Gospel Story Finder

An unusually warm March sun felt good on ten-year-old Jamie’s back as he sat astride the board fence and watched a large herd of sheep moving up the dirt road toward him. Men on horseback rode on each side of the herd and behind it. Dogs circled silently around the sheep, their bushy tails waving happily. The sheep bleated and pushed against each other, bells clanking merrily on some of their necks. Jamie loved seeing them come by and watched their approach eagerly. Two of the riders waved to him as they rode by, nudging the animals. Some of the sheep came so close to the fence that Jamie could almost touch their woolly backs with his shoe.
After the herd had moved far up the road, almost out of sight, Jamie jumped down from the fence. But he could still hear a soft bleating from somewhere close-by. As he walked slowly up the road, the sounds seemed nearer. Suddenly in the dry ditch by the roadside, he spotted the gray white wool of an old sheep. He ran quickly and slid down the bank into the ditch. The ewe lifted her head, and patient yellow eyes looked into his.
“What are you doing here, sheep?” he asked. The ewe bleated again and tried to get to her feet. Jamie saw that one back leg was twisted and dangling. “You poor thing! I’ll go get Grandpa.” Jamie scrambled out of the ditch and ran down the road and through the gate. His grandfather was coming around the side of the house and almost collided with him.
“Grandpa!” Jamie shouted. “There’s a sheep in the ditch, and its leg’s hurt. Come see!”
Grandpa followed Jamie silently to the ditch and looked down at the sheep. “Whose herd was it that just came by?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Jamie answered. “Some riders waved to me, but I didn’t recognize any of them.”
“Probably from over in Lansdale, bringing their sheep down for shearing.” Grandpa stooped down, put one arm around the ewe’s chest and the other around her hips, and picked her up. The animal bleated with pain and fright as he staggered up the ditch bank with her. Jamie followed his grandfather through the gate and around to the sheds where their own sheep were brought for lambing and shearing.
Grandpa lowered the ewe gently onto the straw and examined her leg. “Go ask Grandma for part of an old sheet,” he directed.
When Jamie returned with the sheet, Grandpa had straightened the ewe’s leg. He tore the sheet into strips and made a splint on the leg with a small flat stick.
“Can we keep her?” Jamie asked.
“She doesn’t belong to us,” Grandpa answered.
“The man riding on that side must have seen her in the ditch,” Jamie argued.
“Maybe and maybe not. And even if he did, she still doesn’t belong to us.” Grandpa tied the strips firmly and stood the ewe up. He looked into its mouth at her ragged yellow teeth. “This is a very old sheep, Jamie. Could be they didn’t want her. Not good for much any longer and hurt to boot.” Grandpa felt the sheep’s stomach carefully. “But she’s going to lamb any day now. That’s worth something.”
“Grandpa, could the lamb be mine since I found its mother?” Jamie asked eagerly.
“Jamie, this is not our sheep.” He looked at Jamie’s sad brown eyes. “We’ll put her in the pasture with the others. If her leg heals and if she lambs and if no one comes for her, you can have the lamb.” Jamie looked up hopefully. “We’ll have to ask around, though, and see if we can find the owner,” Grandpa concluded. Jamie smiled at his grandfather and knelt to pet the old woolly sheep.
The ewe lambed two weeks later. Grandpa had awakened Jamie before the sun was up and had taken him out to the lambing shed. The tiny white lamb stood in the dim light, wet and wobbly, bleating very softly, almost mewing. Jamie loved it instantly and named him Joshua after a white cat he once had.
Every day after school Jamie jumped off the bus and hurried to the pasture to find the lamb, to pet him, and to pick tender young weeds and grass for Joshua to nibble from his hand.
It was a very warm day in the middle of April when Jamie found Joshua and the old ewe missing from the pasture. He ran into the house where his grandmother was kneading bread in the sunny kitchen.
“Where are they?” he demanded.
Grandma glanced at Jamie, then punched the bread and smacked it onto the floured table. “Mr. Goodman came and got them.”
Jamie was stunned. “Mr. Goodman! Why? When?”
“He drove up with his wagon, loaded them in, and was driving away when I went out and asked what he was doing. He said the ewe was lost from his cousin’s herd when they came through here. His cousin said he could have it, so he was taking it. Then he just climbed onto the wagon and left. I didn’t know what to say.” Grandma rolled the dough and smacked it angrily onto the table again.
“Where was Grandpa?” Jamie asked.
“Over to Dayton getting feed. But he’s out in the granary now.”
Jamie ran out the back door and found his grandfather unloading sacks of grain from the wagon. He lowered a sack to the ground and looked at Jamie. “It wasn’t our ewe, Jamie,” he said, before the boy even spoke to him.
“It wasn’t Mr. Goodman’s either!” Jamie’s heart was pounding, and his stomach felt cold.
“It was given to him by the rightful owner, son, so it is really his,” Grandpa said, dragging the sack into the granary.
Jamie followed. “It’s not right!” he shouted, feeling tears starting up behind his eyes. “That was my lamb. You said I could have it.”
“I said you could have it if no one came for it. Someone came.”
