Gospel Story Finder

A short time after our visit, Luan’s condition worsened, and his doctors found a large tumor at the base of his spinal cord. It could not be removed surgically, so Luan went to the hospital for another round of chemotherapy.
One night when President Soares and I visited Luan in the hospital, we found him in a lot of pain. He asked us several questions, including, “What is death?” and “What is dying like?”
I explained that dying is part of eternity and that death is not a closing door but a door that opens for us as we go back to the presence of God. Luan understood and smiled. He said he was prepared. Then he asked us to give him a priesthood blessing, and we did so.
In the bed next to Luan was a 14-year-old boy named Pedro. Pedro asked us to bless him too. I asked if he had faith in Jesus Christ, and he said he did. We explained what the priesthood is and that we would be blessing him in the name of Jesus Christ. He closed his eyes and smiled as we blessed him. Next an 18-year-old young woman asked us to give her a blessing too.
I found out Luan and his mother had comforted Pedro and many of the other young cancer patients and their parents. As I left the hospital that night, I was edified to see that Luan and his mother, though suffering themselves, found the strength to visit others and minister to their needs.

A new president was installed that morning, and there were many who were proud and happy concerning him; but most proud and most happy was a man who sat at the stake clerk’s table, a rural mail carrier by profession. He it was, who twelve years earlier, had with quiet, patient labor persuaded his totally inactive neighbor to come back into activity.

It would have been so much easier to have let that indifferent neighbor go his own way, and it would have been so much easier for the mail carrier to have lived his own quiet life. But he had put aside his personal interest in the interest of another; and that other person became that Sunday the honored and respected leader of a great stake of Zion. As the people sustained their new president, the man at the clerk’s table wept tears of gratitude. In living beyond himself, he had brought to life the man sustained that morning as stake president.

Take, for example, Joseph F. Smith, the father of our past prophet Joseph Fielding Smith, and the president of the Church during the early years of this century. Joseph F.’s father was Hyrum Smith who had been killed in Carthage Jail with the Prophet Joseph. Even so, though a cost-benefit ethic might have dictated he stay to look after his sister, Joseph F. volunteered for a mission. He was called to Hawaii, or the Sandwich Islands as they were then called. When he arrived there, he learned that the missionaries before him had almost completely given up on trying to teach the gospel. They were unsuccessful with the haole, the whites, and as far as the kanakas, the natives, they could neither learn their difficult language, nor did they perceive the natives as good Church members. Joseph, however, was young enough to learn the language of the natives and to see behind the unfamiliar customs of the Hawaiians the sweet spirits they possessed. He writes how he “felt resolved to stay there, master the language, and warn the people of these islands, if I have to do it alone.”2
Joseph did learn the language and did preach to the Hawaiians, and in the process he received a spiritual renewal. Within a few months of his arrival in Hawaii, he wrote back to a relative in Salt Lake City:
“I know that the work in which I am engaged is the work of the living and true God, and I am ready to bear my testimony of the same at any time, or at any place, or in whatsoever circumstances I may be placed.”3
When he wrote that, he could not have known the strange “circumstance” in which he would find himself. The warehouse in which he and others of the missionaries stored their clothes caught fire. All their clothing except what they were wearing was destroyed. For a time Joseph and his companion had only one respectable suit between them, so one of them had to stay in bed while the other put on the suit and went to meeting!4

