Gospel Story Finder

One husband was invited to reflection and experienced a major wake-up call when he listened to a portion of an audiotape recording of my therapy session with his wife. She had offered the tape to him because in the session she was able to articulate some of her core beliefs: The belief that he did not see her as equal to him. The belief that nothing she had contributed to their marriage had made a difference to him.

He telephoned me in deep grief—a deep grief born of a deeper understanding of his wife’s pain.

“I never knew,” he said. “I never knew I caused her this much pain.”

His voice is a voice of authority in her life. His words can heal her pain or induce more pain.

Hetty stepped over the milk bottles near the front door and began the long walk to school. She breathed in the cool spring air and smiled. In just one week it would be May Day, and Hetty couldn’t wait. There would be parades, festivals, and fairs all over England.
May Day had always been one of Hetty’s favorite holidays, but this year it would be even better. This year she was 11, and the May Queen would be chosen from her school class.
As Hetty skipped along the cobblestones, she tried to imagine who it would be. Maybe Sara. She was pretty, and would look nice holding the gold ribbon in the maypole dance. Alice would too. She wore nice clothes, and the May Queen always had a new dress. The May Queen also needed to be a good student.
Hetty paused. She was smart. Was it possible she might be chosen?
Hetty looked at her reflection in a shop window. Her plain dress blended with the gray cobblestones behind her. She’d never had a new dress before, only ones her sister had outgrown. Hetty tried to picture herself leading the parade in a hand-me-down. No, she couldn’t be the May Queen.
At mid-morning the headmaster entered her classroom. “It’s time to announce the May Queen,” he said. “But first, the attendants.”
Hetty held her breath while the headmaster read four names. Sara and Alice were among them.
“And the May Queen is … Hetty Neal!”
Sara and Alice glared at Hetty, and she knew what they were thinking. She didn’t fit the picture of a May Queen. No one knew that more than Hetty.
After school Hetty knocked on the headmaster’s door. “Are you sure?” she asked him.
“Yes,” he said.
“But I can’t buy a new dress.”
“That’s not important. Just wear your best.”
Hetty didn’t feel any better.
When she got home, she went straight to the garden. Flowers often made her feel better, but only a few green shoots poked through the earth.
Hetty’s mother opened the back door. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Hetty said. “Well, yes. I’m the May Queen.”
“That’s wonderful!” Mother exclaimed.
Hetty nodded. It was wonderful. But terrible at the same time.
“Your dad will be proud,” Mother said. “I’ll send him a telegram at work.” Hetty’s father was away working in the southern part of the country.
Mother noticed Hetty’s expression. “What’s bothering you?” she asked.
It’s just …” Hetty hesitated. “I won’t have a new dress.”
Mother looked worried. “Do you need one?” she asked.
Hetty couldn’t lie. “No,” she said.
Mother smiled. “There’s nothing to worry about then. You’ll do fine.”
Sara and Alice didn’t seem to agree. They both looked away when Hetty walked into class the next day, and Hetty found a note in her desk that said, “You’ll ruin everything.”
After school, Hetty went to the garden when she got home. If only she had flowers. Even her plain gray dress would look nice with a bouquet. But though the green shoots were growing taller, she knew the buds wouldn’t open in time.
Mother came to the door. “I’ve heard from your dad,” she said. “He’ll try to make it home for the holiday.”
Hetty smiled at the good news. Then she had a thought. “Are the flowers blooming where he is?”
“I would think so,” Mother said.
“Could he bring some home?”
The rest of the week crawled by. Sara and Alice ignored Hetty. But the day before the celebration, Sara walked up to Hetty and whispered two words: “Stay home.”
After school, Hetty fled to the garden. Still no flowers, and no sign of her father, either. Should she stay home? Should she let someone who looked more like a May Queen take her place?
Later that evening, Hetty heard heavy steps on the porch, and then the door swung open. There stood Father with a large box in his arms.
“How’s my May Queen?” he asked.
Hetty ran to him and wrapped her arms around his waist. Then she peered into the box. It was brimming with flowers, all kinds and colors, even more than she had hoped for.
“Will these do?” Father asked.
“Oh, yes!” Hetty pictured herself at the head of the parade, decorated with blossoms from head to toe. Alice and Sara would be amazed.
Then Hetty had another idea.
The next morning she was up early, but she was still late for school. When she walked in the classroom, her instructor looked relieved. “Hetty, we were beginning to worry,” she said.
“I’m sorry to be late,” Hetty said. “I was making these.”
From out of her box she took a circlet of flowers and placed it on her instructor’s head. Out came more circles, one for each girl in the class, and small bouquets for her attendants. As they took their bouquets, Sara and Alice looked surprised.
“Why, Hetty, what a queenly thing to do,” her instructor said.
At the bottom of the box was one more flower circle for her own head. As she led the parade, Hetty didn’t feel plain or poor. She felt like a queen.

A third fundamental in this exciting challenge of reclaiming the inactive is that of timing. The scripture rightly says:
“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
“A time to be born, … a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.” (Eccl. 3:1–2.)
My stake missionary friend had another convincing experience that taught him never to regard people as unchanging or unchangeable. They are neither stones nor stars. They are in constant motion.
A doctor rebuffed my friend in his attempts to serve as a home teacher. This doctor was a Church member in name only. His door seemed to be permanently and tightly closed to representatives of the Church. Then one evening my friend was visiting the hospital and was surprised and saddened to find in one bed the intractable doctor. He humbly and courageously asked, “Wouldn’t you like us to give you a blessing?”
“That, above all things right now, would help me most,” affirmed the doctor, weak and dispirited. And that, said my friend, was what it took to reactivate this heretofore inactive brother. It seems that for everyone there is a time—if only the Spirit of God sensitizes our hearts to the action we should take!

Some years ago, it was my privilege to visit Morocco. As part of that trip, the group I was with traveled at high speed in five of the king’s limousines across the beautiful Moroccan countryside to see some ruins in a distant desert. As we topped the brow of a hill, we noticed that the limousine in front of us had pulled off to the side of the road.
An old shepherd, attired in long, flowing robes similar to those worn in the Savior’s day, was standing near the limousine, talking with the driver. I noted a small flock of fifteen or twenty sheep nearby. The king’s vehicle had struck and injured one of them, and the driver was explaining to the shepherd the law of the land. Because the king’s vehicle had injured the old shepherd’s sheep, he was now entitled to one hundred times its value. However, under the same law, the injured sheep must be slain and the meat divided among the people. My interpreter hastily added, “but the old shepherd will not accept the money. They never do.”
Startled, I asked him why.
“It’s because of his love for each of his sheep,” he explained.
It was then that I noticed the old shepherd reach down, lift the injured lamb in his arms, and place it in the large pouch on the front of his robe. He kept stroking its head, repeating the same word over and over again. When I asked the meaning of the word, I was informed that “he was calling it by name. He is their shepherd, and good shepherds know each of their sheep by its name.”

