Gospel Story Finder

It’s a week later. Joe and I have just wrapped up two hours on the industrial economy of Finland. And you know, I feel pretty good.
Why? It went great, that’s why. Joe greeted me like a lost friend at the doorway of his house. We got right down to business. He never mentioned the encounter at the Grundy household last week.
And our project is coming along well. Joe had a half-dozen books he’d picked up in the library. We found out Finland is heavy into wood products, mining, and chemicals, with saunas as a sideline. I hate to admit it but I’m getting sort of pumped about the production of copper in Finland.
“But we’ll need more,” Joe says. “Everyone else will do just what we’ve done—read the encyclopedia, check out some books from the library. We’ve got to do something extra. We need to hit a home run if we want an ‘A’ from Mr. Barnes.”
“Yeah, right,” I say. “A home run.”
“Got any ideas?”
“Well, I’ve been giving it some serious thought, and well, uh—” I take a deep breath as Joe looks hopeful. “And I haven’t come up with much.”
I see a flicker of disappointment. Maybe Joe is beginning to realize he’s teamed up with the strikeout king.
* * *
Inspiration finally hits.
Greg Bendfast is talking with a friend at church in the foyer. My brain locks onto something … Greg … school … Mr. Barnes … mission.
YES! My brain finally kicks in. Greg went to Finland on his mission! Whoa, Mr. Barnes, get out your black pen and be prepared to mark down the big “A” for Cool Joe McCabe and Ben Grundy! This is sweet beyond belief.
In less than five minutes, I work it out with Greg. He will loan us some of his slides of Finland. He will teach us how to make a Finnish treat, kisseli. He will teach us a few handy phrases commonly used in Finland.
I have been to home plate and hit a home run.
I can hardly wait to tell Joe.
* * *
Joe is elated about Greg, in sort of an understated way.
“Nice work, Ben. We’re going to knock the socks off Mr. Barnes.”
“Yo,” I say, thinking it sounds, well, cool.
That isn’t the only good news. Joe did some quality thinking and came up with the idea of writing a letter to the Finnish Embassy in Washington, D.C., asking for some literature. “But we only have a couple of weeks and I didn’t know if that would be enough time to get the stuff sent out here. So I got their phone number and called. It’s already in the mail.”
“Yo,” I say again.
Joe raises an eyebrow. “What does yo mean?”
* * *
Joe shows up and things are, I’m happy to say, fairly routine around our house. Maybe part of the reason is that the twins are in bed and both my parents are at the grocery store. At last, Joe can glimpse the Grundy household in a nearly normal mode.
We get right down to it, going over the last details of our presentation and Greg’s recipe for kisseli, which we’ll prepare tomorrow at Joe’s, with some help from his mom. After a half-hour, I get up to grab Greg’s slides. The hallway is dark, but April whisks by me, without her glasses. There’s a trace of perfume in the air.
Perfume? Something is not right. April never wears perfume.
It can’t be! I stop dead in my tracks and do a hasty retreat to the den. But I am too late. April is already asking Joe out for the girls’ choice dance.
“… so if you’d like to, it would be fun if we could go together.”
What will Joe say? After he gets up off the floor laughing, that is. April, my sister, who is not even in Joe’s social league, asking him to the dance? Some things are just not done.
I peek in. April is looking nervously at Joe, as if her life hinges on his answer. Joe looks uncomfortable.
But not for the reason I expect. “Gosh, April. I’d like to. I think you’re cool. But I’ve already been asked, and it wouldn’t be fair to back out on a date. Maybe we can get together sometime other than the dance.”
What? Joe sounds as though he’d really like to go out with April. No sign of annoyance, not the slightest hint of put-down in his voice. The only thing I can detect is concern that April’s feelings—and fragile self-image—remain intact. I back away from the door, struggling to comprehend what I’ve just seen. What is it?
Cool, that’s what it is.
* * *
Now it’s the day after our report on Finland. Yeah, I know about humility, and I know you shouldn’t take pride in worldly kinds of things, so I’ll just say this once: Joe and I were stupendous. By the end of our presentation, everyone was spooning our fruity kisseli, reading literature from the Finnish Embassy, and enjoying Greg’s slides. Even crusty old Mr. Barnes stood up at the end and said we did a good job. I can see the A on my report card now.
Things are quiet tonight in the Grundy household. I am still basking in the glow of our social studies triumph. Life is sweet right now.
The phone rings. Philip answers it. “It’s for you, Ben. It’s a girl.”
All activity in our household—except for breathing—comes to a stop as every Grundy focuses on me. A girl calling Ben Grundy. This is history.
I slowly rise and stiffly walk to the phone. Destiny beckons. I fumble for the receiver and croak, “Hello?”
“Ben … hi, this is Margaret Gromo. I know it’s late to be asking, but if you aren’t going to the dance, I was wondering if you would want to go with me?”
My mind goes blank. I mean, the blackboard of my brain is wiped clean. Several long, difficult seconds pass. Then one thought comes blasting through the gray matter.
What’s the cool thing to do?
I draw a deep breath. Time for the new version of Ben Grundy to take over. “I haven’t been asked. And I think we’ll have a good time …”
* * *
And Margaret and I do have a good time. I keep thinking about what is cool. Cool really doesn’t have a lot to do with how you talk or how you dress, whether you drive a sports car or a station wagon, or who you’re seen with and where. Cool is how you treat people. Whether you help make them feel good or bad about themselves, if you’re a friend or not. If you remember every one of them is a child of God and treat them the way they should be treated, that’s totally cool. Take it from someone who has been around a lot of cool lately. Cool Ben Grundy.
Has a nice ring to it. And I think it’s entirely within my reach.

My family suffered in silence regarding my brother’s struggles for a long time. We endured self-imposed shame for years. Addiction was taboo, so we didn’t talk about it. We thought drug addiction wasn’t supposed to affect families who were doing their best to live the gospel and follow Jesus Christ. We were so afraid of what people would think if they found out. My parents constantly blamed themselves for my brother’s decisions, I would hide what was happening from my friends, and we would dodge all questions about my brother. Little did we know that not talking about it made our circumstances more painful than they already were.
Now I face my brother’s addiction differently. And that’s the key word: face. For so many years, I turned away from it and hid it from everyone else, but now I face it head-on with my family. We seek support and we try to support others. As the years have gone by, we’ve discovered that addiction affects many families in many different forms—and there’s no need to feel ashamed or to hide. It needs to be talked about, and those who have been hurt by it, whether they be loved ones or those who struggle themselves, need less judgment and more support, compassion, understanding, and love. No one should have to suffer alone.

