Gospel Story Finder

One day in chemistry class, our teacher passed back a test we had taken so we could look over our grades and ask any questions. I wasn’t very good at chemistry, and this test was proof. It was not a good grade, and I was very discouraged.
As the teacher went over the test for the class, I realized he had marked as correct a question I had actually missed. I showed it to my friend, Gary, who said, “Lucky—you got a higher grade.”
I told Gary I was going to show it to the teacher. He told me I was going to lower my grade by being honest and that it was a stupid idea. I went up anyway. My teacher fixed the mistake, and my grade was lowered.
A few months later, we got another test back. As the teacher went over it, Gary raised his hand. He told the teacher that he had made a mistake on his test, a mistake that if fixed would lower his grade. Gary took the test up to the teacher, and his test grade was lowered. As Gary walked back to his seat, he winked at me. I knew he had learned from my example.

How we rejoiced almost six years later when the Sydney Australia Temple was dedicated in September 1984. We drove 1100 km to attend the temple dedication. From then on, faithful saints from Melbourne and Brisbane regularly participated in weekend bus trips (12 hours each way) to the Sydney Australia Temple—leaving after work on Friday, spending Saturday in the temple and then journeying back overnight on Saturday to arrive in time for church on Sunday.

After only 23 weeks gestation, our third son, Iñaki, was born via emergency cesarean section. He weighed only 1 pound, 4 ounces (560 g) and measured 12.2 inches (31 cm).
Because our son was so premature, there was not much chance he would survive. Our doctor asked us if we really wanted physicians to help him, thus prolonging the inevitable. I answered that as long as he was alive, we had to give him a chance. Then I asked God for a miracle.
Iñaki received a blessing of health that first night. During the next four long months, he suffered a perforation in his intestines, a brain hemorrhage, and a collapsed lung. Because of his circumstances, we received permission to give him a name and a blessing in the hospital.
Throughout this process, we met other parents who suffered just as we did, and we offered each other support and comfort. We also shared our testimonies of the gospel with everyone we could.
One day we received a call to go to the hospital to say good-bye to our son, who was not expected to survive through the afternoon. When we arrived, we held him and spoke to him. Seeing him in his weak condition was indescribably painful. For the first time, my husband and I realized that we were just temporary guardians for this child of God. All we could do to help him was pray and ask Heavenly Father for His will to be done. Iñaki clung to life that afternoon, and we are grateful that he continued to do so in the days that followed.
During the four months Iñaki spent in the neonatal intensive-care unit, we repeatedly saw the power of the priesthood in action as Heavenly Father blessed our son through the hands of physicians and priesthood holders—eventually healing him, to the amazement of the doctors.
In October 2008, Iñaki came home.
We have learned many things as a family through this experience. We know that our Heavenly Father loves us and that He works miracles and preserves His Saints despite the trials we must endure. And we understand better the purpose of eternal families, the important role they play in the plan of happiness, and how generous our Heavenly Father is with His children.
Today we are a different family, more united and more aware of the suffering and needs of those around us—all because of our son and the miracle he has wrought in our lives.

Recently, I was planning to move from Mtwivilla Street into a new apartment in Ikonongo, few blocks away in my home country of Tanzania. A few days after I paid for the first month’s rent, I started hearing stories about thieves. The lady next door told me about how her cell phone had been stolen few days ago. The stories made me feel uncomfortable and I thought maybe it was not a good idea for me to move. Thoughts of fear kept on ringing in my mind, to the extent that they interrupted and ruined my daily scripture study.
After battling with this for some days, I chose to keep up with my schedule and continue with my study of the Doctrine and Covenants. While reading section three, my mind was caught up to verses 7 and 8 where the Lord admonished Joseph Smith after he gave the 116 manuscript pages to Martin Harris, and the pages were subsequently lost. We know that Joseph Smith greatly relied upon the assistance of his friend Martin Harris, and he was thus eager to meet his friend’s request. However, the Lord told Joseph Smith: “For behold, you should not have feared man more than God . . .

