Gospel Story Finder

Going to prom was something I’d dreamed about since I was a little girl. Now my dream was about to be a reality.

Several of my friends and I went dress shopping together. I was the only member of the Church among my friends, and I soon realized it would be impossible to find a modest dress that fit my standards. There was no doubt that having sleeves would make me stand out from all the other young women at the dance. Plus, where I lived, there were not many modest dresses for sale. I didn’t know what to do.

Luckily, my cousin had a beautiful, modest ball gown I was able to borrow. I was nervous about what others would think, but I had confidence in knowing I was doing the right thing.

I stood out at prom that year because I was the only young woman with sleeves on my dress. It didn’t matter what others thought; I was beautiful in the eyes of the Lord. That night I had a blast, and wearing that dress made me feel like royalty. And I was! I was confident in knowing I was a daughter of a King, and I was making Him proud.

The ward Primary sacrament meeting program was next week. Mandy didn’t have a speaking part in the program this year. She was playing a piano solo instead. She had played prelude music for Primary before, but she had never played in front of the whole ward.
Mandy had been taking piano lessons since she’d turned eight last year. She loved her lessons. She especially liked learning to play the Primary songs. Right now, she played from a book of simplified arrangements. Someday, her teacher said, she’d play from the Children’s Songbook.
“I don’t know if I can play in the program,” Mandy said to her mother one night as they finished doing the dinner dishes. “I get all nervous just thinking about it.”
After Mother dried her hands on a dish towel, she said, “Did you know that Sister Hatch gets nervous, too?”
Sister Hatch was Mandy’s piano teacher, and she was also the Primary pianist. “Why would Sister Hatch be nervous? She plays great.”
“She still gets nervous. Just like you.”
At her next piano lesson, Mandy asked Sister Hatch, “Do you get nervous when you have to play in front of a whole bunch of people?”
Sister Hatch made a face. “All the time.”
“What do you do?” Mandy asked.
“First, I practice a lot. I try to do everything that I can to make sure I do a good job. Then I say a prayer.”
Mandy frowned. “What if you want to say a prayer right before you start to play?”
“I say the prayer in my head,” Sister Hatch said, “and in my heart. Heavenly Father knows what’s there even if I don’t say the words out loud.”
Mandy thought about that. “What if I make a mistake anyway?”
Sister Hatch grinned. “I make at least a couple of mistakes every Sunday when I’m playing for Primary.”
Mandy stared at her teacher in surprise. “You do? I’ve never noticed.”
“And no one will notice if you make a mistake. The important thing is to keep going. You know the song. Let your fingers do what they’ve been practicing.” Sister Hatch put her arm around Mandy’s shoulder. “I’ll be sitting right next to you during the program. If you start feeling afraid, reach over and squeeze my hand. And I’ll do the same if I feel scared.”
The morning of the program, Mandy felt sick to her stomach. She walked into her sister’s room. Sara was putting on her makeup.
“My stomach feels funny,” Mandy said.
“It’s just butterflies,” Sara said.
“It doesn’t feel like butterflies,” Mandy said. “It feels more like big, scary bats!”
“Don’t worry,” Sara said. “You’ll do fine.”
Mandy went to the piano and practiced her song. She had played it so much that she had memorized it. Still, she planned to take her book with her.
At church, Mandy sat with the other Primary children in the first three rows of the chapel. When the children went up to the stand following the sacrament, Mandy took her place beside Sister Hatch. Julie, who was also playing a solo, sat on the other side. As the Primary president introduced the Primary theme for the year, Mandy started to reach for Sister Hatch’s hand. Then she noticed that her teacher was reaching for hers at the same time. They looked at each other and smiled.
They squeezed hands, then Sister Hatch stood to go to the piano. The Primary children sang the first verse of “Follow the Prophet.”
As the time grew nearer for her to play her song, Mandy’s stomach started to feel funny again. Then she remembered what Sister Hatch had said about saying a prayer in her head and heart.
When it was Mandy’s turn to play, she placed her book on the piano, even though she didn’t need it. Her fingers did what they were supposed to do. When she played the last note, she let out a long breath and returned to her seat.
Sister Hatch gave Mandy a quick hug. “You did great,” she whispered.
Mandy felt great. The butterflies in her stomach had been replaced with a prayer in her heart.

Angelo Melone lives with his family in L’Aquila, a small city founded in medieval times near the center of Italy. He works as the anti-fraud director of the customs office in L’Aquila, a job that he enjoys very much. The most precious thing in his life, he says, is his family. His wife, Elizabete, is from Brazil, and they have two daughters—Naomi, 11, and Michela Alessandra, 19. He was baptized when he was 18 years old.
Every time I remember my conversion, I thank the Lord for helping me meet the missionaries of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
I was born and grew up at Ortona dei Marsi, a tiny village near the National Park of Abruzzo, in the province of L’Aquila. When I was 18, the missionaries contacted my sister. At that time she was studying medicine at the University of Chieti and living in Pescara, where there was a branch of the Church. She received the missionary lessons and decided to be baptized.
I came to know the missionaries as I occasionally went to visit my sister. I was an obstinate person, and I tried to use the Bible to prove that the Church’s doctrine was in error. I read almost all the publications of the Church—but I didn’t succeed in detecting any contradictions. Instead I learned the story of the Restoration and the marvelous experience of the First Vision. I learned about the concept of a testimony and felt a desire to have one.
One Sunday, I said to the branch president in Pescara that I would never be baptized into the Church; but inside me I knew something was changing. That week, I opened my copy of the Book of Mormon and a list of questions glued to the inside front cover caught my eye. I stopped on this question: “How can I develop faith?” The list said I could find the answer in Alma 32, where the word of God is compared to a seed.
As I studied the passage, I realized that if I wanted to receive a testimony, I had to change my attitude. My heart was a plot of ground that had to be weeded. I needed to abandon all my prejudices and misconceptions about the Church, and then I could try the experiment. I sought to plant the seed in my heart—I knelt down and prayed to know if the Church had been restored and if the Book of Mormon really was the result of this Restoration. The Spirit I felt helped me to know that the Church of Jesus Christ was on the earth again. I was baptized August 10, 1978.
The following years were exciting. I had to travel—10 kilometers (6.2 miles) on foot and about three hours by train—to get to church. But it was well worth the effort! Those little sacrifices brought much joy and many blessings in my life: my marriage with Elizabete in the São Paulo Temple in 1990, and the birth of two marvelous daughters, Michela and Naomi.