After the session, it was time to return to Argentina. But since the bus had developed a mechanical problem, we had to stay Saturday night in Santiago while it was being repaired. However, even this difficulty turned to our advantage. Again we held a home evening as an entire group—rejoicing in hymns, prayers, and testimony. All of us were as one.
On Sunday our bus, reverberating with the hymns of Zion, finally started for home. Eventually some of us slept, while others remained awake, letting pass through our minds the thoughts of those past few days. We arrived at our own meetinghouse at 2:30 on Sunday afternoon and held our sacrament meeting according to the commandment of the Lord.
How many things we had to tell our brothers and sisters! How we wished that someday they might feel what we had felt!
Brother Ávila’s dream had been fulfilled.

Brothers and sisters, it all began one beautiful night during April of 1972 when Elders Thomas McIntire and Steve Richards knocked on my door. At that time, I was searching for answers to many questions that confused and troubled my spirit. The principles taught that night contained the answers my wife and I had searched for so anxiously.
Our hearts rejoiced upon hearing the message of the restored gospel. But one special thing deeply affected our souls: the power of the testimonies of two representatives of the Lord. A marvelous feeling that we never before had experienced filled our hearts, certifying the truthfulness of the message. Our first visit to church was an edifying experience because of the Spirit there and the love those people showed us. The spirit of the messages and testimonies was confirmatory evidence that we had found the true church. The support of the missionaries, the successful fellowshipping efforts by the members, and our combined prayers and fasting gradually changed our worldly habits.
With respect and reverence, we attended the meetings and activities, but we postponed baptism because of the fear of negative reactions from our extended families.
The events following showed us our complete lack of wisdom, and of this we repented. The district of Rio de Janeiro met in the Tijuca chapel for its quarterly conference. A strong spirit filled the hall from the first chords of the organ prelude.
The inspired messages from the pulpit prepared our hearts for an unforgettable moment. President George A. Oakes of the Brazil North Mission, who presided at the conference, introduced Brother Val Carter, his mission counselor.
After quoting selected scriptures, President Carter invited the men to stand and sing “I Need Thee Every Hour.” After sharing his testimony of the mission of our Lord, Jesus Christ, President Carter declared his complete dependence on Christ for salvation and exaltation.
That experience deeply touched my heart and all my being. It was not possible to control my emotions. I could not imagine myself in tears, but the tears were indeed real. In that moment, the Holy Ghost reconfirmed the truthfulness of the things we already knew: The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints was the Lord’s kingdom on earth, the road back to the celestial mansion of our Eternal Father.
A miracle occurred in that moment, and our fears about baptism vanished. On July 2, 1972, my wife and I and our eldest son, Marcus, entered the fold through the gates of baptism.
Through our obedience to the laws of the gospel, fasting, and service, our Heavenly Father blessed us with power to overcome fear, challenges, and eventual adversities.
From our extended families, only one of my sisters, Ivette, has accepted the restored gospel and been baptized. Nevertheless, the remainder of the family highly respects the Church. The same miracle happened in our social and professional circles—prejudice and misunderstanding eventually subsided, and some of our best friends have accepted baptism.
To what must we attribute such miracles? To the strength and power of the testimonies of faithful Saints upon which I was temporarily dependent. This influence aroused me intellectually and spiritually, preparing my mind and heart to receive in fulness a personal confirmation of the Holy Ghost.

May I underscore this call to action by discussing a concept I was reminded of recently while watching a basketball game.

In that game, the first half was a seesaw battle, back and forth. Then, during the last five seconds of the first half, a guard on one team made a beautiful three-point shot. With only one second left, his teammate stole the inbound pass and made another basket at the buzzer! So that team went into the locker room four points ahead with a palpable surge of momentum. They were able to carry that momentum into the second half and win the game.

