Gospel Story Finder

“The animals have to earn their keep.” Papa’s words echoed in Megan’s mind. The dogs guarded the sheep, and the chickens laid eggs. The sheep produced wool to sell. Megan helped shear them every spring, and their thick wool always looked like snow melting on the green field.
But Megan’s lambs were different. They were runts that were born last year, and they were too small to produce enough wool to pay for their upkeep. Papa had wanted to take them to the butcher, but the two tiny, frail babies had captured Megan’s heart. She’d pleaded to keep them, and Papa had finally agreed. “But,” he had warned her, “you will have to take care of them all by yourself.”
At first, everything had been OK. Megan had used her birthday money to buy hay when the lambs began to eat. But now her birthday money was gone, and Papa said it was too expensive to let the lambs graze in the field he rented outside town. Besides, Megan knew she would rarely see them if they went to the field. She sighed as she watched her lambs nibble the last bit of hay. It would be gone tomorrow, and she needed to find a way to feed her lambs.
Megan patted the white wool on the lambs’ heads as she leaned against the pen. Down her street she could see Mr. Flowers tending his roses. A couple of houses down, Mrs. Wilmot hobbled slowly out to get the mail. Mrs. Wilmot was a widow who lived all alone. Sometimes Megan’s brother raked leaves for Mrs. Wilmot, but he always complained because Mrs. Wilmot couldn’t afford to pay him.
Megan noticed how long Mrs. Wilmot’s grass was. “I’ll offer to trim her lawn for her,” Megan decided. “But not now. I need to find a way to feed my lambs.”
Suddenly Megan had an idea. Mrs. Wilmot had grass, and Megan had sheep that needed to graze—the perfect combination! Megan patted her lambs quickly on the head and ran to Mrs. Wilmot’s house. When Mrs. Wilmot answered the door, she beamed at Megan, happy to have a visitor. The words tumbled out of Megan’s mouth as she explained her idea.
“Mrs. Wilmot, I think this could be great for both of us!” Megan finished. She held her breath, waiting for a response.
“I think so too!” Mrs. Wilmot said. “I could use the company, and my lawn could use the help. Bring the lambs over first thing tomorrow morning.” Megan and Mrs. Wilmot smiled at each other, and Megan grinned all the way home.
The next day was the beginning of a long and wonderful friendship. Megan took her sheep over to Mrs. Wilmot’s house every morning before school, and in the afternoons she stayed to visit for a while before she took her lambs home for the night. Mrs. Wilmot’s lawn stayed trimmed at the perfect height, and Megan’s lambs earned their keep.

