Gospel Story Finder

Ieuan Barry, born of wonderful parents, was diagnosed with autism as a young child. His parents were attentive to his needs and Ieuan has learned to stretch himself in life. When the opportunity to represent Wales at the Commonwealth Powerlifting Championships came about, he and his family engaged in the necessary fundraising to be able to attend and go and do. An inspiration to his peers and family, as he represented his country in Auckland, New Zealand in November 2022.
At first I had no idea where my journey in sport would end up, but, at the age of 16, I was taking my GCSE’s and I decided that I would like to get physically and mentally better – fitter in general – so I started doing a bit of everything; a bit of cardio, a bit of running, a bit of weights. Unstructured and unplanned. I started out by looking carefully at my diet, did some research into nutrition, and became more particular about what I ate.
By the time I was 17 I started to get more organised in my thinking about nutrition and exercise and gradually introduced changes that helped me do it properly – I got to know the things I needed to do.
I feel like it gives me something that I’m really good at. I can do what a lot of people struggle to do. It’s consistency and longevity. I think about this moment in time, so I appreciate what I had to go through, progressing step by step, little by little. A lot of people like to get success in the short term, but I’m thinking long term and I definitely hope to be competing in the sport for as long as I can. I have aspirations to go down the coaching route as well, coaching other people, having my own business.
It’s interesting to try and explain as sometimes it can be quite difficult to interact with other people because the way my mind processes social situations is a bit different to other people. For example, if some people are joking and messing around, sometimes I might not really take it as a joke. In other ways my autism helps me to work to a routine and stick to it regardless of how I am feeling on a day-to-day basis. It gives me a determination to achieve my goals no matter what.

