Gospel Story Finder

Elder Hammond’s wife, Bonnie, passed away two years ago. While Elder Hammond misses her terribly, he decided to do something nice for his neighbors on the anniversary of her death. He and other family members made cards for his neighbors acknowledging this anniversary. On the cards, he included a picture of a cherry atop a delicious dessert with the words “She was always the cherry on top.” He gave a bag of fresh cherries with each card. “I want my neighbors to know how much I love her and that I look forward to spending eternity together,” Elder Hammond says.

My fourth and last suggestion to help us become strengthened by the hand of the Lord relates to temple worship. One summer I visited Nauvoo, Illinois, with my sister and her family. We walked down Parley Street along the Trail of Hope reading the testimonies of the faithful Saints who had left their beautiful city for the unknown. As we turned and looked up the bluff at the majestic Nauvoo Temple, I mentioned to my nine-year-old nephew, Justin, how sad it must have been for the Saints to leave this beautiful temple they had just built. Justin said to me, “I would take the temple with me.”
It is possible to take a piece of the temple with us each time we attend.

Cesar Aedo is a mime, rapidly becoming well-known in Europe. A former pupil of French master Marcel Marceau, he has performed publicly and on television in Germany, France, and Switzerland, as well as in several countries of South and Central America. In May of 1984, he made his American debut. Now he has signed a contract with one of western Europe’s top circuses, Circus KNIE.
On and offstage, he seems energetic, spontaneous, intense. It becomes apparent in hearing him talk of his background that the intensity he puts into performing is typical of the commitment he has put into all the other things he considers worthwhile in life.
Brother Aedo is a returned missionary, a native of Lima, Peru. It was a struggle for his father, a tailor, to provide basic necessities for his large family. But young Cesar was very eager to obtain an education, and to obey the prophet’s counsel that he should go on a mission. He knew it would require his own effort to enjoy these blessings. So—as the story was told in a 1982 Primary manual—he worked washing and polishing cars near his school to pay for his own schooling and, afterward, for the mission. The mission meant so much to him that he would not allow a bout with appendicitis to keep him down for long. Five days after surgery, he was back teaching and tracting. “I have work to do. I am a missionary,” he explained matter-of-factly.
After his mission, he studied sociology at Villareal University in Lima. But his first love was the performing arts, so he studied those too. In fact, his study of performing had begun much earlier, at age six. He faithfully attended religious instruction classes in the church to which he then belonged because afterward there were old movies for the youngsters, and he was enthralled by the silent film comedy of Buster Keaton, Charlie Chaplin, and Harold Lloyd. Cesar was nine when missionaries brought the gospel to his family. By eleven, he was performing in his LDS branch’s talent shows.
After studying at Villareal University, Brother Aedo wanted to go to Europe for more advanced schooling in political science. He worked his way through several South and Central American countries performing as a mime until he had saved enough money to fly to Europe. “I went to Europe on my talent, nothing more,” he recalls.
A series of events he considers providential prevented him from enrolling immediately. He spent several weeks in late 1979 and early 1980 visiting with his sister in Geneva, Switzerland—long enough to determine that instead of political science he wanted to study mime with the man who is widely recognized as the master. Brother Aedo knew that through his faith it would happen, if he persevered. So he returned to Paris and was persistent enough that he was finally able to see Marcel Marceau and become one of his pupils.
He spent three years studying with Monsieur Marceau—not only the art of mime, but also dramatic art, classical and modern dance, acrobatics, and fencing. He was one of the few pupils able to earn his tuition and expenses through weekend performances and summer touring. Now he is studying with the man who taught the master, Monsieur Marceau’s eighty-six-year-old mentor, Etienne Decroux. He is also continuing his study of classical dance.