I served in the United States Navy during World War II. I started in the lowest ranks. After the war ended, I decided that if I ever had to serve in the military again, I wanted to be an officer instead. So I went to drill meetings. I studied. I took exams. Finally I got a letter that said I was accepted! I showed my wife and said, “I made it!” She gave me a hug and told me I had worked hard.
But then something happened. I was called to be a counselor in my ward bishopric. The bishop’s council meeting was on the same night as my navy drill meetings. I knew that I couldn’t do both. I prayed about it. Then I went to see the man who was my stake president when I was a boy, Elder Harold B. Lee, who later became the prophet. I told him how much I wanted to become an officer. I even showed him the copy of the letter I had received.
After thinking about things for a moment, he said to me, “Here’s what you should do, Brother Monson. You write a letter to the navy and tell them you can’t accept the commission as an officer.”
My heart sank. Another war was starting, and if I was called to go back into the military, I wanted to be an officer. Elder Lee put his hand on my shoulder and in a fatherly way said, “Brother Monson, have more faith. The military is not for you.”
I went home and did what he said. Six weeks later, I was called to be a bishop. I would not hold the position in the Church I hold today if I had not followed the counsel of a prophet and prayed about that decision. I learned an important truth: the wisdom of God sometimes looks foolish to men (see 1 Corinthians 2:14). But when God speaks and His children obey, they will always be right. When you follow the prophets, you will be in safe territory.

Years later, at the far side of Oslo, Norway, a tall, fair-haired Otto Monson could see his destination a stately mansion. The day was pleasantly warm, and it felt good to be out.
After half an hour Otto decided the walk to the mansion would take longer than he had time for. Not wanting to be late, he turned off the main road and cut through a maze of narrow back streets in the poorer part of the city. A short distance from the mansion he came to a lone row of houses.
It was a rule in the mission that missionaries were to speak Norwegian, and it had been over a year since Otto had heard a word of spoken English. He was passing close to one of the small houses when he heard a commanding voice in English:
“Go into that house,” it demanded.
Otto stopped, his face a little pale. He looked around; there was no one in sight. The streets were vacant. Why go in there? he thought. He seriously doubted if anyone could live in that rotting shack. Looking around he continued walking. As he walked, the voice, now small but strong, repeated the command.
“Go into that house.”
I have another appointment, he thought. Besides, what could be more important than an appointment with the wealthiest man in Oslo, an educated man, a man of importance, a man of influence?
Two days before, the man had contacted President Christopherson, the president of the Norwegian Mission, and asked if someone could come and explain the principles of the LDS doctrine to him. Otto, a clerk in the mission offices, had felt a sense of pride when President Christopherson asked him to go. How could he stop now? He couldn’t be late.
“Go into that house,” the voice repeated.
Otto could see the gate of the mansion when he stopped and turned back. I must be crazy, he thought. I’ll bet no one even lives there.
He knocked on the door of the shack. From inside the building he heard the sound of shuffling feet and the creak of boards. His skin shivered. The door swung inward on leather hinges, and the sallow face of an old, old woman appeared. She looked as old as time itself, he thought. She smelled of sickness and old age, and he knew from her appearance that she was near death, but she looked up and smiled at him, a little painfully. He could sense a terrible loneliness in her. A loneliness that pricked at his conscience so deeply and painfully that he wanted to turn and run, to get away from her sight, from the warm, brown eyes.
“Yes?” she said; her voice was weak but pleasant sounding.
Otto wondered what he should say or do.
“I’m from America,” he said. It was all he could think of.
“I once knew a boy who went to America,” she said.
“What was his name?” Otto asked politely, wondering what he was doing here when he was late for another appointment, an important appointment. He wanted to tell her he had made a mistake, that he had knocked on the wrong door.
“His name,” she said, with a warm, faraway look in her eyes, “was Christian, Christian Monson, but that was a long time ago, nearly 50 years.”
Otto felt a burning humbling excitement flood unexpectedly over his body at the sound of the name. Breathless, he asked what her name was. It couldn’t be, he thought, not after all these years!
“I am Mrs. Hotvedtvien,” she answered.
Otto felt an indescribable pleasure deep inside, and he felt warm tears on his cheeks.
“I am Otto Monson; Christian Monson is my father, and I know you well, Ann Hotvedtvien, very well.”
The street was quiet. It seemed to Otto that time stood still. Then, suddenly, he felt the boney arms of the old woman embrace him, heard her crying softly, and felt the terrible loneliness leave her.
Later Otto learned from her that not long after Christian left for America, the Hotvedtviens moved from Drammen to Oslo. The letters Christian sent from America never found them. Five years after they moved, Moen Hotvedtvien became ill and died. Since then his wife had been alone, and for the last few years she had been sick and unable to earn a living. There was no one to help. She said she had been afraid she would die alone and had prayed for help.
Otto visited the old woman often, saw that she was cared for, arranged for her to have a good house to live in, good food, and medicine. Several months later she died, but she didn’t die alone or without love.

I close with another example of a family relationship. At a stake conference in the Midwest about 10 years ago, I met a sister who told me that her nonmember husband had been accompanying her to church for 12 years but had never joined the Church. What should she do? she asked. I counseled her to keep doing all the right things and to be patient and kind with her husband.

About a month later she wrote me as follows: “Well, I thought that the 12 years was a good show of patience, but I didn’t know if I was being very kind about it. So, I practiced real hard for over a month, and he got baptized.”

Kindness is powerful, especially in a family setting. Her letter continued, “I am even trying to be kinder now because we are working on a temple sealing this year!”

