Gospel Story Finder

Raquel “Liriel” Domiciano was about to sing in front of millions of people. Was she worried about messing up? A little. Was she worried about what to wear? Naturally. But what worried her most?

Only 19 at the time, Liriel, a member of the Church for five years, wanted to stand as a witness “of God at all times and in all things, and in all places” (Mosiah 18:9).

Liriel was about to perform in Brazil’s largest televised talent competition, the Raul Gil Amateur Show. She had been told she couldn’t say anything about her religion. But she knew that many of Brazil’s Latter-day Saints would be watching, and she wanted everyone to know she wasn’t ashamed of the gospel. After praying in her room before her first performance, she looked up and saw her Young Women medallion. It was the answer she had been looking for.

Liriel wore her medallion during every level of the competition. Eventually she and her partner, tenor Rinaldo Viana, won the contest, signed a recording contract, and watched as their first CD became the second-highest best-seller in Brazil’s history, with more than one million copies sold.

Wearing the medallion as she performed was her way of letting people know she was a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints and willing to stand as a witness, even in front of millions.

Long years ago I reorganized the Star Valley Wyoming Stake at the time the legendary leader President E. Francis Winters was released. He had served faithfully and with distinction for many years.
The Sabbath day dawned; the members came from far and wide and crowded into the Afton, Wyoming, chapel. Every available space was taken. As the reorganization of the stake presidency was concluded, I did something I had not done before. I felt impressed to conduct a modest exercise, and I asked publicly, “Would all of you who have been given a name or been baptized or confirmed by Francis Winters please stand and remain standing.” Many stood. Then I continued, “Now will all of you who have been ordained or set apart by Francis Winters please stand and remain standing.” Another large number swelled the ranks of those standing. “Finally, will all of you who have received a blessing under the hands of Francis Winters please stand and remain standing.” All the remainder stood.
I turned to President Winters and, with tears coursing down my cheeks, said to him, “President Winters, you see before you the result of your ministry as stake president. The Lord is pleased.” Silence prevailed. Heads nodded their approval as sobs were then heard and handkerchiefs retrieved from every purse and pocket. It was one of the most spiritually rewarding experiences of my life. No one in that vast throng will ever forget how he or she felt at that hour.
After the work of the conference had been concluded, good-byes were said, and I began the drive home. I found myself singing the favorite hymn from the Sunday School days of my youth:
Thanks for the Sabbath School. Hail to the day
When evil and error are fleeing away.
Thanks for our teachers who labor with care
That we in the light of the gospel may share. …
Now in the morning of life let us try
Each virtue to cherish, all vice to decry;
Strive with the noble in deeds that exalt,
And battle with energy each childish fault.
And then I literally boomed the chorus:
Join in the jubilee; mingle in song.
Join in the joy of the Sabbath School throng.
Great be the glory of those who do right,
Who overcome evil, in good take delight.
I was all alone in the car—or was I? The miles hurried by. In silent reverie, I reflected on the events of the conference. Francis Winters, a bookkeeper at the community cheese factory, a man of modest means and humble home, had walked the path that Jesus walked, and like the Master he “went about doing good.” He qualified for the Savior’s description of Nathanael as he approached Him from afar: “Behold an Israelite indeed, in whom is no guile!”

When I was a college student and I began to learn about The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, good friends again made a difference for me. I remember well my first visit to an LDS ward, which met in a tiny community hall. The moment I stepped out of the car, my college friends swarmed around me. “It’s great to see you!” they said. “So glad you could make it!” I had never shaken hands with so many people in my life. “Wonderful to have you here,” said people I’d never met. “Come back again.” I’m still touched by that ward’s love for me, a stranger.
Everything going on about me that day felt strange. The worship service I had experienced as an altar boy was very structured and extremely quiet. The Latter-day Saint worship service was so different—so much fellowshipping before the meeting, so many new ideas to think about and new things to experience. As I sat in that hall, I had many questions and doubts. But the warmth and friendship of Church members helped me to feel comfortable. Then, as I studied the gospel, the witness of the Holy Ghost helped me want to be baptized.
I am grateful for the restored truths available only in The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. And I am grateful for the friends who helped me to find those truths.
As children who belong to the Church of Jesus Christ, you are blessed to know so much about our Heavenly Father and His Son. Your faith will grow as you attend church, pray, and study the scriptures on your own and with your family.
As you make good choices for your own life, please reach out to others who are not members of the Church or who may not attend church regularly. Welcome them to Primary. Smile. Sit next to someone who is new. Ask about others’ interests, and always speak kindly. The love you share will help those around you make good choices and come to know the Savior Jesus Christ and the teachings of His restored gospel.

Another entry was Friday, March 2, 1900, “Little Loi Roberts was given up to die by Dr. Stuttaford at the sanatorium [in Apia]. The patient little sufferer was administered to daily, and each time he would get relief. … His parents [Elder and Sister E. T. Roberts] were untiring in their efforts to allay pain and sufferings.”
Saturday, March 3, “Little Loi died at the sanatorium in Apia in the morning, making another sad day in the history of the mission.” Small wonder that the tombstone contained the words, “Rest sweet Loi, rest.” He was one and a half years old.

The second of four boys in his family, Elder Wilcox was five years old when his father decided that he wanted to have something useful for his boys to do. “My father moved us out of the city,” Elder Wilcox recollected, “and into a nice home in the country located on almost one hectare near Mt. Olympus in Holladay, Utah. We had an alfalfa field, lawns to mow, and a cow, chickens, and a currant patch to tend. There were plenty of chores to keep us boys busy, and I’m grateful to my parents for providing that good environment for us.
“Some of my choicest memories are of the foothills east of our home that provided a place for us to run and hike during the summer. In the wintertime it was beautiful, and we could ride about 2.5 kilometers down a traffic-free road on our sleighs without stopping. Ski jumping was also popular then. We just packed our skis on our shoulders up to the top of the hill, made a snow jump part way down, and spent the rest of the day seeing who could jump the farthest. Safety bindings were unheard of then, and we fastened our boots to our skis with heavy rubber bands cut from inner tubes, which held the boots tightly to the toe straps.”