When we started our pirate band, there were six of us: Jason, Kyle, Joel, Jeremy, Marv, and me. We made swords out of sticks and borrowed bright-red bandannas to tie around our heads. And we rolled our pant legs to our knees, wore patches over our eyes, and painted tattoos on our arms with watercolor markers.
Brother Rogers’s huge backyard was a jungle of cornstalks, cantaloupe and watermelon vines, apple and peach trees, and berry bushes, so we met there to make our plans for raiding and plundering everyone along Piccadilly Street.
“Do we share the loot?” Jason wanted to know.
“Sure,” I said, sounding as gruff as I could. “That’s what pirates do. We’ll bring the stuff back here and divide it up evenly. Any more questions?”
For a while everyone was quiet, then Joel asked, “Where are we going first? Who are we going to raid? And what are we going to plunder?”
I hadn’t thought much about that.
Jason spoke up. “Maybe we ought to look around first and see what there is to raid and plunder.”
“Good idea,” I agreed. “We’ll split up and meet back here in fifteen minutes. But don’t let anybody see you or follow you back here to our hideout.”
We all nodded, straightened the bandannas on our heads, adjusted the patches over our eyes, checked our swords, and sneaked out of the cornfield.
“Wow! What a gang of cutthroats!”
We all jumped and whirled around. Marv tripped over a cornstalk, and Jason and Jeremy dropped their swords. Joel jabbed me in the back, and the patch over my eye slipped down and covered my mouth.
Brother Rogers was hoeing the weeds around his cantaloupes. He leaned on his hoe and grinned. “I heard some dastardly deeds being planned in there,” he said, nodding toward the corn, “but I didn’t dare go in for fear I’d be taken hostage and put up for ransom.”
“Now we’ve been caught,” Joel grumbled. “We got caught before we even got started.”
“You’re not going to tell on us, are you, Brother Rogers?”
Brother Rogers took off his straw hat and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. “Do you pirates have a hideout?” he asked.
“We figured on using your cornfield,” Marv muttered.
“Oh, an old cornfield isn’t any place for a pirate hangout,” Brother Rogers said. “You need a place where you can really hide and plan. I think I know just the place. Come with me.”
We followed Brother Rogers to the corner of his lot behind some thick berry bushes. Almost hidden by the bushes was a little shed. I’d seen it before, but I’d never paid much attention to it.
Brother Rogers pushed through the bushes, opened a little door, motioned for us to follow, then ducked inside the little shed. At first we wondered if Brother Rogers was going to hold us hostage, but we finally followed him.
For a little while we had to just stand still while our eyes got used to the dimness. The place was full of rusty tools, boxes of newspapers, and battered buckets and cans.
“This used to be my three boys’ clubhouse!” Brother Rogers explained. “It’s a little dusty, and there’s some junk in here that needs to be cleaned out, but it could be fixed up into a right good pirate hideout.”
“You mean you’d let us use it?” Kyle asked.
“Sure.” Brother Rogers grinned. “No other gang of pirates has asked for it yet. You’ll have to promise not to do any raiding or plundering around my place, though.”
“Would you get some of our loot?” I asked, not sure I wanted to trust Brother Rogers with our pirate plans or to give up any of our treasure.
“No, you can keep the loot.”
The others in the gang looked at me and nodded. I started for the door. “Well, let’s get going, then, and find out what there is to raid and plunder.”
“Wait a minute,” Brother Rogers called after us. “Are you good pirates or bad pirates?”
“Shoot,” Kyle said, “I thought all pirates were the same.”
Brother Rogers shook his head. “No,” he answered slowly. “It depends on how you raid. If you raid to do good, then you’re good pirates.”
“But what’s the sense of raiding and plundering to do good?” I wanted to know.
Brother Rogers thought for a long time. “Pirates are always looking for treasure, aren’t they?” We all nodded our heads. “Well, if you’ll raid and plunder to do good, you’ll find some treasure.”
“Oh, come on, Brother Rogers,” Jason said. “There isn’t any treasure around here. You’re just kidding us.”
Brother Rogers shook his head. “You mark my word—you pirates go on your first exploration, looking for good things to do, and before you’re finished today, you’ll have found some treasure.”
When we left, we weren’t sure that Brother Rogers knew what he was talking about. But since he’d offered to give us a hideout, we decided to give his way a try.
“What are we looking for?” Kyle grumbled, swinging his sword at a branch.
“Hey, look!” Jeremy pointed down the street at Tiffany and Tami Mason, who were walking our way. We crept into the bushes on the opposite side of the street and watched them approach.
“I wonder where they’re headed,” Marv whispered.
“They’d better watch it when they go past the Bailey place,” Joel said. “Old Ripper will scare the daylights out of them.”
Ripper was the Bailey’s German shepherd, and he was more bark than bite. But if you didn’t know that and he came charging up to you with his teeth bared and growling, you were likely to jump right out of your skin.
From where we were, we could see Ripper’s ears prick. As Tiffany and Tami approached, laughing and talking and not worrying about a thing, Ripper made his move.
“Now, Pirates!” I sang out.
Jerking the bandannas down over our foreheads and holding our swords high, we charged across the street, swinging our swords.
When Tiffany and Tami saw Ripper coming, they were so scared that they just froze. And Ripper was concentrating so hard on Tiffany and Tami that he didn’t notice us. He had charged around the Bailey’s chain-link fence and was only about five yards from Tami and Tiffany when we cut him off.
When old Ripper saw us pirates with our swords out and heard our pirate yells, his bark changed into a surprised yelp. He tried to stop, but he slid right into us. He didn’t waste any time getting turned around, though. And he didn’t stop running until he was clear around the Bailey’s house and under their back porch.
Tiffany and Tami stood wide-eyed with their mouths open. We grinned at them, and Marv made a little bow and announced, “The Piccadilly Street Pirates just wanted to make sure that you made it safely to where you were going.”
I liked the sound of that name. I puffed out my chest and said, “Yes, we’re the Piccadilly Street Pirates, and it’s our work and mission to go about spreading good.” Bowing to the two girls, I turned and shouted, “Let’s go, men.” And before Tiffany and Tami could say a word, we were gone.
“Hey, that was kind of fun,” Jason said as we hid in some bushes in my front yard.
“But we can only scare Ripper once,” Joel complained. “Now what do we do?”
“That,” Kyle said, pointing across the street to Sister Ballard’s garden. Sister Ballard had been in her garden most of the morning, pulling and hoeing weeds. But she had gone inside, leaving the last few rows of beans and peas unfinished. “Let’s finish weeding her garden,” Kyle said.
“Doesn’t seem like pirate’s work to me,” Joel grumbled.
“Let’s give it a try,” I said. “Maybe this will be as much fun as chasing old Ripper.”
We sneaked out of the bushes, crept across the street, and began to work. Because there were six of us, finishing the garden didn’t take long, and it was fun creeping up and down the rows and whispering to each other. When we finished, we gathered the weeds into a pile.
“When we do things,” Kyle said, “people need to know that pirates did it.”
“I know,” I said, “Wait here.” I ran across the street to my house for a notepad and pencil and scribbled a note: “The Piccadilly Street Pirates have struck again!” I put the note on top of the pile of weeds and jabbed a stick through it just as Sister Ballard started coming out her side door.
“Hide!” I commanded. We pushed behind the lilac bushes growing beside her house and watched. Sister Ballard pulled on her gloves, adjusted her straw hat, then walked right past the pile of weeds, picked up her hoe, and started for the rows of beans and peas!
We giggled as she began searching for weeds. She looked hard, scratched her head, and looked some more. Finally she saw our pile of weeds. When she read the note, the biggest, happiest smile spread across her face.
“The Piccadilly Street Pirates!” we heard her exclaim. “Well, that’s the best thing that’s ever happened on Piccadilly Street!”
She went into the house, and before we could slip away, she returned with a bulging bag. She set it by the weeds, then went back into the house. We looked at each other, then, making certain that no one was watching, rushed over to the weed pile. Taped to the bag was a note: “Treasure for the Piccadilly Street Pirates.” We snatched the bag and skedaddled. Safely away, we opened the bag and found chocolate chip cookies!
“Let’s go back to the hideout,” Marv said, “and eat our treasure.”
We headed for Brother Roger’s shed, but on the way we noticed that dogs had knocked over the Hansens’ garbage cans and scattered the trash, so we cleaned things up for them. Down the street Sister Wheeler had been trimming her bushes and hadn’t yet picked up the branches, so we gathered them and hauled them to the curb.
We dashed here and there, doing little good turns on the sly. And wherever we went, we left a note stuck someplace that said, “The Piccadilly Street Pirates have struck again!”
By the time we reached Brother Roger’s place, we were laughing and shouting and waving our swords like conquering heroes.
“Well, the pirates have returned.” Brother Rogers grinned as he saw us. “I finished just in time. Come in and see if you approve of your pirate den.”
“Wow!” I shouted as we filed inside. All the junk had been taken out, and the board floor had been swept. Brother Rogers had put an old table in the middle, with boxes and buckets around it for chairs. The two windows were covered with burlap sacks so that no one could peek in. There were nails pounded in the wall where we could hang our swords, and Brother Rogers had even made a big pirate map of the neighborhood and tacked it on one wall.
“We’re pirates for sure now!” Jason whooped.
“Thanks, Brother Rogers,” we all chimed in.
“And how was your raiding and plundering?” he asked with a wink.
“We saved Tiffany and Tami from Ripper.”
“We picked up the Hansens’ spilled trash.”
“We gathered branches at the Wheelers’ and hauled them to the curb.”
“We weeded part of Sister Ballard’s garden, and we even got some treasure!” I shouted, holding up the bag of cookies. “We’ll share them with you. And since we’re using your hideout, Brother Rogers, we’ll make you an honorary member of the Piccadilly Street Pirates.”
“I’ve always wanted to be a pirate,” he told us. “I’ve just been waiting for the right band to join.”

