Gospel Story Finder

For another example, take Willard Richards—an educated man who, when Joseph and Hyrum Smith surrendered themselves to the governor of Illinois and were placed in Carthage Jail, was among a handful of men who went with them. By the afternoon of 27 June 1844, most had been sent to take care of certain matters of business, leaving only John Taylor and Willard Richards with the Prophet and his brother Hyrum. That afternoon following dinner, the jailer, knowing of the mob outside, suggested that they would be safer in the cell of the jail. Turning to Willard Richards, Joseph asked, “If we go into the cell will you go with us?” To this Elder Richards responded:
“Brother Joseph, you did not ask me to cross the river with you … you did not ask me to come to Carthage … you did not aske me to come to jail with you—and do you think I would forsake you now? But I will tell you what I will do; if you are condemned to be hung for ‘treason,’ I will be hung in your stead, and you shall go free.” (B. H. Roberts, A Comprehensive History of the Church, 2:283.)
Strong and intelligent men do not demonstrate that kind of love for an imposter or a fraud. That kind of love comes of God and the recognition of integrity in men. It is an expression of the spirit and reflects the example of the Savior, who gave his life for all men and who declared, “Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” (John 15:13.)

Raphael remembers one day in seminary when the class was watching a video about the death of the Prophet Joseph Smith. “I started crying. ‘Why?’ I asked myself. As I concentrated on what I was feeling, the answer came: I was receiving a witness from the Holy Ghost that Joseph Smith is a prophet and that the Church is true.”
He smiles at the memory. “Good things happen in seminary,” he says.

Every time I learned about patriarchal blessings, I felt a confirmation of their truthfulness. There grew in my heart a desire to receive this blessing from the Lord. I tried to do everything I learned in my Church meetings, and I asked for guidance from my bishop to help me prepare for this blessing.

On a beautiful summer morning, our family attended the Special Olympics to watch our son Scott participate. The Special Olympics are held each year to allow people with disabilities to enjoy friendly competition. We observed that as the runners were taking their positions for the fifty-yard dash, they were being encouraged by special friends affectionately known as huggers. Seconds before the start of the race, these huggers took their places at the finish line of the race. It didn’t matter who crossed the finish line first. What did matter was that every runner completed the race and that every runner received a congratulatory hug. Both the courageous runners and the caring huggers taught important principles of truth.

Amanda Pig and the Awful, Scary Monster, by Jean Van Leeuwen, pictures by Ann Schweninger. Every night, Amanda Pig is sure a monster is in her room. Her older brother, Oliver, figures out a way to help Amanda. Enjoy this exciting tale about being brave and growing up.

“In the early fall of 1920 Ezra spent a weekend in Logan preparatory to enrolling for winter quarter. He and a cousin were standing on a curb on Main Street when an attractive young woman drove by in a Ford convertible and waved to a friend. A few minutes later she drove by a second time and waved again. ‘Who is that?’ Ezra asked. ‘Flora Amussen,’ his cousin replied. There was something about the girl that impressed Ezra, and he responded enthusiastically, ‘When I come down here this winter, I’m going to [court] her.’ ‘Like heck you will,’ the cousin answered, adding, ‘she’s too popular for a farm boy like you.’ ‘That makes it all the more interesting,’ Ezra countered. He received the distinct impression that he would marry her.” (Ezra Taft Benson, pp. 46–47).

Young people in a little branch in Islamabad, Pakistan, enjoy being involved in both school and Church activities. Three Beehives, one Mia Maid, and a nonmember friend participated in the worldwide Young Women celebration last October. They released balloons containing their messages of hope and peace in the evening to coincide with the sunrise services being held in the United States and Canada.
The Young Women also prepared Christmas packages for four Afghan refugee families in the area.
In January, the branch held a farewell for their first missionary.