I started attending my new senior school last September. In a school of over a thousand students, I was the only Latter-day Saint. In my religion class of 30 people, only I and one other girl attend church of any kind. On my first day of class, my religion teacher, Mrs. Johnson*, asked us to name the holy books that are used in different religions. I said the Book of Mormon, and at first she wasn’t sure which church used it. I explained that I was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. She asked me to choose my favorite scripture for the following week and also tell the class about my church.
The following week I read Moroni 10:4, which was the first scripture the missionaries shared with me and my mom. I told the class about the First Vision and how Joseph Smith received and later translated the gold plates. I was really nervous because my friends think that you are a geek if you go to church. I was afraid that they would make fun of me. But when I started speaking, the Spirit was with me, and everybody listened with interest. Afterward, they asked questions.
Since then, Mrs. Johnson has started reading the Book of Mormon and the Ensign, although she hasn’t yet come to church. Also, in every religion lesson we talk about my beliefs. And some of my friends are planning to come to church activities.
My prayer is that one day I will be just one of many Latter-day Saints at my school. Everyone deserves an opportunity to learn about Jesus Christ and His Church and return to live with Heavenly Father. If we keep the gospel to ourselves, we are being selfish. We should share it with everyone, no matter who they are. That is what Jesus Christ wants us to do, and I am trying to be like Him.

Back in Manchester, a young man named Oliver Cowdery was staying with Joseph’s parents. Oliver was a year younger than Joseph, and in the fall of 1828 he had begun teaching school about a mile south of the Smiths’ farm.
Teachers often boarded with the families of their students, and when Oliver heard rumors about Joseph and the gold plates, he asked if he could stay with the Smiths. At first he gleaned few details from the family. The stolen manuscript and local gossip had made them wary to the point of silence.15
But during the winter of 1828–29, as Oliver taught the Smith children, he earned the trust of his hosts. Around this time, Joseph Sr. had come back from a trip to Harmony with a revelation declaring that the Lord was about to begin a marvelous work.16 By then Oliver had proven to be a sincere seeker of truth, and Joseph’s parents opened up to him about their son’s divine calling.17
What they said captivated Oliver, and he longed to help with the translation. Like Joseph, Oliver was dissatisfied with modern churches and believed in a God of miracles who still revealed His will to people.18 But Joseph and the gold plates were far away, and Oliver did not know how he could help the work if he stayed in Manchester.
One spring day, as rain was falling hard against the Smiths’ roof, Oliver told the family he wanted to go to Harmony to help Joseph when the school term was over. Lucy and Joseph Sr. urged him to ask the Lord if his desires were right.19
Retiring to his bed, Oliver prayed privately to know if what he had heard about the gold plates was true. The Lord showed him a vision of the gold plates and Joseph’s efforts to translate them. A peaceful feeling rested over him, and he knew then that he should volunteer to be Joseph’s scribe.20
Oliver told no one about his prayer. But as soon as the school term ended, he and Joseph’s brother Samuel set out on foot for Harmony, more than 100 miles (160 km) away. The road was cold and muddy from spring rain, and Oliver had a frostbitten toe by the time he and Samuel arrived at Joseph and Emma’s door. Yet he was eager to meet the couple and see for himself how the Lord worked through the young prophet.21

Now I have to tell you a little about Josh so you get a feel for his personality. He is our oldest son, and his temperament is fairly easy-going. He is somewhat introverted. He doesn't like a lot of fuss or attention, and he's pretty independent. Unlike some of our other children, he didn't require much discipline growing up.

I remember when he was around age three, that I could go play basketball and I could sit him on the stage at the church house with some treats, and he could sit there eating his snacks quietly for more than an hour as he watched me play. (That's pretty remarkable). That's just Josh. None of our other children could have done that, but he was blessed with a calm demeanor. His temperament would assist him in enduring the great trials that were ahead for him.

When my son was five years old he sort of trotted into the room one day and very casually said, "Dad, can you see out of this eye the same way you see out of the other eye?" Somewhat concerned, we had him cover his eye and did a little test on his sight. It was apparent that he could not see the same out of both eyes. So, we thought he might need glasses, and took him to an ophthalmologist that same week. As the doctor shined a light in Josh's eye, to examine the optic nerve, I will never forget the look of alarm on the doctor's face. He wouldn't tell us what was wrong, but he immediately scheduled us for an appointment at Primary Children's Hospital in Salt Lake City. (Not a good sign, right?).

Shortly thereafter Josh was diagnosed as having a large tumor directly behind his eyes, that was pressing on his optic nerve, and damaging his vision in one eye. Surgery was scheduled immediately. I'll always remember him being wheeled into the surgery room in a little car, with an angel nurse by his side. To us it was like our lamb was going to the slaughter. And, if you saw him afterward, you would think that he had gone to the slaughter.

Normally they would go through the nasal cavity to access this type of tumor, but because of his age, they had to cut an incision from ear to ear, and go in through his skull. In this picture you can see Josh shortly after he came out of surgery. We prayed hard, and hoped for the best. Within a day after surgery his eyes were completely swollen shut and everything was dark. He was all alone that first night after surgery, as we were not allowed in the room.

That was painfully difficult for all of us. While the surgery was successful in removing the tumor, in the process they destroyed his pituitary gland--the body's master gland. Josh would need to have all his hormones synthetically replaced for the rest of his life.

He received many blessings during this time, and afterward, including blessings that discussed his healing. That healing did not come in the form we expected. We, of course, wanted him to be healed to the extent that he would not be dependent on any more medicine. But instead, the blessing was that he responded miraculously well to all of the medicines he was required to take. It was also a miracle that all of his hormones could be synthetically replaced. 30 years earlier that would not have been possible.

Years passed. By the time he was in high school he was 6' 3" tall. We had one doctor tell us he had never seen someone as tall as Josh, who was entirely dependent on growth hormone from such a young age. We were grateful for that blessing. Josh learned to endure the health challenges that were an everyday part of his life, and our family gradually learned to adjust to his medical routines.

“Mother was an accomplished musician. She was a noted singer when my father met her while on assignment as a reporter for the Deseret News. He was covering a Tabernacle Choir concert in which my mother was a guest soloist. He was immediately impressed with her, and theirs was a storybook romance. While my parents may have had differences of opinion, as children we were never aware of any. They always supported each other, and we learned early that we couldn’t play one against the other.”