“You should have been faithful; and he would have extended his arm and supported you against all the fiery darts of the adversary; and he would have been with you in every time of trouble.”2
That assurance melted all my fears and I realized that I had wasted much of my precious time trying to think about what thieves can do to me in the new place instead of trusting in what the Lord can do for me. The clear thought came to me that all I needed was to do my part in locking the windows and the door at night, and then keep the Lord’s commandments and He would provide peace and protection in my new place.
I am glad I chose to read my scriptures. The solution to my concern was there waiting for me: to just act on the prophet’s invitation to read the scriptures every day. I am very grateful for the companionship of the Holy Ghost that enlightened my mind to understand that precious truth from the Doctrine and Covenants.
I finally moved, and all has been well as I have continued to do my part and let the Lord do His. The peace, calm and comfort that I receive from my daily scripture study keep me going and increase my faith in Heavenly Father and in His Son Jesus Christ.

The other young man was a missionary. As mission president of the Uruguay/Paraguay Mission I received a letter from a nonmember, writing me from Asuncion, Paraguay. In essence this is what he wrote:
“I had been in the President Strossner Airport in Asuncion, Paraguay, waiting for a flight, when a young North American missionary approached me.
“I learned quickly that the missionary was going home, having finished his mission. In fact, they were in the process of calling the young missionary’s flight. This missionary took the time, in spite of the fact that he was leaving the country, to sit by me for a moment, share his testimony, and leave me the tract ‘The Word of Wisdom.’ It puzzled me as to why he would do that when he was going home and had already completed his mission. He had no reason to approach me, but he carried the Spirit with him, and I am sure that I felt it as well.
“I have since read the tract ‘The Word of Wisdom’ and feel that the words from Joseph Smith contained therein are true. I particularly want you to know what a great missionary you have, as I felt the Spirit of the Lord through him. Could you please send representatives of your Church to teach me the gospel so that I might become a member of the Mormon church?”

I watched through the window as lightning flashes illuminated the valley below me. I had to drive home soon, but as the storm raged outside, driving was the last thing I wanted to do.
Finally I left, knowing that the weather would not improve and that I needed to get home. The short walk from my friend’s door to my car left my clothes and hair dripping. Lightning was still flashing several times a minute, and thunder droned ominously in the background.
I began the familiar drive home. A few moments later, I realized I had missed the road to the main highway. I was alone in unfamiliar territory, with only the glare of my headlights to light the way.
I reached for my cell phone, only to find its battery had died. Thunder boomed so loudly my car actually shook, and a bolt of lightning struck the hilltop to my right. Then I noticed a set of headlights coming straight at me.
I swerved back into my lane seconds before the other car zoomed past. My entire body was shaking, and tears poured down my cheeks as heavily as the rain poured down my windshield. I just wanted to be home, but I had no idea how to get there.
Without thinking about it, I started to sing the words from one of my favorite Primary songs: “Heavenly Father, are you really there?” My shaking and tears subsided, even though the storm did not. I prayed to find a familiar road and to be protected as I drove. I started to sing again, and as I sang, I knew the Lord would lead me home.
What was normally a 20-minute drive took 45 minutes that night, but I made it. When I locked my door behind me, safe at last, I sank to my knees. The shaking was back, and I sobbed a prayer of gratitude. I might have been driving in dangerous weather on an isolated road, but I hadn’t been alone.

Dear New Era Readers:
Driving home from Salt Lake City where we had left our daughter Susan at the Missionary Home, we wondered where we would find her little “love note” saying the things so hard to put into spoken words at the time of parting.
All during high school and her years away at college we had found these treasured bits, written in the quiet of night for last-minute pinning to her pillow, or to ours, or for slipping quietly under a dinner plate to be found after she’d gone. So we had come to expect and look forward to them and their blessing of comfort and the assurance that, indeed, all was well.
We were not disappointed. Hardly had I entered the house when, putting our soiled clothes into the laundry hamper, there it was, taped inside the lid. Removing it carefully, I thought, “How strange to put it here,” until I read the words, “You are the soap and water of my soul.”
Reading and rereading I stood shaken and tearful, until, hearing the door open quietly, I turned to face Susan’s dad. He was holding a note found taped to the steering wheel of the pick-up. We exchanged papers and I read, “Roads—red roads and brown roads, and wonderful roads you have brought me along …”
These were the beginning. Through almost two years we have continued to find them, as she had planned, each written to fit its chosen hiding place. We hope that by sharing them with you, you can come to feel a greater closeness to your families.
Sincerely,
Susan Savage’s Mother