What’s going on?
Shhh! Let’s go talk in my room.
Don’t you think Mom and Dad have been acting weird lately?
Yeah. Sometimes when I come into the room they stop talking.
Last night when I got up for a drink of water—I mean, it was really late— they were in the kitchen whispering and looking at some papers.
I tried to find out what’s going on. The other day I asked Mom if she’s mad at me. Or if somebody’s sick or something.
What did she say?
She said nobody’s sick, I’m not in trouble, and nothing’s wrong. Of course I didn’t ask if you are in trouble …
You’re so funny.
C’mon, didn’t she tell you anything?
She said there’s nothing to worry about. They just aren’t ready to talk about it yet. I still don’t know what’s going on, but I kinda feel like everything’s OK.
Why?
Well, for one thing, I believe Mom. Plus, I’ve been praying about it, and … I dunno … I just feel more peaceful.
Kids, could you two come in the kitchen for a minute?
We know you’ve been wondering what’s going on. Well, now we can finally tell you the exciting news.
(To be continued next month.)

As persecution increased in Nauvoo, Bathsheba and George helped finish building the Nauvoo Temple and were among the first to receive their temple ordinances. Bathsheba was present on that sorrowful day when the bodies of Joseph and Hyrum Smith were brought back to Nauvoo from Carthage Jail, and she, George, and their two children were among the hundreds of Saints who walked across the frozen Mississippi River to Winter Quarters.

President Kimball was a great and active missionary himself. Brother Udall tells this story of President Kimball’s mission in the Central States.
“While tracting in St. Louis one day he saw through the partly opened door a new piano and said to the woman who was in the act of closing the door in his face, ‘I see that you have a new piano.’
“‘Yes, we’ve just bought it,’ she replied with pride.
“‘It is a “Kimball” isn’t it? That is my name also,’ he said, as the door opened wider. ‘Would you like me to sing and play for you?’
“‘Surely, come in,’ she answered.
“Walking to the piano he played and sang ‘O, My Father.’ This pleasant introduction led to many subsequent gospel conversations.” (“The Apostle from Arizona,” Improvement Era, October 1943, p. 591.)

I once ordained a patriarch who was overcome with the responsibility. For months he could not get himself to give a blessing. Finally he asked his stake president if he might write a paragraph as a model introduction to any patriarchal blessing. The stake president approved.
Later he told me this: “When the first young man came for a blessing, because I had memorized this prepared introduction, I felt comfortable. I laid my hands on his head, and I did not use one word of it. That day I learned whose blessings they are. They are not my blessings but are dictated by the Spirit.”

The young men working on the nature trail learned important design principles as they tried to clear away some of the undergrowth and trees so a person walking on the trail could see other foliage. At first, when the nature trail crew looked at the solid wall of green before them, they came back to Brother Kamauoha and told him they did not know what to cut and what to leave.
“I told them this was their responsibility and I wasn’t doing their thinking for them. Then I asked them, ‘When you are in your fale (Samoan house) and the paule (woven blinds) are down, what do you do when you want to see out?’ And they said, ‘We move the paule aside so we can see.’ After learning this principle, they cut away some of the trees and undergrowth and created beautiful natural windows where students could come and study the plant life or just walk and think.”

One of the great social occasions of the year in our little town was the annual fathers and sons’ banquet. It was really a large affair held in the gym, and it featured a spectacular program. It was always well-attended by fathers and sons from the community.
In my family there are four boys (with a sister on each end). My father was a school teacher. Most of the time he could not afford to take all four of us boys to the banquet at once, so one year my father would take one or two sons, and the next year he would take the others.
One particular year it was not my turn to go to the banquet. But I had an uncle who came to live temporarily in Monroe. He didn’t have any sons, and he asked my father if he could take one of us. I was really thrilled to learn that I was chosen to accompany my uncle to the banquet.
I was number three in the line of four boys, so I always seemed to get the hand-me-downs. My mother fixed up an old suit for the big night. I was very proud of it. My uncle worked in his shop until closing time, and he agreed to meet me at the gym. We lived across the street from the high school. I could run out the door and reach the gym in a minute or two.
My mother first helped my father and two older brothers make preparations; then she helped me get ready. It started to rain hard just before time to leave the house. We had no umbrella. I could run fast, so Mother said, “I’ll open the door, and you jump off the porch and run across the street.” I made my break and leaped off the porch. But I hit some soft dirt, and my feet went out from under me and I landed in a mud puddle. I was drenched and muddy all over.
I went back into the house, crying. I thought, That’s the end of the banquet. Mother, however, took off my muddy clothes and dried them. We did not have electric irons in those days, so she put the flatirons on the coal stove to heat. In a matter of just minutes, she had me clean and dry and my suit pressed and dried. By that time, the rain had let up a little bit, and I made my second dash for the gym.
As I think back on that night, a mother with less determination would have given up and written it off as a bad experience. But my mother wasn’t going to let that happen, because she loved me and knew how disappointed I would be if I didn’t attend the fathers and sons’ social.

