Gospel Story Finder

As the day for the high school’s Sixties Dance approached, the Seminary Friends decided it would be fun to attend with their seminary partners. The group got together and made tie-dyed T-shirts, then organized van rides for the group of 24.
The evening was a success. The students jumped up and down together for the fast songs and held hands and danced in a big circle for the slow songs. Everyone had a good time.
For the special-needs students, the dance was a first, and their reactions were particularly enthusiastic. “My favorite thing was dancing with the boys,” says Jané Peart.
“It was my first date, but there were many, many girls,” signs Timothy Smith. “I like it because I’m a good dancer.”
“It was so fun to see Timothy smile and laugh and dance,” says Aundi Robison, one of the Seminary Friends. She is learning sign language to better communicate with her special-needs partner. “Timothy flexed his muscles for the girls. I’ve never seen him laugh so much.”

When Stuart graduated from BYU, he and Carol and their two daughters moved first to Ohio for a job and then to Pennsylvania for graduate school. From there they moved to Michigan, Japan, Venezuela, and back to Michigan. Along the way, Carol bore seven more children and successfully battled cancer.

After 11 rewarding years with his employer in Michigan, Stuart began to look for a new job. Using the Internet, he found three possibilities. To his surprise, one was in Utah, close to where our parents live. When he looked for a house that was both large enough for his family and immediately available for occupancy, he found one in our parents' ward.

Stuart and his family moved back into that ward, in which he and I lived as high school students, shortly before President Eyring was called into the First Presidency. As our parents have borne the duties of this calling, along with challenges of health, Stuart and his family have been their stewards. Every night our parents have a standing dinner invitation at Stuart and Carol's home. Stuart and his children care for the house and yard. Carol is our mother's visiting teaching companion.

Stuart could work anywhere in the world, and he could fill any Church calling. Yet he fulfills his current stewardship with focused fidelity and no thought of recognition. Stuart is my Faramir, not because he is a leading character in an epic novel, but because he is a steward of epic proportions who will someday be a king with power beyond anything the royal Stuarts dreamed of.

Peter really missed Grandpa. Mom and Dad had said that Grandpa wouldn’t be home until summer was over. Grandpa was in Kansas, helping people learn about the Church, and he was happy. Peter wanted Grandpa to be happy, but he also wanted to show Grandpa how much he’d grown and how he could ride his bike without the training wheels and how many new birds and little animals he’d found in the woods where he and Grandpa always walked together.
One afternoon a thick envelope addressed to Peter came in the mail. It was from Grandpa, and inside was a small packet and a short letter. Inside the packet were five large black-and-white striped seeds. Mom read the letter to Peter:
“Dear Peter,
Here is a mission surprise for you. Find a nice sunny place by the fence to plant the seeds. If you water them a little every day, you will grow something that we can share with our special friends.
Love,Grandpa”
Mom gave Peter a big, old spoon, and Peter dug five little holes in the soft, warm soil by the fence. He put one seed in each hole, then covered it with soil and patted it down with his hand.
Peter found a watering can in the shed and watered the ground every day, just as Grandpa had told him. But nothing happened. Peter told Mom, “I don’t think Grandpa’s seeds are going to grow.”
Mom smiled at him. “You have to be patient,” she said. “It will probably take at least another week before they push up out of the ground.”
“How many days are in a week?” Peter asked. “I want to see what the mission surprise is. Besides, the sooner the seeds grow, the sooner Grandpa will be home.”
“There are seven days in a week,” Mom told Peter. “Look. Every morning when you get up, cross off one day on this calendar. When you get to this one with the circle around it, you will know that a week has passed.”
So Peter watered the seeds and marked the calendar every day. And sure enough, on the day that was circled, five little green bumps were coming out of the ground!
Soon the bumps were little plants, and then they were big plants! Peter was astonished each time he watered them at how much they grew every day. Soon they were taller than he was, and he still didn’t know what they were or whom he and Grandpa were going to share them with.
One flower grew at the top of each tall plant. Peter had never seen such big flowers. They were even bigger than Mom’s dinner plates, and they followed the sun all day.
Before long summer was nearly over, and Peter was worried. The flowers had gotten so fat that they drooped over and no longer followed the sun. Would they die before Grandpa came home? How could he and Grandpa share dead flowers with their friends? And Peter still didn’t know who the special friends were.
Then one bright sunny afternoon, Grandpa came home. “I see you took good care of the sunflowers, Peter,” he said. “Let’s go cut them down and dry out the seeds. They’ll be a wonderful treat for our special friends this winter.”
Sunflower seeds! Now Peter understood—and he could guess who the special friends were too. All the little animals and the birds would be very happy to share Grandpa’s mission surprise.