I breathed a sigh of relief as we walked down the street to our last appointment. I was tired, and my feet were swollen and sore. It had been a particularly long day of proselyting in the sweltering heat of Bangkok, Thailand. Two days earlier, my bike had been stolen. I was trying not to be frustrated, but two days of walking had taken its toll. I took comfort in the fact that we were heading to an appointment with a newly baptized member—Kee. What a joy it had been to witness her conversion and growth in the gospel over the past two months.
The neighborhood where Kee lived was, without a doubt, the saddest place I had ever seen. The houses were makeshift shacks constructed of wood, tin siding, and cardboard built on stilts above four feet of sewer water and floating trash. Children with no shoes ran around on wooden planks suspended above the sewer. Men lay passed out in a drunken sleep while teenage boys sold drugs on the street corners. I had cried the first few times I had come to this neighborhood, being overcome by the sorrow, poverty, and awful stench. But out of this neighborhood had come two of our favorite investigators, the kind of people missionaries dream of finding.
Kee greeted us as we entered the gate leading to the group of houses we often visited. She immediately asked, “Sister, where is your bike?” We told her how my bike—a beautiful red bike with all the newest parts and gears—had been stolen. She and the neighbors listening nearby became greatly concerned over our loss and current situation. They asked, “How are you supposed to do your work? How are you going to visit all the people you need to visit?” These, of course, were our concerns also, but we told them not to worry.
After visiting with Kee, we headed home. That night we prayed, asking Heavenly Father for help, that things would work out, and that we would be able to do all we needed to do.
The next day we found ourselves heading back to Kee’s neighborhood. As we approached the gate, we noticed all the neighbors sitting out front whispering to each other. Their secret could not be held in any longer as they revealed that one of them had found an old bicycle. They had all pitched in to get it fixed up. Their smiles stretched ear to ear as they proudly presented their gift—a purple bike, scratched and dented, rusty with age. On the crossbar was a big fluorescent sticker which read “Super Bike.” The tires and gears had been lovingly washed and polished. Kee quickly wiped away the remaining smudge marks with the bottom of her shirt. Tears welled in my eyes and spilled down my cheeks as I beheld this little purple bike, given out of sacrifice and love.
I realized that these people, who had but few worldly possessions, had taught the sister missionaries a lesson about love, the pure love exemplified by our Savior. In the eyes of the world, my Super Bike was a sad-looking, beat-up, rusty bicycle. But in my eyes and, I believe, in the eyes of our Father in Heaven, it was the most beautiful bike in the world, a priceless gift from the heart.

As a boy I made a startling discovery in Sunday School one Mother’s Day which has remained with me all through the years. Melvin, a sightless brother in the ward, a talented vocalist, would stand and face the congregation as though he were seeing one and all. He would then sing “That Wonderful Mother of Mine.” The bright, glowing embers of memory penetrated human hearts. Men reached for their handkerchiefs; women’s eyes brimmed with tears.

We deacons would go among the congregation carrying a small geranium in a clay pot for presentation to each mother. Some of the mothers were young, some were middle-aged, some were barely hanging on to life in their old age. I became aware that the eyes of each mother were kind eyes. The words of each mother were “Thank you.” I felt the spirit of the statement “When someone gives another person a flower, the fragrance of the flower lingers on the hands of the giver.” I have not forgotten the lesson learned, nor shall I ever forget it.

One Sunday when leaving for church, our car would not start. We lived in Germany, far from our chapel and other members. My wife and I each offered a prayer for help, but still the car wouldn’t start. I suggested that perhaps we should rely on the faith of a child. We asked our three-year old son, David, if he would say a prayer.
“Heavenly Father, please bless the car to start,” he said simply but firmly.
We turned the key, and the engine started right up! We were grateful that day for David’s faith. It was pure, simple, and true.

