Gospel Story Finder

More than fifty years ago, Ben Roberto was born on Angaur, a small island some three kilometers wide and four kilometers long near Palau (or Belau). “When I was young,” Ben says, “Angaur seemed like a large place, but when I started looking at magazines and seeing other places, I realized how small it was.” After two years in college on Guam, he joined the United States army, hoping to experience more of the world.
He found more than he expected during his tour of service in Vietnam. “I had never experienced anything like that,” Ben says. “It got me to wondering what life was all about.” After his service in the military, Ben worked at various jobs in the United States, finally ending up as an iron worker. He was looking for “something exciting.” But “after all the searching, there was still something missing. I felt there had to be more to life.”
One day he came across a Gideon Bible in a motel room. Reading it left him hungry for more and feeling that what he might be looking for was God. “So I started looking, going to different churches. Something started happening to me, troubling me, telling me to go to Palau. I was in Milwaukee when I decided to go home.”
After Ben returned to Palau, his long search for God remained fruitless—until one day in 1980, a year after his return home, he was approached by LDS missionaries. The Church was new in Palau, and at first he rejected their words as nonsense. But after reading the Book of Mormon and some other Church literature, he received a spiritual witness that he had found the truth.
Ben was baptized and turned his life over to the Lord. Despite his age (he was 41 at the time), he was prompted to serve a mission. It didn’t seem a likely possibility—but a mission president was inspired to call him on a district mission. Elder Roberto served in Palau for 16 months. Shortly after his release, he was married, then sealed in the Manila Philippines Temple.
Ben currently serves as a district president. He is also a member of Palau’s board of education and works for the legislature. “The Church has been the greatest education that I have had,” he says. “When I’m given a task, I use my church experience, the way the Church does things, to get it done.”
President Roberto praises the missionaries for helping redirect the tide of change in Micronesia. The gospel improves lives, and because the missionaries represent it so well, “many Palauans are accepting the Church. Every missionary who has come has left a good impression.”

“But Father, everyone in Kirtland will have given something to help in building the temple except us!” Josie had thought these words many times, but she hadn’t actually said them aloud before.
“Except us! Josie, we’re helping. Both of us. Someone has to raise the crops, and that’s my job. Brother Joseph tells me over and over that it is just as important for me to cut grain as it is to cut rocks for the temple. And every tenth day I work on the temple. You’re helping too. I couldn’t work in the fields so long if you didn’t take care of the house for us.”
Josie turned her cheek for her father’s kiss, and after he had gone, she regretted her words. She hadn’t meant to complain. She knew how late her father stayed in the field to help raise food for those who were spending more and longer hours to finish the temple.
But as she did the breakfast dishes and cleaned the little house, the thought persisted. She did so want to feel that she had given something.
Both Sara and Mary had told her how they were saving all their extra egg money and giving it to the temple fund. I could do that, too, Josie thought, if we had any chickens. What eggs we use, we have to buy from Sister Parker, next door.
Eggs! She did have four to last for the week. Perhaps she could spare two for a cake. A cake was something the temple workers could use! The thought gave wings to her hands and feet as she hurried through her work. Soon she had the beds made, the wooden floor scrubbed, and the braided rugs shook and put back in place. She left her favorite task—shining the china pitcher—for last.
The pitcher was made of pure white china, and a picture of Fairway, their old home in England, was painted on it. Josie could scarcely remember the lovely old house, but she liked to pretend that she could. The pitcher had been her mother’s greatest treasure. Josie remembered how her mother had guarded it carefully all the way from New York to Ohio so that it wouldn’t get broken. Now it was Josie’s most prized possession.
At times her father teased her about the care she gave the pitcher. “I’m afraid that you’re going to wipe the picture right off,” he said, “with all that cleaning.”
“I must take care of it,” she told him. “Mother loved the pitcher, and I love it too.”
“But not too much, Josie,” her father had answered. “Sometimes we’re called upon to part with things, and it’s easier if we don’t get too attached to them.”
Josie looked at her father thoughtfully. “It’s about the only thing that is really mine,” she said, “except my clothes. I do wish I had something I could give to the temple builders. But they surely couldn’t use my clothes, and I don’t know how the pitcher would help, even if I did give it to them.”
Deep in her thoughts, Josie was never sure just how it happened, but suddenly the stool on which she stood to reach the pitcher from its place high on the shelf tipped crazily. As Josie grabbed for the wall to steady herself, she heard a crash. The pitcher lay before her on the cabin floor.
She stared through sudden tears at the broken pieces. Clambering down, she tried to fit the broken bits together, but they would not stay.
The side with the picture was quite whole. Josie gathered the other pieces, dropped them inside, and placed the pitcher carefully back upon the shelf, the broken part facing the wall. Occasionally wiping her tears away, she began fixing the fire so that the oven would be just right to bake her cake.
Afterward, Josie wasn’t sure whether Sister Parker had just happened to drop in, or whether she had smelled the cake baking. Her neighbor looked at it, golden brown, cooling on the table.
“Josie,” she said, “I don’t know whether you heard that a new family arrived last night. They have no food at all.” Sister Parker looked again at the cake. “I thought that perhaps you had something to add to what the rest of us are sending over to them.”
Josie, too, looked at the cake. Maybe in a week or two she could again spare eggs, sugar, and flour for another one for the temple workers. She looked up at Sister Parker and smiled. “Of course,” she said. “It’s lucky I made it. Take it with you. I know the children will enjoy it.”
With a longing still in her heart, Josie watched the cake go out the door with Sister Parker. The cake and the pitcher, both gone in such a short time! She glanced up at the shelf. The pitcher appeared to be whole—if you didn’t look too closely. Perhaps Father wouldn’t notice. She needed time to get up the courage to tell him.
On Sunday in meeting, when Brother Miner announced that “the workmen are in need of clothes—coats, shirts, socks, whatever you might be able to give,” she felt that she had at last found the answer to her temple gift. Socks! Why, of course! I can knit socks!
Starting the very next morning she began spending every spare moment with her knitting needles. When she had one pair of socks finished, she spread them out on the table, measuring them against each other, making sure that they were the same size.
She looked up as her father entered. He came at once to her side and picked up the socks. “New socks! Josie, these are just what I need! I’ve worn a hole in the heel of one I am wearing, and the other is getting pretty thin. I can wear these while you wash and darn the ones I have on.”
Josie just nodded. Her father was so pleased with the socks, she just couldn’t tell him that she had intended to take them to the temple site and present them to the man in charge. She had even planned what she would say: “I made them, and they are my gift to the temple. You know who needs them better than I do.”
She tried not to be disappointed. Hadn’t the prophet said that her father’s work was just as important as anyone’s?
But she did want to take a gift right down to the temple site, where the workmen were beginning work on the roof. The building would soon be completed, and she would never be able to say to the neighbors, to her own children, to herself, to anyone, “I gave this,” or “I gave that to the temple!”
After lunch, her father did not hurry off at once. He pushed back his plate and looked at his daughter. “Josie, I want to talk to you about something.”
Josie’s heart jumped. Had he noticed the pitcher, after all? Ashamed that she still had lacked the courage to tell him, Josie answered quietly, “Yes, Father?”
“As you know, this is my day to work at the temple. We’ve started to put the finishing coat on the outside walls. It’s a new sort of plaster, with bits of china mixed in it. The part we finished this morning glistens in the sunlight as though it were set with jewels. I know we haven’t many dishes, but could we spare something?”
Her eyes followed his to the pitcher on the shelf.
“We never use it, Josie. Could we spare the pitcher?”
Josie arose and placed the stool under the shelf. Reaching the pitcher, she brought it to the table and set it before him. “I broke it, Father,” she said, her eyes filling with tears. “I’ve been wondering how to tell you. I didn’t mean to, but it slipped, and it’s all in pieces.”
“Don’t cry, honey.” He drew her close. “You have just saved the men part of the job of crushing it. You know, your mother would want it there on the temple walls, sparkling in the sun. And every time you look at them, you will see a happy reminder of her, our old home, and your own testimony of the importance of the temple.”

