Gospel Story Finder

As soon as Brother Hansen said the closing prayer in church and the girls started handing out flowers to the mothers, I knew that we had forgotten. I looked down the bench at my brothers, Alma, Jarom, and Jared. Alma shrugged his shoulders. Jarom looked back at me with a sad frown on his face. Jared, who’s just two and a half, whispered, “What’s wrong, Aaron?”
“It’s Mother’s Day,” I muttered.
As we walked out of the chapel, I poked Alma with my elbow. “What are we going to do?” I asked him.
Alma shook his head, but I could tell that he was thinking hard.
Just then Dad touched me on the arm. “Aaron, Mom and I have a meeting for a few minutes. Do you boys want to wait here until we’re finished?”
Our house is just a little way from the ward, so I said, “We’ll walk home.”
“And we’ll take Jared with us,” Alma added.
Alma took Jared by the hand, and I took Jarom, and we headed home. Alma and Jared walked faster than Jarom and I, so by the time Jarom and I made it to our bedroom, Alma had all his money dumped out on the bed.
“Get your money,” he told Jarom and me.
It wasn’t long until all our money was piled in the middle of Alma’s bed, even Jared’s twenty-eight pennies.
Alma dropped to his knees, spread the money out, and started counting. He scratched his head and chewed his tongue a lot. Finally he scraped all the money into one big pile and announced, “There’s seven dollars and eighty-nine cents.”
“Is that a lot?” I asked.
Alma nodded.
“How much is it?” Jarom asked.
Alma tugged on his ear. “It could buy about twenty candy bars.”
“I want a candy bar,” Jared said.
“How much gum?” Jarom wanted to know.
“Maybe twenty-five or thirty packages. Or if we got it out of the gum-ball machines, we could each get a couple of pockets full.”
“I want some gum,” Jared said.
“Are we getting Mom gum or candy bars?” Jarom asked.
“I don’t think Mom would like candy bars or gum for a present.”
“What would she like?” Jarom asked.
“A dress or a purse or perfume or stuff like that,” Alma said.
“Are we going to buy junk like that?” I asked.
“Well, Aaron, it’s Mother’s Day. We have to get her something that she likes.”
“I think we ought to get her something good,” I growled.
“Yeah,” Jarom said. “If we get a purse she might not want it. Then she’ll just put it in the closet, and it won’t be any good to anybody. But if we get a lot of gum, even if she doesn’t like it, we can chew it for her.”
“I think that we can get a pretty good dress for five dollars,” Alma said. “With all our money we might even be able to get her some gum and candy bars too.”
“Let’s get the candy bars first,” Jarom grumbled. “Then if we have enough money, we can get a dress or something.”
“We can’t get her anything today,” I said, suddenly remembering. “Today’s Sunday. We don’t buy things on Sunday.”
We all looked at each other and sat down on the edge of the bed to think.
“I know,” I called out. “We can still give her the money, and tomorrow she can buy whatever she wants.”
We took the money, dumped it into an envelope, licked the flap, and closed it. Alma got a crayon and wrote, “To Mom from the boys.”
“But we have to do something for her today, too,” I mumbled. “Today’s Mother’s Day, not tomorrow.”
“I’m hungry,” Jared whined.
“That’s it!” Alma grinned. “We’ll fix a Mother’s Day dinner.”
Jarom and I looked at each other and then at Alma.
“I don’t know how to fix dinner,” Jarom said sadly.
“We can do it,” Alma said with a grin. “We’ll have the best Mother’s Day dinner ever.”
Jarom, Alma, and I changed our clothes, then we helped Jared change his. While Alma and Jarom worked on his bottom end, pulling off his shoes and pants, I worked on his top end and jerked off his shirt. It was pretty hard work because Jared thought that we were playing a game. But we finally got the job done.
A few minutes later we were all in the kitchen. Alma pulled open the fridge door, and we looked inside.
“Mom was going to have fried chicken and potatoes,” Jarom said.
“Do you know how to make fried chicken?” I asked Alma.
“No, but we don’t have to fix fried chicken. This is going to be a special dinner. We can fix anything we want.”
“I like peanut butter sandwiches,” Jared said.
“You don’t have peanut butter sandwiches for Sunday dinner,” I protested.
“Sure we can,” Alma said, still grinning. “Peanut butter sandwiches are good for you. Mom said so.”
“What do you want?” I asked Jarom.
He ran over to the pantry, stared at the shelves stacked with cans, and brought out a big can of pork and beans.
“I want baloney in it,” I said, grabbing a package of it from the fridge.
“OK,” Alma said, “but let’s hurry and fix everything before Mom and Dad get home.”
I helped Jarom open his can of pork and beans, and we dumped them into a bowl. Then we took the baloney slices, tore them into pieces, and mixed them in with the pork and beans.
Jared got out one of Mom’s loaves of bread, Alma cut it into slices. He got only eight slices out of the whole loaf.
“Aren’t the slices just a little thick?” I asked.
He laughed and shook his head. “Dad likes them thick.”
“But this is for Mother’s Day,” I pointed out.
“Well, we’ll just have to make open-face sandwiches and put on an extra layer of peanut butter.”
“What’s for dessert?” Jarom wanted to know, as Jared and Alma started digging out gobs of peanut butter and spreading it on the bread.
“Yeah,” I said, “we have to have dessert, especially on Mother’s Day.”
Jarom ran to the pantry and came back with two cans of applesauce.
Alma looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, and said, “Looks good to me.”
“I want banana slices in it,” I said.
“And I want marshmallows in it,” Jarom insisted.
“All right,” Alma agreed, “but hurry!”
I dumped the applesauce into a bowl, then took two bananas and cut them up, dropping the chunks into the applesauce. I dumped half a bag of little marshmallows into it, too, then ran to get a spoon. When I got back, Jared was already stirring everything with his hands.
“Let’s set the table, now,” Alma called, putting the peanut butter sandwiches on the table. “Since this is such a special day, let’s use paper plates and cups and plastic spoons so that Mom doesn’t have to do the dishes.”
“We could do the dishes,” I said.
“Then let’s use paper plates for sure,” Jarom mumbled. “Then nobody will have to do the dishes.”
Just as I finished putting the plastic spoons on the table, we heard Mom and Dad pull up in the car. “Let’s hide,” Alma whispered. “When they come in, we’ll jump out and yell ‘Happy Mother’s Day!’”
Jared hid behind the couch, Alma and Jarom hid in the closet, and I ran into the bathroom and lay in the tub. We heard the front door open and close and Mom say, “It surely sounds quiet. I wonder what the boys are doing.”
“Maybe they went over to the Cauleys,” Dad suggested.
When Mom headed for the kitchen, we all ran out screaming, “Happy Mother’s Day! Happy Mother’s Day!”
Mom jumped and Dad laughed and grabbed Jared and put him on his shoulder.
“Who fixed dinner?” Mom gasped, looking at the food on the table.
“We did,” Alma said, beaming.
“And it’s the best dinner ever,” Jarom said with a grin.
“Probably even better than dinner at a restaurant,” I bragged.
“I helped,” Jared shouted, wiggling out of Dad’s arms. “Let’s eat,” he added, pushing his high chair up to the table.
After we sat down, Alma exclaimed, “Oh, we forgot something!” He jumped down from his chair and ran into our bedroom. A few seconds later he dropped the money envelope onto the table—CLUNK!
Mom took one look inside and gasped, “Oh, you shouldn’t have. It’s all your money.”
“But it’s Mother’s Day,” I cried, “and nothing’s too good for you, Mom.”
“I’m hungry,” Jared shouted, banging on the high chair with his spoon. “Let’s say the blessing.”
“Was it a good Mother’s Day dinner?” Jarom asked when we were all finished.
Mom came around the table and gave us each a hug and a kiss. “That’s the very best Mother’s Day dinner that I’ve ever eaten,” she told us.

