Gospel Story Finder

The story is told of a professional driver who applied for a job driving high level government officials to their various destinations often on dangerous winding mountain roads. The interviewer asked each applicant the following question: “How close can you drive a car to the edge of a dangerous mountain road and remain safe?” The first applicant responded, “I can get within ten centimeters and still be safe.” The second said, “I can get on the edge and still be safe.” The third driver stated, “I can get one wheel over the edge and still protect the passenger.” Finally, the last driver said, “I will stay as far from the edge as possible.” It is he who got the job.

Illustration by Red Hansen
While teaching and serving many wonderful people in the Texas Fort Worth Mission, I often reflected on my blessed life. I marveled particularly at seven of my experiences, which I consider to be miracles.
First, I survived my early life, which started out in the humblest of circumstances. I was born on the dirt floor of my mother’s hut in Dessie, Ethiopia. Mom was the only relative I ever knew, and she built our eight-foot (2.4 m) dome-shaped hut by herself, using sticks and mud that she covered with grass and leaves. Our community had no running water and no restroom facilities. Illness and death ran rampant in our kebele, or neighborhood. Food was very hard to find and impossible for us to purchase. My mother and I never knew a day without hunger.
When I was four, my mother became deathly ill. With her last bit of effort, we trudged to a hospital, where my beloved, weary mom died. The hospital staff saved me from life in the streets and death by starvation by arranging for me to live in an orphanage in the city of Addis Ababa, Ethiopia’s capital.
The second miracle came as my life changed dramatically. In this orphanage I lived in a clean building, slept in a real bed, and ate all the food I wanted. Other orphans had also experienced the loss of a loved one, and they taught me how to deal with the loss of my mother. In the evenings we gathered to sing songs in English and pray in Amharic, our mother tongue. We prayed for each other and asked God to bless us to be adopted into “nice, kind, loving homes.” Both the music and the prayers impacted my life in a huge way. I never quit praying.
Third, I was introduced to the missionaries and the Church when I was eight. I was invited to see the dedication of the first LDS Church building in Ethiopia on Sunday, November 30, 2003. At the dedication I felt the powerful influence of the Holy Spirit, and the missionaries in attendance radiated joy, happiness, and that same powerful spirit. I remember thinking that I wanted to be just like them. But I had no idea how I could ever reach this goal.
The fourth miracle came soon after. A family in the United States adopted me. My new father picked me up from the orphanage and took me home. We started the process of becoming acquainted, and I began to settle into my new environment.
Numerous challenges surfaced immediately upon my arrival. Everywhere I went people laughed at my English. My limited education caused problems in school. I prayed for help, and then I worked harder and smarter to close the knowledge gap, especially with English. Once again Heavenly Father answered my prayers. Two years later I proudly skipped a grade.
Then my home life fell apart. Prayers to the Lord, high personal goals, and a deep desire to succeed carried me through that extremely tough time. Finally, with a social worker’s help, my father and I agreed to terminate the adoption. This was a time for prayer, patience, faith, and help from Heavenly Father.
Now 15 years old, I went to live with a foster family for about a year. That was when the fifth miracle came. While sleigh riding with two friends, I met an LDS family with two nice daughters. During the ride home, one of the daughters spoke up, saying, “I think the Lord wants us to adopt Ephrem Smith.” Remarkably, the other three members of the family had also received the same inspiration. The father worked with the Department of Social Services, and soon I moved to my new home. From the very beginning my amazing new father gave me agency. For example, he explained that their family goes to church on Sundays. He allowed me to choose to join them or stay home; he said that they still would love me if I chose not to attend church. I chose to attend church, and I have since made many other righteous decisions.
Miracle six came as I received a testimony of the gospel. One Sunday I sat in sacrament meeting singing “I Stand All Amazed” (Hymns, no. 193). Huge tears began running down my cheeks as I received a personal testimony that Jesus is the Christ and that the Church is His Church.
Finally, nine years later, I knew how to become like those missionaries! The missionary age was now 18, but my adoption had not yet been finalized. I waited seven long months until my adoption was completed. Finally, my missionary papers could be submitted. Four days later I received my mission call. In just one week the Lord blessed me with final adoption papers and a mission call. I treasure both papers exceedingly! They are my seventh miracle. Yes, indeed, it took many miracles along the way from that mud hut in Ethiopia to my treasured mission.