“It’s been a month!” Jamie pursued. “When it was just a wounded old ewe, no one cared about it. Those men knew they’d left it in the ditch, and they told Mr. Goodman. But he didn’t want it then. Now when she’s well and has a nice little lamb, he comes for her. It’s not right, Grandpa, and you know it.” Tears were stinging Jamie’s eyes, and his cheeks burned.
Grandpa settled the sack of grain with the others and turned to Jamie. “Well, Jamie, if you really think that’s your lamb, why don’t you go tell Mr. Goodman.”
Jamie’s tears stopped abruptly, and his stomach lurched with fear at the very thought. Mr. Goodman was the watermaster and also the richest man in the county. He rode the ditches on a big gray horse, a forbidding figure with a shovel and a shotgun sticking up behind him. Jamie believed that the big man would shoot anyone who took more than his rightful share of water. He had thick black hair, a black mustache, and fierce, dark eyes. None of the kids took apples from his orchards, no matter how red and tempting they looked from the road. Jamie could not imagine arguing with the watermaster. “Why don’t you talk to him, Grandpa?” he suggested hopefully.
“Because, Jamie, I never considered that ewe to be mine. I don’t figure I have any claim on her or her lamb. If you’re of a different mind, then you talk to him. He’s a fair man.”
Jamie thought about it for three days. He thought of little else. In school he sat in a daze, making up conversations with Mr. Goodman, thinking of good arguments. At night he lay awake picturing himself facing the tall, stern man, the man who took what he wanted without asking or apologizing. Sometimes he saw himself angry and indignant, sometimes mild and reasonable. The more he thought about it, though, the more wrong it seemed to him. He longed for Joshua, for the feel of his soft wool and the sight of him bouncing around the pasture. By the middle of the week Jamie knew for certain that he would have no peace within himself until he talked to Mr. Goodman.
Thursday night as he lay in his bed, a plan began to form in his mind. He thought about what Grandpa had said—that Mr. Goodman was a fair man. He tried to think what might seem right to Mr. Goodman about the lamb. When Jamie awoke the next morning he knew what he would do. All day at school he pondered the idea. When he got off the bus that afternoon he went straight to his grandfather, who was cleaning out the lambing sheds.
“Grandpa, would you excuse me from my chores this afternoon?” he asked.
“Why?” Grandpa questioned.
“I’m going to see Mr. Goodman.”
“Thought you might. But why just at choring time?”
“I want to catch him at his chores so I don’t have to knock on his door and maybe go into his house or something.”
Grandpa looked at him and nodded. “All right. Take the pony. And watch what you say.” Grandpa looked at him closely again. “Are you scared?”
“Yes,” Jamie answered. He turned away and went to saddle the pony.
Jamie found Mr. Goodman cleaning his shearing shed. Great mounds of wool were stacked on one side. Jamie stood in the doorway of the shed, holding a piece of paper in one hand and waiting for Mr. Goodman to notice him. Finally, the man looked up and stopped sweeping. “Well,” he growled. “What do you want?”
“I’m James Nielsen. My grandfather—“
“I know who you are. What do you want?” The afternoon sunlight from the doorway fell across Mr. Goodman’s face, and it seemed to blaze.
“It’s about the old ewe and her lamb.” Jamie swallowed hard.
“You think they’re yours, I suppose.” Mr. Goodman walked toward Jamie. Jamie wanted to turn and run, but he didn’t.
“No, sir, but I think you owe me some money for taking care of them. I have it written down right here.” Jamie handed Mr. Goodman a piece of paper.
Mr. Goodman took off his hat and looked at Jamie for several seconds before he examined the paper. He studied it for a long time. When the man finally looked up his eyes were very black, and he frowned with his whole face. Jamie wondered why he had ever thought his idea would work.
“Three dollars is too much for feed this time of year when sheep can graze,” Mr. Goodman said.
“Grandpa gives them a supplement.”
“Ten dollars for veterinary care? You’re not a vet. Neither is your grandpa.”
“The ewe got well though. And that includes helping her with her lamb.”
Suddenly Mr. Goodman smiled. “Did your grandpa put you up to this?”
“No, sir. He said it wasn’t his ewe, and you had a right to take her and her lamb. But I think it’s wrong.” Jamie hadn’t meant to say that, and Mr. Goodman wasn’t smiling now, but the boy went on anyway. “We took care of the ewe and got her well, and her lamb was born on our place. I wondered if instead of giving me the money, you’d give me the lamb.” Jamie stopped, his heart pounding in his throat.
Mr. Goodman sat down on a box and looked at the paper again. “This list of expenses is fair enough, I guess, but the lamb’s worth more than what I owe you.” Jamie’s heart sank. “However, if you’ll come over here and help me clean up from shearing for the next three nights, the lamb’s yours.” He stood up and smiled at Jamie. His eyes were not fierce at all, but quite warm and friendly. Mr. Goodman held out his hand to Jamie. “Is it a deal?”
“Yes, sir!” Jamie smiled and shook the man’s big hand. Then he turned and ran to his pony and climbed on. As he rode away, he glanced over his shoulder and saw Mr. Goodman still standing in the doorway watching him.
When he rode into the yard, Grandpa was waiting by the gate. Jamie jumped down quickly. “You were right, Grandpa. He’s a fair man.”
Grandpa put his arm around Jamie’s shoulders and pulled him close. “And you’re a brave man, Jamie. Tell me what happened.”