I sat in this tabernacle some years ago as President Joseph Fielding Smith stood at this pulpit. It was the general priesthood meeting, the last general conference before President Smith passed away. He said: “There is one thing which we should have exceedingly clear in our minds. Neither the President of the Church, nor the First Presidency, nor the united voice of the First Presidency and the Twelve will ever lead the Saints astray or send forth counsel to the world that is contrary to the mind and will of the Lord.”
There came to me that evening a witness of the Spirit that he spoke the truth. I felt an overwhelming sense of peace and assurance that the Lord loved us and would not leave us without direction.

The winter passed, and finally, early in May, the relief wagons began to roll in. Of the various communications Brother Jones had received, one critical letter from Brigham Young had not arrived. Loading and shipping of the stored goods could not commence without it.
For days they waited, becoming increasingly anxious. Finally Brother Jones sought the Lord in prayer to know how to proceed. He recorded the following testimony: “Next morning without saying anything about the lack of instructions we commenced business. Soon some one asked whose teams were to be loaded first, [and] I dictated to my clerk. Thus we continued. As fast as the clerk put them down, orders would be given, and we passed on to the next. We continued this [way] for four days. … All the teams were loaded up, companies organized and started back [to the valley]” (Daniel W. Jones, Forty Years among the Indians [1960], 107).
The 17 young men were loaded on the last wagons departing to the Salt Lake Valley, where they would be reunited with their families and loved ones.
Brother Jones arrived later to report to President Young, feeling not a little uncertain how he would be received. Should he have waited for the President’s written orders? As everything unfolded, it was learned that President Young had indeed dictated a letter of instructions, which was never received. Dan carefully presented his detailed report. It was a testimony to him to find that the inspiration he’d received in Wyoming was exactly the same as in the prophet’s letter.

The Warwoods always planned to go on a senior mission, and Sister Warwood was certain she knew where the Lord needed her to serve. As a neonatal nurse practitioner, she felt drawn to humanitarian work in developing countries.
“I always thought I would serve a humanitarian mission in a third-world country, something with mothers and babies,” she explains. But when they visited Africa a year before their mission call, something unexpected happened. “When I thought to myself, ‘We’ll be here in a year,’ I just had this dreaded feeling,” Sister Warwood recalls.
Back home, during a senior mission meeting, coordinators asked about their preferences. She answered, “Third world, something medical, saving lives.” The dread returned. “I thought, ‘I guess I don’t really want to serve a mission. This is a horrible feeling.’”
Everything shifted when coordinators learnt the couple’s backgrounds—he an accountant, she in healthcare. They explained that “the Mission Health Adviser (MHA) is the most coveted job in the mission because you get to know, love, and serve all of the missionaries.” Sister Warwood realised the MHA “did many of the things I did in the NICU—just with much bigger babies!”
“By the time we left the meeting, instead of feeling dread, I was very excited.” She realised: “The Lord’s been trying to tell you third-world humanitarian is not where you’re supposed to be. He couldn’t have made it more obvious.”
The Warwoods accepted a call to the Auckland New Zealand Mission, where that guidance proved itself many times.

