Gospel Story Finder

The two eagles gulped altitude with their broad, golden wings until the cliff line was far below them. Then they closed their wings and dropped out of the sky, spinning downward at a wind-warping speed of almost 200 miles per hour. Just as the juniper and sagebrush rushed up to crush them, they spun the world on end with a flick of their seven-foot wings and shot upward again. Spiraling up on a thermal, they banked away from each other and were soon a valley apart. Then, pivoting in midair, they rushed together like two warring biplanes, their wingbeats cracking echoes off the cliff face. Just inches short of disaster they casually palmed the air aside and brushed feathers as they blasted past each other. They flashed together again, flipping on their backs and displaying their talons in mock combat. They soared and dived, playing the wind like a violin, spinning gravity like a yo-yo. One moment they were sailing ships, running with the breeze or tacking against it. The next they were jet fighters, dive-bombing their shadows. They were more free in their ocean of air than any fish in water or any man on land.
But one man on the land watched them—with his eyes hardly comprehending, with his camera clicking like a telegraph, and long afterward with a notebook and pencil, remembering. Kent Keller, of Orem, Utah, had seen golden eagle courtship flights before, but like any reasonable person, he could only fully believe it when he was seeing it.

The group had arrived in Mount Watson’s neighborhood, but the trek to the summit would begin the next day, after dinner and a good night’s rest. What the young ladies hadn’t counted on was rain—buckets of it. Maybe the mountain wanted to see how sincere they were about the climb. “The rain came while we were trying to get our dinner. It put out our fire and everything. Soggy macaroni, soggy everything,” said 15-year-old Becky Thomas. “But it was good, wasn’t it?” laughed, Suanne, her 17-year-old sister.
There were the inevitable problems of leaky tents, soaked sleeping bags, and dripping clothes. Luckily, Bishop Thomas, who had been rained out once on a similar trip, had hauled along a box of plastic garbage sacks. A large face hole punched in one corner transformed a sack into a makeshift rain coat and offered some protection until dinner was done. (To avoid danger, the use of the plastic bags was carefully supervised.) Later that evening, when one tent was flooded, those in well-pitched shelters courteously doubled up so that everyone could be dry and warm. There were also the usual sleeping struggles of avoiding roots, pointed rocks, and bumps in the ground, but eventually everyone managed to doze off.

It happened at Camp Steiner in the High Uinta Mountains. I was 17, one of the older boys in the ward, and Brother Faux had asked me to come along and help with the Scout troop. I would help prepare duty rosters, fill in with work where it was needed, and take the boys fishing.
I packed my sleeping bag and fishing rod, but I didn’t bring any food. The camp had plenty. I could also bring a friend my age. They would supply his food, too.
My first morning at camp, I took the boys down the lake to a special place where I’d caught some nice brook trout as a Scout. I saw myself as a good fisherman and anticipated being praised by the boys as a knowledgeable guide.
An hour went by. No fish. Two hours. I knew it was nearly time for Brother Faux to have breakfast ready, but I did not want to stop and admit defeat. By the time I gave up, leading the disappointed 12- to 14-year-olds back to camp, it was 9:25 A.M.
“Breakfast is cold,” Brother Faux said sternly. It was my fault, but I just made excuses. If that was the way I was going to help out, he told me, I could get out of his way. He had expected help, not more problems.
He was right. I couldn’t deny that. But I had my pride. No one was going to tell me what to do. My friend, Deral Barton, and I had come prepared to help for three days, but since our valuable help wasn’t appreciated we would hike over the mountain to Ruth Lake and live off the land!
The Scouts looked at us in awe as we departed. I felt smugly independent at the time. But when we got to Ruth Lake, it was not the best time of day to catch fish. We unrolled the sleeping bags from our backpacks and went to bed very early—and very hungry.
The next morning, a young mule deer buck awoke us early, seemingly an indication of good things to come. We each quickly caught a foot-long trout. But we had no pan or foil to cook the fish in, so we tried to heat a rock to get the job done. Some three hours later, we realized we would never succeed.
Then we saw a group of boys trudging down the mountain toward us. They were from our Scout troop, bringing soda pop and sandwiches, cans of beans, and cookies. Not even St. Bernards in the Swiss Alps could have looked so welcome.
Pride at living off the land was soon swallowed, along with one of the most delicious meals I’d ever eaten. Deral and I remained in our camp until our benefactor’s supplies ran out.
The next Sunday in church, Brother Faux came over. “I shouldn’t have become angry,” he told me. “After you left, I became worried. I hinted to the boys about heading your way with food, and I was greatly relieved when they did. I want to apologize for being so sharp with you.”
I, too, had to apologize for my less-than-humble departure from camp. It had complicated the outing he was responsible for.
From that time on, he was one of my closest friends in the ward. From then on, he kept checking on me whenever I went “over the mountain,” so to speak. He showed his concern over the years and made sure I had the nourishment I needed, spiritually as well as physically, as I prepared for my mission. And I responded to his good example just as I had when he sent the troop after a stubborn boy who made a wrong decision.

