Gospel Story Finder

Oh, no! That word jumped off the page at me, and the awareness of everything else in the classroom setting faded away. Our excellent, but no-nonsense, speech teacher had just assigned reading parts to the class and handed out the script. Quickly scanning the first page, I screeched to a stop when I hit that word!
You see, I knew that Connie had been assigned to read that line. With few exceptions, almost any one in the class could have read that profane word without any personal concern. But I knew Connie. I knew of her high standards in every area of her life and of her integrity in maintaining those standards with no compromise. She just exemplified purity and freshness and happiness. Clean thoughts and language were carefully guarded. Now suddenly she was expected to violate that standard by a teacher who saw nothing wrong at all with such language. The script was already being read aloud, and I wondered what she would do. Then it was time for Connie’s part.
“Oh, PUMPKIN!” she thundered! The startled class suddenly broke out in good-natured laughter. Our teacher looked up quickly from her paper with a surprised expression and momentarily studied Connie. Slowly a smile was born and then grew into full bloom as she realized that Connie wasn’t after attention or just trying to be funny. But Connie simply continued reading her part as though nothing unusual had happened.

I was taught this lesson powerfully a number of years ago by our then-16-year-old daughter, Jennifer. She was about to have a double lung transplant, where the five diseased lobes of her lungs would be completely removed and replaced by two healthy smaller lobes, donated by two amazing Christlike friends. It was a very high-risk procedure, yet the night before her surgery, Jennifer almost preached to me with all of her 90 pounds (41 kg), saying, “Don’t worry, Dad! Tomorrow I will wake up with new lungs, or I will wake up in a better place. Either way will be great.” That is faith; that is eternal perspective! Seeing life from an eternal vantage point provides clarity, comfort, courage, and hope.
After the surgery, when the long-awaited day came to remove the breathing tube and turn off the ventilator that had been helping Jennifer breathe, we anxiously waited to see if her two smaller lobes would work. When she took her first breath, she immediately started crying. Seeing our concern, she quickly exclaimed, “It’s just so good to breathe.”
Ever since that day, I have thanked Heavenly Father morning and night for my ability to breathe. We are surrounded by innumerable blessings that we can easily take for granted if we are not mindful. Conversely, when nothing is expected and everything is appreciated, life becomes magical.

“Remember to keep your eyes on your own paper,” Ms. Mori said.
Nathan stared at his test. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his friend Jason flip open his math test and start writing. Nathan sighed.
“Something wrong?” Ms. Mori asked.
“No, ma’am,” Nathan said quietly. But that wasn’t totally true. Unlike Jason, Nathan couldn’t stand math. He didn’t hate all schoolwork—someday he wanted to paint like Da Vinci or write like Shakespeare. In those subjects, there was usually more than one right answer to a question. But in math, there was only one correct answer. Just one! And Nathan never seemed to get it.
“Psst!” Jason whispered. He flicked a crumpled paper under Nathan’s chair. At first Nathan thought Jason was teasing him. But then Jason grinned and tapped his test, and Nathan knew what was on the paper—the answers!
He looked up. Ms. Mori’s back was turned. Now was the perfect time to grab the paper! This could be one math test he didn’t fail.
Nathan stretched to snatch the paper off the floor …
To cheat or not to cheat—that is the question, Nathan thought, borrowing a line from Shakespeare. As soon as he asked the question, he knew the answer. Nathan kicked the answers back under Jason’s desk. He had already decided to never cheat, no matter how tempting it was.
At the end of class, Nathan still didn’t like math. But he was glad he chose the right, even though he probably didn’t do well on the test. Maybe Jason could help him study for the next one.
Just like math, Nathan thought, when it comes to choosing whether to cheat, there’s only one right answer. He was glad he’d passed.

When the first missionaries went to England, the inspiration they received often led them to groups of people just waiting for the truth. How converts around the Bristol area heard the gospel is one of the most inspiring stories in the history of the Church in England.
In 1840 Wilford Woodruff was preaching in the Potteries of Straffordshire. He was finding success and was able to preach to large congregations. During the opening song of one meeting, he was suddenly impressed that this would be the last meeting he would preside over for a while in the area. It surprised him since he had many appointments set up. But having faith in the source of the inspiration, Elder Wilford Woodruff announced to the group that he would be leaving.
Elder Woodruff traveled south to Herefordshire, where he felt directed to a farm owned by John Benbow. The Benbows were independent, wealthy farmers, living in a rural mansion. They belonged to a religious society of 600 persons, including 45 preachers. Elder Woodruff was invited to preach and converted all but one member of the society. He even converted a constable sent to arrest him. The society turned over to the Church the chapel they owned and 45 houses used for worship. Thus the first chapel ever owned by the Church was in England.