The branches of the prairie scrub oak scratched and banged together in a sharp wind that howled about the tableland. Above the rustling tangles, the buttes rose bleak and silent beneath the gnarled sky.
Jon-Bob, his collar lifted against the weather, walked aimlessly. He was so deep in thought that he hardly heard the thunder that roared overhead like a stampede in heaven. He paused by an ancient deadfall, the woody carcass barely visible above a large clump of tall, waving grass. He sat heavily on a log, the weight of gray uncertainty pressing down on him like the leaden sky upon the land.
Jon-Bob’s five-year-old sister, Charity, lay close to death in the family’s small dugout built in the face of a low red hill a few hundred yards behind him. Doc Sorenson had done all he could to hold together Charity’s broken body. All that was left for him to do was to offer quiet solace to the girl’s mother, pat her hand, and head back across the huge flatness in his coal-box buggy.
Jon-Bob’s mother had assisted the doctor during the long night. His father, with the help of Brother Jobias Thatcher, whom Jon-Bob had ridden six miles across the flats to fetch, had administered to the unconscious girl.
Jon-Bob picked at the log with his finger and sighed despairingly. A sudden fit of wind rolled across the red earth like a dark memory, and it was yesterday again. He saw his sister sitting barefoot in the yard, playing with her raggedy doll. Suddenly jagged bolts of lightning burned down, and thunder boomed like a hundred cannons. The corral gate was torn asunder as a half-dozen fear-prodded steers burst crazily into the yard behind Charity. Jon-Bob, seated on the porch, had only enough time to scream before the longhorns trampled the small girl underfoot.
Back in the present, Jon-Bob heard someone crying. He stood and looked back toward the dugout. His mother was stumbling blindly out onto the little buckled porch. After a moment his father appeared and put his arm around Jon-Bob’s mother and held her close.
“No!” Jon-Bob gasped in a stunned whisper. “Charity’s not dead. She can’t be!”
Jon-Bob’s sister was buried next to her grandfather in a small circle of cottonwoods a few hundred yards from the house.
A few days later Jon-Bob stepped out into the broad red silence again, this time to try to walk out some of his pain.
An elderly Indian woman by the name of Two Moons Dancing watched him cross below the cottonwoods as she carried a side of smoke-house meat toward the dugout. She studied him for a moment, then set the meat inside and followed after him.
Two Moons Dancing had been taken in by Jon-Bob’s parents some years before, when her own family died in a raging prairie fire. She had been seriously burned herself, but the boy’s father and mother had nursed her back to health. Shortly thereafter she had discovered an additional bond with this pioneer family: They, too, were Mormons. Her father, Standing Bear, had been taught by two young missionaries, and his testimony had inspired her to enter the waters of baptism.
Jon-Bob stooped to lay some yellow wildflowers at the foot of his sister’s tombstone, below an epitaph that read:
HERE LIES A CHILD OF GOD. MAY SHE REST WITH QUEENS.
A sunbaked, weathered hand rested softly on Jon-Bob’s shoulder. He quickly brushed aside some tears and looked up at the kindly face behind him. “Will you share your thoughts with this old woman?”
Jon-Bob silently probed the dark eyes bright with understanding and concern, then nodded. He and Two Moons Dancing wandered slowly through the sunlit sage. “Why did Charity have to die?” Jon-Bob finally got out. “Why not someone who was mean or bad, or someone older?”
“Who gets chosen and when, Jon-Bob, is a mystery. Only the Great One knows for sure.” Two Moons Dancing thought quietly on the matter, then continued, “It would have been fairer if it had been me.”
“No, Two Moons Dancing!” Jon-Bob blurted out with ardent sincerity.
The Indian woman nodded. “I am seventy-one years old, and I have had a full, happy life. I have learned and seen much—too much, maybe, for just one life.”
“You’re not going to die,” Jon-Bob said.
“Yes. Yes, I am,” returned Two Moons Dancing. “And in time so are you—and everyone else you love and care about. And it’s going to hurt each time someone does.”
Jon-Bob’s eyes welled up. “It hurts so bad, Two Moons Dancing!”
The old woman took the eleven-year-old boy’s arm and turned him around; then she rested her hands on his small shoulders and looked deep into his eyes. “Of course it does, Jon-Bob. And that is not wrong or bad. It is good. It is oftentimes an ache that keeps love alive, just as a cold rain gives life to the desert flower. Think about it, small one.”
They started to walk again. “Life. Death. Life beyond death. It is all one grand eternal round, all a part of the Great Spirit’s glorious plan. The sun comes up, the sun goes down, and we must gather our memories in between, as the flowers of the field, and remember with warmth the life that was. And is. And always will be, for things eternal never die.”
Jon-Bob felt some relief, but he still wrestled with doubts. “You’re talking about time, aren’t you?”
“In a way, perhaps.”
“Well, I’m not too happy about time. It takes things away.”
“Can it not also bring them back together again?” the old woman suggested.
Jon-Bob scratched his head. “I guess maybe you’re right.”
“The time will come when you and your little sister will be together again, touching souls.” She wrapped her arm around Jon-Bob as they walked on together through the bright morning.

