstances, except that there had been an article of faith involved and that CTR song.
Something was causing me to hesitate before stuffing the Twinkie into my mouth. I looked back at myself in the mirror again. It was always startling to see that I didn’t look the way I pictured myself. The rash that had developed when I’d started shaving hadn’t disappeared yet like Dad had said it would after my skin toughened up. Just looking at myself made me want to stuff a hundred Twinkies in my mouth out of sheer discouragement. What a contrast this adolescent face was to the face of the Savior’s in the picture. The Savior had always been my idea of a true hero. Here was someone who hadn’t buckled under when the going got tough. That’s why I’d put his picture on my mirror and not on my wall between the sports and car posters.
My sister was hitting the door so hard now that I was afraid she’d bang a hole through it. Dad had talked about that recently when he and Mom were discussing the possibility of getting some new doors. “Let’s wait until Chuck is out of the terrible teasing stage,” I’d heard him say.
“You mean when he’s 43,” Mom had answered.
“Yes, or on his mission,” Dad had said. “Let’s get new doors when he’s gone and no one feels a need to tear after him and pound on his door.”
I looked at the picture of the Savior again. It wouldn’t be that long before I’d be out there somewhere trying to convert people to the gospel of truth and light and peace.
Peace? What was peace? I didn’t feel peaceful these days with my body changing and all kinds of forces exploding in me, making my insides feel like they were going to pop right out. Take this Twinkie, for instance. I wanted it so badly I could hardly stand it. Sometimes I wanted to eat and eat and eat and never stop. And why shouldn’t I have this Twinkie? It wasn’t as if I was about to take drugs or commit a felony. I wasn’t doing half the stuff I knew some of the kids at my school did. Hey, I’m your basically good guy, and Mom and Dad had every reason to feel fortunate that my only vice was teasing my sister once in a while.
But now looking at the serene and peaceful expression on the face in the picture, I could see a contrast. “Ah, I don’t care,” I thought as I lifted the Twinkie again. “I’ve got to have this. I’m a growing boy.” I could again smell the sponge cake and I was pretty sure I could even smell the cream filling. “I’ll get her another one sometime. I’ll give her the whole package the next time I get to a store.”
But I knew that wouldn’t do it. I knew that the issue came down to right now and this minute. Anybody could repent later, but it takes a big man to make the correct decision at the very moment that temptation is beckoning him.
Good grief, it’s only a Twinkie, I thought. But I also knew that life is a combination of all kinds of small decisions and acts. Yes, it was just a Twinkie, but it wasn’t mine.
I moved the Twinkie a little further away from me where I couldn’t smell it quite so well, and then I found myself pulling the wrapper back around it.
The next part I knew would be the most difficult because it involved the swallowing of pride. Besides, if I opened the door, my sister would rush me. Oh well, it had to be done.
“Here,” I said, opening the door a crack and pushing the wrapped Twinkie through it. The look of astonishment on her face deserved to be put on film. Then her eyes narrowed.
“All right, what did you do to it? What did you put in it?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “It’s yours, isn’t it?”
My sister examined the Twinkie carefully. “I know you did something to it.”
I was finally able to convince her that the Twinkie hadn’t been tampered with, and she scrambled from the door.
I sat down on my bed and felt the pang of withdrawal. The Twinkie was gone. This particular Twinkie would never be mine. But something funny was happening. As much as I could almost taste that Twinkie, I was glad—glad I hadn’t eaten it. In fact, as I went back to the mirror to check my smile, I was feeling satisfaction of a different, more substantial kind. The truth is, I was feeling pretty good.
I turned on the tap, patted down my hair, checked my teeth one more time, stretched my neck to see if there were any whiskers I’d missed, and glanced again at the picture of the Savior. Then, whistling, I left my room to go out into the world—a better man.