May I now paint a picture of such a situation. In faraway Bucharest, Romania, Dr. Lynn Oborn, volunteering at an orphanage, was attempting to teach little Raymond, who had never walked, how to use his legs. Raymond had been born with severe clubfeet and was completely blind. Recent orthopedic surgery performed by Dr. Oborn had corrected the clubfeet, but Raymond was still unable to use his legs. Dr. Oborn knew that a child-size walker would enable Raymond to get on his feet, but such a walker was not available anywhere in Romania. I’m sure fervent prayers were offered by this doctor who had done all he could without a walking aid for the boy. Blindness can hamper a child, but inability to walk, to run, to play can injure his precious spirit.
Let us turn now to Provo, Utah. The Richard Headlee family, learning of the suffering in Romania, joined with others to help fill a 40-foot (12-m) container with 40,000 pounds (18,000 kg) of needed supplies, including food, clothing, medicine, blankets, and toys. The project deadline arrived, and the container had to be shipped that day. No one involved with the project knew of the particular need for a child-size walker. However, at the last possible moment, a family brought forth a child’s walker and placed it in the container.
When the anxiously awaited container arrived at the orphanage in Bucharest, Dr. Oborn was present as it was opened. Every item it contained would be put to immediate use at the orphanage. As the Headlee family introduced themselves to Dr. Oborn, he said, “Oh, I hope you brought me a child’s walker for Raymond!”
One of the Headlee family members responded, “I can vaguely remember something like a walker, but I don’t know its size.” Another family member was dispatched back into the container, crawling among all the bales of clothes and boxes of food, searching for the walker. When he found it, he lifted it up and cried out, “It’s a little one!” Cheers erupted—which quickly turned to tears—for they all knew they had been part of a modern-day miracle.
There may be some who say, “We don’t have miracles today.” But the doctor whose prayers were answered would respond, “Oh, yes we do, and Raymond is walking!” She who was inspired to give the walker was a willing vessel and surely would agree.
Who was the angel of mercy touched by the Lord to play a vital role in this human drama? Her name is Kristin, and she was born with spina bifida, as was her younger sister, Erika. The two as children spent long days and worrisome nights in the hospital. Modern medicine, lovingly practiced, along with help from our Heavenly Father brought a measure of mobility to each. Neither is downhearted. Both inspire others to carry on. Kristin is now a college student living on her own, and Erika is an active high school student.
It was once my opportunity to tell Kristin, who had sent her walker to Romania, “Thank you for listening to the Spirit of the Lord. You have been the instrument in the Lord’s hands to answer a doctor’s prayer, a child’s wish.”
Later, I offered my own “Thank You” to God for children, for families, for miracles in our time.

Many years ago I told a story in conference that I think I will repeat. It is a story about a baseball player. I realize that some of you in various parts of the world do not know much about baseball. You do not even care about it. But this story brings with it a tremendous lesson.
The event occurred in 1912. The World Series was being played, and this was the final game to determine the winner of the series. The score was 2-1 in favor of the New York Giants, who were in the field. The Boston Red Sox were at bat. The man at bat knocked a high, arching fly. Two New York players ran for it. Fred Snodgrass in center field signaled to his associate that he would take it. He came squarely under the ball, which fell into his glove. But he did not hold it there. The ball went right through his grasp and fell to the ground. A howl went up in the stands. The fans could not believe that Snodgrass had dropped the ball. He had caught hundreds of fly balls before. But now, at this most crucial moment, he had failed to hold the ball, and the Red Sox went on to win the world championship.
Snodgrass came back the following season and played brilliant ball for nine more years. He lived to be 86 years of age, dying in 1974. But after that one slip, for 62 years, whenever he was introduced to anybody, the expected response was, “Oh, yes, you’re the one who dropped the ball.”