One day about twenty-five years ago I was busy ironing clothes and caring for several children in my home. I was also enjoying a television show and a cigarette.
The doorbell rang. Two men wearing business suits and warm smiles stood at the door. One of them introduced himself as the bishop of the ward. I invited them in and very quickly explained that I had been baptized into the Church when I was ten, but that I had never been very active and knew nothing about the gospel. A few months earlier I had attended a Church meeting, and had put my name on a class attendance roll, but no one had spoken to me.
The bishop smiled, looked me in the eye, and said, “I have been praying for a teacher for the young women, and the Lord directed me here.” I told him he was crazy. He continued to smile, opened the lesson book he’d brought with him, and started to explain about teaching the class.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “I smoke and drink and I can’t teach sixteen-year-old girls.”
He then explained that I was to start teaching the following Wednesday. I kept saying, “no,” and he kept right on smiling. I told him I was inactive.
He said, “Not any more.”
I said, “I smoke.”
He replied, “You have until next Wednesday. God loves you. You can do it.” He smiled, left the lesson book, and walked out the door.
I was stunned. Then I got mad and yelled at the air, “You’d better find someone else, because I’m not going to do it!”
I tried to ignore the book, but my curiosity got the better of me. I read it from cover to cover, all twelve lessons. Wednesday drew nearer. I knew the lesson word for word. All day Wednesday I said I was not going, but at the appointed hour I arrived at the church. I was so scared I was trembling. I had grown up in the slums, lived through gang fights, fought for food, bailed my drunk father out of jail, and spent time in a juvenile delinquent program. I could fight my way out of anything, yet here I was, letting that bishop get me into a mess like this. Well, I’d show him! By this time I was sitting in the chapel and they were introducing me as the new Laurel teacher.
In the classroom, facing two angelic girls, I sat down and gave them the lesson word for word, even the parts that said “Ask the class.” After the class I left quickly and went home and cried. A few days later the doorbell rang and I though, “Oh, good, it’s that smiling bishop coming after his book.” But no, it was those two Laurel girls. One brought cookies, and one had flowers. They came in and taught me—about the people in the ward, about the young women’s program, and about the class. There were sixteen girls in the class, and they hadn’t had a teacher for some months. Lila and Lois were the only active ones.
I liked those girls, and I agreed to go to church with them the next Sunday. Afterwards, they came home with me for dinner.
With their help, I started teaching the other girls. If the girls wouldn’t come to church, we went wherever they were. We had lessons in bowling alleys, cars, and bedrooms, and on porches. I was determined that if I needed to go to class, those girls did too. One day we were giving the lesson to a girl who was hiding in a closet, and she came out and asked, “What about my free agency?” I told her I had never heard of that lesson and that she could come and teach us the next Wednesday.
Lila and Lois became like daughters to me. They taught me to sew, to look up scriptures, and most of all, to smile. Six months later fourteen of the girls were coming to class, and all were active within a year. Together we learned to pray, to study the gospel, and to help others. We made many visits to the children’s hospital. We laughed together and cried together in a bond of love. Fifteen months later, I was president of the Young Women.
I made a decision during that year of teaching that I would never say “no” to the bishop, and I never have. Two sixteen-year-old girls taught me that. I later learned that my smiling bishop was just as terrified of me as I was of him when he first came to the home, and he was sure I wouldn’t show up to teach the class. I sure showed him—and I’m grateful!

Despite his limitations, we have had several goals for Nelson: that he understand the meaning of baptism before he was baptized, that he receive the Aaronic Priesthood at age 12, and that he go to the temple to do baptisms for the dead.

In 2017, Nelson turned 12. We helped him prepare to do baptisms for the dead. It was a challenge for him to understand that those who have died without baptism need our help. Soon after Nelson’s birthday, he, Milena, his older siblings Franco and Brenda, and other youth from our ward went to the Córdoba Argentina Temple. The temple president greeted them and spoke to them about the importance of vicarious baptism. I sat with Nelson and signed for him. Before long, it was his turn. When he stepped into the baptismal font, we wondered, would he truly understand?

As he entered the water, Nelson became emotional. At that moment, the Holy Ghost manifested to us that he did in fact understand that he was doing something for his deceased ancestors that they could not do for themselves. We knew he understood that family members on the other side of the veil were happy he was helping them. The Spirit also manifested to us that Mateo was there to accompany his brother and sister. When Nelson came out of the water, he was very happy.

Since then, Nelson has been baptized and confirmed for many family members, including my father, who passed away in 2016. We love the temple. Serving there has become one of our family traditions. Each time we go, we remember that special day.