During the summer of 2015, three of us Young Men leaders, including our bishop, took six young men from the deserts of southern New Mexico to the Rocky Mountains of central Colorado for a high-adventure backpacking trip. At the time, I was serving as ward Young Men president. For four days, we hiked, fished, explored, and gathered in the evenings for spiritual fireside chats. We made lasting memories—including one we will always remember.
Before making our way off the mountain at the end of our trip, the only thing that had marred our adventure was a cut foot and a little rain and hail. After we broke camp the morning of our return hike, none of us worried about the slippery, muddy trail until we leaders approached the bottom of the first steep descent.
That’s where I slipped, fell, and hit the ground. I felt a sudden, sharp pain in my right leg. I had no idea what I had done to my leg, but I couldn’t move it.
As I sat on the ground, dazed and in pain, our bishop, Bryce Heiner, rushed to my side. A surgeon, Bishop Heiner examined my leg but couldn’t tell how badly I was hurt. What we didn’t know is that when I fell, I hit a rock so hard that it severed my right quadriceps tendon, the large tendon just above the kneecap. I could neither stand nor walk.
One of our young men, Nathan Donaldson, said later, “There was a lot of panic on the mountain. Everyone was praying for guidance.” Another young man, Brighton Heiner, said, “We didn’t know if Brother Ewing’s leg was going to be all right or if he was going to die!”
I knew I couldn’t get off the mountain without a lot of help, including heavenly help. So I asked for a priesthood blessing. Bishop Heiner anointed and Mark Handly, a counselor in the bishopric, sealed the anointing. As Brother Handly spoke, a stillness settled over our group.
Nathan still remembers what he and the other young men felt as he listened to the powerful words of the blessing: “I was at peace, my heart slowed down, my mind became calm. I was in awe of the Savior’s power manifested by the Holy Ghost, which touched my heart. I thought to myself, ‘I want to be able to do that someday. I want to be able to bring peace and healing to my loved ones.’”
Despite that calming reassurance, the words of the blessing that struck me the hardest were these: “You’ll be fine, but it’s going to take a while.”
That “while” included the time it would take to get me off the mountain. I’m six feet, four inches tall (193 cm), and at the time I weighed 230 pounds (104 kg). The young men wondered, “How are we going to get him down?” I wondered the same thing.
Because I had taken wilderness first-aid training the summer before, I directed our group in fashioning a splint for my leg out of rope, tape, tree branches, and a foam sleeping pad. We still had four miles to hike and a rushing mountain stream to cross before we could reach our vehicles and seek medical attention.
The two tallest members of our group supported me by holding on to my upper arms as they walked beside me. Slowly, we began making our way downhill. Sometimes my good knee would buckle, and I would fold over like a lawn chair. I had to fight nausea with every painful step. Bishop Heiner grew increasingly concerned with each passing hour of our descent.
While some of our crew cleared the trail ahead of rocks and debris to make the journey easier for me, others hiked back up the trail to bring me water, food, and encouragement. A hike that would normally have taken about two hours lasted eight hours.
Bishop Heiner and some of the young men hiked ahead to the stream. There, with what Daniel Palmer described as “a prayer in our hearts,” they lashed together logs from fallen trees and built a bridge over an abandoned beaver dam. They also made a makeshift handrail.
“When I reached the stream four hours into the hike,” Steven says, “I slowly and carefully crossed the log bridge supported by several helping hands.”
When I reached the stream four hours into the hike, I slowly and carefully crossed the log bridge supported by several helping hands. We stopped to rest and say another of several more prayers. At that point, we were halfway off the mountain.
A few hours later, the first young men emerged from the wilderness near the trailhead. They explained our predicament to some campers riding all-terrain vehicles. Several of those good Samaritans drove up the trail, picked up several of us, and drove us to our cars.
Soon we were headed for Trinidad, Colorado, where I received treatment at a hospital emergency room. A doctor fitted me with a knee brace and crutches, and we headed home.
Steven Ewing (second from left) and Bishop Bryce Heiner (far right) with the “ministering angels” who helped Steven off the mountain (left to right): Eric Palmer, Brighton Heiner, Daniel Palmer, Jacob Donaldson, and Zane Heiner (not pictured: Nathan Donaldson, who was serving a full-time missionary; and Mark Handly, who had moved).
No, I wasn’t healed instantly. Healing did “take a while” after surgery and physical therapy. But I’m thankful for the priesthood blessing I received, the faith shown by those who prayed for me and helped me (see James 2:26), and the unity of purpose we achieved as we worked together to get me off the mountain.
We learned some important things that day, lessons that strengthened our testimonies and resolve, helped the young men commit to serving missions, and prepared them for difficult mountains they would climb in the future.
“Among my amazing leaders and peers was the power of God,” Nathan remembers. “I believe He sent down angels that day to help us. This experience helped me understand the importance of being worthy to bless the sacrament and fulfill my other priesthood duties.”
I don’t know how big a part that experience played in helping the young men on that hike commit to lives of prayer, service, and worthiness. Many experiences in their young lives likely played a key role in their commitment to Jesus Christ and His Church. But every one of those young men went on to serve the Savior as full-time missionaries.
With the passage of time, I am increasingly grateful for those good servants of the Lord—what they did for me then and what they continue to do for others today. For me, they were, and remain, ministering angels (see Doctrine and Covenants 13:1).
For their “outstanding service in implementing Scouting skills and ideals,” young men from the Rio Grande Ward in Las Cruces, New Mexico, received the Medal of Merit award from the Boy Scouts of America.

A mother who was diagnosed with cancer told of being isolated in a bare room for many long days behind closed lead-lined doors, feeling like a prisoner convicted of a crime she didn’t commit. Then she tells of her oldest daughter coming to visit:

She sat down behind the lead screen that separated us and proceeded to take off her boots and socks. She slipped her socks on her hands and pretended they were puppets and spoke through them. I laughed for the first time in months. That simple act brightened my outlook instantly. [Emily Farmer, “‘What Do I Say to Someone Who Is Dying?’” Ensign, April 1990, 73]

One day I went to the dentist because I had a toothache. The dentist said I needed a root canal. I was half scared to get it, but half excited too, because I wanted the pain to go away. I told my mom I wanted a priesthood blessing so I would feel comforted. My dad was out of town so I asked if my two uncles could give me a blessing. The night before I had to go back to the dentist, they came over and gave me a blessing. After they left I told my mom, “I feel comforted already.” The next day I felt really comfortable during the root canal. I’m glad that the Holy Ghost inspired me to ask for a blessing.Madeline Anne G., age 8, Utah

Jean B. Bingham, former Relief Society General President, describes Elder Kearon as calm under pressure. She recalls a time when she, Elder David A. Bednar of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles, Elder Kearon, and others found themselves stranded abroad during a political uprising. Under Elder Bednar’s direction, Elder Kearon spent hours on a satellite phone working with local officials and Church representatives to create a path for their removal.
“His calm nature, focused efforts, and inspired insights produced a solution that allowed for our safe departure,” says Sister Bingham.