As a teenager, I was used to attending various crusades as a Christian, and returning from one such crusade, I met my older brother with two young men. They were introduced as missionaries from The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, and they wanted to share the gospel of Jesus Christ with us. I asked, “What do you have that I never heard before? Is it not about the preaching of Christ?”
With a smile, they responded, “We don’t know what you know about Jesus Christ and until you hear from us, you may not know what we have for you. We have six lessons to share with you.”
They proceeded to introduce the six discussions: “One, the plan of our Heavenly Father; two, the gospel of Jesus Christ; three, The Restoration—”
I interjected, “Please pause there.”
Something spiritual struck me about the topic of the Restoration. I asked if we could discuss the topic. They declined and told me that the lessons are sequential and I had to hear lessons one and two before we can get to the third. I obliged and an appointment was scheduled.
Finally, I was taught of the Apostasy, the First Vision of the Prophet Joseph Smith, the Restoration of the priesthood, the coming forth of the Book of Mormon, and the reorganization of the Christ’s Church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.
These messages enticed me to go to church and finally, I got baptized on 28 February 1987. I taught the same messages for twenty-six months in the Nigeria Aba Mission. I have since learned three important lessons about The Restoration.
Love of God
The Restoration of Jesus Christ’s Church embodies God’s love for His children. His infinite love is not limited to a particular dispensation regardless of the fallen state of His children. Amid the general Apostasy, the unconditional love of our Father in Heaven was demonstrated once again. In 1820, the heavens once again opened and a young boy, Joseph Smith’s, prayer was answered.
“When the light rested upon me I saw two Personages, whose brightness and glory defy all description, standing above me in the air. One of them spake unto me, calling me by name, and said, pointing to the other—This is My Beloved Son. Hear Him” (Joseph Smith History—1:17)!
This vision was the beginning of Jesus Christ’s restoring His Church. The Prophet Joseph Smith was used as an instrument by the Lord to restore the Church of Jesus Christ that He organized over two millennia ago.
Jesus Christ Built His Church
The Bible taught us that Jesus Christ organized His church.
“He saith unto them, But whom say ye that I am?
“And Simon Peter answered and said, Thou art the Christ, the Son of the living God.
“And Jesus answered and said unto him, Blessed art thou, Simon Bar-jona: for flesh and blood hath not revealed it unto thee, but my Father which is in heaven.
“And I say also unto thee, That thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.
“And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt bind on earth shall be bound in heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven” (Matthew 16:15–19).
This is a clear indication that Jesus Christ organized His Church. By the revelation, Apostle Paul explained the structure of the Church.
“Now therefore ye are no more strangers and foreigners, but fellow citizens with the saints, and of the household of God;
“And are built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ himself being the chief corner stone;” (Ephesians 2:19–20).
Even though Jesus Christ Himself is the chief cornerstone, apostles and prophets were integral parts of the structures of the church to minister for the perfecting of the Saints and to avoid mingling the gospel of Christ with the doctrines of men.
“And he gave some, apostles; and some, prophets; and some, evangelists; and some, pastors and teachers;
“For the perfecting of the saints, for the work of the ministry, for the edifying of the body of Christ:” (Ephesians 4:11–12).
Jesus Christ told His disciples that they would be killed after His Ascension. (See John 16:1–4, Acts 12:1–3.) The martyrdom of the Apostles led to a dark age, the Apostasy that resulted in the priesthood being taken away. (See Amos 8:11–12, 2 Thessalonians 2:3.)
The Priesthood and Associated Keys.
Because Jesus Christ organized His church, He has to commission people to act on His behalf through the power of the priesthood. Jesus Christ called the Twelve Apostles, empowered them with the priesthood, and commissioned them to proclaim His gospel. (See John 15:16.) Almost two hundred years ago, the light of Christ overshadowed the dark age. Heavenly messengers, Peter, James, and John conferred the priesthood on the Prophet Joseph Smith, followed up with the various keys of the priesthood by Moses, Elias, and Elijah.
The Prophet Joseph Smith said, “The Melchizedek Priesthood . . . is the channel through which all knowledge, doctrine, the plan of salvation, and every important matter is revealed from heaven.”
On 6 April 1830, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints was organized, and Jesus Christ restored His Church. President Russell M. Nelson made this spiritually insightful statement “consider how your life would be different if priesthood keys had not been restored to the earth. Without priesthood keys, you could not be endowed with the power of God. Without priesthood keys, the Church could serve only as a significant teaching and humanitarian organization but not much more. Without priesthood keys, none of us would have access to essential ordinances and covenants that bind us to our loved ones eternally and allow us eventually to live with God.
“Priesthood keys distinguish The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints from any other organization on earth. Many other organizations can and do make your life better here in mortality. But no other organization can and will influence your life after death.”
I testify that Jesus Christ has restored His Church and that is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and the restored gospel has been a blessing to my family.

I have several daughters who are an example to me in taking full advantage of the privilege of sweet, spiritual communication with their children, with God as their partner. They tuck their children in bed at night and have one-on-one talking time with each child. These children are not just babies or toddlers. They range in age from 2 to 18 years old. Sometimes they sing or laugh; often they cry and pray together. Then when they are all settled down, my child, their mother, drops to her knees and talks to Heavenly Father about each child very specifically. The answers that come are sometimes very direct and individual, and sometimes they are more general, such as a feeling of overarching peace. Because they have been doing this since each child was an infant, they have open and real communication with the child. There is no such thing as a generation gap between mother and child. There is also very real communication with our Father in Heaven who loves and guides them specifically through the tumultuous child-rearing process. The Spirit is ever present in these communications.

David and Emma Ray became friends. During his mission, they wrote each other letters.
Emma Ray wasn’t sure when David would return. She and her cousin Belle were at a family reunion on an island in the Great Salt Lake when news arrived.
Belle: Emma Ray, have you heard? David McKay arrives home tonight.
Emma Ray: I should meet him at the train station!
Belle: The boat won’t come back for us in time.
Emma Ray and her cousin Belle rigged a sail on an old rowboat and took turns rowing.
When David stepped off the train, Emma Ray was there.
Emma Ray: Welcome home, Elder McKay.
David: It’s so good to see you!