Last February I saw this joy personified as I accompanied the missionaries in Santiago, Chile, to visit some of their converts. At the Basuare home, eight-year-old twin boys, Nicolas and Ignacio, met us at the door, dressed in white shirts and ties, just like missionaries. Their father had been baptized three weeks earlier, and the following week he baptized his wife and sons. We talked of their conversion. They shared their feelings of love for the missionaries and the joy they were experiencing in living the gospel and keeping the commandments. They proudly showed us the picture of the Santiago temple displayed in their living room, a symbol of their goal to become an eternal family one year from the date of their baptism.

I asked Nicolas if he would like to be a missionary when he grew up. He answered yes, and we shook hands on the promise that he would prepare for the day. Then I asked Ignacio the same question. He hesitated and replied, “I’m not sure I can make that promise. I’m only eight years old.” I persisted, “Nicolas made the promise. Wouldn’t you like to do the same?” He still hesitated and said, “I don’t know if I could be ready.” I could see I had taken on more than I could manage, so I said, “Perhaps you’d better talk this over with your father.”

He went to his father, who took him in his arms and said, “Ignacio, Jesus was a missionary. He walked the streets like Elder Sheets and his companion and made the people happy by teaching them to keep the commandments. Wouldn’t you like to be like Jesus?” “Yes, Papi, I would.” “Do you think if we work together, you can be ready to be a missionary when you are nineteen years old?” “I think so.” “Wouldn’t you like to make the promise to Elder Mickelsen that you will do that?” He came to me, and we shook hands to confirm the promise. I marveled that this young father, a convert of just three weeks, could be so sensitive in helping his family follow the Savior and how he emulated the missionaries in teaching his son. Their goal of becoming an eternal family will surely be reached under the guidance of this faithful father.

My grandmother, Mildred Riggs, was a great influence in my life. When I was a young boy, my grandfather died, and Grandma Riggs moved into our home. She lived with us during most of the time I was growing up. She went on a mission, and when the time came for me to go, not many people from my hometown were serving missions. But I thought, “If Grandma Riggs can go on a mission, then I can go on a mission, too.” She was a wonderful example to me. She exercised, read the scriptures, and prayed regularly.

Alisa’s collar scratched, and her Sunday shoes pinched. She squirmed as her six-year-old hands inched toward her baby brother’s red rattle. Even though it was a baby toy, she grabbed the bright rattle and shook it. The noise lasted only a few seconds, for Mom quickly snatched the toy away and tucked it safely into the diaper bag.
Alisa pretended she’d had nothing to do with the racket. She looked at the bishopric. Bishop Walker was watching Sister Williams, who was giving a talk. He seemed very interested in what she was saying—something about Lehi’s dream.
Then Alisa glanced at the music director, Matthew’s mom. She was also quiet, smiling while holding her hymnbook in her lap.
Alisa sighed. Everyone was being quiet and reverent and was listening to Sister Williams. Except the babies. Wherever Alisa looked, she saw a baby. A curly-haired blond baby tweaked his mommy’s nose, and the mom didn’t even pull his hand away. A bald, blue-eyed baby with a bow pasted on her head drank from a bottle. Her own baby brother happily chewed on his toys and made funny noises.
The babies were having fun. Alisa wished she were. Her mother had told her that she wasn’t a baby any longer, so she couldn’t eat snacks in church or bring her toys to play with. Mom said that she should try to sit quietly and listen to the talks.
Alisa really and truly tried. But it was hard. Before she knew it, her feet were tapping and her eyes were wandering. She slipped under the bench to look at all the shoes.
She loved to study the shoes under the benches. There were high-heeled mom-shoes, scuffed-up boy-shoes, polished dad-shoes, and shiny black little-girl shoes. Two weeks ago she had grabbed Sister Norton’s shoe because it was so pretty and she wanted to see it better. Sister Norton was startled, but smiled when she saw who it was, so maybe she hadn’t minded very much.
But Dad had minded. On the way home from church, he said, “Alisa, you’re getting to be a big girl. It’s time you started behaving in church like Heavenly Father would want you to behave.”
She knew it was true. She was almost six, and she wanted to be reverent and to obey Heavenly Father. The next week she’d tried to be more reverent, but sacrament meeting had lasted such a long time! Halfway through the meeting, she was under the bench again, trying to decide whom each pair of shoes belonged to.
Finally, it was time for Primary. In her class, they acted out stories from the Book of Mormon. She had never quite realized how thrilling the Book of Mormon was. Samuel the Lamanite was so brave! Nephi was stronger than anyone she knew. And Ammon was smart—even smarter than Michael, the smartest boy in first grade!
She loved the stories. And they had given her a wonderful idea! Many of the talks mentioned Book of Mormon people. Maybe that could help her be more reverent in sacrament meeting. She could hardly wait to try out her plan.
The week flew by, and before she knew it, Sunday had come—the day for “The Plan.”
She carefully packed paper, markers, and her Book of Mormon storybook, which had lots of pictures, into her brother’s diaper bag.
Sacrament meeting started in the usual way—announcements, a hymn, a prayer. The bishop talked for a few minutes, everyone sang another hymn, and the sacrament was administered. Then came the talks, the hardest part of the meeting for Alisa.
She took out the Book of Mormon storybook and opened it to pictures of Nephi and his brothers. She wondered why his brothers didn’t like Nephi. She hoped her baby brother would like her when he grew up.
Turning to the story of Samuel the Lamanite in the back of the book, she wondered what it would feel like to stand on a wall and see arrows flying toward you. Was Samuel afraid? He didn’t look scared in the picture. He looked strong and brave. She hoped that she would be as brave the next time she saw Tim at school. He loved to make fun of her—he called her Carrot Top or Freckle Face. She ran whenever she saw him. Maybe next time she would be like Samuel.
While she looked through her book, she heard Brother Pistorius say something about Abinadi and King Noah. It was her favorite Book of Mormon story. She turned to the story in her book and found pictures that showed the things Brother Pistorius was telling about. He thought that King Noah was a bad man, too, and that Abinadi was brave for telling him about the gospel, even when the prophet knew that he would die for it.
Alisa liked listening to what Brother Pistorius said, and before she knew it, sacrament meeting was ending—and she had been reverent the whole time!
After the prayer, Alisa packed her things back in the diaper bag. Mom gave her a hug, and Dad said, “Alisa, we’re proud of the way you acted in church today. You really are a big girl.”
Alisa was happy that her plan had worked. Maybe it wasn’t so bad being a big girl, after all.