On a May morning in 1843 some of the Apostles were meeting in Joseph Smith’s office in Nauvoo. Opposition to the Church was building in Illinois, and persecution of the Saints was increasing. Yet at this difficult time, the leaders called four men to leave their families, travel far from their homes, and serve missions in the Sandwich Islands (Hawaiian Islands). They were the first missionaries called to a non-English-speaking mission field. The four men—Addison Pratt, Noah Rogers, Benjamin F. Grouard, and Knowlton F. Hanks—were set apart on May 23 by Brigham Young, Heber C. Kimball, Orson Hyde, and Parley P. Pratt.
The missionaries first traveled east to New Bedford, Massachusetts, where they hoped to find a ship going to their mission area. When they couldn’t find one, they booked passage on a ship traveling to the Society Islands (French Polynesian Islands) in the South Pacific. They set sail on October 9, 1843.
After they had been at sea only a few weeks, Elder Hanks, a young man who had suffered from ill health, died and was buried in the Atlantic. The three remaining missionaries continued on. Their voyage took them east across the Atlantic, around the Cape of Good Hope, across the Indian Ocean, along the southern coast of Australia, and into the Pacific.
The first island reached by the ship was Tubuai in 1844. When the natives there pleaded with the missionaries to stay, Addison Pratt left the ship to teach these people who had shown them kindness and hospitality. Serving there alone for many months, struggling to learn the Polynesian language, he baptized sixty out of a population of two hundred and organized the first branch of the Church in the South Pacific. To this day, the Latter-day Saint community on Tubuai is a strong one.
Elder Pratt’s two former companions traveled on to Tahiti, where their teaching met with far less success. After a few months, Elder Rogers traveled west to the leeward islands and Elder Grouard sailed to the island of Anaa in the Tuamotus. Elder Rogers again met with little success and much opposition. When rumors finally reached him of the death of the Prophet Joseph Smith, he began to fear for the safety of his family in Nauvoo, and he returned to America. He died during the exodus from Nauvoo.
The people of Anaa, on the other hand, came to greatly love Elder Grouard. He was the first white missionary of any kind to come to their island, and many of them accepted the truth he taught. He baptized over six hundred natives, organized five branches, and called local officers to serve. He wrote to Elder Pratt and asked him to come to Anaa, as there was too much work for him to do alone.
Elder Pratt responded to his companion’s invitation, and a conference of the Church was held on Anaa with over eight hundred in attendance. At this time Addison Pratt decided to travel back to Church headquarters to request more missionaries to help in the work in the South Pacific. Leaving Elder Grouard behind, he traveled first to California, then to the Salt Lake Valley, arriving in September 1848, one week after his wife and four daughters had arrived from Winter Quarters.
He shared his experiences with the Saints, taught Tahitian classes, and prepared to return to Polynesia. In 1850 he set out with a new companion, James S. Brown, and the promise that his own family and other missionary families would soon follow. They did follow, and despite growing problems with the French government in the islands, the missionaries and their families served until 1852, when they were forced to return to America.
Forty years passed before LDS missionaries were allowed back into French Polynesia. Many members had remained faithful despite the lack of contact with Church headquarters, but many had fallen away. The work began anew in 1892 and has continued with a few interruptions to this day. The gospel truth has shone in these islands for 150 years!
There are now four stakes in the Society Islands, and a beautiful temple stands in Papeete, on the island of Tahiti. The stories of the early missionaries are remembered and shared often by those who now send their own sons and daughters as missionaries to other countries and other islands.