When I was 17, my oldest brother, John, passed away. He was only 27 and left behind a wife and young son. I could not have endured through this tragedy without the scriptures to lead and guide my life.
If you have ever had anyone close to you pass away, then you know the pain that strikes in every part of your being. It hurts for a long time. Even though we learn to be happy again and move on, no matter how much time passes, there’s still a pain.
When my brother passed away, I learned that it was OK to let myself hurt. It was OK to be sad. I didn’t need to be so strong all of the time. Sometimes there are challenges where we have to rely on others. And I learned I had to rely on the Lord.
About nine months before my brother passed away, I had prayed to my Heavenly Father to find a scripture I could use as a theme in my life that year. I was reading my scriptures and came across Proverbs 3:5: “Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding.”
This scripture struck me with such force that I knew this was supposed to be my theme scripture for that year. For the next nine months, I tried to “trust in the Lord.” In every experience I went through, those words would echo in my mind.
About a week after John’s death, the words in Proverbs echoed in my mind again, and I realized why the Lord wanted me to practice trusting in Him. When my brother passed away, I could have asked my Heavenly Father, “Why? Why did this have to happen to us?” But that question never crossed my mind, because for nine months the Lord had been preparing me to trust in Him. Instead, I was ready to bring comfort to other family members around me who needed it. I felt the peace that comes from the knowledge that family is eternal, and I knew that I hadn’t seen John for the last time. Although at times I feel that pain that comes from losing someone you love, I know that my family can be together again after this life. This scripture in Proverbs brought me hope, peace, and guidance in a time of great need.

I’m thinking about the faithful young man, a return missionary, who desired, worked, and prayed to become a seminary teacher. He wasn’t chosen. Then he joined the army, aspiring to be an officer, but was washed out of officer candidate school. There was a period of self-doubt and the inevitable asking “Why?” Recently, he graduated with a medical degree and in hindsight, he recognizes all of those disappointments were the Lord’s real answers to his prayers nudging him in the direction he could serve best. All those disappointments gave him experience, maturity, and humility.

The very next day I had to go to the temple alone, leaving my family behind at the patron house. When I entered the temple, I was struck with fear because of language. I felt confused not knowing what to do, where to go, and how to participate in the ordinances. I was troubled. But God comforted me by offering help. Just then a sister appeared. She was full of love, she welcomed me with a hug; I was filled with warmth of the Holy Ghost—the Comforter. Thereafter, I was taught everything by the Holy Ghost. And I witnessed the presence of Heavenly Father and His Only Begotten Son, Jesus Christ, in the temple. I had a very glorious experience—an experience that will guide me through eternity. I knew then that no witness is given to us until after the trail of our faith.

A young woman came to me very discouraged. She said no one would ever consider marrying her. I asked how long she had thought that. She said ever since she entered her teenage years. I suggested that she could no longer risk indulging in that destructive thought. She couldn’t let herself passively be its victim. She had to take the initiative to turn her mind away from it whenever it drew into sight. She needed to treat this thought it like the swords of the Anti-Nephi-Lehi Lamanite converts — she had to bury it and never touch it again. Otherwise, her battle with it would never end.

I have always had the highest admiration for the office of a bishop. I have been associated with bishops all my life. When I was six months old, my father was called to be the bishop of our ward. He served until after my eighteenth birthday. Within a few years of my marriage, I was called into a bishopric. I soon discovered the love which is generated within a bishopric as they serve together. An employment opportunity came to me after about three years of service, and it seemed appropriate that I accept it. It was with deep sorrow that I left the association of this bishopric. On our final night in the community in which we were living, they held a party. To avoid saying good-bye, we slipped away from the party before it was over and went to stay at a friend’s home. The bishop and the other counselor I had been serving with came over when the party concluded and sat up all night while we rested, awaiting our early departure, so that we would not leave without the proper farewell. With a big lump in my throat, I said good-bye to these two brethren as I went on to other assignments.