In the April 1973 issue of New Era, Tim Holst was featured because of his clowning around with Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey Circus, “The Greatest Show on Earth.” Because of Tim’s great missionary spirit, many people have been brought into the Church and many more have been influenced for good by his life-style. But Tim is through clowning around.
At the beginning of the 1973 season, Tim became the ringmaster of the circus’s red unit. This is a very responsible position. Tim is the man who keeps the show moving with his singing and introductions. Tim’s new position also requires that he help with administrative work and make special appearances in the many cities that the circus visits all over the United States and Canada.
Tim not only has a new job, he also has a new companion. On August 20, while Tim was in Salt Lake City with the circus, he took some well-planned moments out to get married in the Salt Lake Temple. Tim married Linda Wilson of Kailua, Hawaii. Linda is a former BYU student who met Tim in Norfolk, Virginia, where her father was stationed with the U.S. Navy. Tim was visiting the ward while on the road with the circus.
Linda says, “It takes courage to join and work with the circus, but the circus people are strongly family oriented, and I look forward to doing a lot of missionary work with them.”
Tim and his wife will travel with the circus all over the United States for the next season. Home for them as for other performers will be a portion of a railroad car. Tim has a new job, a new wife, and a new billing—“Missionary-Ringmaster and Friend.”

That experience was an important milestone for me, and I learned that the guidance of the Holy Ghost is one of the most important things that can happen in your life. There were times on my mission when the Lord would reveal to me the places that I should go and the people with whom I should talk. The Lord not only prepares missionaries, but also prepares people to hear the message. I remember knocking on the door of a family in Veracruz, Mexico. They let us in because they had been praying to God to send messengers to teach them His truth. They didn’t know if there was a true church or not, but they were reaching out for the truth. Two days later we knocked on their door. We were guided by the Spirit to be at that place and at that time to answer the prayers of those people.

I had finally come to know myself. I remember a day when, 15 and confused, I borrowed Sandy’s jeans. Sandy was everything I wished I was—cute, popular, self-confident. Somehow I guess I thought that if I wore her jeans, I’d be more like her. But her body, shapely for 15, was about three sizes bigger than my wiry one. I guess I looked pretty silly with her pants hanging on me like a bag, held tight around my waist with a belt, then ballooning out like a clown’s costume. I remember Grandpa’s face, so serious, so gentle: “Honey, why do you wear Sandy’s clothes? Why do you talk like her and laugh like her?” Embarrassed I looked to the floor, at the pants that hung inches past my feet.
“Why not be yourself?” he said.
“Oh, Grandpa,” I sobbed. “How can I be myself? I don’t even know who I am.”
Grandpa held me on his lap as if I were a child again, quietly, till the crying stopped and the tears dried. With a smile he looked into my eyes. “You used to know,” he said. “But we all forget sometimes. Take Sandy’s pants back to her. Together we’ll rediscover you. Then you can be yourself.”