Here I am, the Freckled Wonder, starting another year at Madsen High. I say “another year” to distinguish myself from the younger set, who look incredibly lost and frightened. Was I that bad last year? As usual, anyone new who met me today said, “Hey, I’ll bet everybody calls you Freckles!” If anyone ever says, “Hey, I’ll bet everyone calls you Gorgeous,” I’ll be his slave forever.
The particular anyone I referred to earlier—the one who made the strikingly original remark about the freckles—is Dave Johnson, class president. If he hadn’t made that remark about the freckles, I think I would be interested in him. He’s handsome even with glasses, which he wears part-time. Reminds me of Richard O’Neal, my childhood (last year’s) hero.
Ever hear of Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment, guaranteed to “lighten or totally remove unsightly freckles and facial blemishes forever”? Neither had I, until this afternoon in the library. Shelly handed me a moldy-looking book from a top shelf somewhere—Miss Gordon’s Modern Book of Beauty, Charm, and Etiquette. Needless to say, the book was actually written shortly after the Stone Age. I browsed through it awhile, not really studying anything in great detail, when suddenly, surrounded by recipes for homemade cold cream (where on earth would a person buy rose water?) and hand lotion (worse yet, wool fat?), there was the recipe for Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment.
“What a riot!” Shelly said to me as she wrinkled her smooth, unfreckled nose. “A girl would really have to be desperate to try a weird concoction like that!”
“How would Shelly know?” I thought as I carefully memorized the ingredients and amounts, trying meanwhile to look mildly amused. Shelly would laugh for a week if she knew that I went straight home and mixed one tablespoon of lemon juice, two tablespoons of vinegar, and one-half cup of flour “or enough to make a smooth, moist paste.”
Well, I was just stirring up my smooth, moist paste—and incidentally, the kitchen was beginning to smell like a pickle factory—when I heard voices and realized it was too late to hide. Voice Number One, of course, was Kevin, winner of the year’s Most-Obnoxious-Big-Brother Award.
“Gee,” he said, sniffing the aroma, “I’m glad you fixed me something good to snack on, Keri. I’m just dying (here he rolled his eyes desperately) of hunger.”
Voice Number Two then made his appearance in the kitchen. If I could have died on the spot, I would have.
“Oh, hi Dave,” I croaked feebly.
He grinned his handsome Richard O’Neal grin and asked, “Been taking cooking lessons? Smells like a real treat.”
What could I say? Why on earth did dear old Kevin pick this day, of all days of the year, to suddenly become great friends with Dave Johnson? They don’t have a thing in common other than their student government positions, debate team, and, of course, basketball. Dave is the school’s star center and Kevin is the star benchwarmer. I now noticed a basketball under Dave’s right arm. So that was what brought them together.
“Planning to really knock the team over dead this year, Kevin?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. Kevin blushed slightly and couldn’t think of a good comeback.
“I hate to ask, but what is it?” said Dave, pointing to my dish of smooth, moist paste.
“I have a rare disease and it calls for a special diet.” I was trying to be funny.
Kevin’s next act deserves the award for Putdown of the Year.
“Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment,” he read solemnly and eloquently from the notebook on the counter. I had completely forgotten about that notebook. I wanted to sink into nonexistence. He went on to read the ingredients with great flourish, adding a few choice remarks like, “A touch of bat liver improves the quality of the ointment considerably!” and “Incidentally, if this doesn’t land the man of your dreams, Madame Butterball’s Diet Salve certainly will!”
I probably would have laughed if I hadn’t been so close to crying. I’ll bet Dave thinks I’m really out to lunch. What could I do? I whisked my smooth, moist paste to the opposite end of the kitchen, returned with the cookie jar, and disappeared to my room. It wasn’t too long before they were totally engrossed in devouring Mom’s home-baked chocolate chip cookies. From my room I could hear them chuckling. See if I loyally cheer for good old Kevin when he makes his one basket for the year.
I am not only desperate about those freckles, I’m determined. I have launched forth on Miss Frodjam’s program for freckle removal. I think it may work better than my past attempts with cover cosmetics, sun lamps, and zinc oxide.
Last night, in spite of the extreme humiliation of being discovered, I stubbornly smeared the paste all over my freckled face and then held very still while it dried to a stiff crust. The book said to leave it on four to six hours, so I went to bed looking and feeling like an Egyptian mummy. All night I had awful dreams about being encased in cement from head to toe.
But this morning when I woke up and rushed right in to wash the stuff off, my freckles—believe it or not—actually did look one-tenth of a shade lighter. I think.
I saw Dave Johnson in the hall today, but he didn’t say anything. Well, he said hi or something. But then what could he say after being a participant in the most embarrassing moment of my life? I suppose it is beneath his dignity anyway to speak to the star benchwarmer’s freckle-faced kid sister. I don’t care.
I guess tonight I’ll try Miss Frodjam’s miracle wonder paste again. It’s not that much fun, but if the treatment works, it will be worth it.
One solid week and seven applications of Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment. The results are far from striking, to say the least. I am about ready to give up. People are beginning to sniff and look baffled when I walk by. However, my freckles are now two-tenths of a shade lighter. I think.
But the crowning blow to my ego came tonight. I was in the kitchen mixing up my smooth, moist paste when Kevin and Dave strolled in, complete with Dave’s basketball again. They were grinning I might add. This week Dave has hardly noticed me, although I’ve seen him at least a hundred times at school. This fact made the moment of our meeting especially poignant.
“Here she is—Miss Freckles,” announced Kevin. “Having great success, I suppose, with your bat liver ointment?”
I ignored him—or rather glared at him—and turned to Dave to offer him the cookie jar.
“Hi, Keri.” That was all Dave said. That was it. His entire speech—two words. He could have at least laughed, or made some remark. But he just popped a cookie into his mouth, turned to Kevin, and started talking about basketball.
I feel like a real failure. Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment is not even good for a laugh.
That Dave Johnson. After school I saw him in the hall. He was going one way and I was going the other. I didn’t know whether to speak or not, so I didn’t. I kind of smiled feebly.
“Hi, Keri.” Dave Johnson, winner of the Warmest-Greeting-of-the-Year Award.
“Hi.” I thought that was a safe reply, in keeping with his warmth and enthusiasm. I was about to walk on, but he asked the weirdest question.
“Well, aren’t you going to thank me?”
“I hate to ask, but what for?”
“Last night. I could have given you a bad time, but I didn’t.”
That was a new way of looking at it. “Uh, thanks!” I answered. “Chivalry is not dead.”
“You’d be surprised,” he said. “I have some insight into the problems of being a kid sister.”
“Is that right? How did you come by this marvelous insight?” I asked.
“I’m a kid brother.”
“Which isn’t quite the same thing, you know.”
“I see your point. Which brings me to another subject,” he said, putting on his glasses. After clearing his throat very solemnly and intellectually, he proceeded. “Miss Carter, I am doing a detailed study on a little-known topic—freckles. The thesis of my study is that sunlight, far from fading freckles, actually brings out their color even more brilliantly. Now—would you be willing to be guinea pig in an experiment with direct sunlight at the football game Saturday afternoon?”
“Wait a minute!” I was really riled. “I thought you had marvelous insight?” What does he think I am, the Freckled Wonder of the World? I thought furiously. I was about to come out with a real putdown when I looked up at his face.
He didn’t look sarcastic or even funny. He looked a little awkward.
“Well, I was kidding about the insight. I was kidding about the freckle study, too. But the football game—I was serious about that. Would you like to come with me?”
Well, dear diary, I won’t go on to describe how I suddenly rose about six inches off the floor. I won’t mention what a fool I must have sounded like, trying to stammer out some sort of proper acceptance speech. I will mention that he smiled and looked almost relieved, and I just couldn’t believe that the great Dave Johnson might actually have moments of self-doubt too.
I definitely plan to discontinue use of Miss Frodjam’s Freckle Ointment. It may have worked on Miss Frodjam. And my freckles are two-tenths of a shade lighter. I think. But after all, if I am going to be part of a detailed study on a little-known topic, far be it from me to try to influence the findings of the direct sunlight thesis.