Six years later she wrote me another letter: “My husband was [just] called and set apart as the bishop [of our ward].”2

Switzerland is a small country in Europe that is known for its beautiful, high mountains. Over six hundred years ago, Switzerland was not free but belonged to its larger neighbor, Austria. The Swiss people longed to be free. One patriotic man, William Tell, was a strong woodsman. He was also the best marksman with a bow and arrow in his canton (small state or province). He had a young son whom he loved dearly.
Albert Gessler was the Austrian in charge of Switzerland. To upset and anger the Swiss people, he put his hat on a pole in the town square and demanded that they bow down to it. When William Tell refused, Gessler arrested him and put him in jail. A short time later, Gessler tied Tell’s son to a tree and set an apple on his head. He had Tell brought to him and told the prisoner that if he could shoot the apple off his son’s head, he could go free.
William Tell very carefully chose the arrow he placed on his bow. Slowly he aimed. The boy, trusting his father, stood tall and still. The arrow flew, cutting the apple in half. Gessler couldn’t believe his eyes, but he let William Tell go free.
When William Tell chose his arrow, he chose a very straight one. He would never have chosen a scuffed or crooked one. He checked the shafts for balance, the heads for sharpness. It was important that the arrow went where he aimed it.
Today, the term “straight arrow” means a person who always tells the truth and follows the rules. He or she can be depended on in time of trouble and when it is important to do a job well. He doesn’t have to be watched all the time, because he obeys his leaders and never flies off at some target of his own.
When a leader or boss chooses a person for an important job, he looks at each person carefully and chooses a straight arrow. Others will have to depend on that person. The boss doesn’t want a crooked arrow, someone who might lie, or cheat, or steal, or fail to do his very best.
The person who makes arrows, called an arrowsmith, chooses good materials. Even so, sometimes an arrow can become warped or its tip might become dull. Then the arrowsmith must straighten it or sharpen the tip.
Like everyone else, we Latter-day Saints, may sometimes get “warped,” and lose our way in living the gospel. We may forget to obey Heavenly Father’s commandments. Or we may forget to listen to what He wants us to do. He and His Son, Jesus Christ, are the master arrowsmiths. They can rebuild and straighten our lives if we let them. Through Jesus Christ’s sacrifice of His life, we can be straight arrows in life, if we repent.
When Heavenly Father, like William Tell, needs an arrow for an important job, He looks for a straight arrow, a person alert and ready to do His will.
Are you one of these arrows?

How blessed we are to be led by a living prophet! Growing up during the Great Depression, President Thomas S. Monson learned how to serve others. Often his mother asked him to deliver food to needy neighbors, and she would give homeless men odd jobs in exchange for home-cooked meals. Later as a young bishop, he was taught by President J. Reuben Clark, “Be kind to the widow and look after the poor” (see Thomas S. Monson, in Conference Report, Apr. 1986, 79; or Ensign, May 1986, 62). President Monson looked after 84 widows and cared for them until they passed away. Through the years, his service to members and neighbors throughout the world has become the hallmark of his ministry. We are grateful to have his example. Thank you, President Monson.

I know what it is to have such a friend. My husband, John, was kind and thoughtful and romantic in our courtship. Then even when he was going to school full time, working full time, and we had three children under the age of four, he continued to be kind and thoughtful and romantic with me. He has shown this by helping me in my busy roles. He bathed the children every night. He scrubbed the kitchen floor. He was also my window to the world—keeping me abreast to what was happening out there. He provided for us. He encouraged me as a mother. He supported the children in plays, concerts, athletic events, and papers they had to write. He would give me moments of rest—on walks or weekend getaways, taking me to the temple or occasionally on his travels. When I come home tired at night, he makes cheese toast and other such delicacies, so I don’t have to cook. He is my muse and my editor in my writing and talks. He prays for me and gives me priesthood blessings. He is a help suited for me in every way.

In February 2002 I was sitting across the desk from President Gordon B. Hinckley. He asked, “Bonnie, how is your health?” I answered that my health was fine, although I could not hear in my right ear because I had lost that hearing in the mission field. He then asked, “How is the hearing in your other ear?” “Fine,” I said. “Well, then,” he replied, “just turn your head.” He then proceeded to issue my current call. President Hinckley understands the principle of doing the best with what we have and making adjustments when we need to compensate.

Christmas was coming, and Miguel’s teacher was talking about his school’s annual holiday food drive. “Our goal is to collect two thousand pounds of food—a whole ton—to share with others who are less fortunate,” Mrs. Stevens said. “We’ll need everyone’s help to gather that much.”
As he trudged home after school, Miguel wondered what he could take for the food drive. His father was away again, harvesting crops for others. He sent money from time to time, but often they had to get along on what his mother earned cleaning houses. Sometimes the tiny cupboards in their trailer were almost bare. But Miguel knew that other families in the trailer park had even less.
He unlocked the trailer, shrugged off his backpack, and opened the kitchen cupboard. He found rice, some beans, tomato sauce, a few cans of soup, a sack of cornmeal, and some canned corn.
When his mother returned from work, Miguel told her about the food drive. “It’s to help poor people,” he explained.
“Of course we must give something,” she said. She handed him a can of refried beans. “Take this.” The can weighed one pound twelve ounces. Miguel put it into his backpack so he wouldn’t forget to take it to school.
Gradually the pile of food in the corner of the classroom grew into a small pyramid. Every day the class divided ounces into pounds and added up the new total. As often as he could, Miguel brought something else from the cupboard in the trailer. Mamá was happy for him to help the poor with whatever they could spare.
One night Mamá came home especially tired. She put a big brown sack on the tiny kitchen table. “Is something wrong, Mamacita (Mama)?” Miguel asked.
“The Ostermans are going to Florida for the holidays,” she said, “and they won’t need me to work for three weeks. But look at what I have! Mrs. Osterman gave it to me.” She pulled a shiny oval can out of the bag.
“Ham?” Miguel licked his lips as he studied the colorful picture on the can. Then he read the label. “Ten whole pounds! Caramba (Wow)!”
“We’ll eat it on Christmas Eve,” Mamá said. “Let’s invite Tía (Aunt) Margarita to join us. She has no one to enjoy the holiday with.” Tía Margarita was not really Miguel’s aunt, but she lived in the trailer next door and often visited Miguel and his mother.
“Will we have a Christmas tree?” he asked.
“Our home is small, my son, but look!” She pointed out the window to the tall scraggly pine tree near the entrance to the trailer park, decorated with a few strings of lights. “We have a huge, beautiful Christmas tree right there.”
Miguel looked at the canned ham almost every day. A thought was growing in his mind. The night before the last day of school, he asked, “Mamá, are we poor?”
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she smiled at him. “Of course not, mi hijito (my son). We have a cozy place to live, we have food in our cupboard, I have work; and best of all, we have each other. We are rich.”
“But, Mamá, about the ham …” Miguel hesitated and swallowed hard. “I want to give it to the food drive.”
“But why, Miguel? Don’t you want it for our special dinner?”
Miguel hugged her. “Yes, Mamacita, but—but I want to do more to help the poor people.”
“Of course, of course,” she said, hugging him back. “Take it tomorrow. I am pleased that you are so generous. I will make your favorite chili tacos for Christmas Eve, instead, and we can pretend that they are full of ham. Tía Margarita will think that we are doing the right thing too. Now it is time for me to say the blessing on our supper.” Miguel bowed his head. “We are thankful for this food,” she prayed. “We are grateful that we have enough to share. …”
The next day, after his mother left to clean for the Maxwell family, Miguel slid the ham into his backpack. It thudded against his back as he jogged to school, but he didn’t mind. “Look what I have brought for the food drive,” he said to Mrs. Stevens as he placed the shiny oval can carefully on her desk.
“How generous, Miguel! Are you sure you should give this away?”
Miguel nodded. “The poor people need it,” he said.
Late that afternoon the principal reported that more than a ton of food had been collected by the students. “I’m so pleased!” he announced. “Because of you, many of your neighbors will have a happier holiday.”
Miguel felt cheerful until his mother returned from work with bad news. “Mrs. Maxwell’s grandchildren are coming to visit for the holidays,” she said. “She won’t need me for two weeks. If I don’t work, I don’t get paid, Miguel. Maybe your father will send money soon, but we can’t count on it. He does his best, but he has to live too.” Then she smiled. “But we will have our special dinner with Tía Margarita. That will make a special Christmas treat for us, sí (yes)?”
While Miguel was washing the dishes after their supper, he heard footsteps outside. Someone was running near the trailer. He opened the door and peered into the darkness.
“Mamá, come quick! There’s something by our door.”
Miguel and his mother lifted two large boxes into the kitchen. Food spilled out of them—potatoes, rice, canned fruit, soup, flour, sugar, oranges, tuna fish. At the bottom of one box, he saw a familiar shiny oval can. “How can this be?” he asked. “I gave our ham away. Now it has come back to us.”
“I don’t know, Miguel. Someone must think we need it.”
“But we don’t, Mamá. Not nearly as much as some others. You said yourself we are rich. We must find someone who really needs the ham.”
“You are right, Miguel. Let’s do that,” she replied.
They put on their coats and stepped outside into the frosty night air. Miguel cradled the ham gently against his chest like a newborn babe.
The trailer park was quiet, and the windows of the neighbors’ homes glowed softly in the dark. Miguel and his mother walked from door to door until they came to a trailer where a little boy opened the door. His eyes grew wide when he saw the ham.
“For us?” he asked.
Miguel smiled and handed it to him. “For you,” he said.
The boy’s mother came to the door and thanked them, tears shining in her eyes. Miguel’s mother put an arm around him, and together they hurried home through the cold, feeling warm inside.
On Christmas Eve, Miguel, his mother, and Tía Margarita sat down to their chili tacos and laughed together. Miguel thought of the little boy with the ham and the people at school who would have a happier holiday because of what the class had shared. He knew then that giving had made Christmas better for everyone.

