Gospel Story Finder

I overheard a conversation between golfing great Arnold Palmer and a young caddie he was using for the first time. The young caddie, while handing Mr. Palmer his club, told him the distance to the flag was 165 yards, there was an unseen stream on the left, and a long and treacherous rough on the right. In a very kind but firm way, Mr. Palmer reminded the young man that the only information he required was the distance to the hole. He further suggested he didn’t want to lose focus by worrying about what was on the right or left.

As the children in sacrament meeting happily sang the Primary song “Love Is Spoken Here,” everyone smiled with approval. A courageous mother raising five children listened attentively to the second verse: “Mine is a home where [every] hour is blessed by the strength of priesthood [power].” Sadly she thought, “My children have never known such a home.”
My message to this faithful woman and to all is that we can live every hour “blessed by the strength of priesthood power,” whatever our circumstance.

Earlier this year, I asked the young adults of the Church to consecrate a portion of their time each week to study everything Jesus said and did as recorded in the standard works. I invited them to let the scriptural citations about Jesus Christ in the Topical Guide become their personal core curriculum.

I gave that challenge because I had already accepted it myself. I read and underlined every verse cited about Jesus Christ, as listed under the main heading and the 57 subtitles in the Topical Guide. When I finished that exciting exercise, my wife asked me what impact it had on me. I told her, “I am a different man!”

I felt a renewed devotion to Him as I read again in the Book of Mormon the Savior’s own statement about His mission in mortality. He declared:
“I came into the world to do the will of my Father, because my Father sent me.
“And my Father sent me that I might be lifted up upon the cross.”

I think it is important to make up my mind ahead of time about choices I will be faced with. I was unexpectedly faced with a tricky situation, and the outcome was positive because I had already made up my mind that I would not back down from my standards. Even though I am sometimes uncomfortable, my family practices role-playing so I know what to say or do when faced with temptations.
Emelyne P., age 14, Wyoming, USA

Only nine months ago I was totally blind to Mormonism. I knew absolutely nothing about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. That all changed on June 16, 1980, when two sister missionaries came to my home. They were so nice and polite that I was ready to be friends with them when they stepped through the front door. I never thought that people could be as happy and cheerful as they were each time they came to my home. I’m glad I met them.
Both were transferred on July 15. They visited me one last time on that day. I became excited when they told me I would be receiving a year’s subscription to the New Era, a gift from them to me. I was touched.
Now to the point. The New Era is wonderful! It keeps me up to date on the Church since I’m not allowed to attend services. Please keep up the fantastic work so that my faith can stand strong.
Lee GibsonDexter, Missouri

What can happen when individuals of many religions and beliefs come together? Communities, families, and even the world can be blessed! For example, during the April 2020 general conference, President Russell M. Nelson invited everyone—both members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and those not of our faith—to fast and pray for relief from the COVID-19 pandemic.2
In response to President Nelson’s worldwide invitation to fast, many people from faiths around the world united in a common cause.
Various Facebook groups started inviting thousands to share their experiences. Brandi, one group member, said: “Since joining this group, my life has been forever changed. Seeing all the goodness has moved me like none else. … Being a part of this incredible group, with people from all walks of life joining together in love and peace, feels like another world. … What I’ve experienced and felt in that group, along with over half a million others, is surely a glimpse of what heaven will be like. All of God’s children united.”3

One March night, the phone jangled into my dreams until Dad yanked me out of a deep sleep.
“Beth,” he hissed into my dark room as a sharp shard of hallway light spilled onto my pillow.
“Mmmmph,” I growled into my down comforter.
“Beth, Annemarie is on the phone for you. It sounds like something is wrong.” Immediately I leaped out of bed, glaring at the glowing green digital clock—4:13 A.M. Something was certainly wrong. I had only gone to bed three hours earlier after returning from junior prom. I thought Annemarie and her date left around the same time.
“Hello. What’s wrong?” I said as I picked up the receiver.
There was a sniffle on the other end of the line. “Nothing,” she said finally. “I’m okay. I’m stranded though. Can you come pick me up?”
At 4:30 A.M., I pulled into the empty parking lot of Sanders Market, a small grocery store at the edge of town. Annemarie stepped out from beside the pay phone and hobbled in her dainty high heels over to my car.
“What happened?” I demanded. Annemarie wiped the mascara streaks from her cheeks.
“We went to a party after the prom. It was all right for a while, but now everyone is drunk. I won’t tell you what Kevin tried, but it definitely wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t been drinking.” Annemarie sniffled again. “Beth, I used to like parties, but you and I have so much fun without them. I wish you weren’t practically the only person in our high school who understands that you don’t need beer to have fun.”
“Congratulations,” I said quietly. “It probably wasn’t easy to walk away.”
She shrugged, her voice gathering strength as she spoke. “Not really. I knew I could count on you.”