When Eva found that her husband was involved with pornography, she felt “intense pain, anger, heartache, depression, and obsession.” Obsession is actually a common feeling for someone who experiences the trauma of betrayal of a spouse’s pornography use, and Eva’s behavior in response to these intense emotions is also not unusual. She began to obsess about her husband and his actions. Where was he? Who was he talking to? What was he doing? His pornography and sex addiction became the center of her life, and she desperately wanted to fix him, believing that if she could get his problem under control, they would be happy.
Eva is divorced and regularly attending 12-step meetings, where she finds safety and validation as she works on her recovery. She has come to understand that while she once made her husband’s addiction the focus of her life, healing comes as she puts the Savior at the center of her life and efforts.

I’m not good at basketball. But for some reason, my friends still invited me to play. During one game, I hoped the ball would never come to me. Well, it did, and I decided to take a shot. As the ball flew toward the basket, I was sure it would miss. The ball hit the backboard and then fell through the hoop.
I made the shot!
My friends cheered as I stood in disbelief. I didn’t contribute much else to that game, but it felt good to be part of a team and to participate in my own small way.

I learned just how eager they were one spring day while driving to Salt Lake City to talk with a woman there. Suddenly, I felt that I could hear the sound of drums beating. I seemed to see an Indian woman, dressed in an oversize plaid shirt, a Navajo skirt, and a silver medallion belt. The seat beside me was empty, but I could sense her presence.
When I arrived in Salt Lake City, I felt prompted to ask the woman with whom I had the appointment whether she had any Indian ancestors. But Carolyn doesn’t look Indian; she’s blonde and blue-eyed, I thought to myself. She’ll think I’m crazy.
When I met Carolyn in her office, the prompting for me to ask was just as strong as it had been in the car. So I asked if she had Indian ancestors.
“Yes,” she said. “My grandmother was Cherokee and was adopted by the Navajo.” She told me about how her “Granny” had worked as a nurse for many years with the Navajo in Arizona, Oklahoma, New Mexico, and Texas. Later, I asked Carolyn about the clothing her grandmother had worn, and she described to me the clothing I had seen the woman wearing.
I told Carolyn about the temple work we had done for the Choctaw. She was thrilled about the possibility of doing the same work for the Cherokee. The Cherokee were the second nation to walk the “Trail of Tears”; there is a record of the tribe in its entirety from 1835—before they had settled in Oklahoma. Carolyn is now doing extraction work on that record, preparing names for the temple.

Thirty-five years later, long after I had finished my military duty, I received a phone call from a branch president of the Church in South Korea. He asked me if I remembered a Mr. Park from my military service.
“Of course I do,” I answered. I had served with Mr. Park, and he had respected my beliefs and had often protected me in difficult situations.
The branch president gave me Mr. Park’s phone number, and I called him right away. As I spoke with him, Mr. Park told me that during our time together as presidential guards, he had seen a light emanating from me and had felt that he should help me. Afterward, whenever he had a hard time, he said he thought about me.
Mr. Park told me that he had two sons he wanted to be like me. He had even taken his sons to church at a Latter-day Saint chapel. One of them had been baptized, though Mr. Park had not. That son, however, was now less active. Mr. Park wanted my help and advice.
I went to see Mr. Park a week later. We had a nice visit, and I soon began to meet with his son and encourage him to return to the Church. He humbly accepted my counsel, became active, and served a full-time mission. Through his letters home while serving a mission, he motivated his father and helped prepare him for baptism. On a summer day the year following our first visit, I baptized Mr. Park a member of the Church.
What a great miracle! Their lives had been changed because of the faith exercised by a young man 35 years before.

Twenty years ago I attended a sacrament meeting where the children responded to the theme “I Belong to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.” These boys and girls demonstrated they were in training for service to the Lord and to others. The music was beautiful, the recitations skillfully rendered, and the spirit heaven-sent. One of my grandsons, who was 11 years old at that time, had spoken of the First Vision as he presented his part on the program. Afterward, as he came to his parents and grandparents, I said to him, “Tommy, I think you are almost ready to be a missionary.”
He replied, “Not yet. I still have a lot to learn.”
Through the years that followed, Tommy did learn, thanks to his parents and to teachers and advisers at church, who were dedicated and conscientious. When he was old enough, he was called to serve a mission. He did so in a most honorable fashion.

