Gospel Story Finder

The young women of the Selsdon Ward, London Wandsworth Stake, helped many Bosnians survive last winter by organizing a project to put together packs for the refugees.
The girls asked ward members, friends, and even merchants to contribute items like toiletries, candles, matches, baby bottles, nappies, and nonperishable food. A humanitarian organization told the girls exactly what was needed.
The girls then spent two nights sorting and packing contributions and adding personalized notes. All together, 45 boxes were packed and delivered to the local ambulance station, which was responsible for having the items transported. The people at the station were impressed with the size of the contribution, and the young women couldn’t have been happier about it.

One day the sister missionaries knocked on my door and my mother answered. I remember her telling them, “Well, I am not interested, but my daughter would be. Wait, I will get her.”
When I started to talk to them, I could feel the Spirit telling me to listen. After a few months of listening and learning, I knew that this was what I had been looking for. Even though it didn’t feel like it to begin with, my decision to be baptized helped me to come not only closer to the Lord and but also closer to ending my ongoing battle against loneliness.

For the past few years the Yarmouth Branch has met in the Yarmouth Congregational Church, and the members are making the most of their association with their friends of another faith. Recently they met together for a joint worship service. A combined choir consisting of members from both congregations performed.
“It was pretty cool,” David says about the experience. “You could definitely feel the Spirit. Everyone had such a good time. At the end of the meeting we all mingled and talked, and some people found out they were related.”

Tears filled my eyes and overflowed as I read Homer Ellsworth’s “Travail” in April’s New Era. Brother Ellsworth’s beautifully articulated message should indeed reassure us of our Heavenly Father’s love. It is imperative for our growth in his spiritual kingdom to know that whatever we may be asked to endure in this life is for our good. What may appear to be a tragedy can be a blessing.
The blind baby in the article could have been ours. Our baby boy also was born without eyes where blue eyes should have been. I don’t know if that other baby’s earthly parents had been conditioned for the shock and the grief they were to endure. I was, but I didn’t know it until my baby was born. Seven months before our precious little one arrived, I attended the dedication ceremonies of the stake center in Jacksonville, Florida, where our late President David O. McKay dedicated the beautiful Church building. After the closing prayer he moved rapidly past the waiting line of Saints, shaking each hand as he went past. To look upon his angelic face framed by the beautiful shock of white hair was a blessing in itself. As he came to me his smile faded momentarily and his countenance imparted a message I did not understand. With a warm, almost comforting voice he said, “Bless you, sister.” I did not connect that blessing with my unborn child. I did know that he saw my future, and that alone was another testimony that he was truly a prophet of God, a seer, and a revelator. During the next few months I felt an uneasiness, some undefined worry or some unrecognized fear. Again I did not think it had anything to do with my pregnancy, nor did I think of it in connection with what the prophet had said.
When my precious baby arrived, my initial, and I think normal, reaction was of shock and unbelievable grief. As that grief began to subside, I realized that this was what the prophet had seen. The love I felt for my Heavenly Father was magnified, for I knew we had been chosen by him to be the parents of this special spirit who had, such a short time ago, been in his presence. I don’t know why we were chosen, but I thank him each day for this privilege and the blessings we have that are directly related to our having this special one to care for and love. His five brothers know this too. Their love and empathy for anyone with a handicap or affliction is a joy to behold.
Although we have been told that for Rusty sight is impossible, that no operation will ever give him his vision, I believe he will see before his life is over. I have always believed it, and I believe my Heavenly Father has given me this assurance.
Almost 19 now, Rusty is a young man of great faith. His childlike innocence combined with a childlike faith continue to testify to me of God’s continuing love. We are all children of God, and Rusty is one of his special ones.
Joyce Carter MickiewiezOxnard, California

“Oh,” Grandma said, looking down. “That square tells the story of my Uncle Bo.”

She shifted Jesse’s weight slightly and began to tell the story:
“His real name was Robert Hanely, Jr., but everyone called him Bo. He was my mother’s brother and the first child born in her family.

“His hair was as red as the old bantam rooster that woke them up each morning. His eyes were as blue as the Nebraska sky. And he had a streak in him that was as stubborn as his hair was red.

“When he was a baby, he had a favorite blue blanket with white bunnies on it, and he carried it around wherever he went. When he was two years old, his father decided that his son was too old to still be dragging that blue blanket around, so he took it away.

“He folded it nicely and placed it in a cupboard out of Bo’s reach. Bo cried and hollered until his father returned the blanket about four in the morning. There were other attempts to separate Bo and that blanket, but none of them ever worked.”

“Did he ever give it up, Grandma?” Michael asked in a tone that told her that he had never needed to carry around a silly blanket.

“Yes, he did,” Grandma said, “when he was about three and a half years old. One day his mother brought home a brand-new baby girl. She sat Bo down and told him that he was a big brother and that it was his job to protect his sister. Later that day he touched her tiny hand and felt that it was cold. He fetched his blue blanket with the white bunnies and wrapped her in it. From that day on, it was her blanket.”