When I was growing up, every year or so my stake would hold a “roadshow”—a night of laughter and fun as each ward performed an unashamedly amateur melodrama before the rest of the stake in the crowded cultural hall. For weeks before the event, leaders in the wards would concoct unlikely plots, create ridiculous songs and dances, and coerce reluctant youth into wearing outlandish costumes. Our roadshows could hardly be termed theater, but they were a lot of fun.
Of all the stake roadshows I took part in, one in particular stands out in my memory. The year I was 16, the stake presidency, of which my father was a member, decided the wards would not be allowed to use glitter in their costumes or makeup. Although the shimmering flecks looked wonderful on stage under the spotlight, they invariably found their way into the carpets and furniture of the rooms the wards used for preparation. Because the roadshow was to be held on Saturday night, the stake presidency hoped this measure would help keep the building clean for the Sabbath.
But in the enthusiasm and good-natured competition of that year’s roadshow, the stake presidency’s counsel went largely unheeded. After the performances concluded, I looked for my dad among the members slowly trickling from the building. They all seemed to have had a night of friendship and amusement. When I finally found my father in one of the rooms used for preparation, I could see that he was not amused. He was walking slowly around the room, gravely surveying the sparkles scattered about the floor.
“Most of the wards used glitter,” I said, stating the obvious.
“It’s like this in almost all the rooms,” he said and sighed. “Weren’t we clear about not using glitter?” he asked in frustration.
“I think you were,” I said, hoping to ease some of the tension.
By the time we found the rest of the family and went home, it was already late. But after seeing the younger kids to bed, my father took his car keys and went to the door.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Back to the stake center,” he said quietly. “I’m going to see what I can do to get it ready for Sunday. Do you want to come?”
I didn’t have any special desire to spend what remained of my Saturday evening cleaning, but when I thought about my dad doing all that work alone, I agreed to go.
By the time we reached the stake center, my dad’s attitude had changed. As we cleaned, he seemed less discouraged and even somewhat enthusiastic about the challenge before us. He spent the time asking me about school and my friends.
Although the cleaning took several hours, we both felt a certain pleasure in our work and tried to be as thorough as possible. It wasn’t until after midnight that we felt the building was ready for church in the morning.
The next day, I felt special satisfaction as I looked through the clean rooms and remembered how they had appeared the night before. I considered telling my friends about my one-night stint at janitorial work, but that didn’t seem appropriate. Apparently, my father felt the same—to this day I can’t remember him mentioning that night to anyone.
Today when I think back to that roadshow, I can’t remember any of the humor or costumes or music. What comes to mind are images of my father vacuuming and sweeping and picking glitter from the floor of the church—doing behind-the-scenes work in preparation for the Sabbath.

As I looked over my new visiting teaching assignment, I saw the name of a new member of our ward. I felt apprehensive about calling someone I didn’t know, but my companion and I made an appointment to visit Jane (names have been changed). We arrived on the appointed morning and quickly said a prayer before approaching the door. We found Jane and her three young sons waiting for us.
As we grew closer to Jane through our monthly visits, we also tried to get to know her sons. The two youngest would sit next to my companion and me, and we would read them books and play with them. But four-year-old Alex, the oldest of the three, was not so eager to warm up to his mother’s frequent visitors. He was independent and hesitated to become friends with us.
I had been Jane’s visiting teacher about a year when I received a call that Jane’s house was on fire! My husband and I felt prompted to grab crackers, bottled water, and toy cars and to hurry over to see if we could help. We found Jane standing on the sidewalk across from her smoldering home. Jane’s husband had joined the firefighters to take stock of the damage while Jane comforted their three crying children, who were clinging to her knees.
When we spoke to her, she told us she was eager to join her husband. We took her two youngest children to our car. They were hungry and thirsty, and I was grateful for the inspiration of the Holy Ghost to bring food and water. They were soon content. But Alex, still sobbing, held tightly to his mother. Jane could not take him with her, and she felt torn between going to her husband and comforting her son.
I encouraged her to go and then leaned over and asked Alex if I could hold him while his mom went to find his dad. To my surprise, he agreed. When I scooped Alex into my arms, he rested his head on my shoulder, and I rubbed his back. While Jane went to find her husband, I whispered comforting words into Alex’s ear. I could feel his sobs slow and his breathing relax.
As we stood on the sidewalk, Alex said softly to me, “You’ll take good care of me ’cause you’re my mom’s teacher.”
I quietly shed tears as I realized that Alex knew we were important in his mother’s life. He recognized that he could trust and rely on me to take care of him too ’cause I was his mom’s teacher.

