Gospel Story Finder

Tylor dressed and ate his breakfast as fast as he could. Today was Friday, and he had a very special mission.

Of all the things in the world that a boy could want, a tree house was what Tylor wanted most. He had wanted one as long as he could remember, but something had always stood in the way. One summer, his parents told him that he was too young. Another summer, they just couldn’t afford it. The next year looked good, but time ran out—his father had been too busy with work that summer.

But now, the summer of his ninth birthday, everything was arranged: Grandpa would supply all the wood. Mother had already helped Tylor save his pennies all year to buy the bright red paint for it. Father and he would build it tomorrow. And Cousin Hank would help paint it.

Only one thing still needed to be done. Tylor had to find some way to haul the wood from Grandpa’s lumberyard on the outskirts of town to Tylor’s house on Elm Street.

This was Tylor’s project today. He had received a wagon for a Christmas present a few years back and hadn’t played with it for at least a year. It had been put in the garage some time ago, and now it was loaded with old newspapers and magazines. Today Tylor would clean it out and use it to haul the wood from Grandpa’s lumberyard.

In no time, the wagon and Tylor were ready to depart. The only thing left to do was tell Mother that he was going. He found her on the back porch with two laundry baskets and a pillowcase full of dirty clothes.

“Oh, Tylor,” she said, “I’m glad you’re still here! The washer isn’t working, and I need to take these clothes to the laundromat. I can’t carry all of them by myself. Would you mind helping me before you get your wood?”

“Sure, Mom. We can load them into my wagon, and I’ll pull it. That way your hands will be free for Damion and Leslie.” (They were Tylor’s younger brother and sister.)

It didn’t take long to get the laundry finished, and Tylor was glad to help his mother, who was always doing things for him and everyone else in the family. After helping her carry the clean clothes into the house, there was still plenty of time to get the lumber. Tylor took the handle of his wagon and started down the street in the direction of his grandpa’s lumberyard.

After walking a few blocks, Tylor met Mr. Harper, an elderly man who had no children but who had always been kind to the children in the neighborhood. He owned an old go-cart that he allowed Tylor to ride on the weekends in exchange for running errands for him. Tylor liked Mr. Harper very much.

“You are just the person I wanted to see,” Mr. Harper told him. “I need a favor. Yesterday my fridge went on the blink and everything inside spoiled. I got it fixed this morning, but now I’m out of milk and I’m afraid my old cat won’t stand for that. Do you have time to run to the dairy for me?”

Although he was anxious to get to the lumberyard, Tylor had always been taught to help a friend in need, and Mr. Harper was a friend. “Sure thing, Mr. Harper. Can I leave my wagon here?”

“Of course.” The elderly man handed Tylor money for the milk.

When Tylor returned, he saw that Mr. Harper had filled his wagon with empty pop bottles. What a surprise!

“That’s for running to the dairy for me,” Mr. Harper told him. “I thought you could find some use for these.”

“Thanks a lot!” Tylor called as he turned the wagon around and headed for home. All the way, he imagined what he would buy with the money he’d get for turning the pop bottles in for cash.

He took the wagon into the garage and sat the bottles neatly on a shelf. Then he turned his wagon around and started off again.

He had only gone a few yards, when he noticed his little brother crying. For a moment he wanted to turn away. After all, it was getting late and he wanted to get to the lumberyard and back while he still had sunshine to play in. But he couldn’t go knowing that something was wrong with Damion. Tylor went over to him. “What’s wrong, Damion?”

Damion opened his hand to reveal several nickels. “All the kids are waiting for the ice-cream truck to buy an ice-cream treat, but I don’t have enough money.”

Tylor thought a moment. “I don’t have any money, either, but I know where we can get some. Come with me.”

Tylor and Damion reloaded the pop bottles into the wagon. After they had turned them in at the store, there was enough money for them and Leslie to all buy an ice-cream treat.

Tylor did not eat his right away. He put it into the freezer so that he could enjoy it later, after he was back with the lumber.

Pulling his wagon over cement, grass, dirt, and even railroad tracks, he finally arrived at the lumberyard. With Grandpa’s help, he loaded the lumber onto the wagon and tied it securely with a piece of old rope.

All the way home, he sang songs he had learned in Primary. He was very tired, and it was late. He knew that he wouldn’t have much time left for playing, but it didn’t matter. He was very happy. He had helped his mother, Mr. Harper, and his brother and still had time to get the lumber. As he smiled to himself, he realized that this feeling must be why Mother always had a smile on her face, too.

There was a dance that Saturday at the institute. Frank and I stood on the edge of the dance floor watching and waiting before we committed.

When two girls came in, Frank nudged me with his elbow. I’d seen them in church before, but hadn’t said anything to them or even smiled in their direction. They moved to the far edge of the dance floor and talked to each other as lively as two birds. Frank, bold as usual, walked over and I followed.

“What do you think of the dance?” asked Frank when he got to them. He was nodding too much. He wasn’t nervous very often.

They stopped talking and considered.

“We just got here,” one said.

“But it seems okay, I guess,” said the other.

“Good,” said Frank.

One girl reached behind her and began tapping her fingernail rhythmically on the wood molding of the wall.

I thought Frank would ask one of them to dance then, but he didn’t. Instead he put his hands in his pockets and leaned backward, reflectively, like a professor who thinks he has something really important to say.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve loved music since I was a kid—classical music, that is. And I’ve always wanted to play a concert. And next Saturday night at the auditorium I’m going to do that. And I’d like you both to come and bring any friends you want ’cause it’s free.”

They considered him for a few seconds. One pushed a few wisps of hair out of her face and smiled, nicely.

He repeated the request to about a dozen other people before the night was over.

I worried that week about Frank and the concert. Despite his love of music and his skill at teaching, I knew he wouldn’t lie about his playing. If he said his fingers moved like fish sticks, they probably did. I didn’t want to see Frank, so full of confidence, flattened by failure.

Then all of a sudden it was Saturday night, and Frank was walking out onto the stage. Under the lights and on the stage he didn’t look his typical fearless self. He seemed pale and wispy, like a crumpled tissue in a dark blue suit.

He raised his hands above the keyboard.

“You can do it, Fish Sticks,” I gasped under my breath.

He flipped the hair out of his eyes, mumbled something to the piano, and struck the first chord.

That night I walked with Frank back to the dorm. We were quiet for most of the way, but I knew it couldn’t last. Finally he asked.