When I was almost 16 years old, that same bishop assigned me to temporarily replace a youth Sunday School teacher. When he extended that calling to me, I was scared and nervous. I felt that I didn’t know enough to teach. I thought, “How can I be a teacher in that class? It’s like the blind leading the blind.”
I remember that in one specific lesson I had to talk about the testimony of Jesus Christ. We were studying in the Book of Mormon about how we could have a testimony of the gospel. I felt in my heart that I knew this Church is true, that Jesus is the Christ. But I had never prayed about those things. I thought, “How in the world can I teach these youth that they have to pray and receive an answer when I’ve never prayed for an answer?”
Ever since I was born, I had been taught about faith in Jesus Christ. And when I became a member of the Church, I always had that warm feeling in my heart about Jesus Christ, about my Heavenly Father, and about the Church. I had never had any concerns about whether this was the true Church of Jesus Christ; I had never prayed about it because those feelings were so strong. But in preparation for that class that week, I decided that I should pray to receive a confirmation that the gospel is true.
I knelt down in my room, and I decided to pray with all my might to confirm in my heart that this is the true Church of Jesus Christ. I was not expecting a great manifestation or an angel or something. I didn’t know what to expect as an answer.
When I knelt down and asked the Lord if the gospel is true, there came to my heart a very sweet feeling, a small voice that confirmed to me the gospel is true and that I should continue in it. It was so strong that I could never say that I didn’t know. I could never disregard that answer. Even though it was a small voice, it was a very strong feeling in my heart.
I spent that whole day feeling so happy that I couldn’t think about anything bad. When kids at school would say bad things, I wouldn’t listen to them. It was like I was in heaven, contemplating that beautiful feeling in my heart.
The next Sunday, when I stood up in front of the class of young people, I could share my testimony and tell them that Heavenly Father would answer their prayers if they had faith. I read James 1:5, which is the same scripture Joseph Smith read regarding asking God for wisdom. But the next verse says that you have to ask in faith, “for he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed” (James 1:6). It also says that a person cannot expect to receive an answer if he or she has a heart that doesn’t trust when praying. And then I said to myself and to my little class that we should ask with real faith, looking for an answer, and then the Lord will answer.
From that time on my testimony gave me the conviction I needed to make good decisions, especially in moments when I faced challenges. All of us faced challenges in keeping the standards of the gospel, especially those, like me, who were the only Church members at their schools. But my testimony helped me to remember that even though I was pressured by my friends to do wrong things, I knew in my heart that I was following the true gospel of Jesus Christ. After that experience I could never reject that testimony.
That day made a big difference in my life. Afterward I continued preparing myself for a mission with the help of my wonderful bishop and my family. I served a mission, and when I came back, I went to school to get my degree. I married and started a family. And everything happened because of that prayer when I was only about 16 years old.
As I said, I always knew the gospel was true, but I had to ask and then share my own experience with other people. That helped me on my mission too, because when I invited people to pray, I could tell them my own experience, letting them know that I had done that before. I testified that they could get an answer if they would pray with faith.

A few years ago while we were in Sydney, Australia, my wife and I received a letter from one of our grandchildren. He wrote: “Dear Grandma and Grandpa, I just turned twelve years of age, and the bishop called me into the office, and he said, ‘I have some questions to ask of you, Bruce. Bruce, you’re twelve years of age now, and so I need to know if you love the Lord.’ I told him I do. ‘Do you say bad words, Bruce?’ ‘No, bishop, I never say bad words.’ ‘Do you love your mother and dad?’ ‘Yes, bishop, I do.’ ‘Do you pay your tithing, Bruce?’ ‘Yes I do, bishop.’

“You know, Grandpa and Grandma, the bishop said that I could receive the Aaronic Priesthood because I was twelve years of age, and he asked me if I knew what the Aaronic Priesthood was. I told him that I knew a little bit and that I could be ordained a deacon. You know, the next week the bishop asked who I would like to be ordained by. I said I would like to be ordained by my dad. So my dad put his hands upon my head, and the bishop stood around and so did my uncles, and my dad conferred the Aaronic Priesthood upon me and ordained me a deacon.

“Now, Grandma and Grandpa, you’re a long way away, but I know that you’re a General Authority and some day you’ll come home. You know, I can’t wait until you come home because I know you’ll sit on the stand, and then Grandpa, I can pass the sacrament to you.”
I think that is the true meaning of love, of families.

