Gospel Story Finder

“Do you get to see the golden plates very often, Joseph?” seven-year-old Carlos asked as they chopped kindling in the woodlot. Carlos had been wondering about the Lamanites Joseph had spoken of during their family time.
Joseph stopped in the middle of an upswing and let his axe fall among the dry November leaves. His warm smile rested on the youngest brother. “I’ve only seen them once, Carlos, but the angel Moroni said I was to go to the Hill Cumorah every year on exactly the same date—the twenty-second day of September—until the time comes for me to translate them.” Then Joseph grew thoughtful. Until I can keep all the requirements of the Lord, he reminded himself.
Carlos pulled on his sleeve. “What will you be doing on all the regular days in between, Joseph?”
“Working on the farm with Father and our brothers. And you, too, Carlos,” he assured him, patting the younger boy’s woolen cap. “Sometimes, though, I’ll need to hire out to help earn money for payments on the farm.”
Carlos’s eyes widened as an awesome thought struck him. “What if … what if you were far away from the hill on that special day in September?” He sucked in his breath, until Joseph answered firmly, “If I had to cross an ocean, Carlos, I’d keep that appointment with the angel Moroni.”
Joseph knew his life had been changed beyond the telling by his call from the Lord. What he couldn’t know was all that lay ahead in the next four years.

Then everything changed.
The whole world transformed overnight.
I’d reached the lowest point in my life. Nothing but a profound spiritual experience could change me. I knew deep down that I was meant to be doing more in life. And I’d finally become so desperate that I was open to the truth that perhaps God did live. I didn’t know anything about Him, but I started seeking His guidance. I searched desperately for a sign of His hand in my life. Then, suddenly, He answered, and I was catapulted into a world I’d never known.
My world came together in such an orchestrated fashion and guided me to exactly where I needed to be. Strangers, family, friends—everyone and everything—seemed to be sending me messages of love, concern, and support all at once. I started to notice a sensation in my chest: a wonderful burning feeling. And along with that feeling, I was witnessing a love that was completely new to me.
The love of God.
I really didn’t know what the feeling was or where it had come from at first. I just knew it didn’t come from me and that it was better than anything I had felt. It wasn’t until later while talking with my family that I really understood that I was experiencing a connection with Heavenly Father through the power of the Holy Ghost.
My reality suddenly changed from a dull gray to full color. And it was difficult to adjust. I knew God was real. But what did this mean? For at least a month, I would break down sobbing throughout each day. The new beauty of life I was seeing was forcing me to face the unbelievably ugly way I’d lived for years. I’d been so engulfed by hatred, and now I was witnessing the deepest love I’d ever seen. A love that struck me to my core. Life had become more beautiful than I’d ever imagined it could be. I knew God was calling me. He wanted me to seek a better life. And I was finally ready to answer Him.

I also learned a lot from living around animals. My father was a veterinarian, and we had some fifty or sixty head of sheep when we lived in Lindon, Utah. One spring, just when the sheep were ready to lamb, there was a freak blizzard. My father was away on a business trip, and my grandfather was at work. Nobody else was around, and all of a sudden the sheep started birthing lambs. I was called home from school by my mom.
Grandfather took a few minutes off work to show me how to rub down the lambs with gunnysacks. That would keep their blood flowing to keep them warm. Then he had to leave because he had an emergency of his own at work.
I was alone with all the sheep, most of them having lambs. I was almost in tears, thinking that I couldn’t take care of them all and that we were going to lose the lambs. Still, I went to work, and after all the sheep had given birth, I was surprised to find out that we hadn’t lost one lamb! That experience taught me the value of persistence and self-reliance. Sometimes you just have to do the job because nobody else is available. It’s tough, and there are many challenges, and you may want to give up. You may think that you’re not strong enough or that you don’t know enough, but just do your best and keep going.

I have always been interested in animals and birds and when I was a little boy and the other children wanted to play cowboy, I wanted to go on safari to Africa and would pretend I was hunting the wild animals.

When I learned to read, I found books about birds and animals and came to know much about them. By the time I was in my teens I could identify most of the African animals. I could tell a klipspringer from an impala, or a gemsbok from wildebeest.

I always wanted to go to Africa and see the animals, and finally that opportunity came. Sister Packer and I were assigned to tour the South Africa Mission with President and Sister Howard Badger. We had a very strenuous schedule and had dedicated eight chapels in seven days, scattered across that broad continent.

President Badger was vague about the schedule for September 10th. (That happens to be my birthday.) We were in Rhodesia, planning, I thought, to return to Johannesburg, South Africa. But he had other plans, and we landed at Victoria Falls.

“There is a game reserve some distance from here,” he explained, “and I have rented a car, and tomorrow, your birthday, we are going to spend seeing the African animals.”

Now I might explain that the game reserves in Africa are unusual. The people are put in cages, and the animals are left to run free. That is, there are compounds where the park visitors check in at night and are locked behind high fences until after daylight they are allowed to drive about, but no one is allowed out of his car.

We arrived in the park in the late afternoon. By some mistake, there were not enough cabins for all the visitors, and they were all taken when we arrived. The head ranger indicated that they had a cabin in an isolated area about eight miles from the compound and we could spend the night there.

Because of a delay in getting our evening meal, it was long after dark when we left the compound. We found the turnoff and had gone up the narrow road just a short distance when the engine stalled. We found a flashlight and I stepped out to check under the hood, thinking that there must be a loose connection or something. As the light flashed on the dusty road, the first thing I saw was lion tracks!

Back in the car, we determined to content ourselves with spending the night there! Fortunately, however, an hour or two later we were rescued by the driver of a gas truck who had left the compound late because of a problem. We awakened the head ranger and in due time we were settled in our cabin. In the morning they brought us back to the compound.

We had no automobile, and without telephones there was no way to get a replacement until late in the day. We faced the disappointment of sitting around the compound all day. Our one day in the park was ruined and, for me, the dream of a lifetime was gone.

I talked with a young ranger, and he was surprised that I knew many of the African birds. Then he volunteered to rescue us.

“We are building a new lookout over a water hole about twenty miles from the compound,” he said. “It is not quite finished, but it is safe. I will take you out there with a lunch, and when your car comes late this afternoon we will bring it out to you. You may see as many animals, or even more, than if you were driving around.”

On the way to the lookout he volunteered to show us some lions. He turned off through the brush and before long located a group of seventeen lions all sprawled out asleep and drove right up among them.