Recently a California family, driving through St. George, Utah, on vacation, was attracted by the unusual architecture of the St. George Temple. They walked around the building, admiring its beauty.
Having a little time to spare, the parents entered the information center; their two young children crossed the street to sit under the shade of a tree near our meetinghouse.
A teacher, calling the children in to Primary and seeing the two young visitors, said, “Come on in to Primary.” They went in.
The parents, now finished at the information center, started looking for the children. After searching for nearly an hour, they saw them come out of the chapel.
The father said, “We’ve been looking all over for you. Where have you been?”
They replied, “We’ve been to Primary.”
“Primary! What’s Primary?”
“Primary is where you learn about Jesus; and, besides, Daddy, you shouldn’t be smoking!” Their father just about swallowed his cigar.
He remarked, “Let’s get on our way. We’re way behind schedule.”
The children said, “We can’t go.”
“Can’t go! Why not?”
“We are in a play.”
“A play?” he asked.
“Yes,” they replied, “and the play isn’t until next week, and we have to stay all week for rehearsals.”
The family stayed in St. George for a week!
The children rehearsed; the parents were taught the gospel; and the whole family was baptized.

Tommy walked over and sat down on an upturned bucket. He picked up two spark plugs and rolled them around in his hands. “I always went to church before my dad died,” he began. “I was eleven when he died. After that we were really poor, so I didn’t have anything nice to wear. I went to church anyway, but I was worried that the kids would make fun of me. Well, they didn’t—at least not at first. Then one Sunday I had to wear my dad’s big, old dress shoes. They were all I had except my work boots, and I couldn’t wear them to church. I was worried about going to church that day, but I went. That was the last time.”
“Did they make fun of your shoes?”
Tommy nodded. “I decided then that I’d never go back. I never have.”
For a long time neither one of us said anything. I felt real bad, and I wished that I had been with Tommy when he was a boy so I could have helped him out. But I wasn’t even born then.
“People wouldn’t laugh at you now, Tommy,” I said. “I know they wouldn’t. I wouldn’t let them.”
Later I told Dad about my conversation with Tommy. We decided to stop every Sunday on our way to church and ask Tommy to come with us. But he never went with us. He just smiled and called, “No thanks. Not today.”
Then one Sunday my Primary teacher, Sister Poulsen, talked about missions and how we were all supposed to prepare for our missions. She said that when we grew up we might even get sent to Russia or Africa or India. It sounded exciting, and I was ready to go right then, even if I wasn’t nineteen yet. Then I remembered Tommy, and I thought, How can I preach to the people in Russia or China when I can’t even get my best friend to go to church?
Each Sunday Dad and I stopped by for Tommy, and I prayed for him, too, but he still didn’t come to church. I thought I was doing all that I could, but deep inside I knew I hadn’t done quite enough.
For our Primary sacrament meeting we had learned songs like “I Hope They Call Me on a Mission,” and I had to give a little talk about saving money for my mission. As we were practicing our parts before sacrament meeting the day of our program, I knew there was no way I could sing those songs and say my talk while Tommy was in his garage working.
I slipped over to my mom, who was a Primary teacher, and told her what I was going to do. Then I ran the two blocks to Tommy’s house. I was panting and puffing when I ran up Tommy’s driveway, and I could hear him pounding on something inside the garage. When I stepped inside, he stopped pounding and asked, “What are you doing here, Jared? Aren’t you supposed to be in church? I thought you were singing in a program today.”
I stared at his greasy hands and dirty pants and messy hair. I looked away from him and mumbled, “I came to get you, Tommy. I had to.”
“What?”
“Aren’t we best friends, Tommy?”
“Why sure. You know that.”
“Then I need you to be there. I can’t sing those songs and say my talk unless you’re there. It just isn’t right. I thought I could do it without you, but now I know that I can’t.”
“Well, Jared, I’m not dressed, and I’m all dirty and greasy.”
“I can wait for you. If you hurry, we can make it.”
“I don’t know. I haven’t been to church for years …”
I could tell he was thinking about it, so I started talking really fast. “You just have to, Tommy, because I need you there. Just this once, so you can hear my program, and then if you don’t want to ever go back, well, then … But I know you’ll like it, and you’ll want to go all the time.”
He put his tools away and stuffed his hands into his pockets. “It’s been a long time, Jared. I just don’t think—”
“You can sit with me,” I interrupted, “except when I sing. Then I have to go up front. But if you’re afraid to sit alone, I’ll stay right with you, because they don’t really need me to sing.”
Tommy smiled. “Do you really want me to go that badly?” he asked.
I could feel my eyes start to burn. I looked at the ground and nodded my head because I couldn’t say anything.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Tommy was going to church! I was so excited I wanted to yell. Then I got scared. What if somebody laughed at Tommy? What if nobody talked to him? What if he got upset and decided never to go back?
I started to shake, and my stomach got all fluffy and full of tickles. There was only one thing I could do. I found a clean old blanket and knelt down on it and prayed, “Heavenly Father, I know You want Tommy to go to church, and I want him to go too. But I need some help. I invited him, and he’s going, but somebody’s got to tell the people at church not to laugh at him or make him feel bad. I can’t do that part, but You can. Help them to love Tommy as much as I do. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.”
Pretty soon Tommy came back wearing a clean shirt and pants, and his hands were washed and his hair was combed. As we walked to church, I could tell that he was worried and scared because he didn’t talk much and he kept putting his hands in his pockets and taking them out again. I was scared, too—maybe more than Tommy—but I didn’t tell him that. I just took his hand when we went into the church.
Everything was quiet when we walked in. The chapel was full, and Bishop Call was just starting to welcome everyone to sacrament meeting. I saw room for us right next to Mom and Dad, so I pulled him over there as fast as I could.
I was so scared that I didn’t dare look at anyone. Then Dad reached over and shook Tommy’s hand and whispered, “It’s good to see you, Tommy.” Brother Baker leaned over my shoulder and whispered, “Brother Wilson, good to have you here.” Brother and Sister Roberts, who were sitting in front of us, turned around and smiled. After that I wasn’t scared any more, because I knew Heavenly Father had answered my prayer.
I remembered all of my talk without looking at my paper or down at Mom. And when I sang “I Hope They Call Me on a Mission,” I sang as loud as I could, because I was ready to go.
After the closing prayer, I tried to hurry back to my seat so that Tommy wouldn’t be alone, but I didn’t have to. By the time I got to Tommy, he was surrounded by people. Why, it looked like the whole ward wanted to shake his hand!
It was a long time after the meeting ended before Tommy and I started home. We didn’t say anything until we stopped in front of his house; then I asked, “Can I pick you up next Sunday? I don’t have to sing or do anything special, but I’d sure like you to come.”
Tommy’s eyes were all watery, and he rubbed them with the back of his hand. “No, Jared, I won’t let you stop for me next Sunday.”
I couldn’t believe it! I thought he had liked going to church. I didn’t know what to say.
Then Tommy said, “Next week I’ll take you to church.”
Tommy didn’t work in his garage on Sundays after that, because every Sunday he went to church. And when I’m old enough, I can go to India or Russia or any other place and feel good about preaching the gospel to all those strangers because now my best friend goes to church.