One day the three of them took Old Brownie and Belle and went up City Creek Canyon for a jag of firewood. As soon as they’d found a good place to stop and load up, Pa had Jeremy unhitch the team so that they could graze while the wagon was loaded.
“There,” said Pa, when the wagon was full. “That’ll do it for this trip. Hitch the horses back to the wagon, Jeremy, while Brose and I fasten the chain around the load to keep any logs from falling off.”
“Let me hook up the horses, Pa!” cried Brose. “I can do it, honest! I watched you and Jere do it every day, coming across the plains! Let me hook ‘em up, Pa!”
Pa hesitated, then said, “All right, Brose. Don’t forget to fasten the crosslines, so you can drive the team together without their trying to go off in all directions.”
“So you can drive them!” That’s what Pa said! Maybe, if I hook ‘em up just right, thought Brose, Pa’ll let me drive all the way home!
Brose didn’t have any trouble leading the horses into place. Brownie stepped right over the wagon tongue into her place while Belle stood quietly waiting on the other side. Then, just as Pa had cautioned, Brose fastened the crosslines, snapping the one from Belle’s harness onto the ring on Brownie’s bit, and the other onto the ring on Belle’s bridle.
Next he took the wide leather strap on the front of Brownie’s harness, slipped it through the big ring on the end of the yoke, and fastened the snap to the ring on the other side of the harness. “There! That was just the way Jeremy would have done it,” Brose murmured, pleased. He fastened the strap on Belle’s harness to the yoke the same way. Then he took the driving line from where Jeremy had hung it on Brownie’s hame and threw it ever so gently over Belle’s back, just the way Pa would have done it—quiet, easy, so as not to frighten the team.
When he walked around to put Belle’s line with the other, Brose heard a bird call. It was a new sound, something like a meadowlark’s, yet different. It was more like that little brown bird he used to hear back in Connecticut before the family had come west. Maybe it was! Maybe that very same little brown bird had followed him, Ambrose Dodd, all the way to the Valley!
Brose didn’t know how long he had listened to the bird before he saw Pa and Jeremy. They had walked a little way down the canyon and had stopped, waiting for him.
Brose was to bring the team and wagon! He was going to drive! He climbed up onto the seat, picked up both of the lines, and slapped them against Brownie’s side, just as Pa would have done.
“Giddap!” he cried, loud enough for Pa and Jeremy and the horses to hear. The horses stepped forward. But the wagon did not move. Only the yoke went with the team, the ring on it sliding off the end of the wagon tongue and the lines slipping through Brose’s hands.
Jeremy ran toward him just as the wagon tongue banged to the ground. “Brose!” he called. “Hey, Brose! You forgot the wagon! It won’t move unless you hitch the tugs!”
Brose couldn’t move. How could he have been so dumb! How could he possibly have forgotten about the tugs?
Jeremy reached out and took the lines and drove the team around in a little circle, putting the team right in place. Brose came out of his daze and scurried around to pick up the end of the tongue and slip it through the ring of the yoke, which was still fastened to the horses.
Jeremy was just hooking the last tug to the doubletree when Pa came. Brose watched Pa climb over the front wheel and take his place on the front of the load. Pa reached for the lines, and Jeremy handed them up to him. Pa took them without a word, and Brose knew that he had lost another chance.
There wasn’t much talking during chores that night. When supper was over, Brose sat on the little stool beside the fire, listening to the crackling and hissing of the pine knot and watching the sparks it sometimes sent up with the smoke.
Jeremy took Pa’s fiddle from its case, and music began to fill the little cabin, then float away on the night air. Brose leaned back against the warm cabin wall near the fireplace and listened. He wished—oh, how he wished!—that he could play like Jere. Pa had been fair about it, though. He had tried to teach both of them. Brose still remembered Pa’s words: “Seems as though you’ve got ten thumbs, Brose, and they all want to go in different directions.”
Pa had quit trying to teach him soon after that, and at the time Brose had been relieved. But now every time he listened to the fiddle singing under Jere’s fingers, Brose wished Pa hadn’t given up quite so quickly.
He’d much rather be standing there by Pa’s chair, playing the fiddle, with Ma and Trudy and Willie giving him all the smiles Jeremy was getting, than do the job he was supposed to be doing. He saw Ma looking at him from time to time, but she didn’t interrupt the music with talking, and after a bit Brose made himself get started.
He knew someone had to straighten out the kinks in the wool so that Ma and Trudy could knit it into socks for winter. Brose hated to card. Mostly women and girls did it, but Ma said that Trudy was as fast at knitting as she was, herself. With both of them knitting, they could have twice as many socks ready when winter came. They could, that is, if Brose would just keep ahead of them with the carding.
Brose had his problems with this job too. Sometimes he got the wool so tangled up that Ma said it was worse for knitting when he got through with it than before he started. But she had more patience than Pa. Or maybe she needed the wool carded more than Pa needed another boy to play the fiddle.
Across the firelight Brose saw both Ma and Trudy knitting, each tapping a foot in time to the music. The only time either of them stopped was if one of them happened to drop a stitch. Then the stitch-dropper would move closer to the fire so that she could see to pick it up. Brose sighed as he pulled the big basket of wool closer to him and reached for the cards.
He laid one card close to the fire so that the wire brush would warm. He picked up a handful of wool and drew it across the other card. Then he took the card he had warmed and pulled it carefully across the wool, trying to get the strands straight.
“Learned that fiddle quicker’n I did,” said Pa, as Jeremy stopped for a moment. “Never did see a boy pick it up as fast as that.”
Pa will never be that proud of me, thought Brose, even if I did the carding perfectly! Ma would be pleased, but Pa and Jere wouldn’t care about it at all. Maybe … just maybe someday I’ll do something that they’ll think is important …
“Brose!” He was startled from his daydream by Ma’s voice. “The wool, Brose! I can smell it! You’ve got it too close to the fire!”
(To be concluded.)

