Gospel Story Finder

I have spoken here of heavenly help, of angels dispatched to bless us in time of need. But when we speak of those who are instruments in the hand of God, we are reminded that not all angels are from the other side of the veil. Some of them we walk with and talk with—here, now, every day. Some of them reside in our own neighborhoods. Some of them gave birth to us, and in my case, one of them consented to marry me. Indeed heaven never seems closer than when we see the love of God manifested in the kindness and devotion of people so good and so pure that angelic is the only word that comes to mind. Elder James Dunn, from this pulpit just moments ago, used that word in his invocation to describe this Primary choir—and why not? With the spirit, faces, and voices of those children in our mind and before our eyes, may I share with you an account by my friend and BYU colleague, the late Clyn D. Barrus. I do so with the permission of his wife, Marilyn, and their family.
Referring to his childhood on a large Idaho farm, Brother Barrus spoke of his nightly assignment to round up the cows at milking time. Because the cows pastured in a field bordered by the occasionally treacherous Teton River, the strict rule in the Barrus household was that during the spring flood season the children were never to go after any cows who ventured across the river. They were always to return home and seek mature help.
One Saturday just after his seventh birthday, Brother Barrus’s parents promised the family a night at the movies if the chores were done on time. But when young Clyn arrived at the pasture, the cows he sought had crossed the river, even though it was running at high flood stage. Knowing his rare night at the movies was in jeopardy, he decided to go after the cows himself, even though he had been warned many times never to do so.
As the seven-year-old urged his old horse, Banner, down into the cold, swift stream, the horse’s head barely cleared the water. An adult sitting on the horse would have been safe, but at Brother Barrus’s tender age, the current completely covered him except when the horse lunged forward several times, bringing Clyn’s head above water just enough to gasp for air.
Here I turn to Brother Barrus’s own words:
“When Banner finally climbed the other bank, I realized that my life had been in grave danger and that I had done a terrible thing—I had knowingly disobeyed my father. I felt that I could redeem myself only by bringing the cows home safely. Maybe then my father would forgive me. But it was already dusk, and I didn’t know for sure where I was. Despair overwhelmed me. I was wet and cold, lost and afraid.
“I climbed down from old Banner, fell to the ground by his feet, and began to cry. Between thick sobs, I tried to offer a prayer, repeating over and over to my Father in Heaven, ‘I’m sorry. Forgive me! I’m sorry. Forgive me!’
“I prayed for a long time. When I finally looked up, I saw through my tears a figure dressed in white walking toward me. In the dark, I felt certain it must be an angel sent in answer to my prayers. I did not move or make a sound as the figure approached, so overwhelmed was I by what I saw. Would the Lord really send an angel to me, who had been so disobedient?
“Then a familiar voice said, ‘Son, I’ve been looking for you.’ In the darkness I recognized the voice of my father and ran to his outstretched arms. He held me tightly, then said gently, ‘I was worried. I’m glad I found you.’
“I tried to tell him how sorry I was, but only disjointed words came out of my trembling lips—‘Thank you … darkness … afraid … river … alone.’ Later that night I learned that when I had not returned from the pasture, my father had come looking for me. When neither I nor the cows were to be found, he knew I had crossed the river and was in danger. Because it was dark and time was of the essence, he removed his clothes down to his long white thermal underwear, tied his shoes around his neck, and swam a treacherous river to rescue a wayward son.”

My family and I recently had a simple but impressive experience with one of God’s creations. I gave my wife, Barbara, a dozen rosebuds for a valentine. They were a delicate shade of peach and had a rich scent. Barbara put them into a vase and placed them on the table in our family room. As the days passed, the family watched the blossoms unfold from buds to full flowers.
As I watched this miracle, I became curious about roses. I was amazed to learn from a botanist friend that there are thousands of varieties of roses. Inside each rose is a storehouse of genetic coding that develops a seed or a slip into roots, stems, thorns, leaves, colors, and blooms.
This experience led me to consider the myriad forms of plant and animal life that thrive in astounding balance upon the earth. My esteem for our little roses took on an element of wonder and reverence. I pondered the power of the Creative Genius who lovingly provided such marvels for His children. I thought about how important it is for every human soul to see and appreciate the glory and grandeur of God in everything about us.

I was 12 years old when Gilbert, a category five hurricane, hit Jamaica.1 I remember being in a church meeting a few months earlier when a message from President Ezra Taft Benson (1899–1994), then prophet of the Church and the beloved prophet of my childhood, invited the Saints to prepare for emergencies through water and food storage, staying out of debt and saving as much as possible. In my family, trying to have food storage seemed impossible, and for a 12-year-old boy, it just did not seem important. Furthermore, at the time the message came, there was no immediate need to heed that counsel.
On the morning the hurricane was expected to arrive, I went to school. It was raining, and when I got to the school gate it was locked with the security guard telling all students to go home. His question to all of us was, “Didn’t you watch the news?” It was my first hurricane experience and one I would never forget.
That night, throughout the turbulence of the hurricane with howling winds and crashing roofs, my family prayed, held each other and cried. I remember we had visitors staying with us from Canada and the woman crying into her husband’s arms asking why they came to Jamaica to die.
The light of the next morning made it clear that Hurricane Gilbert was the worst hurricane Jamaica had experienced in a long time. It wreaked havoc on our country and many households would be without electricity, water and basic food supplies for weeks. In my home, we had made minimal preparations and were among the many wishing we could get bread, ice, meat, or crackers. I longed for a cold drink of water or a nice slice of warm bread. I wondered if we would ever stop eating corned beef and tinned mackerel. We had many dark nights because candles were scarce, and the places to buy lamp oil were like battlefields of war.
I share this story from my childhood because I heard my grandmother and many members of the Church testify in the weeks following this terrible disaster that they remembered hearing the letter from the prophet read in sacrament meeting to prepare, and they all expressed regret that they did not. Even though this was a difficult lesson to learn, it was also testimony building because all in attendance declared their sure knowledge that we were being led by prophets and apostles who knew how to guide us. For a boy of 12 years old who had just experienced something unforgettable, these testimonies entered my heart, and I decided then to heed the warnings of prophets.