We stopped at a water hole to watch the animals come to drink. It was very dry that season and there was not much water, really just muddy spots. When the elephants stepped into the soft mud the water would seep into the depression and the animals would drink from the elephant tracks.

The antelope, particularly, were very nervous. They would approach the mud hole, only to turn and run away in great fright. I could see there were no lions about and asked the guide why they didn’t drink. His answer, and this is the lesson, was “Crocodiles.”

I knew he must be joking and asked him seriously, “What is the problem?” The answer again: “Crocodiles.”

“Nonsense,” I said. “There are no crocodiles out there. Anyone can see that.”

I thought he was having some fun at the expense of his foreign game expert, and finally I asked him to tell us the truth. Now I remind you that I was not uninformed. I had read many books. Besides, anyone would know that you can’t hide a crocodile in an elephant track.

He could tell I did not believe him and determined, I suppose, to teach me a lesson. We drove to another location where the car was on an embankment above the muddy hole where we could look down. “There,” he said. “See for yourself.”

I couldn’t see anything except the mud, a little water, and the nervous animals in the distance. Then all at once I saw it!—a large crocodile, settled in the mud, waiting for some unsuspecting animal to get thirsty enough to come for a drink.

Suddenly I became a believer! When he could see I was willing to listen, he continued with the lesson. “There are crocodiles all over the park,” he said, “not just in the rivers. We don’t have any water without a crocodile somewhere near it, and you’d better count on it.”

The guide was kinder to me than I deserved. My “know-it-all” challenge to his first statement, “crocodiles,” might have brought an invitation, “Well, go out and see for yourself!”

I could see for myself that there were no crocodiles. I was so sure of myself I think I might have walked out just to see what was there. Such an arrogant approach could have been fatal! But he was patient enough to teach me.

Down on the tip of England’s toe, 18-year-old Joanne Crocker of Helston Ward, tells of her teacher, Hugh Dunbar. “The day before one monthly meeting, his car wouldn’t go. He had the engine in pieces until 3:00 A.M. Then he snatched two hours of sleep and finished the job by 11:30 Saturday morning in time to begin picking up his class of seven by 12 noon. Then we drove 70 miles to the Plymouth stake centre. And this was only six months after open heart surgery.”

Illustration by Bradley Clark
I was baptized when I was 15 years old. A lot of people didn’t understand my new faith. Some, including my friends, even made fun of me for my decision to join the Church. My parents weren’t members of the Church, so I didn’t have their support.
As a result, it became difficult for me to continue attending church and to keep living the gospel. By the time I was 19, I had stopped going to church.
Ten years later, I heard that a temple would be built in El Salvador. I was surprised to hear that a house of the Lord would be built in my country! Four years later, the San Salvador El Salvador Temple was completed, and a temple open house was announced. When I found out that the open house would give me the opportunity to enter the temple, I felt as if the Lord was personally inviting me to enter His house.
The day I walked through the temple was one of the best days of my life. During the open house, I learned more about what happens inside dedicated temples. I also learned about sacred temple covenants that individuals make with God.
As I walked through each room of the temple, I felt God’s presence. I felt at peace. Visiting the temple gave me the desire to come back to the Church and to live the gospel again. When I realized I could take part in God’s great work, I wanted to complete temple work for my ancestors and to exercise the priesthood.
My experience in the temple that day changed me. Now I help members in my ward prepare for the temple and assist them with family history so they can do temple work for their ancestors.
It is never too late to return to the Church. It is never too late to do good. The Lord, with His infinite love, is always with us. The temple is a place that unites us with Him and allows us to one day return to live with Him.