“Did he protect his sister?” Jenna asked.

“He most certainly did,” Grandma said. “That little girl was my mother, and he looked after her the whole time they were growing up.”

“What happened to him, Grandma?” Michael asked.

“He was a fine boy,” Grandma told them. “He helped his father on the farm, helped his mother look after the younger children, and did his best to keep Heavenly Father’s commandments.

“When he was twenty-one, he met a beautiful girl and they became engaged. Before they could marry, World War II broke out and Bo joined the navy. He went overseas to fight in the war, and he died on the beaches of France. When the news of his death reached his mother, she got out that old blanket and cut a square and added it to the Story Quilt so that Bo would always be remembered.”

Grandma reached down and placed her hand over Jenna’s, which was still fingering the cloth.

“If you look closely,” Grandma said, “you can see a faded white bunny.”

Although we lived in the town of Logan, Utah, my father, L. Tom Perry Sr., wanted his children to have the same kind of experiences he’d had growing up on a farm. We had a large backyard, with an aunt living on one side of our house and my grandfather on the other side. The three backyards became our farm, which included a garden, a pasture, a barn, and alfalfa fields. We learned how to cut the alfalfa with a scythe, let it dry, then store it in the barn.

I used to have that situation as well. My sibling and I didn’t get along at all. Getting back and tattling never worked and made me feel worse, and it didn’t help get the friendship back. As time passed, I realized that I should start to be an example. I wasn’t rude as often, and I started to be more Christlike toward my sibling by helping out and encouraging scripture study and uplifting music. My sibling started to take me seriously and started being more like a friend to me.
Alex P., 14, Idaho

I did not fully prepare him; I surprised him, and maybe I hurt him. I could not bring myself to say it so bluntly. So I explained, “I was a new member when Dad and I met and fell in love. I had heard an interfaith marriage could be hard, but no one explained it. I had not known any active, part-member families; maybe that should have been a warning to me? Anyhow, I just thought telling people to marry in the Church was prejudice. No one told me Dad should know more about the Church and my hopes, and it never occurred to me that I would feel so lonely going to church without him. I also did not realize how I could upset him by going to church.
“You see, when you’re planning to marry, you think you are going to have everything you already have, plus everything the other has. There just is not time, energy, or room enough for everything, and sometimes one of you does not want everything the other has to offer. Compromises have to be made. It’s not easy to compromise your beliefs and way of life.
“Anyhow, after a lot of experiments, Dad and I finally came to an adjustment. As the saying goes, ‘When life hands you a lemon, add the sweetener of love and make lemonade.’”
“Yes, Dad even went so far as to let you three go to church with me—after I was reactivated. Some nonmember dads would not be so generous. You have a very fine father.”

Sam pushed through the doors of the restaurant. His stomach grumbled. He was so hungry! This restaurant made the best fried chicken ever. His family often came here after soccer practice.
Sam and Mom walked to the counter to order. “Hi, Emma!” said Sam. Emma was their favorite server. She was always friendly and nice.
“How was soccer practice?” Emma asked with a big smile.
“It was great. We’re going to win our next game!” Sam said.
“You’ll have to tell me all about it,” Emma said.
Sam grinned, and his family placed their order.
The next week Sam’s team did win! He couldn’t wait to tell Emma. But Emma wasn’t at the restaurant.
She wasn’t there the next week either. Sam missed seeing her.
A few weeks later, Sam’s family came to the restaurant again. Sam saw Emma cleaning tables. He hurried over to say hello.
“You’re back!” said Sam. “We’ve missed you.”
“We are so happy to see you again,” Mom said.
“Thank you.” Emma kind of smiled. But her eyes looked really sad.
“Are you OK?” Sam asked.
“No. My husband passed away. That’s why I haven’t been here.”
Mom gave Emma a hug. Seeing Emma sad made Sam sad too.
When their food was ready, Sam helped carry the tray to their table. He couldn’t stop thinking about how sad Emma looked. He sat down but didn’t feel like eating anything. He wanted to help her feel better. But what could he do?
Then Sam remembered something. Their bishop had given little cards to all the families at church. The cards showed what times people could watch general conference on TV or listen on the radio. The bishop said that conference was a wonderful time to feel peace.
“Mom, can we give Emma a card for general conference?” Sam asked. If Emma watched conference, maybe that would help her feel a little better.
“That’s a great idea.” Mom reached into her purse and pulled out a card. “Here,” she said. “You can give her this one.”
Sam took the card from Mom. He walked to the counter and asked the worker if he could talk with Emma.
“I’m sorry, but she’s busy right now,” the man said.
“That’s OK,” said Sam. “Could you give this to her? It’s an invitation to watch a special conference for my church.” Sam handed the man the card. “You can watch too, if you want!”
The man smiled. “Thanks! I’ll be sure to get this to her.”
When Sam walked back to their table, he felt warm inside.
“How did it go?” Mom asked.
“Emma was busy, so I gave the card to another worker to give to her,” said Sam. “Now two people will see the card! Maybe they will both watch conference and feel peace.”
This story took place in Guam.