May I tell you about an experience of another young man, whom I will call Bill. At eighteen, he was in his first year at the university. He was on scholarship and was anxious to maintain a good grade point average. So he signed up for a speech class that he supposed would be easy.
One day the teacher said, “Students, in my last twenty-five years of teaching, I’ve given only five A’s, the top grade.” Bill was very disappointed. He tried to transfer from the class, but it was too late to do so. Over the months he received B’s, B-minuses, and once in a while, a B-plus, but never an A. He was discouraged.
Then came the last talk of the semester which would determine half of the final grade. The assignment was to speak for twenty-five minutes, defending a stand on a controversial subject. The class would be allowed to critique the talk orally, and each class member would give a written critique.
As the day he was to speak approached, Bill could not seem to decide on a topic. He prayed about it. Then an impression came to him: “If you’re looking for a controversial subject, choose the Book of Mormon.”
Bill was fearful, knowing that he was the only member of the Church in the class. His teacher, an active member of a Protestant church, had quoted from the Bible throughout the semester and made it clear that she considered the Bible the only revelation from God to man.
The day of his presentation, as Bill announced his subject, the class became very silent. Hoping not to offend anyone—especially his teacher—he began talking about the Book of Mormon within an historical and academic framework. Then, about halfway through, the Spirit came upon him. “I can’t just tell them historically about this book,” he thought. “I don’t care what they think of me, or what happens to my grade. The Book of Mormon is true, and they all ought to know it.”
He began teaching as he had learned to teach investigators while he was a stake missionary. He bore his testimony frequently and even concluded in the name of Jesus Christ.
He waited for the attack. To his astonishment, not a word came from the students. The teacher encouraged them to attack, but they would not. Not one word was spoken. Finally, in frustration, the teacher said, “Be seated, Bill.”
The written student reviews were all positive. Four or five wrote, “You have almost convinced me of the truth of what you said.” One student, who had been particularly critical of the other students’ presentations, wrote, “I really would like to know more about your church.” To Bill’s delight, he received an A in that class. But even if he had failed the class, he still would have been blessed for his efforts to follow the Spirit’s promptings. The Lord has commanded all of us “to stand as witnesses of God at all times, and in all things, and in all places that you may be in.” (Mosiah 18:9.) Truly he blesses those who, in faith, are “not ashamed of the gospel of Christ.” (Rom. 1:16.)