Claw Foot was pushed into the wigwam of Chief Broken Wing. His two captors held him rigidly as the great chief glared at him.
“This brave hunts our buffalo,” one of the captors said. “His name is Claw Foot.”
Claw Foot winced. He disliked having his name spoken before strangers.
“The herds in this valley are ours,” the chief said.
“But my people are near starvation,” Claw Foot pleaded. “Our herds are gone. We have journeyed many moons in search of new hunting grounds. We must have fertile land on which to grow our crops.”
“This land is ours. You go!” Broken Wing commanded.
Then the chief’s intelligent eyes lingered for several moments on Claw Foot’s left foot, the clawlike shape that even the brave’s carefully made deerskin moccasin could not disguise. As Broken Wing stared at the moccasin, his left hand went instinctively to his own right arm, which Claw Foot saw was twisted like a gnarled branch.
Broken Wing spoke, “You too have a lame body.”
“I was born with a foot like a claw,” Claw Foot explained.
“My arm was not always this way,” Broken Wing said sadly. “When I was a small boy, I fell from my horse.” He paused and then spoke, “You may have one buffalo, Claw Foot.”
“Only one buffalo!” protested Claw Foot, hastening to speak before Broken Wing had a chance to draw the blanket of silence about himself. “One buffalo will supply food for my people for only a few days.”
“One buffalo!” repeated Broken Wing impatiently.
Claw Foot felt the darkness of defeat as he turned to leave. Then out of the darkness came the light of an idea.
He turned to face Broken Wing once more. “And may we have the land that this one buffalo hide will cover?” he asked.
The chief laughed. “Even if you take the largest buffalo, its hide would not cover enough ground for a single wigwam.”
“Perhaps I can stretch the hide,” suggested Claw Foot.
Broken Wing looked at Claw Foot’s left moccasin again. “You may have the land one hide will cover,” he agreed.
At sunup Claw Foot mounted his pinto and rode into the valley. With the help of his scouts, he separated the biggest and finest cow from the herd of buffalo. With strong, sure aim, his arrow hit the heart of the beast and felled it.
There was great happiness and feasting that night among his people, but Claw Foot did not partake of the food. He was too concerned with tanning the hide. All through the next day he was busy cutting the hide into little pieces and conferring with his scouts, who afterward were sent out in different directions.
When they returned, Claw Foot sought admittance to the wigwam of Chief Broken Wing. “I am here for my land,” he told the chief. “Come, I will show you.”
Broken Wing mounted his buckskin while Claw Foot took the lead on his pinto. As they rode through the valley and over the ridges, Claw Foot pointed out the small pieces of buffalo hide his scouts had scattered over the land.
“The one buffalo hide covers enough ground for many wigwams, much hunting, and fine crops,” Claw Foot explained.
Broken Wing’s eyes looked like darting black clouds. He did not reply, but instead he slapped his horse and galloped away.
Claw Foot urged his pinto to follow, and his mind raced as rapidly as his horse’s hoofs.
Back at Broken Wing’s wigwam, Claw Foot stood once more before the chief, who sat cross-legged before the fire.
Broken Wing seemed thoughtful. Looking up at Claw Foot, he finally said, “Only your body is lame, not your thoughts. You have outwitted me fairly. You may have the land.”
Claw Foot made the sign of gratitude.
Then Broken Wing continued speaking. “From this day on you will not be known as Claw Foot. Your name is He Who Thinks.
And so it was.

One of Sam Potaka’s daughters, Una Tsaclis, had become a family history expert. She had researched hundreds of ancestors, including her husband’s Greek progenitors. Because there are few members of the Church in Greece, her family history work was unique.
My wife and I were invited to go to the New Zealand temple with Una and other family members to perform sealings for their ancestors. It was an unforgettable temple experience. We realized that not only had many family members joined the Church because a good man listened to the Spirit and gave a ride to two missionaries, but now those family members and their children were performing temple ordinances for hundreds of Greek and Maori ancestors who had passed away without the opportunity of hearing the gospel. The Lord’s mathematics multiplies the opportunities to share and accept the gospel both in this life and after death.

Sister Whang’s work in the camps led her to change her career from nursing to teaching. But after six years, in November 1958, she decided that if she wanted to fulfill her goal to help the poor, she needed more education. Her minister encouraged her to apply for an exchange program at the University of California at Berkeley. She was accepted. Taking the money she had saved from teaching and the promise of a paid sabbatical from her school, she enrolled.
Soon after she arrived in the U.S., Whang Keun-Ok met two Korean students from Brigham Young University who were working at Berkeley for the summer. They encouraged her to go to Provo, Utah. When she visited the BYU campus in the fall of 1959, she fell in love with the mountains and was impressed by the Latter-day Saints’ faith. She spent the next three years there, studying social work. Shortly after she returned to Korea in June 1962, she located the missionaries and was baptized.