Emily burst through the front door in tears. She dropped her bag on the floor and ran to her room. Mom followed her and knocked on the bedroom door. “Em, can I come in?” she asked.
Emily answered with a quiet “yes,” and Mom opened the door.
“Is everything OK, honey?” Mom asked.
“Nothing is OK!” Emily said. “You won’t believe what happened today. Jenny handed out her birthday party invitations after school, and I was the only girl in our class who wasn’t invited. I feel horrible. I am so mad at Jenny.”
“I can imagine how that would feel,” Mom said. “What do you think you should do?”
“I’m never speaking to her again. Not in a million years,” Emily sobbed.
Mom put her arms around Emily and stroked her hair. “Do you think that is the best thing to do?” she asked.
“I don’t care,” Emily moaned. “Jenny is so mean.”
The next morning at breakfast, Emily slumped into her seat at the table. She pushed her food around the plate with her fork.
“Emily, Mom told me you didn’t get an invitation to Jenny’s party. Is that what’s bothering you?” Dad asked.
“You wouldn’t understand,” Emily said.
“Try me,” Dad said.
“It’s just that my feelings are hurt. It’s embarrassing to be left out.”
“I do understand, Em,” Dad said. “But remember that we can feel better when we forgive others. Jesus forgave everyone who offended Him. Try to forgive, and then let it go. It’s what Jesus would want you to do.”
Emily walked to school with her friend Lucy. Lucy talked about Jenny’s upcoming party all the way to school. Emily listened quietly, too embarrassed to tell her friend that she hadn’t been invited. At recess, all of the girls in Emily’s class huddled together and talked excitedly about the party. Emily wandered away from the group and sat by herself on the swings. She glared at everyone. She felt very alone.
During gym class, Emily’s friend Gina, who usually picked her first when choosing teams, chose Jenny first instead. Emily was the last to be picked. She could hardly hold back the tears, and her stomach began to hurt. She asked the teacher if she could be excused from class to go to the nurse’s office.
Later, as Emily waited for her mother to pick her up from school, she thought about what her father had said about forgiveness, and about how Jesus had forgiven everyone who had hurt or offended Him. But Emily couldn’t do that. She couldn’t forgive Jenny for making her feel this way.
Emily and Mom rode home in silence. When Mom pulled into the garage, Emily jumped out of the car and ran to her room. She stared out the window until Mom called her for dinner.
At dinner, Emily’s brother Jack talked eagerly about his day at preschool. Emily’s dad told a funny story he heard at work. Emily sat in silence, staring down at her plate. After dinner, Mom announced, “We’ll be having family home evening now.”
“But, Mom, it’s Thursday. We had family home evening on Monday,” Emily said.
“It’s an emergency session to help you with what’s been bothering you,” Mom said, smiling.
The family gathered in the living room. They sang “Help Me, Dear Father,”* and Jack said the opening prayer. Then Mom left the room and returned with four helium-filled balloons. Each balloon was attached to a colorful ribbon. Mom handed a balloon and a marker to each member of the family.
“Tonight we’re going to learn about letting go of hurt feelings,” Mom said. “I want each of you to write on your balloon things that others have done that hurt your feelings. Write down anything that is keeping you from feeling love for someone.”
After thinking for a minute, Dad began writing. Mom helped Jack write on his balloon, and then began working on her own.
Emily wrote things that were easy for her to forgive: Jack jumping on her bed, Gina losing her favorite pen. Then Emily paused. There was one thing that seemed too hard to forgive. Could she really forgive Jenny and still be her friend? Emily thought about the words of the song they had just sung: “Help me, dear Father, to freely forgive, all who may seem unkind to me.”
Emily sat quietly for a moment. Then she slowly wrote on her balloon, “Jenny didn’t invite me to her party.”
When everyone had finished, Mom said, “Now let’s say a prayer in our hearts asking Heavenly Father to help us forgive the people who have hurt our feelings. Let’s also ask Him to forgive us for things we have done that hurt others.”
As Emily finished her prayer, a feeling of warmth washed over her.
Emily smiled as they all let go of their balloons. The balloons drifted upward and bounced gently against the ceiling. Emily laughed and joked with her family as they shared a dessert and cleaned up together.
That night, as Emily climbed into bed, Mom and Dad sat down next to her. She smiled up at her parents.
“It looks like you’re feeling better,” Dad said.
“I feel good,” Emily said. “I’m still sad that I won’t be at the party with all of my friends, but I’m not angry at Jenny anymore. I know that Heavenly Father loves her just like He loves me, even though we both sometimes do things that hurt others. I think forgiveness is Heavenly Father’s way of helping us learn to love each other the way He loves us.”

More than 200 youth from the Las Cruces New Mexico and El Paso Texas Stakes came together last summer for one purpose—to help those in need. Armed with gloves, water bottles, and sunscreen, they came eager to serve.
Some of the youth painted houses, some moved mounds of gravel, some pulled weeds, mowed lawns, and pruned trees and bushes, while others cleaned up loads of garbage. In all, 4 churches and 57 homes were transformed and beautified during the two-day “Helping Hands” youth conference. Rebecca Daw, a member of the youth committee that organized the conference, said “Service helps both the giver and the receiver. It helps us become better, stronger, more loving people. We need to be out doing stuff, doing hard work.”
Of the 57 families that benefited from the service projects, 52 were not members of the Church. By the time the service projects ended the second day, 7 of these families had requested copies of the Book of Mormon. Along with all the service projects, the youth also enjoyed food, activities, and a closing fireside with a slideshow and testimonies on the second day of the conference.

I was a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood when World War II exploded upon the world. I was ordained an elder when we were all marched away to war.
I had dreams of following an older brother, Leon, who at that time was flying B-24 bombers in the Battle of Britain. I volunteered for air force pilot training.
I failed the written test by one point. Then the sergeant remembered that there were several two-point questions, and if I got half right on two of them, I could pass.
Part of the test was multiple choice. One question was “What is ethylene glycol used for?” If I had not worked in my dad’s service station, I would not have known that it is used for automobile antifreeze. And so I passed, barely.
I prayed about the physical. It turned out to be fairly routine.
I ended up in the Orient, flying the same kind of bombers that my brother flew in England. My mission, as it turned out, was in teaching the gospel in Japan as a serviceman.
Perhaps the hardest challenge of war is living with uncertainties, not knowing how it will end or if we can go ahead with our lives.
I was issued a small serviceman’s Book of Mormon that would fit into my pocket. I carried it everywhere; I read it; and it became part of me. Things that had been a question became certain to me.
The certainties of the gospel, the truth, once you understand it, will see you through these difficult times.
It was four years before we could return to our lives. But I had learned and had a sure testimony that God is our Father, that we are His children, and that the restored gospel of Jesus Christ is true.