During this difficult time, I developed the habit of sitting down at the piano at the end of each day and, with one hand, plunking out favorite hymns and Primary songs. I would play “Our Savior’s Love,” “When He Comes Again,” “I Feel My Savior’s Love,” “I Am a Child of God,” and many others, always ending with “Abide with Me; ’Tis Eventide.” This nightly ritual became a comfort to my family. No matter what the day had been like, if Mom sat down at that keyboard and played some hymns, it seemed all was right with the world—or at least more bearable.
One day when I felt I had had all I could take, I sent the children into the house and sat in the car to have a good cry. After I had calmed down and prayed, I went inside. As I opened the door, I heard the soft notes of one of my favorite hymns. My son was at the keyboard, playing hymns to soothe and comfort me in my distress, as I regularly did for him and his sisters.

“Come on, honey,” Mom coaxed five-year-old Brea, “eat your cereal. I have an early doctor’s appointment today.”
Cassie stifled a yawn and took her bowl to the sink. “I’ll take Brea to her bus, Mom,” she offered.
“Oh, thank you!” Mother gave Cassie and Brea a quick squeeze. “Don’t worry, Brea. I’ll be at the bus stop at noon to meet you. Have a beautiful day, you two!”
The morning sun filtered through the trees as Brea held tightly to Cassie’s hand. “How do you like kindergarten so far?” Cassie asked Brea.
Brea skipped happily beside her sister. “I like it.”
“That’s good,” Cassie replied.
“Hey, Cass!” Judi called, running to catch up to them. “Did you get all that homework done?”
Cassie shrugged. “I’m not sure about a couple of the answers. How about you?”
“Miss Hager is a slave driver!” Judi mumbled grumpily. “I’ve worked hard, and I still need to look at some maps in the library before school. How about you?”
“That sure would help,” Cassie agreed. “But I have to get Brea on her school bus first.”
“Can’t she get on the bus by herself?” Judi asked.
Brea nodded and grinned at Judi.
Cassie looked at her little sister. She probably could, Cassie reasoned. Once I get her to the bus stop, she could wait with the other kids. Then I’d have time to check my homework too.
When the girls arrived at the bus stop, the other kids were holding their mothers’ hands, waiting for the school bus.
“Well, here she is, safe and sound,” Judi said happily. “Come on, Cassie. We still have time to visit the library.”
Cassie looked down at Brea, who suddenly seemed to turn shy and hang back. Why is she acting like this? Cassie wondered. “Maybe I’d better wait,” Cassie said. “I told mom that I’d make sure that she caught her bus.”
“She’s here,” Judi grumbled. “What more can you do?”
Cassie shrugged. “I’ll wait with her till the bus comes.”
“You’re impossible, Catherine McLaughlin!” Judi groused as she started down the sidewalk. Then her face relaxed, and she called back, “I’ll see you later.”
Cassie watched Judi until she turned the corner; then she glanced down at Brea.
“Is Judi mad at you?” Brea asked quietly.
Cassie shook her head. “No, honey, not really.”
Brea was a pain sometimes, but from the pressure of her fingers on Cassie’s hand, it was easy to tell that she didn’t want to wait alone.
The quiet sound of air brakes broke into Cassie’s thoughts as the bright yellow bus turned the corner. Mothers bent to kiss their children as they eagerly lined up in single file. Brea was still clutching Cassie’s hand, but she let go and pointed, smiling as another little girl hurried to cross the street. “There’s my friend!”
“Well, get in line with her, honey,” Cassie said.
Cassie was about to continue on to school, when she saw a wildly speeding car turn the corner. It rocked from side to side, then zigged along the street, heading straight for the school bus. Without a second thought, Cassie pushed Brea and her friend behind a tree.
The out-of-control car scraped the bus, jumped the curb, and landed against the bus-stop sign—right where the children had been standing!
Cassie looked at her trembling sister. “Don’t cry, Brea,” she soothed. “Everything’s OK.”
Police sirens filled the crisp morning air as mothers calmed their terrified kids and Cassie’s own trembling hands smoothed Brea’s hair.
Later, in history class, the teacher came to Cassie’s side and whispered, “You’re wanted in the principal’s office.”
Cassie looked up, then gulped. As she hurried along the hallway, her stomach churned. What’d I do wrong? she worried. When she neared the office, she saw a policeman and swallowed hard. Has something happened to Mother or Brea?
“Catherine McLaughlin?” the officer asked with a friendly smile.
“Yes,” Cassie replied.
“Eyewitnesses credit you with saving the lives of two children, and we’re happy to tell you that you’re to be awarded the Mayor’s Award for Heroism.”
Cassie sighed with relief. “All I did was—”
The officer smiled and held up his hand in a gesture of friendly dissent. “You acted in a prompt and heroic way without hesitation,” he told her. “That’s something to be proud of, and I’m glad to meet you.”
“I am, too,” another man said as he stepped out of the background. “I’m Doug Miller from the Bradley Standard, and I’d like to take a picture of you at the accident site as the children come off the bus. It’ll be in tomorrow morning’s edition. The principal has given his permission for you to miss your classes long enough for me to take your picture, and this officer will take you there,” he explained.
When the school bus pulled up to the curb, Cassie stepped out of the police car. As soon as the waiting mothers saw her, they crowded around, thanking her. Then Cassie felt a hand on her arm and turned.
“Cassie?” her mother said in surprise. “What are you doing here?”
“Your daughter is a hero,” one mother said with a happy grin.
Brea jumped off the bus, smiling. “You’re both here to meet me today!” she said excitedly.
“Come on, kids,” Doug Miller directed. “We’re going to take some pictures of you with Catherine beside the school bus.”
After the pictures were taken, Cassie’s mother looked at her with a bewildered expression. “I don’t understand. What happened this morning?” she asked.
“I put Brea on the school bus like I said I would,” Cassie replied simply.