Yasmin is not only a great explorer and reader, but also a great swimmer. She faced a difficult decision when her swim team practice time was changed to Monday nights. “I love swimming,” she says, “but I quit the team so I could spend time with my family.”
Luckily, she got to spend time with her family and swim on their vacation to Croatia, a small European country about a six-hour drive away. She collected shells and swam in the Adriatic Sea. She hopes to go back someday because “it’s so warm there!”

But I felt so alone! I was in Zion, the place of peace and rest for the Saints. I was supposed to be happy. But I missed my family.
The blind lady allowed me to stay with her and keep house, and I tried my hardest to keep everything neat and clean for her. But she wasn’t my family. Mama was always in my thoughts. I knew that she would come. Somehow, some way, Mama would make it to Zion.
Whenever I heard of a wagon train coming into the Salt Lake Valley, I watched for the dusty sky—a sure sign that the wagons would arrive soon. Then I’d run to the fence and climb as high as I could to see the immigrants. At first they would be just a dust cloud on the horizon. But slowly, oh so slowly, I could make out the wagons and the animals and the people.
I studied the women passing by. Mama’s hair is that color—but no, it isn’t her. Over there is a woman with Mama’s posture—but no, it isn’t her, either. Could that one driving the team be her? No, no, no. With every incoming group, I thought, Surely Mama will be in this company with my younger brothers and sisters.
I searched and searched, and doubts would come. No one smiled at me. No one ran and wrapped me in her arms. As the wagons rolled past, another heartache began. With each disappointment, the tears coursed down my cheeks and I cried until there were no more tears left.
Two long, hard years passed before Mama finally came. When she did, I could hardly believe my eyes. She was worn and tired and covered with dust. I almost didn’t recognize her. But she knew me, even though I had grown quite a bit taller.
I ran to her as fast as I could. I wrapped my arms around her and wept—this time tears of happiness. She had made it to Zion. I wasn’t alone anymore. Together we were home. At last I felt Zion in my heart.

Kumar grew up near Panadura, Sri Lanka in below poverty conditions. He found it difficult to get enough to eat each day. His father was uneducated and worked very hard selling coconuts. He would hang king coconuts on his bicycle and try to sell them along the road. Sometimes, Kumar would go with him. Kumar described his father’s love and determination to provide for his family, “I saw his eyes when he didn’t sell the coconuts . . . he was so sad he couldn’t feed us. He was a very good man. He never smoked or drank alcohol.”

“When I was 16, I ‘came to Jesus’ on the road one day when I was walking alone. I was so hungry. There was a priest that helped me to come to the Church and build myself. God gave me everything, every day, through people. Now I’m very comfortable with many blessings and my wonderful wife and three children,” asserted Kumar.

Kumar said for many years he had a good relationship with Jesus. He said he has prayed to God daily for 30 years and has received help in times of need, “I’ve had many miracles in life.”

In December 2004, Kumar was taking a tour of southern Sri Lanka with a client from Germany. Unexpectedly, the man changed his plans and told him to drop him at his hotel by the beach. He told Kumar he would call him in a few days to continue his tour. Kumar could have stayed to enjoy the beach but decided to call his tour partners for another assignment. They asked him to take a client to Kandy, a mountain area in Sri Lanka. While in Kandy, he heard on the news that a terrible tsunami had hit southern Sri Lanka exactly where he was earlier that day. His client from Germany never called him back, as the hotel where he dropped him off was destroyed. Sri Lankan authorities reported over 31,000 confirmed dead with several thousand others missing, nearly 0.2 percent of the population of Sri Lanka.

Avoiding the tsunami reinforced Kumar’s commitment to pray. He thanked God for saving his life that day and continues to thank God in prayer daily.

My school had a fund-raiser in which we could buy raffle tickets for a chance to eat lunch with our teacher. I really wanted to eat lunch with my teacher.
After school I asked my dad if I could take a dollar to school so I could buy four raffle tickets. Dad said that he wondered if raffles couldn’t be a little bit like gambling and that Heavenly Father didn’t want us to gamble. He said I could do whatever I wanted, but that I should pray about it and see what Heavenly Father wanted me to do. He told me that I would be blessed if I did what Heavenly Father wanted me to do.
That night I asked Heavenly Father to help me make the right decision. I felt that I should not buy the tickets. The next day I didn’t take any money with me even though I was sad that I wouldn’t get to eat with my teacher. But Heavenly Father blessed me. My teacher decided to also put the names of students who were good during school into a bag and pull out a name to eat lunch with her. My name was pulled! I’m happy that I chose the right and obeyed Heavenly Father.

Here is an example. I know of a young man, a refugee here in Utah, who was teased for being different, including sometimes speaking his native language. He was persecuted by a gang of privileged youth until he retaliated in a way that caused him to be jailed for over 70 days while being considered for deportation. I don’t know what provoked this group of youth, many of them Latter-day Saints like you, but I can see the effect of their meanness, a tragic experience and expense to one of the children of God. Small actions of unkindness can have devastating consequences.

The article “Be Not Ashamed: Facing the Issues” in the November New Era states: “If you have had similar experiences with important current issues in your schools, share them with us.” In response to this request I am writing to tell you of my experience.
As an undergraduate university student, I became more and more irritated at being taught evolution as if it were a fact, not a theory. So for my required essay in Zoology II, I decided to attack the accidental creation aspect of the theory of evolution. Thus began a search through many books in the library. I read each book until a specific term was mentioned. I then looked up the term in a chemistry book to find out the conditions under which the substance or process could be produced. Time and again, the chemical conditions necessary for the reactions to occur did not exist. I explained these problems in my paper and turned it in.
When I received my essay back, I was overjoyed to see a 7/10 mark on the front cover. I was afraid I might get a 0/10. The lecturer had typed two full pages in reply to my essay. He disagreed with my conclusions, but praised me for “being brave enough to contradict the topic after reading a number of pertinent references.”
Later I had a talk with him about both science and religion. He couldn’t understand why I had written the essay because I hadn’t mentioned religion. He said, “If you had religious grounds for your views, I could understand, but the whole text of your essay shows clearly that this is not the case.” Of course, I explained that I had been trying to answer science with science and took the opportunity to explain the gospel to him. We had several conversations and parted amicably, each respecting the other’s views.
About this same time I had several conversations with my physiology teacher. One day he began defending the spontaneous beginning of life, and he led me step by step through my own argument! As he made each point, I had a scientifically valid counterattack ready. When we reached the point at which I had the last word, he changed the subject. I then used this opportunity to tell him about the gospel.
I’m glad I wrote the essay. I’m prepared to admit that parts of it were scientifically flimsy. After all, I had studied very little genetics, and I’m sure it was easy to see the superficiality of my knowledge. The experience did the most good inside me, however, because I stood up for what I believed when it would have been easier to let everyone assume I believed what was being taught. It was also good for me to tell my lecturers about the gospel, and it was good for them to hear it.
This experience will go into my life history as a time when I was willing to speak out. Hopefully, the next time I speak out, I’ll be better armed.
Janice TurnerPenrith, New South Wales, Australia