“I want you to knock all the cement off these steel posts,” the boss said as he handed me the sledgehammer and stood back to watch me begin. Anxious to impress him with my eagerness for the task, I planted my feet in a wide stance, raised the sledgehammer high above my head, and brought it down hard on the barrel-sized keg of cement caked on the first leg of the extracted guardrail.
Six … seven … eight solid follow-up strokes to the same spot, but all I could feel was the stunning reverberation up the handle of the sledgehammer. Not a single chip of the hard cement seemed to yield under the blows. After resting the hammerhead on the ground for a moment and rubbing my right shoulder, again I raised the hammer high above my head and repeated the effort, but with no better result.
I felt a little embarrassed as the boss watched a minute longer. Then, starting to walk toward the tool shop, he said, “I’ll get you something that may help.”
As I had arrived for work that morning wearing ankle-high work shoes, with cowhide gloves dangling from the back pocket of my denims, I had wondered, as I had on the two previous mornings, if this would be my last day on the job. I hoped not. With only three months before I would enter the mission home, I needed every penny I could earn to help cover my mission expenses, for the first few months at least.
Dad said no sacrifice by the family would be too great for the privilege of supporting me in the mission field, and he meant it. He knew what that kind of sacrifice was. I remember how the family had spread margarine on the bread and then scraped most of it off again while my older brother Ron was in the mission field. I also sensed dad’s special gratitude when occasionally I was able to spare a few dollars of the earnings from my part-time job to add to what was sent to Ron.
Yes, I knew it would mean sacrifice, gladly offered. I also knew I had to do all I could.
I took a firmer grasp on the handle, holding it a little lower this time to get a better weight advantage from the heavy steel head. Several more strokes, and now I could feel myself becoming angry. How could I strike any harder? Why didn’t the cement break?
“I hope he doesn’t get back before I’ve shown some kind of progress,” I said to myself, glancing toward the tool shop.
When I had told the boss on Monday morning that I had quit school to work for a few months so I could go on a mission, I had hoped he would be kind of proud of me. Instead he had said, “Why do you want to waste your time like that?” Ever since then he had seemed bent on going out of his way to make snide comments about the Church and other crude remarks that, I suspected, were designed to shock me. But he was the boss and the one who would let me stay or let me go.
I had been much more comfortable last week when I first got this job and was helping Bert Godfrey lay a brick wall to replace an old wooden one that had burned down. How could I help but like that leather-faced but kindhearted man who had served three missions, two of them building missions.
The company had hired me for ten days, mostly to help build that wall. But Bert and I had worked so well together that we had finished it in a week. He didn’t seem to mind that I was a bit clumsy and lacked experience. He knew I was trying and he knew why. He just kept talking to me about serving the Lord.
Bert hadn’t told me that the real boss was on vacation, and it had come as a surprise when I showed up for work the next Monday morning. So far, though, my strategy seemed to be working. Although I was earning more than I had ever earned before, I figured that if I worked so hard that I was worth still more than they were paying me, maybe the boss would feel he just couldn’t afford to let me go.
I looked again at the long I-beam rail with 13 steel legs extending from it like a giant comb with most of its teeth missing. It had long ago served as a bumper guard, preventing cars in the parking lot from hitting the adjacent building. It had been installed by digging 13 large holes in the ground in a straight line, spaced at eight-foot intervals. A steel post was cemented into each hole, and the connecting bumper rail welded to each post. Recently the entire rail had been removed by having two large Hysters extract the whole thing in one piece, and it was lying in the driveway with each post encased in a barrel-sized cement block.
As I heard boots scuff the loose gravel on the asphalt pavement leading from the tool shop, I let loose a wild flurry of blows. I was glad that a few beads of sweat had formed on my forehead. “Here, try this,” the boss said as he handed me a heavier sledgehammer. That wasn’t quite the kind of help I had in mind.
I smiled as I traded him the smaller hammer, but I could tell that he sensed it wasn’t a completely honest smile. He watched me for a few minutes more, and then without further comment, turned away to supervise the crew working on the remodeling project in the steel fabrication plant.
“The only difference between the hammers is that this one is heavier and harder to lift,” I grumbled silently as the steel head collided with the stonehard cement. Finally one small chunk broke off. After several more strokes my arms started to ache, but the cement still remained intact.
At this rate I knew it would take me three days to complete the job. I also knew that if I didn’t show substantial progress by noon, I’d be out of a job and back standing in the labor lines at the Employment Security Office taking any kind of work available. Three days of that had made me especially anxious to keep this job.
Besides, it was 1954, and thousands of striking workers with families to feed were looking for short-term, full-time employment. How was a 20-year-old youth going to compete with them for the few jobs available?
It took only a few more hard but unsuccessful strokes to persuade me that I had reached my limit and that it was time for me to treat the problem as one needing more strength and wisdom than I possessed.
Resting the heavy hammer on the ground and trying to compose my anger and frustration, I felt the need and desire to discuss the problem with the Lord. Without either kneeling or closing my eyes, I started praying aloud to the Lord and explaining the task I faced. In a conversational but sincere way I reminded him that I wasn’t asking for the money so I could buy a yellow convertible. He had called me on a mission, and I knew he wanted me to go. This job had already been an answer to my prayers, but I needed to keep it. I didn’t expect him to send a host of angels from heaven with sledgehammers, but I knew he could help me.
Never in my life has a prayer been answered more immediately or clearly. Suddenly my mind was filled with a thought so lucid and strong that my heart started pounding. It was a simple solution, as I later considered it. To brighter or more experienced minds it might have occurred earlier, but to me it came as a direct answer to my prayer.
The compelling instruction said to me, “Instead of striking the cement, strike the steel.”
Still not fathoming exactly why, I raised the hammer and brought it crashing down five or six times on the steel post right next to the cement. As a large section of the cement cracked into big chunks and fell off, I realized that the blows to the steel had started a series of strong vibrations that were transmitted all along the steel shaft.
I quickly forgot the weight of the hammer. With new energy I struck the steel again and again, then moved on to the next post, amazed at the magnification of my efforts as the steel vibrated and the cement cracked.
Less than two hours later I had removed the cement from all 13 posts and stacked the large chunks in a pile. With the sledgehammer on my shoulder and a prayer of gratitude in my heart, I went to find the boss.
“I’ll need some help moving the railing out of the driveway,” I said, trying to conceal the excitement I felt inside. Thinking I was giving up on the project, he motioned me to follow him to the parking lot.
As we rounded the corner of the building and he saw the railing and the pile of cement, he stopped quite suddenly. His eyes blinked and opened wide. His chin started to drop a bit. For a full minute he stood silently, looking first at the railing, then at the cement. After a moment more he turned, motioned me to follow him again, and said, “Come on, I’ll give you another job.”
Nothing more was said about the incident, but the following morning when I arrived for work, he simply said, “Lloyd, you’re welcome to stay on as long as you like.”
I worked there for nearly three months before entering the mission home. He then let me come back to work again for another ten days until I departed with my group for the mission field. Never after that memorable morning did he, in my presence, make a disparaging remark about the Church or my plans to serve a mission.
Many times since that day the Lord has helped me strike the steel instead of the cement in solving other problems. But as I departed for the mission field in late November 1954, I knew that I was called of the Lord. I knew that he was listening to my prayers. And I knew for myself that he would give no commandment save he would prepare a way for it to be accomplished.

Thirty-five years ago, my parents were also blinded and were desperately seeking to know the truth and were concerned about where to turn to find it. My parents were both born in the village, where the traditions were rooted in individuals’ and families’ lives. They both left their village when they were young and came to the city, looking for a better life.
They married and started their family in a very modest way. We were almost eight people in a small house—my parents, two of my sisters and I, and a cousin who used to live with us. I was wondering if we were truly a family, as we were not permitted to have dinner at the same table with our parents. When our dad returned from work, as soon as he entered the house, we were asked to leave and to go outside. Our nights were very short, as we could not sleep because of the lack of harmony and true love in our parents’ marriage. Our home was not only small in size, but it was a dark place. Before meeting with the missionaries, we attended different churches every Sunday. It was clear that our parents were seeking for something that the world could not provide.
This went on until we met with Elder and Sister Hutchings, the first senior missionary couple called to serve in Zaire (known today as DR of Congo or Congo-Kinshasa). When we started meeting with these wonderful missionaries, who were like angels that came from God, I noticed that something started to change in our family. After our baptism, we truly started to progressively have a new lifestyle because of the restored gospel. The words of Christ began to enlarge our souls. They began to enlighten our understanding and became delicious to us, as the truths that we received were discernible and we could see the light, and this light grew brighter and brighter daily.
This understanding of the why of the gospel was helping us to become more like the Savior. The size of our home did not change; neither did our social conditions. But I witnessed a change of heart in my parents as we prayed daily, morning and evening. We studied the Book of Mormon; we held family home evening; we truly became a family. Every Sunday we woke up at 6:00 a.m. to prepare to go to church, and we would travel for hours to attend Church meetings every week without complaining. It was a wonderful experience to witness. We, who had previously walked in darkness, chased darkness from among us (see Doctrine and Covenants 50:25) and saw “great light” (2 Nephi 19:2).