“When I feel sad, I remember that I have Jesus Christ, who has felt everything I have felt. In Alma 7:11, it reads: “And he shall go forth, suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind.” He knows exactly how to help you because He has felt the same thing. As you turn to Jesus Christ, He will comfort you.”
Makayla F., 17, California, USA

My parents also taught me the importance of sacrifice. Sacrifice helps us understand how important something is. When I was three years old, my family lived in Wray, Colorado. We had to drive ninety miles to church. At an early age I understood that the Church was important, important enough to drive a long way.

The Spaniards’ attitude was reinforced when Simón was sent to Spain for further education. By this time he was a slim young man with a thin, suntanned face and dark piercing eyes. He was a better athlete and horseman than any of his admiring friends who benefitted from the almost limitless supply of money Simón provided for their pleasures.
One day while riding his horse, Simón was stopped by the police, searched, insulted, and told that he was no longer welcome in Spain. He was furious at the incident, for it pointed out more clearly than any of his tutor’s words the low regard that the Spanish rulers had for Creoles. Then began his dream to free all of South America from Spanish rule and make it one glorious republic much like the United States of America. Although this dream was not realized, Simón Bolívar is now often called “the George Washington of South America.”

Tyler’s family had signed up to help feed the missionaries, and tonight they were coming to dinner. Tyler loved having visitors, and Mom had promised he could sit next to them.
At the table, Tyler felt shy and didn’t know what to say. He wanted to be a missionary someday, so he listened and watched carefully. He wanted to remember how missionaries act. He looked at their shiny shoes, white shirts, and straight ties. Then he noticed something on their shirt pockets. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing to Elder Snow’s pocket.
“My name tag,” Elder Snow replied, holding it up a little.
“‘Elder Snow,’”Tyler read. “‘The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.’ Do all missionaries have name tags?”
“I think so,” Elder Millburn replied. “We want everyone to know that we are missionaries for the Church.”
“I always make sure to put my name tag on,” Elder Snow added. “I want everybody to know I believe in Jesus Christ.”
After the missionaries left, Tyler told Mom, “I’m going to make a name tag. I want to wear one so people will know I believe in Jesus Christ.”
Tyler cut a rectangle out of paper and carefully printed his name on it. Below his name, he wrote, “The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” He taped a folded paper to the back to insert in his pocket and keep the name tag on. He went to the mirror to see how it looked.
First thing in the morning he thought about his name tag. Hurriedly he got dressed and put it on.
When Mom went grocery shopping, Tyler went, too. He walked around, hoping everyone saw his name tag. While they were going back to the car, it started to rain. He pushed the cart quickly and helped Mom load the car before they both got very wet. “Such a good helper!” she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek.
At home he helped carry in the groceries. When he leaned over, he noticed that his name tag was torn and sagging. And rain had smeared the words. I need a better name tag, he told himself.
That afternoon, he cut a rectangle out of a plastic lid. He wrote his and the Church’s name on it with a marker so the words wouldn’t wash away. He taped another piece of plastic to the back and stuck it in his pocket. He had a name tag again. Showing it to Dad, he said, “Just like the missionaries, I like to wear my name tag.”
Tyler went to show his big sister. She was studying at her desk and didn’t seem very happy.
“What’s the matter?” he asked, forgetting about the name tag.
“I have too much homework,” she moaned, “and it’s my turn to do the dishes.” She started writing again.
Tyler watched for a minute. “I’ll do the dishes.”
His sister looked surprised.
“My homework is all done,” he said. “I have time to do them.”
She gave him a hug and exclaimed, “You’re a great brother!”
Tyler did the dishes, but his shirt got wet and dirty. Pulling it off, he threw it in the laundry.
Getting dressed the next morning, he remembered his name tag and ran to the laundry room. His mother had already washed the shirt. She was putting it in the dryer. “Wait!” he yelled, pulling the shirt out of the pile. The name tag fell to the floor, twisted and warped. Tyler couldn’t make it lie flat. He threw it away. I’ll have to make something better, he told himself.