“Stop daydreaming, Abigail,” Mother scolded, “and get the table ready for supper. Your father will be along any minute, hungry and tired after working all day in the fields.”
Abigail hurried; she had been daydreaming about her old home. She knew Mother needed her help, but it was hard not to think about the friends and fun she had left in England before they had come to the New World.
On her way to the well for the milk and butter, Abigail stopped. Gazing at the cornfield and then at the shadow-laden hills beyond increased her loneliness.
Mother hadn’t let her go to see her friend Bess today because there had been too much to do. Bess had a doll and some doll dresses she had sewed, and Abigail had wanted to go and help make another costume for the doll. Abigail’s own doll had been left behind in England when they’d come to the colony.
Abigail drew the pail with milk and butter from the well, where it stayed cool between meals, and took it back up the path and into the cabin. Mother was putting hot bread on the table beside a steaming bowl of stew.
Father came in from the bench where he had just washed up, and they sat down to supper together. This was the best part of the day for Abigail. She liked it when Father was in the cabin. He usually sat by the fireplace and carved things after supper until he went to bed.
He had carved their spoons and Mother’s big stirring paddle. He said there were other things he wanted to carve as soon as the long winter evenings began. During the summer Father worked late in the fields and only had time to do a little carving after Mother and Abigail were in bed.
Tonight he seemed very tired, but he smiled when he called Abigail to him by the fireside. He held out some carved pieces for her to see.
“Why, Father!” Abigail cried. “I see feet and arms, and that must be a head and body!” She looked at her father, and his eyes were twinkling. To think that Father has been carving a doll for me after working so hard all day! she thought. Hugging her father as hard as she could, she said, “Oh, Father, I didn’t know you knew how much I missed my doll! But how will those pieces go together?”
“You’ll see,” he said as he got up and brought some cords from a peg in back of the door. He began to make knots and fasten the pieces to the body of the doll. Soon the doll’s arms and legs were attached and they could be moved!
“It seems like magic.” Abigail chuckled as she spoke. “Now I can make dresses for her and sing to her when I am lonely, just as I did in England.”
“You surely can,” Mother said, “when your work is done. Remember, you still need to knit stockings for us. We all need new ones for the cold weather that is coming soon.”
“I thought no one knew how lonely I was and how much I missed our old home,” Abigail said, walking over to hug her mother. “I will be good and help all I can. Father shall have the first new socks; they are almost finished. Yours will be next, Mother; you work so hard for all of us.”
“Your mother and I could never forget about you, Abby. It’s good to work hard together. Someday this will be a very dear home, as dear as the one we left in England. And you will like it all the better because you helped to make it so.”

Durban’s dedication weekend served as a homecoming for Elder and Sister Cook, who had resided in South Africa as he served five years in the Africa Southeast Area presidency, including the last three as president. He had presided at the Durban temple’s groundbreaking on April 6, 2016.
“Four years ago, Sister Cook and I climbed the hill where the Durban temple was to be built, along with many others who attended the groundbreaking,” he recalled of the beautiful, clear day.
“There was a feeling of awe as we sat on that empty hillside. We looked out over the valley and out to the ocean and realized that in a few short years, a temple would rise up on that ground. To have the sacred privilege of returning for the dedication of the Durban temple that has been built up to the Lord is very humbling. I am filled with joy.”