Picture with me a little six-year-old orphan girl traveling across the plains of America. Her name is Elsie Ann. Her mother died when she was two. Her father remarried, and so for a time she had a stepmother. Then her father died at Winter Quarters when she was five. Her stepmother remarried and moved away, leaving this little orphan behind with Peter and Selina Robison, who were related to her stepmother. Elsie Ann left Winter Quarters with the Robisons in July of 1849 to come west. As she watched Selina care for her 10-month-old baby girl, she no doubt ached for the love of her own mother. Sometimes she would even ask, “Where is my mother?”

My heart goes out to this little girl when I think of her facing her uncertain future with no blood relatives to comfort and help her. Elsie Ann was my great-grandmother, and only recently did we find out who her mother really was. For years we thought Elsie Ann was Jane Robison’s daughter. Careful research discovered her true parentage, and after all these years Elsie Ann now has been sealed to her father, John Akerley, and her mother, Mary Moore.

It was a hot summer day in southern California, and I was a typical teen enjoying my summer by sleeping late. I was getting out of bed when the doorbell rang. I raced my mom to the door. We were both surprised by a group of 10 to 15 teens my age.
They greeted us with a smile and explained that as part of a youth conference they were on a service scavenger hunt for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They showed us a list of services and asked my mom to check off the items on the list they could do. My mom did, and they were soon busy pulling weeds, washing windows, and mowing our lawn. It was fun watching them all work together.
When the chores were complete, you could tell they had worked hard by the sweat on their faces and the dirt on their hands, but they looked pleased with the work they had done and thanked us for the opportunity to serve.
My mom offered them a big tip, but they refused. Feeling like they should not leave without us giving them something, I quickly ran into the house and returned with cold glasses of water.
After refreshing themselves, they asked if they could leave us with a song. As they sang “I Am a Child of God,” I felt a respect and love as you would for old friends, even though I had just met them.
I joined them for the next few houses, working side by side, feeling a sense of peace and acceptance. As I walked home, I was consumed in my own thoughts. I was in awe at how the youth were spending their day serving others.
I went straight to my room and wrote a thank-you letter for their service and how they had touched me. Without signing it, I put the letter and all the money I had, about $39, inside the envelope and drove to the church to tape it to the door.
From that day on, my life would never be the same. Not long after, I started spending time with youth in the Church and was touched spiritually by so many members helping me on my journey. Part of that journey was hearing the missionary discussions that led to my baptism a year later. Since that time, I have been married to a worthy man in the San Diego California Temple, and we have two beautiful daughters.
But there is a twist to my story. Five years after the experience with the youth, I was giving my first talk in sacrament meeting. I told the story of the day the youth came to my house. After sacrament meeting, the stake president introduced himself and told me he was at that same youth conference. At the testimony meeting ending the conference, some of the youth told about finding my envelope taped to the door. The stake president said that he still had my letter in his office because he knew that someday he would meet the person who wrote it and would return it.
I cherish that letter and have tucked it into my diary to remind me of those youth and their example to me and to so many others on that hot summer day.

A few years ago, my family moved back to the United States. We were excited to attend church here after 26 amazing years in smaller, more isolated units. I was called as a ward missionary. We had a great ward mission leader and were doing exciting things and teaching wonderful people. I asked to attend a ward council meeting to observe and to get their help with the friends we were working with. I was surprised when all that was discussed was an upcoming ward activity. I approached the ward mission leader afterward and opined that he didn’t get the chance to return and report on our people. His response? “Oh, I never get to report.”

I contrasted that with a branch council meeting in Lahore, Pakistan, that I had attended just weeks before. This little group sat around a small table together, and all they talked about were people. Names. Each leader reported on their stewardship and the individuals and families that they were concerned about. All had the chance to add their thoughts on the best ways that they could bless those being discussed. Plans were made and assignments given. What a brilliant lesson in counting and accounting by name from our first-generation brothers and sisters.