Our family has a tradition when we go to bed at night. We have a spiritual time where we read something from the scriptures or the Friend, sing a Primary song, and say a prayer together.
We decided to read the Book of Mormon children’s book with pictures. The last chapter talks about Moroni putting the gold plates in a stone box and burying them in the ground for someone to find someday. He wrote a promise to whoever reads the plates that if they ask Heavenly Father about the words written on the gold plates, they will find out the words are true and come from Heavenly Father.
At the end of the book, there’s a painting of a little boy kneeling by his bed, praying. Dad showed us the picture and told us that when he was young, he also prayed about the Book of Mormon and found out that it was true. He said that Heavenly Father doesn’t usually speak to us with words. Instead, He speaks to our hearts and minds with feelings from the Holy Ghost.
After we finished reading, we sang a Primary song. Then I asked Dad if I could be the one to say the prayer. I knelt next to my bed with my dad and my little brother. During the prayer, I asked Heavenly Father if the Book of Mormon is true. I felt warm inside and very good.
After the prayer I told my dad how I felt. He told me that he felt the same way and that Heavenly Father was speaking to us to let us know that what we just read was true.
That’s how I know the scriptures are true.

Many years ago, in company with the mission president from Hong Kong, it was my opportunity to initiate formally the work in the Philippines. On 28 April 1961, we held a meeting that will never be forgotten by those of us who were present. We had no hall then in which to meet. We made a request of the United States Embassy for permission to meet on the beautiful porch of the marble memorial in the American military cemetery at what was then known as Fort McKinley, on the outskirts of Manila. We convened at 6:30 in the morning. In that hallowed and sacred place, where are remembered the tragedies of war, we commenced the work of teaching the gospel of peace.
We called upon the only native Filipino member we had been able to locate. He recounted a story which I remember as follows:
When he was a boy he found in a garbage can an old, tattered copy of the Reader’s Digest. It contained a condensation of a book giving the story of the Mormon people. It spoke of Joseph Smith and described him as a prophet. The word prophet did something to that boy. Could there actually be a prophet upon the earth? he wondered. The magazine was lost, but concern over the presence of a living prophet never left him during the long, dark years of war and oppression when the Philippines were occupied. Finally the forces of liberation came, and with them the reopening of Clark Air Base. David Lagman found employment there. His supervisor, he learned, was a Mormon, an Air Force officer. He wanted to ask him if he believed in a prophet, but was afraid to do so. Finally, after much inner turmoil, he mustered the courage to inquire.
“Are you a Mormon, sir?” the young man asked.
“Yes, I am,” was the forthright reply.
“Do you believe in a prophet? Do you have a prophet in your church?” came the anxious question.
“We do have a prophet, a living prophet, who presides in this church and who teaches the will of the Lord.”
David asked the officer to tell him more, and out of that teaching came his baptism. He was the first native elder ordained in the Philippines.

A few years ago, while teaching a missionary prep class at BYU, I asked students to practice extending commitments every week of the course. I explained that I did not expect them to invite someone to be baptized, just help someone else do what that person really wanted to do but had not yet been able to do without some outside help. One student explained to me how she had called a non-LDS friend in her home state just to see how she was doing. Her friend told her that she had developed a drinking problem and that she was thinking of dropping out of school and returning home. She said that she had become so discouraged, she was thinking of taking her own life.

My student asked her if she wanted some help. Becoming emotional, her friend consented. My student then said to her friend:
In our Church we have the Book of Mormon. One verse we've been studying talks about some missionaries who got so discouraged they wanted to give up and go back home, but then they prayed and fasted and the Lord comforted them and said, "bear with patience thine afflictions, and I will give unto you success" (Alma 26:27). I know that the Lord will help you. I know that he can help you overcome your drinking problem. I know He can help you succeed. Will you pray that He can do that?
Her friend agreed to pray. Later my student then said to me:
I can't actually believe I did that. I didn't know if she would be offended or if my invitation to pray would help her, but I felt that it would, so I did it. A week later my friend called me back and said, "I just want you to know that you saved my life. I'm getting some help with my drinking problem, and I've decided to stay in school. I'm not so discouraged anymore. You really saved my life."

This student was building up the soul of her friend.