At a seminar held in Warsaw, Poland, attended by students and leaders of the Communist party, a student posed this question: “Please don’t be angry, sir, but could you explain the ‘meaning of life?’” Poland’s leading Marxist philosopher reported that as he glanced at the hundreds of pairs of eyes silently staring at the party leadership, he recognized the seriousness of this question and a weakness in their philosophy that has neglected to deal with this challenging problem.
We as members of this church know the meaning of life. It has been revealed in its truthfulness and purity and is available to all who seek, will listen, and believe. The mission and responsibility of this church and its members have been made abundantly clear—to proclaim the Lord’s teachings unto the entire world. We must be prepared to accomplish what the Prophet Joseph Smith proclaimed—to see that “the truth of God [goes] forth boldly, nobly … till it has penetrated every continent … swept every country, and sounded in every ear, till the purposes of God shall be accomplished. …” (Documentary History of the Church, vol. 4, p. 540.) The Lord has said: “Prepare ye the way. …” (D&C 65:1.) Then it is our duty to prepare all of our members so that we might develop a strong foundation and belief in the true gospel of Jesus Christ. The Church-wide teacher development program was developed to help accomplish this purpose. It is now in various stages of implementation in the stakes and the wards and in English-speaking missions throughout the world.
The aim of the teacher development program is to improve teaching wherever teaching is done in priesthood quorums, auxiliary organizations, and in our homes so as to bring about worthwhile changes in the lives of boys and girls, men and women. The First Presidency initiated this program knowing full well the importance of the teaching moments in our classrooms and because of their conviction that all teachers can improve. This program combines the most effective teaching techniques with spiritual principles.
This priesthood-sponsored program, directed by the First Presidency and the Council of the Twelve, places the responsibility for its success with the stake presidents and then the bishops.
The able and highly competent committee appointed by the First Presidency, with Brother Rex Skidmore as chairman and Brother Ruel Allred, Sherman Sheffield, Stephen Covey, and others, has under inspiration developed what is now considered the most effective teaching program in use anywhere.
You stake and ward leaders have performed magnificently with the instruction given to you through the Regional Representatives of the Twelve in organizing, ordering the material, and getting this program off to an auspicious start. There have been shipped to the wards, stakes, and missions 917,598 copies of instructional material. Even with this vast quantity shipped, we apologize to a few who have yet to receive some material, because your orders far exceeded the quantities estimated. A fourth printing was necessary. All back orders are being distributed this week.
I am sure you would like to know how the teacher development program is progressing. The old adage that nothing succeeds like success certainly applies to this program. A stake teacher development director in Idaho reports, “We have now finished our sixth basic lesson in all of the wards. The stake inservice leaders contact me two weeks before the stake leadership meeting to review the filmstrips so they will be properly prepared for their meetings. There is a strong positive response in our stake. Participants taking the first basic course observed our present teaching and were shocked. Their eyes have been opened to the principles of effective teaching.”
A Regional Representative of the Twelve reports, “Teacher development exceeding expectations. Excellent!”
From California: “All ten wards in our stake are half through the basic course.
“When the Primary began these new inservice lessons, they had only one person teaching the entire group. Now the inservice leader has several Primary workers also as teachers, and they break up into smaller groups so everyone can be involved and report their experiences. Some were concerned with micro teaching. Now they use it and enjoy it.”
From a New York stake: “The teacher development materials are excellent and the concepts aid anyone in teaching. I have even used some of these techniques in the public school system.
“Members are asking to be enrolled in the basic course. They are ‘standing in line,’ my wife being one of them.”
One lady reported her teaching improved after the second lesson. She began to use the “eye to eye” approach. She began to “teach with the spirit and heart rather than with the book.”
This story from a Utah rural area: “Twenty-four years ago, as a young man, I was called to teach a Sunday School class of thirteen- and fourteen-year olds. I thought my first lesson was pretty good, but I didn’t have enough material to last through the class period. During my second lesson, again I was out of material. I resolved it would never happen again, but it did the next Sunday. I gave the books back to the Sunday School superintendent. All of these years I have carried a feeling that I was a failure as a teacher, yet I still wanted to teach.
“Now I have taken the basic course. I know what a teacher should be. I know how to prepare. I know how to involve my class, and now I am teaching and fulfilling my lifelong desire. I have developed a foundation for teaching.”
I am sure you have been impressed with the advice and encouragement that President Joseph Fielding Smith and President Harold B. Lee give to the entire Church membership in the film You Make the Difference. This film, which every stake has in its library, outlines the need and demonstrates the methods for calling the participants and implementing the program. The proper influencing of the behavior of individuals through enlightened knowledge is our challenge.
As you know, the program is in three phases:
First: The eleven-week basic course is conducted every week in wards and branches. When one group of participants is graduated, another group starts the course. All officers and teachers, as well as prospective teachers, at some time, should take the basic course.
Second: The monthly inservice lessons are for all priesthood and auxiliary officers and teachers, and will be a continuous program. Each year a new series of inservice lessons will be prepared. The second series will begin in September 1971. Inservice lessons for subsequent years are now in preparation.
Third: “Supervision in Teaching” will be introduced in September 1971 with a supervision manual and other aids to assist the leaders and teachers to understand this new concept of effective supervision. This concept is not in its traditional use but is supervision using priesthood principles of love and understanding.
This entire teacher development program is being made available to units of the Church all over the world. Translation into sixteen languages is in progress. Non-English-speaking missions and stakes are receiving detailed instructions regarding distribution and suggested programming in their areas.
To develop great teachers takes effort, dedication, faith, and believing—the kind of believing expressed by some graduate students involved in this program in one of the student wards at one of the large California universities: “We have studied this program, and we know the program is inspired. Our problem and challenge is to see that it is properly implemented and put into effective use.”
The Church is now beginning an interesting period when members of this true church in increasing numbers will be able to proclaim “I know,” for they will have been effectively taught.
It has been said that teaching is one of the noblest professions. The Savior gives us some insight into the importance of our teaching responsibilities as he admonished Peter in that great encounter on the seashore when he queried Peter: “… lovest thou me more than these?” And then, to the dismay of Peter, he repeated his instructions three times, saying, “Feed my lambs,” and then, “Feed my sheep. … Feed my sheep.” (John 21:15–17.)
We must understand these instructions and our responsibility to “teach one another the doctrine of the kingdom” (D&C 88:77), but to teach it effectively so that all of us, our children, our children’s children, and generations yet unborn will be able to perceive and comprehend the true meaning of life as proclaimed by the Master, and then have a desire to live it and eventually gain exaltation in the kingdom of our Heavenly Father, in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.

I think of an account I read about the wife of one of our early pioneers. Her name was Catherine Curtis Spencer. Her husband, Orson Spencer, was a sensitive, well-educated man. She had been reared in Boston and was cultured and refined. She and Orson had six children. After leaving Nauvoo, her delicate health declined from exposure and hardship. Elder Spencer wrote to her parents and asked if she could return to live with them while he established a home for her in the West. Their reply: “Let her renounce her degrading faith, and she can come back, but never until she does.” Sister Spencer would not renounce her faith. When her parents’ letter was read to her, she asked her husband to get his Bible and read to her from the book of Ruth: “Intreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee: for whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God” (Ruth 1:16). Outside the storm raged, the wagon covers leaked, and friends held milk pans over Sister Spencer’s head to keep her dry. In these conditions, and without a word of complaint, she closed her eyes for the last time.

Leslie Williams, Jr. of Tallahassee, Florida, received the Disabled Citizens’ Community Service Award and was honored at their annual banquet.
In completing his Eagle project, Leslie surveyed Tallahassee restaurants to determine how accessible they were to wheelchair patrons and nonsighted or partially sighted customers. Leslie wrote letters and sent questionnaires to the restaurant managers and organized teams to visit restaurants. The completed report of his survey is on file with several government agencies and has been printed and distributed in chart form to the city’s handicapped citizens.
As a result of his efforts, the local food editor now reports on restaurant accessibility in the newspaper’s weekly restaurant review.
Leslie is a member of the Tallahassee Second Ward.

Every day at school four-year-old Brandon looked out for Jonathan, an autistic classmate. He helped Jonathan line up for recess. In the classroom, he would often find Jonathan’s crayons and paper for him. One day the teacher told Brandon’s mother about Brandon’s unusual kindness. Later the mother shared the teacher’s observations with her son and asked him why he was so kind. Brandon looked at his mom in disbelief that she would have to ask a question with such an obvious answer: “Why, Mom, Jonathan is my friend, and he would get lost if I didn’t help.” To Brandon, Jonathan was not a child who was different; he was a friend.