The young soldier stood at attention before the court.
“William Scott, you have been found guilty,” the judge said in a firm voice. “You will be shot by a firing squad within twenty-four hours!”
William’s heart was heavy with fear. He was only twenty-two and had joined the Union Army a few months earlier to fight for his country.
Two nights before, one of William’s comrades had been too sick to do guard duty so William had taken his place. Then the very next night William found himself assigned to guard duty.
The young soldier doubted he could stay awake, and so he went to the captain and told him of his fear. “I’m afraid I can’t keep awake on guard duty a second night,” William explained. “Could you find a replacement for me?”
The captain was busy, and without really listening he brushed aside the boy’s request.
That night William reported for guard duty, and only a few hours later he was found asleep at his post. Now he was to be shot as a traitor!
As the captain heard the judge pronounce sentence on the young soldier, he stepped forward and pled with the judge. “If anyone ought to be shot,” he said, “then I should be the one. Please save William’s life.”
The sorrow and concern of the captain and the other men of William’s regiment for their comrade’s life touched the heart of the judge. He thought about the matter for a few minutes, and then he turned to the captain and said softly, “There is only one man who can save your friend. Come, we will go to President Lincoln.”
A short time later the judge and captain arrived at the White House. Although the president was very busy, he took time to listen quietly to the story the two men told. When they finished, he said, “It would be a sad thing for a young man like William Scott to die like this.”
President Lincoln’s voice was full of compassion as he promised, “I will look into the matter myself this very day.”
That afternoon the president went to the guardhouse of the army camp. He talked with William about his friends back home, his school, and especially about his mother.
“William, you should be thankful that your mother still lives,” President Lincoln said gently. “If I were in your place, I would try to make her a proud mother and never cause her any sorrow.”
William listened patiently and then he asked the president a question that had been troubling him. “Would it be possible not to appoint any men from my own regiment to the firing squad?” he asked. “The hardest thing of all would be to die by the hands of my friends.”
“My boy,” said President Lincoln, “you are not going to be shot tomorrow. I am going to trust you to go back to your regiment. Your country has great need of men like you.”
For a moment William could not believe what he had heard, but when he looked into President Lincoln’s loving eyes, he knew the words were true. “How can I ever repay you, sir?” he asked in a voice that trembled because of the big lump in his throat.
President Lincoln put his hands on the young boy’s shoulders. “My boy,” he said, “my bill is a very large one. No money can pay it and no friends can help you. There is only one person in all the world who can pay your debt, and his name is William Scott. If you will fight bravely and do your duty as a soldier, then the debt will be paid. Will you make that promise?”
William promised he would do as the president asked. Then with tear-filled eyes, William vowed to himself that with God’s help he would keep the solemn promise he made that day to President Abraham Lincoln.
And he did!

Let me share with you a personal experience that may be of some help to those who feel insignificant, forgotten, or alone.
Many years ago I attended pilot training in the United States Air Force. I was far away from my home, a young West German soldier, born in Czechoslovakia, who had grown up in East Germany and spoke English only with great difficulty. I clearly remember my journey to our training base in Texas. I was on a plane, sitting next to a passenger who spoke with a heavy Southern accent. I could scarcely understand a word he said. I actually wondered if I had been taught the wrong language all along. I was terrified by the thought that I had to compete for the coveted top spots in pilot training against students who were native English speakers.
When I arrived on the air base in the small town of Big Spring, Texas, I looked for and found the Latter-day Saint branch, which consisted of a handful of wonderful members who were meeting in rented rooms on the air base itself. The members were in the process of building a small meetinghouse that would serve as a permanent place for the Church. Back in those days members provided much of the labor on new buildings.
Day after day I attended my pilot training and studied as hard as I could and then spent most of my spare time working on the new meetinghouse. There I learned that a two-by-four is not a dance step but a piece of wood. I also learned the important survival skill of missing my thumb when pounding a nail.
I spent so much time working on the meetinghouse that the branch president—who also happened to be one of our flight instructors—expressed concern that I perhaps should spend more time studying.
My friends and fellow student pilots engaged themselves in free-time activities as well, although I think it’s safe to say that some of those activities would not have been in alignment with today’s For the Strength of Youth pamphlet. For my part, I enjoyed being an active part of this tiny west Texas branch, practicing my newly acquired carpentry skills, and improving my English as I fulfilled my callings to teach in the elders quorum and in Sunday School.
At the time, Big Spring, despite its name, was a small, insignificant, and unknown place. And I often felt exactly the same way about myself—insignificant, unknown, and quite alone. Even so, I never once wondered if the Lord had forgotten me or if He would ever be able to find me there. I knew that it didn’t matter to Heavenly Father where I was, where I ranked with others in my pilot training class, or what my calling in the Church was. What mattered to Him was that I was doing the best I could, that my heart was inclined toward Him, and that I was willing to help those around me. I knew if I did the best I could, all would be well.
And all was well.