“How much money do I have in my mission fund, Mom?” asked Hyrum, age eight.
“About 75 dollars,” I answered.
“How much do missions cost?”
“Lots.”
“Will you pay for my mission, Mom?”
“There will be four of you on missions at the same time while two others will be in college. Since money will be stretched pretty thin, you had better plan on paying for your own mission.”
“Where will I find lots of money? If I were Rumpelstiltskin I could turn straw into gold, but I don’t even have straw,” he said.
“Why don’t we ask the missionaries we know how they financed their missions?” I said. We did.
Elder Wall from the Spain Barcelona Mission had a wealth of information. “I didn’t turn straw into gold; I used hay, sheep, a TV, spare parts, wood, cars, and a lot of paint,” he said.
Hyrum was speechless. This guy knew the secret. We begged him to tell us more. He laughed.
“I’ve been working since I can remember. When I was eight my dad put me on a tractor and pointed me at a hay field. I worked when other kids fished. Sometimes I would dream about lying on a riverbank, but I don’t regret working. I painted curbs with house numbers when I was ten. I sold candy bars in junior high and made more money than the school store. I picked berries. I learned to drive a truck before I drove a car. That led to driving a forklift and later a berry harvester for $8.00 an hour. I’ve laid over 100,000 feet of sprinkler pipe; planted shrubbery; trimmed, pruned, and mowed lots of lawns. During high school, Ernie Harwood and I formed a housepainting partnership. He completely paid for his mission to Japan with this job. We bid for jobs with a realty company. Before I left I trained one of the priests, who will carry on with the contacts we made. I hope they keep passing the job around the quorum. I earned a lot of my mission fund this way.
“The most unusual job I had was six weeks as a sheepherder. I lived in a camper 70 miles from the nearest settlement. There was no hot water, shower, or washing machine. The weather was often 15 degrees with a 30-mile-an-hour wind. I cared for sick sheep and helped with the lambing.
“My favorite work was the least profitable. I love to invent. I formed a direct sales company partnership to sell my inventions all across the United States. I even invented a device to prevent ewes from rolling onto their newborns. My boss said it would save millions of dollars by preventing lamb deaths.
“I’ve chopped several cords of wood, delivered and stacked it. There are opportunities all around if you keep your eyes open. I bought things at auctions, then cleaned, fixed, and sold them at a profit, still giving the customer a bargain. This became a game. A popcorn machine, calves, mag wheels, televisions, cars, and motorcycles all turned into gold.
“You can spin anything into gold if you turn yourself into an expert first. I never watched television. I read how-to books. The best advice I can give you is to keep your eyes open, read and learn, and listen to your dad.”
Elder Lund leaves soon for his mission. He told us, “I worked at a dry cleaner for two years. I found the position when I took a buddy to his interview. He told the lady he couldn’t take the job because of the hours but that I could. I did. I worked the cash register, took in dirty clothes, and gave out the clean ones. I also cleaned up after closing. When I started the job I was very shy. I learned to speak up and explain things to people. I gained a lot of confidence. Now I don’t have trouble communicating with people.
“My brother and I bought broken lawn mowers, repaired them, and sold them for a profit. We didn’t have to spend money for parts. They just needed our mechanical knowledge.
“I put my money into a savings account. I recommend everyone use a savings account. But give the bankbook to your mom so you can’t take the money out again. You need to start early in life to save because you can’t cram in the last few months like you might for a test.”
Elder Hale returned recently from the California Ventura Mission. “I worked as a dietician’s assistant for two years. I made up the trays for the older sisters in a Catholic convent. I took them their food and helped them eat it. We enjoyed great religion discussions. They sent me researching history and facts. I loved the ladies like grandmas. I learned to respect them and their beliefs. My job in the school cafeteria led me to the convent job. I also raised rabbits and sold them through the pet stores for a commission.
“When I had enough money I loaned it out and received a steady income with interest. I put aside 10 percent for tithing and then another 20 percent for my mission.
“Work hard. The harder you work on a job, the harder you will work on your mission. It is difficult to be rejected at doors when tracting. Only the ability to work hard will keep you going back to one more door at the end of a long day.”
Pumping gas and farm work supported Elder Rudolph in the Texas Houston Mission. “When I was 12 my bishop challenged me to set aside 50 percent of all I earned for a mission fund. I gulped and promised. At age 14 my parents told me I was responsible for buying all my clothes. I gave 10 percent to the Lord, 50 percent to the mission fund, clothed and entertained myself with the remaining 40 percent. I earned all my money and wasn’t worried at the last minute about how I would eat.”
“I earned my money in lots of ways during the six years I saved,” said Elder Fenley of the Illinois Chicago South Mission. “I picked produce, worked in a service station, and washed dishes in a Chinese restaurant. I also worked as a short-order cook in a fast-food restaurant. I heard about my jobs from friends and my dad. I put aside 50 percent of all I earned for my mission. People respected my beliefs where I worked. I felt I was a good example. I am grateful I have the funds to be out here now. Develop a good working attitude. Not everything you do is fun, but a good attitude will help you work and serve the Lord.”
Sister Peterson in the South Carolina Columbia Mission advised, “Learn to live on a limited income early in life, and then you won’t have trouble living on the bare essentials as a missionary. I didn’t know I was going on a mission, so I didn’t have any savings. I did have a few debts. I worked in a commercial laundry to pay my doctor and dentist bills. I sold my car but depend on my parents for most of my support. My companion, a Navajo Indian, sold cosmetics to support herself.”
“I should have started saving earlier,” said Elder Dana Redford. “I don’t have enough yet for my mission. I have only two months to earn the rest. I work at a cardboard warehouse on a substitute basis. Whenever anyone is sick or on vacation they call me. The job is steady, and I do different types of work. I cut boxes, bundle cardboard, stack, move inventory, make up orders, and deliver them. I have sold lid openers (an invention of Elder Wall), worked a paper route, and done lots of yard work. People call me because they know I am saving for a mission. I think they see it as a charitable contribution as well as a means of getting their work done.
“The most important attribute an employee can have is a good attitude. One job leads to another, so if you don’t like the work, try harder and think about the future jobs this one might bring.”
Hyrum learned a lot from the missionaries as he said, “I don’t have to be Rumpelstiltskin to turn straw into gold.”
He and his brothers and sisters learned to paint house numbers on curbs. Their story appeared in the local newspaper, which helped business. Another family wanted to form a similar business, so the children charged a learning fee. They have ideas of hiring other kids and expanding their business.
Hyrum worked with a companion, gathered equipment, memorized a door approach, kept records, advertised, corrected sloppy work, cleaned messes, paid tithing, and met savings goals. He learned to overcome disappointment by going on to the next house when turned down at the first one, the second one, and so on.
Hyrum spun paint into gold, several kinds of gold—the kind a boy saves, the kind a mother treasures, and the kind Heavenly Father honors.

It was a stormy winter night. At the airport in Chicago, Illinois, many people were stranded due to delayed or canceled flights. A young pregnant woman stood in the long check-in line, nudging her two-year-old daughter forward with her foot.
Many people made disapproving comments, but no one offered to help.
Man: Why doesn’t she pick up that screaming child?
Woman: What a terrible mother.
With a kind smile, Elder Kimball walked up to the woman.
Elder Kimball: Can I help you?
Mother: Thank you.I’ve had four previous miscarriages. My doctor told me I can’t lift anything—not even my own child.
Elder Kimball picked up the crying child, rubbed her back, and gave her a piece of candy. When the girl was comforted, he informed the other passengers and the airport workers of the woman’s condition.
Airport worker: We’ll have you on the next available flight.
Supervisor: Come and sit and rest until your departure.
The woman’s stress was lessened. Later, she saw a picture of Elder Spencer W. Kimball of the Quorum of the Twelve Apostles.
Mother: That’s him! That’s the man who helped me.
A few months after that, she gave birth to a healthy baby boy.
Twenty-one years later, President Kimball received a letter. It was from the son of that young mother.
Student: I served a faithful mission and am now a student at Brigham Young University. Thank you for helping my mother that terrible night!
President Kimball was happy that his small act of service had resulted in so much good.