Enough is enough, and the mailman was feeling a little bit sorry for himself as he wiped away the water that had cascaded onto his face from his plastic-covered hat and delivered one of the last letters of the day. The return address on the envelope was 50 East North Temple, Salt Lake City, Utah 84150.
The leaders of the Van Nuys California Stake who received the letter read it a second time and looked quizzically at one another.
“What’s a Heritage Arts Festival?” one of them asked.
“I don’t know,” another answered, looking out a rain-streaked window and sighing. “Let’s read the letter again.”
The letter wasn’t much help. It made it quite clear that the young people of the stake were to hold a Heritage Arts Festival, but it simply didn’t explain what one was. And so, with only a title to go on, they forgot all about the rain and started exercising their ingenuity.
They decided that whatever else the festival turned out to be, it should be something that “shows our neighbors and friends what young Latter-day Saints can be.” They met with the youth and adult leaders of the various wards in the stake and came up with a full calendar for an April afternoon and evening. The festival was to include craft and food booths emphasizing Mormon pioneer heritage, facilities for family picnics, and a creative arts contest. The theme would be “From Then Till Now—1830–1975,” and the evening would end with a program in which each ward in the stake would represent one time period from then till now. And in a rather bold move, considering the weather, they decided to locate the booths out-of-doors.
A few months later, on the morning of the festival, the wards of the stake were busy practicing their skits and working on their booths. Inside the stake center a young man in blue jeans and a Civil War coat wandered by toward the stage where Abraham Lincoln was being fitted for his tall black cardboard hat. The great emancipator was wearing a cast, having recently broken his leg, and would have to lead his people through the Civil War in that condition.
It was a bright, sunny day in the San Fernando Valley, without a hint of smog. The weatherman had predicted rain; the young people and their leaders had prayed for good weather. The weatherman was a good meteorologist, but he was simply out of his league.
At about 4:00 in the afternoon the crowds started arriving. They wandered from booth to booth, enjoying the displays and the free samples at the food booths. Some of them ate picnics on the lawn, where tables and chairs had been provided for them.
As the crowds milled around the booths, a distinguished looking group of men in dark hats and coats appeared carrying a bucket, an easel, and some pictures. One of the men upended the bucket and mounted it while another set up the easel. Soon the crowd was being treated to an authentic 19th century street meeting—authentic, that is, except for the bullhorn that the preacher used. The meeting started with four of the missionaries singing “Sweet Is the Work” in beautiful harmony, followed by a gospel sermon and another hymn. Wags from the local wards provided some unsolicited heckling, but the elders handled it in fine form, turning the barbs back on their assailants. Then a man from the Spanish Branch wandered by and shouted, “Puras mentiras!” (It’s all a lie!) in a voice of pious conviction.
“What this good brother says is true—whatever it was he said!” the missionary exclaimed, pointing his cane for emphasis. Another street meeting was held every quarter hour or so, with a different stake or full-time missionary preaching each time.
At the booth of the Spanish Branch a lady demonstrated how to make delicate bread-dough roses. An onlooker asked a question, and the lady spread her hands and replied, “I’m no expert”; then she smiled as a teenager arrived. “Here’s the expert,” she said, and the girl took over the demonstration. In front of the candle-dipping display a young fellow watched the laborious process and shook his head.
“They didn’t really have to go through all that just to make a candle, did they?” he said.
A knot of people gathered in front of the Candy Kitchen, inhaling the aroma and happily licking chocolate-smeared fingers. A young lady took her first look at a real chunk of homemade lye soap and asked, “Is that cheese?” A father barely put his son down at the arm-wrestling area and then smiled a little doubtfully, rubbing his hand. “Wait till next year,” his son smiled.
As 7:00 P.M. approached, more and more of the youths turned the booths over to their adult leaders and went inside to get costumed for the evening’s performance.
In the Junior Sunday School room a ward warmed up for its presentation. Some girls with beauty spots on their cheeks and fiery red lipstick on their lips, wearing fringed flapper dresses, frilly garters, voluminous strings of beads, and head-hugging hats, chewed gum furiously and kicked their way through a deadpan Charleston. Young men in striped vests, black bow ties, and cardboard skimmers practiced a little soft-shoe. One of them pistoned his hat on and off, keeping pace with his eyebrows and looking like a one-man chorus line. A long-lashed brunette gave several experimental flounces with her feathered boa, rolling her eyes in the top half of a glamourous pout. A blonde in black net stockings stood knock-kneed, squinting into a tiny mirror as she applied her makeup. The pianist bounced up and down on the stool in time to the music, and a young man knocked out the rhythm with the back of his knuckles on the top of the upright piano.
In the men’s room, costumes were going on. A young man in a white T-shirt with the arms rolled up scowled into the mirror, seeking just the right air of bored insolence. Then he combed his hair carefully back into a classic ducktail. When he was ready, he looked exactly like a refugee from the 50s trapped somehow in the wrong decade.
All 350 cast members eventually gathered in the chapel to await the beginning of the program. The flappers and bobby soxers mingled with Civil War belles, barbershop quartets and fine ladies from the 90s, Confederate and Union soldiers with lipstick wounds, rock fans, victims of the Depression, soldiers from both world wars, carefully gowned and hatted ladies carrying placards demanding the vote for women, rough-clad pioneers, and a sea of others. The chapel looked like a passenger lounge in a time machine terminal.
Near the door a woman with a bag full of fruit pointed a half-peeled banana at her gowned and rouged daughter. “Eat it! You’ve got to eat something or you’ll get sick.” The girl looked heavenward in a voiceless sermon on the woes of raising Mom, but she ate it while her mother smiled proudly at her.
There were some last-minute instructions and a prayer. An electric wave of preshow jitters filled the room as the crowd sounds drifted in and the hour drew near.
To start the show, the flags of each ward, which had been designed by the young people, were brought in to the flourishes of a trumpet fanfare and set up in their places.
Johnny Whitaker, popular young Mormon entertainer, emceed the show. After the invocation and a few words of introduction, he swang into a rousing rendition of “I Believe in Music,” and on the second verse the 350 young people came streaming down the aisles, singing along with him. “I believe in music. I believe in love!” They sang to a packed house, easily more than 1,000 spectators, many of them standing around the edges of the hall and at the back. There was standing room only and then only behind somebody else. After their grand entry the cast filed into a room where they awaited their turn to perform.
“Reach back, America, into the dim, far-off pages of beginnings—to the beginnings of our Mormon heritage where all the things that touched others touched us,” Johnny began; and “From Then Till Now” became a reality.
The stake Young Adults presented the first period, the early days of the Church when the Prophet Joseph was alive, depicting a trial scene in which he was found innocent of the charges but warned not to preach his doctrine any more.
The Sherman Oaks Second Ward handled the pioneer era, showing a camp scene from the trek across the plains and throwing in a rousing old-time square dance, complete with a professional caller who donated his services.
The Civil War era was interpreted by the Panorama City Ward, complete with Abraham Lincoln, Civil War songs, and both armies.
The San Fernando Ward recreated the gay 90s, featuring the beautiful songs of the period, bicycles built for two, barbershop quartets, and boundless optimism.
The Van Nuys Ward brought to life the first two decades of the 20th century, including a war, boogie woogie, automobiles, and suffragettes.
The Sylmar Ward recreated a rousing, roaring 20s with authentic song and dance numbers, raccoon coats, flappers, the Charleston, jazz, and no tomorrow.
The Spanish Branch recalled the dismal 30s in their skit, featuring songs and dances of the period that showed optimism in times of adversity.
The Van Nuys Third Ward interpreted the 40s with a war, a Statue of Liberty wheeled in on a dolly, and songs, dances, and people of the period.
The Sherman Oaks Ward zeroed in on the 50s with an American Bandstand presentation, singing songs such as “Mr. Sandman” and “Rockin’ Robin.” There was also a personal visit from “Elvis.”
The Sepulveda Ward presented the 60s, complete with rock concerts, the Beatles, and protests.
Everything went smoothly from the audience’s point of view. Scenery changes seemed to happen by magic, and the show flowed as if it had been rehearsed a hundred times, although there had been only one full-stake rehearsal. But back stage between skits was a different story as the exiting cast, scenery, and props from one ward met the next ward coming on stage. Then covered wagons warred with Confederate soldiers, and the Statute of Liberty was buffeted by hordes of pretty girls with parasols. It was a mammoth stampede in which each decade seemed bent on trampling another, but somehow everything always untangled itself in time for the curtain.
When it came time for the 1970s, the cast members in their various costumes all took their places at the front of the hall to form a 350-voice choir. They had practiced their songs on Sunday evenings for several weeks, and there was a fine, gentle spirit as they sang songs of love and peace.
Just before the closing prayer, two children walked into the spotlight and sang “I Am a Child of God,” the choir joining in on the last verse. It was an appropriate ending to a performance full of love and understanding and hope.
In retrospect, the festival provided not only entertainment and fun, but some wonderful memories and a lot of learning. For example, preparation of the displays and the program required the youth to do some serious research. The young people who prepared the genealogy booth studied the principles of genealogy and made a trip to the local Genealogical Society branch library.
Others learned how to make soap, candles, and other essentials the same way pioneers did, not to mention many contemporary craft skills. Some high school history teachers may also be surprised at the knowledge of U.S. history their LDS students have picked up by researching a time period for their skits.
The festival was also a wonderful missionary for the many nonmember and inactive young people who took part. For example, a band that was composed of both member and nonmember youths not only got everyone in the group excited about the Church, but made them decide to keep the group together after the festival.
A number of nonmember adults took part also, doing everything from teaching dance steps to sewing costumes. One non-Mormon hair dresser volunteered to style the hair of all the girls in her ward in the style of the period they represented.
The adult leaders in each ward rolled up their sleeves and worked hard right alongside the youth. Typical was one good sister who attended the dress rehearsal the night before the performance, did some energetic dance steps to illustrate a bit of last-minute choreography, sang her heart out, and then went to the hospital that night and had her baby.
The separate parts of the production were not actually brought together until the last few days before the festival, and there was a lot of pressure and hurry for those in charge. One sister was so caught up that she drove her daughter to school one morning and was parked in front of the school before realizing that she had forgotten the daughter.
But in spite of this one bit of absentmindedness, the young people of the Van Nuys Stake know very well that they are not forgotten, nor will they forget this experience. No one told them in advance what a Heritage Arts Festival was, but no one had any doubts afterwards. It was not only a good way to bring in some sunshine in place of rain, but it was also a great way to serve and grow and learn to love one another. Above all it was a way to “show our neighbors and friends what young Latter-day Saints can be.”