Like many people who pursue unusual careers, Shawn was concerned at one time with the question of whether or not his career would conflict with his feelings about the Church.
“After I had been in college three years, I wanted to rodeo for a while, and I was worried about the apparent contrast of ideals in my two worlds—the Church and the rodeo. I worried and prayed about it and spent time thinking it over. Then I realized the right answer for me was very simple. I knew the Church was true, and as long as I did the right thing and lived my religion, I couldn’t be doing wrong. I was then at peace with myself, and the Church has turned out to be one of my biggest assets on the rodeo circuit. I have been the subject of a lot of publicity because I am different. Writers casually mention that I am a Mormon cowboy and then go on to explain some of our beliefs. There are a lot of good Catholics and Methodists and other religions represented on the circuit, but their religions never seem to be mentioned.”

I grew up in Colonia Juárez—one of the Mormon colonies in Northern Mexico. Each morning I had to milk two cows, feed the pigs and chickens, and gather and clean the eggs. On Saturdays I worked in the orchard with my father.
My father owned about 20 to 30 cattle. Every year we gathered them together to brand the calves. Once I was riding with my father on his horse when my father got off to brand a calf that he had roped. I was alone on the horse when it became spooked. I was old enough to ride a horse—about eight or nine years old—that is, until it started bucking.
When the horse took off, it didn’t take very long for me to fall off. My shoelace got caught in the stirrup, and I was dragged behind the horse. I was right between the horse’s hind legs, and I could see its hooves on both sides of me. The longer this went on, the more scared the horse became. He kept bucking and kicking and jumping. I was sure I was going to die.
Finally, my shoelace broke. My pants and shirt were ripped to shreds, but I didn’t have a scratch on me. I wasn’t hurt at all. My dad always called it a real miracle.
This experience strengthened my testimony. I know that my life was preserved by Heavenly Father. I know that Jesus Christ is my Savior and that Heavenly Father is my Father. I know that They know me and love me. I know my life was preserved for a purpose and that I need to live the best I can to perform that purpose. I know that President Thomas S. Monson is the Lord’s prophet and that this is Jesus Christ’s Church. I know these things without any doubt.

During my sophomore year in high school, we were studying the Book of Mormon in seminary. After we read Moroni 10:3–5 [Moro. 10:3–5], our seminary teacher challenged us to pray about the things we were studying. I really enjoyed learning about the Book of Mormon, so I took him up on his challenge.
That night I read Moroni’s promise again and got down on my knees to ask my Heavenly Father if this book was really true. I liked the stories, but I just wasn’t sure if it was true or not.
First I got in tune with the Spirit and started my prayer. At one point in the prayer, I asked Heavenly Father if the Book of Mormon was really true. All at once I experienced a strong, loving feeling in my bedroom, and I got warm all over. The next thing that happened really shocked me. It felt like someone wrapped their arms around me and gave me a big hug.
I am now a missionary on the Navajo Indian Reservation in the New Mexico Albuquerque Mission. I wouldn’t be out here if it wasn’t for the answer I received that night. Now I know the things I prayed about are true. And now I want to share that knowledge with others.