In the garage, Tyler searched for a thin wood scrap. Finding one just the right size, he went in the house to paint it. With a pointed brush he printed the letters. He made two holes in the wood with a hammer and nail and put a piece of twine through them so he could wear the name tag around his neck. When he took his shirt off, this name tag would stay put and wouldn’t get ruined. Tyler showed it to Mom and Dad. “Clever,” they told him.
Tyler wanted to show it to his best friend, Jason. He went outside and looked to see if Jason was in his yard next door. From the other direction, a boy on a tricycle whizzed by, laughing. His dog ran along beside him, barking in fun. It was little Jimmy from down the block.
Jimmy’s mother ran after him, calling frantically, “Stop! You’ve gone too far!” But Jimmy didn’t hear her, so Tyler raced to catch up with him. Grabbing the tricycle, Tyler gently pulled it to a stop and turned it around. He led Jimmy and his dog back to Jimmy’s mother.
“Thank you for stopping him,” she said. “He might have ridden into the street and been hurt. You’re a good neighbor!”
Tyler waved good-bye and headed back to find Jason. He reached for his name tag and stopped suddenly. It was gone! It must have fallen off while I was running, he realized. He finally found it, but the twine was broken and the name tag lay in pieces. It had been run over by the tricycle. Tyler walked home and laid the pieces on the table. “Jimmy ran over my name tag,” he told his mother, angrily. Then, with a big sigh, he said, “But I guess he didn’t mean to.”
A few minutes later, Tyler heard his father come home and ran out to tell him about the name tag.
“You know,” his father said, “not all missionaries wear name tags. When I was a missionary, we didn’t have name tags.”
Tyler was surprised. “How did people know you believed in Jesus Christ?”
“We told them,” Dad said. “And we tried to show them by the way we acted.”
That evening Tyler and his parents went to the stake center because one of his friends was being baptized. During the meeting, a speaker talked about Jesus Christ. “If we try to live as he did,” the man said, “people will know we believe in him.”
Tyler thought about that as they went home. Remembering what Dad had said, he suddenly knew what he could do.
“Mom! Dad!” he said excitedly. “There is a name tag I can wear that won’t get ruined or lost—an invisible one! If I try my hardest to live like Jesus Christ did, it’s like telling people I believe in him. It’s like wearing an invisible name tag!”
Dad smiled. “You’re right, son.”
Mom hugged Tyler. “I’ve already seen your invisible name tag.”
“You have?” Tyler asked, looking down at his shirt.
“Yes, it’s been there,” replied his mother. “Each time you’ve been helpful and kind—like when you washed the dishes for your sister and when you helped little Jimmy—your name tag was there.”
Tyler looked down again. He didn’t see the invisible name tag, but his mother had seen it. He hoped other people would see it, too, because he wanted everyone to know that he believed in Jesus Christ.

“As I have wrestled with the intense pain caused by my recent injury, I have felt even deeper appreciation for Jesus Christ and the incomprehensible gift of His Atonement. Think of it! The Savior suffered ‘pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind’ so that He can comfort us, heal us, [and] rescue us in times of need.”
He continued: “My injury has caused me to reflect again and again on ‘the greatness of the Holy One of Israel.’ During my healing, the Lord has manifested His divine power in peaceful and unmistakable ways.”

In considering this, I remembered the day some time ago when I stood before a bulletin board in the Student Union Building on an Arizona university campus, where I had been invited to speak to a convocation during their “Religion in Life Week.” On my way into the auditorium, thinking of the implications of their theme, which was “Something Missing,” my attention was drawn to a short advertising notice, posted and signed by a student in the lobby. Line by line it read:
For Sale
1929 Ford
Two-Door Sedan
Nice Body and Fenders
New Paint Job
No Engine
$20.00
See Bob
There was in truth “something missing” in this automobile, and that something happened to be the one indispensable element that gave the rest meaning, without which it was but an empty shell, having the appearance of wholeness but lacking the capacity to accomplish the purposes of its creation.