I was born to A Latter-day Saint Family and baptized at age eight; I faithfully attended church and seminary. But although the gospel had always been a part of my life, I wasn’t truly converted.
As a seminary student, I had developed good habits of scripture study that served me well for several years. But I could never bring myself to get really serious about prayer. In my youth I had made many mistakes, which made praying seem painful and hard.
I went off to college, and when I was 21, my father died unexpectedly in an accident. In my bitterness, I stopped reading the scriptures.
Years passed. I married in the temple and bore three children while my husband struggled through law school. Because I was without the sustenance of scripture study and deep, sincere prayer, the trials and frustrations of this period left me open to the adversary. My feelings became tainted with anger and a sense of failure.
Then my husband graduated and found a job that took us to another state. I had lived in many parts of the United States, but this move left me feeling terribly out of place. Our new ward was in a fairly wealthy area. My husband and I had a lot of school debt and very few possessions. We drove an old car, our clothes were outdated, and our furniture was secondhand and mismatched. The disparity was painfully obvious to me.
It wasn’t that I coveted what others had. I simply couldn’t imagine that they could see me as a worthwhile person when I had so little.
As the months passed, I had great difficulty making friends in the ward. I had been fairly comfortable in our wards in college, but now I felt intimidated and isolated from the friends and family who valued me.
A very long year and a half passed. I felt more insecure and unaccepted than I had felt since being a teenager in junior high school. I gave up even trying to fit in.
Then a ward member named Julie, a sister whom I greatly admired, began reaching out to me. She was 10 years older than I, a woman of great faith, and respected by everyone. I couldn’t believe she really wanted to get to know me, but I was lonely enough to accept her invitation to go jogging with her and some of her friends each morning at a nearby track.
Every day, Julie arrived having just finished morning prayer and scripture study. She was always filled with enthusiasm about the gospel, the scriptures, and the insights that came to her as she read. Running with her was like going to a devotional or a seminary class. And she seemed genuinely interested in me; she listened without judgment to my frustrations and fears.
I found Julie’s enthusiasm irresistible. Following her example, I became dedicated to a program of regular, serious scripture study for the first time in seven years.
I began to feel the Spirit in my life on a daily basis, and I found that I was able to follow the Spirit in fulfilling my calling as a Beehive adviser. I also realized that even though I’d been physically present in the programs and meetings, I had been spiritually inactive for many years.
Then one day, I walked into church a little late. Julie was leading the music, as she did every week. I looked up at her face. Her smile was wonderful, radiant, somehow filled with light. She looked directly at me, and I was overcome with an overpowering sensation of warmth and peace and joy. I was surprised. I knew I was feeling the Spirit very strongly, but I didn’t understand what the feeling meant.
I pondered throughout Sunday School and sacrament meeting, all the time cherishing this feeling of great peace and joy. By the end of the meeting, I understood the reason for this witness. I realized that Julie, being filled with the Spirit, actively sought to convey the love of the Savior to the congregation by the light of her countenance (see Alma 5:14, 19).
And then, into my mind came the whispered words that changed my life: “You must learn to be like that.” I was stunned. Suddenly my perspective shifted. I was to learn to smile like that and to convey the love and kindness to others that Julie had extended to me. For the first time, I understood that if I had the love of Christ in my countenance, no one would care what my clothes looked like, or my car, or my house.
My life was very different after that. The next month I walked into homemaking meeting, where I had always felt hopelessly out of place; I looked around at the room full of faces as if for the first time. It seemed that everyone there was either my friend already or needed a friend. I saw no condescension or condemnation in anyone. Nor was I looking for it. I was looking outward for what I could give.
After that, I continued to mature in terms of my motivation and expectations. As I felt more and more of the Spirit in my life, I desired to have the strength and faith to do anything the Lord might ask.
About this time, I attended a fireside where Julie spoke; she talked a lot about prayer. I took her counsel to heart and decided to start praying morning and night with real sincerity. I got up earlier than before, scheduled 15 or 20 minutes just for prayer, and treated it as an appointment with the most important person in my life. I found that I could get answers and guidance in a way I never had before.
I began to study the Atonement intensively. And I studied the doctrine of the change of heart and the meaning of being born again. As I studied, I developed a profound reverence for the Savior, for the power of his atonement, and for its efficacy in saving me from all of my failings and weaknesses.
One day I read Mosiah 5:7–8: “Ye shall be called the children of Christ … ; for ye say that your hearts are changed through faith on his name; therefore, ye are born of him and have become his sons and his daughters.
“And under this head ye are made free, and there is no other head whereby ye can be made free.”
Now I understood the words made free. I was being released from so many personal fears, inadequacies, and negative feelings that it seemed as if tangible shackles were falling from my hands and feet. My posture changed as I began to see myself as a person who had every reason to stand tall. My children asked why I was smiling so much. My husband asked why we didn’t quarrel anymore. My mother and brothers simply asked, “What happened?”
I spent three years in that ward where I had initially felt so uncomfortable. My last 18 months were a wonderful, fulfilling time. Sometimes I faced difficult trials, but I also felt an assurance that the Lord was mindful of me and that the painful experiences were for my growth.
By the time I left that ward, I not only felt loved, I also felt trusted and honored by the members there. I had had many humbling, spiritual experiences as well as opportunities to serve, to speak, and to teach. The ward had become a cherished family.
Julie remains a dear friend. Her gift for radiating light continues to touch my life and the lives of many others. Her example showed me how to reach for the Savior, the source of the light. And this has given me the means to lift and love and comfort many people. I believe that if I continue to progress, someday I, too, will be filled with his love and receive his image in my countenance.

Everything that summer seemed to be a dream or some kind of miracle. My awareness of how much families and gospel principles mean to me came so clear one week in July. This week wasn’t a normal one for the Clarks, Carters, and Tanners. It was an unforgettable family reunion in Hawaii.
In Hawaii there are many great places to go and things to see. My fondest memory is of Diamond Head because it not only opened my eyes to the beauty of the island of Oahu, but also opened my eyes to eternal beauty.
The entire hike was a quarter of a mile long, but you’d never know it the way it seemed to stretch. When my cousins and I began the hike, all we could see was a path that seemed to last a lifetime. We reached an area where some people were stopped along the path saying, “I can’t believe we are doing this. I really see no point in going on any farther.” After I heard this, I began to doubt myself, but I still kept walking.
Next, we reached this long, dark tunnel. My cousins and I went inside. We could hardly see. The only way we could get through this dark tunnel was to hold to an iron railing. We became excited when we could see, in the distance, the end of this long tunnel. We were so happy because we thought our hike was over.
When we reached the end of the tunnel, one of my cousins screamed. There before our eyes was a flight of steps carved out of the mountain. All I could think was, I can’t believe I am actually doing this.
Then my uncle turned to me and said quietly, “I’ve been here before. I know that it is worth it.” As I walked up the steps with aching legs, I thought about his gentle words, “I know that it is worth it.”
When we finally reached the top of the crater, I was completely overwhelmed at the sight, a panoramic view of the island.
As I stood there, I thought how the hike was like our earthly lives. We begin by seeing how far we have to go to become like Christ. We are overwhelmed, but we keep going forward. At times we may listen to people say, “I don’t see the point of going farther.” Even then, we continue through the darkness holding the iron rod. We may think our trials are over, and we find we only have more challenges ahead. We press on, yielding to the words, “You can make it. It is worth it.” When we finally reach our goal, we can look back and know it was worth it.
Since hiking Diamond Head, I have realized our challenges can make us stronger. I have since centered my goals around more spiritual things, such as attending early-morning seminary every day. We can all succeed if we have the faith and courage to keep going through the hard times in our lives.

Several years ago, my husband asked our family to prepare for a special home evening. Our four-year-old daughter asked to sing “I Am a Child of God.” Our 10-year-old son said the opening prayer. We felt the strong and marvelous presence of the Spirit.
My husband shared a few thoughts from Church leaders and encouraged us to remain united in the gospel of Jesus Christ. He then gave our little daughter a father’s blessing. My mother and I were also given blessings, and last was our son. Before placing his hands on our son’s head, my husband spoke of his gratitude for the priesthood and encouraged him to be worthy of this authority.
Nearly a year and a half later, our daughter said, “Let’s do another family home evening like we did that one time.” Knowing what she meant, still I asked her which one. She replied, “The one when we cried a lot and were very happy!”
Marlúcia Souza de Jesus Costa, Bahia, Brazil

As young women, you have the privilege of working on projects as part of the Young Womanhood Recognition Award. Anna Nichols of Centerville, Utah, writes about a special experience she has had:
“I did a Laurel project last year that has brought me closer to my grandma whom I never knew. She passed away when my mom was about five years old from a severe type of cancer. My mom has a collection of old slides and letters that she had kept. I went through these and picked out pictures of her and her family and letters that she had written to her sister sharing her feelings and thoughts before she died.
“I put all these in a scrapbook in memory of her and I gave it to my grandpa. To watch his face as he turned each page was the most awesome feeling as he told me the stories of each picture. We cried together. I could tell that he misses her so much and how with this book she is partly back into his life again.
“Because of this book I have a personal relationship with my grandma. I feel her spirit with me. I know she has protected me and helped me when I am in need. Now when I go and visit my grandpa we always talk about her and share stories. I always look forward to this time I get to spend with him.”