The screen door rattled and pitched open, and a large man burst through the doorway, fumbling with his brown-and-white necktie.
“All you Johnsons who’re going to the bus station had better be ready pronto,” he shouted across the yard while fingering the tie and looking cross-eyed at the knot. “If we don’t get Sam to town on time, he’ll miss his bus, and then he’ll miss the airplane, and then the whole Missionary Training Center will be sore at the Johnson family.”
“I’m ready, Daddy,” said ten-year-old Jenny, who was sitting on the front porch swing.
“Oh, good, then we’ll send you instead,” he said. “Won’t even have to take you to the station. We’ll just put stamps on your head and drop you at the post office.”
“Daddy!”
“Just think, you’ll be the world’s first mail-order missionary!”
“Daddy, don’t be so silly! I’ll go see if Emily needs some help.”
On the second floor of the rambling, slightly rundown farmhouse, Samuel stood by the window, taking in the whole scene. It was a variation of something that happened every day around the farm—Dad teasing and one of the younger children getting flustered and all the while both of them loving every minute of it. Yet it was a little different this time, at least to Sam. Maybe because it might be the last time, for a while anyway, that he would be witness to such a little game.
He walked over to his bed and the worn, rounded leather suitcase at its edge. He sat down and looked around the room, staring at small things that until the last few days had not seemed at all important. The cracks in the plaster. The faded blue curtains. The lamp that hung from a long cord, stretching from the middle of the ceiling. The dresser, with countless scars, scratches and nicks, each of them a testament that a once-young family was just now starting to grow old, and perhaps, apart.
Leaving home.
The words knotted Sam’s stomach yet sparked his imagination. For a week, maybe two now, old almost-lost memories had come back to him as he tried to hold on to his home and family. Maybe he was only trying to store away a few good memories for the coming two years. Sure, he’d always known leaving home was part of going on a mission. It was just one of those things, difficult but unavoidable, like skinning knees or catching the measles during the middle of summer vacation.
But now the farewell talk, the people saying good-byes—leaving home seemed to be coming just a little too soon. Where had the countless hours with his family slipped to? Sunny days in the summer that began with a heavy dew on the ground and ended with sweat on the brow after working a dozen hours in the fields. Stiff new denim jeans on the first day of school. Good harvests and lean harvests. Christmas time, with little bright packages under the tree. Mother’s lovingly made new dresses for the girls and plaid shirts for the boys. Grandma in the kitchen fussing, fixing and baking the best cinnamon rolls. Arriving at church every Sunday morning. Long shadows drawing across the emerald green valley on fresh spring evenings.
Now Dad had some gray in his hair and Grandpa couldn’t work all day anymore. And yes, Sam was 19 and on his way to Provo.
His thoughts were broken by the sound of footsteps tapping on the staircase and the clicking of high-heeled shoes coming down the hallway. His mother, short, slender and smiling, poked her head into the doorway.
“About ready, Sambo?” she asked. “Daddy’s trying to round everybody up.”
“I guess I’m about as ready as I’ll ever be, Mom,” he said softly. He picked up the suitcase and laid it on the bed. “Uumph,” he grunted as he pushed it closed. “Didn’t you say this suitcase was Dad’s?”
She stepped inside the room and smoothed her dress with her hands. “Yes, that was Daddy’s. He bought it with a little money that Grandpa and Grandma Johnson gave him when he graduated from high school.”
Sam hoisted the suitcase off the bed, paused, and looked around the room once more. His mother said nothing. Finally he turned toward the door.
“Guess it’s time,” he said simply. “Hope Steven will enjoy the room. He’ll be the oldest now. At least while I’m gone.”
He walked through the doorway following his mother down the hall and stairway toward the front door. He made the final trip through the house almost casually, trying to pretend that he was going into the mountains for an overnight fishing trip with friends. He would have pulled off his little self-deception without any emotional tugs, except for hearing Grandma tell Grandpa to hurry along or they would miss seeing their grandson off. Sam sighed inwardly and pushed through the front door.
Outside, Dad had the dusty station wagon running and all four doors wide open.
“Last call for the Ash Valley International Bus Depot, such as it may be!” he bellowed, and a surge of brothers, sisters, and grandparents appeared and headed for the car. “Let’s see now, there’s Sam and two other boys, plus two grandparents and one mother. That makes six …”
Jenny and Emily came to the car last of all.
“… and two girls adds up to eight,” Dad counted. “That means we’re missing one, according to my calculating.”
“You didn’t count yourself, Daddy,” Jenny reminded.
“Why I believe you’re right, Jenny,” he said. “All aboard!”
The family scrambled to their places in the car, a ritual perfected by years of all traveling in one vehicle. Jenny and Emily toddled over the back seat onto a mattress that Dad kept in the rear of the station wagon. Grandma and Mother took their places on the back seat on the driver’s side, with Steven and Sam squeezed in on the passenger’s side. Dad slid behind the steering wheel, with Grandpa on his right. Mother held Tommy, the youngest, on her lap.
“Two forty-five,” Dad announced. “Not bad. We ought to get Sam there right on time.”
The car circled around and moved onto the tree-lined dirt road that led to the state highway a half-mile away. The house, the yard, the cottonwood trees and the fields were all clouded and then lost in the long plume of dust sent out as the car bounced down the road. Sam wanted to look back and see all these little pieces of his life one more time, but he knew one more glance wouldn’t help much.
“You’ve got to let go some time,” he reminded himself for the hundredth time that week. “Might just as well be now.”
Dad soon broke onto the dark, oily asphalt of the country road. The kids in the back were playing, while Tommy had already fallen asleep. Mother and Grandma talked quietly about a neighbor’s daughter who would be marrying soon. Steven looked at Sam often, smiled, but said little.
After a few miles, Dad melodramatically cleared his throat and all the others immediately knew what was on hand. A speech. Dad was renowned throughout the stake for his oratorical skills.
“Ladies and gentlemen, and most of all, my esteemed son Samuel,” he began grandly. “To my way of thinking, there are only three occasions that call for a speech. When a person’s born, when they die, and when they leave home.”
Grandpa chuckled. “That’s a couple of times too many, if you ask me.”
Grandma looked at Grandpa, a trifle annoyed.
Dad continued, more seriously now.
“Now Sam, you’ve always been a good son and a good brother. You know your mother and I are proud of you, and that your brothers and sisters look up to you.
“We think it’s a fine thing that you are going to serve a mission. Things will be a lot different in Venezuela, but I know you’ll be able to handle the changes …”
Dad paused, and for a few long seconds only the clicking of the keys hanging from the ignition could be heard. Even the girls in the back of the car were quiet.
“Well shucks, Sam,” Dad started again. “I practiced all morning in my mind what I was going to say to you, but it doesn’t seem to fit now. I guess one talk on the way to a bus station isn’t going to make much difference. Besides, I think you are a fine son, and I really wouldn’t know how to change you even if I could. Take care, son,” Dad said slowly.
Grandpa put his arm on Dad’s shoulder and looked back toward Sam and nodded.
“Just keep us proud, son,” Grandpa said. “Keep us proud.”
Sam shuffled his feet on the floorboard and felt a little too warm.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be just fine,” he said quietly, his eyes fixed downward.
“And thanks. For everything, I mean.”
He lifted his head and scanned the valley, following the lines of the round-shouldered hills and dark blue mountains. His eyes fixed on a peak, noticeably taller than the other peaks, and Sam smiled.