Every quorum activity should have a designated purpose, and that purpose should be gospel oriented. For example, may I relate a story of an Aaronic Priesthood youth in Korea who happened to come from a rather affluent family. One day one of his father’s business associates called the father and inquired if he were having financial difficulties, offering help if it were needed.
The father responded that things were going well.
The man asked, “Are you sure?”
The father replied, “Things are fine. Why do you ask?”
The friend then indicated he had seen the young man on a street corner selling newspapers. The father couldn’t believe it. He told his friend that his son received an adequate allowance and asked if there might have been a mistake of identity. The friend responded there was no mistake; he had personally visited with the boy.
That evening when his son came home from school, the father asked him if he had been selling newspapers on the street corner. The reply was yes. The father asked, “Why? Isn’t your allowance sufficient?”
His son responded that it was adequate, but he had a friend at school who was very poor and who was going to have to drop out of school if he didn’t get some financial assistance. As it turned out, this young Aaronic Priesthood holder was using his allowance money to buy newspapers. Then he and some of his classmates were selling the newspapers to raise money to help keep his friend in school.
A short time before this, he had asked his mother to pack larger lunches for him. She did so, thinking that as a growing teenager he was just extra hungry. He confessed to his father he had been sharing his lunch with this same friend, who otherwise would have gone hungry.
The father was obviously touched by his son’s thoughtfulness but asked the reason for such action. The boy replied, “We studied the lesson of the Good Samaritan a few weeks ago. I wanted to know the real meaning of this lesson by being a good Samaritan, not just learning about one.” (See “Profiting for Others,” New Era, June 1979, p. 50.)

I love dinosaurs! I have lots of dinosaur books, toys, and pictures. There is a boy in my ward who doesn’t come to church with his family. He loves dinosaurs too, so I decided to share some of my dino books and pictures with him. But then I started feeling sad about giving away some of my things. My mom told me to think about it. When I thought about it, the Holy Ghost told me to share my dinosaur pictures and books. I gave them to my friend, and he felt happy. I felt happy too!

Before I was a member of the Church, I had already met someone who was, and is still, a very spiritual man. The Church was very much a part of him, so I saw it as a package - accept him and the Church, or neither. I was having lessons from the missionaries, but when I asked them, “How do I really know if it’s true or not?” they said that I should pray about it, but pray with real intent, with all my heart, might, mind and strength.
So that’s what I decided to do. I went to bed and prayed before going to sleep. I said I needed an answer to my question and needed it right away. It was a very stormy February night, the wind was howling, the hail was deafening. I had velux windows in my bedroom, so the storm was really loud. After praying, as meaningfully as I could, I fell asleep.
I was woken at about 4am with three loud knocks. My heart was pounding, as I thought my ex-husband had come back drunk, forgetting that he didn’t live here anymore. Then I realised that my two little dogs, who were downstairs, hadn’t barked. It was also still and quiet, no storm, not even the sound of a passing car. Then my name was called three times: “Shirley, Shirley, Shirley,” and after about five or so seconds later, the voice said, “Open the door and let me in.” I said, “I will.” Then instantly I was asleep.
When I awoke in the morning, the bed was so perfect, as if I hadn’t slept in it at all. No tossing or turning, just peaceful sleep. I knew that was an answer to my prayer.
Now the picture of the Saviour knocking on the door, but the locks are on the other side, is very meaningful to me. That the Saviour would bother to come to me, it gets more special each time I think of what happened.