When I was a Beehive, our stake leaders decided to hold a New Era Bowl. The Mutual groups of each ward and branch were to form teams, and each team was to read the back issues of the New Era for a whole year, then come together for a competition. For weeks at Mutual activities, my team members and I studied the magazine issues and quizzed each other.
One Sunday afternoon, as the competition grew nearer, I took a couple of New Era issues with me to a nearby canal bank to read. It was quiet there, and I could count on not being interrupted. I sat on the bank by the slow, brown water and read article after article. I only remember one article in particular, now. It was an article on Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon. The last paragraph challenged every person to ask God if Joseph Smith was a prophet and if the Book of Mormon was true.
“Well, of course I knew it was true,” I thought. “I was baptized, wasn’t I? I went to church, didn’t I? I had borne my testimony in sacrament meeting, hadn’t I? Of course I knew. Surely people like me didn’t have to actually go through the motions of praying about it.”
Then I read the paragraph again. “Every person …”
Well, every person would probably include me, I reasoned. Sure, I could pray—what could it hurt? I set the magazine down, and there in the dirt of the canal bank I got on my knees. This would be simple. I would ask, and God would answer that it was true. I bowed my head, but before I got one word out, fears began to creep in.
I had asked for things in prayers before and had not received the answers I wanted. When I was nine, I prayed to be able to walk on water like the Apostle Peter. I tried it in the bathtub. It hadn’t worked. When I was 10, I prayed that if God could move mountains, could He please move a perfume bottle on my dresser just to let me know He could. Didn’t happen. What if Heavenly Father really didn’t answer prayers? Maybe He just didn’t answer mine.
Yet somehow I couldn’t back away. The article said every person.
Pushing my fears aside, I finally started my prayer and explained the problem to Heavenly Father. I told Him about the article I’d read. I told Him I was pretty sure the Church was true anyway, but the article said every person should pray. Then I said, “Please help me know if the Church is true. I think it is, but would Thou help me know?” Then I ended my prayer.
I never made it to my feet before a warmth that was physical as well as spiritual filled my whole body, mind, and heart. There wasn’t a corner of me that wasn’t filled with confidence, the confidence of knowing—really knowing—the Church was true, Joseph Smith was a prophet, and the Book of Mormon was true.