This story happened in Denmark.
Amalie followed her parents through the church doors. The sound of the piano playing hymns filled the chapel. Amalie and her family found a bench and sat down.
Sacrament meeting started, and soon the whole branch was singing the opening hymn. While she sang, Amalie noticed their next-door neighbor, Sister Aisha, sitting nearby. But Sister Aisha wasn’t singing. She was frowning.
Sister Aisha was always so nice to Amalie. But she looked sad a lot. Amalie knew that she lived alone. Maybe she was lonely.
Amalie wished she could do something to help. But what?
The next week, Amalie went on a bike ride down a long road. She rode past big green fields. The sun warmed her skin.
Soon she came to a field of sunflowers. The bright yellow flowers waved slightly in the wind and stretched to the sun. They were so tall and so big!
A sign next to the field said, Free sunflowers! Take as many as you want.
Amalie stared at the field. The flowers looked like an ocean of yellow smiling at the sky.
She parked her bike and picked a bunch of flowers. She could give them to Mom! Mom loved flowers. But there were enough flowers that she could pick more for someone else too.
A name came to her mind: Sister Aisha. Maybe these flowers could help brighten her day.
“I hope she likes sunflowers,” Amalie said quietly to herself. But she was a little nervous. What if Sister Aisha thought it was weird?
Amalie stopped picking the flowers. She rubbed the soft petals between her fingers. Maybe she shouldn’t give flowers to Sister Aisha.
No, Amalie thought. She knew she should give them to Sister Aisha. They might not make everything better. But Amalie still wanted to help, even in a small way. She could give the flowers to Sister Aisha at church tomorrow.
Amalie spent a long time picking the best flowers. She put them together and placed them carefully in her bike basket. Then she hopped on her bike and rode home. The bright yellow of the flowers looked pretty with the deep green of the forest in the background.
When Amalie got home, she tied each bouquet with a ribbon. She gave one to Mom.
Mom smiled big when she saw it. “Thank you! They’re beautiful.” She put the flowers in a vase on the table.
The next day, Amalie took the other bouquet of sunflowers to church. She found Sister Aisha sitting alone on a bench.
“Hi,” Amalie said. “I picked some sunflowers for you.”
Amalie held the flowers out. When Sister Aisha saw them, she smiled. Amalie hadn’t seen her smile in a long time. Her eyes were filled with light.
“Thank you,” Sister Aisha said. She gave Amalie a hug. “These are my favorite flowers.”
Amalie smiled too. She hadn’t known they were Sister Aisha’s favorite flowers! But the Holy Ghost had prompted her to make a bouquet for Sister Aisha, and Amalie was grateful she had listened.

Presidents Brigham Young and Heber C. Kimball tried to discourage Thomas B. Marsh’s murmuring, but to no avail. A repentant Brother Marsh later said of that time:
“I must have lost the Spirit of the Lord out of my heart. …
“I became jealous of the Prophet … and overlooked everything that was right, and spent all my time in looking for the evil; … I thought I saw a beam in Brother Joseph’s eye, but it was nothing but a mote, and my own eye was filled with the beam; … I got mad and I wanted everybody else to be mad. I talked with Brother Brigham Young and Brother Heber C. Kimball, and I wanted them to be mad like myself; and I saw they were not mad, and I got madder still because they were not. Brother Brigham Young, with a cautious look, said, ‘Are you the leader of the Church, Brother Thomas?’ I answered ‘No.’ ‘Well then,’ said he, ‘why do you not let that alone?’”