“So, how was it?”

“What?” I played dumb, stalling.

“The concert, bozo. My concerto sans orchestra.”

“Oh, it was good,” I said quickly.

He grunted. “I got off tempo a few times,” he said.

“Ahh, no one noticed,” I lied.

“Seriously, I want you to tell me what you thought of it.”

I looked over at him.

“Well, I guess your playing could still use a little work,” I said.

“Yeah, I guess,” he admitted. He stuck his hands in his coat pockets. “It frustrates me sometimes—that I can’t play.”

“No, I didn’t say that.”

“No, I know. I can hear the music in my mind and I know how it’s supposed to come out, but it just doesn’t. Like tonight, Fish Sticks took over. I was halfway through and I wanted to climb up on top of that piano and jump up and down.”

I let out a little laugh and Frank looked over and began laughing too.

We rounded the bend and stopped under a streetlight, looking up at our dorm.

“So why didn’t you?” I asked.

He flipped his hair off his forehead to reveal raised eyebrows. “My students, most of them, were in the audience.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, tonight I shared something personal with them,” he said. “I showed them that Fish Sticks isn’t the greatest pianist in the world. And maybe that means they can mess up sometimes, too. You know, they can make mistakes. It’s okay.”

I waited for more.

“You remember the parable of the talents?” he asked.

I shrugged and nodded my head. “Sure. If you got it, use it—or lose it.”

“That’s the idea,” he said. “The servants who are given more talents use them, but the guy who gets only one talent buries it. And in the end, the Lord takes his talent away.

“Well, most of my students are around eight or nine, and if you ask them they’ll tell you they can play the piano—no problem. I bet if you ask them that same question in a few years—when they get into high school or college—they’ll probably say they can’t play. Most of them will lose their confidence, their belief in their talents.

“But I think the world needs more writers, and singers, and, uh, actors, and pianists. I want these kids to share their gifts with others. And I think they will if they know it’s okay to mess up once in a while on the way. That they don’t have to be the best.”

I smiled and told him, “You know, I was listening to music when I began to realize I really believed in God.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. I just realized that it was impossible for music as beautiful as Beethoven wrote to come out of nothing. There had to be something more to the universe. There had to be a God. It was soon after that experience that I started to investigate the Church.”

“And the people who were playing the music you listened to, well, someone had to believe in their talent. Someone had to be there when they played wrong notes to keep them going.”

Frank tilted his head, ready to sweep the hair out of his eyes, but stopped. Instead, he reached up and pulled his hair straight out.

“You know,” he said. “I just might get a haircut on Monday.”

I laughed. “You sure you feel okay?” I asked.

“I feel fine,” he said as he started to run toward the dorm. “Honest,” he called out. “I feel great.”

Frank Calio is a band teacher now. He lives in Idaho. When I called him to let him know I’d written his story he laughed. “Call the story ‘Fish Sticks,’” he said. “The kids at my school call me Old Fish Sticks. Every year I play a little at our school recital. I’m better than I was in college, but I still make mistakes and the kids get a good laugh. But they all know in my class it’s okay to mess up while they’re learning. I just want them to play music and to try hard. That’s all.”

Elder Monte J. Brough of the First Quorum of the Seventy tells of a summer at his childhood home in Randolph, Utah, when he and his younger brother, Max, decided to build a tree house in a large tree in the backyard. They made plans for the most wonderful creation of their lives. They gathered building materials from all over the neighborhood and carried them up to a part of the tree where two branches provided an ideal location for the house. It was difficult, and they were anxious to complete their work. The vision of the finished tree house provided tremendous motivation for them to complete the project.
They worked all summer, and finally in the fall just before school began for the new year, their house was completed. Elder Brough said he will never forget the feelings of joy and satisfaction which were theirs when they finally were able to enjoy the fruit of their work. They sat in the tree house, looked around for a few minutes, climbed down from the tree—and never returned. The completed project, as wonderful as it was, could not hold their interest for even one day. In other words, the process of planning, gathering, building, and working—not the completed project—provided the enduring satisfaction and pleasure they had experienced.

For example, Jessica Ocampo from Guatemala offered to watch her friend Lisbett’s son David while Lisbett served at Young Women camp. Jessica asked if there was anything she could do to help David during that time, and Lisbett said that David had never learned to ride a bike. Jessica invited her sons to help, and they taught David to ride a bike. They also knew that David was playing on the ward’s basketball team and preparing for a tournament, so they spent the day helping him prepare. David may not have gotten better at basketball in that one day, but, he said, “they showed me they really care.” He also added, “I still have the video on my phone when I learned to ride a bike.”

About 10 years ago I felt impressed to paint a portrait of the Savior. Though I am an artist, this felt a bit overwhelming. How was I to paint a portrait of Jesus Christ that captured His Spirit? Where was I to begin? And where would I find the time?
Even with my questions, I decided to move forward and trust that the Lord would help me. But I had to keep moving and leave the possibilities to Him. I prayed, pondered, researched, and sketched and was blessed to find help and resources. And what was a white canvas started to become something more.
The process wasn’t easy. Sometimes it didn’t look as I had hoped. Sometimes there were moments of inspired strokes and ideas. And many times, I just had to try again and again and again.
When I thought the oil painting was finally complete and dry, I began to apply a transparent varnish to protect it from dirt and dust. As I did, I noticed the hair in the painting start to change, smear, and dissolve. I quickly realized that I had applied the varnish too soon, that part of the painting was still wet!
I had literally wiped away a portion of my painting with the varnish. Oh, how my heart sank. I felt as though I had just destroyed what God had helped me to do. I cried and felt sick inside. In despair, I did what anyone would typically do in a situation like this: I called my mother. She wisely and calmly said, “You won’t get back what you had, but do the very best you can with what you’ve got.”
So I prayed and pled for help and painted through the night to repair things. And I remember looking at the painting in the morning—it looked better than it did before. How was that possible? What I thought was a mistake without mend was an opportunity for His merciful hand to be manifest. He was not done with the painting, and He was not done with me. What joy and relief filled my heart. I praised the Lord for His mercy, for this miracle that not only saved the painting but taught me more about His love and power to save each of us from our mistakes, weaknesses, and sins and to help us become something more.