Several boys were kneeling in a circle on the sidewalk in front of David’s house, laughing and shouting. He watched them through the window. New in the neighborhood, he thought that this would be a good time to go out and make some friends. When the screen banged shut behind him, the boys looked up.
“Hi.” David combed his brown hair to one side with his fingers. “My name’s David. I just moved in. What are you doing?”
“We’re playing Grasshopper Gladiators,” a boy with reddish hair and freckles told him.
“I’ve never heard of that before,” David said. “How do you play?”
“You have to catch a grasshopper first,” said another boy. David had seen most of them at school, but he hadn’t been there long enough to learn their names. And right now they were more interested in their game than they were in him.
There were a lot of weeds around his new house. It had stood empty for quite a while before his parents bought it. It shouldn’t be too hard to find a grasshopper in all these weeds. He walked slowly through them till he heard a low buzzing sound to his right. Perched on a tall blade of grass was a brown grasshopper at least an inch long. David stopped and moved his cupped hands slowly toward it. When they were about three inches from it, he snatched at it. He felt it hit against the inside of his hands and then stand motionless. Experience had taught him that if he wasn’t very careful, when he opened his hands to look at his catch, it would be gone in a flash.
He waited a few more seconds. When he didn’t feel it jump again, he moved his left thumb, making a small opening. Then he tipped his hands until the warm afternoon sun entered the opening and made it easier for him to see the small creature.
He had read that grasshoppers have two hard lips and sharp biting jaws to help them tear off bits of plants for food. It’s a good thing it’s so much smaller than I am, he thought. Otherwise I might be in for a good bite.
David remembered the night his family had been reading about John the Baptist in Mark 3 in the New Testament. John had grown up eating locusts and honey. Mom had explained that locusts were a type of grasshopper. She had been told by someone who had eaten them that they tasted something like shrimp.
I like shrimp a lot, David thought, but I don’t know if I could eat a grasshopper. The grasshopper hopped toward the opening. David moved his left thumb quickly to keep it from jumping out. Its feet tickled. “I caught one,” he yelled as he approached the boys on the sidewalk.
“Good,” said the redhead. “Mark needs a challenger.” He nodded his head toward the boy who had told David to catch one.
The boys opened up to let David into the ring. What he saw made his stomach knot. In the center of the boys’ circle were grasshopper legs, wings, heads, and bodies. Two grasshoppers were still alive but had been stripped of their back two sets of legs and wings. They struggled helplessly before the laughing boys.
“What are you doing?” David choked out.
“What does it look like we’re doing?” the redhead retorted. “We’re making Roman gladiators out of them. We take turns pulling something off the other guy’s grasshopper. The guy whose grasshopper lives the longest wins.”
David watched in horror as one of the struggling grasshoppers stopped moving.
“I’m the winner!” the redhead chortled.
“That gives Jerry a score of six,” Mark said, marking a line under the initial J. S. on the sidewalk with chalk. “Is the new kid going to challenge me next?”
“No!” David shouted. “That’s mean.”
“You mean, mean boys,” Mark mimicked in a whiny voice. “Now you’ve gone and upset the new boy. How could you be so mean?”
“Oh, go away and leave us alone,” said Jerry, rising to his feet. He was a good head taller than David and was scowling at him. “What are you, anyway—a grasshopper lover? Come on, Mark, Steve will challenge you. You have a hopper left, haven’t you, Steve?”
A slightly built boy with blond hair answered. “Yeah, I have one. Hey, David, they’re only grasshoppers. It isn’t like we’re really hurting anything.”
“No.” David freed his grasshopper. “It isn’t right.”
He turned his back on the other boys and walked toward his house. He wanted to run from the jeering that followed him but forced himself to walk slowly. He didn’t want them to think that he was afraid of them.
Mom came into the living room from the kitchen. “Did you meet some of the neighbor boys?” she called cheerfully.
“I wish we’d never moved here,” he muttered.
“Why? What happened?”
“See those boys on the sidewalk?” His mother nodded. “They’re making a game out of tearing grasshoppers apart.”
“Oh, no!” His mother hesitated. “Do you want me to ask them to stop?”
David shook his head. “I already did. They just laughed at me and called me a grasshopper lover.”
“It isn’t a good way to get introduced into the neighborhood, is it?” Mom asked understandingly.
“I don’t care if they don’t like me,” David told her. “Who wants to be friends with guys like that.”
He went down the hall to his room and threw himself across his bed. The truth was, he did care. He wanted to have friends. But he couldn’t stand by and watch those boys destroy small, helpless creatures.
Mom had never let him kill even a spider. She had insisted that spiders are good and had a place in God’s world. She helped him catch them in paper cups and set them free outside. The same was true with bees and wasps.
Together they had watched a butterfly emerge from its cocoon. Its wings looked damp and crumpled at first. Then, ever so slowly, they unfolded and the butterfly pumped them up with fluid and fanned them slowly. Finally it flew away.
Dad had read him the story in Moses 7 in the Pearl of Great Price about Enoch hearing the earth cry out because of the wickedness of the people. And when they worked in the flower garden together, his mother sometimes said, “I hope that this little corner of the earth is feeling joy because of our efforts.”
In a family home evening he had learned the story in Matthew 21 [Matt. 21], Luke 19, and John 12 in the New Testament of Jesus entering Jerusalem riding on the colt. The people greeted Him with branches of palm trees and called out “Hosanna.” The Pharisees told Him to make the people stop. But Jesus said that “the stones would immediately cry out” hosannas if the people were silenced.
Dad had said that in some ways the earth’s spirit was like ours. Its body needs proper care if its spirit is to be happy. And all the creatures of the earth have spirits and can experience joy. David had even been afraid to pick flowers at one time. But then he’d realized that the joy plants experience must be connected to their service to man.