Seito no michi: There must have been problems involved in the building of the temple because of its unique nature.
Mr. Nakajima: Yes. Because the building differed completely in purpose from general commercial buildings, apartment buildings, office buildings, and so forth, we were unable to proceed according to the construction methods that we have used in the past. In this sense we did have a great deal of difficulty. Assembling the tower and placing the oxen which support the baptismal font caused special headaches. The tower was constructed first in parts that were assembled later; and the oxen statues weighed nearly one ton apiece and had to be lowered carefully down to the basement level with an oil pressure crane. We were also forced to alter the original building plans with regard to structure and design on a few points in order to conform to Japan’s climatic environmental conditions as well as legal standards.

The Coopers have a family tradition where each person says something nice about the other people at dinner.
I’m glad I married such a great cook.
No fair, Mom. You say that every time Dad cooks.
I like that Mandy says hi to me at school, even when she’s with her friends. Tony’s sister acts like she doesn’t know him.
I like how Matt is a good friend to Franco.
Franco’s easy to like. Most of the kids are nice to him these days.
But there’s this other kid in my class—Carter. He can’t really read, and some of the kids think he’s dumb. Ms. Wood made me his reading partner.
And … ?
Well, Carter isn’t dumb. He says he was just born with a brain that has trouble reading. So he has to work harder at it.
You know what? Kids can see Franco’s crutch. If they could see Carter’s problem, maybe they’d be nicer to him too.
I think that’s a very wise observation.
This soup tastes really good, Dad.
And it looks good on your shirt too.
Dad, does that count as another compliment?

Initially, I hesitated to re-engage with the Church, but I overcame my doubts with my ward’s genuine love and support. I especially appreciated my brothers and sisters in the gospel who ministered to me with love. Their teachings awakened a testimony within me that I now share with others. I have shared the knowledge of the gospel with my friends, and they have been baptized and now serve in the Church and the temple. I believe the greatest gift one can give another person is a testimony of Jesus Christ because it brings light into our lives.

A few weeks ago, I was visiting with an elder in the mission field. During our interview, I inquired, “Is your father a member of the Church?”
He said, “No.”
“Is your mother a member of the Church?” he was asked.
He responded with a smile, “Just barely.”
I said, “Did your father want you to go on a mission?”
He answered, “No.”
“Did your mother want you to go on a mission?”
“She really didn’t care whether I went or not.”
“Who influenced you most in your decision to go?”
Without hesitation he said, “I did. I’ve always wanted to go, and I knew I could make a success of it.”
I looked into this young man’s eyes and said, “From what I hear and what I feel of your spirit, you will succeed.” He is a determined individual, one who months ago might have said, “My dad doesn’t care. My mother doesn’t care. Why should I care?” This wonderful missionary knows the importance of going forward and has the courage to continue in the paths that lead to happiness. He admitted to me that he once was lost, but now he definitely knows where he is going and how to get there.

Q: How important is physical training for a big game? I’ve heard coaches talk about trying to outrun your opponent in a game.
Freed: That’s what I used to do when I was young. I tried to beat people by outrunning them, and I did win many matches that way; but when I played a big hitter who could control a big serve and follow it to the net, he would always beat me. Then I got older and started doing the same thing myself, and I won more than I did when I was trying to outrun my opponents. Today the top college teams do roadwork in addition to their tennis playing. When I was with the Davis Cup team, I had our kids do some running whenever I could. Rope-jumping is another good exercise for tennis players.

One day the ward clerk telephoned me and asked, “Could you come see the bishop on Tuesday night?” I had heard from a neighbor that the local ward had a new bishop, but the news didn’t mean much to me because I had been disfellowshipped years before and had not returned to church. Now I assumed the new bishop wanted to extend a calling to me, and I imagined how awkward we would both feel when I explained my membership status. Still, I didn’t feel right saying no to a bishop, so I agreed to the appointment.
That is how I ended up sitting across the desk from the man who helped change my life forever. The bishop had a wonderful way of letting me know I was truly welcome. We chatted sociably for a little while, and then he asked me how I felt about the Church. I explained that although I didn’t have any hard feelings, I had been disfellowshipped several years before and had been told that if I repeated my transgressions, I would likely be excommunicated. Because I had been unsuccessful in repenting, I had made up my own mind that I was already excommunicated.
The bishop asked me if I felt any desire to discuss with him my present life in relationship to the commandments. At that point, I realized I did want to tell him everything—and it all tumbled out, accompanied by a lot of tears.
When I finished, he asked one simple question: “Will you just come back to church?” I said yes.
The bishop said he would talk to the stake president about whether another disciplinary council needed to take place, and then he would get back to me. It is hard to describe the hope I felt when I left his office. Months later, a Book of Mormon scripture helped me understand what had changed in my life that night: “And if ye have no hope ye must needs be in despair; and despair cometh because of iniquity” (Moro. 10:22). I left the bishop’s office filled with hope that I could repent, hope that I could become a worthy daughter of my Heavenly Father, hope that I could return to live with him one day.