Marie Michelle and Assoné Blanc are known in their area as a family who have shown great faith in their Savior Jesus Christ. At the beginning of the 2000s, they felt a strong inspiration to seal their marriage in the Santo Domingo Dominican Republic Temple, which had recently been dedicated. However, the travel from Port-au-Prince to Santo Domingo cost more than 300 American dollars. It was impossible for them to find such an amount of money at that moment. What was to be done?
As the days went by, it became more and more difficult for the family to save enough money to undertake the travel to Santo Domingo. Even with their many prayers and fasting, they still struggled to find the way towards the temple. The Blancs had as their sole source of income a small truck with which they operated passenger transport as a public service in the Metropolitan area of Port-au-Prince. Then they hit on an idea: to sell the truck to get money for the travel. Some friends and relatives who heard about this idea said that it would be a very unwise decision. Indeed, selling the truck meant for them that the Blancs would agree to cut the very branch they are sitting on. Selling the truck meant compromising their ability to provide food, healthcare, education for themselves and for their children.
Finally, Assoné and Marie Michelle Blanc sold the small truck and went to the temple to be sealed. What was the rationale behind a so perilous decision? Marie Michelle explained that exaltation is far more important than food and education. She said that they could not miss the opportunity to show the Lord that they trusted Him and that He could rely on them.
Source: https://catalog.churchofjesuschrist.org/record?id=bf98017f-07db-4508-afb3-3b4ccc8502b7&view=browse

“Congratulations, José,” Bishop García said. He handed me my new temple recommend.
“Thank you!” I said. I shook his hand and walked out of the office, staring down at the white paper. I could go to the temple to do baptisms!
My abuelos (grandparents) were waiting in the hall. My parents didn’t come to church very often, so I usually went to church with Abuela and Abuelo. They both gave me a hug.
“Are you excited for your first temple trip next week?” Abuelo asked as we walked out of the building.
“Yes!” I said. But I couldn’t help noticing a funny, fluttery feeling in my stomach.
“It will be so nice to go together as a family,” Abuela said with a big smile.
I smiled back, but the funny feeling didn’t go away.
As the day of the temple trip got closer, I got more nervous. I finally talked to Abuela about it.
She was chopping vegetables in the kitchen, but she stopped when I came in. “What’s wrong?” she asked, wiping her hands on a towel. “You look worried.”
I sighed and sat down at the table. “I’m really excited to go to the temple. But I’m also nervous.”
Abuela nodded, like she understood how I felt. “You don’t need to worry. People will be there to help you every step of the way.”
As she spoke, I felt a warm, comforting feeling from my head to my toes. I knew it would be a special day.
Soon the day of our temple trip came. I put on my Sunday clothes and combed my hair. Abuela came into my room.
“How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Excited! I can’t wait to go to the temple.”
Abuela sat on the end of my bed and pulled a piece of paper from her pocket.
“This is a temple ordinance card,” she said. “It’s for my brother. He was very special to me. But he died before he could be baptized. Would you be baptized for him in the temple today?”
Abuela held out the paper to me. I read the name: Ramon Rodriguez. I could tell Abuela loved her brother, and I was glad she trusted me to get baptized for him.
“Of course, Abuela. Thanks!” I carefully put the card in my pocket.
While riding the bus to the Santo Domingo Temple, Abuela told about when she went to the temple for the first time with Abuelo. Back then, they had to go all the way to Peru because there wasn’t a temple in the Dominican Republic.
An hour later, we arrived at the temple. Bishop García was there too. My eyes widened as we walked up to the building. It was so beautiful! I paused to read the words above the doors: Holiness to the Lord: The House of the Lord.
As I walked through the doors, I knew I was entering a special space. All my worries seemed to melt away. Everything was quiet and calm.
After changing into white clothes, I stood in the baptismal font with Bishop García. I listened carefully as he said the words of the baptismal prayer. When he said Ramon’s name, a peaceful feeling filled my body.
Bishop García lowered me into the water. When I came up, I was smiling. I couldn’t wait to do this again!