She was a convert of three years—a recently returned missionary who was never as happy as when she was inspiring up others with the story of her conversion. When I read the neatly typed version of her story written at the request of her mission president’s wife, I was awed. And I also felt a little envious. Her testimony had developed intensively as she had studied the Book of Mormon, taught the gospel, and sought spiritual confirmation of truth. She hadn’t seen angels, but she had seen small miracles. The Lord had touched her life. She, in turn, had touched my life through sharing her story. I was raised in the Church; I admire the enthusiasm of converts.
Such experiences, I told her, ought to be reciprocal. “And so I ought to give you something of equal value in return,’” I said. “But I don’t know what.” She tactfully declined my offer to let her read my poetry. (“I never read poetry,” she said.) “Why don’t you write your conversion story?” she suggested.
“But I’m not a convert.”
“That is no excuse.
I sat down that night to start, feeling doubtful. I reread her story and felt hopeless about ever being able to compile a conversion story from my lifetime of attending meetings and teaching Sunday School lessons. The pattern of my conversion wasn’t obvious, but the material was certainly handy—I had written diaries and journals for years. But did I have a conversion story? A look back through the journals showed that I had always been aware of the Church in my life. My ancestors were baptized in England and New England in the early decades of the Restoration and later crossed the plains to Utah. I remembered always being a Mormon.
Which was how I decided to start my story: I remember always being a Mormon. I told of growing up in the Church, of going to corn eating parties and Primary, of singing solos and telling my school friends about the Church. I told how no one needed to tell me when my grandmother died because I knew in my eight-year-old heart that it had happened. I told how all the relatives and seemingly half the town gathered for her funeral in the Rexburg, Idaho, Fourth Ward chapel.
As I reminisced, a theme began to emerge: as a child, I had learned the gospel by living it. Family and teachers had taught me to look to the Lord for strength. I had prayed since I was a child. This seemed ironic, because during my adolescence I had wondered if my prayers were correct and effective. Other people told of dramatic answers to prayers and of lengthy sessions of pleading with the Lord. My prayers, in contrast, were simple, short, and sometimes quite demanding and to the point. Yet I saw, by looking back through journals and searching my memory, that I had always prayed, and that my prayers had always been sincere. When grandma died, I prayed. When I lost control of a horse I was riding, I prayed. When I was scared no one would dance with me, I prayed. When I was too terrified to play a piano solo in public, I prayed. Though not every prayer was answered immediately, all were answered.
I realized that looking to the Lord for strength was a pattern of my life, and had been a part of me since I was a small child. I recognized a strength I had questioned before, and I recognized the Lord’s influence in my life as I had never recognized it before.
As I wrote of my intense involvement in Church while I was in high school, I recalled that many of my friends had wanted to know what made my life different from theirs. Why did I spend so much time at church? Why did the Mormon kids have such close relationships? What was our 6:30 A.M. religion class about? I had told some friends about the gospel. One girl friend and her family were baptized a few weeks after I had timidly asked them, “What do you know about the Mormon church?” one night as we sat around their kitchen table after a trip with the school orchestra. Another friend gained a testimony of the Book of Mormon but did not have the faith at age 15 to be baptized. Other friends went to Young Women meetings and to Church dances with me. A young man I met at a high school journalism conference joined the Church after we corresponded philosophically for three years. I had not converted him, but I had introduced him to the truth, and he had recognized it.
Before reviewing these incidents in my journals and writing them out for my conversion story, I had wondered if I were capable of being an effective member-missionary. “Every member a missionary” had rung guilty notes in my ears for years. Now I realized that I was a missionary—in my own way, with my own friends. Now, that knowledge gives me confidence in continuing to share the gospel gladly and openly.
I wrote next of times I had sought help from the Lord through his servants. I wrote of my high regard for one bishop in particular, of the blessing of knowing worthy men who regarded themselves as “the servant of all” (D&C 50:26). I had forgotten those men and the impact of their leadership. I had forgotten that from them came my first motivation to study the scriptures until the Lord’s words became a pattern for my thoughts.
I wrote how one morning while I was attending Brigham Young University, in Provo, Utah, I awoke feeling a need to know that my life had purpose. I prayed that as a member of the Quorum of the Twelve spoke at a devotional assembly that morning, his words would give me direction and motivation. The prayer was undeniably answered only hours later. That incident, too, I had not thought of for some time.
Throughout those events, I know the Lord was involved in my life. But, curiously, I had underestimated my ability to successfully live my religion. Writing my conversion story out—all eight typed pages of it—made me more appreciative of me. By reading my journal and writing my story, 1 understood myself better, and I saw my growth more clearly, I saw that even when I did not yet understand or accept all the principles of the gospel, I accepted the Lord. I wrote: Because I learned to pray as a child—taught by my grandmother, my mother, and uncounted teachers at church—I had a faith in prayer that carried me through periods of doubt. It was my prayers as a young child that I recalled in my greatest need.
An even greater benefit has come since writing out my own Church history. “And when thou art converted,” Luke wrote, “strengthen thy brethren” (Luke 22:32.) I gave a copy of my story to the friend who first shared her conversion story with me. (“It was pretty good,” she said. “You didn’t know you could write it, did you?” I have judiciously given it to a few other friends since, as we have shared experiences and encouragement. I share it with nonmember friends who want to learn more about the gospel. I wouldn’t give it to just anybody—too much in it is too private. The friends I share it with are strengthened, and that strengthens me. And now, with my conversion story written, signed, and dated, I am more than strengthened; I am a convert.