One of the bishop’s duties was to send to every serviceman a subscription to the Church News and to the Improvement Era and to write a personal letter to him each month. Since President Monson had served in the navy in World War II, he appreciated the importance of a letter from home. He had 23 ward members serving in the military, so he called a sister in the ward to handle the details of mailing these letters. One evening he handed her the monthly stack of 23 letters.
“Bishop, don’t you ever get discouraged?” she asked. “Here is another letter to Brother Bryson. This is the 17th letter you have sent to him without a reply.”
“Well, maybe this will be the month,” he said. It was. The reply from Brother Bryson read: “Dear Bishop, I ain’t much at writin’ letters. Thank you for the Church News and magazines, but most of all thank you for the personal letters. I have turned over a new leaf. I have been ordained a priest in the Aaronic Priesthood. My heart is full. I am a happy man.”
President Monson saw in that letter the practical application of the adage “Do your duty, that is best. Leave unto the Lord the rest.” Years later, while attending a stake conference, he spoke of his experience of writing to the servicemen. After the meeting, a young man came up to him and asked, “Bishop, do you remember me?”
Without a pause President Monson replied, “Brother Bryson! How are you? What are you doing in the Church?”
The former serviceman replied with great pleasure that he was fine and serving in his elders quorum presidency. “Thank you again for your concern for me and the personal letters which you sent and which I treasure.”5

This morning, I invite you to join with me on an African journey. You won’t see any lions, zebras, or elephants, but perhaps, by journey’s end, you will see how thousands of members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints are responding to Christ’s second great commandment to “love thy neighbour” (Mark 12:31).
Imagine for a moment the rural, red dirt of Africa. You see from the parched and barren earth that rain has not fallen in any measurable quantity for too many years. The few cattle which cross your path are more bones than flesh and are being driven by a blanket-covered Karamojong herdsman who, with sandalled feet, trudges on in hope of finding vegetation and water.
As you navigate the rough and rocky road, you see several groups of beautiful children and wonder why they are not in school. The children smile and wave, and you wave back with a tear and a smile. Ninety-two percent of the youngest children you see on this journey live in food poverty, and your heart groans with anguish.
Ahead, you see a mother carrying a carefully balanced five-gallon (19 L) container of water on her head and another in her hand. She represents one of every two households in this area where women, young and old, walk more than 30 minutes each way, each day, to a source of water for their family. A wave of sorrow washes over you.
Two hours pass and you arrive at a secluded, shady clearing. The meeting place is not a hall or even a tent but rather under a few large trees providing shelter from the sweltering sun. In this place, you notice there is no running water, no electricity, no flush toilets. You look around and know you are amongst a people who love God, and you instantly feel God’s love for them. They have gathered to receive help and hope, and you have arrived to share it.
Such was the journey of Sister Ardern and me, in the company of Sister Camille Johnson, our General Relief Society President, and her husband, Doug, and Sister Sharon Eubank, director of the Church’s Humanitarian Services, as we travelled in Uganda, a country of 47 million people in the Africa Central Area of the Church. On that day, under the shade of the trees, we visited a community health project that is jointly funded by the Church Humanitarian Services, UNICEF, and the Ministry of Health of the Ugandan government. These are trusted organisations, carefully selected to ensure the donated humanitarian funds of the members of the Church are prudently used.
As heart-wrenching as it was to see malnourished children and the effects of tuberculosis, malaria, and incessant diarrhea, there came to each of us an increase of hope for a better tomorrow for those we met.
That hope came, in part, through the kindness of Church members from around the world who donate time and money to the Church humanitarian effort. As I saw the sick and the afflicted being helped and lifted, I bowed my head in gratitude. At that moment, I better understood what was meant by the King of kings, who said:
“Come, ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you … :
“For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me in” (Matthew 25:34–35).
Our Saviour’s plea is to “let your light so shine before men, that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father which is in heaven” (Matthew 5:16; see also verses 14–15). In that far-flung corner of the earth, your good works brightened the lives and lightened the load of a people in desperate need, and God was glorified.
On that hot and dusty day, I wished you could have heard their prayers of praise and gratitude to God. They would have me say to you in their native Karamojong, “Alakara.” Thank you.
In that distant land, on that unforgettable day, I stood then and stand now as a witness of the soul-stirring and life-changing compassion of members of the Church, both rich and poor.
All those months ago, we found the hungry and the afflicted on a dry and dusty plain and were witnesses to their pleading eyes for help. In our own way, we groaned in the spirit and were troubled (see John 11:33), and yet those feelings were tempered as we saw the compassion of Church members at work as the hungry were fed, the widows were provided for, and the afflicted were comforted and their tears dried up.