I have since learned that my father was born in Tiruchirappalli, Tamil Nadu, India. He was the youngest of six children. His father, Harold Norman Watts, was a railway man in the signals division. When my dad was just eighteen months old, his father Harold passed away, leaving his mother Daisy to care for their large family. Through the kindness of Christian boarding schools and Daisy’s hard work, all the children received a good education and made good their lives.
In 1972 my father, his mum and two brothers and two sisters immigrated to Australia establishing themselves in Perth, Western Australia. My father joined the Australian army in 1973, serving in various postings. He met my mother in Melbourne in 1982 and their first date was to a Stake YSA dance. Later, my mother introduced him to the missionaries. Accepting what he had been taught and with the faith and testimony the size of a mustard seed, he was baptized on 9 May 1982. A year later my parents were married and sealed in the New Zealand Temple. Together they had five children. Heavenly Father and living the Gospel have been a blessing in all our lives.
In 2011 my brother Anthony was called to serve in the India Bangalore Mission. I was twelve years old and I remember him telling us how hot it was and how the electricity would always go off and you just lie in bed in a puddle of your own sweat! He would always talk about the rats he would catch in his apartment too and how he would use a bucket to go to the toilet. It all seemed so foreign and different.
Seven years later I too was preparing to serve a mission. I remember the night my call letter came, and I had all the family gathered around. Everyone had made their guesses as to where I would go. We all thought that I for sure would go to Temple Square. When I actually read my call, I was absolutely shocked! I thought, “Do they know that I am a girl!?” I knew that there were girls serving in India when my brother was on a mission, but they were Indian girls! I had no idea that they sent foreign sisters there and I wondered if I was the first one? Later I learned that I am the first sister from Australia to serve in India.
Another shock was how soon they wanted me to be prepared and ready to leave. I had just eight weeks from the time I received my call to the time I had to report to the Provo MTC. I quickly applied for my overseas Indian citizenship. It normally takes 6-8 weeks or more to arrive which meant that it would have come on the day I was supposed to leave. I knew there was a reason I was to leave so soon so I just put my faith and trust in the Lord that everything would work out. I ended up getting my visa in just five weeks! That is just one of the miracles I saw as I prepared for my mission. It was a crazy whirlwind getting ready for my mission, but it was a testimony to me that the India New Delhi Mission was where I needed to be.
Before leaving Australia for India, I was blessed to participate in the sealing of my father’s family members in the Melbourne Australia temple. Although I did not know my grandmother very well, this made me feel closer to her. And now that I am here, I am coming to understand my father better. I see his friendliness and hospitality in the Indians I meet every day and have come to know that it is part of the culture.
I am so thankful to be able to experience the joy and growth that sharing the gospel I love brings to me and to others. I know that this is the Church of Jesus Christ, restored and established once again on the earth. I know that the Saviour lives and that his Atonement is real. I have been able to feel comfortable no matter where I am in the world as I know that I will always have the constant companionship of the Holy Ghost and always be able to feel of my Heavenly Father’s love for me.

Sister Allred was smiling wistfully when I looked at her again.
“What are you thinking about, Sister Allred?” I asked.
“Oh, I was just thinking about my son, Todd. When we had our farm, he was the best milker of all. I always told him that he’d grow up to be a great missionary.”
“What’s milking got to do with missionary work?” I asked.
“Milking a cow is pretty impossible unless she’s ready to let down her milk. Usually a cow will let down her milk when she’s contented and calm—maybe after a little grain feeding or someone washing her udder or when there’s a little soft music in the barn. Todd was gentle and patient not only with the cows but with everybody. I knew that he would be such a gentle, loving missionary that people would naturally let down their barriers against believing the gospel. Todd was gaining a strong testimony of the gospel too.”
“So where did Todd go on his mission?” I asked.
Sister Allred replied quietly. “One day when Todd was just about your age, he and his dad were delivering a load of cattle to a farmer. On a steep grade, the cattle suddenly shifted to one side, and the truck veered on the icy road and rolled into a ravine. Todd and my husband both died.”
“Oh!” we said together. Then we were silent, listening to the soft sounds of the last of Betsy’s milk filling the bucket.
“When I started teaching you,” Sister Allred continued, “I thought that maybe I’d be helping prepare some missionaries, after all.”
No one said a word until I asked, “Sister Allred, why did you say today was a special day for you?”
She smiled. “Today is Todd’s birthday. He would have been nineteen.”

Help with temporal tasks is also a form of ministering. At the October 1856 general conference, President Brigham Young announced that handcart pioneers were stranded in deep snow 270–370 miles (435–595 km) away. He called for the Latter-day Saints in Salt Lake City to rescue them and to “attend strictly to those things which we call temporal.”4
Lucy Meserve Smith recorded that the women took off their warm underskirts and stockings right there in the tabernacle and piled them into wagons to send to the freezing pioneers. Then they gathered bedding and clothing for those who would eventually come with few belongings. When the handcart companies arrived, a building in the town was “loaded with provisions for them.”5

But her children had not forgotten her, either. Susan, only seven at the time of the separation, ran away when she was eleven and sought refuge with a Mormon family, hoping to find a trace of her Mormon mother. The baby was already dead; another daughter would die a few years later. But about 1870, a missionary met Susie Williams and mentioned her to the Yates family in Scipio. With so fragile a clue, mother and daughter were reunited in Utah.

Another time, while serving a mission in Kentucky, Lorenzo was warming himself by a fire one evening at the end of a church meeting. An unfriendly man standing beside him (who was part of a gang waiting to attack him) accidentally bumped against Lorenzo and felt his scriptures in the pocket of his jacket. The scriptures were a gift from Joseph Smith, Sr., father of the Prophet Joseph Smith. However, thinking the object in Lorenzo’s jacket was a gun, the man immediately left without causing a fight. Lorenzo said a prayer of thanksgiving to the Lord for taking care of him while he preached the gospel.