Benjamin Ballam, who has spina bifida, is a special child of Michael and Laurie Ballam, of Logan, Utah. He has been a blessing to them and many others. Having had 17 surgeries, Benjamin knows all about hospitals and doctors. Once, when an overwhelmed attendant became vocally upset—not at Benjamin, but over stressful circumstances—little three-year-old Benjamin was an example of the Lord’s commandment to be “full of love” (Mosiah 3:19). He reached out, tenderly patted the irritated attendant, and said, “I love you anyway.”

On William’s 21st birthday, May 1, 1858, he and the crew received shore leave in Honolulu. William heard prior to leaving Britain that President Brigham Young had sent missionaries to the Pacific islands, so the young convert tried to locate some Saints “but could find no record of them.” Unknown to him the Church had called home its Pacific missionaries to help defend Zion, if necessary, against a United States army then marching toward Utah. Ironically the last elders working in Hawaii left the islands the very day that William landed in Honolulu.

The seaman, an isolated Mormon cut off from contact with the Church, continued to nourish his faith by himself. He read and reread the “works of the Church” that he had brought along. A priest in the Aaronic Priesthood, he was “posted in regard to the authority of a priest to administer the sacrament,” so he felt justified in holding his own private sacrament service in his “beef house” aboard ship. “I prayed often, to the Lord,” he said, “and asked Him to acknowledge me in the administration.” On Sundays, after the ship’s religious service, William returned to his room where “I would place the hardtack [ship’s bread] and water upon a table and then offer prayer, after which I would ask the blessing upon the bread and water and partake of it. In this way I received much spiritual strength.”

Fifteenth President of the Church
During the Great Depression of the 1930s, when few young men were serving missions, Gordon B. Hinckley was called to England. Shortly after his arrival, he became discouraged and felt he was wasting his time and his father’s money. He wrote to his father, who replied, “I have only one suggestion: forget yourself and go to work.” President Hinckley recalls: “[I] got on my knees and made a pledge with the Lord. I covenanted that I would try to forget myself and lose myself in His service. That July day in 1933 was my day of decision. A new light came into my life and a new joy into my heart” (“Taking the Gospel to Britain: A Declaration of Vision, Faith, Courage, and Truth,” Ensign, July 1987, 7).
Years later, he said of his mission: “How profoundly grateful I am. … In the course of that experience, there became riveted into my very being a conviction and knowledge that this is in very deed the true and living work of God, restored through a prophet for the blessing of all who will accept it and live its principles” (“The Question of a Mission,” Ensign, May 1986, 40).