I attended a seminary graduation in Omaha, Nebraska. The speaker, again a young man, described this experience.
“Each morning I awoke to the sweet voice of my mother calling out, ‘John, John, time to get ready for seminary!’ The year rolled on and the mornings grew cold and wet and dark; still the happy voice of Mother would sing out, ‘John, John, time to get up for seminary!’” Then he added, “I learned to hate that sound!”
But then, choking back the tears, he thanked his mother for what she had given him. And I think only later did he realize that she had to be up first every morning.

Not too long ago, I was working on our farm with my nephew Nash. He is six and has a pure heart. He is my favorite nephew named Nash, and I believe I am his favorite uncle speaking in conference today.
As he helped me come up with a solution for our project, I said, “Nash, that is a great idea. How did you get so smart?” He looked at me with an expression in his eyes that said, “Uncle Ryan, how do you not know the answer to this question?”
He simply shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and confidently said, “Jesus.”
Nash reminded me that day of this simple and yet profound teaching. The answer to the simplest questions and to the most complex problems is always the same. The answer is Jesus Christ. Every solution is found in Him.

This Saturday morning, youth from the Richmond Ward are spread out in five different locations around the city. The first stop is a small house in the middle of Richmond. Fourteen-year-old Zack Harton and his friend Will Jones are stationed here, raking leaves, pulling weeds, and having fun.
Zack doesn’t personally know the family his group is helping, but he does know that this family is investigating the Church. Therefore, he knows that he’s also setting an example. “It makes me feel good because I’m helping someone in need—just as I would help my own brother and sister if they needed help,” Zack says.
His friend Will is also investigating the Church and is glad that Zack invited him to come along today. Will has already caught on to the wonderful feeling that comes from service. “I feel that I have an obligation toward other people,” Will says. “I started coming with Zack to Scouts and never knew it was going to get into this. But I just think it’s wonderful that somebody would care enough to do this. While we were working in the yard, everyone would help one another. You didn’t even have to ask. I could feel God around me.”

“Mother was raised with a musical background and Father was not. Once when he built a wall outside, he took the record player out where he was working and listened to classical music all day so he would become more knowledgeable. It was agreed later that only the neighborhood had become more knowledgeable.”

“Not again!” Howard gasped, sick at heart, as he peeked from behind the bushes in his neighbor’s yard. But no one heard his quiet plea, and the neighborhood boys again stuffed the soaked, terrified kitten back into the sack. One boy gave the sack a hefty toss, and again it flew into the canal.
This time, however, the kitten could barely struggle free. As the sack and kitten floated down the canal, the boys finally lost interest.
As soon as the boys turned their backs, Howard dashed from behind the bushes, jumped the neighbor’s fence, and raced to the kitten’s aid. The poor animal could barely meow, and Howard had no trouble fishing it out of the canal and wrapping it gently in his shirttail. As Howard hurried home, tears filled his eyes. He prayed that the kitten would somehow survive.
“Howard William Hunter, what have you got there?” Dorothy, Howard’s younger sister, asked him. She stood on the front porch, hands on hips, trying to look as stern as she thought her mother would.
“Howard William Hunter,” his mother echoed, coming up behind Dorothy. “What have you got there?” She placed her hands on her hips as the screen door banged shut behind her. Both mother and daughter looked at him expectantly.
Howard was still too upset to speak. Instead, he carefully unwrapped the kitten.
“Oh my goodness!” Mother exclaimed, covering her mouth in surprise. Shaking her head, she gently placed a hand on Howard’s shoulder. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she explained to her tenderhearted son, “I know how much you love animals, Howard, but I’m afraid we can’t save this poor kitten.”
“Mother, we have to try!” Howard wailed. “We have to!”
Mother thought for a moment. “Come on, Howard. I think I know what to do.” She turned and hurried into the house.
Inside the hall closet, Mother found an old quilt and a small wooden box and placed them on the kitchen table. Howard and Dorothy watched as their mother lined the box with the quilt. “Now, give me the kitten,” she told Howard. He quietly placed the animal in her gentle hands, and she wrapped it in the quilt. “We’ll put the box where it’s warm,” she said, sliding it carefully under the stove.
“Now what should we do?” Dorothy asked.
“Be very quiet,” Mother said, putting her finger to her lips. “Play outside, and don’t be noisy in the house. We’ll let the kitten rest and see if it’s better in the morning.”
“How will we know if it’s all right?” Howard wondered.
“Don’t worry.” Mother smiled and patted him on the back. “We’ll know.”
Howard didn’t sleep well that night. He dreamed that the neighborhood boys had found the kitten under the stove and were trying to steal it.
Before the sun came up the next morning, Howard heard meowing. He sat straight up in bed and rubbed his eyes. When the kitten meowed again, he raced to the kitchen.
The kitten had climbed out of the box and was meowing for its mother as it wandered around the kitchen. Howard dropped onto the floor beside the kitten, who looked up hopefully into Howard’s eyes. He gently patted the kitten’s soft, warm fur. “I’ll get you some milk,” Howard said, taking a saucer from the cupboard. He poured some milk from the tin can in his mother’s cool pantry, and set the saucer in front of the hungry kitten.
“It’s going to be just fine now,” Mother said as she came into the kitchen and saw the kitten hungrily lapping up the milk. “That was a wonderful thing you did, Howard.”
Howard smiled up at his mother. He felt warm inside as he watched the kitten drink.