Elder Woodhouse and I were called to serve in the Dominican Republic as humanitarian missionaries from April 2019–2021. It was a dream come true for me and a complete surprise. There are no coincidences, and as Elder Gavarret reminded us during an interview, God is in the details.
My mother was born of Puerto Rican parents working in the sugar industry in La Romana, Dominican Republic in 1913. Both of her parents died in 1916 within months of one another when she was almost three years old. Puerto Rican neighbors raised her until she married and moved to Puerto Rico with her little family in 1930. My mother never found any paperwork on the birth or death of her parents or where they were buried. I felt this was my chance to do some digging and find what my mother could not find.
One Sunday we decided to visit a ward in La Romana. It happened to be Mother’s Day. I shared my story with the sisters in Relief Society with hopes that someone could help. A kind sister who happened to work in the civil registry of the town said she would research the archives for me. A few weeks later she said she could not find anything. An official registry was not kept, by law, until the 1930s. Some records were destroyed by floods or fire or just stored under poor conditions causing them to deteriorate. I gave her my sisters’ names and birth dates and the towns in which they were born. No records found. I was devastated. What do I do now?
With nowhere to turn I immersed myself in FamilySearch. I had found documentation on my grandmother in Puerto Rico before she left to La Romana in a census. I found a ship manifest that listed my grandmother traveling with a newborn (my mother) to Puerto Rico twice. The last time was within the year she had passed. I now knew the town she was from, my mother’s real birthday and who they visited. This was a real treasure. My mother was an orphan with no real information, and now I had a place to start.
Although I had not found what I was looking for, we took the time to visit all the places my mother talked about. I was able to get a feel for what life must have been like in the early days of the twentieth century living in a sugar cane industry town. This gave me renewed faith in continuing my search for more information.
As I continued to search further back through my grandparents’ lines, I found many wonderful treasures. I found that my family line in Puerto Rico dates to early explorers in the Caribbean. Some had served as governors in the Dominican Republic. Some were sea captains, farmers, and businessmen. Some were maids, seamstresses, and some of nobility. I was able to do the temple work for many there in the Santo Domingo Dominican Republic Temple where we volunteered as ordinance workers once a week. I was beginning to feel a closeness to my ancestors that I thought I would never experience. My excitement and joy in the work I was doing carried me through times of disappointments. I knew that if I kept looking, I would be able to find many more, and I did.
My time in the Dominican Republic was cut short because of the pandemic, but not before finding my family and learning more about my rich Caribbean roots. The tapestry of my family lines is rich with stories of courage and faith. At one time, I thought I would not be able to complete my four generations with temple work, at least not in this life. But now I have gone well beyond four generations. Elder and Sister Soares said in the last RootsTech that one purpose of temple work was to unite the past with the present and the future. I have felt this each time as my grandchildren enter the temple to do the work for these sweet people I never knew existed. I can honestly say I now know them and love them. They are my family.

But the need for mutual understanding also applies to Church members. For Brother Gerard Giraud-Carrier, getting to know others outside the Church was a primary reason for serving in his community. As a Regional Representative for the Brussels, Nice, and Paris regions, Brother Giraud-Carrier already had plenty to do. Then four years ago, he was elected to the city council in Lagny, France. His experience is teaching him to better appreciate his nonmember neighbors. “It gives me an opportunity to expand my understanding of others,” he explains.
Brother Giraud-Carrier makes no secret of his religious commitment. “Everyone on the council knows I am a Latter-day Saint, and they know I am in church every Sunday.” He also finds that principles of the gospel make him more effective in his work, which includes being a member of the public works and schools commission. “Before I go to council meetings, I pray,” he explains. “When I sense that I should interfere in a heated discussion, I raise my hand to ask permission to speak. I am always surprised that things quiet down and the group listens to me. Often they become calm, and even if they disagree with me, the discussion often takes a different turn.”
Serving on the city council is an unpaid position, and Brother Giraud-Carrier enjoys the satisfaction of serving his community. Equally important, he says, “It helps me to love people more, to appreciate them, even though they are not of the same opinion or even behave in a way that irritates me.”

At the age of fourteen, I was apprenticed to a dressmaker and learned how to make beautiful dresses. I worked for her for two years. Then my family made the decision to move to America. Times were hard in England. Jobs and food were both scarce. Also a call had gone out from the Church for the Saints to gather to Zion.
But first we had to sail to America!
I was excited when my family packed up their belongings and headed for Liverpool. It was a great seaport, teeming with ships of every kind. I loved watching the ships being loaded and unloaded with every kind of article you could imagine. Spices from India scented the air. Passenger ships were a hive of activity as their holds were loaded with food and water. There was so much to see!
Our ship was the Horizon, a good ship. We had fine weather all the way across the Atlantic, except for a few days when it was so foggy that we couldn’t even get candles to burn! On June 30, 1856, we safely landed in Boston, Massachusetts. We were thrilled to be in the land where the gospel had been restored!