As a young missionary, I spent three Christmases in Tonga. Christmas there was the hottest, most humid season of the year, but the spirit of the holiday was the same.
People thought more about others and less about themselves. There was lots of music and singing, and the feeling of peace and good cheer seemed to permeate everything.
There was not a lot of physical gift giving, since there weren’t a lot of things to give. But people gave marvelous gifts of love, service, and kindness.
A few days before Christmas, a nine-year-old granddaughter, who had come to spend the holiday with her grandparents, developed a high fever. They spent all their time caring for her, but the fever seemed to get worse. They called for the missionaries to give her a blessing. We did, and felt prompted to tell her everything would be all right. Then we went on about our other activities.
The day before Christmas, I was visiting various families with a teacher from the local Church school. As we concluded our visits, I asked him where else we should go that Christmas Eve. He said, “I’ve heard ‘Ofa’s granddaughter is still doing poorly, and the grandfather is out of town. I’m sure ‘Ofa is very tired. Why don’t we volunteer to watch her granddaughter tonight and let ‘Ofa get some rest?”
I thought, What a great idea! Why don’t I think of things like that?
It was early evening when we arrived at ‘Ofa’s house. As we explained what we wanted to do, I saw gratitude in her eyes. ‘Ofa looked at us a long time and then said, “She is very ill. I have been up day and night the last three days. I’m not sure I can make it another night. Thank you. Thank you!”
She then explained she’d been using a cloth dipped in water and a woven fan to cool her granddaughter and give her some air. All the girl had done for the last two days was moan.
“I’m not sure if she will get well or not,” ‘Ofa said. “Maybe I should try to stay up and help.”
My companion said, “No, you go on and rest. We’ll fan her and cool her forehead and she’ll be all right. You go get some sleep.” ‘Ofa finally left. I imagine she was asleep the second she got to her room.
We immediately started waving the fan and cooling the girl’s forehead. She seemed in a bad way. Her breathing was strange, her fever high, her eyes closed, and her moans pathetic.
We devised a system where one would hold the wet cloth and the other fan the air through it to get some moist air moving around her mouth and head. It doesn’t sound like much work, but the anxiety of the situation, the sweltering evening, and the effort to get water, rinse the cloth, and constantly wave the fan, caused us both to soon tire. I appreciated what ‘Ofa had been through the last few days.
There was an old wind-up clock where we were. Around 11:00 P.M. we realized we were going to have to do something different to make it through the night. My companion again came up with an idea.
“Why don’t we take turns?” he said. “You sleep for an hour. Then I’ll wake you and you care for her for an hour while I sleep. Then you wake me, and so on. We’ll get through the night that way.”
“Fine,” I said. “Who should start?”
“I’ll start,” he replied. “You rest first.” At midnight he woke me and I fanned with one hand and sponged her forehead with the other until 1:00 A.M. Then I woke him. He did likewise and woke me at 2:00 A.M. I, again, woke him at 3:00 A.M. I knew I would be awakened for my next turn at 4:00 A.M. I was very tired, but felt we would make it through the night all right.
The next thing I remember is sunlight streaming into my eyes. I suddenly awakened, jumped up, and said, “My goodness! What time is it?”
“It’s six o’clock.”
“Six o’clock! Why didn’t you wake me at four?” I asked.
He smiled broadly, a smile that came from deep within and seemed to encompass his whole being as he said, “Oh, you looked so tired. I decided to let you sleep. That’s my present to you. Merry Christmas!”
I couldn’t say anything. Again I thought, Why don’t I think of things like that? My companion stayed up for me! I thought of the Savior coming to his sleeping disciples and asking, “Could ye not watch with me one hour?” (Matt 26:40). The Savior stayed up nearly all night performing one of the greatest works this world will ever know, while those close to him slept.
I felt a little ashamed, yet I also felt happy, as I could see the joy in my companion’s face. He hadn’t been able to give me anything else for Christmas. There was, literally, nothing material for him to give. But what he could give, he had given freely, just by letting me sleep.
I wonder how many of us, in our Christmas giving and our giving all year long, think of not just exchanging material possessions, but of giving of ourselves, fully and freely. True giving comes from the heart, not the wallet.
Sometime during those early morning hours, the girl’s semidelirious moaning ceased, her fever broke, and we could tell the crisis was over. She stirred and opened her eyes.
We waited until midmorning and then knocked on the door to wake up ‘Ofa. She responded quickly, possibly expecting the worst. As she came out on the porch, her granddaughter was there, sitting with us. We were all smiles as we said in unison, “Merry Christmas!”

After graduating from college, he had to decide if he would go on a mission. He and his parents knew it was important for him to serve, but during the Depression most young men couldn’t afford a mission. Fortunately, Gordon’s mother had started a savings account for his mission. She died before he got his mission call, but the money she had saved started him on his way.

“Get your coat. He’ll be waiting for us.” That’s all Dad said. I’d seen him mad and sad and disappointed and a whole bunch of other things, but not all at the same time.

“I’ll take it back to Brother Gordon’s store,” I said, pushing the shaving cream across the table. “I’ll pay for it too. It only costs a dollar and thirty-nine cents.” I swallowed hard. “I’ve got that much in my drawer.”

Dad didn’t say anything more. He just looked at me. He looked at me so hard that I felt real funny inside, and finally I had to stare at the floor or start bawling.

“I can pay for it,” I said again. “You can have the money right now.”

“Get your coat.” He almost whispered it. “And while you’re at it, bring the dollar and thirty-nine cents.”

There was nothing more to say. I guess no kid can win in a fight against his dad. There’s something about being a dad that gives him a head start. When your dad says that David killed Goliath or that Joseph was sold into Egypt, then that’s what happened. When he says that you need to go to church every Sunday, then a guy knows where he’d better be on Sunday. And when a dad says, “Get your coat and bring your dollar and thirty-nine cents with you,” then there isn’t much a person can do but get his coat and money.

I went to my room and counted out three dollars. I figured that paying more than double would make things easier on me when I got to the sheriff’s.

On the way over to Brother Gordon’s store, I got to thinking about Harry and Carl. This was all their fault, not mine. I hadn’t even wanted to take the shaving cream, but they’d said I wouldn’t be stealing. All I was supposed to do was talk to Brother Gordon while they did the stealing.