Noah Germaine was in a quandary. He had some serious convincing to do. At 13 years of age he couldn’t let his young years overshadow his determination.
Christmas was approaching. Grandpa Max Germaine had worked as a volunteer for many years with the Navajo Indians on the reservation 195 miles north of his home in Mesa, Arizona. Noah had overheard Grandpa say that the kids in one of the Church branches there might not have a Christmas party or receive any gifts.
“Grandpa, I can be responsible for the Christmas party,” Noah said. “There isn’t much time left, but I know I can do it.”
Grandpa replied, “You don’t realize how difficult this job could be. There are over a hundred kids in the Indian Wells Branch. If gifts are given, somehow you must obtain a suitable one for each. Where would you get the money? You wouldn’t have an organization behind you. Who would help you?”
“I know I can do this. I’ll gather support, and believe me, Grandpa, I won’t let you down,” Noah said.
Fired with enthusiasm, Noah launched his hastily conceived plan. Soon many neighbors, service groups, and local merchants had been informed.
Recruitment didn’t intimidate Noah. For instance, he strode into a local supermarket and approached the manager. “Would you help?” he began. “Today I need candy and nuts for more than 100 kids.”
The manager replied, “Are you putting me on?”
Noah said, “No sir, this is ‘for real.’”
“What is your telephone number?” the manager asked as he disappeared into his office. When he returned he said, “Your mother tells me you are trying to put this Christmas experience together. So, Noah, since she agrees that all this is ‘for real,’ let’s go select the candy you need.”
Toys, sports items, books, grooming articles—gifts of all possible varieties—began to accumulate in the Germaine home. Noah’s mom and dad and his sisters and younger brother were all involved. Noah organized a gift wrapping party the night before his trip to the reservation. Friends responded with eagerness. Although the atmosphere was lively, they worked steadily, wrapping until eleven o’clock that night.
When Noah surveyed the scene, he tried not to show his dismay. Many of the gifts were still unwrapped. Noah and Grandpa Germaine were to leave at five o’clock in the morning for the difficult winter trip up the mountains to the reservation.
Caught in an emergency, Noah turned to his other grandparents, Grandma and Grandpa Hanna. They arrived minutes later and joined with the family in another nonstop wrapping session.
“Done. We’re finally done, Noah,” his mother sighed.
Noah was counting. “Not quite,” came his labored reply. “We’re three boys’ packages short.”
Noah left the room and quickly returned with his prized marble collection. He filled the kitchen sink with sudsy water, washed, rinsed, dried and polished each marble. He then divided them into two containers, ready for wrapping.
One gift short. What could he do? Without a word, he began unbuckling the strap of the sports watch which encircled his wrist.
“Noah, are you sure?” he was I asked.
“Sure? Yes. There will be another time for another watch. Today we’re giving a Christmas party,” Noah said. And he carefully wrapped the final package.
After Noah returned from the reservation, he was asked, “Well, how did it go?”
Noah answered, “It wasn’t easy at first. We were strangers. Our language and customs are different. I think, because we all wanted to be friends, we reached out more than usual. Before long we were sharing, teasing, and laughing. They were very pleased with the gifts we brought. They gave me a gift, too—pottery bowls, a ‘living’ part of themselves, a part of their heritage.”
When asked if it was worth it, Noah answers, “It was the best Christmas I ever had! As I listened to them sing some of my favorite hymns in their native language, I realized that they love the same Father in Heaven I love; they know about the same Joseph Smith I know about. We really are brothers and sisters.”

Guillermo Soto, his wife, Pilar, and their children are like many Chileans who have found the Church during the past four decades.
“The missionaries would always greet us in the street,” Pilar recalls. “One day they asked whether they could come over for a visit. I told them we wouldn’t be able to hold a conversation in our home because our eight children made a lot of noise. One of the elders replied, ‘Excellent! I have five brothers and sisters myself.’”
The missionaries came, and their message rang true. Soto family members, who had often spent evenings together singing and playing games, embraced the family home evening program. Word of Wisdom warnings against tobacco coincided with familial prohibitions against smoking in the home, but posed a challenge for Guillermo, a professional musician who directs music for television programs.
“As a teenager I had found peace and love by studying the Bible,” Guillermo says. “But I later lost my way and began living a worldly life.”
The Soto children who were old enough were baptized in 1994, but Pilar waited until her husband was ready. Guillermo struggled with the Word of Wisdom until his prayers about the gospel’s truthfulness were answered.
“I received an answer many times,” he says. “Once I imagined seeing myself come up out of the waters of baptism pure and clean, and I began to weep. I felt something very special and decided that I needed to get baptized.”
Brother Soto left behind his struggles with the Word of Wisdom but kept his musician friends. “My presence in my group of friends is important,” he says. “I am preaching the gospel by leading a new life. Little by little my friends will become interested in the Church.”
These days the sounds coming from the Soto home include prayers of thanksgiving and the harmony of Guillermo, Pilar, and their children singing gospel hymns. The closeness they shared before baptism has increased as their understanding of the gospel has grown. In their Tierra del Fuego Ward in north Santiago, Brother and Sister Soto serve respectively as elders quorum president and Relief Society president.
“I had always asked God to put me on a path where I could grow with my family, where Pilar and I could do the right things for our children, where they could grow strong and find some heaven on earth,” Brother Soto says. “It has been a long journey, but at last we are on that path.”