I remember my mother recounting the story of her family’s situation back in Mexico. She told us how her father’s land of inheritance was stolen by a relative and how her father never knew his own grandfather. And the story always ended with the sad account of a gang coming and burning her family’s house and everything inside to the ground—including their family history records.
I thought all our genealogical information on my mother’s side was gone for good.
Every time I opened FamilySearch, I could only go back a couple generations on her side. But because of diligent family history work, we could trace my father’s line as far back as 300 BC. The difference was staggering! But I thought there was no work I could do, so I didn’t touch our family tree for over 10 years. My ancestors were like a forgotten memory that didn’t need revisiting.
But I’ve learned that there are powerful blessings that come from getting to know our ancestors.
I love what Elder Gerrit W. Gong of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles said about doing family history work:
“When we die, we don’t cease to exist. ...
“Still very much alive, our ancestors deserve to be remembered. We remember our heritage through oral histories, clan records and family stories, memorials or places of remembrance, and celebrations with photos, foods, or items which remind us of loved ones.”1
This reminder was the main reason why I decided to try to find more information on my ancestors. It couldn’t hurt to try, right? I even noticed that I’d get a burning feeling in my heart that prompted me to check a specific family line. (I now realize it was the Spirit, obviously.)
Every time I followed these promptings, I would subsequently find an ancestor whose ordinances needed to be completed at the temple. And as I continued to find them, I felt my bond with my ancestors beginning to grow. I suddenly realized how real they are and how real our connection is. As I did my family history, I felt as though my ancestors were right there with me, helping me make progress.
I only had the oral and limited written histories of my mother’s family to go on. But since “by small and simple things are great things brought to pass” (see Alma 37:6), that little information was what I needed to invite a miracle for my family.
As I slowly added to my mother’s family tree, I received a message from someone I didn’t know on FamilySearch. A maternal family name I had sent to the temple was reserved by this person, and they asked me for help to find more information about their family.
Temple names can only be reserved by descendants of that name, meaning I was related to this person messaging me. I was astounded! My family had always believed that we were the only members of the Church on my mother’s side and that no one from her side lived in the USA. But we were wrong.
This person turned out to be a distant cousin—their family immigrated to the United States almost 40 years before my mother did and are active members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. By what can only be described as a miracle, they contacted me right when they were visiting my state, and we had the opportunity to meet each other.
We shed tears when we finally saw each other. As we shared our stories, we realized that we had so much more in common than we’d thought. There is something about finding long-lost family members that makes my heart grow with love—a love that has the power to heal loneliness and discouragement and remind me of my divine identity and eternal connections.
I have felt such joy through this work. As Elder D. Todd Christofferson said, “Any sacrifice we make in the Lord’s cause helps to confirm our place with Him who gave His life a ransom for many.”2
The blessings available to us when we do family history work are “breathtakingly amazing because of their scope, specificity, and consequence in mortality,”3 as Elder Dale G. Renlund of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles shared. The Lord blessed my family with relatives who could help us feel a bit closer to home and ease some of the loneliness we’ve been feeling.
I believe that this kind of miracle is possible for everyone to experience if they give family history a try.

From the time I was old enough to grip the handle of a broom, my dad gave me the weekend chore of sweeping the driveway in front of our house. Though it was a fair-sized driveway, the sweeping only took a half hour, and it wasn’t difficult. But once the driveway was cleaned, well, like any other kid who is anxious to complete a chore, I hoped it would stay that way. Forever.
Only one thing could ruin my handiwork with the broom: squirrels. With a beautiful eucalyptus tree hanging over most of the driveway, squirrels were often a problem.
A eucalyptus tree bears much fruit: woody, cup-shaped receptacles filled with hundreds of small seeds. For lack of a better name, we used to call them acorns. As a kid who was trying to sweep the driveway once and for all, it seemed as if there were millions of those acorns. And the squirrels loved to eat them. Now squirrels eating acorns aren’t, in and of themselves, a problem. It’s the way they eat them that’s the problem. You see, squirrels are real connoisseurs. They don’t eat the entire acorn, just a bite here and a bite there of the insides. The outside shavings and the rest of the insides that the squirrel doesn’t eat simply fall to the ground.
I could do a wonderful job sweeping up every acorn, leaf, and twig, and the driveway would look great. Then, after a squirrel munch-out, the driveway would look terrible.
The squirrels were having a field day at my expense.
I can remember looking up into the branches at what seemed like the entire family tree of the two original squirrels that accompanied Noah. I also remember giving them dirty looks, but they only looked down at me, unconcerned and very content with the distance between us.
This is where the bright green tennis balls enter into the story. Dad always had a large bucket of tennis balls that had seen better days on the courts months before.
How could I remedy the dirty driveway dilemma? Right, throw bright green tennis balls at the little rascals in hopes of scaring them away to another tree. I just thought that if I could scare them away I might never have to sweep the driveway again. I confess, I used to worry about what our neighbor next door, Mrs. McDonald, might think. She loved animals. In fact, every year for four years I would go around the neighborhood selling Little League Baseball raffle tickets. Mrs. McDonald would always buy one, but she would always sign the name of one of her cats or dogs on the tickets. Last year it was “Elsa” the German shepherd.
Swoosh!
I easily followed the path of the bright green tennis ball. It missed its mark but came close enough to scare the squirrel away.
“Check, check, check, check, check, check,” it cried.
If you wanted to look on the bright side, you could say that throughout my teenage years, my baseball throwing arm became stronger and more accurate.
On the not so bright side, the squirrels quickly became accustomed to watching those mysterious green projectiles fly past them. I never did succeed in scaring the squirrels away on a permanent basis. Every Saturday morning, the driveway had to be swept. Every Saturday morning I would be out there with the squirrels. And no amount of tennis balls would make it easier, regardless of how accurately I threw. I always ended up sweeping.
Eventually I learned an important lesson, one I have reflected on again and again. For many kinds of work, there aren’t any shortcuts. Even when a job is done right the first time, sometimes it needs to be done right again and again. That’s why it’s called a chore—not because it’s burdensome, but because it’s a duty.
Today, when I visit my parents, the eucalyptus tree still towers over the driveway. The squirrels are still there, and they’re still dropping the acorns. Sometimes, just for fun, I’ll hurl a green tennis ball in their direction.
Then I’ll go get the broom.