A big forward with biceps the size of pot roasts skates over the blue line and fades away from us. Without slowing he lets rip a 20-foot wrist shot at the goal, or more precisely at Scott Tollestrup, the poor guy in net.
The puck meets Scott’s face mask with a slap, and he sits down hard on the ice, shaking his head.
“That happens when you play goal,” says Scott’s dad, Barry.
Scott takes a break from practice and skates over. He pushes up his helmet. Behind him the rink resounds with the heavy echo of voices. All around figures are moving, sticks and skates zigzagging on the ice. “You get hit; you shake it off,” Scott says, and grins.
His mother folds her arms and rolls her eyes. “People say hockey goalies have rocks in their heads,” she says. I like this family already. They are real people.
The fact that Scott, 14, would allow burly hockey players to fire 90-mile-an-hour pucks at him may be beyond comprehension for most of us. But to Scott, hockey is part of him. The shots he faces in a game are like the challenges of life. He realizes he can’t be perfect, get a handle on everything, but he’s getting better all the time.
Almost every boy in Canada has batted around a hockey puck at least once, and most have dreamed of playing professional hockey. Scott is no exception. Growing up in this hockey-crazed town of Lethbridge, Alberta, Scott longed to be the last defense on the ice, 15,000 fans watching as he shut out the Edmonton Oilers, taking MVP honors in the Stanley Cup finals.
Still, the odds are against him ever making it to the pros, so he’s enjoying the experiences along the way. He’s especially proud of representing Southern Alberta at a tournament in Vancouver last year. He played well enough to be selected a Canadian All-Star.
But being an all-star can go to your head. Every now and then Scott has to remind himself what’s really important.
“Once you put the hockey jacket on it’s instant popularity,” he says after practice. Scott’s with his older brother, Troy. They sit cross-legged in their basement, trading hockey cards and playing video hockey. “Some of the guys think they’re pretty hot. Once in a while I might join them and put somebody down—let it go to my head. When I put somebody down I always end up thinking about my brother, Troy.”
Troy, 17, has had a slight motor-skills problem and learning disorder since birth. It’s not serious enough to affect his life much, but it does make him a little different from the other kids. “When he was in elementary school he got picked on a lot,” adds Scott. “I think about that and stop. I try to get the others to stop, too.”
Not to be outdone, Troy starts talking about something he intends to do for Scott. He’s planning on a mission. One of the main reasons is to be an example to his younger brother.
“It’s very important I go on a mission,” says Troy. “Scott probably feels if I don’t go, he won’t have to.” I notice a sideways glance he gives his brother. It’s obvious they’ve had this conversation before.
“I see a mission,” Scott counters. “I hope to go. I want to keep the Holy Ghost with me and that’s a good way. If you’re fooling around with your friends you lose the Spirit, but if you pray and think about it hard, it’ll come back.”
Barry and Mary wander down to join their boys in the basement. Dad picks a black Pittsburgh Pirates cap off the floor.
“We have to pry this hat off Scott’s head,” Barry tells me. Scott grabs the hat and pulls it on. His blond hair disappears and his ears look bigger—I decide not to mention that. “He’s listed as 163 pounds on the team roster, but he’s really only 162. The hat.” Barry points to his head. Scott ignores him.
A son in the National Hockey League—that’s a dream a dad can get excited about. Barry goes to all of Scott’s practices, every game. He admits he had to control his enthusiasm.
“The first few years I pushed him,” Barry says, “but I’ve learned you can’t be too critical or push too hard.”
It took some time for Scott and his dad to find a good mix, but the relationship they have now seems to help them both. For Barry, the payoff is in the time with his son. While Scott, Troy, and their mom are very active in the Church, Barry is not. So he counts on the hockey tie to bring them close.
According to Mary, the boys’ mom, “When Scott’s in a game, he’ll look up into the stands at his dad. They have a silent message system. When Scott makes a good play he’ll look up and know his dad’s happy, and not too happy if he makes a mistake.”
And Dad has good things to say about Scott. He tells about the time Scott tried out for Bantam hockey. One of the other goalies was cut. “Some of the kids started giving him a hard time,” adds Barry. The coach was moments away from having a bad situation on his hands when Scott stood up for the goalie and got the players to settle down. “Scott knows what it’s like to be cut. But I think it’s more than that, something you can’t teach. He tries to care about other people’s feelings.”
Perhaps Scott has learned there is always somebody watching. On the rink it may be a scout or a future coach. In life it could be anybody.
“When Scott played on the Southern Alberta Select Team,” says Mary, “the coach told the team they needed to drink coffee to get going for the games. Scott and another LDS player wouldn’t.”
Scott smiles. “The funny thing was all the other kids ordered coffee, but they ordered caffeine free.”
Scott starts pulling out the odd collection of pads and equipment he needs for an afternoon game in Red Bluff. It’s a typical Saturday with typical commitments to hockey. But while the game does take up a good part of Scott’s life, he wants to be a balanced person.
He stops organizing his hockey gear to show me the saxophone and guitar he likes to play. He says he’d take me for a ride on his motorbike but it’s seized up. And he talks about seminary as if it’s the greatest invention since face masks for goalies. The gospel, he’s discovered, is important in being a well-rounded young man.
“Seminary has opened a lot of doors for me. There’s so much to know,” says Scott. “My seminary teacher is really good. With him it’s easy to understand the scriptures. The Millennium and the Second Coming are really interesting. Reading the scriptures is like reading a story—not a fairy tale, but about a different time. It could be a perfect movie, if you shorten it up a bit.”
But in trying for balance, Scott has discovered he needs to set priorities. A year or so ago, he was playing several sports, going to school and seminary, taking music lessons, spending time with friends. “I was thinking of quitting hockey,” he says. “I wasn’t happy, and it took up so much of my time. I realized if I wanted to play hockey I had to give up some of the other stuff.” He decided to put aside other sports and his guitar for a while. The NHL, the crowds, the excitement—it’s a hard dream to let die.
But other goals are approaching fast. A mission, marriage, and all the decisions in living the gospel are almost here. Just talking to Scott you get the feeling he’ll make the right choices when he needs to. You hope hockey will help him get where he wants to go, but that it will be a part and not the whole.
The last word on Scott is saved for his coach, Kirby Nishikawa. Something Kirby said at practice—something you may have already guessed about Scott. “He’s an all-around great guy to work with. He has a great work ethic and is a good example to the other players. What he does with his talent is all up to him.”
But before I can start wondering where they will put the statue of “Scott Tollestrup—The Perfect Young Man,” Coach Nishikawa sees our hero goofing off at the other end of the ice and bellows, “Tollestrup! Get over here!”
It’s a command that has echoed through this arena more than once, Scott’s mom admits.
Scott takes his place in goal. In front of him a line of players stands waiting to challenge. By now Scott knows he can’t be perfect or get a handle on everything. But remember, this is one goalie who is getting better all the time.