There was only one thing that could really make me feel Christmas cheer that year, and there it was, sitting in the mailbox. A note from the mailman, stating that there were packages from the United States waiting for me in the post office.
Now expensive presents don’t mean that much to me. But that year, even a paper clip from home made me want to dance around and sing Christmas carols at the top of my lungs. Because of a mail strike, I hadn’t heard a thing from my family in the two months since I’d arrived in the mission field, and I was dying to hear how they were doing.
As for me, I wasn’t doing so well. The mission field hadn’t quite turned out to be what I’d expected. I’d studied Spanish in college and had even taken classes in Mexico, so I pictured myself reeling off the most spiritual discussions with perfect grammar and accent. Instead, my first assignment was in an area where they speak a unique dialect called “Valenciano.” Even my native Spanish companion couldn’t understand it.
The cold didn’t help either. When I received my mission call to southern Spain, I pictured sundrenched beaches and orange blossoms, not the waist-high snow drifts that confronted us daily.
All that wouldn’t have made much difference if the work had been going well, but the fact was that there hadn’t been a baptism in that particular town for more than a year, and as hard as we tried, we weren’t getting in many doors.
What I needed more than anything was to know that someone back home still loved me, and I was ecstatic to find that there, in the post office just a few blocks away from my apartment, lay tangible proof that they did. Since the post office was already closed for the day, we decided we’d go out early the next morning, make the visits we’d planned, then return a bit earlier than usual to pick up the packages. We had to do it before noon, since the post office closed at noon on December 24th and would remain closed until the 26th.
It wasn’t even difficult the next morning to crawl from under my six blankets and emerge into the subfreezing temperatures of our basement apartment. I sang as I fixed breakfast, then proceeded to dress myself in everything I’d packed in my suitcase. It took a lot to battle the wind and the sleet. Although I’d lost about five pounds, I looked like I’d gained thirty thanks to my mega-layers of clothing. And instead of feeling frustrated when I looked in the mirror, I started giggling.
My companion and I set out, and the warmth that radiated from the thought of those packages sitting in the post office seemed to keep me toasty despite the chilly weather. As we knocked on the doors, I flashed a genuine smile that I saw reflected time and time again in the faces of those we visited. People were actually inviting us in! They were sharing their bars of turron, an incredible Spanish almond holiday treat, with us, and better still, they were listening to the message of the Savior that we wanted so much to give them that day.
We were down to the last house on our list—it belonged to a couple who seldom attended church but were very nice about referring us to their friends and often invited us in to warm up and dry off. Sister Boluda always had a smile and words of encouragement for us, and that was why we were stunned to see her answer the door on one of the happiest days of the year with red-swollen eyes and tears running down her cheeks.
“Oh sisters!” she cried. “How wonderful for you to come to visit me today. I’m always so lonely at Christmas. Won’t you come in and cheer me up?”
We entered her apartment and held her hands as she tearfully poured out the reason for her loneliness. She had a loving husband, but they’d never been able to have children of their own, and Christmastime seemed to emphasize the absence of little ones. Could we please stay and share a bite to eat with her? She would feel so much better if we could.
We agreed without hesitation, and a little while later, after we’d eaten, read the Christmas story in the Book of Mormon, and sang a number of Christmas carols, we left her house. Sister Boluda was smiling again, and she seemed to glow with the warmth of the season.
It wasn’t until we looked at our watches on the way home that we realized the post office was probably closed. It was past noon, but we ran back to the post office anyway, thinking that perhaps it would be so busy that they would have to stay open a few extra hours.
No such luck. Alcoy was a small town, and it would have been hard to muster up enough business to keep the place open for an extra 15 minutes, let alone a full two hours. Whatever my family had to say to me, whatever they had to send to me, would have to wait until the day after Christmas.
The sky seemed to grow even darker as we trudged through the snow. I bowed my head to shield my face from the wind and tried to brush back the hair that had fallen in my eyes. That was a mistake. My blond curls had frozen into spikey icicles, and they broke off in jagged hunks when I touched them.
Back in our dreary little apartment there would be no Christmas cheer to greet us. Everything that usually put me in the Christmas mood—lights, trees, brightly wrapped presents, stockings, small children—would be only vague memories within the cold, dark walls of our flat.
But you know what? I wasn’t upset. I wasn’t even a little annoyed. By not getting my family’s gifts on time, I received something far greater—it would change me for the rest of my mission and for the rest of my life.
I realized that happiness comes from the warmth within your heart and has nothing to do with the temperature outside. I also learned that when you carry that warmth within, it radiates outward to all those you meet and gives them something to glow on.
That Christmas Eve I realized that my first mission assignment was not to a mean, freezing little city, but a beautiful, expectant little town, just waiting for the warmth the light of the gospel can bring. It was my attitude, not the temperature, that needed to be raised.
Still, I was grateful for the packages with gloves, hat, and thermal underwear I opened the day after Christmas.

Luke loved playing foursquare with his new friends from kindergarten.
Britton bounced the red ball to him.
“Hey guys, listen to this,” Britton said. Then he said a word Luke had never heard. It sounded ugly. Luke didn’t feel good when he heard it.
“Say it, Luke,” Britton said. “It will be funny!”
Luke stood there holding the ball. He didn’t know what to do.
“Come on,” said Sean. “My brother and his friends say that word. They all think it’s funny. Say it!”
Luke looked at Tiffany. What could he do? Luke knew it would be wrong to say the word.
Then he had an idea. He could use words to make people feel good inside instead of bad. His grinned. He thought of the silliest word he could.
“Zugga-bugga-zoo!” Luke said. It worked! His friends laughed so hard they sat right down on the ground.
“That other word doesn’t sound funny,” Luke said. “Let’s make up silly words instead!”
“Flazzle-razzle!” Tiffany said. Luke laughed. They all made up funny words until recess ended.
After school Luke walked home with Mom and told her about recess.
“How did you know it was a bad word?” Mom asked.
“I didn’t feel happy when I heard it.”
“I’m so proud of you!” Mom said. “You listened to the Holy Ghost tell you not to say that word. Then you used your talent of making people laugh to help you choose the right!”
Luke hadn’t thought about that. He smiled.
“Hey, I have a good word for you,” Mom said. “It starts with L.”
“Luke!”
“That’s good, but I’m thinking of someone who shows other people the way. Like the game, Follow the …”
“Leader!”
“Right! You were a leader with your good example. You were a leader with laughter.”
Luke hugged Mom. Then they raced back home. They laughed the whole way.