Elder Pratt was soon reunited with his family on Tubuai, and over the next 18 months, he oversaw the Church throughout the islands. Louisa and Telii became close friends, often working together to serve the women of the Tubuai Branch.13 In 1852, compelled by tensions with the French colonial authorities, Louisa and the other missionaries prepared to leave French Polynesia. In a final sermon to the sisters of Tubuai, Louisa begged them to continue in faith and entrusted their teaching to Telii. “We appointed Telii their guardian,” Louisa recalled.14

Let me share a personal story of how I learned this lesson. When I was first a young bride, I noticed that my husband and I had differences in our needs for orderliness. My husband was a scientist and performed best under conditions of exactness. I have more of a creative temperament. I perform best when I can act more spontaneously. I began to notice that he would follow me around as I did creative projects and clean up everything before I even finished. I interpreted this as a criticism of my housekeeping and felt threatened and hurt. I thought, “He thinks I am a bad wife, because I am not as orderly as he is.”

When I tearfully confronted him with what I perceived as his displeasure with me, he was genuinely surprised. He explained that he recognized that I did not enjoy cleaning up and he honestly desired to do something to lighten my responsibilities and make my creative projects more fun for me. He further explained that because he enjoyed organizing things, he saw this as a way that he could show his love for me by doing what he did best. When we were able to communicate honestly and nondefensively with one another, the bad feelings went away. It helped me that he could verbally express his good intentions to me so that I could understand him more accurately. It helped him that I was able to trust those good intentions instead of judging his behavior wrongfully.

Princess Jewel V. and her sister Princess Jazmine Miraede N. V. had a “remarkable experience” at the Giving Machines in the Philippines.
“Walking through the Giving Machines together was a profound moment for both of us,” Princess Jewel said. “It was heartening to select gifts for those in need, from essentials to educational supplies and medical care. Sharing this experience with my sister strengthened our bond and taught us the power of compassion and generosity, even at our age. It was a meaningful reminder of the impact we can make by simply giving.”

My brothers and sisters, let me tell you of a recent experience. We were in the city of Bacolod on the island of Negros, in the Republic of the Philippines. There, to my great surprise, I met a man I had not seen in years.
The weather was steamy hot, as it always is in Bacolod, the center of the once thriving Filipino sugar industry. My friend was in a short-sleeved white shirt with dark trousers, his shoes shined. His beautiful wife, Marva, was beside him. I said, “Victor Jex, what are you doing here?”
He smiled and replied, “We’re doing the Lord’s work. We’re helping the people. We’re missionaries.”
“Where do you live?”
“In a little house in IloIlo on the island of Panay. We came over on the ferry for the conference.”
I thought of when I had last seen them. It was a few years ago. They then lived in a beautiful home in Scarsdale, New York. He was a widely recognized and honored chemist, with a doctorate in chemical engineering. He worked for one of the big multinational companies headquartered in New York. He was credited with putting together the chemical ingredients of a product now sold around the world, the name of which is known to millions of people and the profit from which has run into many millions of dollars for his company.
He was well paid and highly respected.
He was also the president of the Yorktown stake of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He had under his direction a corps of church workers who served faithfully in their local wards, many of whom commuted each day to and from New York City, where they held high and responsible positions in some of the great corporations of America. He was their church leader.
Now he was retired. He and his wife had sold their beautiful home, had given their children what furniture they wanted, and donated the rest to others. They had disposed of their cars and everything except their clothing, their family photographs, and their family history records. They had made themselves available to the Lord and His Church to go wherever they might be sent at their own expense. They were now in the Philippines Bacolod Mission, working among the wonderful, friendly, brown-skinned people of the area. Unemployment is high in this region, and there is much of misery. But wherever Elder and Sister Jex go, they touch for good the lives of those among whom they serve.
They are there to heal the suffering people, to teach the gospel of Christ, to give encouragement and strength and hope and faith. They are there to heal wounds of misunderstanding and contention. They are there to bless the sick and to help those with diseased bodies and frustrated minds. Their smile is infectious, their laugh a joy to hear. They are living humbly among the poor, down at the level of the people, but standing straight and tall to lift with strong hands.
This former New York executive and his charming companion are in the service of the Savior, giving their full time, their resources, and their love to bless with healing the lives of many who are discouraged and need help. Here is a retired New Yorker, a man of great learning and recognized capacity, living in a home with few conveniences, a simple little place that would fit in the living room of his former house.
He and his wife are there, with others of their kind. They are two of a band of remarkable and dedicated older missionary couples who minister to the wants of people with numerous problems. They receive no financial compensation. They pay their own way. This world’s goods mean little to them. As I said, they sold all they had when they left to come to the Philippines. They will stay for as long as they are assigned by the Church to do so. Then they want to go on another mission. They are healers among the people, serving in the cause of the Master Healer.