Two hours after Jay arrived, I knew I didn’t like my cousin. Two days after he arrived, I didn’t like myself. I knew that this would be my worst Christmas ever, and I began fervently wishing for it to be over with and for Jay to be gone. More than anything, I thought about how ashamed of me my father would be if he found out that I was a weakling who couldn’t stop somebody from rubbing my nose in the dirt.
A month ago Aunt Edith had written that she and Uncle Harley and Jay were coming to spend Christmas with us. On the day they were to arrive, we waited expectantly on the porch as we watched a moving cloud of dust appear far down the road. Soon a shiny green car pulled up in front of the gate.
“A brand new Studebaker!” my father said, wonderment in his voice. Since the drought and the dust storms and the depression had started, we had seen little that was new, much less a new car.
During the handshakes and hugs, I noticed that Jay was almost as big as Uncle Harley, although my cousin had just turned twelve, not quite a year older than I was.
“Jay’s the biggest boy in his grade,” Aunt Edith announced proudly.
“Yes, sir, this boy’s going to be a football star,” Uncle Harley boomed, even prouder.
“I reckon Andy’s like his dad,” my mother said, chuckling. “John says he got his growth late, but there was plenty of it—six-four in his stocking feet.”
My father didn’t say anything, and I wondered if he was wishing that I was bigger so that he could act proud too.
Later, upstairs in my room, Jay wandered around, restlessly touching things.
“You any good at marbles?” he asked. He sounded as if he was pretty sure I wasn’t.
“OK, I guess,” I answered.
While he got his marbles from his suitcase, I drew a chalk circle on the worn linoleum floor. “You go first,” I offered, since he was company.
He won the first game. I won the next two.
He scooped up his marbles. “This sorry old floor is uneven, and you have an unfair advantage, ‘cause you’re used to it. Without an unfair advantage you wouldn’t have won, kid.”
“Nuts! You’re just a bad loser,” I returned.
Before I knew what was happening, he had pinned me facedown on the floor, and with his knee in my back, he twisted my arm up behind my shoulder blades.
“Say uncle,” he ordered.
“I won’t.”
“Say uncle, you redheaded, freckle-faced runt. Say it!” He twisted until hot pain seared my shoulder.
“Uncle,” I managed to gasp.
Shoving my nose hard against the floor, he released me. When we were standing, facing each other, he said calmly, “If you tattle, I’ll get you again.”
“I don’t tattle.” I could feel my face flame at the insult.
“Dandy little Andy,” he taunted, with a mocking grin.
Around the grown-ups flattery just oozed from Jay, and he was extra polite to me. But when we were alone, he was something between barely tolerable and awful. In his tolerable state he talked incessantly but brushed aside anything I had to say as if he were shooing away a fly. When he prodded the cow I was milking and she put her foot in the bucket, he jeered, “Dandy little Andy.” My arms were sore from his constant knuckling me with his oversize fist.
On Christmas Eve, when we were chucking rocks at a fence post, Jay threw one that missed its mark and hit the door of his father’s car. It left a big dent and chipped the paint. My father and Uncle Harley, approaching from the well house, saw the damage and both of us with rocks in our hands.
“Son, did you do that?” Uncle Harley sounded stern.
Jay looked him directly in the eye and replied so earnestly that I would have believed him myself if I hadn’t known better, “No, sir, I did not.” Then he glanced at me with a pained expression.
After that performance my “I didn’t do it” sounded like a guilty denial.
My father stood silent for a moment, then turned and strode toward the barn.
Despite my misery, Christmas day did come. Jay and I took the firecrackers Uncle Harley had brought for us to a bare spot of ground near the windmill and spent the morning blowing up tin cans. I was so relieved that this was the last day of his visit that I actually had a good time.
Late in the afternoon Jay tagged along when I went to the pasture to drive in the milk cows. I rounded up the cows and was headed back with them when I saw a firecracker arc and explode under the lead cow. She tossed her horns and ran bellowing toward the barn.
I turned and saw my cousin, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, a satisfied smirk on his face.
Then I smelled it—prairie fire! I whirled around to see flames beginning to lick through the dry winter grass.
I ripped off my plaid mackinaw and beat out the fire nearest me, but the ever-present west wind fueled new flames that raced along, devouring the grass. I knew that if I couldn’t stop the blaze, it could burn up three counties. As I ran up and down beating the growing line of fire, I became like a piece of machinery, with no thought of heat or smoke or time. I didn’t even wonder where Jay was. I had completely forgotten him.
Finally I became aware of my father’s voice. “Andy, it’s all right. The fire’s out.”
I saw my father, his eyes red-rimmed from the smoke, holding wet gunny sacks in each hand. Blackened grass surrounded us. We walked wearily to the dry creek bed and dropped down on a flat rock.
From farther down the creek Jay suddenly appeared, striding purposefully. “I was going for help, sir. After I saw Andy drop that firecracker, I—”
My father’s voice cracked like a whip, “Don’t bother with another one of your lies, Jay. Go along to the house.”
My father turned back to me and put his hands on my shoulders. He said in his quiet way, “You did a man’s job today, Andy. With everything the way it is, if all the winter grazing had burned, I don’t see how we could have held on to the ranch another year. I’m grateful to you.”
I understood then that in ways that mattered to my father, I stood tall.
The next morning as we waved good-bye to the occupants of the green car, I found myself suddenly thinking that this was my best Christmas ever.

Sh. Purevsuren was introduced to God and Bible stories while studying at a university in the Soviet Union. (Mongolians ordinarily go by their first name, with initials of the surname in front for official purposes.) He bought a Bible from a fellow student because the book had Russian on one page and the same text in English on the facing page. Purevsuren read surreptitiously at night to learn English; reading the Bible openly would have meant expulsion.

His father had taught him Buddhist principles of honor and right, and Purevsuren had always tried to live by those. His spiritual interest in the Bible came only after he returned to Mongolia, married, and was a university professor. In connection with his work, he visited India. A Christian he met there gave him a Bible and shared feelings about the divinity of Jesus Christ. Purevsuren remembered his father’s teachings about a life following this one. “I had a fundamental belief about God from my father,” he says, and he began to wonder how God would want him to prepare for the next life.

As the head of a consortium of Mongolian educators, he was invited to visit the United States, where he first saw the Book of Mormon. In Utah, a Church member who hosted the tour group gave him a copy of the book. Purevsuren read in it briefly, then put it aside.

In September 2000, his family came into contact with LDS missionaries in Mongolia and listened to the missionary discussions. This time he read the Book of Mormon with new eyes and found truth he had been seeking. He and his wife were baptized and confirmed that November. Only a week or two later, he was called as branch president.

Their children were not interested at first in this new church. Their son, then in high school, was especially resistant, but, obediently, he agreed to his father’s request to listen to the missionaries. Eventually, both children were baptized and confirmed. Their son served a mission in Idaho.

Now Purevsuren is deeply involved in teaching young people as coordinator of the Church Educational System for Mongolia, a position he was given in 2001.