When I was about nine years old and attending elementary school here in Salt Lake City, all of the youth in the city’s schools were asked to fill out a form indicating what we wanted to be when we grew up. The lists were then to be placed in a waterproof metal box and buried beneath a new flagpole which graced the entrance to the City and County Building grounds. Years later, the box was to be opened and its contents made available.
As I sat with pencil in hand, I thought of the question, “What do I want to be when I grow up?” Almost without hesitation, I wrote the word cowboy. At lunch that day I reported to my mother my response. I can almost see Mother now as she admonished me, “You get right back to school and change that to banker or lawyer!” I obeyed Mother, and all dreams of being a cowboy vanished forever.

I remember not long ago I was touring a mission in a foreign country and while we were there I asked the president, “Are there any particular problems in the mission?”
He said, “Well, we have one missionary that wants to go home. The only reason he hasn’t gone home is that I still have his passport.” You brethren who have been out know what that is like. “But,” he said, “I think I’m going to have to let him go.”
I said, “Can I talk to him? Would I be able to help you in any way?”
He said, “I don’t really think so. I think we’ve done all the talking we can.”
I met him before the meeting—I was shaking hands with a group of missionaries and I shook hands with this one young man and did not know who he was, except I felt a little different spirit with him, and afterwards I asked the president who that young man was and he said, “He’s the one that wants to go home.”
I said, “Do you mind asking him after the meeting if he would come up and let me visit with him?”
He said, “That’s fine.”
So after the meeting, the elder came up to the stand and I shook hands with him and said, “I appreciate your coming up. I wonder if you’d mind if I visited with you?”
And he kind of shrugged his shoulders and said, “I don’t care. It’s up to you.” You know, as if to say, “It’s your nickel; spend it how you want it.”
So we went over to the side, and in this particular meeting room in this chapel we were in there was a large stained glass window on one side. I have talked with missionaries before about not going home before they were supposed to go home, so I had a really good talk prepared on that subject—at least I thought it was. And as I talked to him he kept looking out the stained glass window. Never did I get his eye. I kept giving my speech. I was right in the very key part of it where I thought, “If anything will turn him this will.”
Then he said to me, “Bishop Peterson, if you look out the window very carefully you’ll see it’s snowing.”
I heaved a sigh and thought, “Oh, boy. He doesn’t even know I’m here, except he wants me to see the snow. He hasn’t heard a thing I’ve said.” I looked out with him and said, “You’re right, elder. It’s snowing.”
We finished the talk like that, and for the next two days I was around and with him in different meetings. As I was speaking in one meeting he was sitting over at the side reading a newspaper. That unnerved me just a bit. You can see what his attitude was and how I was developing an attitude toward him.
The last evening we were together in a meeting. After the meeting was over, I was down in front shaking hands with some young people and saw him just a few feet away out of the corner of my eye. Then something happened to me that I had not yet experienced. I had been asking for help; I had been praying about some way to help this young man. And then for a fleeting moment something happened to me that I had not experienced up to that point as it related to this young man. I had a feeling about this young man come over me that almost consumed me. I excused myself from talking to the other folks and went over to him and took hold of his hand, and as he was about three or four inches taller than I was I looked up into his eyes and said, “Elder, I’ve enjoyed getting acquainted with you. I want you to know that I love you. I really do.” And I left him and did not say any more. And he did not say anything.
I walked to the back door, and as I was about to go out, there he was again. I went up to him, put my arm around him, and said, “What I said up in front a few minutes ago is true; I really love you.”
And then he held onto my hand a minute and he said, “Bishop Peterson, that’s the first time in my life anyone has ever told me they loved me.” Now, you see, I could understand why he was discouraged, why he was confused, why he wanted to go home, why he did not know what to do. Remember the principle, brothers and sisters: “We love him, because he first loved us.” That is the second secret.