As a Brazilian, I was surprised when I received my mission call to serve not in Brazil or even in South America but in the Texas Houston South Mission in the United States. My surprise soon turned to deep gratitude.
Four days after I arrived in my first area, the bishop of the local ward invited my companion and me to go with him to the hospital to visit Brother Noel Stevenson, an older member who was ill with leukemia. When I met Brother Stevenson, I was amazed that he started speaking Portuguese. He told me he had served a mission to Brazil in the 1950s. He mentioned several cities where he had served, including Ponta Grossa in the state of Paraná.
“When you were in Ponta Grossa did you know Raul Pimentel?” I asked hesitantly.
With an expression of joy, he replied, “Yes, I knew Raul. I baptized him.”
I told Brother Stevenson that Raul Pimentel was my grandfather, the first member of the Church in our family. We embraced, and tears rolled down our faces.
Then I told him that my grandfather was 84 and still active in the Church. His 8 children were also active, all having married in the temple and 5 having served full-time missions. And his 30 grandchildren were active in the Church as well. As we talked, the Spirit of the Lord filled my heart with joy and gratitude.
My grandfather was baptized in 1958 by two American missionaries. He had heard that the other elder had now passed away, but he had never had any news about Elder Stevenson. When my grandfather learned that I had met the missionary who baptized him, he was overwhelmed with joy.
He and Brother Stevenson began exchanging e-mail messages almost every week. Then the e-mails stopped abruptly. I received a telephone call telling me that Brother Noel Stevenson had passed away.
Although I felt sad, I felt even more grateful that the Lord had allowed me to meet the man who brought the blessings of the gospel to my family. This experience helped me be a better missionary and strengthened my testimony that mission calls are inspired.

In October 1835 he was called to the bedside of his sister-in-law, Mary Bailey Smith, who was confined in childbirth “in a very dangerous situation.” After sending his brother, Don Carlos, for the doctor, Joseph “went out into the field and bowed before the Lord and called upon him in mighty prayer in her behalf.” Whereupon, “the word of the Lord came unto me saying, ‘my servant Frederick [the doctor] shall come and shall have wisdom given him to deal prudently, and my handmaiden shall be delivered of a living child and be spared.’” The doctor did arrive and within a short time the child was safely delivered. “And thus what God had manifested to me was fulfilled every whit.”28

A few years ago our family decided to hold a special fast for the victims of a faraway natural disaster. I proposed that after our fast, we give the coins in our savings jars to the Church’s humanitarian fund. We have two jars that we put coins in. One is a courtesy jar, and each time someone helps or does a kind deed, I put a coin in the jar. At the end of the year we normally use the money in this jar for a fun family activity. The other jar is a rudeness jar, and each time someone is grouchy or quarrels, he or she puts a coin in the rudeness jar. The money in this jar is donated to children in need.
When we began our fast, we also began to count our coins. Leonardo, age 9, then went and got his own bank. He took all of his money and some of his toys and said that he wanted to donate them too. Mariana, age 12, also got her money to add to the donation. Although the children had only a few dollars to give, it was all that they had.
Fasting is a sacrifice for Leonardo and Mariana, and so was giving up the jar money. But when they donated their own savings, I knew that they truly cared about Heavenly Father’s children suffering on the other side of the world.

Pornography pretends that it is no evil stranger—that it is not a problem and is not addictive. That is a lie. One 12-year-old boy recently wrote to the New Era, telling of his experience viewing pornography when he was alone at home. While initially it was exciting, he soon felt deep despair. He wrote: “I have been trying my best to forget those images. I would like to say to anyone reading the Friend or New Era that while porn might be pleasurable, it really wrecks your soul and is hard to recover from.”