I would like to share a few personal experiences from our lives as we have felt and seen and personally witnessed the unmistakable power and love of our living Father in Heaven.
We have known many great and noble spirits here in this special place. Our faith and testimonies have been forever strengthened by what we have witnessed in the lives of so many faithful servants of our Father. In my work in medicine, I have felt on countless occasions His healing power step in where my professional knowledge and skill had reached their limit. I have witnessed miraculous healings. Some who had crossed the veil came back and told me of their experiences being on both sides. I have seen the hand of our Father reach out to His children and felt His thoughts and words flow through my mind and my mouth to express His love for them. I have felt impressions come to my mind to look for something or think of something that I would not have otherwise done without His influence and His love for each individual. I have also seen many times when healing did not occur and witnessed the pain and heartache of loss. It is often difficult to understand or explain when it seems that prayers are not being answered in the way that we want. These are truly the times when our “hearts” are tested and tried. Do we really trust Him and put ourselves in His hands and say, “Thy will be done.” We had some dear friends who lost a young son in a flash flood while he was on his first overnight camp with the Boy Scouts. He and our son were walking together and both were swept into the flood waters together. How do you explain why one is taken to the other side of the veil, and the other one, our son, remains here? It is in these times, however, that we feel His comforting reassurance that eternity truly is our “rock and our salvation”, that the promises given by The Lord in D&C 121-122 are literally true, and that He understands.

The doctor’s words, “Chris, you have a tumor. Chris, you have cancer,” sent waves of shock, fear, and despair through me. I had felt sure the lump was a hernia or maybe a swollen lymph node, but it was not.
After my 15-year-old son’s diagnosis, events happened very quickly. The following morning we were at Primary Children’s Medical Center in Salt Lake City for more CT scans, a bone scan, an MRI, a bone marrow aspiration, and a tumor biopsy. The news was not good. Chris had a small tumor on his pelvis near his left thigh. It was diagnosed as Ewing’s sarcoma, a type of bone cancer. Chemotherapy was scheduled to begin the next week.
As a nurse, I knew what we were in for medically. But I never expected the overwhelming fear and gloom that came over me. Those feelings soon changed, however.
Chris wasn’t even home from the hospital a day when his friends Ben Williams, Ben Brookes, and Jeremy Lamb picked him up so they could go to another friend’s house to watch videos and eat. That by itself calmed me. They were doing normal teenage things, and I was so relieved to see them not treating Chris any differently. I later found out the boys didn’t even talk about Chris’s cancer. “Why should they?” Chris asked.
When the chemotherapy began, so did the inevitable side effects, including hair loss. I don’t know why it bothered me so much, but it did—probably more than it bothered Chris. At first, there was hair on his pillow. Then it was in the sink. Finally, Chris shaved off what hair was left. Later that afternoon with Chris napping on the couch, the two Bens and Jeremy knocked at the door. As they came in, they doffed their hats to show Chris their cleanly shaved heads. They laughed together and watched a video of them all shaving each other’s heads.
“Now I wasn’t the only one with a shaved head. I just had the smoothest,” explained Chris.
A few days later at school, the four boys were walking down the hallway when a girl said, “They look like they have cancer.” Alone, that remark could have been devastating. Together, they just laughed about it.
One Sunday, as my husband and I sat in fast and testimony meeting with Chris’s older brother, Jeremy, fear continued to engulf me. Chris had been hospitalized again with a fever and low blood counts. We were new in our ward, and very few people knew of Chris’s condition. As I listened half-heartedly, a high councilman stood at the pulpit to bear his testimony. He talked about his love for some of the youth he’d met in another ward in our stake. He talked about how three of the priests there had shaved their heads for a friend who had cancer. Then his voice broke slightly when he said, “That boy lives in our ward now and is my home teacher.
“I wonder,” he continued, “if our youth would be that supportive.” The challenge was taken and met. That afternoon, our ward was graced by several very bald young men, including Chris’s older brother, Jeremy.
“One Sunday before sacrament meeting we were all lined up, and all of us were bald. The congregation just laughed,” Chris said.
Since that time, both the young men and young women of our ward continued to support Chris and our family. During one particularly hard hospitalization, friends traveled an hour to visit him and cheer him up. Two days after he came home, they picked him up and took him out for all-you-can-eat pizza.
Each day the young men of the ward would gather at the Owenses’ home across the street from us. They are the only ones with a usable basketball court, and the young men would come to play ball. As I watched out the window as they played, Chris would sometimes stop playing and just sit on the grass with some of the younger kids who had gathered and laugh with them as they’d steal his hat and rub his smooth head. “Even though it was my hardest summer, it was also my funnest,” said Chris.
And the love and support didn’t stop. Last September after church, we noticed a crowd of young men, young women, children, and their leaders walking toward our door. As they filled our small living room, they surprised Chris with a homemade quilt and pillow. The blocks of the quilt were each designed by different young women or young men with their own well-wishes, jokes, and funny pictures. They asked Chris to take the quilt and pillow with him to the hospital so he could be reminded of them and their love.
“The comments and pictures on the quilt made me laugh,” said Chris. “When I saw them coming up our driveway, I thought it must be some kind of activity, and I wondered why I hadn’t been told about it. It was a neat thing for them to do.”
After the young people had presented the quilt, the Sambongis, our neighbors from Japan, gave Chris his gift, a sembazuru, which translated means 1,000 paper cranes. The Sambongis told Chris that in Japan, cranes are said to live as long as 1,000 years, and that a paper crane will take away sickness when it flies away. They also gave him a note:
“Dear Chris, These paper cranes were made by a lot of people, including people in our ward and those you have never met before. We all pray for your recovery, and may the Lord bless you.”
The Lord has blessed us—with good neighbors, friends, professionals, and especially strong, loving young men and young women. And Chris knows it too.
The youth and the leaders of the Orem Sharon Park Third Ward, and Chris’s three friends from the Sixth Ward have been great. Their kindness and thoughtfulness during a very painful and difficult time has helped much more than they’ll ever know.