Sometimes if our hearts are not in the right place, we can miss the true meaning of Christmas. I remember one of our very first Christmases that my wife and I shared. We were very much in love and we were very poor. We bought a strand of lights to decorate our meager little fichus tree. I anticipated giving gifts to my wife that we could afford and that she might appreciate and use. I love my wife's cooking and I remembered that she had mentioned that she could use a new frying pan. I was thrilled when I found a non-stick fry pan that we could afford. Also, as a new husband, I felt that it was my responsibility to help protect our home. So practically thinking and also being an accountant and an Eagle scout, I bought my wife a fire extinguisher too—just in case!

So I wrapped my simple gifts for her and placed them underneath the tree. Now, to this day, I still think that those are appropriate gifts, and when she opened them, she smiled and was delighted to receive the frying pan, and even smiled and chuckled when she opened the fire extinguisher—even if she did think it was little unique. She graciously received both gifts. After Christmas I overheard one my wife's friends ask her what gifts her husband had given her for Christmas. With a grin on her face, my wife shared that I had given her a frying pan and a fire extinguisher. Her friend was appalled; demanding an explanation. I tried to explain the merits of having a first-rate fire extinguisher in our kitchen but she was not impressed, and was actually a little disgusted. I am so grateful that my wife looked beyond the material objects that were given to her, and instead she looked upon the intent of my heart. She recognized my love for her, and my desire to protect her.

Jennifer twirled in front of her bedroom mirror in her sparkly red Christmas dress. She pictured herself standing center stage under the bright spotlights and giggled with excitement. She couldn’t wait to sing in the community Christmas program tonight!
Jennifer loved to sing. She especially loved singing Christmas songs! She had spent a lot of time practicing with her mom at the piano to get ready for her big solo. And now the day was finally here!
She hummed happily as she brushed her fingers through her curly hair. Then there was a quiet knock at the door.
“Come in!”
Mom opened it and stepped inside. Her eyes looked a little puffy. Jennifer could tell that she had been crying.
“What’s wrong, Mom?” Jennifer asked.
Mom put her arm around Jennifer’s shoulder. They sat down on the bed.
“Grandma just called,” Mom said softly. “Grandpa Hoyt passed away.”
Jennifer couldn’t stop the tears that immediately came rolling down her cheeks. She loved Grandpa Hoyt! Jennifer had visited him nearly every day. They played his favorite games, watched old shows on TV, or just talked. He had been sick for a long time and used an oxygen machine to breathe. But she couldn’t believe that he was really gone.
Mom pulled Jennifer into a tight hug while Jennifer sobbed.
“You don’t have to sing tonight if you don’t want to,” Mom said in a quiet voice. She wiped away some of Jennifer’s tears.
Jennifer nodded. Maybe Mom was right. Jennifer missed Grandpa so much it made her heart hurt. Maybe she didn’t feel up to singing anymore.
Mom wiped away some tears of her own. “I guess this gives us a special chance to remember why we really celebrate Christmas,” she said. “The Savior was born to give us light and hope. Even when we are sad.”
Jennifer took a deep breath. “And because Jesus was resurrected, Grandpa Hoyt will be resurrected too,” she said bravely. “Because of Jesus, we’ll see him again.”
Mom gave Jennifer’s hand a squeeze. “That’s exactly right, sweetheart.”
Jennifer felt like a warm, fuzzy blanket had been wrapped around her. She knew it was the Holy Ghost testifying that what she said was true.
Suddenly Jennifer had an idea.
“I want to share the light and hope Jesus gives us,” Jennifer said. She was determined. “I’m going to sing for Grandpa.”
Mom smiled through her tears. “I’m sure that would make both Jesus and Grandpa Hoyt very happy.”
“Can we say a prayer?” Jennifer asked.
Mom nodded, and the two of them knelt down by the bed. Mom prayed for Jennifer to have comfort, strength, and courage to sing.
After saying “amen,” Jennifer wrapped her arms around Mom in a big hug. “Thanks, Mom.”
When it was time to go on stage, Jennifer squared her shoulders. She smiled as she walked up to the microphone under the bright lights. The music started playing. Jennifer felt peace. And in her best singing voice, she sang about Jesus—the One who made it possible for her to see Grandpa Hoyt again.