Elder Spori’s labors extended as far as Joppa, Damascus, and Jerusalem. It was here in the land of Palestine that he discovered how miracles can come about through small means.
By local law all Christians had to be out of the city of Haifa before the gates were locked at dusk. But Elder Spori was working in that city with an investigator who was ill at the time. The young Mormon elder hated to leave until he was sure his friend was better. That evening, with the investigator getting better, Jacob made plans to leave the city. He knew the gates were locked and that getting caught meant going to jail. As he walked along the city’s shore, pondering what to do, he watched the fishing boats coming into port. He noticed some men preparing the nets for the next day’s work and had the feeling he should help them. He stepped up and began working; no one seemed to notice him. When the work was finally done the men rolled up the nets, got into the small boat and prepared to set sail. Without a word Elder Spori also got into the boat. Before long they were on the sea. The next day the boat landed at Cairo, and Elder Spori jumped from the boat, went into the city, and resumed preaching the gospel.

Another rewarding encounter came with a post-doctoral research student who was studying early Christian history at the Pontifical Biblical Institute in Rome. As far as I could tell, this bright scholar had been given every possible honor and privilege of study within the vast Vatican libraries. A mutual friend introduced us at a meeting specifically to examine the Book of Mormon, particularly some of its ritual and historical texts. For instance, we discussed the description of Lehi’s attitudes in the context of contemporary international affairs. Israel’s rulers had formed an alliance with Egypt against their traditional enemy, Babylon; but Jeremiah had vehemently criticized this choice, and there seems to be evidence that Lehi’s political sympathies were as unpopular as Jeremiah’s. One of Babylon’s allies was Sidon; but Sidon’s twin city, Tyre, had allied with Egypt. The people of the Book of Mormon frequently used the name Sidon. There is a city named Sidon, a river named Sidon and, even a man named Gidgiddonah, which, as Dr. Hugh Nibley of Brigham Young University points out, is the Egyptian name for Sidon. But the name Tyre never appears in any form in the Book of Mormon, whereas in the Old Testament the two names are constantly linked; one hardly ever appears without the other. This apparent preference for Sidon over Tyre in the Book of Mormon fits perfectly into the world situation that Lehi knew and may support Brother Nibley’s deduction that Lehi may have been a trader with close personal connections in foreign cities, his safety and prosperity guaranteed by the Chuwa, or “contract of friendship” that protected an alien in another city-state. Naturally, even though he knew Egyptian, he (as did Jeremiah) would still deplore Israel’s alliance with Egypt, since he saw his nation turning away from safety. (Approach to the Book of Mormon, Melchizedek Priesthood Course, 1957, p. 52.)

That was only one of the many areas that I wished to discuss with this eminent scholar; and at first I feared it might be a difficult meeting. He had read several chapters in the Book of Mormon and had understood them fairly well, considering that it was his first reading of them. But he had concluded that the book was without substance. We looked again at what he had read. Then again, first from one angle and then another. Many hours and many words later, he was to admit willingly that the book was anything but meaningless. “Your book,” he said, “will have to be dealt with.”

When Kevin was 16 years old, his parents went through a divorce. Around the same time, he discontinued the use of his epilepsy medication, which had helped stabilize his mood. Without knowing that he had a bipolar disorder, he began experiencing paranoia, debilitating mania, and severe depression. Medications did not seem to help. It reached a point that he felt so tired of everything, he decided to end his life without letting others know of his intentions.
Kevin recounts the day he attempted to take his life: “I was crying. I was just so tired, so emotionally drained. I was just looking at people, wanting someone, anyone, to say, ‘Are you OK?’ As much as I wanted that, I was hearing these voices [in my head] saying, ‘You have to die.’ … The whole time begging myself not to [go through with it], but the voices were too strong, I just couldn’t fight them.”1
Tragically, no one noticed his distress. Convinced that no one cared for him, he made the attempt—but miraculously survived.
Can we feel at least some of his overwhelming distress and desperate, silent cry for help?