A small green lizard darted in and out of the crevices in the crumbling old stone pier that jutted out into the Red Sea. The hot, glaring desert sun made its body glisten. The lizard stopped suddenly, and its yellow eyes watched Abu Ibn (son of) Hassan putting his catch of five fish into the net bags that had been slung over the sides of his donkey. He had caught three kanad, a type of mackerel, and two small hamur, which looked like sea bass.
Abu hoped these fish would help his father get more money at the suq (marketplace) in town ten miles across the Saudi Arabian desert.
For a few moments Abu stood beside his donkey and listened to the tinkling sound of small bells coming from the village, a tiny gathering of stone houses for fifty-two fishermen and their families. Every family owned a donkey, and every donkey except Abu’s had a bell on a thong tied around its neck. Abu’s father had a large family to feed. There never was any extra money for a bell. Abu dreamed of the day when his father would sail home with his dhow (boat) stacked high with fish. Then there would be money for a bell—maybe even a brass bell.
When Abu arrived home, his mother and sisters were full of news.
“We have a new fisherman in the village,” his mother told him.
“He owns a camel,” one of his sisters said.
“Yes, he must be rich!” another sister added. “His name is Rathman, and he is building a house. He doesn’t seem to have any family, but his new house will be bigger than any around here. He brought men from the town to help him.”
Abu ran outside and kept running until he came to where the new house was being built. The workmen were already putting up the walls. The floor would be dirt, and the roof would be made of thatched date palm leaves.
“Is-salaam alaykum (Peace be upon you),” Abu greeted one of the workmen.
“Wa-alaykum is salaam (And upon you be peace),” the workman answered.
Abu was impressed with the size of the new house. He was about to step inside when a harsh voice shouted, “Boy, get to where you belong! Don’t bother the workmen!”
Abu turned and met the angry eyes of Rathman. He had a great hooked nose, a thin-lipped mouth, and his legs and arms looked like old, dried sticks. Abu ran for home. His tobe (a long, shirt-like garment) hindered him, so he pulled it above his knees. His red kaffiyeh (headdress) fell off, but he didn’t stop to pick it up.
It was weeks before the excitement caused by the coming of the new fisherman subsided. Rathman’s dhow was the largest at the stone pier. His camel delivered his fish to the suq earlier and fresher than anyone else’s fish. It was learned that he was a friend of the sheikh (leader of the tribe) who lived in the big town.
Unlike the bells on the donkeys, which rang together and sounded like music in the village, the bell on Rathman’s camel was large, and it clanked and clunked when the beast moved. The camel held its head high, as though it was too proud to look at the lowly donkeys. Each time the fish were taken to the market, the camel would race past the donkeys, carrying not only a bigger load of fish but also Rathman on its back. The donkeys would have to plod along, trying to avoid the sandy dust that the camel kicked up. The fishermen walking beside their little animals would have to listen to Rathman’s mocking laughter.
At the pier, Rathman crowded his fishing dhow into the best place. He walked around the village as though he were a sheikh himself.
One evening Abu’s father told his family some bad news. “Rathman has ordered that the bells be taken off all the donkeys.”
“Why?” Abu’s mother asked.
“He said that the sound of our donkey bells keeps him from hearing his camel bell,” Abu’s father explained.
“But, Father, the men are not going to do it, are they?” Abu asked.
“They must,” his father said, “or Rathman may go to the sheikh, and the sheikh could punish us.”
The next day the bells were taken off the donkeys. The village was a sad and silent place. For weeks nobody sang or laughed. All that could be heard was the ugly sound of the camel’s big clanking and clunking bell.
Then one day after Rathman took his fish to the suq, he was late getting back to the village. The people saw him walking home across the desert without his camel.
One of the fishermen found enough courage to ask what had happened. Later he told Abu’s father, “Rathman’s camel stepped on a stone and fell. It strained a muscle and refuses to move.” The fisherman started laughing. “Rathman smells awful. The camel got angry and spat on him!”
All the villagers treated Rathman’s trouble as a big joke. Rathman stayed in his house, but he could hear the people laughing. Nobody offered to help him.
Abu felt sorry for him and spoke to his father about it. “Shouldn’t we try to help Rathman get his camel back to the village?”
“After the way he has treated us?” his father asked.
“But we are taught to be good to our enemies,” Abu said.
His father looked at him with a worried frown, then walked away.
Early the next morning Abu loaded his donkey with a bag of water and a bag of hamdh bushes for the camel. A few villagers looked curiously at the goatskin bags as Abu started through the village.
There were no dunes between the village and the town. At this time of the year the flat sand was abloom with zahra hamra, a beautiful pink flower. Abu enjoyed walking among the blooms while looking for Rathman’s camel. When he found the injured animal, Rathman was sitting beside it. The man didn’t speak to Abu, even when the boy started to feed and water the camel.
Suddenly Abu saw a long line of donkeys coming toward them from the village. When the fishermen and the donkeys arrived, Abu saw that the donkeys were hitched together and that they carried ropes and an old dhow sail.
“I told the men what you said—about being good to our enemies,” Abu’s father told him.
After tying the camel’s legs together, the men maneuvered it onto the sail and dragged it back to the village.
Rathman didn’t thank them, and the fishermen grumbled a little. Then, a week later, they found a small basket full of new donkey bells in the middle of the street. On top was a solid, shining brass bell marked, “For Abu.”

A few years ago my daughter and I, along with two other friends, were backpacking in the Teton Range. Looking for an adventure, we asked the ranger if there was a path that not very many people knew about. He told us about a trail-less hike that would take us through meadows, streams, boulder fields, then to a pristine lake, and eventually to our destination—The Wall. We were in! He gave us instructions on the basic directions and said, “Stay high on the mountain. Don’t go down in the willows because that is where the bears are; watch for the cairns that will show you the way.” Cairns are rocks stacked on top of each other to form an eco-friendly trail marker.
We began early the next morning. For a time we were down in the willows, which made me very nervous. Then we saw our first cairn up on the side of the hill, and we went to it. We hiked from cairn to cairn. At times it seemed we were lost because we would go so long without seeing another cairn, but then to our relief we would see one again and all was well. We reached a huge field of boulders and had to hoist each other and our packs to the top of each boulder. This was challenging, but by evening we reached the beautiful pristine lake. This is where we pitched our tents. We had exquisite views in every direction. The strenuous hike was worth it!
Early the next morning, however, I awoke to the sound of howling wind. A fog had descended on the lake, making it almost impossible to see in any direction. We packed our tents and sleeping bags and started out navigating around the lake, beginning our ascent to our destination, The Wall. I was never so happy as to arrive at The Wall—in fact, we all were! We went up to the huge granite wall and kissed it! We had arrived.

But think of the day when you must know what God would say and what He would do. It has already come for us all—wherever you are in your calling in the priesthood. I grew up in the mission field in the eastern United States during World War II. The members of the Church lived far apart, and there was strict gas rationing. I was the only deacon in the branch. The members gave their fast-offering envelopes to the branch president when they came to fast and testimony meeting in our home.