“Entering Ash Valley” the sign said, and Sam’s thoughts were shifted from climbing mountains to catching the bus for Spokane. Dad pulled the car up in front of Strandberg’s Hardware Store, which doubled as the bus station. The car stopped, and the Johnson family piled out.
“Afternoon, Charles, Mrs. Johnson,” greeted Mr. Strandberg. “Today must be the day for Sam.”
“Sure is, Henry. How’s the bus running?”
“Should be right on time—about 15 minutes away,” Mr. Strandberg said.
Sam pulled the luggage from the car and started inside to buy a ticket. Grandpa pulled him aside.
“Want me to tell you a secret? When you get up on the bus, you look down at all of us and close your eyes real slow. Then as soon as your eyes are shut, picture in your mind what you’ve just seen and it will always stay there. Better than a photograph. You can never lose a picture that’s in your mind.”
Grandma was next. She rummaged through her purse until she finally found a five dollar bill.
“Buy yourself something to eat when you get to Spokane,” she instructed. “Buy some stamps and stationery and write us.”
“Oh, Grandma, I don’t need your money,” Sam protested.
“I won’t have it any other way,” Grandma said firmly. “You take it. You’ve got to learn how to receive as well as give.”
“Thanks, Grandma,” Sam said meekly, giving her a hug and kiss. “Take care of Grandpa. And yourself.”
Just then the bus roared around the corner and stopped in the parking lot.
“Early. First time in two months the bus has been early,” Mr. Strandberg said, shaking his head. “Family’s saying their good-byes and wouldn’t you know it, the bus is early.”
The family instinctively circled around Sam, and farewell hugs, kisses, and handshakes came in a blur. At last Sam turned numbly toward the bus. He stopped just before getting on. Jenny and Emily were gathered around Grandma, who was again looking into her purse.
“Six dimes is all I’ve got, but they’re yours to share because I love you,” Grandma told the girls as she handed them the change.
“Look, Sam, we’ve got six dimes from Grandma, and we’ll buy you something and send it to you in the mail!” shouted Emily.
It was then that Sam decided to slowly close his eyes. The two girls were in front, down on the ground, dividing the dimes. Grandpa had his arm around Grandma, who was wiping a handkerchief near her eyes. Steven stood on the far left and was waving good-bye. Mother was on Dad’s right side, with Tommy in her arms, her head tilted down toward her daughters. Dad stood tall, steadily gazing into Sam’s eyes, looking proud and sad and dignified all at the same time. Sam pressed the picture into his mind and discovered what Grandpa meant when he said it was better than a photograph.
Sam took his seat, the door closed, the bus driver revved the engine and pulled back onto the highway. Sam kept his eyes closed most of the way to Spokane.
Three weeks later in his room at the MTC, Sam set down his Spanish books and fumbled for the letter he’d received from Jenny. He tore open the envelope and read:
“Dear Sam,
“How do you like the mission field? I hope you are okay. We are all fine here, but we miss you. After we took you to the bus station, everyone was really quiet on the way home. Daddy and Grandpa went out to the shed and worked there until way after dark. Grandma made some rolls, but we weren’t able to eat them all. She said it was because you were gone.
“Guess what happened last Saturday? Daddy and Steven got up early and climbed all the way to the top of Staley’s Butte. …”
Sam stopped reading and put the letter down. He closed his eyes, and a sweet, wonderful picture of a small knot of people standing on the side of Strandberg’s Hardware Store flashed into his mind.
And he thought about the sons he might someday have, and hoped he would be the kind of father to take them to the tops of mountains.