When I was 17, I was assigned as my father’s home teaching companion. We visited a few families in our ward and gave them a message from the bishop or read an article from a Church magazine. Home teaching was actually not so bad. Some of our families really appreciated our company.
We visited an older couple who always looked forward to our coming. They were talkative and gave us cookies when we were there.
Another of our families was actively involved at church. They were easy to home teach. The TV would be turned off, and the family always gathered around, sitting quietly while my dad and I gave our message.
Our ward was spread out over a large area of farms and small communities outside of Pocatello, Idaho. Many of the people had chosen the semi-country life to escape from the city. They liked being away from the traffic noise. Some simply wanted to get away from society. The Browns, a family newly assigned to us, fit right into that last category. As I look back, I wonder at the patience my father showed.
It was my job to set up our home teaching appointments. Brother Brown answered the phone and told me they were too busy this month and to maybe call back later if I wanted to. The same results occurred four weeks later on my second attempt. My father decided we needed a more direct approach.
The next month came, and after visiting our other families, we drove straight to the Browns’ house. A pickup truck and a car were in the driveway. Our printout showed a family of three: a father, a mother, and a 9-year-old boy. We went up to the door and knocked. No answer.
A month passed and again it was time for home teaching. Visiting our regulars went smoothly, and then it was time for our not-so-regular.
“Do they really want us to come?” I asked.
“We don’t know for sure,” was the answer from my senior companion. “They haven’t told us to go away, and we haven’t done anything they could get mad at, have we? We can’t give up so soon.”
We drove to their house. This time the cars were switched. They had to be home. There were only two drivers. We went up to the door and knocked. Silence.
“Knock again,” said my dad. I heard some noise inside the house, but the door stood still. From the corner of my eye, I saw motion. I turned to the window and, for a split second, locked eye contact with a brown-haired child, who disappeared. We left. It seemed apparent that this family did not want us around. I did not know if I wanted to be around them. I suggested to my father that we report back to the high priests group leader that this family did not want home teachers and call it good.
“Hm.” My dad was not a man of many words, but I knew well the meaning of this. We would be going back.
The next month came all too soon. It was, again, time to do our home teaching. Our visits with the regular families quickly came and went. I then found myself standing in front of the door with the two cars in the driveway. My dad motioned me, and I timidly knocked. No answer. “There, that’s that. They won’t answer, Dad. Let’s go home.” A nod from my senior companion prompted me to knock again. I reluctantly did so, keeping my thoughts to myself. Then it opened; not the door, but a window. A gruff male voice asked what we wanted. A waft of cigarette smoke followed his question. I was ready to bolt. My dad smiled. He told the voice who we were and why we were there. He explained that we wanted to get to know this family and become friends. Then he asked if we could come back next month. That was all he said, nothing more. Hesitating, the faceless voice behind the window agreed and we left.
“He knew exactly who we were,” my dad said as we drove away. “He gets new home teachers every couple of years. He just knows how to get rid of us.”
The next month was much the same—the same voice from the window, the same brief conversation, and the same hesitation to let us come again next month.
Our third month was not the same, however. The pickup was not in the driveway. We went up to the door and knocked. We both looked toward the window in anticipation. To my surprise, the door opened! That same child I had seen earlier poked his head out, glanced down the street, and then at us. “Please, come in,” he said.
A lady was standing in the front room. “Thank you for coming, we only have a few minutes,” she said. “Do you know when Cub Scouts meet?”
“We will find out for you, Sister Brown,” my dad answered.
The child was staring at me. I was in shock now that we were standing in the house and not on the porch. Had he said something? “Can you baptize me?” he repeated, with a sincere ring in his voice.
His smile was contagious, but all I could say was “What?”
“He wants to become a member of the Church like his cousins in town. He has been watching you come to the door each month. I told him you could probably baptize him.”
“Can you baptize me into the Church?” he asked a third time.
I was beginning to recover. “Yes, uh, I think so.”
My dad helped me out. “Let’s talk to the bishop,” he said. “He can tell us what you need to do to get ready. Can both of you and Brother Brown come to church on Sunday?”
That was our whole visit. Then we were gone. I contemplated the entire situation during the quiet drive home. Being a home teacher was something more than cookies and pleasant conversations. Being a home teacher could be seriously important. Why had I suggested we give up on this family? The example my father gave me was beyond my years. I was experiencing guilty exhilaration, guilt because of my murmuring and exhilaration because of the unexpected results of our visit. I glanced at my dad.
“You did good,” he said, reading my mind. “Let’s watch for them on Sunday.”
I have always cherished my memories of home teaching with my father. I can remember some of the families we taught better than others. I will never forget the Browns.
We saw the mom and the boy at church that next Sunday and many other Sundays. We saw the boy at Cub Scouts the next week and many other weeks. I’m sure some deep conversations were held at the Browns’ house, because the door always opened for us, even when Brother Brown was home. He even learned how to smile and shake hands.
Then came the baptism. I felt the smiling eyes of the city cousins looking down on the boy and me. The bishop had let them kneel by the baptismal font, which was recessed into the floor at the stake center. A deep, peaceful feeling swept over me as this wet, glowing boy and I stepped up and out. I almost felt that it was I who had been baptized. The boy’s parents were beaming. I saw Sister Brown brush a tear from her cheek. I looked up at my father; he nodded his approval.
Warmth grew inside me as I realized the wisdom of His patience, His patience for this little family and for me.