The Corona California Public Library is a family-oriented, wonderful place to be. That’s why I was so surprised to find R-rated movies on the library shelves.
I had become aware that the library’s policy allowed access to any material by any library patron of any age. Although this sounds wonderful at first glance, when you look closely, there is a slight problem. Children can get a library card as soon as they can write their names. That meant any child with a library card could check out an R-rated movie. I never really considered that there was anything I could do to change this. But the summer before my junior year in high school, I decided maybe there was something I could do.
I felt two people would be more effective than one, so I called my friend Meggie Winn. I explained the situation, which shocked her, and asked her if she wanted to help me do something to change it. She eagerly agreed.
First, we made a petition to get support from city residents. Our petition read: “We, the undersigned, request that the Corona Public Library limit access of R-rated videos, DVDs, etc., to those of age 17 years and older, as is the commonly accepted practice of all other organizations offering such items in our community.” In less than a week, we collected over 1,000 signatures.
What was supposed to be a 20-hour Laurel project ended up lasting over six months. During that time, we participated in meetings with the city council and the library board of trustees.
At the first library board of trustees meeting, Meggie and I were a little nervous. We presented our petition and expressed our concerns regarding the library’s current policy, but we received no more than a “thank you.”
Also attending this meeting was a couple who had become aware of the library policy and had attended the meeting to find out more. Meggie and I were excited to see others concerned about the same issue and were pleasantly surprised when they offered to help us. By the next library board meeting they had collected almost 500 more signatures. They were also a big help in making people in the community aware of this issue.
A few months into this project we received a call from a woman who had read an article in the newspaper about our presentation. She offered to help make people aware of this issue. As a result many other people sent e-mails and made phone calls to the library and city council. It felt odd to have these adults following the lead of two teenage girls.
Although we did have an overwhelmingly positive response, there was opposition as well. Meggie and I always tried to respect those in authority and work within the system. We felt our request was such a simple moral decision that was consistent with every other place that offered videos. However, others didn’t think so.
As the months went by, the opposition stood firm. Soon Meggie and I were being verbally attacked, and false statements were made about the way we had conducted our campaign. A couple of times, we were asked if we wanted to continue with this project. We replied that we would see it through to an acceptable resolution.
We achieved our objective the day before the deadline given to the library board of trustees by the city council. The mayor of Corona was kind enough to help us arrive at an acceptable solution. We finally decided on a policy that allows parents to either restrict or permit their children’s access to R-rated movies. All children’s cards will expire on a certain date, requiring parents to visit the library and choose the level of access they desire for their children.
I found it amazing that with all the emotion, controversy, and delays, the effort of two high school students actually caused people to listen and ultimately change library policy. It took a lot of time and energy to accomplish what we did. But it was worth it all to know that we had persisted and stood for truth and righteousness. In doing so, we found many others were willing to stand with us.

Let me mention just one of the many instances of God “giving the increase” in Laie. Those who know the history of this place will recognize the name of Samuel E. Woolley. President Woolley served twenty-six years as mission president and manager of the Laie plantation from 1895 to 1921. [3] In 1916, following the groundbreaking for the temple at Laie, President Joseph F. Smith, in a decision that surprised everyone, appointed Samuel Woolley’s son, Ralph, to supervise the temple’s construction. In later years, Ralph served as Oahu Stake president, but at this time he was a young, single man who had just graduated four years earlier at the University of Utah with a degree in engineering. Neither he nor his father thought he was qualified, but the Prophet insisted, and so it fell to Ralph Woolley to build the temple.

During the temple construction, the United States became embroiled in the World War that was then raging. Shipping became difficult and some commodities became scarce, including lumber. Oral histories including remembrances of Ralph Woolley’s widow, Romania, record the miraculous answer to prayer that came when it appeared that construction of the temple would have to stop:

And so it was during this pressure time that Ralph found his way to the [I Hemolele] chapel and went up into the belfry and knelt down and called on the Lord to please help. He needed lumber, for the Temple Work couldn’t go on. Now when he left the chapel and joined the men up at the Temple, he was told that there was a lumber ship that had gone adrift out here in Laie Bay, between Goat Island and the other island. He was so surprised that there would be a lumber ship this way because usually the ships go right to Honolulu. How come this ship got off course and came out here to Laie, and of all things, to get stuck on the reef out there. Now he called Honolulu and [contacted the owners] and told them that he needed lumber, and they said to him “We don’t know how that ship got there. You can have the lumber, because we don’t know what we’re going to do to get that ship off the reef.” So the missionaries were used, as well as the fathers and the sons of the Laie community to go out to that ship. They either swam out or they canoed out or else they walked to Goat Island and it wasn’t too far to go on to the ship. And then they would climb the ship, up on to the ship, and then, I was told, they tied lumber together to form sort of a raft and they tossed it overboard. Then one fellow would jump after it and push it. With the waves pushing from the back they got the lumber on shore. [4]