Marlene Harris was ironing a skirt for the Halloween dance planned later that night when a knock thundered at the door. “Quick, get out, the building’s on fire!”
Her first reaction was, “Just a Halloween trick.” Then she smelled smoke. “Fire! Fire!” she yelled to her four roommates. The five began madly scrambling in seven directions as they scooped up various items to rescue from the flames before stumbling through the doorway and down the stairs.
Moments later Marlene, a bundle securely in her arms, was standing in the cold with 50 other college students. “At least I saved something,” she thought to herself as the firemen arrived. A chill wind caused her to shiver; she’d forgotten her coat.
Walter Steele, who lived in one of the basement apartments, stood next to her, apparently toasty warm in his overcoat, gloves, and winter hat. He was munching on pieces of a large bar.
“At least you’re prepared,” she commented, envying his coat.
“Yeah, it runs in the family. My great-grandfather used to hitch his mules each morning facing east, just in case he got the call for Jackson County. Have a bite?”
“What is it?”
“Survival ration bar, made for emergencies. Quite good, really. Here.” He broke off another chunk and handed it to her. Marlene shifted her bundle and took the piece. She mumbled her thanks as she nibbled the concoction.
“Made from oatmeal, powdered milk, sugar, honey, and flavored gelatin,” he commented. “Good emergency ration, about 1,000 calories, in one of these,” Walt added as he tried another bite. “Not really hungry, but this is the first time I’ve been in an emergency, and I’m going to make the most of it.”
“Not bad, I mean the bar.”
“Part of being prepared.”
“I guess you got that from your great-grandfather,” she answered, trying to break his smugness.
“Naw, I even flunked Scouting.”
Marlene smiled.
“It’s true, though. I’ve been prepared for emergencies for years. I have a couple of bundles of food and supplies on the closet floor. They’re good for three days. Then I have a two-week supply stashed under the bed. Now I’m working on my year’s supply. I’m ready for fire, flood, earthquake, famine, and just about anything else.”
“A flood here in these mountains?”
“Never know; it only takes one. Look at Idaho and Colorado. Anyway, I also rehearsed what I would do in case of different emergencies, and when the alarm came tonight, I was able to calmly evaluate my needs for this situation. I had enough time for my overclothes, this bar, and this knapsack of legal papers and genealogical research.”
Walt looked around at the crowd. “Nobody else here is prepared. Even the landlord failed to install product-of-combustion alarms in the complex. Fortunately I had a smoke detector with me, and I put it in my room. That’s how we learned of the fire.
“Look at that girl in the bathrobe, slippers, and wet hair. Then there is Art over there shaking in his shirt-sleeves, but he rescued his skis, boots, and poles.”
Marlene joined in the inventory. “My roommate there has all her books for the semester, Laura brought clothes from her closet, and Becky’s holding her record collection.”
“A real help in an emergency,” he commented dryly. “By the way, what’s in your arms?”
Marlene looked down and took stock for the first time. She blushed. “Ironing.”
He laughed, then apologized, unslung his knapsack and pulled off his coat. “Here, wear this until we can go back inside. I still don’t see any flames.”
“That’s fair enough,” she replied, mollified, “if you’ll wrap these around your bare feet.”
The fireman came out of the downstairs laundry room. The cause of alarm had been a pile of clothes left against the gas water heater. Marlene, Walt, and the others were able to return to their apartments and continue preparations for the evening’s activities. The emergency was over.

In all likelihood, he was going to finish dead last.
Michael Edwards was the first person in history to represent Great Britain as an Olympic ski jumper. He was taller and heavier than his competitors (a disadvantage in ski jumping). He had such bad eyesight that he needed to wear thick glasses while jumping—glasses that fogged up at high altitude. He was entirely self-funded and as a result used mostly borrowed ski gear as opposed to the top-notch equipment provided to other skiers by their sponsors.
The odds were stacked against him. And yet, during the 1988 Winter Olympics in Calgary, Alberta, Canada, Michael Edwards had a perpetual smile on his face. He was already achieving the goal he’d had for many years: to compete as an Olympic athlete. He didn’t care when people told him he’d never win. He didn’t mind that other competitors would be better than him. And he never expected to take home the gold. His goal was to make it to the Olympics, and that’s just what he did.
He had wanted to inspire people, and inspire them he did. The crowds quickly started cheering him on. They loved rooting for a guy who did his very best and chased his goals, even though Michael’s prospects of winning seemed slim to none. As the games continued and he indeed placed last in every event, his popularity only grew. Nicknamed “Eddie the Eagle,” Michael Edwards had people across the globe rooting for him.
His Olympic story shows that there’s a lot to be said for setting goals, doing your personal best, and not worrying so much about those around you.

In 1973 I was the seminary teacher for our ward. Since we did not live in a heavily church-populated area, we had early morning seminary, beginning at 6:10 A.M. Every morning 35 to 40 choice young people would get up and come to the church in order to attend our New Testament class, and every morning it was like a small miracle to me. To study the gospel that early in the morning took a special dedication, and I admired my students as they daily appeared for more gospel instruction.

For several years it had been the policy of our stake to have a scripture chase tournament in which teams from the eight wards competed, and the two top teams would then go to a regional competition with four other stakes.

That year we had a great team of seven people, five girls and two young men. They had worked hard all year, spending a great deal of their own time outside of class studying for the competition, and the excitement began to increase as the day for the stake play-off approached. Of course, our team had scouted the other wards and knew that the team to beat was our neighboring Fourteenth Ward.

The night of the stake competition came, and after several closely contested matches, we completed the contest in second place, losing to Fourteenth Ward. Our team had done well, and I was satisfied that the real purpose of the competition, to learn the scriptures, had been accomplished. And we had qualified for the regional contest coming up the next weekend.

During that week the team worked even harder studying and reciting the scriptures back to each other. They also set their goal of beating the first-place team from our stake, feeling sure that we would be matched with them during the regionals.

Regional competition was a total day where the ten top teams from the five stakes competed in a double elimination tournament, and as the day progressed, so did the excitement and pressure. As in all competition, elation for one team meant great disappointment for another, and as our team competed, we too experienced high and low moments. We lost our first round, which meant we had only one more chance. However, we rallied and won the next two games, which put us in an excellent position. Four of the ten teams had already been eliminated, and we felt that we could at least take a second or third. Of course, each of us nurtured a hope of first place, although it was never openly talked about.

As we sat and talked about our next game, Steve got up and ambled over to the board to see who our next game would be with. He was back in a minute with an excited look on his face.

“Hey, Fourteenth Ward lost to North Third Ward! It’s their first loss, and guess who they play next!”

Well, here it was. I could feel the excitement go up a notch, and every member of the team was thinking the same thing when Steve voiced it aloud:

“We can beat those guys! If we beat them in regionals, that’ll show we’re really the best in our stake. The pressure’s greater here, but I know we can beat those guys! And that’s really why we came here.”

We had about two minutes before the game, and we hurriedly discussed last-minute strategy. As we were about to get up, I said something I hadn’t said all year, because I knew l didn’t have to. Still, it came out.

“Okay, just one more thing. Whatever happens, remember that the most important thing is to be fair. If the judge makes a bad call, don’t argue. Be honest in everything you do.” I could tell from the seven looks I got back that l had insulted their integrity, and I wished I could stuff the words back in my mouth.

“Seattle Ninth and Seattle Fourteenth Wards, would you please take your places?” Both teams moved into place, and l grabbed an empty seat on the front row of spectator seats. The cultural hall was about three-fourths full, complete with parents and friends to cheer each team.