Slug ran along the dusty road, then turned in at Marshall’s yard. Marshall waited on the porch with his chin in his hands. When Slug saw him, he slowed, then stopped. “What’s the matter, Marsh?” he asked.
“I changed my mind about helping you with your grandma’s cellar.”
Slug’s forehead creased. “Come on, Marsh! Two of us will get done in no time! You want to earn some money, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but there might be snakes in there.”
Slug blinked. “My dad and brother were out there this weekend, and they didn’t see any.”
Marshall shook his head firmly, then got up and went inside. Slug rammed his hands into his back pockets and turned away. He kicked at a stone and thought of the time when he and Marshall had seen a snake at Hadley’s landfill. He remembered how he’d felt as it slithered away through the tall weeds.
Now he glanced toward the fields and imagined one coiled beside every rock. They could be anywhere, he thought fearfully. You never know till you see them! Slug zigged across the dusty road and kicked at a clump of weeds. “Too late now,” he grumbled. “I promised Granny!”
“Hey, Slug!” Willow called from the middle of the field. “Where are you going?”
Slug kept walking. “To my granny’s old house!”
Her hair flowing, Willow ran through the tall grass. “What for?” she asked, falling into step beside him.
“Mind your own business!”
“I don’t have any,” she said with a shrug.
Slug kept walking, and Willow kept pace. Girls! he thought irritably.
When they reached Slug’s grandmother’s property, they slipped easily through the space left by two missing pickets in the fence. As he stomped across the uncut grass toward the slanted outside cellar doors, Slug scanned the weeds. No snakes yet, he thought. He lifted one cellar door and let it fall open. Cautiously he peered inside.
Willow leaned over his shoulder. “What are you looking for?”
“Nothing.” Slug lifted back the other door. “I have to clean Granny’s cellar and hose it down, that’s all. Why don’t you get out of here?” he added as he craned his neck to check every corner of the sloping steps.
Willow flipped her hair over her shoulders. “I can help you,” she said, and she flitted fearlessly down the steps.
“Willow?” Slug called apprehensively.
Willow pushed open the door at the bottom, then turned. “What?”
“Nothing,” Slug mumbled, following reluctantly. “Just watch out!”
Willow wiggled through the stacks of boxes toward the other side of the damp, musty cellar. Quickly she climbed onto an old wooden workbench.
“What are you doing?” Slug squawked.
“Letting some air in!” Willow said, opening a window. “What’s the matter with you?”
Slug kicked at a stack of boxes. “I don’t know why you’re hanging around! You probably can’t even lift anything heavy!”
“Then you lift,” Willow said as a warm breeze swept through the muggy cellar, “and I’ll sweep.” She grabbed a broom. “Well … get lifting!”
Slug gave her a look, then cautiously lifted a box. With a fearful glance at where the box had been, he started up the steps. When he had placed the box by the road, he went back to the cellar steps and looked around. “That Marshall’s dumb!” he mumbled disgustedly. He descended the steps slowly, peering into every corner again. But there was Willow, pushing boxes across the floor toward the door. “What are you doing?” he snapped. “There could be snakes down here!”
Willow frowned. “Slug, stop trying to scare me! There aren’t any poisonous snakes around here. Besides, my dad says that snakes are as afraid of us as we are of them, so what’s the big deal?” Shaking her head, she went back to work.
Slug scowled at her, then grabbed another box and climbed the sun-splashed steps again. When he came back, Willow was singing. Slug stacked two bundles of tied newspapers and lifted them. Willow kept singing but looked at him and grinned. After he put the newspapers with the other trash, he stopped and glanced around at the bright yellow day. The trees had gobs of shade beneath their shiny green leaves, and the grass waved in gentle patterns. He wiped his arm across his chin and smiled. It’s a nice day, he decided.
Finally all the trash was outside, and Willow was sweeping a pile of dirt into a dustpan. “Looks better,” she said, brushing back her hair.
Slug nodded and uncoiled the hose. “Sure does.”
“Is your grandmother going to sell this old place?”
Slug reached for a bucket. “People from upstate want to see it.”
Willow aimed the broom at the rafters and swatted at cobwebs.
When the sun was high and grasshoppers were jumping, Slug wearily closed the cellar doors. “Thanks, Willow,” he said as they started across the overgrown yard.
Willow shrugged. “That’s OK.”
Slug slipped through the opening in the fence. “Granny’s paying me—I’ll split it with you.”
Willow shook her head. “I didn’t help for money.”
“Then why did you?”
“Something to do.”
“Yeah, but there could have been snakes down there!” Slug insisted.
Willow chuckled. “Oh, maybe. But there weren’t.”
“Yeah,” Slug admitted. “Even so, you kind of helped me forget about them.”
Willow pulled a long weed from beside the road and swatted at her leg with it as they walked. “Dad says that half of what we’re afraid of we make up. The other half hardly ever happens.”
Slug watched their shadows as they walked. Funny, he thought, how a friend can hurt you—or help you. He was glad that Willow had helped. “I don’t want you to argue with me, Willow Thompson!” he blurted out. “When I get paid, you get half!”
With that, Slug ran down the wooded path toward the stream. Willow watched him go and smiled, then continued toward home.

“Maddie! Come upstairs! Brother Eldredge is here to teach you how to find a name!”
I groaned. Ever since our ward made a goal for all of the youth to find a name to take to the temple, I was trying to stay under the radar. I trudged upstairs. Brother Eldredge helped me log in and showed me how FamilySearch worked. As he showed me how simple it was to search and find names, a thought came to me that maybe doing FamilySearch wasn’t all that bad. Brother Eldredge finished helping me and then left.
I kept going through the steps, and within 15 minutes I had found and reserved a family name. At that moment, a feeling of comfort washed over me, and I felt as though I had been given a big hug. But I didn’t stop there. I wanted to find more, so I did. Within the next hour, I had found 20 names. With every name I found, I felt the presence of someone new. That night, as I said my prayers, I knew that I was doing a great work.
The next day was a holiday from school, and I was bored. A little thought came into my mind that I should start using FamilySearch. With that thought in mind, I said a prayer and then searched for names for a good three hours. By the end of the day, I had 130 names. Over the course of the next few weeks, I took an hour here and there to find names. It became a habit. After about two months, I had a little over 400 names. It wasn’t something I wanted to make a big deal about. I did it because I felt like I was doing something good and something for my ancestors. Doing family history became a blessing. I think everyone should do it.

Let me share with you two examples, not too uncommon, of people who, hour by hour, day by day, and month by month, have taken the time to love one another. I say these examples are not too uncommon because, gratefully, all around on a daily and continuing basis, we see true love in action. I’m thinking first of a mother who, through death, suddenly was left without a husband. With her were three sons ranging in age from early teens to almost missionary age. Through the years by example and hard work she has independently provided finances, encouragement, and unity. The feeding and keeping processes have resulted in the development of three great missionaries, students, husbands, and fathers. One recently remarked, “Mother has always taken the time to show her love.” This mother continues the true processes of love today as her sons pursue higher education and the opportunities of their own families.
Some time ago we were attracted to the skills and attitude of a local building contractor. His desire for perfection and his pride in his work led me to ask questions and get acquainted. As a young man he was left as the sole supporter of several younger brothers and sisters. Formal education was of necessity terminated at the eighth grade. Shortly after his brothers and sisters were able to make their own ways, he married. One year after marriage his wife was afflicted with what was to become a long pattern of serious illness. For twenty-five years as her health steadily worsened, he cared for her and their two sons. Operations were performed and expenses ran high, but he worked, cared, and loved without reservation. After the visit I knew I had met a man. Yes, love does take time. Love is enduring, and here was a “not so ordinary” man whose conduct demonstrated to me that he knows the true processes of love in keeping, feeding, and sharing under all conditions.

Last November, I had the privilege of being invited—along with President Henry B. Eyring and Bishop Gérald Caussé—to attend a colloquium on marriage and family at the Vatican in Rome, Italy. In attendance were religious representatives from 14 different faiths and from six of the seven continents, all of whom had been invited to express their beliefs on what is happening to the family in today’s world.
Pope Francis opened the first session of the assembly with this statement: “We now live in a culture of the temporary, in which more and more people are simply giving up on marriage as a public commitment. This revolution in manners and morals has often flown the flag of freedom, but in fact it has brought spiritual and material devastation to countless human beings, especially the poorest and most vulnerable. … It is always they who suffer the most in this crisis.”1
In referring to those of the rising generation, he said it is important that they “do not give themselves over to the poisonous [mentality] of the temporary, but rather be revolutionaries with the courage to seek true and lasting love, going against the common pattern”; this must be done.2
This was followed by three days of presentation and discussion with religious leaders addressing the subject of marriage between a man and a woman. As I listened to the widest imaginable variety of worldwide religious leaders, I heard them agree completely with each other and express support for one another’s beliefs on the sanctity of the institution of marriage and of the importance of families as the basic unit of society. I felt a powerful sense of commonality and unity with them.
There were many who saw and expressed this unity, and they did so in a variety of ways. One of my favorites was when a Muslim scholar from Iran quoted two paragraphs verbatim from our very own proclamation on the family.
During the colloquium, I observed that when various faiths and denominations and religions are united on marriage and family, they are also united on the values and loyalty and commitment which are naturally associated with family units. It was remarkable for me to see how marriage and family-centered priorities cut across and superseded any political, economic, or religious differences. When it comes to love of spouse and hopes, worries, and dreams for children, we are all the same.
It was marvelous to be in meetings with worldwide presenters as they universally addressed their feelings of the importance of marriage between a man and a woman. Each of their addresses was followed by testimonies from other religious leaders. President Henry B. Eyring gave a final testimony at the colloquium. He bore powerful witness to the beauty of a committed marriage and to our belief in the promised blessing of eternal families.
President Eyring’s testimony was a fitting benediction to those three special days.