One of my good and bright friends left the Church for a time. He recently wrote to me of his return: “Initially, I wanted the Book of Mormon to be proven to me historically, geographically, linguistically, and culturally. But when I changed my focus to what it teaches about the gospel of Jesus Christ and His saving mission, I began to gain a testimony of its truthfulness. One day while reading the Book of Mormon in my room, I paused, knelt down, and gave a heartfelt prayer and felt resoundingly that Heavenly Father whispered to my spirit that the Church and the Book of Mormon were definitely true. My three-and-a-half-year period of reinvestigating the Church led me back wholeheartedly and convincingly to its truthfulness.”

If one will take the time to humbly read and ponder the Book of Mormon, as did my friend, and give ear to the sweet fruits of the Spirit, then he or she will eventually receive the desired witness.

The buzzing alarm sounded all too loudly in my ear. I reached up, flicked it off, and closed my eyes. The groggy Buen Dia from the other side of the room woke me again, so I rolled out of bed and knelt beside it to pray.
I was discouraged. And tired. I was tired of cold nights and early mornings, tired of microbuses and rude drivers. I was tired of my mission in Bolivia and longed to go home to Ohio. I knew I needed a better attitude, so that is what I prayed for that morning.
After my prayers, I got up off of my knees and called to my companion, “Come on, Hermana. It’s Sunday. We’ve got meetings to go to, appointments to make, lives to change.”
A groan was the only answer I got at first. Then there was a hopeful, “It’s not still raining is it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“If it is, I’m not getting out of bed!”
I knew how she felt. At that moment, I would have given anything for the comforts of home: reliable electricity, hot water, washing machines, the family car. The list went on and on in my mind as I got ready for church.
From her bed, my companion knelt and looked out the window.
“Well, the sun may be shining, but guess what it’s shining on.”
“About a foot of mud, no?”
“You got it.”
I glanced at my galoshes—full of mud from the previous day. Another day of sliding in thick mud and wading through puddles.
I picked up my scriptures and tried to read, but my mind kept wandering. I turned to Third Nephi and read about Christ’s visit to the Americas until it was time to go.
As we slipped and slid in the mud on the way to the church, I mentally counted the days until I could walk on a paved road. Nearing the chapel, my companion and I pasted on smiles and entered, greeting members and laughing with the children.
A less-active family entered the building, and suddenly my smile seemed a little more real. We had been working with them for a long time, and this was the first time they had been to church in two years. As I rose to greet them, another family entered, carrying with them their brand-new baby. The father came to church regularly, but the mother didn’t, and until just two days before, had been unwilling to allow the father to bless the baby.
Before the beginning of the meeting, three more less-active families we’d been working with arrived. My bad mood was rapidly disappearing. As we sang the opening hymn, my heart filled with an overwhelming sense of love for these people. Before my mission had started, I thought I would be the one doing all the giving. But sitting there in that sacrament meeting, I realized how wrong I had been. The people had given so much more to me.
As the sacrament was passed, I realized that, although I loved these people very much, Christ loved them more than I could comprehend. Christ loved those who loved him and those who hated him. That was what my mission was all about.
My tears flowed freely now, and I was filled with humility and shame for my negative thoughts that morning. I looked around the little chapel and suddenly I wasn’t tired of Bolivia anymore. I could put up with the inconvenience and the mud a little longer. In fact, how could I ever leave? I wanted to share the feeling I was having at that moment with everyone—a knowledge of a God in heaven who loved every one of them.
With a real smile on my face, I put my arm around my startled companion and focused my attention on the speaker at the pulpit.

With Danielle and Michelle Hancock of the Lakeside First Ward, Show Low Arizona Stake, you might think you’re seeing double since they are identical twins, but the sisters are ace spellers trading off taking first and second in their district competition for the past three years.
In the past, Michelle won the county spelling bee and went on to win the Arizona State Spelling Bee. She represented the state in the national contest.
This year, Danielle won the county spelling bee and went on to the state competition. She took second place but only after setting a state record for spelling bee rounds. She participated in 82 rounds with the final 61 rounds just between her and the eventual state champ.
Both girls are honor students, and both were awarded All Sports Awards from their schools for making all the sports teams this past year.

A full-time mission is an event Brian’s in full training for. He often brings friends from high school to church and seminary with him, hoping to interest them in the gospel.
Victor Venegas, 18, who joined the Church three years ago, says Brian’s friendship helped him feel welcome in the branch. “Brian and I have been friends since I joined the Church,” says Victor, who is also on Hempstead’s baseball team.
“When I first went to church everybody was nice, so I kept coming back,” he says.