There are about 600 institute students in Mongolia and some 700 in seminary. Those numbers have grown by about 300 percent since 2001, even though students often face opposition from family members, and the cost of attendance, in time and transportation, is high.

What is the most rewarding part of his job? “The best thing, I think, is seeing so many kids joining the Church through seminary” as students bring their friends.

Benjamin’s cowboy boots clattered on the metal stairs as he hurried to get the evening papers. He liked being old enough to go down three flights of stairs all alone. Sometimes he stopped at the second floor window to check things out—even in the city there were cattle rustlers to shoot! But he’d forgotten his holster and gun today, so he didn’t stop.
As he reached the lobby of the building and picked up the newspaper for his family, he remembered Mrs. Peabody. He had to get her newspaper too. She was the cranky old lady who lived in the apartment next to his. Ben knew she would shout at him and slam the door in his face when he delivered the newspaper to her. He couldn’t understand why she was so grumpy and rude. He was just trying to help her. His mom had explained that it was sometimes difficult for Mrs. Peabody to go up and down the stairs.
Ben hoped that today would be different. But it wasn’t. When his boots touched the last step, he heard Mrs. Peabody’s door swish open. “Why are you dawdling?” she grouched, grabbing the newspaper.
As Ben opened his mouth to answer, BAM! the door slammed. He trudged on to his apartment and shrugged his shoulders.
“How’d it go?” Mom asked.
“About the same.”
Mom looked at him for a moment. “I have an idea.”
“Can I shoot my loudest cap pistol at her?” Ben asked hopefully.
“No,” Mom said with a smile. “I want you to try what works in our family whenever someone is grumpy or sad.”
Ben thought for a minute, then fell back against the sofa as if he’d been thrown from a horse. “Not a hug!” he wailed.
“Hush! Yes, a hug. Give her a hug every day for one week. A hug is something that anyone can give, and I suspect Mrs. Peabody is someone who really needs it. Will you try it for me?”
“OK, Mom, but I won’t like it,” grumbled Ben.
“Well, even the best jobs have parts that we don’t like. Remember, you picked this job instead of taking out the garbage. Now go wash your hands for dinner.”
Ben trudged to the bathroom, thinking that taking out smelly garbage might be better than hugging a grumpy old lady. He’d try the hug business for one week, but no longer!
The next day Ben checked the hallway for outlaws, ran down the stairs, got the two newspapers, and was outside Mrs. Peabody’s door before she jerked it open.
“Well?” she boomed as she snatched the paper. Ben gulped, reached out, and quickly hugged her. An astonished look passed over Mrs. Peabody’s face. Her mouth moved but no sound came out. She quickly stepped back inside and slammed the door.
Six more days, thought Ben. This is going to be a long week.
Days two and three were pretty much the same. Ben got the newspapers and delivered one, along with a hug, to Mrs. Peabody, who would peer at him suspiciously as she retreated into her apartment and slammed the door.
On the fourth day the old lady snapped, “What’s your name again?”
“Benjamin,” he replied.
“Well, Benjamin, why have you been grabbing me?” she demanded.
“I’m not grabbing you. I’m giving you a hug.”
“All right, why have you been hugging me?”
“Because I have to.”
“What do you mean?”
“A hug is a gift we give in our family when someone needs it, and my mom said you really need it.”
“Well, I never … !” muttered Mrs. Peabody, and she went back inside.
Funny, Ben thought, she didn’t slam the door today.
The next day Ben had a surprise. Mrs. Peabody handed him a piece of candy. After he thanked her for it, Mrs. Peabody grumbled, “Oh, its nothing but leftover candy from the holidays. Go on home.” But when she shut the door, Ben thought he saw the trace of a smile.
On the last day of the hugs, Mrs. Peabody gave him two candy bars. Ben smiled at her and said, “Thank you very much. These look great.”
“I bought them especially for my newspaper boy,” she said. “Have one now, and keep one for later.”
Ben smiled again, hugged her, and started down the hall. Then he turned around and went back. Mrs. Peabody’s door was already closed, so Ben knocked softly.
When the door swung open, he asked, “Mrs. Peabody, do you have a pocket?”
“Yes, I do, Benjamin, right here in my apron. Why?”
Ben didn’t answer her. He pretended to hug someone, then scooped his hands into her apron pocket. “That’s an extra hug,” he explained. “It’s sort of like the candy. Keep it for later when you need one.”
He turned quickly on the heels of his boots and walked down the hall. I guess Mom was right, he thought. Hugging Mrs. Peabody was hard at first, but it got easier, and she got nicer. He decided that he had chosen the right job too. It would have been really hard to hug the garbage!