“I wish we didn’t have to take the tree down,” Jeff sighed. “It still looks so pretty.”
“I know it does, honey,” Mom said, “but Christmas was 10 days ago.”
Jeff and his mother carefully wrapped shiny ornaments, bows, lacy stars, and the treetop angel in pieces of tissue paper and put them in boxes so nothing would break.
“Next Christmas we’ll decorate the tree again,” Mom said, “and we can make lots of new ornaments.”
She took the last string of lights off the tree, and Jeff put away the ornaments he’d made in church.
“The empty tree looks lonely. It makes me feel sad,” Jeff said. “I wish we could have Christmas all year.”
“In a way, we can,” Mom said. “Christmas means giving, and we can do that all year.”
“But how?” Jeff asked.
“Well, for one thing, the tree doesn’t have to stay empty.” Mom went into the kitchen and got bread, cranberries, and nuts from the cabinet.
“Let’s take the tree outside and put it near the kitchen window. Then we can put the food on the branches for the birds.”
After Jeff and his mom put on their coats, they lugged the tree into the backyard and trimmed it with the food.
“Now the birds can sing while they eat,” Jeff said with a smile. “What else can we do?”
“Let’s go inside. It’s cold out here,” Mom said.
While Jeff looked out the window at the blue jays and cardinals eating food from the tree, Mom found a notebook. “Let’s make a Christmas All Year calendar,” she said. “We’ll fill it with good things to do that will make others happy. Each month we can do a different project. We did the food tree, so let’s write that on the calendar for January.”
Jeff enjoyed making the calendar. When it was finished, here’s how it looked:
JANUARY—Make a Christmas food tree for the birds.
FEBRUARY—Bake valentine cookies for neighbors.
MARCH—Make snowmen for friends.
APRIL—Plant flowers in our garden.
MAY—Help older neighbors clean their yards.
JUNE—Pick strawberries and give them to someone.
JULY—Have a picnic with our family.
AUGUST—Have a lemonade stand.
SEPTEMBER—Help my teacher keep the classroom neat.
OCTOBER—Have fun raking leaves in our yard.
NOVEMBER—Invite friends for Thanksgiving dinner.
DECEMBER—Decorate the Christmas tree.
“We can celebrate Christmas all year!” Jeff declared as he helped Mom hang the calendar on the kitchen wall. Outside it started to snow, so Jeff put on his hat, coat, and mittens and ran out into the front yard. His neighbors were taking down their outdoor Christmas decorations. They waved. Jeff called to them, “Merry Christmas to you for the whole year!”

The missionaries taught me the gospel when I was 10. When I asked my dad if I could be baptized, I was so sad when he said no. I prayed and had faith in the Lord. I asked my dad a couple more times. One night I asked, and he said yes. I was so excited! That night I prayed to Heavenly Father and said thank you. On Sunday I got baptized. So have faith and pray to the Lord.
Quirino S., age 11, Utah, USA

To illustrate our Lord’s power of deliverance, I want to share with you a modern-day ­deliverance story—the story of a miracle. We often use the term miracle casually, but today I mean miracle in the strictest sense of the word: in the Moses-parting-the-Red-Sea sense of the word. I share this story because it gives me hope and reminds me that there is a God in Israel, there is One Who Is Mighty to Save. I share it because what the Lord did in Bolivia in 2003 on behalf of a dozen or so missionaries was miraculous, and it gives me hope that He will do the same for you and for me.

I share this story with the permission of my parents—who were serving as mission leaders of the Bolivia La Paz Mission at the time—and of Brooke Porter—a young sister missionary who served with them. This story is movie worthy.

In October 2003, Bolivia was experiencing a period of significant civil unrest that is now known as the Bolivian Gas War. People were upset about the government’s policies regarding the use of their natural resources—oil and gas in particular. The details of this conflict are beyond the scope of my message today, but suffice it to say that the label of war is appropriate. The conflict turned bloody and resulted in the deaths of more than seventy people, with hundreds more wounded.

One of the goals of the protesters was to shut down all transportation in the cities of El Alto and La Paz—cities that are located about twelve miles apart. To accomplish their goal, the protesters erected barricades and scattered broken glass in the streets to limit transportation inside of and between the two cities. Their leaders vowed that no goods, including fuel, would come in or out of the cities.

Violence soon broke out, and the government responded by declaring martial law. A dozen or so missionaries in El Alto were trapped and needed to get out. Sister Brooke Porter, a missionary serving in El Alto at the time, described the situation in her journal as follows:

Today is Sunday, and it has been the longest day ever. The whole afternoon we heard machine guns going off, and they seemed very close. We could hear dynamite blowing things up and ambulances by the dozens coming in. . . . It is very scary, and I just want to get out of here.

The news reported that three thousand miners from the rural areas of the country were on their way to El Alto armed with dynamite to reinforce the protesters. The danger was real and getting worse by the hour; it was clear that the missionaries needed to get out of El Alto and into the safety of the mission home in La Paz.

But there were two massive problems.