At a recent Eagle Scout recognition dinner, I heard an outstanding Eagle Scout talk about his relationship with his devoted father who was also his Scoutmaster:

“On those trips our Scoutmaster talked of things other than merit badges. He talked about Paul when we were hiking, Nephi when we were sitting around the fire, Abraham when we were looking at the stars, and Jesus of Nazareth just before we said our prayers and went to sleep. And at one time or another, he sent us each out alone to pray as Joseph Smith had prayed.

“I listened very closely to our Scoutmaster and tried to do what he said. My Scoutmaster is my father, and I want to be like him.

“If I can remember what I learned on those hikes up and over and down and into the mountains, I believe I can make it through the journey of life.”

Beth, Blondie, Freckles, Beauty, and Dolly went on a backpacking trip. But on their backs they carried Amy, Linda, Jennifer, Heidi, and Cherish.
Beth, Blondie, and crew are the four-legged, half-ton-with-mane-and-tail variety of backpackers; but even though they see the trail from a slightly different angle than their human cargo, they know the mountain trails as well as anyone. They know how to pick their way down a rocky trail because they hate to slip on the loose rocks. They remember the spots where they have stopped to camp for the night. They know how to work a little slack into the reins so they have a chance for a quick bite of succulent mountain grass. They know how good it feels to roll in the dust after their humans have removed the saddles and saddlebags. Even though they enjoy getting out on the mountain trails, they are only horses, more intent on their next mouthful of grass than the beauty of a panorama of rugged mountains, blue sky, and snow-fed lakes. Those beauties are left for their riders to enjoy.
And the beauties of the Tetons, a range of mountains slicing the border between Wyoming and Idaho, were not lost on the girls from the Idaho Falls Idaho East Stake. They chose to spend three days on horseback as their Summiteer trip. The Summiteer program is the adventure-laden fifth year of the Young Women camp certification program. Girls are encouraged to plan and carry out an activity themselves, using the things they have learned about organizing and camping during their four years of the Campcrafter program.
It was a gorgeous morning in August when the girls met to carpool to the mountains. In reviewing how the activity got started, Susan Butikofer, Summiteer leader for the stake, said that the girls wanted to go horseback riding or winter camping, both ambitious undertakings. She said the girls got together to make their decision. “I backed clear off,” said Susan. “If these girls are here after four years of Campcrafters, they want to be here. The leaders aren’t pulling them along anymore. At this age, these girls have so many things keeping them busy, they have to have a real desire, and some have made a real sacrifice to pursue their Summiteer.”
It took extra effort to arrange for the trip. Every girl who participated in the horseback Summiteer trip was working a summer job and had to arrange to take the time off without pay. Also they were inventive about the ways they came up with the fee to pay for the rental horses. One girl gathered earthworms to sell to a fisherman’s bait shop to earn the fee.
The first morning of the trip was spent saddling the horses and consolidating equipment into small bundles to be packed on the mules. Then everyone was assigned a mount. For the inexperienced, coming eye to eye with the animal she would be responsible to saddle, curry, hobble, and keep under control for the next three days was a daunting moment. But the horses knew what they were doing even if the girls didn’t and put up with the fumbling fingers, the jerking reins, and the indecisive directions given by their riders. The horses fell into line behind the lead horse regardless of the directions given by their riders as they headed up the trail. The girls were soon to learn who really was in charge on this trip and that they were just along for the ride.
It was a glorious summer day. The air at that mountain altitude was crystal clear. The sky was such an intense blue that it was a subject of debate whether it was closer to the color of robins’ eggs or more like a tropical sea. The meadows were alive with wild flowers, every color and kind—columbines, Indian paint brush, bluebells, purple lupine, buttercups. Although the valley was in the heat of summer, here in the mountains, it was spring. It was soon obvious that the horses needed little direction while on the trail. This made it easy for the girls to absorb the scenery with names as colorful as the places themselves—up Fox Creek, past Death Canyon, along the Teton Shelf, down the Sheep Steps, into Alaska Basin, and on the Skyline Trail.
As the trail climbed, the trees began to thin out. Tall stands of pine were separated by stretches of rocky meadows. Water seemed to gush from every crevice, and clear, cold streams joined together to form high-running creeks. With the sun, the flowers, the water, the scenery, and the good company, it was nearly as perfect a day in the mountains as it could be.