He loved to read stories about Native Americans. They gave a prayer of thanksgiving to the spirit of an animal after they killed it for food. And they thanked it for its gift of life.
Who needs friends like Mark and Jerry and those other boys, David thought again. I’d rather be alone.
“Come on, David, it’s time to get up,” Mom called from his bedroom doorway Sunday morning.
Oh, great! David thought. Church! It had been bad enough the past few days at school with Mark and Jerry and their gang calling him “grasshopper lover” during recess. No one had dared to pay any attention to him, at least not in a friendly way. Jerry and Mark seemed to lead the whole sixth grade. He could find some remote corner during recess and lunch most of the time. Walking home from school was the hardest. With a bunch of other kids, they usually waited and teased him all the way home. And he’d learned that Mark, Jerry, and Steve were in his ward at church. He pulled the pillow over his head.
“David,” Mom called a few minutes later. “Come on, breakfast is ready.”
“I’m not hungry,” David called. “Eat without me.”
He knew better than to think that that would keep Mom away. Less than a minute later she was back in his doorway. “What’s the matter, David?” she asked. “Don’t you feel well?”
It would be easy to tell her I’m sick, he thought, but that wouldn’t be true. Besides, I like church. I’m not going to let a few tough guys keep me from going. Aloud, he said, “I’m coming, Mom. I’ll be all right once I get going.”
It wasn’t hard to figure out where the Valiants sat. Jerry and Mark sat together at one end of the row, glaring at him. He sat on the opposite end. Steve came in during the opening song. There were only two seats left. One was in the middle of the girls. One was by him. David watched Steve’s look of bewilderment with slight amusement. Which would he be hassled the most for—sitting by the girls or by a grasshopper lover?
Steve only hesitated for a moment before slipping in next to David. “Hi,” he whispered under his breath, then joined in the song while Mark and Jerry talked and pointed their way.
When they were dismissed to class, Jerry and Mark elbowed their way to the chairs on the back row. They tipped their chairs against the back wall and called to Steve to join them. He looked at them and then at David sitting on the front row. He surprised David by sitting by him. “I’m glad you like grasshoppers,” he whispered. “I wish I’d stood up to those guys like you did.”
David felt a glow inside. He turned and gave Steve a grin. “It’s easier to stand up to people you don’t know.”
After she introduced herself and the rest of the class members to David, Sister Newell said, “Today I want to talk about the story of Korihor from the Book of Mormon. Who can tell me something about Korihor.”
“He was an antichrist,” one of the girls behind David volunteered.
“That’s right, Mary,” Sister Newell replied. “He was an antichrist. What does that mean?”
“It means that he didn’t believe that Jesus Christ was real,” Mary answered.
“Thank you, Mary. Does anyone besides Mary remember something about Korihor?”
David loved that story. He knew it by heart. But he didn’t want to look like a know-it-all or a show-off his first day of Primary.
The rest of the class was silent, too. Then Jerry blurted out from the back row. “Hey, wasn’t he the guy that got stomped to death?”
“Yes,” Sister Newell answered. “He was trampled to death. Open your Book of Mormon to Alma 30. Skim through the chapter if you need to, and find why Korihor was struck dumb.”
David stopped worrying about looking like a know-it-all. He loved this story and wanted to share what he had learned from it with others. Maybe Jerry and Mark would listen to Alma’s words, even if they wouldn’t listen to his. He raised his hand.
“David,” Sister Newell called.
David jabbed his finger along the pages in his Book of Mormon as he answered. “Starting in verse 37, Alma asks Korihor if he believes in God. Korihor tells him, ‘No.’ Alma testifies that there is a God and a Christ and tells Korihor that evidence that God lives is all around him. Korihor tells Alma that if there is a God, He should give a sign that He has power. Verse 44 reads, ‘But Alma said unto him: Thou hast had signs enough; will ye tempt your God? Will ye say, Show unto me a sign, when ye have the testimony of all these thy brethren, and also all the holy prophets? The scriptures are laid before thee, yea, and all things denote there is a God; yea, even the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it, yea, and its motion, yea, and also all the planets which move in their regular form do witness that there is a Supreme Creator.’
“Then Alma told Korihor that because he would not accept the testimonies of other people and of all creation around him, he would be struck dumb.”
“That’s right, David. Thank you. What can we learn from this story?”
Steve raised his hand. “I think that it’s teaching us the importance of listening to the testimonies of other people. We should also treat everything around us on earth like it is a testimony of God and Christ. Even grasshoppers.”
The fidgeting on the back row stopped. There was a thud as the front legs of Jerry’s and Mark’s chairs hit the floor.
“You mean Korihor became dumb and was trampled to death because he didn’t respect bugs?” Jerry snorted.
“I’m not sure what bugs and grasshoppers have to do with the story of Korihor,” Sister Newell answered, “but I do know that he didn’t accept that these kinds of things bore testimony of the Savior and our Heavenly Father. You’ll notice in verse 59 that Korihor was trampled by the Zoramites. These were Nephites who lost the companionship of the Holy Ghost. Loss of the Holy Ghost takes away our respect for all forms of life. Otherwise they would not have trampled him.”
Then the bell rang for Sharing Time. Jerry and Mark didn’t push their way past everyone else this time. They even asked David and Steve if they could sit by them in the Primary room.
After church, Jerry, Mark, and Steve waited for David in the foyer. “Do you want to walk home with us?” Jerry asked him.
“Is it all right?” David asked his parents.
“Sure,” Dad said. “We’ll see you in a little while.”
No one said anything for the first block. Then Jerry broke the silence. “I guess Grasshopper Gladiators is a pretty mean game,” he said. “I’m not going to play it anymore.”
“Me either,” Mark agreed. “I just never thought of bugs and things as being a testimony of Jesus before.”
“I’d sure hate to end up like Korihor or those Zoramites,” Jerry added.
“Me, too,” Mark agreed. “Maybe grasshopper lover isn’t such a bad nickname, after all—but I think I’ll just call you David now.”