When I was growing up, my mom talked to me about the gospel. She talked about it every day, not just on Sundays. She loved stories from the Old Testament.
My favorite story was about David and Goliath. David was just a young shepherd. Goliath was a huge, strong soldier. When David went to fight Goliath, David didn’t wear any armor. His only weapon was a sling to throw small stones.
But David stood for what he believed. He wasn’t alone. God’s power was with him. He beat Goliath.
My mom liked to tell me what David said to Goliath: “Thou comest to me with a sword, and with a spear, and with a shield: but I come to thee in the name of the Lord of hosts” (1 Samuel 17:45). I knew my mom trusted that God would be with us. He would help us even when we faced Goliath-sized challenges.

One of the leading box office stars of today lamented: “The boundaries of permissiveness have been extended to the limit. The last film I did was filthy. I thought it was filthy when I read the script, and I still think it’s filthy; but the studio tried it out at a Friday night sneak preview and the audience screamed its approval.”

Marcus Robb, 15, Perth. For Marcus, seminary and the scriptures were the key to educational freedom. When he was diagnosed with a reading impairment known as dyslexia a few years ago, he was four years behind in his reading level. Fortunately, that’s when he began seminary, where his teacher emphasized the scriptures. “I decided I would read them,” he says simply. He began waking at 4:50 each morning to read for 40 minutes. It was tough at first. But now, after one year, he is reading on a level with his peers.

A short family history story illustrates this counsel.

Several months ago I read the testimony of my great-grandfather’s sister Elizabeth Staheli Walker. As a child, Elizabeth immigrated to America from Switzerland with her family.

After Elizabeth married, she and her husband and children lived in Utah near the Nevada border, where they ran a mail station. Their home was a stopping place for travelers. All day and all night they had to be ready to cook and serve meals for travelers. It was hard, exhausting work, and they had little rest. But the greatest thing that concerned Elizabeth was the conversation of the people they associated with.

Elizabeth said that up to this time she had always taken for granted that the Book of Mormon was true, that the Prophet Joseph Smith had been authorized of God to do what he did, and that his message was the plan of life and salvation. But the life she was experiencing was anything but what would strengthen such a belief.

Some of the travelers who stopped were well-read, educated, smart men, and always the talk around her table was that Joseph Smith was “a sly fraud” who had written the Book of Mormon himself and then distributed it to make money. They acted as if to think anything else was absurd, claiming “that Mormonism was bunk.”

All this talk made Elizabeth feel isolated and alone. There was no one to talk to, no time to even say her prayers—although she did pray as she worked. She was too frightened to say anything to those who ridiculed her religion. She said she didn’t know but what they were telling the truth, and she felt she could not have defended her belief if she had tried.

Later, Elizabeth and her family moved. Elizabeth said she had more time to think and was not so distracted all the time. She often went down in the cellar and prayed to Heavenly Father about what was troubling her—about the stories those seemingly smart men had told about the gospel being bunk and about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon.

One night Elizabeth had a dream. She said: “It seemed I was standing by a narrow wagon road, which led around by the foot of a low rolling hill; halfway up the hill I saw a man looking down and speaking, or seemed to be speaking, to a young man who was kneeling and leaning over a hole in the earth. His arms were stretched out, and it looked as if he was reaching for something from in the hole. I could see the lid of stone that seemed to have been taken off from the hole over which the boy was bending. On the road were many people, but none of them seemed to be at all interested in the two men on the hillside. There was something that came along with the dream that impressed me so strangely that I woke right up; … I could not tell my dream to anyone, but I seemed to be satisfied that it meant the angel Moroni [instructed] the boy Joseph at the time he got the plates.”