Carlos was just about your size when his parents sent him to Mexico to stay with his grandmother. Carlos’s family was moving to a different part of Colorado, and Carlos’s father told him that as soon as they had found a new house and moved into it, they would send for him.
Carlos’s Uncle Pablo drove him to Mexico. They traveled over hot, dusty roads and through deserts and mountains. Finally, in one little village next to the mountains, his uncle smiled at Carlos and said, “We’re here.”
As they pulled up in front of a tiny white adobe house, chickens scattered in every direction, flapping their wings and squawking at the car and its passengers.
An old lady came out of the house. She had dark brown skin and white hair. Carlos’s uncle threw his arms around her and kissed her cheek.
“Carlos,” his uncle said, “do you remember your grandmother?”
“Bienvenido (welcome), Carlos.” The woman smiled at him.
Carlos just stood there. He hadn’t been with his grandmother since he was a baby, and he didn’t remember her at all. Finally he looked up at his uncle. “Uncle Pablo, I don’t want to be here!” Carlos whispered, even though he knew his grandmother couldn’t understand English.
“Now, Carlos, remember that you agreed to give it a try here. It’s just for a little while,” Uncle Pablo said. “Here, see if you’re strong enough to carry this into the house.” Pablo took the old, battered suitcase out of the car and handed it to Carlos.
Carlos dropped the suitcase just inside the door. He walked through both rooms of the house. The wooden furniture looked strange to him, as did the pictures with beads hanging from them on the walls. In the middle of the larger room stood a tall, wooden machine with rows of yarn going up and down; on the floor around it lay several balls of colorful yarn.
Carlos walked out the back door and into the cooking shed, where black pots and pans hung on the wall and firewood was piled in the corner. He saw that his uncle and grandmother were still talking, and he decided that somehow he’d think of a way to get his uncle to take him back to Colorado.
Carlos went through the backyard to the other side of the house. He saw some boys playing in the street and walked closer to watch them. Suddenly a dog ran up and started barking at him. The boys stopped playing, and one of them called the dog. They all yelled a greeting to Carlos, but he couldn’t understand them. They called again, and when he still didn’t respond, they started to laugh.
Carlos turned and ran away from them. I can’t help it if I don’t understand Spanish! he thought.
Carlos ran through the village and didn’t stop until he’d climbed a small hill. From the top of the hill he could see his grandmother’s house. “Oh no!” he agonized. “Uncle Pablo’s car is gone!”
The sinking sun had turned the faraway clouds into a red, orange, and pink sunset before Carlos returned to his grandmother’s house. She was busy making dinner in the cooking shed. When she looked up and saw Carlos, she put down the bowl she was holding and grasped his shoulders. “Carlos!” she cried, then went on excitedly in Spanish. Carlos didn’t understand her words, but he understood that she had been worried about him and that he wasn’t to wander off again without telling her. Grown-ups are all alike in every language, Carlos decided.
During dinner Grandma tried teaching him the names of the things that she pointed to: mesa (table), plato (plate), tenedor (fork), pan (bread), frijoles (beans), arroz (rice), limonada (lemonade). Carlos just picked at his food. When his mother made Mexican food, it was always a treat, but now all he wanted was a hamburger with catsup and mustard and pickles.
After dinner Grandma worked at her loom by the dim light of a kerosene lamp, weaving fabric from the colorful yarns. As she worked, she sang softly and looked up every few minutes to smile at Carlos. Carlos sat on the floor watching his grandmother, wishing that she had a television set.
Grandma let Carlos sleep in the only bed in the house. She covered him with a sheet, let down the mosquito netting, then tucked its edges under the mattress. “Buenas noches (good night), Carlos.” She went into the other room and put out the lamp.
Darkness closed in on Carlos. Crickets chirped nearby. He turned over and looked out the window at a bright star and wondered if that same star was shining down on his parents. All day he had fought tears, but he couldn’t stop them anymore. Soon he was sobbing out of control.
Grandma lighted the kerosene lamp again and came into the room. Lifting the mosquito netting and sitting on the bed next to Carlos, she pulled him up into her arms. “Carlos, Carlos.” She put her soft cheek against his forehead and gently rocked back and forth, humming softly.
“I want my dad … and my mom,” Carlos sobbed.
Grandma got up, took his hand, and led him to a wooden chest in the other room. From the chest she took brightly colored fabric and soft-colored dresses and placed them aside. Then she took out what looked like a small, woven blanket with broad stripes of green, red, white, and orange. One of the corners was slightly burned. She held it out for Carlos to take. “Sarape (serape),” she said.
Then the old woman brought out something wrapped in white lace. She took off the lace, revealing a book. Smiling at Carlos, she opened the book so that he could see it. Black and white photographs filled each page. She turned the pages slowly, smiling at pictures of a bride and a groom and babies. Pointing to a picture of a young boy, she said, “Tu papi (your daddy).”
Carlos looked closely at the picture. It was like looking at himself. It was his father, standing with the same sarape over his shoulder. Also in the picture was a beautiful young woman with her arm around him.
Carlos ran his fingers over the coarse fabric of the sarape. His father’s fingers had probably felt this fabric the same way when they were the same size as Carlos’s were now.
He looked up from the picture at his grandmother. She wore her white hair pulled back in a bun—the same way it was in the picture—only then her hair had been black. She’s still pretty, Carlos decided.
As he looked at his grandmother, she smiled, but a tear ran down her cheek too. Suddenly Carlos understood that she loved his father as much as he did and that she was as lonely for him as he was.
“Grandma,” Carlos said simply, putting his arms around her.
Tears came to both their eyes, but this time they were tears of joy.
When Grandma had tucked Carlos back into bed, she placed the sarape on the end of the bed.
“Thank you, Grandma,” Carlos said, smiling up at her. “Everything is going to be good, I can tell.”
Grandma smiled at Carlos, then bent down and gently kissed him good night. “Te quiero mucho (I love you a lot), Carlos.”

Later in my youth, my brother and I slept in an unheated bedroom in the winter. People thought that was good for you. Before falling into a warm bed, we knelt to say our prayers. There were expressions of simple gratitude. They concluded in the name of Jesus.
I recall jumping into my bed after I had said amen, pulling the covers up around my neck, and thinking of what I had just done in speaking to my Father in Heaven in the name of His Son. I did not have great knowledge of the gospel.
But there was some kind of lingering peace and security in communing with the heavens in and through the Lord Jesus.