First, the two mission vehicles each had less than one-fourth of a tank of gas—not enough to pick up all the missionaries. Furthermore, the news had reported that no gasoline had entered the city of La Paz for the past five days.

Second, both my parents and their car would be targets for the protesters—my parents because they were foreigners with possible ties to the U.S. government and their large white Toyota vehicle because that vehicle was commonly used by government officials.

It was in this context that very early in the morning my father—after a night spent almost entirely in prayer—received the following impression: “Leave now and you will find gas.” Now this was a particularly tricky endeavor because in order to find gas, they would need to use gas.

With this risk in mind, my dad turned to my mom and said, “We must leave right now if we want to find gas.”

Without a word she jumped up from bed. Off they went, like Nephi, “not knowing beforehand the things which [they] should do.”

My parents recorded the following in their journal:

After a time, we came across a parked car with two men in it. We stopped and asked, “Do you know where we can find gas?” The men simply told us to drive another block and look left. We followed their advice, and when we looked down the street, we saw a gasoline tanker driving slowly.

My parents followed the tanker to a gas station and filled up their car to about half a tank, limited by a quota imposed by the station. They then called the assistants and told them to leave that minute to try to find gas for the other vehicle. The assistants were also successful and were able to fill up their car to half a tank. Both gas stations closed soon thereafter, having run out of their limited supply of fuel. But both mission vehicles now had enough gas.

The stage was now set for the evacuation of the missionaries. Because the missionaries were scattered throughout El Alto in their various areas, different rendezvous points were determined as pickup locations; however, getting to each of the pickup locations required the missionaries to leave the safety of their apartments and walk the dangerous streets of El Alto.

Sister Porter recorded the following:

President Drake said that we were going to leave that afternoon. I knelt down in that adobe, closet-sized room and prayed harder than I had ever prayed before.

We left around 4:30 p.m. . . . I was scared to be walking down the main street because there were so many people. Luckily no one did anything to me. I have never felt so protected, though, in my entire life. With each step I took, I felt more and more invisible. I am amazed at the safety and protection we had in making it to the bishop’s house.

Now I do not have time to share all the amazing stories that happened to get each missionary out, but I will share one.

During one of the evacuations, my father and his assistant needed to drive on a very dangerous six-mile stretch of highway between La Paz and El Alto. As they approached the highway, they noticed an enormous convoy entering the highway ahead of them. This convoy consisted of military and police vehicles, including troop carriers with armed soldiers. To my father and his assistant’s surprise, they also noticed that many of the vehicles in the convoy were large and white, and a fair number of them were Toyotas. My father recorded that without being invited, they “slipped in behind the lead troop carrier. No one said a thing. We looked very official in our big white car.”

They had thought that driving a very conspicuous big white Toyota would be a dangerous weakness. But instead it turned out to be precisely the vehicle they needed to drive to be inconspicuous within the convoy.

What they didn’t know at the time was that they were now part of the military convoy evacuating the president of Bolivia and his family out of the city of La Paz to the airport in El Alto.

This powerful military escort was not only protecting the president of the country of Bolivia but was also protecting the president of the Bolivia La Paz Mission.

My father and his assistant drove inside the convoy for as long as possible and then proceeded to the rendezvous point. When they arrived, they found a group of armed soldiers standing there, and in the midst of these soldiers they found five very anxious missionaries. My dad hugged each of the soldiers, who explained that when they had seen the missionaries in such a dangerous location, they knew they had to protect them.

Miraculously, every missionary was safely evacuated that day.

From the time he was a young boy growing up in Genoa, Italy, Christopher Columbus knew that he wanted to be a seaman. Coming from a family of weavers, however, it was expected that Christopher would follow in the footsteps of his grandfather and father. But the curious boy was more interested in the sea and the stars, and instead of weaving cloth as his brothers and father did, Christopher spent much of his time weaving dreams of adventure and discovery.
He listened to the tales of the sailors who came to the marketplace. They talked about exotic people of the Orient and of the great amounts of gold and spices in China, Japan, and India. Christopher dreamed of someday going to those strange, faraway places.
As soon as he could, he began working on ships. Studying hard, he learned as much as he could about sailing, maps, and navigating by the stars. At the age of thirteen, he left home to seek his fortune as a seaman.
He traveled throughout Europe and the Mediterranean and became an expert navigator. By the time he was 25, Christopher was made captain of a ship. It was then that he started to formulate a plan.
In the 1400s, many seamen were reluctant to go after the wealth of the Indies because it was thought that the only way to get there was by sailing a difficult, circuitous route around Africa. Christopher believed that there was another way. He thought that he could get to Japan by going west across the Atlantic Ocean.
Most people laughed at Christopher’s idea, and he had a hard time getting anyone to support his proposed trip. It took him six years to finally convince the king and queen of Spain, Ferdinand and Isabella, to provide him with ships and money.
On August 3, 1492, Christopher set sail from Palos, Spain, with three ships: the Nina, the Pinta, and the Santa Maria. It was only after a long and difficult journey that land was sighted. October 12, 1492, was the happy day when he set foot on dry ground—not in Japan or China or India, but on an island in what is now called the Bahamas, in the western hemisphere.
It has now been five hundred years since Christopher Columbus made that trip, and modern history books all give an account of the famous journey. But long before Columbus was born, another historian wrote of this navigator’s future travels. The prophet Nephi, son of Lehi, had a vision of Columbus. He recorded the vision in 1 Nephi: “And I looked and beheld a man among the Gentiles, who was separated from the seed of my brethren by the many waters; and I beheld the Spirit of God, that it came down and wrought upon the man; and he went forth upon the many waters, even unto the seed of my brethren, who were in the promised land” (1 Ne. 13:12).
The scriptures indicate that Columbus’ voyages to the lands of North and South America were not made by chance but were directed by the Spirit. Columbus himself acknowledged several times that he was motivated by divine influence. In a letter to the king and queen of Spain, he wrote, “Our Lord unlocked my mind, sent me upon the sea, and gave me fire for the deed. Those who heard of my emprise [enterprise] called it foolish, mocked me, and laughed. But who can doubt but the Holy Ghost inspired me?”*
Weeks into their voyage, the crews that were with Columbus grew restless and fearful, and the captains of the Nina and the Pinta both wanted to turn back. Columbus would not give up, however, and he finally promised that if land was not sighted in forty-eight hours, they would turn back. That night in his cabin, Columbus “prayed mightily to the Lord,”* and on the very next day, October 12, land was sighted.
Because of his strong determination, courage, and faith, Christopher Columbus was able to make his dream of adventure and travel to distant lands come true. He didn’t discover a new route to the Indies, as he had hoped to, but his discovery of America was inspired by God.