I slumped in my chair and said funny things to myself like, “Remember, you’re the teacher. Don’t get excited. Present a good image. You’re not supposed to be nervous. It’s only a game. No matter what happens, they’ve done a great job.” Brother Stock reached over and slapped me on the back. “This is it! We’ve got to win this one.” Thanks, I needed that.

In our scripture chase, we had three types of questions. The first was an individual question, where the first person on either team to find the correct scripture from the clue given received a point for his or her team. The second was a team-help question, where all members of the team had to have the same scripture, but they could help each other. The first team to get it received two points. The third type was a team-no-help, where all the team had to have the scripture, but they couldn’t help each other. The first team to get it received three points. There was a total of seven clues given, and the team with the most points won that game. The loser of this match would be eliminated from the tournament.

I don’t remember the sequence of events or questions, but at the end of six questions, the score was tied six to six. I was no longer able to pretend I was not excited but was sitting on the very edge of my chair, cheering for our team with the rest of the parents and friends.

Now! Now was the time for a home run, a hole in one, a 50-yard field goal, a 30-foot jump shot, a 4-minute mile, a whatever is great in any sport—now was the time when a competitor put full dedication into one last supreme effort, knowing there would be no more chances.

“Okay, teams, here we go for the final question. A team-help, worth two points, and everybody on the team must have it. Remember, you can help each other, and the judge for each team will check your Bible to make sure you have it right. When you get the correct scripture, put your finger in the page, close your Bible, and turn on your switch. Ready? Situation: Where does it say that a man cannot take the priesthood upon himself? Chase!”

Hands and books flew, and I knew they were going to have to be fast. Hebrews 5:4—it was so easy; they’ve got to have it by now! There! The lights came on almost at the same time, but our team was first! I could tell from the looks on their faces that they all had the right scripture.

“Okay, Ninth Ward, does everyone have Hebrews 5:4?” [Heb. 5:4] Everybody nodded. “Judge, would you check each Bible to make sure they have the correct page?” Everyone opened their books as the judge passed slowly down the row to make sure everything was right. He looked at the moderator, nodded, and said, “Everybody has it.”

Explosion behind me and all around. Parents and friends were cheering, and the team was grinning from ear to ear—all except Steve. He quietly motioned to the judge and pointed to something in his Bible. After a few seconds of whispering, the judge returned to the moderator and explained the situation. I knew immediately what had happened. In his haste, Steve had gotten one page off when he marked his Bible with his finger. As sometimes happened, the judge didn’t catch it since it was only one page away from the correct answer.

I didn’t need to listen to know that the other team’s members all had the correct scripture and that we had lost. I didn’t care, because all I could think about was an 18-year-old priest who taught me more in less than a minute about honor and integrity than I had ever read or heard. To say nothing would have been the easy thing to do. No one knew, no one questioned, and our team had already been declared the winner. I quickly reviewed in my mind the quiet manner in which Steve had corrected the mistake, with no expectation of recognition or honor, just the sure knowledge that there was only one right thing to do. And through the misty eyes and the lump in my throat, I silently thanked my Father in Heaven for allowing me to associate with spirits as choice as Steve.

When his Scout leader asked Jonathan Conger, a priest in the Lundstrom Park First Ward, Logan Utah East Stake, if he wanted to plant and harvest a wheat field for his Eagle Scout project, Jonathan said, “Sure.” Little did he know the immensity of the project before him. Only later did he realize how much he would have to rely on Heavenly Father and the community to help him achieve his goal.
Jonathan’s Scoutmaster at the time, Edward Redd, first got the idea for the project while visiting the Cache Community Food Pantry. During his visit, Brother Redd asked what the pantry needed most, and they told him flour was always a much needed commodity.
When he first started thinking about Eagle project ideas, Jonathan had been planning to paint some benches at his local meetinghouse. Then Brother Redd told him about 10 acres of land he owned that hadn’t been planted yet. He suggested to Jonathan that they should plant wheat on the land, have it milled, and donate the flour to the pantry as his Eagle Scout project.
“I didn’t really think about how big a project it would be, but it sounded good,” said Jonathan. Planting and harvesting a 10-acre field is not an easy job. Jonathan and Brother Redd discussed how to grow the wheat, take care of the field, harvest the wheat, and find a mill to grind it.
First on the list was finding seed. This was where the first of many people came to Jonathan’s aid. A member of Jonathan’s ward had planted wheat the previous year and had a silo filled with seed. He offered to give Jonathan the seed for planting the field.
Now that he had seed, Jonathan had to wait until April for the field to dry out enough to be ready for planting. Looking ahead to the harvest, they searched for a mill that would handle the grinding of the wheat, and they eventually found a local mill that agreed to help. Jonathan told them that sometime around September they would bring the wheat to be ground into flour.
To prepare for planting, Jonathan first had to arrange for the field to be leveled so the seed would fall on even ground. They were given permission to use a tractor to level the field and pull the seed drill (used to plant the seeds). But the tractor broke. Luckily Brother Redd knew someone who could fix it.
“He took it home, fixed it, and brought it back to us,” said Jonathan. “He didn’t even hesitate. I told him what I was doing and asked him for help. He said, ‘Sure. Anytime.’”
The next step was for Jonathan to organize for the field to be fertilized and then, in July, to be irrigated. This became a challenge when Jonathan realized the irrigating was not automated. The pipes had to be laid and moved by hand. Watering the field took three days.
“It was kind of troublesome,” Jonathan said. “You set the pipes on the ground, and it was really muddy and gross because irrigating for a few days turns the field into a swamp.” Even though it was hard work, Jonathan has fond memories of the fun he had irrigating. Fortunately the natural weather took care of the rest of the irrigation needs as it was one of the wettest springs the area had seen in a long time.
“We were really lucky when we planted. It rained right afterwards, and if we had waited any longer, the ground would have been too wet again. Everything fit in just right.”
Another set of challenges arrived with harvest time, but Jonathan found that when you’re in service to a good cause, others are always willing to help. A week before harvest, Jonathan checked in with the flour mill and found that the person he had made all the arrangements with was on vacation for the next week and had not told anyone of the agreement. Now the mill did not have room to take his wheat until a later date. Also, they faced the task of harvesting the wheat with a small combine that would take them many hours.
The mill made the effort to clear a space for the coming wheat, and the farmer who had donated the seed just happened to be passing by in his combine harvester when they were about to begin harvesting. He had been on his way to harvest his own field and decided to help out again, harvesting the field in under three hours. In the tradition of helping hands, another farmer lent a trailer to the project to store the wheat for a few days until the mill could receive it. Yet another person helped to store the flour after it had been packaged and set on pallets at the mill.
The 10-acre field produced 23,000 pounds of wheat, 20,000 of which was given to the mill to grind. The mill kept some of the flour as payment for processing the wheat, but finally Jonathan was given 5,400 pounds of flour, enough to bake approximately 5,400 loaves of bread, all of which was donated to the food pantry. The rest of the wheat was kept, cleaned, and sold to cover the costs of fertilizer and herbicides. More people donated time and resources to again store the wheat and then help in loading the flour at the Cache Community Food Pantry, which opened its doors after hours specifically to receive it.
Jonathan is happy with the service he provided, and the flour’s delivery signified the end of his project. But visiting the pantry made him realize what he had achieved. He knew that what he had done was going to benefit a lot of people.
“It felt good to help those people, and I was just glad I could help in the little way I did,” Jonathan said. The Eagle Scout project left a good feeling, and Jonathan knows that it couldn’t have been done without a lot of help from family, fellow Scouts, and other people who donated time and energy. Jonathan feels that Heavenly Father’s help in particular was important.
“Obviously God played a big part in guiding us while we were doing this, because at times things didn’t work out very well, but then they came together all of a sudden,” Jonathan said. “It may just seem like luck, but I think God was watching, and He knew this was a good project and He wanted to help me.”
Jonathan Conger isn’t planning to grow more wheat in the future. He’s more likely to be found playing the piano, thinking about medical school, and preparing for a mission. But he will always remember his Eagle project and what it taught him about the law of the harvest.