Many of you are doing remarkable things. Megan, a young woman, prayed many months for two friends who were not members of the Church, arranging for one friend to sign up for seminary and inviting the other to be taught by the missionaries. Recently these two young women were baptized. The Church needs you. President Hinckley cannot walk down the halls of your school and teach your friends, but you can, and the Lord is counting on you. We’re so proud of the courage you have as you share your love for the gospel with your friends.

A Super Fireside including everything from dancing to milking cows was planned and carried out by the youth of the Bozeman First Ward, Bozeman Montana Stake.
With a core group of about 15 youth doing the planning and organizing, all of the youth from the Bozeman and Helena Montana stakes were invited.
The event began with a roast beef dinner followed by a speaker. The older youth pushed back the tables for a dance, while the deacons and Beehives traveled to another location for get-to-know-you games and a magic show.
Early the next morning, the group assembled dressed in work clothes for the day’s activities. After breakfast and an early-morning speaker, the group departed for the stake dairy, the largest dairy in the Gallatin Valley.
Assignments were made for the service project. Some painted the siding on one of the homes. Some helped put up fence. Others painted the calf pens, and the lucky ones got to clean out the barn. With a few paint and water fights, the work was finished in time for lunch in the hayloft. It had been a great success for both the youth and those they served.

The LDS Scouts came from all over the world, including Germany, Wales, Guam, England, and South Africa, but most were from the United States and Canada. One thing they all shared was a zest for getting to know Scouts from other parts of the world. One LDS Scout executive was worried because he had heard a complaint that the U.S. Scouts weren’t integrating well enough with other contingents. Determined to do his part, he hailed a passing English Scout. He was surprised to find that the lad did not have an English accent.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Campbell.”
“Where are you from?”
“Salt Lake City.”
The “English” Scout had traded uniforms with a friend in the British contingent. This was not unusual. By the end of the jamboree, many of the LDS Scouts looked rather like a walking world atlas, with headgear from one nation, shirt from another, trousers from another, and a neckerchief from still another.

I began to see changes occurring in my students as they demonstrated a belief in themselves, completing Elder Bednar’s first step, offering yourself. Their regular attendance created a support system among each other which demonstrated their love for each other. I witnessed the third step, loyalty, from sister Isabel Morel who came every week to support her niece and a friend. Although sister Morel had never played piano during our class, I somehow felt that she knew how to play.
The following week, Sister Morel explained that she knew how to play the piano and she felt prompted to offer her assistance and would be interested in assisting with the class if I needed her. She was another answer to my prayers. Her willingness to act, by offering to share her talent, selflessly serve and love her niece and her friend, were all steps taken towards being more fully converted to our Father in Heaven and His Son, Jesus Christ.

Illustrations by Shauna Mooney Kawasaki
I’m right, and you know it, and I know you know it!
You mean you’re wrong, and I know it, and you know I know it!
Yeah? Well, what you say you know is what we both know you don’t know!
You mean that what you say we both know I don’t know is what we both know I do know I know!
What are you arguing about?
I can’t remember.
Me neither.
Want to do some Funstuf activities?
You know it!

Thank you for the articles in the New Era. I’ve recently been having a hard time both at church and at school. The people at school who I thought were my friends are constantly making fun of me. At church, it’s a number of things. But mainly the young women of the ward always act like I don’t exist. Because of this, I feel like I’m growing away from the Church. One of the only things keeping me near the Church is the New Era. Thank you.
Name WithheldIllinois

I arrived at the Salt Lake Tabernacle early Saturday morning for general conference. As an usher, I was to be there before the doors opened at 6:00 A.M. for the first session. Most of the seats were filled by 7:00, but there were a few single seats here and there. Many times these seats were filled by visitors to Temple Square who would wander in not fully understanding what was happening. They were normally dressed in casual attire, and often, feeling out of place, they would soon get up and leave.
I remember one young man, however, who was sent to my section along the south balcony. I had one vacant seat on the top row. As he approached, I could tell he was not there specifically for conference. He was dressed in a somewhat shabby flannel shirt and wrinkled pants. His hair was not combed and looked as though he had not washed it in several days. He also had a strong tobacco odor about him.
After greeting him and showing him to the vacant seat, I immediately received several stares and other expressions of disapproval from those around him. It was obvious they had come to hear the messages from the Brethren and were not pleased to have to endure the smell of tobacco for the next couple of hours. I thought to myself, He’ll soon realize what is happening and leave. Then these people can relax and enjoy conference. Fifteen minutes passed, then 20. The session would begin soon. Once the lights dimmed, I realized this young man was not going to leave, and I began to sympathize with those around him.
During the session, I watched the young man. He was listening more closely than many of those around him. Others’ heads nodded as they dozed. He sat intently listening to every word. Each message was being devoured by a hungry soul seeking nourishment.
What touched me most was when the congregation stood to sing the closing hymn, “The Spirit of God” (Hymns, number 2). The young man stood with the rest. He joined in singing all the verses without a book or paper, never missing a word. As he sang, tears flowed down his cheeks. Oh, how I have misjudged this young man, I thought. He knew exactly why he was there. And he was touched by the Spirit that had brought him there in the first place. Others noticed what I had, and the looks on their faces told me they felt as ashamed as I did.
The greatest lessons I learned during that conference session came not from the Lord’s anointed but from a humble young man seeking something he had lost. I learned that I shouldn’t judge others and that lessons learned in our youth can be rekindled by the Holy Ghost.