Susan’s spring vacation seemed doomed to be boring. The first day, it rained, a drizzling, gray rain. The second day, Mother had a doctor’s appointment and errands to run, so Susan had to tend her younger brother, Larry, who had the chicken pox.
“I want to go outside and play,” Larry complained.
Susan sighed. “I wish you could, too, but Mom said no friends and no playing outdoors until you’re better.”
“When will Mom be home?” Larry asked.
“After lunch.”
Larry plopped onto the couch. “That’s three hours away!”
“Well, right now I’m going to practice the piano. After that, I’m going to finish my scripture project for Primary,” Susan told him.
“But I want you to play a game with me,” Larry said grumpily.
“Why don’t you play with your trains?” Susan suggested, going over to the piano. Suddenly she turned back. “Hey, I have a great idea! I’ll make a game for you and do my scripture project at the same time!”
Larry sat up. “What are you going to do?”
“That’s the best part,” Susan said mysteriously. “It’s going to be a secret. While I get everything ready, you go to your room and listen to the scripture tapes so you’ll get into a scripture-thinking mood.”
Susan’s Primary teacher, Sister Anderson, had asked the class to use the Bible for their Merrie Miss project, so Susan flipped to the Topical Guide in the back and turned page after page. She discovered lots of possibilities for her game.
Next, she found some index cards, wrote down the scripture references that sounded fun for her clues, then hid all but one of the cards around the house.
After that, she hurried to the kitchen and fixed a surprise before going to get her brother. “Everything’s ready,” she announced, leading Larry to the family room. Handing him a card and a Bible, she said, “The clues will lead you to a surprise, but you’ll need the Bible to get you there.”
Larry looked at the first card and saw:
Clue #1
Matthew 6:6 [Matt. 6:6]. He quickly looked up the reference and read:
“‘But thou, when thou prayest, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast shut thy door, pray to thy Father which is in secret; and thy Father which seeth in secret shall reward thee openly.’”
He looked up. “Does this mean I need to look in the closet?”
“Why don’t you go find out?”
They ran to the hall closet, and Larry opened the door. Taped to the vacuum cleaner was another card:
Clue #2
Genesis 37:3 [Gen. 37:3]. In his Bible, Larry read:
“‘Now Israel loved Joseph … and he made him a coat of many colours.’”
He grinned. “Coats!”
Larry looked up and saw the family’s winter coats hanging in the closet. He dug his hands deep into the pockets. It was in the pocket of his very own coat that he pulled out a third card:
Clue #3
Matthew 9:16 [Matt. 9:16]. “‘No man putteth a piece of new cloth unto an old garment,’” he read from the Bible.
Puzzled, he asked Susan, “You mean cloth like in a fabric store? How can we go there?”
“We can’t, of course, but there’s a place in our house that’s a lot like one,” she hinted.
Larry let out a whoop. “Mom’s sewing corner!” He scurried to Mom’s sewing corner in the family room. Underneath a box of fabric was another card:
Clue #4
John 14:16. After finding the scripture, Larry read:
“‘And I will pray the Father, and he shall give you another Comforter, that he may abide with you for ever.’”
Turning to the Bible Dictionary, he saw that Comforter referred to either the Holy Ghost or Jesus Christ. “I don’t get it,” he said. “Where do I look next?”
“I had to stretch the language a bit on that one,” Susan admitted. “What would you think of if Comforter wasn’t capitalized?”
“Oh, I know now—it must be the thick comforter quilt on Mom and Dad’s bed!”
In their parents’ bedroom, Larry pulled back the big comforter and discovered the next card underneath a pillow:
Clue #5
Matthew 10:9 [Matt. 10:9]. “‘Provide neither gold, nor silver, nor brass in your purses.’”
Larry stuck his hands on his hips. “But Mom took her purse with her, and I can’t get into it without her permission, anyway.”
“There’s still mine,” Susan said with a grin, “and you may open it.”
Larry raced to his sister’s room and found her purse right on the dresser. It was empty except for a card that read:
Clue #6
Isaiah 7:15 [Isa. 7:15]. “This one says,
“‘Butter and honey shall he eat, that he may know to refuse the evil, and choose the good.’”
“I know where to look for butter and honey!”
In the kitchen, he opened the pantry door. On a shelf sat a plate covered with thick slices of homemade bread spread with butter and honey. Underneath the plate was a card. It said:
Last Clue
Ecclesiastes 4:9 [Eccl. 4:9]. “Hey,” Larry cried, “This scripture is talking about us! Listen—
“‘Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour.’”
“You’re pretty smart,” Susan told him. Then she realized that tending her brother hadn’t been so bad after all. She got two glasses of cold milk from the refrigerator, and they sat down at the table.
Larry took a big bite of his bread. Honey dribbled down his chin, and he licked it off. “Let’s do this game for family home evening next week with Mom and Dad. It was a lot of fun.”
Susan smiled at her brother. “OK, we can work together on the clues.”

Thank you so much for printing “Hidden Agony” in your March 1992 issue. It came at a point in my life when I really needed it the most. My older brother sexually abused me when I was about nine years old. I knew it was wrong, and felt awful and dirty because of it. I felt guilty, worthless, and totally confused. That was nine years ago, and it still affects me. Reading the article helped me realize I am not alone and there are people who understand. I am realizing it was not my fault and that our Father in Heaven understands and still loves me. Thank you very much.
Name Withheld

Seemingly little lessons of love are observed by children as they silently absorb the examples of their parents. My own father, a printer, worked long and hard practically every day of his life. I’m certain that on the Sabbath he would have enjoyed just being at home. Rather, he visited elderly family members and brought cheer into their lives.

One was his uncle, who was crippled by arthritis so severe that he could not walk or care for himself. On a Sunday afternoon Dad would say to me, “Come along, Tommy; let’s take Uncle Elias for a short drive.” Boarding the old 1928 Oldsmobile, we would proceed to Eighth West, where, at the home of Uncle Elias, I would wait in the car while Dad went inside. Soon he would emerge from the house, carrying in his arms like a china doll his crippled uncle. I then would open the door and watch how tenderly and with such affection my father would place Uncle Elias in the front seat so he would have a fine view while I occupied the rear seat.

The drive was brief and the conversation limited, but oh, what a legacy of love! Father never read to me from the Bible about the good Samaritan. Rather, he took me with him and Uncle Elias in that old 1928 Oldsmobile along the road to Jericho.

One winter evening when I was five or six years old, my father took me downtown. This was during the Great Depression, when jobs were few and many people were poor. My father and I were looking at store windows as we walked, and soon we found ourselves in front of a sporting goods store. It was full of fun things like fishing lures and pocketknives.
A shabbily dressed boy was standing near us, looking longingly into the window. I didn’t pay much attention to him, but my father went over and spoke with him briefly, then put his hand on his shoulder and led him inside the store. I watched as the boy picked out a pocketknife and my father paid the shopkeeper.
I didn’t get a pocketknife that day, but I did get a lesson. As my father and I walked away from the store, he said, “You have me. He doesn’t have anybody.” Later I realized how generous and how sensitive to the needs of others my father was.