But there were saddle sores in paradise. At the end of the day’s ride, when at last the camp spot for the evening was selected, there were some mighty groans, some bent backs, and some crooked legs as the girls dismounted. But no matter how tired the girls were, the first concern was to take care of the horses. Saddles were removed, bridles carefully coiled, and hobbles attached. “Come on, come on, just move your other hoof over here.” Linda Garner, of the Idaho Falls 38th Ward, was talking out loud as she struggled to get her horse to put his front legs close enough together to fasten the hobbles, a small girl trying to coerce a large animal into cooperating.
After setting up camp and getting dinner started, it was time for a treat. Custom-made snow cones were just the thing to cool down and quench thirst. The crushed ice was gathered from the remnants of a nearby snowfield. Punch mix was prepared at double strength and poured over the snow. No machine could chop the ice more perfectly than nature had already done.
That evening a full moon rose over the mountains like a spotlight. It was so bright that the girls didn’t need flashlights to find their way around camp.
By the second day, the girls were old hands at preparing their horses for the day’s ride. Jennifer Goodell of the Idaho Falls 38th Ward saddled her horse and wandered up the hill from camp and sat down to watch the early-morning light play among the peaks. It was a time for a moment’s introspection as she absorbed the beauty of nature and the feeling of oneness with our Creator.
The second day offered some unexpected challenges. The group had to negotiate a section of steep loose shale, and there were mushy snowbanks that would be too dangerous to ride across. The girls walked down the trail, leading their horses across the snowbanks, staying uphill in case their horses started to slide. Everyone was careful and made it across safely.
By now, some of the inexperienced riders were feeling more comfortable on horseback. Cherish Haroldsen of the Idaho Falls 41st Ward had never been on a horse until this trip. She was given a gentle horse, and she soon got into the rhythm of trail riding. She just tied her reins to the saddle horn and let her horse find his own way. “I figure the horse knew where to put his feet better than I did,” Cherish said. “As long as another horse is in front of him, he does real good. But just try to make him do something the others aren’t doing. He’s like a teenager. He follows peer pressure.”
The group entered a beautiful basin where snow-fed lakes connected by small waterfalls descended like huge stairsteps. The trail faded and disappeared altogether as it led across flat, slick rock. By this time, the girls were gaining confidence and, instead of following the lead horse, they spread out in groups of twos or threes, picking their own ways across the rock. But they soon found that taking off on their own didn’t always work well. What looked like a good way to go often led to the edge of cliffs or into an impossible thicket of trees that forced them to turn back and retrace their routes.
A forest ranger had gone over the trail before and had marked the best way across the slick rock with small pyramids of stone. These markers, or cairns as they are called, were easy to spot and if followed led safely across the section where the trail was obliterated. The girls found they could not rely on their own instincts or observations to select a good path. They found they had to trust the one who had gone on before to show them the best way. The girls started talking about following the cairns. “This is like our leaders giving us lessons about how to live our lives,” said one. “Yes,” said another catching on to the symbolism, “it’s like learning to follow the prophet. By listening to him, we can follow the right trail even when we can’t see where it leads.”
On the final day, the girls were busy packing the mules and saddling their horses. Heidi Hicks, of the Coltman Second Ward, settled into the saddle and said, “It doesn’t hurt as bad this morning.” Indeed, the girls were becoming toughened to riding, but it was time to head home.
The downward trail was rough. It was very steep, eroded in spots, and had plenty of rocks to trip up even the most surefooted horse. But things went well. When a horse slipped, its rider hung on or slipped a foot out of the downhill stirrup in case a hasty dismount was called for. Horses and girls came through like troopers. Heidi summed up the feelings of many when she said, “If we had done that the first day, we would have been in tears.”
At the end of the trail, the horses were anxious to get back to the corral, and the girls were again thinking about the activities awaiting them in the valley. But the impact of the trip was not overlooked.
As one leader said at the last night’s campfire, “Many of you will be taken to faraway places to serve in the Lord’s kingdom. You’ll always remember these beautiful mountains and your home nearby. Bathe in the beauty, and pay attention to it.”
The Summiteer program is designed to allow girls to use what they have learned in Campcrafters in planning and carrying out their own activities. It is easy to draw parallels to life. Girls are taught correct principles about outdoor life and about living the gospel. They find that in both, if they follow the markers, the cairns along the trails, set out by wise leaders who have led the way, they can find the correct paths.