My middle name, Fawn, comes from my great-grandmother Fawn Treva DeFord. I knew little about her until a temple trip last November. As part of the Young Women celebration “Turning Hearts to the Family,” the youth in my ward found ancestors who needed their temple work done. I chose Fawn because she was my dad’s favorite grandmother. My dad was excited about my choice, and he began telling me stories about my great-grandma. He even found some of her artwork for me to see.
Besides researching family names, I also had to get ready spiritually to attend the temple. I tried to work on being a better person, and I repented when I made mistakes. I wrote in my journal often about my preparation. Finally November came, and I was ready. Since this was my first time doing baptisms for the dead, I was a little nervous. But as soon as I entered the temple I felt a warm, peaceful feeling. And as I was baptized for my great-grandma, I felt as if she were there, thanking me for giving her the blessings of the gospel.

May I share today a story about a person who lived in such a way, in an eternal, loving companionship in Hawaii.

In 1850, Brigham Young sent ten missionaries to the Hawaiian Islands. Without understanding the language and culture, the missionaries found the work extremely difficult. Eventually they became discouraged, including the mission president. They became so discouraged that five of the ten left to go home. The youngest of the remaining missionaries, Elder George Q. Cannon, was determined to stay. He went to the Lord in prayer. The Lord inspired him to go to Lahaina on Maui. He did so.

As he approached this town, two ladies went screaming into a nearby house and brought out a local gentleman. The previous night, this man had had a dream that a messenger of God was coming to his town and that he must feed him. Elder Cannon was invited to stay and preach in the home of this man, Jonathon H. Napela, who was a very well-educated man and the magistrate of that district (see Alma 10:4).

Subsequently, Elder Cannon and Jonathon Napela became very close friends, like Alma and Amulek in the Book of Mormon (see Alma 10–15). Because of the guiding hand of God and Brother Napela’s great help, along with the hospitality and kindness of the Hawaiian Saints, the missionary work began to excel in Hawaii, and the foundation was laid.