“Hi, Mom,” Ben called as he rolled his bike into the garage. “Hi, Ben,” Mom answered. Closing the recycling bin, she turned to look at him, and her smile faded. “Where’s your helmet?” she asked.
Ben slid his bike into its place. “I don’t need it anymore.”
Mom’s eyebrows went up. “Ben, what is our family rule about helmets?”
Ben took a deep breath and slowly repeated: “If you’re riding your bike, you wear a helmet.”
Mom looked steadily at Ben until he squirmed. “But, Mom!” he protested.
“Please go inside. We’ll talk about it in a minute.”
Ben went in and sat down at the table. Pretty soon Mom and Dad joined him. “So, Ben, tell me about your helmet,” Dad began.
“Dad, I don’t need it anymore. I’m a great bike rider now.”
“You are a good bike rider,” Dad said. “But helmets aren’t just for beginners. I’ve been riding a bicycle for many years. Do I wear a helmet?”
“Yes, you do,” Ben admitted. “But the kids at school think only babies wear helmets.”
“Oh,” Mom said. “So it isn’t cool to wear one?”
“No, it’s not!” Ben exclaimed.
“Ben, do you know why we have the helmet rule?” Dad asked.
“To make me look stupid?” Ben answered with a wry smile.
Dad chuckled. “No. For exactly the opposite reason. It’s to help keep that brain of yours safe.”
“As a matter of fact,” Mom added, “every rule, whether it’s a family rule or one of Heavenly Father’s commandments, is given to help us be safe and happy.”
“But having kids make fun of me for keeping the rule doesn’t make me happy,” Ben complained.
Dad thought for a moment. “Sometimes we have to be obedient even when other people make fun of us for it. I know that in the long run you’ll be happier because you obey.”
Mom looked Ben in the eyes. “Ben, this wasn’t the first time you went riding without your helmet, was it?”
Ben’s shoulders drooped. “No,” he admitted.
“Thank you for being honest,” Dad said. “Your Mom and I both feel that it is very important that you obey our family rules. You’ve broken this one. What do you think a good consequence would be?”
Ben was quiet for several long moments. “Maybe a time-out from my bike?” he said at last.
Dad nodded. “That sounds fair. I think maybe it should be long enough to help you remember the rule. How about until the end of summer?”
Ben groaned.
“OK,” Mom said. “When school starts, you get your bike back.”
As the sunny days of August went by, Ben often looked wistfully at his bike hanging on the garage wall. “Next time I’ll obey the rule,” he told himself. He remembered what Mom had said about obedience helping people be happy. “Well,” he thought, “It’s true that I’ll be happy when I can ride my bike again, even if someone makes fun of me.”
When school began, Mom helped Ben lift the bike down. First he checked the tires and oiled the chain. Then he picked up his helmet, adjusted the fit, and snapped it onto his head. It felt great to be riding again!
One bright sunny afternoon in December, Ben was riding home from school. When he came to an intersection he stopped and looked carefully both ways. But a young lady who had just learned to drive turned right without looking or stopping. The bumper of her car struck Ben’s bike and sent him flying headfirst into the sidewalk.
A neighbor who saw the accident called Mom. As she ran down the street, she heard a siren and saw the ambulance. “Ben!” she shouted.
“I’m here, Mom.”
Two paramedics were checking Ben. “Your son is going to be just fine,” one of them said. “He was wearing this, and it saved his life.” He handed her Ben’s helmet. There was a big dent in it.
Mom gave Ben a long hug. “I’m glad you were wearing your helmet today,” she whispered.
“Me too,” he said. “Obeying the rules really does help keep me safe and happy.”

My grandpa Ao Pauga, was one of the faithful pioneers of the church in Samoa. He was given a special task, to establish the church in Falefa, a village in Samoa. Grandpa’s calling and challenge was that, if he could not turn things around within three months in the village, he would return to his home in Laulii. As a young girl, I lived with my grandpa Pauga in Falefa while they were on this special assignment. My memories of him were of a hardworking man, not only physically, but spiritually. If grandpa came home late from his daily visits, we knew that he must be having a serious religious discussion with the Catholic Minister. That was one of his favorite places to visit. He was never afraid to share the gospel of Jesus Christ with anyone, and everyone. One of grandpa Pauga’s trades that he utilized while serving in Falefa, was farming. Grandpa planted a huge taro plantation to feed not only few members of the church at the time, but also to share with most people in the village. Through grandpa Pauga’s faith, as of today, there stands a beautiful chapel, and a ward in Falefa.

Backstage in the Philippine International Convention Center, Elder Gordon B. Hinckley was talking to a man whose face glowed with spiritual excitement and joy beyond description.
The date: Sunday morning, the 29th of May, 1977. The time: 5 minutes before the opening ceremony of the Combined Special Conference that was to culminate in the writing of Church history in the Philippines. The topic between them: an Apostle of the Lord making a divine call—the man accepting the call with happiness overflowing in his heart.
This was the man Elder Hinckley introduced the day before to Elder Jacob de Jager as the man called Moses.
The only other person who learned a few minutes after about this divine calling was his wife and later, when he was sustained by the multitude as one of two Filipino Stake Patriarchs, the spiritual events in their lives flashed back in their minds.
During this moment of unbridled job, Moises Marzan Mabunga, Sr., who first saw the light of day in Naguilian, La Union February 13, 1917, and Vicenta Mercado of Manila, silently shared with each other their testimony of finding the gospel of truth and live after many years of searching, radiantly recalling the day, 13 years before, when two missionary sisters (Sisters Garrison and Smithen) knocked on the door of their home at Molave Street, Project 3 in Quezon City, to bring the message of the restoration.
The events that followed after this meeting with the missionary sisters were as varied as they were interesting. At first, Bro. Mabunga was obstinate and unmoved by the assuring words of the missionary sisters. He had to rationalize for more than four months, and later to ask and pray in the presence of no one but God for divine guidance. On July 11, 1964, at Brother Grimm’s residence at Sta. Mesa, he was baptized with his wife and children.
Blessed with a family of six boys and six girls, Bro. Mabunga (who recently retired as Project Superintendent of Manila Electric Company) has other blessings. Two of his sons served full-time missions. Moises, Jr., is now Bishop of the Rego Park Ward, Plainview Stake, New York. Son Danilo completed his mission only last month.
In October this year, Brother and Sister Mabunga will leave for the United States to fulfill the dream of being sealed for eternity in a temple of the Lord.
His record of Church assignments can be compared to that of a tiny acorn growing into an oak tree: 1st counselor, Sunday School presidency; Superintendent, Mutual Improvement Association (M.I.A.); 2nd Counselor and 1st Counselor, Branch presidency; Branch President; 1st Counselor, District presidency; and Stake High Councilman upon organization of the Manila Philippines Stake in May, 1973.
And now, the Filipino called Moses has a new calling worthy of his name.