Seventeen-year-old Bikki Sahi has recently been baptized. And like many of the other Latter-day Saint youth here, he is the only member in his family. He feels strongly that he has “chosen the right way.” Bikki has a new but beautiful testimony to share. “When I first came to the Church, I felt peace in my heart,” he says. “I also felt that my tensions and sadness were driven away. The brothers and sisters showed me their love and taught me about Jesus Christ and the Book of Mormon. When I obeyed the commandments, it helped me improve my habits, and I felt good. I know that Jesus is the Christ and that the Book of Mormon is true.”

Years ago, a young girl confessed to my wife and me a very tragic period of her life. I won’t tell you about her life, but it was a tragic life, and I’ve never seen a girl with sadder eyes than this lovely girl of eighteen. And in trying to give her some comfort and hope for the future, I realized that we’re adding to our past; we’re building onto it each day we live. Life is not a rigid, fixed, quantitative kind of thing. It’s a growing, qualitative, whole thing. And the whole is greater than any of its parts, and gives meaning to its parts. My arm by itself hung on the wall is one thing; my arm as a part of my body and servant of my mind is another thing. An event in that girl’s past, or even ten events, were one thing at eighteen when she was in the depths of despair. And then she came into the fold, was baptized into the Church, found some faith in Christ, converted her husband, reared a fine family, and her life has been going like this ever since. This valley of failure in her life is one thing by itself; it’s another thing when it’s one dip in a long beautiful life. This idea makes life dynamic: it’s comforting and exciting to know that you can improve.

Laresa had new shoes. They were not just ordinary new shoes. They were shiny black with gold buckles, but what was special about them was that they made music whenever she walked. “Squeak, squeakity, squeak, squeak,” they sang out wherever she went.
Laresa smiled and sang “La, la-ti-de, la, la,” as she walked down the sidewalk, up the stairs, and into the library.
Miss Page was sitting at the front desk reading. “Quiet, please!” she whispered, peeking over her horn-rimmed glasses.
Laresa had forgotten to be quiet in the library. She stopped singing and tiptoed over to the picture book shelf. But her shoes kept on singing, “Squeak, squeakity, squeak, squeak.”
Miss Page put down her book and stared. Two freckle-faced boys at the reading table stared. A lady in a green hat peeked around the bookshelf.
Laresa smiled. “It’s my new shoes,” she whispered.
Laresa quickly found a book and hurried to the front desk. “Squeak, squeakity, squeak, squeak,” the shoes sang.
“My, my,” Miss Page sighed, still looking over her glasses, “you really must get those shoes fixed. They are just too noisy.”
“Yes, Miss Page,” Laresa answered. But inside she felt sad that Miss Page could only hear the noise and not the music.
Laresa opened the door and left. “Squeak, squeakity, squeak, squeak,” the shoes sang. “La, la-ti-de, la, la,” Laresa sang all the way home.
“Hello, Mother,” she called out as she entered the kitchen.
“Hello, Laresa,” Mother answered.
“Squeak, squeakity, squeak, squeak,” the shoes sang as Laresa walked over to the cookie jar.
“My, but your new shoes certainly are noisy,” Mother said.
“It’s not noise; it’s music. Can’t you hear it?” Laresa walked around in a circle singing along with the music of her shoes.
“Singing shoes!” Mother exclaimed. “Well, well!” And she shook her head.
Laresa smiled. “Aren’t they nice?”
“They certainly are, but I think we’d better get them fixed. They are just a wee bit loud.”
Laresa looked at the shiny black shoes. “Do we have to?” she asked.
“I’m afraid so,” Mother answered. “Musical shoes aren’t very good for church and school.”
“And the library!” Laresa sighed.
“I have to do some errands,” Mother told Laresa. “Come with me now and we’ll stop at the shoe repair shop.”
Soon Laresa and Mother were at the shoe repair shop. Mr. Sole was a fat little man with a happy twinkle in his blue eyes. Mother explained the problem to the shoe repair man.
“Walk over to the mirror, Laresa,” Mr. Sole instructed.
Laresa walked as carefully as she could, but the music still rang out loud, “Squeak, squeakity, squeak, squeak.”
“Oh, my,” Mr. Sole said. “In all my years I’ve never heard a pair of musical shoes!”
Laresa smiled. “Can you hear the music too?”
“Of course. La, la-ti-de, la, la,” Mr. Sole sang.
“Oh, yes! That’s it exactly!” Laresa cried.
“But,” Mr. Sole interrupted, “I know what your mother means. Musical shoes just aren’t wanted in some places.”
Sadly Laresa took off the shoes and gave them to Mr. Sole.
“It will only take a minute,” he said.
And that’s all it took. Soon Mr. Sole was back with the shoes in his hand. “Here,” he said. Then leaning down so that only Laresa could hear, he whispered, “I couldn’t ruin such beautiful shoes. I just made their music a little softer.”
Laresa smiled and Mr. Sole winked back. Mother and Laresa left the shop and walked to the car.
“That’s much better,” Mother said.
Laresa smiled and then she listened carefully. The music was very, very, very soft, but she could hear it whenever she wanted to listen.
“Squeak, squeakity, squeak, squeak,” the singing shoes softly sang all the way to the car. And Laresa happily sang along with them, “La, la-ti-de, la, la.”