Julie’s first day at Flower Elementary School just happened to be the day before Valentine Day. At breakfast that morning she felt sick.
“You’re probably just nervous,” her mom said. “Going to a new school can be scary.”
Julie did feel scared as she walked into the school yard. Everywhere she looked, she saw children she didn’t know. She wondered if she’d ever make friends.
Julie and her mom found her classroom and met her new teacher. Then Mom went home.
The teacher asked each of Julie’s new classmates to give his name and tell about something that he liked. Julie tried to remember everyone, but it was too hard.
After all the children had introduced themselves, the teacher talked about the valentine party for the next day. “You’re here just in time for the fun,” she said to Julie, handing her a written list of everyone’s name.
After school Julie told her mom about her day. “I’ll feel bad at the party because I don’t really know anyone yet.”
“Why not use the party to make new friends?” Mom suggested. “Give a special valentine to everyone in your class.”
Yes, Julie thought, I can do that. I’ll try to make extra-special valentines.
The first name on the list that her teacher had given her was Kim Anderson. Julie remembered Kim because she seemed nice. “I like cats and picnics,” Kim had said. So I’ll draw a picture of a cat having a picnic for Kim’s valentine, Julie decided.
She read the other names on the list and remembered what six of the children had said that they liked. For those that she couldn’t remember, she decided to draw hearts and cute stuffed animals.
When Julie explained her plan, Mom smiled and took her to the crafts store for supplies. Julie was picking out poster board when her stomach began to itch. She scratched it with her left hand and grabbed a sheet of pink poster board with her right one.
Back in the car Julie scratched her stomach again. Mom peeked under Julie’s sweater. “Oh, honey,” she said, “you’re coming down with the chicken pox. No wonder you didn’t feel well this morning.”
They drove right to Dr. Elder’s. “You just have a mild case of chicken pox,” he said. “Take it easy and don’t scratch. And no school for about a week.”
“No school!” Julie wailed when she got home. “Can’t I at least go to the party? I was going to make lots of friends with my special valentines.”
“I’m sorry, dear, but there will be other ways to make new friends when you can go back to school—you’ll see.”
The next morning Julie watched through the living room window as other children walked to school. She saw Kim and another girl from her class and plenty of children whom she didn’t know. They all chattered happily as they walked, making Julie feel lonelier than ever.
Even though Mom smeared lotion on Julie’s itchy blisters and read stories to her and played games with her, when two o’clock came, she felt especially sad because that was the time that the valentine party was supposed to start.
“I would have taken your valentines to school if I’d realized how much it meant to you,” Mom said.
“I didn’t make them, anyway,” Julie reminded her mom. “I was too tired to cut out that many hearts.”
Mom nodded. “That’s too much cutting for a girl with chicken pox.”
Then Julie had an idea. She could make one valentine by the time the children walked home from school. Working fast, she drew a giant heart on the poster board and cut it out and used a red crayon to write “Let’s be friends” on it. Then she drew a cat having a picnic, a truck, a horse, a baseball bat, a dog, some flowers, and some hearts. At the bottom she added, “I’m sick with chicken pox, but I’d still like to be your valentine. Julie.”
Mom helped her tape the giant heart to the living room window.
Soon dozens of children were walking past her house. They all looked at her valentine, but she didn’t recognize any of them. Then Kim came down the street. As soon as she saw the window, she pointed at it and called to other kids. Julie recognized them—they were her new classmates! She waved to them, but they had gathered together and were talking and didn’t wave back. Still talking, they sat on Julie’s lawn and acted very busy.
At last they stood, walked up to Julie’s front door, dropped envelopes into the mail slot and grinned and waved to her as they went on down the street.
Julie waved back enthusiastically, a big smile on her own face. Then she sat on the sofa and opened the envelopes. What fun it was. She had valentines from five children in her class—and even some from children in other classes! Her favorite one had a picture of a cat saying:
“To my chicken-pox valentine—
Get well so that we can have a picnic together.
Your friend,Kim.”

Once there were two men—one whose name was Ef and the other whose name was Ez. This incident occurred some years ago in the back country where education was at a premium. Ef had a slate and a piece of chalk, and he was sitting under a tree in the shade on a warm day. As he was writing on this slate with his chalk, Ez sauntered up to him. Ef turned and said, “Look, Ez, I can write.” Ez was impressed. He replied, “That’s great. What does it say?” Ef answered, “I don’t know; I haven’t learned to read yet.”

If I go over what happened a hundred times, I still can’t make any sense out of it.
Look, it was this normal weekend night in the city, and Mother was planning my Sabbath. (We are all supposed to call it the “Sabbath,” or “Church Day.”) The Sabbath, she reminded me, was the next day.
“Now tomorrow afternoon after church,” she was saying, “Brother Matthew wants you to be available for home teaching. Fortunately for you, all your home teaching families are within walking distance from our house. Your father has no end of trouble getting across the city to see his families all in one afternoon.”
I would not have to ask whether our families would let us in the door. Years ago, some of the families would have slammed their door in our faces, and left me with the afternoon free. But since the city church leaders’ activation efforts, everyone is super nice now. They are all more than happy to see me and talk the day away!
But I had no intention of going home teaching the next day. Or even going to church, for that matter.
“Oh, Mother, …” I began, knowing full well how this conversation would end. Pleading to get one Sabbath free never seemed to work with my parents. “Oh, Mother, …” I began again, “you know I have 100 percent attendance at all my meetings, but just this once, just this one Church Day, I want to do something on my own, in place of church …”
“In place of church?” Her eyes widened. I knew that I was pushing a lost cause, but I kept right on babbling. I have a bad habit of that.
“Yes, in place of church! You know how you are always telling us to get out and enjoy God’s world, so I want to go out with my friend Sam on the lake tomorrow. He just built a new boat, and the lake is just a little way from the city …”
I was going to end my request with something about “communing with God’s world right out in nature,” but one look at my mother told me that, even with the theological ending, my argument was not going to get a fair hearing.
“Going boating! On the Sabbath day! Now, what was it we were just discussing in our last family home evening?”
I groaned. The last family home evening had been on keeping the Sabbath day holy. They had asked me to prepare the lesson, and evidently I had been especially convincing.
I tried a different tack. “Now, Mother, you don’t believe Heavenly Father is going to send me straight to hell just because I miss one church meeting, do you?”
Her face softened just a bit. But only just a bit. “I believe Heavenly Father wants to give you as many blessings as he possible can. But if you don’t keep the commandments, you may miss some important blessings that he wants you to have.”
Like being bored, I thought. Well, there’s more than one way to skin a cat. I knew through painful experience that outright defiance would get me nowhere. The last time I tried that I wound up with my mother crying all night while I had to listen to my father give me a lecture on a son’s responsibility to listen to his parents. No, this controversy had to be handled with stealth and guile.
The next morning I got up bright and early and dressed in my best. Both Mother and Father were pleased; they usually had to drag me out of bed. I put on my most innocent expression and told them that I was going to attend church on the other side of the city, so I might be back a little late. They gave me a big smile and kissed me good-bye. I almost felt guilty.
The rest, of course, was pretty simple. As soon as I got clear of the city and down by the lake, I stashed my good clothes in the bushes, having worn my fishing cutoffs underneath. I had a great day with Sam on the lake, communing with nature.
At sundown I started back to the city. I didn’t think I would have any trouble convincing my parents I had been engaged in healthy church activities the entire day. They were so full of goodness that they seldom even suspected anything less in others.
But when I got to the main highway that’s supposed to lead right into the city I didn’t see any city lights. That’s odd, I said to myself. But I just kept running down the road. The road came to an end, and still, no city.
I mean, there was just an empty field. Now, how could the whole city of Enoch just disappear?
Then I heard a voice behind me saying, “You were not supposed to be here today.”
I turned around and there stood a man in white. He looked at me for a long time and then said, “You were not supposed to be here today. Your city has been taken up, and your parents are not in it.”
I remember standing there, stunned, while he went on to explain that the city had been translated because the people were so righteous, and only those who had gone with it were with my parents.
I asked him how I was supposed to get there, but he told me it was too late.
Then he said, “If you had been where you were supposed to be, you would have been with them.”
I could only stand there and cry. I had missed the city of Enoch because I wanted to go boating on the Sabbath day.