Roger Bannister was a medical student in England who had an ambitious hope. He desired to be the first man to run a mile (1.6 km) under four minutes. For much of the first half of the early 20th century, field and track enthusiasts had anxiously awaited the day the four-minute-mile barrier would be broken. Over the years many outstanding runners had come close, but still the four-minute barrier stood. Bannister dedicated himself to an ambitious training schedule with the hope of realizing his goal of setting a new world record. Some in the sporting community had begun to doubt whether the four-minute mile could be broken. Supposed experts had even hypothesized the human body was physiologically unable to run at such speeds over such a long distance. On a cloudy day on May 6, 1954, Roger Bannister’s great hope was realized! He crossed the finish line in 3:59.4, setting a new world record. His hope to break the four-minute-mile barrier became a dream which was accomplished through training, hard work, and dedication.

Both of these sisters know firsthand the religious confusion and uncertainty some of their investigators are feeling. Sister Pálinkás Bernadett is from Dunaújváros, a factory city built by Joseph Stalin as a model Communist city. For many years, there were no churches at all in the city. “My parents are not believers in God,” she says. “But somehow I felt close to Him and felt that He loved me.
“I often thought about what I was doing here on earth, what the purpose of life was, why I was born here in Hungary and not somewhere else, and why now and not earlier or later. Something was missing in my life, but I didn’t know exactly what.”
When Bernadett was almost 20, two American missionaries came into the store where she sold office supplies. “My co-workers and I could tell from the very first that these young men were different from others,” she remembers. “There was something shining from their eyes that made me very curious as to who they were and what they were doing here in Hungary. I felt that they could show me something that I didn’t know—something that I needed to know.”
Bernadett and a co-worker arranged to hear the first discussion. Although her friend soon lost interest, Bernadett attended sacrament meeting alone the following Sunday and was baptized a month later, on 22 August 1992. A year and a half later, she became a full-time missionary. None of her family has yet been baptized.
Bernadett’s parents are not happy with either decision—to be baptized or to serve a mission. “It hurts them because they don’t understand what I’m doing and why, even though I’ve tried to explain it to them. When I decided to be a missionary, my first goal was to somehow bring my parents closer to the Church. Now I recognize that each person has to personally walk the road to get to God, and it takes some people longer than others. I write to my parents every week and pray for them always.”

The responsibility of communication is not alone on the shoulders of parents. The youth also have a responsibility to contribute love and strength to the family organization.
I recall a stage play that recently was made into a movie. It dealt with parents whose only child, a son, returned from military service. The father and son had never been close. It was a situation in which both father and son loved each other but were unable to find ways to express themselves, and therefore hostilities arose because each thought the other did not like him. It was a breakdown of communication.
But now the son was home from the army, and things were different. The father and son began to establish a whole new relationship. The high point of the play came when the boy said to his father something like this:
“Dad, I always resented you when I was younger because you never told me that you loved me, but then I realized that I had never told you that I loved you either. Well, Dad, I’m telling you now: I love you.”
For one electrifying moment the father and son embraced each other as the pent-up love and appreciation of years came flooding out. This probably would never have happened had the son not realized that he was as guilty of lack of expression as his parents.
Loren C. DunnConference ReportApril 1969, p. 22.

After I had been made a senior companion, I met Carlos Garcia in Montevideo. Carlos was about fourteen years old. We became acquainted as he attended our presentations of the missionary discussions in the home of his neighbors, the Carabajals. Carlos wanted us to teach his family and helped us arrange to meet his parents and his younger brothers and sisters. We taught the Garcias and watched them become members of the Church. One day as we visited in the Garcia home we noticed large red letters about six inches high that had been cut out and pasted on the living room wall. They spelled “Y Yo Tercero,” meaning “And I Third.”
We asked Carlos what the saying meant. He said: “Well, I figure it this way. God is first. My family and others come second. And I am third.” I have never forgotten this great teaching.

My parents helped me prepare for my baptism and to understand the reasons why I needed to be baptized. I started reading the Book of Mormon with my mother, and the more we read, the more I liked it.
Later, the missionaries taught me, and I started understanding the things I learned in Primary. When the missionaries asked if I wanted to take upon me the name of Christ, I was a little scared because I knew the responsibilities baptism brought with it. But I said yes—I wanted to be baptized as soon as I turned 8.
On November 14, 2004, I was baptized a member of the Church. Since then, I have faced many situations that have caused me to remember that I need to always live the way Jesus Christ did. For example, my sisters are 7 and 2 years old, and now I know what kind of example I need to be for them. I try to take care of my sister at school and help her behave. I work hard at school, and at home I always try to be quieter so my sisters will do the same. I help my mom fix breakfast every Sunday, and I have started fasting on the first Sunday of the month like my parents.
As I try to do the things that Jesus taught, I can see blessings. My parents teach me to feel the Savior’s love in all the things I do. I am eagerly waiting for the day when I can serve a mission.