On a beautiful Sunday morning in the fall of 1841, my great-grandfather, William Minshall Evans, then sixteen years of age, was walking down the streets of Liverpool, England, on his way to church. Suddenly he heard singing that thrilled him beyond anything he had ever heard before. He followed the sound down an alley and up some rickety stairs into a room where a few people were holding a meeting. John Taylor, who later became President of the Church and who had a beautiful tenor voice, was the singer. The song he sang was so beautiful that William remained to hear the sermon.
Upon returning home, William was reprimanded by his elder brother, David, for being absent from his accustomed place in the choir. When asked to give an account of himself, William replied, “I have been where you should have been and I shall not be satisfied until you all hear the wonderful truth I have heard this morning.”
Before long, William and David were converted to the gospel, and then helped convert other members of their family. Three of the brothers and their parents emigrated to Utah between 1848 and 1850. William’s mother died of cholera in Kanesville, Iowa, and her husband was so brokenhearted that he had no desire to continue on to Utah and so returned to England.
The boys experienced all of the hardships and trials of those early pioneer days, but remained true and faithful to the gospel. William had twelve children and passed on a great heritage to his posterity.
I never sing the hymns of the Church without remembering that it was the singing of a hymn that opened the door to the gospel for my family and made it possible for me to enjoy all the blessings that have followed.

In 1958 a group of MIT students who decided to measure the distance across the Harvard Bridge that spans the Charles River between Boston and Cambridge, Massachusetts. Exactly how they came to the decision that this action was needed is not clear but I suspect a certain level of alcohol, perhaps a substantial level of alcohol, was part of the decision process. The choice of measurement was probably also influenced by alcohol. The measurement was not in feet, inches, meters, not in any standard unit of measure but in terms of the height of a fellow classmate. His name was Oliver R. Smoots and this is what the students decided to do with him in order to measure the length of the Harvard Bridge. Smoots was placed horizontally on the bridge and every time he was laid down the distance between the bottom of his feet and the top of his head was marked. The distance between his feet and head was labeled a "Smoots" . And on this particular night the Harvard Bridge was measured in Smoots. I believe that a "Smoot"  is roughly 5 feet 7 inches in length.

I first discovered this unique measurement when I was jogging over the bridge and saw the distinctive and rather odd markings. First, five stoops were marked then ten stoops until I reached the end of the bridge where I discovered the Harvard Bridge is 364.4 Smoots in length "Plus or minus one ear."  There is no indication about whose ear was used but I assume it was Mr. Smoots. This event is has been reenacted multiple times. The tradition is over 50 years old.

Does it matter how a bridge is measured, or for that matter, how we measure our lives and the direction of our lives? I believe it does. For example when I flew to Honolulu this weekend I traveled about 3100 miles between Salt Lake City, Utah and Honolulu, Hawaii. The pilot of the plane calculated the distance of the flight, the weight of the plane, and the expected temperature and head and tail winds the flight would face. He then calculated how much fuel he needed. When I am in the middle of the Pacific Ocean I want to make sure our pilot did his calculations correctly. But what if instead of measure in miles the pilot had measured the distance in Smoots? If the plane had started out from Salt Lake and been off target because Smoots are imprecise I might not be here today. I want my pilots to use the best and most accurate method to calculate the jet fuel need to fly to Hawaii from the mainland.

Now think about being off in how you measure your life by just a small amount. Perhaps you miss judge by only one "Smoot"  or some other inappropriate measure the results could even be more disastrous. In this case the trip, the trip of life, is not 3100 miles here the trip covers eternity. And the implication of missing something that has eternal implications is almost impossible to comprehend. We need to clarify what we use to measure and validate our lives. I hope as fun as it might sound to use Smoots to measure distance the process is simply too crude to be of any significant use.

Uruguay was originally part of the Argentine Mission. Mission reports in the Church Historian’s Office tell about the beginning of missionary work in Uruguay. Here is part of the exciting story:
“The first contact between the Church and the people of Uruguay began in January 1940 when Rolf R. Larson, an Argentine missionary, was chosen to represent Argentina in the South American basketball championship in Montevideo. He became the attraction of the tournament, and many newspaper articles were published about him in which he was always referred to as a Mormon missionary.
“His stay in Montevideo created such an interest that the president and secretary of the Argentine Mission went to Montevideo with a supply of tracts. They spent three days visiting and talking with people. They were invited to the YMCA to a luncheon and were permitted to explain their beliefs.
“Through Larson’s playing and his good sportsmanship, a friendly atmosphere was created toward the Church.”

Like the first dance of my eighth grade year. I was serving as the eighth-grade secretary. I was excited for the opportunity I had to have a voice in what went on at the school and for the chance I would have to reach out to other students around me. I was also sure that my new title would brighten my prospects at the school dances I so anxiously awaited. In my mind I pictured the line of boys that would spend the entire dance waiting for the opportunity to dance with me. Looking back, I’m grateful for the experience of returning home that day after dancing with no one. It kept me humble, and gave Hailey and me a good laugh.