When I was young I was overly dependent on my older sister. For example, I was a fussy eater, and when we went to visit our grandparents I was constantly faced with being offered food I didn’t like. To minimize my embarrassment, when the plate was passed to me, I would turn to my sister and ask, “Collene, do I like this?”
If it was familiar and she knew I didn’t like it, she would say, “No, he doesn’t like that.”
I could then say to Grandma, “She’s right. I don’t like it.”
If it was something we hadn’t eaten before she would say, “Just a minute,” and taste it, and then tell me if I liked it or not. If she said I didn’t like it, no amount of coaxing could get me to eat it.
I know it is past time for me to rely on my own taste buds and stop denying myself healthy food just because my sister told me I didn’t like it.

Steve was born a beautiful child, perfect in every respect. His infancy was problem-free, and he was busy playing and getting into mischief. Everything was going well in his life, until one day he became very ill with an unknown disease.
It didn’t seem serious at first, but when Steve didn’t get better we learned that he had a brain tumor as big as a grapefruit and would need surgery right away. My mother and father were separated, so we children were on our own with mother. The doctors told my mother that Steve probably would not survive the surgery, but it was decided to operate anyway. The surgery lasted 12 hours. Afterward Steve remained unconscious and was not expected to live through the night.
That night mother had the elders give Steve a blessing, feeling that the best would happen. Steve had a really bad night, but the next morning when my mother went to see him, he was sitting up in bed for the first time since the surgery.
This was the beginning of a long recovery. Steve had to learn how to walk and talk, to do everything all over again just like a baby. With the strong will that he had, even as young as he was, he did learn how to do the everyday things in life. He was a little slow and had to attend a special education class to catch up with the children his own age, but Steve worked very hard and before long was up with the other children.
In addition to Steve’s new life we were all adjusting to a new father; my mother had married again.
Just when things were going well for him it came time for more surgery to relieve fluid that was collecting on his brain. The doctors didn’t think that the surgery would be very serious. We were all getting ready to leave for the hospital to see Steve when my parents received a phone call telling them to come to the hospital right away because Steve had just had a stroke and was not expected to live.
This was a real turning point in our life as a new family with my new father. We became so close and worked together for Steve. The stroke was serious, but there was hope and the gospel in our lives. We relied on our Heavenly Father at this difficult time, and the Spirit was with us constantly. Steve recovered from his stroke but was paralyzed on his left side and could not talk, walk, or eat by himself. These were hard times for Steve. He could have given up very easily, but he didn’t. Steve had set goals for himself, one of which was to go on a mission and serve his Heavenly Father. This seemed like a goal that couldn’t possibly be reached. Steve would achieve it, however, because he never gave up.
The days after his stroke were difficult for him. He was confined to a wheelchair and required physical therapy every day. His spirits were always high, and he never complained. He just worked hard. After his time in the hospital, he finally got to come home, but in a wheelchair. He progressed from a wheelchair to a two-handed walker, which was amazing, and finally to a one-handed walker. We thought this would be as far as he would go, but Steve fooled us all. He kept up the hard work and finally could walk without any assistance.
This wasn’t enough for Steve. He still had that big goal of a mission to accomplish, so he set about working on school and learning more about the gospel. The bishop was a little skeptical about sending Steve on a mission but supported him all the way. To see if he could handle the everyday life of missionary work, Steve was called on a two-week mission in Salt Lake City. He did so well that the following Sunday after he was home, he submitted his missionary application and was soon called to labor in the California Arcadia Mission. He was so excited that he had been able to accomplish the goal he had set, especially since he wasn’t even supposed to have lived.
Steve is an example to his family and everyone he comes in contact with. He has the will to accomplish goals and the will to keep on going when things don’t look good. Steve is an example to us all that we can accomplish our goals if we have faith and keep going.
I am so proud to be his sister.