I explained all that to Dad, but he said that helping someone else to steal is still stealing and that this was even more my fault because I’d taken advantage of Brother Gordon’s trust in me. I guess he was right, but I sure didn’t think it was fair that I was getting blamed for everything. I only brought the shaving cream home with me because Harry and Carl didn’t want it after they got out of the store.

The more I thought about Harry and Carl, the madder I got. Before I knew it, I could feel tears in my eyes, and I started to sniffle. By then we were in front of Brother Gordon’s store, so I hurried and dried my eyes with my coat sleeve and got out of the car.

As soon as we walked into the store, Brother Gordon saw Dad and came over. Dad had called the sheriff already, but Brother Gordon still didn’t know anything about my stealing. Dad said I would have to tell him.

“Hello, Dick,” Dad said. “Robert has some business with you to take care of.”

“What can I do for you, Bobby?” Brother Gordon asked.

I looked at his belt buckle and held out the shaving cream. “I stole it.” That was all I could say. Brother Gordon didn’t say anything, and Dad wouldn’t help me either.

“I stole it,” I said louder. “I stole it and I’m sorry. You always said you could trust me, but I guess you couldn’t, because I’m just an old robber. But I won’t ever do it again.”

I was bawling real good by then, and I just wished I had never seen that shaving cream. I set it on the counter and dug into my pocket for my money. “The shaving cream only costs a dollar and thirty-nine cents, but I’ll pay three dollars.”

Brother Gordon didn’t know what to do. He told me to keep the money, but Dad said no. I didn’t care because I didn’t want the money, and most of all I didn’t want that old shaving cream.

I figured that since I’d bawled good and paid the money and told Brother Gordon I was sorry that Dad wouldn’t take me to the sheriff, but I was wrong.

When we walked into the sheriff’s office, the first thing I saw was his gun. He wore it down on his leg like cowboys in the movies do. Dad had told me once that the sheriff could shoot a gun better than anyone around and that he had ribbons and trophies to prove it.

The sheriff showed me into another room and told me to wait for him while he talked to Dad. I wasn’t too scared until I noticed four rifles chained to a rack on one of the walls. There was a desk in one corner with two chairs in front of it. I sat down on one of the chairs and looked at the guns on the wall and wondered if those rifles were still used to shoot robbers.

The sheriff came into the room without Dad and shut the door. Then he walked over to the desk and straightened some papers. After a second he sat down and leaned back in his chair.

“I hear you got into a little trouble. Is that so?”

I just nodded.

“I guess you know that stealing’s wrong?”

“Yeah,” I whispered.

“I guess you know that it doesn’t matter how many people do it. It’s still wrong.”

“Yes, sir.”

“A person can get thrown into jail for stealing.” He didn’t smile. He just stared at me. Now when Dad’s upset, his eyes can make you feel funny and kind of twitchy inside, but when the sheriff looked at me, it hurt. I looked at the floor a couple of times and dusted off my pants, even though they didn’t need it.

All of a sudden the sheriff stood up and took off his gun holster. “There’s no sense in my telling you that you’ve done something wrong,” he growled. “You know that. You broke the law, and your dad wants me to do something about it.”

He stopped talking while he slowly pulled his gun out of the holster. I had thought he might throw me in jail, but I hadn’t figured he’d shoot me, not for a stolen tube of shaving cream. My spit dried up, and I grabbed the chair real tight, then held my breath, closed my eyes, and waited for the BANG! There was just a quiet thud, though, when the sheriff put his gun into his desk drawer.

Well, my spit came back, and I started to breathe again. It was pretty jumpy breathing for a while, but it was real good to know I could still do it.

The sheriff coughed and sat down. “Most dads don’t bring their boys to the sheriff. But your dad isn’t like most dads.” He leaned forward. “You’re going to grow up to be a good man, Bobby, but you won’t grow up that way because you came in here and talked to me. You’ll be a good man because you have a good dad. Right now it might seem that you’re getting all the blame for what Harry and Carl did. But some day you’ll realize that your dad isn’t being hard on you. It’s Carl’s and Harry’s dads who are being hard on them.”

The sheriff leaned back in his chair and just stared at me for a while. Finally he opened his desk drawer and pulled out five paper cups. He carried the other chair across the room and set the cups on it. Then he pulled a long black horsewhip from his desk.