My father taught me respect for the priesthood. While serving in the Aaronic Priesthood, we passed the sacrament using stainless steel sacrament trays which, as a result of spilled water, were often dulled with hard water spots. As a holder of the Aaronic Priesthood, I was responsible for helping to prepare the sacrament. Father asked me to bring home the trays, and together we cleaned them with steel wool until every tray sparkled. When I passed the sacrament, I knew we had participated in making the sacrament ordinance a little more sacred.

One morning while getting dressed, I realized that my silver bracelet was missing. This bracelet was given to me as a birthday present while I was visiting France, so it has special meaning to me. I began searching for it in the most likely places, but I couldn’t find it. I then told myself that if I just prayed, I would be able to find my bracelet quickly.
After I prayed, I looked everywhere. For two days I prayed intently and searched intensely. I pled with Heavenly Father to help me find it, but I still couldn’t find it. My heart was heavy because this bracelet was precious to me.
One evening my son prayed with me at my bedside. After our prayer, he picked something up and handed it to me. It was my bracelet! He had found it under the bed. I somehow must have missed it in my search. I cried for joy to have it back again.
Suddenly, an impression came to me: “Do you pray just as earnestly for your sisters in the Church? Are they as precious to you as your bracelet? What about your sisters outside the Church? Do you also pray for them?”
When I shared my experience with my missing bracelet in Relief Society, we had a beautiful discussion. I told the sisters that I had learned that when the Savior asks us to feed His sheep, we must remember that “the worth of souls is great in the sight of God” (Doctrine and Covenants 18:10). He wants us to be mindful of those around us and to love, care, and pray with all our energy for them. As we do so, we will find that everyone is far more precious than a silver bracelet.

We all have heroes, particularly when we are young. I was born and grew up in Princeton, New Jersey, in the United States. The most famous sports teams near where we lived were headquartered in New York City. It was the home of three professional baseball teams in those faraway days: the Brooklyn Dodgers, the New York Giants, and the New York Yankees. Philadelphia was even closer to our home and was the home of the Athletics and the Phillies baseball teams. There were many potential baseball heroes for me on those teams.
Joe DiMaggio, who played for the New York Yankees, became my baseball hero. When my brothers and my friends played baseball on the school grounds next to our house, I tried to swing the bat the way I thought Joe DiMaggio did it. That was before the days of television (this is ancient history), so I only had pictures from newspapers to use to copy his swing.
When I was growing up, my father drove me to Yankee Stadium. That was the only time I saw Joe DiMaggio play. As if I am still there, in my mind I can see him swing the bat and see the white baseball fly straight into the stands at center field.
Now, my baseball skills never came close to those of my childhood hero. But the few times I hit a baseball well, I copied the level of his powerful swing as closely as I could.
When we choose heroes, we begin to copy, consciously or unconsciously, what we admire most in them.

I would like to share an incident which took place during the Vietnam War. There were some who were convinced that the United States was engaged in a noble and justifiable war. However, public opinion was changing, and there was opposition which argued that the U.S. should pull out of Vietnam.
President Harold B. Lee was the President of the Church at the time. While at an area conference in another country he was interviewed by reporters from the international news services. One reporter asked President Lee, “What is your church’s position on the Vietnam War?” Some recognized the question as a trap—one which could not be answered without a very real risk of being misunderstood or misinterpreted. If the prophet answered, “We are against the war,” the international media could state, “How strange—a religious leader who is against the position of the country he is obliged to sustain in his own church’s Articles of Faith.” On the other hand, if President Lee answered, “We are in favor of the war,” the media could question, “How strange—a religious leader in favor of war?” Either way, the answer could result in serious problems regarding public opinion both inside and outside the Church.
President Lee, with great inspiration and wisdom, answered as would a man who knows the Savior: “We, together with the whole Christian world, abhor war. But the Savior said, ‘In me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation’” (John 16:33). President Lee then explained, “The Savior was not talking about the peace that can be achieved between nations, by military force or by negotiation in the halls of parliaments. Rather, he was speaking of the peace we can each have in our own lives when we live the commandments and come unto Christ with broken hearts and contrite spirits” (see Ensign, Nov. 1982, p. 70).

As I walked to teach my Primary class, I remembered my new goal. I greeted each child at the door. Each smiled back, radiating the sweet spirit each one has. I wanted now to teach the gospel, which I know is true, to each child—not to the whole class. I wanted each four-year-old to feel important, to feel the love I had for him. When Primary was over, I felt my relationship with each child had improved; I had felt a little of the beauty each held. Longfellow and the missionaries were a little smarter than I thought.

While serving as a bishop, I witnessed the blessings of the Atonement in the lives of Church members who committed serious transgressions. As a judge in Israel I listened to their confessions and, when needed, placed restrictions upon them, such as not partaking of the sacrament for a time.
A young single adult in our ward was dating a young woman. They allowed their affections to get out of control. He came to me for counsel and help. Based on what was confessed and the impressions of the Spirit to me, among other things, he was not permitted to partake of the sacrament for a time. We met regularly to ensure that repentance had happened, and, after an appropriate time, I authorized him to again partake of the sacrament.
As I sat on the stand in that sacrament meeting, my eyes were drawn to him as he now partook of the sacrament worthily. I witnessed arms of mercy, love, and safety encircling him as the healing of the Atonement warmed his soul and lifted his load, resulting in the promised forgiveness, peace, and happiness.