And so it was that the Lord provided. Clinton Kanahele testified, “That is evidence that God hears the prayers of the Saints. God hears. That was a great sign. The steamer went aground.” [5]

In order to better understand this principle, please consider Aesop’s fable “The Hare and the Tortoise.” After being taunted repeatedly for being slow, the Tortoise challenged the Hare to a race. As the race began, the two started off together. However, the Hare ran rapidly towards the goal and, seeing that he could easily win, lay down and fell asleep a short distance in front of the finish line. The Tortoise maintained a slow but steady and consistent pace toward the finish line. When the Hare awoke from his nap, he started running as fast as he could, only to find that the Tortoise had won the race. The Tortoise is a classic illustration of steadiness and persistence. The Hare, on the other hand, is an example of a “spurter”—one who is given to short bursts of spectacular effort followed by frequent and lengthy periods of rest.

Pearl held tightly to the handle of her small suitcase as she and her mother and father walked up the dusty road from the bus stop toward Kibbutz Habbonim. They had arrived in Israel only two days before. Her parents wanted to learn to speak Hebrew and work on a kibbutz.
The sun was beating down on Pearl’s bare head. Her hands and face were wet with perspiration and she wished they could have stayed in Tel Aviv.
“Look, those are banana plants,” her father said, pointing to the tall, large-leafed green plants growing all along the road.
As they walked up over a small hill, the kibbutz lay before them. The tan-colored buildings with red-tiled roofs were clustered close together and surrounded by green fields and orchards.
“We’ll go first to the secretary of the kibbutz and then to the children’s house,” her father said. He lovingly took Pearl’s hand in his and asked. “You’re not afraid to stay there are you?”
Father had explained to her that she would be staying in the children’s house with many other boys and girls while her parents slept and ate somewhere else. She would see them for only two or three hours each afternoon. At other times they would be working on the kibbutz or attending their Hebrew classes while she worked and attended hers. Pearl was still a little apprehensive. “You are nine years old now,” her father continued, “and I think you can learn to live without Mama and me so close.” Then he squeezed her hand and Mama hugged her, worry showing in her eyes.
Later, they went to the children’s house. Cool green vines hung over the front porch, and through the screen Pearl could see small children playing on the floor. The door opened and a tall dark-haired woman smiled down at her.
“So this is Pearl,” she said. “I am Hannah. Say shalom (peace) to your parents for right now and come with me.”
Pearl turned and hugged each of her parents very hard. “We’ll be back this afternoon,” her mother said, smiling encouragingly at their daughter. Then they turned and walked quickly away before Pearl could see the anxiety in their eyes.
Inside, the room was dim and cool. Cribs and small beds lined the walls. Pearl and Hannah stepped around babies and toys as they walked through. Older girls were playing with some of the babies or caring for them.
“This is the room for the very little ones,” Hannah explained. “You will be with children near your own age, of course.”
They entered another room, long and narrow with beds and small chests along the walls. The small windows were open with a light breeze moving the curtains, and the room was bare except for a few pictures above some of the beds.
“Here is your bed,” Hannah said, sitting down on it and motioning for Pearl to sit beside her. Pearl noticed the bed had only one sheet and a woolen blanket folded on top of a thin mattress. “You may put your things in the drawers. Later you will receive clothes from the kibbutz,” Hannah added, and then explained about the bathrooms, the dining hall, the classroom, and some of the rules. Finally she put her hand on Pearl’s arm, and looked at her intently. “Now,” she said, “this is the last time that I will speak to you in English. From now on I will speak only in Hebrew.”
Pearl felt a kind of panic rising within her. “How will I understand you? I don’t know Hebrew at all,” she said.
“You will understand because you will have to understand. You may ask questions in English until you begin to learn Hebrew, but I will answer you in Hebrew.” She smiled at Pearl. “Come,” she said. “I will show you to the classroom for the children your age.”
Hannah pointed it out to her and then left. Pearl was lonely, frightened, and confused. The boys and girls all spoke in Hebrew and sang several Israeli songs, clapping their hands to the rhythms. They paid little attention to Pearl, who longed for the time when she could be with her parents again.
After a meal of simple food in the dining hall where Pearl sat and ate by herself, she was allowed to walk up to the kibbutz store and meet her parents. She hugged them as though they had been apart for a week. Sitting on the cool grass under a large tree, her parents said they felt lost in their Hebrew classes, too, which made Pearl feel a little better. It was wonderful to be with them again.
That night in bed Pearl tried to hold back her tears. Children were sleeping all around her, but she had never felt more alone. Some had said shalom to her and gazed at her briefly, and then resumed laughing and talking with each other. Finally Pearl turned her face into the hard pillow and cried, not caring if the others heard her.
“Baby,” someone said.
“Crybaby! Crybaby!” several others took it up.
They know that much English anyway, Pearl thought bitterly. They are mean and cruel. She stifled her crying, and finally the taunting stopped. Pearl fell into a restless, dream-filled sleep.
For two days Pearl ate and slept and studied and worked by herself. She made no effort to be friendly to the other children, and they ignored her. She felt alive and happy only during the beautiful, quiet time she spent talking with her parents. She had never loved them so much or felt so close to them.
On the third day, as Pearl was making her bed, Hannah came to her, accompanied by a small dark-haired girl.
“Pearl, this is Bella,” Hannah said in Hebrew. “She just arrived from Poland. Perhaps you can be friends.”
Pearl understood the word friends, chaverim. She looked at Bella and wondered if they could be friends. She would not know English, so how could they understand each other? Hannah left and Pearl finished making her bed while Bella silently watched. Then they walked into the dining hall and ate together, but neither made any attempt to speak. After breakfast the girls went to the classroom, but Pearl felt uncomfortable having this strange, quiet girl following her everywhere. During their noon chores she noticed Bella watching, but Pearl tried not to stare back.
The next afternoon after visiting with her parents, Pearl returned slowly and reluctantly to the children’s house. Hannah stood on the porch waiting for her. She put her hand on Pearl’s shoulders. “Pearl,” she said, “I told you before that I would not speak to you in English again, but I am going to do so one more time because I have something to tell you that I want you to understand. Please come with me.”
She took Pearl’s hand as they walked through the kibbutz. The sun was scorching, and Hannah took a small blue cap from her straw bag and put it on Pearl’s head. They walked between the banana plants with their welcome shade and then into a dusty and hot open area. Ahead of them Pearl could see a wall of tall pale green prickly pear cacti.
When they were closer, Hannah motioned for Pearl to sit on a large, smooth rock. She took from her bag an empty tin can, a glove, and a small knife. Pearl watched her curiously. Hannah put on the glove, took the tin can and began knocking green, egg-shaped balls off a nearby cactus. When five or six had fallen to the ground, she rolled them around in the dust with the sole of her sandal, crushing the spines that covered the balls. Then she picked two up in her gloved hand. With the other hand she slit a cross in the skin of the fruit with her knife. She squeezed, and the skin pulled back. She held it out to Pearl, who carefully picked the bright red fruit out of the dusty skin and put it into her mouth. The fruit was incredibly cool and juicy and filled with small seeds that slipped down her throat. Pearl had never tasted anything so delicious, and smiled when Hannah offered her another.
After they had each eaten three, Hannah sat down near her. “In Hebrew, Pearl,” Hannah began, “this cactus is called sabra. You can see that it’s very prickly. The spines protect it so that it can grow large and produce fruit. The fruit is surprisingly sweet and very tender. Didn’t you think so, Pearl?”
“Ken (Yes),” Pearl answered in Hebrew.
“A person who is born in Israel is also called a sabra,” Hannah continued, “and is like this sabra—prickly, sometimes hard on the outside, but inside tender and sweet. You were not born in Israel and neither was I. I came here from England when I was eighteen. I married here, but my husband was killed in the fighting. I was lonely and homesick for the pleasant green of England, but I wanted to serve Israel just as your parents want to, so I stayed here and learned to be a sabra. You must learn this too.
“We live in constant danger from those who would destroy us. We must be strong and ready to fight. You must learn to protect yourself like the sabra so that taunting and ridicule will not reach you because of your prickly spines. But inside you will be tender and sweet, kind and helpful, ready to nourish others. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” Pearl answered. She looked at the cactus in front of her. A small bird had pecked a round hole in it and darted swiftly inside to build a nest, unafraid of the sharp spines.
Hannah prepared a few more of the prickly pears for Pearl before they walked silently back to the children’s house. Hannah smiled at her as they parted inside the door. Pearl felt a glow within, in spite of her feeling of guilt for the way she had treated Bella. She lay on her bed for a while, thinking of the sabra and the things Hannah had told her. As she lay there, two girls her age walked through the room. They looked at Pearl and laughed. “Baby wants her mama and daddy,” one said in English, nudging the other.
Pearl smiled and raised her hand in greeting. “Shalom chaverim,” she said. The girls looked at each other quizzically and smiled. “Shalom,” they replied.
Pearl gathered her paper and pencils for afternoon classes. On her way to the classroom, she looked for Bella and saw her standing in the hallway.
“Come on, let’s go to class,” she invited, taking Bella’s hand and pulling her along. “Let’s say the alphabet in Hebrew,” she said, beginning, “Aleph, Beth, Gimel …”
Bella smiled radiantly and said them with her, and together they walked to class.