May I tell you another goal that I set when I was still a youngster.
I had heard all of my life about the Word of Wisdom and the blessings that could come into my life through living it. I had seen people chewing tobacco, and it was repulsive to me. I had seen men waste much time in “rolling their own” cigarettes. They would buy a sack of “Bull Durham” tobacco or some other brand and then some papers, and then they would stop numerous times in a day to fill the paper with tobacco and then roll it and then bend over the little end of it and then smoke it. It seemed foolish to me and seemed such a waste of time and energy. Later when the practice became more sophisticated, they bought their cigarettes readymade. I remember how repulsive it was to me when women began to smoke.
I remember as a boy going to the Fourth of July celebration on the streets of my little town and seeing some of the men as they took part in the horse racing as participator or as gambler, betting on the horses, and I noted that many of them had cigarettes in their lips and bottles in their pockets and some were ugly drunk and with their bleary eyes and coarse talk and cursing.
It took a little time to match the ponies and arrange the races, and almost invariably during this time there would be someone call out, “Fight! Fight!” and all the men and boys would gravitate to the fight area which was attended with blows and blood and curses and hatreds.
Again I was nauseated to think that men would so disgrace themselves, and again I made up my mind that while I would drink the pink lemonade on the Fourth of July and watch the horses run, that I never would drink liquor or swear or curse as did many of these fellows of this little town.
And I remember that without being pressured by anyone, I made up my mind while still a little boy that I would never break the Word of Wisdom. I knew where it was written and I knew in a general way what the Lord had said, and I knew that when the Lord said it, it was pleasing unto him for men to abstain from all these destructive elements and that the thing I wanted to do was to please my Heavenly Father. And so I made up my mind firmly and solidly that I would never touch those harmful things. Having made up my mind fully and unequivocably, I found it not too difficult to keep the promise to myself and to my Heavenly Father.
I remember once in later years when I was district governor of the Rotary Clubs of Arizona that I went to Nice, France, to the international convention. As a part of that celebration there was a sumptuous banquet for the district governors, and the large building was set for an elegant meal. When we came to our places, I noted that at every place there were seven goblets, along with numerous items of silverware and dishes; and everything was the best that Europe could furnish.
As the meal got underway, an army of waiters came to wait on us, seven waiters at each place, and they poured wine and liquor. Seven glass goblets were filled at every plate. The drinks were colorful. I was a long way from home; I knew many of the district governors; they knew me. But they probably did not know my religion nor of my stand on the Word of Wisdom. At any rate, the evil one seemed to whisper to me, “This is your chance. You are thousands of miles from home. There is no one here to watch you. No one will ever know if you drink the contents of those goblets. This is your chance!” And then a sweeter spirit seemed to whisper, “You have a covenant with yourself; you promised yourself you would never do it; and with your Heavenly Father you made a covenant, and you have gone these years without breaking it, and you would be stupid to break this covenant after all these years.” Suffice it to say that when I got up from the table an hour later, the seven goblets were still full of colorful material that had been poured into them but never touched an hour earlier.

I remember the terrifying words of my labor nurse: “I think he has some anomalies.” At the same time, the population in the delivery room escalated to allow for the resuscitation of my severely compromised newborn.
I had lived similar scenes many times before, but from the other side, as a nurse. I was supposed to be the one reviving the newborn. Now I was the mom reaching through an incubator door to touch the hand of my son, while a transport team waited to take him to another hospital.
The next morning I received a telephone call from the newborn intensive care unit (NICU), where my husband, Andrew, sat surrounded by doctors, as they explained the surgery Timothy would immediately require to remove giant abdominal tumors.
I clung to the hope that surgery would cure our child and that he would lead a normal, happy life. I envisioned him as a chubby toddler with a cute scar, a reminder of the short-lived scare he gave his parents.
Three weeks later in that same hospital conference room, a neurologist attempted to explain the brain malformation that would leave our child with significant cognitive delay, speech difficulty, and eventually seizures.
A few days after that, in the same room, the neonatologist said, “I can’t conceive that Timothy will go home without a feeding tube.” Our baby was an emaciated three pounds (1.4 kg) less than at birth, anemic, and virtually unresponsive to stimulation. When offered a bottle, his suck was weak at best, and he choked on its contents.
Expectations for our baby seemed reduced to nothing. My world was crashing down on me. I questioned the Lord’s promise that He will never allow a trial that is beyond one’s capacity to bear. I felt this burden was crushing me physically, mentally, and spiritually. During long daily hours at the hospital, I longed to be with my two older children and to resume our peaceful life. When I was at home, I obsessed over the welfare of my baby and, honestly, what I thought were our newly destroyed lives.
At my lowest point I pleaded with the Lord, letting Him know all the wonderful ways I would serve Him if He would just take Timothy back, let me mourn his loss, and allow me to get on with my life. Anything else was clearly more than I could handle.
While all of this was going on, my own personal miracle was beginning. Many members of our ward, along with several family members and friends, were fasting and praying for our family. One Sunday morning when I woke up, I had a strong impression that something great was going to happen that day as a result of all the fasting and prayers. I was hoping, of course, that Timothy would suddenly become alert and miraculously begin to feed. When I arrived in the NICU, Timothy was as nonresponsive as ever, and he still had no interest in bottle-feeding. Naturally, I was disappointed, but as I held him, an intense feeling came over me that he was going to be OK. I didn’t know what “OK” meant, but I had no doubt the Lord was in charge and was aware of our family.
A few weeks later my mother and I stopped by the hospital. In that quiet, dimly lit room, my mother held my weak little baby to her chest and rocked him as she sang the Christmas lullaby:
Oh, hush thee, my baby; a story I’ll tell,
How little Lord Jesus on earth came to dwell;
How in a far country, ’way over the sea,
Was born a wee baby, my dear one, like thee.
Lullaby baby, lullaby dear.
Sleep, little baby; have nothing to fear.
Lullaby baby, lullaby dear.
Jesus will care for his little one here.1
I knew peace would come through my Savior, who came to this earth to bring peace and eternal happiness for each of us. Surely He would care for this dear little one and lift those of us who were chosen to care for him.
A few weeks later Timothy was transferred to the special-care nursery where I currently work. There he miraculously learned how to eat. And I again experienced an incredible feeling that he would be OK. And although he has improved in so many ways, I still don’t know exactly what that means. But I have had such a comforting presence with me since that time. And whenever I find something that I probably should worry about, that feeling washes over me, and the message is the same: “Don’t worry. Everything is going to be OK. Just enjoy him.”
This Christmas season my thoughts turn to the beautiful gifts the Savior has given us. In so many ways He allows us to have peace here on earth. One of the most wonderful gifts of peace is the opportunity to prayerfully do all we can and then give our sorrows to Him.
By putting our trust in the Lord, we can give our worries to Him, and He in turn will lift us, giving special gifts to sustain us—often through other people. For me these gifts came in the form of babysitters for my two older children, meals from ward members, wonderful nurses and doctors, and loving support from family and friends. The most powerful gift, however, has been the peace granted by Heavenly Father as His Son has carried my sorrows and worries. Because of Him, I am free to love and enjoy baby Timothy and to celebrate all of the people and blessings that have been placed in my path because of his special life.