A Scout council was accustomed to arranging its summer camp schedule so that the Scouts were moving to the camp on one Sabbath and returning home from camp on the next Sabbath. Latter-day Saint youth were being deprived of religious activities for two successive Sundays. A friendly suggestion to the council authorities brought about a change, so that the camp period ran from Friday to Friday. The Sunday in between was planned so that there were religious services offered for the boys who were in the camp.

Teresa’s sixth birthday was just about over, and as darkness settled slowly over the elm grove and the weedy fencerows, all the insect fiddlers began to tune up for their nightly concert. Teresa listened to their raspy music as she stood by the window of her bedroom, her long blond hair braided neatly to keep it from becoming tangled while she slept.
Being six was a wonderful thing, for tomorrow she would start school, and soon she would know all the town children. But for a moment Teresa wished that she could reach out and hold this day forever in her arms.
Sighing deeply, she turned toward her bed. Her bare feet made no sound as she walked across the worn carpet. But the corn-shuck mattress was very noisy when she slid between the snowy white sheets and made a nest for herself.
The thought of going to school was exciting. There she would learn to read the words to all the songs in the world. Then, when she grew up, she would sing in four languages, like Grandmother Hildah, whose picture rested on the mantel above the fireplace.
Teresa had never seen Grandmother Hildah because Papa and Mama had left Germany, where her grandmother had lived, before Teresa was born. But Mama had a phonograph record of Grandmother’s lilting voice, and some day, Mama said, Teresa would sing like that.
All summer long Teresa had practiced. On sunny days, after the eggs were gathered, she loved to squat like a small brown toad, half-hidden in the elderberry thicket, and listen to the trills of the meadowlarks or the mockingbirds. Then she sang the notes as best she could, adding words as they came to her mind.
In the evenings, while she drove the cow up the long, shady lane and past the row of trumpet vines, Teresa would listen as the crickets and the katydids sawed on their fiddles. Then she would join in their tune.
Once when she heard Teresa singing, Mama said to Papa, “Our daughter sings like Grandmother Hildah already.”
Papa had arched his dark eyebrows. “So!” he said. “In which of the four languages did our daughter sing today?”
Teresa had squealed with laughter and hugged Papa, for she knew that he was teasing.
Now, as she lay snuggled in her warm bed, sleep was slow in coming for Teresa. Outside, the insects were filling the night with their music, almost as if they were afraid dawn might catch them with their songs unfinished.
Morning came rosy pink. Teresa could hardly eat her breakfast or stand still long enough for Mama to comb her hair. Her fingers were all thumbs as she tried to button the new birthday dress that Aunt Gertrude had sent all the way from Pennsylvania.
Papa took Teresa to school on his way to his blacksmith shop, and he introduced her to the teacher, Miss Marcy. When the bell rang, Miss Marcy introduced Teresa to the class. “Most of you know each other already,” she said. “This is Teresa Gruenwahl, children. Her parents came from Germany; let’s make her feel welcome.”
The eyes that stared at Teresa did not make her feel welcome, and she wished that she had not come. And at recess the other children drew off into whispery knots or pushed her away when she tried to join their games. They called her a stupid foreigner and made ugly verses about her living on a farm. Then they pointed their fingers at her, shrieked with laughter, and ran away.
Worse still, the words in the primer just looked like bits of noodles chopped up and scattered out to dry. But she loved singing time, especially when the class sang about the creatures great and small. Teresa could sing louder and higher than any of the other children, and that made her feel better.
The days passed. Fall flowers turned to seed, the odor of ripening apples perfumed the air, and the insect chorus grew more shrill.
One morning on her way to school Teresa caught sight of a cicada clinging to the bark of an elm tree. She had seen cicadas before but never so close. This one’s brown skin was splitting down the back, and its new green one was showing.
As Teresa stopped and watched, the split grew wider and wider. Soon, to her amazement, out popped a “new” cicada, all green and moist and shimmery in the sun. Slowly raising each leg, the cicada stepped daintily away from its old skin and sat down to dry. Teresa was enchanted. Here it was, as green as life. And there was its old, hollow, brown skin still clinging to the tree.
She loved the new cicada, but she didn’t have time to wait for its first song. So she shook out her handkerchief, plucked the insect from the tree, and wrapped it up carefully. Just as carefully she tucked the handkerchief into her pocket and hurried on.
She was late. The cicada’s metamorphosis had taken too much time. Softly she opened the schoolroom door and tiptoed to her seat.
“Teresa, you may stay in during recess,” said Miss Marcy, frowning.
It was nearly recess time when Teresa first heard the sound. It was like the buzzing of a fly trying to free itself from a spider’s web. Then the sound began to spiral upward from her pocket to fill the silence in the room. Zzzeee uh zzzeee uh. The Cicada! Teresa had forgotten about it. It was beginning its first song, and IT WAS LOUD!
All the eyes in the room turned toward her as the song rose higher and higher. Miss Marcy looked up from the story she was reading aloud, laid her book facedown on her desk, and rose slowly to her feet.
There was only one thing to do, so Teresa did it. Thrusting her hand into her pocket, she clutched frantically at her handkerchief in an effort to muffle the vibrant voice. The sound stopped abruptly. Teresa had squeezed too hard. She could feel the handkerchief become damp in her fist, and she felt sick.
Teresa didn’t know how Miss Marcy knew where the song had come from, but as she looked up, the teacher’s eyes were kind.
Slowly, Teresa drew forth the crumpled, green-stained handkerchief and placed it on her desk.
“It was the cicada,” she said softly, her eyes filling with tears. “It was singing too loudly, and I had to make it be quiet. I didn’t mean to …”
At that moment the recess bell rang, but nobody stirred.
“Oh, you poor child,” Miss Marcy murmured, gathering Teresa into her arms. “We must give the cicada a proper burial.” She led the way out into the hall and down the steps into the schoolyard. The children quietly followed as she crossed the yard to where a large elm tree stood.
“Can anyone find a strong stick?” she asked. “We need to dig a grave for the cicada.”
One of the boys found a sturdy twig. He solemnly bent down and scooped out a hole. Teresa placed the shroud-wrapped insect into the hole and covered it up.
“I think we should all sing a song,” Miss Marcy said. She took a pitch pipe from her pocket and blew a single note.
Glancing at Teresa with shy, sympathetic eyes, the children began to sing. “All things bright and beautiful / All creatures great and small, / All things wise and wonderful, / The Lord God made them all.”
And to Teresa the song was sweeter than ever before.