Evan and I created a great “hut” down in the rocks and sand of Ash Creek. That was a small tributary to the Virgin River in southern Utah. It was the perfect place for catching little blue-bellied racing lizards. When it came to catching those, Evan and I had no peers. That was one thing we could do better than even my two older brothers.
I did not know until we were about ten years old that Evan had been born with a heart defect. He had asthma and often coughed and wheezed from that, but it did not interfere with our play. One reason I did not know that his health problems were serious was that he never once complained.
All along, his parents had been waiting for him to reach an age when he was strong enough to survive surgery. Finally, the doctors felt that they could wait no longer, so off to Salt Lake went Evan and his parents.
He wrote to me saying that he had taken an advance tour of the hospital to see everything, including the operating and recovery rooms. The doctors wanted him to see them in detail, so that when he awoke, he would not be frightened. To me, it seemed that he took that all in stride.
Several days later Evan underwent eight or ten hours of major surgery. Unbelievably to me, he died on the operating table.
I was crushed. I had prayed faithfully and fervently that he would survive. I thought my prayers had gone unanswered. Brokenhearted, I went back to our river hut one last time after the funeral. I stayed only long enough to push some of the rocks aside and destroy the fort that we had built. I guess I thought if I could destroy what represented Evan, I could destroy the horrible feelings of grief that I was experiencing.
Later I would learn that those feelings were normal. I loved Evan. I would miss him. That is a natural instinct, and there is nothing wrong with it.
I thought about Evan every day for a month or so. Then I began to get busy with other friends, and soon I was just thinking about him every now and then. After about ten years, I found that I would go months at a time and never think of the closeness that we had shared. I noticed, however, that when I started thinking about him, all of the good feelings that I had felt with him so many times would come rushing back into my mind and heart.

Dear Topher,
Thank you for the get-well card and the snapshot of you and that kangaroo on the playground. It sounds like school in Blackwater isn’t much different from here in Michigan, except I have never seen anyone bring a wallaby to class!
Yesterday was my twelfth birthday. My little sister, Kimmy, drew me a picture of an elephant on stilts. It was pretty funny. The nurse hung it on the wall by the side of my bed. Oh, and Mom and Dad bought me a puzzle—one of those hard ones with zillions of tiny pieces. I guess they think I’m going to be here for a while! Dr. Gunnerson tries to find a piece every time he comes in my room, but he says it’s harder to put together than some of his patients.
I feel about the same, I guess. Some days are better than others. It’s hard to know about cancer.
Well, I’d better go now, Topher. I’m real tired, and Dad is making funny faces and it makes it hard to write.
Your pen pal,
Cindy
Dear Topher,
It was fun reading your letter. Good luck with your part in that ward musical. Are you serious about your bishop playing Bigfoot? Maybe they grow bishops bigger in Australia—ha, ha!
Speaking of bishops, Topher, mine has been coming to see me a lot lately. In fact, he helped me finish that puzzle. It’s a picture of a raccoon and a turtle. I told him that I wish more people would show reverence for Heavenly Father’s creatures by being kind to them. He said that life is precious—all of it. I asked him if animals go to heaven when they die. He said that it says in the Pearl of Great Price that all things were created spiritually before they were placed temporally upon the Earth.* He said that spirits are eternal, so that certainly ups their odds!
Then we talked about dying, how it is a part of living, that it is like a door we all pass through in order to keep on living forever. He said that it isn’t so important how much time we have on earth but what we do with the time we have. Then he held me a long time and didn’t say anything. It was like he couldn’t talk. I think he was crying. Then he whispered in my ear and said that Heavenly Father was very proud of me and had a special place prepared for me in Heaven.
Later that day Dad and our home teachers—Brother Sullivan and his son Larry—gave me another blessing. Dad asked Heavenly Father that if it was His will that I should be called home early, that my pain might stop so I could better enjoy whatever time I have left. Well, Topher, guess what? The pain went away. It is easier for me to write now too.
Linda, one of the nurses, is bringing my supper in, and it smells good, so I guess I’ll say good-bye for now.
Your pen pal,
Cindy