The summer before my senior year in high school, I decided to participate in my hometown’s Olympic-length triathlon. I had always been a runner, so the 10 kilometer run portion didn’t worry me too much. And I liked cycling, even though 40 kilometers seemed like a long time to be on a bike. What I was really concerned about was the 1.5-kilometer swim, but as I trained over the summer, I became more confident in all three events.
The night before the race my dad helped me set up my swim-to-bike transition. We made sure everything was placed just right, so I could get to biking as quickly as possible after I got out of the water.
At 7:00 the next morning, I jumped into the cold river to begin the race. In less than 30 minutes I was out of the water and getting ready to begin the bike course.
Thousands of people were competing, and even more people were there to cheer the racers on. I knew my family members and friends were along the course somewhere, but I didn’t know where, and I didn’t think I could pick their voices out of the large cheering crowd surrounding the transition zone. Just as I was about to hop on my bike, a voice cut through the noise.
“Heather, the chain is off your bike. Heather, put your chain back on. The chain is off your bike.”
It was different from all the other voices that were yelling and cheering the triathletes on. That voice stood out to me because I knew and trusted that voice. It was the voice of my high school cross-country coach. I looked down, and sure enough, my chain was off. I quickly put it back on and began riding. A few hours later I had successfully completed my first Olympic-length triathlon.
Had I not heard my coach, I would have figured out pretty quickly that the chain was off my bike. But I probably would have figured it out with my right foot clipped into my pedal pushing down hard to get my momentum going. Without the anticipated resistance from my chain plus my predisposition to being accident prone, I most likely would have fallen over onto the pavement. It wouldn’t be a race-ending or even a serious injury, but I would have had a skinned-up knee and elbow, along with a big hole poked in my confidence. I was grateful for my coach.
That day on the triathlon course, my parents were at the race supporting me, but they couldn’t be everywhere. I needed help from someone else, in this case my coach, who saw what I didn’t notice. The Spirit can be that someone for us wherever and whenever we are worthy and willing to listen. And if we listen and obey, we will successfully “run … the race that is set before us” (Hebrews 12:1).

Dr. Walker came one evening with a book under his arm and a flower in his hand. “Kari, I want you to have this book. I noticed you and your mother reading together, and I guess I wanted to get into the act. I think you of all people might understand a little of what this young boy went through. He was about your age.”
Kari reached for the book and smiled when she realized it was about the Prophet Joseph Smith. As she read she began to feel that Joseph was a good friend as they traveled together through pain, trials, endurance, and above all, loneliness.
A few weeks after the operation, Dr. Walker told Kari she would have to have radiation therapy. The first snowfall had covered the old oak tree when Kari’s mother drove her to the first treatment. Dr. Walker had prepared her for the aftereffects as best he could, but she soon learned to hate the radiation treatments, even though she knew they were probably saving her life. She wrote in her journal, “A radiation treatment is 100 stormy nights all mixed into one.”
Kari’s mother kept her promise. She was there every step of the way. She was a cheerleader in a house dress and apron, keeping up the faith and the fight.
Christmas came and went. The words “Kari, make it just one more day,” became Mother’s battle cry. Or if the fatigue or nausea was unbearable, the words were, “Kari, make it just one more hour.”
As winter dragged on, the hours and days merged into a gray landscape of pain and exhaustion. Finally, on Valentine’s Day, Kari gave up. She lay in bed looking at an unopened valentine from her mother. Finally, she let it fall to the floor, still unopened. She was tired beyond caring. Her leg burned and itched. She was on the verge of vomiting. She lay back and gave herself up to “What if?” and “Why me?”
Turning her head as if to hide the pointless tears, she saw through her window the ropes of her swing. They moved lazily with the wind, pale lines against the bare oak limbs and gray sky. She struggled to her elbow, then slid heavily from her bed and limped to the window. As she looked down at the swing, a memory stirred and grew strong. She knew what she had to do.
She had made it down the stairs somehow and was halfway out the door when her little brother John found her.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he said. “Please get back to bed. It’s cold out here. You’ll catch cold and …”
“Just help me get to the swing.”
John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “The swing? You want to swing? It’s freezing out here.”
Kari kept limping toward the swing. “If you won’t help me, I’ll get there myself.”
John put an arm around Kari’s waist, and she leaned on his shoulder. Together they moved on toward the swing. Each step took forever. Kari held her stomach to keep from retching, dragging her leg behind her.
Finally they reached the wooden seat. Kari sat down and John began pushing her. At first she could do nothing but hold on weakly, but then she felt a change. Her grip tightened. Her head felt less heavy on her shoulders. Slowly at first, then more swiftly, strength came flooding into her from some hidden reservoir. For the first time in weeks she felt fueled by a purpose. She began pulling hard on the rope and stretching her toes forward. She felt as if she were reaching with her legs for the height her soul required. With all the strength she possessed she struggled higher and higher, hanging at each summit in a weightless, timeless calm, then dropping back into a dizzy gulf. Soon she was higher than she had ever been before. Street on street opened to her. Suddenly the whole valley was before her, clear to the horizon. She could see to the edge of the world. Her toes touched oak twigs. She felt as if she had left her body behind while her spirit soared. With every swing the world looked new and different. The oak limbs blurring past were the color of Thomas’s new suit.
The pages of Dr. Walker’s book began to dance in circles through Kari’s mind. She thought of Joseph crying out to the Lord in the jail at Liberty, and she heard the answer:
“My son, peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity … shall be but a small moment;
“And then, if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high; thou shalt triumph over all thy foes” (D&C 121:7–8).
She felt as if she were kneeling with the Prophet as he searched the heavens again for the height he needed, and again heard the voice. “If the very jaws of hell shall gape open the mouth wide after thee, know thou, my son, that all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good” (D&C 122:7).
Bells chimed somewhere in the valley, and Kari thought they were ringing in her soul.
All her newfound strength suddenly drained from her. She was barely able to hold on as the swing slowed. She went limp as John grabbed the ropes and stopped her.
He came around from behind the swing and faced Kari, steadying her as she slumped forward. He was surprised to see a calmness about her. And something that had been missing much too long seemed to have come back.
“John?”
“Kari, what is it? Do you need the doctor?”
Kari shook her head. “I was just wondering how long a woman lives. How old is a woman usually when she dies?”
John shivered in the 35-degree weather. “I had a teacher at school tell me the average life of a woman was 70 or so. She was about 50, and I think she told us that to take away our hopes of getting a different teacher in the near future.”
The wind stopped blowing for a moment, and the air felt less harsh. “John, Dr. Walker says I’ve got three more months of radiation treatments. Right now that looks like forever, but when I think of living 50 or 60 years after that, it’s really just an instant.”
John took his jacket off and put it over Kari’s shoulders. He glimpsed his mother at the kitchen window and knew that in a few moments she would be running out to bring Kari back to the safety of the house.
Kari made circles for a moment with her toe. “The surgeons think they got all the cancer, but they won’t be sure for at least five years, and even then there are no guarantees. But, John …” She took his hands and found that they were strong, like Thomas’s, like her father’s. “Even if they didn’t get it all—when I think of even the longest life compared to forever, it’s like sitting here on the swing and seeing just beyond the yard compared to being so high I can see the entire valley. It’s just a moment.”
John looked a little dubious. “I’d have to say it was a long moment, in my opinion.”
Kari smiled despite the churning of her stomach and the screaming of her leg. “Okay, a long moment, but still a moment.”
“Now let’s go in, Kari. Please? Mom’s coming out of the house, and she’s going to be madder than wet hornets.”
John lifted Kari from the swing. Her head began to swim, and her stomach lurched. He held her tight and started guiding her back to the house. Suddenly she stopped and turned around to look once more at the swing. She knew, as some things are just known, that she would swing again when the bluejays began to fly and the sun warmed the house once more.
“John, Thomas was right.”
John turned around and looked at the swing too. “Thomas is usually right, Kari. He’s the brains in this family.”
The swing began to move slightly as the wind picked up. Kari saw her mother out of the corner of her eye, running to help.
Kari turned her back to the swing, and at the same time she turned her back on giving up. Snow began to fall, but Kari’s thoughts were on the coming spring. She was thinking about the hours she would spend on the swing, and about how far she would learn to see.