I was late! I threw on a nice dress, grabbed a hair tie, drove to church, parked, and hurried inside. Whew! I found a seat on the stand just as the bishop got up to start sacrament meeting.
I was speaking that Sunday, so I quickly looked over my notes, making sure I didn’t forget anything. In no time at all, it seemed like the sacrament meeting was over, and I was going to Sunday School. Another sacrament success!
But was it?
Over the next week I began to wonder. Another Sunday rolled around, and as I sat in sacrament meeting, considering what the sacrament meant to me, a thought hit me: I recommit each week to always remember Jesus Christ, but how seriously was I doing that?
I wanted to change, so I decided to come up with a weekly plan.
During the week, I would spend time considering my behavior and asking forgiveness for my sins. I would also make sure to arrive early to church so I could listen to the prelude music and feel the Spirit.
During the sacrament, I would remember Jesus Christ and His Atonement. I’d prayerfully review what I did right and what I did wrong. I’d ask myself, "Lord, what lack I yet?" (see Matthew 19:20).
Every day after the sacrament, I would pray for help to improve and to remember Christ.
As I followed my plan, I grew to really love the sacrament! I loved praying to Heavenly Father and talking with Him about my life. Regardless of my behavior the past week, I was always grateful for Jesus Christ’s Atonement and the opportunity to change and become better. Now I’ve learned that the sacrament isn’t just for Sundays; it’s for every day.

I normally would have avoided him—a worn-down man playing a game of cards at a table in the play area of a local fast-food restaurant. He had a soft smile on his sad countenance as he watched the children play. “He must be warming himself from the cold,” I thought as I passed his table to throw away my daughter’s half-eaten meal. As I noticed his table, bare of any food wrappers or paper cups, the still, small voice whispered to me, “Buy him some food.”
I returned to my table with some cash still in my pocket. “I’ll embarrass him,” I told myself. Then a feeling of peace came, and the Spirit’s sweet whispering stilled me: “Buy him some food.”
I didn’t tell my children what I was doing; I just picked up some trash and went to throw it away so I could get near the man’s table without letting my friend who I was eating with know.
I leaned in and asked, “Can I buy you some lunch?”
He looked startled and softly replied, “If you want to.”
I pulled out the small amount of cash I had left—just enough for a meal and a drink—and gave it to the man. I returned to my seat, undiscovered by the busy moms around me, and watched the man get up to buy his meal.
As I loaded my children into the car to go home, I looked through the window and saw the man carrying a tray of food back to his empty table. On his once-solemn face was a smile.
The winter breeze blowing against my face didn’t feel quite so cold. I basked in the warm, joyful Spirit that filled me from my boots to my frozen ponytail. I remembered the teaching of the Savior:
“For I was an hungered, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink …
“Then shall the righteous answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungered, and fed thee? or thirsty, and gave thee drink? …
“And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me” (Matthew 25:35, 37, 40).
I am thankful for the smile of a stranger that helped me find the courage to do what is right.

It is related of Spinola and Richardet, the ambassadors sent by the king of Spain to negotiate a treaty at the Hague in Holland in 1608, that one day they saw about eight or ten persons land from a little boat and, sitting down upon the grass, proceed to eat a meal of bread, cheese, and drink.
“Who are those travelers?” asked the ambassadors of a peasant.
“These are our worshipped masters, the deputies from the state,” was his reply.
Spinola at once whispered, “These are not men to be conquered.” (From Happy Homes and the Hearts That Make Them by Samuel Smiles.)

Here is one letter that points out many of the problems with starting to think seriously about one person too soon:
“When I was 14, I decided that pairing up with one ‘special’ boyfriend wasn’t ‘dating,’ so it was okay. It began as a way to be more popular, but soon I was lying to my parents so I could spend time alone with him. Over the ten months we were together, my testimony was slowly weakened, and eventually I had problems with the law of chastity. Since then I’ve talked with my bishop and repented, but it was a long, difficult, and painful process. I hurt myself, my parents, and the Lord. It opened the door to many other temptations bit by bit and made the important things in life seem foolish, and the wrong things appear right. My parents and bishop showed me nothing but love as they tried to help me return to the Lord’s favor. How much I wish I’d had the strength when I was 14 to stand alone and be different!”

Daniel Larsen, 18, of the Cascade Park Ward, Vancouver Washington Stake, returned to visit Gresham, Oregon, the area he’d served in. Nina Low, a woman he’d met while he was a minimissionary, was getting baptized and wanted him to be there. “It’s the fifth baptism I’ve been involved in because of my minimission,” he said.

“The work to be done in any given area of the mission field is almost beyond comprehension,” he continued. “But when members get involved, give referrals, and open up their homes for teaching appointments, it helps the full-time missionaries a great deal. Not only that, it also establishes friendships between members and investigators, friendships that will continue after the missionaries are gone.
Dan said his short-term mission set to rest many of his misconceptions about full-time missionary service.

“At first I was quite shy,” he continued. “But you meet so many people. And with each one it gets easier to talk and develop conversations. I thought I’d never be able to teach people about the gospel. But I found out missionaries can teach people if they make themselves ready to teach.”

What really sticks in Dan’s memory is how devoted the missionaries were. “You see a lot more this way than you do on ‘splits.’ There, you’re just with the elders for a few hours. Here, you’re doing what they do, 24 hours a day, without worrying about going home in a little while.”

Dan wasn’t the only one to be involved in baptisms during a minimission. Brian Wallen, 16, a priest in the Castle Rock Ward, Longview Washington Stake, served in Beaverton, Oregon, for three weeks, witnessing two baptisms and performing one.

“The missionaries had been teaching Mike, 15, and Joe, 16, for a while before I got there. They’re football players, and they were always talking about weight lifting. I’ve lifted weights, too, and since we’re in the same age group, we had a lot in common. When we talked about the gospel, they seemed to accept my ideas and my testimony. They were baptized the second week I was there.
“And then I got to baptize Amy Beth Valence. She’s nine years old. It made me feel great to use my priesthood. I didn’t expect to baptize anyone during a three-week mission!”

Michael Oja, 18, of the Astoria (Oregon) Ward, Longview Washington Stake, met Mission President John A. Larsen following a fireside.

“Son,” President Larsen said, “I think you’d make a great minimissionary.”

By mid-July, Mike was in Oregon City, working with the missionaries assigned to the Cambodian branch. “With the help of a translator, the missionaries taught them lessons on the plan of salvation. I met a lot of wonderful converts and helped share the gospel with their families and friends.

“It’s not like an eight-hour job, where you go home when your time’s up. Sometimes it’s a real long day. But after a while, you start to see that you’re helping people. Their lives start to change, and you get to see it happen.”