The day was hot, very hot. Riley walked home from the store slowly. He dangled the plastic-wrapped loaf of bread from his left hand to balance himself as he walked along the curb. Suddenly he felt tiny drops of water fall on his head. He threw his head back and looked up, then shut his eyes and grinned.
The rain felt cool and welcome. Quickly Riley sat down on the grass and took off his shoes and socks. He stuffed his socks into his shoes and carried them in his right hand. Then he walked in the puddles that were rapidly gathering on the sidewalk. He ran back and forth, splashing and laughing. He squished his toes in the soft tar separating the concrete gutter slabs and laughed again.
“You’re really going to get it from your grandmother, Riley Thompson!” Brenda shouted from her porch railing.
Riley looked up and waved his tennis shoes at her. “My grandma won’t care,” he replied.
“She won’t like your playing in the rain!” Brenda insisted.
Riley splashed through the puddles right up to Brenda’s front porch and asked, “Why won’t she like my playing in the rain? Rain doesn’t hurt you.” His hair hung in limp strands.
“It does so! You can catch a cold and get sick and die!” Brenda retorted as she held out a hand and caught some raindrops.
Riley stared at the trickling drainpipe at the side of Brenda’s house. “My grandma says viruses give you colds.”
“Viruses give you the flu,” Brenda informed him smugly. “Rain makes you sick.”
“You’re making me sick, Brenda Midler,” Riley said. “Plus you’re making me late from the store!” Riley stuck his toes under Brenda’s rainspout, then turned his back on her and headed toward home again. As he neared the edge of her yard, he heard her call.
“Don’t expect me to visit you in the hospital!”
Riley scowled and clumped along the sidewalk, watching the water splash around his feet. His hair hung limply in his face, and his shirt clung tightly to his back. What if Brenda is right? he thought. He stopped beneath a tree and looked at his wet clothes. “Oh, what does she know!” he grumbled. He shrugged and headed back into the rain. “My skin is waterproof.”
When he neared home, Riley began to worry. Did Grandma want this bread right away? He looked up at his bedroom window on the second floor. Will she make me stay in my room the rest of the day? He swallowed hard and followed the walk around to the back of the house. Then he hurried up onto the back porch.
“Grandma!” he called with his nose pressed against the screen door. “I’m home from the store, but I got caught in the rain.” He looked down at the porch and watched the puddles gather around his feet.
Grandma came to the door and looked down at him, smiling. In her hand she had a towel. “You certainly did,” she said with a chuckle. “I saw you playing in the puddles.” She opened the door and laid down an old rug for him to drip on. “Did you have a good time?” she asked as she took the bread and put it away.
“Will you be cross with me if I did?” Riley asked. “Or if I didn’t?”
Grandma threw back her head and laughed. “I wouldn’t be cross with you either way, honey,” she said. “Why would you think that?”
“Brenda Midler said you would. She said I’d catch a cold and get sick and die.”
Grandma chuckled again. “I’m not cross. And you’re not going to get a cold and get sick and die either. It’s a nice, warm day. Heavenly Father sends rain to make the plants and grass and trees grow. He sends it to fill the lakes and rivers and streams, so people have water to drink and use,” Grandma said.
“Animals too!” Riley added.
“Yes, animals, too,” Grandma agreed. “If Heavenly Father didn’t send rain, nothing would grow.”
“Then why do some people moan when it rains?” Riley asked.
Grandma looked out at the rain and thought for a few seconds. “Maybe they don’t want the rain because it upsets their plans. They forget that rain is part of Heavenly Father’s plan for all growing things. Even plants know that,” she said.
“How can you tell?” Riley asked.
“Look at the zinnias, Riley,” she said.
Riley looked to where she pointed, and he smiled. “They’re not drooping anymore!”
“That’s right,” Grandma said. “They’re lifting their heads and spreading their leaves.”
“They look happy, Grandma, like they’re glad it’s raining.”
“I think they are, dear. They were very hot and dry before.”
“I was, too,” Riley said with a grin. “Could I put my swimming trunks on and go out and play in the rain some more? The rain’s nice and cool, and I can put my sailboat in the puddles and build a dam by the drainpipe,” Riley said excitedly.
“Sounds like fun,” Grandma said. “In fact, if I weren’t baking, I’d be tempted to join you.”
“You would?” Riley asked in disbelief.
“I certainly would,” she insisted. “When I was a little girl, I used to like to play in the rain too.”
“Oh, boy!” Riley shouted. “Wait till I tell Brenda Midler!”