I had a great chance to qualify for the London Olympics in 2012, but in the most important competition, I fell off the apparatus. My chance at the Olympics was gone. I was halfway around the world, and my dreams were shattered.

Shortly after that failure, I decided I wanted to go on a mission. I might not have gone if I had made it into the Olympics, but my mission was one miracle after another. I was so grateful for that opportunity.

The gospel has helped me make right decisions, especially at times when it’s difficult to keep my standards. It shapes who I am and all the values that I have.

The last evening of their stay on the river, the girls had a testimony meeting. One of the girls brought a roll of tissue and set it in the center of the group in easy reach of anyone with leaky eyes. More than one needed it as they bore testimony of the gospel and their love for the Lord and one another. A nonmember girl stood with tears in her eyes to tell of her love for the Mormon girls and their leaders although she hadn’t yet gained a testimony of the gospel. A girl who had been in the ward only a week and in the Church only a few months told how she had come on the trip homesick for her old ward and fearing loneliness and rejection. But in three days she had come to feel she had known these girls all her life.

Romans 8:16 says, “The Spirit itself beareth witness with our spirit, that we are the children of God.” The first time I remember feeling with all certainty that Heavenly Father knew me, loved me, and cared for me was when I entered the waters of baptism at age 15. Before then, I knew God existed and Jesus Christ was the Savior of the world. I believed in Them and loved Them, but I had never felt Their love and care for me, individually, until that day as I rejoiced in my opportunity to make baptismal covenants.
I realized what a great miracle it had been to have been found and taught by the missionaries, especially with only a handful of missionaries amongst two million people! I knew then that Heavenly Father knew me and loved me in such a special way that He guided the missionaries to my home.

Eternal perspective and temple covenants have also strengthened Knud and Bodil Christensen’s marriage. Knud manages an electronics and appliance store, and Bodil teaches school. Health problems brought one trial after another, recalls Bodil, now Relief Society president of the Herning Branch.

“There have been many mountains for us to climb, but we could always count on each other for support,” says Bodil. This understanding alludes to her difficulty with childbirth, Knud’s struggle with cancer and subsequent chemotherapy and recovery, their infant daughter Katharine’s meningitis, and the faith and gratitude these have all brought to the Christensen household.

“Going to the temple for strength has provided a spiritual core to our marriage,” adds Knud. He is a man of quiet strength, yet he and his outgoing wife are equally yoked.

The peace that you want takes time. It won’t happen overnight. My mother died about five years ago of cancer. It isn’t easy to lose someone we love. I only wish that I had communicated with my dad and my brothers and sisters and told them how I felt. Instead I tried to hide my feelings. Because of my stubbornness, it only got worse when my dad remarried and we moved to a new town. I was heartbroken because all my memories of my mom weren’t around anymore. I blamed my Heavenly Father for doing this to me and making my life miserable.
I now feel peace within because I decided to let go of all my past hurts and look toward the future. Yes, I still have my days when I wonder why, but Heavenly Father has the whole eternal perspective of life, and we only have a narrow view.
I hope that you will keep communications with your family open. Let them know how you’re feeling.
Please stay close to your Heavenly Father. He loves all of us, and he will comfort you when you’re really down. I can testify to that.
Mary Beth Bentley, 18Danville, California