Of my parents’ three daughters, I am the middle one. It wasn’t until the dawn of a January morning that a fourth child, a son, was born. David seemed just like any other newborn to me—tiny, chubby, and fun. By virtue of my being merely a first-grader when he was born, my parents found no reason for telling me then that my baby brother was “different.” Hindsight tells me that it would only have compounded their already-numbed feelings to explain to me what they could hardly believe themselves. Besides, I was too young, and the word mongoloid would not have meant a thing to me. All I knew, or cared about then, was that my little brother was beautiful!

We grew to love him. He was a kind, loving, and cheerful child. It was not until I was in the sixth grade that David’s difference caused any concern to me at all. It was at the end of that school year that my class was visited by the principal. She asked those of us who had brothers or sisters who were or would be five years old next fall to raise our hands. I raised mine, and just as she counted it, I was prompted to ask something. I hesitated a split second, thinking that I should not even bother her with such a question. But, as she counted my hand, I asked, “Does this school allow mongoloids?” When I heard the words, “No, I’m sorry,” I took my hand down, wondering numbly why they would not let my brother come to their school. My naiveté about David had been shattered.

As the years passed, David was continually shunned by the majority of the neighborhood children. They had been warned by fearful parents. More than once our front door was darkened by an irate mother who told my mother to keep David away from her young ones.

It often seemed that if I would look into his eyes, I could see him peering over his inner wall of quietness with the tender, smiling eyes of someone who really knows a great deal more than will ever be credited to him. I wished that I could step inside that wall and talk with him for just one hour.

These past years have seen my family pass through many sorrows because of David’s difference. But to say that his presence with us has been destructive would be false. Rather, his presence has been like a powerful steel cable strongly binding our family together. As a family we are close, and because David is a part of it, we have learned real love, sweet patience, a pure and undefiled faith, and a tender, guileless approach to life. Still a child, even though he has passed into the age of adulthood, he continues in his innocent state. He is my brother. He is my friend. Heaven itself was granted to my family in this one single gift.

I know that in the bright hereafter I will finally be allowed to pass through David’s wall. I hope he will take me by the hand and sit with me, and I will ask him to share his world with me—his bit of heaven.

I had been a member of the Church for about a year when a missionary challenged me to subscribe to A Liahona (Portuguese). I had never read a magazine like A Liahona in my life. While reading the first issue of my subscription, I received a testimony that the things written in it were true. I was able to see what the gospel of Jesus Christ does in the lives of people. Now as I read the magazine I try to find counsel to apply to my own life.
Jeferson Carlos Nogueira da Silva,Aracati Branch, Mossoró Brazil District