Jamie opened his bank, and out tumbled a small pile of pennies and nickles and dimes and quarters onto his bed. He had been working very hard the past several months to earn enough money to add to his spacemen collection. Mrs. Bunday had paid him to carry her garbage cans to the street. He had run errands for his grandma. He had walked the neighbor’s dog. He had helped his dad wash the car, and he had collected and sold empty pop bottles and cans.
But tomorrow was Mother’s Day. I’d rather get something for Mom, Jamie decided, picking up his money and putting it into his pocket.
Let’s see, he thought. What can I get—a big box of chocolates? I’ll get caramel centers because they’re my favorite! Or maybe I’ll treat Mom to lunch at my favorite hamburger place! Or we could go to the pizza place—I love all the video games there!
But those things seemed a little selfish. Jamie thought of all the nice things that his mother did for him, such as mending his shirt when he tore it playing ball, making chocolate chip cookies just because he liked them so much, bandaging his cuts and scratches, and tucking him into bed at night and hearing his prayers.
Then Jamie remembered the special verse he had learned in Primary. He read it again from the bulletin board where he had tacked it: “God first, others second, myself third.” That gave Jamie an idea. “Hey, Dad!” he called. “Will you drive me to a flower shop?”
Later, while Dad waited in the car, Jamie went into the flower shop, laid his money on the counter, and said, “I want a big bunch of flowers for my mom for Mother’s Day.”
The lady counted the money and shook her head. “I’m afraid that there isn’t enough money for a large bouquet,” she said. “How about a small one?”
Jamie shook his head. “I want a big, big, BIG bouquet!”
The clerk thought a moment, then leaned over and quietly suggested something to him. Jamie nodded, paid his money, and walked out with a very small sack.
Later, in his room, Jamie dumped out the contents of his sack; then he went outside to complete his Mother’s Day present.
When Jamie woke up the next morning, he got out of bed quickly, grabbed his present, and ran to the kitchen. His dad and mom were sitting at the kitchen table, talking. “Happy Mother’s Day!” Jamie exclaimed, dumping four little parcels onto her lap.
Jamie’s mother was surprised and declared, “I wonder what these could be!” She opened the first tiny present—it was a package of sweet pea seeds. She opened the second present—it was a package of pansy seeds. She opened the third present—it was a package of carnation seeds. And the fourth package held daisy seeds.
“Now come with me,” Jamie said, taking her hand. “There’s more.” Jamie took his mom to the backyard. He proudly pointed to a piece of ground that he had weeded and dug up yesterday. “That’s where I’ll plant your flower seeds for you tomorrow. Then this summer you will have a big, big, BIG, bouquet!”

Tammy awoke to the roar of a truck outside her bedroom window. “It’s moving day!” She exclaimed, jumping out of bed and sliding into her slippers. “Mom! Mom! The truck is here!”
“Yes, Tammy,” her mom answered, “today is the big day. You’ll need to hurry and eat your breakfast if you want to help the men pack your things.”
My things! Tammy thought, changing into her sweatshirt and jeans, pulling on her shoes, and running to the kitchen. What’s going to happen to my things?
Tammy’s father flew helicopters for the Air Force, and they needed him in Japan. During story time at the public library, Tammy had looked at the world globe and seen that Japan was far across the ocean from the United States. Far from her favorite park and its super-fast twirly slide. Far from all her friends in Primary. And far from her special Star A teacher, who smiled at her when she raised her hand to say the prayer.
Tammy’s thoughts were interrupted when two giant men with big black boots stomped into the house, carrying boxes. They headed down the hall to her room. She gulped down the last bit of milk from her cereal and hurried after them.
They had already started to put her toys into the boxes. “Not these!” she told them, snatching up her new box of markers and her coloring books. “I’m taking these with me on the airplane. It’s going to be a very, very long flight.” She grabbed her backpack and began stuffing it with other special things: favorite books, tapes, a small doll, a whistle, her baseball cards, a pack of gum, and the blue-ribbon badge she had been given for giving a talk in Primary.
“Don’t worry,” one man said, “you’ll have all your things soon after you get there. It’s Japan you’re going to, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s far away.”
“Yep, it sure is,” the other man said, adding conversationally, “I hear that things are a lot different over there.”
“A lot different,” Tammy agreed. She thought, I know they have fast trains and big shopping malls. I know they eat with funny things called chopsticks, bow to each other, and take off their shoes at the door. But do they have Primary? Will I still be a Star A? Her Primary teacher had told the class that missionaries took the gospel to all the world, but had they already taken it to Japan? Did Japan have Sharing Time and singing time and Stars?
Early the next morning, Tammy and her family went to the airport and boarded the plane to Japan. It was a long flight, but she stayed busy playing with the things in her backpack and helping to keep her little brother out of trouble. They left on Thursday, but when they landed in Tokyo, it was already Saturday! Even day and night were different in Japan.
Dad gathered the baggage, and Mom helped her and her brother into the taxi that would take them to their new house. Tammy was fascinated by the windows that rolled up and down when she pushed a little switch. As the spring breezes blew into the car, she suddenly sat up straight. “Stop! Listen!” she yelled. Startled, the cab driver obeyed.
Piano music echoed faintly in the air.
“… , Smiling for the whole world to see,” Tammy sang with it. “That’s my Star song!”
A familiar pillar atop a brown building towered to their right. “It’s our church!” Tammy yelled. “Let’s go in!”
Dad asked the driver to wait, and the family was soon walking across the parking lot while the beautiful, familiar music floated softly out an open window. Tammy ran over to it and peeked inside. “It’s a Primary Quarterly Activity!” she exclaimed with a big smile. “They do have the gospel in Japan. And they have Stars too!”