Mike learned something about his wardrobe, too. “I hadn’t thought much about it before, but if I’m going on a mission, I ought to be buying clothing now that I can use then. I’m saving up for suits and white shirts.”

The day before he was to return home, Mike was interviewed again by President Larsen.

“One of the neat things about going on a minimission is that you get to know the mission president. You can tell he’s with you all the way,” Mike said.

President Larsen, who is himself a man of considerable stature, says the idea behind minimissions is simple.

“Our goal is to give every young member a chance to become acquainted with what it really means to be a missionary,” he said. “We have seen that young men who associate directly with missionary work before they turn 19 have an excellent chance of serving a full-time mission when they do turn 19. We are also trying to involve all of the youth, not just the young men, in sharing the gospel wherever and whenever they can.”

The youth of the Rockwood Ward of the Gresham Oregon Stake demonstrated that sort of involvement by organizing a different type of missionary activity within the boundaries of their own ward—a missionary weekend.

“They weren’t called to a teaching mission,” said stake mission leader Greg Meacham. “That’s the full-time missionaries’ job. But they were asked to help the missionaries by finding people who seemed genuinely interested in the gospel.”

A group of about 20 young men and women arrived at the stake center at 6:30 P.M. on a Friday night. They were assigned to a “partner” rather than a companion, to a “mission home” (a member’s house where they would spend the night), and to one of the “zones” the ward had been divided into, where they would concentrate their efforts the next day.

All participants were given a list of “mission rules,” which included instructions like “Never leave your partner. Do not accept car rides without prior approval. Avoid shopping malls and stores. Avoid all contention and compromising situations,” and many other regulations.

A training session Friday night included a description of missionary life and suggestions about how to be courteous when calling at someone’s home. It was followed by a “partner study session” prior to lights out at 10:30.

Saturday morning began with “partner scripture study” and prayers, followed by breakfast. Then, with permission from President Larsen, full-time missionaries from nearby areas joined the youth to go door to door, talking about the Church with neighbors who might not have otherwise heard about it. The missionaries usually took two or more teenagers with them, especially when the teenagers were young or inexperienced. Only full-time missionaries were allowed to do any teaching, and they decided whether or not to accept an invitation to enter someone’s home.

“We had one of the older sister missionaries with us, and she was able to answer a lot of questions for people,” said Cathy Spencer, 14. “Even though she’s a grandmother, she was as excited as we were.”

“We handed out copies of A Marvelous Work and a Wonder,” said Susan Spencer, 17.

“We wanted to get everyone in the community talking about it,” her friend Amy Lyles, 18, added. “In one day, my partner and I found ten families who accepted a book and said they would read it. I was surprised at how many people listened to what we had to say.”

Aaron Miller, 13, the deacons quorum president, and Jay Fabian, 13, his first counselor, also participated in the weekend activity.

Aaron found out quickly that the missionaries were in earnest. “They wouldn’t let you goof around at all. They made you go to every door, even if it looked like no one was home.”

Jay said, “At first it was hard. But then once you got started, it got better. I felt real good when somebody took a book and said they’d read it.” With the help of one full-time missionary, the two young men distributed 11 books.

Doug Miller, the ward mission leader, felt the youth missionary weekend was a bona fide success. “The local missionaries increased their investigator pool threefold. One sister has since been baptized, and an inactive brother reactivated as a result of what the young people did that day.”

“The missionary weekend idea started with the Second Ward. Then this ward did it, and now we’re thinking of implementing it on a stake basis,” Brother Meacham said.

Of course, in addition to minimissions and missionary weekends, the youth of the Oregon Portland Mission contribute to sharing the gospel in more traditional ways.

Kim Clark, 19, and her sister Christy Ann, 17, of the North Bend Ward, Coos Bay Oregon Stake, have helped bring 18 of their friends into the Church in the past two years.

“Dennis and Lorry were friends of ours,” Christy said. “Kim knew Lorry from work and I knew Dennis from school. I was talking about our youth temple trip to Seattle, and Dennis said, ‘What’s that?’

“I told him about temple work, baptisms for the dead, and being sealed to your family. He said, ‘I want to be baptized so I can go to the temple.’”

Christy called the missionaries that night.

Meanwhile, at work, Kim was talking with Lorry.

“I said, ‘Do you go to Church?’ and that started us talking,” Kim explained. “Since I’m the stake Young Adult rep, it was easy to invite her to a Young Adult conference, then to church. I introduced her to the missionaries, and soon both Dennis and Lorry were having the missionary discussions.” Within two weeks, both were baptized.

Another time, Kim and Christy’s 13-year-old cousin and her parents dropped in unannounced from Los Angeles.

“They invited us out to dinner and we talked about the Church,” Christy said. “Our cousin seemed really interested, and her parents said it was okay for her to listen to the missionaries.”

Kim told about a home evening during which the missionaries taught about Christ, baptism, and temple work. “She was excited about her family being sealed together,” Kim said.

Now the cousin is being baptized. “And she’s working on her parents too,” Christy said.

“It doesn’t just have to be adults who are responsible for getting their families sealed,” Kim said. “Share the gospel with children and teenagers, and their parents may get interested too.”

Back in Gresham, where her family lives now, Sean O’Connor’s 19-year-old sister, Erin, remembered the example young Latter-day Saints set for her when, at 15, she had just moved to The Dalles, Oregon, from Oklahoma.

“They were all so friendly,” she said. “I kept wondering how these people could care so much about somebody they didn’t even know. But what impressed me the most was how close they were to their families.

“I guess there’s a lot you can say about studying hard and having the Spirit, and working, and everything else. All those things are vital. But for me, the number one ingredient in missionary work is example. It’s the way you live. There’s just no substitute for that.”

Youth missionary service is provided in a number of different ways in the Oregon Portland Mission. But one thing is sure—every young member has the opportunity to do something. And whether the service provided is through everyday example, through missionary weekends, or through a minimission, the joy of sharing the gospel is always at a maximum.