Seth lay in the dark, wondering what had awakened him. His ears strained to hear a noise, and his heart began to pound. There it was again! He jumped, then sighed with relief. It was the new telephone. They had bought it through a mail-order catalog. His dad and their neighbors, the Smiths, used the top strand of the barbed-wire fence that separated their ranches to string a telephone wire on. Then they used old rubber tires as fence connectors so that the lines wouldn’t short out. When the phone was first connected, Seth had listened to Mrs. Smith’s voice describing their new Appaloosa colt. He was so astonished that he couldn’t say a word.
All the neighbors had clamored to be part of the line. Everywhere the barbed-wire fences stretched, neighbor was soon connected to neighbor. Mrs. Bowers even put a switchboard in her house so that callers could be switched from one line to another. Now Seth’s family was even linked by the prairie line to Grandpa and Grandma.
Seth sat up in bed. Grandpa and Grandma! Had something happened to them? Who was calling in the wee hours of the morning? He pulled on his jeans and padded barefoot into the kitchen.
His father was still talking on the telephone. “I’m sure he’ll do it for you. Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll take him over later today.” He hung the earpiece on its hook, then turned slowly around. “What are you doing up?” he asked Seth in surprise. Dad looked awful.
“What’s happened?” Seth whispered.
His mother stood in the doorway, with baby Janet in her arms. She, too, waited for the answer.
“Grandpa’s had a heart attack,” Father said quietly. “They’re taking him to the hospital in Gillette.”
“Oh, no!” Mother cried. “Is it very bad?”
“He’ll be fine. He just needs rest. He’ll be in the hospital for a couple of weeks. Then he’ll be able to come home.”
Seth felt a little of the worry ease, but he still wished that he could see Grandpa or do something for him. Grandpa was like a best friend. He’d always been there when Seth needed someone to talk to.
“Until he gets strong again, he wants Seth to take care of the farm,” Father added.
“No,” Mother protested. “Seth’s too young to be in charge of a dairy farm.”
“Now, Grace,” Father reassured her, “Dad has already sold most of his cows, and Seth has helped him before. I think that he can do it for a short time. And when I get the roundup and haying finished, I’ll go over every day and give him a hand.”
“But some of those cows are about to calve,” Mother said. “What if something happens?”
Seth tried to think of a way to help persuade her. “I could call you,” he suggested. “The Smith’s have that Model T. Maybe Dad could borrow it in an emergency.” He stood straight and tall. “I want to do this for Grandpa and Grandma, Mom. Please let me.”
She looked lovingly at him. “I forgot about the telephone. Yes, you can go. They’ll need your help until Grandpa can be up and around again, and you’re not so far away, after all, if you can telephone.”
Seth hugged her. Then he ran back to his porch bedroom to pack his bag. He was going to Grandpa’s!
At Grandpa’s farm, Seth found himself faced with a bigger responsibility than he had ever imagined. He worked from before sunup each morning till the last of the milk was separated at night. Tired as he was, he still enjoyed turning the handle on the separator and watching the milk pour out into one bucket while the thick cream came out another spout. Oh how good that cream was on hot oatmeal!
Every night he called his parents just after supper. He felt very important as he cranked the handle around and around until Mrs. Bowers answered. “Good evening, Mrs. Bowers,” he greeted her formally. “Would you switch me to the King home, please?”
“Hello there, Seth,” she answered. “How’s your grandpa?”
He’d chat with her for a few moments while she switched him onto his parents’ line.
Everything was fine until Sweetie decided to be difficult. She’s the most contrary Guernsey cow ever born, Seth thought. Guernseys were known for their placid nature—but not Sweetie. She’d rather kick you than look at you. And now she was calving.
Seth went out to the barn and looked at her. He didn’t know much about it, but he could tell that she was in trouble. Carefully he walked into her stall, talking softly to soothe her. She whirled around and kicked at him. He jumped back, but her hoof grazed his shin.
“Ow!” he yelled and ducked back behind the stall. He rubbed the sore spot, then limped a little on his way back to the house. He cranked the handle on the phone and waited impatiently to talk to his mother. “Mom, Sweetie’s having trouble calving. Is Dad around?”
“Oh, Seth,” Mother said worriedly, “he’s out at roundup and won’t be back till tomorrow.” There was a pause, then she added resolutely, “You’ll just have to do the best you can.”
He felt so alone. “But I don’t know what to do.”
In the silence that followed, Mrs. Bowers spoke up. “Just do what you’ve seen your pa do and then pray!”
When Seth hung up the phone, he didn’t know if he should laugh because Mrs. Bowers had been listening in or cry because he couldn’t do what his dad had done. He was too small. And as for praying, he didn’t even know how. He’d never even been inside a church. He went outside and headed slowly toward the barn.
“Hello there!” a voice called out.
He whirled around and saw two men walking toward him. A tall man in a black coat asked, “Are your folks home?”
He shook his head, too miserable to say anything.
“What’s the matter, son?” the other man asked kindly.
Seth looked up and saw a face full of wrinkles, the kind you get from years of squinting in the sun. It was a face like Grandpa’s—weather-beaten and comfortable.
“Grandpa’s in the hospital, and Sweetie’s calf is turned and can’t be born. She won’t let me near her, and even if she did, I couldn’t help her. Mrs. Bowers said to pray, but I don’t know how. Do you?”
The man’s eyes began to twinkle as the whole sad story tumbled out. “Well,” he said, “first things first. I do know how to pray, and I’ll teach you, but for now let’s look at that cow.”
The man headed for the barn at a brisk walk while stripping off his coat. Taken by surprise, Seth ran along beside him, trying to keep up.
The man knew just what he was doing. When Sweetie lashed a hoof at him, he just chuckled. “Kinda bad tempered for a Guernsey, aren’t you?” He looped a rope on that hoof and tied it down, then patted her and began to work.
Seth couldn’t believe how easy it seemed. In just a short time a little calf lay at their feet, too weak yet to get up. He stared at the new little creature and wondered again at the miracle of birth. Would it live? The man handed him some clean straw. “Rub that calf down with this and dry her off. Then we’ll bring her around to her mama. As soon as she gets some warm milk inside her, she’ll be just fine.”
Seth worked carefully over the calf, then carried her to where Sweetie stood, still tethered, in the corner. The calf bumped her udder and, with tail swishing, drank the strengthening milk.
The man brushed his clothes off. “Do you have a pump I can wash off at?”
“Sure. By the back door,” Seth answered. “Say, thanks, mister. Sweetie is Grandpa’s best milker. That’s how she got her name—for her good cream. He’ll be pleased that she’s all right.”
“You’re welcome, son.” He clapped Seth on the back. “I’m a rancher myself.”
Seth looked up at him, puzzled. “Do you live around here?”
“No. My ranch is on a high desert plateau in Arizona.”
“What are you doing in Wyoming?”
“We’re missionaries of the Lord’s church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.”
“Oh, so that’s why you know how to pray.”
The man smiled and began to wash. After he washed and put his jacket on, he turned to the boy. “Now it’s time for that first lesson in prayer.” He bowed his head and addressed Heavenly Father. After he thanked Him for the new little heifer and the young boy who was caring for the farm, he asked for help for Seth and strength for his grandpa.
Seth listened in astonishment. It was so easy! Not much harder than talking to Mother on the prairie line. But did God really listen?
The men left then, promising to return the next day to help with the chores. When Seth reported the day’s events that night on the prairie line, he felt thankful. Then he went into his room, knelt by his bed, and tried to talk to Heavenly Father.
The next morning, he found that the missionaries had returned as promised. They helped him with the milking and other chores, and each day Seth prayed for his grandpa and for help to do the things he had to do. Before long Grandpa came home from the hospital and was feeling much better. Seth was happy to see him, and he told him all about the men who had helped him and taught him how to pray.
Grandpa listened carefully, then said, “I think it’s time you learned more about the Lord’s church.”
Soon after that, Seth and his family went to church with the missionaries, and Seth learned that Heavenly Father really was listening. He never forgot the lesson of the prairie line, the calf, and the two missionaries who had stopped to help. From then on, he knew he could pray whenever he needed help.