Once, while Joseph was delivering a sermon in someone’s home, a little girl became tired and sleepy and began to cry. Joseph stopped speaking for a moment, sat down, and motioned for her to come to him. He held her on his lap, patted her, and she went to sleep while he completed his sermon.

During the holidays my family and I go to Grandma’s house for dinner. We eat sambusas (fried dough with rice or meat inside). Then the parents tell stories, my uncle and cousin play drums, and my sister and I dance!

A memorial service was held for Stephen at the Vancouver stake center in British Columbia. Instead of sending flowers, friends contributed to a fund in his name set up at his former high school. Each year a graduating student who has “shown outstanding contributions in the area of helping other young people—one who has gone above and beyond the call of duty in the spirit of a true humanitarian”—will receive $100 bursary and the “Super Steve Humanitarian Award.”
The Vancouver British Columbia Stake has inaugurated a “Stephen Farrance Memorial Sportsmanship Award” to be presented to the seminary team that shows the most concern for each other, attention to rules, sincere effort, and good sportsmanship during the annual scripture chase.
At the memorial services, members and nonmembers gathered to remember Stephen. A School friend spoke on Stephen’s contributions to the school and to his fellow students. He spoke of his many talents, his desire to serve, and his example to the student body. His priests adviser talked about Stephen’s Church accomplishments, his enthusiasm for any outing, even if he knew he couldn’t participate, and his concern for the priesthood brethren. And the bishop spoke about Stephen’s spiritual achievements. He reminded those gathered of the great, strong testimony he had, and how he had made use of every opportunity to bear it. He talked of Stephen’s desire to serve the Lord in any capacity he could. For the first time members and nonmembers, brought together through love of Stephen, became aware of many sides of Stephen’s remarkable character.