Frederick the shoemaker liked to make shoes. He liked to make dancing slippers for young ladies and work shoes for farmers. He liked to make school shoes for children. And he liked to make house shoes for their mothers. But most of all he liked to make hunting boots for young gentlemen.
As he carefully stitched each boot, Frederick would say to his wife, “Someday I will make myself a pair of boots like these.”
But the young shoemaker never even had enough money to make new shoes for himself, much less a pair of hunting boots. Once in a while, however, he made himself a new pair of shoelaces out of leftover scraps to wear in his old shoes.
“A shoemaker should have more than new shoelaces,” he said one day. “A shoemaker should have a new pair of hunting boots!”
“But how can we afford them?” asked his wife. “With the little money we have, we must buy food to eat, candles to light the house at night, and new leather to make more shoes to sell.”
“I know. But only shoelaces! It isn’t right.” He sighed, then worked in silence for a few minutes. “Maybe,” he said at last, “maybe if I’m careful, I can save a wee bit of money here and there. And then maybe someday I can have more than just new shoelaces.”
And so Frederick saved two small coins from every pair of shoes he sold. He began burning one candle on his workbench at night instead of his usual two candles. He saved even more by drinking two glasses of milk a day instead of his usual three glasses.
At last Frederick had saved enough money to buy leather for a pair of hunting boots for himself. At night, by the light of his candle, he stitched and sewed. Finally the boots were finished. “These are the most handsome boots I have ever made,” he said to his wife. He put on the new boots and tucked his old shoes into the back of his closet.
The shoemaker loved his new boots. He wore them around the shop every day, and he wore them hunting on Saturdays. As a matter of fact, he wore them for years and years.
At last they wore out. Frederick turned the boots over and over in his hands. I think there might be enough good leather here to make some work shoes, he thought.
So he cut and snipped, and he stitched and sewed, until at last his work shoes were finished.
Frederick was almost as proud of his new work shoes as he had been of his boots. He wore them around the shop every day, and he wore them to church on Sundays. As a matter of fact, he wore them for years and years.
At last they, too, wore out. Frederick turned the work shoes over and over in his hands. I think there might be enough good leather here to make some house slippers, he thought. So he cut and snipped, and he stitched and sewed, until at last his house slippers were finished.
The shoemaker was almost as proud of his new slippers as he had been of his boots and his work shoes. He wore them in the shop all day, and he wore them while he sat in front of his fire at night. As a matter of fact, he wore them for years and years.
At last they, too, wore out. Frederick turned the slippers over and over in his hands. I think there might be just enough good leather here to make one more thing, he thought. So he cut and snipped, until at last a pair of shoelaces was finished.
Then he reached way back into his closet and pulled out his old shoes. He cleaned and polished them and put in the new shoelaces. The shoemaker was happy with these new shoelaces because he remembered the handsome hunting boots and the sturdy work shoes and the comfortable house slippers they had once been.
And he wore those shoelaces forever.