“A Book of Mormon with your picture and testimony inside keeps sharing even after you leave.”
—Cathy Spencer, 14Gresham, Oregon

“They seemed to accept my testimony. They were baptized the second week I was there.”
—Brian Wallen, 16Castle Rock, Washington

“The number one ingredient in missionary work is example. There’s just no substitute for that.”
—Erin O’Connor, 19Gresham, Oregon

“Share the gospel with teenagers, and parents see the example and get interested too.”
—Kim, 19, and Christy Clark, 17Coos Bay, Oregon

It all started with a dream to help critically ill children in London’s Royal Marsden Hospital. With the intent of giving service in a way that could make a real difference, 50 young LDS teens from the Staines England Stake set out on an incredible service project that resulted in what some called a miracle.
They planned and produced an evening of entertainment, the “MGM Spectacular.” The initials stand for Marsden’s Glorious Musical. The miraculous part of the project was the fact that in addition to raising money for the hospital, the LDS teens helped the young patients participate and perform in the production. For many of these children, this theatrical experience was a once-in-a-lifetime event. Sarah Burlinson of the Tunbridge Wells Ward, Kent England Stake, said, “The children really looked happy, and I know that they enjoyed it as well.”
The show was intended as a family event. Besides the LDS youth, the critically ill outpatients and their brothers and sisters performed in song and dance. The LDS teens wanted to offer these children a chance to forget their difficulties for a day and feel the joy of being involved in service. The money raised was used to buy needed equipment for their own hospital. And they threw themselves into the project with energy. Catherine Wittle of the Guilford Ward said, “The sick kids were a great example to us. They were so determined to do well.”
The combination of dedicated LDS youth with enthusiastic children made for a remarkable evening. The project was linked with a charity called Kids Count. The group also received help from London’s Capital Radio.
But the performance was preceded by 18 months of hard work. To earn the money necessary to hire the hall, create the costumes, and print the tickets and programmes, the stake youth held car washes, sponsored hikes and bake sales, and held a summer festival. At times it was discouraging, especially after well-made plans fell through, but then the phrase, “The show must go on,” was heard around the stake.
Everyone understood that the proceeds of this show were to serve an important purpose. “The show was a lot of fun to put together and perform,” said Alison Youngberg of the Addlestone Branch, “but the best part was knowing that we were raising money that would save the children’s lives.”
On the night of the performance, the show was a great success. The near-capacity audience was thoroughly entertained. Standing on stage that evening, Amber Travers of the Kingston Ward said, “When we all sang the closing song on stage, there was a really good feeling, a feeling of total unity and friendliness.”
A cheque for nearly £2000 (about $3,214) was donated. Beth Sepion, representing the hospital, said that the show was the most touching and innovative way she had ever seen to raise money. For the Staines Stake youth, it was a chance to learn how much fun service can be and how great things can come from that which is small.

Sixteen-year-old Jenny Bales gathered her three charges and placed them around the park table to eat their lunch. Her stomach was sending hurry signals to her hands to open her own bag. Lunches were usually quiet, and after a hard morning it gave her time to think. The deep pain was still resting just past her empty stomach. She would try to understand it a little more today.
She pulled an apple from her sack and looked across the table only to see Scotty Redman staring at her, frustration wrinkling his face into a frown.
Angrily, he slapped his square-fingered hand on the park table and cried, “Make it stop, Miss Baoes! Make da win stop! I don like it. My bag bow away.”
Jenny listened to a boy a year older than her wail like a small child. She felt a small knot replace the hunger pains in her stomach. In the last two months she had worked with Down’s Syndrome children. They each had a unique personality. With Scotty, when his world tilted too far, you had to shift it back, or he cried, sulked, threw things, or sat stubbornly against the wall. In the classroom, you found the missing crayon or helped him find a project. But stopping the wind was impossible. Scotty didn’t know this, and explaining it to him wouldn’t help.
“The win bow my bag away. Make it stop right now!”
That wind won’t blow your bag away, she thought. Just sit on it. But Jenny knew that wouldn’t work either. When Scotty ate his lunch, the bag had to be on the table to the left of his food. Order. Things like they were supposed to be. That’s what he needed. She had wanted time today to think about her own pain, but she knew Scotty would not stop unless she did something.
“Make da win stop,” he said. This time fire sparked in his eyes.
“Boy, you’re stubborn,” she whispered to herself. She felt the muscles in her left shoulder tighten in defense. One of Uncle Jed’s sayings sifted into her mind: “Stubborn is just determination headed the wrong way.”
That reminded her of Uncle Jed. Last spring he had suggested she find a summer job where she could look out at people and not into herself so much. “It’d be good to surround yourself with some joy,” he had said.
“I’d like that,” Jenny had said as they walked along the sidewalk in front of her house. She thought it might be fun working at the water slide. At least there she could see people, families, having fun.
“There are some openings for summer youth counselors at Parkhaven,” Uncle Jed said.
“Parkhaven? That’s for retarded children isn’t it?” That didn’t sound very joyful to her.
Uncle Jed stopped walking. He turned to face her and then smiled. With his characteristic softness he said, “Do you remember the New Testament story about the pool at Bethesda and the handicapped folks who waited for someone to move the water so they could be healed?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember who they waited for?”
“An angel, wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Some people have to wait for angels to help them while they are in their imperfect bodies. Actually, we’re all defective one way or the other. But because of the Savior and what he did in the Resurrection, we’ll eventually be wrapped with glory. Can you imagine how glad those children at Parkhaven are going to be when that happens? Now, though, while they wait for the time their bodies will become perfect, the children at Parkhaven have need of angels to soothe their spirits while they cope with bodies that don’t work as well as yours and mine.”
Jenny had felt uneasy about working with handicapped children. She was handicapped too, she thought—emotionally. She wanted someone to take care of her, not the other way around. But in the past she had trusted Uncle Jed’s gift of seeing things clearly when others couldn’t, so she took the job.
The first few days she felt nervous around the children. She fell into sympathy, nearly immobilized by what she imagined was their pain. She began to see, though, mighty spirits peeking through their disabilities. And she saw they persisted. She also learned that they didn’t need someone to feel sorry for them. They needed someone who saw them as valuable and capable. They needed help, like the rest of us. The only difference was sometimes they had trouble getting others to understand what kind of help or how to give it. But then again, Jenny had begun to think, maybe that wasn’t so different from the rest of us.
The demands of the job caused her to collapse on her bed at the end of each day. But she felt a new strength breaking through her own pain.
She looked across the table again. Scotty’s tongue darted down to his chin, across his lips and disappeared into his frown. His hands stayed wrapped around the top of the lunch bag. In the classroom things had order, she thought, but here the wind blew.
He slapped his chunky palms on the table again. “Make da win stop—now,” he yelled. His face turned beet red.
She hadn’t seen Scotty this disturbed before. She felt a little frightened and wondered what would happen if she couldn’t distract him or change his mind. But worse than the fear of what he might do, his stubbornness and anger grated still tender wounds. It felt too much like when Mom and Dad had separated. Six eternal months ago. Impasse. No solution. They had been stubborn. They still were.
When she let herself, she could still hear the echoes of the fights, the name calling, the doors slamming. As terrible as those were, they were better than the deafening silences that followed. Her world had tilted, and her order slid out of control.
She often wondered if Dad’s business failure was the real cause of the trouble. All she knew for sure was that it seemed to start when the money wasn’t there any more. No new clothes. Bill collectors on the phone and at the door. For a month after the separation she sulked, mad at the world, mad at her parents, and mad at Heavenly Father. Stubborn was the reason the family was apart now. Mom and Dad both demanding that something change, when it couldn’t. Stubborn—like Scotty, only worse. They knew better. They went to church, they used to pray, and the family used to work. Scotty was stubborn. They chose it. The anger was back. If she wasn’t careful, it would come pouring out, out of control like it sometimes did. It would land on Scotty and that wasn’t fair.
It was plain though that Scotty wasn’t going to eat lunch unless she made the wind stop. Maybe if she said a prayer. The divorce had taught her about prayer. When her parents first separated, she almost blamed Heavenly Father for the pain she was feeling. At night she muffled her sobs with a tear-soaked pillow until she fell asleep. In the morning she was never sure if it was anger, or loss, or confusion that greeted her first. Finally, though, when it was all more than she could bear, she had learned to ask for help, and the Savior’s healing hand would touch her heart for a moment while he retrieved from some lost corner of darkness, her peace—the peace that kept slipping away, but not so fast anymore.
So, she said a silent prayer. Then she told Scotty about the new pink dress she bought last Saturday—and waited for the wind to stop. His pudgy square fingers continued their grip on the top of the lunch bag. She finished her story and looked up to see the branches moving back and forth in the gusting wind. “I didn’t think that was the kind of prayer you’d answer, Heavenly Father, but what am I supposed to do?” she muttered under her breath. Then she remembered.
Jenny stood up and walked around to Scotty’s side of the table. His eyes drew a bead on her, every step she took. She sat down next to him then reached an arm around him. “Scotty, I’ve tried to make the wind stop, and I can’t. But I can be here.” He looked back into her eyes like he really wanted to understand. “I’ll sit right by your side while the wind blows. I promise. And if it blows your sack away, I can bring it back. Together we’ll keep things in order.”
Scotty’s tongue flicked again down to his chin. His hands loosened their grip on the sack. He opened it, pulled out a peanut butter sandwich, three carrot sticks, and a chocolate chip cookie. Then he set the bag to the left of his food. The wind blew and the bag flew away three times while he ate. But every time Jenny was there and brought it back to him. And every time he put it right back where it was supposed to be.