Returning What Was Stolen
Many years ago when I was practicing law in California, a friend and client who was not a member of our faith came in to see me and with great enthusiasm showed me a letter he had received from an LDS bishop of a nearby ward. The bishop reported that a member of his congregation, a former employee of my client, had taken materials from my client’s work site and had rationalized that they were surplus. But after becoming a committed Latter-day Saint and attempting to follow Jesus Christ, this employee recognized that what he had done was dishonest. Enclosed in the letter was a sum of money from the man to cover not only the cost of the materials but also interest. My client was impressed that the Church through lay leadership would assist this man in his effort to be reconciled to God.
Elder Quentin L. Cook of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles

The call came that comes to every missionary now and again. I was serving in California, and it was time for me to transfer to a new area. As soon as I met my new companion, Elder Wilding, he hurried us out of the door. He was not one to waste time when there were so many people waiting to hear the gospel.
Elder Wilding said we had an appointment to teach a first discussion later that day. As we were out contacting people, he told me about the man we would be teaching.
His name was Ray, and he had a habit of walking the streets at night. It wasn’t because he liked walking or taking in the night air. It was because Ray had fallen on hard times, and the downtown streets were the closest thing to someplace he could call home.
Elder Wilding and his previous companion ran into Ray on their way home one night. They had talked briefly with him about the Church and the Book of Mormon. They had asked if he would like a copy of the book and if they could come back and teach him more. Ray had accepted the book and said he would meet them at the corner bookstore the next day.
I took all this in but was stuck on the part about Ray living on the streets. I was picturing in my mind a man with a scraggly gray beard, wearing a faded trench coat, and begging for money to buy a drink. I couldn’t see how we could do anything for this man from the streets.
We reached the bookstore and went in. The two levels of the store were filled with row after row of books. Upstairs were some tables and chairs where people could sit and read. It looked more like a library than a bookstore. We passed several people wandering around as we headed upstairs. When we got there, Elder Wilding went over to a man sitting at a table reading a book. The man looked no different from the other people in the bookstore. And at first I was wondering who he was. Then I noticed the book the man was reading. It was the Book of Mormon.
Ray was nothing like the man I had been expecting. He was a middle-aged guy who had just had a streak of bad luck. Some people who have lost their jobs, their home, and everything they have turn bitter at the world and expect others to solve their problems. But there was something different about Ray. He wasn’t about to wait for someone to come along with a handout. When he couldn’t find a job that paid him enough to survive, he took two jobs. Although his pay was scarcely above minimum wage, he was determined to get himself off the street as soon as possible.
You would have thought after seeing Ray that my heart would have softened, but I was still skeptical. However, as we taught Ray about Jesus Christ and told him about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon, he was genuinely interested in what we had to say. He told us to meet him again in two days’ time.
Soon we were teaching Ray regularly, meeting in many different places. I would have to say the most interesting place was in a coffee house. It was at this meeting that we were to teach Ray about the Word of Wisdom. I didn’t miss the irony that we were going to commit Ray to stop drinking coffee in a place where he was surrounded by the stuff.
Ray was waiting for us. I groaned inwardly when I saw the cup of coffee sitting next to him. He sipped his coffee while we taught. I wondered if he would laugh at us when we asked him to stop drinking coffee.
The time came, and we asked Ray if he would live the Word of Wisdom. I braced myself for his reaction. He didn’t hesitate. He looked around and said, “I guess we’ll want to meet somewhere else next time.” He told us that there was a little Mexican restaurant a few blocks away. He was friends with the owner. They had a balcony in the back used for large groups, and he thought the owners would let us meet there.
Ray gained a testimony and was baptized and confirmed. A Church member in his new ward offered him a spare room he could rent. Ray thanked the Lord for getting him off the streets and back on his feet. He said it was not until the Church and the gospel came into his life that things started coming back together for him.
My heart had finally been softened, and my eyes were opened to see the Lord’s hand in Ray’s life. I was humbled to learn that Heavenly Father is mindful of all His children and sees the great potential in each and every one of us—even when we can’t see it ourselves.