The youth of the Aaronic Priesthood MIA in the Minneapolis Third Ward, Minneapolis Minnesota Stake recently proved with their Turn of the Century Party that there really isn’t a generation gap. The feeling among the youth was that the older people had a lot to contribute but were sometimes overlooked or forgotten.
Each of the classes was assigned one person born before the turn of the century. They could do for that person whatever the class felt was appropriate. Much thought and many phone calls and visits followed as the youth made preparations. At the conclusion of one such visit an elderly gentleman, tears in his eyes, said to the youth, “My home has been blessed by having you here. Thank you for remembering me.”
The night of the program each honored guest spoke. Some told stories of their early days in the ward, others recited poetry, and some simply shared with everyone their joy at seeing one another again. The Boy Scout Band brought back memories with their musical renditions of “Bicycle Built for Two” and “Black and White.” At the conclusion of the program each guest was presented with a gift from his class. Also remembered with gifts were three members of the ward who were bedridden and unable to attend.
Ward members agreed that testimonies were strengthened by the knowledge that it is more blessed to give than to receive.

Janice was a weak little girl with a bad heart. If she cried hard or got too excited, she couldn’t get her breath and went into a fainting spell.

One time Papa and Mama took Janice to the doctor in Harmony to see if anything could be done for her. The three boys and I were trying to think of a game to play while they were gone.

“Want to play hopscotch?” I asked as I scratched the pattern in the dirt with a stick.

“Naw, that’s a sissy game,” Ed scoffed.

“Besides, it makes you too hot,” Frank said.

“Let’s go over to Grandma’s then,” I suggested, “and see if she still likes her mattress.” Even after all this time I could get excited just thinking about how much I’d enjoyed making it and how pleased she was when we took it over to her.