I could always tell when it was going to happen. Before the leaves began to turn beautiful autumn colors of red and yellow, even before I had to wear a jacket to go out and play at night after school, I somehow just knew when Dad was going to say it.
“Autumn’s here,” Dad would announce on a cool September night as we all sat around the dinner table. “Soon it’ll be too cold for gardening, riding bicycles, and swimming.” Then he’d look at me, sitting right next to him because I was the oldest. “Danny, soon I’ll be cleaning out the shed,” he’d say, like it was a brand-new idea, even though we had done that every year for as long as I could remember. “Are you going to help me again this year?”
“Sure, Dad. You know I will,” I’d burst out excitedly, and the whole family—Mom, Dad, and my three sisters, Randi, Sherry, and Cathy—would laugh. Sometimes it seemed to me that Randi, who was a year younger than I and always trying to act like the oldest, was laughing extra loudly at me.
But I didn’t care, because Dad knew how much I enjoyed helping him clean out the shed for winter. It was a big old wooden shed that Dad had built a long time ago, with windows on two sides and in the door. It was white, with lots of rusty nailheads showing through the chipped paint. We used the shed to store everything from shovels and rakes to bicycles and barbecues. During the spring, summer, and fall, we were probably in the shed as much as we were anyplace else. But by the time winter came, Dad would have the whole shed cleaned and organized and ready for the next spring.
The reason that I liked cleaning the shed so much was that Dad and I would talk. He was so interesting that it wasn’t like a job at all. He’d tell me about the cold, bitter winters he remembered as a boy in Indiana and about how much sweeter the spring always seemed after a harsh winter. “But no matter how bad the winter is, Danny,” he’d say, “whether it’s here in New Jersey or back in Indiana, remember that winter is just God’s way of putting the world to sleep for a short time. And then, in the spring, God wakes the world up with beautiful flowers, green grass, warm sunshine, and the singing of birds. The beauty of spring is one of the miracles of life.”
And before I knew it, the shed was clean, everything inside was reorganized neatly, and a big sheet of plastic was fastened over the roof so that snow wouldn’t get inside. The day would be almost gone, and Dad would slap me on the back. Then we’d gather up the whole family and go down to Mr. Watson’s for ice cream.
Then one day last year, just after I had turned eleven, I came home from school and found Mom upstairs in her and Dad’s bedroom, sitting in a rocking chair with an open photo album in her lap. When she saw me, she started to cry.
“Danny, your father’s in the hospital,” she said through her tears. “He became ill at work. … I don’t know when he’ll be able to come home.”
During the next few weeks, as we visited Dad in the hospital, I knew that he wouldn’t be home soon. The doctor told us that he was getting better, but that it was a slow process and that it was best not to rush things. It made my heart ache to see him lying there, looking so tired.
On my way to see him one Friday after school, I noticed that Mrs. Simmons’s big old oak tree was ablaze with autumn colors. So I knew that it was time to clean out the shed. I also knew that Dad would not be there to do it and that it was up to me. I couldn’t let him down.
I was up early the next morning, and I ate breakfast so fast that the food barely touched my mouth on its way to my stomach. Once outside, I looked up at the sky; it was a gray day with a chilly breeze and thick dark clouds. The weather report was for rain later in the day, possibly changing to snow at night.
When I pulled open the shed door, a leaf rake came tumbling out and nearly hit me in the face; we hadn’t been too careful about how we had put things back lately. Suddenly I felt sad and lonely because Dad wasn’t there with me, so I said a prayer that Dad would get well soon and be back with us. While I was at it, I asked Heavenly Father for help to do the job. Afterward I didn’t feel quite so lonely.
I had never realized what a big job cleaning out the shed was. Dad’s stories had always made the time fly, and it had never even seemed like work. This time it was only me, with nobody to talk to, or ask questions of, or share a laugh.
It seemed like there had never been as much stuff inside the shed as there was this year. To make matters worse, the clouds were getting thicker and darker and the chilly breeze had turned into a cold wind. I knew that rain was on the way, and soon. I didn’t even have everything taken out of the shed, and I still had to clean it, reorganize everything back inside, and stretch the plastic over the roof. I’m never going to make it, I thought.
I tried to hurry, and that was a big mistake. In my haste to move everything outside, I dropped a shovel on my bicycle, scratching the fender that I had tried so hard to keep looking like new.
I felt tears rush into my eyes. “I’m never going to get this done,” I said aloud, past the lump in my throat. “Oh, Dad, I’m sorry that I let you down.”
Just then a voice called: “Can I help, Danny?”
It was Randi! My first reaction was to say no to her offer. I felt that it was my job because of a special bond between Dad and me and that by letting Randi help, I would somehow be breaking that bond. But I quickly realized that my real responsibility was to Dad and the rest of the family. “Sure, Randi,” I said. “I could use some help.”
Randi smiled a big smile and got right to work.
I learned a lot about my sister that day. She worked as hard and as fast as I did, and she listened to my instructions about where to put everything just as I had always listened to Dad’s. We worked most of the day, and, just as we hammered the last nail into place to secure the plastic to the roof, the rain began. We both ran to the house, feeling happy and satisfied.
Mom met us at the door with some exciting news. “Danny, Randi,” she said, laughing and crying at the same time, “Daddy’s coming home next week! Isn’t that wonderful?”
That night we had the happiest dinner that we’d had in a long time, and we went to Mr. Watson’s for ice cream! I couldn’t stop thinking about how helpful Randi had been, and how it had really been fun talking with her as we worked. I decided that I wanted to do something to show her my thanks. “Randi,” I asked, “has Dad ever told you about how cold the winters were in Indiana when he was a boy?”
“No,” she said, her eyes sparkling, “but I’d love to hear about it.”