Just a few weeks ago, my brother and I caught a really strange toad in our neighbor’s front yard. We showed it to Mom and Dad, and they said it was not really a toad at all, but a special kind of lizard often called a horned toad.

We made a home for him by putting some sand in the bottom of an empty aquarium and setting it on top of the Ping Pong table outside on our back patio.

My dad asked a friend of his who studies lizards what horned toads eat, and he found out that they like big red ants. We went over to a park by a school where there was a small hole in the ground that had hundreds of ants running in and out. The ants crawled up on sticks that we placed on the ground and then my brothers and I flicked them into a jar. Back home we dumped them into the horned toad’s aquarium. He sat very still. But whenever an ant came close to him, he would zip over and gobble it up. One day we fed him ten ants, the next day twenty, and the next day thirty. Not knowing how many ants he should eat, we decided twenty was about right.

Our horned toad seems very happy, but we will probably let him go pretty soon. I think my dad wants to keep him though. Dad watches him a lot and has showed him to the Cub Scouts. Once he even put him in his coat pocket when he went home teaching. One of the families told Dad that they had some rattlesnake eggs. They handed him an envelope that was supposed to have the eggs inside, and when he opened it there was a trick paper clip wound on a rubber band that spun around and made a noise like a rattlesnake. My dad said he jumped and threw it on the floor, and everyone laughed. He had the last laugh, however, when he had them reach into his pocket and pull out the horned toad!

Our family has really learned a lot from watching our horned toad. Every night just after the sun goes down, he burrows into the sand and goes to sleep. Then in the morning, he comes out and sits in the sum until he gets warm. During the afternoon he spends most of his time in the shade. You know, he’s a lot like me. Except I don’t eat ants!