“Dad, there’s a patrol boat in back of us,” Bob shouted over the noise of their inboard-outboard. “The ranger is signaling.”
Mr. Richards, intent on steering the boat through the choppy waters of Lake Powell, sighted the patrol boat through the thick plastic window. It pulled alongside.
“There’s a storm expected soon,” the ranger announced through the sound system on his boat. “Strong fifty-mile-an-hour winds and rain. No boats will be allowed on the lake. You’d better pull into Bullfrog Marina just ahead and wait it out.”
“Our food and gear are at our camp in Lost Eden Canyon. Can we make it there before the storm hits?”
“If you hurry. Then hole up until it’s over.”
Mr. Richards waved his thanks, turned the boat around, and headed in a northeasterly direction toward Lost Eden.
Bob’s face looked like a crumpled paper bag. “No water skiing today.”
Mrs. Richards looked at the heavy clouds, which had suddenly turned the day into evening. “I hope the storm doesn’t last all weekend. We’ve planned so long for this vacation.”
Just then the boat slapped down on a swell.
Mr. Richards frowned. “Check your life jackets, everyone. Be sure they’re securely fastened.”
Five-year-old Christian began to cry. “I’m scared!”
Merilee pulled him against her on the seat. “Don’t cry, Chris. It’s really exciting. We’ll be all right.”
Bob peered out the front window at the huge red rocks that lined the lake. Some were smooth and rounded; others towered into the sky as if a giant knife had chopped off a chunk. Some of the pinnacles had fantastic shapes and patterns carved by the wind and sand and water.
“I’m glad we have a top on our boat,” Christian said nervously, as the boat hammered down on a swell and sent a spray of water against the windshield.
“I am too,” Bob answered.
Mr. Richards glanced at the threatening sky. “We may not be able to have a fire when we get to our camp, but we do have warm clothing and sleeping bags and plenty of food. We’ll manage.”
Before long Mr. Richards turned the boat between two steep red rock cliffs into a small side canyon where the water was less choppy. Slowing the motor, he steered carefully around the dead branches of some partially submerged trees.
“I see our camp,” Christian shouted, as he untied his life jacket. “We made it!”
Bob unzipped the canvas top. Clutching the mooring rope in one hand, he crawled out on the bow of the boat. When it gently kissed the bank, he jumped out and tied the rope securely to a tree stump. Bob wished he felt as relieved as Christian seemed to feel. The wind was rising. It moaned down the canyon and flattened the sagebrush against the red sand. He squinted to keep the gritty particles out of his eyes.
A clap of thunder cut through the canyon as the family climbed out of the boat. The sound of thunder echoed against the cliffs until it was swallowed by the wind.
“Bob, see that driftwood stump?” Father pointed ahead. “Tie our boat to it, fore and aft.”
Bob pulled the mooring rope taut around the smooth wood, which was bleached white from the sun and water. Everything else around him seemed to be red. He squinted as the wind whipped the cinnamon sand into swirls that powdered their sleeping bags and dusted the boxes of food that were piled together on the shore. Then a few raindrops freckled the sand.
“At least we were able to get off the lake before the storm hit!” Merilee exclaimed.
“Yes,” Bob nodded, “but what happens now?”
He finished tying the rope and fastened the cover on the boat.
“We could build a shelter of some sort, but there are no trees,” Bob said as he looked around. “Wait a minute! What about climbing up under that huge overhang of rock there on the cliff?”
Merilee glanced up quickly. “It looks like a big open cave. We wouldn’t get wet under there.”
Bob called to his father. “Dad, how about taking our gear up under the overhang?”
“I was wondering about that too, but it must be seventy-five or a hundred feet up.”
“We can do it,” Bob urged.
“Let’s!” Christian shouted, as he grabbed his sleeping bag and ran over the sand toward the towering cliff.
The cave had been formed by rocks, large and small, breaking away from the underside of the cliff. The opening was strewn with rocks like a huge lumpy waterfall.
“I can’t tell whether there is a flat place at the top or not,” called Mr. Richards. “And we may have to spend the night. Let’s go. Each one take all he can carry. Hurry, it’s beginning to rain.”
Christian was already on the rocks, pulling himself up with one hand while he dragged his sleeping bag with the other.
Mrs. Richards took a box of food. “Bob, bring some driftwood for a fire. There’s a chill in the air.”
Packing their gear up over the rocks was no easy task. Some rocks were anchored, but others gave way when a hand reached for support.
By now the rain was falling steadily. “It’s a real cloudburst,” Mrs. Richards observed. “I do hope there is enough space at the top for our sleeping bags.”
When they were almost to the top, Bob shouted, “Look in back of you!”
Turning, they saw a cascade of water falling from the edge of the overhanging rock above them to the sandy beach, one hundred feet below.
“It’s like being behind a waterfall,” Merilee laughed.
“Or a silvery curtain of water,” her mother added. “When it rains down here, most of the water can’t seep into the rocks, so it just runs off.”
“It’s a good thing we decided to come up here,” Mr. Richards said. “Now if there is just enough room for sleeping and perhaps a fire …”
“There is enough room for sleeping, if we clear a few rocks,” Bob called to them. “It’s flat and sandy. We could live up here for a week.”
The last few feet of the climb seemed easy after that. Mr. Richards built a fire, and Mrs. Richards put on a kettle of chili. Bob built a low wall of stacked rocks around his sleeping bag. “Just like the Indians used to do,” he chuckled.
As the family sat around the fire, watching the rain and waiting for the chili to heat, they felt a sense of relief. The cave was warm and secure. The danger was over.
Bob grinned. “This has been some storm. We could write a book!”