Dear Topher,
You asked me in the letter I got from you yesterday if I was afraid to die. I guess I should be, kind of. But I don’t feel scared. Mom told me what Grandma Clanton said before she died about four years ago. She said she would be leaving Mom and the rest of us for just a little while and to not be frightened. She said she’d be happy and that we shouldn’t worry about her. That helped me a lot.
Another reason I’m not afraid is because I have a testimony of Jesus. He died so that we might all live again and so that families can be forever. I have an older brother in Heaven. Maybe I’ll be able to see him. And my Uncle Eugene. And my ancestors. I kind of got to know some of them when my parents were working on their family history. One of them, Nathan Twiggs, carried a chair on his back all the way across the plains—and not just so he would have something to sit on when he got tired walking! His grandfather, Thomas Twiggs, made it and used to sit on it with Nathan on his knees and read the Book of Mormon to him. Dad said it was in that chair that Thomas got his testimony.
If I could choose between staying or leaving, I would stay here on earth for a while because when I think of leaving my family, I feel sad. But Heavenly Father knows best, and Mom said that we were all probably both happy and sad when we left our heavenly parents to come down here.
Oh, I wish I could see that play you are going to be in, Topher! It sounds like it will be fun. I laughed when you said you brought a friend to dress rehearsal and you pointed to Bigfoot and said he was your bishop, and your friend said, “No wonder everyone is so reverent—I wouldn’t want to upset him, either!”
Take care of yourself, Topher. Kiss a kangaroo for me. I think they’re cute.
Your pen pal,
Cindy
Dear Topher,
I’m Cindy’s mother. You probably don’t know me. Or maybe you do, a little. Cindy most likely told you about her family in some of her letters. She’s told us a good deal about you.
Cindy passed away last week, Topher. She wanted me to tell you good-bye and that she would see you later. She said for you to work on your testimony every day because it will help make your trials much easier to bear. And you know what, Topher? It does. It does!
Write us when you can. We would like to keep in touch.
Love,
Cindy’s mom
Dear Cindy’s family,
I cried a lot when you told me about Cindy. Then, well, it’s hard to explain, but a warm feeling came over me. It felt like the sun when it pushes down through a bunch of dark, wet clouds. I know Cindy is happy, just as she said she would be. And what she said about you asking me to work on my testimony? Well, I am. I want one, too, so that when things get hard or confusing I can be strong—and happy, even when I’m sad.
I’ll write again soon.
Love,
Topher