When I was 13 years old, we moved to Utah to live in a large ward. I remember my first assignment to walk to homes to collect fast offerings. I looked at the name on one of the envelopes I was given and noticed the last name was the same as one of the Three Witnesses of the Book of Mormon. So I knocked on the door with confidence. The man opened the door, looked at me, scowled, and then barked at me to go away. I went away with my head down.

That was nearly 70 years ago, but I still remember the feeling I had that day on the doorstep that there was something I was supposed to have said or done. If only I had prayed in faith as I went out that day, I might have been inspired to stand a moment longer on that doorstep, smile, and say something like: “It is good to meet you. Thank you for what you and your family have given in the past. I look forward to seeing you next month.”

Had I said and done that, he might have been even more irritated—and even offended. But I know now how I might have felt. Rather than feeling sadness or failure as I walked away, I might have felt the soft commendation in my mind and heart: “Well done.”

All of us must speak and act in the name of God in moments when our unaided judgment will not be enough without inspiration. Those moments can come upon us when there is not time to make preparation. That has happened to me often. It did many years ago in a hospital when a father told me and my companion that the doctors had told him that his critically injured three-year-old daughter would die within minutes. As I placed my hands on the one spot on her head not covered with bandages, I had to know, as God’s servant, what He would do and say.

The words came to my mind and my lips that she would live. The doctor standing by me snorted in disgust and asked me to get out of the way. I walked out of that hospital room with a feeling of peace and love. The little girl lived and walked down the aisle into a sacrament meeting on my last day in that city. I still remember the joy and satisfaction I felt from what I had said and done in the Lord’s service for that little girl and her family.

The difference in my feelings at the hospital and the sadness I felt as I walked away from that door as a deacon came from what I had learned about the connection of prayer to priesthood power. As a deacon, I had not yet learned that the power to speak and act in God’s name requires revelation and that to have it when we need it requires praying and working in faith for the companionship of the Holy Ghost.

On the evening before I went to that door for fast offerings, I had said my prayers at bedtime. But for weeks and months before that phone call came from the hospital, I had followed a pattern of prayer and made the effort that President Joseph F. Smith taught will allow God to give us the inspiration necessary for us to have power in the priesthood. He put it simply:

Last year, I had the idea to start a book club with a few of my friends who also enjoy reading. We took turns choosing a book for everyone in the club to read, and then we would get together and have fun talking about our book. One day, my mom suggested that my friends and I start a Book of Mormon club! She thought that it would be a fun idea to read the Book of Mormon together. My friends love the Book of Mormon too, so they also liked the idea. Now we all read one book in the Book of Mormon at a time, and then we get together and talk about what we are learning after each book. Sometimes we play fun games, do a craft, or have treats.
The Book of Mormon is sometimes challenging to read, but I feel happy that I am choosing to read the scriptures along with my other books. I love learning about the gospel with my friends!

Haig looked across the hot street. He reached back and closed the door behind him as he dashed barefoot over the blistering cobblestones to the shade of his father’s shop. Father was inside making the candies for which he was known all over Cairo.
“Ah, Haig, you have braved the hot stones to come to see your father,” Krikor said, handing his son a broken piece of candy.
“Thank you,” Haig said, and went into the back of the tiny shop to get the tray his father would need to take the finished candies to sell at the marketplace.
Krikor glanced fondly at his son who had brought the tray, and said, “So, in two days you will begin school. And to think, you will ride on a bus, and it stops only a mile from the school. When I was a boy in my home country I walked to the next village each day to have my lessons from the village priest.”
“But, Father, how am I to walk to the bus with no sandals? The ground is so hot that it is cracked and broken.”
Father looked up from his work, his hands pausing for a moment. “Well, now, I don’t know, Haig. Sandals cost twenty piasters, much more than we can spare right now.” Then more hopefully Krikor added, “But perhaps I shall get such a good price for my candy today that there will be enough extra to buy your sandals.”
Haig looked around the crowded shop at the boiling candy and at the bottles that held flavorings to mix with water for sweet drinks. His father had often explained with pride that in Armenian the family name meant “candymaker.” I wish, Haig thought now, that our family had been sandal makers instead.
That afternoon as Haig’s mother prepared supper, he heard children singing outside. He knew there were few Christians living in Egypt, but from the children’s song Haig could tell they were, like his family, Christians. “Listen, Mother,” he called, “the orphans.”
His mother opened the door and smiled at the ragged children. When they finished their song she handed their leader a small coin. As they passed on to the next house, Haig noticed their feet.
“Look, Mother, even the orphans have sandals.”
“Yes, I see, Haig. They are fortunate for that. But sandals for you are another matter. Your father has saved five piasters to buy some for you, yet it is not enough.” She looked into his eyes and smiled. “When we have done all we can and still need help, what must we do?”
“I know, Mother, and I have prayed.”
“Why then, we pray again. Tonight when you go to bed, ask our Father in heaven to help you get sandals so you can wear them to school.”
After Haig said his prayers that night, he overheard his parents talking in low tones.
“Today I hoped to sell my candy at a good price so I could buy Haig a pair of sandals, but business was no better, worse even, it seemed,” his father said with a sigh. “I had to lower my price in order to sell the candy at all. I may have to take two of the piasters I had saved to buy sugar for tomorrow’s candy. Maybe next week I’ll be able to buy the sandals.”
Next week! Haig agonized. Why, I’ll never, never be able to go to school. I shall never learn to read and write.
Haig dreamed of a room full of sandals that night—all shapes and sizes. As more and more sandals tumbled into his room, he called out, “But I only need one pair!” And suddenly he was awake and it was morning. Hopefully he looked across the room. No sandals. Quickly he climbed off of his bed and searched the room. Still no sandals.
He dressed and went into the other room, sad-faced. There he found his mother talking with a woman. Haig did not remember ever seeing her before, but he heard her say, “Yesterday evening I said to my husband, ‘I feel impressed that I must go to visit Arminé and Krikor; I have not seen them for a long time.’ So I caught the night train from Alexandria and here I am only four hours later.”
His mother saw Haig standing in the doorway. “Son,” she said. “Come meet a special friend of our family. This lady and her husband stayed in our home when you were born. They were refugees from Armenia during the terrible war. It was she who gave you your name.”
The lady smiled at him. “You are indeed a fine boy.”
She turned to Haig’s mother. “My husband and I have wanted to give Haig a gift for a long time. I would have brought one with me but I wasn’t sure what he might like. If you can suggest something, I’ll buy it for him today.”
His mother looked at her son and smiled. “I think Haig would like a pair of sandals very much,” she suggested.
“That is good,” the lady said. “Today we will buy a pair of sandals.”
Haig was excited. “May we go now?” he asked.
“Oh, no,” his mother answered, laughingly. “First, breakfast. Then the shoes. And tomorrow—school!”