As he plows his farm today, Paulo still tries to plant gospel seeds by singing hymns for his neighbors, and he still travels 40 kilometers to church in Guarapuava. But now he travels with Rita and their son, Saulo, at his side, and rather than leave early Sunday morning, they take the last bus of the week late Friday night. After spending the weekend associating with the Saints and attending Sunday meetings, they return by bus to the farm on Monday morning—happy to have gone where the Lord would have them go.

In 2007 the University of Washington invited me to a banquet honoring its female athletes. I had played tennis at the university 44 years earlier, and my tennis partner and I had won the Northwest championship in doubles. At the banquet I would be recognized for my achievement.
On our way to the dinner, my husband and I picked up Lynda, a friend from our days as students. She was also the one who introduced me to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints when I was 33. Together we enjoyed seeing our former campus and old friends.
However, when I went to pick up a packet and name tag prior to the banquet, I was disappointed to discover that printed on them was the name “Sharon Krull,” not Sherry Krull. “Oh, well,” I thought, and I crossed out Sharon and wrote Sherry instead. But the mistake continued through the night. Later in the evening, when the host introduced me as an award recipient, he called me “Sharon.” The plaque he handed me also included the error.
It wasn’t a huge problem; I was grateful to have been invited to the banquet, and the people in charge of the event promised to replace the plaque with one bearing the correct name.
The next day was Easter Sunday. My husband and I had spent Good Friday at the temple and had spent much time during the week pondering the Savior’s last days on earth. But the most powerful part of Easter that year came during sacrament meeting, when our bishop made this statement: “How grateful I am that the Lord knows my name.”
I felt a great joy come over me. As much as I had enjoyed the previous evening, the happiness I felt at this truth far outweighed anything I felt from receiving “the honors of men.”
My life changed then, at my baptism and confirmation, and it changed again that powerful Easter morning when I received the witness that Heavenly Father and the Savior really do know our names. I cannot fully express the joy that it is to know Heavenly Father and the Savior—and to know that They know me.

Today, the difference between who I was then and who I am now is immense. From September 2024 to April 2025, I took various small jobs to cover basic expenses while coaching gave me motivation and taught me discipline. I wanted to create professional opportunities for myself, so I registered for three different exams: prison guard, professional tourism qualification, and a SEFI (a local employment agency) training program.
Thanks to my faith in God, my perseverance, and my coaching sessions, I now hold a professional qualification in tourism. I passed the entry exams for the prison guard role, and I’m currently enrolled in “Business Creator and Manager” training, an intensive three-month program. Opportunities are opening up for me!
On a personal level, I’m now reflecting on finding my eternal companion, someone to build my eternal family with. Putting Christ at the centre of my life has become a clear and natural choice.
Coaching has had a powerful impact on my life. Without those regular sessions, I would still be lost—trapped in fear, doubt, and lack of self-confidence. Today, I know what I want. I’m ready to move forward. And I can finally say that I’m proud of myself and the path I’ve walked, even though it’s been filled with trials.
With the Lord by my side and inspiring people like my coach, I know where I’m headed. I can’t wait to have the ideal job so I can, in turn, give back and thank those who supported me when I had nothing. That truly means a lot to me.