Upstairs, Mama hesitated a moment before going into the bedroom. “Emily,” she asked, “are you awake?”
“Come in, Mama,” a husky voice answered.
“How do you feel, dear?”
“Better, thanks, Mama.”
“Want me to plump up your pillows and raise the shade a little?” Emily nodded.
Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Mama wondered how to begin. She fussed with a thread on the coverlet a moment, then she started. “Emily, you remember last fall when your papa’s saddle horse Jake turned up missing?”
“Yes, Mama, and I remember how bad Papa felt when he found him dead and the mountain lion tracks all around where they had struggled. It was awful.”
“That’s right, honey, it was awful and we all felt bad, knowing how much your papa loved that old horse. But somehow we get over those hurts. Memories are softened in time, and we can more clearly see why things happen the way they do. Our hatred for the big cat gradually changed to an understanding that he was only acting out of instinct and that he must have been very hungry to attack an animal as large as a horse.
“Emily, I’m telling you this to help you bear some more hurt. And I’m sorry to have to tell you when you’ve been so sick, but there’s never a good time to hear some things.”
After Mama had explained about Marcus and the weasel, Emily sobbed out her unhappiness while Mama held her close.
When Jason came to see his sister later that afternoon, any mention of Marcus was avoided. He tried to cheer her up and talked of a new place he had found by the creek for their play. “It would make a perfect place for a castle moat!” he said excitedly. Emily managed a wan smile, but Jason knew where her thoughts were. When he couldn’t bear to feel Emily’s sadness anymore Jason fidgeted, then hugged his sister tightly and left the room.
After doing his and Emily’s chores, Jason wandered into the barn where he could hear Papa hammering on the anvil. He liked to watch the sparks scatter when Papa’s powerful arm brought his hammer down with a ringing blow to shape a horseshoe.
Nero, one of their Percheron draft (work) horses waited patiently while Papa fitted him with new shoes. A gust of wind fluttered the horse’s wispy leg feathers as it turned his head to watch Papa. Nero and his harness mate Bully together weighed well over four thousand pounds. Bully was seventeen hands tall, half a hand taller than Nero. But in the pulling contests at the fair they were both champions. There wasn’t a team in either Gallatin or Jefferson County that could outpull them. Maybe even in all of Montana, Jason speculated.
When Papa plunged the red-hot shoe he held with tongs, sizzling into the water tub, an idea came to Jason as he watched the last of the water bubbles burst. “Papa, when you’re through with old Nero, can I talk to you about something—something to make Emily happy again?”
“Sure, son, just give me a few minutes,” Papa replied.
Jason was always amazed at how expertly Papa maneuvered the big horses into position with the slightest urging. They seemed to know by his touch and the sound of his voice how fond he was of them. And they returned their master’s good feelings. It didn’t take Papa long to finish, and then Jason told him his plan.
For several days Mama was curious about all the hammering that came from Papa’s forge behind closed doors. But whenever she asked Jason or Papa about the racket, they always managed to skirt around a direct answer. When she took Emily’s lunch to the upstairs bedroom and her daughter asked, “What’s Papa making?” Mama answered, “I honestly don’t know, dear. And I don’t know how much longer I can school my curiosity.”
At the supper table that evening, Mama noticed Papa wink at Jason as he excused himself and said expansively, “Nobody ever made dumplings like that before, Mama.” Then he lifted her lightly and together they twirled twice around. “Now, Jason and I have to finish something,” he said with a twinkle in his eye. “And never you mind what it is. You’ll know soon enough.”
Out in the twilight gloom of the barn, Papa said in a loud whisper, “Fetch a couple of feed sacks, Jason. We’ll put the parts in one and the tools in the other. I’ll get a length of rope and a lantern.”
When they had climbed up the ladder pole to the loft, they lugged their gear down to the door at the end of the barn where they could barely see the hay hoist silhouetted against the starry sky. Papa went up first. Next, he pulled up Jason and the sacks. Then the two forms hunkered down on top of the barn ridge and, by the soft lantern light, opened the sacks.
There was an air of expectancy in the kitchen the next morning. And in spite of the fact that Mama served Jason’s favorite meal—flapjacks and chokecherry jelly—he didn’t seem to be giving it his full attention. Papa wasn’t doing justice to his breakfast either. When Mama said she was going to take Emily’s tray up to her, they both offered their help, so they all trooped up the stairs together.
Emily was much improved, but she still felt sad and listless. Next to the family, she had loved the old rooster best of all.
Before Emily could get to her tray, Papa suggested they move her bed closer to the window, and Jason was already tugging at the blind. “Let’s let in more light,” he said. When the bed was shifted, Jason let the blind go with a FLAP, FLAP, FLAP.
Mama stopped talking in mid-sentence, and when she had caught her breath all she could say was, “Well, I declare!”
There high on the peak of the barn and facing into the first rays of the morning sun was a near-perfect likeness of Marcus, only it was fashioned out of scrap iron and brass. “It’s a weather vane, Emily,” Papa explained, “and pretty near indestructible unless a tornado snatches it away.”
“Do you like it, Em?” Jason asked excitedly. “See how he cocks his head just like Marcus always did.”
Emily thought at first she was going to cry, but then a smile made in heaven settled on her face and bathed them all with its warmth.
When she could find her voice again, Emily threw her arms around her father’s neck and cried, “Oh, Papa! Papa!” And then with wet cheeks she turned to Jason and said, “Thank you, my good knight. Well done! Now, whenever I look up outside I can see my faithful sky watcher riding on the wind.”

Seven years later I too was preparing to serve a mission. I remember the night my call letter came, and I had all the family gathered around. Everyone had made their guesses as to where I would go. We all thought that I for sure would go to Temple Square. When I actually read my call, I was absolutely shocked! I thought, “Do they know that I am a girl!?” I knew that there were girls serving in India when my brother was on a mission, but they were Indian girls! I had no idea that they sent foreign sisters there and I wondered if I was the first one? Later I learned that I am the first sister from Australia to serve in India.

Another shock was how soon they wanted me to be prepared and ready to leave. I had just eight weeks from the time I received my call to the time I had to report to the Provo MTC. I quickly applied for my overseas Indian citizenship. It normally takes 6-8 weeks or more to arrive which meant that it would have come on the day I was supposed to leave. I knew there was a reason I was to leave so soon so I just put my faith and trust in the Lord that everything would work out. I ended up getting my visa in just five weeks! That is just one of the miracles I saw as I prepared for my mission. It was a crazy whirlwind getting ready for my mission, but it was a testimony to me that the India New Delhi Mission was where I needed to be.