I was young and inexperienced, so the impressions made by this unusual incident were especially deep. I was assigned as a missionary to a little-known island in the South Pacific in 1955. Coming from America, my first impressions were two—the natural beauty of these islands and the apparent poverty of the people.
Slowly I began to learn the native language, adjust to the native food, and fit into the unhurried pace of living. The heat seemed at times unbearable and the mosquitoes vicious, as though they preferred the taste of hinehina (white) blood.
As I became more acquainted with the islanders and their language, food, and customs, I became more fully aware of the real poverty (in relative terms) in which they lived. It seemed irreconcilable. Why should we have so much in America and they have so little here? I could not at that time perceive the great spiritual blessings they had.
One day gave way to another with little change in the village routine. It would rain fiercely and then the sun would shine just as intensely. The diet of fish and breadfruit was almost unchanged from day to day. The oneness and the unity of the sun and the sea, the lagoon, and the soft laughter of those beautiful brown-skinned people seemed to melt into a covering of quiet and peace.
Then one day excitement and change arrived! A strange boat was working its way into the harbor. Hurrah for something different! The whole island was soon down on the seashore looking at one of the most beautiful sailing yachts I have ever seen.
Quietly, as if in slow motion, a crewman threw an anchor into the waiting lagoon. It did not appear even to make a splash, as though to refrain from disturbing the beauty of the setting. It was nearly dusk. The light from the setting sun silhouetted that sleek shape, its sails furled against the backdrop of deep blue waters and emerald green islands. Golden shafts of color painted all around in unbelievably vivid hues, as though framing the whole picture for eternity.
Silently the crew rolled out deep red carpets on the freshly scrubbed deck, and then the master emerged in his crisp white “tropics” to survey the situation. By now there were canoes all around as curious islanders naturally wanted to be a part of this experience, this change.
My assignment was to a little flock of about 50 Church members, most of whom were caught up in the excitement. They soon brought back reports, and even though I was young and inexperienced, it did not take very long to realize what was happening.
The man was a millionaire from overseas, cruising the world. He wanted to trade for food and water, and he wanted girls. There was liquor on board and a real swinging time for those who would accept his invitation.
I counseled my little flock to stay away. Most did, but some did not. The wealthy adventurer stayed for a few days until he filled his wants. Then he announced he would leave before noon the following day. Some of the faithful members pleaded, “Could we not go out just before he leaves, just to see the boat?” I agreed that at 10:00 the next morning we would briefly look at the yacht.
When we got there, it was even more magnificent than I had pictured. Evidence of the previous night’s activities was still being cleared away, and preparations were being made to raise anchor and take sail. We spent a few moments in wonder and awe, astonished at the beauty of the deep mahogany paneling, the rich bronze fittings, the lustre of the freshly painted surfaces, and the gleaming white of the hull as it lapped quietly at the deep blue lagoon.
The owner, nearly sober, waved good-bye, and we returned to shore. As we pulled the dugout canoe onto the sandy beach, I turned again to see the white form move toward the horizon. I thought of the millionaire in his white “tropics,” having had his fill, comfortable with his well-stocked cupboards and expert crew, with his money and his power. He seemed to have everything he wanted.
Then I looked at the men who had brought me to shore: no shoes, shirts of rags, tattered valas tied with coconut sennit around their waists. I looked past them to the village. I saw the smoke from the morning’s cooking twisting lazily into the air, heard the monotonous sound of tapa being beaten, and felt the heaviness of the overhead sun as it filtered through the palm trees. I watched the men slowly walk to their gardens and heard the laughter of naked children as they chased the scrawny dogs.
Suddenly the oppressiveness of island life with so little opportunity for change struck me as being grossly unfair. I turned again to gaze at the yacht, now receding into the distance. The contrast was so great as to be almost unbelievable. My heart cried out, “Unfair! Unfair! These poor people—look at them—and you—look at you!”
I returned to the group, and we trudged up the shore to the village. Then one of the older men turned to me and said softly in his native tongue, “I am very sad. I feel very sorry.”
“Well,” I interrupted, “I am very sad, and I feel very sorry too. It just isn’t fair, is it?”
“No,” he continued, “it really isn’t fair. I feel so sorry for him, for he will never be happy.”
I stopped dead in my tracks.
“You, you feel sorry for him? He won’t be happy? What are you talking about?”
My mind was groping to come to a sense of reality of what was being said. This man with nothing saying he was sorry for that man with everything! My immature mind was spinning, trying to interpret words, feelings, and relationships.
But he continued: “I feel so sorry for him. He will never be happy for he seeks only for his own pleasure, not to help others. Yet we know that happiness comes from helping others. All he will do is sail around the world seeking happiness, hoping others will bring happiness to him. But they cannot. He will never find it for he has not learned to help others. He has too much money, too many luxuries. Oh, I feel so sorry for him.”
I looked at the wrinkled brown body of the old man. His teeth were gone, his hair was white, and his skin was leather; but his eyes were soft, his voice quiet, and his countenance immaculate.
I can never forget his powerful words: “I feel sorry for him. He will never be happy. He hasn’t learned to help others.”
Years have passed, but occasionally, as I see proud people closed up in their sleek new cars or sense my own temporary unwillingness to help others, I close my eyes and see a beautiful yacht moving toward the horizon and turn and see an old man with a wrinkled brown body, white hair, and skin of leather and listen as his soft eyes penetrate mine and his toothless mouth moves and his spirit explains: “I feel very sorry. He will never be happy. He hasn’t learned to help others.”