In the spring of 1893, Elizabeth went to Salt Lake City to the dedication of the temple. She described her experience: “In there I saw the same picture [that] I had seen in my dream; I think it was [a] colored-glass window. I feel satisfied that if I saw the Hill Cumorah itself, it would not look more real. I feel satisfied that I was shown in a dream a picture of the angel Moroni giving Joseph Smith the [gold] plates.”

Many years after having this dream and several months before she died at nearly age 88, Elizabeth received a powerful impression. She said, “The thought came to me as plain … as if someone had said to me, … ‘Do not bury your testimony in the ground.’”

Generations later, Elizabeth’s posterity continues to draw strength from her testimony. Like Elizabeth, we live in a world of many doubters and critics who ridicule and oppose the truths we hold dear. We may hear confusing stories and conflicting messages. Also like Elizabeth, we will have to do our best to hold on to whatever light and truth we currently have, especially in difficult circumstances. The answers to our prayers may not come dramatically, but we must find quiet moments to seek greater light and truth. And when we receive it, it is our responsibility to live it, to share it, and to defend it.

Everyday you’d walk me home from school
and carry my books while I’d listen
to your daring football practice feats
and rave until you’d grin
and call a race.
You always won because
I couldn’t jump the ditch, and
you were glad I was a girl
until you’d run ahead and hide and
jump at me and scare me
so I’d scream for half an hour.
You’d just laugh, and I’d get mad
and wouldn’t talk, but then
we’d cross the street
where you’d always take my hand
and not let go for the rest of the way.

As they looked through the box, Zach held up an old airplane ticket.
“Why is this in your treasure box?” he asked.
Dad took the ticket. “During my first year of college, my family sent me this ticket so I could fly home for Thanksgiving. I got a ride from some friends, but they couldn’t take me all the way to the airport.”
“Where did they take you?” Zach asked.
“They dropped me off at a street corner,” said Dad. “I didn’t know how to get to the airport from there. I was worried I would miss the plane.”
“Did you call someone on your cell phone?” Tasha asked.
“Cell phones weren’t invented yet!” Mom said with a laugh.
“So what did you do?” Patrick asked.
“I started praying,” said Dad. “I prayed hard that Heavenly Father would help me. Then I saw a car coming. It was my old bishop! He gave me a ride to the airport. I saved the ticket and put it in my treasure box.”

All Is Well When Miranda moved into the house next to her family’s farm, Emmy was thrilled, even though Miranda was a Gentile. They had little time to play together but were soon best friends. Then Pa had to go into hiding, and Miranda became so ill that the doctor could do nothing more for her. Emmy was sure Pa’s priesthood blessing would help. If he came, would Miranda’s father allow it? And would Pa be caught?Kristin Embry Litchman9 years and up

Rachel woke up hungry. She hopped out of bed and ran to the pantry cupboard. She opened the door and scanned the top shelf. There it was—the candy jar! Inside the jar, gleaming like shiny marbles, were her favorite candies. They were irresistible red-orange balls with yummy chocolate centers.
Rachel looked around quickly to see if Mummy or Daddy was watching. She could hear their voices, but they were nowhere in sight. Quietly, she pushed a stool to the pantry and stepped up onto it. Then she reached up and unscrewed the candy-jar lid. She grabbed a handful of candy, screwed the lid back on, and raced down the hallway toward her bedroom. But when her parents’ voices came closer, she ducked into the bathroom and shut the door.
As Rachel looked hungrily at her candy, she wondered, “Could I throw one in the air and catch it in my mouth?” And without a second thought she tossed a candy high in the air. It floated above her head, then fell down straight into her wide-open mouth and stuck in her throat. She couldn’t breathe!
She tried to scream but couldn’t make a sound. “Daddy, help me!” she cried in her heart. “Heavenly Father, please help me!” she prayed. Tears ran down her cheeks as she struggled for a breath that wouldn’t come. She felt sick and dizzy.
Suddenly, her father burst into the room. He picked up Rachel from behind and squeezed his arms tightly around her. Plop! Out shot the candy into the washbasin. Rachel sucked in deep gulps of air. Daddy set her down and held her close. “It’s all right, Rachel,” he said softly. “You’ll be fine now.”
“Thank you, Daddy,” she said. “I’m sorry I took the candies without asking. I love you.”
Mummy came into the bathroom. “What happened?” she asked.
“I heard a voice,” Daddy said. “It said, ‘Your daughter is in trouble! Go to her!’ I found Rachel in the bathroom, but I didn’t know what was wrong. Then the voice said, ‘Pick her up!’ I did, and a piece of candy flew out of her mouth.”
Mummy gave Rachel a big hug.
Rachel did a lot of thinking that day. She thought about candy and about being honest. She thought about how good every breath of air tasted. She thought about how much she loved Heavenly Father and Mummy and Daddy. But most of all, she thought about the Holy Ghost. Daddy had stopped her from choking because he had listened. She wanted to be like Daddy and always listen to the Holy Ghost.