Let me tell you an experience of the girl who later became my wife. At one time she was a member of a stake Sunday School board. As such, it was her responsibility to instruct teachers in a union meeting class. The lesson for a particular session was the Prophet’s vision of the Father and the Son. She was aware that in the class there would be a graduate from the University of Idaho who was not a Latter-day Saint and who did not believe the gospel. It occurred to her that the account of the Father and the Son’s coming to the Prophet Joseph Smith would not be accepted by this educated, refined, and lovely woman. Thinking about it, she became greatly disturbed. She was not sure that she herself knew it was true. She was so distraught that she sought out her mother. Weeping she said, “Mother, I can’t give that lesson. I don’t know that Joseph Smith had that vision. That woman will laugh at me and ridicule me.”
Her mother was not an educated woman, but she did have a testimony. She said to her daughter, “You know how the Prophet got the vision, don’t you?”
“Yes,” answered her daughter, “he got it by praying to God for wisdom.”
“Why don’t you try that?” said the mother to her daughter.
The daughter went to her room and tried it; she “wrestled” with God, as did Enos. The result was that she went to that union meeting and gave the lesson convincingly, with power beyond her natural abilities. How could she do it? Well, the Holy Spirit came to her in response to her inquiry. She received a burning within her soul. She knew that Joseph Smith had seen the vision, as well as he knew it. She had not seen exactly the same things with her eyes that the Prophet saw, but she had the same knowledge. She knew from Joseph Smith’s description what he had seen, and she had a witness from the Holy Ghost that his account was true.

When I attended stake conference that morning in March 1993, I had no idea how much my life—and the lives of my ancestors—would be affected.
Along with other members of the Brazil Santos Stake, I was enjoying the conference. Then, near the end of the meeting, a sister’s talk especially stirred something within me. She spoke about family history work.
My friend, Silmara Peres, was also strongly moved by the Spirit. At the end of the meeting, we approached one of the people responsible for family history work in our stake and volunteered to help with the family records extraction program.
The following Tuesday, the two of us went to the stake building to begin our new assignment. After we received our training, we began the work of extracting names and dates from microfilmed records so that the saving ordinances of the gospel could be performed in the temple for the people listed in the records.
Someone else was there working on a roll of microfilm. He graciously let us continue the roll he was working on, so that we could get started immediately.
We had just begun—we had extracted only two names—when I found myself reading the names of my great-grandparents! At first I was doubtful. Could this be a coincidence? We asked the supervisor what city these microfilmed records had come from. Noticing our excitement, she returned the microfilm to the beginning, where it showed the name of the town: Itirapina.
Silmara and I looked at each other in amazement. During a recent vacation with our bishop and his family, we had visited Itirapina. I had wanted to see the town because it was the place my father had come from. Now, as we looked at the names and dates on the microfilm, we knew that we really had found my ancestors! I was overcome with emotion, gratitude, and testimony. Now temple work could be done for them.
Since then, Silmara and I have continued to make this work a part of our lives, and our testimonies have increased. Every week we go to the stake building and give this service. As we extract names from the microfilms, we know that we are serving the Lord, for now these people can also be baptized and receive temple ordinances.
We are finding that this is not only a service—it is a blessing.

In 2019, one of the missionaries who found and invited us to follow our Saviour, Jesus Christ, told my wife, Lupe, and me a story. He said that in 1990, he and his companion knelt in prayer, seeking to know the will of the Lord. They were led to a particular street where they knocked on every door, but no one wanted to hear their message.
As they were about to leave, he felt impressed to go back and try again. Obedient, they began knocking on the same doors they had knocked on before, and when they got to the sixth house, I was sitting outside. So began my knowledge of the gospel of Jesus Christ.

By the end of May 1829, the same kind of persecution Joseph had experienced in Manchester began occurring in Harmony, and Joseph realized he would need to move again to complete the translation. Along with his wife, Emma, and his scribe, Oliver Cowdery, Joseph was taken into the household of some acquaintances: Peter and Mary Whitmer of Fayette Township, New York.

Mary Whitmer was shown the plates by a heavenly messenger. As far as we know, she never committed her experience to writing. But Mary shared her experience with her children and grandchildren, who later shared it with others. Her grandson John C. Whitmer related, “I have heard my grandmother (Mary M. Whitmer) say on several occasions that she was shown the plates of the Book of Mormon by an holy angel.”

Her son David said that “she was met out near the yard by [an] old man.” Grandson John said this man was “carrying something on his back that looked like a knapsack” and that “at first she was a little afraid of him.” However, “when he spoke to her in a kind, friendly tone and began to explain to her the nature of the work which was going on in her house, she was filled with unexpressible joy and satisfaction.”

John provided further detail on the wonderful witness of the sacred record that Mary received at that time: “He then untied his knapsack and showed her a bundle of plates. … This strange person turned the leaves of the book of plates over, leaf after leaf, and also showed her the engravings upon them; the personage then suddenly vanished with the plates, and where he went, she could not tell.”

John stated: “I knew my grandmother to be a good, noble and truthful woman, and I have not the least doubt of her statement in regard to seeing the plates being strictly true. She was a strong believer in the Book of Mormon until the day of her death.”