All of a sudden he jerked the fat end of that whip, and the skinny end shot out of his hand with a loud bang and hit one of those paper cups and tore it to pieces. It happened so fast that I jumped out of my chair. My eyes bulged, and I felt my heart beating so hard up in my throat that I thought I’d choke. He snapped that whip three more times, and then there was just one cup left on the chair.

The sheriff started talking again. “It used to be that when someone stole something, he was given a good thrashing with a whip like this.” He looked straight at me. He didn’t smile, and I knew he wasn’t playing a game. Before I could blink my eyes, that horsewhip shot out and ripped the last cup off the chair.

“I don’t whip people for stealing.” He cleared his throat and added, “But there is one thing I might whip a boy for.”

The sheriff began to roll up his whip while he talked. “You know, Bobby, dads are pretty good fellows. They take you on camp-outs, teach you how to play ball, fix your bike tires when they’re flat, tell you stories, and somehow are always around when you need a friend. Most of all, they’re there to set you straight when you get off the right track. If the world’s a good place to live in, it’s because there are lots of good dads.”

The sheriff stopped talking, and I figured he was done. But he wasn’t. He took a deep breath and started tapping his fingers on the desk. “Do you know why your dad and I are such good friends?”

I shook my head.

“My dad died before I was even born. When I was growing up, your dad was the one who fixed my bike, showed me how to play ball, and was around when I needed a friend. He was a dad to me.”

I looked up at the sheriff, and I could see that his eyes were moist and shining. He wasn’t bawling or anything, but shoot, the sheriff’s about the toughest guy around!

He was real quiet for a long time. Then he looked at me, picked up his coiled whip, pointed it at me, and said quietly, “Now, I’m going to tell you how you can get a horsewhipping. I won’t give it to you for stealing things from Mr. Gordon’s store or for fighting or breaking windows or anything like that. Those things are bad, but they won’t get you a horsewhipping. There’s something worse than doing those things. If you hurt your dad … if you ever do anything that makes him feel real bad, or if I hear you calling him ‘old man’ like some of the other boys call their dads, I’ll come looking for you. And believe you me, I’ll horsewhip you, because you have the best dad in the world, and any boy who would do those things to a dad like yours needs a good horsewhipping. Do you understand me?”

I nodded my head. I sure did understand.

Finally he smiled. I was glad to see that he remembered how.

When he told me I could go, Dad was waiting for me. I was sure glad to see him. When we walked out to the car, he put his arm around me like he does lots of times. He told me he loved me and just wanted me to be a good boy. I knew he meant what he said, and I remembered what the sheriff had said about him.

It’s been a while since I went with Dad to see the sheriff. I haven’t stolen anything else from Brother Gordon, and he still trusts me and says I’m a good boy.

The sheriff always waves to me when he passes in his truck, and whenever he talks to me, he asks me about my dad. I haven’t ever asked him if he still has his whip. He probably does, but I’m not afraid of it—or him—because there’s no reason for him to come looking for me. You see, I’ve got the best dad in the whole world, and I know it.

A few months ago I had an opportunity to take a morning walk on a mountain trail with four of my grandchildren. We each brought a bag so we could collect treasures from nature. As we looked for pieces to put in our collection, we found many different colors, designs, and textures in the leaves and rocks. It was hard to choose. I soon noticed that the children’s bags were filling up. Each leaf the children selected was unique, but because it was late fall, most of the leaves had dark weathered spots, irregular shapes, or faded and discolored parts. Because of this, I was reluctant to add things to my bag. I was looking for a leaf that showed the brightest colors and had no flaws. If it wasn’t perfect, I wasn’t going to treasure it. But this meant that my bag had very little in it.

Later, as I thought about this experience, I realized that I had cheated myself of much delight and happiness that could have been mine. I didn’t appreciate the uniqueness of the objects because I was looking for what I had deemed perfection. My grandchildren had been wiser than I had been. They had savored the odd shapes and spots on the leaves. They giggled at and enjoyed the brittle crispness of the dying leaves, and they delighted in the soft, faded colors. They filled their bags with happy treasures to take home. We can fail to see and enjoy the unique happiness and beauty in each day if we are so focused on our desire for what we want instead of what the Lord has designed for us.