That’s a fine looking hole you’re digging, son,” Daddy said. “What’s it going to be?”
“A grave,” Aaron answered.
Daddy’s brow wrinkled thoughtfully. “A grave? What for?”
“A bird. Katie found it. We’re about ready for the funeral. Do you want to come?”
“I think I might,” Daddy replied.
Just then Katie marched solemnly down the walk, bearing a shoe box in her arms. Andy, Jana, and Shauna followed, carrying peach blossoms and flowers.
“Do you want to look in the box, Daddy?” Katie asked, lifting the lid.
There on a fluff of blue silk lay a robin, red breast up and feet sticking in the air.
“Poor little fellow,” Daddy said.
“Mama said he’s probably quite happy,” Katie responded.
“By the way, where is Mama?” Daddy asked.
“Coming,” Mama called. She had stopped to pick a daffodil.
Gently Katie laid the box in the hole.
“Your robin is being buried by my lizard,” Andy remarked.
“His lizard had a silent funeral, because lizards don’t make any sound,” Jana explained to her parents.
“When we have funerals for creatures, we do the same as they do,” Aaron elaborated. “That’s why we don’t preach in bird funerals, because birds don’t preach. They just sing. So now we’ll sing.”
Katie waved her arms and everyone sang, “Up, up in the sky, where the little birds fly …” After the song, Aaron carefully shoveled dirt over the box, mounding it neatly, then everyone arranged their flowers on top.
“Have a nice sleep, little bird,” Katie said. Looking up at Mama and Daddy, she added “We’ve named this place Sleepy Hollow.”
“How lovely,” Mama said.
As the family sat around the supper table that evening, the children were thoughtful.
“Mama, why did you say Katie’s robin was probably happy?” Jana asked.
“I know,” Andy spoke up, “because it doesn’t have to eat worms anymore.”
“How do you know?” Aaron asked.
“Because robins will go to heaven and worms won’t.”
“Who said so?” Aaron persisted.
“Both Mama and Daddy,” answered Andy. “When Mama found a worm in her apple, she said, ‘Ugh, the filthy thing.’ And you remember when Daddy read to us that no filthy thing would go to heaven?”
“Inherit the kingdom of heaven,” Aaron corrected.
“It means the same thing. Worms won’t get to heaven.”
“How do you know robins will?” Aaron asked.
“They will,” Katie piped up, “because robins are always cheerful. Even when it rains, they sing.”
“Daddy, will there be birds in heaven?” Aaron asked.
“I can’t quite imagine heaven without them,” Daddy answered.
“What about rabbits and squirrels?” Jana asked.
“I can only tell you what the scriptures say about it,” Daddy replied. “Usually, when we talk about the resurrection, we think of people. But the scriptures teach us that man, the earth, and all the life upon it will be resurrected, mentioning especially the beasts, the fowls of the air, and the fishes of the sea. The Savior gave His life so that everything would rise from the dead, even lizards and robins.”
“Where will everything go?” asked Aaron.
“There will be a place prepared for everything. The Bible tells us that John saw noble beasts in heaven.”
There was a thoughtful silence, then Andy spoke. “I know some noble beasts—our cow and Grandpa’s horse.”
“Woodpeckers are noble,” Katie added. “You should see the noble hole one pecked in Uncle Perry’s barn. The sparrows later built a nest in it.”
“Heavenly Father is mindful of all His creations,” Mama said. “And He knows exactly where they will go, for they are important to Him.”
“That’s what our Primary teacher said in the lesson about being kind to animals,” Jana added.
“I like to think about having pets in heaven,” Andy remarked.
Leaning contentedly back in her chair, Katie sighed. “I’m thinking what heaven must really be like. I can imagine bluebirds and pink birds and yellow and green birds all singing and baby kittens purring and flowers blooming and lots of strawberries to eat. Heaven will have families who love each other just like we do. And we can thank Jesus for what He did for us.”
“You’re right, dear,” Mama said. “And when you kneel and pray to our Father in heaven in the name of Jesus Christ, you can thank Him now and every day.”