Mary Elizabeth sat in the July shade of the ferryboat landing’s rough wooden overhang, her head resting peacefully against Isadora, the ox her father used to draw his ferry back and forth across the Fox River. The huge animal was harnessed to one end of a horizontal pole; the pole’s other end was fitted into a revolving stone wheel about which the ferry cable was wound. It was Mary Elizabeth’s responsibility to lead the old ox around its well-trodden path when the ferry was in use.
Mary Elizabeth let her fingers move up the length of Isadora’s great horns. They felt strong and smooth and warm like the now-rubbed-worn railing her father had built long ago onto the sides of the landing to keep her from falling off. As long as she could remember, she had liked to sit on the edge of the jetty and dangle her feet in the water that ran cool and deep through the hot, towering redrock gorges. She’d tilt her head and listen for the lonely screech of a circling hawk, for the wind whining through the sandstone pinnacles above the cottonwoods across the water, and for the faint, scolding squeals of a prairie dog in one of the invisible washes beyond the skyline.
This afternoon Mary Elizabeth’s attention was fixed on the red cliffs across the easy roll of water. She tried to imagine what red was really like. It must be warm, she thought, because Mother often says that the evening sun looks as red as the earth here in southern Utah where we live.
Mary Elizabeth wondered a lot about things—more than most, perhaps, because she had been born blind. Though she lived in a perpetual nighttime, in her nine years she had come to know better than many people the earth beneath her feet and the secrets of life that flourished upon it in reverent profusion. She had developed her other senses to detect the finer sounds and smells, and her hands were always reaching out … touching … feeling life as she found it.
She knew well the melodies of God made in the windy wood just down from Red Owl Ridge and the hymns of the leaves that whispered to her ears. She detected the delicate scent of a wildflower on a windless day and the wee rustling in the greasewood when a jackrabbit scampered by.
It was the little things that she enjoyed most: the wet tickle of Isadora’s nose, the friendly sound of lapping water against the mossy landing timbers, the softness of the newborn fawn that Father had found, and the gentle music of the white-throated swift.
Most of all, Mary Elizabeth enjoyed being with Father. His strong arms could split wood with one stroke of his big broadax, or they could gently sweep her up onto his big, powerful shoulders. He would carry her to where the dirt was soft between her toes, and as they sat amid the fluttering sounds of aspens, his soft, easy voice would spin a tale. Or he would talk about something that Bishop Andrews had said on Sunday or about how good it was to see Brother Nielson’s boy baptized in the Fox River or about how Mother’s smile could light up the whole world.
Mary Elizabeth had felt that wondrous smile with her fingertips more than once. It was as soft as lace and every bit as smooth and warm and constant as the earth beneath her feet.
The young girl had accepted her blindness as a part of life, a part of God’s plan for her. Her mother had said that a body should not brood over something that couldn’t be changed, and Mary Elizabeth believed her.
Now as a wagon neared, the blind girl sensed a kind of penetrating sorrow. It seeped through her contentment and challenged her peace of mind.
Mary Elizabeth heard her father welcome the wagon’s occupants, Mr. and Mrs. Styles. Then he said hello to their son, Joshua. Once, when Mary Elizabeth had asked her mother why the Styleses used the ferry so often, she had been told that they took their boy to a doctor for treatment at a settlement upriver.
“What’s wrong with him?”
Mother had been quiet for a moment, then explained that Joshua had a disease called leukemia and that he was dying.
Suddenly Mary Elizabeth began to comprehend the strange silences that always seemed to accompany the Styleses’ visits and their mumbled, listless hellos when Father greeted them by the landing.
Because it was late in the day, Father invited Mr. and Mrs. Styles and Joshua to lodge with them that night. They must have nodded agreement, because Mary Elizabeth heard Joshua’s father instruct him to go into the house and lie down. Mary Elizabeth listened to the boy’s feet plod heavily across the long yard toward the house.
Mary Elizabeth tugged on her mother’s arm. “Can’t he stay outdoors a little while, Mother?” she asked quietly. “I could show him Isadora and—” She stopped upon hearing the warning sound of her mother’s shoe poking at the hard ground.
“Joshua’s parents … well, they don’t allow him to do much of anything, from what I hear, honey, … except to rest. He only has a couple of years left, and time is precious.”
Mary Elizabeth lay awake that night, feeling for the first time a different kind of pain. She spoke her thoughts to her hug-frayed rag doll. “Time is precious, Charity! A person shouldn’t waste it moping. There’s too much to be happy about.” She rolled over and listened to a chorus of piping frogs among the reeds. That’s funny, she thought. Somehow they don’t sound as happy as they usually do.
Even the owl’s wonderfully bewitching hoots didn’t seem very enchanting that night. There was something out of harmony with the proper order of things, at least in Mary Elizabeth’s way of thinking, and she wondered how she could set things right.
The next morning when Mr. Styles opened the door to the spare room given to Joshua the night before, the boy was gone. Mary Elizabeth was also absent from her room.
“Where do you suppose they’ve gone?” Mary Elizabeth’s father questioned. He stepped to the window. Through the glare of the morning sun on the soft river mist, he could see the children. Mary Elizabeth was walking Isadora, and Joshua was riding atop the ox’s great, swaying back.
Mr. and Mrs. Styles joined Mary Elizabeth’s father at the window and were taken aback. “Joshua’s riding an ox!” Mrs. Styles gasped.
“Isadora’s as gentle as a baby, folks,” Mary Elizabeth’s father reassured them.
Mr. Styles blanched. “But our boy is dying!”
Father put a kind hand on the man’s shoulder and spoke with gentle understanding. “We all are, Mr. Styles. It’s just a matter of when. In the meantime, don’t you think a little sun might help thin out the shadows?”
Joshua’s mother sighed. “You don’t understand,” she said, “the more Joshua tromps around, the weaker he gets, and the weaker he gets—”
“What my wife means,” Mr. Styles interjected, “is that we don’t want to lose our boy a day sooner than we have to.” He crossed the room and started to open the door.
Mary Elizabeth’s father counseled compassionately, “Did you ever stop to consider the possibility that you’re already losing him, Mr. Styles?”
“What do you mean?” Mr. Styles asked defensively.
“I’m just suggesting that maybe you could go to him more, not after him.”
Mr. Styles just stared, and Mary Elizabeth’s father smiled and continued. “Joshua needs you and Mrs. Styles. But I just can’t help but think that the way you two go around so stretchy-faced all the time has your boy feeling like he’s already dead and buried.”
Mr. and Mrs. Styles regarded each other silently, then went outside.
Joshua slid off the ox into the tall grass, laughing with simple glee.
“Take off your shoes, Joshua,” Mary Elizabeth said, encouraged at the sound of his joy. “The grass feels good between your toes, especially when it’s early wet.”
Joshua sat down, pulled off his boots, and worked his feet into the green dampness that tickled his toes.
Mr. and Mrs. Styles, unnoticed by Joshua and Mary Elizabeth, stopped a short way from the children, surprised at their son’s exhilaration. “He’s laughing!” Mrs. Styles exclaimed in a stunned whisper. “And so is your daughter,” she added to Mary Elizabeth’s parents, who had joined them. “I mean,” she went on, “you’d never know that she was blind by the way that she’s enjoying herself!”
Mary Elizabeth’s mother smiled. “She has a way about her, all right—a way of living, I guess you could say, a bright way of looking at things.”
Mr. Styles shook his head, tears welling up in his eyes. “I can’t remember the last time that I saw Joshua so happy.”
Mrs. Styles took her husband’s arm and blinked back her own tears. “When was the last time that we let him be happy—or ourselves?
“It has come to me,” Mrs. Styles added a moment later, “that you’re right,” she said to Father, “that maybe it isn’t always how much time we have that matters most, but rather what we do with that time.”
Mary Elizabeth listened to Joshua’s uninhibited laughter. Things were in harmony again. The owl in the lightning-split poplar tree would sound wonderfully enchanting again. And life would be, and was, sweet and fine. Each moment of it.