How long is it until my birthday?” Jonathan asked Mother one wet, rainy day when he couldn’t go outside to play.
“Four months,” Mother answered. “Why?”
“Oh, I just wondered. How long is it until Susan’s birthday?”
“Don’t you remember? Susan’s birthday was just last month,” Mother said. “It will be 11 months before she has another one.”
“Oh,” Jonathan said. “It’s not time for Christmas, either, is it?” He sighed as he walked down the hall. More than anything, he liked times like Christmas and birthdays.
“I like getting presents,” Jonathan told his dog, Wags, when he got to his room. “I like giving presents, too. I wish today was Christmas or a birthday so we could have presents.”
Suddenly Jonathan realized that he hadn’t asked Mother about her birthday or Dad’s. He ran back to the kitchen.
“No,” said Mother, looking up from the big pot of soup she was stirring. “Neither Dad nor I have one today. Why do you keep asking about birthdays?”
“Oh, I just like them.” Jonathan trudged back to his room. He opened the bottom drawer of his dresser, where he kept his special treasures. “If it was Mother’s birthday,” he told Wags, “I could make her a crayon print with these leaves I saved. Mother really liked the crayon print I made her at kindergarten. She liked it a lot.”
“If it was Dad’s birthday,” he told Wags, “I could give him this nice block of wood I found in the park last week. Dad’s always looking for wood that he can carve into animals.”
“If it was Susan’s birthday,” he told Wags, “I could give her five of my best marbles. They would look very pretty at the bottom of her fish tank.”
Jonathan gave a deep, big sigh. “Oh, Wags,” he said, “I do wish it was someone’s birthday, or Christmas, or any day at all when I could give a present!”
Then he smiled, “Maybe, just maybe, today is a day when I can give presents.” He grinned. “Yes, it is!” he told Wags. Then he went to work.
First, he put his pretty leaves under a sheet of paper. Carefully he rubbed across the paper with red and yellow and orange crayons.
Next, he took out the block of wood and wiped it with tissue paper so that it would be nice and clean for Dad to carve.
Finally, he counted out five of his prettiest marbles.
“It’s time for dinner,” Mother called.
Jonathan carried his presents to the dinner table and placed them beside the right bowls.
“Presents for everyone!” he exclaimed when Dad, Mother, and Susan sat down.
“But it isn’t our birthdays,” Mother reminded him.
“And it isn’t Christmas,” Susan and Dad said at the same time.
“No, it isn’t a birthday or Christmas,” Jonathan said. “It’s another special day I thought of—it’s today! And I decided that today was the best day for giving ‘just because I like you’ presents!”
“What a lovely idea,” Mother said. “As soon as we’ve eaten, I’ll hang up this picture where we can all enjoy it.”
Dad said, “This block of wood is just the kind I like for carving.”
“The marbles are really pretty,” Susan said. “Thank you, Jonathan.”
Jonathan was smiling from ear to ear. He had more treasures in his bottom drawer and lots of friends he could give presents to on another “just because I like you” day.

The Church also played a role for Brandi Hadfield, 17, of the Denver Colorado North Stake, in getting started in the theater. When she was younger, she participated in a ward road show. “I felt silly at rehearsals,” she says. “It was a silly part. But when the lights went up, my heart beat, and I did awesome. I loved that feeling, so I decided to try out for more.”

Since then she has performed in several school and community productions. And, she explains, she had a secret weapon that once helped her land a leading role in a musical—Primary. “They auditioned four different girls and looked for who was the most confident singing. I was picked for the lead, I think, because I had been singing for years in Primary.”