“Today we’re going to talk about temple marriage,” my Mia Maid teacher said, smiling sweetly. I braced myself. It was going to happen—again.
Whenever subjects like temple marriage or the Word of Wisdom came up, someone always seemed to mention my dad, who was both non-LDS and a smoker. Many times he had even been used to illustrate the point.
Two hours later, still flushed and embarrassed from the class comments, I walked home.
My dad has a bad habit, but he’s not a bad person, I thought angrily. How can they judge him when they don’t really know him?
That night after church, I looked up some scriptures on judging others and found just the one I was looking for: “But … as you cannot always tell the wicked from the righteous, … hold your peace until I shall see fit to make all things known unto the world concerning the matter” (D&C 10:37).
I read the words over and over again, and each time I felt angrier and angrier at the ward members.
This scripture is proof that I’m right and they’re all wrong, I thought angrily.
I pictured myself at the pulpit quoting this scripture and setting everyone straight. No doubt, the congregation would be moved to repentant tears. I could hardly wait until testimony meeting next Sunday.
But during the week, my anger began to wear me down. It was too great a battle for one person to fight.
How can I take on the whole ward? I worried.
By Sunday, I had formulated a better plan—one that would really show my resentment. I would stay home with my dad on Sundays.
As my mom and sisters got ready for church, I put on a sweatsuit and plopped down in front of the television with my dad. Mom was upset, but I was sure Dad would be on my side.
After everyone had left, he asked why I was home. I told him everything, including how harshly he was being judged by some ward members.
He just sat there for a moment. Then he asked if the Church was important to me.
“Of course,” I said.
“Do you believe it’s true?” he asked.
“Yes, it’s true,” I said, wondering what he was getting at.
“If it’s true, then you should never let what someone says or does keep you away. Besides, I thought Mormons weren’t supposed to judge,” he said, nudging me playfully.
“Hold your peace,” the words from the scripture rang in my head. It suddenly seemed to apply more to me than to the ward. In my anger, I had forgotten that people make mistakes and sometimes say things that hurt, though they don’t mean to. Perhaps I had judged the ward members unfairly, I thought. Next Sunday I would go back to church.
All my life my father had been teaching me honesty, respect, hard work, and love. But that afternoon he taught me to forgive.

“Dad loves to take his grandchildren on an imaginary lion hunt, where they all try to find a make-believe lion. First, they pretend to sit on the seat of a car. Then when they arrive at the airport, they climb invisible steps to get on the airplane. Once inside the plane, everyone fastens his safety belt and leans way back in his chair as the plane takes off. When the plane lands, everyone comes down the stairs and walks over to a jeep. They climb in and, because the jeep ride is bumpy, everyone joggles up and down.
“When the jeep stops, everyone jumps out and gets an imaginary rope and gun to put over his shoulder. They wade through long grass and reeds—swish-swish-swish. They come to a bridge and everyone crosses over it—clump-clump-clump. Then they come to the place where the lions are, and they throw their ropes up around a rock to secure them. They all climb up the rope to get into a cave so they can creep up on the lion. The lion roars—GRRRR!! All of the brave lion hunters run out of the cave, slide down the rope, go clumping over the bridge, run swishing through the reeds, take off their ropes and guns, get back into the jeep, and take the bumpy ride back to the airport. Finally they arrive back home safe and sound after a great trip!”

I think of when I was a young man, before I was even ordained a deacon, I went to one of our ward meetings in the little country town where I was raised, and two missionaries reported their missions down in the Southern States. In those days they traveled without purse or scrip, and they had to sleep out many nights when they couldn’t get entertainment. I don’t know whether they said anything unusual that night or not; but if they didn’t, the Lord did something unusual for me, because when I left that meeting, I felt like I could have walked to any mission field in the world, if I just had a call. And I went home, went into my little bedroom, and got down on my knees, and asked the Lord to help me to live worthy so that when I was old enough I could go on a mission. And when the train finally left the station here in Salt Lake and I was headed for the little land of Holland, the last thing I said to my loved ones was, “This is the happiest day of my life.”

Illustrations by Matt Sweeney
Are you going to send something to the Friend for the Kindness Garden? I saw you taking Mrs. Craig’s trash out for her again.
Hmm. Maybe I will. What about you?
You’ve been helping that new girl at school catch up on her assignments.
Oh! Yeah.
Let’s both do it.
OK! Something you find in a garden, right?
I’ll find the colored paper.
I’ll get crayons and markers.
LATER—
I did a rose. I love roses. And you did … a potato?
It was supposed to be a gopher, but he forgot to make the legs!

Lunch period was the worst. Polly and I ate at different times, so we had to eat alone. It was also embarrassing to have to bring a sack lunch. Every day I sat by myself, reading a book so I didn’t have to look up.

One day a girl from one of the tough groups sauntered over on a dare from her friends. Her heavily made-up eyes jeered at me.

“Whatcha readin’?” she said.

I could hear the laughter of her friends. My heart pounded. Maybe if I kept reading she would just leave.

“Is it good?” she tried again, turning to look at her friends. Loud laughter. I kept reading.

“Man, are you dumb,” she said as she walked away.

I was too embarrassed to mention the incident to my parents. I don’t think they ever realized I had no friends at school. I don’t know if it was just the clothes we wore or that we didn’t know exactly what to say or do to be like everyone else, but we never did feel like we fit in.

I wrote in my journal, “I don’t know what to wear. White socks and shoes are out in the winter, and I have the wrong kind of coat and boots. Styles are so different here!”

Church and home were the only two places where I felt accepted. The kids at church didn’t seem to care about my eerie eyewear or my outdated clothing. I loved activity nights. An industrious seamstress, I modeled several of my creations in an MIA fashion show. Another time I participated in an impromptu speech contest and did terribly, but no one seemed to mind. Virginia Webb became a good friend, but she attended a different junior high.