After their missions, Johnny’s classmates will tell you, “I want to be a lawyer … a doctor … an anthropologist … a stewardess … an interior decorator.” Some, like Yulie Ramirez, an 18-year-old from Santiago, are already making their career dreams come true. Yulie hadn’t quite finished high school when she saw an ad that reporters were needed for the local television station. She applied, and a few screen tests later Yulie was hired. You can now watch her on Channel Seven, doing on-the-spot reports when she’s not in school.

Friday was fish day, and Emily always went to the market with her mother on Fridays to buy their supper. Today Emily’s mother had given her a penny to buy a sugar cake. The two of them walked down the narrow streets because Mother couldn’t afford to hire a carriage. But Emily didn’t mind. She enjoyed swinging the grocery basket, watching the ladies sweep by in their long skirts, and hearing the clobble-clobble of horse hooves.
A boy selling newspapers yelled, “Read all about it!”
Emily glanced at the date on the newspaper as they passed by—October 14, 1865.
“Mama!” she cried. “Tomorrow’s Papa’s birthday!”
“I know,” Mother said. “I’m going to make his favorite dish for his birthday supper—steak-and-kidney pie.”
“But what about me?” Emily asked. “What can I give him?”
“You could read to him,” Mother suggested. “He loves listening to you read Mr. Dickens’s stories. He says it’s very restful after a long day in the mill.”
“But I can read to him anytime,” Emily said. Then she remembered the penny in her hand. What can I buy for a penny? she wondered.
When they arrived at the market, Emily felt a rush of excitement. The stalls were filled with all kinds of things! Fishmongers swiftly cleaned fresh fish with their flashing silver knives. A baker held his stick of piping hot sugar cakes high in the air.
“Run along,” Mother said. “But meet me in an hour by the greengrocer’s stall.”
Emily raced off. Seeing a hurdy-gurdy man playing his organ-grinder, she laughed when a monkey in a tiny red jacket held out his tin cup. But she didn’t stop to listen because she wanted to hold on to her penny.
There must be something I can buy for Papa’s birthday, she thought.
Dogs darted in and out of the crowd. She remembered how much Papa admired collies. “I’d love to own one,” he had said. “But it’s hard to keep a dog in the city. One of these days—if we’re lucky—we’ll move to the country.”
Papa’s always saying that, Emily thought. If only my penny could buy us a cottage in the country—one with a white fence around it and a little garden!
But Emily was only day-dreaming, and it was almost time to meet her mother. Emily’s wandering had taken her to the end of Market Street. As she turned to go back, something caught her eye. The last stall stood apart from the others. Behind a counter filled with spices and strange-looking vegetables was an old Oriental man. He wore a golden satin jacket with a high collar, and on his feet was a pair of embroidered slippers the same color as his jacket.
Those slippers! Emily wanted a pair just like them for Papa. She imagined him sitting in front of the fire with his slippered feet propped up while she read to him from Mr. Dickens’s stories.
She walked up boldly to the Chinaman’s stall. “Excuse me,” she said. “Where did you buy those slippers you’re wearing?”
“My daughter-in-law makes slippers,” he replied in a papery-dry voice. “Very fine.”
“Yes, they are,” Emily agreed. “I would like to buy a pair like them for my papa’s birthday.”
The old man smiled. “Ah, a present for your papa. Well, little missy, how much money do you have?”
Emily held out her penny.
The Chinaman’s smile was not so wide now. “Oh, my,” he said. “My daughter-in-law charges much more than that. She uses the finest satin, and she spends many hours embroidering.”
“That’s all right,” Emily said, turning away to hide her disappointment. Her elbow knocked over a little cage on the counter.
“I’m sorry!” she cried, setting the tiny bamboo cage upright again. She smiled when she saw what was inside. “A cricket! Why do you have a cricket in a cage?” she asked.
The old man replied, “It makes very fine music. In China emperors keep crickets in cages made of ivory or jade. But for Li-Fu, bamboo is just as fine. When my cricket sings, it reminds me of my home.”
A cricket! Emily tried hard to remember something she had read …
She offered her penny again. “I know it’s not much, Mr. Li-Fu, but I would love to give this cricket to my papa for his birthday.”
The old man thought for a moment. “Done!” he said finally. He handed Emily the tiny cage.
“The cage too?” she asked.
“It is the cricket’s home. Consider it a present from me.”
Smiling her thanks, Emily pressed the penny into his wrinkled palm. Then, carefully carrying the cage, she hurried to find her mother.
The next night Emily couldn’t sit still through supper. She picked at her steak-and-kidney pie until Father said, “You’re bursting with a secret, Emily. What is it?”
Emily ran out of the room and returned with her hands hidden behind her back.
“Happy Birthday, Papa!” With one hand she presented him with the tiny cage.
“What on earth?” He stared at the cricket in the bamboo cage.
With her other hand, Emily revealed a book and flipped it open. “Your gift is explained in one of Mr. Dickens’s stories. See? Right here it says, ‘A cricket on the hearth is the luckiest thing in the world.’”
“Mr. Dickens is usually right,” Papa said. “We’ll keep our lucky cricket here by the fire where it belongs.” He set the cage on the mantle. “But I’m already the luckiest man in the world to have such a wonderful wife and daughter.”
From its perch on the mantle the cricket chirped, as if in agreement.