After coming home from a Mutual activity one night, twins Garrett and Blake, 12, and older brother Trevor Gneiting, 15, raced to see who could get on the computer first. But it wasn’t games or surfing the Internet they were after. All three of them wanted to work on the FamilySearch indexing they had just been trained to do at a local family history center.
“We all enjoyed doing it,” Garrett says. “It was like a game we could always do because our mom couldn’t get angry about it.”
FamilySearch indexing is a way to help with family history by using a computer to get names off of records and make them available online for those searching for ancestors to find.
Providing this service is something that will affect many people because it helps those looking for their ancestors’ information so that it can be submitted to the temple.
“I know that I’m helping to find people that maybe wouldn’t have had the chance to have their work done,” says Amanda Pace, 18. “It’s cool to know that even if I don’t go to the temple for them myself, I can help them get there.”
These youth and others from the Payson 20th Ward in the Payson Utah Mount Nebo Stake started indexing after their bishop challenged them to index 250 names each to qualify to go on a trip. He also extended the challenge to the leaders as well as the youth.
“We challenged them that we leaders could index more names than they could,” says Bishop Steven Pace. “The losers had to serve the winners dinner … and the leaders ended up serving the youth dinner.”
Four months after the challenge was issued, the youth had far surpassed the original goal of 250 names per person and had indexed more than 50,000 names altogether. The leaders realized the goal was too low and upped the challenge to 1,000 names, and they made the challenge not only between the leaders and youth, but also between the different quorums and classes.
“The priests quorum needs to pick it up,” says Kendall Little, 17, who has indexed more names than any of the other teens. “We don’t want to be one of the bottom two classes, because then we have to do dishes on the trip.”
The youth were originally motivated by the competition, but now they say they do indexing because it’s fun, and they know they are helping those who lived before.
“I like to think about the people we are doing this for and how much they must appreciate it,” says Miranda Hyer, 14. “When I first started indexing, I thought they were just old people who lived a long time ago, but they’re not that different from us.”
One of the big differences between the times of the people in the records and today is the writing style used. The youth said the only hard thing about indexing is trying to figure out how the names are spelled when the writing is hard to read.
“Some of the cursive writing is like hieroglyphics,” says Jason Trauntvein, 12. “My mom would have to come and help me.”
Being able to distinguish names that were difficult to read taught the youth that they were doing the work of the Lord and that He was helping them.
Amanda says there were times when she would think she knew what a name was while she was indexing and then just have a feeling that it was something else. “Then I’d look at it again and I’d see that it clearly said the name I was feeling,” she says. “Those were really good experiences.”
Having experiences helping those who lived in the past has also helped these youth strengthen their testimonies and live in the world today.
“Doing indexing helped show me the importance of temple work,” says Kendall. “I also know that God is willing to help us and give us the answers if we’ll just listen to Him.”
The willingness to provide this service is something that has changed them. And it’s also given them something worthwhile to do during their free time.
One time when Trevor had some extra time after taking a biology test in a class, he got on a computer and started indexing. Other students were on the computers playing games although the teacher told them not to. “The kids who were playing games got in trouble,” Trevor says, “but the teacher just told me to finish up my batch.”
The youth say being able to index names has been a satisfying endeavor, and counting the names they have indexed is way better than any score they could get on a computer or video game.
All of those names the youth indexed are real people who lived before, so there are thousands of Heavenly Father’s children being affected by their efforts with indexing, people Kendall says he hopes to meet one day.
“If you think about it, you’re kind of making lots of friends that you’re going to go meet eventually when you die,” he says. “Then they’ll all come and say, ‘Thanks for doing my name,’ because without you their work may have never been done.”
Receiving so many blessings has taught these youth and their leaders something many Church members have discovered: indexing is easy, fun, rewarding, and engrossing.

Spencer Williams, 17, had a role as a Mormon Battalion member in Promised Valley, a part that required him to sing a solo. “I don’t like it much,” he admitted before the performance. And the thought of singing on the stage at the University of Utah’s Kingsbury Hall was kind of intimidating. But he went through with it. “It was a good experience,” he reported later. “Each night I got a little better.”