When the Prophet Joseph Smith was suffering in Liberty Jail, he wrote of the balm he received from his friends. He said:
“Those who have not been enclosed in the walls of prison without cause … can have but little idea how sweet the voice of a friend is; one token of friendship from any source whatever awakens and calls into action every sympathetic feeling; … then the voice of inspiration steals along and whispers, … ‘peace be unto thy soul’” (History of the Church, 3:293).
Joseph recognized the role each of us plays in lifting, helping, and soothing so that the calamities of life can be stilled and the Lord’s voice can be heard.

Just as God rejoices when we persevere, He is disappointed if we do not recognize that others are trying too. Our dear friend Thoba shared how she learned this lesson from her mother, Julia. Julia and Thoba were among the early black converts in South Africa. After the apartheid regime ended, black and white members of the Church were permitted to attend church together. For many, the equality of interaction between the races was new and challenging. One time, as Julia and Thoba attended church, they felt they were treated less than kindly by some white members. As they left, Thoba complained bitterly to her mother. Julia listened calmly until Thoba had vented her frustration. Then Julia said, “Oh, Thoba, the Church is like a big hospital, and we are all sick in our own way. We come to church to be helped.”

Julia’s comment reflects a valuable insight. We must not only be tolerant while others work on their individual illnesses; we must also be kind, patient, supportive, and understanding. As God encourages us to keep on trying, He expects us to also allow others the space to do the same, at their own pace. The Atonement will come into our lives in even greater measure. We will then recognize that regardless of perceived differences, all of us are in need of the same infinite Atonement.

“I have varying levels of depression, and when I am really feeling down, I don’t want to do anything. Sometimes I just sit on the couch and watch TV, but I don’t really watch it—I just stare. Ultimately, I get a feeling that people don’t want to do anything with me, and I genuinely believe nobody should do anything with me when I am in that state. I just have zero motivation. I never thought I was depressed or that it affected me to the extent that it did until I got help.”

“Constant outreach helps. I find that it helps to have someone who is willing to listen. They don’t even necessarily need to understand what is being said, but it’s nice to have someone to validate my frustrations or thoughts.
“Trying to get myself out of one of my ‘gloomy’ moods had a lot to do with deciding to do so. I needed to decide whether I wanted to help myself or stay down. My medication helped, but it also helps to get out of the house and be around people—even going to the gym can help change my mood. The hardest part was realizing I had a condition and admitting it to someone else.”