Two years passed, and changing family circumstances forced me into a profound sadness. My father had left Poland in search of work so our family was divided. I felt desperate, searching for God. My prayers became more sincere, pleading with Heavenly Father to help me find His presence.

One day my mother told me, “Some person by the name of Garling asked for you. I told him to call back next week.” She knew that it was a missionary and wasn’t interested in the message, so she didn’t feel it necessary to respond quickly.

That Friday night I again heard knocking at the door. This time I gave the emissaries a sincere welcome and a smile. “You are welcome in my home, but you need to know I will never become a Mormon,” I told them.

These elders taught me anyway—every Friday afternoon for six months. Loads of my mom’s cookies and thousands of questions later, all my deepest questions began to be answered. It seemed like every time the missionaries visited, another piece of life’s puzzle came together. Intrigued, I finally did what the elders had asked me to do: pray and ask Heavenly Father if their words and the Book of Mormon were true. They assured me that God answers prayers.

As I prayed and studied the scriptures more deeply, these doctrines became sweet to my soul. For months I hesitated, feeling that I needed solid evidence, needed to know everything about the gospel before joining this Church. Finally, the words of the Savior in John 20:29 spoke to my soul: “Blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed.” I decided to be baptized.

My parents required that I wait until I was an adult to be baptized, but the time waiting helped in my progression and knowledge of the gospel. Sadly, as my baptism date drew closer, I lost confidence in my answer. I got into the things of the world and became fearful that my choice to be baptized wouldn’t be accepted by loved ones.
Little by little, mistakes and decisions made me deaf to the whisperings of the Spirit. My scriptures ended up in the deepest part of my trunk and I even stopped praying.

My life was not turning out—too many tears and disappointments. It was hard to understand why my family had to undergo so many trials. Right before my last year of high school, my parents had to leave Poland. The prospect of relocating again caused me anguish. Finally, I again knelt in prayer, truly meaning my words: “Heavenly Father, Thy will be done, not mine.”

That prayer marked the beginning of my return to the Church, which I knew would require repentance. That Sunday, for the first time in nearly a year, I attended sacrament meeting. The next day I again decided to be baptized.

The Lord helped me through my difficult process of returning to what I had once known to be true. I now define those difficult circumstances as some of the sweetest blessings from God. He did not forget me. He listened to my prayers and waited for me to recognize His answer. He helped me through all the suffering I endured, strengthening and protecting me. In the process I gained greater clarity on the meaning of Christ’s divine mission and His Atonement.

I was baptized in April 2011. My plane has taken off since—I now reside in France, which means more changes. However, I am now grateful to Him for my life and for the circumstances that He had me live through. Because of my testimony of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, I now understand that I am not alone, no matter what destinations life brings next. I don’t know if my plane will take off again. The only thing I do know is that my new destination is that straight path that leads to life eternal with Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ.

Over time, I noticed that when I paid attention to the words of the covenants that the temple patrons were making, my own covenants started becoming more meaningful to me.
For one, I have always believed the truth that families can be eternal through the temple sealing. And helping patrons do work for their ancestors and seeing their deep love for their families inspired me to do my own family history work. I was able to do ordinances for my aunt and my grandmother who had passed away, and this made the blessings of those covenants become so precious to me.

When I was growing up, whenever we got any money, my mother would take the very best bills—the ones that were the least wrinkled or dirty—and give them to the minister of the church we went to. She did this her whole life. She said, “This belongs to God.” Those words have stayed with me ever since.
When I was baptized into The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints as an adult, it was not hard for me to pay tithing because my mother had taught me to obey that law.

Tim’s foot hurt. His cast felt hot and itchy, and he was tired of just lying on the couch.
“Mom,” Tim called and waited.
“Mom,” he called again, a little louder. She must be upstairs with the baby, he decided. He looked over the stack of movies she had borrowed from the library. He’d already watched them all—twice. He looked out the window. In the backyard, little Heidi climbed up on her plastic slide while David slid down. Sun lit their hair, and he could hear them laughing. “It’s not fair,” Tim grumbled to no one in particular. He wished his foot wouldn’t ache anymore.
He heard a rumble approaching the house, followed by a loud squeal. The school bus. Soon the front door creaked open, and he heard the thud of backpacks and instrument cases hitting the floor. Brian and Eric are home, he told himself. He listened to their footsteps heading toward the kitchen.
“Hey, Tim,” Brian’s voice said.
Tim couldn’t see him over the back of the couch. “Hi,” he answered quietly.
“Feeling any better?” Brian’s head popped into view.
Tim frowned up at him. “No. And I’m bored.”
“Do you want a snack?” Eric called from the kitchen. “There are lots of frozen treats in here.”
“No thanks.”
“I’ll have a grape one,” Brian said.
Tim heard a box snap open and wrappers crunch as Eric fished one out.
“Catch.”
Tim flinched when the frozen treat hurtled over the couch and bashed against his cast. “Ouch!” he yelled.
Brian grabbed the treat.
“Oops, sorry,” Eric called, taking his treat outside.
“So, have you worked on your castle yet?” Brian asked.
Tim shook his head.
“Why not?”
“It’s downstairs.” Tim had crutches, but he wasn’t supposed to use them yet. His bedroom—and everything else downstairs—had been pretty much off-limits since his foot surgery last week.
“Do you want me to get the stuff for you?”
Tim shrugged. The castle was to be made out of tiny plastic blocks of many shapes and colors. Even though the set was brand-new, it would take him hours to find all the pieces he’d need—especially because he wasn’t supposed to even sit up for very long.
“I can help you put it together,” Brian offered. “I don’t have that much homework to do.”
Tim smiled. “Really?”
“Sure. We can build it on this table right by the couch. I’ll hand you the pieces, and you figure out how they fit.”
“OK.”
Brian threw his empty stick into the trash and tromped down the stairs. Tim listened to hear his steps coming back up.
“Here it is.” Brian handed the box to Tim.
“Thanks.” Tim slid his finger between layers of cardboard and opened the box. Inside, the pieces glittered in plastic bags. He handed Brian some colorful pages with pictures and directions.
“Awesome,” Brian said. He moved the box to the table and began sorting blocks. “Here’s one you’ll need for the foundation,” he said, holding it out for Tim.
By the time Dad got home, the castle was almost finished.
“Tim, this looks great!” Dad exclaimed.
“Brian helped a lot,” Tim said.
“Wow, Brian, that was nice of you!” Dad looked at Tim again. “And how’s your foot?”
“Lots better,” Tim said. “I even forgot it hurt.”
Dad patted Brian on the back. “You should be a doctor, Son.”
Brian grinned down at the last few blocks. “We’ll call it the castle cure,” he said.