I began to live for weekends and the hours after school spent playing with my brothers and sisters. In Hawaii we had had scores of friends and rarely played together. But here my brothers and sisters became my closest friends. They were there when that long-awaited snow finally fell. We frolicked in it like kittens in catnip. We held our mouths open as it fell. Each flake was a miracle, every snowball another excuse to giggle.

Eventually it dawned on us that we were the biggest kids on the sledding hill across from our home. In Michigan sledding was only for kids. But Alan didn’t care. At age 16, he was six feet, five inches tall, and he loved sledding. Every day after school, he went sledding alongside the grade schoolers. They gawked at him, but since he was so much bigger, no one ever said a word.

The rest of us, still trying to fit in, bought used ice skates. I’d been a good roller skater in Hawaii and ice skating came easy. With all the ponds and lakes in Michigan, we never had to settle for endless circling in a stale old rink. I loved the exhilaration of skating hard and fast across a frozen lake.

In the middle of the winter, a package arrived from my Grandmother Marsh in Los Angeles. I caught my breath when Polly and I tore off the brown wrapping. Inside were two outfits, breathtakingly in style. Mine had a pink flowered top with knee socks to match. Polly’s was identical, except that it was blue. This was our big chance to show the kids at Forsythe Junior High that we weren’t such misfits after all. Boy, would they be surprised!

I was a little nervous about the color because this was no ordinary pink. It was a sizzling, shocking pink. But the outfit was so definitely “in” that I squelched my fear. I slowly hung my oversized plaid coat in my locker and wondered what the kids would think of me appearing in such style.

A sea of eyes followed my dazzling pink presence from my locker to my homeroom. Then the whispering began—but not whispers of envy or admiration, as I had secretly hoped.

“Look what she’s wearing.”

“Didn’t we already have Halloween?”

All day the laughter continued. Resentment and frustration built within me. If only I had a friend to walk with, it would be so much easier. If only somebody who knew what was acceptable would give me some hints. Repeatedly I had tried to fit in and failed. And now even Grandma’s outfit had betrayed me. After that I stopped trying to live by other people’s standards. I warned Polly, and she never even wore her new clothes.

I wish I could say that there was some magic turning point, that we discovered a key that made us popular, that we found friends at our school, and that we became leaders and trendsetters ourselves. Of course we didn’t. In a year the sabbatical was over, and we returned to Hawaii, our scores of friends, our waves and mountain fruit, our mild weather and perpetually green foliage. Never was I happier than when we returned to our beloved island.

And yet now, 20 years later, when I think of Michigan, I smile. With fondness I recall Alan running barefoot in the snow. I grin at the memory of Philip and me raking autumn leaves. My heart soars when I remember skimming across a frozen lake with Polly or strolling through the farmer’s market with my father. Tears come to my eyes when I think about the whole family piling into our cream-colored station wagon, off for a picnic in Kalamazoo.

It isn’t easy to move when you’re in junior high school. It’s even tougher when you’re poor and you’re exchanging a provincial paradise for a bustling college town. There were times when I was sure I would never make it.

But now, given some time and distance, I know what the secret was. I leaned on my family. And because of them I survived.

Although we think we know what we want, the Lord knows ALL. This story has one more twist, which shows how far-reaching and consequential the Lord’s plan is in our lives. My adopted mom, Sharon McCarthy, we found out later, was a member of the Church, after all. She had run away from her home in Arizona as a young lady and had been inactive for many years. It took our oldest daughter, Natahli, to bring her back to Church. Natahli was very close to her Grandma, and when she was a young girl she started asking her questions like, “Grandma, why don’t you go to church with us?” or “Grandma, don’t you know smoking is wrong?” Only Natahli could get away with asking her those questions, and soon enough, Grandma returned to full activity and eventually received her Temple blessings.

I played “the trick” the evening before school started. The principal, Mr. Sajack, telephoned and asked Stevo to have a short talk ready for the opening assembly. Stevo went to my room and prepared it. Later he read it to me and asked what I thought. I told him that in this part of America we had a special pronunciation for the name of his country and the natives of his land. He took notes.

The next day in the assembly he introduced himself, told them his “nickelname” and then said, “I come from the Sloback Republic and my people are known as Slobs.” Half the auditorium teetered in embarrassment and the other half rolled in the aisles. He just smiled as if it was okay and continued to talk.

Later that day in English class Mrs. Cartwright asked him who helped him with the pronunciation of the name of his country. Then she glanced over at me. Stevo asked, “Why?” When she told him what a “slob” was I thought he would really be mad. All he did, though, was run a hand through that black hair, grin, and say “That was funny joke, heh?”