“Alexander, please be quiet and put the bear away. It’s time for the sacrament.” Alexander put the bear back into his sister’s diaper bag and slumped down on the bench. I know I’m supposed to think about Jesus during the sacrament, he thought, but I don’t really know what to think about. Sometimes he tried to imagine what Jesus Christ looked like. Long hair, a beard, white clothes, and sandals, maybe with lots of straps. It seems like Jesus walked around a lot, he thought.
I walk a lot, too, he decided. I’d like walking home from school if it weren’t for Zachary. Why does he have to bother me? He’s always walking close behind me and stepping on my heels. One of these days, I’m going to clobber him. I’ll just turn around so fast, he won’t have time to duck, and I’ll whack him with my backpack. No, that would make Mom and Dad sad. What can—
The deacon brought the bread, and Alexander remembered that he was supposed to be thinking about Jesus Christ. He passed the tray along and tried to concentrate again. He remembered the words of a Primary song: “It shouldn’t be hard to sit very still And think about Jesus, his cross on the hill. … It shouldn’t be hard, even though I am small, To think about Jesus, not hard at all.”* He tried to picture the images in the song. He thought of the poster that Sister Behunin had made to teach them the words of the song. Sister Behunin always makes good posters, he decided.
He heard the priest begin the prayer on the water, and he closed his eyes and again tried to concentrate. “… that they do always remember him, that they may have his Spirit to be with them. Amen.”**
“Always remember him.” Remember what? It’s hard to remember something I don’t even know, Alexander thought.
After church, Dad reminded him that he was in charge of the lesson for family home evening and asked how it was going. “Do you need any help?”
Alexander hadn’t even started preparing. “Can you help me find out more about Jesus? I want to know what I’m supposed to remember about Him. You know, like in the sacrament prayers?”
“Well, what do you already know about Him?”
“Christmas … He slept in a manger. He got lost once as a boy. I think they found Him at the temple. He walked around a lot and talked to people. He got baptized. He died on the cross. He was resurrected. And He talks to the prophet today.”
“That’s good, Alexander. That’s all true. Now tell me about the Savior and you. Does He know your name?”
“Huh? Me? How would I know if Jesus knows my name?” Alexander tried to remember a story about Jesus talking to children.
“Why don’t you tell us about Jesus Christ and children for family home evening. I’ll help you find a few scriptures.”
Alexander was nervous about that. Sometimes it was hard for him to read the scriptures by himself. But he knew that Dad would help him, so he agreed. His dad showed him a few scriptures to read and told him to come and talk with him after reading them.
The next night, Alexander was ready for family home evening. First he told the Bible story from Mark 10:13–16, where Jesus’ disciples scolded the people for bringing children to the Savior and He told His disciples to let the children come to Him. He held them and blessed them.
Then, from 3 Nephi 17:11–13, 21 [3 Ne. 17:11–13, 21] in the Book of Mormon, Alexander told about Jesus Christ visiting the Nephites and inviting the children to come to Him. He waited until every child had been brought to Him. He prayed with them and blessed them one at a time. Alexander finished by bearing his testimony. “I am thankful for Jesus. I know that He loves me. I believe that He knows my name.”
The next week during the sacrament, Alexander listened to the prayer. Then he got out his Book of Mormon. He turned to 3 Nephi 17 [3 Ne. 17] and found the verses he had marked in red the week before. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine standing in a crowd and seeing the Savior. He imagined Jesus asking to see the children. He tried to imagine climbing up on Jesus’ lap and hugging Him and hearing Jesus say his name and give him a special blessing. He tried to think of what Jesus would say to him, and what they would talk about.
After church, Alexander’s mom told him she was proud of him for being so reverent during the sacrament. He didn’t say anything, but in his heart, there was a special warm feeling.

Before my mission, I was afraid my testimony wasn’t strong enough. No one in my family had ever served a mission, and I didn’t know if I could do it. I remember studying and praying desperately to receive a more certain witness of Jesus Christ. Then one day, as I pled with Heavenly Father, I felt a powerful sense of light and warmth. And I knew. I just knew.

The impact of distinguishing between the outward characteristics of an individual and the individual himself is central to the novel Les Misérables, by the French author Victor Hugo. As the novel opens, the narrator introduces Bienvenu Myriel, the bishop of Digne, and discusses a dilemma facing the bishop. Should he visit a man who is an avowed atheist and is despised in the community because of his past behavior in the French Revolution?
The narrator states that the bishop could naturally feel a deep aversion for the man. Then the narrator poses a simple question: “All the same, should the scabs of the sheep cause the shepherd to recoil?” Answering for the bishop, the narrator provides a definitive answer, “No”—and then adds a humorous comment: “But what a sheep!”
In this passage, Hugo compares the man’s “wickedness” with skin disease in sheep and compares the bishop with a shepherd who does not withdraw when faced with a sheep that is sick. The bishop is sympathetic and later in the novel demonstrates a similar compassion for another man, the main protagonist in the novel, a degraded ex-convict, Jean Valjean. The bishop’s mercy and empathy motivate Jean Valjean to change the course of his life.

On a warm summer day I visited the land of Adam-ondi-Ahman in the state of Missouri. I had looked forward to this visit with keen anticipation, for I had never been there before.
The place was beautiful: The fields were green, the hills were rolling, the entire landscape was something to remember.
But more impressive than the landscape was the significance of the place, for here Adam lived—and Eve—and their family. The stupendous importance of it all weighed heavily upon me.