On Thursday, Mr. Pearson asked me to stay after algebra class. He didn’t announce it in front of everybody, so it wasn’t a totally mortifying experience. And it wasn’t like I didn’t know what he was going to say. When you’re about the only Mormon in the entire high school, you get used to people’s unreasonable expectations of you. But just because I was getting straight A’s in English didn’t mean I had to be brilliant at everything. I was definitely not brilliant at algebra.
“I’m being as generous as I can, Liesa,” Mr. Pearson said in that I-expect-more-from-a-student-like-you tone of voice. “But if your grades don’t improve, I don’t see how I can pass you.”
I nodded contritely.
“Now, I was thinking. I’ve been organizing the tutoring sessions for summer school—No, you don’t have to worry about that at this point. But Lawrence Guzewski—you know Lawrence, don’t you?—he’s going to be working in the math lab. I thought maybe you two could get together. I think he could help you out.”
I heard an “okay” squeak out of my mouth. It was like the bishop asking you to give a talk in sacrament meeting. How can you refuse? Not that I had anything against Lawrence Guzewski. He was just one of those people who seemed to believe that intelligence alone was sufficient for a meaningful existence. It just wasn’t that he didn’t sufficiently appreciate those of us who strived for social betterment. He apparently didn’t care. Like the way he didn’t care about how he looked. And as Susan Redmond would say, “Apathy is anathema.” And so was Lawrence Guzewski.
To make things worse, by the middle of next week, it had become pretty clear that our “getting together” was supposed to be up to me. And every day I didn’t “get together” with Lawrence was another day I lived in dread of being approached by Mr. Pearson for the reason why. With guilt making me a thoroughly unconvincing liar, he would give me his I’m-disappointed-with-you look and ask what he could do to help. It was a horrid enough thought that I vowed to say something to Lawrence when the opportunity presented itself just to clear my conscience.
It wasn’t difficult to pick out Lawrence in the cafeteria. I walked over and sat down across from him. He looked up with a start, glanced at the empty chair next to me, obviously expecting it to be occupied soon.
“Mind if I sit here?” I asked.
“Oh, sorry, did you have this place saved?” He was already sweeping his things together to make a quick getaway.
“Oh, no.”
Lawrence stopped. He sat back down again. I got out my lunch. Lawrence returned tentatively to his sandwich and his book.
I remembered something Mr. Pearson had said. “You’re teaching the math lab for summer school, aren’t you?”
His head bobbed up. “Uh,” he said. He had to think about it. “I guess so.”
“That sounds interesting.”
He shrugged.
The conversation ended there. I hadn’t mentioned algebra, supposedly the reason for all of this, but I had run clean out of conversation. We finished our lunches in silence. I didn’t want to just get up and walk away, but if I didn’t he wouldn’t, so I did.
“Whew,” I heard him say with great relief.
I thought about that “whew” all afternoon. At first I thought it was a basic, “Whew, I thought she’d never leave.” But on further consideration, it might have been the more complex, “Whew, why can’t I carry on an intelligent conversation with a member of the opposite sex?” That was a “whew” I could identify with. When you’re about the only Mormon in the entire high school, trying to get asked out on a date your parents will approve of can result in a lot of short, uncomfortable conversations with guys who end up thinking you’re kind of weird. Like Lawrence Guzewski.
Lawrence was in my seventh-period study hall, a fact I had never given much attention to until now. But I noticed him right off. Actually, he seemed to have noticed me first. He had his chair scooted back from his desk and was holding a sheaf of papers. He looked like a hurdler debating whether or not to leave the blocks.
I tried to look like I wasn’t looking at him, and if I had, it wasn’t on purpose. I went back to my algebra homework. When I looked up again, there he was, right in front of me, still gripping his papers.
He sat down quickly at the desk next to me and made a considerable point of examining his papers. “Um, Liesa—” he said, turning to me again, “I was, you know, wondering if maybe you could help me on my term paper. If you don’t mind. I mean, you’re pretty good in English so I thought, you know—”
“Oh,” I said. He probably thought I said “okay,” so he handed me his term paper. I started reading it. Two pages later, I stopped and said, “Lawrence, what is it about?”
“Neutrinos.”
I didn’t ask him what they were. I said, “But you haven’t mentioned them yet.”
“I was leading up to it.”
“But how’s the reader supposed to know what you’re leading up to?”
“The title?” he said, hopefully.
I turned to the next page and found what looked like a thesis statement. I marked the paragraph. “Begin here.”
“But what about the first two pages?”
“Well, remember what Mrs. Greenbaum said: ‘Tell the reader what you’re going to say. Say it. And then tell him what you just said?’ You have to start out by saying what you’re going to write about, and how you’re going to write about it.”
“Oh, I get it. Like an abstract.”
“You begin with this paragraph and go on to here,” I said, marking the first page.
It seemed to make sense to him. I never expected to be better than Lawrence Guzewski at anything. But what was even more surprising was that I had actually enjoyed helping him. That I hadn’t counted on.
“Oh, by the way,” Lawrence said, as he shuffled his papers together, glancing over my shoulder at my algebra problem, “the answer is 2X2+1.”
Lawrence went back to his seat, leaving me wondering where in the world 2X2+1 came from. It sure wasn’t apparent to me. What was apparent was that the only thing standing between me and yet another disaster at Mr. Pearson’s blackboard tomorrow was Lawrence Guzewski. My last period class was Mrs. Greenbaum’s creative writing class. I left as quickly as I could after the bell rang and caught up with Lawrence in B-wing.
“Hey, Lawrence,” I said.
Lawrence stopped and turned around with a puzzled, “you mean me?” expression on his face, as if there were dozens of people named “Lawrence” around I could have been referring to.
“Lawrence,” I said, approaching him, “I was wondering if you could help me with my algebra homework this afternoon, if you have the time, I mean.”
There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Finally, Lawrence looked at his watch and said, “Uh, I have to go to my violin lesson.”
“Oh,” I said. I took a step back.
He suddenly blurted out, “But I’m free this evening.”
I retraced my step. “What time?”
“Around seven?” he said, as if it were a question.
“Why don’t I come over around seven.”
“Okay.”
I had invited myself over to Lawrence Guzewski’s. If Susan Redmond found out, what was left of my senior year would be totally wasted, socially. Summer school was beginning to look like a reprieve in comparison.
“What were you talking to Lawrence Guzewski about, Liesa?”
I turned around and there was Susan Redmond, on her way to cheerleading practice, pom-poms in hand.
I opened my mouth and waited for the appropriate words to fill it. “Mr. Pearson—” I said, finally, “he assigned Lawrence to be my math tutor.”
Susan nodded with understanding, pity filling her dark brown eyes. She patted me sympathetically on the shoulder, and I left it at that.
Dad helped me find the little Cape Cod next to the Christian Academy on Fifth Street where the Guzewskis lived. Mrs. Guzewski met me at the door and welcomed me vigorously. “Oh, you must be Liesa,” she exclaimed. “Lawrence has told me all about you.”
I smiled nervously. I hadn’t thought that there would be that much to tell. Lawrence came down the stairs, looking even less reassured than I felt. We all stood there in the front hall, Lawrence on one side, me on the other, his mother in between, looking pleased. Finally Lawrence said, “Um, it’s probably easiest to work in the kitchen.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Guzewski, enthusiastically, “it’s right this way.” I think I heard Lawrence mutter under his breath that he knew where the kitchen was.
The kitchen smelled like my Aunt May’s kitchen, warm and friendly and delicious. There was a plate of fresh chocolate chip cookies on the table. “Please, go right ahead,” said Mrs. Guzewski, and I almost did, but I didn’t think it’d be polite to start the evening scarfing cookies. I decided I’d wait until Lawrence took one.
Mrs. Guzewski bustled in and out every other minute to make sure everything was all right. There wasn’t much to make sure of because we just sat there at the kitchen table staring at my algebra textbook, waiting for the other one to say something first.
Finally, I took a deep breath and said, “Lawrence, why don’t you show me where that 2X2+1 came from? You know, the problem you solved in study hall.”
I opened up my textbook to the page the assignment was on, and he immediately launched into a series of calculations which totally left me behind. But in the process he forgot to be self-conscious, which made it hard for me to be self-conscious. I had to slow him down most of the time, because what was obvious to him wasn’t so obvious to me. But by the time we got through the rest of the assignment, things were a bit clearer.
I put down my pencil. “I think I’m getting it,” I said. “Almost.”
Lawrence shrugged. “You know,” he said, “I never thought that you would ask me to help you. I mean, I know I never could belong to your group—I mean, I kind of had the feeling that if I ever asked you out Susan Redmond would beat me up or something.”
He thought that—come to think of it, I thought that as well at times. But when you’re about the only Mormon in the entire high school, you can’t always let your priorities be decided by the Susan Redmonds of the world.
“To tell the truth,” I said, sheepishly, “I asked you to help me with my algebra because Mr. Pearson told me to. I know what that sounds like, but I’m glad he did. Not just because I needed help with algebra.”
It was Lawrence’s turn to be embarrassed. “You know,” he said, “it was Mrs. Greenbaum’s idea that you could help me with English. She was right. You’re a lot better at it than I am.”
It was one too many compliments between the two of us, and Lawrence didn’t know what to say next, so he had a cookie. I’m glad he did, because I was starving for one.
They were great cookies.