Tom had traded his bicycle for a rabbit, and that’s why he was walking the mile home from Primary. His younger brothers, Ivan and Brent, had ridden ahead on their own bikes. They didn’t think much of Tom’s trade.
Giant cottonwood trees were dropping bright yellow leaves on the country road, and the afternoon sunlight touched them so they glowed like candle flames. Walking isn’t so bad, he thought. And it was a magnificent rabbit, a New Zealand Red doe, half grown. Tom thought about the luxurious softness of her deep, reddish brown fur, her round alert eyes, and her gentleness when he held her. He pictured himself at the county fair next fall, standing proudly beside the rabbit’s pen with a blue or even a purple ribbon on it. He could breed her with Jones’s New Zealand buck and make enough money to buy another bike, a shiny new one. It was a good deal all right, he decided.
Tom unlatched the white picket gate to the yard and detoured around the house to where his rabbit hutches stood under the big willow tree out back. He was trying to think of a good name for the new doe, something elegant. Suddenly he stopped, and his heart seemed to drop into his stomach. The hutch door was open, and the red rabbit was gone!
Tom whirled toward the house when something else caught his eye. Leaning against the hutch was the green bicycle he had given Lester Simpson in exchange for the rabbit. Tom looked at the bike more closely. The frame was bent. He lifted it and turned the back wheel, but it was out of round and stuck. The seat suddenly fell off its post, hitting the ground by Tom’s foot. He dropped the bike and ran for the house.
As he burst into the bright living room, Brent and Ivan jumped up from the couch. Tom could see by their faces that they already knew. “What happened?” he demanded.
“Lester brought the bike back and took the rabbit,” Ivan said.
“I can see that!” Tom said angrily. “If you guys were here, why didn’t you stop him?”
“He’s almost twelve, Tom, and he’s big,” answered Brent, who was ten and small for his age. Ivan, a year younger, was bigger than Brent was.
“I tried to keep him from opening the door,” Ivan said, “but he pushed me against the hutch.” Then he pulled the neck of his striped shirt down and showed Tom the scrape on his shoulder.
Tom felt a little calmer. He knew Ivan would do his best in a situation like that. “What did he say?”
“He told us the bike was no good so he was taking the rabbit back,” Brent reported. “And he said if you try to get it back again, he’s got four guys waiting to beat you up.”
“Lester said he gave you a prize rabbit and got a crummy bike in return,” Ivan explained. “You’re going to fight him, aren’t you? We’ll help you. We can probably get the Jenkins kids to help too.”
At that moment their dad came through the front door. “What’s going on?” he asked, looking at the three serious faces.
Tom told his dad what had happened. “It was a good bike when I traded it to him,” he explained. “I think it was worth as much as the doe.”
“More,” Ivan put in.
“His dad probably ran over it with a tractor or something,” Brent said.
“So what are you going to do about it?” his father asked, sinking into the big rocker.
Mother stepped in from the kitchen. “I don’t want any fights,” she cautioned.
“What do you think I should do, Dad?” Tom asked.
“In a situation like this it’s best to ask yourself what the Savior would do.”
“Did people play dirty tricks on Him, Dad?”
“They were always trying to trip Him up or trick Him into saying something they could get Him for.”
“He didn’t fight them, did He?” Brent asked.
“Not with fists. He fought with His mind and always came up with the right answer.”
All three boys were silent. Tom tried to think of some way he could get back at Lester, but there didn’t seem to be anything he could do. Dad looked at him kindly and said, “Lester Simpson will be ordained a deacon next month. Usually he’s not such a bad kid. Maybe you can think of some way to make him realize what he’s done.” His father stood up and said, “Let’s eat; I’m starved.”
After dinner Tom went outside and sat in his thinking place in the willow tree, the huge branches spread out around him, warm and brown. The yellow leaves hadn’t fallen yet, and the light of the sunset filtered a red glow through them. Below him he could see the tops of his rabbit hutches.
All his rabbits were just regular white rabbits. They furnished his family with meat, and any extra he sold to the neighbors. I finally had a real purebred rabbit, he mused. Now it’s gone. Tom’s fingers could still feel the incredibly thick, soft fur and the sturdy little body beneath it. He thought of the warm, trusting way it snuggled against his stomach. Lester must have taken good care of it. Boy, how I wanted that rabbit!
Suddenly the solution seemed obvious and simple. He would just have to buy the rabbit. Most of the money he earned from his rabbits had to go for school clothes and other necessities, but he did have seven or eight dollars saved up. Dad will probably loan me the rest, he reasoned. After all, it is an investment.
Tom thought about Lester and his tough friends waiting there when he went to buy the rabbit. They’d probably call him “chicken” and “stupid” for not fighting, for buying a rabbit that had already been fairly traded. He guessed he could stand that. His brothers might think the same thing, though, especially Ivan, who was always ready to fight when necessary. Tom’s solution did not seem awfully clever or tricky but it seemed right, and he went to bed feeling fairly easy in his mind.
At breakfast the next morning, Tom told his family of his decision and asked Dad for the loan.
“I think you should fight him,” Ivan said.
“I don’t,” said Mother, “but you’ll have to be prepared for some ridicule.”
“I know,” Tom replied, stuffing toast into his mouth. “I can take it.” But inside he was not altogether sure.
“I think that’s a courageous decision,” Dad said, smiling. Tom felt a lot better.
“I’ll go over right after school,” Tom said, “so I’ll be a little late getting home.”
“Good luck,” Brent encouraged. Tom knew his little brother was relieved to get out of a fight.
Tom saw Lester around school that day, but he did not speak to him nor look at him.
After school, Tom and his brothers went in the direction of Lester’s house. Tom could see Lester up ahead with some friends. From time to time they looked back nervously. At the last corner, Tom told Ivan and Brent to go home. He watched with regret as they rode away on their bikes. The boys up ahead looked back and, seeing Tom alone, laughed and ran toward Lester’s house.
When Tom unlatched the gate, he could see Lester and his four companions standing by the rabbit hutches. Without looking at the others, Tom walked straight up to Lester. “I’ve come to buy that red rabbit,” he said.
Lester looked at his friends in surprise. “You got another broken-down bike to trade me?” He looked at his friends again, and they all laughed.
“No, I have the cash—fifteen dollars. I think that’s a fair price.” Tom looked directly into Lester’s eyes. Lester didn’t laugh this time, but looked down at the ground and scuffed his shoe around in the dirt. “Is it a deal?” Tom pressed.
“Well, Yeah … I guess so,” Lester finally replied.
Tom handed him the money, but Lester still wouldn’t look at him. His friends began to snigger quietly. “Boy, is he dumb!” one whispered.
Tom walked over to the hutch and opened it. He pulled out the New Zealand Red and tucked it up under his shirt. It snuggled deliciously against his skin, and Tom felt happy again. There was nothing they could say that would bother him.
Then they started in, “Guess he was afraid to fight.”
“He always was chicken. His dumb little brothers are too.”
“His daddy gave him the money so he wouldn’t have to fight.”
But now their laughter sounded forced. Lester said nothing, and he didn’t laugh. Tom walked out the gate and started up the road, feeling calm and happy, the rabbit held securely against him.
He was about halfway home when he heard someone running behind him. He turned around and saw Lester coming up the road. Tom stopped and waited and when Lester caught up, they walked along silently together. Finally, Lester spoke, “How come you didn’t fight? Your brothers would have helped you. You could have got some guys.”
Tom smiled at Lester. “I did fight, Les. I won. I got me this fine rabbit.” He patted his shirt. “What did you get?”
They walked in silence for a few more minutes. Then Lester reached into his pocket and pulled out the money. He handed it to Tom. “I guess I didn’t get anything. Here’s your money.” Tom stuffed it into his pants pocket. “My dad ran over the bike with his cattle truck,” Lester explained.
“Figured something like that. Sorry it happened,” Tom said.
“Yeah, well, that’s the way it goes sometimes.”
“This is a fine rabbit, Les. You must have taken good care of her. I’d like to get more rabbits from you when I can,” Tom said.
“Sure,” Lester smiled. “Anytime I’ve got something you want. Hey, I better get home. Mom’ll have dinner ready,” he slapped Tom lightly on the back, turned around, and started back to his house.
Tom tucked the rabbit up higher and walked home, smiling in the shadowy autumn afternoon.