I had awakened that morning to the sound of Trophy’s hooves on the dusty cobblestones outside my window. I jumped from my feather bed and ran to the window, flinging the shutters wide. Through the vines, I saw Trophy bobbing his head and waiting patiently as Malcolm Greenaway delivered milk to our doorstep and walked along the picket fence toward Bridey’s house. “Good morning, Mr. Greenaway,” I called as he passed beneath my window.
“Good morning, Jessica.” He waved, then continued on his way.
At the sound of my voice, Trophy swung his head slowly in my direction and peered at me from behind his blinders.
“Hi, Trophy, old horse,” I whispered.
The black dappled horse followed his master, the milk wagon rumbling quietly behind. I leaned far out the window and pushed the green viny leaves aside, watching as the wagon turned the corner and went down Church Street.
A horse is a beautiful creature, I thought, and sank back on my bed to stare at the ruffled canopy above my head. If Father would only allow girls to ride horses, how much happier I would be! But my father held to the idea that girls and ladies should ride in wagons, with their skirts tucked neatly about their ankles. Grudgingly, I went to the washbasin, splashed water on my face and wrists, pulled my petticoat and dress on over my head, then ran downstairs.
After breakfast, Father took Steven by the hand and headed for the door. Then, without a thought for my feelings, he turned to Mother. “I’m taking Steven for his riding lesson,” he said. “We’ll not be away very long.”
When the door had closed behind them, Mother came to me. “I know how you feel, Jessica,” she whispered as she straightened my braids and fixed my collar. “But your father thinks riding is unladylike.”
A lump stuck in my throat. Then I swallowed and asked, “Shall I wipe the steps down Mother?”
I was twelve and my brother, Steven, barely nine. Yet my dream was his reality! It was an unfairness that I could hardly stand! As I knelt on the hard wooden steps, I rubbed the banister railings until they shone. Then I bent my head and scrubbed the stairway, my tears mingling with the soapy water.
Of course, I couldn’t blame Steven for his good fortune, but when he returned all smiles and smelling of horse and stable, I wanted to box his ears! Instead, I went to our granary and listened to the doves under the eaves. I could see Mother stirring apple butter in the iron kettle in our backyard, but it held no interest for me today.
I ran from the granary and across the meadow. And before I knew it, I was standing outside Malcolm Greenaway’s stable.
“Jessica?” Mr. Greenaway called. “Are you looking for someone?”
“No, Mr. Greenaway,” I replied. “I was just wondering if I could feed Trophy.”
He walked over to me, his sleeves rolled to his elbows and a straw hat on his head. “Certainly!” he said with a smile. “I’m just going to join Mrs. Greenaway in the garden, so make yourself feel at home.”
I watched as he slanted his hat against the sun, then turned toward the garden. I stepped into the cool stable. Trophy bobbed his head over the door and greeted me with a snort. I held oats up to his mouth and watched his lips gently nibble them from my hand. Then—I don’t know what made me do it—I opened the stall door and stepped in beside Trophy.
He watched me for a moment with soft brown eyes. Then he nuzzled me with his nose, bumping me toward the side of the stall. Suddenly, I had an idea! I raised my skirts with a single motion and climbed up the side of the stall, where I perched on the top board and clicked my tongue till Trophy moved closer. Then, with trembling hands, I grasped his mane and swung my leg over his back. It seemed a long way up, and I thought I was in heaven. Trophy looked over his shoulder at me, then pushed the stall door open while I grabbed for his halter and hung on for dear life. Trophy slowly plodded out into the sunlight with me on his back. Gently I pulled on the halter, guiding him this way and that. I was riding!
Certainly it was a willful, deceitful thing to do, but every chance I had, I went to the stable. And if Mr. and Mrs. Greenaway were not close by, I climbed up on Trophy’s back and circled him around the yard.
Then about two weeks later, when Steven was off gathering more berries and Mother and I were sealing preserves, we heard a frantic call. Mother rushed out the door, wiping her hands on her apron, and I followed. As we burst through the granary door, we saw Father sprawled on the floor, his leg twisted beneath him. Mother cradled his head in her lap.
“Oh please, Margaret,” he moaned. “Get the doctor, quick!”
Mother’s trembling hand went to her throat. “I can’t leave,” she said. “Jessica, please get help!”
I ran outside and called in every direction, but the yards were deserted and, without another thought, I ran toward the Greenaway’s stable. I pounded on their door, and although it was open, no one answered. Instantly, I ran to the stable and climbed onto Trophy’s back. Leaning forward, I grasped the halter and urged him toward Doctor Kroller’s house.
A short time later, Trophy stood frothy wet and snorting as I slipped down from his back and banged on Doctor Kroller’s door. Panting, I explained about the accident, then watched as Doctor Kroller’s buggy raced toward our home.
Later, as I lead Trophy to his stall, Mr. Greenaway came out of the house. “Young lady!” he snapped. “Your father would tan your hide if he knew you ran off with my horse!”
“Please, Mr. Greenaway … I had to fetch the doctor. My father’s had an accident in our granary,” I stammered.
“I’m sorry, child,” Mr. Greenaway replied quickly. “Come, let’s go see if everything is all right.”
After the doctor had left and Father was resting in bed, I tapped softly on his door.
“Come in!” he replied.
I tiptoed into the room where the warm breezes of the afternoon blew through the open window. “I deceived you,” I said quietly.
He looked at me sternly, then patted the bed beside him. “I’m glad you came, Jessica. I have something to tell you.” He opened his arms and I slid into them, burying my head in his shoulder. “I know you rode Trophy to get the doctor, Jessica. Will you forgive me?”
I raised my head and stared into his face. “Forgive you, Father?”
“Forgive me for being a stubborn man.” He rocked me gently in his arms and spoke quietly into my hair. “We’re getting a horse, Jessica. It was to have been Steven’s and also to be used with a buggy. But now I see how unfair I’ve been. It will be as much your horse as Steven’s. And when Mother sends for clothing, I want you to look through the catalog and get a pair of riding—”
“Jodhpurs, Father?” I asked, hopefully.
“Yes, jodhpurs,” he said his face beaming.
My father is a stem man, well educated and fair, and he always taught us to be truthful. I know he heard me when I said I’d deceived him, but he never mentioned it again, and somehow I know he forgave me.