I suppose I was about seven years old when Mom told me that Heavenly Father hears and answers prayers. Maybe she had told me earlier, but I don’t remember that.
“So, if I really want something, and if I’m a really good boy, and I ask for it—Heavenly Father will give it to me?”
“That’s right, son. If your faith is very strong, and if it’s for your own good, he’ll give it to you.”
That hot summer night in 1944 I lay in bed thinking about what I wanted most from Heavenly Father. Another brother? Maybe. A new baseball? I’d probably get one for my birthday anyway. How about an end to the war and my dad coming home? Yes. But Mom was working hard on that one with her prayers.
And then it came to me—the one single, most critical, most desirable, most longed for, most important thing in all the world to my seven-year-old heart: I wanted to fly … like a bird.
And why not? Birds flew. Bats flew. Kites and paper airplanes and bugs and butterflies flew. Why not me?
How the other kids would envy me! How my teacher would gasp with astonishment and admiration! And wouldn’t my friends Joey Hirschberger and Jimmy Johnson be envious?
Taking care not to wake my little brother, Lynn, I slid out of bed and dropped to my knees. I folded my arms (like Mom did), and squeezed my eyes shut. Then I clenched my teeth (a sure sign of great faith, I felt), reflected the intensity of the moment in my screwed tight face, and uttered my first all-alone-by-myself, out-loud prayer:
“Heavenly Father, I want to fly. I really, really, really want to fly. Won’t you please bless me so that I can fly? I’ll be a really good boy if you’ll help me to fly. Honest. Amen.”
Then I got off my knees, pulled my chair to the center of the darkened room, and climbed up on the chair. Extending my arms out wide, I whispered it again: “Please, Heavenly Father, help me to fly. Mom said you could do it. I know you can do it.”
With this, I began to flap my arms furiously. Up and down, up and down, faster, faster.
You can probably guess what happened: My arms got tired.
I sat down and thought about it. Maybe I was missing something important. Maybe what I needed was to jump off the chair while I flapped my arms.
I climbed back up on the chair. This time I flapped my arms really hard and then jumped off the chair, upward, outward.
And downward. Thump! Soon Mother appeared at the door, wondering what had caused all the noise.
The next day I pondered the problem until I thought I had it worked out: Heavenly Father must be testing my faith. Maybe the secret was to pray for several nights in a row and to grit my teeth harder and to screw up my face tighter while I prayed.
I tried it. Each night for a week I prayed and prayed, my faith and enthusiasm growing. By Sunday night I was sure that I was ready.
Back up on the chair, arms extended, I once more whispered my plea to the Lord, absolutely sure that he would hear and answer my prayer and allow me to fly.
My arms began to flap up and down, faster, faster. I jumped upward and outward.
And downward. Thump! Again I was questioned about the loud thump from the upstairs bedroom.
What was missing? I had gritted my teeth and twisted my face into a grimace. Why hadn’t it worked? Why hadn’t I soared from the chair and flapped around the room? I lay in bed for a long time thinking, wondering.
The next day I was in the back yard of the house when I heard Mom calling me.
Blackberries. I had promised to pick the berries from the huge wild blackberry bush behind the garage. But it was hot, and I didn’t feel like fighting the vicious brambles and thorns in August to make sure we would have jam next January.
Just for a moment, I pretended I hadn’t heard her. That’s when the inspiration came: How could I expect the Lord to give me flight if I couldn’t give Mom a few minutes for an errand?
From that moment, I became a fanatic errand boy. I not only picked blackberries, I chopped firewood. I filled the wood box. I swept the porch. I set the table and went to the store. And then I picked more blackberries until my arms and hands were scratched and bleeding from the thorns.
I wore Mom out with demands for more and more errands. How could the Lord deny me now? I had prayed with all my might for two weeks, had exercised enormous faith, had filled my days with good works and liter buckets of blackberries. Surely, I would fly now!
That night I mentioned all of this to the Lord in my prayer, then climbed back onto the chair in my darkened bedroom. This time. … This time. … This time it will work!
It didn’t work. The upward, outward curve again continued into the downward curve, ending in the by-now-familiar thump.
I couldn’t understand it. For all my prayers and all my faith and all my good works, I remained as earthbound as Joey and Jimmy. What could be missing?
Without ever mentioning my desire to fly, I put the problem of unanswered prayers to my Sunday School teacher. What followed was a lesson on how to pray and how Heavenly Father answers prayers. And there was the answer. I marveled that I had missed it: I had failed to trust utterly and completely in the Lord.
Up until now, I had jumped off a low chair—a chair low enough that if the flapping didn’t work, I at least wouldn’t break my neck. The Lord must be waiting for me to show real faith by jumping off of something high enough that failure would hurt. That would prove my faith!
And beyond that, I had always made my attempts in the privacy of a darkened bedroom. Next time I would prove real faith by jumping off of something really high—and with an audience and in open daylight.
All the next week I prepared. The faith, the prayers, the endless helpfulness to Mom continued. By Saturday afternoon I was ready.
I explained my project to Lynn and Joey Hirschberger and Jimmy Johnson. I explained about faith and good works. I explained about the kind of prayers where you grit your teeth and twist your face into a grimace. I explained about having to risk yourself to show that you trust the Lord absolutely.
And then I started up the ladder to the roof of the garage. Lynn and Jimmy and Joey remained on the ground watching and wondering.
Joey said he thought I was crazy. But what did Joey know about faith and works and prayers?
And now I was on the roof of the garage, looking down. It seemed farther from the roof to the ground than it had appeared the other way around.
Directly below me was the terrible blackberry bush. It looked higher and wider than it ever had from the ground. Great long brambles covered with vicious thorns reached up almost to where I stood.
I had to turn away the doubting thought: “What if it doesn’t work? What if I don’t fly? What if I land in the blackberry bush?” But I mustn’t doubt! The entire effort might fail if I doubted!
For doubt is the opposite of faith. Then, with simple logic, I decided that if I removed my only protection from the awful blackberry thorns it would prove my absolute, unshakable faith.
I took off my shirt. Joey said he thought that was the stupidest thing he’d ever seen, and he was going to tell my mom.
I told Joey to sit down and be quiet, but he left to tell Mom anyway. Now I had to hurry!
I closed my eyes and reminded the Lord about how he answers prayers of faith and how if someone wants something badly enough and is a good boy and helps his mom and goes to Sunday School, his prayers will be answered.
That done, I began to flap my arms, faster and faster. Then, eyes still closed tight, I jumped upward and outward from the roof of the garage—upward and outward over a huge wild blackberry bush—with no shirt on.
Before I opened my eyes, I knew I was lying on my back on the kitchen table. Doctor Nichols was just leaving, saying something about how you couldn’t possibly break a bone jumping into an overgrown “pillow”—even if it were covered with thorns. I could feel the cool cloth as Mother continued washing the blood from my dozens of scratches and cuts.
After Doctor Nichols left, Mom chased out my wide-eyed friends, and I opened my eyes. I saw that my mother’s arms and hands and face were covered with dozens of scratches—and realized what she had done to rescue me.
She smiled her special tender smile and held me close in her arms. “For injuries sustained in battle, I award you the purple heart,” she said quietly, “and maybe a bronze star for bravery.”
“Do you have a medal for silliness?” I asked. “I feel so stupid!”
“I suppose we all feel that way sometimes,” Mother replied. “We make mistakes, we learn from them, and then we go on with our lives.”
There was a long pause before I asked the question: “You said Heavenly Father answers prayers. …
Mom finished the sentence: “And now you’re not really sure if he does answer prayers.” Somehow Mom always knew what I was thinking.
“Of course he hears and answers prayers,” she said—and I could tell she really meant it. “Only sometimes we pray for things that aren’t good for us. Sometimes we forget to say, ‘Thy will be done.’ And sometimes his answer is a quiet, firm no. But no is an answer, too, isn’t it, son? He can’t always say yes, can he? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
“I suppose so. But, Mom, I wanted so much to fly! And I tried so hard!”
“Someday, son, when your dad comes home from the Navy, you’ll have the answer to your prayers. You and Dad can go to the airport and pay for a half-hour airplane flight. There are many ways Heavenly Father could give you a yes answer to your prayers for flight. But it won’t come through flapping your arms and jumping off garages into blackberry bushes.”
By now all the bleeding had stopped, a small bandage over each cut and scratch. As she turned to tending her own wounds, Mother smiled at me and pretended to be stern, “And speaking of jumping off of garages into blackberry bushes: Young man, if you ever do that again, I’ll take away your purple heart!”
A voice interrupted my daydreaming. “We are on our final approach to Hamburg International Airport. Please fasten your seat belts.”
Strange about that childish prayer for flight all those years ago. For a while it had seemed that Heavenly Father didn’t really answer prayers. My answer hadn’t come just then when I had wanted it so badly. It had come later—flying over our hometown in a small airplane with Dad. And then aboard a huge jet en route to the Germany Hamburg Mission. Strange how the answers always seem to come—though not always at the time or in the way we expect.
I fastened my seat belt and let a little prayer run through my mind: “I thank thee, Father, for hearing and answering the prayer of a seven-year-old boy. I thank thee for allowing me to fly.”