Just after my baptism on 31 October 1980, a friend invited me to a ward party. I said to myself, This Church is nice; they even throw a party for me. I later realized I wasn’t really the guest of honor. But at the party my friend introduced me to a young woman and told her to take good care of me. Annie Ortiz was indeed a good fellowshipper. At this time, she is still taking good care of me. We were married in 1985 and sealed in the Manila Philippines Temple.

Your “Scavengers Welcome” article in the March issue was so impressive that we just had to try it. And try it we did, with about 500 youth at our regional Mia Maid and teacher conference. It was great!
We used between 80 and 90 cooperative adults as team leaders and divided the youth up into teams of unsuspecting strangers. We then sent them out to impress an apprehensive city. Our youth gave piggyback rides to children, pulled weeds, washed cars, and along with several other things, sang Primary songs to a new type of audience!
Our feedback included the comment from one team leader that “Actually doing it was a lot better than reading about it in the New Era.” This is an activity we would like to encourage others to participate in as it is a fulfilling and rewarding experience for both the participant and the recipient.
Deanna ElisonRichland, Washington

Pray. When Chad, our new baby, started taking more and more of my wife’s time, I sensed a feeling of resentment. With Chad came new financial responsibilities, and the pressures on me mounted. Often I felt my wife did not understand me. The need to feel understood left me wanting to look outside our marriage for friendship and emotional support. Then I remembered the feeling I had when I took my sweet wife by the hand in the sealing room of the Boise Idaho Temple. There the Spirit of the Lord bore pure testimony to me of the sanctity of our marriage. I will never forget that moment.
I was asked once if we pray for a successful marriage. We do now. At the end of each day we kneel with our son and have family prayer. The gospel is full of tools to help a marriage. Having a strong relationship with our Heavenly Father has become the backbone of our marriage.—Scott A. Carlson

It was a big assignment, and I had received an A+. My teacher explained that this assignment had the power to change our overall grade in the class. At the time, I had no worries. After all, I had passed with flying colors.
However, when my teacher told us that six students had received zeros on the assignment for plagiarizing, my sense of ease melted away. Not only had I plagiarized, but I had also received a perfect score for it.
At first my guilt was small. But then I read Doctrine and Covenants 1:31 and 3:10, and I felt the pain sink deeper and deeper: “For I the Lord cannot look upon sin with the least degree of allowance. … But remember, God is merciful; therefore, repent of that which thou hast done which is contrary to the commandment which I gave you.”
It was then that I felt the utmost shame for my sin, but I rejoiced over the fact that I could repent. I promised myself that I would e-mail my teacher the very next day.
But I didn’t. I thought that repentance could wait in my busy life. I put off e-mailing my teacher for three days. Satan worked hard on me for those three days, telling me that my grade was more important. I almost gave in to the temptation, but I prayed to the Lord for courage.
I finally sent the e-mail. My teacher replied and emphasized that honesty is more important than my grade and that I had wonderful parents who taught me what is right. She also said she would change my grade.
As I read the e-mail, I cried. Not for my grade, but because I had earned my teacher’s trust. By being honest, I know that I will also gain the trust of my Heavenly Father.