I brushed the raindrops off my nose and opened the back door just as my little sister, Mikey, came dancing into the kitchen. She was carrying a shoe box and a newspaper. “Hey, Mikey, what’s in the box?” I asked.
She looked at me and raised her eyebrows, her chipmunk cheeks bulging with vanilla wafers. “Stuff.” She turned and skipped down the hall to her room.
My brother, Joe, looked over the top of his peanut-butter sandwich. “It’s a present for Dad’s birthday tomorrow,” he said between bites.
“But what is it?”
“Mithens,” he mumbled, his mouth full of peanut butter and jelly.
“Did you say mittens?”
He nodded. “She’s giving Dad her pink sweater and her favorite mittens, the ones with the little clown faces on them. I saw her take them out of the hall closet.”
I started to laugh, picturing Dad trying to squeeze himself into Mikey’s little clothes, then covered my mouth so that Mikey wouldn’t hear.
“Don’t tell,” Joe warned, gulping down a glass of milk.
“I won’t,” I promised, still trying not to laugh.
It’s kind of weird. Some of my friends think their little brothers and sisters are pests. Sometimes I do get mad at Mikey. Like when she tried to feed my goldfish a bite of chocolate cupcake. It mucked up the water, and my fish almost died. But most of the time Joe and I think Mikey is just about the sweetest, best, funniest little sister in the whole world. Her real name is Michailah, after our grandmother, but everybody calls her Mikey.
After dinner, Mikey helped me dry the dishes. When I asked her if she wanted me to help her wrap her box, she put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. “It’s a secret,” she announced. “I have to do it my own self.”
The next day when I got home from school, Mikey grabbed my hand and pulled me into the living room. There it was—Mikey’s box—wrapped up in the Sunday comics. There were pieces of tape sticking out all over. Mikey’s eyes were shining. “Daddy’s going to love it!”
I smiled, stooping down and putting my arms around her. “Well, I can see you’re pleased with yourself.”
She nodded and brushed a little lock of tangled hair off her forehead. “How much more longer till Daddy comes home?”
“Not long,” I told her.
Right after dinner, we helped Mom clear the table and put Dad’s birthday cake and presents on it. Then we all sat down. All except Mikey. She was so excited, she looked like a little rainbow lit up with sunbeams. She was practically dancing in her chair. “Pick mine, Daddy!” she squealed.
“And could this be it?” Dad smiled, reaching for the wrapped shoe box.
Mikey nodded. “Daddy, I didn’t have any money but I got you something special to keep you warm.”
Slowly Dad tore off the Sunday comics, then lifted the lid. I looked at Joe. He looked at me and winked. Dad lifted the pink sweater and little mittens from the box. “Ooooh!” he said. “A new sweater and mittens to keep me warm. Should I try them on?” His eyes twinkled.
Mikey put her hands over her mouth and started to giggle. “No, you funny Daddy! These are my stuff!” She reached out and snatched the sweater and mittens from Dad’s hands.
I looked at Joe. He looked at me, his eyebrows raised in a question mark. We looked at Mom. She looked puzzled, too. Dad just sat there with his mouth half open, looking confused.
Mikey slipped the soft pink sweater over her head and wiggled her hands into the mittens. “I didn’t get you clothes, Daddy.” She was still giggling. “I got you a hug!” She laughed, putting her sweatered arms around Dad’s neck and giving him a big squeeze. “See? It’s a nice wooly hug, and it’ll keep you warm in your heart,” she whispered, patting him gently with her soft mittens.
Dad didn’t look confused anymore. He was smiling, but his eyes were sort of misty. “Thank you, Mikey,” he said at last. “Thank you for a very special gift. I will remember it always.”
“Can I have one of those mitten hugs for my birthday, too?” Joe asked.
“Me, too?” I added.
Mikey shook her head. “Nope,” she said. “You don’t have to wait for your birthday ’cause you can have one right now!”