My wife’s great-uncle and great-aunt are two of the kindest, most spiritual people I know, but financially their life together has often been less than comfortable. He worked as a schoolteacher, and she stayed home with the four children. From a fairly young age, the great-aunt suffered from various medical problems, and medical expenses put an almost unmanageable strain on the family’s modest income. One of their few possessions was a beat-up, unreliable old car.
One day a woman unknown to the family arrived unannounced with the key to a new automobile, donated by an anonymous individual. To this day, this couple still does not know the identity of their benefactor.

When Elder Christopher H. Kim was 14 years old and had a chance to share the gospel with friends, he realized he needed to know the truth of the Book of Mormon so he could speak with conviction.
“As I prayed about the Book of Mormon, I felt a soul-comforting feeling,” he recalls. “And suddenly, there was not any question or any doubt about the Book of Mormon.” For the first time in his life, he added, “I really felt the Spirit, knew the truth about the Book of Mormon, and knew that Joseph Smith was a prophet of God.”

In the listening audience today are Jeff and Joyce Underwood of Pocatello, Idaho. They are parents of Jeralee and their other five children. Jeff works on a building maintenance team that cares for some of our chapels in Pocatello, Idaho. Joyce is a mother and homemaker. One day last July, their daughter Jeralee, age eleven, was going door to door collecting money for her newspaper route. Jeralee never returned home—not that day, nor the next day, nor the next, nor ever.

Two thousand people from the area had gone out day after day to search for her. Other churches sent support and food for the searchers. It was learned that Jeralee had been abducted and brutally murdered by an evil man. When her body was found, the whole city was horrified and shocked. All segments of the community reached out to Joyce and Jeff in love and sympathy. Some became angry and wanted to take vengeance.

After Jeralee’s body was found, Jeff and Joyce appeared with great composure before the television cameras and other media to publicly express their profound thanks to all who had helped in the search and who had extended sympathy and love. Joyce said, “I know our Heavenly Father has heard and answered our prayers, and he has brought our daughter back to us.” Jeff said, “We no longer have doubt about where she is.” Joyce continued, “I have learned a lot about love this week, and I also know there is a lot of hate. I have looked at the love and want to feel that love, and not the hate. We can forgive.”

Elder Joe J. Christensen and I, representing the General Authorities, were among the thousands privileged to attend Jeralee’s funeral service. The Holy Spirit blessed that gathering in a remarkable way and spoke peace to the souls of all who attended. Later, President Kert W. Howard, Jeralee’s stake president, wrote, “The Underwoods have received letters from people both in and out of the Church stating that they prayed for Jeralee, and they hadn’t prayed in years, and because of this, they had a renewed desire to return to the Church.” President Howard continued, “We will never know the extent of activation and rededication this single event has caused. Who knows the far-reaching effects Jeralee’s life will have for generations untold?” Many have come into the Church because they wanted to know what kind of a religion could give the Underwoods their spiritual strength.

I mention the good coming from this tragic event with Jeralee’s parents’ full approval and encouragement. Their sweet daughter was like the lad who had only five barley loaves and two small fishes to give to the cause of the Savior, but by the power of God, countless thousands have been spiritually fed.