One day, I was playing at a friend’s house. He took me to the next-door neighbor’s, and we destroyed some of his flowers.
The next day, my mom found out from the neighbor, an elderly man who lives alone after his wife died, what we had done. She told us that it was very wrong to do that. She told me that I had to make things better. She called it repentance.
She helped me write a letter to the man, apologizing for destroying his flowers. We also made him some banana bread. Then she told me that I had to take it to him. I was very scared, so my mom came with me.
When the man answered the door, I said that I was sorry and gave him the letter and banana bread. He was very surprised and happy that I had come. I felt very good after that.
My mom taught me a good lesson about how I must repent, no matter how hard it is, when I do something wrong.
Kye Heimonen, age 5Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, Canada

Can a clown fish from the Indian Ocean find happiness with an anemone from the Gulf of California? That is the question we asked ourselves as we watched our recently acquired Amphiprion bicinctus wriggle out of the plastic bag it had resided in for the past hour and into our aquarium. The salesman at the tropical fish store had assured us that the two of them would get along famously, but then that’s what he had also told us when we introduced a moray eel to our now seven-armed octopus!
The meeting in this instance was considerably less dramatic. After hovering around in an upper corner of the tank for a few minutes and being sized up by the other fish, the banded clown made her maiden voyage across the ten-foot expanse of our upstairs show tank. Scattered across this stretch of sand and coral are twelve different anemones that we have collected from the Gulf of California just south of Puerto Penasco, Mexico. We wondered which one the clown would choose for her own. Would it be one of the smaller reddish ones? Or would it be the large brown and purple one in the center of the tank? Or maybe several of them?
Throughout that first day we didn’t notice too much activity on the part of the clown fish directed toward any of the anemones. But then on the second day, we saw that she had taken up a semipermanent residence close by the large anemone near the center of the tank. And soon she was vigorously wriggling among the many tentacles of her newly claimed possession.
This close association between clown fish and anemones has been a topic of some controversy among observers of the symbiotic (living together) relationship for several years. It has usually been agreed that nestled among the tentacles of the anemone the clown is protected from its enemies. But what does the anemone reap from the association?
At various times it has been suggested that the clowns purposely provided anemones with food or even lured other fish toward the anemones’ grasping tentacles with their nematocysts (poisonous stingers). This view has been challenged, however, by the observation that although clown fish have been observed to bring large chunks of food to an anemone partner, they do not let the anemone eat it. Instead, they often tear at it as soon as the anemone has grasped it, feeding themselves with small portions they break away from the large chunk. In the end, the anemone is left with nothing.
Which view is true? We decided to find out for ourselves—and find out we did.
Our first step was to provide a suitable food source. A quick trip to a nearby pond supplied us with plenty of freshwater minnows. We introduced three of them to the tank. Immediately the water churned with activity as the community of marine fish began to subdivide the minnows for their lunch. But then, as if from out of nowhere, the banded clown darted into the melee and returned just as rapidly with one of the minnows intact in her mouth. The clown fish’s rapid wriggling reminded us all of the joyous wagging of a puppy’s tail as the puppy returns to its master with a stick it has retrieved.
Upon reaching the large brown and purple anemone, the clown fish actually shoved the minnow down into its outstretched tentacles. Immediately they responded to the stimulus and began to close about the prey. Assured that the minnow was securely trapped, the clown turned back to the fracas at the end of the tank. Once again she somehow managed to secure another minnow, and once again she wigwagged her way back to the blob of bloated protoplasm (organized living matter) that comprised the plump anemone. Plumper still with her second delivery, the anemone was soon to be truly gorged when the clown returned a third time with the last of the minnows.
On the following day, in the manner of true scientists, we proceeded to see if our observations were repeatable. And indeed they were. Not only did the clown fish again succeed in securing three minnows for the anemone, but she retrieved them when a sneaky Heniochus (pennant butterfly fish) stole them out of the anemone’s grip. And in no instance did the clown fish attempt to reclaim any of the minnows as her own.
It thus appears that the answer to our initial query about the banded clown and the displaced anemone is affirmative. An A. bicinctus can indeed find happiness with an anemone from the Gulf of California, and the association is most certainly mutually beneficial. What else can you say about a friend who brings you a three-course meal each day?