There was a time in my life when I was less active in the Church. Outings and beach parties were my Sabbath priorities. At that time, the only link I had with the Church and the gospel of Jesus Christ was the Tambuli (English), which my mother would bring home every month. As I looked through the pages of the magazine, I found it had rich, spiritual messages, testimonies, and stories. I loved to read the uplifting messages of the First Presidency and the testimonies of our brothers and sisters all over the world. As I read through each issue, it made me feel closer to the Church and to our Heavenly Father.
The Tambuli is one instrument that brought me back to the Church. I’ll never tire of reading this magazine. Now I am actively engaged in the Church and all its activities, and I still look forward to our monthly copy of the Tambuli.
Sonia P. AntiqueñaIloilo City Ward, Iloilo Philippines Stake

There are other experiences. Once as I was leaving a conference, a sweet family stopped me. They knew a nonmember man who was having severe problems, and they wondered if we would give him a blessing. We went to his apartment. In the living room were two pieces of furniture, a bean bag chair and a stereo set—and nothing else. A little girl, nine years old was taking care of her father because the mother, when she heard her husband had cancer, had abandoned him and the girl and her younger brother. The girl took us down the hallway into his room, and there on the bottom of two bunk beds we saw this man, 182 cm. tall, thirty point four kg. We administered to him, feeling he would not live. But we felt impressed to bless him with the thing that would be of most worth to him: that his son and daughter would be protected, that angels would walk through this life with them, that they would be protected when he wasn’t there to do it any longer. You can’t buy those kinds of experiences with all the money in the world.

Two enthusiastic young women of the Modbury Ward, Adelaide Australia Modbury Stake, entered the Junior Miss South Australia Quest and achieved great results. The Quest is an annual affair held to raise money for research for the Epilepsy Association of South Australia.
Debbie Johnson, 14, and Sandra Moore, 15, put in many long hours in raising funds. Their families and friends were supportive and helpful.
Debbie placed third in her age-group and Sandra took first place.

When I woke up the first morning of summer vacation and remembered where I had to go, I felt nervous. I was going to visit a man named John.
My Primary teacher, Sister Chichenoff, had asked each person in our class to “adopt a grandparent at a nearby nursing home. She told us if we learned to love one another like Jesus taught, we would find real joy. At first I thought her idea was good.
Sister Chichenoff had made it sound like a privilege. “Hey, Nick,” she said. “I assigned you to a special person. This man could really use a friend.”
“You can count on me,” I said. “I’ll be his friend.”
“He doesn’t mix with other people much and he only has one leg. He could use someone who cares about him and will push him around in his wheelchair.”
“I’ll do it,” I said.
Sister Chichenoff reached out and took hold of my arm. “This man doesn’t like people,” she said. “He doesn’t like to talk to anyone, and he doesn’t like to go in his wheelchair. In fact, they tell me he is quite a grouch.”
“Why give him to me?” I asked.
“Because John needs someone to talk to,” Sister Chichenoff said. “He is a lonely man, and I told the administrator you were the person John needs.”
I was afraid to meet someone who didn’t want me to be there. I wondered if he’d yell at me. By dinnertime, I was so afraid to meet him that I went in my room and prayed. I knew Heavenly Father wasn’t afraid of John.
Sister Chichenoff met us that evening with her husband. Brother Chichenoff was funny, so I asked him to stick with me. He was also big, and I planned to hide behind him if John yelled at me.
When we walked into John’s room, he did not yell. He didn’t say anything. He sat in his bed and ignored us.
My friends and I liked monster riddles so I decided to try one.
“What do sea monsters eat?” I asked.
John glared.
“Fish and ships.”
Brother Chichenoff broke out laughing but John kept glaring. I changed the subject. “Um—how about a ride through the nursing home?”
To my surprise, John nodded yes. The evening didn’t turn out as bad as I thought it would.
The next week I didn’t want to go back, but I wasn’t afraid. When we got to the nursing home, John was already in his wheelchair.
“Been waiting for you,” he said.
“How about a ride?” I asked.
“Sure. Let’s go.”
Brother Chichenoff and I still did most of the talking, but John grumbled a few words. When it was time to go home, he motioned for me to come closer.
“What happened to the apples on the monster’s apple tree?” he asked.
“Well, I … um, I don’t know.”
“They all grue-some. You know—g-r-e-w-some.” John chuckled at his joke. Brother Chichenoff and I laughed.
After that, I looked forward to Thursdays. John’s face lit up like a lightbulb when I walked in. And each week he had a riddle for me.
John told us stories of fishing and hunting years ago. He told us how he cut his leg on an old camper door and it got infected, and that’s why he had only one leg.
Several months later, John told me a secret. “Hey, Nick. Guess what’s two weeks from tonight? My birthday. I’ll be 88.”
“Wow! Let’s do something special” I said. “What would you like to do?”
“I’d like to go somewhere and have a big chicken dinner.”
“OK,” I said. “It will be my birthday present to you.”
My parents agreed to drive us to the restaurant, and then take us back to the nursing home after dinner.
The next week when I visited John, he was walking with crutches all by himself. All he talked about was going out next week for his birthday dinner. He was so excited. I was too.
A few days later, the phone rang early in the morning. It was Sister Chichenoff calling to say that John had died during the night.
On John’s birthday, I sat in the nursing home with the Chichenoffs, my parents, and some of the kids from my Primary class. It wasn’t evening and it wasn’t time to visit our adopted grandparents. It was the middle of the afternoon and we were attending John’s funeral. We were the only people there besides a few who worked at the nursing home.
As I sat there and listened to the story of John’s life, it was hard not to cry. The nursing-home workers said his life had changed and gotten better after the children from the “Mormon Church” started coming to visit. I knew my life had changed because of those visits.
I wish John and I had gone out for that chicken dinner, but I’m glad we had the chance to become friends. I discovered the real joy my Primary teacher talked about when people love one another.