As Tyler climbed out of Grandpa’s truck, the cold January wind off Boston Harbor whipped at his face. With each breath, a tiny cloud of fog appeared in front of him. “This is Boston, Grandpa?”
Not waiting for an answer, he continued eagerly, “Where is Boston Garden? And Fenway Park—where is Fenway Park, Grandpa?”
Smiling, Grandpa answered, “Put your scarf on, and then I’ll show you where everything is.”
Wrapping his scarf close around his face, he followed his grandfather. As they walked, Tyler saw a man sit down and take a huge army knapsack off his back. Sitting next to the man was a black Labrador retriever wearing a guide-dog harness. Tyler noticed that the dog’s shaggy fur was scruffy as it looked at him in apparent misery on the cold pavement.
He looked from the dog to the man, who had now set up a small keyboard, amplifier, and generator.
It was obvious that the man was blind as he fumbled to find the power switch. His hands were cracked and bleeding as he placed an old, battered cap upside-down on the ground and began to play. The man smiled politely and said thank you whenever he heard coins drop into the hat.
“Why is that man playing outside in such cold weather, Grandpa?”
“He probably doesn’t have a home,” Grandpa answered solemnly.
“Unfortunately, some of the street performers in the shopping district are homeless.”
Tyler pulled his coat tighter about himself and thought of his own warm home.
When Grandpa dropped him off at home that night, Tyler went straight to his room. Taking his piggy bank from his dresser, he opened it and dumped the contents onto his bed. Slowly he counted first his bills, then his coins. Nineteen dollars and fifty-eight cents.
He lifted the bank up to his face and peered into the hole in the bottom. Reaching in with two fingers, he pulled out a folded catalog page. He unfolded it and admired the fishing pole that he had been planning to get for his grandfather. Now, however, even though Grandpa’s birthday was only two days away, Tyler couldn’t forget the blind man’s cracked hands or the dog’s sad eyes.
The next day after school, Tyler emptied the contents of the piggy bank into his coat pocket, borrowed his little sister’s red wagon, and walked to the store. Twenty minutes later he left it, his pockets no longer jingling with change. Instead, one pocket bulged with a new pair of wool gloves, and his wagon creaked under the weight of a large bag of dog food.
After parking the wagon in the garage, Tyler went to his room. Grandpa’s birthday was only a day away, and Tyler still had no gift to give him. Searching his room, he found the ceramic pot he had made in art class. Dumping out the loose baseball cards in it, he took a closer look.
Well, it’s blue, and that’s Grandpa’s favorite color, he thought, trying to convince himself that his grandfather would like it. He cleaned it up, then sat down with a pencil and a sheet of paper and began to write:
Dear Grandpa,
For your birthday, I wanted to get you something you would really like. I know that to really help people, we are to give as much as we can to fast offerings, but this gift is a sort of remembrance of our wonderful day in Boston together. …
When he finished, he stuck the note and the creased picture of the fishing pole inside the ceramic pot and wrapped it.
The next evening, his stomach felt as though he had eaten stone soup instead of the wonderful birthday dinner his grandmother had prepared. Grandpa is going to be awfully disappointed at my present, he thought sadly as Grandma brought out the candle-lit cake.
When it was time for Grandpa to open his gifts, he reached for Tyler’s package first. Tyler held his breath as he watched his grandfather’s face. When Grandpa finished reading the note in the pot, he smiled at Tyler, his blue eyes twinkling.
The following Saturday, Tyler and his grandfather were back in Boston. Grandpa carried the dog food, and he carried the wool gloves. Rounding the corner, Tyler saw a number of street performers. Straining his eyes, he spotted the blind man and his dog at the end of the block. Approaching him, Tyler said, “Excuse me, sir.”
The man continued to play, but turned his head in the direction of the boy’s voice.
“I have something for you. I paid for it with my own money.”
The man stopped playing his keyboard, and Tyler handed him the gloves. As he felt the wool gloves, a huge smile spread across the man’s face.
“Also,” Tyler quickly went on, “I brought a bag of food for your dog.”
Now the man spoke, his voice husky. “Thank you, boy. Thank you.”
As Grandpa set down the heavy bag, Tyler noticed the Lab’s ears perk up. And when he glanced back later, he saw that the man was wearing the new gloves while he gave his dog some of the food.
Tyler looked up to see Grandpa’s eyes twinkling again. “I’ll treasure the pot,” Grandpa said, “but I like this gift even better.”