Most of my customers are great, but a couple of them give me nothing but headaches. The biggest skullbuster is—or rather was—Mr. Cory. He’s the kind of guy who would complain if you gave him a solid gold watch that wasn’t set to the right time.
Last Saturday, after putting it off as long as I could, I went to his house to collect. His tall wooden fence had signs all over it, saying “Keep Out” and “Beware of Dog.” I was a believer. The first time I went through that gate, Mr. Cory’s big doberman, Slash, had tried to use my leg for a chew bone. Anyway, on Saturday, I peeked through a knothole to make sure Slash wasn’t on duty.
Mr. Cory answered the door the third time I knocked. He kindly left the screen door latched so that Slash, who was pushing his nose against the mesh and snarling at me, couldn’t get to me.
Mr. Cory was a sour-faced, dried-up little man, stooped with age—but his faded blue eyes were sharp and suspicious beneath bushy eyebrows. “Is it that time again, Rosa? It seems like I just paid you.” He always said that.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “It’s been a month.”
“Well, if you’re sure … ,” he grumbled, tottering off to write a check, leaving Slash and me to glare at each other.
Mr. Cory opened the screen door a crack, slipped the check through, and took his receipt before he started complaining. “I wish you’d try to hit the porch once in a while. I don’t know why you kids don’t do your job like you’re supposed to, but I do know that I’m getting tired of chasing out in the damp grass in my slippers!”
“If I could get into the yard I’d put it right on your doorstep,” I told him. “It’s hard to throw over a six-foot fence and hit the porch.”
“And don’t throw it on the roof,” he continued as though I hadn’t even tried to explain. “I don’t want my roof covered with papers.”
“I only did that once, four months ago, Mr. Cory, and I gave you another paper.” I had even offered to climb up there and get the dumb paper, but he’d said, “No, leave it there. Maybe it’ll remind you not to be so careless.” It was still there, right by the upstairs bedroom window. I knew what window it was because if I even sneezed in the morning, that’s the one he hollered at me from.
“One more thing,” he growled. “I don’t feel well, and I’ll probably want to sleep late in the morning. Try not to disturb me!” He ended the conversation by slamming the door in my face.
The next day started out like a typical Sunday. The papers were fat with sale circulars and weighed in at a ton per copy. I reached the Cory house about seven and peeked through my favorite knothole. Slash was waiting there, all teeth and snarl.
I was getting ready to take a blind shot at the porch, when I noticed smoke pouring out of the back of the house. It didn’t seem likely that Mr. Cory, sick as he was, would be barbecuing in the backyard at that hour.
I backed off far enough to see the upstairs window and shouted at the top of my lungs, “Mr. Cory! Fire, Mr. Cory!” The only thing that happened was that Slash growled louder. I tried screaming once more, with the same result.
I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to wake someone in one of the other houses and have them call the fire department, but the smoke was getting thicker and blacker, and I thought I should rouse Mr. Cory before the fumes got to him.
I did the only thing I could think of. I ran a few steps, then flung that Sunday edition like a pro quarterback heaves a football.
It went just where I aimed, smashing through the upstairs window. A couple of seconds later Mr. Cory stuck his head out and started bellowing at me.
Lucky for me, the house was on fire.
The next day, the paper said, “Due to the fast thinking of Chronicle carrier Rosa Martinez, damage was slight and no one was injured.” I bought ten copies of that edition.
Mr. Cory was waiting for me Monday morning. He opened the gate, and I almost panicked when I saw there wasn’t anything between me and Slash. Then I saw that Mr. Cory had him on a tight leash.
The old man smiled at me for the first time. “Come in here a minute, Rosa. I want you and Slash to make friends. We’ll do this every day until he recognizes you as a pal. Then you’ll be the only person besides me who can come into this yard whenever you want to.”
It worked too. After a few days I had enough confidence to carry the paper right to the doorstep. Slash would just dance around, whimpering excitedly and wiggling his entire back end until I petted him.
The best thing, though, happened just a couple of days ago. The paper printed a letter to the editor from Mr. Cory saying that I was the smartest, most reliable, most courteous newspaper carrier he had ever had the pleasure to do business with. And the old guilt paper was gone from the roof.

I conclude with two recent experiences. First, this summer I attended a religious liberty summit in Rome where President Dallin H. Oaks gave the keynote address. The summit was filled with inspiring speakers. But when President Oaks rose to speak, I experienced something distinctly different—that beautiful witness of the Spirit that reaffirmed, “Sheri, this is a prophet.” What a priceless truth that is!

Eight-year-old Betsy left her home on the Indian reservation to live for the school year with a white family. There was much for Betsy’s new family to learn about her and her Indian ways, and there was much for Betsy to learn too. Her new white sister understood Betsy best, even though some children at school were unkind to both of them.

After a few months Betsy unexpectedly had to return to her Indian family because they needed her. No one knew if she would ever return to her white family, but eventually Betsy let the white sister know of her love.

Christmas away from home. My favorite gift was my first Christmas away from home, when my parents, sister, and I went to visit my brother and his family.
We were used to family Christmases at our house, but this year my other siblings were going elsewhere, and we decided to visit my brother, Josh, and his family because they couldn’t come home. I wasn’t sure what to expect, and I thought that if we weren’t home for Christmas, it wouldn’t be fun. It seemed that Christmas just wouldn’t be the same. My parents, sister, and I had already opened our presents to each other before we left home.
When my brother picked us up at the airport, my four-year-old niece, Kialey, started to sing Christmas songs, and I started to feel better. On Christmas morning I enjoyed watching the faces of my nieces and nephews light up as they opened their presents. It was nice, instead of focusing on what I got, to look at others opening their presents and to feel their joy.Hannah S., Montana, USA