I have just read Tom Osmond’s article in the April New Era, and I know from experience that every word is true! I have suffered from epilepsy since I was five years old. I had no confidence and was afraid to go anywhere on my own. My mother always had to go with me. I would not talk to anybody, and I thought everybody was laughing at me and talking about me—that is until I was baptized into the Church two years ago last May. Since that day I have gained confidence, and I am able to go out on my own. My epilepsy is milder too, and if everything goes well, it will be cleared up by summer. This is because of the love and faith I have found in Jesus Christ. My prayers have been answered, and I have a lot to thank the Lord for. I have learned that you can live a full life regardless of any disability, just as Tom Osmond said.
Carol SimsDerby, Derbyshire, England

My first day at my summer job, I was invited to a video party in one of the employees’ cabins. I was eager to go and get acquainted with the people I would be spending the entire summer with.
As I neared that cabin that night, I heard a great deal of laughing and talking. Everyone must be having a good time, I thought, but when I opened the door, I discovered that a lot more was going on in there than just a video party. The lights were dimmed, and the room was full of smoke. Couples were lounging around on couches and the floor, drinking various forms of alcohol. Two guys were building a pyramid of empty beer cans on top of a rickety old table and laughing as if what they were doing was the funniest thing in the world. One of the guys threw me an unopened can of beer. I caught it.
Right then I had to make a decision. Everyone seemed to be watching me. If I had been smart, I would have decided what I would do in this type of situation before it even occurred. I looked at the can of beer in my hand. It doesn’t look like anything evil, I thought. It’s only a can of liquid. Just drinking one certainly won’t kill me, I rationalized. It might even taste good. And everyone seems to be having such a good time.
Miraculously, a scripture which I had memorized in seminary suddenly came into my mind. I could only remember the first line: “And the mists of darkness are the temptations of the devil.” Later, I found it was from 1 Nephi 12:17 and was followed by, “which blindeth the eyes, and hardeneth the hearts of the children of men, and leadeth them away into broad roads, that they perish and are lost.”
I tossed the can of beer back to the guy.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, with an accusing look of “Are you too good for us?” in his eyes.
“I don’t drink,” I answered simply, hoping no one would ask any questions.
“Why not?” demanded the other guy who was helping build the pyramid.
I was really on the spot. About half the people in the room had stopped their conversations and were looking at me with curious interest.
“Because it’s against my religion,” I finally managed to blurt out. I sat down on a chair by the table with the pyramid of cans. The guy who had thrown me the can of beer introduced himself as Mark and his friend as Tim. They said they had never heard of a religion that had a rule about not drinking alcohol. I told them I was a Mormon.
“I think I’ve heard of them,” said Mark. “Don’t you all live in Utah and are into polygamy or something?”
I laughed at their misguided ideas and explained to them about the LDS church. They told me about their religions. We had a great discussion.