The tears just wouldn’t come anymore. I had squeezed out the last one. Now my eyes were stiff and dry like a lemon that has been wrung out for lemonade.
Crying wasn’t any use anyway. I’d tried it all afternoon and I was still lost. Whatever direction I looked I couldn’t see anything but sand—and more sand. There had been hills of it this morning, but now, as the evening shadows stretched out, the sand dunes looked more like mountains. Just the thought of climbing another one made me too tired to start.
I knew now I would never find my way back to the wagon. Soon it would be night and even if someone came looking for me, it would be too dark for them to see. Have they even missed me yet? I wondered. In a family the size of ours we had to learn to look out for ourselves. Maybe Ed has missed me and will come looking, I hoped.
“Mama! … Papa! … Ed!” I called again, but only a hollow echo came back, hoarse like my voice.
The sun was gone now. I had to find a place to spend the night while I could still see. I knew there would be no light from the moon, because I had seen the silver sliver sink out of sight soon after the sun had set. The thought of darkness brought to my memory the howling of coyotes. When I’d shudder up to Papa for comfort as I listened to them at home, he’d always say, “Don’t be afraid. They are clear out in the sand dunes. They’d never come this close.”
Now I was out in the sand dunes, too, and a new terror took possession of me. How can I protect myself from those demons of the night? I worried.
There was only sand, endless sand and the prickly bear grass that hugged it into little clumps. I wanted to be near the top of a hill so I could see as far as possible, but I knew a hollow would be warmer when the sun left the sand and the chill of night settled down, so I dug a little cave near the largest bunch of grass I could find. I pulled a handful of the spiny stems to beat back the coyotes if they came near, and I backed into my cavern.
I tried to figure out how our annual plum-picking outing that had started so happily could be ending so sadly. Our Indian Grandma had told us where to find the reddest and sweetest of the marble-size fruit, and we came every year and picked as many as we could find. The plums were beautiful, all rosy-cheeked on the sun-kissed side, golden yellow on the stem side, and frosted with a gray sheen that made them shine like silver balls underwater when we put them in the pan to wash them. They tasted mealy and sweet at first bite, but sour if chewed close to the skin or pit. They were especially good for jelly, jam, or when bottled fresh. Plum picking became an annual outing with a picnic for lunch. This day I had become tired and ached to go rest in the shade of the wagon for a little while.
Papa said, “Do you know the way back to the wagon?”
“Sure I do, Papa. You go straight back over those first three hills and it’s just a little way from there.” I pointed out the direction.
“That’s right,” he said, and I started off.
I couldn’t figure out where I’d gone wrong. I’d spent all afternoon climbing hills and looking for the family, but all I saw were hills—more and more hills. My bare feet were used to the prickles of the bear grass and the heat of the sand and I had wandered for a long time. Now I was lost and maybe miles from the wagon.
I’d been so sure I could find my way back that now I was ashamed to be lost. I hadn’t even bothered to ask Heavenly Father to help me. But now I had to ask Him. If I didn’t get some help soon, I might have to stay here until I died. So I talked to Him about it as I crouched in my little hideaway and I soon felt better.
I watched the sky as the stars came out one by one, until it was filled from edge to edge with little pinpricks of light. They seemed to twinkle a message of hope. But when I heard the lonely wail of a far-off coyote, the prickles on my skin lifted into little goose bumps, and the hope of a moment before turned into fear.
Then I noticed a new light, bigger than the stars, and it seemed to be moving in circles. Someone’s looking for me, I thought excitedly.
I wanted to run and find whoever it was, but I decided to stay in the same place because Papa had always told me to do that if I ever got lost. I crawled out of my hole, stood at the top of the hill, and tried to call but I couldn’t utter a sound. I tried again, but it was no use. My throat was as dry from calling all day as my eyes were from crying.
I watched the light. Finally I decided to start toward it, for I just knew it was my only chance.
As I went down the hill, I lost sight of the lantern, but I could see it again when I came to the top of the next knoll. I never quit looking in the direction of the light, even when it faded from view as I went up and down, and at last I could tell I was getting closer. I ran the last few steps and grabbed the legs of the person swinging the lantern. I couldn’t let go.
“You all right, Dora?” a man’s voice asked. It was Mr. Cooper, our neighbor. He gave the signal that I was found and carried me back to the wagon.
Then there was such excitement! All the neighbors had been looking for me. Mama grabbed me in a tight hug and kissed me like I never remembered before, and no one scolded me for getting lost.
Later Papa made a hole in the wagon rim that left a little rounded hump in the dirt every time the wheel made a complete turn. After that it was easy to spot the wagon’s track and to follow it, and it led us to where we wanted to go.