I know a brother in Brazil who joined the Church as a 16-year-old, the only member in his family. When it was time for his mission, his parents objected. He heard nothing from them during his mission and returned home to his bishop’s house. The story, however, has a happy ending, as he now has a beautiful family and works as a dental surgeon, and his parents wish he could interest his brothers in the Church.

I learned an important fourth principle of achieving goals in the home at a recent prospective elders’ function. There we listened to the testimony of a man who two or three years ago would have been a tough contender in the “Least Likely to Become Interested in the Church” category. As he stood up, I recalled the afternoons I had spent listening to his wife, Nancy, tell of his lack of consideration for her and of his bitterness and cynicism toward the Church.

This warm, likable young man standing in front of us bore no resemblance to the person Nancy had once described. He told us how, several years earlier, their relationship had come to a stage that he described as “barely tolerable.”

“It was really bad,” he said, “I don’t suppose we would have divorced—we both knew that would be a horrible thing to do to the kids—but I know we weren’t doing them a lot of good together, either. Nancy used to bug me about joining the Church, setting an example for the children, and, oh, a lot of things; eventually she just got distant and sort of acted like I wasn’t there. Although she did complain sometimes, I think she was just as relieved as I was when I’d find reasons to work late or take the kids somewhere, just to get out of the house.

“For some reason, Nancy changed one day. All of a sudden, she started acting as if she really cared about me, like doing little things for me the way she’d done when we were going together. At first, I was suspicious—she’d had these spurts before, after she’d read an article or a book or something, but they didn’t last. This time, she seemed pretty serious about it, and the really astonishing thing was that she didn’t want any favors in return!”

We were impressed by his account of how things went from good to better and how his attitude has changed as a result of Nancy’s behavior. He said something about its being a miracle, and I said a silent amen.

Nancy had told me about the change in her. She said she realized one day how serious the situation had become, and she had done what she had learned to do when things appeared hopeless. In spite of the spiritual low she had reached in her personal attitude, she decided to share her problem with the Lord.

“I had read somewhere,” she said, “that a vocal prayer was often more effective, and I needed all the advantages I could get. I prayed aloud, that afternoon locked in my room, more fervently and humbly than I had ever prayed before. I confessed that I knew the Lord was not pleased with our home and made known my desire to improve it. I pleaded with my Heavenly Father to help Stan to be more considerate and to help him understand about the gospel.

“Well, I’m not claiming to have heard a voice, or seen a vision, or anything, just a thought popping into my troubled mind. I believed at first my mind had wandered, and I was ashamed of my lack of concentration. But the thought, I’m sure now, wasn’t mine. It had to be my answer, although goodness knows it was not at all the one I wanted! The idea was clear and powerful: “When you’re perfect, then we can start worrying about him!”

“As hard as it was to do, I felt compelled to make an all-out effort to be a better wife. I at least, had to try! Then a second manifestation came one evening several months later as I sat in sacrament meeting. Something was said that focused my attention on a couple in the ward I had often admired, even envied, for their close and spiritual relationship. I was suddenly engulfed with a peaceful, nearly ecstatic feeling, and I knew I had the power within myself to make our home a holy and heavenly place.

“A sensation much, I suppose, like the burning that comes when someone is converted to the gospel told me that the Lord was watching, helping, working with Stan, and that he was pleased with Stan’s efforts at work and in the community toward helping his fellowman. I understood, really understood that day, that my Heavenly Father had a tremendous love for my husband, and I felt so ashamed for the hostility I had felt.”