When my sister Janalee and I built our cabin, we decided it would be a hunter’s cabin. We found a big rock up on a hill and leaned some branches up against it and covered the two openings with old gunnysacks. We could go in and sit real quiet, and no one would ever know we were there.
We built our cabin because we wanted to catch a cougar. We knew there were cougars in the mountains because our neighbor, Brother Poole, caught one. He keeps its pelt on the floor in his house and says it’s a rug, but he doesn’t ever let anybody walk on it.
Ever since seeing that old cougar skin, though, I wanted to catch my own cougar, and Janalee said she would help. Dad made me the neatest flipper—that’s what most people I know call a slingshot—and I have my own BB gun. I can shoot that BB gun better than anyone. Well, almost anyone. Janalee is probably just a little better, but she keeps quiet about it.
My sister can shoot straighter, play ball better, and run faster than me or any of my friends. Since I don’t have a brother to do things with, it sure is nice to have a sister like Janalee.
Well, one morning Janalee and I took my BB gun and flipper and headed up to our cabin to hunt cougars.
“Do you really think we’ll catch a cougar, Jonathan?” Janalee asked as we puffed up the mountain.
“Brother Poole did,” I said. “If he can, we sure can.”
“It’ll be nice to have a pet cougar to take care of.”
“A pet?” I grunted. “He isn’t going to be any pet. We’re going to make him into a rug like Brother Poole’s.”
“A rug? What good’s an old rug that nobody can walk on? A pet would be lots better.”
“Whoever heard of a pet cougar?” I said, rolling my eyes. “But before we catch any cougars, we need to practice hunting smaller things.”
We crawled into our little cabin and rested for a minute and ate some oatmeal cookies Mom had given to us.
“What are we going to hunt first?” Janalee asked as she picked the raisins out of her oatmeal cookie and dropped them on the ground. She doesn’t like raisins.
“There are some magpies in those maple trees behind us,” I said. “Maybe we should try shooting them.”
Just then my friend Joe poked his head in and grinned. “What’re you doing?”
“We’re going to go hunting,” Janalee told him. “Want to come?”
“Sure. I even have my flipper.”
I handed the BB gun to Janalee, saying, “You take this.”
Joe and I filled our pockets with rocks. We could hear those old magpies talking a mile a minute. We started sneaking through the bushes and trees so that we could take those noisy old birds by surprise.
“There’s one,” Janalee whispered. “Isn’t he pretty? He has such a beautiful long tail and such shiny black feathers.”
“OK, Jonathan,” Joe said, “let’s kill it.”
“Kill it!” Janalee cried out, jumping up and scaring the magpie away. “Why do you want to kill it? It hasn’t done anything to anybody.”
“Now look what you’ve done,” Joe growled.
“What’d you think we were going to do with it?” I asked. “That’s what hunters do—kill birds and cougars and things.”
“Well, that’s dumb,” Janalee said, putting her hands on her hips. “What good’s a dead magpie?”
“What good’s a live magpie?” Joe asked. “My dad says they’re no good at all.”
“Well, I think they’re pretty. That’s a good enough reason not to kill them. Besides, the prophet has asked us not to shoot the little birds.”
“Oh, brother!” Joe muttered. “Why’d you bring her along? Girls don’t know anything about hunting, Jonathan. Maybe she ought to go back to the cabin so she won’t get hurt.”
I looked at Janalee and then at Joe and then down at the ground. “Maybe Janalee’s right,” I said. “We don’t have to kill the magpies. There are other things.”
“You too?” Joe groaned. “I’m not hunting with a girl. Girls can’t shoot.”
There was an old tin can lying on the ground. I picked it up and set it on a fallen tree trunk. “Back up a few steps,” I called to Joe and Janalee. They moved backward. “Now, let’s see which one of you can knock the can off the tree trunk.”
Joe snickered. “She’ll miss it a mile.” He put a rock into his flipper, pulled back hard, chewed on his tongue a little, aimed, and let the rock fly. It came close, but it didn’t hit the can. “Let’s see you come that close,” Joe challenged Janalee.
Janalee didn’t say anything. She got my flipper, looked around until she found a round, smooth rock, then went back to where Joe was standing. She tucked the rock inside the flipper’s leather pouch, pulled back, aimed, and let the rock fly. It hit the can and knocked it off the tree trunk.
“Lucky shot,” Joe muttered, his face all red.
“Do it again, then,” I said. And they did. In fact, they did it three more times. Janalee didn’t miss once. Joe nicked the can on his second shot, but he didn’t knock it off.
“Do you want to try the BB gun?” I asked.
Joe glared at me and shook his head. “I guess she can stay,” he mumbled. “But let’s get to hunting. We’re just wasting time here.”
We started tromping through the trees, and just past a clump of cedar trees we spied a skunk. Right behind it were three baby skunks. I’d seen skunks before, but not a family of them. Joe and I reached for our flippers.
“Which one shall we shoot,” Joe whispered.
“How about the big one?” I whispered back, loading my flipper.
“The big one?” Janalee gasped, grabbing my shoulder. “That’s the mom!”
“Do you want us to kill one of the babies then?” I asked, shaking off her hand.
“I don’t want you to kill any of them.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, brother!” Joe grumped. “I bet she thinks they’re pretty.”
I looked at Janalee; she had her hands on her hips again. I looked at the skunks. A couple of them were sniffing around in some weeds. They really were kind of pretty.
“What’s the use of hunting if you can’t kill something once in a while?” Joe asked.
“We can watch them,” Janalee said. “That’s lots more fun.”
So we sat and watched the skunks for a while. I didn’t tell Janalee, but it really was kind of fun watching those babies follow their mom and play around in the weeds. And when they finally ambled off, I was glad we hadn’t hurt them.
“Let’s go back to the cabin for a while,” I said. “I still have two oatmeal cookies. We can split them and plan our next hunt.”
“If we want to have a real hunt,” Joe grumbled, “we’d better split with your sister.”
Just as we got to the cabin, we saw a squirrel scrambling out the other side. It had been eating the raisins Janalee had picked out of her cookie.
“Let’s get it.” Joe mouthed the words. He looked at Janalee and groaned, “Oh, boy.”
The squirrel scampered over to a pile of rocks, sat up on its hind legs, and watched us.
“Now you scared it away,” Janalee said, shaking her finger at Joe.
“So? You wouldn’t have let us kill it anyway,” he said.
“Of course not. Who’d want to hurt a little squirrel?”
“I could still get it from here,” Joe said to me. “It’s just sitting there.”
I looked at Janalee.
“Give me a cookie,” she said.
I handed her one, and she crumbled it onto a rock a few feet from us. Then she said, “Let’s go back in the bushes and watch.”
Joe grumbled, but he went with us. We’d hardly gotten settled before the squirrel scampered over to the rock and started eating the cookie crumbs.
Just then Zeke, Brother Arnold’s dog, bounded into sight. That squirrel saw the dog, dropped to all fours, and made a mad scramble for the rocks, with Zeke right behind it.
I just sat there staring, but Janalee didn’t. She grabbed my flipper and a rock, took aim, and let the rock fly. It made a beeline for Zeke’s behind. He let out a yelp and tore out of there.
“No old dog is going to hurt our animals!” Janalee yelled.
“Some hunters we are,” Joe moaned. “We can’t shoot at birds or skunks or squirrels, and when a good hunting dog comes around, we chase him off. I’ve never heard of hunters like that.”
“Well, we’re not ordinary hunters,” Janalee said, handing the flipper back to me.
“What kind of hunters are we?” I asked.
Janalee said, “We’ll make this an animal preserve. We’ll protect the animals, like policemen, making sure nobody or nothing hurts them. And we’ll bring food to them. That’s the kind of hunters we’ll be.”
Joe frowned. Finally he said, “If we’re policemen, who’s going to be the captain?”
“Whoever will protect the animals and birds and treat them right,” Janalee told him.
Joe picked up a rock and tossed it at a bushy cedar. “I can do that.”
“Then you can be the captain of our preserve,” Janalee told him, beaming.
“Really?” When Janalee and I nodded, he said, “All right then. You two go home and get some bread crumbs, and I’ll get some lettuce and things from Mom. Meet me back here as soon as you can. We can’t leave this place unprotected very long. Zeke might be back.”
“What about my cougar?” I wanted to know.
Janalee grinned. “Well, if he’ll behave himself, we’ll let him come too. We might even be able to find a piece of meat for him.”
As we headed down the mountain, I was glad I had a sister like Janalee. She’s as good as a brother any day.

I carried a tray of food, prepared by my mother-in-law, into a cluttered and dusty home. The sole occupant sat where she always sat, on a big armchair positioned so she could see out the window. Her swollen legs were stretched in front of her and her cane, which she used only with great effort, leaned against her arm. She smiled when she saw me, thanked me for the food, and apologetically asked who I was. As I sat next to her and listened to her stories, I was filled with warmth and peace.
Three years later, I was on the floor with my two young children, bouncing them on my legs and singing a racehorse tune. Only a few feet away, my kitchen was in disarray and toys were scattered across the floor. I suddenly felt a reassurance from the Spirit that I was right where I needed to be. Warmth and peace flooded my soul, filling its worn edges and giving energy where there was none.
Another two years forward, I was lying on the bed. A pile of laundry was visible on the floor, and a stack of papers littered the desk to my left as I fed my newborn son for the fourth time that night. I brushed my fingertips against his long lashes, felt his soft bald head, and was thrilled when fingers curled around the lace of my shirt. I was so filled with warmth and peace that I didn’t even mind that I was sometimes awake at three in the morning.
In each of these cases, the Holy Ghost was with me, telling me I was in the right place and doing the right thing, and in each of these cases, I was in a messy home.