My sister has Down syndrome. I try to help her and love her. One thing that helps me spend even more quality time with her is reading the New Era with her. We have lots of fun reading the articles, and she points out her favorite pictures. She sees things in them that I had never seen before. I love my sister, and I love the New Era. Thank you for the time and effort that is put into every wonderful issue.Kalia Robinson, Aurora Ward, Springfield Missouri Stake

Clown Post 207 was born when the ward youth planned a visit to the Shriners Hospital. The explorers decided to present a clown skit as their part on the program. Their adviser, Ron Buchanan, enlisted the help of his neighbor Howard Pressy, who just happened to be a well-known professional clown. With Howard’s help the post prepared an act and presented it at the hospital. Brother Buchanan (alias Classy Clown) recalls, “It gave us all a new perspective. Those young patients weren’t worried about the dance next Saturday. They were worried about whether they were ever going to be able to walk! You can’t be the same after that experience. You come out of there changed.
“We talked afterward about the words of King Benjamin, ‘when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God’ (Mosiah 2:17). We decided to keep right on clowning. We would serve through laughter.”

“Dad has always had great faith in prayer and in the healing power of blessings for the sick. Once his mother was very ill and he remembers the neighbors coming to the house to assist. My father knew that his mother’s illness must be very serious and that frightened him. He ran into the cornfield and dropped to his knees, saying aloud, ‘Heavenly Father, please don’t let my mother die.’ After awhile he went back to her bedroom and asked, ‘How are you, Mother?’ She replied, ‘No better.’ He went back to the corn patch again to repeat his fervent plea. This continued until five o’clock in the afternoon when he again entered his mother’s room. ‘How do you feel, Mother?’
“‘Better, son!’ she answered. And the next day she was able to sit up.”

Illustration by Allen Garns
When I was called as Relief Society president, I was a busy young mother. I had grown up in the Church and lived my life according to its teachings, but I knew I wasn’t perfect and felt concerned about my ability to help the struggling sisters in my ward.
One Sunday in church I felt particularly downhearted. All day I had been stopped by sisters who needed me. Some needed help with welfare, and some just needed me to listen to them. Then the Spirit prompted me not to go into sacrament meeting when it started, and to my surprise I met a less-active sister in the hall who needed comfort and help and could not wait until the end of the meeting.
When church ended, I was exhausted! I cried in the car all the way home. In my head the following words rang: “Talk to the bishop!” I felt that the bishop would have something wise to tell me about how I could feel less burdened with my calling, but I didn’t want to bother him at the end of a long day at church. I had decided to put off calling him when the phone rang. It was my bishop. He had felt prompted to call me.
I told the bishop how draining it had been for me when so many things needed to be solved at once and how sad I felt that I could not help more sisters. He listened patiently. We also went through some of the welfare questions that had come up during the day, and I felt better.
When the conversation ended, I said, “I thought you would have something wise to tell me about how not to feel so overburdened.” He answered that he wished he had something like that to say, but unfortunately he didn’t.
Even though my question wasn’t answered, I felt happy when I hung up the phone. I felt that the Lord had answered my need for guidance and support.
During the following weeks the feelings of insecurity returned, and I prayed to understand what I needed to do to become a better Relief Society president. One day, as I listened to general conference, some words caught my attention, and the Spirit spoke strongly to my heart. I understood that the reason I had felt so inadequate was because I was inadequate on my own.
Through his example, my bishop had shown me how important it is to listen to the Holy Ghost. It is the Spirit that is the key to our callings in the Church, not our own talents or skills. For the first time in a long time, I felt peace and assurance.
I still lack experience and am just as busy with my family as before, but I no longer believe that I must carry out my calling perfectly. Heavenly Father can provide me with the things I need to carry out His will and is able to magnify our efforts as long as we keep His commandments.