Every time they saw Mehitabel, Grandpa’s friends challenged her with “Riddle me this!” and “Riddle me that!” But Mehitabel always came up with a clever answer. It began to look as though the whole summer would pass without Grandpa’s buying his friends a treat.
Then one day Mrs. Gray had a riddle poem for Mehitabel. “Riddle me this, Hitty, if you can,” she said. “Who are the people, and what is the poem the tale of?” Then she recited:
“One was in the dungeon;
One was in the street.
The lost one and the searcher—
How could they ever meet?”
Mehitabel knew at once that she was stumped. Oh, she knew that she had heard the story somewhere, But what was it about? she asked herself. And who was in the dungeon? The Little Lame Prince? No, he was in a tower, not a dungeon, and he wasn’t really lost. Robinson Crusoe? No, he was on an island, and no one was searching for him. The princess in Rumpelstiltskin? She wasn’t locked in a dungeon, and no one was searching for her, either.
Maybe it wasn’t a person, Mehitabel continued in her thoughts. Maybe it was an animal—or a thing. Yes! A thing! What does one search for? Gold? She sighed with relief. She may not have Mrs. Gray’s answer, but at least she had one. She turned to Grandpa’s friend and said. “The lost one in the dungeon was gold in a mine. The searcher was the miner who was trying to pan the gold from a stream.”
Grandpa chuckled. He had been worried for a minute, but Mehitabel had done it again.
However, Mrs. Gray said, “You’ve given a very good answer, Hitty, but I think even your grandpa will admit that the better answer comes from history.” She smiled at Mehitabel and said, “The one in the dungeon was King Richard the Lionhearted. The searcher was his minstrel, Blondel.”
Grandpa nodded. “Yes, that’s right. I know the story—King Richard was captured by the duke of Austria and locked in a castle on the Danube River. I’d forgotten that old story. You stumped her fair and square, Mrs. Gray. And I’m happy to pay up.”
Grandpa called to the ice-cream vendor and motioned for him to come over. “Let each of my friends choose the flavor of ice-cream cone he wants. The treat’s on me today!”
Carlos Sanchez wanted blueberry. Mrs. Gray asked for vanilla. Mr. Loomis’s favorite was cherry marshmallow. Grandpa said, “I’ll have peppermint. What about you, Mehitabel?”
Mehitabel looked hard at the ice-cream vendor. “I’ll have black mud,” she said.
“Mud!” shouted Grandpa.
“Mud?” yelled Grandpa’s friends.
The ice-cream vendor didn’t bat an eye. He took an empty cone and filled it with something that looked exactly like mud. Handing it to Mehitabel, he grinned and said, “I guessed your riddle, young lady. That’s licorice ice cream!”
Grandpa shook his head, chuckling. “That Mehitabel!”

Tamika curled up under the soft blanket and took a deep breath. The quilt smelled sweet, like the cherry lotion her grandma used. She loved that smell.
“Gram, I’m glad Mama and I came,” Tamika said.
Gram sat on the bed next to Tamika and stroked her hair. “I’m glad too. Do you want a bedtime story?”
Tamika nodded. “Tell me about when Grammy Rose escaped.” Tomorrow they were visiting a place where her great-grandma Rose might have stayed, and she wanted to hear the story again.
“Again?” Gram laughed. “All right. That’s one of my favorites too.” She leaned back and got comfortable.
“Your great-grandma Rose lived on a big farm called a plantation with her mama and daddy. They were slaves, and they wanted to be free,” Gram said. “One day, Rose’s mama died of a fever. Her daddy decided it was time to escape with Rose.”
Gram’s fingers traced lines along the quilt as she talked, like she was tracing a map of the journey.
“They left at night and followed the North Star. It’s part of a constellation called the Big Dipper,” Gram said. “Back then, slaves called it the Drinking Gourd.”
“What’s a gourd?” Tamika asked.
“It’s like a squash. Slaves would use hollowed-out gourds as spoons to scoop water from buckets to drink,” Gram said. “Rose and her daddy followed the Drinking Gourd north. People from the Underground Railroad helped them along the way.”
Tamika nodded. She knew that the Underground Railroad wasn’t really a railroad. It was a name for the people who helped slaves escape to safety. Tomorrow Tamika and her mom were going to a house called Slave Haven, where some of the slaves hid on their journey north.
“But we don’t know for sure if Grammy Rose stayed in Slave Haven,” Tamika said.
Gram looked thoughtful. “That’s right. Rose couldn’t write, so we don’t know the exact places she stayed,” Gram said. “But when I was a girl, Rose told me her story, and I wrote it in my journal.”
Tamika sat up. “Can I read what you wrote?”
Gram nodded. “We can look at it tomorrow—”
Just then, Mama came in to kiss Tamika goodnight.
“Are you two still talking about Grammy Rose?” Mama said. “Tomorrow you can explore secret passages and trap doors at Slave Haven. But right now, it’s time for bed.”
As Mama tucked the blankets around Tamika, Gram told her one more thing about Rose.
“Grammy Rose always said that miracles from God brought her safely north. That taught me to look for miracles every day,” Gram said. “Like warm sunshine.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Mama said, looking at Gram. “Or a beautiful smile.” She turned to Tamika. “Or the miracle of Tamika finally falling asleep!”
Tamika laughed. She had never thought about sunshine and smiles as miracles, but the world would be pretty dark and sad without them!
Tamika felt happy and warm thinking about how brave her great-great-grandma was. Just before Gram shut the door, an idea popped into Tamika’s head.
“Gram? Can I have a journal? I want to look for miracles and write them down too,” Tamika said.
“We’ll get you one tomorrow,” Gram said.
“I know what my miracle is today,” Tamika said.
“What?” asked Gram.
“It’s you,” Tamika said. “And Mama, and us coming to visit, and learning about Grammy Rose …” Tamika’s words became softer and softer until she finally fell asleep, curled up beneath the warm, sweet-smelling quilt.